Chapter 4

5 of 7 chapters in Aphorisms on the Wisdom of Life by Arthur Schopenhauer

Original German

Von dem, was einer vorstellt.

Dieses, also unser Dasein in der Meinung anderer, wird, infolge einer besonderen Schwäche unserer Natur, durchgängig viel zu hoch angeschlagen; obgleich schon die leichteste Besinnung lehren könnte, daß es, an sich selbst, für unser Glück, unwesentlich ist. Es ist demnach kaum erklärlich, wie sehr jeder Mensch sich innerlich freut, so oft er Zeichen der günstigen Meinung anderer merkt und seiner Eitelkeit irgendwie geschmeichelt wird. So unausbleiblich wie die Katze spinnt, wenn man sie streichelt, malt süße Wonne sich auf das Gesicht des Menschen, den man lobt und zwar in dem Felde seiner Prätension, sei das Lob auch handgreiflich lügenhaft. Oft trösten ihn über reales Unglück oder über die Kargheit, mit der für ihn die beiden, bis hieher abgehandelten Hauptquellen unseres Glückes fließen, die Zeichen des fremden Beifalls: und, umgekehrt, ist es zum Erstaunen, wie sehr jede Verletzung seines Ehrgeizes, in irgend einem Sinne, Grad oder Verhältnis, jede Geringschätzung, Zurücksetzung, Nichtachtung ihn unfehlbar kränkt und oft tief schmerzt. Sofern auf dieser Eigenschaft das Gefühl der Ehre beruht, mag sie für das Wohlverhalten vieler, als Surrogat ihrer Moralität, von ersprießlichen Folgen sein; aber auf das eigene Glück des Menschen, zunächst auf die diesem so wesentliche Gemütsruhe und Unabhängigkeit, wirkt sie mehr störend und nachteilig als förderlich ein. Daher ist es, von unserm Gesichtspunkt aus, ratsam, ihr Schranken zu setzen und, mittels gehöriger Überlegung und richtiger Abschätzung des Wertes der Güter, jene große Empfindlichkeit gegen die fremde Meinung möglichst zu mäßigen, sowohl da, wo ihr geschmeichelt wird, als da, wo ihr wehe geschieht: denn beides hängt am selben Faden. Außerdem bleibt man der Sklave fremder Meinung und fremden Bedünkens:

Sic leve, sic parvum est, animum quod laudis avarumSubruit ac reficit.

Demnach wird eine richtige Abschätzung des Wertes dessen, was man in und für sich selbst ist, gegen das, was man bloß in den Augen anderer ist, zu unserm Glücke viel beitragen. Zum ersteren gehört die ganze Ausfüllung der Zeit unsers eigenen Daseins, der innere Gehalt desselben, mithin alle die Güter, welche unter den Titeln »was einer ist« und »was einer hat« von uns in Betrachtung genommen worden sind. Denn der Ort, in welchem alles dieses seine Wirkungssphäre hat, ist das eigene Bewußtsein. Hingegen ist der Ort dessen, was wir für andere sind, das fremde Bewußtsein: es ist die Vorstellung, unter welcher wir darin erscheinen, nebst den Begriffen, die auf diese angewandt werden[D]. Dies nun ist etwas, das unmittelbar gar nicht für uns vorhanden ist, sondern bloß mittelbar, nämlich sofern das Betragen der andern gegen uns dadurch bestimmt wird. Und auch dieses selbst kommt eigentlich nur in Betracht, sofern es Einfluß hat auf irgend etwas, wodurch das, was wir in und für uns selbst sind, modifizirt werden kann. Außerdem ist ja, was in einem fremden Bewußtsein vorgeht, als solches, für uns gleichgültig, und auch wir werden allmählig gleichgültig dagegen werden, wenn wir von der Oberflächlichkeit und Futilität der Gedanken, von der Beschränktheit der Begriffe, von der Kleinlichkeit der Gesinnung, von der Verkehrtheit der Meinungen und von der Anzahl der Irrtümer in den allermeisten Köpfen eine hinlängliche Kenntnis erlangen, und dazu aus eigener Erfahrung lernen, mit welcher Geringschätzung gelegentlich von jedem geredet wird, sobald man ihn nicht zu fürchten hat oder glaubt, es komme ihm nicht zu Ohren; insbesondere aber nachdem wir einmal angehört haben, wie vom größten Manne ein halbes Dutzend Schafsköpfe mit Wegwerfung spricht. Wir werden dann einsehen, daß, wer auf die Meinung der Menschen einen großen Wert legt, ihnen zu viel Ehre erzeigt.

[D] Die höchsten Stände, in ihrem Glanz, in ihrer Pracht und Prunk und Herrlichkeit und Repräsentation jeder Art können sagen: unser Glück liegt ganz außerhalb unserer selbst: sein Ort sind die Köpfe anderer.

Jedenfalls ist der auf eine kümmerliche Ressource hingewiesen, der sein Glück nicht in den beiden, bereits abgehandelten Klassen von Gütern findet, sondern es in dieser dritten suchen muß, also nicht in dem, was er wirklich, sondern in dem, was er in der fremden Vorstellung ist. Denn überhaupt ist die Basis unseres Wesens und folglich auch unseres Glücks unsere animalische Natur. Daher ist, für unsere Wohlfahrt, Gesundheit das wesentlichste, nächst dieser aber die Mittel zu unserer Erhaltung, also ein sorgenfreies Auskommen. Ehre, Glanz, Rang, Ruhm, so viel Wert auch mancher darauf legen mag, können mit jenen wesentlichen Gütern nicht kompetiren, noch sie ersetzen: vielmehr würden sie, erforderlichen Falle, unbedenklich für jene hingegeben werden. Dieserwegen wird es zu unserm Glücke beitragen, wenn wir beizeiten die simple Einsicht erlangen, daß jeder zunächst und wirklich in seiner eigenen Haut lebt, nicht aber in der Meinung anderer, und daß demnach unser realer und persönlicher Zustand, wie er durch Gesundheit, Temperament, Fähigkeiten, Einkommen, Weib, Kind, Freunde, Wohnort usw. bestimmt wird, für unser Glück hundertmal wichtiger ist, als was es andern beliebt aus uns zu machen. Der entgegengesetzte Wahn macht unglücklich. Wird mit Emphase ausgerufen »Über's Leben geht noch die Ehre,« so besagt dies eigentlich: »Dasein und Wohlsein sind nichts; sondern was die andern von uns denken, das ist die Sache.« Allenfalls kann der Ausspruch als eine Hyperbel gelten, der die prosaische Wahrheit zum Grunde liegt, daß zu unserm Fortkommen und Bestehn unter Menschen die Ehre, d. h. die Meinung derselben von uns, oft unumgänglich nötig ist; worauf ich weiterhin zurückkommen werde. Wenn man hingegen sieht, wie fast alles, wonach Menschen, ihr Leben lang, mit rastloser Anstrengung und unter tausend Gefahren und Mühseligkeiten, unermüdlich streben, zum letzten Zweck, hat, sich dadurch in der Meinung anderer zu erhöhen, indem nämlich nicht nur Ämter, Titel und Orden, sondern auch Reichtum, und selbst Wissenschaft[E] und Kunst, im Grunde und hauptsächlich deshalb angestrebt werden, und der größere Respekt anderer das letzte Ziel ist, darauf man hinarbeitet; so beweist dies leider nur die Größe der menschlichen Torheit. Viel zu viel Wert auf die Meinung anderer zu legen, ist ein allgemein herrschender Irrwahn: mag er nun in unserer Natur selbst wurzeln, oder in Folge der Gesellschaft und Zivilisation entstanden sein; jedenfalls übt er auf unser gesamtes Tun und Lassen einen ganz übermäßigen und unserem Glücke feindlichen Einfluß aus, den wir verfolgen können, von da an, wo er sich in der ängstlichen und sklavischen Rücksicht auf das qu'en dira-t-on zeigt, bis dahin, wo er den Dolch des Virginius in das Herz seiner Tochter stößt, oder den Menschen verleitet, für den Nachruhm, Ruhe, Reichtum und Gesundheit, ja, das Leben zu opfern. Dieser Wahn bietet allerdings dem, der die Menschen zu beherrschen oder sonst zu lenken hat, eine bequeme Handhabe dar; weshalb in jeder Art von Menschendressierungskunst die Weisung, das Ehrgefühl rege zu erhalten und zu schärfen, eine Hauptstelle einnimmt: aber in Hinsicht auf das eigene Glück des Menschen, welches hier unsere Absicht ist, verhält die Sache sich ganz anders, und ist vielmehr davon abzumahnen, daß man nicht zu viel Wert auf die Meinung anderer lege. Wenn es, wie die tägliche Erfahrung lehrt, dennoch geschieht, wenn die meisten Menschen gerade auf die Meinung anderer von ihnen den höchsten Wert legen und es ihnen darum mehr zu tun ist als um das, was, weil es in ihrem eigenen Bewußtsein vorgeht, unmittelbar für sie vorhanden ist; wenn demnach, mittels Umkehrung der natürlichen Ordnung, ihnen jenes der reale, dieses der bloß ideale Teil ihres Daseins zu sein scheint, wenn sie also das Abgeleitete und Sekundäre zur Hauptsache machen und ihnen mehr das Bild ihres Wesens im Kopfe anderer, als dieses Wesen selbst am Herzen liegt; so ist diese unmittelbare Wertschätzung dessen, was für uns unmittelbar gar nicht vorhanden ist, diejenige Torheit, welche man Eitelkeit, vanitas, genannt hat, um dadurch das Leere und Gehaltlose dieses Strebens zu bezeichnen. Auch ist aus dem Obigen leicht einzusehn, daß sie zum Vergessen des Zwecks über die Mittel gehört, so gut wie der Geiz.

[E] Scire tuum nihil est, nisi te scire hoc sciat alter.

In der Tat überschreitet der Wert, den wir auf die Meinung anderer legen, und unsere beständige Sorge in betreff derselben, in der Regel, fast jede vernünftige Bezweckung, so daß sie als eine Art allgemein verbreiteter oder vielmehr angeborener Manie angesehn werden kann. Bei allem, was wir tun und lassen, wird, fast vor allem andern, die fremde Meinung berücksichtigt, und aus der Sorge um sie werden wir, bei genauer Untersuchung, fast die Hälfte aller Bekümmernisse und Ängste, die wir jemals empfunden haben, hervorgegangen sehn. Denn sie liegt allem unserm, so oft gekränkten, weil so krankhaft empfindlichen, Selbstgefühl, allen unsern Eitelkeiten und Prätensionen, wie auch unserm Prunken und Großtun, zum Grunde. Ohne diese Sorge und Sucht würde der Luxus kaum ein Zehntel dessen sein, was er ist. Aller und jeder Stolz, point d'honneur und puntiglio, so verschiedener Gattung und Sphäre er auch sein kann, beruht auf ihr – und welche Opfer heischt sie da nicht oft! Sie zeigt sich schon im Kinde, sodann in jedem Lebensalter, jedoch am stärksten im späten; weil dann, beim Versiegen der Fähigkeit zu sinnlichen Genüssen, Eitelkeit und Hochmut nur noch mit dem Geize die Herrschaft zu teilen haben. Am deutlichsten läßt sie sich an den Franzosen beobachten, als bei welchen sie ganz endemisch ist und sich oft in der abgeschmacktesten Ehrsucht, lächerlichsten National-Eitelkeit und unverschämtesten Prahlerei Luft macht; wodurch dann ihr Streben sich selbst vereitelt, indem es sie zum Spotte der andern Nationen gemacht hat und die grande nation ein Neckname geworden ist. Um nun aber die in Rede stehende Verkehrtheit der überschwänglichen Sorge um die Meinung anderer noch speziell zu erläutern, mag hier ein, durch den Lichteffekt des Zusammentreffens der Umstände mit dem angemessenen Charakter, in seltenem Grade begünstigtes, recht superlatives Beispiel jener in der Menschennatur wurzelnden Torheit Platz finden, da an demselben die Stärke dieser höchst wunderlichen Triebfeder sich ganz ermessen läßt. Es ist folgende, den Times vom 31. März 1846 entnommene Stelle aus dem ausführlichen Bericht von der soeben vollzogenen Hinrichtung des Thomas Wix, eines Handwerksgesellen, der aus Rache seinen Meister ermordet hatte: »An dem zur Hinrichtung festgesetzten Morgen fand sich der hochwürdige Gefängniskaplan zeitig bei ihm ein. Allein Wix, obwohl sich ruhig betragend, zeigte keinen Anteil an seinen Ermahnungen: vielmehr war das einzige, was ihm am Herzen lag, daß es ihm gelingen möchte, vor den Zuschauern seines schmachvollen Endes, sich mit recht großer Bravour zu benehmen. – – – Dies ist ihm denn auch gelungen. Auf dem Hofraum, den er zu dem, hart am Gefängnis errichteten Galgenschaffot zu durchschreiten hatte, sagte er: >Wohlan denn, wie Doktor Dodd gesagt hat, bald werde ich das große Geheimnis wissen!< Er ging, obwohl mit gebundenen Armen, die Leiter zum Schaffot ohne die geringste Beihilfe hinauf: daselbst angelangt machte er gegen die Zuschauer, rechts und links, Verbeugungen, welche denn auch mit dem donnernden Beifallsruf der versammelten Menge beantwortet und belohnt wurden, usw.« – Dies ist ein Prachtexemplar der Ehrsucht, den Tod, in schrecklichster Gestalt, nebst der Ewigkeit dahinter, vor Augen, keine andere Sorge zu haben, als die um den Eindruck auf den zusammengelaufenen Haufen der Gaffer und die Meinung, welche man in deren Köpfen zurücklassen wird! – Und doch war eben so der im selben Jahr in Frankreich, wegen versuchten Königsmordes, hingerichtete Lecomte, bei seinem Prozeß, hauptsächlich darüber verdrießlich, daß er nicht in anständiger Kleidung vor der Pairskammer erscheinen konnte, und selbst bei seiner Hinrichtung war es ihm ein Hauptverdruß, daß man ihm nicht erlaubt hatte, sich vorher zu rasiren. Daß es auch ehemals nicht anders gewesen, ersehen wir aus dem, was Mateo Aleman, in der, seinem berühmten Romane, Guzman de Alfarache, vorgesetzten Einleitung (declaracion) anführt, daß nämlich viele betörte Verbrecher die letzten Stunden, welche sie ausschließlich ihrem Seelenheile widmen sollten, diesem entziehn, um eine kleine Predigt, die sie auf der Galgenleiter halten wollen, auszuarbeiten und zu memoriren. – An solchen Zügen jedoch können wir selbst uns spiegeln: denn kolossale Fälle geben überall die deutlichste Erläuterung. Unser aller Sorgen, Kümmern, Wurmen, Ärgern, Ängstigen, Anstrengen usw. betrifft, in vielleicht den meisten Fällen, eigentlich die fremde Meinung und ist eben so absurd, wie das jener armen Sünder. Nicht weniger entspringt unser Neid und Haß größtenteils aus besagter Wurzel.

Offenbar nun könnte zu unserem Glücke, als welches allergrößtenteils auf Gemütsruhe und Zufriedenheit beruht, kaum irgend etwas so viel beitragen, als die Einschränkung und Herabstimmung dieser Triebfeder auf ihr vernünftig zu rechtfertigendes Maß, welches vielleicht ein fünfzigstel des gegenwärtigen sein wird, also das Herausziehn dieses immerfort peinigenden Stachels aus unserm Fleisch. Dies ist jedoch sehr schwer: denn wir haben es mit einer natürlichen und angeborenen Verkehrtheit zu tun. Etiam sapientibus cupido gloriae novissima exuitur sagt Tacitus (hist. VI, 6). Um jene allgemeine Torheit los zu werden, wäre das alleinige Mittel, sie deutlich als eine solche zu erkennen und zu diesem Zwecke sich klar zu machen, wie ganz falsch, verkehrt, irrig und absurd die meisten Meinungen in den Köpfen der Menschen zu sein pflegen, daher sie, an sich selbst, keiner Beachtung wert sind; sodann, wie wenig realen Einfluß auf uns die Meinung anderer, in den meisten Dingen und Fällen, haben kann; ferner, wie ungünstig überhaupt sie meistenteils ist, so daß fast jeder sich krank ärgern würde, wenn er vernähme, was alles von ihm gesagt und in welchem Tone von ihm geredet wird; endlich, daß sogar die Ehre selbst doch eigentlich nur von mittelbarem und nicht von unmittelbarem Werte ist u. dgl. m. Wenn eine solche Bekehrung von der allgemeinen Torheit uns gelänge; so würde die Folge ein unglaublich großer Zuwachs an Gemütsruhe und Heiterkeit und ebenfalls ein festeres und sichereres Auftreten, ein durchweg unbefangeneres und natürlicheres Betragen sein. Der so überaus wohltätige Einfluß, den eine zurückgezogene Lebensweise auf unsere Gemütsruhe hat, beruht größtenteils darauf, daß eine solche uns dem fortwährenden Leben vor den Augen anderer, folglich der steten Berücksichtigung ihrer etwanigen Meinung entzieht und dadurch uns uns selber zurückgibt. Imgleichen würden wir sehr vielem realen Unglück entgehn, in welches nur jenes rein ideale Streben, richtiger jene heillose Torheit, uns zieht, würden auch viel mehr Sorgfalt für solide Güter übrig behalten und dann auch diese ungestörter genießen. Aber, wie gesagt, χαλεπα τα καλα.

Die hier geschilderte Torheit unsrer Natur treibt hauptsächlich drei Sprößlinge: Ehrgeiz, Eitelkeit und Stolz. Zwischen diesen zwei letzteren beruht der Unterschied darauf, daß der Stolz die bereits feststehende Überzeugung vom eigenen überwiegenden Werte, in irgendeiner Hinsicht, ist; Eitelkeit hingegen der Wunsch, in andern eine solche Überzeugung zu erwecken, meistens begleitet von der stillen Hoffnung, sie, in Folge davon, auch selbst zu der seinigen machen zu können. Demnach ist Stolz die von innen ausgehende, folglich direkte Hochschätzung seiner selbst; hingegen Eitelkeit das Streben, solche von außen her, also indirekt zu erlangen. Dementsprechend macht die Eitelkeit gesprächig, der Stolz schweigsam. Aber der Eitle sollte wissen, daß die hohe Meinung anderer, nach der er trachtet, sehr viel leichter und sicherer durch anhaltendes Schweigen zu erlangen ist, als durch Sprechen, auch wenn einer die schönsten Dinge zu sagen hätte. – Stolz ist nicht wer will, sondern höchstens kann wer will Stolz affektiren, wird aber aus dieser, wie aus jeder angenommenen Rolle bald herausfallen. Denn nur die feste, innere, unerschütterliche Überzeugung von überwiegenden Vorzügen und besonderem Werte macht wirklich stolz. Diese Überzeugung mag nun irrig sein, oder auch auf bloß äußerlichen und konventionellen Vorzügen beruhen, – das schadet dem Stolze nicht, wenn sie nur wirklich und ernstlich vorhanden ist. Weil also der Stolz seine Wurzel in der Überzeugung hat, steht er, wie alle Erkenntnis, nicht in unserer Willkür. Sein schlimmster Feind, ich meine sein größtes Hindernis, ist die Eitelkeit, als welche um den Beifall anderer buhlt, um die eigene hohe Meinung von sich erst darauf zu gründen, in welcher bereits ganz fest zu sein die Voraussetzung des Stolzes ist.

So sehr nun auch durchgängig der Stolz getadelt und verschrien wird; so vermute ich doch, daß dies hauptsächlich von solchen ausgegangen ist, die nichts haben, darauf sie stolz sein könnten. Der Unverschämtheit und Dummdreistigkeit der meisten Menschen gegenüber, tut jeder, der irgend welche Vorzüge hat, ganz wohl, sie selbst im Auge zu behalten, um nicht sie gänzlich in Vergessenheit geraten zu lassen: denn wer, solche gutmütig ignorirend, mit jenen sich gerirt, als wäre er ganz ihresgleichen, den werden sie treuherzig sofort dafür halten. Am meisten aber möchte ich solches denen anempfehlen, deren Vorzüge von der höchsten Art, d. h. reale, und also rein persönliche sind, da diese nicht, wie Orden und Titel, jeden Augenblick durch sinnliche Einwirkung in Erinnerung gebracht werden: denn sonst werden sie oft genug das sus Minervam exemplifizirt sehn. »Scherze mit dem Sklaven; bald wird er dir den Hintern zeigen« – ist ein vortreffliches arabisches Sprichwort, und das Horazische sume superbiam, quaesitam meritis ist nicht zu verwerfen. Wohl aber ist die Tugend der Bescheidenheit eine erkleckliche Erfindung für die Lumpe; da ihr gemäß jeder von sich zu reden hat, als wäre auch er ein solcher, welches herrlich nivellirt, indem es dann so herauskommt, als gäbe es überhaupt nichts als Lumpe.

Die wohlfeilste Art des Stolzes hingegen ist der Nationalstolz. Denn er verrät in dem damit Behafteten den Mangel an individuellen Eigenschaften, auf die er stolz sein könnte, indem er sonst nicht zu dem greifen würde, was er mit so vielen Millionen teilt. Wer bedeutende persönliche Vorzüge besitzt, wird vielmehr die Fehler seiner eigenen Nation, da er sie beständig vor Augen hat, am deutlichsten erkennen. Aber jeder erbärmliche Tropf, der nichts in der Welt hat, darauf er stolz sein könnte, ergreift das letzte Mittel, auf die Nation, der er gerade angehört, stolz zu sein: hieran erholt er sich und ist nun dankbarlich bereit, alle Fehler und Torheiten, die ihr eigen sind, πυξ και λαξ zu verteidigen. Daher wird man z. B. unter fünfzig Engländern kaum mehr als einen finden, welcher mit einstimmt, wenn man von der stupiden und degradirenden Bigotterie seiner Nation mit gebührender Verachtung spricht: der eine aber pflegt ein Mann von Kopf zu sein. – Die Deutschen sind frei von Nationalstolz und legen hierdurch einen Beweis der ihnen nachgerühmten Ehrlichkeit ab; vom Gegenteil aber die unter ihnen, welche einen solchen vorgeben und lächerlicher Weise affektiren; wie dies zumeist die »deutschen Brüder« und Demokraten tun, die dem Volke schmeicheln, um es zu verführen. Es heißt zwar, die Deutschen hätten das Pulver erfunden: ich kann jedoch dieser Meinung nicht beitreten. Und Lichtenberg frägt: »warum gibt sich nicht leicht jemand, der es nicht ist, für einen Deutschen aus, sondern gemeiniglich, wenn er sich für etwas ausgeben will, für einen Franzosen oder Engländer?« Übrigens überwiegt die Individualität bei weitem die Nationalität, und in einem gegebenen Menschen verdient jene tausendmal mehr Berücksichtigung als diese. Dem Nationalcharakter wird, da er von der Menge redet, nie viel Gutes ehrlicherweise nachzurühmen sein. Vielmehr erscheint nur die menschliche Beschränktheit, Verkehrtheit und Schlechtigkeit in jedem Lande in einer andern Form und diese nennt man den Nationalcharakter. Von einem derselben degoutirt loben wir den andern, bis es uns mit ihm eben so ergangen ist. – Jede Nation spottet über die andere, und alle haben recht.

Der Gegenstand dieses Kapitels, also was wir in der Welt vorstellen, d. h. in den Augen anderer sind, läßt sich nun, wie schon oben bemerkt, einteilen in Ehre, Rang und Ruhm.

Der Rang, so wichtig er in den Augen des großen Haufens und der Philister, und so groß sein Nutzen im Getriebe der Staatsmaschine sein mag, läßt sich, für unsern Zweck, mit wenigen Worten abfertigen. Es ist ein konventioneller, d. h. eigentlich ein simulirter Wert: seine Wirkung ist eine simulirte Hochachtung, und das ganze eine Komödie für den großen Haufen. – Orden sind Wechselbriefe, gezogen auf die öffentliche Meinung: ihr Wert beruht auf dem Kredit des Ausstellers. Inzwischen sind sie, auch ganz abgesehn von dem vielen Gelde, welches sie, als Substitut pekuniärer Belohnungen, dem Staat ersparen, eine ganz zweckmäßige Einrichtung; vorausgesetzt, daß ihre Verteilung mit Einsicht und Gerechtigkeit geschehe. Der große Haufe nämlich hat Augen und Ohren, aber nicht viel mehr, zumal blutwenig Urteilskraft und selbst wenig Gedächtnis. Manche Verdienste liegen ganz außerhalb der Sphäre seines Verständnisses, andere versteht und bejubelt er, bei ihrem Eintritt, hat sie aber nachher bald vergessen. Da finde ich es ganz passend, durch Kreuz oder Stern, der Menge jederzeit und überall zuzurufen: »der Mann ist nicht euresgleichen: er hat Verdienste!« Durch ungerechte, oder urteilslose, oder übermäßige Verteilung verlieren aber die Orden diesen Wert, daher ein Fürst mit ihrer Erteilung so vorsichtig sein sollte, wie ein Kaufmann mit dem Unterschreiben der Wechsel. Die Inschrift pour le mérite auf einem Kreuze ist ein Pleonasmus: jeder Orden sollte pour le mérite sein, – ça va sans dire. –

Viel schwerer und weitläufiger, als die des Ranges, ist die Erörterung der Ehre. Zuvörderst hätten wir sie zu definiren. Wenn ich nun in dieser Absicht etwan sagte: die Ehre ist das äußere Gewissen, und das Gewissen die innere Ehre; – so könnte dies vielleicht manchem gefallen; würde jedoch mehr eine glänzende, als eine deutliche und gründliche Erklärung sein. Daher sage ich: die Ehre ist, objektiv, die Meinung anderer von unserm Wert, und subjektiv, unsere Furcht vor dieser Meinung. In letzterer Eigenschaft hat sie oft eine sehr heilsame, wenn auch keineswegs rein moralische Wirkung, – im Mann von Ehre.

Die Wurzel und der Ursprung des jedem, nicht ganz verdorbenen Menschen einwohnenden Gefühls für Ehre und Schande, wie auch des hohen Wertes, welcher ersterer zuerkannt wird, liegt in Folgendem. Der Mensch für sich allein vermag gar wenig und ist ein verlassener Robinson: nur in der Gemeinschaft mit den andern ist und vermag er viel. Dieses Verhältnisses wird er inne, sobald sein Bewußtsein sich irgend zu entwickeln anfängt, und alsbald entsteht in ihm das Bestreben, für ein taugliches Mitglied der menschlichen Gesellschaft zu gelten, also für eines, das fähig ist, pro parte virili mitzuwirken, und dadurch berechtigt, der Vorteile der menschlichen Gemeinschaft teilhaft zu werden. Ein solches nun ist er dadurch, daß er, erstlich, das leistet, was man von jedem überall, und sodann das, was man von ihm in der besonderen Stelle, die er eingenommen hat, fordert und erwartet. Eben so bald aber erkennt er, daß es hierbei nicht darauf ankommt, daß er es in seiner eigenen, sondern daß er es in der Meinung der anderen sei. Hieraus entspringt demnach sein eifriges Streben nach der günstigen Meinung anderer und der hohe Wert, den er auf diese legt: beides zeigt sich mit der Ursprünglichkeit eines angeborenen Gefühls, welches man Ehrgefühl und, nach Umständen, Gefühl der Scham (verecundia) nennt. Dieses ist es, was seine Wangen rötet, sobald er glaubt, plötzlich in der Meinung anderer verlieren zu müssen, selbst wo er sich unschuldig weiß; sogar da, wo der sich aufdeckende Mangel eine nur relative, nämlich willkürlich übernommene Verpflichtung betrifft: und andrerseits stärkt nichts seinen Lebensmut mehr, als die erlangte, oder erneuerte Gewißheit von der günstigen Meinung anderer; weil sie ihm den Schutz und die Hilfe der vereinten Kräfte aller verspricht, welche eine unendlich größere Wehrmauer gegen die Übel des Lebens sind, als seine eigenen.

Aus den verschiedenen Beziehungen, in denen der Mensch zu andern stehen kann und in Hinsicht auf welche sie Zutrauen zu ihm, also eine gewisse gute Meinung von ihm, zu hegen haben, entstehen mehrere Arten der Ehre. Diese Beziehungen sind hauptsächlich das Mein und Dein, sodann die Leistungen der Anheischigen, endlich das Sexualverhältnis: ihnen entsprechen die bürgerliche Ehre, die Amtsehre und die Sexualehre, jede von welchen noch wieder Unterarten hat.

Die weiteste Sphäre hat die bürgerliche Ehre: sie besteht in der Voraussetzung, daß wir die Rechte eines jeden unbedingt achten und daher uns nie ungerechter, oder gesetzlich unerlaubter Mittel zu unserm Vorteile bedienen werden. Sie ist die Bedingung zur Teilnahme an allem friedlichen Verkehr. Sie geht verloren durch eine einzige offenbar und stark dawider laufende Handlung, folglich auch durch jede Kriminalstrafe; wiewohl nur unter Voraussetzung der Gerechtigkeit derselben. Immer aber beruht die Ehre, in ihrem letzten Grunde, auf der Überzeugung von der Unveränderlichkeit des moralischen Charakters, vermöge welcher eine einzige schlechte Handlung die gleiche moralische Beschaffenheit aller folgenden, sobald ähnliche Umstände eintreten werden, verbürgt: dies bezeugt auch der englische Ausdruck character für Ruf, Reputation, Ehre. Deshalb eben ist die verlorene Ehre nicht wieder herzustellen; es sei denn, daß der Verlust auf Täuschung, wie Verläumdung, oder falschem Schein, beruht hätte. Demgemäß gibt es Gesetze gegen Verläumdung, Pasquille, auch Injurien; denn die Injurie, das bloße Schimpfen, ist eine summarische Verläumdung, ohne Angabe der Gründe: dies ließe sich Griechisch gut ausdrücken: εστι ἡ λοιδορια διαβολη συντομος, – welches jedoch nirgends vorkommt. Freilich legt der, welcher schimpft, dadurch an den Tag, daß er nichts Wirkliches und Wahres gegen den andern vorzubringen hat; da er sonst dieses als die Prämissen geben und die Konklusion getrost den Hörern überlassen würde; statt dessen er die Konklusion gibt und die Prämissen schuldig bleibt: allein er verläßt sich auf die Präsumtion, daß dies nur beliebter Kürze halber geschehe. – Die bürgerliche Ehre hat zwar ihren Namen vom Bürgerstande; allein ihre Geltung erstreckt sich über alle Stände, ohne Unterschied, sogar die allerhöchsten nicht ausgenommen: kein Mensch kann ihrer entraten und ist es mit ihr eine ganz ernsthafte Sache, die jeder sich hüten soll leicht zu nehmen. Wer Treu und Glauben bricht, hat Treu und Glauben verloren, auf immer, was er auch tun und wer er auch sein mag; die bittern Früchte, welche dieser Verlust mit sich bringt, werden nicht ausbleiben.

Die Ehre hat, in gewissem Sinne, einen negativen Charakter, nämlich im Gegensatz des Ruhmes, der einen positiven Charakter hat. Denn die Ehre ist nicht die Meinung von besonderen, diesem Subjekt allein zukommenden Eigenschaften, sondern nur von den, der Regel nach, vorauszusetzenden, als welche auch ihm nicht abgehen sollen. Sie besagt daher nur, daß dies Subjekt keine Ausnahme mache; während der Ruhm besagt, daß er eine mache. Ruhm muß daher erst erworben werden: die Ehre hingegen braucht bloß nicht verloren zu gehn. Dem entsprechend ist Ermangelung des Ruhmes Obskurität, ein Negatives; Ermangelung der Ehre ist Schande, ein Positives. – Diese Negativität darf aber nicht mit Passivität verwechselt werden: vielmehr hat die Ehre einen ganz aktiven Charakter. Sie geht nämlich allein von dem Subjekt derselben aus, beruht auf seinem Tun und Lassen, nicht aber auf dem, was andere tun und was ihm widerfährt: sie ist also των εφ’ ἡμιν. Dies ist, wie wir bald sehn werden, ein Unterscheidungsmerkmal der wahren Ehre von der ritterlichen, oder Afterehre. Bloß durch Verläumdung ist ein Angriff von außen auf die Ehre möglich: das einzige Gegenmittel ist Widerlegung derselben, mit ihr angemessener Öffentlichkeit und Entlarvung des Verläumders.

Die Achtung vor dem Alter scheint darauf zu beruhen, daß die Ehre junger Leute zwar als Voraussetzung angenommen, aber noch nicht erprobt ist, daher eigentlich auf Kredit besteht. Bei den Älteren aber hat es sich im Laufe des Lebens ausweisen müssen, ob sie, durch ihren Wandel, ihre Ehre behaupten konnten. Denn weder die Jahre an sich, als welche auch Tiere, und einige in viel höherer Zahl, erreichen, noch auch die Erfahrung, als bloße, nähere Kenntnis vom Laufe der Welt, sind hinreichender Grund für die Achtung der Jüngeren gegen die Älteren, welche doch überall gefordert wird: die bloße Schwäche des höheren Alters würde mehr auf Schonung als auf Achtung Anspruch geben. Merkwürdig aber ist es, daß dem Menschen ein gewisser Respekt vor weißen Haaren angeboren und daher wirklich instinktiv ist. Runzeln, ein ungleich sichereres Kennzeichen des Alters, erregen diesen Respekt keineswegs: nie wird von ehrwürdigen Runzeln, aber stets vom ehrwürdigen weißen Haare geredet.

Der Wert der Ehre ist nur ein mittelbarer. Denn, wie bereits am Eingang dieses Kapitels auseinander gesetzt ist, die Meinung anderer von uns kann nur insofern Wert für uns haben, als sie ihr Handeln gegen uns bestimmt, oder gelegentlich bestimmen kann. Dies ist jedoch der Fall, so lange wir mit oder unter Menschen leben. Denn, da wir, im zivilisirten Zustande, Sicherheit und Besitz nur der Gesellschaft verdanken, auch der anderen, bei allen Unternehmungen, bedürfen und sie Zutrauen zu uns haben müssen, um sich mit uns einzulassen; so ist ihre Meinung von uns von hohem, wiewohl immer nur mittelbarem Werte für uns; einen unmittelbaren kann ich ihr nicht zuerkennen. In Übereinstimmung hiemit sagt auch Cicero: de bona autem fama Chrysippus quidem et Diogenes, detracta utilitate, ne digitum quidem, ejus causa, porrigendum esse dicebant. Quibus ego vehementer assentior. (fin. III, 17.) Imgleichen gibt eine weitläufige Auseinandersetzung dieser Wahrheit Helvetius, in seinem Meisterwerke, de l'esprit (Disc. III, ch. 13), deren Resultat ist: nous n'aimons pas l'estime pour l'estime, mais uniquement pour les avantages qu'elle procure. Da nun das Mittel nicht mehr wert sein kann als der Zweck; so ist der Paradespruch »die Ehre geht über das Leben,« wie gesagt, eine Hyperbel.

Soviel von der bürgerlichen Ehre. Die Amtsehre ist die allgemeine Meinung anderer, daß ein Mann, der ein Amt versieht, alle dazu erforderlichen Eigenschaften wirklich habe und auch in allen Fällen seine amtlichen Obliegenheiten pünktlich erfülle. Je wichtiger und größer der Wirkungskreis eines Mannes im Staate ist, also je höher und einflußreicher der Posten, auf dem er steht, desto größer muß die Meinung von den intellektuellen Fähigkeiten und moralischen Eigenschaften sein, die ihn dazu tauglich machen: mithin hat er einen um so höhern Grad von Ehre, deren Ausdruck seine Titel, Orden usw. sind, wie auch das sich unterordnende Betragen anderer gegen ihn. Nach dem selben Maßstabe bestimmt nun durchgängig der Stand den besonderen Grad der Ehre, wiewohl dieser modifizirt wird durch die Fähigkeit der Menge über die Wichtigkeit des Standes zu urteilen. Immer aber erkennt man dem, der besondere Obliegenheiten hat und erfüllt, mehr Ehre zu, als dem gemeinen Bürger, dessen Ehre hauptsächlich auf negativen Eigenschaften beruht.

Die Amtsehre erfordert ferner, daß wer ein Amt versieht, das Amt selbst, seiner Kollegen und Nachfolger wegen, im Respekt erhalte, eben durch jene pünktliche Erfüllung seiner Pflichten und auch dadurch, daß er Angriffe auf das Amt selbst und auf sich, soferne er es versieht, d. h. Äußerungen, daß er das Amt nicht pünktlich versehe, oder daß das Amt selbst nicht zum allgemeinen Besten gereiche, nicht ungeahndet lasse, sondern durch die gesetzliche Strafe beweise, daß jene Angriffe ungerecht waren.

Unterordnungen der Amtsehre sind die des Staatsdieners, des Arztes, des Advokaten, jedes öffentlichen Lehrers, ja jedes Graduirten, kurz eines jeden, der durch öffentliche Erklärung für eine gewisse Leistung geistiger Art qualifizirt erklärt worden ist und sich eben deshalb selbst dazu anheischig gemacht hat; also mit einem Wort die Ehre aller öffentlich Anheischigen als solcher. Daher gehört auch hieher die wahre Soldatenehre: sie besteht darin, daß wer sich zur Verteidigung des gemeinsamen Vaterlandes anheischig gemacht hat, die dazu nötigen Eigenschaften, also vor allem Mut, Tapferkeit und Kraft wirklich besitze und ernstlich bereit sei, sein Vaterland bis in den Tod zu verteidigen und überhaupt die Fahne, zu der er einmal geschworen, um nichts auf der Welt zu verlassen. – Ich habe hier die Amtsehre in einem weiteren Sinne genommen, als gewöhnlich, wo sie den dem Amt selbst gebührenden Respekt der Bürger bedeutet.

