Chapter XLIV. The Metaphysics Of The Love Of The Sexes.

“Ye wise men, highly, deeply learned,

Who think it out and know,

How, when, and where do all things pair?

Why do they kiss and love?

Ye men of lofty wisdom, say

What happened to me then;

Search out and tell me where, how, when,

And why it happened thus.”

—BÜRGER.

This chapter is the last of four whose various reciprocal relations, by

virtue of which, to a certain extent, they constitute a subordinate whole,

the attentive reader will recognise without it being needful for me to

interrupt my exposition by recalling them or referring to them.

We are accustomed to see poets principally occupied with describing the

love of the sexes. This is as a rule the chief theme of all dramatic

works, tragical as well as comical, romantic as well as classical, Indian

as well as European. Not less is it the material of by far the largest

part of lyrical and also of epic poetry, especially if we class with the

latter the enormous piles of romances which for centuries every year has

produced in all the civilised countries of Europe as regularly as the

fruits of the earth. As regards their main contents, all these works are

nothing else than many‐sided brief or lengthy descriptions of the passion

we are speaking of. Moreover, the most successful pictures of it—such, for

example, as Romeo and Juliet, _La Nouvelle Hélöise_, and _Werther_—have

gained immortal fame. Yet, when Rochefoucauld imagines that it is the same

with passionate love as with ghosts, of which every one speaks, but which

no one has seen; and Lichtenberg also in his essay, “_Ueber die Macht der

Liebe_,” disputes and denies the reality and naturalness of that passion,

they are greatly in error. For it is impossible that something which is

foreign and contrary to human nature, thus a mere imaginary caricature,

could be unweariedly represented by poetic genius in all ages, and

received by mankind with unaltered interest; for nothing that is

artistically beautiful can be without truth:—

“_Rien n’est beau que le vrai; le vrai seul est aimable_.”

—BOIL.

Certainly, however, it is also confirmed by experience, although not by

the experience of every day, that that which as a rule only appears as a

strong yet still controllable inclination may rise under certain

circumstances to a passion which exceeds all others in vehemence, and

which then sets aside all considerations, overcomes all obstacles with

incredible strength and perseverance, so that for its satisfaction life is

risked without hesitation, nay, if that satisfaction is still withheld, is

given as the price of it. Werthers and Jacopo Ortis exist not only in

romance, but every year can show at least half a dozen of them in Europe:

_Sed ignotis perierunt mortibus illi_; for their sorrows find no other

chroniclers than the writers of official registers or the reporters of the

newspapers. Yet the readers of the police news in English and French

journals will attest the correctness of my assertion. Still greater,

however, is the number of those whom the same passion brings to the

madhouse. Finally, every year can show cases of the double suicide of a

pair of lovers who are opposed by outward circumstances. In such cases,

however, it is inexplicable to me how those who, certain of mutual love,

expect to find the supremest bliss in the enjoyment of this, do not

withdraw themselves from all connections by taking the extremest steps,

and endure all hardships, rather than give up with life a pleasure which

is greater than any other they can conceive. As regards the lower grades

of that passion, and the mere approaches to it, every one has them daily

before his eyes, and, as long as he is not old, for the most part also in

his heart.

So then, after what has here been called to mind, no one can doubt either

the reality or the importance of the matter; and therefore, instead of

wondering that a philosophy should also for once make its own this

constant theme of all poets, one ought rather to be surprised that a thing

which plays throughout so important a part in human life has hitherto

practically been disregarded by philosophers altogether, and lies before

us as raw material. The one who has most concerned himself with it is

Plato, especially in the “Symposium” and the “Phædrus.” Yet what he says

on the subject is confined to the sphere of myths, fables, and jokes, and

also for the most part concerns only the Greek love of youths. The little

that Rousseau says upon our theme in the “_Discours sur l’inégalité_” (p.

96, ed. Bip.) is false and insufficient. Kant’s explanation of the subject

in the third part of the essay, “_Ueber das Gefühl des Schönen und

Erhabenen_” (p. 435 _seq._ of Rosenkranz’s edition), is very superficial

and without practical knowledge, therefore it is also partly incorrect.

Lastly, Platner’s treatment of the matter in his “Anthropology” (§ 1347

_seq._) every one will find dull and shallow. On the other hand, Spinoza’s

definition, on account of its excessive naïveté, deserves to be quoted for

the sake of amusement: “_Amor est titillatio, concomitante idea causæ

externæ_” (_Eth._ iv., prop. 44, _dem._) Accordingly I have no

predecessors either to make use of or to refute. The subject has pressed

itself upon me objectively, and has entered of its own accord into the

connection of my consideration of the world. Moreover, least of all can I

hope for approbation from those who are themselves under the power of this

passion, and who accordingly seek to express the excess of their feelings

in the sublimest and most ethereal images. To them my view will appear too

physical, too material, however metaphysical and even transcendent it may

be at bottom. Meanwhile let them reflect that if the object which to‐day

inspires them to write madrigals and sonnets had been born eighteen years

earlier it would scarcely have won a glance from them.

For all love, however ethereally it may bear itself, is rooted in the

sexual impulse alone, nay, it absolutely is only a more definitely

determined, specialised, and indeed in the strictest sense individualised

sexual impulse. If now, keeping this in view, one considers the important

part which the sexual impulse in all its degrees and nuances plays not

only on the stage and in novels, but also in the real world, where, next

to the love of life, it shows itself the strongest and most powerful of

motives, constantly lays claim to half the powers and thoughts of the

younger portion of mankind, is the ultimate goal of almost all human

effort, exerts an adverse influence on the most important events,

interrupts the most serious occupations every hour, sometimes embarrasses

for a while even the greatest minds, does not hesitate to intrude with its

trash interfering with the negotiations of statesmen and the

investigations of men of learning, knows how to slip its love letters and

locks of hair even into ministerial portfolios and philosophical

manuscripts, and no less devises daily the most entangled and the worst

actions, destroys the most valuable relationships, breaks the firmest

bonds, demands the sacrifice sometimes of life or health, sometimes of

wealth, rank, and happiness, nay, robs those who are otherwise honest of

all conscience, makes those who have hitherto been faithful, traitors;

accordingly, on the whole, appears as a malevolent demon that strives to

pervert, confuse, and overthrow everything;—then one will be forced to

cry, Wherefore all this noise? Wherefore the straining and storming, the

anxiety and want? It is merely a question of every Hans finding his

Grethe.(37) Why should such a trifle play so important a part, and

constantly introduce disturbance and confusion into the well‐regulated

life of man? But to the earnest investigator the spirit of truth gradually

reveals the answer. It is no trifle that is in question here; on the

contrary, the importance of the matter is quite proportionate to the

seriousness and ardour of the effort. The ultimate end of all love

affairs, whether they are played in sock or cothurnus, is really more

important than all other ends of human life, and is therefore quite worthy

of the profound seriousness with which every one pursues it. That which is

decided by it is nothing less than _the composition of the next

generation_. The _dramatis personæ_ who shall appear when we are withdrawn

are here determined, both as regards their existence and their nature, by

these frivolous love affairs. As the being, the _existentia_, of these

future persons is absolutely conditioned by our sexual impulse generally,

so their nature, _essentia_, is determined by the individual selection in

its satisfaction, _i.e._, by sexual love, and is in every respect

irrevocably fixed by this. This is the key of the problem: we shall arrive

at a more accurate knowledge of it in its application if we go through the

degrees of love, from the passing inclination to the vehement passion,

when we shall also recognise that the difference of these grades arises

from the degree of the individualisation of the choice.

