POSITION, OR A MAN'S PLACE IN THE ESTIMATION OF OTHERS.
_Section 1.--Reputation_.
By a peculiar weakness of human nature, people generally think too
much about the opinion which others form of them; although the
slightest reflection will show that this opinion, whatever it may
be, is not in itself essential to happiness. Therefore it is hard to
understand why everybody feels so very pleased when he sees that other
people have a good opinion of him, or say anything flattering to his
vanity. If you stroke a cat, it will purr; and, as inevitably, if you
praise a man, a sweet expression of delight will appear on his face;
and even though the praise is a palpable lie, it will be welcome, if
the matter is one on which he prides himself. If only other people
will applaud him, a man may console himself for downright misfortune
or for the pittance he gets from the two sources of human happiness
already discussed: and conversely, it is astonishing how infallibly
a man will be annoyed, and in some cases deeply pained, by any wrong
done to his feeling of self-importance, whatever be the nature,
degree, or circumstances of the injury, or by any depreciation,
slight, or disregard.
If the feeling of honor rests upon this peculiarity of human nature,
it may have a very salutary effect upon the welfare of a great many
people, as a substitute for morality; but upon their happiness, more
especially upon that peace of mind and independence which are so
essential to happiness, its effect will be disturbing and prejudicial
rather than salutary. Therefore it is advisable, from our point of
view, to set limits to this weakness, and duly to consider and rightly
to estimate the relative value of advantages, and thus temper, as far
as possible, this great susceptibility to other people's opinion,
whether the opinion be one flattering to our vanity, or whether it
causes us pain; for in either case it is the same feeling which is
touched. Otherwise, a man is the slave of what other people are
pleased to think,--and how little it requires to disconcert or soothe
the mind that is greedy of praise:
_Sic leve, sic parvum est, animum quod laudis avarum
Subruit ac reficit_.[1]
[Footnote 1: Horace, Epist: II., 1, 180.]
Therefore it will very much conduce to our happiness if we duly
compare the value of what a man is in and for himself with what he is
in the eyes of others. Under the former conies everything that fills
up the span of our existence and makes it what it is, in short, all
the advantages already considered and summed up under the heads of
personality and property; and the sphere in which all this takes place
is the man's own consciousness. On the other hand, the sphere of what
we are for other people is their consciousness, not ours; it is the
kind of figure we make in their eyes, together with the thoughts
which this arouses.[1] But this is something which has no direct and
immediate existence for us, but can affect us only mediately and
indirectly, so far, that is, as other people's behavior towards us is
directed by it; and even then it ought to affect us only in so far as
it can move us to modify _what we are in and for ourselves_. Apart
from this, what goes on in other people's consciousness is, as such, a
matter of indifference to us; and in time we get really indifferent to
it, when we come to see how superficial and futile are most people's
thoughts, how narrow their ideas, how mean their sentiments, how
perverse their opinions, and how much of error there is in most of
them; when we learn by experience with what depreciation a man will
speak of his fellow, when he is not obliged to fear him, or thinks
that what he says will not come to his ears. And if ever we have
had an opportunity of seeing how the greatest of men will meet with
nothing but slight from half-a-dozen blockheads, we shall understand
that to lay great value upon what other people say is to pay them too
much honor.
[Footnote 1: Let me remark that people in the highest positions in
life, with all their brilliance, pomp, display, magnificence and
general show, may well say:--Our happiness lies entirely outside us;
for it exists only in the heads of others.]
At all events, a man is in a very bad way, who finds no source of
happiness in the first two classes of blessings already treated of,
but has to seek it in the third, in other words, not in what he is in
himself, but in what he is in the opinion of others. For, after all,
the foundation of our whole nature, and, therefore, of our happiness,
is our physique, and the most essential factor in happiness is
health, and, next in importance after health, the ability to maintain
ourselves in independence and freedom from care. There can be no
competition or compensation between these essential factors on the one
side, and honor, pomp, rank and reputation on the other, however much
value we may set upon the latter. No one would hesitate to sacrifice
the latter for the former, if it were necessary. We should add very
much to our happiness by a timely recognition of the simple truth that
every man's chief and real existence is in his own skin, and not in
other people's opinions; and, consequently, that the actual conditions
of our personal life,--health, temperament, capacity, income, wife,
children, friends, home, are a hundred times more important for our
happiness than what other people are pleased to think of us: otherwise
we shall be miserable. And if people insist that honor is dearer than
life itself, what they really mean is that existence and well-being
are as nothing compared with other people's opinions. Of course, this
may be only an exaggerated way of stating the prosaic truth that
reputation, that is, the opinion others have of us, is indispensable
if we are to make any progress in the world; but I shall come back to
that presently. When we see that almost everything men devote their
lives to attain, sparing no effort and encountering a thousand toils
and dangers in the process, has, in the end, no further object than
to raise themselves in the estimation of others; when we see that
not only offices, titles, decorations, but also wealth, nay, even
knowledge[1] and art, are striven for only to obtain, as the ultimate
goal of all effort, greater respect from one's fellowmen,--is not this
a lamentable proof of the extent to which human folly can go? To set
much too high a value on other people's opinion is a common error
everywhere; an error, it may be, rooted in human nature itself, or
the result of civilization, and social arrangements generally; but,
whatever its source, it exercises a very immoderate influence on all
we do, and is very prejudicial to our happiness. We can trace it from
a timorous and slavish regard for what other people will say, up to
the feeling which made Virginius plunge the dagger into his daughter's
heart, or induces many a man to sacrifice quiet, riches, health and
even life itself, for posthumous glory. Undoubtedly this feeling is a
very convenient instrument in the hands of those who have the control
or direction of their fellowmen; and accordingly we find that in
every scheme for training up humanity in the way it should go, the
maintenance and strengthening of the feeling of honor occupies an
important place. But it is quite a different matter in its effect
on human happiness, of which it is here our object to treat; and we
should rather be careful to dissuade people from setting too much
store by what others think of them. Daily experience shows us,
however, that this is just the mistake people persist in making; most
men set the utmost value precisely on what other people think, and
are more concerned about it than about what goes on in their own
consciousness, which is the thing most immediately and directly
present to them. They reverse the natural order,--regarding the
opinions of others as real existence and their own consciousness
as something shadowy; making the derivative and secondary into the
principal, and considering the picture they present to the world of
more importance than their own selves. By thus trying to get a direct
and immediate result out of what has no really direct or immediate
existence, they fall into the kind of folly which is called
_vanity_--the appropriate term for that which has no solid or
instrinsic value. Like a miser, such people forget the end in their
eagerness to obtain the means.
