Laughing Truths

Front matter

LAUGHING TRUTHS

LAUGHING TRUTHS

translated by JAMES F. MUIRHEAD

Carl Spitteler

He is the greatest of you all. Never has your land—the honourable soil of sacred individuality and freedom—produced such a hero of art and thought… Permit a stranger (though so long your guest as to feel for his part that he is no longer a stranger, however you may feel on yours) to honour, now that he has joined the dead, Our Homer, the greatest German poet since Goethe, the only master of the epic since Milton died three centuries ago. But a more solitary figure amid the art of his day than either the one or the other of these.—Romain Rolland. Quoted by permission from Carl Spitteler, In Memoriam.

Introduction

In 1887 Friedrich Nietzsche wrote to Ferdinand Avenarius, founder and editor of the Kunstwart, recommending Carl Spitteler as a suitable contributor for that well-known Munich periodical. He described Spitteler's æsthetic essays as marked by an extraordinarily thoughtful and keen sense for the history and criticism of art and culture, and added that ("thank heavens!") they were instinct with a delightful humour. The papers here collected undoubtedly contain much of the material that led Nietzsche to this judgment. Besides essays contributed to the Kunstwart and other periodicals, the volume includes various lectures and addresses.

The first collection of the essays, made in 1898, contained also some material not previously published. The present English version was made from the second and slightly altered German edition of 1905. A few of the papers in the German volume have been omitted from the English translation, either because their interest has now somewhat evaporated or because it is of too local a character to appeal to English readers.

The title, "Laughing Truths," is obviously meant to indicate that the views in the essays, though treated in a light and whimsical way, are truths that the writer really had at heart. On the other hand, when the irony and whimsicality are especially evident, it may be interpreted as an invitation not to take the opinions expressed too seriously. To those who are familiar with Spitteler's life and writings it is clear that in no instance are the essays written to order. They represent the personal standpoint of the writer, and reflect his actual and interested convictions. There is no need to labour this point; but, by way of example, it may be noted that the views he here expounds of the epic, the ballad, and the lyric are those he followed in his own poems; that his criticism of pedantry and academicism is highly characteristic; that the musical papers represent his pronounced musical tastes very clearly; and, even, that the essay on the winter landscape might almost be taken as the formula for much of the scenery in his great epics.

Carl Spitteler was born in 1845 at Liestal, the quaint little capital of the half-canton of Bâle-Campagne, where his father held an official position.

At an early age he showed unusual gifts both in music and art; his own wish was to be a painter. Circumstances, however, prevented this; and so, after school and college education in Bâle, he studied theology and qualified himself for the church. He turned back, however, on the threshold of this career and, faute de mieux, took to teaching as a means of livelihood. For eight years (1871–79) he was tutor in the houses of two Russian families in St. Petersburg and Finland. This period must have been one of great significance in his moral and intellectual development; but for any detailed account of it we must await the biography which Professor Fränkel, of Berne, has now in hand.

Spitteler's first important literary work was the prose epic of Prometheus and Epimetheus, published in 1880–81, at the age of thirty-six. It appeared under the pseudonym of "Felix Tandem", chosen because, in his own words, he felt happy in having at length produced something that he dared lay at the sacred feet of Poesy. This epic is in a quasi-Biblical, hieratic, rhythmical prose, resembling that used by Nietzsche in Zarathustra, which, however, did not appear till two or three years after Spitteler's work. Prometheus was received with such indifference that its author practically made up his mind to abandon literature as a career, though he published a volume of short poems, entitled Schmetterlinge (Butterflies) in 1889. In 1892, however, he became financially independent, so that for the rest of his life, spent in Lucerne, he was able to devote himself heart and soul to work on his poems, romances, and essays. Among the firstfruits of this leisure was a volume of Balladen (1896), which contains many admirable examples of the "ballad" as he envisaged it.

