To have to assist with an explanation such as that, in which every sentence is meaningless and also untrue with respect to me! I am either very corrupt, indeed a hypocrite, or even to the point of nausea ensnared in self-deception—or I am really as chivalrous as anyone. Nor do I lack stability in holding firmly to a resolution, unless it should be when the criterion was a young girl who did not really know what a resolution is. I have always regarded her as charming, and I have not changed my opinion one bit. I have not found anyone more brilliant since I am looking for none and politely decline feminine brilliance. Her magnanimity is no trump card at all. I do not intend to act out a story of everyday life268 and barter. That I repent is true, but it is equally true that it is my wish to undo everything.
With the help of this explanation, I advance. I step out of all the qualifications of infinity—and become comic. To be sure, not in the eyes of everyone; in the eyes of a few poets I even become a hero. Truly, one would not think that an eternal and righteous God had originally produced the ethical, but that a bungling theatrical tailor had slapped something together. 269And this criterion is used for heroes even by poets—in order to show that they are heroes—but Scribe is the cleverest of all. [VI 297] We read and hear lines by him that confound all existence, as if this comedy were played not to human beings, not to the demented, but to “dazed June bugs,” and yet these lines are dropped so conversationally and so lightly that one sees that it is as easy as falling off a log. A married woman is portrayed by the author as both sensible and good—indeed, as championing the good cause: a true love affair between a young girl on whom she has an influence and a young man who on this occasion appeals to her for help. I cannot remember the lady’s name, so let us call her Madame Scribe. She says to the courting young man: “But have you ever considered that the girl has no fortune?” “I have considered that.” “She has only twenty thousand francs in capital.” “I know that.” “And yet you stand by your word?” “Yes.” “Really, this heroism wins me completely to your side.”270 What a satirist Scribe is without knowing it; I thought I was at a Punch and Judy show. The young man is put in a bright light, he wins the girl, twenty thousand francs—and becomes a hero. But that kind of hero is just as comic as a tailor’s child with the name of Caesar Alexander Bonaparte Appleorchard; and an author who creates such heroes seems just as foolish to me as the tailor parents who had their child baptized with such a name.
It is my duty, however, to do everything that may seem beneficial, everything, whether or not it eventually benefits her in a specific way. The previous attempts were futile. If she had become a religious individuality in the proper sense, it would have been frightful for me. Yet I have not sought advice from flesh and blood.271
My reason has fumed as it shrinks from the harlequin’s costume—that is, from becoming a hero in Scribe. Enough of that. I think of her, I see her recuperating, I see the possibility of a happy ending. Well, I submit to the discipline. Truly, this girl is destined for my humiliation. Even if no one is aware of this, even if only few would understand if I spoke out, I do understand it, understand it perfectly.
[VI 298] 272When the legitimate children of Pericles were living, he issued a law that no one could be considered a citizen of Athens who was not born of Athenian parents. Many suffered because of this law. Then the plague came and all the children of Pericles died; his distress was so great that when he came up to lay a wreath upon the head of his last child he burst into tears in the sight of all, something never before seen. He had only illegitimate children left; then Pericles petitioned that that law be abolished. It is shocking: Pericles weeps—and Pericles does one thing one day and the opposite the next. But it is moving to read Plutarch—he says that the Athenians yielded to him; they believed that the gods had taken revenge on him and that the people therefore had to deal gently with him.273
Pericles was a great man; he could hold firmly to a resolution; after resolving to dedicate himself to the service of the state, he never went out in society again. It is easy for me at this point to feel my inferiority, but would that I might sense the leniency that deals gently with me by letting me realize that I ought to misrepresent my existence! But as a matter of fact have I not continually misrepresented it? True, but this misrepresentation was of such a nature that I hoped it—if she looked at it—would produce something great in her; this misrepresentation, if it does contribute something, will not contribute to greatness. And the first method honored her in an entirely different way than this one.
April 30. Morning.
A year ago today. She is no longer effervescent in her expressions of devotion. Perhaps it was all a transition. But I have seen that alarming tableau, and I shall never forget it.
My depression has really won out.
May 1. Morning.
A year ago today. Is it possible! She became exasperated over an inattention on my part. Well, I do not deny that it was an inattention. She almost stands up to me. Now or never. It is fine that the word “separation” was brought up between us in [VI 299] that little altercatio [dispute]. It always makes it easier to bring up the word again.
Run away from the issue, I will not; it is not in order to have an easy life that I want to be separated from her—it is because I cannot do otherwise. If I cause her pain, I will not, I dare not, excuse myself from the sight. I wish to make this state of affairs as brief as possible; that I believe is beneficial to her. But I am also willing in another way and will respect any argument.
At this moment, she is stronger. So now the issue has been broached.
