CHAPTER XIV.

Duties relative to the investigation of truth.—Of intellectual virtues: that there are such.Of the three forms of the intellect:speculative,critical,practical. Hence, three principal qualities:knowledge,judgmentorgood sense,prudence.Ofknowledge.—Refutation of the objections to knowledge: Nicole, Malebranche and Rousseau.General duty to cultivate one’s intellect: the impossibility of determining the full range of this duty.Good sense or judgment.—Errors committed in ordinary life: sophisms of self-love, interest, and passion.—Other sophisms founded on false appearances.—Logical rules.Of prudence or practical wisdom.—Can it be called a virtue? Particular rules.Duties relative to telling the truth.—Lying.—Two kinds of lies: inward and outward lying.Inward lying.—Can one lie to himself? Examples.Of the lie properly so-called.—How and why it lowers the mind.Of silence.—To distinguish betweendissimulationanddiscretion.Duty of silence: in what cases?Of the oath and of perjury.—Perjury is a double lie.

Duties relative to the investigation of truth.—Of intellectual virtues: that there are such.

Of the three forms of the intellect:speculative,critical,practical. Hence, three principal qualities:knowledge,judgmentorgood sense,prudence.

Ofknowledge.—Refutation of the objections to knowledge: Nicole, Malebranche and Rousseau.

General duty to cultivate one’s intellect: the impossibility of determining the full range of this duty.

Good sense or judgment.—Errors committed in ordinary life: sophisms of self-love, interest, and passion.—Other sophisms founded on false appearances.—Logical rules.

Of prudence or practical wisdom.—Can it be called a virtue? Particular rules.

Duties relative to telling the truth.—Lying.—Two kinds of lies: inward and outward lying.

Inward lying.—Can one lie to himself? Examples.

Of the lie properly so-called.—How and why it lowers the mind.

Of silence.—To distinguish betweendissimulationanddiscretion.

Duty of silence: in what cases?

Of the oath and of perjury.—Perjury is a double lie.

The different duties of man toward himself, considered as a moral being, are naturally deduced from the divers faculties of which this moral being is composed. Plato is the first, to our knowledge, who has employed this mode of deduction.[108]It is after having distinguished three parts or three faculties inthe soul, that he attributes to each of them a virtue proper, “virtue being,” he says, “the quality by means of which one does a thing well.” It is thus that the virtue of wisdom corresponds to the faculty of the understanding; the virtue of courage to the irascible or courageous faculty, or to the heart; temperance, to that of desire or appetite. To these three virtues, Plato adds another which is but the harmony, the accord, the equilibrium between these, namely, justice. Cicero afterwards took up this deduction from another standpoint.[109]

In applying this ancient method to the present divisions of psychology, we shall admit, with Plato and Cicero, an order of virtues relative to the mind, and which we will callwisdom; and another class of virtues relating to the will, and which would correspond withcourageorstrengthofmind(virtus,magnitudo animi). As to sensibility, if we take into consideration the appetites and physical desires, the virtue relating to them istemperance, of which we have already spoken. There remain the emotions, the affections of the heart which relate more particularly to the duties toward others. Yet they may, in a certain respect, be also considered as duties toward one’s self, although language does not designate this kind of virtue by a particular name.[110]

147. Duties relative to the investigation of truth.—Intellectual virtues.—There are two classes of virtues which have been often distinguished: thestrictduties and thebroadduties: the strict duties to consist in not injuring one’s faculties; the broad, to develop and perfect them; it is not easy to apply this distinction here; and, concerning intelligence, to separate self-preservation from self-improvement. In such a case, not to gain is inevitably to lose; he who does not cultivate his intellect, impairs it by that very fact.

One could not then, without pedantic investigation and subtlety, try to distinguish here, in one and the same duty, two distinct duties: the one prohibitive, the other imperative. They are both bound up in the general duty to cultivate one’s intellect. It is not so with the relations existing between one’s own intellect and the intellect of others; the expression of a thought gives rise to a strict duty: not to lie; which is the immediate consequence of the duty of the intellect toward itself, and which consequently should, by way of corollary, also belong to the present chapter.

