_What is Philosophy?_
In text-books of philosophy you will find most diverse answers to this
question. During the twenty-five hundred years of its existence it
has been able to make an immense quantity of attempts to define the
substance of its task. But up till now no agreement has been reached
between the acknowledged representatives of the lovers and favourites
of wisdom. Every one judges in his own way, and considers his opinion
as the only true one; of a _consensus sapientium_ it is impossible
even to dream. But strangely enough, exactly in this disputable matter
wherein the agreement of savants and sages is so impossible, the
_consensus profanorum_ is fully attained. All those who were never
engaged in philosophy, who have never read learned books, or even any
books at all, answer the question with rare unanimity. True, it is
apparently impossible to judge of their opinions directly, because
people of this kind cannot speak at all in the language evolved by
science; they never put the question in such a form, still less can
they answer it in the accepted words. But we have an important piece of
indirect evidence which gives us the right to form a conclusion. There
is no doubt that all those who have gone to philosophy for answers
to the questions which tormented them, have left her disenchanted,
unless they had a sufficiently eminent gift to enable them to join the
guild of professional philosophers. From this we may unhesitatingly
conclude, although the conclusion is for the time being only negative,
that philosophy is engaged in a business which may be interesting and
important to the few, but is tedious and useless to the many.
This conclusion is highly consoling as well for the sage as for the
profane. For every sage, even the most exalted, is at the same time
one of the profane--if we discard the academical use of words--a
human being, pure and simple. To him also it may happen that those
tormenting questions will arise, which ordinary people used to bring
to him, as for instance in the case of Tolstoi's Ivan Ilyich or
Tchekhov's professor in _The Tedious Story._ And then he will of course
be obliged to confess that the necessary answers are missing from
the great tomes which he has studied so well. For what can be more
terrible to a man than to be compelled in the hard moments of his life
to acknowledge any doctrine of philosophy as binding upon him? For
instance, to be compelled to hold with Plato, Spinoza, or Schopenhauer
that the chief problem of life is moral perfection, or in other words,
self-renunciation. It was easy for Plato to preach justice. It did
not in the least prevent him from being the son of his time, or from
breaking to a permissible extent the commandments which he himself
had given. By all the evidence Spinoza was much more resolute and
consequent than Plato; he indeed kept the passions in subservience, but
that was his personal and individual inclination. Consistence was not
merely a property of his mind, but of his whole being. Displaying it,
he displayed himself. As for Schopenhauer, it is known that he praised
the virtues only in his books; but in life, like many another clever,
independent man, he was guided by the most diverse considerations.
But these are all masters, who devise systems and imperatives. Whereas
the pupil, seeking in philosophy an answer to his questions, cannot
permit himself any liberties and digressions from the universal rules,
for the essence and the fundamental problem of any doctrine reduces to
the subordination not merely of men's conduct, but of the life of the
whole universe to one regulating principle. Individual philosophers
have discovered such principles, but to this day they have reached no
final agreement among themselves, and this to some extent lightens the
burden of those unhappy ones who, having lost the hope of finding help
and guidance elsewhere, have turned to philosophy. If there is not
in philosophy one universal principle binding upon and acknowledged
by all, it means that it is permitted to each man, at least for the
meantime, to feel and even to act in his own way. A man may listen
to Spinoza, or he may stop his ears. He may kneel before Plato's
eternal ideas, or he may give his allegiance to the ever-changing,
ever-flowing reality. Finally, he may accept Schopenhauer's pessimism,
but nothing on earth can compel him to celibacy on the ground that
Schopenhauer successfully laughed at love. Nor is there any necessity
at all, in order to win such freedom for one's self, to be armed
with the light dialectic of the old Greek philosopher, or with the
heavy logic of the poor Dutch Jew, or with the subtle wit of the
profound German. Neither is it necessary to dispute them. It is even
possible to agree with them all. The room of the world is infinite,
and will not only contain all those who lived once and those who are
yet to be born, but will give to each one of them all that he can
desire: to Plato, the world of ideas, to Spinoza, the one eternal and
unchangeable substance, to Schopenhauer, the Nirvana of Buddhism. Each
of these, and all the other philosophers, will find what they want in
the universe even to the belief, even to the conviction, that theirs
are the only true and universal doctrines. But, at the same time,
the profane will find suitable worlds for themselves. From the fact
that people are cooped up on the earth, and that they must put forth
efforts beyond belief to gain each cubit of earth, and even their
illusory liberties, it by no means follows that poverty, obscurantism,
and despotism must be considered eternal and original principles, and
that economical uniformity is the last refuge of man. A plurality of
worlds, a plurality of men and gods amid the vast spaces of the vast
universe--this is, if I may be forgiven the word, an ideal. It is true
it is not built according to the idealists. Yet what a conclusion does
it foreshadow! We leave the disputes and arguments of philosophers
aside, so soon as we begin to speak of gods. According to the existing
beliefs and hypotheses the gods also have always been quarrelling
and fighting among themselves. Even in monotheistic religions people
always made their God enter a fight, and devised an eminent opponent
for him--the devil. Men can by no means rid themselves of the thought
that everything in heaven goes on in exactly the same way as it does
on the earth, and they attribute all their own bad qualities as well
as their good ones to the denizens of heaven. Whereas it is by far the
most probable that a great many of the things which are, according to
our notions, perfectly inseparable from life do not exist in heaven.
