Laughing Truths/Defence
A special table in the public reading-room of the town I live in is reserved for the pamphlets. Weeks often elapse before I find leisure to look at them. Every time I do, however, I invariably find, to my astonishment, that a polemic is being carried on against some literary notability. To-day the quarry is Baumbach, Julius Wolff, or Ebers; the day after to-morrow it is Lindau; another time it is Paul Heyse or Wildenbruch. Sometimes the writers are slaughtered in batches, to make the Muses' holiday. My list, as the reader will note, is far from being exhaustive, but it is much more than long enough to make me enquire, with some amazement, into the cause of this bitterness. I see well enough that the assailants are acting in good faith, that they are zealous for their cause, that they are concerned for good taste and poetry. But I cannot understand what taste and poetry stand to gain when one author galls the kibes of another. "We must tear away the mask from the spurious great man, in order that the public may see his real visage." This is the stock excuse. Apart altogether from the fact that it is rather an unmannerly kind of unmasking to tear out our neighbour's hair in the process, I take the liberty of disbelieving the quarrelsome gentry, and assert that not one of our authors wears a mask. They write and compose just as it comes naturally to them, each according to his own talent. And this talent, be it observed, is generally far superior to that of the mail-clad hotspurs of the attack, who are hardly able to express their views in correct language.
It seems to me, we must once for all settle the question whether a man who produces a play or publishes a book thereby undertakes the duty of enlightening at least a score of centuries. If so, well and good. We can then close our bookshops and our bookstalls, and quench our thirst henceforth solely with the textual criticism of the classics. If, however, the answer is no, I do not see what should hinder us from enjoying every talent in its own field, or what should make us grudge it its success, even if that is out of all proportion to its merits. The public has its whims and its pets, and will insist on this prerogative to the end of time. I grant you that the public does not always choose its favourites for their purely literary merit, and I allow that it would be better if it were otherwise; but this evil does not seem to afford any decent excuse for the unbridled outpourings, which are often desperately like lampoons. Indeed, I cannot even consider the evil as of very grave importance. And no one, I imagine, will suspect me of partiality in saying this, for I certainly am not among the darlings of the public. "But the false gods of the day bar the way for real talent!" It would be well for all us unknown writers if nothing else stood in our way than the twentieth edition of a book by Baumbach or the hundredth performance of a play by Blumenthal! But even if they do stand in the way, the question still remains whether it is right and proper to clear the course by a literary battue.
In short, the more I observe the zeal against the "false gods of the day", the more convinced I am that the cure is worse than the disease. The taste of the public has never been improved by bludgeoning, only by good productions. Moreover, it would be lucky if there were no worse taste than that of the public. I certainly know worse. On the other hand the violent feud of author with author, even when it waves the standard of principle, inevitably injures the dignity of the craft. How can we ask anyone to respect us when we do not respect each other? When soon there will not be a single living author who has not been "unmasked" by some foot-soldier of the Muses? There is one approved means of relieving the vexation caused by the alleged inferior performance of another man—viz. do something better yourself. He for whom this remedy is too expensive may criticise the darling of the public, so far as his knowledge allows and if he really considers it his duty; but he certainly ought to do so politely, and even (if I may make so bold) respectfully.
Here is another charming spectacle! One group of writers excommunicating the others as loathly swine; and a second group introducing the first to the ladies as lecherous and debauched old men. And yet we are called upon to respect the craft of authorship!
I do not know who began it, but I am much concerned to find out who will finally have the good taste to put an end to it. If, however, I am not wrongly informed, the rumpus, on the contrary, only begins in dead earnest when (as would appear) certain well-meaning societies take literature under their wing, in the name of outraged morality and in the form of a crusade against a group of modern authors.
The victim this time, as it happens, is a fraction which is protected neither by popularity nor by fame and importance—a fraction, moreover, which uses its somewhat callow talents in making life miserable for its colleagues. Other authors are therefore strongly tempted to rub their hands complacently, and to aid . the moral coalition with congratulations, blessings, and weapons. All the more do I deem it necessary to utter a word of earnest warning; and, as I have always known myself as an æsthetic antagonist of the group in question, I trust that my warning will be listened to.
