HAPPINESS: BY CARL HILTY
[Illustration]
HAPPINESS
ESSAYS ON THE MEANING
OF LIFE BY CARL HILTY
PROFESSOR OF CONSTITUTIONAL LAW
UNIVERSITY OF BERN. TRANSLATED BY
FRANCIS GREENWOOD PEABODY
PROFESSOR OF CHRISTIAN MORALS IN
HARVARD UNIVERSITY, CAMBRIDGE
[Illustration]
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., L^{TD.} 1903
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped January, 1903. Reprinted June,
October, 1903.
Norwood Press:
Berwick & Smith Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
CONTENTS
ESSAY I PAGE
THE ART OF WORK 3
ESSAY II
HOW TO FIGHT THE BATTLES OF LIFE 25
ESSAY III
GOOD HABITS 45
ESSAY IV
THE CHILDREN OF THIS WORLD ARE
WISER THAN THE CHILDREN OF LIGHT 61
ESSAY V
THE ART OF HAVING TIME 73
ESSAY VI
HAPPINESS 97
ESSAY VII
THE MEANING OF LIFE 127
NOTES 153
PREFACE
_Great numbers of thoughtful people are just now much perplexed to
know what to make of the facts of life, and are looking about them
for some reasonable interpretation of the modern world. They cannot
abandon the work of the world, but they are conscious that they have
not learned the art of work. They have to fight the battle of life, but
they are not sure what weapons are fit for that battle. They are so
beset by the cares of living that they have no time for life itself.
They observe that happiness often eludes those who most eagerly pursue
it; and that the meaning of life is often hidden from those whose
way would seem to be most free. To this state of mind--hesitating,
restless, and dissatisfied, in the world but not content to be of the
world--the reflections of Professor Hilty, as published in Switzerland
and Germany, have already brought much reassurance and composure; and
their message seems hardly less applicable to English and American
life. Here also the fever of commercialism threatens the vitality of
idealism, and here also the art of life is lost in the pace of living.
Religion to a great many educated people still seems, as Bishop Butler
wrote in 1736, “not so much as a subject of inquiry. This seems agreed
among persons of discernment”; and a book about religion might still
begin with the words which Schleiermacher wrote in 1806: “It may well
surprise the wise men of this age that any one should still venture to
ask their attention for a subject which they have so wholly abandoned.”
And yet, in regions of experience which no one fails sooner or later to
enter,--regions of great joy and sorrow, experiences of serious duty
and bewildering doubts of the meaning of life,--many a mind that has
seemed to itself to have outgrown religion looks about for a religion
that is real. Such a mind will not be satisfied with a left-over faith;
it will not be tempted by an ecclesiastical omniscience. It demands
sanity, reserve, wisdom, and insight, a competent witness of the things
of the Spirit. This is the state of mind to which this little book
is addressed. The author makes his appeal not to discussion, but to
life. He reports the story of a rational experience. He walks with
confidence because he knows the way. He accepts the saying of Pico
della Mirandola: “Philosophia veritatem quaerit, ... religio possidet.”
Let us take life, he says, just as it is and must be, and observe that
the doors which lead into its inner meaning open only to the key of a
reasonable faith._
_It might be fancied that a writer thus described must be a recluse
or mystic, remote from the spirit of the modern world and judging
experiences which he does not share. Quite the contrary is the fact.
The philosophy of life which he teaches is wrought out of large
experience, both of academic and political affairs, and that which
draws readers to the author is his capacity to maintain in the midst of
important duties of public service an unusual detachment of desire and
an interior quietness of mind. His short Essays are the Meditations of
Marcus Aurelius, told in the language of modern life; the Imitation of
Christ, expressed with the academic reserve of a modern gentleman._
_Some years ago I obtained permission from Professor Hilty to translate
for English and American readers a few of these Essays which had
found such acceptance in Switzerland and Germany; and the present
volume, containing his first series, has been a pleasant occupation of
some vacation days. I have found it necessary, however, to use much
freedom in dealing with his idiomatic and epigrammatic style, and have
perhaps exceeded the legitimate right of a translator in the attempt
to reproduce the tone and temper of the author. Nothing, I think, is
here which Professor Hilty has not said; but there are many shiftings
of phrase and many ruptures of German sentences; and here and there
a passage has been omitted which seemed important to Swiss readers
only. The Essay on Epictetus, being rather a compilation and review
than an illustration of Hilty’s own philosophy of life, is omitted;
as are also the copious and discursive footnotes which enrich the
original. I trust that these liberties and omissions may not obscure
the qualities of Professor Hilty’s mind--its insight, sagacity, humor,
and devoutness--which no one who has had the privilege of his personal
acquaintance can recall without affection and gratitude._
FRANCIS G. PEABODY.
