every part of a woman, while she on her part considers us; the
scrupulously careful way we scrutinise, a woman who is beginning to
please us; the fickleness of our choice; the strained attention with
which a man watches his _fiancée_; the care he takes not to be deceived
in any trait; and the great importance he attaches to every more or less
essential trait,--all this is quite in keeping with the importance of
the end. For the child that is to be born will have to bear a similar
trait through its whole life; for instance, if a woman stoops but a
little, it is possible for her son to be inflicted with a hunchback; and
so in every other respect. We are not conscious of all this, naturally.
On the contrary, each man imagines that his choice is made in the
interest of his own pleasure (which, in reality, cannot be interested in
it at all); his choice, which we must take for granted is in keeping
with his own individuality, is made precisely in the interest of the
species, to maintain the type of which as pure as possible is the secret
task. In this case the individual unconsciously acts in the interest of
something higher, that is, the species. This is why he attaches so much
importance to things to which he might, nay, would be otherwise
indifferent. There is something quite singular in the unconsciously
serious and critical way two young people of different sex look at each
other on meeting for the first time; in the scrutinising and penetrating
glances they exchange, in the careful inspection which their various
traits undergo. This scrutiny and analysis represent the _meditation of
the genius of the species_ on the individual which may be born and the
combination of its qualities; and the greatness of their delight in and
longing for each other is determined by this meditation. This longing,
although it may have become intense, may possibly disappear again if
something previously unobserved comes to light. And so the genius of the
species meditates concerning the coming race in all who are yet not too
old. It is Cupid's work to fashion this race, and he is always busy,
always speculating, always meditating. The affairs of the individual in
their whole ephemeral totality are very trivial compared with those of
this divinity, which concern the species and the coming race; therefore
he is always ready to sacrifice the individual regardlessly. He is
related to these ephemeral affairs as an immortal being is to a mortal,
and his interests to theirs as infinite to finite. Conscious, therefore,
of administering affairs of a higher order than those that concern
merely the weal and woe of the individual, he administers them with
sublime indifference amid the tumult of war, the bustle of business, or
the raging of a plague--indeed, he pursues them into the seclusion of
the cloisters.
It has been seen that the intensity of love grows with its
individuation; we have shown that two individuals may be so physically
constituted, that, in order to restore the best possible type of the
species, the one is the special and perfect complement of the other,
which, in consequence, exclusively desires it. In a case of this kind,
passionate love arises, and as it is bestowed on one object, and one
only--that is to say, because it appears in the _special_ service of the
species--it immediately assumes a nobler and sublimer nature. On the
other hand, mere sexual instinct is base, because, without
individuation, it is directed to all, and strives to preserve the
species merely as regards quantity with little regard for quality.
Intense love concentrated on one individual may develop to such a
degree, that unless it is gratified all the good things of this world,
and even life itself, lose their importance. It then becomes a desire,
the intensity of which is like none other; consequently it will make any
kind of sacrifice, and should it happen that it cannot be gratified, it
may lead to madness or even suicide. Besides these unconscious
considerations which are the source of passionate love, there must be
still others, which we have not so directly before us. Therefore, we
must take it for granted that here there is not only a fitness of
constitution but also a special fitness between the man's _will_ and the
woman's _intellect_, in consequence of which a perfectly definite
individual can be born to them alone, whose existence is contemplated by
the genius of the species for reasons to us impenetrable, since they are
the very essence of the thing-in-itself. Or more strictly speaking, the
will to live desires to objectivise itself in an individual which is
precisely determined, and can only be begotten by this particular father
and this particular mother. This metaphysical yearning of the will in
itself has immediately, as its sphere of action in the circle of human
beings, the hearts of the future parents, who accordingly are seized
with this desire. They now fancy that it is for their own sakes they are
longing for what at present has purely a metaphysical end, that is to
say, for what does not come within the range of things that exist in
reality. In other words, it is the desire of the future individual to
enter existence, which has first become possible here, a longing which
proceeds from the primary source of all being and exhibits itself in the
phenomenal world as the intense love of the future parents for each
other, and has little regard for anything outside itself. In fact, love
is an illusion like no other; it will induce a man to sacrifice
everything he possesses in the world, in order to obtain this woman, who
in reality will satisfy him no more than any other. It also ceases to
exist when the end, which was in reality metaphysical, has been
frustrated perhaps by the woman's barrenness (which, according to
Hufeland, is the result of nineteen accidental defects in the
constitution), just as it is frustrated daily in millions of crushed
germs in which the same metaphysical life-principle struggles to exist;
there is no other consolation in this than that there is an infinity of
space, time, and matter, and consequently inexhaustible opportunity, at
the service of the will to live.
