Adam Smith · Complete work
Part I, Section I, Chapter II
Part I, Section I, Chapter II of 54. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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Of the Pleasure of mutual Sympathy.
But whatever may be the cause of sympathy, or however it may be excited, nothing pleases us more than to observe in other men a fellow-feeling with all the emotions of our own breast; nor are we ever so much shocked as by the appearance of the contrary. Those who are fond of deducing all our sentiments from certain refinements of self-love, think themselves at no loss to account, according to their own principles, both for this pleasure and this pain. Man, say they, conscious of his own weakness and of the need which he has for the assistance of others, rejoices whenever he observes that they adopt his own passions, because he is then assured of that assistance; and grieves whenever he observes the contrary, because he is then assured of their opposition. But both the pleasure and the pain are always felt so instantaneously, and often upon such frivolous occasions, that it seems evident that neither of them can be derived from any such self-interested consideration. A man is mortified when, after having endeavored to divert the company, he looks round and sees that no body laughs at his jests but himself. On the contrary, the mirth of the company is highly agreeable to him, and he regards this correspondence of their sentiments with his own as the greatest applause.
Neither does his pleasure seem to arise altogether from the additional vivacity which his mirth may receive from sympathy with theirs, nor his pain from the disappointment he meets with when he misses this pleasure; though both the one and the other, no doubt, do in some measure. When we have read a book or poem so often that we can no longer find any amusement in reading it by ourselves, we can still take pleasure in reading it to a companion. To him it has all the graces of novelty; we enter into the surprise and admiration which it naturally excites in him, but which it is no longer capable of exciting in us; we consider all the ideas which it presents rather in the light in which they appear to him, than in that in which they appear to ourselves, and we are amused by sympathy with his amusement which thus enlivens our own. On the contrary, we should be vexed if he did not seem to be entertained with it, and we could no longer take any pleasure in reading it to him. It is the same case here. The mirth of the company, no doubt, enlivens our own mirth, and their silence, no doubt, disappoints us. But though this may contribute both to the pleasure which we derive from the one, and to the pain which we feel from the other, it is by no means the sole cause of either; and this correspondence of the sentiments of others with our own appears to be a cause of pleasure, and the want of it a cause of pain, which cannot be accounted for in this manner. The sympathy, which my friends express with my joy, might, indeed, give me pleasure by enlivening that joy: but that which they express with my grief could give me none, if it served only to enliven that grief. Sympathy, however, enlivens joy and alleviates grief. It enlivens joy by presenting another source of satisfaction; and it alleviates grief by insinuating into the heart almost the only agreeable sensation which it is at that time capable of receiving.
It is to be observed accordingly, that we are still more anxious to communicate to our friends our disagreeable than our agreeable passions, that we derive still more satisfaction from their sympathy with the former than from that with the latter, and that we are still more shocked by the want of it.
How are the unfortunate relieved when they have sound out a person to whom they can communicate the cause of their sorrow? Upon his sympathy they seem to disburthen themselves of a part of their distress: he is not improperly said to share it with them. He not only feels a sorrow of the same kind with that which they feel, but as if he had derived a part of it to himself, what he feels seems to alleviate the weight of what they feel. Yet by relating their misfortunes, they in some measure renew their grief. They awaken in their memory the remembrance of those circumstances which occasion their affliction. Their tears accordingly flow faster than before, and they are apt to abandon themselves to all the weakness of sorrow. They take pleasure, however, in all this, and, it is evident, are sensibly relieved by it; because the sweetness of his sympathy more than compensates the bitterness of that sorrow, which, in order to excite that sympathy, they had thus enlivened and renewed. The cruelest insult, on the contrary, which can be offered to the unfortunate, is to appear to make light of their calamities. To seem not to be affected with the joy of our companions is but want of politeness; but not to wear a serious countenance when they tell us their afflictions, is real and gross inhumanity.
Love is an agreeable, resentment a disagreeable passion; and accordingly we are not half so anxious that our friends should adopt our friendships, as that they should enter into our resentments. We can forgive them though they seem to be little affected with the favors which we may have received, but lose all patience if they seem indifferent about the injuries which may have been done to us: nor are we half so angry with them for not entering into our gratitude, as for not sympathizing with our resentment. They can easily avoid being friends to our friends, but can hardly avoid being enemies to those with whom we are at variance. We seldom resent their being at enmity with the first, though upon that account we may sometimes affect to make an awkward quarrel with them; but we quarrel with them in good earnest if they live in friendship with the last. The agreeable passions of love and joy can satisfy and support the heart without any auxiliary pleasure. The bitter and painful emotions of grief and resentment more strongly require the healing consolation of sympathy.
