The Essays Of Arthur Schopenhauer - Arthur Schopenhauer
[Footnote 1: _Translator's 'Note_.--If Schopenhauer were writing
to-day, he would with equal truth point to the miseries of the African
trade. I have slightly abridged this passage, as some of the evils
against which he protested no longer exist.]
Other examples are furnished by Tshudi's _Travels in Peru_, in the
description which he gives of the treatment of the Peruvian soldiers
at the hands of their officers; and by Macleod's _Travels in Eastern
Africa_, where the author tells of the cold-blooded and truly devilish
cruelty with which the Portuguese in Mozambique treat their slaves.
But we need not go for examples to the New World, that obverse side of
our planet. In the year 1848 it was brought to life that in England,
not in one, but apparently in a hundred cases within a brief period, a
husband had poisoned his wife or _vice versa_, or both had joined in
poisoning their children, or in torturing them slowly to death by
starving and ill-treating them, with no other object than to get the
money for burying them which they had insured in the Burial Clubs
against their death. For this purpose a child was often insured in
several, even in as many as twenty clubs at once.[1]
[Footnote 1: Cf. _The Times_, 20th, 22nd and 23rd Sept., 1848, and
also 12th Dec., 1853.]
Details of this character belong, indeed, to the blackest pages in the
criminal records of humanity. But, when all is said, it is the
inward and innate character of man, this god _par excellence_ of the
Pantheists, from which they and everything like them proceed. In every
man there dwells, first and foremost, a colossal egoism, which breaks
the bounds of right and justice with the greatest freedom, as everyday
life shows on a small scale, and as history on every page of it on a
large. Does not the recognised need of a balance of power in Europe,
with the anxious way in which it is preserved, demonstrate that man
is a beast of prey, who no sooner sees a weaker man near him than he
falls upon him without fail? and does not the same hold good of the
affairs of ordinary life?
But to the boundless egoism of our nature there is joined more or
less in every human breast a fund of hatred, anger, envy, rancour and
malice, accumulated like the venom in a serpent's tooth, and waiting
only for an opportunity of venting itself, and then, like a demon
unchained, of storming and raging. If a man has no great occasion for
breaking out, he will end by taking advantage of the smallest, and by
working it up into something great by the aid of his imagination; for,
however small it may be, it is enough to rouse his anger--
_Quantulacunque adeo est occasio, sufficit irae[1]_--
[Footnote 1: Juvenal, _Sat_. 13, 183.]
and then he will carry it as far as he can and may. We see this in
daily life, where such outbursts are well known under the name of
"venting one's gall on something." It will also have been observed
that if such outbursts meet with no opposition the subject of them
feels decidedly the better for them afterwards. That anger is
not without its pleasure is a truth that was recorded even by
Aristotle;[1] and he quotes a passage from Homer, who declares anger
to be sweeter than honey. But not in anger alone--in hatred too, which
stands to anger like a chronic to an acute disease, a man may indulge
with the greatest delight:
[Footnote 1: _Rhet_., i., 11; ii., 2.]
_Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure,
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure_[1]
[Footnote 1: Byron _Don Juan_, c. xiii, 6.]
Gobineau in his work _Les Races Humaines_ has called man _l'animal
mechant par excellence_. People take this very ill, because they feel
that it hits them; but he is quite right, for man is the only animal
which causes pain to others without any further purpose than just to
cause it. Other animals never do it except to satisfy their hunger, or
in the rage of combat. If it is said against the tiger that he kills
more than eats, he strangles his prey only for the purpose of eating
it; and if he cannot eat it, the only explanation is, as the French
phrase has it, that _ses yeux sont plus grands que son estomac_. No
animal ever torments another for the mere purpose of tormenting, but
man does it, and it is this that constitutes the diabolical feature in
his character which is so much worse than the merely animal. I have
already spoken of the matter in its broad aspect; but it is manifest
even in small things, and every reader has a daily opportunity
of observing it. For instance, if two little dogs are playing
together--and what a genial and charming sight it is--and a child of
three or four years joins them, it is almost inevitable for it to
begin hitting them with a whip or stick, and thereby show itself, even
at that age, _l'animal mechant par excellence_. The love of teasing
and playing tricks, which is common enough, may be traced to the same
source. For instance, if a man has expressed his annoyance at any
interruption or other petty inconvenience, there will be no lack of
people who for that very reason will bring it about: _animal mechant
par excellence_! This is so certain that a man should be careful not
to express any annoyance at small evils. On the other hand he should
also be careful not to express his pleasure at any trifle, for, if
he does so, men will act like the jailer who, when he found that his
prisoner had performed the laborious task of taming a spider, and took
a pleasure in watching it, immediately crushed it under his foot:
_l'animal mechant par excellence_! This is why all animals are
instinctively afraid of the sight, or even of the track of a man, that
_animal mechant par excellence_! nor does their instinct them false;
for it is man alone who hunts game for which he has no use and which
does him no harm.
