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Genoa, January 19, 1882: My dear and revered Frau Professor, when I add a recently arrived letter1 from America to your letter,2 which gave a festive atmosphere to my New Year, I have to say: I am indebted to two women for the most eloquent way of expressing that my thoughts are actually thought about and considered and not just read (or more accurately: "and not just not read!"). That letter came from the wife of a professor at the Peabody Institute in Baltimore; who, on behalf of her husband and a friend, thanks me, as you thanked me, for being a thoughtful guy! Well, these are exceptions, and I enjoy them entirely as exceptions; until now, the rule was: no effect or a thoughtless effect! You should believe me that I therefore do not think less of people, and that of all the ideas about me, the idea of a "misunderstood genius" seems the most ludicrous. A very slow and lengthy orbit shall be the destiny of my thoughts — indeed, to put it somewhat blasphemously, I shall believe in my life only after my death and in my death during my life. Thus it is proper and natural! — When I see you again, I will tell you some curious details — now a word about the possibilities of this "When I see you again." I am bound to Genoa by a work that here alone can come to an end because it has a Genoese character in itself — well, why should I not tell you? It is my "Dawn," conceived in 10 chapters and not merely in 5;3 and very much of what is in the first half is only the foundation and preparation of something more weighty, something more lofty (indeed! there are also some "dreadful things" that still need to be said, dear Frau Professor!).4 In short, I do not know if I can fly north in the summer: but if I travel, I will come over to Basel and to your home. This time I will "shine" in Bayreuth5 by my absence — unless Wagner still invites me personally (which according to my notions of "higher decorum" would be quite well sent!) I want my right6 to a seat entirely put to bed. Confidentially: I would rather hear "Scherz List und Rache"7 than Parsifal.8 So you know what's going on between Herr Köselitz and me, and how I continue "to corrupt the youth" (— I will probably not escape the hemlock!),9 I enclose the last letter10 of Herr Köselitz: it will perhaps cause some "astonishment" in you, but certainly no "shivers"! The weather the past few months was such that I had no objections to anything more beautiful and beneficial in my entire life — crisp, pure, mild: how many hours have I lain by the sea! How many times have I watched the sunset! Dear Frau Professor, "friends share everything in common" — say the Greeks:11 may life still give us* many things in common! — I thought as I read your letter. Sincerely grateful and devoted to you * the three of us!12 1. End 1881: Letter from Elise Fincke.
Heinrich Köselitz. From b/w photo, Venice, 1878. Colorized and enhanced image ©The Nietzsche Channel. Genoa, January 25, 1882: Well, my dear friend, I am writing a few lines to you — I would love to be with you now. Actually, you were in danger of being surprised by me — nothing but a message from my relatives, that the long-announced visit of Dr. Rée1 is imminent, has held me back here in Genoa. What you are experiencing now, that is the rule — I was so astonished last summer, so beside myself with astonishment, that things have changed in regard to you and for once the estimation of you should be different and exceptional. But I would gladly like to help you a little in getting over this cursed "regularity" or — to tell the truth — let you help me in getting over it; for, about this Viennese rejection,2 I am not only angry, but offended, even literally sick and have been incapable of all good things. It sounds to me like a sneering protest against my peaceful mindset and "devotion to God"3 that I have just put down on paper. The best antidote would now be: to laugh a bit together and make good music. I cannot even tell you how much I hanker for your matr[imonio] segr[eto].4 In the evening of the day on which your letter5 arrived, I had considered that all further dispositions about my sojourns and all arrangements for this year and the next year depend upon the music of Herr Peter Gast and on the fate of this music, — I was considering a winter in Vienna and Venice. Truly, dear friend, there are astonishingly so few good things that come to me from abroad. I am snowed in with my solitude and just living like this, a little too abandoned and all too assumed to be dying, even by my friends. Just you and your future — including Nausicaa6 —, only your letters and thoughts are the beautiful exceptions in my "winter," and probably the only things that bring and give me the most warmth. A few words about my "literature." A few days ago, I finished with books VI, VII and VIII of the "Dawn"7 and am therefore done with my work at this time. For I want to save book[s] 9 and 10 for next winter — I am not yet ripe enough for the elemental ideas that I want to present in these final books. One idea8 is among them, which in fact requires "millennia" in order to become something. From where will I get the courage to express it! Today, for the first time since last summer, I read something from my "Dawn"9 and took pleasure in doing so. In view of the fact that these things are very abstract, the cheerfulness of mind with which they are treated, makes them quite respectable. For comparison, read any book on morality — I still have my leaps and jumps10 for myself. Besides that, I was attracted to how rich the book is in unspoken thoughts, at least for me: I see hidden doors here and there and in every corner, which lead further and often very far (and not just to "exits" — pardon!) Do you want my new manuscript?[!]11 Perhaps it will give you entertainment and amusement. (Don't even think about transcribing it — that still has a year to go and perhaps even a lot more[.])12 It occurs to me that I have the m[anu]s[cript] but just have to read it once more so that you can read it (it's missing many letters and also some words)[.] Considering that health and eyes have failed me, I could not cope with these corrections and revisions 2 weeks ago. This January is the best of my life. But it only had 21 Days! — Sincerely your friend F N. 1. Paul Rée arrived in Genoa on February 4th and stayed until mid-March.
Genoa, January 29, 1882: Dear friend, Hr. von Bülow1 has the inherently bad manners of a Prussian officer, but is an "honest fellow" — that he no longer wants anything to do with German opera music is due to all kinds of secret reasons; it occurs to me that he once told me "I do not know Wagner's latest music." — Go to Bayreuth in the summer;2 there you will find all of Germany's theatrical people, and even Prince Lichtenstein,3 etc., likewise Levy [sic].4 I think all of my friends will be there, also my sister, after your letter of yesterday (and that pleases me very much!). If I were with you, I would acquaint you with Horace's satires and epistles — I think we are both ready for them. When I took a look at them today, I found all the expressions charming, like a warm winter's day.5 My last letter to you was "frivolous," wasn't it? Have patience! In regard to my "thoughts," it's nothing to me to have them, but to get rid of them, if I want to be rid of them, is always devilishly difficult for me! — Oh what days! Oh the wonders of this beautiful Januarius!6 Let us be of good cheer, dearest friend! 1. When Köselitz sent the score of his comic opera ("Scherz, List und Rache") to Hans von Bülow, it was summarily dismissed as fodder for the servile herd of Wagnerian acolytes. According to Köselitz, "[Bülow] hatte die ihm zugeschickte Partitur von 'Scherz, List und Rache' gar nicht angesehen und mir, dem Allegro-Musiker, gleichwohl einen Brief geschrieben, der erkennen ließ, daß er mich für einen der imitatores aus dem servum pecus Wagneri hielt. Sein Brief begann: 'R. W. ist ein Phänomen, — Phänomene machen keine Schule'. Ich dankte ihm für die nicht erbetene Auskunft über ein Phänomen R. W. und schickte ihm den Brief mit den Worten zurück, ich wisse meine Verehrung vor ihm nicht besser zu bezeugen, als indem ich seinen Brief als ungeschrieben betrachte. Nietzsche fand diese Behandlung des Falles 'ganz angemessen'." ([Bülow] did not even look at the score sent to him of "Scherz, List und Rache" and to me, the allegro-musician, he nonetheless wrote a letter, letting it be known that he thought I was one of the imitatores from the servum pecus Wagneri. His letter began: "R. W. is a phenomenon, and phenomena don't create schools." I thanked him for the unsolicited information about the R. W. phenomena and returned his letter to him, saying I know no better way to show my respect for him than to regard his letter as unwritten. Nietzsche found this treatment of the matter 'entirely appropriate'.") In 1872, Nietzsche was also the subject of Bülow's withering criticism.
Franz Overbeck. By: Jacob Höflinger. From b/w photo, Basel, ca. 1880. Colorized and enhanced image ©The Nietzsche Channel. Genoa, January 29, 1882: My dear friend, yesterday my sister wrote1 to tell me that she would like to use my "right" to a seat in Bayreuth:2 Now, if it is not too late, well then I would sign the form, about which you wrote to me — for I do not have anything more from the receipts. — By the way, I would be delighted to hear about this decision of my sister; I think that all my friends will be there, including Herr Köselitz.3 But I myself was too close to Wagner to be able to show up without a kind of "restoration"4 Yesterday I sent the new manuscript8 to Herr Köselitz in Venice. It still lacks the 9th and 10th books, which I can now no longer produce — it takes new energy and most profound solitude. (Dr. Rée is coming next week[.]9) Perhaps I will find a month in some forest this summer that gives me both: I was thinking of the forests of Corsica, but also of the Black Forest (St. Blasien?) But perhaps I will have to wait until winter for this most difficult of all my tasks.10 In the meantime there is bad news from Herr Köselitz. The Viennese11 sent the score back to him; an attempt he made to attract Bülow's interest12 in his work also failed (he doesn't want to have anything more to do with German opera music). — I am inexpressibly grateful for everything that could sound like encouragement and satisfaction to our poor friend in this difficult situation. — By the way, he is [a] philosopher, more than I [am]. Indeed, I myself bear his failure harder than he does! — My dear friend, what trouble and distress I always give you! — When we meet again, will you bestow upon me the honor of reading aloud to me your lecture on the emergence of Christ[ian] literature?13 — Did you also have such a "spring" as we did? The real "Miracle of Saint Januarius!"14 — To you and yours from the heart 1. The letter is lost.
Genoa, January 30, 1882: My dear mother, this is how the years pass, one always faster than the other. Eventually, one just learns the game of life by heart — one finally feels it, as the pianists say, "in one's fingers"; that's why they go so swiftly! I already realize it: how much more will you realize it! And just like me, you won't be served with wishes on your birthday; holding on to what one has is the main feat of later life, and to know what one has before so many people, and especially before all the dissatisfied ones! The year puts on a cheerful face for you: let's see that we, too, give you reason for cheerfulness and for feeling good about life! Just like this fairest of all Januarys! —2 It's always like spring here: one can sit outside in the shade in the morning — without freezing. No wind, no clouds, no rain! An old man told me that there had never been a winter like this in Genoa. The sea is still and deep. The peaches are blooming! — Of course, if there is an extended winter, then things are worse than ever for the olive trees and all the fruit! — I see soldiers in the lightest linen outfits; I myself wear the same clothes on my walks as I did in the summer in Engadine, the current weather is related to its good days. But of course: the weather that was harmful to me was so prevalent during the last times I was up there, and the whole thing, in summa, was such a test of patience that I am banning myself from the Engadine this year. —3 Despite this weather, my health has been quite variable; and I would have felt much better if I hadn't had to do some work this winter too. And regular intellectual work day after day at certain hours is still the surest way to ruin myself without being noticed. "Unnoticed" — that is, a day comes when I notice that things are very bad and where recovery can no longer be achieved with a few days of rest. - - - On top of all this, I have been subjected to many toothaches since October — there are about 6 hollow teeth, and the phrase "dental operations" has filled me with envy. Perhaps I will finally have to decide to go to Florence to see Dr. van Marter,4 who has already had me in his expert hands once. — Recently I have become aware of another ailment, which has its own unpleasantness; I am now tormented by a bladder problem and it won't go away from me. In short, you see, I still have a lot to endure, and I need good courage that cannot so easily be bought at the nearest market. Well! I can't write more for today, my eyes are already hurting. — — I await the arrival of Dr. Rée5 with great anticipation. — He is even coming to the carnival, which this time features the visit of the famous Frenchwoman Sarah Bernhardt.6 We will have 3 days (February 5th, 6th and 7th) of French theatrical performances in our large Carlo Felice Theater, which holds 3000 people — and it will be full. — Once again, my dear good mother, I want to make sure that in this new year of yours you don't have any new troubles because of me — the old ones will probably remain! From the heart your son Isn't it right that I find out exactly at the hour of my friend's arrival that I can be at the train station? Does he want to stay here for a month and should I rent after that? — Salita delle Battistine 8, interno 6 is the address. 1. Nietzsche dutifully wrote a birthday letter to his mother every year from 1861-1887 (forgetting but later correcting his mistake in 1888). Franziska Nietzsche turned 56 years old on February 2, 1882.
Venice, January 31, 1882: Esteemed Herr Professor! On Sunday I received your manuscript,1 from which I have drawn new delights in long draughts. How I admire all this and even forget about my inferiority! May everything around you facilitate your intention to hold on to many things from the past year, which must have been so rich in ideas for you! On p. 52 there is an aphorism about cause and effect2 that I don't seem to fully understand. Kant says:3 space is a priori in our sensibility — by which he means: we bring our eyes and sense of touch with us into the world. The sense of causality is as innate to the entire nervous system as spatial perception is to those two senses: every nervous excitation of the central nervous system, even in the lowest animals, is deemed to be the effect of a cause — and in this respect the term a priori does not seem inappropriate to me. The lowest organisms, which are not yet locomobile and perhaps barely subsist with consciousness, certainly do not think of themselves as a cause, externally (like the person who strikes) — but rather, as it seems to me, every external action appears to them as originating from a cause, pointing to an object (and thus at the same time to a force). There is such an extraordinary amount to be discerned in the simplest sciences! This is how physics speaks of forces — truly, as if they existed on their own; or of matter or stuff or substance (what do I know) — as if these existed without force. One could say: if one thinks of taking forces away from bodies (first the gravitational force, but then all its subtypes and transmutations to the point of cohesion), what remains is matter. And if one thinks of taking matter away from bodies, what just remains is force — nothing but abstractions of the most dangerous kind with which natural science just plays. Schopenh[auer], when talking about causality,4 makes some mistakes: he calls states causes, whereas only forces can be causes. He takes the example of a burning body5 and says: here is a burning mirror, here is the body; the addition of heat to this was caused by the sun's rays striking the mirror, this by a cloud's moving away from the direction of the sun, this by wind, this by uneven density of the air, etc. Sheer nonsense! The removal of clouds is not cause: the intervention of clouds was only an obstruction to the effectiveness of the sun's heat, etc. — and so it is throughout the whole world. The gravitational force surely acts continuously, as surely as matter is indestructible, the equality, the necessity (and therefore calculability) of effects rests on the integrity of matter and forces of the universe. The fact that "things" hinder each other's effects and that the removal of the obstruction makes the efficacy of a force perceptible, must not tempt Schopenhauer to portray the removal of the obstruction as the cause of the effectiveness of that force. I can only express myself poorly today; a strong wind whistles through all the windows and doors and annoys me with its music. Will I come to Bayreuth?6 The day before yesterday I received the tickets from Herr Professor Overbeck. Perhaps I will give them to my two brothers.7 I don't want to see Liechtenstein8 anymore — the repetition of the Bayreuth experience9 doesn't attract me at all. As the years go by, I begin to make more and more selective use of the "right" of sympathy and antipathy. — Don't be alarmed by the imprudence I committed: I accepted Bülow's letter10 and sent it back to him. It said, among other things as well: "I don't have the slightest interest in "German" opera music — R[ichard] W[agner] is a phenomenon — phenomena don't create schools." Who told him to drive me and the score away impromptu like that; I did not ask him for any information about a R[ichard] W[agner] phenomenon. I told him that this letter did not pertain to me and that I was sorry that I could not show my admiration for him better than by considering his letter as never written. What will come of it? Bülow would be a good enemy, even if he wanted to bash me to death: — I, finally, the martyr of Scherz, List und Rache — what great comedy!11 How strange! on Sunday morning12 I read Horace's satire about avarice, in Vossen's translation,13 which causes me a lot of pain and which I must first translate into my German; but in doing so, I dwell longer on the meaning and rather enjoy the astonishing richness of what I have observed. These things, however, are enchanting, clear, succinct, cheerful, mature. In conclusion, I greet you, dear Professor, with the warmest thanks as Your devoted student H. K. 1. The originally planned continuation of Morgenröte (books six to eight) became books one to three of Die fröhliche Wissenschaft.
