as we stand towards life in general; we readily recognize an evil condition, but we do not raise a finger to get rid of it. And here I might easily begin a fourth lamentation, but in the presence of my martial friend I will refrain. For a warrior must be much more nauseated by these jeremiads than a home-bird like myself.
Incidentally I have just called to mind a recent experience that offers a very good illustration of the scholar's morbid symptoms. As such it might perhaps be hushed up, but it will amuse you because it is nothing more than the translation of Schopenhauer's essay "On Professors of Philosophy" into real life.
In a certain town a young man endowed with quite extraordinary intellectual gifts, particularly in the direction of philosophical speculation, made up his mind to obtain a Doctor's degree. With this object in view, he gathered together the threads of his system "Concerning the Fundamental Delusion of Representation," which he had laboriously thought out for years, and was very happy and proud at the result. With these feelings surging in his breast, he submitted the work to the Philosophical Faculty of the place, which happened to be a university town. Two professors of philosophy had to give their opinion on his production, and this is how they acquitted themselves of the task: The first said that, though the work showed undoubted intellectual power, it did not advocate the doctrines taught at his institution; and the second declared that not only did the views not correspond with the common understanding of mankind, but they were also paradoxical. The work was consequently rejected, and its author did not receive his Doctor's degree. Fortunately the rejected candidate was not humble enough to recognize the voice of wisdom in this verdict nay, he was sufficiently presumptuous to maintain that this particular Philosophical Faculty was lacking in the philosophical facultas.
In short, old man, one cannot pursue one's path too independently. Truth seldom resides in the temple men have built in her honour, or where priests have been ordained to her service. The good work or the rubbish we produce we alone have to pay for, not those who have given us their good or their foolish advice. Let us at least have the pleasure of scoring our blunders off our own bat. There is no such thing as a general recipe for the assistance of all men. One must be one's own doctor and gather one's medical experience on one's own body. As a matter of fact, we give too little thought to our own welfare; our egoism is not shrewd enough, our reason not selfish enough.
With this, old man, let me now take my leave of you. Unfortunately I have nothing "solid" or "real," or whatever the current phrase among young business men is, to report; but you will certainly not regret that.
Your devoted friend, FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE To Freiherr Karl Von Gersdorff - December, 1867 Naumburg, December 1, 1867. DEAR FRIEND: I am a bombardier in the second mounted division of the Fourth Horse Artillery.
You may well imagine how astonished I was by this revolution in my affairs, and what a violent upheaval it has made in my everyday humdrum existence. Nevertheless I have borne the change with determination and courage, and even derive a certain pleasure from this turn of fortune. Now that I have an opportunity of doing a little ᾶοχησιςAthletic training.—Translator. I am more than ever thankful to our Schopenhauer. For the first five weeks I had to be in the stables. At 5:30 in the morning I had to be among the horses, removing the manure and grooming the animals down with the currycomb and horse brush. For the present my work lasts on an average from 7 a.m. to 10 a.m. and from 11.30 a.m. to 6 p.m., the greater part of which I spend in parade drill. Four times a week we two soldiers who are to serve for a year have to attend a lecture given by a lieutenant, to prepare us for the reserve officers examination. You must know that in the horse artillery there is a tremendous amount to learn. We get most fun out of the riding lessons. My horse is a very fine animal, and I am supposed to have some talent for riding. When I and my steed gallop round the large parade ground, I feel very contented with my lot. On the whole, too, I am very well treated. Above all, we have a very nice captain.
I have now told you all about my life as a soldier. This is the reason why I have kept you waiting so long for news and for an answer to your last letter. Meanwhile, if I am not mistaken, you will probably have been freed from your military fetters; that is why I thought it would be best to address this letter to Spandau.
But my time is already up; a business letter to Volkmann and another to Ritschl have robbed me of much of it. So I must stop in order to get ready for the parade in full kit.
Well, old man, forgive my long neglect, and hold the god of War responsible for most of it.
Your devoted friend, FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, Bombardier.