_Cambridge, Massachusetts, October 15, 1902._
NOTE
_Carl Hilty was born February 28, 1833, at Chur, Switzerland. He
was a student at Göttingen, Heidelberg, London, and Paris; and an
advocate at Chur, 1855-1874. In 1874 he was appointed Professor of
Constitutional Law (Staats- und Völkerrecht) in the University of Bern,
which position he still holds. Since 1890 he has been a member of
the Swiss House of Representatives (Nationalrat); and in 1901 he was
Rector of the University of Bern. Among his scientific writings may be
named the following: Theorists and Idealists of Democracy (Theoristen
und Idealisten der Demokratie), Bern, 1868; Ideas and Ideals of Swiss
Politics (Ideen und Ideale schweizerischer Politik), Bern, 1875;
Lectures on the Swiss Political System (Vorlesungen über die Politik
der Eidgenossenschaft), Bern, 1879; On Capital Punishment (Ueber die
Wiedereinführung der Todesstrafe), Bern, 1879; The Neutrality of
Switzerland (Die Neutralität der Schweiz in ihrer heutigen Auffassung),
Bern, 1889 (French translation by Mentha, 1889); The Referendum in
Switzerland (Das Referendum im schweizerischen Staatsrecht), Archiv
für öffentliches Recht, 1887; The Boer War (Der Burenkrieg), Bern,
1900. He has also been the editor of the Journal of Swiss Jurisprudence
(Politisches Jahrbuch der schweizerischen Eidgenossenschaft) since
1886._
_In the midst of this scientific activity Professor Hilty has expressed
his inner life through a series of little books issued at intervals
during the last ten years, as follows: Happiness (Glück), First Series,
1891, Second Series, 1895, Third Series, 1898; On Reading and Speaking
(Lesen und Reden), 1891; For Sleepless Nights (Für schlaflose Nächte)
[Brief Readings for each Day of the Year], 1901._
I. THE ART OF WORK
I. THE ART OF WORK
The most important of all arts is the art of work; for if one could
thoroughly understand this art, all other knowledge and conduct would
be infinitely simplified. Few people, however, really know how to work,
and even in an age when oftener perhaps than ever before we hear of
“work” and “workers” one cannot observe that the art of work makes much
positive progress. On the contrary, the general inclination seems to be
to work as little as possible, or to work for a short time in order to
pass the remainder of one’s life in rest.
Work and rest--are they then aims in life which are positively
contradictory? This must be our first inquiry; for while every one is
ready with praise of work, pleasure in work does not always come with
the praising. So long as the disinclination to work is so common an
evil, indeed almost a disease of modern civilization, so long as every
one as soon as possible endeavors to escape from the work which he thus
theoretically praises, there is absolutely no hope for any bettering of
our social condition. Indeed, if work and rest were contradictories,
our social conditions would be wholly beyond redemption.
For every human heart longs for rest. The humblest and least
intellectual know the need of it, and in its highest moods, the soul
seeks relief from constant strain. Indeed, the imagination has found
no better name for a future and happier existence than a state of
eternal rest. If work, then, is necessary, and rest is the cessation
of work, then the saying--“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat
bread”--is indeed a bitter curse and this earth is a “vale of tears.”
In every generation there are but few who can on such terms be said
to lead a worthy or a human life; and even these can do so only by
dooming other human beings to the curse of work and by holding these
others fast bound in its slavery. It was from this point of view that
the ancient authors pictured the hopeless slavery of the many as the
condition under which the few might become free citizens of a civilized
State; and even in the nineteenth century, a considerable part of the
population of one great nation, with Christian preachers, Bible in
hand, directing them, maintained on the field of battle the proposition
that one race should be from generation to generation condemned to be
the slave of another. Culture, it is said, grows only under conditions
of wealth, and wealth only through accumulation of capital, and capital
only through accumulation of the work of those who are not justly
paid; that is to say, through injustice.
Such are the conceptions of society which at once confront us as we
approach our subject. The following pages are not, however, to be
devoted to any profound consideration either of the relative or of the
absolute truth of these conceptions. I suggest, at this point, only the
obvious truth, that if, not some people, but all, would work and work
faithfully, the “Social Question,” as it is called, would be forthwith
solved; and I may add, that by no other means whatever is it likely
to be solved. Faithful work, however, is not to be brought about by
compulsion. Even if the physical means of universal compulsion were
present, no fruitful work would come of it. It is the desire for work
which must be kindled in man; and this brings us back again to consider
the principles which may be applied to this desire.
The desire for work, we must, first of all, admit, cannot be attained
by instruction; or even--as our daily experience sadly testifies--by
mere example. It must be reached by reflection and experience; and
experience thus reflected on will reveal to any serious inquirer the
following facts. Rest, such as is desired, is not to be found in
complete inactivity of mind or body, or in as little activity as
possible. On the contrary, it is to be found only in well-adapted and
well-ordered activity of both body and mind. The whole nature of man is
created for activity, and Nature revenges herself bitterly on him who
would rashly defy this law. Man is indeed driven out of the paradise of
absolute rest, and God gives him the command to work, but with the work
comes the consolation that work is essential to happiness.
