Beyond Good and Evil

OUR VIRTUES

214.  Our Virtues?—­It is probable that we, too, have still our virtues, although naturally they are not those sincere and massive virtues on account of which we hold our grandfathers in esteem and also at a little distance from us.  We Europeans of the day after tomorrow, we firstlings of the twentieth century—­with all our dangerous curiosity, our multifariousness and art of disguising, our mellow and seemingly sweetened cruelty in sense and spirit—­we shall presumably, if we must have virtues, have those only which have come to agreement with our most secret and heartfelt inclinations, with our most ardent requirements:  well, then, let us look for them in our labyrinths!—­where, as we know, so many things lose themselves, so many things get quite lost!  And is there anything finer than to search for one’s own virtues?  Is it not almost to believe in one’s own virtues?  But this “believing in one’s own virtues”—­is it not practically the same as what was formerly called one’s “good conscience,” that long, respectable pigtail of an idea, which our grandfathers used to hang behind their heads, and often enough also behind their understandings?  It seems, therefore, that however little we may imagine ourselves to be old-fashioned and grandfatherly respectable in other respects, in one thing we are nevertheless the worthy grandchildren of our grandfathers, we last Europeans with good consciences:  we also still wear their pigtail.—­Ah! if you only knew how soon, so very soon—­it will be different!

215.  As in the stellar firmament there are sometimes two suns which determine the path of one planet, and in certain cases suns of different colours shine around a single planet, now with red light, now with green, and then simultaneously illumine and flood it with motley colours:  so we modern men, owing to the complicated mechanism of our “firmament,” are determined by different moralities; our actions shine alternately in different colours, and are seldom unequivocal—­and there are often cases, also, in which our actions are motley-coloured.

216.  To love one’s enemies?  I think that has been well learnt:  it takes place thousands of times at present on a large and small scale; indeed, at times the higher and sublimer thing takes place:—­we learn to despise when we love, and precisely when we love best; all of it, however, unconsciously, without noise, without ostentation, with the shame and secrecy of goodness, which forbids the utterance of the pompous word and the formula of virtue.  Morality as attitude—­is opposed to our taste nowadays.  This is also an advance, as it was an advance in our fathers that religion as an attitude finally became opposed to their taste, including the enmity and Voltairean bitterness against religion (and all that formerly belonged to freethinker-pantomime).  It is the music in our conscience, the dance in our spirit, to which Puritan litanies, moral sermons, and goody-goodness won’t chime.

217.  Let us be careful in dealing with those who attach great importance to being credited with moral tact and subtlety in moral discernment!  They never forgive us if they have once made a mistake before us (or even with regard to us)—­they inevitably become our instinctive calumniators and detractors, even when they still remain our “friends.”—­Blessed are the forgetful:  for they “get the better” even of their blunders.

218.  The psychologists of France—­and where else are there still psychologists nowadays?—­have never yet exhausted their bitter and manifold enjoyment of the betise bourgeoise, just as though . . . in short, they betray something thereby.  Flaubert, for instance, the honest citizen of Rouen, neither saw, heard, nor tasted anything else in the end; it was his mode of self-torment and refined cruelty.  As this is growing wearisome, I would now recommend for a change something else for a pleasure—­namely, the unconscious astuteness with which good, fat, honest mediocrity always behaves towards loftier spirits and the tasks they have to perform, the subtle, barbed, Jesuitical astuteness, which is a thousand times subtler than the taste and understanding of the middle-class in its best moments—­subtler even than the understanding of its victims:—­a repeated proof that “instinct” is the most intelligent of all kinds of intelligence which have hitherto been discovered.  In short, you psychologists, study the philosophy of the “rule” in its struggle with the “exception”:  there you have a spectacle fit for Gods and godlike malignity!  Or, in plainer words, practise vivisection on “good people,” on the “homo bonae voluntatis,” On yourselves!

