The Good European E-Book

Iain Bamforth

• Herausgeber: Carcanet Poetry
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Seitenzahl: 549

Beschreibung

Nietzsche, warning his countrymen in the Bismarck era against the nationalism that sought to promote all that was anti-rational in the German tradition, exhorted them to be 'good Europeans', avatars of the enlightened economic man of the eighteenth-century. Yet as RG Collingwood observed in his last great inquiry into the nature of civilisation, a book written to the glory of Hobbes at the height of the London blitz, Nietzsche was himself a victim of the disease he diagnosed. In The Good European Iain Bamforth's reports on fifteen years of 'experimental living' during which his attachment to the old continent brought him from Berlin, in the week in which he saw the fall of the Wall in 1989, to Strasburg, heart of aboriginal Europe and the city of noses in Tristram Shandy. Thrown into a deep identity crisis by Bismarck's victories against the French in 1870, pilot region for some of the modern state's most radical policies (health insurance, public relations), Alsace's divided loyalties have affected the nature of Europe itself. With his ear attuned to the complexities of culture and politics, Bamforth attempts to discover Europe through extra-diplomatic channels: he offers essays on writers and thinkers who have done much to define the small archipelago on the edge of Asia, including classics such as Kleist, Kafka, Roth and Benjamin, WG Sebald and Mavis Gallant. He provides a portrait of the Nazi jurist Carl Schmitt, a send-off for Bernard Pivot's classic literary chat-show Bouillon de Culture, a scrutiny of philosophising media pundit Peter Sloterdijk, landscapes from Provence and Bavaria, reports from Prague and Geneva, Franco-German shibboleths, a sarcastic letter from 'Kakania', and an anatomy of the Alsatian humorist Tomi Ungerer. Europe often reeks of the terminally nostalgic and the curatorial: here a sceptical Scots intelligence reaches out to Musil, Heine, Gogol, Sterne, Montaigne, Rabelais and beyond the 'standard average European' to the gallant, helpless, hero-smitten Don, in the hope that they can help him find the way towards a more generous Europe.

Leseprobe

IAIN BAMFORTH

The Good European

ESSAYS AND ARGUMENTS

Art is something so lucid that nobody understands it.

Karl Kraus        

For Felix and Claire

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

By Way of a Prologue

The Continuing Adventures of Mr Ross Hall, Esq. (& Madam Zell)

A Critical Consciousness: Heinrich von Kleist

Being Nice to Nietzsche

Shelf-Life: Varieties of the Aphorism

Scheherezade in Vienna: Joseph Roth

Berlin Diary 1989

A Jolly Good Show: How the British Saw Their Empire

Overwhelmed by Aura

Politics and Aesthetics: Harry Graf Kessler, Eugene Jolas, Wolfgang Koeppen

‘You Must Change Your Life’: A Letter from Kakania

Bile with Style

The Future of the Walk

Cinema Verities

Candour and Hygiene: Louis-Ferdinand Céline

Third Person to Herself: Marguerite Duras

Believing in Architecture: Berlin since 1870

The Last Culture Broth: Bernard Pivot’s Bookshow

Windfowl and Their Advantages

Kafka and America

Paris, France: An Afternoon with Mavis Gallant

Russia and the End of Time

Next Year in Jerusalem: Britain in Palestine

The Life and Times of Tomi Ungerer

A Stuttered Essay on the French

Five Postcards from Badenweiler for Zinovy Zinik

Iliad of Abject Europe: Airwar, Literature and Compassion

The Good European: Nietzsche’s Counterculture

A Lance for Hire: Four Hundred Years of Don Quixote

All the Glory of His Father’s House

The Road Not Taken

Afterword

Notes and Acknowledgements

Index

About the Author

Also by Iain Bamforth from Carcanet

Copyright

By Way of a Prologue

As this revolution of the Strasburgers affairs is often spoken of, and little understood, I will, in ten words, says Slawkenbergius, give the world an explanation of it, and with it put an end to my tale.

Every body knows of the grand system of Universal Monarchy, wrote by order of Mons. Colbert, and put in manuscript into the hands of Lewis the fourteenth, in the year 1664.

’Tis as well known, that one branch out of many of that system, was the getting possession of Strasburg, to favour an entrance at all times into Suabia, in order to disturb the quiet of Germany – and that in consequence of this plan, Strasburgunhappily fell at length into their hands.

It is the lot of a few to trace out the true springs of this and such like revolutions – The vulgar look too high for them – Statesmen look too low – Truth (for once) lies in the middle.

What a fatal thing is the popular pride of a free city! cries one historian – The Strasburgers deemed it a diminution of their freedom to receive an imperial garrison – so fell a prey to a French one.

The fate, says another, of the Strasburgers, may be a warning to all free people to save their money. – They anticipated their revenues – brought themselves under taxes, exhausted their strength, and in the end became so weak a people, they had not strength to keep their gates shut, and so the French pushed them open.

Alas! alas! cries Slawkenbergius, ’twas not the French, – ’twas CURIOSITY pushed them open – The French indeed, who are ever upon the catch, when they saw the Strasburgers, men, women, and children, all marched out to follow the stranger’s nose – each man followed his own, and marched in.

Trade and manufactures have decayed and gradually grown down ever since – but not from any cause which commercial heads have assigned; for it is owing to this only, that Noses have ever so run in their heads, that the Strasburgers could not follow their business.

Alas! alas! cries Slawkenbergius, making an exclamation – it is not the first – and I fear will not be the last fortress that has been either won – or lost by NOSES.