To Rohde - February, 1868 Naumburg, February 1-3, 1868. MY DEAR FRIEND: It is Saturday, and the day too is drawing to a close. For a soldier the word "Saturday" is full of magic charm and of a feeling of quiet and peace of which as a student I had no idea. To be able to sleep and dream peacefully, without one's soul being taunted by the terrifying picture of the morrow; to have overcome and done with another seven days of that excitement in uniform which is called a year's soldiering—what simple and at the same time deep joys such things awaken—joys worthy of a cynic and attained by us almost too cheaply and easily. I now understand that first and greatest Saturday afternoon mood, in which that easy and satisfied phrase πάντα λίαν καλάSee Genesis I., 31, "And God saw everything that he had made and, behold, it was very good."—Translator. was pronounced; in which coffee and a pipe were invented, and the first optimist stepped into life. In any case, the Hebrews who concocted and believed this beautiful story were warriors or factory hands; they were certainly not students; for the latter would have proposed six days holiday and one workday in the week, and in practice would have converted even this into a holiday like the rest. At all events, that was my practice; and at the present moment I feel the contrast between my present life and my former scientific loafing very strongly indeed. If it were only possible to muster all the philologists of ten years together and drill them army fashion into the service of science, at the end of ten years the science of philology would no longer be necessary, because all the principal work would have been done. And, moreover, it would no longer be possible, because no man would join these colours voluntarily, colours with which the idea of the "one-year volunteer" cannot be associated at all.
As you see, a Saturday makes one talkative, because we have to be silent all the rest of the week and are accustomed to regulate the capacities of our souls according to our superior officer's word of command. That is why on Saturdays, when the eye of the master is removed, words gush forth from our lips and sentences pour out of the ink-pot—especially when the fire is crackling in the grate and outside you hear the roar of a February storm, heavy with the promise of Spring. Saturday, a storm, and a warm room—these are the best ingredients with which to brew the punch of a "letter-writing mood."...
My present life, my dear friend, is really very lonely and friendless. It offers me no stimulation that I do not myself provide; none of that harmonious concord of souls which many a happy hour in Leipzig used to afford; but rather, enstrangement of the soul from itself, preponderance of obsessional influences, which draw the soul up tightly with a sense of fear, and teach it to regard things with an earnestness that they do not deserve. This is the seamy side of my present existence, and you will certainly be able to enter into my feelings about it. Let us, however, turn it round the other way. This life is certainly uncomfortable, but enjoyed as an entremets, absolutely useful. It makes a constant call on a man's energy and is relished particularly as an ἀντίδοτονAntidote.—Translator. against paralyzing scepticism, concerning the effects of which we have observed a good deal together. Moreover, it helps one to become acquainted with one's own nature, as it reveals itself among strange and generally rough people, without any assistance from science and without that traditional goddess Fame which determines our worth for our friends and for society. Up to the present I have remarked that people are well disposed toward me, whether they happen to be captains or plain gunners; for the rest I do my duty with zeal and interest. Is it not something to be proud of, to be regarded as the best rider among thirty recruits? Verily, dear friend, that is more than a philological prize, although I am not insensible even to the kind of encomiums that the Faculty of Leipzig thought fit to bestow upon me...
Ah, my dear friend, what a child of misfortune is a field artilleryman when he has literary tastes into the bargain. Our old god of War loved young women, not shrivelled old Muses. A gunner who often enough in his barrack room sits upon a dirty stool meditating upon Democritean problems, while his boots are being polished for him, is really a paradox on whom the gods must look with scorn...When I tell you that I am on duty every day from 7 in the morning to 5 in the evening, and that in addition I have to attend lectures given by a lieutenant and a vet respectively, you can imagine what a sorry plight I am in. At night the body is limp and tired and seeks its couch in good time. And so it goes on without respite or rest, day after day. What becomes of the reflection and contemplation necessary for scientific cogitation in the midst of it all? Even for things which are still more dear to me than my literary needs, for the delights of a friendly correspondence and for art, I so seldom have a free moment. Just let me be once more in full enjoyment of my time and my strength— Si male nunc, non olim sic erit.If things are bad today, at some future time they may be better.—Translator And next year I go to Paris.
