 Section IV of Envino Veritas from Stages on Life's Way by Soren Kierkegaard, translated by Lee M. Hollander, 1880-1972. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Section IV Victor Aramita'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 and earlier Greek philosopher 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. 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 born with fortitude. No, her misfortune consists in her life, having become devoid of fixed meaning through a romantic conception of things, by virtue of which she now 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 will never 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. Even if a woman's life did not contain such contrasts, the distinction she enjoys, 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. Army, if only a single cavalier were gallant to them, the case would not be so serious, but far from it. At the 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. If only a single woman did so, another explanation would be necessary. This is life's characteristic irony. Now, if gallantry contained the truth that 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 worst 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, in as much as she never can free herself from the illusion with which life has consoled her. Gathering together one's impression 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 Tik's romantic dramas there occurs a person who, having once been king of Mesopotamia, is now a greengrocer in Copenhagen. She as fantastic is every feminine existence. If the girl's name is Juliana, her life is as follows. First while empress in the wide domain of love and titularie queen of all the exaggerations of Tom Fulery. Now Mrs. Pedersen. Corner Bath Street. When a child a girl is less highly esteemed than a boy. Even 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 fussies 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. 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 to 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. Pedersen submits to her fate. Let me then think the gods that I was born a man and not a woman, and still how much do I forgo, 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 of life. How many a lovelorn 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. As I have said, it is through a woman that ideality is borne into the world, and what were men without her. There is many a man who became 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 counselor. 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 statement is to be guilty of a paralogism, which one must be a woman to overlook, or has anyone ever heard of a 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 anyone ever heard of a 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 worthwhile. But a wife, who has things ever so much worthwhile 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 that some total of the contributions are those he loves. 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. Patterson, we learn, has lived a number of years until in the night of the twenty-fourth it pleased Providence, etc. This produces in Mr. Patterson 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 on to himself another wife. Or 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. Patterson is not satisfied with demanding a reply. No, he wants a meeting again in the hereafter. 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. Patterson. The possession of ideality is by rights inherent in every person. And now, if I laugh at Mr. Patterson, 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? 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, are 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. Patterson, to be sure, is not affected by 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. Patterson'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, in as much as it concerns our immortality, and is thus the only positive value. Patterson'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 wellspring of all corruption, whether now we imagine that with her sin came into the world, or that it is her infidelity that 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 in 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. When 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. Alas has woman an enormous possibility, such as no man has, an enormous possibility, but her reality is in proportion, and the most terrible of all is the magic of illusion, in which she feels herself 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 understand 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. But if the case is as I state 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. 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 lifelong attachment holds me in duty bound to be constantly reflecting that it ought not to 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 no, so important to 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 a 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 those of the fairies from the grottos of a summer night? And now every derby imagines he performed such a potpourri, such an incomparably complex music in getting married, and imagines that he is still performing it while living a married life. My dear fellow banqueteers, ought we not, in default of a wedding present, and congratulations, of each of the Conjugo 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. 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 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 and sheer self-defense. But as to a thought unit which might serve to hold together the disjecta member of the most heterogeneous conceptions of life contained in marriage. For that we shall wait in vain. 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 last two 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. 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 fly, 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. And 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. 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 his 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 traveled in an omnibus day and night. Scarcely had Victor finished when the dressmaker jumped to his feet, and threw over a bottle of wine standing before him. And he spoke as follows. End of Section 4. Section 5 of Envino Veritas, from Stages on Life's Way by Soren Kierkegaard, translated by Lee M. Hollander, 1880-1972. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Section 5. The Dressmaker's Speech. Well spoken, dear fellow banqueteers, well spoken. The longer I hear you speak, the more I grow convinced that you are fellow conspirators. I greet you as such. I understand you as such. For fellow conspirators one can make out from afar, and yet what know you? What does your bit of theory, to which you wish to give the appearance of experience, your bit of experience, which you make over into a theory, what does it amount to? For every now and then you believe her a moment and are caught in a moment. No, I know woman from her weak side. That is to say, I know her. I shrink from no means to make sure about what I have learned. For I am a madman, and a madman one must be to understand her. And if one has not been one before, one will become a madman once one understands her. The robber has his hiding-place by the noisy high-road, and the ant-lion his funnel in the loose sand, and the pirate his haunts by the roaring sea. Likewise have I my fashion-shop in the very midst of the teeming streets, seductive, irresistible to woman as is the Venusburg to men. There in a fashion-shop one learns to know woman in a practical way, and without any theoretical ado. Now, if fashion meant nothing then that woman in the heat of her desire threw off all her clothing, why then it would stand for something. But this is not the case. Fashion is not plain sensuality, not tolerated debauchery, but an illicit trade in indecency authorized as proper. And just as in heathen pressure the marriageable girl wore a bell, whose ringing served as a signal to the men. Likewise is a woman's existence in fashion a continual bell-ringing, not for debauchies, but for licorice volupturies. People hold fortune to be a woman, ah yes it is, to be sure fickle. Still it is fickle in something as it may also give much, and in so far it is not a woman. No, but fashion is a woman, for fashion is fickleness in nonsense, and is consistent only in its becoming ever more crazy. One hour in my shop is worth more than days and years without, if it really be one's desire to learn to know woman. In my shop, for it is the only one in the capital, there is no thought of competition. Who, forsooth, would dare to enter into competition with one who has entirely devoted himself, and is still devoting himself as high priest in this idol worship? No, there is not a distinguished assemblage which does not mention my name first and last, and there is not a middle-class gathering where my name, whenever mentioned, does not inspire sacred awe, like that of the king. Then there is no dress so idiotic, but is accompanied by whispers of admiration when its owner proceeds down the hall. Provided it bears my name, and there is not the lady of gentle birth who dares pass my shop by, nor the girl of humble origin, but passes it sign and thinking, if only I could afford it. Well, neither was she deceived. I deceived no one. I furnished the finest goods, and the most costly, and at the lowest price. Indeed, I sell below cost. The fact is, I do not wish to make a profit. On the contrary, every year I sacrifice large sums, and yet do I mean to win. I mean to. I shall spend my last farthing in order to corrupt, in order to bribe the tools of fashion so that I may win the game. To me it is a delight beyond compare to unroll the most precious stuffs, to cut them out, to clip pieces from genuine Brussels lace, in order to make a fool's costume. I sell at the lowest prices, genuine goods, and in style. You believe, perhaps, that woman wants to be dressed fashionably only at certain times? No such thing. She wants to be so all the time, and that is her only thought. For a woman does have a mind, only it is employed about as well as is the prodigal son's substance. For a woman does possess the power of reflection in an incredibly high degree, and there is nothing so holy, but she will in no time discover it to be reconcilable with her finery. And the chiefest expression of finery is fashion. What wonder if she does discover it to be reconcilable? For is not fashion holy to her? And there is nothing so insignificant, but she certainly will know how to make it count in her finery. And the most foscious expression of finery is fashion. And there is nothing. Nothing in all her attire, not the least ribbon of whose relation to fashion she has not a definite conception. And concerning, which she is not immediately aware, whether the lady who just passed by noticed it, because for whose benefit does she dress, if not for other ladies? Even in my shop, where she comes to be fitted out a la mode, even there she is in fashion. Just as there is a special bathing costume and a special riding habit, likewise, there is a particular kind of dress, which it is the fashion to wear to the dressmaker's shop. The costume is not insuciant in the same sense as is the negligee. A lady is pleased to be surprised in, earlier in the forenoon, where the point is her belonging to the fair sex and the coquetry lies in her letting herself be surprised. The dressmaker costume, on the other hand, is calculated to be nonchalant and a bit careless without her being embarrassed thereby because the dressmaker stands in a different relation to her from the cavalier. The coquetry here consists in thus showing herself to a man who, by reason of his station, does not presume to ask for the lady's womanly recognition, but must be content with the perquisites which fall abundantly to his share without ever thinking of it, or without it even so much as entering her mind to play the lady before a dressmaker. The point is, therefore, that her being of the opposite sex is, in a certain sense, left out of consideration and her coquetry invalidated by the superciliousness of the noble lady who would smile if anyone alluded to any relation existing between her and her dressmaker. When visited in her negligee, she conceals herself, thus displaying her charms by this very concealment. In my shop, she exposes her charms with the utmost nonchalance, for he is only a dressmaker and she is a woman. Now her shawl slips down and bears some part of her body, and if I did not know what that means and what she expects, my reputation would be gone to the winds. Now she draws herself up, a priori fashion. Now she gesticulates, a pastiori. Now she sways to and fro in her hips. Now she looks at herself in the mirror and sees my admiring fizz behind her in the glass. Now she minces her words. Now she trips along with short steps. Now she hovers. Now she draws her foot after her in a slovenly fashion. Now she lets herself sink softly into an armchair. Lest I, with humble demeanor, offer her a flask of smelling salts, and with my adoration, assuage her agitation. Now she strikes after me playfully. Now she drops her handkerchief and, without as much as a single motion, lets a relaxed arm remain in its pendant position, whilst I bend down low to pick it up and return it to her, receiving a little patronizing nod as a reward. These are the ways of a lady of fashion when in my shop. Whether diogenes made any impression on the woman who was praying in a somewhat