Aristotle on Shame and Learning to Be

Good 1st Edition Marta Jimenez

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/aristotle-on-shame-and-learning-to-be-good-1st-editio
n-marta-jimenez/
Aristotle on Shame and Learning to Be Good
OXFORD ARISTOTLE STUDIES
General Editor
Lindsay Judson
    
Doing and Being
An Interpretation of Aristotle’s Metaphysics Theta
Jonathan Beere
Aristotle on the Sources of the Ethical Life
Sylvia Berryman
Aristotle on Knowledge and Learning
The Posterior Analytics
David Bronstein
Aristotle and the Eleatic One
Timothy Clarke
Time for Aristotle
Physics IV. 10–14
Ursula Coope
Passions and Persuasion in Aristotle’s Rhetoric
Jamie Dow
Teleology, First Principles, and Scientific Method in Aristotle’s Biology
Allan Gotthelf
Aristotle on the Common Sense
Pavel Gregoric
The Powers of Aristotle’s Soul
Thomas Kjeller Johansen
Aristotle on Teleology
Monte Ransome Johnson
How Aristotle gets by in Metaphysics Zeta
Frank A. Lewis
Aristotle on the Apparent Good
Perception, Phantasia, Thought, and Desire
Jessica Moss
Priority in Aristotle’s Metaphysics
Michail Peramatzis
Aristotle’s Theory of Bodies
Christian Pfeiffer
Aristotle on Shame and
Learning to Be Good
MARTA JIMENEZ

1
 3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP,
United Kingdom
Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford.
It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship,
and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of
Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries
© Marta Jimenez 2020
The moral rights of the author have been asserted
First Edition published in 2020
Impression: 1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the
prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted
by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics
rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the
above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the
address above
You must not circulate this work in any other form
and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Data available
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020937527
ISBN 978–0–19–882968–3
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198829683.001.0001
Printed and bound by
CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and
for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials
contained in any third party website referenced in this work.
To my grandfather, Mateo Agustín, who was a citizen soldier in the
Spanish civil war. And to my parents, who taught me about it.
 Acknowledgments

This book is a distant descendant of a doctoral thesis that I completed at the

University of Toronto. My gratitude is due first and foremost to my supervisor
and friend, Jennifer Whiting. I could not have hoped for a better person to guide
my work and help me during my early academic life. I am extremely grateful for
her continued support, encouragement, and challenge. Rachel Barney and Brad
Inwood were also part of the original conception of this project and helped me to
shape many of the central ideas. I thank them for challenging many of my initial
thoughts on the matter, for fruitful discussions, and for their extensive feedback.
This project has been in gestation for such a long time that I have incurred
many large debts of gratitude. It is a great pleasure to acknowledge the help of
those friends, mentors, and colleagues who gave me comments on parts or
sections of the material (whether in conversation or via written feedback) or
helped me through discussion on particular matters at various points: Julia
Annas, Samuel Baker, Juan Pablo Bermúdez, Alessandro Bonello, Sarah Broadie,
David Bronstein, Klaus Corcilius, Willie Costello, Jamie Dow, Zoli Filotas, Emily
Fletcher, Alessandra Fussi, Corinne Gartner, Paula Gottlieb, Devin Henry,
Sukaina Hirji, Douglas S. Hutchinson, Dhananjay Jagannathan, Monte Johnson,
Rusty Jones, Rachana Kamtekar, Aryeh Kosman, Danielle Layne, Stephen
Leighton, Mariska Leunissen, Patricia Marechal, Jessica Moss, Tim O’Keefe,
Chistiana Olfert, Richard Patterson, Francesca Pedriali, Christof Rapp, Gurpreet
Rattan, Krisanna Scheiter, Clerk Shaw, Brooks Sommerville, Matt Strohl, Jacob
Stump, Jan Szaif, Iakovos Vasiliou, David Wolfsdorf, and Joel Yurdin. Their
questions, objections, and comments at different stages of the project have been
essential for improving the final result and for helping me bring it to conclusion.
I especially wish to thank those who made comments or raised objections after
presentations which I gave about parts of the book at the University of Toronto,
the Humboldt University, Princeton University, the University of Vermont-
Burlington, Wellesley College, the University of California-Riverside, the
University of Tennessee-Knoxville, the University of Arizona, Haverford
College, and Virginia Tech University, and to the audiences of my talks on topics
from the book at general meetings of the American Philosophical Society, the
Society for Ancient Greek Philosophy, the Ancient Philosophy Society, the
Canadian Philosophical Association, and the European Philosophical Society for
the Study of Emotions.
I am particularly grateful to the participants of the Institute for the History of
Philosophy Summer Workshop that I co-organized with Christoph Rapp at
x 

Emory University in June 2015 on “Aristotle on the Emotions”: Jamie Dow, Craig
Henchey, Corinne Gartner, Paula Gottlieb, Stephen Leighton, Hendrik Lorenz,
Jozef Müller, Tim O’Keefe, Rachel Parsons, Clerk Shaw, Krisanna Scheiter,
Melpomeni Vogiatzi, and Marco Zingano. This workshop provided an ideal
environment to test some of my ideas about the role of emotions in Aristotle’s
ethics and to discuss my main view about the centrality of shame. More recently
I owe also thanks to Lucas Angioni for generously organizing in May 2018 a
workshop on a penultimate version of my manuscript at the University of
Campinas in São Paulo, Brazil, where I received insightful comments from
Lucas, João Hobuss, Fernando Mendonça, Inara Zanuzzi, and Raphael Zillig.
I sincerely thank the participants in this workshop for their valuable comments
and questions, and Lucas in particular for his warm hospitality and for many
stimulating exchanges about topics from the book.
Special thanks are due to Julia Annas and David Konstan, who generously read
whole drafts of this book and provided me with invaluable comments and
suggestions.
I worked out many of the ideas in this book while teaching courses on
Aristotle’s ethics and emotion theory at Emory University. I am grateful to my
students for their interest, their questions, and their insight as we worked together
through Aristotle’s texts and the work of modern commentators.
I would like to extend my gratitude also to my colleagues at the philosophy
department of Emory University for their encouragement and support. A Junior
Post Fourth-Year Review Leave from Emory allowed me to focus exclusively on
my research during the Spring and Fall semesters of 2016. I am grateful to the
university for this generous support.
Thanks are due for the many useful comments of anonymous reviewers at Oxford
University Press and, before that, for the comments of the anonymous reviewers
and editors of the journals where parts of these chapters first appeared as articles.
I also thank the editors at Oxford University Press for their guidance and patience.
I thank my research assistants and good friends, Chad Horne and Jacob Stump,
whose comments on the final drafts helped me clarify some key ideas and saved me
from several mistakes. John Proios and Andrew Culbreth provided last-minute vital
assistance compiling the indexes. I am of course responsible for any errors.
Lastly, I thank my parents, Joaquín Jiménez and Isabel Rodríguez-Valdés, to
whom this book is dedicated, and my wife, Stu Marvel, without whom I would not
have been able to finish anything and to whom I owe it all.
Chapter 1 is a revised version of my paper “Aristotle on Becoming Virtuous by
Doing Virtuous Actions,” Phronesis 61.1 (2016): 3–32. I thank Koninklijke Brill
NV for permission to reprint this material.
Parts of Chapter 2 draw on sections from my paper “Aristotle on ‘Steering the
Young by Pleasure and Pain’,” Journal of Speculative Philosophy 29.2 (2015):
137–164. I thank Penn State University Press for permission to reprint this
material.
 Introduction

