Constantin's Speech

Constantin spoke as follows:

Constantin said:

There is a time to keep silence, and a time to speak,²⁶ and now it seems to be the time to speak briefly, for our young friend has spoken much and very strangely. His vis comica²⁷ has made us struggle ancipiti proelio²⁸ because his speech was full of doubts, as he himself is, sitting there now—a perplexed man who knows not whether to laugh, or weep, or fall in love. In fact, had I had foreknowledge of his speech, such as he demands one should have of love, I should have forbidden him to speak; but now it is too late. I shall bid you then, dear bellow-banqueters, "gladsome and merry to be," and even if I cannot enforce this I shall ask you to forget each speech so soon as it is made and to wash it down with a single draught.

There is a time to be silent, and a time to speak,²⁶ and now seems the time to speak briefly. For our young friend has spoken at length and very strangely. His comic power²⁷ has made us struggle on two fronts²⁸ because his speech was full of doubts. He himself is just as full of doubts, sitting there now. He is a confused man who does not know whether to laugh, weep, or fall in love. In fact, if I had known his speech in advance, I would have forbidden him to speak. He demands just such advance knowledge of love, but now it is too late to stop his speech. So I urge you, dear fellow banqueters, "be happy and merry." Even if I cannot make you happy and merry, I ask you to forget each speech as soon as it ends. Wash each speech down with a single gulp.

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

And now I turn to woman, whom I will discuss. I too have thought deeply about her. And I have finally discovered the category she belongs to. I too have searched, but I have also found. And I have made an unmatched discovery, which I will now share with you. Woman can be understood correctly only when placed in the category of "the joke."

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

Man’s role is to be absolute, to act absolutely, or to express the absolute. Woman’s sphere lies in her relativity.²⁹ No truly mutual relationship can exist between beings so radically different. The joke lies precisely in their lack of any common measure. And with woman, the joke came into the world. However, man must know how to hold to his role of being absolute. Otherwise, nothing can be seen. Or rather, we see something extremely common: man and woman fit each other, he as half a man and she as half a man.

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

The joke is not an aesthetic category, but a failed ethical one. Its effect on thought resembles the impression a man would make if he solemnly began a speech. He would speak a comma or two aloud, then say "hm!" and "dash" and stop. So it is with woman. You try to apply the ethical category to her. You think of human nature, open your eyes, and fix your gaze on the excellent young woman in question. You try to uphold the claims of ethical demands. Then you grow uneasy and say to yourself: ah, this is undoubtedly a joke! The joke lies in applying that category to her and judging her by it. Expecting serious results from her would be pointless, but that is precisely the joke. Because if you could demand serious results from her, there would be no joke at all. Putting her under an air pump and drawing the air out of her would be a very poor joke indeed. In fact, doing so would be shameful. But inflate her to supernatural size instead. Let her imagine she has achieved all the ideal perfection that a sixteen-year-old girl imagines she possesses. That is the beginning of the game, and indeed of a highly entertaining performance. No young man has half as much imaginary ideal perfection as a young girl. But, as the tailor in the proverb says, "We shall soon be even", because her ideal perfection is only an illusion.

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

If one fails to see woman from this perspective, she may cause harm that cannot be undone. But as I see her, she becomes harmless and amusing. For a man, nothing is more shocking than catching himself talking nonsense. Such talk destroys all true idealism. For a man may repent of having been a scoundrel. He may regret not having meant a word he said. But suppose he talked nonsense, pure nonsense, and meant every word. And then, look! Every word was nonsense. That is too disgusting for even repentance itself to bear. But with woman, the case is different. She has a time-honored right to transform herself, in less than 24 hours, into the most innocent and forgivable nonsense. For any wish to deceive you is far from her innocent soul! Indeed, she meant everything she said. And now she says the exact opposite, but with the same charming frankness. For now she is ready to stake everything on her latest words. Now if a man gives himself over to love in all seriousness, he may indeed count himself fortunate if he can get insurance. That is, if he can find insurance anywhere. For material as flammable as woman is very likely to make an insurance agent suspicious. Just consider for a moment what he has done by identifying himself with her! If, one fine New Year's night, she goes off like fireworks, he will promptly do the same. And even if she does not, he will have many close calls. And what might he not lose! He may lose everything. For the absolute has only one absolute opposite, and that is nonsense. So let him not seek refuge in some society for morally tainted people. For he is not morally tainted, far from it. He has merely been reduced to absurdity and blessed in nonsense. In other words, he has been made a fool of.