Even from the first a few competent critics recognised the value of Spitteler's work. Prominent among these was Joseph Victor Widmann, literary editor of the Berner Bund. It was not, however, till 1904, when Felix Weingartner, the eminent conductor and composer, published an eloquent panegyric on him, that Spitteler became known outside of Switzerland. The poet always called Weingartner his Entdecker, or discoverer.

The work that excited Weingartner's enthusiasm was Der Olympische Frühling or Olympian Spring, the first draft of which appeared between 1900 and 1905, while the final version dates from 1910. This long epic, arranged in six-foot rhymed iambic couplets, is probably the most popular of Spitteler's works; and it was assigned as the main reason for awarding him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1919. It is full of imagination and humour, with a Keats-like beauty of diction. In 1906 appeared another volume of short poems, entitled Glockenlieder (Bell Songs), including some of the most graceful and charming of all his lyrics.

Among his prose works were several imaginative romances, such as Conrad der Leutnant (1898) and Imago (1906). Of the latter Spitteler himself said it represented in everyday and concrete life the same theme as that handled poetically in Prometheus and Epimetheus. Die Mädchenfeinde (1907), or Girls' Enemies, is a picturesque expansion of an episode of his own boyhood. The little book of recollections of his childhood, Meine Frühesten Erlebnisse (1914), which ends with his fifth year, is surely one of the most wonderful and most convincing resuscitations of the child's point of view ever made. Two other books that may be mentioned are Extramundana, which might in some respects be described as an early anticipation of The Olympian Spring, and Literarische Gleichnisse (Literary Parables), a satirical work in verse. Spitteler himself attached no very high importance to Extramundana; but it is doubtful whether its readers would agree with him in this view.

Towards the close of his life Spitteler returned to the subject of "Prometheus" (just as Goethe did with "Faust") and produced a metrical version of it under the title of Prometheus der Dulder (Prometheus the Long-Suffering). This, however, though concerned with the same main theme, is no mere working over of the original prose epic. Rather do the two epics stand side by side, like two Madonnas by the same painter. The Dulder, shorter and in verse, represents the maturer, the more finished, the more classic form of a theme originally handled with the romantic exuberance of youth. It is the profoundest and final expression of this many-sided genius. For it was published only a very short time before his death.

Spitteler's life at Lucerne was a quiet and secluded one, devoted wholly to his work. He associated himself with no group—political, religious, literary, or academic. Self-advertisement was utterly alien to him. Once, and once only, he emerged from this retirement. The occasion was an address to a meeting of German-Swiss notables at Zurich on December 14, 1914. The burden of the speech was the necessity, in the interest of Swiss unity, of realising that racial sympathy must on no account be the determining factor in the attitude of the German Swiss to the War. The tone of the address was correct and detached; but Spitteler did not hesitate to blame the violation of Belgium or to give the Allies their due. Of our own country he said: "We owe to the English a special debt of gratitude. More than once England has come to our aid in times of great stress. England is, it is true, not the only friend of Switzerland, but she is the most trustworthy".

The address, of a nobility that raised it far above all ephemeral political writing, was received with enthusiasm. It was felt that Switzerland, once for all, had definitely formulated the position of the small neutral countries. Spitteler, as he himself remarked somewhat ironically, became better known to his countrymen by his forty minutes as a politician than by forty years of writing. He had, however, said his say and refused all other appeals to intervene in political matters.

Many other tributes to Spitteler from European men of mark might be quoted. In 1915 a banquet in honour of his seventieth birthday was held at Geneva; and among those who expressed their sympathy and admiration on this occasion were such distinguished foreigners as Maeterlinck, Rostand, Verhaeren, Boutroux, and Bergson. The French Academy also saluted him at this time, and in 1916 he received the medal of the Société des Gens de Lettres de France. M. Baudouin, who is an enthusiastic admirer, has characterised Laughing Truths as one of the most attractive, most elevated, and most powerful of critical volumes; and the perspicacity and Gallic grace of these essays have been repeatedly recognised. Professor J. G. Robertson (University of London), one of the few Englishmen who have spoken of Spitteler in print, calls The Olympian Spring "the greatest poem in this, the last epoch of German literature", and comments on the "incredible neglect" Spitteler has suffered for his defiance of tradition and convention. And these citations take no account of the naturally much more numerous eulogies in the German language.