Among other things, there is no struggle. And this is well. For every
struggle, sooner or later, develops inevitably into a fight. When
the supply of logical and ethical arguments is exhausted, one thing
is left for the irreconcilable opponents--to come to blows, which do
in fact usually decide the issue. The value of logical and ethical
arguments is arbitrarily assigned, but material force is measured by
foot-pounds and can be calculated in advance. So that where on the
common supposition there will be no foot-pounds, the issue of the
fight will very often remain undecided. When Lermontov's demon goes
to Tamara's cell, an angel meets him on the way. The demon says that
Tamara belongs to him; the angel demands her for himself. The demon
will not be dissuaded by words and arguments: he is not built that way.
As for the angel, he always considers himself doubly right. How can the
issue be decided? At last Lermontov, who could not or dared not devise
a new solution, admitted the interference of material force: Tamara
is dragged away from the demon exactly as the stronger robber pulls
his prey from the weaker on earth. Evidently the poet admitted that
conclusion, that he might pay his tribute to the piety of tradition.
But in my opinion the solution is not pious, but merely blasphemous.
In it the traces of barbarity and idolatry are still clearly visible.
The tastes and attributes of which earthly despots dream are attributed
to God. By all means he must be, he desires to be, the strongest, the
very first, just like Julius Caesar in his youth. He fears rivalry
above all things, and never forgives his unconquered enemies. This is
evidently a barbarous mistake. God does not want to be the strongest,
the very first, at all. Certainly--for that would be intelligible and
in accordance with common sense--he would not like to be weaker than
others, in order that he might not be exposed to violence; but there
is no foundation at all for attributing to him ambition or vainglory.
Therefore there is equally no reason to think that he does not suffer
equals, desires to be supreme, and seeks at all costs to destroy the
devil. Most probably he lives in peace and concord even with those
who least adapt themselves to his tastes and habits. Perhaps he is
even delighted that not all are as he, and he readily shares his
possessions with the devil, the more readily because by such a division
neither loses, since the infinite--I admit that God's possessions are
infinite--divided by two and even by the greatest possible finite
number still leaves infinity.
Now we can return to the original question, and it seems that we
can even give an answer to it--two answers even, one for the sage,
another for the profane. To the first, philosophy is art for art's
sake. Every philosopher tries to construct a harmonious and various
system, curiously and nicely fashioned, using for his material his own
intrinsic experience as well as his own personal observations of the
life beyond him, and the observations of others. A philosopher is an
artist of his kind, to whom his works are dearer than everything in
life, sometimes dearer than life itself. We very often see philosophers
sacrifice everything for the sake of their work--even truth. Not so
the profane. To them philosophy--more exactly, that which they would
call philosophy if they possessed a scientific terminology--is the last
refuge when material forces have been wasted, when there are no weapons
left to fight for their stolen rights. Then they run for help and
support to a place which they have always taken care to avoid before.
Think of Napoleon at St. Helena. He who had been collecting soldiers
and guns all his life, began to philosophise when he was bound hand and
foot. Certainly he behaved in this new sphere like a beginner, a very
inexperienced and, strange to say, a pusillanimous novice.
He who feared neither pestilence nor bullet, was afraid, we know, of
a dark room. Men used to philosophy, like Schopenhauer, walk boldly
and with confidence in a dark room, though they run away from gun
shots, and even less dangerous things. The great captain, the once
Emperor of nearly all Europe, Napoleon, philosophised on St. Helena,
and even went so far as to begin to ingratiate himself with morality,
evidently supposing that upon morality his ultimate fate depended. He
assured her that for her sake, and her sake alone, he had contrived
his murderous business--he who, all the while a crown was on his head
and a victorious army in his hands, hardly knew even of the existence
of morality. But this is so intelligible. If one were to come upon a
perfectly new and unknown world at the age of forty-five, then surely
everything would seem terrible, and one would take the incorporeal
morality for the arbiter of destiny. And one would plan to seduce
her, if possible, with sweet words and false promises, as a lady of
the world. But these were the first steps of a tyro. It was as hard
for Napoleon to master philosophy as it was for Charlemagne at the
end of his days to learn to write. But he knew why he had come to the
new place, and neither Plato nor Spinoza nor Kant could dissuade him
of this. Perhaps at the beginning, while he was as yet unused to the
darkness, he would pretend to agree with the acknowledged authorities,
thinking that here too, just as there where he lived before, exalted
personages do not tolerate opposition; perhaps he would lie to them
as he lied to morality, but his business he would not forget. He came
to philosophy with _demands,_ and would not rest till he had received
satisfaction. He had already seen how a Corsican lieutenant had
become a French Emperor. Why should not the beaten Emperor fight his
last fight?... And how shall he be reconciled with self-renunciation?
Philosophy will surrender: it is only necessary not to surrender in
one's self. So does a Napoleon come to philosophy, and so does he
understand her. And until the contrary is proven, nothing can prevent
us from thinking that the Napoleons are right, and therefore that
academical philosophy is not the last nor even the penultimate word.
For, perhaps, the last word is hidden in the hearts of the tongue-tied,
but bold, persistent, implacable men.