Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society/I

You have seen better days, dear? So have I — And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well, Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same, And wished and had their trouble for their pains. Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline, And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square? Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age, Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads, And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, — Jealous that the good trick which served the turn Have justice rendered it, nor class one day With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,— What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say, (Because night draws on, and the sands increase, And desert-whispers grow a prophecy) Tell all to Corinth of her own accord. Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Laïs' sake, Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose, And thinks a man of sixty at the prime? Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself! But listen, for we must co-operate; I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!

First, how to make the matter plain, of course — What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see: Ay, we must take one instant of my life Spent sitting by your side in this neat room: Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh! Here's paper on the table, pen and ink: Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose! See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now, Therefore want work: and spy no better work For eye and hand and mind that guides them both, During this instant, than to draw my pen From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus — Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line Five inches long and tolerably straight: Better to draw than leave undrawn, I think, Fitter to do than let alone, I hold, Though better, fitter, by but one degree. Therefore it was that, rather than sit still Simply, my right-hand drew it while my left Pulled smooth and pinched the moustache to a point.

Now I permit your plump lips to unpurse: "So far, one possibly may understand "Without recourse to witchcraft!" True, my dear. Thus folks begin with Euclid, — finish, how? Trying to square the circle! — at any rate, Solving abstruser problems than this first "How find the nearest way 'twixt point and point." Deal but with moral mathematics so — Master one merest moment's work of mine, Even this practising with pen and ink, — Demonstrate why I rather plied the quill Than left the space a blank, — you gain a fact, And God knows what a fact's worth! So proceed By inference from just this moral fact — I don't say, to that plaguy quadrature "What the whole man meant, whom you wish you knew," But, what meant certain things he did of old, Which puzzled Europe, — why, you'll find them plain, This way, not otherwise: I guarantee, Understand one, you comprehend the rest. Rays from all round converge to any point: Study the point then ere you track the rays! The size o' the circle's nothing; subdivide Earth, and earth's smallest grain of mustard-seed, You count as many parts, small matching large, If you can use the mind's eye: otherwise, Material optics, being gross at best, Prefer the large and leave our mind the small — And pray how many folks have minds can see? Certainly you — and somebody in Thrace Whose name escapes me at the moment. You — Lend me your mind then! Analyse with me This instance of the line 'twixt blot and blot I rather chose to draw than leave a blank, Things else being equal. You are taught thereby That 't is my nature, when I am at ease, Rather than idle out my life too long, To want to do a thing — to put a thought, Whether a great thought or a little one, Into an act, as nearly as may be. Make what is absolutely new — I can't, Mar what is made already well enough — I won't: but turn to best account the thing That 's half-made — that I can. Two blots, you saw I knew how to extend into a line Symmetric on the sheet they blurred before — Such little act sufficed, this time, such thought.

Now, we'll extend rays, widen out the verge, Describe a larger circle; leave this first Clod of an instance we began with, rise To the complete world many clods effect. Only continue patient while I throw, Delver-like, spadeful after spadeful up, Just as truths come, the subsoil of me, mould Whence spring my moods: your object, — just to find, Alike from handlift and from barrow-load, What salts and silts may constitute the earth — If it be proper stuff to blow man glass, Or bake him pottery, bear him oaks or wheat — What's born of me, in brief; which found, all's known. If it were genius did the digging-job, Logic would speedily sift its product smooth And leave the crude truths bare for poetry; But I'm no poet, and am stiff i' the back. What one spread fails to bring, another may. In goes the shovel and out comes scoop — as here!

