Front matter (continued 2)

In short, even Naturalism in no way eliminates the subject with its inwardness; rather in its own development it everywhere presupposes the subject. It does not shape life out of mere and pure nature, but out of a close union of a transcendent spiritual life with nature, and out of an energetic insistence upon elements of nature within the soul. However, man experiences not so much the things themselves as himself in the things; the relating together, the surveying, the experiencing of the whole is always a spiritual performance. This performance makes something different out of nature, just as the naturalistic culture that is striven for is different from the state of nature that is found at the beginning. The misconception of the relation of nature to the mind; the postulation of nature without mind, in place of nature with mind, makes Naturalism self-contradictory and untenable. Naturalism therefore struggles vainly against the following dilemma: if it is really in earnest in the elimination of spiritual realities, it must inevitably destroy its own fundamental basis and, as a system of life, must break down; while if it in any way acknowledges a transcendence of nature, and a transcendence just in that which is fundamental to it, then it is necessarily driven beyond itself.

But such contradiction in the basal position must be present through the whole development of Naturalism and must make all its factors variating in colour and double in meaning, since at one and the same time they involve the spiritual element and reject it, eliminate it and bring it into the foreground, the former openly and explicitly, the latter concealedly and implicitly. Such is the case, in particular, with the fundamental conception of the struggle for existence. In the context of Naturalism, this conception can signify nothing else than the preservation of natural existence, of mere life; such a conception, however, is as incapable of comprehending the whole wealth of the work of civilisation and culture as it is of developing within itself. If the preservation of existence in this sense were really the highest aim, then, all the work of humanity, incalculable and great as it is, all the toil and creative activity of history, would be without result; in no way would it lead beyond the starting-point; we should, of course, have life, but nothing along with and in life. Indeed, the movement would be a continual retrogression, for the experience of the present shows us clearly enough that the conflict of life becomes ever more difficult, toilsome, and embittered. If all this toil does not yield more than was possessed in the original condition, that is, physical existence, then this implies that we have to make an ever greater detour to establish that which formerly devolved upon us immediately. In such a case our life would be a continual sinking, a toil continually increasing in difficulty, in order that we might simply be something, without being anything in particular. Or, will anyone assert that there is no retrogression when the achievement of the same aim costs ever more effort, ever more labour and turmoil of spirit?

The fact is that Naturalism also gives to life, which is seen to be thus immersed in conflict, some kind of content, which it conceives as increasing continually in the course of the movement, and as attaining for us through the conflict an ever richer and more comprehensive existence. But how can a conception such as that of the content of life originate in mere nature? How can it be even conceived unless life possesses some consciousness of itself, unless there is a transformation of what is external into something internal—a thing which nature can never accomplish?

With the conception of the struggle for existence, the useful becomes the preponderant power of life; it attempts a transvaluation of all values, since it lays stress rather on the relation of things to us than on their own nature. The conception won acceptance from and power over the minds of men because it was a complete change from the generally accepted explanation, and at the same time seemed to simplify matters greatly. Unfortunately, on further consideration this transformation proves to be a complete reversal of the general scheme of life, indeed a destruction of it. Man, it is true, does not preserve his physical existence without toil; he must continually win it anew, and nothing can occupy him which does not acquire some relation to this necessity and make itself consistent with it. But the further question arises, whether anxiety for the useful is also able to crush out that which is distinctive and characteristic in the world of humanity. If we recognise the limits of the endeavour after the useful, we shall soon become doubtful concerning its claim to be the sole aim of conduct. That endeavour is spent solely on the welfare of the individual; it can never free itself from reference to the individual, and never, beyond that perceived, can it take up anything as an aim in itself. Interest is centred solely upon the external products of the activity of men and of the process of nature, and not at all upon what men and nature are in themselves. We find here nothing but isolated spheres of existence which are devoid alike of inner relation to themselves and to one another.

Now, Naturalism can appeal in its own defence to the fact that real life shows its individual departments to have thousands of inter-relationships, so that the welfare of the individual is inseparably bound up with that of his environment, his family, his home, his state; and that therefore, in order to prosper himself, his endeavour must be for the good of these also. It may even serve his own interest to give up a direct advantage in favour of a greater indirect one. Further, Naturalism is able to assert that, however little the inner disposition of others may affect us directly, this disposition can acquire a value for us in so far as its persistence alone assures to us a continuance of achievement. As considerations of this kind may be extended without limit, there is nothing in the whole breadth of existence which the utilitarian view of life need reject.

But, in the midst of all this extension in breadth, this development of life retains a fixed limitation in its inner nature, which cannot be transcended: we can never strive for the alien, the other, the whole, for its own sake, but only as a means for our own welfare; everything inward becomes a matter of indifference if, sooner or later, it is not transformed into an external result. Human life, however, through its own development has grown beyond this limitation; if not in the breadth of existence, yet in its inner nature and at its highest, it manifests something significantly more. Man is capable of a love which values another, not because it hopes for this or that which is useful from him, but because with the whole of his existence he is valuable to it. Man is capable of a love which can lead him to the willing subordination, indeed the joyful sacrifice, of his own existence; of a love in which the first self dies and a new self is born. “Love is the greatest of all contradictions, and one which the understanding cannot solve, since there is nothing more impenetrable than this individuality of self-consciousness, which is negated, and which yet I should retain as positive” (Hegel). Into what a state of poverty humanity would fall if a genuine love of this kind were struck out of the number of its possessions! But can Naturalism in any way understand and estimate such an inner expansion of the heart, such a Stirbe und Werde [a dying to live], to use the words of Goethe?

A deliverance of life from the mere ego is effected in another direction in work. Of course, work also stands in close relation to the preservation of life; it must demonstrate itself to be in some way useful. But work would never fill the soul and attain to anything great if it did not also become an aim in itself; if it were not carried on in complete submission to the object and according to its requirements. How low all educational endeavour, personal guardianship, all work for humanity would sink; how humanity would lack all self-forgetting devotion to it, all bold pressing forward; and how unintelligible the joy in a life’s vocation would be, if the idea of utility solely and entirely determined conduct, if the chief concern were always how the work paid! Should we not sink, in such a case, into a slavery which would enthral man far more oppressively than any command which a tyrant could be capable of?

It is true that on the average level of existence much is turned to the service of the merely useful which was produced from love and work, and this reversal of spiritual goods may be the first thing which comes definitely under our notice. In order, however, even to be so applied and reversed, they must originally have been generated in some manner, and this original generation can never proceed from the useful, but only out of the inner force and compulsion of the object, as, for example, in the case of the great transitions of thought, of artistic creation, and of religious conviction. And, as these have proceeded from inner movements, so they have also brought about powerful inner changes. They have not altered this or that in a given world in order to make it more comfortable to man, but with an energetic revolution have transformed our world from its very foundations, and have constructed a new world in contrast to that which immediately surrounds us. How much or how little individual men, or indeed even mankind as a whole, have appropriated of this; how far man has corresponded and still corresponds to the necessities of his own nature, is a matter and a question in itself: in the spiritual life of humanity the new magnitudes are extant, and they operate here as norms for testing all achievement. At the same time, they show that our life and our nature are of a kind different from what Naturalism represents them to be. However much Naturalism may boast that it is possible for even the highest to be drawn into the service of the merely human, with all its boasting it has not explained the origin of the highest: can a thing proceed from its own shadow? The naturalistic attempt to trace everything back to the useful really reverses the condition of affairs and results in inner destruction wherever disposition stands first. For conduct changes its character completely according as it is regarded as a mere means, or as an end in itself; according as its aim is striven for directly or only indirectly. Do such things as love, fidelity, honour deserve these names if the thought of selfish advantage is their motive power? It lies in the nature of certain things that they must be treated as ends in themselves and as matters of primary concern: to degrade them to a subsidiary position is in their case only a finer kind of destruction; to be opposed to utility is an attribute inseparable from their very being. Where disposition is valued only as a pre-condition of achievement, as in Naturalism, at the highest only a tolerable appearance, a substitute for a genuine disposition, can be reached in the whole moral sphere. Naturalism affords us an example of such a substitution when it sets up an altruistic action, that is, an action which produces something useful to another, in place of an inner expansion of life, which takes the other up inwardly into our own volition and being, and which alone leads beyond egoism. Naturalism is able to overlook all this; is able to make what is the secondary view of things the primary one; the derived, the original; is able to put the relation to human perception in place of the thing itself, only because its interest is so completely occupied with external relations that it does not independently evaluate the inner; and again, because a reflection that appeals to the understanding hinders all immediate relation and spontaneous appropriation. Otherwise, it also would feel how deep, how intolerable, a degradation of man ensues if his innermost experience, his striving after truth, his wrestling for unity within himself, his love, and his suffering are made a mere means to physical self-preservation, and are thus regarded from the point of view of utility.