The first question which presents itself to us is to know whether we should admit, with Aristotle,intellectualvirtues, properly so called, distinct from themoralvirtues, the first having regard to the intellect, the second to the passions. It would seem that the various faculties pointed out by Aristotle under the name of intellectual virtues, are rather qualities of the mind than virtues: art, science, prudence, wisdom, intelligence[111](not to mention the difficulty of determining the various shades of meaning of these terms), are natural or acquired aptitudes, but which do not appear to have any moral merit: a scholar, an artist, a clever man, a man of good sense and good counsel are naturally distinguished from virtuous men. It would seem then that the intellectual virtues are opposed to the moral virtues, as the mind is to the heart: now, for every one, it is the heart rather than the mind that is the seat of virtue.

These difficulties are only apparent, and Aristotle himself gives us the means of solving them:

“In order to be truly virtuous,” he says, “one should always act in a certain moral spirit: I mean that the choice of an action should be a free one, determined only by the nature of the acts one accomplishes. Now it is virtue that renders this choice laudable and good.”[112]

It is not the natural faculties of the mind then, no more than those of the heart and body, that deserve the name ofvirtues. It is those same faculties, developed and cultivated by the will: on this condition alone do they deserve esteem and respect. The intellect is in itself of a higher order than the senses, the appetites, the passions: it is therefore incumbent upon us to give it the largest share in our personal development. “It is to that we are allied,” says Pascal, “not to space and time. Let our efforts then tend to think well; this is the principle of morality.” The intellect presents two particular forms: it is eithercontemplativeoractive,theoreticalorpractical. The virtue of the contemplative intellect isknowledge; that of the practical intellectprudence. Finally a third virtue might be admitted:judgmentorcommon sense, which is acritical,[113]not a practical faculty, and which partakes at the same time of both sides of the understanding.

These subtle distinctions of Aristotle have not lost their correctness and application with time. One can, in fact, employ his mind in three ways: either contemplate absolute truth by the means of science;—or judge of events and men and foresee future things without contributing toward their occurrence;—or again deliberate as to what is to be done or not to be done to bring about actions useful to one’s self and to others. Hence three kinds of men: thewise, theintelligent, theprudent.

Knowledge.—Taking up again, one after the other, these three qualities, we ought to ask ourselves whether knowledge is a duty for man; if he is held to develop his mind in a theoretical manner and without any practical end. But before we examine whether it is a duty, let us first find out whether it is lawful.

The scientific and speculative culture of the mind on the part of man, has often been regarded as a proud or conceited refinement.

This opinion was expressed by some writers of the seventeenth century—for instance, by Nicole, in the preface to theLogique de Port Royal:

“These sciences,” he says, “have not only back-corners and secret recesses of very little use, but they are all useless when viewed in themselves and for themselves. Men were not born to spend their time measuring lines, examining the relations of angles, studying the divers movements of matter: their mind is too vast, their life too short, their time too precious, to occupy themselves with such small matters.”

Malebranche expresses himself in about the same terms:

“Men were not born to become astronomers or chemists, to spend their whole life hanging on a telescope or fastened to a furnace, for no better purpose than to draw afterwards from their laborious observations useless consequences. Granting some astronomer was the first in discovering lands, seas, and mountains in the moon; that he was the first to perceive spots moving upon the sun, and that he has calculated their movements exactly. Granting some chemists to have finally discovered the secret of fixing mercury or to make that alkahest by means of which Van Helmont boasted he could dissolve all matter: were they the wiser and happier for it?”

In expressing themselves so disdainfully concerning the sciences, Nicole and Malebranche meant, in fact, only that one should not prefer speculative knowledge to the science of man or to the science of God; and it is most true that if we view the sciences from a standpoint of dignity, we must admit that the moral sciences have greater excellence than the physical sciences. But that which is equally true is, that we must not measure the merit of the sciences by their material or even moral or logical utility. Science is in itself, and without regard to any other end but itself, worthy to be loved and studied. Intelligence, in fact, was given to man that he might know the truth of things; investigation is its natural food. Man, in raising himself to science, increases thereby the excellence of his nature; he becomes a creature of a higher order; for in the order of divine creatures, the most perfect are at the same time those who know the most, and the highest degree of happiness promised to religious faith, is to know truth face to face. It is therefore no frivolous amusement to increase here below the sum of knowledge we are capable of, though this knowledge be only that of the thingsof this world, and not yet the higher and direct knowledge of God.