As the person who is principally interested in any event is pleased with our sympathy, and hurt by the want of it, so we, too, seem to be pleased when we are able to sympathize with him, and to be hurt when we are unable to do so. We run not only to congratulate the successful, but to condole with the afflicted; and the pleasure which we find in the conversation of one whom in all the passions of his heart we can entirely sympathize with, seems to do more than compensate the painfulness of that sorrow with which the view of his situation affects us. On the contrary, it is always disagreeable to feel that we cannot sympathize with him, and instead of being pleased with this exemption from sympathetic pain, it hurts us to find that we cannot share his uneasiness. If we hear a person loudly lamenting his misfortunes, which, however, upon bringing the case home to ourselves, we feel, can produce no such violent effect upon us, we are shocked at his grief; and, because we cannot enter into it, call it pusillanimity and weakness. It gives us the spleen, on the other hand, to see another too happy or too much elevated, as we call it, with any little piece of good fortune. We are disobliged even with his joy, and, because we cannot go along with it, call it levity and folly. We are even put out of humor if our companion laughs louder or longer at a joke than we think it deserves; that is, than we feel that we ourselves could laugh at it.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the complete sixth-edition English text of all parts (the appended Dissertation on the Origin of Languages is not included) for fidelity, the author’s force and cadence, and modern clarity.
Of the Pleasure of Mutual Sympathy.
Whatever the cause of sympathy and however it is awakened, nothing pleases us more than to see others share all the emotions of our own hearts; nothing shocks us more than the appearance that they do not. Those who like to derive all our feelings from elaborate forms of self-love think they can readily explain both this pleasure and this pain by their own principles. A person, they say, aware of his weakness and his need for the assistance of others, rejoices when he sees them adopt his passions, because he can then count on their help; he grieves when they do not, because he can then expect their opposition. But both pleasure and pain are felt so immediately, and often on such trifling occasions, that neither can evidently come from such calculations of self-interest. A man who has tried to entertain a gathering is mortified when he looks around and sees that no one laughs at his jokes but himself. Conversely, the laughter of the gathering pleases him greatly, and he regards this agreement between their feelings and his as the highest applause.
Nor does his pleasure seem to arise entirely because sympathy with their amusement makes his own more lively, or his pain because he misses this pleasure, though both effects doubtless play some part. When we have read a book or poem so often that reading it alone no longer entertains us, we can still enjoy reading it to a companion. To him it has all the charm of novelty. We share the surprise and admiration it naturally inspires in him but can no longer inspire in us. We consider its ideas rather as they appear to him than as they appear to us, and sympathy with his enjoyment entertains us and revives our own. Conversely, we would be vexed if he appeared not to enjoy it, and could no longer take pleasure in reading it to him. So it is with our jokes: the company’s laughter certainly makes our own amusement livelier, while their silence disappoints us. But though this may add to our pleasure in the one case and our pain in the other, it is not the sole cause of either. The agreement of others’ feelings with ours appears to be a source of pleasure, and their disagreement a source of pain, that this explanation cannot account for. My friends’ sympathy with my joy might give me pleasure by making the joy more vivid; but their sympathy with my grief could give me no pleasure if it merely intensified that grief. Sympathy, however, enlivens joy and lightens grief. It enlivens joy by offering another source of satisfaction; it lightens grief by letting into the heart almost the only pleasant sensation it can then receive.
Accordingly, we should notice that we are even more eager to tell our friends about our painful passions than our pleasant ones; we take still greater satisfaction in their sympathy with the former than with the latter, and are even more shocked when that sympathy is absent.
How much relief unfortunate people find when they discover someone to whom they can tell the cause of their sorrow! Through his sympathy they seem to unload part of their distress; it is fitting to say that he shares it with them. He not only feels sorrow of the same kind, but seems to take a part of theirs upon himself, and what he feels seems to lighten the weight of what they feel. Yet in telling him their misfortunes they partly renew their grief. They recall the circumstances that caused their affliction. Their tears flow faster than before, and they may surrender themselves to all the weakness of sorrow. Nevertheless they take pleasure in this, and it plainly gives them perceptible relief, because the sweetness of his sympathy more than makes up for the bitterness of the grief they have revived to awaken it. By contrast, the cruelest insult one can offer the unfortunate is to appear to make light of their calamities. To show no response to our companions’ joy is merely impolite; to fail to look serious when they tell us of their afflictions is truly and grossly inhumane.
Love is a pleasant passion and resentment a painful one. We are therefore not nearly so anxious that our friends should share our friendships as that they should share our resentments. We can forgive them if they seem little moved by favors we have received, but lose all patience if they seem indifferent to injuries done to us. We are not nearly so angry when they fail to join our gratitude as when they fail to sympathize with our resentment. They can easily avoid becoming friends of our friends, but can scarcely avoid becoming enemies of people with whom we are at odds. We seldom resent their hostility toward the first, though we may occasionally make a show of an awkward quarrel over it; but we quarrel with them in earnest if they remain friends with the second. The pleasant passions of love and joy can satisfy and sustain the heart without any added pleasure. The bitter and painful emotions of grief and resentment have a stronger need for sympathy’s healing comfort.
