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PARERGA AND PARALIPOMENA: SHORT PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAYS

[b]CHAPTER 4: What a Man represents[/b]

THIS, in other words, what we are in the opinion of others, is generally much overrated in consequence of a peculiar weakness of our nature; although the slightest reflection could tell us that, in itself, it is not essential to our happiness. Accordingly, it is difficult to explain why everyone is at heart very pleased whenever he sees in others signs of a favourable opinion and his vanity is in some way flattered. If a cat is stroked it purrs; and just as inevitably if a man is praised sweet rapture and delight are reflected in his face; and indeed in the sphere of his pretensions the praise may be a palpable lie. Signs of other people's approbation often console him for real misfortune or for the scantiness with which the other two sources of our happiness, previously discussed, flow for him. Conversely it is astonishing how infallibly he is annoyed and often deeply hurt by every injury to his ambition in any sense, degree, or circumstance, and by any disdain, disrespect, or slight. In so far as the feeling of honour rests on this peculiar characteristic, it may have salutary effects on the good conduct of many as a substitute for their morality; but on the man's own happiness and above all on the peace of mind and independence essential thereto, its effect is more disturbing and detrimental than beneficial. Therefore, from our point of view, it is advisable to set limits to this characteristic and to moderate as much as possible, through careful consideration and correct assessment of the value of good things, that great susceptibility to the opinions of other people, not only where it is flattered, but also where it is injured, for both hang by the same thread. Otherwise we remain the slave of what other people appear to think:

[quote]Sic Leve, sic parvum est, animum quod laudis avarum

Subruit ac reficit. [1][/quote]

Accordingly, a correct comparison of the value of what we are in and by ourselves with what we are in the eyes of others will greatly contribute to our happiness. Belonging to the former is everything that fills up the whole time of our existence, its inner content and consequently every blessing that was considered by us in the two chapters' what a man is' and 'what a man has' . For the place wherein all this has its sphere of activity is our own consciousness. On the other hand, the place of what we are for others is their consciousness; it is the kind of figure in which we appear in that consciousness together with the notions and concepts that are applied to it.* Now this is something that certainly does not directly exist for us but only indirectly, namely in so far as the behaviour of others towards us is thereby determined. And this is also taken into consideration only in so far as it influences anything whereby what we are in and by ourselves can be modified. Besides, what goes on in the consciousness of others is as such a matter of indifference to us; and to it we shall gradually become indifferent when we acquire an adequate knowledge of the superficial and futile nature of the thoughts in the heads of most people, of the narrowness of their views, of the paltriness of their sentiments, of the perversity of their opinions, and of the number of their errors. We shall also become indifferent to the opinions of others when from our own experience we learn with what disrespect one man occasionally speaks of another as soon as he no longer has to fear him or thinks that what he says will not come to the ears of the other man; but we shall become indifferent especially after we have once heard how half a dozen blockheads speak with disdain about the greatest man. We shall then see that whoever attaches much value to the opinions of others pays them too much honour.

In any case, that man is in a pretty poor way who does not find his happiness in the two classes of blessings already considered, but has to look for it in the third, thus in what he is not in reality but in the minds of others. For in general, the basis of our whole being, and therefore of our happiness, is our animal nature; and so health is the most essential factor for our welfare and after it come the means for maintaining ourselves and thus for having a livelihood that is free from care. Honour, pomp, rank, and reputation, however much value many of us may attach to them, cannot compete with or replace those essential blessings for which, in case of necessity, they would unquestionably be given up. For this reason, it will contribute to our happiness if at times we reach the simple view that everyone lives primarily and actually within his own skin, not in the opinion of others, and that accordingly our real and personal condition, as determined by health, temperament, abilities, income, wife, family, friends, dwelling-place, and so on, is a hundred times more important to our happiness than what others are pleased to make of us. The opposite notion will make us unhappy. If it is emphatically exclaimed that honour is dearer than life itself, this really means that existence and well-being are nothing and the real thing is what others think of us. At all events, the statement can be regarded as a hyperbole whose basis is the prosaic truth that honour, that is, other people's opinion of us, is often absolutely necessary for us to live and make our way in the world. I shall later return to this. On the other hand, when we see how almost everything, assiduously sought by people throughout their lives with restless energy and at the cost of a thousand dangers and hardships, has as its ultimate object the enhancement of themselves in the opinion of others; thus when we see how they strive not only for offices, titles, and decorations, but also for wealth, and even science* and art, basically and mainly for the same reason, and how the greater respect of others is the ultimate goal to which they work, then this alas merely shows us the magnitude of human folly. To set too high a value on the opinion of others is an erroneous idea that prevails everywhere. Now it may be rooted in our nature itself or may have arisen in consequence of society and civilization. In any case, it exerts on all our actions an influence that is wholly immoderate and inimical to our happiness. We can follow it from the anxious and slavish regard for the qu' en dira-t-on [2] to the case where Virginius plunges the dagger into his daughter's heart, or where, for posthumous fame, a man is induced to sacrifice peace, wealth, health, and even life itself. This erroneous idea certainly offers a convenient handle to the man who has to control or otherwise direct people; and so, in every scheme for training humanity, instructions for maintaining and strengthening the feeling of honour occupy a prominent place. But it is quite a different matter as regards a man's own happiness that we intend here to consider; on the contrary, one should be dissuaded from placing too high a value on the opinion of others. Daily experience, however, tells us that this is done and that most people attach the highest importance precisely to what others think of them. They are more concerned about this than about what immediately exists for them because it occurs in their own consciousness. Accordingly, they reverse the natural order of things and the opinion of others seems to them to be the real part of their existence, their own consciousness being merely the ideal part. They therefore make what is derived and secondary the main issue and the picture of their true nature in the minds of others is nearer to their hearts than is this true nature itself. Consequently, this direct regard for that which certainly does not exist directly for us is that folly which has been called vanity, vanitas, in order to indicate the empty and insubstantial nature of this striving. It is also easy to see from the above remarks that vanity, like avarice, causes us to forget the end in the means.

In fact, the value we attach to the opinion of others and our constant concern in respect thereof exceed almost every reasonable expectation, so that it can be regarded as a kind of mania that is widespread or rather inborn. In everything we do or omit to do, almost the first thing we consider is the opinion of other people and, if we examine the matter more closely, we shall see that almost half the worries and anxieties we have ever experienced have arisen from our concern about it. For it is at the root of all our self-esteem that is so often mortified because it is so morbidly sensitive, of all our vanities and pretensions, and also of our boasting and ostentation. Without this concern and craze, there would be hardly a tithe of the luxury that exists. Pride in every form, point d'honneur, and puntiglio, however varied their sphere and nature, are due to this opinion of others, and what sacrifices it often demands! It shows itself even in the child and then at every age, yet most strongly in old age because when the capacity for sensual pleasures fails, vanity and pride have only to share their dominion with avarice. It can be most clearly observed in the French in whom it is quite endemic and often becomes the absurdest ambition, the most ludicrous national vanity, and the most shameless boasting. But then in this way they defeat their own efforts, for they have been made fun of by other nations and nicknamed la grande nation. Now to furnish a special illustration of the perverse nature of that excessive concern about the opinion of others, a really superlative example may here be given of that folly that is rooted in human nature. Through the striking effect of the coincidence of the circumstances with the appropriate character, it is suitable to a rare degree, for in it we are able wholly to estimate the strength of this very strange motive. It is the following passage that comes from a detailed report of the execution of Thomas Wix which had just taken place, and it appeared in The Times of 31 March 1846. Wix, a journeyman, had out of revenge murdered his master. 'On the morning fixed for the execution, the rev. ordinary was early in attendance upon him, but Wix, beyond a quiet demeanour, betrayed no interest in his ministrations, appearing to feel anxious only to acquit himself bravely before the spectators of his ignominious end.- This he succeeded in doing. In the procession Wix fell into his proper place with alacrity, and, as he entered the chapel-yard, remarked, sufficiently loud to be heard by several persons near him, "Now, then, as Dr. Dodd said, I shall soon know the grand secret." On reaching the scaffold, the miserable wretch mounted the drop without the slightest assistance, and when he got to the centre, he bowed to the spectators twice, a proceeding which called forth a tremendous cheer from the degraded crowd beneath.' This is an excellent example of a man with death in its most terrible form before his eyes and eternity behind it, not caring about anything except the impression he would make on a crowd of gapers and the opinion that would remain in their minds! And indeed, in the same year, Lecomte in France was executed for an attempt on the king's life. At the trial he was annoyed mainly because he could not appear in decent attire before the Chamber of Peers; and even at his execution his main worry was that he had not been allowed to shave beforehand. Even in former times, it was just the same, as is seen from what Mateo Aleman says in the introduction (declaracion) to his famous novel, Guzman de Alfarache, that many infatuated criminals used their last hours that should have been devoted exclusively to the salvation of their souls, for the preparation and committing to memory of a short sermon that they intended to deliver on the steps of the gallows. Yet in such characteristics we can see a reflection of ourselves, for extreme cases always give us the clearest illustration. The anxieties of all of us, our worries, vexations, bothers, troubles, fears, exertions, and so on, are really concerned with someone else's opinion, perhaps in the majority of cases, and are just as absurd as is the behaviour of those miserable sinners. For the most part, our envy and hatred also spring from the same root.

Now it is obvious that our happiness, resting as it does mainly on peace of mind and contentment, could scarcely be better promoted than by limiting and moderating these motives to reasonable proportions that would possibly be a fiftieth of what they are at present, and thus by extracting from our flesh this thorn that is always causing us pain. Yet this is very difficult, for we are concerned with a natural and innate perversity. Tacitus says: Etiam sapientibus cupido gloriae novissima exuitur [3] (Historiae, IV. 6). The only way to be rid of this universal folly is clearly to recognize it as such and for this purpose to realize how utterly false, perverse, erroneous, and absurd most of the opinions usually are in men's minds, which are, therefore, in themselves not worth considering. Moreover, other people's opinions can in most cases and things have little real influence on us. Again, such opinions generally are so unfavourable that almost everyone would worry himself to death if he heard all that was said about him or the tone in which people spoke of him. Finally, even honour itself is only of indirect not direct value. If we succeeded in such a conversion from this universal folly, the result would be an incredibly great increase in our peace of mind and cheerfulness, likewise a firmer and more positive demeanour, and generally a more natural and unaffected attitude. The exceedingly beneficial influence a retired mode of life has on our peace of mind is due mainly to the fact that we thereby escape having to live constantly in the sight of others and consequently having always to take into consideration the opinions they happen to have; it restores to a man his true self. Similarly, we should avoid a great deal of real misfortune into which we are drawn simply by that purely ideal endeavour, or more correctly that incurable folly. We should also be able to devote much more attention to solid blessings and then enjoy them with less interruption. But as they say [x]. [4]

The folly of our nature, here described, puts forth three main offshoots, ambition, vanity, and pride. The difference between the last two is that pride is the already firm conviction of our own paramount worth in some respect; vanity, on the other hand, is the desire to awaken in others such a conviction, often accompanied by the secret hope of being able thereby to make it our own. Accordingly, pride is self-esteem that comes from within and so is direct; vanity, on the other hand, is the attempt to arrive at such esteem from without and thus indirectly. Accordingly, vanity makes us talkative, whereas pride makes us reserved and reticent. The vain man, however, should know that the high opinion of others which is coveted by him can be gained much more easily and certainly by persistent silence than by speech, even if he has the finest things to say. Anyone wishing to affect pride is not necessarily proud, but at most can be; yet he will soon drop this, as he will every assumed role. For only the firm, inner, unshakeable conviction of preeminent qualities and special worth makes us really proud. Now this conviction may be mistaken or rest on merely external and conventional advantages; that makes no difference to pride if only the conviction is present in real earnest. Therefore since pride is rooted in conviction, it is, like all knowledge, not within our arbitrary power. Its worst foe, I mean its greatest obstacle, is vanity which solicits the approval of others in order to base thereon our own high opinion of ourselves, wherein the assumption of pride is already quite firmly established.