Without admitting that science is of itself a legitimate object of research, it will be recognized that it is lawful to study it, either in our own interest or for the love of others, or for the love of God. But this is not enough: to see in science nothing but a means to be useful to ourselves (as, for example, to make a living),[114]is a servile and mercenary view, which does not deserve to be discussed. To maintain that science should only be cultivated because of its utility to others, is the same as to say that man has no duties toward himself, and that he is not obliged, letting alone the interest of others, to respect or perfect his own self: a thing we have already refuted. Finally, to say that science should be cultivated as a gift from God, and for the love of God, may be true; but this is not any more applicable to that occupation than to any other; and the same may be said of any other kind of duty without exception. Certainly, science should not make one proud; but pride is only an adventitious and not a necessary consequence, which, in speaking of cultivating science, should not be confounded with the fact itself.

Besides, when Malebranche says that the scientist is not any happier or wiser for his science, he is mistaken: for the greatest happiness is sometimes derived from science alone; and as to the wisdom of it, a taste for elevated thought is already a guarantee against the allurements of the passions; finally, whilst we cultivate science, we are safe from other less innocent inclinations.

To the opinions of Nicole and Malebranche, let us oppose the testimony of two men who possessed in the highest degree the respect and love of science:

“It is unworthy of man,” says Aristotle, “not to possess himself of all the science he can. If the poets are right, when they say that the Divinity is capable of jealousy, this jealousy would especially manifestitself in regard to philosophy, and then, all those who indulged in elevated thought would be unhappy. But it is not possible for the Divinity to be jealous, and the poets, as the proverb says, do not always tell the truth.

Let us now hear Descartes:

“Although in judging myself I find that I am more disposed to incline toward the side of distrust than presumption, and that regarding with a philosopher’s eye the diverse actions and enterprises of men, there be scarcely any that do not seem to me vain and useless, yet does the progress which I think I have already made in the search for truth give me extreme satisfaction, and inspire me with such hopes for the future that if, among the more material occupations of men, there are any substantially good and important, I dare believe that it is the one I have chosen.”[115]

If, from a standpoint of somewhat mystical piety, some minds of the seventeenth century regarded the sciences as useless, a paradoxical stoicism accused them in the eighteenth to be a cause of corruption and decay in society. Such is J. J. Rousseau’s celebrated thesis in his first speech at the Academy of Dijon.

This celebrated paradox, which has created so much excitement in the past century, and which is even an historical event (for it was the first attack against the society of the time), has since been so decried that it is useless to dwell on it. Let us make a briefrésuméof J. J. Rousseau’s arguments:

1. Progress in letters and sciences serves for nothing else but to conceal the vices and put hypocrisy in the place of an ill-bred rusticity.

2. All great nations ceased to be invincible as soon as the sciences penetrated among them. Egypt, after the conquest of Cambyses; Greece, after Pericles; Rome, after Augustus. If, on the contrary, we look for examples of healthy, honest, vigorous nations, we find them among the ancient Persians, Scythians, Spartans, the first Romans, the Swiss.

3. The sciences and arts are born of and nourish idleness. Their least mischief is uselessness.[116]

4. The letters and arts engender luxury, and luxury is one of the powerful instruments of corruption in morals: it destroys courage, lowers the character, and, by another consequence, depraves and corrupts the taste even.

5. Another consequence: the culture of the mind engenders sophisms, false systems, and dangerous doubts about religion and morality.

These various arguments, taking them up one after the other, may be answered as follows:

1. It is nowise proved that in the age of ignorance vices were less numerous and less deeply rooted than in the more enlightened age. Decency is a good in itself, and is not always hypocrisy. Delicacy of mind robs at least vice of its grossest features; it diminishes and allays violence, which is a great source of crimes.

2. It is not true that military virtues (which, besides, are not the only admirable virtues) are destroyed by the culture of the mind: modern examples prove this sufficiently.

3. To say that the letters and sciences are born of and nourish idleness is an abuse of words. Wherein is the man who works mentally more idle than he who works with his hands?

4. The sciences and letters do not develop a taste for luxury: luxury would develop without them, and would be all the more frivolous and corrupting: they are concomitant, but not mutually related facts. Luxury, besides, is notabsolutely bad in itself: the taste for elegance is a legitimate one. Is not nature herself adorned?

