Chapter III, 9
Original German
3 Der Charakter des Menschen ist konstant: er bleibt derselbe, das ganze Leben hindurch. Unter der veränderlichen Hülle seiner Jahre, seiner Verhältnisse, selbst seiner Kenntnisse und Ansichten, steckt, wie ein Krebs in seiner Schale, der identische und eigentliche Mensch, ganz unveränderlich und immer derselbe. Bloß in der Richtung und dem Stoff erfährt sein Charakter die scheinbaren Modifikationen, welche Folge der Verschiedenheit der Lebensalter und ihrer Bedürfnisse sind. Der Mensch ändert sich nie: wie er in einem Falle gehandelt hat, so wird er, unter völlig gleichen Umständen (zu denen jedoch auch die richtige Kenntnis dieser Umstände gehört) stets wieder handeln. Die Bestätigung dieser Wahrheit kann man aus der täglichen Erfahrung entnehmen: am frappantesten aber erhält man sie, wenn man einen Bekannten nach 20 bis 30 Jahren wiederfindet und ihn nun bald genau auf denselben Streichen betrifft, wie ehemals. — Zwar wird mancher diese Wahrheit mit Worten leugnen: er selbst setzt sie jedoch bei seinem Handeln voraus, indem er dem, den er einmal unredlich befunden, nie wieder traut, wohl aber sich auf den verläßt, der sich früher redlich bewiesen. Denn auf jener Wahrheit beruht die Möglichkeit aller Menschenkenntnis und des festen Vertrauens auf die Geprüften, Erprobten, Bewährten. Sogar wenn ein solches Zutrauen uns einmal getäuscht hat, sagen wir nie: „sein Charakter hat sich geändert“, sondern: „ich habe mich in ihm geirrt“. — Auf ihr beruht es, daß, wenn wir den moralischen Wert einer Handlung beurteilen wollen, wir vor allem über ihr Motiv Gewißheit zu erlangen suchen, dann aber unser Lob oder Tadel nicht das Motiv trifft, sondern den Charakter, der sich durch ein solches Motiv bestimmen ließ, als den zweiten und allein dem Menschen inhärierenden Faktor dieser That. — Auf derselben Wahrheit beruht es, daß die wahre Ehre (nicht die ritterliche, oder Narrenehre), einmal verloren, nie wieder herzustellen ist, sondern der Makel einer einzigen nichtswürdigen Handlung dem Menschen auf immer anklebt, ihn, wie man sagt, brandmarkt. Daher das Sprichwort: „Wer einmal stiehlt, ist sein Lebtag ein Dieb.“ — Auf ihr beruht es, daß, wenn bei wichtigen Staatshändeln, es einmal kommen kann, daß der Verrat gewollt, daher der Verräter gesucht, gebraucht und belohnt wird; dann, nach erreichtem Zweck, die Klugheit gebietet, ihn zu entfernen, weil die Umstände veränderlich sind, sein Charakter aber unveränderlich. — Auf ihr beruht es, daß der größte Fehler eines dramatischen Dichters dieser ist, daß seine Charaktere nicht gehalten sind, d. h. nicht, gleich den von großen Dichtern dargestellten, mit der Konstanz und strengen Konsequenz einer Naturkraft durchgeführt sind; wie ich dieses letztere in einem ausführlichen Beispiele am Shakespeare nachgewiesen habe, in Parerga, T. 2, § 118. — Ja, auf derselben Wahrheit beruht die Möglichkeit des Gewissens, sofern dieses oft noch im späten Alter die Unthaten der Jugend uns vorhält, wie z. B. dem J. J. Rousseau, nach 40 Jahren, daß er die Magd Marion eines Diebstahls beschuldigt hatte, den er selbst begangen. Dies ist nur unter der Voraussetzung möglich, daß der Charakter unverändert derselbe geblieben; da, im Gegenteil, die lächerlichsten Irrtümer, die gröbste Unwissenheit, die wunderlichsten Thorheiten unserer Jugend uns im Alter nicht beschämen: denn das hat sich geändert, die waren Sache der Erkenntnis, wir sind davon zurückgekommen, haben sie längst abgelegt, wie unsere Jugendkleider. — Auf derselben Wahrheit beruht es, daß ein Mensch, selbst bei der deutlichsten Erkenntnis, ja, Verabscheuung seiner moralischen Fehler und Gebrechen, ja, beim aufrichtigsten Vorsatz der Besserung, doch eigentlich sich nicht bessert, sondern trotz ernsten Vorsätzen und redlichem Versprechen, sich, bei erneuerter Gelegenheit, doch wieder auf denselben Pfaden wie zuvor, zu seiner eigenen Ueberraschung, betreffen läßt. Bloß seine Erkenntnis läßt sich berichtigen; daher er zu der Einsicht gelangen kann, daß diese oder jene Mittel, die er früher anwandte, nicht zu seinem Zwecke führen, oder mehr Nachteil, als Gewinn bringen: dann ändert er die Mittel, nicht die Zwecke. Hierauf beruht das amerikanische Pönitenziarsystem: es unternimmt nicht, den Charakter, das Herz des Menschen zu bessern, wohl aber ihm den Kopf zurechtzusetzen und ihm zu zeigen, daß er die Zwecke, denen er vermöge seines Charakters unwandelbar nachstrebt, auf dem bisher gegangenen Wege der Unredlichkeit weit schwerer und mit viel größeren Mühseligkeiten und Gefahren erreichen würde, als auf dem der Ehrlichkeit, Arbeit und