The End of Slawkenbergius’s Tale in Tristram Shandy (Volume IV)

The Continuing Adventures of Mr Ross Hall, Esq. (& Madam Zell)

WHAT should we make of him? Like William Godwin, father of Mary Shelley, he was a pedagogue incapable of practising what he preached. He wrote a treatise known to every educated person at the end of the eighteenth century on how to educate a young boy and left his own five children with the Foundling Hospital in Paris. Edmund Burke observed that his often-expressed ‘love of humanity’ was a charade which excused him from any real concern with the suffering of men and women. Contemporary humanitarianism follows his impulse, allowing the heart and not history to lead it towards causes that can do no wrong: it doesn’t care for human beings too much but it likes to take care of them. As Flaubert had to remind his mistress Louise Colet half a century later: ‘Don’t imagine that the pen has the same instincts as the heart.’ Rousseau was hopelessly dependent on his gouvernante Thérèse Levasseur, not to speak of poor Madame de Warens, and yet proclaimed his proud ‘Roman courage’ and his defiant independence: if he had a need it was for a lack of binding attachments. What we think of as ordinary sociability was for Rousseau the hell of mutual dependence: too many people aping each other. In spite of his preference for cultivated upper-class young ladies, with their soft skin and ribboned hair, at the age of 33 he made Thérèse, an illiterate laundry maid met at the Hôtel Saint-Quentin in Paris, his lifelong companion: her malapropisms were so notorious Rousseau himself made a list of them to amuse Mme de Luxembourg. She could neither tell the time nor count, yet Rousseau claimed she possessed a stock of uncommon good sense which could be relied upon in times of difficulty. Many of his friends thought his helpmate a simpleton, though the ever rampant James Boswell, after a tryst with her in a boarding house in Dover, praised her ‘amatory skills’. She looked after Rousseau until his death, at the age of 66, in July 1778. He was as ready to praise the ordinary people like Thérèse for their spontaneity of feeling as, with his next breath, to curse them for being lackeys to their masters. It was ever thus with Rousseau. The coolly subtle dialectician of The Social Contract becomes the radical free spirit of La Nouvelle Héloïse, whose ‘true voice of feeling’ when first heard in 1761 made readers, especially young women, swoon. Mary Shelley’s famous phantasmagoria of the nursery owes more to him than it does to the men who told her ghost-stories in Geneva. The moonlit occasions of romantic love, as practised novelistically by Julie on St-Preux, and Rousseau himself on Sophie d’Houdetot, were thrilling and deeply flattering. Love feeds, and feeds upon, the emotional needs aroused by its being physically thwarted: the kind of celestial transcendence written about by the Christian mystics has become the bubble of air in a spirit level inclining this way and that. Hundreds of letters addressed to the author confirm that his novel had caused a swell of emotional emancipation in the reading public; Goethe’s Werther was to do the same a few years later. The reaction of Mme de Polignac, who confessed in a letter to Mme de Verdelin that while she had no urge to meet Rousseau the philosopher Rousseau the novelist was a different matter, was typical of many urbane spirits: ‘In my first impulse I was on the point of getting out the horses and going to Montmorency to see him at all costs and telling him how much his tenderness seems to me to elevate him above all other men; to make him show me the portrait of Julie and to kneel before the image of that divine woman.’ Both Kant, the legislator of rationalism, and his townsman Hamann, the first rebel against universal reason, took him to be one of their own; indeed, Rousseau’s was the only portrait to be seen in Kant’s austere study. Much later, Claude Lévi-Strauss, in a famous phrase in Tristes Tropiques was to call him ‘our master and our brother’. Although he had no formal schooling and moved from job to job with regularity (he was at one time or other engraver, tax cashier, servant, clerk, personal tutor, piano teacher, diplomatic secretary in Venice and music copyist, which latter occupation brought in most of his earnings), the philosophes made him their darling. In return, he spiked the pages of their Encyclopaedia with little thought-bombs: his only and otherwise conventional article, on a non-musical subject, Economie politique, contained a passage which rather than upholding Locke’s doctrine of the natural right to property suggests that legality is a mere patina concealing the worst kind of exploitation and injustice: ‘Let us sum up in a few words the social contract of the two estates: “You need me, because I am rich and you are poor; let us therefore make an agreement between us; I will allow you to have the honour of serving me, provided you pay me the little that remains to you for the trouble I take to command you”.’ Diderot was most amused that, in an orthodox exposition of liberalism, Rousseau should be so hostile to the notion of property, a ‘natural right’, as to suggest it was injustice institutionalised. He stood at a crux in human affairs: the practical use of the mind which, from the beginning of recorded time, had been exclusively at the service of the body’s needs, was about to wreck havoc on nature in order to satisfy the appetites that living together in society had awakened in human beings. ‘It was iron and corn which first civilised men, and ruined humanity’: the Fall of Man must have occurred in the Neolithic Age then. In the The First Discourse on Inequality he first voiced his conviction that man is naturally good but corrupted by society, further asserting that the sciences and arts had been instrumental in making that corruption widespread; they should not be abolished, however, for they might serve to mitigate the evils of viciousness. It was the Second Discourse, in 1753, which became the chapbook for the Revolution and altered the way people thought about themselves and the larger world. In it he took issue with Hobbes, whose vision of the war of man against all men in the state of nature was, he claimed, a projection not from nature but society. Hobbes regarded human self-centredness as a fact of nature; Rousseau as a product of civilisation. And this civilised man is alienated: ‘The savage lives within himself; socialised man always lives outside himself; he knows how to live only in the opinion of others, and it is from their judgement alone that he derives the sense of his own existence.’ Rousseau was celebrating the hunter-gatherer before the word existed, though he was no simple primitivist: the idea of the noble savage was a fable convenue and the state of nature, as he said in the preface to his discourse, a ‘hypothesis’ which enabled mankind to determine how far it had sunk from the ideal. Natural man might be praiseworthy, but he wasn’t a full moral being. Seneca had said it before him: primitive man might be admirable but was a Stoic by instinct only – it was better to know a way of life to be virtuous and to pursue it knowingly than to pursue it without knowing why. So where were the full moral beings in this late age? Paris made him famous and he hated it; Geneva’s iron moralists chased him away, and he claimed it was the finest place on earth. His patriotic father Isaac had brought him up in the belief that Geneva was the only city in the modern world which had recovered the spirit of the ancient republics. He was a Calvinist (he observed that most of Geneva’s pastors actually resembled the Socinians against whom Calvin had fulminated: they dismissed the notion of the triune God and believed reason to be the sole and final authority in the interpretation of the scriptures), yet it was as a Catholic catechumen that he walked to Turin in 1724. His ideal was the Spartan hero, and yet the feminine element in his own nature was so strong he fulminated against it in print. ‘The man should be strong and active; the woman should be weak and passive; the one must have both the power and the will; it is enough that the other should offer little resistance,’ he wrote in Emile, or On Education; yet throughout his writing life he admits candidly to his longing for chastisement over the knees of an imperious governess. All his life he submitted to dominant, assertive females. His male friendships were curious too, to put it mildly. Having earlier made the acquaintance of David Hume in Paris, he sought refuge from the French authorities in England: Hume gave him the use of his cottage, only for Rousseau to succumb to the delusion that le bon David was keeping tabs on him. The next moment, freed of his delusion, Mr Ross Hall, as he was later known to the locals at Wootton, another of the country houses offered to him during his English exile, embraced the bewildered philosopher with infantile protestations of affection. This most histrionic man hated the idea of theatre (burghers of Geneva who wished to see plays had to go to Carouge, now a part of the city but then a separate town owing allegiance to the Kingdom of Sardinia), despite his own attachment to writing dramatic works and, as he writes in a letter of 1754, his regard for ‘that great man Molière’. Visiting a packed Drury Lane for a performance in which the famous Garrick specially played two characters for him, Garrick’s wife wrote that he was ‘so very anxious to display himself, and hung so forward over the box’ that she had to hold onto the skirt of his coat to prevent him falling. The theatre was the place where a man could lose his own self: no prospect for a man who had grown up in Calvin’s city could be more terrifying. Public festivals, open-air pageants and games (precursors of the happenings and open-air concerts of the 1960s) were much healthier. ‘The only true joy is public joy.’ Botany – which he called a ‘lazy study’ – brought him moments of intensely private joy too, especially when he lived in arcadian solitude on St Peter’s Isle, on Lake Bienne in western Switzerland: every morning after breakfast he set out with a magnifying glass in his hand and Linnaeus’ classifier under his arm in the hope of recording the peninsula’s entire flora. His Letters on the Elements of Botany Addressed to a Young Lady, which was reprinted several times in translation in the 1790s, is still a useful guide to the herborium. His keenest sense of equality was reserved for festive occasions, when the social classes would meet in idyllic transport after the grape harvest. He immodestly described his Confessions as the first true autobiography ever written (he tells us, notoriously, about the remorse he felt all his life for the youthful lie told about a stolen ribbon that led to his fellow employee and friend, Marianne, losing her job and good name), though Rousseau was precisely the kind of man to tell a fib in order to conceal a greater lie. One thing was sure, even sacrosanct: ‘I am commencing an undertaking, hitherto without precedent and which will never find an imitator. I desire to set before my fellows the likeness of a man in all the truth of nature, and that man myself. Myself alone! I know the feelings of my heart, and I know men. I am not like any of those I have seen; I venture to believe that I am not made like any of those who are in existence.’ Sincerity was the one virtue that trumped the others. He took his own motives and nature to be entirely transparent, though it was David Hume’s opinion ‘that nobody knows himself less’. What counted was the full-hearted declaration, the self-exculpating tone of Protestant kitsch. Thomas Carlyle called him ‘a morbid, excitable, spasmodic man’. But his protestations suggest that a person can sound sincere while being in bad faith, if sincerity is understood as not lying to others while good faith appendantly entails not lying to oneself. Literary instinct rather than detective work told William Blake he was a Pharisee: ‘The Book written by Rousseau call’d his Confessions, is an apology & cloke for his sin & not a confession’ (Jerusalem). Rousseau himself had said something similar about Montaigne, whom he accused of merely pretending to confess his faults, ‘while taking good care to admit only likeable ones’. Unlike St Augustine, who addressed his confessions to God in fraught anticipation of salvation, Rousseau cast his blameless life before the reading public. His were the strange moral gymnastics of going about in sackcloth and ashes, the Voice of Him that cryeth in the Wilderness, with a sandwich board to advertise the fact. ‘But in examining myself with greater care I was very surprised by the number of things which I had invented but which I remember saying as though they were true, at a time when, proud in myself of my love for the truth, I was sacrificing to it my security, my interests, and my own person with an impartiality of which I knew no other example among men.’ Twentieth-century ‘confessional’ literature takes all its cues from Rousseau, in its attempt to prove itself more neurotic than the neighbours. So, too, does the anti-literary philistinism that believes literature exists only to consolidate social relations, to uphold the values of citizenship, to blow the trumpet for fraternity. The idea of play as a release from the world of necessities and tasks was not at all congenial to Rousseau, though his conception of mœurs was more nuanced than Calvin’s. Play was corrupting: Geneva had been so organised that men would never be idle, and therefore tempted to sin. Rousseau thought that people could live well only in self-sufficient villages – similar in size to Aristotle’s ideal ancient city of a five thousand people able to hear the address of an orator – and it must have troubled him that for long periods he himself had no refuge anywhere, certainly not in Geneva. ‘Cities,’ he wrote, ‘are the abyss of the human species.’ Yet the great solitary was gripped by dreams of civic unity. What kind of mystic polis could Rousseau live in? Aristotle never mentions contracts when discussing his polity, whereas Rousseau, like all autarkic individualists, was an extreme contractarian (of the kind who thrives in a market society). Isaiah Berlin called him ‘one of the most sinister and most formidable enemies of liberty in the whole history of modern thought,’ and yet the procession that escorted his remains from their initial resting place at Ermenonville to the Pantheon was led by a captain of the United States Navy carrying the Stars and Stripes. Sociological realism might not have been Rousseau’s forte, but here he stands disowned by his interpreters as the first apologist of unfreedom and an impossibly romantic anarchist. His personal tastes were frugal and he wrote more than once about the joys of a simple meal of fruit, cheese and bread. These were his communion articles for that melting of the inner self into the mystery of the great outdoors. And when the world threatens to disturb that repose, especially the social world, there is always the refuge of self-mastery. Many of his core beliefs were Stoic. His opera in the style of Pergolesi, Le Devin du village (The Village Soothsayer), portrayed the kind of simple and sincere culture that a later audience would see again through the eyes of Gretchen in Goethe’s Faust; a sophisticated