5. Science develops wrong opinions, false systems: so be it; but it also corrects them, and we should look at both sides of a thing and see its good parts as well as its bad. Otherwise it would be easy to prove that everything is wrong.

Rousseau’s paradox, however, is not altogether false, and there are, unquestionably, many evils mixed up with the culture of the mind, but these evils do not come from the mind’s being cultivated, but from its being badly cultivated; they do not come from people’s seeking the true and the beautiful, but, on the contrary, from their not seeking them enough. The vanity derived from false science should not be imputed to true science, but to ignorance. The moral enfeeblement, which is the result of an over-refined culture of the mind, comes from our not sufficiently cultivating the mind in every direction; for example, from our neglecting the moral sciences for the industrial sciences, or the nobler arts for the voluptuous arts. The remedy for the evils pointed out by Rousseau is, therefore, not ignorance, but, on the contrary, a greater abundance of light, and higher lights.

It is then for each of us a duty to instruct himself, but it is evident that this duty must be regarded as a broad duty—that is to say, that its application cannot be determined by precise formulas. No man is obliged by the moral law to be what is called a scholar; no one is obliged to learn astronomy or transcendental mathematics, still less metaphysics. But it can be said that it is a duty for each of us: 1. To learn as well as possible the principles of the art he will have to cultivate: for instance, the magistrate the principles of jurisprudence; the physician the principles of medicine; the artisan the principles of mechanics. In this respect young students, we must confess, have far too easy a conscience. They do not realize the responsibility they incur by their negligence and laziness. 2. It is a duty for all men, according to the means they can dispose of, to instruct themselves concerningtheir duties. 3. It is also a duty for each to go, as far as he can, beyond the strictly necessary in matters of education, and in proportion to the means he has at his disposal. It is then a duty to neglect no occasion of improving one’s self.

149. Good sense.—Between science and prudence, betweentheoreticalintelligence andpracticalintelligence, Aristotle places thecriticalfaculty—in other terms, judgment, good sense, discernment. This faculty is distinguished from science in that it is only applied to things where doubt and deliberation come in; it treats then of the same objects as prudence; but it is distinguished from the latter in that prudence is practical and prescribes what should be done or not be done; good sense, on the contrary, is purely critical: it is limited to mere judging. It is, then, in some respects disinterested and does not induce to action; it is the art of appreciating things, men, and events. Good judgment may be found among men lacking practical prudence: one sees often very well the faults of others without seeing one’s own; or, again, one may be aware of one’s own faults and not be able to correct them. However, it is not to be denied that good sense or good judgment is a useful auxiliary to prudence; it is already in itself an estimable quality, and is far from being as well distributed among men as Descartes claims.[117]On the contrary, according to Nicole:

“Common sense is not so common a quality as one thinks.... Nothing is more rare than this exactness of judgment. Everywhere we meet false minds who have scarcely any discernment of what is true; who take everything the wrong way; who accept the worst kind of reasonings, and wish to make others accept them also; who allow themselves to be carried away by the least appearances of things; who are always excessive in their views and run into extremes; minds who either have no grasp to hold on to the truths they have acquired, because they have become attached to them through chance rather than solid knowledge; or who, on the contrary, persist in their ideas with such stubbornness that they listen to nothing that could undeceive them; who judge boldly of things neither they nor any one else, perhaps,ever understood; who make no difference between talking to the purpose and talking nonsense, and are guided in their judgment by mere trifles.... So that there are no absurdities, however incredible, that do not find approving adherents. Whoever intends duping people is sure to find people glad to be duped, and the most ridiculous nonsense is sure to find minds suited for it.”

Here, the rules of morality are confounded with those of logic. It is the latter that teaches us how to avoid error, if not in science (which is the object of speculative logic), at least in life. The development of these rules will be found in theRecherche de la véritéof Malebranche. TheLogique de Port Royalwill furnish us arésuméof them which will suffice here:

150. Illusions coming from ourselves.—1. A first cause of illusion in the judgments we pass upon things, is to take our interest for a motive of belief: “I am of such or such a country,ergo, I must believe that such or such a saint has preached the Gospel there; I belong to such or such a class,ergo, I believe that such or such a privilege is a just one.”