I live to please myself. I recognize Power passing mine, immeasurable, God — Above me, whom He made, as heaven beyond Earth — to use figures which assist our sense. I know that He is there as I am here, By the same proof, which seems no proof at all, It so exceeds familiar forms of proof. Why "there," not "here"? Because, when I say "there," I treat the feeling with distincter shape That space exists between us: I, — not He, — Live, think, do human work here — no machine, His will moves, but a being by myself, His, and not He who made me for a work, Watches my working, judges its effect, But does not interpose. He did so once, And probably will again some time — not now, Life being the minute of mankind, not God's, In a certain sense, like time before and time After man's earthly life, so far as man Needs apprehend the matter. Am I clear? Suppose I bid a courier take to-night (. . . Once for all, let me talk as if I smoked Yet in the Residenz, a personage: I must still represent the thing I was, Galvanically make dead muscle play, Or how shall I illustrate muscle's use?) I could then, last July, bid courier take Message for me, post-haste, a thousand miles. I bid him, since I have the right to bid, And, my part done so far, his part begins; He starts with due equipment, will and power, Means he may use, misuse, not use at all, At his discretion, at his peril too. I leave him to himself: but, journey done, I count the minutes, call for the result In quickness and the courier quality, Weigh its worth, and then punish or reward According to proved service; not before. Meantime, he sleeps through noontide, rides till dawn, Sticks to the straight road, tries the crooked path, Measures and manages resource, trusts, doubts Advisers by the wayside, does his best At his discretion, lags or launches forth, (He knows and I know) at his peril too. You see? Exactly thus men stand to God: I with my courier, God with me. Just so I have His bidding to perform; but mind And body, all of me, though made and meant For that sole service, must consult, concert With my own self and nobody beside, How to effect the same: God helps not else. 'T is I who, with my stock of craft and strength, Choose the directer cut across the hedge, Or keep the foot-track that respects a crop. Lie down and rest, rise up and run, — live spare, Feed free, — all that 's my business: but, arrive, Deliver message, bring the answer back, And make my bow, I must: then God will speak, Praise me or haply blame as service proves. To other men, to each and everyone, Another law! what likelier? God, perchance, Grants each new man, by some as new a mode, Intercommunication with Himself, Wreaking on finiteness infinitude; By such a series of effects, gives each Last His own imprint: old yet ever new The process: 't is the way of Deity. How it succeeds, He knows: I only know That varied modes of creatureship abound, Implying just as varied intercourse For each with the creator of them all. Each has his own mind and no other's mode. What mode may yours be? I shall sympathize! No doubt, you, good young lady that you are, Despite a natural naughtiness or two, Turn eyes up like a Pradier Magdalen And see an outspread providential hand Above the owl's-wing aigrette — guard and guide — Visibly o'er your path, about your bed, Through all your practisings with London-town. It points, you go; it stays fixed, and you stop; You quicken its procedure by a word Spoken, a thought in silence, prayer and praise. Well, I believe that such a hand may stoop, And such appeals to it may stave off harm, Pacify the grim guardian of this Square, And stand you in good stead on quarter-day: Quite possible in your case; not in mine. "Ah, but I choose to make the difference, Find the emancipation?" No, I hope! If I deceive myself, take noon for night, Please to become determinedly blind To the true ordinance of human life, Through mere presumption — that is my affair, And truly a grave one; but as grave I think Your affair, yours, the specially observed, — Each favoured person that perceives his path Pointed him, inch by inch, and looks above For guidance, through the mazes of this world, In what we call its meanest life-career — Not how to manage Europe properly, But how keep open shop, and yet pay rent, Rear household, and make both ends meet, the same. I say, such man is no less tasked than I To duly take the path appointed him By whatsoever sign he recognize. Our insincerity on both our heads! No matter what the object of a life, Small work or large, — the making thrive a shop, Or seeing that an empire take no harm, — There are known fruits to judge obedience by. You've read a ton's weight, now, of newspaper — Lives of me, gabble about the kind of prince — You know my work i' the rough; I ask you, then, Do I appear subordinated less To hand-impulsion, one prime push for all, Than little lives of men, the multitude That cried out, every quarter of an hour, For fresh instructions, did or did not work, And praised in the odd minutes?

Eh, my dear? Such is the reason why I acquiesced In doing what seemed best for me to do, So as to please myself on the great scale, Having regard to immortality No less than life — did that which head and heart Prescribed my hand, in measure with its means Of doing — used my special stock of power — Not from the aforesaid head and heart alone, But every sort of helpful circumstance, Some problematic and some nondescript: All regulated by the single care I' the last resort — that I made thoroughly serve The when and how, toiled where was need, reposed As resolutely to the proper point, Braved sorrow, courted joy, to just one end: Namely, that just the creature I was bound To be, I should become, nor thwart at all God's purpose in creation. I conceive No other duty possible to man, — Highest mind, lowest mind, — no other law By which to judge life failure or success: What folks call being saved or cast away.

