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Naumburg, February 1-3, 1868: My dear friend, It is Saturday and indeed the day is drawing to a close. For a soldier, there is magic in the word "Saturday," a sense of calm and peace that I, as a student, did not know.1 To be able to sleep and dream peacefully, without the specter of the next morning hovering over my soul, to have overcome and be done with another seven days of that excitement in uniform, which one calls a year in the military — what simple and intense pleasures they are, worthy of a cynic and acquired by us almost too cheaply and easily. I now understand that first and greatest Saturday afternoon mood in which the contented phrase Thus a Saturday makes one talkative, as you can tell; because we have to be silent the rest of the week and are wont to adjust the capabilities of our souls according to the commands of our superior officers; so, in our unguarded moments on Saturday, words gush from our lips and lines from our inkwell, especially when the fire is crackling in the stove and outside a February storm roars in expectance of springtime. Saturday, a storm, and a warm room, these are the best ingredients out of which to brew the punch of a "letter-writing mood." My dear friend, this is now my life, really very lonely and friendless. There is nothing exciting that I do not do myself, nothing of that harmonious concord of souls,3 as many a good hour in Leipzig entailed. Rather, alienation of the soul from itself, preponderance of dominant influences, which binds up the mind tightly with fear and teaches it to regard things with a seriousness of which they are not worthy. This is the other side of my current existence, and you can certainly empathize with me about it. But let us flip over the coin. This life is indeed uncomfortable, but, enjoyed as an entremets, absolutely useful. It is a constant call to muster a man's energy and relished particularly as an [The following paragraph contains an excerpt from the above-referenced text in Latin, with a brief parenthetical remark in German by Nietzsche.] Philosophorum denique Ordini unus traditus libellus est et ex classe quidem prima: "De fontibus Laertii Diogenis" hac inscriptione Isn't it, my dear friend, tant de bruit pour une omelette?12 But the way we are, we make fun of such praise and know only too well what, resp., is behind it, even though we contort our face with a pleasing grin. In such matters, our old Ritschl is a matchmaker,13 with all this splendid praise14 he tries to capture us in the web of Dame Philology. In my next essay (on the writings of Democritus), written in honorem Ritscheli,15 I have [a] surprising desire to tell the philologists a number of bitter truths. Until now, I've had the fairest hope for it: it has attained a philosophical background, which none of my previous works ever achieved. Moreover, without intending it but precisely on that account to my delight all my works are taking a quite definite direction; they all point like telegraph poles toward a goal of my studies, which, before long, I will have firmly in view. This is a history of literary studies in antiquity and in modern times. Initially, the details hardly concern me; at present, I'm attracted to the universally human element, as the evolving need for a literary history and as it takes shape under the molding hands of philosophers. The fact that we have received all enlightening thoughts in literary history from those few great geniuses, who live on in the voices of educated people, and the fact that all good and beneficial achievements in the said fields were nothing other than practical applications of those typical ideas, consequently that the creative element in literary research stems from those who never or hardly ever pursue such studies, that, on the contrary, the acclaimed works in the field were written by those who were devoid of the creative spark — these highly pessimistic views, harboring a new cult of genius, occupy me continuously and even make me inclined to test history for this. For myself, this is the real test; for me it's as if, in the lines written down, you would have to smell the aroma of Schopenhauerian cuisine. The fall to reality from these castles in the air is quite bitter. Think dear friend, that I, I who occasionally indulge in the mentioned views, still am not able to finish the upcoming ones. It is quite impossible for me to deliver on time the promised contribution for the Ritschl-book.16 As much as the material is in my head and heart, the draft of it is still far off: there is a lack of hundreds of things, time, books, good friends, moments of concentration and of investigation: and I must add that, for each of these shortcomings, every one really has the power to impede my elaboration. Fortunate people, says Ritschl of his students, you have 14 hours of the day for you and your studies! Wretched man, I tell myself, you have less than two hours of the day; and even these you have to sacrifice to Mars, who otherwise denies you your lieutenant's commission. Alas dear friend, what a misfortunate animal is such a mounted and errant artilleryman, if he has literary inclinations! Our old god of war just loved young women, not shrivelled old Muses. A cannoneer, who often enough meditates upon Democritean problems in the barracks room, squatting upon a dirty stool while his boots are being polished for him, is just a You would bring me great joy if you still want to wait until November of this year.18 In the spring and summer, we will gather together the essays of our friends, discuss and evaluate them, negotiate with the bookseller, merrily have them put to press — and then comes my essay, last and indeed late, but still in due time. By the way, Clemm19 also found the previous deadline to be too soon. Please let me know your opinion about this issue too! When I tell you that I am on duty every day from 7 a.m. to 5 p.m. and, moreover, still have to listen to lectures from a lieutenant and a veterinarian, thus you can imagine how badly off I am. In the evening, my body is listless and tired, it seeks its nest early. And so it goes without rest or respite from day to day. Where does that leave the concentration and contemplation necessary for scholarly papers! Oh, even for things that are closer to me than my literary needs, the si male nunc, non olim sie erit.21 And next year I'm going to Paris. I am almost convinced that you will get the same idea.22 As you know, an honest man must indeed be merry, in cheerful spirits, if indeed Saint Offenbach is right.23 Thus to you, poetry of the future, and to you, friendship of the best days gone by, my final stroke of the pen, my final inkblot! fulsere quondam candidi tibi soles!24 F. Nietzsche 1. On October 9, 1867, Nietzsche began his year of obligatory military service, with the mounted field artillery unit stationed close to Naumburg.