If we glance over the life of universal history, we see that a history of a distinctively human character extricates itself from the machinery of nature only through man’s acquiring an independence over against his environment, evolving a life conscious of itself and from it exerting a transforming power upon all presented to it. Only thus does a civilisation grow up in contrast with the mere state of nature. In civilisation and culture man enters into conflict with the infinity of the external world, but he cannot carry on this conflict victoriously without setting an inner infinity in opposition to that external one. In the struggle between these two worlds the life of man is transformed no less than the appearance of reality. More and more the visible world becomes an expression of an invisible one; more and more life draws the world into itself and finds the chief problems in its own sphere. Thus life becomes raised above simple physical preservation; that which serves in this preservation is regarded as a condition only and as something preliminary.

Among the peoples situated nearest to us, this tendency has taken different forms; but the separation of creative spiritual activity from all mere utility is common to all. Thus, Greek culture gave birth to a life resting in its own movement, a life satisfied in itself. In the sharpest manner it marked off the beautiful, that which could produce pleasure immediately and of itself, from the merely useful, everything which served something else. It lauded the life filled with the perception and appreciation of the beautiful as the only free life, and pronounced every other way of life to be servile. Further, if in Christianity, in the comprehensiveness of its relations, the care for the welfare of the narrowly human takes up a great amount of attention, and a utilitarianism of a religious kind is evolved, the height of its creation and disposition is not affected: in it the winning of a new life superior to all selfishness, the becoming one with the divine, is the one end in itself. If Clement of Alexandria could say that, if it was a matter of choosing between the knowledge of God and eternal bliss, he would have, without hesitation, to renounce the latter, or if Thomas à Kempis said, “I would rather be poor for Thy sake than rich without Thee. I choose rather to be a pilgrim with Thee on the earth, than without Thee to possess heaven. For where Thou art, there is heaven; but where Thou art not, there is death and hell”—then these are not merely the lofty sayings of individuals, but a faithful expression of that which gave to the whole system its world-penetrating and world-reviving power.

The Modern Age, too, which has conceded so much to utilitarian striving, is in the innermost essence of its effort far removed from the spirit of mere utility. For, from the two poles of its life, from the subject as from the object, it breaks through all that is simply “given” and forms a new, self-existent world. In modern times the subject frees itself from the environment, places itself proudly over against it, and finds its securest experience in the self-certainty of its own life. At the same time it in no way renounces the surrounding world; but through the activity of thought it reconstructs that world, and in this conceptualises and idealises all its magnitudes. The more the subject becomes assured of seeing all things spiritually and scientifically by means of its own organisation, the more true is it that all sense experience is sustained and modified by spiritual power. Natural self-preservation cannot possibly satisfy the striving of the subject. For this striving can never be reduced to a mere means, but finds its power, as its joy, in becoming a world in itself; in the proud maintenance and establishment of its own nature in face of every opposition; in the impression of its particularity upon the infinity of things. On the other hand, over against the circumstantiality of man, great systems of thought are formed; evolve a characteristic content and independent powers; and, as forces in the life of universal history, press forward their consequences with inevitable necessity. These systems seek to bring reality under their sway, and do not manifest the least concern with regard to the continuance and the interests of man. Science and art and the political and economical aspects of life afford examples of what we mean. Accordingly, in the modern world and in the modern man, two movements towards infinity clash together, and from these there arise great commotion and violent unrest. Whatever may remain enigmatical in this, the fact of the transformation of the first, the sense experience of things, is beyond doubt. It is also beyond doubt that man, regarded spiritually, does not find himself a member of a given world, but must first seek and make clear his fundamental relations to the world. From this position Naturalism, with its naïve assertion of the finality and permanence of the sense impression, appears to be an intolerable dogmatism.

Naturalism is seen to be far below the highest point of universal historical development; it cannot appropriate the experiences and results of that development; it consists of a confusion of naïve and scientific modes of thought, which win the adherence of many individuals, but which, through their contradictions, can never guarantee to life genuine stability and a clear course. Only because it evolves in the atmosphere of a world of another kind, and thereby imperceptibly enhances its own conceptions, does it appear at all plausible. Nevertheless, even so, it is a mischievous confusion of thought which must act detrimentally upon conduct. Those especially will be opposed to it who recognise in human life great tasks and severe perplexities, and desire that the highest powers and clearest thought shall be called forth for the accomplishment of those tasks and the solution of those perplexities. But Naturalism, obscuring, as it does, the inner problems of life; with its backwardness in the movement of universal history; and with its attempt to take from human life all proud and free self-consciousness, indeed all soul, can tend only to reduce the energy of life.

The rejection of Naturalism by no means signifies failure to appreciate the increased attention to nature, out of the wrong interpretation of which Naturalism has proceeded. Not only has visible nature become more to our knowledge; it has also become incomparably more to our life. The fact that we feel ourselves conditioned by it, and have become more closely associated with it, can be fully appreciated and must force us to a radical revision of the traditional form of life. Such a revision, however, can be successful in achieving its aim only if the new experiences are systematised to form a consistent whole with the remaining facts in a comprehensive, universal life; spiritual endeavour is solely and alone capable of offering this universality and of accomplishing this task.

2. The Socialistic System

The socialistic system of life is often closely bound up with the naturalistic, and blends with it so well as almost to form a single whole; indeed, there is so much affinity in their fundamental principles that the one may appear to be the completion of the other. But when we come to details, we find that a different character and a different emotional life are yielded according as the relation to nature or to human society governs life; especially as we are parts in an infinite nature, or as we place our own province in the foreground and seek a new form for it. On the one hand knowledge takes the lead, on the other activity. While the former, according to its nature, is more concerned with reaching a consistent whole, the latter feels the contradictions of experience most intensely. With the one progress appears to be a gradual accumulation, with the other it does not seem possible to dispense with a radical change; while the former is broader in its outlook, the latter has more warmth of enthusiasm. Through the domination of thought and life by the problems of society, a distinctive form of culture may therefore be expected.

In modern life different motives have led to a closer unity of men on the basis of experience. Religion no longer accords to the individual firm support as in earlier times, and with every advance of scientific research nature is removed inwardly further from us; ceaseless criticism and reflection tend to prevent us more and more from comprehending the whole as a unity. Man, thus isolated in the whole, seems to himself to be lost, unless he succeeds in discovering relations between himself and others of the same nature as himself, and unless in co-operation with them he helps to build up an independent realm of their own, which may lend support and value to the life of the individual.

In the Modern Age social life has tended to this end under the influence of fresh impressions and new prospects. Hitherto that life was under the influence of an invisible world of thought, especially of one of a religious kind. The union of men had particular presuppositions and was realised in a particular manner; here, the more closely a certain group held together, the more sharply was it separated from others; the calling forth of power in one particular direction meant diverting it from other tasks. A changed mode of thought was also able to take exception to the view that the ties which bind men together came from a transcendent order, which is now felt as an “other” world and is the subject of doubt. At first, therefore, we are apt to think it a pure gain if modern society no longer concerns itself with these invisible bonds, and regards the union as arising solely and entirely out of the immediate experience of life. For then there is nothing to hinder the balanced development of all the relationships of men among themselves; the social life serves no other end, but finds its task and happiness in itself, and in its actuality is disturbed by no kind of doubt.

With this deliverance from all external constraint, a positive advance of the life of society on the basis of the Modern Age is associated. A life more free in conduct, and which through progress in the arts ceaselessly expands, brings men nearer to one another, and forces them into closer union; action and reaction accelerate each other. The opinions and strivings of the masses are determined more easily and exercise more influence; the whole and its influence upon the individual become incomparably stronger. At the same time, the energetic attention that men bestow upon the surrounding reality throws into bold relief relations which have existed from the earliest times, but which hitherto have not been prominent, and enables them to acquire a greater value for life. Since the old appears in a new light, and the new arises, diverse streams of social life are formed, and through their diversity operate to the strengthening of the main tendency.

Modern Sociology shows the individual to be far more dependent upon the social environment, upon general conditions, than we are wont to assume from the first impression, which usually throws differences into relief and overlooks common traits, generally fails to pay sufficient attention to the growth of the individuals, and is too apt to take the positions which they possess as essentially the result of their own work. In contrast to this, the one thing which now has power to impress us is the fact that the dependence reaches back to the earliest beginnings; that the individual has become what he has become through the overpowering influences of heredity, education, and environment. Further, the conviction that the differences lie within ascertainable limits, and that there is a certain average level throughout all the multiplicity of life, is gaining a firmer hold. To ascertain these average levels now becomes the chief problem of knowledge, and to realise them the chief task of practical political provision. Inner changes are also brought about. The fact that, with these changes, responsibility, guilt, and desert are transferred more and more from the individual to the society tends to call forth more humane sympathy and more mildness of judgment, and tends to discredit the excessive self-esteem of a self-righteous Pharisaism. At the same time it constitutes a powerful motive to work for the whole; to strive to raise the whole, morally and physically; to develop a social morality and a strong feeling of solidarity.