Genügsamkeit. Ueberhaupt liegt allein in der Erkenntnis die Sphäre und der Bereich aller Besserung und Veredelung. Der Charakter ist unveränderlich, die Motive wirken mit Notwendigkeit: aber sie haben durch die Erkenntnis hindurchzugehen, als welche das Medium der Motive ist. Diese aber ist der mannigfaltigsten Erweiterung, der immerwährenden Berichtigung in unzähligen Graden fähig: dahin arbeitet alle Erziehung. Die Ausbildung der Vernunft, durch Kenntnisse und Einsichten jeder Art, ist dadurch moralisch wichtig, daß sie Motiven, für welche ohne sie der Mensch verschlossen bliebe, den Zugang öffnet. Solange er diese nicht verstehen konnte, waren sie für seinen Willen nicht vorhanden. Daher kann, unter gleichen äußern Umständen, die Lage eines Menschen das zweite Mal doch in der That eine ganz andere sein, als das erste: wenn er nämlich erst in der Zwischenzeit fähig geworden ist, jene Umstände richtig und vollständig zu begreifen; wodurch jetzt Motive auf ihn wirken, denen er früher unzugänglich war. In diesem Sinn sagten die Scholastiker sehr richtig: causa finalis (Zweck, Motiv) movet non secundum suum esse reale, sed secundum esse cognitum. Weiter aber, als auf die Berichtigung der Erkenntnis, erstreckt sich keine moralische Einwirkung, und das Unternehmen, die Charakterfehler eines Menschen durch Reden und Moralisieren aufheben und so seinen Charakter selbst, seine eigentliche Moralität, umschaffen zu wollen, ist ganz gleich dem Vorhaben, Blei durch äußere Einwirkung in Gold zu verwandeln, oder eine Eiche durch sorgfältige Pflege dahin zu bringen, daß sie Aprikosen trüge.
Die Ueberzeugung von der Unveränderlichkeit des Charakters finden wir als eine unzweifelhafte schon von Apulejus ausgesprochen, in seiner Oratio de magia, woselbst er, sich gegen die Beschuldigung der Zauberei verteidigend, an seinen bekannten Charakter appelliert und sagt: Certum indicem cujusque animum esse, qui semper eodem ingenio ad virtutem vel ad malitiam moratus, firmum argumentum est accipiendi criminis, aut respuendi.
4 Der individuelle Charakter ist angeboren: er ist kein Werk der Kunst, oder der dem Zufall unterworfenen Umstände; sondern das Werk der Natur selbst. Er offenbart sich schon im Kinde, zeigt dort im kleinen, was er künftig im großen sein wird. Daher legen, bei der allergleichesten Erziehung und Umgebung, zwei Kinder den grundverschiedensten Charakter aufs deutlichste an den Tag: es ist derselbe, den sie als Greise tragen werden. Er ist sogar, in seinen Grundzügen, erblich, aber nur vom Vater, die Intelligenz hingegen von der Mutter; worüber ich auf Kap. 43 der Ergänzungen zum 4. Buch der Welt als Wille u. Vorst. (Bd. VI dieser Ausgabe) verweise.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the German, including the author’s notes and appendix. Source edition: Arthur Schopenhauers sämtliche Werke, vol. VII, Die beiden Grundprobleme der Ethik (Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta, n.d. [1890s]), Internet Archive item arthurschopenha07schouoft
3 Human character is constant: it remains the same throughout life. Beneath the changing shell of one’s years, circumstances, even knowledge and opinions, the same actual person lies like a crab in its shell, wholly unchanging and always the same. Character undergoes only apparent modifications in its direction and material, resulting from the differences between stages of life and their needs. A person never changes: as he has acted in one case, so he will always act again under wholly identical circumstances—which, however, also include accurate knowledge of those circumstances. Daily experience confirms this truth, but most strikingly when we meet an acquaintance again after 20 to 30 years and soon catch him at exactly the same tricks as before. Many people will deny this truth in words, yet assume it in their conduct: they never again trust someone they have once found dishonest, but rely on someone who previously proved honest. This truth makes all knowledge of people possible, and all firm trust in those who have been examined, tested and proved. Even when such trust has deceived us, we never say, “His character has changed,” but “I was mistaken about him.” It is also why, when judging the moral worth of an action, we first seek certainty about its motive, but then direct our praise or blame not at the motive but at the character that allowed itself to be determined by that motive: the deed’s second factor, and the only one inherent in the person. On the same truth rests the fact that true honor—not chivalric honor, or fools’ honor—once lost can never be restored. The