Victor Eremita's Speech

As will be remembered, Plato offers thanks to the gods for four things. In the fourth place he is grateful for having been permitted to be a contemporary of Socrates. For the three other boons mentioned by him,³⁷ an earlier Greek philosopher³⁸ had already thanked the gods, and so I conclude that they are worthy our gratitude. But alas!—even if I wanted to express my gratitude like these Greeks I would not be able to do so for what was denied me. Let me then collect my soul in gratitude for the one good which was conferred on me also—that I was made a man and not a woman.

As you may remember, Plato thanks the gods for four things. Fourth, he is grateful to have been allowed to live at the same time as Socrates. An earlier Greek philosopher³⁸ had already thanked the gods for the other three blessings Plato mentions,³⁷ so I conclude that these blessings deserve our gratitude. But alas! Even if I wanted to express my gratitude like these Greeks, I could not give thanks for what I was denied. So let me gather my soul in gratitude for the one good thing I too received: being made a man and not a woman.

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

Being a woman is so curious, so varied and complex, that no single description can fully capture these qualities. And if I used many descriptions, they would contradict one another. Only a woman could tolerate the result and, worse still, be happy about it. The fact that she really counts for less than a man is not her misfortune. Still less would it be her misfortune if she came to know this, since she could bear it with courage. No, her misfortune is that a romantic view of things has stripped her life of any fixed meaning. Under this view, she means everything one moment and nothing the next, without ever discovering what she really means. Yet even this uncertainty is not her misfortune. Rather, her misfortune is that, being a woman, she will never be able to find out. As for me, if I were a woman, I would prefer to be a slave in the Orient. For being a slave, neither more nor less, is at least something. It is better than being everything one moment and nothing the next.

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

Even if a woman’s life contained no such contrasts, the special treatment she receives would alone suggest her life’s meaninglessness. This special treatment is rightly assumed to belong to her as a woman, and men do not share it. I am referring to gallantry. It is fitting for men to treat women gallantly. Now gallantry simply means viewing the person you treat gallantly in terms of fantasy. To treat a man gallantly is therefore an insult. He asks to be spared being viewed in terms of fantasy. For women, however, gallantry is a tribute, an honor that is essentially their privilege. Alas, if only one gentleman treated women gallantly, the matter would not be so serious. But far from it! Deep down, every man is gallant, without knowing it. So life itself has granted women this privilege. Women, in turn, accept the privilege without knowing it. Here we face the same problem again. For if only one woman accepted it, we would need another explanation. This is life’s characteristic irony.

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

Now, if gallantry reflected the truth, it ought to work both ways. Gallantry would then be the accepted exchange rate between beauty on one side and power, cleverness, and strength on the other. But that is not the case. Gallantry is essentially something owed to woman. Her unconscious acceptance of gallantry may be explained by nature's care for the weak and those she has treated harshly. An illusion makes them feel more than compensated. But this very illusion is woman's misfortune. Nature quite often helps a suffering creature by comforting him with the belief that he is the most beautiful. If so, we may say that nature has made up for his disadvantage. After all, the creature now has even more than anyone could reasonably demand. But to be beautiful only in one's imagination is an even crueler mockery. Instead of being overcome by sadness, one is fooled by an illusion. Now, woman is certainly far from being a suffering creature whom nature has treated harshly. Still, nature has treated her harshly in another sense. She can never free herself from the illusion with which life has comforted her.

Gathering together one's impressions of a woman's existence, in order to point out its essential features, one is struck by the fact that every woman's life gives one an entirely fantastic impression. In a far more decisive sense than man she may be said to have turning points in her career; for her turning points turn everything upside down. In one of Tieck's³⁹ Romantic dramas there occurs a person who, having once been king of Mesopotamia, now is a green-grocer in Copenhagen. Exactly as fantastic is every feminine existence. If the girl's name is Juliana, her life is as follows: erstwhile empress in the wide domains of love, and titular queen of all the exaggerations of tomfoolery; now, Mrs. Peterson, corner Bath Street.