The collective love affairs of the present generation taken together are

accordingly, of the whole human race, the serious _meditatio compositionis

generationis futuræ, e qua iterum pendent innumeræ generationes_. This

high importance of the matter, in which it is not a question of individual

weal or woe, as in all other matters, but of the existence and special

nature of the human race in future times, and therefore the will of the

individual appears at a higher power as the will of the species;—this it

is on which the pathetic and sublime elements in affairs of love depend,

which for thousands of years poets have never wearied of representing in

innumerable examples; because no theme can equal in interest this one,

which stands to all others which only concern the welfare of individuals

as the solid body to the surface, because it concerns the weal and woe of

the species. Just on this account, then, is it so difficult to impart

interest to a drama without the element of love, and, on the other hand,

this theme is never worn out even by daily use.

That which presents itself in the individual consciousness as sexual

impulse in general, without being directed towards a definite individual

of the other sex, is in itself, and apart from the phenomenon, simply the

will to live. But what appears in consciousness as a sexual impulse

directed to a definite individual is in itself the will to live as a

definitely determined individual. Now in this case the sexual impulse,

although in itself a subjective need, knows how to assume very skilfully

the mask of an objective admiration, and thus to deceive our

consciousness; for nature requires this stratagem to attain its ends. But

yet that in every case of falling in love, however objective and sublime

this admiration may appear, what alone is looked to is the production of

an individual of a definite nature is primarily confirmed by the fact that

the essential matter is not the reciprocation of love, but possession,

_i.e._, the physical enjoyment. The certainty of the former can therefore

by no means console us for the want of the latter; on the contrary, in

such a situation many a man has shot himself. On the other hand, persons

who are deeply in love, and can obtain no return of it, are contented with

possession, _i.e._, with the physical enjoyment. This is proved by all

forced marriages, and also by the frequent purchase of the favour of a

woman, in spite of her dislike, by large presents or other sacrifices,

nay, even by cases of rape. That this particular child shall be begotten

is, although unknown to the parties concerned, the true end of the whole

love story; the manner in which it is attained is a secondary

consideration. Now, however loudly persons of lofty and sentimental soul,

and especially those who are in love, may cry out here about the gross

realism of my view, they are yet in error. For is not the definite

determination of the individualities of the next generation a much higher

and more worthy end than those exuberant feelings and super‐sensible soap

bubbles of theirs? Nay, among earthly aims, can there be one which is

greater or more important? It alone corresponds to the profoundness with

which passionate love is felt, to the seriousness with which it appears,

and the importance which it attributes even to the trifling details of its

sphere and occasion. Only so far as this end is assumed as the true one do

the difficulties encountered, the infinite exertions and annoyances made

and endured for the attainment of the loved object, appear proportionate

to the matter. For it is the future generation, in its whole individual

determinateness, that presses into existence by means of those efforts and

toils. Nay, it is itself already active in that careful, definite, and

arbitrary choice for the satisfaction of the sexual impulse which we call

love. The growing inclination of two lovers is really already the will to

live of the new individual which they can and desire to produce; nay, even

in the meeting of their longing glances its new life breaks out, and

announces itself as a future individuality harmoniously and well composed.

They feel the longing for an actual union and fusing together into a

single being, in order to live on only as this; and this longing receives

its fulfilment in the child which is produced by them, as that in which

the qualities transmitted by them both, fused and united in one being,

live on. Conversely, the mutual, decided and persistent aversion between a

man and a maid is a sign that what they could produce would only be a

badly organised, in itself inharmonious and unhappy being. Hence there

lies a deeper meaning in the fact that Calderon, though he calls the

atrocious Semiramis the daughter of the air, yet introduces her as the

daughter of rape followed by the murder of the husband.

But, finally, what draws two individuals of different sex exclusively to

each other with such power is the will to live, which exhibits itself in

the whole species, and which here anticipates in the individual which

these two can produce an objectification of its nature answering to its

aims. This individual will have the will, or character, from the father,

the intellect from the mother, and the corporisation from both; yet, for

the most part, the figure will take more after the father, the size after

the mother,—according to the law which comes out in the breeding of

hybrids among the brutes, and principally depends upon the fact that the

size of the fœtus must conform to the size of the uterus. Just as

inexplicable as the quite special individuality of any man, which is

exclusively peculiar to him, is also the quite special and individual

passion of two lovers; indeed at bottom the two are one and the same: the

former is _explicite_ what the latter was _implicite_. The moment at which

the parents begin to love each other—to fancy each other, as the very

happy English expression has it—is really to be regarded as the first

appearance of a new individual and the true _punctum saliens_ of its life,

and, as has been said, in the meeting and fixing of their longing glances

there appears the first germ of the new being, which certainly, like all

germs, is generally crushed out. This new individual is to a certain

extent a new (Platonic) Idea; and now, as all Ideas strive with the

greatest vehemence to enter the phenomenal world, eagerly seizing for this

end upon the matter which the law of causality divides among them all, so

also does this particular Idea of a human individuality strive with the

greatest eagerness and vehemence towards its realisation in the

phenomenon. This eagerness and vehemence is just the passion of the two

future parents for each other. It has innumerable degrees, the two

extremes of which may at any rate be described as Αφροδιτη πανδημος and

ουρανια; in its nature, however, it is everywhere the same. On the other

hand, it will be in degree so much the more powerful the more

_individualised_ it is; that is, the more the loved individual is

exclusively suited, by virtue of all his or her parts and qualities, to

satisfy the desire of the lover and the need established by his or her own

individuality. What is really in question here will become clear in the

further course of our exposition. Primarily and essentially the

inclination of love is directed to health, strength, and beauty,

consequently also to youth; because the will first of all seeks to exhibit

the specific character of the human species as the basis of all

individuality: ordinary amorousness (Αφροδιτη πανδημος) does not go much

further. To these, then, more special claims link themselves on, which we

shall investigate in detail further on, and with which, when they see

satisfaction before them, the passion increases. But the highest degrees

of this passion spring from that suitableness of two individualities to

each other on account of which the will, _i.e._, the character, of the

father and the intellect of the mother, in their connection, make up

precisely that individual towards which the will to live in general which

exhibits itself in the whole species feels a longing proportionate to this

its magnitude, and which therefore exceeds the measure of a mortal heart,

and the motives of which, in the same way, lie beyond the sphere of the

individual intellect. This is thus the soul of a true and great passion.

Now the more perfect is the mutual adaptation of two individuals to each

other in each of the many respects which have further to be considered,

the stronger will be their mutual passion. Since there do not exist two

individuals exactly alike, there must be for each particular man a

particular woman—always with reference to what is to be produced—who

corresponds most perfectly. A really passionate love is as rare as the

accident of these two meeting. Since, however, the possibility of such a

love is present in every one, the representations of it in the works of

the poets are comprehensible to us. Just because the passion of love

really turns about that which is to be produced, and its qualities, and

because its kernel lies here, a friendship without any admixture of sexual

love can exist between two young and good‐looking persons of different

sex, on account of the agreement of their disposition, character, and

mental tendencies; nay, as regards sexual love there may even be a certain

aversion between them. The reason of this is to be sought in the fact that

a child produced by them would have physical or mental qualities which

were inharmonious; in short, its existence and nature would not answer the

ends of the will to live as it exhibits itself in the species. On the

other hand, in the case of difference of disposition, character, and

mental tendency, and the dislike, nay, enmity, proceeding from this,

sexual love may yet arise and exist; when it then blinds us to all that;

and if it here leads to marriage it will be a very unhappy one.