True rest, therefore, issues from work. Intellectual rest occurs
through the perception of fruitful progress in one’s work, and through
the solving of one’s problems. Physical rest is found in those natural
intermissions which are given by daily sleep and daily food, and the
essential and restful pause of Sunday. Such a condition of continuous
and wholesome activity, interrupted only by these natural pauses, is
the happiest condition on earth, and no man should wish for himself
any other outward happiness. Indeed, we may go a step farther and add
that it does not very much matter what the nature of this activity may
be. Genuine activity, which is not mere sport, has the property of
becoming interesting as soon as a man becomes seriously absorbed in it.
It is not the kind of activity which ensures happiness to us; it is the
joy of action and attainment. The greatest unhappiness which one can
experience is to have a life to live without a work to do, and to come
to the end of life without its fruit of accomplished work.
It is, therefore, wholly justifiable to speak of the “right to work.”
Indeed, it is the most primitive of all human rights. The unemployed
are, we must admit, the most unfortunate of people. There are, however,
quite as many of these, and perhaps more of them, in what we call
the better classes than among what we call the working classes. The
latter are driven to work by necessity, while the former, through
their mistaken ways of education, their prejudices, and the imperious
custom which in certain classes forbids genuine work, find themselves
almost absolutely and by heredity condemned to this great unhappiness.
Each year we see them turning their steps with spiritual weariness and
_ennui_ to the Swiss mountains and health-resorts, from which in vain
they anticipate refreshment. Once, the summer was enough to give them
at least a temporary restoration from their disease of idleness. Now,
they have to add the winter also, and soon the fair valleys which they
have converted into hospitals will be open all the year to a restless
throng, ever seeking rest and never finding it, because it does not
seek rest in work. “Six days shalt thou labor,” not less and not
more,--with this prescription most of the nervous diseases of our time
would be healed, except so far as they are an inherited curse from idle
ancestors. With this prescription most of the physicians in sanitariums
and insane asylums would lose their practice. Life is not given to man
to enjoy, but, so far as may be, to use effectively. One who does not
recognize this has already lost his spiritual health. Indeed, it is not
possible for him to retain even his physical health as he might under
conditions of natural activity and reasonable ways of living. The days
of our age are threescore years and ten, and some are so strong that
they come to fourscore years; yet though there be labor and sorrow in
these years of work, still they have been precious: thus we read the
ancient saying. Perhaps, indeed, this was its original meaning.
We do well, however, to add at once one limitation. Not all work
is of equal value, and there is spurious work which is directed to
fictitious ends, and work which is itself fictitious in its form.
Much, for instance, of the sewing and embroidering done by cultivated
women, much of the parading of soldiers, much of what is called art,
like the useless drumming on the piano by persons with no musical
sense, a considerable part of the sportsman’s life, and, not least,
the time devoted to keeping one’s accounts,--all these are occupations
of this fictitious nature. A sagacious and wide-awake person must look
for something more satisfying than these. Here also is the reason why
factory labor, and, in short, all mechanical occupation in which one
does but a part of the work, gives meagre satisfaction, and why an
artisan who completes his work, or an agricultural laborer, is, as
a rule, much more contented than factory operatives, among whom the
social discontent of the modern world first uttered itself. The factory
workman sees little of the outcome of his work. It is the machine
that works, and he is a part of it. He contributes to the making of
one little wheel, but he never makes a whole clock, which might be to
him his work of art and an achievement worthy of a man. Mechanical
work like this fails to satisfy because it offends that natural
consciousness of human worth which the humblest human being feels. On
the other hand, the happiest workmen are those who can absolutely lose
themselves in their work: the artist whose soul must be wholly occupied
with his subject, if he hopes to grasp and reproduce it; the scholar
who has no eye for anything beyond his special task. Indeed, the same
thing is to be said of those people whom we call “one-idea-ed” and
who have created their own little world within one narrow sphere. All
these have at least the feeling--sometimes, no doubt, without adequate
reason--that they are accomplishing real work for the world; a true,
useful, necessary work, which is not mere play; and many such persons,
by this continuous, strenuous, and sometimes even physically unhealthy
activity, attain great old age, while idle and luxurious men and women
of society, who are, perhaps, the least useful and least productive
class of the modern world, must devote much of their time to the
restoration of their health.
The first thing, then, for our modern world to acquire is the
conviction and experience that well-directed work is the necessary and
universal condition of physical and intellectual health, and for this
reason is the way to happiness. From this it necessarily follows that
the idle class is to be regarded, not as a superior and favored class,
but as that which they are,--spiritually defective and diseased persons
who have lost the right principle for the guidance of their lives.
As soon as this opinion becomes general and established, then, and
only then, will the better era for the world begin. Until that time,
the world will suffer from the excessive work of some, balancing the
insufficient work of others, and it still remains a question which of
these two types is in reality the more unfortunate.
Why is it then that these principles--to which the experience of
thousands of years testifies, which any one, whether he works or
does not work, can test for himself, and which all the religions and
philosophies preach--have not made their just impression? Why is it,
for instance, that there are still thousands of women who defend with
much passion many passages of Bible-teaching, and yet, with astonishing
composure and in opposition to an express command of the Bible, take
one day at the most, or perhaps none at all, for work, and six for
refined idleness? All this proceeds in large degree from an irrational
division and arrangement of work, which thus ill-arranged may indeed
become a positive burden.
And this brings me back to the title of my Essay. Instruction in
the art of work is possible only for him who is already convinced
of my first proposition, that some work is necessary, and who would
gladly give himself to work if it were not that, to his surprise,
some hindrance confronts him. Yet, work, like every other art, has
its ways of dexterity, by means of which one may greatly lessen its
laboriousness; and not only the willingness to work, but even the
capacity to work, is so difficult to acquire that many persons fail of
it altogether.
The first step, then, toward the overcoming of a difficulty is in
recognizing the difficulty. And what is the difficulty which chiefly
hinders work? It is laziness. Every man is naturally lazy. It always
costs one an effort to rise above one’s customary condition of physical
indolence. Moral laziness is, in short, our original sin. No one is
naturally fond of work; there are only differences of natural and
constitutional excitability. Even the most active-minded, if they
yielded to their natural disposition, would amuse themselves with other
things rather than with work.
Love of work must, therefore, proceed from a motive which is stronger
than the motive of physical idleness. And this motive is to be found in
either of two ways. It may be a low motive, as, for instance, a passion
like ambition or self-seeking, or, indeed, the sense of necessity, as
in the preservation of life; or it may be a high motive, like the sense
of duty or love, either for the work itself, or for the persons for
whom the work is done. The nobler motive has this advantage, that it is
the more permanent and is not dependent on the mere success of work.
It does not lose its force either through the disheartening effect of
failure, or the satisfying effect of success. Thus it happens that
ambitious and self-seeking persons are often very diligent workers, but
are seldom continuous and evenly progressive workers. They are almost
always content with that which looks like work, if it produce favorable
conditions for themselves, although it does nothing of this for their
neighbors. Much of our mercantile and industrial activity--and, alas!
we must add, much of the work of scholars and artists--has this mark of
unreality.
If, then, one were to give to a young man entering into life a word
of preliminary counsel, it would be this: Do your work from a sense
of duty, or for love of what you are doing, or for love of certain
definite persons: attach yourself to some great interest of human
life--to a national movement for political liberty; to the extension
of the Christian religion; to the elevation of the neglected classes;
to the abolition of drunkenness; to the restoration of permanent peace
among the nations; to social reform; to ballot reform; to prison
reform;--there are plenty of such causes inviting us to-day;--and
you will soon discover an impulse proceeding from these causes to
yourself; and in addition you will have--what at first is a great
help--companionship in your work. There should be no young person,
man or woman, to-day among civilized nations who is not actively
enlisted in some such army of progress. The only means of elevating and
strengthening youth, and training it in perseverance, is this: that
early in life one is freed from himself, and does not live for himself
alone. Selfishness is always enfeebling, and from it proceeds no work
that is strong.
I go on to remark that the most effective instrument to overcome one’s
laziness in work is the force of habit. Why should we use this mighty
force in the service of our physical nature and not put it to use in
our higher life as well? As a matter of fact, one can as well accustom
himself to work or to self-control, to virtue, or truthfulness, or
generosity, as he can to laziness, or self-indulgence, or extravagance,
or exaggeration, or stinginess. And this is to be said further--that no
virtue is securely possessed until it has become a habit. Thus it is
that as a man trains himself to the habit of work, the resistance of
idleness constantly diminishes until at last work becomes a necessity.
When this happens, one has become free from a very great part of the
troubles of life.
There remain a few elementary rules with which one can the more easily
find his way to this habit of work. And first among such rules is the
knowing how to begin. The resolution to set oneself to work and to
fix one’s whole mind on the matter in hand is really the hardest part
of working. When one has once taken his pen or his spade in hand, and
has made the first stroke, his whole work has already grown easier.
There are people who always find something especially hard about
beginning their work, and who are always so busy with preparations,
behind which lurks their laziness, that they never apply themselves
to their work until they are compelled; and then the intellectual and
even the physical excitement roused by the sense of insufficient time
in which to do one’s work injures the work itself. Other people wait
for some special inspiration, which in reality is much more likely to
come by means of, or in the midst of, work itself. It is at least my
experience that one’s work, while one is doing it, takes on a different
look from that which one anticipated, and that one does not reach so
many fruitful and new ideas in his times of rest as he does during
the work itself. From all this follows the rule, not to postpone
work, or lightly to accept the pretext of physical or intellectual
indisposition, but to dedicate a definite and well-considered amount of
time every day to one’s work. Then, if the “old man,” as St. Paul calls
him, is cunning enough to see that he must in any event do some work at
a special time and cannot wholly give himself to rest, he may usually
be trusted to resolve to do each day that which for each day is most
necessary.