I consider it a very thoughtless and ill-judged policy to get rid of a literary opponent, whoever he may be, by the aid of the parson, the attorney-general, or the public instinct. Thebans and Athenians may fight each other, but they should not apply for help from Philip of Macedon. For the writer, Philip of Macedon means any power that judges of literary works from other than the literary standpoint, no matter how venerable its name. Such an encroachment eventually creeps round about to every one of us, and so the bitterest enemies should combine in order to offer a unanimous resistance in the name of literature and the privileges of their craft.
This is, however, not always admitted. We are apt to think that "true" liberty cannot be endangered by the interposition of so exalted a personage as morality. In the consciousness of our own rectitude, we refuse to believe that the attack will come round to us. I maintain, however, that no author, who takes his art seriously and conscientiously, even if endowed with a really virginal modesty, is safe from a sudden indictment for moral delinquency in one or other of his works. And when I say "no author", I do not except even the greatest, even one who will eventually be held up to the nation as a sound moral instructor. When I reflect that even Gottfried Keller was accused of immorality for the most spiritual of his works (Romeo and Juliet), I fancy I need advance no further examples. If an author made it his special aim to give no offence and devoted his whole life to writing for twelve-year-old girls, even that would not save him. For in that case it would be easy to accuse him of "cunningly concealed lubricity".
The phenomenon has not only its cause, but also a good literary basis—and a double one at that.
So long as the world stands, he will scarcely be able to abjure cynicism who deals with realistic material in a realistic manner, who practises both humour and satire. Cynicism in this sphere cannot be avoided without damage to body and soul. A simpering and prudish generation, insisting on decent breech-clouts, actually frustrates the possibility of masterpieces of this character. He who introduces cynicisms into his literary works is not therefore a swine; if he were, Shakespeare and Goethe and Schiller would all be swine, and literature as a whole would be a pigsty. But that is not all. It is well-known that modern realism has made truth to life its fundamental law in a more far-reaching sense than was ever before the case. It posits realism not only as a means but as its highest aim. Whether this is right or wrong is beside the question; that is a purely literary concern, which has nothing to do with morality. If once, however, literal truth to life has been accepted as the aim of art, the individual author, holding this faith, is no longer free to ignore, for external reasons, important sections of reality. Criticism, too, has no right to blame him for doing what his literary convictions force him to do. One of these great sections is the sexual life, with its spiritual projections, the significance of which can be denied only by naïveté or hypocrisy. If, indeed, we are striving to produce a realistic fresco style, as in the drama, then this theme may, perhaps, be avoided. If, on the other hand, we have to deal with the analytical representations of romance, I do not see how it is possible to give true pictures of life without risk of offence to the jeune fille. It is no more reasonable to demand that a realistic romance should steer clear of the unseemly than it would be in the case of a physiological or pathological textbook. Why should I not express my conviction fearlessly? I count it a fault in a naturalistic romance when the author equips truth with a fig-leaf for the sake of dear old respectability. Literary men do not write for men alone, but neither do they write for women alone. They write for the nation and (if practicable) for the world. A nation, however, is the sum of the genius of all its eminent men and women. Who would presume to regulate this genius by police by-laws and pedagogic rules? And who in the world should learn the unvarnished naked truth, if this genius may not? Must the whole nation march in blinkers from the cradle to the grave, like the crocodile of a girls' school? Everyone may read or leave what he will; an artist, however, cannot write what he will but what he must. If, therefore, an author, in the name of truth, writes something disagreeable, the proper question is, simply, is this offensive statement true or not, or (to go back to our pigs) is truth a swine or is it not? If it is, we may blame the truth, but not its reporter. He who writes thus suffers personally from a real idiosyncrasy against every obscenity, and cannot read Rabelais because the coprological bombardment disgusts him. Criticism, however, swallows a classical dung-beetle like this as if it were candy, with profound reverences; on the other hand it prosecutes, just for a few unseemlinesses, the moderns, who are as far from Rabelais as white-frocked confirmation candidates are from a tough old master-at-arms. They call this sort of thing literary history; I call it straining at gnats and swallowing elephants. I may blame the victims for calling it hypocrisy, but I cannot scold them.
