But Walter was all for
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open air, the clean lines of English functionalism, the new and sin- cere.
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open air, the clean lines of English functionalism, the new and sin- cere.
Musil - Man Without Qualities - v1
From the moment they first began to think about it, a man and a woman find a ready-made matriX of
feelings, acts, and complications waiting to take them in charge, and beneath this matrix the process takes its course in reverse; the stream no longer flows from the spring; the last things to happen push their way to the front of consciousness; the pure pleasure two people have in each other, this simplest and deepest of all feelings in love, and the natural source of all the rest, disappears completely in this psychic reversal.
So on his trips with Diotima, Ulrich not infrequently remembered their leave-taking after his first visit. He had taken her mild hand, an ·artfully and nobly perfected weightless hand, in his own as they gazed into each other's eyes. They both undoubtedly felt some aver- sion, and yet it occurred to them that they might nevertheless fuse to the point of extinction. Something of this vision had remained be- tween them. Thus two heads above cast a horrible chill on each other while the bodies below helplessly melt together at white heat. There is in this something nastily mythical, as in a two-headed god or the devil's cloven hoof, and it had often led Ulrich astray in his youth, when he had experienced it fairly often; but with the years it had proved to be no more than a very bourgeois aphrodisiac, in exactly the same way that the unclothed body substitutes for the nude. Nothi. rrg so inflames the middle-class lover as the flattering discovery of the power to drive another person into an ecstasy so wild that to be the cause of such changes by any other means one would have to
become a murderer.
And truly, that there can be such changes in civilized people, that
we actually can produce such effectsl-isn't this the question and the amazement in . the bold, glazed eyes of all those who dock at the lonely island of lust, where they are murderer, destiny, and God, and experience the maximum irrationality and adventurousness in the greatest comfort?
The repugnance he came to acquire with time against this kind of love eventually extended to his own body too, which had always en- couraged these misbegotten affairs by giving women the illusion of a reliable virility, for which Ulrich was too cerebral and too conflicted. At times he was as downright jealous of his own appearance as if it were a rival using cheap tricks against him. . :. . _in which a contradiction emerged that is also present in others who are not aware of it. For he was the one who kept his body trim by exercising it, giving it the
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shape, expression, and readiness for action that influence the mind no less than an ever-smiling or an ever-solemn face can. Oddly e~ough, the majority of people have either a neglected body, formed and deformed by chance circumstances, which seems to have almost no relation at all to their mind and character, or else a body disguised by th~ mask of sports, giving it the look of those hours when it is on vacation from itself. Those are the hours when a person spins out the daydream of his appearance, casually picked up from the magazines of the smart, great world. All those bronzed and muscular tennis players, horsemen, and race-car drivers, who look like world-record holders though usually they are merely competent; those ladies all dressed up or all undressed; they are all daydreamers, differing from common daydreamers only in that their dream doesn't stay in their brain but comes out into the open air as a projection of the mass soul-physically, dramatically, and (as one might say in the idiom of more-than-dubious occult phenomena) ideoplastically. But in com- mon with the usual spinners of fantasies they have a certain shallow-
ness of the dream, both as to its content and its nearness to the waking state. The problem of the integral physiognomy still eludes us, even though we have learned to draw conclusions about man's nature, sometimes even amazingly correct conclusions, from his handwriting, voice, sleeping position, and God knows what else; yet for the body as a whole we have only the fashionable models on which it forms itself, or at most a kind of nature-cure philosophy.
But is this the body ofour mind, our ideas, intimations, plans,. or- the pretty ones included-the body of our follies? That Ulrich had loved those follies and still to soine extent had them Pid not prevent him from feeling not at home in the body they had created.
6g
DIOTIMA AND ULRICH, CONTINUED
And it was above all Diotima who confirmed in a new way his sense that the surface and depths of his person were not one and the same. This came through clearly for him on these trips with her, which sometimes felt like drives through moonlight, when the young woman's beauty detached itself from her person altogether and mo- mentarily veiled his eyes like gossamer spun by a dream. He knew, of course, that Diotima compared everything he said with the conven- tional wisdom on the subject-the higher conventional wisdom, to be sure-and was pleased that she found it "immature," so that he constantly sat there as ifhe were before the wrong end of a telescope trained on him. He became smaller and smaller, and believed when he spoke with her (or at least was not far from believing) in his role'of devil's advocate and materialist that he could hear in his own words conversations from his last terms at school, when he and his class- mates had idolized all the villains and monsters of world history be- cause the teachers had presented them in tones of idealistic abhorrence. And when Diotima looked at him indignantly he grew smaller still, regressing from the morality of heroism and the drive for expansion to the defiant lies, callousness, and wavering excesses of adolescence-only quite figuratively, of course, as one can detect in a gesture or a word some distant ·similarity with gestures and words one has long since discarded, or only dreamed, or seen and disliked in others. In any event, this all resonated in his delight in shocking Diotima. The mind of this woman, who would have been so beautiful without her mind, aroused an inhuman feeling in him, per- haps a fear of mind itself, an aversion for all great things, a feeling that was quite faint, hardly detectable-and perhaps feeling was a much too pretentious expression for something that was but a mere breath. But if one magnified it into words, they would have gone something like this: at times he saw not only this woman's idealism but all the idealism in the world, in all its extent and ramifications,
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appear bodily in the form of an image hovering just above that Gre- cian head-it only just missed being the horns of the Devil! Then . Ulrich grew even smaller still and-again figuratively speaking-re- gressed to the first hotly moral state of childhood, in whose eyes temptation and terror lie as in the stare of a gazelle. The tender emo- tions of that age can in a single moment of yielding cause the whole, still-tiny world to burst into flames, since they have neither an aim nor the ability to make anything happen, but are a completely boundless fire. It was quite unlike him, and yet in Diotima's com- pany Ulrich ended up longing for these cb. ildhood feelings, though he could barely imagine them because they have so l\ttle in common with the conditions under which an adult lives.
At one point he very nearly confessed it to her. On one of their trips they had left the car to walk into a small valley that was like a river delta of meadows with steep forested banks and that formed a crooked triangle with a winding brook in its center stilled by a light frost. The slopes had been partly cleared of timber, with a few trees left standing like feather dusters stuck in the bare hillsides and hill- tops. This scene had tempted them to take a walk. It was one of those wistful, snowless days that seem in the middle ofwinter like a faded, no-longer-fashionable summer gown. Diotima abruptly asked her cousin: "Why does Amheim call you an activist? He says that you're always full of ideas how to do things differently and better. " She had suddenly remembered that her talk with Arnheim. about Ulrich and the General had ended inconclusively.
"I don't understand," she went on. "It always seems to me that you hardly ever mean anything seriously. But I must ask you, because we are involved together in such a responsible task. Do you remember our last conversation? There was something you said: you maintained that nobody, if he had the necessary power, would do what he wants to do. Now I would like to know what you meant by that. Wasn't it a horrible idea? "
Ulrich did not reply at once. And during this silence, after she had spoken as impudently as possible, she realized how much she had been preoccupied with the forbidden question of whether Amheim and she would do what each of them secretly wanted. She suddenly thought she had given herself away to Ulrich. She blushed, tried to stop herself, blushed even more, and did her best to gaze out over
the valley, away from him, with the most unconcerned expression she could muster.
Ulrich had observed the process. ''I'm very much afraid that the only reason Arnheim, as you say, calls me an activist is that he over- estimates my influence with the Tuzzi family," he answered. "You know yourself how little attention you pay to what I say. But now that you have asked me, I realize what my influence on you ought to be. May I tell you without your instantly criticizing me again? "
Diotima nodded silently as a sign of assent and tried to pull herself together behind an appearance of absentmindedness.
"So I said," Ulrich began, "that nobody would tum his dreams into realities even if he could. You remember our file folders full of suggestions? And now I ask you: Is there anyone who would not be embarrassed if something he had passionately demanded all his life were suddenly to come true? If, for instance, the Kingdom of God were suddenly to burst on the Catholics, or the classless society of the future on the socialists? But perhaps this doesn't prove anything. We get used to demanding things and aren't quite ready to have our wishes realized; it'fonly natural, many people would say. Let me go on: Music must be the most important thing in the world to a musi- cian, and painting to a painter, and probably even the building of cement houses to a cement specialist. Do you think that this will in- duce him to imagine God as a specialist in reinforced concrete and that the others will prefer a painted world, or a world blown on the bugle, to the real one? You'll call it a silly question, but what makes it serious is that we are expected to insist on just this kind of silliness!
"Now please don't think," he said, turning to her in all seriousness, "that all I mean by this is that everyone wants what is hard to get, and despises the attainable. What I mean is this: Within reality there is a senseless craving for unreality. "
He had inconsiderately led Diotima a long way into the little val- ley; the snow trickling down the slopes was perhaps what made the ground wetter the higher they went, and they had to hop from one small clump of grass to the next, which punctuated their talk and forced Ulrich to go on with it by fits and starts. There were, as a re- sult, so many obvious objections to what he was saying that Diotima did not know where to begin. She had got her feet wet and stood still on a grassy mound, led astray and anxious, clutching at her skirts.