[Footnote 1: _Scire tuum nihil est nisi te scire hoc sciat alter_,
(Persins i, 27)--knowledge is no use unless others know that you have
it.]
The truth is that the value we set upon the opinion of others, and our
constant endeavor in respect of it, are each quite out of proportion
to any result we may reasonably hope to attain; so that this attention
to other people's attitude may be regarded as a kind of universal
mania which every one inherits. In all we do, almost the first thing
we think about is, what will people say; and nearly half the troubles
and bothers of life may be traced to our anxiety on this score; it
is the anxiety which is at the bottom of all that feeling of
self-importance, which is so often mortified because it is so very
morbidly sensitive. It is solicitude about what others will say that
underlies all our vanity and pretension, yes, and all our show and
swagger too. Without it, there would not be a tenth part of the luxury
which exists. Pride in every form, _point d'honneur_ and _punctilio_,
however varied their kind or sphere, are at bottom nothing but
this--anxiety about what others will say--and what sacrifices it
costs! One can see it even in a child; and though it exists at every
period of life, it is strongest in age; because, when the capacity for
sensual pleasure fails, vanity and pride have only avarice to share
their dominion. Frenchmen, perhaps, afford the best example of
this feeling, and amongst them it is a regular epidemic, appearing
sometimes in the most absurd ambition, or in a ridiculous kind of
national vanity and the most shameless boasting. However, they
frustrate their own gains, for other people make fun of them and call
them _la grande nation_.
By way of specially illustrating this perverse and exuberant respect
for other people's opinion, let me take passage from the _Times_ of
March 31st, 1846, giving a detailed account of the execution of one
Thomas Wix, an apprentice who, from motives of vengeance, had
murdered his master. Here we have very unusual circumstances and an
extraordinary character, though one very suitable for our purpose; and
these combine to give a striking picture of this folly, which is so
deeply rooted in human nature, and allow us to form an accurate notion
of the extent to which it will go. On the morning of the execution,
says the report, _the rev. ordinary was early in attendance upon
him, but Wix, beyond a quiet demeanor, betrayed no interest in his
ministrations, appearing to feel anxious only to acquit himself
"bravely" before the spectators of his ignomininous end.... 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 admirable example of the way in which a man, with death in
the most dreadful form before his very eyes, and eternity beyond it,
will care for nothing but the impression he makes upon a crowd of
gapers, and the opinion he leaves behind him in their heads. There was
much the same kind of thing in the case of Lecompte, who was executed
at Frankfurt, also in 1846, for an attempt on the king's life. At the
trial he was very much annoyed that he was not allowed to appear, in
decent attire, before the Upper House; and on the day of the execution
it was a special grief to him that he was not permitted to shave. It
is not only in recent times that this kind of thing has been known to
happen. Mateo Aleman tells us, in the Introduction to his celebrated
romance, _Juzman de Alfarache_, that many infatuated criminals,
instead of devoting their last hours to the welfare of their souls,
as they ought to have done, neglect this duty for the purpose of
preparing and committing to memory a speech to be made from the
scaffold.
I take these extreme cases as being the best illustrations to what I
mean; for they give us a magnified reflection of our own nature. The
anxieties of all of us, our worries, vexations, bothers, troubles,
uneasy apprehensions and strenuous efforts are due, in perhaps the
large majority of instances, to what other people will say; and we are
just as foolish in this respect as those miserable criminals. Envy and
hatred are very often traceable to a similar source.
Now, it is obvious that happiness, which consists for the most part in
peace of mind and contentment, would be served by nothing so much
as by reducing this impulse of human nature within reasonable
limits,--which would perhaps make it one fiftieth part of what it is
now. By doing so, we should get rid of a thorn in the flesh which is
always causing us pain. But it is a very difficult task, because
the impulse in question is a natural and innate perversity of human
nature. Tacitus says, _The lust of fame is the last that a wise man
shakes off_[1] The only way of putting an end to this universal
folly is to see clearly that it is a folly; and this may be done by
recognizing the fact that most of the opinions in men's heads are apt
to be false, perverse, erroneous and absurd, and so in themselves
unworthy of attention; further, that other people's opinions can
have very little real and positive influence upon us in most of the
circumstances and affairs of life. Again, this opinion is generally of
such an unfavorable character that it would worry a man to death to
hear everything that was said of him, or the tone in which he was
spoken of. And finally, among other things, we should be clear about
the fact that honor itself has no really direct, but only an indirect,
value. If people were generally converted from this universal folly,
the result would be such an addition to our piece of mind and
cheerfulness as at present seems inconceivable; people would present
a firmer and more confident front to the world, and generally behave
with less embarrassment and restraint. It is observable that a retired
mode of life has an exceedingly beneficial influence on our peace
of mind, and this is mainly because we thus escape having to live
constantly in the sight of others, and pay everlasting regard to their
casual opinions; in a word, we are able to return upon ourselves. At
the same time a good deal of positive misfortune might be avoided,
which we are now drawn into by striving after shadows, or, to speak
more correctly, by indulging a mischievous piece of folly; and we
should consequently have more attention to give to solid realities and
enjoy them with less interruption that at present. But [Greek: chalepa
ga kala]--what is worth doing is hard to do.
[Footnote 1: Hist., iv., 6.]
_Section 2.--Pride_.
The folly of our nature which we are discussing puts forth three
shoots, ambition, vanity and pride. The difference between the last
two is this: _pride_ is an established conviction of one's own
paramount worth in some particular respect; while _vanity_ is the
desire of rousing such a conviction in others, and it is generally
accompanied by the secret hope of ultimately coming to the same
conviction oneself. Pride works _from within_; it is the direct
appreciation of oneself. Vanity is the desire to arrive at this
appreciation indirectly, _from without_. So we find that vain people
are talkative, proud, and taciturn. But the vain person ought to be
aware that the good opinion of others, which he strives for, may be
obtained much more easily and certainly by persistent silence than by
speech, even though he has very good things to say. Anyone who wishes
to affect pride is not therefore a proud man; but he will soon have to
drop this, as every other, assumed character.
