It was on one of the last days in July, at
ten o'clock in the evening, when the
participants
in that banquet assembled together.
Date
and year I have forgotten; indeed this
would
be interesting only to one's memory
of details:
and not to one's recollection of the
contents
of what experience. The "spirit
of the
occasion" and whatever impressions
are
recorded in one's mind under that heading,
concerns only one's recollections;
and just
as generous wine gains in flavor by
passing
the Equator, because of the evaporation
of
its watery particles, likewise does
recollection
gain by getting rid of the watery particles
of memory; and yet recollection becomes
as
little a mere figment of the imagination
by this process as does the generous
wine.
The participants were five in number:
John,
with the epithet of the Seducer, Victor
Eremita,
Constantin Constantius, and yet two
others
whose names I have not exactly forgotten--which
would be a matter of small importancebut
whose names I did not learn. It was
as if
these two had no proper names, for
they were
constantly addressed by some epithet.
The
one was called the Young Person. Nor
was
he more than twenty and some years,
of slender
and delicate build, and of a very dark
complexion.
His face was thoughtful; but more pleasing
even was its lovable and engaging expression
which betokened a purity of soul harmonizing
perfectly with the soft charm, almost
feminine,
and the transparency of his whole presence.
This external beauty of appearance
was lost
sight of, however, in one's next impression
of him; or, one kept it only in mind
whilst
regarding a youth nurtured orto use
a still
tenderer expression--petted into being,
by
thought, and nourished by the contents
of
his own soula youth who as yet had
had nothing
to do with the world, had been neither
aroused
and fired, nor disquieted and disturbed.
Like a sleep-walker he bore the law
of his
actions within himself, and the amiable,
kindly expression of his countenance
concerned
no one, but only mirrored the disposition
of his soul.
The other person they called the Dressmaker,
and that was his occupation. Of him
it was
impossible toget a consistent impression.
He was dressed according to the very
latest
fashion, with his hair curled and perfumed,
fragrant with eau-de-cologne. One moment
his carriage did not lack self-possession,
whereas in the next it assumed a certain
festive air, a certain hovering motion
which,
however was kept in rather definite
bounds
by the robustness of his figure. Even
when
he was most malicious in his speech
his voice
ever had a touch of the smooth-tonguedness
of the the shop, the suaveness of the
dealer
in fancy-goods, Which evidently was
utterly
disgusting to himself and only satisfied
his spirit of defiance. As I think
of him
now I understand him better, to be
sure,
than when I first saw him step out
of his
carriage and I involuntarily laughed.
At
the same time there is some contradiction
left still. He had transformed or bewitched
himself, had by the magic of his own
will
assumed the appearance of one almost
halfwitted,
but had not thereby entirely satisfied
himself;
and this is why his reflectiveness
now and
then peered forth from beneath his
disguise.
As I think of it now it seems rather
absurd
that five such persons should get a
banquet
arranged. Nor would anything have come
of
it, I suppose, if Constantin had not
been
one of us. In a retired room of a confectioner's
shop where they met at times, the matter
had been broached once before, but
had been
dropped immediately when the question
arose
as to who was to head the undertaking.
The
Young Person was declared unfit for
that
task, the Dressmaker affirmed himself
to
be too busy. Victor Eremita did not
beg to
be excused because "he had married
a
wife or bought yoke of oxen which he
needed
to prove",1 but, he said, even
if he
should make an exception, for once,
and come
to the banquet, yet he would decline
the
courtesy offered him to preside at
it, and
he therewith "entered protest
at the
proper time. 2 This, John considered
a work
spoken in due season; because, as he
saw
it, there was but one person able to
prepare
a banquet, and that was the possessor
of
the wishing-table which set itself
with delectable
things whenever he said to it "Cover
thyself!" He averred that to enjoy
the
charms of a young girl in haste was
not always
the wisest course; but as to a banquet,
he
would not wait for it, and generally
was
tired of it a long while before it
came off.
However, if the plan was to be carried
into
effect he would make one condition,
which
was, that the banquet should be so
arranged
as to be served in one course. And
that all
were agreed on. Also, that the settings
for
it were to be made altogether new,
and that
afterwards they were to be destroyed
entirely;
ay, before rising from table one was
to hear
the preparation for their destruction.
Nothing
was to remain; "not even so much,"
said the Dressmaker, "as there
is left
of a dress after it has been made over
into
a hat." "Nothing," said
John,
"because nothing is more unpleasant
than a sentimental scene, and nothing
more
disgusting than the knowledge that
somewhere
or other there is an external setting
which
in a direct and impertinent fashion
pretends
to be a reality."
When the conversation had thus become
animated,
Victor Eremita suddenly arose, struck
an
attitude on the floor, beckoned with
his
hand in the fashion of one commanding
and,
holding his arm extended as one lifting
a
goblet, he said, with the gesture of
one
waving a welcome: "With this cup
whose
fragrance already intoxicates my senses,
whose cool fire already inflames my
blood,
I greet you, beloved fellow-banqueters,
and
bid you welcome; being entirely assured
that
each one of you is sufficiently satisfied
by our merely speaking about the banquet;
for our Lord satisfied the stomach
before
satisfying the eye, but the imagination
acts
in the reverse fashion." Thereupon
he
inserted his hand in his pocket, took
from
it a cigar-case, struck a match, and
began
to smoke. When Constantin Constantius
protested
against this sovereign free way of
transforming
the banquet planned into an illusory
fragment
of life, Victor declared that he did
not
believe for one moment that such a
banquet
could be got up and that, in any case,
it
had beena mistake to let it become
the subject
of discussion in advance. "Whatever
is to be good must come at once; for
'at
once' is the divinest of all categories
and
deserves to be honored as in the language
of the Romans: ex templo, 3 because
it is
the starting point for all that is
divine
in life, and so much so that what is
not
done at once is of evil." However,
he
remarked, he did not care to argue
this point.
In case the others wished to speak
and act
differently he would not say a word,
but
if they wished him to explain the sense
of
his remarks more fully he must have
leave
to make a speech, because he did not
consider
it all desirable to provoke a discussion
on the subject.
Permission was given him; and as the
others
called on him to do so at once, he
spoke
as follows: "A banquet is in itself
a difficult matter, because even if
it be
arranged with ever so much taste and
talent
there is something else essential to
its
success, to-wit, good luck. And by
this I
mean not such matters as most likely
would
give concern to an anxious hostess,
but something
different, a something which no one
can make
absolutely sure of: a fortunate harmonizing
of the spirit and the minutiae of the
banquet,
that fine ethereal vibration of chords,
that
soul-stirring music which cannot be
ordered
in advance from the town-musicians.
Look
you, therefore is it a hazardous thing
to
undertake, beause if things do go wrong,
perhaps from the very start, one may
suffer
such a depression and loss of spirits
that
recovery from it might involve a very
long
time.
"Sheer habit and thoughtlessness
are
father and godfather to most banquets,
and
it is only due to the lack of critical
sense
among people that one fails to notice
the
utter absence of any idea in them.
In the
first place, women ought never to be
present
at a banquet. Women may be used to
advantage
only in the Greek style, as a chorus
of dancers.
As it is the main thing at a banquet
that
there be eating and drinking, woman
ought
not to be present; she cannot do justice
to what is offered; or, if she can,
it is
most unbeautiful. Whenever a woman
is present
the matter of eating and drinking ought
to
be reduced to the very slightest proportions.
At most, it ought to be no more than
some
trifling feminine occupation, to have
something
to busy one's hands with. Especially
in the
country a little repast of this kindwhich,
by the way, should be put at other
times
than the principal meals--may be extremely
delightful; and if so, always owing
to the
presence of the other sex. To do like
the
English, who let the fair sex retire
as soon
as the real drinking is to start, is
to fall
between two stools, for every plan
ought
to be a whole, and the very manner
with which
I take a seat at the table and seize
hold
of knife and fork bears a definite
relation
to this whole. In the same sense a
political
banquet presents an unbeautiful ambiguity
inasmuch as one does not4 want to cut
down
to a very minimum the essentials of
a banquet,
and yet does not wish to have the speeches
thought of as having been made over
the cups.
"So far, we are agreed, I suppose;
and
our numberin case anything should come
of
the banquet--is correctly chosen, according
to that beautiful rule: neither more
than
the Muses nor fewer than the Graces.
Now
I demand the greatest superabundance
of everything
thinkable. That is, even though everything
be not actually there, yet the possibility
of having it must be at one's immediate
beck
and call, aye, hover temptingly over
the
table, more seductive even than the
actual
sight of it. I beg to be excused, however,
from banqueting on sulphur-matches
or on
a piece of sugar which all are to suck
in
turn. My demands for such a banquet
will,
on the contrary, be difficult to satisfy;
for the feast itself must be calculated
to
arouse and incite that unmentionable
longing
which each worthy participant is to
bring
with him. I require that the earth's
fertility
be at our service, as though everything
sprouted
forth at the very moment the desire
for it
was born. I desire a more luxurious
abundance
of wine than when Mephistopheles needed
but
to drill holes into the table to obtain
it.
I demand an illumination more splendid
than
have the gnomes when they lift up the
mountain
on pillars and dance in a sea of blazing
light. I demand what most excites the
senses,
I demand their gratification by deliciously
sweet perfumes, more superb than any
in the
Arabian Nights. I demand a coolness
which
voluptuously provokes desire and breathes
relaxation on desire satisfied. I demand
a fountain's unceasing enlivenment.
If Maecenas
could not sleep without hearing the
splashing
of a fountain, I cannot eat without
it. Do
not misunderstand me, I can eat stockfish
without it; but I cannot eat at a banquet
without it; I can drink water without
it,
but I cannot drink wine at a banquet
without
it. I demand a host of servants, chosen
and
comely, as if I sate at table with
the gods;
I demand that there shall be music
at the
feast, both strong and subdued; and
I demand
that it shall be an accompaniment to
my thoughts;
and what concerns you, my friends,
my demands
regarding you are altogether incredible.
Do you see, by reason of all these
demands--which
are as many reasons against itI hold
a banquet
to be a pium desideratum, 5 and am
so far
from desiring a repetition of it that
I presume
it is not feasible even a first time."
The only one who had not actually participated
in this conversation, nor in the frustration
of the banquet, was Constantin. Without
him,
nothing would have been done save the
talking.
He had come to a different conclusion
and
was of the opinion that the idea might
well
be realized, if one but carried the
matter
with a high hand.
Then some time passed, and both the
banquet
and the discussion about it were forgotten,
when suddenly, one day, the participants
received a card of invitation from
Constantius
for a banquet the very same evening.
The
motto of the Party had been given by
him
as: In Vino Veritas, because there
was to
be speaking, to be sure, and not only
conversation;
but the speeches were not to be made
except
in vino, and no truth was to be uttered
there
excepting that which is in vino--when
the
wine is a defense of the truth and
the truth
a defense of the wine.
The place had been chosen in the woods,
some
ten miles distant from Copenhagen.
The hall
in which they were to feast had been
newly
decorated and in every way made unrecognizable;
a smaller room, separated from the
hall by
a corridor, was arranged for an orchestra.
Shutters and curtains were let down
before
all windows, which were left open.
The arrangement
that the participants were to drive
to the
banquet in the evening hour was to
intimate
to themand that was Constantin's ideawhat
was to follow. Even if one knows that
one
is driving to a banquet, and the imagination
therefore indulges for a moment in
thoughts
of luxury, yet the impression of the
natural
surroundings is too powerful to be
resisted.
That this might possibly not be the
case
was the only contingency he apprehended;
for just as there is no power like
the imagination
to render beautiful all it touches,
neither
is there any power which can to such
a degree
disturb allmisfortune conspiringif
confronted
with reality. But driving on a summer
evening
does not lure the imagination to luxurious
thoughts, but rather to the opposite.
Even
if one does not see it or hear it,
the imagination
will unconsciously create a picture
of the
longing for home which one is apt to
feel
in the evening hoursone sees the reapers,
man and maid, returning from their
work in
the fields, one hears the hurried rattling
of the hay wagon, one interprets even
the
far-away lowing from the meadows as
a longing.
Thus does a summer evening suggest
idyllic
thoughts, soothing even a restless
mind with
its assuagement, inducing even the
soaring
imagination to abide on earth with
an indwelling
yearning for home as the place from
whence
it came, and thus teaching the insatiable
mind to be satisfied with little, by
rendering
one content; for in the evening hour
time
stands still and eternity lingers.
Thus they
arrived in the evening hour: those
invited;
for Constantin had come out somewhat
earlier.
Victor Eremita who resided in the country
not far away came on horseback, the
others
in a carriage. And just as they had
discharged
it, a light open vehicle rolled in
through
the gate caarrying a merry company
of four
journeymen who were entertained to
be ready
at the decisive moment to function
as a corps
of destruction: just as firemen are
stationed
in a theatre, for the opposite reason
at
once to extinguish a fire.
So long as one is a child one possesses
sufficient
imagination to maintain one's soul
at the
very top-notch of expectation--for
a whole
hour in the dark room, if need be;
but when
one has grown older one's imagination
may
easily cause one to tire of the Christmas
tree before seeing it.
The folding doors were opened. The
effect
of the radiant illumination, the coolness
wafting toward them, the beguiling
fragrance
of sweet perfumes, the excellent taste
of
the arrangements, for a moment overwhelmed
the feelings of those entering; and
when,
at the same time, strains ftom the
ballet
of "Don Juan" sounded from
the
orchestra, their persons seemed transfigured
and, as if out of reverence for an
unseen
spirit about them, they stopped short
for
a moment like men who have been roused
by
admiration and who have risen to admire.
Whoever knows that happy moment, whoever
has appreciated its delight, and has
not
also felt the apprehension lest suddenly
something might happen, some trifle
perhaps,
which yet might be sufficient to disturb
all! Whoever has held the lamp of Aladdin
in his hand and has not also felt the
swooning
of pleasure, because one needs but
to wish?
Whoever has held what is inviting in
his
hand and has not also learned to keep
his
wrist limber to let go at once, if
need be?
Thus they stood side by side. Only
Victor
stood alone, absorbed in thought; a
shudder
seemed to pass through his soul, he
almost
trembled; he collected himself and
saluted
the omen with these words: "Ye
mysterious,
festive, and seductive strains which
drew
me out of the cloistered seclusion
of a quiet
youth and beguiled me with a longing
as mighty
as a recollection, and terrible, as
though
Elvira had not even been seduced but
had
only desired to be! Immortal Mozart,
thou
to whom I owe all; but no! as yet I
do not
owe thee all. But when I shall have
become
an old manif ever I do become an old
man;
or when I shall have become ten years
olderif
ever I do; or when I am become oldif
ever
I shall become old; or when I shall
diefor
that, indeed, I know I shall: then
shall
I say: immortal Mozart, thou to whom
I owe
alland then I shall let my admiration,
which
is my soul's first and only admiration,
burst
forth in all its might and let it make
away
with me, as it often has been on the
point
of doing. Then have I set my house
in order,
6 then have I remembered my beloved
one,
then have I confessed my love, then
have
I fully established that I owe thee
all,
then am I occupied no longer with thee,
with
the world, but only with the grave
thought
of death."
Now there came from the orchestra that
invitation
in which joy triumphs most exultantly,
and
heaven-storming soars aloft above Elvira's
sorrowful thanks; and gracefully apostrophizing,
John repeated: "Viva la liberta"
"et veritas," said the Young
Person;
"but above all, in vino,"
Constantin
interrupted them, seating himself at
the
table and inviting the others to do
likewise.
How easy to prepare a banquet; yet
Constantin
declared that he never would risk preparing
another. How easy to admire; yet Victor
declared
that he never again would lend words
to his
admiration; for to suffer a discomfiture
is more dreadful than to become an
invalid
in war! How easy to express a desire,
if
one has the magic lamp; yet that is
at times
more terrible than to perish of want!
They were seated. In the same moment
the
little company were launched into the
very
middle of the infinite sea of enjoymentas
if with one single bound. Each one
had addressed
all his thoughts and all his desires
to the
banquet, had prepared his soul for
the enjoyment
which was offered to overflowing and
in which
their souls overflowed. The experienced
driver
is known by his ability to start the
snorting
team with a single bound and to hold
them
well abreast; the well-trained steed
is known
by his lifting himself in one absolutely
decisive leap: even if one or the other
of
the guests perhaps fell short in some
particular,
certainly Constantin was a good host.
Thus they banqueted. Soon, conversation
had
woven its beautiful wreaths about the
banqueters,
so that they sat garlanded. Now, it
was enamored
of the food, now of the wine, and now
again
of itself; now, it seemed to develop
into
significance, and then again it was
altogether
slight. Soon, fancy unfolded itselfthe
splendid
one which blows but once, the tender
one
which straightway closes its petals;
now,
there came an exclamation from one
of the
banqueters: "These truffles are
superb,"
and now, an order of the host: "This
Chateau Margaux!" Now, the music
was
drowned in the noise, now it was heard
again.