When we gather our impressions of a woman's life to identify its essential features, every woman's life seems utterly fantastic. A woman may be said to have turning points in her life in a much stronger sense than a man. For her turning points turn everything upside down. In one of Tieck's³⁹ Romantic dramas, a character was once king of Mesopotamia but is now a greengrocer in Copenhagen. Every woman's life is just as fantastic. If the girl's name is Juliana, her life goes like this: once empress of love's vast domains, and queen in name of all the extravagances of foolishness. Now, Mrs. Peterson, on the corner of Bath Street.

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

As a child, a girl is valued less than a boy. When she is a little older, no one knows quite what to make of her. At last she reaches that decisive stage when she has absolute power. A man approaches her worshipfully as a suitor. Every suitor approaches her this way. His worship is not a cunning deceiver’s trick. Even the executioner lays down his fasces, his symbols of authority, to go courting. Even he bends his knee, although he is willing, before long, to submit to executions at home. He finds these domestic executions so natural that he hardly thinks of excusing them by pointing to the scarcity of public executions. The cultured man behaves in exactly the same way. He kneels, he worships, he imagines his beloved in the most extravagant terms. Then he very quickly forgets that he knelt. In fact, even while kneeling, he knew perfectly well how fanciful his kneeling was.

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

If I were a woman, I would prefer my father to sell me to the highest bidder. That is the custom in the East, and at least such a deal makes some sense. What a misfortune to be born a woman! Yet her real misfortune is that, being a woman, she cannot understand her misfortune. If she does complain, she complains about her position in the East rather than in the West. But if I were a woman, I would first of all refuse to be courted. I would accept belonging to the weaker sex, if that is indeed the case. And I would be careful not to go beyond the truth. Such care matters most when one is proud. But she cares little about staying within the truth. Juliana is in seventh heaven, and Mrs. Peterson accepts her fate.

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

Let me, then, thank the gods that I was born a man and not a woman. And yet, how much I miss out on! For isn't all poetry, from drinking songs to tragedy, a celebration of woman as divine? So much the worse for her and for the man who admires her. For if he isn't careful, he will suddenly find himself with a long face. All that is beautiful and excellent, all of man's achievements, comes from woman, because she inspires him. Woman is indeed the source of inspiration in life. How many lovesick shepherds have played tunes on this theme, and how many shepherdesses have listened! Truly, my soul feels no envy, only gratitude to the gods. For I would rather be a man, however lowly my position, but truly a man, than a woman, undefined and made happy by an illusion. I would rather be something concrete, with a small but definite meaning, than an abstraction meant to mean everything.

As I have said, it is through woman that ideality is born into the world and—what were man without her! There is many a man who has become a genius through a woman, many a one a hero, many a one a poet, many a one even a saint; but he did not become a genius through the woman he married, for through her he only became a privy councillor; he did not become a hero through the woman he married, for through her he only became a general; he did not become a poet through the woman he married, for through her he only became a father; he did not become a saint through the woman he married, for he did not marry, and would have married but one—the one whom he did not marry; just as the others became a genius, became a hero, became a poet through the help of the woman they did not marry. If woman's ideality were in itself inspiring, why, then the inspiring woman would be the one to whom a man is united for life. But life tells a different story. It is only by a negative relation to her that man is rendered productive in his ideal endeavors. In this sense she is inspiring; but to say that she is inspiring, without qualifying one's statement, is to be guilty of a paralogism⁴⁰ which one must be a woman to overlook. Or has any one ever heard of any man having become a poet through his wife? So long as man does not possess her she inspires him. It is this truth which gives rise to the illusions entertained in poetry and by women. The fact that he does not possess her signifies, either, that he is still fighting for her—thus has woman inspired many a one and rendered him a knight; but has any one ever heard of any man having been rendered a knight valiant through his wife? Or, the fact that he does not possess her signifies that he cannot obtain her by any manner of means—thus has woman inspired many a one and roused his ideality; that is, if there is anything in him worth while. But a wife, who has things ever so much worth while for her husband, will hardly arouse any ideal strivings in him. Or, again, the fact that he does not possess her signifies that he is pursuing an ideal. Perchance he loves many, but loving many is also a kind of unrequited love; and yet the ideality of his soul is to be seen in this striving and yearning, and not in the small bits of lovableness which make up the sum total of the contributions of all those he loves.

