OUR RELATION TO OTHERS.
SECTION 21.
In making his way through life, a man will find it useful to be ready and able to do two things: to look ahead and to overlook: the one will protect him from loss and injury, the other from disputes and squabbles.
No one who has to live amongst men should absolutely discard any person who has his due place in the order of nature, even though he is very wicked or contemptible or ridiculous. He must accept him as an unalterable fact—unalterable, because the necessary outcome of an eternal, fundamental principle; and in bad cases he should remember the words of Mephistopheles: es muss auch solche Kaeuze geben—there must be fools and rogues in the world. If he acts otherwise, he will be committing an injustice, and giving a challenge of life and death to the man he discards. No one can alter his own peculiar individuality, his moral character, his intellectual capacity, his temperament or physique; and if we go so far as to condemn a man from every point of view, there will be nothing left him but to engage us in deadly conflict; for we are practically allowing him the right to exist only on condition that he becomes another man—which is impossible; his nature forbids it.
So if you have to live amongst men, you must allow everyone the right to exist in accordance with the character he has, whatever it turns out to be: and all you should strive to do is to make use of this
character in such a way as its kind and nature permit, rather than to hope for any alteration in it, or to condemn it off-hand for what it is. This is the true sense of the maxim—Live and let live. That, however, is a task which is difficult in proportion as it is right; and he is a happy man who can once for all avoid having to do with a great many of his fellow creatures.
The art of putting up with people may be learned by practicing patience on inanimate objects, which, in virtue of some mechanical or general physical necessity, oppose a stubborn resistance to our freedom of action—a form of patience which is required every day. The patience thus gained may be applied to our dealings with men, by accustoming ourselves to regard their opposition, wherever we
encounter it, as the inevitable outcome of their nature, which sets itself up against us in virtue of the same rigid law of necessity as governs the resistance of inanimate objects. To become indignant at their conduct is as foolish as to be angry with a stone because it rolls into your path. And with many people the wisest thing you can do, is to resolve to make use of those whom you cannot alter.
SECTION 22.
It is astonishing how easily and how quickly similarity,
or difference of mind and disposition, makes itself felt between one
man and another as soon as they begin to talk: every little trifle
shows it. When two people of totally different natures are conversing,
almost everything said by the one will, in a greater or less degree,
displease the other, and in many cases produce positive annoyance;
even though the conversation turn upon the most out-of-the-way
subject, or one in which neither of the parties has any real interest.
People of similar nature, on the other hand, immediately come to feel
a kind of general agreement; and if they are cast very much in the
same mould, complete harmony or even unison will flow from their
intercourse.
This explain two circumstances. First of all, it shows why it is that
common, ordinary people are so sociable and find good company wherever
they go. Ah! those good, dear, brave people. It is just the contrary
with those who are not of the common run; and the less they are so,
the more unsociable they become; so that if, in their isolation, they
chance to come across some one in whose nature they can find even
a single sympathetic chord, be it never so minute, they show
extraordinary pleasure in his society. For one man can be to another
only so much as the other is to him. Great minds are like eagles, and
build their nest in some lofty solitude.
Secondly, we are enabled to understand how it is that people of like
disposition so quickly get on with one another, as though they were
drawn together by magnetic force—kindred souls greeting each other
from afar. Of course the most frequent opportunity of observing this
is afforded by people of vulgar tastes and inferior intellect, but
only because their name is legion; while those who are better off in
this respect and of a rarer nature, are not often to be met with: they
are called rare because you can seldom find them.
Take the case of a large number of people who have formed themselves
into a league for the purpose of carrying out some practical object;
if there be two rascals among them, they will recognize each other as
readily as if they bore a similar badge, and will at once conspire
for some misfeasance or treachery. In the same way, if you can
imagine—per impossible—a large company of very intelligent and
clever people, amongst whom there are only two blockheads, these two
will be sure to be drawn together by a feeling of sympathy, and each
of them will very soon secretly rejoice at having found at least one
intelligent person in the whole company. It is really quite curious
to see how two such men, especially if they are morally and
intellectually of an inferior type, will recognize each other at first
sight; with what zeal they will strive to become intimate; how affably
and cheerily they will run to greet each other, just as though they
were old friends;—it is all so striking that one is tempted to
embrace the Buddhist doctrine of metempsychosis and presume that they
were on familiar terms in some former state of existence.
Still, in spite of all this general agreement, men are kept apart who
might come together; or, in some cases, a passing discord springs up
between them. This is due to diversity of mood. You will hardly
ever see two people exactly in the same frame of mind; for that is
something which varies with their condition of life, occupation,
surroundings, health, the train of thought they are in at the moment,
and so on. These differences give rise to discord between persons of
the most harmonious disposition. To correct the balance properly, so
as to remove the disturbance—to introduce, as it were, a uniform
temperature,—is a work demanding a very high degree of culture. The
extent to which uniformity of mood is productive of good-fellowship
may be measured by its effects upon a large company. When, for
instance, a great many people are gathered together and presented with
some objective interest which works upon all alike and influences them
in a similar way, no matter what it be—a common danger or hope, some
great news, a spectacle, a play, a piece of music, or anything of that
kind—you will find them roused to a mutual expression of thought,
and a display of sincere interest. There will be a general feeling
of pleasure amongst them; for that which attracts their attention
produces a unity of mood by overpowering all private and personal
interests.
And in default of some objective interest of the kind I have
mentioned, recourse is usually had to something subjective. A bottle
of wine is not an uncommon means of introducing a mutual feeling of
fellowship; and even tea and coffee are used for a like end.
The discord which so easily finds its way into all society as an
effect of the different moods in which people happen to be for the
moment, also in part explains why it is that memory always idealizes,
and sometimes almost transfigures, the attitude we have taken up at
any period of the past—a change due to our inability to remember all
the fleeting influences which disturbed us on any given occasion.