It is a fact, then, that in the heart of every man there lies a wild
beast which only waits for an opportunity to storm and rage, in its
desire to inflict pain on others, or, if they stand in his way, to
kill them. It is this which is the source of all the lust of war and
battle. In trying to tame and to some extent hold it in check, the
intelligence, its appointed keeper, has always enough to do. People
may, if they please, call it the radical evil of human nature--a
name which will at least serve those with whom a word stands for an
explanation. I say, however, that it is the will to live, which, more
and more embittered by the constant sufferings of existence, seeks to
alleviate its own torment by causing torment in others. But in this
way a man gradually develops in himself real cruelty and malice. The
observation may also be added that as, according to Kant, matter
subsists only through the antagonism of the powers of expansion and
contraction, so human society subsists only by the antagonism of
hatred, or anger, and fear. For there is a moment in the life of
all of us when the malignity of our nature might perhaps make us
murderers, if it were not accompanied by a due admixture of fear to
keep it within bounds; and this fear, again, would make a man the
sport and laughing stock of every boy, if anger were not lying ready
in him, and keeping watch.
But it is _Schadenfreude_, a mischievous delight in the misfortunes of
others, which remains the worst trait in human nature. It is a feeling
which is closely akin to cruelty, and differs from it, to say the
truth, only as theory from practice. In general, it may be said of it
that it takes the place which pity ought to take--pity which is its
opposite, and the true source of all real justice and charity.
_Envy_ is also opposed to pity, but in another sense; envy, that is
to say, is produced by a cause directly antagonistic to that which
produces the delight in mischief. The opposition between pity and envy
on the one hand, and pity and the delight in mischief on the other,
rests, in the main, on the occasions which call them forth. In the
case of envy it is only as a direct effect of the cause which excites
it that we feel it at all. That is just the reason why envy, although
it is a reprehensible feeling, still admits of some excuse, and is,
in general, a very human quality; whereas the delight in mischief is
diabolical, and its taunts are the laughter of hell.
The delight in mischief, as I have said, takes the place which pity
ought to take. Envy, on the contrary, finds a place only where there
is no inducement to pity, or rather an inducement to its opposite; and
it is just as this opposite that envy arises in the human breast; and
so far, therefore, it may still be reckoned a human sentiment. Nay, I
am afraid that no one will be found to be entirely free from it. For
that a man should feel his own lack of things more bitterly at the
sight of another's delight in the enjoyment of them, is natural; nay,
it is inevitable; but this should not rouse his hatred of the man who
is happier than himself. It is just this hatred, however, in which
true envy consists. Least of all should a man be envious, when it is a
question, not of the gifts of fortune, or chance, or another's favour,
but of the gifts of nature; because everything that is innate in a man
rests on a metaphysical basis, and possesses justification of a higher
kind; it is, so to speak, given him by Divine grace. But, unhappily,
it is just in the case of personal advantages that envy is most
irreconcilable. Thus it is that intelligence, or even genius, cannot
get on in the world without begging pardon for its existence, wherever
it is not in a position to be able, proudly and boldly, to despise the
world.
In other words, if envy is aroused only by wealth, rank, or power,
it is often kept down by egoism, which perceives that, on occasion,
assistance, enjoyment, support, protection, advancement, and so
on, may be hoped for from the object of envy or that at least by
intercourse with him a man may himself win honour from the reflected
light of his superiority; and here, too, there is the hope of one day
attaining all those advantages himself. On the other hand, in the envy
that is directed to natural gifts and personal advantages, like beauty
in women, or intelligence in men, there is no consolation or hope of
one kind or the other; so that nothing remains but to indulge a
bitter and irreconcilable hatred of the person who possesses these
privileges; and hence the only remaining desire is to take vengeance
on him.
