# Nietzsche the thinker/Chapter VIII

CHAPTER VIII
RELATIONS WITH WAGNER
The intellectual preparation for the new culture which Nietzsche hoped for had been made, he thought, by Kant and Schopenhauer—the former in demonstrating the limits of scientific knowledge, the latter in facing fearlessly the tragic facts of existence and in proposing the production of the philosopher, the artist, and the saint, as the true aim of human life. But the practical attaining of the result was another matter—and art, he believed, might render great assistance to this end. Yes, a certain kind of art would stand almost in a relation of cause and effect to it—namely, art of the Dionysiac type such as had existed among the Greeks. Nietzsche thought he discovered the beginnings of such an art in the work of a contemporary—Richard Wagner. Wagner was, in a sense, a disciple of Schopenhauer; he possessed an ardent moral nature and was dissatisfied with the existing forms of social and political life; he too looked, however vaguely, for a new culture, and was not without the thought that art—and his art in particular—might serve to this end.
I
It is necessary to explain at the outset Nietzsche's view of the peculiar nature of musical art—something I passed over in treating his view of art in general. In it he follows closely in the footsteps of Schopenhauer. Music is radically different from the other arts. A picture, a statue, or a poem of the epic order portrays things without us, or as we might imagine their existing without us—it gives us objects. Music, on the other hand, expresses feeling and has nothing to do directly with objects. It reflects moods, desires, longings, resolves—the whole spontaneous and voluntary side of our nature, which Schopenhauer summed up as will. No doubt most of us are conscious ​at times of a peculiar intimacy in music—it touches us, takes hold of us, seems to reveal hidden depths within us, as nothing else does. Schopenhauer called it the most metaphysical of the arts, meaning that it comes nearest to expressing the inmost reality of things, which to his mind was will. The other arts are at two removes from this reality; not only is it objects which they give us, but these objects are themselves representative of objects. Music, on the contrary, stands directly related to it—when we listen to music, only this lightest, most insubstantial, most transparent of all objects, sound, stands between us and the reality.
Now there are feelings of the moment, and there is what we may call the ground-tone of our life—our feeling about life, our attitude to it, whether of affirmation or negation, in short, the set of our will as a whole. It is music of the deeper, more significant sort that interested Nietzsche, and it was this kind of music which he thought lay at the basis of the Greek tragic drama. It was of religious inspiration, reflected general moods about life, was a part of the worship of Dionysus. The full title of Nietzsche book on Greek Tragedy was The Birth of Tragedy out of the Spirit of Music. In it he points out that the earliest form of tragedy was simply song and gesture (dance), that the dialogue came later and was a secondary matter. Even down to Sophocles the chorus was the central thing. Hence in that revival of a tragic culture, toward which Nietzsche's thoughts were turning, it was natural that music should have a central place,—it was natural too to think that music would render vital service in preparing the way for that culture, by stirring the feelings, the mood, on which it would ultimately rest.
II
The capital point in this theory is that the musical strains are expressive of feeling directly, neither copying external objects nor produced for objective effect—the purity of music lies in its lyric quality. Just in proportion to its genuineness would, Nietzsche held, the new music avail. The Dionysian mænads had no thought whether others were observing them ​or not—they sang and danced from inner impulse; Raphael's Cecilia, we feel, is not singing to others, but to herself and heaven. True music is a kind of soliloquy, and Wagner reaches this, Nietzsche feels, in his great works, "Tristan and Isolde," the "Meistersinger," and the "Ring." Wagner too has the right view of the relation of words to music (i.e., Nietzsche thinks so at the start): the music, through which the ground-emotion of the persons in the drama is communicated to the hearer, is for him the primary thing; then comes the action or gestures of the persons, and last of all the words, as a still paler reflection of the original emotional state. The music is not an accompaniment to the words (as is the case in ordinary opera—something which Nietzsche detests), rather are the words a kind of halting accompaniment to the music. Yes, in such words as Wagner knows how to use, he gets back, Nietzsche feels, to the primitive significance of language—which was itself half poetry and feeling; the words are often tones more than anything else—and to Wagner's sympathetic imagination, all nature, alive and striving, seeks to express itself in tones. In this connection Nietzsche refers to Schiller's confession that in poetical composition his mind had no definite and clear object before it at the start, the first impulse being a certain musical mood, and that the poetical idea came afterwards and as a consequence. Nietzsche interprets the folk-song in a similar way—the air or melody is primary, and the accompanying poetry is born out of it, and may even be of different sorts: the music is the standard, with which the words strive to harmonize. He goes so far as to say of music in general, that it tolerates the image, word, or concept rather than needs it, language never touching its inner depths. Feeling is equally, he holds, the original element in myths such as Wagner uses or fashions—in them he poetizes. In the "Ring," for instance, we have a series of myths, which Wagner partly adopted, partly created, as an objectivation of his feeling about the world and society—they are utterly unintelligible as scientific statements, and can only be comprehended as we pass into ​the mood out of which they were projected; a corresponding scientific statement might be made, but it would be totally different.