This will never happen among men. If a man should sputter off in this fashion I would scorn him. If he should fool me by his cleverness I need but apply the ethical category to him, and the danger is trifling. If things go too far I shall put a bullet through his brain; but to challenge a woman—what is that, if you please? Who does not see that it is a joke, just as when Xerxes had the sea whipped? When Othello murders Desdemona, granting she really had been guilty, he has gained nothing, for he has been duped, and a dupe he remains; for even by his murdering her he only makes a concession with regard to a consequence which originally made him ridiculous; whereas Elvira³⁰ may be an altogether pathetic figure when arming herself with a dagger to obtain revenge. The fact that Shakespeare has conceived Othello as a tragic figure (even disregarding the calamity that Desdemona is innocent) is to be explained and, indeed, to perfect satisfaction, by the hero being a colored person. For a colored person, dear fellow-banqueters, who cannot be assumed to represent spiritual qualities—a colored person, I say, who therefore becomes green in his face when his ire is aroused (which is a physiological fact), a colored man may, indeed, become tragic if he is deceived by a woman; just as a woman has all the pathos of tragedy on her side when she is betrayed by a man. A man who flies into a rage may perhaps become tragic; but a man of whom one may expect a developed mentality, he will either not become jealous, or he will become ridiculous if he does; and most of all when he comes running with a dagger in his hand.

This will never happen among men. If a man were to rant like this, I would scorn him. If he fooled me with his cleverness, I would only need to judge him by ethical standards. Then the danger would be slight. If things go too far, I shall put a bullet through his brain. But to challenge a woman, what is that, if you please? Who cannot see that such a challenge is a joke, just like Xerxes having the sea whipped? When Othello murders Desdemona, even supposing she really was guilty, he gains nothing. He has been fooled, and he remains a fool. Even by murdering her, he merely gives in to a consequence that made him ridiculous in the first place. Elvira³⁰, by contrast, may be a thoroughly tragic figure when she arms herself with a dagger to seek revenge. Shakespeare presents Othello as a tragic figure, even apart from the disaster of Desdemona’s innocence. The explanation is that the hero is a person of color, and this explanation is entirely satisfactory. For a person of color, dear fellow diners, cannot be assumed to embody spiritual qualities. A person of color, I say, therefore turns green in the face when his anger rises. This is a physiological fact. A man of color may indeed become tragic if a woman deceives him. Just so, a woman has all the emotional force of tragedy on her side when a man betrays her. A man who flies into a rage may perhaps become tragic. But a man expected to have a developed mind will either not become jealous or become ridiculous if he does. He becomes most ridiculous when he comes running with a dagger in his hand.

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

It is a pity Shakespeare never gave us a comedy in which irony dismisses the claim a woman's infidelity raises. Not everyone who sees the humor in this situation can develop the idea and bring it to the stage. Just imagine Socrates catching Xanthippe in the act. It would be unlike Socrates even to care much about his wife's fidelity, let alone spy on her. Imagine the scene, and I believe his gentle smile would, for the first time, have become a roar of laughter. That smile transformed the ugliest man in Athens into the handsomest. It is hard to understand why Aristophanes, who so often mocked Socrates, never had him rush onstage shouting: "Where is she, where is she, so that I may kill her, I mean, my unfaithful Xanthippe." For it really makes little difference whether Socrates was a cuckold or not. And anything Xanthippe might do to make him one is wasted effort, like snapping your fingers inside your pocket. For Socrates remains the same intellectual hero, even with a cuckold's horn on his forehead. But suppose he had actually become jealous and wanted to kill Xanthippe. Alas! Then Xanthippe would have held a power over him that neither the entire Greek nation nor his death sentence could exert. She would have made him ridiculous.

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

A man whose wife is unfaithful is comical, then, in relation to his wife. But in relation to other men, he may be seen as tragic. In this contrast, we may find an explanation for the Spanish idea of honor. But the tragedy lies chiefly in his inability to get justice. His suffering is agonizing because it has no meaning, and that is terrible enough. To shoot the woman, challenge her, or despise her would only make the poor man look even more ridiculous. For woman is the weaker sex. This consideration comes into everything and confuses everything. If she does something great, she is admired more than a man, because she has exceeded expectations. If she is betrayed, all sympathy is on her side. But if a man is deceived, people have little sympathy or patience while he is present. And they laugh at him when his back is turned.

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

You see, then, it is wise to start treating woman as a joke early on. The entertainment she provides is simply unmatched. Treat her as a fixed quantity and yourself as a relative one. Never contradict her, because doing so would only help her. Never doubt what she says. Instead, believe her every word. Dance around her, your eyes unsteady with indescribable admiration and blissful intoxication, taking the dainty steps of a worshipper. Sink to your knees with longing, then look up at her with longing and sigh again. Do everything she tells you, like an obedient slave. And now comes the best part of the joke. We need no proof that woman can speak, meaning use words. Unfortunately, however, she lacks enough self-reflection to keep from contradicting herself over time. That means eight days at most. The exception is when a man keeps her consistent by contradicting her. So before long, utter confusion will reign. If you had not done what she told you, the confusion would go unnoticed. For she forgets as quickly as she talks. But her admirer has done everything and has been at her beck and call every time. So the confusion is all too obvious.

