Old age of Goethe—Physical and intellectual vigour of the old man—Optimistic conception of life—Happiness in life in his last period
Drinkers of wine may take the case of Goethe as an argument against temperance. Although he was not healthy in his youth, his large consumption of wine did not prevent him from enjoying an old age full of force and intellectual work. Eckermann, who was his intimate and constant companion in the last ten years of his life, was never weary of expressing his surprise and delight at the physical and moral vigour of the distinguished old man. He found Goethe on his return to Jena, at the age of seventy-four, in a condition “very pleasant to see; he was in good health and robust, so that he could walk for hours” (Sept. 15, 1823). His eyes were “brilliant and clear and his whole expression was that of joy, vigour and youth” (Oct. 29). In walks with Eckermann, Goethe forced the pace and showed strength which filled his companion with delight (March, 1824). His voice was full of character and of force (March 30, 1824), and every word showed his vitality (July 9, 1827).
In a conversation that Eckermann had with Goethe when the latter was seventy-nine years old “the sound of his voice and the fire in his eyes were of such strength as would have been normal in the full flush of youth” (Mar. 11, 1828). Such characters were preserved until the end of the life of the great man, and a few months before his death Eckermann jotted in his book that he saw him every day in full vigour and freshness, looking as if his health might be prolonged indefinitely (Dec. 21, 1831). In the beginning of the following spring, Goethe caught a feverish cold, possibly pneumonic, and died, probably from weakness of the heart. His illness lasted a week. If he had not been a drinker of wine he would have been able to withstand this attack and to live still longer.
The intellectual vigour of Goethe was even greater and more remarkable than his physical strength. His interests were extremely wide, and his thirst for knowledge was never appeased. Once, when he was absorbed by the interest of hearing d’Alton describe in detail the skeleton of rodents, Eckermann states his surprise that a man not far short of eighty years old “did not give up seeking for and gaining knowledge.” But in these matters he never lost his interest. He wished always to go further and further, always to learn, so showing himself to be a man of eternal and undying youth (April 16, 1825). Goethe’s aptitude for understanding and his memory were most unusual. When he was more than eighty, he surprised those who heard him “by the incessant flow of his ideas and by his extraordinary fertility in invention” (Oct. 7, 1828).
“The old age of Goethe is the most striking proof of the extreme force of his constitution,” said his medical biographer, Dr. Moebius. Works which were written in his last years are for the most part beyond praise, both because of their finished form, and by their wisdom and feeling. What other man of eighty has written anything of the same character? From the physiological point of view I am more surprised at his works when he was old than at those of his youthful activity” (Moebius, Goethe, i, 200, 201).
Although Goethe’s character, which was fiery and intense in his youth, became much more calm with age, there still came to him moments when he was carried away. He had certain eccentricities of an old man, and in particular was often very despotic, and this trait has been the occasion of many stories. His temper, however, became much more certain in his old age, and his general conceptions much more optimistic. Apart from certain short crises, he was happy in his life. In 1828, he settled down at Dornburg and there passed a tranquil existence. “I stay out of doors nearly all day and engage in private conversations with the tendrils of the vine which communicate their excellent ideas to me, ideas about which I shall have marvellous things to tell you”—he wrote to Eckermann on June 15, 1828—“I am composing verses which are quite good, and I hope that it will be given to me to live long in this condition. I am quite contented,” he said to his collaborator, “at the beginning of spring, when I see the first green leaves, I am pleased to watch how, from week to week, one leaf after another appears on the stem. I am delighted in May, when I see a flower-bud; I feel really happy, when in June the rose offers to me its splendour and its perfume” (Eckermann, April 27, 1825). His delight in life at this epoch is also revealed in many letters. “I wish to whisper this in your ear,” he wrote to Zelter on April 29, 1830. “I am delighted to find that even at my great age, ideas come to me the pursuit and development of which would require a second life.”