Naumburg, June 2, 1868: My dear friend, I assume that it will take you less time to read a letter than to write it, and therefore allow me to interrupt your deep work in a harmless and perhaps refreshing way. Basically, I am just catching up on what I missed recently, when the Pforta school festival1 made me hope more vividly than ever that I would see you face to face again. At that time, the material for the finest conversations was on my lips; in festive garb I waited for a well-known step to rumble up the stairs — and waited in vain. None of the band of my Pforta acquaintances (except Schenkio2) found that festival worthy of attention — and I did not pay attention to it myself, in fact I was not even present at the guest reception, nor in the gymnasium or on the mountain days. For what held me back above all was my illness,3 which has not yet been alleviated, which I fight with all sorts of devices and which is more persistent than even a patient man's mood can bear. On the whole, however, the current Pforta is not an object of sympathy for me either: we still like to think of it as a former lover, but would not really be happy to see how the apostates are enjoying themselves with their new lover. For this lover is also too sleazy, above all too dirty.4 I heard from the mouths of the folks that you were living at home — and this explained to me sufficiently why you had not come. What this mouth added "You are immersed in Aristotle" will probably likewise be correct mutato nomine.5 In any case, I was very angry that such a beautiful hope had slipped between my fingers; because I had resolved to detain you in Naumburg by force in order to share with one another the "important" results and experiences that young people who are at the end of the first third of their lives tend to have in their hearts. There is, for example, the great fact of a beard and the small fact of a philosophy of life, there is the raised angle of a silk hat, etc. — By the way, it just occurred to me that an evil demon had perhaps prevented my last letter6 from ever reaching your hands. I sent it to Berlin at your old address. It contained news of my illness and some philology, if I remember correctly. It always annoys me when letters to my friends get lost: for I cannot bring my heart to discuss the same matter twice. Incidentally, if you leave your home again to suffer the ordeal in Berlin,7 just force yourself to travel via Naumburg. Here I want to whisper all sorts of beautiful magic formulas into your ear, so that the devil does not devour you. In the meantime I wish you the clearest vision and the happiest perseverance in completing your work. My life-plans (which of course fate, the great censor, will alter a lot) are initially these. A trip to Paris is planned for next year, where I do not intend to stay for less than a year. My friends Rohde and Dr[.] Kleinpaul8 will accompany me. Afterwards I will probably habilitate in Leipzig, where another friend, Dr[.] Windisch,9 is establishing himself for Sanskrit requirements, and where I am still in contact with the philological community through the flourishing philological society. Soon I will hopefully be able to send you my Laertianum and another essay, both of which are printed in the Rhein. Mus.10 The latter deals with that beloved Danaelied, the good taste of which is still on the tip of my tongue from Bonn. Greater literary intentions are growing in me from day to day, and I am likewise preparing myself mentally for the profession of a university teacher by thinking a lot about the right method of teaching and learning for myself about the extent and the needs of current philology.11 Enough about me. Yesterday, however, I spoke to someone who had met you frequently and shared some details with me about your studies etc. This is Stedtefeld,12 currently a teacher in Schulpforta. He complained a bit about your all too easily aroused enthusiasm, about the speed and scope of your plans, to which the necessary perseverance did not correspond. Well, dear friend, such things I forgive first of all; yes, I praise this ability, because it will prevent you from falling into the swamp into which so many young philologists end up. They are concerned with the anxious effort to be able to show a scientific deed as soon as possible and therefore fall furiously upon a writer who is supposed to give them the opportunity and material for such deeds. Even with these poor ambitious people stat pro ratione voluntas:13 they are not plagued by a creative instinct as much as by the will to be creative. And woe betide the reason, which is only taken in tow by the will: incidentally, these natures are precisely the most pretentious. In general, you will find that most philologists have a moral eccentricity somewhere. To some extent, this can even be explained physically, insofar as they are compelled to live a life contrary to nature, to overfeed their minds with meaningless supplies, to neglect their spiritual development at the expense of memory and judgment. Especially the beautiful capacity for enthusiasm is rarest among contemporary philologists: overconfidence and vanity show up as sad substitutes for it. It literally pained me to hear this from Bernays14 too, whom I am accustomed to regard as the most brilliant representative of a philology of the future (that is, the next generation after Ritschl, Haupt, Lehrs, Bergk, Mommsen, etc.15). The same applies to Lucian Müller,16 the most gifted guttersnipe of our philology. Yes, mention any name you like, think of V. Rose or Ribbeck, or Bücheler, or Wachsmuth, etc.;17 a strange respect for one's own nature and a lack of genuine enthusiasm are everywhere to be seen. When these people warm up, when their nature, their language, their thinking begins to flow and gain momentum, then they will possess the feeling of their procreative power: they will warm up as artists, not as ethicists. But only the ethicist knows true enthusiasm, which is selfless through and through. Now, my dear friend, I would like to ask you to write me a very detailed letter about your work; yes, I have nothing against you sending me the same. You shall then hear from me what a more frank friend has partly to praise and partly to blame. In particular, if your work were to touch upon the question of authenticity, for example, my interest in it would be doubled. Just spare me a collection of conjectures. An exemplary work by a friend only recently came into my hands, written by my