Sometimes the servants stood still
as if
in pausa, in that decisive moment when
a
new dish was being brought out, or
a new
wine was ordered and mentioned by name,
sometimes
they were all a-bustle. Sometimes there
was
a silence for a moment, and then the
re-animating
spirit of the music went forth over
the guests.
Now, one with some bold thought would
take
the lead in the conversation and the
others
followed after, almost forgetting to
eat,
and the music would sound after them
as it
sounds after the jubilant shouts of
a host
storming on; now, only the clinking
of glasses
and the clattering of plates was heard
and
the feasting proceeded in silence,
accompanied
only by the music that joyously advanced
and again stimulated conversation.
Thus they
banqueted.
How poor is language in comparison
with that
symphony of sounds unmeaning, yet how
significant,
whether of a battle or of a banquet,
which
even scenic representation cannot imitate
and for which language has but a few
words!
How rich is language in the expression
of
the world of ideas, and how poor, when
it
is to describe reality!
Only once did Constantin abandon his
omnipresence
ill which one actually lost sight of
his
presence. At the very beginning he
got them
to sing one of the old drinking songs,
"by
way of calling to mind that jolly time
when
men and women feasted together,"
as
he saida proposal which had the positively
burlesque effect he had perhaps calculated
it should have. It almost gained the
upper
hand when the Dressmaker wanted them
to sing
the ditty: "When I shall mount
the bridal
bed, hoiho!" After a couple of
courses
had been served Constantin proposed
that
the banquet should conclude with each
one's
making a speech, but that precautions
should
be taken against the speakers' divagating
too much. He was for making two conditions,
viz., there were to be no speeches
until
after the meal; and no one was to speak
before
having drunk sufficiently to feel the
power
of the wineelse he was to be in that
condition
in which one says much which under
other
circumstances one would leave unsaidwithout
necessarily having the connection of
speech
and thought constantly interrupted
by hiccoughs.
7 Before speaking, then, each one was
to
declare solemnly that he was in that
condition.
No definite quantity of wine was to
be required,
capacities differed so widely. Against
this
proposal, John entered protest. He
could
never become intoxicated, he averred,
and
when he had come to a certain point
he grew
the soberer the more he drank. Victor
Eremita
was, of the opinion that any such preparatory
premeditations to insure one's becoming
drunk
would precisely militate against one's
becoming
so. If one desired to become intoxicated
the deliberate wish was only a hindrance.
Then there ensued some discussion about
the
divers influences of wine on consciousness,
and especially about the fact that,
in the
caseof a reflective temperament, an
excess
of wine may manifest itself, not in
any particular
impetus but, on the contrary, in a
noticeably
cool self-possession. As to the contents
of the speeches, Constantin proposed
that
they should deal with love, that is,
the
relation between man and woman. No
love stories
were to be told though they might furnish
the text of one's remarks.
The conditions were accepted. All reasonable
and just demands a host may make on
his guests
were fulfilled: they ate and drank,
and "drank
and were filled with drink," as
the
Bible has it; 8 that is, they drank
stoutly.
The desert was served. Even if Victor
had
not, as yet, had his desire gratified
to
hear the splashing of a fountain, which,
for that matter, he had luckily forgotten
since that former conversationnow champagne
flowed profusely. The clock struck
twelve.
Thereupon Constantin commanded silence,
saluted
the Young Person with a goblet and
the words
quod felix sit faustumque9 and bade
him to
speak first.
(The Young Person's Speech)
The Young Person arose and declared
that
he felt the power of the wine, which
was
indeed apparent to some degree; for
the blood
pulsed strongly in his temples, and
his appearance
was not as beautiful as before the
meal.
He poke as follows:
If there be truth in the words of the
poets,
dear fellow banqueters, then unrequited
love
is, indeed, the greatest of sorrows.
Should
you require any proof of thisyou need
but
listen to the speech of lovers. They
say
that it is death, certain death; and
the
first time they believe itfor the space
of
two weeks. The next time they say that
it
is death; and finally they will die
sometimeas
the result of unrequited love. For
that love
has killed them, about that there can
obtain
no doubt. And as to love's having to
take
hold three times to make away with
them,
that is not different from the dentist's
having to pull three times before he
is able
to budge that firmly rooted molar.
But, if
unrequited love thus means certain
death,
how happy am I who have never loved
and,
I hope, will only achieve dying some
time,
and not from unrequited love! But just
this
may be the greatest misfortune, for
all I
know, and how unfortunate must I then
be!
The essence of love probably (for I
speak
as does a blind man about colors),
probably
lies in its bliss; which is, in other
words,
that the cessation of love brings death
to
the lover. This I comprehend very well
as
in the nature of a hypothesis correlating
life and death. But, if love is to
be merely
by way of hypothesis, why, then lovers
lay
themselves open to ridicule through
their
actually falling in love. If, however,
love
is something real, why, then reality
must
bear out what lovers say about it.
But did
one in real life ever hear of, or observe,
such things having taken place, even
if there
is hearsay to that effect? Here I perceive
already one of the contradictions in
which
love involves a person; for whether
this
is different for those initiated, that
I
have no means of knowing; but love
certainly
does seem to involve people in the
most curious
contradictions.
There is no other relation between
human
beings which makes such demands on
one's
ideality as does love, and yet love
is never
seen to have it. For this reason alone
I
would be afraid of love; for I fear
that
it might have the power to make me
too talk
vaguely about a bliss which I did not
feel
and a sorrow I did not have. I say
this here
since I am bidden to speak on love,
though
unacquainted with itI say this in surroundings
which appeal to me like a Greek symposion;
for I should otherwise not care to
speak
on this subject as I do not wish to
disturb
any one's happiness but, rather, am
content
with my own thoughts. Who knows but
these
thoughts are sheer imbecilities and
vain
imaginingsperhaps my ignorance is explicable
from the fact that I never have learned,
nor have wished to learn, from any
one, how
one comes to love; or from the fact
that
I have never yet challenged a woman
with
a glancewhich is supposed to be smartbut
have always lowered my eyes, unwilling
to
yield to an impression before having
fully
made sure about the nature of the power
into
whose sphere I am venturing.
At this point he was interrupted by
Constantin
who expostulated with him because,
by his
very confession of never having been
in love,
he had debarred himself from speaking.
The
Young Person declared that at any other
time
he would gladly obey an injunction
to that
effect as he had often enough experienced
how tiresome it was to have to make
a speech;
but that in this case he would insist
upon
his right. Precisely the fact that
one had
had no love affair, he said, also constituted
an affair of love; and he who could
assert
this of himself was entitled to speak
about
Eros just because his thoughts were
bound
to take issue with the whole sex and
not
with individuals. He was granted permission
to speak and continued.
Inasmuch as my right to speak has been
challenged,
this may serve to exempt me from your
laughter;
for I know well that, just as among
rustics
he is not considered a man who does
not call
a tobacco pipe his own, likewise among
men-folks
he is not considered a real man who
is not
experienced in love. If any one feels
like
laughing, let him laughmy thought is,
and
remains, the essential consideration
for
me. Or is love, perchance, privileged
to
be the only event which is to be considered
after, rather than before, it happens?
If
that be the case, what then if I, having
fallen in love, should later on think
that
it was too late to think about it?
Look you,
this is the reason why I choose to
think
about love before it happens. To be
sure,
lovers also maintain that they gave
the matter
thought, but such is not the case.
They assume
it to be essential in man to fall in
love;
but this surely does not mean thinking
about
love but, rather, assuming it, in order
to
make sure of getting one's self a sweetheart.
In fact, whenever my reflection endeavors
to pin down love, naught but contradiction
seems to remain. At times, it is true,
I
feel as if something had escaped me,
but
I cannot tell what it is, whereas my
reflection
is able at once to point out the contradictions
in what does occur. Very well, then,
in my
opinion love is the greatest self-contradiction
imaginable, and comical at the same
time.
Indeed, the one corresponds to the
other.
The comical is always seen to occur
in the
category of contradictionswhich truth
I cannot
take the time to demonstrate now; but
what
I shall demonstrate now is that love
is comical.
By love I mean the relation between
man and
woman. I am not thinking of Eros in
the Greek
sense which has been extolled so beautifully
by Plato who, by the way, is so far
from
considering the love of woman that
he mentions
it only in passing, holding it to be
inferior
to the love of youths. 10 I say, love
is
comical to a third personmore I say
not.
Whether it is for this reason that
lovers
always hate a third person I do not
know;
but I do know that reflection is always
in
such a relation the third person, and
for
this reason I cannot love without at
the
same time having a third person present
in
the shape of my reflection.
This surely cannot seem strange to
any one,
every one having doubted everything,
whereas
I am uttering my doubts only with reference
to love. And yet I do think it strange
that
people have doubted everything and
have again
reached certainty, without as much
as dropping
a word concerning the difficulties
which
have held my thought captiveso much
so that
I have, now and then, longed to be
freed
of themfreed by the aid of one, note
well,
who was aware of these difficulties,
and
not of one who in his sleep had a notion
to doubt, and to have doubted, everything,
and again in his sleep had the notion
that
he is explaining, and has explained,
all.
11
Let me then have your attention, dear
fellow
banqueters, and if you yourselves be
lovers
do not therefore interrupt me, nor
try to
silence me because you do not wish
to hear
the explanation. Rather turn away and
listen
with averted faces to what I have to
say,
and what I insist upon saying, having
once
begun.
In the first place I consider it comical
that every one loves, and every one
wishes
to love, without any one ever being
able
to tell one what is the nature of the
lovable
or that which is the real object of
love.
As to the word "to love"
I shall
not discuss it since it means nothing
definite;
but as soon as the matter is broached
at
all we are met by the question as to
what
it is one loves. No other answer is
ever
vouchsafed us on that point other than
that
one loves what is lovable. For if one
should
make answer, with Plato,
12 that one is to love what is good,
one
has in taking this single step exceeded
the
bounds of the erotic.
The answer may be offered, perhaps,
that
one is to love what is beautiful. But
if
I then should ask whether to love means
to
love a beautiful landscape or a beautiful
painting it would be immediately perceived
that the erotic is not, as it were,
comprised
in the more general term of the love
of things
beautiful, but is something entirely
of its
own kind. Were a loverjust to give
an exampleto
speak as follows, in order to express
adequately
how much love there dwelled in him:
"I
love beautiful landscapes, and my Lalage,
and the beautiful dancer, and a beautiful
horse--in short, love all that is beautiful,"
his Lalage would not be satisfied with
his
encomium, however well satisfied she
might
be with him in all other respects,
and even
if she be beautiful; and now suppose
Lalage
is not beautiful and he yet loved her!
Again, if I should refer the erotic
element
to the bisection of which Aristophanes
tells
us13 when he says that the gods severed
man
into two parts as one cuts flounders,
and
that these parts thus separated sought
one
another, then I again encounter a difficulty
I cannot get over, which is, in how
far I
may base my reasoning on Aristophanes
who
in his speechjust because there is
no reason
for the thought to stop at this point--goes
further in his thought and thinks that
the
gods might take it into their heads
to divide
man
into three parts, for the sake of still
better
fun. For the sake of still better fun;
for
is it not true, as I said, that love
renders
a person ridiculous, if not in the
eyes of
others others certainly in the eyes
of the
gods?
Now, let me assume that the erotic
element
resides essentially in the relation
between
man and womanwhat is to be inferred
from
that? If the lover should say to his
Lalage:
I love you because you are a woman;
I might
as well love any other woman, as for
instance,
ugly Zoe: then beautiful Lalage would
feel
insulted.
In what, then, consists the lovable?
This
is my question; but unfortunately,
no one
has been able to tell me, The individual
lover always believes that, as far
as he
is concerned, he knows. Still he cannot
make
himself understood by any other lover;
and
he who listens to the speech of a number
of lovers will learn that no two of
them
ever agree, even though they all talk
about
the same thing. Disregarding those
altogether
silly explanations which leave one
as wise
as before, that is, end by asserting
that
it is really the pretty feet of the
beloved
damsel, or the admired mustachios of
the
swain, which are the objects of lovedisregarding
these, one will find mentioned, even
in the
declamations of lovers in the higher
style,
first a number of details and, finally,
the
declaration: all her lovable ways;
and when
they have reached the climax: that
inexplicable
something I do not know how to explain.
And
this speech is meant to please especially
beautiful Lalage. Me it does not please,
for I don't understand a word of it
and find,
rather, that it contains a double contradictionfirst,
that it ends with the inexplicable,
second,
that it ends with the inexplicable;
for he
who intends to end with the inexplicable
had best begin with the inexplicable
and
then say no more, lest he lay himself
open
to suspicion. If he begin with the
inexplicable,
saying no more, then this does not
prove
his helplessness, for it is, anyway,
an explanation
in a negative sense; but if he does
begin
with something else and lands in the
inexplicable,
then this does certainly prove his
helplessness.
So then we see: to love corresponds
to the
lovable; and the lovable is the inexplicable.
Well, that is at least something; but
comprehensible
it is not, as little as the inexplicable
way in which love seizes on its prey.
Who,
indeed, would not be alarmed if people
about
one, time and again, dropped down dead,
all
of a sudden, or had convulsions, without
anyone being able to account for it?
But
precisely in this fashion does love
invade
life, only with the difference that
one is
not alarmed thereby, since the lovers
themselves
regard it as their greatest happiness,
but
that one, on the contrary, is tempted
to
laugh; for the comical and the tragical
elements
ever correspond to one another. Today,
one
may converse with a person and can
fairly
well make him outtomorrow, he speaks
in tongues
and with strange gestures: he is in
love.
Now, if to love meant to fall in love
with
the first person that came along, it
would
be easy to understand that one could
give
no special reasons for it; but since
to love
means to fall in love with one, one
single
person in all the world, it would seem
as
if such an extraordinary process of
singling
out ought to be due to such an extensive
chain of reasoning that one might have
to
beg to be excused from hearing it--not
so
much because it did not explain anything
as because it might be too lengthy
to listen
to. But no, the lovers are not able
to explain
anything at all. He has seen hundreds
upon
hundreds of women; he is, perhaps,
advanced
in years and has all along felt nothing--and
all at once he sees her, her the Only
one,
Catherine. Is this not comical? Is
it not
comical that the relation which is
to explain
and beautify all life, love, is not
like
the mustard seed from which there grows
a
great tree, 14 but being still smaller
is,
at bottom, nothing at all; for not
a single
antecedent criterion can be mentioned,
as
e. g., that the
phenomenon occurred at a certain age,
nor
a single reason as to why be should
select
her, her alone in all the worldand
that by
no means in the same sense as when
"Adam
chose Eve, because there was none other."15
Or is not the explanation which the
lovers
vouchsafe just as comical; or, does
it not,
rather, emphasize the comical aspect
of love?
They say that love renders one blind,
and
by this fact they undertake to explain
the
phenomenon. Now, if a Person who was
going
into a dark room to fetch something
should
answer, on my advising him to take
a light
along, that it was only a trifling
matter
he wanted and so he would not bother
to take
a light alongah! then I would understand
him excellently well. If, on the other
hand,
this same person should take me aside
and,
with an air of mystery, confide to
me that
the thing be was about to fetch was
of the
very greatest importance and that it
was
for this reason that he was able to
do it
in the darkah! then I wonder if my
weak mortal
brain could follow the soaring flight
of
his speech. Even if I should refrain
from
laughing, in order not to offend him,
I should
hardly be able to restrain my mirth
as soon
as he had turned his back. But at love
nobody
laughs; for I am quite prepared to
be embarrassed
like the Jew who, after ending his
story,
asks: Is there no one who will laugh?
16
And yet I did not miss the point, as
did
the Jew, and as to my laughter I am
far from
wanting to insult any one. Quite on
the contrary,
I scorn those fools who imagine that
their
love has such good reasons that they
can
afford to laugh at other lovers; for
since
love is altogether inexplicable, one
lover
is as ridiculous as the other. Quite
as foolish
and haughty I consider it also when
a man
proudly looks about him in the circle
of
girls to find who may be worthy of
him, or
when a girl proudly tosses her head
to select
or reject; because such persons are
simply
basing their thoughts on an unexplained
assumption.
No. What busies my thought is love
as such,
and it is love which seems ridiculous
to
me; and therefore I fear it, lest I
become
ridiculous in my own eyes, or ridiculous
in the eyes of the gods who have fashioned
man thus. In other words, if love is
ridiculous
it is equally ridiculous, whether now
my
sweetheart be a princess or a servant
girl;
for the lovable, as we have seen, is
the
inexplicable.
Look you, therefore do I fear love,
and find
precisely in this a new proof of love's
being
comical; for my fear is so seriously
tragic
that it throws light on the comical
nature
love. When people wreck a building
a sign
is hung up to warn people, and I shall
take
care to stand from under; when a bar
has
been freshly painted a stone is laid
in the
road to apprise people of the fact;
when
a driver is in danger of running a
man over
he will shout "look out";
when
there have been cases of cholera in
a house
a soldier is set as guard; and so forth.