No apology need be offered for the selection of a prose work to introduce Spitteler to the British public. The translation of prose requires much less courage than the translation of poetry. The risk that the traduttore may prove a traditore is sensibly reduced. Moreover, this volume of essays covers practically the whole field of Spitteler's interests and preoccupations, not only as author but as musician, artist, citizen, nature-lover, and man. From this point of view it may in some respects serve better as an "introduction" to Spitteler than any one poem could do. And, in spite of Spitteler's own forcible plea in the essay in this volume entitled "The Forbidden Epic", it may be doubted whether the British public would at the present time willingly lend their ears to a long epic, no matter how beautiful, offered to them in translation.

Carl Spitteler died at Lucerne, in his 80th year, on December 28, 1924. He lies in a sequestered corner of the picturesque Friedental Cemetery, under a rough flat stone, inscribed simply "Carl Spitteler".

The sincere gratitude of the translator is due to Spitteler's biographer, Professor Fränkel, and to Spitteler's friend, Herr C. A. Loosli (both of Berne), whose help in dealing with difficult constructions and in explaining unfamiliar references has been invaluable.

J. F. M.

Attack

There is no more exasperating experience than an enforced recognition of the way in which our sciolistic schoolmastering has brought it about that the sweetest fruits have been rendered insipid by pedagogic bacteria and that gifts, meant to make us happy, have been turned into pains and penalties. Art is great-hearted and humane, like the beauty from which it springs. It is one of the consolations of mortal life, and raises no other claim than to work zealously for our joy and bliss. It demands neither study nor preparation, for it acts directly through the senses on our heart and imagination, so that it has ever been true that the simple receptiveness of youth has shown itself a better judge in the realm of art than the most advanced erudition. Just as we have no need to learn how to appreciate flowers and sunshine, just as we need no Previous study to find the Rigi imposing or a maiden fair, so is it unnecessary to study art. It is true that susceptibility is limited, that gifts are unequally distributed, that the senses which transmit artistic impressions are sometimes keener and sometimes blunter. I have, however, never found a human being of feeling and imagination (for feeling and imagination are the preconditions, and the only preconditions, for the enjoyment of art) who did not receive immediate pleasure from one or other form of art. And that is the one thing necessary. Let each of us at the heavenly feast select those dishes which delight his soul and enjoy them to his heart's desire, as often and as much as he likes, whether alone or (when his heart overflows) in the company of congenial friends. That is enjoyment of art. It is also understanding of art. Whoever honestly and modestly enjoys a work of art understands it as well as (and very likely better than) the man who delivers learned lectures on the subject. Just so, the artists themselves have always appealed directly to the simple people and shunned all sponsors or intermediaries between themselves and the public.