unbecoming posture, when he asked her whether she did not believe the gods could see her from behind, that I do not know. But this I do know, that if I should say to her ladyship kneeling down in church, the folds of your gown do not fall according to fashion. She would be more alarmed than if she had given offense to the gods. Woe to the outcast, the male Cinderella who has not comprehended this. Prodi immortales. What prey is a woman who is not in fashion? Per dios obscuro. And what when she is in fashion? Whether all this is true? Well, make trial of it. Let the swing, when his beloved one sinks rapturously on his breast, whispering unintelligibly, thine forever, and hides her head in his bosom, let him but say to her, my sweet kitty, your coiffer is not at all in fashion. Possibly men don't give thought to this, but he who knows it and has the reputation of knowing it. He is the most dangerous man in the kingdom. What blissful hours the lover passes with his sweetheart before marriage I do not know. But of the blissful hours she spends in my shop, he hasn't the slightest inkling either. Without my special license and sanction, a marriage is null and void anyway, or else an entirely plebeian affair. Let it be the very moment when they are to meet before the altar. Let her step forward with the very best conscience in the world that everything was bought in my shop and tried on there. And now if I were to rush up and exclaim, but mercy, gracious lady, your myrtle wreath is all awry. Why, the whole ceremony might be postponed, for ought I know. But men do not suspect these things. One must be a dressmaker to know. So immense is the power of reflection needed to fathom a woman's thought that only a man who dedicates himself wholly to the task will succeed, and even then only if gifted to start with. Happy therefore the man who does not associate with any woman, for she is not his anyway, even if she be no other man's, for she is possessed by that phantom born of the unnatural intercourse of woman's reflection with itself, fashion. Do you see for this reason should woman always swear by fashion? Then were there some force in their oath, for after all, fashion is the thing she is always thinking of, the only thing she can think together with and into everything. For instance, the glad message has gone forth from my shop to all fashionable ladies that fashion decrees the use of a particular kind of headdress to be worn in church, and that this headdress, again, must be somewhat different for high mass and for the afternoon service. Now, when the bells are ringing, the carriage stops in front of my door. Her ladyship descends, for also this has been decreed that no one can adjust her headdress, save I, the fashion dealer. I rush out, make low bows, and lead her into my cabinet, and whilst she languishingly reposes, I put everything in order. Now she is ready, and has looked at herself in the mirror. Quick as any messenger of the gods, I hasten in advance, open the door of my cabinet with a bow, then hasten to the door of my shop, and lay my arm on my breast, like some oriental slave, but encouraged by a gracious courtesy. I even dare to throw her an adoring and admiring kiss. Now she is seated in her carriage. Oh, dear! She left her hymn-book behind. I hasten out again, and handed to her through the carriage window. I permit myself once more to remind her to hold her head a trifle more to the right, and herself to arrange things should her headdress become a bit disordered when descending. She drives away, and is edified. You believe, perhaps, that it is only great ladies who worship fashion, but far from it. Look at my seamstresses, for whose dress I spare no expense, so that the dogmas of fashion may be proclaimed most emphatically from my shop. They form a chorus of half-witted creatures, and I myself lead them on as high priests, as a shining example, squandering all, solely in order to make all womankind ridiculous. And when a seducer makes the boast that every woman's virtue has its price, I do not believe him. But I do believe that every woman at an early time will be crazed by the maddening and defiling introspection taught her by fashion, which will corrupt her more thoroughly than being seduced. I have made trial more than once. If not able to corrupt her myself, I set on her a few of fashion slaves of her own station. For just as one may train rats to bite rats, likewise is the crazed woman's sting like that of the tarantula. And most especially dangerous is it when some man lends his help. Whether I serve the devil or God, I do not know, but I am right. I shall be right. I will be. So long as I possess a single farthing, I will be until the blood spurts out of my fingers. The physiologist pictures the shape of a woman to show the dreadful effects of wearing a corset. And beside it, he draws a picture of her normal figure. That is all entirely correct. But only one of the drawings has the validity of truth. They all wear corsets. Describe, therefore, the miserable, stunted perversity of the fashion mad woman. Describe the insidious introspection devouring her. And then describe the womanly modesty, which least of all knows about itself. Do so, and you have judged woman, have in very truth passed terrible sentence on her. If ever I discover such a girl who is contented and demure and not yet corrupted by indecent intercourse with women, she shall fall nevertheless. I shall catch her in my toils. Already she stands at the sacrificial altar. That is to say, in my shop. With the most gornful glance, a haughty nonchalance can assume I measure her appearance. She perishes with fright. A peal of laughter from the adjoining room where sit my trained accomplices annihilates her. And afterwards, when I have gotten her rigged up a la mode, and she looks crazier than a lunatic, as crazy as one who would not be accepted even in a lunatic asylum, then she leaves me in a state of bliss. No man, not even a God, were able to inspire fear in her, for is she not dressed in fashion? Do you comprehend me now? Do you comprehend why I call you fellow conspirators, even though in a distant way? Do you now comprehend my conception of woman? Everything in life is a matter of fashion. The fear of God is a matter of fashion. And so are love and crinolines, and a ring through the nose. To the utmost of my ability, will I therefore come to the support of the exalted genius who wishes to laugh at the most ridiculous of all animals. If woman has reduced everything to a matter of fashion, then will I, with the help of fashion, prostitute her as she deserves to be. I have no peace. I, the dressmaker, my soul rages when I think of my task. She will yet be made to wear a ring through her nose. Seek therefore no sweetheart, abandon love as you would the most dangerous neighborhood, for the one whom you love would also be made to go with a ring through her nose. End of section five. Section six of Envino Veritas, from stages on life's way by Soren Kierkegaard, translated by Lee M. Hollander, 1880 to 1972. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Section six, the speech of John the seducer. My dear boon companions, is Satan plaguing you? For indeed you speak like so many hired mourners. Your eyes are red with tears and not with wine. You almost move me to tears also, for an unhappy lover does have a miserable time of it in life. Hink ile la creme. I, however, am a happy lover, and my only wish is to remain so. Very possibly, that is one of the concessions to woman, which Victor is so afraid of. Why not, let it be a concession. Loosening the lead foil of this bottle of champagne also is a concession. Letting its foaming contents flow into my glass, also a concession. And so is raising it to my lips. Now I drain it. Conceito! Now, however, it is empty. Hence, I need no more concessions. Just the same with girls. If some unhappy lover has bought his kiss too dearly, this proves to me only that he does not know either how to take what is coming to him or how to do it. I never pay too much for this sort of thing, that is a matter for the girls to decide. What this signifies? To me it signifies the most beautiful, the most delicious, and well-nigh the most persuasive argumentum ad hominem. But since every woman, at least once in her life, possesses this argumentative freshness, I do not see any reason why I should not let myself be persuaded. Our young friend wishes to make this experience in his thought. Why not buy a cream-puff, and be content with looking at it? I mean to enjoy. No mere talk for me. Just as an old song has it about a kiss, es ist home zu sin, es ist nur für liepen, die Gener Siegwitzten. Understand each other so exactly, that any reflection about the matter is but an impertinence and a folly. She who is twenty, and does not grasp the existence of the categorical imperative, enjoy thyself, he is a fool, and he who does not seize the opportunity is, and remains, a Christian-felder. However, you all are unhappy lovers, and that is why you are not satisfied with woman as she is. The gods forbid. As she is, she pleases me, just as she is. In Constantine's category of the joke seems to contain a secret desire. I, on the other hand, am gallant, and why not? Gallantry costs nothing, and gives one all, and is the condition for all erotic pleasure. Gallantry is the masonic language of the senses, and of voluptuousness between man and woman. It is a natural language, as love's language in general is. It consists not of sounds, but of desires disguised, and of ever-changing wishes. That an unhappy lover may be un-gallant enough to wish to convert his deficit into a draft payable in immortality that I understand well enough. That is to say, I, for my part, do not understand it. For to me a woman has sufficient intrinsic value. I assure every woman of this it is the truth, and at the same time it is certain that I am the only one who is not deceived by this truth. As to whether a dispoiled woman is worth less than man, about that I find no information in my price list. I do not pick flowers already broken. I leave them for the married men to use for shrove-tide decoration. Whether E.G. Edward wishes to consider the matter again, and fall in love with Cordelia, or simply repeat the affair in his reflection, that is his own business. Why should I concern myself with other people's affairs? I explained to her at an earlier time what I thought of her, and in truth she convinced me, convinced me to my absolute satisfaction, that my gallantry was well applied. So, concessy, if I should meet with another Cordelia, why then I shall enact a comedy. Ring number two. But you are unhappy lovers, and have conspired together, and are worse deceived than the girls, notwithstanding that you are richly endowed by nature. But decision, the decision of desire, is the most essential thing in life. Your young friend will always remain an onlooker. Victor is an unpractical enthusiast. Constantine has acquired his good sense at too great a cost, and the fashion dealer is a madman. Stuff and nonsense. With all four of you busy about one girl, nothing would come of it. Let one have enthusiasm enough to idealize, taste enough to join in the clinking of glasses at the festive board of enjoyment, sense enough to break off, to break off absolutely, as does death, madness enough to wish to enjoy all over again. If you have all that, you will be the favorite of gods and girls. But of what availed to speak here, I do not intend to make proselytes, neither is this the place for that. To be sure I love wine. To be sure I love the abundance of a banquet. All that is good. But let a girl be my company, and then I shall be eloquent. Let then Constantine have my thanks for the banquet and the wine, in the excellent appointments. The speeches, however, were but indifferent. But in order that things shall have a better ending, I shall now pronounce a eulogy on woman. Just as he who is to speak in praise of the divinity must be inspired by the divinity to speak worthily, and must therefore be taught by the divinity as to what he shall say, likewise, he who would speak of women. For woman even less than the divinity is a mere figment of man's brain, a daydream, or a notion that occurs to one in which one may argue about pro et contra. Nay one learns from woman alone what to say to her, and the more teachers one has had, the better. The first time one is a disciple, the next time one is already over the chief difficulties, just as one learns informal and learned disputations how to use the last opponent's compliments against a new opponent, nevertheless nothing is lost. For as little as a kiss is a mere sample of good things, and as little as an embrace is an exertion, just as little is this experience exhaustive. In fact it is essentially different from the mathematical proof of a theorem which remains ever the same, even though other letters are substituted. This method is one befitting mathematics and ghosts, but not love and women, because each is a new proof, corroborating the truth of the theorem in a different manner. It is my joy that, far from being less perfect than men, the female sex is, on the contrary, the more perfect. I shall, however, clothe my speech in a myth, and I shall exalt, on women's account whom you have so unjustly maligned, if my speech pronounced judgment on your souls, if the enjoyment of her beckon you only to flee you, as did the fruits from Tantalus, because you have fled, and thereby insulted women. Only thus far sooth may she be insulted, even though she scorn it, and though punishment instantly falls on him who had the audacity. I, however, insult no one. That is but the notion of married men and a slanderer, whereas