It Cannot be Stormed

by Ernst von Salomon

  At first Ive’s untrained eye could see no chronological stages of evolution in the pictures, nor any path of development. Overwhelmed by the flood of impressions, he registered his reactions by a naive reference to his own experience, thinking back and forward, and realising the parallelism of fate, by which he saw here in pictorial representation what he himself only ventured to think. Before these pictures his shyness of everything personal evaporated, from them he derived for himself the succinct dictum that every human being should be an artist, since everything could become a fine art, if one could only isolate oneself from the vulgarity for which ‘mediocrity had become complete nature.’ The importance of politics as a statecraft was confirmed for him, with its immense vistas of responsibility, all-embracing and by its multiplication of difficulties creating an infinite progression of power. He experienced once again, and this time in images perceptible to the senses, the satisfying certainty that the same laws applied everywhere, springing from the same invisible, fertile soil, animated by the same supernatural, creative force, for which even the highest form must remain a fragment, even classical perfection no more than a mountain boulder polished by storm and wind, a monument of transfiguring nature, beneath whose icy shadow man’s restless spirit cannot bear to linger, although he must recoil from the sight of busy hands working persistently to injure the resplendent beauty. Thus the highest achievement can only be attained by him who has seen the shining goal rising high above it—by the violent dreamer. Ive had always felt the attraction of this type of genius. Confronted now by the work of his new friend, it is true, he at first recoiled in horror. But the insistent delight of being able to absorb, as it were, in a well-cooked morsel what in its raw state so much in his nature refused to swallow, drove him on with palpitating eagerness, and, if the desire to pass the test of Helene’s exacting judgment was great, still greater was the urge to fortify his own attitudes of defiance; and his increasing enthusiasm was genuine.

  Ive knew nothing about the painter except that he had been an active Communist, and his first impression of him had been of a good-natured, introspective Bohemian, with an awkward, disarming smile, whose feelings he would not have hurt for the world. He had feared when he visited the studio that he would encounter a modernised dusty museum atmosphere, but this was by no means the case. At once he realised how much the pictures on the walls appealed to his deepest feelings, and when the painter opened the portfolios for him and brought the canvases down from the gallery, and, as he himself by repeated effort—which soon lost the character of effort, developing rather into the finding of a haven—became more familiar with the strange, mysterious world full of stimulating demands, he found that his interest was completely absorbed. Actually it was amazing that the daemonic revolt, which actuated every one of the artist’s strokes, should still have had a message for those who had long ago conquered and subdued the forces of heaven and hell, but who believed that the creations of the imagination had to be accepted because they fitted in with their social theories. Helene pointed out the unworthiness of this attitude, in order to free the painter from his ideological fetters, and she succeeded, not so much because his pride was offended, but because he realised that the roots of his art were already shrivelling in this soil; for to divorce life from the soul signified divorcing it also from the noblest instrument of the soul.

