IN VINO VERITAS (THE BANQUET)

It was on one of the last days in July, at ten o'clock in the

evening, when the participants in that banquet assembled together.

Date and year I have forgotten; indeed, this would be interesting only

to one's memory of details, and not to one's recollection of the

contents of what experience. The "spirit of the occasion" and whatever

impressions are recorded in one's mind under that heading, concerns

only one's recollections; and just as generous wine gains in flavor by

passing the Equator, because of the evaporation of its watery particles,

likewise does recollection gain by getting rid of the watery particles

of memory; and yet recollection becomes as little a mere figment of the

imagination by this process as does the generous wine.

The participants were five in number: John, with the epithet of the

Seducer, Victor Eremita, Constantin Constantius, and yet two others

whose names I have not exactly forgotten--which would be a matter

of small importance--but whose names I did not learn. It was as

if these two had no proper names, for they were constantly addressed

by some epithet. The one was called the Young Person. Nor was he more

than twenty and some years, of slender and delicate build, and of a very

dark complexion. His face was thoughtful; but more pleasing even was

its lovable and engaging expression which betokened a purity of soul

harmonizing perfectly with the soft charm, almost feminine, and the

transparency of his whole presence. This external beauty of appearance

was lost sight of, however, in one's next impression of him; or, one

kept it only in mind whilst regarding a youth nurtured or--to use

a still tenderer expression--petted into being, by thought, and

nourished by the contents of his own soul--a youth who as yet

had had nothing to do with the world, had been neither aroused and

fired, nor disquieted and disturbed. Like a sleep-walker he bore the

law of his actions within himself, and the amiable, kindly expression

of his countenance concerned no one, but only mirrored the disposition

of his soul.

The other person they called the Dressmaker, and that was his

occupation. Of him it was impossible to get a consistent impression.

He was dressed according to the very latest fashion, with his hair

curled and perfumed, fragrant with eau-de-cologne. One moment his

carriage did not lack self-possession, whereas in the next it assumed a

certain dancing, festive air, a certain hovering motion, which, however,

was kept in rather definite bounds by the robustness of his figure. Even

when he was most malicious in his speech his voice ever had a touch of

the smoothtonguedness of the shop, the suaveness of the dealer in

fancy-goods, which evidently was utterly disgusting to himself and only

satisfied his spirit of defiance. As I think of him now I understand him

better, to be sure, than when I first saw him step out of his carriage

and I involuntarily laughed. At the same time there is some

contradiction left still. He had transformed or bewitched himself, had

by the magic of his own will assumed the appearance of one almost

half-witted, but had not thereby entirely satisfied himself; and this is

why his reflectiveness now and then peered forth from beneath his

disguise.

As I think of it now it seems rather absurd that five such persons

should get a banquet arranged. Nor would anything have come of it,

I suppose, if Constantin had not been one of us. In a retired room of

a confectioner's shop where they met at times, the matter had been

broached once before, but had been dropped immediately when the

question arose as to who was to head the undertaking. The Young

Person was declared unfit for that task, the Dressmaker affirmed

himself to be too busy. Victor Eremita did not beg to be excused

because "he had married a wife or bought a yoke of oxen which he

needed to prove";[1] but, he said, even if he should make an

exception, for once, and come to the banquet, yet he would decline

the courtesy offered him to preside at it, and he therewith "entered

protest at the proper time.[2]" This, John considered a work spoken

in due season; because, as he saw it, there was but one person able

to prepare a banquet, and that was the possessor of the wishing-table

which set itself with delectable things whenever he said to it

"Cover thyself!" He averred that to enjoy the charms of a young girl

in haste was not always the wisest course; but as to a banquet, he

would not wait for it, and generally was tired of it a long while

before it came off. However, if the plan was to be carried into effect

he would make one condition, which was, that the banquet should be so

arranged as to be served in one course. And that all were agreed on.

Also, that the settings for it were to be made altogether new, and

that afterwards they were to be destroyed entirely; ay, before rising

from table one was to hear the preparation for their destruction.

Nothing was to remain; "not even so much," said the Dressmaker, "as

there is left of a dress after it has been made over into a hat."

"Nothing," said John, "because nothing is more unpleasant than a

sentimental scene, and nothing more disgusting than the knowledge

that somewhere or other there is an external setting which in a

direct and impertinent fashion pretends to be a reality."

When the conversation had thus became animated, Victor Eremita

suddenly arose, struck an attitude on the floor, beckoned with his hand

in the fashion of one commanding and, holding his arm extended as one

lifting a goblet, he said, with the gesture of one waving a welcome:

"With this cup whose fragrance already intoxicates my senses, whose cool

fire already inflames my blood, I greet you, beloved fellow-banqueters,

and bid you welcome; being entirely assured that each one of you is

sufficiently satisfied by our merely speaking about the banquet; for our

Lord satisfied the stomach before satisfying the eye, but the imagination

acts in the reverse fashion." Thereupon he inserted his hand in his

pocket, took from it a cigar-case, struck a match, and began to smoke.

When Constantin Constantius protested against this sovereign free way

of transforming the banquet planned into an illusory fragment of life,

Victor declared that he did not believe for one moment that such

a banquet could be got up and that, in any case, it had been

a mistake to let it become the subject of discussion in advance.

"Whatever is to be good must come at once; for 'at once' is the

divinest of all categories and deserves to be honored as in the language

of the Romans: _ex templo_,[3] because it is the starting point for

all that is divine in life, and so much so that what is not done at

once is of evil." However, he remarked, he did not care to argue

this point. In case the others wished to speak and act differently

he would not say a word, but if they wished him to explain the sense

of his remarks more fully he must have leave to make a speech,

because he did not consider it all desirable to provoke a discussion

on the subject.

Permission was given him; and as the others called on him to do so

at once, he spoke as follows: "A banquet is in itself a difficult

matter, because even if it be arranged with ever so much taste and

talent there is something else essential to its success, to wit, good

luck. And by this I mean not such matters as most likely would give

concern to an anxious hostess, but something different, a something

which no one can make absolutely sure of: a fortunate harmonizing

of the spirit and the minutiæ of the banquet, that fine ethereal

vibration of chords, that soul-stirring music which cannot be ordered

in advance from the town-musicians. Look you, therefore is it a

hazardous thing to undertake, because if things do go wrong, perhaps

from the very start, one may suffer such a depression and loss of

spirits that recovery from it might involve a very long time.

"Sheer habit and thoughtlessness are father and godfather to most

banquets, and it is only due to the lack of critical sense among people

that one fails to notice the utter absence of any idea in them. In the

first place, women ought never to be present at a banquet. Women

may be used to advantage only in the Greek style, as a chorus of

dancers. As it is the main thing at a banquet that there be eating and

drinking, woman ought not to be present; for she cannot do justice to

what is offered; or, if she can, it is most unbeautiful. Whenever a

woman is present the matter of eating and drinking ought to be reduced

to the very slightest proportions. At most, it ought to be no more

than some trifling feminine occupation, to have something to busy

one's hands with. Especially in the country a little repast of this

kind--which, by the way, should be put at other times than the

principal meals--may be extremely delightful; and if so, always

owing to the presence of the other sex. To do like the English, who

let the fair sex retire as soon as the real drinking is to start,

is to fall between two stools, for every plan ought to be a whole,

and the very manner with which I take a seat at the table and seize

hold of knife and fork bears a definite relation to this whole. In

the same sense a political banquet presents an unbeautiful

ambiguity inasmuch as one does not[4] want to cut down to a very

minimum the essentials of a banquet, and yet does not wish to have

the speeches thought of as having been made over the cups.

"So far, we are agreed, I suppose; and our number--in case anything

should come of the banquet--is correctly chosen, according to that

beautiful rule: neither more than the Muses nor fewer than the

Graces. Now I demand the greatest superabundance of everything

thinkable. That is, even though everything be not actually there, yet

the possibility of having it must be at one's immediate beck and call,

aye, hover temptingly over the table, more seductive even than the

actual sight of it. I beg to be excused, however, from banqueting on

sulphur-matches or on a piece of sugar which all are to suck in turn.