court audience including Louis XV and Madame Pompadour lapped it up when it was first performed at Fontainebleau in 1752. Mozart was to borrow the plot for his Bastien und Bastienne. Rousseau slipped back to Paris rather than meet the King and have honours thrust upon him, for his conscience as a ‘reformed man’ made it clear to him that he could no longer be a person of integrity if he was in receipt of a pension. He was starting to be swayed by the arguments of his own books. The ostensible reason for avoiding the royal summons was his chronic bladder problem, probably some kind of urethral stricture, which plagued him in the latter part of his life. Rousseau abandoned the composition of music after the querelle des bouffons set off in 1753 by his polemic Letter on French Music, which claimed that French music (as represented by its spokesman Rameau) was corrupt. Rousseau came up with a new system of musical notation by means of which notes and pitch could be represented numerically: convention and tradition could – indeed ought to – be overthrown by the court of the individual sensibility, in this case his. Rousseau’s system was never adopted, being plainly inadequate for the task which musical notation had evolved to deal with; but he couldn’t leave unbroken the cake of custom. The English sense of modernity with its trust in the inherited wisdom of social institutions, that living record of the way in which past errors have been overcome, is utterly at odds with Rousseau’s urge to reform our imperfect social arrangements. Because he comes across genuine authority not vested in any single person Rousseau seeks to challenge it. The only book he deems suitable for the education of Emile is the story of the shipwrecked Robinson Crusoe on his desert island: ‘The surest way to raise him above prejudice and to found his judgements on the true relations of things, is to put him in the place of a solitary man, and to judge all things as they would be judged by such a man in relation to their own utility.’ These are the outlines of the Cartesian effort to live every day as if it were the first. Legitimacy (which the eighteenth century regarded, almost unanimously, as deriving from nature) would be the key problem for any future participatory democracy; hence the endless search, more speculative than scientific, for origins. That was the presumption of the French Revolution, as Burke observed: it wanted to refound social institutions, not modify, like the English Revolution, existing historical experience. Politics gives us human understanding, not the other way around. For all its belief in progress, the nineteenth century fairly swarmed with thinkers who made valiant attempts to untangle the mystery of first things; and despite its keen anticipation of the future the twentieth proved to be the most retrospective century of them all. But that is what ‘originality’ originally meant. Just as the lowly Hebrews and not their Egyptian masters had come up with the first religion, so the amateur historian might devise the first modern anthropology. The pursuit of the archaic would be the next century’s metaphor for its own modernity. Rousseau’s comments on French music, its preference for the spatial properties of harmony over unison melody, which he saw as music’s real driving force, was to lead him to make similarly unflattering comments about the French language in his Essay on the Origin of Language, published only after his death. It was an argument taken up by Herder and Goethe after they had been exposed to the thrilling tones of Shakespeare and Ossian: Sturm undDrang was launched in Strasburg in 1770 in explicit reaction to the ‘lifelessness’ of classicising French drama. ‘O das verwünschte Wort: Classisch!…’ as Herder lamented, in his fragment on the new German literature, blasting the idea of the classical as ‘confounded’. The refusal to imitate: that was the clarion call of genius, astounded at its own originality. The locus of reality was moving inwards; and as it did, the old idea of the human soul warring with its sinful nature surrendered to a new but external dualism: between the blameless self and a corrupt society. Joseph Joubert wrote, after reading Rousseau: ‘In his books we learn how to be discontented with everything outside of ourselves.’ To the generations after Rousseau it seemed self-evident that what needed reforming was society, not the person: this is the incipit of modern politics, especially in its democratic and progressive forms. One day pious policy-makers would even get round, as they have at the start of the twenty-first century, to addressing God’s scandalous error in allowing evil into the creation at all. Most contemporary Europeans, who remain firmly Augustinian in their understanding of international relations, recoil from politicians who promise to remove evil from the world in the name of the good. Being a bornagain country, on the other hand, the United States goes down with the fever of recurrent innocence, and the continuing need to push ever further back the border between civilisation and the wild men of the undergrowth. But make no mistake – Europeans have explored the ruthlessness of sentiment, too. It took the Marquis de Sade to tell us, in Philosophy in the Boudoir, that benevolence is more obviously a vice of pride than a true virtue of the soul. Good deeds in the modern world are speculative, like all other actions. Rousseau is guilty of that modern delusion of seeing Christianity secularised solely in terms of its virtues, though he thought future men might turn to God again and beg for a clean slate: ‘Give us back our innocence, ignorance and poverty, for that alone can make us happy and precious in Thy sight.’ His anti-intellectualism disturbed his philosopher friends in Paris. They could go the distance with him in provocation, but they hesitated to embrace his taste for the dramatic in landscape: ‘I must have torrents, rocks, pine trees, black forests, mountains, steep paths to climb and descend, precipices around all to make me feel fear.’ The snow-covered mountains of the Valais rising south of Geneva were to form the natural cathedral for his residual deism. These mountain folk were considered dolts in Paris; Rousseau thought them the salt of the earth. On the whole he enjoyed being in Paris, but disapproved of it on principle. He once wrote to a Genevese friend: ‘In Paris there is a certain purity of taste, a certain rightness of style that you will never find in the provinces.’ According to himself he became more affable and good-natured in the countryside; his friends and patrons including Mme d’Epinay, who moved him into a little lodge near Montmorency (the Hermitage), claimed that solitude made him disagreeable. Diderot’s quip in The Natural Son that ‘only the bad man is alone’ provoked a serious falling out with his best friend. Dressed in his now familiar Armenian robes and caftan, he told the young James Boswell when he visited him in his Swiss exile of Môtiers in 1772, that ‘Mankind disgusts me… And my housekeeper tells me that I am in far better humour on the days when I have been alone than on those when I have been in company.’ His eureka moment on the way to visit Diderot in Vincennes prison had revealed to him that liberty and authority could not be in conflict, being one and the same: good things must in the nature of things be in harmony (the dubious premiss of all eighteenth-century thinking). His concept of the general will would prove to be a Procrustean justification for forcing people to accept what they want because they don’t know it, although something resembling the general will had long being active in history. Rousseau’s hope, and the hope of all Romantic politics, was of obtaining an enlightened people which had learned to rule itself: it was the Enlightenment thinkers who preferred enlightened despots. Rousseau detested the very idea of revolution, but after his death his writings served as a rule-book for Robespierre, that man of ‘profound sincerity’ who ended up in the literal sense of the word a hypocrite, the leading player at the Festival of the Supreme Being of 8 June 1793 when he held a bouquet of flowers in one hand and an ear of wheat in the other. His understudy, Saint-Just, became a secular inquisitor who resolved to impose terror as the necessary path to the virtuous utopia sketched out by Rousseau. In the period from 1789 to 1800 a new printing of The Social Contract was being rushed off the presses roughly every four months. Jacobinism was Calvinism in the still plainer guise of rational morality: it was still a matter of the elect governing the reprobate. Sade wrote to his wife from his prison cell, on learning that he had been refused a volume of Rousseau: ‘Rousseau is a salutary author for me. Jean-Jacques is to me what The Imitations of Christ is to you.’ Rousseau had shown him that the ‘real self’ revealed by sincerity need not be bound by the kind of patrician civility required for a common political life; quite the reverse. Thus was born authenticity, and Lionel Trilling reminds us, in his ancestry of the word, what is habitually hidden behind, and at stake in, modern culture: ‘Authenteo: to have full power over; also, to commit a murder. Authentes: not only a master and a doer, but also a perpetrator, a murderer, even a self-murderer, a suicide.’ Unshakeably convinced of his own goodness, Rousseau distrusted the princes and powers of this world, despising them for good measure too. But Rousseau was too worthy a citizen to detonate society in the name of violent self-expression. Ethics for him was coextensive with politics: like Machiavelli, he thought little of Christian otherworldliness, insisting that what linked the citizen to his polis was a genuine fiduciary bond whereas the union in Christ between the individual and humankind was a purely ideal relation. Yet Jean-Jacques’ ‘inner voice’, the commandments of his spontaneous moral instinct, his sense of being unspotted by the world, were moved by the figure on the cross. The noble savage, too, was no longer just a personage to be admired or regretted, but a source of deep feelings. Only a few years after Rousseau’s death we find the first explicit expression of this revolted sensibility (and the assumption that those afflicted with ‘liberal guilt’ ought to assuage it by speaking out on behalf of the wretched of the earth) when Chateaubriand visits Niagara, as reported in his Essay on the Revolutions (1797): snubbed by a young Indian brave who refuses his attempts to engage him in conversation, the French writer declares: ‘How grateful I was to him for not liking me! I seemed to read in his heart the history of all the woes which the Europeans had brought upon his fatherland.’ A new tone of self-reproach has entered a civilising discourse that does everything to disguise its own superiority: it will be Chateaubriand’s culture and not that of the young American Indian which will give currency to the term ‘ethnocentrism’ (the concept was coined by Montaigne in his famous chapter on the cannibals) and create audiences to enjoy the art of the formerly despised. After all, the truly ethnocentric, those tribes who call themselves ‘Man’, are too naïvely self-absorbed absorbed to wonder how they stand in relation to others. Rousseau, we might agree, is the first sponsor of Third Worldism. In contrast to David Hume, who saw nothing very much to detain him in the Middle Ages (or, indeed, in the country of his birth), the Romantic school found something of value in every society: Walter Scott’s novels alone are testimony to this intense nostalgia. Rousseau had discovered the absolute value of the modern concern for the victim: asymmetrical relations are illegitimate. The paradox was that in order to marshall that power he had to grovel in the dust for the greater glory of his victimhood. First fascinate the disinterested; then transform them into persecutors. ‘God is just: he knows that I suffer and that I am innocent.’ Entire populations have followed where Rousseau led: right-wingers used to castigate those who spoke Rousseau’s language as whiners and losers but now even the most powerful country on earth portrays itself as a victim. And it doesn’t stop there. Soon it may be possible to be a martyr simply by dint of having been born; though the crying truth is that if we are victims at all, it is of our overweening sense of entitlement. What Rousseau couldn’t have anticipated is that the rush to adopt the victimary stance could in the long run become a greater threat to civilised order than victimisation itself, being itself a furtive form of victimising. Once the Master plays the victim all sense of history has been lost. It was therefore a great jest of history that the citizen of Geneva should have been alive at the same time as the seigneur de Ferney: Rousseau was insensible to the dart of Voltaire’s mockery, except when it stung. He blurts it out, and Voltaire scorns him the more. His is the anti-satirical principle in French culture, its deadly earnest: he has nothing of the gaiety of Mirabeau’s ‘fond gaillard’. He was never able to laugh at himself, which is surely one of the supreme virtues introduced in the name of a higher conception of Christian folly by Erasmus and Rabelais. This innocence in contradiction, this saying yes and no with one breath, as Nietzsche wrote in The Case of Wagner: Rousseau was its initiator. Thoroughly familiar with the old and modern plans for utopia, he dropped all the mechanics for realising it as a city or institution, or even as a place; instead he wrenched it into lived consciousness – as a eupsychia. It was nostalgia for the repressed true self. That was how he was able to politicise the old problem of theodicy and socialise his idea of morality: if social relations were the font of inequality and injustice only society could rectify the wrongs done. It looks like a new doctrine but it brings back an old heresy: it is Pelagian. ‘Let us lay it down as an incontrovertible rule that the first impulses of nature are always right; there is no original sin in the human heart, the how and why of the entrance of every vice can be traced’ (Emile, Book II). The conjectural prehistories of today’s evolutionary psychologists say more or less the same thing. Rousseau’s sense of being pure is not just the absence of evil; his is the radical candour of the angel who believes he cannot sin. His only armour is a halo. Impossible to imagine the sanctimonious Rousseau taking sides against himself, as Franz Kafka suggested he did: ‘In the duel between the world and yourself, act as second to the world.’ Unchecked impulses, beginnings, new starts: those who come after Rousseau have an incomparable talent for them, demand them, rage after them; but they could not write, as Shakespeare did, in a play obsessed with the stripping away of ancient status and title, ‘ripeness is all’. Lear has to lose everything to repossess tenderness and emotional directness; Rousseau falls on the nearest neck and weeps his spontaneity. One feels the Savoyard Vicar walking querulously about the world. It might not share his disdain for luxury, but in all other respects, especially in the conviction of its ultimate goodness, America, which is a state of mind and way of life as much as a place in the world, owes him everything. That, hypocrite semblable, is what he has made of us.