To the modern man, therefore, the life of the State advances through changes in content and form. The State, which in the Middle Ages had to leave all problems of inner training to the Church, in its new function of culture State now assumes all tasks, influences the whole life of the individual, and is confident in its power to transform our existence more and more into a realm of reason. Along with this there is a strong tendency to place the State increasingly on the power and insight of individuals; all through the nineteenth century this tendency won an ever more overwhelming power. The more activity we bestow upon a particular sphere of work, the more valuable does it become to us, the nearer does it stand to our inner nature. Thus, the ancient mode of thought, that the individual is a mere member of the political organism, and that he receives his tasks and obtains his power from it, was able to be revived.

With this the stronger emphasis laid upon national peculiarities, and the more definite self-assertion and more vigorous development of nations are associated. Formerly national character had been veiled and, as far as the spiritual ideals of humanity are concerned, as though lost. Now nations appear as points where the spiritual life manifests itself and concentrates distinctively. To work out their peculiarities clearly, and manfully to assert them in the competition of peoples, promises great gain for the organisation and energising of life; for the first time, the divine seems to pass into daily toil on earth.

Most of all, the modern organisation of labour, with its enhancing of technique and its advance beyond the capacity of production of the mere individual, heightens the power of impression of the picture as a whole. Work brings about a deliverance from the passivity of the subject; it organises itself into independent complexes, which develop into a state entirely foreign to our nature. It produces its own motive powers and necessities, and requires from the individual the strictest obedience. The performance of the individual attains a value only in definitely ordered co-operation with others; it loses all worth if he attempts to ignore this relation. This is shown with particular clearness in the evolution of the factory with its production by machinery. It is shown further in every specifically modern work in administrative government, in military organisation, in knowledge and education. Everywhere we find great organisations; an enormous growth in the capacity of the whole, but a sinking of the individual to a mere link of the great chain, a proscribing of all individual will. If all thus depends upon the whole, the success of endeavour and the happiness of life will be decided chiefly by the organisation of the whole. It is not to be wondered at, then, if the antitheses which arise in reference to this organisation agitate people in the strongest degree; if a faith in the omnipotence of political and social forms grows up, and if over these the keenest fight rages.

In this connection there is no problem which gives rise to greater complications and severer conflicts than that in regard to the preservation and raising of the standard of material existence. If, in general, we attribute incomparably more value to the material in life than was done formerly, so here also the problems of modern labour reach their climax. The organisation and concentration of labour have made by far their greatest progress in this matter; a gigantic accumulation of capital on the one side and of labour power on the other has intensified to the uttermost the opposition between man and man. In this conflict more than in any other the whole being of man comes into play; here, therefore, the most powerful passions flame up. No wonder that, if the thought of a fundamental re-organisation rises to the surface, it wins an influence amounting to fascination, arouses the hope of an essential advancement of the whole of human existence, and impels men to vigorous activity.

Thus, then, this sphere, in which fact is regarded as principle, and in which the problem of the development of society is elevated to a position of importance above all others, and seeks to impress its stamp upon the whole of life, is first and foremost. From this point of view the organisation of society is the central problem of all culture, and a distinctive social culture, a social system of life, is evolved. But that which emerges at this point with especial power and clearness would not have been able to win men so quickly and influence them so strongly if it did not constitute a high-water mark of a wider movement, of a general tendency of the modern man to regard the social relation as being of the essence of life, and to shape life anew from this. Viewed historically, this tendency arose as a reaction against the practice of placing the individual in the foreground, a practice which since the beginning of the Modern Age had been resorted to in the most diverse departments of life. What was felt to be unconditionally right in opposition to the bondage of the Middle Ages has, in the course of time, shown a reverse side. Many painful experiences have led us to favour a movement in the direction of the whole again; and so it comes about that all hope of amelioration is able to be regarded as inevitably bound up with the complete victory of this movement.

A distinctive social type of life can be formed and can strive for supremacy only if great problems arise within society and if its position in the whole of our life is capable of and in need of change. It will soon be seen that the case is so in respect of both these things; and also that two movements, one more general in kind, and another more precise but also more uncertain as to its goal, are connected.

The point at which the new development of life institutes a new demand is the relation of the individual to the means of existence and the goods of culture. Formerly an aristocratic order preponderated, which allowed only a few to share in the abundance of these goods, while it was only afterwards that the many were able to partake of the poor remains. In material, as in spiritual, things man was concerned less with the equitable distribution of the possessions of humanity than with increasing them. The matter of chief importance, and this with regard to questions of inward culture also, appeared to be in some way to incorporate the contents and goods within the sphere of human existence, and to fix them there; the extension of these goods among men was a matter of secondary consideration, and often one that was only very lightly thought of. The limitation to a small chosen class, indeed, seemed to be quite indispensable for a secure and worthy organisation of life. Thus, this culture acquired its character at the highest levels of society, and from there descended in diminishing degrees to lower levels: it was regarded as inevitable that in this descent much should be lost, and that the less privileged classes must perforce be satisfied with very little.

A movement in opposition to this state of things arose in the first place among the individuals who were placed in the background by such an organisation, and who, not convinced of the validity of the doctrine of the immutability of their fate, began to make comparisons and to ask questions. Their desire was not merely for more happiness, but for spiritual advance also. In humanity there is an energetic striving and advance, and in this a far greater spirituality and a far keener thirst for truth are often shown in the classes of the people who are struggling upward and pressing forward than in those classes which from early times have had possession of power and wealth and which are hampered by a feeling of self-satisfaction.

That which at first is striven for by merely a part of mankind acquires, through its inner necessities, a power over others also, and becomes a requirement of the whole. We experience here what earlier was called the power of ideas in history, that is, the fact that in certain periods certain thoughts and demands acquire an overwhelming power of penetration and impel men to a line of conduct which is even opposed to their special interests. We may so far speak of the supremacy of the social idea in the present, as not only in the disposition of individuals but also through organisation and legislation there is an endeavour to bring help to the poor and the weak, to raise those who are struggling upward, and to convey as directly as possible both material and spiritual goods to all who bear human features. It is not only that this appears a matter of justice; a rejuvenation and an energising of the whole of culture are also hoped for. Without a radical rejection of all that which in the traditional position has decayed, become alien, or is now artificial; without a deep-reaching simplification and a greater proximity to the soul, how could all partake of culture, and how could it become a concern of all? The old demand of leading educationalists, of Comenius and Rousseau, of Pestalozzi and Froebel, the desire for a rejuvenation of our culture antiquated as it is in many respects, seems to be approaching its fulfilment now that the matter is a concern of the whole of mankind.

However, this striving, which in itself cannot be rejected, enters upon a narrow course and at the same time upon much that is problematical, in that it unites with the positivistic tendencies of the age in the rejection of all invisible connections and in the restriction of life to the experience of sense. Instead of the whole, we now have the average and the masses, and instead of a creation from the whole, a building up from below; the needs of the masses are the main motive power of life. But as with the masses the chief questions are those of the physical preservation of life, and of economic existence, it seems as if, with their solution, with the deliverance from oppressing cares and necessity through a radical revolution, a complete state of happiness and a ceaseless spiritual advance of humanity are assured. Material welfare, which in earlier organisations of life was so depreciated, in the new system becomes the matter of chief concern; it is regarded as that which more than anything else leads to the development of every power and makes culture the truth for the whole of humanity.

The life of society is thus seen to be full of problems. Nevertheless, the position of society in our life as a whole has been changed and raised. We have become far more uncertain concerning our relation to ultimate and universal reality; we doubt the possibility and the validity of first winning, through religion or speculation, a world beyond human experience, of the conveying it to that experience, and from the point of view of such a world giving the human its light and setting it its task. In short, the centre of life has changed from the object to the subject; we know that we cannot abstract from our own nature our spiritual organisation, but that we carry it into every aspect of the whole; that we see and form the world through man. With such a transition, the movement from man to world becomes the chief movement of life; and the conception of man will decide the nature of the conceptions of life and of reality. Henceforth greatness may be attributed to these only if human nature is capable of an advance beyond what it appears to be in the first impression. That, however, will scarcely be possible unless humanity is conceived as a whole and, with such a unity, has more power and depth than it has as it exists immediately before us. This also will operate to the strengthening of the social order, in which sense experience controls thought.