in reality I respect her more highly than does the man she is married to. Originally there was but one sex, so the Greeks relate, and that was man's. Splendidly endowed he was, so he did honor to the gods. So splendidly endowed that the same happened to them as sometimes happens to a poet who has expended all his energy on a poetic invention. They grew jealous of man. I, what is worse, they feared that he would not willingly bow under their yoke. They feared, though with small reason, that he might cause their very heaven to totter. Thus they had raised up a power. They scarcely held themselves able to curb. Then there was anxiety and alarm in the council of the gods. Much had they lavished in their generosity on the creation of man. But all must be risked now for reason of bitter necessity, for all was at stake, so the gods believed, and recalled he could not be, as a poet may recall his invention, and by force he could not be subdued, or else the gods themselves could have done so, but precisely of this they disbared. He would have to be caught and subdued, then, by a power weaker than his own, and yet stronger, one strong enough to compel him. What a marvelous power this would have to be. However, necessity teaches even the gods to surpass themselves in inventiveness, they sought, and they found. That power was woman, the marvel of creation, even in the eyes of the gods a greater marvel than man, a discovery in which the gods in their naivete could not help but applaud themselves for. What more could be said in her praise than that she was able to accomplish what even the gods did not believe themselves able to do, and what more can be said in her praise than that she did accomplish it, but how marvelous a creation must be hers to have accomplished it. That was a ruse of the gods, cunningly the enchantress was fashioned, for no sooner had she bewitched man than she changed, and caught him in all the circumstantialities of existence. It was that that the gods had desired. But what, pray, can be more delicious, or more entrancing, and bewitching than what the gods themselves contrived when battling for their supremacy, as the only means of luring man? And most assuredly it is so, for woman is the only and the most seductive power in heaven and on earth. Then compared with her in this sense man will indeed be found to be exceedingly imperfect. And the stratagem of the gods was crowned with success, but not always. There have existed at all times some men, a few who have detected the deception. They perceive well enough woman's loveliness more keenly indeed than the others, but they also suspect the real state of affairs. I call them erotic natures, and count myself among them. Men call them seducers. Woman has no name for them. Such persons are to her unnameable. These erotic natures are the truly fortunate ones. They live more luxuriously than do the very gods, for they regale themselves with food more delectable than ambrosia, and they drink what is more delicious than nectar. They eat the most seductive invention of the gods, most ingenious thought. They are ever-eating dainties set for a bait. Incomparable delight! Ah, blissful fair! They are ever-eating, but the dainties set for a bait. And they are never caught. All other men greedily seize and devour it, like bumpkins eating their cabbage, and are caught. Only the erotic nature fully appreciates the dainties set out for bait. He prizes them infinitely. Woman devines this, and for that reason there is a secret understanding between him and her. But he knows also that she is a bait, and that secret he keeps to himself. That nothing more marvelous, nothing more delicious, nothing more seductive than woman can be devised, for that vouch the gods and their pressing need which heightened their powers of invention. For that vouch is also the fact that they risked all, and in shaping her moved heaven and earth. I now forsake the myth. The conception man corresponds to his idea. I can therefore, if necessary, think of an individual man as existing. The idea of woman, on the other hand, is so general that no one single woman is able to express it completely. She is not contemporaneous with man, and hence of less noble origin, but a later creation, though more perfect than he. Whether now the gods took some part from him whilst he slept, from fear of waking him by taking too much, or whether they bisected him and made woman out of the one-half, at any rate it was man who was partitioned, hence she is the equal of man only after this partition. She is a delusion and a snare, but is so only afterwards, and for him who is deluded. She is finiteness incarnate, but in her first stage she is finiteness raised to the highest degree, in the deceptive infinitude of all divine and human illusions. Now the deception does not exist. One instant longer, and one is deceived. She is finiteness, and as such she is a collective. One woman represents all women. Only the erotic nature comprehends this, and therefore knows how to love many without ever being deceived, sipping the while all the delights that cunning gods were able to prepare. For this reason, as I said, woman cannot be fully expressed by one formula, but is rather an infinitude of finalities. He who wishes to think her idea will have the same experience as he who gazes on a sea of nebulous shapes which ever form anew, or as he who is dazed by looking over the waves whose foamy crests ever mark one's vision. For her idea is but the workshop of possibilities, and to the erotic nature these possibilities are the everlasting reason for his worship. So the gods created her delicate and ethereal, as if out of the mists of the summer night, yet godly like ripe fruit, light like a bird, though the repository of what attracts all the world. Right because the play of the forces is harmoniously balanced in the invisible center of a negative relation, slender in growth with definite lines, yet her body sinuous with beautiful curves, perfect, yet ever appearing as if completed but now, cool, delicious, and refreshing like new fallen snow, yet blushing in coy transparency, happy like some pleasantry which makes one forget all one's sorrow, soothing as being the end of desire, and satisfying in herself being the stimulus of desire. And the gods had calculated that man, when first beholding her, would be amazed as one who sees himself, though familiar with that sight, would stand in amaze as one who sees himself in the splendor of perfection, would stand in amaze as one who beholds what he did never dream he would, yet beholds what it would seem ought to have occurred to him before, sees what is essential to life, and yet gazes on it as being the very mystery of existence. It is precisely this contradiction in his admiration which nurses desire to life, while this same admiration urges him ever nearer, so that he cannot desist from gazing, cannot desist from believing himself familiar with the sight, without really daring to approach, even though he cannot desist from desiring. When the gods had thus planned her form, they were seized with fear, lest they might not have the wherewithal to give it existence, for what they feared even more was herself, for they dared not let her know how beautiful she was, apprehensive of having someone in the secret who might spoil their roost. Then was the crowning touch given to their wondrous creation. They made her faultless, but they concealed all this from her in the nescience of her innocence, and concealed it doubly from her in the impenetrable mystery of her modesty. Now she was perfect, and victory certain. Inviting she had been before, but now doubly so through her shyness, and beseeching through her shrinking, and irresistible through her offering resistance. The gods were jubilant, and no allurement has ever been devised in the world so great as is woman, and no allurement is so compelling as is innocence, and no temptation is as ensnaring as is modesty, and no deception is as matchless as is woman. She knows of nothing, still her modesty is instinctive divination. She is distinct from man, and the separating wall of modesty parting them is more decisive than Aladdin's sword, separating him from Gulnir, and yet, when like Pyramus he puts his head to this dividing wall of modesty, the erotic nature will perceive all pleasures of desire, divined within, as from afar. Thus does woman tempt. Men are wont to set forth the most precious things they possess as a delectation for the gods, nothing less will do. This is woman a showbred, the gods knew of not comparable to her. She exists, she is present, she is with us, close by, and yet she is removed from us by an infinite distance when concealed in her modesty, until she herself betrays her hiding place. She knows not how. It is not she herself, it is life which informs on her. As she is like a child who in plain peeps forth from his hiding place, yet her roguishness is inexplicable, for she does not know of it herself. She is ever mysterious, mysterious when she casts down her eyes, mysterious when she sends forth the messengers of her glance, which no thought, let alone any word, is able to follow. And yet is the eye the interpreter of the soul? What then is the explanation of this mystery if the interpreter, too, is unintelligible? Calm she is like the hushed stillness of eventide, when not a leaf stirs. Calm like a consciousness as yet unaware of art. Her heartbeats are as regular as if life were not present. And yet the erotic nature, listening with his stethoscopically practised ear, detects the dithrambic pulsing of desire, sounding along, unbeknown. Careless she is, like the blowing of the wind, content, like the profound ocean, and yet full of longing, like a thing biting its explanation. My friends, my mind is softened, indescribably softened. I comprehend that also my life expresses an idea, even if you do not comprehend me. I, too, have discovered the secret of existence. I, too, serve a divine idea, and assuredly I do not serve it for nothing. If woman is a roost of the gods, this means that she is to be seduced. And if woman is not an idea, the true inference is that the erotic nature wishes to love as many of them as possible. What luxury it is to relish the roosts without being duped. Only the erotic nature comprehends. And how blissful it is to be seduced, woman alone knows. I know that from woman, even though I never yet allowed any one of them time to explain it to me, but reasserted my independence, serving the idea by a break, as sudden as that caused by death. For a bride and a break are to one another, like female and male. Only woman is aware of this, and she is aware of it together with her seducer. No married man will ever grasp this. Nor does she ever speak with him about it. She resigns herself to her fate. She knows that it must be so, and that she can be seduced only once. For this reason she never really bears malice against the man who seduced her. That is to say, if he really did seduce her, and thus expressed the idea. Broken marriage vows and that kind of thing is, of course, nonsense, and no seduction. Indeed, it is by no means so great a misfortune for a woman to be seduced. In fact, it is a piece of good fortune for her. An excellently seduced girl may make an excellent wife. If I myself were not fit to be a seducer, however deeply I feel my inferior qualifications in this respect, if I choose to be a married man, I shall always choose a girl already seduced, so that I would not have to begin my marriage by seducing my wife. Marriage, to be sure, also expresses an idea, but in relation to the idea of marriage that quality is altogether immaterial, which is the absolutely essential condition for my idea. Therefore a marriage ought never to be planned to begin as though it were the beginning of a story of seduction. So much is sure. There is a seducer for every woman, happy as she whose good fortune it is to meet just him. Through marriage, on the other hand, the gods win their victory. In it the once seduced maiden walks through life by the side of her husband, looking back at times full of longing, resigned to her fate, until she reaches the goal of life. She dies. But not in the sense as man dies. She is volatilized and resolved into that mysterious primal element of which the gods formed her. She disappears like a dream, like an impermanent shape whose hour is past. For what is woman but a dream and the highest reality with all? Thus does the erotic nature comprehend her, leading her, and being led by her in the moment of seduction beyond time, where she has her true existence being an illusion. Through her husband, on the other hand, she becomes a creature of this world and he through her. Marvelous nature. If I did not admire thee, a woman would teach me, for truly she is the venerable of life. Splendidly distal fashion her, but more splendidly still, in that thou never dist fashion one woman like another. In man the essential is the essential, and in so far always alike. But in woman the adventitious is the essential, and is thus an inexhaustible source of differences. Brief is her splendor, but quickly the pain is forgotten too, when the same splendor is proffered me anew. It is true I too am aware of the unbeautiful, which may appear in her thereafter, but she is not thus with her seducer. End of Section 6. Section 7 of Endino Veritas, from Stages on Life's Way, by Soren Kierkegaard, translated by Lee M. Hollander, 1880 to 1972. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Section 7. Judge William and His Wife. They rose from the table. It needed but a hint from Constantine, for the participants understood each other with military precision whenever there was a question of face or turnabout. With his invisible baton of command, elastic like devawning rod in his hand, Constantine once more touched them in order to call forth in them a fleeting reminiscence of the banquet and the spirit of enjoyment which had prevailed before but was now, in some measure, submerged through the intellectual effort of the speeches, in order that the note of glad festivity which had disappeared might, by way of resonance, return once more among the guests in a brief moment of recollection. He saluted with his full glass as a signal of parting, emptying it, and then flinging it against the door in the rear wall. The others followed his example, consummating this symbolic action with all the solemnity of adepts. Justice was thus done the pleasure of stopping short, that royal pleasure which, though briefer, yet is more liberating than any other pleasure. With the libation this pleasure ought to be entered upon, with the libation of flinging one's glass into destruction and oblivion, and tearing one's self passionately away from every memory, as if it were a danger to one's life. This libation is to the gods of the netherworld. One breaks off, and strength is needed to do that, greater strength than to suffer a knot by a sword below, for the difficulty of the knot tends to arouse one's passion, but the passion required for breaking off must be of one's own making. In a superficial sense the result is, of course, the same, but from an artistic point of view, there is a world of difference between something ceasing or simply coming to an end, and it being broken off by one's own free will. Whether it is a mere occurrence or a passionate decision, whether it is all over like a school song, because there is no more to it, or whether it is terminated by the caesarean operation of one's own pleasure. Whether it is a triviality everyone has experienced, or the secret which escapes most. Constantine's flinging his beaker against the door was intended merely as a symbolic right. Nevertheless his doing so was, in a way, a decisive act, for when the last glass was shattered the door opened, and just as he who presumptuously knocked at death's door and on its opening beheld the powers of annihilation, so the banqueters beheld the core of destruction, ready to demolish everything, a memento which in an instant put them to flight from that place, while at the very same moment the entire surroundings had been reduced to the semblance of ruin. A carriage stood ready at the door, and Constantine's invitation they seated themselves in it, and drove away in good spirits, for that tableau of destruction which they left behind, and given their souls fresh elasticity. After having covered a distance of several miles a halt was made. Here Constantine took his leave as host, informing them that five carriages were at their disposal. Each one was free to suit his own pleasure, and drive wherever he wanted, whether alone or in company with whomsoever he pleased. Thus a rocket, propelled by the force of the powder, descends at a single shot, remains collected for an instant, in order then to spread out to all the winds. While the horses were being hitched to the carriages, the nocturnal banqueters strolled a little way down the road. The fresh air of the morning purified their hot blood with its coolness, and they gave themselves up to it entirely. Their forms and the groups in which they ranged themselves made a fantastic impression on me, for when the morning sun shines on field and meadow, and on every creature which in the night found rest and strength to rise up jubilating with the sun. In this there is only a pleasing mutual understanding. But a nightly company, viewed by the morning light and in smiling surroundings, makes a downright uncanny impression. It makes one think of spooks which have been surprised by daylight, of subterranean spirits which are unable to regain the crevice through which they may vanish, because it is visible only in the dark, of unhappy creatures in whom the difference between day and night has become obliterated through the monotony of their sufferings. A footpath led them through a small patch of field toward a garden surrounded by a hedge, from behind whose concealment a modest summer cottage peeped forth. The end of the garden toward the field there was an arbor formed by trees. Becoming aware of people being in the arbor, they all grew curious, and with the spying glances of men bent on observation, the besiegers closed in about that pleasant place of concealment, hiding themselves in as eager as emissaries of the police about to take someone by surprise. Like emissaries of the police, well to be sure, their appearance made the misunderstanding possible that it was they whom the minions of the law might be looking for. For each one had occupied a point of vanish for peeping in when Victor drew back a step and said to his neighbor, Why, dear me, if that is not Judge William and his wife? They were surprised, not the two whom the foliage concealed and who were all too deeply concerned with their domestic enjoyment to be observers. They felt themselves too secure to believe themselves an object of anyone's observation, accepting the morning suns which took pleasure in looking into them, whilst the gentle zephyr moved the boughs above them, and the reposefulness of the country side, as well as all things around them, girded the little arbor about them with peace. The happy married couple was not surprised and noticed nothing. There were a married couple was clear enough, one could perceive that at a glance, alas, if one is something of an observer oneself, even if nothing in the wide world, nothing whether overtly or covertly, if nothing, I say, threatens to interfere with the happiness of lovers, yet they are not thus secure when sitting together. They are in a state of bliss, and yet it is as if there were some power bent on separating them, so firmly they clasp one another, and yet it is as if there were some enemy present against whom they must defend themselves, and yet it is as if they could never become sufficiently reassured. Not thus married people, and not thus that married couple in the arbor, how long they had been married, however, that was not to be determined with certainty. To be sure the wife's activity at the tea-table revealed assuredness of hand, born of practice, but at the same time such almost childlike interest in her occupation as if she were a newly married woman, and in that middle condition when she is not, as yet, sure whether marriage is fun or earnest, whether being a housewife is a calling, or a game, or a pastime. Perhaps she had been married for some longer time, but did not generally preside at the tea-table, or perhaps did so only out here in the country, or did it perhaps only that morning which possibly had a special significance for them. Who could tell? All calculation is frustrated to a certain degree by the fact that every personality exhibits some originality which keeps time from leaving its marks. When the sun shines in his summer glory, one thinks straight away that there must be some festal occasion at hand, that it cannot be so for everyday use, or that it is the first time, or at least one of the first times. For surely one thinks it cannot be repeated for any length of time. Thus would think he who saw it but once or saw it for the first time, and I saw the wife of the justice for the first time. He who sees the object in question every day may think differently, provided he sees the same thing. But let the judge decide about that. As I remarked, our amiable housewife was occupied. She poured boiling water into the cups, probably to warm them, emptied them again, set a cup on a platter, poured the tea, and served it with sugar and cream. Now all was ready. Was it fun or earnest? Case of person did not relish tea at other times. He should have sat in the judge's place. For just then that drink seemed most inviting to me. Probably the inviting air of the lovely woman herself seemed to me more inviting. It appeared that she had not had time to speak until then. Now she broke the silence and said, while serving him his tea, Quick now, dear, and drink while it is hot. The morning air is quite cool, anyway, and surely the least I can do for you is to be a little careful of you. The least, the judge answered, look conically. Less are the most or the only thing. The judge looked at her inquiringly, and whilst he was helping himself she continued, you interrupted me yesterday when I wished to broach the subject, but I have thought about it again. Many times I have thought about it, and now particularly you know yourself in reference to whom. It is certainly true that if you hadn't married you would have been far more successful in your career. With his cup still on the platter the judge sipped a first mouthful with visible enjoyment, thoroughly refreshed, or was it perchance the joy over his lovely wife. I, for my part, believe it was the latter. She however seemed only to be glad that it tasted so good to him. Then he put down his cup on the table at his side, took out a cigar and said, May I light it at your chafing-dish? Finally she said, and handed him a live coal on a teaspoon. He lit his cigar and put his arm about her waist whilst she leaned against his shoulder. He turned his head the other way to blow out the smoke, and then he let his eye rest on her with a devotion such as only a glance can reveal. Yet he smiled, but this glad smile had in it a dash of sad irony. Finally he said, Do you really believe so, my girl? What do you mean? She answered. He was silent again, his smile again the upper hand, but his voice remained quite serious, nevertheless. Then I pardon you, your previous folly, seeing that you yourself have forgotten it so quickly. Thou speakest as one of the foolish women speaketh. What great career should I have had? His wife seemed embarrassed for a moment by this return, but collected her wits quickly and now explained her meaning with womanly eloquence. The judge looked down before him, without interrupting her, but as she continued he began to drum on the table with the fingers of his right hand, at the same time humming a tune. The words of the song were audible for a moment, just as the pattern of a texture now becomes visible, now disappears again, and then again they were heard no longer as he hummed the tune of the song. The good men he went to the forest to cut the wands so white. After this melodramatic performance, consisting in the justice's wife explaining herself whilst he hummed his tune, the dialogue set in again. I am thinking, he remarked, I am thinking you are ignorant of the fact that the Danish law permits a man to castigate his wife, a pity only that the law does not indicate on which occasions it is permitted. His wife smiled at his threat and continued, now why can I never get you to be serious when I touch on this matter? You do not understand me, believe me, I mean it sincerely. It seems to me a very beautiful thought. Of course if you weren't my husband I would not dare to entertain it, but now I have done so for your sake and for my sake, and now be nice and serious for my sake and answer me frankly. No you cannot get me to be serious and a serious answer you won't get. I must either laugh at you or make you forget it, as before or beat you, or else you must stop talking about it, or I shall have to make you keep silent about it some other way. You see it is a joke, and that is why there are so many ways out. He arose, pressed a kiss on her brow, laid her arm in his, and then disappeared in the leafy walk which led from the arbor. The arbor was empty, there was nothing else to do so the hostile core of occupation withdrew without making any gains. Still the others were content with uttering some malicious remarks. The company returned but missed Victor. He had rounded the corner and in walking along the garden had come up to the country home. The doors of a garden room facing the lawn were open and likewise a window. Very probably he had seen something which attracted his attention. He leaped into the window and leaped out again just as the party were approaching, for they had been looking for him. Triumphantly he held up some papers in his hand and exclaimed, one of the judge's manuscripts. Seeing that I edited his other works it is no more than my duty that I should edit this one too. He put it into his pocket, or rather he was about to do so, for as he was bending his arm and already his hand with the manuscript halfway down in his pocket I managed to steal it from him. But who then am I? Let no one ask. If it hasn't occurred to you before to ask about it I am over the difficulty, for now the worst is behind me, for that matter I am not worth asking about, for I am the least of all things. People would put me in utter confusion by asking about me. I am pure existence and therefore smaller almost than nothing. I am pure existence, which is present everywhere but still is never noticed, for I am ever vanishing. I am like the line above which stands the summa summa rom. Who cares about the line, but by my own strength I can accomplish nothing, for even the idea to steal the manuscript from Victor was not my own idea, for this very idea which, as a thief would say, induced me to borrow the manuscript was borrowed from him. And now when editing this manuscript I am again nothing at all, for it rightly belongs to the judge. And as editor I am in my nothingness only a kind of nemesis on Victor who imagined that he had the prescriptive right to do so. End of Section 7 End of Envino Veritas from Stages on Life's Way by Soren Kierkegaard translated by Lee M. Hollander 1880 through 1972.