My demands for such a banquet will, on the contrary, be difficult to

satisfy; for the feast itself must be calculated to arouse and incite

that unmentionable longing which each worthy participant is to bring

with him. I require that the earth's fertility be at our service, as

though everything sprouted forth at the very moment the desire for it

was born. I desire a more luxurious abundance of wine than when

Mephistopheles needed but to drill holes into the table to obtain it.

I demand an illumination more splendid than have the gnomes when

they lift up the mountain on pillars and dance in a sea of blazing

light. I demand what most excites the senses, I demand their

gratification by deliciously sweet perfumes, more superb than any

in the Arabian Nights. I demand a coolness which voluptuously provokes

desire and breathes relaxation on desire satisfied. I demand a

fountain's unceasing enlivenment. If Mæcenas could not sleep without

hearing the splashing of a fountain, I cannot eat without it. Do not

misunderstand me, I can eat stockfish without it, but I cannot eat at

a banquet without it; I can drink water without it, but I cannot drink

wine at a banquet without it. I demand a host of servants, chosen and

comely, as if I sate at table with the gods; I demand that there

shall be music at the feast, both strong and subdued; and I demand

that it shall be an accompaniment to my thoughts; and what concerns

you, my friends, my demands regarding you are altogether incredible.

Do you see, by reason of all these demands--which are as many

reasons against it--I hold a banquet to be a _pium desideratum_,[5]

and am so far from desiring a repetition of it that I presume it is not

feasible even a first time."

The only one who had not actually participated in this conversation,

nor in the frustration of the banquet, was Constantin. Without him,

nothing would have been done save the talking. He had come to a

different conclusion and was of the opinion that the idea might well

be realized, if one but carried the matter with a high hand.

Then some time passed, and both the banquet and the discussion

about it were forgotten, when suddenly, one day, the participants

received a card of invitation from Constantius for a banquet the very

same evening. The motto of the party had been given by him as: _In Vino

Veritas_, because there was to be speaking, to be sure, and not only

conversation; but the speeches were not to be made except _in vino_,

and no truth was to be uttered there excepting that which is

_in vino_--when the wine is a defense of the truth and the truth a

defense of the wine.

The place had been chosen in the woods, some ten miles distant

from Copenhagen. The hall in which they were to feast had been newly

decorated and in every way made unrecognizable; a smaller room,

separated from the hall by a corridor, was arranged for an orchestra.

Shutters and curtains were let down before all windows, which were left

open. The arrangement that the participants were to drive to the

banquet in the evening hour was to intimate to them--and that was

Constantin's idea--what was to follow. Even if one knows that

one is driving to a banquet, and the imagination therefore indulges for

a moment in thoughts of luxury, yet the impression of the natural

surroundings is too powerful to be resisted. That this might possibly

not be the case was the only contingency he apprehended; for just as

there is no power like the imagination to render beautiful all it

touches, neither is there any power which can to such a degree disturb

all--misfortune conspiring--if confronted with reality. But

driving on a summer evening does not lure the imagination to luxurious

thoughts, but rather to the opposite. Even if one does not see it or

hear it, the imagination will unconsciously create a picture of the

longing for home which one is apt to feel in the evening hours--one

sees the reapers, man and maid, returning from their work in the fields,

one hears the hurried rattling of the hay wagon, one interprets even the

far-away lowing from the meadows as a longing. Thus does a summer

evening suggest idyllic thoughts, soothing even a restless mind with

its assuagement, inducing even the soaring imagination to abide on

earth with an indwelling yearning for home as the place from whence

it came, and thus teaching the insatiable mind to be satisfied with

little, by rendering one content; for in the evening hour time stands

still and eternity lingers.

Thus they arrived in the evening hour: those invited; for Constantin

had come out somewhat earlier. Victor Eremita who resided in the country

not far away came on horseback, the others in a carriage. And just as

they had discharged it, a light open vehicle rolled in through the

gate carrying a merry company of four journeymen who were entertained

to be ready at the decisive moment to function as a corps of destruction:

just as firemen are stationed in a theatre, for the opposite reason

at once to extinguish a fire.

So long as one is a child one possesses sufficient imagination

to maintain one's soul at the very top-notch of expectation--for

a whole hour in the dark room, if need be; but when one has grown

older one's imagination may easily cause one to tire of the Christmas

tree before seeing it.

The folding doors were opened. The effect of the radiant illumination,

the coolness wafting toward them, the beguiling fragrance of sweet

perfumes, the excellent taste of the arrangements, for a moment

overwhelmed the feelings of those entering; and when, at the same

time, strains from the ballet of "Don Juan" sounded from the orchestra,

their persons seemed transfigured and, as if out of reverence for an

unseen spirit about them, they stopped short for a moment like men

who have been roused by admiration and who have risen to admire.

Whoever knows that happy moment, whoever has appreciated its

delight, and has not also felt the apprehension lest suddenly something

might happen, some trifle perhaps, which yet might be sufficient to

disturb all! Whoever has held the lamp of Aladdin in his hand and has

not also felt the swooning of pleasure, because one needs but to wish?

Whoever has held what is inviting in his hand and has not also learned

to keep his wrist limber to let go at once, if need be?

Thus they stood side by side. Only Victor stood alone, absorbed in

thought; a shudder seemed to pass through his soul, he almost trembled;

he collected himself and saluted the omen with these words: "Ye

mysterious, festive, and seductive strains which drew me out of the

cloistered seclusion of a quiet youth and beguiled me with a longing as

mighty as a recollection, and terrible, as though Elvira had

not even been seduced but had only desired to be! Immortal Mozart,

thou to whom I owe all; but no! as yet I do not owe thee all. But when

I shall have become an old man--if ever I do become an old man;

or when I shall have become ten years older--if ever I do; or when

I am become old--if ever I shall become old; or when I shall

die--for that, indeed, I know I shall: then shall I say: immortal

Mozart, thou to whom I owe all--and then I shall let my admiration,

which is my soul's first and only admiration, burst forth in all its

might and let it make away with me, as it often has been on the point

of doing. Then have I set my house in order,[6] then have I remembered

my beloved one, then have I confessed my love, then have I fully

established that I owe thee all, then am I occupied no longer with

thee, with the world, but only with the grave thought of death."

Now there came from the orchestra that invitation in which joy

triumphs most exultantly, and heaven-storming soars aloft above

Elvira's sorrowful thanks; and gracefully apostrophizing, John repeated:

"_Viva la liberta_"--"_et veritas_," said the Young Person; "but

above all, _in vino_," Constantin interrupted them, seating himself

at the table and inviting the others to do likewise.

How easy to prepare a banquet; yet Constantin declared that he

never would risk preparing another. How easy to admire; yet Victor

declared that he never again would lend words to his admiration; for to

suffer a discomfiture is more dreadful than to become an invalid in

war! How easy to express a desire, if one has the magic lamp; yet that

is at times more terrible than to perish of want!

They were seated. In the same moment the little company were

launched into the very middle of the infinite sea of enjoyment--as

if with one single bound. Each one had addressed all his thoughts and

all his desires to the banquet, had prepared his soul for the enjoyment

which was offered to overflowing and in which their souls overflowed.

The experienced driver is known by his ability to start the

snorting team with a single bound and to hold them well abreast; the

well-trained steed is known by his lifting himself in one absolutely

decisive leap: even if one or the other of the guests perhaps fell short

in some particular, certainly Constantin was a good host.

Thus they banqueted. Soon, conversation had woven its beautiful

wreaths about the banqueters, so that they sat garlanded. Now, it was

enamored of the food, now of the wine, and now again of itself; now,

it seemed to develop into significance, and then again it was altogether

slight. Soon, fancy unfolded itself--the splendid one which blows

but once, the tender one which straightway closes its petals; now, there

came an exclamation from one of the banqueters: "These truffles are

superb," and now, an order of the host: "This Chateau Margaux!" Now,

the music was drowned in the noise, now it was heard again. Sometimes

the servants stood still as if _in pausa_, in that decisive moment

when a new dish was being brought out, or a new wine was ordered and

mentioned by name, sometimes they were all a bustle. Sometimes there

was a silence for a moment, and then the re-animating spirit of the

music went forth over the guests. Now, one with some bold thought would

take the lead in the conversation and the others followed after, almost

forgetting to eat, and the music would sound after them as it sounds

after the jubilant shouts of a host storming on; now, only the clinking

of glasses and the clattering of plates was heard and the feasting

proceeded in silence, accompanied only by the music that joyously

advanced and again stimulated conversation. Thus they banqueted.