Thus, many different factors unite to make the condition of mankind as it is, that is, the state of society on the basis of experience, the starting-point and final aim of all endeavour, and the relation of man to surrounding men the fundamental relation of his life. But, as in the case of culture as a whole, the individual departments of life must also win a distinctive character if the welfare of the social whole, the achievement for man and the influence on man, becomes the all-controlling task which sets the aim and points out the way for all activity.

In this context science does not reveal hidden depths of things, but aids man in winning power over appearances; it leads him to a more zealous and a more active life. Art does not lift him into an ideal world; but, within experience, softens the pressure of existence and fills life with pure joys. Morality does not subject our conduct to an invisible order, but directs man beyond himself to men around him; it develops the feeling of solidarity and raises the standard of the inner relationships of society. For religion as the revelation of an “other” world there is no room; this world shows in humanity an object worthy of reverence; so understood, religion also must work to the inner elevation of society.

In everything that which distinguishes the individual is thrust into the background to make way for that which is common; work has in the first place to concern itself with that which is common to all. In that here science makes man the chief study of man, it considers him especially as a social being and finds its chief theme in the knowledge of social conditions. Similarly, the chief subject of art is not, as was formerly the case, the doings and experience of individuals, but the forceful representation of these social conditions. The raising of the general level becomes the chief care of all practical activity, as also of education. According to this scheme the individual is of consequence and of worth only through those elements of the common life which he brings to expression, and through the way in which he reacts upon that life. The industry of universal history is understood, therefore, not from that which relates primarily to individuals, but from that relating to the movements and destinies of society.

Such an estimate of the whole involves a conviction which seldom finds expression, but which silently exerts its influence everywhere: the belief in a summation of reason by the organisation of individuals into a whole. Only a belief of this kind is able to establish the supremacy of the mass over against the individuals, also in spiritual things; only such a belief is able to justify the hope of a victory of the good in the sphere of humanity.

The net result of all these ideas and tendencies is a co-ordinated system of thought, a distinctive type of life. In this system man is first and foremost a member of society; he originates in it; he remains in it; and his activity carries implications far beyond his own life. Not community of labour only joins him with his fellows, but also the general tone of thought and feeling. This type of life is not one without sacrifice; for it has to give up many things which in earlier times seemed a secure possession and were a source of joy. Yet these things were only illusions which vanished, and mankind seems to find a compensation, more than equivalent for all that has been lost, in that it is more closely united and through this wins new powers; and henceforth out of its own capacity can venture to take up the struggle against every irrationality of existence, and to advance its own well-being without constraint. A life is therefore evolved, conscious of its limits, but at the same time active and courageous.

In this manner, then, transcending all subjective opinions and wishes, a distinctive social culture has arisen, and its growth and results are clearly evident to us. Through combination of forces and through diligent activity on behalf of one another, and this with the aid of a highly evolved technique, we have brought about a magnificent elevation of our being; necessity and disease have been successfully fought against; the standard of education and the amount and kind of joy in life have been raised in many ways; in life and suffering men have been drawn together inwardly and associated together with a greater degree of solidarity. If one accepts the creed of the socialistic movement in the narrower sense: that human society can be placed on a new basis and at the same time raised essentially in its achievement, one can conceive that social culture may grow to the comprehensiveness of culture in general, and arouse the hope of a kingdom of reason among men.

But here also there is a limit set to things, not from without, but from within; not from a rationalising criticism, but through the actual facts of the life of humanity. This limit appears with especial clearness when we consider the relation of the individual, together with his work, to the society in which he stands. If social culture should be regarded as absolute culture, the individual must spend himself solely and entirely in relation to his environment; all his activity and endeavour must be exerted in achievement for this culture—must, indeed, be regarded as a mere part of a common work. In such a system man could never attain an independent position and a superior right in opposition to society. Let us examine whether the experience of history establishes the truth of this system or whether it does not much rather show the opposite to be more correct.

It was only in the earliest state of culture, and under very simple conditions of life, that the individual was solely and entirely bound up with the social organism, simply a member of family, of tribe, and such like; entirely swayed by custom, authority, and tradition. All further evolution was a differentiation and led to the greater independence of the individual. There came a time, however, when, in contrast with his mere membership of the society, the individual felt himself to have arrived at a state of maturity; when he questioned the right of the traditional order, and ultimately found himself coming into opposition with the whole of society; his own thought thus became the chief basis of his life and the measure of all things. At first that may have appeared an impious break and a destructive negation; in reality, the positive results which have been thus effected could never have been produced out of a mere revolt. For, a deepening of life in all its branches went hand in hand with the individual’s attainment of independence; now, for the first time, Religion developed a personal religious experience, and Art filled man’s whole soul; now only did Science set a distinctive world of thought in opposition to the traditional presentation; and so the whole of life gained enormously in independence, mobility, and depth. How could this point have been reached if an immediate relation to reality had not emerged in the soul of man; if an inner world had not been formed from this reality, as the representative of which the individual might feel superior to the society and, from inner necessities, criticise the prevailing condition of things? The fact is that all deepening of culture, all awakening of life to self-consciousness, is a rising above the life of society, a summoning of the individual to creative activity. Never have real advances in Religion, Science, and Art, or great transformations of life, originated out of a combination of the activities of the majority. Only in isolated cases has an incomparable individuality, supreme in the entire range of creative activity, been reached, and spiritual tasks been treated as ends in themselves, without which there is nothing great. Only out of the necessity of spiritual self-preservation, only as an overcoming of intolerable contradictions within our own being, could creative activity find a sure direction and a lofty self-confidence in order to lead the whole of humanity along new paths. The individuals in whom this was accomplished were, to be sure, under many influences from historico-social life; but, to overlook the essential elevation above the entire domain of merely human interests into a realm of self-conscious truth, which was accomplished by these individuals, one must confuse the conditions with spiritual activity itself.

As this spiritual life has transcended social life from the beginning, in the same way its effects are by no means exhausted in that life. It has, it is true, exerted its activity upon the social environment, and, after the initial opposition has been overcome, has often been superabundantly honoured; but even so, it has been accepted in isolated and external relations rather than in the whole of its being, and in its appropriation through society it is apt to lose what is best in it. Ever anew, even after centuries and centuries, it has attracted aspiring souls to itself, and has always been able to offer something new to them; in fact, in its essence it stands not in time but above it. The more such genuine creative activity and production in all its spheres become unified, the more a kingdom of truth spreads like an arch over the whole machinery of human history, and, measured by the standards of that truth, human standards are seen to be extremely low, like the size of the earth when contrasted with the region of the fixed stars. This realm of eternal truth, however, reveals itself immediately only to the soul of the individual, who must convey it to society.

Such an estimate of spiritual depth in the individual is quite compatible with the fact that in the course of history the individual has often fallen into utter uncertainty; has felt destitute and lonely, and has passionately sought a support in society. For the individual may cut himself adrift from the invisible connections in which his greatness is rooted; he may base himself on his own isolated power and groping intellect. When he has indeed done this, he has soon perceived and experienced his insufficiency; after such experience he has longed for the building up of a new society by spiritual activity, and when this has been attained he has fled to it as to a sure haven. Men strove for such a society in the later period of Antiquity; one such was founded by Early Christianity, by which the centre of life was transferred from the individual to the society. But in this transition the individual did not again become simply a member of society. For the new union that was sought could not come to men from without, but could proceed only as a result of spiritual endeavour; for its origin and in the early stages of its life it required great creative personalities of the kind of Augustine; for its preservation it needed appropriation by individuals, who unless they made an independent decision could not come to a complete knowledge of the truth. Wherever such individual activity languished, the inwardness of life at once became weak; the whole threatened to lose its spiritual nature and to be transformed into mere mechanism. But after, in the course of history, the individual has developed so far as experience shows him to have done; after that, as microcosm, he has found an immediate relation to reality and to himself, his transcendence may for a time be obscured, but he can never be deprived of it. As the individual has grown strong only as the representative and champion of a culture that is spiritual, as opposed to one that is merely human, so at the same time that spiritual culture asserts itself and criticises all which limits man to his own sphere. After having attained a greater comprehensiveness, a pure self-existence, and other standards toilsomely enough, a narrowly social culture must be absolutely intolerable to us.

This assertion is valid especially in regard to the social culture of the present. That culture, as we saw, makes significant and justifiable demands which have arisen from historical conditions; but its right gives place to error, if these demands are made the central point of life as a whole, and everything else subordinated to them. The unsatisfactoriness of this system of culture and the impossibility of achieving its aims would be still more manifest if it did not constantly supplement its own results out of the other organisations of life, and did not boldly and unjustifiably idealise the man of experience.

