of possessions, according as this or the other is coveted by a lower,
higher, or highest egoism, now decides what is moral or immoral. To
prefer a lesser good (for instance, the gratification of the senses)
to a more highly valued good (for instance, health) is accounted
immoral, and also to prefer luxury to liberty. The hierarchy of
possessions, however, is not fixed and equal at all times; if any one
prefers vengeance to justice he is moral according to the standard of
an earlier civilisation, but immoral according to the present one. To
be "immoral," therefore, denotes that an individual has not felt, or
not felt sufficiently strongly, the higher, finer, spiritual motives
which have come in with a new culture; it marks one who has remained
behind, but only according to the difference of degrees. The order of
possessions itself is _not_ raised and lowered according to a moral
point of view; but each time that it is fixed it supplies the decision
as to whether an action is moral or immoral.
43.
CRUEL PEOPLE AS THOSE WHO HAVE REMAINED BEHIND.--People who are
cruel nowadays must be accounted for by us as the grades of earlier
civilisations which have survived; here are exposed those deeper
formations in the mountain of humanity which usually remain concealed.
They are backward people whose brains, through all manner of accidents
in the course of inheritance, have not been developed in so delicate
and manifold a way. They show us what we all _were_ and horrify us, but
they themselves are as little responsible as is a block of granite for
being granite. There must, too, be grooves and twists in our brains
which answer to that condition of mind, as in the form of certain
human organs there are supposed to be traces of a fish-state. But these
grooves and twists are no longer the bed through which the stream of
our sensation flows.
44.
GRATITUDE AND REVENGE.--The reason why the powerful man is grateful
is this: his benefactor, through the benefit he confers, has mistaken
and intruded into the sphere of the powerful man,--now the latter,
in return, penetrates into the sphere of the benefactor by the act of
gratitude. It is a milder form of revenge. Without the satisfaction of
gratitude, the powerful man would have shown himself powerless, and
would have been reckoned as such ever after. Therefore every society of
the good, which originally meant the powerful, places gratitude amongst
the first duties.--Swift propounded the maxim that men were grateful in
the same proportion as they were revengeful.
45.
THE TWOFOLD EARLY HISTORY OF GOOD AND EVIL.--The conception of good
and evil has a twofold early history, namely, _once_ in the soul of
the ruling tribes and castes. Whoever has the power of returning
good for good, evil for evil, and really practises requital, and who
is, therefore, grateful and revengeful, is called good; whoever is
powerless, and unable to requite, is reckoned as bad. As a good man one
is reckoned among the "good," a community which has common feelings
because the single individuals are bound to one another by the sense
of requital. As a bad man one belongs to the "bad," to a party of
subordinate, powerless people who have no common feeling. The good are
a caste, the bad are a mass like dust. Good and bad have for a long
time meant the same thing as noble and base, master and slave. On the
other hand, the enemy is not looked upon as evil, he can requite. In
Homer the Trojan and the Greek are both good. It is not the one who
injures us, but the one who is despicable, who is called bad. Good is
inherited in the community of the good; it is impossible that a bad man
could spring from such good soil. If, nevertheless, one of the good
ones does something which is unworthy of the good, refuge is sought in
excuses; the guilt is thrown upon a god, for instance; it is said that
he has struck the good man with blindness and madness.--
_Then_ in the soul of the oppressed and powerless. Here every _other_
man is looked upon as hostile, inconsiderate, rapacious, cruel,
cunning, be he noble or base; evil is the distinguishing word for man,
even for every conceivable living creature, _e.g._ for a god; human,
divine, is the same thing as devilish, evil. The signs of goodness,
helpfulness, pity, are looked upon with fear as spite, the prelude to
a terrible result, stupefaction and out-witting,--in short, as refined
malice. With such a disposition in the individual a community could
hardly exist, or at most it could exist only in its crudest form, so
that in all places where this conception of good and evil obtains,
the downfall of the single individuals, of their tribes and races, is
at hand.--Our present civilisation has grown up on the soil of the
_ruling_ tribes and castes.
46.