A Critical Consciousness

HEINRICH VON KLEIST

Heinrich von Kleist’s life was ‘rich in incidents of being unlike’. Born into a military family in 1777, he soldiered in his teens and left the army in 1799 as a second lieutenant. He engaged in a brief, intense period of study, principally of Kant and Rousseau, that was to provide him with much of the intellectual material he would mull over in his writing career – a bare nine years. It was a time of social unrest: Napoleonic levies went from one side of the continent to the other; in their wake went Kleist. A stay in Switzerland produced his early dramas, an event memorialised a hundred years later by Robert Walser in his story about the idyllic summer spent by Kleist on the Delosea Island in the River Aare near Thun where ‘he wants to abandon himself to the entire catastrophe of being a poet’. Kleist considered fighting both for and against the French, and travelled to Boulogne in the hope of invading England in 1803; in the years that followed he was arrested more than once by the French on suspicion of spying. At the end of his life, despairing of that ‘damned consul’, he offered patriotic support to Prussia with his drama The Prince of Homburg. Venturing into journalism, he edited a literary journal called Phöbus with his friend Adam Müller; twelve issues appeared. His later attempt was one of the first daily newspapers to be produced in Germany, Berliner Abendblätter; it lasted six months. Both of these journals contained pieces in a variety of short forms, some of them never translated: geographical reports from Heligoland or news of Haydn’s death, classical dialogues, verse like his bellicose and patriotic Germania an ihre Kinder or the weird anecdotes and snatches of casuistry that read like undeveloped notes for stories, one for instance from 1803 about a mother in St Omer who tried to save her children from attack by a rabid dog: she buries her children only to die from the disease herself a few days later. He even wrote a draft patent for a ‘Bombenpost’, and his startling one-page Hesiod redivivus, which upholds the Stoic belief in the world getting worse and worse (in flat contradiction to Kant’s vision of rational progress), ends thus: ‘These peoples [the Greeks and Romans] made a beginning with the heroic epoch which is undoubtedly the highest that can be attained; when heroes of humane or civic virtue died out, they created them in poetry; and when they could no longer create heroes in poetry, they devised the rules for it; and when they got tangled in the rules, they abstracted the philosophy of the wisdom of the world itself; and when they had done with that, they became evil.’

Shortly after the collapse of Berliner Abendblätter, Kleist, who had made a habit of buttonholing his friends and demanding whether they would die with him, formed a pact with Müller’s former mistress, Henriette Vogel, who had been diagnosed a few months before as having incurable breast cancer. He shot her, and then himself, one November afternoon in 1811, on a hilltop near the Wannsee. It was his most fully accomplished action. ‘For the noblest thing in life,’ he had written to his sister Ulrike from Switzerland all those years before, ‘is, after all, our ability nobly to discard it.’ A day later, at the autopsy in Potsdam, things reverted to type: when the pathologists tried to open his cranium the blade of the fretsaw snapped.

Shortly before his suicide he had written a farewell note to Müller’s sister. Its tone was one of ecstatic happiness: ‘as our two souls like two cheerful balloonists rise over the world’. It is a phrase that has the emotional swoon of a Kleistian tale itself: feet that had a moment ago been on firm ground are, in a moment of distraction, trampling the thinnest air. Many of his characters, like Piachi, the father in The Foundling, are deeply confused about their motives; or do the right thing, like the honest horse-trader Kohlhaas – ‘the very model of a good citizen’ – in the famous novella Michael Kohlhaas, but immoderately. Since the world fails to uphold his ‘inalienable’ rights (two of his best horses and his stableman have been mishandled), Kohlhaas takes up arms to vindicate himself, and turns his private grievance into a public disaster. He possesses the two most admirable of the cardinal virtues, courage and justice; what he notably lacks is prudence, which, by being conspicuously absent from his actions, leads to disaster: even the personal intervention of Martin Luther is unable ‘to press Kohlhaas back under the curb of human order’. His absolute sense of being in the right has something of the terrifying quality of Kant’s insistence on telling the truth as ‘an unconditional duty which holds in all circumstances’ – without regard as to the possible consequences. Kohlhaas loses his head, figuratively speaking, and allows justice as an absolute to triumph over life itself; and then he loses it again, this time to the executioner’s axe.

The innocent Littegarde in The Duel, by contrast, is so pressed by circumstantial evidence, and the outcome of a trial by combat, that she starts to believe she is guilty as charged, since ‘God is truthful and never errs’. The problem is: she knows she is as innocent ‘as the corpse of a nun who died in the vestry while taking the veil’. Kleist is fascinated by the arbitrary, by legality severed by the stroke of a pen. The Earthquake in Chile portrays a society in such duress that it refuses to accept contingency: desperate to make sense of natural evil (the earthquake) a mob kills a baby it believes to have been born of unholy union, preferring to be party to a form of evil it can at least acknowledge rather than accept the radical lack of meaning represented by the earthquake. Brilliant interrogation scenes show his talent for butting in, and asking awkward questions. His work reminds us that the director’s ‘Cut!’ is a kind of syncope. Many films and television series have capitalised – unwittingly, I suppose – on the massive dramatic role he found for the Hand of Fate, which often intervenes, in a moment of desperate urgency and strain, as in Michael Kohlhaas or The Marquise of O, as a fainting attack. These losses of posture are not the swoon of melodrama. Things don’t drop out of mind; mind asserts its prerogative, and floats free of intolerable reality. And if that doesn’t happen, consciousness is unseated by the sting in the tail that so often serves as the closing gambit in film noir. At the end of Amphitryon Jupiter owns up to being the eponym’s body-double, and restores Alcmene to her husband; but Kleist – unlike Molière, from whom he cribbed – puts Alcmene so prominently at centre-stage that the moral implications of her duped act of adultery loom larger than Jupiter’s sublime announcement that she will bear a son (Hercules). One of his very few upbeat endings, at the end of The Prince of Homburg, a play about a dysfunctional son in a militarised society, growls like Shakespeare’s Bohemian bear returning to stage: ‘in the dust with every enemy of Brandenburg’.

If ever a literary oeuvre seems like reason nodding off on the job, as in Goya’s sinister capricho, and waking up to find itself menaced by all sorts of succubi bearing paternity claims, it is Kleist’s. He was one of the first of a line of German writers whose inwardness was intense enough to dissolve the weak bonds of his society, while making his own existence untenable. Some of that inner turmoil must have derived from his reading of the epistemological shortcomings Kant attempted to get into categorical shape in his Critique of Pure Reason: as Coleridge asked in a different but not unrelated context, if sense comes only through our senses how are we able to distinguish an ordinary day from a delirium? (Tricked out with a different vocabulary this question still taunts psychology.) Here is Kleist explaining his conviction that our faculties are not quite up to the job in a cataclysmic letter of March 1801 to Wilhelmine von Zenge, a general’s daughter who had become his fiancée: ‘If people all had green lenses instead of eyes they would be bound to think that the things they see through them are green – and they would never be able to decide whether the eye shows them things as they are or whether it isn’t adding something to them belonging not to them but to the eye. It is the same with our minds. We cannot decide whether what we call truth is truly truth or whether it only seems so to us. If the latter then the truth we gather here is nothing after death – and all our striving to acquire something of our own that will go with us even into the grave, is in vain… Oh Wilhelmine, though your own heart may not be pierced by this thought do not think me ridiculous that I feel myself wounded deep in my innermost life by it. My highest and only goal has sunk and now I have none –’

