Chapter XXII: Part III: System of the Particular Arts (2)

Now if this denial assume the form of a conviction in the consciousness of an individual, a nation, or an age, then there results a contradiction which involves in the sweep of its universality the entire spiritual world of man. For it is the self-consciousness of that individual, nation, or age, in direct conflict with itself, not with this or that particularity of itself, but with its entire content, in the sphere of manifestation, with the receptivity for, the production of, and the aspiration after, the Beautiful, the Good, and the True, within the individual himself; in the sphere of realization with the Family, with Society, and with the State; and finally, in the sphere of actuality with Art, Religion, and Philosophy.

Now this contradiction is precisely what is presented in the proposition, “Man cannot know truth.” This you will remember was, in the history of modern thought, the result of Kant’s philosophy. And Kant’s philosophy was the philosophy of Germany at the time of the conception of Goethe’s Faust. And Goethe was the truest poet of Germany, and thus he sings:

“So then I have studied philosophy,
Jurisprudence and medicine,
And what is worse, Theology,
Thoroughly, but, alas! in vain,
And here I stand with study hoar,
A fool, and know what I knew before;
Am called Magister, nay, LL.D.,

And for ten years, am busily
Engaged, leading through fen and close,
My trusting pupils by the nose;
Yet see that nothing can be known.
This burns my heart, this, this alone!”

Here, you will perceive in the first sentence of the poem, as was meet, the fundamental contradiction, the theme, or the “argument,” as it is so admirably termed by critics, is stated in its naked abstractness, just as Achilles’ wrath is the first sentence of the Iliad.

This theme, then, is nothing more nor less than the self-consciousness in contradiction with itself, in conflict with its own content. Hence, if the poem is to portray this theme, this content, in its totality, it must represent it in three spheres: first, Manifestation—Faust in conflict with himself; second, Realization—Faust in conflict with the Family, Society, and the State; thirdly, Actualization—Faust in conflict with Art, Religion, and Philosophy.

Now, my friend, please to examine the poem once more, reflect closely upon what has been said, and then tell how much of the poem can you spare, or how much is there in the poem as printed, which does not flow from or develop this theme?

IV.

In my last, dear friend, I called your attention to the theme, to the content of the poem in a general way, stating it in the very words of the poet himself. To trace the development of this theme from the abstract generality into concrete detail is the task before us.

According to the analysis, we have to consider, first of all, the sphere of _Manifestation_.

In this we observe the three-fold relation which the individual sustains to self-conscious intelligence, viz: Receptivity for, and production of, and aspiration for, the True, the Good, and the Beautiful. Now if it is true that man cannot know truth, then it follows that he can neither receive nor produce the True. For how shall he know that whatever he may receive and produce is true, since it is specially denied that he can know it. This conclusion as conviction, however, does not affect immediately the third relation—the aspiration—nor quench its gnawing. And this is the first form of conflict in the individual. Let us now open the book and place it before us.

The historic origin of our theme places us in a German University, in the professor’s private studio.

It is well here to remember that it is a German University, and that the occupant of the room is a _German_ professor. Also that it is the received opinion that the Germans are a _theoretical_ people; by which we understand that they act from conviction, and not from instinct. Moreover, that their conviction is not a mere holiday affair, to be rehearsed, say on Sunday, and left in charge of a minister, paid for the purpose, during the balance of the week, but an actual, vital fountain of action. Hence, the conviction of such a character being given, the acts follow in logical sequence.

With this remembered, let us now listen to the self-communion of the occupant of the room.

In bitter earnest the man has honestly examined, and sought to possess himself of the intellectual patrimony of the race. In poverty, in solitude, in isolation, he has labored hopefully, earnestly; and now he casts up his account and finds—what? “That nothing can be known.” His hair is gray with more than futile endeavor, and for ten years his special calling has been to guide the students to waste their lives, as he has done his own, in seeking to accomplish the impossible—to know. This is the worm that gnaws his heart! As compensation, he is free from superstition—fears neither hell nor devil. But this sweeps with it all fond delusions, all conceit that he is able to know, and to teach something for the elevation of mankind. Nor yet does he possess honor or wealth—a dog would not lead a life like this.

Here you will perceive how the first two relations are negated by the conviction that man cannot know truth, and how, on the wings of aspiration, he sallies forth into the realm of magic, of mysticism, of subjectivity. For if reason, with its mediation, is impotent to create an object for this aspiration, let us see what emotion and imagination, _without_ mediation, can do for subjective satisfaction.

And here all is glory, all is freedom! The imagination seizes the totality of the universe, and revels in ecstatic visions. What a spectacle! But, alas! a spectacle only! How am I to know, to comprehend the fountain of life, the centre of which articulates this totality?