Now however much pride is generally censured and decried, I suspect that this has come mainly from those who have nothing whereof they could be proud. In view of the effrontery and impudence of most men, anyone who has virtues and merits will do well to keep them in mind in order not to let them fall into oblivion. For whoever mildly ignores such merits and associates with most men, as if he were entirely on their level, will at once be frankly and openly regarded by them as such. But I would like to recommend this especially to those whose merits are of the highest order, that is to say, are real and therefore purely personal, for, unlike orders and titles, such merits are not brought to men's minds at every moment by an impression on their senses; otherwise they will see often enough exemplified the sus Minervam. [5] 'Joke with a slave, and he will soon show you his backside' is an admirable proverb of the Arabs, and the words of Horace should not be rejected: sume superbiam, quaesitam mentis. [6] But the virtue of modesty is, I suppose, a fine invention for fools and knaves; for according to it everyone has to speak of himself as if he were a fool; and this is a fine levelling down since it then looks as if there were in the world none but fools and knaves.

On the other hand, the cheapest form of pride is national pride; for the man affected therewith betrays a want of individual qualities of which he might be proud, since he would not otherwise resort to that which he shares with so many millions. The man who possesses outstanding personal qualities will rather see most clearly the faults of his own nation, for he has them constantly before his eyes. But every miserable fool, who has nothing in the world whereof he could be proud, resorts finally to being proud of the very nation to which he belongs. In this he finds compensation and is now ready and thankful to defend, [x], [7] all the faults and follies peculiar to it. For example, of fifty Englishmen hardly more than one will be found to agree with us when we speak of the stupid and degrading bigotry of his nation with the contempt it deserves; but this one exception will usually be a man of intelligence. The Germans are free from national pride and thus furnish a proof of the honesty that has been said to their credit; but those of them are not honest who feign and ludicrously affect such pride. This is often done by the 'German Brothers' and democrats who flatter the people in order to lead them astray. It is said that the Germans invented gunpowder, but I cannot subscribe to this view. Lichtenberg asks: 'Why is it that a man who is not a German does not readily pass himself off as one, but usually pretends to be a Frenchman or an Englishman when he wants to give himself out as something?' For the rest, individuality far outweighs nationality and in a given man merits a thousand times more· consideration than this. Since national character speaks of the crowd, not much good will ever be honestly said in its favour. On the contrary, we see in a different form in each country only human meanness, perversity, and depravity, and this is called national character. Having become disgusted with one of them, we praise another until we become just as disgusted with it. Every nation ridicules the rest and all are right.

The subject of this chapter, namely what we represent in the world, that is, what we are in the eyes of others, may now be divided, as already observed, into honour, rank, and fame.

For our purpose, rank may be dismissed in a few words, however important it may be in the eyes of the masses and of Philistines, and however great its use in the running of the State machine. Its value is conventional, that is to say, it is really a sham; its effect is a simulated esteem and the whole thing is a mere farce for the masses. Orders are bills of exchange drawn on public opinion; their value rests on the credit of the drawer. However, quite apart from the great deal of money they save the State as a substitute for financial rewards, they are a thoroughly suitable institution provided that they are distributed with discrimination and justice. Thus the masses have eyes and ears, but not much else, precious little judgement and even a short memory. Many merits lie entirely outside the sphere of their comprehension; others are understood and acclaimed when they make their appearance, but are afterwards soon forgotten. I find it quite proper through cross or star8 always and everywhere to exclaim to the crowd: 'This man is not like you; he has merits!' But orders lose such value when they are distributed without justice or judgement or in excessive numbers. And so a prince should be as cautious in conferring them as a businessman is in signing bills. The inscription pour le merite on a cross is a pleonasm; every order should be pour le merite, ca va sans dire. [9]

The discussion of honour is much more difficult and involved than that of rank. First we should have to define it. Now if for this purpose I said that honour is external conscience and conscience internal honour, this might perhaps satisfy a number of people; yet it would be an explanation that is more showy than clear and thorough. And so I say that objectively honour is other people's opinion of our worth and subjectively our fear of that opinion. In the latter capacity, it often has in the man of honour a very wholesome, though by no means a purely moral, effect.

The feeling of honour and shame, inherent in everyone who is not utterly depraved, and the great value attributed to the former, have their root and origin in the following. By himself alone man is capable of very little and is like Robinson Crusoe on a desert island; only in the society of others is he a person of consequence and capable of doing much. He becomes aware of this state of affairs as soon as his consciousness begins to develop in some way and there at once arises in him the desire to be looked upon as a useful member of society, as one capable of playing his part as a man, pro parte virili, and thus as one entitled to share in the advantages of human society. Now he is a useful member of society firstly by doing what all are everywhere expected to do and secondly by doing what is demanded and expected of him in the particular position he occupies. But he recognizes just as quickly that here it is not a question whether he is useful in his own opinion, but whether he is so in that of others. Accordingly, there spring from this his keen desire for the favourable opinion of others and the great value he attaches to this. Both appear with the original nature of an innate feeling, called a feeling of honour, and, according to circumstances, a feeling of shame (verecundia). It is this that makes a man blush at the thought of having suddenly to fall in the opinion of others even when he knows he is innocent, or where the fault that comes to light concerns only a relative obligation and thus one arbitrarily undertaken. On the other hand, nothing stirs his courage and spirits more than does the attained or renewed certainty of other people's favourable opinion because it promises him the protection and help of the united forces of all which are against the evils of life an infinitely greater bulwark than his own forces.

From the different relations in which a man may stand to others, and in respect of which they must show him confidence and therefore have a certain good opinion of him, there arise several kinds of honour. These relations are mainly mine and thine, then the fulfilment of pledges, and finally the sexual relation. Corresponding to them we have civic honour, official honour, and sexual honour, each of which again has subspecies.

Civic honour has the widest sphere; it consists in the assumption that we respect absolutely the rights of everyone and therefore shall never use for our own advantage unjust or unlawful means. It is the condition for our taking part in all amicable intercourse. It is lost through a single action that openly and violently runs counter thereto and so through every criminal punishment, yet only on the assumption that this was just. In the last resort, however, honour always rests on the conviction that moral character is unalterable by virtue whereof a single bad action is a sure indication of the same moral nature of all subsequent actions as soon as similar circumstances occur. This is also testified by the English expression character for fame, reputation, honour. For this reason, honour once lost cannot be recovered unless the loss had rested on a mistake, such as slander or a false view of things. Accordingly, there are laws against slander, libel, and also insults; for an insult, mere abuse, is a summary slander without any statement of the reasons. This might be well expressed in Greek: [x], [10] which, however, is nowhere to be found. The man who is abusive shows, of course, that he has no real and true complaint against the other man since he would otherwise give this as the premisses and confidently leave the conclusion to the hearers; instead of which he gives the conclusion and leaves the premisses unsaid. But he relies on the presumption that this is done merely for the sake of brevity. It is true that civic honour has its name from the middle classes, but it applies without distinction to all classes, even to the highest. No one can dispense with it and it is a very serious matter which everyone should guard against taking lightly. Whoever breaks trust and faith has for ever lost trust and faith, whatever he may do and whoever he may be, and the bitter fruits, entailed in this loss, will not fail to come.

In a certain sense, honour has a negative character in contrast to fame which has a positive. For honour is not the opinion of particular qualities that belong to this subject alone, but only of those which, as a rule, are to be assumed as qualities in which he should not be wanting. Therefore honour asserts merely that this subject is not an exception, whereas fame asserts that he is. Thus fame must first be acquired; honour, on the other hand, has simply not to be lost. According to this, want of fame is obscurity and something negative; want of honour is shame and something positive. This negativity, however, must not be confused with passivity; on the contrary, honour has quite an active character. Thus it proceeds solely from its subject; it rests on his actions, not on what others do and on what befalls him; it is therefore [x]. [11] This is, as we shall see in a moment, the mark of distinction between true honour and chivalry or sham honour. Only through slander is an attack on honour possible from without, and the only way to refute it is to give it proper publicity and unmask the slanderer.

The respect shown to old age appears to be due to the fact that the honour of young people is, of course, assumed but has not yet been put to the test; it therefore really exists on credit. But with older people it had to be shown in the course of their lives whether through their conduct they could maintain their honour. For neither years in themselves, which are also attained by animals and even greatly exceeded by some, nor even experience, as being merely a more detailed knowledge of the ways of the world, are a sufficient ground for the respect that the young are required everywhere to show to their elders. Mere feebleness of old age would entitle a man to indulgence and consideration rather than respect. But it is remarkable that a certain respect for white hair is inborn and therefore really instinctive in man. Wrinkles, an incomparably surer sign of old age, do not inspire this respect at all. One never speaks of venerable wrinkles, but always of venerable white hair.

The value of honour is only indirect; for, as already explained at the beginning of this chapter, other people's opinion of us can be of value only in so far as it determines or can at times determine their behaviour to us. Yet this is the case so long as we live with or among them. For, as in the civilized state we owe our safety and possessions simply to society and moreover we need others in all our undertakings and they must have confidence in us in order to have any dealings with us, their opinion of us is of great value, although this is always only indirect, and I cannot see how it can be direct. In agreement with this Cicero also says: De bona autem fama Chrysippus quidem et Diogenes, detracta utilitate, ne digitum quidem, ejus causa, porrigendum esse dicebant. Quibus ego vehementer assentior. [12] (De finibus, III. 17.) In the same way, Helvetius gives us a lengthy explanation of this truth in his masterpiece De l'esprit (Disc., Pt. III, chap. 13) the result of which is: Nous n' aimons pas l'estime pour l'estime, mais uniquement pour les avantages qu'elle procure. [13] Now as the means cannot be worth more than the end, the statement 'honour is dearer than life itself', of which so much is made, is, as I have said, an exaggeration.

So much for civic honour. Official honour is the general opinion of others that a man who holds an office actually has the requisite qualities and also in all cases strictly fulfils his official duties. The greater and more important a man's sphere of influence in the State and so the higher and more influential the post occupied by him, the greater must be the opinion of the intellectual abilities and moral qualities that render him fit for the post. Consequently, he has a correspondingly higher degree of honour, as expressed by his titles, orders, and so on, and also by the deferential behaviour of others to him. Now by the same standard, rank or status determines the particular degree of honour, although this is modified by the ability of the masses to judge of the importance of the rank. But greater honour is always paid to the man who has and fulfils special obligations than to the ordinary citizen whose honour rests mainly on negative qualities.

Official honour further demands that whoever holds an office will for the sake of his colleagues and successors maintain respect for it. This is done by the strict observance of his duties and also by the fact that he never allows to go unchallenged any attacks on himself or the office while he is holding it, in other words, that he does not allow statements to the effect that he is not strictly carrying out his duties or that the office itself does not contribute to the public welfare. On the contrary, he must prove by legal penalties that such attacks were unjust.

Under official honour we have also that of the man serving the State, the doctor, the lawyer, every public teacher or even graduate, in short, everyone who has been declared publicly qualified for a certain kind of mental proficiency and has, therefore, promised to carry it ou t; in a word, the honour of all who, as such, have publicly undertaken to do something. Here, then we have true military honour; it consists in the fact that whoever has undertaken to defend his country actually possesses the requisite qualities, above all, courage, bravery, and strength, and that he is in fact ready to defend his country to the death, and will not for anything in the world desert the flag to which he has once sworn allegiance. Here I have taken official honour in a wider sense than the usual one, namely where it indicates the citizens' respect that is due to the office itself.

It seems to me that sexual honour calls for a more detailed consideration and a reference of its principles to their root. At the same time, this will confirm that all honour ultimately rests on considerations of expediency.