Even as order and paternalism struggled to assert themselves in the private and public life of the nineteenth century, Kleist was introducing scenes of mob violence, cannibalism, and less than benevolent fathers. But he would be a less interesting author if he were merely an iconoclast. He tried to follow Enlightenment precepts; and his humanism is still lively enough to convince us that he subscribed, in part, to some of its ideals. (The motto tacked to Goya’s etching actually reads in full: ‘Imagination abandoned by reason produces impossible monsters: united with her, she is the mother of the arts and the source of her wonders.’) Extremism was his nature: the letters to Wilhelmine von Zenge are moral exercises in the German schoolmasterly tradition distracted by flurries of enthusiasm. Years later, offering an excerpt of Penthesilea for his blessing to the Goethe who had already, and unsuccessfully, staged his comedy The Broken Jug, Kleist wrote to the older writer in terms both abject and provocative: ‘on the “knees of my heart”’. Putting scare quotes around his gesture of meekness suggests Kleist knew in advance what Goethe’s response would be. And if Goethe emerges from their encounter as cold and indifferent (after 1811, Goethe’s name was taboo in the Kleist family), we have to remember that the older writer had committed himself to holding on a short rein what Kleist allowed himself to be dragged bodily behind. Kleist’s tragedies were a threat to the tenuous emotional balance of Goethe’s life in Weimar, so much so that Goethe could never see him as anything other than ‘a Nordic phantom of acrimony and spleen’. Goethe turned his back on him, Nietzsche wrote, because of his sense of tragic sense of life – and there was no remedy for tragedy. ‘[Goethe] himself was conciliatory and curable.’

Kleist’s stories demonstrate his attachment to a formal, rather legalistic language – the mould for Franz Kafka’s urgent yet detached style. Perhaps the best description for them is tableaux vivants. They are not static, however: abrupt shifts of perspective and pace show how much Kleist learned from writing for the stage. And while his characters often seem in a trance, Kleist himself had a journalist’s fascination for bare facts. These he reports on with a cool and clinical detachment, much like Gottfried Benn a century later, in the anecdotes and essays he published along with his major stage works. They amplify his fascination with modified states of consciousness, and suggest why his characters faint at dramatic junctures. In Michael Kohlhaas, it is not the protagonist who faints just before execution at what is the climax of the story, but the emissary from the Elector of Saxony with the blue and white plumed hat who expects him to reveal all: Kohlhaas takes the crucial manuscript – a paper ball of original knowledge – and swallows it in a final act of internalisation. ‘Reflection’, a bare page long, forestalls Auden’s parvenu motto ‘act from thought should quickly follow’: ‘the proper time for reflection, let me tell you,’ writes Kleist, ‘is not before you act, but after.’ Live first, think after; for what a man takes to be the good is decided by how he acts (and not what determines that action). Heroes don’t hesitate; not Kleist’s at any rate. His exhortation suggests that an awareness of being unable to take acting for granted demeaned him in his own eyes. No premeditated act could be noble. It left a bad taste in the mouth. (It is not without pertinence that the Nazis, in a régime conspicuous for its cult of the Will, tried to shroud reflection in the animal spontaneity of what they called ‘thinking with the blood’.) Nobody will be surprised to learn that Kleist was a stammerer; ‘stammering’ derives from the Latin verb that means ‘to be in two minds’.

Kleist’s best known work is his essay ‘The Puppet Theatre’, itself a string of anecdotes inside a fable about self-awareness as a performer’s greatest disability. It has since been turned into a shibboleth by ‘body theorists’, though Kleist’s wooden cyborg moves in a quite respectable intellectual tradition, Francis Bacon’s notion of the Great Instauration: that the prelapsarian condition cannot be recovered except in the form of an inanimate object like the puppet (‘something rather mindless’) or through God’s perfect consciousness. The very word grace, with its nice ambiguity, suggests as much: it is a rightness of physical coordination and a mark of divine favour. This idea has Pansophist credentials too, and probably came to Kleist from reading Leibniz: Adam possessed total knowledge but lost it at the time of the Fall, whereupon mankind was forced to set out on the present long slog through history to recoup what had been carelessly left hanging on the Tree of Knowledge. But isn’t it in the nature of our experience, the sceptical reader might ask, that acquired knowledge provides new ethical problems to the solution of which it contributes almost nothing? If man succeeds in infinitely expanding his consciousness, Kleist’s narrator says; for this will be the last chapter of the world’s history. A few years before Kleist wrote his story the philosopher Lichtenberg penned a wonderful aphorism that goes in the opposite direction, ousting the expected adjective ‘stupidest’ with ‘cleverest’. ‘To err is human also in so far as animals seldom or never err – or at least only the cleverest of them do so.’ Error enters proprioception, in which animals and God are infallible, by the agency of human or near-human reason; if we were truly aware of our own bodies we would never be able to walk, let alone dance. And what is dancing but a dare not to fall? Syncope is a term in music, as well as medicine. Kleist’s bemused comment on self-consciousness and alienation, and his essay’s register of astonishments served as a choreography for much of Rilke’s Duino Elegies, especially the Fourth with its meditation on the blissful childish space readied for the coming of a pure event – ‘between world and toy’.

Not unrelatedly, in ‘On the Gradual Production of Thoughts Whilst Speaking’, Kleist suggests that the text is always a little bit cleverer than its author: ‘for it is not we who know things but pre-eminently a certain condition of ours which knows’. He is voicing the old idea of the writer as a vessel for the divine substance, and leading on to the individual-denying, will-evading thoughts of Schopenhauer’s ‘Sanskrit’ philosophy (which has proved so appealing to contemporary cognitive neurologists); this may be compared to Milan Kundera’s contrary (and naïve) assertion that the novelist should get another job if he isn’t smarter than what he writes. It is in the nature of an utterance that it always potentially means more than its utterer intends.