Let us now set about the more thorough investigation of the matter. Egoism

is so deeply rooted a quality of all individuals in general, that in order

to rouse the activity of an individual being egoistical ends are the only

ones upon which we can count with certainty. Certainly the species has an

earlier, closer, and greater claim upon the individual than the perishable

individuality itself. Yet when the individual has to act, and even make

sacrifices for the continuance and quality of the species, the importance

of the matter cannot be made so comprehensible to his intellect, which is

calculated merely with regard to individual ends, as to have its

proportionate effect. Therefore in such a case nature can only attain its

ends by implanting a certain illusion in the individual, on account of

which that which is only a good for the species appears to him as a good

for himself, so that when he serves the species he imagines he is serving

himself; in which process a mere chimera, which vanishes immediately

afterwards, floats before him, and takes the place of a real thing as a

motive. This illusion is instinct. In the great majority of cases this is

to be regarded as the sense of the species, which presents what is of

benefit to _it_ to the will. Since, however, the will has here become

individual, it must be so deluded that it apprehends through the sense of

the individual what the sense of the species presents to it, thus imagines

it is following individual ends while in truth it is pursuing ends which

are merely general (taking this word in its strictest sense). The external

phenomenon of instinct we can best observe in the brutes where its rôle is

most important; but it is in ourselves alone that we arrive at a knowledge

of its internal process, as of everything internal. Now it is certainly

supposed that man has almost no instinct; at any rate only this, that the

new‐born babe seeks for and seizes the breast of its mother. But, in fact,

we have a very definite, distinct, and complicated instinct, that of the

selection of another individual for the satisfaction of the sexual

impulse, a selection which is so fine, so serious, and so arbitrary. With

this satisfaction in itself, _i.e._, so far as it is a sensual pleasure

resting upon a pressing want of the individual, the beauty or ugliness of

the other individual has nothing to do. Thus the regard for this which is

yet pursued with such ardour, together with the careful selection which

springs from it, is evidently connected, not with the chooser

himself—although he imagines it is so—but with the true end, that which is

to be produced, which is to receive the type of the species as purely and

correctly as possible. Through a thousand physical accidents and moral

aberrations there arise a great variety of deteriorations of the human

form; yet its true type, in all its parts, is always again established:

and this takes place under the guidance of the sense of beauty, which

always directs the sexual impulse, and without which this sinks to the

level of a disgusting necessity. Accordingly, in the first place, every

one will decidedly prefer and eagerly desire the most beautiful

individuals, _i.e._, those in whom the character of the species is most

purely impressed; but, secondly, each one will specially regard as

beautiful in another individual those perfections which he himself lacks,

nay, even those imperfections which are the opposite of his own. Hence,

for example, little men love big women, fair persons like dark, &c. &c.

The delusive ecstasy which seizes a man at the sight of a woman whose

beauty is suited to him, and pictures to him a union with her as the

highest good, is just the _sense of the species_, which, recognising the

distinctly expressed stamp of the same, desires to perpetuate it with this

individual. Upon this decided inclination to beauty depends the

maintenance of the type of the species: hence it acts with such great

power. We shall examine specially further on the considerations which it

follows. Thus what guides man here is really an instinct which is directed

to doing the best for the species, while the man himself imagines that he

only seeks the heightening of his own pleasure. In fact, we have in this

an instructive lesson concerning the inner nature of all instinct, which,

as here, almost always sets the individual in motion for the good of the

species. For clearly the pains with which an insect seeks out a particular

flower, or fruit, or dung, or flesh, or, as in the case of the

ichneumonidæ, the larva of another insect, in order to deposit its eggs

there only, and to attain this end shrinks neither from trouble nor

danger, is thoroughly analogous to the pains with which for his sexual

satisfaction a man carefully chooses a woman with definite qualities which

appeal to him individually, and strives so eagerly after her that in order

to attain this end he often sacrifices his own happiness in life, contrary

to all reason, by a foolish marriage, by love affairs which cost him

wealth, honour, and life, even by crimes such as adultery or rape, all

merely in order to serve the species in the most efficient way, although

at the cost of the individual, in accordance with the will of nature which

is everywhere sovereign. Instinct, in fact, is always an act which seems

to be in accordance with the conception of an end, and yet is entirely

without such a conception. Nature implants it wherever the acting

individual is incapable of understanding the end, or would be unwilling to

pursue it. Therefore, as a rule, it is given only to the brutes, and

indeed especially to the lowest of them which have least understanding;

but almost only in the case we are here considering it is also given to

man, who certainly could understand the end, but would not pursue it with

the necessary ardour, that is, even at the expense of his individual

welfare. Thus here, as in the case of all instinct, the truth assumes the

form of an illusion, in order to act upon the will. It is a voluptuous

illusion which leads the man to believe he will find a greater pleasure in

the arms of a woman whose beauty appeals to him than in those of any

other; or which indeed, exclusively directed to a single individual,

firmly convinces him that the possession of her will ensure him excessive

happiness. Therefore he imagines he is taking trouble and making

sacrifices for his own pleasure, while he does so merely for the

maintenance of the regular type of the species, or else a quite special

individuality, which can only come from these parents, is to attain to

existence. The character of instinct is here so perfectly present, thus an

action which seems to be in accordance with the conception of an end, and

yet is entirely without such a conception, that he who is drawn by that

illusion often abhors the end which alone guides it, procreation, and

would like to hinder it; thus it is in the case of almost all illicit love

affairs. In accordance with the character of the matter which has been

explained, every lover will experience a marvellous disillusion after the

pleasure he has at last attained, and will wonder that what was so

longingly desired accomplishes nothing more than every other sexual

satisfaction; so that he does not see himself much benefited by it. That

wish was related to all his other wishes as the species is related to the

individual, thus as the infinite to the finite. The satisfaction, on the

other hand, is really only for the benefit of the species, and thus does

not come within the consciousness of the individual, who, inspired by the

will of the species, here served an end with every kind of sacrifice,

which was not his own end at all. Hence, then, every lover, after the

ultimate consummation of the great work, finds himself cheated; for the

illusion has vanished by means of which the individual was here the dupe

of the species, Accordingly Plato very happily says: “ἡδονη ἁπαντων

αλαζονεστατον” (_voluptas ommlum maxime vaniloqua_), _Phileb._ 319.

But all this reflects light on the instincts and mechanical tendencies of

the brutes. They also are, without doubt, involved in a kind of illusion,

which deceives them with the prospect of their own pleasure, while they

work so laboriously and with so much self‐denial for the species, the bird

builds its nest, the insect seeks the only suitable place for its eggs, or

even hunts for prey which, unsuited for its own enjoyment, must be laid

beside the eggs as food for the future larvæ, the bees, the wasps, the

ants apply themselves to their skilful dwellings and highly complicated

economy. They are all guided with certainty by an illusion, which conceals

the service of the species under the mask of an egotistical end. This is

probably the only way to comprehend the inner or subjective process that

lies at the foundation of the manifestations of instinct. Outwardly,

however, or objectively, we find in those creatures which are to a large

extent governed by instinct, especially in insects, a preponderance of the

ganglion system, _i.e._, the _subjective_ nervous system, over the

objective or cerebral system; from which we must conclude that they are

moved, not so much by objective, proper apprehension as by subjective

ideas exciting desire, which arise from the influence of the ganglion

system upon the brain, and accordingly by a kind of illusion; and this

will be the _physiological_ process in the case of all instinct. For the

sake of illustration I will mention as another example of instinct in the

human species, although a weak one, the capricious appetite of women who

are pregnant. It seems to arise from the fact that the nourishment of the

embryo sometimes requires a special or definite modification of the blood

which flows to it, upon which the food which produces such a modification

at once presents itself to the pregnant woman as an object of ardent

longing, thus here also an illusion arises. Accordingly woman has one

instinct more than man; and the ganglion system is also much more

developed in the woman. That man has fewer instincts than the brutes and

that even these few can be easily led astray, may be explained from the

great preponderance of the brain in his case. The sense of beauty which

instinctively guides the selection for the satisfaction of sexual passion

is led astray when it degenerates into the tendency to pederasty;

analogous to the fact that the blue‐bottle (_Musca vomitoria_), instead of

depositing its eggs, according to instinct, in putrefying flesh, lays them

in the blossom of the _Arum dracunculus_, deceived by the cadaverous smell

of this plant.

