strictly necessary character of all action is in accordance with the
doctrine that what manifests itself even in the organic and irrational
world is _will_. If this were not so, the necessity under which
irrational beings obviously act would place their action in conflict
with will; if, I mean, there were really such a thing as the freedom
of individual action, and this were not as strictly necessitated as
every other kind of action. But, as I have just shown, it is this same
doctrine of the necessary character of all acts of will which makes it
needful to regard a man's existence and being as itself the work of
his freedom, and consequently of his will. The will, therefore, must
be self-existent; it must possess so-called _a-se-ity_. Under the
opposite supposition all responsibility, as I have shown, would be at
an end, and the moral like the physical world would be a mere machine,
set in motion for the amusement of its manufacturer placed somewhere
outside of it. So it is that truths hang together, and mutually
advance and complete one another; whereas error gets jostled at every
corner.
What kind of influence it is that _moral instruction_ may exercise
on conduct, and what are the limits of that influence, are questions
which I have sufficiently examined in the twentieth section of my
treatise on the _Foundation of Morality_. In all essential particulars
an analogous influence is exercised by _example_, which, however, has
a more powerful effect than doctrine, and therefore it deserves a
brief analysis.
In the main, example works either by restraining a man or by
encouraging him. It has the former effect when it determines him to
leave undone what he wanted to do. He sees, I mean, that other people
do not do it; and from this he judges, in general, that it is not
expedient; that it may endanger his person, or his property, or his
honour.
He rests content, and gladly finds himself relieved from examining
into the matter for himself. Or he may see that another man, who has
not refrained, has incurred evil consequences from doing it; this is
example of the deterrent kind. The example which encourages a man
works in a twofold manner. It either induces him to do what he would
be glad to leave undone, if he were not afraid lest the omission might
in some way endanger him, or injure him in others' opinion; or else it
encourages him to do what he is glad to do, but has hitherto refrained
from doing from fear of danger or shame; this is example of the
seductive kind. Finally, example may bring a man to do what he would
have otherwise never thought of doing. It is obvious that in this last
case example works in the main only on the intellect; its effect on
the will is secondary, and if it has any such effect, it is by the
interposition of the man's own judgment, or by reliance on the person
who presented the example.
The whole influence of example--and it is very strong--rests on the
fact that a man has, as a rule, too little judgment of his own, and
often too little knowledge, o explore his own way for himself, and
that he is glad, therefore, to tread in the footsteps of some one
else. Accordingly, the more deficient he is in either of these
qualities, the more is he open to the influence of example; and we
find, in fact, that most men's guiding star is the example of others;
that their whole course of life, in great things and in small, comes
in the end to be mere imitation; and that not even in the pettiest
matters do they act according to their own judgment. Imitation and
custom are the spring of almost all human action. The cause of it
is that men fight shy of all and any sort of reflection, and very
properly mistrust their own discernment. At the same time this
remarkably strong imitative instinct in man is a proof of his kinship
with apes.
But the kind of effect which example exercises depends upon a man's
character, and thus it is that the same example may possibly seduce
one man and deter another. An easy opportunity of observing this is
afforded in the case of certain social impertinences which come into
vogue and gradually spread. The first time that a man notices anything
of the kind, he may say to himself: _For shame! how can he do it! how
selfish and inconsiderate of him! really, I shall take care never to
do anything like that_. But twenty others will think: _Aha! if he does
that, I may do it too_.