Such was my rule of life; I worked my best Subject to ultimate judgment, God's not man's. Well then, this settled, — take your tea, I beg, And meditate the fact, 'twixt sip and sip, — This settled — why I pleased myself, you saw, By turning blot and blot into a line, O' the little scale, — we'll try now (as your tongue Tries the concluding sugar-drop) what's meant To please me most o' the great scale. Why, just now, With nothing else to do within my reach, Did I prefer making two blots one line To making yet another separate Third blot, and leaving those I found unlinked? It meant, I like to use the thing I find, Rather than strive at unfound novelty: I make the best of the old, nor try for new. Such will to act, such choice of action's way, Constitute — when at work on the great scale, Driven to their farthest natural consequence By all the help from all the means — my own Particular faculty of serving God, Instinct for putting power to exercise Upon some wish and want o' the time, I prove Possible to mankind as best I may. This constitutes my mission, — grant the phrase, — Namely, to rule men — men within my reach, To order, influence and dispose them so As render solid and stabilify Mankind in particles, the light and loose, For their good and my pleasure in the act. Such good accomplished proves twice good to me — Good for its own sake, as the just and right, And, in the effecting also, good again To me its agent, tasked as suits my taste.

Is this much easy to be understood At first glance? Now begin the steady gaze!

My rank — (if I must tell you simple truth — Telling were else not worth the whiff o' the weed I lose for the tale's sake) — dear, my rank i' the world Is hard to know and name precisely: err I may, but scarcely over-estimate My style and title. Do I class with men Most useful to their fellows? Possibly, — Therefore, in some sort, best; but, greatest mind And rarest nature? Evidently no. A conservator, call me, if you please, Not a creator nor destroyer: one Who keeps the world safe. I profess to trace The broken circle of society, Dim actual order, I can redescribe Not only where some segment silver-true Stays clear, but where the breaks of black commence Baffling you all who want the eye to probe — As I make out yon problematic thin White paring of your thumb-nail outside there, Above the plaster-monarch on his steed — See an inch, name an ell, and prophecy O' the rest that ought to follow, the round moon Now hiding in the night of things: that round, I labour to demonstrate moon enough For the month's purpose, — that society, Render efficient for the age's need: Preserving you in either case the old, Nor aiming at a new and greater thing, A sun for moon, a future to be made By first abolishing the present law: No such proud task for me by any means! History shows you men whose master-touch Not so much modifies as makes anew: Minds that transmute nor need restore at all. A breath of God made manifest in flesh Subjects the world to change, from time to time, Alters the whole conditions of our race Abruptly, not by unperceived degrees Nor play of elements already there, But quite new leaven, leavening the lump, And liker, so, the natural process. See! Where winter reigned for ages — by a turn I' the time, some star-change, (ask geologists) The ice-tracts split, clash, splinter and disperse, And there's an end of immobility, Silence, and all that tinted pageant, base To pinnacle, one flush from fairy-land Dead-asleep and deserted somewhere, — see! — As a fresh sun, wave, spring and joy outburst. Or else the earth it is, time starts from trance, Her mountains tremble into fire, her plains Heave blinded by confusion: what result? New teeming growth, surprises of strange life Impossible before, a world broke up And re-made, order gained by law destroyed. Not otherwise, in our society Follow like portents, all as absolute Regenerations: they have birth at rare Uncertain unexpected intervals O' the world, by ministry impossible Before and after fulness of the days: Some dervish desert-spectre, swordsman, saint, Law-giver, lyrist, — Oh, we know the names! Quite other these than I. Our time requires No such strange potentate, — who else would dawn, — No fresh force till the old have spent itself. Such seems the natural economy. To shoot a beam into the dark, assists: To make that beam do fuller service, spread And utilize such bounty to the height, That assists also, — and that work is mine. I recognize, contemplate, and approve The general compact of society, Not simply as I see effected good, But good i' the germ, each chance that's possible I' the plan traced so far: all results, in short, For better or worse of the operation due To those exceptional natures, unlike mine, Who, helping, thwarting, conscious, unaware, Did somehow manage to so far describe This diagram left ready to my hand, Waiting my turn of trial. I see success, See failure, see what makes or mars throughout. How shall I else but help complete this plan Of which I know the purpose and approve, By letting stay therein what seems to stand, And adding good thereto of easier reach To-day than yesterday?

So much, no more! Whereon, "No more than that?" — inquire aggrieved Half of my critics: "nothing new at all? The old plan saved, instead of a sponged slate And fresh-drawn figure?" — while, "So much as that?" Object their fellows of the other faith: "Leave uneffaced the crazy labyrinth Of alteration and amendment, lines Which every dabster felt in duty bound To signalize his power of pen and ink By adding to a plan once plain enough? Why keep each fool's bequeathment, scratch and blurr Which overscrawl and underscore the piece — Nay, strengthen them by touches of your own?"