Art bondage begins when pleasure in art is conceived of as a duty. It is no more a man's duty to love beauty and art than it is for him to find sugar sweet. Art is nothing more than a gracious permission and an urbane invitation; you can either take it or leave it. Happy he who knows enough to appreciate and accept it; we may pity the man who cannot do this, but we are not entitled to scold him. Genuine artists and simple lovers of art are always good souls; but does the fact that experience tells us that art has an ennobling effect justify us in using it as a means of education? "Yes", if we stipulate that the word 'education' is used in the sense of a century ago, when its aim was the training of an all-round man, and that the tomfoolery of the pedant is excluded. When "William Tell" is read in the original, the schoolroom becomes a green and breezy hill, and little ragamuffins are converted into a group of amiable and enthusiastic lovers of poetry. But if the reading is followed by discussion, if the drama is analysed, and illustrated by parallel passages, and written about in essays, much of the gain will be lost. So our answer is "No", if the presupposition is that examinations are the be-all and end-all of education, that it means the same thing as teaching and learning. In art there is nothing to teach, except by artists to artists, and little to learn. The ennobling and educative power of art rests, not on knowing, but on enjoying. Indeed, knowledge of art may in certain conditions impair the susceptibility to enjoyment of art. This is sure to be the case when self-conceit or priggishness appears on the scene; for self-conceit is the antipodes of that attitude of the soul implicit in every artistic enjoyment, which is one of modest and self-forgetting surrender. The attempt to carry over the idea of "culture", which means knowledge of a somewhat desultory and superficial cast, into the realm of art, is really an unhappy confusion. The conception of art from the "culture" point of view leads at its best to superficiality, quite usually to self-deception, and at its worst to emotional hypocrisy. One should therefore give up, once for all, the hope to attain the unattainable. Art is far too rich, and the individual far too poor, for him to master the colossal sum of its beatitudes; he should without any doubt restrict himself to the delights most akin to his own soul and enjoy his intimate communion with those. Such a resolve frees him from the most oppressive bondage of the modern world, the serfdom of culture, that burdensome and deleterious form of poll-tax. This resolve, moreover, costs no more than resignation to the fact that we cannot enjoy all the rays of the sun on all sides at once; there is enough and more than enough for the needs of the individual when he contents himself with his own proper share. The sense of need is the proper regulator of joy in art; when it is silent, we should let art alone.

Many make the mistake of confounding the external call or invitation with the inner need. "We must take the opportunity". This conclusion, however, is just as false as if we believed it was necessary to eat every time we read of a tempting menu in the newspaper. In normal persons the craving for art has its pauses; it is periodic; an everlasting wolfish hunger for art is itself a sign of a morbid condition, where the diagnosis indicates pseudo-culture. We must learn, therefore, to pass by concert programmes, theatrical posters, museums, and even Campi Santi with as much sangfroid as if they were shop-windows, for the fact that an article is brought prominently before our eyes is no proof that we need it. Even the rarity of an opportunity is no reason why we should avail ourselves of it, for a man is not a pelican and he cannot stow away undigested impressions for which no craving has arisen.

He who consults his cultured conscience instead of his actual desire, who believes it his duty to take advantage of every artistic opportunity in every field at every moment, is a man rather to be avoided than to be envied; the wise will give him a wide berth. For he is inspired, not by the free and noble Goddess of Art, but by the Art of the Schools. This pretentious, and at the same time so sterile, branch of knowledge is answerable for the insincere contortions of art-culture. There is, however, an excellent antidote to it, viz. the simple phrase "I don't understand a word of it". What a relief these words bring both to the hearer and the speaker! Really everyone should learn to utter this phrase, the pronunciation of which somehow seems a little difficult, though it expresses an obvious truth, since nobody can assume to be cordially and comfortably at home in every field of art. Of course the confession carries with it the danger of incivility from an ill-mannered interlocutor; but even this may rank on the credit side, as it will teach us not to enter into conversation with every Tom, Dick, or Harry. I call it bad manners for one man to make an unpleasant remark to another on account of his real or supposed insusceptibility or ignorance in artistic matters, for, as no one is bound to enjoy art, so no one has any tight to put another through an artistic inquisition. It would be very desirable if the ideas of politeness in this connection could be somewhat improved, for in most cases the restless and disturbing craving for artistic culture originates simply in the dread of the superficial inquisition in society, railway carriages, and hotels. As soon, however, as we relegate cultivated impertinence to the same class as boorish, rudeness, the terribly high level of the culture flood will sink with great rapidity, just as those nations in which a high degree of conversational tact prevails hardly know the meaning of artistic hypocrisy.