Shame is a complex and multifaceted emotion and its contribution to our ethical
lives is difficult to pin down. For some, shame is a valuable emotion that helps us
to improve our character, motivating individuals and even communities to
achieve higher moral standards. But shame is also often seen as a feeling we are
better off without, insofar as it is a painful experience that can be used as a tool for
social manipulation or oppression, and it can be paralyzing or even lead to self-
destructive behavior.¹ This ambivalence about shame is on display not only in
contemporary discussions, but also in a good portion of the ancient Greek
literature.² In many ancient Greek texts, shame (aidōs, aischunē) appears to be
used in at least two senses, typically including both a good sense of shame as
virtue, or at the very least as a stepping-stone to virtue, and a bad sense of shame as
an oppressive emotion that unduly limits our agency.³ In Aristotle’s ethical
writings we also find both positive and negative aspects of shame: it is praise-
worthy in young people and crucial to their moral development, while it is alien to
the virtuous because it is linked to moral failure and excessively dependent on
what others think. My aim in this book is to show how Aristotle reconciles these
apparently conflicting aspects of shame in a single unified account, and to dispel
shame’s bad name by exploring Aristotle’s views on the nature of shame and its
positive role in our early ethical lives.
My central claim is that shame for Aristotle is not just a helpful aid to learning
to be good, but an essential part of that process. Shame is, I contend, the proto-

¹ Contemporary philosophical discussions of shame often open with remarks about the multifaceted
and ambivalent character of this emotion—see e.g. Kekes 1998; Calhoun 2004; Nussbaum 2004; Mason
2010; Tarnopolsky 2010; Deonna et al. 2012; and Thomason 2018. Among contemporary authors who
deal with shame, some underscore shame’s moral relevance and its potential to encourage moral
improvement—see e.g. Aldrich 1939; Rawls 1971, §67: “Self-Respect, Excellences, and Shame” (440–6);
Taylor 1985; Williams 1993; Elster 1999 (149–64); Calhoun 2004; Manion 2002; Arneson 2007; Mason
2010; Tarnopolsky 2010; Appiah 2010; Deonna et al. 2012; Lebron 2013; Fussi 2015; and Ramirez 2017.
Others, in turn, argue against its moral relevance—see e.g. Deigh 1983; while many others warn us against
shame’s potentially damaging effects—see e.g. Adkins 1960; Kekes 1998; Nussbaum 1980 and 2004 (esp.
ch. 4: “Inscribing the Face: Shame and Stigma”); and Thomason 2018.
² An essential study of the complex character of shame in ancient Greek thought, from Homer to
Aristotle, is Cairns 1993. See also Von Erffa 1937; Fisher 1992; Williams 1993; and Konstan 2006 ch. 4
(91–110). North’s 1966 study on sōphrosunē is also relevant.
³ See Chapter 5, Section 5.3, for a brief discussion of this distinction and the ways in which it has
been attributed to Aristotle. Cairns 1993 offers a thorough study of these two senses of shame in ancient
Greek literature and provides numerous examples.

Aristotle on Shame and Learning to Be Good. Marta Jimenez, Oxford University Press (2020). © Marta Jimenez.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198829683.003.0001
2 

virtue of those learning to be good (I shall call them “learners”),⁴ since it is the
emotion that equips learners with the seeds of virtue. Other emotions such as
friendliness (philia), righteous indignation (nemesis), emulation (zēlos), hope
(elpis), and even spiritedness (thumos) may play important roles on the road to
virtue. However, shame is the only one that Aristotle repeatedly associates with
moral progress. The reason, as I argue, is that shame can move young agents to
perform good actions and avoid bad ones in ways that appropriately resemble not
only the external behaviors of virtue, but also the orientation and receptivity to
moral value characteristic of virtuous people.
What, then, is shame, and how can it be seen to figure in our moral develop-
ment? Although shame is not a virtue for Aristotle, it has three connected features
that make it indispensable for the development of a good character: self-
reflectivity, other-relatedness, and responsiveness to moral considerations beyond
pleasures and gains. First, shame promotes our awareness of the connection
betweeen the inside and outside aspects of the self. Specifically, shame focuses
on the intimate connection between the praiseworthiness (or blameworthiness) of
our actions and the praiseworthiness (or blameworthiness) of our character—it
gets us to see our external behavior and, in general, how we seem to be, as a
reflection of who we are. Secondly, shame makes us receptive to the moral
opinions of others and thus enables us to listen to moral reasons. And finally,
third, shame makes agents responsive to a kind of value beyond mere pleasure
(hēdonē) and mere gain (kerdos). More precisely, shame makes agents responsive
to the value of the kalon (noble, admirable, beautiful, or fine), which is the
characteristic goal of virtue.⁵ By turning the agents’ attention to considerations
about honor (timē) and praise (epainos), and thus—as I will argue—turning their
attention to considerations about the perceived nobility and praiseworthiness of
their own actions and character, shame places young people on the path to
becoming good.
Beyond Aristotle, also in contemporary discussions shame is typically charac-
terized as a self-reflective and other-related emotion. Shame tends to be classified,

⁴ This idea echoes the claim in Burnyeat 1980 that shame is for Aristotle “the semi-virtue of the
learner” (78). Deonna et al. 2012 also use the expression “semi-virtue” in their explanation of shame’s
function in contemporary terms (178). I prefer “proto-virtue” because it has the connotations of being a
precursor of virtue, which I think is more accurate, as it preserves the Aristotelian point that shame puts
learners on the path towards virtue.
⁵ I will translate kalon for the most part as “noble,” but occasionally as “admirable,” “beautiful,” or
“fine,” or will leave it untranslated as seems most appropriate to the context. See note 11 in Chapter 1,
Section 1.2, below for the list of texts where Aristotle claims that doing virtuous actions “for the sake of
the noble” (tou kalou heneka) is characteristic of virtue. Some relevant discussions of the notion of the
kalon in Aristotle are Owens 1981; Rogers 1993; Cooper 1996; Richardson Lear 2006; Irwin 2010; Kraut
2013; and Crisp 2014.
  3