What I mean is that if there is somedanger,
one may be warned and will successfully
escape
it by heeding the warning. Now, fearing
to
be rendered ridiculous by love, I certainly
regard it as dangerous; so whatshall
I do
to escape it? In other words, what
shall
I do to escape the danger of some woman
falling
in love with me? I am far from entertaining
the thought of being an Adonis every
girl
is bound to fall in love with (relata
refero,
17 for what this means I do not understand)
-goodness no! But since I do not know
what
the lovable is I cannot, by anymanners
of
means, know how to escape this danger.
Since,
for that matter, the very opposite
of beauty
may constitute the lovable; and, finally,
since the inexplicable also is the
lovable,
I am forsooth in the same situation
as the
man Jean Paul speaks of somewhere who,
standing
on one foot, reads a sign saying, "fox-traps
here," and now does not dare,
either
to lift his foot or to set it down.
No, love
any one I will not, before I have fathomed
what love is; but this I cannot, but
have,
rather, come to the conclusion that
it is
comical. Hence I will not love-but
alas!
I have not thereby avoided the danger,
for,
since I do not know what the lovable
is and
how it seizes me, or how it seizes
a woman
with reference to me, I cannot make
sure
Whether I have avoided the danger.
This is
tragical and, in a certain sense, even
profoundly
tragical, even if no one is concerned
about
it, or if no one is concerned about
the bitter
contradiction for one who thinks-that
a something
exists which everywhere exercises its
power
and yet is not to be definitely conceived
by thought and which, perhaps, may
attack
from the rear him who in vain seeks
to conceive
it. But as to the tragic side of the
matter
it has its deep reason in the comic
aspects
just pointed out. Possibly, every other
person
will turn all this upside down and
not find
that to be comical which I do, but
rather
that which I conceive to be tragical;
but
this too proves that I am right to
a certain
extent. And that for which, if so happens,
I become either a tragic or comic victim
is plain enough, viz., my desire to
reflect
about all I do, and not imagine I am
reflecting
about life by dismissing its every
important
circumstance with an "I don't
care,
either way."
Man has both a soul and a body. About
this
the wisest and best of the race are
agreed.
Now, in case one assumes the essence
of love
to lie in the relation between man
and woman,
the comic aspect will show again in
the face-about
which is seen when the highest spiritual
values express themselves in the most
sensual
terms. I am now referring to all those
extraordinary
and mystic signals of lovein short,
to all
the free-masonry which forms a continuation
of the above-mentioned inexplicable
something.
The contradiction in which love here
involves
a person lies in the fact that the
symbolic
signs mean nothing at all orwhich amounts
to the samethat no one is able to explain
what they do signify. Two loving souls
vow
that they will love each the other
in all
eternity; thereupon they embrace, and
with
a kiss they seal this eternal pact.
Now I
ask any thinking person whether he
would
have hit upon that! And thus there
is constant
shifting from the one to the other
extreme
in love. The most spiritual is expressed
by its very opposite, and the sensual
is
to signify the most spiritual. Let
me assume
I am in love. In that case I would
conceive
it to be of the utmost importance to
me that
the one I love belonged to me for all
time.
This I comprehend; for I am now, really,
speaking only of Greek eroticism which
has
to do with loving beautiful souls.
Now when
the person I love had vowed to return
my
love I would believe her or, in as
far as
there remained any doubt in me, try
to combat
my doubt. But what happens actually?
For
if I were in love I would, probably,
behave
like all the others, that is, seek
to obtain
still some other assurance than merely
to
believe her I love; which, though,
is plainly
the only assurance to *had.
When Cockatoo18 all at once begins
to plume
himself like a duck which is gorged
with
food, and then emits the word "Marian,"
everybody will laugh, and so will I..
I suppose
the spectator finds it comical that
Cockatoo,
who doesn't love Marian at all, should
be
on such intimate terms with her. But
suppose,
now, that Cockatoo does love Marian.
Would
that be comical still? To me it would;
and
the comical would seem to me to lie
in love's
having become capable of being expressed
in such fashion. Whether now this has
been
the custom since the beginning of the
world
makes no difference whatsoever, for
the comical
has the prescriptive right from all
eternity
to be present in contradictionsand
here is
a contradiction. There is really nothing
comisal in the antics of a manikin
since
we see some one pulling the strings.
But
to be a manikin at the beck of something
inexplicable is indeed comical, for
the contradiction
lies in our not seeing any sensible
reason
why one should have to twitch now this
leg
and now that. Hence, if I cannot explain
what I am doing, I do not care to do
it;
and if I cannot understand the power
into
whose sphere I am venturing, I do not
care
to surrender myself to that power.
And if
love is so mysterious a law which binds
together
the extremest contradictions, then
who will
guarantee that I might not, one day,
become
altogether confused? Still, that does
not
concern me so much.
Again, I have heard that some lovers
consider
the behavior of other lovers ridiculous.
I cannot conceive how this ridicule
is justified,
for if this law of love be a natural
law,
then all lovers are subject to it;
but if
it be the law of their own choice,
then those
laughing lovers ought to be able to
explain
all about love; which, however, they
are
unable to do. But in this respect I
understand
this matter better as it seems a convention
for one lover to laugh at the other
because
he always finds the other lover ridiculous,
but not himself. If it be ridiculous
to kiss
an ugly girl, it is also ridiculous
to kiss
a pretty one; and the notion that doing
this
in some particular way should entitle
one
to cast ridicule on another who does
it differently,
is but presumptuousness and a conspiracy
which does not, for all that, exempt
such
a snob from laying himself open to
the ridicule
which invariably results from the fact
that
no one is able to explain what this
act of
kissing signifies, whereas it is to
signify
allto signify, indeed, that the lovers
desire
to belong to each other in all eternity;
aye, what is still more amusing, to
render
them certain that they will. Now, if
a man
should suddenly lay his head on one
side,
or shake it, or kick out with his leg
and,
upon my asking him why he did this,
should
answer "To be sure I don't know,
myself,
I just happened to do so, next time
I may
do something different, for I did it
unconsciously"ah,
then I would understand him quite well.
But
if he said, as the lovers say about
their
antics, that all bliss lay therein,
how could
I help finding it ridiculousjust as
I thought
that other man's motions ridiculous,
to be
sure in a different sense until he
restrained
my laughter by declaring that they
did not
signify anything. For by doing so he
removed
the contradiction which is the basic
cause
of the comical. It is not at all comical
that the insignificant is declared
to signify
nothing, but it is very much so if
it be
asserted to signify all.
As regards involuntary actions, the
contradiction
arises at the very outset because involuntary
actions are not looked for in a free
rational
being. Thus if one supposed that the
Pope
had a coughing spell the very moment
he was
to place the crown on Napoleon's head;
or
that bride and groom, in the most solemn
moment of the wedding ceremony should
fall
to sneezing-these would be examples
of the
comical, That is, the more a given
action
accentuates the free rational being,
the
more comical are involuntary actions.
This
holds true also in respect of the erotic
gesticulations, where the comical element
appears a second time, owing to the
circumstance
that the lovers attempt to explain
away the
contradiction by attributing to their
gesticulations
an absolute value. As is well known,
children
have a keen sense of the ridiculouswitness
children's testimony which can always
be
relied on in this regard. Now as a
rule children
, will laugh at lovers, and if one
makes
them tell what they have seen, surely
no
one can help laughing. This is, perhaps,
due to the fact that children omit
the point.
Very strange! When the Jew omitted
the point
no one cared to laugh. Here, on the
contrary,
every one laughs because the point
is omitted;
since, however, no one can explain
what the
point iswhy, then there is no point
at all.
So the lovers explain nothing; and
those
who praise love explain nothing but
are merely
intent onas one is bidden in the Royal
Laws
of Denmarkon saying anent it all which
may
be pleasant and of good report. But
a man
who thinks, desires to have his logical
categories
in good order; and he who thinks about
love
wishes to be sure about his categories
also
in this matter. The fact is, though,
that
people do not think about love, and
a "pastoral
science" is still lacking; for
even
if a poet in a pastoral poem makes
an attempt
to show how love is born, everything
is smuggled
in again by help of another person
who teaches
the lovers how to love!
As we saw, the comical element in love
arose
from the face-about whereby the highest
quality
of one sphere does not find expression
in
that sphere but in the exactly opposite
quality
of another sphere. It is comical that
the
soaring flight of love-the desire to
belong
to each other for all timelands ever,
like
Saft, 19 in the pantry; but still more
comical
is it that this conclusion is said
to constitute
love's highest expression.
Wherever there is a contradiction,
there
the comical element is present also.
I am
ever following that track. If it be
disconcerting
to you, dear fellow banqueters, to
follow
me in what I shall have to say now,
then
follow me with averted countenances.
I myself
am speaking as if with veiled eyes;
for as
I see only the mystery in these matters,
why, I cannot see, or I see nothing.
What is a consequence? If it cannot,
in some
way or other, be brought under the
same head
as its antecedent why, then it would
be ridiculous
if it posed as a consequence. To illustrate:
if a man who wanted to take a bath
jumped
into the tank and, coming to the surface
again somewhat confused, groped for
the rope
to hold on to, but caught the douche-line
by mistake, and a shower now descended
on
him with sufficient motivation and
for excellent
good reasonwhy, then the consequence
would
be entirely in order. The ridiculous
here
consisted in his seizing the wrong
rope;
but there is nothing ridiculous in
the shower
descending when one pulls the proper
rope.
Rather, it would be ridiculous if it
did
not come; as for example, just to show
the
correctness of my contention about
contradictions,
if a man nerved himself with bold resolution
in order to withstand the shock and,
in the
enthusiasm of his decision, with a
stout
heart pulled the line-and the shower
did
not come.
Let us see now how it is with regard
to love.
The lovers wish to belong to each other
for
all time, and this they express, curiously,
by embracing each other with all the
intensity
of the moment; and all the bliss of
love
is said to reside therein. But all
desire
is egotistic. Now, to be sure, the
lover's
desire is not egotistic in respect
of the
one he loves, but the desire of both
in conjunction
is absolutely egotistic in so far as
they
in their union and love represent a
new ego.
And yet they are deceived; for in the
same
moment the race triumphs over the individual,
the race is victorious, and the individuals
are debased to do its bidding.
Now this I find more ridiculous than
what
Aristophanes thought so ridiculous.
The ridiculous
aspect of his theory of bi-section
lies in
the inherent contradiction (which theancient
author does not sufficiently emphasize,
however).
In considering a person one naturally
supposes
him to be an entity, and so one does
believe
till it becomes apparent that, under
the
obsession of love, he is but a half
which
runs about looking for its complement.
There
is nothing ridiculous in half an apple.
The
comical would appear if a whole apple
turned
out to be only half an apple. In thefirst
case there exists no contradiction,
but certainly
in the latter. If one actually based
one's
reasoning on the figure of speech that
woman
is but half a person she would not
be ridiculous
at all in her love. Man, however, who
has
been enjoying civic rights as a whole
person,
will certainly appear ridiculous when
he
takes to running about (and looking
for his
other half);20 for he betrays thereby
that
he is but half a person. In fact, the
more
one thinks about the matter the more
ridiculous
it seems; because if man really be
a whole,
why, then he will not become a whole
in love,
but he and woman would make up one
and a
half. No wonder, then, that the gods
laugh,
and particularly at man.
But let me return to my consequence.
When
the lovers have found each other, one
should
certainly believe that they formed
a whole,
and in this should lie the proof of
their
assertion that they wished to live
for each
other for all time. But lo! instead
of living
for each other they begin to live for
the
race, and this they do not even suspect.
What is a consequence? If, as I observed,
one cannot detect in it the cause out
of
which it proceeded, the consequence
is merely
ridiculous, and he becomes a laughing
stock
to whom this happens. Now, the fact
that
the separated halves have found each
other
ought to be a complete satisfaction
and rest
for them; and yet the consequence is
a new
existence. That having found each other
should
mean a new existence for the lovers,
is comprehensible
enough; but not, that a new existence
for
a third being should take its inception
from
this fact. And yet the resulting consequence
is greater than that of which it is
the consequence,
whereas such an end as the lovers'
finding
each other ought to be infallible evidence
of no other, subsequent, consequence
being
thinkable.
Does the satisfaction of any other
desire
show an analogy to this consequence?
Quite
on the contrary, the satisfaction of
desire
is in every other case evinced by a
period
of rest; and even if a tristitia21
does superveneindicating
by the way, that every satisfaction
of an
appetite is comicalthis tristitia is
a straightforward
consequence, though no tristitia so
eloquently
attests a preceding comical element
as does
that following love. It is quite another
matter with an enormous consequence
such
as we are dealing with, a consequence
of
which no one knows whence it comes,
nor whether
it will come; whereas, if it does come,
it
comes as a consequence.
Who is able to grasp this? And yet
that which
for the initiates of love constitutes
the
greatest pleasure is also the most
important
thing for themso important that they
even
adopt new names, derived from the consequence
thereof which thus, curiously enough,
assumes
retroactive force, The lover is now
called
father, his sweetheart, mother; and
these
names seem to them the most beautiful.
And
yet there is a being to whom these
names
are even more beautiful; for what is
as beautiful
as filial piety? To me it seems the
most
beautiful of all sentiments; and fortunately
I can appreciate the thought underlying
it.
We are taught that it is seeming in
a son
to love his father. This I comprehend,
I
cannot even suspect that there is any
contradiction
possible here, and I acknowledge infinite
satisfaction in being held by the loving
bonds of filial piety. I believe it
is the
greatest debt of all to owe another
being
one's life. I believe that this debt
cannot
ever be wiped out, or even fathomed
by any
calculation, and for this reason I
agree
with Cicero when he asserts that the
son
is always in the wrong as against his
father;
and it is precisely filial piety which
teaches
me to believe this, teaches me not
even to
penetrate the hidden, but rather to
remain
hidden in the father. Quite true, I
am glad
to be another person's greatest debtor;
but
as to the opposite, viz., before deciding
to make another person my greatest
debtor,
I want to arrive at greater clarity.
For
to my conception there is a world of
difference
between being some person's debtor,
and making
some person one's debtor to such an
extent
that he will never be able to clear
himself.
What filial piety forbids the son to
consider,
love bids the father to consider. And
here
contradiction sets in again. If the
son has
an immortal soul like his father, what
does
it mean, then, to be a father? For
must I
not smile at myself when thinking of
myself
as a fatherwhereas the son is most
deeply
moved when he reflects on the relation
he
bears to his father? Very well do I
understand
Plato when he says that an animal will
give
birth to an animal of the same species,
a
plant, to a plant of the same species,
and
thus also man to man .22 But this explains
nothing, does not satisfy one's thought,
and arouses but a dim feeling; for
an immortal
soul cannot be born. Whenever, then,
a father
considers his son in the light of his
son's
immortalitywhich is, indeed, the essential
consideration23he will probably smile
at
himself, for he cannot, by any means,
grasp
in their entirety all the beautiful
and noble
thoughts which his son with filial
piety
entertains about him. If, on the other
hand,
he considers his son from the point
of view
of his animal nature he must smile
again,
because the conception of fatherhood
is too
exalted an expression for it.
Finally, if it were thinkable that
a father
influenced his son in such fashion
that his
own nature was a condition from which
the
son's nature could not free itself,
then
the contradiction would arise in another
direction; for in this case nothing
more
terrible is thinkable than being a
father.
There is no comparison between killing
a
person and giving him lifethe former
decides
his fate only in time, the other for
all
eternity. So there is a contradiction
again,
and one both to laugh and to weep about.
Is paternity then an illusioneven if
not
in the same sense as is implied in
Magdelone's
speech to Jeronymus24or is it the most
terrible
thought imaginable? Is it the greatest
benefit
conferred on one, or is it the sweetest
gratification
of one's desireis it something which
just
happens, or is it the greatest task
of life
?
Look you, for this reason have I forsworn
all love, for my thought is to me the
most
essential consideration. So even if
love
be the most exquisite joy, I renounce
it,
without wishing either to offend or
to envy
any one; and even if love be the condition
for conferring the greatest benefit
imaginable
I deny myself the opportunity thereforbut
my thought I have not prostituted.
By no
means do I lack an eye for what is
beautiful,
by no means does my heart remain unmoved
when I read the songs of the poets,
by no
means is my soul without sadness when
it
yields to the beautiful conception
of love;
but I do not wish to becorne unfaithful
to
my thought. And of what avail were
it to
be, for there is no happiness possible
for
me except my thought have free sway.
If it
had not, I would in desperation yearn
for
my thought, which I may not desert
to cleave
to a wife, for it is my immortal part
and,
hence, of more importance than a wife.
Well
do I comprehend that if any thing is
sacred
it is love; that if faithlessness in
any
relation is base, it is doubly so in
love;
that if any deceit is detestable, it
is tenfold
more detestable in love. But my soul
is innocent
of blame. I have never looked at any
woman
to desire her, neither have I fluttered
about
aimlessly before blindly plunging,
or lapsing,
into the most decisive of all relations.
