This is how she encounters Don Giovanni. She has loved him more than the whole world, more than her soul’s salva- tion; she has cast away everything for him, even her honor, and he was unfaithful. Now she knows only one passion— hate; only one thought—revenge. Thus, she is just as great as Don Giovanni, because seducing all the maidens means for the man the same as for the woman—to let herself be seduced once and for all, heart and soul, and then to hate—or, if you please, to love her seducer with an energy that no married woman Silhouettes 197 has. This is how she encounters him. She does not lack the courage to venture out against him; she is not fighting for moral principles, she is fighting for her love, a love she does not base on respect; she is not fighting to become his mate, she is fighting for her love, and this is not satisfied with a contrite faithfulness but demands revenge. Out of love of him, she has cast away her salvation—if it were offered her again, she would again cast it away in order to avenge herself.
Such a character can never fail in its desired effect upon Don Giovanni. He knows the pleasure of inhaling the finest and most fragrant flower of early youth; he knows that it is just for a moment, and he knows what comes later; too often he has seen these pallid figures wither so quickly that it was almost visible. But here something wondrous has happened; the laws for the usual course of existence have been broken. He has se- duced a young girl, but her life has not been extinguished, her beauty has not faded—she is transformed and is more beautiful than ever. He cannot deny it; she enthralls him more than any other girl has, more than Elvira herself, for despite all her beauty, the innocent nun was just another girl, his infatuation just another experience—but this girl is the only one of her kind. This girl is armed; she does not hide a dagger in her breast,28 but she does wear armor—not visible, for her hate is not satisfied by speeches and declamations, but invisible, and it is her hatred. Don Giovanni’s passion is aroused; she must be his once again, but this does not happen. Indeed, if she who hated him were a girl who knew his villainy, although she her- self had not been deceived by him, then Don Giovanni would conquer. But this girl he cannot win; all his seduction is pow- erless. Even if his voice were more insinuating than his own voice, his advances craftier than his own advances, he would not move her; even if the angels pleaded for him, even if the Mother of God were to be the bridesmaid at the wedding, it would be futile. Just as in the underworld Dido herself turns away from Aeneas,”? who was unfaithful to her, so she cer- tainly will not turn away from him but will face him even more coldly than Dido.
But this meeting of Elvira and Don Giovanni is only a tran- 174 198 Either/Or, I sitional moment; she walks across the stage, the curtain falls, but we, dear Zupnagavexempevor, we quietly follow her, for only now does she really become the true Elvira. As long as she is in the vicinity of Don Giovanni, she is beside herself; when she comes to herself, it is appropriate to think about the paradox. Despite all the assurances of modern philosophy and the rash courage of its young ascribers, there are always great difficulties involved in thinking a contradiction.*° Presumably a young girl will be forgiven for finding it difficult, and yet this is the task assigned her—to think that the one she loves was a deceiver. She has this in common with Marie Beaumar- chais, and yet there is a difference in the way in which each of them comes to the paradox. The fact Marie had for her starting point was intrinsically so dialectical that reflection, with all its concupiscence, had to grasp it at once. As for Elvira, the fac- tual evidence that Don Giovanni was a deceiver seems so ob- vious that it is hard to see how reflection can take hold of it. Therefore, it grasps the matter from another angle. Elvira has lost everything, and yet a whole life lies before her, and her soul requires money for living expenses.
Here two possibilities become apparent—either to enter into ethical and religious categories or to keep her love for Giovanni. If she does the first, she is outside our interest; we will gladly have her enter a home for fallen women or what- ever else she wants. But this probably will also be difficult for her, because in order for that to be possible she must first de- spair; she has once known the religious, and the second time it makes great demands. On the whole, the religious is a danger- ous power with which to become involved; it is jealous of it- self and does not allow itself to be mocked. When she chose the convent, her proud soul perhaps found rich satisfaction in it, because, say what you will, no girl makes as brilliant a match as she who espouses heaven; but now, on the other hand, now she will have to return penitently, in repentance and contri- tion. Furthermore, there is always the question whether she can find a priest who can proclaim the gospel of repentance and contrition with the same pithiness as Don Giovanni has proclaimed the glad tidings of pleasure. Consequently, to save Silhouettes 199 herself from this despair, she must cling to Don Giovanni’s love, which is all the easier for her to do since she does still love him.