friend E. Rohde in Kiel. With no one in the world am I so united than with him, both on philosophical-ethical matters as well as philological demands and desires. His treatise on "Lucian's _<@l in relation to Lucius of Paträ and Apulejus," has recently been sent to the Rhenische Museum.18 Incidentally, Rohde is also one of those seduced people who have found their intellectual center in Schopenhauer. My greatest joy of late has been recruiting enthusiastic followers here and there for this name. What will you say to the fact that the eminent chief pastor Wenkel, who went over to that camp with flags flying, also belongs to these? He recently confessed to me that he had only now learned what philosophy is and that what philosophers other than Kant and Schopenhauer have achieved is basically nothing. I literally warm myself with these flames of enthusiasm that remind me of my "first love."19 Even the men whom Wenkel20 held in such high esteem, such as Schleiermacher and Strauss,21 have now become pale and colorless to him. But why am I telling you this? Certainly not to make you angry. Basically just to prove to you that my taste is not as paradoxical on this point as it may sometimes seem to my friend Paul Deussen.
Commend me quite well to your esteemed relatives; I sometimes think of your home with great pleasure. — By the way, write to me soon, just address it to Naumburg: the letter will reach me even while I still have life.22 But even this flickering thing can be extinguished at some point. 1. Schulpforta, 05-21-1868. Naumburg, June 22, 1868: My dear friend, Today my comrades in arms have left me, one and all; they are on the way to Magdeburg to practice shooting around there. So, I am just about the only one in uniform within Naumburg's walls, an abandoned broken-winged stork who enviously watches his stronger companions take flight. Yes, dear friend, the rumor that has already reached you by many torturous paths is for the best (i.e., the worst) part true: my military career didn't exactly turn out happily.2 I had survived the winter, and with it the most difficult and unpleasant half of the service; they had made me an artillery private and were also quite pleased with my conduct. With the onset of finer weather, I was able to breathe freely and breeze my horse in the vast exercise yard. Finally I was riding the most fiery and high-strung animal in the battery. One day I failed to execute a quick leap into the saddle; I hit my chest hard against the pommel and felt a shooting pain on the left side. I calmly rode on and even withstood the increasing pain for a day and a half. On the evening of the second day, however, I fainted twice and on the third I was nailed to my bed by the most acute pain and high fever. Through a medical examination, they found that I had torn two muscles in my chest. The result was an inflammatory condition of the entire muscular and ligamentary system in the pectoral region, which brought on an awful infection due to internal bleeding in the torn area. About 8 days later, when an incision was made into the chest, several cupsful of pus came out. Since that time, i.e. for three months the infection has not subsided; naturally, I was so exhausted when I got up from bed that I had to learn to walk again. The situation was pitiful; I needed extra assistance to get up, to walk, to lie down and could not write. Gradually my health improved, I enjoyed a fortifying diet, took many strolls and recovered my strength. But the wound remained open and the suppuration hardly abated. At last they discovered that the breastbone was injured, and that this was the impedimentum to recuperation. One evening the first reliable messenger of this fact also turned up, a little piece of bone that the pus had flushed out. Since then it has happened again and the doctors say to expect more of it. If a larger piece of bone becomes detached, then a minor operation also has to be done. The problem is by no means dangerous, but lengthy; the doctors have nothing to do other than assist nature in its process of excreting and replenishing. In addition, I have frequent daily infusions of chamomile tea and a silver nitrate solution, and bathe in warm water every day. In a few days, our staff surgeon will declare me "temporarily disabled"; and it is possible that I will retain a debility at the affected spot. Next week I will again travel to Halle to consult Volkmann,3 the renowned surgeon. I will make use of this occasion to visit our beloved Leipzig, along with its residents. Later on I am especially looking forward to seeing the excellent Ritschl4 again, who, since I've been away from Leipzig, has always given me the kindest displays of his sympathy and his goodwill: so that a fairly regular writing back and forth has developed, and nary a month passes by when I am in the dark about the state of his health. Also, everything else I hear from Leipzig is quite pleasing: e.g., that the philological club5 is growing substantially, that my good philological comrades have adorned themselves with doctorates and scholarly works, that Romundt, the odd fellow,6 has conceived a tragedy, which he hopes to be staged in the Leipzig theater, that friend Windisch7 is habilitating under brilliant auspices in Leipzig, etc. As soon as I could wield a pen again, I threw myself once more into my studies, a sample of which I have given you by means of the enclosed little ode on Danaë.8 I was reliant upon work, since I, for obvious reasons, had little company in Naumburg and rarely even had a visit from Volkmann or Dr Blass (a philologist from the Domgymnasium)9 or from Stedtefeld,10 the latter having taken the position of substitute teacher at Pforta. From time to time, I also delight in the witty Wenkel,11 whom I've also told you about. In the past, we talked a lot about philosophy, etc. together and although he was Hegeling,12 I would never fail to give him my full respect. Recently, when we met again I learned that, since that time, he has completely gone over to Schopenhauer's13 camp and that everywhere and to anyone he enthusiastically points out Schopenhauer's genius. This is a splendid addition to those quiet followers of the heretic, whom Haym14 likes to call "wonderful saints." — Before long you'll get more news from me, my dear friend! F.N. 1. See GSA 101/8. Ferdinand Anders-Paltzow (1826-1894): German photographer with a studio at Grosse Ulrichstrasse 35 in Halle, which was about a 5-minute walk from the university.
Wittekind, July 2, 1868: Highly esteemed Frau Privy Councilor, Even if I did not have to return the borrowed book, you still would have received a letter from me today. Although I had all too many obligations last Sunday, a charming and sunny day, the memory of you is the best one that I brought from Leipzig to my secluded spa.2 But if you (I know not guided by what genius) have at times given me your distinguished participation,3 then you must also patiently bear the consequences, the first of which might be today's letter. The day before yesterday, at noon, I reached the pretentious little village spa called Wittekind. It was raining hard and the flags that had been raised for the spa festival, hung down limp and soiled. My landlord, an indubitable rogue with blue opaque spectacles, came to meet me and led me to lodgings rented 6 days before that, with an utterly moldy sofa, were as desolate as a prison. It soon became clear to me, too, that this same landlord employed only one maidservant for two houses full of visitors, thus perhaps 20-40 people. Before the first hour was up, I already had a visitor, but so disagreeable a one that I was able to shake him off only by means of the most energetic courtesy.4 In short, the whole atmosphere of the place I had just entered was chilly, damp and dismal. Yesterday I investigated the character of the place a bit and the people here. At dinner I had the good fortune, in part, to sit next to a deaf-mute and some women with marvelously-shaped figures.5 The countryside doesn't seem bad; but one can't step outside to go anywhere or see anything due to the rain and the damp. Volkmann6 visited me and prescribed the local baths; at any rate, an operation is set for the near future. — How grateful I am to you for giving me Ehlert's book, which I read on the first evening in deplorable lighting upon the moldy sofa — read with pleasure and inner warmth. Vicious people might say that the book is poorly and excitedly written. But the book of a musician is not quite the book of a visual man; at bottom, it is music that happens to be written with words instead of notes. A painter must get the most painful sensation when this clutter of images is pulled together without any method. But unfortunately I have a penchant for the Parisian feuilleton, for Heine's Travel Sketches, etc., and prefer a stew to roast beef. What pains it has cost me to produce a scientific face in order to write down sober trains of thought with the requisite discretion and alla breve. Your spouse7 also knows a song about it (not to the melody "Ah, dear Franz, yet," etc.),8 who himself was very surprised about the complete lack of "style." In the end I was like the sailor who feels less secure on land than in a moving ship. Maybe I will find a philological subject that can be treated musically, and then I will babble like an infant and heap up images like a barbarian who has fallen asleep in front of an antique head of Venus, and despite the "flourishing haste" of the exposition — be quite right.9 And Ehlert is almost always right. But to many men truth is unrecognizable in this harlequin jacket. Not to us, we who take no page of this life so seriously that we cannot draw in a joke as a fleeting arabesque. And what god can be surprised if we now and then behave like satyrs and parody a life that always looks so serious and solemn, and wears cothurni on its feet? Yet it shows that I have not managed to conceal my predilection for dissonance from you! Didn't you already have a terrible sample of it?10 Here you have a second. The drawbacks11 of Wagner and Schopenhauer12 are poorly concealed. But I will improve. And if you should allow me to play you something once again, then I will form my memory of that beautiful Sunday in tones and you shall hear what you read today, how much this memory means to a poor musician etc. 1. Sophie Ritschl (1820-?): wife of Nietzsche's philology professor, Friedrich Ritschl. She was a friend of Richard Wagner's sister, Ottilie Brockhaus, through whom she was able to introduce Nietzsche to Wagner.