like pride and guilt, as one of the self-conscious or self-reflective emotions.⁶ The
self-reflectivity of shame is special, however, because it always includes a reference
to the gaze of the other. Central to any episode of shame is the apprehension,
imaginary or actual, of oneself as being seen or exposed in a negative light, as being
inadequate or failing in some way.⁷ Thus, shame is a response to the kind of
exposure that leads to loss of esteem in the eyes of others, as when we fail to
conform to social norms and ideals. The other-relatedness of shame is due to its
direct connection to our common human concern with status, respect, and
recognition—a concern that is also behind our appreciation of honor, reputation,
and praise and behind our aversion to contempt, disrepute, and blame. But shame
is also a self-reflective response to the exposure (or potential exposure) of our
failing to achieve goals and ideals that we ourselves think important and insepar-
able from what we are or what we aspire to be in life.
The self-reflectivity of shame, then, directly involves self-evaluation, and is
closely associated with self-esteem.⁸ Specifically, shame is an emotional response
to a kind of unwanted exposure that directly affects our sense of self-worth by
reminding us of the connection between who we are and who we seem to be
through our actions and, in general, through what is visible of us. This explains
why shame is relevant to moral development—especially for someone who, such
as Aristotle, holds that we learn to be good by doing good actions. If our sense of
shame is appropriately cultivated, it will motivate us to avoid doing what is
shameful and pursue instead what is genuinely noble and praiseworthy by tapping
into our aspirations to be the best we can.
From Bernard Williams’ Shame and Necessity (1993) to Anthony Appiah’s The
Honor Code: How Moral Revolutions Happen (2010), and Chris Lebron’s The
Color of Our Shame: Race and Justice in Our Time (2013), shame has been at the

⁶ For the self-reflective or self-conscious character of shame see e.g. Taylor 1985; Tangney et al.
1995; Elster 1999; Calhoun 2004; Manion 2002; Nussbaum 2004; Deonna et al. 2012; and
Thomason 2018.
⁷ The locus classicus for the connection between shame and exposure is Sartre’s famous analysis of
the shame one experiences at being discovered in an embarrassing situation (Sartre 1956, Part 3, ch. 1).
More recent discussions of the connection between shame and exposure are e.g. Williams 1993, who
holds that “the root of shame lies in exposure . . . in being at a disadvantage: in . . . a loss of power” (220);
Velleman 2001, for whom the key events that provokes shame are failures of privacy and “unintentional
self-exposure” (38). Sherman 2016 reminds us that the Greek etymology of aidōs (shame), which is
related to aidoia, genitals, underscores this connection between shame and exposure; as she puts it “to
be ashamed is to be caught without your fig leaf” (128). For the connection between shame and failure
see e.g. Deigh 1983 (following Piers 1953): “shame is occasioned when one fails to achieve a goal or an
ideal that is integral to one’s self-conception. [ . . . ] Shame is felt over shortcomings, guilt over wrong-
doings” (225).
⁸ The self-evaluative character of shame is discussed by e.g. Taylor 1985 (who calls pride, shame, and
guilt “emotions of self-assessment”); Tangney et al. 1995 and 2007 (who claim that shame, guilt, and
embarrassment are “evoked by self-reflection and self-evaluation,” 347); Elster 1999; Manion 2002;
Nussbaum 2004; Deonna et al. 2012; and Thomason 2018 (who characterizes shame as “an experience
of tension between one’s identity and one’s self- conception,” 11). A classic defense of the connection
between shame and self-esteem appears in Rawls 1971 (440–6), while Deigh 1983 argues against the
existence of such a connection.
4 

center of different important proposals on how to reformulate modern ethics

which have brought to the fore the relevance of moral emotions. My book is a
contribution to this conversation. I think that the views of Williams, Appiah, and
Lebron concerning the potential transformative powers of shame are in line with
Aristotle’s understanding of the role of this emotion in moral development.⁹ From
very different angles, these authors converge in seeing that by mobilizing people’s
concern for how they look, how they appear, and whether they are living up to
some ideal, shame (and, for Appiah, love of honor) can encourage people to act in
ways that more closely correspond to their individual and social standards of
decency, and ultimately to live better lives and be better.
Many modern readers, however, are suspicious of shame and maintain that we
do better without it, particularly in the context of a theory of moral formation.¹⁰
Shame’s connection with honor and praise (and with contempt and blame), plus
shame’s concern with how we appear in the eyes of others, provokes two worries:
heteronomy and superficiality. According to the first worry, insofar as shame
makes us depend on the opinions of others, it may seem that shame is an obstacle
to the development of moral autonomy. Agents who respond to shame are seen as
moved by external incentives and societal pressures instead of being guided by
their own internal motivations and reasons, and consequently they are seen as
excessively heteronomous.¹¹ According to the second worry, insofar as shame
tracks how we appear to others, it seems superficial—concerned with reputation
and mere appearance rather than reality.¹² These reservations tend to undermine
or obscure the positive aspects of shame that Aristotle identifies. How can we
square the central role of shame in Aristotle’s theory of moral development with
these more questionable features?
Part of the aim of this book is to argue that the complex nature of shame, its
responsiveness to the moral views of others, and its direct responsiveness to praise
and blame, are precisely the features that make shame a good catalyst for moral
development. Both the self-reflective and the other-related aspects of shame are
key in our progress towards virtue. Against the heteronomy objection, I argue that
shame’s connection with love of honor, reputation, and praise, and with aversion
to disrepute, disgrace, and reproach, is not an obstacle to the development of

⁹ In fact, both Appiah 2010 and Lebron 2013 emphasisize the Aristotelian roots of their views.
Appiah 2010 claims that his study of the relevance of honor in a successful human life “is a contribution
to ethics in Aristotle’s sense” (xiv), while Lebron 2013 appeals to Neo-Aristotelian virtue theory, and
concretely cites the work of Sherman 1989 and Hursthouse 2001 in support of his analysis of how
shame is relevant to contemporary politics (see “Shame and Politics?,” 22–6, and notes 8–9 at 170).
¹⁰ See e.g. Adkins 1960; Kekes 1988; Nussbaum 1980 and 2004; Baron 2017; and Thomason 2018.
Tarnopolsky 2010 presents an insightful review of some of these critics in her Introduction at 2–4 and
discusses the views in more detail in Chapters 5 and 6.
¹¹ See a list of commentators who hold the view that shame is a potential obstacle to autonomy and
my arguments against it in Chapters 4 and 6.
¹² See my characterization of the classic attack on shame (and “shame culture”) and my arguments
against it in Chapter 4 (especially section 4.3).
  5