Just as the person directly affected by an event is pleased by our sympathy and hurt by its absence, so we too seem pleased when we can sympathize and hurt when we cannot. We go not only to congratulate the fortunate but to console the afflicted. The pleasure of speaking with someone whose every heartfelt passion we can fully share seems more than to compensate for the sorrow that the sight of his situation brings us. Conversely, it is always unpleasant to find ourselves unable to sympathize. Instead of enjoying exemption from the pain of sympathetic feeling, we are distressed to discover that we cannot share his discomfort. If we hear someone loudly bewail misfortunes which, when we imagine them happening to us, we feel could never affect us so violently, his grief shocks us; unable to share it, we call it cowardice and weakness. On the other hand, seeing someone too delighted or, as we say, too elated over some small piece of good fortune irritates us. We take offense even at his joy and, unable to share it, call it frivolity and foolishness. We are put out of humor even if a companion laughs louder or longer at a joke than we think it merits—that is, more than we feel we ourselves could laugh at it.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the complete sixth-edition English text of all parts (the appended Dissertation on the Origin of Languages is not included).
On the Pleasure of Mutual Sympathy.
Whatever causes sympathy, and however it starts, nothing pleases us more than seeing other people share our feelings. Nothing shocks us more than seeing that they do not. Some people try to explain all our feelings as subtle forms of self-love. They think their theory easily explains this pleasure and pain. They say people know they are weak and need help from others. They are glad when others share their feelings because that promises help, and sad when others do not because that promises opposition. But we feel both pleasure and pain immediately, often over trivial things. Neither can come from such a calculation of self-interest. A man who tries to amuse a group is embarrassed if he looks around and finds that nobody laughs at his jokes except himself. If the group laughs, he enjoys it greatly. He considers their agreement with his feelings the highest praise.
His pleasure does not seem to come entirely from having his own amusement made livelier by sharing theirs. Nor does his pain come entirely from missing out on that added pleasure, though both effects certainly play some part. After reading a book or poem so many times that we no longer enjoy it on our own, we may still enjoy reading it to someone else. To that person, it is new and full of appeal. We share the surprise and admiration it naturally causes in them, even though it no longer causes those feelings in us. We view its ideas less as we see them ourselves than as they appear to that person. By sharing their enjoyment, we revive our own. If they did not seem to enjoy it, we would feel disappointed and would no longer enjoy reading it aloud. The same applies to our jokes. Others' laughter certainly makes our amusement livelier, and their silence disappoints us. But these effects are not the only reasons for our pleasure and pain. Agreement between their feelings and ours brings pleasure, and disagreement brings pain, for a reason that this explanation does not cover. My friends' sympathy with my joy might please me by increasing my joy. But if their sympathy with my grief did nothing but increase that grief, it could give me no pleasure. Yet sympathy increases joy and eases grief. It adds another source of satisfaction to joy. Into grief, it brings almost the only pleasant feeling the grieving heart can then receive.
Notice that we are even more eager to tell friends about painful feelings than pleasant ones. Their sympathy with our pain gives us even more comfort than their sympathy with our pleasure, and its absence shocks us even more.
How relieved unhappy people are when they find someone they can tell why they are sad! They seem to unload part of their distress through that person's sympathy. It is fair to say the listener shares it. The listener feels a similar sadness, as though taking some of their burden and making the burden left to them lighter. Yet telling their story also revives their grief to some extent. They recall the details that caused it. They cry harder than before and may give in completely to their sorrow. Still, they find comfort in doing so and clearly feel some relief. The sweetness of another person's sympathy more than makes up for the painful sorrow that they have revived in order to gain it. By contrast, the cruelest insult we can offer unhappy people is to appear to take their troubles lightly. Failing to share our companions' joy is merely impolite. Failing to look serious when they tell us about their suffering is deeply inhumane.
Love is pleasant and resentment is painful. So we care much less whether friends share our friendships than whether they share our resentments. We can forgive friends who take little interest in the kindness we have received. But we lose patience if they seem indifferent to wrongs done to us. We are far angrier when they fail to share our resentment than when they fail to share our gratitude. They can easily avoid befriending our friends, but can hardly avoid becoming enemies of the people we oppose. We seldom take offense if they dislike our friends, though we may sometimes make an awkward show of quarreling with them about it. But we quarrel with them in earnest if they stay friends with our enemies. The pleasant feelings of love and joy can satisfy and sustain us without any extra pleasure. The painful feelings of grief and resentment need the comfort of sympathy much more.
The person directly affected by an event enjoys our sympathy and feels hurt when we offer none. In the same way, we enjoy being able to share that person's feelings and feel hurt when we cannot. We go to congratulate people on their success, but also to console them in trouble. When we can fully share everything someone feels, the pleasure of talking with that person seems more than enough to offset the pain we feel at seeing their suffering. On the other hand, it is always unpleasant to find that we cannot sympathize. Far from enjoying an escape from the pain of sharing another's troubles, we are troubled by our inability to feel with them. Suppose someone loudly laments a misfortune that would not affect us nearly so strongly if it happened to us. Their grief shocks us. Because we cannot share it, we call it cowardice and weakness. Likewise, we are irritated to see someone too happy or too excited, as we put it, by a small piece of good luck. Their joy annoys us, and because we cannot share it, we call it frivolous and foolish. We even get annoyed when a companion laughs at a joke louder or longer than we think it deserves—that is, longer than we ourselves could laugh at it.