Die Sexualehre scheint mir einer näheren Betrachtung und Zurückführung ihrer Grundsätze auf die Wurzel derselben zu bedürfen, welche zugleich bestätigen wird, daß alle Ehre zuletzt auf Nützlichkeitsrücksichten beruht. Die Sexualehre zerfällt, ihrer Natur nach, in Weiber- und Männerehre, und ist von beiden Seiten ein wohlverstandener esprit de corps. Die erstere ist bei weitem die wichtigste von beiden: weil im weiblichen Leben das Sexualverhältnis die Hauptsache ist. – Die weibliche Ehre also ist die allgemeine Meinung von einem Mädchen, daß sie sich gar keinem Manne, und von einer Frau, daß sie sich nur dem ihr angetrauten hingegeben habe. Die Wichtigkeit dieser Meinung beruht auf Folgendem. Das weibliche Geschlecht verlangt und erwartet vom männlichen alles, nämlich alles, was es wünscht und braucht: das männliche verlangt vom weiblichen zunächst und unmittelbar nur eines. Daher mußte die Einrichtung getroffen werden, daß das männliche Geschlecht vom weiblichen jenes eine nur erlangen kann gegen Übernahme der Sorge für alles und zudem für die aus der Verbindung entspringenden Kinder: auf dieser Einrichtung beruht die Wohlfahrt des ganzen weiblichen Geschlechts. Um sie durchzusetzen, muß notwendig das weibliche Geschlecht zusammenhalten und esprit de corps beweisen. Dann aber steht es als ein Ganzes und in geschlossener Reihe dem gesamten männlichen Geschlechte, welches durch das Übergewicht seiner Körper- und Geisteskräfte von Natur im Besitz aller irdischen Güter ist, als dem gemeinschaftlichen Feinde gegenüber, der besiegt und erobert werden muß, um, mittelst seines Besitzes, in den Besitz der irdischen Güter zu gelangen. Zu diesem Ende nun ist die Ehrenmaxime des ganzen weiblichen Geschlechts, daß dem männlichen jeder uneheliche Beischlaf durchaus versagt bleibe; damit jeder einzelne zur Ehe, als welche eine Art von Kapitulation ist, gezwungen und dadurch das ganze weibliche Geschlecht versorgt werde. Dieser Zweck kann aber nur vermittelst strenger Beobachtung der obigen Maxime vollkommen erreicht werden: daher wacht das ganze weibliche Geschlecht, mit wahrem esprit de corps, über die Aufrechterhaltung derselben unter allen seinen Mitgliedern. Demgemäß wird jedes Mädchen, welches durch unehelichen Beischlaf einen Verrat gegen das ganze weibliche Geschlecht begangen hat, weil dessen Wohlfahrt durch das Allgemeinwerden dieser Handlungsweise untergraben werden würde, von demselben ausgestoßen und mit Schande belegt: es hat seine Ehre verloren. Kein Weib darf mehr mit ihm umgehen: es wird, gleich einer Verpesteten, gemieden. Das gleiche Schicksal trifft die Ehebrecherin; weil diese dem Manne die von ihm eingegangene Kapitulation nicht gehalten hat, durch solches Beispiel aber die Männer vom Eingehen derselben abgeschreckt werden; während auf ihr das Heil des ganzen weiblichen Geschlechts beruht. Aber noch überdies verliert die Ehebrecherin, wegen der groben Wortbrüchigkeit und des Betruges in ihrer Tat, mit der Sexualehre zugleich die bürgerliche. Daher sagt man wohl, mit einem entschuldigenden Ausdruck, »ein gefallenes Mädchen«, aber nicht »eine gefallene Frau«, und der Verführer kann jene, durch die Ehe, wieder ehrlich machen; nicht so der Ehebrecher diese, nachdem sie geschieden worden. – Wenn man nun, infolge dieser klaren Einsicht, einen zwar heilsamen, ja notwendigen, aber wohlberechneten und auf Interesse gestützten esprit de corps als die Grundlage des Prinzips der weiblichen Ehre erkennt; so wird man dieser zwar die größte Wichtigkeit für das weibliche Dasein und daher einen großen relativen, jedoch keinen absoluten, über das Leben und seine Zwecke hinausliegenden und demnach mit diesem selbst zu erkaufenden Wert beilegen können. Demnach nun wird man den überspannten, zu tragischen Farcen ausartenden Taten der Lukretia und des Virginius keinen Beifall schenken können. Daher eben hat der Schluß der Emilia Galotti etwas so Empörendes, daß man das Schauspielhaus in völliger Verstimmung verläßt. Hingegen kann man nicht umhin, der Sexualehre zum Trotz, mit dem Klärchen des Egmont zu sympathisiren. Jenes auf die Spitze Treiben des weiblichen Ehrenprinzips gehört, wie so manches, zum Vergessen des Zwecks über die Mittel: denn die Sexualehre wird, durch solche Überspannung, ein absoluter Wert angedichtet; während sie, noch mehr als alle andere Ehre, einen bloß relativen hat; ja, man möchte sagen, einen bloß konventionellen, wenn man aus dem Thomasius de concubinatu ersieht, wie in fast allen Ländern und Zeiten, bis zur Lutherischen Reformation, das Konkubinat ein gesetzlich erlaubtes und anerkanntes Verhältnis gewesen ist, bei welchem die Konkubine ehrlich blieb; der Mylitta zu Babylon (Herodot I, 199) usw. gar nicht zu gedenken. Auch gibt es allerdings bürgerliche Verhältnisse, welche die äußere Form der Ehe unmöglich machen, besonders in katholischen Ländern, wo keine Scheidung stattfindet; überall aber für regierende Herren, als welche, meiner Meinung nach, viel moralischer handeln, wenn sie eine Mätresse halten, als wenn sie eine morganatische Ehe eingehen, deren Deszendenz, beim etwanigen Aussterben der legitimen, einst Ansprüche erheben könnte; weshalb, sei es auch noch so entfernt, durch solche Ehe die Möglichkeit eines Bürgerkrieges herbeigeführt wird. Überdies ist eine solche morganatische, d. h. eigentlich allen äußern Verhältnissen zum Trotz geschlossene Ehe, im letzten Grunde, eine den Weibern und den Pfaffen gemachte Konzession, zweien Klassen, denen man etwas einzuräumen sich möglichst hüten sollte. Ferner ist zu erwägen, daß jeder im Lande das Weib seiner Wahl ehelichen kann, bis auf einen, dem dieses natürliche Recht benommen ist: dieser arme Mann ist der Fürst. Seine Hand gehört dem Lande und wird nach der Staatsraison, d. h. dem Wohl des Landes gemäß, vergeben. Nun aber ist er doch ein Mensch und will auch einmal dem Hange seines Herzens folgen. Daher ist es so ungerecht und undankbar, wie es spießbürgerlich ist, dem Fürsten das Halten einer Mätresse verwehren, oder vorwerfen zu wollen; versteht sich, so lange ihr kein Einfluß auf die Regierung gestattet wird. Auch ihrerseits ist eine solche Mätresse, hinsichtlich der Sexualehre, gewissermaßen eine Ausnahmsperson, eine Eximirte von der allgemeinen Regel: denn sie hat sich bloß einem Manne ergeben, der sie und den sie lieben, aber nimmermehr heiraten konnte. – Überhaupt aber zeugen von dem nicht rein natürlichen Ursprunge des weiblichen Ehrenprinzips die vielen blutigen Opfer, welche demselben gebracht werden, – im Kindermorde und Selbstmorde der Mütter. Allerdings begeht ein Mädchen, die sich ungesetzlich preisgibt, dadurch einen Treuebruch gegen ihr ganzes Geschlecht: jedoch ist diese Treue nur stillschweigend angenommen und nicht beschworen. Und da, im gewöhnlichen Fall, ihr eigener Vorteil am unmittelbarsten darunter leidet, so ist ihre Torheit dabei unendlich größer als ihre Schlechtigkeit.

Die Geschlechtsehre der Männer wird durch die der Weiber hervorgerufen, als der entgegengesetzte esprit de corps, welcher verlangt, daß jeder, der die dem Gegenpart so sehr günstige Kapitulation, die Ehe, eingegangen ist, jetzt darüber wache, daß sie ihm gehalten werde; damit nicht selbst dieses Paktum, durch das Einreißen einer laxen Observanz desselben, seine Festigkeit verliere und die Männer, indem sie alles hingeben, nicht einmal des einen versichert seien, was sie dafür erhandeln, des Alleinbesitzes des Weibes. Demgemäß fordert die Ehre des Mannes, daß er den Ehebruch seiner Frau ahnde und, wenigstens durch Trennung von ihr, strafe. Duldet er ihn wissentlich, so wird er von der Männergemeinschaft mit Schande belegt: jedoch ist diese lange nicht so durchgreifend, wie die durch den Verlust der Geschlechtsehre das Weib treffende, vielmehr nur eine levioris notae macula; weil beim Manne die Geschlechtsbeziehung eine untergeordnete ist, indem er in noch vielen anderen und wichtigeren steht. Die zwei großen dramatischen Dichter der neueren Zeit haben, jeder zweimal, diese Männerehre zu ihrem Thema genommen: Shakespeare, im Othello und im Wintermärchen, und Calderon, in el medico de su honra (der Arzt seiner Ehre) und a secreto agravio secreta venganza (für geheime Schmach geheime Rache). Übrigens fordert diese Ehre nur die Bestrafung des Weibes, nicht die ihres Buhlen; welche bloß ein opus supererogationis ist: hiedurch bestätigt sich der angegebene Ursprung derselben aus dem esprit de corps der Männer. –

Die Ehre, wie ich sie bis hieher, in ihren Gattungen und Grundsätzen, betrachtet habe, findet sich bei allen Völkern und zu allen Zeiten als allgemein geltend; wenn gleich der Weiberehre sich einige lokale und temporäre Modifikationen ihre Grundsätze nachweisen lassen. Hingegen gibt es noch eine, von jener allgemein und überall gültigen gänzlich verschiedene Gattung der Ehre, von welcher weder Griechen noch Römer einen Begriff hatten, so wenig wie Chinesen, Hindu und Mohammedaner, bis auf den heutigen Tag, irgend etwas von ihr wissen. Denn sie ist erst im Mittelalter entstanden und bloß im christlichen Europa einheimisch geworden, ja, selbst hier nur unter einer äußerst kleinen Fraktion der Bevölkerung, nämlich unter den höheren Ständen der Gesellschaft und was ihnen nacheifert. Es ist die ritterliche Ehre, oder das point d'honneur. Da ihre Grundsätze von denen der bis hieher erörterten Ehre gänzlich verschieden, sogar diesen zum Teil entgegengesetzt sind, indem jene erstere den Ehrenmann, diese hingegen den Mann von Ehre macht; so will ich ihre Prinzipien hier besonders ausstellen, als einen Kodex, oder Spiegel der ritterlichen Ehre.

1 Die Ehre besteht nicht in der Meinung anderer von unserm Wert, sondern ganz allein in den Äußerungen einer solchen Meinung; gleichviel ob die geäußerte Meinung wirklich vorhanden sei oder nicht; geschweige, ob sie Grund habe. Demnach mögen andere, in Folge unsers Lebenswandels, eine noch so schlechte Meinung von uns hegen, uns noch so sehr verachten; solange nur keiner sich untersteht, solches laut zu äußern, schadet es der Ehre durchaus nicht. Umgekehrt aber, wenn wir auch durch unsere Eigenschaften und Handlungen alle andern zwingen, uns sehr hoch zu achten (denn das hängt nicht von ihrer Willkür ab); so darf dennoch nur irgend einer, – und wäre es der Schlechteste und Dümmste –, seine Geringschätzung über uns aussprechen, und alsbald ist unsere Ehre verletzt, ja, sie ist auf immer verloren; wenn sie nicht wieder hergestellt wird. – Ein überflüssiger Beleg dazu, daß es keineswegs auf die Meinung anderer, sondern allein auf die Äußerung einer solchen ankomme, ist der, daß Verunglimpfungen zurückgenommen, nötigenfalls abgebeten werden können, wodurch es dann ist, als wären sie nie geschehn: ob dabei die Meinung, aus der sie entsprungen, sich ebenfalls geändert habe und weshalb dies geschehn sein sollte, tut nichts zur Sache: nur die Äußerung wird annullirt, und dann ist alles gut. Hier ist es demnach nicht darauf abgesehn, Respekt zu verdienen, sondern ihn zu ertrotzen.

2 Die Ehre eines Mannes beruht nicht auf dem, was er tut, sondern auf dem, was er leidet, was ihm widerfährt. Wenn, nach den Grundsätzen der zuerst erörterten, allgemein geltenden Ehre, diese allein abhängt von dem, was er selbst sagt oder tut; so hängt hingegen die ritterliche Ehre ab von dem, was irgend ein anderer sagt oder tut. Sie liegt sonach in der Hand, ja, hängt an der Zungenspitze eines jeden, und kann, wenn dieser zugreift, jeden Augenblick auf immer verloren gehn, falls nicht der Betroffene, durch einen bald zu erwähnenden Herstellungsprozeß, sie wieder an sich reißt, welches jedoch nur mit Gefahr seines Lebens, seiner Gesundheit, seiner Freiheit, seines Eigentums und seiner Gemütsruhe geschehn kann. Diesem zufolge mag das Tun und Lassen eines Mannes das rechtschaffenste und edelste, sein Gemüt das reinste und sein Kopf der eminenteste sein; so kann dennoch seine Ehre jeden Augenblick verloren gehn, sobald es nämlich irgend einem, – der nur noch nicht diese Ehrengesetze verletzt hat, übrigens aber der nichtswürdigste Lump, das stupideste Vieh, ein Tagedieb, Spieler, Schuldenmacher, kurz, ein Mensch, der nicht wert ist, daß jener ihn ansieht, sein kann, – beliebt, ihn zu schimpfen. Sogar wird es meistenteils gerade ein Subjekt solcher Art sein, dem dies beliebt; weil eben, wie Seneka richtig bemerkt, ut quisque contemtissimus et ludibrio est, ita solutissimae linguae est (de constantia, 11): auch wird ein solcher gerade gegen einen, wie der zuerst Geschilderte, am leichtesten aufgereizt werden; weil die Gegensätze sich hassen und weil der Anblick überwiegender Vorzüge die stille Wut der Nichtswürdigkeit zu erzeugen pflegt; daher eben Goethe sagt:

Was klagst du über Feinde?Sollten solche je werden Freunde,Denen das Wesen, wie du bist,Im Stillen ein ewiger Vorwurf ist?

W. O. Divan.

Man sieht, wie sehr viel gerade die Leute der zuletzt geschilderten Art dem Ehrenprinzip zu danken haben; da es sie mit denen nivellirt, welche ihnen sonst in jeder Beziehung unerreichbar wären. – Hat nun ein solcher geschimpft, d. h. dem andern eine schlechte Eigenschaft zugesprochen; so gilt dies, vor der Hand, als ein objektiv wahres und gegründetes Urteil, ein rechtskräftiges Dekret, ja, es bleibt für alle Zukunft wahr und gültig, wenn es nicht alsbald mit Blut ausgelöscht wird: d. h. der Geschimpfte bleibt (in den Augen aller »Leute von Ehre«) das, was der Schimpfer (und wäre dieser der letzte aller Erdensöhne) ihn genannt hat: denn er hat es (dies ist der terminus technicus) »auf sich sitzen lassen.« Demgemäß werden die »Leute von Ehre« ihn jetzt durchaus verachten, ihn wie einen Verpesteten fliehen, z. B. sich laut und öffentlich weigern, in eine Gesellschaft zu gehn, wo er Zutritt hat usw. – Den Ursprung dieser weisen Grundansicht glaube ich mit Sicherheit darauf zurückführen zu können, daß (nach C. G. von Wächters »Beiträge zur deutschen Geschichte, besonders des deutschen Strafrechts« 1845) im Mittelalter, bis ins 15. Jahrhundert, bei Kriminalprozessen nicht der Ankläger die Schuld, sondern der Angeklagte seine Unschuld zu beweisen hatte. Dies konnte geschehen durch einen Reinigungseid, zu welchem er jedoch noch der Eideshelfer (consacramentales) bedurfte, welche beschworen, sie seien überzeugt, daß er keines Meineides fähig sei. Hatte er diese nicht, oder ließ der Ankläger sie nicht gelten; so trat Gottesurteil ein, und dieses bestand gewöhnlich im Zweikampf. Denn der Angeklagte war jetzt ein »Bescholtener« und hatte sich zu reinigen. Wir sehn hier den Ursprung des Begriffs des Bescholtenseins und des ganzen Hergangs der Dinge, wie er noch heute unter den »Leuten von Ehre« stattfindet, nur mit Weglassung des Eides. Eben hier ergibt sich auch die Erklärung der obligaten, hohen Indignation, mit welcher »Leute von Ehre« den Vorwurf der Lüge empfangen und blutige Rache dafür fordern, welches, bei der Alltäglichkeit der Lügen, sehr seltsam erscheint, aber besonders in England zum tiefwurzelnden Aberglauben erwachsen ist. (Wirklich müßte jeder, der den Vorwurf der Lüge mit dem Tode zu strafen droht, in seinem Leben nicht gelogen haben.) Nämlich in jenen Kriminalprozessen des Mittelalters war die kürzere Form, daß der Angeklagte dem Ankläger erwiderte: »das lügst du;« worauf dann sofort auf Gottesurteil erkannt wurde: daher also schreibt es sich, daß, nach dem ritterlichen Ehrenkodex, auf den Vorwurf der Lüge sogleich die Appellation an die Waffen erfolgen muß. – So viel, was das Schimpfen betrifft. Nun aber gibt es sogar noch etwas Ärgeres als Schimpfen, etwas so Erschreckliches, daß ich wegen dessen bloßer Erwähnung in diesem Kodex der ritterlichen Ehre, die »Leute von Ehre« um Verzeihung zu bitten habe, da ich weiß, daß beim bloßen Gedanken daran ihnen die Haut schaudert und ihr Haar sich emporsträubt, indem es das summum malum, der Übel größtes auf der Welt, und ärger als Tod und Verdammnis ist. Es kann nämlich, horribile dictu, einer dem andern einen Klaps oder Schlag versetzen. Dies ist eine entsetzliche Begebenheit und führt einen so kompleten Ehrentod herbei, daß, wenn alle andern Verletzungen der Ehre schon durch Blutlassen zu heilen sind, diese zu ihrer gründlichen Heilung einen kompleten Totschlag erfordert.

3 Die Ehre hat mit dem, was der Mensch an und für sich sein mag, oder mit der Frage, ob seine moralische Beschaffenheit sich jemals ändern könne, und allen solchen Schulfuchsereien, ganz und gar nichts zu tun; sondern wann sie verletzt, oder vor der Hand verloren ist, kann sie, wenn man nur schleunig dazutut, recht bald und vollkommen wieder hergestellt werden, durch ein einziges Universalmittel, das Duell. Ist jedoch der Verletzer nicht aus den Ständen, die sich zum Kodex der ritterlichen Ehre bekennen, oder hat derselbe diesem schon ein Mal zuwider gehandelt; so kann man, zumal wenn die Ehrenverletzung eine tätliche, aber auch, wenn sie eine bloß wörtliche gewesen sein sollte, eine sichere Operation vornehmen, indem man, wenn man bewaffnet ist, ihn auf der Stelle, allenfalls auch noch eine Stunde nachher, niedersticht, wodurch dann die Ehre wieder heil ist. Außerdem aber, oder wenn man, aus Besorgnis vor daraus entstehenden Unannehmlichkeiten, diesen Schritt vermeiden möchte, oder wenn man bloß ungewiß ist, ob der Beleidiger sich den Gesetzen der ritterlichen Ehre unterwerfe, oder nicht, hat man ein Palliativmittel, an der »Avantage.« Diese besteht darin, daß, wenn er grob gewesen ist, man noch merklich gröber sei: geht dies mit Schimpfen nicht mehr an, so schlägt man drein, und zwar ist auch hier ein Klimax der Ehrenrettung: Ohrfeigen werden durch Stockschläge kurirt, diese durch Hetzpeitschenhiebe: selbst gegen letztere wird von einigen das Anspucken als probat empfohlen. Nur wenn man mit diesen Mitteln nicht mehr zur Zeit kommt, muß durchaus zu blutigen Operationen geschritten werden. Diese Palliativmethode hat ihren Grund eigentlich in der folgenden Maxime.

4 Wie Geschimpftwerden eine Schande, so ist Schimpfen eine Ehre. Z. B. auf der Seite meines Gegners sei Wahrheit, Recht und Vernunft; ich aber schimpfe; so müssen diese alle einpacken, und Recht und Ehre ist auf meiner Seite: er hingegen hat vorläufig seine Ehre verloren, – bis er sie herstellt, nicht etwan durch Recht und Vernunft, sondern durch Schießen und Stechen. Demnach ist die Grobheit eine Eigenschaft, welche, im Punkte der Ehre, jede andere ersetzt oder überwiegt: der Gröbste hat allemal Recht: quid multa? Welche Dummheit, Ungezogenheit, Schlechtigkeit einer auch begangen haben mag; – durch eine Grobheit wird sie als solche ausgelöscht und sofort legitimiert. Zeigt etwan in einer Diskussion, oder sonst im Gespräch ein anderer richtigere Sachkenntnis, strengere Wahrheitsliebe, gesünderes Urteil, mehr Verstand als wir, oder überhaupt, läßt er geistige Vorzüge blicken, die uns in Schatten stellen; so können wir alle dergleichen Überlegenheiten und unsere eigene durch sie aufgedeckte Dürftigkeit sogleich aufheben und nun umgekehrt selbst überlegen sein, indem wir beleidigend und grob werden. Denn eine Grobheit besiegt jedes Argument und eklipzirt allen Geist: wenn daher nicht etwan der Gegner sich darauf einläßt und sie mit einer größeren erwidert, wodurch wir in den edlen Wettkampf der Avantage geraten; so bleiben wir Sieger und die Ehre ist auf unserer Seite: Wahrheit, Kenntnis, Verstand, Geist, Witz müssen einpacken und sind aus dem Felde geschlagen von der göttlichen Grobheit. Daher werden »Leute von Ehre«, sobald jemand eine Meinung äußert, die von der ihrigen abweicht, oder auch nur mehr Verstand zeigt, als sie ins Feld stellen können, sogleich Miene machen, jenes Kampfroß zu besteigen; und wenn etwan, in einer Kontroverse, es ihnen an einem Gegenargument fehlt, so suchen sie nach einer Grobheit, als welche ja denselben Dienst leistet und leichter zu finden ist: darauf gehn sie siegreich von dannen. Man sieht schon hier, wie sehr mit Recht dem Ehrenprinzip die Veredelung des Tones in der Gesellschaft nachgerühmt wird. – Diese Maxime beruht nun wieder auf der folgenden, welche die eigentliche Grundmaxime und die Seele des ganzen Kodex ist.

5 Der oberste Richterstuhl des Rechts, an den man, in allen Differenzen, von jedem andern, soweit es die Ehre betrifft, appelliren kann, ist der der physischen Gewalt, d. h. der Tierheit. Denn jede Grobheit ist eigentlich eine Appellation an die Tierheit, indem sie den Kampf der geistigen Kräfte, oder des moralischen Rechts, für inkompetent erklärt und an deren Stelle den Kampf der physischen Kräfte setzt, welcher bei der Spezies Mensch, die von Franklin ein toolmaking animal (Werkzeuge verfertigendes Tier) definirt wird, mit den ihr demnach eigentümlichen Waffen, im Duell, vollzogen wird und eine unwiderrufliche Entscheidung herbeiführt. – Diese Grundmaxime wird bekanntlich, mit einem Worte, durch den Ausdruck Faustrecht, welcher dem Ausdruck Aberwitz analog und daher, wie dieser, ironisch ist, bezeichnet: demnach sollte, ihm gemäß, die ritterliche Ehre die Faust-Ehre heißen. –

6 Hatten wir, weiter oben, die bürgerliche Ehre sehr skrupulös gefunden im Punkte des Mein und Dein, der eingegangenen Verpflichtungen und des gegebenen Wortes; so zeigt hingegen der hier in Betrachtung genommene Kodex darin die nobelste Liberalität. Nämlich nur ein Wort darf nicht gebrochen werden, das Ehrenwort, d. h. das Wort, bei dem man gesagt hat »auf Ehre!« – woraus die Präsumtion entsteht, daß jedes andere Wort gebrochen werden darf. Sogar bei dem Bruch dieses Ehrenworts läßt sich zur Not die Ehre noch retten, durch das Universalmittel, das Duell, hier mit denjenigen, welche behaupten, wir hätten das Ehrenwort gegeben. – Ferner: nur eine Schuld gibt es, die unbedingt bezahlt werden muß, – die Spielschuld, welche auch demgemäß den Namen »Ehrenschuld« führt. Um alle übrigen Schulden mag man Juden und Christen prellen: das schadet der ritterlichen Ehre durchaus nicht. –

Daß nun dieser seltsame, barbarische und lächerliche Kodex der Ehre nicht aus dem Wesen der menschlichen Natur, oder einer gesunden Ansicht menschlicher Verhältnisse hervorgegangen sei, erkennt der Unbefangene auf den ersten Blick. Zudem aber wird es durch den äußerst beschränkten Bereich seiner Geltung bestätigt: dieser nämlich ist ausschließlich Europa und zwar nur seit dem Mittelalter, und auch hier nur beim Adel, Militär und was diesen nacheifert. Denn weder Griechen, noch Römer, noch die hochgebildeten asiatischen Völker, alter und neuer Zeit, wissen irgend etwas von dieser Ehre und ihren Grundsätzen. Sie alle kennen keine andere Ehre, als die zuerst analysirte. Bei ihnen allen gilt demnach der Mann für das, wofür sein Tun und Lassen ihn kund gibt, nicht aber für das, was irgend einer losen Zunge beliebt von ihm zu sagen. Bei ihnen allen kann, was einer sagt oder tut, wohl seine eigene Ehre vernichten, aber nie die eines andern. Ein Schlag ist bei ihnen allen eben nur ein Schlag, wie jedes Pferd und jeder Esel ihn gefährlicher versetzen kann: er wird, nach Umständen, zum Zorne reizen, auch wohl auf der Stelle gerächt werden: aber mit der Ehre hat er nichts zu tun, und keineswegs wird Buch gehalten über Schläge und Schimpfwörter, nebst der dafür gewordenen oder aber einzufordern versäumten »Satisfaktion.« An Tapferkeit und Lebensverachtung stehn sie den Völkern des christlichen Europas nicht nach. Griechen und Römer waren doch wohl ganze Helden: aber sie wußten nichts vom point d'honneur. Der Zweikampf war bei ihnen nicht Sache der Edeln im Volke, sondern feiler Gladiatoren, preisgegebener Sklaven und verurteilter Verbrecher, welche, mit wilden Tieren abwechselnd, auf einander gehetzt wurden, zur Belustigung des Volks. Bei Einführung des Christentums wurden die Gladiatorenspiele aufgehoben: an ihre Stelle aber ist, in der christlichen Zeit, unter Vermittelung des Gottesurteils, das Duell getreten. Waren jene ein grausames Opfer, der allgemeinen Schaulust gebracht; so ist dieses ein grausames Opfer, dem allgemeinen Vorurteil gebracht; aber nicht wie jenes, von Verbrechern, Sklaven und Gefangenen, sondern von Freien und Edeln.

Daß den Alten jenes Vorurteil völlig fremd war, bezeugen eine Menge uns aufbehaltener Züge. Als z. B. ein Teutonischer Häuptling den Marius zum Zweikampf herausgefordert hatte, ließ dieser Held ihm antworten: »wenn er seines Lebens überdrüssig wäre, möge er sich aufhängen«, bot ihm jedoch einen ausgedienten Gladiator an, mit dem er sich herumschlagen könne (Freinsh. suppl. in Liv. lib. LXVIII, c. 12). Im Plutarch (Them. 11) lesen wir, daß der Flottenbefehlshaber Eurybiades, mit dem Themistokles streitend, den Stock aufgehoben habe, ihn zu schlagen; jedoch nicht, daß dieser darauf den Degen gezogen, vielmehr, daß er gesagt habe: παταξον μεν ουν, ακουσον δε: »schlage mich, aber höre mich.« Mit welchem Unwillen muß doch der Leser »von Ehre« hiebei die Nachricht vermissen, daß das Atheniensische Offizierkorps sofort erklärt habe, unter so einem Themistokles nicht ferner dienen zu wollen! – Ganz richtig sagt demnach ein neuerer französischer Schriftsteller: si quelqu'un s'avisait de dire que Démosthène fut un homme d'honneur, on sourirait de pitié; – – – Cicéron n'était pas un homme d'honneur non plus. (Soirées littéraires, par C. Durand. Rouen 1828. Vol. 2. p. 300.) Ferner zeigt die Stelle im Plato (de leg. IX, die letzten 6 Seiten, imgleichen XI p. 131 Bip.) über die αικια, d. h. Mißhandlungen, zur Genüge, daß die Alten von der Ansicht des ritterlichen Ehrenpunktes bei solchen Sachen keine Ahnung hatten. Sokrates ist, in Folge seiner häufigen Disputationen, oft tätlich mißhandelt worden, welches er gelassen ertrug: als er einst einen Fußtritt erhielt, nahm er es geduldig hin und sagte dem, der sich hierüber wunderte: »würde ich denn, wenn mich ein Esel gestoßen hätte, ihn verklagen?« – (Diog. Laert. II, 21.) Als, ein ander Mal, jemand zu ihm sagte: »schimpft und schmäht dich denn jener nicht?« war seine Antwort: »nein: denn was er sagt paßte nicht auf mich« (ibid. 36.) – Stobäos (Florileg., ed. Gaisford, Vol. I, p. 327-330) hat eine lange Stelle des Musonius uns aufbewahrt, daraus zu ersehen, wie die Alten die Injurien betrachteten: sie kannten keine andere Genugtuung, als die gerichtliche; und weise Männer verschmähten auch diese. Daß die Alten für eine erhaltene Ohrfeige keine andere Genugtuung kannten, als eine gerichtliche, ist deutlich zu ersehn aus Plato's Gorgias (S. 86 Bip.); woselbst auch (S. 133) die Meinung des Sokrates darüber steht. Dasselbe erhellt auch aus dem Berichte des Gillius (XX, 1) von einem gewissen Lucius Veratius, welcher den Mutwillen übte, den ihm auf der Straße begegnenden römischen Bürgern, ohne Anlaß, eine Ohrfeige zu versetzen, in welcher Absicht er, um allen Weitläuftigkeiten darüber vorzubeugen, sich von einem Sklaven mit einem Beutel Kupfermünze begleiten ließ, der den also Überraschten sogleich das gesetzmäßige Schmerzensgeld von 25 Aß auszahlte. Krates, der berühmte Zyniker, hatte vom Musiker Nikodromos eine so starke Ohrfeige erhalten, daß ihm das Gesicht angeschwollen und blutrünstig geworden war: darauf befestigte er an seiner Stirn ein Brettchen, mit der Inschrift Νικοδρομος εποιει (Nicodromus fecit), wodurch große Schande auf den Flötenspieler fiel, der gegen einen Mann, den ganz Athen wie einen Hausgott verehrte (Apul. Flor. p. 126 bip.), eine solche Brutalität ausgeübt hatte. (Diog. Laert. VI, 89.) – Vom Diogenes aus Sinope haben wir darüber, daß die betrunkenen Söhne der Athener ihn geprügelt hatten, einen Brief an den Melesippus, dem er bedeutet, das habe nichts auf sich. (Nota Casaub. ad Diog. Laert. VI, 33.) – Seneka hat, im Buche de constantia sapientis, vom C. 10 an bis zum Ende, die Beleidigung, contumelia, ausführlich in Betracht genommen, um darzulegen, daß der Weise sie nicht beachtet. Kapitel 14 sagt er: »at sapiens colaphis percussus, quid faciet? quod Cato, cum illi os percussum esset: non excanduit, non vindicavit injuriam: nec remisit quidem, sed factam negavit.« »Ja,« ruft ihr, »das waren Weise!« – Ihr aber seid Narren? Einverstanden. –

Wir sehn also, daß den Alten das ganze ritterliche Ehrenprinzip unbekannt war, weil sie eben in allen Stücken der unbefangenen, natürlichen Ansicht der Dinge getreu blieben und daher solche sinistre und heillose Fratzen sich nicht einreden ließen. Deshalb konnten sie auch einen Schlag ins Gesicht für nichts anderes halten, als was er ist, eine kleine physische Beeinträchtigung; während er den Neuern eine Katastrophe und ein Thema zu Trauerspielen geworden ist, z. B. im Eid des Corneille, auch in einem neueren deutschen bürgerlichen Trauerspiele, welches »die Macht der Verhältnisse« heißt, aber »die Macht des Vorurteils« heißen sollte: wenn aber gar ein Mal in der Pariser Nationalversammlung eine Ohrfeige fällt, so hallt ganz Europa davon wieder. Den Leuten »von Ehre« nun aber, welche durch obige klassische Erinnerungen und angeführte Beispiele aus dem Altertume verstimmt sein müssen, empfehle ich, als Gegengift, in Diderots Meisterwerke, Jaques le fataliste, die Geschichte des Herrn Desglands zu lesen, als ein auserlesenes Musterstück moderner ritterlicher Ehrenhaftigkeit, daran sie sich letzen und erbauen mögen.

Aus dem Angeführten erhellt zur Genüge, daß das ritterliche Ehrenprinzip keineswegs ein ursprüngliches, in der menschlichen Natur selbst gegründetes sein kann. Es ist also ein künstliches, und sein Ursprung ist nicht schwer zu finden. Es ist offenbar ein Kind jener Zeit, wo die Fäuste geübter waren als die Köpfe, und die Pfaffen die Vernunft in Ketten hielten, also des belobten Mittelalters und seines Rittertums. Damals nämlich ließ man für sich den lieben Gott nicht nur sorgen, sondern auch urteilen. Demnach wurden schwierige Rechtsfälle durch Ordalien oder Gottesurteile entschieden; diese nun bestanden, mit wenigen Ausnahmen, in Zweikämpfen, keineswegs bloß unter Rittern, sondern auch unter Bürgern; – wie dies ein artiges Beispiel in Shakespeares Heinrich VI. (T. 2, A. 2, Sz. 3) bezeugt. Auch konnte von jedem richterlichen Urteilsspruch immer noch an den Zweikampf, als die höhere Instanz, nämlich das Urteil Gottes, appellirt werden. Dadurch war nun eigentlich die physische Kraft und Gewandtheit, also die tierische Natur, statt der Vernunft, auf den Richterstuhl gesetzt, und über Recht oder Unrecht entschied nicht was einer getan hatte, sondern was ihm widerfuhr, – ganz nach dem noch heute geltenden ritterlichen Ehrenprinzip. Wer an diesem Ursprunge des Duellwesens noch zweifelt, lese das vortreffliche Buch von J. G. Mellingen, the history of duelling, 1849. Ja, noch heutzutage findet man unter den, dem ritterlichen Ehrenprinzip nachlebenden Leuten, welche bekanntlich nicht gerade die unterrichtetesten und nachdenkendesten zu sein pflegen, einige, die den Erfolg des Duells wirklich für eine göttliche Entscheidung des ihm zum Grunde liegenden Streites halten; gewiß nach einer traditionell fortgeerbten Meinung.