As regards morality, example, like doctrine, may, it is true, promote
civil or legal amelioration, but not that inward amendment which is,
strictly speaking, the only kind of moral amelioration. For example
always works as a personal motive alone, and assumes, therefore,
that a man is susceptible to this sort of motive. But it is just the
predominating sensitiveness of a character to this or that sort of
motive that determines whether its morality is true and real; though,
of whatever kind it is, it is always innate. In general it may be said
that example operates as a means of promoting the good and the bad
qualities of a character, but it does not create them; and so it
is that Seneca's maxim, _velle non discitur_--_will cannot be
learned_--also holds good here. But the innateness of all truly moral
qualities, of the good as of the bad, is a doctrine that consorts
better with the metempsychosis of the Brahmins and Buddhists,
according to which a man's good and bad deeds follow him from one
existence to another like his shadow, than with Judaism. For Judaism
requires a man to come into the world as a moral blank, so that, in
virtue of an inconceivable free will, directed to objects which
are neither to be sought nor avoided--_liberum arbitrium
indifferentiae_--and consequently as the result of reasoned
consideration, he may choose whether he is to be an angel or a devil,
or anything else that may lie between the two. Though I am well aware
what the Jewish scheme is, I pay no attention to it; for my standard
is truth. I am no professor of philosophy, and therefore I do not find
my vocation in establishing the fundamental ideas of Judaism at any
cost, even though they for ever bar the way to all and every kind of
philosophical knowledge. _Liberum arbitrium indifferentiae_ under
the name of _moral freedom_ is a charming doll for professors of
philosophy to dandle; and we must leave it to those intelligent,
honourable and upright gentlemen.
CHARACTER.
Men who aspire to a happy, a brilliant and a long life, instead of to
a virtuous one, are like foolish actors who want to be always having
the great parts,--the parts that are marked by splendour and triumph.
They fail to see that the important thing is not _what_ or _how much_,
but _how_ they act.
Since _a man does not alter_, and his _moral character_ remains
absolutely the same all through his life; since he must play out the
part which he has received, without the least deviation from the
character; since neither experience, nor philosophy, nor religion
can effect any improvement in him, the question arises, What is the
meaning of life at all? To what purpose is it played, this farce
in which everything that is essential is irrevocably fixed and
determined?
It is played that a man may come to understand himself, that he may
see what it is that he seeks and has sought to be; what he wants, and
what, therefore, he is. _This is a knowledge which must be imparted
to him from without_. Life is to man, in other words, to will, what
chemical re-agents are to the body: it is only by life that a man
reveals what he is, and it is only in so far as he reveals himself
that he exists at all. Life is the manifestation of character, of the
something that we understand by that word; and it is not in life, but
outside of it, and outside time, that character undergoes alteration,
as a result of the self-knowledge which life gives. Life is only
the mirror into which a man gazes not in order that he may get a
reflection of himself, but that he may come to understand himself by
that reflection; that he may see _what_ it is that the mirror shows.
Life is the proof sheet, in which the compositors' errors are brought
to light. How they become visible, and whether the type is large or
small, are matters of no consequence. Neither in the externals of life
nor in the course of history is there any significance; for as it is
all one whether an error occurs in the large type or in the small, so
it is all one, as regards the essence of the matter, whether an evil
disposition is mirrored as a conqueror of the world or a common
swindler or ill-natured egoist. In one case he is seen of all men; in
the other, perhaps only of himself; but that he should see himself is
what signifies.
Therefore if egoism has a firm hold of a man and masters him, whether
it be in the form of joy, or triumph, or lust, or hope, or frantic
grief, or annoyance, or anger, or fear, or suspicion, or passion of
any kind--he is in the devil's clutches and how he got into them does
not matter. What is needful is that he should make haste to get out of
them; and here, again, it does not matter how.
I have described _character_ as _theoretically_ an act of will lying
beyond time, of which life in time, or _character in action_, is the
development. For matters of practical life we all possess the one as
well as the other; for we are constituted of them both. Character
modifies our life more than we think, and it is to a certain extent
true that every man is the architect of his own fortune. No doubt it
seems as if our lot were assigned to us almost entirely from without,
and imparted to us in something of the same way in which a melody
outside us reaches the ear. But on looking back over our past, we see
at once that our life consists of mere variations on one and the same
theme, namely, our character, and that the same fundamental bass
sounds through it all. This is an experience which a man can and must
make in and by himself.
Not only a man's life, but his intellect too, may be possessed of a
clear and definite character, so far as his intellect is applied to
matters of theory. It is not every man, however, who has an intellect
of this kind; for any such definite individuality as I mean is
genius--an original view of the world, which presupposes an absolutely
exceptional individuality, which is the essence of genius. A man's
intellectual character is the theme on which all his works are
variations. In an essay which I wrote in Weimar I called it the knack
by which every genius produces his works, however various. This
intellectual character determines the physiognomy of men of
genius--what I might call _the theoretical physiognomy_--and gives it
that distinguished expression which is chiefly seen in the eyes and
the forehead. In the case of ordinary men the physiognomy presents no
more than a weak analogy with the physiognomy of genius. On the other
hand, all men possess _the practical physiognomy_, the stamp of will,
of practical character, of moral disposition; and it shows itself
chiefly in the mouth.
Since character, so far as we understand its nature, is above and
beyond time, it cannot undergo any change under the influence of life.
But although it must necessarily remain the same always, it requires
time to unfold itself and show the very diverse aspects which it may
possess. For character consists of two factors: one, the will-to-live
itself, blind impulse, so-called impetuosity; the other, the restraint
which the will acquires when it comes to understand the world; and the
world, again, is itself will. A man may begin by following the craving
of desire, until he comes to see how hollow and unreal a thing is
life, how deceitful are its pleasures, what horrible aspects it
possesses; and this it is that makes people hermits, penitents,
Magdalenes. Nevertheless it is to be observed that no such change
from a life of great indulgence in pleasure to one of resignation is
possible, except to the man who of his own accord renounces pleasure.
A really bad life cannot be changed into a virtuous one. The most
beautiful soul, before it comes to know life from its horrible side,
may eagerly drink the sweets of life and remain innocent. But it
cannot commit a bad action; it cannot cause others suffering to do
a pleasure to itself, for in that case it would see clearly what
it would be doing; and whatever be its youth and inexperience it
perceives the sufferings of others as clearly as its own pleasures.
That is why one bad action is a guarantee that numberless others will
be committed as soon as circumstances give occasion for them. Somebody
once remarked to me, with entire justice, that every man had something
very good and humane in his disposition, and also something very bad
and malignant; and that according as he was moved one or the other of
them made its appearance. The sight of others' suffering arouses, not
only in different men, but in one and the same man, at one moment an
inexhaustible sympathy, at another a certain satisfaction; and this
satisfaction may increase until it becomes the cruellest delight in
pain. I observe in myself that at one moment I regard all mankind with
heartfelt pity, at another with the greatest indifference, on occasion
with hatred, nay, with a positive enjoyment of their pain.
All this shows very clearly that we are possessed of two different,
nay, absolutely contradictory, ways of regarding the world: one
according to the principle of individuation, which exhibits all
creatures as entire strangers to us, as definitely not ourselves. We
can have no feelings for them but those of indifference, envy, hatred,
and delight that they suffer. The other way of regarding the world
is in accordance with what I may call the
_Tat-twam-asi_--_this-is-thyself_ principle. All creatures are
exhibited as identical with ourselves; and so it is pity and love
which the sight of them arouses.
The one method separates individuals by impassable barriers; the other
removes the barrier and brings the individuals together. The one makes
us feel, in regard to every man, _that is what I am_; the other,
_that is not what I am_. But it is remarkable that while the sight of
another's suffering makes us feel our identity with him, and arouses
our pity, this is not so with the sight of another's happiness. Then
we almost always feel some envy; and even though we may have no such
feeling in certain cases,--as, for instance, when our friends are
happy,--yet the interest which we take in their happiness is of a weak
description, and cannot compare with the sympathy which we feel with
their suffering. Is this because we recognise all happiness to be a
delusion, or an impediment to true welfare? No! I am inclined to think
that it is because the sight of the pleasure, or the possessions,
which are denied to us, arouses envy; that is to say, the wish that
we, and not the other, had that pleasure or those possessions.
It is only the first way of looking at the world which is founded on
any demonstrable reason. The other is, as it were, the gate out of
this world; it has no attestation beyond itself, unless it be the very
abstract and difficult proof which my doctrine supplies. Why the first
way predominates in one man, and the second in another--though perhaps
it does not exclusively predominate in any man; why the one or the
other emerges according as the will is moved--these are deep problems.
The paths of night and day are close together:
[Greek: Engus gar nuktos de kai aematos eisi keleuthoi.]
It is a fact that there is a great and original difference between
one empirical character and another; and it is a difference which,
at bottom, rests upon the relation of the individual's will to his
intellectual faculty. This relation is finally determined by the
degree of will in his father and of intellect in his mother; and the
union of father and mother is for the most part an affair of chance.
This would all mean a revolting injustice in the nature of the
world, if it were not that the difference between parents and son is
phenomenal only and all chance is, at bottom, necessity.
As regards the freedom of the will, if it were the case that the will
manifested itself in a single act alone, it would be a free act. But
the will manifests itself in a course of life, that is to say, in a
series of acts. Every one of these acts, therefore, is determined as
a part of a complete whole, and cannot happen otherwise than it does
happen. On the other hand, the whole series is free; it is simply the
manifestation of an individualised will.
If a man feels inclined to commit a bad action and refrains, he is
kept back either (1) by fear of punishment or vengeance; or (2) by
superstition in other words, fear of punishment in a future life; or
(3) by the feeling of sympathy, including general charity; or (4) by
the feeling of honour, in other words, the fear of shame; or (5) by
the feeling of justice, that is, an objective attachment to fidelity
and good-faith, coupled with a resolve to hold them sacred, because
they are the foundation of all free intercourse between man and
man, and therefore often of advantage to himself as well. This last
thought, not indeed as a thought, but as a mere feeling, influences
people very frequently. It is this that often compels a man of honour,
when some great but unjust advantage is offered him, to reject it with
contempt and proudly exclaim: _I am an honourable man_! For otherwise
how should a poor man, confronted with the property which chance or
even some worse agency has bestowed on the rich, whose very existence
it is that makes him poor, feel so much sincere respect for this
property, that he refuses to touch it even in his need; and although
he has a prospect of escaping punishment, what other thought is it
that can be at the bottom of such a man's honesty? He is resolved not
to separate himself from the great community of honourable people
who have the earth in possession, and whose laws are recognised
everywhere. He knows that a single dishonest act will ostracise and
proscribe him from that society for ever. No! a man will spend money
on any soil that yields him good fruit, and he will make sacrifices
for it.
With a good action,--that, every action in which a man's own advantage
is ostensibly subordinated to another's,--the motive is either (1)
self-interest, kept in the background; or (2) superstition, in other
words, self-interest in the form of reward in another life; or (3)
sympathy; or (4) the desire to lend a helping hand, in other words,
attachment to the maxim that we should assist one another in need, and
the wish to maintain this maxim, in view of the presumption that some
day we ourselves may find it serve our turn. For what Kant calls a
good action done from motives of duty and for the sake of duty, there
is, as will be seen, no room at all. Kant himself declares it to be
doubtful whether an action was ever determined by pure motives of duty
alone. I affirm most certainly that no action was ever so done; it is
mere babble; there is nothing in it that could really act as a motive
to any man. When he shelters himself behind verbiage of that sort, he
is always actuated by one of the four motives which I have described.
Among these it is obviously sympathy alone which is quite genuine and
sincere.
_Good_ and _bad_ apply to character only _à potiori_; that is to say,
we prefer the good to the bad; but, absolutely, there is no such
distinction. The difference arises at the point which lies between
subordinating one's own advantage to that of another, and not
subordinating it. If a man keeps to the exact middle, he is _just_.
But most men go an inch in their regard for others' welfare to twenty
yards in regard for their own.
The source of _good_ and of _bad character_, so far as we have any
real knowledge of it, lies in this, that with the bad character the
thought of the external world, and especially of the living creatures
in it, is accompanied--all the more, the greater the resemblance
between them and the individual self--by a constant feeling of _not I,
not I, not I_.
Contrarily, with the good character (both being assumed to exist in
a high degree) the same thought has for its accompaniment, like a
fundamental bass, a constant feeling of _I, I, I_. From this spring
benevolence and a disposition to help all men, and at the same time a
cheerful, confident and tranquil frame of mind, the opposite of that
which accompanies the bad character.
The difference, however, is only phenomenal, although it is a
difference which is radical. But now we come to _the hardest of all
problems_: How is it that, while the will, as the thing-in-itself, is
identical, and from a metaphysical point of view one and the same
in all its manifestations, there is nevertheless such an enormous
difference between one character and another?--the malicious,
diabolical wickedness of the one, and set off against it, the goodness
of the other, showing all the more conspicuously. How is it that we
get a Tiberius, a Caligula, a Carcalla, a Domitian, a Nero; and on the
other hand, the Antonines, Titus, Hadrian, Nerva? How is it that among
the animals, nay, in a higher species, in individual animals, there is
a like difference?--the malignity of the cat most strongly developed
in the tiger; the spite of the monkey; on the other hand, goodness,
fidelity and love in the dog and the elephant. It is obvious that the
principle of wickedness in the brute is the same as in man.
We may to some extent modify the difficulty of the problem by
observing that the whole difference is in the end only one of degree.
In every living creature, the fundamental propensities and instincts
all exist, but they exist in very different degrees and proportions.
This, however, is not enough to explain the facts.
We must fall back upon the intellect and its relation to the will; it
is the only explanation that remains. A man's intellect, however, by
no means stands in any direct and obvious relation with the goodness
of his character. We may, it is true, discriminate between two kinds
of intellect: between understanding, as the apprehension of relation
in accordance with the Principle of Sufficient Reason, and cognition,
a faculty akin to genius, which acts more directly, is independent of
this law, and passes beyond the Principle of Individuation. The latter
is the faculty which apprehends Ideas, and it is the faculty which
has to do with morality. But even this explanation leaves much to
be desired. _Fine minds are seldom fine souls_ was the correct
observation of Jean Paul; although they are never the contrary. Lord
Bacon, who, to be sure, was less a fine soul than a fine mind, was a
scoundrel.
I have declared space and time to be part of the Principle of
Individuation, as it is only space and time that make the multiplicity
of similar objects a possibility. But multiplicity itself also admits
of variety; multiplicity and diversity are not only quantitative, but
also qualitative. How is it that there is such a thing as qualitative
diversity, especially in ethical matters? Or have I fallen into an
error the opposite of that in which Leibnitz fell with his _identitas
indiscernibilium_?
The chief cause of intellectual diversity is to be found in the
brain and nervous system. This is a fact which somewhat lessens the
obscurity of the subject. With the brutes the intellect and the brain
are strictly adapted to their aims and needs. With man alone there
is now and then, by way of exception, a superfluity, which, if it is
abundant, may yield genius. But ethical diversity, it seems, proceeds
immediately from the will. Otherwise ethical character would not be
above and beyond time, as it is only in the individual that intellect
and will are united. The will is above and beyond time, and eternal;
and character is innate; that is to say, it is sprung from the same
eternity, and therefore it does not admit of any but a transcendental
explanation.
Perhaps some one will come after me who will throw light into this
dark abyss.
MORAL INSTINCT.
An act done by instinct differs from every other kind of act in that
an understanding of its object does not precede it but follows upon
it. Instinct is therefore a rule of action given _à priori_. We may be
unaware of the object to which it is directed, as no understanding of
it is necessary to its attainment. On the other hand, if an act is
done by an exercise of reason or intelligence, it proceeds according
to a rule which the understanding has itself devised for the purpose
of carrying out a preconceived aim. Hence it is that action according
to rule may miss its aim, while instinct is infallible.