His conception of life had changed enormously since the epoch of Werther. Goethe himself said: “When one is old, one thinks many things about this world quite different from when one was young” (Eckermann, Dec., 1829). The youthful sensitiveness which had brought him so much suffering was notably dulled. Eckermann was astonished at the way he accepted wounds to his pride. It happened that his design for the new theatre at Weimar was abandoned while it was being constructed, and replaced by another not his own work. Eckermann was much disturbed by this, and went to see Goethe in a state of apprehension. “I was afraid,” he said, “that so unexpected a step would profoundly wound Goethe. Well, there was nothing of the sort; I found him in the best of tempers, quite calm, absolutely above all feelings in the matter.” When he had reached his eighty-fourth year, Goethe had no weariness of life. In his last illness, he showed not the smallest desire to die. He expected to get better, and thought that the approach of summer would restore his strength. The desire to live was strong in him. None the less, he recognised that his cycle of life was finished, and although he had no weariness of life, he felt a kind of satisfaction that life was over. “When, like me, a man has lived eighty years,” he said, “he has hardly the right to live, but ought to be ready every day to die, and to think of putting his house in order” (Eckermann, May 15, 1831). None the less, he continued his work, in particular revising the last two chapters of the second part of Faust. When he had finished them, Goethe was extremely pleased. “I can consider,” he said, “any days which come to me yet as a real gift, as it is a matter of no moment if I write anything more or what such work should be” (Eckermann, June 1, 1831).
Goethe gave Faust one hundred years of life, and it is probable that he thought of that period as his own span. Although he did not reach it, he approached it, after having lived a most active life, full of most valuable lessons for posterity.
Faust the biography of Goethe—The three monologues in the first Part—Faust’s pessimism—The brain-fatigue which finds a remedy in love—The romance with Marguerite and its unhappy ending
“Goethe was Faust, Faust Goethe,” said the biographer of the great poet (Bielschowsky, vol. ii, p. 645). Most people admit that in Faust Goethe gave his autobiography on a more detailed scale than in Werther. Why then should I follow my analysis of Goethe himself, which was based on exact facts, with an analysis of Faust? I do so because in addition to the biographical details in Faust, there are many ideas which illuminate the poet’s conception of life. Goethe’s life explains Faust, and Faust explains the soul of its author. And I am convinced that an accurate study of so great a man is of high importance in the investigation of human nature.
The two Parts of Faust correspond with two distinct periods in Goethe’s life. In the first Part, Faust was pessimistic, in the second optimistic. Although many of the high problems that occupy humanity are raised and discussed in Faust, love is the centre on which the drama turns.
In the first Part, conceived and for the most part written during his youth, the chief theme is the love of a young man for a pretty and attractive girl towards whom the hero acts in a fashion opposed to conventional morality. As in most of his principal works, Goethe has made an episode in his own life the basis of Faust. It is the well-known story of Frederique, the daughter of a clergyman, for whom the brilliant young author conceived a violent passion and who returned his affection with a deeper and more enduring feeling. Goethe was alarmed at the possibility of definitely settling his future, and deserted the poor victim of love in an unfortunate state. Later on, he confessed to the Baroness von Stein that he had abandoned Frederique at a time when his desertion was likely to cause the death of the poor girl. “I had wounded to the quick,” he wrote (Bielschowsky, vol. i, p. 135), “the best heart in the world, and I had to repent of it long and almost unendurably.” As an atonement, he made Frederique the heroine of “Goetz” and of “Clavigo,” but not thinking these worthy of her, he immortalised her as the Marguerite of Faust.
A learned doctor, skilled in all human knowledge, but who had found no satisfaction in his studies, found consolation in the beauty and charm of a young girl with whom he fell passionately in love. It will be interesting to trace the psychological process which induced him to leave the scene of his scientific studies for the streets and resorts where he found Marguerite.
Although Faust was represented as an old man, who had had time enough to absorb all human learning, his image bears the stamp of green youth. “Discontented with all his knowledge, he wished to know the secret entrails of the world, to be a witness of the centre of all activity, to unveil the principle of life.”199 These are the demands of a young man seeking to resolve the most intricate problems at one stroke. The speech in question dates from the period of Werther, when Goethe was twenty-five years old, and for that reason leaves no very serious impression.200 The second monologue, which ends with the attempt to take poison, is later, and is absent in the edition of 1790 (Fragment). It was revised when Goethe had reached his fiftieth year, and displays a riper maturity. Although lacking exactness, it depicts in an interesting fashion the miseries of life.