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Ulrich turned back and laughed. "You've started something ex- ceedingly dangerous, great cousin. People are vastly relieved to be left in a position where they can't put their ideas into practice. "
"And wh-at would you do," Diotima asked irritably, "ifyou could rule the world for a day? "
"I suppose I would have no choice but to abolish reality. "
''I'd love to know how you'd go about it. "
"I don't know either. I hardly know what I mean by it. We wildly
overestimate the present, the sense ofthe present, the here and now; like you and me being here in this valley, as if we'd been put in a basket and the lid of the present had fallen on it. W e make too much of it. We'll remember it. Even a year from now we may be able to describe how we were standing here. But what really moves us-;-me anyway-is always-putting it cautiously; I don't want to look for an explanation or a name for it-opposed in a sense to this way of expe- riencing things. It is displaced by so much here and now, so much Present. So it can't become the present in its tum. "
In the narrow valley Ulrich's words sounded loud and confused. Diotima suddenly felt uneasy and moved to get back to the car. But Ulrich made her stay and look at the landscape.
"Some thousands of years ago this was a glacier," he explained. "Even the earth isn't altogether what it's pretending to be for the moment. This well-rounded character is a hysteric. Today it is acting the good middle-class mother feeding her children. Back then the world was frigid and icy, like a spiteful girl. Several thousand years before that it luxuriated in hot fern forests, sultry swamps, and de- monic beasts. We can't say that it has evolved toward perfection, nor what its true condition is. And the same goes for its. daughter, man- kind. Imagine the clothes in which people have stood here through the ages, right where we are standing now. Expressed in terms of the madhouse, it suggests long-standing obsessions with suddenly erupt- ing manic ideas; after these run their course, a new concept of life is there. So you see, reality does away with itself!
"There's something else I'd like to tell you"-Ulrich made a fresh start after a while. "That sense of having firm ground underfoot and a firm skin all around, which appears so natural to most people, is not very strongly developed in me. T};llnk back to how you were as a
child; all gentle glow. And then a teenager, lips burning with longing. Something in me rebels against the idea that so-called mature adult- hood is the peak of such a development. In a sense it is, and in a sense it isn't. If I were a myrmeleonina, the ant predator that resem- bles a dragonfly, I'd be horrified to think that the year before I had been the squat gray myrmeleon, the ant lion, running backward and living at the edge of the forest, dug in at the bottom of a funnel- shaped hole in the sand, catching ants by the waist with invisible pincers after first exhausting them by somehow bombarding them with grains of sand. There are times when the thought of my youth horrifies me in quite the same way, even though I may have been a dragonfly then and may be a monster now. "
He did not really know what he was aiming at. With his myr- meleon and myrmeleonina he had only been aping Arnheim's cul- tured omniscience a little. But he had it on the tip of his tongue to say: "Please, won't you make love to me, just to be nice? We are kin- dred, not wholly separate, certainly not one; in any case, the polar opposite of a dignified and formal relationship. "
But Ulrich was mistaken. Diotima was the kind of person who is satisfied with herself and therefore regards each age she passes through as a step on a stairway leading upward from below. She had no way of understanding what Ulrich was talking about, especially as she did not know what he had left unsaid. But they had meanwhile returned to the car, so she felt serene again, taking in what he was saying as his usual kind of chatter, somewhere between amusing and irritating, commanding no more of her attention than at most the comer of an eye. At this moment he really had no influence whatso- ever on her except that of bringing her down to earth. A fUmy cloud of shyness, risen from some hidden comer of her heart, had dis- sipated in a dry void. For the first time, perhaps, she had a hard, clear glimpse of the fact that her relations with Arnheim would force her, sooner or later, to make a choice that could change her whole life. One could not say that she was happy about this just now, but it had the weighty presence of a real mountain range. A weak moment had passed. That "not to do what one wants to do" had had for an instant an absurd glow she no longer understood.
"Amheim is altogether the opposite of me. He is always overesti-
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mating the happiness with which time and space rendezvous with him to. form the present moment," Ulrich sighed with a smile, moved to bring what he had been saying to an orderly conclusion. But he said nothing further about childhood, so it never came to the point where Diotima would have found out that he had a tender side.
· CLARISSE VISITS ULRICH TO TELL HIM A STORY
Redecorating old castles was the specialty of the well-known painter van Helmond, whose masterpiece was his daughter Clarisse, and one day she unexpectedly walked in on Ulrich.
"Papa sends me," she informed him, "to find out whether you couldn't use your splendid aristocratic connections just a little for him too. " She eyed the room with interest, threw herself into one chair and her hat onto another. Then she held out her hand to Ulrich.
"Your Papa overestimates me," he started to say, but she cut him short.
"Nonsense. You know perfectly well the old man always ·needs money. Business simply isn't what it used to be! " She laughed. "Ele- gant place you've got here. Nice! " She scrutinized her surroundings again and then looked at Ulrich. Her whole bearing had something of the endearing shyness of a pet dog whose bad conscience makes its skin twitch.
"Anyway, if you can do it, you will. If not, then you won't. Of course, I promised him you would. But I came for another reason. His asking me to see you put an idea into my head. It's about a cer- tain problem in my family. I'd like to hear what you think. " Her mouth and eyes hesitated and flickered for an instant; then she took her leap over the initial hurdle. 'Would the term 'beauty doctor' sug- gest anything to you? A painter is a beauty doctor. "
Ulrich understood; he knew her parents' house.
"Dark, distinguished, splendid, luxurious, upholstered, pen- nanted, and tasseled," she went on. "Papa is a painter, a painter is a kind of beauty doctor, and visiting our house has always been re- garded as quite the thing socially, like going to the newest spa. You understand what I'm talking about. And one of Papa's main sources of income has always been decorating palaces and· big country houses. Do you know the Pachhofens? "
Ulrich was not acquainted with this patrician family except for a Fraulein Pachhofen he had met once, years ago, in Clarisse's company.
"She was my friend," Clarisse said. "She was seventeen, and I was fifteen. Papa was supposed to renovate the castle and do the interi- ors. The Pachhofen place, ofcourse. We were all invited. Walter too; it was the first time he came along with us. And Meingast. "
"Meingast? " Ulrich did not know who Meingast was.
"But of course you know him; Meingast,. who went to Switzerland later on. He wasn't yet a philosopher in those days, but a rooster in every family with daughters. "
"I've never met him," Ulrich said. "But now I do know who he is. "
"All right, then. " Clarisse did some strenuous mental arithmetic. "Just a minute! Walter was then twenty-three and Meingast some- what older. Walter was a great secret admirer of Papa's, and it was the first time he'd ever been invited to stay at a castle. Papa often had an air of wearing inner royal robes. I think at first Walter was more in love with Papa than with me. And Lucy-"
"Slow down, Clarisse, for heaven's sake! " Ulrich pleaded. . "I seem to have lost the connection. "
"Lucy," Clarisse said, "is Lucy Pachhofen, of course, the daughter of the Pachhofens with whom we were staying. Now do you under- stand? All right, then, you understand. Papa wrapped Lucy in velvet or brocade with a long train and posed her on one of her horses; she imagined he must be a Titian or Tintoretto. They were absolutely mad about each other. "
"Papa about Lucy, and Walter about Papa? "
"Give me a chance, will you? At that time, there was Impression- ism. Papa was still painting old-fashioned/musical, the way he still does today, brown gravy and peacocks' tails.
But Walter was all for
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open air, the clean lines of English functionalism, the new and sin- cere. In his heart, Papa found him as insufferable as a Protestant ser- mon; he couldn't stand Meingast either, but he had two daughters to many off; he had always spent more than he made, so he was long- suffering with the souls of the two young men. Walter, for his part, secretly loved Papa, as I said, but publicly he had to criticize him because ofthe new art movements, and Lucy never understood any- thing about art at all, but she was afraid of making a fool of herself in front ofWalter, and she was afraid that Walter might tuni out to be right, in which case Papa would only be a ridiculous old man. Do you get the picture? '~
Before committing himself, Ulrich wanted to know where Mama had been.