It is only a firm, unshakeable conviction of pre-eminent worth and
special value which makes a man proud in the true sense of the
word,--a conviction which may, no doubt, be a mistaken one or rest on
advantages which are of an adventitious and conventional character:
still pride is not the less pride for all that, so long as it be
present in real earnest. And since pride is thus rooted in conviction,
it resembles every other form of knowledge in not being within our own
arbitrament. Pride's worst foe,--I mean its greatest obstacle,--is
vanity, which courts the applause of the world in order to gain the
necessary foundation for a high opinion of one's own worth, whilst
pride is based upon a pre-existing conviction of it.
It is quite true that pride is something which is generally found
fault with, and cried down; but usually, I imagine, by those who have
nothing upon which they can pride themselves. In view of the impudence
and foolhardiness of most people, anyone who possesses any kind of
superiority or merit will do well to keep his eyes fixed on it, if
he does not want it to be entirely forgotten; for if a man is
good-natured enough to ignore his own privileges, and hob-nob with the
generality of other people, as if he were quite on their level, they
will be sure to treat him, frankly and candidly, as one of themselves.
This is a piece of advice I would specially offer to those whose
superiority is of the highest kind--real superiority, I mean, of a
purely personal nature--which cannot, like orders and titles, appeal
to the eye or ear at every moment; as, otherwise, they will find that
familiarity breeds contempt, or, as the Romans used to say, _sus
Minervam. Joke with a slave, and he'll soon show his heels_, is an
excellent Arabian proverb; nor ought we to despise what Horace says,
_Sume superbiam
Quaesitam meritis_.
--usurp the fame you have deserved. No doubt, when modesty was made a
virtue, it was a very advantageous thing for the fools; for everybody
is expected to speak of himself as if he were one. This is leveling
down indeed; for it comes to look as if there were nothing but fools
in the world.
The cheapest sort of pride is national pride; for if a man is proud of
his own nation, it argues that he has no qualities of his own of which
he can be proud; otherwise he would not have recourse to those which
he shares with so many millions of his fellowmen. The man who is
endowed with important personal qualities will be only too ready to
see clearly in what respects his own nation falls short, since their
failings will be constantly before his eyes. But every miserable fool
who has nothing at all of which he can be proud adopts, as a last
resource, pride in the nation to which he belongs; he is ready and
glad to defend all its faults and follies tooth and nail, thus
reimbursing himself for his own inferiority. For example, if you speak
of the stupid and degrading bigotry of the English nation with the
contempt it deserves, you will hardly find one Englishman in fifty to
agree with you; but if there should be one, he will generally happen
to be an intelligent man.
The Germans have no national pride, which shows how honest they are,
as everybody knows! and how dishonest are those who, by a piece
of ridiculous affectation, pretend that they are proud of their
country--the _Deutsche Bruder_ and the demagogues who flatter the
mob in order to mislead it. I have heard it said that gunpowder was
invented by a German. I doubt it. Lichtenberg asks, _Why is it that a
man who is not a German does not care about pretending that he is one;
and that if he makes any pretence at all, it is to be a Frenchman or
an Englishman_?[1]
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--It should be remembered that these
remarks were written in the earlier part of the present century, and
that a German philosopher now-a-days, even though he were as apt to
say bitter things as Schopenhauer, could hardly write in a similar
strain.]
However that may be, individuality is a far more important thing
than nationality, and in any given man deserves a thousand-fold more
consideration. And since you cannot speak of national character
without referring to large masses of people, it is impossible to be
loud in your praises and at the same time honest. National character
is only another name for the particular form which the littleness,
perversity and baseness of mankind take in every country. If we become
disgusted with one, we praise another, until we get disgusted with
this too. Every nation mocks at other nations, and all are right.
The contents of this chapter, which treats, as I have said, of what we
represent in the world, or what we are in the eyes of others, may be
further distributed under three heads: honor rank and fame.
_Section 3.--Rank_.
Let us take rank first, as it may be dismissed in a few words,
although it plays an important part in the eyes of the masses and of
the philistines, and is a most useful wheel in the machinery of the
State.
It has a purely conventional value. Strictly speaking, it is a sham;
its method is to exact an artificial respect, and, as a matter of
fact, the whole thing is a mere farce.
Orders, it may be said, are bills of exchange drawn on public opinion,
and the measure of their value is the credit of the drawer. Of course,
as a substitute for pensions, they save the State a good deal of
money; and, besides, they serve a very useful purpose, if they are
distributed with discrimination and judgment. For people in general
have eyes and ears, it is true; but not much else, very little
judgment indeed, or even memory. There are many services of the State
quite beyond the range of their understanding; others, again, are
appreciated and made much of for a time, and then soon forgotten. It
seems to me, therefore, very proper, that a cross or a star should
proclaim to the mass of people always and everywhere, _This man is not
like you; he has done something_. But orders lose their value when
they are distributed unjustly, or without due selection, or in too
great numbers: a prince should be as careful in conferring them as a
man of business is in signing a bill. It is a pleonasm to inscribe on
any order _for distinguished service_; for every order ought to be for
distinguished service. That stands to reason.
_Section 4.--Honor_.
Honor is a much larger question than rank, and more difficult to
discuss. Let us begin by trying to define it.
If I were to say _Honor is external conscience, and conscience is
inward honor_, no doubt a good many people would assent; but there
would be more show than reality about such a definition, and it would
hardly go to the root of the matter. I prefer to say, _Honor is, on
its objective side, other people's opinion of what we are worth; on
its subjective side, it is the respect we pay to this opinion_. From
the latter point of view, to be _a man of honor_ is to exercise what
is often a very wholesome, but by no means a purely moral, influence.
The feelings of honor and shame exist in every man who is not utterly
depraved, and honor is everywhere recognized as something particularly
valuable. The reason of this is as follows. By and in himself a man
can accomplish very little; he is like Robinson Crusoe on a desert
island. It is only in society that a man's powers can be called into
full activity. He very soon finds this out when his consciousness
begins to develop, and there arises in him the desire to be looked
upon as a useful member of society, as one, that is, who is capable
of playing his part as a man--_pro parte virili_--thereby acquiring a
right to the benefits of social life. Now, to be a useful member of
society, one must do two things: firstly, what everyone is expected to
do everywhere; and, secondly, what one's own particular position in
the world demands and requires.