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

The more gifted the woman, the more amusing the situation. For the more gifted she is, the more imagination she has. And the more imagination she has, the more she puts on airs. The confusion bound to show itself a moment later is greater too. Such entertainment is rare in life, because people seldom obey a woman's whims so blindly. And if some lovesick admirer does, he most likely lacks the ability to see the joke. The fact is, the ideal perfection a young woman claims when her imagination is at work is found nowhere else. Neither gods nor humans can match it. But believing her and adding fuel to the fire makes the situation all the more entertaining.

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

As I said, the fun is simply beyond compare. I know this for a fact, because sometimes I have been unable to sleep at night from sheer anticipation. I would think of the new confusions I would witness thanks to my sweetheart and my humble eagerness to please her. Indeed, no lottery player will encounter more remarkable combinations than someone with a passion for this game. For one thing is certain: every woman, without exception, has the same ability to dissolve and transform into nonsense. And every woman does so with the grace, casual ease, and confidence befitting the weaker sex.

Being a right-minded lover one naturally discovers every possible charm in one's beloved. Now, when discovering genius in the above sense, one ought not to let it remain a mere possibility but ought, rather, to develop it into virtuosity. I do not need to be more specific, and more cannot be said in a general way, yet every one will understand me. Just as one may find entertainment in balancing a cane on one's nose, in swinging a tumbler in a circle without spilling a drop, in dancing between eggs, and in other games as amusing and profitable, likewise, and not otherwise, in living with his beloved the lover will have a source of incomparable entertainment and food for most interesting study. In matters pertaining to love let one have absolute belief, not only in her protestations of fidelity—one soon tires of that game—but in all those explosions of inviolable Romanticism by which she would probably perish if one did not contrive a safety-valve through which the sighs and the smoke, and "the aria of Romanticism³¹" may escape and make her worshipper happy. Let one compare her admiringly to Juliet, the difference being only that no person ever as much as thought of touching a hair on her Romeo's head. With regard to intellectual matters, let one hold her capable of all and, if one has been lucky enough to find the right woman, in a trice one will have a cantankerous authoress, whilst wonderingly shading one's eyes with one's hand and duly admiring what the little black hen may yield besides.³² It is altogether incomprehensible why Socrates did not choose this course of action instead of bickering with Xanthippe—oh, well! to be sure he wished to acquire practice, like the riding master who, even though he has the best trained horse, yet knows how to tease him in such fashion that there is good reason for breaking him in again.³³

A right-minded lover naturally discovers every possible charm in his beloved. Now, when he discovers genius in the sense described above, he should not leave that genius as a mere possibility. Instead, he should develop it into virtuosity. I need not be more specific, and nothing more can be said in general terms. Yet everyone will understand me. One may find entertainment in balancing a cane on one’s nose or swinging a glass in circles without spilling a drop. One may also enjoy dancing among eggs and other equally amusing and useful games. In just the same way, and no other, living with his beloved offers the lover incomparable entertainment. She also provides material for the most interesting study. In matters of love, have absolute faith, not only in her declarations of faithfulness. One soon tires of that game. Believe, too, in all those outbursts of unshakable Romanticism that would probably kill her without a safety valve. The lover must devise one to let out the sighs, the smoke, and "the aria of Romanticism³¹". Their escape will make her worshipper happy. Compare her admiringly to Juliet. The only difference is that no one has ever even thought of touching a hair on her Romeo’s head. In intellectual matters, consider her capable of everything. If you have been lucky enough to find the right woman, you will soon have an ill-tempered woman writer. Meanwhile, shade your eyes with your hand in wonder, duly admiring whatever else the little black hen may produce.³² It is entirely incomprehensible why Socrates did not take this approach instead of bickering with Xanthippe. Oh, well! Of course, he wanted practice. He was like a riding master who, even with the best-trained horse, knows how to provoke the animal. Then there is good reason to break the horse in again.³³

