What we have said regarding old age and youth, etc., may also be said regarding the characters and dispositions of individuals, natural or primordial, acquired or fortuitous, which have the aspect and appearance of old age, youth, etc., and correspond to the temperament and qualities which are proper to these ages, even though these dispositions, etc., do not tally in fact with the real age [3525] of the individuals concerned, which indeed is quite different or contrary to them, etc. (25 Sept. 1823.)
Man is able to do and to suffer as much as he has become habituated to do and to suffer (whether the habituation is continuing or whether, however much in the past it may be, its effects still remain, in whole or in part), no more and no less. (26. Sept. 1823.)
All have experienced pleasure, or will experience it, but no one actually experiences it. All have enjoyed, or will enjoy, but no one enjoys. This refers to those thoughts [→Z 532–35, 646–50, 826–29, 2685] about the fact that there is no pleasure that is not either future or past. (26 Sept. 1823.)
For p. 3141, margin. I have said that Argante, Solimano, and Clorinda are the only Heroes among the infidels. Because it does not appear that Altamoro and the others in the Egyptian army, who, one might say, do not come onstage until the final canto (they are mentioned by name in the 17th and 19th cantos, but they are not active) should be taken into account, and interest in them does not have time to develop because they do not converse sufficiently with the readers. In addition to this Tasso makes them even more barbarian and savage, inhuman and odious than Argante and Solimano, and more wicked, despisers of men and the Gods and of every religion, etc.1 The only Christian Heroes who stand out in the Gerusalemme, apart from Goffredo, are Raimondo, Tancredi, and Rinaldo. But these latter are all very well differentiated one from the other, with the last two being exquisitely nuancés [nuanced] in relation to one another. And Goffredo and Rinaldo’s superiority is quite marked, such that the readers cannot either doubt themselves or dispute with each other or deny that the poet acknowledges it. Nonetheless it is not mutually damaging, and does no wrong to either Tancredi or Raimondo, etc. In all this part, the balance, the harmony, the [3526] balanced and harmonious and concerted and concordant variety which prevail in the characters of the valor of the various Christian Heroes are quite marvelous. These characters were extremely difficult to vary, and indeed their difference (especially the difference between Tancredi and Rinaldo) is minute, but, and it is this which is marvelous, at the same time it is quite pronounced. It is true that Tasso sought out and achieved this diversification not so much by varying the qualities of valor as by dispensing outcomes and undertakings, and this dispensation was most judiciously varied and gradated;1 and by other circumstances, such as heaven’s care for Rinaldo as shown by the visions sent and the many miracles performed to bring about his return to the battlefield, etc. etc. (26 Sept. 1823.) See p. 3590.
When danger occurs, laughing, becoming unusually cheerful or more so than one moment previously, or becoming joyful having previously been melancholy, becoming talkative, despite being taciturn by nature, or breaking a silence held for whatever reason to that point, joking, leaping about, singing, and similar things are certainly not signs of courage as they are deemed to be, but on the contrary are signs of fear. For they show that man needs to distract himself from the idea of danger, and in particular to banish it by making believe that there is none, or that the danger is not serious. And [3527] man achieves this on such occasions by manifesting signs of extraordinary cheerfulness, by deceiving himself, by showing himself that he has nothing to fear, because he does things which are contrary to those which fear is properly and immediately accustomed to produce. So as not to be afraid, man manages to persuade himself that he is not afraid, whence he may infer that there is no sufficient or necessary reason to be afraid. It is a very common effect of this passion to move man to things counter to those to which it would immediately move him, but both are equally effects of true fear. The former are to a large extent, or at least in one sense, false, while the latter are true. Fear moves man to perform a kind of pantomime to himself. This is why, in solitary places and among the shadows, or in dangerous places, on dangerous roads and occasions, or which at least appear to be such, man is naturally accustomed to sing, not so much for the effect of imagining and pretending to himself that he has company, or as we say, to keep himself company, as because singing appears to be entirely appropriate to a person who is not afraid. This is precisely why he who is afraid sings.1 (See on this [3528] subject a very opportune passage in Magalotti to which I referred in some of the earliest pages of these thoughts [→Z 43], if I am not mistaken around the start of 1819.) These same principles (more than the need for distraction) explain why in common danger, or what is perceived to be such, whether it is genuine or absolutely imaginary, it is pleasing, comforting, cheering to hear others sing, to see them intent on their usual operations, to note or believe that they either do not consider there to be any danger, or do not in any way neglect or change their ordinary routine or what they were doing at the time because of it, or what they would have done had there been no danger, or that they do not fear it, and are intrepid, etc. Courage in others, seen or believed, or the idea, seen or believed in them, that there is no danger, gives courage to an individual who is afraid. In the same way, to show oneself that one is not afraid is to be encouraged, either by persuading oneself that there is no danger, or by providing an example of courage in oneself, and to not be afraid of this danger, even if it does exist. Now, the person who needs to be encouraged and to have examples of courage shown to him in the midst of this danger, for otherwise he will be afraid, is certainly not [3529] courageous, or does not have courage on this occasion. And the person who, in order not to be afraid, must believe that there is no danger, that is, no reason to fear, or has to diminish for himself the idea of that danger, to believe that this danger, this reason is insignificant, or smaller and more trivial than it is, for otherwise he will be afraid, is not courageous, for no one fears what he does not believe is to be feared, and no one is afraid unless he believes he is in danger, whether this belief is true or false or however slight or irrational it might be, but which is like an instinct or a passion (like that which you see on pp. 3518–20 and especially p. 3519, margin).
