The Essays Of Arthur Schopenhauer: The Wisdom of Life - Arthur Schopenhauer
An influence analogous to this, though working on other lines, is
exerted by the principle of knightly honor,--that solemn farce,
unknown to the ancient world, which makes modern society stiff, gloomy
and timid, forcing us to keep the strictest watch on every word that
falls. Nor is this all. The principle is a universal Minotaur; and the
goodly company of the sons of noble houses which it demands in yearly
tribute, comes, not from one country alone, as of old, but from every
land in Europe. It is high time to make a regular attack upon this
foolish system; and this is what I am trying to do now. Would that
these two monsters of the modern world might disappear before the end
of the century!
Let us hope that medicine may be able to find some means of preventing
the one, and that, by clearing our ideals, philosophy may put an end
to the other: for it is only by clearing our ideas that the evil can
be eradicated. Governments have tried to do so by legislation, and
failed.
Still, if they are really concerned to stop the dueling system; and if
the small success that has attended their efforts is really due only
to their inability to cope with the evil, I do not mind proposing a
law the success of which I am prepared to guarantee. It will involve
no sanguinary measures, and can be put into operation without recourse
either to the scaffold or the gallows, or to imprisonment for life. It
is a small homeopathic pilule, with no serious after effects. If any
man send or accept a challenge, let the corporal take him before the
guard house, and there give him, in broad daylight, twelve strokes
with a stick _a la Chinoise_; a non-commissioned officer or a private
to receive six. If a duel has actually taken place, the usual criminal
proceedings should be instituted.
A person with knightly notions might, perhaps, object that, if such
a punishment were carried out, a man of honor would possibly shoot
himself; to which I should answer that it is better for a fool like
that to shoot himself rather than other people. However, I know very
well that governments are not really in earnest about putting down
dueling. Civil officials, and much more so, officers in the army,
(except those in the highest positions), are paid most inadequately
for the services they perform; and the deficiency is made up by honor,
which is represented by titles and orders, and, in general, by the
system of rank and distinction. The duel is, so to speak, a very
serviceable extra-horse for people of rank: so they are trained in the
knowledge of it at the universities. The accidents which happen to
those who use it make up in blood for the deficiency of the pay.
Just to complete the discussion, let me here mention the subject
of _national honor_. It is the honor of a nation as a unit in the
aggregate of nations. And as there is no court to appeal to but the
court of force; and as every nation must be prepared to defend its own
interests, the honor of a nation consists in establishing the opinion,
not only that it may be trusted (its credit), but also that it is to
be feared. An attack upon its rights must never be allowed to pass
unheeded. It is a combination of civic and knightly honor.
_Section 5.--Fame_.
Under the heading of place in the estimation of the world we have put
_Fame_; and this we must now proceed to consider.
Fame and honor are twins; and twins, too, like Castor and Pollux, of
whom the one was mortal and the other was not. Fame is the undying
brother of ephemeral honor. I speak, of course, of the highest kind of
fame, that is, of fame in the true and genuine sense of the word; for,
to be sure, there are many sorts of fame, some of which last but a
day. Honor is concerned merely with such qualities as everyone may be
expected to show under similar circumstances; fame only of those which
cannot be required of any man. Honor is of qualities which everyone
has a right to attribute to himself; fame only of those which should
be left to others to attribute. Whilst our honor extends as far as
people have knowledge of us; fame runs in advance, and makes us known
wherever it finds its way. Everyone can make a claim to honor; very
few to fame, as being attainable only in virtue of extraordinary
achievements.
These achievements may be of two kinds, either _actions_ or _works_;
and so to fame there are two paths open. On the path of actions, a
great heart is the chief recommendation; on that of works, a great
head. Each of the two paths has its own peculiar advantages and
detriments; and the chief difference between them is that actions are
fleeting, while works remain. The influence of an action, be it never
so noble, can last but a short time; but a work of genius is a living
influence, beneficial and ennobling throughout the ages. All that can
remain of actions is a memory, and that becomes weak and disfigured by
time--a matter of indifference to us, until at last it is extinguished
altogether; unless, indeed, history takes it up, and presents it,
fossilized, to posterity. Works are immortal in themselves, and once
committed to writing, may live for ever. Of Alexander the Great we
have but the name and the record; but Plato and Aristotle, Homer and
Horace are alive, and as directly at work to-day as they were in their
own lifetime. The _Vedas_, and their _Upanishads_, are still with us:
but of all contemporaneous actions not a trace has come down to us.[1]
[Footnote 1: Accordingly it is a poor compliment, though sometimes
a fashionable one, to try to pay honor to a work by calling it an
action. For a work is something essentially higher in its nature.