If I knew what the lovable were I would
know
with certainty whether I had offended
by
tempting any one; but since I do not
know,
I am certain only of never having had
the
conscious desire to do so.
Supposing I should yield to love and
be made
to laugh; or supposing I should be
cast down
by terror, since I cannot find the
narrow
path which lovers travel as easily
as if
it were the broad highway, undisturbed
by
any doubts, which they surely have
bestowed
thought on (seeing our times have,
indeed,
reflected about all25 and consequently
will
comprehend me when I assert that to
act unreflectingly
is nonsense, as one ought to have gone
through
all possible reflections before acting)supposing,
I say, 1 should yield to love! Would
I not
insult past redress my beloved one
if I laughed;
or irrevocably plunge her into despair
if
I were overwhelmed by terror? For I
understand
well enough that a woman cannot be
expected
to have thought as profoundly about
these
matters; and a woman who found love
comical
(as but gods and men can, for which
reason
woman is a temptation luring them to
become
ridiculous) would both betray a suspicious
amount of previous experience and understand
me least. But a woman who comprehended
the
terror of love would have lost her
loveliness
and still fail to understand meshe
would
be annihilated; which is in nowise
my case,
so long as my thought saves me.
Is there no one ready to laugh? When
I began
by wanting to speak about the comical
element
in love you perhaps, expected to be
made
to laugh, for it is easy to make you
laugh,
and I myself am a friend of laughter;
and
still you did not laugh, I believe.
The effect
of my speech was a different one, and
yet
precisely this proves that I have spoken
about the comical. If there be no one
who
laughs at my speechwell, then laugh
a little
at me, dear fellow-banqueters, and
I shall
not wonder; for I do not understand
what
I have occasionally heard you say about
love.
Very probably, though, you are among
the
initiated as I am not.
Thereupon the Young Person seated himself.
He had become more beautiful, almost,
than
before the meal. Now. he sat quietly,
looking
down before him, unconcerned about
the others.
John the Seducer desired at once to
urge
some objections against the Young Person's
speech but was interrupted by Constantin
who warned against discussions and
ruled
that on this occasion only speeches
were
in order. John said if that was the
case,
he would stipulate that he should be
allowed
to be the last speaker. This again
gave rise
to a discussion as to the order in
which
they were to speak, which Constantin
closed
by offering to speak forth with, against
their recognizing his authority to
appoint
the speakers in their turn.
(Constantin's Speech)
Constantin spoke as follows:
There is a time to keep silence, and
a time
to speak, 26 and now it seems to be
the time
to speak briefly, for our young friend
has
spoken much and very strangely. His
vis comica27
has made us struggle ancipiti proelio28
because
his speech was full of doubts, as he
himself
is, sitting there nowa perplexed man
who
knows not whether to laugh, or weep,
or fall
in love. In fact, had I had foreknowledge
of his speech, such as he demands one
should
have of love, I should have forbidden
him
to speak; but now it is too late. I
shall
bid you then, dear fellow-banqueters,
"gladsome
and merry to be," and even if
I cannot
enforce this I shall ask you to forget
each
speech so soon as it is made and to
wash
it down with a single draught.
And now as to woman, about whom I shall
speak.
I too have pondered about her, and
I have
finally discovered the category to
which
she belongs. I too have sought, but
I have
found, too, and I have made a matchless
discovery
which I shall now communicate to you.
Woman
is understood correctly only when placed
in the category of "the joke."
It is man's function to be absolute,
to act
in an absolute fashion, or to give
expression
to the absolute. Woman's sphere lies
in her
relativity. 29 Between beings so radically
different, no true reciprocal relation
can
exist. Precisely in this incommensurability
lies the joke. And with woman the joke
was
born into the world. It is to be understood,
however, that man must know how to
stick
to his role of being absolute; for
else nothing
is seenthat is to say, something exceedingly
common is seen, viz., that man and
woman
fit each other, he as a half man and
she
as a halfman.
The joke is not an æsthetic, but an
abortive
ethical, category. Its effect on thought
is about the same as the impression
we receive
if a man were solemnly to begin making
a
speech, recite a comma or two with
his pronouncement,
then say "hm!"–dash"–and
then
stop. Thus with woman. One tries to
cover
her with the ethical category, one
thinks
of human nature, one opens one's eyes,
one
fastens one's glances on the most excellent
maiden in question, an effort is made
to
redeem the claims of the ethical demand;
and then one grows ill at ease and
says to
one's self: ah, this is undoubtedly
a joke!
The joke lies, indeed, in applying
that category
to her and measuring her by it, because
it
would be idle to expect serious results
from
her; but just that is the joke. Because
if
one could demand it of her it would
not be
a joke at all. A mighty poor joke indeed
it would be, to place her under the
air-pump
and draw the air out of her–indeed
it were
a shame; but to blow her up to supernatural
size and let her imagine herself to
have
attained all the ideality which a little
maiden of sixteen imagines she has,
that
is the beginning of the game and, indeed,
the beginning of a highly entertaining
performance.
No youth has half so much imaginary
ideality
as a young girl, but: "We shall
soon
be even" as says the tailor in
the proverb;
for her ideality is but an illusion.
If one fails to consider woman from
this
point of view she may cause irreparable
harm;
but through my conception of her she
becomes
harmless and amusing. For a man there
is
nothing more shocking than to catch
himself
twaddling. It destroys all true ideality;
for one may repent of having been a
rascal,
and one may feel sorry for not having
meant
a word of what one said; but to have
talked
nonsense, sheer nonsense, to have meant
all
one said and behold! it was all nonsense–that
is too disgusting for repentance incarnate
to put up with. But this is not the
case
with woman. She has a prescriptive
right
to transfigure herself-in less than
24 hours–in
the most innocent and pardonable nonsense;
for far is it from her ingenuous soul
to
wish to deceive one! indeed, she meant
all
she said, and now she says the precise
opposite,
but with the same amiable frankness,
for
now she is willing to stake everything
on
what she said last. Now in case a man
in
all seriousness surrenders to love
he may
be called fortunate indeed if he succeeds
in obtaining an insurance–if, indeed,
he
is able to obtain it anywhere; for
so inflammable
a material as woman is most likely
to arouse
the suspicions of an insurance agent.
Just
consider for a moment what he has done
in
thus identifying himself with her!
If, some
fine New Year's night she goes off
like some
fireworks he will promptly follow suit;
and
even if this should not happen he will
have
many a close call. And what may he
not lose!
He may lose his all; for there is but
one
absolute antithesis to the absolute,
and
that is nonsense. Therefore, let him
not
seek refuge in some society for morally
tainted
individuals, for he is not morally
tainted—far
from it; only, he has been reduced
in absurdum
and beatified in nonsense; that is,
has been
made a fool of.
This will never happen among men. If
a man
should sputter off in this fashion
I would
scorn him. If he should fool me by
his cleverness
I need but apply the ethical category
to
him, and the danger is trifling. If
things
go too far I shall put a bullet through
his
brain; but to challenge a woman-what
is that,
if you please? Who does not see that
it is
a joke, just as when Xerxes had the
sea whipped?
When Othello murders Desdemona, granting
she really had been guilty, he has
gained
nothing, for he has been duped, and
a dupe
he remains; for even by his murdering
her
he only makes a concession with regard
to
a consequence which originally made
him ridiculous;
whereas Elvira30 may be an altogether
pathetic
figure when arming herself with a dagger
to obtain revenge. The fact that Shakespeare
has conceived Othello as a tragic figure
(even disregarding the calamity that
Desdemona
is innocent) is to be explained and,
indeed,
to perfect satisfaction, by the hero
being
a colored person. For a colored person,
dear
fellow-banqueters, who cannot be assumed
to represent spiritual qualities—a
colored
person, I say, who therefore becomes
green
in his face when his ire is aroused
(which is a physiological fact), a
colored
man may, indeed, become tragic if he
is deceived
by a woman; just as a woman has all
the pathos
of tragedy on her side when she is
betrayed
by a man. A man who flies into a rage
may
perhaps become tragic; but a man of
whom
one may expect a developed mentality,
he
either not become jealous, or he will
become
ridiculous if does; and most of all
when
he comes running with a dagger in his
hand.
A Pity that Shakespeare has not presented
us with a comedy of this description
in which
the claim raised by a woman's infidelity
is turned down by irony; for not every
one
who is able to see the comical element
in
this situation is able also to develop
the
thought and give it dramatic embodiment.
Let one but imagine Socrates surprising
Xanthippe
in the act—for it would be un-Socratic
even
to think of Socrates being particularly
concerned
about his wife's infidelity, or still
worse,
spying on her—imagine it, and I believe
that
the fine smile which transformed the
ugliest
man in Athens into the handsomest,
would
for the first time have turned into
a roar
of laughter. It is incomprehensible
why Aristophanes,
who so frequently made Socrates the
butt
of his ridicule, neglected to have
him run
on the stage shouting: "Where
is she,
where is she, so that I may kill her,
i.
e., my unfaithful Xanthippe."
For really
it does not matter greatly whether
or no
Socrates was made a cuckold, and all
that
Xanthippe may do in this regard is
wasted
labor, like snapping one's fingers
in one's
pocket; for Socrates remains the same
intellectual
hero, even with a horn on his forehead.
But
if he had in fact become jealous and
had
wanted to kill Xanthippe—alas! then
would
Xanthippe have exerted a power over
him such
as the entire Greek nation and his
sentence
of death could not—to make him ridiculous.
A cuckold is comical, then, with respect
to his wife; but he may be regarded
as becoming
tragical with respect to other men.
In this
fact we may find an explanation of
the Spanish
conception of honor. But the tragic
element
resides chiefly in his not being able
to
obtain redress, and the anguish of
his suffering
consists really in its being devoid
of meaning—which
is terrible enough. To shoot the woman,
to
challenge her, to despise her, all
this would
only serve to render the poor man still
more
ridiculous; for woman is the weaker
sex.
This consideration enters in everywhere
and
confuses all. If she performs a great
deed
she is admired more than man, because
it
is more than was expected of her. If
she
is betrayed, all the pathos is on her
side;
but if a man is deceived one has scant
sympathy
and little patience while he is present—and
laughs at him whell his back is turned.
Look you, therefore is it advisable
betimes
to consider woman as a joke. The entertainment
she affords is simply incomparable.
Let one
consider her a fixed quantity, and
one's
self a relative one; let one by no
means
contradict her, for that would simply
be
helping her; let one never doubt what
she
says but, rather, believe her every
word;
let one gallivant about her, with eyes
rendered
unsteady unspeakable admiration and
blissful
intoxication, and with the mincing
steps
of a worshipper; let one languishingly
fall
on one's knees, then lift up one's
eyes up
to her languishingly and heave a breath
again;
let one do all she bids one, like an
obedient
slave. And now comes the cream of the
joke.
We need no proof that woman can speak,
i.
e., use words. Unfortunately, however,
she
does not possess sufficient reflection
for
making sure against her in the long
run—which
is, at most, eight days—contradicting
herself;
unless indeed man, by contradicting
her,
exerts a regulative influence. So the
consequence
is that within a short time confusion
will
reign supreme. If one had not done
what she
told one to, the confusion would pass
unnoticed;
for she forgets again as quickly as
she talks.
But since her admirer has done all,
and has
been at her beck and call in every
instance,
the confusion is only too glaring.
The more gifted the woman, the more
amusing
the situation. For the more gifted
she is,
the more imagination she will possess.
Now,
the more imagination she possesses,
the greater
airs she will give herself and the
greater
the confusion which is bound to become
evident
in the next instant. In life, such
entertainment
is rarely had, because this blind obedience
to a woman's whims occurs but seldom.
And
if it does, in some languishing swain,
most
likely he is not qualified to see the
fun.
The fact is, the ideality a little
maiden
assumes in moments when her imagination
is
at work is encountered nowhere else,
whether
in gods or man; but it is all the more
entertaining
to believe her and to add fuel to the
fire.
As I remarked, the fun is simply incomparable—indeed,
I know it for a fact, because I have
at times
not been able to sleep at night with
the
mere thought of what new confusions
I should
live to see, through the agency of
my sweetheart
and my humble zeal to please her. Indeed,
no one who gambles in a lottery will
meet
with more remarkable combinations than
he
who has a passion for this game. For
this
is sure, that every woman without exception
possesses the same qualifications for
being
resolved and transfigured in nonsense
with
a gracefulness, a nonchalance, an assurance
such as befits the weaker sex.
Being a right-minded lover one naturally
discovers every possible charm in one's
beloved.
Now, when discovering genius in the
above
sense, one ought not to let it remain
a mere
possibility but ought, rather, to develop
it into virtuosity. I do not need to
be more
specific, and more cannot be said in
a general
way, yet every one will understand
me. Just
as one may find entertainment in balancing
a cane on one's nose, in swinging a
tumbler
in a circle without spilling a drop,
in dancing
between eggs, and in other games as
amusing
and profitable, likewise, and not otherwise,
in living with his beloved the lover
will
have a source of incomparable entertainment
and food for most interesting study.
In matters
pertaining to love let one have absolute
belief, not only in her protestations
of
fidelity—one soon tires of that game—but
in all those explosions of inviolable
Romanticism
by which she would probably perish
if one
did not contrive a safety-valve through
which
the sighs and the smoke, and "the
aria
of Romanticism31" may escape and
make
her worshipper happy. Let one compare
her
admiringly to Juliet, the difference
being
only that no person ever as much as
thought
of touching a hair on her Romeo's head.
With
regard to intellectual matters, let
one hold
her capable of all and, if one has
been lucky
enough to find the right woman, in
a trice
one will have a cantankerous authoress,
whilst
wonderingly shading one's eyes with
one's
hand and duly admiring what the little
black
hen may yield besides. 32 It is altogether
incomprehensible why Socrates did not
choose
this course of action instead of bickering
with Xanthippe—oh, well! to be sure
he wished
to acquire practice, like the riding
master
who, even though he has the best trained
horse, yet knows how to tease him in
such
fashion that there is good reason for
breaking
him in again."33
Let me be a little more concrete, in
order
to illustrate a particular and highly
interesting
phenomenon. A great deal has been said
about
feminine fidelity, but rarely with
any discretion.
34 From a purely æsthetic point of
view this
fidelity is to be regarded as a piece
of
poetic fiction which steps on the stage
to
find her lover—a fiction which sits
by the
spinning wheel and waits for her lover
to
come; but when she has found him, or
he has
come, why, then æsthetics is at a loss.
Her
infidelity, on the other hand, as contrasted
with her previous fidelity, is to be
judged
chiefly with regard to its ethical
import,
when jealousy will appear as a tragic
passion.
There are three possibilities, so the
case
is favorable for woman; for there are
two
cases of fidelity, as against one of
infidelity.
Inconceivably great is her fidelity
when
she is not altogether sure of her cavalier;
and ever so inconceivably great is
it when
he repels her fidelity. The third case
would
be her infidelity. Now granted one
has sufficient
intellect and objectivity to make reflections,
one will find sufficient justification,
in
what has been said, for my category
of "the
joke." Our young friend whose
beginning
in a manner deceived me seemed to be
on the
point of entering into this matter,
but backed
out again, dismayed at the difficulty.
And
yet the explanation is not difficult,
providing
one really sets about it seriously,
to make
unrequited love and death correspond
to one
another, and providing one is serious
enough
to stick to his thought—and so much
seriousness
one ought to have—for sake of the joke.
Of course this phrase of unrequited
love
being death originated either with
a woman
or a womanish male. Its origin is easily
made out, seeing that it is one of
those
categorical outbursts which, spoken
with
great bravado, on the spur of the moment,
may count on a great and immediate
applause;
for although this business is said
to be
a matter of life and death, yet the
phrase
is meant for immediate consumption—like
cream-puffs.
Although referring to daily experience
it
by no means binding on him who is to
die,
but only obliges the listener to rush
post-haste
to the assistance of the dying lover.
If
a man should take to using such phrases
it
would not be amusing at all, for he
would
be too despicable to laugh at. Woman,
however,
possesses genius, is lovable in the
measure
she possesses it, and is amusing at
all times.
Well, then, the languishing lady dies
of
love—why certainly, for did she not
say so
herself? In this matter she is pathetic,
for woman has enough courage to say
what
no man would have the courage to do—so
then
she dies! In saying so I have measured
her
by ethical standards. Do ye likewise,
dear
fellow-banqueters, and understand your
Aristotle
aright, now! He observes very correctly
that
woman cannot be used in tragedy. 35
And very
certainly, her proper sphere is the
pathetic
and serious divertissement, the half-hour
face, not the five-act drama. So then
she
dies. But should she for that reason
not
be able to love again? Why not?—that
is,
if it be possible to restore her to
life.
Now, having been restored to life,
she is
of course a new being—another person,
that
is, and begins afresh and falls in
love for
the first time: nothing remarkable
in that!
Ah, death, great is thy power; not
the most
violent emetic and not the most powerful
laxative could ever have the same purging
effect!