Now that an instinct entirely directed to that which is to be produced

lies at the foundation of all sexual love will receive complete

confirmation from the fuller analysis of it, which we cannot therefore

avoid. First of all we have to remark here that by nature man is inclined

to inconstancy in love, woman to constancy. The love of the man sinks

perceptibly from the moment it has obtained satisfaction; almost every

other woman charms him more than the one he already possesses; he longs

for variety. The love of the woman, on the other hand, increases just from

that moment. This is a consequence of the aim of nature which is directed

to the maintenance, and therefore to the greatest possible increase, of

the species. The man can easily beget over a hundred children a year; the

woman, on the contrary, with however many men, can yet only bring one

child a year into the world (leaving twin births out of account).

Therefore the man always looks about after other women; the woman, again,

sticks firmly to the one man; for nature moves her, instinctively and

without reflection, to retain the nourisher and protector of the future

offspring. Accordingly faithfulness in marriage is with the man

artificial, with the woman it is natural, and thus adultery on the part of

the woman is much less pardonable than on the part of the man, both

objectively on account of the consequences and also subjectively on

account of its unnaturalness.

But in order to be thorough and gain full conviction that the pleasure in

the other sex, however objective it may seem to us, is yet merely

disguised instinct, _i.e._, sense of the species, which strives to

maintain its type, we must investigate more fully the considerations which

guide us in this pleasure, and enter into the details of this, rarely as

these details which will have to be mentioned here may have figured in a

philosophical work before. These considerations divide themselves into

those which directly concern the type of the species, _i.e._, beauty,

those which are concerned with physical qualities, and lastly, those which

are merely relative, which arise from the requisite correction or

neutralisation of the one‐sided qualities and abnormities of the two

individuals by each other. We shall go through them one by one.

The first consideration which guides our choice and inclination is age. In

general we accept the age from the years when menstruation begins to those

when it ceases, yet we give the decided preference to the period from the

eighteenth to the twenty‐eighth year. Outside of those years, on the other

hand, no woman can attract us: an old woman, _i.e._, one who no longer

menstruates, excites our aversion. Youth without beauty has still always

attraction; beauty without youth has none. Clearly the unconscious end

which guides us here is the possibility of reproduction in general:

therefore every individual loses attraction for the opposite sex in

proportion as he or she is removed from the fittest period for begetting

or conceiving. The second consideration is that of health. Acute diseases

only temporarily disturb us, chronic diseases or cachexia repel us,

because they are transmitted to the child. The third consideration is the

skeleton, because it is the basis of the type of the species. Next to age

and disease nothing repels us so much as a deformed figure; even the most

beautiful face cannot atone for it; on the contrary, even the ugliest face

when accompanied by a straight figure is unquestionably preferred.

Further, we feel every disproportion of the skeleton most strongly; for

example, a stunted, dumpy, short‐boned figure, and many such; also a

halting gait, where it is not the result of an extraneous accident. On the

other hand, a strikingly beautiful figure can make up for all defects: it

enchants us. Here also comes in the great value which all attach to the

smallness of the feet: it depends upon the fact that they are an essential

characteristic of the species, for no animal has the tarsus and the

metatarsus taken together so small as man, which accords with his upright

walk; he is a plantigrade. Accordingly Jesus Sirach also says (xxvi. 23,

according to the revised translation by Kraus): “A woman with a straight

figure and beautiful feet is like columns of gold in sockets of silver.”

The teeth also are important; because they are essential for nourishment

and quite specially hereditary. The fourth consideration is a certain

fulness of flesh; thus a predominance of the vegetative function, of

plasticity; because this promises abundant nourishment for the fœtus;

hence great leanness repels us in a striking degree. A full female bosom

exerts an exceptional charm upon the male sex; because, standing in direct

connection with the female functions of propagation, it promises abundant

nourishment to the new‐born child. On the other hand, excessively fat

women excite our disgust: the cause is that this indicates atrophy of the

uterus, thus barrenness; which is not known by the head, but by instinct.

The last consideration of all is the beauty of the face. Here also before

everything else the bones are considered; therefore we look principally

for a beautiful nose, and a short turned‐up nose spoils everything. A

slight inclination of the nose downwards or upwards has decided the

happiness in life of innumerable maidens, and rightly so, for it concerns

the type of the species. A small mouth, by means of small maxillæ, is very

essential as specifically characteristic of the human countenance, as

distinguished from the muzzle of the brutes. A receding or, as it were,

cut‐away chin is especially disagreeable, because _mentum prominulum_ is

an exclusive characteristic of our species. Finally comes the regard for

beautiful eyes and forehead; it is connected with the psychical qualities,

especially the intellectual which are inherited from the mother.

The unconscious considerations which, on the other hand, the inclination

of women follows naturally cannot be so exactly assigned. In general the

following may be asserted: They give the preference to the age from thirty

to thirty‐five years, especially over that of youths who yet really

present the height of human beauty. The reason is that they are not guided

by taste but by instinct, which recognises in the age named the acme of

reproductive power. In general they look less to beauty, especially of the

face. It is as if they took it upon themselves alone to impart this to the

child. They are principally won by the strength of the man, and the

courage which is connected with this; for these promise the production of

stronger children, and also a brave protector for them. Every physical

defect of the man, every divergence from the type, may with regard to the

child be removed by the woman in reproduction, through the fact that she

herself is blameless in these respects, or even exceeds in the opposite

direction. Only those qualities of the man have to be excepted which are

peculiar to his sex, and which therefore the mother cannot give to the

child: such are the manly structure of the skeleton, broad shoulders,

slender hips, straight bones, muscular power, courage, beard, &c. Hence it

arises that women often love ugly men, but never an unmanly man, because

they cannot neutralise his defects.

The second class of the considerations which lie at the foundation of

sexual love are those which regard psychical qualities. Here we shall find

that the woman is throughout attracted by the qualities of the heart or

character in the man, as those which are inherited from the father. The

woman is won especially by firmness of will, decision, and courage, and

perhaps also by honesty and good‐heartedness. On the other hand,

intellectual gifts exercise no direct and instinctive power over her, just

because they are not inherited from the father. Want of understanding does

a man no harm with women; indeed extraordinary mental endowment, or even

genius, might sooner influence them unfavourably as an abnormity. Hence

one often sees an ugly, stupid, and coarse fellow get the better of a

cultured, able, and amiable man with women. Also marriages from love are

sometimes consummated between natures which are mentally very different:

for example, the man is rough, powerful, and stupid; the woman tenderly

sensitive, delicately thoughtful, cultured, æsthetic, &c.; or the man is a

genius and learned, the woman a goose:

“_Sic visum Veneri; cui placet impares_

_Formas atque animos sub juga aënea_

_Sævo mittere cum joco._”

The reason is, that here quite other considerations than the intellectual

predominate,—those of instinct. In marriage what is looked to is not

intellectual entertainment, but the production of children: it is a bond

of the heart, not of the head. It is a vain and absurd pretence when women

assert that they have fallen in love with the mind of a man, or else it is

the over‐straining of a degenerate nature. Men, on the other hand, are not

determined in their instinctive love by the qualities of character of the

woman; hence so many Socrateses have found their Xantippes; for example,

Shakspeare, Albrecht Dürer, Byron, &c. The intellectual qualities,

however, certainly influence here, because they are inherited from the

mother. Yet their influence is easily outweighed by that of physical

beauty, which acts directly, as concerning a more essential point.

However, it happens, either from the feeling or the experience of that

influence, that mothers have their daughters taught the fine arts,

languages, and so forth in order to make them attractive to men, whereby

they wish to assist the intellect by artificial means, just as, in case of

need, they assist the hips and the bosom. Observe that here we are

speaking throughout only of that entirely immediate instinctive attraction

from which alone love properly so called grows. That a woman of culture

and understanding prizes understanding and intellect in a man, that a man

from rational reflection should test and have regard to the character of

his bride, has nothing to do with the matter with which we are dealing

here. Such things lie at the bottom of a rational choice in marriage, but

not of the passionate love, which is our theme.