An action is always something based on motive, and, therefore,
fragmentary and fleeting--a part, in fact, of that Will which is the
universal and original element in the constitution of the world. But
a great and beautiful work has a permanent character, as being of
universal significance, and sprung from the Intellect, which rises,
like a perfume, above the faults and follies of the world of Will.
The fame of a great action has this advantage, that it generally
starts with a loud explosion; so loud, indeed, as to be heard all over
Europe: whereas the fame of a great work is slow and gradual in its
beginnings; the noise it makes is at first slight, but it goes on
growing greater, until at last, after a hundred years perhaps, it
attains its full force; but then it remains, because the works
remain, for thousands of years. But in the other case, when the first
explosion is over, the noise it makes grows less and less, and is
heard by fewer and fewer persons; until it ends by the action having
only a shadowy existence in the pages of history.]
Another disadvantage under which actions labor is that they depend
upon chance for the possibility of coming into existence; and hence,
the fame they win does not flow entirely from their intrinsic value,
but also from the circumstances which happened to lend them importance
and lustre. Again, the fame of actions, if, as in war, they are purely
personal, depends upon the testimony of fewer witnesses; and these
are not always present, and even if present, are not always just or
unbiased observers. This disadvantage, however, is counterbalanced
by the fact that actions have the advantage of being of a practical
character, and, therefore, within the range of general human
intelligence; so that once the facts have been correctly reported,
justice is immediately done; unless, indeed, the motive underlying the
action is not at first properly understood or appreciated. No action
can be really understood apart from the motive which prompted it.
It is just the contrary with works. Their inception does not depend
upon chance, but wholly and entirely upon their author; and whoever
they are in and for themselves, that they remain as long as they live.
Further, there is a difficulty in properly judging them, which becomes
all the harder, the higher their character; often there are no persons
competent to understand the work, and often no unbiased or honest
critics. Their fame, however, does not depend upon one judge only;
they can enter an appeal to another. In the case of actions, as I have
said, it is only their memory which comes down to posterity, and then
only in the traditional form; but works are handed down themselves,
and, except when parts of them have been lost, in the form in
which they first appeared. In this case there is no room for any
disfigurement of the facts; and any circumstance which may have
prejudiced them in their origin, fall away with the lapse of time.
Nay, it is often only after the lapse of time that the persons really
competent to judge them appear--exceptional critics sitting in
judgment on exceptional works, and giving their weighty verdicts in
succession. These collectively form a perfectly just appreciation; and
though there are cases where it has taken some hundreds of years to
form it, no further lapse of time is able to reverse the verdict;--so
secure and inevitable is the fame of a great work.
Whether authors ever live to see the dawn of their fame depends upon
the chance of circumstance; and the higher and more important their
works are, the less likelihood there is of their doing so. That was
an incomparable fine saying of Seneca's, that fame follows merit as
surely as the body casts a shadow; sometimes falling in front, and
sometimes behind. And he goes on to remark that _though the envy of
contemporaries be shown by universal silence, there will come those
who will judge without enmity or favor_. From this remark it is
manifest that even in Seneca's age there were rascals who understood
the art of suppressing merit by maliciously ignoring its existence,
and of concealing good work from the public in order to favor the bad:
it is an art well understood in our day, too, manifesting itself, both
then and now, in _an envious conspiracy of silence_.
As a general rule, the longer a man's fame is likely to last, the
later it will be in coming; for all excellent products require time
for their development. The fame which lasts to posterity is like an
oak, of very slow growth; and that which endures but a little while,
like plants which spring up in a year and then die; whilst false fame
is like a fungus, shooting up in a night and perishing as soon.