My verdict on her is brief: I love her, I have never loved anyone else, nor shall I. I want to stop with this and not go further; so I certainly dare to say this but still have the strength to find a new love. My mistake is that I have ventured in where I do not belong. What I have shaped myself to be with all my passion appears to me to be an error, but I cannot be remade now. She does not understand me, nor I her. From the very first time I saw her, during all the time she was my preoccupation in the form of hope, I have been able to imagine her dead without losing my composure. I would have felt pain, perhaps all my life, but the eternal would promptly have been present, and for me the eternal is supreme. Only in this way can I understand that one loves another. In the consciousness of the eternal, in infinity, each of the partners is free, and both of them have this freedom while they love each other. This higher existence is of no concern to her at all. Is this relationship of ours any structure for a marriage? Is, then, a married man a pasha with three horse tails?274 With such a union, I become unhappy; I am alarmed about my deepest existence. Suppose I could do it, suppose I could go through with this—well, what then, what is her happiness for which I am to risk all this? Am I to risk everything for a delusion? Suppose that someone could guarantee to me that she would be happy; but to be in a delusion, is that being happy? But once she has devoted herself in this way, then I have the responsibility.
That these are premises for a lifelong sentence is apparent. Whether it applies to two or one, I dare not say; the verdict upon me is the more certain. But is it not unreasonable to make two people unhappy when one is enough? Indeed it is, if only I could perceive what it means that I can make her happy.
May 2. Midnight. [VI 300]
But do I not still harbor a secret anger against her? I do not deny it; I do not like these direct expressions of feelings; one should be silent and act interiorly. I do not like to talk about dying of erotic love, and if the person speaking without any feminine resignation also does not hesitate to place her life as a murder on the conscience of a depressed man—as if this were faithfulness, true faithfulness, and if a Charlotte Stieglitz275 committed suicide not because she was overwrought, for that is true, but because she felt herself a burden and understood the situation in a womanly way—I do not deny that if it were someone else I would demand from life that it allow us to have a view of the matter, that it was a false alarm. It would appease my wrath, if it w
ere someone else, to have it be common knowledge that these strong words and these sworn avowals were neither more nor less (with reverence be it said) than some nasty belches, some little hiccups, brought on perhaps by too much reading of novels, that these thoughts of death were dreams, not like those of Shakespeare’s Juliet after having taken poison276 but like Wessel’s Grete after having eaten peas.277 I would demand this from life because what I myself eternally respect must not be made ludicrous, and the person who truly and earnestly respects it must not become a laughingstock because a girl jeers with the same words.
No oath binds me; quite the contrary, I am liberated and on extraordinary terms, by becoming a scoundrel, for usually such people are imprisoned. I did not say a word about death when the anxiety of death went through my soul, and I still feel the same way. If I actually die, I certainly do not need to talk about it; I have not invited anyone to see in me a dashing hero. But this makes little or no difference in the matter if I in my interior self might just be found faithful; for no matter whether a person has appearances on his side or against him, time is and remains a dangerous enemy. External stimuli can help for only a short time, but it is still an illusion. If a person is going to persevere it must be on his own, and not even this is possible if day after day his religiousness does not absorb eternity into temporality’s resolution. Hence, every person who truly remains faithful can thank God for it. This is the [VI 301] sharpest, perhaps the most difficult, but also the most inspiring segregation: what that actually is of which a person must say that he thanks God for it and no one else. To have appearances against one always helps to illuminate this distinction, but everyone does it, as does language also—the question is only how. It is this how, by no means new figures of speech, phrases, and terms, that makes the matter clear. —Yesterday I saw a drunken woman in the street; she fell down, and the boys laughed at her. Then she got up without anyone’s help and said: I am woman enough to get up by myself, but for that I thank God alone and no one else—no, no one else! When a person is totally engrossed in this distinction, it is rather humiliating for him to be so far from having made new discoveries that a drunken woman says the same thing. And yet it is something indescribably joyful and moving and inspiring that even a drunken woman says the same thing. How it is said, each one justifies, but I wish only to have my life there where everyone can have it—if he so desires.
A life that will work for the idea, I can understand; outside of that, it is virtually impossible for me to sympathize with anyone, whether he is happy or unhappy.
This does not apply to her. As yet any renunciation of the idea has not entered in, and therefore I shun as an insult to her any idea of it in connection with her. If it does enter in, I ask only the leniency that I be able to abstain from thinking about it. What is death? Only a little pause on the once trodden path if one remained faithful to the idea. But a break with the idea means that one has taken a wrong direction.
May 4. Morning.
A year ago today. It has happened. In two days I have already managed to introduce that terrible word into the course of conversation. There is an enormous difference when a warship and a nutshell put out to sea, and the difference is externally visible. It is different with words. The same word can indicate an even greater difference, and yet the word is the same. The word has not come up between us in a pathos-filled way, but it comes up again and again, mixed in among various things in order to clarify the mood. —From what I have observed until now, I could almost be tempted to believe that it will go more calmly than I dared hope.
As for myself, I have indeed taken the responsibility for this [VI 302] step. In my view, this means that I am making a human being unhappy. When I do business with myself, I cannot have it cheaper. What actuality will be able to show me is that I may have overrated the responsibility. This is the way I have resolved to act; I have imagined the worst, and actuality cannot terrify me. What I am suffering inwardly where everything is confused and shaken, what I am suffering at the thought of her pain, at the thought that I probably will never recover from this impression because my whole edifice has been made to reel, my view of life, of myself, of my relation to the idea has failed, and I shall never be able to erect a new edifice without remembering her and my responsibility—that is my share. It is a lion’s share, or more accurately, the sorrow is so great that there is abundantly enough for both of us.
May 5. Midnight.
The Reading Lesson278
Periander279
Periander was a son of Cypselus, a descendant of Hercules, and succeeded his father as tyrant in Corinth. Of him it is said that he always spoke as a wise man and always acted as a lunatic. It is very curious and in a sense a continuation of Periander’s insanity that the person who stamped him with this ingenious phrase was himself unaware of how expressive it was. In his simplicity, its somewhat limited originator introduces the wise remark in the following way: It is very striking that the Greeks could include such a fool as Periander among the wise. But a fool, un fat [a fop], to use the moralist’s term, Periander was not. It would have been different if he had said that there was another Periander, Periander of Ambracia,280 with whom he possibly was confused, or that there were only five [VI 303] wise men, or that historians differ in their views, etc. Then the gods would have better understood the epigram about Periander, for in their wrath they led him through life in such a way that they brought these wise words as a mockery down upon the head of the tyrant who by his deeds disgraced his own wise words.
When he became tyrant he distinguished himself by leniency, by justice toward the lowly, by wisdom among the prudent. He stood by his word and gave the gods the carved pillar he had promised,281 but it was paid for by the women’s jewelry. Bold were his undertakings; and this was his aphorism: Diligence accomplishes everything.282 His explanation was like the saying about digging through the isthmus, for diligence accomplishes everything.
But under his leniency smoldered the fire of passion, and until the moment arrived the word of wisdom concealed the madness of action; and the bold projects evidenced the power that remained the same also in the changed man. For Periander changed. He did not become another person, but he became two who could not be contained in one person: the wise man and the tyrant, which means that he became an inhuman monster. The reason is related in various ways. But this much is certain—there was only an occasion—that is, if it was at all explicable that he could be so changed. It is, however, related that he had had penally culpable relations with his mother, Cratia,283 presumably before he had heard his own beautiful proverb: Do not do what ought to be kept secret.284
And this is Periander’s saying: It is better to be feared than to be pitied.285 He acted accordingly. He was the first to keep mercenaries,286 and he remodeled the government to meet the demands of tyranny and ruled as an autocrat over the serfs, himself bound by the power he could not get rid of, for as he himself said: It is just as dangerous for a tyrant to relinquish his supremacy as to have it taken away. He also ingeniously avoided the difficulty that subsequently will be described, and not even death took revenge on him—the epitaph is inscribed over the empty tomb. That this was bound to happen Periander [VI 304] himself knew better than anyone, for he said: “Ill gain breeds bad gain.” “Tyrants,” he said, “who want to be secure must have goodwill as a bodyguard and not armed soldiers.”287 Therefore, the tyrant Periander was never secure, and the only place of refuge he found safe enough in death was an empty grave in which he did not lie. This could also have been expressed in an obvious way by placing the following epitaph over the empty vault: Here rests a tyrant. But the Greeks did not do it in this manner; more conciliatory, they allowed him in death to find peace in the bosom of his native earth and wrote over the empty grave words that sound more beautiful in verse but mean something like this: Here Corinth, his native country, hides in its bosom Periander the Rich, the Wise. But inasmuch as he does not lie there, this is untrue. A Greek author composed anoth
er epitaph for him, intended primarily for the spectator, so that the epitaph might remind him “not to be grieved because one’s wish is not fulfilled but to be happy with the decrees of the gods” as he considers “that the spirit of the wise Periander was quenched in despondency because he was unable to carry out what he wanted to do.”288
This is enough here with regard to his final end, which teaches posterity about the wrath of the gods, something Periander did not learn from it. The story goes back to report the cause that made Periander’s madness erupt, which from that moment so increased over the years that he could truthfully have said of himself a motto that many centuries later a despairing man, so it is said, had inscribed on his shield: “More annihilated than repentant.”289
As for the reason, we shall leave it open whether it was that there were rumors about his penally culpable relations with his mother, so that he was offended because people knew “he had done what dare not be mentioned”; or whether the reason was a cryptic response by his friend Thrasybulus, tyrant in Miletus,290 which, significant although tacit, was not understood by the messenger but certainly by Periander in the same way as the same answer was understood by Tarquinius, son of Superbus,291 as an instructive clue to a tyrant; or finally whether the reason was his despair over having in a fit of jealousy kicked to death his beloved wife Lysida, to whom he [VI 305] himself had given the name Melissa292—this we cannot determine. Each event in itself would certainly be adequate: the infamy of disgrace for the proud prince, the temptation of the significant cryptic words for the ambitious man, the anguish of guilt for the unhappy lover. Together they would gradually cause wickedness to replace the wise man’s good sense, and indignation would deceive the ruler’s soul.
Stages on Life’s Way Page 37