Your devoted friend, FR. NIETZSCHE.
To Freiherr Karl Von Gersdorff - February, 1868 Naumburg, February 16, 1868. DEAR FRIEND: As I have already told you my military duties take up much of my time, but they are on the whole tolerable. I am still particularly fond of riding, and my zeal for it is kept alive by the praise I receive on all sides. From the officers I hear that I have a good seat and thus make a good display. Believe me, old man, I never thought I should have an opportunity of growing vain about this sort of thing. Suffice it to say that my desire to perfect myself in this fine but difficult art is very strong indeed. If you should happen to come to Naumburg for the Pforta School Festival, you will be able to appreciate my achievements. I am afraid you will have a good laugh when you see me shouting my orders. But I still have a good deal to learn before I can pass the officers exam.
Yours, FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.
To Freiherr Karl Von Gersdorff - June, 1868 Naumburg, June 22, 1868. MY DEAR FRIEND: Today all my comrades in arms have left me. They are on the way to Magdeburg for gun practice. So I am about the only gay-coated creature within the walls of Naumburg—an abandoned broken-winged stork that with envy in its heart has seen all its more powerful fellows fly right away. Yes, old man, the rumour that has already reached you by many a tortuous path is for the best (i.e., the worst) part true: I did not end my military career quite happily.
I had survived the winter and also the most difficult and unpleasant half of my year's service; they had made me a bombardier and were well pleased with my behaviour. When the fine weather came and I was able to ride my horse round the huge parade ground I too was beginning to breathe more freely. Towards the end I was riding the most restive and fiery animal in the battery. One day I failed in attempting a smart spring into the saddle; I gave my chest a blow on the pommel and felt a sharp rend in my left side. But I quietly went on riding, and endured the increasing pain for a day and a half. On the evening of the second day, however, I had two fainting fits, and on the third day I lay as if nailed to my bed, suffering the most terrible agony and with a high temperature. The doctors declared that I had torn two of the muscles of my chest. In consequence of this the whole system of chest muscles and ligaments was inflamed, and severe suppuration had supervened owing to the bleeding of the torn tissues. A week later, when my chest was lanced, several cupfuls of matter were removed. From that time onward, three whole months, the suppuration has never ceased, and when at last I left my bed, I was naturally so exhausted that I had to learn to walk again. My condition was lamentable; I had to be helped in standing, walking and lying down, and could not even write. Gradually my health improved, I enjoyed an invigorating diet, took plenty of exercise and recovered my strength.
But the wound still remained open and the suppuration scarcely abated. At last it was discovered that the sternum itself had been grazed and this was the obstacle to recovery. One evening I got an undeniable proof of this, in the form of a little piece of bone which came out of the wound with the matter. This has happened frequently since, and the doctor says it is like to occur frequently again. Should a large piece of bone be detached a slight operation would be imperative. The trouble is by no means dangerous, but it is exceedingly slow. The doctors can do nothing but help nature in her work of elimination and fresh growth. In addition to this I make frequent injections of camomile tea and silver nitrate every day and take a warm bath. Our staff doctor will shortly pronounce me "temporarily disabled," and it is not improbable that I may always suffer from some weakness round about the wound.
As soon as I was able to wield a pen again I plunged once more into my studies, of which I send you a sample in the enclosed little Dance Song. Yours, F. N.
To Frau Ritschl - July, 1868 Wittekind, Beginning of July, 1868. DEAR FRAU RITSCHL:...The day before yesterday at noon I reached the pretentious little village spa called Wittekind. It was raining hard and the flags that had been hung out for the spa festival were looking limp and dirty. My host, an unmistakable rogue with opaque blue spectacles, came forward to meet me and conducted me to the apartment I had engaged six days before. Everything about this room, including an absolutely mouldy sofa, was as desolate as a prison. I very soon realized too that this same host employed only one servant maid for two houses full of visitors which probably means from twenty to forty people. Before the first hour had elapsed I had a visit, but so disagreeable a one that I was only able to shake it off by means of the most energetic courtesy. In short the whole atmosphere of the place I had just entered was chilly, damp and disagreeable.