The resulting confusion is capital,
if one
but is attentive and does not forget.
A dead
man is one of the most amusing characters
to be met with in life. Strange that
more
use is not made of him on the stage,
for
in life he is seen, now and then. When
you
come to think of it, even one who has
only
been seemingly dead is a comical figure;
but one who was really dead certainly
contributes
to our entertainment all one can reasonably
expect of a man. All depends on whether
one
is attentive. I myself had my attention
called
to it, one day, as I was walking with
one
of my acquaintances. A couple passed
us.
I judged from the expression on his
face
that he knew them and asked whether
that
was the case. "Why, yes,"
he answered,
"I know them very well, and especially
the lady, for she is my departed one."—"What
departed one?" I asked.—"Why,
my
departed first love," he answered.
"Indeed,
this is a strange affair. She said:
I shall
die. And that very same moment she
departed,
naturally enough, by death—else one
might
have insured her beforehand in the
widow's
insurance. Too late! Dead she was and
dead
she remained; and now I wander about,
as
says the poet, vainly seeking the grave
of
my lady-love that I may shed my tears
thereon."
Thus this broken-hearted man who remained
alone in the world, though it consoled
him
to find her pretty far along with some
other
man.
It is a good thing for the girls, thought
I, that they don't have to be buried,
every
time they die; for if parents have
hitherto
considered a boy-child to be the more
expensive,
the girls might become even more so!
A simple ease of infidelity is not
as amusing,
by far. I mean, if a girl should fall
in
love with some one else and should
say to
her lover: "I cannot help it,
save me
from myself!" But to die from
sorrow
because she cannot endure being separated
from her lover by his journey to the
West
Indies, to have put up with his departure,
however, and then, at his return, be
not
only not dead, but attached to some
one else
for all time—that certainly is a strange
fate for a lover to undergo. No wonder,
then,
that the heart-broken man at times
consoled
himself with the burthen of an old
song which
runs: "Hurrah for you and me,
I say,
we never shall forget that day!"
Now forgive me, dear fellow-banqueters,
if
I have spoken at too great length;
and empty
a glass to love and to woman. Beautiful
she
is and lovely, if she be considered
æsthetically.
That is undeniable. But, as has often
been
said, and as I shall say also: one
ought
not to remain standing here, but should
go
on. 36 Consider her, then, ethically
and
you will hardly have begun to do so
before
the humor of it will become apparent.
Even
Plato and Aristotle assume that woman
is
an imperfect form, an irrational quantity,
that is, one which might some time,
in a
better world, be transformed into a
man.
In this life one must take her as she
is.
And what this is becomes apparent very
soon;
for she will not be content with the
æsthetic
sphere, but goes on, she wants to become
emancipated, and she has the courage
to say
so. Let her wish be fulfilled and the
amusement
will be simply incomparable.
When Constantin had finished speaking
he
forthwith ruled Victor Eremita to begin.
He spoke as follows:
(Victor Eremita's Speech)
As will be remembered, Plato offers
thanks
to the gods for four things. In the
fourth
place he is grateful for having been
permitted
to be a contemporary of Socrates. For
the
three other boons mentioned by him,
37 an
earlier Greek philosopher38 had already
thanked
the gods, and so I conclude that they
are
worthy our gratitude. But alas!—even
if I
wanted to express my gratitude like
these
Greeks I would not be able to do so
for what
was denied me. Let me then collect
my soul
in gratitude for the one good which
was conferred
on me also—that I was made a man and
not
a woman.
To be a woman is something so curious,
so
heterogeneous and composite that no
predicate
will fully express these qualities;
and if
I should use many predicates they would
contradict
one another in such fashion that only
a woman
would be able to tolerate the result
and,
what is worse, feel happy about it.
The fact
that she really signifies less than
man—that
is not her misfortune, and still less
so
if she got to know it, for it might
be borne
with fortitude. No, her misfortune
consists
in her life's having become devoid
of fixed
meaning through a romantic conception
of
things, by virtue of which, now she
signifies
all, and now, nothing at all; without
ever
finding out what she really does signify
and even that is not her misfortune
but,
rather, the fact that, being a woman,
she
never will be able to find out. As
for myself,
if I were a woman, I should prefer
to be
one in the Orient and as a slave; for
to
be a slave, neither more nor less is
at any
rate something, in comparison with
being,
now heyday, now nothing.
Even if a woman's life did not contain
such
contrasts, the distinction she enjoys,
and
which is rightly assumed to be hers
as a
woman—a distinction she does not share
with
man—would by itself point to the meaninglessness
of her life. The distinction I refer
to is
that of gallantry. To be gallant to
woman
is becoming in men. Now gallantry consists
very simply in conceiving in fantastic
categories
that person to whom one is gallant.
To be
gallant to a man is, therefore, an
insult,
for he begs to be excused from the
application
of fantastic categories to him. For
the fair
sex, however, gallantry signifies a
tribute,
a distinction, which is essentially
its privilege.
Ah me, if only a single cavalier were
gallant
to them the case would not be so serious.
But far from it! At bottom every man
is gallant,
he is unconsciously so. This signifies,
therefore,
that it is life itself which has bestowed
this perquisite on the fair sex. Woman
on
her part unconsciously accepts it.
Here we
have the same trouble again; for if
only
a single woman did so, another explanation
would be necessary. This is life's
characteristic
irony.
Now if gallantry contained the truth
it ought
to be reciprocal, i. e., gallantry
would
be the accepted quotation for the stated
difference between beauty on the one
hand,
and power, astuteness, and strength,
on the
other. But this is not the case, gallantry
is essentially woman's due; and the
fact
that she unconsciously accepts it may
be
explained through the solicitude of
nature
for the weak and those created in a
stepmotherly
fashion by her, who feel more than
recompensed
by an illusion. But precisely this
illusion
is misfortune. It is not seldom the
case
that nature comes to the assistance
of an
afflicted creature by consoling him
with
the notion that he is the most beautiful.
If that is so, why, then we may say
that
nature made good the deficiency since
now
the creature is endowed with even more
than
could be reasonably demanded. But to
be beautiful
-only in one's imagination, and not
to be
overcome, indeed, by sadness, but to
be fooled
into an illusion—why, that is still
worse
mockery. Now, as to being afflicted,
woman
certainly is far from having been treated
in a stepmotherly fashion by nature;
still
she is so in another sense inasmuch
as she
never can free herself from the illusion
with which life has consoled her.
Gathering together one's impressions
of a
woman's existence, in order to point
out
its essential features, one is struck
by
the fact that every woman's life gives
one
an entirely phantastic impression.
In a far
more decisive sense than man she may
be said
to have turning points in her career;
for
her turning points turn everything
upside
down. In one of Tieck's39 Romantic
dramas
there occurs a person who, having once
been
king of Mesopotamia, now is a green-grocer
in Copenhagen. Exactly as fantastic
is every
feminine existence. If the girl's name
is
Juliana, her life is as follows: erstwhile
empress in the wide domains of love,
and
titulary queen of all the exaggerations
of
tomfoolery; now, Mrs. Peterson, corner
Bath
Street.
When a child, a girl is less highly
esteemed
than a boy. When a little older, one
does
not know exactly what to make of her.
At
last she enters that decisive period
in which
she holds absolute sway. Worshipfully
man
approaches her as a suitor. Worshipfully,
for so does every suitor, it is not
the scheme
of a crafty deceiver. Even the executioner,
when laying down his fasces to go a-wooing,
even he bends his knee, although he
is willing
to offer himself up, within a short
time,
to domestic executions which he finds
so
natural that he is far from seeking
any excuse
for them in the fact that public executions
have grown so few. The cultured person
behaves
in the very same manner. He kneels,
he worships,
he conceives his lady-love in the most
fantastic
categories; and then he very quickly
forgets
his kneeling position—in fact, he knew
full
well the while he knelt that it was
fantastic
to do so.
If I were a woman I would prefer to
be sold
by my father to the highest bidder,
as is
the custom in the Orient; for there
is at
least some sense in such a deal. What
misfortune
to have been born a womah! Yet her
misfortune
really consists in her not being able
to
comprehend it, being a woman. If she
does
complain, she complains rather about
her
Oriental, than her Occidental, status.
But
if I were a woman I would first of
all refuse
to be wooed, and resign myself to belong
to the weaker sex, if such is the case,
and
be careful—which is most important
if one
is proud—of not going beyond the truth.
However,
that is of but little concern to her.
Juliana
is in the seventh heaven, and Mrs.
Peterson
submits to her fate.
Let me, then, thank the gods that I
was born
a man and not a woman. And still, how
much
do I forego! For is not all poetry,
from
the drinking song to the tragedy, a
deification
of woman? All the worse for her and
for him
who admires her; for if he does not
look
out he will, all of a sudden, have
to pull
a long face. The beautiful, the excellent,
all of man's achievement, owes its
origin
to woman, for she inspires him. Woman
is,
indeed, the inspiring element in life.
How
many a love-lorn shepherd has played
on this
theme, and how many a shepherdess has
listened
to it! Verily, my soul is without envy
and
feels only gratitude to the gods; for
I would
rather be a man, though in humble station,
but really so, than be a woman and
an indeterminate
quantity, rendered happy by a delusion—I
would rather be a concrete thing, with
a
small but definite meaning, than an
abstraction
which is to mean all.
As I have said, it is through woman
that
ideality is born into the world and—what
were man without her! There is many
a man
who has become a genius through a woman,
many a one a hero, many a one a poet,
many
a one even a saint; but he did not
become
a genius through the woman he married,
for
through her he only became a privy
councillor;
he did not become a hero through the
woman
he married, for through her he only
became
a general; he did not become a poet
through
the woman he married, for through her
he
only became a father; he did not become
a
saint through the woman he married,
for he
did not marry, and would have married
but
one—the one whom he did not marry;
just as
the others became a genius, became
a hero,
became a poet through the help of the
woman
they did not marry. If woman's ideality
were
in itself inspiring, why, then the
inspiring
woman would be the one to whom a man
is united
for life. But life tells a different
story.
It is only by a negative relation to
her
that man is rendered productive in
his ideal
endeavors. In this sense she is inspiring;
but to say that she is inspiring, without
qualifying one's statement, is to be
guilty
of a paralogism40 which one must be
a woman
to overlook. Or has any one ever heard
of
any man having become a poet through
his
wife? So long as man does not possess
her
she inspires him. It is this truth
which
gives rise to the illusions entertained
in
poetry and by women. The fact that
he does
not possess her signifies, either,
that he
is still fighting for her—thus has
woman
inspired many a one and rendered him
a knight;
but has any one ever heard of any man
having
been rendered a knight valiant through
his
wife? Or, the fact that he does not
possess
her signifies that he cannot obtain
her by
any manner of means—thus has woman
inspired
many a one and roused his ideality;
that
is, if there is anything in him worth
while.
But a wife, who has things ever so
much worth
while for her husband, will hardly
arouse
any ideal strivings in him. Or, again,
the
fact that be does not possess her signifies
that he is pursuing an ideal. Perchance
he
loves many, but loving many is also
a kind
of unrequited love; and yet the ideality
of his soul is to be seen in this striving
and yearning, and not in the small
bits of
lovableness which make up the sum total
of
the contributions of all those he loves.
The highest ideality a woman can arouse
in
a man consists, in fact, in the awakening
within him of the consciousness of
immortality.
The point of this proof lies in what
one
might call the necessity of a reply.
Just
as one may remark about some play that
it
cannot end without this or that person
getting
in his say, likewise (says ideality)
our
existence cannot be all over with death:
I demand a reply! This proof is frequently
furnished, in a positive fashion, in
the
public advertiser. I hold that to be
entirely
proper, for if proof is to be made
in the
public advertiser it must be made in
a positive
fashion. Thus: Mrs. Petersen, we learn,
has
lived a number of years, until in the
night
of the 24th it pleased Providence,
etc. This
produces in Mr. Petersen an attack
of reminiscences
from his courting days or, to express
it
quite plainly, nothing but seeing her
again
will ever console him. For this blissful
meeting he prepare himself, in the
meanwhile,
by taking unto himself another wife;
for,
to be sure, this marriage is by no
means
as poetic as the first—still it is
a good
imitation. This is the proof positive.
Mr.
Petersen is not satisfied with demanding
a reply, no, he wants a meeting again
in
the hereafter.
As is well known, a base metal will
often
show the gleam of precious metal. This
is
the brief silver-gleam. With respect
to the
base metal this is a tragic moment,
for it
must once for all resign itself to
being
a base metal. Not so with Mr. Petersen.
The
possession of ideality is by rights
inherent
in every person—and now, if I laugh
at Mr.
Petersen it is not because he, being
in reality
of base metal, had but a single silver-gleam;
but, rather, because just this silver-gleam
betrays his having become a base metal.
Thus
does the philistine look most ridiculous
when, arrayed in ideality, he affords
fitting
occasion to say, with Holberg: What!
does
that cow wear a fine dress, too? 41
The case is this: whenever a woman
arouses
ideality in man, and thereby the consciousness
of immortality, she always does so
negatively.
He who really became a genius, hero,
a poet,
a saint through woman, he has by that
very
fact seized on the essence of immortality.
Now if the inspiring element were positively
present in woman, why, then a man's
wife,
and only his wife, ought to awaken
inthe
consciousness of immortality. But the
reverse
holds true. That is, if she is really
to
awaken ideality in husband she must
die.
Mr. Petersen, to be sure, is not affected,
for all that. But if woman, by her
death,
does awaken man's ideality, then is
she indeed
the cause of all the great things poetry
attributes to her; but note well: that
which
she did in a positive fashion for him
in
no wise roused his ideality. In fact,
her
significance in this regard becomes
the more
doubtful the longer she lives, because
she
will at length really begin to wish
to signify
something positive. However, the more
positive
the proof the less it proves; for then
Mr.
Petersen's longing will be for some
past
common experiences whose content was,
to
all intents and purposes, exhausted
when
they were had. Most positive of all
the proof
becomes if the object of his longing
concerns
their marital spooning—that time when
they
visited the Deer Park together! In
the same
way one might suddenly feel a longing
for
the old pair of slippers one used to
be so
comfortable in; but that proof is not
exactly
a proof for the immortality of the
soul.
On the other hand, the more negative
the
proof, the better it is; for the negative
is higher than the positive, inasmuch
as
it concerns our immortality, and is
thus
the only positive value.
Woman's main significance lies in her
negative
contribution, whereas her positive
contributions
are as nothing in comparison but, on
the
contrary, pernicious. It is this truth
which
life keeps from her, consoling her
with an
illusion which surpasses all that might
arise
in any man's brain, and with parental
care
ordering life in such fashion that
both language
and everything else confirm her in
her illusion.
For even if she be conceived as the
very
opposite of inspiring, and rather as
the
well-spring of all corruption; whether
now
we imagine that with her, sin came
into the
world, or that it is her infidelity
which
ruined all—our conception of her is
always
gallant. That is, when hearing such
opinions
one might readily assume that woman
were
really able to become infinitely more
culpable
than man, which would, indeed, amount
to
an immense acknowledgment of her powers.
Alas, alas! the case is entirely different.
There is a secret reading of this text
which
woman cannot comprehend; for, the very
next
moment, all life owns to the same conception
as the state, which makes man responsible
for his wife. One condemns her as man
never
is condemned (for only a real sentence
is
passed on him, and there the matter
ends),
not with her receiving a milder sentence;
for in that case not all of her life
would
be an illusion, but with the case against
her being dismissed and the public,
i. e.,
life, having to defray the costs. One
moment,
woman is supposed to be possessed of
all
possible wiles, the next moment, one
laughs
at him whom she deceived, which surely
is
a contradiction. Even such a case as
that
of Potiphar's wife does not preclude
the
possibility of her having really been
seduced.
Thus has woman an enormous possibility,
such
as no man has—an enormous possibility;
but
her reality is in proportion. And most
terrible
of all is the magic of illusion in
which
she feels herself happy.
Let Plato then thank the gods for having
been born a contemporary of Socrates:
I envy
him; let him offer thanks for being
a Greek:
I envy him; but when he is grateful
for having
been born a man and not a woman I join
him
with all my heart. If I had been born
a woman
and could understand what now I can
understand—it
were terrible! But if I had been born
a woman
and therefore could not understand
it—that
were still more terrible!
But if the case is as I stated it,
then it
follows that one had better refrain
from
any positive relation with woman. Wherever
she is concerned one has to reckon
with that
inevitable hiatus which renders her
happy
as she does not detect the illusion,
but
which would be a man's undoing if he
detected
it.
I thank the gods, then, that I was
born a
man and not a woman; and I thank them,
furthermore,
that no woman by some life-long attachment
holds me in duty bound to be constantly
reflecting
that it ought not to have been.
Indeed, what a passing strange device
is
marriage! And what makes it all the
stranger
is the suggestion that it is to be
a step
taken without thought. And yet no step
is
more decisive, for nothing in life
is as
inexorable and masterful as the marriage
tie. And now so important a step as
marriage
ought, so we are told, to be taken
without
reflection! Yet marriage is not something
simple but something immensely complex
and
indeterminate. Just as the meat of
the turtle
smacks of all kinds of meat, so likewise
does marriage have a taste of all manner
of things; and just as the turtle is
a sluggish
animal, likewise is marriage a sluggish
thing.
