DUTIES RELATIVE TO THE WILL.
SUMMARY.
=Duties relative to the will.--Strength of soul.=--All duty in general
is relative to the will: for there is not any which does not require
the control of the will over the inclinations.
Virtue, especially when considered from the latter standpoint,--the
control of the will over the inclinations,--is _strength of soul_, or
_courage_.
Of courage and its different forms: _military courage_; _civic
courage_; _patience_, _moderation_ in prosperity; _equanimity_, etc.
Of anger and its different kinds.--Generous anger.
Duty of _personal dignity_.--_Respect for one's self._ _True pride_
and _false pride_.--Of a _just esteem of one's self_.--Of _modesty_.
=Duties relative to sentiment.=--Have we any duties in regard to our
sensibilities?--Kant's objection: no one can love at will. Reply.--To
distinguish _sensibility_ from _sentimentality_.
=157. Duties relative to the will.--Strength of soul.=--One may justly ask
whether there are any duties relating particularly to the will: for it
would seem that all duties are generally duties of the will. There is no
one that does not require the control of the will over the inclinations;
and if we say that it is a duty to cultivate and exercise this control, is
it not as if we said that it is a duty to learn to do our duty? But why
could we not also suppose a third duty, commanding us to observe the
former, and so _ad infinitum_?
We may then say that the duty to exercise one's will and triumph over the
passions, is nothing more than duty _per se_, the duty _par excellence_,
of which all the other duties are but parts. This virtue, by which the
soul commands its passions and does not allow itself to be subjugated by
any of them, may be called courage or strength of soul. Courage thus
understood is not only a virtue; it is virtue itself.[121] In fact, what
is temperance, if it is not a certain kind of courage before the pleasures
of the senses? what economy, if not courage before the temptations of
fortune? what veracity, if not the courage to tell the truth under all
circumstances? what justice and benevolence, if not the courage to
sacrifice self-interest to the interest of others? We have already (page
87) made a similar observation in regard to prudence and wisdom, namely,
that virtue in general is both wisdom and courage: for it presupposes at
the same time strength and light. As strength, it is courage, energy,
greatness of soul; as light, it is prudence and wisdom. All special
virtues would, then, strictly speaking, be only factors, or component
parts, of those two.
=158. Courage.=--Yet if courage, in its most general sense, is virtue
itself, usage has given it a special meaning which defines it in a more
particular manner, and makes of it a certain distinct virtue, on the same
conditions as all the others. As of all the assaults which besiege us in
life, death appears to be the most terrible and generally the most
dreaded, it is not to be wondered then that this kind of energy which
consists in braving death and, consequently, all that may lead to it,
namely, peril, has been designated by a particular name. Courage,
therefore, is the sort of virtue which braves peril and even death. Then,
by extension, the same word was applied to every manifestation of strength
of soul before misfortune, misery, grief. A man can be brave in poverty,
in slavery, under humiliation even--that is, a humiliation which is due to
outward circumstances, and which he has not deserved.
This courageous virtue seems to have been the particular feature of the
ancients, and by dint of its excellence, still retains its hold on us,
dazzling our imagination, as a privileged prestige. Yet is it only an
illusion, and modern times are as rich in heroes as were ancient times:
only we pay less attention to it perhaps; but, whether it be real
superiority in this kind of virtue, or literary reminiscences and habits
of education, nothing will ever erase that lively picture of ancient
heroism so celebrated under the name of Plutarch's heroes, and which has
always captivated all great imaginations. Stoicism, that original
philosophy of the Greek and Roman world, is above all the philosophy of
courage. Its character proper is the strength to resist one's self, to
hold pain, death, all the accidents of humanity, in contempt. Its model is
Hercules, the god of strength; all the great men of antiquity, whether
consciously or not, were stoics: such were especially the ancient Roman
citizens; they were austere, inexorable; slaves to duty and discipline,
faithful to their oath, to their country;--Brutus, Regulus, Scaevola,
Decius, and thousands more like them. When stoicism came in contact with
the last great Romans, it found material all ready for its doctrines; it
then became the philosophy of the last republicans, the last heroes of a
world which was fast disappearing.
The courage which most impresses men is _military courage_.