February 5,1882: My dear friend, I find your treatment of the Bülow matter1 entirely appropriate — I think Bülow himself will find it appropriate; he is capable of liberal impulses. — Dr. Rée arrived yesterday;2 he is living in the house next door and staying for a month. Tonight the two of us will be seated together at the Carlo Felice Theatre to see Sarah Bernhardt, as La dame aux cam[é]lias (Dumas fils).3 The typewriter4 (an object of 500 frs.) is here, but — damaged during the journey: perhaps it will have to go back to Copenhagen for repairs, today I will be informed about it by a first-rate local repairman. — Gersdorff believes that a performance of Scherz L[ist] und Rache5 will be possible in Leipzig — says Rée. — Nerina6 has taken G[ersdorff]'s engagement7 rather tragically, and causes distress to the poor man. — What? You're finally not going to Bayreuth?8 — At one time I felt so differently about this possibility to be able to say how it affects me. But it doesn't seem useful to me — even if it's just that you have to get to know Wagner's orchestra and his orchestral inventions. Lastly: I would very much like to have you among all my friends who, as I myself imagine, will try to make amends for what they hold in their "dear hearts" regarding me — pardon me for talking about it! "Causality-sense"9 — yes, friend, that is something different from the “a priori concept” that I am talking about (or babbling about!)[.] Where does the absolute belief in the universal validity and universal applicability of that causality-sense come from? People like Spencer think it is a broad view based on countless experiences made by many generations, an induction that ultimately emerges as absolute. I think this belief is a relic of an older, much narrower belief. Yet why this! I am not permitted to write about such a thing, my dear friend, and I have to refer you to the "9th book" of my D[awn]10 so that you can see that I deviate least from the thoughts that your letter11 attributes to me: — I was pleased by these thoughts and our agreement. The new "Journal"12 wasn't an unpleasant surprise to me at all. Or am I mistaken? The fundamental idea in his introduction13 — Europeanism with the perspective of the destruction of nationalities — isn't this my idea? Tell me the truth about this: perhaps some trick of vanity is misleading me. — Not long ago I went for a walk and thought of nothing at all along the way except the music of my friend Gustav Krug, — purely by chance and without any reason. The next day, I received a booklet of his songs (published by Kahnt)14 and among them was precisely the song that I had reconstructed on my walk. Most surprising whim of fate! Weather still indescribable! Yesterday Rée and I were at the spot on the coast where in a hundred years (or 500 or 1000, as you would kindly assume!) they will erect a pillar in honor of my "Dawn." We lay happily in the sun like two sea urchins. With the warmest regards, your faithful soul-neighbor15 F.Nietzsche. 1. When Köselitz sent the score of his comic opera ("Scherz, List und Rache") to Hans von Bülow, it was summarily dismissed as fodder for the servile herd of Wagnerian acolytes. According to Köselitz, "[Bülow] hatte die ihm zugeschickte Partitur von 'Scherz, List und Rache' gar nicht angesehen und mir, dem Allegro-Musiker, gleichwohl einen Brief geschrieben, der erkennen ließ, daß er mich für einen der imitatores aus dem servum pecus Wagneri hielt. Sein Brief begann: 'R. W. ist ein Phänomen, — Phänomene machen keine Schule'. Ich dankte ihm für die nicht erbetene Auskunft über ein Phänomen R. W. und schickte ihm den Brief mit den Worten zurück, ich wisse meine Verehrung vor ihm nicht besser zu bezeugen, als indem ich seinen Brief als ungeschrieben betrachte. Nietzsche fand diese Behandlung des Falles 'ganz angemessen'." ([Bülow] did not even look at the score sent to him of "Scherz, List und Rache" and to me, the allegro-musician, he nonetheless wrote a letter, letting it be known that he thought I was one of the imitatores from the servum pecus Wagneri. His letter began: "R. W. is a phenomenon, and phenomena don't create schools." I thanked him for the unsolicited information about the R. W. phenomena and returned his letter to him, saying I know no better way to show my respect for him than to regard his letter as unwritten. Nietzsche found this treatment of the matter 'entirely appropriate'.") In 1872, Nietzsche was also the subject of Bülow's withering criticism.
Genoa, February 10, 1882: First of all, here's the declaration for Bayreuth,1 which now, according to Overbeck's instructions,2 continues on its way to Feustel3 in B[ayreuth] with an explicit statement on your part, my dear sister, for any of the 3 days of the main performance (July 26, 28 or 30) you have decided on[.] Then he will send you the ticket. So far, as expected, things are not going well. The first day4 in very good spirits; the second one I survived with the use of every tonic; the third exhaustion, fainted in the afternoon; the night brought on an attack; the fourth to bed; the fifth, I got up again just to lie down again in the afternoon. the sixth and up to now constant headache and weakness. In short, we still have to learn how to be together. It is just altogether too pleasant to socialize with Dr. Rée; there is simply not a more refreshing interaction. But I'm not accustomed to the best. — He likes it, or rather: he is quite surprised at how much he likes it here. — We were unlucky with Sarah Bernhardt.5 We were at the first performance; after the first act she collapsed as if dead. After an awkward hour of waiting, she continued acting, but in the middle of the third act she was overcome with a hemorrhage of blood on stage — that was the end of it. It was an unbearable impression, especially since she just played a sick woman of that type (la dame aux cam[é]lias by Dumas fils)[.] — Nevertheless, she again performed with tremendous success the next night and successive evenings, and convinced Genoa that she is "the first living artist." — She reminded me, in appearance and manners, very much of Frau Wagner. — In mid-March, Dr. Rée leaves for Rome to Frl. v. Meysenbug. — Nothing has been decided yet about the typewriter6; an extremely skilled mechanic has been working on it for a week now. Tomorrow it will be "finished." Let's hope for the best! How I have been blessed by yourselves, my dears! And I also hear from Dr. R[ée] nothing but good news from you. I think that our dear Lisbeth is now, or will very soon, be of use to Madame Rée; she leaves on Sunday. Health absolutely does not permit [me] to write more. Sorry! With the greatest gratitude What is Gustav Krug's address and [book] title?7 1. A declaration to purchase tickets for the premiere of Richard Wagner's opera, Parsifal, at the end of July 1882. See Note 2.
Postcard. February 11, 1882. © Klassik Stiftung Weimar, Goethe- und Schiller-Archiv. Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Genoa, February 11, 1882: Friend Rée1 and I — how often do we talk about you and worry and hope together regarding everything that concerns Herr Peter Gast!2 How we wish you were coming here! — for I now have one more possibility that you will like Genoa: R[ée] is quite amazed at how much he likes it. By the way, he promises you to enjoy next year's carnival in Venice, provided that you are "involved"3 in it — I want to be there too. — Gersdorff said about you in Leipzig: "What Carlsbad is to an upset stomach, Köselitz is to an upset spirit."4 The typewriter5 is here, but badly damaged — it has already been under "repair" for a week. With our warmest regards, R. and N. 1. Paul Rée stayed with Nietzsche in Genoa from February 4 to March 13, 1882. He then traveled on to Rome and stayed with Malwida von Meysenbug, where he met Lou Salomé for the first time.
Postcard. February 11, 1882. © Klassik Stiftung Weimar, Goethe- und Schiller-Archiv. Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Genoa, February 11, 1882: Hurrah! The machine1 has just been moved into my apartment; it is working perfectly again. — I don't yet know how much the repair cost. Friend R[ée] didn't want to tell me. F. 1. Paul Rée had brought along with him to Genoa a typewriter for Nietzsche, but it was damaged on the journey. Read about the restoration of Nietzsche's typewriter by Eberwein.
Cover of Nietzsche's Notebook N-V-8.1 © Klassik Stiftung Weimar, Goethe- und Schiller-Archiv. Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Genoa, February 17, 1882: Smooth ice a paradise F.N. 1. Cover of Nietzsche's Notebook N-V-8, which contains, amongst other writings, draft versions of the poems from Idylls from Messina and The Joyful Science.
Title page of Gioacchino Rossini's Otello, ossia il moro di Venezia. Dramma per musica. Napoli, 1816. Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Venice, February 26, 1882: Esteemed Herr Professor! I thank you very much for your kind letter.1 You also ask in it whether or not I know of a diversion for you, an adventure or something similar. It is difficult for me to think of something for you; everything I would like to mention involves greater and more sustained health than you have. Now, e.g., they are preparing over in Trieste a ship for the observation station that Austria is setting up far north of Iceland for very important research. If I had time, I would go along myself in order to some day take in all the desolate and bleak majesty of that spot. From the descriptions of Weyprecht,2 a clear and high-minded man, I have very powerful impressions of the north; and also about the steadfastness and energy his research demands from people. I may not be one of the most unimaginative people; but what I know from Weyprecht I would not have been able to imagine such stunning horrors without his description. The heroism of Columbus will not concede much to that of the North Pole travelers. Columbus' voyage lasted 44 days, including the 4-week stay on the Canary Islands: but a trip to the North Pole requires at least 2 years of strenuous morality, in the middle of the ship between heaving Scyllae and Charybdis made of ice, or bears, seals, wolves, or under struggles that you can't imagine: Weyprecht says that three months were spent transporting their gear and provisions on hand sleds 60 kilometers from the site! The feeling that civilization and assistance there are a few hundred miles further south is certainly worth two years of life. I think with regret that one shall never experience in one's mind and feelings what would occur to one up there! Another region for adventure would be the growing insurrection every day in Crivoscie and Herzegovina.3 I think Austria is looking for medical personnel. — Most of western China is unknown. A recent researcher, v. Richthofen,4 says of China — it is a country that has the greatest future in every respect; fertile in soil cultivation, labor power, and, with closer acquaintance with the West or its East (America), certainly also in intellectual respects — namely after shedding its rituals and national limitations. Nowhere are the sources so inexhaustible as there — temperament (and moral schools through many millennia) excellently prepared for the freest intellectual conditions! — I like hearing that. I can't speak of adventures other than geographical ones. I am uninformed about the Wagners.5 Now they are in Palermo. I only get news about them from the "N[euen] Fr[eien] Presse": I don't read any other journal. But I'll let you know immediately as soon as I read anything related to this. I also listened to The Barber of Sev[ille]6 twice before Carnival — with a delight that I have rarely experienced when listening to music. I will certainly be ashamed of you if you don't take much interest in this music and when I make no secret of my pleasure.7 I do not put so much emphasis on Seville; in Rossini's time, people did not know the history and local color in music and were still in a similar innocence like the painters of the early Renaissance or Shakespeare, who even allowed the Trojans to have cannons. — I find in Rossini, and especially in the Barber, a boundless genius, — unfortunately in connection with the general laziness of Italians. Nowhere, not even in Mozart, have I found such spontaneity (the German has no appropriate expression for this — probably because he knows little about spontaneity) as in Rossini. In the Barber I do not feel anything that seems like effort — with others you feel this so often (not too rarely with Chopin, for example). I was also amazed at the pleasant tonality of the orchestra; this was certainly new in his time. How many things become colorful and shimmering in Rossini that seem like cold marble in Mozart and Cimarosa! And these Rossinian crescendos, in which the orchestra begins to boil and bubble (e.g. before Figaro appears), I now find the most pleasant sounds to my ear. Taking a feeling seriously — Rossini could never do that; the most tragic thing he wrote, "Assisa a piè d'un salice, immersa nel dolore —" (Othello),8 seems to us post-Romantics like a Zschumperlied9 in a minor key. It is so bad or so good that he doesn't even once make it bring forth pangs of conscience. That's enough! — Things are off to a good start with Baron von Loën:10 he has already made me wait 14 days for confirmation of receipt of the score! I can see that nothing will come of this performance in the next few years. I can now expect my salvation from the Italians; I won't let anything stop me. With warm regards to you, esteemed Herr Professor, and to Dr. Rée11 Your grateful student 1. Cf. Genua, Ende Februar 1882: Typewritten letter to Heinrich Köselitz.
Typewritten letter. © Klassik Stiftung Weimar, Goethe- und Schiller-Archiv. Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Genoa, late February 1882: Dear friend, I was very surprised by your praise of my rhymes.1 This is the kind of thing I amuse myself with on my walks. I don't know Sebastian Brant.2 You're right — our writing equipment3 works with our thoughts. When will I be able to get my fingers to print a long sentence? — By the way, despite the most pleasant company,4 I am always almost half-dead. We have bathed in the sea three times. Next week we are going to Monaco for two days.5 In mid-March my friend6 is leaving me to move to Rome. He likes Genoa more than Sorrento and Naples.7 Have you perhaps heard whether the Wagners have returned from Palermo8 or whether they want to spend Easter in Rome? I heard the Barber9 because of you. It was the most exemplary performance, everything was of the first rank, it seemed to me, even the conductor. But I didn't like the music. I love an entirely different Seville. Can't you invent a great diversion for me? I would like to spend a few years adventuring to give my thoughts time, silence and fresh soil. — — — — — Your friend Nietzsche. Damn! Can you even read this?!10 1. Cf. 02-17-1882: Typewritten letter to Heinrich Köselitz.
Campo Santo di Staglieno. By: Alfred Noack (1833-1895). From tinted photo, 1890. Colorized and enhanced image ©The Nietzsche Channel. Genua, late February 1882: My dears, I could only report as many cheerful things as you do. But I am always half-dead and the last attack was one of my worst. In all the breaks in between, as well as between all the misery itself, we1 laugh a lot and talk of good and bad things. Perhaps I will accompany my friend on a trip to the Riviera.2 May he like it as much as he likes Genoa: I am very much at home here. A Marquess Doria asked me if I wanted to give her German lessons: I said no. The typewriter3 is for the moment more offensive than any kind of writing. During the big carnival procession we were in the cemetery,4 the most beautiful of the most beautiful on earth. In mid-March, Rée goes to Frl. von Meysenbug in Rome. We both prefer Genoa to the Sorrentine countryside.5 We have bathed in the sea three times. With the warmest thanks and greetings Your F. 1. Paul Rée arrived in Genoa on 02-04-1882, and stayed until mid-March 1882.
Genoa, early March 1882: This letter, my dear friend, is at the same time a finger exercise1 — forgive me and put up with it! In mid-March my friend Rée leaves me to visit Frl. von Meysenbug in Rome. I myself will only stay until the end of the same month. It is now already getting too bright for me here. But where to go? — Indeed, who could tell me that! Will you have the kindness to send me the usual 500 francs2 again? Koeselitz's score3 is now in the hands of Baron Loën:4 Gersdorff facilitated it.5 The latter's marriage6 will take place on March 19th. He wrote7 to me very freely and boldly and as if in a new key. Romundt has finished a new book8 — "Christianity and Reason" —: "He should have been a pastor!"9 says Gersdorff, who drew the vignette for it.10 My sister was with Frau Rée11 for some time and was completely charmed by her. She also heard a lecture by Dr. Foerster12 at the Architecten-Haus (Berlin) who considered me twice in extravagant terms. He wants to emigrate to southern Brazil,13 unless — — With warm friendship and with regards from Dr. Rée. Your F. N. 1. Nietzsche wrote the letter on his new Malling Hansen typewriter that Paul Rée brought along with him to Genoa on 02-04-1882.
Genoa, March 4, 1882: Dear friend, those would be adventures1 to my liking: if only my health were to my liking! I would like to lead a colony to the highlands of Mexico:2 or travel with Rée to Biskra's oasis of palms — I would prefer a war even more. Preferably compelled to the smallest share in a great sacrifice. Health says no to everything. We were in Monaco for two days, I, however, being cheap did not play. But spending the evening in these halls would be the most pleasant way of socializing for me. The people there are just as interesting to me as the gold is indifferent. — How much I would like to think the same as you about the Barber music:3 Ultimately, this is also a matter of health. Music has to be very passionate or very sensual to please me. This music is neither: incredible flexibility is just as embarrassing to me as the spectacle of a clown. — It is not impossible that I will come to Venice at the end of March: or are there troublemakers there? I will ask you to give me some of your courage and perseverance. — Rée honors and loves you like me. Your friend N. 1. Köselitz had, among other things, proposed a North Pole expedition. Cf. Venice, 02-26-1882: Letter from Heinrich Köselitz.
"Principauté de Monaco. — Monte-Carlo, L'Hôtel Métropolitain et les Moulins." By "ND." From b/w albumen print, ca. 1880. Colorized and enhanced image ©The Nietzsche Channel. Genoa, March 4, 1882: My dears, we were lucky with our trip to Monaco1 — I didn't play and at least Rée didn't lose. In regard to location, nature, art and people, it is the paradise of hell. The best thing for me was a quiet hour or so in a magnificent tea room, where a powdered and colorful servant creature provided us with excellent tea. This entire coast is unbelievably expensive, as if money had no value. Mentone was considered by Gersdorff for his honeymoon. The wedding is on March 19th.2 Give me some advice about a wedding present! The Wagners were the only ones who did not congratulate him on his engagement.3 This time of year is not good for my health. During the last few attacks, I vomited an incredible amount of bile. This machine4 was once again under repair. With heartfelt love and very grateful for your beautiful letters5 Your F. 1. Cf. 03-04-1882: Typewritten letter to Heinrich Köselitz.
Genoa, March 10, 1882: Dear friend your songs left me with a strange feeling. One fine afternoon, I was thinking about all your music and musicality — and finally I asked myself: Why doesn't he ever publish anything? Then a line from Jung Niklas1 rang in my ears. The next morning my friend Rée arrived in Genoa and handed me your first book — and when I opened it, my eyes fell upon the same Jung Niklas.2 This would be a tale for the spiritualists! — Your music has virtues which are rare at present —: I now consider all new modern music as suffering from an ever increasing atrophy of the sense of melody. Melody, as the ultimate and most sublime art of arts, has laws of logic, which our anarchists would like to decry as servitude —: I am certain that they are just incapable of reaching up to these sweetest and ripest of fruits. I recommend to all composers the most delightful asceticism: for a while to treat harmony as yet to be invented and to create collections of pure melodies, for example, from Beethoven and Chopin. — I hear much of the excellent past in your music and as you can see also a bit of the future. Your friend F.N. 1. "Jung Niklas fuhr auf's Meer." An 1865 ballad by Robert Radecke, text by Robert Reinick.
Idyllen aus Messina. "Die kleine Brigg, genannt 'das Engelchen.'" In: Internationale Monatsschrift. 1. Band. 5. Heft. Mai 1882, 270-271 (270). Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Genua, March 15, 1882: My dear poor friend, here is a little song1 for our amusement: we both need it so much. Now that you even begin to suffer from yourself, the malady has reached its climax. Now it means: sauve qui peut!2 It is unbearable to see you perish before my eyes — yet have a little pity on me with this! In the end I did it just as poorly and foolishly as you: our bourgeois virtues and prejudices are our main dangers — for example this inhumane industriousness.3 Do you want to know my condition? As a punishment for the senseless activity of my first years in Basel, I can no longer do the slightest intellectual work without a pang of conscience — I always feel: "That's not right, you're not allowed to work anymore!" Your words about your eyes4 have hurt me more than anything in years. Leave this score alone, now and immediately! The very task of your life stands before you and says: "That is what duty wants!" The next few months must be dedicated entirely to recovery: body and soul ask and plead for it — me too! How much money5 do you need for three months in the mountains? It is at your disposal. Be generous towards me — towards yourself! With fidelity Your friend Song of The Little Brig Called "The Little Angel." Little Angel: so I'm called — Little Angel: so I'm called — Little Angel: so I'm called — Little Angel: so I'm called — Little Angel: so I'm called — Little Angel: so I'm called — Little Angel: so I'm called — Little Angel: so I'm called — Little Angel: so I'm called. 1. Cf. Idyllen aus Messina. "Die kleine Brigg, genannt 'das Engelchen.'" In: Internationale Monatsschrift. 1. Band. 5. Heft. Mai 1882:270-271. View in DUAL TEXT. Nietzsche made a few changes in punctuation in the published version.