But a man soon discovers that everything depends upon his being
useful, not in his own opinion, but in the opinion of others; and so
he tries his best to make that favorable impression upon the world, to
which he attaches such a high value. Hence, this primitive and innate
characteristic of human nature, which is called the feeling of honor,
or, under another aspect, the feeling of shame--_verecundia_. It is
this which brings a blush to his cheeks at the thought of having
suddenly to fall in the estimation of others, even when he knows that
he is innocent, nay, even if his remissness extends to no absolute
obligation, but only to one which he has taken upon himself of his own
free will. Conversely, nothing in life gives a man so much courage as
the attainment or renewal of the conviction that other people regard
him with favor; because it means that everyone joins to give him help
and protection, which is an infinitely stronger bulwark against the
ills of life than anything he can do himself.
The variety of relations in which a man can stand to other people so
as to obtain their confidence, that is, their good opinion, gives rise
to a distinction between several kinds of honor, resting chiefly on
the different bearings that _meum_ may take to _tuum_; or, again, on
the performance of various pledges; or finally, on the relation of the
sexes. Hence, there are three main kinds of honor, each of which takes
various forms--civic honor, official honor, and sexual honor.
_Civic honor_ has the widest sphere of all. It consists in the
assumption that we shall pay unconditional respect to the rights of
others, and, therefore, never use any unjust or unlawful means of
getting what we want. It is the condition of all peaceable intercourse
between man and man; and it is destroyed by anything that openly and
manifestly militates against this peaceable intercourse, anything,
accordingly, which entails punishment at the hands of the law, always
supposing that the punishment is a just one.
The ultimate foundation of honor is the conviction that moral
character is unalterable: a single bad action implies that future
actions of the same kind will, under similar circumstances, also be
bad. This is well expressed by the English use of the word _character_
as meaning credit, reputation, honor. Hence honor, once lost, can
never be recovered; unless the loss rested on some mistake, such as
may occur if a man is slandered or his actions viewed in a false
light. So the law provides remedies against slander, libel, and even
insult; for insult though it amounts to no more than mere abuse, is a
kind of summary slander with a suppression of the reasons. What I
mean may be well put in the Greek phrase--not quoted from any
author--[Greek: estin hae loidoria diabolae]. It is true that if a
man abuses another, he is simply showing that he has no real or true
causes of complaint against him; as, otherwise, he would bring these
forward as the premises, and rely upon his hearers to draw the
conclusion themselves: instead of which, he gives the conclusion and
leaves out the premises, trusting that people will suppose that he has
done so only for the sake of being brief.
Civic honor draws its existence and name from the middle classes;
but it applies equally to all, not excepting the highest. No man can
disregard it, and it is a very serious thing, of which every one
should be careful not to make light. The man who breaks confidence has
for ever forfeited confidence, whatever he may do, and whoever he may
be; and the bitter consequences of the loss of confidence can never be
averted.
There is a sense in which honor may be said to have a _negative_
character in opposition to the _positive_ character of fame. For honor
is not the opinion people have of particular qualities which a man may
happen to possess exclusively: it is rather the opinion they have of
the qualities which a man may be expected to exhibit, and to which
he should not prove false. Honor, therefore, means that a man is not
exceptional; fame, that he is. Fame is something which must be won;
honor, only something which must not be lost. The absence of fame is
obscurity, which is only a negative; but loss of honor is shame, which
is a positive quality. This negative character of honor must not be
confused with anything _passive_; for honor is above all things active
in its working. It is the only quality which proceeds _directly_ from
the man who exhibits it; it is concerned entirely with what he does
and leaves undone, and has nothing to do with the actions of others or
the obstacles they place in his way. It is something entirely in our
own power--[Greek: ton ephaemon]. This distinction, as we shall see
presently, marks off true honor from the sham honor of chivalry.
Slander is the only weapon by which honor can be attacked from
without; and the only way to repel the attack is to confute the
slander with the proper amount of publicity, and a due unmasking of
him who utters it.
The reason why respect is paid to age is that old people have
necessarily shown in the course of their lives whether or not they
have been able to maintain their honor unblemished; while that of
young people has not been put to the proof, though they are credited
with the possession of it. For neither length of years,--equalled,
as it is, and even excelled, in the case of the lower animals,--nor,
again, experience, which is only a closer knowledge of the world's
ways, can be any sufficient reason for the respect which the young are
everywhere required to show towards the old: for if it were merely a
matter of years, the weakness which attends on age would call rather
for consideration than for respect. It is, however, a remarkable fact
that white hair always commands reverence--a reverence really innate
and instinctive. Wrinkles--a much surer sign of old age--command
no reverence at all; you never hear any one speak of _venerable
wrinkles_; but _venerable white hair_ is a common expression.
Honor has only an indirect value. For, as I explained at the beginning
of this chapter, what other people think of us, if it affects us at
all, can affect us only in so far as it governs their behavior towards
us, and only just so long as we live with, or have to do with, them.
But it is to society alone that we owe that safety which we and our
possessions enjoy in a state of civilization; in all we do we need the
help of others, and they, in their turn, must have confidence in
us before they can have anything to do with us. Accordingly, their
opinion of us is, indirectly, a matter of great importance; though I
cannot see how it can have a direct or immediate value. This is an
opinion also held by Cicero. I _quite agree_, he writes, _with what
Chrysippus and Diogenes used to say, that a good reputation is not
worth raising a finger to obtain, if it were not that it is so
useful_.[1] This truth has been insisted upon at great length by
Helvetius in his chief work _De l'Esprit_,[2] the conclusion of which
is that _we love esteem not for its own sake, but solely for the
advantages which it brings_. And as the means can never be more than
the end, that saying, of which so much is made, _Honor is dearer than
life itself_, is, as I have remarked, a very exaggerated statement. So
much then, for civic honor.
[Footnote 1: _De finilus_ iii., 17.]
[Footnote 2: _Disc_: iii. 17.]