How poor is language in comparison with that symphony of sounds

unmeaning, yet how significant, whether of a battle or of a banquet,

which even scenic representation cannot imitate and for which language

has but a few words! How rich is language in the expression of the

world of ideas, and how poor, when it is to describe reality!

Only once did Constantin abandon his omnipresence in which one

actually lost sight of his presence. At the very beginning he got them

to sing one of the old drinking songs, "by way of calling to mind that

jolly time when men and women feasted together," as he said--a

proposal which had the positively burlesque effect he had perhaps

calculated it should have. It almost gained the upper hand when the

Dressmaker wanted them to sing the ditty: "When I shall mount the

bridal bed, hoiho!" After a couple of courses had been served Constantin

proposed that the banquet should conclude with each one's making a

speech, but that precautions should be taken against the speakers'

divagating too much. He was for making two conditions, viz., there

were to be no speeches until after the meal; and no one was to speak

before having drunk sufficiently to feel the power of the wine--else

he was to be in that condition in which one says much which under

other circumstances one would leave unsaid--without necessarily

having the connection of speech and thought constantly interrupted by

hiccoughs.[7] Before speaking, then, each one was to declare

solemnly that he was in that condition. No definite quantity of wine

was to be required, capacities differed so widely. Against this

proposal, John entered protest. He could never become intoxicated,

he averred, and when he had come to a certain point he grew the

soberer the more he drank. Victor Eremita was of the opinion that

any such preparatory premeditations to insure one's becoming drunk

would precisely militate against one's becoming so. If one desired

to become intoxicated the deliberate wish was only a hindrance. Then

there ensued some discussion about the divers influences of wine on

consciousness, and especially about the fact that, in the case of

a reflective temperament, an excess of wine may manifest itself,

not in any particular _impetus_ but, on the contrary, in a noticeably

cool self-possession. As to the contents of the speeches, Constantin

proposed that they should deal with love, that is, the relation

between man and woman. No love stories were to be told though they

might furnish the text of one's remarks.

The conditions were accepted. All reasonable and just demands a

host may make on his guests were fulfilled: they ate and drank, and

"drank and were filled with drink," as the Bible has it;[8] that is,

they drank stoutly.

The desert was served. Even if Victor had not, as yet, had his desire

gratified to hear the splashing of a fountain--which, for that

matter, he had luckily forgotten since that former conversation--now

champagne flowed profusely. The clock struck twelve. Thereupon

Constantin commanded silence, saluted the Young Person with a goblet

and the words _quod felix sit faustumque_[9] and bade him to speak

first.

(The Young Person's Speech)

The Young Person arose and declared that he felt the power of the

wine, which was indeed apparent to some degree; for the blood pulsed

strongly in his temples, and his appearance was not as beautiful as

before the meal. He spoke as follows:

If there be truth in the words of the poets, dear fellow-banqueters,

then unrequited love is, indeed, the greatest of sorrows. Should you

require any proof of this you need but listen to the speech of lovers.

They say that it is death, certain death; and the first time they

believe it--for the space of two weeks. The next time they say

that it is death; and finally they will die sometime--as the result

of unrequited love. For that love has killed them, about that there

can obtain no doubt. And as to love's having to take hold three times

to make away with them, that is not different from the dentist's having

to pull three times before he is able to budge that firmly rooted molar.

But, if unrequited love thus means certain death, how happy am I who

have never loved and, I hope, will only achieve dying some time,

and not from unrequited love! But just this may be the greatest

misfortune, for all I know, and how unfortunate must I then be!

The essence of love probably (for I speak as does a blind man about

colors), probably lies in its bliss; which is, in other words, that the

cessation of love brings death to the lover. This I comprehend very well

as in the nature of a hypothesis correlating life and death. But, if

love is to be merely by way of hypothesis, why, then lovers lay

themselves open to ridicule through their actually falling in love.

If, however, love is something real, why, then reality must bear out

what lovers say about it. But did one in real life ever hear of, or

observe, such things having taken place, even if there is hearsay to

that effect? Here I perceive already one of the contradictions in which

love involves a person; for whether this is different for those

initiated, that I have no means of knowing; but love certainly does

seem to involve people in the most curious contradictions.

There is no other relation between human beings which makes

such demands on one's ideality as does love, and yet love is never seen

to have it. For this reason alone I would be afraid of love; for I fear

that it might have the power to make me too talk vaguely about a bliss

which I did not feel and a sorrow I did not have. I say this here since

I am bidden to speak on love, though unacquainted with it--I

say this in surroundings which appeal to me like a Greek symposion; for

I should otherwise not care to speak on this subject as I do not wish to

disturb any one's happiness but, rather, am content with my own

thoughts. Who knows but these thoughts are sheer imbecilities and vain

imaginings--perhaps my ignorance is explicable from the fact

that I never have learned, nor have wished to learn, from any one, how

one comes to love; or from the fact that I have never yet challenged a

woman with a glance--which is supposed to be smart--but have always

lowered my eyes, unwilling to yield to an impression before having

fully made sure about the nature of the power into whose sphere

I am venturing.

At this point he was interrupted by Constantin who expostulated

with him because, by his very confession of never having been in love,

he had debarred himself from speaking. The Young Person declared that

at any other time he would gladly obey an injunction to that effect as

he had often enough experienced how tiresome it was to have to make a

speech; but that in this case he would insist upon his right. Precisely

the fact that one had had no love affair, he said, also constituted an

affair of love; and he who could assert this of himself was entitled to

speak about Eros just because his thoughts were bound to take issue

with the whole sex and not with individuals. He was granted permission

to speak and continued.

Inasmuch as my right to speak has been challenged, this may serve

to exempt me from your laughter; for I know well that, just as among

rustics he is not considered a man who does not call a tobacco pipe his

own, likewise among men-folks he is not considered a real man who is

not experienced in love. If any one feels like laughing, let him

laugh--my thought is, and remains, the essential consideration

for me. Or is love, perchance, privileged to be the only event which is

to be considered after, rather than before, it happens? If that be the

case, what then if I, having fallen in love, should later on think that

it was too late to think about it? Look you, this is the reason why I

choose to think about love before it happens. To be sure, lovers also

maintain that they gave the matter thought, but such is not the case.

They assume it to be essential in man to fall in love; but this surely

does not mean thinking about love but, rather, assuming it, in order

to make sure of getting one's self a sweetheart.

In fact, whenever my reflection endeavors to pin down love, naught

but contradiction seems to remain. At times, it is true, I feel as if

something had escaped me, but I cannot tell what it is, whereas my

reflection is able at once to point out the contradictions in what

does occur. Very well, then, in my opinion love is the greatest

self-contradiction imaginable, and comical at the same time. Indeed,

the one corresponds to the other. The comical is always seen to occur

in the category of contradictions--which truth I cannot take the

time to demonstrate now; but what I shall demonstrate now is that

love is comical. By love I mean the relation between man and woman.

I am not thinking of Eros in the Greek sense which has been extolled so

beautifully by Plato who, by the way, is so far from considering the

love of woman that he mentions it only in passing, holding it to be

inferior to the love of youths.[10] I say, love is comical to a

third person--more I say not. Whether it is for this reason that lovers

always hate a third person I do not know; but I do know that

reflection is always in such a relation the third person, and

for this reason I cannot love without at the same time having a third

person present in the shape of my reflection.

This surely cannot seem strange to any one, every one having

doubted everything, whereas I am uttering my doubts only with reference

to love. And yet I do think it strange that people have doubted

everything and have again reached certainty, without as much as dropping

a word concerning the difficulties which have held my thought

captive--so much so that I have, now and then, longed to be freed

of them--freed by the aid of one, note well, who was aware

of these difficulties, and not of one who in his sleep had a

notion to doubt, and to have doubted, everything, and again

in his sleep had the notion that he is explaining, and has

explained, all.[11]

Let me then have your attention, dear fellow banqueters, and if you

yourselves be lovers do not therefore interrupt me, nor try to silence

me because you do not wish to hear the explanation. Rather turn away

and listen with averted faces to what I have to say, and what I insist

upon saying, having once begun.