As art exists for the pleasure and not for the discipline of man, we must not regard a great master, however long he may have been dead, as a sort of bugbear, created to impress or even oppress us, but rather as a friend and benefactor. Affection is the only suitable feeling we can have for a master, and it must be an unembarrassed affection, free from bashfulness or antediluvian respect. Every creator, even the greatest, is content with this kind of homage, for the homage of the heart is the finest of all. Gratitude will naturally accompany the affection; and conscientious effort finds in this the best reward for the toil and trouble it has had to go through.-Admiration is the tribute paid by professional artists to the master. The layman is not called upon for this; and, anyhow, it does not sit very well on him, for he can have no idea of the difficulties that have been overcome in the production of a work of art, or of the problems that have had to be solved. Let him be satisfied with gratitude and affection; that will be more natural and more modest.-No artist acknowledges any duty of compulsory deification, any nervous taboo vis-à-vis of illustrious names, any bar to an honest affirmation that the august swellings of the Immortals may be nothing more or less than goître. These are the impudent inventions of presumptuous creatures, who busy themselves with the unjustifiable exploitation of a dead master, eager to monopolise him, and in so doing make themselves intolerable by their use of the glory they steal from him. By grovelling before one great man, they flatter themselves that they have earned the right to refuse the due meed of reverence to all the others. Every creative soul hates them with a holy hatred.

We may twist, handle, and call it what we like, the fact remains that in art and poetry everything depends on belief or the want of it. Belief in this connection means a firm conviction of an ever-present and effective spirit of beauty; unbelief is the idea that this spirit marches off gaily, quite apart from the present time, to bivouac at a distance of at least a generation back. And each conviction is based on experience. The believer is full of his belief; how can he fail to note it? In the unbeliever there yawns a gray desolation, therefore he cannot but regard the present as a sterile Jurassic-limestone period.

The believers of the highest order are naturally those whose whole activity is determined by faith as a motive force:—the creators, the originators, the masters. Wherever a master dwells, hope shines and encouragement beckons. At a mere rumour of his presence the brave raise their heads; his example kindles in every corner of the globe; his name acts as a challenge to the noble; his fame muzzles the lie about contemporary inferiority. Whoever gets into personal touch with a master bathes in a fountain of youth. While the wailing women chant the coronach of talent in the streets, while every pulpit announces the closing of the gate of poetry, while every village journal bans the vineyard and every bell chimes for evensong, he, the Master, points to the sun of Homer, indicates brother-eagles on the horizon, and waxes eloquent on the inexhaustibility of the beautiful, on the short span of life, on the little that has been so far garnered, on the incalculable harvest still to be reaped. At the cross-roads the hoarse voice of the village constable continues to croak: "Back; hands off! You're too late! Nothing is left!" The Master stands at his hospitable door and greets us in friendly wise: "What has hitherto been achieved is only a beginning".

But faith is needful not only for the creation of the beautiful, but also for its reception, i.e. for its instant reception, for its appreciation before it has become legend; because, when it has become legendary, even the numskulls accept it. In this connection also the artists are far in front of all others, because they are not only at once creator and instrument, but also a sounding-board. Everything that is beautiful awakes in them a full-toned echo, unmuffled by any sullen mistrust or by any carping reservations. A special organ of the soul enables the master to recognise the gold-dust in the sand of the most discouraging flood, to select unerringly what is important in the most devastating swarm of books. This is the feeling of kinship, which presents itself uninvoked the moment anything great enters the field of vision. Outside the circle of artists, the judgment of even the most intelligent needs crutches: comparison with precedents, fundamental principles, the verdicts of earlier masters, and so on. I grant you these are very admirable crutches, but they are crutches all the same; and, moreover, they have the fault that they are apt to fail when the need of them is greatest, when the original is not like the standard models, when the great does not please the little, when the new brings with it no sanctifying touch of the old. The judgment of the artists is also a loving one, taking kindly note of every valuable quality; there is no more grateful public for the gifted than other great men—the greater, the better. By reason of these qualities the older, already recognised masters at any given period, are the natural protectors of the younger, who are still struggling for recognition. The necessity of removing the worst obstacles out of the way of a successor, which costs merely a frank word of commendation, lies too near to be other than a general rule. The reverse occurs in the history of art and literature only as a rare exception. About the mutual relations of mature artists many unpleasant things have been whispered. If, however, we examine the records more closely, we shall find that in every single case the disagreement arose from the provocations of the followers of the two great men. Even gold may be converted into an acid through incessant boiling and stirring, and by the use of hydrogen, chloride, and sulphur.

