Part I, Section III, Chapter I, 2

Why should we be more ashamed to weep than to laugh in company? We may often have as real a reason for one as for the other. But we always sense that spectators are likelier to join us in the pleasant emotion than in the painful one. It is always wretched to complain, even when we are oppressed by the most dreadful calamities. Yet the triumph of victory is not always ungraceful. Prudence, it is true, would often advise us to bear prosperity more moderately, since it would teach us to avoid the envy that triumph, more than anything else, is apt to arouse.

How heartfelt are the cheers of the crowd, who never envy their superiors, at a triumph or public entrance! And how calm and restrained is their grief, as a rule, at an execution! Our sorrow at a funeral generally amounts to no more than an assumed solemnity, but our merriment at a christening or a wedding is always sincere and unaffected. On these and all such joyful occasions, our pleasure, though less lasting, is often as vivid as that of the people directly concerned. Whenever we wholeheartedly congratulate our friends—as, to the disgrace of human nature, we seldom do—their joy literally becomes ours: for the moment we are as happy as they are. Our hearts swell and overflow with genuine pleasure; joy and satisfaction shine from our eyes and animate every feature of our faces and every movement of our bodies.

By contrast, when we offer condolences to our friends in their afflictions, how little we feel compared with them! We sit beside them, look at them, and listen gravely and attentively as they tell us the circumstances of their misfortune. But their account is constantly interrupted by natural outbursts of feeling that often seem almost to choke them as they speak; how far the faint emotions of our hearts are from matching the surges of theirs! At the same time, we may recognize that their passion is natural and no greater than we might feel in the same circumstances. We may even silently reproach ourselves for our lack of sensitivity and, perhaps for that reason, work ourselves up to an artificial sympathy. Yet even when produced, it is as slight and fleeting as can be imagined; generally, the moment we leave the room, it vanishes forever. Nature, it seems, thought the sorrows she laid upon us were enough, and so did not command us to share the sorrows of others beyond what was needed to prompt us to relieve them.

It is because our sensitivity to others' afflictions is so dull that magnanimity amid great distress always appears so divinely graceful. The man who preserves his cheerfulness amid many trivial misfortunes behaves with ease and charm. But a man who bears the most dreadful calamities in the same way seems more than mortal. We feel what an immense effort is required to silence the violent emotions that naturally agitate and overwhelm people in his position. We are astonished to find him so fully master of himself. At the same time, his firmness exactly matches our own insensibility. He asks none of that more delicate sensitivity which we discover, to our mortification, we do not possess. His sentiments and ours correspond perfectly, and his behavior therefore shows the most perfect propriety. From our experience of the usual weakness of human nature, moreover, we could not reasonably have expected him to maintain such propriety. We marvel in surprise and astonishment at the strength of mind capable of so noble and generous an effort. Complete sympathy and approval, blended with and heightened by wonder and surprise, constitute what is properly called admiration, as has already been noted more than once. Cato, surrounded on every side by enemies whom he could not resist and to whom he scorned to submit, was driven by the proud principles of his age to take his own life. Yet he never flinched from his misfortunes or begged in the pitiful voice of misery for those sympathetic tears we are always so reluctant to shed. Instead, he armed himself with manly fortitude and, just before carrying out his fatal decision, calmly gave every necessary order for the safety of his friends. To Seneca, that great preacher of insensibility, he appeared a spectacle that even the gods themselves might behold with pleasure and admiration.

Whenever we encounter such heroic magnanimity in ordinary life, we are deeply moved. We are more likely to weep for those who seem in this way to feel nothing for themselves than for those who surrender to every weakness of sorrow; in this particular case, the spectator's sympathetic grief seems to exceed the original passion of the person directly concerned. All Socrates' friends wept when he drank the final draught, while he himself displayed the gayest and most cheerful serenity. On such occasions the spectator makes no effort, and has no need to make one, to conquer his sympathetic sorrow. He has no fear it will carry him into anything extravagant or improper; rather, pleased by the sensitivity of his own heart, he gives way to it with satisfaction and self-approval. He therefore willingly indulges the most melancholy thoughts that can naturally occur to him about his friend's calamity, feeling perhaps as never before that tender, tearful passion of love for him. The person directly concerned, however, faces something quite different. He must turn his eyes, as far as possible, from everything naturally terrible or distressing in his condition. He fears that attending too closely to those circumstances might affect him so powerfully that he could no longer stay within the bounds of moderation or make himself worthy of the spectators' complete sympathy and approval. He therefore fixes his thoughts only on what is agreeable: the praise and admiration he is about to earn by his heroic magnanimity. The knowledge that he is capable of so noble and generous an effort, that in this dreadful position he can still act as he would wish to act, animates and transports him with joy. It enables him to sustain the triumphant gaiety that seems to celebrate his victory over his misfortunes.

Conversely, someone sunk in sorrow and dejection over a calamity of his own always appears, to some degree, mean and contemptible. We cannot bring ourselves to feel for him what he feels for himself, and what perhaps we would feel for ourselves in his position. We therefore despise him—unjustly, perhaps, if any sentiment to which nature irresistibly determines us can be called unjust. The weakness of sorrow never appears in any way agreeable except when it springs more from our feelings for others than from our feelings for ourselves. A son may yield to it on the death of a kind and respected father without much blame. His grief rests chiefly on a kind of sympathy with his departed parent, and we readily share this humane emotion. But if he gave way to the same weakness over a misfortune affecting only himself, he would receive no such indulgence. If he were reduced to beggary and ruin, exposed to the most dreadful dangers, or even led to a public execution, and shed a single tear on the scaffold, he would disgrace himself forever in the eyes of all the brave and generous among humanity. Their compassion for him would nevertheless be strong and sincere; but because it would still fall short of this excessive weakness, they would not forgive the man for exposing himself in this way before the world. His behavior would make them feel shame rather than sorrow, and the dishonor he brought upon himself would seem to them the most lamentable part of his misfortune. How the fearless Duke of Biron, who had so often defied death in battle, disgraced his memory when he wept on the scaffold, seeing the condition to which he had fallen and remembering the favor and glory that his own rashness had so disastrously cost him!

Why are we more ashamed to cry than to laugh in front of other people? We may have just as good a reason for one as for the other. But we always sense that observers are more likely to share a pleasant feeling than a painful one. Complaining is always miserable, even under the most terrible misfortunes. Yet celebrating a victory is not always unappealing. Good judgment would often tell us to handle prosperity with more restraint, because a public triumph is especially likely to provoke envy, and we should avoid that.

How loudly ordinary crowds, who do not envy those above them, cheer at a triumph or ceremonial entrance! And how calm and restrained their grief usually is at an execution! At a funeral our sorrow generally amounts to little more than an appearance of seriousness. At a christening or wedding our happiness is heartfelt and genuine. At these and similar happy events, our pleasure may be as vivid as the pleasure of those directly involved, though it does not last as long. When we sincerely congratulate our friends—which, to humanity's shame, we rarely do—their joy actually becomes ours. For a moment we are as happy as they are. Our hearts swell and overflow with real pleasure; joy and contentment shine from our eyes and brighten our faces and every movement we make.

But how little we feel compared with our friends when we offer them comfort in their suffering! We sit beside them and watch them. We listen seriously and carefully as they describe their misfortune. Yet their story is constantly interrupted by natural surges of emotion that almost choke them as they speak. Our hearts respond so faintly by comparison! We may recognize that their emotion is natural, and no stronger than ours would be in their position. We may even privately blame ourselves for not feeling more. That may lead us to work up an artificial sympathy, but it is always extremely faint and brief. It generally disappears forever as soon as we leave the room. Nature, it seems, decided that our own sorrows already burden us enough. She did not require us to share other people's sorrows beyond what would move us to help them.

Because we feel others' suffering so weakly, great courage in terrible distress looks wonderfully noble to us. Someone who stays cheerful through many small mishaps behaves pleasantly and appropriately. Someone who can do the same through the worst disasters seems more than human. We sense the enormous effort it takes to quiet the powerful emotions that naturally shake and confuse someone in that position. We are amazed that he controls himself so fully. At the same time, his steadiness fits perfectly with our relative lack of feeling. He does not ask us for a depth of feeling we do not have, and are embarrassed to discover we do not have. His feelings match ours perfectly, so his conduct shows perfect propriety. From what we know of ordinary human weakness, we could not reasonably have expected him to maintain it. We are astonished at the mental strength needed for such a noble, generous effort. As noted more than once already, admiration is the name for complete sympathy and approval mixed with wonder and surprise. Consider Cato. Enemies surrounded him; he could not resist them and refused to submit. The proud values of his age left him no choice, as he saw it, but to kill himself. Yet he did not shrink from his troubles or plead in a pitiful voice for the sympathetic tears we are so reluctant to give. Instead he armed himself with courage. Just before carrying out his fatal decision, he calmly gave all necessary orders for his friends' safety. To Seneca, that great advocate of suppressing feeling, Cato looked like a sight that even the gods might watch with pleasure and admiration.

When we see such extraordinary courage in everyday life, it affects us deeply. We are more likely to cry for those who seem not to feel anything for themselves than for those who give way to every weakness of grief. In this case an observer's sympathetic grief seems stronger than the feeling of the person directly involved. Socrates' friends all cried when he drank the final potion, while Socrates himself was entirely calm and cheerful. In such cases an observer makes no effort to control his sympathetic sorrow, nor does he need to. He is not afraid it will lead him to anything excessive or improper. He is pleased with his own sensitivity and freely gives in to it, satisfied with himself. So he willingly thinks about the saddest aspects of his friend's misfortune. Perhaps he has never before felt such tender, tearful love for that friend. But it is different for the person directly affected. He has to look away as much as possible from everything naturally frightening or unpleasant about his position. He fears that thinking too closely about it will affect him so strongly that he will lose his restraint and no longer win the observers' complete sympathy and approval. Instead he concentrates only on what is pleasant: the applause and admiration his courageous conduct will earn. Knowing he can make so noble and generous an effort, and still behave as he wishes in this terrible position, fills him with joy. That feeling helps him maintain a triumphant cheerfulness, as if celebrating victory over his misfortunes.

On the other hand, a man sunk in sorrow and despair over a misfortune of his own always seems somewhat low and contemptible. We cannot make ourselves feel what he feels, though we might feel the same way in his place. So we despise him—perhaps unfairly, if a feeling that nature makes us feel irresistibly can be called unfair. Giving way to grief never seems at all attractive unless it comes more from concern for others than concern for oneself. A son may grieve openly when a kind and respected father dies without drawing much blame. His grief rests mainly on sympathy with his dead father, and we readily share that humane feeling. But we would not make the same allowance if he gave way to grief over a misfortune affecting only himself. Suppose he lost everything and had to beg, faced the gravest danger, or was even taken to a public execution. If he shed a single tear on the scaffold, brave and generous people everywhere would think less of him forever. Their compassion for him would be very strong and sincere. But because their feeling would still fall short of his display of weakness, they would not forgive him for showing it to the world. His behavior would make them feel ashamed for him rather than sad. The loss of his honor would seem to them the saddest part of his misfortune. Think how the fearless Duke of Biron, who had faced death so often in battle, damaged his reputation by crying on the scaffold. He saw how far he had fallen and remembered the favor and glory his own recklessness had cost him!