That is one side; now for the other.
The naturalists, from their professional cubby-hole, have spied the moral nakedness of their antagonists with equal keenness and malice. Their reproach is that of "cunningly veiled and disguised lubricity". They find this lubricity in Heyse, in Baumbach, in Julius Wolff, in Marlitt, even in the most virtuous of domestic romances. I do not dispute this, but I can amplify it a little; there is lubricity, concealed or otherwise, in Homer, Herodotus, Horace, Ovid, Ariosto, Titian, Correggio, and Rubens. Verily we find ourselves in enviable company. I continue. There is hidden or open wantonness in the whole of French culture, and still more in the whole Greek world. In conclusion, I find frank lubricity defended by Lessing in a sober treatise, Such exalted examples might be continued indefinitely; but I think I have given enough. If I were a philosopher, I should make it my task to show that "veiled lubricity"—i.e. the sense of form or delicacy of feeling or sensibility to the beautiful—is really one of the noblest and holiest of levers in art and culture and cosmic evolution. I should show that imagination and idealism are closely connected with the appeal of beauty of form, if they are not, indeed, actually rooted in it; and that, if it were not for the admixture of the neurological element, we should still be using, instead of table-napkins and pen-wipers, the means afforded by our own prehensile monkey-tails. As, however, I am no philosopher, I restrict myself to observation. My observation, then, tells me that the European nations most highly advanced in spiritual culture have all, without exception, a strongly marked sensuous tendency; that the so-called artistic natures are as a rule eminently sensuous natures; and that idealists, owing to their cult of formal beauty, are more easily led away by the beauty of the female form than others—particularly those others who have no imagination. And are the naturalists themselves free from sensuality in their own writings, for all their grim pursuit, well armed with test-tubes, for every shadow of a spark of hidden lubricity? I trow not. All I have noticed is that, in the name of vigour and truth, they perfume the sensual with stench, which may make the matter better, but does not make it different.
The double equation works out thus: in the camp of truth we shall seldom find that unseemliness is absent, and the same is true of slyly veiled, concealed sensuousness in the camp of beauty. I am very sorry about it, but there it is.
What next?
Well, I shall simply mention a modest fact. Ever since I have practised criticism—and I practise oftener than is necessary for my private well-being—I have made it a rule never, under any circumstances, to denounce a book as immoral. I have kept this rule up to now, and it has stood me in good stead.
"But, good heavens, one really cannot!"
I beg your pardon, one can.
"Yes, but what on earth do you do when a book is sent to you that fairly reeks with immorality?"
I judge it by its literary qualities.
"Without animadverting on the scandal?"
Yes, without an appeal to Philip of Macedon.
"So you completely ignore"
"I beg your pardon. I ignore nothing, I judge. Only when I seal my verdict, I do not borrow my sealing-wax from either the parson or the police. The secret is this. If a book consists wholly of obscenities or indecencies, it is also rubbish from the artistic point of view. If a writer introduces the disgusting without justification, that is a fault of style. Do you ask for examples? Take the case of Wieland. Wieland is indecent and—tedious. I could also, instead of Wieland, give you many instances from the most modern books; and you will find every time that the gratuitous introduction of indecencies or sensualities derogates from the literary value of the work.
"And you believe it is enough to stigmatise the fault solely from the literary standpoint?"
I even believe that it will be more effective than any other critical method.
"Are you not afraid of being a little frivolous?"
I have no fear of being frivolous in the service of art; for art is sacred in my eyes.
As already said, this is a simple and modest fact, which I submit to the testing of my brother critics. As far as I myself am concerned, the more I observe, the more convinced I am of the results that other methods lead to.