In the first place I consider it comical that every one loves, and

every one wishes to love, without any one ever being able to tell one

what is the nature of the lovable or that which is the real object of

love. As to the word "to love" I shall not discuss it since it means

nothing definite; but as soon as the matter is broached at all we are

met by the question as to what it is one loves. No other answer is

ever vouchsafed us on that point other than that one loves what is

lovable. For if one should make answer, with Plato,[12] that one is

to love what is good, one has in taking this single step exceeded

the bounds of the erotic.

The answer may be offered, perhaps, that one is to love what is

beautiful. But if I then should ask whether to love means to love a

beautiful landscape or a beautiful painting it would be immediately

perceived that the erotic is not, as it were, comprised in the more

general term of the love of things beautiful, but is something entirely

of its own kind. Were a lover--just to give an example--to speak

as follows, in order to express adequately how much love there

dwelled in him: "I love beautiful landscapes, and my Lalage, and the

beautiful dancer, and a beautiful horse--in short, I love all that

is beautiful," his Lalage would not be satisfied with his encomium,

however well satisfied she might be with him in all other respects, and

even if she be beautiful; and now suppose Lalage is not beautiful and he

yet loved her!

Again, if I should refer the erotic element to the bisection

of which Aristophanes tells us[13] when he says that the gods severed

man into two parts as one cuts flounders, and that these parts thus

separated sought one another, then I again encounter a difficulty I

cannot get over, which is, in how far I may base my reasoning on

Aristophanes who in his speech--just because there is no reason for

the thought to stop at this point--goes further in his thought and

thinks that the gods might take it into their heads to divide man

into three parts, for the sake of still better fun. For the sake

of still better fun; for is it not true, as I said, that love

renders a person ridiculous, if not in the eyes of others then

certainly in the eyes of the gods?

Now, let me assume that the erotic element resides essentially in the

relation between man and woman--what is to be inferred from that?

If the lover should say to his Lalage: I love you because you are a

woman; I might as well love any other woman, as for instance, ugly

Zoë: then beautiful Lalage would feel insulted.

In what, then, consists the lovable? This is my question; but

unfortunately, no one has been able to tell me. The individual lover

always believes that, as far as he is concerned, he knows. Still he

cannot make himself understood by any other lover; and he who listens

to the speech of a number of lovers will learn that no two of them ever

agree, even though they all talk about the same thing. Disregarding

those altogether silly explanations which leave one as wise as before,

that is, end by asserting that it is really the pretty feet of the

beloved damsel, or the admired mustachios of the swain, which are the

objects of love--disregarding these, one will find mentioned, even

in the declamations of lovers in the higher style, first a number of

details and, finally, the declaration: all her lovable ways; and when

they have reached the climax: that inexplicable something I do not know

how to explain. And this speech is meant to please especially beautiful

Lalage. Me it does not please, for I don't understand a word of it and

find, rather, that it contains a double contradiction--first, that

it ends with the inexplicable, second, that it ends with the

inexplicable; for he who intends to end with the inexplicable had best

begin with the inexplicable and then say no more, lest he lay himself

open to suspicion. If he begin with the inexplicable, saying no more,

then this does not prove his helplessness, for it is, anyway, an

explanation in a negative sense; but if he does begin with something

else and lands in the inexplicable, then this does certainly

prove his helplessness.

So then we see: to love corresponds to the lovable; and the lovable

is the inexplicable. Well, that is at least something; but comprehensible

it is not, as little as the inexplicable way in which love seizes

on its prey. Who, indeed, would not be alarmed if people about one,

time and again, dropped down dead, all of a sudden, or had convulsions,

without any one being able to account for it? But precisely in this

fashion does love invade life, only with the difference that one is

not alarmed thereby, since the lovers themselves regard it as their

greatest happiness, but that one, on the contrary, is tempted to

laugh; for the comical and the tragical elements ever correspond to

one another. Today, one may converse with a person and can fairly

well make him out--tomorrow, he speaks in tongues and with strange

gestures: he is in love.

Now, if to love meant to fall in love with the first person that came

along, it would be easy to understand that one could give no special

reasons for it; but since to love means to fall in love with one, one

single person in all the world, it would seem as if such an extraordinary

process of singling out ought to be due to such an extensive chain of

reasoning that one might have to beg to be excused from hearing

it--not so much because it did not explain anything as because it

might be too lengthy to listen to. But no, the lovers are not able to

explain anything at all. He has seen hundreds upon hundreds of

women; he is, perhaps, advanced in years and has all along felt

nothing--and all at once he sees her, her the Only one, Catherine.

Is this not comical? Is it not comical that the relation which is

to explain and beautify all life, love, is not like the mustard

seed from which there grows a great tree,[14] but being still smaller

is, at bottom, nothing at all; for not a single antecedent criterion

can be mentioned, as e.g., that the phenomenon occurred at a certain

age, nor a single reason as to why he should select her, her alone

in all the world--and that by no means in the same sense as when

"Adam chose Eve, because there was none other.[15]"

Or is not the explanation which the lovers vouchsafe just as comical;

or, does it not, rather, emphasize the comical aspect of love? They say

that love renders one blind, and by this fact they undertake to explain

the phenomenon. Now, if a person who was going into a dark room to

fetch something should answer, on my advising him to take a light

along, that it was only a trifling matter he wanted and so he would

not bother to take a light along--ah! then I would understand him

excellently well. If, on the other hand, this same person should take

me aside and, with an air of mystery, confide to me that the thing

he was about to fetch was of the very greatest importance and that

it was for this reason that he was able to do it in the dark--ah!

then I wonder if my weak mortal brain could follow the soaring flight

of his speech. Even if I should refrain from laughing, in order not

to offend him, I should hardly be able to restrain my mirth as soon

as he had turned his back. But at love nobody laughs; for I am quite

prepared to be embarrassed like the Jew who, after ending his story,

asks: Is there no one who will laugh?[16] And yet I did not miss

the point, as did the Jew, and as to my laughter I am far from wanting

to insult any one. Quite on the contrary, I scorn those fools who

imagine that their love has such good reasons that they can afford

to laugh at other lovers; for since love is altogether inexplicable,

one lover is as ridiculous as the other. Quite as foolish and haughty

I consider it also when a man proudly looks about him in the circle

of girls to find who may be worthy of him, or when a girl proudly

tosses her head to select or reject; because such persons are simply

basing their thoughts on an unexplained assumption. No. What busies

my thought is love as such, and it is love which seems ridiculous

to me; and therefore I fear it, lest I become ridiculous in my own eyes,

or ridiculous in the eyes of the gods who have fashioned man thus.

In other words, if love is ridiculous it is equally ridiculous, whether

now my sweetheart be a princess or a servant girl; for the lovable, as

we have seen, is the inexplicable.

Look you, therefore do I fear love, and find precisely in

this a new proof of love's being comical; for my fear is so

curiously tragic that it throws light on the comical nature of love.

When people wreck a building a sign is hung up to warn people, and I

shall take care to stand from under; when a bar has been freshly painted

a stone is laid in the road to apprise people of the fact; when a driver

is in danger of running a man over he will shout "look out"; when

there have been cases of cholera in a house a soldier is set as

guard; and so forth. What I mean is that if there is some danger, one

may be warned and will successfully escape it by heeding the warning.

Now, fearing to be rendered ridiculous by love, I certainly regard it as

dangerous; so what shall I do to escape it? In other words, what shall

I do to escape the danger of some woman falling in love with me?

I am far from entertaining the thought of being an Adonis every

girl is bound to fall in love with (_relata refero_,[17] for what

this means I do not understand)--goodness no! But since I do not

know what the lovable is I cannot, by any manners of means, know how

to escape this danger. Since, for that matter, the very opposite of

beauty may constitute the lovable; and, finally, since the inexplicable

also is the lovable, I am forsooth in the same situation as the man

Jean Paul speaks of somewhere who, standing on one foot, reads a

sign saying, "fox-traps here," and now does not dare, either to lift

his foot or to set it down.

No, love any one I will not, before I have fathomed what love is;

but this I cannot, but have, rather, come to the conclusion that it is

comical. Hence I will not love--but alas! I have not thereby

avoided the danger, for, since I do not know what the lovable is and

how it seizes me, or how it seizes a woman with reference to me, I

cannot make sure whether I have avoided the danger. This is tragical

and, in a certain sense, even profoundly tragical, even if no one is

concerned about it, or if no one is concerned about the bitter

contradiction for one who thinks--that a something exists which

everywhere exercises its power and yet is not to be definitely

conceived by thought and which, perhaps, may attack from the

rear him who in vain seeks to conceive it. But as to the tragic

side of the matter it has its deep reason in the comic aspects

just pointed out. Possibly, every other person will turn all this

upside down and not find that to be comical which I do, but

rather that which I conceive to be tragical; but this too proves that

I am right to a certain extent. And that for which, if so happens, I

become either a tragic or comic victim is plain enough, viz., my

desire to reflect about all I do, and not imagine I am reflecting

about life by dismissing its every important circumstance with an

"I don't care, either way."

Man has both a soul and a body. About this the wisest and best of

the race are agreed. Now, in case one assumes the essence of love to lie

in the relation between man and woman, the comic aspect will show again

in the face-about which is seen when the highest spiritual values

express themselves in the most sensual terms. I am now referring

to all those extraordinary and mystic signals of love--in short, to

all the free-masonry which forms a continuation of the above-mentioned

inexplicable something. The contradiction in which love here involves a

person lies in the fact that the symbolic signs mean nothing at all

or--which amounts to the same--that no one is able to explain what

they do signify. Two loving souls vow that they will love each the

other in all eternity; thereupon they embrace, and with a kiss

they seal this eternal pact. Now I ask any thinking person whether he

would have hit upon that! And thus there is constant shifting from the

one to the other extreme in love. The most spiritual is expressed

by its very opposite, and the sensual is to signify the most

spiritual.--Let me assume I am in love. In that case I would

conceive it to be of the utmost importance to me that the one I love

belonged to me for all time. This I comprehend; for I am now, really,

speaking only of Greek eroticism which has to do with loving beautiful

souls. Now when the person I love had vowed to return my love I would

believe her or, in as far as there remained any doubt in me, try to

combat my doubt. But what happens actually? For if I were in love

I would, probably, behave like all the others, that is, seek

to obtain still some other assurance than merely to believe

her I love; which, though, is plainly the only assurance to be had.

When Cockatoo[18] all at once begins to plume himself like a

duck which is gorged with food, and then emits the word "Marian,"

everybody will laugh, and so will I. I suppose the spectator finds it

comical that Cockatoo, who doesn't love Marian at all, should be on

such intimate terms with her. But suppose, now, that Cockatoo does

love Marian. Would that be comical still? To me it would; and the

comical would seem to me to lie in love's having become capable of

being expressed in such fashion. Whether now this has been the custom

since the beginning of the world makes no difference whatsoever, for the

comical has the prescriptive right from all eternity to be present in

contradictions--and here is a contradiction. There is really

nothing comical in the antics of a manikin since we see some one pulling

the strings. But to be a manikin at the beck of something inexplicable

is indeed comical, for the contradiction lies in our not seeing any

sensible reason why one should have to twitch now this leg and now

that. Hence, if I cannot explain what I am doing, I do not care to do

it; and if I cannot understand the power into whose sphere I am

venturing, I do not care to surrender myself to that power. And if love

is so mysterious a law which binds together the extremest contradictions,

then who will guarantee that I might not, one day, become altogether

confused? Still, that does not concern me so much.

Again, I have heard that some lovers consider the behavior of other

lovers ridiculous. I cannot conceive how this ridicule is justified,

for if this law of love be a natural law, then all lovers are subject

to it; but if it be the law of their own choice, then those laughing

lovers ought to be able to explain all about love; which, however, they

are unable to do. But in this respect I understand this matter better as

it seems a convention for one lover to laugh at the other because

he always finds the other lover ridiculous, but not himself. If it

be ridiculous to kiss an ugly girl, it is also ridiculous to kiss

a pretty one; and the notion that doing this in some particular way

should entitle one to cast ridicule on another who does it differently,

is but presumptuousness and a conspiracy which does not, for all that,

exempt such a snob from laying himself open to the ridicule which

invariably results from the fact that no one is able to explain what

this act of kissing signifies, whereas it is to signify all--to

signify, indeed, that the lovers desire to belong to each other

in all eternity; aye, what is still more amusing, to render them

certain that they will. Now, if a man should suddenly lay his head on

one side, or shake it, or kick out with his leg and, upon my asking

him why he did this, should answer "To be sure I don't know, myself,

I just happened to do so, next time I may do something different, for I

did it unconsciously"--ah, then I would understand him quite

well. But if he said, as the lovers say about their antics, that all

bliss lay therein, how could I help finding it ridiculous--just

as I thought that other man's motions ridiculous, to be sure in a

different sense, until he restrained my laughter by declaring that

they did not signify anything. For by doing so he removed the

contradiction which is the basic cause of the comical. It is not at all

comical that the insignificant is declared to signify nothing, but it

is very much so if it be asserted to signify all.

As regards involuntary actions, the contradiction arises at the very

outset because involuntary actions are not looked for in a free rational

being. Thus if one supposed that the Pope had a coughing spell the

very moment he was to place the crown on Napoleon's head; or that

bride and groom in the most solemn moment of the wedding ceremony

should fall to sneezing--these would be examples of the comical.

That is, the more a given action accentuates the free rational being,

the more comical are involuntary actions. This holds true also in

respect of the erotic gesticulations, where the comical element appears

a second time, owing to the circumstance that the lovers attempt to

explain away the contradiction by attributing to their gesticulations an

absolute value. As is well known, children have a keen sense

of the ridiculous--witness children's testimony which can always

be relied on in this regard. Now as a rule children will laugh at

lovers, and if one makes them tell what they have seen, surely no one

can help laughing. This is, perhaps, due to the fact that children omit

the point. Very strange! When the Jew omitted the point no one cared to

laugh. Here, on the contrary, every one laughs because the point is

omitted; since, however, no one can explain what the point is--why,

then there is no point at all.

So the lovers explain nothing; and those who praise love explain

nothing but are merely intent on--as one is bidden in the Royal

Laws of Denmark--on saying anent it all which may be pleasant

and of good report. But a man who thinks, desires to have his logical

categories in good order; and he who thinks about love wishes to be

sure about his categories also in this matter. The fact is, though, that

people do not think about love, and a "pastoral science" is still

lacking; for even if a poet in a pastoral poem makes an attempt to

show how love is born, everything is smuggled in again by help of

another person who teaches the lovers how to love!

As we saw, the comical element in love arose from the face-about

whereby the highest quality of one sphere does not find expression in

that sphere but in the exactly opposite quality of another sphere. It is

comical that the soaring flight of love--the desire to belong to

each other for all time--lands ever, like Saft,[19] in the pantry;

but still more comical is it that this conclusion is said to

constitute love's highest expression.

Wherever there is a contradiction, there the comical element is

present also. I am ever following that track. If it be disconcerting to

you, dear fellow banqueters, to follow me in what I shall have to say

now, then follow me with averted countenances. I myself am speaking

as if with veiled eyes; for as I see only the mystery in these matters,

why, I cannot see, or I see nothing.

What is a consequence? If it cannot, in some way or other, be brought

under the same head as its antecedent--why, then it would be ridiculous

if it posed as a consequence. To illustrate: if a man who wanted to

take a bath jumped into the tank and, coming to the surface again

somewhat confused, groped for the rope to hold on to, but caught the

douche-line by mistake, and a shower now descended on him with

sufficient motivation and for excellent good reason--why, then the

consequence would be entirely in order. The ridiculous here consisted

in his seizing the wrong rope; but there is nothing ridiculous in

the shower descending when one pulls the proper rope. Rather, it would

be ridiculous if it did not come; as for example, just to show the

correctness of my contention about contradictions, if a man nerved

himself with bold resolution in order to withstand the shock and, in

the enthusiasm of his decision, with a stout heart pulled the

line--and the shower did not come.

Let us see now how it is with regard to love. The lovers wish to

belong to each other for all time, and this they express, curiously, by

embracing each other with all the intensity of the moment; and all the

bliss of love is said to reside therein. But all desire is egotistic.

Now, to be sure, the lover's desire is not egotistic in respect of

the one he loves, but the desire of both in conjunction is absolutely

egotistic in so far as they in their union and love represent a new ego.

And yet they are deceived; for in the same moment the race triumphs

over the individual, the race is victorious, and the individuals are

debased to do its bidding.

Now this I find more ridiculous than what Aristophanes thought so

ridiculous. The ridiculous aspect of his theory of bi-section lies in

the inherent contradiction (which the ancient author does not

sufficiently emphasize, however). In considering a person one naturally

supposes him to be an entity, and so one does believe till it becomes

apparent that, under the obsession of love, he is but a half which runs

about looking for its complement. There is nothing ridiculous in half

an apple. The comical would appear if a whole apple turned out to be

only half an apple. In the first case there exists no contradiction,

but certainly in the latter. If one actually based one's reasoning

on the figure of speech that woman is but half a person she would

not be ridiculous at all in her love. Man, however, who has been

enjoying civic rights as a whole person, will certainly appear

ridiculous when he takes to running about (and looking for his

other half);[20] for he betrays thereby that he is but half a

person. In fact, the more one thinks about the matter the more

ridiculous it seems; because if man really be a whole, why, then

he will not become a whole in love, but he and woman would make

up one and a half. No wonder, then, that the gods laugh, and

particularly at man.

But let me return to my consequence. When the lovers have found each

other, one should certainly believe that they formed a whole, and in

this should lie the proof of their assertion that they wished to live

for each other for all time. But lo! instead of living for each other

they begin to live for the race, and this they do not even suspect.

What is a consequence? If, as I observed, one cannot detect in it

the cause out of which it proceeded, the consequence is merely

ridiculous, and he becomes a laughing stock to whom this happens.

Now, the fact that the separated halves have found each other ought

to be a complete satisfaction and rest for them; and yet the consequence

is a new existence. That having found each other should mean a new

existence for the lovers, is comprehensible enough; but not, that a new

existence for a third being should take its inception from this fact.

And yet the resulting consequence is greater than that of which it is

the consequence, whereas such an end as the lovers' finding each other

ought to be infallible evidence of no other, subsequent, consequence

being thinkable.

Does the satisfaction of any other desire show an analogy to this

consequence? Quite on the contrary, the satisfaction of desire is in

every other case evinced by a period of rest; and even if a

_tristitia_[21] does supervene--indicating, by the way, that every

satisfaction of an appetite is comical--this _tristitia_ is a

straightforward consequence, though no _tristitia_ so eloquently

attests a preceding comical element as does that following love.

It is quite another matter with an enormous consequence such as

we are dealing with, a consequence of which no one knows whence

it comes, nor whether it will come; whereas, if it does come, it

comes as a consequence.

Who is able to grasp this? And yet that which for the initiates of

love constitutes the greatest pleasure is also the most important thing

for them--so important that they even adopt new names, derived

from the consequence thereof which thus, curiously enough, assumes

retroactive force. The lover is now called father, his sweetheart,

mother; and these names seem to them the most beautiful. And yet there

is a being to whom these names are even more beautiful; for what is as

beautiful as filial piety? To me it seems the most beautiful of all

sentiments; and fortunately I can appreciate the thought underlying it.

We are taught that it is seeming in a son to love his father. This I

comprehend, I cannot even suspect that there is any contradiction

possible here, and I acknowledge infinite satisfaction in being held

by the loving bonds of filial piety. I believe it is the greatest debt

of all to owe another being one's life. I believe that this debt cannot

ever be wiped out, or even fathomed by any calculation, and for this

reason I agree with Cicero when he asserts that the son is always in the

wrong as against his father; and it is precisely filial piety which

teaches me to believe this, teaches me not even to penetrate the hidden,

but rather to remain hidden in the father. Quite true, I am glad to be

another person's greatest debtor; but as to the opposite, viz., before

deciding to make another person my greatest debtor, I want to arrive

at greater clarity. For to my conception there is a world of difference

between being some person's debtor, and making some person one's

debtor to such an extent that he will never be able to clear himself.

What filial piety forbids the son to consider, love bids the father

to consider. And here contradiction sets in again. If the son has an

immortal soul like his father, what does it mean, then, to be a father?

For must I not smile at myself when thinking of myself as a

father--whereas the son is most deeply moved when he reflects on

the relation he bears to his father? Very well do I understand Plato

when he says that an animal will give birth to an animal of the same

species, a plant, to a plant of the same species, and thus also man

to man.[22] But this explains nothing, does not satisfy one's thought,

and arouses but a dim feeling; for an immortal soul cannot be born.

Whenever, then, a father considers his son in the light of his son's

immortality--which is, indeed, the essential consideration[23]--he

will probably smile at himself, for he cannot, by any means, grasp in

their entirety all the beautiful and noble thoughts which his son with

filial piety entertains about him. If, on the other hand, he considers

his son from the point of view of his animal nature he must smile again,

because the conception of fatherhood is too exalted an expression

for it.

Finally, if it were thinkable that a father influenced his son in

such fashion that his own nature was a condition from which the

son's nature could not free itself, then the contradiction would arise

in another direction; for in this case nothing more terrible is

thinkable than being a father. There is no comparison between killing

a person and giving him life--the former decides his fate only in

time, the other for all eternity. So there is a contradiction again, and

one both to laugh and to weep about. Is paternity then an

illusion--even if not in the same sense as is implied in Magdelone's

speech to Jeronymus[24]--or is it the most terrible thought imaginable?

Is it the greatest benefit conferred on one, or is it the sweetest

gratification of one's desire--is it something which just happens,

or is it the greatest task of life?

Look you, for this reason have I forsworn all love, for my thought

is to me the most essential consideration. So even if love be the most

exquisite joy, I renounce it, without wishing either to offend or to

envy any one; and even if love be the condition for conferring the

greatest benefit imaginable I deny myself the opportunity therefor--but

my thought I have not prostituted. By no means do I lack an eye for

what is beautiful, by no means does my heart remain unmoved when I

read the songs of the poets, by no means is my soul without sadness

when it yields to the beautiful conception of love; but I do not wish

to become unfaithful to my thought. And of what avail were it to be,

for there is no happiness possible for me except my thought have

free sway. If it had not, I would in desperation yearn for my

thought, which I may not desert to cleave to a wife, for it is my

immortal part and, hence, of more importance than a wife. Well do I

comprehend that if any thing is sacred it is love; that if faithlessness

in any relation is base, it is doubly so in love; that if any deceit

is detestable, it is tenfold more detestable in love. But my soul is

innocent of blame. I have never looked at any woman to desire her,

neither have I fluttered about aimlessly before blindly plunging, or

lapsing, into the most decisive of all relations. If I knew what the

lovable were I would know with certainty whether I had offended by

tempting any one; but since I do not know, I am certain only of

never having had the conscious desire to do so.

Supposing I should yield to love and be made to laugh; or supposing

I should be cast down by terror, since I cannot find the narrow path

which lovers travel as easily as if it were the broad highway,

undisturbed by any doubts, which they surely have bestowed thought on

(seeing our times have, indeed, reflected about all[25] and consequently

will comprehend me when I assert that to act unreflectingly is nonsense,

as one ought to have gone through all possible reflections before

acting)--supposing, I say, I should yield to love! Would I not

insult past redress my beloved one if I laughed; or irrevocably plunge

her into despair if I were overwhelmed by terror? For I understand

well enough that a woman cannot be expected to have thought as

profoundly about these matters; and a woman who found love comical

(as but gods and men can, for which reason woman is a temptation

luring them to become ridiculous) would both betray a suspicious

amount of previous experience and understand me least. But a woman

who comprehended the terror of love would have lost her loveliness

and still fail to understand me--she would be annihilated; which

is in nowise my case, so long as my thought saves me.

Is there no one ready to laugh? When I began by wanting to speak

about the comical element in love you perhaps expected to be made to

laugh, for it is easy to make you laugh, and I myself am a friend of

laughter; and still you did not laugh, I believe. The effect of my

speech was a different one, and yet precisely this proves that I have

spoken about the comical. If there be no one who laughs at my

speech--well, then laugh a little at me, dear fellow-banqueters,

and I shall not wonder; for I do not understand what I have occasionally

heard you say about love. Very probably, though, you are among the

initiated as I am not.

Thereupon the Young Person seated himself. He had become more

beautiful, almost, than before the meal. Now he sat quietly, looking

down before him, unconcerned about the others. John the Seducer

desired at once to urge some objections against the Young Person's

speech but was interrupted by Constantin who warned against discussions

and ruled that on this occasion only speeches were in order. John said

if that was the case, he would stipulate that he should be allowed to be

the last speaker. This again gave rise to a discussion as to the order

in which they were to speak, which Constantin closed by offering to

speak forthwith, against their recognizing his authority to appoint the

speakers in their turn.

(Constantin's Speech)

Constantin spoke as follows:

There is a time to keep silence, and a time to speak,[26] and

now it seems to be the time to speak briefly, for our young friend

has spoken much and very strangely. His _vis comica_[27] has made

us struggle _ancipiti proelio_[28] because his speech was full of

doubts, as he himself is, sitting there now--a perplexed man who

knows not whether to laugh, or weep, or fall in love. In fact, had

I had foreknowledge of his speech, such as he demands one should

have of love, I should have forbidden him to speak; but now it is

too late. I shall bid you then, dear bellow-banqueters, "gladsome and

merry to be," and even if I cannot enforce this I shall ask you to forget

each speech so soon as it is made and to wash it down with a single

draught.

And now as to woman, about whom I shall speak. I too have pondered

about her, and I have finally discovered the category to which she

belongs. I too have sought, but I have found, too, and I have made a

matchless discovery which I shall now communicate to you. Woman is

understood correctly only when placed in the category of "the joke."

It is man's function to be absolute, to act in an absolute fashion,

or to give expression to the absolute. Woman's sphere lies in her

relativity.[29] Between beings so radically different, no true

reciprocal relation can exist. Precisely in this incommensurability

lies the joke. And with woman the joke was born into the world. It

is to be understood, however, that man must know how to stick to

his role of being absolute; for else nothing is seen--that is to

say, something exceedingly common is seen, viz., that man and woman

fit each other, he as a half man and she as a half man.

The joke is not an æsthetic, but an abortive ethical, category. Its

effect on thought is about the same as the impression we receive if a

man were solemnly to begin making a speech, recite a comma or two

with his pronouncement, then say "hm!"--"dash"--and then stop.

Thus with woman. One tries to cover her with the ethical category,

one thinks of human nature, one opens one's eyes, one fastens one's

glances on the most excellent maiden in question, an effort is

made to redeem the claims of the ethical demand; and then one

grows ill at ease and says to one's self: ah, this is undoubtedly

a joke! The joke lies, indeed, in applying that category to her

and measuring her by it, because it would be idle to expect serious

results from her; but just that is the joke. Because if one could

demand it of her it would not be a joke at all. A mighty poor joke

indeed it would be, to place her under the air-pump and draw the air out

of her--indeed it were a shame; but to blow her up to supernatural

size and let her imagine herself to have attained all the ideality which

a little maiden of sixteen imagines she has, that is the beginning of

the game and, indeed, the beginning of a highly entertaining performance.

No youth has half so much imaginary ideality as a young girl, but: "We

shall soon be even" as says the tailor in the proverb; for her ideality

is but an illusion.

If one fails to consider woman from this point of view she may cause

irreparable harm; but through my conception of her she becomes harmless

and amusing. For a man there is nothing more shocking than to catch

himself twaddling. It destroys all true ideality; for one may repent of

having been a rascal, and one may feel sorry for not having meant

a word of what one said; but to have talked nonsense, sheer nonsense,

to have meant all one said and behold! it was all nonsense--that

is too disgusting for repentance incarnate to put up with. But this is

not the case with woman. She has a prescriptive right to transfigure

herself--in less than 24 hours--in the most innocent and pardonable

nonsense; for far is it from her ingenuous soul to wish to deceive

one! Indeed, she meant all she said, and now she says the precise

opposite, but with the same amiable frankness, for now she is

willing to stake everything on what she said last. Now in case a man

in all seriousness surrenders to love he may be called fortunate indeed

if he succeeds in obtaining an insurance--if, indeed, he is able to

obtain it anywhere; for so inflammable a material as woman is most

likely to arouse the suspicions of an insurance agent. Just consider

for a moment what he has done in thus identifying himself with her!

If, some fine New Year's night she goes off like some fireworks he

will promptly follow suit; and even if this should not happen he

will have many a close call. And what may he not lose! He may lose

his all; for there is but one absolute antithesis to the absolute,

and that is nonsense. Therefore, let him not seek refuge in some

society for morally tainted individuals, for he is not morally

tainted--far from it; only, he has been reduced _in absurdum_

and beatified in nonsense; that is, has been made a fool of.

This will never happen among men. If a man should sputter off in

this fashion I would scorn him. If he should fool me by his cleverness

I need but apply the ethical category to him, and the danger is

trifling. If things go too far I shall put a bullet through his brain;

but to challenge a woman--what is that, if you please? Who does

not see that it is a joke, just as when Xerxes had the sea whipped?

When Othello murders Desdemona, granting she really had been guilty,

he has gained nothing, for he has been duped, and a dupe he remains;

for even by his murdering her he only makes a concession with regard

to a consequence which originally made him ridiculous; whereas

Elvira[30] may be an altogether pathetic figure when arming herself

with a dagger to obtain revenge. The fact that Shakespeare has

conceived Othello as a tragic figure (even disregarding the calamity

that Desdemona is innocent) is to be explained and, indeed, to perfect

satisfaction, by the hero being a colored person. For a colored

person, dear fellow-banqueters, who cannot be assumed to represent

spiritual qualities--a colored person, I say, who therefore becomes

green in his face when his ire is aroused (which is a physiological

fact), a colored man may, indeed, become tragic if he is deceived

by a woman; just as a woman has all the pathos of tragedy on her

side when she is betrayed by a man. A man who flies into a rage

may perhaps become tragic; but a man of whom one may expect a

developed mentality, he will either not become jealous, or he

will become ridiculous if he does; and most of all when he comes

running with a dagger in his hand.

A pity that Shakespeare has not presented us with a comedy of this

description in which the claim raised by a woman's infidelity is turned

down by irony; for not every one who is able to see the comical element

in this situation is able also to develop the thought and give it

dramatic embodiment. Let one but imagine Socrates surprising Xanthippe

in the act--for it would be un-Socratic even to think of Socrates

being particularly concerned about his wife's fidelity, or still worse,

spying on her--imagine it, and I believe that the fine smile which

transformed the ugliest man in Athens into the handsomest, would for the

first time have turned into a roar of laughter. It is incomprehensible

why Aristophanes, who so frequently made Socrates the butt of his

ridicule, neglected to have him run on the stage shouting: "Where is

she, where is she, so that I may kill her, i.e., my unfaithful

Xanthippe." For really it does not matter greatly whether or no

Socrates was made a cuckold, and all that Xanthippe may do in this

regard is wasted labor, like snapping one's fingers in one's pocket;

for Socrates remains the same intellectual hero, even with a horn on his

forehead. But if he had in fact become jealous and had wanted to kill

Xanthippe--alas! then would Xanthippe have exerted a power over

him such as the entire Greek nation and his sentence of death could

not--to make him ridiculous.

A cuckold is comical, then, with respect to his wife; but he may be

regarded as becoming tragical with respect to other men. In this fact we

may find an explanation of the Spanish conception of honor. But the

tragic element resides chiefly in his not being able to obtain redress,

and the anguish of his suffering consists really in its being devoid

of meaning--which is terrible enough. To shoot the woman, to

challenge her, to despise her, all this would only serve to render the

poor man still more ridiculous; for woman is the weaker sex. This

consideration enters in everywhere and confuses all. If she performs

a great deed she is admired more than man, because it is more than

was expected of her. If she is betrayed, all the pathos is on her

side; but if a man is deceived one has scant sympathy and little

patience while he is present--and laughs at him when his back is

turned.

Look you, therefore is it advisable betimes to consider woman as

a joke. The entertainment she affords is simply incomparable. Let one

consider her a fixed quantity, and one's self a relative one; let one by

no means contradict her, for that would simply be helping her; let one

never doubt what she says but, rather, believe her every word; let one

gallivant about her, with eyes rendered unsteady by unspeakable

admiration and blissful intoxication, and with the mincing steps of a

worshipper; let one languishingly fall on one's knees, then lift up one's

eyes up to her languishingly and heave a breath again; let one do all

she bids one, like an obedient slave. And now comes the cream of the

joke. We need no proof that woman can speak, i.e., use words.

Unfortunately, however, she does not possess sufficient reflection for

making sure against her in the long run--which is, at most, eight

days--contradicting herself; unless indeed man, by contradicting

her, exerts a regulative influence. So the consequence is that within a

short time confusion will reign supreme. If one had not done what she

told one to, the confusion would pass unnoticed; for she forgets again

as quickly as she talks. But since her admirer has done all, and has

been at her beck and call in every instance, the confusion is only too

glaring.

The more gifted the woman, the more amusing the situation. For the

more gifted she is, the more imagination she will possess. Now, the

more imagination she possesses, the greater airs she will give herself

and the greater the confusion which is bound to become evident in the

next instant. In life, such entertainment is rarely had, because this

blind obedience to a woman's whims occurs but seldom. And if it does,

in some languishing swain, most likely he is not qualified to see the

fun. The fact is, the ideality a little maiden assumes in moments when

her imagination is at work is encountered nowhere else, whether in

gods or man; but it is all the more entertaining to believe her and

to add fuel to the fire.

As I remarked, the fun is simply incomparable--indeed, I know

it for a fact, because I have at times not been able to sleep at night

with the mere thought of what new confusions I should live to see,

through the agency of my sweetheart and my humble zeal to please her.

Indeed, no one who gambles in a lottery will meet with more remarkable

combinations than he who has a passion for this game. For this is sure,

that every woman without exception possesses the same qualifications

for being resolved and transfigured in nonsense with a gracefulness, a

nonchalance, an assurance such as befits the weaker sex.

Being a right-minded lover one naturally discovers every possible

charm in one's beloved. Now, when discovering genius in the above

sense, one ought not to let it remain a mere possibility but ought,

rather, to develop it into virtuosity. I do not need to be more specific,

and more cannot be said in a general way, yet every one will understand

me. Just as one may find entertainment in balancing a cane on one's

nose, in swinging a tumbler in a circle without spilling a drop, in

dancing between eggs, and in other games as amusing and profitable,

likewise, and not otherwise, in living with his beloved the lover will

have a source of incomparable entertainment and food for most

interesting study. In matters pertaining to love let one have absolute

belief, not only in her protestations of fidelity--one soon tires

of that game--but in all those explosions of inviolable Romanticism

by which she would probably perish if one did not contrive a safety-valve

through which the sighs and the smoke, and "the aria of Romanticism[31]"

may escape and make her worshipper happy. Let one compare her admiringly

to Juliet, the difference being only that no person ever as much as

thought of touching a hair on her Romeo's head. With regard to

intellectual matters, let one hold her capable of all and, if one has

been lucky enough to find the right woman, in a trice one will have

a cantankerous authoress, whilst wonderingly shading one's eyes with

one's hand and duly admiring what the little black hen may yield

besides.[32] It is altogether incomprehensible why Socrates

did not choose this course of action instead of bickering with

Xanthippe--oh, well! to be sure he wished to acquire practice,

like the riding master who, even though he has the best trained

horse, yet knows how to tease him in such fashion that there is

good reason for breaking him in again.[33]

Let me be a little more concrete, in order to illustrate a particular

and highly interesting phenomenon. A great deal has been said about

feminine fidelity, but rarely with any discretion.[34] From a purely

æsthetic point of view this fidelity is to be regarded as a piece of

poetic fiction which steps on the stage to find her lover--a fiction

which sits by the spinning wheel and waits for her lover to come;

but when she has found him, or he has come, why, then æsthetics is

at a loss. Her infidelity, on the other hand, as contrasted with

her previous fidelity, is to be judged chiefly with regard to its

ethical import, when jealousy will appear as a tragic passion.

There are three possibilities, so the case is favorable for woman;

for there are two cases of fidelity, as against one of infidelity.

Inconceivably great is her fidelity when she is not altogether sure

of her cavalier; and ever so inconceivably great is it when he repels

her fidelity. The third case would be her infidelity. Now granted one

has sufficient intellect and objectivity to make reflections, one will

find sufficient justification, in what has been said, for my category

of "the joke." Our young friend whose beginning in a manner deceived

me seemed to be on the point of entering into this matter, but backed

out again, dismayed at the difficulty. And yet the explanation

is not difficult, providing one really sets about it seriously,

to make unrequited love and death correspond to one another, and

providing one is serious enough to stick to his thought--and

so much seriousness one ought to have--for the sake of the joke.

Of course this phrase of unrequited love being death originated

either with a woman or a womanish male. Its origin is easily made out,

seeing that it is one of those categorical outbursts which, spoken with

great bravado, on the spur of the moment, may count on a great and

immediate applause; for although this business is said to be a

matter of life and death, yet the phrase is meant for immediate

consumption--like cream-puffs. Although referring to daily experience

it is by no means binding on him who is to die, but only obliges

the listener to rush post-haste to the assistance of the dying

lover. If a man should take to using such phrases it would not be

amusing at all, for he would be too despicable to laugh at. Woman,

however, possesses genius, is lovable in the measure she possesses it,

and is amusing at all times. Well, then, the languishing lady dies of

love--why certainly, for did she not say so herself? In this matter

she is pathetic, for woman has enough courage to say what no man would

have the courage to do--so then she dies! In saying so I have

measured her by ethical standards. Do ye likewise, dear fellow-banqueters,

and understand your Aristotle aright, now! He observes very correctly

that woman cannot be used in tragedy.[35] And very certainly, her

proper sphere is the pathetic and serious divertissement, the

half-hour face, not the five-act drama. So then she dies. But should

she for that reason not be able to love again? Why not?--that is,

if it be possible to restore her to life. Now, having been restored

to life, she is of course a new being--another person, that is, and

begins afresh and falls in love for the first time: nothing remarkable

in that! Ah, death, great is thy power; not the most violent emetic

and not the most powerful laxative could ever have the same purging

effect!

The resulting confusion is capital, if one but is attentive and

does not forget. A dead man is one of the most amusing characters

to be met with in life. Strange that more use is not made of

him on the stage, for in life he is seen, now and then. When you come

to think of it, even one who has only been seemingly dead is a comical

figure; but one who was really dead certainly contributes to our

entertainment all one can reasonably expect of a man. All depends

on whether one is attentive. I myself had my attention called to it,

one day, as I was walking with one of my acquaintances. A couple

passed us. I judged from the expression on his face that he knew them

and asked whether that was the case. "Why, yes," he answered, "I know

them very well, and especially the lady, for she is my departed

one."--"What departed one?" I asked.--"Why, my departed first

love," he answered. "Indeed, this is a strange affair. She said:

I shall die. And that very same moment she departed, naturally enough,

by death--else one might have insured her beforehand in the

widow's insurance. Too late! Dead she was and dead she remained;

and now I wander about, as says the poet, vainly seeking the grave of

my lady-love that I may shed my tears thereon." Thus this broken-hearted

man who remained alone in the world, though it consoled him to find

her pretty far along with some other man.

It is a good thing for the girls, thought I, that they don't have to

be buried, every time they die; for if parents have hitherto considered

a boy-child to be the more expensive, the girls might become even

more so!

A simple case of infidelity is not as amusing, by far. I mean, if a

girl should fall in love with some one else and should say to her lover:

"I cannot help it, save me from myself!" But to die from sorrow because

she cannot endure being separated from her lover by his journey to the

West Indies, to have put up with his departure, however,--and

then, at his return, be not only not dead, but attached to some one

else for all time--that certainly is a strange fate for a lover to

undergo. No wonder, then, that the heart-broken man at times consoled

himself with the burthen of an old song which runs: "Hurrah for you and

me, I say, we never shall forget that day!"