Yesterday I took stock a bit of the place and its in habitants. At table I had the good fortune to sit near a deaf-and-dumb man and a number of extraordinary-shaped females. The place does not seem bad, but one can go nowhere and see nothing owing to the rain and the damp. Volkmann called and prescribed the local baths for me. He also spoke of an operation in the near future.
How grateful I am to you for having given me Ehlert's book.This work is Louis Ehlert's Briefe über Musik an tine Freundin.—Translator I read it on the first evening of my stay reclining on the mouldy sofa in my wretchedly lighted room, but it gave me much pleasure and inner warmth. Unkind tongues might say the book is written in an agitated and inferior style. But the who uses his eyes in art. At bottom it is music though it happens to be written not in notes but in words. A painter must experience the most painful sensations on beholding all this confusion of images crowded together without any method. But unfortunately I have a weakness for the Paris feuilleton, for Heine's Reisebilder, etc., and prefer a stew to roast-beef. What pains it has cost me to pull a scientific face in order to write down a jejune train of thought with the requisite decency and alia breve. Your husband can even sing a song about this (not to the tune it is true of "Ach lieber Franz, noch"This refers to a song beginning "Ach lieber Franz, nock einen Tanz" that Professor Ritschl when he was in a cheerful mood liked to sing in memory of his youth.—Translator., etc.), for he was very much surprised at the lack of "style." In the end I felt like the sailor who feels less secure on land than in a rocking ship. But perhaps I shall one day discover a philological theme that will permit of musical treatment, and then I shall splutter like a suckling and heap up images like a barbarian who has fallen asleep before an antique head of Venus, and still be in the right in spite of the "flourishing speed"An expression in Ehlert's book above mentioned.—Translator. of the exposition.
And Ehlert is almost always right. But to many men truth is irrecognizable in this harlequin garb. To us who hold no page of life too serious to allow of our sketching some joke in fleeting arabesque upon it, this is not so. And which of the gods can feel any surprise if we occasionally behave like satyrs and parody a life that always looks so serious and pathetic and wears buskins?
If only I could manage to conceal my weakness for dissonance from you! Answer me frankly have you not already a terrible sample of it? Here you have a second. Wagner's and Schopenhauer's club feet are difficult to conceal. But I shall improve. And if ever you should allow me to play you something again, I shall embody my memory of that beautiful Sunday in tones, and then you will hear what you only read today, to wit, what a tremendous deal that memory means to a bad musician, etc. FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.
To Freiherr Karl Von Gersdorff - August, 1868 Nauniburg, August 8, 1868. DEAR FRIEND: At last I can give you absolutely reliable news of my health and quite the best you could wish to hear. A few days ago I returned quite recovered from the baths at Wittekind, where I went in order to place myself in the able and experienced hands of Prof. Volkmann, the distinguished Halle surgeon. My regimental doctors were good and candid enough to advise me to consult this specialist, and after three weeks of the Wittekind cure, the somewhat painful healing process developed so favourably that Volkmann congratulated me and said I should now recover very quickly. In the end an operation was not necessary, although for a long while it had threatened to be so. Just think, old man! five months illness, much tedious pain, profound bodily and spiritual depression, and desperate prospects for the future—all this has been overcome! All that remains to remind me of my dangerous condition is a single deep scar over the bone in the middle of my chest. Volkmann told me that if the suppuration had lasted much longer—as it was it lasted three months—my heart or my lungs would probably have been affected.
It is obvious that I cannot resume my military duties. I am pronounced "temporarily disabled," and I hope, as I have been prevented from becoming an officer of the Reserve, I shall contrive slowy and gradually to vanish from the list of those liable to serve.
Your devoted friend, FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.