"The most honorable deaths occur in war," says Aristotle, "for in war
the danger is the greatest and most honorable. The public honors that
are awarded in states and by monarchs attest this.
"Properly, then, he who in the case of an honorable death, and under
circumstances close at hand which cause death, is fearless, may be
called courageous; and the dangers of war are, more than any others,
of this description."[122]
In looking at it from this somewhat exclusive standpoint, Aristotle
refuses to call courageous those who brave sickness and poverty; "for it
is possible," he says, "for cowards, in the perils of war, to bear with
much firmness the losses of fortune;" nor does he allow to be called
courageous "him who firmly meets the strokes of the whip he is threatened
with."
This is but a question of name and degree. Wherever there are any evils
to brave, the firmness which meets and bears these evils can be called
courage; on the other hand, the sense of the word can, if preferred, be
restricted to military perils; but what Aristotle has most justly defined,
and of which he makes a very subtle analysis, is the difference between
apparent and true courage. Thus the courage of constraint and
necessity--as, for instance, that of soldiers who would be mercilessly
killed, if they retreated before the enemy--is not true courage, for one
cannot be brave through fear. Nor should anger be confounded with courage:
this were but the courage of wild beasts obeying a blind impulse under the
sting of pain. At that rate, the donkeys even, when hungry, would be
brave. That which determines true courage is the sentiment of honor, not
passion. We should neither call brave him who is so only because he feels
himself the strongest, like the drunkard full of confidence in the
beginning, but who runs away when he does not succeed. For this reason is
there truer courage in preserving one's intrepidity and calm in sudden
dangers, than in dangers long anticipated.[123] Finally, ignorance cannot
be called courage either: to brave a danger one is ignorant of, is only to
be apparently brave.
Aristotle finds also in courage an excellent opportunity to apply his
celebrated theory of the golden mean. Courage is for him a medium between
temerity and cowardice. But it is not the too much or too little in danger
which determines what we ought to call courage. There are cases where one
may be obliged to brave the greatest possible danger without being for
that rash; other cases where, on the contrary, one has the right to avoid
the least possible peril without being for that a coward. The true
principle is that one should brave necessary perils, be they ever so
great; and likewise avoid useless perils, be they ever so slight. Yet, the
question of degree should not be wholly overlooked. There are some perils
which, without being necessary, it is useful to brave (were it but to
train one's self for greater ones). Such are, for example, the dangers
connected with bodily exercises. Peril and utility must, of course, be
compared with each other; for example, he who from considerations of
utility would wish to avoid all kinds of perils, will be wanting in
courage; and he who, on the contrary, would lightly brave an extreme
peril, will naturally deserve to be called rash. Thus must we first
consider the nature of the peril, and, secondly, the degree.
=159. Civic courage.=--Although military courage is the most brilliant and
popular form of courage, it may be asked whether there is not a higher and
nobler form still, namely, civic courage.
Cicero, who, to say the truth, was not sufficiently disinterested in the
matter, persists in showing that civic virtues are equal to military
virtues, and demand an equal amount of courage and energy.[124] A firm and
high-souled man, he says, has no trouble in difficult circumstances, to
preserve his presence of mind and the free use of his reason, to provide
in advance against events, and to be always ready for action when
necessary.
This is a sort of courage more difficult perhaps than the one required in
a hand-to-hand struggle with the enemy. Civic life, besides, has itself
trials which often imperil one's existence.
Antiquity has left us innumerable and admirable examples of civic courage
against tyranny. Helvidius Priscus was thought to look with disapproval
upon Vespasian's administration. The latter sent him word to keep away
from the Senate: "It is in thy power," replied Helvidius, "to forbid my
belonging to the Senate, but as long as I belong to it, I shall attend
it."--"Go, then," said the emperor, "but hold thy tongue."--"If thou ask
me no questions I will make thee no answers."--"But I must ask thee
questions."--"And I must answer thee what I think just."--"If thou dost, I
shall have thee put to death."--"When have I said to thee that I was
immortal?" But nothing ever surpassed the intrepidity of Socrates, either
before the Thirty Tyrants who wished to interdict him free speech,[125] or
before the people's tribunals which condemned him to death:
Plato in his _Apology_ makes him say: "If you were to tell me now,
'Socrates, we will not listen to Anytus: we send thee back absolved on
condition that thou ceasest philosophizing and givest up thy
accustomed researches,' I should answer you without hesitation, 'O
Athenians, I honor and love you, but I shall obey God before I obey
you.'"
