Stages on Life’s Way

by Søren Kierkegaard

  I assume that it is a poor husband who does not become a humorist through his marriage, in the same sense as it is a poor lover who does not become a poet; and I assume that every husband becomes somewhat humorous, gets a touch of it, just as every lover becomes somewhat poetic. I cite myself, not so much with regard to the poetic as with regard to a sense of humor, a certain touch of it, which I owe solely to my marriage. In falling in love much of the erotic has an absolute meaning; in marriage this absolute meaning alternates with the humorous view, which is the poetic articulation of the quiet and contented security of married life.

  I shall cite an example and beg the reader to have enough sense of humor not to regard it as demonstrating anything. Together with my wife, I made a little summer excursion through southern Sjælland. We traveled entirely at our own convenience, and since my wife wished to gain an idea of what certain people call rambling around on country roads, we stopped at all the country inns we could, sometimes stayed overnight in such a place, but first and foremost took our own good time. At the inn, we had an opportunity to look around. Now, it so happened, strangely enough, that in five successive inns we found a posted advertisement that, pursuing us in this way, was impossible to ignore. The advertisement had the following contents: A worried paterfamilias most cordially thanked an experienced and expert practitioner for having easily and painlessly, with an expert hand, relieved the paterfamilias, and also his family, of some bad corns and thus restored him and his family to social life. The members of the family were specified, and among them there was also a daughter, who, since like an Antigone she belonged to this unfortunate family, was not exempted from this family evil either. After we had read this advertisement at three stops, it is no wonder that it became a subject for conversation. I thought it tactless of the paterfamilias to inform on the girl, for even if it was now generally known that she was completely healed, it nevertheless was bound to make a suitor have second thoughts, which was totally unnecessary, for corns should be reckoned among the infirmities one could find out about after the wedding.

  I now ask a poet to tell me whether the subject of this conversation, [VI 124] although I probably was not the man able to develop it altogether humorously, is not humorous; but on the other hand whether it is not also true that this is a proper subject only in the mouth of a married man. A lover would feel offended, because this nasty corn, even after it was removed, has a most disturbing effect on an esthetic romantic view of the beautiful. A jest such as that in the mouth of a lover would be utterly unforgivable. Now, even if the conversation, because of my humble self, turned out to be simple, everyday chitchat, I do know that it amused my wife; it amused her that an accidentality of that sort was placed in the category of an esthetic absolute—as, for example, by asking whether it would not be sufficient grounds for divorce etc. And at times when some connoisseur and some superclever miss discourse grandiloquently in my living room about falling in love and slenderness and say that the lovers must really get to know each other in order to be sure of their choice, in order to make no error of judgment, I put in a few words, actually playing to my wife, and say: Yes, it is difficult, it is difficult—take corns, for example: no one can know for sure about them, whether someone has them or has had them or is going to have them.

  But enough of this. It is precisely marriage’s sense of security that sustains the humorous; based upon experience, it does not have the restlessness of erotic love’s first bliss, even if marriage’s bliss is far from being minor. And when I as a married man, a married man of eight years, rest my head on her shoulder, I am not a critic, who admires or sees the lack of some earthly beauty; nor am I an infatuated youth who celebrates her bosom, but nevertheless I am as deeply moved as the first time. For I know what I knew and what I am repeatedly convinced of—that there within my wife’s breast beats a heart, quietly and humbly, but steadily and smoothly; I know that it beats for me and my welfare and for what is mutually ours; I know that its calm, tender movement is uninterrupted—ah, while I am busy about my affairs, while I am distracted by so many different things, I know that at whatever time, in whatever situation I turn to her, it has not stopped beating for me. And I am a believer: just as the lover believes that the beloved is his life, so I spiritually believe that this tenderness—like mother’s milk, which, as also stated in that little [VI 125] book, natural scientists maintain is lifesaving for someone who is sick unto death—I believe that this tenderness that unfailingly struggles for an ever more intimate expression, I believe that this tenderness that was her rich bridal dowry, I believe that it returns rich dividends; I believe that it will double itself if I do not squander her resources. I believe that if I were ill, sick unto death, and this tender gaze rested upon me—ah, as if she herself and not I were the dying gladiator—I believe that it would summon me back to life if God in heaven did not himself use his power, and if God does use his power, then I believe that this tenderness once again binds me to life as a vision that visits her, as one deceased whom death cannot really persuade, until we are again united. But until then, until God uses his power in this way, I believe that through her I absorb peace and contentment into my life and many times am rescued from the death of despondency and evil torment of vexation of spirit.62

  This is the way every husband talks—better, provided he is a better husband, better, provided he is talented. He is not an amorous youth, his expressions do not have the passion of the moment, and what an insult to want to give thanks for a love like that in the emotional blaze of the moment. He is like that honest bookkeeper who once almost became the object of suspicion, because, when the stern auditors, in a case of fraud, came to his door and demanded to see his account books, he replied: I have none; I keep all my accounts in my head. How suspicious! But all honor to the old man’s head, his accounts were absolutely correct! A husband may even be talking a bit humorously when he speaks of this to his wife, but this humor, this carefree giving of thanks, this receipt—not on paper but in the ledger of recollection—demonstrates precisely that his accounting is trustworthy and that his marriage has an abundant supply of the daily bread of demonstration.