Abgesehn von diesem Ursprunge des ritterlichen Ehrenprinzips, ist seine Tendenz zunächst diese, daß man, durch Androhung physischer Gewalt, die äußerlichen Bezeugungen derjenigen Achtung erzwingen will, welche wirklich zu erwerben man entweder für zu beschwerlich, oder für überflüssig hält. Dies ist ungefähr so, wie wenn jemand, die Kugel des Thermometers mit der Hand erwärmend, am Steigen des Quecksilbers dartun wollte, daß sein Zimmer wohlgeheizt sei. Näher betrachtet ist der Kern der Sache dieser: wie die bürgerliche Ehre, als welche den friedlichen Verkehr mit andern im Auge hat, in der Meinung dieser von uns besteht, daß wir vollkommenes Zutrauen verdienen, weil wir die Rechte eines jeden unbedingt achten; so besteht die ritterliche Ehre in der Meinung von uns, daß wir zu fürchten seien, weil wir unsere eigenen Rechte unbedingt zu verteidigen gesonnen sind. Der Grundsatz, daß es wesentlicher sei, gefürchtet zu werden, als Zutrauen zu genießen, würde auch, weil auf die Gerechtigkeit der Menschen wenig zu bauen ist, so gar falsch nicht sein, wenn wir im Naturzustande lebten, wo jeder sich selbst zu schützen und seine Rechte unmittelbar zu verteidigen hat. Aber im Stande der Zivilisation, wo der Staat den Schutz unserer Person und unseres Eigentums übernommen hat, findet er keine Anwendung mehr, und steht da, wie die Burgen und Warten aus den Zeiten des Faustrechts, unnütz und verlassen, zwischen wohlbebauten Feldern und belebten Landstraßen, oder gar Eisenbahnen. Demgemäß hat denn auch die ihn festhaltende ritterliche Ehre sich auf solche Beeinträchtigungen der Person geworfen, welche der Staat nur leicht, oder, nach dem Prinzip de minimis lex non curat, gar nicht bestraft, indem es unbedeutende Kränkungen und zum Teil bloße Neckereien sind. Sie aber hat in Hinsicht auf diese sich hinaufgeschroben zu einer der Natur, der Beschaffenheit und dem Lose des Menschen gänzlich unangemessenen Überschätzung des Wertes der eigenen Person, als welchen sie bis zu einer Art von Heiligkeit steigert und demnach die Strafe des Staates für kleine Kränkungen derselben durchaus unzulänglich findet, solche daher selbst zu strafen übernimmt und zwar stets am Leibe und Leben des Beleidigers. Offenbar liegt hier der unmäßigste Hochmut und die empörendeste Hoffahrt zugrunde, welche, ganz vergessend, was der Mensch eigentlich ist, eine unbedingte Unverletzlichkeit, wie auch Tadellosigkeit, für ihn in Anspruch nehmen. Allein jeder, der diese mit Gewalt durchzusetzen gesonnen ist und dem zufolge die Maxime proklamirt: »wer mich schimpft, oder gar mir einen Schlag gibt, soll des Todes sein«, – verdient eigentlich schon darum aus dem Lande verwiesen zu werden[F]. Da wird denn, zur Beschönigung jenes vermessenen Übermutes, allerhand vorgegeben. Von zwei unerschrockenen Leuten, heißt es, gebe keiner je nach, daher es vom leisesten Anstoß zu Schimpfreden, dann zu Prügeln und endlich zum Totschlag kommen würde; demnach sei es besser, anstandshalber die Mittelstufen zu überspringen und gleich an die Waffen zu gehn. Das speziellere Verfahren hierbei hat man dann in ein steifes, pedantisches System, mit Gesetzen und Regeln, gebracht, welches die ernsthafteste Posse von der Welt ist und als ein wahrer Ehrentempel der Narrheit dasteht. Nun aber ist der Grundsatz selbst falsch: bei Sachen von geringer Wichtigkeit (die von großer bleiben stets den Gerichten anheimgestellt) gibt von zwei unerschrockenen Leuten allerdings einer nach, nämlich der Klügste, und bloße Meinungen läßt man auf sich beruhen. Den Beweis hievon liefert das Volk, oder vielmehr alle die zahlreichen Stände, welche sich nicht zum ritterlichen Ehrenprinzip bekennen, bei denen daher die Streitigkeiten ihren natürlichen Verlauf haben: unter diesen Ständen ist der Totschlag hundertmal seltener, als bei der vielleicht nur 1/1000 der Gesamtheit betragenden Fraktion, welche jenem Prinzipe huldigt; und selbst eine Prügelei ist eine Seltenheit. – Sodann aber wird behauptet, der gute Ton und die feine Sitte der Gesellschaft hätten zum letzten Grundpfeiler jenes Ehrenprinzip, mit seinen Duellen, als welche die Wehrmauer gegen die Ausbrüche der Rohheit und Ungezogenheit wären. Allein in Athen, Korinth und Rom war ganz gewiß gute und zwar sehr gute Gesellschaft, auch feine Sitte und guter Ton anzutreffen; ohne daß jener Popanz der ritterlichen Ehre dahinter gesteckt hätte. Freilich aber führten daselbst auch nicht, wie bei uns, die Weiber den Vorsitz in der Gesellschaft, welches, wie es zunächst der Unterhaltung einen frivolen und läppischen Charakter erteilt und jedes gehaltvolle Gespräch verbannt, gewiß auch sehr dazu beiträgt, daß in unsrer guten Gesellschaft der persönliche Mut den Rang vor jeder andern Eigenschaft behauptet; während er doch eigentlich eine sehr untergeordnete, eine bloße Unteroffizierstugend ist, ja, eine, in welcher sogar Tiere uns übertreffen, weshalb man z. B. sagt: »mutig wie ein Löwe.« Sogar aber ist, im Gegenteil obiger Behauptung, das ritterliche Ehrenprinzip oft das sichere Asylum, wie im großen der Unredlichkeit und Schlechtigkeit, so im kleinen der Ungezogenheit, Rücksichtslosigkeit und Flegelei, indem eine Menge sehr lästiger Unarten stillschweigend geduldet werden, weil eben keiner Lust hat, an die Rüge derselben den Hals zu setzen. – Dem allen entsprechend sehn wir das Duell im höchsten Flor und mit blutdürstigem Ernst betrieben, gerade bei der Nation, welche in politischen und finanziellen Angelegenheiten Mangel an wahrer Ehrenhaftigkeit bewiesen hat: wie es damit bei ihr im Privatverkehr stehe, kann man bei denen erfragen, die Erfahrung darin haben. Was aber gar ihre Urbanität und gesellschaftliche Bildung betrifft, so ist sie als negatives Muster längst berühmt.

[F] Die ritterliche Ehre ist ein Kind des Hochmuts und der Narrheit. (Die ihr entgegengesetzte Wahrheit spricht am schärfsten el principe constante aus in den Worten: »esa es la herencia de Adan«.) Sehr auffallend ist es, daß dieser Superlativ alles Hochmuts sich allein und ausschließlich unter den Genossen derjenigen Religion findet, welche ihren Anhängern die äußerste Demut zur Pflicht macht; da weder frühere Zeiten noch andere Weltteile jenes Prinzip der ritterlichen Ehre kennen. Dennoch darf man dasselbe nicht der Religion zuschreiben, vielmehr dem Feudalwesen, bei welchem jeder Edele sich als einen kleinen Souverän, der keinen menschlichen Richter über sich erkannte, ansah und sich daher eine völlige Unverletzlichkeit und Heiligkeit der Person beilegen lernte, daher ihm jedes Attentat gegen dieselbe, oder jeder Schlag und jedes Schimpfwort, ein todeswürdiges Verbrechen schien. Demgemäß waren das Ehrenprinzip und die Duelle ursprünglich nur Sache des Adels und infolge davon in späteren Zeiten der Offiziere, denen sich nachher hin und wieder, wiewohl nie durchgängig, die andern höheren Stände anschlossen, um nicht weniger zu gelten. Wenn auch die Duelle aus den Ordalien hervorgegangen sind; so sind diese doch nicht der Grund, sondern die Folge und Anwendung des Ehrenprinzips: wer keinen menschlichen Richter erkennt, appellirt an den göttlichen. Die Ordalien selbst aber sind nicht dem Christentum eigen, sondern finden sich auch im Hinduismus sehr stark, zwar meistens in älterer Zeit, doch Spuren davon auch noch jetzt. –

Alle jene Vorgaben halten also nicht Stich. Mit mehr Recht kann urgirt werden, daß, wie schon ein angeknurrter Hund wieder knurrt, ein geschmeichelter wieder schmeichelt, es auch in der Natur des Menschen liege, jede feindliche Begegnung feindlich zu erwidern und durch Zeichen der Geringschätzung oder des Hasses erbittert und gereizt zu werden; daher schon Cicero sagt: habet quendam aculeum contumelia, quem pati prudentes ac viri boni difficillime possunt; wie denn auch nirgends auf der Welt (einige fromme Sekten beiseite gesetzt) Schimpfreden oder gar Schläge gelassen hingenommen werden. Jedoch leitet die Natur keinenfalls zu etwas Weiterem, als zu einer der Sache angemessenen Vergeltung, nicht aber dazu, den Vorwurf der Lüge, der Dummheit oder der Feigheit, mit dem Tode zu bestrafen, und der altdeutsche Grundsatz »auf eine Maulschelle gehört ein Dolch« ist ein empörender ritterlicher Aberglaube. Jedenfalls ist die Erwiderung oder Vergeltung von Beleidigungen Sache des Zorns, aber keineswegs der Ehre und Pflicht, wozu das ritterliche Ehrenprinzip sie stempelt. Vielmehr ist ganz gewiß, daß jeder Vorwurf nur in dem Maße, als er trifft, verletzen kann; welches auch daran ersichtlich ist, daß die leiseste Andeutung, welche trifft, viel tiefer verwundet, als die schwerste Anschuldigung, die gar keinen Grund hat. Wer daher wirklich sich bewußt ist, einen Vorwurf nicht zu verdienen, darf und wird ihn getrost verachten. Dagegen aber fordert das Ehrenprinzip von ihm, daß er eine Empfindlichkeit zeige, die er gar nicht hat, und Beleidigungen, die ihn nicht verletzen, blutig räche. Der aber muß selbst eine schwache Meinung von seinem eigenen Werte haben, der sich beeilt, jeder denselben anfechtenden Äußerung den Daumen aufs Auge zu drücken, damit sie nicht laut werde. Demzufolge wird, bei Injurien, wahre Selbstschätzung wirkliche Gleichgültigkeit verleihen, und wo dies, aus Mangel derselben, nicht der Fall ist, werden Klugheit und Bildung anleiten, den Schein davon zu retten und den Zorn zu verbergen. Wenn man demnach nur erst den Aberglauben des ritterlichen Ehrenprinzips los wäre, so daß niemand mehr vermeinen dürfte, durch Schimpfen irgend etwas der Ehre eines andern nehmen oder der seinigen wiedergeben zu können, auch nicht mehr jedes Unrecht, jede Roheit oder Grobheit sogleich legitimirt werden könnte durch die Bereitwilligkeit Satisfaktion zu geben, d. h. sich dafür zu schlagen; so würde bald die Einsicht allgemein werden, daß, wenn es an's Schmähen und Schimpfen geht, der in diesem Kampfe Besiegte der Sieger ist, und daß, wie Vincenzo Monti sagt, die Injurien es machen wie die Kirchenprozessionen, welche stets dahin zurückkehren, von wo sie ausgegangen sind. Ferner würde es alsdann nicht mehr, wie jetzt, hinreichend sein, daß einer eine Grobheit zu Markte brächte, um Recht zu behalten; mithin würden alsdann Einsicht und Verstand ganz anders zu Worte kommen als jetzt, wo sie immer erst zu berücksichtigen haben, ob sie nicht irgendwie den Meinungen der Beschränktheit und Dummheit, als welche schon ihr bloßes Auftreten alarmirt und erbittert hat, Anstoß geben und dadurch herbeiführen können, daß das Haupt, in welchem sie wohnen, gegen den flachen Schädel, in welchem jene hausen, aufs Würfelspiel gesetzt werden müsse. Sonach würde alsdann in der Gesellschaft die geistige Überlegenheit das ihr gebührende Primat erlangen, welches jetzt, wenn auch verdeckt, die physische Überlegenheit und die Husarenkourage hat, und infolge hievon würden die vorzüglichsten Menschen doch schon einen Grund weniger haben, als jetzt, sich von der Gesellschaft zurückzuziehn. Eine Veränderung dieser Art würde demnach den wahren guten Ton herbeiführen und der wirklich guten Gesellschaft den Weg bahnen, in der Form, wie sie, ohne Zweifel, in Athen, Korinth und Rom bestanden hat. Wer von dieser eine Probe zu sehn wünscht, dem empfehle ich das Gastmahl des Xenophon zu lesen.

Die letzte Verteidigung des ritterlichen Kodex wird aber, ohne Zweifel, lauten: »Ei, da könnte ja, Gott sei bei uns! wohl gar einer dem andern einen Schlag versetzen!« – worauf ich kurz erwidern könnte, daß dies bei den 999/1000 der Gesellschaft, die jenen Kodex nicht anerkennen, oft genug der Fall gewesen, ohne daß je einer daran gestorben sei, während bei den Anhängern desselben, in der Regel, jeder Schlag ein tötlicher wird. Aber ich will näher darauf eingehen. Ich habe mich oft genug bemüht, für die unter einem Teil der menschlichen Gesellschaft so fest stehende Überzeugung von der Entsetzlichkeit eines Schlages, entweder in der tierischen, oder in der vernünftigen Natur des Menschen, irgend einen haltbaren oder wenigstens plausibeln, nur nicht in bloßen Redensarten bestehenden, sondern auf deutliche Begriffe zurückführbaren Grund zu finden, jedoch vergeblich. Ein Schlag ist und bleibt ein kleines physisches Übel, welches jeder Mensch dem andern verursachen kann, dadurch aber weiter nichts beweist, als daß er stärker oder gewandter sei, oder daß der andere nicht auf seiner Hut gewesen. Weiter ergibt die Analyse nichts. Sodann sehe ich denselben Ritter, welchem ein Schlag von Menschenhand der Übel größtes dünkt, einen zehnmal stärkern Schlag von seinem Pferde erhalten und, mit verbissenem Schmerz davonhinkend, versichern, es habe nichts zu bedeuten. Da habe ich gedacht, es läge an der Menschenhand. Allein ich sehe unseren Ritter von dieser Degenstiche und Säbelhiebe im Kampfe erhalten und versichern, es sei Kleinigkeit, nicht der Rede wert. Sodann vernehme ich, daß selbst Schläge mit der flachen Klinge bei weitem nicht so schlimm seien wie die mit dem Stocke, daher, vor nicht langer Zeit, die Kadetten wohl jenen, aber nicht diesen ausgesetzt waren: und nun gar der Ritterschlag, mit der Klinge, ist die größte Ehre. Da bin ich denn mit meinen psychologischen und moralischen Gründen zu Ende, und mir bleibt nichts übrig, als die Sache für einen alten, festgewurzelten Aberglauben zu halten, für ein Beispiel mehr, zu so vielen, was alles man den Menschen einreden kann. Dies bestätigt auch die bekannte Tatsache, daß in China Schläge mit dem Bambusrohr eine sehr häufige bürgerliche Bestrafung, selbst für Beamte aller Klassen sind; indem sie uns zeigt, daß die Menschennatur, und selbst die hoch zivilisirte, dort nicht dasselbe aussagt[G]. Sogar aber lehrt ein unbefangener Blick auf die Natur des Menschen, daß diesem das Prügeln so natürlich ist, wie den reißenden Tieren das Beißen und dem Hornvieh das Stoßen: er ist eben ein prügelndes Tier. Daher auch werden wir empört, wenn wir, in seltenen Fällen, vernehmen, daß ein Mensch den andern gebissen habe; hingegen ist, daß er Schläge gebe und empfange, ein so natürliches, wie leicht eintretendes Ereignis. Daß höhere Bildung sich auch diesem, durch gegenseitige Selbstbeherrschung, gern entzieht, ist leicht erklärlich. Aber einer Nation, oder auch nur einer Klasse, aufzubinden, ein gegebener Schlag sei ein entsetzliches Unglück, welches Mord und Totschlag zur Folge haben müsse, ist eine Grausamkeit. Es gibt der wahren Übel zu viele auf der Welt, als daß man sich erlauben dürfte, sie durch imaginäre, welche die wahren herbeiziehn, zu vermehren: das tut aber jener dumme und boshafte Aberglaube. Ich muß daher sogar mißbilligen, daß Regierungen und gesetzgebende Körper demselben dadurch Vorschub leisten, daß sie mit Eifer auf Abstellung aller Prügelstrafen, beim Zivil und Militär, dringen. Sie glauben dabei im Interesse der Humanität zu handeln; während gerade das Gegenteil der Fall ist, indem sie dadurch an der Befestigung jenes widernatürlichen und heillosen Wahnes, dem schon so viele Opfer gefallen sind, arbeiten. Bei allen Vergehungen, mit Ausnahme der schwersten, sind Prügel die dem Menschen zuerst einfallende, daher die natürliche Bestrafung: wer für Gründe nicht empfänglich war, wird es für Prügel sein: und daß der, welcher am Eigentum, weil er keines hat, nicht gestraft werden kann, und den man an der Freiheit, weil man seiner Dienste bedarf, nicht ohne eigenen Nachteil strafen kann, durch mäßige Prügel gestraft werde, ist so billig wie natürlich. Auch werden gar keine Gründe dagegen aufgebracht, sondern bloße Redensarten von der »Würde des Menschen«, die sich nicht auf deutliche Begriffe, sondern eben nur wieder auf obigen verderblichen Aberglauben stützen. Daß dieser der Sache zum Grunde liege, hat eine fast lächerliche Bestätigung daran, daß noch vor kurzem, in manchen Ländern beim Militär die Prügelstrafe durch die Lattenstrafe ersetzt worden war, welche doch, ganz und gar wie jene, die Verursachung eines körperlichen Schmerzes ist, nun aber nicht ehrenrührig und entwürdigend sein soll.

[G] Vingt ou trente coups de canne sur le derrière, c'est, pour ainsi dire, le pain quotidien des Chinois. C'est une correction paternelle du mandarin, laquelle n'a rien d'infamant, et qu'ils reçoivent avec action de grâces. – Lettres édifiantes et curieuses, édition de 1819. Vol. 11, p. 454.

Durch dergleichen Beförderung des besagten Aberglaubens arbeitet man aber dem ritterlichen Ehrenprinzip und damit dem Duell in die Hände, während man dieses andrerseits durch Gesetze abzustellen bemüht ist, oder doch es zu sein vorgibt[H]. Infolge davon treibt denn jenes Fragment des Faustrechts, aus den Zeiten des rohesten Mittelalters bis in das 19. Jahrhundert herabgeweht, sich in diesem, zum öffentlichen Skandal, noch immer herum: es ist nachgerade an der Zeit, daß es mit Schimpf und Schande herausgeworfen werde. Ist es doch heutzutage nicht einmal erlaubt, Hunde oder Hähne methodisch aufeinander zu hetzen (wenigstens werden in England dergleichen Hetzen gestraft); aber Menschen werden, wider Willen, zum tötlichen Kampf aufeinander gehetzt, durch den lächerlichen Aberglauben des absurden Prinzips der ritterlichen Ehre und durch dessen bornirte Vertreter und Verwalter, welche ihnen die Verpflichtung auflegen, wegen irgend einer Lumperei wie Gladiatoren mit einander zu kämpfen. Unseren deutschen Puristen schlage ich daher, für das Wort Duell, welches wahrscheinlich nicht vom lateinischen duellum, sondern vom spanischen duelo, Leid, Klage, Beschwerde, herkommt, – die Benennung Ritterhetze vor. Die Pedanterei, mit der die Narrheit getrieben wird, gibt allerdings Stoff zum Lachen. Indessen ist es empörend, daß jenes Prinzip und sein absurder Kodex einen Staat im Staate begründet, welcher, kein anderes als das Faustrecht anerkennend, die ihm unterworfenen Stände dadurch tyrannisirt, daß er ein heiliges Vehmgericht offen hält, vor welches jeder jeden, mittelst sehr leicht herbeizuführender Anlässe als Schergen, laden kann, um ein Gericht auf Tod und Leben über ihn und sich ergehn zu lassen. Natürlich wird nun dies der Schlupfwinkel, von welchem aus jeder Verworfenste, wenn er nur jenen Ständen angehört, den Edelsten und Besten, der ihm als solcher notwendig verhaßt sein muß, bedrohen, ja, aus der Welt schaffen kann. Nachdem heutzutage Justiz und Polizei es so ziemlich dahin gebracht haben, daß nicht mehr auf der Landstraße jeder Schurke uns zurufen kann »die Börse oder das Leben«, sollte endlich auch die gesunde Vernunft es dahin bringen, daß nicht mehr, mitten im friedlichen Verkehr, jeder Schurke uns zurufen könne »die Ehre oder das Leben«. Und die Beklemmung sollte den höhern Ständen von der Brust genommen werden, welche daraus entsteht, daß jeder, jeden Augenblick, mit Leib und Leben verantwortlich werden kann für die Roheit, Grobheit, Dummheit oder Bosheit irgend eines andern, dem es gefällt, solche gegen ihn auszulassen. Daß, wenn zwei junge, unerfahrne Hitzköpfe mit Worten aneinander geraten, sie dies mit ihrem Blut, ihrer Gesundheit oder ihrem Leben büßen sollen, ist himmelschreiend, ist schändlich. Wie arg die Tyrannei jenes Staates im Staate und wie groß die Macht jenes Aberglaubens sei, läßt sich daran ermessen, daß schon öfter Leute, denen die Wiederherstellung ihrer verwundeten ritterlichen Ehre, wegen zu hohen oder zu niedrigen Standes, oder sonst unangemessener Beschaffenheit des Beleidigers unmöglich war, aus Verzweiflung darüber sich selbst das Leben genommen und so ein tragikomisches Ende gefunden haben. – Da das Falsche und Absurde sich am Ende meistens dadurch entschleiert, daß es, auf seinem Gipfel, den Widerspruch als seine Blüte hervortreibt; so tritt dieser zuletzt auch hier in Form der schreiendesten Antinomie hervor: nämlich dem Offizier ist das Duell verboten: aber er wird durch Absetzung gestraft, wenn er es, vorkommenden Falls, unterläßt.

[H] Der eigentliche Grund, aus welchem die Regierungen scheinbar sich beeifern, das Duell zu unterdrücken und, während dies offenbar, zumal auf Universitäten, sehr leicht wäre, sich stellen, als wolle es ihnen nur nicht gelingen, scheint mir folgender: Der Staat ist nicht imstande die Dienste seiner Offiziere und Zivilbeamten mit Geld zum vollen zu bezahlen; daher läßt er die andere Hälfte ihres Lohnes in der Ehre bestehn, welche repräsentirt wird durch Titel, Uniformen und Orden. Um nun diese ideale Vergütung ihrer Dienste im hohen Kurse zu erhalten, muß das Ehrgefühl auf alle Weise genährt, geschärft, allenfalls etwas überspannt werden: da aber zu diesem Zweck die bürgerliche Ehre nicht ausreicht, schon weil man sie mit jedem teilt: so wird die ritterliche Ehre zu Hilfe genommen und besagterweise aufrecht erhalten. In England, als wo Militär- und Zivilbesoldungen sehr viel höher stehn, als auf dem Kontinent, ist die besagte Aushilfe nicht nötig: daher eben ist daselbst, zumal in diesen letzten zwanzig Jahren, das Duell fast ganz ausgerottet, kommt jetzt höchst selten vor, und wird dann als eine Narrheit verlacht; gewiß hat die große Anti-duelling-society, welche eine Menge Lords, Admiräle und Generäle zu ihren Mitgliedern zählt, hiezu viel beigetragen, und der Moloch muß sich ohne seine Opfer behelfen.

Ich will aber, da ich einmal dabei bin, in der Parrhesia noch weiter gehn. Beim Lichte und ohne Vorurteil betrachtet, beruht bloß darauf, daß, wie gesagt, jener Staat im Staate kein anderes Recht, als das des Stärkeren, also das Faustrecht, anerkennt und dieses, zum Gottesurteil erhoben, seinem Kodex zum Grunde gelegt hat, der so wichtig gemachte und so hoch genommene Unterschied, ob man seinen Feind im offenen, mit gleichen Waffen geführten Kampf, oder aus dem Hinterhalt erlegt habe. Denn durch ersteres hat man doch weiter nichts bewiesen, als daß man der Stärkere oder der Geschicktere sei. Die Rechtfertigung, die man im Bestehen des offenen Kampfes sucht, setzt also voraus, daß das Recht des Stärkeren wirklich ein Recht sei. In Wahrheit aber gibt der Umstand, daß der andere sich schlecht zu wehren versteht, mir zwar die Möglichkeit, jedoch keineswegs das Recht, ihn umzubringen; sondern dieses letztere, also meine moralische Rechtfertigung kann allein auf den Motiven, die ich, ihm das Leben zu nehmen, habe, beruhen. Nehmen wir nun an, diese wären wirklich vorhanden oder zureichend; so ist durchaus kein Grund da, es jetzt noch davon abhängig zu machen, ob er, oder ich, besser schießen oder fechten könne, sondern dann ist es gleichviel, auf welche Art ich ihm das Leben nehme, ob von hinten oder von vorne. Denn moralisch hat das Recht des Stärkeren nicht mehr Gewicht, als das Recht des Klügeren, welches beim hinterlistigen Morde angewandt wird: hier wiegt also dem Faustrecht das Kopfrecht gleich; wozu noch bemerkt sei, daß auch beim Duell das eine wie das andere geltend gemacht wird, indem schon jede Finte, beim Fechten, Hinterlist ist. Halte ich mich moralisch gerechtfertigt, einem das Leben zu nehmen; so ist es Dummheit, es jetzt noch erst darauf ankommen zu lassen, ob er etwan besser schießen und fechten könne als ich; in welchem Fall er dann, umgekehrt, mir, den er schon beeinträchtigt hat, noch obendrein das Leben nehmen soll. Daß Beleidigungen nicht durch das Duell, sondern durch Meuchelmord zu rächen seien, ist Rousseaus Ansicht, die er behutsam andeutet, in der so geheimnisvoll gehaltenen 21. Anmerkung zum 4. Buche des Emile (S. 173, Bip.). Dabei aber ist er so stark im ritterlichen Aberglauben befangen, daß er schon den erlittenen Vorwurf der Lüge als eine Berechtigung zum Meuchelmorde ansieht; während er doch wissen mußte, daß jeder Mensch diesen Vorwurf unzählige Male verdient hat, ja, er selbst im höchsten Grade. Das Vorurteil aber, welches die Berechtigung, den Beleidiger zu töten, durch den offenen Kampf, mit gleichen Waffen, bedingt sein läßt, hält offenbar das Faustrecht für ein wirkliches Recht und den Zweikampf für ein Gottesurteil. Der Italiäner hingegen, welcher, von Zorn entbrannt, seinen Beleidiger, wo er ihn findet, ohne weiteres mit dem Messer anfällt, handelt wenigstens konsequent und naturgemäß: er ist klüger, aber nicht schlechter, als der Duellant. Wollte man sagen, daß ich, bei der Tötung meines Feindes im Zweikampf, dadurch gerechtfertigt sei, daß er eben sich bemühte, mich zu töten, so steht dem entgegen, daß ich, durch die Herausforderung, ihn in den Fall der Notwehr versetzt habe. Dieses sich absichtlich gegenseitig in den Fall der Notwehr versetzen, heißt im Grunde nur, einen plausibeln Vorwand für den Mord suchen. Eher ließe sich die Rechtfertigung durch den Grundsatz volenti non fit injuria hören; sofern man durch gegenseitige Übereinkunft sein Leben auf dieses Spiel gesetzt hat: aber dem steht entgegen, daß es mit dem volenti nicht seine Richtigkeit hat; indem die Tyrannei des ritterlichen Ehrenprinzips und seines absurden Kodex der Scherge ist, welcher beide, oder wenigstens einen der beiden Kämpen vor dieses blutige Vehmgericht geschleppt hat.

Ich bin über die ritterliche Ehre weitläufig gewesen, aber in guter Absicht und weil gegen die moralischen und intellektuellen Ungeheuer auf dieser Welt der alleinige Herkules die Philosophie ist. Zwei Dinge sind es hauptsächlich, welche den gesellschaftlichen Zustand der neuen Zeit von dem des Altertums, zum Nachteil des ersteren unterscheiden, indem sie demselben einen ernsten, finsteren, sinistern Anstrich gegeben haben, von welchem frei das Altertum heiter und unbefangen, wie der Morgen des Lebens, dasteht. Sie sind: das ritterliche Ehrenprinzip und die venerische Krankheit, – par nobile fratrum! Sie zusammen haben νεικος και φιλια des Lebens vergiftet. Die venerische Krankheit nämlich erstreckt ihren Einfluß viel weiter, als es auf den ersten Blick scheinen möchte, indem derselbe keineswegs ein bloß physischer, sondern auch ein moralischer ist. Seitdem Amors Köcher auch vergiftete Pfeile führt, ist in das Verhältnis der Geschlechter zueinander ein fremdartiges, feindseliges, ja teuflisches Element gekommen, infolge wovon ein finsteres und furchtsames Mißtrauen es durchzieht, und der unmittelbare Einfluß einer solchen Änderung in der Grundfeste aller menschlichen Gemeinschaft erstreckt sich, mehr oder weniger, auch auf die übrigen geselligen Verhältnisse; welches auseinanderzusetzen mich hier zu weit abführen würde. – Analog, wiewohl ganz anderartig, ist der Einfluß des ritterlichen Ehrenprinzips, dieser ernsthaften Posse, welche den Alten fremd war, hingegen die moderne Gesellschaft steif, ernst und ängstlich macht, schon weil jede flüchtige Äußerung skrutinirt und ruminirt wird. Aber mehr als dies! Jenes Prinzip ist ein allgemeiner Minotaur, dem nicht, wie dem antiken, von einem, sondern von jedem Lande in Europa alljährlich eine Anzahl Söhne edler Häuser zum Tribut gebracht werden muß. Daher ist es an der Zeit, daß diesem Popanz einmal kühn zu Leibe gegangen werde, wie hier geschehn. Möchten doch beide Monstra der neueren Zeit im 19. Jahrhundert ihr Ende finden! Wir wollen die Hoffnung nicht aufgeben, daß es mit dem ersteren den Ärzten, mittelst der Prophylaktika, endlich doch noch gelingen werde. Den Popanz aber abzutun ist Sache des Philosophen, mittelst Berichtigung der Begriffe, da es den Regierungen, mittelst Handhabung der Gesetze, bisher nicht hat gelingen wollen, zudem auch nur auf dem ersteren Wege das Übel an der Wurzel angegriffen wird. Sollte es inzwischen den Regierungen mit der Abstellung des Duellwesens wirklich ernst sein und der geringe Erfolg ihres Bestrebens wirklich nur an ihrem Unvermögen liegen, so will ich ihnen ein Gesetz vorschlagen, für dessen Erfolg ich einstehe, und zwar ohne blutige Operationen, ohne Schafott oder Galgen oder lebenswierige Einsperrungen zu Hilfe zu nehmen. Vielmehr ist es ein kleines, ganz leichtes homöopathisches Mittelchen: wer einen andern herausfordert oder sich stellt, erhält, à la Chinoise, am hellen Tage, vor der Hauptwache, 12 Stockschläge vom Korporal, die Kartellträger und Sekundanten jeder 6. Wegen der etwanigen Folgen wirklich vollzogener Duelle bliebe das gewöhnliche kriminelle Verfahren. Vielleicht würde ein ritterlich Gesinnter mir einwenden, daß nach Vollstreckung solcher Strafe mancher »Mann von Ehre« imstande sein könnte, sich totzuschießen; worauf ich antworte: es ist besser, daß so ein Narr sich selber totschießt, als andere. – Im Grunde aber weiß ich sehr wohl, daß es den Regierungen mit der Abstellung der Duelle nicht ernst ist. Die Gehalte der Zivilbeamten, noch viel mehr aber die der Offiziere, stehen (von den höchsten Stellen abgesehn) weit unter dem Wert ihrer Leistungen. Zur andern Hälfte werden sie daher mit der Ehre bezahlt. Diese wird zunächst durch Titel und Orden vertreten, im weiteren Sinne durch die Standesehre überhaupt. Für diese Standesehre nun ist das Duell ein brauchbares Handpferd; daher es auch schon auf den Universitäten seine Vorschule hat. Die Opfer desselben bezahlen demnach mit ihrem Blut das Defizit der Gehalte. –

Der Vollständigkeit wegen sei hier noch die Nationalehre erwähnt. Sie ist die Ehre eines ganzen Volkes als Teiles der Völkergemeinschaft. Da es in dieser kein anderes Forum gibt, als das der Gewalt, und demnach jedes Mitglied derselben seine Rechte selbst zu schützen hat; so besteht die Ehre einer Nation nicht allein in der erworbenen Meinung, daß ihr zu trauen sei (Kredit), sondern auch in der, daß sie zu fürchten sei: daher darf sie Eingriffe in ihre Rechte niemals ungeahndet lassen. Sie vereinigt also den Ehrenpunkt der bürgerlichen mit dem der ritterlichen Ehre. –

Zu dem, was einer vorstellt, d. h. in den Augen der Welt ist, war oben, in letzter Stelle, der Ruhm gezählt worden: diesen hätten wir also noch zu betrachten. – Ruhm und Ehre sind Zwillingsgeschwister; jedoch so, wie die Dioskuren, von denen Pollux unsterblich und Kastor sterblich war: der Ruhm ist der unsterbliche Bruder der sterblichen Ehre. Freilich ist dies nur vom Ruhme höchster Gattung, dem eigentlichen und echten Ruhme, zu verstehen: denn es gibt allerdings auch mancherlei ephemeren Ruhm. – Die Ehre, nun ferner, betrifft bloß solche Eigenschaften, welchen von jedem, der in denselben Verhältnissen steht, gefordert werden; der Ruhm bloß solche, die man von niemandem fordern darf; die Ehre solche, die jeder sich öffentlich beilegen darf; der Ruhm solche, die keiner sich selber beilegen darf. Während unsere Ehre so weit reicht, wie die Kunde von uns; so eilt, umgekehrt, der Ruhm der Kunde von uns voran und bringt diese so weit er selbst gelangt. Auf Ehre hat jeder Anspruch; auf Ruhm nur die Ausnahmen: denn nur durch außerordentliche Leistungen wird Ruhm erlangt. Diese nun wieder sind entweder Taten oder Werke; wonach zum Ruhme zwei Wege offen stehn. Zum Wege der Taten befähigt vorzüglich das große Herz; zu dem der Werke der große Kopf. Jeder der beiden Wege hat seine eigenen Vorteile und Nachteile. Der Hauptunterschied ist, daß die Taten vorübergehn, die Werke bleiben. Die edelste Tat hat doch nur einen zeitweiligen Einfluß; das geniale Werk hingegen lebt und wirkt, wohltätig und erhebend, durch alle Zeiten. Von den Taten bleibt nur das Andenken, welches immer schwächer, entstellter und gleichgültiger wird, allmählich sogar erlöschen muß, wenn nicht die Geschichte es aufnimmt und es nun im petrifizirtem Zustande der Nachwelt überliefert. Die Werke hingegen sind selbst unsterblich und können, zumal die schriftlichen, alle Zeiten durchleben. Von Alexander dem Großen lebt Name und Gedächtnis: aber Plato und Aristoteles, Homer und Horaz sind noch selbst da, leben und wirken unmittelbar. Die Veden, mit ihren Upanischaden, sind da: aber von allen den Taten, die zu ihrer Zeit geschehen, ist gar keine Kunde auf uns gekommen[I]. – Ein anderer Nachteil der Taten ist ihre Abhängigkeit von der Gelegenheit, als welche erst die Möglichkeit dazu geben muß; woran sich knüpft, daß ihr Ruhm sich nicht allein nach ihrem innern Werte richtet, sondern auch nach den Umständen, welche ihnen Wichtigkeit und Glanz erteilen. Zudem ist er, wenn, wie im Kriege, die Taten rein persönliche sind, von der Aussage weniger Augenzeugen abhängig: diese sind nicht immer vorhanden und dann nicht immer gerecht und unbefangen. Dagegen aber haben die Taten den Vorteil, daß sie, als etwas Praktisches, im Bereich der allgemeinen menschlichen Urteilsfähigkeit liegen; daher ihnen, wenn dieser nur die Data richtig überliefert sind, sofort Gerechtigkeit widerfährt; es sei denn, daß ihre Motive erst später richtig erkannt oder gerecht abgeschätzt werden: denn zum Verständnis einer jeden Handlung gehört Kenntnis des Motivs derselben. Umgekehrt steht es mit den Werken: ihre Entstehung hängt nicht von der Gelegenheit, sondern allein von ihrem Urheber ab, und was sie an und für sich sind, bleiben sie, so lange sie bleiben. Bei ihnen liegt dagegen die Schwierigkeit im Urteil, und sie ist um so größer, in je höherer Gattung sie sind: oft fehlt es an kompetenten, oft an unbefangenen und redlichen Richtern. Dagegen nun wieder wird ihr Ruhm nicht von einer Instanz entschieden; sondern es findet Appellation statt. Denn während, wie gesagt, von den Taten bloß das Andenken auf die Nachwelt kommt und zwar so, wie die Mitwelt es überliefert; so kommen hingegen die Werke selbst dahin, und zwar, etwa fehlende Bruchstücke abgerechnet, so, wie sie sind: hier gibt es also keine Entstellung der Data, und auch der etwan nachteilige Einfluß der Umgebung, bei ihrem Ursprunge, fällt später weg. Vielmehr bringt oft erst die Zeit, nach und nach, die wenigen wirklich kompetenten Richter heran, welche, schon selbst Ausnahmen, über noch größere Ausnahmen zu Gerichte sitzen: sie geben sukzessiv ihre gewichtigen Stimmen ab, und so steht, bisweilen freilich erst nach Jahrhunderten, ein vollkommen gerechtes Urteil da, welches keine Folgezeit mehr umstößt. So sicher, ja, unausbleiblich ist der Ruhm der Werke. Hingegen daß ihr Urheber ihn erlebe, hängt von äußeren Umständen und dem Zufall ab: es ist um so seltener, je höherer und schwierigerer Gattung sie waren. Diesem gemäß sagt Seneka (ep. 79.) unvergleichlich schön, daß dem Verdienste sein Ruhm so unfehlbar folge, wie dem Körper sein Schatten, nur aber freilich, eben wie auch dieser, bisweilen vor, bisweilen hinter ihm herschreite, und fügt, nachdem er dies erläutert hat, hinzu: etiamsi omnibus tecum viventibus silentium livor indixerit, venient qui sine offensa, sine gratia judicent; woraus wir nebenbei ersehen, daß die Kunst des Unterdrückens der Verdienste durch hämisches Schweigen und Ignoriren, um, zu Gunsten des Schlechten, das Gute dem Publiko zu verbergen, schon bei den Lumpen des Seneka'schen Zeitalters üblich war, so gut wie bei denen des unsrigen, und daß jenen, wie diesen, der Neid die Lippen zudrückte. – In der Regel wird sogar der Ruhm, je länger er zu dauern hat, desto später eintreten; wie ja alles Vorzügliche langsam heranreift. Der Ruhm, welcher zum Nachruhm werden will, gleicht einer Eiche, die aus ihrem Samen sehr langsam emporwächst; der leichte, ephemere Ruhm den einjährigen, schnellwachsenden Pflanzen, und der falsche Ruhm gar dem schnell hervorschießenden Unkraute, das schleunigst ausgerottet wird. Dieser Hergang beruht eigentlich darauf, daß, je mehr einer der Nachwelt, d. i. eigentlich der Menschheit überhaupt und im Ganzen, angehört, desto fremder er seinem Zeitalter ist; weil, was er hervorbringt, nicht diesem speziell gewidmet ist, also nicht demselben als solchem, sondern nur sofern es ein Teil der Menschheit ist, angehört und daher auch nicht mit dessen Lokalfarbe tingirt ist: infolge hievon aber kann es leicht kommen, daß dasselbe ihn fremd an sich vorübergehn läßt. Es schätzt vielmehr die, welche den Angelegenheiten seines kurzen Tages, oder der Laune des Augenblicks dienen und daher ganz ihm angehören, mit ihm leben und mit ihm sterben. Demgemäß lehren Kunst- und Literaturgeschichte durchgängig, daß die höchsten Leistungen des menschlichen Geistes in der Regel mit Ungunst aufgenommen worden und darin so lange geblieben sind, bis Geister höherer Art herankamen, die von ihnen angesprochen wurden und sie zu dem Ansehn brachten, in welchem sie nachher, durch die so erlangte Autorität, sich erhalten haben. Dies alles nun aber beruht, im letzten Grunde, darauf, daß jeder eigentlich nur das ihm Homogene verstehn und schätzen kann. Nun aber ist dem Platten das Platte, dem Gemeinen das Gemeine, dem Unklaren das Verworrene, dem Hirnlosen das Unsinnige homogen, und am allerbesten gefallen jedem seine eigenen Werke, als welche ihm durchaus homogen sind. Daher sang schon der alte fabelhafte Epicharmos:

Θαυμαστον ουδεν εστι, με ταυθ’ οὑτω λεγειν,Και ἁνδανειν αυτοισιν αυτους, και δοκεινΚαλως πεφυκεναι: και γαρ ὁ κυων κυνιΚαλλιστον ειμεν φαινεται, και βους βοΐ,Ονος δε ονῳ καλλιστον, ὑς δε ὑΐ.

welches ich, damit es keinem verloren gehe, verdeutschen will:

Kein Wunder ist es, daß ich red' in meinem Sinn,Und jene, selbst sich selbst gefallend, stehn im Wahn,Sie wären lobenswert: so scheint dem Hund der HundDas schönste Wesen, so dem Ochsen auch der Ochs,Dem Esel auch der Esel, und dem Schwein das Schwein.