  The painter had become known through his caricatures, through the shavings of his work as it were, which he only published against his will, through drawings which it was hard labour for him to produce, and which through their merciless realism renounced their claim to be caricatures. Ive’s laughter was arrested when he saw those grotesque figures, grotesque figures which none the less were those he met at every turn, whom he knew to be the authorities and masters of the world, and who in these drawings, it seemed to him, were attacked not for their grotesqueness but for their virtues, in spite of the glamour they might think these lent them. These drawings were disconcerting because they did not signify so much an accusation as the objective acknowledgment of an actual state of affairs. And to Ive’s searching questioning the answer came that the painter’s daemonic power lay in the fact that he could still see apocalyptic visions in the clash of sheer greed with violent claims, and so did not express himself in a cheap anarchism but showed the possibility of a higher order, as much as to say, without this nothing would be left for a noble man but to shoot himself. Thus the theme and scene did not give to the drawings so much an arresting hardness and devastating effect, as the cold defeat of a life, which, in the brutal self-laceration of a soul which could never find satisfaction, had become the battle-field in which legions of spirits were let loose for a struggle to the death—spirits precipitated from the clouds and rising up from the mire, to drive the world to fear and horror, to impulse and counter-impulse, to growth and destruction; the laughter of hell and the trumpet blasts of heaven; a life, expressed in dramatic lyrics, which places defeat before victory and puts faith in no security which is not attuned in this way. The presentation, as though etched on ice, of the massacre of the Bethlehemite children by Herod’s Roman soldiers obviously pointed to the conclusion that it was not wild bloodthirstiness, but pure professional zeal which led the Prussian police to shoot down men, women, and children like rabbits in the proletarian quarters of the town; thus in limitation was shown the wide range of human possibilities, the degree of insensibility which seems to be necessary in order to be able to function in the outworks of a rigid order when behind all the battlements the demons are lurking ready to hurl themselves through the gaping cracks into the ethereal spaces of defeated discipline, the first heralds proclaiming to terrified satiety the beginning of a new era. None of that suspect deceitfulness which gives to the poor man the halo of a new hero, which he is not able to bear; but the naked ugliness of crime with its annihilating demands, the pitiable desire to imitate glory, the barren hopelessness of a position in which courage has flagged, which brings disgrace to him who succumbs to it, and disgrace to him who tolerates its existence. What a fatal mistake, what madness, still to seek order in the inferno of times that are out of joint, of a world whose foul breath stinks, which makes a parade of its sores, proud of its misuse of the healthy blood-stream, allowing it to flow through the decaying tissues, until it emerges as putrefying matter from a scabrous skin; of a world of the pavements with its rustling harlots, who remain harlots, however much they may assume the pompous poses of the bourgeoisie, with their fancy-men from filmland, the Press and finance, with cheap politicians, knights of the bridge-tournament, heroes of the American bar, braggarts of public order, a world of slime, with its leading articles and short stories, its revues and sessions, its Riviera films and State ceremonies, its governmental decrees and its cooked balancesheets. But only a superficial world by the mercy of God. For where would be any hope, except in the certainty that even the crudest actors on the limelit stage, the nightfigures of the gutter, the exhausted bodies on the tops of omnibuses, the apoplectic masses of flesh outside the little hells, that the whole carnival procession spewed out on to the streets from every door and entrance, is the plaything of an untameable force, tossed hither and thither by dark menacing forces, exposed and surrendered, torn between the choice of being the salt of the earth, or dust and ashes, whipped on by the all-powerful will which knocks at every door, surrounded by breakers like an island in the midst of the sea? Where would there be any hope, if not in the torment of icy desolation, in the raging battle of the hosts of spirits in one’s own breast, which come whirling up out of mythical abysses, where the noble spark of life has not yet been extinguished by petty, spurious activities? Where would there be any hope, if not in life itself, in whatever direction it may be driving, in busy market-places, in grey factories, in machine-rooms and offices, in palatial restaurants and in starving slums, in the confines of museums, or in scientific laboratories, in ornate churches or in the barren, neutral ground of dull sophistry? When men are silent, the stones speak
, and not only they. Bush and field, forest and mountain and water bear witness; from rugged chasms it creeps unwaveringly up the steep precipices, in a wild, rank vegetation from dark damp grey to deepest green; the last rooty tentacles cling to the brown rock, which, worn smooth by the rushing water, and shattered by its hurtling fall, buries its jagged corners in the bosom of the earth, overgrown with a brilliant coat of moss, holding in its dainty network milliards of glittering dewdrops, bearing nourishment for the mighty upward striving stem, and a death potion for the putrefying wood. The tree trunks stand pale in the dark, towering forest, are flung down by the wind that sweeps round the summits of the mountains, falling at last into the valley washed by the loamy stream; the black, crumbling earth of the slope tears at their roots until they bend, their swaying, shivering branches entangled in the foliage of their neighbours falling with them, catching and thrusting, resisting and breaking away; the tenacious thin tendrils climb up with choking stranglehold, hosts of pallid fungi block up the pores and cracks of the bark, the scabrous skin falls off in shreds, the pale bones gleam nakedly, while thousands of seeds in their hard cases batter clamourously on the earth. It is not the Pan of the dark olive-groves fanned by soft warm breezes who is man’s opponent here, but the great adversary himself. He lets the bleeding wounds of the trees heal up into lewd swellings, from which sap oozes through capillaries and crumbling bark; he tempts the simple mind with dreams of fantastic lust; with magic spells he transforms the swelling wood into voluptuous flesh, whose cries for love re-echo through the forest; he fills bush and thicket with ardent, grotesque gestures, and the light clearing with dancing shadows, the marsh with torchlights of nocturnal orgies. He chases through the narrow glades, which gleam in the dark shadows beneath the light of the blue sky, on scurrying, spindle legs, seizing the fugitive by the neck; his clammy breath is exhaled from rock and crevasse; in poisonous vapours he hovers over the sleeping chaos, cracking his joints in the terrifying silence. With his chuckles he scares the leaves out of their hiding-places, creeps through the ruins over the broad, crumbling ramparts and battlements, where vaults and pillars are slowly being smothered by the living dark green curtain; he pushes his way maliciously in among the decaying nests, casts a spell on the angry hum, the scurrying horror and fright of the insect world, he sates his devouring appetite on the mountain slopes until they are bare, until their plucked skin hangs in grey strands about their wrinkled heads; he raises his voice in the rumbling laughter of the storm, sends his bolts howling down upon the shrieking earth, batters the bushes, rends the trees, destroys the fields with hail, lashes fear into rage, until a last cry is forced from its strangled throat, beating rattlingly against the tightened skins of delirium.