SYMPATHY STRONGER THAN SUFFERING.--There are cases when sympathy is
stronger than actual suffering. For instance, we are more pained when
one of our friends is guilty of something shameful than when we do
it ourselves. For one thing, we have more faith in the purity of his
character than he has himself; then our love for him, probably on
account of this very faith, is stronger than his love for himself. And
even if his egoism suffers more thereby than our egoism, inasmuch as it
has to bear more of the bad consequences of his fault, the un-egoistic
in us--this word is not to be taken too seriously, but only as a
modification of the expression--is more deeply wounded by his guilt
than is the un-egoistic in him.
47.
HYPOCHONDRIA.--There are people who become hypochondriacal through
their sympathy and concern for another person; the kind of sympathy
which results therefrom is nothing but a disease. Thus there is
also a Christian hypochondria, which afflicts those solitary,
religiously-minded people who keep constantly before their eyes the
sufferings and death of Christ.
48.
ECONOMY OF GOODNESS.--Goodness and love, as the most healing herbs and
powers in human intercourse, are such costly discoveries that one would
wish as much economy as possible to be exercised in the employment of
these balsamic means; but this is impossible. The economy of goodness
is the dream of the most daring Utopians.
49.
GOODWILL.--Amongst the small, but countlessly frequent and therefore
very effective, things to which science should pay more attention than
to the great, rare things, is to be reckoned goodwill; I mean that
exhibition of a friendly disposition in intercourse, that smiling
eye, that clasp of the hand, that cheerfulness with which almost all
human actions are usually accompanied. Every teacher, every official,
adds this to whatever is his duty; it is the perpetual occupation
of humanity, and at the same time the waves of its light, in which
everything grows; in the narrowest circle, namely, within the family,
life blooms and flourishes only through that goodwill. Kindliness,
friendliness, the courtesy of the heart, are ever-flowing streams of
un-egoistic impulses, and have given far more powerful assistance to
culture than even those much more famous demonstrations which are
called pity, mercy, and self-sacrifice. But they are thought little
of, and, as a matter of fact, there is not much that is un-egoistic
in them. The _sum_ of these small doses is nevertheless mighty, their
united force is amongst the strongest forces. Thus one finds much more
happiness in the world than sad eyes see, if one only reckons rightly,
and does not forget all those moments of comfort in which every day is
rich, even in the most harried of human lives.
50.
THE WISH TO AROUSE PITY.--In the most remarkable passage of his
auto--portrait (first printed in 1658), La Rochefoucauld assuredly
hits the nail on the head when he warns all sensible people against
pity, when he advises them to leave that to those orders of the people
who have need of passion (because it is not ruled by reason), and to
reach the point of helping the suffering and acting energetically in an
accident; while pity, according to his (and Plato's) judgment, weakens
the soul. Certainly we should _exhibit_ pity, but take good care not
to _feel_ it, for the unfortunate are so _stupid_ that to them the
exhibition of pity is the greatest good in the world. One can, perhaps,
give a more forcible warning against this feeling of pity if one looks
upon that need of the unfortunate not exactly as stupidity and lack of
intellect, a kind of mental derangement which misfortune brings with
it (and as such, indeed, La Rochefoucauld appears to regard it), but
as something quite different and more serious. Observe children, who
cry and scream _in order_ to be pitied, and therefore wait for the
moment when they will be noticed; live in intercourse with the sick and
mentally oppressed, and ask yourself whether that ready complaining and
whimpering, that making a show of misfortune, does not, at bottom, aim
at _making the spectators miserable;_ the pity which the spectators
then exhibit is in so far a consolation for the weak and suffering in
that the latter recognise therein that they _possess still one power,_
in spite of their weakness, _the power of giving pain._ The unfortunate
derives a sort of pleasure from this feeling of superiority, of which
the exhibition of pity makes him conscious; his imagination is exalted,
he is still powerful enough to give the world pain. Thus the thirst for
pity is the thirst for self-gratification, and that, moreover, at the
expense of his fellow-men; it shows man in the whole inconsiderateness
of his own dear self, but not exactly in his "stupidity," as La
Rochefoucauld thinks. In society-talk three-fourths of all questions
asked and of all answers given are intended to cause the interlocutor
a little pain; for this reason so many people pine for company; it
enables them to feel their power. There is a powerful charm of life
in such countless but very small doses in which malice makes itself
felt, just as goodwill, spread in the same way throughout the world, is
the ever-ready means of healing. But are there many honest people who
will admit that it is pleasing to give pain? that one not infrequently
amuses one's self--and amuses one's self very well--in causing
mortifications to others, at least in thought, and firing off at them
the grape-shot of petty malice? Most people are too dishonest, and a
few are too good, to know anything of this _pudendum_ these will always
deny that Prosper Mérimée is right when he says, "_Sachez aussi qu'il
n'y a rien de plus commun que de faire le mal pour le plaisir de le
faire._"
51.