Fear of the evils which lie in wait for us and against which we can make no provision render life insupportable. Faust’s frame of mind as described in these lines recalls Schopenhauer, who was always afraid of something; fear, sometimes of thieves, sometimes of diseases, tormented him. He would never go to a barber’s to be shaved, and always carried his own drinking cup with him.
“Is it not better to end such a life, and to kill oneself, even if it mean annihilation?” asked Faust. He took up the poisoned goblet and put it to his lips, but, arrested by singing and the sound of bells outside, he refrained, and life laid hold of him. Not religious faith, however, but memories of childhood, “the happy sports of youth and the gay festivals of spring” were the agencies that recalled Faust to the earth. He went out of doors, mingled with the crowd, tried to amuse himself amongst men, and savoured the beauty of the new-born spring, but all these could not make him forget the evil of life. He met his pupil, talked with him, and again displayed his pessimism.
Then follows the celebrated monologue of Faust over which so many commentators have lost their heads and wasted oceans of ink.
On this passage has been built up a whole theory of “double natures” with which has been incorporated the dualism of Manicheism, the two natures of Christ and what not besides.204
There exists in literature no better expression of human disharmony than this monologue “of the two souls.” It portrays the unbalanced condition so frequent in youth and is a valuable indication of the real youth of Faust.
On his return to his study, Faust again revealed his pessimism.
It is at this point that Faust addresses the Spirit “that denies” and that is called “sin” and “evil.” This spirit invokes before his eyes “the fairest images of dreams,” that is to say, a woman’s body in its beautiful nudity. Faust declares himself
Pursued by desire
So that
Faust thus reached the ecstasy of passion. Soon afterwards in the Witches’ kitchen, he saw in a mirror a “heavenly form” and cried:—
Discontent with life, sense of the insufficiency of human knowledge and the most gloomy pessimism lead to the passion of love which, eventually, after many devious paths, throws Faust into the arms of Marguerite. The story is one of the world’s great romances and everyone knows it. Faust all unconsciously was following the prescription of Brown-Séquard. Brain-fatigue had made the continuation of the study which caused it impossible. The condition is plainly stated in the following lines:—
The brain has refused to work, and blind instinct, in the guise of dreams, whispers that there is in the organism something that can restore the intellectual forces. This something, however, is what is called sin, and much courage is needed to plunge into it. Without this evil, life cannot last. Faust has to choose between love and death, and chooses love.
The end of the romance of Goethe and Frederique was bad, and that of Faust and Marguerite was still worse. The poet painted it in the most sombre colours. Marguerite killed her child, poisoned her mother, became crazy, and was beheaded. Faust’s cup of misery was filled to the brim; he blamed his evil genius, he made desperate efforts to save the poor woman, and cried “O that I had never been born.”
To sum up: in the first Part, Faust is a young, learned man who expects too much from science and life, and whose genius requires extra-conjugal love as a stimulant; he is unbalanced and inevitably pessimistic. It is not surprising that his life goes badly, and that his conduct leaves him much to repent of. But although, at first, a vague general discontent nearly drives him to suicide, later on the terrible evil which he had wrought on a poor creature he loved passionately did no more than plunge him into misery that was bitter but far from mortal. His mind had developed far in the direction of optimism. The crisis through which he passed, serious as it was, ended by his return to a life of great activity and enterprise.