Excerpt from B[ernhard] F[örster], "Der bekannte Philosoph und Schriftsteller Friedrich Niet[z]sche." In: Deutsches Tageblatt. Berlin, Nr. 59, 02-28-1882, 2. © Klassik Stiftung Weimar, Goethe- und Schiller-Archiv. Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Genoa, March 17, 1882: Dear friend, your money letter1 is probably already at the local post office: they informed me of the arrival of a registered letter. Today I ask you to send the remaining 250 francs to Herr Köselitz2 — with a note that it comes from me. Spring is behind us: we have summer warmth and summer brightness. It is the time of my despair. Where to? where to? where to? I hate to leave the sea. I fear the mountains and everything inland — but I have to leave. What attacks I have had again! The enormous amounts of bile that I now invariably vomit arouse my interest. A report from the Berliner Tageblatt3 about my existence in Genoa pleased me — even the typewriter4 wasn't forgotten. This machine is as delicate as a small dog and causes much trouble — and some amusement. Now my friends still have to invent a reading machine for me: otherwise I myself will lag behind the times and no longer be able to adequately nourish myself intellectually. Or rather: I need a young person close to me who is intelligent and educated enough to be able to work with me. I would even enter into a two-year marriage for this purpose — in which case, of course, a few other conditions would have to be taken into account. — Rohde has written5 —: I do not think that the picture that he has of me is correct; yet I am not terribly satisfied that this picture isn't even more wrong. But he is unable to learn anything from me — he has no empathy for my passion and suffering. — I have a strange apostle in Berlin: just imagine that Dr. B. Förster6 presented me to his listeners in very emphatic terms in his public lectures. — Rée is now in Rome:7 at the end of April he is going to his mother8 in Switzerland. He is really looking forward to a day in Basel and sends his regards in advance. Farewell, my dear friend — I am always gratefully devoted to you and yours F.N. 1. Overbeck sent Nietzsche his pension.
[Genoa, March 20, 1882]: Yes, dear lady, there are still a few things by me to read — what's more: you still have everything by me to read.3 I count these Untimely Meditations4 as youthful writings: since I made a provisional account of what had hindered and benefited me the most in life up to that point, since I tried to get away from some things, by vilifying or glorifying them as is the nature of youth —: Alas, gratitude, for good or for ill, has always bothered me a lot! After all — I have gained some confidence as a result of these firstborns, including you and the excellent comrades5 of your studies! You will need all this confidence in order to follow me upon my new and not undangerous paths, and finally — who knows? who knows? — you may not be able to stand it any longer and will say what many have already said: May he run wherever he likes and break his neck if he likes.6 Well, dear lady, at least now you have been warned? If you are surprised that my reply is so late — I am just about blind, and only since I got this typewriter, i.e. three weeks ago, can I answer a letter again. My place of residence is Genoa. — Your humble servant 1. © Klassik Stiftung Weimar, Goethe-und Schiller-Archiv. End 1881: Letter from Elise Fincke. The notation by Nietzsche reads: "Erster amerikanischer Brief. / initium gloriae mundi." (First American letter. / Beginning of world fame.)
Genoa, March 21, 1882: My dear friend, what pleasure your letters give me! — They take me away in all directions, and in the end always back to you! — Yesterday I bathed in the sea, right at the famous spot where - - - imagine, last summer one of my closest relatives2 was so overtaken by a seizure while bathing, and since, coincidentally, nobody was around, he drowned. I had a good laugh about your 30 frs.3 — the post office gave me this letter without even asking for my passport — and the young officer sends his regards to you — ecco!4 — Overbeck has sent me my money5 — now I'm provided for, for a few months. — Give my regards to that Russian girl, if there's any point in doing so: I am lusting for this kind of soul.6 Yes, I will soon go on the prowl for one — considering what I will do in the next 10 years, I need it. Marriage is a completely different story — I could agree to, at the most, a two-year marriage, and even this much only in view of what I have to do in the next 10 years. — After the experiences that I just had with Köselitz, we will never get him to accept money from us — be it in the most bourgeois form of buying and selling. I wrote to him yesterday whether he would sell me and two of my friends the Matrimonio score —: I offered him 6000 francs, payable in four annual installments of 1,500 frs. I think this proposal is elegant and a snare —. When he says yes, I will let you know; and then you will be so good as to make a deal with Gersdorff. —7 Farewell! The typewriter no longer works, it's right at the spot of the mended ribbon.8 I wrote to Frl. von M also in regard to Pieve.9 My heartfelt wishes for your health, at both day and night Your faithful friend F N.
No! I am going to send the letter to Frl. von M. to your address, dear friend. 1. Read about the restoration of Nietzsche's typewriter by Eberwein.
Messina. By: Friedrich Perlberg (1848-1921). From picture postcard, undated. Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Messina, April 1, 1882: Your enjoyment of my verses1 has given me great pleasure; you know, poets are irrepressibly vain. A few wise rhymes in the old German style2 brought forth the greatest reaction of admiration from Köselitz.3 Finally, unless my eyes prevent me from learning something — I will soon be ready! then I can still devise verses. — The last attack of my suffering was entirely like seasickness: when I awoke to existence, I was lying in a nice little bed in a quiet cathedral square; a pair of palm trees in front of my window. So I want to spend the summer here; after the bad experiences of the last few years, I must try to live by the sea in the summer as well. The shade conditions determined my choice. Address: Messina (in Sicilia) (poste restante)[.] With love 1. According to Elisabeth Nietzsche, this refers to the initial verses of "Idyllen aus Messina." In: Internationale Monatsschrift. Bd. 1, Heft 5, Mai 1882, 269-275. Dual text. Cf. 02-17-1882: Typewritten letter to Heinrich Köselitz; 03-15-1882: Letter to Heinrich Köselitz.
Messina Harbor, Sicily, Italy. By: Charles Euphrasie Kuwasseg (1833-1904). Oil on canvas, ca. 1868. Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Messina, April 8, 1882: Dear friend, so that you don't worry about me, a little card today — with the request and condition that you don't send me any letters for a while, but at most a little card too. Well, I have reached my "edge of the world" where, according to Homer, happiness is supposed to dwell.1 In truth, I have never been in such good spirits as I have been in the last week, and my new fellow citizens are pampering and spoiling me in the kindest way. Is there perhaps someone coming after me who will bribe people on my behalf? — Address: Messina, Sicilia poste restante. My summer residence.2 1. Cf. Homer; Robert Fagles (trans.), The Odyssey. Book 4, 563-568. New York; London: Penguin, 1997, 142. "But about your own destiny, Menelaus, / dear to Zeus, it's not for you to die / and meet your fate in the stallion-land of Argos, / no, the deathless ones will sweep you off to the world's end, / the Elysian Fields, where gold-haired Rhadamanthys waits, / where life glides on in immortal ease for mortal man; / no snow, no winter onslaught, never a downpour there / but night and day the Ocean River sends up breezes, / singing winds of the West refreshing all mankind."
Messina, April 8, 1882: So, dear friend! Reason has prevailed: — since the last summer in the mountains1 was so bad for me, and proximity to clouds has always been associated with a worsening of my condition, all that remains is to try what a summer at the sea does. The town was difficult to locate; finally, with one bold leap, I traveled directly here to Messina as the only passenger,2 and am beginning to believe that I had more luck than sense — for this Messina was made for me; the Messinese also show me such kindness and accomodation that I have already come up with the most strange ideas (e.g. whether someone isn't traveling behind me to bribe people for me?). Address: Messina, Sicilia, poste restante. Your good letter3 gave me something to think about and something to laugh about. As ever to you and yours F. N. 1. Nietzsche spent the summer of 1880 (July-August) in Marienbad in Bohemia and the summer of 1881 (July-September) in Sils Maria.
Messina, April 14, 1882: Warm greetings and congratulations!2 — From February onwards, Genoa is no longer of any use to me: painful lack of enthusiasm, so that it's difficult to get through the day. Increase in attacks. It got even worse in Recoaro.3 I seem to have made an excellent move here! Very good atmosphere! I'm just being spoiled! You can guess that I did not go to Sicily to squander money, but the cheap prices they give me really astonish me. Are you cold? My view of the Calabrian mountains shows snow! — Laundry in its final state! I don't give a damn about two different shirts! Even my clothes are just as plain as they are bad. But my room is 24 feet long and 20 feet wide. 3 oranges cost 4 pfennigs. Your brother. 1. The photograph was obtained by Rev. John Neale Dalton (1839-1931) — a tutor to the two sons of King George V (1865-1936) — while on a voyage aboard the HMS Bacchante to various places, including Messina. Dalton later presented it in an album of other photographs to King George V. View the original photo online.
Rome, April 20, 1882: Dear Herr Messinese!2 Long live the finest, most succulent, perfectly round Messina orange, and may the only dark side it finds there be umbra realis!3 Is it just possible! The person who was most astonished and annoyed by this move was the young Russian woman.4 She indeed became so eager to see you and speak to you that she wanted to return via Genoa, and she was very angry to see you had removed yourself entirely. She is an energetic, incredibly smart creature with the most girlish, even childlike characteristics. She would really like to, as she said, spend at least a nice year, and that should be next winter. For this she expects you to be necessary, myself and an elderly lady, such as Fr[au]l[ein]. v[on]. Meysenbug, (Have you received her letter5 yet?), but the latter doesn't want to. Couldn't we arrange this get-together — but who would be the elderly lady? The place would have to be Genoa or could you agree to another place? It could be really nice. There's a lot of socializing here in Rome. Nevertheless, the mind progresses. I held lectures about my book6 at Fr[au]l[ein]. von Meysenbug's, which helps me to some extent, especially since also hearing it was the Russian woman, who thoroughly pays attention to everything, so that she always knows in advance, in an almost annoying way, what is coming and what it is supposed to be about. Rome would not be for you. But you definitely have to get to know the Russian woman. Don't you have the typewriter with you? Is it completely messed up?7 The Wagners must have been in Messina at the same time as you.8 The second daughter (Blandine?) has become engaged to a Sicilian count.9 Warm regards 1. A reply to a lost letter from Nietzsche.
Lucerne, May 8, 1882: My friend, how do I find the aforementioned nugget of gold2 after finding the "Philosopher's Stone" (it's a heart, too)?3 — — Scirocco always around me, my great enemy, even in the metaphorical sense. In the end, however, I always think: "Were it not for Scirocco, I would be in Messina"4 — and forgive my enemy. — In summa: utmost devotion to God.5 — The journey6 was ridiculous through and through, I want to tell you. Today directly to Basel,7 where I will be incognito at the Overbecks until your telegram calls me to Lucerne. Address: Nietzsche per addr. Professor Overbeck, Basel, Eulergasse. The future is completely closed to me, but not "dark." I definitely have to speak to Fr[au]l[ein]. L[ou] again,8 in the Lion's Garden, perhaps? — With unlimited gratitude, your friend N. 1. A reply to a lost letter from Paul Rée.
Basel,1 May 8, 1882: My dear Herr Publisher, I have several things to tell you, but in view of my eyes and constant headaches I have to limit myself to asking for something. Please send a copy of my "Dawn" to my address in Zurich2 poste restante, immediately! — The first issue of your magaz[ine] was interesting enough; and especially the introduction astonished me, because of the unexpected harmony of thoughts with me.3 If I could only read, I would continue reading! but what's left of my vision belongs entirely to my goals. In the autumn you can have a m[anu]s[cript] from me: title "The Joyful Science"4 (with lots of epigrams in verses!!!) Best wishes to you and Herr Widemann! Devoted to you 1. Nietzsche visited Franz Overbeck from 05-08-1882 to 05-13-1882 before going to Naumburg.
Luzern, 15. Mai 1882: It may sound unbelievable — but I will probably be coming to you in Naumburg2 via Frankfurt on Wednesday afternoon.3 With love Departure from Basel Tuesday evening[.]4 1. Franziska Nietzsche, at 25, ca. 1850. Two reproductions: 1. by Atelier Hertel, Weimar; and 2. by Louis Held, Weimar. GSA 101/315. The date of the photo is uncertain. GSA lists it as 1845, and Nietzsche Chronik as ca. 1850. See Friedrich Nietzsche. Chronik in Bildern und Texten. München: Hanser, 2000, 13.
Top of Nietzsche's receipt for the Hotel St. Gotthard. Lucerne, May 13, 1882. © Klassik Stiftung Weimar, Goethe- und Schiller-Archiv. Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Lucerne, May 15, 1882: In Lucerne,1 Lou and Rée2 were waiting for me at the train station. — I will probably travel on Tuesday3 via Basel to Naumburg, together with Rée — prestissimo! - - - Tuesday or Wednesday about 2 weeks Lou comes to Basel4 for one day (the journey continues in the evening.) In the afternoon she would like to come to you and your lovely wife. Is it allowed? — Sincerely grateful. Addr[ess]: Naumburg. 1. Receipt at GSA 71/369, 6 shows that on 05-13-1882, Nietzsche stayed at the Hotel St. Gotthard next to the train station and across from the boat landing.
Naumburg, Mid-May 1882: Most worthy Herr publisher! Even the most serious journal,1 every once in a while, needs something cheerful. Here are 8 songs2 for your journal. My conditions3 are[:] 1) that all 8 be published together You definitely have to rely on my "taste." — Do you want them? Quick response to Naumburg a/Saale where I am relaxing for a bit. Thanks for the letter and parcel to Zurich!4 Most respectful regards to friend Widemann! Dr. F. Nietzsche 1. Ernst Schmeitzner's journal, Internationale Monatsschrift, which first appeared in January 1882.
05-23-1882. © Universitätsbibliothek Basel. Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Naumburg, May 23, 1882: A word, my dear friend! Meanwhile, I am doing fine. Most beautiful weather. In regard to Lou, deep silence.1 This is what is necessary. — A visit to Frau Rée2 is now definitely in sight, according to Rée's last card.3 — We eat good honey and talk a lot about you and your admirable spouse. Faithfully, your grateful 1. At the end of April 1882, Nietzsche met Lou Salomé in Rome at Malwida von Meysenbug's, when she was residing at Via della Polveriera 6; see Paul Rée's 04-20-1882 letter regarding Lou Salomé. Nietzsche started making plans for some kind of future with her, or one that also included Paul Rée. They initially planned a "trinity" with a joint study trip to Vienna, where Lou's brother Eugène Salomé was studying medicine. After the Bayreuth Festival in July/August 1882, Munich and then Paris were also considered. But, understandably, none of these plans came to fruition, and after spending two weeks together in Leipzig in October 1882, Rée and Salomé altogether abandoned these "trinity" plans — and Nietzsche. They both went to Berlin in early November, while Nietzsche returned to Genoa on 11-15-1882, never to see them again.
Cover of Nietzsche's Notebook N-VI-1.1 © Klassik Stiftung Weimar, Goethe- und Schiller-Archiv. Enhanced image The Nietzsche Channel. Naumburg, May 24, 1882: Dear friend, meanwhile things are going quite well for me;2 I finally escaped the Scirocco. — Take a look at the May issue3 of Schmeitzner's little journal: it contains "Idylls from Messina." — I have hired an old clerk4 who went bankrupt: he writes for 2 hours a day, while my sister dictates the manuscript,5 and I listen and correct: the only role I can play now. — I have been silent6 and will continue to be so — you know in regard to what. It is necessary. — We cannot be friends in a more wonderful way than we are now, right? My old dear Rée! Your F.N.
1. Cover of Nietzsche's Notebook N-VI-1, which contains, amongst other writings, draft versions of poems.
Naumburg on the Saale, May 24, 1882: Dear friend Lou, Please visit Professor Overbeck — their residence is 53 Eulergasse. —1 Here in Naumburg I have so far been quite silent in regard to you and to us.2 Thus I remain more independent and always at your service. — The nightingales sing all night long outside my window. — Rée is, in every respect, a better friend than I am and can be; note well this distinction! — When I'm all alone, I often, very often, say your name aloud — to my very great pleasure! Your F. N. 1. As a way of introduction to his closest friend. Franz Overbeck and his wife Ida were impressed with Salomé. Unfortunately, Overbeck's eight-page letter expressing these favorable sentiments is lost. However, Ida Overbeck recorded her own observations on Salomé's visit of May 30 in her diary entry of June 2, 1882.
Naumburg on the Saale, May 28, 1882: Esteemed Frau Professor At our last meeting1 I was all too exhausted: thus I left you and my friend2 in a state of worry and anxiety, for which actually no reason exists; rather reason enough for the opposite! At bottom, fate always strikes me as a blessing and at least one of wisdom — how could I fear fate particularly when it confronts me in the wholly unexpected form of L3? Consider the fact that Rée and I are devoted with the same feelings to our brave and high-minded friend — and that he and I have very great trust in one another also on this point. Also, we are counted among neither the dumbest nor the youngest. — Here, so far, I have kept quiet about all these things. Nevertheless, this will be impracticable in the long run, and that only because my sister and Frau Rée4 are in contact with one another. However, I want to keep my mother "out of the game" — she already has enough cares to bear — why yet another unnecessary one? — Fräulein Lou will arrive at your place this Tuesday afternoon (also returning the book "Schopenhauer as Educator," which in fact was put into my trunk by mistake). Please speak about me with complete freedom, esteemed Frau Professor; you know and indeed can guess what I am most in need of in order to achieve my goal — you know, too, that I am not a "man of deeds" and unfortunately remain behind my best intentions. I am also, precisely because of the aforementioned goal, an evil evil egoist — and friend Rée is in every respect a better friend than I (which Lou does not want to believe).5 Friend Overbeck should not be present for this privatissimum. Right? —6 Meanwhile, I am feeling quite good; you will find that I have never been so cheerful in my life. What might be the reason for this? In gratitude and fidelity 1. May 16.