219.  The practice of judging and condemning morally, is the favourite revenge of the intellectually shallow on those who are less so, it is also a kind of indemnity for their being badly endowed by nature, and finally, it is an opportunity for acquiring spirit and becoming subtle—­malice spiritualises.  They are glad in their inmost heart that there is a standard according to which those who are over-endowed with intellectual goods and privileges, are equal to them, they contend for the “equality of all before God,” and almost need the belief in God for this purpose.  It is among them that the most powerful antagonists of atheism are found.  If any one were to say to them “A lofty spirituality is beyond all comparison with the honesty and respectability of a merely moral man”—­it would make them furious, I shall take care not to say so.  I would rather flatter them with my theory that lofty spirituality itself exists only as the ultimate product of moral qualities, that it is a synthesis of all qualities attributed to the “merely moral” man, after they have been acquired singly through long training and practice, perhaps during a whole series of generations, that lofty spirituality is precisely the spiritualising of justice, and the beneficent severity which knows that it is authorized to maintain gradations of rank in the world, even among things—­and not only among men.

220.  Now that the praise of the “disinterested person” is so popular one must—­probably not without some danger—­get an idea of what people actually take an interest in, and what are the things generally which fundamentally and profoundly concern ordinary men—­including the cultured, even the learned, and perhaps philosophers also, if appearances do not deceive.  The fact thereby becomes obvious that the greater part of what interests and charms higher natures, and more refined and fastidious tastes, seems absolutely “uninteresting” to the average man—­if, notwithstanding, he perceive devotion to these interests, he calls it desinteresse, and wonders how it is possible to act “disinterestedly.”  There have been philosophers who could give this popular astonishment a seductive and mystical, other-worldly expression (perhaps because they did not know the higher nature by experience?), instead of stating the naked and candidly reasonable truth that “disinterested” action is very interesting and “interested” action, provided that. . .  “And love?”—­What!  Even an action for love’s sake shall be “unegoistic”?  But you fools—!  “And the praise of the self-sacrificer?”—­But whoever has really offered sacrifice knows that he wanted and obtained something for it—­perhaps something from himself for something from himself; that he relinquished here in order to have more there, perhaps in general to be more, or even feel himself “more.”  But this is a realm of questions and answers in which a more fastidious spirit does not like to stay:  for here truth has to stifle her yawns so much when she is obliged to answer.  And after all, truth is a woman; one must not use force with her.

221.  “It sometimes happens,” said a moralistic pedant and trifle-retailer, “that I honour and respect an unselfish man:  not, however, because he is unselfish, but because I think he has a right to be useful to another man at his own expense.  In short, the question is always who he is, and who the other is.  For instance, in a person created and destined for command, self-denial and modest retirement, instead of being virtues, would be the waste of virtues:  so it seems to me.  Every system of unegoistic morality which takes itself unconditionally and appeals to every one, not only sins against good taste, but is also an incentive to sins of omission, an additional seduction under the mask of philanthropy—­and precisely a seduction and injury to the higher, rarer, and more privileged types of men.  Moral systems must be compelled first of all to bow before the gradations of rank; their presumption must be driven home to their conscience—­until they thoroughly understand at last that it is immoral to say that ’what is right for one is proper for another.’”—­So said my moralistic pedant and bonhomme.  Did he perhaps deserve to be laughed at when he thus exhorted systems of morals to practise morality?  But one should not be too much in the right if one wishes to have the laughers on one’s own side; a grain of wrong pertains even to good taste.

222.  Wherever sympathy (fellow-suffering) is preached nowadays—­ and, if I gather rightly, no other religion is any longer preached—­let the psychologist have his ears open through all the vanity, through all the noise which is natural to these preachers (as to all preachers), he will hear a hoarse, groaning, genuine note of self-contempt.  It belongs to the overshadowing and uglifying of Europe, which has been on the increase for a century (the first symptoms of which are already specified documentarily in a thoughtful letter of Galiani to Madame d’Epinay)—­if it is not really the cause thereof!  The man of “modern ideas,” the conceited ape, is excessively dissatisfied with himself—­this is perfectly certain.  He suffers, and his vanity wants him only “to suffer with his fellows.”