[I] Demnach ist es ein schlechtes Kompliment, wenn man, wie heutzutage Mode ist, Werke dadurch zu ehren vermeint, daß man sie Taten titulirt. Denn Werke sind wesentlich höherer Art. Eine Tat ist immer nur eine Handlung auf Motiv, mithin ein einzelnes, vorübergehendes, und ist ein dem allgemeinen und ursprünglichen Element der Welt, dem Willen, angehöriges. Ein großes oder schönes Werk hingegen ist ein bleibendes, weil von allgemeiner Bedeutung, und ist der Intelligenz entsprossen, der schuldlosen, reinen, dieser Willenswelt wie ein Duft entsteigenden.

Ein Vorteil des Ruhmes der Taten ist, daß er in der Regel sogleich eintritt mit einer starken Explosion, oft so stark, daß sie in ganz Europa gehört wird; während der Ruhm der Werke langsam und allmählich eintritt, erst leise, dann immer lauter, und oft erst nach hundert Jahren seine ganze Stärke erreicht: dann aber bleibt er, weil die Werke bleiben, bisweilen Jahrtausende hindurch. Jener andere hingegen wird, nachdem die erste Explosion vorüber ist, allmählich schwächer, wenigeren bekannt und immer wenigeren, bis er zuletzt nur noch in der Historie ein gespensterhaftes Dasein führt.

Wie selbst der kräftigste Arm, wenn er einen leichten Körper fortschleudert, ihm doch keine Bewegung erteilen kann, mit der er weit flöge und heftig träfe, sondern derselbe schon in der Nähe matt niederfällt, weil es ihm an eigenem materiellen Gehalte gefehlt hat, die fremde Kraft aufzunehmen, – ebenso ergeht es schönen und großen Gedanken, ja den Meisterwerken des Genies, wenn, sie aufzunehmen, keine andere, als kleine, schwache oder schiefe Köpfe da sind. Dies zu bejammern haben die Stimmen der Weisen aller Zeiten sich zum Chorus vereint. Z. B. Jesus Sirach sagt, »wer mit einem Narren redet, der redet mit einem Schlafenden. Wenn es aus ist, so spricht er: was ist's?« – Und Hamlet: a knavish speech sleeps in a fool's ear (eine schalkhafte Rede schläft im Ohr eines Narren). Und Goethe:

Das glücklichste Wort es wird verhöhnt,Wenn der Hörer ein Schiefohr ist.

und wieder:

Du wirkest nicht, alles bleibt so stumpf,Sei guter Dinge!Der Stein im SumpfMacht keine Ringe.

Und Lichtenberg: »wenn ein Kopf und ein Buch zusammenstoßen und es klingt hohl; ist denn das allemal im Buche?« – und wieder: »Solche Werke sind Spiegel, wenn ein Affe hineinguckt, kann kein Apostel heraussehn.« Ja, Vater Gellert's gar schöne und rührende Klage darüber verdient wohl einmal wieder in Erinnerung gebracht zu werden:

»Daß oft die allerbesten GabenDie wenigsten Bewundrer haben,Und daß der größte Teil der WeltDas Schlechte für das Gute hält;Dies Übel sieht man alle Tage.Jedoch, wie wehrt man dieser Pest?Ich zweifle, daß sich diese PlageAus unsrer Welt verdrängen läßt.Ein einzig Mittel ist auf Erden,Allein es ist unendlich schwer:Die Narren müssen weise werden;Und seht! sie werdens nimmermehr.Nie kennen sie den Wert der Dinge.Ihr Auge schließt, nicht ihr Verstand:Sie loben ewig das Geringe,Weil sie das Gute nie gekannt.«

Zu dieser intellektuellen Unfähigkeit der Menschen, infolge welcher das Vortreffliche, wie Goethe sagt, noch seltener erkannt und geschätzt, als gefunden wird, gesellt sich nun, hier wie überall, auch noch die moralische Schlechtigkeit derselben, und zwar als Neid auftretend. Durch den Ruhm nämlich, den einer erwirbt, wird abermals einer mehr über alle seiner Art erhoben: diese werden also um ebenso viel herabgesetzt, so daß jedes ausgezeichnete Verdienst seinen Ruhm auf Kosten derer erlangt, die keines haben.

»Wenn wir andern Ehre geben,Müssen wir uns selbst entadeln.«

Goethe. W. O. Divan.

Hieraus erklärt es sich, in daß, welcher Gattung auch immer das Vortreffliche auftreten mag, sogleich die gesamte, so zahlreiche Mittelmäßigkeit verbündet und verschworen ist, es nicht gelten zu lassen, ja, wo möglich, es zu ersticken. Ihre heimliche Parole ist: à bas le mérite. Aber sogar auch die, welche selbst Verdienste besitzen und bereits den Ruhm desselben erlangt haben, werden nicht gern das Auftreten eines neuen Ruhmes sehn, durch dessen Glanz der des ihrigen um so viel weniger leuchtet. Daher sagt selbst Goethe:

»Hätt' ich gezaudert zu werden,Bis man mir's Leben gegönnt,Ich wäre noch nicht auf Erden,Wie ihr begreifen könnt,Wenn ihr seht, wie sie sich geberden,Die, um etwas zu scheinen,Mich gerne möchten verneinen.«

Während also die Ehre, in der Regel, gerechte Richter findet und kein Neid sie anficht, ja sogar sie jedem zum voraus, auf Kredit, verliehen wird, muß der Ruhm, dem Neid zum Trotz, erkämpft werden, und den Lorbeer teilt ein Tribunal entschieden ungünstiger Richter aus. Denn die Ehre können und wollen wir mit jedem teilen: der Ruhm wird geschmälert oder erschwert, durch jeden, der ihn erlangt. – Nun ferner steht die Schwierigkeit der Erlangung des Ruhmes durch Werke im umgekehrten Verhältnis der Menschenzahl, die das Publikum solcher Werke ausmacht; aus leicht abzusehenden Gründen. Daher ist sie viel größer bei Werken, welche Belehrung, als bei solchen, welche Unterhaltung verheißen. Am größten ist sie bei philosophischen Werken; weil die Belehrung, welche diese versprechen, einerseits ungewiß, und andrerseits ohne materiellen Nutzen ist; wonach denn solche zunächst vor einem Publiko auftreten, das aus lauter Mitbewerbern besteht. – Aus den dargelegten Schwierigkeiten, die der Erlangung des Ruhmes entgegenstehn, erhellt, daß, wenn die, welche ruhmwürdige Werke vollenden, es nicht aus Liebe zu diesen selbst und eigener Freude daran täten, sondern der Aufmunterung durch den Ruhm bedürften, die Menschheit wenige, oder keine, unsterbliche Werke erhalten haben würde. Ja, sogar muß, wer das Gute und Rechte hervorbringen und das Schlechte vermeiden soll, dem Urteile der Menge und ihrer Wortführer Trotz bieten, mithin sie verachten. Hierauf beruht die Richtigkeit der Bemerkung, die besonders Osorius (de gloria) hervorhebt, daß der Ruhm vor denen flieht, die ihn suchen, und denen folgt, die ihn vernachlässigen: denn jene bequemen sich dem Geschmacke ihrer Zeitgenossen an, diese trotzen ihm.

So schwer es demnach ist, den Ruhm zu erlangen, so leicht ist es, ihn zu behalten. Auch hierin steht er im Gegensatz mit der Ehre. Diese wird jedem, sogar auf Kredit, verliehen: er hat sie nur zu bewahren. Hier aber liegt die Aufgabe: denn durch eine einzige, nichtswürdige Handlung geht sie unwiederbringlich verloren. Der Ruhm hingegen kann eigentlich nie verloren gehn: denn die Tat, oder das Werk, durch die er erlangt worden, stehen für immer fest, und der Ruhm derselben bleibt ihrem Urheber, auch wenn er keinen neuen hinzufügt. Wenn jedoch der Ruhm wirklich verklingt, wenn er überlebt wird; so war er unecht, d. h. unverdient, durch augenblickliche Überschätzung entstanden, wo nicht gar so ein Ruhm wie Hegel ihn hatte und Lichtenberg ihn beschreibt, »ausposaunt von einer freundschaftlichen Kandidatenjunta und vom Echo leerer Köpfe widergehallt; – – aber die Nachwelt, wie wird sie lächeln, wann sie dereinst an die bunten Wörtergehäuse, die schönen Nester ausgeflogener Mode und die Wohnungen weggestorbener Verabredungen anklopfen und alles, alles leer finden wird, auch nicht den kleinsten Gedanken, der mit Zuversicht sagen könnte: herein!« –

Der Ruhm beruht eigentlich auf dem, was einer im Vergleich mit den Übrigen ist. Demnach ist er wesentlich ein Relatives, kann daher auch nur relativen Wert haben. Er fiele ganz weg, wenn die Übrigen würden was der Gerühmte ist. Absoluten Wert kann nur das haben, was ihn unter allen Umständen behält, also hier, was einer unmittelbar und für sich selbst ist: folglich muß hierin der Wert und das Glück des großen Herzens und des großen Kopfes liegen. Also nicht der Ruhm, sondern das, wodurch man ihn verdient, ist das Wertvolle. Denn es ist gleichsam die Substanz und der Ruhm nur das Akzidenz der Sache: ja dieser wirkt auf den Gerühmten hauptsächlich als ein äußerliches Symptom, durch welches er die Bestätigung seiner eigenen hohen Meinung von sich selbst erhält; demnach man sagen könnte, daß, wie das Licht gar nicht sichtbar ist, wenn es nicht von einem Körper zurückgeworfen wird; ebenso jede Trefflichkeit erst durch den Ruhm ihrer selbst recht gewiß wird. Allein er ist nicht einmal ein untrügliches Symptom; da es auch Ruhm ohne Verdienst und Verdienst ohne Ruhm gibt; weshalb ein Ausdruck Lessings so artig herauskommt: »einige Leute sind berühmt, und andere verdienen es zu sein.« Auch wäre es eine elende Existenz, deren Wert oder Unwert darauf beruhte, wie sie in den Augen anderer erschiene: eine solche aber wäre das Leben des Helden und des Genies, wenn dessen Wert im Ruhme, d. h. im Beifall anderer, bestände. Vielmehr lebt und existiert ja jegliches Wesen seiner selbst wegen, daher auch zunächst in sich und für sich. – Was einer ist, in welcher Art und Weise es auch sei, das ist er zuvörderst und hauptsächlich für sich selbst: und wenn es hier nicht viel wert ist, so ist es überhaupt nicht viel. Hingegen ist das Abbild seines Wesens in den Köpfen anderer ein Sekundäres, Abgeleitetes und dem Zufall Unterworfenes, welches nur sehr mittelbar sich auf das erstere zurückbezieht. Zudem sind die Köpfe der Menge ein zu elender Schauplatz, als daß auf ihm das wahre Glück seinen Ort haben könnte. Vielmehr ist daselbst nur ein chimärisches Glück zu finden. Welche gemischte Gesellschaft trifft doch in jenem Tempel des allgemeinen Ruhms zusammen! Feldherren, Minister, Quacksalber, Gaukler, Tänzer, Sänger, Millionäre und Juden: ja die Vorzüge aller dieser werden dort viel aufrichtiger geschätzt, finden viel mehr estime sentie, als die geistigen, zumal der hohen Art, die ja bei der großen Mehrzahl nur eine estime sur parole erlangen. In eudämonologischer Hinsicht ist also der Ruhm nichts weiter, als der seltenste und köstlichste Bissen für unsern Stolz und unsere Eitelkeit. Diese aber sind in den meisten Menschen, obwohl sie es verbergen, übermäßig vorhanden, vielleicht sogar am stärkesten in denen, die irgendwie geeignet sind, sich Ruhm zu erwerben und daher meistens das unsichere Bewußtsein ihres überwiegenden Wertes lange in sich herumtragen müssen, ehe die Gelegenheit kommt, solchen zu erproben und dann die Anerkennung desselben zu erfahren: bis dahin war ihnen zu Mute, als erlitten sie ein heimliches Unrecht[J]. Überhaupt aber ist ja, wie am Anfange dieses Kapitels erörtert worden, der Wert, den der Mensch auf die Meinung anderer von ihm legt, ganz unverhältnismäßig und unvernünftig; so daß Hobbes die Sache zwar sehr stark, aber vielleicht doch richtig ausgedrückt hat in den Worten: omnis animi voluptas, omnisque alacritas in eo sita est, quod quis habeat quibuscum conferens se, possit magnifice sentire de se ipso (de cive. I, 5). Hieraus ist der hohe Wert erklärlich, den man allgemein auf den Ruhm legt, und die Opfer, welche man bringt, in der bloßen Hoffnung, ihn dereinst zu erlangen:

Fame is the spur, that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble minds)To scorn delights and live laborious days.

wie auch:

how hard it is to climbThe hights where Fame's proud temple shines afar.

[J] Da unser größtes Vergnügen darin besteht, bewundert zu werden, die Bewunderer aber, selbst wo alle Ursache wäre, sich ungern dazu herbeilassen; so ist er der Glücklichste Der, welcher, gleichviel wie, es dahin gebracht hat, sich selbst aufrichtig zu bewundern. Nur müssen die andern ihn nicht irre machen.

Hieraus endlich erklärt es sich auch, daß die eitelste aller Nationen beständig la gloire im Munde führt und solche unbedenklich als die Haupttriebfeder zu großen Taten und großen Werken ansieht. – Allein, da unstreitig der Ruhm nur das Sekundäre ist, das bloße Echo, Abbild, Schatten, Symptom des Verdienstes, und da jedenfalls das Bewunderte mehr Wert haben muß als die Bewunderung, so kann das eigentlich Beglückende nicht im Ruhme liegen, sondern in dem, wodurch man ihn erlangt, also im Verdienste selbst, oder, genauer zu reden, in der Gesinnung und den Fähigkeiten, aus denen es hervorging, es mag nun moralischer oder intellektueller Art sein. Denn das Beste, was jeder ist, muß er notwendig für sich selbst sein: was davon in den Köpfen anderer sich abspiegelt und er in ihrer Meinung gilt, ist Nebensache und kann nur von untergeordnetem Interesse für ihn sein. Wer demnach nur den Ruhm verdient, auch ohne ihn zu erhalten, besitzt bei weitem die Hauptsache, und was er entbehrt, ist etwas, darüber er sich mit derselben trösten kann. Denn nicht daß einer von der urteilslosen, so oft betörten Menge für einen großen Mann gehalten werde, sondern daß er es sei, macht ihn beneidenswert; auch nicht, daß die Nachwelt von ihm erfahre, sondern daß in ihm sich Gedanken erzeugen, welche verdienen, Jahrhunderte hindurch aufbewahrt und nachgedacht zu werden, ist ein hohes Glück. Zudem kann dieses ihm nicht entrissen werden: es ist των εφ’ ἡμιν, jenes andere των ουκ εφ’ ἡμιν. Wäre hingegen die Bewunderung selbst die Hauptsache; so wäre das Bewunderte ihrer nicht wert. Dies ist wirklich der Fall beim falschen, d. i. unverdienten Ruhm. An diesem muß sein Besitzer zehren, ohne das, wovon derselbe das Symptom, der bloße Abglanz, sein soll, wirklich zu haben. Aber sogar dieser Ruhm selbst muß ihm oft verleidet werden, wann bisweilen, trotz aller, aus der Eigenliebe entspringenden Selbsttäuschung, ihm auf der Höhe, für die er nicht geeignet ist, doch schwindelt, oder ihm zu Mute wird, als wäre er ein kupferner Dukaten; wo dann die Angst vor Enthüllung und verdienter Demütigung ihn ergreift, zumal wann er auf den Stirnen der Weiseren schon das Urteil der Nachwelt liest. Er gleicht sonach dem Besitzer durch ein falsches Testament. – Den echtesten Ruhm, den Nachruhm, vernimmt sein Gegenstand ja nie, und doch schätzt man ihn glücklich. Also bestand sein Glück in den großen Eigenschaften selbst, die ihm den Ruhm erwarben, und darin, daß er Gelegenheit fand, sie zu entwickeln, also daß ihm vergönnt wurde, zu handeln, wie es ihm angemessen war, oder zu treiben, was er mit Lust und Liebe trieb: denn nur die aus dieser entsprungenen Werke erlangen Nachruhm. Sein Glück bestand also in seinem großen Herzen, oder auch im Reichtum eines Geistes, dessen Abdruck, in seinen Werken, die Bewunderung kommender Jahrhunderte erhält; es bestand in den Gedanken selbst, welchen nachzudenken, die Beschäftigung und der Genuß der edelsten Geister einer unabsehbaren Zukunft ward. Der Wert des Nachruhms liegt also im Verdienen desselben, und dieses ist sein eigener Lohn. Ob nun die Werke, welche ihn erwarben, unterweilen auch den Ruhm der Zeitgenossen hatten, hing von zufälligen Umständen ab und war nicht von großer Bedeutung. Denn da die Menschen in der Regel ohne eigenes Urteil sind und zumal hohe und schwierige Leistungen abzuschätzen durchaus keine Fähigkeit haben; so folgen sie hier stets fremder Autorität, und der Ruhm, in hoher Gattung, beruht bei 99 unter 100 Rühmern, bloß auf Treu und Glauben. Daher kann auch der vielstimmigste Beifall der Zeitgenossen für denkende Köpfe nur wenig Wert haben, indem sie in ihm stets nur das Echo weniger Stimmen hören, die zudem selbst nur sind, wie der Tag sie gebracht hat. Würde wohl ein Virtuose sich geschmeichelt fühlen durch das laute Beifallsklatschen seines Publikums, wenn ihm bekannt wäre, daß es, bis auf einen oder zwei, aus lauter völlig Tauben bestände, die, um einander gegenseitig ihr Gebrechen zu verbergen, eifrig klatschen, sobald sie die Hände jenes Einen in Bewegung sähen? Und nun gar, wenn die Kenntnis hinzukäme, daß jene Vorklatscher sich oft bestechen ließen, um dem elendesten Geiger den lautesten Applaus zu verschaffen! – Hieraus ist erklärlich, warum der Ruhm der Zeitgenossen so selten die Metamorphose in Nachruhm erlebt; weshalb d'Alembert, in seiner überaus schönen Beschreibung des Tempels des literarischen Ruhmes, sagt: »das Innere des Tempels ist von lauter Toten bewohnt, die während ihres Lebens nicht darin waren, und von einigen Lebenden, welche fast alle, wann sie sterben, hinausgeworfen werden.« Und beiläufig sei es hier bemerkt, daß einem bei Lebzeiten ein Monument setzen die Erklärung ablegen heißt, daß hinsichtlich seiner der Nachwelt nicht zu trauen sei. – Wenn dennoch einer den Ruhm, welcher zum Nachruhm werden soll, erlebt, so wird es selten früher als im Alter geschehn: allenfalls gibt es bei Künstlern und Dichtern Ausnahmen von dieser Regel, am wenigsten bei Philosophen. Eine Bestätigung derselben geben die Bildnisse der durch ihre Werke berühmten Männer, da dieselben meistens erst nach dem Eintritt ihrer Zelebrität angefertigt wurden: in der Regel sind sie alt und grau dargestellt, namentlich die Philosophen. Inzwischen steht, eudämonologisch genommen, die Sache ganz recht. Ruhm und Jugend auf einmal ist zu viel für einen Sterblichen. Unser Leben ist so arm, daß seine Güter haushälterischer verteilt werden müssen. Die Jugend hat vollauf genug an ihrem eigenen Reichtum und kann sich daran genügen lassen. Aber im Alter, wann alle Genüsse und Freuden, wie die Bäume im Winter, abgestorben sind, dann schlägt am gelegensten der Baum des Ruhmes aus, als ein ächtes Wintergrün: auch kann man ihn den Winterbirnen vergleichen, die im Sommer wachsen, aber im Winter genossen werden. Im Alter gibt es keinen schönern Trost, als daß man die ganze Kraft seiner Jugend Werken einverleibt hat, die nicht mit altern.

Wollen wir jetzt noch etwas näher die Wege betrachten, auf welchen man, in den Wissenschaften, als dem uns zunächst liegenden, Ruhm erlangt; so läßt sich hier folgende Regel aufstellen. Die durch solchen Ruhm bezeichnete intellektuelle Überlegenheit wird allemal an den Tag gelegt durch eine neue Kombination irgendwelcher Data. Diese nun können sehr verschiedener Art sein; jedoch wird der durch ihre Kombination zu erlangende Ruhm um so größer und ausgebreiteter sein, je mehr sie selbst allgemein bekannt und jedem zugänglich sind. Bestehn z. B. die Data in einigen Zahlen oder Kurven, oder auch in irgend einer speziellen physikalischen, zoologischen, botanischen oder anatomischen Tatsache, oder auch in einigen verdorbenen Stellen alter Autoren, oder in halbverlöschten Inschriften, oder in solchen, deren Alphabet uns fehlt, oder in dunkeln Punkten der Geschichte; so wird der durch die richtige Kombination derselben zu erlangende Ruhm sich nicht viel weiter erstrecken, als die Kenntnis der Data selbst, also auf eine kleine Anzahl meistens zurückgezogen lebender und auf den Ruhm in ihrem Fache neidischer Leute. – Sind hingegen die Data solche, welche das ganze Menschengeschlecht kennt, sind es z. B. wesentliche, allen gemeinsame Eigenschaften des menschlichen Verstandes, oder Gemütes, oder Naturkräfte, deren ganze Wirkungsart wir beständig vor Augen haben, oder der allbekannte Lauf der Natur überhaupt; so wird der Ruhm, durch eine neue, wichtige und evidente Kombination Licht über sie verbreitet zu haben, sich mit der Zeit fast über die ganze zivilisirte Welt erstrecken. Denn, sind die Data jedem zugänglich, so wird ihre Kombination es meistens auch sein. – Dennoch wird hiebei der Ruhm allemal nur der überwundenen Schwierigkeit entsprechen. Denn, je allbekannter die Data sind, desto schwerer ist es, sie auf eine neue und doch richtige Weise zu kombiniren; da schon eine überaus große Anzahl von Köpfen sich an ihnen versucht und die unmöglichen Kombinationen derselben erschöpft hat. Hingegen werden Data, welche, dem großen Publiko unzugänglich, nur auf mühsamen und schwierigen Wegen erreichbar sind, fast immer noch neue Kombinationen zulassen: wenn man daher an solche nur mit geradem Verstande und gesunder Urteilskraft, also einer mäßigen geistigen Überlegenheit, kommt; so ist es leicht möglich, daß man eine neue und richtige Kombination derselben zu machen das Glück habe. Allein der hiedurch erworbene Ruhm wird ungefähr dieselben Grenzen haben, wie die Kenntnis der Data. Denn zwar erfordert die Lösung von Problemen solcher Art großes Studium und Arbeit, schon um nur die Kenntnis der Data zu erlangen; während in jener andern Art, in welcher eben der größte und ausgebreiteteste Ruhm zu erwerben ist, die Data unentgeltlich gegeben sind: allein in dem Maße, wie diese letztere Art weniger Arbeit erfordert, gehört mehr Talent ja Genie dazu, und mit diesen hält, hinsichtlich des Wertes und der Wertschätzung, keine Arbeit oder Studium den Vergleich aus.

Hieraus nun ergibt sich, daß die, welche einen tüchtigen Verstand und ein richtiges Urteil in sich spüren, ohne jedoch die höchsten Geistesgaben sich zuzutrauen, viel Studium und ermüdende Arbeit nicht scheuen dürfen, um mittelst dieser sich aus dem großen Haufen der Menschen, welchen die allbekannten Data vorliegen, herauszuarbeiten und zu den entlegeneren Orten zu gelangen, welche nur dem gelehrten Fleiße zugänglich sind. Denn hier, wo die Zahl der Mitbewerber unendlich verringert ist, wird auch der nur einigermaßen überlegene Kopf bald zu einer neuen und richtigen Kombination der Data Gelegenheit finden: sogar wird das Verdienst seiner Entdeckung sich mit auf die Schwierigkeit, zu den Datis zu gelangen, stützen. Aber der also erworbene Applaus seiner Wissensgenossen, als welche die alleinigen Kenner in diesem Fache sind, wird von der großen Menge der Menschen nur von Weitem vernommen werden. – Will man nun den hier angedeuteten Weg bis zum Extrem verfolgen; so läßt sich der Punkt nachweisen, wo die Data, wegen der großen Schwierigkeit ihrer Erlangung, für sich allein und ohne daß eine Kombination derselben erfordert wäre, den Ruhm zu begründen hinreichen. Dies leisten Reisen in sehr entlegene und wenig besuchte Länder: man wird berühmt durch das, was man gesehen, nicht durch das, was man gedacht hat. Dieser Weg hat auch noch einen großen Vorteil darin, daß es viel leichter ist, was man gesehn, als was man gedacht hat, andern mitzuteilen und es mit dem Verständnis sich ebenso verhält: demgemäß wird man für das Erstere auch viel mehr Leser finden als für das andere. Denn, wie schon Asmus sagt:

»Wenn jemand eine Reise tut,So kann er was erzählen.«

Diesem allen entspricht es aber auch, daß, bei der persönlichen Bekanntschaft berühmter Leute dieser Art einem oft die Horazische Bemerkung einfällt:

Coelum, non animum, mutant, qui trans mare currunt.

(Epist. I, 11, v. 27.)

Was aber nun andrerseits den mit hohen Fähigkeiten ausgestatteten Kopf betrifft, als welcher allein sich an die Lösung der großen, das Allgemeine und Ganze betreffenden und daher schwierigsten Probleme wagen darf; so wird dieser zwar wohl daran tun, seinen Horizont möglichst auszudehnen, jedoch immer gleichmäßig, nach allen Seiten, und ohne je sich zu weit in irgend eine der besonderen und nur Wenigen bekannten Regionen zu verlieren, d. h. ohne auf die Spezialitäten irgend einer einzelnen Wissenschaft weit einzugehen, geschweige sich mit den Mikrologien zu befassen. Denn er hat nicht nötig, sich an die schwer zugänglichen Gegenstände zu machen, um dem Gedränge der Mitbewerber zu entgehn; sondern eben das allen Vorliegende wird ihm Stoff zu neuen, wichtigen und wahren Kombinationen geben. Dem nun aber gemäß wird sein Verdienst von allen denen geschätzt werden können, welchen die Data bekannt sind, also von einem großen Teile des menschlichen Geschlechts. Hierauf gründet sich der mächtige Unterschied zwischen dem Ruhm, den Dichter und Philosophen erlangen, und dem, welcher Physikern, Chemikern, Anatomen, Mineralogen, Zoologen, Philologen, Historikern usw. erreichbar ist.

Musean translation

Machine-assisted translation from the German, following the 1913 Ernst Ohle edition.

What a Person Represents.

This—our existence in the opinions of others—is generally valued far too highly, owing to a peculiar weakness of our nature, although the slightest reflection could teach us that in itself it is inessential to our happiness. It is therefore scarcely explicable how inwardly delighted everyone becomes whenever he notices signs of others' favorable opinions and his vanity is flattered in any way. As surely as a cat purrs when stroked, sweet delight paints itself on the face of a person praised in the field of his pretensions, even if the praise is palpably false. Signs of others' approval often console him for actual misfortune or for the scantiness with which the two chief sources of happiness discussed so far flow for him. Conversely, it is astonishing how unfailingly every injury to his ambition, in whatever sense, degree, or relationship—every slight, neglect, or disregard—wounds him and often hurts him deeply. Insofar as the sense of honor rests on this quality, it may have beneficial consequences for many people's good conduct as a substitute for morality. But on a person's own happiness, and especially on the peace of mind and independence so essential to it, its influence is more disturbing and harmful than helpful. From our standpoint, therefore, it is advisable to set limits to it and, through proper reflection and a correct appraisal of the value of goods, to moderate as far as possible this great sensitivity to others' opinions, both when it is flattered and when it is hurt; for both hang by the same thread. Otherwise one remains the slave of others' opinions and judgments:

So light, so small is what casts down and restoresThe heart that hungers for praise.

A correct estimate of the worth of what we are in and for ourselves, compared with what we are merely in the eyes of others, will therefore contribute greatly to our happiness. To the former belongs the entire filling of the time of our own existence, its inward content, and thus all the goods we have considered under the headings "what a person is" and "what a person has." For the place in which all this has its sphere of action is our own consciousness. The place of what we are for others, by contrast, is their consciousness: the representation under which we appear in it, together with the concepts applied to that representation[D]. This is something that does not exist for us directly at all, but only indirectly, insofar as it determines others' behavior toward us. Even this behavior properly matters only insofar as it influences something capable of modifying what we are in and for ourselves. Otherwise, what occurs in another's consciousness is, as such, indifferent to us. We too will gradually become indifferent to it once we gain sufficient knowledge of the superficiality and futility of thoughts, the narrowness of concepts, the pettiness of dispositions, the perversity of opinions, and the number of errors in the great majority of minds; and once we learn from our own experience with what contempt anyone is sometimes spoken of as soon as he need not be feared or it is thought the words will not reach his ears—especially after hearing half a dozen blockheads speak disparagingly of the greatest man. We shall then see that whoever sets great store by people's opinions pays them too much honor.

[D] The highest classes, in their brilliance, splendor, pomp, glory, and display of every kind, can say: our happiness lies wholly outside ourselves; its place is in the heads of others.

In any case, someone who does not find happiness in the two classes of goods already discussed but must seek it in this third is dependent on a meager resource: not what he really is, but what he is in another's representation. For our animal nature is in general the basis of our being, and consequently of our happiness. Health is therefore the most essential thing for our welfare; next come the means of maintaining ourselves, and thus a livelihood free from care. Honor, brilliance, rank, and fame, however highly some may value them, cannot compete with or replace those essential goods; rather, if necessary, they would be surrendered for them without hesitation. It will therefore contribute to our happiness if we acquire in good time the simple insight that everyone lives first and actually in his own skin, not in others' opinions; consequently our actual, personal condition, as determined by health, temperament, abilities, income, wife, child, friends, place of residence, and so forth, is a hundred times more important to our happiness than whatever others please to make of us. The opposite delusion makes us unhappy. When someone cries emphatically, "Honor stands above life itself," this really means: "Existence and well-being are nothing; what others think of us is what matters." At most the saying can count as a hyperbole founded on the prosaic truth that honor—that is, people's opinion of us—is often indispensable to making our way and maintaining ourselves among them; I shall return to this later. But when we see how almost everything people tirelessly pursue throughout life, with restless effort and amid a thousand dangers and hardships, ultimately aims at raising them in others' opinion—not merely offices, titles, and decorations, but wealth and even learning[E] and art being pursued basically and chiefly for this reason, with others' greater respect as the final goal—this unfortunately proves only the magnitude of human folly. To place far too much value on others' opinion is a universally prevailing delusion, whether rooted in our nature itself or arising through society and civilization. In any case, it exerts a wholly excessive influence on all our actions and omissions, hostile to our happiness. We can trace it from its manifestation in anxious, slavish regard for what will people say? to the point where it drives Virginius's dagger into his daughter's heart, or tempts a person to sacrifice peace, wealth, health, even life, for posthumous fame. This delusion certainly offers a convenient handle to anyone who must govern people or otherwise direct them; hence the instruction to keep the sense of honor lively and sharpen it occupies a chief place in every art of training human beings. But concerning a person's own happiness, our object here, the matter stands quite differently: we must rather warn against placing too much value on others' opinions. If, as daily experience teaches, this nevertheless happens; if most people set the highest value precisely on others' opinions of them and care more for these than for what, because it occurs in their own consciousness, exists immediately for them; if, thus reversing the natural order, the former seems the real, the latter merely the ideal part of their existence; if they therefore make the derivative and secondary their chief concern, caring more for the image of their being in others' heads than for that being itself—then this immediate valuation of what does not exist for us immediately at all is the folly called vanity, vanitas, to designate the emptiness and lack of substance of such striving. It is also easy to see from the foregoing that, like avarice, it belongs to forgetting the end in favor of the means.

[E] Your knowledge is nothing unless another knows that you know it.

Indeed, the value we place on others' opinions and our constant concern with them generally exceed almost every rational purpose, so that they can be regarded as a kind of universally widespread, or rather inborn, mania. In almost everything we do or leave undone, others' opinions are considered before nearly anything else; on close examination, we shall see almost half of all the troubles and anxieties we have ever felt arise from concern about them. For this underlies all our self-esteem, so often wounded because it is so morbidly sensitive, all our vanities and pretensions, and also our display and self-importance. Without this concern and craving, luxury would scarcely amount to a tenth of what it is. Every kind of pride, point of honor and punctiliousness, however different its kind and sphere, rests on it—and what sacrifices it often demands! It appears already in children, then at every age, though most strongly in later life, when the capacity for sensual pleasures dries up and vanity and arrogance have only avarice left to share their rule. It can be observed most clearly among the French, in whom it is thoroughly endemic, often venting itself in the most tasteless ambition, ridiculous national vanity, and shameless boasting; thus their striving defeats itself, having made them the laughingstock of other nations, and the great nation has become a nickname of mockery. To illustrate more particularly the perversity of this excessive concern with others' opinions, a truly superlative example of that folly rooted in human nature may be given here, unusually favored in its illumination by the coincidence of circumstances with the appropriate character. It allows the full strength of this most peculiar motive to be measured. The following passage is taken from the Times of March 31, 1846, in its detailed report of the execution just carried out of Thomas Wix, a journeyman who had murdered his master for revenge: "On the morning appointed for his execution the reverend prison chaplain came to him early. But Wix, though behaving calmly, showed no interest in his exhortations: his sole concern was to succeed in bearing himself with great bravado before the spectators of his shameful end.— — —And in this he succeeded. In the courtyard he had to cross to reach the gallows erected immediately beside the prison, he said, 'Well then, as Doctor Dodd said, I shall soon know the great secret!' Although his arms were bound, he climbed the ladder to the scaffold without the slightest assistance. On reaching it he bowed to the spectators to right and left, and these bows were answered and rewarded with the assembled crowd's thunderous applause, and so forth."—This is a magnificent specimen of ambition: with death in its most terrible form before one's eyes, and eternity behind it, to have no other concern than the impression made on the hastily gathered crowd of gawkers and the opinion one will leave in their heads!—Yet Lecomte, executed in France that same year for attempted regicide, was likewise chiefly annoyed at his trial that he could not appear before the Chamber of Peers in respectable clothing; even at his execution a principal vexation was that he had not been allowed to shave beforehand. That things were no different in former times appears from what Mateo Aleman relates in the introduction (declaracion) prefixed to his famous novel Guzman de Alfarache: many deluded criminals take the last hours, which they ought to devote exclusively to the salvation of their souls, away from this purpose to compose and memorize a little sermon they intend to deliver on the gallows ladder.—Yet we ourselves can see our reflection in such traits, for colossal cases everywhere give the clearest illustration. Perhaps in most cases, all our worrying, troubling, fretting, vexation, anxiety, exertion, and so forth concern others' opinions in reality, and are just as absurd as those of these poor sinners. Our envy and hatred spring no less largely from that same root.

Plainly, hardly anything could contribute so much to our happiness, which rests overwhelmingly on peace of mind and contentment, as restricting and reducing this motive to a rationally justifiable measure—perhaps a fiftieth of its present strength—and thus drawing this constantly tormenting thorn from our flesh. Yet this is very difficult, for we are dealing with a natural and inborn perversity. Even the wise shed the desire for glory last, says Tacitus (hist. VI, 6). The only way to rid ourselves of this universal folly would be to recognize it clearly as such, and for this purpose to make clear to ourselves how utterly false, perverse, erroneous, and absurd most opinions in people's heads tend to be, and therefore how unworthy of attention in themselves; then how little actual influence others' opinions can have upon us in most things and cases; further, how generally unfavorable they usually are, so that almost anyone would fret himself ill if he heard everything said about him and the tone in which he is discussed; finally, that even honor itself is really only of indirect, not immediate, value, and so on. If we succeeded in such a conversion from universal folly, the result would be an incredibly great increase of peace of mind and cheerfulness, as well as a firmer and more confident bearing, and behavior more entirely unselfconscious and natural. The exceedingly beneficial influence of a retired way of life on our peace of mind rests chiefly on its withdrawing us from constantly living before others' eyes, and consequently from continual consideration of their possible opinions, thus restoring us to ourselves. We would likewise escape a great deal of actual misfortune into which only that purely ideal striving—or more correctly, that ruinous folly—draws us, retain far more care for substantial goods, and enjoy these with less disturbance. But, as I have said, noble things are difficult.

The folly of our nature described here produces chiefly three offspring: ambition, vanity, and pride. The difference between the last two rests on pride being an already established conviction of one's own superior worth in some respect, whereas vanity is the wish to awaken such a conviction in others, usually accompanied by the secret hope of consequently making it one's own as well. Pride is therefore high self-esteem originating within, and thus direct; vanity is the effort to obtain such esteem from outside, and thus indirectly. Accordingly vanity makes us talkative, pride silent. But the vain person should know that the high opinion of others he seeks can be obtained much more easily and surely through persistent silence than through speech, even if he had the finest things to say.—One cannot be proud simply by wishing to be; at most one can wish to affect pride, but will soon fall out of this assumed role, as out of any other. For only a firm, inward, unshakable conviction of superior advantages and special worth makes one truly proud. This conviction may be mistaken, or rest merely on external and conventional advantages; that does not injure pride, provided the conviction really and seriously exists. Since pride is rooted in conviction, it is, like all knowledge, not subject to our choice. Its worst enemy—I mean its greatest obstacle—is vanity, which courts others' approval in order to found its own high opinion of itself upon it, whereas being already quite firmly established in that opinion is the prerequisite of pride.