autonomy. Rather, the attention to other people’s views explains why shame can
help us acquire the intellectual and affective maturity of autonomous moral
agents, who live in a social context where giving and taking reasons for one’s
behavior and choices is part of moral life.¹³ Against the superficiality objection,
I argue that shame’s connection with love of honor and responsiveness to praise
and blame does not entail a superficial concern with appearance over reality. For
Aristotle, love of honor and concern with praise and blame are not just based on
the joy of merely appearing to be good in the eyes of others, but on the joy of
getting others to truly see virtue (or the potential for virtue) in oneself through
one’s actions. Because of its self-reflective character, shame turns our attention to
the intimate link that connects the things we do, and how those things make us
appear in our social world, with the kind of people that we are (or will become). As a
consequence, the aversion to what is shameful, as well as the aspiration to shine in
the eyes of others, are typically indications that learners are attending to consider-
ations about the nobility or shamefulness of their actions as a reflection of who they
are (or who they will become), and have a true interest in doing what is right.
As Aristotle reminds us in Rhetoric (Rhet) II 6, 1383b13–1385a15, the kinds of
things that produce shame are those that are “due to bad character” (apo kakias,
1383b18) or those actions that are generally “signs” (sēmeia) of defective traits of
character (1383b29–1384a4 and 1384b17–20).¹⁴ By producing in us aversion to
displaying signs of bad character or vice, and by making us alert to those signs and
their connection with true vice, shame makes us veer away from the kinds of
actions that make us worse precisely because they make us worse (as opposed to
veering away from bad actions on account of the mere fear of the potential harms
or unpleasant consequences that might follow). Consequently, shame puts learn-
ers on the right path towards true virtue. Far from moving learners to simply fake
virtue until they acquire stable virtuous dispositions of character, shame makes
learners genuinely responsive to the value of the noble, and to how that value is
expressed in what they do and what they are.
Although it is not controversial that shame plays a relevant role in Aristotle’s
theory of ethical formation, the texts that explicitly support this claim are scarce
and scattered throughout the ethical treatises, so any attempt to specify the role of
shame must confront substantial obstacles. Aristotle himself does not provide us
with a direct and detailed explanation of the process of moral development; rather,
in his ethical treatises he offers a schematic account. Thus the reader is left to
decipher the nature of the practices that lead learners to become virtuous agents

¹³ See e.g. Calhoun 2004 and Sher 2006 for insightful discussions of this point. In agreement with
these authors, Aristotle’s view is—as I argue throughout this book, and especially in Chapter 4 below—
that responsiveness to shame equips learners with a sensitivity to blame (and praise) which is clear
expression of a concern with moral issues and an aspiration to getting things right.
¹⁴ Unless otherwise noted, all translations of passages from Aristotle’s Rhetoric are from Rhys
Roberts (in Barnes 1984), sometimes substantially modified, and the Greek text used is Ross 1959.
6 

from a limited number of remarks on habituation and good upbringing.

Moreover, although Aristotle devotes two long discussions to shame—at
Nicomachean Ethics (NE) IV 9, 1128b10–35, and Rhet II 6, 1383b12–1385a15—
both are incomplete and fragmentary, and fail to spell out the details of how
shame is an integral part of young people’s transition into mature moral agents.
To build a more complete and unified account of the role of shame in moral
development, then, we will have to look beyond these texts. Some of the crucial
passages that help build a deeper story about shame are the discussions of moral
development and the relationship between actions and dispositions at NE II 1–4
and Eudemian Ethics (EE) II 1; the characterization of shame as one of the
emotional praiseworthy means between extremes at NE II 7, 1108a30–35, and
EE III 7, 1233b16–1234a34; the treatment of voluntariness and praise in NE III
1–5, 1109b30–1115a3, and EE II 6–11, 1222b15–1228a19; the discussions of the
pseudo-courage based on shame at NE III 8, 1116a15–29, and EE III 1,
1230a16–33; and the final remarks on the ideal audience of ethical lessons at NE
X 9, 1179b4–16, where Aristotle directly associates shame with receptivity to
ethical arguments. As I will show, these passages offer sufficient textual evidence
to establish shame’s relevance to the question of moral education in Aristotle and
to make apparent how shame equips us with the necessary orientation for learning
to be good.

0.1 The “Moral Upbringing Gap” and Shame

as the Bridge to Virtue

Let me start by presenting the problem that the proposal of shame as the proto-
virtue of the learner is designed to solve. Aristotle offers an account in the NE of
how we become good that seems, at first sight, relatively straightforward. He
famously claims that we become just, temperate, and courageous by performing
just, temperate, and courageous actions, and in general, that we become virtuous
agents by doing virtuous actions; I call this the learning-by-doing thesis. Yet
Aristotle also makes clear that virtuous actions performed virtuously, i.e. virtuous
actions done in the right way or as the virtuous person does them, must be
performed both with knowledge and with a proper aim, which he often expresses
as “for the sake of the noble” (tou kalou heneka).¹⁵ The tension between these
claims produces a serious difficulty: How can learners be expected to perform
virtuous actions in the right way—and thereby learn virtue “by doing”—unless

¹⁵ The claim that doing virtuous actions “for the sake of the noble” (tou kalou heneka) is charac-
teristic of virtue (and virtuous people) is expressed by Aristotle on numerous occasions throughout the
discussion of the particular virtues of character in NE III 6 to IV 8, 1115a6–1128b9. See Chapter 1, note
11 for a list of passages where Aristotle makes this claim.
 “  ”        7

they are already virtuous? For if learners are already in such condition as to be able
to do virtuously-performed virtuous actions, then they would have the kind of
knowledge and motivational tendencies that characteristically belong to virtuous
people. The answer is, I propose, that learners are not blank slates, but have
instead proto-virtuous resources that allow them to perform virtuous actions in
the right way before having the relevant dispositions. And crucially, I argue, the
emotion of shame is the key proto-virtuous resource for learners to be able to do
virtuous actions aiming at the right goal.
Aristotle’s solution to the learning-by-doing puzzle in NE II 4 is cryptic, and as
I show in Chapter 1, it has been read in many ways. Some interpretations take the
actions of the learners of virtue to be merely externally similar to those of virtuous
people—this is sometimes called the “mechanical view,” according to which
learners perform the actions in an unthinking and almost automatic way.¹⁶ This
view, as many modern commentators recognize, is unsatisfactory because it fails
to provide the relevant continuity between the actions of the learners and the
dispositions that those actions produce. Specifically, it leaves us with the need to
bridge the gap between the learners’ mechanically performed virtuous actions and
the reliably virtuous dispositions that such actions are supposed to produce—this
is what I call “the moral upbringing gap.”
To achieve continuity in the process of learning by doing—i.e. to make the
learners’ actions truly conducive to virtue—it is required not only that the learners’
actions are virtuous (in the sense of being the right thing to do in the circumstances),
but also that they are done in the right way, i.e. exercising the relevant capacities. The
reason is that, the weaker the link between the manner in which the actions of
learners are performed and the manner in which truly virtuous agents act, the more
difficult it will be to understand how the repeated performance of the learners’
actions can produce genuinely virtuous dispositions of character.
Attention to this requirement of continuity has led most contemporary com-
mentators to agree that habituation is not a mindless process and that learners
must exercise the relevant cognitive capacities in their practices towards virtue.
Concretely, learners must not just perform actions that are right in the circum-
stances, but must also do them with awareness of what they are doing and
involvement of their perceptive and deliberative capacities. By adding this “know-
ledge requirement” to the practices of the learners, most recent interpretations
succeed in maintaining a sufficient continuity in the development of the cognitive
powers relevant to the exercise of virtue.
For many of these commentators, however, the actions of the learners still differ
from those of virtuous people because, they assume, learners do not perform
virtuous actions with virtuous motivation—or more precisely, they do not