223.  The hybrid European—­a tolerably ugly plebeian, taken all in all—­absolutely requires a costume:  he needs history as a storeroom of costumes.  To be sure, he notices that none of the costumes fit him properly—­he changes and changes.  Let us look at the nineteenth century with respect to these hasty preferences and changes in its masquerades of style, and also with respect to its moments of desperation on account of “nothing suiting” us.  It is in vain to get ourselves up as romantic, or classical, or Christian, or Florentine, or barocco, or “national,” in moribus et artibus:  it does not “clothe us”!  But the “spirit,” especially the “historical spirit,” profits even by this desperation:  once and again a new sample of the past or of the foreign is tested, put on, taken off, packed up, and above all studied—­we are the first studious age in puncto of “costumes,” I mean as concerns morals, articles of belief, artistic tastes, and religions; we are prepared as no other age has ever been for a carnival in the grand style, for the most spiritual festival—­laughter and arrogance, for the transcendental height of supreme folly and Aristophanic ridicule of the world.  Perhaps we are still discovering the domain of our invention just here, the domain where even we can still be original, probably as parodists of the world’s history and as God’s Merry-Andrews,—­perhaps, though nothing else of the present have a future, our laughter itself may have a future!

224.  The historical sense (or the capacity for divining quickly the order of rank of the valuations according to which a people, a community, or an individual has lived, the “divining instinct” for the relationships of these valuations, for the relation of the authority of the valuations to the authority of the operating forces),—­this historical sense, which we Europeans claim as our specialty, has come to us in the train of the enchanting and mad semi-barbarity into which Europe has been plunged by the democratic mingling of classes and races—­it is only the nineteenth century that has recognized this faculty as its sixth sense.  Owing to this mingling, the past of every form and mode of life, and of cultures which were formerly closely contiguous and superimposed on one another, flows forth into us “modern souls”; our instincts now run back in all directions, we ourselves are a kind of chaos:  in the end, as we have said, the spirit perceives its advantage therein.  By means of our semi-barbarity in body and in desire, we have secret access everywhere, such as a noble age never had; we have access above all to the labyrinth of imperfect civilizations, and to every form of semi-barbarity that has at any time existed on earth; and in so far as the most considerable part of human civilization hitherto has just been semi-barbarity, the “historical sense” implies almost the sense and instinct for everything, the taste and tongue for everything:  whereby it immediately proves itself to be an ignoble sense.  For instance, we enjoy Homer once more:  it is perhaps our happiest acquisition that we know how to appreciate Homer, whom men of distinguished culture (as the French of the seventeenth century, like Saint-Evremond, who reproached him for his ESPRIT VASTE, and even Voltaire, the last echo of the century) cannot and could not so easily appropriate—­whom they scarcely permitted themselves to enjoy.  The very decided Yea and Nay of their palate, their promptly ready disgust, their hesitating reluctance with regard to everything strange, their horror of the bad taste even of lively curiosity, and in general the averseness of every distinguished and self-sufficing culture to avow a new desire, a dissatisfaction with its own condition, or an admiration of what is strange:  all this determines and disposes them unfavourably even towards the best things of the world which are not their property or could not become their prey—­and no faculty is more unintelligible to such men than just this historical sense, with its truckling, plebeian curiosity.  The case is not different with Shakespeare, that marvelous Spanish-Moorish-Saxon synthesis of taste, over whom an ancient Athenian of the circle of AEschylus would have half-killed himself with laughter or irritation:  but we—­accept precisely this wild motleyness, this medley of the most delicate, the most coarse, and the most artificial, with a secret confidence and cordiality; we enjoy it as a refinement of art reserved expressly for us, and allow ourselves to be as little disturbed by the repulsive fumes and the proximity of the English populace in which Shakespeare’s art and taste lives, as perhaps on the Chiaja of Naples, where, with all our senses awake, we go our way, enchanted and voluntarily, in spite of the drain-odour of the lower quarters of the town.  That as men of the “historical sense” we have our virtues, is not to be disputed:—­ we are unpretentious, unselfish, modest, brave, habituated to self-control and self-renunciation, very grateful, very patient, very complaisant—­but with all this we are perhaps not very “tasteful.”  Let us finally confess it, that what is most difficult for us men of the “historical sense” to grasp, feel, taste, and love, what finds us fundamentally prejudiced and almost hostile, is precisely the perfection and ultimate maturity in every culture and art, the essentially noble in works and men, their moment of smooth sea and halcyon self-sufficiency, the goldenness and coldness which all things show that have perfected themselves.  Perhaps our great virtue of the historical sense is in necessary contrast to good taste, at least to the very bad taste; and we can only evoke in ourselves imperfectly, hesitatingly, and with compulsion the small, short, and happy godsends and glorifications of human life as they shine here and there:  those moments and marvelous experiences when a great power has voluntarily come to a halt before the boundless and infinite,—­when a super-abundance of refined delight has been enjoyed by a sudden checking and petrifying, by standing firmly and planting oneself fixedly on still trembling ground.  PROPORTIONATENESS is strange to us, let us confess it to ourselves; our itching is really the itching for the infinite, the immeasurable.  Like the rider on his forward panting horse, we let the reins fall before the infinite, we modern men, we semi-barbarians—­and are only in our highest bliss when we—­are in most danger.