Then, after having been condemned to death, he closes with these admirable
words:
"I bear my accusers, and those who have condemned me, no resentment,
although they did not seek my good, but rather to injure me. But I
shall ask of them one favor: I beg you, when my children shall be
grown up, to persecute them as I have myself persecuted you, if you
see that they prefer riches to virtue.... If you grant us this favor,
I and my children shall have but to praise your justice. But it is
time we go each our way: I to die, you to live. Which of us has the
better part, you or I? This is known to none but God."
=160. Patience.=--One of the most difficult forms of courage is that which
consists not only in braving or repelling a threatening danger (which
presupposes some effort and activity), but in bearing without anger,
without any sign of vain revolt, the ills and pains of life: this is
_patience_. There is a kind of patience which is but a part of our duty in
regard to others: one must learn to bear a great deal from others, they
having often a great deal to bear from us. But we speak here of that inner
patience which is our strength in grief; the patience of the invalid in
his daily sufferings; that of the poor man in his poverty; the patience,
in short, which all must exercise amidst the innumerable and inevitable
accidents of life. It is, above all, that sort of virtue which the Stoics
meant when they said with Epictetus: "You should not wish things to happen
as you want them; but you should wish them as they do happen." A maxim
which Descartes translated substantially, saying: "My maxim is rather to
try to overcome myself than fortune, and rather to change my own wishes
than to change the order of the world." Which he explained by saying:
"If we regard the goods which lie outside of us as unattainable as
those we are deprived of from our birth, we shall no more grieve at
not possessing them, than we should in not possessing the empires of
China or Mexico; and, making, as it is said, a virtue of necessity, we
shall not any more desire to be healthy when ill, or to be free when
in prison, than we desire now to have bodies of as incorruptible a
stuff as diamonds, or to have wings to fly with like birds."[126]
It is this kind of courage which at every moment of life is most in
requisition, and which is the rarest; for there will be found plenty of
men capable of braving death when the occasion presents itself; but to
bear with resignation the inevitable and constantly renewed ills of human
life, is a virtue all the more rare as one is scarcely ever ashamed of its
opposite vice. One would blush to fear peril, one does not blush for
rebelling against destiny; one is willing to die if necessary, but not to
be thwarted. Yet will it be admitted that to succumb under the weight of
destiny, is a kind of cowardice. It is for this reason that it would be
justly said that suicide is also a cowardly act; for whilst it is true
that it demands a certain physical courage, it is also true that the moral
courage which bears the ills of life is of a still higher order.
"You take a journey to Olympia," says Epictetus, "to behold the work
of Phidias, and each of you thinks it a misfortune to die without a
knowledge of such things; and will you have no inclination to see and
understand those works, for which there is no need to take a journey;
but which are ready and at hand, even to those who bestow no pains!
Will you never perceive what you are, or for what you were born, or
for what purpose you are admitted to behold this spectacle? But there
are in life some things unpleasant and difficult. And are there none
at Olympia? Are you not heated? Are you not crowded? Are you not
without good conveniences for bathing? Are you not wet through, when
it happens to rain? Do you not have uproar and noise, and other
disagreeable circumstances? But, I suppose, by comparing all these
with the merit of the spectacle, you support and endure them. Well,
and have you not received faculties by which you may support every
event? Have you not received greatness of soul? Have you not received
a manly spirit? Have you not received patience? What signifies to me
anything that happens, while my soul is above it? What shall
disconcert or trouble or appear grievous to me? Shall I not use my
powers to that purpose for which I received them; but lament and groan
at every casualty?"[127]
But we should not confound true strength, true courage, true patience,
with false strength and ridiculous obstinacy.