Naumburg, August 6, 1868: My dear friend, Today I should congratulate you and me, you as the fortunate and greatly admired winner of the academic competition,3 myself as one who has at last recuperated, of whom the angel sings: Rescued is the noble member In Leipzig the rumor of your coronation has spread everywhere, along with a common refrain that you will be habilitating in Kiel, and that this was at the specific request of Ribbeck.5 Perhaps the origin of this rumor is to be found in the familiar drawing room (at Lehmanns Garten N. 2 lunchtime 12-16): where I engaged in similar gossip describing me as the expected and future private docent in Leipzig. Let us console ourselves; at least they still believe in us. But nothing can stop us from spending a year together in Paris first: afterwards, at whatever university, each of us may be allowed to strew some false doctrines into some "milk-sucking" souls. But beforehand we still have to learn the divine power of the Cancan and practice drinking "yellow poison,"7 so that later we can march with dignity in the vanguard of civilization. By the way, news that the Lucianic How critical you are of the Simonidean Eiapopeia13 is something written from my soul: now do me a favor and make the appropriate conjecture (— È), which I, although I've been searching for years, cannot track down.14 As soon as I have it, I'll toss the
I just noticed that my letter is already getting out of hand, but it would be a real feat if I were to bring everything that I decided to mention today into a logical progression. Allow me to use numbers. Re 1) My friend Gersdorff (retired lieutenant, avid economist) reported the following to me. In Plaue on the Havel, near Brandenburg, lives Wisecke [sic],27 the owner of a large estate, a real friend of Schopenhauer, the only one who has a wonderfully painted portrait in oil of the great man. A true student, a highly educated man, a brilliant farmer who transformed terribly sandy soil into fertile land (Gersdorff gave a detailed report on the method; cavalry manure out of the Berlin stables plays the lead role); he is now rich, and his wealth estimable; for his poor people he retains a suitable doctor at 800 Tl. salary etc. He has an open house, an excellent wine cellar, whose finest wines only ever swirl in a goblet possessed by the man whose genius reigns in this house. When departing, every visitor receives a portrait of Schopenhauer and a photograph of his residence in Frankfurt, where Herr Wieseke [sic] makes an annual pilgrimage. His description of Schopenhauer's character corresponds altogether little to that of his insignificant friends, to whom Wieseke [sic] of course includes Frauenstädt,28 "the insipid numbskull."29 Re 2) The admirable, nicely organized Romundt reappeared in Leipzig, in fact with a tragedy Mariamne and Herod, in which an overexcited woman brings about diverse malheurs, and in the process does not earn our affection. The poetic spark in our friend is not strong enough to kill an ox, but enough to anesthetize a human being, so I asked him in earnest to abandon his dangerous pyrotechnics. So he is back to being a philologist, swimming, as far as I know, in the waters of Democritus (in order to catch a fish here for the doctorate festivities) and indulges in the hope that someday the production will be staged in a theater.30 Re 3) One morning, as I was sitting for an hour in the brine at Wittekind, with the sprightliness of a freshly-salted herring leaping into the light of day, a friendly face approached my half-immersed body, one that belonged to the amiable Clemm from Gießen. He bears his unfortunate fate and his foot with a touching gentleness. You must have read a laudatory review of his habilitation thesis in the Centralblatt. It was done by Georg Curtius.31 Now I skip to 11). I recall that, since you wanted to take a longer trip in August, it would also lead you to Naumburg. Count on a few days in Naumburg; I would always be able to detain you here with the help of my brave cannoneers. Here on the spot you shall hear the other remarks from the paragraphs that were skipped over. And everything we have agreed upon, fixed a date and hoped for, etc. Now what follows is a photograph that shows me in a somewhat defiant pose. Basically it is rude to appear before one's friends with a drawn sword and, on top of that, with such a peevish, furious expression on one's face. There is something brutish about such a warrior. But why do we let a bad photographer annoy us, why do we let all the rubbish of life annoy us so that we no longer look like freshly washed girls? Why do we always have to stand with the sword at the ready? And if we now want to attack the photographer with gusto, what does he do? He crouches behind his [camera's] cowl and shouts, "Now!" Adieu, my dear friend! Give your esteemed mother my best regards and visit me as soon as possible! As ever My relatives also send you their regards and look forward to your visit. 1. In March 1868, Nietzsche sustained a severe injury to his sternum in a riding accident. In the photograph Nietzsche sent with this letter, his uniform looks tight because he was still wearing bandages around his chest. On the back of the photograph, Nietzsche's dedication: "Rohdio suo. 'extra Lipsiam non est vita, si est vita, non est ita.'" (To Rohde: "There's no life outside of Leipzig: if there is, it's not as good.") A popular saying attributed to the Leipzig theologian Johann
Gottlob Carpzov (1679-1767), that Nietzsche perhaps read in his copy of Carl Julius Weber's Demokritos oder hinterlassene Papiere eines lachenden Philosophen [Demokritos, Or the Literary Remains of a Laughing Philosopher]. Bd. 3. Stuttgart: Rieger, 1868, 282. Nietzsche had his picture taken in uniform at the suggestion of his friends, Rudolf Kleinpaul and Rohde, who intimated that it would be a shame to waste the uniform, since — despite being placed on medical leave — Nietzsche still had an "appropriate costume" for a photo depicting him as a mounted artillerist (see Rohde's April 28, 1868 letter to Nietzsche).
Leipzig, October 27, 1868: My dear friend, The recently sent Laertianum1 probably indicated to you the fact that I am alive; that I live well will probably have been determined through your power of deduction from the location and information at the bottom of the dedication page. I moved back to Leipzig2 with utterly different demands, and completely doffed my student garb and thus the life associated with it. A friendly demon, mediated by the excellent Windisch,3 helped me find a dwelling that so far satisfies those demands and makes it impossible to relapse into student inquies,4 together with restaurant and theater fever. My apartment is in a garden at the entrance to the Lessingstrasse, it has a really charming and varied view, and allows me to sit with pleasure within my four pillars, to sweat through the evenings and to be warmed up by philology: this is something for Fritzen5 who formerly was inclined to dash to the theater every evening. Now, of course, I am obliged to get closely involved with the family of Prof. Biedermann,6 e.g., to eat lunch and dinner with them, to absolutely behave myself, like a spinster arriving at a boarding house. What the gods do not wish, but which my experienced friend, Frau Ritschl,7 prophesied to me, might be terribly boring, but it is not yet: and finally, if worst comes to worst, a Biedermann8 like me, who has already groomed horses,9 can practice asceticism. Dear God, what is not endured by a philologist whose existence is based on mental and physical starvation! Incidentally, the old Biedermann is a man of his name,10 a good paterfamilias, good spouse, in short, everything that one usually extols in a necrology: his wife11 is the Biederfrau: when again all is told. And so on, up to Biederfräulein I and II. Now the family has experienced a lot and is still involved in the middle of it, in the pursuit of political interests: to my consolation, however, there is almost no talk of politics, since I am no ζäον πολιτικον,12 and have a porcupine nature toward such things. Incidentally, Biedermann is Beust's13 natural brother: whose character has now become quite clear to me by using the Schopenhauerian theory of heredity.14 The wife is the sister of Mayor Koch. Our table and housemate is still the Frenchman, Mr. Flaxland (largest music publishing house in Paris),15 a funny little guy who causes laughter like a buffoon, and from whom I'm learning or will learn a bit of French. Occasionally I now go to concerts and lectures as a representative of the Deutsche Allgemeine;16 even [the position of] opera critic was offered to me — nego ac pernego.17 Of course I also have to take care of any guests of the house; and sometimes one doesn't even have to take care: e.g., when our friend and frequent guest ΓΛΑΥΚΙΔΙΟΝ18 was with us, when it was a pleasant duty accompanying her home recently. Hopefully you still remember whom we baptized: if not, write it down and I will photographically refresh your memory. Laube19 will arrive in the next few days as the definite person who is taking over the thèâtre: and I will be happy to get to know him. Tonight I was at the Euterpe,20 which started its winter concerts and refreshed myself with both the introduction to Tristan and Isolde, as well as with the overture to Die Meistersinger.21 I do not have the heart to respond to this music with critical coolness; every fiber, every nerve in me quivers and I have not had such a lasting feeling of rapture than during the last-named overture.22 Apart from that, my subscription seat is surrounded by critical minds: Bernsdorf sits directly in front of me, that Signal monster;23 on my left, Dr. Paul, current hero of the Tagblatt;24 2 seats right, my friend Stade, who produces critical sentiments for the Brendelian music journal:25 this is a sharp corner, and if we four shake our heads in unison, then it signifies a disaster.26 Dear friend, Father Ritschl27 asks whether you want to send in a small addendum about the Knauth dissertation:28 Ribbeck29 will have sent you the same. Your work (the merits of which must be obvious even to the moles of the Kn[auth] dissertation) will soon be printed.30 And so from Leipzig take a friendly, cordial, bourgeois-like handshake from Your faithful friend Private Property in Leipzig Lessingstr. 22, 2 dr. 1. "De Laertii Diogenis fontibus, 1-2." In: Rheinisches Museum für Philologie. Bd. 23: 632-653.