Man’s pain, too, is consoled or reduced by persuading himself that the harm, misfortune, etc., is either not such or is less than it is or appears to be, or than it was held to be in the first place. And perhaps (save for the medicine which is brought by the fullness of time) pain is consoled or mitigated this way more often than in any other. This is why, in public disasters, when it is important that the people be happy or at least not downcast, or less sad than they would reasonably be, signs of mourning are prohibited and removed, and festivities and signs (even extraordinary ones) of rejoicing are ordained and introduced. [3530] And these often not so much as causes but as signs of rejoicing, not so much to produce joy directly as to show it, not so much to distract minds from pain and sadness as to persuade them that there is no reason to be sad, or that this is less important than in fact it is. In plagues or contagions it is forbidden to ring the death bells. In defeats what has happened is concealed from the people, all sign of public mourning is prohibited, festivities are increased, and news continues to be invented and broadcast which is entirely contrary to the truth, and full of happy events.1 It is characteristic of the good captain to show his soldiers he is happy or indifferent even after a reverse has been inflicted, after news of a disaster, etc. (These things also apply to the discussion on fear.) So too with individuals. Often the person who is afflicted consoles himself or cheers himself up, not by being distracted so much as by giving himself signs that he is merry or consoled, by singing, with other acts or operations of a man who is cheerful or indifferent. At the first news, or the first perception of some kind of harm, some disaster, etc., the mind often initially makes every effort not to believe the fact, even if it has been seen with your own eyes
or other senses, etc., or not to [3531] believe that it is a disaster, then to believe that it is much smaller than it in fact is, then somewhat smaller, hence passing more or less rapidly through these vain attempts by degree and proportion until full cognition and forced persuasion is achieved of the true extent of the misfortune, or until that last successful attempt which leaves the mind with a conviction that is more or less inferior to the truth.
Returning to the issue of courage, true and perfect courage (in instances of danger where the individual can do nothing to avoid it or prevent it from having an effect) must be as far from moving man to joy or some expression of joy which is extraordinary or different from the disposition in which he finds himself the moment prior to his perceiving the danger, as it is from causing him to quiver, go pale, shake, complain, lose heart, fall into sadness, become taciturn or serious compared with normal or compared with what he was like the previous moment, weep, and experience the other immediate effects and manifest express and formal signs of fear.1 Whoever in a situation of danger where nothing can be done, appears different from what he is accustomed to be, whatever he is accustomed to be, and whatever he becomes, and however great this difference is, is not courageous, or in that instance does not have true courage. In the same way as he cannot produce the effects or signs proper to fear, and must block them, [3532] so too, and to the same degree, he cannot produce and must block the effects and signs which appear most contrary to those of fear: I mean, insofar as such effects and signs relate to the present danger, and are occasioned by it in that it is a genuine danger, and do not come from other unrelated causes. To be perfectly and truly courageous, or to make a particular demonstration of true and perfect courage (which may be both by deed and habit, and sometimes the former without the latter), requires, on the one hand, to know fully the true quality and extent of the danger, or to be fully persuaded of it, whether actual or only believed, and on the other, not to be changed, as a result of this knowledge or opinion and as a result of such danger, not to be changed, I repeat, on absolutely any account either in the mind or outside, but to preserve the state of the previous moment exactly and genuinely, whether this was joyful or melancholy, and to continue, insofar as it is materially possible, the same operations, etc., in the same way, to the same degree, and how they would have been continued, if the danger or opinion [3533] or knowledge of it had not occurred—in other words, to persevere and maintain oneself, or to be or become in every part, in the midst of this danger or idea or knowledge of it, such as one would have been precisely if such danger, opinion, or knowledge had not in any way occurred (with the sole exception of that which the circumstances of this danger materially impede, in whatever way, or so as not to increase the danger: such as if the noise of the waves prevented me from sleeping in a storm at sea; or if, in a naval battle, at the hour when I would certainly have been out walking on the main deck, not having to fight myself, I were to stay shut up in my cabin so as not to be needlessly exposed to the cannon balls). All this has to be effortless, as is evident from the terms themselves, for otherwise the individual would not be in entirely the same state as before, but quite a different one. And it has to be natural and true (which comes to the same thing as saying effortless), both so the state itself is not changed, and because as it is often proper to fear to move the individual to joy, etc., so it is to bring him to pretend [3534] to himself that he is indifferent, and not at all changed outside or in from what he was previously, to persevere with the appearance of tranquillity in the same actions, the same state, and even in melancholy, or in the external appearance of it, in taciturnity, and other conditions often caused by fear, if he found himself in these before the danger occurred. This to encourage himself, to persuade himself that there is nothing of which to be afraid, etc., no more and no less than the person who shows joy, etc. Far from being an effect or sign of courage, such indifference, or display of indifference, is a sign of fear. Perhaps the comparison may seem base, but I can find no more natural image of a man who is truly and perfectly courageous in the hour of danger, than the one which Pyrrho showed to his frightened companions when at sea during a gale, which was that of a pig in a corner of the ship quietly getting on with eating acorns, showing clearly on the outside that inwardly too, its state was what it would have been had there been no gale.1 But one major difference between this comparison and our case is that the animal in question [3535] was not aware of its danger in the slightest, while the courageous man has to understand it fully and esteem it accurately, but without caring about it any more than that animal did.