While Kleist came to be hugely influential on the continent, not least for a generation of psychoanalysts, he has never been especially widely read in English. The industrious Carlyle wrote a first appreciation of the Tieck collected edition as early as 1827, but to Victorians his confidence in chaos would have seemed outlandishly histrionic and uncanny. Europe itself had to lose consciousness before Kleist made much sense. If 1914 was the vagus death of liberalism, it was only at the end of the 1950s that Kleist was properly ‘rediscovered’ in English, in Martin Greenberg’s Penguin version. Now David Constantine, poet and Germanist, has taken pains to give us a literary Kleist, ‘a writer we cannot do without’. One of his advantages of his omnibus collection is to reveal the parallels between different works. The theme of the Fall, for instance, links The Puppet Theatre and The Broken Jug, which is a brilliantly sustained verbal burlesque about a judge called Adam who tries to make the object of his cupidity, a girl called Eve, take the rap for his fall (out of her window, as it happens). Constantine is exceptionally faithful to the shape of Kleist’s syntax, aiming for ‘an English haunted and affected by the strangeness of the original’. This can result in a strained, slightly antiquarian feel: in the unfolding of the novella Michael Kohlhaas, Kleist’s convolutions and suspensions occasionally make the going hard in English: ‘the year was almost up before from Saxony even any response to the complaint he had lodged there let alone any resolution of it reached him’. The translator is right to opt for complexity, but while syntax may well be a figurative instance of how things hang together, image-making – ‘the light from hell’ – is just as tenaciously at work as a means of displacing causality, in which the ‘truth’ of syntax labours among a welter of metaphorical distortions: Elvire’s fixation on the painting of the dead Colino in ‘The Foundling’ is a strikingly graphic example of this. Nothing is more typical of Kleist’s writing than its ability to allow metaphor its head, to let his characters ‘talk past one another’ to a conclusion that is not necessarily the one sought. The volume concludes with a few of Kleist’s 228 letters, mostly from his early period, which convey a strong impression of a young man struggling to balance the claims of reason with his own more radical doubts.

Although it omits ‘Penthesilea’, his bloodthirsty reinterpretation of the Amazon legend, this new translation of Kleist’s stories and three key plays provides a compelling view of a misfit genius who, in one of his last notes, sounds almost expansive: ‘the world is a strange set-up’.

Being Nice to Nietzsche

In April 1888, after years of stateless wandering across the continent, Friedrich Nietzsche stopped in Turin, a baroque urban planning project set out in its magnificent detail by the architect Guarino Guarini in the late seventeenth century. He took to it like no European city he had come across before. From the cheap lodgings he found with an Italian family in the historic centre of the city ‘opposite the grand Palazzo Carignano of 1680, five paces from the great Portici and the Piazza Castello and the post office!,’ he marvels in almost daily letters to his friends in the north about Turin’s quiet, stately streets and the bracing wind, the theatre and the soft colours, the Galleria Subalpina orchestra striking up another overture. He can see beyond the city into the world of snow. The streets seem to run straight into the Alps. ‘It is the air that does it – dry, exhilarating, happy.’ He stands in awe of the Mole Antonelliana which, with its 165 metres of wrought iron on brick and granite, was the literal pinnacle of the great Piedmontese brick-building tradition: ‘perhaps the most ingenious building ever constructed’ reminded him ‘of nothing so much as [his] Zarathustra’. He rediscovers the music of Bizet (‘tutto Torino carmenizzato!’) and Rossini’s operas, deliciously light relief after Wagner. The restaurants and coffee houses are marvellous; the ice cream only thirty centimes a scoop; the streets clean and orderly; everything breathes an atmosphere of ‘aristocratic tranquillity’. ‘I find the inhabitants pleasant and I feel at home,’ he tells his old friend Overbeck. It is where he writes his ultimate books, Ecce Homo (finished in three weeks), Nietzsche contra Wagner and the Dithyrambs of Dionysus. In a letter to his composer friend Peter Gast (Heinrich Köselitz) he describes it as ‘the first place where I am possible!’ A hundred and fifty years earlier, Jean-Jacques Rousseau had walked to Turin to consolidate his conversion to Catholicism, and had been similarly enchanted by the city: Mass at the Chapel Royal was effectively an orchestral concert. He, too, had thought the city would provide him with a stage on which he could indulge the ‘hope of soon becoming a person worthy of [him]self’.

When Nietzsche returned to the city in September, after passing the summer in the mountains at Sils Maria, the elation had kiltered. Turin was now sanatorium and labyrinth, though bathed in a miracle of light: ‘autumn here was a permanent Claude Lorraine – I often asked myself how such a thing could be possible on earth. Strange! For the misery of the summer up there, compensation did come. There we have it: the old God is still alive…’ He gets a tailor to cut him a new suit, and revels in being received everywhere as a distinguished foreign visitor: the man facing him in the mirror has never looked better or younger. He dares to go walking without his glasses, and is gratified to observe young women turning to stare at him. He tells his former patron Malwida von Meysenbug – verehrteste Freundin! – that he has been ‘suffering from a surfeit of righteousness’. He is waiting to reign in glory, ‘the first and freest spirit of Europe’, the philosopher whose writings ‘will sunder the history of mankind’. He wants to shed a little light and terror as regards himself; the tone of his work, he tells Franz Overbeck, is ‘one of gay detachment fraught with a sense of destiny’. Turin, he informs Meta von Salis, is not a place to leave. Nowhere else has he ever felt that the nuances were so well understood. He says Yes, he says it again and louder; nothing happens. Bismarck receives a copy of Ecce Homo in December and Nietzsche writes to Carl Fuchs that its publication should be accompanied by a declaration of war: ‘the next few years will stand the world on its head: since the old God has abdicated, I shall from now on rule the world’. The world is stone-deaf: writing to his publisher in Leipzig in an attempt to buy back the rights to his books (he had never received any royalties), he tells him that he has the distinction ‘of publishing the foremost human being of all millennia’. His mind parcels itself up into various personalities: Voltaire, Dionysus, Buddha, even two contemporary French criminals he had read about in the Journal des Débats. His last, disinhibited letter to his ‘great teacher’ Jacob Burckhardt accuses the old historian of ‘private egoism’ and cultivating an aesthetic detachment from the world (this was precisely what Nietzsche had tried to do with his famous adage about the world only being justifiable as an ‘aesthetic phenomenon’ – and here was evidence of its failure, this moral act of sacrifice!). He would have preferred, he tells Burckhardt, to have retained his professorship in Basle rather than play God – a god ‘condemned to entertain the next eternity with bad jokes’. On 3 January 1889 he is reported to have embraced a mistreated cab-horse in the street, a theatrical gesture not unlike the dream of Raskolnikov, in which his younger self embraces an old mare which has been drunkenly battered to death by her peasant owner; bystanders promptly called the police. He was barely lucid. Years earlier he had written in his essay Schopenhauer as Educator