Although this subject has not been treated by Theophrastus Paracelsus,
and my entire train of thought is foreign to him, yet it must have
presented itself to him, if even in a cursory way, when he gave
utterance to the following remarkable words, written in quite a
different context and in his usual desultory style: _Hi sunt, quos Deus
copulavit, ut eam, quae fuit Uriae et David; quamvis ex diametro (sic
enim sibi humana mens persuadebat) cum justo et legitimo matrimonio
pugnaret hoc ... sed propter Salomonem, qui aliunde nasci non potuit,
nisi ex Bathseba, conjuncto David semine, quamvis meretrice, conjunxit
eos Deus._[18]
The yearning of love, the ἱμερος, which has been expressed in countless
ways and forms by the poets of all ages, without their exhausting the
subject or even doing it justice; this longing which makes us imagine
that the possession of a certain woman will bring interminable
happiness, and the loss of her, unspeakable pain; this longing and this
pain do not arise from the needs of an ephemeral individual, but are, on
the contrary, the sigh of the spirit of the species, discerning
irreparable means of either gaining or losing its ends. It is the
species alone that has an interminable existence: hence it is capable of
endless desire, endless gratification, and endless pain. These, however,
are imprisoned in the heart of a mortal; no wonder, therefore, if it
seems like to burst, and can find no expression for the announcements of
endless joy or endless pain. This it is that forms the substance of all
erotic poetry that is sublime in character, which, consequently, soars
into transcendent metaphors, surpassing everything earthly. This is the
theme of Petrarch, the material for the St. Preuxs, Werthers, and Jacopo
Ortis, who otherwise could be neither understood nor explained. This
infinite regard is not based on any kind of intellectual, nor, in
general, upon any real merits of the beloved one; because the lover
frequently does not know her well enough; as was the case with Petrarch.
It is the spirit of the species alone that can see at a glance of what
_value_ the beloved one is to _it_ for its purposes. Moreover, great
passions, as a rule, originate at first sight:
"Who ever lov'd, that lov'd not at first sight."
--SHAKESPEARE, _As You Like It,_ iii. 5.
Curiously enough, there is a passage touching upon this in _Guzmann de
Alfarache_, a well-known romance written two hundred and fifty years ago
by Mateo Aleman: _No es necessario para que uno ame, que pase distancia
de tiempo, que siga discurso, in haga eleccion, sino que con aquella
primera y sola vista, concurran juntamente cierta correspondencia ó
consonancia, ó lo que acá solemos vulgarmente decir, una confrontacion
de sangre, à que por particular influxo suelen mover las estrellas_.
(For a man to love there is no need for any length of time to pass for
him to weigh considerations or make his choice, but only that a certain
correspondence and consonance is encountered on both sides at the first
and only glance, or that which is ordinarily called _a sympathy of
blood_, to which a peculiar influence of the stars generally impels.)
Accordingly, the loss of the beloved one through a rival, or through
death, is the greatest pain of all to those passionately in love; just
because it is of a transcendental nature, since it affects him not
merely as an individual, but also assails him in his _essentia aeterna_,
in the life of the species, in whose special will and service he was
here called. This is why jealousy is so tormenting and bitter, and the
giving up of the loved one the greatest of all sacrifices. A hero is
ashamed of showing any kind of emotion but that which may be the outcome
of love; the reason for this is, that when he is in love it is not he,
but the species which is grieving. In Calderon's _Zenobia the Great_
there is a scene in the second act between Zenobia and Decius where the
latter says, _Cielos, luego tu me quieres? Perdiera cien mil victorias,
Volviérame_, etc. (Heavens! then you love me? For this I would
sacrifice a thousand victories, etc.) In this case honour, which has
hitherto outweighed every other interest, is driven out of the field
directly love--_i.e._, the interest of the species--comes into play and
discerns something that will be of decided advantage to itself; for the
interest of the species, compared with that of the mere individual,
however important this may be, is infinitely more important. Honour,
duty, and fidelity succumb to it after they have withstood every other
temptation--the menace of death even. We find the same going on in
private life; for instance, a man has less conscience when in love than
in any other circumstances. Conscience is sometimes put on one side even
by people who are otherwise honest and straightforward, and infidelity
recklessly committed if they are passionately in love--i.e., when the
interest of the species has taken possession of them. It would seem,
indeed, as if they believed themselves conscious of a greater authority
than the interests of individuals could ever confer; this is simply
because they are concerned in the interest of the species. Chamfort's
utterance in this respect is remarkable: _Quand un homme et une femme
ont l'un pour l'autre une passion violente, il me semble toujours que
quelque soient les obstacles qui les séparent, un mari, des parens,
etc.; les deux amans sont l'un à l'autre, de par la Nature, qu'ils
s'appartiennent de droit devin, malgré les lois et les conventions
humaines_.... From this standpoint the greater part of the _Decameron_
seems a mere mocking and jeering on the part of the genius of the
species at the rights and interests of the individual which it treads
underfoot. Inequality of rank and all similar relations are put on one
side with the same indifference and disregarded by the genius of the
species, if they thwart the union of two people passionately in love
with one another: it pursues its ends pertaining to endless generations,
scattering human principles and scruples abroad like chaff.
For the same reason, a man will willingly risk every kind of danger, and
even become courageous, although he may otherwise be faint-hearted. What
a delight we take in watching, either in a play or novel, two young
lovers fighting for each other--i.e., for the interest of the
species--and their defeat of the old people, who had only in view the
welfare of the individual! For the struggling of a pair of lovers seems
to us so much more important, delightful, and consequently justifiable
than any other, as the species is more important than the individual.
Accordingly, we have as the fundamental subject of almost all comedies
the genius of the species with its purposes, running counter to the
personal interests of the individuals presented, and, in consequence,
threatening to undermine their happiness. As a rule it carries out its
ends, which, in keeping with true poetic justice, satisfies the
spectator, because the latter feels that the purposes of the species
widely surpass those of the individual. Hence he is quite consoled when
he finally takes leave of the victorious lovers, sharing with them the
illusion that they have established their own happiness, while, in
truth, they have sacrificed it for the welfare of the species, in
opposition to the will of the discreet old people.
It has been attempted in a few out-of-the-way comedies to reverse this
state of things and to effect the happiness of the individuals at the
cost of the ends of the species; but here the spectator is sensible of
the pain inflicted on the genius of the species, and does not find
consolation in the advantages that are assured to the individuals.
Two very well-known little pieces occur to me as examples of this kind:
_La reine de 16 ans_, and _Le mariage de raison_.
In the love-affairs that are treated in tragedies the lovers, as a rule,
perish together: the reason for this is that the purposes of the
species, whose tools the lovers were, have been frustrated, as, for
instance, in _Romeo and Juliet, Tancred, Don Carlos, Wallenstein, The
Bride of Messina_, and so on.
A man in love frequently furnishes comic as well as tragic aspects; for
being in the possession of the spirit of the species and controlled by
it, he no longer belongs to himself, and consequently his line of
conduct is not in keeping with that of the individual. It is
fundamentally this that in the higher phases of love gives such a
poetical and sublime colour, nay, transcendental and hyperphysical turn
to a man's thoughts, whereby he appears to lose sight of his essentially
material purpose. He is inspired by the spirit of the species, whose
affairs are infinitely more important than any which concern mere
individuals, in order to establish by special mandate of this spirit the
existence of an indefinitely long posterity with _this_ particular and
precisely determined nature, which it can receive only from him as
father and his loved one as mother, and which, moreover, _as such_ never
comes into existence, while the objectivation of the will to live
expressly demands this existence. It is the feeling that he is engaged
in affairs of such transcendent importance that exalts the lover above
everything earthly, nay, indeed, above himself, and gives such a
hyperphysical clothing to his physical wishes, that love becomes, even
in the life of the most prosaic, a poetical episode; and then the affair
often assumes a comical aspect. That mandate of the will which
objectifies itself in the species presents itself in the consciousness
of the lover under the mask of the anticipation of an infinite
happiness, which is to be found in his union with this particular woman.
This illusion to a man deeply in love becomes so dazzling that if it
cannot be attained, life itself not only loses all charm, but appears to
be so joyless, hollow, and uninteresting as to make him too disgusted
with it to be afraid of the terrors of death; this is why he sometimes
of his own free will cuts his life short. The will of a man of this kind
has become engulfed in that of the species, or the will of the species
has obtained so great an ascendency over the will of the individual that
if such a man cannot be effective in the manifestation of the first, he
disdains to be so in the last. The individual in this case is too weak a
vessel to bear the infinite longing of the will of the species
concentrated upon a definite object. When this is the case suicide is
the result, and sometimes suicide of the two lovers; unless nature, to
prevent this, causes insanity, which then enshrouds with its veil the
consciousness of so hopeless a condition. The truth of this is confirmed
yearly by various cases of this description.
However, it is not only unrequited love that leads frequently to a
tragic end; for requited love more frequently leads to unhappiness than
to happiness. This is because its demands often so severely clash with
the personal welfare of the lover concerned as to undermine it, since
the demands are incompatible with the lover's other circumstances, and
in consequence destroy the plans of life built upon them. Further, love
frequently runs counter not only to external circumstances but to the
individuality itself, for it may fling itself upon a person who, apart
from the relation of sex, may become hateful, despicable, nay, even
repulsive. As the will of the species, however, is so very much stronger
than that of the individual, the lover shuts his eyes to all
objectionable qualities, overlooks everything, ignores all, and unites
himself for ever to the object of his passion. He is so completely
blinded by this illusion that as soon as the will of the species is
accomplished the illusion vanishes and leaves in its place a hateful
companion for life. From this it is obvious why we often see very
intelligent, nay, distinguished men married to dragons and she-devils,
and why we cannot understand how it was possible for them to make such a
choice. Accordingly, the ancients represented _Amor_ as blind. In fact,
it is possible for a lover to clearly recognise and be bitterly
conscious of horrid defects in his _fiancée's_ disposition and
character--defects which promise him a life of misery--and yet for him
not to be filled with fear:
"I ask not, I care not,
If guilt's in thy heart;
I know that I love thee,
Whatever thou art."
For, in truth, he is not acting in his own interest but in that of a
third person, who has yet to come into existence, albeit he is under the
impression that he is acting in his own But it is this very _acting in
some one else's interest_ which is everywhere the stamp of greatness and
gives to passionate love the touch of the sublime, making it a worthy
subject for the poet. Finally, a man may both love and hate his beloved
at the same time. Accordingly, Plato compares a man's love to the love
of a wolf for a sheep. We have an instance of this kind when a
passionate lover, in spite of all his exertions and entreaties, cannot
obtain a hearing upon any terms.
"I love and hate her."--SHAKESPEARE, _Cymb_. iii. 5.
When hatred is kindled, a man will sometimes go so far as to first kill
his beloved and then himself. Examples of this kind are brought before
our notice yearly in the newspapers. Therefore Goethe says truly:
"Bei aller verschmähten Liebe, beim höllichen Elemente!