225.  Whether it be hedonism, pessimism, utilitarianism, or eudaemonism, all those modes of thinking which measure the worth of things according to pleasure and pain, that is, according to accompanying circumstances and secondary considerations, are plausible modes of thought and naivetes, which every one conscious of creative powers and an artist’s conscience will look down upon with scorn, though not without sympathy.  Sympathy for you!—­to be sure, that is not sympathy as you understand it:  it is not sympathy for social “distress,” for “society” with its sick and misfortuned, for the hereditarily vicious and defective who lie on the ground around us; still less is it sympathy for the grumbling, vexed, revolutionary slave-classes who strive after power—­they call it “freedom.”  Our sympathy is a loftier and further-sighted sympathy:—­we see how man dwarfs himself, how you dwarf him! and there are moments when we view your sympathy with an indescribable anguish, when we resist it,—­when we regard your seriousness as more dangerous than any kind of levity.  You want, if possible—­and there is not a more foolish “if possible” —­To do away with suffering; and we?—­it really seems that we would rather have it increased and made worse than it has ever been!  Well-being, as you understand it—­is certainly not a goal; it seems to us an end; a condition which at once renders man ludicrous and contemptible—­and makes his destruction desirable!  The discipline of suffering, of great suffering—­know ye not that it is only this discipline that has produced all the elevations of humanity hitherto?  The tension of soul in misfortune which communicates to it its energy, its shuddering in view of rack and ruin, its inventiveness and bravery in undergoing, enduring, interpreting, and exploiting misfortune, and whatever depth, mystery, disguise, spirit, artifice, or greatness has been bestowed upon the soul—­has it not been bestowed through suffering, through the discipline of great suffering?  In man creature and creator are united:  in man there is not only matter, shred, excess, clay, mire, folly, chaos; but there is also the creator, the sculptor, the hardness of the hammer, the divinity of the spectator, and the seventh day—­do ye understand this contrast?  And that your sympathy for the “creature in man” applies to that which has to be fashioned, bruised, forged, stretched, roasted, annealed, refined—­to that which must necessarily suffer, and is meant to suffer?  And our sympathy—­do ye not understand what our reverse sympathy applies to, when it resists your sympathy as the worst of all pampering and enervation?—­So it is sympathy against sympathy!—­But to repeat it once more, there are higher problems than the problems of pleasure and pain and sympathy; and all systems of philosophy which deal only with these are naivetes.

226.  We immoralists.—­This world with which we are concerned, in which we have to fear and love, this almost invisible, inaudible world of delicate command and delicate obedience, a world of “almost” in every respect, captious, insidious, sharp, and tender—­yes, it is well protected from clumsy spectators and familiar curiosity!  We are woven into a strong net and garment of duties, and cannot disengage ourselves—­precisely here, we are “men of duty,” even we!  Occasionally, it is true, we dance in our “chains” and betwixt our “swords”; it is none the less true that more often we gnash our teeth under the circumstances, and are impatient at the secret hardship of our lot.  But do what we will, fools and appearances say of us:  “These are men without duty,”—­ we have always fools and appearances against us!