However generally pride is blamed and denounced, I suspect this has chiefly originated with those who have nothing to be proud of. In the face of most people's insolence and brazen stupidity, anyone possessing advantages of any kind does well to keep them in view himself, so that they do not fall entirely into oblivion. For someone who good-naturedly ignores them and treats those people as though he were entirely their equal will immediately and in all innocence be taken for just that. I would recommend this especially to those whose advantages are of the highest kind—that is, real and thus purely personal—since these, unlike decorations and titles, are not recalled to mind at every moment through an impression on the senses; otherwise they will often enough see the pig instructing Minerva exemplified. "Joke with the slave, and soon he will show you his backside" is an excellent Arabic proverb, and Horace's assume the pride earned by merit is not to be rejected. The virtue of modesty, however, is a considerable invention for the scoundrels: according to it, everyone must speak of himself as though he too were one of them, which levels things splendidly, making it appear as though there were nothing but scoundrels at all.

The cheapest kind of pride, however, is national pride. For it betrays in its possessor a lack of individual qualities of which he could be proud; otherwise he would not reach for what he shares with so many millions. Someone possessing significant personal advantages will rather recognize most clearly the faults of his own nation, since he has them constantly before his eyes. But every wretched fool who has nothing in the world to be proud of seizes the last resort of taking pride in the nation to which he happens to belong. In this he finds consolation and is now gratefully ready to defend all its faults and follies with fists and feet. Thus among fifty Englishmen one will scarcely find more than one who agrees when the stupid and degrading bigotry of his nation is spoken of with due contempt; but that one is generally a man of intelligence.—The Germans are free of national pride and thereby give evidence of the honesty for which they are praised. Evidence of the contrary is given by those among them who profess and ridiculously affect such pride, as is chiefly done by the "German brothers" and democrats who flatter the people to seduce them. The Germans are indeed said to have invented gunpowder; I cannot, however, subscribe to this opinion. And Lichtenberg asks: "Why does someone who is not German rarely pretend to be German, but generally, when he wants to pass himself off as something, pretends to be French or English?" Individuality, moreover, far outweighs nationality and deserves a thousand times more consideration in any given person. Since national character speaks of the multitude, one can never honestly credit it with much good. Rather, human narrowness, perversity, and wickedness appear in a different form in each country, and this is called national character. Disgusted with one, we praise another until we have fared just the same with it.—Every nation mocks the other, and all are right.

The subject of this chapter, then—what we represent in the world, what we are in the eyes of others—can, as already observed above, be divided into honor, rank, and fame.

Rank, however important in the eyes of the crowd and the philistines, and however useful in the workings of the machinery of state, can for our purpose be dealt with in a few words. It is a conventional, and thus really a simulated, value: its effect is simulated respect, and the whole is a comedy for the crowd.—Decorations are bills of exchange drawn on public opinion: their value rests on the issuer's credit. Nevertheless, quite apart from the great sums they save the state as substitutes for monetary rewards, they are an entirely appropriate institution, provided they are distributed with insight and justice. For the crowd has eyes and ears, but not much more: especially precious little judgment, and even little memory. Some merits lie entirely outside its sphere of understanding; others it understands and applauds when they occur, but soon forgets afterward. I therefore find it quite fitting that a cross or star should call out to the multitude always and everywhere: "This man is not your equal: he has merits!" But unjust, undiscerning, or excessive distribution robs decorations of this value; a prince should therefore be as cautious in awarding them as a merchant in signing bills. The inscription for merit on a cross is a pleonasm: every decoration should be for merit—that goes without saying.—

The discussion of honor is much more difficult and extensive than that of rank. First we should define it. If for this purpose I were to say that honor is outward conscience and conscience inward honor, this might please some people, but would be a brilliant rather than a clear and thorough explanation. I therefore say: objectively, honor is others' opinion of our worth; subjectively, our fear of that opinion. In the latter capacity it often has a very salutary, though by no means purely moral, effect in the man of honor.

The root and origin of the feeling for honor and shame dwelling in every person not wholly corrupt, and of the high value assigned to honor, lie in the following. Alone, a human being can do very little and is an abandoned Robinson Crusoe; only in community with others is he and can he do much. He becomes aware of this relation as soon as his consciousness begins to develop at all, and at once there arises in him the effort to be regarded as a suitable member of human society: one capable of contributing his proper share, and thereby entitled to partake in the advantages of human community. He is such a member by performing, first, what is demanded and expected of everyone everywhere, and then what is demanded and expected of him in the particular position he has assumed. But just as soon he recognizes that what matters here is not being so in his own opinion but in that of others. Hence his eager striving for others' favorable opinion and the high value he sets on it. Both appear with the originality of an inborn feeling, called a sense of honor and, according to circumstances, a sense of shame (modesty). This reddens his cheeks as soon as he believes he must suddenly lose standing in others' opinion, even when he knows himself innocent, and even when the failing being disclosed concerns only a relative obligation voluntarily assumed. Conversely, nothing strengthens his courage for life more than gaining or renewing the certainty of others' favorable opinion, because it promises him the protection and help of everyone's united powers, an infinitely greater defensive wall against life's evils than his own.

The various relations in which a person can stand to others, and in which they must have confidence in him and therefore a certain good opinion of him, give rise to several kinds of honor. These relations are chiefly mine and yours, then the performance of those who undertake obligations, and finally sexual relations. Civic honor, professional honor, and sexual honor correspond to them, each in turn having subdivisions.

Civic honor has the widest sphere. It consists in the presumption that we respect everyone's rights unconditionally and will therefore never use unjust or legally forbidden means to our own advantage. It is the condition of participation in all peaceful dealings. It is lost through a single action openly and markedly contrary to it, and consequently through every criminal punishment, though only on the assumption that the punishment is just. Honor, however, always rests ultimately on conviction of the immutability of moral character, by virtue of which a single bad action guarantees the same moral constitution in all subsequent ones whenever similar circumstances arise. The English expression character for reputation, standing, and honor also attests this. Precisely for this reason, lost honor cannot be restored unless its loss rested on deception, such as slander or a false appearance. Accordingly there are laws against slander, defamatory writings, and insults; for an insult, mere abuse, is summary slander without giving grounds. This could be aptly expressed in Greek: abuse is abbreviated slander—though the phrase occurs nowhere. Certainly, someone who resorts to abuse thereby shows he has nothing actual and true to bring against the other; otherwise he would give it as the premises and confidently leave the conclusion to his listeners. Instead he gives the conclusion and owes the premises, relying on the presumption that he does so merely for convenient brevity.—Civic honor takes its name from the citizen class, but its validity extends to every class without distinction, not excluding even the highest. No one can dispense with it; it is a thoroughly serious matter that everyone should beware of taking lightly. Whoever breaks faith has lost trust and credit forever, whatever he does and whoever he may be; the bitter fruits of this loss will not fail to appear.

Honor has in a certain sense a negative character, in contrast to fame, which has a positive one. For honor is not an opinion concerning special qualities belonging to this individual alone, but only concerning those to be presumed as a rule, which he too should not lack. It thus says only that the individual makes no exception, while fame says that he does. Fame must therefore first be acquired; honor merely need not be lost. Accordingly, lack of fame is obscurity, something negative; lack of honor is disgrace, something positive.—This negativity must not, however, be confused with passivity: honor has a thoroughly active character. It proceeds solely from its subject, rests on his actions and omissions, not on what others do or what befalls him; it is therefore among the things within our power. This, as we shall soon see, distinguishes true honor from chivalric or counterfeit honor. Only through slander is an attack on honor possible from outside; the sole remedy is refutation with publicity matching the slander's, and exposure of the slanderer.

Respect for age seems to rest on the fact that young people's honor is indeed presumed but not yet tested, and therefore really exists on credit. In older people, however, life must have shown whether they could maintain their honor through their conduct. Neither years in themselves, which animals too attain, some in much greater number, nor experience as mere closer knowledge of the world's course is sufficient ground for the respect of the young for the old demanded everywhere. The mere weakness of advanced age would entitle it more to consideration than respect. Remarkably, however, a certain reverence for white hair is inborn in human beings, and thus truly instinctive. Wrinkles, an incomparably surer sign of age, arouse no such reverence: no one ever speaks of venerable wrinkles, but always of venerable white hair.

Honor's value is only indirect. For, as explained at the opening of this chapter, others' opinion of us can have value for us only insofar as it determines, or may occasionally determine, their actions toward us. This, however, is the case as long as we live with or among people. In a civilized condition we owe security and property solely to society; in all undertakings we also need others, and they must have confidence in us to deal with us. Their opinion of us is therefore of high, though always only indirect, value; I cannot concede it an immediate one. Cicero agrees: As for a good reputation, Chrysippus and Diogenes used to say that, apart from its usefulness, one should not even extend a finger for its sake. With them I emphatically agree. (fin. III, 17.) Helvétius likewise gives an extensive exposition of this truth in his masterpiece, On the Mind (Disc. III, ch. 13), whose result is: we love esteem not for esteem itself, but solely for the advantages it brings. Since the means cannot be worth more than the end, the grand saying "honor stands above life" is, as already said, a hyperbole.

So much for civic honor. Professional honor is others' general opinion that a man holding an office really possesses all the qualities required for it and fulfills his official duties punctually in every case. The greater and more important a man's sphere of activity in the state—that is, the higher and more influential his post—the greater must be the opinion of the intellectual abilities and moral qualities fitting him for it. He consequently possesses a correspondingly higher degree of honor, expressed in titles, decorations, and so forth, and in others' deferential behavior toward him. By this same measure, station generally determines the particular degree of honor, though modified by the multitude's capacity to judge that station's importance. Yet someone with particular obligations that he fulfills is always accorded more honor than the ordinary citizen, whose honor rests chiefly on negative qualities.

Professional honor further requires an officeholder to maintain respect for the office itself, for the sake of colleagues and successors, precisely through that punctual fulfillment of duties, and also by not leaving unpunished attacks on the office itself or on himself insofar as he holds it: statements, that is, that he does not fulfill its duties punctually, or that the office itself does not serve the common good. Through legal punishment he must prove those attacks unjust.

Subdivisions of professional honor include that of the civil servant, physician, advocate, every public teacher, indeed every graduate—in short, everyone publicly declared qualified for a certain intellectual performance and who has thereby undertaken it: in a word, the honor of all who publicly undertake obligations, as such. Hence true military honor belongs here too: someone who has undertaken to defend the common fatherland must really possess the necessary qualities, above all courage, bravery, and strength, and be seriously ready to defend his country to the death and never, for anything in the world, abandon the flag to which he has once sworn allegiance.—I have taken professional honor here in a broader sense than usual, where it means the respect citizens owe the office itself.

Sexual honor seems to me to require closer examination and a tracing of its principles to their root, which will also confirm that all honor ultimately rests on considerations of utility. Sexual honor divides by its nature into women's and men's honor, and on both sides is a well-understood corporate solidarity. The former is by far the more important, because in a woman's life the sexual relation is the chief matter.—Female honor, then, is the general opinion that an unmarried girl has given herself to no man, and a wife only to the man she married. This opinion's importance rests on the following. The female sex demands and expects everything from the male: everything it wishes and needs. The male sex demands immediately and directly only one thing from the female. An arrangement therefore had to be made whereby the male sex could obtain that one thing from the female only by undertaking care for everything, and also for the children arising from the union. The welfare of the whole female sex rests on this arrangement. To enforce it, the female sex must necessarily hold together and show corporate solidarity. It then stands as a whole, in closed ranks, against the entire male sex, which through its superior bodily and intellectual powers naturally possesses all earthly goods, as against a common enemy who must be defeated and conquered, so that by possessing him it may gain possession of earthly goods. To this end the maxim of honor of the whole female sex is that all intercourse outside marriage must be absolutely denied to the male, so that each individual man is compelled to marry—a kind of capitulation—and thereby the whole female sex is provided for. But this purpose can be fully achieved only by strict observance of that maxim; hence the whole female sex, with true corporate solidarity, watches over its maintenance among all its members. Accordingly every girl who, through intercourse outside marriage, has betrayed the whole female sex, whose welfare would be undermined if this conduct became general, is cast out by it and branded with shame: she has lost her honor. No woman may associate with her anymore; she is shunned like someone plague-stricken. The adulteress meets the same fate, because she has not kept the capitulation entered into by her husband; such an example deters men from entering it, while the salvation of the whole female sex rests upon it. Beyond this, however, through the gross breach of faith and deceit in her act, the adulteress loses civic honor together with sexual honor. Hence people say, with an excusing expression, "a fallen girl," but not "a fallen wife"; and the seducer can make the former honorable again through marriage, but the adulterer cannot do the same for the latter after her divorce.—If, following this clear insight, we recognize a beneficial, indeed necessary, but well-calculated and interest-based corporate solidarity as the foundation of the principle of female honor, we can assign it the greatest importance for female existence and thus a great relative value, but no absolute value extending beyond life and its purposes and therefore to be bought with life itself. We cannot accordingly applaud the extravagant deeds of Lucretia and Virginius, degenerating into tragic farces. Precisely for this reason the ending of Emilia Galotti is so outrageous that one leaves the theater entirely out of temper. Conversely, despite sexual honor, one cannot help sympathizing with Klärchen in Egmont. This carrying of the principle of female honor to extremes belongs, like so much else, to forgetting the end in favor of the means. Such extravagance imputes an absolute value to sexual honor, whereas more than any other honor it has merely a relative value—indeed, one might say merely a conventional one, on learning from Thomasius, On Concubinage, how in almost all countries and ages until the Lutheran Reformation concubinage was a legally permitted and recognized relation in which the concubine remained honorable, not to mention Mylitta in Babylon (Herodot I, 199), and so forth. There are also certainly civil circumstances that make the external form of marriage impossible, especially in Catholic countries, where divorce does not occur; and everywhere for ruling princes, who in my opinion act far more morally in keeping a mistress than in entering a morganatic marriage. Its descendants, should the legitimate line die out, might one day advance claims, so that such a marriage creates the possibility of civil war, however remote. Moreover, a morganatic marriage of this kind—really a marriage contracted in defiance of all outward circumstances—is ultimately a concession to women and priests, two classes to whom one should be as wary as possible of conceding anything. Further, everyone in the country can marry the woman of his choice except one, who is deprived of this natural right: that poor man is the prince. His hand belongs to the country and is bestowed according to reasons of state, that is, the country's welfare. Yet he is a human being too and wishes for once to follow his heart's inclination. It is therefore as unjust and ungrateful as it is philistine to forbid or reproach a prince for keeping a mistress—provided, of course, that she is allowed no influence over government. Such a mistress, on her side, is in a sense an exceptional person regarding sexual honor, exempt from the general rule: she has given herself only to one man, who loved her and whom she loved, but could never marry.—In general, however, the many bloody sacrifices made to the principle of female honor—in infanticide and mothers' suicide—testify that its origin is not purely natural. Certainly, a girl who gives herself illicitly thereby breaks faith with her whole sex; but this faith was only tacitly assumed, not sworn. And since, in the ordinary case, her own advantage suffers most directly, her folly is infinitely greater than her wickedness.

Men's sexual honor is called forth by women's as the opposing corporate solidarity. It demands that everyone who has entered marriage, that capitulation so favorable to the other side, now ensure that it is kept toward him, lest even this pact lose its firmness through lax observance and men, while giving everything, not even be assured of the one thing they have bargained for: exclusive possession of the woman. Accordingly a man's honor demands that he avenge his wife's adultery and punish it, at least by separating from her. If he knowingly tolerates it, the community of men brands him with shame; yet this is far less thoroughgoing than the disgrace striking a woman through loss of sexual honor, being rather only a blemish of a lesser kind. For in a man's case the sexual relation is subordinate, since he stands in many other, more important relations. The two great dramatic poets of modern times each twice made this male honor their subject: Shakespeare in Othello and The Winter's Tale, Calderón in The Physician of His Honor (the physician of his honor) and Secret Vengeance for Secret Injury (secret revenge for secret disgrace). This honor, moreover, demands only the punishment of the wife, not of her lover, which is merely a work beyond obligation: this confirms its stated origin in the corporate solidarity of men.—

Honor, as I have so far considered it in its kinds and principles, is found universally valid among all peoples and in all ages, though certain local and temporary modifications of the principles of women's honor can be shown. There is, however, another kind of honor entirely different from that universally valid one, of which neither Greeks nor Romans had any conception, and of which the Chinese, Hindus, and Muslims know nothing to this day. It arose only in the Middle Ages and became native only to Christian Europe, and even there only among an exceedingly small fraction of the population: the higher classes of society and those who imitate them. This is chivalric honor, or the point of honor. Since its principles differ entirely from those of the honor discussed so far, and partly even oppose them—the former making the honorable man, the latter the man of honor—I will set out its principles separately here as a code, or mirror of chivalric honor.

1 Honor consists not in others' opinion of our worth, but solely in the expressions of such an opinion, regardless of whether the expressed opinion really exists, much less whether it has grounds. Thus others may, as a result of our conduct, entertain the worst opinion of us and despise us as much as they please: as long as no one presumes to express it aloud, it does no harm whatever to our honor. Conversely, even if our qualities and actions compel everyone to esteem us very highly—for this is not at their discretion—someone, even the worst and stupidest, need only express contempt for us, and at once our honor is injured, indeed lost forever unless restored.—Superfluous proof that what matters is not others' opinion but solely its expression lies in the fact that derogatory remarks can be withdrawn, and if necessary apologized for, whereupon it is as though they had never occurred. Whether the opinion from which they sprang has likewise changed, and why it should have, is immaterial: only the expression is annulled, and then all is well. The aim here is therefore not to deserve respect, but to extort it.

2 A man's honor rests not on what he does, but on what he suffers, what befalls him. If, according to the principles of the universally valid honor discussed first, honor depends solely on what he himself says or does, chivalric honor, by contrast, depends on what someone else says or does. It therefore lies in everyone's hand, indeed hangs on everyone's tongue-tip, and may be lost forever at any moment if that person reaches for it, unless the victim seizes it back by a restorative process soon to be mentioned. This can occur, however, only at the risk of his life, health, freedom, property, and peace of mind. Accordingly a man's conduct may be the most upright and noble, his disposition the purest, his mind the most eminent, yet his honor can be lost at any moment whenever anyone chooses to insult him—provided only that the insulter has not yet broken these laws of honor, though otherwise he may be the most worthless scoundrel, the stupidest brute, an idler, gambler, debtor, in short, someone not worth that man's glance. Indeed, it will generally be precisely someone of this sort who chooses to do it, because, as Seneca rightly remarks, the more contemptible and ridiculous someone is, the more unbridled his tongue (de constantia, 11). Such a person will also be most easily provoked against someone like the first man described, because opposites hate one another, and the sight of superior advantages generally produces the silent fury of worthlessness. Hence Goethe says:

Why complain about enemies?Could those ever become friendsTo whom the being that you areIs silently an eternal reproach?

W. O. Divan.

We see how very much precisely the people of the latter kind owe to the principle of honor, since it levels them with those who would otherwise be unattainable to them in every respect.—If such a person has now insulted someone, that is, attributed a bad quality to him, this counts provisionally as an objectively true and well-founded judgment, a legally valid decree; indeed, it remains true and valid for all future time unless promptly washed out with blood. The insulted person remains, in the eyes of all "people of honor," what the insulter—even the lowest of all earthly beings—has called him, for he has, as the technical term has it, "let it rest upon him." Accordingly the "people of honor" will now utterly despise him and flee him like a plague-stricken person: for example, loudly and publicly refuse to enter a gathering to which he is admitted, and so forth.—I believe I can securely trace the origin of this wise fundamental view to the fact that, according to C. G. von Wächter's "Beiträge zur deutschen Geschichte, besonders des deutschen Strafrechts" 1845, in the Middle Ages down to the fifteenth century, in criminal proceedings it was not the accuser who had to prove guilt, but the accused who had to prove innocence. This could be done through an oath of purgation, for which he also needed oath-helpers (fellow swearers) who swore they were convinced he was incapable of perjury. If he had none, or if the accuser refused to accept them, an ordeal ensued, usually consisting in single combat. For the accused was now a "tainted man" and had to clear himself. Here we see the origin of the concept of being tainted and of the whole course of events still occurring among "people of honor" today, only with the oath omitted. Here too is the explanation of the obligatory lofty indignation with which "people of honor" receive the accusation of lying and demand bloody revenge for it. Given the everyday frequency of lies, this seems very strange, but has grown into a deeply rooted superstition, especially in England. (Indeed, anyone threatening to punish the accusation of lying with death ought never to have lied in his life.) In those medieval criminal proceedings, the shorter form was that the accused answered the accuser, "You are lying," whereupon an ordeal was immediately decreed. Hence under the chivalric code of honor, an accusation of lying must immediately be followed by an appeal to arms.—So much for verbal abuse. There is, however, something even worse, something so appalling that I must ask the "people of honor" to pardon its mere mention in this code of chivalric honor. I know the mere thought makes their skin shudder and their hair stand on end, for it is the supreme evil, the greatest evil in the world, worse than death and damnation. Someone may, horrible to relate, give another a slap or blow. This is a terrible event, bringing about so complete a death of honor that while all other injuries to honor can be healed by bloodletting, this one requires an outright killing for its thorough cure.

3 Honor has nothing whatever to do with what a person may be in and for himself, with whether his moral constitution can ever change, or with any such pedantries. Rather, when injured or provisionally lost, it can, if one acts promptly, be restored quite soon and completely through a single universal remedy: the duel. If, however, the offender is not of the classes professing the chivalric code of honor, or has already once violated it, a sure operation can be performed—especially if the injury to honor was physical, but even if merely verbal—by stabbing him on the spot, if armed, or even an hour afterward; honor is then healed again. Otherwise, or if one wishes to avoid this step for fear of resulting inconveniences, or is merely uncertain whether the offender submits to the laws of chivalric honor, one has a palliative in the "advantage." This consists in being noticeably ruder if he was rude; if verbal abuse will no longer suffice, one strikes. Here too there is a scale of saving honor: slaps are cured by blows with a stick, these by strokes with a hunting whip; even against the latter, some recommend spitting as a proven remedy. Only if these means can no longer be applied in time must one absolutely proceed to bloody operations. This palliative method is really founded on the following maxim.

4 As being insulted is a disgrace, so insulting is an honor. Suppose truth, right, and reason are on my opponent's side, but I resort to abuse: they must all pack their bags, and right and honor are on my side. He, by contrast, has provisionally lost his honor until he restores it, not by right and reason but by shooting and stabbing. Rudeness is therefore a quality that in the matter of honor replaces or outweighs every other: the rudest person is always right. Why say more? Whatever stupidity, ill manners, or wickedness someone may have committed, an act of rudeness wipes it out as such and immediately legitimizes it. If, in a discussion or other conversation, someone shows more accurate knowledge of the matter, stricter love of truth, sounder judgment, greater understanding than we do, or generally displays intellectual advantages that cast us in the shade, we can instantly nullify all such superiorities and our own poverty exposed by them, and become superior ourselves instead, by becoming insulting and rude. For rudeness defeats every argument and eclipses all intelligence. Unless our opponent enters into it and replies with greater rudeness, drawing us into the noble contest of advantage, we remain victorious and honor is on our side: truth, knowledge, understanding, intelligence, and wit must pack their bags, driven from the field by divine rudeness. Hence "people of honor," as soon as someone expresses an opinion different from theirs, or merely shows more understanding than they can field, will immediately prepare to mount that warhorse; and if in a controversy they lack a counterargument, they seek a piece of rudeness, which performs the same service and is easier to find, and depart victorious. We already see here with what great justice the principle of honor is praised for refining the tone of society.—This maxim in turn rests on the following, the true fundamental maxim and soul of the entire code.

5 The supreme tribunal of right, to which in every disagreement concerning honor one may appeal from every other, is that of physical force—that is, animality. For every act of rudeness is really an appeal to animality: it declares the contest of intellectual powers or moral right incompetent and substitutes the contest of physical powers. In the human species, defined by Franklin as a toolmaking animal (an animal that makes tools), this is conducted in a duel with the weapons accordingly peculiar to it, and brings an irrevocable decision.—This fundamental maxim is, as everyone knows, designated in a word by the right of the fist, an expression analogous to mad wisdom and therefore ironic like it. Accordingly chivalric honor ought to be called fist-honor.—

6 Whereas above we found civic honor very scrupulous in matters of mine and yours, obligations undertaken, and one's given word, the code considered here displays the noblest liberality. Only one kind of word may not be broken: the word of honor, that is, the word accompanied by "on my honor!"—from which arises the presumption that every other word may be broken. Even when this word of honor is broken, honor can if necessary still be saved by the universal remedy, the duel, here fought against those who assert that we gave our word of honor.—Further, there is only one debt that must unconditionally be paid: a gambling debt, accordingly called a "debt of honor." We may cheat Jews and Christians out of every other debt without doing the slightest harm to chivalric honor.—

That this strange, barbarous, ridiculous code of honor did not arise from the essence of human nature or a sound view of human relations is apparent at first glance to anyone unprejudiced. It is further confirmed by its exceedingly restricted sphere of validity: exclusively Europe, and only since the Middle Ages; even there, only among nobility, military men, and their imitators. Neither Greeks nor Romans nor the highly cultivated Asian peoples of ancient and modern times know anything of this honor and its principles. They all know no honor other than the kind analyzed first. Among them all a man accordingly counts as what his conduct reveals him to be, not what some loose tongue pleases to say of him. Among them all, what someone says or does can certainly destroy his own honor, but never another's. Among them all a blow is simply a blow, which any horse or donkey can deliver more dangerously. According to circumstances it may provoke anger and perhaps be avenged on the spot, but it has nothing to do with honor; no accounts are kept of blows and abusive words, together with "satisfaction" obtained or neglected. They do not fall short of the peoples of Christian Europe in bravery or contempt for life. Greeks and Romans were surely heroes enough, yet they knew nothing of the point of honor. Single combat among them was not the affair of a people's nobles, but of hired gladiators, abandoned slaves, and condemned criminals set upon one another in alternation with wild animals for the people's amusement. Gladiatorial games were abolished with the introduction of Christianity; in Christian times the duel took their place through the mediation of the ordeal. If the former was a cruel sacrifice to the general love of spectacle, the latter is a cruel sacrifice to general prejudice, offered not, like the former, by criminals, slaves, and prisoners, but by free and noble men.

A wealth of surviving incidents attests that this prejudice was entirely foreign to the ancients. When, for example, a Teutonic chieftain challenged Marius to single combat, that hero sent back word that if he was weary of life, he should hang himself; he did, however, offer him a retired gladiator to fight with (Freinsh. suppl. in Liv. lib. LXVIII, c. 12). In Plutarch (Them. 11) we read that the fleet commander Eurybiades, quarreling with Themistocles, raised his staff to strike him. We do not read that Themistocles drew his sword, but that he said: strike, then, but listen—"Strike me, but hear me." How indignantly must the reader "of honor" miss the news that the Athenian officer corps at once declared it would no longer serve under such a Themistocles!—A modern French writer therefore says quite correctly: If anyone took it into his head to say that Demosthenes was a man of honor, people would smile in pity;— — —Cicero was not a man of honor either. (Soirées littéraires, par C. Durand. Rouen 1828. Vol. 2. p. 300.) Further, Plato's passage (de leg. IX, the last 6 pages, likewise XI p. 131 Bip.) on assault, that is, mistreatment, sufficiently shows that the ancients had no notion of the chivalric point of honor in such matters. Socrates was often physically mistreated as a result of his frequent disputations, and bore it calmly. Once, when kicked, he took it patiently and said to someone surprised at this: "If a donkey had kicked me, would I sue it?"—(Diog. Laert. II, 21.) On another occasion, someone said to him, "Does that man not insult and abuse you?" His answer was: "No, for what he says does not fit me" (ibid. 36).—Stobaeus (Florileg., ed. Gaisford, Vol. I, p. 327-330) preserved a long passage from Musonius, showing how the ancients regarded insults: they knew no satisfaction except through the courts, and wise men disdained even this. That the ancients knew no satisfaction for a slap except legal redress is clear from Plato's Gorgias (S. 86 Bip.), where Socrates's opinion also appears (S. 133). The same emerges from Gellius's report (XX, 1) of a certain Lucius Veratius, who amused himself by slapping Roman citizens he met in the street without provocation. To forestall all complications, he had a slave accompany him with a purse of copper coins and immediately pay each surprised victim the legally prescribed compensation of 25 asses. Crates, the famous Cynic, received so violent a slap from the musician Nicodromus that his face became swollen and bloodied. He then fastened to his forehead a little board inscribed Nicodromus made this (Nicodromus did it), bringing great shame upon the flute player who had committed such brutality against a man revered by all Athens like a household god (Apul. Flor. p. 126 bip.). (Diog. Laert. VI, 89.)—From Diogenes of Sinope we have a letter to Melesippus about having been beaten by the drunken sons of Athenians, in which he tells him it is of no importance. (Nota Casaub. ad Diog. Laert. VI, 33.)—Seneca, in On the Constancy of the Wise, from C. 10 to the end, considered insult, affront, in detail to show that the wise man disregards it. In chapter 14 he says: "But what will the wise man do when struck in the face? What Cato did when struck in the mouth: he did not flare up, did not avenge the injury; he did not even forgive it, but denied that it had happened." "Yes," you cry, "but those were wise men!"—And you are fools? Agreed.—

We thus see that the ancients knew nothing of the whole chivalric principle of honor because they remained faithful in every respect to an unprejudiced, natural view of things and therefore would not be talked into such sinister and ruinous grotesqueries. They could accordingly regard a blow in the face as nothing other than what it is: a slight physical injury. For modern people, however, it has become a catastrophe and a subject for tragedies, as in Corneille's Cid and a more recent German domestic tragedy called "The Power of Circumstances," which ought to be called "The Power of Prejudice." If a slap actually occurs in the Paris National Assembly, all Europe echoes with it. To the people "of honor," who must be put out by these classical recollections and examples from antiquity, I recommend as an antidote the story of Mr. Desglands in Diderot's masterpiece Jacques the Fatalist, an exquisite specimen of modern chivalric honor on which they may refresh and edify themselves.

The foregoing sufficiently shows that the chivalric principle of honor cannot be an original principle founded in human nature itself. It is therefore artificial, and its origin is not hard to find. It is plainly a child of the time when fists were better trained than heads and priests kept reason in chains: the much-praised Middle Ages and their chivalry. People then let the dear Lord not merely care for them, but judge for them as well. Difficult legal cases were accordingly decided by ordeals, or judgments of God, which with few exceptions consisted in single combat, not merely among knights but also among common citizens, as a charming example in Shakespeare's Henry VI (T. 2, A. 2, Sz. 3) attests. From any judicial verdict one could still appeal to single combat as the higher instance, namely God's judgment. Thus physical strength and skill, animal nature, were really placed on the judge's seat instead of reason; right or wrong was decided not by what someone had done but by what befell him, entirely according to the chivalric principle of honor still valid today. Anyone still doubting this origin of dueling should read J. G. Mellingen's excellent book, the history of duelling, 1849. Indeed, even today among people living by the chivalric principle of honor—who, as is well known, are not generally the most informed and reflective—some really consider a duel's outcome a divine decision of the dispute underlying it, undoubtedly according to a traditionally inherited opinion.

Apart from this origin, the immediate tendency of the chivalric principle of honor is to extort, by threatening physical force, outward signs of the respect one considers either too troublesome or unnecessary actually to earn. It is much as if someone warmed a thermometer's bulb with his hand and tried to prove by the rising mercury that his room was well heated. Examined more closely, the kernel of the matter is this: just as civic honor, concerned with peaceful dealings with others, consists in their opinion that we deserve complete trust because we unconditionally respect everyone's rights, so chivalric honor consists in the opinion that we are to be feared, because we intend unconditionally to defend our own rights. The principle that being feared is more essential than enjoying trust would not even be so very false, since little can be built on human justice, if we lived in the state of nature, where everyone must protect himself and directly defend his rights. But in civilization, where the state has undertaken the protection of our persons and property, it no longer applies, standing useless and abandoned like castles and watchtowers from the days of the right of the fist amid well-cultivated fields, busy highways, or even railways. Accordingly chivalric honor, which retains it, has turned to those injuries to the person which the state punishes only lightly or, under the principle the law does not concern itself with trifles, not at all: insignificant affronts and partly mere teasing. In this respect it has worked itself up to an overestimate of personal worth wholly unsuitable to human nature, constitution, and lot, raising that worth to a kind of sanctity. It therefore finds the state's punishment for slight affronts entirely insufficient and undertakes to punish them itself, always against the offender's body and life. Plainly this rests on the most immoderate pride and outrageous arrogance, which, wholly forgetting what a human being really is, claims unconditional inviolability and blamelessness for him. Yet anyone intending to enforce these by violence, and accordingly proclaiming the maxim "Whoever insults me, or even strikes me, shall die," really deserves banishment for that alone[F]. All manner of excuses are then put forward to gloss over this presumptuous arrogance. Of two fearless people, it is said, neither ever yields, so the slightest provocation would lead to abuse, then blows, and finally killing; hence it is better, for propriety's sake, to skip the intermediate stages and go straight to weapons. The detailed procedure has then been brought into a rigid, pedantic system of laws and rules, the most solemn farce in the world, a true temple of honor to folly. But the principle itself is false: in matters of slight importance—great ones are always left to the courts—one of two fearless people certainly yields, namely the wiser, and mere opinions are left alone. The people, or rather all the numerous classes not professing the chivalric principle of honor, among whom quarrels take their natural course, furnish the proof. Among these classes, killing is a hundred times rarer than among the fraction, perhaps only 1/1000 of the whole, that worships that principle; even a brawl is a rarity.—It is further claimed that the good tone and refined manners of society have as their ultimate pillar this principle of honor and its duels, a defensive wall against outbreaks of brutality and bad manners. But in Athens, Corinth, and Rome there was certainly good, indeed very good, society, refined manners, and good tone, without the bogey of chivalric honor behind them. Admittedly, women did not preside over society there as they do among us; and this, besides giving conversation a frivolous and trivial character and banishing every substantial discussion, certainly contributes greatly to personal courage's precedence over every other quality in our good society. Yet it is really a very subordinate quality, a mere noncommissioned officer's virtue, indeed one in which even animals surpass us, as when we say "brave as a lion." Indeed, contrary to that claim, the chivalric principle of honor is often a secure asylum for dishonesty and wickedness in great matters, and for bad manners, inconsiderateness, and boorishness in small ones. Many very tiresome improprieties are tacitly tolerated because no one wishes to stake his neck on rebuking them.—Correspondingly we see the duel flourish most and be pursued with bloodthirsty seriousness precisely among the nation that has shown a lack of true honor in political and financial affairs. How it stands in private dealings may be asked of those with experience. As for its urbanity and social cultivation, it has long been famous as a negative example.

[F] Chivalric honor is a child of arrogance and folly. (The opposite truth is expressed most sharply in The Constant Prince, in the words: "That is Adam's inheritance.") It is very striking that this superlative of all arrogance is found solely and exclusively among adherents of the religion that makes the utmost humility their duty, while neither earlier ages nor other parts of the world know this principle of chivalric honor. Yet it must not be ascribed to religion, but rather to feudalism, in which every noble regarded himself as a little sovereign acknowledging no human judge above him, and therefore learned to attribute complete inviolability and personal sanctity to himself. Every attack upon it, every blow and abusive word, accordingly seemed to him a crime worthy of death. Thus the principle of honor and duels were originally the affair of the nobility alone, and consequently later of officers, whom other higher classes subsequently joined here and there, though never universally, so as not to count for less. Even if duels arose from ordeals, these are not the ground but the consequence and application of the principle of honor: whoever recognizes no human judge appeals to the divine. Ordeals themselves, however, are not peculiar to Christianity but are also strongly present in Hinduism, mostly in earlier times, though traces remain even now.—

All those pretexts therefore fail. It may be urged with more justice that, just as a dog growls back when growled at and responds affectionately when caressed, so human nature returns every hostile encounter with hostility and is embittered and provoked by signs of contempt or hatred. Hence Cicero already says: An insult has a certain sting which prudent and good men find exceedingly hard to endure; and nowhere in the world, apart from a few pious sects, are abusive words, much less blows, accepted calmly. Yet nature by no means leads beyond retaliation proportionate to the matter, not to punishing an accusation of lying, stupidity, or cowardice with death. The old German principle "a slap in the face deserves a dagger" is an outrageous chivalric superstition. In any case, answering or avenging insults is a matter of anger, not of honor and duty, as the chivalric principle stamps it. Rather, it is quite certain that every reproach can hurt only insofar as it hits home; this is also evident from the faintest hint that hits home wounding far more deeply than the gravest entirely groundless accusation. Anyone really conscious of not deserving a reproach may and will confidently despise it. Yet the principle of honor demands that he display a sensitivity he does not possess and bloodily avenge insults that do not hurt him. Someone who hastens to press a thumb into the eye of every utterance disputing his worth, so that it cannot speak aloud, must himself have a poor opinion of that worth. True self-esteem will therefore confer genuine indifference toward insults; where its absence prevents this, prudence and cultivation will teach us to preserve the appearance of indifference and conceal anger. If only we were rid of the superstition of the chivalric principle of honor, so that no one could imagine that abuse takes anything from another's honor or restores his own, and no injustice, brutality, or rudeness could be instantly legitimized through willingness to give satisfaction—that is, fight for it—it would soon be universally understood that when matters turn to abuse and insults, the loser in that contest is the victor. As Vincenzo Monti says, insults behave like church processions, always returning to where they started. Further, it would no longer suffice, as now, to bring a piece of rudeness to market to remain in the right; insight and understanding could consequently make themselves heard quite differently from now. At present they must always first consider whether they might somehow offend the opinions of narrowness and stupidity, already alarmed and embittered by their mere appearance, and thereby cause the head they inhabit to be staked on a throw of the dice against the shallow skull housing the other qualities. Intellectual superiority would then attain its rightful primacy in society, now held, though covertly, by physical superiority and hussar courage. Consequently the finest people would have one reason fewer than now to withdraw from society. Such a change would bring about true good tone and prepare the way for really good society in the form it undoubtedly had in Athens, Corinth, and Rome. Anyone wishing to see a sample should read Xenophon's Symposium.

