Elements of Morals Part 29

However, applied in individual cases, we will give here a few of the rules concerning prudence in general:

1. It is not enough to attend to what good or evil the present moment may present; we should also examine what the natural consequences of this good or evil will be, so that, comparing the present with the future and balancing the one with the other, we may see the result beforehand.

2. It is unreasonable to seek a good which will inevitably be followed by a greater evil.

3. Nothing is more reasonable than to suffer an evil which is certain to be followed by a greater good.

4. One should prefer a greater good to a lesser, and conversely so in the case of evils.

5. It is not necessary to be fully certain in regard to great goods or evils, and probability is sufficient to induce a reasonable person to deprive himself of some lesser goods, or to suffer some slight evils, in view of acquiring much greater goods, or avoiding worse evils.[119]

=154. Duties relative to telling the truth.--Veracity and falsehood.=--It is in the nature of man to express his thoughts by signs of various kinds, and oftenest by words. What is the law which is to regulate the relations between words and thoughts? Are we to regard words as arbitrary means serving indifferently to express any kind of thought, or as having no other end than to express our own particular thought, the same, namely, which comes to us at the moment of speaking? Common sense solves this question by esteeming in the highest degree those who use speech only to express their thought, and despising those who use it to deceive. This sort of virtue is called _veracity_, and its opposite is _falsehood_.

Falsehood is generally regarded among men as only a violation of the duty toward others. It is not from this standpoint we are going to consider it here. Unquestionably, one should injure no one in any way, no more by a falsehood than otherwise. But for a falsehood to be harmless, does it follow that it is not bad? The scholastics distinguished two kinds of falsehoods: the _malicious_ falsehood, with intent to deceive, and the _verbal_ falsehood, which consists in mere words, and does not spring from any wish to do harm (as, for example, the falsehood of the physician who deceives his patient). But such distinctions should not be admitted.

Falsehood need not be malicious to be bad: it is bad of itself, whatever be its consequences. There remains then to know what is to be done in cases of conflict between our duties, and if moral law does not in certain cases relent? Even though it did, it would not suffice to authorize the distinction between two kinds of falsehoods. What precisely const.i.tutes a falsehood is to be verbal--that is to say, to employ speech to express the contrary of truth. Whether malice enters into it or not, this is an accident which has nothing to do with the essence of falsehood; it may aggravate or attenuate it, certainly, but it does not const.i.tute it.

To well understand the moral evil which resides in falsehood one must take it at its source--that is to say, distinguish with Kant between _inner_ and _outward_ falsehood: the first whereby one lies to himself, namely, in lacking in sincerity in regard to himself; the second whereby one lies to others.

The human mind is naturally const.i.tuted for knowing the truth: truth is its object and its end. A mind that has not truth for its object is no mind. Whosoever uses his mind to satisfy his inclinations undoubtedly debases his mind, but he does not pervert it; but he who uses his mind to make himself or others believe the contrary to the truth, perverts and ruins his mind. He then perverts and destroys one of the most excellent gifts of his nature, and fails thereby in one of the strictest and most clearly defined duties.

It may be asked whether it is possible for man to really lie to himself, and if it is not rather a contradiction in terms. One can, in fact, understand how a man may be mistaken, but then he does not know that he is mistaken; it is an error, but no lie; if, on the contrary, he knows that he is mistaken, then for that very reason is he no longer mistaken; so that it would seem that there can be no lying to one's self.

And yet popular psychology, the subtlest of all, because it is formed in the presence of real facts, and under the true teachings of experience (whilst scientific psychology is always more or less artificial), this natural psychology, which sums up the experience of the whole of humanity, has always affirmed that man could voluntarily deceive himself, consequently lie to himself. The most ordinary case of inward falsehood is when man employs sophisms--that is to say, seeks reasons wherewith to smother the cry of his conscience; or when he tries to persuade himself that he has no other motive in view than moral good, whilst, in fact, he only acts from fear of punishment, or from any other interested motive.