Again, there are a great many men, occupied in intellectual work of a
productive kind, who waste their time and lose the happiness of work by
devoting themselves to the arrangement of their work, or still oftener,
to the introduction of their work. As a general rule, no artistic,
or profound, or remote introduction to one’s work is desirable. On
the contrary, it usually anticipates unsuitably that which should
come later. Even if this be doubted, the advice is at any rate good
that one’s introduction and one’s title should be written last. Thus
composed, they commonly cost no labor. One makes a beginning much more
easily when he starts without any preamble, with that chapter of his
work with which he is most familiar. For the same reason, when one
reads a book, it is well to omit at the first reading the preface and
often the first chapter. For my own part, I never read a preface until
I have finished a book, and I discover, almost without exception, that
when, after reading the book, I turn back for a look at the preface, I
have lost nothing by omitting it. Of course, it must be said that there
are books of which the preface is the best part. Of these, however, it
may also be said that they are not worth reading at all.
And now I may safely take still another step and add, that, with the
exception of an introduction to your work or its central treatment,
it is best to begin with that part which is easiest to you. The chief
thing is to begin. One may indeed advance less directly in his work by
doing it unsystematically, but this loss is more than made good by his
gain of time. Under this head also should be added two other rules. One
is the law: “Take no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take
thought for the things of itself.” Man is endowed with the dangerous
gift of imagination, and imagination has a much larger realm than
that of one’s capacity. Through one’s imagination one sees his whole
work lying before him as a task to be achieved all at once, while his
capacity, on the other hand, can conquer its task only by degrees, and
must constantly renew its strength. Do your work, then, as a rule, for
each day. The morrow will come in its own time, and with it will come
the strength for the morrow. The second rule is this: In intellectual
work one should, indeed, deal with his material thoroughly; but he
should not expect to exhaust his material, so that there shall be
nothing further left to say or to read. No man’s strength is in these
days sufficient for absolute thoroughness. The best principle is to
be completely master of a relatively small region of research; and to
deal with the larger inquiries only in their essential features. He who
tries to do too much usually accomplishes too little.
A further condition of good work is this,--that one should not persist
in working when work has lost its freshness and pleasure. I have
already said that one may begin without pleasure, for otherwise one, as
a rule, would not begin at all. But one should stop as soon as his work
itself brings fatigue. This does not mean that one should, for this
reason, stop all work, but only that he should stop the special kind of
work which is fatiguing him. Change in work is almost as refreshing as
complete rest. Indeed, without this characteristic of human nature, we
should hardly accomplish anything.
Again, in order to be able to do much work, one must economize one’s
force, and the practical means to this is by wasting no time on
useless activities. I can hardly make plain how much pleasure and
power for work is lost by this form of wastefulness. First of all,
among such ways of wasting time should be reckoned the excessive
reading of newspapers; and to this should be added the excessive
devotion to societies and meetings. An immense number of people, for
instance, begin their morning, the best time they have for work, with
the newspaper, and end their day quite as regularly in some club or
meeting. They read each morning the whole of a paper, or perhaps
of several papers, but it would be hard, as a rule, to say what
intellectual acquisition remained the next day from such reading.
This, at least, is certain, that after one has finished his paper, he
experiences a certain disinclination for work, and snatches up another
paper, if it happen to be within reach. Any one, therefore, who desires
to do much work must carefully avoid all useless occupation of his
mind, and, one may even add, of his body. He must reserve his powers
for that which it is his business to do.
Finally, and for intellectual work,--with which throughout I am
specially concerned,--there is one last and important help. It is
the habit of reviewing, and revising, one’s material. Almost every
intellectual work is at first grasped only in its general outlines,
and then, as one attacks it a second time, its finer aspects reveal
themselves, and the appreciation of them becomes more complete. One’s
chief endeavor, then, should be, as a famous writer of our day remarks,
“not to achieve the constant productiveness which permits itself no
pause, but rather to lose oneself in that which one would create. Hence
issues the desire to reproduce one’s ideal in visible forms. External
industry, the effort to grasp one’s material and promptly master
it,--these are, indeed, obvious conditions of authorship, but they are
of less value than that higher and spiritual industry which steadily
works toward an unattained end.”