227.  Honesty, granting that it is the virtue of which we cannot rid ourselves, we free spirits—­well, we will labour at it with all our perversity and love, and not tire of “perfecting” ourselves in our virtue, which alone remains:  may its glance some day overspread like a gilded, blue, mocking twilight this aging civilization with its dull gloomy seriousness!  And if, nevertheless, our honesty should one day grow weary, and sigh, and stretch its limbs, and find us too hard, and would fain have it pleasanter, easier, and gentler, like an agreeable vice, let us remain hard, we latest Stoics, and let us send to its help whatever devilry we have in us:—­our disgust at the clumsy and undefined, our “NITIMUR in VETITUM,” our love of adventure, our sharpened and fastidious curiosity, our most subtle, disguised, intellectual Will to Power and universal conquest, which rambles and roves avidiously around all the realms of the future—­let us go with all our “devils” to the help of our “God”!  It is probable that people will misunderstand and mistake us on that account:  what does it matter!  They will say:  “Their ’honesty’—­that is their devilry, and nothing else!” What does it matter!  And even if they were right—­have not all Gods hitherto been such sanctified, re-baptized devils?  And after all, what do we know of ourselves?  And what the spirit that leads us wants to be called?  (It is a question of names.) And how many spirits we harbour?  Our honesty, we free spirits—­let us be careful lest it become our vanity, our ornament and ostentation, our limitation, our stupidity!  Every virtue inclines to stupidity, every stupidity to virtue; “stupid to the point of sanctity,” they say in Russia,—­ let us be careful lest out of pure honesty we eventually become saints and bores!  Is not life a hundred times too short for us—­ to bore ourselves?  One would have to believe in eternal life in order to . . .

228.  I hope to be forgiven for discovering that all moral philosophy hitherto has been tedious and has belonged to the soporific appliances—­and that “virtue,” in my opinion, has been more injured by the tediousness of its advocates than by anything else; at the same time, however, I would not wish to overlook their general usefulness.  It is desirable that as few people as possible should reflect upon morals, and consequently it is very desirable that morals should not some day become interesting!  But let us not be afraid!  Things still remain today as they have always been:  I see no one in Europe who has (or discloses) an idea of the fact that philosophizing concerning morals might be conducted in a dangerous, captious, and ensnaring manner—­that CALAMITY might be involved therein.  Observe, for example, the indefatigable, inevitable English utilitarians:  how ponderously and respectably they stalk on, stalk along (a Homeric metaphor expresses it better) in the footsteps of Bentham, just as he had already stalked in the footsteps of the respectable Helvetius! (no, he was not a dangerous man, Helvetius, ce SENATEUR POCOCURANTE, to use an expression of Galiani).  No new thought, nothing of the nature of a finer turning or better expression of an old thought, not even a proper history of what has been previously thought on the subject:  an impossible literature, taking it all in all, unless one knows how to leaven it with some mischief.  In effect, the old English vice called CANT, which is moral TARTUFFISM, has insinuated itself also into these moralists (whom one must certainly read with an eye to their motives if one must read them), concealed this time under the new form of the scientific spirit; moreover, there is not absent from them a secret struggle with the pangs of conscience, from which a race of former Puritans must naturally suffer, in all their scientific tinkering with morals. (Is not a moralist the opposite of a Puritan?  That is to say, as a thinker who regards morality as questionable, as worthy of interrogation, in short, as a problem?  Is moralizing not-immoral?) In the end, they all want English morality to be recognized as authoritative, inasmuch as mankind, or the “general utility,” or “the happiness of the greatest number,”—­no! the happiness of England, will be best served thereby.  They would like, by all means, to convince themselves that the striving after English happiness, I mean after comfort and fashion (and in the highest instance, a seat in Parliament), is at the same time the true path of virtue; in fact, that in so far as there has been virtue in the world hitherto, it has just consisted in such striving.  Not one of those ponderous, conscience-stricken herding-animals (who undertake to advocate the cause of egoism as conducive to the general welfare) wants to have any knowledge or inkling of the facts that the “general welfare” is no ideal, no goal, no notion that can be at all grasped, but is only a nostrum,—­that what is fair to one may not at all be fair to another, that the requirement of one morality for all is really a detriment to higher men, in short, that there is a distinction of rank between man and man, and consequently between morality and morality.  They are an unassuming and fundamentally mediocre species of men, these utilitarian Englishmen, and, as already remarked, in so far as they are tedious, one cannot think highly enough of their utility.  One ought even to encourage them, as has been partially attempted in the following rhymes:—­

    Hail, ye worthies, barrow-wheeling,
    “Longer—­better,” aye revealing,

    Stiffer aye in head and knee;
    Unenraptured, never jesting,
    Mediocre everlasting,

SANS GENIE et sans ESPRIT!