"An acquaintance of mine," says again Epictetus, "had, for no reason,
determined to starve himself to death. I went the third day, and
inquired what was the matter. He answered: 'I am determined.'--'Well;
but what is your motive? For, if your determination be right, we will
stay, and assist your departure; but if unreasonable, change it.'--'We
ought to keep our determinations.'--'What do you mean, sir? Not all of
them; but such as are right. Else, if you should fancy that it is
night, if this be your principle, do not change, but persist and say,
"We ought to keep to our determinations." 'What do you mean, sir? Not
to all of them. Why do you not begin by first laying the foundation,
inquiring whether your determination be a sound one, or not; and then
build your firmness and constancy upon it. For, if you lay a rotten
and crazy foundation, you must not build; since the greater and more
weighty the superstructure, the sooner will it fall. Without any
reason you are withdrawing from us, out of life, a friend, a
companion, a fellow-citizen both of the greater and the lesser city;
and while you are committing murder, and destroying an innocent
person, you say, "We must keep to our determinations." Suppose, by any
means, it should ever come into your head to kill me; must you keep to
such a determination?'
"With difficulty this person was, however, at last convinced; but
there are some at present, whom there is no convincing ... a fool will
neither bend nor break."[128]
=161. Moderation.=--The ancients always associated with patience in
adversity another kind of courage, no less rare and difficult, namely,
moderation in prosperity. It was for them, in some respects, one and the
same virtue, exercised in two opposite conditions, and this is what they
call _equanimity_.
"Now, during our prosperity," says Cicero, "and while things flow
agreeably to our desire, we ought, with great care, to avoid pride and
arrogance; for, as it discovers weakness not to bear adversity with
equanimity, so also with prosperity. That equanimity, in every condition
of life, is a noble attribute, and that uniform expression of countenance
which we find recorded of Socrates, and also of Caius Laelius. Panaetius
tells us, his scholar and friend, Africanus, used to say that as horses,
grown unruly by being in frequent engagements, are delivered over to be
tamed by horse-breakers, thus men, who grow riotous and self-sufficient by
prosperity, ought, as it were, to be exercised in the traverse[129] of
reason and philosophy, that they may learn the inconstancy of human
affairs and the uncertainty of fortune.[130]
Nothing occurs more frequently among the ancient poets and moralists than
this idea of the vicissitude of human things. The metaphor of Fortune's
wheel, which sometimes lowers to the greatest depth those it raised
highest, is well known. We need scarcely dwell upon this commonplace
saying which has never, for an instant, ceased to be true; although the
more regular conditions of modern society have introduced more security
and uniformity in life, at least for those who live wisely and with
moderation. Yet is no one secure against the changes of fortune; there are
unexpected elevations as there are sudden falls; and firmness in either
bad or good fortune will always be necessary.
=162. Equality of temper; anger.=--To equality of temper or possession of
one's self, there is still another obligation attached: that of avoiding
anger, a passion which the ancients with reason considered the principle
of courage,[131] but which of itself is without any rules, and is more
proper to beasts than men. Aristotle has described the irascible
disposition with great accuracy. He justly distinguishes two kinds of
anger; one where a man is easily carried away, and as easily appeased
again, and the other where resentment is nursed and kept up for a long
time. The first is the irascible disposition; the second, the splenetic or
vindictive disposition.
"Irascible men," says Aristotle, "are easily angered, with improper
objects, on improper occasions, and too much; but their anger quickly
ceases, and this is the best point in their character. And this is the
case with them, because they do not restrain their anger, but
retaliate openly and visibly, because of their impetuosity, and then
they become calm.--But the bitter are difficult to be appeased, and
retain their anger a long time, for they repress their rage; but there
comes a cessation, when they have retaliated; for revenge makes their
anger cease, because it produces pleasure instead of the previous
pain. But if they do not get revenge, they feel a weight of
disappointment: for, owing to its not showing itself, no one reasons
with them; and there is need of time for a man to digest his anger
within him. Persons of this character are very troublesome to
themselves, and to their best friends."[132]
Seneca, in his treatise on _Anger_, has conclusively shown all the evils
this passion carries with it, and of which Horace justly said: "Anger is a
short madness."