The conception of work, thus excellently stated, meets a final
difficulty which our discussion has already recognized. For work,
under this view, maintains continuity, in spite of and even during
one’s necessary rest. Here is the ideal of the highest work. The mind
works continuously, when it has once acquired the genuine industry
which comes through devotion to one’s task. In fact, it is curious
to notice how often, after pauses in one’s work not excessively
prolonged, one’s material has unconsciously advanced. Everything has
grown spontaneously. Many difficulties seem suddenly disposed of,
one’s first supply of ideas is multiplied, assumes picturesqueness, and
lends itself to expression; so that the renewal of one’s work occurs
with ease, as though it were merely the gathering of fruit which in the
interval had ripened without effort of our own.
This, then, is a second reward of work, in addition to that which
one commonly recognizes. Only he who works knows what enjoyment and
refreshment are. Rest which does not follow work is like eating without
appetite. The best, the pleasantest, and the most rewarding--and
also the cheapest--way of passing the time is to be busy with one’s
work. And as matters stand in the world to-day, it seems reasonable
to anticipate that at the end of our century some social revolution
will make those who are then at work the ruling class; just as at the
beginning of the last century a social revolution gave to industrious
citizens their victory over the idle nobility and the idle priests.
Wherever any social class sinks into idleness, subsisting like those
idlers of the past on incomes created by the work of others, there
such non-productive citizens again must yield. The ruling class of the
future must be the working class.
II. HOW TO FIGHT THE BATTLES OF LIFE
II. HOW TO FIGHT THE BATTLES OF LIFE
Many people in our day--even well-intentioned people--have lost their
faith in idealism. They regard it as a respectable form of philosophy
for the education of the young, but as a creed of little use in later
life. Theoretically, they say, and for purposes of education, idealism
has much to commend it, but, practically, things turn out to be
brutally material. Thus such persons divide life into two parts, in one
of which we may indulge ourselves in fine theories and sentiments, and,
indeed, are to be encouraged in them; and in the other of which we wake
rudely from this dream and deal with reality as best we can. Kant, in
one of his briefer writings, dealt a hundred years ago with this state
of mind. He examined the phrase which was even then familiar: “That may
be well enough in theory, but does not work in practice”; and he showed
that it expressed an absurd contradiction unworthy of a thinking being.
The logical realism of our day, however, is not concerned with
theoretical propositions. It turns, on the contrary, to the hard fact
of the struggle for existence, in which indifference to others and
absolute self-interest are not only permissible, but, as one looks at
the real conditions of life, seem more or less positively demanded.
These modern realists say: “The world we see about us is one where only
a few can succeed and where many must fail. There are not good things
enough for all. The question is not whether such a state of things
is right or just. On the contrary, it must be admitted to be a hard,
unreasonable, unjust universe. It is not for the individual, however,
set without consent of his own in such a universe, to change it. His
only problem is to make it certain that in such a universe he is ‘the
hammer, not the anvil.’”
Such is the essence of that worldly wisdom which is the creed of many
cultivated people to-day. With it disappears, of course, any need of
moral or religious education. Such instruction in schools might as
well be abandoned. Indeed, Saint-Just made the original suggestion
that instead of such instruction there should be substituted the daily
study of the placards posted on the street corners which announce
the police regulations of the government as to the conduct of life.
Under such a theory of education, young people would grow immensely
clever and practical. They would be trained to get and to keep. They
would be free from every sentiment of honor which might be a hindrance
in their path. Most of them, it must be confessed, would, early in
life, lose physical, intellectual, and moral vigor, and others would
lament, perhaps too late, that their youth had been sacrificed to that
which was not worth their seeking. At the best, they would acquire
but uncertain possessions to be defended daily against a thousand
competitors, and these possessions would bring bitterness along with
them, both to those who have them and to those who have them not. Peace
and happiness would be secured to no one. Such seems to be the issue of
this view of life which is now so common among us, and which we call
the view of the “practical” man.
But what is idealism? It is, as I understand it, a form of faith, an
inward conviction. It is absolutely necessary for the permanence of
the world; yet it never can be proved true, and indeed for him who
has it needs no proof. Further, no one becomes an idealist by being
taught about it or by reasoning concerning it. Nor is this so strange
as it might seem, for the very trustworthiness of the human reason
itself is proved to us only by experience. The very truths of religion
remain unproved unless the moral power which issues from them provides
their proof. That which has power must have reality. No other proof
of reality is final. Even our senses could not convince us, if our
experience and the experience of all other men did not assure us that
we could--not unconditionally, but under normal conditions--trust them
not to deceive. That which brings conviction to one is his experience,
and that which rouses in him the desire and the inward disposition to
believe in his own experience is the testimony of others who have had
that experience themselves.
There is a short treatise, written by one who in his youth was a
friend of Goethe’s,--the Russian General von Klinger,--which gives its
testimony in a few words concerning this idealism in practical life.