Hitherto I have only taken account of the _absolute_ considerations,

_i.e._, those which hold good for every one: I come now to the _relative_

considerations, which are individual, because in their case what is looked

to is the rectification of the type of the species, which is already

defectively presented, the correction of the divergences from it which the

chooser’s own person already bears in itself, and thus the return to the

pure presentation of the type. Here, then, each one loves what he lacks.

Starting from the individual constitution, and directed to the individual

constitution, the choice which rests upon such relative considerations is

much more definite, decided, and exclusive than that which proceeds merely

from the absolute considerations; therefore the source of really

passionate love will lie, as a rule, in these relative considerations, and

only that of the ordinary and slighter inclination in the absolute

considerations. Accordingly it is not generally precisely correct and

perfect beauties that kindle great passions. For such a truly passionate

inclination to arise something is required which can only be expressed by

a chemical metaphor: two persons must neutralise each other, like acid and

alkali, to a neutral salt. The essential conditions demanded for this are

the following. First: all sex is one‐sided. This one‐sidedness is more

distinctly expressed in one individual than in another; therefore in every

individual it can be better supplemented and neutralised by one than by

another individual of the opposite sex, for each one requires a one‐

sidedness which is the opposite of his own to complete the type of

humanity in the new individual that is to be produced, the constitution of

which is always the goal towards which all tends. Physiologists know that

manhood and womanhood admit of innumerable degrees, through which the

former sinks to the repulsive gynander and hypospadæus, and the latter

rises to the graceful androgyne; from both sides complete hermaphrodism

can be reached, at which point stand those individuals who, holding the

exact mean between the two sexes, can be attributed to neither, and

consequently are unfit to propagate the species. Accordingly, the

neutralisation of two individualities by each other, of which we are

speaking, demands that the definite degree of _his_ manhood shall exactly

correspond to the definite degree of _her_ womanhood; so that the one‐

sidedness of each exactly annuls that of the other. Accordingly, the most

manly man will seek the most womanly woman, and _vice versâ_, and in the

same way every individual will seek another corresponding to him or her in

degree of sex. Now how far the required relation exists between two

individuals is instinctively felt by them, and, together with the other

relative considerations, lies at the foundation of the higher degrees of

love. While, therefore, the lovers speak pathetically of the harmony of

their souls, the heart of the matter is for the most part the agreement or

suitableness pointed out here with reference to the being which is to be

produced and its perfection, and which is also clearly of much more

importance than the harmony of their souls, which often, not long after

the marriage, resolves itself into a howling discord. Now, here come in

the further relative considerations, which depend upon the fact that every

one endeavours to neutralise by means of the other his weaknesses,

defects, and deviations from the type, so that they will not perpetuate

themselves, or even develop into complete abnormities in the child which

is to be produced. The weaker a man is as regards muscular power the more

will he seek for strong women; and the woman on her side will do the same.

But since now a less degree of muscular power is natural and regular in

the woman, women as a rule will give the preference to strong men.

Further, the size is an important consideration. Little men have a decided

inclination for big women, and _vice versâ_; and indeed in a little man

the preference for big women will be so much the more passionate if he

himself was begotten by a big father, and only remains little through the

influence of his mother; because he has inherited from his father the

vascular system and its energy, which was able to supply a large body with

blood. If, on the other hand, his father and grandfather were both little,

that inclination will make itself less felt. At the foundation of the

aversion of a big woman to big men lies the intention of nature to avoid

too big a race, if with the strength which _this_ woman could impart to

them they would be too weak to live long. If, however, such a woman

selects a big husband, perhaps for the sake of being more presentable in

society, then, as a rule, her offspring will have to atone for her folly.

Further, the consideration as to the complexion is very decided. Blondes

prefer dark persons, or brunettes; but the latter seldom prefer the

former. The reason is, that fair hair and blue eyes are in themselves a

variation from the type, almost an abnormity, analogous to white mice, or

at least to grey horses. In no part of the world, not even in the vicinity

of the pole, are they indigenous, except in Europe, and are clearly of

Scandinavian origin. I may here express my opinion in passing that the

white colour of the skin is not natural to man, but that by nature he has

a black or brown skin, like our forefathers the Hindus; that consequently

a white man has never originally sprung from the womb of nature, and that

thus there is no such thing as a white race, much as this is talked of,

but every white man is a faded or bleached one. Forced into the strange

world, where he only exists like an exotic plant, and like this requires

in winter the hothouse, in the course of thousands of years man became

white. The gipsies, an Indian race which immigrated only about four

centuries ago, show the transition from the complexion of the Hindu to our

own.(38) Therefore in sexual love nature strives to return to dark hair

and brown eyes as the primitive type; but the white colour of the skin has

become a second nature, though not so that the brown of the Hindu repels

us. Finally, each one also seeks in the particular parts of the body the

corrective of his own defects and aberrations, and does so the more

decidedly the more important the part is. Therefore snub‐nosed individuals

have an inexpressible liking for hook‐noses, parrot‐faces; and it is the

same with regard to all other parts. Men with excessively slim, long

bodies and limbs can find beauty in a body which is even beyond measure

stumpy and short. The considerations with regard to temperament act in an

analogous manner. Each will prefer the temperament opposed to his own; yet

only in proportion as his one is decided. Whoever is himself in some

respect very perfect does not indeed seek and love imperfection in this

respect, but is yet more easily reconciled to it than others; because he

himself insures the children against great imperfection of this part. For

example, whoever is himself very white will not object to a yellow

complexion; but whoever has the latter will find dazzling whiteness

divinely beautiful. The rare case in which a man falls in love with a

decidedly ugly woman occurs when, besides the exact harmony of the degree

of sex explained above, the whole of her abnormities are precisely the

opposite, and thus the corrective, of his. The love is then wont to reach

a high degree.

The profound seriousness with which we consider and ponder each bodily

part of the woman, and she on her part does the same, the critical

scrupulosity with which we inspect a woman who begins to please us, the

capriciousness of our choice, the keen attention with which the bridegroom

observes his betrothed, his carefulness not to be deceived in any part,

and the great value which he attaches to every excess or defect in the

essential parts, all this is quite in keeping with the importance of the

end. For the new being to be produced will have to bear through its whole

life a similar part. For example, if the woman is only a little crooked,

this may easily impart to her son a hump, and so in all the rest.

Consciousness of all this certainly does not exist. On the contrary, every

one imagines that he makes that careful selection in the interest of his

own pleasure (which at bottom cannot be interested in it at all); but he

makes it precisely as, under the presupposition of his own corporisation,

is most in keeping with the interest of the species, to maintain the type

of which as pure as possible is the secret task. The individual acts here,

without knowing it, by order of something higher than itself, the species;

hence the importance which it attaches to things which may and indeed must

be, indifferent to itself as such. There is something quite peculiar in

the profound unconscious seriousness with which two young persons of

opposite sex who see each other for the first time regard each other, in

the searching and penetrating glance they cast at one another, in the

careful review which all the features and parts of their respective

persons have to endure. This investigating and examining is the

_meditation of the genius of the species_ on the individual which is

possible through these two and the combination of its qualities. According

to the result of this meditation is the degree of their pleasure in each

other and their yearning for each other. This yearning, even after it has

attained a considerable degree, may be suddenly extinguished again by the

discovery of something that had previously remained unobserved. In this

way, then, the genius of the species meditates concerning the coming race

in all who are capable of reproduction. The nature of this race is the

great work with which Cupid is occupied, unceasingly active, speculating,

and pondering. In comparison with the importance of his great affair,

which concerns the species and all coming races, the affairs of

individuals in their whole ephemeral totality are very trifling; therefore

he is always ready to sacrifice these regardlessly. For he is related to

them as an immortal to mortals, and his interests to theirs as infinite to

finite. Thus, in the consciousness of managing affairs of a higher kind

than all those which only concern individual weal or woe, he carries them

on sublimely, undisturbed in the midst of the tumult of war, or in the

bustle of business life, or during the raging of a plague, and pursues

them even into the seclusion of the cloister.