Besides the artists there are two other classes of believers to mention, or, rather, a class and a condition. The Class consists of the best kind of women. The well-known impartial susceptibility of women to beauty of every sort, of every form, and of every name, is part and parcel of their nature, is inherent in their very being. In distinguished individuals it is a deeply felt longing, a real thirst. Other people, too, like the beauti- ful, assert that they desire it, and believe that they seek it; but woman alone utters a spontaneous cry of joy when she sees it. The female judgment, like the artistic, rests upon instinct, which must always be the most valuable foundation, because it is not open to influences. The woman's instinct is, however, limited to the "beautiful" in a narrower sense; it is of little avail in distinguishing the derivative from the original, the pretentious from the really great. Lovely Titanias, who cling to a boorish ass or perfumed ape, in the belief that they have found a godlike genius, will continue to present themselves to our astonished gaze. If, however, woman often takes a frog for a fish, she practically never takes a fish for a frog. Still less does she make it a reproach to the fish that he is not a frog. This is a noble trait and no common virtue; it may be unreservedly recommended for our imitation. And then, what loyalty to the object of belief, once it has been chosen! What selflessness! What a marvellous freedom from moral cowardice! Woman waits for no signs or permissions, regards no prohibitions, laughs at scorn. Her star is not extinguished by the most hopeless defeats; its gentle, joy-bringing beam penetrates the blackest storms of night. Afterwards, when the victory has been won and the skulkers in the bushes break out into obtrusive jubilation, she draws back; for she does not fight for pay. Philosophy may judge of woman as it will or must; art owes her reverence, gratitude, and love. If it were not for woman, we should long ago have been estimating works of art by logarithms and measuring poetic force by the coprometer.

The Condition above referred to is Youth, that wondrous glaze, which for sundry years glorifies even souls of common clay with a lustrous bloom. By youth I mean only those of the male sex, since the young girl is otherwise occupied in posing as a model for the imagination and with the possibilities of marriage. Male youth, in my sense, extends from the earliest boyhood to adolescence. The interplay of enthusiastic acceptance and creative divination, of humble adoration and confident self-esteem, lends the idealism of puberty both its charm and its value; the enormous number of the participators and the stormy character of its expressions of conviction give it its force. The arrival of new regiments of youth always means a reinforcement for the artist, an increase of reverence for the creative, a strengthening of the fame of enduring values. Like oxygen, youth attacks only rusty iron and rotten wood; it protects the precious metals from dust. The most salutary function of youth is, however, the blowing up of the Babel towers of scholasticism. It is true that the digging and piling up of the earthworks begin again at once; but, all the same, it does one's heart good to see the pagodas and the parsons all scattered to the winds together.

We have now completed the list of the lambs and come to the goats. And the goats bear a singular family-likeness to those described in the New Testament. The New Testament distinguishes two main classes of unbelievers: on the one side, the people, on the other, the Pharisees, Sadducees, and Scribes, with their disciples. In the language of art the people is known as the "public". Under either name it betrays its well-known characteristics. On the one side, vacillating opinions and desires and mental sluggishness; on the other side, good-nature and a fallow and usable spirit of readiness. To condemn the public as a whole is neither seemly, nor fair, nor wise. In the first place, it does no good; in the second place, men have more urgent duties on earth than to educate the public; and, in the third place, in this checkered group some really noble souls are found—e.g. the leading masters of the ancillary arts, persons, like queens, to whom we owe at least respect, and, lastly, persons, like our own brothers and sisters, to whom no well-brought up man would try to play the schoolmaster. The chief trouble caused by the "people" or "public" comes from its blind belief in its teachers; if to this blindness be added zeal or bigotry, we have the "faction" of the Pharisees. The farther we get from the schools, the more this danger dwindles, the more harmless and manageable the public becomes. Therefore it is that the masters now, as two thousand years ago, reveal a marked preference for the company of publicans and fishermen.