See here another generalization: the practical world as a whole! Ah, that is my sphere; here I have a firm footing; here I am master; here I command spirits! Approach, and obey your master!

“_Spirit._ Who calls?

_Faust._ Terrific face!

_Sp._ Art thou he that called?

Thou trembling worm!

_Faust._ Yes; I’m he; am Faust, thy peer.

_Sp._ Peer of the Spirit thou comprehendest—not of me!

_Faust._ What! not of thee! Of whom, then? I, the image of Deity
itself, and not even thy peer?“

No, indeed, Mr. Faust, thou dost not include within thyself the totality of the practical world, but only that part thereof which thou dost comprehend—only thy _vocation_, and hark! “It knocks!”

Oh, death! I see, ’t is my vocation; indeed, “It is my famulus!”

And this, too, is merely a delusion; this great mystery of the practical world shrinks to this dimension—a bread-professorship.

It would seem so; for no theory of the practical world is possible without the ability to know truth. As individual, you may imitate the individual, as the brute his kind, and thus transmit a craft; but you cannot seize the practical world in transparent forms and present it as a harmonious totality to your fellow-man, for that would require that these transparent intellectual forms should possess objective validity—and this they have not, according to your conviction. And so it cannot be helped.

But see what a despicable thing it is to be a bread-professor!

And is this the mode of existence, this the reality, the only reality to answer the aspiration of our soul—the aspiration which sought to seize the universe, to kindle its inmost recesses with the light of intelligence, and thus illumine the path of life? Alas, Reason gave us error—Imagination, illusion—and the practical world, the _Will_, a bread-professorship! Nothing else? Yes; a bottle of laudanum!

Let us drink, and rest forever! But hold, is there nothing else, really? No emotional nature? Hark! what is that? Easter bells! The recollections of my youthful faith in a revelation! They must be examined. We cannot leave yet.

And see what a panorama, what a strange world lies embedded with those recollections. Let us see it in all its varied character and reality, on this Easter Sunday, for example.

V.

I have endeavored before to trace the derivation of the content of the first scene of the poem, together with its character, from the abstract theme of the work. In it we saw that the fundamental conviction of Faust leaves him naked—leaves him nothing but a bare avocation, a mere craft, and the precarious recollections of his youth (when he believed in revealed truths) to answer his aspirations. These recollections arouse his emotions, and rescue him from nothingness (suicide)—they fill his soul with a content.

To see this content with all its youthful charm, we have to retrace our childhood’s steps before the gates of the city on this the Easter festival of the year—you and I being mindful, in the meantime, that the public festivals of the Church belong to the so-called external evidences of the truth of the Christian Religion.

Well, here we are in the suburbs of the city, and what do we see? First, a set of journeymen mechanics, eager for beer and brawls, interspersed with servant girls; students whose tastes run very much in the line of strong beer, biting tobacco, and the well-dressed servant girls aforesaid; citizens’ daughters, perfectly outraged at the low taste of the students who run after the servant girls, “when they might have the very best of society;” citizens dissatisfied with the new mayor of the city—“Taxes increase from day to day, and nothing is done for the welfare of the city.” A beggar is not wanting. Other citizens, who delight to speak of war and rumors of war in distant countries, in order to enjoy their own peace at home with proper contrast; also an “elderly one,” who thinks that she is quite able to furnish what the well-dressed citizens’ daughters wish for—to the great scandal of the latter, who feel justly indignant at being addressed in public by such an old witch (although, “between ourselves, she did show us our sweethearts on St. Andrew’s night”); soldiers, who sing of high-walled fortresses and proud women to be taken by storm; and, finally, farmers around the linden tree, dancing a most furious gallopade—a real Easter Sunday or Monday “before the gate”—of any city in Germany, even to this day.

And into this real world, done up in holiday attire, but not by the poet—into this paradise, this very heaven of the people, where great and small fairly yell with delight—Faust enters, assured that here he can maintain his rank as a man; “here I dare to be a man!” And, sure enough, listen to the welcome:

“Nay, Doctor, ’tis indeed too much
To be with us on such a day,
To join the throng, the common mass,
You, you, the great, the learned man!
Take, then, this beaker, too,” &c.

And here goes—a general health to the Doctor, to the man who braved the pestilence for us, and who even now, does not think it beneath him to join us in our merry-making—hurrah for the Doctor; hip, hip, &c.

And is not this something, dear friend? Just think, with honest Wagner, when he exclaims, “What emotions must crowd thy breast, O great man, while listening to such honors?” and you will also say with him:

“Thrice blest the man who draws such profits rare,
From talents all his own!”