III
With these deeper views of music, with his poetic, myth-making gift (a far greater, more helpful thing to the mass of mankind than the analytic scientific faculty), with his broad human sympathies and his sense of the tragic nature of the world, Wagner was the man, Nietzsche thought, to prepare the general mind emotionally, as Kant and Schopenhauer had intellectually, for the culture to be; if Schopenhauer was par éminence its philosopher, Wagner was to be its artist. Broad impersonal ties of this kind lay at the basis of the enthusiastic attachment which he formed for Wagner—the great musician met a profound need of the time, filled out his ideal. But personal relations were also formed—and the friendship between the two men, while it lasted, was something rare and beautiful. As before stated, he often spent week-ends with Wagner in his villa at the foot of Mt. Pilatus, overlooking Lake Lucerne-with Wagner and his wife Cosima, for whom he had an almost equally reverent affection. At this time the master was working on "Siegfried," and plans were also making for the event which loomed so large in their common expectations—Bayreuth. Nietzsche afterwards said that he was perhaps the first to love Wagner and Schopenhauer with a single enthusiasm—and in writing to a friend at the time he described these days (between 1869-72) as his "practical course in the Schopenhauerian philosophy." He felt that he was in the presence of a genius such as Schopenhauer had portrayed. "No one knows him," he writes, "or can judge of him, because all the world stands on a different basis and is not at home in his atmosphere. There is such an absolute ideality about him, such a deep and affecting humanity, such sublime seriousness that I feel in his presence as if I were near something divine." Again, "I ​have my Italy as well as you.… It is called Tribschen [the name of Wagner's villa]: and I am already at home in it. Dearest friend, what I there learn and see, hear and understand, is indescribable. Believe me, Schopenhauer and Goethe, Æschylus and Pindar still live." The happiness of these years was never forgotten by Nietzsche; after he broke with Wagner, and when he was criticising and dissecting him in perhaps unmerciful fashion, the memory of them haunted him. "How often," he writes to Peter Gast in 1880, "I dream of him and ever in the manner of our old confidential relations. Never was an evil word spoken between us, not even in my dreams, but very many cheering and glad ones, and with no one perhaps have I so often laughed. It is past now—and what matters it that in many points I am in the right against him! As if that lost sympathy could be wiped out of my memory!" And, though Nietzsche was the reverential admirer and disciple, he gave as well as received. The music in the third act of "Siegfried" is said to be partly owing to his influence—his sister telling us that Wagner often assured her that his coming to know Nietzsche had inspired him to this music, for he [Nietzsche] had given him back his faith in the German youth and in the future. Moreover, Wagner took over from him the conceptions of "Dionysiac" and "Apollinic" as principles of art. His appreciation of Nietzsche was strong and warm. "After my wife," he wrote him at this time, "you are the one prize which life has brought me"; and again, "Before God I declare that I believe you to be the one person who knows what I want to do."
The relationship with Wagner and the issues involved were so great in Nietzsche's eyes, that he more or less reshaped his scholar's life accordingly. He had been lecturing on Greek life and philosophy, and was preparing an extensive work on the subject, and now he took some of the material and made a little book of it by itself, which he dedicated to Wagner. His ultimate aim in the book was to show that, as the tragic view and tragic art had marked the great epoch of the Greeks, a similar view ​and art were needed for another great culture today, and that Wagner was pointing the way. It was The Birth of Tragedy. It offended purely philological circles, but it served its purpose none the less; and the light it threw on old Greek life is perhaps more important than was commonly thought at the time. Wagner circles, and above all Wagner himself, were profoundly stirred. He went freshly to work on the last act of "Götterdämmerung," and said he knew not how he could have been so fortunate. Nietzsche was even ready to go about Germany giving lectures in behalf of the Bayreuth idea, and composed an "Appeal to the German nation." In May, 1872, he was one of the reverent company that attended the laying of the corner-stone of the Bayreuth theater, and listened to the strains of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony rendered under the master's direction. "There was something in the air," he said in commenting on the occasion, "that I have nowhere else experienced, something quite indescribable and of richest promise."