The second Part of Faust is in the main a description of senile love—Amorous passion of the old man—Humble attitude of the old Faust—Platonic love for Helena—The old Faust’s conception of life—His optimism—The general idea of the play
The first Part of Faust was acclaimed by the world almost as soon as it appeared, but the second Part met a very cold reception. Everyone knows and reads the first Part; the second Part has few readers, and these chiefly poets and dramatists. No doubt it has more effect on the stage than when it is read, but this is due to subsidiary features in which it resembles a fine ballet. There is general agreement that the real meaning of the second Part is obscure, complex and difficult to interpret. Many literary critics have racked their brains in the effort to discover the author’s central idea. When Eckermann, who persuaded Goethe to revise and finish the second Part, asked what was the meaning of some of the scenes in it, Goethe evaded the question and played the sphinx. Thus, with regard to the famous “mothers” Goethe answered, with a mysterious air:—“You have the manuscript; study it, and see what you can make of it” (January 10, 1830). G. H. Lewes, although one of Goethe’s most resolute admirers, admitted the impossibility of grasping the sense of the second Part. The Wanderjahre and the second Part of Faust were arsenals of symbols, and it pleased the old poet to see acute critics labouring to interpret them whilst he was silent and refused to help them. Lewes thought that Goethe, so far from showing the smallest wish to clear up their difficulties, took a pleasure in giving them new problems to puzzle over. Lewes himself thought that the second Part was poor in idea and execution, and admitted that he had failed after repeatedly trying to get a conception of it that would reveal its beauties. In writing about it, he contented himself with giving a summary of it. Now this second Part, although its general lines had been laid down for long, was actually written during several years in the last period of the poet’s life. The fact that it was composed out of the regular sequence of the Acts and Scenes gives us an important clue. The third Act and then the second Part of the fifth Act were put on paper first. Next followed the first Act and part of the second; the classical Walpurgis night was written in 1830, the fourth Act in 1831, and last of all the beginning of the fifth Act.
As the second Part of Faust is a crowded motley, containing many subjects, obviously of minor importance, such as the volcanic theory of the earth and the disquisition on paper-money, the key-note may be found in the portions which were first composed. Now Act III. contains the story of Helena, and the second part of Act V. Faust’s activity for the general welfare.
Setting out from the conception that the works of Goethe reflect the acts and incidents of his own life, I shall try to explain on that basis the meaning of the most obscure of his writings.
I have already stated that love was the stimulus of Goethe’s activity in youth and age; it is the scarlet thread running through his history. There was no difficulty in his using his love for Frederique as material for a play; that a young man should love a young girl was natural enough. The story of an old man enamoured of a young beauty was quite another matter. It was said that one of the reasons that prevented his marriage with Ulrique de Lewetzow was the fear of ridicule (Lewes, op. cit., ii, p. 345), a fear that plays a large part in human affairs. It is easy to understand that the old poet was in a difficulty when he came to write of senile love. Faust’s love for Helena was not that of a supposed old man who became young by doffing his beard and changing his cloak, but of a real old man whom no mystery nor magic was to make young again. And yet old Faust’s love was a true passion, and Goethe has written no finer lines than those describing it.
When the second Part begins, Faust has passed through the terrible crisis of the first Part. Wearied and restless, he seeks a new mode of life.
The invoked image of the most beautiful woman in the history of the world transforms Faust’s desire of love into an overwhelming passion.
In the throes of this passion, Faust is tortured by jealousy when he sees the lovely woman clinging to and kissing a young man. He desires her at all costs.
The disappearance of the beautiful woman so moved Faust that he fainted and fell into a prolonged sleep. As soon as he recovered consciousness he asked: “Where is she?” and set out to seek for her. When he learned that Chiron had already carried off Helena on his back Faust cried out:—
Chiron found this attitude of passionate emotion so strange that he advised Faust to take care of his health.
After many wanderings and difficulties Faust again met the woman he coveted and spoke to her as follows:—
This language, so very different from what the same man had formerly addressed to Marguerite, is much more like that of an old lover to a young beauty whom he admires. When Helena invited Faust to sit on the throne beside her, he replied:—
The old man in the throes of a passion so great that he was wholly absorbed by it did not dare to address the beloved woman except in the most humble terms.
Helena made no declaration of love, but was complacent to him, and when Faust suggested: “Now let our throne become a bower unblighted,” Helena agreed to follow him to a secluded and green bower. There they remained alone for some time, cared for by an old servant.
The result of this union was not a child like that to which Marguerite gave birth and afterwards killed. It was a strange and peculiar being; a boy who immediately after his birth began to leap about and to alarm his parents by the activity of his movements.
Although Goethe preserved an obstinate silence when he was asked to explain many of the scenes in the second Part, he had no hesitation in explaining the significance of this astonishing child. “The child was not a human being but an allegory, in which was personified poetry, which is not bound to any time, to any place, or to any person” (Eckermann, December 20, 1829). Struck by the tragic fate of Byron, Goethe made the son of Faust and Helena a symbol of the English poet.