"Mama was there too, of course. They quarreled every day as al- ways, no more and no less. You can see that in these circumstances Walter enjoyed a favorable position. Everthing converged on Walter: Papa feared him, Mama egged him on, and I was beginning to fall in love with him. But Lucy played up to him. So Walter had a certain power over Papa, which he was beginning to savor in a cautiously lascivious way. I mean, it was then that Walter began to have a sense of his own importance; without Papa and me· he would have been nothing. Do you see how it all hangs·together? "
Ulrich felt it was safe to say he did. ,
"But I wanted to tell you something else! " Clarisse exclaimed. She took some time to think before she said: "Listen. Let's just start with me and Lucy: that was complicated in an exciting way. I was naturally worried . about Papa, whose infatuation was on the point of ruining the whole family. But I was also curious about ho_w this kind of thing happens. They were both out of their minds. Lucy's friendship for me was ofcourse mixed up with the feeling that she had a man for a lover whom I still obediently called 'Papa. ' She was more than a little. proud, but at the same time it made her terribly ashamed to face me. I don't think the old castle had sheltered such complications under its roofsince it was built All day long Lucy hung around Papa when- ever she could, and then at night she came to me in the tower to confess. I slept in the tower, and we had the lights on almost all night long. ''
"I:Iow far did Lucy actually go with your father? ''
"That was the only thing I could never find out. But just think of those summer nights! The owls whimpering, the night moaning, and when it all got too spooky we both got into my bed so we could go on talking. We couldn't see how a man in the grip of so fatal a passion could do anything but shoot himself. We were really waiting for it to happen from one day to the next-" ,
"It strikes me," UlriCh interrupted, "that nothing muCh had really happened between them. "
"That's what I think too-not everything. Yet tillngs did happen. You'll see in a minute. All of a sudden, Lucy had to leave because her father arrived unexpectedly and took her off on a trip to Spain. You should have seen Papa then, when he was left on his own. I think there were times he came aWfully close to strangling Mama. He was off on horseback from dawn to dusk, with a folding easel strapped behind his saddle, but he never painted a stroke, and he never touChed a brush at home either. The point is, he usually paints like a robot, but in those days rd find him sitting in one of those huge, empty rooms with a book he hadn't even opened. He would some- times brood like this for hours, then he'd get up and do the same thing in some other room or in the garden, sometimes all day long. Well, he was an old man, and youth had left him in the lurch; it's understandable, isn't it? And I suppose the image of Lucy and me, seeing us all the time as two girlfriends with their arms around each other's waists, chatting confidentially, must have sprouted in him then-like some wild seed. Perhaps he knew that Lucy always used to join me in the tower. So one night, around eleven, all the lights in the castle were. out, and there he was. That was quite something! " Clarisse was carried away with the import of her own story. "You hear this tapping and scraping on the stairs, and don't know what to make of it; then you hear the clumsy fiddling with the door handle, and the door opening spookily-"
"Why didn't you call out for help? "
"That's what was so peculiar about it. I knew from the first sound who it was. He must have stood still in the doorway, because I didn't hear anything for quite a while. He was probably frightened too. Then he slowly, carefully shut the door and whispered my name. I was absolutely stunned. I had no intention ofanswering him, but this weird thing happened: from somewhere deep inside me, as though I
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were a deep space, came a sound like a whimper. Have you ever heard of such a thing? ''
"No. Go on! " ·
"Well, that's all; the next instant he was clutching at me with infi- nite despair; he almost fell on my bed, and his head was lying on the pillow beside mine. "
"Tears? "
"Dry spasms. An old body, abandoned. I understood that at once. Oh, I tell you, ifit were possible to tell afterward all one felt at such a moment, it would be something really enormous. I think he was be- side himself with fury against the whole world of propriety, because of what it had made him miss. Suddenly I sense that he is himself again, and I know right away, although it's pitch-dark, that he's abso- lutely convulsed with a ruthless hunger for me. I know there is not going to be any mercy or consideration for me; there hasn't been a sound since that moan of mine; my body was blazing dry and his was like a piece ofpaper one sets at the edge ofa fire. He became incred- ibly light. I felt his arm snaking down my body, away from my shoulder. And now there's something I want to ask you. It's why I came. . . . "
Clarisse broke off.
"What? You haven't asked anything! " Ulrich prompted her after a short pause.
"No. There's something else I have to say first: The idea that he must be taking my keeping so still as a sign of consent made me loathe myself. Yet I lay there, my mind a blank, petrified with fear. What do you make of that? "
"I don't know what to say. "
"With one hand he kept stroking my face; the other wandered around. Trembling, pretending it wasn't up to anything, passing over my breast like a kiss, then, as if waiting, listening for some response. Then finally it moved-well, you know, and at the same time his. face sought mine. But at that point I pulled myself away with all my strength and turned on my side; and again that sound came "out of my chest, a sound I didn't know, something halfway between pleading and moaning. You see, I have a birthmark, a black medallion-"
"And what did your father do? " Ulrieh interrupted coolly.
But Clarisse refused to be interrupted. "Right here," she said with
a tense smile, pointing through her dress to a spot inward from her hip. "This is how far he got, to the medallion. This medallion has a magic power, or anyway, there's something special about it. "
Suddenly the blood rushed to her face. Ulrich's silence had so- bered her and dissipated the idea that had kept her under its spell. With an embarrassed smile she quickly finished:
"My father? He instantly sat up. I couldn't see what was going on in his face; embarrassment, I suppose. Maybe gratitude. After all, I had saved him at the last moment. You must understand: an old man, and a young girl has the strength to do that! He must have thought I was st_range somehow, because he pressed my hand quite tenderly, and stroked my head twice with Qis other hand. Then he went away, without a word. So I hope you'll do what you can for him? After all, I had to tell you, so you'd understand. "
Trim and correct, in a tailored dress she wore only when she came into town, she stood there, ready to leave, and held out her hand to say good-bye.
THE COMMITTEE TO DRAFT GUIDELINES FOR HIS MAJESTY's SEVENTIETH JUBILEE CELEBRA TION OPENS ITS FIRST SESSION
About her letter to Count Leinsdorf and her request that Ulrich save Moosbrugger, Clarisse had not said a word; she seemed to have for- gotten all that. But for Ulrich, too, some time had to pass before he remembered it. For Diotima had at last come to the point in her preparations where, within the framework of the "Enquiry to Draft Guidelines and Ascertain the Wishes of All Sectors of the Population in Connection with His Majesty's Seventieth Jubilee Celebration," a meeting of the special "Committee to Draft Guidelines in Connec- tion with His Maj~sty's Seventieth Jubilee Celebration" could be
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·called, whose leadership Diotima had personally reseiVed for her- self. His Grace had composed the invitation himself, Tuzzi had ed- ited it, and Arnheim had been shown Tuzzi's suggestions before it Was finally approved. ln spite of all that, it contained everything that weighed on His Grace's mind.
"What brings us together in this meeting," it read, "is our mutual understanding that a powerful demonstration arising from the midst of the people must not be left to chance, but calls for a· farsighted influence from a quarter commanding a broad, panoramic view, that is, an influence from above. " This was followed by "the extremely rare occasion of this seventieth anniversary of an accession to the throne so richly blessed," the "grateful throng of peoples," the Em- peror of Peace, the lack of political maturity, the Glob~ Year of Austria, and finally the appeal to "Property and Culture" ~o fashion all this into a glorious manifestation of the True Austrian spirit, but only after giving it the most painstaking consideration.
From Diotima's lists, the groups for Art, Literature, and Science were chosen and with great care and effort augmented, while, on the other hand, of those who might be allowed to attend although not expected to take an active part, only a very small number had re- mained after the most thorough sifting. But the number of invited guests was still so large that there could be no question of a regular sit-down dinner at the green baize table; the only alternative was an informal evening reception with a cold buffet. The guests sat or stood however it could be arranged, and. Diotima's tooms resembled the encampment of a spiritual army, supplied with sandwiches, pastries, wines, liqueurs, and tea in such quantities as could only have been made possible by special budgeting concessions Tuzzi granted to his wife-with, it must be added, not a word of protest, from which it may be inferred that he proposed to make use of new, intellectual methods of diplomacy.
The handling of such a throng made great demands on Diotima as a hostess, and she might perhaps have taken exception to many things had her head not resembled a superb fruit bowl with words constantly falling over the edge of its superabundance; words with which the lady of the house welcomed each arriving guest, enchant- ing him with detailed knowledge ofhis latest work. Her preparations for this had been extraordinary and could only have been accom-
plished with Arnheim's help; he had placed his private secretary at her disposal to arrange the material and make extracts of the most important texts. The splendid slag left behind by this volcanic en- deavor was a large library bought with funds Count Leinsdorf had provided to start the Parallel Campaign, and together with Diotima's own books they had been set up as the only decoration in the last of the emptied rooms. The flowered wallpaper, or what could still be seen of it, betrayed the boudoir, a stimulus to flattering reflections about its occupant. This library turned out to h~ve other advantages as well: evexy one of the invitees, after having been graciously greeted by Diotima, wandered aimlessly through the rooms and was drawn without fail to the wall of books at the far end as soon as he caught sight of it. A cluster of scrutinizing backs constantly rose and sank before it, like bees in front of a flowering hedge, and even if the cause was only the noble curiosity evexy creative person feels for book collections, delicious contentment seeped into the marrow of his bones when the viewer finally discovered his own works, and the patriotic campaign benefited from it.
Diotima at first allowed the assembly to drift, intellectually, at its own sweet will, though she made a point of assuring the poets in par- ticular that all life, even the world of business, rested on an inner poetxy if one "regarded it magnanimously. " This surprised no one, but it turned out that most of those singled out for such confidences had come on the assumption that they were expected to launch the Parallel Campaign with some briefwords ofadvice-somewhere be- tween five and forty-five minutes' worth-which, if heeded, would guarantee its success, even if supsequent speakers squandered time with pointless and misguided suggestions. This almost drove Di- otima to tears at first, and it was only with great effort that she kept her unruffied look, for she realized that each one of them was saying something different and she would never be able to pull it all to- gether. She was still inexperienced in coping with such high concen- trations ofsuperior minds, and since so universal a gathering ofgreat men would not come about again so easily, it could only be assimi- lated laboriously and methodically, step by step. There are many things in the world, incidentally, that taken singly mean something quite different to people from what they mean in the mass. Water, for instance, is less of a pleasure in excessive than in small doses, by
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exactly the difference between drowning and drinking, and the same can be said of poisons, amusements, leisure, piano playing, ideals, indeed probably everything, so that what something is depends on its degree ofdensity and other circumstances. It is only necessary to add that even genius is no exception, lest the following impressions ap- pear to suggest some sort of denigration of the eminent personages who had placed themselves so selflessly at Oiotima's disposal.
For even at this flrst gathering one could receive the impression that every great mind feels extremely insecure as soon as it leaves the refuge of its treetop aerie and has to make itself understood on com- mon ground. The extraordinary language that passed over Diotima's head like some movement in the skies as long as she conversed alone with one of the powerful turned, as soon as they were joined by a third or a fourth person and several lines of discourse got entangled in contradiction, into a distressing inability to arrive at any kind of order. Whoever does not shrink from such similes might try to visual- ize a swan that, after its proud flight, waddles along on the ground. But on longer acquaintance this, too, becomes quite understandable. The lives of great minds today are founded on a certain "no one knows what for. " They enjoy great veneration, expressed on their fif- tieth to their hundredth birthdays, or on the tenth anniversary of some agricultural college that garlands itself with honorary doctor- ates, or on various other occasions when speeches must be made about the country's cultUral treasures. We have a history of great men, and we regard it as an institution that belongs to us, just like prisons or the army; having it·means we have to have people to put into it. And so, with a certain automatism inherent in such social needs, we always pick the next in line and shower him with the hon- ors ripe to be handed out. But this veneration is not quite sincere; at its base lies the gaping, generally accepted conviction that there is really not a single person who deserves it, and it is hard to tell whether the mouth opens to acclaim someone or to yawn. To call a man a genius nowadays, with the unspoken gloss that there is really no longer any such thing, smacks of some cult of the dead, something like hysterical love making a great to-do for no other reason than that there is no real feeling present.