We have seen in the above that the intensity of love increases with its

individualisation, because we have shown that the physical qualities of

two individuals can be such that, for the purpose of restoring as far as

possible the type of the species, the one is quite specially and perfectly

the completion or supplement of the other, which therefore desires it

exclusively. Already in this case a considerable passion arises, which at

once gains a nobler and more sublime appearance from the fact that it is

directed to an individual object, and to it alone; thus, as it were,

arises at the special order of the species. For the opposite reason, the

mere sexual impulse is ignoble, because without individualisation it is

directed to all, and strives to maintain the species only as regards

quantity, with little respect to quality. But the individualising, and

with it the intensity of the love, can reach so high a degree that without

its satisfaction all the good things in the world, and even life itself,

lose their value. It is then a wish which attains a vehemence that no

other wish ever reaches, and therefore makes one ready for any sacrifice,

and in case its fulfilment remains unalterably denied, may lead to madness

or suicide. At the foundation of such an excessive passion there must lie,

besides the considerations we have shown above, still others which we have

not thus before our eyes. We must therefore assume that here not only the

corporisation, but the _will_ of the man and the _intellect_ of the woman

are specially suitable to each other, in consequence of which a perfectly

definite individual can be produced by them alone, whose existence the

genius of the species has here in view, for reasons which are inaccessible

to us, since they lie in the nature of the thing in itself. Or, to speak

more exactly, the will to live desires here to objectify itself in a

perfectly definite individual, which can only be produced by this father

with this mother. This metaphysical desire of the will in itself has

primarily no other sphere of action in the series of existences than the

hearts of the future parents, which accordingly are seized with this

ardent longing, and now imagine themselves to desire on their own account

what really for the present has only a purely metaphysical end, _i.e._, an

end which lies outside the series of actually existing things. Thus it is

the ardent longing to enter existence of the future individual which has

first become possible here, a longing which proceeds from the primary

source of all being, and exhibits itself in the phenomenal world as the

lofty passion of the future parents for each other, paying little regard

to all that is outside itself; in fact, as an unparalleled illusion, on

account of which such a lover would give up all the good things of this

world to enjoy the possession of this woman, who yet can really give him

nothing more than any other. That yet it is just this possession that is

kept in view here is seen from the fact that even this lofty passion, like

all others, is extinguished in its enjoyment—to the great astonishment of

those who are possessed by it. It also becomes extinct when, through the

woman turning out barren (which, according to Hufeland, may arise from

nineteen accidental constitutional defects), the real metaphysical end is

frustrated; just as daily happens in millions of germs trampled under

foot, in which yet the same metaphysical life principle strives for

existence; for which there is no other consolation than that an infinity

of space, time, and matter, and consequently inexhaustible opportunity for

return, stands open to the will to live.

The view which is here expounded must once have been present to the mind

of Theophrastus Paracelsus, even if only in a fleeting form, though he has

not handled this subject, and my whole system of thought was foreign to

him; for, in quite a different context and in his desultory manner, he

wrote the following remarkable words: “_Hi sunt, quos Deus copulavit, ut

eam, quæ fuit Uriæ et David; quamvis ex diametro (sic enim sibi humana

mens persuadebat) cum justo et legitimo matrimonio pugnaret hoc.... sed

propter Salomonem_, QUI ALIUNDE NASCI NON POTUIT, _nisi ex Bathseba,

conjuncto David semine, quamvis meretrice, conjunxit eos Deus_” (_De vita

longa_, i. 5).

The longing of love, the ἱμερος, which the poets of all ages are

unceasingly occupied with expressing in innumerable forms, and do not

exhaust the subject, nay, cannot do it justice, this longing, which

attaches the idea of endless happiness to the possession of a particular

woman, and unutterable pain to the thought that this possession cannot be

attained,—this longing and this pain cannot obtain their material from the

wants of an ephemeral individual; but they are the sighs of the spirit of

the species, which sees here, to be won or lost, a means for the

attainment of its ends which cannot be replaced, and therefore groans

deeply. The species alone has infinite life, and therefore is capable of

infinite desires, infinite satisfaction, and infinite pain. But these are

here imprisoned in the narrow breast of a mortal. No wonder, then, if such

a breast seems like to burst, and can find no expression for the

intimations of infinite rapture or infinite misery with which it is

filled. This, then, affords the materials for all erotic poetry of a

sublime kind, which accordingly rises into transcendent metaphors, soaring

above all that is earthly. This is the theme of Petrarch, the material for

the St. Preuxs, Werthers, and Jacopo Ortis, who apart from it could not be

understood nor explained. For that infinite esteem for the loved one

cannot rest upon some spiritual excellences, or in general upon any

objective, real qualities of hers; for one thing, because she is often not

sufficiently well known to the lover, as was the case with Petrarch. The

spirit of the species alone can see at one glance what _worth_ she has for

_it_, for its ends. And great passions also arise, as a rule, at the first

glance:

“Who ever loved that loved not at first sight?”

—SHAKSPEARE, “As You Like it,” iii. 5.

In this regard a passage in the romance of “_Guzman de Alfarache_,” by

Mateo Aleman, which has been famous for 250 years, is remarkable: “_No es

necessario, para que uno ame, que pase distancia de tiempo, que siga

discurso, ni haga eleccion, sino que con aquella primera y sola vista,

concurran juntamente cierta correspondencia ó consonancia, ó lo que acá __

solemos vulgarmente decir, una confrontacion de sangre, a que por

particular influxo suelen mover las estrellas._” (For one to love it is

not necessary that much time should pass, that he should set about

reflecting and make a choice; but only that at that first and only glance

a certain correspondence and consonance should be encountered on both

sides, or that which in common life we are wont to call a _sympathy of the

blood_, and to which a special influence of the stars generally impels),

P. ii. lib. iii. c. 5. Accordingly the loss of the loved one, through a

rival, or through death, is also for the passionate lover a pain that

surpasses all others, just because it is of a transcendental kind, since

it affects him not merely as an individual, but attacks him in his

_essentia æterna_, in the life of the species into whose special will and

service he was here called. Hence jealousy is such torment and so grim,

and the surrender of the loved one is the greatest of all sacrifices. A

hero is ashamed of all lamentations except the lamentation of love,

because in this it is not he but the species that laments. In Calderon’s

“Zenobia the Great” there is in the first act a scene between Zenobia and

Decius in which the latter says:

“_Cielos, luego tu me quieres? Perdiera cien mil victorias,

Volviérame_,” &c.

(Heaven! then thou lovest me? For this I would lose a thousand

victories, would turn about, &c.)