Literary critics, setting out from the categorical explanation of Goethe himself, have declared that the union of Faust and Helena was meant to denote the alliance of romanticism and classicism, a marriage from which was born modern poetry, personified in its highest representative, Byron. This, however, cannot be the idea of Goethe, who himself was far from an enthusiast about classicism and romanticism. “What,” he said, “is all this noise about the classic and the romantic? The essential thing is that a piece of work should be wholly good and serious; then it will also be classic” (Eckermann, October 17, 1828). It is much more probable that Goethe intended poetry to spring from the relations between the old Faust and his adorable companion, relations of a kind to be included in so-called platonic love. Such love inspires the creation of perfect work even in an old poet, when he is stimulated by a beautiful woman.
When Faust and Helena emerged from the grotto with their son, Helena said:—
After the death of her son, Helena abandoned Faust, leaving him her garments:—
After this crisis the old Faust sought to console himself in the bosom of nature, just as after the terrible catastrophe with Marguerite the contemplation of nature had given him the strength to live. On this occasion he reached the summit of a high mountain from which he watched the changing vapours of a cloud which seemed to him to assume the form of female beauty. But Faust was old, and now saw only memories of love. He cried out:—
This state of mind resembles Goethe’s condition after the rupture with Ulrique.
Love and poetry alike were over for him. None the less his craving for the higher life was not yet weakened. The desire to live was still very strong in the old Faust. But now he no longer as in the days of his youth dreamed of an ideal which could not be attained. When Mephistopheles asked him ironically:—
Such optimistic language, extraordinarily different from Faust’s lamentations in the first Part, becomes still more marked. When he was approaching his centenary he made the following profession of faith:—
When he had reached the maturity of his wisdom, Faust organised drainage works, the object of which was to increase the area of land that could be utilised:—
These were the last words of the wise centenarian. It has been said that they contain the quintessence of Goethe’s moral philosophy, and that they preach the sacrifice of the individual for the benefit of society. Lewes, for instance, takes this view, holding that Faust was the exposition of a man who had conquered the vanity of individual aspirations and joys, and had come to the knowledge of the great truth that man must live for man, and can find lasting happiness only in work for the benefit of humanity. For my own part, it seems to me that according to Goethe’s Faust man must dedicate a large part of his life to the complete development of his own individuality, and that it is only in the second half of his life, when he has grown wise by experience and feels satisfied as an individual, that he should use his activity for the good of mankind. It was no part either of the ideas of Goethe or of the nature of his work to preach the sacrifice of individuality.
Goethe was thus absorbed in Faust by the problem of the conflict between certain actions and guiding principles. The misdeeds of the hero in the first Part of his life had to be redeemed. He said to Eckermann that “the key to the salvation of Faust was to be found in the Angels’ Chorus”:—
However, that of which he did not speak, and which none the less was most important in Faust and in Goethe himself, is the action of love as a stimulant to artistic creation, and it was probably to this that he referred at the end of his tragedy. The mystical chorus sent up prayers in a religious and erotic ecstasy, and their mysterious song is:—
Although these verses have been interpreted as love which sacrifices or even love which leads to the grace of God (Bode, p. 149), it is much more probable that it is love for feminine beauty, a love which makes possible the execution of wonderful things. Such an interpretation agrees with the fact that the verses are spoken by a mystic choir which speaks of the indescribable (das Unbeschreibliche) in which we must see the amorous passion of the old man. In such an interpretation the whole of Faust (and especially the second Part) is an eloquent pleading for the importance of love in the higher activity of man, in accordance with the law of human nature, which is a much better justification of Goethe’s conduct than all the arguments of his interpreters and admirers.
I do not agree with the common idea that the two Parts of Faust are two distinct works, but regard them as complementary. In the first Part we see the young pessimist, full of ardour and of desires, ready to make an end of his days and stopping at nothing to satisfy his thirst for love. In the second Part we have a mature old man still loving women, but in a different way, a man who is wise and optimistic, and who, having satiated the wants of his individual life, dedicates the rest of his days to mankind, and who, having reached a century, dies extremely happy, in fact almost exhibiting the instinct of natural death.