In particular, they may bring about the absurd situation that the moral pig-dealer will wake up some fine morning and find that he himself has been sold as a swine. This might happen quite unexpectedly; and I heartily hope it will.
In general, they may lead, in the first place, to the abandonment of literary freedom to inartistic forces, from whose violence the worst may be expected. Did they not, in the name of menaced morality and religion, attack even Phidias and Euripides, even Lessing, Schiller, and Goethe? In the second place, they run the risk of provoking the eternal laughter of posterity if, by evil chance, they discipline a sinner who later should be universally recognised as a master.
The world is already familiar with a Pistol Point Press. It now looks as if it had also to accept Pistol Point Philanthropy.
For several months a blameless and honourable university professor was systematically persecuted, constantly and unsparingly, simply because he had had the temerity to express an unfavourable opinion of a certain Asiatic people.[1]
This is a fine state of things! A benevolent terrorism? Philanthropic zealots, with a collecting-box in one hand and a muzzle in the other? A "Ring" of United Albion, Zion, and Samaria, which denounces as "Moabites" all who permit themselves an independent judgment in philanthropic matters? An Anglo-Armenian censorship for our universities?
It remains an open question whether this astonishing precedence given to the misery of Asia Minor over every other human misery is justifiable—i.e. whether it has any sense of proportion and has its only reason in the fact that shed blood cries to heaven—or whether it is not really the aggrieved policy of London that is lifting its voice. But the question really presents itself so; are we to have philanthropy with a dagger, just as Döring's soap is accompanied by an owl.[2] As if no one should dare to murmur when the saints meeting in Exeter Hall have trumpeted a "Hetze" against the Turks.
Benevolent terrorism. In point of fact, we are not so very far removed from this. What, exactly, is terrorism? The silence of all when one is sacrificed. Nothing more is needed. Not the smallest actual force is necessary to establish a terrorism; all that is required is for everyone to lie low and say nothing.
It seems to me that we have already lain low far too long. We have a university teacher persecuted to the point of ruin, suspected, morally assassinated, merely because he is said to have calumniated the Armenians. I have heard of blasphemy against God, but blasphemy against the Armenians is new to me. If it goes on like this, it will soon be less dangerous to speak freely in Russia about the Czar than for us to do the same about Asia Minor.
There is nothing for it but that all unbiased men should spring to the aid of the isolated victim of philanthropic hate of one's neighbour, until the biased ones remember their common interest in liberty of opinion.
Those, however, who have the most urgent interest in putting an end to the shameful persecution of a Berne professor are the Armenians themselves and their protectors, advocates, and friends. For if there is anything that can irretrievably ruin the so-called "Armenian Movement" (i.e. this onset of the orthodox on heretical Turkey), it is just this bombardment of intimidation. Nothing cools off sympathy so drastically as to see a bomb peeping out of the sleeve above the petitioner's hand—whether it be loaded with powder or with poison or with suspicions. So that's that for the well-organised international Lazarus Artillery! Bellicose martyrs indeed!
"Fellow-Christians" is all right. But what about Dynamite Fellow-Christians?[3] This brand of brothers in the Lord seems to my occidental palate a little too highly seasoned; it smacks of nitro-sulphuric acid.
No, moral massacres in Switzerland, as a postscript to atrocities in Armenia, carried on in the name of humanity, are absolutely nothing else than a Turkey of Philanthropists. If we have only a few more months of this crocodile benevolence, we shall find ourselves forced to open charitable subscription lists for the cruelly slaughtered victims of love for our neighbour.
- ↑ August Oncken, professor of political economy at the university of Berne, was violently attacked in 1896 for his Turkish sympathies in the matter of the so-called "Armenian Atrocities".
- ↑ The trade-mark of this extensively advertised soap was an owl.
- ↑ The German play upon words here cannot be reproduced in English. Mitchristen = Fellow-Christians. Dynamit-Christen = Dynamite Christians.