And why? For this reason; the more a man belongs to posterity, in
other words, to humanity in general, the more of an alien he is to his
contemporaries; since his work is not meant for them as such, but only
for them in so far as they form part of mankind at large; there is
none of that familiar local color about his productions which would
appeal to them; and so what he does, fails of recognition because it
is strange.
People are more likely to appreciate the man who serves the
circumstances of his own brief hour, or the temper of the
moment,--belonging to it, living and dying with it.
The general history of art and literature shows that the highest
achievements of the human mind are, as a rule, not favorably received
at first; but remain in obscurity until they win notice from
intelligence of a high order, by whose influence they are brought into
a position which they then maintain, in virtue of the authority thus
given them.
If the reason of this should be asked, it will be found that
ultimately, a man can really understand and appreciate those things
only which are of like nature with himself. The dull person will like
what is dull, and the common person what is common; a man whose ideas
are mixed will be attracted by confusion of thought; and folly will
appeal to him who has no brains at all; but best of all, a man will
like his own works, as being of a character thoroughly at one with
himself. This is a truth as old as Epicharmus of fabulous memory--
[Greek: Thaumaston ouden esti me tauth outo legein
Kal andanein autoisin autous kal dokein
Kalos pethukenai kal gar ho kuon kuni
Kalloton eimen phainetai koi bous boi
Onos dono kalliston [estin], us dut.]
The sense of this passage--for it should not be lost--is that we
should not be surprised if people are pleased with themselves, and
fancy that they are in good case; for to a dog the best thing in the
world is a dog; to an ox, an ox; to an ass, an ass; and to a sow, a
sow.
The strongest arm is unavailing to give impetus to a featherweight;
for, instead of speeding on its way and hitting its mark with effect,
it will soon fall to the ground, having expended what little energy
was given to it, and possessing no mass of its own to be the vehicle
of momentum. So it is with great and noble thoughts, nay, with the
very masterpieces of genius, when there are none but little, weak, and
perverse minds to appreciate them,--a fact which has been deplored
by a chorus of the wise in all ages. Jesus, the son of Sirach, for
instance, declares that _He that telleth a tale to a fool speaketh to
one in slumber: when he hath told his tale, he will say, What is the
matter_?[1] And Hamlet says, _A knavish speech sleeps in a fool's
ear_.[2] And Goethe is of the same opinion, that a dull ear mocks at
the wisest word,
_Das gluecktichste Wort es wird verhoehnt,
Wenn der Hoerer ein Schiefohr ist_:
and again, that we should not be discouraged if people are stupid, for
you can make no rings if you throw your stone into a marsh.
_Du iwirkest nicht, Alles bleibt so stumpf:
Sei guter Dinge!
Der Stein in Sumpf
Macht keine Ringe_.
[Footnote 1: Ecclesiasticus, xxii., 8.]
[Footnote 2: Act iv., Sc. 2.]
Lichtenberg asks: _When a head and a book come into collision, and one
sounds hollow, is it always the book_? And in another place: _Works
like this are as a mirror; if an ass looks in, you cannot expect an
apostle to look out_. We should do well to remember old Gellert's
fine and touching lament, that the best gifts of all find the fewest
admirers, and that most men mistake the bad for the good,--a daily
evil that nothing can prevent, like a plague which no remedy can cure.
There is but one thing to be done, though how difficult!--the foolish
must become wise,--and that they can never be. The value of life they
never know; they see with the outer eye but never with the mind, and
praise the trivial because the good is strange to them:--
_Nie kennen sie den Werth der Dinge,
Ihr Auge schliesst, nicht ihr Verstand;
Sie loben ewig das Geringe
Weil sie das Gute nie gekannt_.
To the intellectual incapacity which, as Goethe says, fails to
recognize and appreciate the good which exists, must be added
something which comes into play everywhere, the moral baseness of
mankind, here taking the form of envy. The new fame that a man wins
raises him afresh over the heads of his fellows, who are thus degraded
in proportion. All conspicuous merit is obtained at the cost of those
who possess none; or, as Goethe has it in the _Westoestlicher Divan_,
another's praise is one's own depreciation--
_Wenn wir Andern Ehre geben
Muessen wir uns selbst entadeln_.