Difficulty of the problem of morality—Vivisection and anti-vivisection—Enquiry into the possibility of rational morality—Utilitarian and intuitive theories of morality—Insufficiency of these
In the course of this book I have from time to time approached subjects closely related with the problem of morality. For instance, in considering the prolongation of human life, it was necessary to show that extension of longevity far beyond the reproductive period of man in no way is opposed to the principles of the highest morality, although there exist races who find the sacrifice of old people in harmony with their conception of morality.
Experimental biology, which lies at the root of most of the doctrines exposed in this work, depends on vivisection of animals. There are, however, very many persons who regard it as immoral to operate on living animals when it is not for the direct benefit of these. The attempts which have been made in France and Germany to prevent or to limit vivisection in laboratories have not succeeded, but in England there is a severe law controlling operations on animals and submitting them to oppressive regulations to which many of the scientific men in the country are opposed.
The question of experiments upon human beings is still more delicate. Just as formerly the examination of a human corpse could be made only in secret, so at the present time, if the slightest experiment is to be made upon a human being, it can be only by devious ways. People who are hardly shocked at all at the numberless accidents caused by automobiles and other means of transit, or in field sports, make the strongest protest against any proposal to try some new method of treatment upon a human being.
A large number of people, amongst them even men of science, regard as immoral any attempt to prevent the spread of venereal diseases. Recently, in connection with the investigations into the action of mercurial ointment as a means of preventing syphilis, the members of the Faculty of Medicine in France made a public protest, declaring that it would be “immoral to let people think that they could indulge in sexual vice without danger,” and that it was “wrong to give to the public a means of protection in debauch.”226 None the less, other men of science, equally serious, were convinced that they were performing an absolutely moral work in attempting to find a prophylactic against syphilis which would preserve many people, including children and other innocent persons who, if no preventive measures existed, would suffer from the terrible disease.
Such examples show the reader what confusion exists in the problem of morality. Although at every moment, in every act of human conduct, the precepts of morality must be reckoned with, even the most authoritative persons are far from agreeing as to what rules to follow. About a year ago in a Parisian journal227 an enquiry into the subject of rational morality was directed to distinguished authors. The object was to discover if, at the present time, moral conduct could be based not on religious dogma, which binds only those who believe in it, but on rational principles. The answers were most contradictory. Some denied the possibility of rational morality, others admitted it, but in very different fashions. Whilst one philosopher, M. Boutroux, held that “morality must be founded on reason and could have no other foundation,” a poet, M. Sully-Prudhomme, turned to feeling and conscience as the basis of morality. According to him, “in the teaching of morality, it is the heart and not the mind which is at once master and pupil.” In the contradictions which I mentioned in the beginning of this chapter, these two views appear. When antivivisectionists are protesting against experiments on animals, they are inspired by sympathy for poor creatures which cannot defend themselves. Guided by conscience, they think immoral any suffering inflicted upon a living being for the benefit of another being, whether human or animal. I know distinguished physiologists who have determined to limit their experiments to animals with little sensibility, such as frogs. The great majority of scientific men, however, would have no scruple in opening bodies and subjecting their victims to severe suffering in the hope of clearing up some scientific problem which sooner or later would increase the happiness of human beings and animals. If vivisection had not been performed, or if it had been restricted, the great laws of infectious diseases would not have been discovered, nor would the discovery of many valuable remedies have been made. To justify investigation, men of science set out from the utilitarian theory of morality, which approves everything that is useful to the human race. The antivivisectionists, on the other hand, rely on the intuitive theory, according to which conduct is controlled by the spontaneous activity of our conscience.
In the case which I have selected the problem is easy to solve. It is plain that vivisection is inevitable in the experimental investigation of vital processes, as it is the only means by which serious progress can be made. None the less, very many people cannot accept this necessity, because of the intensity of their love for animals.
In the question of the prevention of syphilis, the moral problem is still more easy to settle. Whilst in the case of vivisection a real suffering may be inflicted upon animals, in preventive measures against syphilis, the evil is more or less intricate and very problematic. The certainty of safety from this disease might render extra-conjugal relations more frequent, but if we compare the evil which might come from that with the immense benefit gained in preventing so many innocent persons from becoming diseased, it is easy to see to which side the scale dips. The indignation of those who protest against the discovery of preventive measures can never either arrest the zeal of the investigators or hinder the use of the measures. This example again shows that reasoning is necessary in the solution of most moral questions.