Falling in love is, at least, a simple
thing,
but marriage—! Is it something heathen
or
something Christian, something spiritual
or something profane, or something
civil,
or something of all things? Is it an
expression
of an inexplicable love, the elective
affinity
of souls in delicate accord with one
another;
or is it a duty, or a partnership,
or a mere
convenience, or the custom of certain
countries
or is it a duty, or a partnership,
or a mere
convenience, or the custom of certain
countries—or
is it a little of all these? Is one
to order
the music for it from the town musician
or
the organist, or is one to have a little
from both? Is it the minister or the
police
sergeant who is to make the speech
and enroll
the names in the book of life—or in
the town
register? Does marriage blow a tune
on a
comb, or does it listen to the whisperings
"like to those of the fairies
from the
grottoes of a summer night"42
And now every Darby imagines he performed
such a Potpourri, such incomparably
complex
music, in getting married—and imagines
that
he is still performing it while living
a
married life! My dear fellow-banqueters,
ought we not, in default of a wedding
present
and congratulations, give each of the
conjugal
partners a demerit for repeated inattentiveness?
It is taxing enough to express a single
idea
in one's life; but to think something
so
complicated as marriage and, consequently,
bring it under one head; to think something
so complicated and yet to do justice
to
each and every element in it, and have
everything
present at the same time—verily, he
is a
great man who can accomplish all this!
And
still every Benedict accomplishes
it—so
he does, no doubt; for does he not
say that
he does it unconsciously? But if this
is
to be done unconsciously it must be
through
some higher form of unconsciousness
permeating
all one's reflective powers. But not
a word
is said about this! And to ask any
married
man about it means just wasting one's
time.
He who has once committed a piece of
folly
will constantly be pursued by its
consequences.
In the case of marriage the folly
consists
in one's having gotten into a mess,
and the
punishment, in recognizing, when it
is too
late, what one has done. So you will
find
that the married man, now, becomes
chesty,
with a bit of pathos, thinking he has
done
something remarkable in having entered
wedlock;
now, puts his tail between his legs
in dejection;
then again, praises marriage in sheer
self-defense.
But as to a thought-unit which might
serve
to hold together the disjecta membra43
of
the most heterogeneous conceptions
of life
contained in marriage—for that we shall
wait
in vain.
Therefore, to be a mere Benedict is
humbug,
and to be a seducer is humbug, and
to wish
to experiment with woman for the sake
of
"the joke" is also humbug.
In fact,
the two last mentioned methods will
be seen
to involve concessions to woman on
the part
of man quite as large as those found
in marriage.
The seducer wishes to rise in his own
estimation
by deceiving her; but this very fact
that
he deceives and wishes to deceive—that
he
cares to deceive, is also a demonstration
of his dependence on woman. And the
same
is true of him who wishes to experiment
with
her.
If I were to imagine any possible relation
with woman it would be one so saturated
with
reflecton that it would, for that very
reason,
no longer be any relation with her
at all.
To be an excellent husband and yet
on the
sly seduce every girl; to seem a seducer
and yet harbor within one all the ardor
of
romanticism—there would be something
to that,
or the concession in the first instance
were
then annihilated in the second. Certain
it
is that man finds his true ideality
only
in such a reduplication. All merely
unconscious
existence must be obliterated, and
its obliteration
ever cunningly guarded by some sham
expression.
Such a reduplication is incomprehensible
to woman, for it removes from her the
possibility
of expressing man's true nature in
one form.
If it were possible for woman to exist
in
such a reduplication, no erotic relation
with her were thinkable. But, her nature
being such as we all know it to be,
any disturbance
of the erotic relation is brought about
by
man's true nature which ever consists
precisely
in the annihilation of that in which
she
has her being.
Am I then preaching the monastic life
and
rightly called Eremita? By no means.
You
may as well eliminate the cloister,
for after
all it is only a direct expression
of spirituality
and as such but a vain endeavor to
express
it in direct terms. It makes small
difference
whether you use gold, or silver, or
paper
money; but he who does not spend a
farthing
but is counterfeit, he will comprehend
me.
He to whom every direct expression
is but
a fraud, he and he only, is safeguarded
better
than if he lived in a cloister-cell—he
will
be a hermit even if he travelled in
an omnibus
and night.
Scarcely had Victor finished when the
Dressmaker
jumped to his feet and threw over a
bottle
of wine standing before him; then he
spoke
as follows:
(The Dressmaker's Speech)
Well spoken, dear fellow-banqueters,
well
spoken! The longer I hear you speak
the more
I grow convinced that you are fellow-conspirators—I
greet you as such, I understand you
as such;
for fellow-conspirators one can make
out
from afar. And yet, what know you?
What does
your bit of theory to which you wish
to give
the appearance of experience, your
bit of
experience which you make over into
a theory—what
does it amount to? For every now and
then
you believe her a moment and—are caught
in
a moment! No, I know woman—from her
weak
side, that is to say, I know her. I
shrink
from no means to make sure about what
I have
learned; for I am a madman, and a madman
one must be to understand her, and
if one
has not been one before, one will become
a madman, once one understands her.
The robber
has his hiding place by the noisy high-road,
and the ant-lion his funnel in the
loose
sand, and the pirate his haunts by
the roaring
sea: likewise have I may fashionshop
in the
very midst of the teeming streets,
seductive,
irresistible to woman as is the Venusberg
to men. There, in a fashion-shop, one
learns
to know woman, in a practical way and
without
any theoretical ado.
Now, if fashion meant nothing than
that woman
in the heat of her desire threw off
all her
clothing—why, then it would stand for
something.
But this is not the ease, fashion is
not
plain sensuality, not tolerated debauchery,
but an illicit trade in indecency authorized
as proper. And, just as in heathen
Prussia
the marriageable girl wore a bell whose
ringing
served as a signal to the men, likewise
is
a woman's existence in fashion a continual
bell-ringing, not for debauchees but
for
lickerish voluptuaries. People hold
Fortune
to be a woman—ah, yes it is, to be
sure,
fickle; still, it is fickle in something,
as it may also give much; and insofar
it
is not a woman. No; but fashion is
a woman,
for fashion is fickleness in nonsense,
and
is consistent only in its becoming
ever more
crazy.
One hour in my shop is worth more than
days
and years without, if it really be
one's
desire to learn to know woman; in my
shop,
for it is the only one in the capital,
there
is no thought of competition. Who,
forsooth,
would dare to enter into competition
with
one who has entirely devoted himself,
and
is still devoting himself, as high-priest
in this idol worship? No, there is
not a
distinguished assemblage which does
not mention
my name first and last; and there is
not
a Middle-class gathering where my name,
whenever
mentioned, does not inspire sacred
awe, like
that of the king; and there is no dress
so
idiotic but is accompanied by whisters
of
admiration when its owner proceeds
down the
hall—provided it bears my name; and
there
is not the lady of gentle birth who
dares
pass my shop by, nor the girl of humble
origin
but passes it sighing and thinking:
if only
I could afford it! Well, neither was
she
deceived. I deceive no one; I furnish
the
finest goods and the most costly, and
at
the lowest price, indeed, I sell below
cost.
The fact is, I do not wish to make
a profit.
On the contrary, every year I sacrifice
large
sums. And yet do I mean to win, I mean
to,
I shall spend my last farthing in order
to
corrupt, in order to bribe, the tools
of
fashion so that I may win the game.
To me
it is a delight beyond compare to unroll
the most precious stuffs, to cut them
out,
to clip pieces from genuine Brussels-lace,
in order to make a fool's costume I
sell
to the lowest prices, genuine goods
and in
style.
You believe, perhaps, that woman wants
to
be dressed fashionably only at certain
times?
No such thing, she wants to be so all
the
time and that is her only thought.
For a
woman does have a mind, only it is
employed
about as well as is the Prodigal Son's
substance;
and woman does possess the power of
reflection
in an incredibly high degree, for there
is
nothing so holy but she will in no
time discover
it to be reconcilable with her finery—and
the chiefest expression of finery is
fashion.
What wonder if she does discover it
to be
reconcilable; for is not fashion holy
to
her? And there is nothing so insignificant
but she certainly will know how to
make it
count in her finery—and the most fatuous
expression of finery is fashion. And
there
is nothing, nothing in all her attire,
not
the least ribbon, of whose relation
to fashion
she has not a definite conception and
concerning
which she is not immediately aware
whether
the lady who just passed by noticed
it; because,
for whose benefit does she dress, if
not
for other ladies!
Even in my shop where she comes to
be fitted
out à la mode, even there she is in
fashion.
Just as there is a special bathing
costume
and a special riding habit, likewise
there
is a particular kind of dress which
it is
the fashion to wear to the dressmaker's
shop.
That costume is not insouciant in the
same
sense as is the negligée a lady is
pleased
to be surprised in, earlier in the
forenoon,
where the point is her belonging to
the fair
sex and the coquetry lies in her letting
herself be surprised. The dressmaker
costume,
on the other hand, is calculated to
be nonchalant
and a bit careless without her being
embarrassed
thereby; because a dressmaker stands
in a
different relation to her from a cavalier.
The coquetry here consists in thus
showing
herself to a man who, by reason of
his station,
does not presume to ask for the lady's
womanly
recognition, but must be content with
the
perquisites which fall abundantly to
his
share, without her ever thinking of
it; or
without it even so much as entering
her mind
to play the lady before a dressmaker.
The
point is, therefore, that her being
of the
opposite sex is, in a certain sense,
left
out of consideration, and her coquetry
invalidated,
by the superciliousness of the noble
lady
who would smile if any one alluded
to any
relation existing between her and her
dressmaker.
When visited in her negligée she conceals
herself, thus displaying her charms
by this
very concealment. In my shop she exposes
her charms with the utmost nonchalance,
for
he is only a dressmaker—and she is
a woman.
Now, her shawl slips down and bares
some
part of her body, and if I did not
know what
that means, and what she expects, my
reputation
would be gone to the winds. Now, she
draws
herself up, a priori fashion, now she
gesticulates
a posteriori; now, she sways to and
fro in
her hips; now, she looks at herself
in the
mirror and sees my admiring phiz behind
her
in the glass; now, she minces her words;
now, she trips along with short steps;
now,
she hovers; now, she draws her foot
after
her in a slovenly fashion; now, she
lets
herself sink softly into an arm-chair,
whilst
I with humble demeanor offer her a
flask
of smelling salts and with my adoration
assuage
her agitation; now, she strikes after
me
playfully; now, she drops her handkerchief
and, without as much as a single motion,
lets her relaxed arm remain in its
pendent
position, whilst I bend down low to
pick
it up and return it to her, receiving
a little
patronizing nod as a reward. These
are the
ways of a lady of fashion when in my
shop.
Whether Diogenes44 made any impression
on
the Woman who was praying in a somewhat
unbecoming
posture, when he asked her whether
she did
not believe the gods could see her
from behind—that
I do not know; but this I do know,
that if
I should say to her ladyship kneeling
down
in church: "The folds of your
gown do
not fall according to fashion,"
she
would be more alarmed than if she had
given
offense to the gods. Woe to the outcast,
the male Cinderella, who has not comprehended
this! Pro dii immortales45 what, pray,
is
a woman who is not in fashion; per
deos obsecro,
46 and what when she is in fashion!
Whether all this is true? Well, make
trial
of it: let the swain, when his beloved
one
sinks rapturously on his breast, whispering
unintelligibly: "thine forever,"
and hides her head on his bosom—let
him but
say to her: "My sweet Kitty, your
coiffure
is not at all in fashion."—Possibly,
men don't give thought to this; but
he who
knows it, and has the reputation of
knowing
it, he is the most dangerous man in
the kingdom.
What blissful hours the lover passes
with
his sweetheart before marriage I do
not know;
but of the blissful hours she spends
in my
shop he hasn't the slightest inkling,
either.
Without my special license and sanction
a
marriage is null and void, anyway—or
else
an entirely plebeian affair. Let it
be the
very moment when they are to meet before
the altar, let her step forward with
the
very best conscience in the world that
everything
was bought in my shop and tried on
there—and
now, if I were to rush up And exclaim:
"But
mercy! gracious lady, your myrtle wreath
is all awry"—why, the whole ceremony
might be postponed, for aught I know.
But
men do not suspect these things, one
must
be a dressmaker to know. So immense
is the
power of reflection needed to fathom
a woman's
thought that only a man who dedicates
himself
wholly to the task will succeed, and
even
then only if gifted to start with.
Happy
therefore the man who does not associate
with any woman, for she is not his,
anyway,
even if, she be no other man's; for
she is
possessed by that phantorn born of
the unnatural
intercourse of woman's reflection with
itself,
fashion. Do you see, for this reason
should
woman always swear by fashion—then
were there
some force in her oath; for after all,
fashion
is the thing she is always thinking
of, the
only thing she can think together with,
and
into, everything. For instance, the
glad
message has gone forth from my shop
to all
fashionable ladies that fashion decrees
the
use of a particular kind of head-dress
to
be worn in church, and that this head-dress,
again, must be somewhat different for
High
Mass and for the afternoon service.
Now when
the bells are ringing the carriage
stops
in front of my door. Her ladyship descends
(for also this has been decreed, that
no
one can adjust that head-dress save
I, the
fashion-dealer), I rush out, making
low bows,
and lead her into my cabinet. And whilst
she languishingly reposes I put everything
in order. Now she is ready and has
looked
at herself in the mirror; quick as
any messenger
of the gods I hasten in advance, open
the
door of my cabinet with a bow, then
hasten
to the door of my shop and lay my arm
on
my breast, like some oriental slave;
but
encouraged by a gracious courtesy,
I even
dare to throw her an adoring and admiring
kiss—now she is seated in her carriage—oh
dear! she left her hymn book behind.
I hasten
out again and hand it to her through
the
carriage window, I permit myself once
more
to remind her to hold her head a trifle
more
to the right, and herself to arrange
things,
should her head-dress become a bit
disordered
when descending. She drives away and
is edified.
You believe, perhaps, that it is only
great
ladies who worship fashion, but far
from
it! Look at my sempstresses for whose
dress
I spare no expense, so that the dogmas
of
fashion may be proclaimed most emphatically
from my shop. They form a chorus of
half-witted
creatures, and I myself lead them on
as high-priest,
as a shining example, squandering all,
solely
in order to make all womankind ridiculous.
For when a seducer makes the boast
that every
woman's virtue has its price, I do
not believe
him; but I do believe that every woman
at
an early time will be crazed by the
maddening
and defiling introspection taught her
by
fashion, which will corrupt her more
thoroughly
than being seduced. have made trial
more
than once. If not able to corrupt her
myself
I set on her a few of fashion's slaves
of
her own nation; for just as one may
train
rats to bite rats, likewise is the
crazed
woman's sting like that of the tarantula.
And most especially dangerous is it
when
some man lends his help.
Whether I serve the Devil or God I
do not
know; but I am right, I shall be right,
I
will be, so long as I possess a single
farthing,
I will be until the blood spurts out
of my
fngers. The physiologist pictures the
shape
of woman to show the dreadful effects
of
wearing a corset, and beside it he
draws
a picture of her normal figure. That
is all
entely correct, but only one of the
drawings
has the validity of truth: they all
wear
corsets. Describe, therefore, the miserable,
stunted perversity of the fashion-mad
woman,
Describe the insidious introspection
devouring
her, and then describe the womanly
modesty
which least of all knows about itself—do
so and you have judged woman, have
in very
truth passed terrible sentence on her.
If
ever I discover such a girl who is
contented
and demure and not yet corrupted by
indecent
intercourse with women—she shall fall
nevertheless.
I shall catch her in my toils, already
she
stands at the sacrificial altar, that
is
to say, in my shop. With the most scornful
glance a haughty monchalance can assume
I
measure her appearance, she perishes
with
fright; a peal of laughter from the
adjoining
room where sit my trained accomplices
annihilates
her. And afterwards, when I have gotten
her
rigged up à la mode and she looks crazier
than a lunatic, as crazy as one who
would
not be accepted even in a lunatic asylum,
then she leaves me in a state of bliss—no
man, not even a god, were able to inspire
fear in her; for is she not dressed
in fashion?
Do you comprehend me now, do you comprehend
why I call you fellow-conspirators,
even
though in a distant way? Do you now
comprehend
my conception of woman? Everything
in life
is a matter of fashion, the fear of
God is
a matter of fashion, and so are love,
and
crinolines, and a ring through the
nose.
To the utmost of my ability will I
therefore
come to the support of the exalted
genius
who wishes to laugh at the most ridiculous
of all animals. If woman has reduced
everything
to a matter of fashion, then will I,
with
the help of fashion, prostitute her,
as she
deserves to be; I have no peace, I
the dressmaker,
my soul rages when I think of my task—she
will yet be made to wear a ring through
her
nose. Seek therefore no sweetheart,
abandon
love as you would the most dangerous
neighborhood;
for the one whom you love would also
be made
to go with a ring through her nose.
