Religion, the very name of which means "ties," is getting unloosened.
Faith, even in those who still believe, is getting restive. Through
the roof of what we call Fatherland social currents begin to filter.
There remains only one ideal in presence of which the most hardened
sceptic raises his hat,--the People. But on the base of this statue
mischievous spirits are beginning already to scribble more or less
ribald jokes, and, what is still more strange, the mist of unbelief is
rising from the heads of those who, in the nature of things, ought
to bow down reverently. Finally there will come a gifted sceptic, a
second Heine, to spit and trample on the idol, as in his time did
Aristophanes; he will not, however, trample on it in the name of old
ideals, but in the name of freedom of thought, in the name of freedom
of doubt; and what will happen then I do not know. Most likely on the
huge, clean-wiped slate the devil will write sonnets. Can anything
be done to prevent all this? Finally, what does it matter to me? To
attempt anything is not my business; I have been trained too carefully
as a child of my time. But if all that is thought, that is achieved
and happening, has for its ultimate aim to increase the sum of general
happiness, I permit myself a personal remark as to that happiness; by
which I do not mean material comfort, but that inward spiritual peace
in which I as well as anybody else may be wanting.
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