Part 13

Now, developments of life which defy limitation by the mechanism of nature and set a new kind of being in opposition to it do, in truth, appear. We recognise such developments in the processes by which life liberates itself from bondage to an individualism and its subjectivity, and afterwards attains a self-conscious inwardness. We may consider both these developments somewhat more in detail. So far as man belongs to nature, his conduct is determined solely by the impulse to self-preservation; every movement must either directly or indirectly tend to the welfare of the individual; everything may be traced back to what happens to the individuals. This by no means indicates a distinct separation of man from his environment. For even the mechanism of nature closely unites that which happens to the individual with that which happens around him; the individual can progress only in so far as he is united with others: he cannot advance his own well-being without advancing that of others. Even in a "state of nature" man takes his family, his nation, and the whole of humanity indeed, up into his interests; and as this tendency is not bounded from without, but may be immeasurably refined and extended in an indefinite number of directions, it easily comes to appear that this involves an inner deliverance from self, and that another is of value to us for his own sake. But it is no more than an appearance; for with all the external agreement the inward separation is far greater, and amounts to opposition. Within the limits of nature we can certainly concern ourselves with something which is only indirectly useful to us; but we can never be concerned with anything which is devoid of all use to ourselves; we cannot take such a direct interest in the welfare of others as will tend to our own disadvantage. If experience gives evidence of such an activity and such an interest, in so doing it demonstrates a transcendence of nature. Now, experience does give such evidence, and indeed with irresistible clearness. A witness to this is seen in the zeal with which man habitually attempts to give to his struggles for mere self-preservation a better appearance, a semblance of conduct performed out of genuine regard for the interests of others. To what purpose all this trouble to acquire such an appearance; for what reason this hypocrisy which permeates the whole of human life; and whence this appearance itself if we belong solely and entirely to nature? Further, whatever elements of semblance there may be in the general state of human life, the development of that life is by no means nothing but semblance. The social life of man is not explicable as a simple collection of individuals related to one another in different ways; but in the family, in the state, in humanity as a whole there is evolved an inner unity, a sphere of life with distinctive values and contents. And as it is of the nature of these to transcend the ends and aims of the individuals, to arouse other feelings and stimulate to other efforts, so their demands may be directly opposed to those of individual self-preservation. Man sees himself compelled to decide whether he will pursue his own welfare or that of the whole: from the necessity of a decision it is impossible to escape. However much in the majority of cases self-interest may preponderate, we cannot dispute the possibility of his acting in direct and conscious opposition to his own interest; of his subordinating and sacrificing himself; and of his doing this "not grudgingly nor of necessity," but willingly and gladly; of his feeling this subordination to be not a negation and a limitation, but an affirmation and an expansion of his life. All who strive for some essential renewal and elevation of human life base their hope and trust upon such a disposition. A renewal and an elevation of life involve far too much toil, conflict, and danger; they demand a renunciation and a sacrifice far too great for them to be commended to us by consideration of our own welfare, or for them to dispense with the necessity of counting upon an unselfish submission, a sincere sympathy, a genuine love. That which was produced with glowing passion in heroic beginnings must with a quieter warmth pervade all progress also. An inner community of minds is indispensable if the whole of culture is not to become a soulless mechanism and inwardly alien to us. It is true that the external way of regarding the facts of life often fuses together as one, lower and higher, a continuation of nature and the beginning of a new life. Language also supports this tendency, since it indicates fundamentally different psychical states with the same terms. Yet the love in which the union with others is sought only in order to advance one's own interests, and the love which finds in this union a release from the limitations of the natural _ego_, and gains a new life, remain distinct. The sympathy which feels the sufferings of others to be unpleasant because one's own complacency is disturbed by them, and which in consequence fades away and disappears as soon as the sight of the suffering comes to an end, is absolutely separated from a sympathy which extends to the soul of the other, and possessing which, in order to contribute to the relieving of the other's need, one willingly sacrifices one's own complacency: a sympathy, therefore, which extends its interest and help without limit beyond all that simply has to do with the relation to the environment. How much real love and genuine sympathy the experience of humanity shows is a question in itself. Even as possibilities of our being, as matters of thought which occupy our attention, and as tasks and problems, they give evidence of a development of our life beyond the limits of nature.