It may be found in von Klinger’s rarely opened works, under the title:
“How it is possible without deceit, and even in constant conflict with
evil, to overcome the world.” Its contents are simply a series of
weighty aphorisms, of which I select a few:
“First of all,” says von Klinger, “one who would overcome the world
must give up thinking of what people call happiness, and must with all
his might, without indirectness, or fear, or self-seeking, simply do
his duty. He must, that is to say, be pure in mind and heart, so that
none of his actions shall be stained by selfishness. Where justice and
right-dealing are called for, there must be in him no distinction of
great or small, of significant or insignificant....
“Secondly, for the protection of his own strength and his purity of
conduct, he must be free from the desire to shine, free from the
shallowness of vanity and the restless search for fame and power. Most
human follies proceed from the restlessness of ambition. Ambition
demoralizes both those whom it masters and those through whom it
accomplishes its ends. The boldest and most candid criticism does not
wound so deeply as does the foolish longing for praise....
“Again, one who is thus pure in motive will permit himself to be
conspicuous only when and where his duty demands it. For the rest, he
will live a life of seclusion in his family, with few friends, among
his books, and in the world of the spirit. Thus he avoids that conflict
with others about trifles which to many persons are of such absorbing
concern. One may be pardoned for eccentricity in such affairs by having
no place at all among them. His life does not touch the circle of
society, and he asks of society only to let him do his duty, and then
to be permitted to live in peace. It may be that he will thus stir
others to envy or to hate, but it will be an envy and hate too petty
for expression, or at any rate ineffective for harm. He who has thus
withdrawn from trifles gets much out of life. Indeed, he gets more than
he expects and more than he has intended; for he finally gains that
which men in its coarser sense call happiness....
“To all this,” says von Klinger, “I add another point: that one must
withhold himself from all ambition to pose as a reformer and from
all signs of that desire. He must not enter into controversy about
opinions with people who have nothing but opinions. He must speak of
himself only to himself and think of himself only in himself.... I
have developed,” concludes von Klinger, “my own character and my own
inner experience as my power and disposition have permitted; and so far
as I have done this seriously and honestly, so far has come to me of
itself what men call happiness and prosperity. I have observed myself
more deeply than others and dealt with myself more unsparingly than
with others. I have never played a part, never felt inclined thereto,
and have ever expressed the convictions I have reached without fear,
and have held them fast, so that I now no more fear the possibility
of being or doing other than my convictions demand. One is safe from
the temptations of others only when one can no more tempt himself. I
have borne many responsibilities, but at the conclusion of each I have
passed the rest of my time in the profoundest solitude and the most
complete obscurity.”[1]
The author of these weighty aphorisms was dealing especially with
political life. He does not seek for them any philosophical basis. He
offers them simply as the result of his stirring and often adventurous
career, and as such his testimony is far more valuable than if it
had issued from the closet of a philosopher or a theologian who had
slight contact with practical affairs. It is not my intention to
translate these suggestions into abstract form and make them less real
and persuasive. I only desire to annotate them with a few practical
comments.
I. Concerning von Klinger’s first proposition, it is to be said that
true idealism is not the deceiving of oneself concerning reality, or
the intentional ignoring of reality, or the hiding from reality, or the
creating for oneself a world of unreality. Idealism, on the contrary,
is reached by a deeper interpretation of the world, by victory over it
and especially by victory over oneself. For we, too, are an integral
part of the world and we cannot conquer the whole unless, first of
all, we conquer our own part of it, by strength of principles and force
of habit. Hence issues that right judgment of success which von Klinger
lays down. One of our own contemporaries, Thiers, a man who had in
high degree attained success, and who at certain points in his life
pursued it with excessive zeal, once made this striking remark: “Men
of principle need not succeed. Success is necessary only to schemers.”
In other words, a genuine victory over the world is not to be achieved
through that kind of success which the French call _succès_ and which
for many men makes the end of effort. He who plays this game of
ambition may as well abandon the hope of peace of mind or of peace with
others, and in most cases he must forfeit outright his self-respect.
Real success in life, then, the attainment of the highest human
perfection and of true and fruitful activity, necessarily and
repeatedly involves outward failure. Success, to von Klinger, means
an honorable career with victory at its close. The work of life is
regarded in its wholeness, as a brave and honorable man should wish
and hope it to be. Unbroken success is necessary only for cowards.
Indeed, one may go further and say that the secret of the highest
success in important affairs often lies in failure. The men who have
most completely commanded the admiration of the world, and who are
most conspicuous in history, are not those who have reached the goal
of life through success alone. Cæsar and Napoleon would have been
remembered only as examples of tyranny if it had not been for Brutus,
Waterloo and St. Helena. The Maid of Orléans would be recalled as a
masterful woman like many others had it not been for her martyrdom.
Hannibal would be no noble example if Carthage had conquered. A traitor
like Charles I. of England is still held in high honor by many persons
who cannot endure the memory of the most heroic character in modern
history,--Cromwell. Had Cromwell died on the scaffold and Charles on
the throne, this estimate of them would have been reversed. The life
of the Emperor Frederick III. is another example and will be a still
more impressive one as the better future looks back on it. The greatest
example of all, the cross, the gallows of its time, became for all
the world a sign of honor and subdued to itself the power of Rome.
