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Title: Selections from the Writings of Kierkegaard

Author: Søren Kierkegaard

Translator: Lee M. Hollander

Release date: September 20, 2019 [eBook #60333]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images
        generously made available by Internet Archive.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS OF KIERKEGAARD ***




Produced by Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free Literature (Images
generously made available by Internet Archive.)





UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS BULLETIN

NO. 2326: JULY 8, 1923

SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS OF KIERKEGAARD

TRANSLATED BY L. M. HOLLANDER

ADJUNCT PROFESSOR OF GERMANIC LANGUAGES

COMPARATIVE LITERATURE SERIES NO. 3

PUBLISHED BY THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS, AUSTIN




The benefits of education and of
useful knowledge, generally diffused
through a community, are essential
to the preservation of a free government.


Sam Houston




Cultivated mind is the guardian
genius of democracy.... It is the
only dictator that freemen acknowledge
and the only security that free-men
desire.


Mirabeau B. Lamar




_To my Father-in-Law
The Reverend George Fisher,
A Christian._




[Illustration 01]


[Illustration 02]




CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION.
DIAPSALMATA.
IN VINO VERITAS (THE BANQUET).
FEAR AND TREMBLING.
PREPARATION FOR A CHRISTIAN LIFE.
THE PRESENT MOMENT.




INTRODUCTION I


Creditable as have been the contributions of Scandinavia to
the cultural life of the race in well-nigh all fields of human
endeavor, it has produced but one thinker of the first magnitude,
the Dane, Sören Å. Kierkegaard[1]. The fact that he is virtually
unknown to us is ascribable, on the one hand to the inaccessibility
of his works, both as to language and form; on the other, to the
regrettable insularity of English thought.

It is the purpose of this book to remedy the defect in a measure,
and by a selection from his most representative works to provide a
stimulus for a more detailed study of his writings; for the present
times, ruled by material considerations,  wholly led by socializing,
and misled by national, ideals are precisely the most opportune to
introduce the bitter but wholesome antidote of individual responsibility,
which is his message. In particular, students of Northern literature
cannot afford to know no more than the name of one who exerted a
potent and energizing influence on an important epoch of Scandinavian
thought. To mention only one instance, the greatest ethical poem of our
age, "Brand"--notwithstanding Ibsen's curt statement that he
"had read little of Kierkegaard and understood less"--undeniably
owes its fundamental thought to him, whether directly or indirectly.


Of very few authors can it be said with the same literalness
as, of Kierkegaard that their life is their works: as if to furnish
living proof of his untiring insistance on inwardness, his life, like
that of so many other spiritual educators of the race, is notably poor
in incidents; but his life of inward experiences is all the
richer--witness the "literature within a literature" that came to
be within a few years and that gave to Danish letters a score of
immortal works.

Kierkegaard's physical heredity must be pronounced unfortunate.
Being the child of old parents--his father was fifty-seven,
his mother forty-five years at his birth (May 5, 1813), he had a weak
physique and a feeble constitution. Still worse, he inherited from his
father a burden of melancholy  which he took a sad pride in masking
under a show of sprightliness. His father, Michael Pedersen Kierkegaard,
had begun life as a poor cotter's boy in West Jutland, where he was
set to tend the sheep on the wild moorlands. One day, we are told,
oppressed by loneliness and cold, he ascended a hill and in a passionate
rage cursed God who had given him this miserable existence--the
memory of which "sin against the Holy Ghost" he was not able to
shake off to the end of his long life[2]. When seventeen years
old, the gifted lad was sent to his uncle in Copenhagen, who
was a well-to-do dealer in woolens and groceries. Kierkegaard
quickly established himself in the trade and amassed a considerable
fortune. This enabled him to withdraw from active life when only
forty, and to devote himself to philosophic studies, the leisure
for which life had till then denied him. More especially he seems
to have studied the works of the rationalistic philosopher Wolff.
After the early death of his first wife who left him no issue, he
married a former servant in his household, also of Jutish stock,
who bore him seven children. Of these only two survived him, the
oldest son--later bishop--Peder Christian, and the youngest son,
Sören Åbye.

Nowhere does Kierkegaard speak of his mother, a woman of simple
mind and cheerful disposition; but he speaks all the more often of his
father, for whom he ever expressed the greatest love and admiration and
who, no doubt, devoted himself largely to the education of his sons,
particularly  to that of his latest born. Him he was to mould in his own
image. A pietistic, gloomy spirit of religiosity pervaded the household
in which the severe father was undisputed master, and absolute obedience
the watchword. Little Sören, as he himself tells us, heard more of the
Crucified and the martyrs than of the Christ-child and good angels. Like
John Stuart Mill, whose early education bears a remarkable resemblance
to his, he "never had the joy to be a child." Although less
systematically held down to his studies, in which religion was the
be-all and end-all (instead of being banished, as was the case with
Mill), he was granted but a minimum of out-door play and exercise. And,
instead of  strengthening the feeble body, his father threw the whole
weight of his melancholy on the boy.

Nor was his home training, formidably abstract, counterbalanced
by a normal, healthy school-life. Naturally introspective and shy, both
on account of a slight deformity of his body and on account of the
old-fashioned clothes his father made him wear, he had no boy friends;
and when cuffed by his more robust contemporaries, he could defend
himself only with his biting sarcasm. Notwithstanding his early maturity
he does not seem to have impressed either his schoolmates or his
teachers by any gifts much above the ordinary. The school he attended
was one of those semi-public schools which by strict discipline and
consistent methods laid a solid foundation of humanities and mathematics
for those who were to enter upon a professional  career. The natural
sciences played noddle whatever.

Obedient to the wishes of his father, Sören chose the study of
theology, as had his eldest brother; but, once relieved  from the grind
of school at the age of seventeen, he rejoiced in the full liberty of
university life, indulging himself  to his heart's content in all the
refined intellectual and æsthetic enjoyments the gay capital of
Copenhagen offered. He declares himself in later years to be "one who
is penitent" for having in his youth plunged into all kinds of excesses;
but we feel reasonably sure that he committed no excesses worse than
"high living." He was frequently seen at the opera and the theatre,
spent money freely in restaurants and confectionary shops, bought
many and expensive books, dressed well, and indulged in such
extravagances as driving in a carriage and pair, alone, for days
through the fields and forests of the lovely island of Zealand. In
fact, he contracted considerable debts, so that his disappointed
father decided to put him on an allowance of 500 rixdollars
yearly--rather a handsome sum, a hundred years ago.

Naturally, little direct progress was made in his studies. But
while to all appearances aimlessly dissipating his energies, he showed
a pronounced love for philosophy and kindred disciplines. He lost no
opportunity then offered at the University of Copenhagen to train his
mind along these lines. He heard the sturdily independent Sibbern's
lectures on æsthetics and enjoyed a "privatissimum" on the main issues
of Schleiermacher's Dogmatics with his later enemy, the theologian
Martensen, author of the celebrated "Christian Dogmatics."

But there was no steadiness in him. Periods of indifference to these
studies alternated with feverish activity, and doubts of the truth of
Christianity, with bursts of devotion. However, the Hebraically stern
cast of mind of the externally gay student soon wearied of this
rudderless existence. He sighs for an "Archimedean" point of support for
his conduct of life. We find the following entry in his diary, which
prophetically foreshadows some of the fundamental ideas of his later
career: "...what I really need is to arrive at a clear comprehension of
what I  am to do, not of what I am to grasp with my understanding,
except insofar as this understanding is necessary for every action. The
point is, to comprehend what I am called to do, to see what the Godhead
really means that I shall do, to find a truth which is truth for me, to
find the idea for which I am willing to live and to die..."

This Archimedean point was soon to be furnished him. There came a
succession of blows, culminating in the death of his father, whose
silent disapprobation had long been weighing heavily on the conscience
of the wayward son. Even more awful, perhaps, was a revelation made by
the dying father to his sons, very likely touching that very "sin
against the Holy Ghost" which he had committed in his boyhood and the
consequence of which he now was to lay on them as a curse, instead of
his blessing. Kierkegaard calls it "the great earthquake, the terrible
upheaval, which suddenly forced on me a new and infallible interpretation
of all phenomena." He began to suspect that he had been chosen by
Providence for an extraordinary purpose; and with his abiding filial
piety he interprets his father's death; as the last of many sacrifices
he made for him; "for he died, not away from me, but for me, so that
there might yet, perchance, become something of me." Crushed by this
thought, and through the "new interpretation" despairing of happiness
in this life, he clings to the thought of his unusual intellectual
powers as his only consolation and a means by which his salvation
might be accomplished. He quickly absolved his examination for
ordination (ten years after matriculation) and determined on his
magisterial dissertation[3].

Already some years before he had made a not very successful debut
in the world of letters with a pamphlet whose queer title "From the
MSS. of One Still Living" reveals Kierkegaard's inborn love of
mystification and innuendo. Like a Puck of philosophy, with somewhat
awkward bounds and a callow manner, he had there teased the worthies of
his times; and, in particular, taken a good fall out of Hans Christian
Andersen, the poet of the Fairy Tales, who had aroused his indignation
by describing in somewhat lachrymose fashion the struggles of genius to
come into its own. Kierkegaard himself was soon to show the truth of
his own dictum that "genius does not whine but like a thunderstorm goes
straight counter to the wind."

While casting about for a subject worthy of a more sustained
effort--he marks out for study the legends of Faust, of the
Wandering Jew, of Don Juan, as representatives of certain basic views
of life; the Conception of Satire among the Ancients, etc.,
etc.,--he at last becomes aware of his affinity with Socrates,
in whom he found that rare harmony between theory and the conduct of
life which he hoped to attain himself.

Though not by Kierkegaard himself counted among the works bearing on
the "Indirect Communication"--presently to be explained--his
magisterial dissertation, entitled "The Conception of Irony, with
Constant Reference to Socrates," a book of 300 pages, is of crucial
importance. It shows that, helped by the sage who would not directly
help any one, he had found the master key: his own interpretation of
life. Indeed, all the following literary output may be regarded as the
consistent development of the simple directing thoughts of his firstling
work. And we must devote what may seem a disproportionate amount of
space to the explanation of these thoughts if we would enter into
the world of his mind.

Not only did Kierkegaard feel kinship with Socrates. It did not
escape him that there was an ominous similarity between Socrates'
times and his own--between the period of flourishing Attica,
eminent in the arts and in philosophy, when a little familiarity with
the shallow phrases of the Sophists enabled one to have an opinion
about everything on earth and in heaven, and his own Copenhagen in the
thirties of the last century, when Johan Ludvig Heiberg had popularized
Hegelian philosophy with such astonishing success that the very cobblers
were using the Hegelian terminology,  with "Thesis, Antithesis, and
Synthesis," and one could get instructions from one's barber, while
being shaved, how to "harmonize the ideal with reality, and our wishes
with what we have attained." Every difficulty could be "mediated,"
according to this recipe. And just as the great questioner of Athens
gave pause to his more naïve contemporaries by his "know thyself,"
so Kierkegaard insisted that he must rouse his contemporaries from
their philosophic complacency and unwarranted optimism, and move,
them to realize that the spiritual life has both mountain and valley,
that it is no flat plain easy to travel. He intended to show difficulties
where the road had been supposedly smoothed for them.

Central, both in the theory and in the practice of Socrates
(according to Kierkegaard), is his irony. The ancient sage would
stop old and young and quizz them skilfully on what they regarded as
common and universally established propositions, until his interlocutor
became confused by some consequence or contradiction arising
unexpectedly, and until he who had been sure of his knowledge was made
to confess his ignorance, or even to become distrustful of the
possibility of knowledge. Destroying supposedly positive values, this
method would seem to lead to a negative result only.

Kierkegaard makes less (and rather too little) of the positive side
of Socrates' method, his _maieutic_, or midwifery, by which we
are led inductively from trivial instances to a new definition of a
conception, a method which will fit all cases. Guided by a lofty
personality, this Socratic irony becomes, in Kierkegaard's definition,
merely "the negative liberation of subjectivity"; that is, not the
family, nor society, nor the state, nor any rules superimposed from
outside, but one's innermost self (or subjectivity) is to be the
determining factor in one's life. And understood thus, irony as a
negative element borders on the ethical conception of life.

Romantic irony, on the other hand, laying main stress on subjective
liberty, represents the æsthetic conduct of life. It was, we remember,
the great demand of the Romantic period that one live poetically. That
is, after having reduced all reality to possibilities, all existence to
fragments, we are to choose _ad libitum_ one such possible existence,
to consider that one's proper sphere, and for the rest to look
ironically on all other reality as philistine. Undeniably, this license,
through the infinitude of possibilities open to him, gives the ironist
an enthusiastic sense of irresponsible freedom in which he "disports
himself as does Leviathan in the deep." Again, the "æsthetical
individual" is ill at ease in the world into which he is born. His
typical ailment is a Byronesque _Weltschmerz._ He would fain mould
the elements of existence to suit himself; that, is, "compose" not
only himself but also his surroundings. But without fixed task and
purpose, life will soon lose all continuity ("except that of boredom")
and fall apart into disconnected moods and impulses. Hence, while
supposing himself a superman, free, and his own master, the æsthetic
individual is, in reality, a slave to the merest accidents. He is not
self-directed, self-propelled; but--drifts.

Over against this attitude Kierkegaard now sets the ethical,
Christian life, one with a definite purpose and goal beyond itself.
"It is one thing to compose one's own life, another, to let one's life
be composed. The Christian lets his life be composed; and insofar a
simple Christian lives far more poetically than many a genius." It
would hardly be possible to characterize the contents of Kierkegaard's
first great book, _Enten-Eller_ "Either-Or," more inclusively
and tersely.

Very well, then, the Christian life, with its clear directive, is
superior to the æsthetic existence. But how is this: are we not all
Christians in Christendom, children of Christians, baptized and
confirmed according to the regulations of the Church? And are we
not all to be saved according to the promise of Our Lord who died for
us? At a very early time Kierkegaard, himself desperately struggling to
maintain his Christian faith against doubts, had his eyes opened to this
enormous delusion of modern times and was preparing to battle against
it. The great idea and task for which he was to live and to die--here
it was: humanity is in apparent possession of the divine truth, but
utterly perverts it and, to cap injury with insult, protects and
intrenches the deception behind state sanction and institutions. More
appalling evil confronted not even the early protagonists of
Christianity against heathendom. How was he, single-handed,
magnificently gifted though he was, to cleanse the temple and restore
its pristine simplicity?

Clearly, the old mistake must not be repeated, to try to influence
and reform the masses by a vulgar and futile "revival," preaching to
them directly and gaining disciples innumerable. It would only lead
again, to the abomination of a lip service. But a ferment must be
introduced which--he hoped--would gradually restore Christianity to
its former vigor; at least in individuals. So far as the form of his
own works is concerned he was thus bound to use the "indirect method"
of Socrates whom he regards as his teacher. In conscious opposition to
the Sophists who sold their boasted wisdom for money, Socrates not
only made no charges for his instruction but even warned people of his
ignorance, insisting that, like a midwife, he only helped people to
give birth to their own thoughts. And owing to his irony Socrates'
relation to his disciples was not in any positive sense a personal one.
Least of all did he wish to found a new "school" or erect a philosophic
"system."

Kierkegaard, with Christianity as his goal, adopted the same
tactics. By an attractive æsthetic beginning people were to be "lured"
into envisaging the difficulties to be unfolded presently, to think for
themselves, to form their own conclusions, whether for or against. The
individual was to be appealed to, first and last--the individual,
no matter how humble, who would take the trouble to follow him and
be his reader, "my only reader, the single individual. So the
religious author must make it his first business to put himself in touch
with men. That is to say, he must begin æsthetically. The more brilliant
his performance, the better." And then, when he has got them to follow
him "he must produce the religious categories so that these same men
with all the impetus of their devotion to æsthetic things are suddenly
brought up sharp against the religious aspect." The writer's own
personality was to be entirely eliminated by a system of pseudonyms;
for the effect of his teaching was not to be jeopardized by a
distracting knowledge of his personality. Accordingly, in conscious
imitation of Socrates, Kierkegaard at first kept up a semblance of his
previous student life, posing as a frivolous idler on the streets of
Copenhagen, a witty dog incapable of prolonged serious activity; thus
anxiously guarding the secret of his feverish activity during the lonely
hours of the night.


His campaign of the "indirect communication" was thus fully
determined upon; but there was still lacking the impetus of an elemental
passion to start it and give it driving force and conquering persistence.
This also was to be furnished him.

Shortly before his father's death he had made the acquaintance of
Regine Olson, a beautiful young girl of good family. There followed one
of the saddest imaginable engagements. The melancholy, and essentially
lonely, thinker may not at first have entertained the thought of a
lasting attachment; for had he not, on the one hand, given up all
hope of worldly happiness, and on the other, begun to think of himself
as a chosen tool of heaven not to be bound by the ordinary ties of
human affection? But the natural desire to be as happy as others and to
live man's common lot, for a moment hushed all anxious scruples. And
the love of the brilliant and promising young man with the deep,
sad eyes and the flashing wit was ardently returned by her.

Difficulties arose very soon. It was not so much the extreme youth
and immaturity of the girl--she was barely sixteen--as against his
tremendous mental development, or even her "total lack of religious
pre-suppositions"; for that might not itself have precluded a happy
union. Vastly more ominous was his own unconquerable and overwhelming
melancholy. She could not break it. And struggle as he might, he
could not banish it. And, he reasoned, even if he were successful
in concealing it from her, the very concealment were a deceit. Neither
would he burden her with his melancholy by revealing it to her.
Besides, some mysterious ailment which, with Paul, he terms the "thorn
in his flesh," tormented him. The fact that he consulted a physician
makes it likely that it was bodily, and perhaps sexual. On the other
hand, the manner of Kierkegaard's multitudinous references to woman
removes the suspicion of any abnormality. The impression remains that
at the bottom of his trouble there lay his melancholy, aggravated
admittedly by an "insane education," and coupled with an exaggerated
sense of a misspent youth. That nothing else prevented the union
is clear from his own repeated later remarks that, with more faith,
he would have married her.

Though to the end of his life he never ceased to love her, he
feels that they must part. But she clings to him with a rather maudlin
devotion, which, to be sure, only increased his determination. He
finally hit on the desperate device of pretending frivolous indifference
to her affections, and acted this sad comedy with all the dialectic
subtleness of his genius, until she eventually released him. Then,
after braving for a while the philistine indignation of public opinion
and the disapproval of his friends, in order to confirm her in her bad
opinion of him, he fled to Berlin with shattered nerves and a bleeding
heart.

He had deprived himself of what was dearest to him in life. For
all that, he knew that the foundations of his character remained
unshaken. The voluntary renunciation of a worldly happiness which
was his for the taking intensifies his idea of being one of the "few
in each generation selected to be a sacrifice." Thereafter, "his thought
is all to him," and all his gifts are devoted to the service of God.


During the first half of the nineteenth century, more than at any
other time, Denmark was an intellectual dependency of Germany. It
was but natural that Kierkegaard, in search for the ultimate verities,
should resort to Berlin where Schelling was just then beginning his
famous course of lectures. In many respects it may be held deplorable
that, at a still formative stage, Kierkegaard should have remained in
the prosaic capital of Prussia and have been influenced by bloodless
abstractions; instead of journeying to France, or still better, to
England whose empiricism would, no doubt, have been an excellent
corrective of his excessive tendency to speculation. In fact he was
quickly disappointed with Schelling and after four months returned
to his beloved Copenhagen (which he was not to leave thereafter
except for short periods), with his mind still busy on the problems
which were peculiarly his own. The tremendous impulse given by his
unfortunate engagement was sufficient to stimulate his sensitive mind
to a productivity without equal in Danish literature, to create a
"literature within a literature." The fearful inner collision
of motives had lit an inner conflagration which did not die down for
years. "My becoming an author is due chiefly to her, my melancholy,
and my money."

About a year afterwards (1843) there appeared his first great work,
"Either-Or," which at once established his fame. As in the case of most
of his works it will be impossible to give here more than the barest
outline of its plan and contents. In substance, it is a grand debate
between the æsthetic and the ethic views of life. In his dissertation
Kierkegaard had already characterized the æsthetic point of view. Now,
in a brilliant series of articles, he proceeds' to exemplify it with
exuberant detail.

The fundamental chord of the first part is struck in the _Diapsalmata_
aphorisms which, like so many flashes of a lantern, illuminate
the æsthetic life, its pleasures and its despair. The æsthetic
individual--this is brought out in the article entitled "The Art of
Rotation"--wishes to be the exception in human society, shirking its
common, humble duties and claiming special privileges. He has no fixed
principle except that he means not to be bound to anything or anybody.
He has but one desire which is, to enjoy the sweets of life--whether
its purely sensual pleasures or the more refined Epicureanism of the
finer things in life and art, and the ironic enjoyment of one's own
superiority over the rest of humanity; and he has no fear except that
he may succumb to boredom.

As a comment on this text there follow a number of essays in
"experimental psychology," supposed to be the fruit of the æsthete's
(A's) leisure. In them the æsthetic life is exhibited in its various
manifestations, in "terms of existence," especially as to its "erotic
stages," from the indefinite longings of the Page to the fully conscious
"sensual genius" of Don Juan--the examples are taken from Mozart's
opera of this name, which was Kierkegaard's favorite--until the
whole culminates in the famous "Diary of the Seducer," containing
elements of the author's own engagement, poetically disguised--a
seducer, by the way, of an infinitely reflective kind.

Following this climax of unrestrained æstheticism we hear in the
second part the stern demands of the ethical life. Its spokesman, Judge
William, rises in defense of the social institutes, and of marriage in
particular, against the slurs cast on them by his young friend A. He
makes it clear that the only possible outcome of the æsthetic life,
with its aimlessness, its superciliousness, its vague possibilities,
is a feeling of vanity and vexation of spirit, and a hatred of life
itself: despair. One floundering in this inevitable slough of despond,
who earnestly wishes to escape from it and to save himself from the
ultimate destruction of his personality, must choose and determine to
rise into the ethical sphere. That is, he must elect a definite calling,
no matter how humdrum, marry, if possible, and thus subject himself
to the "general law." In a word, instead of a world of vague
possibilities, however attractive, he must choose the definite
circumscription of the individual who is a member of society. Only
thus will he obtain a balance in his life between the demands of his
personality on the one hand, and of the demands of society on him.
When thus reconciled to his environment--his "lot"--all the
pleasures of the æsthetic sphere which he resigned will be his again
in rich measure, but in a transfigured sense.

Though nobly eloquent in places, and instinct with warm feeling,
this panegyric on marriage and the fixed duties of life is somewhat
unconvincing, and its style undeniably tame and unctious--at
least when contrasted with the Satanic verve of most of A's papers.
The fact is that Kierkegaard, when considering the ethical sphere, in
order to carry out his plan of contrasting it with the æsthetic sphere,
was already envisaging the higher sphere of religion, to which the
ethical sphere is but a transition, and which is the only true
alternative to the æsthetic life. At the very end of the book
Kierkegaard, flying his true colors, places a sermon  as an "ultimatum,"
purporting to have been written by a pastor on the Jutish Heath. Its
text is that "as against God we are always in the wrong," and the tenor
of it, "only that truth which edifies is truth for you." It is not that
you must choose either the æsthetic or the ethical view of life; but
that neither the one nor the other is the full truth--God alone is the
truth which must be grasped with all inwardness. But since we recognize
our imperfections, or sins, the more keenly, as we are developed more
highly, our typical relation to God must be that of repentance; and by
repentance as by a step we may rise into the higher sphere of
religion--as will be seen, a purely Christian thought.

A work of such powerful originality, imposing by its very size, and
published at the anonymous author's own expense,  could not but create
a stir among the small Danish reading public. And notwithstanding
Kierkegaard's consistent efforts to conceal his authorship in the
interest of his "indirect communication," it could not long remain a
secret. The book was much, and perplexedly, discussed, though no one
was able to fathom the author's real aim, most readers being attracted
by piquant subjects such as the "Diary of the Seducer," and regarding
the latter half as a feeble afterthought. As he said himself: "With my
left hand I held out to the world 'Either-Or,' with my right, 'Two
Edifying Discourses'; but they all--or practically all--seized
with their right hands what I held in my left."

These "Two Edifying Discourses[4]"--for thus he preferred to call
them, rather than sermons, because he claimed no authority to
preach--as well as all the many later ones, were published over
his own name, addressed to Den Enkelte "The Single Individual whom
with joy and gratitude he calls his reader," and were dedicated to the
memory of his father. They belong among the noblest books of
edification, of which the North has not a few.

During the following three years (1843-5) Kierkegaard, once roused
to productivity, though undoubtedly kept at his task by the exertion of
marvelous will-power, wrote in quick succession some of his most
notable works--so original  in form, in thought, in content that
it is a well-nigh hopeless task to analyze them to any satisfaction.
All we can do here is to note the development in them of the one grand
theme which is fundamental to all his literary activity: how to become
a Christian.

If the second part of "Either-Or" was devoted to an explanation of
the nature of the ethical, as against the æsthetic, conduct of life,
inevitably the next task was, first, to define the nature of the
religious life, as against the merely ethical life; then, to show how
the religious sphere may be attained. This is done in the brilliant twin
books _Frygt og Baeven_ "Fear and Trembling" and _Gjentagelsen_
"Repetition." Both were published over pseudonyms.

"Fear and Trembling" bears as its subtitle "Dialectic Lyrics."
Indeed, nowhere perhaps is Kierkegaard's strange union of dialectic
subtlety and intense lyrical power and passion so strikingly in evidence
as in this panegyric on Abraham, the father of faith. To Kierkegaard
he is the shining exemplar of the religious life; and his greatest act
of faith, his obedience to God's command to slay Isaac. Nothing can
surpass the eloquence with which he depicts the agony of the father,
his struggle between the ethical, or general, law which, saith "thou
shalt no kill"! and God's specific command. In the end, Abraham by a
grand resolve transgresses the law; and lo! because he has faith,
against certainty, that he will keep Isaac, and does not merely resign
him, as many a tragic hero would have done, he receives all again, in
a new and higher sphere. In other words, Abraham chooses to be "the
exception" and set aside the general law, as well as does the æsthetic
individual; but, note well: "in fear and trembling," and at the express
command of God! He is a "knight of faith." But because this direct
relation to the divinity necessarily can be certain only to Abraham's
self, his action is altogether incomprehensible to others. Reason
recoils before the absolute paradox of the individual who chooses
to rise superior to the general law.

The rise into the religious sphere is always likely to be the outcome
of some severe inner conflict engendering infinite passion. In the
splendidly written _Gjentagelse_ "Repetition" we are shown _ad oculos_
an abortive transition into the religious sphere, with a corresponding
relapse into the æsthetic sphere. Kierkegaard's own love-story is again
drawn upon: the "Young Person" ardently loves the woman; but discovers
to his consternation that she is in reality but a burden to him since,
instead of having an actual, living relation to her, he merely
"remembers" her when she is present. In the ensuing collision of motives
his æsthetically cool friend Constantin Constantius advises him to act
as one unworthy of her--as did Kierkegaard--and to forget her. But
instead of following this advice, and lacking a deeper religious
background, he flees the town and subsequently transmutes his trials
into poetry--that is, relapses into the æsthetic sphere: rather than,
like Job, whom he apostrophises passionately, "receiving all again"
(having all "repeated") in a higher sphere. This idea of the resumption
of a lower stage into a higher one is one of Kierkegaard's most original
and fertile thoughts. It is illustrated here with an amazing wealth of
instances.

So far, it had been a question of religious feeling in general--how it
may arise, and what its nature is. In the pivotal work _Philosophiske
Smuler_ "Philosophic Trifles"--note the irony--Kierkegaard throws
the searching rays of his penetrating intellect on the grand problem
of revealed religion: can one's eternal salvation be based on
an historical event? This is the great stumbling block to the
understanding.

Hegel's philosophic optimism maintained that the difficulties of
Christianity had been completely "reconciled" or "mediated" in the
supposedly higher synthesis of philosophy, by which process religion
had been reduced to terms which might be grasped by the intellect.
Kierkegaard, fully voicing the claim both of the intellect and of
religion, erects the barrier of the paradox, impassable except by
the act of faith. As will be seen, this is Tertullian's _Credo
quia absurdum._[5]

In the briefest possible outline his argument is as follows:
Socrates had taught that in reality every one had the truth in him
and needed but to be reminded of it by the teacher who thus is
necessary only in helping the disciple to discover it himself. That is
the indirect communication of the truth. But now suppose that the
truth is not innate in man, suppose he has merely the ability to
grasp it when presented to him. And suppose the teacher to be of
absolute, infinite importance--the Godhead himself, directly
communicating with man, revealing the truth in the shape of man; in
fact, as the lowliest of men, yet insisting on implicit belief in Him!
This, according to Kierkegaard, constitutes the paradox of faith
_par excellence._ But this paradox, he shows, existed for the
generation contemporaneous with Christ in the same manner as it does
for those living now. To think that faith was an easier matter for
those who saw the Lord and walked in His blessed company is but a
sentimental, and fatal, delusion. On the other hand, to found one's
faith on the glorious results, now evident, of Christ's appearance in
the world is sheer thoughtlessness and blasphemy. With ineluctable
cogency it follows that "there can be no disciple at second hand."
Now, as well as "1800 years ago," whether in Heathendom or in
Christendom, faith is born of the same conditions: the resolute
acceptance by the individual of the absolute paradox.

In previous works Kierkegaard had already intimated that what
furnished man the impetus to rise into the highest sphere and to
assail passionately and incessantly the barrier of the paradox, or else
caused him to lapse into "demonic despair," was the consciousness of
sin. In the book _Begrebet Angest_ "The Concept of Sin," he now
attempts with an infinite and laborious subtlety to explain the nature
of sin. Its origin is found in the "sympathetic antipathy" of
Dread--that force which at one and the same time attracts and
repels from the suspected danger of a fall and is present even in the
state of innocence, in children. It finally results in a kind of
"dizziness" which is fatal. Yet, so Kierkegaard contends, the "fall"
of man is, in every single instance, due to a definite act of the will,
a "leap"--which seems a patent contradiction.

To the modern reader, this is the least palatable of Kierkegaard's
works, conceived as it is with a sovereign and almost medieval
disregard of the predisposing undeniable factors of environment and
heredity (which, to be sure, poorly fit his notion of the absolute
responsibility of the individual). Its somberness is redeemed, to a
certain degree, by a series of marvelous observations, drawn from
history and literature, on the various phases and manifestations
of Dread in human life.

On the same day as the book just discussed there appeared, as a
"counter-irritant," the hilariously exuberant _Forord_ "Forewords,"
a collection of some eight playful but vicious attacks, in the form of
prefaces, on various foolish manifestations of Hegelianism in Denmark.
They are aimed chiefly at the high-priest of the "system," the poet
Johan Ludvig Heiberg who, as the _arbiter elegantiarum_ of the
times had presumed to review, with a plentiful lack of insight,
Kierkegaard's activity. But some of the most telling shots are fired at
a number of the individualist Kierkegaard's pet aversions.

His next great work, _Stadier paa Livets Vei_ "Stages on
Life's Road," forms a sort of resume of the results so far gained.
The three "spheres" are more clearly elaborated.

The æsthetic sphere is represented existentially by the incomparable
_In Vino Veritas_, generally called "The Banquet," from a purely
literary point of view the most perfect of Kierkegaard's works, which,
if written in one of the great languages of Europe, would have procured
him world fame. Composed in direct emulation of Plato's immortal
Symposion, it bears comparison with it as well as any modern composition
can.[6] Indeed, it excels Plato's work in subtlety, richness, and
refined humor. To be sure, Kierkegaard has charged his creation with
such romantic super-abundance of delicate observations and rococo
ornament that the whole comes dangerously near being improbable;
whereas the older work stands solidly in reality.

It is with definite purpose that the theme of the speeches of the
five participants in the banquet is love, i.e., the relation of the two
sexes in love; for it is there the main battle between the æsthetic and
the ethical view of life must be fought out. Accordingly, Judge William,
to whom the last idyllic pages of "The Banquet" again introduce us, in
the second part breaks another shaft in defense of marriage, which in
the ethical view of life is the typical realization of the "general
law." Love exists also for the ethical individual. In fact, love and no
other consideration whatsoever can justify marriage. But whereas to the
æsthetic individual love is merely eroticism, viz., a passing
self-indulgence without any obligation, the ethical individual attaches
to himself the woman of his choice by an act of volition, for better or
for worse, and by his marriage vow incurs an obligation to society.
Marriage is thus a synthesis of love and duty. A pity only that
Kierkegaard's astonishingly low evaluation of woman utterly mars
what would otherwise be a classic defense of marriage.

The religious sphere is shown forth in the third part,
_Skyldig--Ikke-Skyldig_ "Guilty--Not-Guilty," with the apt subtitle
"A History of Woe." Working over, for the third time, and in the most
intense fashion, his own unsuccessful attempt to "realize the general
law," i.e., by marrying, he here presents in the form of a diary the
essential facts of his own engagement, but in darker colors than in
"Repetition." It is broken because of religious incompatibility
and the lover's unconquerable melancholy; and by his voluntary
renunciation, coupled with acute suffering through his sense of guilt
for his act, he is driven up to an approximation of the religious
sphere. Not unjustly, Kierkegaard himself regarded this as the richest
of his works.

One may say that "Guilty--Not-Guilty" corresponds to Kierkegaard's
own development at this stage. Christianity is still above him. How
may it be attained? This is the grand theme of the huge book
whimsically named "Final Unscientific Postscript to the Philosophical
Trifles," _Afsluttende Uvidenskabelig Efterskrift_ (1846): "How
shall I become a Christian, I, Johannes Climacus, born in this city,
thirty years of age, and not in any way different from the ordinary
run of men"?

Following up the results gained in the "Trifles," the subjectivity
of faith is established once for all: it is not to be attained by
swearing to any set of dogmas, not even Scripture; for who will vouch
for its being an absolutely reliable and inspired account of Christ?
Besides, as Lessing had demonstrated conclusively: historic facts never
can become the proof of eternal verities. Nor can the existence of the
Church through the ages furnish any guarantee for faith--straight
counter to the opinion, held by Kierkegaard's famous contemporary
Grundtvig--any more than can mere contemporaneousness establish
a guarantee for those living at the beginning. To sum up: "One who has
an objective Christianity and nothing else, he is _eo ipso_ a
heathen." For the same reason, "philosophic speculation" is not the
proper approach, since it seeks to understand Christianity objectively,
as an historic phenomenon--which rules it out from the start.

It is only by a decisive "leap," from objective thinking into
subjective faith, with the consciousness of sin as the driving power,
that the individual may realize (we would say, attain) Christianity. Nor
is it gained once for all, but must ever be maintained by passionately
assailing the paradox of faith, which is, that one's eternal salvation
is based on an historic fact. The main thing always is the "how,"
not the "what." Kierkegaard goes so far as to say that he who with
fervency and inwardness prays to some false god is to be preferred
to him who worships the true god, but without the passion of devotion.

In order to prevent any misunderstanding about the manner of
presentation in this remarkable book, it will be well to add
Kierkegaard's own remark after reading a conscientious German review of
his "Trifles": "Although the account given is correct, every one who
reads it will obtain an altogether incorrect impression of the book;
because the account the critic gives is in the _ex cathedra style_
(docerende), which will produce on the reader the impression
that the book is written in a like manner. But this is in my eyes the
worst misconception possible." And as to its peculiar conversational,
entertaining manner which in the most leisurely, legère fashion and in
an all but dogmatic style treats of the profoundest problems, it is well
to recall the similarly popular manner of Pascal in his _Lettres
Provinciales._ Like him--and his grand prototype Socrates--Kierkegaard
has the singular faculty of attacking the most abstruse matters with
a chattiness bordering on frivolity, yet without ever losing dignity.


For four and a half years Kierkegaard had now, notwithstanding
his feeble health, toiled feverishly and, as he himself states,
without even a single day's remission. And "the honorarium had been
rather Socratic": all of his books had been brought out at his own
expense, and their sale had been, of course, small. (Of the "Final
Postscript," e.g., which had cost him between 500 and 600 rixdollars,
only 60 copies were sold). Hardly any one had understood what the
purpose of this "literature" was. He himself had done, with the utmost
exertion and to the best of his ability, what he set out to do: to show
his times, which had assumed that being a Christian is an easy enough
matter, how unspeakably difficult a matter it really is and what terribly
severe demands it makes on natural man. He now longed for rest
and seriously entertained the plan of bringing his literary career to
a close and spending the remainder of his days as a pastor of some
quiet country parish, there to convert his philosophy into terms of
practical existence. But this was not to be. An incident which would
seem ridiculously small to a more robust nature sufficed to inflict on
Kierkegaard's sensitive mind the keenest tortures and thus to sting
him into a renewed and more passionate literary activity.

As it happened, the comic paper _Korsaren_ "The Corsair" was then
at the heyday of its career. The first really democratic periodical
in Denmark, it stood above party lines and through its malicious,
brilliant satire and amusing caricatures of prominent personalities
was hated, feared, and enjoyed by everybody. Its editor, the Jewish
author Meir Goldschmidt, was a warm and outspoken admirer of the
philosopher. Kierkegaard, on the other hand, had long regarded
the Press with suspicion. He loathed it because it gave expression
to, and thus subtly flattered, the multitude, "the public,"
"the mob"--as against the individual, and because it worked with
the terrible weapon of anonymity; but held it especially dangerous by
reason of its enormous circulation and daily repetition of mischievous
falsehoods. So it seemed to him who ever doubted the ability of the
"people" to think for themselves. In a word, the Press is to him "the
evil principle in the modern world." Needless to say, the tactics of
"The Corsair," in particular, infuriated him.

In a Christmas annual (1845) there had appeared a blundering
review, by one of the collaborators on "The Corsair," of his "Stages on
Life's Road." Seizing the opportunity offered, Kierkegaard wrote a
caustic rejoinder, adding the challenge: "Would that I now soon appear
in 'The Corsair.' It is really hard on a poor author to be singled out
in Danish literature by remaining the only one who is not abused in
it." We know now that Goldschmidt did his best in a private interview
to ward off a feud, but when rebuffed he turned the batteries of his
ridicule on the personality of his erstwhile idol. And for the better
part of a year the Copenhagen public was kept laughing and grinning
about the unequal trouser legs, the spindle shanks, the inseparable
umbrella, the dialectic propensities, of "Either-Or," as Kierkegaard came
to be called by the populace; for, owing to his peripatetic
habits--acquired in connection with the Indirect Communication--he
had long been a familiar figure on the streets of the capital. While
trying to maintain an air of indifference, he suffered the tortures
of the damned. In his Journal (several hundred of whose pages are
given over to reflections on this experience) we find exclamations
such as this one: "What is it to be roasted alive at a slow fire,
or to be broken on the wheel or, as they do in warm climates, to
be smeared with honey and put at the mercy of the insects--what
is that in comparison with this torture: to be grinned to death!"

There could be no thought now of retiring to a peaceful charge in
the country. That would have been fleeing from persecution. Besides,
unbeknown perhaps to himself, his pugnacity was aroused. While under
the influence of the "Corsair Feud" (as it is known in Danish
literature) he completes the booklet "A Literary Review." This was
originally intended as a purely æsthetic evaluation and appreciation
of the (then anonymous) author[7] of the _Hverdagshistorier_
"Commonplace Stories" that are praised by him for their thoughtful
bodying forth of a consistent view of life which--however different
from his own--yet commanded his respect. He now appended a series
of bitter reflections on the Present Times, paying his respects to the
Press, which he calls incomparably the worst offender in furnishing
people with cheap irony, in forcibly levelling out and reducing to
mediocrity all those who strive to rise above it intellectually--words
applicable, alas! no less to our own times. To him, however, who in a
religious sense has become the captain of his soul, the becoming a
butt of the Press is but a true test. Looking up, Kierkegaard sees in
his own fate the usual reward accorded by mankind to the courageous
souls who dare to fight for the truth, for the ideal--for Christianity,
against the "masses." In a modern way, through ridicule, he was
undergoing the martyrdom which the blood witnesses of old had
undergone for the sake of their faith. Their task it had been to
preach the Gospel among the heathen. His, he reasoned, was in nowise
easier: to make clear to uncomprehending millions of so-called
Christians that they were not Christians at all, that they did not even
know what Christianity is: suffering and persecution, as he now
recognizes, being inseparable from the truly Christian life.

First, then, the road had to be cleared, emphatically, for the
truth that Christianity and "the public" are opposite terms. The
collection of "Edifying Discourses in Diverse Spirits" is thus a
religious parallel to the polemic in his "Review." The first part
of these meditations has for its text: "The purity of the
heart consists in willing one thing"--and this one thing is
necessarily the good, the ideal; but only he who lives his life as
the individual can possibly will the good--else it is lived in
duplicity, for the world will share his aspirations, he will bid for the
rewards which the bowing before the crowd can give him. In the second
part, entitled "What we may learn from the Lilies of the Field and the
Birds of the Air"--one of Kierkegaard's favorite texts--the
greatest danger to the ethic-religious life is shown to be the
uneasiness about our material welfare which insidiously haunts our
thought-life, and, notwithstanding our best endeavors, renders us
essentially slaves to "the crowd"; whereas it is given to man, created
in the image of God, to be as self-contained, unafraid, hopeful as
are (symbolically) the lily and the bird. The startlingly new
development attained through his recent experiences is most evident
in the third part, "The Gospel of Sufferings," in which absolute stress
is laid on the imitation of Christ in the strictest sense. Only the
"individual" can compass this: the narrow way to salvation must be
traveled alone; and will lead to salvation only if the world is,
literally, overcome in persecution and tribulation. And, on the other
hand, to be happy in this world is equivalent to forfeiting salvation.
Thus briefly outlined, the contents of this book would seem to be sheer
monkish asceticism; but no synopsis, however full, can hope to give
an idea of its lyrical pathos, its wealth of tender reflections,
the great love tempering the stern severity of its teaching.

With wonderful beauty "The Deeds of Love" (_Kjerlighedens
Gjerninger_) (1847) are exalted as the Christian's help and
salvation against the tribulations of the world--love, not indeed
of the human kind, but of man through God. "You are not concerned at
all with what others do to you, but only with what you do to others;
and also, with how you react to what others do to you--you are
concerned, essentially, only with yourself, before God."

In rapid succession there follow "Christian Discourses"; "The Lily
of the Field and the Bird of the Air"; "Sickness Unto Death"
(with the sub-title "A Christian Psychological Exposition"); "Two
Religious Treatises"; "The High Priest, the Publican, the Sinner";
"Three Discourses on the Occasion of Communion on Friday."

In the course of these reflections it had become increasingly
clear to Kierkegaard that the self-constituted representative of
Christ--the Church or, to mention only the organization he was
intimately acquainted with, the Danish State Church--had succeeded
in becoming a purely worldly organization whose representatives, far
from striving to follow Christ, had made life quite comfortable for
themselves; retort to which was presently made that by thus stressing
"contemporaneousness" with its aspects of suffering and persecution,
Kierkegaard had both exceeded the accepted teaching of the Church and
staked the attainment of Christianity so high as to drive all existing
forms of it _ad absurdum._

In his _lndövelse i Christendom_ "Preparation for a Christian
Life" and the somber _Til Selvprövelse_ "For a Self-Examination"
Kierkegaard returns to the attack with a powerful re-examination of the
whole question as to how far modern Christianity corresponds to that
of the Founder. Simply, but with grandiose power, he works out in
concrete instances the conception of "contemporaneousness" gained
in the "Final Postscript"; at the same time demonstrating to all who
have eyes to see, the axiomatic connection between the doctrine of
Propitiation and Christ's life in debasement; that Christianity consists
in absolutely dying to the world; and that the Christianity which does
not live up to this is but a travesty on Christianity. We may think what
we please about this counsel of perfection, and judge what we may about
the rather arbitrary choice of Scripture passages on which Kierkegaard
builds: no serious reader, no sincere Christian can escape the searching
of heart sure to follow this tremendous arraignment of humanity false
to its divine leader. There is nothing more impressive in all modern
literature than the gallery of "opinions" voiced by those arrayed
against Christ when on earth--and now--as to what constitutes the
"offense."


Kierkegaard had hesitated a long time before publishing the
"Preparation for a Christian Life." Authority-loving as he was, he
shrank from antagonizing the Church, as it was bound to do; and more
especially, from giving offense to its primate, the venerable Bishop
Mynster who had been his father's friend and spiritual adviser, to
whom he had himself always looked up with admiring reverence, and
whose sermons he had been in the habit of reading at all times. Also,
to be sure, he was restrained by the thought, that by publishing his
book he would render Christianity well-night unattainable to the weak
and the simple and the afflicted who certainly were in need of the
consolations of Christianity without any additional sufferings
interposed--and surely no reader of his devotional works can be in
doubt that he was the most tender-hearted of men. In earlier, stronger
times, he imagines, he would have been made a martyr for his opinions;
but was he entitled to become a blood-witness--he who realized
more keenly than any one that he himself was not a Christian in the
strictest sense? In his "Two Religious Treatises" he debates the
question: "Is it permissible for a man to let himself be killed for the
truth?"; which is answered in the negative in "About the Difference
between a Genius and an Apostle"--which consists in the Apostle's
speaking with authority. However, should not the truth be the most
important consideration? His journal during that time offers abundant
proof of the absolute earnestness with which he struggled over the
question.

When Kierkegaard finally published "The Preparation for a Christian
Life," the bishop was, indeed, incensed; but he did nothing. Nor did
any one else venture forth. Still worse affront! Kierkegaard had said
his last word, had stated his ultimatum--and it was received with
indifference, it seemed. Nevertheless he decided to wait and see
what effect his books would have for he hesitated to draw the
last conclusions and mortally wound the old man tottering on the
brink of his grave by thus attacking the Church. There followed a three
years' period of silence on the part of Kierkegaard--again
certainly a proof of his utter sincerity. It must be remembered, in
this connection, that the very last thing Kierkegaard desired was an
external reorganization, a "reform," of the Church--indeed, he
firmly refused to be identified with any movement of secession,
differing in this respect vitally from his contemporaries Vinet and
Grundtvig who otherwise had so much in common with him. His only
wish was to infuse life and inwardness into the existing forms. And far
from being inferior to them in this he was here at one with the Founder
and the Early Church in that he states the aim of the Christian
Life to be, not to transform the existing social order, but to transcend
it. For the very same reason, coupled to be sure with a pronounced
aristocratic individualism, he is utterly and unreasonably indifferent,
and even antagonistic, to the great social movements of his time, to
the political upheavals of 1848, to the revolutionary advances of
science.

As Kierkegaard now considered his career virtually concluded,
he wrote (1851) a brief account "About my Activity as an Author"
in which he furnishes his readers a key to its unfolding--from
an æsthetic view to the religious view--which he considers his
own education by Providence; and indicates it to be his special task to
call attention, without authority, to the religious, the Christian life.
His "Viewpoint for my Activity as an Author," published by his brother
only long after his death, likewise defines the purpose of the whole
"authorship," besides containing important biographical material.

At length (January, 1854) Mynster died. Even then Kierkegaard,
though still on his guard, might not have felt called upon to
have recourse to stronger measures if it had not been for an
unfortunate sentence in the funeral sermon preached by the now
famous Martensen--generally pointed out as the successor to the
primacy--with whom Kierkegaard had already broken a lance or two.
Martensen had declared Mynster to have been "one of the holy
chain of witnesses for the truth (_sandhedsvidner_) which extends through
the centuries down from the time of the Apostles." This is the
provocation for which Kierkegaard had waited. "Bishop Mynster a witness
for the truth"! he bursts out, "You who read this, you know well what
in a Christian sense is a witness for the truth. Still, let me remind
you that to be one, it is absolutely essential to suffer for the
teaching of Christianity"; whereas "the truth is that Mynster
was wordily-wise to a degree--was weak, pleasure-loving, and
great only as a declaimer." But once more--striking proof of his
circumspection and single-mindedness--he kept this harsh letter
in his desk for nine months, lest its publication should interfere in
the least with Martensen's appointment, or seem the outcome of
personal resentment.