Naumburg on the Saale, May 28, 1882: My dear friend, The things you wrote1 to me [went] straight to my heart (and also to my eyes)! Yes, I believe in you: help me so that I always believe in myself and do honor to you and to our motto "to wean ourselves from the half, My latest plan to talk with you is this: I want to travel to Berlin at the time when you will be in Berlin, and from there I will immediately withdraw into one of the beautiful, deep forests that are in the vicinity of Berlin — close enough so that we can meet when we like, when you like. Berlin itself is an impossibility for me. Therefore: I'll stay in the "Grunewald"3 and sit tight all the time, while afterwards you spend time in Stibbe.4 Then I will be at your disposal for any further plans: maybe I'll find a decent forester's cabin or vicarage in the forest itself where you can live for a few days close to me. Because, frankly, I very much wish as soon as possible to be, for once, all by ourselves. Such solitary people, like myself, need to grow accustomed gradually, even to the people whom they hold most dear: be indulgent with me here or rather be a bit accommodating! But if you would like to continue travelling, we could find not far from Naumburg another sylvan hermitage (in the vicinity of Altenburg's castle; there I could, if you want, summon my sister.5 (As long as all plans for summer are still up in the air, I will do well to maintain a total silence when it comes to my family — not due to a desire for secrecy, but due to "knowledge of people"). My dear friend Lou, I shall explain to you in person about "friends" and our friend Rée especially: I know very well what I'm saying when I take him to be a better friend than I am or can be. — Oh, that naughty photographer! And yet: what a lovely silhouette perches there on that delightful little cart!6 — We will spend the autumn, I think, in Vienna? Which performance do you want to be at in Bayreuth?7 Rée has a ticket for the first, as far as I know. — After Bayreuth, should we look for an intermediate place for the benefit of your health? Now is not the time to discuss my own. Heartfelt greetings Your F. N. People say that never in my life have I been as cheerful as I am now. I trust in my destiny. 1. Unknown letter.
Naumburg, May 29, 1882: My dear friend, how's it going? Where's it going? And is it going at all? — What are the plans for the summer?1 Yesterday I disclosed my latest plan2 to L[ou]: to wit, in one of the next few weeks, I will move to the Grunewald near Charlottenburg, and stay there as long as L[ou] is with you at Stibbe;3 then to receive and accompany her, perhaps to a place in the Thuringian forest, where my sister could possibly come. (E.g. Castle Hummelshayn.) So far, as long as everything is undecided, I have found it necessary to remain silent.4 Have you given away your seat at Bayreuth? Perhaps to Lou? That would be the first performance? — My sister will be there on the 24th of July.5 Yesterday Romundt was with me, who, in fact, is one of the fortunate people.6 I've been feeling fine, and I am cheerful and industrious. — The m[anu]s[cript] proves itself strangely "uneditable."7 This stems from the principle of "mihi ipsi scribo."8 — ! I often laugh about our Pythagorean friendship, with the very rare "filoiV panta koina."9 It gives me a better conception of myself, to be truly capable of such a friendship. — But it remains amusing, doesn't it? Lots of love Your F. N. Sincere greetings from me and my sister to your esteemed mother. 1. Their plan to live and work with Lou Salomé.
Boston, May 29, 1882: Dear sir, I trust that you will not take it quite amiss that I, an entire stranger to you, venture to intrude myself upon your notice when you are doubtless engrossed with your work and thoughts, or probably endeavouring to enjoy a short interval of leisure. I have nothing to offer by way of apology beyond a desire to express to you my most humble thanks for the benefit I have derived from your works, and the wish (which I have long entertained) to possess a likeness, be it ever so small, of the man I have learned to adore for the greatness of his mind and the sincerity of his utterances. I have several times tried to obtain through book agencies both here and abroad a photograph of your face, but I am sorry to say always in vain. Whether nothing of the kind exists I know not, but if such a thing is really to be had, I beg that you may put me in the way of obtaining it without regard to the matter of expense to me. —2 Your acquaintance as a writer I was fortunate enough to make some years ago when I was living in England, and I assure you I prize it no less than that of the great Schopenhauer himself, which thanks to my my brother3 in London I had made some years before my attention was first called to your "Inopportune reflections."4 Being then engaged as a professional violin-player, I nevertheless found time enough to translate your pamphlet on Schopenhauer5 no less than three times, not so much with a view to publishing my feeble reproduction, as to that of becoming more intimate with your work and that of exercising myself in the use of the Queen's English. But in spite of my efforts, my version fell so far short of an adequate rendition of the original, that I was only too glad for the sake of your reputation to keep the manuscript in my desk. Since then I have quite destroyed it, but the memory of exalted moments remains, and I am sure that my work was at least not wasted upon myself.— Although but an indifferent German scholar I nevertheless possess a sufficient knowledge of my mother tongue to read without effort and to grasp in the main the import of such writings as those of Schopenhauer, Wagner and yourself. That I have at least brains enough to enable me to perceive the true greatness of such men is at all events something, and compensates me in a measure for the want of such an education as would otherwise have enabled me to preach the gospel of thruth [sic] myself. My mind is only receptive, not productive, and I heartely [sic] wish ma[n]y others could convince themselves what folly it is for fools to "rush in where angels fear to tread" — then we should surely see less paper made unsaleable than is unfortunately the case now-a-days. Pray do not think it incumbent upon yourself to answer this, except it be to point out to me some work of yours which I have not yet in my possession. Those that I have include your "Geburt der Tragödie," "Inopportune reflections" and "Menschliches, Allzumenschliches." If there are any other writings from your pen which are published and you think are likely to interest a mere lover of good books, you will confer a favour, (for which you have my best thanks in anticipation) if you will call my attention to them so that I may add them to my little library. The coveted photograph I hope I may receive at your hands, but I shall feel no less grateful if you will only let me know where and in what way I may be able to obtain one. Once more I beg that you pardon this intrusion, and with my best and heartiest wishes for your personal welfare, believe me with the greatest admiration for your works and genius Your most humble and obliged servant To Dr. Fried. Nietzsche. — 1. The letter was written in English.
Naumburg on the Saale, June 5, 1882: My dear friend, Sick for several days; it was an extremely painful attack. I am recovering slowly. — Now your letter! — One receives such a letter only once in a lifetime; I thank you with all my heart and will never forget it.1 I am happy to see my plan,2 which must shimmer quite fantastically to uninitiated eyes, gained an altogether human and friendly understanding from you and your dear wife. The truth is: in the manner I intend to act and will act here, for once I am entirely the man of my thoughts, indeed my innermost thinking: this correspondence does me as good as the image of my existence in Genoa, in which I also did not remain behind my thoughts. There are a lot of my life's secrets wrapped up in this new future, and there remain problems here for me to solve, which can only be solved by deeds. — By the way, I am possessed of a fatalistic "devotion to God"3 — I call it amor fati4 — so that I would step into the jaws of a lion, not to mention — — In regard to the summer everything is still uncertain.5 I keep silent6 here on and on. In regard to my sister, I am quite determined to keep her out of it; she could only confuse [things] (and [confuse] herself first of all) Romundt was here, brave and a little more upon a reasonable course.7 To you and your dear wife affectionately 1. See above.
Naumburg, presumably June 10, 1882: Meanwhile, my dear dear friend, I was sick — indeed, I still am. Therefore today, too, just a few brief words! I think it is now apparent that Frl. Lou will be in Stibbe1 until the time of Bayreuth2 — anyway that she will remain with you and your mother until the specified date? Is this the correct understanding of the situation? How will she be transported to Bayreuth? Or does she deduce plans that perhaps lead southward (Engadine?)? I myself have in mind to make my way to Vienna around the beginning of July: that is, to try to stay in Berchtesgaden this summer — assuming that my services are not needed beforehand. I implore you to remain silent to everyone about everything concerning our project for the winter: we should say nothing about whatever is to come. As soon as something is said about it too soon, there will be opponents and counterproposals: the danger is not a slight one. — I have noticed, unfortunately, that it is difficult for me to live incognito in Germany. I've given up on Thuringia altogether. I would like to hear as soon as possible what I have, and will be allowed, to do, so that I can have the summer at my disposal. Naumburg is a horrible place for my health. Address, dearest friend, your next lines to Leipzig, poste restante. Forgive this scribbling suffused with the spirit of sickness! In summa, both of us, after all, are doing very well; who has plans like us for such a lovely project? M[anu]s[cript]3 practically finished: but still uneditable. Mihi ipsi scripsi.4 Adieu! Heartily 1. To stay at the family home of Paul Rée.
Naumburg, presumably June 10, 1882: Yes, my dear friend, from this distance I do not overlook the people who necessarily have to be informed about our intentions;1 but I think we want to stick to only informing the necessary people. I love the hiddenness of life and I sincerely wish that you and I would be spared some European gossip. Moreover, I connect such high hopes with our living together that any necessary or accidental side-effects make little impression on me now: and whatever happens, we will endure it together and throw the entire little bundle into the water every evening together — right? Your words about Frl. v. M[eysenbug] have made me decide to write her a letter soon.2 Let me know how you plan to arrange your time after Bayreuth, and on what assistance of mine you will be counting.3 I now need mountains and timber forests very much: not only health, but even more "die fröliche Wissenschaft" are driving me into solitude. I want to finish. Is it convenient if I proceed now to Salzburg (or Berchtesgaden), that is, on the way to Vienna? When we are together, I shall write something for you in the book4 I sent. — Lastly: I am inexperienced and unpracticed in all matters of action; and for years I have never had to explain or justify myself for any action in the eyes of people. I like to keep my plans secret; let the whole world talk about my facta!5 — Yet nature gave each being various weapons of defense — and to you she gave your glorious openness of will. Pindar says somewhere "Become the one who you are!"6 Loyally and devotedly 1. The plan to live and work with Salomé and Rée.
Naumburg, June 18, 1882: My dear old friend, this German cloud-weather has doomed me to a kind of sickliness, so that my reason is sometimes no longer reasonable — witness my last letter, for whose quick reply my heart goes out to you.1 Witness secondly my trip to Berlin, in order to see L[ou] and the Grunewald; but I only achieved the latter — and I never want to see it again!2 The next day I returned to Naumburg — half-dead. — Also nothing of the projected stay in Leipzig; I only considered it for a day. In spite of everything I am full of confidence in this year and its enigmatic toss of the dice for my fate. I will not travel to Berchtesgaden and in general am no longer in any condition to undertake anything alone. In Berlin, I was like a lost penny that I myself had lost and thanks to my eyes was unable to find, although it lay right at my feet, so that all the passersby laughed. Simile! — What about after Bayreuth? Now I join in that my mother could also extend an invitation to Frl. Lou, so that they could spend time around the month of August in Naumburg, and that we, in September, could make our way to Vienna. Please give your opinion. I enclose a ticket3 for our remarkable and very gracious friend; I don't know where she is. —4 My greetings and thanks to your venerable mother — you indeed know why I owe her such a debt of gratitude right now. Heartfelt greetings your 1. Unknown letter from Rée.
Tautenburg, June 26, 1882: My dear friend, Half an hour away from Dornburg, where the elderly Goethe1 enjoyed his solitude in the midst of beautiful forests, lies Tautenburg. My good sister has arranged an idyllic little nest for me here that will shelter me this summer. Yesterday I took possession of it; tomorrow my sister is leaving and I shall be alone. Yet we have agreed on something that might bring her back here. Assuming that you have no better way to spend the month of August and would find it appropriate and feasible to live here with me in the forest, my sister would escort you hither from Bayreuth and live with you here in the same house (e.g. with the pastor here, where she is living at the moment: the town has a selection of charming, inexpensive rooms). My sister, whom you may ask Rée about, would especially want seclusion at this time in order to brood on her little novella eggs. She is extremely pleased by the thought of being near your and my vicinity.2 — So! And now sincerity "unto death"! My dear friend! I am not committed to anything, and will easily alter my plans if you have [other] plans. And if I am not to be together with you, then simply tell me that too — and you don't even need to give any reasons! I trust you completely: but you know that. — If we get along with one another, then our states of health will too, and there will be a secret benefit somehow. I have never thought that you might "read and write" for me; but I very much wish to be permitted to be your teacher. Finally, to tell the whole truth: I am now seeking people who could be my inheritors; I bear about me a few things that are definitely not to be read in my books — and I am searching for the finest and most fertile fields. You see my selfishness! — When I think now and then about the threats to your life and your health, my soul is always filled with tenderness; I don't know of anything else that would bring me near you so quickly. — And then I'm always happy to know that you have Rée, and not just me, as a friend. It is a real pleasure for me to think of walking and talking together with both of you. — The Grunewald3 was far too sunny for my eyes. My address is: Tautenburg near Dornburg, Thuringia. Yours faithfully Liszt4 was here yesterday. 1. Cf. Herman Krüger-Westend, Goethe in Dornburg. Jena: Costenoble, 1908.
Tautenburg, June 27-28, 1882 Dear friend, How glad I am to hear about the good ship, that it has entered the good harbor!2 At the moment, all three of us are among the happiest people there are. This Tautenburg delights me and suits me in every way; and once again, in this wonderful year, I feel surprised by an unexpected gift of fate. Here is the paradise for my eyes and my solitary interests; I understand the hint that my time in the South is over; the journey from Messina to Grunewald was a thick line under this past. Meanwhile, I have told my sister everything that concerns you. During the long separation, I found her to be much more progressive and mature than ever before, worthy of all trust and very loving towards me. Her own plans for the winter have meanwhile been determined (she's going to Genoa, to my place there, and later to Rome); this allays my fears that her plans might interfere with my plans for Vienna. Incidentally, she now has her own tendencies to aloofness and "unaffectedness" — and so, in summa, I believe that you can try it on her and on us. — But my total silence wasn't necessary, you now believe? I analyzed it today and found the ultimate reason: distrust of myself. I was indeed literally upended by the event of acquiring a "new human being" — as a result of all-too-stringent solitude and renunciation of all love and friendship. I had to be silent, because to speak of you would always bowl me over (it happened to me when I was with the good Overbecks). Now, I'm telling you this so that you can laugh. With me things always go very human-all-too-humanly, and my folly waxes with my wisdom. This reminds me of my "Joyful Science." The first proofsheets arrive on Thursday, and the last part of the m[anu]s[cript] is supposed to go to the printer on Saturday.3 I am now always occupied with very subtle linguistic matters; the final decision about the text forces the most scrupulous "listening" to words and sentences. The sculptors call this last task "ad unguem."4 This book concludes that series of writings that began with "Hum[an], All Too Hum[an]": in all of them taken together, "a new image and ideal of the free spirit" has been erected.5 You will have long since guessed that now this is certainly not "the free man in fact." Rather — but here I want to close and laugh. Heartfelt greetings to you and friend Rée affectionately F.N. 1. Cf. Herman Krüger-Westend, Goethe in Dornburg. Jena: Costenoble, 1908, frontispiece.
Tautenburg, July 3, 1882: My dear friend, How bright the sky above me is now! Yesterday at noon it was like a birthday party around here: you said yes,1 the loveliest gift anyone could have given me at this moment; my sister sent cherries; Teubner2 sent the first three proof sheets of the "Joyful Science"; on top of all that, I had just finished the very last part of the manuscript,3 thus ending six years' work (1876-1882) — all my "free-spiritedness"! Oh what years! What tortures of every kind, what periods of loneliness, of disgust with life! And as an antidote to all that, to both death and life, as it were, I brewed my own potion, those ideas of mine with their little patches of unclouded sky above them: — oh dear friend, whenever I think of all that I feel shattered and touched, and cannot understand how it could possibly have succeeded: self-compassion and a triumphant feeling permeate me. For it is a victory, and a total one — even my physical health has returned, I have no idea how, and everyone tells me I look younger than ever. Heaven protect me from follies! — But from now on, when you advise me, I shall be well advised and need have no fear. — As far as the coming winter is concerned, I have seriously and exclusively thought of Vienna4: my sister's winter plans are quite independent of mine, in this respect there are no ulterior thoughts. The south of Europe is now banished from my mind. I don't want to be lonely any more and wish to rediscover how to be human. Ah, this is a lesson I will have to learn almost from scratch! — Accept my gratitude, dear friend! Everything will go well, just as you said. Heartiest greetings to our Rée! Wholly yours 1. Salomé agreed to come to Tautenburg after Bayreuth.
Tautenburg, July 11, 1882: My dear mother, Sunday I was ill. — There is much to do. Long delay of the printing. —1 Recently, when I left you, I met the chief pastor at the train station with Susie; much laughter.2 Today, a request and one that is a bit urgent! The Beautification Society here has erected two new benches in the parts of the woods where I like to walk by myself. I have promised to make and affix two plaques to them. Would you be so kind as to take care of this? And immediately? Talk about it with an expert on such things, what kind of plaque and inscription would last longest.
It must be something elegant and handsome, that will do me honor. With hearty greetings Your son Fritz. 1. Printing of Die fröhliche Wissenschaft (The Joyful Science). German Text.