This social culture may be shortly described in some of its tendencies: (1) Work for society was the compelling motive in the shaping of this life of social utility. Some such social principle may suffice for the distribution of goods; it never suffices for their original production. We saw how spiritual experience can arise only from the compulsion of an inner self-preservation, in which man does not think in the least of the effects on others, but of himself and the object. Only that effort which has sprung up without regard to its mere utility has been able to achieve great things. If, therefore, merely social culture rigidly binds up vital energy with the direction of all thoughts on the effect, in the long run it must seriously degrade life. Can we deny that in the chief departments of the spiritual life the present already clearly shows tendencies to such a degradation? And can this be otherwise when we only more widely diffuse the inherited possession, but are unable to increase it through our own activity?

(2) Social culture makes the judgment of the society the test of all truth and requires from the individual a complete subordination. It can do this, as we saw, only under the assumption that reason is summed in a judgment by the people as a whole; but, in face of the experiences of history and the impressions of the present time, can this assumption be ratified? Upon its emergence, truth has nearly always been championed by a minority so small as to be hardly discernible; and what in its case is called victory is usually nothing else than the transforming of the struggle from an external into an internal one. He who continues firm in his faith in the victory of truth does so because he trusts, not so much in the wisdom of the majority as in a reason transcending all that is empirically human, and which begets a truth with power to constrain. The present gives us the opportunity of testing this assertion by an example. We see movements of the masses in plenty, but where do we see great spiritual creations arise from the resulting chaos? Even Socialism in the narrower sense has to thank but a few men for its vital power and character, as, for example, Marx; the masses are indeed a condition and an environment, but never as such the bearers of creative activity.

(3) Where man, as he is, governs all thought, his well-being, his complacency, an existence as free from care as possible, and as rich as possible in pleasure, will become the highest of all aims. But would not one find an inner emptiness, a monotony, even more intolerable than any suffering if this aim were reached and life were freed from all pain and necessity? Intelligible as it is that, to the classes whose life is spent in hard struggle against necessity and care, the deliverance from these appears the highest good and an assurance of complete happiness, it is just as unintelligible that anyone who is conscious of the work of universal history and the inner movement of humanity can share such a belief. For that movement has given rise to difficult problems and severe conflicts within the soul of man; a wrestling for a truth and a content of life, where we now drift hither and thither on the surface of appearance; a longing for infinity and eternity, where now a finitude and a past fascinate and charm us; a clashing together of freedom and destiny, of nature and spirit. The tendencies and tasks which this movement produces may for a time be thrust into the background, but they continually reappear and claim their right. It is a foolish undertaking to try to make man happy by directing him to give up what is distinctive in him, and to give his striving a less worthy character.

(4) From a radical improvement of the conditions of life, the socialistic way of thinking expects a continuous advance of culture and an increasing ennoblement of man. To some extent this expectation would be justified if a strong spiritual impulse and a sure tendency towards the good were found everywhere; if it were only a matter of opening the door to an inner striving that was everywhere operative; only a matter of removing restrictions. The actual picture of human conditions corresponds but little to such an optimism. How small a place spiritual impulse has in human conduct and effort! How wearisome to the indifferent and reluctant average man any thought of spiritual goods becomes, and what severe restrictions moral development meets with in selfishness, avarice, and jealousy! The impressions which reality gives speak too plainly in regard to this for even the believers in socialistic culture to be able to hide the facts from themselves; but it is noteworthy enough that not that which they see with their eyes and grasp with their hands determines their judgment, but that which, unconsciously, they add to it: an invisible humanity, a greatness and a dignity of human nature, a nobility in the depths of the soul; conceptions for which, in this context, there is not the least justification.

All these considerations show clearly enough the limits of simply socialistic culture, and the sharp contradictions of its adherents. This culture only throws man back increasingly upon the merely human, and unmercifully holds him firmly fixed in it. It chains him to his own appearance and suppresses all tendencies towards depth. It knows nothing of life’s consciousness of itself; it knows no inner problems, no infinite development of the soul; it cannot acknowledge a common life of an inner kind, but must derive all from external relations. At the same time it excludes all understanding of the movement of universal history; for the chief content of this movement constitutes just those problems which Socialism regards as foolish delusions. To be sure, the striving after an inner independence of life has brought much error with it, and it may involve much that is problematical. But that a longing after such independence should arise at all and prove itself able to call forth so much endeavour sufficiently demonstrates that man is more than a mere being of society; more than a member of a social organism.

Ultimately, socialistic culture presupposes, in its own development, a greater depth of life than it is itself able to produce. It can make so much out of its data only because it assumes in them a more comprehensive and a deeper world of thought. Like Naturalism, Socialism reaches a tolerable conclusion only by much plagiarism from the old Idealism, before the principal conceptions of which it crosses itself as before something atrocious.

This inner inconsistency of socialistic culture, its remaining bound up with something which inwardly it contradicts, is most plainly shown by the historical experience of the Modern Age. Men were at first led to take up the movements towards the strengthening of society chiefly by the expectation that the invisible forces in human existence would be invigorated, and by the hope that the inner life of men would be raised. The more they have cut themselves adrift from these invisible connections and have placed themselves simply on the basis of experience the more have they lost in spiritual content.

The movement towards the modern free State arose in association with religious strivings; the desire for political independence attached itself to and inwardly grew from the longing for more complete equality before God. The more this relation to Religion and, further, to an invisible realm receded into the background, the more difficult did it become to guard the striving for freedom from being diverted in the interests of individuals, classes, and parties; the more did the movement inwardly lose by external expansion. We saw that the idea of nationality acquired power from the conviction that there results in an independent people an individualisation of the spiritual and divine which is the first thing to ensure to existence a definite character and a firm support. So long as this conviction predominated, each people had a great inner task in reaching the highest point of development of its nature, and, what is more important, did not need to direct its energies upon externals. With the obscuring or the complete surrender of this spiritual foundation, a blind adoration of one’s own country, an increase of unfruitful pride of race, a passionate struggle for external expansion and power, inevitably accompanied by the surrender of humanity and justice, threatens us.

When in the nineteenth century the modern idea of the State again came into currency, the State came to be regarded—as, for example, in the system of Hegel—as the realisation of an absolute reason, and desired to be honoured as something “earthly divine.” Its leading administrators, however, men of the kind of Altenstein, were imbued with the philosophic spirit; were men who could be regarded as philosophers in Plato’s sense. To-day we still hear of such spiritual bases of the State, in syllabuses of courses of study; but we count so little on a philosophical training that when anyone gives any sign of such a training he is regarded with astonishment as a rare exception. Even the socialistic movement in the narrower sense, the longing for an economic revolution, at first stood in close connection with philosophical endeavours, and the hope of an inner ennobling of humanity, the hope of raising the whole of culture, worked in it as a powerful motive force. More and more, out of this a mere desire for power and enjoyment has developed, a passionate struggle of class against class, of interest against interest, and how this might lead to an inner elevation of humanity is not apparent. The more socialistic culture, in its pressing forward, has cut itself loose from a richer and more inward culture and has trusted solely to its own resources, the more distinct have its limitations become, the more has its incapacity to include the whole of human existence been made evident.

To assert this does not mean to depreciate the significance of the facts which the social tendency has made us conscious of and the tasks which it has imposed upon us. Not only do the advance into prominence of the economic side of life, and the desire for a more energetic realisation of a social organisation in this direction, remain unimpeached, but there are demands of an imperative kind which extend beyond the scope of this narrow conception. The increasing isolation and separation of individuals make us feel the desire for reunion more and more strongly. Man, with that which is near him and in him, acquires an ever greater significance for the shaping of our life and our world; from no other point of departure than from him can we attempt to reach the depths of reality and from these to build up a realm of reason.

Socialistic culture, however, treats these problems, to which it gives rise, far too externally and too meanly to hold out any hope that its method can lead to their solution; and so, as we see it immediately before us, it brings truth and error into a melancholy mixture. Only a broader conception of life could bring about a differentiation and give to each factor its right. In this case also the promised solution of the problem is seen to be itself a problem.

3. The System of Æsthetic Individualism

The naturalistic and socialistic tendencies unite in the modern life of culture for action in common. How near they stand to each other, notwithstanding all their differences, our accounts of them will have shown. Not only do both make the world of sense the sole world of man, but both also find life entirely in the relation to the environment, be it nature or society. Again, both maintain that all happiness arises from work upon this environment, whether the work be in the main scientific and technical, or practical and political. Thus the culture of both systems bears throughout the character of a culture of work; in one as in the other great complexes of work arise, and draw the individual to themselves; all trouble and effort are for the sake of the result; in both a restless progressive movement surrounds us and directs all reflection and thought to a better future. With such a tendency we have grown closer to the environment and we have ascribed more value to the world and to life. With an ever-increasing activity, a proud self-consciousness has developed in humanity.