Courage which matches perfectly the idea described so far is the only kind that may be called perfect, or indeed true. And certainly, it is very rare, and in truth perhaps no real example may be found or ever has been found among men, which had all the due circumstances, etc., supposed by us, etc. Hence it is seen that true courage among men (and of which other animals are not capable) either does not exist as it is believed to, or is much rarer than is thought.
In circumstances where there is something that man can do to avoid, impede, or prevent danger from having an effect, to turn it to good, like a helmsman and sailors in a storm, or a captain and his soldiers in a battle, in such circumstances external indifference and acting no differently than if the danger had not existed is not due to courage, but the opposite. Rather, it is perfect inner calm which is due to courage, which leaves the faculties of the mind entirely [3536] free to attend to what is needed in order to confront the danger, without the slightest disturbance as a result of doubts as to whether the outcome will be successful being mixed with the attention required to combat it. And external operations must be carried out as calmly as those which are performed for any other purpose. And in such operations, a certain foolhardiness, rash daring, confronting danger more than is necessary, becoming involved more than is required, irrationally increasing the danger, unduly jeopardizing one’s own safety, and similar actions, which appear to be signs and effects of supreme courage, are often quite the opposite, that is, signs and effects of fear, like the cheerfulness of which I spoke above. Because such acts are born of impatience, from being in a hurry to see the outcome, by which I mean escaping from the danger by passing through the middle of it, so to speak; born from a confusion of the mind, from not being able to bear the calm of reflection because of the upheaval being experienced, which would be increased by such reflection, from not being able to give due consideration, because of the mind being in turmoil—in other words, from [3537] not finding full rest of the spirit, free from all passion, as perfect courage requires, but on the contrary, from feeling a passion, which prefers effort, however difficult and dangerous this may be, and finds it easier to bear than restfulness, which is unbearable, which is intolerable and too distressing, and not only difficult but impossible (as all passion by nature is incapable of rest and by its very essence excludes it and leads to being energetic, to effort, etc.). And what is this passion? And what could it be? None other than fear. A mind such as this is disturbed: therefore it does not show perfect courage. As is one who, when in danger, being attacked or thinking he is, breaks out in threats and challenges to the enemy. The words and deeds of such a person display courage and fear of nothing. But in fact such a person is very afraid, and seeks to remove or reduce the danger by showing that he is not afraid of it. Thus fear produces the appearance of courage in him. Now it is no different in the case referred to above, where fear produces a kind of desperation [3538] —a sign and effect of excessive fear when it is not justified, and those who despair most easily and greatly when in danger and who for this reason, having necessarily to fight it, perform deeds of greater daring are in fact the most fearful. For them, as for all men, fear is more unbearable and distressing than danger and harm, and they only rush headlong into the latter because they have a very great deal of the former, and in order to flee from this fear—a kind of desperation, I repeat, which has the appearance of extraordinary courage, and is merely
temerity and mental blindness produced by fear; and so it is in the case of those who show cheerfulness, etc.
There are many more real examples of perfect courage amid dangers which require action than of the type described above, and it is certainly not purely an idea like the other perhaps is. The man who thinks of combating danger, and who is in fact outwardly engaged in combating it, may be said not to be thinking of danger, even though he understands it perfectly. That outward and inward concern and activity is a kind of very powerful, effective, and total distraction, which diverts the imagination [3539] and intellect from thinking about, pondering, contemplating, so to speak, and seeing the danger itself, which his concern is wholly intent on protecting against, and which is its sole focus. It occupies the entire mind, it is the concern of taking care of the danger, and in occupying the entire mind, it leaves no room to consider the danger merely in its own right. It is almost impossible for a man or a living being to find himself in great danger, a danger which is acknowledged as and considered to be such, and, in fixing his thought on it without any distraction, in comprehending it fully and simply for itself, and considering and picturing to himself with both his imagination or even merely his understanding and reason, the full quality and extent and the harm that would ensue from its outcome being unfortunate, and in regarding this as something greatly and really harmful, and even so, not to fear, and to remain in the most perfect indifference and inward and outward calm.
Zibaldone Page 246