Tautenburg, July 13, 1882: My dear friend, There are no words I would rather hear from your mouth than "hope" and "relaxation" — and now I am causing you this great hardship of proofreading, especially under these circumstances when things should be like paradise for you!1 Do you know my harmless little things from Messina?2 Or did you keep quiet about them out of politeness to their author? — No, nevertheless, as the woodpecker bird says in the last poem — things are not going well with my poetastery.3 But what does it matter! One should not be ashamed of one's follies, otherwise our wisdom has little value. That poem "An den Schmerz" ["To Pain"] was not by me.4 It is one of those things that completely overpowers me; I have never been able to read it without tearing up; it sounds like a voice for which I have been waiting and waiting since childhood. This poem is by my friend Lou, of whom you have not yet heard. Lou is the daughter of a Russian general5 and is twenty years old; she is as perceptive as an eagle and brave as a lion and yet ultimately a very girlish child who will perhaps not live long. I am indebted to Fräulein von Meysenbug and Rée for her. At present she is visiting the Rée's,6 after Bayreuth she is coming to me in Tautenburg,7 and in the fall we are moving to Vienna together.8 We will dwell in one house and work together; she is prepared in the most astonishing way precisely for my ideas and my way of thinking. Dear friend, you will surely do us both the honor of avoiding the notion of a love affair in our relationship. We are friends and I will keep sacred this girl and her trust in me. — Incidentally, she has an incredibly confident and pure character and knows herself exactly what she wants — without asking the world or worrying about the world. This is for you and for nobody else. But if you were to come to Vienna, it would be nice! Lastly: what are my most valuable human discoveries so far? You — then Rée — then Lou.9 Loyally 1. Köselitz was proofreading Die fröhliche Wissenschaft (The Joyful Science).
Malwida von Meysenbug. From b/w photo, 1880. Colorized and enhanced image ©The Nietzsche Channel. Tautenburg, possibly July 13, 1882: May you now have a calm and comforting sunshine close to Olga1 and her children; in particular, may your being together with this beloved soul dispel or alleviate all those fears, which you expressed to me in Rome; I would like to wish you this and nothing else — indeed, you have everything else! I am sitting here in the middle of deep woods2 and have just got to correct my latest book; it bears the title "The Joy[ful] S[cience"] and constitutes the end of the chain of thoughts that I really started to make back then in Sorrento,3 I was always such a book-scorner and am now myself "nothing but sin," as Gretchen says,4 right?— with 10 books!5 The next years will not bring forth any books — but I want to study again, like a student. (At first in Vienna.) My life now belongs to a higher goal, and I no longer do anything that does not benefit it. Nobody can guess it and [I] am not allowed to betray it myself yet! But that it requires a heroic way of thinking (and absolutely not any religious resignation), I would like to confess to you, and most of all, to you. If you discover p[eople] with this way of thinking, then give me a hint: as you did with the young Russian girl.6 This girl is now linked to me through a firm friendship (as firmly as one can establish such a thing on earth); I haven't had a better accomplishment in a long time. Indeed, I am extremely grateful to you and Rée for having helped me with this. This year, which signifies a new crisis in several chapters of my life (epoch is the right word, an intermediate state between 2 crises, one behind me7 and one ahead of me) has been made much more beautiful for me thanks to the radiance and grace of this young, tru[ly] heroic soul. I wish to acquire a student in her, and if my life should not last long, an heir and advanced thinker.8 Incidentally: Rée should have married her (in order to eliminate the various difficulties of her situation); and it certainly was not for lack of encouragement on my part. But it now seems to me a labor lost. He is an unshakable pessimist on one last point, and how he has remained true to himself in this regard, against all the objections of his heart and my reason, has in the end gained a great deal of my respect. The thought of the procreation of mankind is unbearable to him: he cannot get over his feelings about adding to the number of the unfortunate. For my taste he has too much pity and too few hopes at this point. Everything privatissime! In Bayreuth,9 some of my friends10 will meet you and will probably reveal to you their ulterior motives about me one day; tell all these friends that they will have to wait for me and that there is no reason to despair. Do you think that I am very pleased not to have to hear the Parsifal music. Apart from 2 pieces (the same ones which you also mentioned to me) I don't like this "style" (this laborious and laden little piece of work): that is Hegelei11 in music: and moreover just as much a proof of great poverty of invention as a proof of tremendous pretension and cagliostricity12 of its author. Sorry! Rigorous on this point. — I am unrelenting in morality. 1. Malwida von Meysenbug's foster-daughter Olga Herzen (1851-1953) was married to the French historian Gabriel Monod (1844-1912).
Tautenburg bei Dornburg (Thüringen) My dear old friend, it's no use, I must prepare you today for a new book1 of mine; you still have 4 weeks at the most of peace left! A mitigating circumstance is that it shall be the last for a long series of years: — for in the autumn I am going to the University of Vienna2 and starting new years as a student again after the old ones were a bit of a failure due to a too one-sided preoccupation with philology. Now there is my own study plan and behind it my own secret goal to which my future life is consecrated — it is too difficult for me to live if I do not do it in the grandest style, said in confidence, my old comrade! Without a goal, which I thought to be indescribably important, I would not have kept myself up in the light and above the black torrents! This is actually my only excuse for the kind of literature that I have been producing since 1876: it is my prescription and my home-brewed medicine for the weariness of life. What years! What long-lasting pain! What inner disturbances, upheavals, solitudes! Who has endured as much as I have? Certainly not Leopardi!3 And if I now stand above all that today, with the cheerful disposition of a victor and laden with difficult new plans — and, since I know myself, with the prospect of new, more difficult, and even more internal sufferings and tragedies and with the courage to do so! then no one should be able to be upset with me if I think my medicine is good. Mihi ipsi scripsi4 — that's about it; and so everyone should do for himself his best in his own way — that is my morality: — the only one that I have left. If even my physical health reappears, to whom do I owe that? I was my own physician in all respects; and as one in whom nothing is separate, I have had to treat soul, mind and body at the same time and with the same remedies. Granted that others could perish because of my remedies, I do nothing more zealously than to warn against myself. In particular, this latest book, which bears the title "The Joyful Science," will scare many people away from me, perhaps even you, dear old friend Rohde! There is a portrait of me in it; and I know for certain that it is not the portrait of me that you carry in your heart. So: have patience, even if only because you must realize that with me it means "aut mori aut ita vivere."5 With all my heart 1. Die fröhliche Wissenschaft (The Joyful Science).
Tautenburg near Dornburg (Thüringen), Well, my dear friend, all is well so far, and we will see each other again about a week from Saturday.1 Perhaps my last letter2 to you did not reach your hands? I wrote it 14 days ago on Sunday. That would be a pity to me; in it I describe for you a very happy moment: several good things came to me all at once, and the "goodest"3 of these things was your letter4 of acceptance! — However, if we have good trust in each other, then even letters can get lost.5 I have thought about you a lot and by doing so have shared with you so many uplifting, stirring, and cheerful things that I have been living as if connected to my dear friend. If you only knew how new and strange this seems to an old hermit like me! — How often have I had to laugh at myself! As for Bayreuth, I am content not to have to be there; and yet, if I could be near you in a ghostly way, murmuring this and that in your ear, then even the music of Parsifal would be bearable to me (otherwise it is unbearable to me.) I would like you to read first my little work "Richard Wagner in Bayreuth"; friend Rée probably owns it. I have experienced so much in regard to this man and his art — it was a very long-lasting passion: I can't find another word for it. The renunciation required here, the rediscovery of myself that finally became necessary, was among the hardest and most melancholy things fated to me. W[agner]'s last written words to me are in a fine presentation copy of Parsifal "To my dear friend Friedrich Nietzsche. Richard Wagner, Ober-Kirchenrath."6 At exactly the same time, sent by me, he received my book "Menschliches, Allzumenschliches" — and consequently everything was clear, but also everything was over. How often have I experienced this in all possible ways: "Everything is clear, but everything is over"! And how happy I am, my beloved friend Lou, to now be able to think in regard to both of us: "Everything is beginning and yet everything is clear!" Trust me! Let us trust each other! With warmest wishes for your journey[.] Your friend 1. After attending the premiere of Wagner's Parsifal in Bayreuth, Salomé arrived in Tautenburg on August 7, 1882.
Tautenburg, July 25, 1882: My dear friend, So I shall have my summer music too! — Good things have been pouring down on me this summer, as if I had a victory to celebrate.1 And in fact: consider how since 1876 I have been, in many respects, body and soul, more a battlefield than a man! —2 Lou will not be up to the piano part, but then at just the right moment, as if sent from heaven, Mr. Aegidi [sic] introduces himself, a serious, trustworthy person and musician who is currently staying here in Tautenburg (a student of Kiel) — by a coincidence, I came into contact with him for half an hour, and it was another coincidence that he returned home from this meeting, finding a letter from a friend that begins thusly: "I have just discovered a splendid philosopher, Nietzsche." —3 You, of course, will be the subject of the utmost discretion; introduced as an Italian friend whose name is a secret. Your melancholy words "always past them"4 really stuck in my heart! There were times when I thought exactly the same about myself; but apart from other differences between you and me, there is also the difference that I no longer allow myself to be "pushed" into something (as they say in Thuringia.) — On Sunday I was in Naumburg, to prepare my sister a little for Parsifal. It felt strange enough to me then! Finally I said: "My dear sister, I really produced this kind of music as a boy, at the time [when] I produced my oratorio"5 — and then I took out the old composition and, after all these years, played it again: the identity of mood and expression was fabulous! Yes, a few passages, e.g. "The Death of the Kings," seemed more moving to both of us than anything we had played from P[arsifal], but still really Parsifalesque! I confess: with a real fright I became aware again how closely akin I actually am to W[agner]. — Later I won't conceal this curious fact from you, and you shall be the final authority on it — the matter is so strange that I don't quite trust myself. — You will understand me, dear friend, that by this I do not mean to praise Parsifal!! — What sudden decadence! And what Cagliostricism! —6 A remark in your letter makes me realize that all of my mediocre verse with which you are now familiar, was produced before my acquaintance with L[ou] (the "Jo[yful] Science" as well). But perhaps you also have a feeling that I, both as a "thinker" and as a "poet," must have had a certain presentiment of L[ou]? Or is it "coincidence"? Yes! Sweet coincidence! The comédie should be read by us together; my eyes are already occupied all too much.7 L[ou] is coming on Saturday. Send your work as soon as possible — I envy myself the distinction which you bestow upon me! With all my heart your grateful friend Nietzsche. 1. Köselitz had promised to send him the piano reduction for the first act of his opera "Il matrimonio segreto" (The Secret Wedding). In 1884, Nietzsche suggested that Köselitz change the title to "Der Löwe von Venedig" (The Lion of Venice). For more information on Köselitz, see Frederick R. Love's gem, Nietzsche's Saint Peter. Genesis and Cultivation of an Illusion. Berlin; New York: de Gruyter, 1981. [Series: Band 5. Monographien und Texte zur Nietzsche-Forschung.]
Naumburg, presumably August 2-3, 1882 Well, my dear friend, or how should I address you? — receive with goodwill what I am sending you today, with a preconceived goodwill: for, if you do not do this, you will just have to ridicule this book, "die fröhliche Wissenschaft" (it is very personal, and everything personal is actually comic). Furthermore, I have reached the point at which I live as I think, and perhaps I have meanwhile learned to really express what I think. In this respect, I will hear your judgment as a verdict: in this regard, I would particularly like you to read the Sanctus Januarius (Buch IV) to see if it communicates itself as a whole. — And my verses? - - - In heartfelt trust N[.]B. And what is the address of the Mr. Curti1 of whom you spoke to me about at our last, very pleasant meeting?2 1. Theodor Curti (1848-1914): Swiss-German journalist and politician. See his entry in Deutsche Biographie. Apparently, Burckhardt had told Nietzsche something Curti had written about him and his political views. Curti was the founder of the Züricher Post, an organ of the Democratic party. The article may have been written anonymously; in any event it has not been discovered. Nietzsche himself gives the most concrete evidence of his own apolitical character in his July/August 1882 letter to Curti: "[....] es mich ganz und gar überrascht, daß meine politisch-sozialen Maienkäfer die ernsthafte Theilnahme eines politisch-sozialen Denkers erregt haben. Es kann kein Mensch in Bezug auf diese Dinge mehr "im Winkel leben" als ich: ich spreche nie von dergleichen, ich weiß die bekanntesten Ereignisse nicht und lese nicht einmal die Zeitungen — ja ich habe mir aus dem Allem ein Privilegium gemacht! — Und so wäre ich denn gerade in diesem Punkte gar nicht böse, wenn ich mit meinen Ansichten Lachen und Heiterkeit erregt hätte: aber Ernst? Und bei Ihnen? Könnte ich das nicht zu lesen bekommen?" ([....] it completely surprised me that my political-social May beetles have attracted the sympathy of a serious political-social thinker. In regard to these things, no man can "live" more "in a corner" than I do: I never speak about them, I don't know the most well-known events and don't even read newspapers — indeed, I have made a privilege out of all this! — And so, precisely on these matters, I would not be angry at all if I had excited laughter and amusement with my views: but seriousness? And by you? Could I not acquire that in order to read it?)
Tautenburg, August 4, 1882: Dear friend. One day a bird flew past me; and I, superstitious like all lonely people who stand at a turning point on their road, thought I had seen an eagle.1 Now all the world2 endeavors to prove to me that I am mistaken — and there is a smug European gossip about it. Now who is the more fortunate one — I, "the deceived," as they say, who spent a whole summer in a loftier world of hope due to this bird omen — or those who are "not to be deceived"? —And so on. Amen. Yesterday, old friend, I was overcome by the demon of music3 — "Imagine my horror!" in the words of Lessing.4 My current state "in media vita"5 also wants to express itself in [musical] notes: I will not be able to get away. And it is quite so: before I take to my new road, I have to play and fiddle a little. Vienna6 has almost disappeared from the horizon. Perhaps Munich — although I was considering my relationship with Levi.7 I wish you had been in Bayreuth: W[agner]'s orchestration of Parsifal was praised as the most astonishing thing of this artistry. When will your music8 be available to me! — Now I am "a little in the wilderness" and I don't sleep some nights. But not out of faintheartedness! And that demon I mentioned was, like everything that crosses (or seems to cross) my path now, heroic and idyllic.9 Adieu, dear friend! 1. An allusion to the first time he met Lou Salomé in Rome.
Tautenburg, July-August 1882: Most esteemed sir, I have been told2 that you have expressed your interest to a conspicuous extent in several of my views; and although I am fundamentally in the most profound ignorance about everything that is usually called "action," I would like to gladly make an exception in this case — first of all with regard to what I have heard of the character, the independence, and the intellect of the person to whom I have the honor to write (— it was Jacob Burckhardt who spoke to me about you), second of all, because it completely surprised me that my political-social May beetles have attracted the sympathy of a serious political-social thinker. In regard to these things, no man can "live" more "in a corner" than I do: I never speak about them, I don't know the most well-known events and don't even read newspapers — indeed, I have made a privilege out of all this! — And so, precisely on these matters, I would not be angry at all if I had excited laughter and amusement with my views: but seriousness? And by you? Could I not acquire that in order to read it?3 Coincidentally, I heard that the recently deceased Bruno Bauer,4 in his old age, also extracted this and that from my ideas5 about the specific subject. A few similar statements were added: so that I even became curious about it. Pardon me, dear sir! You are now the victim of this curiosity! With most respectful regards Address: "Tautenburg near Dornburg" 1. Theodor Curti (1848-1914): Swiss-German journalist and politician. See his entry in Deutsche Biographie.
Tautenburg, August 8/24, 1882: Toward the Teaching of Style 1 1. Of prime necessity is life: a style should live. 2. Style should be suited to the specific person with whom you wish to communicate. (The law of mutual relation.) 3. First, one must determine precisely "what-and-what do I wish to say and present" — before you may write. Writing must be mimicry. 4. Since the writer lacks many of the speaker's means, he must in general have for his model a very expressive kind of presentation; of necessity, the written copy will appear much paler. 5. The richness of life reveals itself through a richness of gestures. One must learn to feel everything — the length and retarding of sentences, interpunctuations, the choice of words, the pausing, the sequence of arguments — like gestures. 6. Be careful with periods! Only those people who also have long duration of breath while speaking are entitled to periods. With most people, the period is a matter of affectation. 7. Style ought to prove that one believes in an idea; not only thinks it but also feels it. 8. The more abstract a truth which one wishes to teach, the more one must first seduce the senses. 9. Strategy on the part of the good writer of prose consists of choosing his means for stepping close to poetry but never stepping into it. 10. It is not good manners or clever to deprive one's reader of the most obvious objections. It is very good manners and very clever to leave it to one's reader alone to pronounce the ultimate quintessence of our wisdom. F.N. 1. Cf. Nachlass, Tautenburger Aufzeichnungen für Lou von Salomé. Juli-August 1882 1[45]; [109].
Tautenburg, August 25, 1882: In bed. The most terrible attack. I despise life. FN. Tautenburg, August 26, 1882: My dear Lou, Sorry about yesterday! A terrible attack of my stupid headaches — today all gone. And today I see a few things with new eyes. — At 12 clock I will take you to Dornburg: — but before then I have to talk with you for about a half hour (soon, I mean as soon as you get up). Ok? Ok! F.N.
Naumburg, End August 1882: I left Tautenburg one day after you,1 very proud at heart, very spiritedly — why? I have spoken very little with my sister, but enough to send the newly risen ghost back into the void from which it was born. In Naumburg the demon of music came over me again — I have composed your Prayer to Life;2 and my Parisian friend Ott, who has a wonderfully strong and expressive voice, shall one day sing it to you and me. Finally, my dear Lou, the old deep heartfelt plea: become who you are!3 First one has to emancipate oneself from one's chains, and finally one has to emancipate oneself from this emancipation! Each of us suffers, albeit in very different ways, from the chain sickness, even after he has broken the chains.4 Ready to confront your destiny, 1. Salomé left Tautenburg on August 26, 1882.