Martensen's reply, which forcefully enough brings out all that could
be said for a milder interpretation of the Christian categories and for
his predecessor, was not as respectful to the sensitive author as it
ought to have been. In a number of newspaper letters of increasing
violence and acerbity Kierkegaard now tried to force his obstinately
silent opponent to his knees; but in vain. Filled with holy wrath at
what he conceived to be a conspiracy by silence, and evasions to bring
to naught the whole infinitely important matter for which he had
striven, Kierkegaard finally turned agitator. He addressed himself
directly to the people with the celebrated pamphlet series Öieblikket
"The Present Moment" in which he opens an absolutely withering
fire of invective on anything and everything connected with "the
existing order" in Christendom--an agitation the like of which for
revolutionary vehemence has rarely, if ever, been seen. All rites of the
Church--marriage, baptism, confirmation, communion, burial--and
most of all the clergy, high and low, draw the fiery bolts of his wrath
and a perfect hail of fierce, cruel invective. The dominant note, though
varied infinitely, is ever the same: "Whoever you may be, and whatever
the life you live, my friend: by omitting to attend the public
divine service--if indeed it be your habit to attend it--by
omitting, to attend public divine service as now constituted
(claiming as it does to represent the Christianity of the New Testament)
you will escape at least one, and a great, sin in not attempting to fool
God by calling that the Christianity of the New Testament which is not
the Christianity of the New Testament." And he does not hesitate
to use strong, even coarse, language; he even courts the reproach
of blasphemy in order to render ridiculous in "Official Christianity"
what to most may seem inherently, though mistakenly, a matter of
highest reverence.

The swiftness and mercilessness of his attack seem to have left
his contemporaries without a weapon: all they could do was to shrug
their shoulders about the "fanatic," or to duck and wait dumbly until
the storm had passed.

Nor did it last long. On the second of October, 1855, Kierkegaard
fell unconscious in the street. He was brought to the hospital where he
died on the eleventh of November, aged 42. The immense exertions of
the last months had shattered his frail body. And strange: the last of
his money had been used up. He had said what he thought Providence
had to communicate through him. His strength was gone. His death at
this moment would put the crown on his work. As he said on his
death-bed: "The bomb explodes, and the conflagration will follow."


In appraising Kierkegaard's life and works it will be found true,
as Hotfding says, that he can mean much even to those who do not
subscribe to the beliefs so unquestioningly entertained by him. And
however much they may regret that he poured his noble wine into the
old bottles, they cannot fail to recognize the yeoman's service he did,
both for sincere Christians in compelling them to rehearse inwardly
what ever tends to become a matter of form: what it means to be a
Christian; and for others, in deepening their sense of individual
responsibility. In fact, every one who has once come under his
influence and has wrestled with this mighty spirit will bear away
some blessing. In a time when, as in our own, the crowd, society,
the millions, the nation, had depressed the individual to an
insignificant atom--and what is worse, in the individual's own
estimation; when shallow altruistic, socializing effort thought
naively that the millenium was at hand, he drove the truth home
that, on the contrary, the individual is the measure of all things;
that we do not live en masse; that both the terrible responsibility
and the great satisfactions of life inhere in the individual.
Again, more forcibly than any one else in modern times, certainly
more cogently than Pascal, he demonstrated that the possibility
of proof in religion is an illusion; that doubt cannot be combatted
by reason, that it ever will be _credo quia impossibile._ In
religion, he showed the utter incompatibility of the æsthetic and
the religious life; and in Christianity, he re-stated and re-pointed
the principle of ideal perfection by his unremitting insistence
on contemporaneousness with Christ. It is another matter whether
by so doing Kierkegaard was about to pull the pillars from underneath
the great edifice of Christianity which housed both him and his
enemies: seeing that he himself finally doubted whether it had
ever existed apart from the Founder and, possibly, the Apostles.


Kierkegaard is not easy reading. One's first impression of crabbedness,
whimsicality, abstruseness will, however, soon give way to admiration
of the marvelous instrument of precision language has become in his
hands. To be sure, he did not write for people who are in a hurry,
nor for dullards. His closely reasoned paragraphs and, at times
huge, though rhetorically faultless, periods require concentrated
attention, his involutions and repetitions, handled with such
incomparable virtuosity, demand an everlasting readiness of
comprehension on the part of the reader. On the other hand his
philosophic work is delightfully "Socratic," unconventional, and
altogether "un-textbook-like." Kierkegaard himself wished that his
devotional works should be read aloud. And, from a purely æsthetic
point of view, it ought to be a delight for any orator to practice
on the wonderful periods of e. g., "The Preparation," or of,
say, the parable of the coach-horses in "Acts of the Apostles."
They alone would be sufficient to place Kierkegaard in the front rank
of prose writers of the nineteenth century  where, both by the power of
his utterance and the originality of his thought, he rightfully
belongs.

In laying before an English speaking public selections from
Kierkegaard's works, the translator has endeavored to give an
adequate idea of the various aspects of his highly disparate works.
For this purpose he has chosen a few large pieces, rather than given
tidbits. He hopes to be pardoned for not having a slavish regard for
Kierkegaard's very inconsequential paragraphing[8] and for breaking,
with no detriment, he believes, to the thought, some excessively
long paragraphs into smaller units; which will prove more restful
to the eye and more encouraging to the reader. As to occasional
omissions--always indicated by dots--the possessor of the complete
works will readily identify them. In consonance with Kierkegaard's
views on "contemporaneousness," no capitals are used in "The
Preparation" when referring to Christ by pronouns.


When Kierkegaard died, his influence, like that of Socrates, was
just beginning to make itself felt. The complete translation into
German of all his works[9] and of many into other languages; the
magnificent new edition of his works[10] and of his extraordinarily
voluminous diaries,[11] now nearing completion; and the steadily
increasing number of books, pamphlets, and articles from the most
diverse quarters testify to his reaching a growing number of
_individuals._ Below is given a list of the more important books
and articles on Kierkegaard. It does not aim at completeness.


Bärthold, A. S. K., _Eine Verfassetexistenz eigner Art._ Halberstadt,
1873.

Same: _Noten zu S. K.'s Lebensgeschichte._ Halle, 1876.

Same: _Die Bedeutung der aesthetischen Schriften S. K.'s._ Halle,
1879.

Barfod, H. P. (Introduction to the first edition of the Diary.)
Copenhagen, 1869.

Bohlin, Th. _S. K.'s Etiska Åskadning._ Uppsala, 1918.

Brandes, G. _S. K., En kritisk Fremstilling i Grundrids._ Copenhagen,
1877.

Same: German ed. Leipzig, 1879.

Deleuran, V. _Esquisse d'une étude sur S. K._ Thèse, University
of Paris, 1897.

Höffding, H. _S. K._ Copenhagen, 1892.

Same: German edition (2nd). Stuttgart, 1902.

Hoffmann, R. _K. und die religiöse Gewissheit._ Göttingen, 1910.

Jensen, Ch. _S. K.'s religiöse Udvikling._ Aarhus, 1898.

Monrad, O. P. _S. K. Sein Leben und seine Werke._ Jena, 1909.

Münch, Ph. _Haupt und Grundgedanken der Philosophie S. K.'s._
Leipzig, 1902.

Rosenberg, P. A. _S. K., hans Liv, hans Personlighed og hans
Forfatterskab._ Copenhagen, 1898.

Rudin, W. S. _K.'s Person och Författerskap. Förste Afdelningen._
Stockholm, 1880.

Schrempf, Ch. _S. K.'s Stellung zu Bibel und Dogma._ Zeitschrift
für Theologie und Kirche, 1891, p. 179.

Same: _S. K. Ein unfreier Pionier der Freiheit._ (With a foreword
by Höffding) Frankfurt, 1909.

Swenson, D. _The Anti-Intellectualism of K._ Philosophic Review,
1916, p. 567.


To my friends and colleagues, Percy M. Dawson and Howard M. Jones,
I wish also in this place to express my thanks for help and criticism
"in divers spirits."


[Footnote 1: Pronounced _Kerkegor._]

[Footnote 2: An interesting parallel is the story of Peter Williams, as
told by George Borrow, _Lavengro_, chap. 75 ff.]

[Footnote 3: Corresponding, approximately, to our doctoral thesis.]

[Footnote 4: Not "Discourses for Edification," _cf._ the Foreword to
_Atten Opbyggelige Taler_, S. V. vol. IV.]

[Footnote 5: _De Carne Christi_, chap. V, as my friend, Professor A. E.
Haydon, kindly points out.]

[Footnote 6: _Cf._ Brandes, S. K. p. 157.]

[Footnote 7: Mrs. Thomasine Gyllembourg-Ehrensvärd.]

[Footnote 8: With signal exception of "The Present Moment."]

[Footnote 9: In process of publication. Jena.]

[Footnote 10: Samlede Værker. Copenhagen, 1901-1906 (14 vols). In the
notes abbreviated S. V. Still another edition is preparing.]

[Footnote 11: Copenhagen, 1909 ff.]




DIAPSALMATA[1]


What is a poet? An unhappy man who conceals profound anguish in his
heart, but whose lips are so fashioned that when sighs and groans pass
over them they sound like beautiful music. His fate resembles that of
the unhappy men who were slowly roasted by a gentle fire in the tyrant
Phalaris' bull--their shrieks could not reach his ear to terrify
him, to him they sounded like sweet music. And people flock about the
poet and say to him: do sing again; which means, would that new
sufferings tormented your soul, and: would that your lips stayed
fashioned as before, for your cries would only terrify us, but your
music is delightful. And the critics join them, saying: well done, thus
must it be according to the laws of æsthetics. Why, to be sure, a critic
resembles a poet as one pea another, the only difference being that he
has no anguish in his heart and no music on his lips. Behold, therefore
would I rather be a swineherd on Amager,[2] and be understood by the
swine than a poet, and misunderstood by men.


In addition to my numerous other acquaintances I have still one more
intimate friend--my melancholy. In the midst of pleasure, in the
midst of work, he beckons to me, calls me aside, even though I remain
present bodily. My melancholy is the most faithful sweetheart I have
had--no wonder that I return the love!

Of all ridiculous things the most ridiculous seems to me, to be
busy--to be a man who is brisk about his food and his work.
Therefore, whenever I see a fly settling, in the decisive moment, on
the nose of such a person of affairs; or if he is spattered with mud
from a carriage which drives past him in still greater haste; or the
drawbridge opens up before him; or a tile falls down and knocks him
dead, then I laugh heartily. And who, indeed, could help laughing?
What, I wonder, do these busy folks get done? Are they not to be
classed with the woman who in her confusion about the house being
on fire carried out the fire-tongs? What things of greater account, do
you suppose, will they rescue from life's great conflagration?


Let others complain that the times are wicked. I complain that they
are paltry; for they are without passion. The thoughts of men are thin
and frail like lace, and they themselves are feeble like girl
lace-makers. The thoughts of their hearts are too puny to be sinful.
For a worm it might conceivably be regarded a sin to harbor thoughts
such as theirs, not for a man who is formed in the image of God. Their
lusts are staid and sluggish, their passions sleepy; they do their duty,
these sordid minds, but permit themselves, as did the Jews, to trim the
coins just the least little bit, thinking that if our Lord keep tab of
them ever so carefully one might yet safely venture to fool him a bit.
Fye upon them! It is therefore my soul ever returns to the Old Testament
and to Shakespeare. There at least one feels that one is dealing with
men and women; there one hates and loves, there one murders one's
enemy and curses his issue through all generations--there one sins.


Just as, according to the legend,[3] Parmeniscus in the Trophonian
cave lost his ability to laugh, but recovered it again on the island
of Delos at the sight of a shapeless block which was exhibited as the
image of the goddess Leto: likewise did it happen to me. When I was
very young I forgot in the Trophonian cave how to laugh; but when I
grew older and opened my eyes and contemplated the real world, I had
to laugh, and have not ceased laughing, ever since. I beheld that the
meaning of life was to make a living; its goal, to become Chief Justice;
that the delights of love consisted in marrying a woman with ample
means; that it was the blessedness of friendship to help one another
in financial difficulties; that wisdom was what most people supposed
it to be; that it showed enthusiasm to make a speech, and courage, to
risk being fined 10 dollars; that it was cordiality to say "may it agree
with you" after a repast; that it showed piety to partake of the
communion once a year. I saw that and laughed.


A strange thing happened to me in my dream. I was rapt into the
Seventh Heaven. There sat all the gods assembled. As a special
dispensation I was granted the favor to have one wish. "Do you wish
for youth," said Mercury, "or for beauty, or power, or a long life; or
do you wish for the most beautiful woman, or any other of the many fine
things we have in our treasure trove? Choose, but only one thing!" For
a moment I was at a loss. Then I addressed the gods in this wise: "Most
honorable contemporaries, I choose one thing--that I may always
have the laughs on my side." Not one god made answer, but all began
to laugh. From this I concluded that my wish had been granted and
thought that the gods knew how to express themselves with good taste;
for it would surely have been inappropriate to answer gravely: your
wish has been granted.


[Footnote 1: Interlude (of aphorisms). Selection.]

[Footnote 2: A flat island south of the capital, called the "Kitchen
Garden of Copenhagen."]

[Footnote 3: Told by Athenaios.]




IN VINO VERITAS (THE BANQUET)


It was on one of the last days in July, at ten o'clock in the
evening, when the participants in that banquet assembled together.
Date and year I have forgotten; indeed, this would be interesting only
to one's memory of details, and not to one's recollection of the
contents of what experience. The "spirit of the occasion" and whatever
impressions are recorded in one's mind under that heading, concerns
only one's recollections; and just as generous wine gains in flavor by
passing the Equator, because of the evaporation of its watery particles,
likewise does recollection gain by getting rid of the watery particles
of memory; and yet recollection becomes as little a mere figment of the
imagination by this process as does the generous wine.

The participants were five in number: John, with the epithet of the
Seducer, Victor Eremita, Constantin Constantius, and yet two others
whose names I have not exactly forgotten--which would be a matter
of small importance--but whose names I did not learn. It was as
if these two had no proper names, for they were constantly addressed
by some epithet. The one was called the Young Person. Nor was he more
than twenty and some years, of slender and delicate build, and of a very
dark complexion. His face was thoughtful; but more pleasing even was
its lovable and engaging expression which betokened a purity of soul
harmonizing perfectly with the soft charm, almost feminine, and the
transparency of his whole presence. This external beauty of appearance
was lost sight of, however, in one's next impression of him; or, one
kept it only in mind whilst regarding a youth nurtured or--to use
a still tenderer expression--petted into being, by thought, and
nourished by the contents of his own soul--a youth who as yet
had had nothing to do with the world, had been neither aroused and
fired, nor disquieted and disturbed. Like a sleep-walker he bore the
law of his actions within himself, and the amiable, kindly expression
of his countenance concerned no one, but only mirrored the disposition
of his soul.

The other person they called the Dressmaker, and that was his
occupation. Of him it was impossible to get a consistent impression.
He was dressed according to the very latest fashion, with his hair
curled and perfumed, fragrant with eau-de-cologne. One moment his
carriage did not lack self-possession, whereas in the next it assumed a
certain dancing, festive air, a certain hovering motion, which, however,
was kept in rather definite bounds by the robustness of his figure. Even
when he was most malicious in his speech his voice ever had a touch of
the smoothtonguedness of the shop, the suaveness of the dealer in
fancy-goods, which evidently was utterly disgusting to himself and only
satisfied his spirit of defiance. As I think of him now I understand him
better, to be sure, than when I first saw him step out of his carriage
and I involuntarily laughed. At the same time there is some
contradiction left still. He had transformed or bewitched himself, had
by the magic of his own will assumed the appearance of one almost
half-witted, but had not thereby entirely satisfied himself; and this is
why his reflectiveness now and then peered forth from beneath his
disguise.

As I think of it now it seems rather absurd that five such persons
should get a banquet arranged. Nor would anything have come of it,
I suppose, if Constantin had not been one of us. In a retired room of
a confectioner's shop where they met at times, the matter had been
broached once before, but had been dropped immediately when the
question arose as to who was to head the undertaking. The Young
Person was declared unfit for that task, the Dressmaker affirmed
himself to be too busy. Victor Eremita did not beg to be excused
because "he had married a wife or bought a yoke of oxen which he
needed to prove";[1] but, he said, even if he should make an
exception, for once, and come to the banquet, yet he would decline
the courtesy offered him to preside at it, and he therewith "entered
protest at the proper time.[2]" This, John considered a work spoken
in due season; because, as he saw it, there was but one person able
to prepare a banquet, and that was the possessor of the wishing-table
which set itself with delectable things whenever he said to it
"Cover thyself!" He averred that to enjoy the charms of a young girl
in haste was not always the wisest course; but as to a banquet, he
would not wait for it, and generally was tired of it a long while
before it came off. However, if the plan was to be carried into effect
he would make one condition, which was, that the banquet should be so
arranged as to be served in one course. And that all were agreed on.
Also, that the settings for it were to be made altogether new, and
that afterwards they were to be destroyed entirely; ay, before rising
from table one was to hear the preparation for their destruction.
Nothing was to remain; "not even so much," said the Dressmaker, "as
there is left of a dress after it has been made over into a hat."
"Nothing," said John, "because nothing is more unpleasant than a
sentimental scene, and nothing more disgusting than the knowledge
that somewhere or other there is an external setting which in a
direct and impertinent fashion pretends to be a reality."

When the conversation had thus became animated, Victor Eremita
suddenly arose, struck an attitude on the floor, beckoned with his hand
in the fashion of one commanding and, holding his arm extended as one
lifting a goblet, he said, with the gesture of one waving a welcome:
"With this cup whose fragrance already intoxicates my senses, whose cool
fire already inflames my blood, I greet you, beloved fellow-banqueters,
and bid you welcome; being entirely assured  that each one of you is
sufficiently satisfied by our merely speaking about the banquet; for our
Lord satisfied the stomach before satisfying the eye, but the imagination
acts in the reverse fashion." Thereupon he inserted his hand in his
pocket, took from it a cigar-case, struck a match, and began to smoke.
When Constantin Constantius protested against this sovereign free way
of transforming the banquet planned into an illusory fragment of life,
Victor declared that he did not believe for one moment that such
a banquet could be got up and that, in any case, it had been
a mistake to let it become the subject of discussion in advance.
"Whatever is to be good must come at once; for 'at once' is the
divinest of all categories and deserves to be honored as in the language
of the Romans: _ex templo_,[3] because it is the starting point for
all that is divine in life, and so much so that what is not done at
once is of evil." However, he remarked, he did not care to argue
this point. In case the others wished to speak and act differently
he would not say a word, but if they wished him to explain the sense
of his remarks more fully he must have leave to make a speech,
because he did not consider it all desirable to provoke a discussion
on the subject.

Permission was given him; and as the others called on him to do so
at once, he spoke as follows: "A banquet is in itself a difficult
matter, because even if it be arranged with ever so much taste and
talent there is something else essential to its success, to wit, good
luck. And by this I mean not such matters as most likely would give
concern to an anxious hostess, but something different, a something
which no one can make absolutely sure of: a fortunate harmonizing
of the spirit and the minutiæ of the banquet, that fine ethereal
vibration of chords, that soul-stirring music which cannot be ordered
in advance from the town-musicians. Look you, therefore is it a
hazardous thing to undertake, because if things do go wrong, perhaps
from the very start, one may suffer such a depression and loss of
spirits that recovery from it might involve a very long time.

"Sheer habit and thoughtlessness are father and godfather to most
banquets, and it is only due to the lack of critical sense among people
that one fails to notice the utter absence of any idea in them. In the
first place, women ought never to be present at a banquet. Women
may be used to advantage only in the Greek style, as a chorus of
dancers. As it is the main thing at a banquet that there be eating and
drinking, woman ought not to be present; for she cannot do justice to
what is offered; or, if she can, it is most unbeautiful. Whenever a
woman is present the matter of eating and drinking ought to be reduced
to the very slightest proportions. At most, it ought to be no more
than some trifling feminine occupation, to have something to busy
one's hands with. Especially in the country a little repast of this
kind--which, by the way, should be put at other times than the
principal meals--may be extremely delightful; and if so, always
owing to the presence of the other sex. To do like the English, who
let the fair sex retire as soon as the real drinking is to start,
is to fall between two stools, for every plan ought to be a whole,
and the very manner with which I take a seat at the table and seize
hold of knife and fork bears a definite relation to this whole. In
the same sense a political banquet presents an unbeautiful
ambiguity inasmuch as one does not[4] want to cut down to a very
minimum the essentials of a banquet, and yet does not wish to have
the speeches thought of as having been made over the cups.

"So far, we are agreed, I suppose; and our number--in case anything
should come of the banquet--is correctly chosen, according to that
beautiful rule: neither more than the Muses nor fewer than the
Graces. Now I demand the greatest superabundance of everything
thinkable. That is, even though everything be not actually there, yet
the possibility of having it must be at one's immediate beck and call,
aye, hover temptingly over the table, more seductive even than the
actual sight of it. I beg to be excused, however, from banqueting on
sulphur-matches or on a piece of sugar which all are to suck in turn.
My demands for such a banquet will, on the contrary, be difficult to
satisfy; for the feast itself must be calculated to arouse and incite
that unmentionable longing which each worthy participant is to bring
with him. I require that the earth's fertility be at our service, as
though everything sprouted forth at the very moment the desire for it
was born. I desire a more luxurious abundance of wine than when
Mephistopheles needed but to drill holes into the table to obtain it.
I demand an illumination more splendid than have the gnomes when
they lift up the mountain on pillars and dance in a sea of blazing
light. I demand what most excites the senses, I demand their
gratification by deliciously sweet perfumes, more superb than any
in the Arabian Nights. I demand a coolness which voluptuously provokes
desire and breathes relaxation on desire satisfied. I demand a
fountain's unceasing  enlivenment. If Mæcenas could not sleep without
hearing the splashing of a fountain, I cannot eat without it. Do not
misunderstand me, I can eat stockfish without it, but I cannot eat at
a banquet without it; I can drink water without it, but I cannot drink
wine at a banquet without it. I demand a host of servants, chosen and
comely, as if I sate at table with the gods; I demand that there
shall be music at the feast, both strong and subdued; and I demand
that it shall be an accompaniment to my thoughts; and what concerns
you, my friends, my demands regarding you are altogether incredible.
Do you see, by reason of all these demands--which are as many
reasons against it--I hold a banquet to be a _pium desideratum_,[5]
and am so far from desiring a repetition of it that I presume it is not
feasible even a first time."


The only one who had not actually participated in this conversation,
nor in the frustration of the banquet, was Constantin. Without him,
nothing would have been done save the talking. He had come to a
different conclusion and was of the opinion that the idea might well
be realized, if one but carried the matter with a high hand.

Then some time passed, and both the banquet and the discussion
about it were forgotten, when suddenly, one day, the participants
received a card of invitation from Constantius  for a banquet the very
same evening. The motto of the party had been given by him as: _In Vino
Veritas_, because there was to be speaking, to be sure, and not only
conversation; but the speeches were not to be made except _in vino_,
and no truth was to be uttered there excepting that which is
_in vino_--when the wine is a defense of the truth and the truth a
defense of the wine.

The place had been chosen in the woods, some ten miles distant
from Copenhagen. The hall in which they were to feast had been newly
decorated and in every way made unrecognizable; a smaller room,
separated from the hall by a corridor, was arranged for an orchestra.
Shutters and curtains were let down before all windows, which were left
open. The arrangement that the participants were to drive to the
banquet in the evening hour was to intimate to them--and that was
Constantin's idea--what was to follow. Even if one knows that
one is driving to a banquet, and the imagination therefore indulges for
a moment in thoughts of luxury, yet the impression of the natural
surroundings is too powerful to be resisted. That this might possibly
not be the case was the only contingency he apprehended; for just as
there is no power like the imagination to render beautiful all it
touches, neither is there any power which can to such a degree disturb
all--misfortune conspiring--if confronted with reality. But
driving on a summer evening does not lure the imagination to luxurious
thoughts, but rather to the opposite. Even if one does not see it or
hear it, the imagination will unconsciously create a picture of the
longing for home which one is apt to feel in the evening hours--one
sees the reapers, man and maid, returning from their work in the fields,
one hears the hurried rattling of the hay wagon, one interprets even the
far-away lowing from the meadows as a longing. Thus does a summer
evening suggest idyllic thoughts, soothing even a restless mind with
its assuagement, inducing even the soaring imagination to abide on
earth with an indwelling yearning for home as the place from whence
it came, and thus teaching the insatiable mind to be satisfied with
little, by rendering one content; for in the evening hour time stands
still and eternity lingers.

Thus they arrived in the evening hour: those invited; for Constantin
had come out somewhat earlier. Victor Eremita who resided in the country
not far away came on horseback, the others in a carriage. And just as
they had discharged it, a light open vehicle rolled in through the
gate carrying a merry company of four journeymen who were entertained
to be ready at the decisive moment to function as a corps of destruction:
just as firemen are stationed in a theatre, for the opposite reason
at once to extinguish a fire.


So long as one is a child one possesses sufficient imagination
to maintain one's soul at the very top-notch of expectation--for
a whole hour in the dark room, if need be; but when one has grown
older one's imagination may easily cause one to tire of the Christmas
tree before seeing it.


The folding doors were opened. The effect of the radiant illumination,
the coolness wafting toward them, the beguiling fragrance of sweet
perfumes, the excellent taste of the arrangements, for a moment
overwhelmed the feelings of those entering; and when, at the same
time, strains from the ballet of "Don Juan" sounded from the orchestra,
their persons seemed transfigured and, as if out of reverence for an
unseen spirit about them, they stopped short for a moment like men
who have been roused by admiration and who have risen to admire.


Whoever knows that happy moment, whoever has appreciated its
delight, and has not also felt the apprehension lest suddenly something
might happen, some trifle perhaps, which yet might be sufficient to
disturb all! Whoever has held the lamp of Aladdin in his hand and has
not also felt the swooning of pleasure, because one needs but to wish?
Whoever has held what is inviting in his hand and has not also learned
to keep his wrist limber to let go at once, if need be?

Thus they stood side by side. Only Victor stood alone, absorbed in
thought; a shudder seemed to pass through his soul, he almost trembled;
he collected himself and saluted the omen with these words: "Ye
mysterious, festive, and seductive strains which drew me out of the
cloistered seclusion of a quiet youth and beguiled me with a longing as
mighty as a recollection, and terrible, as though Elvira had
not even been seduced but had only desired to be! Immortal Mozart,
thou to whom I owe all; but no! as yet I do not owe thee all. But when
I shall have become an old man--if ever I do become an old man;
or when I shall have become ten years older--if ever I do; or when
I am become old--if ever I shall become old; or when I shall
die--for that, indeed, I know I shall: then shall I say: immortal
Mozart, thou to whom I owe all--and then I shall let my admiration,
which is my soul's first and only admiration, burst forth in all its
might and let it make away with me, as it often has been on the point
of doing. Then have I set my house in order,[6] then have I remembered
my beloved one, then have I confessed my love, then have I fully
established that I owe thee all, then am I occupied no longer with
thee, with the world, but only with the grave thought of death."

Now there came from the orchestra that invitation in which joy
triumphs most exultantly, and heaven-storming soars aloft above
Elvira's sorrowful thanks; and gracefully apostrophizing, John repeated:
"_Viva la liberta_"--"_et veritas_," said the Young Person; "but
above all, _in vino_," Constantin interrupted them, seating himself
at the table and inviting the others to do likewise.

How easy to prepare a banquet; yet Constantin declared that he
never would risk preparing another. How easy to admire; yet Victor
declared that he never again would lend words to his admiration; for to
suffer a discomfiture is more dreadful than to become an invalid in
war! How easy to express a desire, if one has the magic lamp; yet that
is at times more terrible than to perish of want!

They were seated. In the same moment the little company were
launched into the very middle of the infinite sea of enjoyment--as
if with one single bound. Each one had addressed all his thoughts and
all his desires to the banquet, had prepared his soul for the enjoyment
which was offered to overflowing and in which their souls overflowed.
The experienced driver is known by his ability to start the
snorting team with a single bound and to hold them well abreast; the
well-trained steed is known by his lifting himself in one absolutely
decisive leap: even if one or the other of the guests perhaps fell short
in some particular, certainly Constantin was a good host.

Thus they banqueted. Soon, conversation had woven its beautiful
wreaths about the banqueters, so that they sat garlanded. Now, it was
enamored of the food, now of the wine, and now again of itself; now,
it seemed to develop into significance, and then again it was altogether
slight. Soon, fancy unfolded itself--the splendid one which blows
but once, the tender one which straightway closes its petals; now, there
came an exclamation from one of the banqueters: "These truffles are
superb," and now, an order of the host: "This Chateau Margaux!" Now,
the music was drowned in the noise, now it was heard again. Sometimes
the servants stood still as if _in pausa_, in that decisive moment
when a new dish was being brought out, or a new wine was ordered and
mentioned by name, sometimes they were all a bustle. Sometimes there
was a silence for a moment, and then the re-animating spirit of the
music went forth over the guests. Now, one with some bold thought would
take the lead in the conversation and the others followed after, almost
forgetting to eat, and the music would sound after them as it sounds
after the jubilant shouts of a host storming on; now, only the clinking
of glasses and the clattering of plates was heard and the feasting
proceeded in silence, accompanied only by the music that joyously
advanced and again stimulated conversation. Thus they banqueted.


How poor is language in comparison with that symphony of sounds
unmeaning, yet how significant, whether of a battle or of a banquet,
which even scenic representation cannot imitate and for which language
has but a few words! How rich is language in the expression of the
world of ideas, and how poor, when it is to describe reality!

Only once did Constantin abandon his omnipresence in which one
actually lost sight of his presence. At the very beginning he got them
to sing one of the old drinking songs, "by way of calling to mind that
jolly time when men and women feasted together," as he said--a
proposal which had the positively burlesque effect he had perhaps
calculated it should have. It almost gained the upper hand when the
Dressmaker wanted them to sing the ditty: "When I shall mount the
bridal bed, hoiho!" After a couple of courses had been served Constantin
proposed that the banquet should conclude with each one's making a
speech, but that precautions should be taken against the speakers'
divagating too much. He was for making two conditions, viz., there
were to be no speeches until after the meal; and no one was to speak
before having drunk sufficiently to feel the power of the wine--else
he was to be in that condition in which one says much which under
other circumstances one would leave unsaid--without necessarily
having the connection of speech and thought constantly interrupted by
hiccoughs.[7] Before speaking, then, each one was to declare
solemnly that he was in that condition. No definite quantity of wine
was to be required, capacities differed so widely. Against this
proposal, John entered protest. He could never become intoxicated,
he averred, and when he had come to a certain point he grew the
soberer the more he drank. Victor Eremita was of the opinion that
any such preparatory premeditations to insure one's becoming drunk
would precisely militate against one's becoming so. If one desired
to become intoxicated the deliberate wish was only a hindrance. Then
there ensued some discussion about the divers influences of wine on
consciousness, and especially about the fact that, in the case of
a reflective temperament, an excess of wine may manifest itself,
not in any particular _impetus_ but, on the contrary, in a noticeably
cool self-possession. As to the contents of the speeches, Constantin
proposed that they should deal with love, that is, the relation
between man and woman. No love stories were to be told though they
might furnish the text of one's remarks.

The conditions were accepted. All reasonable and just demands a
host may make on his guests were fulfilled: they ate and drank, and
"drank and were filled with drink," as the Bible has it;[8] that is,
they drank stoutly.

The desert was served. Even if Victor had not, as yet, had his desire
gratified to hear the splashing of a fountain--which, for that
matter, he had luckily forgotten since that former conversation--now
champagne flowed profusely. The clock struck twelve. Thereupon
Constantin commanded silence, saluted the Young Person with a goblet
and the words _quod felix sit faustumque_[9] and bade him to speak
first.




(The Young Person's Speech)


The Young Person arose and declared that he felt the power of the
wine, which was indeed apparent to some degree; for the blood pulsed
strongly in his temples, and his appearance was not as beautiful as
before the meal. He spoke as follows:

If there be truth in the words of the poets, dear fellow-banqueters,
then unrequited love is, indeed, the greatest of sorrows. Should you
require any proof of this you need but listen to the speech of lovers.
They say that it is death, certain death; and the first time they
believe it--for the space of two weeks. The next time they say
that it is death; and finally they will die sometime--as the result
of unrequited love. For that love has killed them, about that there
can obtain no doubt. And as to love's having to take hold three times
to make away with them, that is not different from the dentist's having
to pull three times before he is able to budge that firmly rooted molar.
But, if unrequited love thus means certain death, how happy am I who
have never loved and, I hope, will only achieve dying some time,
and not from unrequited love! But just this may be the greatest
misfortune, for all I know, and how unfortunate must I then be!

The essence of love probably (for I speak as does a blind man about
colors), probably lies in its bliss; which is, in other words, that the
cessation of love brings death to the lover. This I comprehend very well
as in the nature of a hypothesis correlating life and death. But, if
love is to be merely by way of hypothesis, why, then lovers lay
themselves open to ridicule through their actually falling in love.
If, however, love is something real, why, then reality must bear out
what lovers say about it. But did one in real life ever hear of, or
observe, such things having taken place, even if there is hearsay to
that effect? Here I perceive already one of the contradictions in which
love involves a person; for whether this is different for those
initiated, that I have no means of knowing; but love certainly does
seem to involve people in the most curious contradictions.

There is no other relation between human beings which makes
such demands on one's ideality as does love, and yet love is never seen
to have it. For this reason alone I would be afraid of love; for I fear
that it might have the power to make me too talk vaguely about a bliss
which I did not feel and a sorrow I did not have. I say this here since
I am bidden to speak on love, though unacquainted with it--I
say this in surroundings which appeal to me like a Greek symposion; for
I should otherwise not care to speak on this subject as I do not wish to
disturb any one's happiness but, rather, am content with my own
thoughts. Who knows but these thoughts are sheer imbecilities and vain
imaginings--perhaps my ignorance is explicable from the fact
that I never have learned, nor have wished to learn, from any one, how
one comes to love; or from the fact that I have never yet challenged a
woman with a glance--which is supposed to be smart--but have always
lowered my eyes, unwilling to yield to an impression before having
fully made sure about the nature of the power into whose sphere
I am venturing.

At this point he was interrupted by Constantin who expostulated
with him because, by his very confession of never having been in love,
he had debarred himself from speaking. The Young Person declared that
at any other time he would gladly obey an injunction to that effect as
he had often enough experienced how tiresome it was to have to make a
speech; but that in this case he would insist upon his right. Precisely
the fact that one had had no love affair, he said, also constituted an
affair of love; and he who could assert this of himself was entitled to
speak about Eros just because his thoughts were bound to take issue
with the whole sex and not with individuals. He was granted permission
to speak and continued.


Inasmuch as my right to speak has been challenged, this may serve
to exempt me from your laughter; for I know well that, just as among
rustics he is not considered a man who does not call a tobacco pipe his
own, likewise among men-folks he is not considered a real man who is
not experienced in love. If any one feels like laughing, let him
laugh--my thought is, and remains, the essential consideration
for me. Or is love, perchance, privileged to be the only event which is
to be considered after, rather than before, it happens? If that be the
case, what then if I, having fallen in love, should later on think that
it was too late to think about it? Look you, this is the reason why I
choose to think about love before it happens. To be sure, lovers also
maintain that they gave the matter thought, but such is not the case.
They assume it to be essential in man to fall in love; but this surely
does not mean thinking about love but, rather, assuming it, in order
to make sure of getting one's self a sweetheart.

In fact, whenever my reflection endeavors to pin down love, naught
but contradiction seems to remain. At times, it is true, I feel as if
something had escaped me, but I cannot tell what it is, whereas my
reflection is able at once to point out the contradictions in what
does occur. Very well, then, in my opinion love is the greatest
self-contradiction imaginable, and comical at the same time. Indeed,
the one corresponds to the other. The comical is always seen to occur
in the category of contradictions--which truth I cannot take the
time to demonstrate now; but what I shall demonstrate now is that
love is comical. By love I mean the relation between man and woman.
I am not thinking of Eros in the Greek sense which has been extolled so
beautifully by Plato who, by the way, is so far from considering the
love of woman that he mentions it only in passing, holding it to be
inferior to the love of youths.[10] I say, love is comical to a
third person--more I say not. Whether it is for this reason that lovers
always hate a third person I do not know; but I do know that
reflection is always in such a relation the third person, and
for this reason I cannot love without at the same time having a third
person present in the shape of my reflection.

This surely cannot seem strange to any one, every one having
doubted everything, whereas I am uttering my doubts only with reference
to love. And yet I do think it strange that people have doubted
everything and have again reached certainty, without as much as dropping
a word concerning the difficulties which have held my thought
captive--so much so that I have, now and then, longed to be freed
of them--freed by the aid of one, note well, who was aware
of these difficulties, and not of one who in his sleep had a
notion to doubt, and to have doubted, everything, and again
in his sleep had the notion that he is explaining, and has
explained, all.[11]

Let me then have your attention, dear fellow banqueters, and if you
yourselves be lovers do not therefore interrupt me, nor try to silence
me because you do not wish to hear the explanation. Rather turn away
and listen with averted faces to what I have to say, and what I insist
upon saying, having once begun.

In the first place I consider it comical that every one loves, and
every one wishes to love, without any one ever being able to tell one
what is the nature of the lovable or that which is the real object of
love. As to the word "to love" I shall not discuss it since it means
nothing definite; but as soon as the matter is broached at all we are
met by the question as to what it is one loves. No other answer is
ever vouchsafed us on that point other than that one loves what is
lovable. For if one should make answer, with Plato,[12] that one is
to love what is good, one has in taking this single step exceeded
the bounds of the erotic.

The answer may be offered, perhaps, that one is to love what is
beautiful. But if I then should ask whether to love means to love a
beautiful landscape or a beautiful painting it would be immediately
perceived that the erotic is not, as it were, comprised in the more
general term of the love of things beautiful, but is something entirely
of its own kind. Were a lover--just to give an example--to speak
as follows, in order to express adequately how much love there
dwelled in him: "I love beautiful landscapes, and my Lalage, and the
beautiful dancer, and a beautiful horse--in short, I love all that
is beautiful," his Lalage would not be satisfied with his encomium,
however well satisfied she might be with him in all other respects, and
even if she be beautiful; and now suppose Lalage is not beautiful and he
yet loved her!

Again, if I should refer the erotic element to the bisection
of which Aristophanes tells us[13] when he says that the gods severed
man into two parts as one cuts flounders, and that these parts thus
separated sought one another, then I again encounter a difficulty I
cannot get over, which is, in how far I may base my reasoning on
Aristophanes who in his speech--just because there is no reason for
the thought to stop at this point--goes further in his thought and
thinks that the gods might take it into their heads to divide man
into three parts, for the sake of still better fun. For the sake
of still better fun; for is it not true, as I said, that love
renders a person ridiculous, if not in the eyes of others then
certainly in the eyes of the gods?

Now, let me assume that the erotic element resides essentially in the
relation between man and woman--what is to be inferred from that?
If the lover should say to his Lalage: I love you because you are a
woman; I might as well love any other woman, as for instance, ugly
Zoë: then beautiful Lalage would feel insulted.

In what, then, consists the lovable? This is my question; but
unfortunately, no one has been able to tell me. The individual lover
always believes that, as far as he is concerned, he knows. Still he
cannot make himself understood by any other lover; and he who listens
to the speech of a number of lovers will learn that no two of them ever
agree, even though they all talk about the same thing. Disregarding
those altogether silly explanations which leave one as wise as before,
that is, end by asserting that it is really the pretty feet of the
beloved damsel, or the admired mustachios of the swain, which are the
objects of love--disregarding these, one will find mentioned, even
in the declamations of lovers in the higher style, first a number of
details and, finally, the declaration: all her lovable ways; and when
they have reached the climax: that inexplicable something I do not know
how to explain. And this speech is meant to please especially beautiful
Lalage. Me it does not please, for I don't understand a word of it and
find, rather, that it contains a double contradiction--first, that
it ends with the inexplicable, second, that it ends with the
inexplicable; for he who intends to end with the inexplicable had best
begin with the inexplicable and then say no more, lest he lay himself
open to suspicion. If he begin with the inexplicable, saying no more,
then this does not prove his helplessness, for it is, anyway, an
explanation in a negative sense; but if he does begin with something
else and lands in the inexplicable, then this does certainly
prove his helplessness.

So then we see: to love corresponds to the lovable; and the lovable
is the inexplicable. Well, that is at least something; but comprehensible
it is not, as little as the inexplicable way in which love seizes
on its prey. Who, indeed, would not be alarmed if people about one,
time and again, dropped down dead, all of a sudden, or had convulsions,
without any one being able to account for it? But precisely in this
fashion does love invade life, only with the difference that one is
not alarmed thereby, since the lovers themselves regard it as their
greatest happiness, but that one, on the contrary, is tempted to
laugh; for the comical and the tragical elements ever correspond to
one another. Today, one may converse with a person and can fairly
well make him out--tomorrow, he speaks in tongues and with strange
gestures: he is in love.

Now, if to love meant to fall in love with the first person that came
along, it would be easy to understand that one could give no special
reasons for it; but since to love means to fall in love with one, one
single person in all the world, it would seem as if such an extraordinary
process of singling out ought to be due to such an extensive chain of
reasoning that one might have to beg to be excused from hearing
it--not so much because it did not explain anything as because it
might be too lengthy to listen to. But no, the lovers are not able to
explain anything at all. He has seen hundreds upon hundreds of
women; he is, perhaps, advanced in years and has all along felt
nothing--and all at once he sees her, her the Only one, Catherine.
Is this not comical? Is it not comical that the relation which is
to explain and beautify all life, love, is not like the mustard
seed from which there grows a great tree,[14] but being still smaller
is, at bottom, nothing at all; for not a single antecedent criterion
can be mentioned, as e.g., that the phenomenon occurred at a certain
age, nor a single reason as to why he should select her, her alone
in all the world--and that by no means in the same sense as when
"Adam chose Eve, because there was none other.[15]"

Or is not the explanation which the lovers vouchsafe just as comical;
or, does it not, rather, emphasize the comical aspect of love? They say
that love renders one blind, and by this fact they undertake to explain
the phenomenon. Now, if a person who was going into a dark room to
fetch something should answer, on my advising him to take a light
along, that it was only a trifling matter he wanted and so he would
not bother to take a light along--ah! then I would understand him
excellently well. If, on the other hand, this same person should take
me aside and, with an air of mystery, confide to me that the thing
he was about to fetch was of the very greatest importance and that
it was for this reason that he was able to do it in the dark--ah!
then I wonder if my weak mortal brain could follow the soaring flight
of his speech. Even if I should refrain from laughing, in order not
to offend him, I should hardly be able to restrain my mirth as soon
as he had turned his back. But at love nobody laughs; for I am quite
prepared to be embarrassed like the Jew who, after ending his story,
asks: Is there no one who will laugh?[16] And yet I did not miss
the point, as did the Jew, and as to my laughter I am far from wanting
to insult any one. Quite on the contrary, I scorn those fools who
imagine that their love has such good reasons that they can afford
to laugh at other lovers; for since love is altogether inexplicable,
one lover is as ridiculous as the other. Quite as foolish and haughty
I consider it also when a man proudly looks about him in the circle
of girls to find who may be worthy of him, or when a girl proudly
tosses her head to select or reject; because such persons are simply
basing their thoughts on an unexplained assumption. No. What busies
my thought is love as such, and it is love which seems ridiculous
to me; and therefore I fear it, lest I become ridiculous in my own eyes,
or ridiculous in the eyes of the gods who have fashioned man thus.
In other words, if love is ridiculous it is equally ridiculous, whether
now my sweetheart be a princess or a servant girl; for the lovable, as
we have seen, is the inexplicable.

Look you, therefore do I fear love, and find precisely in
this a new proof of love's being comical; for my fear is so
curiously tragic that it throws light on the comical nature of love.
When people wreck a building a sign is hung up to warn people, and I
shall take care to stand from under; when a bar has been freshly painted
a stone is laid in the road to apprise people of the fact; when a driver
is in danger of running a man over he will shout "look out"; when
there have been cases of cholera in a house a soldier is set as
guard; and so forth. What I mean is that if there is some danger, one
may be warned and will successfully escape it by heeding the warning.
Now, fearing to be rendered ridiculous by love, I certainly regard it as
dangerous; so what shall I do to escape it? In other words, what shall
I do to escape the danger of some woman falling in love with me?
I am far from entertaining the thought of being an Adonis every
girl is bound to fall in love with (_relata refero_,[17] for what
this means I do not understand)--goodness no! But since I do not
know what the lovable is I cannot, by any manners of means, know how
to escape this danger. Since, for that matter, the very opposite of
beauty may constitute the lovable; and, finally, since the inexplicable
also is the lovable, I am forsooth in the same situation as the man
Jean Paul speaks of somewhere who, standing on one foot, reads a
sign saying, "fox-traps here," and now does not dare, either to lift
his foot or to set it down.

No, love any one I will not, before I have fathomed what love is;
but this I cannot, but have, rather, come to the conclusion that it is
comical. Hence I will not love--but alas! I have not thereby
avoided the danger, for, since I do not know what the lovable is and
how it seizes me, or how it seizes a woman with reference to me, I
cannot make sure whether I have avoided the danger. This is tragical
and, in a certain sense, even profoundly tragical, even if no one is
concerned about it, or if no one is concerned about the bitter
contradiction for one who thinks--that a something exists which
everywhere exercises its power and yet is not to be definitely
conceived by thought and which, perhaps, may attack from the
rear him who in vain seeks to conceive it. But as to the tragic
side of the matter it has its deep reason in the comic aspects
just pointed out. Possibly, every other person will turn all this
upside down and not find that to be comical which I do, but
rather that which I conceive to be tragical; but this too proves that
I am right to a certain extent. And that for which, if so happens, I
become either a tragic or comic victim is plain enough, viz., my
desire to reflect about all I do, and not imagine I am reflecting
about life by dismissing its every important circumstance with an
"I don't care, either way."

Man has both a soul and a body. About this the wisest and best of
the race are agreed. Now, in case one assumes the essence of love to lie
in the relation between man and woman, the comic aspect will show again
in the face-about which is seen when the highest spiritual values
express themselves in the most sensual terms. I am now referring
to all those extraordinary and mystic signals of love--in short, to
all the free-masonry which forms a continuation of the above-mentioned
inexplicable something. The contradiction in which love here involves a
person lies in the fact that the symbolic signs mean nothing at all
or--which amounts to the same--that no one is able to explain what
they do signify. Two loving souls vow that they will love each the
other in all eternity; thereupon they embrace, and with a kiss
they seal this eternal pact. Now I ask any thinking person whether he
would have hit upon that! And thus there is constant shifting from the
one to the other extreme in love. The most spiritual is expressed
by its very opposite, and the sensual is to signify the most
spiritual.--Let me assume I am in love. In that case I would
conceive it to be of the utmost importance to me that the one I love
belonged to me for all time. This I comprehend; for I am now, really,
speaking only of Greek eroticism which has to do with loving beautiful
souls. Now when the person I love had vowed to return my love I would
believe her or, in as far as there remained any doubt in me, try to
combat my doubt. But what happens actually? For if I were in love
I would, probably, behave like all the others, that is, seek
to obtain still some other assurance than merely to believe
her I love; which, though, is plainly the only assurance to be had.