"To take, through love of self, an intention for a fact, because it has for its object a good end in itself, is again," says Kant, "a defect of another kind. It is a weakness similar to that of the lover who, desirous to see nothing but good qualities in the woman he loves,[120] shuts his eyes to the most obvious defects."

The inward lie is then an unpardonable weakness, if not a real baseness, and we must conclude from this that it is the same with the outward lie--the lie, namely, which expresses itself in words.

Here it may be objected that speech is not an integrant part of the mind, that it is only an accident, that whatever use we may make of speech we do not destroy thereby the principle of intelligence, for I may use my mind to discover and possess myself of truth, even though I should not make known the same to others, or make them believe otherwise than I think.

From this standpoint falsehood would still remain a sin as a violation of the duty toward others, though not as a shortcoming in regard to one's self.

But this would be a very false a.n.a.lysis of the psychological fact called communication of thought. Speech is never wholly independent of thought.

The very fact that I speak, implies that I think my speech: there is an inner affirmation required. I cannot make sophisms to deceive men without having first inwardly combined these sophisms through the faculty of thinking which is in me. I think then of one thing and another at the same time; I think at the same time of both the true and the false, and I am conscious of this contradiction. I employ then knowingly my mind in destroying itself, and I fall, consequently, into the vice pointed out above.

Kant gives another deduction than ours to prove that falsehood is a violation of duty toward one's self. But his deduction is, perhaps, not sufficiently severe:

"A man who does not himself believe what he tells another, is of less worth than is a simple _thing_; for one may put the usefulness of a simple thing to some account, whilst the liar is not so much a real man as a deceiving appearance of a man.... Once the major principle of veracity shaken, dissimulation soon runs into all our relations with others."

This deduction is very ingenious; but it lacks strictness, inasmuch as it is based on the use a man may be made of, which principle is contrary to the general principle of Kant's morals, and also because it rests on the standpoint of social interest, which lies outside the point in question.

=155. Discretion.=--It is evident that the duty not to lie, does not carry with it, as its consequence, the duty of telling all. Silence must not be confounded with dissimulation, and no one is obliged to tell all he has in his mind; far from it; we are here before another duty toward ourselves, which stands in some respect in opposition to the preceding one, namely, _discretion_. The babbler who speaks at all times and under all circ.u.mstances, and he who tells what he should not, must not be confounded with the loyal and sincere man, who only tells what he thinks, but does not necessarily tell all he thinks.

Silence is obviously a strict duty toward others, when the matter in question has been confided to us under the seal of secrecy. But it may also be said that it is a duty toward ourselves, and for the following reasons:

1. To use one's mind, as does the babbler, in giving utterance to barren and frivolous thoughts, is degrading: not all that accidentally crosses one's mind is worthy of being expressed; and it is simply heedlessness to fix one's mind on fleeting things, and give them a certain fixity and value through words; 2, there are, on the other hand, other thoughts, too precious, too personal, too elevated, to be indiscreetly exposed to the curiosity of fools or indifferent persons. Thus will it be heroic, unquestionably, to confess one's faith before the executioner, if there is need; but it is not necessary to proclaim it all round when there is no occasion for it: I believe such and such a thing; I belong to such or such a church; I hold such and such a doctrine; I belong to such or such a party, unless, of course, there is an interest in spreading one's belief; and even then it will be necessary to choose the right place and the right moment. As to using discretion in regard to our sentiments, our moral qualities, or our defects, it is in one instance a duty of modesty and in another one of personal dignity.

=156. Perjury.=--If falsehood is in general an abas.e.m.e.nt of human dignity, it is a still greater abas.e.m.e.nt when it is of the kind called _perjury_, and a transgression which might be defined as a double falsehood.

Perjury is of two sorts: it either means swearing falsely or violating a former oath. In order to understand the meaning of perjury, one must know what const.i.tutes an oath.