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

Let me be a little more specific to illustrate a particular and highly interesting phenomenon. Much has been said about women’s faithfulness, but rarely with any judgment.³⁴ From a purely aesthetic perspective, this faithfulness must be seen as a poetic fiction stepping onto the stage to find her lover. This fiction sits at the spinning wheel and waits for her lover to come. But once she has found him, or he has come, well, aesthetics has nothing more to say. Her unfaithfulness, by contrast with her earlier faithfulness, must be judged mainly in terms of its ethical significance. Jealousy will then appear as a tragic passion. There are three possibilities, so the odds favor women: two cases of faithfulness against one of unfaithfulness. Her faithfulness is unimaginably great when she is not entirely sure of her suitor. Her faithfulness is even more unimaginably great when he rejects it. The third case would be her unfaithfulness. Now, suppose you have enough intelligence and objectivity to reflect on the matter. You will find enough justification in what I have said for my category of "the joke." Our young friend, whose beginning somewhat misled me, seemed about to take up this matter. But he backed away again, daunted by the difficulty. Yet the explanation is not difficult, provided you seriously set about making unrequited love and death correspond to each other. You must also be serious enough to follow your thought through. And you ought to have that much seriousness, for the sake of the joke.

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

Of course, the claim that unrequited love means death originated with either a woman or an effeminate man. Its origin is easy to trace. It is one of those sweeping outbursts delivered with great bravado on the spur of the moment. Such outbursts can count on loud, immediate applause. For although the subject is supposedly life and death, the phrase is meant for immediate consumption, like cream puffs. Although the phrase refers to everyday experience, it places no obligation on the person who is supposed to die. It only obliges the listener to rush to the dying lover’s rescue. If a man started using such phrases, he would not be amusing at all. He would be too contemptible to laugh at. Woman, however, possesses genius and is lovable to the extent that she possesses it. And she is always amusing. Well then, the lovesick lady dies of love. Certainly, for didn’t she say so herself? In this she is pathetic, for woman has the courage to say what no man would dare to do. So then, she dies! In saying so, I have judged her by ethical standards. Do the same, dear fellow diners, and understand your Aristotle correctly now! He quite rightly observes that woman cannot be used in tragedy.³⁵ And certainly, her proper sphere is pathetic and serious light entertainment, the half-hour farce, not the five-act drama. So then, she dies. But should her death prevent her from loving again? Why should it? Provided, of course, that she can be brought back to life. Now, once brought back to life, she is naturally a new being. Another person, that is, who starts afresh and falls in love for the first time. Nothing remarkable about that! Ah, death, great is your power! Neither the most violent medicine to induce vomiting nor the strongest laxative could ever have the same purging effect!

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

The confusion that follows is wonderful, if you just pay attention and do not forget. A dead man is one of the funniest characters you can meet in life. Strange that he is not used more often on stage, since you do see him in life now and then. When you think about it, even someone who only seemed dead is a comic figure. But someone who really was dead certainly provides all the entertainment anyone could reasonably expect from a man. Everything depends on paying attention. My own attention was drawn to this one day while I was walking with an acquaintance. A couple passed us. From his expression, I guessed he knew them and asked if he did. "Why, yes," he answered, "I know them very well, especially the lady, for she is my departed one." "What departed one?" I asked. "Why, my departed first love," he answered. "This really is a strange business. She said: I shall die. And at that very moment she departed, naturally enough, through death. Otherwise, one might have insured her beforehand with a widow's insurance policy. Too late! Dead she was, and dead she remained. And now I wander about, as the poet says, searching in vain for my beloved's grave to weep over it." So spoke this brokenhearted man, left alone in the world, though finding her well along with another man consoled him.

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

It's a good thing for the girls, I thought, that they don't need to be buried every time they die. For if parents have considered boys more expensive until now, girls might end up costing even more!

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

A simple case of unfaithfulness is nowhere near as amusing. I mean, suppose a girl fell in love with someone else and said to her lover: "I cannot help it, save me from myself!" But suppose she is to die of sorrow because she cannot bear his leaving for the West Indies. Yet she endures his departure. Then, when he returns, she is not only still alive but committed to someone else for life. That certainly is a strange fate for a lover to suffer. No wonder, then, that the heartbroken man sometimes comforted himself with the refrain of an old song: "Hurrah for you and me, I say, we never shall forget that day!"

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

Now forgive me, dear fellow diners, if I have spoken too long. And drink a glass to love and to woman. She is beautiful and lovely, if considered aesthetically. There is no denying her beauty. But, as people have often said, and as I will say too, we should not stop here. We should go further.³⁶ Consider her ethically, then, and you will hardly have begun before the humor becomes apparent. Even Plato and Aristotle assume that woman is an imperfect form, an irrational quantity. In other words, she might someday, in a better world, be transformed into a man. In this life, we must take her as she is. And what she is soon becomes apparent. For she will not be content with the aesthetic sphere, but goes further. She wants to become emancipated, and she has the courage to say so. Let her wish be fulfilled, and the amusement will be beyond compare.

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

When Constantin finished speaking, he immediately directed Victor Eremita to begin. Victor Eremita spoke as follows: