It could not admit of doubt that reason would counsel entire continence, were it not that the torment of the ineradicable impulse which thirsts for fulfilment is a far greater evil than a temperate indulgence in love (comp. i. 240). One must therefore pronounce the sentence of Anakreon to be wholly true, which runs—
χαλєπòν τò μὴ φιλσαι, Not to love is hard,
χαλєπòν καì φιλσαι, But also hard to love.
If love is once recognised as evil, and yet must be chosen as the less of two evils as long as the impulse persists, reason necessarily demands a third, namely, eradication of the impulse, i.e., emasculation, if thereby an eradication of the impulse be attainable. (Comp. Matt. xix. 11–12, “All men cannot receive this saying, save they to whom it is given. For there are some eunuchs which were so born from their mother’s womb; and there are some eunuchs which were made eunuchs of men; and there be eunuchs which have made themselves eunuchs for the kingdom of heaven’s sake. He that is able to receive it, let him receive it!”)
From the point of view of the endæmonology of the individual, this is in my opinion the sole possible result. If anything cogent is to be advanced to the contrary, it can only be such considerations as require of the individual a stepping out of the sphere of his egoism. The result as regards love is thus the same as regards hunger, that it is in itself and for the individual an evil, and its justification can only be sought in this, that it conduces to the progress of development in the manner shown in Chap. ii. B.
4. Compassion, Friendship, and Domestic Felicity. —Compassion, on which, according to Aristotle, mainly the pleasure in the tragical (comp. my “Aphorisinen über das Drama”), and, according to Schopenhauer, all morality depends, is, as every one knows, a feeling composed of pain and pleasure. The reason of the pain is clear; it is simply the fellow-feeling with the obvious pain of another, which may be so severe as to allow no trace of pleasure to survive in the compassion, but converts it wholly into heart-rending woe, whose awfulness impels to avert the gaze. Think of the spectacle of a battlefield after the fight, or a man lying in uncontrollable convulsions.
But whence the pleasurable feeling found in moderate compassion comes is more difficult to understand. Of the satisfaction caused by the possible affording of assistance, there is here, of course, no question, for this comes after the commiseration. The mischievous joy of malignity is the only pleasurable feeling which the sight of another’s suffering is able directly to arouse, but this any one can very well distinguish from the mild pleasure of compassion.
I see no other possibility of comprehending the pleasure in compassion, and have also nowhere found the slightest attempt at any other explanation than this, that the contrast of foreign suffering with one’s own freedom from this suffering at once excites and removes the latent aversion to the endurance of such suffering, and causes the removal to be distinctly realised. Hereby, certainly, the pleasure in compassion is declared to be purely egoistic, yet I fail to see how this can detract from the dignity or the noble consequences of compassion. It is in perfect harmony with this that, for very finely strung, self-renouncing natures, compassion is a highly unpleasant stimulant, a true torment, which they seek in every way to avoid, whilst man indulges his compassion with greater ease the ruder he is, and that, further, at the spectacle of very great suffering even the coarser mind can so far forget itself in others’ well-being, that the same effect arises as when more finely-feeling souls view a smaller misery, so that compassion is still only pain. If the coarse multitude revels in alien suffering, one must not forget that it also possesses sufficient bestiality to unite with the com passion more or less the delight in cruelty, which takes pleasure in alien misery as such; one must, therefore, exercise caution in citing the instance of the coarse multitude to decide the question whether pleasure or pain predominates in compassion as such. According to my subjective judgment the latter is decidedly the case; but whether the judgment of others tallies with my own or not, it is undoubted that the emotional crudeness of mankind on the average is steadily decreasing, and that with decreasing crudeness the pain in compassion is more and more gaining the upper-hand over the pleasure.
But now the case turns out still more unfavourably for pleasure when we take into account the immediate consequences of compassion in the mind. Compassion, namely, at once excites the desire to assuage others’ woe, and this is also the end of this instinct. This desire finds, however, only in very rare cases a partial, still more rarely a total satisfaction; it will, therefore, far more frequently excite pain than pleasure.
If, then, the title of the less of two evils cannot be denied to the instinct of compassion as a corrective and restricter of egoism, and of the injustice springing from the latter, yet in itself regarded it is still always an evil, for it brings to the sufferer more pain than pleasure. Comp. Spinoza, Eth., part iv. Prop. 50: “Compassion is for a man who does not live according to the guidance of reason in itself bad and useless. Proof: For compassion is (according to Def. 18) pain, thus (according to Prop. 48) in itself bad. The good, however, that follows from it … we seek to do according to the mere command of reason,” &c.
Of sociality and friendship the same cannot be said, although it has often been asserted, and for certain dispositions also rightly. Thus, e.g., La Bruyère says, “Tout notre mal vient de ne pouvoir être seul.” (We may compare also Schopenhauer, “Parerga,” i. 444–458.)