_Official honor_ is the general opinion of other people that a man who
fills any office really has the necessary qualities for the proper
discharge of all the duties which appertain to it. The greater and
more important the duties a man has to discharge in the State, and the
higher and more influential the office which he fills, the stronger
must be the opinion which people have of the moral and intellectual
qualities which render him fit for his post. Therefore, the higher
his position, the greater must be the degree of honor paid to him,
expressed, as it is, in titles, orders and the generally subservient
behavior of others towards him. As a rule, a man's official rank
implies the particular degree of honor which ought to be paid to him,
however much this degree may be modified by the capacity of the masses
to form any notion of its importance. Still, as a matter of fact,
greater honor is paid to a man who fulfills special duties than to
the common citizen, whose honor mainly consists in keeping clear of
dishonor.
Official honor demands, further, that the man who occupies an office
must maintain respect for it, for the sake both of his colleagues
and of those who will come after him. This respect an official can
maintain by a proper observance of his duties, and by repelling any
attack that may be made upon the office itself or upon its occupant:
he must not, for instance, pass over unheeded any statement to the
effect that the duties of the office are not properly discharged, or
that the office itself does not conduce to the public welfare. He must
prove the unwarrantable nature of such attacks by enforcing the legal
penalty for them.
Subordinate to the honor of official personages comes that of those
who serve the State in any other capacity, as doctors, lawyers,
teachers, anyone, in short, who, by graduating in any subject, or by
any other public declaration that he is qualified to exercise some
special skill, claims to practice it; in a word, the honor of all
those who take any public pledges whatever. Under this head comes
military honor, in the true sense of the word, the opinion that people
who have bound themselves to defend their country really possess
the requisite qualities which will enable them to do so, especially
courage, personal bravery and strength, and that they are perfectly
ready to defend their country to the death, and never and under
any circumstances desert the flag to which they have once sworn
allegiance. I have here taken official honor in a wider sense than
that in which it is generally used, namely, the respect due by
citizens to an office itself.
In treating of _sexual honor_ and the principles on which it rests, a
little more attention and analysis are necessary; and what I shall
say will support my contention that all honor really rests upon a
utilitarian basis. There are two natural divisions of the subject--the
honor of women and the honor of men, in either side issuing in a
well-understood _esprit de corps_. The former is by far the more
important of the two, because the most essential feature in woman's
life is her relation to man.
Female honor is the general opinion in regard to a girl that she is
pure, and in regard to a wife that she is faithful. The importance of
this opinion rests upon the following considerations. Women depend
upon men in all the relations of life; men upon women, it might
be said, in one only. So an arrangement is made for mutual
interdependence--man undertaking responsibility for all woman's needs
and also for the children that spring from their union--an arrangement
on which is based the welfare of the whole female race. To carry out
this plan, women have to band together with a show of _esprit de
corps_, and present one undivided front to their common enemy,
man,--who possesses all the good things of the earth, in virtue of his
superior physical and intellectual power,--in order to lay siege to
and conquer him, and so get possession of him and a share of those
good things. To this end the honor of all women depends upon the
enforcement of the rule that no woman should give herself to a man
except in marriage, in order that every man may be forced, as it
were, to surrender and ally himself with a woman; by this arrangement
provision is made for the whole of the female race. This is a result,
however, which can be obtained only by a strict observance of the
rule; and, accordingly, women everywhere show true _esprit de corps_
in carefully insisting upon its maintenance. Any girl who commits a
breach of the rule betrays the whole female race, because its welfare
would be destroyed if every woman were to do likewise; so she is cast
out with shame as one who has lost her honor. No woman will have
anything more to do with her; she is avoided like the plague. The same
doom is awarded to a woman who breaks the marriage tie; for in so
doing she is false to the terms upon which the man capitulated; and
as her conduct is such as to frighten other men from making a similar
surrender, it imperils the welfare of all her sisters. Nay, more; this
deception and coarse breach of troth is a crime punishable by the
loss, not only of personal, but also of civic honor. This is why we
minimize the shame of a girl, but not of a wife; because, in the
former case, marriage can restore honor, while in the latter, no
atonement can be made for the breach of contract.
Once this _esprit de corps_ is acknowledged to be the foundation
of female honor, and is seen to be a wholesome, nay, a necessary
arrangement, as at bottom a matter of prudence and interest, its
extreme importance for the welfare of women will be recognized. But
it does not possess anything more than a relative value. It is no
absolute end, lying beyond all other aims of existence and valued
above life itself. In this view, there will be nothing to applaud
in the forced and extravagant conduct of a Lucretia or a
Virginius--conduct which can easily degenerate into tragic farce, and
produce a terrible feeling of revulsion. The conclusion of _Emilia
Galotti_, for instance, makes one leave the theatre completely ill at
ease; and, on the other hand, all the rules of female honor cannot
prevent a certain sympathy with Clara in _Egmont_. To carry this
principle of female honor too far is to forget the end in thinking
of the means--and this is just what people often do; for such
exaggeration suggests that the value of sexual honor is absolute;
while the truth is that it is more relative than any other kind. One
might go so far as to say that its value is purely conventional, when
one sees from Thomasius how in all ages and countries, up to the time
of the Reformation, irregularities were permitted and recognized by
law, with no derogation to female honor,--not to speak of the temple
of Mylitta at Babylon.[1]
[Footnote 1: Heroditus, i. 199.]
There are also of course certain circumstances in civil life which
make external forms of marriage impossible, especially in Catholic
countries, where there is no such thing as divorce. Ruling princes
everywhere, would, in my opinion, do much better, from a moral point
of view, to dispense with forms altogether rather than contract a
morganatic marriage, the descendants of which might raise claims to
the throne if the legitimate stock happened to die out; so that there
is a possibility, though, perhaps, a remote one, that a morganatic
marriage might produce a civil war. And, besides, such a marriage,
concluded in defiance of all outward ceremony, is a concession made to
women and priests--two classes of persons to whom one should be most
careful to give as little tether as possible. It is further to be
remarked that every man in a country can marry the woman of his
choice, except one poor individual, namely, the prince. His hand
belongs to his country, and can be given in marriage only for reasons
of State, that is, for the good of the country. Still, for all that,
he is a man; and, as a man, he likes to follow whither his heart
leads. It is an unjust, ungrateful and priggish thing to forbid, or
to desire to forbid, a prince from following his inclinations in this
matter; of course, as long as the lady has no influence upon the
Government of the country. From her point of view she occupies an
exceptional position, and does not come under the ordinary rules of
sexual honor; for she has merely given herself to a man who loves her,
and whom she loves but cannot marry. And in general, the fact that the
principle of female honor has no origin in nature, is shown by the
many bloody sacrifices which have been offered to it,--the murder of
children and the mother's suicide. No doubt a girl who contravenes the
code commits a breach of faith against her whole sex; but this faith
is one which is only secretly taken for granted, and not sworn to. And
since, in most cases, her own prospects suffer most immediately, her
folly is infinitely greater than her crime.