A third possibility is unthinkable; that she could be able to find consolation in another man’s love would be even more dreadful than the most dreadful. So for her own sake, there- fore, she must love Don Giovanni; it is self-defense that bids her do it. And this is the stimulus of reflection that forces her to stare at this paradox: whether she is able to love him even though he deceived her. Every time despair is about to seize her, she takes refuge in the memory of Don Giovanni’s love, and in order really to feel comfortable in this refuge, she is tempted to think that he is no deceiver, even though she does this in various ways. A woman’s dialectic is remarkable, and only the person who has had the opportunity to observe it can imitate it, whereas the greatest dialectician who ever lived could speculate himself crazy trying to produce it.
Ihave been fortunate enough, however, to know a few out- standing examples of this and through them have had a com- plete course in dialectics. Oddly enough, one would expect to find them most likely in the metropolis, for the noise and the throngs of people conceal much, but that is not the case—that is, if one wishes to have the perfect type. The finest ones are to be found in the provinces, in small towns, in country houses. The one I am thinking about in particular was a Swedish lady, a maiden of noble birth. Her first lover could not have desired her more ardently than I, her second lover, tried to pursue the thought processes of her heart. But I owe it to the truth to ad- mit that it was not my keenness and ingenuity that gave me the clue, but an accidental circumstance that is too complicated to tell here. She had lived in Stockholm and there had come to know a French count to whose faithless charm [Elskverdighed] she became a victim. I can still see her vividly. The first time I saw her, she really did not make any impression on me. She was still lovely, proud and aristocratic of bearing; she did not say very much, and I probably would have gone away no wiser than I came if chance had not made me a party to her se- cret. From that moment on, she was important to me; she 175 176 200 Either/Or, I gave me such a vivid picture of an Elvira that I could never weary of looking at her.
One evening I was at a large party with her. I had arrived before she did, had already been waiting some time when I stepped to the window to see whether she was coming, and a moment later her carriage stopped at the door. She stepped out, and immediately her attire made a singular impression on me. She was wearing a thin, light silk coat, much like the domino in which Elvira appears at the dance in the opera. She entered with a grand dignity that was really impressive. She was wearing a black silk gown; she was dressed with the ut- most taste and yet quite simply. No jewels embellished her; her neck was unadorned; and since her skin was whiter than snow, I have hardly ever seen so beautiful a contrast as that be- tween her black dress and her white bosom. One frequently sees an unadorned neck, but seldom does one see a girl who really has a bosom. She curtsied to all the guests, and when the master of the house came forward to greet her, she curtsied very low to him; although her lips parted in a smile, I did not hear a word from her. To me her conduct was very fitting, and I, who shared her secret, silently associated with her the words about the oracle: otte Aéyet otte xovmter, GAG onuatver [neither speaks nor conceals but indicates].*!
I have learned much from her and, among other things, have had confirmed my frequently made observation that peo- ple who conceal a sorrow acquire in the course of time a single phrase or a single idea with which they are able to signify everything to themselves and to the individual they have ini- tiated into it. Compared with the prolixity of sorrow, such a phrase or idea is like a diminutive, like a pet name one employs for daily use. Frequently it has an entirely accidental relation to what it is supposed to signify and almost always owes its ori- gin to an accidental circumstance. Having won her confi- dence, having succeeded in overcoming her mistrust of me be- cause a chance event had placed her in my power, having had her tell me everything, I frequently went through the whole scale of moods with her. But if she was not so disposed and yet wanted to give me a hint that her soul was engrossed in her Silhouettes 201 grief, she would take me by the hand, look at me and say: I was more slender than a reed, he more glorious than the cedars of Lebanon.*? Where she had found these words I do not know, but I am convinced that whenever Charon comes with his boat to take her over to the underworld, he will find not the required obol® in her mouth but these words on her lips: I was more slender than a reed, he more glorious than the cedars of Lebanon!
So, then, Elvira cannot find Don Giovanni, and now, all by herself, she must manage to discover the way out of the com- plication in her life; she must come to herself. She has changed her environment, and thus the help is gone that perhaps would have contributed to drawing out her sorrow. Her new envi- ronment knows nothing of her earlier life, suspects nothing, for there is nothing striking or remarkable about her external appearance, no mark of sorrow, no sign that announces to people that there is sorrowing here. She can control every expression, for the loss of her honor can very well teach her that; and even though she does not prize people’s opinions very highly, she at least can spare herself their condolences.
So now everything is in order, and she can be rather sure of going through life without arousing the suspicions of the cu- rious populace, who ordinarily are just as stupid as they are cu- rious. She has legitimate and unchallenged possession of her sorrow, and only if she were to be so unfortunate as to en- counter a professional smuggler, only then would she have to fear a closer interrogation. What is going on within her? Is she sorrowing? Of course, she is! But how is this grief to be char- acterized? I would call it care for the necessities of life, because a person’s life, after all, does not consist only of food and drink. The soul, too, requires sustenance. She is young, and yet the reserves of her life are used up, but from this it does not follow that she will die. In this respect, she is concerned every day about the next day. She cannot stop loving him, and yet he deceived her, but if he deceived her, then her love has in- deed lost its nourishing power. Yes, if he had not deceived her, if a higher power had torn him away, then she would have been as well provided as any girl could wish, for the memory { 177 178 202 Either/Or, I of Don Giovanni was a good deal more than many a living husband. But if she gives up her love, then she is brought to the state of beggary, then she must return to the convent to ridicule and disgrace. Yes, if only she could buy his love again with this! In this way she goes on living. Today, this present day, she still thinks that she can endure, that there is still a little something left to live on, but the next day, that she fears. She deliberates again and again, grasps at every escape, and yet she finds none, and thus she never comes to grieve coherently and healthfully, for she continually searches for the way she is going to grieve.
“Forget him, that is what I want; rip his picture out of my soul; I want to ransack myself like a consuming fire, and every thought that belongs to him must be burned up; only then can I be saved; it is in self-defense. If 1 do not rip out every thought of him, even the most remote, I am lost; only in this way can I protect myself. Myself—what is this myself—wretchedness and misery. I was unfaithful to my first love, and now should I make up for it by being unfaithful to my second?
“No, I will hate him; that is the only way to satisfy my soul, the only way I can find rest and something to occupy me. I will braid a garland of curses out of everything that reminds me of him, and for every kiss I say: Cursed be you! And for every time he has embraced me: Ten times cursed be you! And for every time he swore he loved me, I will swear that I will hate him. This is going to be my work, my labor; to this I dedicate myself. After all, I became accustomed to praying my rosary in the convent, and so I will still remain a nun who prays early and late. Or should I perhaps be satisfied that he once loved me? I should perhaps be a prudent girl and not throw him away in proud contempt now when I know that he is a de- ceiver; I should perhaps be a good housewife who, with eco- nomic sense, knows how to stretch as far as possible the little that she has. No, I will hate him; only in that way can I tear myself away from him and show myself that I do not need him. But am I not indebted to him at all when I hate him? Am I not living off him? For what is it that nourishes my hatred except my love for him?
Silhouettes 203 Silhouettes 203 ‘He was no deceiver; he had no idea of what a woman can suffer. If he had had that, he never would have forsaken me. He was a man who was to himself enough. Is that, then, a con- solation for me? Indeed it is, for my suffering and anguish prove to me how happy I was, so happy that he has no idea of it. Why, then, do I complain because a man is not like a woman, not as happy as she is when she is happy, not as un- happy as she is when she is boundlessly unhappy because her happiness knew no bounds.
“Did he deceive me? No! Did he promise me anything? No! My Giovanni was no suitor, no poor chicken thief; a nun does not debase herself for such. He did not ask my hand in mar- riage; he stretched out his hand, and I grasped it; he looked at me, I was his; he opened his arms, I belonged to him. I clung to him; I entwined myself around him like a climbing plant; I rested my head on his breast and gazed into that all-powerful countenance, with which he ruled the world, and which nevertheless rested upon me as if I were the whole world to him; like a suckling infant I imbibed fullness and richness and bliss. Can I demand more? Was I not his? Was he not mine? And if he was not, was I therefore the less his? When the gods wandered upon the earth and fell in love with women, did they remain faithful to their beloveds? And yet it occurs to no one to say that they deceived them! And why not? Because we want a girl to be proud of having been loved by a god. And what are all the gods of Olympus compared with my Gio- vanni? And should I not be proud—should I disparage him, should I insult him in my thought, allow it to force him into the narrow, wretched laws that apply to ordinary men? No, I will be proud that he has loved me; he was greater than the gods, and I will honor him by making myself into a nobody. I will love him because he belonged to me, love him because he forsook me, and I will go on being his, and I will keep what he throws away.
“No, I cannot think about him; every time I recall him, every time my thoughts approach the hiding place in my soul where his memory lives, then it is as if ] committed a new sin. I fee] an anxiety, an unspeakable anxiety, an anxiety such as I 179 180 204 Either/Or, I felt in the convent when I sat in my solitary cell and waited for him and my thoughts terrified me: the prioress’s intense scorn, the convent’s terrible punishment, my offense against God. And yet was not this anxiety part of it? What was my love for him without it? Indeed, he was not married to me; we had not received the blessing of the Church; the bell had not rung for us; no hymn was sung—and yet what was all the music and celebration of the Church; how would it be able to put me ina mood comparable to this anxiety! —But then he came, and the disharmony of my anxiety dissolved into the most blissful har- mony of security, and only faint tremblings voluptuously stirred my soul. Should I fear this anxiety, then; does it not re- mind me of him; is it not the announcement of his coming? If I could recollect him without this anxiety, then I would not recollect him. He is coming; he asks for silence; he controls the spirits that want to tear me away from him; I am his, blissful in him.”
If I were to imagine a person in distress at sea, unconcerned about his life, remaining on board because there was some- thing he wanted to save and could not save because of perplex- ity about what to save, I have an image of Elvira. She is in dis- tress at sea; her destruction is imminent, but it does not concern her; she is not aware of it; she is perplexed about what she should save.
3. Margarete We know this girl from Goethe’s Faust. She was a little mid- dle-class girl, not destined, like Elvira, for the convent, but still she was brought up in the fear of the Lord, even though her soul was too childlike to feel the earnestness, as Goethe so incomparably says: Halb Kinderspiel[e], Halb Gott im Herzen [Half sport of childhood, Half God within thee].
What we particularly love about this girl is the charming simplicity and humility of her pure soul. The first time she sees Silhouettes 205 Faust, she immediately feels much too inferior to be loved by him, and it is not out of curiosity to know whether Faust loves her that she picks the petals of the daisy—it is out of humility, for she feels too inferior to choose and therefore submits to the oracular bidding of an enigmatic power. Yes, lovable Marga- rete! Goethe betrayed how you plucked the petals and recited the words: He loves me, he loves me not.*6 Poor Margarete! You can indeed continue this activity and merely change the words: He deceived me, he deceived me not. In fact, you can cultivate a little piece of ground with this kind of flower and you will have manual labor for your whole life. Commentators have remarked on the striking fact that whereas the legend of Don Juan tells of 1,003 seduced in Spain alone, the legend of Faust speaks of only one seduced girl. It may be worth the trouble not to forget this observation, inas- much as it will be of significance in what follows and will help us characterize what is distinctive in Margarete’s reflective sor- row. At first glance, it might seem that the only difference be- tween Elvira and Margarete was the difference between two different individualities who have experienced the same thing. But the difference is far more essential and yet is due not so much to the difference in the two feminine natures as to the es- sential difference between a Don Juan and a Faust. From the very start, there must be a difference between an Elvira and a Margarete, since a girl who is to make an impression on a Faust must be essentially different from a girl who makes an impression on a Don Juan. Yes, even if I supposed that it was the same girl who engaged the attention of both, it would be something different that appealed to each of them. By being brought into relation with a Don Juan or a Faust, the difference that was present only as a possibility would develop into a full actuality. Faust is admittedly a reproduction of Don Juan, but his being a reproduction is precisely what makes him essen- tially different from him, even in the stage of life in which he can be called a Don Juan, for to reproduce another stage does not mean only to become that but to become that with all the elements of the preceding stage in it. Therefore, even if he de- sires the same as a Don Juan, he nevertheless desires it in a dif- 181 182 206 Either/Or, I ferent way. But in order for him to be able to desire it in a dif- ferent way, it must also be present in a different way. He has features that make his method different, just as Margarete has features that make another method necessary. His method in turn depends upon his desire, and his desire is different from Don Juan’s, even if there is a basic similarity between them. Generally, people think they are saying something very sa- gacious when they emphasize that Faust ends up by becoming a Don Juan, and yet it does not say very much, for the point is, in what sense does he become that. Faust is a demonic figure, just like a Don Juan, but a superior one. Sensuousness does not acquire importance for him until he has lost a whole previous world, but the consciousness of this loss is not blotted out; it is always present, and therefore he seeks in the sensuous not so much pleasure as distraction. His doubting soul finds nothing in which it can rest, and now he grasps at erotic love [Elskov], not because he believes in it but because it has an element of presentness in which there is a momentary rest and a striving that diverts and that draws attention away from the nothing- ness of doubt. His pleasure, therefore, does not have the Hei- terkeit [cheerfulness] that characterizes a Don Juan. His visage is not smiling, his brow not unclouded, and joy is not his es- cort; the young girls do not dance into his embrace, but he scares them to himself. What he is seeking, therefore, is not only the pleasure of the sensuous but the immediacy of the spirit. Just as ghosts in the underworld, when a living being fell into their hands, sucked his blood and lived as long as this blood warmed and nourished them, so Faust seeks an imme- diate life whereby he will be rejuvenated and strengthened. And where can this better be found than in a young girl, and how can he more completely imbibe this than in the embrace of erotic love? Just as the Middle Ages had tales of sorcerers who knew how to prepare a rejuvenating potion and used the heart of an innocent child for it, so this is the strengthening his emaciated soul needs, the only thing that can satisfy him for a moment. His sick soul needs what could be called the first greening of a young heart, and to what else could I compare the early youth of an innocent feminine soul? If I said it is like Silhouettes 207 a flower, I would say too little, for it is more than that; it is a flowering. The vitality of hope and faith and trust burgeons and blossoms in rich multiplicity; gentle yearnings stir in the delicate shoots, and dreams shade their flourishing. In this way it stirs a Faust; it beckons his restless soul like an island of peace in the calm ocean. That it is ephemeral, no one knows better than Faust; he does not believe in it any more than in anything else, but that it exists, of that he assures himself in the embrace of erotic love. Only the plenitude of innocence and childlike- ness can refresh him for a moment.
In Goethe’s Faust, Mephistopheles has Faust see Margarete in a mirror. His eyes delight in gazing at her, but nevertheless itis not her beauty that he desires, although he takes that in ad- dition. What he desires is the pure, undisturbed, rich, imme- diate joy of a feminine soul, but he desires it sensually, not spiritually. In a certain sense, then, he does desire as does Don Juan, but still he desires in an entirely different way. At this point, some assistant professor or other, convinced of having been a Faust himself, since otherwise he certainly could not possibly have managed to become an assistant professor, would point out that Faust requires intellectual development and refinement in a girl who is to arouse his desire. Perhaps a larger number of assistant professors would consider this a brilliant observation, and their respective wives and sweet- hearts would nod approval. But it would miss the point com- pletely, for Faust would desire nothing less. A so-called re- fined girl would fall within the same relativity as he himself, although this would have no significance for him, would amount to nothing. With her smattering of refinement, she perhaps would tempt this old master of doubt to take her along out into the current, where she would quickly despair. An innocent young girl, however, is within another relativity and thus, in a certain sense, is nothing compared with Faust and yet, in another sense, is enormously much, since she is im- mediacy. Only in this immediacy is she a goal for his desire, and therefore I said that he desires immediacy not spiritually but sensually.