As I have said, it is through woman that ideality is born into the world. And what would man be without her! Many men have become geniuses through a woman, many heroes, many poets, and many even saints. But a man did not become a genius through the woman he married. Through his wife, he became only a privy councillor. He did not become a hero through the woman he married. Through his wife, he became only a general. He did not become a poet through the woman he married. Through his wife, he became only a father. He did not become a saint through the woman he married, because he did not marry. He would have married only one woman, the very woman he did not marry. Likewise, the others became geniuses, heroes, and poets with the help of women they did not marry. If woman's ideality were inspiring in itself, then the inspiring woman would be the one a man marries for life. But life tells a different story. Only through a negative relationship with woman does man become productive in pursuing his ideals. In this sense, she is inspiring. But to call her inspiring without that qualification is to commit a logical error⁴⁰ only a woman could overlook. Or has anyone ever heard of a man becoming a poet through his wife? As long as a man does not possess her, she inspires him. This truth gives rise to the illusions found in poetry and held by women. Not possessing her may mean that he is still fighting to win her. In this way, woman has inspired many men and made them knights. But has anyone ever heard of a man being made a valiant knight through his wife? Or not possessing her may mean that he cannot win her by any means. In this way, woman has inspired many men and awakened their ideality, if they have anything worthwhile in them. But a wife, however much she has to offer her husband, will hardly awaken any striving toward ideals in him. Or, again, not possessing her may mean that he is pursuing an ideal. Perhaps he loves many women, but loving many women is also a kind of unrequited love. Yet his soul's ideality appears in this striving and yearning. It does not appear in the little lovable qualities that all the women he loves contribute between them.

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

The highest ideal a woman can inspire in a man is, in fact, an awareness of immortality. The force of this proof lies in what one might call the need for a reply. One might say of a play that it cannot end before this or that character has had their say. In the same way, ideality says, our existence cannot end with death: I demand a reply! This proof often appears in a positive form in newspaper notices. I consider that entirely proper. For if proof is to appear in newspaper notices, it must take a positive form. For example: Mrs. Petersen, we learn, lived a number of years, until on the night of the 24th it pleased Providence, etc. This news brings on an attack of memories in Mr. Petersen from his courting days. Or, to put it plainly, nothing but seeing her again will ever comfort him. Meanwhile, he prepares himself for this blissful reunion by marrying another woman. Admittedly, this marriage is by no means as poetic as the first. Still, it is a good imitation. This is the positive proof. Mr. Petersen is not content merely to demand a reply. No, he wants to meet her again in the afterlife.

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

As everyone knows, a base metal will often gleam like a precious metal. This is the brief silver gleam. For the base metal, this moment is tragic. It must accept once and for all that it is a base metal. Not so with Mr. Petersen. Ideality is something every person inherently possesses by right. Now, if I laugh at Mr. Petersen, it is not because he was really base metal with one silver gleam. Rather, I laugh because that very silver gleam reveals that he has become base metal. So the philistine looks most ridiculous when dressed in ideality. He gives us good reason to say, with Holberg: "What! does that cow wear a fine dress, too?⁴¹"