Fpr sensitive people this is of course not a pleasant situation, and they try 'to get rid of it in various ways. Some are driven in their de-
spair to get rich by learning to. exploit the demand not only for great minds but also for wild men, profound novelists, puffed-up lovers, and leaders of the new generation; others wear an invisible royal crown on their heads that they will not remove under any circum- stances, prepared with embittered modesty not to expect the value of their creation to he seen in its true light before two to ten centuries have passed. They all feel that it is a terrible tragedy for the nation that its truly great men can never become a part of its living culture because they are too far ahead of it.
It must be emphasized, however, that the minds under considera- tion so far have been those of an aesthetic bent, since there is a con- siderable difference in the ways the mind relates to the world. While the aesthetic mind wants the same sort of admiration accorded to Goethe and . Michelangelo, Napoleon and Luther, hardly anyone today knows the name of the man who gave humanity the untold blessing of anesthesia; nobody searches the lives of Gauss, Euler, or Maxwell for an Immortal Beloved, and hardly anyone cares where Lavoisier ~d Cardanus were born and died. Instead, we learn how their ideas and inventions were further developed by the ideas and inventions of other, equally uninteresting people, and continually concentrate on their achievements, which live on through others long after the brief flame of the individual has burned out. One is amazed at first to see how sharp the distinction is between two kinds of human endeavor, but soon enough counterexamples come to mind, and it begins to look like the most natural of differentiations. Familiar custom assures us it is the difference between person and
work, between the greatness of a human being and that of a cause, between culture and knowledge, humanity and nature: Work and outstanding productivity do not increase moral stature, nor being a man in the eyes ofheaven, nor those unanalyzable lessons oflife that are handed down only by the example of statesmen, heroes, saints, singers, and, one must admit, movie actors-in short, that great irra- tional power in which the poet, too, feels he has a part, as long as he believes in what he says and holds fast to his belief that whatever his circumstances, his voice is the voice of the inner life, the blood, the heart, the nation, Europe, or all mankind. It is the mysterious whole of which he feels himself to be the medium, while the others are merely rummaging around in the comprehensible-and this is a mis-
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Si(')n one must believe in before one can learn to see it! What assures us of this is a voice of truth, certainly, but isn't there something odd about this truth? For where one looks less at the person than at the cause, there is, remarkably, always a fresh person to carry on the cause, while on the other hand, wherever the emphasis is on the per- son, there is always the feeling after a certain level has been reached that there is no longer anyone who measures up anymore, and that true greatness lies in the past.
Each and every one of the men gathered at Diotima's that night was a vessel of the whole, and that was a lot all at once. Writing and thinking, activities as natural to man as swimming is to a duckling, was something they practiced as a profession, and they were, in fact, really better at it than most. But what was it all for? What they did was beautiful, it was great, it was unique, but so much uniqueness bore the collective breath of mortality and the graveyard, having no evident meaning or purpose, ancestors or progeny. Countless re- membered experiences, myriads of crisscrossing vibrations of the spirit, were gathered in these heads, which were stuck ! p<:e a carpet weaver's needles in a carpet extending without seams or edges all around them in every direction and somewhere, at some random place, creating a pattern that seemed to repeat itself elsewhere but was actually a little different. But is this the proper use of oneself, to set such a little patch on eternity?
It would probably be saying far too much to say that Diotima had grasped all this, but she felt ~e wind ofthe grave over the fields of the spirit, and the nearer this first day drew to its close, the deeper she slipped into discouragement. Luckily, it brought to her mind a certain hopelessness Arnheim had expressed on another occasion, when they had spoken of such things, though at the time she had not quite grasped his meaning; now her friend ·was away on a trip, but she remembered how he had warned her not to place too great hopes in this gathering. So it was actually Arnheim's melancholy into which she was drifting, which made it ultimately an almost sensu- ously pensive and flattering pleasure. Musing on his prophetic words, she wondered: "Isn't it, deep down, the pessimism people of action are always bound to feel when they come in contact with those who traffic in words? "
. SCIENCE SMILING INTO ITS BEARD, OR A FIRST FULL-:DRESS ENCOUNTER WITH EVIL
Now for a few necessary words about a smile, specifically a man's smile, and about a beard, created for the male act of smiling into one's beard; the smile of the scholars who had accepted Diotima's invitation and were listening to the famous artists. Although they were smiling, they were absolutely not to be suspected of doing so ironically. On the ~ontrary, it was their way of expressing deference and incompetence, as has already been· explained. But this, too, should fool no one. They were sincere in this, consciously; but sub- consciously, to use a fashionable term, or, better still, in the sum of their being, they were people in whom a. propensity for Evil crackled like a fire under a caldron.
This has a paradoxical ring, of course, and any of our university professors in whose presence one attempted to assert it. would proba- bly counter that he was a humble servant of truth and progress and otherwise knew nothing about anything. That is his professional ide- ology. But high-mindedness is the mark of every professional ideol- ogy. Hunters, for instance, would never dream of calling themselves the butchers of wild game; they prefer to call themselves the duly licensed friends of nature and animals; just as businessmen uphold the principle of an honorable profit, while the businessman's god, Mercury, that distinguished promoter of international relations, is also the god of thieves. So the image of a profession in the minds of its practitioners is not too reliable.
Ifwe ask ourselves dispassionately how science has arrived at its present state-an important question in itself, considering how en- tirely we are in its power and how not even an illiterate is safe from its domination, since he has to learn to live with countless things born of science-we get a different picture. Credible received wisdom in- dicates that it all began in the sixteenth century, a time of the great- est spiritual turbulence, when people ceased trying to penetrate the
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deep mysteries of nature as they had done through two millennia of religious and philosophical speculation, but were instead satisfied with exploring the surface of nature in a manner that can only be called superficial. For instance the great Galileo Galilei, always the first to· be mentioned in this connection, eliminated the question. of what were nature's deep intrinsic reasons for abhorring a vacuum and consequently letting a falling body penetrate space after space unql it finally comes to rest on solid ground, and settled for some- thing more common: he simply established how quickly such a body falls, the course it takes, the time it takes, and what is its rate of downward acceleration. The Catholic Church made a grave error in threatening this man with death and forcing him to recant instead of summarily executing him without much ceremony, since it was from his way oflooking at things, and that ofothers oflike mind, that after- ward-in next to no time, in the scale ofhistory-there arose railway timetables, industrial machines, physiological psychology, and our era's moral decay against which the Church no longer stands a chance. The Church probably erred in being overprudent, because Galileo was not only the discoverer of the law of falling bodies and the motion of the earth, but also an inventor in whom, as we would say today, major capital took an interest; besides, he was not the only one in his time who was seized by the new spirit. On the contrary, historical accounts show that the matter-of-factness that inspired him raged and spread like an infection. However disconcerting it may sound nowadays to speak of someone as inspired by matter-of-
factness, believing as we cJo that we have far too much of it, in Galileo's day the awakening from metaphysics to the hard observa- tion of reality must have been, judging by all sorts of evidence, a veri- table orgy and conflagration of matter-of-factness! But should one ask what mankind was thinking of when it made this change, the an- swer is that it did no more than what every sensible child does after trying to walk too soon; it sat. down on the ground, contacting the earth with a most dependable ifnot very noble part ofits anatomy, in short, that part on which one sits. The amazing thing is that the earth showed itself to be uncommonly receptive, and ever since that mo- ment ofcontact has allowed men to entice inventions, conveniences, and discoveries out ofit in quantities bordering on the miraculous.
Such preliminaries might lead one to think, with some justice, that
it is the miracle of the Antichrist we now find ourselves in the midst of; for the metaphor of "contact" used here is to be interpreted not only in the sense of dependability, but also just as much in the sense of the unseemly and disreputable. And in truth, before intellectuals discovered their pleasure in "facts," facts were the sole preserve of soldiers, hunters, and traders-people by nature full of violence and. cunning. The struggle for existence makes no allowance for senti- mental considerations; it knows only the desire to kill one's opponent in the quickest, most factual way; here everyone is a positivist. Nor is it a virtue in business to let oneself ~e taken in instead of going for the solid facts, since a profit is ultimately a psychological overpower- ing ofyour opponent arising from the circumstances. If, on the other hand, one looks at the qualities that lead to the making of discoveries, one finds freedom from traditional considerations and inhibitions, courage, as much initiative as ruthlessness, the exclusion of moral considerations, patience in haggling for the smallest advantage, dog- ged endurance on the way to the goal, if necessary, and a veneration for meas~re and number that expresses the keenest mistrust of all uncertainty. In other words, we find just those ancient vices of sol- diers, hunters, and traders, here merely translated into intellectual terms and interpreted as virtues. This raises them above the pursuit of personal and relatively vulgar advantage, but even in this transfor- mation the element of primal evil is not lost; ·it is seemingly inde- structible and everlasting, at least as everlasting as everything humanly sublime, since it consists of nothing less and nothing else than the urge to trip up that sublimity and watch it fall on its face. Who has never felt a nasty itch, looking at a beautifully glazed, luxuri- antly curved vase, at the thought of smashing it to bits with a single blow of one's stick?
feelings, acts, and complications waiting to take them in charge, and beneath this matrix the process takes its course in reverse; the stream no longer flows from the spring; the last things to happen push their way to the front of consciousness; the pure pleasure two people have in each other, this simplest and deepest of all feelings in love, and the natural source of all the rest, disappears completely in this psychic reversal.
So on his trips with Diotima, Ulrich not infrequently remembered their leave-taking after his first visit. He had taken her mild hand, an ·artfully and nobly perfected weightless hand, in his own as they gazed into each other's eyes. They both undoubtedly felt some aver- sion, and yet it occurred to them that they might nevertheless fuse to the point of extinction. Something of this vision had remained be- tween them. Thus two heads above cast a horrible chill on each other while the bodies below helplessly melt together at white heat. There is in this something nastily mythical, as in a two-headed god or the devil's cloven hoof, and it had often led Ulrich astray in his youth, when he had experienced it fairly often; but with the years it had proved to be no more than a very bourgeois aphrodisiac, in exactly the same way that the unclothed body substitutes for the nude. Nothi. rrg so inflames the middle-class lover as the flattering discovery of the power to drive another person into an ecstasy so wild that to be the cause of such changes by any other means one would have to
become a murderer.
And truly, that there can be such changes in civilized people, that
we actually can produce such effectsl-isn't this the question and the amazement in . the bold, glazed eyes of all those who dock at the lonely island of lust, where they are murderer, destiny, and God, and experience the maximum irrationality and adventurousness in the greatest comfort?
The repugnance he came to acquire with time against this kind of love eventually extended to his own body too, which had always en- couraged these misbegotten affairs by giving women the illusion of a reliable virility, for which Ulrich was too cerebral and too conflicted. At times he was as downright jealous of his own appearance as if it were a rival using cheap tricks against him. . :. . _in which a contradiction emerged that is also present in others who are not aware of it. For he was the one who kept his body trim by exercising it, giving it the
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shape, expression, and readiness for action that influence the mind no less than an ever-smiling or an ever-solemn face can. Oddly e~ough, the majority of people have either a neglected body, formed and deformed by chance circumstances, which seems to have almost no relation at all to their mind and character, or else a body disguised by th~ mask of sports, giving it the look of those hours when it is on vacation from itself. Those are the hours when a person spins out the daydream of his appearance, casually picked up from the magazines of the smart, great world. All those bronzed and muscular tennis players, horsemen, and race-car drivers, who look like world-record holders though usually they are merely competent; those ladies all dressed up or all undressed; they are all daydreamers, differing from common daydreamers only in that their dream doesn't stay in their brain but comes out into the open air as a projection of the mass soul-physically, dramatically, and (as one might say in the idiom of more-than-dubious occult phenomena) ideoplastically. But in com- mon with the usual spinners of fantasies they have a certain shallow-
ness of the dream, both as to its content and its nearness to the waking state. The problem of the integral physiognomy still eludes us, even though we have learned to draw conclusions about man's nature, sometimes even amazingly correct conclusions, from his handwriting, voice, sleeping position, and God knows what else; yet for the body as a whole we have only the fashionable models on which it forms itself, or at most a kind of nature-cure philosophy.
But is this the body ofour mind, our ideas, intimations, plans,. or- the pretty ones included-the body of our follies? That Ulrich had loved those follies and still to soine extent had them Pid not prevent him from feeling not at home in the body they had created.
6g
DIOTIMA AND ULRICH, CONTINUED
And it was above all Diotima who confirmed in a new way his sense that the surface and depths of his person were not one and the same. This came through clearly for him on these trips with her, which sometimes felt like drives through moonlight, when the young woman's beauty detached itself from her person altogether and mo- mentarily veiled his eyes like gossamer spun by a dream. He knew, of course, that Diotima compared everything he said with the conven- tional wisdom on the subject-the higher conventional wisdom, to be sure-and was pleased that she found it "immature," so that he constantly sat there as ifhe were before the wrong end of a telescope trained on him. He became smaller and smaller, and believed when he spoke with her (or at least was not far from believing) in his role'of devil's advocate and materialist that he could hear in his own words conversations from his last terms at school, when he and his class- mates had idolized all the villains and monsters of world history be- cause the teachers had presented them in tones of idealistic abhorrence. And when Diotima looked at him indignantly he grew smaller still, regressing from the morality of heroism and the drive for expansion to the defiant lies, callousness, and wavering excesses of adolescence-only quite figuratively, of course, as one can detect in a gesture or a word some distant ·similarity with gestures and words one has long since discarded, or only dreamed, or seen and disliked in others. In any event, this all resonated in his delight in shocking Diotima. The mind of this woman, who would have been so beautiful without her mind, aroused an inhuman feeling in him, per- haps a fear of mind itself, an aversion for all great things, a feeling that was quite faint, hardly detectable-and perhaps feeling was a much too pretentious expression for something that was but a mere breath. But if one magnified it into words, they would have gone something like this: at times he saw not only this woman's idealism but all the idealism in the world, in all its extent and ramifications,
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appear bodily in the form of an image hovering just above that Gre- cian head-it only just missed being the horns of the Devil! Then . Ulrich grew even smaller still and-again figuratively speaking-re- gressed to the first hotly moral state of childhood, in whose eyes temptation and terror lie as in the stare of a gazelle. The tender emo- tions of that age can in a single moment of yielding cause the whole, still-tiny world to burst into flames, since they have neither an aim nor the ability to make anything happen, but are a completely boundless fire. It was quite unlike him, and yet in Diotima's com- pany Ulrich ended up longing for these cb. ildhood feelings, though he could barely imagine them because they have so l\ttle in common with the conditions under which an adult lives.
At one point he very nearly confessed it to her. On one of their trips they had left the car to walk into a small valley that was like a river delta of meadows with steep forested banks and that formed a crooked triangle with a winding brook in its center stilled by a light frost. The slopes had been partly cleared of timber, with a few trees left standing like feather dusters stuck in the bare hillsides and hill- tops. This scene had tempted them to take a walk. It was one of those wistful, snowless days that seem in the middle ofwinter like a faded, no-longer-fashionable summer gown. Diotima abruptly asked her cousin: "Why does Amheim call you an activist? He says that you're always full of ideas how to do things differently and better. " She had suddenly remembered that her talk with Arnheim. about Ulrich and the General had ended inconclusively.
"I don't understand," she went on. "It always seems to me that you hardly ever mean anything seriously. But I must ask you, because we are involved together in such a responsible task. Do you remember our last conversation? There was something you said: you maintained that nobody, if he had the necessary power, would do what he wants to do. Now I would like to know what you meant by that. Wasn't it a horrible idea? "
Ulrich did not reply at once. And during this silence, after she had spoken as impudently as possible, she realized how much she had been preoccupied with the forbidden question of whether Amheim and she would do what each of them secretly wanted. She suddenly thought she had given herself away to Ulrich. She blushed, tried to stop herself, blushed even more, and did her best to gaze out over
the valley, away from him, with the most unconcerned expression she could muster.
Ulrich had observed the process. ''I'm very much afraid that the only reason Arnheim, as you say, calls me an activist is that he over- estimates my influence with the Tuzzi family," he answered. "You know yourself how little attention you pay to what I say. But now that you have asked me, I realize what my influence on you ought to be. May I tell you without your instantly criticizing me again? "
Diotima nodded silently as a sign of assent and tried to pull herself together behind an appearance of absentmindedness.
"So I said," Ulrich began, "that nobody would tum his dreams into realities even if he could. You remember our file folders full of suggestions? And now I ask you: Is there anyone who would not be embarrassed if something he had passionately demanded all his life were suddenly to come true? If, for instance, the Kingdom of God were suddenly to burst on the Catholics, or the classless society of the future on the socialists? But perhaps this doesn't prove anything. We get used to demanding things and aren't quite ready to have our wishes realized; it'fonly natural, many people would say. Let me go on: Music must be the most important thing in the world to a musi- cian, and painting to a painter, and probably even the building of cement houses to a cement specialist. Do you think that this will in- duce him to imagine God as a specialist in reinforced concrete and that the others will prefer a painted world, or a world blown on the bugle, to the real one? You'll call it a silly question, but what makes it serious is that we are expected to insist on just this kind of silliness!
"Now please don't think," he said, turning to her in all seriousness, "that all I mean by this is that everyone wants what is hard to get, and despises the attainable. What I mean is this: Within reality there is a senseless craving for unreality. "
He had inconsiderately led Diotima a long way into the little val- ley; the snow trickling down the slopes was perhaps what made the ground wetter the higher they went, and they had to hop from one small clump of grass to the next, which punctuated their talk and forced Ulrich to go on with it by fits and starts. There were, as a re- sult, so many obvious objections to what he was saying that Diotima did not know where to begin. She had got her feet wet and stood still on a grassy mound, led astray and anxious, clutching at her skirts.
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Ulrich turned back and laughed. "You've started something ex- ceedingly dangerous, great cousin. People are vastly relieved to be left in a position where they can't put their ideas into practice. "
"And wh-at would you do," Diotima asked irritably, "ifyou could rule the world for a day? "
"I suppose I would have no choice but to abolish reality. "
''I'd love to know how you'd go about it. "
"I don't know either. I hardly know what I mean by it. We wildly
overestimate the present, the sense ofthe present, the here and now; like you and me being here in this valley, as if we'd been put in a basket and the lid of the present had fallen on it. W e make too much of it. We'll remember it. Even a year from now we may be able to describe how we were standing here. But what really moves us-;-me anyway-is always-putting it cautiously; I don't want to look for an explanation or a name for it-opposed in a sense to this way of expe- riencing things. It is displaced by so much here and now, so much Present. So it can't become the present in its tum. "
In the narrow valley Ulrich's words sounded loud and confused. Diotima suddenly felt uneasy and moved to get back to the car. But Ulrich made her stay and look at the landscape.
"Some thousands of years ago this was a glacier," he explained. "Even the earth isn't altogether what it's pretending to be for the moment. This well-rounded character is a hysteric. Today it is acting the good middle-class mother feeding her children. Back then the world was frigid and icy, like a spiteful girl. Several thousand years before that it luxuriated in hot fern forests, sultry swamps, and de- monic beasts. We can't say that it has evolved toward perfection, nor what its true condition is. And the same goes for its. daughter, man- kind. Imagine the clothes in which people have stood here through the ages, right where we are standing now. Expressed in terms of the madhouse, it suggests long-standing obsessions with suddenly erupt- ing manic ideas; after these run their course, a new concept of life is there. So you see, reality does away with itself!
"There's something else I'd like to tell you"-Ulrich made a fresh start after a while. "That sense of having firm ground underfoot and a firm skin all around, which appears so natural to most people, is not very strongly developed in me. T};llnk back to how you were as a
child; all gentle glow. And then a teenager, lips burning with longing. Something in me rebels against the idea that so-called mature adult- hood is the peak of such a development. In a sense it is, and in a sense it isn't. If I were a myrmeleonina, the ant predator that resem- bles a dragonfly, I'd be horrified to think that the year before I had been the squat gray myrmeleon, the ant lion, running backward and living at the edge of the forest, dug in at the bottom of a funnel- shaped hole in the sand, catching ants by the waist with invisible pincers after first exhausting them by somehow bombarding them with grains of sand. There are times when the thought of my youth horrifies me in quite the same way, even though I may have been a dragonfly then and may be a monster now. "
He did not really know what he was aiming at. With his myr- meleon and myrmeleonina he had only been aping Arnheim's cul- tured omniscience a little. But he had it on the tip of his tongue to say: "Please, won't you make love to me, just to be nice? We are kin- dred, not wholly separate, certainly not one; in any case, the polar opposite of a dignified and formal relationship. "
But Ulrich was mistaken. Diotima was the kind of person who is satisfied with herself and therefore regards each age she passes through as a step on a stairway leading upward from below. She had no way of understanding what Ulrich was talking about, especially as she did not know what he had left unsaid. But they had meanwhile returned to the car, so she felt serene again, taking in what he was saying as his usual kind of chatter, somewhere between amusing and irritating, commanding no more of her attention than at most the comer of an eye. At this moment he really had no influence whatso- ever on her except that of bringing her down to earth. A fUmy cloud of shyness, risen from some hidden comer of her heart, had dis- sipated in a dry void. For the first time, perhaps, she had a hard, clear glimpse of the fact that her relations with Arnheim would force her, sooner or later, to make a choice that could change her whole life. One could not say that she was happy about this just now, but it had the weighty presence of a real mountain range. A weak moment had passed. That "not to do what one wants to do" had had for an instant an absurd glow she no longer understood.
"Amheim is altogether the opposite of me. He is always overesti-
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mating the happiness with which time and space rendezvous with him to. form the present moment," Ulrich sighed with a smile, moved to bring what he had been saying to an orderly conclusion. But he said nothing further about childhood, so it never came to the point where Diotima would have found out that he had a tender side.
· CLARISSE VISITS ULRICH TO TELL HIM A STORY
Redecorating old castles was the specialty of the well-known painter van Helmond, whose masterpiece was his daughter Clarisse, and one day she unexpectedly walked in on Ulrich.
"Papa sends me," she informed him, "to find out whether you couldn't use your splendid aristocratic connections just a little for him too. " She eyed the room with interest, threw herself into one chair and her hat onto another. Then she held out her hand to Ulrich.
"Your Papa overestimates me," he started to say, but she cut him short.
"Nonsense. You know perfectly well the old man always ·needs money. Business simply isn't what it used to be! " She laughed. "Ele- gant place you've got here. Nice! " She scrutinized her surroundings again and then looked at Ulrich. Her whole bearing had something of the endearing shyness of a pet dog whose bad conscience makes its skin twitch.
"Anyway, if you can do it, you will. If not, then you won't. Of course, I promised him you would. But I came for another reason. His asking me to see you put an idea into my head. It's about a cer- tain problem in my family. I'd like to hear what you think. " Her mouth and eyes hesitated and flickered for an instant; then she took her leap over the initial hurdle. 'Would the term 'beauty doctor' sug- gest anything to you? A painter is a beauty doctor. "
Ulrich understood; he knew her parents' house.
"Dark, distinguished, splendid, luxurious, upholstered, pen- nanted, and tasseled," she went on. "Papa is a painter, a painter is a kind of beauty doctor, and visiting our house has always been re- garded as quite the thing socially, like going to the newest spa. You understand what I'm talking about. And one of Papa's main sources of income has always been decorating palaces and· big country houses. Do you know the Pachhofens? "
Ulrich was not acquainted with this patrician family except for a Fraulein Pachhofen he had met once, years ago, in Clarisse's company.
"She was my friend," Clarisse said. "She was seventeen, and I was fifteen. Papa was supposed to renovate the castle and do the interi- ors. The Pachhofen place, ofcourse. We were all invited. Walter too; it was the first time he came along with us. And Meingast. "
"Meingast? " Ulrich did not know who Meingast was.
"But of course you know him; Meingast,. who went to Switzerland later on. He wasn't yet a philosopher in those days, but a rooster in every family with daughters. "
"I've never met him," Ulrich said. "But now I do know who he is. "
"All right, then. " Clarisse did some strenuous mental arithmetic. "Just a minute! Walter was then twenty-three and Meingast some- what older. Walter was a great secret admirer of Papa's, and it was the first time he'd ever been invited to stay at a castle. Papa often had an air of wearing inner royal robes. I think at first Walter was more in love with Papa than with me. And Lucy-"
"Slow down, Clarisse, for heaven's sake! " Ulrich pleaded. . "I seem to have lost the connection. "
"Lucy," Clarisse said, "is Lucy Pachhofen, of course, the daughter of the Pachhofens with whom we were staying. Now do you under- stand? All right, then, you understand. Papa wrapped Lucy in velvet or brocade with a long train and posed her on one of her horses; she imagined he must be a Titian or Tintoretto. They were absolutely mad about each other. "
"Papa about Lucy, and Walter about Papa? "
"Give me a chance, will you? At that time, there was Impression- ism. Papa was still painting old-fashioned/musical, the way he still does today, brown gravy and peacocks' tails.
But Walter was all for
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open air, the clean lines of English functionalism, the new and sin- cere. In his heart, Papa found him as insufferable as a Protestant ser- mon; he couldn't stand Meingast either, but he had two daughters to many off; he had always spent more than he made, so he was long- suffering with the souls of the two young men. Walter, for his part, secretly loved Papa, as I said, but publicly he had to criticize him because ofthe new art movements, and Lucy never understood any- thing about art at all, but she was afraid of making a fool of herself in front ofWalter, and she was afraid that Walter might tuni out to be right, in which case Papa would only be a ridiculous old man. Do you get the picture? '~
Before committing himself, Ulrich wanted to know where Mama had been.
"Mama was there too, of course. They quarreled every day as al- ways, no more and no less. You can see that in these circumstances Walter enjoyed a favorable position. Everthing converged on Walter: Papa feared him, Mama egged him on, and I was beginning to fall in love with him. But Lucy played up to him. So Walter had a certain power over Papa, which he was beginning to savor in a cautiously lascivious way. I mean, it was then that Walter began to have a sense of his own importance; without Papa and me· he would have been nothing. Do you see how it all hangs·together? "
Ulrich felt it was safe to say he did. ,
"But I wanted to tell you something else! " Clarisse exclaimed. She took some time to think before she said: "Listen. Let's just start with me and Lucy: that was complicated in an exciting way. I was naturally worried . about Papa, whose infatuation was on the point of ruining the whole family. But I was also curious about ho_w this kind of thing happens. They were both out of their minds. Lucy's friendship for me was ofcourse mixed up with the feeling that she had a man for a lover whom I still obediently called 'Papa. ' She was more than a little. proud, but at the same time it made her terribly ashamed to face me. I don't think the old castle had sheltered such complications under its roofsince it was built All day long Lucy hung around Papa when- ever she could, and then at night she came to me in the tower to confess. I slept in the tower, and we had the lights on almost all night long. ''
"I:Iow far did Lucy actually go with your father? ''
"That was the only thing I could never find out. But just think of those summer nights! The owls whimpering, the night moaning, and when it all got too spooky we both got into my bed so we could go on talking. We couldn't see how a man in the grip of so fatal a passion could do anything but shoot himself. We were really waiting for it to happen from one day to the next-" ,
"It strikes me," UlriCh interrupted, "that nothing muCh had really happened between them. "
"That's what I think too-not everything. Yet tillngs did happen. You'll see in a minute. All of a sudden, Lucy had to leave because her father arrived unexpectedly and took her off on a trip to Spain. You should have seen Papa then, when he was left on his own. I think there were times he came aWfully close to strangling Mama. He was off on horseback from dawn to dusk, with a folding easel strapped behind his saddle, but he never painted a stroke, and he never touChed a brush at home either. The point is, he usually paints like a robot, but in those days rd find him sitting in one of those huge, empty rooms with a book he hadn't even opened. He would some- times brood like this for hours, then he'd get up and do the same thing in some other room or in the garden, sometimes all day long. Well, he was an old man, and youth had left him in the lurch; it's understandable, isn't it? And I suppose the image of Lucy and me, seeing us all the time as two girlfriends with their arms around each other's waists, chatting confidentially, must have sprouted in him then-like some wild seed. Perhaps he knew that Lucy always used to join me in the tower. So one night, around eleven, all the lights in the castle were. out, and there he was. That was quite something! " Clarisse was carried away with the import of her own story. "You hear this tapping and scraping on the stairs, and don't know what to make of it; then you hear the clumsy fiddling with the door handle, and the door opening spookily-"
"Why didn't you call out for help? "
"That's what was so peculiar about it. I knew from the first sound who it was. He must have stood still in the doorway, because I didn't hear anything for quite a while. He was probably frightened too. Then he slowly, carefully shut the door and whispered my name. I was absolutely stunned. I had no intention ofanswering him, but this weird thing happened: from somewhere deep inside me, as though I
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were a deep space, came a sound like a whimper. Have you ever heard of such a thing? ''
"No. Go on! " ·
"Well, that's all; the next instant he was clutching at me with infi- nite despair; he almost fell on my bed, and his head was lying on the pillow beside mine. "
"Tears? "
"Dry spasms. An old body, abandoned. I understood that at once. Oh, I tell you, ifit were possible to tell afterward all one felt at such a moment, it would be something really enormous. I think he was be- side himself with fury against the whole world of propriety, because of what it had made him miss. Suddenly I sense that he is himself again, and I know right away, although it's pitch-dark, that he's abso- lutely convulsed with a ruthless hunger for me. I know there is not going to be any mercy or consideration for me; there hasn't been a sound since that moan of mine; my body was blazing dry and his was like a piece ofpaper one sets at the edge ofa fire. He became incred- ibly light. I felt his arm snaking down my body, away from my shoulder. And now there's something I want to ask you. It's why I came. . . . "
Clarisse broke off.
"What? You haven't asked anything! " Ulrich prompted her after a short pause.
"No. There's something else I have to say first: The idea that he must be taking my keeping so still as a sign of consent made me loathe myself. Yet I lay there, my mind a blank, petrified with fear. What do you make of that? "
"I don't know what to say. "
"With one hand he kept stroking my face; the other wandered around. Trembling, pretending it wasn't up to anything, passing over my breast like a kiss, then, as if waiting, listening for some response. Then finally it moved-well, you know, and at the same time his. face sought mine. But at that point I pulled myself away with all my strength and turned on my side; and again that sound came "out of my chest, a sound I didn't know, something halfway between pleading and moaning. You see, I have a birthmark, a black medallion-"
"And what did your father do? " Ulrieh interrupted coolly.
But Clarisse refused to be interrupted. "Right here," she said with
a tense smile, pointing through her dress to a spot inward from her hip. "This is how far he got, to the medallion. This medallion has a magic power, or anyway, there's something special about it. "
Suddenly the blood rushed to her face. Ulrich's silence had so- bered her and dissipated the idea that had kept her under its spell. With an embarrassed smile she quickly finished:
"My father? He instantly sat up. I couldn't see what was going on in his face; embarrassment, I suppose. Maybe gratitude. After all, I had saved him at the last moment. You must understand: an old man, and a young girl has the strength to do that! He must have thought I was st_range somehow, because he pressed my hand quite tenderly, and stroked my head twice with Qis other hand. Then he went away, without a word. So I hope you'll do what you can for him? After all, I had to tell you, so you'd understand. "
Trim and correct, in a tailored dress she wore only when she came into town, she stood there, ready to leave, and held out her hand to say good-bye.
THE COMMITTEE TO DRAFT GUIDELINES FOR HIS MAJESTY's SEVENTIETH JUBILEE CELEBRA TION OPENS ITS FIRST SESSION
About her letter to Count Leinsdorf and her request that Ulrich save Moosbrugger, Clarisse had not said a word; she seemed to have for- gotten all that. But for Ulrich, too, some time had to pass before he remembered it. For Diotima had at last come to the point in her preparations where, within the framework of the "Enquiry to Draft Guidelines and Ascertain the Wishes of All Sectors of the Population in Connection with His Majesty's Seventieth Jubilee Celebration," a meeting of the special "Committee to Draft Guidelines in Connec- tion with His Maj~sty's Seventieth Jubilee Celebration" could be
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·called, whose leadership Diotima had personally reseiVed for her- self. His Grace had composed the invitation himself, Tuzzi had ed- ited it, and Arnheim had been shown Tuzzi's suggestions before it Was finally approved. ln spite of all that, it contained everything that weighed on His Grace's mind.
"What brings us together in this meeting," it read, "is our mutual understanding that a powerful demonstration arising from the midst of the people must not be left to chance, but calls for a· farsighted influence from a quarter commanding a broad, panoramic view, that is, an influence from above. " This was followed by "the extremely rare occasion of this seventieth anniversary of an accession to the throne so richly blessed," the "grateful throng of peoples," the Em- peror of Peace, the lack of political maturity, the Glob~ Year of Austria, and finally the appeal to "Property and Culture" ~o fashion all this into a glorious manifestation of the True Austrian spirit, but only after giving it the most painstaking consideration.
From Diotima's lists, the groups for Art, Literature, and Science were chosen and with great care and effort augmented, while, on the other hand, of those who might be allowed to attend although not expected to take an active part, only a very small number had re- mained after the most thorough sifting. But the number of invited guests was still so large that there could be no question of a regular sit-down dinner at the green baize table; the only alternative was an informal evening reception with a cold buffet. The guests sat or stood however it could be arranged, and. Diotima's tooms resembled the encampment of a spiritual army, supplied with sandwiches, pastries, wines, liqueurs, and tea in such quantities as could only have been made possible by special budgeting concessions Tuzzi granted to his wife-with, it must be added, not a word of protest, from which it may be inferred that he proposed to make use of new, intellectual methods of diplomacy.
The handling of such a throng made great demands on Diotima as a hostess, and she might perhaps have taken exception to many things had her head not resembled a superb fruit bowl with words constantly falling over the edge of its superabundance; words with which the lady of the house welcomed each arriving guest, enchant- ing him with detailed knowledge ofhis latest work. Her preparations for this had been extraordinary and could only have been accom-
plished with Arnheim's help; he had placed his private secretary at her disposal to arrange the material and make extracts of the most important texts. The splendid slag left behind by this volcanic en- deavor was a large library bought with funds Count Leinsdorf had provided to start the Parallel Campaign, and together with Diotima's own books they had been set up as the only decoration in the last of the emptied rooms. The flowered wallpaper, or what could still be seen of it, betrayed the boudoir, a stimulus to flattering reflections about its occupant. This library turned out to h~ve other advantages as well: evexy one of the invitees, after having been graciously greeted by Diotima, wandered aimlessly through the rooms and was drawn without fail to the wall of books at the far end as soon as he caught sight of it. A cluster of scrutinizing backs constantly rose and sank before it, like bees in front of a flowering hedge, and even if the cause was only the noble curiosity evexy creative person feels for book collections, delicious contentment seeped into the marrow of his bones when the viewer finally discovered his own works, and the patriotic campaign benefited from it.
Diotima at first allowed the assembly to drift, intellectually, at its own sweet will, though she made a point of assuring the poets in par- ticular that all life, even the world of business, rested on an inner poetxy if one "regarded it magnanimously. " This surprised no one, but it turned out that most of those singled out for such confidences had come on the assumption that they were expected to launch the Parallel Campaign with some briefwords ofadvice-somewhere be- tween five and forty-five minutes' worth-which, if heeded, would guarantee its success, even if supsequent speakers squandered time with pointless and misguided suggestions. This almost drove Di- otima to tears at first, and it was only with great effort that she kept her unruffied look, for she realized that each one of them was saying something different and she would never be able to pull it all to- gether. She was still inexperienced in coping with such high concen- trations ofsuperior minds, and since so universal a gathering ofgreat men would not come about again so easily, it could only be assimi- lated laboriously and methodically, step by step. There are many things in the world, incidentally, that taken singly mean something quite different to people from what they mean in the mass. Water, for instance, is less of a pleasure in excessive than in small doses, by
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exactly the difference between drowning and drinking, and the same can be said of poisons, amusements, leisure, piano playing, ideals, indeed probably everything, so that what something is depends on its degree ofdensity and other circumstances. It is only necessary to add that even genius is no exception, lest the following impressions ap- pear to suggest some sort of denigration of the eminent personages who had placed themselves so selflessly at Oiotima's disposal.
For even at this flrst gathering one could receive the impression that every great mind feels extremely insecure as soon as it leaves the refuge of its treetop aerie and has to make itself understood on com- mon ground. The extraordinary language that passed over Diotima's head like some movement in the skies as long as she conversed alone with one of the powerful turned, as soon as they were joined by a third or a fourth person and several lines of discourse got entangled in contradiction, into a distressing inability to arrive at any kind of order. Whoever does not shrink from such similes might try to visual- ize a swan that, after its proud flight, waddles along on the ground. But on longer acquaintance this, too, becomes quite understandable. The lives of great minds today are founded on a certain "no one knows what for. " They enjoy great veneration, expressed on their fif- tieth to their hundredth birthdays, or on the tenth anniversary of some agricultural college that garlands itself with honorary doctor- ates, or on various other occasions when speeches must be made about the country's cultUral treasures. We have a history of great men, and we regard it as an institution that belongs to us, just like prisons or the army; having it·means we have to have people to put into it. And so, with a certain automatism inherent in such social needs, we always pick the next in line and shower him with the hon- ors ripe to be handed out. But this veneration is not quite sincere; at its base lies the gaping, generally accepted conviction that there is really not a single person who deserves it, and it is hard to tell whether the mouth opens to acclaim someone or to yawn. To call a man a genius nowadays, with the unspoken gloss that there is really no longer any such thing, smacks of some cult of the dead, something like hysterical love making a great to-do for no other reason than that there is no real feeling present.