¹⁶ See a discussion of this view and a list of authors who defend it in Chapter 1, Section 1.2.
8 

do virtuous actions for the sake of the noble. Unfortunately, as I argue, this
deflationary interpretation of the actions of the learners—this time, deflationary
regarding their goal—leaves Aristotle’s view open to a second problem of discon-
tinuity like the one found in the mechanical view. To fully close this second gap
and provide continuity to the process of moral development, learners must also
have the ability to perform virtuous actions in the right way with regard to their
motivation. Their actions must contribute not only to the formation of cognitive
capacities that enable them to adequately deliberate about practical situations, but
must also lead to the formation of a reliable motivational tendency to orient their
behavior towards the noble and consistently act for the sake of the noble.
Put briefly, not all instances of virtuous actions are conducive to virtue, but only
those that engage both the relevant cognitive capacities and the relevant affective
tendencies in the learner. To be successful, then, learners will have not only to
learn how to determine what kind of behavior is appropriate to each practical
situation, but also to practice the proper ways of being affected, since the goal is to
become the kind of person who not only reliably does virtuous actions, but does
them out of the right stable disposition, i.e. virtue.
For Aristotle, as I will argue, when learners of virtue behave reactively, just
following orders, out of mere familiarity, enticed by the prospect of rewards, or
simply to avoid punishments, they fail to exercise the relevant ethical capacities,
even if they do the right thing; instead, they learn to attend to situational features
that distract their attention from the noble and the good. When people are guided
by their fears or their appetites, they attend to considerations about self-
preservation or self-satisfaction that often take them away from aiming at the
noble and the good. In contrast, the feeling of shame turns agents towards
considerations about the public recognition (approval or disapproval) of their
actions, and thus it tracks a value that is different from pleasure or gain—a value
that, as I will argue, is directly related to nobility and praiseworthiness. Moreover,
when learners are guided by their sense of shame, they focus on how their actions
reveal their character, and consequently they can exercise their agency more fully,
and strive to act in ways that are expressive of nobility and goodness, avoiding to
act in ways that express baseness.
Although behavior moved by shame might appear externally similar to behavior
moved by fear, appetite, etc., there is in fact a significant difference regarding the
cognitive and affective capacities being exercised in each case, and a significant
difference in the kind of character being built. By focusing on questions about the
perceived nobility and praiseworthiness of their actions, or about how to avoid
shameful conduct, learners guided by their sense of shame exercise a capacity for
responsive awareness to the ethically relevant features of their situations. Thus, as
the emotion that spurs agents to perform actions because of their nobility and
praiseworthyness and to avoid those actions that are shameful or reprehensible,
shame provides learners with the sort of malleable pre-habituated orientation
       -    9

towards the noble that allows them to perform virtuous actions with the relevant
motive before they have acquired practical wisdom or stable virtuous dispositions.
This is why shame is crucial to solving our initial puzzle about moral
development.

0.2 Finding Space for Shame as the Proto-Virtue of the Learner

Since the early 1980s there have been numerous attempts to understand Aristotle’s
account of moral upbringing and to determine the steps that, according to
Aristotle, lead towards the acquisition of virtue, with particular attention to the
interplay of cognitive and non-cognitive elements.¹⁷ Thanks to Myles Burnyeat‘s
seminal paper, “Aristotle on Learning to be Good” (1980), much attention has
been paid to two important features of Aristotle’s theory of moral development:
first, the claim from NE II 1 that practice, not teaching, generates virtue of
character; and second, Aristotle’s contention, against Socratic intellectualism,
that moral development requires attention to both cognitive and affective factors.¹⁸
These two basic Aristotelian tenets, which I call the learning-by-doing thesis and the
non-intellectualist thesis respectively, occupy a central place in most modern
accounts of Aristotle’s theory of moral education and are at the core of the argument
of this book.
A third basic tenet that Burnyeat’s interpretation stresses is that there is an
intimate connection between Aristotle’s understanding of the process of acquisi-
tion of virtue and his conception of virtue. As Nancy Sherman puts it, “if full
virtue is to meet certain conditions, then this must be reflected in the educational
process.”¹⁹ Aristotle himself expresses a similar thought in NE II 3, when he states

¹⁷ Much of the literature aims at rethinking the contrast between cognitive and non-cognitive
elements (sometimes expressed in terms of “rational” vs. “non-rational”) and highlight the intertwined
character of those elements. See e.g. Sorabji 1973–4; Burnyeat 1980; Kosman 1980; Engberg-Pedersen
1983; Hursthouse 1984, 1988, and 2001; Sherman 1989 (esp. ch. 5), 1997 and 1999a; Broadie 1991 (esp.
ch. 2); Cooper 1996; McDowell 1996; Vasiliou 1996 and 2007; Kraut 1998 and 2012; Achtenberg 2002;
Curzer 2002 and 2012; Fossheim 2006; Kristjánsson 2006; Lorenz 2009; Lawrence 2009 and 2011; Moss
2011, 2012 (esp. ch. 8), and 2014; and Coope 2012. (This interest in the non-rational and in the role of
emotions in our moral psychology is reinforced by a renewed interest in Aristotle’s theory of emotions
and their role in persuasion as it appears the Rhetoric (see e.g. Fortenbaugh 1970 and 1992; Leighton
1982/1996; Cooper 1993 and 1996b; Striker 1996; Nussbaum 1996; Rapp 2002 and 2012; and Dow
2007, 2009, 2011, and 2015.)
¹⁸ The so-called “Socratic intellectualism,” a label used to indicate that Socrates underestimates the
importance of the affective side of human nature and focuses solely on the intellectual, is probably an
exaggeration that we owe to Aristotle, who sometimes aims at characterizing his view as radically
opposed to that of Socrates in this regard. Although this interpretation of Socrates has been dominant
until recently, an emerging consensus is that at least the Socrates from Plato’s dialogues pays close
attention to the effects of emotions in our intellectual and moral development. See Nehamas 1999 and
Segvic 2000 for careful discussions of the history and the limits of the interpretation of Socrates as a
model of intellectualism, and Blank 1993 for an insightful overview on the relevance of emotions in the
Socratic conversations.
¹⁹ Sherman 1989, 159. See also Burnyeat 1980, 69.
10 

that “the actions from which [virtue] arises (ex hōn egeneto) are those in which
[virtue] actualizes itself (peri tauta kai energei)”²⁰ (1105a15–16). And in EE II 1,
1220a29–32: “Virtue, then, is a disposition of this kind, which is brought about
(ginetai) by the best movements of the soul and which produces (prattetai) the
best functions and affections of the soul.”²¹ This rule, which I call the continuity
principle, is the third main precept behind the argument of this book, and will be
crucial to explain the role that shame plays in our moral development.
One of the fortunate consequences of paying close attention to the details of
Aristotle’s learning-by-doing thesis has been the total abandonment of the old
mechanical view of habituation, according to which the practices of the learners of
virtue are understood simply as the mechanical repetition of behavior that exter-
nally resembles the actions of virtuous people. By contrast, contemporary inter-
pretations highlight that the practices which lead towards the acquisition of virtue
are not mere drills but in fact engage the learners at a cognitive level.
In relation to Aristotle’s non-intellectualist stance, Burnyeat famously points
out that perhaps the most remarkable feature of the Aristotelian account of ethical
upbringing lies in the fact that Aristotle, unlike Socrates, allows non-rational
factors to occupy a preferential place in moral development. For Aristotle,
Burnyeat claims, these non-rational factors are “the fabric of moral character”
(1980, 80).²² This overturning of the Socratic intellectualistic model means, as
Burnyeat puts it, that Aristotle achieves a “grasp of the truth that morality comes
in a sequence of stages with both cognitive and emotional dimensions” (1980, 70–1).
In brief, Aristotle’s learners of virtue find themselves at an intermediate stage in
which both rational and non-rational factors play an important role.
Thus, a second auspicious consequence of Burnyeat’s intervention in the debate
has been a focus on the role of the emotions. Nancy Sherman’s The Fabric of
Character (1989), which offers a general study of Aristotle’s views on the non-
rational sources of virtue, represents a good example of this trend, with a remark-
able attempt to take seriously the role of emotions in moral education.²³ However,
since the main goal of Sherman’s account of moral development is to argue for a
conception of habituation as “reflective and critical,” her focus remains primarily

²⁰ καὶ ὅτι ἐξ ὧν ἐγένετο, περὶ ταῦτα καὶ ἐνεργεῖ. (Unless otherwise noted, all translations of passages
from the NE are from Ross-Urmson (in Barnes 1984), sometimes substantially modified, and the Greek
text used is Bywater 1894.)
²¹ καὶ ἡ ἀρετὴ ἄρα ἡ τοιαύτη διάθεσις ἐστίν, ἣ γίνεταί τε ὑπὸ τῶν ἀρίστων περὶ ψυχὴν κινήσεων καὶ
ἀφ’ ἧς πράττεται τὰ ἄριστα τῆς ψυχῆς ἔργα καὶ πάθη. (Unless otherwise noted, translations of the EE are
from Inwood-Woolf 2013, sometimes substantially modified, and the Greek text used is from Susemihl
1884.) See also NE II 2, 1103b29–31 and 1104a27–29; NE II 3, 1104b19–21; and NE III 5, 1114a6–7, all
quoted in Chapter 1. Section 1.3 below.
²² This phrase would later be the title of Sherman’s 1989 monograph on Aristotle’s theory of virtue.
²³ See especially Sherman 1989, 44–50. See also e.g. Fortenbaugh 1969 (repr. 2006); Kosman 1980;
and Sherman 1997 and 1999a. For a treatment of this issue from a broader perspective see
Kristjánsson 2007.
       -    11

on “how we refine the discriminatory capacities included in the emotions”

(1989, 160).
My goal here is to contribute to this study of the emotional dimension of moral
development by offering an account of the role of shame as the emotion that
provides the minimal starting conditions that make moral progress possible. On
my interpretation, shame, which was considered to be a fundamental civic virtue
in the tradition from Homer to Plato, does not lose its force and relevance in the
works of Aristotle. Although Aristotle, like Plato, partly breaks with the tradition
that precedes him by giving shame a reduced role in the life of the virtuous person,
his strategy is to transfer the central role of shame from the virtuous life to earlier
stages in moral development, and to regard it as a requirement for the acquisition
of mature virtue.²⁴ Shame, then, is not less important in Aristotle’s work than it
was in the work of his predecessors; on the contrary, for Aristotle shame is an
indispensable notion in the explanation of how the acquisition of full virtue is
possible.
Contemporary commentators often reject that shame can play a positive role in
moral development because they assume that Aristotle understands shame as a
desire for mere reputation and a fear of mere disrepute.²⁵ For them, Aristotle has
strong reasons to reject shame’s role in the development of a fully virtuous agent
because shame’s dependence on the opinion of others and its concern with
appearance make it incompatible with the sort of orientation towards the noble
that is characteristic of a virtuous agent. In other words, they attribute to Aristotle
the heteronomy and superficiality worries that we find in contemporary literature
about shame. My goal is to show that for Aristotle shame is directly linked with a
concern with nobility and praiseworthiness—a concern with being seen as noble
and expressing nobility (or avoiding shamefulness) in one’s actions because one
aspires to genuine nobility and goodness—and I argue that such a link places
shame at the center of Aristotle’s understanding of our moral development.
There are some scholars who recently, and as part of the renewed interest in the
role of emotions in our intellectual and moral lives, have taken a more sympa-
thetic conception of the relationship between shame, virtue, and the noble in
Aristotle’s work.²⁶ Some of them have opened promising avenues for a positive

²⁴ Thus, views like that of Irwin 1999, who sees in the fact that Aristotle denies to shame the
condition of being a virtue a sign that he “rejects a long Greek tradition” (347) are exaggerated in my
opinion. On the contrary, I hold that Aristotle does not reject the long tradition that considers shame a
central element in the regulation of moral conduct. He merely refines this view by limiting the positive
role of shame to the sphere of moral development rather than moral maturity.
²⁵ Some representative examples of this negative interpretation of Aristotle’s view of shame (as
excessively other-dependent and superficial) are Irwin 1999; Broadie 1993; Richardson Lear 2004;
Taylor 2006; and Hitz 2012. This view will be discussed in detail in Chapter 4 below.
²⁶ This is particularly the case since Burnyeat 1980. Other authors who explicitly acknowledge that
shame has an important place in Aristotle’s account of moral development are: Cairns 1993; Curzer
2002 and 2012; Grönroos 2007; and Raymond 2017. For challenging arguments against this strategy see
Hitz 2012.
12 