Elisabeth Nietzsche. By: Louis Held, Weimar. From b/w photo, ca. 1882. Colorized and enhanced image ©The Nietzsche Channel. Leipzig, presumably September 5-6, 1882: In two or three days, my dear Lisbeth, I am leaving;1 I have written to the Eisers,2 whom I want to visit in Frankfurt, and as soon as I get Mr. [August] Sulger's3 address from you, everything will be in order. Yesterday I received two postcards from you — from Messina by way of Rome and Basel — kudos to the post office! — The work I planned for Naumburg (a composition),4 I have completed very nicely, and in doing so accomplished enough for myself as well. — If only I could give you some idea of the joyful confidence that has animated me this summer! I have succeeded in everything and in some things contrary to expectations — just when I thought I had failed. Lou is also very satisfied (she is now completely immersed in work and books). What is very significant to me: she has converted Rée (as he himself writes) to one of my main views, which completely changes the foundation of his book.5 Rée wrote yesterday "Lou has definitely grown a few inches in Tautenburg." I am saddened to hear that you are still suffering from the aftereffects of those scenes6 that I would gladly with all my heart have spared you. But just grasp this point: the agitation of these scenes brought to light what might otherwise have remained in the dark for a long time: that L[ou] had a lower opinion of me and some distrust of me; and when I consider more closely the circumstances of our becoming acquainted (including the effect of some careless statements from friend R[ée]), perhaps she was perfectly entitled to do so[.] But now she certainly thinks better of me — and that is the main thing, isn't it, my dear sister? By the way, when I think about the future, it would be hard for me to have to accept that you don't feel the same way about L[ou] as I do. We have such a similarity of talents and intentions that at some point our names will have to be mentioned together; and every slur cast upon her will strike me first. But perhaps this is already too much about this point. I thank you again from the bottom of my heart for everything that you have done for me this summer — and I truly appreciate your sisterly kindness quite a lot, even when you were not able to feel the same as I do. Indeed, who can even get involved with me, an anti-moral philosopher, without danger! Two things my way of thinking absolutely forbids me: 1) remorse 2) moral indignation. — Be nice again, dear Lama!7 Your brother. 1. On September 8, 1882, Nietzsche left Naumburg for Leipzig to meet up with Salomé and Rée.
Leipzig, September 9, 1882:
My dear friend, so once again I am based in Leipzig, the old book town, in order to acquaint myself with a few books before heading off again.1 Probably nothing will come of my German winter campaign:2 I need clear weather, in every sense. Yes, this German cloud-weather has character, rather like, it seems to me, the Parsifal music has character — but a bad one.3 Lying before me is the first act of matrimonio segreto — golden, glittering, good, very good music!4 The weeks in Tautenburg5 did me good, especially the last ones; and for the most part I have a right to talk of recovery, even though I am frequently reminded of the unstable equilibrium of my health. But, let the sky above me be clear! Otherwise I lose all too much time and strength! If you have read the Sanctus Januarius,6 then you will have noticed that I have passed a tropic. All that lies before me is new, and it will not be long before I get to see the terrifying face of my distant life-task. This long, rich summer was for me a testing time; I took leave of it very bravely and with pride, for I felt that during this time at least the otherwise so ugly chasm between willing and achievement had been bridged. There were hard demands made on my humanity, and I have grown equal to the most difficult situations. This entire intermediate state between what used to be and what will be, I call "in media vita";7 and the demon of music, which has haunted me again after many years, has compelled me to express this in tones8 as well. But the most useful thing I did this summer was talking with Lou. Our intellects and tastes are profoundly related — and there are, at the same time, so many differences that we are the most instructive objects and subjects of observation for one another. I have never gotten to know anyone who knows how to extract such an amount of objective insights from his experiences, anyone who knows how to draw so much from everything they have learned. Yesterday Rée wrote to me "Lou has definitely grown several inches in Tautenburg" — well, maybe I have too. I want to know whether there has ever existed such a philosophical candor like the one that exists between us. L[ou] is now completely engrossed in books and work; the greatest service that she has done me thus far, is to have persuaded Rée to recast9 his book10 on the basis of one of my main ideas. — Her health, I fear, will only last another 6-7 years. Tautenburg gave Lou an objective.— She left me a moving poem "Prayer to Life."11 Unfortunately, my sister has become a deadly enemy of L[ou]'s; she was full of moral indignation from start to finish and now claims to know what my philosophy is all about. She wrote to my mother: "she has seen my philosophy come to life in Tautenb[urg] and was shocked: I love evil, but she loves the good. If she were a good Catholic, she would enter a convent and do penance for all the harm that will arise from it." In short, I have Naumburg "virtue" against me, there is a real break between us — and even my mother was so far out of her mind that she said something12 that made me pack my bags and leave early the next morning for Leipzig. My sister (who did not want to come to Naumb[urg] as long as I was there and is still in Tautenburg) quoted ironically about it, "Thus began Zarathustra's downgoing."13 — In fact, it is the start of a beginning. — This letter is for you and your dear wife; don't think of me as misanthropic. Most cordially Your F.N. The heartiest greetings to Frau Rothpletz14 and her family! I have not yet thanked you for your cordial letter. 1. Nietzsche graduated from the University of Leipzig. He was now residing at 26 Auenstrasse with his landlord, Wilhelm Janicaud (1837-1895), a teacher at the Second District Leipzig School (school for the poor). It's not known which books he read at the university library. For further information about Nietzsche's stay with Janicaud and his family, see the recollections of his son Walter, in Sandor L. Gilman (Hrsg.), Begegnungen mit Nietzsche, 2. Auflage. Bonn: Bouvier, 1985, 451-453. Translated in Sandor L. Gilman (ed.), David J. Parent (trans.), Conversations with Nietzsche. A Life in the Words of His Contemporaries. New York; Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 1987, 141-143. The recollections include the following statement: "Dort, wo einst Zarathustra-Manuskripte lagen, hat mancher Musensohn sich für das 'Zarathustra-Kolleg' vorbereitet oder im 'Zarathustra' studiert." (At the spot [on a desk] where Zarathustra manuscripts once lay, many a son of the Muses has prepared for the "Zarathustra course" or studied "Zarathustra.") It's not certain if Nietzsche was researching Zarathustra at that time, but the "few books" with which he was acquainting himself at the library were possibly related to the Persian prophet.
Leipzig, September 10, 1882: My dear mother, headache attack and 2 sleepless nights so far, also trouble with my eyes. But at least found accommodations, with great effort and searching! Romundt2 is traveling; I was in his apartment one night. Thus the address for Schmeitzner's letter:3 Leipzig, Auenstrasse, 26, 2nd floor c/o Teacher Janicaud.4 Near the Rosenthal.5 The inner city has almost made me pass out so far. Your F. 1. A reply to a lost letter from Franziska Nietzsche.
Basel, September 13, 1882: Most esteemed sir and friend! Three days ago I received your "Fröhliche Wissenschaft" and you can imagine the fresh amazement the book has given me. First of all, the unusual Goethean lute sounds1 in rhymes, the likes of which one would not have expected from you — and then the entire chapter at the end, [with] the Sanctus Januarius! Am I mistaken or is this last section a special tribute you made for one of the recent winters in the South? it just has quite the tone.2 But what always gives me something new to establish is the question: what would it likely mean if you lectured on history?3 For all intents and purposes, you always teach history and have opened up some amazing historical perspectives in this book, but what I think is: if you wanted to illuminate world history ex professo with your kind of highlights and at the angles that suit you; how beautifully many things would turn upside down — in contrast to the current consensus populorum! How glad I am that for a long time now I have increasingly left the customary desires behind and been content to report what happened without too many compliments or complaints. — Incidentally, a lot of what you write (and I am afraid the most excellent things) goes far over my old head; — but when I can keep up, I have the refreshing feeling of admiration for this immense, so to speak, condensed treasure, and I realize how good one could have it in our scholarship if one were able to look with your eyes; unfortunately, at my age, I have to be happy when I collect new material without forgetting the old, and when, as an elderly coachman, I continue to drive on the usual roads without any mishaps, until it's time to just let go of the reins. It will now take some time until I advance from a hasty taste to a slow reading of the book, just as it has always been at a measured pace with your writings. A predisposition to possible tyranny, which you reveal on page 234, §325, shall not mislead me.4 With kind regards P. S. Curtis' address5 just: (He was once co-editor of the Frankfurter Z[ei]t[un]g., is now owner of Züricher Post, radical, but quite independent from his party. — Born in St. Gallen.) 1. Nietzsche's title for the prelude of Die fröhliche Wissenschaft, "Scherz, List und Rache." Vorspiel in deutschen Reimen." ("Joke, Cunning, and Revenge." Prelude in German Rhymes) is based on Goethe's comic operetta in rhymes, Scherz, List und Rache. Ein Singspiel. Leipzig: Göschen, 1790. At the time, Heinrich Köselitz had composed music for it, and was trying to get it performed. For an analysis of Nietzsche's poems in the prelude, see Kathleen Marie Higgins, "Nietzsche's Nursery Rhymes." In: Comic Relief. Nietzsche's Gay Science. New York; Oxford: Oxford Univ. Press, 2000, 14-44.
Leipzig, presumably September 15, 1882: My dear friend, I am of the opinion that the two of us, the three of us,1 are smart enough to be, and to remain, good to one another. In this life, where people like us so easily become specters whom everyone else fears, let us rejoice in one another and try to bring joy to one another; and in this we should become inventive — I, for my part, have much to learn in this respect, since I have been an isolated monster. In the meantime, my sister has turned with all her strength the enmity of her nature, which she usually vents against her mother, against me, and, in a letter to my mother, has literally broken with me out of disgust with my philosophy, and "because I love evil, but she loves the good" and suchlike foolishness. She has showered me with ridicule and scorn2 — well, the truth is, all my life I have been patient and gentle towards her, as one must be towards this sex: and perhaps that has spoiled her. "The virtues will also be punished" — says the wise Sanctus Januarius of Genoa.3 Tomorrow I will write to our dear Lou, my sister (after I've lost my natural sister, a supernatural one must be granted me). Until we meet again in Leipzig at the outset of October! Your Auenstr. 26, 2 Etage. 1. Nietzsche, Salomé and Rée.
Leipzig, September 16, 1882: Esteemed Frau, Look at this picture2 and don't be startled: that's me. For a long time I have been looking for an opportunity to give you an indication of how often I have felt obliged and grateful to you — for many years now and recently more and more. The photographer sent pictures today; and the first one should have the honor to be dispatched to you, esteemed Frau. Your son Paul and [I], we have remained fond [of one another] for a good length of time,3 and now that our friendship has become a kind of trinity,4 we have one more reason to stay good friends with each other, to make life around our beloved third member5 a little more bearable and to give it a more dignified character. All the confidence you have shown us in this is something for which I feel the greatest respect: — I thank you with all my heart for it. Your 5 Jenny Rée (née Jonas, 1825-?), the mother of Paul Rée. For a detailed summary of the Rée family, see Ruth Stummann-Bowert, Malwida von Meysenbug, Paul Ree. Briefe an einen Freund. Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 1998, 67-72.
Leipzig, presumably September 16, 1882: My dear Lou, your idea of a reduction of philosophical systems to personal records of their originators is quite an idea from the "sibling brain": I myself in Basel related the history of ancient philosophy in this sense and liked to tell my audience: "this system is refuted and dead — but the person behind it is irrefutable, the person really cannot be killed" — for example, Plato.1 Today I enclose a letter2 from Professor Jacob Burckhardt, whom you wanted to meet one day. He also has something irrefutable in his personality; but since he is a very authentic historian (the foremost of all living ones), it is precisely that type and person which is eternally incorporated within him that gives him no satisfaction; he would gladly like to see for once through other eyes, for example, as the strange letter reveals, through mine. Incidentally, he believes in an imminent and sudden death, from a stroke, a death typical in his family; perhaps he would like me to be his successor in his professorship? — But my life has already been decided. — Meanwhile Professor Riedel3 here, president of the German Musical Association, is fired with enthusiasm for my "heroic music" (I mean your "Prayer to Life")4 — he absolutely wants to have it [performed], and it is not impossible that he will arrange it for his splendid choir (one of the best in Germany, called the Riedel Society). That would be just one little way in which we could both together reach posterity — other ways excepted. — As far as your "characterization of myself" is concerned, which is true, as you write: it reminded me of my little verses from the Joyful Science — p. 10, with the title "Request."5 Can you guess my dear Lou, what I am asking for? — But Pilate says: "What is truth!"6 — Yesterday afternoon I was happy; the sky was blue, the air mild and pure, I was in Rosenthal, where Carmen-Music7 had lured me. There I sat for three hours, drinking the second cognac of that year, in memory of the first (ha! How horrible it tasted!), and reflected in all innocence and wickedness, whether I had any propensity to madness. In the end I said No. Then the Carmen-Music began, and I foundered for half-an-hour under tears and palpitations of the heart. — But when you read this, you will say Yes! and jot down a note "characterizing my very self." — Come very very soon to Leipzig! Why only on October 2? Adieu, my dear Lou! Your F.N. 1. Cf. Die Philosophie im tragischen Zeitalter der Griechen (Philosophy in the Tragic Age of the Greeks).
Leipzig, September 16, 1882: Highly esteemed sir, I wish you already knew from somewhere or other that you are for me — a very highly esteemed person, man and poet. Then I wouldn't need to apologize today for having sent you a book2 recently. Perhaps, despite its joyful title, this book has offended you? And really, whom would I like to offend less than especially you, the rejoicer of hearts!3 I am so gratefully disposed toward you.4 Sincerely yours 1. Gottfried Keller (1819-1890): Swiss poet and writer.
[Leipzig], early November 1882: Friend! — spoke Columbus — keep *** He likes to lure the one he loves *** To my dear Lou. 1. Probably meant as a dedication to be tipped-in to her copy of Die fröhliche Wissenschaft (The Joyful Science). See the 1884 version of this poem.
Leipzig, presumably November 7, 1882: Admirable friend, Or may I, after six years, no longer use this word?2 In the meantime, I have lived closer to death than to life and as a result have become a little too much of a "sage" and almost a "saint" ... However: that can perhaps still be corrected! For I believe in life again, in people, in Paris, even in myself — and I shall see you again in a short while.3 My last book is called: "Die fröhliche Wissenschaft" [The Joyful Science]. Are there much brighter skies over Paris? Do you happen to know of a room that would suit me? It would have to be a very simple room, dead quiet. And not too far from you, my dear Frau Ott. Or do you advise me not to come to Paris? Is it no place for hermits, for people who want to go about quietly with their life's work and don't care at all about politics and the present age? You are such a sweet memory to me! Cordially yours 1. Moritz Emil Vollenweider (?-1899): Swiss photographer, with studios in Bern, Strasbourg, and later Algiers. Vollenweider and his four sons were something of a dynasty in the world of 19th-century Swiss photography. He was a founding member, and the first president of the Schweizerischer Photographen-Verein (Swiss Photographers Association) from 1886-1888.
Leipzig, Kali phosphor.1 November 8, 1882: Dear Lou, just a few words — my eyes hurt. I saw to your St. Petersburg letter.2 I have also written to your mother two days ago (in fact quite at length)[.] I have also sent two letters of inquiry3 to Paris. — What melancholy! I had no idea until this year how distrustful I am. Namely, of myself. My dealings with human beings have ruined my dealings with myself. You wanted to tell me something? Your voice pleases me most when it asks for something. But one does not hear that often enough. I shall be industrious — — Ah, this melancholy! I write nonsense. How shallow human beings are to me today! Where is there a sea in which one can actually still drown! I mean a human being. My dear Lou (Heartiest greetings to Rée and Frau Rée [Rée's mother]!) 1. A homeopathic remedy detailed in a book sent to Nietzsche by Ernst Schmeitzner. See, Wilhelm Heinrich Schüssler, Eine abgekürzte Therapie, gegründet auf Histologie und Cellular-Pathologie. Anleitung zur Behandlung der Krankheiten auf biochemischem Wege von Dr. Schüssler. Oldenburg: Schulz, 1881.
Leipzig, around November 10, 1882: My dear friend, this is how it's going! I did not write since I was waiting for several things to be decided, and today I am writing just to tell you this; for nothing has been decided yet. Not even regarding my travel and winter plans. Paris1 is still in mind, but there is no doubt that my health has deteriorated under the impact of this northern sky; and perhaps I have never experienced such melancholy hours as in this autumn in Leipzig — although things around me give reason enough to be in good spirits. Enough, there were many days when, in my mind, I traveled via Basel towards the sea. I am a bit afraid of the noisiness of Paris and want to know whether it has enough clear sky. On the other hand, there could be some danger in a renewed Genoese solitude. — — I confess, I would be extremely glad to give you and your dear wife a lengthy report about this year's experiences: there is much to tell and little to write. I owe you a great deal of gratitude for Jans[s]en's book;2 it clarifies excellently everything that distinguishes between his and the Protestant view (the whole matter amounts to a defeat of German Protestantism — in any case, of Protestant "historiography").3 For the most part, I did not have much to relearn myself. For me, the Renaissance still remains the pinnacle of this millennium; and what has happened since then is the grand reaction of all kinds of herd instincts against the "individualism" of that epoch. Lou and Rée left recently, initially to meet Rée's mother in Berlin: from there they go to Paris. Lou's state of health is pitiful; I now give her much less time than I did last spring. We have our fair share of worries; Rée is perfect for his task in this matter. For me personally, L[ou] is a real trouvaille,4 she has fulfilled all my expectations — it is not easy for two people to be more related than we are. As for Köselitz (or rather Herr "Peter Gast"5, here is my second marvel of this year. While Lou is well-prepared, like no other person, for the until now almost undisclosed part of my philosophy, Köselitz is the resounding justification for my entirely new praxis and rebirth — to put it quite egoistically. Here is a new Mozart — I have no other feeling: beauty, warmth, serenity, fullness, overabundance of invention and facility of contrapuntal mastery — such things were never combined like this before, I no longer want to hear any other music. How poor, artificial and histrionic all that Wagnerizing now sounds to me! — Whether Sch[erz] L[ist] und R[ache] will be performed here? I think so, but I don't yet know.6 — This picture, which I enclose, might be displayed on your birthday table (it is admired as a photograph).7 Did Frau Rothpletz8 receive my last book? I forgot her exact address. Wishing a good year for you with all my heart, Your friend Nietzsche 1. Nietzsche was planning on visiting Paris (which never happened) with Salomé and Rée.
Santa Marguerita Ligure, But, dear, dear friend, I thought you would feel the opposite way and be secretly happy to be rid of me for a while!1 There have been a hundred moments this year, from Orta2 onwards, when I felt that you were "paying too high a price" for friendship with me. I have already gotten far too much from your Roman find3 (I mean Lou) — and it always seemed to me, especially in Leipzig, that you had a right to be a bit taciturn toward me. Think of me as kindly as possible, dearest friend, and ask the same of Lou on my behalf. I belong to you both with my most heartfelt feelings — I think I have proven this more by my separation than by my proximity. All proximity makes one so exacting — and in the end I am after all a very exacting man. From time to time we'll see each other again, won't we? Don't forget that from this year on I have suddenly became poor in love and consequently very much in need of love. Write me something quite precise about what concerns us most now — what "stands between us," as you have written. With all my love NB. I praised you so much in Basel4 that Frau Overbeck said: "But you're describing Daniel de Ronda!" Who is Daniel de Ronda?5 Adr: Santa Margherita Ligure 1. Response to an unknown letter by Rée, probably in regard to the planned trip to Paris with Lou Salomé.
Santa Margherita Ligure, My dear Lou, Yesterday I wrote the enclosed letter1 to Rée: and just as I was on the way to take it to the post office — something occurred to me and so I tore off the envelope again. This letter, which concerns you alone, would perhaps cause more difficulties for R[ée] than for you; in brief, you read it; it should be entirely up to you whether R[ée] should read it too. Take this as a token of confidence, of my purest will for confidence between us! And now, Lou, dear heart, let there be pure skies! In every aspect, I want nothing more than pure bright skies: otherwise I will struggle along, as hard as it gets. But a solitary man suffers terribly from a suspicion about the few people he loves — especially when it is a suspicion concerning a suspicion that they have about his whole character. Why, up to now, has all cheerfulness been lacking in our relations? Because I had to do myself too much violence: the cloud on our horizon lay on me! You know perhaps how unbearable I find every desire for shaming, all accusing, and having to defend oneself. One does much wrong, inevitably — but indeed one also has the splendid counterforce to do good, to create peace and joy. I feel every stirring of the higher soul in you, I love nothing in you but these stirrings. I gladly renounce all intimacy and closeness if only I can be sure of one thing: that we feel as one where common souls cannot reach. I speak unclearly? Once I have your trust, you shall see that I also have the words. Until now I have always had to remain silent. Spirit? What is spirit to me! What is knowledge to me! I value nothing but drives — and I could swear that we have something in common in this. Look through this phase, in which I have lived for several years — look beyond it! Don't you be deceived about me — you don't really believe that "the free spirit" is my ideal?! I am — Forgive me! Dearest Lou, be what you must be. F.N.
Tübingen, November 26, 1882: My dear friend! I have to rouse myself once more to swing the letter-axe — which makes my bones increasingly ungainly. I have long since wished you all the best in my mind and specifically when reading your "Joyful":1 I took it to Warnemünde, where with my wife and family I spent a few weeks in September full of incredibly bright sunshine and refreshing relaxation. So, on vacation, upon a bench somewhere, and completely unchained from my old work crib, I enjoyed the book with all my heart and with an open mind. It seems to me much fresher and more daring than your previous ones: of course, this joyful science still doesn't seem like a science to me, but it is now really becoming freer and more joyful; how at first, dearest friend, if I can be permitted to say so, it seemed to me like an eccentric decision that had just been forced from your real inclinations and willed through clenched teeth2 — this new way of thinking, enthusiastically intoxicated with sober-mindedness, is now genuine, that is how I feel, it has become a natural way of feeling for you; and now, one can see, it really serves to make your life easier, clearer, coolly comfortable, without actually making you poorer. What makes this latest encounter so valuable to me is that, for the most part, it is simply a true confession: that's what you feel; and you say this with incomparable energy and brilliance. The dogmatic nature of this way of thinking is disappearing more and more, and that is good: for it is not suitable for dogma: it is the formulation of a τρόπος τοũ βίου3 that is effective and beneficial for you, but which is not allowed to make propaganda and should not want to make any. The very personal aspect of the entire book is what I found so agreeable, and thus also the sense of a calming of the mind and healthy serenity of the entire being that is no longer just desperately wanted but achieved and calmly held, which comes from most of the observations that struck me. If you are not a true virtuoso4 of self-overcoming, then you must have really climbed over the mountain and found your health again: your book testifies to this even more than your letter,5 to my great joy, testified: and that is why it was a real parcel of joy for me. I received some information about how you want to organize your life from Overbeck, whom I visited with my wife in Dresden. But part of the program has already changed again: instead of in Vienna, you show up in Leipzig. Leipzig or Laipz'ch! How eternally long it has been since we went to riding school together6 and did not learn anything special from Ritschl! Entire stretches of life seem to me to lie in between; but one should not look back, for essentially it's a quite empty movement of clouds that separates a person from the olden days. What great things have been achieved and accomplished! — Now you are sitting in the old smokehouse again; may it be nothing but good for you. I would like to know what you are actually looking for there. Among other things, Romundt,7 who apparently went among the pastors, now seems to have settled down again in Laipzch. I wish him all the best, he is an excellent, pure man, but this uprooting after he just seemed to want to root himself seems questionable to me. His "genius," it seems, drives him; personally, I see more and more that the common regularity and certainty of the lower regions of existence is, for us children of the earth, the most necessary prerequisite for the fruitfulness of even higher activity, and so I always become anxious when a friend unnecessarily devotes himself to a life without duty and protection. You see, my friend, I am becoming philistine; in fact, however, I am not, but well, that's enough. Your photograph8 is greatly appreciated by me; you have changed little; I welcome the fact that you even thought about having a photo taken as a new sign of your rekindled courage to live; and that is ultimately the best thing, the courage to live and be active, for which there need be no reason, since it is always justified if it merely exists. As for the rest, I continue to live in the greatest regularity in this dirty village;9 I wish I could one day return to civilized places from this land of monasterial philosophy10 and pastoral pomposity and self-satisfied dawdling. My wife and children, and especially my little daughter11 (now 4 years old), with her constant cheerfulness and tireless interest in all the colorful images of the world and imagination, are an endless source of strength to my heart. The boy12 is still too small; I also have no idea how he will turn out; for now he is just a little marmot crawling around happily. I am finally beginning to lay the lowest foundation walls of a major work13 that will occupy me for many years; such a larger plan, a central point of thought that magnetically attracts every single thing, is to me a very beneficial activity for a brain that is otherwise completely lost in wretched academic work and fragmented details. Farewell then, my dear old faithful friend; it seems to me almost like a memory of an old, sweet story from a distant time, that I now have to imagine you moving about again in the old Leipzig, where my and your beginnings14 lay: as if the wheel were reversed and everything were back to its old place. If only it does you good for the health of your body and cheerfulness of your mind. Farewell: I remember you often and with the old feelings of friendship and love Your Sorry for the horrible writing: an old stubborn pen is tormenting me! 1. Die fröhliche Wissenschaft (The Joyful Science).
Genoa, End November 1882: What are you doing, my dear L[ou], I asked for clear skies between us should I say: it's all over Should we get angry with each other? should we wish to make a lot of noise? Not me, not at all, I wanted clear skies between us. But you're actually a little gallows-bird! And once I thought you were virtue and honesty incarnate. Genoa, November / December 1882 M[y] d[ear] L[ou] I must write you a little spiteful letter. For heaven's sake, what are these little girls of 20 thinking of, who have pleasant feelings of love and have nothing else to do but now and then get sick and lie in bed? Should one per[haps] chase after these li[ttle] g[irls] in order to chase away the boredom and the flies? Perchance to show then a nice winter[?] Charming: but what have I to do with nice winters? If I were to have the honor of contributing to it
Genoa, Early December 1882: Odd! I have a predetermined opinion about L[ou]: and although I have to say that everything I experienced this summer contradicts it, I cannot rid myself of this opinion. A series of higher feelings, which are very rare and very remarkable among h[uman beings], must be or have been present in her: or there must have been some major misfortune[.] Actually, no one in my life has behaved as nastily toward me as L[ou]. To this day she has not recanted that despicable denigration of my entire character and intentions that she initiated in Jena and Tautenb[urg]: and this, even though she knows that its aftermath has caused me considerable damage (namel[y] in regard to Basel)[.] Whoever doesn't break off relations with a girl that says such things must be — be, I don't know what — that's the only conclusion. The fact that I didn't do so was the result of that predetermined opinion: incidentally, a good bit of self-overcoming on my part.1 R[ohde], who recently reproached me by saying that my entire new way of thinking was an ec[centric] decision, calls me a virtuoso2 of self-overcoming. What's hardest for me, by the way, is that I can talk neither to you, nor to Lou, nor to anyone about what's most important to me. There is no doubt about how I would deal with a man who talked about me like that to my sister. In this respect I am a soldier and always will be, I know [how to use] weapons. But a girl! And Lou! she not only abandoned me in Bayreuth, but treated me disparagingly (my sister recounted 100 stories) — I am sensitive on this point, because my friends know how to appreciate my behavior toward W[agner] and do right by me in this respect, for me that belongs to the concept "my friend" whoever does not understand these things knows nothing of what it means to "make sacrifices for knowledge"3 Can't you put these things right? I have never wanted to discuss this with Lou except for one point of which you know. Mainly, I wanted to give her the freedom to make up for what had happened of its own accord: anything that is forced between 2 people is horrible to me. The last time that I saw [Lou] she told me she had something to say to me. I was full of hope. (I said to my s[oul] "She has a very bad opinion of me but she's smart, she'll soon get a better one" I would like the most painful memory of this year to be removed from my soul — painful not because she insulted me but because she insulted the Lou in me. 1. Cf. Elisabeth Nietzsche's 09-24/10-02-1882 letter to Clara Gelzer; 03-17-1883 letter from Franz Overbeck to Heinrich Köselitz.
Genoa, Early December 1882: But, dear Herr Doctor, you could not have answered me more pleasantly than you did — by sending your sheets.1 That was a fortunate coincidence!! And in all first meetings there should be such a good "bird omen"! Yes, you are a poet! What I feel is: the emotions, their changes, not least the scenic apparatus — that's effective and credible (which is what everything depends on!) As far as "language" is concerned, well, we will talk about language together when we see each other: that's not for a letter. Certainly, dear Herr Doctor, you still read too many books, especially German books! How can one possibly read a German book! Ah, forgive me! I just did it myself and shed tears while doing so. Wagner once told me that I wrote Latin and not German: which is firstly true and secondly also sounds pleasant to my ear.2 I can after all have only a share in all German things, and no more. Consider my name: my ancestors were Polish aristocrats, even my grandfather's mother was Polish.3 Well, I make a virtue of my half-Germanness and claim to know more about the art of language than is possible for Germans. — So as for all this — until we meet again! As for "the hero": I do not think so highly of him as you do. Even so, it is the most acceptable form of human existence, especially when one has no other choice. One grows to love something: and one has hardly come to love it fundamentally when the tyrant in us (which we would like to call "our higher self") says: "Give me precisely that as a sacrifice." And we give it too — but it involves animal cruelty and being roasted over slow fires. What you are dealing with are nothing but problems of cruelty: does this please you? I tell you frankly that I myself have too much of this "tragic" complexion in my body not to curse it frequently; my experiences, in small and great things, always take the same course. What I want most is a height from which the tragic problem is beneath me. — I would like to take away from human existence some of its heartbreaking and cruel character. Yet to be able to continue here, I would have to reveal to you — the task which confronts me, my life's task. No, we may not speak about this with each other. Or rather: being as we both are, two very different persons, we may not even remain silent about it together. Your cordially devoted I am again in my residence in Genoa or near it, more of a hermit than ever: Santa Margherita Ligure (Italia) (poste restante). 1. Heinrich von Stein, Helden und Welt. Dramatische Bilder von Heinrich von Stein. Eingeführt durch Richard Wagner. Chemnitz: Schmeitzner, 1883.
Rapallo, Early December 1882: Highly esteemed sir, Due to random coincidence,1 I learned that you have not become estranged from me — despite the alienating solitude that I have been forced to experience since 1876:2 I feel a joy in this that I can hardly describe. It comes to me like a gift and then like something I have been waiting for, in which I have believed. It always seemed to me that as soon as I remembered your name, my heart became more happy and confident; and if I happened to hear something by you, I immediately thought I understood it and had to applaud it. I think I have praised few people as consistently in my life as you — forgive me! What right do I have to "praise" you! — — Meanwhile, for years I have been living somewhat too close to death and, what's worse, to pain. My nature is made to allow itself to be tortured for a long time and to be roasted as with a slow fire; I don't even comprehend the wisdom of "losing one's mind in the process." I will say nothing about the danger of my emotions, but I have to say this: the altered way of thinking and feeling, which I have also expressed in writing over the last 6 years, has preserved me in existence and has almost made me healthy. What does it matter to me if my friends claim that this current "free spiritry" of mine is an eccentricity resolutely held with clenched teeth and my own inclination wrestled with and forced out?3 Well, it may be a "second nature": but I will prove soon enough that with this second nature I first came into actual possession of my first nature. That's the way I think of myself: moreover, almost everyone in the world thinks quite badly of me. My trip to Germany this summer — an interruption of the most profound solitude — instructed and frightened me. I found the entire dear German beast pouncing on me — I am actually no longer "moral enough" for them.4 Enough, once more I am a hermit, and more than ever; and — consequently — conceiving something new. It seems to me that the state of pregnancy alone binds us to life again and again. — Thus: I am who I was, someone who sincerely reveres you Your devoted Santa Margherita Ligure |Italia| post rest. 1. Cf. 11-15-1882 letter from Heinrich von Stein: "Ich hatte Gelegenheit, Herrn von Bülow; seine hingebende Theilnahme für Ihre Schriften und Ihr Ergehen äussern zu hören." (I had the opportunity [to speak with] Herrn von Bulow; to listen to him express his devoted interest in your writings and your welfare.)
Rapallo, before mid-December 1882: M[y] d[ear] L[ou], be careful! If I reject you now, it will be a terrible censure of your whole being! You have been involved with one of the most long-suffering and well-meaning p[eople]: but I am more capable of being overcome by disgust than any h[uman being] believes. Write me other letters.1 Think better of yourself, think about yourself! I have never been deceived about a h[uman being]: and in them there is that urge for a divine selfishness, which is the urge for obedience to the supreme being— I don't know by what curse you have confused it with its opposite, exploitation from the cat's exploitative pleasure2 for nothing other than the sake of life — If you let everything wretched in your nature run wild, who can then still deal with you? You have done harm, you have caused woe — and not only to me but to all the p[eople] who love me: — this sword hangs over you You have in me the best advocate, but also the most merciless judge! I want you to judge yourself and decide your punishment. These are all things that one has in order to overcome them — in order to overcome oneself. Yes, I was angry with you: but why talk about this detail? I have been angry with you every 5 days — and believe me, I have always had a very good reason for it. But how would I be able to live with p[eople] now if I did not know how to overcome my disgust for many human things? I am insulted not only by act[ions] but also by characteristics. At that time in Orta3 I had decided to first acquaint you with my entire ph[ilosophy]. Oh, you have no idea what kind of decision that was: I believed that one could not give someone a greater gift. A very tedious thing (a tedious building and construction) At that time I was inclined to consider you a vision and the appearance of my ideal on earth. Note: I see very poorly. I don't believe anyone can think better of you, but also no one can think worse. If I had created you, I would certainly have given you better health, but above all some other things that are worth more to you — and per[haps] also a little more love for me (although that is just the least of it) and it is entirely the same as with friend R[ée] — I can neither speak a word to you nor to him about what is most important to me. I imagine you don't know at all what I want? — But this forced silence is sometimes almost suffocating, especially when one loves p[eople] 1. The letter is lost.
Rapallo, before mid-December 1882: I do not think anyone can think better of you, but also no one can think worse. It's the same as with my friend R[ée] — I can neither speak a word to you nor to him about what matters most to me. This forced silence is sometimes almost suffocating for me — especially because I love you both. At that time I was inclined to consider you a vision and the appearance of my ideal on earth. Have you noticed yet? I see very poorly. Yes, I was angry with you! But why talk about this detail? I have been angry with you every five days and even more often — and believe me, I had very good reasons for it. I am offended by characteristics more than actions. But I overcome myself. And how would I be able to live with p[eople] now if I did not know how to overcome my disgust for many human things? I did not create the world or Lou. — If I had created L[ou], I would certainly have given you better health, but above all some other things that matter much more than health — and perhaps also a little more love for me (although that is just the least important thing). (On the whole, I have never been wrong about a p[erson].) I believed you had higher feelings than other people: that was the only thing that tied me to you so quickly. From everything you had told me, this confidence was legitimate. I would hurt you and be of no use if I told you what I call my divine selfishness. — Strange! Basically, I still believed that you were capable of these higher and rarest of all feelings: some fundamental misfortune in your upbringing and development had only temporarily paralyzed your good will for them. — Think: that cat egoism1 that can no longer love, that attitude to life for nothingness that you profess are exactly what I find completely repugnant about human beings: worse than anything evil. (Things that one has in order to overcome them — in order to overcome oneself.): including knowledge as a pleasure alongside other pleasures.2 And if I somehow understand you: these are all arbitrary and forced tendencies3 in you — as long as they are not symptoms of your illness (about which I have a lot of painful ulterior thoughts.) Back in Orta,4 I had planned to lead you step by step to the ultimate consequence of my philosophy — you as the first human being I considered capable of doing so. Oh, you have no idea what a decision, what an overcoming it was for me! As a teacher, I have always done a lot for my students: the thought of reward for it in any sense has always offended me. But what I wanted to do here, now, given the ever-worsening state of my physical strength, was beyond anything I had done before. A lengthy building and construction! I never thought of asking you first: you should hardly notice how you got into this task. I trusted those higher impulses in which I believed in you. — I thought of you as my heir — As for friend R[ée]: that's how I felt, just as I have felt every time (including in Genoa5): I cannot watch this extraordinary nature slowly perishing without becoming furious. This lack of purpose! and hence this lack of pleasure in the means, in the work, this lack of diligence, even in scienti[fic] matters. Conscientiousness. This constant squandering! And were it at least a squandering for the pleasure of squandering! But it has the look of a guilty conscience. — I see the errors of education everywhere. A husband should be trained to be a soldier, in some sense. And the wife as the wife of a soldier, in some sense Spirit and purse.6 1. Cf. Rapallo, Mid-December 1882: Draft of a letter to Lou Salomé: "ausbeutenden Lust der Katze (cat's exploitative pleasure)."