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

The point is this: whenever a woman awakens ideality in a man, she also awakens his awareness of immortality. She always does so negatively, through her absence rather than her presence. A man who truly became a genius, a hero, a poet, or a saint through a woman has, by that very fact, grasped the essence of immortality. Now, suppose the source of inspiration were positively present in the woman herself. Then a man's wife, and only his wife, ought to awaken his awareness of immortality. But the opposite is true. If she is really to awaken ideality in her husband, she must die. Mr. Petersen, of course, remains unaffected by all this. But suppose a woman does awaken a man's ideality through her death. Then she is indeed the cause of all the great things poetry credits her with. But take note: nothing she actively did for him awakened his ideality. In fact, her importance in this respect becomes more doubtful the longer she lives. Eventually, she will really begin to want to mean something positive to him. Yet the more positive the evidence, the less the evidence proves. For then Mr. Petersen will long for shared experiences from the past. For all practical purposes, those experiences had already exhausted their content when they happened. The evidence becomes most positive of all if he longs for their marital cuddling. That time they visited the Deer Park together! In just the same way, someone might suddenly long for an old pair of slippers that used to feel so comfortable. But such evidence hardly proves the soul's immortality. On the other hand, the more negative the evidence, the better. For the negative is higher than the positive, because the negative concerns our immortality and is therefore the only positive value.

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

Woman’s main importance lies in her negative contribution. Her positive contributions are nothing by comparison and, on the contrary, are harmful. Life hides this truth from her, comforting her with an illusion beyond anything any man’s mind could invent. With parental care, life arranges matters so that both language and everything else reinforce her illusion. For even if we see her as the very opposite of inspiring, as the source of all corruption, our view remains gallant. We may imagine that sin entered the world with her, or that her unfaithfulness ruined everything. Even then, our view of her remains gallant. Hearing such opinions, one might easily assume that woman could become infinitely more guilty than man. Such an assumption would indeed be an immense recognition of her powers. Alas, alas! The truth is entirely different. There is a hidden reading of this text that woman cannot understand. For the very next moment, all of life accepts the state’s view, which holds a man responsible for his wife. Woman is condemned as man never is. For a man receives an actual sentence, and the matter ends there. Woman does not receive a lighter sentence, for then her whole life would not be an illusion. Instead, the case against her is dismissed, and the public, meaning life, must pay the costs. One moment, woman is credited with every possible trick. The next, people laugh at the man she deceived, which is surely a contradiction. Even in the case of Potiphar’s wife, the possibility remains that she had really been seduced. Thus woman has an enormous possibility, one no man has, an enormous possibility. But her reality is in proportion. And most terrible of all is the magic of the illusion in which she feels happy.

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

Let Plato thank the gods for being born in the time of Socrates. I envy him. Let him give thanks for being Greek. I envy him. But when he gives thanks for being born a man and not a woman, I join him wholeheartedly. If I had been born a woman and could understand what I understand now, that would be terrible! But if I had been born a woman and therefore could not understand it, that would be even more terrible!

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

But if things are as I have described, then one would do better to avoid any positive relationship with women. Whenever a woman is involved, one must take that inevitable gap into account. The gap makes her happy because she does not notice the illusion. But the gap would ruin a man if he noticed the illusion.

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

So I thank the gods that I was born a man and not a woman. I also thank them that no lifelong bond with a woman obliges me to keep thinking it should not have been.

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

Really, what a strange arrangement marriage is! Stranger still is the suggestion that we should enter marriage without thinking. Yet no step is more decisive, for nothing in life is as unyielding and commanding as the marriage bond. And now we are told to take such an important step without reflection! Yet marriage is not simple but immensely complex and hard to define. Just as turtle meat tastes like all kinds of meat, marriage has a taste of all sorts of things. And just as the turtle is a sluggish animal, marriage is a sluggish thing. Falling in love, at least, is simple. But marriage! Is marriage pagan or Christian, spiritual or worldly, or a civil matter, or something of everything? Does marriage express an inexplicable love, a natural attraction between souls delicately in harmony with one another? Or is marriage a duty, a partnership, a mere convenience, or the custom of certain countries? Or is marriage a duty, a partnership, a mere convenience, or the custom of certain countries? Or is marriage a little of all these? Should we order the wedding music from the town musician or the organist, or have a little from both? Should the minister or the police sergeant give the speech and enter the names in the book of life? Or in the town register? Does marriage play a tune on a comb, or listen to whispers "like those of fairies in caves on a summer night"?⁴²