HOW APPEARANCE BECOMES ACTUALITY.--The actor finally reaches such a
point that even in the deepest sorrow he cannot cease from thinking
about the impression made by his own person and the general scenic
effect; for instance, even at the funeral of his child, he will weep
over his own sorrow and its expression like one of his own audience.
The hypocrite, who always plays one and the same part, ceases at
last to be a hypocrite; for instance, priests, who as young men are
generally conscious or unconscious hypocrites, become at last natural,
and are then really without any affectation, just priests; or if the
father does not succeed so far, perhaps the son does, who makes use
of his father's progress and inherits his habits. If any one long and
obstinately desires to _appear_ something, he finds it difficult at
last to _be_ anything else. The profession of almost every individual,
even of the artist, begins with hypocrisy, with an imitating from
without, with a copying of the effective. He who always wears the
mask of a friendly expression must eventually obtain a power over
well-meaning dispositions without which the expression of friendliness
is not to be compelled,--and finally, these, again, obtain a power
over him, he _is_ well-meaning.
52.
THE POINT OF HONOUR IN DECEPTION.--In all great deceivers one thing
is noteworthy, to which they owe their power. In the actual act of
deception, with all their preparations, the dreadful voice, expression,
and mien, in the midst of their effective scenery they are overcome
by their _belief in themselves_ it is this, then, which speaks so
wonderfully and persuasively to the spectators. The founders of
religions are distinguished from those great deceivers in that they
never awake from their condition of self-deception; or at times, but
very rarely, they have an enlightened moment when doubt overpowers
them; they generally console themselves, however, by ascribing these
enlightened moments to the influence of the Evil One. There must
be self-deception in order that this and that may _produce_ great
_effects._ For men believe in the truth of everything that is visibly,
strongly believed in.
53.
THE NOMINAL DEGREES OF TRUTH.--One of the commonest mistakes is this:
because some one is truthful and honest towards us, he must speak the
truth. Thus the child believes in its parents' judgment, the Christian
in the assertions of the Founder of the Church. In the same way men
refuse to admit that all those things which men defended in former ages
with the sacrifice of life and happiness were nothing but errors; it
is even said, perhaps, that they were degrees of the truth. But what
is really meant is that when a man has honestly believed in something,
and has fought and died for his faith, it would really be too _unjust_
if he had only been inspired by an error. Such a thing seems a
contradiction of eternal justice; therefore the heart of sensitive man
ever enunciates against his head the axiom: between moral action and
intellectual insight there must absolutely be a necessary connection.
It is unfortunately otherwise; for there is no eternal justice.
54.
FALSEHOOD.--Why do people mostly speak the truth in daily
life?--Assuredly not because a god has forbidden falsehood. But,
firstly, because it is more convenient, as falsehood requires
invention, deceit, and memory. (As Swift says, he who tells a lie is
not sensible how great a task he undertakes; for in order to uphold
one lie he must invent twenty others.) Therefore, because it is
advantageous in upright circumstances to say straight out, "I want
this, I have done that," and so on; because, in other words, the path
of compulsion and authority is surer than that of cunning. But if a
child has been brought up in complicated domestic circumstances, he
employs falsehood, naturally and unconsciously says whatever best suits
his interests; a sense of truth and a hatred of falsehood are quite
foreign and unknown to him, and so he lies in all innocence.
55.