However, the problems which arise in actual life are often very much more complicated than the two cases I have taken as an introduction. It is easy to prove the high utility of the work of vivisectors and of those who are seeking means of preventing syphilis, whilst their adversaries have nothing to invoke but their feelings. The situation is quite different in many questions which border on morality. The sexual life abounds in extremely difficult problems, in which it is almost impossible to determine what is right. Let me recall the vagaries in the life of Goethe, whose great genius was so often in conflict with the morality of his time. Was he wrong in giving up Frederique and Lili from the fear that a permanent bond would damage his poetic productivity? Then there is the moral question of the marriage of men affected with syphilis, or other diseases which might influence the offspring. The problems of the continence of young people before marriage, of prostitution and of means of preventing conception are without doubt questions of great importance, the solution of which is extremely difficult from the point of view of morality. Differences of opinion are revealed in nearly everything relating to punishment. The question of the death penalty is much in dispute and requires numerous investigations of different kinds. Statistics have been collected to give information as to the utility or inutility of the death penalty. According to some results, capital punishment does not diminish the number of crimes, whilst according to others it has a real preventive effect. Punishments less violent than death, and particularly the punishments of children, are equally troublesome, and schoolmasters have difficulty in finding a solution.
The utilitarian theory of morality often finds it impossible to prove the advantage of the conduct it prescribes, and this the more because in many cases we do not exactly know who is to profit by it. Is the utility of any particular act to be considered so far as it affects relatives, members of the same religion, of the same country, or of the same race, or all humanity?
In face of these difficulties, many moral philosophers have given up the utilitarian theory and declared for an intuitive theory. The basis of morality is to be found in a feeling innate in every man, a sort of social instinct urging him to do good to his neighbour, and which, by the voice of his own conscience, dictates how he ought to act much more precisely than could be done by any comprehension of the utility of his conduct.
It is certainly true that man is an animal living in society because of his need for association with other human beings. But whilst in the animal world the members of societies are actuated by an instinct which is blind and generally very precise, in man we find nothing of the kind. The social instinct appears in him in endless variety. In some of us love of neighbours is extremely highly developed, so that some persons are only happy when sacrificing themselves for the public good. They give all that they have to the poor, and often die for some ideal which is necessarily altruistic. Such examples are rare. Many men, however, profess an affection for some of their kind, devote themselves to their relations, their friends, or their compatriots, and remain practically indifferent to all others. Other individuals, again, have an even narrower sphere of affection, and take advantage of their fellows, either in their own interest or in that of their own family. Still more rare are the really wicked persons who have no love for anyone but themselves and who take pleasure in doing harm to those about them. Notwithstanding this diversity in the development of the social instinct, all men have to live together.
If it were possible to know the inner motives of men, these might be used as a basis for classifying conduct. Those acts might be described as moral which were inspired by neighbourly love, and those as immoral the motive of which was egoism. But it is seldom that the real motives are discovered; they lie deep down in the individual mind, sometimes unknown even to the man himself. We can nearly always harmonise our acts with the dictates of our consciences and find reasons for the harm we inflict upon others. It is only rare natures that possess a conscience so delicate as to be always tormented lest they are not doing good to their neighbours.
In the course of life, men are disposed to attribute bad motives to their opponents. Such an attitude makes criticism easier and panders to the common wish to speak evil of one’s neighbours. Notwithstanding the numerous precedents for such an attitude amongst politicians and journalists, it must be discarded from any serious study of morality.
The motives and the conscience are elusive elements of little use in any attempt to value human conduct. We have to fall back on the consequences of action. Now it is easy to show that the social instinct often leads to action which is not good. It frequently happens that men, acting with the highest and best intentions, do much harm. Schopenhauer long ago pointed out that morality based on sentiment is a mere caricature of real morality. Impelled by the altruistic wish to do good, men often lavish unreflecting charity and do harm to others and to themselves. In Timon of Athens Shakespeare depicted