  With this I have already suggested in what direction I seek woman’s beauty. Alas, even upright people have contributed to the deplorable mistaken notion at which, all the worse, a rash young woman snatches all too eagerly, without considering that it is despair—the mistaken notion that a girl’s only beauty is the first* beauty of youth, that she blossoms for only [VI 126] a moment, that this is the time of falling in love, and that one loves only once.

  63* Precisely because it would be dubious, yes, even misleading, with respect to the thesis that woman’s beauty increases with the years, to call to mind the theater arts, since here everything focuses on the demand of the moment and differences are required primarily, I perceive with all the more joy a beautiful, and to me so cherished, truth happily confirmed in the midst of the swiftly changing scenes of theatrical life. The actress on our stage who really portrays femininity—without being narrowly confined to one aspect of it, without being supported and without suffering under an accidentality in it, without being assigned to one period of it—is Mme. Nielsen.64 The character she presents, but not immediately, the voice she uses so skillfully in the play, the inwardness that animates the interaction, the introverted absorption that makes the spectator feel so secure, the calmness with which she grips us, the authentic soulfulness that disdains all sham mannerisms, the even, full sonority of mood that does not come in gusts, does not strain by coyly absenting itself, does not drift into wild ranting, does not pretentiously procrastinate, does not violently erupt, does not pant for the inexpressible, but is true to herself, is responsible to herself, always promptly at every moment and continually reliable—in short, her whole performance brings to a focus what could be called the essentially feminine. Many an actress has achieved fame and adulation by her virtuosity in one accidental aspect of femininity; but this admiration, which also usuall
y finds its appropriate expression in all kinds of momentary jubilation, is from the beginning the victim of time once the accidentals disappear on which the triumphal performance was based.

  Since Mme. Nielsen’s power is the essentially feminine, her range encompasses the essential even in the more insignificant, when in the play she is still seen in an essential relation (as the sweetheart in a vaudeville piece, as the mother in a pastoral play, etc.), the essential in the noble character, the essential in the ignoble character, who although femininely corrupted essentially belongs to her gender, so that one does not become uncomfortable at the sight of unloveliness, does not become suspicious because of the exaggeration, does not tend to explain the corruption by upbringing, the influence of environment, etc., since precisely in the ideality of the performance one sees the depth of the corruption and its origin. But just as her range is essential, so also is her triumph not the transitory triumph of a moment but the triumph that time has no power over her. In every period of her life she will have new tasks and will express the essential as she did at the beginning of her beautiful career. And if she attains her sixtieth year, she will continue to be perfect. I know of no more noble triumph for an actress than this—that the one person who in perhaps the whole kingdom is most concerned not to give offense here dares to mention with confidence, as I do, the sixtieth year, which ordinarily is the last thing one should hasten to mention in connection with an actress’s name. She will portray the grandmother perfectly, once again produce her effect through the essential, just as the young girl did not produce her effect by some extraordinary beauty that infatuated the critics, or by a matchless singing voice that charmed the connoisseurs, or by being able to dance, something that aroused the public’s special interest, or by a bit of flirtation that every spectator pleasantly turned to his own account, but produced her effect by the dedication that is the pact of pure femininity with the imperishable.

  Although at the theater one ordinarily tends to think about the vanity of life and youth, beauty and charm, one is safe in admiring her, because one knows that this does not perish. Perhaps others are affected in a different way, so that admiration, because there is no reason to hurry (and in this case there certainly is plenty of time), sometimes fails to appear, and this actress is considered to be second-rate, which she is indeed if the requirement is to strive to excel in the moment and to produce an effect not by what endures but by what is transitory. For this reason she may not have her admirers among the critics who register the pulse of the moment, or among the devotees of the theater who are obliged to have seen this one and that one, or among the messengers who want something to gossip about, or among the triumph-bearers who like other carriers seek day labor bearing someone away, or among young men who, failing otherwise to situate an adolescent love, cast it upon an actress, or among the dissipated who sustain themselves by a momentary excitation, but instead has her admirers among those who, themselves happy and contented in life, do not miss the theater, do not hanker after it, whose right hand does not promptly run to the left in applause on the spot,65 whose pen is not busy on paper that same evening in connection with some detail, but who are slow to speak and perhaps rejoice all the more discriminatingly [skiønsomt] in seeing the beautiful [skjønne] when in truth it is.

  Quite true, one does love only once, but with the years [VI 127] woman increases particularly in beauty and is so far from diminishing that the first beauty is somewhat questionable when compared with the later. Indeed, who, unless he is desperately in love,66 has not looked at a young girl without sensing a certain sadness because the fragility of mortal life shows itself here in its most extreme contrasts: vanity as swift as a dream, beauty as fair as a dream. But however fair that first beauty is, it is still not the truth; it is an envelope, a garment, from which only with the years does the true beauty extricate [VI 128] itself before the husband’s grateful eyes.