THROWING SUSPICION ON MORALITY FOR FAITH'S SAKE.--No power can be
maintained when it is only represented by hypocrites; no matter how
many "worldly" elements the Catholic Church possesses, its strength
lies in those still numerous priestly natures who render life hard
and full of meaning for themselves, and whose glance and worn bodies
speak of nocturnal vigils, hunger, burning prayers, and perhaps even of
scourging; these move men and inspire them with fear. What if it were
_necessary_ to live thus? This is the terrible question which their
aspect brings to the lips. Whilst they spread this doubt they always
uprear another pillar of their power; even the free-thinker does not
dare to withstand such unselfishness with hard words of truth, and to
say, "Thyself deceived, deceive not others!" Only the difference of
views divides them from him, certainly no difference of goodness or
badness; but men generally treat unjustly that which they do not like.
Thus we speak of the cunning and the infamous art of the Jesuits, but
overlook the self-control which every individual Jesuit practises, and
the fact that the lightened manner of life preached by Jesuit books
is by no means for their benefit, but for that of the laity. We may
even ask whether, with precisely similar tactics and organisation,
we enlightened ones would make equally good tools, equally admirable
through self-conquest, indefatigableness, and renunciation.
56.
VICTORY OF KNOWLEDGE OVER RADICAL EVIL.--It is of great advantage to
him who desires to be wise to have witnessed for a time the spectacle
of a thoroughly evil and degenerate man; it is false, like the contrary
spectacle, but for whole long periods it held the mastery, and its
roots have even extended and ramified themselves to us and our world.
In order to understand _ourselves_ we must understand _it_ but then, in
order to mount higher we must rise above it. We recognise, then, that
there exist no sins in the metaphysical sense; but, in the same sense,
also no virtues; we recognise that the entire domain of ethical ideas
is perpetually tottering, that there are higher and deeper conceptions
of good and evil, of moral and immoral. He who does not desire much
more from things than a knowledge of them easily makes peace with his
soul, and will make a mistake (or commit a sin, as the world calls
it) at the most from ignorance, but hardly from covetousness. He will
no longer wish to excommunicate and exterminate desires; but his
only, his wholly dominating ambition, to _know_ as well as possible
at all times, will make him cool and will soften all the savageness
in his disposition. Moreover, he has been freed from a number of
tormenting conceptions, he has no more feeling at the mention of the
words "punishments of hell," "sinfulness," "incapacity for good," he
recognises in them only the vanishing shadow-pictures of false views of
the world and of life.
57.
MORALITY AS THE SELF-DISINTEGRATION OF MAN.--A good author, who
really has his heart in his work, wishes that some one could come
and annihilate him by representing the same thing in a clearer way
and answering without more ado the problems therein proposed. The
loving girl wishes she could prove the self-sacrificing faithfulness
of her love by the unfaithfulness of her beloved. The soldier hopes
to die on the field of battle for his victorious fatherland; for his
loftiest desires triumph in the victory of his country. The mother
gives to the child that of which she deprives herself--sleep, the best
food, sometimes her health and fortune. But are all these un-egoistic
conditions? Are these deeds of morality _miracles,_ because, to use
Schopenhauer's expression, they are "impossible and yet performed"? Is
it not clear that in all four cases the individual loves _something
of himself,_ a thought, a desire, a production, better than _anything
else of himself;_ that he therefore divides his nature and to one part
sacrifices all the rest? Is it something _entirely_ different when an
obstinate man says, "I would rather be shot than move a step out of
my way for this man"? The _desire for something_ (wish, inclination,
longing) is present in all the instances mentioned; to give way to it,
with all its consequences, is certainly not "un-egoistic."--In ethics
man does not consider himself as _Individuum_ but as _dividuum._
58.
WHAT ONE MAY PROMISE.--One may promise actions, but no sentiments, for
these are involuntary. Whoever promises to love or hate a person, or be
faithful to him for ever, promises something which is not within his
power; he can certainly promise such actions as are usually the results
of love, hate, or fidelity, but which may also spring from other
motives; for many ways and motives lead to one and the same action.