Why, see! the father shows you to his son; every one inquires—presses, rushes to see you! The fiddle itself is hushed, the dancers stop. Where you go, they fall into lines; caps and hats fly into the air! But a little more, and they would fall upon their knees, as if the sacred Host passed that way!

And is not this great? Is not this the very goal of human ambition? To Wagner, dear friend, it is; for the very essence of an avocation is, and must be, “success in life.” But how does it stand with the man whose every aspiration is the True, the Good, and the Beautiful? Will a hurrah from one hundred thousand throats, all in good yelling order, assist him? _No._

To Wagner it is immaterial whether he _knows_ what he _needs_, provided he sees the day when the man who has been worse to the people than the very pestilence itself, receives public honors; but to Faust, to the man really in earnest—who is not satisfied when he has squared life with life, and obtained zero for a result, or who does not merely _live to make a living_, but demands a rational end for life, and, in default of that rational end, spurns life itself—to such a man this whole scene possesses little significance indeed. It possesses, however, _some_ significance, even for him! For if it is indeed true that man cannot know truth—that the high aspiration of his soul has no object—then this scene demonstrates, at least, that Faust possesses power over the practical world. If he cannot _know_ the world, he can at least swallow a considerable portion of it, and this scene demonstrates that he can exercise a great deal of choice as to the parts to be selected; do you see this conviction?

Do you see this conviction? Do you see this dog? Consider it well; what is it, think you? Do you perceive how it encircles us nearer and nearer—becomes more and more certain, and, if I mistake not, a luminous emanation of gold, of honor, of power, follows in its wake. It seems to me as if it drew soft magic rings, as future fetters, round our feet! See, the circles become smaller and smaller-’tis almost a certainty—’tis already near; come, come home with as!

The temptation here spread before us by the poet, to consider the dog “_well_,” is almost irresistible; but all we can say in this place, dear friend, is that if you will look upon what is properly called an _avocation_ in civil society, eliminate from it all higher ends and motives other than the simple one of making a living—no matter with what pomp and circumstance—no doubt you will readily recognize the POODLE. But we must hasten to the studio to watch further developments, for the conflict is not as yet decided. We are still to examine the possibility of a divine revelation to man, who cannot know truth.

And for this purpose our newly acquired conviction, that we possess power over the practical world—although not as yet in a perfectly clear form before us—comfortably lodged behind the stove, where it properly belongs, we take down the original text of the New Testament in order to realize its meaning, in our own loved mother tongue. It stands written: “In the beginning was the Word.” Word? Word? Never! _Meaning_ it ought to be! Meaning what? Meaning? No; it is _Power_! No; _Deed_! Word, meaning, power, deed—which is it? Alas, how am I to know, unless I can know truth? ’Tis even so, our youthful recollections dissolve in mist, into thin air—and nothing is left us but our newly acquired conviction, the restlessness of which during this examination has undoubtedly not escaped your attention, dear friend. (“Be quiet, there, behind the stove.” “See here, poodle, one of us two has to leave this room!”) What, then, is the whole content of this conviction, which, so long as there was the hope of a possibility of a worthy object for our aspiration, seemed so despicable? What is it that governs the practical world of finite motives, the power that adapts means to ends, regardless of a final, of an infinite end? Is it not the Understanding? and although Reason—in its search after the _final end_, with its perfect system of absolute means, of infinite motives and interests—begets subjective chimeras, is it not demonstrated that the understanding possesses objective validity? Nay, look upon this dog well; does it not swell into colossal proportions—is no dog at all, in fact, but the very power that holds absolute sway over the finite and negative—the understanding itself—Mephistopheles in proper form?

And who calls this despicable? Is it not Reason, the power that begets chimeras, and it alone? And shall we reject the real, the actual—all in fact that possesses objective validity—because, forsooth, the power of subjective chimeras declares it negative, finite, perishable? Never. “No fear, dear sir, that I’ll do this. Precisely what I have promised is the very aim of all my endeavor. Conceited fool that I was! I prized myself too highly”—claimed kin with the infinite. “I belong only in thy sphere”—the finite. “The Great Spirit scorns me. Nature is a sealed book to me; the thread of thought is severed. Knowing disgusts me. In the depths of sensuality I’ll quench the burning passion.”