The final defense of the chivalric code will undoubtedly be: "Why, God preserve us, one person might actually strike another!"—I could answer briefly that this has happened often enough among the 999/1000 of society who do not recognize that code, without anyone ever dying of it; among its adherents, by contrast, every blow generally becomes fatal. But I will examine it more closely. I have often tried to find, either in humanity's animal or rational nature, some tenable or at least plausible ground for the conviction, so firmly established in part of human society, of a blow's appalling character: a ground consisting not in mere phrases but reducible to clear concepts. In vain. A blow is and remains a small physical evil anyone can inflict on another, thereby proving nothing beyond greater strength or skill, or the other's lack of vigilance. Analysis yields nothing further. Next I see the same knight who considers a blow from a human hand the greatest of evils receive a blow ten times stronger from his horse and, limping away in suppressed pain, declare it signifies nothing. I then thought the difference lay in the human hand. But I see our knight receive sword thrusts and saber cuts from that hand in battle and declare them trifles, not worth mentioning. Then I learn that even blows with the flat of a blade are far less serious than those with a stick, so that not long ago cadets were exposed to the former but not the latter; and the knightly accolade, delivered with the blade, is actually the highest honor. Here my psychological and moral grounds are exhausted, and nothing remains but to regard the matter as an old, firmly rooted superstition, one more example among so many of what people can be talked into believing. This is also confirmed by the familiar fact that in China blows with a bamboo cane are a very frequent civil punishment, even for officials of every class: this shows us that human nature, even highly civilized human nature, does not say the same thing there[G]. Indeed, an unprejudiced view of human nature teaches that beating is as natural to it as biting to beasts of prey or butting to horned cattle: the human being is a beating animal. Hence we are outraged when, in rare cases, we hear that one person has bitten another, whereas giving and receiving blows is as natural as it is readily occurring. That higher cultivation gladly avoids this too through mutual self-restraint is easily understood. But to impose on a nation, or even a class, the idea that a blow given is a terrible misfortune that must lead to murder and killing is cruelty. There are too many real evils in the world for us to be permitted to multiply them with imaginary ones that bring real ones in their train; yet this is what that stupid, malicious superstition does. I must therefore even disapprove of governments and legislative bodies encouraging it by zealously pressing for the abolition of all corporal punishment in civil and military life. They believe themselves to act in humanity's interest, while the exact opposite is true: they thereby work to entrench that unnatural, ruinous delusion that has already claimed so many victims. For every offense except the gravest, blows are the first punishment that occurs to human beings, and thus the natural one: someone unreceptive to reasons will be receptive to blows. It is as fair as natural that someone who cannot be punished in property, having none, and cannot be punished in freedom without disadvantage to ourselves, because his services are needed, should be punished by moderate blows. No arguments are advanced against this, only phrases about "human dignity," founded not on clear concepts but merely on that same pernicious superstition. That this underlies the matter receives almost ludicrous confirmation from the fact that until recently in some countries the military replaced beating with punishment on wooden slats. This, entirely like the former, causes physical pain, yet is now supposedly neither dishonoring nor degrading.

[G] Twenty or thirty strokes of the cane on the backside are, so to speak, the daily bread of the Chinese. It is a paternal correction from the mandarin, carrying no disgrace, which they receive with thanks.—Lettres édifiantes et curieuses, édition de 1819. Vol. 11, p. 454.

By thus promoting that superstition, however, we play into the hands of the chivalric principle of honor and therefore the duel, while on the other hand striving, or at least professing to strive, to abolish it through laws[H]. Consequently this fragment of the right of the fist, blown down from the rudest Middle Ages into the nineteenth century, still roams about in it to public scandal. It is high time it was thrown out in disgrace and shame. Nowadays one is not even allowed methodically to set dogs or cocks upon one another—at least such baitings are punished in England—yet people against their will are set upon one another in deadly combat by the ridiculous superstition of the absurd principle of chivalric honor and its narrow-minded representatives and administrators, who oblige them to fight like gladiators over some trifle. To our German purists I therefore propose knight-baiting as a name for the duel, a word probably deriving not from Latin duellum but Spanish duelo, grief, lament, complaint. The pedantry with which this folly is pursued certainly gives matter for laughter. Yet it is outrageous that this principle and its absurd code establish a state within the state, recognizing no right except the right of the fist and tyrannizing the classes subject to it by keeping open a sacred Vehmic tribunal. Before it anyone can summon anyone else, using easily contrived occasions as bailiffs, to have a judgment of life and death passed upon both. Naturally it becomes a hiding place from which the most depraved person, provided he belongs to those classes, can threaten or even remove from the world the noblest and best, whom precisely as such he must hate. Now that justice and police have largely prevented every scoundrel on the highway from calling out "Your money or your life," sound reason should finally also prevent every scoundrel amid peaceful intercourse from crying "Your honor or your life." The oppression should be lifted from the breasts of the higher classes arising from everyone's liability, at every moment, to answer with body and life for the brutality, rudeness, stupidity, or malice of anyone else who pleases to vent them upon him. That two young, inexperienced hotheads, quarreling in words, should pay with their blood, health, or life cries to heaven: it is disgraceful. How grievous is the tyranny of this state within the state, and how great this superstition's power, may be measured by the fact that people unable to restore wounded chivalric honor because the offender's station was too high or too low, or his circumstances otherwise unsuitable, have repeatedly killed themselves in despair and thus met a tragicomic end.—Since the false and absurd generally unveil themselves at last by bringing forth contradiction as their blossom at their summit, this finally emerges here too as the most glaring antinomy: the officer is forbidden to duel, but punished by dismissal if, when the occasion arises, he fails to do so.

[H] The real reason governments appear so eager to suppress dueling and, although this would plainly be very easy, especially at universities, behave as though they simply cannot succeed, seems to me the following. The state cannot fully pay for its officers' and civil servants' services in money, so it lets the other half of their wages consist in honor, represented by titles, uniforms, and decorations. To keep this ideal remuneration for their services at a high rate, the sense of honor must be nourished and sharpened in every way, if necessary somewhat exaggerated. Since civic honor is insufficient for this purpose, if only because it is shared with everyone, chivalric honor is called in and maintained as described. In England, where military and civil salaries are far higher than on the Continent, this expedient is unnecessary. Hence dueling there, especially in these last twenty years, has been almost entirely eradicated, now occurs extremely rarely, and is then laughed at as folly. The great Anti-duelling-society, counting many lords, admirals, and generals among its members, has certainly contributed greatly, and Moloch must manage without his victims.

But since I have begun, I will go further in frank speech. Viewed in the light and without prejudice, the difference considered so important and exalted—whether one kills one's enemy in open combat with equal weapons or from ambush—rests solely on the fact that this state within the state, as said, recognizes no right but that of the stronger, the right of the fist, and has raised it to divine judgment as the basis of its code. For by the former one has proved nothing beyond greater strength or skill. The justification sought in enduring open combat therefore presupposes that the right of the stronger really is a right. In truth, however, another's poor ability to defend himself gives me the possibility, but by no means the right, to kill him. The latter, my moral justification, can rest solely on my motives for taking his life. Suppose these really existed or were sufficient: there would be no reason now to make it depend on whether he or I could shoot or fence better; it would then be immaterial how I took his life, from behind or in front. Morally, the right of the stronger carries no more weight than the right of the cleverer employed in treacherous murder: the right of the head thus weighs equally with that of the fist. We should also note that both are asserted in a duel, since every fencing feint is already a stratagem. If I regard myself as morally justified in taking someone's life, it is stupidity to make the matter depend on whether he may shoot and fence better than I do, in which case he is now, conversely, to take my life on top of the injury he has already done me. That insults should be avenged not by dueling but by assassination is Rousseau's view, cautiously intimated in the mysteriously worded twenty-first note to book four of Emile (S. 173, Bip.). Yet he is so strongly caught in chivalric superstition that he considers merely suffering an accusation of lying a justification for assassination, although he must have known that everyone has deserved this accusation countless times, and he himself in the highest degree. The prejudice making the right to kill an offender conditional on open combat with equal weapons plainly considers the right of the fist a real right and single combat a judgment of God. The Italian who, aflame with anger, attacks his offender with a knife wherever he finds him acts at least consistently and naturally: he is wiser, but no worse, than the duelist. If one claimed that in killing my enemy in single combat I am justified because he was trying to kill me, the objection is that by challenging him I placed him in a position of self-defense. Deliberately putting one another in a position of self-defense really means only seeking a plausible pretext for murder. Justification through the principle no wrong is done to the willing might be more plausible, since by mutual agreement we have staked our lives on this game; yet the objection is that the willing part is not genuine, since the tyranny of the chivalric principle of honor and its absurd code is the bailiff that dragged both combatants, or at least one, before this bloody Vehmic tribunal.

I have been expansive about chivalric honor, but with good intentions, and because philosophy is the sole Hercules against this world's moral and intellectual monsters. Two things chiefly distinguish the social condition of modern times from antiquity's to the former's disadvantage, giving it a serious, gloomy, sinister cast, free of which antiquity stands cheerful and unprejudiced, like life's morning. They are the chivalric principle of honor and venereal disease—a noble pair of brothers! Together they have poisoned life's strife and love. Venereal disease extends its influence much farther than might appear at first glance, its effect being by no means merely physical but also moral. Since Cupid's quiver came to carry poisoned arrows too, a strange, hostile, indeed diabolical element has entered relations between the sexes, permeating them with gloomy, fearful distrust. The direct influence of such a change in the foundation of all human community extends more or less to the other social relations too; explaining this would lead me too far afield.—Analogous, though wholly different in kind, is the influence of the chivalric principle of honor, this solemn farce foreign to the ancients, which makes modern society stiff, serious, and anxious, if only because every passing utterance is scrutinized and pondered. But more than this! That principle is a universal Minotaur, to whom not one country, as to the ancient monster, but every country in Europe must annually pay tribute in sons of noble houses. It is therefore time to attack this bogey boldly, as has been done here. May both monsters of modern times meet their end in the nineteenth century! Let us not abandon hope that doctors, through preventive measures, may finally succeed with the first. Abolishing the bogey, however, is the philosopher's task through correction of concepts, since governments have so far failed through enforcement of laws; moreover, only the former course attacks the evil at its root. If governments are really serious about abolishing dueling, and their meager success is really due only to inability, I will propose a law whose success I guarantee without bloody operations, scaffold or gallows, or lifelong imprisonment. It is rather a tiny, quite mild homeopathic remedy: whoever challenges another or appears to fight receives, in the Chinese manner, in broad daylight before the main guardhouse, 12 strokes of a stick from the corporal; challenge-bearers and seconds receive 6 each. For any consequences of duels actually fought, ordinary criminal proceedings would remain. Perhaps a chivalrous-minded person will object that after such punishment many a "man of honor" might shoot himself; to which I answer: better that such a fool shoots himself than others.—At bottom, however, I know very well governments are not serious about abolishing duels. Civil servants' salaries, and still more officers', stand far below the worth of their services, except at the highest posts. They are therefore paid the other half in honor, represented first by titles and decorations and, more broadly, by class honor in general. For this class honor the duel is a useful spare horse, and hence already has its preparatory school at universities. Its victims thus pay the deficit in salaries with their blood.—

For completeness, national honor should also be mentioned. It is the honor of a whole people as a part of the community of nations. Since that community has no tribunal other than force, and every member must therefore protect its own rights, a nation's honor consists not only in the acquired opinion that it is trustworthy—credit—but also in the opinion that it is to be feared. It must therefore never leave encroachments on its rights unpunished. It thus unites the point of civic honor with that of chivalric honor.—

Fame was counted above as the last part of what a person represents, what he is in the world's eyes; this therefore remains to be considered.—Fame and honor are twin siblings, yet like the Dioscuri, of whom Pollux was immortal and Castor mortal: fame is the immortal brother of mortal honor. This must of course be understood only of fame of the highest kind, true and genuine fame, for there are certainly many kinds of ephemeral fame.—Honor further concerns only qualities demanded of everyone in the same circumstances; fame only qualities demanded of no one. Honor concerns qualities everyone may publicly claim for himself; fame, those no one may claim for himself. While our honor reaches as far as knowledge of us, fame conversely runs ahead of knowledge of us and brings that knowledge as far as it itself reaches. Everyone has a claim to honor; only exceptions to fame, since fame is attained only through extraordinary achievements. These in turn are either deeds or works, so two paths to fame lie open. A great heart chiefly equips one for deeds; a great mind for works. Each path has its own advantages and disadvantages. The chief difference is that deeds pass away, works remain. The noblest deed has only a temporary influence, while the work of genius lives and acts through all ages, beneficially and elevatingly. Of deeds only remembrance remains, becoming ever weaker, more distorted, and less interesting, and finally bound to die out unless history receives it and transmits it to posterity in a petrified state. Works, by contrast, are themselves immortal and, especially written ones, can survive every age. Alexander the Great's name and memory live; but Plato and Aristotle, Homer and Horace themselves are still here, living and acting immediately. The Vedas with their Upanishads are here, but no report has reached us of any deeds done in their time[I].—Another disadvantage of deeds is their dependence on opportunity, which must first make them possible. Hence their fame is measured not merely by their inward worth but also by circumstances lending importance and brilliance. Moreover, when deeds are purely personal, as in war, fame depends on the testimony of a few eyewitnesses, who are not always present and then not always just and unprejudiced. Deeds do, however, have the advantage of being practical and thus within the range of general human judgment; if the data are correctly transmitted to it, justice is immediately done, unless their motives are correctly recognized or justly estimated only later, since understanding every action requires knowledge of its motive. The reverse holds with works: their origin depends not on opportunity but solely on their author, and what they are in themselves they remain as long as they endure. Their difficulty, by contrast, lies in judgment, and grows with the height of their kind: competent judges are often lacking, as are unprejudiced and honest ones. Yet their fame is not decided by one tribunal: appeal is possible. For whereas, as said, only the remembrance of deeds reaches posterity, in the form transmitted by contemporaries, works themselves reach it, and apart from perhaps missing fragments, as they are. Here the data are not distorted, and the possibly adverse influence of their original surroundings later falls away. Often only time gradually brings the few truly competent judges, themselves exceptions, who sit in judgment on still greater exceptions. They successively cast their weighty votes, and thus, sometimes admittedly only after centuries, a perfectly just judgment emerges, which no later age overturns. So certain, indeed inevitable, is the fame of works. Whether their author lives to see it, however, depends on external circumstances and chance, and is rarer the higher and more difficult their kind. Accordingly Seneca (ep. 79.) says incomparably beautifully that fame follows merit as unfailingly as the shadow follows the body, though like the shadow it sometimes goes before, sometimes behind it. After explaining this he adds: Even if envy has imposed silence on everyone living with you, people will come to judge without resentment or favor. We see incidentally that the art of suppressing merit through spiteful silence and disregard, concealing the good from the public in favor of the bad, was already customary among the scoundrels of Seneca's age as among ours, and that with them, as with ours, envy pressed their lips shut.—As a rule, the longer fame is to endure, the later it will arrive, just as everything excellent ripens slowly. Fame destined to become posthumous fame resembles an oak growing very slowly from its seed; light, ephemeral fame resembles fast-growing annuals; false fame, the quickly sprouting weeds promptly uprooted. This process really rests on the fact that the more someone belongs to posterity—that is, properly, to humanity in general and as a whole—the stranger he is to his age. What he produces is not dedicated specially to that age, belonging to it not as such but only insofar as it is part of humanity, and therefore not tinged with its local color. It may consequently readily let him pass by as a stranger. It prizes instead those serving its short day's affairs or the moment's mood, who thus belong entirely to it, live with it, and die with it. Accordingly the histories of art and literature teach throughout that the highest achievements of the human mind have generally been received with disfavor and remained so until higher minds arrived, responded to them, and brought them the standing they afterward retained through the authority thus acquired. All this ultimately rests on everyone's capacity really to understand and value only what is akin to himself. The shallow is akin to the shallow, the vulgar to the vulgar, the obscure to the confused, the brainless to the nonsensical; everyone likes his own works best of all, since they are entirely akin to him. Thus the ancient legendary Epicharmus already sang:

It is no wonder that I say these things,And that they please themselves and thinkTheir nature fine: for dog to dogSeems fairest, ox to ox,Donkey to donkey, pig to pig.

which I will put into German, so that it is lost on no one:

No wonder that I speak according to my mind,And they, well pleased with themselves, cling to the illusionThat they deserve praise: so to the dog the dogSeems fairest of all beings, to the ox the ox,To the donkey the donkey, and to the pig the pig.

[I] It is therefore a poor compliment to suppose one honors works by calling them deeds, as is fashionable today. Works are of an essentially higher kind. A deed is always merely an action upon a motive, and thus something individual and transitory, belonging to the world's universal, original element, the will. A great or beautiful work, by contrast, endures because it has universal significance, and springs from intelligence: innocent and pure, rising like a fragrance from this world of will.

An advantage of the fame of deeds is that it generally arrives immediately with a powerful explosion, often so strong that it is heard throughout Europe; the fame of works, by contrast, arrives slowly and gradually, softly at first, then ever louder, often reaching its full strength only after a hundred years. But then it remains, because the works remain, sometimes for millennia. The other kind, however, after its first explosion passes, gradually weakens, becomes known to fewer and ever fewer, until at last it leads only a ghostly existence in history.

Just as even the strongest arm throwing a light object cannot give it a motion that carries it far and makes it strike hard, but it falls feebly nearby for lack of material substance of its own to absorb the imparted force, so it is with beautiful and great thoughts, indeed with masterpieces of genius, when only small, weak, or distorted minds are there to receive them. The voices of the wise in every age have joined in chorus to lament this. Jesus Sirach, for example, says: "Whoever speaks with a fool speaks with someone asleep. When it is over, he says: what is it?"—And Hamlet: a knavish speech sleeps in a fool's ear (a roguish speech sleeps in a fool's ear). And Goethe:

The happiest word will be mockedIf the hearer's ear is crooked.

and again:

You have no effect, all stays so dull:Take heart!The stone in the marshMakes no rings.

And Lichtenberg: "When a head and a book collide and it sounds hollow, is it always the book?"—And again: "Such works are mirrors: if an ape looks in, no apostle can look out." Indeed, Father Gellert's very beautiful and touching lament on this deserves to be recalled once more:

"That often the very finest giftsHave the fewest admirers,And that the greater part of the worldTakes the bad for the good—We see this evil every day.Yet how shall we resist this pest?I doubt that such afflictionCan be driven from our world.There is one remedy on earth,But it is infinitely hard:The fools must become wise;And look! They never will.They never know the worth of things.Their eye concludes, not their understanding:They forever praise what is inferiorBecause they never knew the good."

To this intellectual incapacity of human beings, owing to which excellence, as Goethe says, is recognized and valued still more rarely than it is found, is added here, as everywhere, their moral wickedness, appearing as envy. Through the fame someone acquires, one more person is raised above all of his kind; they are therefore lowered by as much, so that every outstanding merit gains its fame at the expense of those who possess none.

"When we give others honor,We must strip ourselves of nobility."

Goethe. W. O. Divan.

This explains why, in whatever kind excellence appears, the whole numerous body of mediocrity is at once allied and sworn to deny it recognition, indeed to stifle it if possible. Its secret watchword is: down with merit. Yet even those who possess merit themselves and have already attained its fame do not gladly see a new fame appear, whose brilliance makes their own shine so much less. Hence even Goethe says:

"Had I delayed my coming into beingUntil they granted me life,I would not yet be on the earth,As you can understandWhen you see how those behaveWho, to seem something themselves,Would gladly deny me."

Thus while honor generally finds just judges, is attacked by no envy, and is even granted to everyone in advance on credit, fame must be fought for in defiance of envy, and a tribunal of decidedly unfavorable judges distributes the laurel. For honor we can and wish to share with everyone; fame is diminished or made harder by everyone who attains it.—Further, the difficulty of attaining fame through works stands in inverse proportion to the number of people forming their public, for readily understood reasons. It is therefore much greater for works promising instruction than for those promising entertainment. Greatest of all is the difficulty for philosophical works, because the instruction they promise is both uncertain and without material benefit. Such works consequently appear at first before a public consisting entirely of competitors.—The difficulties opposing the attainment of fame show that if those who complete works worthy of it did not do so from love of the works themselves and their own pleasure in them, but needed encouragement through fame, humanity would have received few immortal works or none. Indeed, anyone to produce the good and right and avoid the bad must defy the judgment of the multitude and its spokesmen, and therefore despise them. On this rests the truth of the observation especially emphasized by Osorius (On Glory), that fame flees those who seek it and follows those who neglect it: the former accommodate themselves to their contemporaries' taste, the latter defy it.

As difficult as fame is to acquire, it is easy to retain. In this too it contrasts with honor, which is granted to everyone, even on credit: one has only to preserve it. But here lies the task, for a single worthless action loses it irretrievably. Fame, by contrast, can really never be lost: the deed or work through which it was gained stands fixed forever, and its fame remains with its author even if he adds no new fame. If fame really fades, if one outlives it, it was false—that is, unmerited, arising from momentary overvaluation—if not actually the kind Hegel had and Lichtenberg describes: "trumpeted by a friendly clique of candidates and echoed by empty heads;— —but posterity, how it will smile when one day it knocks at the colorful word-buildings, the beautiful nests of departed fashion and the dwellings of arrangements long dead, and finds everything, everything empty, not even the smallest thought that could confidently say: come in!"—

Fame really rests on what someone is in comparison with others. It is therefore essentially relative and can have only relative worth. It would vanish entirely if the others became what the celebrated person is. Only what retains its worth in every circumstance can have absolute worth: here, what someone is immediately and for himself. In this, then, must lie the worth and happiness of the great heart and great mind. Not fame, therefore, but what deserves it is valuable. This is, so to speak, the substance, and fame merely the accident of the matter. Indeed, fame acts on the celebrated person chiefly as an outward symptom confirming his own high opinion of himself. One might therefore say that just as light is not visible at all unless reflected by a body, so every excellence becomes properly certain of itself only through fame. Yet fame is not even an infallible symptom, since there is fame without merit and merit without fame; hence Lessing's expression comes out so charmingly: "Some people are famous, and others deserve to be." It would be a wretched existence whose worth or worthlessness rested on how it appeared in others' eyes; yet such would be the hero's and genius's life if its worth consisted in fame, in others' approval. Rather, every being lives and exists for its own sake, and therefore first in itself and for itself.—Whatever someone is, in whatever manner, he is first and chiefly for himself; if it is not worth much here, it is not worth much at all. The image of his being in others' heads, by contrast, is secondary, derivative, and subject to chance, relating back to the former only very indirectly. Moreover, the heads of the multitude are too wretched a stage to provide a place for true happiness. Only a chimerical happiness can be found there. What a mixed company assembles in that temple of universal fame! Generals, ministers, quacks, jugglers, dancers, singers, millionaires, and Jews: indeed, the advantages of all these are valued far more sincerely there, finding much more felt esteem than intellectual ones, especially of a high kind, which with the great majority receive only esteem on trust. From the standpoint of happiness, fame is therefore nothing more than the rarest and most exquisite morsel for our pride and vanity. These, though concealed, are present excessively in most people, perhaps strongest in those in some way fitted to gain fame, who must therefore generally carry an uncertain consciousness of their superior worth within them for a long time before the opportunity comes to prove it and then experience its recognition. Until then they felt as though suffering a secret injustice[J]. In general, as explained at the beginning of this chapter, the value people place on others' opinions of them is wholly disproportionate and irrational. Hobbes thus expressed the matter very strongly, but perhaps correctly: All pleasure of the mind and all cheerfulness consist in having people with whom one can compare oneself and thereby think magnificently of oneself (de cive. I, 5). This explains the high value generally placed on fame and the sacrifices made merely in hope of attaining it someday:

Fame is the spur, that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble minds)To scorn delights and live laborious days.

as also:

how hard it is to climbThe hights where Fame's proud temple shines afar.

[J] Since our greatest pleasure consists in being admired, while admirers are reluctant to give admiration even where there is every reason, the happiest person is the one who, no matter how, has succeeded in sincerely admiring himself. Only others must not unsettle him.

Finally, this also explains why the vainest of all nations constantly has glory on its lips and unhesitatingly regards it as the chief motive for great deeds and great works.—Yet since fame is indisputably only secondary, the mere echo, image, shadow, and symptom of merit, and what is admired must in any case be worth more than admiration, what truly makes us happy cannot lie in fame but in what attains it: merit itself, or, more precisely, the disposition and abilities from which it arose, whether moral or intellectual. For the best that anyone is, he must necessarily be for himself. What of it is reflected in others' heads, and his standing in their opinion, is incidental and can be of only subordinate interest to him. Whoever therefore merely deserves fame, even without receiving it, possesses by far the chief thing, and what he lacks is something for which he can console himself with that chief possession. For what makes a person enviable is not being considered great by the undiscerning and so often deluded multitude, but being great; nor is great happiness found in posterity hearing of him, but in thoughts arising within him that deserve to be preserved and pondered for centuries. Moreover, this cannot be taken from him: it belongs to the things within our power, the other to those outside it. If admiration itself were the chief thing, what is admired would not deserve it. This is really the case with false, unmerited fame. Its possessor must feed on it without really having what it is supposed to signify and merely reflect. Yet even this fame must often become distasteful when, despite all the self-deception arising from self-love, he occasionally grows dizzy at the height for which he is unfit, or feels like a copper ducat. Fear of exposure and deserved humiliation then seizes him, especially when he already reads posterity's judgment on wiser brows. He thus resembles someone in possession through a forged will.—The object of the truest fame, posthumous fame, never hears of it, yet is considered happy. His happiness therefore consisted in the great qualities themselves that gained him fame and in finding opportunity to develop them: being allowed to act as suited him or pursue what he pursued with pleasure and love, for only works arising from such love attain posthumous fame. His happiness therefore consisted in his great heart, or the wealth of a mind whose imprint in its works receives the admiration of coming centuries; it consisted in the thoughts themselves whose contemplation became the occupation and enjoyment of the noblest minds of an unforeseeable future. The value of posthumous fame thus lies in deserving it, and this is its own reward. Whether the works earning it also sometimes enjoyed contemporary fame depended on chance circumstances and was of little significance. For people generally have no judgment of their own and especially no ability to assess high and difficult achievements; they always follow another's authority here, and in a high field fame rests with 99 out of 100 of its proclaimers merely on trust. Even the most many-voiced contemporary applause can therefore have little value for thinking minds: they always hear in it only the echo of a few voices, which are themselves only what the day has produced. Would a virtuoso feel flattered by his audience's loud applause if he knew that, except for one or two people, it consisted entirely of the utterly deaf, clapping eagerly as soon as they saw that one person's hands move, to conceal their disability from one another? Still less if he also knew those who led the applause often accepted bribes to procure the loudest applause for the most wretched fiddler!—This explains why contemporary fame so rarely undergoes transformation into posthumous fame. Hence d'Alembert, in his exceedingly beautiful description of the temple of literary fame, says: "The temple's interior is inhabited entirely by dead people who were not in it during life, and by a few living people, almost all of whom are thrown out when they die." Incidentally, erecting a monument to someone during his lifetime means declaring that in his case posterity cannot be trusted.—If someone nevertheless lives to experience fame destined to become posthumous, it will rarely be before old age. There may be exceptions among artists and poets, least of all among philosophers. Portraits of men famous through their works confirm this, since they were mostly made only after celebrity arrived: as a rule they are shown old and gray, especially philosophers. From the standpoint of happiness, however, the matter is quite right. Fame and youth at once are too much for a mortal. Our life is so poor that its goods must be distributed more economically. Youth has quite enough in its own wealth and may be content with it. But in old age, when all pleasures and joys have died like trees in winter, the tree of fame most fittingly puts forth leaves, a true evergreen. It may also be compared to winter pears, which grow in summer but are enjoyed in winter. In old age there is no finer consolation than having embodied all the strength of one's youth in works that do not grow old with us.

If we now look more closely at the paths by which fame is attained in the fields of knowledge, the sphere nearest our concern, the following rule may be laid down. The intellectual superiority signified by such fame is always shown through a new combination of some data. These can be of very different kinds; but the fame attainable through combining them will be greater and more widespread the more generally known and accessible to everyone the data themselves are. If, for example, they consist in a few numbers or curves, a particular physical, zoological, botanical, or anatomical fact, corrupt passages of ancient authors, half-effaced inscriptions or inscriptions whose alphabet we lack, or obscure points of history, the fame attainable through their correct combination will not extend much farther than knowledge of the data themselves: to a small number of mostly retired people jealous of fame in their field.—If, by contrast, the data are known to the whole human race—essential properties of understanding or disposition common to all, natural forces whose entire workings are constantly before our eyes, or the universally familiar course of nature in general—then fame for shedding light on them through a new, important, evident combination will in time extend over almost the whole civilized world. For if the data are accessible to everyone, their combination generally will be too.—Yet fame will always correspond only to the difficulty overcome. The more universally known the data, the harder it is to combine them in a new yet correct way, since an exceedingly great number of minds have already tried and exhausted their impossible combinations. Data inaccessible to the general public, obtainable only by laborious and difficult paths, will by contrast almost always permit new combinations. If one approaches these with straightforward understanding and sound judgment, and thus moderate intellectual superiority, one may very well have the good fortune to make a new and correct combination. But the fame thereby acquired will have roughly the same bounds as knowledge of the data. Solving such problems certainly requires great study and labor even merely to acquire knowledge of the data, while in the other kind, in which the greatest and most widespread fame can be gained, the data are given free of charge. Yet in proportion as this latter kind requires less labor, it requires more talent, indeed genius; and no labor or study can compare with these in worth or esteem.

It follows that people conscious of sound understanding and correct judgment, without crediting themselves with the highest intellectual gifts, must not shrink from much study and exhausting labor. Through these they can work their way out of the great crowd confronted with universally known data and reach remoter places accessible only to learned diligence. Here, with the number of competitors infinitely reduced, even a moderately superior mind will soon find an opportunity for a new and correct combination of data; the merit of the discovery will even rest partly on the difficulty of reaching those data. But the applause of fellow scholars, the only experts in the field, will be heard by the great multitude only from afar.—Following this path to its extreme, we can identify the point where the data, owing to the great difficulty of obtaining them, suffice alone to establish fame, without any combination being required. Journeys to very remote and little-visited countries accomplish this: one becomes famous through what one has seen, not through what one has thought. This path also has the great advantage that it is much easier to communicate to others what one has seen than what one has thought; the same holds for understanding it. Accordingly one finds many more readers for the former than the latter. For as Asmus already says:

"When someone makes a journey,He has something to relate."

Correspondingly, on personally meeting famous people of this kind one is often reminded of Horace's observation:

Those who cross the sea change their sky, not their mind.

(Epist. I, 11, v. 27.)

As for a mind endowed with high abilities, which alone may venture to solve the great and therefore most difficult problems concerning the universal and the whole, it will certainly do well to extend its horizon as far as possible, but always evenly in every direction, never losing itself too far in any particular region known only to a few: not entering deeply into the specialties of any single discipline, much less occupying itself with minutiae. It has no need to turn to hard-to-access objects to escape the press of competitors; what lies before everyone will itself provide material for new, important, and true combinations. Its merit will accordingly be appreciable to everyone who knows the data, and thus to a large part of humanity. This grounds the mighty difference between the fame attained by poets and philosophers and that accessible to physicists, chemists, anatomists, mineralogists, zoologists, philologists, historians, and so forth.

Plain English translation

Independent machine-assisted translation from the German, following the 1913 Ernst Ohle edition.

What a person represents.

This—our existence in other people's opinion—is consistently valued far too highly because of a particular weakness in our nature. Yet the slightest reflection could teach us that, in itself, it is unimportant to our happiness. It is therefore almost inexplicable how much inward delight everyone takes whenever they notice signs of other people's favorable opinion and their vanity is flattered in some way. As surely as a cat purrs when stroked, sweet delight appears on the face of someone praised in the field where they claim distinction, even if the praise is obviously false. Signs of others' approval often console them for real misfortune, or for the meager flow of the two main sources of our happiness discussed so far. Conversely, it is astonishing how surely every injury to their ambition—in any sense, degree, or relation—every slight, setback in precedence, or show of disregard hurts them, often deeply. Insofar as the sense of honor rests on this quality, it may have useful effects on many people's behavior as a substitute for morality. But for a person's own happiness, especially the peace of mind and independence so essential to it, it does more to disturb and harm than to help. From our standpoint, then, it is advisable to set limits to it. Through proper reflection and a correct estimate of the value of good things, we should moderate this great sensitivity to others' opinion as far as possible, both when it is flattered and when it is hurt. Both hang by the same thread. Otherwise we remain slaves to other people's opinions and judgments:

So light, so small is the thing that casts downAnd raises up a mind hungry for praise.

A correct estimate of the value of what we are in and for ourselves, compared with what we are merely in others' eyes, will therefore contribute much to our happiness. The first includes everything that fills the time of our own existence, its inner content, and thus all the goods we have considered under the headings “what a person is” and “what a person has.” For the place where all these things exercise their effects is our own consciousness. The place of what we are for others, on the other hand, is someone else's consciousness: the image under which we appear in it, together with the concepts applied to that image[D]. This is something that does not exist for us directly at all, but only indirectly, insofar as it determines other people's behavior toward us. Even that behavior itself really matters only insofar as it influences something capable of modifying what we are in and for ourselves. Apart from that, what happens in someone else's consciousness is, as such, a matter of indifference to us. We too will gradually become indifferent to it once we gain sufficient knowledge of the superficiality and futility of the thoughts, the narrowness of the concepts, the pettiness of the dispositions, the wrongheadedness of the opinions, and the number of errors in the vast majority of minds. We must also learn from our own experience how disparagingly people sometimes speak of anyone, as soon as they have no reason to fear them or believe it will not reach their ears—especially after we have once heard half a dozen blockheads speak dismissively of the greatest man. We will then realize that anyone who sets great value on people's opinion does them too much honor.

[D] The highest ranks, in their brilliance, their splendor, display, magnificence, and every kind of public show, can say: our happiness lies entirely outside ourselves; its place is in other people's heads.

In any case, someone is left with a meager resource if they do not find happiness in the two classes of goods already discussed but must seek it in this third one: not in what they really are, but in what they are in someone else's mind. For the basis of our being, and therefore of our happiness too, is our animal nature. So health is most essential to our welfare, and next to it the means of maintaining ourselves: a living free from financial worry. Honor, splendor, rank, and fame, however much some people may value them, cannot compete with those essential goods or replace them. Rather, if necessary, we would give them up without hesitation for those goods. It will therefore contribute to our happiness if we gain this simple insight early: everyone lives first and really in their own skin, not in other people's opinion. Consequently, our actual, personal condition—as determined by health, temperament, abilities, income, wife, child, friends, place of residence, and so on—is a hundred times more important for our happiness than whatever others choose to make of us. The opposite delusion makes us unhappy. When someone emphatically cries, “Honor stands even above life,” this really means: “Existence and well-being are nothing; what others think of us is what matters.” At best, the statement can be accepted as an exaggeration based on the plain truth that honor—that is, people's opinion of us—is often indispensable to getting ahead and maintaining our position among people. I will return to this later. But look at almost everything people tirelessly strive for all their lives, with restless effort and through a thousand dangers and hardships: its ultimate aim is to raise them in other people's opinion. Not only offices, titles, and decorations, but also wealth, and even scholarship[E] and art, are sought fundamentally and chiefly for this reason. Greater respect from others is the final goal they work toward. Unfortunately, this proves only the magnitude of human foolishness. Placing far too much value on other people's opinion is a universally prevailing delusion. Whether it is rooted in our nature itself or arose as a consequence of society and civilization, it has an utterly excessive influence on everything we do or leave undone, and one hostile to our happiness. We can trace this from the point where it appears in anxious, slavish concern for what people will say, to where it drives Virginius's dagger into his daughter's heart, or tempts someone to sacrifice peace, wealth, health, and even life for posthumous fame. This delusion certainly offers a convenient lever to anyone who has to rule or otherwise direct people. That is why the instruction to keep the sense of honor active and sharpen it holds a central place in every art of training human beings. But regarding a person's own happiness, which is our aim here, the matter is quite different. We should rather warn people not to place too much value on others' opinion. Yet daily experience teaches that they do. Most people place the highest value precisely on others' opinion of them, and care more about it than about what is immediately present to them because it occurs in their own consciousness. Reversing the natural order, they see the former as the real part of their existence and the latter as merely a part existing in the mind. They make the derivative and secondary thing the main one, caring more about the image of their being in other people's heads than about that being itself. This direct valuing of something that has no direct existence for us is the foolishness called vanity, emptiness, a name meant to express the hollowness and lack of substance of this striving. It is also easy to see from the above that, like avarice, it consists in forgetting the end while attending to the means.

[E] Your knowledge is nothing unless someone else knows that you know it.