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

And now every Darby imagines he performed such a medley, such incomparably complex music, by getting married. And he imagines he is still performing that music throughout his married life! My dear fellow guests, shouldn't we give each spouse a mark against them for repeated inattention, instead of wedding presents and congratulations? Expressing a single idea in one's life is demanding enough. But consider understanding something as complicated as marriage and bringing it all under one idea. Consider understanding such complexity while doing justice to every element and keeping everything in mind at once. Truly, anyone who can accomplish all of this is a great man! And yet every Benedict accomplishes all of this. No doubt he does, since he says he does so unconsciously! But if all of this is to be done unconsciously, some higher form of unconsciousness must permeate all one's powers of reflection. Yet not a word is said about this higher unconsciousness! And asking any married man about it is simply a waste of time.

He who has once committed a piece of folly will constantly be pursued by its consequences. In the case of marriage the folly consists in one's having gotten into a mess, and the punishment, in recognizing, when it is too late, what one has done. So you will find that the married man, now, becomes chesty, with a bit of pathos, thinking he has done something remarkable in having entered wedlock; now, puts his tail between his legs in dejection; then again, praises marriage in sheer self-defense. But as to a thought-unit which might serve to hold together the disjecta membra⁴³ of the most heterogeneous conceptions of life contained in marriage—for that we shall wait in vain.

Anyone who has once done something foolish will constantly be pursued by the consequences. In marriage, the foolishness lies in having gotten oneself into a mess. The punishment lies in realizing, too late, what one has done. So you will find that a married man sometimes swells with pride, adding a touch of solemn emotion. He thinks he has done something remarkable by getting married. At other times, he hangs his head with his tail between his legs. Then again, he praises marriage purely to defend himself. But we wait in vain for a unifying idea to hold together the scattered fragments⁴³ of marriage’s wildly different views of life.

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

So being merely a Benedict (a married man) is a sham, and being a seducer is a sham. Wanting to experiment with a woman for the sake of "the joke" is also a sham. In fact, the last two approaches involve concessions by men to women just as great as those in marriage. The seducer wants to think more highly of himself by deceiving her. But the very fact that he deceives her and wants to deceive her shows his dependence on women. Even caring about deceiving her shows that dependence. And the same is true of the man who wants to experiment with her.

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

If I imagined any possible relationship with a woman, it would be so full of reflection that no real relationship remained. To be an excellent husband and yet secretly seduce every girl. To seem a seducer and yet carry within oneself all the passion of romanticism. There would be something to that, for the concession in the first case would then be canceled out in the second. Certainly, a man realizes his true ideal only in such a double existence. All merely unconscious existence must be destroyed. And that destruction must always be cunningly concealed behind some false outward expression. Such a double existence is incomprehensible to a woman. It prevents her from expressing a man's true nature in a single term. If a woman could live such a double existence, no erotic relationship with her would be conceivable. But her nature is as we all know it to be. So any disruption of the erotic relationship comes from man's true nature. His true nature always consists precisely in destroying what her existence rests on.

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

Am I then preaching monastic life, and am I rightly called Eremita? Not at all. You might as well do away with the monastery. After all, a monastery is only a direct expression of spirituality. As such, it is merely a futile attempt to express spirituality directly. It makes little difference whether you use gold, silver, or paper money. But anyone who spends not a penny unless it is counterfeit will understand me. Anyone who sees every direct expression as a fraud, and only that person, is better protected than in a monastery cell. He will be a hermit even if he rides a bus day and night.

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

Victor had barely finished when the Dressmaker jumped to his feet and knocked over a wine bottle in front of him. Then he said: