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Naumburg, January 4, 1867: Dear friend, I know quite well that there is a finished letter2 to you in one of my small chests in Leipzig: yet today I feel such a need to converse with one of my friends and to cheer myself up with writing letters that I would prefer to write another letter. And therefore this is indeed also an opportunity for the richest variety. First of all, there are the usual New Year's wishes that should be dealt with. But truly, it is more than a matter of habit when I offer you my heartfelt wishes today. For you have an important step3 ahead of you this year, to which a friend's heart can never remain indifferent. I ask that you also express my congratulations to your esteemed father,4 your dear Frau mother and grandmother. Secondly, I am finally sending back the programs5 to you and unfortunately I have nothing else to send as Thirdly, I have something pleasant to tell you in case you are now studying in Leipzig. Ritschl in a most pleasant way specifically offered me 2 themes7 in order to find a few friends to work on them; unfortunately only under the conditions already stated. Of course I thought of you first, but at the same time I realized that it was futile. So I have possibly done you a small favor, "but destiny will not allow it."8 Each of these subjects is sufficient for a doctoral dissertation, and warrant publication thereon. There is no point in telling you the themes. Fourthly, I still owe you more about a subject that interests you, about a systematic treatment of the interpolations with which the Greek tragedians are laced. It was originally my intention to give my next presentation at the [philological] society9 about it. But I changed my mind during these holidays and wrote an essay on the Introduction. Three periods and three types of interpolation: 1. Chapter 1. 3 tendencies of theatrical interpolation. 2. Tendency of scholarly interpolation 3. Tendency of
interpolation of a scribe. Method to identify the different interpolations. for 1. a and b) There must be evidence of for 1. c.) Everything redundant (for instance, in Euripides) must be compiled according to different generibus. The conclusion here is always rather uncertain. for 2.) and 3) Heimsoeth12 is instructive but hyperbolic. Resource for the recognition of interpolations Don't be angry with me for this boring outline that anyone can do better. During these holidays I also wrote down the outline of my work on Laert.[ii] Diog.[enis],15 which still lacks doctrina [principles] and sometimes ratio [arguments]. But it is very useful to be able to clarify the shortcomings in this way, and therefore I am satisfied with it. I also had the tiresome pleasure of making the last revisions to the proofsheets.16 It is 40 pages, so precious little. If someone were to disagree quite thoroughly and disdainfully, it would not be too welcomed by me, but it would still be tolerable. There are even worse possibilities, but also even better ones. I no longer hear from my other friends. Gersdorff is fervently busy and is about to, or has, passed his officer's examination. Certainly he has sufficient reasons why he does not write. Since my last letter17 in September or August, Deussen has wrapped himself up in deep silence, even in night and darkness, so that his whereabouts, his studies, even his existence have become uncertain to me. But I will write to his parents in the coming days.18 Finally, I have no reason to hide from you the fact that I am very sad today. For at about this time yesterday I was standing at the deathbed of my Aunt Rosalie,19 who, to put it briefly, was by far — besides my mother and sister — the most intimate and closest relative of mine and with whom a large part of my past, especially my childhood, has left me, indeed, one in which our entire family history, our family relationships were so alive and present that in this regard the loss is irreplaceable. In addition to an extremely painful confinement to bed, a few hours before her death another violent hemorrhage. It was at dusk, snowflakes were swirling outside, she just sat up straight in bed, and gradually death came with all its tragic signs: to have watched something once with full consciousness is a peculiar experience that does not leave one's mind so quickly. So if my letter today is a bit morose and sad, forgive the circumstances under which it was written. Your friend 1. Hermann Mushacke (1845-1906): friend and classmate at the University of Bonn. Nietzsche and Mushacke visited Naumburg together on October 26, 1865, and visited Berlin and Mushacke's family in the autumn of 1866. For their exploits in Leipzig, see Nietzsche's autobiographical "Rückblick auf meine zwei Leipziger Jahre" (Retrospect on My Two Years at Leipzig). English translation in: Nietzsche's Writings as a Student. The Nietzsche Channel, 2012, 119-43 (121-29).
Oberdreis, January 6, 1867: My dear Fritz, I really cannot wait any longer to let a sign of life get to you from me, for every day and even through nightly dreams your dear image involuntarily haunts me, over your friend who is now lost in his idleness. In the meantime, I hope that I have all sorts of things to tell you that will appease your indignation. First of all, in accordance with the nature of the matter, you will receive a copy of a translation1 I have prepared, with the friendly request that you also read it. Perhaps you will also find the book suitable for reading in your small family circle, for there is certainly no shortage of books that, like this one, destroy delusion and superstition without really damaging our innate and certainly justified religious feelings. Very soon you will also recognize certain half-measures from which every such attempt at communication suffers and you will remember that we live in an age of transition in this field. — I just remembered that Schenkel's Life of Jesus2 and a characterization of Alexander von Humboldt3 from you are still in my possession. Unfortunately I forgot to bring them with me, but I will certainly send them to you next time. Fortunately, my dream trip to the Levant has now ended. Last autumn, after a long and exhausting inner struggle, I fortunately made my way through to the only right one and am now back in Bonn as a philologist.4 I can hardly tell you how good I feel, how strengthening the awareness of having ground under my feet again is for me. Naturally I have not said goodbye to Semitism, which I have come to love, but rather I intend to take it up again vigorously as soon as possible, but of course not as a theologian. First, of course, I turned back to the brighter, clearer Indo-Germanic world, and the time from autumn to now has been spent trying to reconnect the individual threads5 that my foolish hesitation had torn. Oh, if I had gone to Leipzig6 back then! Rarely has anything avenged itself more painfully. For then I would be in the swing and now it is going to be so difficult for me to get into it. The past year has now flown away again in amateurish amusements, with this it should certainly not go the same way. The real cure now lies in nothing but productive serious research, and I am determined to force myself to do it from now on. So I have decided to do two more jobs by the summer, and then, after Easter, I will start my dissertation. — The first work is a work for the history seminar of which I am a member. For this I have chosen the most attractive personality of the Cyprian king I hope that this work, to which my time should be devoted as exclusively as possible as soon as I return to Bonn, will turn out well; and then I intend to do a work of textual-criticism for the seminar before the summer semester, for which collections already exist. Such a purpose will seem petty to you, but my nature requires such a pedagogical institute. — As much as I would like to go to Berlin again, as much as I long to be with you again — and that is really not a compliment, but a profound need — I will still have to take circumstances into account and stay in Bonn, where I am very well paid for the opportunity to give Englishmen tutoring lessons,12 relieving my parents13 of some of the burden of my amusements. But soon there will be a number of them. I want to finish this letter, written in the midst of the commotion of family and visitors. I have not seen your Theognis work yet, although I have looked around for it quite a bit. Please tell me the numbers of Rh. M. in which it is found, I would like to read it.14 I hope to hear more about your studies of Aeschylus,15 which you wrote about last time,16 since I really want to receive a letter from you. Michael,17 Töpelmann18 are in the d[octo]r[ate] exams. Mich[ael] has provided an excellent study on the sources of Liv[y]'s third decade.19 Jahn and Schäfer want their publishing by Weidmann approved.20 I am sufficiently curious — between us — to see how Töpelmann passes the exam. His dissert[ation]21 is said to be quite good, which I can well believe. Forgive this hasty letter, in any case it is better than none. The next one should be all the richer. Think fondly of [me] and do not make us wait too long for a le[tter] from you. Your Please send my best regards to your mother and sister. You could also get my good reputation back on its feet in Pforta, which may have faded a bit as a result of the theological excursion. I am residing at 1. Albert Réville (1826-1906), Paul Deussen (Übers.), Theodor Parker, sein Leben und Wirken. Ein Kapitel aus der Geschichte der Aufhebung der Sclaverei in den Vereinigten Staaten. Paris: Reinwald, 1867. See Deussen's entry in Nietzsche's Library.
Spandau, January 12, 1867: "How peacefully the dead rest."1 My dear friend, Work and grief are the two excuses I offer you to seek your forgiveness for my three months of silence. The former has ended by passing my officer examination; the grief over my dear eldest brother Ernst, who passed away on January 5th, will not go away anytime soon; well on the exterior, but never in the heart; for even if the bitter pain disappears over time, the hole left by his passing will always remain unfilled and his last, almost dying parting words will resonate with me throughout my life, whether it lasts for a long or short time, for they contain a dear request, by which a sacred duty is imposed upon me, which I shall only too gladly fulfill to the best of my ability.3 My brother had come to Berlin in October of the previous year, completely healed from his severe wound, in order to seek help there, admitted to an excellent hospital established by the Women's Association, and to entrust his completely stiff, completely unusable arm to the skill of the physicians. An attempt by Langenbeck4 to bend the joint forcibly, a joint which had become completely ossified by the blow, was practically unsuccessful, since it was not even possible to write. Only the thorny path of a serious operation invented by Langenbeck remained now, the statistics of which, however, surprisingly show quite favorable results. This, the resection of the elbow joint, was so successful 21 times out of 24 cases that the person operated on regained the entire strength and flexibility of the resected arm. This hope of experiencing the same thing for oneself, based on the conviction that one possesses an unusual vitality and health of the humors, the desire to wield the saber again in a new war, and the need to undergo the operation quickly before the muscles of the stiff arm became atrophied, determined my always resolute brother to take the decisive step, of which even I could not help but vote in favor. The matter itself went well. Langenbeck's principal assistant doctor, a highly eminent surgeon, carried out the resection with the help of chloroform, naturally in a skillful manner. My daily visits showed me a regular course of healing, with only an abnormal redness exuding from the wound, which is only possible with the benefit of such unusual vitality. After 10 days so much new bone had settled in the bed formed by the remaining periosteum that synovial fluid flowed from the still open wound and the patient felt so well that he could be allowed to stand up. But just standing up, not going out. Inexplicably, feeling strong and attracted by the beautiful weather and the need for fresh air, my brother did not let himself be prevented from leaving the house and going for a walk, despite all the warnings. So he took a walk for three hours. The very sensitive area of the wound was exposed to the air, so that my brother had to lie down again the next day, complaining about the pain, but still alert and refreshed. My parents5 came to Berlin around this time and were delighted to find him so lively and cheerful after this dangerous operation, even though he was still lying down. Only on the last day before my mother's departure did an unpleasant worsening appear, in which the pus took on an unfavorable color and fever set in, although there seemed to be no cause for serious concern. On the day of my departure for Görlitz, where I was happy to be able to celebrate a pleasant Christmas after having survived the anxiety of exams, I spent several hours at my brother's bedside, whose appearance I did not like at all; high fever and fatigue, especially in the otherwise strong voice, bad-looking pus and an aversion to any rich food were alarming symptoms. Although a very painful dilatation of the wound, performed without chloroform, gave him relief by allowing the pus to drain, so that there was a visible improvement, the doctor could not conceal from me that he was dealing with a seriously ill patient. With this not very pleasant news I had to spoil the joy of Christmas for my parents, but who were soon able to find room again for it with the arrival of better news; then suddenly, on December 29th, I received a serious letter from one of my brother's fellow-sufferers with the shocking news that he had had the chills twice, a very alarming symptom of wounds under any circumstances. Experienced physicians call this the messenger of death, which precedes its master by three days. I left immediately with my parents. My poor brother looked horrible, his complexion pale, his throat swollen from diphtheria, allowed only liquid food, his eyes hollow, his cheeks sunken, his tongue incredibly thick, his voice weak. At this sight I could not hold back hot tears, I saw death on his dear face. Langenbeck appeared, examined the wound and felt compelled to make another deep incision in the seriously ill patient in order to form a new pus-filled duct. Without complaint, Ernst heroically endured the terribly painful operation, which was repeated twice over the next few days on adjacent parts of the arm. I will never forget the persistently pleading look in his faithful eyes, so fiery in life, now so dull, with which he looked at the doctors when they were causing him unspeakable torment with well-meant intentions to help. On the 31st of December on New Year's Eve, the situation became so alarming that my parents braced themselves for the worst. Returning to my regiment in Spandau, I spent that night on watch, partly in the company of more merry officers, partly surrounded by sleeping criminals who were in custody, awaiting judgment, entrusted to my supervision. Rarely in my short life have my thoughts wandered in such sharp contrasts as that night; they always returned from watching the card game while drinking punch, from the clever conversations, and from the snoring criminals sound asleep, to my suffering brother's bed, where they clung in anxious fear and to faint hope until weariness closed my eyes. On New Year's Day my brother-in-law6 prepared me for a dear life that we would see taken from us. I immediately went to Berlin and found out that there a faint trace of improvement was seen. That same evening I stayed in the hospital until 12 o'clock, saw the patient sleeping fairly peacefully after an injection of morphine, and returned with some hope to my father's hotel. But early the next day my sister,7 who had kept watch through the night, anxiously called us, believing it would soon be over; and again my brother recovered for a few hours. On January 2nd, preparing for his end, he asked for communion. Müllensiefen8 came and gave it to him and us. We all said goodbye with heavy hearts. When I went to his bed, he wrapped his good arm around my neck and held me for a long time, saying in a low voice: "Carl, as I am about to die, you must always be good to my dear old papa." I will never forget that. Throughout his serious illness, he only ever thought of others, rarely of himself, and only when his pain and physical needs made it necessary. This modesty combined with heroic patience, the gratitude for every little act of love expressed with words or inexpressible looks are fond lasting memories for all of us, which wonderfully adorn his noble image. Symptoms of improvement were also apparent on January 3rd; but the ever dwindling strength, which could not be restored by food, robbed us more and more of all hope, which even the doctors lost. During the night from the 3rd to the 4th I stood by my mother while she was awake, as the patient's face showed significant changes, harbingers of death; it was complete facies Hippocratica,9 plus a noticeable weakness, the left hand getting cold and the smell increasing, but all with complete lucid consciousness. A suspicious burbling and gurgling in the lungs, which was brought to my attention by the doctor, prompted me to have my father and older brother10 called. They came at 1 a.m. thinking they would find a corpse, but again this titanic nature overcame death, and breathing became more regular, and the gurgling in the lungs stopped. Another anxiously long day; repeated painful cleaning of the 4 wounds and bandaging them; also doctor's assurance of improvement of pus and sore throat; but Langenbeck's serious, sympathetic face expressed a hopelessness that could not be misunderstood. The day passed; from 5 to 7 o'clock in the evening I sat by my dear brother's bed and held his cold hand tightly in mine, he was still conscious, said a few things and asked for this and that; but he was getting weaker and weaker. I fell asleep beside him and forgot everything that was distressing so that when I woke up I could not believe I was holding my dying brother's hand in mine. And yet it was the awful truth; relieved by my brother, my father and I went to bed while my mother stayed by her son's sickbed. Again I fell soundly asleep, weary from physical exertion and days of prolonged excitement. Then suddenly around 5-6:30 in the morning my mother came into our bedroom and said in her pain-filled voice: We have a child in heaven. At three-thirty Ernst had died, having been struggling with death from twelve o'clock onwards while losing consciousness. We had not been summoned because the doctor did not want it. A dying person must remain undisturbed, one must not make the transition difficult for him. The fight is said to have been terrible; his face unrecognizable, eyes rolling, contortions in every muscle, then a scream, gasping from the lungs, then another, then all quiet. The face was the same as before, the expression noble and solemn as in life, up to the hour of agony. Half an hour before he gave the name of his youngest sister11 who was not present, then he turned up the light to see his mother and brother once more, and thereby asked them both to go away; for he felt it approaching. I saw the corpse on the afternoon of the day of death and found the expression so beautiful that I could have sat there for hours; I always felt as if my eyes had to open again and yet it could not be; and today, eight days later, I still have this foolish thought, I still cannot understand that I have lost this brother forever. Not yet 27 years old, in the prime of strength of body and mind, a rock solid character, a hero in every meaning of the word, in battles against the enemies of the fatherland, in the fight against everything that is untrue, dishonest, wrong, in enduring the greatest pains; a genuinely loving brother, a fine, faithful son, and equally faithful friend. He never sought the judgment of the world, never sought its praise nor heeded its censure, his will was his kingdom, and his duty was his will. Harder on himself than on others, he found well-deserved recognition in wide circles, and even attracted attention at the highest level. His queen12 visited him, she sat at his bedside and knelt at his coffin and decorated it with laurels, his king13 sent him a laurel wreath with the Königsgratz medal for his grave, and the loyal, amiable crown prince14 squeezed his hand sympathetically the day before he died. And after all the greetings and inquiries he had heard, he said to his mother: "Mama, it does not make me proud that people are asking about me like that; I do not deserve it at all." But it makes me proud to have had such a brother, such a noble original of a brother. Truly I do not stand here as his eulogist, but simply speaking the plain truth, as I said it when he was alive, without the silly de mortuis nil nisi bene.15 All distant acquaintances will tell me the same opinion, without having to look through the lenses of brotherly heartfelt love and great respect. In Görlitz, where I took the corpse, there was a very nice service for his numerous friends and admirers there, including his legal superiors; then four horses pulled him to Seidenberg, where he was solemnly led into the cool grave by a friend's hand and friend's mouth (Mende).16 A quiet corner in the beautifully secluded churchyard, from which one can see our two estates, encloses the bones of this noble knightly youth. My Antonio, to whom I could cling like a rock,17 his transfigured image a beacon in the sea of life. But you will say quo usque tandem abutere patientiam nostram.18 Forgive these details; but when the heart is full, the mouth speaks,19 and to whom else can I pour out my full heart; this is the best consolation. Oh, if you had known him! — By thanking you much too late for your lovely letter,20 which I received 3 months ago after I had already taken a longer vacation to Berlin to prepare for the officer exam, I would like to inform you briefly that I have passed the exam, but can only become an officer in a few weeks, which I am waiting for here in Spandau. I wish you strength, perseverance and happiness for the work you have begun.21 Another time about something else. This was my brother's Ecce quomodo moritur justus!22 Farewell. Your faithful friend 1. Cf. August Cornelius Stockmann (1751-1821), "Der Gottesacker" (God's Acre). In: Ludwig Erk (Hrsg.), Neue Sammlung deutscher Volkslieder mit ihren eigenthümlichen Melodien. Berlin: Logier, 1844, 95-97. Stockmann's song was based on one by Friedrich Burchard Beneken (1760-1818), a German Protestant clergyman and composer. Gersdorff changed the end of the opening verse from "die Seligen" (the blessed) to "die Toten" (the dead).
Leipzig, January 16, 1867: My dear friend, It was also in the first days of January in Naumburg when I too stood at the deathbed1 of a close relative who, next to my mother and sister, had the most right to my love and esteem, who had faithfully taken an interest in my life's journey, and with whom a great part of my past and especially my childhood has departed from us. And yet, when I received your letter, my dear, poor, hard-stricken friend, I was seized by a much more intense grief: after all, the difference between the two deaths was so great. Here, a life had been completed, used up with good deeds, borne through old age in a frail body: we all felt that the powers of body and mind had been consumed, and that death came too soon only for our love. But what departed with your brother, whom I also always admired and esteemed? One of those rare, noble Roman natures left us, of which Rome in its best times would have been proud, of whom you as a brother have much more right to be proud. For how seldom does our pitiable time produce such heroic figures. But you indeed know how the ancients think about it: "Whom the gods love die young."2 What else might such a power have done? How it might have strengthened and comforted thousands in the turmoil of life, as a model of personal, praiseworthy aspiration, as an example of a resolute character, inherently lucid, unconcerned about the world and world opinions. Well do I know that this vir bonus3 in the most beautiful sense was even more to you, that he was the ideal to which you aspired, as you often told me in the past, your reliable lodestar for the eventful and by no means comfortable paths of life. Perhaps this death was the greatest pain that could ever hurt you. Well, dear friend, you have now — I notice this from the tone of your letter — now experienced for yourself why our Schopenhauer praises suffering and tribulations as a glorious fate, as the It is difficult for me to move on to something else: for I do not know if, in this mood, you will be annoyed by accounts of my fate and condition. But you will be pleased to hear that Einsiedel6 and I have got together more often as a result of the grief we share, and are thinking of ways and means of bringing you a little joy and relaxation. In general you have a very attentive and sympathetic friend in Einsiedel; I have just read him your beautiful, detailed letter, written with heartfelt love. We both want nothing more than to be able to see and speak with you again. I am well. The work is massive, but fruitful, therefore exhilarating. I value steady and concentrated work more and more every day. At the moment I am testing my powers on a prize essay of the local university "de fontibus Diogenis Laertii";7 In the process, I have the pleasant feeling that I did not first come to this theme through the lure of honor and money, but set it for myself. Ritschl knew this and was kind enough to suggest this later on as a prize-essay subject. I have a few competitors, if I am rightly informed: but in this case I have no little self-confidence, since until now I have had nothing but very fine results. In the end, it just comes down to advancing scholarship: if someone else has found even more, then this shall not hurt my feelings much. At the New Year I got news from Deussen:8 he is a philologist again, bravo: and feels, as he himself writes, that he is on solid ground again. He is studying in Bonn and seems to be gradually getting on track. He sent me his translation of a French book "Theodor Parker's Biography"9 with which he has made money. Finally, dear friend, I ask of you one thing: do not burden yourself with writing letters. In a short time you will get news from me again in a quite detailed letter, which is impossible for me to write today. Einsiedel also told me to tell you the same. I conclude with a warm farewell and a saying from Aristotle:
Your loyal, equally 1. Rosalie Nietzsche (1811-1867) died on 01-03-1867. For Nietzsche's deathbed vigil, see Naumburg, 01-04-1867 letter to Hermann Mushacke in Berlin. Gersdorff's brother, Ernst (1840-1867) also died in early January.
Leipzig, February 20, 1867: My dear friend, If you are not in the mood to hear a number of strange things, put the letter aside and save it for another time. For today was the great Leipzig election battle,1 the decision of a party struggle waged by all means, today the final word in the matter of Stephani vs. v[on] Wächter2 has been spoken. I do not want to reveal how it turned out yet. You know the result of the first election:3 our representative, the excellent, impeccable vir strenuus4 Stephani (recently called St. Stephan in the advertisements in the Tageblatt5) won 1,000 votes over the bastion of Saxon particularism, Herr von Wächter:6 however, this victory was not enough, lacking c. 200 votes for an absolute majority. So a run-off had to take place, in which the champions of a third and a fourth party, Würkert and Wuttke,7 were no longer considered. So these two failed miserably, most of all Wuttke, called "the imperial weasel," who was chosen by a so-called people's party, basically by the wildest Prussian eaters,8 and with c. 300 ballots he failed once more. The organ of this black and yellow coloring9 is the "Sächsische Zeitung," formerly the "Abendpost." Würkert, great, as the Tageblatt says, as a saloon-keeper, human being, prisoner, poet, orator,10 was nominated by the Lassalleans11 in the 12th hour and flooded with such a flurry of advertising that he himself had no doubts about his election. In his honor, an open-air gathering was held at 11 a.m. one Sunday,12 which, according to conservative estimates, was attended by 12,000-15,000 people. He made an election speech accompanied by an excellent organ heard far and wide, with the old flourish of his coachman's coat, with powerful words about extremely unpowerful and unreal things, e.g., about a European workers' state, then put his election to a vote and declared that he had been elected by the whole assembly with 4 votes against. This was an optical illusion: for on the day of the election he had c. 900 votes for himself. Everything now depended on the losing parties and their new positions. The agitation was really great, wherever you went or stood a retainer handed you a program, a pamphlet, a reminder, the leaflets were even carried into the house: the Tageblatt and the Nachrichten13 were brimming with advertisements. I do not think there is one point of view left from which the leaden agitation could be melted away. There was no lack of exaggeration, e.g. Wächter was called an old man whose brain, according to Bock,14 had suffered a metabolism and who was therefore no longer politically competent. Or they used a speech by Stephani, in which he promised to fulfill his obligations as Vice-Mayor, but would accept an election if it came to him without his doing, and left out the 2nd sentence so that it might appear as if Stephani were declining an election. In short, moral and immoral means, stamps, retainers, aspersions, huge wall posters, flags with the relevant names, everything was set in motion — for the relevant day. It was cloudy and foggy. At the voting sites, idle masses of the populace were encamped, the flags fluttered, the stamp presses creaked, the brightly colored posters gleamed. In the afternoon the three of us went to the Rosenthal15 and hit upon the idea of asking the oracle about the outcome. After all conceivable attempts there was always one result: if a raven flew squawking, if we asked whether man or woman would meet us first, if a tossed coin turned up heads, etc. "Chance" always answered us .. "Wächter"; which put us in a good mood, so that we tried to beguile a young philologist, whom we met, with our oracular wisdom and told him that Wächter had been chosen. "I know, said the unhappy child, with a 1000 vote majority." And so it is. In the meantime Wächter's party has gained 2,000 votes. We are defeated. My cousin16 triumphs, particularism waves the flag of victory. Now some personal things. For I do not like to touch upon political affairs — for understandable reasons. So for the time being I am staying here, and I am thinking about the next semester as well as the one that follows. Basically I am seldom embarrassed — if only the state of the war17 never embarrasses me! — living a comfortable existence, as far as that is possible in such a world, have good friends and loyal neighbors and good teachers, sit at Kintschy18 every day together with Kohl19 and Rohde, who are now my closest associates, I do all I can for our philological society,20 I buy a lot of philological books, every now and then I find a bearable thought and work somewhat uneasily. Topics that concern me are
in the background floats a plan for a critical history of Greek literature.23 If I may recommend reading that will both fascinate you with antiquity and remind you of Schopenhauer, consider Seneca's epistulae morales.24 Finally, what should have been the beginning of my letter, comes my thanks for your dear letter,25 which I particularly appreciate for a number of reasons. Firstly, because neither I nor anyone expects letters from you now, since we are rather pleased and grateful if you only feel like and are in the mood for reading our letters. Secondly, however, your confession to our philosopher was particularly dear and valuable to me,26 since it was said at a time of serious and difficult experiences, of decisive blows of fate. Pious people believe that all the sufferings and mishaps that befall them are intended for them with the most precise intentionality,27 so that this and that thought, this good intention,28 this understanding29 could be awakened in them. We lack the prerequisites for such a belief. That may well be, but it is in our power to use and, as it were, suck dry every event, every trivial and major mishap for our improvement and discipline.30 The intentionality of the individual's fate31 is no fable, if we understand it. We have to exploit fate on purpose:32 for in and of themselves events are hollow shells. It depends on our constitution: the value we attach to an event is what it constitutes for us. Thoughtless and immoral people know nothing of such an intentionality of fate. Events do not determine them.33 We, however, wish to learn from them: and the more our knowledge of moral affairs increases and becomes complete, the more the events that have affected us will form, or rather seem to form, a tightly closed circle. You know, dear friend, what this reflection is about. Today I bid you farewell by noting sympathetic greetings from Einsiedel,34 my cousin,35 and also from my mother. Your faithful friend Friedrich N. 1. The 1867 Leipzig election was for a member of the constituent Reichstag of the North German Confederation.
Naumburg, April 4, 1867: My dear friend, When your penultimate letter1 was forwarded to me from Naumburg, I had very pleasant feelings. That same morning I had already received other letters and experienced other things (I no longer remember what) that made me very happy. I had a happy day, but the main event for me was your letter, or rather the news, the tone, the hopes, the decisions in your letter. Mind you, I silently laughed at myself that just a few days ago I had sent a long epistle2 full of requests and demands to the very same person who was writing to me so confidently, assuredly, and situated upon solid ground. This letter was addressed to a phantom: my current one is finally going then to the man, my dear friend and philologist, who has found himself and his studies again, who has returned from the maze of theological scruples in order to celebrate his marriage with philology.3 This dear friend has informed me in his last letter4 of his wife's happy delivery of a child, so that there can be no doubt about the happiness of that marriage. Actually, dear Paul, even if your letters did not contain so many temptations and enticements for my vanity, if their entire contents were summed up with the sentence — "I am a philologist, I am working on this and that and I am happier than ever" — they would then also be for me favorite treats and the most impressive delights that I know. The thought of no longer having Hebraic fog5 between us that would prevent us from going through life together in a real community of thoughts is all too agreeable to me. So today I shall first of all fulfill your wish and write a philological billet. The lexicon by W. Bötticher6 is indispensable for you because it features 1 article on the ablative with very valuable and rich compilations; even if one always has to check the citations first, since the collations that Böttiger accepted were worthless. But there must also be special work on the Tacitean ablative, though God knows where. Unfortunately I do not have any bibliographic compendia. A certain Zernial7 did well with the genitive. A work by Dräger,8 "The Tacitean Syntax," is said to be very useful. Also from Dr. Schmidt9 in Jena, Lucian Müller's10 squire, a work on the syntactic peculiarities of Tacitus was recently published,11 which has been highly praised. Incidentally, the authority on such questions seems to be E. Wölflin12 in Winterthur, who recently gave an annual report on such questions in Philologus.13 I particularly liked the proof that such collections must be created strictly according to the chronological order of the Tacitean writings, because the usage of Tacitus has changed in many small ways. In any case, dear friend, you are on dangerous ground with such investigations, because after a great deal of effort you can suddenly make the discovery that your labor was useless, at least for scholarship. But if I may mention a writer to you where such estimable individual investigations have not even begun, I believe it's Ammian Marcellin.14 Equally fruitful, I think, will be ablative studies in Apuleius.15 What additions of the use of the ablative did African Latinity create? I do not know anything about that and I do not know anyone who occupies this province in any way. Since you also used Photius16 for your other studies, you must have retained some interest in his But we have more important things to do than talk about Photius. First of all, understand that I am not leaving Leipzig, so that for the time being a stay in Berlin together is unlikely. You will not believe how personally I am linked to Ritschl, so that I cannot tear myself away and would not like to. In addition, I always have the sad feeling that his life will not be spinning out for too long; I fear it will end soon. You cannot imagine how this man thinks, cares and works for everyone he loves, how he knows how to fulfill my wishes, which I often hardly dare to express, and how, in turn, his dealings are so free from that old-fashioned haughtiness and that cautious reserve which so many scholars possess. Yes, he behaves very freely and uninhibitedly, and I know that such natures often have to clash. He is the only man whose reproach I like to hear, because all his judgments are so sound and forceful, with such tact for the truth, that he is a kind of scholarly conscience for me. Therefore: I wll stay a bit close to him. My prospects for the future are uncertain, thus pretty favorable. Because only certainty is terrible. My aim is to earn a few hundred th[alers] every year in an honorable and time-consuming manner, while preserving the freedom of my existence for a number of years. E.g., I would like to go to Paris24 early next year and work in the library there for a year. But that will not interest you, perhaps anymore than what I am working on now. For it is not only permissible, but also desirable, to speak of oneself and one's experiences in letters to friends. Letters are just subjective atmospheric moods. My work on Laertius25 will be written down in these weeks. My aim this time is not to let the logical framework shine through so visibly as is the case in my upcoming Theognis study.26 By the way, this is very difficult. At least for me. I would like to give such things a somewhat artistic dress. You will find my zeal for rubbing in colors ridiculous, and in general trying to write in a bearable style.27 But it is necessary after neglecting it for so long. Furthermore, I avoid as strictly as possible erudition that is not necessary. That also takes some self-overcoming. Because some superfluum28 that we really like at the moment has to be cut away. A rigorous exposition of the proofs, in a light and pleasing presentation, if possible without any morose seriousness and that citation-rich erudition that is so cheap: these are my wishes. The hardest thing is always to find the overall connection of reasons, in short the design of the building. This is work that is often better done in bed and on walks than at a desk. Putting together the rough material is pleasant work, though often there is some craftsmanship about it. But the anticipation of finally unveiling the magic picture keeps us awake. The most awkward thing for me is the elaboration, and this is where I very often lose my patience. Every major work, you will have felt this too, has an ethical influence. The effort to concentrate a subject and shape it harmoniously is a stone that falls into our spiritual life: out of our narrow interests there are many more. Can't you write to me quite frankly, dear friend, how much you need for your yearly existence? Do you really want to jump into the school office as quickly as possible and with both feet at the same time? I have the opposite desire: to be free from such external shackles for as long as possible. In general, I am very averse to overloading myself with knowledge like a machine. Perhaps you study a bit too much. My favorite thing is to find a new point of view and to collect more material for it. My cerebral stomach gets upset when it is surfeited. Too much reading dulls the mind horribly. Most of our scholars would also be worth more as scholars if they were not too scholarly. Do not eat too much at mealtime. The Berlin seminar is of little use. I have detailed information about the same from one of our former members29 who is now a member of this seminar. The treatment of the students is very rude. Dear friend, just consider the following. You want to go to Berlin and thus come via Naumburg. Here you would visit me and tell me your thoughts on the following proposal. I can assign you a job that can be done on the side, about 2 hours a day, that will earn you a few hundred thalers. The condition is that it will be done in Leipzig. It will keep you busy for six months. You will learn a lot by doing so. You know what else awaits you in Leipzig. Spending a year in Berlin30 for the exam is quite unnecessary. If you agree, you will thank me one day. Just think of Ritschl. Do not tell anyone, even your dear parents and siblings,31 about this proposal. Just let everyone believe that you are going to Berlin. In Naumburg we will discuss everything in detail. I am leaving here on the 31st of this mon[th]. So dear friend be silent, but come to me. Greet everyone who remembers me and please me with your visit[.] Your faithful friend My mother was very happy about your kind and cheerful letter32 and thanks you very much. Gersdorff, who is always very close to me, is now an officer in Spandau. You know about the death of his eldest brother,33 whom you also extolled. I always have only good news from Mushacke.34 Our philological society in Leipzig is flourishing.35 1. Oberdreis, 01-06-1867: Letter from Paul Deussen to Nietzsche in Naumburg.
Naumburg, April 6, 1867: My dear friend, God alone knows the cause of my long silence. For never have I been so grateful and happy than when your letters arrive, revealing your experiences and moods. There is very often an opportunity to talk about you, and I never pass it up. Even more often my thoughts run to you just when I am amidst books and should be thinking of all sorts of learned things, which would rightly be a bit daunting to you. And yet I do not write. Sometimes I wonder about this myself. It just occurred to me what the reason might be. The hand that writes all day long, the eye that sees white paper turning black from dawn to dusk, longs for diversion or rest. But today Suidas and Laertius1 had to wait the entire afternoon because I had a visitor: that's why they will have to wait this evening too. Why are they giving up their control? If they may now be at a disadvantage, I, therefore, at least have the advantage: I can converse with my dear friend by letter and do not have to supervise the two old boys, whose follies usually keep me busy. During these holidays in particular, I want to put my work on the sources of Laertius2 on paper and I am still sort of in the early stages. For your amusement, I want to confess what gives me the most trouble and worry: my German style (not to mention Latin: once I have come to grips with the mother tongue, foreign language[s] shall also follow suit). The scales are falling from my eyes: I have lived all too long in stylistic innocence. The categorical imperative, "Thou shalt and must write," has aroused me. I tried something that I had never tried except at school: to write well, and suddenly the pen in my hand faltered. I could not do it and got angry. In addition, the stylistic precepts of Lessing, Lichtenberg, and Schopenhauer were ringing in my ears.3 It has always been a comfort to me that these three authorities unanimously affirm that it is difficult to write well, that no man has a good style by nature, that one must work hard and persist to acquire one. I really do not want to write again so woodenly and dryly, in a logical corset, as I did, e.g., in my Theognis essay,4 at whose cradle no Graces sat (on the contrary, it rumbled from afar as if from Königsgrätz).5 It would be a very unfortunate thing not to be able to write better and yet ardently wish to do so. Above all, a few lively spirits must again be unleashed in my style; I must learn to play on them like on a keyboard, but not just pieces I have learned, but free fantasias, as free as possible, yet always logical and beautiful. Secondly, another wish concerned me. One of my oldest friends, Wilhelm Pinder6 from Naumburg, is about to take his first law examination; we are also familiar with the well-known anxieties of such times. But what appeals to me, what even goads me to imitate it, is not in the examination, but in the preparation for it. How useful, indeed, how uplifting it must be to let all the disciplines of one's science march past one in about one semester and thus for once really get an overall view of them. Is it not just as if an officer, always accustomed only to drilling his company, suddenly in a battle comes to realize what great fruits his small efforts can produce? For we would not deny that most philologists lack that elevating general view of antiquity, because they stand too close to the picture and examine a patch of paint, instead of admiring the great and bold features of the entire painting and — what is more — enjoying it. When, I ask, will we ever have that pure enjoyment of our studies of antiquity, about which unfortunately we speak often enough. Thirdly, our whole way of working is really horrible. The 100 books on the table in front of me are now so many tongs that burn out the nerve of independent thinking. I believe, dear friend, that you have chosen, with a bold grasp, the best lot of all.7 Namely, an effective contrast, a reversed way of looking at things, an opposite attitude to life, to people, to work, to duty. I am not really praising your current profession as such, but only insofar as it is a negation of your previous life, aspiration, thinking. With such contrasts, soul and body remain healthy and do not engender those inevitable types of illnesses which both the predominance of scholarly activity and the excessive predominance of physical activity produce, which the scholar just as much as the country bumpkin possesses. Except that these diseases manifest themselves differently in the former than in the latter. The Greeks were no scholars, but they were not mindless athletes either. Must we then so necessarily make a choice between one side or the other? Has perhaps "Christianity" here caused a split in human nature, of which the people of harmony did not know? Should not the image of Sophocles, who knew how to dance so elegantly and throw the ball about, and yet at the same time also showed some intellectual dexterity, put to shame every "scholar"? But it is the same for us in these matters as it is for us in life as a whole: we are readily able to recognize a bad situation, but still do not lift a finger to eliminate it. And here I could really begin a fourth Lamento [Latin: complaint]: which I will refrain from doing in the presence of my military friend. For such complaints must be much more abhorrent to a warrior than to a homebody like I am now. This reminds me of a story I recently heard, which in fact is an illustration of the scholarly forms of illness, and should be hushed up, but which will amuse you because it just seems to be the translation into real life of Schopenhauer's essay "On the Professors of Philosophy."8 There is a town9 in which a young man,10 endowed with special intellectual faculties and particularly competent in philosophical speculation, conceives the plan of earning a doctorate. To this end he puts together his system "On the Basic Patterns of Representation," which he had painstakingly thought over for several years, and is happy and proud to have done so. With such feelings he presents it to the philosophical faculty of the place in which a university happens to be located. Two philosophy professors have to submit their evaluations: one comments that the work shows intellect but advocates views that are not taught here at all, while the other states that the views do not correspond to common sense and are paradoxical. Thus, the work is rejected and the doctoral hat is not donned by the man in question. Fortunately, the man concerned is not humble enough to hear the voice of wisdom in this judgment, indeed is so cocky to maintain that a certain philosophical faculty lacks the philosophical facultas [the faculty for philosophy]. In short, dear friend, one cannot take one's course independently enough. Truth seldom dwells where temples have been built and priests ordained. We have to suffer the consequences for what we do well or foolishly, not those who give us good or foolish advice. Let us at least have the pleasure of committing a blunder of our own free will. There is no general recipe for how to help every human being. One must be one's own physician, but at the same time gather medical experience for its own sake. We really think too little about our own well-being, our egoism is not clever enough, our intellect not egotistical enough. With that, dear friend, it is enough for today. Unfortunately I do not have anything "solid" or "real" to tell you, or whatever the slogans of the young merchants are called, but you will not be asking for that either. The fact that I rejoice with you when you discover one of our kindred spirits, and on top of that such a capable and loveable person like Krüger11 — that goes without saying. Our freemasonry multiplies and spreads, although without badges, mysteries and credal statements. It is late at night and the wind is howling outside. You know that I will be staying in Leipzig for the next semester as well. My wishes are taking me, the philologist, to the Imperial Library in Paris,12 where I will go perhaps next year if the volcano has not erupted by then. But my thoughts carry me, the human being, often enough and thus also tonight to you, to whom I now warmly say "goodnight." Friedrich Nietzsche. Naumburg April 6th: 1. The "Suda" refers to a Greek lexicon from the tenth century, which Nietzsche researched in connection with his work on Theognis. Laertius refers to Nietzsche's work on the sources of Diogenes Laertius, eventually published in 1868 and 1869.
Naumburg, April 20, 1867: My dear friend, I have always believed that friendship can exist without regular correspondence: provided it is true and genuine. For as long as one firmly feels that one has not forgotten one's friend and will not forget him, it is really unnecessary to write to him. So friends do not write letters to each other to pour fresh water on the vine of their heart connection, but initially for a much more external purpose: they tell of their fates, their jobs, their prospects, so they only change the scenery while they know that their friendship endures even with the change of external surroundings. Anyone who happens to live for a stretch of their lifetime without any major changes is also under no obligation and no demand to write to their friends about it. I am sincerely sorry that, for a moment, you formed such an unfavorable opinion of my friendship, as if it would have expired within two or three months without a letter from you.2 I was guilty of negligence of a completely different kind: in letter after letter, I had promised you Lachmann's treatise3 and because of an incomprehensible absent-mindedness when sending the letter I always forgot what I had promised, so that I seriously blamed myself and repeatedly told myself, "Your friend Mushacke's failure to write is just and sane punishment for this absent-mindedness." So if either of us has reason to apologize, it's me: as I do now with all my heart. So I hope then, that with this, dear friend, every trace of an uncomfortable feeling towards me has been obliterated in you and I turn to the enumeration of my "fate, work, and prospects" with which I have, perhaps unduly, communicated to you in many a letter for want of better and finer material. I am sitting here in the cozy Naumburg nest and I am not idle. But my desire to work has been greater than my capability in recent weeks, in short I am dissatisfied with the results of the last few weeks. What I intend to write down in my work de fontibus Laertii4 is still a long way off; everything that is finished is not yet three sheets. Because most of all I stumble over an obstacle that I have scarcely noticed before; I have absolutely no style5 in German, although I have a keen desire to get one. Since I have now resolved first of all to work out my Laert[ii] studies in German with the utmost care before I make the Latin excerpt from it, I am also obliged to go into these questions of style. As everyone knows, gymnasium students do not write with style; as a student one cannot practice anywhere; what one writes are letters, thus subjective outpourings that make no claim to artistic form. So there comes a time when the tabula rasa of our stylistic arts rises in our conscience. That's what is happening to me now and that's why I have to work very slowly. I shall spend the next summer in Leipzig again, since I can now hardly tear myself away from Ritschl. You will be able to understand this to some extent. In addition, I am always tormented by the thought that it may soon be over; lately he has been ill more often and more seriously. I cannot express to you what losing him would mean to me. In the autumn I would like to acquire the title of doctor;6 I think with a treatise de Homero Hesiodoque coaetaneis.7 If you smile at that title, you have every right to do so.8 I ask you to keep quiet about all my personal circumstances from any acquaintances you meet; there is nothing more tiresome than raising hopes and finally giving the lie to them. But who guarantees his immediate future? I still have so many adventurous plans that a whole part of them has to fall through. Now there is something you will be happy about. I have the best news from friend Deussen,9 who has been successfully pursuing his philological studies in Bonn since last autumn and who feels he is on solid ground. Everything he writes about his work gives a healthy and fresh impression: you will be able to judge best how different he has become when he visits you in Berlin10 in a few weeks. For he intends to spend a year there. If you ever write a letter to me in Leipzig, where I am going again on the 30th of this month, please note the address "Weststrasse" No. 59, 2nd floor. You lived in the same house, just a little higher up. So you can get a pretty good idea of where I am going to spend this summer. I will be living in the room once occupied by the "Baron"11 God knows what's his name. Otherwise everything is going splendidly in Leipzig. Above all, I like our philological society,12 which incidentally loses a few members from semester to semester, who then go to Berlin. The number of participants has grown steadily, our debates have taken on a more rigorous character, our demands on those who are to be included have always grown. We now also have two comparative linguists13 and are happy to have received two good specimens from this species for our menagerie. If you have friends who one day would risk coming to Leipzig for a semester as a philologist, give them my address; for I have gradually become established enough in Leipzig to be able to give good information to newcomers. As far as I know, you want to take your state exam in the near future. Couldn't you even briefly write down the requirements that you make of yourself for this purpose, so that I have a standard if I ever thought of allowing myself a similar "enjoyment"? Farewell today and send the heartiest greetings to your esteemed relatives from your old friend
1. Hermann Mushacke (1845-1906): friend and classmate at the University of Bonn. Nietzsche and Mushacke visited Naumburg together on October 26, 1865, and visited Berlin and Mushacke's family in the autumn of 1866. For their exploits in Leipzig, see Nietzsche's autobiographical "Rückblick auf meine zwei Leipziger Jahre" (Retrospect on My Two Years at Leipzig). English translation in: Nietzsche's Writings as a Student. The Nietzsche Channel, 2012, 119-43 (121-29).
Leipzig, End June 1867: Dear Mama and Lisbeth, You can imagine that it was not very easy for me to visit Halle1 and that my desire to do so was quite low afterwards as well. Also, I do not know of any of my acquaintances who had longed for this festival. It is all the better that you enjoyed yourself by doing so, you who can still be attracted by the romantic shimmer that lies around student and professorial comedies, because you do not need to look behind the curtains of this world. The reason my cousin2 did not come on Sunday is a quirk of my cousin, which I do not understand. In short, he would not go to Naumburg alone and did not give in to my urgent requests. Whether the pleasure of traveling to Naumburg with me is so indispensable to him, I do not know. He wants to come later, but with me. Little Saxon, always aligned with the North German Confederation!3 That was really not what you wanted anyway. Our riders all fell off, that is, before they sat on their horses. Only Rohde held on. So, from 4-5 in the afternoon, we both exercise our horses vigorously and feel very comfortable both during it and afterwards. The agitation is very beneficial for the abdomen. One is thirstier and hungrier and sleeps more soundly than other people. Wearing my thick pants in 30-degree heat did not become difficult for me. As far as the next semester is concerned, I intend to spend it in Berlin:4 in that regard a letter5 is going to Mushacke,6 who will get me lodgings. And I will be sailing away to there at the end of August. I am sending all my luggage as freight from here. In case I want to do military service, Berlin is the best place to do it. Before I leave there, I will come to Naumburg for another week. I will also bring you the picture of our philological society, which turned out better than the last one and which Ritschl also liked very much.7 I will give notice to my landlord and landlady today or tomorrow. I am uncomfortable with the bills.8 This, and my other expenses, gets me in financial trouble. In Berlin I have to make a modest attempt to earn money. Today I have nothing more to write other than to thank you very much for the clean clothes and letters, and also remembering the Pentecost holidays with pleasure. So fare quite well! Your Fritz. 1. On 06-21-1867, the fiftieth anniversary of the unification of the universities of Halle and Wittenberg was celebrated. The letter from his mother to which Nietzsche was replying is lost.
Naumburg, September 26, 1867: Esteemed Herr Privy Councilor, Your excellent efforts have again pushed through everything that can be of some use to my work.1 Director Förtsch2 was immediately willing, with great courtesy, to hand over to me the almost complete copy of the Rheinish Museum: and I gather from your last dear letter that Sauerländer3 also accepted the suggestion that was so favorable to me. If it is not a problem for you, I would be delighted to see that copy in Naumburg. But this is absolutely in your hands, since at the moment I am really being taken care of in the best way and can quite easily wait until the end of October; when I would then take the liberty of asking you personally in Leipzig. Incidentally, I cannot definitely say that I have already advanced further in the preparation of the index, since I am currently held captive by another active investigation ("On the Spurious Writings of Democritus").4 But I know no reason for me to be particularly encouraged to hurry with this work. In conclusion, I am pleased to have finally guessed the origin of that mysterious address "Lindenstr. 57."5 When I was living in Kosen last autumn,6 you inquired about my residence so that you could send the Theognis papers7 to me. I then wrote to you the designated address. Incidentally, it is even a wrong address for the Naumburg postman, an So all I have left to express is the wish that these beautiful autumn days will be very beneficial to your health, and to add the assurance that I will personally inquire about your health at the end of October. Your faithful pupil 1. Nietzsche's preparation of the index (assisted by his sister) to the new series of Rheinisches Museum für Philologie. Registerheft zu Band I-XXIV. Frankfurt am Main: Sauerländer, 1871. Nietzsche did not receive any credit for the work (which was published in 1871). See the reproduction in Nietzsche's Library.
Naumburg, October 4, 1867: My dear friend, We are seldom masters of fate, but we think we are when it has favored us for a long time. This is not intended to be an introduction to a tragedy, but only a preliminary remark to a musical intermezzo, which I had hoped never again to hear in this life. Drums and fifes, warlike clangor!2 The sword hovers not over my head but at my side, this pen in my hand will shortly be a killing weapon, these papers covered with notes and drafts will probably take on a bit of a musty stench. The god of war has sought me out, i.e., I was found fit for voluntary service just as I left for the philologists' conference in Halle,3 still believing that this chalice had passed me by. It was with great difficulty that I pressed home that I could at least try to see if there were a place other than Naumburg that would accept me in an artillery unit for another branch of the army. If the attempt fails, next Wednesday4 I shall begin to embrace the local cannons — with more wrath than tenderness. But now it is time to try. Perhaps I can join the 2nd Infantry Guards Regiment in Berlin. For this purpose I will therefore leave Naumburg tomorrow, i.e., on Saturday at 12:45, and arrive in Berlin in the evening.5 I now dare to say that I would be very grateful if I could meet you at the station. For you are familiar with my awkwardness in a strange and big city.6 In this unexpected way our meeting each other has come much closer than I could have imagined yesterday; and it is about the only pleasure that the ma[j]or's7 sudden intervention in my agenda affords me. On the other hand, my requirements for the near future have been completely thwarted. To what extent, I will tell you in person. So, dear friend, I have announced my arrival in Berlin and have asked you for a great favor. If you cannot come, I will still take the liberty of asking you just once. In the meantime, give my warmest greetings to your esteemed relatives! — And how many good things the last few weeks have brought! What a pleasure at this gathering of philologists, where I met countless old acquaintances. When on the first evening the guests who had arrived in the wide halls of the Schießgraben — c. 500 — were flooding all over the place, I stood there, like Elisabeth in Tannhauser,8 when the pilgrims return from Rome and she hopes to find the well-known features of Heinrich in every face. She was misinformed and I was misinforned too. Friend Mushacke was not among the philological pilgrims. Addio a rivederla 1. Hermann Mushacke (1845-1906): friend and classmate at the University of Bonn. Nietzsche and Mushacke visited Naumburg together on October 26, 1865, and visited Berlin and Mushacke's family in the autumn of 1866. For their exploits in Leipzig, see Nietzsche's autobiographical "Rückblick auf meine zwei Leipziger Jahre" (Retrospect on My Two Years at Leipzig). English translation in: Nietzsche's Writings as a Student. The Nietzsche Channel, 2012, 119-43 (121-29).
Naumburg, October/November 1867: My dear friend, A flood of reasons caused me to write to you, duties of gratitude for the hospitable reception2 and for a warmly felt and content-rich letter, but above all my own desire to no longer leave you in the dark about my situation, one which is alien enough to my usual thoughts and activities. You will have indeed heard, courtesy of Mushacke, that after a feeble attempt3 to climb up and down the walls of fate, I surrendered and was henceforth an artilleryman.4 At the same time it will be clear to you that service in the mounted artillery is deemed the hardest soldier's service and that this is actually the case. We must be trained on foot, on horseback, and with artillery; and to bring quite easily to your mind what kind of time this requires, know that every day, on average, from 7 in the morning to around 6 in the evening I am officially on duty, except for half an hour for lunchtime. I use the other time, i.e. in the morning from 5:30 to 7 and in the evening, to acquire the military knowledge that an officer's examination requires to such a great extent and to continue that philological work,5 the completion of which I have promised by a deadline that is near. Thus working under full sail, physically and mentally, in the riding arena and in the tournament of ideas, at the cannon and with the missiles of logic, in the exercise yard and in the school of thought of the ancients. My dear friend, in order to write an apology for Schopenhauer, which you challenge with your letter, I have only to convey the fact that I face this life freely and courageously, after my feet have found some ground. To speak metaphorically, "the waters of tribulation"6 do not divert me from my path, for they no longer go over my head. This is, of course, nothing but an entirely individual apology. But that's how things are to us now. I murmur in the ear of anyone who wants to refute Schopenhauer to me with reasons: “But, dear man, worldviews are neither created nor destroyed by logic. I feel at home in that atmosphere, you in the other. Let me have my own nose, and I will not take yours from you." It is true that I get angry at times when I hear or read contemporary philosophers and notice their reputation and ask urgently, as that well-known Hamlet asked his mother, "Have you eyes? Have you eyes?"7 I think they do not have any, but I may be wrong, and mine may be too short-sighted to mistake a donkey for a horse. But that's the way it is: if a slave in prison dreams that he is free and released from his bondage, who will have such a hard heart to wake him up and tell him that it is a dream? Who will it be? Just a henchman, and neither I nor you will want to play that role. The best that we have, to feel one with a great intellect, to be able to respond sympathetically to his ideas, to have found a home for thinking, a place of refuge for dreary hours — we would not want to rob this from others, let us not rob it from ourselves. Be it a mistake, be it a lie [— — —]8 1. Nietzsche was replying to an unknown letter from Paul Deussen.
Naumburg, November 3, 1867: My dear friend, Yesterday I received a letter from our Wilhelm Roscher1 in Leipzig, with news which should, with your permission, form the opening of this letter. First of all, the good news that Father Ritschl is in good health and jovialness; which I learned with astonishment, since the behavior of the Berliners has certainly torn open some of his wounds.2 Then the society,3 which has also adopted a solemn stamp, seems to be heading for a bright future. The reading circle4 has 28 members so far: According to Roscher's intentions, Zaspel's café5 shall be set up as a kind of philological stock exchange. A cabinet has also been purchased in which the [philological] journals are kept. Friday meetings6 have probably not yet taken place; at least Wilhelm hasn't written anything about them. In addition, various members have not yet arrived, e.g. Koch,7 who is unfortunately prevented by a serious illness. Likewise the excellent Kohl,8 who oddly enough wants to stay with a friend in the country for several weeks and has thus postponed for a bit the hazardous scenery of the examination. Finally, I do not want to conceal the fact that Roscher's letter brought me the pleasant news that on October 31st my Laertius work9 won the competition in the aula against Herr For the time being, those days in Halle are the merry finale, or shall we say the coda, of my philological overture. Such troops of teachers present themselves really better than I would ever have expected. It may be that the old spiders were staying in their webs: briefly, the clothes were quite tasteful and fashionable, and mustaches are very popular. Although old Bernhardy15 presided as badly as possible, and Bergk16 bored us with an unintelligible three-hour lecture. But most of it went well, especially the dinner (at which someone stole old Steinhart's17 gold watch: figure out the mood that prevailed after that) and an evening meeting in the Schützengraben. Here I also got to know the clever-looking Magister Sauppe18 from Göttingen, who is of interest to me as protagonist of the Naumburg philologists. His lecture on some new Attic inscriptions was the most piquant thing we heard; that is, if I except Tischendorf's speech on palaeography,19 which let loose the entire arsenal, i.e. with the maiden of Homer, the Simonides forgeries,20 the Menander and Euripides fragments, etc.; he also acted generously on his part and finally announced his paleogr[aphic] oeuvre,21 with a naive indication of the price, namely valuing it at about 5000 thalers. The attendees were extraordinarily numerous, and there were plenty of acquaintances. At the dinner22 we formed a Leipzig corner, consisting of Windisch,23 Angermann,24 Clemm,25 Fleischer,26 etc. I was very happy to have found in Clemm an especially amiable person: whereas in Leipzig I hardly got to know him, in fact as a result of my damned Bonn habits even felt a kind of dislike for him and used to look askance at him the way in which fraternity members like to size up the "gentlemen of the choir."27 Of course he wholeheartedly declared his willingness to participate in the Leipzig symbolis.28 But he found the date fixed too early: and I am inclined to endorse his judgment. Every day, even every hour, we waited in Halle for Father Ritschl to arrive,29 who had announced he was coming and unfortunately had to comply with the bad weather. We longed for his presence, I especially, who owed him a debt of gratitude in every respect. It is thanks to him that I am now in possession of the complete Rhein[isches] Museum,30 without having done anything for it up to now, indeed with the certain prospect of not being able to do anything with that index31 for a long time. I did not waste the next couple of weeks after our trip32 on this drudgery, but put together my Democritea in the most merry way; they are intended in honorem Ritscheli.33 So at least the main die has been cast: although for a careful justification of my follies and a thorough combinatorics, there is still too much left to do, far too much for a person who is "heavily occupied elsewhere." Well, you will ask, if he does not smoke and gamble, if he is not manufacturing indicem, or piecing together Democritea, disparaging Laertium et Suidam, what then is he doing? He is doing military training.34 Yes, my dear friend, if a demon were to lead you to Naumburg early in the morning, let us say, between five and six o'clock, and were with kind intentions to guide your steps to my vicinity: do not freeze [in your tracks] over the spectacle that offers itself to your senses. Suddenly you breathe the atmosphere of a stable. In the lanterns' half-light, figure[s] come into view. Around you there are sounds of scraping, whinnying, brushing, knocking. And in the midst of it, in the garb of a groom, violently tring to carry away unspeakable, unsightly things with his hands or to belabor the horse with the currycomb — I shudder when I see his face — it is, by the Dog, my very own likeness.35 A few hours later you see two steeds charging about the arena, not without riders, one of whom closely resembles your friend. He is riding his fiery, spirited Balduin36 and hopes to learn to ride well one day, although or rather because he still rides on the blanket now, with spurs and thighs, but without a riding crop. He also had to hasten to forget everything he had heard at the Leipzig riding school37 and, above all, with great effort, to acquire a safe seat that conformed to the regulations. At other times of the day he stands, industrious and attentive, at the [horse-]drawn artillery and pulls shells out of the limber or cleans the bore with the rod or aims according to inches and degrees etc. But above all he has a lot to learn. I assure you by the aforementioned Dog, my philosophy now has an opportunity to be of practical use to me. Until now, I have never felt a moment's indignity, but I have often smiled as if at something out of a fairy tale. Sometimes hidden under the horse's belly I murmur "Schopenhauer, help"; and when I come home, exhausted and covered in sweat, a glance at the picture38 on my desk soothes me: or I open the Parerga,39 which now, together with Byron,40 is more congenial than ever. Now the point has finally been reached where I can say how you expected the letter to begin. My dear friend, you now know the reason why my letter was so unduly delayed for such a long time.41 I had no time in the strictest sense. But [was] often no[t in the] mood too. One simply does not write letters to friends whom one loves, as I love you, in any arbitrary mood. Just as little does one write a line today and another tomorrow in stolen moments, but one longs for a full and expansive hour and mood. Today the friendliest autumn day is peeking in through the window. Today I have the afternoon off, at least until 6:30 p.m.; being the time at which I am summoned to the stables for the evening feeding and watering. Today I am celebrating Sunday in my own way by remembering my distant friend and our common past in Leipzig42 and in the Bohemian Forest43 and in Nirvana.44 Fate has with a sudden yank torn out the Leipzig page of my life, and now the next thing I see in this sibylline book is covered from top to bottom with an inkblot. At that time was a life of free self-determination, in the epicurean enjoyment of scholarship and the arts, in the circle of fellow aspiring people, close to a lovable teacher45 and — greatest of all that remains for me to say of those days in Leipzig — in constant company with a friend, who is not only a comrade in studies or is linked to me through mutual experiences, but whose seriousness about life really shows the same degree as in my own mind, whose estimation of things and people obeys approximately the same laws as my own, whose whole being ultimately has upon me a strengthening and steeling influence. So even now I miss nothing more than just that company; and I venture even to believe that, if we were condemned to pull under this yoke together, we would bear our burden serenely and with dignity: whereas at the moment I am only reminded of the solace of remembrance. At first I was almost surprised not to find you as my companion in fate: and sometimes while riding when I look around at the other volunteers, I then think I see you sitting on a horse. I am pretty lonely in Naumburg; I have neither a philologist nor a friend of Schopenhauer among my acquaintances; and even these seldom get together with me, for the service claims much of my time. Thus I often feel the need to chew over the past and make the present digestible by blending in that spice. As I walked through the black, cold, wet night in my raincoat this morning, and the wind blew restlessly around the dark masses of houses, I sang to myself, "Ein Biedermann muss lustig, guter Dinge sein,"46 and thought of our terrific farewell party,47 of Kleinpaul48 hopping around — whose existence is currently unknown in Naumburg and Leipzig, but is therefore not in doubt — of Koch's Dionysian face, of our memorial49 on the banks of that Leipzig river which we christened Nirvana and which, for my part, bears the solemn words that have proved victorious If I finally apply these words to you, dear friend, they should include the best that I bear in my heart for you. Who knows when ever-changing fate will bring our paths together again: may it be very soon; but, whenever it happens, I will look back with joy and pride on a time when I gained a friend Friedrich Nietzsche. NB. The letter has been delayed again for a few days because I wanted to follow it with a box of grapes: finally the wretched post office declared that it did not want to accept the same because upon arrival the grapes would be nothing but juice. Ignoscas.52 1. The letter is lost. Wilhelm Heinrich Roscher (1845-1923): fellow philology student at Leipzig.
Naumburg, Nov. 24 and Dec. 1, 1867: My dear friend, Curious! One handles letters on business matters, and to people to whom we are indifferent, far more punctually than to one's intimate friends. How many lines have I written in the course of this summer, each one with the knowledge that there is someone who has been expecting a detailed letter from me for a long time and suo [j]ure. How many fragments of letters do I find among my papers, some comprising whole pages, others only headings; but nothing was completed, because the abundance of work and events crossed out the unfinished page again, and I lacked the desire to describe obsolete things and moods to you. Let me now quickly summarize that summer so that I can dwell on the present, a present with which you will empathize, since you have experienced something very similar to what I am experiencing now. This summer, the last I spent in Leipzig — that is, the second — kept me heavily occupied. You know that I was trying to work on the prize-essay subject1 de fontibus Laerti[i] Diogenis. It also worked out as I wished; a lot of nice results, some of them more important — i. e. more important by our standards — came out, and finally the hoped-for decision of the faculty came too.2 May I share with you a few lines from Ritschl's iudicium;3 about which I am very glad, because they encourage me and drive me along a path from which I am sometimes tempted to deviate out of skepticism.4 So after specifying my name and my epigraph ( Another week has passed, it is Sunday again, the only day now left for me to fulfill my letter-duties. But in order to continue roughly in the circle of thoughts in which I found myself eight days ago, I will tell you about another influence of Schopenhauer. For there are two literary achievements, one scientific and one a novel, that were born under this star. Perhaps you have already heard of the book that is now called Bahnsen's Contributions to Characterology.14 This is an attempt to reform characterology into a science; since this is done on a Schopenhauerian basis and with a lot of love for the "master," this two-volume work actually contains a lot of good thoughts and observations too: I recommend it to you and all initiates of that revealed and yet hidden wisdom. I am satisfied least of all with the form: the author hurries his thoughts and thereby spoils the line of beauty. — The novel, of which I now want to speak, is the first product of a literature in that tragic, almost ascetic sense of Schopenhauer's, a book whose heroes are driven through the red flame of Sansara15 to that reversal of the will, at the same time a literature full of the highest artistic value, a magnificent wealth of ideas and written in the most beautiful, most amiable style. It is Spielhagen's16 latest novel entitled "In Reih und Glied";17 about which little is read, because its author is too proud to join a clique, such as e.g. the one Freitag18 has. My teacher Ritschl concludes that this last novel is ten times as valuable than the whole of Freitag. Thirdly, I will tell you about an event with which Schopenhauer is also remotely connected, even if he is not the cause of it, as well-paid school councilors claim. It is the unfortunate suicide of Kretzschmer19 in Schulpforta. The reasons are actually not known or are being well hushed up. There is something puzzling about the excellent, conscientious man who got engaged three months earlier and so has made a young girl unhappy too. You know that he was a follower of Schopenhauer: and the last time we were both in Almrich together, we spoke to one another about Schopenhauer's opinion of suicide.20 But now I return to the narrative of my experiences: the news of that death overtook me in Meiningen, where I spent the last days of my trip to the Bohemian Forest. A big four-day music festival was organized there by the futurists, who celebrated their strange musical orgies there.21 Abbé Liszt22 presided. This school has now thrown itself passionately at Schopenhauer. A symphonic poem by Hans von Bülow, "Nirvana"23 contained a compilation of Schopenhauer sentences in the program; but the music was dreadful. On the other hand, Liszt himself has captured the character of that Indian Nirvana splendidly in some of his sacred works, especially in his "Seligkeiten" "beati sunt qui etc."24 After these weeks of relaxation and the purest enjoyment of nature, a well-meaning demon drove me to tackle with zeal a new philological theme in Naumburg: "On the Spurious Writings of Democritus."25 This work is intended for a series of essays,26 which together shall be dedicated to Ritschl in the next year. In Leipzig, during the last days of my stay there, I suggested the idea that his special Leipzig students — carefully selected, of course — express their admiration for their teacher in this way. This required getting Rohde, Roscher, Windisch, Clemm and 4 others27 whom you do not know. Then I joined the celebration at that philologist conference in Halle28 — and fate intervened. For I am now an artilleryman, namely in the 2d mounted section of the 4th Field-Artill[ery] Reg[iment].29 You will easily empathize with how surprising this turnaround was, how violently I was alienated from my usual activities and comfortable existence. Nevertheless I endure this change unfazed and feel a certain contentment even in this trick of destiny. Only now have I become quite grateful to our Schopenhauer, now that I have the opportunity to do some I have told you about my life as a soldier: this is the reason why I am so extraordinarily late in sending you news and in replying to your last letter.32 In the meantime, I think, you will probably have got rid of the military shackles. Which is why I consider it questionable to address my letter to Spandau. But my time is up already; a business letter to Volkmann33 and another34 to Ritschl have already stolen our time. Now I have to close, in order to get ready for roll call with all my gear. So, dear friend, forgive me my long neglect and ascribe most of the guilt to the god of war. In faithfulness 1. Cf. Leipzig, 11-26-1867: Letter from Rudolf Schenkel to Nietzsche in Naumburg. "Wäre ich nicht Jurist, so würde ich heute über die vielen Förmlichkeiten, die jedes Gericht mehr oder minder bei den kleinsten Dingen verlangt, eine gewaltige Klage anheben. So erlaubst Du mir wohl zu schweigen; vielleicht wird's besser, wenn wir einmal in diesen Sachen mitzureden haben. Für jetzt muß ich Dich bitten, den Wünschen des Universitätsgerichts sobald wie möglich Folge zu leisten. Die Vollmacht, die Du mir ausgestellt hattest, ist verworfen worden. "Du hast Dich — dies die Worte des Dr. Böttcher — in einem Schreiben an den academischen Senat zunächst darüber zu erklären, ob Du die Preismedaille oder Geld vorziehst, und zugleich darin mich als den zur Entgegennahme des Geldes Bevollmächtigten zu benennen." Nach Eingang dieses Schreibens wird an das Ministerium berichtet, welches sodann das Universitätsrentamt zur Auszahlung des Geldes anweist. Darüber werden etwa 14 Tage vergehen, und darum bitte ich Dich, möglichst bald jenes Schreiben aufzusetzen und einzusenden." (If I were not a lawyer, I would be making a strong objection today about the many formalities that every court more or less requires for the most trivial things. So you will allow me to remain silent; maybe it will be better once we have a say in these matters. For now I must ask you to comply with the wishes of the university tribunal as soon as possible. The power of attorney you gave me has been revoked. "First you have — these are the words of Dr. Böttcher — to explain in a letter to the academic senate whether you prefer the prize medal or money, and at the same time to name me as the person authorized to receive the money." After receipt of this letter, a report is sent to the ministry, which then instructs the university accounting office to disburse the money. About 14 days will pass, and I therefore ask you to write and send in that letter as soon as possible.) |
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[Greek: antidotes] other than the already mentioned essay written by Lachmann,
of Aristotelian writings,
[Greek: glosses] in the text.
[Greek: anachronisms].
. (Those whom the gods love die young.)
.
scil[icet] 
written 
.
;
)
.