Yet, if anger is an evil, apathy, absolute indifference, is far from being
a good. Whilst there is a brutal and beastly anger, there is also a noble,
a _generous anger_, namely, that which is at the service of noble
sentiments. Plato describes it in the following terms:
"When we are convinced that injustice has been done us, does it not plead
the cause of what appears to it to be just? Instead of allowing itself to
be overcome by hunger, by cold, by all sorts of ill-treatments, does it
not overcome them? It never ceases a moment to make generous efforts
toward obtaining satisfaction, and nothing but death depriving it of its
power, or reason persuading or silencing it, as the shepherd silences his
dog, can stop it."[133]
Aristotle also approves of this generous anger, and blames those with
souls too cold:
"One can only call stupid those who cannot be aroused to anger about
things where real anger ought to be felt.... He who does not then get
angry appears insensible and ignorant of what just indignation means.
One might even believe him, since he has no feeling of courage, unable
to defend himself when necessary. But it is the cowardice of the
slave's to accept an insult and to allow his kin to be attacked with
impunity."[134]
But that which is not easy, as Aristotle remarks, is to find an exact and
proper medium between apathy and violence:
"It is difficult to determine with accuracy the manner, the persons, the
occasions, and the length of time for which one ought to be angry, and at
what point one ceases to act rightly or wrongly. For he who transgresses
the limit a little is not blamed, whether it be on the side of excess or
deficiency: and we sometimes praise those who fall short, and call them
meek; and we call the irascible manly, as being able to govern ... the
decision must be left to particular cases, and to the moral sense."[135]
=163. Personal dignity.=--A generous anger, as has been seen, has its
principle in the sentiment of _personal dignity_, with which the _duty of
self-respect_ is connected.
Man's free will is what essentially constitutes the dignity of human
nature, the moral personality. Man's duty toward himself as a moral
personality is then dependent upon his will.
This duty of self-respect, of the moral personality, has been admirably
expressed by Kant, and we can do no better than transcribe here the
passage:
"Man, considered as an animal, is a being of but mediocre importance, and
is not worth any more than other animals. His utility and worth is that of
any marketable thing.--But, considered as a personality, he is priceless;
he is possessed of a _dignity_ which can claim the respect of all other
reasonable creatures, and which allows him to measure himself with each of
them, and consider himself their equal.
"But this respect, which he has a right to exact of every other man, he
should not despoil himself of. He can, and should, therefore, estimate
himself both in ratio to his greatness and littleness, according as he
considers himself a sensuous being (in his animal nature), or an
intelligent being (in his moral nature). But as he should not only
consider himself as a person in general, but also as an individual man,
his lesser worth as animal-man should not impair the consciousness he has
of his dignity as reasonable man, and he must hold on to the moral
estimate he makes of himself as such. In other words, he should not pursue
his aims in a lowly and servile manner, as if he solicited favors: this
would be abdicating his dignity; he should always uphold within himself
the consciousness of the nobility of his moral faculties, for it is this
estimate of one's self which constitutes the duty of man toward himself.
"The consciousness and conviction of our little moral worth, compared with
what the law requires of us, is moral humility. The contrary consciousness
and conviction, namely, the persuading ourselves, for want of this
comparison, that we are of very great worth, may be called the pride of
virtue.--To reject all claim to any moral worth whatsoever, in the hope of
acquiring thereby a hidden worth, is a false moral humility and an
abasement of the mind. To undervalue one's own moral worth for the purpose
of obtaining thereby the favor of another (through hypocrisy or flattery,
namely), is also a false humility, and, moreover, an abasement of one's
personality. True humility should of necessity be the result of an exact
and sincere comparison of one's self with the moral law (with its sanctity
and severity). This duty relative to the human dignity in our personality
may be more or less clearly stated in the following precepts: Be no man's
slave; let not your rights be trampled under foot; contract no debts for
which you cannot give full security; accept no gifts which you can do
without; be neither a parasite, nor a flatterer, nor a beggar; complaints
and lamentations, even a single cry wrung from us by bodily pain, are
things unworthy of us (still more unworthy if the pain is deserved).
Therefore is a criminal's death ennobled by the firmness with which he
meets it. Can he who makes himself a worm complain if he be crushed?"[136]
=164. True and false pride.=--We should, however, not confound a true and
noble _pride_, without which man is but a thing and a slave, with a
passion which looks like it, but which is but its phantom; I mean _false
pride_. True pride is the just feeling man has of his moral dignity, and
which interdicts him to humble the human personality in others, or to
allow it to be humbled in himself. False pride is the exaggerated feeling
we entertain in regard to our own advantages and superiority over other
men. True pride is related to what there is sacred and divine in us; false
pride, on the contrary, feeds and grows fat on the trifling and petty
concerns of our mere individuality. There is in man, the stoics said, an
inner god: the human essence, namely, of which the individual is but the
depository, and which he ought to keep sacred and holy as a divine host.
This respect for the human personality, religious morality calls holiness;
worldly morality calls it honor; it is one and the same principle under
different forms; it is the idea of something sacred in us which we must
neither stain nor debase. True pride rests then on what there is common
among all men, on what makes them equals. False pride, on the contrary,
regards chiefly our peculiarities, and what we call more especially our
own. True pride asks for nothing more than to be free from oppression;
false pride wants to oppress others. True pride is noble; false pride,
brutal and insolent. Of course it has its degrees according to the nature
of the advantages of which it boasts. The pride, for example, which
boasts of material advantages, is the grossest of all; pride of birth and
ancestry is more pardonable, but if he who is proud of them shows it too
much he becomes disgusting, and true pride will have a right to protect
itself against that kind of false pride. He, again, who is proud of his
intellectual advantages is less blameworthy than the former, for these
advantages belong, at least, to his personality; but as they are not due
to the man, and as, however great they may be, they have still their weak
sides, this also is an inexcusable pride. The pride which might appear to
be the most pardonable is the pride of virtue, if there were not in some
respects a sort of contradiction of terms in drawing advantage and honor
from a good the essentiality of which consists in self-forgetfulness and
the pure and simple observance of the law.
The diminutive of false pride is _vanity_. False pride looks to great
things, at least to such as appear great to men; vanity boasts of the
smallest. False pride is insulting; vanity wounding. The one is odious,
the other ridiculous. The lowest order of vanity is _foppishness_, or the
vanity of external advantages--the person, the toilet, superficial
accomplishments. This diminutive of false pride is one of the most
pitiable of passions, and should be combated by manly efforts.
=165. Modesty.=--The virtue opposed to false pride, and which, besides, is
nowise irreconcilable with true pride, is modesty, a correct feeling,
namely, of one's just worth. Morality does not forbid us a proper estimate
of our merits; these merits, besides, having but a relative value, and
representing but faintly the high ideal we should always keep before our
eyes. To fail to appreciate the advantages we owe to nature, is often
indicative only of laziness and apathy. He who depreciates himself is not
disposed to turn what there is in him to account. This self-depreciation,
in order to avoid the responsibility of using his faculties, is often but
a subterfuge and the sophistry of indolence. There is nothing contrary to
duty in the acknowledgment of our worth, so long as we do not boast of
it, but thank Providence for it, and put to use the gifts it has conferred
on us. If, on the contrary, the question is of virtues we have acquired by
our own efforts, the satisfaction we experience from it is but the just
recompense of these efforts; and such a feeling could not be condemned;
for such condemnation would be a virtual protest against the moral
conscience, which consists as much in the satisfaction we derive from good
actions as in the regrets which accompany the bad.
Unquestionably, "the left hand should not know what the right hand doeth;"
which means that we should not everywhere proclaim aloud our good actions,
and that we should as much as possible forget them. But this forgetting
should not go so far as indifference; for our morality depends upon our
consciousness.
But if it is lawful for man to rejoice over his natural or acquired gifts,
it is on the condition that he do not exaggerate their import: this is
easy enough if we compare ourselves to those who are still better gifted
than we are, or think of what we should and could do with greater efforts,
more courage, better will; or in recognizing the narrow scope, limits, and
defects of these gifts, or in keeping, above all, our eyes more open to
our faults than our good qualities. Beware of the beam of the Gospel.
Modesty should not only be external, but internal also; externally, it is
above all a duty we owe others, whom we should not humble by our superior
advantages; internally, it is a duty to ourselves, for we should not
deceive ourselves about our own worth. One is sometimes modest externally
without being so internally, and conversely. I may pretend before men to
have no great opinion of myself, whilst internally I am full of conceit:
this is sheer hypocrisy. I may, on the other hand, externally attribute to
myself advantages which my conscience altogether denies: this is bragging.
One should be modest both inwardly and outwardly, in words and actions.
But how, in what manner, and to what degree must we be modest? It is
impossible in matters so delicate to establish definite rules, and the
decision must be left to our own judgment.