Memory is in this respect like the lens of a camera obscura: it
contracts everything within its range, and so produces a much finer
picture than the actual landscape affords. And, in the case of a man,
absence always goes some way towards securing this advantageous light;
for though the idealizing tendency of the memory requires times to
complete its work, it begins it at once. Hence it is a prudent thing
to see your friends and acquaintances only at considerable intervals
of time; and on meeting them again, you will observe that memory has
been at work.
SECTION 23.
No man can see over his own height. Let me explain what I mean.
You cannot see in another man any more than you have in yourself; and
your own intelligence strictly determines the extent to which he comes
within its grasp. If your intelligence is of a very low order, mental
qualities in another, even though they be of the highest kind,
will have no effect at all upon you; you will see nothing in their
possessor except the meanest side of his individuality—in other
words, just those parts of his character and disposition which are
weak and defective. Your whole estimate of the man will be confined to
his defects, and his higher mental qualities will no more exist for
you than colors exist for those who cannot see.
Intellect is invisible to the man who has none. In any attempt to
criticise another's work, the range of knowledge possessed by the
critic is as essential a part of his verdict as the claims of the work
itself.
Hence intercourse with others involves a process of leveling down. The
qualities which are present in one man, and absent in another, cannot
come into play when they meet; and the self-sacrifice which this
entails upon one of the parties, calls forth no recognition from the
other.
Consider how sordid, how stupid, in a word, how vulgar most men
are, and you will see that it is impossible to talk to them without
becoming vulgar yourself for the time being. Vulgarity is in this
respect like electricity; it is easily distributed. You will then
fully appreciate the truth and propriety of the expression, to make
yourself cheap; and you will be glad to avoid the society of people
whose only possible point of contact with you is just that part of
your nature of which you have least reason to be proud. So you will
see that, in dealing with fools and blockheads, there is only one way
of showing your intelligence—by having nothing to do with them. That
means, of course, that when you go into society, you may now and then
feel like a good dancer who gets an invitation to a ball, and on
arriving, finds that everyone is lame:—with whom is he to dance?
SECTION 24.
I feel respect for the man—and he is one in a
hundred—who, when he is waiting or sitting unoccupied, refrains from
rattling or beating time with anything that happens to be handy,—his
stick, or knife and fork, or whatever else it may be. The probability
is that he is thinking of something.
With a large number of people, it is quite evident that their power of
sight completely dominates over their power of thought; they seem to
be conscious of existence only when they are making a noise; unless
indeed they happen to be smoking, for this serves a similar end. It is
for the same reason that they never fail to be all eyes and ears for
what is going on around them.
SECTION 25.
La Rochefoucauld makes the striking remark that it is
difficult to feel deep veneration and great affection for one and the
same person. If this is so, we shall have to choose whether it is
veneration or love that we want from our fellow-men.
Their love is always selfish, though in very different ways; and the
means used to gain it are not always of a kind to make us proud. A
man is loved by others mainly in the degree in which he moderates
his claim on their good feeling and intelligence: but he must act
genuinely in the matter and without dissimulation—not merely out of
forbearance, which is at bottom a kind of contempt. This calls to mind
a very true observation of Helvetius: the amount of intellect necessary to please us, is a most accurate measure of the amount of intellect we have ourselves. With these remarks as premises, it is easy to draw the conclusion.
Now with veneration the case is just the opposite; it is wrung from
men reluctantly, and for that very reason mostly concealed. Hence, as
compared with love, veneration gives more real satisfaction; for it is
connected with personal value, and the same is not directly true
of love, which is subjective in its nature, whilst veneration is
objective. To be sure, it is more useful to be loved than to be
venerated.
SECTION 26.
Most men are so thoroughly subjective that nothing really
interests them but themselves. They always think of their own case
as soon as ever any remark is made, and their whole attention is
engrossed and absorbed by the merest chance reference to anything
which affects them personally, be it never so remote: with the result
that they have no power left for forming an objective view of things,
should the conversation take that turn; neither can they admit any
validity in arguments which tell against their interest or their
vanity. Hence their attention is easily distracted. They are so
readily offended, insulted or annoyed, that in discussing any
impersonal matter with them, no care is too great to avoid letting
your remarks bear the slightest possible reference to the very worthy
and sensitive individuals whom you have before you; for anything you
may say will perhaps hurt their feelings. People really care about
nothing that does not affect them personally. True and striking
observations, fine, subtle and witty things are lost upon them: they
cannot understand or feel them. But anything that disturbs their petty
vanity in the most remote and indirect way, or reflects prejudicially
upon their exceedingly precious selves—to that, they are most
tenderly sensitive. In this respect they are like the little dog whose
toes you are so apt to tread upon inadvertently—you know it by the
shrill bark it sets up: or, again, they resemble a sick man covered
with sores and boils, with whom the greatest care must be taken to
avoid unnecessary handling. And in some people this feeling reaches
such a pass that, if they are talking with anyone, and he exhibits, or
does not sufficiently conceal, his intelligence and discernment, they
look upon it as a downright insult; although for the moment they hide
their ill will, and the unsuspecting author of it afterwards ruminates
in vain upon their conduct, and racks his brain to discover what he
could possibly have done to excite their malice and hatred.
But it is just as easy to flatter and win them over; and this is why
their judgment is usually corrupt, and why their opinions are swayed,
not by what is really true and right, but by the favor of the party or
class to which they belong. And the ultimate reason of it all is, that
in such people force of will greatly predominates over knowledge; and
hence their meagre intellect is wholly given up to the service of the
will, and can never free itself from that service for a moment.