2. Our affections are another cause of illusion: “I love him,ergo, he is the cleverest man in the world; I hate him,ergo, he is nobody.” This is what may be called the sophistry of the heart.

3. Illusions of self-love. There are some who decide about everything by the general and very convenient principle, that they must be in the right. They listen but little to the reasons of others; they wish to carry everything before them by main authority, and treat all those who are not of their opinion as indifferent thinkers. Some even, without suspecting it, go so far as to say to themselves: “If it were so, I should not be the clever man I am: or, I am a clever man;ergo, it is not so.”

4. Reciprocal reproaches which people may make to each other with the same right: for example, you are a caviler, you are selfish, blind, dishonest, etc. Whence this equitable and judicious rule of Saint Augustine: “Let us avoid indiscussions mutual reproaching; reproaches which, though they may not be true at that moment, may justly be made by both parties.”

5. A spirit of contradiction and dispute, so admirably depicted by Montaigne:

“We only learn to dispute that we may contradict, and every one contradicting and being contradicted, it falls out that the fruit of disputation is to lose and nullify the truth.... One flies to the east, the other to the west; they lose the principal, and wander in the crowd of incidents; after an hour of tempest, they know not what they seek; one is low, the other high, and a third wide; one catches at a word and a simile; another is no longer sensible of what is said in opposition to him, being entirely absorbed in his own notions, engaged in following his own course, and not thinking of answering you; another, finding himself weak, fears all, refuses all, and, at the very beginning, confounds the subjects, or, in the very height of the dispute, stops short, and grows silent; by a peevish ignorance affecting a proud contempt, or an unseasonable modest desire to shun debate....”

6. The contrary defect, namely, a sycophantic amiability, which approves of everything and admires everything: example, thePhilinteof Molière.

Besides these different illusions which are due to ourselves and our own weaknesses, there are others engendered from without, or at least from the divers aspects under which things present themselves to us:

151. Illusions arising from objects.—1. The mixture of the true and the false, of good and evil which we see in things, is cause that we often confound them. Thus do the good qualities of the persons we esteem cause us to approve their defects, andvice versa. Now, it is precisely in this judicious separation of good from evil that a correct mind shows itself.

2. Illusions arising from eloquence and flowery rhetoric.

3. Ill-natured interpretations of people’s peculiar views founded on mere appearances or hearsay; as, for example: such a one goes with doubtful characters,ergo, he is a bad character himself; such another associates with free-thinkers,ergo, he is a free-thinker likewise; a third criticises thegovernment,ergo, he is a rebel; he approves its acts,ergo, he is a courtier, etc., etc.

4. False deductions drawn from a few accidental occurrences; as for instance: medicine does not cure all diseases, hence it cures none; there are frivolous women, hence all women are frivolous; there are hypocrites, hence piety is nothing but hypocrisy.

5. Error of judging of bad or good advice from subsequent events. As for example: Such or such an event followed upon such and such advice, hence it was good—it was bad.

6. Sophistry of authority. It consists in accepting men’s opinions on the strength of certain qualities they may possess, although these qualities may have nothing to do with the matter in hand. For instance, by reason of their age, or piety, or, what is worse, of wealth and influence. Certainly we do not exactly say in so many words: such a one has a hundred pounds income, and must therefore be right; but there is nevertheless something similar going on in our minds, which runs away with our judgment without our being conscious of it.

In pointing out these various dangers upon which good judgment and upright reasoning are often wrecked, we indicate sufficiently the rules which ought to serve in the education of the mind: for it is enough to be warned against such errors, and be endowed with a certain amount of correct judgment, to recognize and avoid them.

152. Prudence.—From the faculty of judging and having an opinion about things, let us pass on to the third quality of the mind, namely: prudence, which consists, as Aristotle informs us, in deliberating well before doing anything, and which is the art of well discerning our interest in the things concerning us, and the interest of others in the things concerning them.