role of shame in moral development, and the approach that I propose in this book
is greatly influenced by their insights.
My view on the centrality of shame in moral progress is most indebted to
Burnyeat’s account of habituation and learning to be good in Aristotle, and a
major part of this book can be seen as a development and defense of his view. For
Burnyeat, shame is crucial in moral progress because it is the emotion that turns
learners towards the noble by initiating them in the proper appreciation of the
pleasures of the noble. Concretely, Burnyeat underscores how shame helps to
transform the learners’ motivational outlook by shifting their attention from
appetitive pleasures to the pleasures of noble activities. I believe Burnyeat’s
account is fundamentally right and provides the right clue to solve the problem
of the gap in moral development: the learners’ ability to feel shame—which
Burnyeat calls “the semi-virtue of the learner” (78)—is precisely what gives
them initial access to the new pleasures of the noble. What I set as my goal to
explain, is exactly how shame does that.
My view aims at complementing Burnyeat’s initial proposal by explaining how
shame gives learners access to the value of the noble through a more basic concern
with honor, reputation, and praise. This concern with honor, reputation, and
praise performs a double function: on the one hand, it turns the agents’ attention
away from the lure of mere pleasure and mere advantage, and makes them able to
resist the temptation of shameful pleasures and gains; on the other hand, it turns
agents towards considerations of praiseworthiness and blameworthiness, and thus
puts them on the track of the noble and away from the shameful.
My defense of shame, then, requires that we pay close attention to Aristotle’s
crucial distinction between three objects of choice at NE II 3, 1104b30–31, namely
the noble, the advantageous, and the pleasant, and that we acknowledge that while
these objects of choice are often aligned in the eyes of virtuous people, agents can
be motivated by each of them separately from early on in life. Crucially, young
people can be moved by the motive of the noble before they have been fully
formed in virtue, and this capacity enables them to perform virtuous actions in the
right way and to choose the noble over the merely pleasant and the advantageous
in ways that have a transformative effect on their character.
A second wave of inspiration comes from some of Burnyeat’s critics (such as
Curzer 2012) who propose models of moral education that focus on conditioning
strategies, where the weight is placed in associating pleasures or pains to the right
objects. I show that these models fail to confer sufficient continuity to the process
and are unable to explain how actions guided by appetitive pleasures and pains
can yield dispositions to act for the sake of the noble and in avoidance of the
shameful. Instead, I argue that young people have from the start a basic appreci-
ation of nobility and a repulsion towards the shameful and that moral upbringing
consists in the cultivation of that initial appreciation of the noble—especially
       -    13

through our practices of praise and blame—and in the proper integration of that
tendency with our other tendencies to be drawn towards the pleasant or the
advantageous and to move away from the painful and the harmful.
In my argument, I emphasize that to explain how the relevant transformation
in the learners occurs we need an independent account of the origin of the love of
the noble. A good starting point for moral development will have to be a capacity
or tendency that enables learners to appreciate the noble and desire the noble for
its own sake. For this reason, a third crucial counterpoint for my view comes from
Cooper 1996, whose account of moral development has the virtue of providing
exactly that starting point. Cooper holds that thumos (spirit) is the emotion that
equips us with an innate impulse towards the noble, and thus it is thumos that
sows the first seeds of moral progress by enabling learners to have their first
experience of moral value. The idea of a natural emotional tendency that enables
learners to identify and be motivated by the noble is, I think, the best way to
ensure that there is motivational continuity between the practices of the learners
and the dispositions that they are aiming to acquire. In this regard, Cooper’s
project is attractive because it provides a coherent account of Aristotelian moral
development without any gaps. However, Cooper locates the first impulse towards
the noble in the wrong place. The Aristotelian discussion of thumos is much
thinner and vaguer than Cooper’s treatment suggests, and it is hard to see how the
limited textual evidence could support thumos’ robust orientation towards the
noble. In fact, Aristotle’s view of the place of thumos in our psychology is less
defined than in Plato, and he tends to characterize thumos as a reactive emotion
without a clear object.
To further Cooper’s view, some authors (such as Richardson Lear 2004 and
Grönroos 2007) have proposed to emphasize the thumoeidetic nature of shame,
and conceive of shame as an emotion inseparably linked to thumos and associated
with thumoeidetic desires. This move strengthens Cooper’s proposal by adding the
important textual support from the passages on shame. However, Aristotle never
explicitly associates thumos and shame, and when he deals with these two emotions
in the same discussion (as in NE III 8, 1116a15–29 and 1116b23–1117a9, and in EE
III 1, 1229a20–29 and 1230a16–33), he keeps the two emotions clearly separated and
attributes different roles to each of them.
My account of shame’s role in moral development is indebted to these attempts
to find in Aristotle a first natural tendency towards the noble, and my view on the
role of shame has many features in common with these thumos-centered views.
I think, however, that disentagling shame from thumos has important textual and
theoretical advantages.
Moreover, I have found essential support for my view that shame is at the
center of Aristotle’s account of moral development in Cairns’ 1993 comprehensive
study on the history of the term from Homer to Aristotle. Much of what I say
14 

about the nature of shame and its aptness to guide learners in their path to virtue is
in tune with Cairns’ analysis. In contrast with his interpretation (and with
Raymond 2017), however, I argue that Aristotle has convincing reasons for
conceiving shame as a proto-virtuous emotion, and not as a virtue.
While Cairns sees as a failure Aristotle’s reluctance to give shame the status of
disposition, I believe that shame can perform a central role in moral development
precisely because it is an emotion only appropriate in young people and indeed
not a disposition at all. In my view, Aristotle establishes a division between
emotions (pathē), capacities (dunameis), and dispositions or states (hexeis) pre-
cisely because he is interested in differentiating between the conditions of those
who are in the process of acquiring virtue and those who have already succeeded
in doing so. For this reason, Aristotle is rightly invested in classifying shame as an
emotion and not as a virtue. Shame is appropriate only for those who are in the
intermediate stages of moral development, i.e. for those who do not yet have fully
formed dispositions in their soul.
In sum, my claim that shame is the key emotional factor in the process of moral
development stands in harmony with those authors who contend that obedience
to one’s sense of shame is what enables learners to make progress towards virtue.
Where my analysis differs, however, is in regard to details concerning the rela-
tionship of shame with pleasure and pain, the relation between shame and spirit,
the nature of shame as a peculiar emotion, and shame’s relationship with honor,
with the noble, and with virtue.
Finally, my view that shame is at the heart of Aristotle’s account of moral
development is not incompatible with accounts that explore the value of musical
education to explain our initial steps in learning to appreciate the value of the
noble. It is uncontroversial that musical education plays a crucial role in
Aristotle’s explanation of how we learn to properly appreciate and enjoy the
value of the noble. A number of recent accounts offer rich material to support
this point, and I believe that the view I present is in harmony with that important
part of Aristotle’s model of moral upbringing.²⁷ In this regard, I depart from the
view of Hitz 2012, where musical education is presented as an alternative to
education through shame. Yet my contribution aims not at competing with the
accounts of moral development through music and imitation, but at highlighting a
complementary part of the process, by arguing that we have a natural impulse
towards nobility and aversion to the shameful that emerges directly in the context
of our social interactions and guides us on the path of learning to be good.