The oath is an affirmation where G.o.d is taken as a witness of the truth one is supposed to utter. The oath consists, then, in some respect, in invoking G.o.d in our favor, in making him speak in our name. We, so to say, attest that G.o.d himself, who reads the heart, would, if he were called in testimony, speak as we speak ourselves. The oath indicates that one accepts in advance the chastis.e.m.e.nts G.o.d does not fail to inflict upon those who invoke his name in vain.

It will be seen by this how perjury, namely, false swearing, may be called a double lie. For perjury is a lie, first in affirming a thing that is false, and second, in affirming that G.o.d would bear testimony if he were present. Let us add that there is here a sort of sacrilege which consists in our making G.o.d, in some respects, the accomplice of our lie.

It is true that men, in taking an oath, forget often its sacred and religious character, and, consequently, there is not always a sacrilegious intention in their false swearing. But it may still be said that perjury is a double lie; for in every oath taken, even though stripped of all religious character, there is always a double attestation: first we affirm a thing, and next we affirm that our affirmation is true. It is thus that in that form of speech long since worn out, which is called _word of honor_, we give our word and engage our honor to attest that such or such affirmation is true. To break this word is, then, to lie twice, for it is affirming a false affirmation. It is for this reason that falsehood, which is always culpable, must, in this case, be regarded as particularly dishonorable.

As to perjury, considered as a violation of a former oath, it belongs to the cla.s.s of promise or word-breaking, which is especially contrary to the duty toward others. Yet, even in this kind of falsehood, there is also a violation of personal duty; for he who breaks a promise (with or without oath) would seem to indicate by it that he did not intend keeping his promise, which is destructive to the very idea of a promise; it is then, once more, using speech, not as a necessary symbol of thought, but simply as a means of obtaining what we want, reserving to ourselves the liberty to change our minds when the moment comes for fulfilling our promise. This is abasing our intelligence, and making it serve as a means to satisfy our wants, whilst it belongs to an order far superior to these very wants.

CHAPTER XIV.

DUTIES RELATIVE TO THE WILL.

SUMMARY.

=Duties relative to the will.--Strength of soul.=--All duty in general is relative to the will: for there is not any which does not require the control of the will over the inclinations.

Virtue, especially when considered from the latter standpoint,--the control of the will over the inclinations,--is _strength of soul_, or _courage_.

Of courage and its different forms: _military courage_; _civic courage_; _patience_, _moderation_ in prosperity; _equanimity_, etc.

Of anger and its different kinds.--Generous anger.

Duty of _personal dignity_.--_Respect for one's self._ _True pride_ and _false pride_.--Of a _just esteem of one's self_.--Of _modesty_.

=Duties relative to sentiment.=--Have we any duties in regard to our sensibilities?--Kant's objection: no one can love at will. Reply.--To distinguish _sensibility_ from _sentimentality_.

=157. Duties relative to the will.--Strength of soul.=--One may justly ask whether there are any duties relating particularly to the will: for it would seem that all duties are generally duties of the will. There is no one that does not require the control of the will over the inclinations; and if we say that it is a duty to cultivate and exercise this control, is it not as if we said that it is a duty to learn to do our duty? But why could we not also suppose a third duty, commanding us to observe the former, and so _ad infinitum_?

We may then say that the duty to exercise one's will and triumph over the pa.s.sions, is nothing more than duty _per se_, the duty _par excellence_, of which all the other duties are but parts. This virtue, by which the soul commands its pa.s.sions and does not allow itself to be subjugated by any of them, may be called courage or strength of soul. Courage thus understood is not only a virtue; it is virtue itself.[121] In fact, what is temperance, if it is not a certain kind of courage before the pleasures of the senses? what economy, if not courage before the temptations of fortune? what veracity, if not the courage to tell the truth under all circ.u.mstances? what justice and benevolence, if not the courage to sacrifice self-interest to the interest of others? We have already (page 87) made a similar observation in regard to prudence and wisdom, namely, that virtue in general is both wisdom and courage: for it presupposes at the same time strength and light. As strength, it is courage, energy, greatness of soul; as light, it is prudence and wisdom. All special virtues would, then, strictly speaking, be only factors, or component parts, of those two.