Thereupon John, called the Seducer,
spoke
as follows:
(The Speech of John the Seducer)
My dear boon companions, is Satan plaguing
you? For, indeed, you speak like so
many
hired mourners, your eyes are red with
tears
and not with wine. You almost move
me to
tears also, for an unhappy lover does
have
a miserable time of it in lif e. Hinc
illae
lacrimae. 47 I, however, am a happy
lover,
and my only wish is to remain so. Very
possibly,
that is one of the concessions to woman
which
Victor is so afraid of. Why not? Let
it be
a concession! Loosening the lead foil
of
this bottle of champagne also is a
concession;
letting its foaming contents flow into
my
glass also is a concession; and so
is raising
it to my lips—now I drain it—concedo.
48
Now, however, it is empty, hence I
need no
more concessions. Just the same with
girls.
If some unhappy lover has bought his
kiss
too dearly, this proves to me only
that he
does not know, either how to take what
is
coming to him or how to do it. I never
pay
too much for this sort of thing—that
is a
matter for the girls to decide. What
this
signifies? To me it signifies the most
beautiful,
the most delicious, and well-nigh the
most
persuasive, argumentum ad hominem;
but since
every woman, at least once in her life,
possesses
this argumentative freshness I do not
see
any reason why I should not let myself
be
persuaded. Our young friend wishes
to make
this experience in his thought. Why
not buy
a cream puff and be content with looking
at it? I mean to enjoy. No mere talk
for
me! Just as an old song has it about
a kiss:
es ist kaum zu sehn, es ist nur filr
Lippen,
die genau sich verstehn49—understand
each
other so exactly that any reflection
about
the matter is but an impertinence and
a folly.
He who is twenty and does not grasp
the existence
of the categorical imperative "enjoy
thyself"—he is a fool; and he
who does
not seize the opportunity is and remains
a Christianfelder. 50
However, you all are unhappy lovers,
and
that is why you are not satisfied with
woman
as she is. The gods forbid! As she
is she
pleases me, just as she is. Even Constantin's
category of "the joke" seems
to
contain a secret desire. I, on the
other
hand, I am gallant. And why not? Gallantry
costs nothing and gives one all and
is the
condition for all, erotic pleasure.
Gallantry
is the Masonic language of the senses
and
of voluptuousness, between man and
woman.
It is a natural language, as love's
language
in general is. It consists not of sounds
but of desires disguised and of ever
changing
wishes. That an unhappy lover may be
ungallant
enough to wish to convert his deficit
into
a draught payable in immortality—that
I understand
well enough. That is to say, I for
my part
do not understand it; for to me a woman
has
sufficient intrinsic value. I assure
every
woman of this, it is the truth; and
at the
same time it is certain that I am the
only
one who is not deceived by this truth.
As
to whether a despoiled woman is worth
less
than man—about that I find no information
in my price list. I do not pick flowers
already
broken, I leave them to the married
men to
use for Shrove-tide decoration. Whether
e.
g. Edward, wishes to consider the matter
again, and again fall in love with
Cordelia,
51 or simply repeat the affair in his
reflection
—that is his own business. Why should
I concern
myself with other peoples' affairs!
I explained
to her at an earlier time what I thought
of her; and, in truth, she convinced
me,
convinced me to my absolute satisfaction,
that my gallantry was well applied.
Concedo. Concessi. 52 If I should meet
with
another Cordelia, why then I shall
enact
a comedy "Ring number 2."53
But
you are unhappy lovers and have conspired
together, and are worse deceived than
the
girls, notwithstanding that you are
richly
endowed by nature. But decision—the
decision
of desire, is the most essential thing
in
life. Our young friend will always
remain
an onlooker. Victor is an unpractical
enthusiast.
Constantin has acquired his good sense
at
too great a cost; and the fashion dealer
is a madman. Stuff and nonsense! With
all
four of you busy about one girl, nothing
would come of it.
Let one have enthusiasm enough to idealize,
taste enough to join in the clinking
of glasses
at the festive board of enjoyment,
sense
enough to break off—to break off absolutely,
as does Death, madness enough to wish
to
enjoy all over again—if you have all
that
you will be the favorite of gods and
girls.
But of what avail to speak here? I
do not
intend to make proselytes. Neither
is this
the place for that. To be sure I love
wine,
to be sure I love the abundance of
a banquet—all
that is good; but let a girl be my
company,
and then I shall be eloquent. Let then
Constantin
have my thanks for the banquet, and
the wine,
and the excellent appointments—the
speeches,
however, were but indifferent. But
in order
that things shall have a better ending
I
shall pronounce a eulogy on woman.
Just as he who is to speak in praise
of the
divinity must be inspired by the divinity
to speak worthily, and must therefore
be
taught by the divinity as to what he
shall
say, Likewise he who would speak of
women.
For woman, even less than the divinity,
is
a mere figment of man's brain, a day-dream,
or a notion that occurs to one and
which
one pay argue about pro et contra.
Nay, one
learns from woman alone what to say
of her.
And the more teachers one has had,
the better.
The first time one is a disciple, the
next
time one is already over the chief
difficulties,
just as one learns in formal and learned
disputations how to use the last opponent's
compliments against a new opponent.
Nevertheless
nothing is lost. For as little as a
kiss
is a mere sample of good things, and
as little
as an embrace is an exertion, just
as little
is this experience exhaustive. In fact
it
is essentially different from the mathematical
proof of a theorem, which remains ever
the
same, even though other letters be
substituted.
This method is one befitting mathematics
and ghosts, but not love and women,
because
each is a new proof, corroborating
the truth
of the theorem in a different manner.
It
is my joy that, far from being less
perfect
than man, the female sex is, on the
contrary,
the more perfect. I shall, however,
clothe
my speech in a myth; and I shall exult,
on
woman's account whom you have so unjustly
maligned, if my speech pronounce judgment
on your souls, if the enjoyment of
her beckon
you only to flee you, as did the fruits
from
Tantalus; because you have fled, and
thereby
insulted, woman. Only thus, forsooth,
may
she be insulted, even though she scorn
it,
and though punishment instantly falls
on
him who had the audacity. I, however,
insult
no one. That is but the notion of married
men, and a slander; whereas, in reality,
I respect her more highly than does
the man
she is married to.
Originally there was but one sex, so
the
Greeks relate, and that was man's.
Splendidly
endowed he was, so he did honor to
the gods—so
splendidly endowed that the same happened
to them as sometimes happens to a poet
who
has expended all his energy on a poetic
invention:
they grew jealous of man. Ay, what
is worse,
they feared that he would not willingly
bow
under their yoke; they feared, though
with
small reason, that he might cause their
very
heaven to totter. Thus they had raised
up
a power they scarcely held themselves
able
to curb. Then there was anxiety and
alarm
in the council of the gods. Much had
they
lavished in their generosity on the
creation
of man; but all must be risked now,
for reason
of bitter necessity; for all was at
stake—so
the gods believed—and recalled he could
not
be, as a poet may recall his invention.
And
by force he could not be subdued, or
else
the gods themselves could have done
so; but
precisely of that they despaired. He
would
have to be caught and subdued, then,
by a
power weaker than his own and yet stronger—one
strong enough to compel him. What a
marvellous
power this would have to be! However,
necessity
teaches even the gods to surpass themselves
in inventiveness. They sought and they
found.
That power was woman, the marvel of
creation,
even in the eyes of the gods a greater
marvel
than man—a discovery which the gods
in their
näiveté could not help but applaud
themselves
for. What more can be said in her praise
than that she was able to accomplish
what
even the gods did not believe themselves
able to do; and what more can be said
in
her praise than that she did accomplish
it!
But how marvellous a creation must
be hers
to have accomplished it.
It was a ruse of the gods. Cunningly
the
enchantress was fashioned, for no sooner
had she bewitched man than she changed
and
caught him in all the circumstantialities
of existence. It was that the gods
had desired.
But what, pray, can be more delicious,
or
more entrancing and bewitching, than
what
the gods themselves contrived, when
battling
for their supremacy, as the only means
of
luring man? And most assuredly it is
so,
for woman is the only, and the most
seductive,
power in heaven and on earth. When
compared
with her in this sense man will indeed
be
found to be exceedingly imperfect.
And the stratagem of the gods was crowned
with success; but not always. There
have
existed at all times some men—a few—who
have
detected the deception. They perceive
well
enough woman's loveliness—more keenly,
indeed
than the others—but they also suspect
the
real state of affairs. I call them
erotic
natures and count myself among them.
Men
call them seducers, woman has no name
for
them—such persons are to her unnameable.
These erotic natures are the truly
fortunate
ones. They live more luxuriously than
do
the very gods, for they regale themselves
with food more delectable than ambrosia,
and they drink what is more delicious
than
nectar; they eat the most seductive
invention
of the gods' most ingenious thought,
they
are ever eating dainties set for a
bait—ah,
incomparable delight, ah, blissful
fare—they
are ever eating but the dainties set
for
a bait; and they are never caught.
All other
men greedily seize and devour it, like
bumpkins
eating their cabbage, and are caught.
Only
the erotic nature fully appreciates
the dainties
set out for bait—he prizes them infinitely.
Woman divines this, and for that reason
there
is a secret understanding between him
and
her. But he knows also that she is
a bait,
and that secret he keeps to himself.
That nothing more marvellous, nothing
more
delicious, nothing more seductive,
than woman
can be devised, for that vouch the
gods and
their pressing need which hightened
their
powers of invention; for that vouches
also
the fact that they risked all, and
in shaping
her moved heaven and earth.
I now forsake the myth. The conception
"man"
corresponds to his "idea."
I can
therefore, if necessary, think of an
individual
man as existing. The idea of woman,
on the
other hand, is so general that no one
single
woman is able to express it completely.
She
is not contemporaneous with man (and
hence
of less noble origin), but a later
creation,
though more perfect than he. Whether
now
the gods took some part from him whilst
he
slept, from fear of waking him by taking
too much; or whether they bisected
him and
made woman out of the one half—at any
rate
it was man who was partitioned. Hence
she
is the equal of man only after this
partition.
She is a delusion and a snare, but
is so
only afterwards, and for him who is
deluded.
She is finiteness incarnate; but in
her first
stage she is finiteness raised to the
highest
degree in the deceptive infinitude
of all
divine and human illusions. Now, the
deception
does not exist—one instant longer,
and one
is deceived.
She is finiteness, and as such she
is a collective:
one woman represents all women. Only
the
erotic nature comprehends this and
therefore
knows how to love many without ever
being
deceived, sipping the while all the
delights
the cunning gods were able to prepare.
For
this reason, as I said, woman cannot
be fully
expressed by one formula, but is, rather,
an infinitude of finalities. He who
wishes
to think her "idea" will
have the
same experience as he who gazes on
a sea
of nebulous shapes which ever form
anew,
or as he who is dazed by looking over
the
waves whose foamy crests ever mock
one's
vision; for her "idea" is
but the
workshop of possibilities. And to the
erotic
nature these possibilities are the
everlasting
reason for his worship.
So the gods created her delicate and
ethereal
as if out of the mists of the summer
night,
yet goodly like ripe fruit; light like
a
bird, though the repository of what
attracts
all the world—light because the play
of the
forces is harmoniously balanced in
the invisible
center of a negative relation; 54 slender
in growth, with definite lines, yet
her body
sinuous with beautiful curves; perfect,
yet
ever appearing as if completed but
now; cool,
delicious, and refreshing like new-fallen
snow, yet blushing in coy transparency;
happy
like some pleasantry which makes one
forget
all one's sorrow; soothing as being
the end
of desire, and satisfying in herself
being
the stimulus of desire. And the gods
had
calculated that man, when first beholding
her, would be amazed, as one who sees
himself,
though familiar with that sight—would
stand
in amaze as one who sees himself in
the splendor
of perfection—would stand in amaze
as one
who beholds what he did never dream
he would,
yet beholds what, it would seem, ought
to
have occurred to him before—sees what
is
essential to life and yet gazes on
it as
being the very mystery of existence.
It is
precisely this contradiction in his
admiration
which nurses desire to life, while
this same
admiration urges him ever nearer, so
that
he cannot desist from gazing, cannot
desist
from believing himself familiar with
the
sight, without really daring to approach,
even though he cannot desist from desiring.
When the gods had thus planned her
form they
were seized with fear lest they might
not
have the wherewithal to give it existence;
but what they feared even more was
herself.
For they dared not let her know how
beautiful
she was, apprehensive of having some
one
in the secret who might spoil their
ruse.
Then was the crowning touch given to
their
wondrous creation: they made her faultless;
but they concealed all this from her
in the
nescience of her innocence, and concealed
it doubly from her in the impenetrable
mystery
of her modesty. Now she was perfect,
and
victory certain. Inviting she had been
before,
but now doubly so through her shyness,
and
beseeching through her shrinking, and
irresistible
through herself offering resistance.
The
gods were jubilant. And no allurement
has
ever been devised in the world so great
as
is woman, and no allurement is as compelling
as is innocence, and no temptation
is as
ensnaring as is modesty, and no deception
is as matchless as is woman. She knows
of
nothing, still her modesty is instinctive
divination. She is distinct from man,
and
the separating wall of modesty parting
them
is more decisive than Aladdin's sword
separating
him from Gulnare; 55 and yet, when
like Pyramis
he puts his head to this dividing wall
of
modesty, the erotic nature will perceive
all pleasures of desire divined within
as
from afar.
Thus does woman tempt. Men are wont
to set
forth the most precious things they
possess
as a delectation for the gods, nothing
less
will do. Thus is woman a show-bread.
the
gods knew of naught comparable to her.
She
exists, she is present, she is with
us, close
by; and yet she is removed from us
to an
infinite distance when concealed in
her modesty-until
she herself betrays her hiding place,
she
knows not how: it is not she herself,
it
is life which informs on her. Roguish
she
is like a child who in playing peeps
forth
from his hiding place, yet her roguishness
is inexplicable, for she does not know
of
it herself, she is ever mysterious-mysterious
when she casts down her eyes, mysterious
when she sends forth the messengers
of her
glance which no thought, let alone
any word,
is able to follow. And yet is the eye
the
"interpreter" of the soul!
What,
then, is the explanation of this mystery
if the interpreter too is unintelligible?
Calm she is like the hushed stillness
of
eventide, when not a leaf stirs; calm
like
a consciousness as yet unaware of aught.
Her heart-beats are as regular as if
life
were not present; and yet the erotic
nature,
listening with his stethoscopically
practiced
ear, detects the dithyrambic pulsing
of desire
sounding along unbeknown. Careless
she is
like the blowing of the wind, content
like
the profound ocean, and yet full of
longing
like a thing biding its explanation.
My friends!
My mind is softened, indescribably
softened.
I comprehend that also my life expresses
an idea, even if you do not comprehend
me.
I too have discovered the secret of
existence;
I too serve a divine idea—and, assuredly,
I do not serve it for nothing. If woman
is
a ruse of the gods, this means that
she is
to be seduced; and if woman is not
an "idea,"
the true inference is that the erotic
nature
wishes to love as many of them as possible.
What luxury it is to relish the ruse
without
being duped, only the erotic nature
comprehends.
And how blissful it is to be seduced,
woman
alone knows. I know that from woman,
even
though I never yet allowed any one
of them
time to explain it to me, but re-asserted
my independence, serving the idea by
a break
as sudden as that caused by death;
for a
bride and a break are to one another
like
female and male. 56 Only woman is aware
of
this, and she is aware of it together
with
her seducer. No married man will ever
grasp
this. Nor does she ever speak with
him about
it. She resigns herself to her fate,
she
knows that it must be so and that she
can
be seduced only once. For this reason
she
never really bears malice against the
man
who seduced her. That is to say, if
he really
did seduce her and thus expressed the
idea.
Broken marriage vows and that kind
of thing
is, of course, nonsense and no seduction.
Indeed, it is by no means so great
a misfortune
for a woman to be seduced. In fact,
it is
a piece of good fortune for her. An
excellently
seduced girl may make an excellent
wife.
If I myself were not fit to be a seducer—however
deeply I feel my inferior qualifications
in this respect—if I chose to be a
married
man, I should always choose a girl
already
seduced, so that I would not have to
begin
my marriage by seducing my wife. Marriage,
to be sure, also expresses an idea;
but in
relation to the idea of marriage that
quality
is altogether immaterial which is the
absolutely
essential condition for my idea. Therefore,
a marriage ought never to be planned
to begin
as though it were the beginning of
a story
of seduction. So much is sure: there
is a
seducer for every woman. Happy is she
whose
good fortune it is to meet just him.
Through marriage, on the other hand,
the
gods win their victory. In it the once
seduced
maiden walks through life by the side
of
her husband, looking back at times,
full
of longing, resigned to her fate, until
she
reaches the goal of life. She dies;
but not
in the same sense as man dies. She
is volatilized
and resolved into that mysterious primal
element of which the gods formed her—she
disappears like a dream, like an impermanent
shape whose hour is past. For what
is woman
but a dream, and the highest reality
withal!
Thus does the erotic nature comprehend
her,
leading her, and being led by her in
the
moment of seduction, beyond time—where
she
has her true existence, being an illusion.
Through her husband, on the other hand,
she
becomes a creature of this world, and
he
through her.
Marvellous nature! If I did not admire
thee,
a woman would teach me; for truly she
is
the venerabile of life. Splendidly
didst
thou fashion her, but more splendidly
still
in that thou never didst fashion one
woman
like another. In man, the essential
is the
essential, and insofar always alike;
but
in woman the adventitious is the essential,
and is thus an inexhaustible source
of differences.
Brief is her splendor; but quickly
the pain
is forgotten, too, when the same splendor
is proffered me anew. It is true, I
too am
aware of the unbeautiful which may
appear
in her thereafter; but she is not thus
with
her seducer.
They rose from the table. It needed
but a
hint from Constantin, for the participants
understood each other with military
precision
whenever there was a question of face
or
turn about. With his invisible baton
of command,
elastic like a divining rod in his
hand,
Constantin once more touched them in
order
to call forth in them a fleeting reminiscence
of the banquet and the spirit of enjoyment
which had prevailed before but was
now, in
some measure, submerged through the
intellectual
effort of the speeches—in order that
the
note of glad festivity which had disappeared
might, by way of resonance, return
once more
among the guests in a brief moment
of recollection.
He saluted with his full glass as a
signal
of parting, emptying it, and then flinging
it against the door in the rear wall.
The
others followed his example, consummating
this symbolic action with all the solemnity
of adepts. Justice was thus done the
pleasure
of stopping short—that royal pleasure
which,
though briefer, yet is more liberating
than
any other pleasure. With a libation
this
pleasure ought to be entered upon,
with the
libation of flinging one's glass into
destruction
and oblivion, and tearing one's self
passionately
away from every memory, as if it were
a danger
to one's life: this libation is to
the gods
of the nether world. One breaks off,
and
strength is needed to do that, greater
strength
than to sever a knot by a sword-blow;
for
the difficulty of the knot tends to
arouse
one's passion, but the passion required
for
breaking off must be of one's own making.
In a superficial sense the result is,
of
course, the same; but from an artistic
int
of view there is a world of difference
between
something ceasing or simply coming
to an
end, and it being broken off by one's
own
free will—whether it is a mere occurrence
or a passionate decision; whether it
is all
over, like a school song, because there
is
no more to it, or whether it is terminated
by the Cæsarian operation of one's
own Pleasure;
whether it is a triviality every one
has
experienced, or the secret which escapes
most.
Constantin's flinging his beaker against
the door was intended merely as a symbolic
rite; nevertheless, his so doing was,
in
a way, a decisive act; for when the
last
glass was shattered the door opened,
and
just as he who presumpuously knocked
at Death's
door and, on its opening, beheld the
powers
of annihilation, so the banqueters
beheld
the corps of destruction ready to demolish
everything—a memento which in an instant
put them to flight from that place,
while
at the very same moment the entire
surroundings
had been reduced to the semblance of
ruin.
A carriage stood ready at the door.
At Constantin's
invitation they seated themselves in
it and
drove away in good spirits; for that
tableau
of destruction which they left behind
had
given their souls fresh elasticity.
After
having covered a distance of several
miles
a halt was made. Here Constantin took
his
leave as host, informing them that
five carriages
were at their disposal—each one was
free
to suit his own pleasure and drive
wherever
he wanted, whether alone or in company
with
whomsoever he pleased. Thus a rocket,
propelled
by the force of the powder, ascends
at a
single shot, remains collected for
an instant,
in order then to spread out to all
the winds.
While the horses were being hitched
to the
carriages the nocturnal banqueters
strolled
a little way down the road. The fresh
air
of the morning purified their hot blood
with
its coolness, and they gave themselves
up
to it entirely. Their forms, and the
groups
in which they ranged themselves, made
a phantastic
impression on me. For when the morning
sun
shines on field and meadow, and on
every
creature which in the night found rest
and
strength to rise up jubilating with
the sun—in
this there is only a pleasing, mutual
understanding;
but a nightly company, viewed by the
morning
light and in smiling surroundings,
makes
a downright uncanny impression. It
makes
one think of spooks which have been
surprised
by daylight, of subterranean spirits
which
are unable to regain the crevice through
which they may vanish, because it is
visible
only in the dark; of unhappy creatures
in
whom the difference between day and
night
has become obliterated through the
monotony
of their sufferings.
A foot path led them through a small
patch
of field toward a garden surrounded
by a
hedge, from behind whose concealment
a modest
summer-cottage peeped forth. At the
end of
the garden, toward the field, there
was an
arbor formed by trees. Becoming aware
of
people being in the arbor, they all
grew
curious, and with the spying glances
of men
bent on observation, the besiegers
closed
in about that pleasant place of concealment,
hiding themselves, and as eager as
emissaries
of the police about to take some one
by surprise.
Like emissaries of the police—well,
to be
sure, their appearance made the misunderstanding
possible that it was they whom the
minions
of the law might be looking for. Each
one
had occupied a point of vantage for
peeping
in, when Victor drew back a step and
said
to his neighbor, "Why, dear me,
if that
is not Judge William and his wife!"
They were surprised—not the two whom
the
foliage concealed and who were all
too deeply
concerned with their domestic enjoyment
to
be observers. They felt themselves
too secure
to believe themselves an object of
any one's
observation excepting the morning sun's
which
took pleasure in looking in to them,
whilst
a gentle zephyr moved the boughs above
them,
and the reposefulness of the countryside,
as well as all things around them girded
the little arbor about with peace.
The happy
married couple was not surprised and
noticed
nothing. That they were a married couple
was clear enough; one could perceive
that
at a glance—alas! if one is something
of
an observer one's self. Even if nothing
in
the wide world, nothing, whether overtly
or covertly, if nothing, I say, threatens
to interfere with the happiness of
lovers,
yet they are not thus secure when sitting
together. They are in a state of bliss;
and
yet it is as if there were some power
bent
on separating them, so firmly they
clasp
one another; and yet it is as if there
were
some enemy present against whom they
must
defend themselves; ,and yet it is as
if they
could never become, sufficiently reassured.
Not thus married people, and not thus
that
married couple in the arbor. How long
they
had been married, however, that was
not to
be determined with certainty. To be
sure,
the wife's activity at the tea-table
revealed
a sureness of hand born of practice,
but
at the same time such almost childlike
interest
in her occupation as if she were a
newly
married woman and in that middle condition
when she is not, as yet, sure whether
marriage
is fun or earnest, whether being a
housewife
is a calling, or a game, or a pastime.
Perhaps
she had been married for some longer
time
but did not generally preside at the
tea-table,
or perhaps did so only out here in
the country,
or did it perhaps only that morning
which,
possibly, had a special significance
for
them. Who could tell? All calculation
is
frustrated to a certain degree by the
fact
that every personality exhibits some
originality
which keeps time from leaving its marks.
When the sun shines in all his summer
glory
one thinks straightway that there must
be
some festal occasion at hand—that it
cannot
be so for every-day use, or that it
is the
first time, or at least one of the
first
times; for surely, one thinks, it cannot
be repeated for any length of time.
Thus
would think he who saw it but once,
or saw
it for the first time; and I saw the
wife
of the justice for the first time.
He who
sees the object in question every day
may
think differently; provided he sees
the same
thing. But let the judge decide about
that!
As I remarked, our amiable housewife
was
occupied. She poured boiling water
into the
cups, probably to warm them, emptied
them
again, set a cup on a platter, poured
the
tea and served it with sugar and cream—now
all was ready; was it fun or earnest?
In
case a person did not relish tea at
other
times—he should have sat in the judge's
place;
for just then that drink seemed most
inviting
to me. only the inviting air of the
lovely
woman herself seemeo to me more inviting.
It appeared that she had not had time
to
speak until then. Now she broke the
silence
and said, while serving him his tea:
"Quick,
now, dear, and drink while it is hot,
the
morning air is quite cool, anyway;
and surely
the least I can do for you is to be
a little
careful of you." "The least?"
the judge answered laconically. "Yes,
or the most, or the only thing."
The
judge looked at her inquiringly, and
whilst
he was helping himself she continued:
"You
interrupted me yesterday when I wished
to
broach the subject, but I have thought
about
it again; many times I have thought
about
it, and now particularly, you know
yourself
in reference to whom: it is certainly
true
that if you hadn't married, you would
have
been far more successful in your career."
With his cup still on the platter the
judge
sipped a first mouthful with visible
enjoyment,
thoroughly refreshed; or was it perchance
the joy over his lovely wife; I for
my part
believe it was the latter. She, however,
seemed only to be glad that it tasted
so
good to him. Then he put down his cup
on
the table at his side, took out a cigar,
and said: "May I light it at your
chafing-dish"?
"Certainly," she said, and
handed
him a live coal on a tea-spoon. He
lit his
cigar and put his arm about her waist
whilst
she leaned against his shoulder. He
turned
his head the other way to blow out
the smoke
and then he let his eyes rest on her
with
a devotion such as only a glance can
reveal;
yet he smiled, but this glad smile
had in
it a dash of sad irony. Finally he
said:
"Do you really believe so, my
girl?"
"What do you mean?" she answered.
He was silent again, his smile gained
the
upper hand, but his voice remained
quite
serious, nevertheless. "Then I
pardon
you your previous folly, seeing that
you
yourself have forgotten it so quickly;
thou
speakest as one of the foolish women
speaketh57—what
great career should I have had?"
His
wife seemed embarrassed for a moment
by this
return, but collected her wits quickly
and,
now explained her meaning with womanly
eloquence.
The judge looked down before him, without
interrupting her; but as she continued
he
began to drum on the table with the
fingers
of his right hand, at the same time
humming
a tune. The words of the song were
audible
for a moment, just as the pattern of
a texture
now becomes visible, now disappears
again;
and then again they were heard no longer
as he hummed the tune of the song:
"The
goodman he went to the forest, to cut
the
wands so white." After this melodramatic
performance, consisting in the justice's
wife explaining herself whilst he hummed
his tune, the dialogue set in again.
"I
am thinking," he remarked, "I
am
thinking you are ignorant of the fact
that
the Danish Law permits a man to castigate
his wife58 —a pity only that the law
does
not indicate on which occasions it
is permitted."
His wife smiled at his threat and continued:
"Now why can I never get you to
be serious
when I touch on this matter? You do
not understand
me: believe me, I mean it sincerely,
it seems
to me a very beautiful thought. Of
course,
if you weren't my husband I would not
dare
to entertain it; but now I have done
so,
for your sake and for my sake; and
now be
nice and serious, for my sake, and
answer
me frankly." "No, you can't
get
me to be serious, and a serious answer
you
won't get; I must either laugh at you,
or
make you forget it, as before, or beat
you;
or else you must stop talking, about
it,
or I shall have to make you keep silent
about
it some other way. You see, it is a
joke,
and that is why there are so many ways
out."
He arose, pressed a kiss on her brow,
laid
her arm in his, and then disappeared
in a
leafy walk which led from the arbor.
The arbor was empty; there was nothing
else
to do, so the hostile corps of occupation
withdrew without making any gains.
Still,
the others were content with uttering
some
malicious remarks. The company returned
but
missed Victor. He had rounded the corner
and, in walking along the garden, had
come
up to the country home. The doors of
a garden-room
facing the lawn were open, and likewise
a
window. Very probably he had seen something
which attracted his attention. He leapt
into
the window, and leapt out again just
as the
party were approaching, for they had
been
looking for him. Triumphantly he held
up
some papers in his hand and exclaimed:
"One
of the judge's manuscripts! 59 Seeing
that
I edited his other works it is no more
than
my duty that I should edit this one
too."
He put it into his pocket; or, rather,
he
was about to do so; for as he was bending
his arm and already had his hand with
the
manuscript half-way down in his pocket
I
managed to steal it from him.
But who, then, am I? Let no one ask!
If it
hasn't occurred to you before to ask
about
it I am over the difficulty—for now
the worst
is behind me. For that matter, I am
not worth
asking about, for I am the least of
all things,
people would put me in utter confusion
by
asking about me. I am pure existence,
and
therefore smaller, almost, than nothing.
I am "pure existence" which
is
present everywhere but still is never
noticed;
for I am ever vanishing. I am like
the line
above which stands the summa summarum—who
cares about the line? By my own strength
I can accomplish nothing, for even
the idea
to steal the manuscript from Victor
was not
my own idea; for this very idea which,
as
a thief would say, induced me to "borrow"
the manuscript, was borrowed from him.
And
now, when editing, this manuscript,
I am,
again, nothing at all; for it rightly
belongs
to the judge. And as editor, I am in
my nothingness
only a kind of nemesis on Victor, who
imagined
that he had the prescriptive right
to do
so.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Cf. Luke XIV, 19-20.
2 Words used in the banns.
3 Which in Latin means both "from
the
temple" and "at once."
4 The omission of the negative particle
in
the original is no doubt unintentional.
5 Pious wish.
6 2 Kings 20,1; Isaiah 38,1.
7 An allusion to the plight of Aristophanes
in Plato's Symposion.
8 Haggai 1, 6 (inexact).
9 May it be fortunate and favorable.
10 Symposion, ch. 9.
11 This ironic sally refers, not to
Descartes'
principle of skepsis, but to the numerous
Danish followers of Hegel and his "method";
cf. Fear and Trembling, p. 119.
12 Symposion, ch. 24.
13 Ibid., ch. 15-16.
14 Cf. Matthew 13, 31, etc.
15 A quotation from Musaeus, Volksmarchen
der Deutschen, III, 219.
16 The reference is to a situation
in Richard
Cumberland's (1732-1811) play of "The
Jew," known to Copenhagen playgoers
in an adaptation.
17 I relate what I have been told.
18 A character in the Danish playwright
Overskou's
vaudeville of "Capriciosa"
(Comedies
III, 184).
19 The glutton in Oehlenschloeger's
vaudeville
of "Sovedrikken."
20 Supplied by the translator to complete
the sense.
21 Dejection. Cf. the Maxim: omne animal
post coitune [?] [transcipt unreadable]
triste.
22 This statement is to be found, rather,
in Aristotle's Ethics II, 6.
23 There is a pun here in the original.
24 In Holberg's comedy of "Erasmus
Montanus,"
III, 6.
25 Cf. note p. 60.
26 Eccles. 3, 7.
27 Comical power.
28 In uncertain battle.
29 According to the development of
these
terms in Kierkegaard's previous works,
the
"absolute" belongs to the
ethic,
the "relative" to the æsthetic
sphere.
30 Heroine of Mozart's "Don Juan."
31 Quotations from Wessel's famous
comedy
of "Love without Stockings,"
III,
3.
32 Viz. besides the eggs she duly furnishes;
Holberg, "The Busybody,"
II, 1.
33 This figure is said by Diogenes
Laertios
II, 37 to have been used by Socrates
himself
about his relation to Xanthippe.
34 The following sentences are not
as clear
in meaning as is otherwise the case
in Kierkegaard.
35 Poetics, chap. 15.
36 Cf. note p. 60. [re: footnote 11
of this
document.]
37 They are, that he had been created
a man
and not an animal, a man and not a
woman,
a Greek and not a Barbarian (Lactantius,
Instit. III, 19,17).
38 Thales of Miletos (Diogenes Laertios
I,
33).
39 German poet of the Romantic School
(1773-1853).
40 Reasoning against the rules of logic.
41 "The Lying-in Room," II,
2.
42 A quotation from Oehlenschläger's
"Aladdin."
43 Scattered members.
44 See Diogenes Lærtios, VI, 37.
45 By the immortal gods.
46 I adjure you by the gods.
47 Therefore those tears.
48 I concede.
49 It can hardly be seen, it is but
for lips
which understand each other exactly.
50 Christiansfeld , a town in South
Jutland,
was the seat of a colony of Herrhutian
Pietists.
51 The reference is to the "Diary
of
the Seducer" (in "Either—Or,"
part I). Edward is the scorned lover
of Cordelia
who is seduced by John.
52 I concede. I have conceded.
53 Reference to a comedy by Farquhar,
which
enjoyed a moderate popularity in Copenhagen.
54 I. e., evidently, she does not exist
because
of herself; hence she is in a "negative"
relation to herself. The center of
this relation
is "what attracts all the world."
55 In Oehlenschläger's "Aladdin."
56 In the Danish, a pun on the hominyms
en
brud and et brud.
57 Job 2,10.
58 According to the Jutland Laws (A.
D. 1241)
a man is permitted to punish his wife,
when
she has misbehaved, with stick and
with rod,
but not with weapon. In the Danish
Law (1683)
this right is restricted to children
and
servants. S. V.
59 Containing the second part
|
Evans Experientialism 