  From these forests the hordes rushed out, pouring through the valleys, filling the plains with their wild horn blasts, with their shrill battle cries; scaled the smooth sides of the mountains, carrying their spears into the distant, glittering towns, to burn and rob, to fight and fall, to set fire to the proud facades of royal palaces, of stately temples, to the abodes of sparkling, seductive wealth. In these valleys men strode in white cowls, staff in hand; they erected the bulwarks of the planning spirit, sacred galleries and spacious barns, gay paths and gardens; ploughed and dug and garnered their tithes; exorcised with the peal of happy bells, with tender music and rare scents; burned witches and sorcerers, to save their souls. In these mountains and hollows noble figures lived in solitude, sanctified by hard superhuman renunciation, completely absorbed in the service of the all-embracing spirit; writhed in shuddering agony before the visions impudently enticing them with loud lustful laughter from cleft and cave, with obscene bestial gestures—hairy, horned creatures, with swollen bellies, springing breasts, and lascivious lusts; and in their last trembling prayers they conquered them through self-renunciation.

  The forest is still there, the smiling valleys, the towering mountains, the yawning, clammy caves; but on the dusty roads are heard the clattering explosions of benzene-oil driving the wheels with the whirring sound of good steel to rapider revolutions; the detonations of blasting operations resound in the mountains as great blocks of stone are torn out of their sides, split into slabs, broken up, ground down, to make building materials for houses and factories, rubble-stone, grey concrete; the tree-trunks roll down into the valley with a wide sweep, axes crash into the trembling wood, deft knives scale off the brown bark, saws grind, cutting the trunks into boards, planks, ship frames, mouldings, wood-blocks for pavements; machines grind and mash the wood into pulp, press and mill the seething mass into cheque-books and newspaper; rails are laid along the mountain-side, tall factories stand in the valley, the smoke of their chimneys rising straight into the air, and in the cool cloisters of the monasteries tourists wander armed with cameras; sharp-nosed spinsters stand, haughty and frigid, round the guide, looking with alien, inimical eyes at the stone vaults of proud abbots, at the gloomy cells, the dim refectory, all that is left of the strict order with its nightly prayers and daily penances, while outside the hotel the charabancs with their shiny leather seats wait in the grilling midday heat.