229.  In these later ages, which may be proud of their humanity, there still remains so much fear, so much superstition of the fear, of the “cruel wild beast,” the mastering of which constitutes the very pride of these humaner ages—­that even obvious truths, as if by the agreement of centuries, have long remained unuttered, because they have the appearance of helping the finally slain wild beast back to life again.  I perhaps risk something when I allow such a truth to escape; let others capture it again and give it so much “milk of pious sentiment” [Footnote:  An expression from Schiller’s William Tell, Act IV, Scene 3.] to drink, that it will lie down quiet and forgotten, in its old corner.—­One ought to learn anew about cruelty, and open one’s eyes; one ought at last to learn impatience, in order that such immodest gross errors—­as, for instance, have been fostered by ancient and modern philosophers with regard to tragedy—­may no longer wander about virtuously and boldly.  Almost everything that we call “higher culture” is based upon the spiritualising and intensifying of cruelty—­this is my thesis; the “wild beast” has not been slain at all, it lives, it flourishes, it has only been—­ transfigured.  That which constitutes the painful delight of tragedy is cruelty; that which operates agreeably in so-called tragic sympathy, and at the basis even of everything sublime, up to the highest and most delicate thrills of metaphysics, obtains its sweetness solely from the intermingled ingredient of cruelty.  What the Roman enjoys in the arena, the Christian in the ecstasies of the cross, the Spaniard at the sight of the faggot and stake, or of the bull-fight, the present-day Japanese who presses his way to the tragedy, the workman of the Parisian suburbs who has a homesickness for bloody revolutions, the Wagnerienne who, with unhinged will, “undergoes” the performance of “Tristan and Isolde”—­what all these enjoy, and strive with mysterious ardour to drink in, is the philtre of the great Circe “cruelty.”  Here, to be sure, we must put aside entirely the blundering psychology of former times, which could only teach with regard to cruelty that it originated at the sight of the suffering of others:  there is an abundant, super-abundant enjoyment even in one’s own suffering, in causing one’s own suffering—­and wherever man has allowed himself to be persuaded to self-denial in the religious sense, or to self-mutilation, as among the Phoenicians and ascetics, or in general, to desensualisation, decarnalisation, and contrition, to Puritanical repentance-spasms, to vivisection of conscience and to Pascal-like SACRIFIZIA dell’ INTELLETO, he is secretly allured and impelled forwards by his cruelty, by the dangerous thrill of cruelty towards himself.—­Finally, let us consider that even the seeker of knowledge operates as an artist and glorifier of cruelty, in that he compels his spirit to perceive against its own inclination, and often enough against the wishes of his heart:—­he forces it to say Nay, where he would like to affirm, love, and adore; indeed, every instance of taking a thing profoundly and fundamentally, is a violation, an intentional injuring of the fundamental will of the spirit, which instinctively aims at appearance and superficiality,—­even in every desire for knowledge there is a drop of cruelty.

230.  Perhaps what I have said here about a “fundamental will of the spirit” may not be understood without further details; I may be allowed a word of explanation.—­That imperious something which is popularly called “the spirit,” wishes to be master internally and externally, and to feel itself master; it has the will of a multiplicity for a simplicity, a binding, taming, imperious, and essentially ruling will.  Its requirements and capacities here, are the same as those assigned by physiologists to everything that lives, grows, and multiplies.  The power of the spirit to appropriate foreign elements reveals itself in a strong tendency to assimilate the new to the old, to simplify the manifold, to overlook or repudiate the absolutely contradictory; just as it arbitrarily re-underlines, makes prominent, and falsifies for itself certain traits and lines in the foreign elements, in every portion of the “outside world.”  Its object thereby is the incorporation of new “experiences,” the assortment of new things in the old arrangements—­in short, growth; or more properly, the feeling of growth, the feeling of increased power—­is its object.  This same will has at its service an apparently opposed impulse of the spirit, a suddenly adopted preference of ignorance, of arbitrary shutting out, a closing of windows, an inner denial of this or that, a prohibition to approach, a sort of defensive attitude against much that is knowable, a contentment with obscurity, with the shutting-in horizon, an acceptance and approval of ignorance:  as that which is all necessary according to the degree of its appropriating power, its “digestive power,” to speak figuratively (and in fact “the spirit” resembles a stomach more than anything else).  Here also belong an occasional propensity of the spirit to let itself be deceived (perhaps with a waggish suspicion that it is not so and so, but is only allowed to pass as such), a delight in uncertainty and ambiguity, an exulting enjoyment of arbitrary, out-of-the-way narrowness and mystery, of the too-near, of the foreground, of the magnified, the diminished, the misshapen, the beautified—­an enjoyment of the arbitrariness of all these manifestations of power.  Finally, in this connection, there is the not unscrupulous readiness of the spirit to deceive other spirits and dissemble before them—­ the constant pressing and straining of a creating, shaping, changeable power:  the spirit enjoys therein its craftiness and its variety of disguises, it enjoys also its feeling of security therein—­it is precisely by its Protean arts that it is best protected and concealed!—­COUNTER to this propensity for appearance, for simplification, for a disguise, for a cloak, in short, for an outside—­for every outside is a cloak—­there operates the sublime tendency of the man of knowledge, which takes, and insists on taking things profoundly, variously, and thoroughly; as a kind of cruelty of the intellectual conscience and taste, which every courageous thinker will acknowledge in himself, provided, as it ought to be, that he has sharpened and hardened his eye sufficiently long for introspection, and is accustomed to severe discipline and even severe words.  He will say:  “There is something cruel in the tendency of my spirit”:  let the virtuous and amiable try to convince him that it is not so!  In fact, it would sound nicer, if, instead of our cruelty, perhaps our “extravagant honesty” were talked about, whispered about, and glorified—­we free, very free spirits—­and some day perhaps such will actually be our—­posthumous glory!  Meanwhile—­ for there is plenty of time until then—­we should be least inclined to deck ourselves out in such florid and fringed moral verbiage; our whole former work has just made us sick of this taste and its sprightly exuberance.  They are beautiful, glistening, jingling, festive words:  honesty, love of truth, love of wisdom, sacrifice for knowledge, heroism of the truthful—­ there is something in them that makes one’s heart swell with pride.  But we anchorites and marmots have long ago persuaded ourselves in all the secrecy of an anchorite’s conscience, that this worthy parade of verbiage also belongs to the old false adornment, frippery, and gold-dust of unconscious human vanity, and that even under such flattering colour and repainting, the terrible original text homo natura must again be recognized.  In effect, to translate man back again into nature; to master the many vain and visionary interpretations and subordinate meanings which have hitherto been scratched and daubed over the eternal original text, homo natura; to bring it about that man shall henceforth stand before man as he now, hardened by the discipline of science, stands before the other forms of nature, with fearless Oedipus-eyes, and stopped Ulysses-ears, deaf to the enticements of old metaphysical bird-catchers, who have piped to him far too long:  “Thou art more! thou art higher! thou hast a different origin!”—­this may be a strange and foolish task, but that it is a task, who can deny!  Why did we choose it, this foolish task?  Or, to put the question differently:  “Why knowledge at all?” Every one will ask us about this.  And thus pressed, we, who have asked ourselves the question a hundred times, have not found and cannot find any better answer. . . .

231.  Learning alters us, it does what all nourishment does that does not merely “conserve”—­as the physiologist knows.  But at the bottom of our souls, quite “down below,” there is certainly something unteachable, a granite of spiritual fate, of predetermined decision and answer to predetermined, chosen questions.  In each cardinal problem there speaks an unchangeable “I am this”; a thinker cannot learn anew about man and woman, for instance, but can only learn fully—­he can only follow to the end what is “fixed” about them in himself.  Occasionally we find certain solutions of problems which make strong beliefs for us; perhaps they are henceforth called “convictions.”  Later on—­one sees in them only footsteps to self-knowledge, guide-posts to the problem which we ourselves are—­or more correctly to the great stupidity which we embody, our spiritual fate, the unteachable in us, quite “down below.”—­In view of this liberal compliment which I have just paid myself, permission will perhaps be more readily allowed me to utter some truths about “woman as she is,” provided that it is known at the outset how literally they are merely—­my truths.