This forgetfulness of self is a kind of deliverance of life from the limitations and the interests of the individual: a new relation of man to man, of person to person, thus arises and brings about an essential change, indeed a complete transformation of aims and feelings. The deliverance is effected in another direction with the emergence of a new relation to things, to the object. In the realm of nature everything that is external has a value for man only as a means and an instrument to the advancement of his own welfare; from the point of view of nature, it is impossible to understand how a thing could attract us on account of a content and a value of its own. As a matter of fact, the object does attract us and acquire a power over us in this manner, and this not merely here and there but over a wide area in movements which affect and transform the whole of life. Nothing else differentiates work--viewed spiritually--from other activity, and nothing else elevates work above other activity than this: that in work the object is inwardly present; and that man may make its moulding and extension a motive, and find this a source of joy. This seems to be something self-evident, only because it happens daily to us and around us; and we do not recognise a new type of life in it, simply because in human life it is usual to find that work only gradually attains complete independence. For it is the pressing necessity of life, the impulse to self-preservation, that first arouses us from our natural inactivity and compels us to occupy ourselves with things; and in this change from inactivity to activity it is our own advantage that we first seek. But that which to us, to commence with, was simply a means; that which was perhaps most unwillingly done, begins to attract and hold us more and more for its own sake; becomes an end in itself, and is able so to charm us that it forces the idea of utility completely into the background. It is possible for work to become so attractive, and of such a value in our estimation, that to ensure its success we can make sacrifices, and can pursue it in direct opposition to our own welfare. Only when the object is regarded and treated in this manner can it win an inner proximity to us; reveal to us its relations; develop characteristic laws; make demands upon us and call forth our power to meet them. In this way it constrains us, but the constraint is not exerted upon us from without, but proceeds from our own decision and activity. We do not feel the relation to be an oppression, but rather as a witness to our freedom; in the subordination to the object we feel that we are caught up into a life more comprehensive, clearer and richer than any we can develop from the subjective. We reach a stability and a calm in ourselves, and have within our own being a support against all vacillation and error. Work, therefore, produces relations which on the one hand unify the endeavour of the individual and fashion his life as a definite whole; and on the other, bind humanity into a creative community. In the former case we have vocation, with its demands and its limitations, it is true, but with them also its strengthening and its elevation of life; in the latter complexes of work develop in whole departments of life, in which the individuals find themselves side by side and are ultimately united into the community of an all-inclusive whole of culture. From this something is evolved which is independent not only of the choice but also of the interests of mere man: a kingdom of truth, a world of thought transcending all human subjectivity is formed. Thus we see something grow up within the human sphere which leads man beyond himself, and which is valid not simply for him but even in opposition to him. The whole matter bristles with problems: from the point of view of the life of nature this new life must appear to be an insoluble riddle; and yet it has far too much value and certitude to be banished as imaginary.

Along with this detachment of life from the mere individual and the mere subjectivity of man, there is a liberation from external ties, and the development of a self-conscious spirituality. As at the level of nature life is spent in the development of relations with the environment, in action and reaction, so the form of life in man remains bound, since the life of the soul cannot dissociate itself from the experience of sense. The apparent inwardness that is evolved at this level is simply an after-effect of sensuous feelings and desires. So far as the life of nature extends, the forces and laws of the life of the soul will only refine what the external world exhibits in coarser features. The mechanism of nature also extends into human life; natural impulses of conduct, as well as association of ideas, reveal the fact that the life of the soul is in complete dependence upon natural conditions. From this point of view it seems impossible that inwardness should ever become independent. The actual experience of human life, however, shows that what is thus regarded as impossible is indisputably real. The detachment from the mere subjectivity of the _ego_ and the development of universal values, which exist over against us, can be effected only if the basis of life lies deeper than the contact with the environment. It was a work of thought which brought about the transition and gave birth to the new life; only with the help of thought did it ever become possible to form relations of a new kind and to rouse man's interest in them. The realities which arose were not of sense but conceptual, ideal. The more this movement increased in extent, the more human existence was transformed into realities of thought. Is not such a transformation evident when in ourselves we see before all else, not the sensuous being of nature, but a personality or an individuality; when in relationship with one another we form the idea of the state, and feel that we are ourselves members of the state; when we regard and value the cognate beings around us from the conception of humanity? As a matter of fact, a strong tendency in this direction runs through the whole history of humanity: sense does not disappear, but is taken up more and more into something conceptual; the world of thought gives us increasingly the point of view from which we fashion our lives. We find a progressive spiritualisation of religion, of morality, of law, of the whole life of culture. In everything life seeks a deeper basis; an inwardness wins an independence of the environment, and exercises on the environment a transforming power. The relations and the order of the realities of thought manifest a law different from that of sense presentations with their mere juxtaposition. For in the former case an inner unity, an objective relation is evolved, and the significance of the individual member is estimated according to its position in the whole. The distinctive attributes in a conception form no mere collection, and the statement of a syllogism no mere sequence; rather, in both, a comprehending act of thought grasps the manifold and arranges the separate elements according to their relationship within the whole. The course of presentation with its mere succession is by no means simply suppressed through this development of thought; it persists and governs consciousness on the surface. But the surface is not the totality of the intellectual life; through it and transcending it an activity of thought manifests itself, forms new connections, and maintains itself against all opposition.