Leipzig, November 9, 1868: My dear friend, Today I intend to tell you a succession of cheerful things, merrily looking into the future and conducting myself in such an idyllically content way that your wicked wit, that feline fever, will arch its back and slowly walk away in exasperation. And in order to avoid any note of discord, I will discuss the famous res severa,1 which led to your second letter,2 on a special sheet of paper, which you can then read in a special mood and in a special place. The acts of my comedy are called: 1. A club-evening or the sub-professor; 2. The ejected tailor; 3. A rendezvous with X. A few old women are part of the cast. On Thursday evening, Romundt3 tempted me to the theater, for which my feelings are cooling down very much:4 we wanted to see a play by our future director Heinrich Laube and, enthroned like gods on Olympus, sat in judgment on a concoction called Graf Essex.5 Of course, I berated my tempter who invoked emotions from his childhood like a ten-year-old and I was happy to be able to leave the place in which not even ΓΛΑΥΚΙΔΙΟΝ6 was to be found: as was proven by a microscopic search of every corner of the theater. At home I found two letters, yours and an invitation from Curtius,7 whom I am glad to know more closely now. When two friends write our kind of letters, the angels, as is well known, rejoice; and so they rejoiced when I read your letter, indeed they even giggled. The next morning I solemnly went to thank Curtia8 for the invitation, since I unfortunately could not accept it. I do not know if you know this lady; I have really taken a liking to her, and an irrepressible joviality has developed between me and the couple. In this mood I went to my editor-in-chief Zarncke,9 found a cordial reception, put our affairs in order — the province of my book reviewing is now, among other things, almost the whole of Greek philosophy, with the exception of Aristotle, which Torstrik10 occupies, and another section in which my former teacher Heinze11 (privy councilor and prince's pedagogue in Oldenburg) is active. Incidentally, did you read my notice on Rose's Symposiaca Anacreontea?12 Coming up next is my namesake, who has become a knight of Eudocia — boring lady, boring knight!13 Upon arriving home, I found your second letter, became indignant14 and decided on an assault. The first lecture of the semester for our philological club was scheduled for the evening: and they had asked me very courteously to take it on. I, who need opportunities to bone up on academic weapons, was also prepared and had the pleasure to find, upon entering Zaspel's,15 a black mass of 40 listeners. Romundt was instructed by me to be quite personally attentive, so that he could tell me how the theatrical side, thus how the lecture, voice, style, disposition was and how effective it had been. I completely extemporized, helped only by notes on a diminutive slip of paper, on the Varronian satires and the Cynic Menippus:16 and, behold, everything was Here now it should be mentioned that I intend to dispose of my habilitation hassles by Easter and, at the same time, to obtain a doctorate by then. This is permitted: I need only a special dispensation, insofar as I do not yet have the usual quinquennium behind me.18 Now habilitating and lecturing are two different things: but it seems to me that it would be quite fitting, once I have my hands free, to go out into the world for the last time without an official appointment! Oh dear friend, it will feel like being a bridegroom, joy and vexation mingled, humor, Aware of a good day's work, I went to bed and thought about Ritschl, knowing what a scene there would be: which was what took place the next afternoon.20 When I got home, I found a slip of paper addressed to me, with a brief note: If you want to meet Richard Wagner, then come to the Café Théâtre around 3:45. Windisch.21 This news scrambled my brain somewhat, so that — forgive me! — I forgot all about the scene itself and was in a bit of a daze. I ran there, of course, and found our honorable friend, who gave me more information. Wagner was in Leipzig with his relatives, strictly incognito; the press had gotten no wind of it, and all of Brockhaus'22 servants were silent as tombstones in livery. Now Wagner's sister, Prof. Brockhaus' wife, that manifestly intelligent woman, had also introduced her brother to her good friend Ritschelin:23 in the course of which she was proud to show her brother off to her friend and her friend off to her brother, the lucky creature! Wagner, in the presence of Frau Ritschl, plays the Meisterlied,24 which you know too: and the good woman tells him that this song is already well known to her, mea opera.25 To Wagner's joy and amazement: proclaims his supreme will to meet me incognito. I am to be invited for Friday evening: but Windisch explains that I will be prevented by functions, duties, obligations; therefore they suggest Saturday. So Windisch and I ran back there, found the professor's family, but no Richard, who had gone out with a huge hat on his great head. So here I met the admirable family in question and received a kind invitation for Sunday evening. My mood at this time was really like something out of a novel; admit it, the prelude to this acquaintance, considering how unapproachable this eccentric man is, somewhat borders on the realm of a fairy tale. Believing that a large group of people had been invited, I decided to dress very sharply and was glad that my tailor had promised me a new tuxedo for Sunday. It was a terrible day of rain and snow, one shuddered at going outside, and so I was glad that little Roscher26 visited me in the afternoon, telling me some things about the Eleatics and about God in philosophy — for, as candidandus,27 he is treating the topic set by Ahrens,28 "The Development of the Concept of God up to Aristotle," while Romundt is trying to tackle the university prize-essay topic, "On the Will." — It was dusk, the tailor had not come, and Roscher was leaving. I went along with him, visited the tailor in person and found his slaves hard at work on my suit: they promised to send it in ¾ of an hour. I left content with matters, slipped into Kintschy's,29 read the Kladderadatsch30 and found to my pleasure a notice in the press that Wagner was in Switzerland but that they were