Here, honour, which hitherto outweighed every interest, is beaten out of

the field as soon as sexual love, _i.e._, the interest of the species,

comes into play, and sees before it a decided advantage; for this is

infinitely superior to every interest of mere individuals, however

important it may be. Therefore to this alone honour, duty, and fidelity

yield after they have withstood every other temptation, including the

threat of death. In the same way we find in private life that

conscientiousness is in no point so rare as in this: it is here sometimes

set aside even by persons who are otherwise honest and just, and adultery

is recklessly committed when passionate love, _i.e._, the interest of the

species, has mastered them. It even seems as if in this they believed

themselves to be conscious of a higher right than the interests of

individuals can ever confer; just because they act in the interest of the

species. In this reference Chamfort’s remark is worth noticing: “_Quand un

homme et une femme ont l’un pour l’autre une passion violente, il me

semble toujours que quelque soient les obstacles qui les séparent, un

mari, des parens, etc., les deux amans sont l’un a l’autre, de par la

Nature, qu’ils s’appartiennent de droit divin, malgré les lois et les

conventions humaines_.” Whoever is inclined to be incensed at this should

be referred to the remarkable indulgence which the Saviour shows in the

Gospel to the woman taken in adultery, in that He also assumes the same

guilt in the case of all present. From this point of view the greater part

of the “Decameron” appears as mere mocking and jeering of the genius of

the species at the rights and interests of individuals which it tramples

under foot. Differences of rank and all similar circumstances, when they

oppose the union of passionate lovers, are set aside with the same ease

and treated as nothing by the genius of the species, which, pursuing its

ends that concern innumerable generations, blows off as spray such human

laws and scruples. From the same deep‐lying grounds, when the ends of

passionate love are concerned, every danger is willingly encountered, and

those who are otherwise timorous here become courageous. In plays and

novels also we see, with ready sympathy, the young persons who are

fighting the battle of their love, _i.e._, the interest of the species,

gain the victory over their elders, who are thinking only of the welfare

of the individuals. For the efforts of the lovers appear to us as much

more important, sublime, and therefore right, than anything that can be

opposed to them, as the species is more important than the individual.

Accordingly the fundamental theme of almost all comedies is the appearance

of the genius of the species with its aims, which are opposed to the

personal interest of the individuals presented, and therefore threaten to

undermine their happiness. As a rule it attains its end, which, as in

accordance with poetical justice, satisfies the spectator, because he

feels that the aims of the species are much to be preferred to those of

the individual. Therefore at the conclusion he leaves the victorious

lovers quite confidently, because he shares with them the illusion that

they have founded their own happiness, while they have rather sacrificed

it to the choice of the species, against the will and foresight of their

elders. It has been attempted in single, abnormal comedies to reverse the

matter and bring about the happiness of the individuals at the cost of the

aims of the species; but then the spectator feels the pain which the

genius of the species suffers, and is not consoled by the advantages which

are thereby assured to the individuals. As examples of this kind two very

well‐known little pieces occur to me: “_La reine de 16 ans_,” and “_Le

marriage de raison_.” In tragedies containing love affairs, since the aims

of the species are frustrated, the lovers who were its tools, generally

perish also; for example, in “Romeo and Juliet,” “Tancred,” “Don Carlos,”

“Wallenstein,” “The Bride of Messina,” and many others.

The love of a man often affords comical, and sometimes also tragical

phenomena; both because, taken possession of by the spirit of the species,

he is now ruled by this, and no longer belongs to himself: his conduct

thereby becomes unsuited to the individual. That which in the higher

grades of love imparts such a tinge of poetry and sublimeness to his

thoughts, which gives them even a transcendental and hyperphysical

tendency, on account of which he seems to lose sight altogether of his

real, very physical aim, is at bottom this, that he is now inspired by the

spirit of the species whose affairs are infinitely more important than all

those which concern mere individuals, in order to find under the special

directions of this spirit the whole existence of an indefinitely long

posterity with this individual and exactly determined nature, which it can

receive only from him as father and the woman he loves as mother, and

which otherwise could never, _as such_, attain to existence, while the

objectification of the will to live expressly demands this existence. It

is the feeling that he is acting in affairs of such transcendent

importance which raises the lover so high above everything earthly, nay,

even above himself, and gives such a hyperphysical clothing to his very

physical desires, that love becomes a poetical episode even in the life of

the most prosaic man; in which last case the matter sometimes assumes a

comical aspect. That mandate of the will which objectifies itself in the

species exhibits itself in the consciousness of the lover under the mask

of the anticipation of an infinite blessedness which is to be found for

him in the union with this female individual. Now, in the highest grades

of love this chimera becomes so radiant that if it cannot be attained life

itself loses all charm, and now appears so joyless, hollow, and

insupportable that the disgust at it even overcomes the fear of death, so

that it is then sometimes voluntarily cut short. The will of such a man

has been caught in the vortex of the will of the species, or this has

obtained such a great predominance over the individual will that if such a

man cannot be effective in the first capacity, he disdains to be so in the

last. The individual is here too weak a vessel to be capable of enduring

the infinite longing of the will of the species concentrated upon a

definite object. In this case, therefore, the issue is suicide, sometimes

the double suicide of the two lovers; unless, to save life, nature allows

madness to intervene, which then covers with its veil the consciousness of

that hopeless state. No year passes without proving the reality of what

has been expounded by several cases of all these kinds.

Not only, however, has the unsatisfied passion of love sometimes a tragic

issue, but the satisfied passion also leads oftener to unhappiness than to

happiness. For its demands often conflict so much with the personal

welfare of him who is concerned that they undermine it, because they are

incompatible with his other circumstances, and disturb the plan of life

built upon them. Nay, not only with external circumstances is love often

in contradiction, but even with the lover’s own individuality, for it

flings itself upon persons who, apart from the sexual relation, would be

hateful, contemptible, and even abhorrent to the lover. But so much more

powerful is the will of the species than that of the individual that the

lover shuts his eyes to all those qualities which are repellent to him,

overlooks all, ignores all, and binds himself for ever to the object of

his passion—so entirely is he blinded by that illusion, which vanishes as

soon as the will of the species is satisfied, and leaves behind a detested

companion for life. Only from this can it be explained that we often see

very reasonable and excellent men bound to termagants and she‐devils, and

cannot conceive how they could have made such a choice. On this account

the ancients represented love as blind. Indeed, a lover may even know

distinctly and feel bitterly the faults of temperament and character of

his bride, which promise him a miserable life, and yet not be frightened

away:—

“I ask not, I care not,

If guilt’s in thy heart,

I know that I love thee

Whatever thou art.”

For ultimately he seeks not his own things, but those of a third person,

who has yet to come into being, although he is involved in the illusion

that what he seeks is his own affair. But it is just this not seeking of

one’s own things which is everywhere the stamp of greatness, that gives to

passionate love also a touch of sublimity, and makes it a worthy subject

of poetry. Finally, sexual love is compatible even with the extremest

hatred towards its object: therefore Plato has compared it to the love of

the wolf for the sheep. This case appears when a passionate lover, in

spite of all efforts and entreaties, cannot obtain a favourable hearing on

any condition:—

“I love and hate her.”

—SHAKSPEARE, _Cymb._, iii. 5.

The hatred of the loved one which then is kindled sometimes goes so far

that the lover murders her, and then himself. One or two examples of this

generally happen every year; they will be found in the newspapers.

Therefore Goethe’s lines are quite correct:—

“By all despised love! By hellish element!

Would that I knew a worse, that I might swear by!”

It is really no hyperbole if a lover describes the coldness of his beloved

and the delight of her vanity, which feeds on his sufferings, as cruelty;

for he is under the influence of an impulse which, akin to the instinct of

insects, compels him, in spite of all grounds of reason, to pursue his end

unconditionally, and to undervalue everything else: he cannot give it up.

Not one but many a Petrarch has there been who was compelled to drag

through life the unsatisfied ardour of love, like a fetter, an iron weight

at his foot, and breathe his sighs in lonely woods; but only in the one

Petrarch dwelt also the gift of poetry; so that Goethe’s beautiful lines

hold good of him:—

“And when in misery the man was dumb

A god gave me the power to tell my sorrow.”

In fact, the genius of the species wages war throughout with the guardian

geniuses of individuals, is their pursuer and enemy, always ready

relentlessly to destroy personal happiness in order to carry out its ends;

nay, the welfare of whole nations has sometimes been sacrificed to its

humours. An example of this is given us by Shakspeare in “Henry VI.,” pt.

iii., act 3, sc. 2 and 3. All this depends upon the fact that the species,

as that in which the root of our being lies, has a closer and earlier

right to us than the individual; hence its affairs take precedence. From

the feeling of this the ancients personified the genius of the species in

Cupid, a malevolent, cruel, and therefore ill‐reputed god, in spite of his

childish appearance; a capricious, despotic demon, but yet lord of gods

and men:

“Συ δ᾽ω θεων τυραννε κ᾽ανθρωπων, Ερως!”