But the limitations and defects of such a culture, centred as it is upon results, could not remain concealed. The age, alert and fond of reflecting upon its own nature, has been compelled more and more to perceive the negation that accompanied the assertion made in that system. The striving for results alone made care for the soul impossible; the being fitted into a complex whole impaired the development to complete individuality. The more industrial and social activities have become specialised, the less significant has that part of human existence become which is embodied in the individual as such, the more have all aspects of his nature other than those involved in his work degenerated. The continual thought of the future, the impetuous movement ever onward and onward, also threatens to destroy all appreciation of the present, all self-consciousness and independence of life. If we exist merely in order to serve as means and instruments to a soulless process of culture, does not the whole enormous movement finally amount to nothing, if it is not experienced and appropriated?

Once such questions arise and make man concerned about the meaning and the happiness of his life, a sudden change must soon take place. Man may at all times fall into error concerning the aims of the culture of work; indeed, concerning work itself. It may appear to him as something which, originally his own creation, has broken loose from him, placed itself in opposition to him, enslaved him, and finally, like a gigantic spider, threatens to suck his life’s blood. From this point of view it may be regarded as the most important of all tasks again to become master of work, and to preserve a life inwardly conscious of itself, in contrast with the tendency of work to occupy itself solely with externals; to realise a true present in contrast with the restless hurry onward and onward; a quietness and a depth of the soul in contrast with work’s bustle and agitation. To those with such a conviction the culture of work must seem sordid, secular, profane, and in contrast a longing for more inspiration, more soul, more permanent splendour of life will arise.

Many movements of this kind make themselves apparent in the present; the longing for a return of life to itself, for more joy and more depth in life, grows ever stronger and stronger. Of all these movements, however, one stands out with definite achievement—one which, upon the basis of the present and with the means of sense experience, seeks a remedy which, while in these two aspects it shares the general initial assumption of the culture of work, within the limits of this assumption is entirely opposed to this culture of work. We mean the system of Subjectivism and Individualism. In that this system is blended with a kind of art of its own, and gains strength from this, it boldly undertakes to govern and shape our whole existence.

He who wishes to rise above the culture of work without transcending the region of experience will scarcely discover any other basis than the individual with his self-consciousness, his “being-for-self.” For, however far work with its influences may penetrate into the innermost recesses of the soul, there always remains something which is able to resist it. Something original seems to spring up here, which fits into no scheme and bows down to no external power.

If, therefore, a newly aroused longing for greater immediacy and happiness in life drives man once more to the subjective and to the individual, he can emphasise this factor conceptually in order to depreciate the other systems of life. For, whether the individual belongs to an invisible world of thought or to a visible structure, his task and his worth is then assigned to him by the whole; his activity will have a definite direction determined by the whole, and his power will be called into play only so far as it fitted into the framework of the whole organisation. If all such relation to the whole is discarded, and the individual becomes bold enough to place himself simply upon his own capacity, and to acknowledge no other standard than his own decision, an infinite course seems to open up before him. What lies in him is now able to develop with complete freedom, and he need take neither a visible nor an invisible order into anxious consideration. The individual, raised to such sovereignty, will make far more out of himself, and will mean far more than the narrow and often over-awed individual of earlier ages. True, even in earlier times opposition from the individual was not lacking, but the circumstances of the Modern Age are especially conducive to his development and recognition. We know how the modern man extricated himself from the ties which bound him, and how he boldly placed himself in opposition to the world. We know how much more freely thought rules in modern life; how much more deeply an over-subtle reflection penetrates everywhere and takes all stability from things. We know, too, how the external form of civilisation, with its acceleration of intercourse, and its development in a thousand directions, sets the individual more free. Is it to be wondered at if the modern individual regards himself as the centre and undertakes to shape the whole of life from himself?

The individual can attain complete independence only when he liberates his soul from all external connections, from every objective relation, and, as a free subject, simply lives his own states of consciousness. This is achieved above all in the disposition—transcending all form and shape and bound to no particular object—which has obtained an independent position chiefly as a result of the Romantic movement. In this a complete detachment of life, an inward infinity, and a complete independence seem attained; every individual has his own course and his own truth; no limit is set to life, no command given, but he can with the utmost freedom develop every impulse and exhaust its possibilities according to its nature. Thus a life arises, profuse and extremely active: a life fine and delicate in nature; a life which is in no way directed beyond itself.

But all agitation, profuseness, and refinement could hardly have prevented this emotional life from becoming hollow, if, when it turned to the individual, it had not united to itself another movement, which is flowing with a powerful current through the age. We mean the movement towards art, and beyond that towards an æsthetic conception of life. From ancient times there has always been an antithesis of an ethical and an æsthetical fashioning of life: of a preponderance on the one hand of the active, on the other hand of the contemplative relation to reality. Emphasis on the activity of man has led to the formation in modern systems of life of a culture of work and utility. An æsthetical, contemplative mode of thought can with good reason feel itself superior to that culture. In contrast to utility, it promises beauty; over against the heaviness and weariness of the way of life of a culture of work, it promises a joy and a lightness; in opposition to effort, hurriedly and continually striving further and further, it promises an independent self-consciousness, and an inward calm. But, as this movement towards art blends with that towards the subject it lapses into a narrow course and assumes a distinctive character. Here, art has less to comprehend the object than to stimulate and please the subject; it will strive less after content and a further construction than with lyrical cadences, to give expression to changing moods. It has a difficult task given to it which can only approximately be solved—the task of expressing something fundamentally inexpressible and resisting all attempts to give it form. But in that art undertakes such an impossibility, and exerts its power to the uttermost, it brings about a refinement of the soul as well as an enrichment of expression. It enables much to be grasped and comprehended which, without it, passes like a fleeting shadow. It permits the observation of the most delicate vibrations of the soul, and throws light into depths which would otherwise be inaccessible.

A distinctive type of life is thus formed from the side of literature and art, and this feels securely supreme over all the embarrassments of the culture of work and of the masses. The centre of life is transferred into the inner tissue of self-consciousness. With the development of this self-consciousness, life appears to be placed entirely on its own resources and directed simply towards itself. Through all change of circumstances and conditions it remains undisturbed; in all the infinity of that which happens to it, it feels that it is supreme. All external manifestation is valuable to it as an unfolding of its own being; it never experiences things, but only itself—that is, its own passive states of consciousness—in the things.

A life of such a kind gives rise, in different directions, to distinctive tendencies, which, through their antithesis to the traditional forms, are sharply accentuated. This system thinks especially to turn the whole of human existence into something positive, to limit it on none of its sides, to raise it everywhere to activity, joy, and pleasure. In the older systems of life, especially in the religious, it finds far too much feeble renunciation, far too much sad negation: such a depreciation of life is henceforth to give way to a complete and joyful affirmation. But an affirmation appears to be possible because in this system, through that reference to and excitement of subjectivity, all that in any way affects man is transformed in activity and advance; because before all else the subject feels its own life in every experience and takes pleasure in this. It must be added that the self-refinement of life, its mobility and delicacy, free it from all the heaviness of existence, and that the free play of forces which exist here transforms the whole of existence into something lightly poised. We find this to be especially the case when we turn to art, which joins beauty to power, or, rather, strengthens life in itself through its embodiment in the beautiful.

This free, joyous, and as it would seem purely self-conscious life is throughout of an aristocratic and individual character. In that it is adapted to the old experience, that to only a few is given the power and the disposition for independent creation and independent life, it addresses itself to these few and summons them to the greatest possible development of the individuality of their nature, to the most decisive detachment from the characterless average of the masses. For, without a completely developed consciousness of individuality, without an energetic differentiation and isolation, life does not seem to attain its greatest height. Thus the matter is one of making all the relations and all the externals of life as individual as possible. Everything which places the development of life under universal standards, and, through these, limits that development, is rejected as an unwarrantable limitation and an intolerable restriction. This individualising of our existence extends also to the matter of our relation to time. One moment may not be sacrificed to another; the present may not be degraded to the status of being a mere preparation for the future, but every moment should be an end in itself, and, with this, life is considered as being solely in the present. And so life is a ceaseless change, a perpetual self-renewal, a continuous transition; but it is just this which preserves to life its youthful freshness and gives to it the capacity to attract through every new charm. Hence this system presents the most definite contrast to the interminable chain and the gigantic construction which the culture of work makes out of the activities of the individuals.