Here, then, my friend, we arrive at the final result of the conflict in the first sphere of our theme—in the sphere of manifestation—that of the individual. We started with the conviction _that man cannot know truth_. This destroyed our spiritual endeavors, and reduced our practical avocation to an absurdity. We sought refuge in the indefinite—the mysticism of the past—and were repelled by its subjectivity. We next examined the theoretical side of the practical world, and found this likewise an impossibility and suicide—a mere blank nothingness—as the only resource. But here we were startled by our emotional nature, which unites us with our fellow-man, and seems to promise some sort of a bridge over into the infinite—certainly demands such a transition. Investigating this, therefore, with all candor, we found our fellow-men wonderfully occupied—occupied like the kitten pursuing its own tail! At the same time it became apparent that we might be quite a dog in this kitten dance, or that the activity of the understanding possessed objective validity. With this conviction fairly established, although still held in utter contempt, we examined the last resource: the possibility of a divine revelation of truth to men that cannot know truth. The result, as the mere statement of the proposition would indicate, is negative, and thus the last chance of obtaining validity for anything except the activity of the understanding vanishes utterly. But with this our contempt for the understanding likewise vanishes. For whatever our aspiration may say, it has no object to correspond to it, and is therefore merely subjective, a hallucination, a chimera, and the understanding is the highest attainable for us. Here, therefore, the subjective conflict ends, for we have attained to objectivity, and this is the highest, since there is nothing else that possesses validity for man. Nor is this by any means contemptible in itself, for it is the power over the finite world, and the net result is: That if you and I, my friend, have no reason, cannot know truth, we do have at least a stomach, a capacity for sensual enjoyment, and an understanding to administer to the same—to be its servant. This, at least, is demonstrated by the kitten dance of the whole world.

Footnote 16:

In this connection, permit me, dear friend, to mention a discovery
which I made concerning my son Isaac, now three years old. Just
imagine my surprise when I found that every book in my
possession—Webster’s Spelling-book not excepted—is a perfect riddle to
him, and mystifies him as completely as ever the works of Goethe,
Hegel, Emerson, or any other thinking man, do or did the learned
critics. But my parental pride, so much elated by the discovery of
this remarkable precocity in my son—a precocity which, at the age of
three years, (!) shows him possessed of all the incapacity of such
“learned men”—was shocked, nay, mortified, by the utter want of
appreciation which the little fellow showed of this, his exalted
condition!

Footnote 17:

From this a variety of facts in the character and history of the
different works of art become apparent. The degree of the effect
produced, for example, is owing to the degree of validity attached to
the two sides of the contradiction. If the duties which the individual
owes to the family and the state come into conflict, as in the
Antigone of Sophocles, and the consciousness of the age has not
subordinated the ideas upon which they are based, but accords to each
an equal degree of validity, we have a content replete with the
noblest effects. For this is not a conflict between the abstract good
and bad, the positive and the negative, but a conflict within the good
itself. So likewise the universality of the effect is apparent from
the content. If this is the self-consciousness of a nation, the work
of art will be national. To illustrate this, and, at the same time, to
trace the development of the particularity spoken of into a collision,
we may refer to that great national work of art—the Iliad of Homer.
The particularity which distinguishes the national self-consciousness
of the Greeks is the preëminent validity attached by it to one of the
before-mentioned modes of the actualization of self-conscious
intelligence—the sensuous. Hence its worship of the Beautiful. This
preëminence and the consequent subordination of the moral and the
rational modes to it, is the root of the contradiction, and hence the
basis of the collision which forms the content of the poem. Its motive
modernized would read about as follows: “The son of one of our
Senators goes to England; is received and hospitably entertained at
the house of a lord. During his stay he falls in love and subsequently
elopes with the young wife of his entertainer. For this outrage,
perpetrated by the young hopeful, the entire fighting material of the
island get themselves into their ships, not so much to avenge the
injured husband as to capture the runaway wife.”

But—now mark—adverse winds ensue, powers not human are in arms against
them, and before these can be propitiated, a princess of the blood
royal, pure and undefiled, must be sacrificed!—is sacrificed, and for
what? That all Greece may proclaim to the world that pure womanhood,
pure manhood, family, society, and the state, are nothing, must be
sacrificed on the altar of the Beautiful. For in the sacrifice of
Iphigenia, all that could perish in Helen, and more too—for Iphigenia
was pure and Helen was not—was offered up by the Greeks, woman for
woman, and nothing remained but the Beautiful, for which she
henceforth became the expression. For in this alone did Helen excel
Iphigenia, and all women.

But how is this? Have not the filial, the parental, the social, the
civil relations, sanctity and validity? Not as against the realization
of the Beautiful, says the Greek. Nor yet the state? No; “I do not go
at the command of Agamemnon, but because I pledged fealty to Beauty.”
“But then,” Sir Achilles, “if the Beautiful should present itself
under some individual form—say that of Briseis—you would for the sake
of its possession disobey the will of the state?” “Of course.” And the
poet has to sing, “Achilles’ wrath!” and not “the recovery of the
runaway wife,” the grand historical action.

INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.