stain of a single base action clings to a person forever, branding him, as we say. Hence the proverb: “Once a thief, always a thief.” It is why, when important affairs of state call for treachery and a traitor is accordingly sought, used and rewarded, prudence then commands that he be removed once the purpose is achieved: circumstances change, but his character does not. It is why a dramatist’s greatest fault is failing to sustain his characters—that is, failing to develop them, like the characters portrayed by great poets, with the constancy and strict consistency of a natural force. I have demonstrated the latter in detail through an example from Shakespeare, in Parerga, T. 2, § 118. Indeed, the same truth makes conscience possible, insofar as even in old age it often confronts us with the misdeeds of youth: J. J. Rousseau, for example, after 40 years, with having accused the maid Marion of a theft he himself had committed. This is possible only on the assumption that character has remained unchanged. By contrast, the most ridiculous errors, the grossest ignorance and the strangest follies of our youth do not shame us in old age. That has changed: those were matters of knowledge; we have revised them and long since cast them off like the clothes of our youth. The same truth explains why someone does not actually improve even when he most clearly recognizes and indeed abhors his moral faults and defects, even when he most sincerely resolves to improve. Despite earnest resolutions and honest promises, when the occasion returns he is caught, to his own surprise, on the same paths as before. Only his knowledge can be corrected. He may come to see that the means he formerly used do not lead to his purpose, or bring more harm than gain; then he changes the means, not the ends. This is the basis of the American penitentiary system. It does not undertake to improve a person’s character, his heart, but to set his head right: to show him that the ends he invariably pursues through his character would be reached far less easily, and with much greater hardship and danger, by the path of dishonesty he has followed than by honesty, work and contentment. In general, knowledge alone is the sphere and domain of all improvement and refinement. Character is unchanging and motives act necessarily, but they must pass through knowledge, the medium of motives. Knowledge, however, is capable of expansion in the most varied ways, and of continual correction in countless degrees: all education works toward this. Developing reason through knowledge and insight of every kind is morally important because it opens access to motives from which the person would otherwise remain closed off. As long as he could not understand them, they did not exist for his will. Thus, with the same external circumstances, a person’s actual situation the second time may differ entirely from the first, if only in the interval he has become able to grasp those circumstances accurately and completely. Motives to which he was previously inaccessible now act on him. In this sense the Scholastics quite rightly said: “A final cause—an end, a motive—moves not according to its real being, but according to its being as known.” No moral influence extends beyond correcting knowledge. Trying to remove someone’s faults of character through speeches and moralizing, and thus remake his character itself, his actual morality, is just like trying to turn lead into gold by acting on it from outside, or tending an oak so carefully that it bears apricots.
We find the conviction that character is unchanging already stated as an unquestionable truth by Apuleius in his Oratio de magia. Defending himself there against the charge of sorcery, he appeals to his known character and says: “Each person’s mind is a reliable indicator: always disposed by the same temperament toward virtue or malice, it provides firm grounds for accepting or rejecting an accusation.”
4 Individual character is inborn: it is not a product of human art or of circumstances subject to chance, but the work of nature itself. It already reveals itself in the child, showing in miniature what it will later be on a larger scale. Thus two children, with exactly the same upbringing and surroundings, display fundamentally different characters with the utmost clarity: the same characters they will bear as old people. It is even hereditary in its basic features, but only from the father, while intelligence comes from the mother. On this I refer to Kap. 43 of the Supplements to the 4th book of Welt als Wille u. Vorst. (Bd. VI of this edition).