Fpr sensitive people this is of course not a pleasant situation, and they try 'to get rid of it in various ways. Some are driven in their de-
spair to get rich by learning to. exploit the demand not only for great minds but also for wild men, profound novelists, puffed-up lovers, and leaders of the new generation; others wear an invisible royal crown on their heads that they will not remove under any circum- stances, prepared with embittered modesty not to expect the value of their creation to he seen in its true light before two to ten centuries have passed. They all feel that it is a terrible tragedy for the nation that its truly great men can never become a part of its living culture because they are too far ahead of it.
It must be emphasized, however, that the minds under considera- tion so far have been those of an aesthetic bent, since there is a con- siderable difference in the ways the mind relates to the world. While the aesthetic mind wants the same sort of admiration accorded to Goethe and . Michelangelo, Napoleon and Luther, hardly anyone today knows the name of the man who gave humanity the untold blessing of anesthesia; nobody searches the lives of Gauss, Euler, or Maxwell for an Immortal Beloved, and hardly anyone cares where Lavoisier ~d Cardanus were born and died. Instead, we learn how their ideas and inventions were further developed by the ideas and inventions of other, equally uninteresting people, and continually concentrate on their achievements, which live on through others long after the brief flame of the individual has burned out. One is amazed at first to see how sharp the distinction is between two kinds of human endeavor, but soon enough counterexamples come to mind, and it begins to look like the most natural of differentiations. Familiar custom assures us it is the difference between person and
work, between the greatness of a human being and that of a cause, between culture and knowledge, humanity and nature: Work and outstanding productivity do not increase moral stature, nor being a man in the eyes ofheaven, nor those unanalyzable lessons oflife that are handed down only by the example of statesmen, heroes, saints, singers, and, one must admit, movie actors-in short, that great irra- tional power in which the poet, too, feels he has a part, as long as he believes in what he says and holds fast to his belief that whatever his circumstances, his voice is the voice of the inner life, the blood, the heart, the nation, Europe, or all mankind. It is the mysterious whole of which he feels himself to be the medium, while the others are merely rummaging around in the comprehensible-and this is a mis-
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Si(')n one must believe in before one can learn to see it! What assures us of this is a voice of truth, certainly, but isn't there something odd about this truth? For where one looks less at the person than at the cause, there is, remarkably, always a fresh person to carry on the cause, while on the other hand, wherever the emphasis is on the per- son, there is always the feeling after a certain level has been reached that there is no longer anyone who measures up anymore, and that true greatness lies in the past.
Each and every one of the men gathered at Diotima's that night was a vessel of the whole, and that was a lot all at once. Writing and thinking, activities as natural to man as swimming is to a duckling, was something they practiced as a profession, and they were, in fact, really better at it than most. But what was it all for? What they did was beautiful, it was great, it was unique, but so much uniqueness bore the collective breath of mortality and the graveyard, having no evident meaning or purpose, ancestors or progeny. Countless re- membered experiences, myriads of crisscrossing vibrations of the spirit, were gathered in these heads, which were stuck ! p<:e a carpet weaver's needles in a carpet extending without seams or edges all around them in every direction and somewhere, at some random place, creating a pattern that seemed to repeat itself elsewhere but was actually a little different. But is this the proper use of oneself, to set such a little patch on eternity?
It would probably be saying far too much to say that Diotima had grasped all this, but she felt ~e wind ofthe grave over the fields of the spirit, and the nearer this first day drew to its close, the deeper she slipped into discouragement. Luckily, it brought to her mind a certain hopelessness Arnheim had expressed on another occasion, when they had spoken of such things, though at the time she had not quite grasped his meaning; now her friend ·was away on a trip, but she remembered how he had warned her not to place too great hopes in this gathering. So it was actually Arnheim's melancholy into which she was drifting, which made it ultimately an almost sensu- ously pensive and flattering pleasure. Musing on his prophetic words, she wondered: "Isn't it, deep down, the pessimism people of action are always bound to feel when they come in contact with those who traffic in words? "
. SCIENCE SMILING INTO ITS BEARD, OR A FIRST FULL-:DRESS ENCOUNTER WITH EVIL
Now for a few necessary words about a smile, specifically a man's smile, and about a beard, created for the male act of smiling into one's beard; the smile of the scholars who had accepted Diotima's invitation and were listening to the famous artists. Although they were smiling, they were absolutely not to be suspected of doing so ironically. On the ~ontrary, it was their way of expressing deference and incompetence, as has already been· explained. But this, too, should fool no one. They were sincere in this, consciously; but sub- consciously, to use a fashionable term, or, better still, in the sum of their being, they were people in whom a. propensity for Evil crackled like a fire under a caldron.
This has a paradoxical ring, of course, and any of our university professors in whose presence one attempted to assert it. would proba- bly counter that he was a humble servant of truth and progress and otherwise knew nothing about anything. That is his professional ide- ology. But high-mindedness is the mark of every professional ideol- ogy. Hunters, for instance, would never dream of calling themselves the butchers of wild game; they prefer to call themselves the duly licensed friends of nature and animals; just as businessmen uphold the principle of an honorable profit, while the businessman's god, Mercury, that distinguished promoter of international relations, is also the god of thieves. So the image of a profession in the minds of its practitioners is not too reliable.
Ifwe ask ourselves dispassionately how science has arrived at its present state-an important question in itself, considering how en- tirely we are in its power and how not even an illiterate is safe from its domination, since he has to learn to live with countless things born of science-we get a different picture. Credible received wisdom in- dicates that it all began in the sixteenth century, a time of the great- est spiritual turbulence, when people ceased trying to penetrate the
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deep mysteries of nature as they had done through two millennia of religious and philosophical speculation, but were instead satisfied with exploring the surface of nature in a manner that can only be called superficial. For instance the great Galileo Galilei, always the first to· be mentioned in this connection, eliminated the question. of what were nature's deep intrinsic reasons for abhorring a vacuum and consequently letting a falling body penetrate space after space unql it finally comes to rest on solid ground, and settled for some- thing more common: he simply established how quickly such a body falls, the course it takes, the time it takes, and what is its rate of downward acceleration. The Catholic Church made a grave error in threatening this man with death and forcing him to recant instead of summarily executing him without much ceremony, since it was from his way oflooking at things, and that ofothers oflike mind, that after- ward-in next to no time, in the scale ofhistory-there arose railway timetables, industrial machines, physiological psychology, and our era's moral decay against which the Church no longer stands a chance. The Church probably erred in being overprudent, because Galileo was not only the discoverer of the law of falling bodies and the motion of the earth, but also an inventor in whom, as we would say today, major capital took an interest; besides, he was not the only one in his time who was seized by the new spirit. On the contrary, historical accounts show that the matter-of-factness that inspired him raged and spread like an infection. However disconcerting it may sound nowadays to speak of someone as inspired by matter-of-
factness, believing as we cJo that we have far too much of it, in Galileo's day the awakening from metaphysics to the hard observa- tion of reality must have been, judging by all sorts of evidence, a veri- table orgy and conflagration of matter-of-factness! But should one ask what mankind was thinking of when it made this change, the an- swer is that it did no more than what every sensible child does after trying to walk too soon; it sat. down on the ground, contacting the earth with a most dependable ifnot very noble part ofits anatomy, in short, that part on which one sits. The amazing thing is that the earth showed itself to be uncommonly receptive, and ever since that mo- ment ofcontact has allowed men to entice inventions, conveniences, and discoveries out ofit in quantities bordering on the miraculous.
Such preliminaries might lead one to think, with some justice, that
it is the miracle of the Antichrist we now find ourselves in the midst of; for the metaphor of "contact" used here is to be interpreted not only in the sense of dependability, but also just as much in the sense of the unseemly and disreputable. And in truth, before intellectuals discovered their pleasure in "facts," facts were the sole preserve of soldiers, hunters, and traders-people by nature full of violence and. cunning. The struggle for existence makes no allowance for senti- mental considerations; it knows only the desire to kill one's opponent in the quickest, most factual way; here everyone is a positivist. Nor is it a virtue in business to let oneself ~e taken in instead of going for the solid facts, since a profit is ultimately a psychological overpower- ing ofyour opponent arising from the circumstances. If, on the other hand, one looks at the qualities that lead to the making of discoveries, one finds freedom from traditional considerations and inhibitions, courage, as much initiative as ruthlessness, the exclusion of moral considerations, patience in haggling for the smallest advantage, dog- ged endurance on the way to the goal, if necessary, and a veneration for meas~re and number that expresses the keenest mistrust of all uncertainty. In other words, we find just those ancient vices of sol- diers, hunters, and traders, here merely translated into intellectual terms and interpreted as virtues. This raises them above the pursuit of personal and relatively vulgar advantage, but even in this transfor- mation the element of primal evil is not lost; ·it is seemingly inde- structible and everlasting, at least as everlasting as everything humanly sublime, since it consists of nothing less and nothing else than the urge to trip up that sublimity and watch it fall on its face. Who has never felt a nasty itch, looking at a beautifully glazed, luxuri- antly curved vase, at the thought of smashing it to bits with a single blow of one's stick?