The corresponding virtue in men is a product of the one I have been
discussing. It is their _esprit de corps_, which demands that, once
a man has made that surrender of himself in marriage which is so
advantageous to his conqueror, he shall take care that the terms of
the treaty are maintained; both in order that the agreement itself
may lose none of its force by the permission of any laxity in its
observance, and that men, having given up everything, may, at
least, be assured of their bargain, namely, exclusive possession.
Accordingly, it is part of a man's honor to resent a breach of the
marriage tie on the part of his wife, and to punish it, at the
very least by separating from her. If he condones the offence, his
fellowmen cry shame upon him; but the shame in this case is not nearly
so foul as that of the woman who has lost her honor; the stain is by
no means of so deep a dye--_levioris notae macula_;--because a man's
relation to woman is subordinate to many other and more important
affairs in his life. The two great dramatic poets of modern times
have each taken man's honor as the theme of two plays; Shakespeare in
_Othello_ and _The Winter's Tale_, and Calderon in _El medico de su
honra_, (The Physician of his Honor), and _A secreto agravio secreta
venganza_, (for Secret Insult Secret Vengeance). It should be said,
however, that honor demands the punishment of the wife only; to punish
her paramour too, is a work of supererogation. This confirms the view
I have taken, that a man's honor originates in _esprit de corps_.
The kind of honor which I have been discussing hitherto has always
existed in its various forms and principles amongst all nations and
at all times; although the history of female honor shows that its
principles have undergone certain local modifications at different
periods. But there is another species of honor which differs from this
entirely, a species of honor of which the Greeks and Romans had
no conception, and up to this day it is perfectly unknown amongst
Chinese, Hindoos or Mohammedans. It is a kind of honor which arose
only in the Middle Age, and is indigenous only to Christian Europe,
nay, only to an extremely small portion of the population, that is
to say, the higher classes of society and those who ape them. It is
_knightly honor_, or _point d'honneur_. Its principles are quite
different from those which underlie the kind of honor I have been
treating until now, and in some respects are even opposed to them. The
sort I am referring to produces the _cavalier_; while the other kind
creates the _man of honor_. As this is so, I shall proceed to give an
explanation of its principles, as a kind of code or mirror of knightly
courtesy.
(1.) To begin with, honor of this sort consists, not in other people's
opinion of what we are worth, but wholly and entirely in whether they
express it or not, no matter whether they really have any opinion at
all, let alone whether they know of reasons for having one. Other
people may entertain the worst opinion of us in consequence of what we
do, and may despise us as much as they like; so long as no one dares
to give expression to his opinion, our honor remains untarnished. So
if our actions and qualities compel the highest respect from other
people, and they have no option but to give this respect,--as soon as
anyone, no matter how wicked or foolish he may be, utters something
depreciatory of us, our honor is offended, nay, gone for ever, unless
we can manage to restore it. A superfluous proof of what I say,
namely, that knightly honor depends, not upon what people think, but
upon what they say, is furnished by the fact that insults can be
withdrawn, or, if necessary, form the subject of an apology, which
makes them as though they had never been uttered. Whether the opinion
which underlays the expression has also been rectified, and why
the expression should ever have been used, are questions which are
perfectly unimportant: so long as the statement is withdrawn, all is
well. The truth is that conduct of this kind aims, not at earning
respect, but at extorting it.
(2.) In the second place, this sort of honor rests, not on what a man
does, but on what he suffers, the obstacles he encounters; differing
from the honor which prevails in all else, in consisting, not in what
he says or does himself, but in what another man says or does. His
honor is thus at the mercy of every man who can talk it away on the
tip of his tongue; and if he attacks it, in a moment it is gone for
ever,--unless the man who is attacked manages to wrest it back again
by a process which I shall mention presently, a process which involves
danger to his life, health, freedom, property and peace of mind. A
man's whole conduct may be in accordance with the most righteous and
noble principles, his spirit may be the purest that ever breathed, his
intellect of the very highest order; and yet his honor may disappear
the moment that anyone is pleased to insult him, anyone at all who has
not offended against this code of honor himself, let him be the most
worthless rascal or the most stupid beast, an idler, gambler, debtor,
a man, in short, of no account at all. It is usually this sort of
fellow who likes to insult people; for, as Seneca[1] rightly remarks,
_ut quisque contemtissimus et ludibrio est, ita solutissimae est_, the
more contemptible and ridiculous a man is,--the readier he is with his
tongue. His insults are most likely to be directed against the very
kind of man I have described, because people of different tastes can
never be friends, and the sight of pre-eminent merit is apt to
raise the secret ire of a ne'er-do-well. What Goethe says in the
_Westöstlicher Divan_ is quite true, that it is useless to complain
against your enemies; for they can never become your friends, if your
whole being is a standing reproach to them:--
_Was klagst du über Feinde?
Sollten Solche je warden Freunde
Denen das Wesen, wie du bist,
Im stillen ein ewiger Vorwurf ist_?
[Footnote 1: _De Constantia_, 11.]
It is obvious that people of this worthless description have good
cause to be thankful to the principle of honor, because it puts them
on a level with people who in every other respect stand far above
them. If a fellow likes to insult any one, attribute to him,
for example, some bad quality, this is taken _prima facie_ as a
well-founded opinion, true in fact; a decree, as it were, with all the
force of law; nay, if it is not at once wiped out in blood, it is a
judgment which holds good and valid to all time. In other words,
the man who is insulted remains--in the eyes of all _honorable
people_--what the man who uttered the insult--even though he were the
greatest wretch on earth--was pleased to call him; for he has _put
up with_ the insult--the technical term, I believe. Accordingly, all
_honorable people_ will have nothing more to do with him, and treat
him like a leper, and, it may be, refuse to go into any company where
he may be found, and so on.