In fact, the value we place on other people's opinion and our continual concern about it generally exceed almost every reasonable purpose. This can be regarded as a kind of widespread, or rather inborn, mania. In everything we do or leave undone, other people's opinion is considered almost before anything else. On close examination, we will find that concern about it has produced almost half of all the troubles and fears we have ever felt. It underlies our self-esteem, so often wounded because it is so morbidly sensitive, all our vanities and pretensions, and our display and self-importance. Without this concern and craving, luxury would hardly be a tenth of what it is. Every kind of pride, point of honor, and touchiness about honor, however varied its type and sphere, rests on it—and what sacrifices it often demands there! It already appears in children, then at every age, but most strongly in later life. As the capacity for sensual pleasures dries up, vanity and arrogance then have only avarice left to share their rule. It can be observed most clearly among the French, where it is thoroughly endemic. It often finds an outlet in the most absurd ambition, the most ridiculous national vanity, and the most shameless boasting. Their striving thereby defeats itself: it has made them the laughingstock of other nations, and the great nation has become a mocking nickname. To explain more specifically the misguided, excessive concern for other people's opinion under discussion, here is a truly extreme example of this foolishness rooted in human nature. It is exceptionally revealing because the circumstances and a character suited to them coincide in a way that throws the matter into sharp relief. Through it we can fully measure the strength of this most peculiar motive. The following passage is taken from the Times of March 31, 1846, from a detailed report of the just-completed execution of Thomas Wix, a journeyman who had murdered his master out of revenge: “On the morning set for the execution, the reverend prison chaplain came to him early. But Wix, though behaving calmly, showed no interest in his exhortations. His only concern was to succeed in behaving with great bravado before the spectators of his shameful end. … And he did succeed. In the courtyard he had to cross to reach the gallows scaffold erected right beside the prison, he said, ‘Well then, as Dr. Dodd said, I shall soon know the great secret!’ Although his arms were bound, he climbed the ladder to the scaffold without the slightest help. Once there, he bowed to the spectators on his right and left. These bows were answered and rewarded with thunderous cheers from the assembled crowd, and so on.”—What a magnificent specimen of the craving for admiration: with death in its most terrible form before his eyes, and eternity behind it, he has no concern but the impression he makes on the crowd of gawkers who have gathered, and the opinion he will leave in their heads!—Yet Lecomte, executed in France that same year for attempting to kill the king, was likewise chiefly annoyed during his trial that he could not appear before the Chamber of Peers in decent clothes. Even at his execution, one of his main annoyances was that he had not been allowed to shave beforehand. We see that things were no different in the past from what Mateo Aleman says in the introduction (declaration) to his famous novel Guzman de Alfarache. Many deluded criminals take away from the last hours, which they ought to devote exclusively to their souls' salvation, the time needed to compose and memorize a little sermon they want to deliver on the gallows ladder.—But we can see ourselves reflected in such traits, for colossal cases always provide the clearest illustration. Perhaps in most cases, all our worrying, fretting, brooding, annoyance, anxiety, exertion, and so on really concern other people's opinion, and are just as absurd as the concerns of those poor condemned men. Our envy and hatred, too, spring largely from the same root.

Clearly, hardly anything could contribute as much to our happiness, which rests for the greatest part on peace of mind and contentment, as restricting and reducing this motive to a reasonably justifiable measure. That might be a fiftieth of its present size. It would mean pulling this constantly tormenting thorn out of our flesh. But this is very difficult, since we are dealing with a natural, inborn perversity. Even the wise shed the desire for glory last, says Tacitus (hist. VI, 6). The only way to get rid of this universal foolishness would be to recognize it clearly as such. To that end, we must make several things clear to ourselves: how entirely false, wrongheaded, mistaken, and absurd most opinions in people's heads tend to be, and therefore how little attention they deserve in themselves; how little real influence other people's opinion can have on us in most matters and cases; how generally unfavorable it usually is, so that almost everyone would be sick with anger if they heard everything said about them and the tone in which it was said; and finally, that even honor itself really has only indirect, not direct, value, along with further considerations of this kind. If we succeeded in turning away from this universal foolishness, the result would be an incredibly large increase in peace of mind and cheerfulness, as well as a firmer, more confident bearing and altogether less self-conscious, more natural behavior. The extremely beneficial influence of a withdrawn way of life on our peace of mind rests largely on this: it removes us from continually living before other people's eyes, and thus from constantly considering what their opinion might be, and thereby gives us back to ourselves. Likewise, we would escape a great deal of real misfortune into which this striving for something that exists only in the mind—or, more correctly, this ruinous foolishness—alone drags us. We would also have much more care to spare for solid goods and could then enjoy these with fewer disturbances. But, as I said, fine things are difficult.

The foolishness of our nature described here produces three main offshoots: ambition, vanity, and pride. The difference between the last two is this: pride is an already firmly established conviction of one's own superior value in some respect; vanity, by contrast, is the wish to awaken that conviction in others. It is usually accompanied by the quiet hope that, as a result, one may also be able to make it one's own. So pride is high self-esteem arising from within, and thus directly; vanity is the effort to obtain it from outside, and thus indirectly. Accordingly, vanity makes people talkative, pride silent. But the vain person should know that the high opinion of others they seek is much more easily and surely gained through continued silence than through talking, even if one has the finest things to say.—People are not proud simply because they want to be. At most, anyone who wants to can put on pride, but they will soon fall out of this assumed role, as out of any other. Only the firm, inward, unshakable conviction of superior qualities and special worth makes someone truly proud. This conviction may be mistaken or rest on merely external and conventional advantages. That does not harm pride, so long as the conviction is really and seriously present. Since pride is rooted in conviction, it is, like all knowledge, not subject to our free choice. Its worst enemy, by which I mean its greatest obstacle, is vanity. Vanity courts other people's approval so that it can base a high opinion of itself on that approval, whereas pride presupposes that this opinion is already entirely firm.

However consistently pride is criticized and denounced, I suspect that this has chiefly come from people who have nothing to be proud of. Faced with the shamelessness and brazen stupidity of most people, anyone with any advantages does quite well to keep them in view themselves, so they do not fall completely into oblivion. For if someone good-naturedly ignores those advantages and deals with such people as though entirely their equal, they will immediately and innocently take them to be just that. I would recommend this most strongly to those whose advantages are of the highest kind—that is, real, and thus purely personal—because, unlike decorations and titles, they are not recalled to mind at every moment by an impression on the senses. Otherwise they will often enough see an example of a pig teaching Minerva. “Joke with the slave; soon he will show you his backside” is an excellent Arabic proverb. Nor should Horace's Take on the pride your merits have earned be rejected. The virtue of modesty, however, is a highly profitable invention for worthless people. It requires everyone to speak of themselves as if they too were worthless, which levels things wonderfully: the result makes it seem as though there were nothing but worthless people at all.

The cheapest kind of pride, however, is national pride. It betrays a lack of individual qualities to be proud of in the person afflicted with it. Otherwise, they would not reach for something shared with so many millions. Someone with significant personal advantages will instead recognize their own nation's faults most clearly, since those faults are constantly before their eyes. But every pitiful fool who has nothing in the world to be proud of grasps at the last resort: pride in the nation they happen to belong to. This restores them, and in gratitude they are now ready to defend all its characteristic faults and follies with fists and feet. Thus, for example, among fifty Englishmen there will hardly be more than one who agrees when someone speaks with due contempt of their nation's stupid and degrading bigotry. That one, however, is usually a man of intelligence.—The Germans are free of national pride, and thereby give proof of the honesty for which they are praised. Those among them who profess and ridiculously put on such pride give proof of the opposite. This is done chiefly by the “German brothers” and democrats, who flatter the people to mislead them. It is said, to be sure, that the Germans invented gunpowder; I cannot agree with that opinion. And Lichtenberg asks: “Why does hardly anyone who is not German pretend to be one, but generally, when someone wants to pass themselves off as something, as a Frenchman or an Englishman?” Besides, individuality far outweighs nationality, and in any given person the former deserves a thousand times more consideration than the latter. Since national character speaks of the mass of people, there will never honestly be much good to say of it. Rather, human narrowness, wrongheadedness, and wickedness appear in a different form in each country, and this is called the national character. Disgusted with one such character, we praise another, until we have had the same experience with it.—Every nation mocks the others, and all are right.

The subject of this chapter—what we represent in the world, meaning what we are in other people’s eyes—can, as noted above, be divided into honor, rank, and fame.

Rank may matter a great deal to the crowd and to philistines, and it may be very useful in running the machinery of the state. But for our purposes, a few words will do. It is a conventional value—in other words, really a make-believe one. It produces a make-believe respect, and the whole thing is a play put on for the crowd.—Decorations are bills of exchange drawn on public opinion. Their value depends on the issuer’s credit. Still, they are a thoroughly useful institution, quite apart from all the money they save the state by replacing cash rewards—provided they are awarded with judgment and fairness. The crowd has eyes and ears, but not much else: very little judgment in particular, and even little memory. Some achievements are entirely beyond its understanding. Others it understands and cheers when they happen, but soon forgets afterward. So I think it quite appropriate to use a cross or a star to tell the crowd, at all times and in all places: “This man is not your equal: he has earned distinction!” But when decorations are awarded unfairly, without judgment, or too freely, they lose this value. A prince should therefore be as careful about awarding them as a merchant is about signing bills of exchange. The inscription for merit on a cross says the same thing twice. Every decoration should be for merit—that goes without saying.—

Discussing honor is much harder and takes much longer than discussing rank. First we must define it. If I were to say, for this purpose, that honor is external conscience and conscience is internal honor, some people might like that. But it would be a clever explanation rather than a clear and sound one. So I say this: objectively, honor is other people’s opinion of our worth; subjectively, it is our fear of that opinion. In this second sense it often has a very beneficial effect, though certainly not a purely moral one—in a man of honor.

The feeling for honor and shame lives in everyone who is not wholly corrupt. Its root and origin, and the reason honor is valued so highly, are as follows. On his own, a human being can do very little. He is a stranded Robinson Crusoe. Only together with others does he amount to much and have much power. He becomes aware of this as soon as his consciousness begins to develop at all. He immediately wants to be seen as a useful member of human society: someone able to do his fair share and therefore entitled to share in the benefits of human community. He becomes such a person by doing, first, what is required of everyone everywhere, and then what is required and expected of him in the particular position he occupies. But just as quickly he realizes that what matters here is not being such a person in his own opinion, but in other people’s. This explains his eager pursuit of other people’s favorable opinion and the high value he places on it. Both arise with the spontaneous force of an inborn feeling. We call it a sense of honor or, depending on the circumstances, a sense of shame (modesty). It makes his cheeks turn red whenever he thinks he is about to fall in other people’s opinion, even when he knows he is innocent. It does so even when the failing being exposed concerns only a relative obligation, one he has freely taken on. Conversely, nothing gives him more courage to live than gaining, or regaining, the certainty that other people think well of him. It promises him the protection and help of everyone’s combined strength. Against life’s evils, that is an infinitely stronger defensive wall than his own strength.

The different relationships a person can have with others give rise to several kinds of honor. These are relationships in which others must be able to trust him, and so must hold a certain favorable opinion of him. They chiefly concern what is mine and yours, then the performance of people who undertake a task, and finally sexual relations. These correspond to civic honor, professional honor, and sexual honor, each of which has further subdivisions.

Civic honor has the widest scope. It consists in the assumption that we respect everyone’s rights unconditionally and will therefore never use unjust or illegal means to benefit ourselves. It is a condition for taking part in all peaceful dealings. A single act that clearly and seriously contradicts it destroys it; so does any criminal punishment, though only if the punishment is just. Ultimately, honor always rests on the conviction that moral character cannot change. On that view, one bad act guarantees that every later act will have the same moral quality whenever similar circumstances arise. The English use of character to mean reputation or honor also bears this out. That is precisely why lost honor cannot be restored, unless its loss was based on deception, such as slander or misleading appearances. Accordingly, there are laws against slander, defamatory writings, and insults. An insult, mere name-calling, is a condensed slander without supporting reasons. This could be put well in Greek: “Abuse is slander in brief”—though the phrase occurs nowhere. Of course, by insulting someone a person shows that he has nothing real and true to bring against him. Otherwise he would present it as the premises and confidently leave his listeners to draw the conclusion. Instead, he gives the conclusion and owes us the premises. But he counts on the assumption that he is doing this only for the sake of a welcome brevity.—Civic honor takes its name from the citizen class, but it applies to all classes without distinction, not excluding even the highest. No one can do without it. It is a thoroughly serious matter that everyone should be careful not to take lightly. Anyone who breaks faith has lost other people’s faith and trust forever, whatever he may do and whoever he may be. The bitter fruits of that loss are sure to follow.

In a certain sense, honor has a negative character, unlike fame, which has a positive one. Honor is not an opinion about special qualities belonging to this person alone. It concerns only the qualities normally taken for granted, which he too is expected to possess. It says merely that he is no exception; fame says that he is. Fame must therefore first be earned. Honor merely needs not to be lost. Correspondingly, lack of fame is obscurity, something negative; lack of honor is disgrace, something positive.—But this negative quality must not be confused with passivity. On the contrary, honor has a thoroughly active character. It comes solely from its possessor and rests on his actions and omissions, not on what others do or what happens to him. It is therefore among the things within our control. As we will soon see, this distinguishes true honor from chivalric honor, or false honor. The only possible attack on honor from outside is slander. The only remedy is to refute it, with publicity suited to its reach, and to expose the slanderer.

Respect for age seems to rest on this: young people’s honor is assumed, but has not yet been tested, so it really exists on credit. Older people, however, have had to show in the course of their lives whether their conduct could preserve their honor. Years alone are not enough to justify the respect that younger people are everywhere required to show older people. Animals also live for years, some for many more. Nor is experience, understood simply as closer knowledge of the way the world goes, enough to justify it. The mere weakness of old age would entitle it to consideration rather than respect. Yet it is remarkable that people have an inborn, and therefore truly instinctive, respect for white hair. Wrinkles, a much more reliable sign of age, do not inspire this respect at all. No one ever speaks of venerable wrinkles, but people always speak of venerable white hair.

Honor has only an indirect value. As explained at the start of this chapter, other people’s opinion of us can matter to us only insofar as it determines, or may sometimes determine, how they act toward us. But that is the case as long as we live with or among people. In civilized life, we owe our security and possessions only to society. We also need others in all our undertakings, and they must trust us before they will deal with us. Their opinion of us is therefore highly valuable to us, though always only indirectly. I cannot grant it any direct value. Cicero agrees: As for a good reputation, Chrysippus and Diogenes used to say that, apart from its usefulness, one should not even lift a finger for it. I agree with them entirely. (fin. III, 17.) Likewise, Helvétius gives a detailed explanation of this truth in his masterpiece, On the Mind (Disc. III, ch. 13). His conclusion is: We do not love esteem for its own sake, but solely for the advantages it brings. Since a means cannot be worth more than its end, the grand declaration “Honor comes before life” is, as already said, an exaggeration.

So much for civic honor. Professional honor is other people’s general opinion that a man holding an office really has all the qualities it requires and always fulfills his official duties faithfully. The more important and extensive a man’s sphere of action in the state—the higher and more influential his position—the higher people’s opinion must be of the intellectual abilities and moral qualities that fit him for it. He therefore has a correspondingly greater degree of honor. His titles, decorations, and so on express this, as does other people’s deferential behavior toward him. By this same measure, a person’s station generally determines the particular degree of honor he receives, though this is modified by the crowd’s ability to judge the importance of that station. Still, someone who has special duties and fulfills them is always granted more honor than an ordinary citizen, whose honor rests chiefly on negative qualities.

Professional honor further requires an officeholder to maintain respect for the office itself, for the sake of his colleagues and successors. He does this by faithfully carrying out his duties, but also by not allowing attacks on the office itself, or on himself as its holder, to go unpunished. These include claims that he does not properly perform his duties or that the office itself does not serve the public good. By securing legal punishment, he must prove that these attacks were unjust.

Professional honor includes the honor of public servants, doctors, lawyers, all public teachers, and indeed all holders of academic degrees. In short, it belongs to everyone publicly declared qualified to perform a certain intellectual task, who has thereby undertaken to perform it: in a word, the honor of everyone who publicly undertakes a responsibility, as such. True military honor also belongs here. It consists in this: someone who has undertaken to defend the common fatherland must actually possess the qualities needed for that task—above all courage, bravery, and strength. He must be seriously prepared to defend his country to the death and, in general, never abandon the flag to which he has sworn allegiance, for anything in the world.—I have used professional honor in a broader sense here than usual. Ordinarily it means the respect citizens owe to the office itself.

Sexual honor, I think, needs closer examination, with its principles traced back to their root. This will also confirm that all honor ultimately rests on considerations of usefulness. By its nature, sexual honor divides into women’s honor and men’s honor. On both sides, it is a well-understood sense of group solidarity. The former is by far the more important, because sexual relations are the chief concern in a woman’s life.—Female honor, then, is the general opinion that an unmarried girl has given herself to no man, and that a wife has given herself only to her husband. The importance of this opinion rests on the following facts. The female sex demands and expects everything from the male sex: everything it wants and needs. The male sex initially and directly wants only one thing from the female sex. An arrangement therefore had to be made so that men could obtain that one thing from women only by undertaking to provide everything, including support for the children born of the union. The welfare of the whole female sex rests on this arrangement. To enforce it, women must necessarily stick together and show group solidarity. They then stand as one body, in closed ranks, against the entire male sex. Through its superior physical and intellectual strength, that sex naturally possesses all earthly goods. It is their common enemy, which must be defeated and conquered so that, by possessing it, they can gain possession of earthly goods. To this end, the rule of honor for the whole female sex is that men must be completely denied all sex outside marriage. Every individual man is thus forced into marriage, a kind of capitulation, and the whole female sex is provided for. But this purpose can be fully achieved only by strict observance of that rule. So the entire female sex, with a true sense of group solidarity, watches to ensure that all its members uphold it. Accordingly, any girl who has sex outside marriage has betrayed the whole female sex, since its welfare would be undermined if such behavior became general. It casts her out and brands her with shame: she has lost her honor. No woman may associate with her anymore. She is avoided like someone carrying the plague. The adulteress meets the same fate. She has not kept the terms of the capitulation her husband entered into. Such an example discourages men from entering into it, although the welfare of the whole female sex rests on it. Moreover, because her act involves a gross breach of promise and deception, the adulteress loses her civic honor along with her sexual honor. That is why people use the partly excusing expression “a fallen girl,” but not “a fallen wife.” The seducer can restore the former’s respectability by marrying her; the adulterer cannot do the same for the latter after her divorce.—With this clearly understood, we recognize that the principle of female honor rests on a beneficial, even necessary, but carefully calculated group solidarity based on self-interest. We can therefore consider it supremely important to women’s lives and give it a great relative value. But we cannot give it an absolute value that goes beyond life and its purposes and must therefore be bought even at the cost of life itself. Accordingly, we cannot applaud the extravagant actions of Lucretia and Virginius, which turn into tragic farces. That is precisely why the ending of Emilia Galotti is so outrageous that one leaves the theater thoroughly upset. By contrast, despite sexual honor, one cannot help sympathizing with Klärchen in Egmont. Taking the principle of female honor to such an extreme is one of the many cases of forgetting the end while concentrating on the means. Such excess falsely assigns sexual honor an absolute value, though it has only a relative value, even more than all other honor. Indeed, one might call its value merely conventional, when one learns from Thomasius, On Concubinage, that in almost every country and age, down to the Lutheran Reformation, concubinage was a legally permitted and recognized relationship in which the concubine remained respectable. There is no need even to mention Mylitta at Babylon (Herodot I, 199), and so on. There are also certainly social circumstances that make the outward form of marriage impossible. This is especially so in Catholic countries, where divorce is unavailable, but everywhere in the case of ruling princes. In my opinion, they act much more morally by keeping a mistress than by entering a morganatic marriage. If the legitimate line should die out, the descendants of such a marriage might one day advance claims. Thus, however remote the chance, such a marriage creates the possibility of civil war. Besides, a morganatic marriage—a marriage contracted in defiance of all external circumstances—is ultimately a concession to women and priests, two classes to whom one should be as careful as possible not to concede anything. We should also consider that everyone in the country can marry the woman of his choice except one person, who is denied this natural right: that poor man is the prince. His hand belongs to the country and is given according to reasons of state, meaning the country’s welfare. Yet he too is human and sometimes wants to follow his heart. So trying to forbid or reproach a prince for keeping a mistress is as unjust and ungrateful as it is petty and narrow-minded—provided, of course, that she is allowed no influence over the government. As for the mistress herself, in matters of sexual honor she is in some sense an exceptional person, exempt from the general rule. She has given herself only to a man who loved her and whom she loved, but whom she could never marry.—More generally, the many bloody sacrifices made to the principle of female honor—in infanticide and mothers’ suicides—show that its origin is not purely natural. Certainly, a girl who gives herself away unlawfully breaks faith with her entire sex. But this loyalty is only tacitly assumed, not sworn. And since, in the usual case, her own interests suffer most directly, her foolishness is infinitely greater than her wickedness.

Men’s sexual honor is called into being by women’s, as an opposing group solidarity. It demands that every man who has entered the capitulation called marriage, so favorable to the other side, should now ensure that its terms are kept toward him. Otherwise, lax observance might weaken even this agreement. Men would then give everything without being assured even of the one thing they bargained for in return: exclusive possession of the woman. Accordingly, a man’s honor requires him to call his wife to account for adultery and punish it, at least by separating from her. If he knowingly tolerates it, the community of men brands him with shame. But this is nowhere near as far-reaching as the shame that strikes a woman who loses her sexual honor. It is only a stain of a slighter kind, because a man’s sexual relationship is subordinate: he has many other, more important relationships. The two great dramatic poets of modern times have each made this male honor their subject twice: Shakespeare in Othello and The Winter’s Tale, and Calderón in The Physician of His Honor (the doctor of his honor) and Secret Revenge for a Secret Insult (secret revenge for secret disgrace). Incidentally, this honor requires punishment only of the woman, not of her lover. Punishing him is merely a deed beyond what duty requires. This confirms its origin, as given above, in men’s group solidarity.—

Honor, as I have considered it so far in its kinds and principles, is recognized as generally valid among all peoples and in all ages. Some local and temporary modifications of the principles of female honor can, admittedly, be found. But there is another kind of honor, completely different from this universally accepted one. Neither the Greeks nor the Romans had any idea of it. Nor, down to the present day, do the Chinese, Hindus, or Muslims know anything of it. It arose only in the Middle Ages and became established only in Christian Europe. Even here it exists only among an extremely small fraction of the population: the upper classes and those who imitate them. This is chivalric honor, or the point of honor. Its principles differ entirely from those of the honor discussed so far; some even contradict them. The earlier kind makes an honorable man, while this one makes a man of honor. So I will set out its principles separately here, as a code or mirror of chivalric honor.

1 Honor consists not in other people’s opinion of our worth, but solely in their expression of such an opinion. It makes no difference whether they really hold the opinion they express, let alone whether it is well founded. Others may therefore think as badly of us as they please because of the way we live, and despise us as deeply as they like. As long as no one dares say so aloud, our honor suffers no damage at all. Conversely, even if our qualities and actions compel everyone else to respect us very highly—for that is not up to their arbitrary choice—any one person need only voice contempt for us, even the worst and stupidest person, and our honor is immediately wounded. Indeed, it is lost forever unless it is restored.—As an unnecessary further proof that what matters is not other people’s opinion, but solely its expression, consider that offensive remarks can be withdrawn, with an apology if necessary. It is then as though they had never been made. Whether the opinion that produced them has also changed, and why it should have changed, is irrelevant. Only its expression is canceled, and then everything is fine. The aim here, then, is not to earn respect but to force it.

2 A man’s honor rests not on what he does, but on what he suffers, on what happens to him. Under the principles of the universally accepted honor discussed first, it depends only on what he himself says or does. Chivalric honor, by contrast, depends on what someone else says or does. It lies in everyone’s hands—indeed, hangs on the tip of everyone’s tongue. If someone reaches for it, it can be lost forever at any moment, unless the injured man snatches it back through a process of restoration to be mentioned shortly. But he can do so only at the risk of his life, health, freedom, property, and peace of mind. A man’s conduct may therefore be perfectly upright and noble, his heart the purest, and his mind the most outstanding. Yet he can lose his honor at any moment, whenever someone chooses to insult him. This person need only have avoided breaking these laws of honor himself. Otherwise, he may be the most worthless scoundrel, the stupidest animal, an idler, gambler, and debt-maker—in short, someone not worth the first man’s glance. In fact, it will usually be precisely that sort of person who chooses to do it. As Seneca rightly observes, The more contemptible and ridiculous someone is, the more unrestrained his tongue (de constantia, 11). Such a person will also be most easily provoked against a man like the first one described. Opposites hate each other, and the sight of superior qualities commonly produces the silent rage of worthlessness. That is exactly why Goethe says:

Why complain about enemies?Could those people ever become friendsWhen the kind of person you areIs a constant, silent reproach to them?

W. O. Divan.

We can see how much people of the last kind described owe to the principle of honor. It puts them on a level with people otherwise beyond their reach in every respect.—Once such a person has insulted someone—that is, attributed a bad quality to him—the insult initially counts as an objectively true and well-founded judgment, a legally binding decree. Indeed, it remains true and valid for all time unless it is immediately washed out in blood. The man insulted remains, in the eyes of all “men of honor,” whatever his insulter called him, even if that insulter is the lowest of all men. For he has, to use the technical term, “let it stick.” Accordingly, “men of honor” will now thoroughly despise him and flee from him as though he had the plague. They may, for example, loudly and publicly refuse to attend a gathering to which he is admitted, and so on.—I believe I can confidently trace the origin of this wise fundamental view to the following fact. According to C. G. von Wächter’s “Beiträge zur deutschen Geschichte, besonders des deutschen Strafrechts,” 1845, in criminal trials during the Middle Ages, down to the fifteenth century, the accuser did not have to prove guilt; the accused had to prove his innocence. He could do so by an oath clearing himself, but for this he also needed oath-helpers (fellow swearers), who swore that they were convinced he was incapable of perjury. If he had none, or the accuser refused to accept them, there followed a judgment of God, usually by single combat. The accused was now a “man under reproach” and had to clear himself. Here we see the origin of the concept of being under reproach and of the entire procedure that still takes place today among “men of honor,” only with the oath omitted. This also explains the obligatory high indignation with which “men of honor” receive an accusation of lying and demand bloody revenge for it. Given how common lies are, this seems very strange, but especially in England it has grown into a deeply rooted superstition. Really, anyone who threatens to punish the accusation of lying with death ought never to have told a lie in his life. In those medieval criminal trials, the shorter procedure was for the accused to reply to his accuser, “You are lying.” A judgment of God was then immediately ordered. That is why, under the chivalric code of honor, an accusation of lying must be followed at once by an appeal to weapons.—So much for insults. But there is something even worse than an insult, something so terrifying that I must ask “men of honor” to forgive me for merely mentioning it in this code of chivalric honor. I know that the bare thought of it makes their skin shudder and their hair stand on end. It is the supreme evil, the greatest evil in the world, worse than death and damnation. One person can, horrible to say, give another a slap or a blow. This is a dreadful event. It brings about so complete a death of honor that, while all other injuries to honor can be cured by bloodletting, this one requires an outright killing for a thorough cure.

3 Honor has absolutely nothing to do with what a person may be in himself, or with the question whether his moral character can ever change, or with any such pedantic subtleties. Once injured or temporarily lost, it can be restored quickly and completely, if one acts promptly, by a single universal remedy: the duel. If, however, the offender does not belong to the classes that acknowledge the chivalric code of honor, or has already broken that code once, one can perform an operation with a sure result. If armed, one stabs him on the spot, or even an hour afterward. Honor is then healed. This applies especially if the injury to honor was physical, but also if it was merely verbal. Otherwise, or if one wants to avoid this step for fear of the unpleasant consequences, or is simply uncertain whether the offender submits to the laws of chivalric honor, there is a palliative remedy: gaining the “advantage.” This means that if he has been rude, one must be noticeably ruder. If insults can go no further, one starts hitting. Here too there is an ascending scale of honor-saving measures: slaps are cured by blows with a stick, and these by lashes with a hunting whip. Some recommend spitting as a proven remedy even for the latter. Only when one is too late to use these methods is it absolutely necessary to proceed to bloody operations. This palliative method really rests on the following rule.

4 Just as being insulted is a disgrace, giving an insult is an honor. Suppose, for example, that my opponent has truth, justice, and reason on his side, but I insult him. They must all pack up and leave, and right and honor are on my side. He, meanwhile, has lost his honor for the moment—until he restores it, not through justice and reason, but through shooting and stabbing. Rudeness is therefore a quality that, in matters of honor, replaces or outweighs every other. The rudest person is always right. Why say more? Whatever stupidity, bad manners, or wickedness someone may have committed, one rude act wipes it away as such and immediately makes it legitimate. In a discussion or other conversation, someone else may show more accurate knowledge, a stricter love of truth, sounder judgment, or greater understanding than we do. Or he may generally display intellectual advantages that put us in the shade. We can immediately cancel all such superiorities, along with the poverty in us that they expose, and become superior ourselves in turn, by being insulting and rude. Rudeness defeats every argument and eclipses every kind of intelligence. Unless our opponent goes along with this and answers with greater rudeness, drawing us into the noble contest for the advantage, we remain the victors and honor is on our side. Truth, knowledge, understanding, intelligence, and wit must pack up and leave, driven from the field by divine rudeness. So, whenever someone voices an opinion different from theirs, or merely shows more understanding than they can bring into the field, “men of honor” immediately make as if to mount that warhorse. If they lack a counterargument in a dispute, they look for a rude remark, which serves the same purpose and is easier to find. Then they depart victorious. We can already see how rightly the principle of honor is credited with refining the tone of society.—This rule in turn rests on the following one, the true fundamental rule and soul of the entire code.

5 The highest court of justice, to which one can appeal from any other in every dispute so far as honor is concerned, is physical force—in other words, animal nature. Every rude act is really an appeal to animal nature. It declares a contest of intellectual powers or moral right to have no jurisdiction, and substitutes a contest of physical powers. In the human species, defined by Franklin as a toolmaking animal (an animal that makes tools), this is carried out in a duel with the weapons peculiar to that species, and produces an irrevocable decision.—As everyone knows, this fundamental rule is expressed in a single term: fist-law. The term is ironic, like mad reason, which it resembles in form. Accordingly, chivalric honor ought to be called fist-honor.—

6 Earlier we found civic honor very scrupulous about mine and yours, obligations undertaken, and promises given. The code now under consideration, by contrast, shows the noblest generosity in these matters. Only one kind of promise must not be broken: a word of honor, meaning a promise accompanied by the words “On my honor!” This creates the presumption that any other promise may be broken. Even after breaking this word of honor, one can, if necessary, still save one’s honor through the universal remedy, the duel—in this case with those who claim that we gave our word of honor.—Furthermore, only one debt must be paid unconditionally: a gambling debt. This is accordingly called a “debt of honor.” One may cheat Jews and Christians out of every other debt without doing chivalric honor the slightest harm.—

Any unbiased person can see at first glance that this strange, barbaric, ridiculous code of honor did not arise from human nature itself or from a sound view of human relationships. Its extremely limited scope confirms this. It applies exclusively in Europe, and only since the Middle Ages; even here, only among the nobility, the military, and their imitators. Neither the Greeks nor the Romans nor the highly civilized Asian peoples of ancient and modern times know anything of this honor and its principles. They all recognize only the honor analyzed first. For all of them, a man counts as what his actions and omissions reveal him to be, not as whatever some loose tongue chooses to call him. For all of them, what someone says or does may destroy his own honor, but never another person’s. A blow is merely a blow, of the sort any horse or donkey can deliver more dangerously. Depending on the circumstances, it may provoke anger and perhaps be avenged on the spot. But it has nothing to do with honor. No account is kept of blows and insults, together with the “satisfaction” received for them or neglected to be demanded. These peoples are no less brave or willing to risk death than the peoples of Christian Europe. The Greeks and Romans were surely heroes through and through, but they knew nothing of the point of honor. Among them, single combat was not a matter for the nation’s nobles, but for hired gladiators, expendable slaves, and condemned criminals, who were set against one another, alternating with wild beasts, to amuse the people. Gladiatorial games were abolished when Christianity was introduced. But in the Christian era the duel took their place, by way of trial by ordeal. Those games were a cruel sacrifice to the public appetite for spectacle. The duel is a cruel sacrifice to public prejudice—but offered not by criminals, slaves, and prisoners, as the games were, but by free and noble men.

Many surviving anecdotes show that the ancients were completely free of this prejudice. For example, when a Teutonic chief challenged Marius to single combat, that hero had him told that “if he was tired of living, he could hang himself.” Still, he offered him a retired gladiator to fight with (Freinsh. suppl. in Liv. lib. LXVIII, c. 12). In Plutarch (Them. 11), we read that the fleet commander Eurybiades, while arguing with Themistocles, raised his stick to strike him. But we do not read that Themistocles then drew his sword. Instead, he said, “Strike me, but listen”: “Hit me, but hear me out.” How indignant the reader “of honor” must feel at finding no report that the Athenian officer corps immediately declared it would no longer serve under such a Themistocles!—A modern French writer therefore says, quite rightly: If someone took it into his head to say that Demosthenes was a man of honor, people would smile with pity;———Cicero was not a man of honor either. (Soirées littéraires, par C. Durand. Rouen 1828. Vol. 2. p. 300.) Further, the passage in Plato (de leg. IX, die letzten 6 Seiten, imgleichen XI p. 131 Bip.) about physical mistreatment sufficiently shows that the ancients had no idea of the chivalric point of honor in such matters. Socrates was often physically mistreated because of his frequent debates, and he bore it calmly. Once, when he was kicked, he accepted it patiently and said to someone who was surprised: “If a donkey had kicked me, would I take it to court?”—(Diog. Laert. II, 21.) Another time, someone asked him, “Isn’t that man insulting and abusing you?” He replied, “No: what he says doesn’t apply to me” (ibid. 36).—Stobaeus (Florileg., ed. Gaisford, Vol. I, p. 327-330) has preserved a long passage from Musonius that shows how the ancients regarded insults. They recognized no satisfaction except legal redress, and wise men disdained even that. Plato’s Gorgias (S. 86 Bip.) clearly shows that the ancients knew no satisfaction for a slap except legal redress; Socrates’ opinion of it is also given there (S. 133). The same emerges from Gellius’ account (XX, 1) of a certain Lucius Veratius, who amused himself by slapping Roman citizens he met in the street for no reason. To prevent any complications, he had a slave accompany him with a bag of copper coins and immediately pay each startled victim the legally prescribed compensation of 25 asses. The musician Nicodromus slapped Crates, the famous Cynic, so hard that his face became swollen and bloody. Crates then fastened to his forehead a small board inscribed “Nicodromus made this” (Made by Nicodromus). This brought great shame on the flute player for showing such brutality toward a man whom all Athens revered like a household god (Apul. Flor. p. 126 bip.). (Diog. Laert. VI, 89.)—We have a letter from Diogenes of Sinope to Melesippus about his having been beaten by the drunken sons of Athenians. He tells him it is of no importance. (Nota Casaub. ad Diog. Laert. VI, 33.)—In his book On the Constancy of the Wise Man, from chapter 10 to the end, Seneca examines insult, affront, in detail to show that the wise man disregards it. In chapter 14 he says: “But what will the wise man do if struck with a fist? What Cato did when he was struck in the face: he did not flare up or avenge the injury; he did not even forgive it, but denied that it had happened.” “Yes,” you cry, “but those were wise men!”—And you are fools? Agreed.—

So we see that the entire chivalric principle of honor was unknown to the ancients. In every respect, they remained faithful to an unbiased, natural view of things, and would not let anyone talk them into such sinister, disastrous absurdities. They could therefore see a blow to the face as nothing more than what it is: a small physical injury. For modern people, however, it has become a catastrophe and a subject for tragedies, as in Corneille’s Le Cid and a more recent German middle-class tragedy called “The Power of Circumstances,” which ought to be called “The Power of Prejudice.” If a slap actually occurs in the National Assembly in Paris, all Europe echoes with it. To those people “of honor” who must be upset by these classical reminders and examples from antiquity, I recommend an antidote. Read the story of Mr. Desglands in Diderot’s masterpiece Jacques the Fatalist. It is a choice example of modern chivalric honor in which they can delight and find inspiration.

What has been said sufficiently shows that the chivalric principle of honor cannot be an original principle rooted in human nature itself. It is therefore artificial, and its origin is easy to find. It is plainly a child of the time when fists were better trained than heads and priests kept reason in chains: the much-praised Middle Ages and their chivalry. Back then, people let the good Lord not only provide for them but also judge for them. Difficult legal cases were therefore decided by ordeals or judgments of God. With few exceptions these consisted of single combats, not just between knights but also between ordinary citizens, as a fine example in Shakespeare’s Henry VI (T. 2, A. 2, Sz. 3) shows. Moreover, any judicial decision could still be appealed to single combat as the higher court, namely God’s judgment. Physical strength and skill—animal nature—were thus put on the judge’s bench in place of reason. Right and wrong were decided not by what a person had done, but by what happened to him—exactly according to the chivalric principle of honor still in force today. Anyone who still doubts this origin of dueling should read the excellent book by J. G. Mellingen, The History of Duelling, 1849. Indeed, even today, among those who live by the chivalric principle of honor—people not generally known for being especially well informed or thoughtful—some really regard the outcome of a duel as God’s decision on the dispute behind it. This is surely a traditionally inherited opinion.