=158. Courage.=--Yet if courage, in its most general sense, is virtue itself, usage has given it a special meaning which defines it in a more particular manner, and makes of it a certain distinct virtue, on the same conditions as all the others. As of all the a.s.saults which besiege us in life, death appears to be the most terrible and generally the most dreaded, it is not to be wondered then that this kind of energy which consists in braving death and, consequently, all that may lead to it, namely, peril, has been designated by a particular name. Courage, therefore, is the sort of virtue which braves peril and even death. Then, by extension, the same word was applied to every manifestation of strength of soul before misfortune, misery, grief. A man can be brave in poverty, in slavery, under humiliation even--that is, a humiliation which is due to outward circ.u.mstances, and which he has not deserved.

This courageous virtue seems to have been the particular feature of the ancients, and by dint of its excellence, still retains its hold on us, dazzling our imagination, as a privileged prestige. Yet is it only an illusion, and modern times are as rich in heroes as were ancient times: only we pay less attention to it perhaps; but, whether it be real superiority in this kind of virtue, or literary reminiscences and habits of education, nothing will ever erase that lively picture of ancient heroism so celebrated under the name of Plutarch's heroes, and which has always captivated all great imaginations. Stoicism, that original philosophy of the Greek and Roman world, is above all the philosophy of courage. Its character proper is the strength to resist one's self, to hold pain, death, all the accidents of humanity, in contempt. Its model is Hercules, the G.o.d of strength; all the great men of antiquity, whether consciously or not, were stoics: such were especially the ancient Roman citizens; they were austere, inexorable; slaves to duty and discipline, faithful to their oath, to their country;--Brutus, Regulus, Scaevola, Decius, and thousands more like them. When stoicism came in contact with the last great Romans, it found material all ready for its doctrines; it then became the philosophy of the last republicans, the last heroes of a world which was fast disappearing.

The courage which most impresses men is _military courage_.

"The most honorable deaths occur in war," says Aristotle, "for in war the danger is the greatest and most honorable. The public honors that are awarded in states and by monarchs attest this.

"Properly, then, he who in the case of an honorable death, and under circ.u.mstances close at hand which cause death, is fearless, may be called courageous; and the dangers of war are, more than any others, of this description."[122]

In looking at it from this somewhat exclusive standpoint, Aristotle refuses to call courageous those who brave sickness and poverty; "for it is possible," he says, "for cowards, in the perils of war, to bear with much firmness the losses of fortune;" nor does he allow to be called courageous "him who firmly meets the strokes of the whip he is threatened with."

This is but a question of name and degree. Wherever there are any evils to brave, the firmness which meets and bears these evils can be called courage; on the other hand, the sense of the word can, if preferred, be restricted to military perils; but what Aristotle has most justly defined, and of which he makes a very subtle a.n.a.lysis, is the difference between apparent and true courage. Thus the courage of constraint and necessity--as, for instance, that of soldiers who would be mercilessly killed, if they retreated before the enemy--is not true courage, for one cannot be brave through fear. Nor should anger be confounded with courage: this were but the courage of wild beasts obeying a blind impulse under the sting of pain. At that rate, the donkeys even, when hungry, would be brave. That which determines true courage is the sentiment of honor, not pa.s.sion. We should neither call brave him who is so only because he feels himself the strongest, like the drunkard full of confidence in the beginning, but who runs away when he does not succeed. For this reason is there truer courage in preserving one's intrepidity and calm in sudden dangers, than in dangers long antic.i.p.ated.[123] Finally, ignorance cannot be called courage either: to brave a danger one is ignorant of, is only to be apparently brave.