When Cockatoo[18] all at once begins to plume himself like a
duck which is gorged with food, and then emits the word "Marian,"
everybody will laugh, and so will I. I suppose the spectator finds it
comical that Cockatoo, who doesn't love Marian at all, should be on
such intimate terms with her. But suppose, now, that Cockatoo does
love Marian. Would that be comical still? To me it would; and the
comical would seem to me to lie in love's having become capable of
being expressed in such fashion. Whether now this has been the custom
since the beginning of the world makes no difference whatsoever, for the
comical has the prescriptive  right from all eternity to be present in
contradictions--and here is a contradiction. There is really
nothing comical in the antics of a manikin since we see some one pulling
the strings. But to be a manikin at the beck of something inexplicable
is indeed comical, for the contradiction lies in our not seeing any
sensible reason why one should have to twitch now this leg and now
that. Hence, if I cannot explain what I am doing, I do not care to do
it; and if I cannot understand the power into whose sphere I am
venturing, I do not care to surrender myself to that power. And if love
is so mysterious a law which binds together the extremest contradictions,
then who will guarantee that I might not, one day, become altogether
confused? Still, that does not concern me so much.

Again, I have heard that some lovers consider the behavior of other
lovers ridiculous. I cannot conceive how this ridicule is justified,
for if this law of love be a natural law, then all lovers are subject
to it; but if it be the law of their own choice, then those laughing
lovers ought to be able to explain all about love; which, however, they
are unable to do. But in this respect I understand this matter better as
it seems a convention for one lover to laugh at the other because
he always finds the other lover ridiculous, but not himself. If it
be ridiculous to kiss an ugly girl, it is also ridiculous to kiss
a pretty one; and the notion that doing this in some particular way
should entitle one to cast ridicule on another who does it differently,
is but presumptuousness and a conspiracy which does not, for all that,
exempt such a snob from laying himself open to the ridicule which
invariably results from the fact that no one is able to explain what
this act of kissing signifies, whereas it is to signify all--to
signify, indeed, that the lovers desire to belong to each other
in all eternity; aye, what is still more amusing, to render them
certain that they will. Now, if a man should suddenly lay his head on
one side, or shake it, or kick out with his leg and, upon my asking
him why he did this, should answer "To be sure I don't know, myself,
I just happened to do so, next time I may do something different, for I
did it unconsciously"--ah, then I would understand him quite
well. But if he said, as the lovers say about their antics, that all
bliss lay therein, how could I help finding it ridiculous--just
as I thought that other man's motions ridiculous, to be sure in a
different sense, until he restrained my laughter by declaring that
they did not signify anything. For by doing so he removed the
contradiction which is the basic cause of the comical. It is not at all
comical that the insignificant is declared to signify nothing, but it
is very much so if it be asserted to signify all.

As regards involuntary actions, the contradiction arises at the very
outset because involuntary actions are not looked for in a free rational
being. Thus if one supposed that the Pope had a coughing spell the
very moment he was to place the crown on Napoleon's head; or that
bride and groom in the most solemn moment of the wedding ceremony
should fall to sneezing--these would be examples of the comical.
That is, the more a given action accentuates the free rational being,
the more comical are involuntary actions. This holds true also in
respect of the erotic gesticulations, where the comical element appears
a second time, owing to the circumstance that the lovers attempt to
explain away the contradiction by attributing to their gesticulations an
absolute value. As is well known, children have a keen sense
of the ridiculous--witness children's testimony which can always
be relied on in this regard. Now as a rule children will laugh at
lovers, and if one makes them tell what they have seen, surely no one
can help laughing. This is, perhaps, due to the fact that children omit
the point. Very strange! When the Jew omitted the point no one cared to
laugh. Here, on the contrary, every one laughs because the point is
omitted; since, however, no one can explain what the point is--why,
then there is no point at all.

So the lovers explain nothing; and those who praise love explain
nothing but are merely intent on--as one is bidden in the Royal
Laws of Denmark--on saying anent it all which may be pleasant
and of good report. But a man who thinks, desires to have his logical
categories in good order; and he who thinks about love wishes to be
sure about his categories also in this matter. The fact is, though, that
people do not think about love, and a "pastoral science" is still
lacking; for even if a poet in a pastoral poem makes an attempt to
show how love is born, everything is smuggled in again by help of
another person who teaches the lovers how to love!

As we saw, the comical element in love arose from the face-about
whereby the highest quality of one sphere does not find expression in
that sphere but in the exactly opposite quality of another sphere. It is
comical that the soaring flight of love--the desire to belong to
each other for all time--lands ever, like Saft,[19] in the pantry;
but still more comical is it that this conclusion is said to
constitute love's highest expression.

Wherever there is a contradiction, there the comical element is
present also. I am ever following that track. If it be disconcerting to
you, dear fellow banqueters, to follow me in what I shall have to say
now, then follow me with averted countenances. I myself am speaking
as if with veiled eyes; for as I see only the mystery in these matters,
why, I cannot see, or I see nothing.

What is a consequence? If it cannot, in some way or other, be brought
under the same head as its antecedent--why, then it would be ridiculous
if it posed as a consequence. To illustrate: if a man who wanted to
take a bath jumped into the tank and, coming to the surface again
somewhat confused, groped for the rope to hold on to, but caught the
douche-line by mistake, and a shower now descended on him with
sufficient motivation and for excellent good reason--why, then the
consequence would be entirely in order. The ridiculous here consisted
in his seizing the wrong rope; but there is nothing ridiculous in
the shower descending when one pulls the proper rope. Rather, it would
be ridiculous if it did not come; as for example, just to show the
correctness of my contention about contradictions, if a man nerved
himself with bold resolution in order to withstand the shock and, in
the enthusiasm of his decision, with a stout heart pulled the
line--and the shower did not come.

Let us see now how it is with regard to love. The lovers wish to
belong to each other for all time, and this they express, curiously, by
embracing each other with all the intensity of the moment; and all the
bliss of love is said to reside therein. But all desire is egotistic.
Now, to be sure, the lover's desire is not egotistic in respect of
the one he loves, but the desire of both in conjunction is absolutely
egotistic in so far as they in their union and love represent a new ego.
And yet they are deceived; for in the same moment the race triumphs
over the individual, the race is victorious, and the individuals are
debased to do its bidding.

Now this I find more ridiculous than what Aristophanes thought so
ridiculous. The ridiculous aspect of his theory of bi-section lies in
the inherent contradiction (which the ancient author does not
sufficiently emphasize, however). In considering a person one naturally
supposes him to be an entity, and so one does believe till it becomes
apparent that, under the obsession of love, he is but a half which runs
about looking for its complement. There is nothing ridiculous in half
an apple. The comical would appear if a whole apple turned out to be
only half an apple. In the first case there exists no contradiction,
but certainly in the latter. If one actually based one's reasoning
on the figure of speech that woman is but half a person she would
not be ridiculous at all in her love. Man, however, who has been
enjoying civic rights as a whole person, will certainly appear
ridiculous when he takes to running about (and looking for his
other half);[20] for he betrays thereby that he is but half a
person. In fact, the more one thinks about the matter the more
ridiculous it seems; because if man really be a whole, why, then
he will not become a whole in love, but he and woman would make
up one and a half. No wonder, then, that the gods laugh, and
particularly at man.

But let me return to my consequence. When the lovers have found each
other, one should certainly believe that they formed a whole, and in
this should lie the proof of their assertion that they wished to live
for each other for all time. But lo! instead of living for each other
they begin to live for the race, and this they do not even suspect.

What is a consequence? If, as I observed, one cannot detect in it
the cause out of which it proceeded, the consequence is merely
ridiculous, and he becomes a laughing stock to whom this happens.
Now, the fact that the separated halves have found each other ought
to be a complete satisfaction and rest for them; and yet the consequence
is a new existence. That having found each other should mean a new
existence for the lovers, is comprehensible enough; but not, that a new
existence for a third being should take its inception from this fact.
And yet the resulting consequence is greater than that of which it is
the consequence, whereas such an end as the lovers' finding each other
ought to be infallible evidence of no other, subsequent, consequence
being thinkable.

Does the satisfaction of any other desire show an analogy to this
consequence? Quite on the contrary, the satisfaction of desire is in
every other case evinced by a period of rest; and even if a
_tristitia_[21] does supervene--indicating, by the way, that every
satisfaction of an appetite is comical--this _tristitia_ is a
straightforward consequence, though no _tristitia_ so eloquently
attests a preceding comical element as does that following love.
It is quite another matter with an enormous consequence such as
we are dealing with, a consequence of which no one knows whence
it comes, nor whether it will come; whereas, if it does come, it
comes as a consequence.

Who is able to grasp this? And yet that which for the initiates of
love constitutes the greatest pleasure is also the most important thing
for them--so important that they even adopt new names, derived
from the consequence thereof which thus, curiously enough, assumes
retroactive force. The lover is now called father, his sweetheart,
mother; and these names seem to them the most beautiful. And yet there
is a being to whom these names are even more beautiful; for what is as
beautiful as filial piety? To me it seems the most beautiful of all
sentiments; and fortunately I can appreciate the thought underlying it.
We are taught that it is seeming in a son to love his father. This I
comprehend, I cannot even suspect that there is any contradiction
possible here, and I acknowledge infinite satisfaction in being held
by the loving bonds of filial piety. I believe it is the greatest debt
of all to owe another being one's life. I believe that this debt cannot
ever be wiped out, or even fathomed by any calculation, and for this
reason I agree with Cicero when he asserts that the son is always in the
wrong as against his father; and it is precisely filial piety which
teaches me to believe this, teaches me not even to penetrate the hidden,
but rather to remain hidden in the father. Quite true, I am glad to be
another person's greatest debtor; but as to the opposite, viz., before
deciding to make another person my greatest debtor, I want to arrive
at greater clarity. For to my conception there is a world of difference
between being some person's debtor, and making some person one's
debtor to such an extent that he will never be able to clear himself.

What filial piety forbids the son to consider, love bids the father
to consider. And here contradiction sets in again. If the son has an
immortal soul like his father, what does it mean, then, to be a father?
For must I not smile at myself when thinking of myself as a
father--whereas the son is most deeply moved when he reflects on
the relation he bears to his father? Very well do I understand Plato
when he says that an animal will give birth to an animal of the same
species, a plant, to a plant of the same species, and thus also man
to man.[22] But this explains nothing, does not satisfy one's thought,
and arouses but a dim feeling; for an immortal soul cannot be born.
Whenever, then, a father considers his son in the light of his son's
immortality--which is, indeed, the essential consideration[23]--he
will probably smile at himself, for he cannot, by any means, grasp in
their entirety all the beautiful and noble thoughts which his son with
filial piety entertains about him. If, on the other hand, he considers
his son from the point of view of his animal nature he must smile again,
because the conception of fatherhood is too exalted an expression
for it.

Finally, if it were thinkable that a father influenced his son in
such fashion that his own nature was a condition from which the
son's nature could not free itself, then the contradiction would arise
in another direction; for in this case nothing more terrible is
thinkable than being a father. There is no comparison between killing
a person and giving him life--the former decides his fate only in
time, the other for all eternity. So there is a contradiction again, and
one both to laugh and to weep about. Is paternity then an
illusion--even if not in the same sense as is implied in Magdelone's
speech to Jeronymus[24]--or is it the most terrible thought imaginable?
Is it the greatest benefit conferred on one, or is it the sweetest
gratification of one's desire--is it something which just happens,
or is it the greatest task of life?

Look you, for this reason have I forsworn all love, for my thought
is to me the most essential consideration. So even if love be the most
exquisite joy, I renounce it, without wishing either to offend or to
envy any one; and even if love be the condition for conferring the
greatest benefit imaginable I deny myself the opportunity therefor--but
my thought I have not prostituted. By no means do I lack an eye for
what is beautiful, by no means does my heart remain unmoved when I
read the songs of the poets, by no means is my soul without sadness
when it yields to the beautiful conception of love; but I do not wish
to become unfaithful to my thought. And of what avail were it to be,
for there is no happiness possible for me except my thought have
free sway. If it had not, I would in desperation yearn for my
thought, which I may not desert to cleave to a wife, for it is my
immortal part and, hence, of more importance than a wife. Well do I
comprehend that if any thing is sacred it is love; that if faithlessness
in any relation is base, it is doubly so in love; that if any deceit
is detestable, it is tenfold more detestable in love. But my soul is
innocent of blame. I have never looked at any woman to desire her,
neither have I fluttered about aimlessly before blindly plunging, or
lapsing, into the most decisive of all relations. If I knew what the
lovable were I would know with certainty whether I had offended by
tempting any one; but since I do not know, I am certain only of
never having had the conscious desire to do so.

Supposing I should yield to love and be made to laugh; or supposing
I should be cast down by terror, since I cannot find the narrow path
which lovers travel as easily as if it were the broad highway,
undisturbed by any doubts, which they surely have bestowed thought on
(seeing our times have, indeed, reflected about all[25] and consequently
will comprehend me when I assert that to act unreflectingly is nonsense,
as one ought to have gone through all possible reflections before
acting)--supposing, I say, I should yield to love! Would I not
insult past redress my beloved one if I laughed; or irrevocably plunge
her into despair if I were overwhelmed by terror? For I understand
well enough that a woman cannot be expected to have thought as
profoundly about these matters; and a woman who found love comical
(as but gods and men can, for which reason woman is a temptation
luring them to become ridiculous) would both betray a suspicious
amount of previous experience and understand me least. But a woman
who comprehended the terror of love would have lost her loveliness
and still fail to understand me--she would be annihilated; which
is in nowise my case, so long as my thought saves me.

Is there no one ready to laugh? When I began by wanting to speak
about the comical element in love you perhaps expected to be made to
laugh, for it is easy to make you laugh, and I myself am a friend of
laughter; and still you did not laugh, I believe. The effect of my
speech was a different one, and yet precisely this proves that I have
spoken about the comical. If there be no one who laughs at my
speech--well, then laugh a little at me, dear fellow-banqueters,
and I shall not wonder; for I do not understand what I have occasionally
heard you say about love. Very probably, though, you are among the
initiated as I am not.


Thereupon the Young Person seated himself. He had become more
beautiful, almost, than before the meal. Now he sat quietly, looking
down before him, unconcerned about the others. John the Seducer
desired at once to urge some objections against the Young Person's
speech but was interrupted by Constantin who warned against discussions
and ruled that on this occasion only speeches were in order. John said
if that was the case, he would stipulate that he should be allowed to be
the last speaker. This again gave rise to a discussion as to the order
in which they were to speak, which Constantin closed by offering to
speak forthwith, against their recognizing his authority to appoint the
speakers in their turn.


(Constantin's Speech)


Constantin spoke as follows:

There is a time to keep silence, and a time to speak,[26] and
now it seems to be the time to speak briefly, for our young friend
has spoken much and very strangely. His _vis comica_[27] has made
us struggle _ancipiti proelio_[28] because his speech was full of
doubts, as he himself is, sitting there now--a perplexed man who
knows not whether to laugh, or weep, or fall in love. In fact, had
I had foreknowledge of his speech, such as he demands one should
have of love, I should have forbidden him to speak; but now it is
too late. I shall bid you then, dear bellow-banqueters, "gladsome and
merry to be," and even if I cannot enforce this I shall ask you to forget
each speech so soon as it is made and to wash it down with a single
draught.

And now as to woman, about whom I shall speak. I too have pondered
about her, and I have finally discovered the category to which she
belongs. I too have sought, but I have found, too, and I have made a
matchless discovery which I shall now communicate to you. Woman is
understood correctly only when placed in the category of "the joke."

It is man's function to be absolute, to act in an absolute fashion,
or to give expression to the absolute. Woman's sphere lies in her
relativity.[29] Between beings so radically different, no true
reciprocal relation can exist. Precisely in this incommensurability
lies the joke. And with woman the joke was born into the world. It
is to be understood, however, that man must know how to stick to
his role of being absolute; for else nothing is seen--that is to
say, something exceedingly common is seen, viz., that man and woman
fit each other, he as a half man and she as a half man.

The joke is not an æsthetic, but an abortive ethical, category. Its
effect on thought is about the same as the impression we receive if a
man were solemnly to begin making a speech, recite a comma or two
with his pronouncement, then say "hm!"--"dash"--and then stop.
Thus with woman. One tries to cover her with the ethical category,
one thinks of human nature, one opens one's eyes, one fastens one's
glances on the most excellent maiden in question, an effort is
made to redeem the claims of the ethical demand; and then one
grows ill at ease and says to one's self: ah, this is undoubtedly
a joke! The joke lies, indeed, in applying that category to her
and measuring her by it, because it would be idle to expect serious
results from her; but just that is the joke. Because if one could
demand it of her it would not be a joke at all. A mighty poor joke
indeed it would be, to place her under the air-pump and draw the air out
of her--indeed it were a shame; but to blow her up to supernatural
size and let her imagine herself to have attained all the ideality which
a little maiden of sixteen imagines she has, that is the beginning of
the game and, indeed, the beginning of a highly entertaining performance.
No youth has half so much imaginary ideality as a young girl, but: "We
shall soon be even" as says the tailor in the proverb; for her ideality
is but an illusion.

If one fails to consider woman from this point of view she may cause
irreparable harm; but through my conception of her she becomes harmless
and amusing. For a man there is nothing more shocking than to catch
himself twaddling. It destroys all true ideality; for one may repent of
having been a rascal, and one may feel sorry for not having meant
a word of what one said; but to have talked nonsense, sheer nonsense,
to have meant all one said and behold! it was all nonsense--that
is too disgusting for repentance incarnate to put up with. But this is
not the case with woman. She has a prescriptive right to transfigure
herself--in less than 24 hours--in the most innocent and pardonable
nonsense; for far is it from her ingenuous soul to wish to deceive
one! Indeed, she meant all she said, and now she says the precise
opposite, but with the same amiable frankness, for now she is
willing to stake everything on what she said last. Now in case a man
in all seriousness surrenders to love he may be called fortunate indeed
if he succeeds in obtaining an insurance--if, indeed, he is able to
obtain it anywhere; for so inflammable a material as woman is most
likely to arouse the suspicions of an insurance agent. Just consider
for a moment what he has done in thus identifying himself with her!
If, some fine New Year's night she goes off like some fireworks he
will promptly follow suit; and even if this should not happen he
will have many a close call. And what may he not lose! He may lose
his all; for there is but one absolute antithesis to the absolute,
and that is nonsense. Therefore, let him not seek refuge in some
society for morally tainted individuals, for he is not morally
tainted--far from it; only, he has been reduced _in absurdum_
and beatified in nonsense; that is, has been made a fool of.

This will never happen among men. If a man should sputter off in
this fashion I would scorn him. If he should fool me by his cleverness
I need but apply the ethical category to him, and the danger is
trifling. If things go too far I shall put a bullet through his brain;
but to challenge a woman--what is that, if you please? Who does
not see that it is a joke, just as when Xerxes had the sea whipped?
When Othello murders Desdemona, granting she really had been guilty,
he has gained nothing, for he has been duped, and a dupe he remains;
for even by his murdering her he only makes a concession with regard
to a consequence which originally made him ridiculous; whereas
Elvira[30] may be an altogether pathetic figure when arming herself
with a dagger to obtain revenge. The fact that Shakespeare has
conceived Othello as a tragic figure (even disregarding the calamity
that Desdemona is innocent) is to be explained and, indeed, to perfect
satisfaction, by the hero being a colored person. For a colored
person, dear fellow-banqueters, who cannot be assumed to represent
spiritual qualities--a colored person, I say, who therefore becomes
green in his face when his ire is aroused (which is a physiological
fact), a colored man may, indeed, become tragic if he is deceived
by a woman; just as a woman has all the pathos of tragedy on her
side when she is betrayed by a man. A man who flies into a rage
may perhaps become tragic; but a man of whom one may expect a
developed mentality, he will either not become jealous, or he
will become ridiculous if he does; and most of all when he comes
running with a dagger in his hand.

A pity that Shakespeare has not presented us with a comedy of this
description in which the claim raised by a woman's infidelity is turned
down by irony; for not every one who is able to see the comical element
in this situation is able also to develop the thought and give it
dramatic embodiment. Let one but imagine Socrates surprising Xanthippe
in the act--for it would be un-Socratic even to think of Socrates
being particularly concerned about his wife's fidelity, or still worse,
spying on her--imagine it, and I believe that the fine smile which
transformed the ugliest man in Athens into the handsomest, would for the
first time have turned into a roar of laughter. It is incomprehensible
why Aristophanes, who so frequently made Socrates the butt of his
ridicule, neglected to have him run on the stage shouting: "Where is
she, where is she, so that I may kill her, i.e., my unfaithful
Xanthippe." For really it does not matter greatly whether or no
Socrates was made a cuckold, and all that Xanthippe may do in this
regard is wasted labor, like snapping one's fingers in one's pocket;
for Socrates remains the same intellectual hero, even with a horn on his
forehead. But if he had in fact become jealous and had wanted to kill
Xanthippe--alas! then would Xanthippe have exerted a power over
him such as the entire Greek nation and his sentence of death could
not--to make him ridiculous.

A cuckold is comical, then, with respect to his wife; but he may be
regarded as becoming tragical with respect to other men. In this fact we
may find an explanation of the Spanish conception of honor. But the
tragic element resides chiefly in his not being able to obtain redress,
and the anguish of his suffering consists really in its being devoid
of meaning--which is terrible enough. To shoot the woman, to
challenge her, to despise her, all this would only serve to render the
poor man still more ridiculous; for woman is the weaker sex. This
consideration enters in everywhere and confuses all. If she performs
a great deed she is admired more than man, because it is more than
was expected of her. If she is betrayed, all the pathos is on her
side; but if a man is deceived one has scant sympathy and little
patience while he is present--and laughs at him when his back is
turned.

Look you, therefore is it advisable betimes to consider woman as
a joke. The entertainment she affords is simply incomparable. Let one
consider her a fixed quantity, and one's self a relative one; let one by
no means contradict her, for that would simply be helping her; let one
never doubt what she says but, rather, believe her every word; let one
gallivant about her, with eyes rendered unsteady by unspeakable
admiration and blissful intoxication, and with the mincing steps of a
worshipper; let one languishingly fall on one's knees, then lift up one's
eyes up to her languishingly and heave a breath again; let one do all
she bids one, like an obedient slave. And now comes the cream of the
joke. We need no proof that woman can speak, i.e., use words.
Unfortunately, however, she does not possess sufficient reflection for
making sure against her in the long run--which is, at most, eight
days--contradicting herself; unless indeed man, by contradicting
her, exerts a regulative influence. So the consequence is that within a
short time confusion will reign supreme. If one had not done what she
told one to, the confusion would pass unnoticed; for she forgets again
as quickly as she talks. But since her admirer has done all, and has
been at her beck and call in every instance, the confusion is only too
glaring.

The more gifted the woman, the more amusing the situation. For the
more gifted she is, the more imagination she will possess. Now, the
more imagination she possesses, the greater airs she will give herself
and the greater the confusion which is bound to become evident in the
next instant. In life, such entertainment is rarely had, because this
blind obedience to a woman's whims occurs but seldom. And if it does,
in some languishing swain, most likely he is not qualified to see the
fun. The fact is, the ideality a little maiden assumes in moments when
her imagination is at work is encountered nowhere else, whether in
gods or man; but it is all the more entertaining to believe her and
to add fuel to the fire.

As I remarked, the fun is simply incomparable--indeed, I know
it for a fact, because I have at times not been able to sleep at night
with the mere thought of what new confusions I should live to see,
through the agency of my sweetheart and my humble zeal to please her.
Indeed, no one who gambles in a lottery will meet with more remarkable
combinations than he who has a passion for this game. For this is sure,
that every woman without exception possesses the same qualifications
for being resolved and transfigured in nonsense with a gracefulness, a
nonchalance, an assurance such as befits the weaker sex.

Being a right-minded lover one naturally discovers every possible
charm in one's beloved. Now, when discovering genius in the above
sense, one ought not to let it remain a mere possibility but ought,
rather, to develop it into virtuosity. I do not need to be more specific,
and more cannot be said in a general way, yet every one will understand
me. Just as one may find entertainment in balancing a cane on one's
nose, in swinging a tumbler in a circle without spilling a drop, in
dancing between eggs, and in other games as amusing and profitable,
likewise, and not otherwise, in living with his beloved the lover will
have a source of incomparable entertainment and food for most
interesting study. In matters pertaining to love let one have absolute
belief, not only in her protestations of fidelity--one soon tires
of that game--but in all those explosions of inviolable Romanticism
by which she would probably perish if one did not contrive a safety-valve
through which the sighs and the smoke, and "the aria of Romanticism[31]"
may escape and make her worshipper happy. Let one compare her admiringly
to Juliet, the difference being only that no person ever as much as
thought of touching a hair on her Romeo's head. With regard to
intellectual matters, let one hold her capable of all and, if one has
been lucky enough to find the right woman, in a trice one will have
a cantankerous authoress, whilst wonderingly shading one's eyes with
one's hand and duly admiring what the little black hen may yield
besides.[32] It is altogether incomprehensible why Socrates
did not choose this course of action instead of bickering with
Xanthippe--oh, well! to be sure he wished to acquire practice,
like the riding master who, even though he has the best trained
horse, yet knows how to tease him in such fashion that there is
good reason for breaking him in again.[33]

Let me be a little more concrete, in order to illustrate a particular
and highly interesting phenomenon. A great deal has been said about
feminine fidelity, but rarely with any discretion.[34] From a purely
æsthetic point of view this fidelity is to be regarded as a piece of
poetic fiction which steps on the stage to find her lover--a fiction
which sits by the spinning wheel and waits for her lover to come;
but when she has found him, or he has come, why, then æsthetics is
at a loss. Her infidelity, on the other hand, as contrasted with
her previous fidelity, is to be judged chiefly with regard to its
ethical import, when jealousy will appear as a tragic passion.
There are three possibilities, so the case is favorable for woman;
for there are two cases of fidelity, as against one of infidelity.
Inconceivably great is her fidelity when she is not altogether sure
of her cavalier; and ever so inconceivably great is it when he repels
her fidelity. The third case would be her infidelity. Now granted one
has sufficient intellect and objectivity to make reflections, one will
find sufficient justification, in what has been said, for my category
of "the joke." Our young friend whose beginning in a manner deceived
me seemed to be on the point of entering into this matter, but backed
out again, dismayed at the difficulty. And yet the explanation
is not difficult, providing one really sets about it seriously,
to make unrequited love and death correspond to one another, and
providing one is serious enough to stick to his thought--and
so much seriousness one ought to have--for the sake of the joke.

Of course this phrase of unrequited love being death originated
either with a woman or a womanish male. Its origin is easily made out,
seeing that it is one of those categorical outbursts which, spoken with
great bravado, on the spur of the moment, may count on a great and
immediate applause; for although this business is said to be a
matter of life and death, yet the phrase is meant for immediate
consumption--like cream-puffs. Although referring to daily experience
it is by no means binding on him who is to die, but only obliges
the listener to rush post-haste to the assistance of the dying
lover. If a man should take to using such phrases it would not be
amusing at all, for he would be too despicable to laugh at. Woman,
however, possesses genius, is lovable in the measure she possesses it,
and is amusing at all times. Well, then, the languishing lady dies of
love--why certainly, for did she not say so herself? In this matter
she is pathetic, for woman has enough courage to say what no man would
have the courage to do--so then she dies! In saying so I have
measured her by ethical standards. Do ye likewise, dear fellow-banqueters,
and understand your Aristotle aright, now! He observes very correctly
that woman cannot be used in tragedy.[35] And very certainly, her
proper sphere is the pathetic and serious divertissement, the
half-hour face, not the five-act drama. So then she dies. But should
she for that reason not be able to love again? Why not?--that is,
if it be possible to restore her to life. Now, having been restored
to life, she is of course a new being--another person, that is, and
begins afresh and falls in love for the first time: nothing remarkable
in that! Ah, death, great is thy power; not the most violent emetic
and not the most powerful laxative could ever have the same purging
effect!

The resulting confusion is capital, if one but is attentive and
does not forget. A dead man is one of the most amusing characters
to be met with in life. Strange that more use is not made of
him on the stage, for in life he is seen, now and then. When you come
to think of it, even one who has only been seemingly dead is a comical
figure; but one who was really dead certainly contributes to our
entertainment all one can reasonably expect of a man. All depends
on whether one is attentive. I myself had my attention called to it,
one day, as I was walking with one of my acquaintances. A couple
passed us. I judged from the expression on his face that he knew them
and asked whether that was the case. "Why, yes," he answered, "I know
them very well, and especially the lady, for she is my departed
one."--"What departed one?" I asked.--"Why, my departed first
love," he answered. "Indeed, this is a strange affair. She said:
I shall die. And that very same moment she departed, naturally enough,
by death--else one might have insured her beforehand in the
widow's insurance. Too late! Dead she was and dead she remained;
and now I wander about, as says the poet, vainly seeking the grave of
my lady-love that I may shed my tears thereon." Thus this broken-hearted
man who remained alone in the world, though it consoled him to find
her pretty far along with some other man.

It is a good thing for the girls, thought I, that they don't have to
be buried, every time they die; for if parents have hitherto considered
a boy-child to be the more expensive, the girls might become even
more so!

A simple case of infidelity is not as amusing, by far. I mean, if a
girl should fall in love with some one else and should say to her lover:
"I cannot help it, save me from myself!" But to die from sorrow because
she cannot endure being separated from her lover by his journey to the
West Indies, to have put up with his departure, however,--and
then, at his return, be not only not dead, but attached to some one
else for all time--that certainly is a strange fate for a lover to
undergo. No wonder, then, that the heart-broken man at times consoled
himself with the burthen of an old song which runs: "Hurrah for you and
me, I say, we never shall forget that day!"

Now forgive me, dear fellow-banqueters, if I have spoken at too
great length; and empty a glass to love and to woman. Beautiful she
is and lovely, if she be considered æsthetically. That is undeniable.
But, as has often been said, and as I shall say also: one ought not to
remain standing here, but should go on.[36] Consider her, then,
ethically and you will hardly have begun to do so before the humor
of it will become apparent. Even Plato and Aristotle assume that
woman is an imperfect form, an irrational quantity, that is, one
which might some time, in a better world, be transformed into a
man. In this life one must take her as she is. And what this is becomes
apparent very soon; for she will not be content with the æsthetic
sphere, but goes on, she wants to become emancipated, and she has the
courage to say so. Let her wish be fulfilled and the amusement will be
simply incomparable.


When Constantin had finished speaking he forthwith ruled Victor
Eremita to begin. He spoke as follows:


(Victor Eremita's Speech)


As will be remembered, Plato offers thanks to the gods for four
things. In the fourth place he is grateful for having been permitted
to be a contemporary of Socrates. For the three other boons mentioned
by him,[37] an earlier Greek philosopher[38] had already thanked
the gods, and so I conclude that they are worthy our gratitude. But
alas!--even if I wanted to express my gratitude like these Greeks I
would not be able to do so for what was denied me. Let me then
collect my soul in gratitude for the one good which was conferred
on me also--that I was made a man and not a woman.

To be a woman is something so curious, so heterogeneous and
composite that no predicate will fully express these qualities;
and if I should use many predicates they would contradict one
another in such fashion that only a woman would be able to tolerate
the result and, what is worse, feel happy about it. The fact that
she really signifies less than man--that is not her misfortune,
and still less so if she got to know it, for it might be borne
with fortitude. No, her misfortune consists in her life's having
become devoid of fixed meaning through a romantic conception of
things, by virtue of which, now she signifies all, and now, nothing at
all; without ever finding out what she really does signify--and
even that is not her misfortune but, rather, the fact that, being
a woman, she never will be able to find out. As for myself, if I
were a woman, I should prefer to be one in the Orient and as a
slave; for to be a slave, neither more nor less, is at any rate
something, in comparison with being, now heyday, now nothing.

Even if a woman's life did not contain such contrasts, the distinction
she enjoys, and which is rightly assumed to be hers as a woman--a
distinction she does not share with man--would by itself point to
the meaninglessness of her life. The distinction I refer to is
that of gallantry. To be gallant to woman is becoming in men. Now
gallantry consists very simply in conceiving in fantastic categories
that person to whom one is gallant. To be gallant to a man is,
therefore, an insult, for he begs to be excused from the application
of fantastic categories to him. For the fair sex, however, gallantry
signifies a tribute, a distinction, which is essentially its
privilege. Ah me, if only a single cavalier were gallant to them
the case would not be so serious. But far from it! At bottom every
man is gallant, he is unconsciously so. This signifies, therefore,
that it is life itself which has bestowed this perquisite on the
fair sex. Woman on her part unconsciously accepts it. Here we have
the same trouble again; for if only a single woman did so, another
explanation would be necessary. This is life's characteristic irony.

Now if gallantry contained the truth it ought to be reciprocal,
i.e., gallantry would be the accepted quotation for the stated
difference between beauty on the one hand, and power, astuteness,
and strength, on the other. But this is not the case, gallantry
is essentially woman's due; and the fact that she unconsciously
accepts it may be explained through the solicitude of nature
for the weak and those treated in a step-motherly fashion by her,
who feel more than recompensed by an illusion. But precisely this
illusion is her misfortune. It is not seldom the case that nature
comes to the assistance of an afflicted creature by consoling him
with the notion that he is the most beautiful. If that is so, why,
then we may say that nature made good the deficiency since now
the creature is endowed with even more than could be reasonably
demanded. But to be beautiful only in one's imagination, and not
to be overcome, indeed, by sadness, but to be fooled into an
illusion--why, that is still worse mockery. Now, as to being
afflicted, woman certainly is far from having been treated in a
step-motherly fashion by nature; still she is so in another sense
inasmuch as she never can free herself from the illusion with which
life has consoled her.

Gathering together one's impressions of a woman's existence,
in order to point out its essential features, one is struck by
the fact that every woman's life gives one an entirely fantastic
impression. In a far more decisive sense than man she may be said
to have turning points in her career; for her turning points
turn everything upside down. In one of Tieck's[39] Romantic dramas
there occurs a person who, having once been king of Mesopotamia,
now is a green-grocer in Copenhagen. Exactly as fantastic is
every feminine existence. If the girl's name is Juliana, her life
is as follows: erstwhile empress in the wide domains of love,
and titular queen of all the exaggerations of tomfoolery; now,
Mrs. Peterson, corner Bath Street.

When a child, a girl is less highly esteemed than a boy. When a
little older, one does not know exactly what to make of her. At
last she enters that decisive period in which she holds absolute
sway. Worshipfully man approaches her as a suitor. Worshipfully,
for so does every suitor, it is not the scheme of a crafty deceiver.
Even the executioner, when laying down his _fasces_ to go a-wooing,
even he bends his knee, although he is willing to offer himself up,
within a short time, to domestic executions which he finds so natural
that he is far from seeking any excuse for them in the fact that
public executions have grown so few. The cultured person behaves in
the very same manner. He kneels, he worships, he conceives his
lady-love in the most fantastic categories; and then he very quickly
forgets his kneeling position--in fact, he knew, full well the while
he knelt that it was fantastic to do so.

If I were a woman I would prefer to be sold by my father to the
highest bidder, as is the custom in the Orient; for there is at
least some sense in such a deal. What misfortune to have been born
a woman! Yet her misfortune really consists in her not being able
to comprehend it, being a woman. If she does complain, she complains
rather about her Oriental, than her Occidental, status. But if I
were a woman I would first of all refuse to be wooed, and resign
myself to belong to the weaker sex, if such is the case, and
be careful--which is most important if one is proud--of not going
beyond the truth. However, that is of but little concern to her.
Juliana is in the seventh heaven, and Mrs. Peterson submits to
her fate.

Let me, then, thank the gods that I was born a man and not a woman.
And still, how much do I forego! For is not all poetry, from the
drinking song to the tragedy, a deification of woman? All the worse
for her and for him who admires her; for if he does not look out
he will, all of a sudden, have to pull a long face. The beautiful,
the excellent, all of man's achievement, owes its origin to woman,
for she inspires him. Woman is, indeed, the inspiring element in life.
How many a love-lorn shepherd has played on this theme, and how many
a shepherdess has listened to it! Verily, my soul is without envy
and feels only gratitude to the gods; for I would rather be a man,
though in humble station, but really so, than be a woman and an
indeterminate quantity, rendered happy by a delusion--I would rather
be a concrete thing, with a small but definite meaning, than an
abstraction which is to mean all.

As I have said, it is through woman that ideality is born into
the world and--what were man without her! There is many a man who
has become a genius through a woman, many a one a hero, many a one
a poet, many a one even a saint; but he did not become a genius
through the woman he married, for through her he only became a
privy councillor; he did not become a hero through the woman he
married, for through her he only became a general; he did not
become a poet through the woman he married, for through her he
only became a father; he did not become a saint through the woman
he married, for he did not marry, and would have married but
one--the one whom he did not marry; just as the others became
a genius, became a hero, became a poet through the help of the
woman they did not marry. If woman's ideality were in itself
inspiring, why, then the inspiring woman would be the one to
whom a man is united for life. But life tells a different story.
It is only by a negative relation to her that man is rendered
productive in his ideal endeavors. In this sense she is inspiring;
but to say that she is inspiring, without qualifying one's statement,
is to be guilty of a paralogism[40] which one must be a woman to
overlook. Or has any one ever heard of any man having become a
poet through his wife? So long as man does not possess her she
inspires him. It is this truth which gives rise to the illusions
entertained in poetry and by women. The fact that he does not possess
her signifies, either, that he is still fighting for her--thus
has woman inspired many a one and rendered him a knight; but has
any one ever heard of any man having been rendered a knight valiant
through his wife? Or, the fact that he does not possess her signifies
that he cannot obtain her by any manner of means--thus has woman
inspired many a one and roused his ideality; that is, if there is
anything in him worth while. But a wife, who has things ever so
much worth while for her husband, will hardly arouse any ideal
strivings in him. Or, again, the fact that he does not possess
her signifies that he is pursuing an ideal. Perchance he loves
many, but loving many is also a kind of unrequited love; and yet
the ideality of his soul is to be seen in this striving and yearning,
and not in the small bits of lovableness which make up the sum
total of the contributions of all those he loves.

The highest ideality a woman can arouse in a man consists, in fact,
in the awakening within him of the consciousness of immortality.
The point of this proof lies in what one might call the necessity
of a reply. Just as one may remark about some play that it cannot
end without this or that person getting in his say, likewise
(says ideality) our existence cannot be all over with death: I
demand a reply! This proof is frequently furnished, in a positive
fashion, in the public advertiser. I hold that to be entirely proper,
for if proof is to be made in the public advertiser it must be made
in a positive fashion. Thus: Mrs. Petersen, we learn, has lived a
number of years, until in the night of the 24th it pleased Providence,
etc. . This produces in Mr. Petersen an attack of reminiscences from
his courting days or, to express it quite plainly, nothing but seeing
her again will ever console him. For this blissful meeting he
prepares himself, in the meanwhile, by taking unto himself another
wife; for, to be sure, this marriage is by no means as poetic as the
first--still it is a good imitation. This is the proof positive. Mr.
Petersen is not satisfied with demanding a reply, no, he wants a
meeting again in the hereafter.

As is well known, a base metal will often show the gleam of precious
metal. This is the brief silver-gleam. With respect to the base
metal this is a tragic moment, for it must once for all resign itself
to being a base metal. Not so with Mr. Petersen. The possession of
ideality is by rights inherent in every person--and now, if I laugh
at Mr. Petersen it is not because he, being in reality of base metal,
had but a single silver-gleam; but, rather, because just this
silver-gleam betrays his having become a base metal. Thus does the
philistine look most ridiculous when, arrayed in ideality, he affords
fitting occasion to say, with Holberg: "What! does that cow wear a
fine dress, too?[41]"

The case is this: whenever a woman arouses ideality in man, and
thereby the consciousness of immortality, she always does so
negatively. He who really became a genius, a hero, a poet, a saint
through woman, he has by that very fact seized on the essence of
immortality. Now if the inspiring element were positively present
in woman, why, then a man's wife, and only his wife, ought to
awaken in him the consciousness of immortality. But the reverse
holds true. That is, if she is really to awaken ideality in
her husband she must die. Mr. Petersen, to be sure, is not affected,
for all that. But if woman, by her death, does awaken man's ideality,
then is she indeed the cause of all the great things poetry
attributes to her; but note well: that which she did in a positive
fashion for him in no wise roused his ideality. In fact, her
significance in this regard becomes the more doubtful the longer
she lives, because she will at length really begin to wish to
signify something positive. However, the more positive the proof
the less it proves; for then Mr. Petersen's longing will be for
some past common experiences whose content was, to all intents
and purposes, exhausted when they were had. Most positive of all
the proof becomes if the object of his longing concerns their
marital spooning--that time when they visited the Deer Park
together! In the same way one might suddenly feel a longing for
the old pair of slippers one used to be so comfortable in; but
that proof is not exactly a proof for the immortality of the soul.
On the other hand, the more negative the proof, the better it is;
for the negative is higher than the positive, inasmuch as it
concerns our immortality, and is thus the only positive value.

Woman's main significance lies in her negative contribution,
whereas her positive contributions are as nothing in comparison
but, on the contrary, pernicious. It is this truth which life keeps
from her, consoling her with an illusion which surpasses all that
might arise in any man's brain, and with parental care ordering
life in such fashion that both language and everything else confirm
her in her illusion. For even if she be conceived as the very opposite
of inspiring, and rather as the well-spring of all corruption;
whether now we imagine that with her, sin came into the world, or
that it is her infidelity which ruined all--our conception of her
is always gallant. That is, when hearing such opinions one might
readily assume that woman were really able to become infinitely
more culpable than man, which would, indeed, amount to an immense
acknowledgment of her powers. Alas, alas! the case is entirely
different. There is a secret reading of this text which woman
cannot comprehend; for, the very next moment, all life owns to the
same conception as the state, which makes man responsible for his
wife. One condemns her as man never is condemned (for only a real
sentence is passed on him, and there the matter ends), not with
her receiving a milder sentence; for in that case not all of her
life would be an illusion, but with the case against her being
dismissed and the public, i.e., life, having to defray the costs.
One moment, woman is supposed to be possessed of all possible
wiles, the next moment, one laughs at him whom she deceived, which
surely is a contradiction. Even such a case as that of Potiphar's
wife does not preclude the possibility of her having really been
seduced. Thus has woman an enormous possibility, such as no man
has--an enormous possibility; but her reality is in proportion.
And most terrible of all is the magic of illusion in which she
feels herself happy.

Let Plato then thank the gods for having been born a contemporary
of Socrates: I envy him; let him offer thanks for being a Greek:
I envy him; but when he is grateful for having been born a man
and not a woman I join him with all my heart. If I had been born
a woman and could under stand what now I can understand--it were
terrible! But if I had been born a woman and therefore could not
understand it--that were still more terrible!

But if the case is as I stated it, then it follows that one had
better refrain from any positive relation with woman. Wherever she
is concerned one has to reckon with that inevitable hiatus which
renders her happy as she does not detect the illusion, but which
would be a man's undoing if he detected it.

I thank the gods, then, that I was born a man and not a woman;
and I thank them, furthermore, that no woman by some life-long
attachment holds me in duty bound to be constantly reflecting
that it ought not to have been.

Indeed, what a passing strange device is marriage! And what makes
it all the stranger is the suggestion that it is to be a step
taken without thought. And yet no step is more decisive, for nothing
in life is as inexorable and masterful as the marriage tie. And now
so important a step as marriage ought, so we are told, to be taken
without reflection! Yet marriage is not something simple but something
immensely complex and indeterminate. Just as the meat of the turtle
smacks of all kinds of meat, so likewise does marriage have a taste
of all manner of things; and just as the turtle is a sluggish animal,
likewise is marriage a sluggish thing. Falling in love is, at least,
a simple thing, but marriage--! Is it something heathen or something
Christian, something spiritual or something profane, or something
civil, or something of all things? Is it an expression of an
inexplicable love, the elective affinity of souls in delicate accord
with one another; or is it a duty, or a partnership, or a mere
convenience, or the custom of certain countries--or is it a duty,
or a partnership, or a mere convenience, or the custom of certain
countries--or is it a little of all these? Is one to order the
music for it from the town musician or the organist, or is one to
have a little from both? Is it the minister or the police sergeant
who is to make the speech and enroll the names in the book of
life--or in the town register? Does marriage blow a tune on a
comb, or does it listen to the whisperings "like to those of the
fairies from the grottoes of a summer night"?[42]

And now every Darby imagines he performed such a potpourri, such
incomparably complex music, in getting married--and imagines that
he is still performing it while living a married life! My dear
fellow-banqueters, ought we not, in default of a wedding present
and congratulations, give each of the conjugal partners a demerit
for repeated inattentiveness? It is taxing enough to express a
single idea in one's life; but to think something so complicated
as marriage and, consequently, bring it under one head; to think
something so complicated and yet to do justice to each and every
element in it, and have everything present at the same time--verily,
he is a great man who can accomplish all this! And still every
Benedict accomplishes it--so he does, no doubt; for does he not
say that he does it unconsciously? But if this is to be done
unconsciously it must be through some higher form of unconsciousness
permeating all one's reflective powers. But not a word is said
about this! And to ask any married man about it means just wasting
one's time.

He who has once committed a piece of folly will constantly be
pursued by its consequences. In the case of marriage the folly
consists in one's having gotten into a mess, and the punishment,
in recognizing, when it is too late, what one has done. So you will
find that the married man, now, becomes chesty, with a bit of
pathos, thinking he has done something remarkable in having entered
wedlock; now, puts his tail between his legs in dejection; then
again, praises marriage in sheer self-defense. But as to a thought-unit
which might serve to hold together the _disjecta membra_[43]
of the most heterogeneous conceptions of life contained in marriage--for
that we shall wait in vain.

Therefore, to be a mere Benedict is humbug, and to be a seducer is
humbug, and to wish to experiment with woman for the sake of "the
joke" is also humbug. In fact, the two last mentioned methods will
be seen to involve concessions to woman on the part of man quite
as large as those found in marriage. The seducer wishes to rise
in his own estimation by deceiving her; but this very fact that
he deceives and wishes to deceive--that he cares to deceive, is
also a demonstration of his dependence on woman. And the same
holds true of him who wishes to experiment with her.

If I were to imagine any possible relation with woman it would
be one so saturated with reflection that it would, for that very
reason, no longer be any relation with her at all. To be an excellent
husband and yet on the sly seduce every girl; to seem a seducer and
yet harbor within one all the ardor of romanticism--there would be
something to that, for the concession in the first instance were
then annihilated in the second. Certain it is that man finds his
true ideality only in such a reduplication. All merely unconscious
existence must be obliterated, and its obliteration ever cunningly
guarded by some sham expression. Such a reduplication is incomprehensible
to woman, for it removes from her the possibility of expressing man's
true nature in one term. If it were, possible for woman to exist in
such a reduplication, no erotic relation with her were thinkable. But,
her nature being such as we all know it to be, any disturbance of the
erotic relation is brought about by man's true nature which ever
consists precisely in the annihilation of that in which she has
her being.

Am I then preaching the monastic life and rightly called Eremita? By
no means. You may as well eliminate the cloister, for after all it
is only a direct expression of spirituality and as such but a vain
endeavor to express it in direct terms. It makes small difference
whether you use gold, or silver, or paper money; but he who does not
spend a farthing but is counterfeit, he will comprehend me. He
to whom every direct expression is but a fraud, he and he only,
is safeguarded better than if he lived in a cloister-cell--he
will be a hermit even if he travelled in an omnibus day and night.