About this time Wagner left Tribschen for his permanent home in Bayreuth, and Nietzsche did not see him so frequently thereafter. The idyllic period in their mutual relations proved to be over. The physical separation may have given Nietzsche an opportunity for critical reflection such as he had hardly had before; in any case, questionings, doubts began to arise, and somewhat clouded his simple faith. Yet his main feeling continued to be that of loyalty, and he not only wrote pamphlets or little books to serve the general cause of a new culture (the first three Unzeitgemässe Betrachtungen), but a special one on Wagner ("Richard Wagner in Bayreuth"). This last was at once an elaborate critical study and a splendid tribute. In it Bayreuth appears as a "morning consecration for the day of battle"—the book published on the eve of the opening in 1876. It was really an appeal and a challenge to the German-speaking peoples on Wagner's and Bayreuth's behalf. Wagner, quite overcome, wrote to him, "Friend, your book is immense.… Where did you get the knowledge of me?" and he urged ​him to come to the rehearsals soon to be given. Nietzsche came, at least to the opening performances—and with what effect I must now proceed to relate.
IV
To understand what happened, it is necessary to bear in mind all Nietzsche's idealism about Bayreuth. As the special scene of the master's activity, and as the center of redeeming influences that were to go out to the German people, it was almost holy in his eyes. In the book just referred to, he pictured gathered there the more serious, nobler spirits of his generation—men and women who had their home elsewhere than in the present and were to be explained and justified otherwise than by the present, or, to use another metaphor, were like a warm current in a lake which a swimmer encounters showing that a hot spring is near by. You shall find—he said in substance—prepared and consecrated spectators at the summit of their happiness and collecting energy for still higher achievement; you shall find the most devoted sacrifice of artists, and the victorious creator of a work which is itself the result of victories all along the æsthetic line—will it not be almost like magic to witness such a phenomenon in the present time! Must not those who participate be transformed and renewed, and be ready themselves to transform and renew in other fields of life? Whatever misgivings lurked in his mind, he was still loyal.
Yet what did he find when the Bayreuth performances began? I give the bare, brutal facts, as they are reported by his sister and other credible witnesses. The main distinction of a large number of those present seemed to be that they were able to pay the necessary nine hundred marks for the twelve performances. Some of the auditors bore great names—the German Emperor was present, and he drew a whole court in his train. Splendid toilets were observable—Marienbad in particular seemed to have sent over a goodly number of its stoutish habitués (bankers and men of leisure, with their wives): on round paunches dangled heavy gold chains, on high-swelling bosoms shone luxurious jewels, costly diamonds. In fact the ​audiences were not unlike those of a first night at the opera generally. There was, it is true, a sprinkling of notable painters and musicians; and then there were fanatical Wagnerians, with pale faces and waving manes, who were almost ready to threaten violence, if criticism of the master or his work was made. Intrigues between artists were to be overheard (or heard of)—exclamations of wounded vanity. In general there was a kind of artificiality in the enthusiasm. The performances themselves were halting. Wagner was too preoccupied and hurried to have any real intercourse with Nietzsche, and contented himself with loud and extravagant praise of his book—and this jarred on Nietzsche and untuned him the more. Moreover, the master appeared in an unpleasantly realistic light—the air of repose was lacking, he had become stage-manager and even journalist; he was flattering national passions, too, showing himself anti-French and anti-Semitic. It was hard for Nietzsche to endure; and after the first performances, he went off into the Bohemian Forest, burying himself at Klingenbrunn for ten days, and noting down a few thoughts in a new vein. Then he came back to Bayreuth and tried again—but to no avail, and, before the cycle of representations had finished, he left the town never to return. It was the beginning of the end.
If we let this episode stand for more than it did at the moment, for the whole break with Wagner, we may say that the causes of the break were threefold: he was disappointed with the man, with his art, and with his way of thinking. Wagner had already proved at times to be a somewhat imperious and exacting nature. At the start Nietzsche responded to whatever was asked, and was even tender of the master's peculiarities. He yielded slightly, for instance, to Wagner's anti-Semitism, though going contrary to his own instincts in doing so. Once, whether for this or other reasons—in any case, to avoid giving offense to Wagner—he gave up a projected journey with a son of Mendelssohn's to Greece; and at other times he joined with friends in considering how best to spare one who was so easily touched. But the time came when he ​felt that Wagner was too insistent—suspicious, too, where there was no need to be; if he made any assertion of independence, Wagner seemed to resent it. The difficulties were smoothed over while Wagner was near at hand in Tribschen, but when he removed to Bayreuth (1872), misunderstandings sometimes lingered. Invitations involving so long a journey he could not always accept, and sometimes he was not exactly in the mood for accepting them. We find him touched, for instance, on hearing that Wagner had spoken coolly, and as if disappointed, about "The Use and Harm of History for Life," because there had been no mention of his [Wagner's] special cause in it; and once, when a friend told him that Wagner was taking it ill that he had not accepted an invitation, he replied that while he could not conceive how any one could be more loyal to Wagner than he was (if he could be, he would be), yet he must keep his freedom in minor points and abstain from too frequent personal intercourse to the very end of preserving his loyalty in the higher sense. Two or three other circumstances may be mentioned. During one of his visits to Bayreuth, Nietzsche played the "Triumphlied" of Brahms, which he particularly liked. Wagner was not pleased, and fell into a passion at Nietzsche's praise—showed himself "not great," as Nietzsche remarked at the time to his sister. Then Wagner's stories and jokes in broad Saxon sometimes offended him—and when Wagner saw this, he seemed to ply them the more. In truth Wagner was a little of a Bohemian in manners and conversation, and his occasional rudeness and coarseness wounded Nietzsche's ideal sentiment about him. Further, though, as stated, Nietzsche was slightly influenced, he could not really follow Wagner in his aversion for the Jews. Nothing perhaps shows better his natural nobility than his practically lifelong superiority to anti-Semitism—for though many excuses can be given for this sentiment, no noble nature can share it.
But doubts were also insinuating themselves as to Wagner's art. Was there not acting in it at times, striving for effect? The ecstatic seemed often violent, was not sufficiently naïve. ​Moreover, was Wagner really true to the theory of the relation between music and words? "Danger lest the motives for the movement of the music should lie in the movements and actions of the drama, lest the music should be led instead of leading." Were there even possible contradictions in the idea of "music drama"? The relation between music and words might be organic in a song, but how about a drama? The idea hovered in Nietzsche's mind of a symphony covering itself with a drama, as a melody does with the words of a song—there were suggestions of such a thing in the old Dionysian chorus; but Wagner, he felt, was inclining to make the music a means of illustrating the drama—and this was to forget the lyric, Dionysiac quality of music altogether, and to bring "music-drama" down to the level of old-time opera (only linking the music a little closer to the words and situations, and dispensing with trills and arias that had no sense). In time Nietzsche came to the clear, positive conclusion that either the music must dominate, or the drama must dominate, that parallelism was out of the question; and now he has feelings that way, and thinks that with Wagner the organic unity is in the drama and often fails to reach the music. Wagner himself once said, "The nature of the subject could not induce me, in sketching my scenes, to consider in advance their adaptability to any particular musical form, the kind of musical treatment being, in every case, suggested by the scenes themselves." So far as this was really Wagner's practice, the conclusion is inevitable: he starts with scenes, i.e., dramatic material, and then finds musical tones appropriate to them, which is just to reverse the method and theory of music in which Nietzsche, and Schopenhauer before him, believed—and, as Nietzsche at first supposed, Wagner also.
Besides all this, Nietzsche came to have doubts as to Wagner's general attitude and way of thinking. Was he maintaining his old heroic attitude to existing German life? Was he not compromising, making too much of the Emperor's favor, ​making too much of Bismarck, becoming too patriotic? And did they really think alike, he and Wagner, as to the culture to be? Was Wagner aiming at a renovated humanity, or was his art rather a way of escaping from reality, an end in itself? He puts down propositions like these as if to look at, consider them: Wagner's art is something like a flight from this world—it denies, does not transfigure the world. Directly it does not work morally, and indirectly it has a quietistic effect. Wagner only wants to get a place for his art in the world. The kind of culture that would be introduced would resemble that of a monastery—its disciples would be a sect, without part in the world around them. There would come a sort of Christianity over again—was not this art a sort of pale dying Christianity, with plenty of magical gleams and enchantments, but little clear sunlight? Can a man actually be made better by this art and by Schopenhauer's philosophy? Perhaps Nietzsche was hardly aware in all this how far he was changing—moving away from the view that reality was essentially unalterable and simply to be made endurable by art. A couple of years after the Bayreuth opening, he said, "Wagnerians do not wish to change anything in themselves, live in disgust with what is stale, conventional, brutal. Art is to lift them as by magic above it all for the time being. Weakness of will"—but he has a presentiment to this effect now. He is also uneasy about Wagner's religious tendencies. He had thought him atheist, like himself and Schopenhauer, had said, "Wagner is a modern man and is not able to encourage himself by believing in God. He does not cherish the idea that he is in the hands of a good Being, but he believes in himself." But now he has to own that Wagner's art is in principle the old religion over again, "idealized Christianity of the Catholic sort." He had been trying to put a favorable interpretation on the reactionary elements in him—the place given to the marvelous, to mediæval , ​Christianity, to Buddhism, as well as to princes—but at last they proved too much. We today can see that "Parsifal" was a further, more pronounced expression of the same tendencies; but "Parsifal" came later.