But here the envious man finds himself in an unfortunate position; for
all his blows fall powerless as soon as it is known that they come
from him. Accordingly he hides his feelings as carefully as if they
were secret sins, and so becomes an inexhaustible inventor of tricks
and artifices and devices for concealing and masking his procedure,
in order that, unperceived, he may wound the object of his envy. For
instance, with an air of the utmost unconcern he will ignore the
advantages which are eating his heart out; he will neither see them,
nor know them, nor have observed or even heard of them, and thus make
himself a master in the art of dissimulation. With great cunning he
will completely overlook the man whose brilliant qualities are gnawing
at his heart, and act as though he were quite an unimportant person;
he will take no notice of him, and, on occasion, will have even quite
forgotten his existence. But at the same time he will before all
things endeavour by secret machination carefully to deprive those
advantages of any opportunity of showing themselves and becoming
known. Then out of his dark corner he will attack these qualities with
censure, mockery, ridicule and calumny, like the toad which spurts
its poison from a hole. No less will he enthusiastically praise
unimportant people, or even indifferent or bad performances in the
same sphere. In short, he will becomes a Proteas in stratagem, in
order to wound others without showing himself. But what is the use
of it? The trained eye recognises him in spite of it all. He betrays
himself, if by nothing else, by the way in which he timidly avoids
and flies from the object of his envy, who stands the more completely
alone, the more brilliant he is; and this is the reason why pretty
girls have no friends of their own sex. He betrays himself, too, by
the causeless hatred which he shows--a hatred which finds vent in a
violent explosion at any circumstance however trivial, though it is
often only the product of his imagination. How many such men there are
in the world may be recognised by the universal praise of modesty,
that is, of a virtue invented on behalf of dull and commonplace
people. Nevertheless, it is a virtue which, by exhibiting the
necessity for dealing considerately with the wretched plight of these
people, is just what calls attention to it.
For our self-consciousness and our pride there can be nothing more
flattering than the sight of envy lurking in its retreat and plotting
its schemes; but never let a man forget that where there is envy there
is hatred, and let him be careful not to make a false friend out of
any envious person. Therefore it is important to our safety to lay
envy bare; and a man should study to discover its tricks, as it is
everywhere to be found and always goes about _incognito_; or as I
have said, like a venomous toad it lurks in dark corners. It deserves
neither quarter nor sympathy; but as we can never reconcile it let our
rule of conduct be to scorn it with a good heart, and as our happiness
and glory is torture to it we may rejoice in its sufferings:
_Den Neid wirst nimmer du versoehnen;
So magst du ihn getrost verhoehnen.
Dein Glueck, dein Ruhm ist ihm ein Leiden:
Magst drum an seiner Quaal dich weiden_.
We have been taking a look at the _depravity_ of man, and it is a
sight which may well fill us with horror. But now we must cast our
eyes on the _misery_ of his existence; and when we have done so, and
are horrified by that too, we must look back again at his depravity.
We shall then find that they hold the balance to each other. We shall
perceive the eternal justice of things; for we shall recognise that
the world is itself the Last Judgment on it, and we shall begin to
understand why it is that everything that lives must pay the penalty
of its existence, first in living and then in dying. Thus the evil
of the penalty accords with the evil of the sin--_malum poenae_ with
_malum culpae_. From the same point of view we lose our indignation at
that intellectual incapacity of the great majority of mankind which in
life so often disgusts us. In this _Sansara_, as the Buddhists call
it, human misery, human depravity and human folly correspond with one
another perfectly, and they are of like magnitude. But if, on some
special inducement, we direct our gaze to one of them, and survey it
in particular, it seems to exceed the other two. This, however, is an
illusion, and merely the effect of their colossal range.