By its nature sexual honour is divided into that of women and that of men, and from both angles it is a well understood esprit de corps. The former is by far the more important of the two because in a woman's life the sexual relation is the essential thing. Hence female honour is the general opinion in regard to a girl that she has never given herself to a man and in regard to a wife that she has devoted herself solely to her husband. The importance of this opinion depends on the following. The female sex demands and expects from the male everything, thus all that it desires and needs; the male demands from the female primarily and directly one thing only. Therefore the arrangement had to be made whereby the male sex could obtain from the female that one thing only by taking charge of everything and also of the children springing from the union. The welfare of the whole female sex rests on this arrangement. To carry it out, this sex must necessarily stick together and show esprit de corps. But in its entirety and in closed ranks it then faces the whole male sex as the common foe who is in possession of all the good things of the earth through a natural superiority in physical and mental powers. The male sex must be subdued and taken captive so that the female sex, by holding it, may come to possess those good things. Now to this end the maxim of honour of the whole female sex is that all illicit intercourse is absolutely denied to the male so that every man is forced into marriage as into a kind of capitulation, and the whole female sex is provided for. This end can be completely attained, however, only by the strict observance of the above maxim; and therefore the whole female sex sees with true esprit de corps that that maxim is upheld by all its members. Accordingly, every girl who through illicit intercourse has betrayed the whole female sex, since its welfare would be undermined if this kind of conduct were to become general, is expelled by her sex and is branded with shame; she has lost her honour. No woman may have anything more to do with her; she is avoided like the plague. The same fate befalls the woman who commits adultery since for the husband she has not maintained the capitulation into which he entered; but through such an example men are discouraged from entering it; yet on such a capitulation depends the salvation of the whole female sex. Moreover, because of her gross breach of faith and of the deception of her deed, the adulteress loses not only her sexual honour but also her civic. Thus we may well excuse a girl by saying that she has 'fallen', but we never speak of a 'fallen wife'. In the former case the seducer can restore the girl's honour by marrying her, but this the adulterer cannot do after the wife has been divorced. Now ifin consequence of this clear view, we recognize as the foundation of the principle of female honour an esprit de corps that is wholesome and indeed necessary but is also well calculated and based on interests, it will be possible for us to attribute to such honour the greatest importance for woman's existence and hence a value which is great and relative yet not absolute, not one that lies beyond life and its aims and is accordingly to be purchased at the price of this. And so there will be nothing to applaud in the extravagant deeds of Lucretia and Virginius which degenerate into tragic farces. Thus there is something so shocking at the end of Emilia Gaiotti that we leave the theatre in a wholly dejected mood. On the other hand, in spite of sexual honour, we cannot help sympathizing with Clara in Egmont. To push the principle of female honour too far is, like so many things, equivalent to forgetting the end for the means. For such exaggeration attributes to sexual honour an absolute value, whereas even more than any other it has a merely relative value. In fact it might be said that it has only a conventional value, when we see from Thomasius' De concubinatu how in almost all countries and at all times down to the Lutheran Reformation concubinage was a relation permitted and recognized by law in which the concubine retained her honour; not to mention the temple of Mylitta at Babylon (Herodotus, lib. I, c. 199) and other instances. Of course, there are also civil circumstances that render impossible the external form of marriage, especially in Catholic countries where no divorce occurs. In my opinion ruling sovereigns always act more morally when they have a mistress than when they contract a morganatic marriage whose descendants might one day raise claims if the legitimate descendants happen to die out. Thus however remote it may be, the possibility of civil war is brought about by such a marriage. Moreover, a morganatic marriage, that is, one contracted actually in defiance of all external circumstances, is at bottom a concession made to women and priests, two classes to whom we should be careful to concede as little as possible. Further, it should be borne in mind that everyone in the land may marry the woman of his choice except one to whom this natural right is denied; this poor man is the prince. His hand belongs to his country and is given in marriage for reasons of State, that is, for the good of the country. But yet he is human and wants one day to follow the inclinations of his heart. It is, therefore, as unjust and ungrateful as it is narrow-minded to prevent him from having a mistress, or to want to reproach him with this; it must always be understood, of course, that she is not permitted to have any influence on the government. As regards sexual honour, such a mistress is from her point of view to a certain extent an exception, as being exempt from the universal rule. For she has given herself merely to a man who loves her and whom she loves but could never marry. In general, however, the many bloody sacrifices which are made to the principle of female honour, such as the murder of children and the suicide of mothers, are evidence that this principle has not a purely natural origin. Of course a girl who surrenders illicitly thereby commits against her whole sex a breach of faith which is nevertheless only tacitly assumed and not affirmed on oath. And since in the usual case her own advantage suffers directly from this, her folly is here infinitely greater than her depravity.

The sexual honour of men is brought about by that of women as the opposite esprit de corps. This demands that everyone who has entered marriage, that capitulation so favourable to the opposite party, must now see that it is upheld so that not even this pact may lose its strength through any laxity in its observance and that men, by giving up everything, may be assured of the one thing for which they bargain, namely the sole possession of the woman. Accordingly, man's honour demands that he shall resent his wife's breach of the marriage tie and shall punish it at any rate by separating from her. If he tolerates it with his eyes open, he is discredited and disgraced by the entire community of men. Nevertheless, this shame is not nearly so grave as that of the woman who has lost her sexual honour; on the contrary, it is only a levions notae macula [14] since with man the sexual relation is subordinate and he has many others that are more important. The two great dramatic poets of modern times have each twice taken as their theme man's honour in this sense; Shakespeare in Othello and The Winter's Tale, and Calderon in El medico de su honra (the Physician of his Honour) and A secreto agravio secreta venganza (for Secret Insult Secret Vengeance). For the rest, this honour demands only the woman's punishment not her lover's which is merely an opus supererogation is. [15] In this way is confirmed the statement that such honour originates from men's esprit de corps.

The honour, so far considered in its different forms and principles, is found to be universally accepted by all nations and at all times, although that of women may be shown to have undergone in its principles some local and temporary modifications. On the other hand, there is a species of honour entirely different from that which is universally and everywhere valid and of which neither Greeks nor Romans had any knowledge and even today the Chinese, Hindus, and Mohammedans know just as little. For it first arose in the Middle Ages and became indigenous merely in Christian Europe; and even here only with a very small section of the population, the upper classes and those emulating them. It is knightly honour or point d' honneur. As its fundamental principles are quite different from those of the honour hitherto considered and, in some respects, are even opposed thereto, since the former produces the honourable man whereas the latter makes the man of honour, I will here specially lay down its principles as a code or mirror of knightly honour.

(1) Honour does not consist in other people's opinion of our worth, but simply and solely in the expressions of such an opinion, no matter whether the expressed opinion actually exists or not, let alone whether it has any grounds or reasons. Accordingly, in consequence of our way of life, others may entertain the worst opinion and may despise us as much as they please; but so long as no one ventures to express this aloud, no harm at all is done to our honour. But conversely, if through our qualities and actions we compel all others to think very highly of us (for this does not depend on their option or discretion), then as soon as anyone expresses his contempt for us, he might be utterly worthless and stupid, our honour is at once violated and indeed is lost for ever unless it is restored. Abundant proof of what I say, namely that it is certainly not what other people think but merely what they say that matters, is the fact that slanders and insults can be withdrawn or, if necessary, made the subject of an apology whereby the position is then as if they had never been made. Here it is quite immaterial whether the opinion that gave rise to the insults has also been altered and why this should have been done; only the expression is annulled and then everything is all right. Accordingly, here the object is not to merit respect, but to get it by threats.

(2) A man's honour depends not on what he does, but on what he suffers, on what happens to him. According to the principles of the honour first discussed which is everywhere applicable, this depends solely on what he himself says or does. Knightly honour, on the other hand, depends on what someone else says or does. Accordingly, it lies in the hands, indeed on the tip of the tongue, of everyone, and if such a man chooses to seize the opportunity, it can be lost for ever at any moment, unless the man who is attacked wrests it back again by a method to be mentioned in a moment. Yet he can do this only at the risk of losing his life, health, freedom, property, and peace of mind. In consequence of this, a man's actions may be the noblest and most righteous, his heart the purest, and his mind the most eminent, and yet it is possible for his honour to be lost at any moment, whenever anyone is pleased to insult him. Such a reviler may not yet have violated these laws of honour, but in other respects he may be the most worthless scoundrel, the stupidest jackass, an idler, a gambler, a spendthrift, in short, a person who is not worth the other man's consideration. In most cases it will be just such a fellow who likes insulting people because, as Seneca rightly remarks, ut quisque contemtissimus et ludibrio est, ita solutissimae linguae est [16] (De constantia, II). Such a fellow will also be most easily irritated by the man who was first described, because men of opposite tastes hate each other and the sight of outstanding qualities usually breeds the silent rage of worthlessness. Therefore Goethe says:

[quote]Why do you complain of foes?

Shall they ever become your friends,

To whom your very nature is

Secretly an eternal reproach?

-- Westostlicher Diwan.[/quote]

We see to what extent such worthless men are indebted to the principle of honour, for it puts them on a level with those who would otherwise be in every respect beyond their reach. Now if such a fellow insults another, that is to say, attributes to him some bad quality, this is considered for the time being to be a well-founded and objectively true judgement, a decree with all the force of law; indeed it remains true and valid for all time, unless it is at once wiped out in blood. Thus the man who is insulted remains (in the eyes of all 'men of honour') what the reviler (who might be the most depraved of all mortals) has called him; for he has 'swallowed the affront' (this is the terminus technicus). Accordingly, 'men of honour' will then utterly, despise him and avoid him like the plague; for example, they will publicly and vociferously refuse to go into any company where he is welcomed, and so on. I think I am able to trace with certainty the origin of this shrewd view to the fact that in the Middle Ages up to the fifteenth century (according to C. G. von Wachter's Beitrage zur deutschen Geschichte, besonders des deutsehen Strafrechts, 1845), in criminal cases it was not the accuser who had to prove the guilt of the accused, but the accused who had to prove his innocence. This could be done through a compurgatorial oath which nevertheless still required compurgators (consacramentales). These swore they were convinced that the accused was incapable of any perjury. If the accused had no compurgators, or if the accuser did not admit them, then judgement by God was introduced which usually consisted in the duel. For the accused was now in disgrace [bescholten] and had to clear himself. Here we see the origin of the notion of being in disgrace and of the whole course of events that even today takes place among' men of honour', only with the omission of the oath. Here too we have an explanation of the usual deep indignation with which 'men of honour' accept the reproach of the lie and in return for this demand vengeance in blood. This seems to be very strange in view of the fact that lies are of daily occurrence, but it has grown into a deep-rooted superstition especially in England. (Actually everyone who threatens to punish with death the reproach of the lie should not have told a lie in his own life.) Thus in those criminal cases of the Middle Ages, the form was shorter, namely the accused retorted that the accuser was a liar, whereupon it was at once left to the judgement of God. It is, therefore, written in the code of knightly honour that the reproach of the lie must be at once followed by an appeal to arms. So much as regards insult. But now there is something even worse than the insult, so dreadful that I must beg the pardon of all 'men of honour' for the very mention of it in this code of knightly honour. For I know that the mere thought of it makes their flesh creep and their hair stand on end, since it is the summum malum, the greatest evil on earth, and worse than death and damnation. Thus, horribile dictu, one man may give another a slap or a blow. This is such a dreadful incident and produces so complete an extinction of honour that, although all other outrages on honour can be healed by blood-letting, this demands for its thorough healing the complete death-blow.

(3) Honour has nothing whatever to do with what a man may be in and by himself, or with the question whether his moral nature can ever be altered and with all such pedantic inquiries. On the contrary, when it is violated or lost for the time being, it can be quickly and completely restored, if one acts speedily, by the one universal remedy, the duel. If, however, the aggressor is not from the classes that follow the code of knightly honour; or if he has once offended against it, we can engage in a safe operation, especially if the violation of our honour was a blow, but even if it should have been a mere matter of words, by striking him down, if we are armed, on the spot or at all events an hour later; whereby our honour is restored. But if we wish to avoid this step out of fear of any unpleasant consequences that may arise, or if we are merely uncertain whether the offender is or is not subject to the laws of knightly honour, we have a palliative in the avantage. This consists in our returning his rudeness with decidedly greater rudeness; if mere abuse is no longer practicable, we resort to blows and here indeed is a climax to the saving of our honour. Thus a box on the ears may be cured by blows with a stick and these by a thrashing with a dog-whip; even against this some recommend as a sovereign remedy that we should spit in the opponent's face. Only when these methods are no longer of any avail, do we have to resort at once to the operation of drawing blood. The reason for this palliative is really to be found in the following maxim.