Æsthetic Individualism appears most distinctive in the way it represents the relation between the spiritual and the sensuous. It cannot take its attention from the external world, in order to centre it upon human perception, without strengthening the psychical. But, as its own system is based upon sense experience, it is impossible for it to acknowledge an independent spirituality and to contrast it with the sensuous; the spirituality which it recognises always remains bound and blended with the sensuous. For it an entirely mutual interpenetration is the highest ideal, a spiritualising of the sensuous, and a sensualising of the spiritual to an exactly equivalent degree. This high estimate of the sensuous, and the endeavour to harmonise the spiritual with it, put this new system of life in the sharpest opposition to the older systems, especially to religious Idealism, in which the supremacy of the spiritual is essential.

From such a basal character this system evolves a distinctive relation to the individual values and spheres of life. Artistic literary creation becomes the soul of life; the source of the influences for the fashioning of a new man. The social, political, sphere is reduced to the level of a mere outside world, which urges less to activity on our own part than provokes a sceptical and critical attitude. The lack of attention to all that which fits man into a common order, be it into the State with its laws, or the civic community with its customs and arrangements, permits the free relation of individual to individual in social contact, friendship and love, to develop so much more forcefully. In particular, it is the inter-relationship of the sexes, with its many-sidedness and its inseparable interweaving of spirituality with sensuousness, which occupies thought and dominates literary production. Strike out the erotic element from specifically modern literature, and how insignificant the remainder would appear! It is also in the relation of the sexes that this scheme of life insists on the fullest freedom. There is a marked tendency to regard an acknowledgment of fixed standards and of traditional morals in this connection as a sign of weakness and of a narrow-minded way of thinking.

Since this scheme seeks to realise an æsthetic conception of life and an artistic culture in opposition to all the restraint of tradition and environment, it will come into particularly severe conflict with traditional religion and morality. It must reject religion, or at least what hitherto has been called religion, because, with its blending together of the spiritual and the sensuous in a single world, it can by no means acknowledge a world of independent spirituality; its thought is much too “monistic” for that. It must reject religion also for the reason that, with its immediate affirmation of life, it cannot in the least understand the starting-point of religion, the experience and perception of harsh inner contradictions in our existence. Religion, with all the heroism that it truly shows, is here regarded as a mere lowering of vital energy; a chimera which pleases the weak.

In relation to morality the matter is not much different. A foundation of morality in the necessity of its own nature is lacking in this system. What motive could move a man who whole-heartedly accepted Æsthetic Individualism to acknowledge something external to the subject as a standard, and in accordance with this standard to put a check upon his natural impulses? Indeed, with the denial of spiritual activity and the division of the world into for and against, the entire antithesis of good and evil loses its meaning and its justification. Reality appears from the point of view of this system to be rent in twain in an unwarrantable manner at the command of a human authority. What is usually called morality is considered to be only a statute of the community, a means by which it seeks to rob the individual of his independence and to subordinate him to itself.

All this reasoning presents itself as an offspring of our own time, and wishes to establish the correctness of its claims on its own ground through its results. Yet it by no means lacks historical relations: often in the course of the centuries the subject has shaken off every constraint and sought a solution to life’s problems in its own realm. This happened, first among the Sophists; then in a form less marked and with more direct attention to happiness in Epicureanism; later, in proud exaltation and in a titanic struggle with the world, in the Renaissance; and again in a more delicate and more contemplative manner in the Romantic period. Tendencies from all these operate in the Æsthetic Individualism of the present time and enrich it in many ways, though their contributions are not always free from contradiction. But, even with these historical elements, Æsthetic Individualism is essentially a modern product; and it cannot be denied that it has won a great power in the present; a movement of culture in this direction is unmistakeable. It is the very nature of this scheme of life not to hasten to a definite form, and for this reason it does not manifest itself with very definite features; but, with invisible power, it is everywhere present and creates a spiritual atmosphere from which it is difficult to withdraw ourselves. Notwithstanding all the attacks it is subjected to and the doubts as to its validity, it draws power continually from both the main tendencies which it unites; from the evolution of the subject and from the growth of art. Thus, here again we are concerned not with mere subjective willing and wishing, but with an actual movement in universal history.

Whether this movement be the primary and the all-dominant remains to be examined by consideration of the total possessions of humanity. Such an examination is in this case peculiarly difficult, because in Individualism and Subjectivism diverse forms mingle together and give to the movement very different levels. There is, therefore, an obvious danger that, viewing these forms from the position of an average level, at which we may attempt to arrive, we may judge one too severely and another too leniently. And yet we cannot dispense with the assumption of such an average level; only, it must not be applied mechanically to the individual forms which are so numerous.

In forming our judgment in this matter, it is necessary in the first place to distinguish the aims and the methods of the scheme of life. There can hardly be any doubt or dispute concerning the aims. For, if we are called to give to life an independence, a content and a value; to raise it to complete power; to press forward from anxious negation to joyful affirmation; to reduce the monotony of existence; to organise the whole realm of individuality so that it shall be fully clear; and if, at the same time, the fact of the degeneration of the inner life through a culture of work lends to such demands the impressiveness and the voice of a present need, it is difficult to see how this system is to be effectively opposed. Æsthetic Individualism here appears as the champion of truths which may be obscured for a time, but which, nevertheless, continually gain in significance in human evolution as a whole. A further question is whether its aims, which cannot be rejected, are attainable along the ways which Individualism follows and beyond which it is not able to go; whether the means suffice for the attainment of the end. If this should not be the case, we are in presence of a great difficulty, in that something, in itself of the highest necessity, is desired, but is desired in a way which not only is inadequate to the aim, but directly contradicts it.

And yet that is how the matter really stands. It is essential to Individualism—with this it stands or falls—that it lead to an independent life, to a self-consciousness; that it transform our whole condition into something of positive value on the basis of sense experience. That the actual condition of human reality, the nature of human experience, inexorably resists such a transformation, and that on this account the individualistic scheme of life is contradictory, we intend to indicate more in detail.

Man desires a self-conscious life, a deliverance from all external ties, a removal of all oppressions. This desire is a lofty one, but one which, as things are, is very difficult of attainment. For not only in what happens to us, but also in the innermost depths of the soul—in our spiritual constitution—we are bound up with an overwhelming and impenetrable world. The mechanism of nature as well as the organisation of society surrounds and visibly and invisibly coerces us. At first sight we are no more than parts of an immense whole, and appear to be completely determined by that which happens in this whole; we come from it and sink back into it, and every moment we are dependent upon that which takes place around us. What is Individualism able to do against such forces, and what does it succeed in achieving towards life’s attainment of independence? The means it employs are the arousing of an unrestrained mood, and the withdrawal of life to the greatest possible concentration in its own passive states of consciousness. Because by these means man is in some measure relieved from the oppression of things, he imagines himself to be fully free. But is he free simply because he appears to himself to be so; free, to take the example of Spinoza, in the way in which the stone thrown up into the air might during its motion suppose itself to be free? As a matter of fact, as everyday experience shows us, it is just in his moods that man is least stable and least lord of his own soul, and that the most diverse circumstances, physical and psychical, visible and invisible, great and small, influence and compel him. The transitoriness of appearances, which form the matter of fact as far as moods are concerned, is lacking in all firm relation, all inner construction of life; for nothing is more mobile, nothing more subject to sudden changes, than mood—nothing except the surface of the rolling sea, or a reed shaking in the wind. The life of mood is, in reality, a purely superficial life; a projection of the psychical nature on to the surface of the immediate passive states of consciousness. Life in this case attains no depth, content, or independence, but only subjective opinion, the mere semblance of independence. We shall see that Individualism so persistently offers the semblance instead of the real thing that it has come to believe that with the production of the semblance it has acquired the reality. Life can only attain a real independence when it has been widened to a realm in itself, when inner relations, antitheses, problems thus become evident; and when, through the exercise of activity upon these, an inner world is raised up, which confidently places itself in opposition to the endlessness of the soulless world and is able to take up the struggle with it. We must show unrelenting hostility to any attempt to identify mood with inner spirituality, with the soul’s self-consciousness; for, really, there is no greater contrast than that between simple disposition and spiritual depth, between the man of mere sentiment, with his dependence and vacillation, and the personality rooted in an inner infinity.

And so the independence and the predominance of the individual over the social environment, which Individualism asserts, are nothing more than an appearance. For what is offered in this system is far less a self-conscious life and an undisturbed pursuance of our own course than the inclination to say and do the opposite of that which is said and done by the majority of those who surround us. It is easy to see that life, as a matter of fact, always remains related to its environment and to the standard of that environment; and that what is represented here as independence is nothing but a different kind of dependence, an indirect dependence. To the endeavour of Individualism to provide a free course for the individual with his particularity it is scarcely possible to offer any opposition. Unfortunately, however, intention and realisation are different things, and Individualism is apt to assume as something simple and self-evident that which of all things is the most difficult, that is, individuality itself. Just as Socialism promises a sure advance of life as a result of the removal of external hindrances, so Individualism expects a magnificent advance of an inexhaustible individualistic culture, if only the statutes by which the community oppresses and limits the individual are annulled. What, then, is the real state of the matter? Are men so full of spiritual impulse that it is only necessary to open up a course for it? And further, does that which is peculiar in a man signify, as a matter of course, that he is an individuality with some sort of value?—and is it at once capable of forming a centre of life? How indefinite and how lacking in consistency the psychical nature of man usually is! How much that is lofty and how much that is mean, how much that is noble and how much that is vulgar, is found here! Shall this chaos display itself and be extolled as an individuality? In truth, an inner unity appertains to a genuine individuality, and the ascertaining and realisation of this are not simply a gift from nature, but a result of spiritual endeavour. To attain to a genuine individuality requires an energetic concentration of life; an overcoming of the spirit of indifference; a unifying of the multiplicity of experience; often, also, a transcending of sharp contradictions. How difficult it has been for even the most prominent individualities—men such as Luther, Kant, Goethe—to find their true selves, that is, the essence of their being, the aspect in which their strength lay! How great a problem, and what an object of the keenest conflict, their genuine individuality formed to them! How could a task of such difficulty find fulfilment, and life a unification and elevation, in superficial and fleeting mood? If in order to make men independent individuals it sufficed to declare them so, we should indeed be much further advanced than unfortunately is the case.

The new life ought not to be simply autonomous, independent and individual, it should also be powerful and great. Is the mere evolution and cultivation of sentiment able to give such power and greatness to an unrestrained passivity? Of course, in its own estimation unrestrained mood can raise itself high above the whole world, and so magnify the supposed independence as to give rise to a feeling of supreme power; but again, it is only a representation of power, a semblance of power, and not a real power, that is reached. Mere mood and genuine power constitute an irreconcilable antithesis. Attention to and cultivation of sentiment may refine life; it will at the same time weaken and dissipate it. Power develops and grows only in grappling with resistances, whether they be outside or within one’s own soul. Life will acquire a powerful character only where an active spirituality is acknowledged, which, drawing from its own nature, holds up standards and aims to the actual condition of reality, especially to its own soul, and undertakes to change this condition in accordance with the requirements set by these standards and aims. Æsthetic Individualism, however, as we saw, conceives of the spiritual life as chiefly receptive and contemplative; as an appropriation, a mirroring and an enjoyment of an existent reality. Thus for it the spiritual life might be closely connected with this existent reality, indeed might be one with it; but at the same time the view robs that life of the power of arousing and elevating, of independent construction and secure advance.

An aristocratic character, the separation of an exoteric and an esoteric sphere, has been distinctive of an æsthetic conception of life from ancient times even until now. The fact appealed to in justification of its assumption of this character is beyond doubt: it is that, not only in art but in all spiritual creation, only few among those creating or reproducing stand high; that genuine creation always comes about in opposition to the mediocre; that if it identified itself with the interests and conditions of the majority it would be deeply degraded, indeed inwardly destroyed. But this is a contrast between spiritual creation and human circumstances, not a division of humanity according to two sets of circumstances; in truth, fewer of the really great than of those great in their own estimation have boasted of greatness. For the genuinely great have been occupied far too much by the demands of their task, and been too deeply conscious of the inadequacy of human capacity, to have been able to indulge in a reflection upon and a vain enjoyment of themselves. The infinity of the task by which, rather than by other men, they measured themselves made even the highest result appear inadequate to them. It is necessary to Individualism to represent the unmistakeable distinction between a culture that is genuinely spiritual and one that is merely human, as a difference between two classes of men; and it is only because it knows no objective restraint, no inner necessities, and can measure men only with men, that it is able to believe itself justified in looking down upon other men from its standpoint—as though the mere profession of faith in its programme at once effected an elevation of nature.

The undertaking to transform life completely into something of positive value, suddenly and directly to advance to complete affirmation of life, is associated with the desire for power. So far as this is simply a desire to abandon an irresolute and narrow mode of thought, false humiliation and self-belittlement, and mere accommodation to circumstances in tasks where the beginning is difficult and calls for great effort, we may frankly admit its justification. But the matter is not so simple as it is represented in this train of thought. Ultimately no spiritual movement which would win mankind can give up its claim to a final affirmation of life. Even the most completely pessimistic systems, systems of absolute negation—as, for example, the original Buddhism—could not conquer wider areas without making that negative milder and transforming it into an affirmative. But the question is whether, after all that humanity has experienced and suffered, a quick and immediate affirmation is possible; whether the way to a final affirmation does not lead rather through an energetic negation. So long as the restriction which life felt seemed to come from outside only, and not to reach the inner recesses of the soul, as the prevailing mode of thought in Antiquity represented the case to be, the decisive rejection of all suffering, the proud armouring of the soul against all pain, could be accepted as the crown of all virtues. In face, however, of actual experience, Antiquity could not continue to hold such a conviction. For good or for evil, it was compelled to regard suffering as something more important and to occupy itself more with it, and, until Christianity opened up new paths, it fell into the danger of losing all vital energy. Whatever position one may take up with regard to the dogma and the tendencies of Christianity, the fact cannot be struck out of history that it has laid bare infinite perplexities in the soul of man in regard to his relation to the world, and at the same time has taken up suffering into the centre of life, not to perpetuate it, but to rise above it by the revealing of a world of spirit and of love. This has not made life easier, but more difficult; yet at the same time it has made it greater, deeper, and more inwardly determined. Every scheme of life which light-heartedly professes to be able to lead us quickly over suffering and to cast it off proves itself to be intolerably superficial, if not frivolous. Superficiality easily triumphs over men and becomes their first opinion; men seem to welcome first every way of thinking which makes life comfortable and presents no demands of any sort. But the problems of our existence, and the longing for genuine and not merely illusory happiness, remain, and in face of the seriousness of these problems it soon proves to be fleeting and vain to try to find satisfaction in that which is simply comfortable.

The case is no different in regard to Individualism and the problem of morality. The value of an energetic opposition to laws of convention and external etiquette is beyond question; but it should not be forgotten that such a conflict has been carried on within the sphere of morality and religion from ancient times; that in every age that which was spiritually highest has forcibly withstood the efforts of men illegitimately to claim absolute validity for their statutes and tendencies. But Individualism commits the error of asserting that the mean morality which is reached at the average level of humanity constitutes the essence of morality, and in so doing excludes from itself the feeling for everything great and deep which lies within morality. With all its talk of greatness and breadth, Individualism makes life narrow, since it leads man solely to the cultivation and unfolding of his own passive states of consciousness, and permits the pleasure-seeking ego to draw everything to itself and hold it fast there. Everything, however, which exists beyond his sphere it interprets as a mere “other” world, and thus declares all submission to the object for its own sake, all forgetfulness of self, all becoming more comprehensive, and all renewal through genuine love, to be only delusory. Further, in this system, in which natural impulse governs everything, the conceptions of responsibility and guilt, and with this the antithesis of good and evil, must be held to be the result of a narrowly human way of thinking, as something which, though serving no real purpose, still alarms men and overawes life. Yet through the development of a spiritual activity which places it in a more inward and free relation to reality, humanity has really advanced beyond the position in which man acted as a part of mere nature. In this, too, Christianity also marks a great advance; we have only to picture to ourselves the life-work of Augustine in order to have a clear example of the separation of a genuine morality, as the expression of a new world based upon freedom, from the attention to and cultivation of natural instincts. The greatest thinker of the Modern Age, Kant, has only established this distinction in a newer form. In this connection responsibility and guilt, as transcending nature, also become a witness of greatness; they give expression to the fact that man is an independent co-operator in the universe, and regards the world as in some sense his own; to the fact that life does not simply happen to him, but also through him. For, along with freedom and its world, the old world of given existence remains and holds us fast, not merely externally but inwardly also; life is a severe conflict between higher and lower, between freedom and destiny. With so much that is complicated and perplex, life must be regarded as in the highest degree unfinished. But just because of this it involves an incalculable tension, and even in its constraints and pains it leaves the self-preservation and the welfare of the mere subject at a level far beneath itself. When, therefore, Individualism, neglecting the movement of universal history, wishes to limit us to this mere subject, and, effacing all dividing lines, calls upon us to submit to every force which plays upon us, and to enter into the glad enjoyment of life, there is really no difference between this and advising a man, who has gone through the many and difficult experiences of life, to throw to the winds all he has thus gained, and to please himself again with the games of childhood.