(_Tu, deorum hominumque tyranne, Amor!_)

A deadly shot, blindness, and wings are his attributes. The latter signify

inconstancy; and this appears, as a rule, only with the disillusion which

is the consequence of satisfaction.

Because the passion depended upon an illusion, which represented that

which has only value for the species as valuable for the individual, the

deception must vanish after the attainment of the end of the species. The

spirit of the species which took possession of the individual sets it free

again. Forsaken by this spirit, the individual falls back into its

original limitation and narrowness, and sees with wonder that after such a

high, heroic, and infinite effort nothing has resulted for its pleasure

but what every sexual gratification affords. Contrary to expectation, it

finds itself no happier than before. It observes that it has been the dupe

of the will of the species. Therefore, as a rule, a Theseus who has been

made happy will forsake his Ariadne. If Petrarch’s passion had been

satisfied, his song would have been silenced from that time forth, like

that of the bird as soon as the eggs are laid.

Here let me remark in passing that however much my metaphysics of love

will displease the very persons who are entangled in this passion, yet if

rational considerations in general could avail anything against it, the

fundamental truth disclosed by me would necessarily fit one more than

anything else to subdue it. But the saying of the old comedian will, no

doubt, remain true: “_Quæ res in se __ neque consilium, neque modum habet

ullum, eam consilio regere non potes._”

Marriages from love are made in the interest of the species, not of the

individuals. Certainly the persons concerned imagine they are advancing

their own happiness; but their real end is one which is foreign to

themselves, for it lies in the production of an individual which is only

possible through them. Brought together by this aim, they ought henceforth

to try to get on together as well as possible. But very often the pair

brought together by that instinctive illusion, which is the essence of

passionate love, will, in other respects, be of very different natures.

This comes to light when the illusion vanishes, as it necessarily must.

Accordingly love marriages, as a rule, turn out unhappy; for through them

the coming generation is cared for at the expense of the present. “_Quien

se casa por amores, ha de vivir con dolores_” (Who marries from love must

live in sorrow), says the Spanish proverb. The opposite is the case with

marriages contracted for purposes of convenience, generally in accordance

with the choice of the parents. The considerations prevailing here, of

whatever kind they may be, are at least real, and cannot vanish of

themselves. Through them, however, the happiness of the present generation

is certainly cared for, to the disadvantage of the coming generation, and

notwithstanding this it remains problematical. The man who in his marriage

looks to money more than to the satisfaction of his inclination lives more

in the individual than in the species; which is directly opposed to the

truth; hence it appears unnatural, and excites a certain contempt. A girl

who, against the advice of her parents, rejects the offer of a rich and

not yet old man, in order, setting aside all considerations of

convenience, to choose according to her instinctive inclination alone,

sacrifices her individual welfare to the species. But just on this account

one cannot withhold from her a certain approbation; for she has preferred

what is of most importance, and has acted in the spirit of nature (more

exactly, of the species), while the parents advised in the spirit of

individual egoism. In accordance with all this, it appears as if in making

a marriage either the individual or the interests of the species must come

off a loser. And this is generally the case; for that convenience and

passionate love should go hand in hand is the rarest of lucky accidents.

The physical, moral, or intellectual deficiency of the nature of most men

may to some extent have its ground in the fact that marriages are

ordinarily entered into not from pure choice and inclination, but from all

kinds of external considerations, and on account of accidental

circumstances. If, however, besides convenience, inclination is also to a

certain extent regarded, this is, as it were, an agreement with the genius

of the species. Happy marriages are well known to be rare; just because it

lies in the nature of marriage that its chief end is not the present but

the coming generation. However, let me add, for the consolation of tender,

loving natures, that sometimes passionate sexual love associates itself

with a feeling of an entirely different origin—real friendship based upon

agreement of disposition, which yet for the most part only appears when

sexual love proper is extinguished in its satisfaction. This friendship

will then generally spring from the fact that the supplementing and

corresponding physical, moral, and intellectual qualities of the two

individuals, from which sexual love arose, with reference to the child to

be produced, are, with reference also to the individuals themselves,

related to each other in a supplementary manner as opposite qualities of

temperament and mental gifts, and thereby form the basis of a harmony of

disposition.

The whole metaphysics of love here dealt with stands in close connection

with my metaphysics in general, and the light which it throws upon this

may be summed up as follows.

We have seen that the careful selection for the satisfaction of the sexual

impulse, a selection which rises through innumerable degrees up to that of

passionate love, depends upon the highly serious interest which man takes

in the special personal constitution of the next generation. Now this

exceedingly remarkable interest confirms two truths which have been set

forth in the preceding chapters. (1.) The indestructibility of the true

nature of man, which lives on in that coming generation. For that interest

which is so lively and eager, and does not spring from reflection and

intention, but from the inmost characteristics and tendencies of our

nature, could not be so indelibly present and exercise such great power

over man if he were absolutely perishable, and were merely followed in

time by a race actually and entirely different from him. (2.) That his

true nature lies more in the species than in the individual. For that

interest in the special nature of the species, which is the root of all

love, from the passing inclination to the serious passion, is for every

one really the highest concern, the success or failure of which touches

him most sensibly; therefore it is called _par excellence_ the affair of

the heart. Moreover, when this interest has expressed itself strongly and

decidedly, everything which merely concerns one’s own person is postponed

and necessarily sacrificed to it. Through this, then, man shows that the

species lies closer to him than the individual, and he lives more

immediately in the former than in the latter. Why does the lover hang with

complete abandonment on the eyes of his chosen one, and is ready to make

every sacrifice for her? Because it is his immortal part that longs after

her; while it is only his mortal part that desires everything else. That

vehement or intense longing directed to a particular woman is accordingly

an immediate pledge of the indestructibility of the kernel of our being,

and of its continued existence in the species. But to regard this

continued existence as something trifling and insufficient is an error

which arises from the fact that under the conception of the continued life

of the species one thinks nothing more than the future existence of beings

similar to us, but in no regard identical with us; and this again because,

starting from knowledge directed towards without, one takes into

consideration only the external form of the species as we apprehend it in

perception, and not its inner nature. But it is just this inner nature

which lies at the foundation of our own consciousness as its kernel, and

hence indeed is more immediate than this itself, and, as thing in itself,

free from the _principium individuationis_, is really the same and

identical in all individuals, whether they exist together or after each

other. Now this is the will to live, thus just that which desires life and

continuance so vehemently. This accordingly is spared and unaffected by

death. It can attain to no better state than its present one; and

consequently for it, with life, the constant suffering and striving of the

individuals is certain. To free it from this is reserved for the denial of

the will to live, as the means by which the individual will breaks away

from the stem of the species, and surrenders that existence in it. We lack

conceptions for that which it now is; indeed all data for such conceptions

are wanting. We can only describe it as that which is free to be will to

live or not. Buddhism denotes the latter case by the word Nirvana, the

etymology of which was given in the note at the end of chapter 41. It is

the point which remains for ever unattainable to all human knowledge, just

as such.

If now, from the standpoint of this last consideration, we contemplate the

turmoil of life, we behold all occupied with its want and misery,

straining all their powers to satisfy its infinite needs and to ward off

its multifarious sorrows, yet without daring to hope anything else than

simply the preservation of this tormented existence for a short span of

time. In between, however, in the midst of the tumult, we see the glances

of two lovers meet longingly: yet why so secretly, fearfully, and

stealthily? Because these lovers are the traitors who seek to perpetuate

the whole want and drudgery, which would otherwise speedily reach an end;

this they wish to frustrate, as others like them have frustrated it

before. This consideration already passes over into the subject of the

following chapter.(39)