Apart from its origin, the immediate tendency of the chivalric principle of honor is to use threats of physical force to compel outward signs of a respect that one considers either too difficult or unnecessary to earn in reality. This is rather like warming the bulb of a thermometer with one’s hand and then using the rising mercury to prove that one’s room is well heated. On closer inspection, this is the heart of the matter. Civic honor, which aims at peaceful dealings with others, consists in their opinion that we deserve complete trust because we respect everyone’s rights unconditionally. Chivalric honor consists in their opinion that we are to be feared because we intend to defend our own rights unconditionally. The principle that being feared matters more than being trusted would not be so very wrong, given how little we can count on people’s justice, if we lived in a state of nature. There everyone must protect himself and defend his rights directly. But in civilized life, where the state has taken over the protection of our persons and property, this principle no longer applies. It stands useless and deserted, like the castles and watchtowers from the age of fist-law among well-cultivated fields, busy roads, or even railroads. Accordingly, chivalric honor, which holds on to that principle, has turned to personal injuries that the state punishes lightly or not at all, following the principle the law does not concern itself with trifles. These are insignificant offenses, some of them mere teasing. But in regard to these, chivalric honor has worked itself up into an overvaluation of one’s own person entirely unsuited to human nature, condition, and fate. It raises the person to a kind of sacred status. It therefore finds the state’s punishment for small offenses against him completely inadequate, and undertakes to punish them itself, always by attacking the offender’s life and body. Plainly, this rests on the most excessive pride and outrageous arrogance. Forgetting completely what a human being actually is, it claims unconditional inviolability and freedom from criticism for him. Yet anyone who intends to enforce this by violence, and accordingly proclaims the rule “Anyone who insults me, or even strikes me, shall die,” really deserves to be expelled from the country for that alone[F]. To dress up this presumptuous arrogance, people offer all sorts of excuses. They say that neither of two fearless men will ever give way, so that the slightest provocation would lead to insults, then blows, and finally killing. It is therefore better, for decency’s sake, to skip the intermediate stages and go straight to weapons. They have arranged the details of the procedure into a rigid, pedantic system of laws and rules. It is the most solemn farce in the world, a veritable temple of honor to folly. But the principle itself is false. In matters of little importance—important matters are always left to the courts—one of two fearless men does indeed give way: the wiser one. And mere opinions are left alone. The people prove this, or rather all the numerous classes that do not acknowledge the chivalric principle of honor and among whom disputes therefore take their natural course. In these classes, killing is a hundred times rarer than in the fraction, perhaps only 1/1000 of the whole population, that worships that principle. Even a fistfight is rare.—Another claim is that polite society’s good manners and refined behavior ultimately rest on this principle of honor and its duels, which form a defensive wall against outbreaks of brutality and bad manners. Yet Athens, Corinth, and Rome certainly had good—indeed very good—society, refined manners, and good conversational tone, without the bogeyman of chivalric honor behind them. Admittedly, women did not preside over society there as they do with us. This gives conversation a frivolous, silly character and banishes all substantial discussion. It also surely contributes greatly to the fact that personal courage ranks above every other quality in our polite society. Yet it is really a very subordinate quality, a mere noncommissioned officer’s virtue. Even animals surpass us in it, which is why we say, for example, “brave as a lion.” Indeed, contrary to that claim, the chivalric principle of honor is often a safe refuge for dishonesty and wickedness on a large scale, and for bad manners, thoughtlessness, and loutishness on a small one. Many very annoying forms of misconduct are silently tolerated simply because no one wants to risk his neck by reproving them.—In keeping with all this, we find dueling flourishing most strongly, and pursued with bloodthirsty seriousness, precisely in the nation that has shown a lack of true honor in political and financial affairs. Those who have experienced its private dealings can tell us how matters stand there. As for its politeness and social refinement, it has long been famous as an example of what to avoid.

[F] Chivalric honor is a child of pride and folly. (The opposite truth is stated most forcefully in The Constant Prince, in the words “That is Adam’s inheritance.”) It is very striking that this supreme form of pride exists solely and exclusively among followers of the religion that makes the utmost humility their duty. Neither earlier ages nor other parts of the world know this chivalric principle of honor. Still, we must attribute it not to religion, but to feudalism. Under that system, every nobleman saw himself as a little sovereign who recognized no human judge above him. He therefore learned to claim complete inviolability and sacredness for his person. Any attack on it, any blow or insult, consequently seemed to him a crime deserving death. Accordingly, the principle of honor and duels originally belonged only to the nobility, and as a result, in later times, to officers. Other upper classes subsequently joined them here and there, though never universally, so as not to count for less. Although duels developed out of ordeals, these were not the cause of the principle of honor, but its consequence and application. Anyone who recognizes no human judge appeals to the divine one. Ordeals themselves, however, are not peculiar to Christianity. They also occur widely in Hinduism, mostly in earlier times, though traces remain even now.—

All those excuses therefore fail. It can be argued with more justice that, just as a dog growls back when growled at and responds affectionately when petted, human nature also leads us to answer hostility with hostility and to become bitter and angry at signs of contempt or hatred. Cicero already says: An insult has a certain sting that sensible and good men find very hard to bear. And nowhere in the world, apart from a few pious sects, do people calmly accept insults, much less blows. But nature never leads us beyond retaliation proportionate to the matter. It does not lead us to punish an accusation of lying, stupidity, or cowardice with death. The old German principle “A slap calls for a dagger” is an outrageous chivalric superstition. In any case, answering or avenging insults is a matter of anger, certainly not of honor and duty, as the chivalric principle of honor brands it. Rather, it is quite certain that a reproach can hurt only insofar as it hits home. We can also see this from the fact that the slightest hint that hits home wounds much more deeply than the gravest unfounded accusation. So anyone truly conscious of not deserving a reproach may and will confidently despise it. The principle of honor, however, demands that he display a sensitivity he does not possess and take bloody revenge for insults that do not hurt him. A person must have a low opinion of his own worth if he hurries to crush every expression that questions it so that it cannot be heard. True self-respect will therefore produce genuine indifference to insults. Where a lack of self-respect prevents this, prudence and good manners will teach one to preserve the appearance of indifference and conceal one’s anger. If only we were rid of the superstition of chivalric honor, no one could imagine that insults could take anything from another person’s honor or restore anything to his own. Nor could every injustice, brutality, or rude act immediately be legitimized by a willingness to give satisfaction—that is, to fight over it. People would then soon understand that, when it comes to abuse and insults, the loser of the contest is the winner. As Vincenzo Monti says, insults behave like church processions: they always return to where they started. Then, too, it would no longer be enough, as it is now, for someone to produce a rude remark in order to win the argument. Insight and understanding would consequently get a very different hearing from the one they get today. At present they must always first consider whether they might somehow offend the opinions of narrow-mindedness and stupidity, which their mere appearance has already alarmed and angered. If so, the head they inhabit might have to be put at hazard against the flat skull in which those other qualities live. Intellectual superiority would then gain its rightful leading place in society. At present, though discreetly, that place belongs to physical superiority and cavalryman’s courage. As a result, the best people would have one less reason than they have now to withdraw from society. Such a change would produce truly good manners and pave the way for genuinely good society, of the kind that undoubtedly existed in Athens, Corinth, and Rome. Anyone who wants to see a sample should read Xenophon’s Symposium.

The last defense of the chivalric code will no doubt be: “But then, heaven help us, someone might actually strike someone else!”—I could reply briefly that this has happened often enough among the 999/1000 of society who do not recognize that code, without anyone ever dying from it, whereas among its followers every blow generally becomes a fatal one. But I will examine the matter more closely. I have often tried to find some sound, or at least plausible, reason for the conviction so firmly held by one part of human society that a blow is something dreadful. I looked in both the animal and the rational side of human nature for a reason that was more than mere phrases and could be traced to clear concepts. I looked in vain. A blow is and remains a small physical evil that anyone can inflict on another. It proves nothing beyond the fact that he is stronger or more skillful, or that the other person was not on his guard. Analysis yields nothing further. Then I see the very knight who considers a blow from a human hand the greatest of evils receive a blow ten times harder from his horse, and limp away, suppressing his pain, while assuring us that it is nothing. So I thought the issue must be the human hand. But I see our knight receive sword thrusts and saber cuts from that hand in battle and assure us that they are trifles, not worth mentioning. Then I hear that even blows with the flat of a blade are nowhere near as bad as blows with a stick. Until recently, cadets were therefore subject to the former but not the latter. And the sword’s blow at a knighting is the greatest honor of all. Here my psychological and moral explanations run out. I have no choice but to regard the matter as an old, deeply rooted superstition—one more example among so many of what people can be talked into believing. The familiar fact that blows with a bamboo cane are a very common civil punishment in China, even for officials of every rank, confirms this. It shows us that human nature, even when highly civilized, does not pronounce the same judgment there[G]. Indeed, an unbiased look at human nature teaches us that hitting is as natural to humans as biting is to predators and butting is to horned cattle. Humans are simply animals that hit. That is also why we are outraged when, in rare cases, we hear that one person has bitten another. But giving and receiving blows is an event as natural as it is easy to bring about. It is easy to explain why greater refinement seeks to avoid this too, through mutual self-control. But to impose on a nation, or even a single class, the belief that a blow is a dreadful disaster that must lead to murder and killing is cruel. There are too many real evils in the world for us to be allowed to multiply them with imaginary ones that bring real ones in their wake. Yet that is what this stupid, malicious superstition does. I must therefore even disapprove of governments and legislatures encouraging it by zealously pressing for the abolition of all corporal punishment, civilian and military. They think they are acting in humanity’s interest, when the exact opposite is true. They are helping entrench that unnatural, disastrous delusion which has already claimed so many victims. For every offense except the gravest, a beating is the first punishment that occurs to people, and therefore the natural one. Someone who would not listen to reasons will listen to blows. A person who cannot be punished through his property because he has none, and who cannot be punished through his liberty without harming us because we need his services, should be punished by moderate blows. This is as fair as it is natural. No reasons are brought against it, only empty phrases about “human dignity.” These rest not on clear concepts, but merely on that same harmful superstition. Almost laughable confirmation that this is the basis comes from the recent replacement, in the military of some countries, of beatings by punishment on wooden slats. This, exactly like a beating, causes physical pain, but is now supposed not to injure honor or degrade anyone.

[G] Twenty or thirty strokes of a cane on the backside are, so to speak, the Chinese people’s daily bread. It is a fatherly correction from the mandarin, carrying no disgrace, which they receive with thanks.—Lettres édifiantes et curieuses, édition de 1819. Vol. 11, p. 454.

By encouraging that superstition in this way, governments play into the hands of chivalric honor and therefore of dueling, while on the other hand they try—or at least claim to try—to abolish dueling by law[H]. As a result, this fragment of fist-law, blown down from the roughest Middle Ages into the nineteenth century, still roams about here, a public scandal. It is high time it was thrown out in disgrace. These days one is not even allowed to set dogs or roosters systematically against one another; at least, such fights are punished in England. Yet people are driven against their will into deadly combat by the ridiculous superstition of the absurd principle of chivalric honor and by its narrow-minded representatives and administrators. These impose on them the duty to fight one another like gladiators over some trifle. For the word “duel,” which probably comes not from the Latin duellum, but from the Spanish duelo, sorrow, lament, grievance, I therefore suggest to our German language purists the term “knight-baiting.” The pedantry with which this folly is practiced certainly gives material for laughter. Yet it is outrageous that this principle and its absurd code establish a state within the state. Recognizing no law but fist-law, it tyrannizes over the classes subject to it by maintaining a sacred court of the Vehm. Anyone can summon anyone else before it, using easily contrived occasions as its bailiffs, to undergo a judgment of life and death on both himself and the other man. Naturally, this becomes a hiding place from which the most depraved person, provided he belongs to those classes, can threaten or even kill the noblest and best, whom he must necessarily hate for being just that. Today the courts and police have more or less ensured that not every scoundrel can shout at us on the highway, “Your money or your life!” Sound reason should at last ensure that not every scoundrel can shout at us in the middle of peaceful dealings, “Your honor or your life!” The upper classes should be relieved of the anxiety caused by the fact that anyone, at any moment, may be made answerable with life and limb for the brutality, rudeness, stupidity, or malice of someone else who chooses to direct it at him. That two young, inexperienced hotheads who clash in words should pay for it with their blood, health, or lives is a crying, shameful outrage. We can judge how harsh the tyranny of this state within the state is, and how powerful its superstition, from the repeated cases of people who could not restore their wounded chivalric honor because the offender’s rank was too high or too low, or his condition otherwise unsuitable. In despair they killed themselves, meeting a tragicomic end.—What is false and absurd generally reveals itself in the end by flowering into contradiction at its peak. Here too, finally, it appears as the most glaring conflict of rules: an officer is forbidden to duel, but is punished with dismissal if, when the occasion arises, he fails to do so.

[H] Governments seem eager to suppress dueling, but act as though they simply cannot manage it, even though it would plainly be very easy, especially at universities. The real reason, I think, is this. The state cannot fully pay for the services of its officers and civil servants in money. It therefore lets the other half of their wages consist in honor, represented by titles, uniforms, and decorations. To keep this nonmaterial payment for their services at a high value, the sense of honor must be nourished and sharpened in every way, even somewhat overstrained if necessary. Civic honor is not enough for this, if only because it is shared with everyone. So chivalric honor is called in to help and maintained in the way described. In England, where military and civil salaries are much higher than on the Continent, this expedient is unnecessary. That is precisely why dueling has been almost completely eradicated there, especially in the last twenty years. It now occurs extremely rarely and is then laughed at as folly. The large Anti-duelling-society, which counts many lords, admirals, and generals among its members, has certainly contributed greatly to this, and Moloch must do without his victims.

While I am on the subject, I will go still further in speaking freely. Viewed clearly and without prejudice, the distinction made so important and treated so seriously between killing one’s enemy in open combat with equal weapons and killing him from ambush rests solely on what I have already said: this state within the state recognizes no law but the law of the stronger, or fist-law. It has elevated this to a judgment of God and made it the basis of its code. By the first method one has proved nothing more than that one is stronger or more skillful. The justification sought in facing open combat therefore assumes that the right of the stronger really is a right. In truth, the other person’s inability to defend himself gives me the opportunity to kill him, but certainly not the right. That right—my moral justification—can rest only on my motives for taking his life. Suppose these really exist or are sufficient. There is then absolutely no reason to make the matter further depend on whether he or I can shoot or fence better. In that case it makes no difference how I take his life, from behind or from the front. Morally, the right of the stronger has no more weight than the right of the cleverer, exercised in a treacherous killing. The law of the head therefore weighs as much as the law of the fist here. We should also note that both are used in a duel, since every feint in fencing is already a trick. If I consider myself morally justified in taking someone’s life, it is foolish to let the matter depend on whether he happens to shoot or fence better than I do. In that case, after already wronging me, he is to take my life as well. That insults should be avenged not by dueling but by assassination is Rousseau’s view. He cautiously hints at it in the mysteriously worded twenty-first note to Book 4 of Émile (S. 173, Bip.). But he is so caught in chivalric superstition that he regards merely being accused of lying as grounds for assassination. Yet he must have known that everyone has deserved this accusation countless times, and he himself to the highest degree. The prejudice that makes the right to kill an offender conditional on open combat with equal weapons plainly regards fist-law as a genuine right and single combat as a judgment of God. By contrast, the Italian who, inflamed with anger, attacks his offender with a knife wherever he finds him acts at least consistently and naturally. He is cleverer, but no worse, than the duelist. If someone says that I am justified in killing my enemy in a duel because he was trying to kill me, the answer is that by challenging him I put him in a position of self-defense. Deliberately putting one another in a position of self-defense really amounts only to seeking a plausible excuse for murder. A justification based on the principle no wrong is done to one who consents would be more reasonable, insofar as each has agreed to stake his life on the contest. But the objection is that the consent is not genuine. The tyranny of chivalric honor and its absurd code is the bailiff that dragged both combatants, or at least one of them, before this bloody court of the Vehm.

I have discussed chivalric honor at length, but with good intentions, and because philosophy is the only Hercules against the moral and intellectual monsters of this world. Two things chiefly distinguish the social condition of modern times from that of antiquity, to the disadvantage of the former. They have given it a solemn, gloomy, sinister coloring. Free of this, antiquity stands cheerful and unselfconscious, like the morning of life. They are chivalric honor and venereal disease—a noble pair of brothers! Together they have poisoned life’s strife and love. The influence of venereal disease extends much further than might appear at first glance, since it is by no means merely physical but also moral. Since Cupid’s quiver began carrying poisoned arrows too, an alien, hostile, even devilish element has entered relations between the sexes. A dark, fearful distrust runs through them as a result. The direct influence of such a change in the foundation of all human community extends, more or less, to other social relationships as well. Explaining this would take me too far from my subject.—The influence of chivalric honor is similar, though quite different in kind. This solemn farce was unknown to the ancients, but makes modern society stiff, serious, and anxious, if only because every passing remark is scrutinized and chewed over. But there is more. This principle is a universal Minotaur. Unlike the ancient one, it must receive an annual tribute of sons of noble houses not from one country, but from every country in Europe. It is therefore time to attack this bogeyman boldly, as has been done here. May both monsters of modern times come to an end in the nineteenth century! Let us not give up hope that doctors, through preventive measures, will eventually succeed with the first. But getting rid of the bogeyman is the philosopher’s task, through correcting people’s concepts, since governments have so far failed to do it by enforcing laws. Besides, only the first method attacks the evil at its root. If, however, governments really are serious about abolishing dueling, and their limited success really comes only from inability, I will propose a law whose success I guarantee. It requires no bloody operations, no scaffold or gallows, no lifelong imprisonment. Rather, it is a tiny, very mild homeopathic remedy: anyone who challenges another person or answers a challenge receives, in the Chinese manner, 12 strokes of a stick from a corporal in broad daylight outside the main guardhouse. Challenge-bearers and seconds receive 6 each. The consequences of duels actually fought would remain subject to ordinary criminal proceedings. Someone of a chivalric disposition might object that after such punishment many a “man of honor” might shoot himself. I reply: better for such a fool to shoot himself than other people.—At bottom, however, I know very well that governments are not serious about abolishing duels. Apart from the highest posts, civil servants’ salaries, and still more officers’ pay, fall far below the value of their services. They are therefore paid the other half in honor. This is represented first by titles and decorations, and more broadly by the honor of their station in general. For this class honor, the duel is a useful extra horse; that is why it has its preparatory school at universities. Its victims therefore pay the shortfall in salaries with their blood.—

For completeness, national honor should also be mentioned. It is the honor of an entire people as part of the community of nations. In that community there is no court but force, so each member must protect its own rights. A nation’s honor therefore consists not only in the opinion it has earned that it can be trusted—its credit—but also in the opinion that it is to be feared. It must therefore never let violations of its rights go unanswered. It combines the point of honor of civic honor with that of chivalric honor.—

Earlier, fame was listed last among the things a person represents, meaning what he is in the world’s eyes. We still have to consider it.—Fame and honor are twin siblings, but like the Dioscuri, of whom Pollux was immortal and Castor mortal: fame is the immortal brother of mortal honor. Of course, this applies only to fame of the highest kind, true and genuine fame. There are certainly many kinds of short-lived fame too.—Further, honor concerns only qualities demanded of everyone in the same circumstances; fame concerns only qualities that can be demanded of no one. Honor concerns qualities anyone may publicly claim; fame concerns qualities no one may claim for himself. Our honor extends as far as knowledge of us extends. Fame, on the contrary, runs ahead of knowledge of us and carries that knowledge wherever it goes. Everyone has a claim to honor; only exceptional people have a claim to fame. Fame is earned only through extraordinary achievements. These, in turn, are either deeds or works, so there are two roads to fame. A great heart chiefly equips one for the road of deeds; a great mind for that of works. Each road has its own advantages and disadvantages. The chief difference is that deeds pass away, while works remain. Even the noblest deed has only a temporary influence. A work of genius, however, lives and acts through all ages, benefiting and uplifting people. Only the memory of deeds remains. It grows ever weaker, more distorted, and less interesting, and must gradually die out unless history takes it up and passes it on to posterity in petrified form. Works, by contrast, are themselves immortal and can survive every age, especially written works. Alexander the Great’s name and memory live on, but Plato and Aristotle, Homer and Horace are themselves still here, living and acting directly. The Vedas with their Upanishads are here, but no knowledge at all has reached us of the deeds done in their time[I].—Another disadvantage of deeds is their dependence on opportunity, which must first make them possible. Connected with this, their fame depends not only on their intrinsic worth, but also on the circumstances that give them importance and splendor. Further, when deeds are purely personal, as in war, their fame depends on the testimony of a few eyewitnesses. These are not always present, and are not always just and unbiased when they are. But deeds have the advantage of being practical matters within the range of ordinary human judgment. They are therefore immediately judged fairly, if only the facts are correctly communicated—unless their motives are correctly recognized or fairly assessed only later, since understanding any action requires knowing its motive. With works, the reverse is true. Their creation depends not on opportunity, but solely on their creator. And what they are in themselves they remain, as long as they exist. With them, the difficulty lies instead in judgment, and the higher their kind, the greater the difficulty. Competent judges are often lacking, as are unbiased and honest ones. On the other hand, their fame is not decided by one court: an appeal is possible. As said, only the memory of deeds reaches posterity, in the form handed down by contemporaries. Works themselves, however, reach posterity, just as they are, apart from any missing fragments. Here the facts cannot be distorted. Any harmful influence of the surroundings at their origin also later disappears. Often, only time gradually brings forward the few truly competent judges. Exceptional people themselves, they sit in judgment on still greater exceptions. They give their weighty votes one after another. Thus, sometimes admittedly only after centuries, a perfectly fair judgment is established, which no later age overturns. The fame of works is that certain, indeed inevitable. Whether their creator lives to see it, however, depends on external circumstances and chance. The higher and more difficult the kind of work, the rarer this is. Accordingly, Seneca (ep. 79.) says with incomparable beauty that fame follows merit as infallibly as a shadow follows a body, only, like the shadow, sometimes going ahead of it and sometimes behind it. After explaining this, he adds: Even if envy has commanded silence from everyone living with you, people will come who judge without hostility or favoritism. Incidentally, this shows us that the art of suppressing merit through malicious silence and deliberate disregard, to hide good work from the public in favor of bad work, was as customary among the scoundrels of Seneca’s age as among those of ours. In both cases, envy sealed their lips.—As a rule, the longer fame is to last, the later it arrives, just as everything excellent matures slowly. Fame destined to survive its possessor resembles an oak, growing very slowly from its seed. Easy, passing fame resembles fast-growing annual plants. False fame resembles rapidly sprouting weeds, which are uprooted as quickly as possible. This process really rests on the fact that the more a person belongs to posterity—that is, to humanity generally and as a whole—the more alien he is to his own age. What he produces is not dedicated specifically to that age. It belongs to it not as that particular age, but only insofar as it is part of humanity, and so is not tinged with its local color. The age may therefore easily let him pass by as a stranger. It values instead those who serve the affairs of its brief day or the mood of the moment, and who therefore belong entirely to it, living and dying with it. Accordingly, the histories of art and literature consistently teach that the highest achievements of the human mind have generally met with disfavor. They remained in that position until minds of a higher kind appeared, responded to them, and brought them the esteem which the authority thus gained afterward preserved. Ultimately, all this rests on the fact that people can really understand and value only what resembles themselves. Now, the shallow respond to shallowness, the common to what is common, the unclear to confusion, and the brainless to nonsense. Everyone likes his own works best of all, since they resemble him completely. So the legendary old Epicharmus already sang:

There is nothing strange in what I say,That people please themselves and thinkTheir nature fine. For a dog seemsMost beautiful to a dog, an ox to an ox,A donkey to a donkey, and a pig to a pig.

I will translate this into German so that no one misses its meaning:

It is no wonder I speak as I think,And those people, pleased with themselves, imagineThey deserve praise. So a dog sees a dogAs the finest creature, and an ox sees an ox,A donkey a donkey, and a pig a pig.

[I] So it is a poor compliment to think one honors works by calling them deeds, as is fashionable today. Works are of an essentially higher kind. A deed is always just an action prompted by a motive, and so is individual and passing. It belongs to the universal, original element of the world: the will. A great or beautiful work, by contrast, endures because it has universal significance. It springs from the intellect, innocent and pure, which rises like a fragrance from this world of will.

One advantage of the fame of deeds is that it generally arrives immediately in a powerful explosion, often so powerful that it is heard across Europe. The fame of works, however, comes slowly and gradually, quietly at first and then louder and louder. It often reaches full strength only after a hundred years. But then it endures, because the works endure, sometimes for thousands of years. The other kind, after its first explosion is over, gradually weakens, becoming known to fewer and fewer people, until at last it leads only a ghostly existence in history.

Even the strongest arm, throwing a light object, cannot give it the motion needed to fly far and strike hard. It falls limply to the ground nearby because it lacks enough material substance of its own to absorb the force given to it. Beautiful and great thoughts, even masterpieces of genius, meet the same fate when only small, weak, or distorted minds are there to receive them. The voices of wise people in every age have joined in a chorus of complaint about this. For example, Jesus Sirach says, “Someone speaking to a fool speaks to a sleeper. When it is over, he says: What is it?”—And Hamlet: a sly remark sleeps in a fool's ear (a sly speech lies asleep in a fool’s ear). And Goethe:

The best-chosen words will be mockedIf the listener’s hearing is crooked.

And again:

You have no effect; everything stays unresponsive.Keep your spirits up!A stone in a swampMakes no ripples.

And Lichtenberg: “When a head and a book collide and there is a hollow sound, does it always come from the book?”—And again: “Such works are mirrors: if a monkey looks in, no apostle can look out.” Indeed, Father Gellert’s very beautiful and moving lament about this deserves to be recalled once again:

“Often the very finest giftsHave the fewest admirers,And most of the worldTakes the bad for the good;We see this evil every day.But how can we stop this plague?I doubt that this afflictionCan be driven from our world.There is just one remedy on earth,But it is infinitely hard:Fools must become wise;And look! They never will.They never know what things are worth.Their eyes decide, not their understanding:They forever praise what is inferior,Because they have never known the good.”

Added to this intellectual incapacity, which means that excellence, as Goethe says, is recognized and valued even more rarely than it is found, is people’s moral badness, here as everywhere, appearing in the form of envy. When someone gains fame, one more person is raised above all others of his kind. They are lowered by the same amount. Every outstanding achievement therefore gains its fame at the expense of those who have none.

“When we give honor to others,We must lower our own standing.”

Goethe. W. O. Divan.

This explains why, in whatever field excellence appears, the entire, very numerous body of mediocrity immediately joins forces and conspires to deny it recognition and, if possible, stifle it. Their secret password is: Down with merit. But even those who have merit themselves and have already gained fame for it are reluctant to see a new fame appear, whose brightness makes their own shine less brightly. So even Goethe says:

“Had I delayed coming into beingUntil people granted me life,I would not yet be on earth,As you can understandWhen you see how they behave,Those who, to seem important,Would gladly deny my existence.”

Thus honor generally finds fair judges and is not attacked by envy; it is even granted to everyone in advance, on credit. Fame, however, must be fought for despite envy, and the laurel is awarded by a tribunal of decidedly unfavorable judges. We can and will share honor with everyone. Fame is diminished or made harder to obtain by everyone who gains it.—Furthermore, the difficulty of gaining fame through works is inversely proportional to the number of people who make up their audience, for reasons easy to see. It is therefore much greater for works promising instruction than for those promising entertainment. It is greatest for philosophical works. The instruction these promise is uncertain, on the one hand, and of no material use, on the other. Such works therefore first appear before an audience consisting entirely of competitors.—The difficulties just described show that humanity would have received few or no immortal works if their creators had not completed them out of love for the works themselves and their own delight in them, but had needed fame to encourage them. Indeed, anyone who is to produce what is good and right and avoid what is bad must defy the judgment of the crowd and its spokespeople, and therefore despise them. This explains the truth of the observation particularly emphasized by Osorius (de gloria): fame flees those who seek it and follows those who neglect it. The former adapt to their contemporaries’ taste; the latter defy it.

As difficult as fame is to gain, it is easy to keep. Here too it contrasts with honor. Honor is granted to everyone, even on credit: one need only preserve it. But that is where the task lies, for one worthless act loses it beyond recovery. Fame, by contrast, can never really be lost. The deed or work that earned it stands forever, and its fame remains with its creator even if he adds nothing new. If fame really does fade away, if someone outlives it, then it was false: undeserved, produced by a temporary overvaluation. Or it was even the sort of fame Hegel had and Lichtenberg describes: “Trumpeted by a friendly clique of candidates and echoed back by empty heads;——but posterity, how it will smile when one day it knocks on those colorful word-shells, those fine nests of departed fashion and homes of dead agreements, and finds everything, everything empty—not even the smallest thought that could confidently say: Come in!”—

Fame really rests on what someone is compared with others. It is therefore essentially relative and can have only a relative value. It would disappear entirely if everyone else became what the celebrated person is. Only what keeps its value in all circumstances can have absolute value—here, what a person is directly and for himself. The worth and happiness of a great heart and a great mind must therefore lie in that. What is valuable is not fame, but what earns it. This is, so to speak, the substance of the matter; fame is only its incidental attribute. Indeed, fame chiefly affects the celebrated person as an outward sign confirming his own high opinion of himself. One might therefore say that, just as light is invisible unless reflected by a body, excellence becomes fully certain of itself only through fame. Yet fame is not even an infallible sign. There is fame without merit and merit without fame, which is why Lessing’s remark works so nicely: “Some people are famous, and others deserve to be.” Besides, an existence whose worth or worthlessness depended on how it appeared in other people’s eyes would be miserable. Yet that would be the life of the hero or genius if its value lay in fame, meaning other people’s applause. Rather, every being lives and exists for its own sake, and therefore first of all in itself and for itself.—Whatever a person is, and in whatever way, he is so first and chiefly for himself. If it is not worth much here, it is not worth much at all. The image of his being in other people’s heads, by contrast, is secondary, derivative, and subject to chance. It relates back to the original only very indirectly. Besides, the heads of the crowd are too wretched a stage for true happiness to find a place there. Only imaginary happiness can be found there. What a mixed company gathers in that temple of universal fame! Generals, ministers, quacks, jugglers, dancers, singers, millionaires, and Jews. Indeed, the advantages of all these are valued there much more sincerely, receiving much more genuinely felt esteem than intellectual qualities, especially those of the highest kind. With the great majority, these win only esteem taken on trust. From the standpoint of happiness, fame is therefore nothing more than the rarest and choicest morsel for our pride and vanity. But these exist in excess in most people, though they hide it. Perhaps they are strongest in those who are in some way capable of gaining fame. Such people must generally carry an uncertain awareness of their superior worth within them for a long time before the opportunity comes to prove it and then experience its recognition. Until then, they have felt as though they were suffering a secret injustice[J]. More generally, as discussed at the beginning of this chapter, the value people place on others’ opinion of them is quite disproportionate and unreasonable. So Hobbes expressed the matter very strongly, but perhaps correctly, in these words: All pleasure of the mind and all high spirits lie in having people with whom one can compare oneself and think grandly of oneself (de cive. I, 5). This explains the high value generally placed on fame and the sacrifices people make in the mere hope of gaining it one day:

Fame is the spur that lifts a clear mind(That last weakness of noble minds)To reject pleasures and spend its days in hard work.

As well as:

How hard it is to climbTo the heights where Fame's proud temple shines far away.

[J] Since our greatest pleasure consists in being admired, while admirers are reluctant to grant admiration even where there is every reason for it, the happiest person is the one who, by whatever means, has learned to admire himself sincerely. He must only keep others from shaking his belief.

Finally, this also explains why the vainest of all nations constantly talks about glory and unhesitatingly regards it as the chief driving force behind great deeds and great works.—But fame is undeniably secondary: merely the echo, image, shadow, or sign of merit. What is admired must in any case be worth more than the admiration. So what truly brings happiness cannot lie in fame, but in what earns it: merit itself, or, more precisely, the disposition and abilities from which it sprang, whether moral or intellectual. The best that anyone is, he must necessarily be for himself. Whatever of it is reflected in other people’s heads, and whatever standing he has in their opinion, is incidental and can be only of secondary interest to him. Anyone who merely deserves fame, even without receiving it, therefore possesses by far the main thing. What he lacks is something for which that main thing can console him. It is not being thought a great man by the uncritical, so often deceived crowd that makes someone enviable, but being one. Nor is the great happiness that posterity learns about him, but that thoughts arise in him which deserve to be preserved and thought over for centuries. Moreover, this cannot be taken from him: it is among the things in our control; the other is among the things outside our control. If admiration itself were the main thing, what is admired would not deserve it. This is actually the case with false, undeserved fame. Its possessor must feed on it without actually having what it is supposed to signify, what it should merely reflect. But even this fame itself must often lose its charm for him. Despite all the self-deception born of self-love, he sometimes grows dizzy at a height for which he is unfit, or feels like a copper ducat. Then he is seized by fear of exposure and deserved humiliation, especially when he already reads posterity’s verdict on wiser people’s faces. He is therefore like someone who holds property under a forged will.—The person who receives the truest fame, posthumous fame, never hears it, yet we consider him happy. His happiness therefore lay in the great qualities themselves that earned him fame, and in finding the opportunity to develop them. He was allowed to act as suited him, or to pursue what he pursued with pleasure and love: only works born from this attain lasting fame. His happiness therefore consisted in his great heart, or in the wealth of a mind whose imprint in his works wins the admiration of coming centuries. It consisted in the thoughts themselves, thinking through which became the occupation and delight of the noblest minds of an immeasurable future. So the value of posthumous fame lies in deserving it, and this is its own reward. Whether the works that earned it also sometimes enjoyed the fame of contemporaries depended on chance circumstances and was not very important. As a rule, people have no judgment of their own, and especially no ability at all to assess high and difficult achievements. In such matters they always follow someone else’s authority. In a higher field, fame rests, for 99 out of 100 people giving praise, purely on trust. Even the most widespread applause of contemporaries can therefore have little value for thoughtful minds. They always hear in it only the echo of a few voices, which themselves are merely what the day happened to produce. Would a virtuoso feel flattered by his audience’s loud applause if he knew that, apart from one or two people, it consisted entirely of the completely deaf? To hide their disability from one another, they clap eagerly as soon as they see that one person’s hands moving. And what if he also knew that these leaders of the applause often accepted bribes to obtain the loudest applause for the most miserable fiddler?—This explains why contemporary fame so rarely undergoes the transformation into posthumous fame. Thus d’Alembert, in his very beautiful description of the temple of literary fame, says: “The inside of the temple is inhabited entirely by dead people who were not in it during their lives, and by a few living people, almost all of whom will be thrown out when they die.” Incidentally, erecting a monument to someone during his lifetime amounts to declaring that posterity cannot be trusted in his case.—If someone does live to experience fame that will become lasting fame, it will rarely happen before old age. Artists and poets may sometimes be exceptions to this rule; philosophers least of all. Portraits of men famous for their works confirm it, since these were generally made only after their celebrity began. They are usually shown old and gray, especially philosophers. From the standpoint of happiness, however, this is quite right. Fame and youth at once are too much for a mortal. Our life is so poor that its goods must be distributed more economically. Youth has more than enough in its own riches and can be satisfied with them. But in old age, when all pleasures and joys have died off like trees in winter, the tree of fame puts out its leaves at the most welcome time, a true wintergreen. One may also compare it to winter pears, which grow in summer but are enjoyed in winter. In old age there is no finer consolation than having embodied all the strength of one’s youth in works that do not grow old with us.

Let us now look a little more closely at the ways of gaining fame in scholarship and science, the field nearest to our concern. We can lay down this rule. The intellectual superiority indicated by such fame is always shown through a new combination of some set of facts. These facts can be of very different kinds. But the more widely known and accessible to everyone they are, the greater and more widespread will be the fame attainable by combining them. Suppose, for example, that the facts consist of certain numbers or curves, a particular fact of physics, zoology, botany, or anatomy, a few corrupt passages in ancient authors, half-erased inscriptions or inscriptions whose alphabet we do not possess, or obscure points of history. Then the fame attainable by combining them correctly will not extend much further than knowledge of the facts themselves: to a small number of people, mostly living in retirement and jealous of fame in their own field.—But suppose the facts are known to the whole human race. They might, for example, be essential properties of human understanding or feeling shared by everyone, forces of nature whose entire mode of operation is constantly before our eyes, or the generally familiar course of nature as a whole. Then the fame of having shed light on them through a new, important, and plainly evident combination will in time spread through almost the entire civilized world. If the facts are accessible to everyone, their combination generally will be too.—Even so, fame will always correspond only to the difficulty overcome. The more generally known the facts, the harder it is to combine them in a new yet correct way. An enormous number of minds have already tried them and exhausted the impossible combinations. Facts inaccessible to the general public, and reachable only by laborious and difficult paths, will almost always still allow new combinations. So if one approaches these with straightforward understanding and sound judgment—in other words, a moderate intellectual superiority—one may easily have the good fortune to make a new and correct combination. But the fame earned this way will have roughly the same limits as knowledge of the facts. Solving problems of this kind certainly requires much study and work merely to gain knowledge of the facts. In the other kind, where the greatest and most widespread fame is to be won, the facts are given free of charge. But in proportion as this latter kind requires less work, it requires more talent, indeed genius. No work or study can compare with these in worth or in the value placed on them.

It follows that people who feel they possess a capable understanding and sound judgment, but do not trust themselves to have the highest intellectual gifts, must not shrink from much study and exhausting work. By these means they can work their way out of the great mass of people who have the generally familiar facts before them, and reach more distant places accessible only to scholarly diligence. Here, where the number of competitors is infinitely smaller, even a moderately superior mind will soon find an opportunity for a new and correct combination of facts. The merit of its discovery will even rest partly on the difficulty of reaching those facts. But the applause thus earned from fellow scholars, the only experts in this field, will reach the great mass of people only from a distance.—If we follow this road to its extreme, we can identify the point at which the facts alone, because of the great difficulty of obtaining them, suffice to establish fame without any combination being needed. Journeys to very remote and seldom-visited countries achieve this. One becomes famous for what one has seen, not for what one has thought. This road also has the great advantage that it is much easier to tell others what one has seen than what one has thought, and the same is true of understanding it. One will therefore find many more readers for the former than for the latter. As Asmus already says:

“When someone takes a journey,He has something to tell.”

In keeping with all this, when we meet famous people of this kind personally, Horace’s remark often comes to mind:

Those who cross the sea change their sky, not their mind.

(Epist. I, 11, v. 27.)

But now consider, on the other hand, a mind endowed with high abilities. Only such a mind may venture to solve the great problems concerning the universal and the whole, and therefore the most difficult ones. It will do well to broaden its horizon as much as possible, but always evenly in every direction, never losing itself too far in any particular region known only to a few. In other words, it should not go deeply into the specialties of any individual science, much less concern itself with minute details. It does not need to tackle hard-to-reach subjects to escape the crowd of competitors. Precisely what lies before everyone will give it material for new, important, and true combinations. Accordingly, its merit can be appreciated by everyone who knows the facts—in other words, a large part of the human race. This is the basis of the enormous difference between the fame gained by poets and philosophers and that available to physicists, chemists, anatomists, mineralogists, zoologists, philologists, historians, and so on.

About this section

Chapter 4 is part of Aphorisms on the Wisdom of Life by Arthur Schopenhauer. This page sets the German original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is chapter 5 of 7 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.

Open the work page for the full contents, every edition, and the download links, or go back to Explore to browse other complete works in the European tradition. The reader keeps your place when you are signed in and lets you compare the original with each translation, one edition at a time.

Download the complete work as JSON · Retex Markdown