Astrology furnishes a magnificent proof of this miserable subjective
tendency in men, which leads them to see everything only as bearing
upon themselves, and to think of nothing that is not straightway made
into a personal matter. The aim of astrology is to bring the motions
of the celestial bodies into relation with the wretched Ego and to
establish a connection between a comet in the sky and squabbles and
rascalities on earth.
SECTION 27.
When any wrong statement is made, whether in public or
in society, or in books, and well received—or, at any rate, not
refuted—that that is no reason why you should despair or think there
the matter will rest. You should comfort yourself with the reflection
that the question will be afterwards gradually subjected to
examination; light will be thrown upon it; it will be thought over,
considered, discussed, and generally in the end the correct view will
be reached; so that, after a time—the length of which will depend
upon the difficulty of the subject—everyone will come to understand
that which a clear head saw at once.
In the meantime, of course, you must have patience. He who can see
truly in the midst of general infatuation is like a man whose watch
keeps good time, when all clocks in the town in which he lives are
wrong. He alone knows the right time; but what use is that to him?
for everyone goes by the clocks which speak false, not even excepting
those who know that his watch is the only one that is right.
SECTION 28.
Men are like children, in that, if you spoil them, they
become naughty.
Therefore it is well not to be too indulgent or charitable with
anyone. You may take it as a general rule that you will not lose a
friend by refusing him a loan, but that you are very likely to do
so by granting it; and, for similar reasons, you will not readily
alienate people by being somewhat proud and careless in your
behaviour; but if you are very kind and complaisant towards them, you
will often make them arrogant and intolerable, and so a breach will
ensue.
There is one thing that, more than any other, throws people absolutely
off their balance—the thought that you are dependent upon them. This
is sure to produce an insolent and domineering manner towards you.
There are some people, indeed, who become rude if you enter into any
kind of relation with them; for instance, if you have occasion to
converse with them frequently upon confidential matters, they soon
come to fancy that they can take liberties with you, and so they try
and transgress the laws of politeness. This is why there are so few
with whom you care to become more intimate, and why you should avoid
familiarity with vulgar people. If a man comes to think that I am more
dependent upon him than he is upon me, he at once feels as though I
had stolen something from him; and his endeavor will be to have his
vengeance and get it back. The only way to attain superiority in
dealing with men, is to let it be seen that you are independent of
them.
And in this view it is advisable to let everyone of your
acquaintance—whether man or woman—feel now and then that you
could very well dispense with their company. This will consolidate
friendship. Nay, with most people there will be no harm in
occasionally mixing a grain of disdain with your treatment of them;
that will make them value your friendship all the more. Chi non istima vien stimato, as a subtle Italian proverb has it—to disregard is to win regard. But if we really think very highly of a person, we should conceal it from him like a crime. This is not a very gratifying
thing to do, but it is right. Why, a dog will not bear being treated
too kindly, let alone a man!
SECTION 29.
It is often the case that people of noble character and
great mental gifts betray a strange lack of worldly wisdom and a
deficiency in the knowledge of men, more especially when they are
young; with the result that it is easy to deceive or mislead them; and
that, on the other hand, natures of the commoner sort are more ready
and successful in making their way in the world.
The reason of this is that, when a man has little or no experience,
he must judge by his own antecedent notions; and in matters demanding
judgment, an antecedent notion is never on the same level as
experience. For, with the commoner sort of people, an antecedent
notion means just their own selfish point of view. This is not the
case with those whose mind and character are above the ordinary; for
it is precisely in this respect—their unselfishness—that they differ
from the rest of mankind; and as they judge other people's thoughts
and actions by their own high standard, the result does not always
tally with their calculation.
But if, in the end, a man of noble character comes to see, as the
effect of his own experience, or by the lessons he learns from others,
what it is that may be expected of men in general,—namely, that
five-sixths of them are morally and intellectually so constituted
that, if circumstances do not place you in relation with them, you had
better get out of their way and keep as far as possible from having
anything to do with them,—still, he will scarcely ever attain an
adequate notion of their wretchedly mean and shabby nature: all his
life long he will have to be extending and adding to the inferior
estimate he forms of them; and in the meantime he will commit a great
many mistakes and do himself harm.
Then, again, after he has really taken to heart the lessons that have
been taught him, it will occasionally happen that, when he is in the
society of people whom he does not know, he will be surprised to
find how thoroughly reasonable they all appear to be, both in their
conversation and in their demeanor—in fact, quite honest, sincere,
virtuous and trustworthy people, and at the same time shrewd and
clever.
But that ought not to perplex him. Nature is not like those bad
poets, who, in setting a fool or a knave before us, do their work so
clumsily, and with such evident design, that you might almost
fancy you saw the poet standing behind each of his characters, and
continually disavowing their sentiments, and telling you in a tone of
warning: This is a knave; that is a fool; do not mind what he says.
But Nature goes to work like Shakespeare and Goethe, poets who
make every one of their characters—even if it is the devil
himself!—appear to be quite in the right for the moment that they
come before us in their several parts; the characters are described so
objectively that they excite our interest and compel us to sympathize
with their point of view; for, like the works of Nature, every one
of these characters is evolved as the result of some hidden law
or principle, which makes all they say and do appear natural and
therefore necessary. And you will always be the prey or the plaything
of the devils and fools in this world, if you expect to see them going
about with horns or jangling their bells.
And it should be borne in mind that, in their intercourse with others,
people are like the moon, or like hunchbacks; they show you only one
of their sides. Every man has an innate talent for mimicry,—for
making a mask out of his physiognomy, so that he can always look as
if he really were what he pretends to be; and since he makes his
calculations always within the lines of his individual nature, the
appearance he puts on suits him to a nicety, and its effect is
extremely deceptive. He dons his mask whenever his object is to
flatter himself into some one's good opinion; and you may pay just as
much attention to it as if it were made of wax or cardboard, never
forgetting that excellent Italian proverb: non e si tristo cane che non meni la coda,—there is no dog so bad but that he will wag his tail.