To Rohde - October, 1868 Naumburg, October 8, 1868. MY DEAR FRIEND:...Not long ago I was reading (and that at first hand) Jahn's Essays on Music, as well as his essays on Wagner. A certain amount of enthusiasm is required to do justice to such a man, but Jahn shows instinctive repugnance and listens with his ears half closed. Nevertheless I agree with him in many respects, particularly when he says he regards Wagner as the representative of a modern dilettantism which is sucking up and digesting all art interests. But it is precisely from this point of view that one cannot cease wondering at the magnitude of each artistic gift in this man and his inexhaustible energy coupled with such a versatility of artistic talent. For as to "culture", the more variegated and extensive it happens to be, the more lifeless is usually the eye, the weaker are the legs and the more effete are the brains that bear it.
Wagner has, moreover, a range of feeling which lies far beyond Jahn's reach. Jahn remains a "Grenzbote"Grenzbote (frontier messenger) is the title of a review published in Leipzig. Its editor and contributors acquired the nickname of Gesunden (healthy ones) owing to their attitude of indifference to the more subtle manifestations of imaginative genius.—Translator. hero, a healthy man, to whom the Tannhauser saga and the atmosphere of Lohengrin are a closed book. My pleasure in Wagner is much the same as my pleasure in Schopenhauer—the ethical air, the redolence of Faust, and also of the Cross—death and the tomb...Your old friend, FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, Prussian Gunner.
To Rohde - November, 1868 Leipzig, November 9, 1868. MY DEAR FRIEND: Today I intend to relate a whole host of sprightly experiences, to look merrily into the future and to conduct myself in such idyllic and easy fashion that your sinister guest—that feline fever—will arch its back and retire spitting and swearing. And in order that all discordant notes may be avoided I shall discuss the famous res severa"Serious thing."—Translator. which is responsible for your second letter on a special sheet of paper, so that you will be able to read it when you are in the right mood and place for it.
The acts of my comedy are: (1) A Club-night or the Assistant Professor; (2) The Ejected Tailor; (3) A Rendezvous with X. Some old women take part in the performance...
At home I found two letters, yours and an invitation from Curtius, whom I am glad to get to know better. When two friends like us write letters to each other, it is well known that the angels rejoice. And they rejoiced as I read your letter—aye, they even giggled...When I reached home yesterday I found a card addressed to me with this note upon it: "If you would like to meet Richard Wagner, come to the Theatre Café at a quarter to four. Windisch".
Forgive me, but this news so turned my head that I quite forgot what I was doing before it came, and was thoroughly bewildered.
I naturally ran there and found our loyal friend, who gave me a lot of fresh information. Wagner was staying in Leipzig with his relations in the strictest incognito. The press had no inkling of his visit and all Brockhaus's servants were as dumb as graves in livery. Now Wagner's sister, Frau Brockhaus, that determined and clever woman, had introduced her friend Frau Ritschl to her brother, and on this occasion was able proudly to boast of the friend to the brother and of the brother to the friend, the lucky creature! Wagner played the Meisterlied, which you must know, in Frau Ritschl's presence, and this good lady told him that she already knew the song very well, mea opera."Through my offices."—Translator. Imagine Wagner's joy and surprise! And with the utmost readiness in the world he graciously declared his willingness to meet me incognito. I was to be invited on Friday evening. Windisch, however, pointed out that I should be prevented from coming by my official post and duties, Saturday afternoon was accordingly proposed. On that day Windisch and I ran to the Brockhaus's, found the Professor's family but no Wagner. He had just gone out with an enormous hat on his huge head. It was thus that I made the acquaintance of the excellent family and received a kind invitation for Sunday evening.
On these days I felt as though I was living in a novel, and you must allow that in view of the inaccessibility of the exceptional man, the circumstances leading up to this acquaintance were somewhat romantic.
As I was under the impression that a large company of guests had been invited, I decided to dress very ceremoniously, and was glad that my tailor had promised to deliver a new dress suit for this very evening. It was a horrid day with constant showers of rain and snow. One shuddered at the thought of leaving the house, and I was therefore very pleased when little Roscher paid me a visit in the afternoon to tell me something about the Eleatics and about God in philosophy—for, as candidandus he is working up the material collected by Ahrens in his "Development of the Idea of God up to the Time of Aristotle" while Romundt is trying for the prize essay of the University, the subject of which is "On the Will". It was getting dark, the tailor did not turn up, and Roscher left me. I accompanied him, called on the tailor myself, and found his minions busily engaged on my clothes, which they promised to send round in three-quarters of an hour.