(4) Just as to be insulted is a disgrace, so to insult is an honour. For example, my opponent has on his side truth, right, and reason; but I insult him and so these must yield and be off, and right and honour are on my side. For the time being, however, he has lost his honour, until he recovers it not by the exercise of right and reason, but by shots and stabs. Accordingly, rudeness is a quality which, in point of honour, is a substitute for every other, or outweighs them all. The rudest man is always right; quid multa? [17] However stupid, ill-bred, or bad a man may have been, all this as such is effaced by rudeness and made legitimate. If in some discussion, or otherwise in conversation, another man shows us that he has a more accurate knowledge of the subject, a stricter love of truth, a sounder judgement, and a better understanding than we have, or generally exhibits intellectual qualities that put ours in the shade, then we can at once eliminate all such superior qualities and also our own inferiority that is thereby revealed and can now in our turn be even superior by becoming offensive and rude. For rudeness defeats every argument and eclipses all intelligence. If, therefore, our opponent does not enter into the argument and retort with greater rudeness, thereby putting us into the noble contest of the avantage, we remain the victors and honour is on our side. Truth, knowledge, understanding, intellect, and wit must beat a retreat and are driven from the field by almighty rudeness. Therefore as soon as a man expresses an opinion that differs from theirs or shows more intelligence than they can muster, the 'men of honour' prepare to mount their chargers; and if in any controversy they lack a counter-argument, they search for some rudeness that serves the same purpose and is easier to find, and then quit the scene in triumph. Here we already see how right people are in crediting the principle of honour with ennobling the tone of society. This maxim again rests on the following that is the real and fundamental one and the soul of the entire code.

(5) The highest court to which we can appeal in all differences with others so far as honour is concerned, is that of physical force, in other words, brutality. For every case of rudeness is really an appeal to brutality since it declares as incompetent the contest of intellectual powers or moral right. In their place it puts that of physical force and in the case of the human species, defined by Franklin as a tool-making animal, this contest is fought with weapons that are peculiar to the species, namely in the duel, and produces an irrevocable decision. This fundamental maxim, as we know, is expressed by the words right of might, an expression analogous to that of mock reasoning and therefore, like this, ironical. Accordingly, the honour of the knight should be called the honour of might.

(6) If at the beginning we had found that civic honour was very scrupulous in the matter of mine and thine, of obligations entered into, and of the promise once made, the code we are now considering, on the other hand, displays in such matters the noblest liberality. Thus only one word must not be broken, the word of honour, that is, the one on which we have said 'on my honour!' - the presumption being that every other may be broken. Even if the worst comes to the worst, we can break this word of honour and still save our honour by that universal remedy, the duel, that is by fighting those who maintain that we had given our word of honour. Further, there is only one debt that must be paid without question, that of gambling which is also called 'the debt of honour'. In all other debts we may cheat Jews and Gentiles alike, for this does not at all damage our knightly honour. *

At the first glance, the unprejudiced reader now sees that this strange, barbarous, and ridiculous code of honour has not sprung from the essence of human nature or from a healthy view of human relations. Moreover, this is confirmed by the exceedingly narrow sphere of its operation which is exclusively Europe, and indeed only since the Middle Ages, and even here only among the nobility, the army, and those who emulate them. For neither Greeks nor Romans, nor the highly civilized Asiatic peoples of ancient or modern times, know anything of this honour and its principles. The only honour they all know is the one first analysed by me. With all of them, therefore, a man is looked upon as what his actions proclaim him to be, not what any wagging tongue is pleased to say about him. With all of them what a man says or does may well ruin his own honour, but never that of another. With all of them a blow is just a blow and any horse or ass can deal out one more dangerous; according to circumstances, a blow will provoke anger and may well be avenged on the spot, but it has nothing to do with honour. Accounts were certainly not kept of blows or insulting words and of the 'satisfaction' for them that was demanded or left undemanded. In bravery and contempt of death they are certainly in no way inferior to the races of Christian Europe. The Greeks and Romans were indeed thorough heroes; but they knew nothing of point d'honneur. With them the duel was the business not of noblemen but of mercenary gladiators, abandoned slaves, and condemned criminals who, alternately with wild animals, were set to butcher one another for the people's amusement. With the introduction of Christianity, gladiatorial shows were abolished, but their place in Christian times was taken by the duel under the intervention of divine judgement. If gladiatorial shows were a cruel sacrifice made to the general desire for spectacles, the duel is a cruel sacrifice which is made to universal prejudice, yet not of criminals, slaves, and prisoners, but of the free and noble.

Many features that have been preserved for us are evidence that this prejudice was utterly foreign to the ancients. For instance, when a Teutonic chieftain had challenged Marius to a duel, this hero had a reply sent to the effect that if he were weary of life, he could go and hang himself; nevertheless he offered him a veteran gladiator with whom he could have a set-to (Freinsh. suppl., Livy, bk. LXVIII, chap. 12). In Plutarch (Themistocles, II) we read that Eurybiades, commander-in-chief of the fleet, while arguing with Themistocles, raised his stick to strike him. Yet the latter did not then draw his sword, but said: [x]: 'strike, but hear me.' How shocked the reader 'of honour' must be at our having no information that the Athenian corps of officers at once declared their unwillingness to continue to serve under such a Themistocles! Accordingly, a modern French writer quite rightly says: Si quelqu'un s'avisait de dire que Dimosthene fut un homme d'honneur, on sourirait de pitie:-Cidron n'etait pas un homme d'honneur non plus. [18] (Soirees litteraires, by C. Durand, Rouen, 1828, vol. ii, p. 300.) Further, the passage in Plato (Laws, IX, the last six pages, likewise Xl, p. 131, ed. Bip.) concerning aLKta, that is, assault and battery, shows clearly enough that in such matters the ancients had no notion of a feeling of knightly honour. In consequence of his frequent disputations, Socrates was often roughly treated and bore this quite calmly. For instance when somebody once kicked him, he patiently put up with it and said to the man who showed surprise: 'Do you think I should resent it if an ass had kicked me?' (Diogenes Laertius, II. 21). When, on another occasion, someone asked him: 'Does not that fellow abuse and insult you?' his reply was 'No; for what he says does not apply to me' (ibid. 36). Stobaeus, (Florilegium, ed. Gaisford, vol. i, pp. 327-30) has preserved for us a long passage of Musonius from which we see what the ancients thought of insults. They knew of no other satisfaction than that of the law, and prudent men disdained even this. For a box on the ears the ancients knew of no other satisfaction than that of the law, as is clearly seen from Plato's Gorgias (p. 86, ed. Bip.), where Socrates' opinion is also to be found (p. 133). The same thing is clear from the account of Gellius (xx. I) in respect of a certain Lucius Veratius who, without any provocation, had the temerity to box the ears of Roman citizens whom he met on the road. But to avoid all complications, he arranged to be accompanied by a slave carrying a bag of money who at once paid out to the astonished Romans the legal smart-money of twentyfive pence. Crates, the famous Cynic, had received such a severe box on the ears from the musician Nicodromus that his face had swollen up and was covered with blood; whereupon he put on his forehead a label with the inscription [x] (Nicodromus fecit). [19] This brought much disgrace on the flautist (Apul. Flor., p. 126, ed. Bip.) who had committed such brutality on a man who was worshipped as a household god by the whole of Athens. (Diogenes Laertius, VI. 89.) In a letter to Melesippus, Diogenes of Sinope says that he had been thrashed by drunken sons of Athenians; but he pointed out that to him it meant nothing. (Note by Isaac Casaubon on Diogenes Laertius, VI. 33.) In his book De constantia sapientis, from chapter 10 to the end, Seneca considered in detail contumelia, insult or abuse, in order to show that a wise man pays no attention to it. In chapter 14 he says: 'At sapiens colaphis percussus, quid faciet?' quod Cato, cum illi os percussum esset: non excanduit, non vindicavit injuriam: nec remisit quidem, sed factam negavit. [20]

'Yes', you say, 'these were wise men!' And you are fools, I suppose? Quite so.

We see, therefore, that the whole principle of knightly honour was utterly unknown to the ancients just because in every respect they remained true to a natural and unprejudiced view of things and so did not allow themselves to be influenced by such sinister and arrant tomfoolery. Accordingly, the ancients were unable to regard a blow in the face as anything but a blow in the face, a trivial physical injury; whereas to the moderns it has become a catastrophe and a theme for tragedies, for example in the Cid of Corneille, or in a recent German tragedy of ordinary civil life which is called Die Macht der Verhaltnisse, [21] but which ought to be called Die Macht des Vorurtheils. [22] But if someone in the Paris National Assembly were to receive a box on the ears, it would resound from one end of Europe to the other. Now the classic instances and the above-mentioned examples from antiquity are sure to upset men 'of honour'; I therefore recommend that they read, as an antidote, the story of M. Desglands in Diderot's masterpiece, Jacques le fataliste. It is an exquisite specimen of modern knightly honour which they may find enjoyable and edifying. [23]

From what has been said, it is clear enough that the principle of knightly honour cannot possibly be original and grounded in human nature itself. It is, therefore, artificial and its origin is not difficult to discover. It is obviously an offspring of that age when fists were more in use than heads, and priests held in chains the power of reason; it is thus a child of the lauded Middle Ages and their system of chivalry. In those days, people allowed the Almighty not only to care but also to judge for them. Accordingly, difficult cases were decided by ordeals or judgements of God and, with few exceptions, these consisted of duels, certainly not merely between knights, but also between ordinary citizens. There is a good example of this in Shakespeare's Henry VI (Part II, Act II, Sc. 3). From every judicial sentence an appeal could still always be made to the duel as a court of higher instance, namely the judgement of God. In this way, physical force and agility, and thus animal nature instead of the force of reason, were really on the seat of judgement and decided on matters of right and wrong not by what a man had done, but by what had happened to him, wholly in accordance with the principle of knightly honour that prevails even at the present day. Whoever still doubts this origin of duelling, should read that excellent work, The History of Duelling, by J. G. Mellingen, 1849. In fact even today, we find among those who conform to the principle of knightly honour and who, as we know, are not usually the best educated and the most thoughtful, some who actually regard the result of a duel as a divine decision of the dispute underlying it; this is certainly in accordance with a traditional and hereditary opinion.