Well, that 's my mission, so I serve the world, Figure as man o' the moment, — in default Of somebody inspired to strike such change Into society — from round to square, The ellipsis to the rhomboid, how you please, As suits the size and shape o' the world he finds. But this I can, — and nobody my peer, — Do the best with the least change possible: Carry the incompleteness on, a stage, Make what was crooked straight, and roughness smooth, And weakness strong: wherein if I succeed, It will not prove the worst achievement, sure, In the eyes at least of one man, one I look Nowise to catch in critic company: To-wit, the man inspired, the genius' self Destined to come and change things thoroughly. He, at least, finds his business simplified. Distinguishes the done from undone, reads Plainly what meant and did not mean this time We live in, and I work on, and transmit To such successor: he will operate On good hard substance, not mere shade and shine. Let all my critics, born to idleness And impotency, get their good, and have Their hooting at the giver: I am deaf — Who find great good in this society, Great gain, the purchase of great labour. Touch The work I may and must, but — reverent In every fall o' the finger-tip, no doubt. Perhaps I find all good there's warrant for I' the world as yet: nay, to the end of time, — Since evil never means part company With mankind, only shift side and change shape. I find advance i' the main, and notably The Present an improvement on the Past, And promise for the Future — which shall prove Only the Present with its rough made smooth, Its indistinctness emphasized; I hope No better, nothing newer for mankind, But something equably smoothed everywhere, Good, reconciled with hardly-quite-as-good, Instead of good and bad each jostling each. "And that's all?" Ay, and quite enough for me! We have toiled so long to gain what gain I find I' the Present, — let us keep it! We shall toil So long before we gain — if gain God grant — A Future with one touch of difference I' the heart of things, and not their outside face, — Let us not risk the whiff of my cigar For Fourier, Comte and all that ends in smoke!

This I see clearest probably of men With power to act and influence, now alive: Juster than they to the true state of things; In consequence, more tolerant that, side By side, shall co-exist and thrive alike In the age, the various sorts of happiness Moral, mark! — not material — moods o' the mind Suited to man and man his opposite: Say, minor modes of movement — hence to there, Or thence to here, or simply round about — So long as each toe spares its neighbour's kibe, Nor spoils the major march and main advance. The love of peace, care for the family, Contentment with what's bad but might be worse — Good movements these! and good, too, discontent, So long as that spurs good, which might be best, Into becoming better, anyhow: Good — pride of country, putting hearth and home I' the back-ground, out of undue prominence: Good — yearning after change, strife, victory, And triumph. Each shall have its orbit marked, But no more, — none impede the other's path In this wide world, — though each and all alike, Save for me, fain would spread itself through space And leave its fellow not an inch of way. I rule and regulate the course, excite, Restrain: because the whole machine should march Impelled by those diversely-moving parts, Each blind to aught beside its little bent. Out of the turnings round and round inside, Comes that straightforward world-advance, I want, And none of them supposes God wants too And gets through just their hindrance and my help. I think that to have held the balance straight For twenty years, say, weighing claim and claim, And giving each its due, no less no more, This was good service to humanity, Right usage of my power in head and heart, And reasonable piety beside. Keep those three points in mind while judging me! You stand, perhaps, for some one man, not men, — Represent this or the other interest, Nor mind the general welfare, — so, impugn My practice and dispute my value: why? You man of faith, I did not tread the world Into a paste, and thereof make a smooth Uniform mound whereon to plant your flag, The lily-white, above the blood and brains! Nor yet did I, you man of faithlessness, So roll things to the level which you love, That you could stand at ease there and survey The universal Nothing undisgraced By pert obtrusion of some old church-spire I' the distance! Neither friend would I content, Nor, as the world were simply meant for him, Thrust out his fellow and mend God's mistake. Why, you two fools, — my dear friends all the same, — Is it some change o' the world and nothing else Contents you? Should whatever was, not be? How thanklessly you view things! There 's the root Of the evil, source of the entire mistake: You see no worth i' the world, nature and life, Unless we change what is to what may be, Which means, — may be, i' the brain of one of you! "Reject what is?" — all capabilities — Nay, you may style them chances if you choose — All chances, then, of happiness that lie Open to anybody that is born, Tumbles into this life and out again, — All that may happen, good and evil too, I' the space between, to each adventurer Upon this 'sixty, Anno Domini: A life to live — and such a life! a world To learn, one's lifetime in, — and such a world! However did the foolish pass for wise By calling life a burden, man a fly Or worm or what's most insignificant? "O littleness of man!" deplores the bard; And then, for fear the Powers should punish him, "O grandeur of the visible universe Our human littleness contrasts withal! O sun, O moon, ye mountains and thou sea, Thou emblem of immensity, thou this, That and the other, — what impertinence In man to eat and drink and walk about And have his little notions of his own, The while some wave sheds foam upon the shore!" First of all, 't is a lie some three-times thick: The bard, — this sort of speech being poetry, — The bard puts mankind well outside himself And then begins instructing them: "This way I and my friend the sea conceive of you! What would you give to think such thoughts as ours Of you and the sea together?" Down they go On the humbled knees of them: at once they draw Distinction, recognize no mate of theirs In one, despite his mock humility, So plain a match for what he plays with. Next, The turn of the great ocean-play-fellow, When the bard, leaving Bond Street very far From ear-shot, cares not to ventriloquize, But tells the sea its home-truths: "You, my match? You, all this terror and inmiensity And what not? Shall I tell you what you are? Just fit to hitch into a stanza, so Wake up and set in motion who's asleep O' the other side of you, in England, else Unaware, as folk pace their Bond Street now, Somebody here despises them so much! Between us, — they are the ultimate! to them And their perception go these lordly thoughts: Since what were ocean — mane and tail, to boot — Mused I not here, how make thoughts thinkable? Start forth my stanza and astound the world! Back, billows, to your insignificance! Deep, you are done with!"