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Plain English translation, made independently and directly from the German, not from the Musean edition or a published English translation, including the author’s notes and appendix. Source edition: Arthur Schopenhauers sämtliche Werke, vol. VII, Die beiden Grundprobleme der Ethik (Stuttgart: J. G. Cotta, n.d. [1890s]), Internet Archive item arthurschopenha07schouoft
3 Human character is constant: it stays the same throughout life. Beneath the changing shell of a person's age, circumstances, and even knowledge and opinions is the same actual person, like a crab in its shell, completely unchanging and always the same. Character undergoes the apparent changes that result from different ages and their needs only in its direction and subject matter. A person never changes. As someone has acted in one case, they will always act again under completely identical circumstances. These circumstances, however, must include a correct knowledge of the circumstances themselves. Everyday experience confirms this truth. But its most striking confirmation comes when we meet an acquaintance again after 20–30 years and soon catch them at exactly the same tricks as before.—Some people may deny this truth in words. Yet they assume it in their own actions, never again trusting someone they have once found dishonest, but relying on someone who has proved honest before. This truth makes all knowledge of human character possible, as well as firm trust in those who have been tested, tried, and proved reliable. Even when such trust has let us down, we never say, "His character has changed," but, "I was mistaken about him."—This truth explains why, when we want to judge an action's moral worth, we first try to establish its motive for certain. But then we direct our praise or blame not at the motive but at the character that let itself be determined by that motive. Character is the action's second factor and the only one inherent in the person.—The same truth explains why true honor—not chivalric honor, or fools' honor—can never be restored once lost. The stain of a single shameful act clings to a person forever, branding them, as people say. Hence the saying, "Steal once, and you are a thief for life."—It explains why, in important affairs of state, when betrayal happens to be wanted and a traitor is therefore sought, used, and rewarded, prudence calls for getting rid of him once the goal is reached. Circumstances change, but his character does not.—It explains why a playwright's greatest fault is inconsistency in the characters: failing to carry them through with the constancy and strict consistency of a force of nature, as great writers do. I have demonstrated this last point with a detailed example from Shakespeare in Parerga, T. 2, § 118.—Indeed, this same truth makes conscience possible, insofar as conscience often confronts us even in old age with the wrongs we committed in youth. For example, 40 years later it still confronted J. J. Rousseau with his accusation that the maid Marion had committed a theft that he himself had committed. This is possible only on the assumption that character has stayed unchanged. By contrast, the most ridiculous errors, the grossest ignorance, and the strangest follies of our youth do not shame us in old age. That part of us has changed: those things concerned our knowledge. We have moved beyond them and long since put them aside, like our youthful clothes.—The same truth explains why a person does not really improve, even with the clearest awareness of their moral faults and failings, even with disgust at them, and even with the most sincere intention to improve. Despite serious resolutions and honest promises, when the occasion comes again, they find themselves, to their own surprise, back on the same paths as before. Only their knowledge can be corrected. They may therefore come to see that certain means they used before do not lead to their goal, or bring more harm than benefit. Then they change their means, not their goals. This is the basis of the American penitentiary system. It does not try to improve a person's character, or heart. Instead, it tries to put their thinking right and show them that the dishonest path they have followed would make it far harder, and involve far greater hardships and dangers, to reach the goals their character makes them pursue without change than the path of honesty, work, and contentment with little. In general, knowledge alone is the sphere and scope of all improvement and refinement. Character does not change; motives act with necessity. But they have to pass through knowledge, which is the medium of motives. Knowledge, however, can be expanded in the most varied ways and continually corrected to countless degrees. All education works toward this. Developing reason through knowledge and insight of every kind has moral importance because it opens the way for motives to which a person would otherwise remain closed. As long as someone could not understand these motives, they did not exist for that person's will. Thus, even with the same outward circumstances, a person's situation the second time may actually be completely different from the first. This happens if only in the meantime they have become able to understand those circumstances correctly and fully. Motives can now act on them to which they were previously unreceptive. In this sense the Scholastics said, quite correctly: a final cause (goal, motive) moves us not according to its actual existence, but according to its existence as something known. But no moral influence goes beyond correcting knowledge. Trying to remove someone's faults of character by talk and moral lectures, and so to remake their character itself, their actual morality, is exactly like trying to turn lead into gold by acting on it from outside, or to make an oak bear apricots by carefully tending it.
We already find the conviction that character cannot change stated as something beyond doubt by Apuleius in his Oratio de magia. There, defending himself against the charge of sorcery, he appeals to his known character and says: "Each person's character is a reliable sign: always inclined by the same nature toward virtue or wickedness, it provides solid grounds for accepting or rejecting a charge."
4 Individual character is inborn. It is not a product of artifice or of circumstances subject to chance, but a work of nature itself. It already appears in the child, showing on a small scale what it will later be on a large one. That is why, with exactly the same upbringing and surroundings, two children display radically different characters in the clearest way. These are the same characters they will have in old age. Character is even hereditary in its basic traits, but only from the father; intelligence, on the other hand, comes from the mother. On this I refer to Kap. 43 of the supplements to Book 4 of Welt als Wille u. Vorst. (Bd. VI of this edition).
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Chapter III, 9 is part of On the Freedom of the Will 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 15 of 28 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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