All things proclaim this _Sansara_; more than all else, the world of
mankind; in which, from a moral point of view, villainy and baseness,
and from an intellectual point of view, incapacity and stupidity,
prevail to a horrifying extent. Nevertheless, there appear in
it, although very spasmodically, and always as a fresh surprise,
manifestations of honesty, of goodness, nay, even of nobility; and
also of great intelligence, of the thinking mind of genius. They never
quite vanish, but like single points of light gleam upon us out of the
great dark mass. We must accept them as a pledge that this _Sansara_
contains a good and redeeming principle, which is capable of breaking
through and of filling and freeing the whole of it.
* * * * *
The readers of my _Ethics_ know that with me the ultimate foundation
of morality is the truth which in the _Vedas_ and the _Vedanta_
receives its expression in the established, mystical formula, _Tat
twam asi (This is thyself_), which is spoken with reference to every
living thing, be it man or beast, and is called the _Mahavakya_, the
great word.
Actions which proceed in accordance with this principle, such as those
of the philanthropist, may indeed be regarded as the beginning of
mysticism. Every benefit rendered with a pure intention proclaims that
the man who exercises it acts in direct conflict with the world of
appearance; for he recognises himself as identical with another
individual, who exists in complete separation from him. Accordingly,
all disinterested kindness is inexplicable; it is a mystery; and hence
in order to explain it a man has to resort to all sorts of fictions.
When Kant had demolished all other arguments for theism, he admitted
one only, that it gave the best interpretation and solution of such
mysterious actions, and of all others like them. He therefore allowed
it to stand as a presumption unsusceptible indeed of theoretical
proof, but valid from a practical point of view. I may, however,
express my doubts whether he was quite serious about it. For to make
morality rest on theism is really to reduce morality to egoism;
although the English, it is true, as also the lowest classes of
society with us, do not perceive the possibility of any other
foundation for it.
The above-mentioned recognition of a man's own true being in
another individual objectively presented to him, is exhibited in a
particularly beautiful and clear way in the cases in which a man,
already destined to death beyond any hope of rescue, gives himself up
to the welfare of others with great solicitude and zeal, and tries to
save them. Of this kind is the well-known story of a servant who was
bitten in a courtyard at night by a mad dog. In the belief that she
was beyond hope, she seized the dog and dragged it into a stable,
which she then locked, so that no one else might be bitten. Then again
there is the incident in Naples, which Tischbein has immortalised in
one of his _aquarelles_. A son, fleeing from the lava which is rapidly
streaming toward the sea, is carrying his aged father on his back.
When there is only a narrow strip of land left between the devouring
elements, the father bids the son put him down, so that the son may
save himself by flight, as otherwise both will be lost. The son obeys,
and as he goes casts a glance of farewell on his father. This is the
moment depicted. The historical circumstance which Scott represents
in his masterly way in _The Heart of Midlothian_, chap, ii., is of a
precisely similar kind; where, of two delinquents condemned to death,
the one who by his awkwardness caused the capture of the other happily
sets him free in the chapel by overpowering the guard after the
execution-sermon, without at the same time making any attempt on his
own behalf. Nay, in the same category must also be placed the scene
which is represented in a common engraving, which may perhaps be
objectionable to western readers--I mean the one in which a soldier,
kneeling to be shot, is trying by waving a cloth to frighten away his
dog who wants to come to him.
In all these cases we see an individual in the face of his own
immediate and certain destruction no longer thinking of saving
himself, so that he may direct the whole of his efforts to saving some
one else. How could there be a clearer expression of the consciousness
that what is being destroyed is only a phenomenon, and that the
destruction itself is only a phenomenon; that, on the other hand, the
real being of the man who meets his death is untouched by that event,
and lives on in the other man, in whom even now, as his action
betrays, he so clearly perceives it to exist? For if this were not so,
and it was his real being which was about to be annihilated, how could
that being spend its last efforts in showing such an ardent sympathy
in the welfare and continued existence of another?
There are two different ways in which a man may become conscious
of his own existence. On the one hand, he may have an empirical
perception of it, as it manifests itself externally--something so
small that it approaches vanishing point; set in a world which, as
regards time and space, is infinite; one only of the thousand millions
of human creatures who run about on this planet for a very brief
period and are renewed every thirty years. On the other hand, by going
down into the depths of his own nature, a man may become conscious
that he is all in all; that, in fact, he is the only real being; and
that, in addition, this real being perceives itself again in others,
who present themselves from without, as though they formed a mirror of
himself.