Learn, my gifted friend, There are two things i' the world, still wiser folk Accept — intelligence and sympathy. You pant about unutterable power I' the ocean, all you feel but cannot speak? Why, that's the plainest speech about it all. You did not feel what was not to be felt. Well, then, all else but what man feels is naught — The wash o' the liquor that o'erbrims the cup Called man, and runs to waste adown his side, Perhaps to feed a cataract, — who cares? I'll tell you: all the more I know mankind, The more I thank God, like my grandmother, For making me a little lower than The angels, honour-clothed and glory-crowned: This is the honour, — that no thing I know, Feel or conceive, but I can make my own Somehow, by use of hand or head or heart: This is the glory, — that in all conceived, Or felt or known, I recognize a mind Not mine but like mine, — for the double joy, — Making all things for me and me for Him. There's folly for you at this time of day! So think it! and enjoy your ignorance Of what — no matter for the worthy's name — Wisdom set working in a noble heart, When he, who was earth's best geometer Up to that time of day, consigned his life With its results into one matchless book, The triumph of the human mind so far, All in geometry man yet could do: And then wrote on the dedication-page In place of name the universe applauds, "But, God, what a geometer art Thou!" I suppose Heaven is, through Eternity, The equalizing, ever and anon, In momentary rapture, great with small, Omniscience with intelligency, God With man, — the thunder-glow from pole to pole Abolishing, a blissful moment-space, Great cloud alike and small cloud, in one fire — As sure to ebb as sure again to flow When the new receptivity deserves The new completion. There's the Heaven for me. And I say, therefore, to live out one's life I' the world here, with the chance, — whether by pain Or pleasure be the process, long or short The time, august or mean the circumstance To human eye, — of learning how set foot Decidedly on some one path to Heaven, Touch segment in the circle whence all lines Lead to the centre equally, red lines Or black lines, so they but produce themselves — This, I do say, — and here my sermon ends, — This makes it worth our while to tenderly Handle a state of things which mend we might, Mar we may, but which meanwhile helps so far. Therefore my end is — save society!

"And that's all?" twangs the never-failing taunt O' the foe — "No novelty, creativeness, Mark of the master that renews the age?" "Nay, all that?" rather will demur my judge I look to hear some day, nor friend nor foe — "Did you attain, then, to perceive that God Knew what He undertook when He made things?" Ay: that my task was to co-operate Rather than play the rival, chop and change The order whence comes all the good we know, With this, — good's last expression to our sense, — That there's a further good conceivable Beyond the utmost earth can realize: And, therefore, that to change the agency, The evil whereby good is brought about — Try to make good do good as evil does — Were just as if a chemist, wanting white, And knowing black ingredients bred the dye, Insisted these too should be white forsooth! Correct the evil, mitigate your best, Blend mild with harsh, and soften black to gray If gray may follow with no detriment To the eventual perfect purity! But as for hazarding the main result By hoping to anticipate one half In the intermediate process, — no, my friends! This bad world, I experience and approve; Your good world, — with no pity, courage, hope, Fear, sorrow, joy, — devotedness, in short, Which I account the ultimate of man, Of which there's not one day nor hour but brings In flower or fruit, some sample of success, Out of this same society I save — None of it for me! That I might have none, I rapped your tampering knuckles twenty years. Such was the task imposed me, such my end.