Apart from this origin of the principle of knightly honour, its tendency is primarily that, through the threat of physical force, a man wants to extort the outward marks of that respect which he considers to be either too onerous or too superfluous actually to gain. This is something like the man who warms in his hand the bulb of a thermometer and from the rising of the mercury attempts to show that his room is well heated. More closely considered, the heart of the matter is that, whereas civic honour, as aiming at amicable association with others, consists in their opinion of us that we merit perfect confidence, since we respect absolutely the rights of everyone, knightly honour, on the other hand, consists in the opinion that we are to be feared, since we mean to defend absolutely our own rights. The principle that it is more essential to be feared than to enjoy confidence would not be such a very false one, since little reliance can be placed on human justice, if we lived in a state of nature where everyone had to protect himself and directly defend his rights. But in civilization, where the State has undertaken the protection of our person and property, the principle is no longer applicable. It stands like the citadels and watch-towers from the times when might was right, useless and deserted between well-cultivated fields and frequented roads or even railways. Accordingly, knightly honour that sticks to that principle has seized on those infringements of the person which the State punishes only lightly or not at all in accordance with the principle de minimis lex non curat; [24] for they are slight vexations and sometimes mere pranks. But in regard to these, it has risen to an over-estimation of the value of the person which is quite inappropriate to the nature, constitution, and destiny of man.* It enhances this value to a kind of sanctity and accordingly regards as utterly inadequate the punishment the State gives for trivial vexations. It therefore undertakes to punish these itself, and always of course the life and limb of the offender. All this obviously rests on the most excessive arrogance and shocking insolence which entirely forget what man really is and claim for him absolute inviolability and blamelessness.** But whoever intends to carry

this out by force, and consequently proclaims the maxim: 'the man who insults me or strikes me shall die', really deserves to be banished from the country. For to palliate that rash arrogance, all sorts of excuses and pretences are made. If two intrepid individuals meet and neither will give way, a slight push may lead to insulting remarks, then to fisticuffs, and finally to a fatal blow. Accordingly, it would be better for the sake of decency to omit the intermediate steps and at once resort to arms. The more specific procedure has been developed into a rigid and pedantic system, with laws and rules, which is the most solemn farce in the world and stands as a true temple of honour to folly. But the principle itself is false; for in matters of small importance (those of greater are always dealt with by the courts), one of two intrepid individuals, of course, gives way, namely the more prudent, and they agree to differ. The proof of this is furnished by ordinary men or rather all the numerous classes who do not subscribe to the principle of knightly honour and who thus let disputes run their natural course. Among these a fatal blow is a hundred times rarer than with the class, amounting perhaps to only one in a thousand of the whole community, who pays homage to that principle; and even a thrashing is a rare event. Then it is asserted that the manners and customs of good society were ultimately based on that principle of honour which with its duels was the bulwark against outbursts of bad behaviour and brutality. But in Athens, Corinth, and Rome it was certainly possible to find good, indeed excellent, society and fine manners and customs without the backing of that bugbear of knightly honour. But in ancient society, of course, women did not occupy a prominent position as they do with us. Such a situation imparts to a conversation a frivolous and puerile character and excludes all solid and serious discussion. It has certainly contributed a great deal to the preference, shown by the good society of our times, to personal courage over every other quality. Personal courage is, in fact, a very subordinate quality, a mere virtue of the rank and file wherein even the animals surpass us, and so we say, for example, 'as brave as a lion'. Contrary to the above assertion, the principle of knightly honour is often the sure asylum of dishonesty and wickedness in large matters as well as of rudeness, inconsiderateness, and incivility in small. For many cases of rudeness are suffered in silence just because no one feels inclined to risk his neck in censuring them. In keeping with all this, we see the duel carried to the highest pitch of bloodthirsty zeal in the very nation that has shown a want of real honesty in political and financial affairs. What it is like in its private and domestic intercourse can be ascertained from those who are experienced in such matters. But as regards its urbanity and social culture, these are conspicuous by their absence.

All those pretexts are, therefore, untenable. It can be urged with more reason that, when a dog is snarled at he snarls in return and when he is flattered he fawns, it also lies in man's nature to return hostility with hostility and to be embittered and irritated by signs of disdain or hatred. Therefore Cicero says: habet quendam aculeum contumelia, quem pati pudentes ac viri boni difficillime possunt; [25] for nowhere in the world (apart from a few pious sects) are insulting remarks or even blows taken calmly and with composure. Nevertheless, in no case does nature lead to anything more than a retaliation appropriate to the offence, certainly not to the death-penalty for the reproach of lying, being stupid, or being a coward. The old German principle of 'blood for a blow' is a revolting superstition of chivalry. In any case, the return or retaliation of insults is a matter of anger, certainly not of honour and duty, as the principle of knightly honour would have us believe. On the contrary, it is quite certain that every reproach can hurt only to the extent that it hits the mark, as can be seen also from the fact that the slightest hint that hits home wounds much more deeply than does the most serious accusation that is entirely without foundation. Therefore whoever actually knows that he does not deserve a reproach, can and will confidently treat it with contempt. On the other hand, the principle of honour demands that he shall show a susceptibility that he does not possess at all and shall take bloody vengeance for insults that do not harm him. But a man must have a poor opinion of his own worth if he hurries to suppress every offensive remark so that it may not be heard. Accordingly, in the case of insults, genuine self-esteem will make a man indifferent to them; but if he cannot remain indifferent, shrewdness and culture will help him to save appearances and conceal his anger. And so if only we could get rid of the superstition of the principle of knightly honour so that no one would any longer dare to imagine that he could, by being abusive, detract from the honour of another or restore his own; if only it were no longer- possible for every wrong, every brutality, or every rudeness to be made legitimate at once by the readiness to give satisfaction, in other words, to fight for it, the view would soon become general that, in a case of rudeness and abuse, the vanquished in this contest is the victor, and that, as Vincenzo Monti says, insults are like church processions that always return to their starting-point. It would then no longer be enough, as at present, for a man to be rude in return in order to carry his point. Consequently, insight and understanding would have quite a different hearing from the one they obtain at present when they have always to consider first whether they are in some way offending the opinions of narrow-minded dullards who are alarmed and embittered even by their mere presence. For it is possible that the mind which contains insight and understanding may have to be gambled against the shallow pate wherein narrow-minded stupidity resides. In society intellectual superiority would then obtain its due precedence which is at present given to physical superiority and cavalier courage, although this fact is carefully concealed. The result of this would be that the most outstanding men would then have one reason less for withdrawing from society. A change of this sort would accordingly pave the way to genuine good manners and really good society, such as undoubtedly existed in Athens, Corinth, and Rome. Whoever wants to see a proof of this, is recommended to read Xenophon's Banquet.

But the last defence of the knightly code will undoubtedly say: 'Why, good gracious me, one man might pitch into another!' -to which I might briefly reply that this has been the case often enough with nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand who do not recognize that code without one of them ever being killed, whereas with the followers of the code every blow as a rule becomes fatal. But I will go more closely into the matter. I have tried often enough, yet without success, to find some tenable, or at least plausible, reason, not merely consisting of fine phrases but reducible to clear conceptions, for the rooted conviction which is entertained by a section of human society that a blow is such a dreadful thing. I have looked for such in the animal as well as in the rational nature of man. A blow is and remains a minor physical evil that any man can inflict on another, showing thereby merely that he was stronger or more cunning, or that the other man was off his guard. An analysis of the problem does not give us any more than this. I then see the same knight, who regards a blow from the human hand as the greatest of evils, receive from his horse a blow ten times more severe, limp away in suppressed pain, and assure everyone that it is a matter of no consequence. And so I thought that the human hand must be to blame; but then I see our knight receive sword-thrusts and sabre-cuts in battle from this same hand and assure us that it is a trifling affair not worth mentioning. Then I hear that even blows with the flat of the sword are not nearly so bad as those with a stick; and hence that, a short time ago, cadets were liable to the former but not to the latter; and now indeed to be knighted with the blade of a sword is the greatest honour. Now I have come to the end of my psychological and moral reasons and there is nothing left for me but to regard the thing as an old, deep-rooted superstition, as one more of so many examples that show how men can be talked into anything. This is also confirmed by the well-known fact that in China blows with a bamboo are a very frequent form of punishment for ordinary citizens and even for officials of all classes since it shows us that human nature, and a highly civilized human nature at that, does not affirm the same thing in China. [26] But if we take an unprejudiced view of human nature, we even see that beating and flogging are as natural to man as is biting to beasts of prey and butting to horned animals. Man is simply a flogging animal. We are, therefore, shocked when in rare cases we hear that one man has bitten another, whereas it is a perfectly natural event of daily occurrence for him to give and receive blows. It is evident that, with more enlightenment and intelligence, we are glad to dispense with blows by the exercise of mutual self-restraint. But it is a cruel thing to make a nation, or even only a class, believe tllat a given blow is a terrible misfortune which must have death and murder as its consequence. In the world there are too many real evils to allow of our increasing them by imaginary evils that bring real ones in their train; but this is done by that stupid and iniquitous superstition. I am, therefore, bound to condemn governments and legislative bodies when they promote such a superstition by eagerly pressing for the abolition of all corporal punishment both civil and military. In this respect, they think they are acting in the interests of humanity, whereas the very opposite is the case since they are in this way helping to strengthen that unnatural and vicious folly to which so many have already been sacrificed. For all offences except the worst, caning or beating, is the punishment that first occurs to man and is therefore natural; whoever is not susceptible to reasons will be to floggings. It is as reasonable as it is natural for a man to receive moderate corporal punishment who cannot be fined because he has no possessions and cannot be profitably deprived of his freedom because his services are required. Against it there are no arguments at all except mere talk about the' dignity of man'; and such is based not on clear conceptions, but simply on that pernicious superstition which was previously mentioned and lies at the root of the matter, as is confirmed by an almost ludicrous example. In the armies of many countries, flogging had recently been replaced by condemnation to a bed of laths which, just like flogging, causes bodily pain but is not supposed to be derogatory to honour and dignity.

By encouraging this superstition, however, one is playing into the hands of the principle of knightly honour and therefore of the duel; whereas attempts are made, or are supposed to be made, to abolish this.* As a result, we find that fragment of the right of might, which has drifted down from the crudest medieval times, still floating about as a public scandal in the nineteenth century. It is high time it was ignominiously cast out. Nowadays it is not permitted to set dogs or cocks at each other (at any rate in England such pastimes are punished); but men are set at each other in deadly conflict against their will through the ridiculous superstition of the absurd principle of knightly honour and its narrow-minded advocates and exponents who impose on them the obligation to fight like gladiators for the sake of any trifling thing. I therefore suggest to our German purists the word 'baiting' for the word 'duel' which probably comes not from the Latin duel/urn, but from the Spanish duelo, meaning suffering, nuisance, annoyance. The pedantic way in which this folly is carried on certainly affords material for laughter. It is, however, revolting that this principle and its absurd code establish a state within the State which acknowledges no other right than that of might. It tyrannizes the classes that come under its authority by keeping open a holy Vehmgericht [27] before which anyone can be charged on the flimsiest of pretexts as a myrmidon, to be tried on an issue of life and death. Now this naturally becomes the hiding-place whence any villain, if only he belongs to those classes, can menace and even exterminate the noblest and best of men who, as such, must inevitably be odious to him. Nowadays justice and the police have made it fairly difficult for any scoundrel in the street any longer to shout at us: 'Your money or your life'; and at last sound reason should be able to prevent any rogue from disturbing the peace by shouting: 'Your honour or your life'. The upper classes should be relieved of the burden that arises from the fact that anyone at any moment may become responsible, with his life and limb, for the rudeness, roughness, stupidity, and malice of anyone else who is pleased to visit these on him. It is outrageous and scandalous that, when two young hot-heads have words, they should atone for this with blood, their health, or their lives. The evil of the tyranny of that state within the State and the magnitude of the force of that superstition can be gauged from the fact that those who found it impossible to restore their wounded knightly honour because of the superior or inferior rank or of any other inappropriate peculiarity of the offender, took their lives in utter despair and thus came to a tragi-comic end. The false and absurd are in the end often disclosed by the fact that, at their culminating point, they blossom into a contradiction. Here too they ultimately appear in the form of the most glaring antinomy; thus an officer is forbidden to take part in a duel, but is punished with dismissal if, when challenged, he declines to take part.

While I am on the subject, I will be even more frank. Considered in the proper light and without prejudice, the important distinction, often insisted on, between our killing our enemy in fair fight with equal weapons and our lying in ambush for him rests merely on the fact, as I have said, that this state within the State recognized no other right than that of the stronger and thus of might, raised this to a judgement of God, and made it the basis of its code. For by killing our enemy in a fair fight, we have simply proved that we were the stronger or more skilful. Therefore the justification we seek when engaged in a fair fight, presupposes that the right of the stronger really is a right. But the truth is that, if the other man is unable to defend himself, this circumstance gives me the possibility, yet by no means the right, to kill him. On the contrary, this right and thus my moral justification can rest only on motives that I have for taking his life. Now if we assume that these actually existed and were sufficient, there is absolutely no reason for making this depend on whether I can shoot or fence better than he, but it is then immaterial how I kill him, whether I attack him from the front or from behind. For morally, the right of the stronger has no more weight than has that of the more skilful, which is employed by the treacherous murderer. Therefore right of might and right of skill here have equal weight; further, it should be observed that, even in the duel, both are brought to bear since every feint in fencing is treachery or deception. If I consider myself morally justified in taking a man's life, then it is stupid to let this depend on whether he can shoot or fence better than I; for in that case he will not only have wronged me, but will have taken my life into the bargain. It is Rousseau's opinion that insults should be avenged not by a duel, but by assassination. He cautiously hints at this in the very mysterious twenty-first note to the fourth book of Emile (p. 173, ed. Rip.). But he is here so much under the influence of knightly superstition that he thinks he is justified in assassinating a man who has reproached him with lying; whereas he must have known that everyone, and he himself most of all, merited this reproach times without number. The prejudice that justifies the killing of the offender, on condition that this is done in an open contest with equal weapons, evidently regards the right of might as real and the duel as a judgement of God. On the other hand, the Italian who, in a fit of rage, falls on his opponent wherever he finds him, and stabs him without ceremony, at any rate acts consistently and naturally; he is more cunning, but not worse than the duellist. If it should be said that, in killing my opponent in the duel, I am justified by the fact that he is likewise endeavouring to kill me, the retort is that, by challenging him, I put him under the necessity of having to defend himself. By intentionally putting themselves under such necessity, the two duellists are in effect seeking a plausible excuse for murder. Justification through the principle volenti non fit injuria [28] would be more plausible in so far as both have mutually agreed to stake their lives on this. But against this it can be said that the volens is not necessarily in the right, for the myrmidon is the tyranny of the principle of knightly honour and its absurd code which drags both, or at any rate one of the two combatants, before this bloody Vehmgericht.

On the question of knightly honour, I have gone into detail; but I have done so with good intention, because philosophy is the only Hercules against the moral and intellectual enormity in the world. In the main there are two things that distinguish the social conditions of modern times from those of antiquity to the detriment of the former, since they have given these a grave, dark, and sinister aspect, from which antiquity, bright and ingenuous like the morning of life, is free. I refer to the principle of knightly honour and venereal disease, par nobile fratrum! [29] Together they have poisoned the [x] [30] of life. Venereal disease extends its influence much farther than might appear at first glance since this is by no means merely physical but moral as well. Since Cupid's quiver also contains poisoned arrows, the relations between the sexes have assumed a strange, hostile, and even diabolical element. In consequence thereof, a sombre and fearful mistrust permeates such relations; and the indirect influence of such a change in the foundation of all human society even extends, more or less, to all other social relations. But to enter into this would take me too far from my subject. Analogous to this, although of quite a different nature, is the influence of the principle of knightly honour, this solemn farce which was foreign to the ancients but makes modern society stiff, serious, and nervous because people scrutinize and ruminate on every fleeting expression. But this is not all! This principle is a universal Minotaur to which a good number of the sons of noble houses must be brought as tribute every year, not from one country, as of old, but from every country in Europe. It is, therefore, time boldly to attack this bugbear, as is being done here. May these two monsters of modern times come to an end in the nineteenth century! We will not give up hope that doctors will finally succeed in dealing with the first by means of prophylactics. But to abolish the bugbear is the business of philosophers by correcting conceptions, since governments by means of legislation have hitherto failed; moreover, only on the first path is the evil attacked at the roots. If, however, governments should really be in earnest about suppressing the duel and the small success of their efforts is really due merely to their inability to cope with the evil, then I will suggest to them a law whose success I guarantee; moreover, they can resort to it without any sanguinary operations, scaffold, gallows, or life imprisonment. On the contrary, it is quite a small, easy, homoeopathic expedient; thus the man who challenges another or adopts towards him a hostile attitude, should receive a la chinoise in broad daylight before the main guard twelve strokes from the corporal, whilst seconds and witnesses should each receive six. The ultimate consequences of a duel that has actually taken place should form the subject of ordinary criminal proceedings. Perhaps a man of knightly notions might object that, after the carrying out of such a punishment, many a 'man of honour' might possibly shoot himself. My answer is that it is better for such a fool to shoot himself than shoot others. At bottom, however, I know quite well that governments are not really in earnest about abolishing the duel. The salaries of civil officials and even more so those of officers (apart from the highest posts) are far less than the value of their services. The other half of their emoluments is, therefore, paid in honours that are represented primarily by titles and orders and generally in the wider sense by the honours of rank and position. Now for this honour of rank, the duel is a useful side-horse and so preliminary training in it is already given at the universities. Accordingly, its victims pay with their blood for the deficiency in their salaries.

For the sake of completeness, we have still to mention national honour. It is the honour of a whole nation that is a part of the community of nations. Now as there is in this no other forum than that of force and as therefore every member of that community has to protect its own rights, a nation's honour consists not only in the established opinion that it is to be trusted (credit), but also in the opinion that it is to be feared. Therefore it must never allow to go unpunished attacks on its rights; and thus it combines civic with knightly honour.

Reputation was the last thing previously mentioned under what a man represents, in other words, what he is in the eyes of the world; and so we have still to consider it. Reputation and honour are twins; yet they are like the Dioscuri of which Pollux was immortal whereas Castor was mortal; reputation is the immortal brother of mortal honour. This, of course, is to be understood only of reputation or fame of the highest order which is real and genuine; for there are certainly many kinds of ephemeral fame. Now honour concerns only those qualities that are demanded of all who are in the same circumstances; fame concerns those that cannot be demanded of anyone. Honour has to do with those qualities that everyone may publicly attribute to himself; fame with those that no one may so attribute. Whereas our honour reaches as far as the information about us, fame conversely hurries in advance of that information and carries this as far as it itself goes. Everyone has a claim to honour; only the exceptions have one to fame which is won only by extraordinary achievements. Again, these are either actions or works; and accordingly two paths are open to fame. A great heart is a special qualification for the path of actions and a great mind for that of works. Each of the two paths has its own advantages and drawbacks, and the main difference is that actions pass whereas works remain. Of actions there remains only the memory that becomes ever more feeble, distorted, and insignificant, and must gradually cease to exist, unless history takes it up and then hands it on to posterity in a petrified state. Works, on the other hand, are themselves immortal and, especially if they are in writing, can live throughout the ages. The noblest deed has only a temporary influence, whereas the work of genius lives and has a beneficial and ennobling effect for all time. Of Alexander the Great only the name and memory live; whereas Plato and Aristotle, Homer and Horace themselves still exist, live, and have an immediate effect. The Vedas and their Upanishads exist, but of all the actions that took place in their age no information whatever has come down to us.* Another disadvantage of actions is their dependence on the opportunity that must first afford the possibility of their occurrence. Connected with this is the fact that their fame is not directed solely to their intrinsic worth, but to the circumstances that impart to them lustre and importance. Moreover, if as in war the actions are purely personal, their fame depends on the statements of a few eyewitnesses who, however, are not always present and, even if they are, are not always just and impartial. On the other hand, actions have the advantage, as something practical, of lying within the sphere of the general ability to judge; and so if only the data are correctly transmitted to it, justice is at once done to them, unless their motives are correctly known and properly appreciated only later; for to understand any action, knowledge of its motive is required. With works it is just the opposite; their origin does not depend on chance but simply on their author, and as long as they last they remain what they are in and by themselves. In their case, on the other hand, there is difficulty in judging, and the higher their character, the greater is this difficulty; frequently there is a lack of competent critics and often there are no impartial and honest judges. However, their fame is not decided by one instance, but an appeal is made. For whereas, as I have said, only the memory of actions comes down to posterity and indeed only in the form furnished by contemporaries, works come down to us as they are, apart from a few missing fragments. Here, then, we have no distortion of . the data, and also any unfavourable influence of environment at their origin later disappears. In fact it is often only after the lapse of time that the few really competent judges gradually appear who are already themselves exceptions and sit in judgement on even greater exceptions. Successively they give their weighty verdicts and then, sometimes of course only after centuries, we have a perfectly just appreciation that can no longer be set aside by future ages; so secure and inevitable is the fame of works. On the other hand, it depends on external circumstances and chance whether their author lives to enjoy fame; the loftier and more difficult they have been, the more rarely will this be the case. In keeping with this, Seneca says with incomparable beauty (Epistulae, 79) that merit is followed by fame as infallibly as a body by its shadow; but like this, of course, it is sometimes in front of and sometimes behind it, and after making this clear, he adds: etiamsi omnibus tecum viventibus SILENTIUM LIVOR INDIXERIT, venient qui sine offensa, sine gratia judicent. [31] Incidentally, from this we see that the art of suppressing merit by malicious silence and by ignoring it in order to conceal from the public the good in favour of the bad, was practised even by the bunglers of Seneca's time as it is by our own, and that in both cases envy tightened their lips. As a rule, the longer fame has to endure, the later will it be in appearing, for everything that is excellent matures slowly. The fame that will become posthumous and permanent is like an oak that grows very slowly from its seed; easy ephemeral fame resembles the rapid-growing plant of one year, and false fame can be compared to the quick-sprouting weed that can be most readily uprooted. This state of affairs is really due to the fact that, the more a man belongs to posterity, i.e. actually to mankind generally, the more of a stranger he is to his age, since what he produces is not specially devoted to this as such, but only in so far as it is a part of mankind. And so his works are not tinged with the local colour of his times; but, in consequence of this, it may easily happen that he is allowed to pass away as a stranger. On the contrary, his age appreciates those who minister to the affairs of its own brief day, or who serve the mood of the moment and therefore belong entirely thereto, living and dying with it. Accordingly, the history of art and literature shows generally that the highest achievements of the human mind were, as a rule, not favourably received and remained out of favour until minds of a higher order came who were impressed by them and brought them into vogue. They then subsequently maintained themselves therein through the authority that was obtained in this way. But all this is due ultimately to the fact that everyone can really understand and appreciate only what appeals to his nature. Now the dullard will like what is dull, the common man what is common, the vague person what is confused and indistinct, the brainless fool what is nonsense, and everyone is pleased most of all with his own works, as being thoroughly in keeping with his nature. Therefore the ancient and legendary Epicharmus sang:

[quote] [x]

[x]

[x]

[x]

[x][/quote]

which I will translate so that it will not be lost:

[quote] It is no wonder that I speak according to my views,

And they are pleased with themselves, and vainly imagine

They are worthy of praise. For to the dog a dog

Seems to be the finest thing, to the ox an ox,

To the ass an ass, and to the pig a pig.[.quote]

When even the strongest arm flings away a light body, it is still unable to impart thereto any motion with which it might fly far and violently hit the mark. On the contrary, such a body soon falls to the ground because it lacked material substance of its own for absorbing the outside force. It is the same with fine and great ideas, in fact with the masterpiece of genius, when for their reception there exist only puny, feeble, or queer minds. The voices of the wise men of all ages have joined in the chorus of deploring this. For instance, Jesus ben Sirach says: 'He that telleth a tale to a fool, speaketh to one in slumber; when he hath told his tale, he will say, What is the matter?' And Hamlet says: 'A knavish speech sleeps in a fool's ear.' Goethe says:

[quote]The most felicitous word is mocked,

When it is heard by the dullard's ear.[/quote]

Again:

[quote] Your effect is nought, all is still so dull.

Be of good cheer! No rings are formed,

When a pebble is cast in the mire.[/quote]

Lichtenberg says: 'If a head and a book collide and there is a hollow sound, is it always the book?' Again: 'Such works are mirrors; if an ape looks in, no apostle can look out: Indeed, Father Gellert's fine and touching lament is worth recalling once more:

[quote]The best of all gifts are often the least admired.

Most of the world regards the worst as the best.

Daily is this evil seen, yet how to prevent this scourge?

I doubt if it can be removed from our world.

The sole remedy on earth is extremely hard.

Thus fools must be wise, but this they will never be.

They never know the worth of things. With their eyes they

Judge, but not with their minds. The trivial is

Eternally praised because they have never known the good.[/quote]

To this intellectual incapacity of men in consequence whereof the excellent, as Goethe says, is rarely found and still more rarely perceived and appreciated, is now added the moral depravity of mankind which here appears as envy. Thus the fame that is won by a man again raises him above all those of his class who are, therefore, to that extent degraded; and so every outstanding merit acquires its fame at the expense of those who have none.