Rapallo, first half of December 1882: Dear friend, I call L[ou] my Scirroco incarnate: not for even a minute together with her have I had that clear sky above me that I need with or without people. She unites in herself all the qualities of p[eople] that I detest — disgusting and nauseating — they don't agree with me — and now since Tautenburg I have put myself through torture by loving her! a love that no one has to be jealous of, except perhaps our dear Lord. This is always a problem for a virtuoso [Tausendkünstler] of self-overcoming (that's what R[ohde] recently called me)1 1. Tausendkünstler: literally, "artist of a thousand tricks." Martin Luther once called Satan a Tausendkünstler. See Martin Luther, "Vorrede," In: Die Pfarrer und Prediger (1529). Cf. Tübingen, 11-26-1882: Letter from Erwin Rohde to Nietzsche in Santa Margherita Ligure. "diese fröhliche Wissenschaft [...] erscheinen [...] mir wie ein nur mit Gewalt deiner eigentlichen Neigung abgezwungener, mit verbissenen Zähnen gewollter excentrischer Entschluß vorkam [....] Wenn du nicht ein wahrer Tausendkünstler der Selbstüberwindung bist, so mußt du wirklich nunmehr den Berg überstiegen haben, deine Gesundheit wieder gefunden haben [....]." (this Joyful Science seemed to me like an eccentric decision that had only been forced out of your real inclinations and willed through gritted teeth [....] If you are not a true virtuoso [Tausendkünstler] of self-overcoming, then you must have really climbed over the mountain and found your health again [....].)
Rapallo, mid-December 1882: M[y] d[ear] L[ou], don't write such letters1 to me! What do I have to do with these miseries! But note: I wish that you would rise up before me so that I would not have to despise you. But L[ou] what kind of letters do you write! That's what little vengeful schoolgirls write. What do I have to do with these wretches! But understand: I want you to rise up before me, not for you to diminish yourself. How can I then forgive you if I don't first rediscover your character that makes it possible for you to be forgiven! No, m[y] d[ear] L[ou], we are nowhere near "forgiveness."2 I cannot casually forgive after the insult has had 4 months3 to creep into me. Adieu [my] d[ear] L[ou], I won't see you again. Guard your soul from similar actions and do good for others, and especially to my friend Rée, what you are no longer able to do for me. I did not create the world and L[ou]: I wish I had done so — then I alone would be able to bear the blame for everything that has thus happened between us. 1. The letter Nietzsche is referring to is lost.
Malwida von Meysenbug. From b/w etching. Colorized and enhanced image ©The Nietzsche Channel. Rapallo, Mid-December 1882: My dear esteemed friend, How is it going now? But when I read your letter1 I burst into tears. — Yet I don't want to talk about myself today. You wanted to know what I think about Fräulein Salomé?2 — My sister regards Lou as a venomous viper that must be annihilated at all costs — and acts accordingly. Well, to me this is a completely exaggerated point of view and absolutely contrary to my sympathies. On the contrary: I would like nothing more than to be useful and supportive to her, in the highest and in the humblest sense of the word. Whether I can, whether I have hitherto, is of course a question which I would not like to answer: I have honestly tried to do so. Up to now she has hardly been amenable to my "interests"; I myself am (it seems to me) a bit more superfluous to her than interesting: a sign of good taste! There are many things about her that are different from you — and also from me; they are expressed naively and in this naivety are full of charm to the observer of people.3 Her cleverness is extraordinary: Rée thinks Lou and I are the cleverest persons — from which you can see that Rée is a flatterer. The Rée family takes care of the young girl in the most pleasant way; and here Paul R[ée] is once more the exemplar of kind attention [Delicatesse] and solicitude. My dear esteemed friend, perhaps you wanted to hear something else from me about L[ou]: and when I see you again, you shall hear something else from me too.4 But written down? No. — But I ask you with all my heart to retain the feeling of tender sympathy that you had for L[ou] — indeed, to do more! But what this [more consists of] I can't write about. [ + + + ] Solitary people suffer terribly from memories. Don't worry — ultimately I am a soldier and even a kind of "virtuoso [Tausendkünstler] of self-overcoming." (That's what my friend Rohde recently called me, to my surprise)5 Dear friend, is there then no human being in the world who will love me? — —6 [ + + + ] 1. Rome, 12-13-1882: letter from Malwida von Meysenbug to Nietzsche in Rapallo. Excerpt: "Ich erwartete Sie täglich in Paris, um Ihnen mündlich zu danken für Ihre Bücher, um Vieles mit Ihnen zu besprechen; um so viel als möglich für Sie zu sorgen. Monod freute sich sehr auf Sie. Aber Sie kamen nicht und den Anderen Ihres Dreibündnisses hörte ich auch nichts. Da schrieb ich Ihrer Schwester und erhielt die Nachricht, dass Sie allein wieder in Italien seien. // Ich riss mich nur mit Schmerzen von meinen Lieben los, aber die Kälte trieb mich endlich fort und wegen dieser freute ich mich auch für Sie, dass Sie nicht dort sind. Ich musste nach Mailand und Florenz, sonst hätte ich den Küstenweg genommen um Sie zu sehen. Seit 3 Tagen bin ich nun wieder hier in meinem kleinen Heim und es drängt mich Sie zu fragen, wie es Ihnen geht und was Sie dort einsam treiben." (I waited for you in Paris every day in order to verbally thank you for your books, to discuss many things with you; to take care of you as much as possible. Monod was really looking forward to seeing you. But you did not come and I did not hear anything from the others in your triple alliance. Then I wrote to your sister and received the news that you were back in Italy by yourself. // It was only with pain that I tore myself away from my loved ones, but the cold finally drove me away and due to this I was also happy for you that you weren't there. I had to go to Milan and Florence, otherwise I would have taken the coastal road to see you. I've been back here in my little home for 3 days now and I feel compelled to ask you how you're doing and what you're doing there all alone.)
Rapallo, around December 20, 1882: To speak as a free spirit, I am in the school of affects, i.e. the affects devour me. A dreadful pity, a dreadful disappointment, a dreadful feeling of wounded pride — how do I stand it anymore? Isn't pity a feeling from hell? What should I do? Every morning I doubt whether I will survive the day. I no longer sleep: what's the point of hiking for 8 hours! From where did I get these intense affects! Oh, for some ice! But where is there ice for me? Tonight I will take so much opium that I will go out of my mind: where is there another h[uman being] whom one can still respect! But I know you all through and through. Don't be alarmed too much by the outbursts of my delusions of grandeur or my wounded vanity: and if I myself should happen to take my own life one day due to the above-mentioned affects, there would not be too much to mourn. What do my raving fantasies matter to you I mean you and Lou! Both of you should consider the fact that ultimately I am halfway to the madhouse, sick in the head, who has been completely confused by solitude. — I have come to what I think to be a reasonable insight into the way things are after taking a huge dose of opium out of desperation. But instead of losing my understanding on account of it, it seems my understanding has finally come to me. By the way, I was actually sick for weeks: and when I say that I have had 20 days of Orta weather1 here, my condition will seem more comprehensible to you. Please ask Lou to forgive me everything — she will also give me an opportunity to forgive her. For I have not forgiven her for anything yet.2 It is much harder to forgive one's friends than one's enemies. That reminds me of Lou's "defense." Strange! Whenever someone defends themselves to me, it always comes down to the fact that I am supposedly wrong. I already know this in advance, so it doesn't interest me anymore. Could Lou be an unrecognized angel? Could I be an unrecognized ass? in opio veritas: Long live wine and love! Please have no scruples! I am so very used to it: this year everyone is upset with me, the next year maybe everyone will be delighted with me. 1. Cf. Berlin, New Year's Evening, January 1983: Letter from Lou Salomé to Paul Rée in Stibbe. In: Friedrich Nietzsche, Paul Rée, Lou von Salomé, Ernst Pfeiffer (hg.), Friedrich Nietzsche, Paul Rée, Lou von Salomé. Die Dokumente ihrer Begegnung. Frankfurt am Main: Insel, c1970 [1971], 281. "In den ersten Tagen des Januar war es, als ich krank und müde in den Sonnenschein von Italien kam, — um Sonnenschein und Leben für das ganze Jahr von dort mit fortzunehmen. Wie viel von dieser Sonne lag auf unsern römischen Spaziergängen und Plaudereien, wie viel auf der Orta-Idylle mit ihren Kahnfahrten und ihrem Monte sacro mit seinen Nachtigallen, wie viel auf jener Schweizer Reise durch den Gotthardt, auf den Tagen von Luzern." (It was in the first days of January that I came, sick and tired, to the sunshine of Italy — to take sunshine and life there with me for the whole year. How much of this sun was on our Roman walks and conversations, how much on the Orta idyll with its boat rides and its Monte Sacro with its nightingales, how much on that Swiss journey through the Gotthardt, on the days in Lucerne.)
Rapallo, around December 20, 1882: Don't be alarmed too much about the outbursts of my "delusions of grandeur" or my "wounded vanity" — and if I should happen to take my own life one day out of some affect, then there would not be too much to mourn. What do my raving fantasies matter to you! (Even my "truths" have not affected you so far.) Both of you should consider the fact that ultimately I am halfway to the madhouse, sick in the head, who has been completely confused by a long period of solitude. I think I have come to this sensible insight into the state of things after taking a huge dose of opium — out of desperation. But instead of losing my understanding, it finally seems to have come to me. Incidentally, I was really sick for weeks; and when I say that I had 20 days of Orta weather1 here, I do not need to say anything more. Friend Rée, please ask Lou to forgive me everything — she will also give me an opportunity to forgive her. For I have not forgiven her for anything yet.2 It is much harder to forgive one's friends than one's enemies. That reminds me of Lou's "defense" [ + + + ] 1. Nietzsche, Rée, and Salomé and her mother were together in Orta from May 5-7, 1882. Regarding the sunny weather, cf. Berlin, New Year's Evening, January 1983: Letter from Lou Salomé to Paul Rée in Stibbe. In: Friedrich Nietzsche, Paul Rée, Lou von Salomé, Ernst Pfeiffer (hg.), Friedrich Nietzsche, Paul Rée, Lou von Salomé. Die Dokumente ihrer Begegnung. Frankfurt am Main: Insel, c1970 [1971], 281. "In den ersten Tagen des Januar war es, als ich krank und müde in den Sonnenschein von Italien kam, — um Sonnenschein und Leben für das ganze Jahr von dort mit fortzunehmen. Wie viel von dieser Sonne lag auf unsern römischen Spaziergängen und Plaudereien, wie viel auf der Orta-Idylle mit ihren Kahnfahrten und ihrem Monte sacro mit seinen Nachtigallen, wie viel auf jener Schweizer Reise durch den Gotthardt, auf den Tagen von Luzern." (It was in the first days of January that I came, sick and tired, to the sunshine of Italy — to take sunshine and life there with me for the whole year. How much of this sun was on our Roman walks and conversations, how much on the Orta idyll with its boat rides and its Monte Sacro with its nightingales, how much on that Swiss journey through the Gotthardt, on the days in Lucerne.)
Rapallo, last week of December 1882: I write this under clear skies: do not confuse my sanity with the nonsense of my recent opium-letter.1 I am not at all crazy and also do not suffer from delusions of grandeur. But I should have friends who will warn me at the right time of such dire affairs, like those of this summer. Who could have guessed that her2 heroic words "fighting for a principle," her poem "To Pain,"3 her stories about the struggle for knowledge, were simply fraudulent. (Her mother wrote to me this summer: L[ou] has had the greatest freedom imaginable.)4 Or is it something else? The Lou in Orta5 was a different creature than the one whom I rediscovered later on. A creature without ideals, without goals, without duties, without shame. And on the lowest level of p[eople], despite her good mind! She told me herself that she had no morality — and I thought she had, like myself, a more severe one than anybody! and she often sacrificed something of herself every day and every hour. In the meantime, I can only see that it is out of amusement and entertainment: and when I think that this also includes questions of morality, then, to put it mildly, I am seized with pure indignation. She has quite resented the fact that I denied her the right to the phrase "heroism of knowledge" — but she should be honest and say: "I am just worlds apart from that." While heroism is a matter of sacrifice and duty and in fact daily and hourly, and thus much more, the whole soul must be replete with one thing, and life and happiness indifferent about it. I thought I saw such a nature in L[ou]. Listen, friend, how I view the matter today! It is a complete disaster — and I am its victim. In the spring I thought I had found a p[erson] capable of helping me: which of course requires not only a good intell[ect] but a first-rate morality. Instead of this, we have discovered a creature who wants to amuse herself and is shameless enough to believe that the most distinguished minds on earth are just good enough for this purpose. The result of this mistake for me is that I lack more than ever the means to find such a p[erson] and that my soul, which was free, is tormented by an abundance of disgusting memories. For the entire dignity of my life's work has been compromised by [a] superficial and immorally frivolous and soulless creature like Lou and also that my name my reputation is tarnished I believed you had persuaded her to come to my aid. to P[aul] R[ée] 1. Cf. Rapallo, around December 20, 1882: letter to Lou Salomé and Paul Rée.
Rapallo, last week of December 1882: You will have to think about speaking to me in a different tone [of voice]: otherwise I will accept no more letters1 from Naumburg! I can virtually no longer bring myself to open a letter from Naumburg; and the less I see one, the less I want to be reminded of what you did to me this summer2 and the aftereffects which continue to haunt me. 1. Nietzsche broke off correspondence with a letter to his mother — she probably burned it, as was her habit with unpleasant news — that emerged from the drafts in the final weeks of December 1882. Cf. Rapallo, 12-25-1882: Letter to Franz Overbeck. "Gestern habe ich nun auch mit meiner Mutter den brieflichen Verkehr abgebrochen: es war nicht mehr zum Aushalten, und es wäre besser gewesen, ich hätte es längst nicht mehr ausgehalten. Wie weit inzwischen die feindseligen Urtheile meiner Angehörigen um sich gegriffen haben und mir den Ruf verderben — — nun, ich möchte es immer noch lieber wissen als an dieser Ungewißheit leiden. —." (Yesterday I broke off my correspondence with my mother, too: it had become unendurable, and it would have been better if I had stopped enduring it long ago. How far the hostile judgments of my family have spread meanwhile and ruined my reputation — — well, I would still rather know it than suffer this uncertainty. —)
Rapallo, December 25, 1882: D[ear] f[riend,] this bite of life was the hardest I have chewed so far; it is still possible that I will choke on it. I have suffered from the insulting accusations and torturous experiences of this [past] summer1 as from a madness. The entire time I managed per[haps] 4 or 5 nights of sleep — and even then only with the strongest doses of soporifics. My entire thoughts, aims and endeavors are afflicted by the ravages of these emotions. What shall become of it! I strain every fiber of self-overcoming — but — it is too much for a h[uman being] of such long solitude Today while out and about something occurred to me that made me laugh a lot: she2 treated me like a 20-year-old student — a very permissible way of thinking for a 20-year-old girl — a student who had fallen in love with her. But wise men like me love only ghosts — and woe betide me if I loved a h[uman being] — I would so[on] perish of this love. The h[uman being] is too incomplete a thing3 1. The events regarding his relationship with Lou Salomé.
Rapallo, December 25, 1882: Dear friend, Perhaps you did not even get my last letter? — This last bite of life was the hardest I have chewed so far and there is still a chance I will choke on it. I suffered from the insulting and torturous memories1 of this [past] summer as if from a madness — my indications in Basel and in my last letter always withheld the most essential thing. There is a dichotomy of opposing emotions, with which I cannot cope. That means: I strain every fiber of my self-overcoming — but I have lived in solitude for too long and fed too long on my "own fat" that I am now, more than anyone else, being broken on the wheel of my own emotions. If only I could sleep! — but the strongest doses of my soporific help me just as little as my 6-8 hour hikes. If I do not conjure up the alchemist's trick of making gold out of this muck too — then I am lost. — I have the most wonderful opportunity to prove that for me "all experiences are useful, all days holy and all human beings divine"!!!!2 All human beings divine. My lack of confidence is now very great: I feel contempt towards myself in everything I hear. — E.g., most recently in a letter from Rohde.3 I could swear that, were it not for the coincidence of earlier friendly relations, he would now judge me and my goals in the most contemptuous manner. Yesterday I also broke off all correspondence with my mother: I could not stand it anymore, and it would have been better if I had not stood it for as long as I did. Meanwhile, how far the hostile judgments of my relatives have now been spread and are ruining my reputation — — well, I would still rather know than suffer from this uncertainty. — My relationship with Lou is in its last, most painful throes: at least that is what I believe today. Later, if there is a later, I want to say something about that too. Pity, my dear friend, is a kind of hell — whatever Schopenhauer's followers4 may say. I am not asking you: "What shall I do?" A few times I thought about renting a little room in Basel, visiting you now and then and attending lectures. A few times I also thought of the opposite: driving my solitude and renunciation to its ultimate point and — Your F. N. 1. The events regarding his relationship with Lou Salomé. |