There is another virtue to be distinguished from modesty, namely,
_humility_. Humility should not be an abasement; for it is never a virtue
in man to lower himself. But, even as dignity and true pride are virtues
which spring from a proper sense of human greatness, so humility is a
virtue which springs from a proper sense of human weakness. Remember that
thou art a man and do not degrade thyself: this is self-respect. Remember
that thou art but a man and do not allow thyself to indulge in vain pride;
this is humility. Modesty relates to the individual; humility to human
nature in general. As to that false humility which consists in lowering
one's self before men unnecessarily, and without any occasion for it (like
Tartufe, for example:
"Yes, brother, I am a sinner and a wretch!"[137]),
it is but the falsehood of virtue, and should be rejected by all manly and
generous morality.
=166. Duties relative to sentiment.=--A last point which should not be
neglected is this: has man, as far as he is endowed with moral
sensibility--that is to say, as far as he is a susceptible being--capable
of love, enthusiasm, affection, any duties toward himself?
Kant maintains that love cannot be an object of duty; that no one is
obliged to love: that sentiment is phenomenal and belongs to the order of
nature, and can neither be produced nor prevented; that, consequently, it
has nothing to do with morals. The only love admitted by Kant in morals is
what he calls _practical_ love: namely, the love which consists in actions
and does others good, or any kind of sentiment accompanying benevolence,
provided it be a disinterested sentiment. "All other love," he says in his
odd and energetic language, "is _pathological_," that is, sickly.
Kant, no doubt, is right if he means that false sentimentality or feeble
softness,[138] which the poet Gilbert has so well described, and which the
enervating literature of the latter part of the eighteenth century made so
ridiculous. We should take care not to fall into an effeminate tenderness
or a silly philanthropy which sacrifices justice to a mawkish sensibility.
But all danger and defects set aside, there still remains the question
whether we owe anything to our own heart, and whether the only thing
directly commanded us, be action.
It is quite true that it is not an effect of our will if our heart is more
or less tender, more or less sympathetic. Nature has made some souls
gentle and amiable, others austere and cold, others again heroic and hard,
etc.; the moralists should not forget these differences, and the degree of
sensibility obligatory on all cannot be absolutely determined. But there
are two facts which certainly oblige us to put some restrictions upon
Kant's too harsh doctrine. The first is that moral emotion (affection,
enthusiasm for the beautiful, for our country) is never wholly absent in
any human soul; the second is that sensibility does not altogether lie
outside our will. We can smother our good feelings as we can smother our
evil passions; we can also cultivate them, develop them, encourage them;
give them a greater or less share in our lives, by placing ourselves in
circumstances which favor them. For example, say such or such a person is
but slightly endowed with sensibility or sympathy for the sufferings of
the wretched; yet is it impossible that he be entirely deprived of them:
let him overcome his repugnance and indifference; let him visit the poor,
put himself at the service of human misery; the dormant sympathy will
inevitably awaken in his heart. By this fact alone will he be enabled to
do good with more ease, and raise his soul to a higher degree of
perfection and beauty.
Not only should sentiment not be excluded from virtue, as Kant in his
excessive austerity demands, but it should be considered its ornament and
bloom. "The virtuous man," says Aristotle, "is he who takes pleasure in
doing virtuous acts." One should therefore endeavor to awaken in one's
self, if one has not yet experienced it, or develop, if one has already
experienced it, the noble pleasure which accompanies great sentiments. On
the other hand, and for the same reason that it is a duty for man to
develop within him, in the limits of the possible, the share of
sensibility he may have received from nature, it is also his duty not to
encourage this same disposition too much if he should be inclined this
way. For sensibility should only be an auxiliary and a stimulant to
virtue; it should never take its place: otherwise it will lead us astray.
An exaggerated sensibility often smothers the voice of justice, enervates
us, and deprives us of the robust courage we need in life. There is a
reasonable limit which tact and experience alone can teach us. Morality
can only give advice and directions. More precise rules are impossible,
and would be ridiculous. There is no moral thermometer to indicate the
degree of heart-heat each of us is allowed and is obliged to have. Let us
only say, that in so delicate a matter, it is better to have too much
sensibility than too little.