232.  Woman wishes to be independent, and therefore she begins to enlighten men about “woman as she is”—­This is one of the worst developments of the general uglifying of Europe.  For what must these clumsy attempts of feminine scientificality and self-exposure bring to light!  Woman has so much cause for shame; in woman there is so much pedantry, superficiality, schoolmasterliness, petty presumption, unbridledness, and indiscretion concealed—­study only woman’s behaviour towards children!—­which has really been best restrained and dominated hitherto by the fear of man.  Alas, if ever the “eternally tedious in woman”—­she has plenty of it!—­is allowed to venture forth! if she begins radically and on principle to unlearn her wisdom and art-of charming, of playing, of frightening away sorrow, of alleviating and taking easily; if she forgets her delicate aptitude for agreeable desires!  Female voices are already raised, which, by Saint Aristophanes! make one afraid:—­with medical explicitness it is stated in a threatening manner what woman first and last requires from man.  Is it not in the very worst taste that woman thus sets herself up to be scientific?  Enlightenment hitherto has fortunately been men’s affair, men’s gift—­we remained therewith “among ourselves”; and in the end, in view of all that women write about “woman,” we may well have considerable doubt as to whether woman really desires enlightenment about herself—­and can desire it.  If woman does not thereby seek a new ornament for herself—­I believe ornamentation belongs to the eternally feminine?—­why, then, she wishes to make herself feared:  perhaps she thereby wishes to get the mastery.  But she does not want truth—­what does woman care for truth?  From the very first, nothing is more foreign, more repugnant, or more hostile to woman than truth—­her great art is falsehood, her chief concern is appearance and beauty.  Let us confess it, we men:  we honour and love this very art and this very instinct in woman:  we who have the hard task, and for our recreation gladly seek the company of beings under whose hands, glances, and delicate follies, our seriousness, our gravity, and profundity appear almost like follies to us.  Finally, I ask the question:  Did a woman herself ever acknowledge profundity in a woman’s mind, or justice in a woman’s heart?  And is it not true that on the whole “woman” has hitherto been most despised by woman herself, and not at all by us?—­We men desire that woman should not continue to compromise herself by enlightening us; just as it was man’s care and the consideration for woman, when the church decreed:  mulier taceat in ecclesia.  It was to the benefit of woman when Napoleon gave the too eloquent Madame de Stael to understand:  mulier taceat in politicis!—­and in my opinion, he is a true friend of woman who calls out to women today:  mulier taceat de mulierel.

233.  It betrays corruption of the instincts—­apart from the fact that it betrays bad taste—­when a woman refers to Madame Roland, or Madame de Stael, or Monsieur George Sand, as though something were proved thereby in favour of “woman as she is.”  Among men, these are the three comical women as they are—­nothing more!—­and just the best involuntary counter-arguments against feminine emancipation and autonomy.

234.  Stupidity in the kitchen; woman as cook; the terrible thoughtlessness with which the feeding of the family and the master of the house is managed!  Woman does not understand what food means, and she insists on being cook!  If woman had been a thinking creature, she should certainly, as cook for thousands of years, have discovered the most important physiological facts, and should likewise have got possession of the healing art!  Through bad female cooks—­through the entire lack of reason in the kitchen—­the development of mankind has been longest retarded and most interfered with:  even today matters are very little better.  A word to High School girls.

235.  There are turns and casts of fancy, there are sentences, little handfuls of words, in which a whole culture, a whole society suddenly crystallises itself.  Among these is the incidental remark of Madame de Lambert to her son:  “MON AMI, ne VOUS PERMETTEZ JAMAIS que des FOLIES, qui VOUS FERONT grand PLAISIR”—­the motherliest and wisest remark, by the way, that was ever addressed to a son.

236.  I have no doubt that every noble woman will oppose what Dante and Goethe believed about woman—­the former when he sang, “ELLA GUARDAVA SUSO, ED IO in LEI,” and the latter when he interpreted it, “the eternally feminine draws us aloft”; for this is just what she believes of the eternally masculine.

237.