Of these two ways in which a man may come to know what he is, the
first grasps the phenomenon alone, the mere product of _the principle
of individuation_; whereas the second makes a man immediately
conscious that he is _the thing-in-itself_. This is a doctrine in
which, as regards the first way, I have Kant, and as regards both, I
have the _Vedas_, to support me.
There is, it is true, a simple objection to the second method. It may
be said to assume that one and the same being can exist in different
places at the same time, and yet be complete in each of them.
Although, from an empirical point of view, this is the most palpable
impossibility--nay, absurdity--it is nevertheless perfectly true
of the thing-in-itself. The impossibility and the absurdity of it,
empirically, are only due to the forms which phenomena assume,
in accordance with the principle of individuation. For the
thing-in-itself, the will to live, exists whole and undivided in every
being, even in the smallest, as completely as in the sum-total of all
things that ever were or are or will be. This is why every being, even
the smallest, says to itself, So long as I am safe, let the world
perish--_dum ego salvus sim, pereat mundus_. And, in truth, even if
only one individual were left in the world, and all the rest were to
perish, the one that remained would still possess the whole self-being
of the world, uninjured and undiminished, and would laugh at the
destruction of the world as an illusion. This conclusion _per
impossible_ may be balanced by the counter-conclusion, which is on all
fours with it, that if that last individual were to be annihilated in
and with him the whole world would be destroyed. It was in this sense
that the mystic Angelas Silesius[1] declared that God could not live
for a moment without him, and that if he were to be annihilated God
must of necessity give up the ghost:
_Ich weiss dass ohne mich Gott nicht ein Nu kann leben;
Werd' ich zunicht, er muss von Noth den Geist aufgeben_.
[Footnote 1: _Translator's Note_.--Angelus Silesius, see _Counsels and
Maxims_, p. 39, note.]
But the empirical point of view also to some extent enables us to
perceive that it is true, or at least possible, that our self can
exist in other beings whose consciousness is separated and different
from our own. That this is so is shown by the experience of
somnambulists. Although the identity of their ego is preserved
throughout, they know nothing, when they awake, of all that a moment
before they themselves said, did or suffered. So entirely is the
individual consciousness a phenomenon that even in the same ego two
consciousnesses can arise of which the one knows nothing of the other.
GOVERNMENT.
It is a characteristic failing of the Germans to look in the clouds
for what lies at their feet. An excellent example of this is furnished
by the treatment which the idea of _Natural Right_ has received at
the hands of professors of philosophy. When they are called upon
to explain those simple relations of human life which make up the
substance of this right, such as Right and Wrong, Property, State,
Punishment and so on, they have recourse to the most extravagant,
abstract, remote and meaningless conceptions, and out of them build a
Tower of Babel reaching to the clouds, and taking this or that form
according to the special whim of the professor for the time being. The
clearest and simplest relations of life, such as affect us directly,
are thus made quite unintelligible, to the great detriment of the
young people who are educated in such a school. These relations
themselves are perfectly simple and easily understood--as the reader
may convince himself if he will turn to the account which I have given
of them in the _Foundation of Morality_, Sec. 17, and in my chief work,
bk. i., Sec. 62. But at the sound of certain words, like Right, Freedom,
the Good, Being--this nugatory infinitive of the cupola--and many
others of the same sort, the German's head begins to swim, and falling
straightway into a kind of delirium he launches forth into high-flown
phrases which have no meaning whatever. He takes the most remote and
empty conceptions, and strings them together artificially, instead of
fixing his eyes on the facts, and looking at things and relations as
they really are. It is these things and relations which supply the
ideas of Right and Freedom, and give them the only true meaning that
they possess.
The man who starts from the preconceived opinion that the conception
of Right must be a positive one, and then attempts to define it, will
fail; for he is trying to grasp a shadow, to pursue a spectre, to
search for what does not exist. The conception of Right is a negative
one, like the conception of Freedom; its content is mere negation.
It is the conception of Wrong which is positive; Wrong has the same
significance as _injury_--_laesio_--in the widest sense of the term.
An injury may be done either to a man's person or to his property or
to his honour; and accordingly a man's rights are easy to define:
every one has a right to do anything that injures no one else.