Looking at Christianity in a wholly human and untheological way, one
may believe that its unexampled success would not have been possible
if the scholars and scribes of that day had welcomed it. Something
of such failure comes with all right ways of life. Without it, life
sinks in the rut of commonplace. This kind of failure should not bear
the common reproach of misfortune. It is, on the contrary, the crown
of thorns which marks the way of the cross, and proves to be the true
crown after all.
II. Concerning the second aphorism of von Klinger’s there is this to
add: that no self-seeking person ever reaches the end he most desires.
It is surprising to see what one may accomplish when he gives his
attention and energy wholly to the doing of one thing. Examples of this
kind of success meet us at every turn. What these persons at heart
desire, however, is not the wealth, or honor, or power, or learning
which they reach. They prize these possessions only as the necessary
prerequisites for happiness. What is it, then, of which they must first
of all be convinced? It is the truth that happiness does not come
through these possessions, that, in fact, these possessions are likely
to bring unhappiness. When this conviction is attained, then, at last,
the self-seeking spirit will perhaps abandon its aim.
Of all self-seekers, the most unfortunate are to be found among the
educated. When they stand on the lower rung of the ladder which
they wish to climb, they are consumed by envy of those above them;
and of all the emotions which degrade a man in his own eyes the most
humiliating is envy. When, on the other hand, they have climbed to
the top, then they are distressed by the constant fear of those who
are climbing toward them and whose thoughts and purposes they well
know from their own experience. If they seek safety by surrounding
themselves by flatterers, then they are never safe from betrayal; for
if they seem likely to fall, no one cares to hold them up. If, finally,
they shut their ears to these disturbing voices within their hearts and
give themselves to self-indulgence, then they lose the very qualities
which are most essential to success.
Besides all this, the chances of success for the self-seeker are
slight. Not one in ten attains what he desires, and, even of those whom
we call fortunate, few should be so reckoned until they die. It is not
necessary to cite examples of such failure. The daily paper reports
them to us every morning. Long ago one of the prophets of Israel
described this unsatisfying result of life and effort in classic words
which we may well repeat: “Ye have sown much, and bring in little; ye
eat, but ye have not enough; ye drink, but ye are not filled with
drink; ye clothe you, but there is none warm; and he that earneth wages
earneth wages to put it into a bag with holes.”
Still further, nothing is so exhausting as this self-seeking effort.
The passion which it develops is like an access of fever which burns
away one’s vitality. The strength of health, on the other hand, renews
itself through self-forgetting work; and thrives on unselfish service
done for worthy ends. Only in such service are other people sincerely
inclined to help. Thus it happens that some people, though they work
hard and never retire to the health-resorts, still live to a robust old
age, while other people spend half the year or perhaps the whole of it
at the baths and remain without rest. The many nervous diseases of our
time are for the most part caused by the self-centred life, and their
real cure must be through a renewal in health of mind and will.
III. As to von Klinger’s third suggestion, it is to be said that
the inclination to solitude is absolutely necessary not only for
happiness, but for the tranquil development of one’s spiritual life.
The happiness which can really be attained, and which is independent of
all changes, is to be found in a life given to great thoughts and in a
work peacefully directed toward great ends. Such a life is, however,
necessarily withdrawn from fruitless sociability. As Goethe says, “To
such a life, all else is vanity and illusion.” It is by such a course
of life that one by degrees escapes from the fickleness and moodiness
of life. He learns not to take people too seriously. He comes to regard
with tranquillity the shifting changes of opinions and inclinations. So
far as his inclination goes and his duties permit, he would rather shun
popularity than seek it.
IV. As to the last of von Klinger’s paragraphs, it may be said to
contain the philosophy of his life. Looking at people as individuals,
their lives appear full of contrasts; but taking them all together,
their lives are in fact much alike. One section of humanity, of high
and of low estate, lives either consciously or unconsciously a merely
animal life. Such persons simply follow the path which their physical
nature indicates, fulfilling their little span of life, and knowing
no other destiny. Another group is ever seeking some escape from this
unsatisfying end of life. Dante, in the first canto of his Divine
Comedy, very beautifully describes these seekers for the better life;
and this search makes in reality the spiritual experience of all great
personalities.
The first step in this way of life is taken when one becomes
discontented with life as it is and longs for something better. One’s
reason seeks an outlet from the labyrinth of the world and at last from
sheer weariness resolves, at any cost, to forsake the world’s ways and
to seek peace. When one has come to this resolution, then he is on the
way to salvation, and experiences that inner happiness which one gains
who has found at last the way he ought to go. And, indeed, this man is
essentially saved; for he is now open to the unhindered influences of
new spiritual forces, against which in his early life his will had set
itself.