This wise proceeding may, I think, be traced back to the fact that in
the Middle Age, up to the fifteenth century, it was not the accuser in
any criminal process who had to prove the guilt of the accused, but
the accused who had to prove his innocence.[1] This he could do by
swearing he was not guilty; and his backers--_consacramentales_--had
to come and swear that in their opinion he was incapable of perjury.
If he could find no one to help him in this way, or the accuser took
objection to his backers, recourse was had to trial by _the Judgment
of God_, which generally meant a duel. For the accused was now _in
disgrace_,[2] and had to clear himself. Here, then, is the origin
of the notion of disgrace, and of that whole system which prevails
now-a-days amongst _honorable people_--only that the oath is omitted.
This is also the explanation of that deep feeling of indignation which
_honorable people_ are called upon to show if they are given the lie;
it is a reproach which they say must be wiped out in blood. It seldom
comes to this pass, however, though lies are of common occurrence; but
in England, more than elsewhere, it is a superstition which has taken
very deep root. As a matter of order, a man who threatens to kill
another for telling a lie should never have told one himself. The
fact is, that the criminal trial of the Middle Age also admitted of a
shorter form. In reply to the charge, the accused answered: _That is
a lie_; whereupon it was left to be decided by _the Judgment of God_.
Hence, the code of knightly honor prescribes that, when the lie is
given, an appeal to arms follows as a matter of course. So much, then,
for the theory of insult.
[Footnote 1: See C.G. von Waehter's _Beiträge zur deutschen
Geschichte_, especially the chapter on criminal law.]
[Footnote 2: _Translator's Note_.--It is true that this expression has
another special meaning in the technical terminology of Chivalry,
but it is the nearest English equivalent which I can find for the
German--_ein Bescholtener_]
But there is something even worse than insult, something so dreadful
that I must beg pardon of all _honorable people_ for so much as
mentioning it in this code of knightly honor; for I know they will
shiver, and their hair will stand on end, at the very thought of
it--the _summum malum_, the greatest evil on earth, worse than death
and damnation. A man may give another--_horrible dictu_!--a slap or a
blow. This is such an awful thing, and so utterly fatal to all
honor, that, while any other species of insult may be healed by
blood-letting, this can be cured only by the _coup-de-grace_.
(3.) In the third place, this kind of honor has absolutely nothing
to do with what a man may be in and for himself; or, again, with the
question whether his moral character can ever become better or worse,
and all such pedantic inquiries. If your honor happens to be attacked,
or to all appearances gone, it can very soon be restored in its
entirety if you are only quick enough in having recourse to the one
universal remedy--_a duel_. But if the aggressor does not belong to
the classes which recognize the code of knightly honor, or has himself
once offended against it, there is a safer way of meeting any attack
upon your honor, whether it consists in blows, or merely in words.
If you are armed, you can strike down your opponent on the spot, or
perhaps an hour later. This will restore your honor.
But if you wish to avoid such an extreme step, from fear of any
unpleasant consequences arising therefrom, or from uncertainty as to
whether the aggressor is subject to the laws of knightly honor or
not, there is another means of making your position good, namely, the
_Avantage_. This consists in returning rudeness with still greater
rudeness; and if insults are no use, you can try a blow, which forms a
sort of climax in the redemption of your honor; for instance, a box on
the ear may be cured by a blow with a stick, and a blow with a stick
by a thrashing with a horsewhip; and, as the approved remedy for this
last, some people recommend you to spit at your opponent.[1] If all
these means are of no avail, you must not shrink from drawing blood.
And the reason for these methods of wiping out insult is, in this
code, as follows:
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. It must be remembered that
Schopenhauer is here describing, or perhaps caricaturing the manners
and customs of the German aristocracy of half a century ago. Now, of
course, _nous avons change tout cela_!]
(4.) To receive an insult is disgraceful; to give one, honorable. Let
me take an example. My opponent has truth, right and reason on his
side. Very well. I insult him. Thereupon right and honor leave him and
come to me, and, for the time being, he has lost them--until he gets
them back, not by the exercise of right or reason, but by shooting and
sticking me. Accordingly, rudeness is a quality which, in point of
honor, is a substitute for any other and outweighs them all. The
rudest is always right. What more do you want? However stupid, bad or
wicked a man may have been, if he is only rude into the bargain, he
condones and legitimizes all his faults. If in any discussion or
conversation, another man shows more knowledge, greater love of
truth, a sounder judgment, better understanding than we, or generally
exhibits intellectual qualities which cast ours into the shade, we can
at once annul his superiority and our own shallowness, and in our turn
be superior to him, by being insulting and offensive. For rudeness
is better than any argument; it totally eclipses intellect. If our
opponent does not care for our mode of attack, and will not answer
still more rudely, so as to plunge us into the ignoble rivalry of
the _Avantage_, we are the victors and honor is on our side. Truth,
knowledge, understanding, intellect, wit, must beat a retreat and
leave the field to this almighty insolence.
_Honorable people_ immediately make a show of mounting their
war-horse, if anyone utters an opinion adverse to theirs, or shows
more intelligence than they can muster; and if in any controversy
they are at a loss for a reply, they look about for some weapon of
rudeness, which will serve as well and come readier to hand; so they
retire masters of the position. It must now be obvious that people are
quite right in applauding this principle of honor as having ennobled
the tone of society. This principle springs from another, which forms
the heart and soul of the entire code.
(5.) Fifthly, the code implies that the highest court to which a man
can appeal in any differences he may have with another on a point of
honor is the court of physical force, that is, of brutality. Every
piece of rudeness is, strictly speaking, an appeal to brutality; for
it is a declaration that intellectual strength and moral insight are
incompetent to decide, and that the battle must be fought out by
physical force--a struggle which, in the case of man, whom Franklin
defines as _a tool-making animal_, is decided by the weapons peculiar
to the species; and the decision is irrevocable. This is the
well-known principle of _right of might_--irony, of course, like _the
wit of a fool_, a parallel phrase. The honor of a knight may be called
the glory of might.
