THE VALUE OF SAINTLINESS
289
Compared with these beaked and taloned graspers of the
world, saints are herbivorous animals, tame and harmless barn-yard
poultry. There are saints whose beard you may, if you ever care to,
pull with impunity. Such a man excites no thrills of wonder veiled
in terror; his conscience is full of scruples and returns; he stuns us
neither by his inward freedom nor his outward power; and unless
he found within us an altogether different faculty of admiration to
appeal to, we should pass him by with contempt.
In point of fact, he does appeal to a different faculty. Reënacted
in human nature is the fable of the wind, the sun, and the traveler.
The sexes embody the discrepancy. The woman loves the man the
more admiringly the stormier he shows himself, and the world
deifies its rulers the more for being willful and unaccountable. But
the woman in turn subjugates the man by the mystery of gentleness
in beauty, and the saint has always charmed the world by some-
thing similar. Mankind is susceptible and suggestible in opposite
directions, and the rivalry of influences is unsleeping. The saintly
and the worldly ideal pursue their feud in literature as much as in
real life.
For Nietzsche the saint represents little but sneakingness and
slavishness. He is the sophisticated invalid, the degenerate par
excellence, the man of insufficient vitality. His prevalence would
put the human type in danger.
“The sick are the greatest danger for the well. The weaker, not the
stronger, are the strong’s undoing. It is not fear of our fellow-man, which
we should wish to see diminished; for fear rouses those who are strong
to become terrible in turn themselves, and preserves the hard-earned and
successful type of humanity. What is to be dreaded by us more than any
other doom is not fear, but rather the great disgust, not fear, but rather the
great pity — disgust and pity for our human fellows. . . . The morbid are
our greatest peril — not the ‘bad’ men, not the predatory beings. Those
born wrong, the miscarried, the broken — they it is, the weakest, who are
undermining the vitality of the race, poisoning our trust in life, and putting
humanity in question. Every look of them is a sigh, — ‘Would I were
something other! I am sick and tired of what I am.’ In this swamp-soil of
self-contempt, every poisonous weed flourishes, and all so small, so secret,
so dishonest, and so sweetly rotten. Here swarm the worms of sensitive-
ness and resentment; here the air smells odious with secrecy, with what is
not to be acknowledged; here is woven endlessly the net of the meanest of
290THE VARIETIES OF RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE
conspiracies, the conspiracy of those who suffer against those who succeed
and are victorious; here the very aspect of the victorious is hated — as if
health, success, strength, pride, and the sense of power were in themselves
things vicious, for which one ought eventually to make bitter expiation.
Oh, how these people would themselves like to inflict the expiation, how
they thirst to be the hangmen! And all the while their duplicity never
confesses their hatred to be hatred.”
1
Poor Nietzsche’s antipathy is itself sickly enough, but we all
know what he means, and he expresses well the clash between the
two ideals. The carnivorous-minded “strong man,” the adult male
and cannibal, can see nothing but mouldiness and morbidness in
the saint’s gentleness and self-severity, and regards him with pure
loathing. The whole feud revolves essentially upon two pivots:
Shall the seen world or the unseen world be our chief sphere of
adaptation? and must our means of adaptation in this seen world
be aggressiveness or non-resistance?
The debate is serious. In some sense and to some degree both
worlds must be acknowledged and taken account of; and in the
seen world both aggressiveness and non-resistance are needful. It
is a question of emphasis, of more or less. Is the saint’s type or the
strong-man’s type the more ideal?
It has often been supposed, and even now, I think, it is supposed
by most persons, that there can be one intrinsically ideal type of
human character. A certain kind of man, it is imagined, must be the
best man absolutely and apart from the utility of his function, apart
from economical considerations. The saint’s type, and the knight’s
or gentleman’s type, have always been rival claimants of this absolute
ideality; and in the ideal of military religious orders both types
were in a manner blended. According to the empirical philosophy,
however, all ideals are matters of relation. It would be absurd, for
example, to ask for a definition of “the ideal horse,” so long as drag-
ging drays and running races, bearing children, and jogging about with
tradesmen’s packages all remain as indispensable differentiations of
equine function. You may take what you call a general all-round
animal as a compromise, but he will be inferior to any horse of a
more specialized type, in some one particular direction. We must not
1
Zur Genealogie der Moral, Dritte Abhandlung, § 14. I have abridged, and in one place
transposed, a sentence.