  The same mysterious power which sent its zealous, fearless messengers to demolish the religious monuments in the pagan woods, and to fell the sacred trees, which destroyed the helpless superstition which endeavoured to form an alliance with the spirits instead of subjugating them to service and order; the same power which drove the monasteries, the abodes of militant peace, further and further forward into the threatening land, which in the towns enabled faith to establish itself in churches and cathedrals raising their spires to heaven to the glory of God and as a sanctuary from affliction, sheltering the habitations of men beneath their beneficent shadow, enabled a reign of glory to be established, enabled passionate lust to be quelled, united the conflicting forces by its guiding hand; this same power stood now in the centres of the hybrid world, and not only there, in bitter, rankling, almost hopeless, defence against the encroaching forces of an age which had withdrawn itself from her in wanton pride, its only security in the promise that the portals of hell would not overpower it. In those times when a gleam of happy certainty, of indestructible faith, was still to be seen on the most clerical face, no object left the workshop that a master had not carefully moulded to his ends, making the end itself subservient to the unity of a great purpose, had moulded artistically, in the endeavour to give the object the full dignity of worthy service, that is, had subdued through art, something that was spiritually striving beyond goal and service to fulfil itself, whether it were pot or pan, house or merchandise, implement or ornament. But with the emancipation of the temporal spirit from its ordering force—a process which began within the realm of this force—of necessity everything was emancipated; individuals as well as objects, together and apart, strove, with no limit save that set by the persistent struggle, to develop themselves to the utmost, regardless of the general balance, of that wise selectiveness, which for the truly religious soul must signify earthly redemption. The creature that nature has liberated, in his freedom scorns the hand that fashioned him and would guide him. He subjugates with a stronger and more bitter tyranny than the brain of man could ever conceive the life in the midst of which he is raised to the absolute. Ignorant of worth, the first principle of order, he lives eagerly absorbed in his own needs, the quantitative needs of a mechanical being; ignorant of the royal pride of power in the exercise of his blind strength. Like the adversary, the great ape of God, who secretly takes on every form, in order to establish his kingdom in every sphere, to make man the ape of man, and his work an apish imitation, the mechanical being approaches with the old clumsy trick, offering himself as a complaisant ally in spheres where he intends to have complete sway, until, with all the trump cards in his hands, he can place himself in the position of full power and exercise full power over men. Thus, in the light of an order that accepts quantity rather than quality as its principle, in the light of a law that reduces the diversity of creation to the
dull formula of cause and effect, he was, indeed, able by his pretence of independence to change the face of this earth, to the very last wrinkle, into a mask that barely hides the devouring monster behind it. In this world every opposition is bound to develop into a struggle between daemonic unities, into a hopeless struggle for man, so long as he fails to make use of the special intelligence which distinguishes him among all other creatures; for until this moment of reflection, the only decisive factor can be, which unity has the greatest reserves to call upon, and there can scarcely be a doubt as to the answer: not man. In fact, he surrendered long ago, delivered himself up with the leverage which he celebrated as the act of his regeneration, and which indeed freed him from all bonds, and not only himself, but that which he thought to be a means, since he himself was a means, and had become an end in itself, because he had set himself as a goal. Now having become absolute again he was confronted by that which had become absolute again, and though there may be a biological limit to his development, what limit can be set to mechanical forces?

  They overpower him with their will to augment, which exacts of capital that it shall yield interest and compound interest, of labour a multiplication of labour, which does not allow an invention which increases capacity threefold to mean a threefold lightening of labour, but a threefold increase of tempo, and the threefold increase of tempo again a threefold capacity, sucking every living thing into the maelstrom of production, only to spew it out again as a makeshift, subject to no force, so long as there are voices to murmur that economy is fate. Thus the time is at hand for a new order to be built up, which, possessed of the hierarchical secret, shall renew the struggle and claim the cooperation of every kindred spirit. The time is ripe and why should it not be the artist who is the first to realise its ripeness?