In any case it is well to take care not to form a highly favorable
opinion of a person whose acquaintance you have only recently made,
for otherwise you are very likely to be disappointed; and then you
will be ashamed of yourself and perhaps even suffer some injury.
And while I am on the subject, there is another fact that deserves
mention. It is this. A man shows his character just in the way in
which he deals with trifles,—for then he is off his guard. This will
often afford a good opportunity of observing the boundless egoism of
man's nature, and his total lack of consideration for others; and
if these defects show themselves in small things, or merely in his
general demeanor, you will find that they also underlie his action in
matters of importance, although he may disguise the fact. This is an
opportunity which should not be missed. If in the little affairs of
every day,—the trifles of life, those matters to which the rule de minimis non applies,—a man is inconsiderate and seeks only what is advantageous or convenient to himself, to the prejudice of others' rights; if he appropriates to himself that which belongs to all alike,
you may be sure there is no justice in his heart, and that he would be
a scoundrel on a wholesale scale, only that law and compulsion bind
his hands. Do not trust him beyond your door. He who is not afraid
to break the laws of his own private circle, will break those of the
State when he can do so with impunity.
If the average man were so constituted that the good in him outweighed
the bad, it would be more advisable to rely upon his sense of justice,
fairness, gratitude, fidelity, love or compassion, than to work upon
his fears; but as the contrary is the case, and it is the bad that
outweighs the good, the opposite course is the more prudent one.
If any person with whom we are associated or have to do, exhibits
unpleasant or annoying qualities, we have only to ask ourselves
whether or not this person is of so much value to us that we can put
up with frequent and repeated exhibitions of the same qualities in a
somewhat aggravated form. In case of an affirmative answer to this
question, there will not be much to be said, because talking is very
little use. We must let the matter pass, with or without some notice;
but we should nevertheless remember that we are thereby exposing
ourselves to a repetition of the offence. If the answer is in the
negative, we must break with our worthy friend at once and forever; or
in the case of a servant, dismiss him. For he will inevitably repeat
the offence, or do something tantamount to it, should the occasion
return, even though for the moment he is deep and sincere in his
assurances of the contrary. There is nothing, absolutely nothing,
that a man cannot forget,—but not himself, his own character. For
character is incorrigible; because all a man's actions emanate from an
inward principle, in virtue of which he must always do the same thing
under like circumstances; and he cannot do otherwise. Let me refer to
my prize essay on the so-called Freedom of the Will, the perusal
of which will dissipate any delusions the reader may have on this
subject.
To become reconciled to a friend with whom you have broken, is a form
of weakness; and you pay the penalty of it when he takes the first
opportunity of doing precisely the very thing which brought about
the breach; nay, he does it the more boldly, because he is secretly
conscious that you cannot get on without him. This is also applicable
to servants whom you have dismissed, and then taken into your service
again.
For the same reason, you should just as little expect people to
continue to act in a similar way under altered circumstances. The
truth is that men alter their demeanor and sentiments just as fast as
their interest changes; and their design in this respect is a bill
drawn for short payment that the man must be still more short-sighted
who accepts the bill without protesting it. Accordingly, suppose you
want to know how a man will behave in an office into which you think
of putting him; you should not build upon expectations, on his
promises or assurances. For, even allowing that he is quite sincere,
he is speaking about a matter of which he has no knowledge. The only
way to calculate how he will behave, is to consider the circumstances
in which he will be placed, and the extent to which they will conflict
with his character.
If you wish to get a clear and profound insight—and it is very
needful—into the true but melancholy elements of which most men are
made, you will find in a very instructive thing to take the way they
behave in the pages of literature as a commentary to their doings in
practical life, and vice versa. The experience thus gained will be
very useful in avoiding wrong ideas, whether about yourself or about
others. But if you come across any special trait of meanness or
stupidity—in life or in literature,—you must be careful not to let
it annoy or distress you, but to look upon it merely as an addition to
your knowledge--a new fact to be considered in studying the character
of humanity. Your attitude towards it will be that of the mineralogist
who stumbles upon a very characteristic specimen of a mineral.
Of course there are some facts which are very exceptional, and it is
difficult to understand how they arise, and how it is that there come
to be such enormous differences between man and man; but, in general,
what was said long ago is quite true, and the world is in a very bad
way. In savage countries they eat one another, in civilized they
deceive one another; and that is what people call the way of the
world! What are States and all the elaborate systems of political
machinery, and the rule of force, whether in home or in foreign
affairs,—what are they but barriers against the boundless iniquity
of mankind? Does not all history show that whenever a king is firmly
planted on a throne, and his people reach some degree of prosperity,
he uses it to lead his army, like a band of robbers, against adjoining
countries? Are not almost all wars ultimately undertaken for purposes
of plunder? In the most remote antiquity, and to some extent also in
the Middle Ages, the conquered became slaves,—in other words, they
had to work for those who conquered them; and where is the difference
between that and paying war-taxes, which represent the product of our
previous work?
All war, says Voltaire, is a matter of robbery; and the Germans should
take that as a warning.
SECTION 30.
No man is so formed that he can be left entirely to
himself, to go his own ways; everyone needs to be guided by a
preconceived plan, and to follow certain general rules. But if this is
carried too far, and a man tries to take on a character which is not
natural or innate in him, but it artificially acquired and evolved
merely by a process of reasoning, he will very soon discover that
Nature cannot be forced, and that if you drive it out, it will return
despite your efforts:—
Naturam expelles furca, tamen usque recurret.
To understand a rule governing conduct towards others, even to
discover it for oneself and to express it neatly, is easy enough; and
still, very soon afterwards, the rule may be broken in practice. But
that is no reason for despair; and you need not fancy that as it is
impossible to regulate your life in accordance with abstract ideas
and maxims, it is better to live just as you please. Here, as in all
theoretical instruction that aims at a practical result, the first
thing to do is to understand the rule; the second thing is to learn
the practice of it. The theory may be understood at once by an effort
of reason, and yet the practice of it acquired only in course of time.
A pupil may learn the various notes on an instrument of music, or the
different positions in fencing; and when he makes a mistake, as he
is sure to do, however hard he tries, he is apt to think it will be
impossible to observe the rules, when he is set to read music at sight
or challenged to a furious duel. But for all that, gradual practice
makes him perfect, through a long series of slips, blunders and fresh
efforts. It is just the same in other things; in learning to write and
speak Latin, a man will forget the grammatical rules; it is only
by long practice that a blockhead turns into a courtier, that a
passionate man becomes shrewd and worldly-wise, or a frank person
reserved, or a noble person ironical. But though self-discipline of
this kind is the result of long habit, it always works by a sort of
external compulsion, which Nature never ceases to resist and sometimes
unexpectedly overcomes. The difference between action in accordance
with abstract principles, and action as the result of original,
innate tendency, is the same as that between a work of art, say a
watch—where form and movement are impressed upon shapeless and inert
matter—and a living organism, where form and matter are one, and each
is inseparable from the other.
There is a maxim attributed to the Emperor Napoleon, which expresses
this relation between acquired and innate character, and confirms what
I have said: everything that is unnatural is imperfect;—a rule of
universal application, whether in the physical or in the moral sphere.
The only exception I can think of to this rule is aventurine, a
substance known to mineralogists, which in its natural state cannot
compare with the artificial preparation of it.
And in this connection let me utter a word of protest against any and
every form of affectation. It always arouses contempt; in the first
place, because it argues deception, and the deception is cowardly,
for it is based on fear; and, secondly, it argues self-condemnation,
because it means that a man is trying to appear what he is not, and
therefore something which he things better than he actually is. To
affect a quality, and to plume yourself upon it, is just to confess
that you have not got it. Whether it is courage, or learning, or
intellect, or wit, or success with women, or riches, or social
position, or whatever else it may be that a man boasts of, you may
conclude by his boasting about it that that is precisely the direction
in which he is rather weak; for if a man really possesses any faculty
to the full, it will not occur to him to make a great show of
affecting it; he is quite content to know that he has it. That is the
application of the Spanish proverb: herradura que chacolotea clavo le falta—a clattering hoof means a nail gone. To be sure, as I said at
first, no man ought to let the reins go quite loose, and show himself
just as he is; for there are many evil and bestial sides to our nature
which require to be hidden away out of sight; and this justifies the
negative attitude of dissimulation, but it does not justify a
positive feigning of qualities which are not there. It should also be
remembered that affectation is recognized at once, even before it is
clear what it is that is being affected. And, finally, affectation
cannot last very long, and one day the mask will fall off. Nemo potest personam diu ferre fictam, says Seneca; ficta cito in naturam suam recidunt—no one can persevere long in a fictitious character; for nature will soon reassert itself.
SECTION 31.
A man bears the weight of his own body without knowing it,
but he soon feels the weight of any other, if he tries to move it; in
the same way, a man can see other people's shortcoming's and vices,
but he is blind to his own. This arrangement has one advantage: it
turns other people into a kind of mirror, in which a man can see
clearly everything that is vicious, faulty, ill-bred and loathsome in
his own nature; only, it is generally the old story of the dog barking
at is own image; it is himself that he sees and not another dog, as he
fancies.
He who criticises others, works at the reformation of himself. Those
who form the secret habit of scrutinizing other people's general
behavior, and passing severe judgment upon what they do and leave
undone, thereby improve themselves, and work out their own perfection:
for they will have sufficient sense of justice, or at any rate enough
pride and vanity, to avoid in their own case that which they condemn
so harshly elsewhere. But tolerant people are just the opposite,
and claim for themselves the same indulgence that they extend to
others—hanc veniam damus petimusque vicissim. It is all very well
for the Bible to talk about the mote in another's eye and the beam in
one's own. The nature of the eye is to look not at itself but at other
things; and therefore to observe and blame faults in another is a
very suitable way of becoming conscious of one's own. We require a
looking-glass for the due dressing of our morals.
The same rule applies in the case of style and fine writing. If,
instead of condemning, you applaud some new folly in these matters,
you will imitate it. That is just why literary follies have such vogue
in Germany. The Germans are a very tolerant people--everybody can see
that! Their maxim is—Hanc veniam damns petimusque vicissim.
SECTION 32.
When he is young, a man of noble character fancies that
the relations prevailing amongst mankind, and the alliances to which
these relations lead, are at bottom and essentially, ideal in their
nature; that is to say, that they rest upon similarity of disposition
or sentiment, or taste, or intellectual power, and so on.
But, later on, he finds out that it is a real foundation which
underlies these alliances; that they are based upon some material
interest. This is the true foundation of almost all alliances: nay,
most men have no notion of an alliance resting upon any other basis.
Accordingly we find that a man is always measured by the office he
holds, or by his occupation, nationality, or family relations--in a
word, by the position and character which have been assigned him
in the conventional arrangements of life, where he is ticketed and
treated as so much goods. Reference to what he is in himself, as a
man—to the measure of his own personal qualities—is never made
unless for convenience' sake: and so that view of a man is something
exceptional, to be set aside and ignored, the moment that anyone finds
it disagreeable; and this is what usually happens. But the more of
personal worth a man has, the less pleasure he will take in these
conventional arrangements; and he will try to withdraw from the sphere
in which they apply. The reason why these arrangements exist at all,
is simply that in this world of ours misery and need are the chief
features: therefore it is everywhere the essential and paramount
business of life to devise the means of alleviating them.
SECTION 33.
As paper-money circulates in the world instead of real
coin, so, is the place of true esteem and genuine friendship, you have
the outward appearance of it—a mimic show made to look as much like
the real thing as possible.
On the other hand, it may be asked whether there are any people who
really deserve the true coin. For my own part, I should certainly pay
more respect to an honest dog wagging his tail than to a hundred such
demonstrations of human regard.
True and genuine friendship presupposes a strong sympathy with the
weal and woe of another—purely objective in its character and quite
disinterested; and this in its turn means an absolute identification
of self with the object of friendship. The egoism of human nature is
so strongly antagonistic to any such sympathy, that true friendship
belongs to that class of things—the sea-serpent, for instance,—with
regard to which no one knows whether they are fabulous or really exist
somewhere or other.
Still, in many cases, there is a grain of true and genuine friendship
in the relation of man to man, though generally, of course, some
secret personal interest is at the bottom of them—some one among the
many forms that selfishness can take. But in a world where all is
imperfect, this grain of true feeling is such an ennobling influence
that it gives some warrant for calling those relations by the name of
friendship, for they stand far above the ordinary friendships that
prevail amongst mankind. The latter are so constituted that, were you
to hear how your dear friends speak of you behind your back, you would
never say another word to them.
Apart from the case where it would be a real help to you if your
friend were to make some great sacrifice to serve you, there is no
better means of testing the genuineness of his feelings than the way
in which he receives the news of a misfortune that has just happened
to you. At that moment the expression of his features will either show
that his one thought is that of true and sincere sympathy for you; or
else the absolute composure of his countenance, or the passing trace
of something other than sympathy, will confirm the well-known maxim
of La Rochefoucauld: Dans l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas. Indeed, at such a moment, the ordinary so-called friend will find it hard to suppress the signs of a slight smile of pleasure. There are few ways
by which you can make more certain of putting people into a good humor
than by telling them of some trouble that has recently befallen you,
or by unreservedly disclosing some personal weakness of yours. How
characteristic this is of humanity!
Distance and long absence are always prejudicial to friendship,
however disinclined a man may be to admit. Our regard for people whom
we do not see—even though they be our dearest friends—gradually
dries up in the course of years, and they become abstract notions;
so that our interest in them grows to be more and more
intellectual,—nay, it is kept up only as a kind of tradition; whilst
we retain a lively and deep interest in those who are constantly
before our eyes, even if they be only pet animals. This shows how
much men are limited by their senses, and how true is the remark that
Goethe makes in Tasso about the dominant influence of the present
moment:—
Die Gegenwart ist eine maechtige Goettin
Friends of the house are very rightly so called; because they are
friends of the house rather than of its master; in other words, they
are more like cats than dogs.
Your friends will tell you that they are sincere; your enemies are
really so. Let your enemies' censure be like a bitter medicine, to be
used as a means of self-knowledge.
A friend in need, as the saying goes, is rare. Nay, it is just the
contrary; no sooner have you made a friend than he is in need, and
asks for a loan.
SECTION 34.
A man must be still a greenhorn in the ways of the world, if he imagines that he can make himself popular in society by exhibiting intelligence and discernment. With the immense majority of people, such qualities excite hatred and resentment, which are rendered all the harder to bear by the fact that people are obliged to suppress—even from themselves—the real reason of their anger.
What actually takes place is this. A man feels and perceives that the person with whom he is conversing is intellectually very much his superior.
He thereupon secretly and half unconsciously concludes that his interlocutor must form a proportionately low and limited estimate of his abilities. That is a method of reasoning—an enthymeme—which rouses the bitterest feelings of sullen and rancorous hatred. And so Gracian is quite right in saying that the only way to win affection from people is to show the most animal-like simplicity of demeanor—para ser bien quisto, el unico medio vestirse la piel del mas simple de los brutos.
To show your intelligence and discernment is only an indirect way of reproaching other people for being dull and incapable. And besides, it is natural for a vulgar man to be violently agitated by the sight of opposition in any form; and in this case envy comes in as the secret cause of his hostility. For it is a matter of daily observation that people take the greatest pleasure in that which satisfies their vanity; and vanity cannot be satisfied without comparison with others. Now, there is nothing of which a man is prouder than of intellectual ability, for it is this that gives him his commanding place in the animal world. It is an exceedingly rash thing to let any one see that you are decidedly superior to him in this respect, and to let other people see it too; because he will then thirst for vengeance, and generally look about for an opportunity of taking it by means of insult, because this is to pass from the sphere of intellect to that of will—and there, all are on an equal footing as regards the feeling of hostility. Hence, while rank and riches may always reckon upon deferential treatment in society, that is something which intellectual ability can never expect; to be ignored is the greatest favor shown to it; and if people notice it at all, it is because they regard it as a piece of impertinence, or else as something to which its possessor has no legitimate right, and upon which he dares to pride himself; and in retaliation and revenge for his conduct, people secretly try and humiliate him in some other way; and if they wait to do this, it is only for a fitting opportunity. A man may be as humble as possible in his demeanor, and yet hardly ever get people to overlook his crime in standing intellectually above them. In the Garden of Roses, Sadi makes the remark:—You should know that foolish people are a hundredfold more averse to meeting the wise than the wise are indisposed for the company of the foolish.
On the other hand, it is a real recommendation to be stupid. For just as warmth is agreeable to the body, so it does the mind good to feel its superiority; and a man will seek company likely to give him this feeling, as instinctively as he will approach the fireplace or walk in the sun if he wants to get warm. But this means that he will be disliked on account of his superiority; and if a man is to be liked, he must really be inferior in point of intellect; and the same thing holds good of a woman in point of beauty. To give proof of real and unfeigned inferiority to some of the people you meet—that is a very difficult business indeed!
Consider how kindly and heartily a girl who is passably pretty will welcome one who is downright ugly. Physical advantages are not thought so much of in the case of man, though I suppose you would rather a little man sat next to you than one who was bigger than yourself. This is why, amongst men, it is the dull and ignorant, and amongst women, the ugly, who are always popular and in request. It is likely to be said of such people that they are extremely good-natured, because every one wants to find a pretext for caring about them—a pretext which will blind both himself and other people to the real reason why he likes them. This is also why mental superiority of any sort always tends to isolate its possessor; people run away from him out of pure hatred, and say all manner of bad things about him by way of justifying their action. Beauty, in the case of women, has a similar effect: very pretty girls have no friends of their own sex, and they even find it hard to get another girl to keep them company. A handsome woman should always avoid applying for a position as companion, because the moment she enters the room, her prospective mistress will scowl at her beauty, as a piece of folly with which, both for her own and for her daughter's sake, she can very well dispense. But if the
girl has advantages of rank, the case is very different; because rank, unlike personal qualities which work by the force of mere contrast, produces its effect by a process of reflection; much in the same way as the particular hue of a person's complexion depends upon the prevailing tone of his immediate surroundings.
SECTION 35.
Our trust in other people often consists in great measure
of pure laziness, selfishness and vanity on our own part: I say
laziness, because, instead of making inquiries ourselves, and
exercising an active care, we prefer to trust others; selfishness,
because we are led to confide in people by the pressure of our own
affairs; and vanity, when we ask confidence for a matter on which we
rather pride ourselves. And yet, for all that, we expect people to be
true to the trust we repose in them.
But we ought not to become angry if people put no trust in us: because
that really means that they pay honesty the sincere compliment of
regarding it as a very rare thing,—so rare, indeed, as to leave us in
doubt whether its existence is not merely fabulous.
SECTION 36.
Politeness,—which the Chinese hold to be a cardinal
virtue,—is based upon two considerations of policy. I have explained
one of these considerations in my Ethics; the other is as
follows:—Politeness is a tacit agreement that people's miserable
defects, whether moral or intellectual, shall on either side be
ignored and not made the subject of reproach; and since these defects
are thus rendered somewhat less obtrusive, the result is mutually
advantageous.
It is a wise thing to be polite; consequently, it is a stupid thing
to be rude. To make enemies by unnecessary and willful incivility,
is just as insane a proceeding as to set your house on fire. For
politeness is like a counter--an avowedly false coin, with which it is
foolish to be stingy. A sensible man will be generous in the use
of it. It is customary in every country to end a letter with
the words:—your most obedient servant—votre tres-humble serviteur—suo devotissimo servo_. (The Germans are the only people who suppress the word servant—Diener—because, of course, it is not true!) However, to carry politeness to such an extent as to damage
your prospects, is like giving money where only counters are expected.
Wax, a substance naturally hard and brittle, can be made soft by the
application of a little warmth, so that it will take any shape you
please. In the same way, by being polite and friendly, you can make
people pliable and obliging, even though they are apt to be crabbed
and malevolent. Hence politeness is to human nature what warmth is to
wax.
Of course, it is no easy matter to be polite; in so far, I mean, as it
requires us to show great respect for everybody, whereas most people
deserve none at all; and again in so far as it demands that we should
feign the most lively interest in people, when we must be very glad
that we have nothing to do with them. To combine politeness with pride
is a masterpiece of wisdom.
We should be much less ready to lose our temper over an
insult,—which, in the strict sense of the word, means that we have
not been treated with respect,—if, on the one hand, we have not such
an exaggerated estimate of our value and dignity—that is to say, if
we were not so immensely proud of ourselves; and, on the other hand,
if we had arrived at any clear notion of the judgment which, in his
heart, one man generally passes upon another. If most people resent
the slightest hint that any blame attaches to them, you may imagine
their feelings if they were to overhear what their acquaintance say
about them. You should never lose sight of the fact that ordinary
politeness is only a grinning mask: if it shifts its place a little,
or is removed for a moment, there is no use raising a hue and cry.
When a man is downright rude, it is as though he had taken off all his
clothes, and stood before you in puris naturalibus. Like most men in
this condition, he does not present a very attractive appearance.
SECTION 37.
You ought never to take any man as a model for what you
should do or leave undone; because position and circumstances are in
no two cases alike, and difference of character gives a peculiar,
individual tone to what a man does. Hence duo cum faciunt idem, non est idem—two persons may do the same thing with a different result. A man should act in accordance with his own character, as soon as he has carefully deliberated on what he is about to do.
The outcome of this is that originality cannot be dispensed with in
practical matters: otherwise, what a man does will not accord with
what he is.
SECTION 38.
Never combat any man's opinion; for though you reached the
age of Methuselah, you would never have done setting him right upon
all the absurd things that he believes.
It is also well to avoid correcting people's mistakes in conversation,
however good your intentions may be; for it is easy to offend people,
and difficult, if not impossible, to mend them.
If you feel irritated by the absurd remarks of two people whose
conversation you happen to overhear, you should imagine that you are
listening to a dialogue of two fools in a comedy. Probatum est.
The man who comes into the world with the notion that he is really
going to instruct in matters of the highest importance, may thank his
stars if he escapes with a whole skin.
SECTION 39.
If you want your judgment to be accepted, express it
coolly and without passion. All violence has its seat in the will;
and so, if your judgment is expressed with vehemence, people will
consider it an effort of will, and not the outcome of knowledge, which
is in its nature cold and unimpassioned. Since the will is the primary
and radical element in human nature, and intellect merely supervenes
as something secondary, people are more likely to believe that the
opinion you express with so much vehemence is due to the excited state
of your will, rather than that the excitement of the will comes only
from the ardent nature of your opinion.
SECTION 40.
Even when you are fully justified in praising yourself,
you should never be seduced into doing so. For vanity is so very
common, and merit so very uncommon, that even if a man appears to be
praising himself, though very indirectly, people will be ready to lay
a hundred to one that he is talking out of pure vanity, and that he
has not sense enough to see what a fool he is making of himself.
Still, for all that, there may be some truth in Bacon's remark that,
as in the case of calumny, if you throw enough dirt, some of it will
stick, so it it also in regard to self-praise; with the conclusion
that self-praise, in small doses, is to be recommended.
SECTION 41.
If you have reason to suspect that a person is telling you
a lie, look as though you believed every word he said. This will give
him courage to go on; he will become more vehement in his assertions,
and in the end betray himself.
Again, if you perceive that a person is trying to conceal something
from you, but with only partial success, look as though you did not
believe him, This opposition on your part will provoke him into
leading out his reserve of truth and bringing the whole force of it to
bear upon your incredulity.
SECTION 42.
You should regard all your private affairs as secrets,
and, in respect of them, treat your acquaintances, even though you
are on good terms with them, as perfect strangers, letting them know
nothing more than they can see for themselves. For in course of time,
and under altered circumstances, you may find it a disadvantage that
they know even the most harmless things about you.
And, as a general rule, it is more advisable to show your intelligence
by saying nothing than by speaking out; for silence is a matter
of prudence, whilst speech has something in it of vanity. The
opportunities for displaying the one or the other quality occur
equally often; but the fleeting satisfaction afforded by speech is
often preferred to the permanent advantage secured by silence.
The feeling of relief which lively people experience in speaking aloud
when no one is listening, should not be indulged, lest it grow into a
habit; for in this way thought establishes such very friendly terms
with speech, that conversation is apt to become a process of thinking
aloud. Prudence exacts that a wide gulf should be fixed between what
we think and what we say.
At times we fancy that people are utterly unable to believe in the
truth of some statement affecting us personally, whereas it never
occurs to them to doubt it; but if we give them the slightest
opportunity of doubting it, they find it absolutely impossible
to believe it any more. We often betray ourselves into revealing
something, simply because we suppose that people cannot help noticing
it,—just as a man will throw himself down from a great height because
he loses his head, in other words, because he fancies that he cannot
retain a firm footing any longer; the torment of his position is so
great, that he thinks it better to put an end to it at once. This is
the kind of insanity which is called acrophobia.
But it should not be forgotten how clever people are in regard
to affairs which do not concern them, even though they show no
particularly sign of acuteness in other matters. This is a kind of
algebra in which people are very proficient: give them a single fact
to go upon, and they will solve the most complicated problems. So,
if you wish to relate some event that happened long ago, without
mentioning any names, or otherwise indicating the persons to whom you
refer, you should be very careful not to introduce into your narrative
anything that might point, however distantly, to some definite fact,
whether it is a particular locality, or a date, or the name of some
one who was only to a small extent implicated, or anything else that
was even remotely connected with the event; for that at once gives
people something positive to go upon, and by the aid of their talent
for this sort of algebra, they will discover all the rest. Their
curiosity in these matters becomes a kind of enthusiasm: their will
spurs on their intellect, and drives it forward to the attainment
of the most remote results. For however unsusceptible and different
people may be to general and universal truths, they are very ardent in
the matter of particular details.
In keeping with what I have said, it will be found that all those
who profess to give instructions in the wisdom of life are specially
urgent in commending the practice of silence, and assign manifold
reasons why it should be observed; so it is not necessary for me to
enlarge upon the subject any further. However, I may just add one or
two little known Arabian proverbs, which occur to me as peculiarly
appropriate:—
Do not tell a friend anything that you would conceal from an enemy.
A secret is in my custody, if I keep it; but should it escape me, it is I who am the prisoner.
The tree of silence bears the fruit of peace.
SECTION 43.
Money is never spent to so much advantage as when you have
been cheated out of it; for at one stroke you have purchased prudence.
SECTION 44.
If possible, no animosity should be felt for anyone. But
carefully observe and remember the manner in which a man conducts
himself, so that you may take the measure of his value,—at any
rate in regard to yourself,—and regulate your bearing towards
him accordingly; never losing sight of the fact that character
is unalterable, and that to forget the bad features in a man's
disposition is like throwing away hard-won money. Thus you will
protect yourself against the results of unwise intimacy and foolish
friendship.
Give way neither to love nor to hate, is one-half of worldly wisdom:
say nothing and believe nothing, the other half. Truly, a world
where there is need of such rules as this and the following, is one
upon which a man may well turn his back.
SECTION 45.
To speak angrily to a person, to show your hatred by
what you say or by the way you look, is an unnecessary
proceeding—dangerous, foolish, ridiculous, and vulgar.
Anger and hatred should never be shown otherwise than in what you do;
and feelings will be all the more effective in action, in so far
as you avoid the exhibition of them in any other way. It is only
cold-blooded animals whose bite is poisonous.
SECTION 46.
To speak without emphasizing your words—parler sans accent—is an old rule with those who are wise in the world's ways. It means that you should leave other people to discover what it is
that you have said; and as their minds are slow, you can make your
escape in time. On the other hand, to emphasize your meaning—parler
avec accent—is to address their feelings; and the result is always
the opposite of what you expect. If you are polite enough in your
manner and courteous in your tone there are many people whom you may
abuse outright, and yet run no immediate risk of offending them.
Uncharted Knowledge
Wisdom From Previous Realities
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