building a beautiful house for him in Munich: while I knew I would see him that evening and that the day before a letter from the little monarch31 had arrived for him, addr[essed]: "To the great German tone-poet Richard Wagner." At home, though, I found no tailor, read at a leisurely pace the dissertation on the Eudocia and was disturbed from time to time by a shrill but distant ringing. Finally I thought for sure that someone was waiting at the old-fashioned iron gate: it was locked, as was the front door. I shouted across the garden to the man that he should go to the Naundörfchen:32 impossible for him to hear me due to the splattering rain. The whole house was astir; finally the gate was opened, and a little old man with a package came up to my room. It was half-past six; time to dress and get ready, for I live very far away. All right, the man has my things, I try them on, they fit. Events take an ominous turn! He presents the bill. I take it politely: he wants to be paid on receipt of the goods. I am amazed, explaining to him that I will have nothing to do with him, being merely an employee of my tailor, but will only deal with the tailor himself, to whom I gave the order. The man becomes more insistent, time becomes more pressing; I grab the things and begin to put them on, the man grabs the things and stops me from putting them on: force on my part, force on his part! Scene. I am fighting in my shirt, for I wish to put on the new trousers. At last, time for dignity, solemn threats, cursing my tailor and his helper's helper, swearing revenge: meanwhile, the little man makes off with my clothes. End of the 2nd act: I brood on the sofa in my shirt and consider a black coat, whether it is good enough for Richard. — Outside the rain is pouring. — A quarter to eight: I had arranged to meet Windisch in the Café Théâtre at half past seven. I storm out into the gloomy rainy night, also a little man in black, without a tuxedo, but in an enhanced novelistic mood: fortune is propitious, even the tailor scene has something monstrously extraordinary about it. We arrive at the very comfortable Brockhaus drawing room: no one was there other than the immediate family, Richard and the two of us. I am introduced to Richard and say a few words of admiration to him: he inquired exactly how I became familiar with his music, grumbles terribly about all performances of his operas, with the exception of the famous Munich ones33 and pokes fun at the conductors, who appeal to their orchestras in a congenial tone of voice: "Gentlemen, now make it more passionate," "My good fellows, still a bit more passion!" W[agner] likes to imitate the Leipzig dialect. — Now I will tell you in brief what this evening offered us, truly delights of such a piquant nature that even now I am not my old self, but can just do nothing better than talk to you, my dear friend, and tell you "wondrous tales." Before and after dinner Wagner in fact played all the important passages from the Meistersinger, while imitating every voice and doing so very exuberantly. Indeed, he is a fabulously lively and fiery man who speaks very quickly, is very witty and makes this very private party quite cheerful. Meanwhile, I had a long conversation with him about Schopenhauer:34 oh, and you will understand what a pleasure it was for me to hear him speak about him with such indescribable warmth, what he owed him, how he was the only philosopher who understood the essence of music: then he asked how professors were presently disposed toward him, laughed heartily about the philosophy congress at Prague35 and spoke "of the philosophical footmen." Afterwards he read a part of his biography, which he is now writing, a very delightful scene from his student days in Leipzig, which I cannot even think about now without laughing; incidentally, he writes with extraordinary fluency and wit. — Finally, when we [i.e., Windisch and Nietzsche] were both preparing to leave, he pressed my hand warmly and kindly invited me to visit him, so that we could make music and do philosophy; he also entrusted me to familiarize his sister and his relatives with his music: which I have now solemnly accepted. — You shall hear more when I can see this evening more objectively and from a distance. For now, a hearty farewell and best wishes for your health. F. N. Res severa! Res severa! Res severa! My dear friend, I beg you to write directly to Dr. Klette in Bonn (without further formalities and reasons) and ask to have the manuscript back.36 At least I would do so. Ritschlian tactlessness is too much; and in the conversation that took place it came out clearly: so that I spoke to him somewhat coldly, which gave him quite a shock. Mind you, it's true that the Rhein[isches] Mus[eum] is now overwhelmed [with submissions]: and that this year's last issue will attest to you that fact, in that it runs 4 sheets over the usual number of pages. That I am personally still very angry about the matter is obvious. Yet it was I who, with the best intention and friendliest opinion, suggested to you to entrust your m[anu]scr[i]pt to the Rhein[isches] Mus[eum]; with this I thought I was doing something quite nice. It bothers me especially when I remember what was the original purpose of the fine essay. If you want to exact vengeance, then send the work to Hermes; but I do not favor such vengeance. Under these circumstances, Philologus is out of the question; and it's the same with Fleckeisen's J[ahr]b[üc]h[er]37 as with the Rhein[isches] Mus[eum]. So dear friend, a publisher should be found (and if I may advise you, publish the In any case, the matter must be done quickly, indeed the 3-4 sheet thick short work must be printed within a month. — If you're not in any hurry, then perhaps the two of us can arrange a little plan: we can produce a book together, called "Contributions to the History of Greek Literature" in which we combine several longer essays (by me, e.g., on Democritus' writings, on the Homeric-Hesiodic What do you think about this?
1. "Serious thing." Res severa est verum gaudium (True joy is a serious thing) is the motto over the entrance to the Leipzig Gewandhaus, home of the Gewandhaus civic orchestra, at the time led by Carl Reinecke. The saying comes from Seneca, Epistles: xxiii. |
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