But certainly it may be maintained that the sociable instinct is an instinctive need arising from the weakness and impotence of the individual whose satisfaction, like health and freedom, just places man at the level where he is able to pile up certain positive enjoyments, and that only a small part of true friendship—which, moreover, is so rare—represents a value positively exceeding the zero-point of feeling.
As there are herding animals, so is Man a social animal. Impotent, unprotected against the forces of Nature, and at the mercy of every foe, his instinct directs him to cultivate the society of his fellows. Here it is really the felt want that begets the need, and the pleasure of this sociality is only the removal of that want or need.
In addition to warding off distress and hostile attacks, in the second place, the social community has the advantage over solitary effort in facilitating the production of positive achievements, e.g., domestic works, economic or artistic production, the increase of culture or knowledge through exchange of thought, the collection of interesting novelties; all this a society renders more possible, but does not as such effect; it is only the foundation, which may remain unutilised or utilised in the most varied fashion. It is thus in this point only the potentiality of pleasure, but not pleasure itself; this belongs rather to the structures to be reared on this foundation, and must be sought in these, not in sociality. Nay, even the positive pleasure which may be built up on its basis may for the most part be attained in like or little-altered fashion even in solitude.
That, on the other hand, sociality, through the regard for others, and the constraint which it imposes upon the individual, is attended by very real inconveniences, and occasionally with hopeless misery, our “societies” prove.
From social life springs a greater mutual interest, i.e., an increased sympathy. If in each individual the sum of pleasure should outweigh the sum of pain, then also as regards each individual the sum of joy in common would outweigh the sum of sorrow in common, did not the weakening of sympathetic joy prevent this through the envy which is unavoidable even in respect of the dearest friend. But since in the life of the individual the sum of pain exceeds the sum of pleasure, so sympathy for the same likewise must consist of predominant pain, and this can in no case be balanced by the circumstance that one is sure of sympathy for one’s own sorrows and joys in the breasts of friends. Certainly we pine for consolation, but when one well considers it, what sort of consolation can it afford that one with one’s own disagreeables and vexations spoils the fair humour also of one’s friend?
N
evertheless, the solitary endurance of grief or vexation is so tormenting, that we feel ourselves relatively happy in being able to pour it out, although in recompense the vexation of our friend will vice versa be poured out on ourselves. Here, too, it turns out that the enhancement of mutual sympathy in friendship is the less of two evils, of which the other only appears the greater on account of one’s own weakness.
When, therefore, the highly lauded bliss of friendship is subjected to a true estimation, it is found to depend partly on man’s feebleness in enduring suffering, since, in fact, very strong characters are least in need of friendship, partly however in pursuing a common end; in a word, on similarity of interests, whence also the apparently more inseparable friendships are loosened or expire when on one side the dominant interests change, so that they now no longer correspond to those of the other. The pleasures attained through mutually pursued interests can, however, also only be put down to the account of these interests, not directly to that of friendship. The firmest community of interests exists in marriage; the community of goods, of earnings, of sexual intercourse, and of the education of children are strong bonds, which, in alliance with the polar completion of the spiritual qualities of both sexes, certainly suffice to found a strong and lasting friendship, which also perfectly suffices without the aid of love in the narrower sense to explain the beautiful and sublime phenomena of readiness for self-sacrifice in married life. Add to that the powerful force of habit. As the dog maintains the sublimest and most touching friendship and fidelity for his master, to whom not his own choice but chance and custom have bound him, so also the relation of spouses is essentially an alliance of habit; wherefore both mariage des convenance and love-matches after a series of years exhibit on the average the same physiognomy.
Dühring, who in his “Worth of Life” pleads the cause of love, and asserts that it does not disappear in marriage, comes (pp. 113–114) himself to the following conclusion:—“The love of married couples may, therefore, in powerfulness of its effects, perhaps not lag behind passionate love. The feeling is only latent, as it were, emerges, however, in all its force when a hostile fate has to be encountered. The forces which once maintained a living play of sensation now in the matured relation are in equipoise, to become again perceptible for feeling on any disturbance of the equilibrium.” If the feeling is latent, it does not exist for consciousness; and if it emerges into consciousness merely on some disturbance, it is only felt as pain; hence, in either case, makes nothing for the value of life, which is here alone under discussion. The magnitude of its effects may, however, be just as well derived from friendship and the attachment of habit.
In any case, there is in most marriages so much discord and vexation, that when one looks with unprejudiced eye, and is not deceived by the vain attempts at dissimulation, one hardly finds one in a hundred that is to be envied. This is simply due to the imprudence of men and women, who also do not endeavour in little things to accommodate themselves to mutual weaknesses; to the accidental way in which characters are assorted in marriage; to the equal insistance on rights where indulgence and friendship should compromise; to the convenience of discharging all displeasure, vexation, and ill-humour on the nearest person, who must listen; to the mutual irritability and embitterment which is increased by every fresh case of a supposed infringement of rights; to the sorry consciousness of being chained to one another, the absence of which would prevent a host of inconsideratenesses and disharmonies through fear of consequences. Thus we get that matrimonial cross, which can so little be regarded as exceptional, that Lessing is not so far wrong when he says—
“No more than one bad wife has ever yet been known;
The pity only is, each holds her for his own.”