Goethe understood all this perfectly well, and therefore 183 184 208 Either/Or, I Margarete is a little middle-class girl, a girl one could almost be tempted to call insignificant. Since it is important with re- spect to Margarete’s grief, we shall now consider more closely how Faust presumably must have affected her. Of course, the particular features Goethe has emphasized are of great value, but I nevertheless believe that for the sake of completeness a little modification must be made. In her innocent simplicity, Margarete soon perceives that with respect to faith there is something wrong with Faust. In Goethe, this appears in a little catechization scene,*” which is unquestionably a superb inven- tion by the poet. The question now is what results this exam- ination may have for their relation to each other. It is apparent that Faust is a doubter, and it seems that Goethe, inasmuch as he does not suggest anything more in this respect, wanted to have Faust continue to be a doubter also in his relation to Mar- garete. He has tried to draw her attention away from all such probing and to fasten it simply and solely upon the reality of love [Kjerlighedens Realitet]. But I think, for one thing, that once the problem has come up this would be difficult for Faust, and, for another, I do not think it is psychologically cor- rect. I shall not dwell longer on this point, for Faust’s sake, but for Margarete’s sake I certainly shall, for if it is not apparent to her that he is a doubter, then her grief has an added element.
So, then, Faust is a doubter, but he is no vain fool who wants to make himself important by doubting what others believe; his doubt has an objective foundation in him. To Faust’s credit, this has to be said. But as soon as he wants to press his doubt upon others, a spurious passion can very easily enter in. As soon as doubt is pressed upon others, there is an envy in- volved that rejoices in wresting from them what they regarded as certain. But in order for this passion of envy to be aroused in the doubter, there must be the possibility of opposition in the individual concerned. The temptation ceases either where there is none whatever or where it would even be unbecoming to suppose it. The latter is the case with a young girl. Face to face with her, a doubter is always in an awkward position. To wrest her faith from her is no task at all for him; on the con- trary, he feels that it is only through her faith that she is the Silhouettes 209 great person she is. He feels humbled, for there is in her a nat- ural claim on him to be her supporter if she herself begins to waver. Of course, a clumsy fool of a doubter, a dabbler, pre- sumably could find satisfaction in wresting faith from a young girl and joy in scaring women and children since he cannot ter- rify men. But this is not the case with Faust; he is too great for that.
Consequently, we can agree with Goethe that Faust betrays his doubt the first time, but I hardly believe it will happen with him a second time. This is very important with respect to the interpretation of Margarete. Faust readily perceives that Mar- garete’s entire significance hinges on her innocent simplicity. If this is taken from her, she is nothing in herself, nothing to him. This, then, must be preserved. He is a doubter, but as such he has all the elements of the positive within himself, for otherwise he would be a sorry doubter. He lacks the point of conclusion, and thereby all the elements become negative. She, however, has the point of conclusion, has childlikeness and innocence. Therefore, nothing is easier for him than to equip her. He has learned from experience that what he talked about as doubt often impressed others as positive truth. So now he finds his joy in enriching her with the opulent content of a way of looking at things; he takes out all the finery of im- mediate faith and finds joy in embellishing her with it, for it is very becoming to her, and she thereby becomes more beauti- ful in his eyes. In so doing, he has the added advantage that her soul attaches itself ever more tightly to his. She really does not understand him at all; like a child she attaches herself tightly to him; what for him is doubt is unswerving truth for her. But at the same time that he is building up [opbygge] her faith in this