A variety of dissatisfactions and doubts were thus at work in Nietzsche's mind, and the revulsion at Bayreuth in 1876 was only a culminating episode.
I have said that Nietzsche left Bayreuth never to return. This does not mean, however, that there was an open break with Wagner. The two met in Sorrento the following autumn, and their relations were outwardly much as of old. But the old warm sympathy no longer existed between them—and one incident estranged Nietzsche the more. Wagner was now at work on "Parsifal," and, as if aware that the composition of a play of just this character was hardly in keeping with the views he had so often expressed, he sought to explain to Nietzsche certain religious sensations he had been having, certain inclinations to Christian dogmas—as, for instance, how he had been edified by the celebration of the Lord's Supper. Nietzsche could only listen in silence—it seemed to him impossible that one who had been so outspoken and so thorough in his unbelief could go back; he thought that Wagner was practising on himself. It was another disillusionment. He noted down: "I am not able to recognize any kind of greatness which does not include honesty with oneself; playing a part inspires me with disgust; if I discover anything of this order in a man, all his performances count for nothing; I know that they have everywhere down at bottom this theatrical character." Despite even this there was no open break. This came two years later still—and in connection with a singular coincidence. Nietzsche had finished a new book, Human, All-too-Human (the first product of what we may call his second period), and was sending copies of it to Wagner and Frau Cosima in Bayreuth, along with some humorous verses of dedication. But exactly at the same time there came to him from Wagner a beautiful copy of the text of "Parsifal," with the inscription, "Cordial greetings and wishes to his dear friend Friedrich Nietzsche," and signed "Richard Wagner, Oberkirchenrath [member of the ​high ecclesiastical consistory]." The ecclesiastical reference was too much for Nietzsche, and it seemed almost like a challenge. Referring to the incident ten years afterwards, he said, "This crossing of two books—it seemed as if I heard with it an ominous sound. Was it not as if swords crossed? … At any rate we both took it so; for we both kept silent." So far as I know, there was no direct interchange between the two men thereafter. Wagner was undoubtedly displeased by the new manner and tone of Nietzsche's book, its almost exclusively critical character, and Nietzsche on his side could only say to himself, "Incredible! Wagner has become pious." "Parsifal", now in its final form, was in truth not only Christian, it was Buddhistic,—it was a glorification of celibacy, and implied an aversion to the fundamental premises of life; it was pessimist, Schopenhauerian, in the worse senses of those words. For by this time—and really, except for a brief space, always—life was a supreme end to Nietzsche, and he revolted against those who would unnerve and weaken it. He thought they exercised a corrupting influence, and he felt the odor of corruption in "Parsifal." Once he exclaims, "The preaching of chastity [i.e., celibacy] is an incitement to the unnatural: I despise every one who does not feel 'Parsifal' as an attack on morality" (he is thinking, of course, of those who have some understanding of "Parsifal," not of the common run of our opera-goers]. Wagner's influence, he feared, would ultimately coalesce with the stream which arises "the other side of the mountains and knows also how to flow over mountains." "Parsifal" was not, to him, a genuine German product, it was "Rome—Rome's faith without words."
The whole experience shook Nietzsche profoundly. In fact it became a turning-point—perhaps the great turning-point in his life. His faith in the future, in art as a redeeming agency and preparation for the future, his faith, I had almost said, in himself, hung on Wagner. "As I went further on by ​myself," he wrote later, "I trembled; before long I was ill, more than ill, namely weary—weary from the irresistible disillusionment about everything that remains as inspiration to us modern men, about the everywhere wasted force, labor, hope, youth, love, weary from disgust with the whole idealistic falsification and effeminacy of conscience, which had again won the victory over one of our bravest; weary finally and not least from the grief of a pitiless suspicion—that I was henceforth condemned to mistrust more deeply, to despise more deeply, to be more deeply alone, than ever before. For I had no one but Richard Wagner." He confessed to a friend, "I have experienced so much in relation to this man and his art: it was a whole long passion—I find no other word for it. The renunciation required, the finding myself again which at last became necessary, belongs to the hardest and most melancholy things that fate has brought me." His mistake had been, he bitterly said, that he came to Bayreuth with an ideal. He had painted an "ideal monstrosity"; "I have had the fate of idealists, whose object is spoiled for them by the very fact that they have made so much of it."
Yes, Nietzsche was ill—ill spiritually and ill physically; indeed he had more or less suffered physically ever since his period of service in the Franco-Prussian war, as noted in the opening chapter. In the summer of 1875 he had been obliged to go to cure in the Black Forest—and now (1876) he has to ask for a year's leave from University. This is granted him with marked signs of favor from the authorities, and he goes to Italy.
* ↑ Cf. Birth of Tragedy, sects. 19, 22, 24.
* ↑ "Richard Wagner etc.," sect. 9.
* ↑ Ibid., sect. 8.
* ↑ Ibid., sect. 5.
* ↑ Birth of Tragedy, sect. 5.
* ↑ Ibid., sect. 6.
* ↑ Ibid., sect. 6.
* ↑ "Richard Wagner etc.," sect. 9.
* ↑ Werke, XIV, 375, § 254.
* ↑ Briefe, II, 150. See the description of this intercourse, and the admirable account of the whole Nietzsche-Wagner episode by Richter, Friedrich Nietzsche u.s.w., pp. 37-56.
* ↑ Briefe, I, 142-3.
* ↑ Ibid., II, 167.
* ↑ Ibid., IV, 356; cf. Ecce Homo, II, §§ 5, 6.
* ↑ Werke (pocket ed.), III, ix.
* ↑ Briefe. Ila. 85. 131. I
* ↑ Das Lehen Friedrich Nietzsches by Elizabeth Forster-Nietzsche, Vol. II, p. 77. That same summer he also witnessed a wonderful performance of "Tristan and Isolde" in Munich (along with his friends, Freiherr von Gersdorff and Fräulein von Meysenbug).
* ↑ "Richard Wagner etc.," sect. 4.
* ↑ Ibid., sect. 1.
* ↑ Ibid., sect. 4.
* ↑ See Arthur Drews, Nietzsches Philosophie, p. 160.
* ↑ So Richter, op. cit., p. 45.
* ↑ Briefe, II, 207.
* ↑ Ibid., I, 236.
* ↑ Cf. Drews, op. cit., pp. 160-2; Theobald Ziegler, op. cit., pp. 65-6.
* ↑ Werke, X, 433, § 313; cf. Joyful Science, § 368.
* ↑ Werke, X, 436-40.
* ↑ Ibid., X, 434, § 315.
* ↑ Ibid., XI, 101-2, §§ 313-4.
* ↑ Ibid., XI, 93, § 276.
* ↑ Ibid., X, 433, § 310.
* ↑ I borrow this passage from the art., "Wagner," in the Encyclopedia Britarmica (9th ed.).
* ↑ Werke, X, 443; Drews, op. cit., p. 163.
* ↑ Werke, X, 448-9, § 353.
* ↑ Ibid., XI, 99, § 302.
* ↑ Cf. Nietzsche's sister's reference to intimate conversations which Wagner had held with Nietzsche and his friends, Werke (pocket ed.), III, xxiv.
* ↑ Werke, X, 441-2, § 329.
* ↑ Ibid., X, 448, § 352.
* ↑ Ibid., X, 457-8, § 365.
* ↑ Werke (pocket ed.), III, xxiii.
* ↑ Ecce Homo, III, iii, § 5.
* ↑ Drews thinks Buddhistic rather than Christian (op. cit., pp. 188-92) agreeing with Pastor Kalthoff (Nietzsche und die Kulturprohleme unserei Zeit) that the Christian element is purely decorative.
* ↑ Nietzsche contra Wagner," vii, § 3.
* ↑ Werke, XI, 101, § 311, "Nietzsche contra Wagner," vii, § 1.
* ↑ "Nietzsche contra Wagner," viii, § 1.
* ↑ Lou Andreas-Salomé, Friedrich Nietzsche in seinen Werken, pp. 84-5.
* ↑ Werke, XI, 122, § 385.
* ↑ Ibid., XI, 121, § 380.
* ↑ See the language of the "Protokoll," as cited in Werke (pocket ed.), III, xvii.