There are then two sorts of prudence: personal prudence, which is nothing more than self-interest well understood, and civil or disinterested prudence, which applies to the interestsof others; thus, a prudent general, a prudent notary, a prudent minister, are not only prudent in their own interests, but for that of others. Prudence from this point of view is then but a duty toward others. As to personal prudence, it may be asked how far it is a question of morals, and whether it is not excluded from them by the very principle of morals, which is duty. But we have already solved that difficulty. Because prudence is not all virtue, it does not follow that it is notavirtue. Certainly, we are too naturally inclined to seek our own interest, to make it necessary to set it down as a duty. But in case of struggle between self-interest and passion,[118]self-interest takes sometimes the character of duty. This is clear enough. Interest, if properly understood, represents general interest; and passion, private interest. To yield to passion, is to satisfy at a given moment, and for a very short time, one of our desires only. Prudence, on the contrary, pleads the cause of the general interest of the entire man, and for all his life. Man may be represented (as Plato has represented him) figuratively as a city, a republic, a world; it has been said that he is a microcosm (little world). This little world represents in miniature the harmony of the great world. The individual to whom the government of this little world is intrusted, and who stands in regard to himself as Providence stands in regard to the universe, should not favor a part of it at the expense of the rest. Prudence is then the virtue by means of which man governs the affairs of the little State of which he is the king. Prudence, moreover, is nothing more than foresight—that is to say, the faculty of foreseeing what is coming, of drawing from the past, consequences for the future, and acting conformably to the lessons of experience. Now, it is especially by this that man is distinguished from the animal: it is by this that he is capable of progress. He owes it then to himself to act according to the principles of reason, and not according to brute instincts.

Another difficulty of greater import, is that prudence does not represent a special virtue, but is nothing more than a common name given to several particular virtues. Thus, prudence being defined “the discernment between the useful and the hurtful,” it may be said that discernment, in point of sensual pleasures, will be called moderation or temperance; in point of riches, economy; that true courage holding the mean between temerity and cowardice, is necessarily accompanied by prudence; we have seen that science itself must learn how to keep within bounds, and this also is a sort of prudence. We shall find therefore that prudence has not, like other virtues, a property of its own. It is in reality nothing more than a mode common to all personal virtues, each presenting two standpoints to be considered from: 1, from the standpoint of personal dignity, which is the highest principle; 2, from the standpoint of a proper self-interest, which, subordinate to the first, is a secondary and relative standpoint.

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 calledveracity, and its opposite isfalsehood.

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: themaliciousfalsehood, with intent to deceive, and theverbalfalsehood, 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 constitutes 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 constitute it.

To well understand the moral evil which resides in falsehoodone must take it at its source—that is to say, distinguish with Kant betweeninnerandoutwardfalsehood: 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 constituted 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, desirousto 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 analysis 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 simplething; 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 circumstances, 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 discretionin 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 abasement of human dignity, it is a still greater abasement when it is of the kind calledperjury, 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 constitutes an oath.

The oath is an affirmation where God is taken as a witness of the truth one is supposed to utter. The oath consists, then, in some respect, in invoking God in our favor, in making him speak in our name. We, so to say, attest that God 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 chastisements God 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 God would bear testimony if he were present. Let us add that there is here a sort of sacrilege which consists in our making God, 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 calledword 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 forthis 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 class 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.

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,—isstrength of soul, orcourage.Of courage and its different forms:military courage;civic courage;patience,moderationin prosperity;equanimity, etc.Of anger and its different kinds.—Generous anger.Duty ofpersonal dignity.—Respect for one’s self.True prideandfalse pride.—Of ajust esteem of one’s self.—Ofmodesty.Duties relative to sentiment.—Have we any duties in regard to our sensibilities?—Kant’s objection: no one can love at will. Reply.—To distinguishsensibilityfromsentimentality.

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,—isstrength of soul, orcourage.

Of courage and its different forms:military courage;civic courage;patience,moderationin prosperity;equanimity, etc.

Of anger and its different kinds.—Generous anger.

Duty ofpersonal dignity.—Respect for one’s self.True prideandfalse pride.—Of ajust esteem of one’s self.—Ofmodesty.

Duties relative to sentiment.—Have we any duties in regard to our sensibilities?—Kant’s objection: no one can love at will. Reply.—To distinguishsensibilityfromsentimentality.

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 soad infinitum?

We may then say that the duty to exercise one’s will and triumph over the passions, is nothing more than dutyper se, the dutypar excellence, of which all the other dutiesare but parts. This virtue, by which the soul commands its passions 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 circumstances? 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 assaults 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 circumstances, 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 privilegedprestige. 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 god 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, Scævola, 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 ismilitary courage.

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