Scarcely had Victor finished when the Dressmaker jumped to his feet
and threw over a bottle of wine standing before him; then he spoke
as follows:


(The Dressmaker's Speech)


Well spoken, dear fellow-banqueters, well spoken! The longer I hear
you speak the more I grow convinced that you are fellow-conspirators--I
greet you as such, I understand you as such; for fellow-conspirators
one can make out from afar. And yet, what know you? What does your
bit of theory to which you wish to give the appearance of experience,
your bit of experience which you make over into a theory--what does
it amount to? For every now and then you believe her a moment
and--are caught in a moment! No, I know woman--from her weak side,
that is to say, I know her. I shrink from no means to make sure about
what I have learned; for I am a madman, and a madman one must be to
understand her, and if one has not been one before, one will become
a madman, once one understands her. The robber has his hiding place
by the noisy high-road, and the ant-lion his funnel in the loose
sand, and the pirate his haunts by the roaring sea: likewise have
I may fashion-shop in the very midst of the teeming streets, seductive,
irresistible to woman as is the Venusberg to men. There, in a
fashion-shop, one learns to know woman, in a practical way and
without any theoretical ado.

Now, if fashion meant nothing than that woman in the heat of her
desire threw off all her clothing--why, then it would stand for
something. But this is not the case, fashion is not plain sensuality,
not tolerated debauchery, but an illicit trade in indecency authorized
as proper. And, just as in heathen Prussia the marriageable girl
wore a bell whose ringing served as a signal to the men, likewise
is a woman's existence in fashion a continual bell-ringing, not
for debauchees but for lickerish voluptuaries. People hold Fortune
to be a woman--ah, yes it is, to be sure, fickle; still, it is fickle
in something, as it may also give much; and insofar it is not a
woman. No; but fashion is a woman, for fashion is fickleness in
nonsense, and is consistent only in its becoming ever more crazy.

One hour in my shop is worth more than days and years without, if
it really be one's desire to learn to know woman; in my shop, for
it is the only one in the capital, there is no thought of competition.
Who, forsooth, would dare to enter into competition with one who
has entirely devoted himself, and is still devoting himself, as
high-priest in this idol worship? No, there is not a distinguished
assemblage which does not mention my name first and last; and
there is not a middle-class gathering where my name, whenever
mentioned, does not inspire sacred awe, like that of the king;
and there is no dress so idiotic but is accompanied by whispers
of admiration when its owner proceeds down the hall--provided
it bears my name; and there is not the lady of gentle birth who
dares pass my shop by, nor the girl of humble origin but passes
it sighing and thinking: if only I could afford it! Well, neither
was she deceived. I deceive no one; I furnish the finest goods
and the most costly, and at the lowest price, indeed, I sell
below cost. The fact is, I do not wish to make a profit. On the
contrary, every year I sacrifice large sums. And yet do I mean
to win, I mean to, I shall spend my last farthing in order to
corrupt, in order to bribe, the tools of fashion so that I may
win the game. To me it is a delight beyond compare to unroll
the most precious stuffs, to cut them out, to clip pieces from
genuine Brussels-lace, in order to make a fool's costume--I sell
to the lowest prices, genuine goods and in style.

You believe, perhaps, that woman wants to be dressed fashionably
only at certain times? No such thing, she wants to be so all the
time and that is her only thought. For a woman does have a mind,
only it is employed about as well as is the Prodigal Son's substance;
and woman does possess the power of reflection in an incredibly high
degree, for there is nothing so holy but she will in no time
discover it to be reconcilable with her finery--and the chiefest
expression of finery is fashion. What wonder if she does discover
it to be reconcilable; for is not fashion holy to her? And there
is nothing so insignificant but she certainly will know how to
make it count in her finery--and the most fatuous expression of
finery is fashion. And there is nothing, nothing in all her attire,
not the least ribbon, of whose relation to fashion she has not a
definite conception and concerning which she is not immediately
aware whether the lady who just passed by noticed it; because,
for whose benefit does she dress, if not for other ladies!

Even in my shop where she comes to be fitted out _à la mode_,
even there she is in fashion. Just as there is a special bathing
costume and a special riding habit, likewise there is a particular
kind of dress which it is the fashion to wear to the dressmaker's
shop. That costume is not _insouciant_ in the same sense as is
the negligée a lady is pleased to be surprised in, earlier in the
forenoon, where the point is her belonging to the fair sex and
the coquetry lies in her letting herself be surprised. The dressmaker
costume, on the other hand, is calculated to be nonchalant and a
bit careless without her being embarrassed thereby; because a
dressmaker stands in a different relation to her from a cavalier.
The coquetry here consists in thus showing herself to a man who,
by reason of his station, does not presume to ask for the lady's
womanly recognition, but must be content with the perquisites
which fall abundantly to his share, without her ever thinking
of it; or without it even so much as entering her mind to play
the lady before a dressmaker. The point is, therefore, that her
being of the opposite sex is, in a certain sense, left out of
consideration, and her coquetry invalidated, by the superciliousness
of the noble lady who would smile if any one alluded to any
relation existing between her and her dressmaker. When visited
in her negligée she conceals herself, thus displaying her charms
by this very concealment. In my shop she exposes her charms with
the utmost nonchalance, for he is only a dressmaker--and she is
a woman. Now, her shawl slips down and bares some part of her
body, and if I did not know what that means, and what she expects,
my reputation would be gone to the winds. Now, she draws herself
up, _a priori_ fashion, now she gesticulates _a posteriori_;
now, she sways to and fro in her hips; now, she looks at herself
in the mirror and sees my admiring phiz behind her in the glass;
now, she minces her words; now, she trips along with short steps;
now, she hovers; now, she draws her foot after her in a slovenly
fashion; now, she lets herself sink softly into an arm-chair,
whilst I with humble demeanor offer her a flask of smelling salts
and with my adoration assuage her agitation; now, she strikes
after me playfully; now, she drops her handkerchief and, without
as much as a single motion, lets her relaxed arm remain in its
pendent position, whilst I bend down low to pick it up and return
it to her, receiving a little patronizing nod as a reward. These
are the ways of a lady of fashion when in my shop. Whether Diogenes[44]
made any impression on the woman who was praying in a somewhat
unbecoming posture, when he asked her whether she did not believe
the gods could see her from behind--that I do not know; but
this I do know, that if I should say to her ladyship kneeling
down in church: "The folds of your gown do not fall according
to fashion," she would be more alarmed than if she had given
offense to the gods. Woe to the outcast, the male Cinderella,
who has not comprehended this! _Pro dii immortales_,[45] what,
pray, is a woman who is not in fashion; _per deos obsecro_,[46]
and what when she is in fashion!

Whether all this is true? Well, make trial of it: let the swain,
when his beloved one sinks rapturously on his breast, whispering
unintelligibly: "thine forever," and hides her head on his bosom--let
him but say to, her: "My sweet Kitty, your coiffure is not at
all in fashion."--Possibly, men don't give thought to this; but he
who knows it, and has the reputation of knowing it, he is the most
dangerous man in the kingdom. What blissful hours the lover passes
with his sweetheart before marriage I do not know; but of the
blissful hours she spends in my shop he hasn't the slightest
inkling, either. Without my special license and sanction a marriage
is null and void, anyway--or else an entirely plebeian affair. Let
it be the very moment when they are to meet before the altar, let
her step forward with the very best conscience in the world that
everything was bought in my shop and tried on there--and now, if
I were to rush up and exclaim: "But mercy! gracious lady, your
myrtle wreath is all awry"--why, the whole ceremony might be
postponed, for aught I know. But men do not suspect these things,
one must be a dressmaker to know.

So immense is the power of reflection needed to fathom a woman's
thought that only a man who dedicates himself wholly to the task
will succeed, and even then only if gifted to start with. Happy
therefore the man who does not associate with any woman, for she
is not his, anyway, even if she be no other man's; for she is
possessed by that phantom born of the unnatural intercourse of
woman's reflection with itself, fashion. Do you see, for this
reason should woman always swear by fashion--then were there
some force in her oath; for after all, fashion is the thing she
is always thinking of, the only thing she can think together with,
and into, everything. For instance, the glad message has gone
forth from my shop to all fashionable ladies that fashion decrees
the use of a particular kind of head-dress to be worn in church,
and that this head-dress, again, must be somewhat different for
High Mass and for the afternoon service. Now when the bells are
ringing the carriage stops in front of my door. Her ladyship
descends (for also this has been decreed, that no one can adjust
that head-dress save I, the fashion-dealer), I rush out, making
low bows, and lead her into my cabinet. And whilst she languishingly
reposes I put everything in order. Now she is ready and has looked
at herself in the mirror; quick as any messenger of the gods I
hasten in advance, open the door of my cabinet with a bow, then
hasten to the door of my shop and lay my arm on my breast, like
some oriental slave; but, encouraged by a gracious courtesy, I
even dare to throw her an adoring and admiring kiss--now she
is seated in her carriage--oh dear! she left her hymn book behind.
I hasten out again and hand it to her through the carriage window,
I permit myself once more to remind her to hold her head a trifle
more to the right, and herself to arrange things, should her
head-dress become a bit disordered when descending. She drives
away and is edified.

You believe, perhaps, that it is only great ladies who worship
fashion, but far from it! Look at my sempstresses for whose dress
I spare no expense, so that the dogmas of fashion may be proclaimed
most emphatically from my shop. They form a chorus of half-witted
creatures, and I myself lead them on as high-priest, as a shining
example, squandering all, solely in order to make all womankind
ridiculous. For when a seducer makes the boast that every woman's
virtue has its price, I do not believe him; but I do believe that
every woman at an early time will be crazed by the maddening and
defiling introspection taught her by fashion, which will corrupt
her more thoroughly than being seduced. I have made trial more
than once. If not able to corrupt her myself I set on her a few
of fashion's slaves of her own station; for just as one may train
rats to bite rats, likewise is the crazed woman's sting like that
of the tarantula. And most especially dangerous is it when some
man lends his help.

Whether I serve the Devil or God I do not know; but I am right, I
shall be right, I will be, so long as I possess a single farthing,
I will be until the blood spurts out of my fingers. The physiologist
pictures the shape of woman to show the dreadful effects of wearing
a corset, and beside it he draws a picture of her normal figure.
That is all entirely correct, but only one of the drawings has the
validity of truth: they all wear corsets. Describe, therefore,
the miserable, stunted perversity of the fashion-mad woman,
describe the insidious introspection devouring her, and then
describe the womanly modesty which least of all knows about
itself--do so and you have judged woman, have in very truth
passed terrible sentence on her. If ever I discover such a girl
who is contented and demure and not yet corrupted by indecent
intercourse with women--she shall fall nevertheless. I shall
catch her in my toils, already she stands at the sacrificial
altar, that is to say, in my shop. With the most scornful glance
a haughty nonchalance can assume I measure her appearance, she
perishes with fright; a peal of laughter from the adjoining room
where sit my trained accomplices annihilates her. And afterwards,
when I have gotten her rigged up _à la mode_ and she looks crazier
than a lunatic, as crazy as one who would not be accepted even
in a lunatic asylum, then she leaves me in a state of bliss--no
man, not even a god, were able to inspire fear in her; for is
she not dressed in fashion?

Do you comprehend me now, do you comprehend why I call you
fellow-conspirators, even though in a distant way? Do you now
comprehend my conception of woman? Everything in life is a matter
of fashion, the fear of God is a matter of fashion, and so are
love, and crinolines, and a ring through the nose. To the utmost
of my ability will I therefore come to the support of the exalted
genius who wishes to laugh at the most ridiculous of all animals.
If woman has reduced everything to a matter of fashion, then will
I, with the help of fashion, prostitute her, as she deserves to
be; I have no peace, I the dressmaker, my soul rages when I think
of my task--she will yet be made to wear a ring through her nose.
Seek therefore no sweetheart, abandon love as you would the most
dangerous neighborhood; for the one whom you love would also be
made to go with a ring through her nose.

Thereupon John, called the Seducer, spoke as follows:


(The Speech of John the Seducer)


My dear boon companions, is Satan plaguing you? For, indeed, you
speak like so many hired mourners, your eyes are red with tears
and not with wine. You almost move me to tears also, for an
unhappy lover does have a miserable time of it in life. _Hinc illae
lacrimae._[47] I, however, am a happy lover, and my only wish
is to remain so. Very possibly, that is one of the concessions
to woman which Victor is so afraid of. Why not? Let it be a
concession! Loosening the lead foil of this bottle of champagne
also is a concession; letting its foaming contents flow into my
glass also is a concession; and so is raising it to my lips--now
I drain it--_concedo._[48] Now, however, it is empty, hence I
need no more concessions. Just the same with girls. If some
unhappy lover has bought his kiss too dearly, this proves to
me only that he does not know, either how to take what is coming
to him or how to do it. I never pay too much for this sort of
thing--that is a matter for the girls to decide. What this signifies?
To me it signifies the most beautiful, the most delicious, and
well-nigh the most persuasive, _argumentum ad hominem_; but since
every woman, at least once in her life, possesses this argumentative
freshness I do not see any reason why I should not let myself be
persuaded. Our young friend wishes to make this experience in
his thought. Why not buy a cream puff and be content with looking
at it? I mean to enjoy. No mere talk for me! Just as an old song
has it about a kiss: _es ist kaum zu sehn, es ist nur für Lippen,
die genau sich verstehn_[49]--understand each other so exactly
that any reflection about the matter is but an impertinence and
a folly. He who is twenty and does not grasp the existence of the
categorical imperative "enjoy thyself"--he is a fool; and he who
does not seize the opportunity is and remains a Christianfelder.[50]

However, you all are unhappy lovers, and that is why you are not
satisfied with woman as she is. The gods forbid! As she is she
pleases me, just as she is. Even Constantin's category of "the joke"
seems to contain a secret desire. I, on the other hand, I am gallant.
And why not? Gallantry costs nothing and gives one all and is the
condition for all erotic pleasure. Gallantly is the Masonic language
of the senses and of voluptuousness, between man and woman. It is a
natural language, as love's language in general is. It consists not
of sounds but of desires disguised and of ever changing wishes. That
an unhappy lover may be ungallant enough to wish to convert his
deficit into a draught payable in immortality--that I understand
well enough. That is to say, I for my part do not understand it;
for to me a woman has sufficient intrinsic value. I assure every
woman of this, it is the truth; and at the same time it is certain
that I am the only one who is not deceived by this truth. As to
whether a despoiled woman is worth less than man--about that I
find no information in my price list. I do not pick flowers already
broken, I leave them to the married men to use for Shrove-tide
decoration. Whether e. g. Edward wishes to consider the matter
again, and again fall in love with Cordelia,[51] or simply repeat
the affair in his reflection--that is his own business. Why
should I concern myself with other peoples' affairs! I explained
to her at an earlier time what I thought of her; and, in truth,
she convinced me, convinced me to my absolute satisfaction, that
my gallantry was well applied.

_Concedo. Concessi._[52] If I should meet with another Cordelia,
why then I shall enact a comedy "Ring number 2.[53]" But you
are unhappy lovers and have conspired together, and are worse
deceived than the girls, notwithstanding that you are richly
endowed by nature. But decision--the decision of desire, is the
most essential thing in life. Our young friend will always remain
an onlooker. Victor is an unpractical enthusiast. Constantin has
acquired his good sense at too great a cost; and the fashion
dealer is a madman. Stuff and nonsense! With all four of you busy
about one girl, nothing would come of it.

Let one have enthusiasm enough to idealize, taste enough to join
in the clinking of glasses at the festive board of enjoyment, sense
enough to break off--to break off absolutely, as does Death, madness
enough to wish to enjoy all over again--if you have all that you
will be the favorite of gods and girls.

But of what avail to speak here? I do not intend to make proselytes.
Neither is this the place for that. To be sure I love wine, to be
sure I love the abundance of a banquet--all that is good; but let
a girl be my company, and then I shall be eloquent. Let then
Constantin have my thanks for the banquet, and the wine, and the
excellent appointments--the speeches, however, were but indifferent.
But in order that things shall have a better ending I shall
now pronounce a eulogy on woman.

Just as he who is to speak in praise of the divinity must be
inspired by the divinity to speak worthily, and must therefore
be taught by the divinity as to what he shall say, likewise he
who would speak of women. For woman, even less than the divinity,
is a mere figment of man's brain, a day-dream, or a notion that
occurs to one and which one may argue about pro et contra. Nay,
one learns from woman alone what to say of her. And the more
teachers one has had, the better. The first time one is a disciple,
the next time one is already over the chief difficulties, just
as one learns in formal and learned disputations how to use
the last opponent's compliments against a new opponent. Nevertheless
nothing is lost. For as little as a kiss is a mere sample of good
things, and as little as an embrace is an exertion, just as little
is this experience exhaustive. In fact it is essentially different
from the mathematical proof of a theorem, which remains ever the
same, even though other letters be substituted. This method is
one befitting mathematics and ghosts, but not love and women,
because each is a new proof, corroborating the truth of the
theorem in a different manner. It is my joy that, far from being
less perfect than man, the female sex is, on the contrary, the
more perfect. I shall, however, clothe my speech in a myth; and I
shall exult, on woman's account whom you have so unjustly maligned,
if my speech pronounce judgment on your souls, if the enjoyment
of her beckon you only to flee you, as did the fruits from Tantalus;
because you have fled, and thereby insulted, woman. Only thus,
forsooth, may she be insulted, even though she scorn it, and though
punishment instantly falls on him who had the audacity. I, however,
insult no one. That is but the notion of married men, and a slander;
whereas, in reality, I respect her more highly than does the man
she is married to.

Originally there was but one sex, so the Greeks relate, and that
was man's. Splendidly endowed he was, so he did honor to the
gods--so splendidly endowed that the same happened to them as
sometimes happens to a poet who has expended all his energy on
a poetic invention: they grew jealous of man. Ay, what is worse,
they feared that he would not willingly bow under their yoke;
they feared, though with small reason, that he might cause their
very heaven to totter. Thus they had raised up a power they
scarcely held themselves able to curb. Then there was anxiety
and alarm in the council of the gods. Much had they lavished in
their generosity on the creation of man; but all must be risked
now, for reason of bitter necessity; for all was at stake--so
the gods believed--and recalled he could not be, as a poet may
recall his invention. And by force he could not be subdued, or
else the gods themselves could have done so; but precisely of
that they despaired. He would have to be caught and subdued, then,
by a power weaker than his own and yet stronger--one strong
enough to compel him. What a marvelous power this would have to
be! However, necessity teaches even the gods to surpass themselves
in inventiveness. They sought and they found. That power was woman,
the marvel of creation, even in the eyes of the gods a greater
marvel than man--a discovery which the gods in their naïveté could
not help but applaud themselves for. What more can be said in her
praise than that she was able to accomplish what even the gods
did not believe themselves able to do; and what more can be said in
her praise than that she did accomplish it! But how marvelous
a creation must be hers to have accomplished it.

It was a ruse of the gods. Cunningly the enchantress was fashioned,
for no sooner had she bewitched man than she changed and caught him
in all the circumstantialities of existence. It was that the gods
had desired. But what, pray, can be more delicious, or more entrancing
and bewitching, than what the gods themselves contrived, when battling
for their supremacy, as the only means of luring man? And most
assuredly it is so, for woman is the only, and the most seductive,
power in heaven and on earth. When compared with her in this sense
man will indeed be found to be exceedingly imperfect.

And the stratagem of the gods was crowned with success; but not
always. There have existed at all times some men--a few--who
have detected the deception. They perceive well enough woman's
loveliness--more keenly, indeed than the others--but they also
suspect the real state of affairs. I call them erotic natures and
count myself among them. Men call them seducers, woman has no name
for them--such persons are to her unnameable. These erotic natures
are the truly fortunate ones. They live more luxuriously than do
the very gods, for they regale themselves with food more delectable
than ambrosia, and they drink what is more delicious than nectar;
they eat the most seductive invention of the gods' most ingenious
thought, they are ever eating dainties set for a bait--ah, incomparable
delight, ah, blissful fare--they are ever eating but the dainties
set for a bait; and they are never caught. All other men greedily
seize and devour it, like bumpkins eating their cabbage, and are
caught. Only the erotic nature fully appreciates the dainties set
out for bait--he prizes them infinitely. Woman divines this, and
for that reason there is a secret understanding between him and her.
But he knows also that she is a bait, and that secret he keeps
to himself.

That nothing more marvelous, nothing more delicious, nothing more
seductive, than woman can be devised, for that vouch the gods and
their pressing need which heightened their powers of invention;
for that vouches also the fact that they risked all, and in shaping
her moved heaven and earth.

I now forsake the myth. The conception "man" corresponds to his
"idea." I can therefore, if necessary, think of an individual man
as existing. The idea of woman, on the other hand, is so general
that no one single woman is able to express it completely. She is
not contemporaneous with man (and hence of less noble origin), but
a later creation, though more perfect than he. Whether now the gods
took some part from him whilst he slept, from fear of waking him by
taking too much; or whether they bisected him and made woman out
of the one half--at any rate it was man who was partitioned. Hence
she is the equal of man only after this partition. She is a
delusion and a snarer, but is so only afterwards, and for him who
is deluded. She is finiteness incarnate; but in her first stage
she is finiteness raised to the highest degree in the deceptive
infinitude of all divine and human illusions. Now, the deception
does not exist--one instant longer, and one is deceived.

She is finiteness, and as such she is a collective: one woman
represents all women. Only the erotic nature comprehends this and
therefore knows how to love many without ever being deceived, sipping
the while all the delights the cunning gods were able to prepare.
For this reason, as I said, woman cannot be fully expressed by one
formula, but is, rather, an infinitude of finalities. He who wishes
to think her "idea" will have the same experience as he who gazes
on a sea of nebulous shapes which ever form anew, or as he who is
dazed by looking over the waves whose foamy crests ever mock one's
vision; for her "idea" is but the workshop of possibilities. And to
the erotic nature these possibilities are the everlasting reason
for his worship.

So the gods created her delicate and ethereal as if out of
the mists of the summer night, yet goodly like ripe fruit;
light like a bird, though the repository of what attracts all
the world--light because the play of the forces is harmoniously
balanced in the invisible center of a negative relation;[54]
slender in growth, with definite lines, yet her body sinuous
with beautiful curves; perfect, yet ever appearing  as if completed
but now; cool, delicious, and refreshing like new-fallen snow,
yet blushing in coy transparency; happy like some pleasantry
which makes one forget all one's sorrow; soothing as being the
end of desire, and satisfying in herself being the stimulus of
desire. And the gods had calculated that man, when first beholding
her, would be amazed, as one who sees himself, though familiar with
that sight--would stand in amaze as one who sees himself in the
splendor of perfection--would stand in amaze as one who beholds
what he did never dream he would, yet beholds what, it would seem,
ought to have occurred to him before--sees what is essential to
life and yet gazes on it as being the very mystery of existence.
It is precisely tins contradiction in his admiration which nurses
desire to life, while this same admiration urges him ever nearer,
so that he cannot desist from gazing, cannot desist from believing
himself familiar with the sight, without really daring to approach,
even though he cannot desist from desiring.

When the gods had thus planned her form they were seized with
fear lest they might not have the wherewithal to give it existence;
but what they feared even more was herself. For they dared not
let her know how beautiful she was, apprehensive of having some
one in the secret who might spoil their ruse. Then was the crowning
touch given to their wondrous creation: they made her faultless;
but they concealed all this from her in the nescience of her
innocence, and concealed it doubly from her in the impenetrable
mystery of her modesty. Now she was perfect, and victory certain.
Inviting she had been before, but now doubly so through her shyness,
and beseeching through her shrinking, and irresistible through
herself offering resistance. The gods were jubilant. And no
allurement has ever been devised in the world so great as is woman,
and no allurement is as compelling as is innocence, and no temptation
is as ensnaring as is modesty, and no deception is as matchless as
is woman. She knows of nothing, still her modesty is instinctive
divination. She is distinct from man, and the separating wall of
modesty parting them is more decisive than Aladdin's sword separating
him from Gulnare;[55] and yet, when like Pyramis he puts his head
to this dividing wall of modesty, the erotic nature will perceive
all pleasures of desire divined within as from afar.

Thus does woman tempt. Men are wont to set forth the most precious
things they possess as a delectation for the gods, nothing less
will do. Thus is woman a show-bread, the gods knew of naught
comparable to her. She exists, she is present, she is with us,
close by; and yet she is removed from us to an infinite distance
when concealed in her modesty--until she herself betrays her
hiding place, she knows not how: it is not she herself, it is
life which informs on her. Roguish she is like a child who in
playing peeps forth from his hiding place, yet her roguishness
is inexplicable, for she does not know of it herself, she is
ever mysterious--mysterious when she casts down her eyes, mysterious
when she sends forth the messengers of her glance which no thought,
let alone any word, is able to follow. And yet is the eye the
"interpreter" of the soul! What, then, is the explanation of this
mystery if the interpreter too is unintelligible? Calm she is like
the hushed stillness of eventide, when not a leaf stirs; calm
like a consciousness as yet unaware of aught. Her heart-beats
are as regular as if life were not present; and yet the erotic
nature, listening with his stethoscopically practiced ear, detects
the dithyrambic pulsing of desire sounding along unbeknown.
Careless she is like the blowing of the wind, content like the
profound ocean, and yet full of longing like a thing biding
its explanation. My friends! My mind is softened, indescribably
softened. I comprehend that also my life expresses an idea, even
if you do not comprehend me. I too have discovered the secret
of existence; I too serve a divine idea--and, assuredly, I do
not serve it for nothing. If woman is a ruse of the gods, this
means that she is to be seduced; and if woman is not an "idea,"
the true inference is that the erotic nature wishes to love as
many of them as possible.

What luxury it is to relish the ruse without being duped, only
the erotic nature comprehends. And how blissful it is to be
seduced, woman alone knows. I know that from woman, even though
I never yet allowed any one of them time to explain it to me,
but re-asserted my independence, serving the idea by a break
as sudden as that caused by death; for a bride and a break are
to one another like female and male.[56] Only woman is aware
of this, and she is aware of it together with her seducer. No
married man will ever grasp this. Nor does she ever speak with
him about it. She resigns herself to her fate, she knows that
it must be so and that she can be seduced only once. For this
reason she never really bears malice against the man who seduced
her. That is to say, if he really did seduce her and thus expressed
the idea. Broken marriage vows and that kind of thing is, of
course, nonsense and no seduction. Indeed, it is by no means so
great a misfortune for a woman to be seduced. In fact, it is
a piece of good fortune for her. An excellently seduced girl
may make an excellent wife. If I myself were not fit to be a
seducer--however deeply I feel my inferior qualifications in
this respect--if I chose to be a married man, I should always
choose a girl already seduced, so that I would not have to begin
my marriage by seducing my wife. Marriage, to be sure, also
expresses an idea; but in relation to the idea of marriage that
quality is altogether immaterial which is the absolutely essential
condition for my idea. Therefore, a marriage ought never to be
planned to begin as though it were the beginning of a story of
seduction. So much is sure: there is a seducer for every woman.
Happy is she whose good fortune it is to meet just him.

Through marriage, on the other hand, the gods win their victory.
In it the once seduced maiden walks through life by the side of
her husband, looking back at times, full of longing, resigned
to her fate, until she reaches the goal of life. She dies; but
not in the same sense as man dies. She is volatilized and resolved
into that mysterious primal element of which the gods formed her--she
disappears like a dream, like an impermanent shape whose hour
is past. For what is woman but a dream, and the highest reality
withal! Thus does the erotic nature comprehend her, leading her,
and being led by her in the moment of seduction, beyond time--where
she has her true existence, being an illusion. Through her husband,
on the other hand, she becomes a creature of this world, and he
through her.

Marvelous nature! If I did not admire thee, a woman would teach
me; for truly she is the _venerabile_ of life. Splendidly didst
thou fashion her, but more splendidly still in that thou never
didst fashion one woman like another. In man, the essential is the
essential, and insofar always alike; but in woman the adventitious
is the essential, and is thus an inexhaustible source of differences.
Brief is her splendor; but quickly the pain is forgotten, too, when
the same splendor is proffered me anew. It is true, I too am aware
of the unbeautiful which may appear in her thereafter; but she is
not thus with her seducer.


They rose from the table. It needed but a hint from Constantin,
for the participants understood each other with military precision
whenever there was a question of face or turn about. With his
invisible baton of command, elastic like a divining rod in his hand,
Constantin once more touched them in order to call forth in them a
fleeting reminiscence of the banquet and the spirit of enjoyment
which had prevailed before but was now, in some measure, submerged
through the intellectual effort of the speeches--in order that the
note of glad festivity which had disappeared might, by way of
resonance, return once more among the guests in a brief moment of
recollection. He saluted with his full glass as a signal of parting,
emptying it, and then flinging it against the door in the rear wall.
The others followed his example, consummating this symbolic
action with all the solemnity of adepts. Justice was thus done
the pleasure of stopping short--that royal pleasure which, though
briefer, yet is more liberating than any other pleasure. With a
libation this pleasure ought to be entered upon, with the libation
of flinging one's glass into destruction and oblivion, and tearing
one's self passionately away from every memory, as if it were a
danger to one's life: this libation is to the gods of the nether
world. One breaks off, and strength is needed to do that, greater
strength than to sever a knot by a sword-blow; for the difficulty
of the knot tends to arouse one's passion, but the passion required
for breaking off must be of one's own making. In a superficial
sense the result is, of course, the same; but from an artistic
point of view there is a world of difference between something
ceasing or simply coming to an end, and it being broken off by
one's own free will--whether it is a mere occurrence or a passionate
decision; whether it is all over, like a school song, because
there is no more to it, or whether it is terminated by the Cæsarian
operation of one's own pleasure; whether it is a triviality every
one has experienced, or the secret which escapes most.

Constantin's flinging his beaker against the door was intended
merely as a symbolic rite; nevertheless, his so doing was, in
a way, a decisive act; for when the last glass was shattered the
door opened, and just as he who presumptuously knocked at Death's
door and, on its opening, beheld the powers of annihilation, so
the banqueters beheld the corps of destruction ready to demolish
everything--a memento which in an instant put them to flight
from that place, while at the very same moment the entire surroundings
had been reduced to the semblance of ruin.

A carriage stood ready at the door. At Constantin's invitation
they seated themselves in it and drove away in good spirits;
for that tableau of destruction which they left behind had given
their souls fresh elasticity. After having covered a distance of
several miles a halt was made. Here Constantin took his leave as
host, informing them that five carriages were at their disposal--each
one was free to suit his own pleasure and drive wherever he wanted,
whether alone or in company with whomsoever he pleased. Thus a
rocket, propelled by the force of the powder, ascends at a single
shot, remains collected for an instant, in order then to spread out
to all the winds.

While the horses were being hitched to the carriages the nocturnal
banqueters strolled a little way down the road. The fresh air of
the morning purified their hot blood with its coolness, and they
gave themselves up to it entirely. Their forms, and the groups in
which they ranged themselves, made a fantastic impression on me.
For when the morning sun shines on field and meadow, and on every
creature which in the night found rest and strength to rise up
jubilating with the sun--in this there is only a pleasing, mutual
understanding; but a nightly company, viewed by the morning light
and in smiling surroundings, makes a downright uncanny impression.
It makes one think of spooks which have been surprised by daylight,
of subterranean spirits which are unable to regain the crevice
through which they may vanish, because it is visible only in the
dark; of unhappy creatures in whom the difference between day and
night has become obliterated through the monotony of their sufferings.

A foot path led them through a small patch of field toward a garden
surrounded by a hedge, from behind whose concealment a modest
summer-cottage peeped forth. At the end of the garden, toward the
field, there was an arbor formed by trees. Becoming aware of people
being in the arbor, they all grew curious, and with the spying
glances of men bent on observation, the besiegers closed in about
that pleasant place of concealment, hiding themselves, and as eager
as emissaries of the police about to take some one by surprise.
Like emissaries of the police--well, to be sure, their appearance
made the misunderstanding possible that it was they whom the minions
of the law might be looking for. Each one had occupied a point of
vantage for peeping in, when Victor drew back a step and said to
his neighbor, "Why, dear me, if that is not Judge William and his
wife!"

They were surprised--not the two whom the foliage concealed
and who were all too deeply concerned with their domestic enjoyment
to be observers. They felt themselves too secure to believe
themselves an object of any one's observation excepting the
morning sun's which took pleasure in looking in to them, whilst
a gentle zephyr moved the boughs above them, and the repose-fulness
of the countryside, as well as all things around them girded the
little arbor about with peace. The happy married couple was not
surprised and noticed nothing. That they were a married couple was
clear enough; one could perceive that at a glance--alas! if one is
something of an observer one's self. Even if nothing in the wide
world, nothing, whether overtly or covertly, if nothing, I say,
threatens to interfere with the happiness of lovers, yet they
are not thus secure when sitting together. They are in a state
of bliss; and yet it is as if there were some power bent on
separating them, so firmly they clasp one another; and yet it
is as if there were some enemy present against whom they must
defend themselves; and yet it is as if they could never become
sufficiently reassured. Not thus married people, and not thus
that married couple in the arbor. How long they had been married,
however, that was not to be determined with certainty. To be
sure, the wife's activity at the tea-table revealed a sureness
of hand born of practice, but at the same time such almost childlike
interest in her occupation as if she were a newly married woman
and in that middle condition when she is not, as yet, sure whether
marriage is fun or earnest, whether being a housewife is a calling,
or a game, or a pastime. Perhaps she had been married for some
longer time but did not generally preside at the tea-table, or
perhaps did so only out here in the country, or did it perhaps
only that morning which, possibly, had a special significance
for them. Who could tell? All calculation is frustrated to a
certain degree by the fact that every personality exhibits some
originality which keeps time from leaving its marks. When the
sun shines in all his summer glory one thinks straightway that
there must be some festal occasion at hand--that it cannot be
so for every-day use, or that it is the first time, or at least
one of the first times; for surely, one thinks, it cannot be
repeated for any length of time. Thus would think he who saw
it but once, or saw it for the first time; and I saw the wife
of the justice for the first time. He who sees the object in
question every day may think differently; provided he sees the
same thing. But let the judge decide about that!

As I remarked, our amiable housewife was occupied. She poured
boiling water into the cups, probably to warm them, emptied them
again, set a cup on a platter, poured the tea and served it with
sugar and cream--now all was ready; was it fun or earnest? In
case a person did not relish tea at other times--he should have
sat in the judge's place; for just then that drink seemed most
inviting to me, only the inviting air of the lovely woman herself
seemed to me more inviting.

It appeared that she had not had time to speak until then. Now
she broke the silence and said, while serving him his tea: "Quick,
now, dear, and drink while it is hot, the morning air is quite
cool, anyway; and surely the least I can do for you is to be a
little careful of you. The least?" the judge answered laconically.
"Yes, or the most, or the only thing." The judge looked at her
inquiringly, and whilst he was helping himself she continued: "You
interrupted me yesterday when I wished to broach the subject, but
I have thought about it again; many times I have thought about
it, and now particularly, you know yourself in reference to
whom: it is certainly true that if you hadn't married, you would
have been far more successful in your career." With his cup still
on the platter the judge sipped a first mouthful with visible
enjoyment, thoroughly refreshed; or was it perchance the joy
over his lovely wife; I for my part believe it was the latter.
She, however, seemed only to be glad that it tasted so good to
him. Then he put down his cup on the table at his side, took out
a cigar, and said: "May I light it at your chafing-dish"? "Certainly,"
she said, and handed him a live coal on a tea-spoon. He lit his
cigar and put his arm about her waist whilst she leaned against
his shoulder. He turned his head the other way to blow out the
smoke, and then he let his eyes rest on her with a devotion such
as only a glance can reveal; yet he smiled, but this glad smile
had in it a dash of sad irony. Finally he said: "Do you really
believe so, my girl? What do you mean?" she answered. He was
silent again, his smile gained the upper hand, but his voice
remained quite serious, nevertheless. "Then I pardon you your
previous folly, seeing that you yourself have forgotten it so
quickly; thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh[57]--what
great career should I have had?" His wife seemed embarrassed
for a moment by this return, but collected her wits quickly and
now explained her meaning with womanly eloquence. The judge
looked down before him, without interrupting her; but as she
continued he began to drum on the table with the fingers of his
right hand, at the same time humming a tune. The words of the
song were audible for a moment, just as the pattern of a texture
now becomes visible, now disappears again; and then again they
were heard no longer as he hummed the tune of the song: "The
goodman he went to the forest, to cut the wands so white." After
this melodramatic performance, consisting in the justice's wife
explaining herself whilst he hummed his tune, the dialogue set
in again. "I am thinking," he remarked, "I am thinking you are
ignorant of the fact that the Danish Law permits a man to castigate
his wife[58]--a pity only that the law does not indicate on
which occasions it is permitted." His wife smiled at his threat
and continued: "Now why can I never get you to be serious when
I touch on this matter? You do not understand me: believe me, I
mean it sincerely, it seems to me a very beautiful thought. Of
course, if you weren't my husband I would not dare to entertain
it; but now I have done so, for your sake and for my sake; and
now be nice and serious, for my sake, and answer me frankly."
"No, you can't get me to be serious, and a serious answer you
won't get; I must either laugh at you, or make you forget it, as
before, or beat you; or else you must stop talking about it, or I
shall have to make you keep silent about it some other way. You
see, it is a joke, and that is why there are so many ways out."
He arose, pressed a kiss on her brow, laid her arm in his, and
then disappeared in a leafy walk which led from the arbor.


The arbor was empty; there was nothing else to do, so the hostile
corps of occupation withdrew without making any gains. Still, the
others were content with uttering some malicious remarks. The
company returned but missed Victor. He had rounded the corner
and, in walking along the garden, had come up to the country
home. The doors of a garden-room facing the lawn were open, and
likewise a window. Very probably he had seen something which
attracted his attention. He leapt into the window, and leapt
out again just as the party were approaching, for they had been
looking for him. Triumphantly he held up some papers in his hand
and exclaimed: "One of the judge's manuscripts![59] Seeing
that I edited his other works it is no more than my duty that
I should edit this one too." He put it into his pocket; or,
rather, he was about to do so; for as he was bending his arm
and already had his hand with the manuscript half-way down in
his pocket I managed to steal it from him.

But who, then, am I? Let no one ask! If it hasn't occurred to you
before to ask about it I am over the difficulty; for now the worst
is behind me. For that matter, I am not worth asking about, for
I am the least of all things, people would put me in utter confusion
by asking about me. I am pure existence, and therefore smaller,
almost, than nothing. I am "pure existence" which is present
everywhere but still is never noticed; for I am ever vanishing.
I am like the line above which stands the summa summarum--who
cares about the line? By my own strength I can accomplish nothing,
for even the idea to steal the manuscript from Victor was not my
own idea; for this very idea which, as a thief would say, induced
me to "borrow" the manuscript, was borrowed from him. And now,
when editing this manuscript, I am, again, nothing at all; for
it rightly belongs to the judge. And as editor, I am in my nothingness
only a kind of nemesis on Victor, who imagined that he had the
prescriptive right to do so.


[Footnote 1: _Cf._ Luke XIV, 19-20.]

[Footnote 2: Words used in the banns.]

[Footnote 3: Which in Latin means both "from the temple" and "at once."]

[Footnote 4: The omission of the negative particle in the original is
no doubt unintentional.]

[Footnote 5: Pious wish.]

[Footnote 6: Kings 20, 1; Isaiah 38, 1.]

[Footnote 7: An allusion to the plight of Aristophanes in Plato's
_Symposion._]

[Footnote 8: Haggai 1, 6 (inexact).]

[Footnote 9: May it be fortunate and favorable.]

[Footnote 10: _Symposion_, ch. 9.]

[Footnote 11: This ironic sally refers, not to Descartes' principle
of skepsis, but to the numerous Danish followers of Hegel and his
"method"; _cf._ Fear and Trembling.]

[Footnote 12: _Symposion_, ch. 24.]

[Footnote 13: _Ibid._, ch. 15-16.]

[Footnote 14: _Cf._ Matthew 13, 31 etc.]

[Footnote 15: A quotation from Musæus, _Volksmärchen der Deutschen_,
III, 219.]

[Footnote 16: The reference is to a situation in Richard Cumberland's
(1732-1811) play of  "The Jew," known to Copenhagen playgoers in an
adaptation.]

[Footnote 17: I relate what I have been told.]

[Footnote 18: A character in the Danish playwright Overskou's vaudeville
of "Capriciosa" (Comedies III, 184).]

[Footnote 19: The glutton in Oehlenschlœger's vaudeville of
"Sovedrikken."]

[Footnote 20: Supplied by the translator to complete the sense.]

[Footnote 21: Dejection. _Cf._ the maxim: _omne animal post coïtun
triste._]

[Footnote 22: This statement is to be found, rather, in Aristotle's
Ethics II, 6.]

[Footnote 23: There is a pun here in the original.]

[Footnote 24: In Holberg's comedy of "Erasmus Montanus," III, 6.]

[Footnote 25: _Cf._ "The Banquet."]

[Footnote 26: "Eccles, 3, 7."]

[Footnote 27: "Comical power."]

[Footnote 28: "In uncertain battle."]

[Footnote 29: According to the development of these terms in Kierkegaard's
previous works, the "absolute" belongs to the ethic, the "relative"
to the æsthetic sphere.]

[Footnote 30: Heroine of Mozart's "Don Juan."]

[Footnote 31: Quotation from Wessel's famous comedy of "Love without
Stockings," III, 3.]

[Footnote 32: Viz besides the eggs she duly furnishes; Holberg, "The
Busy-body," II, 1.]

[Footnote 33: This figure is said by Diogenes Lærtios II, 37 to have
been used by Socrates himself about his relation to Xanthippe.]

[Footnote 34: The following sentences are not as clear in meaning as
is otherwise the case in Kierkegaard.]

[Footnote 35: Poetics, chap. 15.]

[Footnote 36: _Cf._ "The Banquet"]

[Footnote 37: They are, that he had been created a man and not an
animal, a man and not a woman, a Greek and not a Barbarian (Lactantius,
Instit. III, 19, 17).]

[Footnote 38: Thales of Miletos (Diogenes Lærtios I, 33).]

[Footnote 39: German poet of the Romantic School (1773-1853).]

[Footnote 40: Reasoning against the rules of logic.]

[Footnote 41: "The Lying-in Room," II, 2.]

[Footnote 42: A quotation from Oehlenschläager's "Aladdin."]

[Footnote 43: Scattered members.]

[Footnote 44: See Diogenes Lærtios, VI, 37.]

[Footnote 45: By the immortal gods.]

[Footnote 46: I adjure you by the gods.]

[Footnote 47: Therefore those tears.]

[Footnote 48: I concede.]

[Footnote 49: It can hardly be seen, it is but for lips which
understand each other exactly.]

[Footnote 50: Christiansfeld, a town in South Jutland, was the
seat of a colony of Herrhutian Pietists.]

[Footnote 51: The reference is to the "Diary of the Seducer"
(in "Either-Or," part I). Edward is the scorned lover of Cordelia
who is seduced by John.]

[Footnote 52: I concede. I have conceded.]

[Footnote 53: Reference to a comedy by Farquhar, which enjoyed a
moderate popularity in Copenhagen.]

[Footnote 54: i.e., evidently, she docs not exist because of herself;
hence she is in a "negative" relation to herself. The center of this
relation is "what attracts all the world."]

[Footnote 55: In Oehlenschläger's "Aladdin."]

[Footnote 56: In the Danish, a pun on the homonyms _en brud_ and _et
brud._]

[Footnote 57: Job 2, 10.]

[Footnote 58: According to the Jutland Laws (A. D. 1241) a man is
permitted to punish his wife, when she has misbehaved, with stick and
with rod, but not with weapon. In the Danish Law (1683) this right is
restricted to children and servants. S. V.]

[Footnote 59: Containing the second part of "Stages on Life's Road,"
entitled "Reflections on Marriage in Refutation of Objections."]




FEAR AND TREMBLING




INTRODUCTION II


Not only in the world of commerce but also in the world of ideas
our age has arranged a regular clearance-sale. Everything may be
had at such absurdly low prices that very soon the question will
arise whether any one cares to bid. Every waiter with a speculative
turn who carefully marks the significant progress of modern
philosophy, every lecturer in philosophy, every tutor, student,
every sticker-and-quitter of philosophy--they are not content with
doubting everything, but "go right on." It might, possibly, be
ill-timed and inopportune to ask them whither they are bound; but
it is no doubt polite and modest to take it for granted that they
have doubted everything--else it were a curious statement for them
to make, that they were proceeding onward. So they have, all of
them, completed that preliminary operation and, it would seem, with
such ease that they do not think it necessary to waste a word about
how they did it. The fact is, not even he who looked anxiously and
with a troubled spirit for some little point of information, ever
found one, nor any instruction, nor even any little dietetic
prescription, as to how one is to accomplish this enormous task.
"But did not Descartes proceed in this fashion?" Descartes, indeed!
that venerable, humble, honest thinker whose writings surely no
one can read without deep emotion--Descartes did what he said,
and said what he did. Alas, alas! that is a mighty rare thing
in our times! But Descartes, as he says frequently enough, never
uttered doubts concerning his faith....

In our times, as was remarked, no one is content with faith,
but "goes right on." The question as to whither they are proceeding
may be a silly question; whereas it is a sign of urbanity and
culture to assume that every one has faith, to begin with, for
else it were a curious statement for them to make, that they are
proceeding further. In the olden days it was different. Then,
faith was a task for a whole life-time because it was held that
proficiency in faith was not to be won within a few days or weeks.
Hence, when the tried patriarch felt his end approaching, after
having fought his battles and preserved his faith, he was still
young enough at heart not to have forgotten the fear and trembling
which disciplined his youth and which the mature man has under
control, but which no one entirely outgrows--except insofar as
he succeeds in "going on" as early as possible. The goal which
those venerable men reached at last--at that spot every one
starts, in our times, in order to "proceed further."...




PREPARATION


There lived a man who, when a child, had heard the beautiful Bible
story of how God tempted Abraham and how he stood the test, how
he maintained his faith and, against his expectations, received
his son back again. As this man grew older he read this same story
with ever greater admiration; for now life had separated what had
been united in the reverent simplicity of the child. And the older
he grew, the more frequently his thoughts reverted to that story.
His enthusiasm waxed stronger and stronger, and yet the story grew
less and less clear to him. Finally he forgot everything else in
thinking about it, and his soul contained but one wish, which was,
to behold Abraham: and but one longing, which was, to have been
witness to that event. His desire was, not to see the beautiful
lands of the Orient, and not the splendor of the Promised Land,
and not the reverent couple whose old age the Lord had blessed
with children, and not the venerable figure of the aged patriarch,
and not the god-given vigorous youth of Isaac--it would have been
the same to him if the event had come to pass on some barren
heath. But his wish was, to have been with Abraham on the three
days' journey, when he rode with sorrow before him and with Isaac
at his side. His wish was, to have been present at the moment when
Abraham lifted up his eyes and saw Mount Moriah afar off; to have
been present at the moment when he left his asses behind and wended
his way up to the mountain alone with Isaac. For the mind of this
man was busy, not with the delicate conceits of the imagination,
but rather with his shuddering thought.

The man we speak of was no thinker, he felt no desire to go beyond
his faith: it seemed to him the most glorious fate to be remembered
as the Father of Faith, and a most enviable lot to be possessed of
that faith, even if no one knew it.

The man we speak of was no learned exegetist, he did not even
understand Hebrew--who knows but a knowledge of Hebrew might have
helped him to understand readily both the story and Abraham.




I


And God tempted Abraham and said unto him: take Isaac, thine
only son, whom thou lovest and go to the land Moriah and sacrifice
him there on a mountain which I shall show thee.[1]

It was in the early morning, Abraham arose betimes and had his
asses saddled. He departed from his tent, and Isaac with him;
but Sarah looked out of the window after them until they were
out of sight. Silently they rode for three days; but on the fourth
morning Abraham said not a word but lifted up his eyes and beheld
Mount Moriah in the distance. He left his servants behind and,
leading Isaac by the hand, he approached the mountain. But Abraham
said to himself: "I shall surely conceal from Isaac whither he is
going." He stood still, he laid his hand on Isaac's head to bless
him, and Isaac bowed down to receive his blessing. And Abraham's
aspect was fatherly, his glance was mild, his speech admonishing.
But Isaac understood him not, his soul would not rise to him; he
embraced Abraham's knees, he besought him at his feet, he begged
for his young life, for his beautiful hopes, he recalled the joy
in Abraham's house when he was born, he reminded him of the sorrow
and the loneliness that would be after him. Then did Abraham raise
up the youth and lead him by his hand, and his words were full of
consolation and admonishment. But Isaac understood him not. He
ascended Mount Moriah, but Isaac understood him not. Then Abraham
averted his face for a moment; but when Isaac looked again, his
father's countenance was changed, his glance wild, his aspect
terrible, he seized Isaac and threw him to the ground and said:
"Thou foolish lad, believest thou I am thy father? An idol-worshipper
am I. Believest thou it is God's command? Nay, but my pleasure."
Then Isaac trembled and cried out in his fear: "God in heaven,
have pity on me, God of Abraham, show mercy to me, I have no
father on earth, be thou then my father!" But Abraham said softly
to himself: "Father in heaven, I thank thee. Better is it that
he believes me inhuman than that he should lose his faith in thee."


When the child is to be weaned, his mother blackens her breast;
for it were a pity if her breast should look sweet to him when he
is not to have it. Then the child believes that her breast has
changed; but his mother is ever the same, her glance is full of love
and as tender as ever. Happy he who needed not worse means to wean
his child!




II


It was in the early morning. Abraham arose betimes and embraced
Sarah, the bride of his old age. And Sarah kissed Isaac who had
taken the shame from her--Isaac, her pride, her hope for all
coming generations. Then the twain rode silently along their way,
and Abraham's glance was fastened on the ground before him; until
on the fourth day, when he lifted up his eyes and beheld Mount
Moriah in the distance; but then his eyes again sought the ground.
Without a word he put the fagots in order and bound Isaac, and
without a word he unsheathed his knife. Then he beheld the ram God
had chosen, and sacrificed him, and wended his way home.... From
that day on Abraham, grew old. He could not forget that God had
required this of him. Isaac flourished as before; but Abraham's
eye was darkened, he saw happiness no more.


When the child has grown and is to be weaned, his mother will in
maidenly fashion conceal her breast. Then the child has a mother
no longer. Happy the child who lost not his mother in any other sense!




III


It was in the early morning. Abraham arose betimes; he kissed Sarah,
the young mother, and Sarah kissed Isaac, her joy, her delight for
all times. And Abraham rode on his way, lost in thought--he was
thinking of Hagar and her son whom he had driven out into the
wilderness. He ascended Mount Moriah and he drew the knife.

It was a calm evening when Abraham rode out alone, and he rode to
Mount Moriah. There he cast himself down on his face and prayed to
God to forgive him his sin in that he had been about to sacrifice
his son Isaac, and in that the father had forgotten his duty toward
his son. And yet oftener he rode on his lonely way, but he found
no rest. He could not grasp that it was a sin that he had wanted to
sacrifice to God his most precious possession, him for whom he would
most gladly have died many times. But, if it was a sin, if he had
not loved Isaac thus, then could he not grasp the possibility that
he could be forgiven: for what sin more terrible?


When the child is to be weaned, the mother is not without sorrow
that she and her child are to be separated more and more, that the
child who had first lain under her heart, and afterwards at any
rate rested at her breast, is to be so near to her no more. So
they sorrow together for that brief while. Happy he who kept his
child so near to him and needed not to sorrow more!




IV


It was in the early morning. All was ready for the journey in
the house of Abraham. He bade farewell to Sarah; and Eliezer,
his faithful servant, accompanied him along the way for a little
while. They rode together in peace, Abraham and Isaac, until
they came to Mount Moriah. And Abraham prepared everything for
the sacrifice, calmly and mildly; but when his father turned
aside in order to unsheathe his knife, Isaac saw that Abraham's
left hand was knit in despair and that a trembling shook his
frame--but Abraham drew forth the knife.

Then they returned home again, and Sarah hastened to meet them;
but Isaac had lost his faith. No one in all the world ever said
a word about this, nor did Isaac speak to any man concerning
what he had seen, and Abraham suspected not that any one had seen it.


When the child is to be weaned, his mother has the stronger food
ready lest the child perish. Happy he who has in readiness this
stronger food!


Thus, and in many similar ways, thought the man whom I have mentioned
about this event. And every time he returned, after a pilgrimage to
Mount Moriah, he sank down in weariness, folding his hands and saying:
"No one, in truth, was great as was Abraham, and who can understand
him?"




A PANEGYRIC ON ABRAHAM


If a consciousness of the eternal were not implanted in man; if
the basis of all that exists were but a confusedly fermenting
element which, convulsed by obscure passions, produced all, both
the great and the insignificant; if under everything there lay
a bottomless void never to be filled--what else were life but
despair? If it were thus, and if there were no sacred bonds
between man and man; if one generation arose after another, as
in the forest the leaves of one season succeed the leaves of
another, or like the songs of birds which are taken up one after
another; if the generations of man passed through the world like
a ship passing through the sea and the wind over the desert--a
fruitless and a vain thing; if eternal oblivion were ever greedily
watching for its prey and there existed no power strong enough to
wrest it from its clutches--how empty were life then, and how
dismal! And therefore it is not thus; but, just as God created
man and woman, he likewise called into being the hero and the
poet or orator. The latter cannot perform the deeds of the hero--he
can only admire and love him and rejoice in him. And yet he
also is happy and not less so; for the hero is, as it were, his
better self with which he has fallen in love, and he is glad he
is not himself the hero, so that his love can express itself in
admiration.

The poet is the genius of memory, and does nothing but recall
what has been done, can do nothing but admire what has been
done. He adds nothing of his own, but he is jealous of what
has been entrusted to him. He obeys the choice of his own heart;
but once he has found what he has been seeking, he visits every
man's door with his song and with his speech, so that all may
admire the hero as he does, and be proud of the hero as he is.
This is his achievement, his humble work, this is his faithful
service in the house of the hero. If thus, faithful to his love,
he battles day and night against the guile of oblivion which
wishes to lure the hero from him, then has he accomplished his
task, then is he gathered to his hero who loves him as faithfully;
for the poet is at it were the hero's better self, unsubstantial,
to be sure, like a mere memory, but also transfigured as is a
memory. Therefore shall no one be forgotten who has done great
deeds; and even if there be delay, even if the cloud of misunderstanding
obscure the hero from our vision, still his lover will come some
time; and the more time has passed, the more faithfully will he
cleave to him.

No, no one shall be forgotten who was great in this world. But
each hero was great in his own way, and each one was eminent in
proportion to the great things he loved. For he who loved himself
became great through himself, and he who loved others became great
through his devotion, but he who loved God became greater than
all of these. Everyone of them shall be remembered, but each one
became great in proportion to his trust. One became great by hoping
for the possible; another, by hoping for the eternal; but he who
hoped for the impossible, he became greater than all of these.
Every one shall be remembered; but each one was great in proportion
to the power with which he strove. For he who strove with the
world became great by overcoming himself; but he who strove with
God, he became the greatest of them all. Thus there have been
struggles in the world, man against man, one against a thousand;
but he who struggled with God, he became greatest of them all.
Thus there was fighting on this earth, and there was he who conquered
everything by his strength, and there was he who conquered God by
his weakness. There was he who, trusting in himself, gained all;
and there was he who, trusting in his strength sacrificed everything;
but he who believed in God was greater than all of these. There was
he who was great through his strength, and he who was great through
his wisdom, and he who was great through his hopes, and he who was
great through his love; but Abraham was greater than all of
these--great through the strength whose power is weakness, great
through the wisdom whose secret is folly, great through the hope
whose expression is madness, great through the love which is hatred
of one's self.

Through the urging of his faith Abraham left the land of his
forefathers and became a stranger in the land of promise. Ke left
one thing behind and took one thing along: he left his worldly
wisdom behind and took with him faith. For else he would not have
left the land of his fathers, but would have thought it an unreasonable
demand. Through his faith he came to be a stranger in the land of
promise, where there was nothing to remind him of all that had been
dear to him, but where everything by its newness tempted his soul
to longing. And yet was he God's chosen, he in whom the Lord was
well pleased! Indeed, had he been one cast off, one thrust out of
God's mercy, then might he have comprehended it; but now it seemed
like a mockery of him and of his faith. There have been others who
lived in exile from the fatherland which they loved. They are not
forgotten, nor is the song of lament forgotten in which they
mournfully sought and found what they had lost. Of Abraham there
exists no song of lamentation. It is human to complain, it is
human to weep with the weeping; but it is greater to believe, and
more blessed to consider him who has faith.

Through his faith Abraham received the promise that in his seed
were to be blessed all races of mankind. Time passed, there was
still the possibility of it, and Abraham had faith. Another man
there was who also lived in hopes. Time passed, the evening of
his life was approaching; neither was he paltry enough to have
forgotten his hopes: neither shall he be forgotten by us! Then
he sorrowed, and his sorrow did not deceive him, as life had
done, but gave him all it could; for in the sweetness of sorrow
he became possessed of his disappointed hopes. It is human to
sorrow, it is human to sorrow with the sorrowing; but it is
greater to have faith, and more blessed to consider him who
has faith.

No song of lamentation has come down to us from Abraham. He did
not sadly count the days as time passed; he did not look at
Sarah with suspicious eyes, whether she was becoming old; he
did not stop the sun's course lest Sarah should grow old and
his hope with her; he did not lull her with his songs of lamentation.
Abraham grew old, and Sarah became a laughing-stock to the people;
and yet was he God's chosen, and heir to the promise that in his
seed were to be blessed all races of mankind. Were it, then,
not better if he had not been God's chosen? For what is it to
be God's chosen? Is it to have denied to one in one's youth all
the wishes of youth in order to have them fulfilled after great
labor in old age?

But Abraham had faith and steadfastly lived in hope. Had Abraham
been less firm in his trust, then would he have given up that hope.
He would have said to God: "So it is, perchance, not Thy will,
after all, that this shall come to pass. I shall surrender my
hope. It was my only one, it was my bliss. I am sincere, I conceal
no secret grudge for that Thou didst deny it to me." He would not
have remained forgotten, his example would have saved many a one;
but he would not have become the Father of Faith. For it is great
to surrender one's hope, but greater still to abide by it steadfastly
after having surrendered it; for it is great to seize hold of the
eternal hope, but greater still to abide steadfastly by one's worldly
hopes after having surrendered them.

Then came the fulness of time. If Abraham had not had faith, then
Sarah would probably have died of sorrow, and Abraham, dulled by
his grief, would not have understood the fulfillment, but would
have smiled about it as a dream of his youth. But Abraham had
faith, and therefore he remained young; for he who always hopes
for the best, him life will deceive, and he will grow old; and
he who is always prepared for the worst, he will soon age; but
he who has faith, he will preserve eternal youth. Praise, therefore,
be to this story! For Sarah, though advanced in age, was young
enough to wish for the pleasures of a mother, and Abraham, though
grey of hair, was young enough to wish to become a father. In a
superficial sense it may be considered miraculous that what they
wished for came to pass, but in a deeper sense the miracle of
faith is to be seen in Abraham's and Sarah's being young enough
to wish, and their faith having preserved their wish and therewith
their youth. The promise he had received was fulfilled, and he
accepted it in faith, and it came to pass according to the promise
and his faith; whereas Moses smote the rock with his staff but
believed not.

There was joy in Abraham's house when Sarah celebrated the day
of her Golden Wedding.

But it was not to remain thus; for once more was Abraham to be
tempted. He had struggled with that cunning power to which nothing
is impossible, with that ever watchful enemy who never sleeps,
with that old man who outlives all--he had struggled with Time
and had preserved his faith. And now all the terror of that fight
was concentrated in one moment. "And God tempted Abraham, saying to
him: take now thine only son Isaac, whom thou lovest, and get
thee into the land of Moriah; and offer him there for a burnt
offering upon one of the mountains which I will tell thee off.[2]"

All was lost, then, and more terribly than if a son had never
been given him! The Lord had only mocked Abraham, then! Miraculously
he had realized the unreasonable hopes of Abraham; and now he wished
to take away what he had given. A foolish hope it had been, but
Abraham had not laughed when the promise had been made him. Now
all was lost--the trusting hope of seventy years, the brief joy
at the fulfillment of his hopes. Who, then, is he that snatches
away the old man's staff, who that demands that he himself shall
break it in two? Who is he that renders disconsolate the grey hair
of old age, who is he that demands that he himself shall do it?
Is there no pity for the venerable old man, and none for the
innocent child? And yet was Abraham God's chosen one, and yet
was it the Lord that tempted him. And now all was to be lost!
The glorious remembrance of him by a whole race, the promise of
Abraham's seed--all that was but a whim, a passing fancy of the
Lord, which Abraham was now to destroy forever! That glorious
treasure, as old as the faith in Abraham's heart, and many, many
years older than Isaac, the fruit of Abraham's life, sanctified
by prayers, matured in struggles--the blessing on the lips of
Abraham: this fruit was now to be plucked before the appointed
time, and to remain without significance; for of what significance
were it if Isaac was to be sacrificed? That sad and yet blessed
hour when Abraham was to take leave from all that was dear to him,
the hour when he would once more lift up his venerable head,
when his face would shine like the countenance of the Lord, the
hour when he would collect his whole soul for a blessing strong
enough to render Isaac blessed all the days of his life--that
hour was not to come! He was to say farewell to Isaac, to be
sure, but in such wise that he himself was to remain behind;
death was to part them, but in such wise that Isaac was to die.
The old man was not in happiness to lay his hand on Isaac's head
when the hour of death came, but, tired of life, to lay violent
hands on Isaac. And it was God who tempted him. Woe, woe to the
messenger who would have come before Abraham with such a command!
Who would have dared to be the messenger of such dread tidings?
But it was God that tempted Abraham.

But Abraham had faith, and had faith for this life. Indeed, had
his faith been but concerning the life to come, then might he more
easily have cast away all, in order to hasten out of this world
which was not his....

But Abraham had faith and doubted not, but trusted that the
improbable would come to pass. If Abraham had doubted, then would
he have undertaken something else, something great and noble; for
what could Abraham have undertaken but was great and noble! He
would have proceeded to Mount Moriah, he would have cloven the
wood, and fired it, and unsheathed his knife--he would have cried
out to God: "Despise not this sacrifice; it is not, indeed, the
best I have; for what is an old man against a child foretold of
God; but it is the best I can give thee. Let Isaac never know
that he must find consolation in his youth." He would have plunged
the steel in his own breast. And he would have been admired
throughout the world, and his name would not have been forgotten;
but it is one thing to be admired and another, to be a lode-star
which guides one troubled in mind.

But Abraham had faith. He prayed not for mercy and that he might
prevail upon the Lord: it was only when just retribution was to
be visited upon Sodom and Gomorrha that Abraham ventured to beseech
Him for mercy.

We read in Scripture: "And God did tempt Abraham, and said unto
him, Abraham: and he said, Behold here I am.[3]" You, whom I
am now addressing did you do likewise? When you saw the dire
dispensations of Providence approach threateningly, did you not
then say to the mountains, Fall on me; and to the hills, Cover
me?[4] Or, if you were stronger in faith, did not your step
linger along the way, longing for the old accustomed paths, as
it were? And when the voice called you, did you answer, then, or
not at all, and if you did, perchance in a low voice, or whispering?
Not thus Abraham, but gladly and cheerfully and trustingly, and with
a resonant voice he made answer: "Here am I." And we read further:
"And Abraham rose up early in the morning.[5]" He made haste as
though for some joyous occasion, and early in the morning he was
in the appointed place, on Mount Moriah. He said nothing to Sarah,
nothing to Eliezer, his steward; for who would have understood him?
Did not his temptation by its very nature demand of him the vow of
silence? "He laid the wood in order, and bound Isaac his son, and
laid him on the altar upon the wood. And Abraham stretched forth
his hand, and took the knife to slay his son.[6]" My listener!
Many a father there has been who thought that with his child he
lost the dearest of all there was in the world for him; yet
assuredly no child ever was in that sense a pledge of God as
was Isaac to Abraham. Many a father there has been who lost his
child; but then it was God, the unchangeable and inscrutable
will of the Almighty and His hand which took it. Not thus with
Abraham. For him was reserved a more severe trial, and Isaac's
fate was put into Abraham's hand together with the knife. And
there he stood, the old man, with his only hope! Yet did he not
doubt, nor look anxiously to the left or right, nor challenge
Heaven with his prayers. He knew it was God the Almighty who
now put him to the test; he knew it was the greatest sacrifice
which could be demanded of him; but he knew also that no sacrifice
was too great which God demanded--and he drew forth his knife.

Who strengthened Abraham's arm, who supported his right arm that
it drooped not powerless? For he who contemplates this scene is
unnerved. Who strengthened Abraham's soul so that his eyes grew
not too dim to see either Isaac or the ram? For he who contemplates
this scene will be struck with blindness. And yet, it is rare enough
that one is unnerved or is struck with blindness, and still more
rare that one narrates worthily what there did take place between
father and son. To be sure, we know well enough--it was but
a trial!

If Abraham had doubted, when standing on Mount Moriah; if he
had looked about him in perplexity; if he had accidentally discovered
the ram before drawing his knife; if God had permitted him to
sacrifice it instead of Isaac--then would he have returned home,
and all would have been as before, he would have had Sarah and
would have kept Isaac; and yet how different all would have been!
For then had his return been a flight, his salvation an accident,
his reward disgrace; his future, perchance, perdition. Then
would he have borne witness neither to his faith nor to God's
mercy, but would have witnessed only to the terror of going to
Mount Moriah. Then Abraham would not have been forgotten, nor
either Mount Moriah. It would be mentioned, then, not as is Mount
Ararat on which the Ark landed, but as a sign of terror, because
it was there Abraham doubted.

Venerable patriarch Abraham! When you returned home from Mount
Moriah you required no encomiums to console you for what you had
lost; for, indeed, you did win all and still kept Isaac, as we
all know. And the Lord did no more take him from your side, but
you sate gladly at table with him in your tent as in the life to
come you will, for all times. Venerable patriarch Abraham! Thousands
of years have passed since those times, but still you need no
late-born lover to snatch your memory from the power of oblivion,
for every language remembers you--and yet do you reward your lover
more gloriously than any one, rendering him blessed in your
bosom, and taking heart and eyes captive by the marvel of your
deed. Venerable patriarch Abraham! Second father of the race! You
who first perceived and bore witness to that unbounded passion
which has but scorn for the terrible fight with the raging elements
and the strength of brute creation, in order to struggle with God;
you who first felt that sublimest of all passions, you who found
the holy, pure, humble expression for the divine madness which was
a marvel to the heathen--forgive him who would speak in your praise,
in case he did it not fittingly. He spoke humbly, as if it concerned
the desire of his heart; he spoke briefly, as is seemly; but he will
never forget that you required a hundred years to obtain a son of
your old age, against all expections; that you had to draw the knife
before being permitted to keep Isaac; he will never forget that in
a hundred and thirty years you never got farther than to faith.




PRELIMINARY EXPECTORATION


An old saying, derived from the world of experience, has it that
"he who will not work shall not eat.[7]" But, strange to say, this
does not hold true in the world where it is thought applicable; for
in the world of matter the law of imperfection prevails, and we see,
again and again, that he also who will not work has bread to
eat--indeed, that he who sleeps has a greater abundance of it than
he who works. In the world of matter everything belongs to whosoever
happens to possess it; it is thrall to the law of indifference, and
he who happens to possess the Ring also has the Spirit of the Ring
at his beck and call, whether now he be Noureddin or Aladdin,[8] and
he who controls the treasures of this world, controls them, howsoever
he managed to do so. It is different in the world of spirit. There,
an eternal and divine order obtains, there the rain does not fall
on the just and the unjust alike, nor does the sun shine on the good
and the evil alike;[9] but there the saying does hold true that he
who will not work shall not eat, and only he who was troubled shall
find rest, and only he who descends into the nether world shall
rescue his beloved, and only he who unsheathes his knife shall be
given Isaac again. There, he who will not work shall not eat, but
shall be deceived, as the gods deceived Orpheus with an immaterial
figure instead of his beloved Euridice,[10] deceived him because
he was love-sick and not courageous, deceived him because he was
a player on the cithara rather than a man. There, it avails not
to have an Abraham for one's father,[11] or to have seventeen
ancestors. But in that world the saying about Israel's maidens
will hold true of him who will not work: he shall bring forth
wind;[12] but he who will work shall give birth to his own father.

There is a kind of learning which would presumptuously introduce
into the world of spirit the same law of indifference under which
the world of matter groans. It is thought that to know about great
men and great deeds is quite sufficient, and that other exertion
is not necessary. And therefore this learning shall not eat, but
shall perish of hunger while seeing all things transformed into
gold by its touch. And what, forsooth, does this learning really
know? There were many thousands of contemporaries, and countless
men in after times, who knew all about the triumphs of Miltiades;
but there was only one whom they rendered sleepless.[13] There
have existed countless generations that knew by heart, word for
word, the story of Abraham; but how many has it rendered sleepless?

Now the story of Abraham has the remarkable property of always
being glorious, in however limited a sense it is understood; still,
here also the point is whether one means to labor and exert one's
half. Now people do not care to labor and exert themselves, but
wish nevertheless to understand the story. They extol Abraham,
but how? By expressing the matter in the most general terms and
saying: "the great thing about him was that he loved God so ardently
that he was willing to sacrifice to Him his most precious possession."
That is very true; but "the most precious possession" is an indefinite
expression. As one's thoughts, and one's mouth, run on one assumes,
in a very easy fashion, the identity of Isaac and "the most precious
possession"--and meanwhile he who is meditating may smoke his
pipe, and his audience comfortably stretch out their legs. If
the rich youth whom Christ met on his way[14] had sold all his
possessions and given all to the poor, we would extol him as we
extol all which is great--aye, would not understand even him
without labor; and yet would he never have become an Abraham,
notwithstanding his sacrificing the most precious possessions he
had. That which people generally forget in the story of Abraham
is his fear and anxiety; for as regards money, one is not ethically
responsible for it, whereas for his son a father has the highest
and most sacred responsibility. However, fear is a dreadful thing
for timorous spirits, so they omit it. And yet they wish to speak
of Abraham.

So they keep on speaking, and in the course of their speech the
two terms Isaac and "the most precious thing" are used alternately,
and everything is in the best order. But now suppose that among
the audience there was a man who suffered with sleeplessness--and
then the most terrible and profound, the most tragic, and at the
same time the most comic, misunderstanding is within the range of
possibility. That is, suppose this man goes home and wishes to do
as did Abraham; for his son is his most precious possession. If a
certain preacher learned of this he would, perhaps, go to him, he
would gather up all his spiritual dignity and exclaim: "Thou
abominable creature, thou scum of humanity, what devil possessed
thee to wish to murder thy son?" And this preacher, who had not
felt any particular warmth, nor perspired while speaking about
Abraham, this preacher would be astonished himself at the earnest
wrath with which he poured forth his thunders against that poor
wretch; indeed, he would rejoice over himself, for never had he
spoken with such power and unction, and he would have said to
his wife: "I am an orator, the only thing I have lacked so far
was the occasion. Last Sunday, when speaking about Abraham, I
did not feel thrilled in the least."

Now, if this same orator had just a bit of sense to spare, I
believe he would lose it if the sinner would reply, in a quiet
and dignified manner: "Why, it was on this very same matter
you preached, last Sunday!" But however could the preacher have
entertained such thoughts? Still, such was the case, and the
preacher's mistake was merely not knowing what he was talking
about. Ah, would that some poet might see his way clear to prefer
such a situation to the stuff and nonsense of which novels and
comedies are full! For the comic and the tragic here run parallel
to infinity. The sermon probably was ridiculous enough in itself,
but it became infinitely ridiculous through the very natural
consequence it had. Or, suppose now the sinner was converted
by this lecture without daring to raise any objection, and this
zealous divine now went home elated, glad in the consciousness
of being effective, not only in the pulpit, but chiefly, and
with irresistible power, as a spiritual guide, inspiring his
congregation on Sunday, whilst on Monday he would place himself
like a cherub with flaming sword before the man who by his actions
tried to give the lie to the old saying that "the course of the
world follows not the priest's word."

If, on the other hand, the sinner were not convinced of his error
his position would become tragic. He would probably be executed,
or else sent to the lunatic asylum--at any rate, he would become
a sufferer in this world; but in another sense I should think
that Abraham rendered him happy; for he who labors, he shall not
perish.

Now how shall we explain the contradiction contained in that
sermon? Is it due to Abraham's having the reputation of being
a great man--so that whatever he does is great, but if another
should undertake to do the same it is a sin, a heinous sin? If
this be the case I prefer not to participate in such thoughtless
laudations. If faith cannot make it a sacred thing to wish to
sacrifice one's son, then let the same judgment be visited on
Abraham as on any other man. And if we perchance lack the courage
to drive our thoughts to the logical conclusion and to say that
Abraham was a murderer, then it were better to acquire that
courage, rather than to waste one's time on undeserved encomiums.
The fact is, the ethical expression for what Abraham did is
that he wanted to murder Isaac; the religious, that he wanted
to sacrifice him. But precisely in this contradiction is contained
the fear which may well rob one of one's sleep. And yet Abraham
were not Abraham without this fear. Or, again, supposing Abraham
did not do what is attributed to him, if his action was an entirely
different one, based on conditions of those times, then let us
forget him; for what is the use of calling to mind that past which
can no longer become a present reality?--Or, the speaker had
perhaps forgotten the essential fact that Isaac was the son. For
if faith is eliminated, having been reduced to a mere nothing,
then only the brutal fact remains that Abraham wanted to murder
Isaac--which is easy for everybody to imitate who has not the
faith--the faith, that is, which renders it most difficult for
him....


Love has its priests in the poets, and one hears at times a poet's
voice which worthily extols it. But not a word does one hear of
faith. Who is there to speak in honor of that passion? Philosophy
"goes right on." Theology sits at the window with a painted visage
and sues for philosophy's favor, offering it her charms. It is
said to be difficult to understand the philosophy of Hegel; but
to understand Abraham, why, that is an easy matter! To proceed
further than Hegel is a wonderful feat, but to proceed further than
Abraham, why, nothing is easier! Personally, I have devoted a
considerable amount of time to a study of Hegelian philosophy
and believe I understand it fairly well; in fact, I am rash enough
to say that when, notwithstanding an effort, I am not able to
understand him in some passages, it is because he is not entirely
clear about the matter himself. All this intellectual effort I
perform easily and naturally, and it does not cause my head to
ache. On the other hand, whenever I attempt to think about Abraham
I am, as it were, overwhelmed. At every moment I am aware of
the enormous paradox which forms the content of Abraham's life,
at every moment I am repulsed, and my thought, notwithstanding
its passionate attempts, cannot penetrate into it, cannot forge
on the breadth of a hair. I strain every muscle in order to
envisage the problem--and become a paralytic in the same moment.

I am by no means unacquainted with what has been admired as great
and noble, my soul feels kinship with it, being satisfied, in
all humility, that it was also my cause the hero espoused; and
when contemplating his deed I say to myself: "_jam tua causa
agitur._[15]" I am able to identify myself with the hero; but I
cannot do so with Abraham, for whenever I have reached his height
I fall down again, since he confronts me as the paradox. It is
by no means my intention to maintain that faith is something
inferior, but, on the contrary, that it is the highest of all
things; also that it is dishonest in philosophy to offer something
else instead, and to pour scorn on faith; but it ought to understand
its own nature in order to know what it can offer. It should take
away nothing; least of all, fool people out of something as if
it were of no value. I am not unacquainted with the sufferings
and dangers of life, but I do not fear them, and cheerfully go
forth to meet them.... But my courage is not, for all that, the
courage of faith, and is as nothing compared with it. I cannot
carry out the movement of faith: I cannot close my eyes and
confidently plunge into the absurd--it is impossible for me; but
neither do I boast of it....

Now I wonder if every one of my contemporaries is really able
to perform the movements of faith. Unless I am much mistaken
they are, rather, inclined to be proud of making what they perhaps
think me unable to do, viz., the imperfect movement. It is repugnant
to my soul to do what is so often done, to speak inhumanly about
great deeds, as if a few thousands of years were an immense space
of time. I prefer to speak about them in a human way and as though
they had been done but yesterday, to let the great deed itself
be the distance which either inspires or condemns me. Now if I,
in the capacity of tragic hero--for a higher flight I am unable
to take--if I had been summoned to such an extraordinary royal
progress as was the one to Mount Moriah, I know very well what I
would have done. I would not have been craven enough to remain
at home; neither would I have dawdled on the way; nor would I
have forgot my knife--just to draw out the end a bit. But I
am rather sure that I would have been promptly on the spot,
with every thing in order--in fact, would probably have been
there before the appointed time, so as to have the business
soon over with. But I know also what I would have done besides.
In the moment I mounted my horse I would have said to myself:
"Now all is lost, God demands Isaac, I shall sacrifice him, and
with him all my joy--but for all that, God is love and will
remain so for me; for in this world God and I cannot speak together,
we have no language in common."

Possibly, one or the other of my contemporaries will be stupid
enough, and jealous enough of great deeds, to wish to persuade
himself and me that if I had acted thus I should have done something
even greater than what Abraham did; for my sublime resignation
was (he thinks) by far more ideal and poetic than Abraham's
literal-minded action. And yet this is absolutely not so, for my
sublime resignation was only a substitute for faith. I could not
have made more than the infinite movement (of resignation) to
find myself and again repose in myself. Nor would I have loved
Isaac as Abraham loved him. The fact that I was resolute enough
to resign is sufficient to prove my courage in a human sense,
and the fact that I loved him with my whole heart is the very
presupposition without which my action would be a crime; but
still I did not love as did Abraham, for else I would have hesitated
even in the last minute, without, for that matter, arriving too
late on Mount Moriah. Also, I would have spoiled the whole business
by my behavior; for if I had had Isaac restored to me I would
have been embarrassed. That which was an easy matter for Abraham
would have been difficult for me, I mean, to rejoice again in
Isaac; for he who with all the energy of his soul _proprio motu
et propriis auspiciis_[16] has made the infinite movement of
resignation and can do no more, he will retain possession of
Isaac only in his sorrow.

But what did Abraham? He arrived neither too early nor too late.
He mounted his ass and rode slowly on his way. And all the while
he had faith, believing that God would not demand Isaac of him,
though ready all the while to sacrifice him, should it be demanded
of him. He believed this on the strength of the absurd; for there
was no question of human calculation any longer. And the absurdity
consisted in God's, who yet made this demand of him, recalling his
demand the very next moment. Abraham ascended the mountain and whilst
the knife already gleamed in his hand he believed--that God would
not demand Isaac of him. He was, to be sure, surprised at the
outcome; but by a double movement he had returned at his first
state of mind and therefore received Isaac back more gladly than
the first time....

On this height, then, stands Abraham. The last stage he loses
sight of is that of infinite resignation. He does really proceed
further, he arrives at faith. For all these caricatures of faith,
wretched lukewarm sloth, which thinks: "Oh, there is no hurry, it
is not necessary to worry before the time comes"; and miserable
hopefulness, which says: "One cannot know what will happen, there
might perhaps--," all these caricatures belong to the sordid view
of life and have already fallen under the infinite scorn of infinite
resignation.

Abraham, I am not able to understand; and in a certain sense I
can learn nothing from him without being struck with wonder. They
who flatter themselves that by merely considering the outcome of
Abraham's story they will necessarily arrive at faith, only deceive
themselves and wish to cheat God out of the first movement of
faith--it were tantamount to deriving worldly wisdom from the
paradox. But who knows, one or the other of them may succeed in
doing this; for our times are not satisfied with faith, and not
even with the miracle of changing water into wine--they "go
right on" changing wine into water.

Is it not preferable to remain satisfied with faith, and is it
not outrageous that every one wishes to "go right on"? If people
in our times decline to be satisfied with love, as is proclaimed
from various sides, where will we finally land? In worldly shrewdness,
in mean calculation, in paltriness and baseness, in all that
which renders man's divine origin doubtful. Were it not better
to stand fast in the faith, and better that he that standeth
take heed lest he fall;[17] for the movement of faith must ever
be made by virtue of the absurd, but, note well, in such wise
that one does not lose the things of this world but wholly and
entirely regains them.

As far as I am concerned, I am able to describe most excellently
the movements of faith; but I cannot make them myself. When a
person wishes to learn how to swim he has himself suspended in
a swimming-belt and then goes through the motions; but that does
not mean that he can swim. In the same fashion I too can go
through the motions of faith; but when I am thrown into the
water I swim; to be sure (for I am not a wader in the shallows),
but I go through a different set of movements, to-wit, those
of infinity; whereas faith does the opposite, to-wit, makes
the movements to regain the finite after having made those of
infinite resignation. Blessed is he who can make these movements,
for he performs a marvelous feat, and I shall never weary of
admiring him, whether now it be Abraham himself or the slave
in Abraham's house, whether it be a professor of philosophy or
a poor servant-girl: it is all the same to me, for I have regard
only to the movements. But these movements I watch closely, and
I will not be deceived, whether by myself or by any one else.
The knights of infinite resignation are easily recognized, for
their gait is dancing and bold. But they who possess the jewel
of faith frequently deceive one because their bearing is curiously
like that of a class of people heartily despised by infinite
resignation as well as by faith--the philistines.

Let me admit frankly that I have not in my experience encountered
any certain specimen of this type; but I do not refuse to admit
that as far as I know, every other person may be such a specimen.
At the same time I will say that I have searched vainly for years.
It is the custom of scientists to travel around the globe to see
rivers and mountains, new stars, gay-colored birds, misshapen
fish, ridiculous races of men. They abandon themselves to a
bovine stupor which gapes at existence and believe they have
seen something worth while. All this does not interest me; but
if I knew where there lived such a knight of faith I would journey
to him on foot, for that marvel occupies my thoughts exclusively.
Not a moment would I leave him out of sight, but would watch
how he makes the movements, and I would consider myself provided
for life, and would divide my time between watching him and
myself practicing the movements, and would thus use all my time
in admiring him.

As I said, I have not met with such a one; but I can easily
imagine him. Here he is. I make his acquaintance and am introduced
to him. The first moment I lay my eyes on him I push him back,
leaping back myself, I hold up my hands in amazement and say
to myself: "Good Lord! that person? Is it really he--why, he
looks like a parish-beadle!" But it is really he. I become more
closely acquainted with him, watching his every movement to see
whether some trifling incongruous movement of his has escaped me,
some trace, perchance, of a signaling from the infinite, a glance,
a look, a gesture, a melancholy air, or a smile, which might
betray the presence of infinite resignation contrasting with
the finite.

But no! I examine his figure from top to toe to discover whether
there be anywhere a chink through which the infinite might be
seen to peer forth. But no! he is of a piece, all through. And
how about his footing? Vigorous, altogether that of finiteness,
no citizen dressed in his very best, prepared to spend his Sunday
afternoon in the park, treads the ground more firmly. He belongs
altogether to this world, no philistine more so. There is no
trace of the somewhat exclusive and haughty demeanor which marks
off the knight of infinite resignation. He takes pleasure in all
things, is interested in everything, and perseveres in whatever
he does with the zest characteristic of persons wholly given to
worldly things. He attends to his business, and when one sees
him one might think he was a clerk who had lost his soul in
doing double bookkeeping, he is so exact. He takes a day off
on Sundays. He goes to church. But no hint of anything supernatural
or any other sign of the incommensurable betrays him, and if one
did not know him it would be impossible to distinguish him in
the congregation, for his brisk and manly singing proves only
that he has a pair of good lungs.

In the afternoon he walks out to the forest. He takes delight
in all he sees, in the crowds of men and women, the new omnibuses,
the Sound--if one met him on the promenade one might think he
was some shopkeeper who was having a good time, so simple is
his joy; for he is not a poet, and in vain have I tried to lure
him into betraying some sign of the poet's detachment. Toward
evening he walks home again, with a gait as steady as that of
a mail-carrier. On his way he happens to wonder whether his
wife will have some little special warm dish ready for him,
when he comes home--as she surely has--as, for instance, a roasted
lamb's head garnished with greens. And if he met one minded
like him he is very likely to continue talking about this dish
with him till they reach the East Gate, and to talk about it
with a zest befitting a chef. As it happens, he has not four
shillings to spare, and yet he firmly believes that his wife
surely has that dish ready for him. If she has, it would be
an enviable sight for distinguished people, and an inspiring
one for common folks, to see him eat, for he has an appetite
greater than Esau's. His wife has not prepared it--strange,
he remains altogether the same.

Again, on his way he passes a building lot and there meets another
man. They fall to talking, and in a trice he erects a building,
freely disposing of everything necessary. And the stranger will
leave him with the impression that he has been talking with a
capitalist--the fact being that the knight of my admiration is
busy with the thought that if it really came to the point he
would unquestionably have the means wherewithal at his disposal.

Now he is lying on his elbows in the window and looking over
the square on which he lives. All that happens there, if it be
only a rat creeping into a gutter-hole, or children playing
together--everything engages his attention, and yet his mind
is at rest as though it were the mind of a girl of sixteen. He
smokes his pipe in the evening, and to look at him you would
swear it was the green-grocer from across the street who is
lounging at the window in the evening twilight. Thus he shows
as much unconcern as any worthless happy-go-lucky fellow; and
yet, every moment he lives he purchases his leisure at the highest
price, for he makes not the least movement except by virtue of
the absurd; and yet, yet--indeed, I might become furious with
anger, if for no other reason than that of envy--and yet, this
man has performed, and is performing every moment, the movement
of infinity... He has resigned everything absolutely, and then
again seized hold of it all on the strength of the absurd...

But this miracle may so easily deceive one that it will be best
if I describe the movements in a given case which may illustrate
their aspect in contact with reality; and that is the important
point. Suppose, then, a young swain falls in love with a princess,
and all his life is bound up in this love. But circumstances are
such that it is out of the question to think of marrying her, an
impossibility to translate his dreams into reality. The slaves of
paltriness, the frogs in the sloughs of life, they will shout, of
course: "Such a love is folly, the rich brewer's widow is quite
as good and solid a match." Let them but croak. The knight of
infinite resignation does not follow their advice, he does not
surrender his love, not for all the riches in the world. He is
no fool, he first makes sure that this love really is the contents
of his life, for his soul is too sound and too proud to waste
itself on a mere intoxication. He is no coward, he is not afraid
to let his love insinuate itself into his most secret and most
remote thoughts, to let it wind itself in innumerable coils about
every fiber of his consciousness--if he is disappointed in his
love he will never be able to extricate himself again. He feels
a delicious pleasure in letting love thrill his every nerve, and
yet his soul is solemn as is that of him who has drained a cup
of poison and who now feels the virus mingle with every drop of
his blood, poised in that moment between life and death.

Having thus imbibed love, and being wholly absorbed in it, he
does not lack the courage to try and dare all. He surveys the
whole situation, he calls together his swift thoughts which like
tame pigeons obey his every beck, he gives the signal, and they
dart in all directions. But when they return, every one bearing
a message of sorrow, and explain to him that it is impossible,
then he becomes silent, he dismisses them, he remains alone;
and then he makes the movement. Now if what I say here is to
have any significance, it is of prime importance that the movement
be made in a normal fashion. The knight of resignation is supposed
to have sufficient energy to concentrate the entire contents
of his life and the realization of existing conditions into
one single wish. But if one lacks this concentration, this devotion
to a single thought; if his soul from the very beginning is
scattered on a number of objects, he will never be able to make
the movement--he will be as worldly-wise in the conduct of his
life as the financier who invests his capital in a number of
securities to win on the one if he should lose on the other;
that is, he is no knight. Furthermore, the knight is supposed
to possess sufficient energy to concentrate all his thought into
a single act of consciousness. If he lacks this concentration he
will only run errands in life and will never be able to assume
the attitude of infinite resignation; for the very minute he
approaches it he will suddenly discover that he forgot something
so that he must remain behind. The next minute, thinks he, it
will be attainable again, and so it is; but such inhibitions
will never allow him to make the movement but will, rather,
tend to let him sink ever deeper into the mire.

Our knight, then, performs the movement--which movement? Is he
intent on forgetting the whole affair, which, too, would presuppose
much concentration? No, for the knight does not contradict himself,
and it is a contradiction to forget the main contents of one's
life and still remain the same person. And he has no desire to
become another person; neither does he consider such a desire to
smack of greatness. Only lower natures forget themselves and become
something different. Thus the butterfly has forgotten that it
once was a caterpillar--who knows but it may forget altogether
that it once was a butterfly, and turn into a fish! Deeper natures
never forget themselves and never change their essential qualities.
So the knight remembers all; but precisely this remembrance is
painful. Nevertheless, in his infinite resignation he has become
reconciled with existence. His love for the princess has become
for him the expression of an eternal love, has assumed a religious
character, has been transfigured into a love for the eternal being
which, to be sure, denied him the fulfillment of his love, yet
reconciled him again by presenting him with the abiding consciousness
of his love's being preserved in an everlasting form of which no
reality can rob him....

Now, he is no longer interested in what the princess may do, and
precisely this proves that he has made the movement of infinite
resignation correctly. In fact, this is a good criterion for
detecting whether a person's movement is sincere or just make-believe.
Take a person who believes that he too has resigned, but lo!
time passed, the princess did something on her part, for example,
married a prince, and then his soul lost the elasticity of its
resignation. This ought to show him that he did not make the
movement correctly, for he who has resigned absolutely is sufficient
unto himself. The knight does not cancel his resignation, but
preserves his love as fresh and young as it was at the first
moment, he never lets go of it just because his resignation is
absolute. Whatever the princess does, cannot disturb him, for it
is only the lower natures who have the law for their actions in
some other person, i.e. have the premises of their actions outside
of themselves....

Infinite resignation is the last stage which goes before faith,
so that every one who has not made the movement of infinite
resignation cannot have faith; for only through absolute resignation
do I become conscious of my eternal worth, and only then can
there arise the problem of again grasping hold of this world by
virtue of faith.

We will now suppose the knight of faith in the same case. He
does precisely as the other knight, he absolutely resigns the
love which is the contents of his life, he is reconciled to the
pain; but then the miraculous happens, he makes one more movement,
strange beyond comparison, saying: "And still I believe that I
shall marry her--marry her by virtue of the absurd, by virtue of
the act that to God nothing is impossible." Now the absurd is not
one of the categories which belong to the understanding proper.
It is not identical with the improbable, the unforeseen, the
unexpected. The very moment our knight resigned himself he made
sure of the absolute impossibility, in any human sense, of his
love. This was the result reached by his reflections, and he had
sufficient energy to make them. In a transcendent sense, however,
by his very resignation, the attainment of his end is not impossible;
but this very act of again taking possession of his love is at
the same time a relinquishment of it. Nevertheless this kind of
possession is by no means an absurdity to the intellect; for the
intellect all the while continues to be right, as it is aware
that in the world of finalities, in which reason rules, his
love was and is, an impossibility. The knight of faith realizes
this fully as well. Hence the only thing which can save him is
recourse to the absurd, and this recourse he has through his
faith. That is, he clearly recognizes the impossibility, and
in the same moment he believes the absurd; for if he imagined he
had faith, without at the same time recognizing, with all the
passion his soul is capable of, that his love is impossible,
he would be merely deceiving himself, and his testimony would
be of no value, since he had not arrived even at the stage of
absolute resignation....

This last movement, the paradoxical movement of faith, I cannot
make, whether or no it be my duty, although I desire nothing
more ardently than to be able to make it. It must be left to
a person's discretion whether he cares to make this confession;
and at any rate, it is a matter between him and the Eternal Being,
who is the object of his faith, whether an amicable adjustment
can be affected. But what every person can do is to make the
movement of absolute resignation, and I for my part would not
hesitate to declare him a coward who imagines he cannot perform
it. It is a different matter with faith. But what no person has
a right to, is to delude others into the belief that faith is
something of no great significance, or that it is an easy matter,
whereas it is the greatest and most difficult of all things.

But the story of Abraham is generally interpreted in a different
way. God's mercy is praised which restored Isaac to him--it
was but a trial! A trial. This word may mean much or little,
and yet the whole of it passes off as quickly as the story is
told: one mounts a winged horse, in the same instant one arrives
on Mount Moriah, and _presto_ one sees the ram. It is not remembered
that Abraham only rode on an ass which travels but slowly, that
it was a three days' journey for him, and that he required some
additional time to collect the firewood, to bind Isaac, and to
whet his knife.

And yet one extols Abraham. He who is to preach the sermon may
sleep comfortably until a quarter of an hour before he is to
preach it, and the listener may comfortably sleep during the
sermon, for everything is made easy enough, without much exertion
either to preacher or listener. But now suppose a man was present
who suffered with sleeplessness and who went home and sat in a
corner and reflected as follows: "The whole lasted but a minute,
you need only wait a little while, and then the ram will be shown
and the trial will be over." Now if the preacher should find
him in this frame of mind, I believe he would confront him
in all his dignity and say to him: "Wretch that thou art, to
let thy soul lapse into such folly; miracles do not happen, all
life is a trial." And as he proceeded he would grow more and
more passionate, and would become ever more satisfied with himself;
and whereas he had not noticed any congestion in his head whilst
preaching about Abraham, he now feels the veins on his forehead
swell. Yet who knows but he would stand aghast if the sinner
should answer him in a quiet and dignified manner that it was
precisely this about which he preached the Sunday before.

Let us then either waive the whole story of Abraham, or else
learn to stand in awe of the enormous paradox which constitutes
his significance for us, so that we may learn to understand that
our age, like every age, may rejoice if it has faith. If the
story of Abraham is not a mere nothing, an illusion, or if it
is just used for show and as a pastime, the mistake cannot by
any means be in the sinner's wishing to do likewise; but it is
necessary to find out how great was the deed which Abraham performed,
in order that the man may judge for himself whether he has the
courage and the mission to do likewise. The comical contradiction
in the procedure of the preacher was his reduction of the story of
Abraham to insignificance whereas he rebuked the other man for
doing the very same thing.

But should we then cease to speak about Abraham? I certainly
think not. But if I were to speak about him I would first of
all describe the terrors of his trial. To that end leech-like
I would suck all the suffering and distress out of the anguish
of a father, in order to be able to describe what Abraham suffered
whilst yet preserving his faith. I would remind the hearer that
the journey lasted three days and a goodly part of the fourth--in
fact, these three and a half days ought to become infinitely
longer than the few thousand years which separate me from Abraham.
I would remind him, as I think right, that every person is still
permitted to turn about-before trying his strength on this formidable
task; in fact, that he may return every instant in repentance.
Provided this is done, I fear for nothing. Nor do I fear to
awaken great desire among people to attempt to emulate Abraham.
But to get out a cheap edition of Abraham and yet forbid every
one to do as he did, that I call ridiculous.[18]


[Footnote 1: Freely after Genesis 22.]

[Footnote 2: Genesis 20, 11 f.]

[Footnote 3: Genesis 22, 1.]

[Footnote 4: Luke 23, 30.]

[Footnote 5: Genesis 22, 3.]

[Footnote 6: Genesis 22, 9.]

[Footnote 7: _Cf._ Thessalonians 3, 10.]

[Footnote 8: In _Aladdin_, Oehlenschläger's famous dramatic poem,
Aladdin, "the cheerful son of nature," is contrasted with Noureddin,
representing the gloom of doubt and night.]

[Footnote 9: Matthew 5, 45.]

[Footnote 10: _Cf._ not the legend but Plato's _Symposion._]

[Footnote 11: Matthew 3, 9.]

[Footnote 12: Isaiah 26, 18.]

[Footnote 13: Themistocles, that is; see Plutarch, Lives.]

[Footnote 14: Matthew 19, 16f.]

[Footnote 15: Your cause, too, is at stake.]

[Footnote 16: By his own impulse and on his own responsibility.]

[Footnote 17: _Cf._ I Cor. 10, 12.]

[Footnote 18: The above, with the omissions indicated, constitutes
about one-third of "Fear and Trembling."]




PREPARATION FOR A CHRISTIAN LIFE




I[1]


"COME HITHER UNTO ME, ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE
HEAVY LADEN, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST."
(MATTHEW 11, 28.)




THE INVITATION


"Come hither!"--It is not at all strange if he who is in danger
and needs help--speedy, immediate help, perhaps--it is not strange
if he cries out: "come hither"! Nor it is strange that a quack
cries his wares: "come hither, I cure all maladies"; alas, for
in the case of the quack it is only too true that it is the
physician who has need of the sick. "Come hither all ye who
at extortionate prices can pay for the cure--or at any rate
for the medicine; here is physic for everybody--who can pay;
come hither!"

In all other cases, however, it is generally true that he who
can help must be sought; and, when found, may be difficult of
access; and, if access is had, his help may have to be implored
a long time; and when his help has been implored a long time,
he may be moved only with difficulty, that is, he sets a high
price on his services; and sometimes, precisely when he refuses
payment or generously asks for none, it is only an expression
of how infinitely high he values his services. On the other hand,
he[2] who sacrificed himself, he sacrifices himself, here too;
it is indeed he who seeks those in need of help, is himself the
one who goes about and calls, almost imploringly: "come hither!"
He, the only one who can help, and help with what alone is indispensable,
and can save from the one truly mortal disease, he does not
wait for people to come to him, but comes himself, without having
been called; for it is he who calls out to them, it is he who
holds out help--and what help! Indeed, that simple sage of antiquity[3]
was as infinitely right as the majority who do the opposite are
wrong, in setting no great price, whether on himself or his
instruction; even if he thus in a certain sense proudly expressed
the utter difference in kind between payment and his services.
But he was not so solicitous as to beg any one to come to him,
notwithstanding--or shall I say because?--he was not altogether
sure what his help signified; for the more sure one is that his
help is the only one obtainable, the more reason has he, in a
human sense, to ask a great price for it; and the less sure one
is, the more reason has he to offer freely the possible help
he has, in order to do at least something for others. But he
who calls himself the Savior, and knows that he is, he calls
out solicitously: "come hither unto me!"


"Come hither all ye!"--Strange! For if he who, when it comes
to the point, perhaps cannot help a single one--if such a one
should boastfully invite everybody, that would not seem so
very strange, man's nature being such as it is. But if a man
is absolutely sure of being able to help, and at the same time
willing to help, willing to devote his all in doing so, and with
all sacrifices, then he generally makes at least one reservation;
which is, to make a choice among those he means to help. That
is, however willing one may be, still it is not everybody one
cares to help; one does not care to sacrifice one's self to
that extent. But he, the only one who can really help, and really
help everybody--the only one, therefore, who really can invite
everybody--he makes no conditions whatever; but utters the invitation
which, from the beginning of the world, seems to have been reserved
for him: "Come hither all ye!" Ah, human self-sacrifice, even when
thou art most beautiful and noble, when we admire thee most: this
is a sacrifice still greater, which is, to sacrifice every provision
for one's own self, so that in one's willingness to help there is
not even the least partiality. Ah, the love that sets no price on
one's self, that makes one forget altogether that he is the
helper, and makes one altogether blind as to who it is one helps,
but infinitely careful only that he be a sufferer, whatever else he
may be; and thus willing unconditionally to help everybody--different,
alas! in this from everybody!

"Come hither unto me!" Strange! For human compassion also, and
willingly, does something for them that labor and are heavy laden;
one feeds the hungry, clothes the naked, makes charitable gifts,
builds charitable institutions, and if the compassion be heartfelt,
perhaps even visits those that labor and are heavy laden. But to
invite them to come to one, that will never do, because then all
one's household and manner of living would have to be changed.
For a man cannot himself live in abundance, or at any rate in
well-being and happiness, and at the same time dwell in one and
the same house together with, and in daily intercourse with, the
poor and miserable, with them that labor and are heavy laden! In
order to be able to invite them in such wise, a man must himself
live altogether in the same way, as poor as the poorest, as lowly
as the lowliest, familiar with the sorrows and sufferings of life,
and altogether belonging to the same station as they whom he invites,
that is, they who labor and are heavy laden. If he wishes to
invite a sufferer, he must either change his own condition to be
like that of the sufferer, or else change that of the sufferer to
be like his own; for if this is not done the difference will
stand out only the more by contrast. And if you wish to invite
all those who suffer--for you may make an exception with one of
them and change his condition--it can be done only in one way,
which is, to change your condition so as to live as they do;
provided your life be not already lived thus, as was the case
with Him who said: "Come hither unto me, all ye that labor and
are heavy laden!" Thus said he; and they who lived with him
saw him, and behold! there was not even the least thing in his
manner of life to contradict it. With the silent and truthful
eloquence of actual performance his life expresses--even though
he had never in his life said these words--his life expresses:
"Come hither, unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden"!
He abides by his word, or he himself is the word; he is what he
says, and also in this sense he is the Word.[4]


"All ye that labor and are heavy laden." Strange! His only concern
is lest there be a single one who labors and is heavy laden who
does not hear this invitation. Neither does he fear that too many
will come. Ah, heart-room makes house-room; but where wilt thou
find heart-room, if not in his heart? He leaves it to each one how
to understand his invitation: he has a clear conscience about
it, for he has invited all those that labor and are heavy laden.

But what means it, then, to labor and be heavy laden? Why does
he not offer a clearer explanation so that one may know exactly
whom he means, and why is he so chary of his words? Ah, thou
narrow-minded one, he is so chary of his words, lest he be narrow-minded;
and thou narrow-hearted one, he is so chary of his words lest
he be narrow-hearted. For such is his love--and love has regard
to all--as to prevent any one from troubling and searching his
heart whether he too be among those invited. And he who would
insist on a more definite explanation, is he not likely to be
some self-loving person who is calculating whether this explanation
does not particularly fit himself; one who does not consider that
the more of such exact explanations are offered, the more certainly
some few would be left in doubt as to whether they were invited?
Ah man, why does thine eye see only thyself, why is it evil because
he is good?[5] The invitation to all men opens the arms of him
who invites, and thus he stands of aspect everlasting; but no
sooner is a closer explanation attempted which might help one
or the other to another kind of certainty, than his aspect would
be transformed and, as it were, a shadow of change would pass
over his countenance.

"I will give you rest." Strange! For then the words "come hither
unto me" must be understood to mean: stay with me, I am rest;
or, it is rest to remain with me. It is not, then, as in other
cases where he who helps and says "come hither" must afterwards
say: "now depart again," explaining to each one where the help
he needs is to be found, where the healing herb grows which will
cure him, or where the quiet spot is found where he may rest
from labor, or where the happier continent exists where one is
not heavy laden. But no, he who opens his arms, inviting every
one--ah, if all, all they that labor and are heavy laden came
to him, he would fold them all to his heart, saying: "stay with
me now; for to stay with me is rest." The helper himself is the
help. Ah, strange, he who invites everybody and wishes to help
everybody, his manner of treating the sick is as if calculated
for every sick man, and as if every sick man who comes to him
were his only patient. For otherwise a physician divides his
time among many patients who, however great their number, still
are far, far from being all mankind. He will prescribe the medicine,
he will say what is to be done, and how it is to be used, and
then he will go--to some other patient; or, in case the patient
should visit him, he will let him depart. The physician cannot
remain sitting all day with one patient, and still less can he
have all his patients about him in his home, and yet sit all
day with one patient without neglecting the others. For this
reason the helper and his help are not one and the same thing.
The help which the physician prescribes is kept with him by the
patient all day so that he may constantly use it, whilst the
physician visits him now and again; or he visits the physician
now and again. But if the helper is also the help, why, then
he will stay with the sick man all day, or the sick man with
him--ah, strange that it is just this helper who invites all men!




II


COME HITHER ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE HEAVY LADEN,
AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST.


What enormous multiplicity, what an almost boundless diversity,
of people invited; for a man, a lowly man, may, indeed, try to
enumerate only a few of these diversities--but he who invites
must invite all men, even if every one specially and individually.


The invitation goes forth, then--along the highways and the
byways, and along the loneliest paths; aye, goes forth where
there is a path so lonely that one man only, and no one else,
knows of it, and goes forth where there is but one track, the
track of the wretched one who fled along that path with his
misery, that and no other track; goes forth even where there is
no path to show how one may return: even there the invitation
penetrates and by itself easily and surely finds its way back--most
easily, indeed, when it brings the fugitive along to him that
issued the invitation. Come hither, come hither all ye, also
thou, and thou, and thou, too, thou loneliest of all fugitives!

Thus the invitation goes forth and remains standing, wheresoever
there is a parting of the ways, in order to call out. Ah, just
as the trumpet call of the soldiers is directed to the four
quarters of the globe, likewise does this invitation sound wherever
there is a meeting of roads; with no uncertain sound--for who
would then come?--but with the certitude of eternity.

It stands by the parting of the ways where worldly and earthly
sufferings have set down their crosses, and calls out: Come
hither, all ye poor and wretched ones, ye who in poverty must
slave in order to assure yourselves, not of a care-free, but of
a toilsome, future; ah, bitter contradiction, to have to slave
for--assuring one's self of that under which one groans, of that
which one flees! Ye despised and overlooked ones, about whose
existence no one, aye, no one is concerned, not so much even as
about some domestic animal which is of greater value! Ye sick,
and halt, and blind, and deaf, and crippled, come hither!--Ye
bed-ridden, aye, come hither, ye too; for the invitation makes
bold to invite even the bed-ridden--to come! Ye lepers; for the
invitation breaks down all differences in order to unite all,
it wishes to make good the hardship caused by the difference
in men, the difference which seats one as a ruler over millions,
in possession of all gifts of fortune, and drives another one
out into the wilderness--and why? (ah, the cruelty of it!) because
(ah, the cruel human inference!) because he is wretched, indescribably
wretched. Why then? Because he stands in need of help, or at
any rate, of compassion. And why, then? Because human compassion
is a wretched thing which is cruel when there is the greatest
need of being compassionate, and compassionate only when, at
bottom, it is not true compassion! Ye sick of heart, ye who only
through your anguish learned to know that a man's heart and an
animal's heart are two different things, and what it means to be
sick at heart--what it means when the physician may be right in
declaring one sound of heart and yet heart-sick; ye whom faithlessness
deceived and whom human sympathy--for the sympathy of man is
rarely late in coming--whom human sympathy made a target for
mockery; all ye wronged and aggrieved and ill-used; all ye noble
ones who, as any and everybody will be able to tell you, deservedly
reap the reward of ingratitude (for why were ye simple enough
to be noble, why foolish enough to be kindly, and disinterested,
and faithful)--all ye victims of cunning, of deceit, of backbiting,
of envy, whom baseness chose as its victim and cowardice left
in the lurch, whether now ye be sacrificed in remote and lonely
places, after having crept away in order to die, or whether ye
be trampled underfoot in the thronging crowds where no one asks
what rights ye have, and no one, what wrongs ye suffer, and no
one, where ye smart or how ye smart, whilst the crowd with brute
force tramples you into the dust--come ye hither!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where death
parts death and life. Come hither all ye that sorrow and ye that
vainly labor! For indeed there is rest in the grave; but to sit
by a grave, or to stand by a grave, or to visit a grave, all that
is far from lying in the grave; and to read to one's self again
and again one's own words which one knows by heart, the epitaph
which one devised one's self and understands best, namely, who
it is that lies buried here, all that is not the same as to lie
buried one's self. In the grave there Is rest, but by the grave
there is no rest; for it is said: so far and no farther, and so
you may as well go home again. But however often, whether in your
thoughts or in fact, you return to that grave--you will never get
any farther, you will not get away from the spot, and this is
very trying and is by no means rest. Come ye hither, therefore:
here is the way by which one may go farther, here is rest by
the grave, rest from the sorrow over loss, or rest in the sorrow
of loss--through him who everlastingly re-unites those that are
parted, and more firmly than nature unites parents with their
children, and children with their parents--for, alas! they were
parted; and more closely than the minister unites husband and
wife--for, alas! their separation did come to pass; and more
indissolubly than the bond of friendship unites friend with
friend--for, alas! it was broken. Separation penetrated everywhere
and brought with it sorrow and unrest; but here is rest!--Come
hither also ye who had your abodes assigned to you among the
graves, ye who are considered dead to human society, but neither
missed nor mourned--not buried and yet dead; that is, belonging
neither to life nor to death; ye, alas! to whom human society
cruelly closed its doors and for whom no grave has as yet opened
itself in pity--come hither, ye also, here is rest, and here is
life!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where the road
of sin turns away from the inclosure of innocence--ah, come hither,
ye are so close to him; but a single step in the opposite direction,
and ye are infinitely far from him. Very possibly ye do not yet
stand in need of rest, nor grasp fully what that means; but still
follow the invitation, so that he who invites may save you from
a predicament out of which it is so difficult and dangerous to
be saved; and so that, being saved, ye may stay with him who is
the Savior of all, likewise of innocence. For even if it were
possible that innocence be found somewhere, and altogether pure:
why should not innocence also need a savior to keep it safe from
evil?--The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where
the road of sin turns away to enter more deeply into sin. Come
hither all ye who have strayed and have been lost, whatever may
have been your error and sin: whether one more pardonable in the
sight of man and nevertheless perhaps more frightful, or one
more terrible in the sight of man and yet, perchance, more pardonable;
whether it be one which became known here on earth or one which,
though hidden, yet is known in heaven--and even if ye found
pardon here on earth without finding rest in your souls, or
found no pardon because ye did not seek it, or because ye sought
it in vain: ah, return and come hither, here is rest!

The invitation stands at the parting of the ways, where the
road of sin turns away for the last time and to the eye is lost
in perdition. Ah, return, return, and come hither! Do not shrink
from the difficulties of the retreat, however great; do not fear
the irksome way of conversion, however laboriously it may lead
to salvation; whereas sin with winged speed and growing pace
leads forward or--downward, so easily, so indescribably easy--as
easily, in fact, as when a horse, altogether freed from having
to pull, cannot even with all his might stop the vehicle which
pushes him into the abyss. Do not despair over each relapse which
the God of patience has patience enough to pardon, and which a
sinner should surely have patience enough to humble himself under.
Nay, fear nothing and despair not: he that sayeth "come hither,"
he is with you on the way, from him come help and pardon on that
way of conversion which leads to him; and with him is rest.

Come hither all, all ye--with him is rest; and he will raise no
difficulties, he does but one thing: he opens his arms. He will
not first ask you, you sufferer--as righteous men, alas, are
accustomed to, even when willing to help--"Are you not perhaps
yourself the cause of your misfortune, have you nothing with
which to reproach yourself?" It is so easy to fall into this
very human error, and from appearances to judge a man's success
or failure: for instance, if a man is a cripple, or deformed,
or has an unprepossessing appearance, to infer that therefore
he is a bad man; or, when a man is unfortunate enough to suffer
reverses so as to be ruined or so as to go down in the world,
to infer that therefore he is a vicious man. Ah, and this is
such an exquisitely cruel pleasure, this being conscious of
one's own righteousness as against the sufferer--explaining his
afflictions as God's punishment, so that one does not even--dare
to help him; or asking him that question which condemns him
and flatters our own righteousness, before helping him. But
he will not ask you thus, will not in such cruel fashion be
your benefactor. And if you are yourself conscious of your sin
he will not ask about it, will not break still further the bent
reed, but raise you up, if you will but join him. He will not
point you out by way of contrast, and place you outside of himself,
so that your sin will stand out as still more terrible, but he
will grant you a hiding place within him; and hidden within him
your sins will be hidden. For he is the friend of sinners. Let
him but behold a sinner, and he not only stands still, opening
his arms and saying "come hither," nay, but he stands--and waits,
as did the father of the prodigal son; or he does not merely
remain standing and waiting, but goes out to search, as the
shepherd went forth to search for the strayed sheep, or as the
woman went to search for the lost piece of silver. He goes--nay,
he has gone, but an infinitely longer way than any shepherd or
any woman, for did he not go the infinitely long way from being
God to becoming man, which he did to seek sinners?




III




COME HITHER UNTO ME ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE HEAVY
LADEN, AND I WILL GIVE YOU REST.


"Come hither!" For he supposes that they that labor and are
heavy laden feel their burden and their labor, and that they
stand there now, perplexed and sighing--one casting about with
his eyes to discover whether there is help in sight anywhere;
another with his eyes fixed on the ground, because he can see
no consolation; and a third with his eyes staring heavenward,
as though help was bound to come from heaven--but all seeking.
Therefore he sayeth: "come hither!" But he invites not him who
has ceased to seek and to sorrow.--"Come hither!" For he who
invites knows that it is a mark of true suffering, if one walks
alone and broods in silent disconsolateness, without courage to
confide in any one, and with even less self-confidence to dare
to hope for help. Alas, not only he whom we read about was possessed
of a dumb devil.[6] No suffering which does not first of all
render the sufferer dumb is of much significance, no more than
the love which does not render one silent; for those sufferers
who run on about their afflictions neither labor nor are heavy
laden. Behold, therefore the inviter will not wait till they
that labor and are heavy laden come to him, but calls them lovingly;
for all his willingness to help might, perhaps, be of no avail
if he did not say these words and thereby take the first step;
for in the call of these words: "come hither unto me!" he comes
himself to them. Ah, human compassion--sometimes, perhaps, it is
indeed praiseworthy self-restraint, sometimes, perhaps, even true
compassion, which may cause you to refrain from questioning him
whom you suppose to be brooding over a hidden affliction; but
also, how often indeed is this compassion but worldly wisdom which
does not care to know too much! Ah, human'compassion--how often
was it not pure curiosity, and not compassion, which prompted
you to venture into the secret of one afflicted; and how burdensome
it was--almost like a punishment of your curiosity--when he
accepted your invitation and came to you! But he who sayeth
these redeeming words "Come hither!" he is not deceiving himself
in saying these words, nor will he deceive you when you come to
him in order to find rest by throwing your burden on him. He
follows the promptings of his heart in saying these words, and
his heart follows his words; if you then follow these words,
they will follow you back again to his heart. This follows as
a matter of course--ah, will you not follow the invitation?--"Come
hither!" For he supposes that they that labor and are heavy
laden are so worn out and overtaxed, and so near swooning that
they have forgotten, as though in a stupor, that there is such
a thing as consolation. Alas, or he knows for sure that there
is no consolation and no help unless it is sought from him; and
therefore must he call out to them "Come hither!"


"Come hither!" For is it not so that every society has some
symbol or token which is worn by those who belong to it? When
a young girl is adorned in a certain manner one knows that she
is going to the dance: Come hither all ye that labor and are
heavy laden--come hither! You need not carry an external and
visible badge; come but with your head anointed and your face
washed, if only you labor in your heart and are heavy laden.


"Come hither!" Ah, do not stand still and consider; nay, consider,
consider that with every moment you stand still after having
heard the invitation you will hear the call more faintly and thus
withdraw from it, even though you are standing still.--"Come
hither!" Ah, however weary and faint you be from work, or from
the long, long and yet hitherto fruitless search for help and
salvation, and even though you may feel as if you could not
take one more step, and not wait one more moment, without dropping
to the ground: ah, but this one step and here is rest!--"Come
hither!" But if, alas, there be one who is so wretched that
he cannot come?--Ah, a sigh is sufficient; your mere sighing
or him is also to come hither.




THE PAUSE


COME HITHER UNTO ME ALL YE THAT LABOR AND ARE HEAVY
LADEN, AND I SHALL GIVE YOU REST.


Pause now! But what is there to give pause? That which in the
same instant makes all undergo an absolute change--so that,
instead of seeing an immense throng ofthem that labor and are
heavy laden following the invitation, you will in the end behold
the very opposite, that is, an immense throng of men who flee
back shudderingly, scrambling to get away, trampling all down
before them; so that, if one were to infer the sense of what
had been said from the result it produced, one would have to
infer that the words had been "_procul o procul este profani_,"
rather than "come hither"--that gives pause which is infinitely
more important and infinitely more decisive: THE PERSON OF HIM
WHO INVITES. Not in the sense that he is not the man to do what
he has said, or not God, to keep what he has promised; no, in
a very different sense.


Pause is given by the fact that he who invites is, and insists
on being, the definite historic person he was 1800 years ago,
and that he as this definite person, and living under the conditions
then obtaining, spoke these words of invitation.--He is not, and
does not wish to be, one about whom one may simply know something
from history (i.e. world history, history proper, as against
Sacred History); for from history one cannot "learn" anything
about him, the simple reason being that nothing can be "known"
about him.--He does not wish to be judged in a human way, from
the results of his life; that is, he is and wishes to be, a
rock of offense and the object of faith. To judge him after
the consequences of his life is a blasphemy, for being God, his
life, and the very fact that he was then living and really did
live, is infinitely more important than all the consequences of
it in history.




_A_ Who spoke these words of invitation?


He that invites. Who is he? Jesus Christ. Which Jesus Christ?
He that sits in glory on the right side of his Father? No. From
his seat of glory he spoke not a single word. Therefore it is
Jesus Christ in his lowliness, and in the condition of lowliness,
who spoke these words.

Is then Jesus Christ not the same? Yes, verily, he is today, and
was yesterday, and 1800 years ago, the same who abased himself,
assuming the form of a servant--the Jesus Christ who spake these
words of invitation. It is also he who hath said that he would
return again in glory. In his return in glory he is, again, the
same Jesus Christ; but this has not yet come to pass.

Is he then not in glory now? Assuredly, that the Christian believes.
But it was in his lowly condition that he spoke these words; he
did not speak them from his glory. And about his return in glory
nothing can be known, for this can in the strictest sense be a
matter of belief only. But a believer one cannot become except
by having gone to him in his lowly condition--to him, the rock
of offense and the object of faith. In other shape he does not
exist, for only thus did he exist. That he will return in glory
is indeed expected, but can be expected and believed only by him
who believes, and has believed, in him as he was here on earth.

Jesus Christ is, then, the same; yet lived he 1800 years ago in
debasement, and is transfigured only at his return. As yet he
has not returned; therefore he is still the one in lowly guise
about whom we believe that he will return in glory. Whatever he
said and taught, every word he spoke, becomes _eo ipso_ untrue
if we give it the appearance of having been spoken by Christ in
his glory. Nay, he is silent. It is the lowly Christ who speaks.
The space of time between (i.e. between his debasement and his
return in glory) which is at present about 1800 years, and will
possibly become many times 1800--this space of time, or else
what this space of time tries to make of Christ, the worldly
information about him furnished by world history or church history,
as to who Christ was, as to who it was who really spoke these
words--all this does not concern us, is neither here nor there,
but only serves to corrupt our conception of him, arid thereby
renders untrue these words of invitation.

It is untruthful of me to impute to a person words which he
never used. But it is likewise untruthful, and the words he used
likewise become untruthful, or it becomes untrue that he used
them, if I assign to him a nature essentially unlike the one
he had when he did use them. Essentially unlike; for an untruth
concerning this or the other trifling circumstance will not make
it untrue that "he" said them. And therefore, if it please God
to walk on earth in such strict incognito as only one all-powerful
can assume, in guise impenetrable to all men; if it please him--and
why he does it, for what purpose, that he knows best himself;
but whatever the reason and the purpose, it is certain that
the incognito is of essential significance--I say, if it please
God to walk on earth in the guise of a servant and, to judge
from his appearance, exactly like any other man; if it please
him to teach men in this guise--if, now, any one repeats his
very words, but gives the saying the appearance that it was
God that spoke these words: then it is untruthful; for it is
untrue that h e said these words.




_B_ Can one from history[7] learn to know anything about Christ?


No. And why not? Because one cannot "know" anything at all about
"Christ"; for he is the paradox, the object of faith, and exists
only for faith. But all historic information is communication of
"knowledge." Therefore one cannot learn anything about Christ
from history. For whether now one learn little or much about him,
it will not represent what he was in reality. Hence one learns
something else about him than what is strictly true, and therefore
learns nothing about him, or gets to know something wrong about
him; that is, one is deceived. History makes Christ look different
from what he looked in truth, and thus one learns much from history
about--Christ? No, not about Christ; because about him nothing
can be "known," he can only be believed.




_C_ Can one prove from history that Christ was God?


Let me first ask another question: is any more absurd contradiction
thinkable than wishing to prove (no matter, for the present,
whether one wishes to do so from history, or from whatever else
in the wide world one wishes to prove it) that a certain person
is God? To maintain that a certain person is God--that is, professes
to be God--is indeed a stumbling block in the purest sense. But
what is the nature of a stumbling block? It is an assertion
which is at variance with all (human) reason. Now think of proving
that! But to prove something is to render it reasonable and real.
Is it possible, then, to render reasonable and real what is at
variance with all reason? Scarcely; unless one wishes to contradict
one's self. One can prove only that it is at variance with all
reason. The proofs for the divinity of Christ given in Scripture,
such as the miracles and his resurrection from the grave exist,
too, only for faith; that is, they are no "proofs," for they are
not meant to prove that all this agrees with reason but, on the
contrary, are meant to prove that it is at variance with reason
and therefore a matter of faith.

First, then, let us take up the proofs from history. "Is it not
1800 years ago now that Christ lived, is not his name proclaimed
and reverenced throughout the world, has not his teaching (Christianity)
changed the aspect of the world, having victoriously affected
all affairs: has then history not sufficiently, or more than
sufficiently, made good its claim as to who he was, and that
he was--God?" No, indeed, history has by no means sufficiently,
or more than sufficiently, made good its claim, and in fact
history cannot accomplish this in all eternity. However, as
to the first part of the statement, it is true enough that his
name is proclaimed throughout the world--as to whether it is
reverenced, that I do not presume to decide. Also, it is true
enough that Christianity has transformed the aspect of the world,
having victoriously affected all affairs, so victoriously indeed,
that everybody now claims to be a Christian.

But what does this prove? It proves, at most, that Jesus Christ
was a great man, the greatest, perhaps, who ever lived. But that
he was God--stop now, that conclusion shall with God's help fall
to the ground.

Now, if one intends to introduce this conclusion by assuming that
Jesus Christ was a man, and then considers the 1800 years of
history (i.e. the consequences of his life), one may indeed
conclude with a constantly rising superlative: he was great,
greater, the greatest, extraordinarily and astonishingly the
greatest man who ever lived. If one begins, on the other hand,
with the assumption (of faith) that he was God, one has by so
doing stricken out and car celled the 1800 years as not making
the slightest difference, one way or the other, because the
certainty of faith is on an infinitely higher plane. And one
course or the other one must take; but we shall arrive at sensible
conclusions only if we take the latter.

If one takes the former course one will find it impossible--unless
by committing the logical error of passing over into a different
category--one will find it impossible in the conclusion suddenly
to arrive at the new category "God"; that is, one cannot make
the consequence, or consequences, of--a man's life suddenly
prove at a certain point in the argument that this man was God.
If such a procedure were correct one ought to be able to answer
satisfactorily a question like this: what must the consequence
be, how great the effects, how many centuries must elapse, in
order to infer from the consequences of a man's life--for such
was the assumption--that he was God; or whether it is really
the case that in the year 300 Christ had not yet been entirely
proved to be God, though certainly the most extraordinarily,
astonishingly, greatest man who had ever lived, but that a few
more centuries would be necessary to prove that he was God. In
that case we would be obliged to infer that people in the fourth
century did not look upon Christ as God, and still less they
who lived in the first century; whereas the certainty that he
was God would grow with every century. Also, that in our century
this certainty would be greater than it had ever been, a certainty
in comparison with which the first centuries hardly so much as
glimpsed his divinity. You may answer this question or not, it
does not matter.

In general, is it at all possible by the consideration of the
gradually unfolding consequences of something to arrive at a
conclusion different in quality from what we started with? Is
it not sheer insanity (providing man is sane) to let one's judgment
become so altogether confused as to land in the wrong category?
And if one begins with such a mistake, then how will one be able,
at any subsequent point, to infer from the consequences of something,
that one has to deal with an altogether different, in fact,
infinitely different, category? A foot-print certainly is the
consequence of some creature having made it. Now I may mistake
the track for that of, let us say, a bird; whereas by nearer
inspection, and by following it for some distance, I may make
sure that it was made by some other animal. Very good; but there
was no infinite difference in quality between my first assumption
and my later conclusion. But can I, on further consideration
and following the track still further, arrive at the conclusion:
therefore it was a spirit--a spirit that leaves no tracks? Precisely
the same holds true of the argument that from the consequences
of a human life--for that was the assumption--we may infer that
therefore it was God.

Is God then so like man, is there so little difference between
the two that, while in possession of my right senses, I may
begin with the assumption that Christ was human? And, for that
matter, has not Christ himself affirmed that he was God? On the
other hand, if God and man resemble each other so closely, and
are related to each other to such a degree--that is, essentially
belong to the same category of beings, then the conclusion "therefore
he was God" is nevertheless just humbug, because if that is all
there is to being God, then God does not exist at all. But if
God does exist and, therefore, belongs to a category infinitely
different from man, why, then neither I nor any one else can
start with the assumption that Christ was human and end with
the conclusion that therefore he was God. Any one with a bit
of logical sense will easily recognize that the whole question
about the consequences of Christ's life on earth is incommensurable
with the decision that he is God. In fact, this decision is to
be made on an altogether different plane: man must decide for
himself whether he will believe Christ to be what he himself
affirmed he was, that is, God, or whether he will not believe so.

What has been said--mind you, providing one will take the time
to understand it--is sufficient to make a logical mind stop
drawing any inferences from the consequences of Christ's life:
that therefore he was God. But faith in its own right protests
against every attempt to approach Jesus Christ by the help of
historical information about the consequences of his life. Faith
contends that this whole attempt is--blasphemous. Faith contends
that the only proof left unimpaired by unbelief when it did
away with all the other proofs of the truth of Christianity,
the proof which--indeed, this is complicated business--I say,
which unbelief invented in order to prove the truth of Christianity--the
proof about which so excessively much ado has been made in Christendom,
the proof of 1800 years: as to this, faith contends that it
is--blasphemy.

With regard to a man it is true that the consequences of his
life are more important than his life. If one, then, in order to
find out who Christ was, and in order to find out by some inference,
considers the consequences of his life: why, then one changes
him into a man by this very act--a man who, like other men, is
to pass his examination in history, and history is in this case
as mediocre an examiner as any half-baked teacher in Latin.

But strange! By the help of history, that is, by considering
the consequences of his life, one wishes to arrive at the conclusion
that therefore, therefore he was God; and faith makes the exactly
opposite contention that he who even begins with this syllogism
is guilty of blasphemy. Nor does the blasphemy consist in assuming
hypothetically that Christ was a man. No, the blasphemy consists
in the thought which lies at the bottom of the whole business,
the thought without which one would never start it, and of whose
validity one is fully and firmly assured that it will hold also
with regard to Christ--the thought that the consequences of his
life are more important than his life; in other words, that he
is a man. The hypothesis is: let us assume that Christ was a
man; but at the bottom of this hypothesis, which is not blasphemy
as yet, there lies the assumption that, the consequences of a
man's life being more important than his life, this will hold
true also of Christ. Unless this is assumed one must admit that
one's whole argument is absurd, must admit it before beginning--so
why begin at all? But once it is assumed, and the argument is
started, we have the blasphemy. And the more one becomes absorbed
in the consequences of Christ's life, with the aim of being able
to make sure whether or no he was God, the more blasphemous is
one's conduct; and it remains blasphemous so long as this consideration
is persisted in.

Curious coincidence: one tries to make it appear that, providing
one but thoroughly considers the consequences of Christ's life,
this "therefore" will surely be arrived at--and faith condemns
the very beginning of this attempt as blasphemy, and hence the
continuance in it as a worse blasphemy.

"History," says faith, "has nothing to do with Christ." With
regard to him we have only Sacred History (which is different
in kind from general history), Sacred History which tells of
his life and career when in debasement, and tells also that he
affirmed himself to be God. He is the paradox which history never
will be able to digest or convert into a general syllogism. He
is in his debasement the same as he is in his exaltation--but
the 1800 years, or let it be 18,000 years, have nothing whatsoever
to do with this. The brilliant consequences in the history of
the world which are sufficient, almost, to convince even a professor
of history that he was God, these brilliant consequences surely
do not represent his return in glory! Forsooth, in that case it
were imagined rather meanly! The same thing over again: Christ
is thought to be a man whose return in glory can be, and can become,
nothing else than the consequences of his life in history--whereas
Christ's return in glory is something absolutely different and a
matter of faith. He abased himself and was swathed in rags--he
will return in glory; but the brilliant consequences in history,
especially when examined a little more closely, are too shabby
a glory--at any rate a glory of an altogether incongruous nature,
of which faith therefore never speaks, when speaking about his
glory. History is a very respectable science indeed, only it must
not become so conceited as to take upon itself what the Father
will do, and clothe Christ in his glory, dressing him up with
the brilliant garments of the consequences of his life, as if
that constituted his return. That he was God in his debasement
and that he will return in glory, all this is far beyond the
comprehension of history; nor can all this be got from history,
excepting by an incomparable lack of logic, and however incomparable
one's view of history may be otherwise.

How strange, then, that one ever wished to use history
in order to prove Christ divine.




_D_ Are the consequences of Christ's life more important than
his life?


No, by no means, but rather the opposite; for else Christ were
but a man.

There is really nothing remarkable in a man having lived. There
have certainly lived millions upon millions of men. If the fact
is remarkable, there must have been something remarkable in a
man's life. In other words, there is nothing remarkable in his
having lived, but his life was remarkable for this or that. The
remarkable thing may, among other matters, also be what he accomplished;
that is, the consequences of his life.

But that God lived here on earth in human form, that is infinitely
remarkable. No matter if his life had had no consequences at all--it
remains equally remarkable, infinitely remarkable, infinitely more
remarkable than all possible consequences. Just try to introduce
that which is remarkable as something secondary and you will
straightway see the absurdity of doing so: now, if you please,
whatever remarkable is there in God's life having had remarkable
consequences? To speak in this fashion is merely twaddling.

No, that God lived here on earth, that is what is infinitely
remarkable, that which is remarkable in itself. Assuming that
Christ's life had had no consequences whatsoever--if any one
then undertook to say that therefore his life was not remarkable
it would be blasphemy. For it would be remarkable all the same;
and if a secondary remarkable characteristic had to be introduced
it would consist in the remarkable fact that his life had no
consequences. But if one should say that Christ's life was remarkable
because of its consequences, then this again were a blasphemy; for
it is his life which in itself is the remarkable thing.

There is nothing very remarkable in a man's having lived, but it
is infinitely remarkable that God has lived. God alone can lay
so much emphasis on himself that the fact of his having lived
becomes infinitely more important than all the consequences
which may flow therefrom and which then become a matter of history.




_E_ A comparison between Christ and a man who in his life endured
the same treatment by his times as Christ endured.


Let us imagine a man, one of the exalted spirits, one who was
wronged by his times, but whom history later reinstated in his
rights by proving by the consequences of his life who he was. I
do not deny, by the way, that all this business of proving from
the consequences is a course well suited to "a world which ever
wishes to be deceived." For he who was contemporary with him and
did not understand who he was, he really only imagines that he
understands when he has got to know it by help of the consequences
of the noble one's life. Still, I do not wish to insist on this
point, for with regard to a man it certainly holds true that
the consequences of his life are more important than the fact
of his having lived.

Let us imagine one of these exalted spirits. He lives among
his contemporaries without being understood, his significance
is not recognized--he is misunderstood, and then mocked, persecuted,
and finally put to death like a common evil-doer. But the consequences
of his life make it plain who he was; history which keeps a record
of these consequences re-instates him in his rightful position,
and now he is named in one century after another as the great and
the noble spirit, and the circumstances of his debasement are
almost completely forgotten. It was blindness on the part of his
contemporaries which prevented them from comprehending his true
nature, and wickedness which made them mock him and deride him,
and finally put him to death. But be no more concerned about this;
for only after his death did he really become what he was, through
the consequences of his life which, after all, are by far more
important than his life.

Now is it not possible that the same holds true with regard
to Christ? It was blindness and wickedness on the part of those
times[8]--but be no more concerned about this, history has now
re-instated him, from history we know now who Jesus Christ was,
and thus justice is done him.

Ah, wicked thoughtlessness which thus interprets Sacred History
like profane history, which makes Christ a man! But can one, then,
learn anything from history about Jesus? (_cf. b_) No, nothing.
Jesus Christ is the object of faith--one either believes in him
or is offended by him; for "to know" means precisely that such
knowledge does not pertain to him. History can therefore, to be
sure, give one knowledge in abundance; but "knowledge" annihilates
Jesus Christ.

Again--ah, the impious thoughtlessness!--for one to presume
to say about Christ's abasement: "Let us be concerned no more
about his abasement." Surely, Christ's abasement was not something
which merely happened to him--even if it was the sin of that
generation to crucify him; was surely not something that simply
happened to him and, perhaps, would not have happened to him in
better times. Christ himself wished to be abased and lowly. His
abasement (that is, his walking on earth in humble guise, though
being God) is therefore a condition of his own making, something
he wished to be knotted together, a dialectic knot which no one
shall presume to untie, and which no one will untie, for that
matter, until he himself shall untie it when returning in his glory.

His case is, therefore, not the same as that of a man who, through
the injustice inflicted on him by his times, was not allowed
to be himself or to be valued at his worth, while history revealed
who he was; for Christ himself wished to be abased--it is precisely
this condition which he desired. Therefore, let history not trouble
itself to do him justice, and let us not in impious thoughtlessness
presumptuously imagine that we as a matter of course know who he
was. For that no one knows; and he who believes it must become
contemporaneous with him in his abasement. When God chooses to let
himself be born in lowliness, when he who holds all possibilities
in his hand assumes the form of a humble servant, when he fares
about defenseless, letting people do with him what they list: he
surely knows what he does and why he does it; for it is at all
events he who has power over men, and not men who have power
over him--so let not history be so impertinent as to wish to
reveal who he was.

Lastly--ah the blasphemy!--if one should presume to say that
the percussion which Christ suffered expresses something accidental!
If a man is persecuted by his generation it does not follow
that he has the right to say that this would happen to him in
every age. Insofar there is reason in what posterity says about
letting bygones be bygones. But it is different with Christ!
It is not he who by letting himself be born, and by appearing
in Palestine, is being examined by history; but it is he who
examines, his life is the examination, not only of that generation,
but of mankind. Woe unto the generation that would presumptuously
dare to say: "let bygones be bygones, and forget what he suffered,
for history has now revealed who he was and has done justice by him."

If one assumes that history is really able to do this, then
the abasement of Christ bears an accidental relation to him;
that is to say, he thereby is made a man, an extraordinary man
to whom this happened through the wickedness of that generation--a
fate which he was far from wishing to suffer, for he would gladly
(as is human) have become a great man; whereas Christ voluntarily
chose to be the lowly one and, although it was his purpose to
save the world, wished also to give expression to what the "truth"
suffered then, and must suffer in every generation. But if this
is his strongest desire, and if he will show himself in his
glory only at his return, and if he has not returned as yet;
and if no generation may be without repentance, but on the contrary
every generation must consider itself a partner in the guilt of
that generation: then woe to him who presumes to deprive him of
his lowliness, or to cause what he suffered to be forgotten, and
to clothe him in the fabled human glory of the historic consequences
of his life, which is neither here nor there.




_F_ The Misfortune of Christendom


But precisely this is the misfortune, and has been the misfortune,
in Christendom that Christ is neither the one nor the other--neither
the one he was when living on earth, nor he who will return in
glory, but rather one about whom we have learned to know something
in an inadmissible way from history--that he was somebody or other
of great account. In an inadmissible and unlawful way we have
learned to know him; whereas to believe in him is the only permissible
mode of approach. Men have mutually confirmed one another in the
opinion that the sum total of information about him is available
if they but consider the result of his life and the following
1800 years, i.e. the consequences. Gradually, as this became
accepted as the truth, all pith and strength was distilled out
of Christianity; the paradox was relaxed, one became a Christian
without noticing it, without noticing in the least the possibility
of being offended by him. One took over Christ's teachings, turned
them inside out and smoothed them down--he himself guaranteeing
them, of course, the man whose life had had such immense consequences
in history! All became plain as day--very naturally, since Christianity
in this fashion became heathendom.

There is in Christendom an incessant twaddling on Sundays about
the glorious and invaluable truths of Christianity, its mild
consolation. But it is indeed evident that Christ lived 1800
years ago; for the rock of offense and object of faith has become
a most charming fairy-story character, a kind of divine good
old man.[9] People have not the remotest idea of what it means
to be offended by him, and still less, what it means to worship.
The qualities for which Christ is magnified are precisely those
which would have most enraged one, if one had been contemporaneous
with him; whereas now one feels altogether secure, placing implicit
confidence in the result and, relying altogether on the verdict
of history that he was the great man, concludes therefore that
it is correct to do so. That is to say, it is the correct, arid
the noble, and the exalted, and the true, thing--if it is he who
does it; which is to say, again, that one does not in any deeper
sense take the pains to understand what it is he does, and that
one tries even less, to the best of one's ability and with the
help of God, to be like him in acting rightly and nobly, and in
an exalted manner, and truthfully. For, not really fathoming it
in any deeper sense, one may, in the exigency of a contemporaneous
situation, judge him in exactly the opposite way. One is satisfied
with admiring and extolling and is, perhaps, as was said of a
translator who rendered his original word for word and therefore
without making sense, "too conscientious,"--one is, perhaps, also
too cowardly and too weak to wish to understand his real meaning.

Christendom has done away with Christianity, without being aware
of it. Therefore, if anything is to be done about it, the attempt
must be made to re-introduce Christianity.




II


He who invites is, then, Jesus Christ in his abasement, it is he
who spoke these words of invitation. It is not from his glory
that they are spoken. If that were the case, then Christianity
were heathendom and the name of Christ taken in vain, and for
this reason it cannot be so. But if it were the case that he who
is enthroned in glory had said these words: Come hither--as though
it were so altogether easy a matter to be clasped in the arms of
glory--well, what wonder, then, if crowds of men ran to him! But
they who thus throng to him merely go on a wild goose chase,
imagining they know who Christ is. But that no one knows; and
in order to believe in him one has to begin with his abasement.

He who invites and speaks these words, that is, he whose words
they are--whereas the same words if spoken by some one else are,
as we have seen, an historic falsification--he is the same lowly
Jesus Christ, the humble man, born of a despised maiden, whose
father is a carpenter, related to other simple folk of the very
lowest class, the lowly man who at the same time (which, to be
sure, is like oil poured on the fire) affirms himself to be God.

It is the lowly Jesus Christ who spoke these words. And no word
of Christ, not a single one, have you permission to appropriate
to yourself, you have not the least share in him, are not in any
way of his company, if you have not become his contemporary in
lowliness in such fashion that you have become aware, precisely
like his contemporaries, of his warning: "Blessed is he whosoever
shall not be offended in me.[10]" You have no right to accept
Christ's words, and then lie him away; you have no right to accept
Christ's words, and then in a fantastic manner, and with the aid
of history, utterly change the nature of Christ; for the chatter
of history about him is literally not worth a fig.

It is Jesus Christ in his lowliness who is the speaker. It
is historically true that h e said these words; but so soon as
one makes a change in his historic status, it is false to say
that these words were spoken by him.

This poor and lowly man, then, with twelve poor fellows as his
disciples, all from the lowest class of society, for some time
an object of curiosity, but later on in company only with sinners,
publicans, lepers, and madmen; for one risked honor, life, and
property, or at any rate (and that we know for sure) exclusion
from the synagogue, by even letting one's self be helped by
him--come hither now, all ye that labor and are heavy laden!
Ah, my friend, even if you were deaf and blind and lame and
leprous, if you, which has never been seen or heard before,
united all human miseries in your misery--and if he wished to
help you by a miracle: it is possible that (as is human) you
would fear more than all your sufferings the punishment which
was set on accepting aid from him, the punishment of being cast
out from the society of other men, of being ridiculed and mocked,
day after day, and perhaps of losing your life. It is human
(and it is characteristic of being human) were you to think
as follows: "no, thank you, in that case I prefer to remain deaf
and blind and lame and leprous, rather than accept aid under
such conditions."

"Come hither, come hither, all, ye that labor and are heavy
laden, ah, come hither," lo! he invites you and opens his arms.
Ah, when a gentlemanly man clad in a silken gown says this in
a pleasant, harmonious voice so that the words pleasantly resound
in the handsome vaulted church, a man in silk who radiates honor
and respect on all who listen to him; ah, when a king in purple
and velvet says this, with the Christmas tree in the background
on which are hanging all the splendid gifts he intends to distribute,
why, then of course there is some meaning in these words! But
whatever meaning you may attach to them, so much is sure that
it is not Christianity, but the exact opposite, something as
diametrically opposed to Christianity as may well be; for remember
who it is that invites!

And now judge for yourself--for that you have a right to do;
whereas men really do not have a right to do what is so often
done, viz. to deceive themselves. That a man of such appearance,
a man whose company every one shuns who has the least bit of sense
in his head, or the least bit to lose in the world, that he--well,
this is the absurdest and maddest thing of all, one hardly knows
whether to laugh or to weep about it--that he--indeed, that is
the very last word one would expect to issue from his mouth; for
if he had said: "Come hither and help me," or: "Leave me alone,"
or: "Spare me," or proudly: "I despise you all," we could understand
that perfectly--but that such a man says: "Come hither to me!" why,
I declare, that looks inviting indeed! And still further: "All
ye that labor and are heavy laden"--as though such folk were
not burdened enough with troubles, as though they now, to cap
all, should be exposed to the consequences of associating with
him. And then, finally: "I shall give you rest." What's that?--he
help them? Ah, I am sure even the most good-natured joker who
was contemporary with him would have to say: "Surely, that was
the thing he should have undertaken last of all--to wish to
help others, being in that condition himself! Why, it is about
the same as if a beggar were to inform the police that he had
been robbed. For it is a contradiction that one who has nothing,
and has had nothing, informs us that he has been robbed; and
likewise, to wish to help others when one's self needs help
most." Indeed it is, humanly speaking, the most harebrained
contradiction, that he who literally "hath not where to lay
his head," that he about whom it was spoken truly, in a human
sense, "Behold the man!"--that he should say: "Come hither unto
me all ye that suffer--I shall help!"

Now examine yourself--for that you have a right to do. You have
a right to examine yourself, but you really do not have a right
to let yourself without self-examination be deluded by "the
others" into the belief, or to delude yourself into the belief,
that you are a Christian--therefore examine yourself: supposing
you were contemporary with him! True enough he--alas! he affirmed
himself to be God! But many another madman has made that claim--and
his times gave it as their opinion that he uttered blasphemy.
Why, was not that precisely the reason why a punishment was
threatened for allowing one's self to be aided by him? It was
the godly care for their souls entertained by the existing order
and by public opinion, lest any one should be led astray: it was
this godly care that led them to persecute him in this fashion.
Therefore, before any one resolves to be helped by him, let him
consider that he must not only expect the antagonism of men,
but--consider it well!--even if you could bear the consequences
of that step--but consider well, that the punishment meted out
by men is supposed to be God's punishment of him, "the blasphemer"--of
him who invites!

Come hither now all ye that labor and are heavy laden!

How now? Surely this is nothing to run after--some little pause
is given, which is most fittingly used to go around about by way
of another street. And even if you should not thus sneak out in
some way--always providing you feel yourself to be contemporary
with him--or sneak into being some kind of Christian by belonging
to Christendom: yet there will be a tremendous pause given, the
pause which is the very condition that faith may arise: you are
given pause by the possibility of being offended in him.

But in order to make it entirely clear, and bring it home to our
minds, that the pause is given by him who invites, that it is he
who gives us pause and renders it by no means an easy, but a
peculiarly difficult, matter to follow his invitation, because
one has no right to accept it without accepting also him who
invites--in order to make this entirely clear I shall briefly
review his life under two aspects which, to be sure, show some
difference though both essentially pertain to his abasement.
For it is always an abasement for God to become man, even if
he were to be an emperor of emperors; and therefore he is not
essentially more abased because he is a poor, lowly man, mocked,
and as Scripture adds,[11] spat upon.




THE FIRST PHASE OF HIS LIFE


And now let us speak about him in a homely fashion, just as
his contemporaries spoke about him, and as one speaks about
some contemporary--let him be a man of the same kind as we are,
whom one meets on the street in passing, of whom one knows where
he lives and in what story, what his business is, who his parents
are, his family, how he looks and how he dresses, with whom he
associates, "and there is nothing extraordinary about him, he
looks as men generally look"; in short, let us speak of him as
one speaks of some contemporary about whom one does not make a
great ado; for in living life together with these thousands upon
thousands of real people there is no room for a fine distinction
like this: "Possibly, this man will be remembered in centuries to
come," and "at the same time he is really only a clerk in some
shop who is no whit better than his fellows." Therefore, let us
speak about him as contemporaries speak about some contemporary.
I know very well what I am doing; and I want you to believe that
the canting and indolent world-historic habit we have of always
reverently speaking about Christ (since one has learned all about
it from history, and has heard so much about his having been
something very extraordinary, indeed, or something of that kind)--that
reverent habit, I assure you, is not worth a row of pins but
is, rather, sheer thoughtlessness, hypocrisy, and as such blasphemy;
for it is blasphemy to reverence thoughtlessly him whom one is
either to believe in or to be offended in.

It is the lowly Jesus Christ, a humble man, born of a maiden
of low degree, whose father is a carpenter. To be sure, his
appearance is made under conditions which are bound to attract
attention to him. The small nation among whom he appears, God's
Chosen People as they call themselves, live in anticipation of
a Messiah who is to bring a golden period to land and people.
You must grant that the form in which he appears is as different
as possible from what most people would have expected. On the
other hand, his appearance corresponds more to the ancient prophecies
with which the people are thought to have been familiar. Thus
he presents himself. A predecessor has called attention to him,
and he himself fastens attention very decidedly on himself by
signs and wonders which are noised abroad in all the land--and
he is the hero of the hour, surrounded by unnumbered multitudes
of people wheresoever he fares. The sensation aroused by him
is enormous, every one's eyes are fastened on him, every one
who can go about, aye even those who can only crawl, must see
the wonder--and every one must have some opinion about him,
so that the purveyors of ready-made opinions are put to it because
the demand is so furious and the contradictions so confusing.
And yet he, the worker of miracles, ever remains the humble man
who literally hath not where to lay his head.

And let us not forget: signs and wonders as contemporary events
have a markedly greater elasticity in repelling or attracting
than the tame stories generally re-hashed by the priests, or the
still tamer stories about signs and wonders that happened--1800
years ago! Signs and wonders as contemporary events are something
plaguy and importunate, something which in a highly embarrassing
manner almost compels one to have an opinion, something which,
if one does not happen to be disposed to believe, may exasperate
one excessively by thus forcing one to be contemporaneous with it.
Indeed, it renders existence too complicated, and the more so, the
more thoughtful, developed, and cultured one is. It is a peculiarly
ticklish matter, this having to assume that a man who is contemporaneous
with one really performs signs and wonders; but when he is at some
distance from one, when the consequences of his life stimulate
the imagination a bit, then it is not so hard to imagine, in a
fashion, that one believes it.

As I said, then, the people are carried away with him; they follow
him jubilantly, and see signs and wonders, both those which he
performs and those which he does not perform, and they are glad
in their hope that the golden age will begin, once he is king.
But the crowd rarely have a clear reason for their opinions, they
think one thing today and another tomorrow. Therefore the wise
and the critical will not at once participate. Let us see now
what the wise and the critical must think, so soon as the first
impression of astonishment and surprise has subsided.

The shrewd and critical man would probably say: "Even assuming
that this person is what he claims to be, that is, something
extraordinary--for as to his affirming himself to be God I can,
of course, not consider that as anything but an exaggeration for
which I willingly make allowances, and pardon him, if I really
considered him to be something extraordinary; for I am not a
pedant--assuming then, which I hesitate to do, for it is a matter
on which I shall at any rate suspend my judgment--assuming then
that he is really performing miracles: is it not an inexplicable
mystery that this person can be so foolish, so weak-minded, so
altogether devoid of worldly wisdom, so feeble, or so good-naturedly
vain, or whatever else you please to call it--that he behaves
in this fashion and almost forces his benefactions on men? Instead
of proudly and commandingly keeping people away from himself at
a distance marked by their profoundest submission, whenever he
does allow himself to be seen, at rare occasions: instead of
doing so, think of his being accessible to every one, or rather
himself going to every one, of having intercourse with everybody,
almost as if being the extraordinary person consisted in his
being everybody's servant,[12] as if the extraordinary person
he claims to be were marked by his being concerned only lest
men should fail to be benefited by him--in short as if being
an extraordinary person consisted in being the most solicitous
of all persons. The whole business is inexplicable to me--what
he wants, what his purpose is, what end he has in mind, what he
expects to accomplish; in a word, what the meaning of it all
is. He who by so many a wise saying reveals so profound an insight
into the human heart, he must certainly know what I, using but
half of my wits, can predict for him, viz. that in such fashion
one gets nowhere in the world--unless, indeed, despising prudence,
one consistently, aims to make a fool of one's self or, perchance,
goes so far in sincerity as to prefer being put to death; but
anyone, one desiring that must certainly be crazy. Having such
profound knowledge of the human heart he certainly ought to know
that the thing to do is to deceive people and then to give one's
deception the appearance of being a benefaction conferred on
the whole race. By doing so one reaps all advantages, even the
one whose enjoyment is the sweetest of all, which is, to be called
by one's contemporaries a benefactor of the human race--for, once
in your grave, you may snap your fingers at what posterity may
have to say about you. But to surrender one's self altogether,
as he does, and not to think the least of one's self--in fact,
almost to beg people to accept these benefactions: no, I would
not dream of joining his company. And, of course, neither does he
invite me; for, indeed, he invites only them that labor and
are heavy laden."

Or he would reason as follows: "His life is simply a fantastic
dream. In fact, that is the mildest expression one can use about
it; for, when judging him in this fashion, one is good-natured
enough to forget altogether the evidence of sheer madness in his
claim to be God. This is wildly fantastical. One may possibly
live a few years of one's youth in such fashion. But he is now
past thirty years. And he is literally nothing. Still further,
in a very short time he will necessarily lose all the respect
and reputation he has gained among the people, the only thing,
you may say, he has gained for himself. One who wishes to keep
in the good graces of the people--the riskiest chance imaginable,
I will admit--he must act differently. Not many months will
pass before the crowd will grow tired of one who is so altogether
at their service. He will be regarded as a ruined person, a kind
of outcast, who ought to be glad to end his days in a corner,
the world forgetting, by the world forgot; providing he does
not, by continuing his previous behavior, prefer to maintain
his present attitude and be fantastic enough to wish to be put
to death, which is the unavoidable consequence of persevering
in that course. What has he done for his future? Nothing. Has
he any assured position? No. What expectations has he? None.
Even this trifling matter: what will he do to pass the time
when he grows older, the long winter nights, what will he do
to make them pass--why, he cannot even play cards! He is now
enjoying a bit of popular favor--in truth, of all movable property
the most movable--which in a trice may turn into an enormous
popular hatred of him.--Join his company? No, thank you, I am
still, thank God, in my right mind."

Or he may reason as follows: "That there is something extraordinary
about this person--even if one reserves the right, both one's own
and that of common sense, to refrain from venturing any opinion
as to his claim of being God--about that there is really little
doubt. Rather, one might be indignant at Providence's having
entrusted such a person with these powers--a person who does
the very opposite of what he himself bids us do: that we shall
not cast our pearls before the swine; for which reason he will,
as he himself predicts, come to grief by their turning about and
trampling him under their feet. One may always expect this of
swine; but, on the other hand, one would not expect that he who
had himself called attention to this likelihood, himself would
do precisely[13] what he knows one should not do. If only there
were some means of cleverly stealing his wisdom--for I shall
gladly leave him in undisputed possession of that very peculiar
thought of his that he is God--if one could but rob his wisdom
without, at the same time, becoming his disciple! If one could
only steal up to him at night and lure it from him; for I am
more than equal to editing and publishing it, and better than
he, if you please. I undertake to astonish the whole world by
getting something altogether different out of it; for I clearly
see there is something wondrously profound in what he says, and
the misfortune is only that he is the man he is. But perhaps,
who knows, perhaps it is feasible, anyway, to fool him out of
it. Perhaps in that respect too he is good-natured and simple
enough to communicate it quite freely to me. It is not impossible;
for it seems to me that the wisdom he unquestionably possesses,
evidently has been entrusted to a fool, seeing there is so much
contradiction in his life.--But as to joining his company and
becoming his disciple--no, indeed, that would be the same as
becoming'a fool oneself." Or he might reason as follows: "If
this person does indeed mean to further what is good and true
(I do not venture to decide this), he is helpful at least, in
this respect, to youths and inexperienced people. For they will
be benefited, in this serious life of ours, by learning, the
sooner the better, and very thoroughly--he opens the eyes even
of the blindest to this--that all this pretense of wishing to
live only for goodness and truth contains a considerable admixture
of the ridiculous. He proves how right the poets of our times
are when they let truth and goodness be represented by some
half-witted fellow, one who is so stupid that you can knock
down a wall with him. The idea of exerting one's self, as this
man does, of renouncing everything but pains and trouble, to be
at beck and call all day long, more eager than the busiest family
physician--and pray why? Because he makes a living by it? No, not
in the very least; it has never occurred to him, as far as I
can see, to want something in return. Does he earn any money by
it? No, not a red cent--he has not a red cent to his name, and
if he did he would forthwith give it away. Does he, then, aspire
to a position of honor and dignity in the state? On the contrary,
he loathes all worldly honor. And he who, as I said, condemns
all worldly honor, and practices the art of living on nothing;
he who, if any one, seems best fitted to pass his life in a most
comfortable _dolce far niente_--which is not such a bad thing--:
he lives under a greater strain than any government official who
is rewarded by honor and dignity, lives under a greater strain
than any business man who earns money like sand. Why does he
exert himself thus, or (why this question about a matter not
open to question?) why should any one exert himself thus--in
order to attain to the happiness of being ridiculed, mocked,
and so forth? To be sure, a peculiar kind of pleasure! That one
should push one's way through a crowd to reach the spot where
money, honor, and glory are distributed--why, that is perfectly
understandable; but to push forward to be whipped: how exalted,
how Christian, how stupid!"

Or he will reason as follows: "One hears so many rash opinions
about this person from people who understand nothing--and worship
him; and so many severe condemnations of him by those who, perhaps,
misunderstand him after all. As for me, I am not going to allow
myself to be accused of venturing a hasty opinion. I shall keep
entirely cool and calm; in fact, which counts for still more, I
am conscious of being as reasonable and moderate with him as is
possible. Grant now--which, to be sure. I do only to a certain
extent--grant even that one's reason is impressed by this person.
What, then, is my opinion about him? My opinion is, that for the
present, I can form no opinion about him. I do not mean about his
claim of being God; for about that I can never in all eternity
have an opinion. No, I mean about him as a man. Only by the
consequences of his life shall we be able to decide whether
he was an extraordinary person or whether, deceived by his imagination,
he applied too high a standard, not only to himself, but also to
humanity in general. More I cannot do for him, try as I may--if
he were my only friend, my own child, I could not judge him more
leniently, nor differently, either. It follows from this, to be
sure, that in all probability, and for good reasons, I shall
not ever be able to have any opinion about him. For in order to
be able to form an opinion I must first see the consequences of
his life, including his very last moments; that is, he must be
dead. Then, and perhaps not even then, may I form an opinion of
him. And even granting this, it is not really an opinion about
him, for he is then no more. No more is needed to say why it is
impossible for me to join him while he is living. The authority
he is said to show in his teaching can have no decisive influence
in my case; for it is surely easy to see that his thought moves
in a circle. He quotes as authority that which he is to prove,
which in its turn can be proved only by the consequences of his
life; provided, of course, it is not connected with that fixed
idea of his about being God, because if it is therefore he has
this authority (because he is God) the answer must be: yes--if!
So much, however, I may admit, that if I could imagine myself
self living in some later age, and if the consequences of his
life as shown in history had made it plain that he was the extraordinary
person he in a former age claimed to be, then it might very well
be--in fact, I might come very near, becoming his disciple."

An ecclesiastic would reason as follows: "For an impostor and
demagogue he has, to say the truth, a remarkable air of honesty
about him; for which reason he cannot be so absolutely dangerous,
either, even though the situation looks dangerous enough while
the squall is at its height, and even though the situation looks
dangerous enough with his enormous popularity--until the squall
has passed over and the people--yes, precisely the people--overthrow
him again. The honest thing about him is his claim to be the
Messiah when he resembles him so little as he does. That is honest,
just as if some one in preparing bogus paper-money made the bills
so poorly that every one who knows the least about it cannot fail
to detect the fraud.--True enough, we all look forward to a
Messiah, but surely no one with any sense expects God himself
to come, and every religious person shudders at the blasphemous
attitude of this person. We look forward to a Messiah, we are all
agreed on that. But the governance of the world does not go forward
tumultuously, by leaps and bounds; the development of the world,
as is indicated by the very fact that it is a development, proceeds
by evolution, not by revolution. The true Messiah will therefore
look quite different, and will arrive as the most glorious flower,
and the highest development, of that which already exists. Thus
will the true Messiah come, and he will proceed in an entirely
different fashion: he will recognize the existing order as the
basis of things, he will summon all the clergy to council and
present to them the results accomplished by him, as well as his
credentials--and then, if he obtain the majority of the votes
when the ballot is cast, he will be received and saluted as the
extraordinary person, as the one he is: the Messiah.[14]

"However, there is a duplicity in this man's behavior; he assumes
too much the role of judge. It seems as if he wished to be, at
one and the same time, both the judge who passes sentence on the
existing order of things, and the Messiah. If he does not wish
to play the role of the judge, then why his absolute isolation,
his keeping at a distance from all which has to do with the
existing order of things? And if he does not wish to be the
judge, then why his fantastic flight from reality to join the
ignorant crowd, then why with the haughtiness of a revolutionary
does he despise all the intelligence and efficiency to be found
in the existing order of things? And why does he begin afresh
altogether, and absolutely from the bottom up, by the help of--fishermen
and artisans? May not the fact that he is an illegitimate child
fitly characterize his entire relation to the existing order
of things? On the other hand, if he wishes to be only the Messiah,
why then his warning about putting a piece of new cloth unto an
old garment.[15] For these words are precisely the watchwords
of every revolution since they are expressive of a person's
discontent with the existing order and of his wish to destroy
it. That is, these words reveal his desire to remove existing
conditions, rather than to build on them and better them, if
one is a reformer, or to develop them to their highest possibility,
if one is indeed the Messiah. This is duplicity. In fact, it is
not feasible to be both judge and Messiah. Such duplicity will
surely result in his downfall.[16] The climax in the life of a
judge is his death by violence, and so the poet pictures it
correctly; but the climax in the life of the Messiah cannot
possibly be his death. Or else, by that very fact, he would
not be the Messiah, that is, he whom the existing order expects
in order to deify him. This duplicity has not as yet been recognized
by the people, who see in him their Messiah; but the existing
order of things cannot by any manner of means recognize him as
such. The people, the idle and loafing crowd, can do so only
because they represent nothing less than the existing order
of things. But as soon as the duplicity becomes evident to them,
his doom is sealed. Why, in this respect his predecessor was
a far more definitely marked personality, for he was but one
thing, the judge. But what confusion and thoughtlessness, to wish
to be both, and what still worse confusion, to acknowledge his
predecessor as the judge--that is, in other words, precisely to
make the existing order of things receptive and ripe for the
Messiah who is to come after the judge, and yet not wish to
associate himself with the existing order of things!"

And the philosopher would reason as follows: "Such dreadful
or, rather, insane vanity, that a single individual claims to
be God, is a thing hitherto unheard of. Never before have we
been witness to such an excess of pure subjectivity and sheer
negation. He has no doctrines, no system of philosophy, he knows
really nothing, he simply keeps on repeating, and making variations
on, some unconnected aphoristic sentences, some few maxims, and
a couple of parables by which he dazzles the crowd for whom he
also performs signs and wonders; so that they, instead of learning
something, or being improved, come to believe in one who in a
most brazen way constantly forces his subjective views on us.
There is nothing objective or positive whatever in him and in
what he says. Indeed, from a philosophical point of view, he
does not need to fear destruction for he has perished already,
since it is inherent in the nature of subjectivity to perish.
One may in all fairness admit that his subjectivity is remarkable
and that, be it as it may with the other miracles, he constantly
repeats his miracle with the five small loaves,[17] viz., by
means of a few lyric utterances and some aphorisms he rouses
the whole country. But even if one were inclined to overlook
his insane notion of affirming himself to be God, it is an
incomprehensible mistake, which, to be sure, demonstrates a
lack of philosophic training, to believe that God could reveal
himself in the form of an individual. The race, the universal,
the total, is God; but the race surely is not an individual!
Generally speaking, that is the impudent assumption of subjectivity,
which claims that the individual is something extraordinary.
But sheer insanity is shown in the claim of an individual to
be God. Because if the insane thing were possible, viz. that
an individual might be God, why, then this individual would
have to be worshipped, and a more beastly philosophic stupidity
is not conceivable."

The astute statesman would reason as follows: "That at present
this person wields great power is undeniable--entirely disregarding,
of course, this notion of his that he is God. Foibles like these,
being idiosyncrasies, do not count against a man and concern no
one, least of all a statesman. A statesman is concerned only
with what power a man wields; and that he does wield great power
cannot, as I have remarked, be denied. But what he intends to do,
what his aim is, I cannot make out at all. If this be calculation
it must be of an entirely new and peculiar order, not so altogether
unlike what is otherwise called madness. He possesses points of
considerable strength; but he seems to defeat, rather than to
use, it; he expends it without himself getting any returns. I
consider him a phenomenon with which--as ought to be one's rule
with all phenomena--a wise man should not have anything to do,
since it is impossible to calculate him or the catastrophe threatening
his life. It is possible that he will be made king. It is possible,
I say; but it is not impossible, or rather, it is just as possible,
that he may end on the gallows. He lacks earnestness in all his
endeavors. With all his enormous stretch of wings he only hovers
and gets nowhere. He does not seem to have any definite plan of
procedure, but just hovers. Is it for his nationality he is fighting,
or does he aim at a communistic revolution? Does he wish to establish
a republic or a kingdom? With which party does he affiliate
himself to combat which party, or does he wish to fight all
parties?

"I have anything to do with him?--No, that would be the very
last thing to enter my mind. In fact, I take all possible precautions
to avoid him. I keep quiet, undertake nothing, act as if I did
not exist; for one cannot even calculate how he might interfere
with one's undertakings, be they ever so unimportant, or at any
rate, how one might become involved in the vortex of his activities.
Dangerous, in a certain sense enormously dangerous, is this
man. But I calculate that I may ensnare him precisely by doing
nothing. For overthrown he must be. And this is done most; safely
by letting him do it himself, by letting him stumble over himself.
I have, at least at this moment, not sufficient power to bring
about his fall; in fact, I know no one who has. To undertake the
least thing against him now, means to be crushed one's self. No,
my plan is constantly to exert only negative resistance to him,
that is, to do nothing, and he will probably involve himself
in the enormous consequences he draws after him, till in the
end he will tread on his own train, as it were, and thus fall."

And the steady citizen would reason as follows (which would
then become the opinion of his family): "Now, let us be human,
everything is good when done in moderation, too little and too
much spoil everything, and as a French saying has it which I
once heard a traveling salesman use: every power which exceeds
itself comes to a fall--and as to this person, his fall is certainly
sure enough. I have earnestly spoken to my son and warned and
admonished him not to drift into evil ways and join that person.
And why? Because all people are running after him. That is to
say, what sort of people? Idlers and loafers, street-walkers and
tramps, who run after everything. But mightily few of the men
who have house and property, and nobody who is wise and respected,
none after whom I set my clock, neither councillor Johnson, nor
senator Anderson, nor the wealthy broker Nelson--oh no! they
know what's what. And as to the ministry who ought to know most
about such matters--ah, they will have none of him. What was it
pastor Green said in the club the other evening? 'That man will
yet come to a terrible end,' he said. And Green, he can do more
than preach, you oughtn't to hear him Sundays in church so much
as Mondays in the club--I just wished I had half his knowledge
of affairs! He said quite correctly, and as if spoken out of
my own heart: 'Only idlers and loafers are running after that
man.' And why do they run after him? Because he performs some
miracles. But who is sure they are miracles, or that he can
confer the same power on his disciples? And, in any case, a
miracle is something mightily uncertain, whereas the certain
is the certain. Every serious father who has grown-up children
must be truly alarmed lest his sons be seduced and join that
man together with the desperate characters who follow him--desperate
characters who have nothing to lose. And even these, how does
he help them? Why, one must be mad to wish to be helped in this
fashion. Even the poorest beggar is brought to a worse estate
than his former one, is brought to a pass he could have escaped
by remaining what he was, that is, a beggar and no more."

And the mocker, not the one hated on account of his malice, but
the one who is admired for his wit and liked for his good nature,
he would reason as follows: "It is, after all, a rich idea which
is going to prove useful to all of us, that an individual who
is in no wise different from us claims to be God. If that is
not being a benefactor of the race then I don't know what charity
and beneficence are. If we assume that the characteristic of
being God--well, who in all the world would have hit on that
idea? How true that such an idea could not have entered into
the heart of man[18]--but if we assume that it consists in looking
in no wise different from the rest of us, and in nothing else:
why, then we are all gods. Q. E. D. Three cheers for him, the
inventor of a discovery so extraordinarily important for mankind!
Tomorrow I, the undersigned, shall proclaim that I am God, and
the discoverer at least will not be able to contradict me without
contradicting himself. At night all cats are gray; and if to
be God consists in looking like the rest of us, absolutely and
altogether like the rest of mankind: why, then it is night and
we all are..., or what is it I wanted to say: we all are God,
every one of us, and no one has a right to say he isn't as well
off as his neighbor. This is the most ridiculous situation imaginable,
the contradiction here being the greatest imaginable, and a
contradiction always making for a comical effect. But this is
in no wise my discovery, but solely that of the discoverer:
this idea that a man of exactly the same appearance as the rest
of us, only not half so well dressed as the average man, that
is, a poorly dressed person who, rather than being God, seems
to invite the attention of the society for the relief of the
poor--that he is God! I am only sorry for the director of the
charitable society that he will not get a raise from this general
advancement of the human race but that he will, rather, lose
his job on account of this, etc."

Ah, my friend, I know well what I am doing, I know my responsibility,
and my soul is altogether assured of the correctness of my procedure.
Now then, imagine yourself a contemporary of him who invites.
Imagine yourself to be a sufferer, but consider well to what you
expose yourself in becoming his disciple and following him. You
expose yourself to losing practically everything in the eyes of
all wise and sensible and respected men. He who invites demands
of you that you surrender all, give up everything; but the common
sense of your own times and of your contemporaries will not give
you up, but will judge that to join him is madness. And mockery
will descend cruelly upon you; for while it will almost spare him,
out of compassion, you will be thought madder than a march-hare
for becoming his disciple. People will say: "That h e is a wrong-headed
enthusiast, that can't be helped. Well and good; but to become--in
all seriousness--his disciple, that is the greatest piece of
madness imaginable. There surely is but one possibility of being
madder than a madman, which is the higher madness of joining
a madman in all seriousness and regarding him as a sage."

Do not say that the whole presentation above is exaggerated.
Ah, you know (but, possibly, have not fully realized it) that
among all the respectable men, among all the enlightened and
sensible men, there was but one--though it is easily possible
that one or the other of them, impelled by curiosity, entered
into conversation with him--that there was but one among them
who sought him in all seriousness.[19] And he came to him--in
the night! And as you know, in the night one walks on forbidden
paths, one chooses the night to go to places of which one does
not like to be known as a frequenter. Consider the opinion of
the inviter implied in this--it was a disgrace to visit him,
something no man of honor could afford to do, as little as to
pay a nightly visit to--but no, I do not care to say in so many
words what would follow this "as little as."

Come hither to me now all ye that labor and are heavy laden,
and I will give you rest.




THE SECOND PHASE OF HIS LIFE


His end was what all the wise and the sensible, the statesmen and
the citizens and the mockers, etc., predicted it would be. And as
was later spoken to him, in a moment when, it would seem, the
most hardened ought to have been moved to sympathy, and the very
stones to tears: "He saved others; let him save himself,[20]"
and as it has been repeated thousands upon thousands of times,
by thousands upon thousands: "What was it he spoke of before,
saying his hour was not yet come[21]--is it come now, perchance?"--It
has been repeated, alas, the while the single individual, the
believer, shudders whenever considering--while yet unable to
refrain from gazing into the depth of what to men is a meaningless
absurdity--shudders when considering that God in human guise,
that his divine teaching, that these signs and wonders which
might have made a very Sodom and Gomorrha reform its ways, in
reality produced the exact opposite, and caused the teacher
to be shunned, hated, despised.

Who he is, one can recognize more easily now when the powerful
ones and the respected ones, and all the precautionary measures
of those upholding the existing order, have corrected any wrong
conception one might have entertained about him at first--now
when the people have lost their patience to wait for a Messiah,
seeing that his life, instead of rising in dignity, lapsed into
ever greater degradation. Who, pray, does not recognize that a
man is judged according to the society in which he moves--and
now, think of his society! Indeed, his society one might well
designate as equivalent to being expelled from "human society";
for his society are the lowest classes of the people, with sinners
and publicans among them, people whom everybody with the slightest
self-respect shuns for the sake of his good name and reputation--and
a good name and reputation surely are about the least one can
wish to preserve. In his company there are, furthermore, lepers
whom every one flees, madmen who can only inspire terror, invalids
and wretches--squalor and misery. Who, then, is this person
that, though followed by such a company, still is the object
of the persecution of the mighty ones? He is one despised as
a seducer of men, an impostor, a blasphemer! And if any one
enjoying a good reputation refrains from expressing contempt
of him, it is really only a kind of compassion; for to fear
him is, to be sure, something different.

Such, then, is his appearance; for take care not to be influenced
by anything that you may have learned after the event--as, how
his exalted spirit, with an almost divine majesty, never was
so markedly manifest as just them. Ah, my friend, if you were
the contemporary of one who is not only himself "excluded from
the synagogue" but, as you will remember, whose very help meant
being "excluded from the synagogue"--I say, if you were the
contemporary of an outcast, who in every respect answers to
that term, (for everything has two sides): then you will scarcely
be the man to explain all this in terms directly contrary to
appearances;[22] or, which is the same thing, you will not be
the "single individual" which, as you well know, no one wants
to be, and to be which is regarded as a ridiculous oddity, perhaps
even as a crime.

And now--for they are his society chiefly--as to his apostles!
What absurdity; though not--what new absurdity, for it is quite
in keeping with the rest--his apostles are some fishermen, ignorant
people who but the other day followed their trade. And tomorrow,
to pile one absurdity on the other, they are to go out into the
wide world and transform its aspect. And it is he who claims to
be God, and these are his duly appointed apostles! Now, is he to
make his apostles respected, or are perhaps the apostles to make
him respected? Is he, the inviter, is he an absurd dreamer?
Indeed, his procession would make it seem so; no poet could
have hit on a better idea. A teacher, a sage, or whatever you
please to call him, a kind of stranded genius, who affirms himself
to be God--surrounded by a jubilant mob, himself accompanied by
some publicans, criminals, and lepers; nearest to him a chosen
few, his apostles. And these judges so excellently competent as
to what truth is, these fishermen, tailors, and shoe-makers,
they do not only admire him, their teacher and master, whose
every word is wisdom and truth: they do not only see what no
one else can see, his exaltedness and holiness, nay, but they
see God in him and worship him. Certainly, no poet could invent
a better situation, and it is doubtful if the poet would not
forget the additional item that this same person is feared by
the mighty ones and that they are scheming to destroy him. His
death alone can reassure and satisfy them. They have set an
ignominious punishment on joining his company, on merely accepting
aid from him; and yet they do not feel secure, and cannot feel
altogether reassured that the whole thing is mere wrong-headed
enthusiasm and absurdity. Thus the mighty ones. The populace
who had Idolized him, the populace have pretty nearly given
him up, only in moments does their old conception of him blaze
forth again. In all his existence there is not a shred the most
envious of the envious might envy him to have. Nor do the mighty
ones envy his life. They demand his death for safety's sake, so
that they may have peace again, when all has returned to the
accustomed ways, peace having been made still more secure by
the warning example of his death.


These are the two phases of his life. It began with the people's
idolizing him, whereas all who were identified with the existing
order of things, all who had power and influence, vengefully,
but in a cowardly and hidden manner, laid their snares for him--in
which he was caught, then? Yes, but he perceived it well. Finally
the people discover that they had been deceived in him, that
the fulfillment he would bring them answered least of all to
their expectations of wonders and mountains of gold. So the
people deserted him and the mighty ones drew the snare about
him--in which he was caught, then? Yes, but he perceived it
well. The mighty ones drew the snare together about him--and
thereupon the people, who then saw themselves completely deceived,
turned against him in hatred and rage.

And--to include that too--compassion would say; or, among the
compassionate ones--for compassion is sociable, and likes to
assemble together, and you will find spitefulness and envy keeping
company with whining soft-headedness: since, as a heathen philosopher
observed long ago, no one is so ready to sympathize as an envious
person--among the compassionate ones the verdict would be: it is
really too bad that this good-hearted fellow is to come to such
an end. For he was really a good sort of fellow. Granting it was
an exaggeration to claim to be God, he really was good to the
poor and the needy, even if in an odd manner, by becoming one of
them and going about in the company of beggars. But there is
something touching in it all, and one can't help but feel sorry
for the poor fellow who is to suffer such a miserable death.
For you may say what you will, and condemn him as strongly as
you will, I cannot help feeling pity for him. I am not so heard-hearted
as not to feel compassion.

We have arrived at the last phase, not of Sacred History, as
handed down by the apostles and disciples who believed in Christ,
but of profane history, its counterpart.

Come hither now, all ye that labor and are heavy laden; that is,
if you feel the need, even if you are of all sufferers the most
miserable--if you feel the need of being helped in this fashion,
that is, to fall into still greater suffering, then come hither,
he will help you.




III




THE INVITATION AND THE INVITER


Let us forget for a little while what, in the strictest sense,
constitutes the "offense"; which is, that the inviter claims
to be God. Let us assume that he did not claim to be more than
a man, and let us then consider the inviter and his invitation.


The invitation is surely inviting enough. How, then, shall one
explain the bad relation which did exist, this terribly wrong
relation, that no one, or practically no one, accepted the invitation;
that, on the contrary, all, or practically all--alas! and was
it not precisely all who were invited?--that practically all
were at one in offering resistance to the inviter, in wishing
to put him to death, and in setting a punishment on accepting
aid from him? Should one not expect that after an invitation
such as he issued all, all who suffered, would come crowding
to him, and that all they who were not suffering would crowd
to him, touched by the thought of such compassion and mercy,
and that thus the whole race would be at one in admiring and
extolling the inviter? How is the opposite to be explained?
For that this was the outcome is certain enough; and the fact
that it all happened in those remote times is surely no proof
that the generation then living was worse than other generations!
How could any one be so thoughtless as to believe that? For
whoever gives any thought to the matter will easily see that
it happened in that generation only because they chanced to
be contemporaneous with him. How then explain that it happened--that
all came to that terribly wrong end, so opposite to what ought
to have been expected?

Well, in the first place, if the inviter had looked the figure
which purely human compassion would have him be; and, in the
second place, if he had entertained the purely human conception
of what constitutes man's misery--why, then it would probably
not have happened.

In the first place: According to this human conception of him
he should have been a most generous and sympathetic person, and
at the same time possessed of all qualifications requisite for
being able to help in all troubles of this world, ennobling the
help thus extended by a profound and heartfelt human compassion.
Withal (so they would imagine him) he should also have been a
man of some distinction and not without a certain amount of
human self-assertion--the consequence of which would be, however,
that he would neither have been able, in his compassion, to
reach down to all sufferers, nor yet to have comprehended fully
what constitutes the misery of man and of mankind.

But divine compassion, the infinite unconcern which takes thought
only of those that suffer, and not in the least of one's self,
and which with absolute unconcern takes thought of all that suffer:
that will always seem to men only a kind of madness, and they will
ever be puzzled whether to laugh or to weep about it. Even if
nothing else had militated against the inviter, this alone would
have been sufficient to make his lot hard in the world.

Let a man but try a little while to practice divine compassion,
that is, to be somewhat unconcerned in his compassion, and you
will at once perceive what the opinion of mankind would be.
For example: let one who could occupy some higher rank in society,
let him not (preserving all the while the distinction of his
position) lavishly give to the poor, and philanthropically (i.e.
in a superior fashion) visit the poor and the sick and the wretched--no,
let him give up altogether the distinction of his position and
in all earnest choose the company of the poor and the lowly,
let him live altogether with the people, with workmen, hodmen,
mortar-mixers, and the like! Ah, in a quiet moment, when not
actually beholding him, most of us will be moved to tears by
the mere thought of it; but no sooner would they see him in
this company--him who might have attained to honor and dignity
in the world--see him walking along in such goodly company,
with a bricklayer's apprentice on his right side and a cobbler's
boy on his left, but--well, what then? First they would devise
a thousand explanations to explain that it is because of queer
notions, or obstinacy, or pride, or vanity that he chooses this
mode of life. And even if they would refrain from attributing
to him these evil motives they will never be reconciled with
the sight of him--in this company. The noblest person in the
world will be tempted to laugh, the moment he sees it.

And if all the clergymen in the world, whether in velvet or
in silk or in broadcloth or in satin, contradicted me I would
say: "You lie, you only deceive people with your Sunday sermons.
Because it will always be possible for a contemporary to say
about one so compassionate (who, it is to be kept in mind, is
our contemporary): I believe he is actuated by vanity, and
that is why I laugh and mock at him; but if he were truly compassionate,
or had I been contemporary with him, the noble one--why then!"
And now, as to those exalted ones "who were not understood by
men"--to speak in the fashion of the usual run of sermons--why,
sure enough, they are dead. In this fashion these people succeed
in playing hide and seek. You simply assume that every contemporary
who ventures out so far is actuated only by vanity; and as to
the departed, you assume that they are dead and that they, therefore,
were among the glorious ones.

It must be remembered, to be sure, that every person wishes
to maintain his own level in life, and this fixed point, this
steady endeavor, is one of the causes which limit human compassion
to a certain sphere. The cheese-monger will think that to live
like the inmate of a poorhouse is going too far in expressing
one's sympathy; for the sympathy of the cheese-monger is biased
in one regard which is, his regard of the opinion of other cheese-mongers
and of the saloon-keepers. His compassion is therefore not without
its limitations. And thus with every class--and the journalists,
living as they do on the pennies of the poor, under the pretense
of asserting and defending their rights, they would be the first
to heap ridicule on this unlimited compassion.

To identify one's self wholly and literally with him who is
most miserable (and this, only this, is divine compassion),
that is to men the "too much" by which one is moved to tears,
in a quiet Sunday hour, and about which one unconsciously bursts
into laughter when one sees it in reality. The fact is, it is
too exalted a sight for daily use; one must have it at some
distance to be able to support it. Men are not so familiar with
exalted virtue to believe it at once. The contradiction seen
here is, therefore, that this exalted virtue manifests itself
in--reality, in daily life, quite literally the daily life.
When the poet or the orator illustrates this exalted virtue,
that is, pictures it in a poetical distance from real life,
men are moved; but to see this exalted virtue in reality, the
reality of daily life, here in Copenhagen, on the Market Square,
in the midst of busy every-day life--! And when the poet or
the orator does touch people it is only for a short time, and
just so long are men able to believe, almost, in this exalted
virtue. But to see it in real life every day--! To be sure,
there is an enormous contradiction in the statement that the
most exalted of all has become the most every-day occurrence!

Insofar, then, it was certain in advance what would be the inviter's
fate, even if nothing else had contributed to his doom. The
absolute,[23] or all which makes for an absolute standard, becomes
by that very fact the victim. For men are willing enough to
practice sympathy and self-denial, are willing enough to strive
for wisdom, etc.; but they wish themselves to determine the
standard and to have that read: "to a certain degree." They do
not wish to do away with all these splendid virtues. On the
contrary, they want--at a bargain and in all comfort--to have
the appearance and the name of practicing them. Truly divine
compassion is therefore necessarily the victim so soon as it
shows itself in this world. It descends on earth out of compassion
for mankind, and yet it is mankind who trample upon it. And
whilst it is wandering about among them, scarcely even the sufferer
dares to flee to it, for fear of mankind. The fact is, it is
most important for the world to keep up the appearance of being
compassionate; but this it made out by divine compassion to
be a falsehood--and therefore: away with divine compassion!

But now the inviter represented precisely this divine compassion--and
therefore he was sacrificed, and therefore even those that suffered
fled from him; for they comprehended (and, humanly speaking, very
exactly), what is true of most human infirmities, that one is better
off to remain what one is than to be helped by him.

In the second place: the inviter likewise had an other, and
altogether different, conception than the purely human one as
to what constitutes man's misery. And in this sense only he
was intent on helping; for he had with him neither money, nor
medicine, nor anything else of this kind.

Indeed, the inviter's appearance is so altogether different
from what human compassion wold imagine it that he is a downright
offense to men. In a purely human sense there is something positively
cruel--something outrageous, something so exasperating as to make
one wish to kill that person--in the fact of his inviting to
him the poor and the sick and the suffering, and then not being
able to do anything for them, except to promise them remission
of their sins. "Let us be human, man is no spirit. And when a
person is about to die of starvation and you say to him: I promise
you the gracious remission of your sins--that is revolting cruelty.
In fact it is ridiculous, though too serious a matter to laugh about."

Well (for in quoting these sentiments I wish merely to let offended
man discover the contradiction and exaggerate it--it is not I who
wish to exaggerate), well then, the real intention of the inviter
was to point out that sin is the destruction of mankind. Behold
now, that makes room, as the invitation also made room, almost
as if he had said _procul, o procul este profani_, or as if,
even though he had not said it, a voice had been heard which
thus interpreted the "come hither" of the invitation. There
surely are not many sufferers who will follow the invitation.
And even if there were one who, although aware that from this
inviter no actual wordily help was to be expected, nevertheless
had sought refuge with him, touched by his compassion: now even
he will flee from him. For is it not almost a bit of sharp practice
to profess to be here out of compassion, and then to speak about sin?

Indeed, it is a piece of cunning, unless you are altogether
certain that you are a sinner. If it is tooth-ache which bothers
you, or if your house is burned to the ground, but if it has
escaped you that you are a sinner--why, then it was cunning on
his part. It is a bit of sharp practice of him to assert: "I
heal all manner of disease," in order to say, when one approaches
him: "the fact is, I recognize only one disease, which is sin--of
that I shall cure all them 'that labor and are heavy laden,' all
them that labor to work themselves free of the power of sin, that
labor to resist the evil, and to vanquish their weakness, but
succeed only in being laden." Of this malady he cures "all"
persons; even if there were but a single one who turned to him
because of this malady: he heals all persons. But to come to
him on account of any other disease, and only because of that,
is about as useful as to look up an eye-doctor when you have
fractured your leg.




CHRISTIANITY AS THE ABSOLUTE; CONTEMPORANEOUSNESS WITH CHRIST


With its invitation to all "that labor and are heavy laden" Christianity
has entered the world, not--as the clergy whimperingly and falsely
introduce it--as a shining paragon of mild grounds of consolation;
but as the absolute. God wills it so because of His love, but it
is God who wills it, and He wills it as He wills it. He does not
choose to have His nature changed by man and become a nice, that
is to say, humane, God; but He chooses to change the nature
of man because of His love for them. Neither does He care to
hear any human impertinence concerning the why and wherefore
of Christianity, and why it entered the world: it is, and is
to be, the absolute. Therefore all the relative explanations
which may have been ventured as to its why and wherefore are
entirely beside the point. Possibly, these explanations were
suggested by a kind of human compassion which believes it necessary
to haggle a bit--God very likely does not know the nature of
man very well, His demands are a bit exorbitant, and therefore
the clergymen must haggle and beat Him down a bit.[24] Maybe
the clergy hit upon that idea in order to stand well with men
and reap some advantage from preaching the gospel; for if its
demands are reduced to the purely human, to the demands which
arise in man's heart, why, then men will of course think well
of it, and of course also of the amiable preacher who knows
how to make Christianity so mild--if the Apostles had been able
to do that the world would have esteemed them highly also in
their time. However, all this is the absolute. But what is it
good for, then--is it not a downright torment? Why, yes, you
may say so: from the standpoint of the relative, the absolute
is the greatest torment. In his dull, languid, sluggish moments,
when man is dominated by his sensual nature, Christianity is
an absurdity to him since it is not commensurable with any definite
"wherefore?" But of what use is it, then? Answer: peace! it is
the absolute. And thus it must be represented; that is, in a
fashion which makes it appear as an absurdity to the sensual
nature of man. And therefore is it, ah, so true and, in still
another sense, so true when the worldly-wise man who is contemporaneous
with Christ condemns him with the words: "he is literally nothing"--quite
true, for he is the absolute. And, being absolute, Christianity
has come in the world, not as a consolation in the human sense:
in fact, quite on the contrary, it is ever reminding one how
the Christian must suffer in order to become, or to remain, a
Christian--sufferings which he may, if you please, escape by
not electing to be a Christian.

There is, indeed, an unbridgeable gulf fixed between God and
man. It therefore became plain to those contemporary with Christ
that the process of becoming a Christian (that is, being changed
into the likeness of God) is, in a human sense, a greater torment
and wretchedness and pain than the greatest conceivable human
suffering, and moreover a crime in the eyes of one's contemporaries.
And thus will it always be; that is, if becoming a Christian in
reality means becoming contemporaneous with Christ. And if becoming
a Christian does not have that meaning, then all your chatter
about becoming a Christian is a vanity, a delusion and a snare,
and likewise a blasphemy and a sin against the Holy Ghost.

For with regard to the absolute there is but one time, viz. the
present. He who is not contemporaneous with the absolute, for
him it does not exist at all. And since Christ is the absolute,
it is evident that in respect of him there is but one situation:
contemporaneousness. The three, or seven, or fifteen, or seventeen,
or eighteen hundred years which have elapsed since his death do
not make the least difference, one way or the other. They neither
change him nor reveal, either, who he was; for his real nature
is revealed only to faith.

Christ, let me say so with the utmost seriousness, is not an
actor; neither is he a merely historical personage since, being
the paradox, he is an extremely unhistorical personage. But
precisely this is the difference between poetry and reality:
contemporaneousness.[25] The difference between poetry and history
is no doubt this, that history is what has really happened, and
poetry, what is possible, the action which is supposed to have
taken place, the life which has taken form in the poet's imagination.
But that which really happened (the past) is not necessarily
reality, except in a certain sense, viz., in contrast with poetry.
There is still lacking in it the criterion of truth (as inwardness)
and of all religion, there is still lacking the criterion: the
truth FOR YOU. That which is past is not a reality--for me,
but only my time is. That which you are contemporaneous with,
that is reality--for you. Thus every person has the choice to
be contemporaneous with the age in which he is living--and also
with one other period, with that of Christ's life here on earth;
for Christ's life on earth, or Sacred History, stands by itself,
outside of history.

History you may read and hear about as a matter of the past.
Within its realm you can, if you so care, judge actions by their
results. But in Christ's life here on earth there is nothing
past. It did not wait for the assistance of any subsequent results
in its own time, 1800 years ago; neither does it now. Historic
Christianity is sheer moonshine and un-Christian muddle-headedness.
For those true Christians who in every generation live a life
contemporaneous with that of Christ have nothing whatsoever to
do with Christians of the preceding generation, but all the
more with their contemporary, Christ. His life here on earth
attends every generation, and every generation severally, as
Sacred History; his life on earth is eternal contemporaneousness.
For this reason all learned lecturing about Christianity, which
has its haunt and hiding-place in the assumption that Christianity
is something which belongs to the past and to the 1800 years of
history, this lecturing is the most un-Christian of heresies,
as every one would readily recognize if he but tried to imagine
the generation contemporaneous with Christ as--lecturing! No,
we must ever keep in mind that every generation (of the faithful)
is contemporaneous with him.

If you cannot master yourself so as to make yourself contemporaneous
with him and thus become a Christian; or if he cannot, as your
contemporary, draw you to himself, then you will never be a
Christian. You may, if you please, honor, praise, thank, and
with all worldly goods reward, him who deludes you into thinking
that you are a Christian; nevertheless--he deceives you. You
may count yourself happy that you were not contemporaneous with
one who dared to assert this; or you may be exasperated to madness
by the torment, like that of the "gadfly,[26]" of being contemporaneous
with one who says this to your face: in the first case you are
deceived, whereas in the second you have at least had a chance
to hear the truth.

If you cannot bear this contemporaneousness, and not bear to see
this sight in reality--if you cannot prevail upon yourself to go
out into the street--and behold! it is God in that loathsome
procession; and if you cannot bear to think that this will be
your condition also if you kneel and worship him: then you are
not essentially a Christian. In that case, what you will have
to do is to admit the fact unconditionally to yourself, so that
you may, above all, preserve humility, and fear and trembling,
when contemplating what it means really to be a Christian. For
that way you must proceed, in order to learn and to practice
how to flee to grace, so that you will not seek it in vain; but
do not, for God's sake, go to any one to be "consoled." For to
be sure it is written: "blessed are the eyes which see the things
that ye see,[27]" which word the priests have on the tips of
their tongues--curiously enough; at times, perhaps, even to
defend a worldly finery which, if contemporary with Christ,
would be rather incongruous--as if these words had not been
said solely about those contemporaries of his who believed.
If his exaltation had been evident to the eyes so that every
one without any trouble could have beheld it, why then it would
be incorrect to say that Christ abased himself and assumed the
guise of a servant, and it would be superfluous to warn against
being offended in him; for why in the world should one take
offense in an exalted one arrayed in glory? And how in the world
will you explain it that Christ fared so ill and that everybody
failed to rush up admiringly to behold what was so plain? Ah no,
"he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him,
there is no beauty that we should desire him" (Isaiah 53, 2[28]);
and there was to all appearances nothing remarkable about him
who in lowly guise, and by performing signs and wonders, constantly
presented the possibility of offense, who claimed to be God--in
lowly guise; which therefore expresses: in the first place,
what God means by compassion, and by one's self needing to be
humble and poor if one wishes to be compassionate; and in the
second place, what God means by the misery of mankind. Which,
again, in both instances is extremely different from what men
mean by these things and which every generation, to the end
of time, has to learn over again from the beginning, and beginning
in every respect at the same point where those who were contemporary
with Christ had to start; that is, to practice these things
as contemporaries of Christ. Human impatience and unruliness
is, of course, of no avail whatsoever. No man will be able to
tell you in how far you may succeed in becoming essentially
a Christian. But neither will anxiety and fear and despair help
one. Sincerity toward God is the first and the last condition,
sincerity in confessing to one's self just where one stands,
sincerity before God in ever aiming at one's task. However slowly
one may proceed, and if it be but crawling--one is, at any rate,
in the right position and is not misled and deceived by the
trick of changing the nature of Christ who, instead of being
God, is thereby made to represent that sentimental compassion
which is man's own invention; by which men instead of being
lifted up to heaven by Christianity, are delayed on their way
and remain human and no more.




THE MORAL


"And what, then, does all this signify?" It signifies that every
one, in silent inwardness before God, is to feel humility before
what it means to be in the strictest sense a Christian; is to
confess sincerely before God what his position is, so that he
may worthily partake of the grace which is offered to every one
who is not perfect, that is, to every one. And it means no more
than that. For the rest let him attend to his work and find joy
in it, let him love his wife, rejoicing in her, let him raise his
children to be a joy to him, and let him love his fellow-men and
enjoy life. God will surely let him know if more is demanded of
him, and will also help him to accomplish it; for in the terrifying
language of the law this sounds so terrible because it would
seem as if man by his own strength were to hold fast to Christ,
whereas in the language of love it is Christ that holds fast
to him. As was said, then, God will surely let him know if more
is demanded of him. But what is demanded of every one is that he
humble himself in the presence of God under the demands of ideality.
And therefore these demands should be heard, and heard again and
again in all their absoluteness. To be a Christian has become
a matter of no importance whatever--a mummery, something one
is anyway, or something one acquires more readily than a trick.
In very truth, it is high time that the demands of ideality were
heard.

"But if being a Christian is something so terrifying and awesome,
how in all the world can a man get it into his head to wish to
accept Christianity?" Very simply and, if you so wish, quite
according to Luther: only the consciousness of sin, if I may
express myself so, can force one--from the other side, grace
exerts the attraction--can force one into this terror. And in
the same instant the Christian ideal is transformed, and is
sheer mildness, grace, love, and pity. Looking at it any other
way, however, Christianity is, and shall ever be, the greatest
absurdity, or else the greatest terror. Approach is had only
through the consciousness of sin, and to desire to enter by
any other way amounts to a crime of lèse-majesté against Christianity.

But sin, or the fact that you and I, individually, are sinners,
has at present either been done away with, or else the demands
have been lowered in an unjustifiable manner, both in life--the
domestic, the civic, as well as the ecclesiastic--and in science
which has invented the new doctrine of sin in general. As an
equivalent, one has hit upon the device of helping men into
Christianity, and keeping them in it, by the aid of a knowledge
of world-historic events, of that mild teaching, the exalted
and profound spirit of it, about Christ as a friend, etc., etc.--all
of which Luther would have called stuff and nonsense and which
is really blasphemy, aiming as it does at fraternizing impudently
with God and with Christ.

Only the consciousness of being a sinner can inspire one with
absolute respect for Christianity. And just because Christianity
demands absolute respect it must and shall, to any other way of
looking at it, seem absurdity or terror; just because only thereby
can the qualitative and absolute emphasis fall on the fact that
it is only the consciousness of being a sinner which will procure
entrance into it, and at the same time give the vision which,
being absolute respect, enables one to see the mildness and love
and compassion of Christianity.

The poor in spirit who acknowledge themselves to be sinners,
they do not need to know the least thing about the difficulties
which appear when one is neither simple nor humble-minded. But
when this humble consciousness of one's self, i. e., the individual's,
being a sinner is lacking--aye, even though one possessed all
human ingenuity and wisdom, and had all accomplishments possible
to man: it will profit him little. Christianity will in the same
degree rise terrifying before him and transform itself into
absurdity or terror; until he learns, either to renounce it,
or else, by the help of what is nothing less than scientific
propædeutics, apologetics, etc., that is, through the torments
of a contrite heart, to enter into Christianity by the narrow
path, through the consciousness of sin.


[Footnote 1: First Part; comprising about one-fourth of the whole book.]

[Footnote 2: I. e. Christ; _cf._ Introduction for the use of small
letters.]

[Footnote 3: Socrates.]

[Footnote 4: John I, 1.]

[Footnote 5: Matthew 20, 15.]

[Footnote 6: Luke 11, 14.]

[Footnote 7: Kierkegaard's note: by history we mean here profane history,
world history, history as such, as against Sacred History.]

[Footnote 8: _Cf._ the claim of the Pharisees, Matth. 23, 30: "If we
had been in the days of our fathers, we would not have been partakers
with them in the blood of the prophets."]

[Footnote 9: One is here irresistibly reminded of passages in Ibsen's
"Brand," e. g., Brand's conversation with Einar, in Act I. _Cf._ also
"The invitation and the inviter" and Introduction]

[Footnote 10: Matthew 11, 6.]

[Footnote 11: Luke 18, 32.]

[Footnote 12: Matthew 20, 27f.]

[Footnote 13: The original here does not agree with the sense of the
passage.]

[Footnote 14: Björnson's play of "Beyond Human Power," Part I, Act 2,
reads like an elaboration of these views.]

[Footnote 15: Matthew 9, 16.]

[Footnote 16: The following passage is capable of different
interpretations in the original.]

[Footnote 17: Matthew 14, 17.]

[Footnote 18: _Cf._ 1 Cor. 2, 9.]

[Footnote 19: John 3, 1f.]

[Footnote 20: Luke 23, 35.]

[Footnote 21: John 2, 4, etc.]

[Footnote 22: The passage is not quite clear. Probably, you will not be
the man to explain this phenomenon in the very opposite terms, viz., as
the divinity himself.]

[Footnote 23: Here, the unreserved identification with human suffering
above referred to.]

[Footnote 24: _Cf._ Footnote 8, in "The Misfortune of Christendom."]

[Footnote 25: As my friend, H. M. Jones, points out, the following passage
is essentially Aristotelian: "The true difference is that one (history)
relates what has happened, the other (poetry) what may happen";
"Poetics," Chap. IX.]

[Footnote 26: _Cf._ Plato's "Apologia" where Socrates is made to say of
himself that he is inflicted on the Athenians like a gadfly on a horse,
in order to keep them awake.]

[Footnote 27: Luke 10, 23.]

[Footnote 28: Kierkegaard's own note.]




THE PRESENT MOMENT[1]


BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION

(No. I, 1)


Plato says somewhere in his "Republic" that things will go well
only when those men shall govern the state who do not desire to
govern. The idea is probably that, assuming the necessary capability,
a man's reluctance to govern affords a good guarantee that he
will govern well and efficiently; whereas a man desirous of
governing may very easily either abuse his power and become
a tyrant, or by his desire to govern be brought into an unforeseen
situation of dependence on the people he is to rule, so that
his government really becomes an illusion.

This observation applies also to other relations where much
depends on taking things seriously: assuming there is ability
in a man, it is best that he show reluctance to meddle with
them. To be sure, as the proverb has it: "where there is a will
there is a way"; but true seriousness appears only when a man
fully equal to his task is forced, against his will, to undertake
it--against his will, but fully equal to the task.

In this sense I may say of myself that I bear a correct relation
to the task in hand: to work in the present moment; for God knows
that nothing is more distasteful to me.

Authorship--well, I confess that I find it pleasant; and I may
as well admit that I have dearly loved to write--in the manner,
to be sure, which suits me. And what I have loved to do is precisely
the opposite of working in the present moment. What I have loved
is precisely remoteness from the present moment--that remoteness
in which, like a lover, I may dwell on my thoughts and, like an
artist in love with his instrument, entertain myself with language
and lure from it the expressions demanded by my thoughts--ah
blissful entertainment! In an eternity I should not weary of
this occupation.

To contend with men--well, I do like it in a certain sense; for
I have by nature a temperament so polemic that I feel in my
element only when surrounded by men's mediocrity and meanness.
But only on one condition, viz., that I be permitted to scorn
them in silence and to satisfy the master passion of my soul:
scorn--opportunity for which my career as an author has often
enough given me.

I am therefore a man of whom it may be said truthfully that he
is not in the least desirous to work in the present moment--very
probably I have been called to do so for that very reason.

Now that I am to work in the present moment I must, alas! say
farewell to thee, beloved remoteness, where there was no necessity
to hurry, but always plenty of time, where I could wait for
hours and days and weeks for the proper expression to occur
to me; whereas now I must break with all such regards of tender
love.[2] And now that I am to work in the present moment I find
that there will be not a few persons whom I must oblige by paying
my respects to all the insignificant things which mediocrity
with great self-importance will lecture about; to all the nonsense
which mediocre people, by interpreting into my words their own
mediocrity, will find in all I shall write; and to all the lies
and calumnies to which a man is exposed against whom those two
great powers in society: envy and stupidity, must of necessity
conspire.

Why, then, do I wish to work in the present moment? Because I
should forever repent of not having done so, and forever repent
of having been discouraged by the consideration that the generation
now living would find a representation of the essential truths of
Christianity interesting and curious reading, at most; having
accomplished which they will calmly remain where they are; that
is, in the illusion that they are Christians and that the clergy's
toying with Christianity really is Christianity.




A PANEGYRIC ON THE HUMAN RACE OR PROOF THAT THE NEW TESTAMENT IS
NO LONGER TRUE.

(No. II, 5)


In the New Testament the Savior of the World, our Lord Jesus
Christ, represents the matter in this way: "Strait is the gate,
and narrow is the way, which leadeth unto life, and few there be
that find it.[3]"

--Now, however, just to confine ourselves to Denmark, the way
is as broad as a road can possibly be; in fact, the broadest in
Denmark, for it is the road we all travel. At the same time it
is in all respects a comfortable way, and the gate as wide as
it is possible for a gate to be; for certainly a gate cannot
be wider than to let all men pass through _en masse_:

Therefore, the New Testament is no longer true.

All credit is due to the human race! For thou, oh Savior of
the World, thou didst entertain too low an estimate of the human
race, so that thou didst not foresee the exalted plan which, in
its perfectibility, it may reach by steadily continued endeavor!

To such an extent, then, is the New Testament no longer true: the
way is the broadest possible, the gate the widest possible, and
we are all Christians. In fact, I may venture still further--I
am enthusiastic about it, for you see I am writing a panegyric
on the human race--I venture to assert that the average Jew
living among us is, to a certain degree, a Christian just as
well as we others: to such an extent are we all Christians,
and to such an extent is the New Testament no longer true.

And, since the point is to find out all which may be adduced
to extol the human race, one ought--while having a care not
to mention anything which is not true--one ought to watch that
nothing, nothing escape one which in this connection may serve
as a proof or even as a suggestion. So I venture still further--without
wishing to be too positive, as I lack definite information on this
subject and would like, therefore, to refer the matter to specialists
in this line to decide--: whether there are not present among
our domestic animals, or at any rate the nobler ones, such as
the horse, the dog and the cow, indications of a Christian
spirit. It is not improbable. Consider what it means to live
in a Christian state, among a Christian people, where everything
is Christian and everybody is a Christian and where one, turn
where one may, sees nothing but Christians and Christianity,
truth and martyrs for the truth--it is not at all unlikely that
this exerts an influence on the nobler domestic animals and
thereby again--which is ever of the utmost importance, according
to the opinion both of veterinarians and of clergymen--an influence
on their progeny. We have all read of Jacob's ruse, how in order
to obtain spotted lambs he put party-colored twigs into the
watering troughs, so that the ewes saw nothing but mottled things
and then brought forth spotted lambs. Hence it is not improbable--although
I do not wish to be positive, since I do not belong to the profession,
but would rather have this passed on by a committee composed of both
clergymen and veterinarians--I say, it is not improbable that
the result will finally be that the domestic animals living in
a Christian nation will produce a Christian progeny. The thought
almost takes away my breath. To be sure, in that case the New
Testament will to the greatest possible extent have ceased to be true.

Ah, Thou Savior of the World, when Thou saidst with great concern:
"When the Son of man cometh, shall He find Faith on the earth?[4]"--and
when Thou didst bow Thy head in death, then didst Thou least of
all think that Thy expectations were to be exceeded to such a
degree, and that the human race would in such a pretty and touching
way render the New Testament no longer true, and Thy significance
almost doubtful; for such nice creatures certainly also needed a
Savior![5]




IF WE ARE REALLY CHRISTIANS--THEN WHAT IS GOD?

(No. II, 8)


If it is not so--that all we mean by being "Christians" is a
delusion--that all this machinery, with a State Church and thousands
of spiritual-worldly councillors of chancery, etc., is a stupendous
delusion which will not be of the least help to us in the life
everlasting but, on the contrary, will be turned into an accusation
against us--if this is not so; for if it is, then let us, for the
sake of life everlasting, get rid of it, the sooner the better--

If it is not so, and if what we understand by being a Christian really
is to be a Christian: then what is God in Heaven?

He is the most ridiculous being that ever existed, His Word is
the most ridiculous book which has ever appeared; for to move
heaven and earth, as He does in his Word, and to threaten with
hell and everlasting damnation--in order to obtain as His result
what we understand by being Christians (and our assumption was
that we are true Christians)--well, now, has anything so ridiculous
ever been seen before? Imagine that a fellow with a loaded pistol
in his hand held up a person and said to him, "I shall shoot you";
or imagine, what is still more terrible, that he said, "I shall
seize you and torture you to death in the most horrible manner,
if"--now watch, here's the point--"if you do not render your
life here on earth as profitable and as enjoyable as you can":
would not that be utterly ridiculous? For to obtain that effect
it certainly is not necessary to threaten one with a loaded
pistol and the most painful torture; in fact, it is possible
that neither the loaded pistol nor the most painful torture
would be able to deter him from making his life as comfortable
as he can. And the same is true when, by fear of eternal punishment
(terrible threat!), and by hope of eternal salvation, He wishes
to bring about--well, to make us what we are (for what we call
Christian is, as we have seen, really being Christian), to make
us--well, to make us what we are; that is, make men live as
they please; for to abstain from committing crimes is nothing
but common prudence!

The most terrible blasphemy is the one of which "Christianity"
is guilty, which is, to transform the God of the Spirit into--a
ridiculous piece of nonsense. And the stupidest kind of worship,
more stupid than any idolatry ever was among the heathen, and
more stupid than to worship as a god some stone, or an ox, or
an insect--more stupid than anything, is to adore as god--a fool!




DIAGNOSIS

(No. IV, 1)


I


Every physician will admit that by the correct diagnosis of a
malady more than half the fight against it is won; also, that
if a correct diagnosis has not been made, all skill and all
care and attention will be of little avail.

The same is true with regard to religion.

We are agreed to let stand the claim that in "Christendom" we are
Christians, every one of us; and then we have laid and, perhaps,
will lay, emphasis now on this, now on that, side of the teachings
of the Scriptures.

But the truth is: we are not only not Christians--no, we are not
even the heathen to whom Christianity may be taught without
misgivings, and what is worse, we are prevented through a delusion,
an enormous delusion (viz. "Christendom," the Christian state,
a Christian country, a Christian world) from becoming Christians.

And then the suggestion is made to one to continue untouched and
unchanged this delusion and, rather, to furnish a new presentation
of the teachings of Christ.[6]

This has been suggested; and, in a certain sense, it is altogether
fitting. Just because one lives in a delusion (not to speak even
of being interested in keeping up the delusion), one is bound
to desire that which will feed the malady--a common enough observation
this--the sick man desiring precisely those things which feed his
malady.




II


Imagine a hospital. The patients are dying off like so many flies.
The methods are changed, now this way, now that: of no avail! What
may be the cause? The cause lies in the building--the whole
building is tainted. The patients are put down as having died,
the one of this, the other of that, disease, but strictly speaking
this is not true; for they all died from the taint which is in the
building.

The same is true in religion. That religious conditions are
wretched, and that people in respect of their religion are in
a wretched condition, nothing is more certain. So one ventures
the opinion that if we could but have a new hymn-book; and another,
if we could but have a new service-book; and a third, if we could
but have a musical service, etc., etc.--that then matters would
mend.

In vain; for the fault lies in the edifice. The whole ramshackle
pile of a State Church which has not been aired, spiritually
speaking, in times out of mind--the air in it has developed
a taint. And therefore religious life has become diseased or
has died out; alas, for precisely that which the worldly mind
regards as health is, in a Christian sense, disease--just as,
vice versa, that which is healthy in a Christian sense, is regarded
as diseased from a worldly point of view.

Then let the ramshackle pile collapse, get it out of the way,
close all these shops and booths which are the only ones which
are excepted from the strict Sunday regulations, forbid this
official double-dealing, put them out of commission, and provide
for them, for all these quacks:--even though it is true that
the royally attested physician is the acceptable one, and he
who is not so attested is a quack: in Christianity it is just
the reverse; that is, the royally attested teacher is the quack,
is a quack by the very fact that he is royally attested--and
let us worship God again in simplicity, instead of making a
fool of him in splendid edifices; let us be in earnest again
and stop playing; for a Christianity preached by royal officials
who are payed and insured by the state and who use the police
against the others, such a Christianity bears about the same
relation to the Christianity of the New Testament as swimming
with the help of a cork-belt or a bladder does to swimming alone--it
is mere play.

Yes, let that come about. What Christianity needs is not the
stifling protection of the state--ah no, it needs fresh air,
it needs persecution and--the protection of God. The state does
only mischief in averting persecution and surely is not the
medium through which God's protection can be conducted. Whatever
you do, save Christianity from the state, for with its protection
it overlies Christianity like a fat woman overlying her child
with her carcass, beside teaching Christianity the most abominable
bad habits--as, e.g., to use the police force and to call that
Christianity.




III


A person is growing thinner every day and is wasting away. What
may the trouble be? For surely he is not suffering want! "No,
sure enough," says the doctor, "that is not the trouble. The
trouble is precisely with his eating, with his eating in season
and out of season, with his eating without being hungry, with
his using stimulants to produce an appetite, and in this manner
ruining his digestion, so that he is wasting away as if he suffered
want."

The same is true in religion. The worst of all is to satisfy
a craving which has not as yet made its appearance, to anticipate
it, or--worse still--by the help of stimulants to produce something
which looks like a craving, which then is promptly satisfied. Ah,
the shame of it! And yet this is exactly what is being done in
religion where people are in very truth fooled out of the real
meaning of life and helped to waste their lives. That is in
very truth, the effect of this whole machinery of a state church
and a thousand royal officials who, under the pretense of being
spiritual guides for the people, trick them out of the highest
thing in life, which is, the solicitude about one's self, and
the need which would surely of itself find a teacher or minister
after its own mind; whereas now the need--and it is just the
growth of this sense, of a need which gives life its highest
significance--whereas now this need does not arise at all, but
on the contrary is forestalled by being satisfied long before
it can arise. And this is the way, they claim, this is the way
to continue the work which the Savior of Mankind did begin--stunting
the human race as they do. And why is this so? Because there
happen to be a thousand and one royal officials who have to
support their families by furnishing what is called--spiritual
guidance for men's souls!




THE CHRISTIANITY OF THE NEW TESTAMENT; THE CHRISITANITY OF "CHRISTENDOM"

(No. V, 4)


The intention of Christianity was: to change everything.

The result, the Christianity of "Christendom" is: everything,
literally everything, remained as it had been, with just the
difference that to everything was affixed the attribute "Christian"--and
for the rest (strike up, fiddlers!) we live in Heathendom--so
merrily, so merrily the dance goes around; or, rather, we live
in a Heathendom made more refined by the help of Life Everlasting
and by help of the thought that, after all, it is all Christian!

Try it, point to what you will, and you shall see that I am right
in my assertion.

If what Christianity demanded was chastity, then away with brothels!
But the change is that the brothels have remained just as they
did in Heathendom, and the proportion of prostitutes remained
the same, too; to be sure, they became "Christian" brothels! A
brothel-keeper is a "Christian" brothel-keeper, he is a Christian
as well as we others. Exclude him from church membership? "Why,
for goodness sake," the clergyman will say, "what would things
come to if we excluded a single paying member?" The brothel-keeper
dies and gets a funeral oration with a panegyric in proportion
to the amount he pays. And after having earned his money in a
manner which, from a Christian point of view, is as filthy and
base as can be (for, from a Christian point of view it would be
more honorable if he had stolen it) the clergyman returns home.
He is in a hurry, for he is to go to church in order to deliver
an oration or, as Bishop Martensen would say, "bear witness."

But if Christianity demanded honesty and uprightness, and doing
away with this swindle, the change which really came about was
this: the swindling has remained just as in Heathendom, "every
one (every Christian) is a thief in his own line"; only, the
swindling has taken, on the predicate "Christian." So we now
have "Christian" swindling--and the "clergyman" bestows his
blessing on this Christian community, this Christian state,
in which one cheats just as one did in Heathendom, at the same
time that one pays the "clergyman," that is, the biggest swindler
of them all, and thus cheats one's self into Christianity.

And if Christianity demanded seriousness in life and doing away
with the praise and approbation of vanity--why, everything has
remained as before, with just this difference that it has assumed
the predicate "Christian." Thus the trumpery business with decorations,
titles, and rank, etc. has become Christian--and the clergyman
(that most indecent of all indecencies, that most ridiculous of
all ridiculous hodgepodges), he is as pleased as Punch to be decorated
himself--with the "cross." The cross? Why, certainly; for in the
Christianity of "Christendom" has not the cross become something
like a child's hobby-horse and tin-trumpet?

And so with everything. There is implanted in man no stronger
instinct, after that of self-preservation, than the instinct of
reproduction; for which reason Christianity seeks to reduce its
strength, teaching that it is better not to marry; "but if they
cannot contain, let them marry; for it is better to marry than
to burn." But in Christendom the propagation of the race has
become the serious business of life and of Christianity; and
the clergyman--that quint-essence of nonsense done up in long
clothes--the clergyman, the teacher of Christianity, of the
Christianity of the New Testament, has his income adjusted to
the fact that the human race is active in propagating the race,
and gets a little something for each child!

As I said, look about you and you will find that everything
is as I told you: the change from Heathendom consists in everything
remaining unchanged but having assumed the predicate "Christian."




MODERN RELIGIOUS GUARANTEES

(No. V, 8)


In times long, long past people looked at matters in this fashion:
it was demanded of him who would be a teacher of Christianity
that his life should be a guarantee for the teachings he proclaimed.

This idea was abandoned long ago, the world having become wiser
and more serious. It has learned to set little store by these
illiberal and sickly notions of personal responsibility, having
learned to look for purely objective ends. The demand is made
now of the teacher that his life should guarantee that what he
has to say is entertaining and dramatic stuff, amusing, and
purely objective.

Some examples. Suppose you wanted to speak about Christianity,
that is, the Christianity of the New Testament which expresses
preference for the single state--and suppose you yourself are
unmarried: why, my dear man! you ought not to speak on this
subject, because your congregation might think that you meant
what you said and become disquieted, or it might feel insulted
that you thus, very improperly, mixed in your own affairs. No,
dear sir, it will take a little longer before you are entitled
to speak seriously on this matter so as really to satisfy the
congregation. Wait till you have buried your first wife and
are well along with your second wife: then it will be time for
you to stand before your congregation to preach and "bear witness"
that Christianity prefers the single state--then you will satisfy
them altogether; for your life will furnish the guarantee that
it is all tomfoolery and great fun, or that what you say is--interesting.
Indeed, how interesting! For just as, to make it interesting,
the husband must be unfaithful to his wife and the wife to her
husband, likewise truth becomes interesting, intensely interesting,
only when one lets one's self be carried away by one's feelings,
be fascinated by them--but of course does the precise opposite
and thus in an underhand manner is re-assured in persisting in
one's ways.

Do you wish to speak about Christianity's teaching contempt
for titles and decorations and all the follies of fame--and
should you happen to be neither a person of rank nor anything
of the kind: Why, my dear sir! You ought not to undertake to
speak on this subject. Why, your congregation might think you
were in earnest, or feel insulted by such a lack of tact in
forcing your personality on their notice. No, indeed, you ought
to wait till you have a lot of decorations, the more the merrier;
you ought to wait till you drag along with a rigmarole of titles,
so many that you hardly know yourself what you are called: then
is your time come to stand before your congregation to preach
and "bear witness"--and you will undoubtedly satisfy them; for
your life will then furnish the guarantee that it is but a dramatic
divertissement, an interesting forenoon entertainment.

Is it your intention to preach Christianity in poverty, and
insist that only thus it is taught in truth--and you happen
to be very literally a poor devil: Why, my dear sir! You ought
not to venture to speak on this subject. Why, your congregation
might think you were in earnest, they might become afraid and
lose their good humor, and they might be very unpleasantly affected
by thus having poverty-thrust in on them. No indeed, first get
yourself some fat living, and when you have had it so long that
your promotion to one still fatter is to be expected: then is
your time come to stand before your congregation and to preach
and "bear witness"--and you will satisfy them; for your life
then furnishes the guarantee that it is just a joke, such as
serious men like to indulge in, now and then, in theatre or
in church, as a sort of recreation to gather new strength--for
making money.

And that is the way they honor God in the churches! And then
these silk and velvet orators weep, they sob, their voice is
drowned in tears! Ah, if it be true (and it is, since God Himself
has said so), if it be true that He counts the tears of the
afflicted and puts them into His bottle,[7] then woe to these
orators, if God has counted also their Sunday tears and put
them into His bottle! And woe to us all if God really heeds
these Sunday tears--especially those of the speakers, but also
those of the listeners! For a Sunday preacher would indeed be
right if he said--and, oratorically, this would have a splendid
effect, especially if accompanied by his own tears and suppressed
sobs--he would be right if he said to his audience: I shall
count all the futile tears you have shed in church, and with
them I shall step accusingly before you on the Day of Judgment--indeed,
he is right; only please not to forget that, after all, the
speaker's own dramatic tears are by far more dreadful than the
thoughtless tears of his listeners.




WHAT SAYS THE FIRE-MARSHAL

(No. VI, 5)


That a man who in some fashion or other has what one calls a
"cause," something he seriously purposes to accomplish--and
there are other persons who make it their business to counteract,
and antagonize, and hurt him--that he must take measures against
these his enemies, this will be evident to every one. But that
there is a well-intentioned kindness by far more dangerous,
perhaps, and one that seems calculated to prevent the serious
accomplishment of his mission, this will not at once be clear
to every one.

When a person suddenly falls ill, kindly-intentioned folk will
straightway rush to his help, and one will suggest this, another
that--and if all those about him had a chance to have their way
it would certainly result in the sick man's death; seeing that
even one person's well-meaning advice may be dangerous enough.
And even if nothing is done, and the advice of neither the assembled
and well-meaning crowd nor of any one person is taken, yet their
busy and flurried presence may be harmful, nevertheless, inasmuch
as they are in the way of the physician.

Likewise at a fire. Scarcely has the alarm of fire been sounded
but a great crowd of people will rush to the spot, good and kindly
and sympathetic, helpful people, the one with a bucket, the other
with a basin, still another with a hand-squirt--all of them goodly,
kindly, sympathetic, helpful persons who want to do all they can
to extinguish the fire.

But what says the fire-marshal? The fire-marshal, he says--well,
at other times the fire-marshal is a very pleasant and refined
man; but at a fire he does use coarse language--he says or,
rather, he roars out: "Oh, go to hell with your buckets and
hand-squirts!" And then, when these well-meaning people feel
insulted, perhaps, and think it highly improper to be treated
in this fashion, and would like at least to be treated respectfully--what
says the fire-marshal then? Well, at other times the fire-marshal
is a very pleasant and refined gentleman who will show every
one the respect due him; but at a fire he is somewhat different--he
says: "Where the devil is the police?" And when the policemen
arrive he says to them: "Rid me of these damn people with their
buckets and hand-squirts; and if they won't clear out, then club
them on their heads, so that we get rid of them and--can get at
the fire!"

That is to say, in the case of a fire the whole way of looking
at things is a very different one from that of quiet every-day
life. The qualities which in quiet every-day life render one
well-liked, viz., good-nature and kindly well-meaning, all this
is repaid, in the case of a fire, with abusive language and
finally with a crack on the head.

And this is just as it should be. For a conflagration is a serious
business; and wherever we have to deal with a serious business
this well-intentioned kindness won't do at all. Indeed, any
serious business enforces a very different mode of behavior
which is: either-or. Either you are able really to do something,
and really have something to do here; or else, if that be not
the case, then the serious business demands precisely that you
take yourself away. And if you will not comprehend that, the
fire-marshal proposes to have the police hammer it into your
head; which may do you a great deal of good, as it may help
to render you a little serious, as is befitting so serious a
business as a fire.

But what is true in the case of a fire holds true also in matters
of the spirit. Wherever a cause is to be promoted, or an enterprise
to be seen through, or an idea to be served--you may be sure that
when he who really is the man to do it, the right man, he who,
in a higher sense has and ought to have command, he who is in
earnest and can make the matter the serious business it really
is--you may be sure that when he arrives at the spot, so to say,
he will find there a nice company of easy-going, addle-pated
twaddlers who pretending to be engaged in serious business,
dabble in wishing to serve this cause, to further that enterprise,
to promote that idea--a company of addle-pated fools who will
of course consider one's unwillingness to make common cause
with them (which unwillingness precisely proves one's seriousness)--will
of course consider that a sure proof of the man's lack of seriousness.
I say, when the right man arrives he will find this; but I might
also look at it in this fashion: the very question as to whether
he is the right man is most properly decided by his attitude to
that crowd of fools. If he thinks they may help him, and that
he will add to his strength by joining them, then he is _eo ipso_
not the right man. The right man will understand at once, as
did the fire-marshal, that the crowd must be got out of the way;
in fact, that their presence and puttering around is the most
dangerous ally the fire could have. Only, that in matters of
the spirit it is not as in the case of the conflagration, where
the fire-marshal needs but to say to the police: rid me of these
people!

Thus in matters of the spirit, and likewise in matters of religion.
History has frequently been compared to what the chemists call
a "process." The figure is quite suggestive, providing it is
correctly understood. For instance, in the "process of filtration"
water is run through a filter and by this process loses its
impurities. In a totally different sense history is a process.
The idea is given utterance--and then enters into the process
of history. But unfortunately this process (how ridiculous a
supposition!) consists not in purifying the idea, which never
is purer than at its inception; oh no, it consists in gradually
and increasingly botching, bungling, and making a mess of, the
idea, in using up the idea, in--indeed, is not this the opposite
of filtering?--adding the impurer elements which it originally
lacked: until at last, by the enthusiastic and mutually appreciative
efforts of successive generations, the idea has absolutely disappeared
and the very opposite of the original idea is now called the
idea, which is then asserted to have arisen through a historic
process by which the idea is purified and elevated.

When finally the right man arrives, he who in the highest sense
is called to the task--for all we know, chosen early and slowly
educated for this business--which is, to throw light on the matter,
to set fire to this jungle which is a refuge for all kinds of
foolish talk and delusions and rascally tricks--when he comes
he will always find a nice company of addle-pated fools and
twaddlers who, surely enough, do think that, perhaps, things
are wrong and that "something must be done about it"; or who
have taken the position, and talk a good deal about it, that
it is preposterous to be self-important and talk about it. Now
if he, the right man, is deceived but a single instant and thinks
that it is this company who are to aid him, then it is clear
he is not the right man. If he is deceived and has dealings
with that company, then providence will at once take its hand
off him, as not fit. But the right man will see at a glance,
as the fire-marshal does, that the crowd who in the kindness
of their hearts mean to help in extinguishing a conflagration
by buckets and hand-squirts--the right man will see that the
same crowd who here, when there is a question, not of extinguishing
a fire, but rather of setting something on fire, will in the
kindness of their hearts wish to help, with a sulphur match
sans fire or a wet spill--he will see that this crowd must be
got rid of, that he must not have the least thing in common
with this crowd, that he will be! obliged to use the coarsest
possible language against them--he who perhaps at other times
is anything but coarse. But the thing of supreme importance
is to be rid of the crowd; for the effect of the crowd is to
hamstring the whole cause by robbing it of its seriousness while
heartfelt sympathy is pretended. Of course the crowd will then
rage against him, against his incredible arrogance and so forth.
This ought not to count with him, whether for or against. In
all truly serious business the law of: either--or, prevails.
Either, I am the man whose serious business this is, I am called
to it, and am willing to take a decisive risk; or, if this be
not the case, then the seriousness of the business demands that
I do not meddle with it at all. Nothing is more detestable and
mean, and nothing discloses and effects a deeper demoralization,
than this lackadaisical wishing to enter "somewhat" into matters
which demand an _aut--aut, aut Cæsar aut nihil_,[8] this taking
just a little part in something, to be so wretchedly lukewarm,
to twaddle about the business, and then by twaddling to usurp
through a lie the attitude of being better than they who wish
not to have anything whatever to do with the whole business--to
usurp through a lie the attitude of being better, and thus to
render doubly difficult the task of him whose business it really
is.




CONFIRMATION AND WEDDING CEREMONY; CHRISTIAN--COMEDY--OR WORSE STILL

(No. VII, 6)


Pricks of conscience (insofar as they may be assumed in this
connection)--pricks of conscience seem to have convinced "Christendom"
that it was, after all, going too far, and that it would not do--this
beastly farce of becoming a Christian by the simple method of
letting a royal official give the infant a sprinkle of water over
his head, which is the occasion for a family gathering with a
banquet to celebrate the day.

This won't do, was the opinion of "Christendom," for the opportunity
ought to be given the baptized individual to indorse personally his
baptismal vows.

For this purpose the rite of confirmation was devised--a splendid
invention, providing we take two things for granted: in the first
place, that the idea of divine worship is to make God ridiculous;
and in the second place, that its purpose is to give occasion
for family celebrations, parties, a jolly evening, a banquet which
is different from other banquets in that it--ah, exquisite--in
that it, "at the same time" has a religious significance.

"The tender child," thus Christendom, "can of course not assume
the baptismal vow personally, for this requires a real personality."
Consequently there was chosen--is this a stroke of genius or
just ingenious?--there was chosen the age of 14 or 15 year's,
the schoolboy age. This real personality--that is all right,
if you please--he is equal to the task of personally assuming
responsibility for the baptismal vow taken in behalf of the infant.

A boy of fifteen! Now, if it were a matter of 10 dollars, his
father would probably say: "No, my boy, I can't let you have
all that money, you are still too green for that." But for a
matter touching his eternal salvation where the point is to
assume, with all the seriousness one's personality is capable
of, and as a personality, responsibility for what certainly
could not in any profounder sense be called serious--when a
child is bound by a vow: for that the age of fifteen is excellently
fitting.

Excellently fitting. Oh yes if, as was remarked above, divine
worship serves a double purpose, viz., to render God ridiculous
in a very adroit manner--if you may call it so--and to furnish
the occasion for graceful family celebrations. In that case it
is indeed excellently fitting, as everything is on that occasion;
as is, likewise, the customary biblical lesson for the day which,
you will remember, begins: "Then the same day at evening, when
the doors were shut[9]"--and this text is particularly suitable
to a Confirmation Sunday. One is truly edified when hearing a
clergyman read it on a Confirmation Sunday.

As is easily perceived, then, the confirmation ceremony is still
worse nonsense than the baptism of infants, just because confirmation
pretends to supply what was lacking at the baptism, viz., a real
personality capable of making a vow in a matter touching one's
eternal salvation. In another sense this nonsense is, to be
sure, ingenious enough, as serving the self-interest of the
clergy who understand full well that if the decision concerning
a man's religion were reserved until he had reached maturity
(which were the only Christian, as well as the only sensible,
way), many might possess character enough to refuse to become
Christians by an act of hypocrisy. For this reason "the clergyman"
seeks to gain control of men in their infancy and their youth,
so that they would find it difficult, upon reaching a more mature
age, to break a "sacred" vow dating, to be sure, from one's
boyhood, but which would, perhaps, still be a serious enough
matter to many a one. Hence the clergy take hold of the infants,
the youths, and receive sacred promises and the like from them.
And what that man of God, "the clergyman," does, why, that is,
of course, a God-fearing action. Else, analogy might, perhaps,
demand that to the ordinance forbidding the sale of spirituous
liquors to minors there should be added one forbidding the taking
of solemn vows concerning one's eternal salvation from--boys;
which ordinance would look toward preventing the clergy, who
themselves are perjurers, from working--in order to salve their
own consciences--from working toward the greatest conceivable
shipwreck which is, to make all society become perjured; for
letting boys of fifteen bind themselves in a matter touching
their eternal salvation is a measure which is precisely calculated
to have that effect.

The ceremony of confirmation is, then, in itself a worse piece
of nonsense than the baptism of infants. But in order to miss
nothing which might, in any conceivable manner, contribute to
render confirmation the exact opposite of what it purports to
be, this ceremony has been connected with all manner of worldly
and civil affairs, so that the significance of confirmation lies
chiefly in the--certificate of character which the minister
makes out; without which certificate no boy or girl will be
able to get on at all in life.[10]

The whole thing is a comedy; and perhaps something might be
done to add greater dramatic illusion to the solemnity; as e.g.,
passing an ordinance forbidding any one to be confirmed in a
jacket, as not becoming a real personality; likewise, a regulation
ordering male candidates for confirmation to wear a beard during
the ceremony, which beard might, of course, be taken off for the
family celebration in the evening, or be used in fun and merrymaking.

I am not now attacking the community--they are led astray; they
cannot be blamed for liking this kind of divine worship, seeing
that they are left to their own devices and deceived by their
clergyman who has sworn an oath on the New Testament. But woe
to these clergymen, woe to them, these sworn liars! I know there
have been mockers at religion, and I know how much they would
have given to be able to do what I do; but they were not able
to, because God was not with them. It is different with me.
Originally as well disposed to the clergy as few have been,
and very ready to help them. I have undergone a change of heart
in the opposite direction, owing to their attitude. And the
Almighty is with me, and He knows how the whip is to be handled
so that the blows take effect, and that laughter must be that
whip, handled with fear and trembling--therefore am I used.




THE WEDDING CEREMONY


True worship of God consists, very simply, in doing God's will.

But that kind of divine service has never suited man's wishes.
That which occupies man's mind at all times, that which gives
rise to science[11] and makes science spread into many, many
sciences, and into interminable detail; that of which, and for
which, thousands of clergymen and professors live, that which
forms the contents of the history of Christendom, by the study
of which the clergyman or the professor is to be trained--is
to get a different kind of worship arranged, the main point of
which would be: to do what one pleases, but in such fashion that
the name of God and the invocation of God be brought into connection
therewith; by which arrangement man imagines himself safeguarded
against ungodliness--whereas, alas! just this procedure is the
most unqualified ungodliness.

For example: a man has the intention to make his living by killing
people. To be sure, he knows from the Word of God that this is
not permissible, that God's will is: thou shalt not kill! "All
right," thinks he, "but this way of serving God will not serve
my purposes--at the same time I don't care to be among the ungodly
ones, either." So what does he do but get hold of some priest who
in God's name blesses his dagger. Ah, _c'est bien autre chose!_

In the Scriptures the single state is recommended. "But," says
man, "that kind of worship really does not serve my purposes--and
surely, you can't say that I am an ungodly person; and such an
important step as marriage (which _nota bene_ God counsels against,
His opinion being, in fact, that the important thing is not to
take "this important step")--should I take such an important step
without making sure of God's blessing?" Bravo! "That is what we
have the priest for, that man of God, he will bestow the blessing
on this important step (_nota bene_ concerning which the most
important thing was not to take it at all) and so it will be
acceptable to God"--and so I have my own way; and my own way
becomes the way of worshipping God; and the priest has his own
way and gets his ten dollars, which are not earned in such a
simple way as, for example, by brushing people's clothes, or
by serving out beer and brandy--oh no! Was he not active on
behalf of God? To earn ten dollars in this fashion is: serving
God. Bravissimo!

What depth of nonsense and abomination! If something is not
pleasing to God, does it perhaps become pleasing to Him by having--why,
that is aggravating the mischief!--by having a clergyman along
who--why, that is aggravating the mischief still more!--who gets
ten dollars for declaring it pleasant to God?

Let us consider the marriage ceremony still further! In His
word God recommends the single state. Now suppose two young
people want to be married. To be sure, they ought certainly
to know, themselves, what Christianity is, seeing that they
call themselves Christians; but never mind that now. The lovers
then apply to--the clergyman; and the clergyman is, we remember,
pledged by his oath on the New Testament (which _nota bene_
recommends the single state). Now, if he is not a liar and a
perjurer who makes his money in the very shabbiest fashion,
he would be bound to take the following course: at most he could,
with human compassion for this human condition of being in love,
say to them: "Dear children, I am the one to whom you should
turn last of all; to turn to me on this occasion is, indeed,
as strange as if one should turn to the chief of police and
ask him how best to steal. My duty is to employ all means to
restrain you. At most, I can say, with the words of the Apostle
(for they are not the words of Our Lord), I can say to you:
well, if it must be, and you cannot contain, why, then find
some way of getting together; for fit is better to marry than
to burn.'[12] I know very well that you will be likely to shudder
when I speak in this manner about what you think is the most
beautiful thing in life; but I must do my duty. And it is therefore
I said to you that to me you should have applied last of all."

It is different in "Christendom." The priest--oh dear me!--if
there are but two to clap together, why certainly! Indeed, if
the persons concerned turned to a midwife they would perhaps
not be as sure to be confirmed in their conviction that their
intention is pleasing to God.

And so they are married; i.e. man has his own way, and this
having his own way strategically serves at the same time as
divine worship, God's name being connected with it. They are
married--by the priest! Ah, for having the clergyman along is
just what reassures one--the man who, to be sure, is pledged
by his oath to preach the New Testament, but who for a consideration
of ten dollars is the pleasantest company one could desire--that
man he guarantees that this act is true worship of God.

In a Christian sense one ought to say: precisely the fact that
a priest is in it, precisely that is the worst thing about the
whole business. If you want to be married you ought, rather,
be married by a smith; for then--if it were admissible to speak
in this fashion--then it might possibly escape God's attention;
whereas, if there is a priest along it can certainly not escape
His attention. Precisely the fact of the clergyman's being there
makes it as criminal an affair as possible--call to mind what
was said to a man who in a storm at sea invoked the gods: "By
all means do not let the gods notice that you are aboard!" Thus
one might say here also: By all means try to avoid calling in
a priest. The others, the smith and the lovers, have not pledged
themselves by an oath on the New Testament, so matters are not
as bad--if it be admissible to speak in this fashion--as when
the priest assists with his--holy presence.




AN ETERNITY TO REPENT IN!

(No. VIII, 3)


Let me relate a story. I did not read it in a book of devotion
but in what is generally called light reading. Yet I do not
hesitate to make use of it, and indicate its source only lest
any one be disturbed if he should happen to be acquainted with
it, or find out at some later time where it is from--lest he be
disturbed that I had been silent about this.

Once upon a time there lived somewhere in the East a poor old
couple. Utterly poor they were, and anxiety about the future
naturally grew when they thought of old age approaching. They
did not, indeed, constantly assail heaven with their prayers,
they were too God-fearing to do that; but still they were ever
praying to God for help.

Then one morning it happened that the old woman found an exceeding
large jewel on the hearth-stone, which she forthwith showed to
her husband, who recognized its value and easily perceived that
now their poverty was at an end.

What a bright future for these old people, and what gladness!
But frugal and pious as they were they decided not to sell the
jewel just yet, since they had enough wherewithal to live still
one more day. But on the morrow they would sell it, and then a
new life was to begin for them.

In the following night the woman dreamed that she was transported
to Paradise. An angel showed her about the splendors which only
an Oriental imagination can devise. He showed her a hall in which
there stood long rows of arm-chairs gemmed all over with precious
stones and pearls. These, so the angel explained, were the seats
of the pious. And last of all he pointed out to her the one
destined for herself. When regarding it more closely she discovered
that a very large jewel was lacking in the back of the chair, and
she asked the angel how that might be. He--ah, watch now, for
here is the point! The angel answered: "That was the jewel which
you found on your hearth-stone. It was given you ahead of time,
and it cannot be put in again."

In the morning the woman told her husband this dream. And she
was of the opinion that it was better, perhaps, to endure in
poverty the few years still left to them to live, rather than
to be without that jewel in all eternity. And her pious husband
was of the same opinion.

So in the evening they laid the jewel on the hearth-stone and
prayed to God to take it away again. And next morning it had
disappeared, for certain; and what had become of it the old
folks well knew: it was in its right place again.

This man was in truth happily married, and his wife a sensible
woman. But even if it were true, as is maintained so often,
that it is men's wives who cause them to lose sight of eternal
values: even if all men remained unmarried, there would still
be in every one of us an impulse, more ingenious and more pressing
and more unremitting than a woman, which will cause him to use
a wrong measure and to think a couple of years, or ten years,
or forty years, so enormous a length of time that even eternity
were quite brief in comparison; instead of these years being
as nothing when compared with the infinite duration of eternity.

Therefore, heed this well! You may by worldly wisdom escape
perhaps what it has pleased God to unite with the condition of
one's being a Christian, that is, sufferings and tribulations;
you may, and to your own destruction, by cleverly avoiding the
difficulties, perhaps, gain what God has forever made incompatible
with being a Christian, that is, the enjoyment of pleasures
and all earthly goods; you may, fooled by your own worldly wisdom,
perhaps, finally perish altogether, in the illusion that you
are on the right way because you have gained happiness in this
world: and then--you will have an eternity to repent in! An
eternity to repent in; to repent that you did not employ your
time in doing what might be remembered in all eternity; that is,
in truth to love God, with the consequence that you suffer the
persecution of men in this life.

Therefore, do not deceive yourself, and of all deceivers fear
most yourself! Even if it were possible for one, with regard
to eternity, to take something ahead of time, you would still
deceive yourself just by having something ahead of time--and
then an eternity to repent in!




A DOSE OF DISGUST WITH LIFE

(No. IX, 3)


Just as man--as is natural--desires that which tends to nourish
and revive his love of life, likewise he who wishes to live with
eternity in mind needs a constant dose of disgust with life
lest he become foolishly enamored of this world and, still more,
in order that he may learn thoroughly to be disgusted and bored
and sickened with the folly and lies of this wretched world. Here
is a dose of it:

God Incarnate is betrayed, mocked, deserted by absolutely all
men; not a single one, literally not a single one, remains faithful
to him--and then, afterwards, afterwards,--oh yes, afterwards,
there were millions of men who on their knees made pilgrimage
to the places where many hundred years ago His feet, perhaps,
trod the ground; afterwards, afterwards--oh yes, afterwards,
millions worshipped a splinter of the cross on which He was crucified!

And so it was always when men were contemporary with the great;
but afterwards, afterwards--oh yes, afterwards!

Must one then not loathe being human?

And again, must one not loathe being human? For these millions
who on their knees made pilgrimage to His grave, this throng of
people which no power on earth was able to overcome: but one
thing were necessary, Christ's return--and all these millions
would quickly regain their feet to run their way, so that the
whole throng were as if blown away; or would, in a mass, and
erect enough, rush upon Christ in order to kill him.

That which Christ and the Apostles and every martyr desires,
and desires as the only thing: that we should follow in His
footsteps, just that is the thing which mankind does not like
or does not find pleasure in.

No, take away the danger--so that it is but play, and then the
battallions of the human race will (ah, disgusting!) will perform
astonishing feats in aping Him; and then instead of an imitation
of Christ we get (ah, disgusting!), we get that sacred buffoonery--under
guidance and command (ah, disgusting!) of sworn clergymen who do
service as sergeants, lieutenants, etc.--ordained men who therefore
have the Holy Spirit's special assistance in this serious business.

[Footnote 1: Selections.]

[Footnote 2: The following sentence is not clear in the original.]

[Footnote 3: Matthew 7, 14.]

[Footnote 4: Luke 18, 8.]

[Footnote 5: The last line of this piece of bloody irony is not clear
in the original (S. V. XIII, 128). It will make better sense if one
substitutes "da" for the first "de."]

[Footnote 6: This suggestion had actually been made to Kierkegaard in the
course of his attacks on Martensen.]

[Footnote 7: Allusion to Psalm 56, 9; also, to a passage in one of Bishop
Mynster's sermons (S. V.).]

[Footnote 8: Either-or; either Cæsar or nothing (Cesare Borgia's slogan).]

[Footnote 9: "John 20, 19--where the disciples were assembled for
fear of the Jews, came Jesus and stood in the midst, and saith unto
them. Peace be unto you."]

[Footnote 10: This was, until very recently, the universal rule in
Protestant Scandinavia and Germany.]

[Footnote 11: It is to be borne in mind that Danish _videnskab_, like
German _Wissenschaft_, embraces the humanities and theology as well.]

[Footnote 12: I Cor. 7, 9.]








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