I went on my way in a jolly mood, looked in at Kintschy's, read the Kladderadatsch, and was amused to find a paragraph saying that Wagner was in Switzerland and that a fine house was being built for him in Munich, while I knew all the time that I was going to see him that evening and that the day before he had received a letter from the little monarchLudwig II of Bavaria. addressed to "The Great German Tone-poet, Richard Wagner."
But at home there was no tailor awaiting me, so I sat down and read the treatise on the Eudokia at my ease, but was constantly disturbed by the sound of a shrill bell that seemed to be ringing some distance away. At last I felt certain that someone was stand ing at the old iron gate; it was shut, as was also the door of the house. I shouted across the garden to the man to enter the house; but it was impossible to make oneself understood through the pouring rain. The whole house was disturbed, the door was ultimately opened, and a little old man bearing a parcel came up to me. It was half-past 6, time for me to dress and get ready, as I lived a long way off. It was all right, the man had my things. I tried them on and they fitted. But what was this suspicious development? He actually presented me with a bill. I took it politely, but he declared he must be paid on delivery. I was surprised, and explained that I had nothing to do with him as the servant of my tailor, but that my dealings were with his master to whom I had given the order. The man grew more pressing, as did also the time. I snatched at the things and began to put them on. He snatched them too and did all he could to prevent me from dressing. What with violence on my part and violence on his, there was soon a scene, and all the time I was fighting in my shirt, as I wished to get the new trousers.
At last, after a display of dignity, solemn threats, the utterance of curses on my tailor and his accomplice, and vows of vengeance, the little man vanished with my clothes. End of the First Act. I sat on my sofa and meditated while I examined a black coat and wondered whether it was good enough for Richard.
Outside the rain continued to pour.
It was a quarter past 7. I had promised to meet Windisch at half-past 7 at the Theatre Café. I plunged into the dark and rainy night, also a little man in black and without evening dress, yet in a beatific mood, for chance was in my favour—even the scene with the tailor's man had something tremendously unusual about it.
At last we entered Frau Brockhaus's exceedingly comfortable drawing-room. There was nobody there except the most intimate members of the family, Richard and us two. I was introduced to Wagner and muttered a few respectful words to him. He questioned me closely as to how I had become so well acquainted with his music, complained bitterly about the way his operas were produced with the exception of the famous Munich performances, and made great fun of the conductors who tried to encourage their orchestra in friendly tones as follows: "Now, gentlemen, let's have some passion! My good people, still a little more passion if you please!" Wagner enjoys imitating the Leipzig dialect.
Now let me give you a brief account of all that happened that evening. Really the joys were of such a rare and stimulating kind that even today I am not back in the old groove, but can think of nothing better to do than come to you, my dear friend, to tell you these wonderful tidings. Wagner played to us before and after supper, and went through every one of the more important passages of the Meistersinger. He imitated all the voices and was in very high spirits. He is, by the bye, an extraordinarily energetic and fiery man. He speaks very quickly and wittily, and can keep a private company of the sort assembled on that evening very jolly. I managed to have quite a long talk with him about Schopenhauer. Oh, and you can imagine what a joy it was for me to hear him speak with such indescribable warmth of our master—what a lot we owed to him, how he was the only philosopher who had understood the essence of music! Then he inquired as to how the professors were disposed toward him; laughed a good deal about the Philosophers Congress at Prague, and spoke of them as philosophical footmen. Later on he read me a piece out of the autobiography he is now writing, a thoroughly amusing scene from his Leipzig student days which I still cannot recall without a laugh. He writes extraordinarily cleverly and intellectually. At the close of the evening, when we were both ready to go, he shook my hand very warmly and kindly asked me to come and see him so that we might have some