This does not at all contradict the fact that the power of habit at once asserts its right and sets itself in violent opposition when a disturbance or solution of the marriage is threatened from without. In both cases it is always only the painful side of the relation which imposes itself on consciousness. The rending of the worst marriage, which furnished a genuine hell for the partners, always causes so much pain to the survivor, that I have heard an experienced man say, “If a marriage is ever to be broken, then the earlier the better; the more prolonged and closer the ties of habit, the more enduring the pain of separation.” One has only to draw from this perfectly correct judgment the logical consequence, then is separation best before union.
Sensible people, whose judgment is not biassed by impulse, are also usually quite clear respecting this, that, from the rational standpoint of individual well-being, non-marriage is better than marriage. If no love and no external ends (rank, wealth) impel to the marriage contract, there is, in fact, only one reason for choosing marriage as the supposed lesser of two evils; thus, for a girl to evade the terrors of old-maidhood, for a man to avoid the inconveniences of bachelorhood, for both to escape the torments of the unsatisfied instinct or the consequences of illicit gratification.
Commonly, however, they make the experience that they have been bitterly deceived concerning the greater of the two evils, and only shame and considerate tenderness forbids them to confess it. How uncomfortable also the unsatisfied instinct to found a household and family may become for old bachelors and spinsters has been already mentioned (Chap. i. B.)—
When, now, the parties are married, they begin to long for children—another instinct, for the understanding can hardly possess this longing. The instinct goes so far as to urge to the adoption of others’ children, and to the education of them as if they were one’s own.
That the latter also is no act of reflection is already evident from the instinct of monkeys, cats, and many other mammals and birds that do exactly the same. Moreover by this procedure an already existing child is merely put into a better situation of life than would else have fallen to its lot. It would be different if a child still to be created, to be fashioned say in a retort by a chemical process, were to be adopted in default of one’s own.
“Let one only imagine,” says Schopenhauer (“Parerga,” ii. pp. 321–322), “that the generative act was neither a want nor accompanied by extreme pleasure, but an affair of pure rational reflection: could then the human race continue to exist? Would not rather every one have so much compassion for the coming generation as to prefer to spare it the burden of existence, or at least be unwilling to take on itself (the responsibility) of imposing such burden in cold blood?”
Besides the direct instinct to rear children, the desire for children with people in easy circumstances or increasing in wealth has yet another ground. These, namely, at a certain stage of life begin to perceive that they themselves have no enjoyment of their surplus wealth; if, however, they were in consequence to forego the cares of business, their interest in life would be gone, and they would fall a prey to the dreariest emptiness of existence and ennui.
To escape this evil they desire the lesser evil, possession of children, in order by this expanded egoism to have a motive for the continuance of their business activity.
But if one objectively compares on the one hand the joys, and on the other the sorrow, chagrin, vexation, and cares which children bring their parents, the predominance of pain can hardly be doubtful, although the judgment biassed by instinct strenuously opposes it, especially in women, with whom the instinct to rear children is far stronger.
Let one first of all compare the sum of satisfaction which is produced by the birth, and the sum of pain and sorrow which is called forth by the death of a child in the hearts of all concerned. Only after calculating the resulting excess of pain can one proceed to the contemplation of their life itself. To this end I recommend the chapter entitled “Mother’s Frenzy” in Bogumil Goltz’s “Zur Charakteristik und Naturgeschichte der Frauen.”
In the first period predominates the very considerable discomfort and trouble of nursing and of vexation with careless servants, then the difficulties with neighbours and the anxiety of sickness; later on, the care of marrying
the daughters and the worry over the follies and debts of sons; add to all this the anxiety in procuring the necessary means, which with the poor is greatest in the first, among the educated classes in the later periods. And with all the moiling and toiling, all the worry and care, and the constant fear of losing them, what is the real happiness that children bring him who possesses them? Apart from the diversion which they afford as playthings, and the occasional gratification of vanity owing to the hypocritical flattery of amiable gossips—hope, only the hope of the future.
And when the time comes to fulfil these hopes, and the children are still alive and unspoilt, they quit the parental home, go their own way, usually into the wide world, and write even only when in want of funds. So far then as that hope is egoistic, it is always deceptive; so far, however, as the hope is merely for the child, not in the child, what then?
In old age, as we shall see, human beings lose all illusions, save the one illusion of the sole instinct remaining to them, in that they cherish for their children the realisation of their hopes from the same miserable existence, whose vanity they have in all respects perceived in their own case. If they grow old enough to see their children also old people, they certainly lose that too; but then they hope for their grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Man is never too old to learn.
5. Vanity. Sense of Honour, Ambition, Lust of Fame and Power. —Love, honour, and the acquisitive instinct are in the mental sphere probably the three most powerful moving springs. We shall here consider the second of these. Honour may be divided into an objective and subjective honour. A man’s objective honour is in general terms others’ estimation of him.
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