[quote] When we pay honour to others,

We must degrade ourselves.

-- Goethe, Westostlicher Diwan.[/quote]

This explains why excellence, in whatever form it may appear, is at once confronted with the united mediocrity of the vast majority who are in league against it and are sworn to prevent it from appearing and, if possible, to suppress it. Their secret pass-word is: A bas il merite. [32] But even those who themselves possess merit and have thus acquired fame, will not want to see the appearance of a new fame whose radiance will make theirs the less brilliant; and so even Goethe says:

[quote]Had I lingered at my birth

Till I were granted life,

I should still not be on earth.

As you may know, when you see

How they fain would ignore me

Who give themselves such airs,

To parade and show their wares.[/quote]

Therefore, whereas honour as a rule meets with fair judges and is not attacked by envy, in fact everyone is even credited in advance with it, fame must be won after a struggle with envy and the laurel is awarded by a tribunal of decidedly unfair judges. For honour we can and will share with everyone; fame is curtailed and made more difficult by everyone who acquires it. Further, the difficulty of acquiring fame through works is inversely proportional to the number of those who form their public; and the reasons for this are easy to see. Therefore it is much greater with works that promise instruction than with those that promise entertainment; it is greatest of all with philosophical works because the instruction promised by them is doubtful and uncertain, on the one hand, and useless from a material point of view, on the other. Accordingly, such works make their appearance primarily before a public that consists of none but rivals and competitors. From the above-mentioned difficulties that oppose the attainment of fame, it is clear that if those who produce works of merit did not do so out of love for them and for their own enjoyment but needed to be encouraged by fame, mankind would have received few, if any, immortal works. In fact, the man who is to produce what is good and right and to avoid what is bad, must defy and thus disdain the judgement of the masses and their spokesmen. On this rests the correctness of the remark that is in particular stressed by Osorius (De gloria) that fame eschews those who seek it and follows those who pay it no heed; for the former adapt themselves to the tastes of their contemporaries whereas the latter defy them.

Accordingly, difficult as it is to acquire fame, it is easy to retain it. Here too it stands in contrast to honour with which everyone is even credited; for he has merely to defend it. But this is the problem, for by a single unworthy act honour is irretrievably lost. Fame, on the other hand, can never really be lost; for the deed or work whereby it was acquired is established for all time and its author retains his fame, even if he does nothing more. If, however, the fame actually dies away and has had its day, it was not genuine, that is, it was unmerited and arose from a temporary over-estimation; or it was even a fame such as Hegel enjoyed, and is described by Lichtenberg as 'trumpeted abroad by a clique of friendly candidates and resounding with the echo of empty heads;-but how posterity will smile when it one day knocks on the doors of brightly coloured word-edifices, of the nests of departed fashions, and of the dwellings of dead and defunct conventions, and finds everything empty, not even the smallest thought that could confidently say: come in!'

Fame really rests on what a man is in comparison with others. Accordingly, it is something essentially relative and so can have only a relative value. It would disappear entirely if others were to become what the famous man is. Absolute value can belong only to that which retains it under all circumstances and thus to what a man is directly and by himself. Consequently, the value and good fortune of a great heart and great mind must be found here. Therefore not fame but that whereby we merit it is the thing of value. For it is, so to speak, the substance, fame being only the accident; indeed, this affects the famous man mainly as an external symptom whereby he obtains confirmation of his own high opinion of himself. Accordingly, it might be said that, just as light is not visible at all unless it is reflected by a body, so every excellent quality becomes certain and positive only through its own reputation. But it is not even an infallible symptom, for we also have fame without merit and merit without fame; hence Lessing's clever remark: 'Some men are famous and others deserve to be.' Moreover, it would be a miserable existence whose worth or worthlessness depended on how it appeared in the eyes of others. But such would be the life of the hero and the genius if his worth consisted in fame, that is to say, in the approbation of others. On the contrary, every man lives and exists on his own account and, therefore, primarily in and by himself. What a man is, whatever his mode of existence, is first and foremost a matter for himself; and if in this respect he is not worth much, then he is not worth much in general. On the other hand, the image of his nature in the minds of others is something secondary, derived, and subject to chance, and refers only very indirectly to that nature. Moreover, other people's heads are too wretched a place for true happiness to have its seat; rather do we find there only an imaginary happiness. What a mixed company we meet in that temple of universal fame: generals, ministers, quacks, jugglers, dancers, singers, millionaires, and Jews! In fact, the excellent qualities of all these are much more sincerely appreciated in this temple, meet with much more estime sentie, [33] than do intellectual qualities, especially those of a higher order which with the great majority obtain only an estime sur parole. [33] Thus from the point of view of eudemonology, fame is nothing but the rarest and daintiest morsel for our pride and vanity. But in most men these exist to excess, though they are concealed; perhaps they are strongest in those who are in some way qualified to acquire fame. Such men, therefore, have to wait a long time in uncertainty regarding their outstanding worth before the opportunity comes for them to put this to the test and then experience its acknowledgement. Till then, they felt as though they had suffered a secret injustice.* But generally speaking, as was discussed at the beginning of this chapter, the value a man attaches to other people's opinion of him is unreasonable and out of all proportion. Hobbes expressed the matter very forcibly, it is true, but perhaps quite correctly when he said: omnis animi voluptas, ommsque alacritas in eo sita est, quod quis haheat quibuscum conferens se, possit magnifice sentire de se ipso [34] (De cive, lib. I, c. 5). From this one can easily appreciate the great value that is usually attached to fame and the sacrifices that are made in the mere hope of one day attaining it:

[quote]Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise

(That last infirmity of noble mind)

To scorn delights and live laborious days.

-- Milton, Lycidas.[/quote]

And again:

[quote]How hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!

-- Beattie, The Minstrel.[/quote]

Finally, we can also see why the vainest of all nations constantly talks about la gloire and regards this unquestionably as the main incentive to great deeds and works. But there is no doubt that fame is only something secondary, the mere echo, reflection, shadow, or symptom of merit, and that in any case the thing admired must be worth more than the admiration. Therefore what makes a man really happy cannot be found in fame, but in that which enables him to acquire this and hence in merit itself, or to speak more precisely, in the disposition and abilities whence such merit has come, whether it be of a moral or intellectual order. For everyone must necessarily be for himself the best that he is; the reflection of this in the minds of others and their opinion of him is a secondary matter and for him can be only of subordinate interest. Accordingly, the man who merits fame without obtaining it possesses by far the greater thing, and what he forgoes is something about which he can console himsef with what he possesses. For it is not the fact that he is considered a great man by a crowd of deluded people without judgement, but the fact that he is so which makes him envied. His great happiness is not that posterity will know something about him, but that in him thoughts are engendered which merit preservation and consideration for hundreds of years. Moreover, this happiness cannot be wrested from him; it is '[x], whereas fame is [x]. [35] If, on the other hand, admiration itself were the principal matter, the thing admired would not be worth it; this is actually the case with false, i.e. unmerited, fame. The possessor of such must live on it without actually having that whereof the fame should be the symptom or mere reflection. But even that fame itself must often become distasteful to him when at times, in spite of all the deception, born of self-interest, he feels giddy at heights he was never fit to climb, or feels as if he were a copper coin. The fear of being unmasked and rightly humiliated then seizes him, especially when he already reads the verdict of posterity on the brows of the more prudent. Accordingly, he is like a man who possesses property through a forged will. The most genuine fame, namely posthumous, is never heard of by the man who has acquired it, and yet he is considered fortunate. His good fortune, therefore, consisted in the great qualities themselves whereby he acquired fame and in the fact that he found the opportunity to develop them, and was granted to act in a way best suited to him or to do what he liked and enjoyed doing; for only works born of this acquire posthumous fame. Thus his happiness consisted in his great heart or even in the wealth of a mind whose stamp receives in his works the admiration of the centuries to come. It consisted in the ideas themselves whose consideration became the business and pleasure of the noblest minds of an immeasurable future. Hence the value of posthumous fame is to be found in meriting it; and this is its own reward. Now whether works that acquired fame also enjoyed the praise of their author's contemporaries depended on chance circumstances and was not of great importance. For as people generally are unable to judge for themselves and are also absolutely incapable of appreciating noble and difficult achievements, they always follow here the authority of someone else; and reputation of a higher order rests on mere faith in the case of ninety-nine out of a hundred of those who praise. And so for those who think, the vociferous approbation of contemporaries can be only of little value since in it they always hear merely the echo of a few voices that are themselves only the product of a day. Would a musician feel flattered by the loud applause of his audience if it were known to him that, with the exception of one or two, it consisted entirely of deaf people who, to conceal from one another their infirmity, eagerly clapped as soon as they saw the one or two exceptions move their hands? And supposing that in addition he knew that those exceptions could often be bribed to obtain the loudest applause for the poorest violinist! From this it is easy to see why the praise of contemporaries is so rarely transformed into posthumous fame. Therefore in his exceedingly fine description of the temple of literary fame, D'Alembert says: 'The interior of the temple is inhabited by none but the dead who during their lifetime were not there, and by a few still living almost all of whom will be thrown out when they die.' Incidentally, it may be observed here that to erect a monument to a man during his lifetime is tantamount to declaring that, with regard to him, posterity is not to be trusted. If, however, a man lives to see his fame that is to become posthumous, this will rarely occur before he is old. Possibly among artists and poets there are a few exceptions to this rule; they are fewest among philosophers. A confirmation of this is furnished by the portraits of men who have become famous through their works, for in most cases they were taken only after their subjects had become celebrated. As a rule, they are depicted as old and grey, especially if they are philosophers. From the point of view of eudemonology, this is absolutely as it should be; since fame and youth at the same time are too much for a mortal. Our life is so poor that its good things must be sparingly allotted. Youth has enough and to spare in its own wealth and should rest content therewith. But when in old age joys and pleasures wither like trees in winter, the tree of fame most opportunely bursts forth as a genuine wintergreen. It can also be compared to winter pears that grow in summer but are eaten in winter. There is no finer consolation in old age than the feeling of our having embodied the whole force of our youth in works that will not grow old.

Now if we wish to consider somewhat more closely the paths by which we attain fame in those branches of knowledge with which we are immediately concerned, the following rule can be laid down. The intellectual superiority that is indicated by such fame is always brought to light by a new combination of some data. Now these can be of a very varied nature, yet the fame to be acquired through their combination will be the greater and more widespread, the more the data themselves are universally known and are accessible to everyone. For example, if they consist in numbers or curves, in some special fact of physics, zoology, botany, or anatomy, or else in some mutilated passages of ancient authors, in half-obliterated inscriptions, or in inscriptions whose alphabet is missing, or even in obscure points of history, the fame to be gained from their correct combination will not go much further than a knowledge of the data themselves; thus it will extend to a small number of those who often live retired lives and are jealous of their reputation in their particular branch of knowledge. If, on the other hand, the data are known to the whole of the human race; if, for example, they are the essential characteristics of the human mind or human heart common to everyone, or natural forces whose whole manner of operation is constantly before our eyes, or the universally known course of nature in general, then the fame of having shed more light on them by a new, important, and evident combination will extend in time to almost the whole of the civilized world. For if the data are accessible to everyone, so too will be their combination in most cases. Nevertheless, the fame here will always be in keeping only with the difficulties overcome; for the more generally known the data are, the more difficult will it be to combine them in a new and yet correct way since an exceedingly great number of minds have already tried their strength on them and have exhausted their possible combinations. On the other hand, data that are not accessible to the public at large, and are reached only in difficult and arduous ways, always admit of new combinations. If, therefore, a man approaches them with a clear understanding and sound judgement and thus with a moderate amount of intellectual superiority, it is quite possible for him to be fortunate enough to form a new and correct combination of them. But fame thus gained will be limited more or less in the same way as is a knowledge of the data. For the solution of such problems, no doubt, calls for much study and labour, merely in order to acquire a knowledge of the data; whereas with problems of the other kind wherein the greatest and most widespread fame is to be won, the data are given gratuitously without any study or labour. But in proportion as this type of problem calls for less labour, it requires more talent and even genius; and with these, as regards merit and value, no labour or study bears any comparison.

Now it follows from this that those who feel they have good understanding and sound judgement, without presuming to have the highest mental gifts, should not be afraid of much study and laborious work. For by means thereof they work themselves above the great mass of humanity who have the well-known data before their eyes; and they reach the remoter places that are accessible only to the activity and industry of scholars. For here the number of competitors is infinitely smaller, and a man of even only moderate intelligence will soon find an opportunity for a new and correct combination of the data. Indeed the merit of his discovery will even be based on the difficulty of arriving at them. But the applause of his colleagues which has been won in this way-for they are the only ones who are familiar with the subject-will be heard by the crowd only from a great distance. Now if we wish to pursue to the very end the path here indicated, a point will be reached where the data alone, without the necessity of their combination, suffice to establish fame because they are very difficult to obtain. This is the case as regards journeys to remote and rarely visited countries, where a man is famous for what he has seen and not for what he has thought. This way also has a great advantage in the fact that it is very much easier to communicate to others what we have seen than what we have thought, and it is just the same as regards people's comprehension. Accordingly, we shall find many more readers for the former than for the latter; for as Asmus says:

[quote]When someone makes a journey,

He has a tale to tell. [36][/quote]

But in keeping with all this, a personal acquaintance with famous travellers frequently reminds us of an observation by Horace:

[quote] Coelum, non animum, mutant qui trans mare currunt.

-- Epistles, I. II. 27. [37][/quote]

But as regards the man endowed with great intellectual ability who alone should venture to solve the most difficult problems, namely those dealing with the universal and total aspect of things, he will do well to extend his horizon as far as possible, yet always equally in all directions without ever going too far astray in some particular region that is known to only a few, in other words, without going too deeply into the intricacies of some special branch of knowledge, to say nothing of getting involved in minute details. It is not necessary for him to apply himself to subjects that are difficult of access in order to avoid a crowd of competitors. On the contrary, the very thing that everyone can see will supply him with material for new, important, and true combinations. Now according to this, it will be possible for his merit to be appreciated by all to whom the data are known and so by a great part of the human race. On this rests the immense difference between the fame that is won by poets and philosophers and that attainable by physicists, chemists, anatomists, mineralogists, zoologists, philologists, historians, and others.

_______________

[b]Notes:[/b]

1 ['How trifling and insignificant is that which depresses or elates the man who thirsts for praise!' (Horace, Epistles, n. t. 179.)]

* In their brilliance, their pomp and splendour, their show and magnificence of every kind, the highest in the land can say: 'Our happiness lies entirely outside ourselves; its place is in the heads of others.'

* Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hoc sciat alter. ['What you know is worthless, unless others also know that you know it.']

2 ['What will people say?']

3 ['The thirst for fame is the last thing of all to be laid aside by wise men.']

4 ['What is noble is difficult.']

5 ['The swine (instructs) Minerva.' (Cicero.)]

6 ['Arrogate to yourself the pride you earned through merit.' (Od. III. 30. 14.)]

7 ['Tooth and nail'.]

8 [i.e. decorations.]

9 ['That goes without saying.']

10 ['The insult is a summary slander.']

11 ['Part of what depends on us' (Term used by the Stoics).]

12 ['But Chrysippus and Diogenes said of a good reputation that, apart from its being useful, one should not even raise a finger for its sake. I entirely agree with them.']

13 ['We do not like esteem for its own sake, but simply for the advantage that it brings us.']

14 ['A blemish of less importance'.]

15 ['A piece of work going beyond what was required'.]

 16 ['The more contemptible and ridiculous a man is, the readier he is with his  tongue.']

 17 ['What more does one want?']

* This then is the code. When reduced to clear concepts and expressions, those principles cut so strange and grotesque a figure. Even at the present time in Christian Europe, all as a rule pay homage to them who belong to so-called good society with its so-called good manners. Indeed many of these in whom those principles have been instilled by word and example since early youth, more firmly believe in them than in any catechism. For them they cherish the profoundest and most genuine veneration, and are ready at any moment quite seriously to sacrifice to them their happiness, peace of mind, health, and life. They consider that those principles have their roots in the very nature of man and thus are innate, established a priori, and therefore above and beyond all investigation. However, I do not want to hurt their feelings, but it does little credit to their intelligence. These principles are, therefore, the least suited to that class which is destined to represent intelligence in the world and to become the salt of the earth; to the class that should prepare itself for that great mission and hence to the body of young students who, unfortunately in Germany more than any other class, pay homage to these principles. Now instead of impressing on this youth the drawbacks or immorality that attach to the consequences of such principles -- this youth that was schooled in the works of Greece and Rome (as was done once, when I was still a member of it, by that worthless philosophaster J. G. Fichte in a declamatio ex cathedra, a man still regarded quite honestly by the German learned world as a philosopher), I have merely to say to them the following. You whose youth received the language and wisdom of Greece and Rome as a patroness and on whose minds such great trouble was taken to let fall at an early age the shafts of wisdom and nobleness of glorious antiquity, do you wish to begin by making this code of stupidity and brutality the standard of your conduct? Just consider it, as here seen before you in the clearest manner and in all its pitiable narrowness, and let it be the touchstone not of your heart but of your head. Now if your head does not reject it, then it is not capable of working in the field where the necessary requirements are an energetic power of judgement that breaks the bonds of prejudice, a thorough understanding that is capable of clearly separating the true from the false, even where the difference lies deeply concealed and is not palpably evident, as it is here. Therefore, my good men, try in this case to make a name for yourselves on a different path of honour; become soldiers or learn a trade that thrives in any soil.

18 ['If anyone took it into his head to say that Demosthenes was a man of honour, one would smile indulgently; - nor was Cicero a man of honour.']

19 ['Nicodromus did this.']

20 ['What is the wise man to do when he is struck?" What Cato did when he had been struck in the face; he did not become angry or avenge the insult or even condone it, but declared that it did not occur at all.')

21 [The Force of Circumstances.]

22 [The Power of Prejudice.]

23 [The story of M. Desglands is given by Schopenhauer in the Draft for a Short Essay on Honour as follows:

'Two men of honour, one of whom was named Desglands, were courting the same woman. As they sat at table next to each other and opposite her, Desglands tried to attract her attention by the liveliest conversation, whereas she was absent-minded and did not appear to hear him but kept glancing at his rival. In his hand Desglands was holding a fresh egg and a feeling of morbid jealousy caused him to  crush the egg, whereupon it burst and its contents bespattered his rival's face. The  rival made a movement with his hand, but Desglands seized it and whispered in  his ear: "Sir, I take it as given." A profound silence then descended on the  company. The next day, Desglands appeared with a large round piece of black  plaster on his right cheek. The duel ensued and Desgland's opponent was severely,  but not fatally, wounded. Desglands reduced somewhat the size of the piece of  plaster. After the opponent's recovery, there was a second duel and once more  Desglands drew blood and he again reduced the size of the plaster. This went on  five or six times; after each duel, Desglands reduced the size of his plaster, until in  the end the opponent was killed. O noble spirit of the old age of chivalry! But  seriously speaking, whoever compares this characteristic story with the previous  ones is bound to say here, as on so many occasions, how great the ancients were and  how small the moderns are! ']

24 "The law is not concerned with trifles."

* What does it mean when we say to offend someone? It means to cause him to doubt the high opinion he has of himself.

** Knightly honour is an offspring of arrogance and folly. (Most sharply opposed to it is the truth expressed by Calderon's Principe constante with the words 'esa es la herencia de Adan' -- the lot of Adam is poverty.) It is striking that this superlative of  all arrogance is found solely and exclusively among the followers of that religion  which enjoins on them the deepest humility; for neither previous ages nor other  continents are acquainted with this principle of knightly honour. However, we  must not attribute it to religion, but rather to the feudal system under which every  nobleman regarded himself as a petty sovereign who acknowledged no human  judge. He therefore came to attribute complete inviolability and sanctity to his  person; and so every attack thereof, every blow and every word of abuse, seemed to  him to be a heinous crime. Accordingly, the principle of honour and duels  originally were only the business of the nobles and consequently in later times of  officers who associated, now and again though not entirely, with the other upper  classes in order not to be of less account. Although duels were a product of the old  ordeals, these are not the reason, but rather the consequence and application, of the  principle of honour. The man who acknowledges no human judge appeals to the  divine. The ordeals themselves, however, are not peculiar to Christianity, but are  found also in great force in Hinduism, especially in ancient times; yet even now  there are still traces of them.

 25 ['Insult and abuse leave behind a sting that even sensitive and tenderhearted  men find most hard to bear.']

 26 Vingt ou trente coups de canne sur le derriere, c'est, pour ainsi dire, le pain quotidien des  Chinois. C'est une correction paternelle du mandarin, laquelle n'a rien d'infamant, et qu'ils  recoivent avec action de graces. -- Lettres edifiantes curieuses, 1819 edn. vol. ii, p. 454-  ['Twenty or thirty strokes with the cane on the backside are, so to speak, the daily  bread of the Chinese. It is a paternal correction of the mandarin which has nothing  ignominious in it and which they receive with thanksgiving.']

*  The real reason why governments apparently strive to suppress the duel and, whilst this would obviously be a very easy matter especially at the universities, give one the impression of not wanting to succeed, seems to me to be this. The State is not in a position to pay cash in full for the services of its officers and civil officials and therefore arranges for the other half of their emoluments to consist in honour that takes the form of titles, uniforms, and orders. Now to maintain at a high level this ideal indemnification of their services, the feeling of honour must be fostered and intensified in every possible way; at all events it must become something fantastic and extravagant. As civic honour is not enough for the attainment of this end simply because it is shared by all alike, knightly honour is resorted to and upheld in the way I have described. In England where the emoluments for civil and military service are very much higher than on the Continent, this expedient is not necessary. Therefore the duel has been almost entirely eradicated in that country, especially during the last twenty years, and now occurs very rarely indeed. When it does occur, it is laughed at as a piece of folly. It is certain that the great Anti-Duelling Society, numbering many peers, admirals, and generals among its members, has largely contributed to this result. The Moloch must do without its victims.

27 [A secret tribunal in late medieval Westphalia.]

28  ['No wrong is done to him who wishes to have it thus.' (Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, lib. v. c. 15.)]

29 ['A noble pair of brothers' (Horace, Satires, II. 3. 243).]

30 ['Quarrel and love' (Empedocles).]

 * Accordingly, it is a poor compliment when anyone, as is the fashion nowadays,  imagines he is honouring works by calling them actions; for works are essentially  of a higher order. An action is always something based on motive and consequently  fragmentary and fleeting; and it appertains to the universal and original element  of the world and hence to the will. A great or fine work, on the other hand, is  something permanent because it is of universal significance. It has sprung from the  intelligence, pure, spotless, and rising like a perfume from this world of the will.

 An advantage of the fame of actions is that it appears as a rule at once with a  loud explosion, often so loud that it is heard all over Europe; whereas the fame of  works appears slowly and gradually; at first it is slight; then it grows ever louder  and often only after a hundred years does it reach its full force. But then it lasts  because works remain, sometimes for thousands of years. On the other hand, after  the first explosion is over, the fame of actions gradually becomes weaker and is  known to fewer and fewer people until in the end it has only a ghostlike existence in  history.

31 ['Although envy imposed silence on all who lived with you, those men will come who will judge without ill-will and without favour.']

 32 ['Down with merit!']

*  Our greatest pleasure consists in being admired; but the admirers, even if there is every cause, are not very keen to express their admiration. And so the happiest man is he who has managed sincerely to admire himself, no matter how. Only others must not cause him to doubt this.

33 ['Felt esteem'; 'esteem on the strength of a remark'.]

34 ['All the delights of the heart and every cheerful frame of mind depend on our having someone with whom we can compare ourselves and think highly of ourselves.']

 35 ['Is in our power ... is not in our power'.]

36 [Matthias Claudius.]

37 ['Whoever travels overseas has a change of climate, not a change of tastes and ideas.']

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