  On the other hand, look at the woman of years. You do not instinctively snatch at her beauty, for it is not the fleeting kind that hurries away like a dream. No, sit down beside her and observe her more closely. With her motherly solicitude, whose busy time, however, is now over, she belongs entirely to the world, and only the solicitude itself remains, and inside it she hovers like an angel over the ark of the covenant.67 Truly, if you do not here feel what reality [Realitet] a woman has, then you are and remain a critic, a reviewer, a connoisseur perhaps—that is, a person in despair who rushes along in the fury of despair, shouting: Let us love today,68 for tomorrow it is all over—not with us, that would be sad, but with erotic love—and that is abominable. Take some time now; sit down beside her. This is not the delightful fruit of desire; beware of any presumptuous thoughts or of wanting to use the connoisseurs’ termini; if you foam within, then sit here so that you may calm down. This is not the froth of the moment; do you dare to surrender something like that in her presence, or would you dare to offer her your hand in a waltz! Then perhaps you prefer to avoid her company. Oh, even if the young generation milling around her are discourteous (so presumably thinks the fashionable gentleman who feels that she needs his conversation), no, are delinquent enough to let her sit all alone, she does not miss the pleasure of their company, she feels no sting of insult. She is reconciled with life, and if you once again feel the urge for a reconciling word, if you should feel the urge to forget the dissonances of life, then go to her, sit worthily with this worthy one—and which one, then, is more beautiful, the young mother who nourishes with the power of nature or the mother full of years who nourishes you again with her solicitude! Or if you are not so badly taken up with the troubles of the world, just sit worthily with this worthy one. Her life, too, is not devoid of melody; this age also is non sine cithara [not without its lyre],69 and nothing of what has been experienced is forgotten—when this voice touches the strings of memory, all the sounds from life’s various ages sweetly harmonize. You see, she has arrived at life’s solution; indeed she herself is the solution to life, audible and visible. A man never finishes his life in this way, ordinarily his accounts [VI 129] are more complicated; but a housewife has only elementary events, the everyday distresses and the everyday joys, but therefore also this happiness, for if a young girl is happy, then the woman of years is even happier. Tell me, then, what is more beautiful—the young girl with her happiness or the woman full of years who accomplishes a work of God, who provides the solution to the worried person and for the cheerful person is the best eulogy on existence by being life’s beautiful solution!

  Now I leave the woman of years, whose company I am not, however, really avoiding; I go back in time, happy that with the help of God I still have a beautiful part of my life left, but also without knowing any of that cowardliness that fears growing old, or fears it on his wife’s behalf, for I do indeed assume that woman becomes more beautiful with the years. To my eyes, as a mother she is already far more beautiful than a young girl. A young girl, after all, is a phantasm; one scarcely knows whether she belongs to actuality or is a vision. And is that supposed to be the highest? Well, let the fantasts believe it. As a mother, however, she belongs totally to actuality, and mother love itself is not like the longings and presentiments of youth but is an inexhaustible source of inwardness. Neither is it so that all this was present as a possibility in the young girl. Even if it were so, a possibility is still less than an actuality, but it is not so. Inwardness is no more present in a young girl’s breast than mother’s milk. This is a metamorphosis that has no analogy in the man. If one can jokingly say that the man is not completely finished until he has his wisdom teeth, then one in all seriousness can say that a woman’s development is not complete until she is a mother; only then does she exist in all her beauty—and in her beautiful actuality. So let that nimble, light, flirtatious, happy girl skip over the meadow, duping anyone who wants to catch her—ah, yes, I also delight in looking at it, but now, now she has been caught, imprisoned. I certainly did not catch her (to that end how futile and vainly
foolish). I certainly do not imprison her (how weak a prison!). No, no, she has trapped herself and sits imprisoned beside the cradle; imprisoned, and yet she has complete freedom, a boundless freedom in which she binds herself to the child; I am sure that she is willing to die in her nest.70

  Here only a word parenthetically. To speak as inoffensively as possible, I will assume that it was the mother’s partiality for the child that made the husband a bit jealous—well, good Lord, that jealousy will certainly be surmounted. So now I have mentioned the word “jealousy.” It is a dark passion, “a [VI 130] monster that befouls the food by which it is nourished.”71 Anger is also a dark passion, but from this it does not follow that there cannot also be a noble anger. It is the same with jealousy. In a noble love there is also a righteous indignation that really is both troubled and resentful and is an altogether normal psychical condition if the terrible thing has happened. I have no fault to find with it. Indeed, I demand of a husband that his soul show in this way the last honor to her who dishonored him, and to her to whom he also concedes, if you like, the abundant significance in being able to dishonor him. I consider this psychical condition as love’s ethical sorrow over someone who has died. However, I also know that there are demonic powers in life; I know that there is a not very commendable fearlessness that, plagued by an evil spirit, wants to be pure spirit, and also wants to have the power to become what is just as reprehensible as raging in jealousy—the power to become cold, thoroughly chilled in the icy passion of wittiness. For there is a hell whose heat blights all life; but there is also a hell whose cold kills all life.