We see, then, how it is that, whatever be the form which excellence
takes, mediocrity, the common lot of by far the greatest number, is
leagued against it in a conspiracy to resist, and if possible, to
suppress it. The pass-word of this league is _a bas le merite_. Nay
more; those who have done something themselves, and enjoy a certain
amount of fame, do not care about the appearance of a new reputation,
because its success is apt to throw theirs into the shade. Hence,
Goethe declares that if we had to depend for our life upon the favor
of others, we should never have lived at all; from their desire
to appear important themselves, people gladly ignore our very
existence:--
_Haette ich gezaudert zu werden,
Bis man mir's Leben geoegnut,
Ich waere noch nicht auf Erden,
Wie ihr begreifen koennt,
Wenn ihr seht, wie sie sich geberden,
Die, um etwas zu scheinen,
Mich gerne mochten verneinen_.
Honor, on the contrary, generally meets with fair appreciation, and is
not exposed to the onslaught of envy; nay, every man is credited with
the possession of it until the contrary is proved. But fame has to be
won in despite of envy, and the tribunal which awards the laurel is
composed of judges biased against the applicant from the very first.
Honor is something which we are able and ready to share with everyone;
fame suffers encroachment and is rendered more unattainable in
proportion as more people come by it. Further, the difficulty of
winning fame by any given work stands in reverse ratio to the number
of people who are likely to read it; and hence it is so much harder
to become famous as the author of a learned work than as a writer
who aspires only to amuse. It is hardest of all in the case of
philosophical works, because the result at which they aim is rather
vague, and, at the same time, useless from a material point of view;
they appeal chiefly to readers who are working on the same lines
themselves.
It is clear, then, from what I have said as to the difficulty of
winning fame, that those who labor, not out of love for their subject,
nor from pleasure in pursuing it, but under the stimulus of ambition,
rarely or never leave mankind a legacy of immortal works. The man who
seeks to do what is good and genuine, must avoid what is bad, and be
ready to defy the opinions of the mob, nay, even to despise it and its
misleaders. Hence the truth of the remark, (especially insisted upon
by Osorius _de Gloria_), that fame shuns those who seek it, and seeks
those who shun it; for the one adapt themselves to the taste of their
contemporaries, and the others work in defiance of it.
But, difficult though it be to acquire fame, it is an easy thing to
keep when once acquired. Here, again, fame is in direct opposition to
honor, with which everyone is presumably to be accredited. Honor
has not to be won; it must only not be lost. But there lies the
difficulty! For by a single unworthy action, it is gone irretrievably.
But fame, in the proper sense of the word, can never disappear; for
the action or work by which it was acquired can never be undone; and
fame attaches to its author, even though he does nothing to deserve it
anew. The fame which vanishes, or is outlived, proves itself thereby
to be spurious, in other words, unmerited, and due to a momentary
overestimate of a man's work; not to speak of the kind of fame which
Hegel enjoyed, and which Lichtenberg describes as _trumpeted forth by
a clique of admiring undergraduates_--_the resounding echo of empty
heads_;--_such a fame as will make posterity smile when it lights upon
a grotesque architecture of words, a fine nest with the birds long
ago flown; it will knock at the door of this decayed structure of
conventionalities and find it utterly empty_!--_not even a trace of
thought there to invite the passer-by_.
The truth is that fame means nothing but what a man is in comparison
with others. It is essentially relative in character, and therefore
only indirectly valuable; for it vanishes the moment other people
become what the famous man is. Absolute value can be predicated only
of what a man possesses under any and all circumstances,--here, what a
man is directly and in himself. It is the possession of a great heart
or a great head, and not the mere fame of it, which is worth having,
and conducive to happiness. Not fame, but that which deserves to be
famous, is what a man should hold in esteem. This is, as it were, the
true underlying substance, and fame is only an accident, affecting its
subject chiefly as a kind of external symptom, which serves to confirm
his own opinion of himself. Light is not visible unless it meets with
something to reflect it; and talent is sure of itself only when its
fame is noised abroad. But fame is not a certain symptom of merit;
because you can have the one without the other; or, as Lessing nicely
puts it, _Some people obtain fame, and others deserve it_.