(6.) Lastly, if, as we saw above, civic honor is very scrupulous in
the matter of _meum_ and _tuum_, paying great respect to obligations
and a promise once made, the code we are here discussing displays, on
the other hand, the noblest liberality. There is only one word which
may not be broken, _the word of honor_--upon my _honor_, as people
say--the presumption being, of course, that every other form of
promise may be broken. Nay, if the worst comes to the worst, it
is easy to break even one's word of honor, and still remain
honorable--again by adopting that universal remedy, the duel, and
fighting with those who maintain that we pledged our word. Further,
there is one debt, and one alone, that under no circumstances must be
left unpaid--a gambling debt, which has accordingly been called _a
debt of honor_. In all other kinds of debt you may cheat Jews and
Christians as much as you like; and your knightly honor remains
without a stain.
The unprejudiced reader will see at once that such a strange, savage
and ridiculous code of honor as this has no foundation in human
nature, nor any warrant in a healthy view of human affairs. The
extremely narrow sphere of its operation serves only to intensify the
feeling, which is exclusively confined to Europe since the Middle Age,
and then only to the upper classes, officers and soldiers, and people
who imitate them. Neither Greeks nor Romans knew anything of this code
of honor or of its principles; nor the highly civilized nations of
Asia, ancient or modern. Amongst them no other kind of honor is
recognized but that which I discussed first, in virtue of which a man
is what he shows himself to be by his actions, not what any wagging
tongue is pleased to say of him. They thought that what a man said or
did might perhaps affect his own honor, but not any other man's. To
them, a blow was but a blow--and any horse or donkey could give a
harder one--a blow which under certain circumstances might make a man
angry and demand immediate vengeance; but it had nothing to do with
honor. No one kept account of blows or insulting words, or of the
_satisfaction_ which was demanded or omitted to be demanded. Yet in
personal bravery and contempt of death, the ancients were certainly
not inferior to the nations of Christian Europe. The Greeks and Romans
were thorough heroes, if you like; but they knew nothing about
_point d'honneur_. If _they_ had any idea of a duel, it was totally
unconnected with the life of the nobles; it was merely the exhibition
of mercenary gladiators, slaves devoted to slaughter, condemned
criminals, who, alternately with wild beasts, were set to butcher one
another to make a Roman holiday. When Christianity was introduced,
gladiatorial shows were done away with, and their place taken, in
Christian times, by the duel, which was a way of settling difficulties
by _the Judgment of God_.
If the gladiatorial fight was a cruel sacrifice to the prevailing
desire for great spectacles, dueling is a cruel sacrifice to existing
prejudices--a sacrifice, not of criminals, slaves and prisoners, but
of the noble and the free.[1]
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_. These and other remarks on dueling
will no doubt wear a belated look to English readers; but they are
hardly yet antiquated for most parts of the Continent.]
There are a great many traits in the character of the ancients which
show that they were entirely free from these prejudices. When, for
instance, Marius was summoned to a duel by a Teutonic chief, he
returned answer to the effect that, if the chief were tired of his
life, he might go and hang himself; at the same time he offered him a
veteran gladiator for a round or two. Plutarch relates in his life of
Themistocles that Eurybiades, who was in command of the fleet, once
raised his stick to strike him; whereupon Themistocles, instead of
drawing his sword, simply said: _Strike, but hear me_. How sorry the
reader must be, if he is an _honorable_ man, to find that we have no
information that the Athenian officers refused in a body to serve any
longer under Themistocles, if he acted like that! There is a modern
French writer who declares that if anyone considers Demosthenes a man
of honor, his ignorance will excite a smile of pity; and that Cicero
was not a man of honor either![1] In a certain passage in Plato's
_Laws_[2] the philosopher speaks at length of [Greek: aikia] or
_assault_, showing us clearly enough that the ancients had no notion
of any feeling of honor in connection with such matters. Socrates'
frequent discussions were often followed by his being severely
handled, and he bore it all mildly. Once, for instance, when somebody
kicked him, the patience with which he took the insult surprised
one of his friends. _Do you think_, said Socrates, _that if an ass
happened to kick me, I should resent it_?[3] On another occasion, when
he was asked, _Has not that fellow abused and insulted you? No_, was
his answer, _what he says is not addressed to me_[4] Stobaeus has
preserved a long passage from Musonius, from which we can see how the
ancients treated insults. They knew no other form of satisfaction than
that which the law provided, and wise people despised even this. If a
Greek received a box on the ear, he could get satisfaction by the aid
of the law; as is evident from Plato's _Gorgias_, where Socrates'
opinion may be found. The same thing may be seen in the account given
by Gellius of one Lucius Veratius, who had the audacity to give some
Roman citizens whom he met on the road a box on the ear, without any
provocation whatever; but to avoid any ulterior consequences, he
told a slave to bring a bag of small money, and on the spot paid
the trivial legal penalty to the men whom he had astonished by his
conduct.
[Footnote 1:_litteraires_: par C. Durand. Rouen, 1828.]
[Footnote 2: Bk. IX.].
[Footnote 3: Diogenes Laertius, ii., 21.]
[Footnote 4: _Ibid_ 36.]
Crates, the celebrated Cynic philosopher, got such a box on the ear
from Nicodromus, the musician, that his face swelled up and became
black and blue; whereupon he put a label on his forehead, with the
inscription, _Nicodromus fecit_, which brought much disgrace to the
fluteplayer who had committed such a piece of brutality upon the man
whom all Athens honored as a household god.[1] And in a letter to
Melesippus, Diogenes of Sinope tells us that he got a beating from the
drunken sons of the Athenians; but he adds that it was a matter of no
importance.[2] And Seneca devotes the last few chapters of his _De
Constantia_ to a lengthy discussion on insult--_contumelia_; in order
to show that a wise man will take no notice of it. In Chapter XIV, he
says, _What shall a wise man do, if he is given a blow? What Cato did,
when some one struck him on the mouth;--not fire up or avenge the
insult, or even return the blow, but simply ignore it_.
[Footnote 1: Diogenes Laertius, vi. 87, and Apul: Flor: p. 126.]
[Footnote 2: Cf. Casaubon's Note, Diog. Laert., vi. 33.]
_Yes_, you say, _but these men were philosophers_.--And you are fools,
eh? Precisely.