Ich wollt', ich wüsst' was ärger's, das ich fluchen könnte!"
It is in truth no hyperbole on the part of a lover when he calls his
beloved's coldness, or the joy of her vanity, which delights in his
suffering, _cruelty_. For he has come under the influence of an impulse
which, akin to the instinct of animals, compels him in spite of all
reason to unconditionally pursue his end and discard every other; he
cannot give it up. There has not been one but many a Petrarch, who,
failing to have his love requited, has been obliged to drag through life
as if his feet were either fettered or carried a leaden weight, and give
vent to his sighs in a lonely forest; nevertheless there was only one
Petrarch who possessed the true poetic instinct, so that Goethe's
beautiful lines are true of him:
"Und wenn der Mensch in seiner Quaal verstummt,
Gab mir ein Gott, zu sagen, wie ich leide."
As a matter of fact, the genius of the species is at continual warfare
with the guardian genius of individuals; it is its pursuer and enemy; it
is always ready to relentlessly destroy personal happiness in order to
carry out its ends; indeed, the welfare of whole nations has sometimes
been sacrificed to its caprice. Shakespeare furnishes us with such an
example in _Henry VI_ Part III., Act iii., Scenes 2 and 3. This is
because the species, in which lies the germ of our being, has a nearer
and prior claim upon us than the individual, so that the affairs of the
species are more important than those of the individual. Sensible of
this, the ancients personified the genius of the species in Cupid,
notwithstanding his having the form of a child, as a hostile and cruel
god, and therefore one to be decried as a capricious and despotic demon,
and yet lord of both gods and men.
Συ δ' ὠ θεων τυραννε κ' ἀνθρωπων, Ἐρως.
(Tu, deorum hominumque tyranne, Amor!)
Murderous darts, blindness, and wings are Cupid's attributes. The latter
signify inconstancy, which as a rule comes with the disillusion
following possession.
Because, for instance, love is based on an illusion and represents what
is an advantage to the species as an advantage to the individual, the
illusion necessarily vanishes directly the end of the species has been
attained. The spirit of the species, which for the time being has got
the individual into its possession, now frees him again. Deserted by the
spirit, he relapses into his original state of narrowness and want; he
is surprised to find that after all his lofty, heroic, and endless
attempts to further his own pleasure he has obtained but little; and
contrary to his expectation, he finds that he is no happier than he was
before. He discovers that he has been the dupe of the will of the
species. Therefore, as a rule, a Theseus who has been made happy will
desert his Ariadne. If Petrarch's passion had been gratified his song
would have become silent from that moment, as that of the birds as soon
as the eggs are laid.
Let it be said in passing that, however much my metaphysics of love may
displease those in love, the fundamental truth revealed by me would
enable them more effectually than anything else to overcome their
passion, if considerations of reason in general could be of any avail.
The words of the comic poet of ancient times remain good: _Quae res in
se neque consilium, neque modum habet ullum, eam consilio regere non
potes_. People who marry for love do so in the interest of the species
and not of the individuals. It is true that the persons concerned
imagine they are promoting their own happiness; but their real aim,
which is one they are unconscious of, is to bring forth an individual
which can be begotten by them alone. This purpose having brought them
together, they ought henceforth to try and make the best of things. But
it very frequently happens that two people who have been brought
together by this instinctive illusion, which is the essence of
passionate love, are in every other respect temperamentally different.
This becomes apparent when the illusion wears off, as it necessarily
must.
Accordingly, people who marry for love are generally unhappy, for such
people look after the welfare of the future generation at the expense of
the present. _Quien se casa por amores, ha de vivir con dolores_ (He who
marries for love must live in grief), says the Spanish proverb.
Marriages _de convenance_, which are generally arranged by the parents,
will turn out the reverse. The considerations in this case which control
them, whatever their nature may be, are at any rate real and unable to
vanish of themselves. A marriage of this kind attends to the welfare of
the present generation to the detriment of the future, it is true; and
yet this remains problematical.