It would be a miserable existence which should make its value or want
of value depend upon what other people think; but such would be the
life of a hero or a genius if its worth consisted in fame, that is,
in the applause of the world. Every man lives and exists on his own
account, and, therefore, mainly in and for himself; and what he is and
the whole manner of his being concern himself more than anyone else;
so if he is not worth much in this respect, he cannot be worth much
otherwise. The idea which other people form of his existence is
something secondary, derivative, exposed to all the chances of fate,
and in the end affecting him but very indirectly. Besides, other
people's heads are a wretched place to be the home of a man's true
happiness--a fanciful happiness perhaps, but not a real one.
And what a mixed company inhabits the Temple of Universal
Fame!--generals, ministers, charlatans, jugglers, dancers, singers,
millionaires and Jews! It is a temple in which more sincere
recognition, more genuine esteem, is given to the several excellencies
of such folk, than to superiority of mind, even of a high order, which
obtains from the great majority only a verbal acknowledgment.
From the point of view of human happiness, fame is, surely, nothing
but a very rare and delicate morsel for the appetite that feeds on
pride and vanity--an appetite which, however carefully concealed,
exists to an immoderate degree in every man, and is, perhaps strongest
of all in those who set their hearts on becoming famous at any cost.
Such people generally have to wait some time in uncertainty as to
their own value, before the opportunity comes which will put it to the
proof and let other people see what they are made of; but until then,
they feel as if they were suffering secret injustice.[1]
[Footnote 1: Our greatest pleasure consists in being admired; but
those who admire us, even if they have every reason to do so, are slow
to express their sentiments. Hence he is the happiest man who, no
matter how, manages sincerely to admire himself--so long as other
people leave him alone.]
But, as I explained at the beginning of this chapter, an
unreasonable value is set upon other people's opinion, and one quite
disproportionate to its real worth. Hobbes has some strong remarks on
this subject; and no doubt he is quite right. _Mental pleasure_, he
writes, _and ecstacy of any kind, arise when, on comparing ourselves
with others, we come to the conclusion that we may think well of
ourselves_. So we can easily understand the great value which is
always attached to fame, as worth any sacrifices if there is the
slightest hope of attaining it.
_Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise_
_(That hath infirmity of noble mind)_
_To scorn delights and live laborious days_[1]
And again:
_How hard it is to climb
The heights where Fame's proud temple shines afar_!
[Footnote 1: Milton. _Lycidas_.]
We can thus understand how it is that the vainest people in the world
are always talking about _la gloire_, with the most implicit faith in
it as a stimulus to great actions and great works. But there can he no
doubt that fame is something secondary in its character, a mere echo
or reflection--as it were, a shadow or symptom--of merit: and, in
any case, what excites admiration must be of more value than the
admiration itself. The truth is that a man is made happy, not by fame,
but by that which brings him fame, by his merits, or to speak more
correctly, by the disposition and capacity from which his merits
proceed, whether they be moral or intellectual. The best side of a
man's nature must of necessity be more important for him than for
anyone else: the reflection of it, the opinion which exists in the
heads of others, is a matter that can affect him only in a very
subordinate degree. He who deserves fame without getting it possesses
by far the more important element of happiness, which should console
him for the loss of the other. It is not that a man is thought to be
great by masses of incompetent and often infatuated people, but that
he really is great, which should move us to envy his position; and his
happiness lies, not in the fact that posterity will hear of him, but
that he is the creator of thoughts worthy to be treasured up and
studied for hundreds of years.
Besides, if a man has done this, he possesses something which cannot
be wrested from him; and, unlike fame, it is a possession dependent
entirely upon himself. If admiration were his chief aim, there would
be nothing in him to admire. This is just what happens in the case
of false, that is, unmerited, fame; for its recipient lives upon it
without actually possessing the solid substratum of which fame is the
outward and visible sign. False fame must often put its possessor out
of conceit with himself; for the time may come when, in spite of the
illusions borne of self-love, he will feel giddy on the heights which
he was never meant to climb, or look upon himself as spurious
coin; and in the anguish of threatened discovery and well-merited
degradation, he will read the sentence of posterity on the foreheads
of the wise--like a man who owes his property to a forged will.