The promise to love some one for ever is, therefore, really: So long
as I love you I will act towards you in a loving way; if I cease to
love you, you will still receive the same treatment from me, although
inspired by other motives, so that our fellow-men will still be deluded
into the belief that our love is unchanged and ever the same. One
promises, therefore, the continuation of the semblance of love, when,
without self-deception, one speaks vows of eternal love.
59.
INTELLECT AND MORALITY.--One must have a good memory to be able to keep
a given promise. One must have a strong power of imagination to be
able to feel pity. So closely is morality bound to the goodness of the
intellect.
60.
TO WISH FOR REVENGE AND TO TAKE REVENGE.--To have a revengeful thought
and to carry it into effect is to have a violent attack of fever,
which passes off, however,--but to have a revengeful thought without
the strength and courage to carry it out is a chronic disease, a
poisoning of body and soul which we have to bear about with us.
Morality, which only takes intentions into account, considers the
two cases as equal; usually the former case is regarded as the worse
(because of the evil consequences which may perhaps result from the
deed of revenge). Both estimates are short-sighted.
61.
THE POWER OF WAITING.--Waiting is so difficult that even great poets
have not disdained to take incapability of waiting as the motive for
their works. Thus Shakespeare in Othello or Sophocles in Ajax, to whom
suicide, had he been able to let his feelings cool down for one day,
would no longer have seemed necessary, as the oracle intimated; he
would probably have snapped his fingers at the terrible whisperings
of wounded vanity, and said to himself, "Who has not already, in
my circumstances, mistaken a fool for a hero? Is it something so
very extraordinary?" On the contrary, it is something very commonly
human; Ajax might allow himself that consolation. Passion will not
wait; the tragedy in the lives of great men frequently lies _not_ in
their conflict with the times and the baseness of their fellow-men,
but in their incapacity of postponing their work for a year or two;
they cannot wait. In all duels advising friends have one thing to
decide, namely whether the parties concerned can still wait awhile;
if this is not the case, then a duel is advisable, inasmuch as each
of the two says, "Either I continue to live and that other man must
die immediately, or _vice versa_." In such case waiting would mean a
prolonged suffering of the terrible martyrdom of wounded honour in the
face of the insulter, and this may entail more suffering than life is
worth.
62.
REVELLING IN VENGEANCE.--Coarser individuals who feel themselves
insulted, make out the insult to be as great as possible, and relate
the affair in greatly exaggerated language, in order to be able to
revel thoroughly in the rarely awakened feelings of hatred and revenge.
63.
THE VALUE OF DISPARAGEMENT.--In order to maintain their self-respect
in their own eyes and a certain thoroughness of action, not a few men,
perhaps even the majority, find it absolutely necessary to run down and
disparage all their acquaintances. But as mean natures are numerous,
and since it is very important whether they possess that thoroughness
or lose it, hence----
64.
THE MAN IN A PASSION.--We must beware of one who is in a passion
against us as of one who has once sought our life; for the fact that
we still live is due to the absence of power to kill,--if looks would
suffice, we should have been dead long ago. It is a piece of rough
civilisation to force some one into silence by the exhibition of
physical savageness and the inspiring of fear. That cold glance which
exalted persons employ towards their servants is also a relic of that
caste division between man and man, a piece of rough antiquity; women,
the preservers of ancient things, have also faithfully retained this
_survival_ of an ancient habit.
65.
WHITHER HONESTY CAN LEAD.--Somebody had the bad habit of occasionally
talking quite frankly about the motives of his actions, which were as
good and as bad as the motives of most men. He first gave offence,
then aroused suspicion, was then gradually excluded from society and
declared a social outlaw, until at last justice remembered such an
abandoned creature, on occasions when it would otherwise have had no
eyes, or would have closed them. The lack of power to hold his tongue
concerning the common secret, and the irresponsible tendency to see
what no one wishes to see--himself--brought him to a prison and an
early death.
66.
PUNISHABLE, BUT NEVER PUNISHED.--Our crime against criminals lies in
the fact that we treat them like rascals.
67.
_SANCTA SIMPLICITAS_ OF VIRTUE.--Every virtue has its privileges; for
example, that of contributing its own little faggot to the scaffold of
every condemned man.
68.