Accordingly, the power that thought exercises is fundamentally different from the physical power of association, or even of custom. In the case of thought there is an insistence upon a consistent and related whole which, even though externally insignificant, produces most powerful effects. If contradictions exist in our world of thought and condition of life, they may become intolerable, and the desire to remove them lead to the emergence of impetuous movements. If, on the other hand, we recognise that certain things which formerly seemed to be unrelated, even though they existed side by side, are really inwardly related; or if, again, an assertion involves a consequence that has not hitherto been deduced, then the demand, that these things shall be unified and this consequence developed, is capable of breaking down even the strongest opposition. In this matter an invisible is capable of more than a visible power. Of course, thought in isolation has not such a power; it acquires it only through its relation to a wider life and in championing the cause of that life. For thought is wont to defend the life of the individual, of a people, a historical situation of humanity, on the one hand from an abundance of inconsistencies, and on the other from dissolution and incompleteness, without any conflict growing out of it. Life as we experience it immediately is anything but a regular logic of the schools. In itself simple perception of the fact that an inconsistency exists, or that ideas which have been regarded as valid require further development, need not arouse the feeling of man and lead him to assert his activity; he can acquiesce, and leave the condition of things unaltered; he can voluntarily resign himself to the inconsistencies and incompleteness. But, nevertheless, there is a point at which this condition of inconsistency can be endured no longer, at which to transcend it becomes the dominant task of life. This point is reached when the confusion is no longer something external to us which we contemplate, but enters into the substance of our life, so that the inconsistency becomes a division, and an attitude of inconsequence towards it a limitation of our own being. The solving of the problem then becomes an essential part of our spiritual preservation. And in that it commands the whole energy and passion of such preservation it can do that of which thought, with its necessity, is not in itself capable, it can rouse our whole life to activity and break down even the strongest opposition. It is from the inner presence of a determining and moulding process of life that thought itself first obtains a characteristic form, and is able to impress it upon things, and so subject them to itself. A spiritual self-preservation of this kind is fundamentally different from all physical self-preservation: for the former, it is not a matter of the self asserting its place in the co-existence of things, but of becoming an independent inward nature, and of establishing a distinctive whole of life. The exact significance of spiritual self-preservation is for the present obscure enough; but whatever it may be, it derives its power from within and not from contact with the environment.

How deeply these inner movements are rooted in human life the so-called historical ideas show with particular clearness. Certain thought complexes, or rather certain tendencies of life, arise, and win an overwhelming power in opposition to all narrowly human concerns. They force the activity of mankind into particular channels; they follow out their consequences with pitiless rigour; they speak to us in a tone of command, and require absolute obedience. Neither the interests of individuals nor those of whole classes prevail against them; every consideration of utility vanishes before their inner necessity. The history of religions, for example, has often shown such an astonishing consistency in the following of characteristic tendencies that their adherents could see in it the working of a divine spirit. Similarly, the Enlightenment, in its time with overpowering might seized minds and penetrated deeply into every department of life; to-day we have a similar experience in the case of the social movement. On all sides something is acknowledged as an imperative requirement, as indispensable for the spiritual persistence of man--something which cannot be brought in from outside, and which may indeed be entirely inconsistent with external conditions. Has not the conflict of inner necessities with the external circumstances that were opposed to them been a leading motive power in history, and is not all genuine progress achieved through such an opposition?

Again, the great force that has been exerted in the movement of history in the detection and the elimination of contradictions can be explained only in this context. Logic, as we saw, played an unassuming rôle in this matter, and the indolence of man always inclined to easy accommodation and compromise. It was the increased vital energy, the adoption of a particular issue as the main issue, that made movements, which had long existed in a state of harmony and peace, irreconcilable enemies, and drove them to a life-and-death struggle. With a lower level of spiritual activity the Middle Ages unsuspiciously united a religion of ecclesiastical organisation with a religion of personal feeling and disposition; and it did not feel that there was an inconsistency in their union so much as that one was the completion of the other. As soon and so far, however, as in the Modern Age spirituality won more independence and more self-consciousness, and felt itself to be the centre of the whole, it was inevitable that a dependence upon an external order should be experienced only as an intolerable oppression; and the division of life between the one and the other became an impossibility. It was necessary only that a powerful and passionate personality, like that of Luther, should take up the problem, and make it the sole object of his effort, and the hour of revolution had come. How meanly they think of the controlling forces of history who would trace back such changes to the selfishness or the vanity of individuals! Looked at from our point of view, the inner changes within the life of universal history often appear to be simplifications--cases of energetic concentration on the essential, and of fundamental separation of the subsidiary. The truly great carry on a ceaseless conflict against the chaotic confusion which the life of the majority is wont to produce ever anew--a condition in which matters of the first importance are confused with those that are subsidiary; all inner gradation is lacking; and the great is treated as something insignificant, and the insignificant as something great. There is a struggle to secure a clear differentiation and gradation; to establish a centre, and to transform life into a genuinely self-conscious life. Have not all the principal revivals of religion, of morality, of education, been simplifications?

These movements show life in a particular form; something emerges in it which, unconcerned with the weal and the woe of man, follows its own course and makes absolute demands; and, more than anything else, disturbs and destroys his calmness and complacency. How heavily Germany has had to pay for the movement of the Reformation by being thrown back politically, nationally, and economically! It is inevitable that all movements of an ideal kind, the social movement of the present included, should appear from the point of view of natural well-being, troublesome and pernicious disturbances. They can be regarded as something higher only when we acknowledge that life does not consist entirely in external relations, or in the endeavour to attain harmony with the environment, but that an inner task grows out of life itself, and first gives to human existence a value and a dignity.