²⁷ For recent discussions of different aspects of Aristotle’s account of musical education and its role
in initiating us in the appreciation of the noble see e.g. Fossheim 2006; Hitz 2012; Brüllmann 2013;
Cagnoli Fiecconi 2016; and Hampson 2019.
     15

0.3 Plan of the Book

The first step in my argument is to examine the account of habituation as

learning-by-doing in NE II 1–4, 1103a14–1105b18, the locus classicus of
Aristotle’s account of how virtue of character is acquired through habits. In
Chapter 1, “Becoming Virtuous by Doing Virtuous Actions,” I look at the details
of the learning-by-doing thesis and propose a new way of thinking about the
conditions that learners of virtue must meet for their habituation to be successful.
The gist of my proposal is that there should be continuity between how learners
and virtuous agents act. If the actions of the learners are to be conducive to virtue,
then learners need to perform them in ways that appropriately resemble how
virtuous people act. For that reason, learners cannot be blank slates, but should at
least partly fulfill the requirements for knowledge, motivation, and stability that
NE II 4 establishes as necessary for doing virtuous actions in the right way (i.e.
virtuously). Becoming good, then, requires the proper exercise of both the cogni-
tive capacities and the affective tendencies that anticipate in the learner the way in
which virtuous agents think and feel.
I argue that to achieve the relevant continuity between the learners’ actions and
the resulting dispositions, learners need to perform virtuous actions not just with
sufficient awareness but also with the right motivation. This means that learners
should be equipped with some initial minimal affective tendencies that enable
them to perform virtuous actions for the sake of the noble. Only then, I think, will
their actions be conducive to virtue.
Chapter 2, “Learning through Pleasure, Pain, the Noble, and the Shameful,”
offers a first step towards explaining how the learners’ motivational outlook is
shaped in habituation. Specifically, in this chapter I explore the role that pleasures
and pains play in the learners’ capacity to be attracted to the nobility of virtuous
actions and to aim at the noble in action before they are virtuous.
In the view that I propose, moral development is not the acquisition of a taste
for the new pleasures of the noble, but a reorienting and shaping of the already-
present capacity to enjoy nobility and be pained by the shameful—a reorienting
and shaping through which learners of virtue become better able to appreciate the
comparatively superior value of nobility over mere pleasure or mere gain. My
main point is that the taste for the noble and the capacity to appreciate it is present
in us from the start, just as the desire for pleasure and the desire for benefit. Moral
upbringing is the process in which we learn to align those desires and tendencies
correctly and to give priority to the noble over all other considerations.
In Chapter 3, “Pseudo-Virtuous Practices, Pseudo-Virtuous Conditions,”
I analyse a number of possible sources for our pre-habituated taste for the
noble. My goal in this chapter is to find a natural condition that can equip learners
with resources to be able to perform virtuous actions on account of their nobility.
16 

To this end, I explore the causes of the different kinds of apparent courage (or
“pseudo-courage”) introduced by Aristotle in NE III 8 and EE III 1. These passages
are testimony to the complexity of Aristotle’s understanding of the relationship
between agents, actions, behavioral tendencies, and dispositions of character. By
exploring the “missing ingredients” in each of the causes of pseudo-courage—
shame (aidōs), fear (phobos), experience (empeiria), spirit (thumos), hope (euel-
pis), and ignorance (agnoia)—we gain a clearer idea of the requirements that the
learners’ actions must fulfill to bring them closer to virtue, as well as a clearer idea
of the preconditions which learners themselves must meet in order to perform
virtuous actions properly.
The analysis of these passages reveals that the variety of pseudo-courage based
on shame—the best of the two kinds of political courage—is the most promising
candidate to equip learners with a proto-version of the conditions for virtuously
performed virtuous actions, and consequently, as a potential proto-virtue. Agents
with shame, although not yet virtuous, perform virtuous actions on account of
their nobility and avoid base actions on account of their shamefulness. For this
reason, shame stands out as a good candidate to bridge the moral upbringing gap.
There are, however, widely accepted objections against the claim that shame is a
good guide to perform virtuous actions on account of their nobility. Many
commentators fall prey to a modern prejudice against shame and hold that for
Aristotle shame orients people towards the superficial goal of honor, not the
noble, and away from what brings discredit, rather than from what is truly base.
Chapter 4, “Connecting Shame with Honor and the Noble,” is devoted to showing
that the interpretation of shame as a superficial concern with reputation or
external recognition comes about as a result of overlooking the connections that
Aristotle makes between love of honor and love of the noble.
Indeed, Aristotle has a complex view of the role that our sense of shame, as a
sensitivity to honors and reproaches, plays in the social practices of praise and
blame, a view that enables him to establish a robust link between love of honor and
the concern with one’s own virtue and with the nobility of one’s actions. As a
result, learners with a sense of shame can perform actions that are not only
externally indistinguishable from those of virtuous people, but are also ultimately
oriented towards the same noble goals and are similarly done for the sake of the
noble. They therefore fulfill at least partially the core motivation requirement for
virtuously-performed virtuous action, and for this reason their actions constitute
the right kind of practice towards the acquisition of virtue.
If the conclusion of Chapter 4 is correct and shame plays a beneficial role in
orienting learners towards virtue and the noble, then it becomes harder to see why
Aristotle considers shame to be a “proto-virtue” and not a proper virtue.
Chapter 5, “The Mixed Nature of Shame,” explores why Aristotle insists on the
“mixed” character of shame in his ethical treatises, where he characterizes it as a
sui generis emotion that is only in some respects like a virtue. I argue that he has
     17

good reasons to maintain that shame is a special kind of emotion—concretely, one

of the praiseworthy emotional means (EE III 7, 1233b16–1234a34; cf. NE II 7,
1108a30–35)—but not a virtuous disposition of character.
Appealing to the Aristotelian scheme of capacities, emotions, and dispositions,
I show that shame’s peculiar status as a praiseworthy emotion is a necessary
feature for it to be able to operate as a bridge towards virtue in young people.
For only if shame is an emotion and not a stable disposition of character can he
attribute shame to those young people who are not yet virtuous but are on the path
towards virtue.
A final obstacle against shame’s crucial role in moral development is the
apparent tension between the two main texts on shame in the NE, IV 9,
1128b10–35, and X 9, 1179b4–16. In Chapter 6, “Shame as the Proto-Virtue of
the Learners,” I present my interpretation of the nature and function of shame and
show that these passages complement each other. Together, they offer support for
my view that agents who are responsive to their sense of shame already have both
a grasp of the noble and the shameful, which allows them to produce value
judgments in the right terms. They have also an attachment to the noble and
aversion to the shameful, which enables them to be properly affected by the
relevant features of their practical situations and act in ways that are conducive
to virtue. In other words, in these passages shame emerges as a genuine love of
noble things and hatred of shameful ones that allows young people to perform
virtuous actions in the right way and make reliable progress towards virtue.
Learners who are responsive to shame are in a much better condition than
those who have no shame at all (the “shameless”) or those who have excessive
shame (the “timid”), not only because they are able to do virtuous actions in the
right way, but also because they are able to properly exercise their agency. They are
aware that they can shape who they are (and who they become) through their own
actions, and thus see their actions as expressions of their selves and as opportun-
ities for becoming better. Although they are not yet virtuous, these learners of
virtue can appreciate the value of noble activity and can guide their actions by a
true interest in doing the right thing for its own sake.
In conclusion, my interpretation provides a genuinely intermediate place for
the learners of virtue with respect to both the cognitive and affective dimensions of
moral development, and is thus better able to explain the process of becoming
virtuous without any gaps.
 1
Becoming Virtuous by Doing Virtuous
Actions

1.1 The Problem of the Gap in Moral Development

How do we develop a good character? Although Aristotle often claims that

becoming virtuous is a matter of three factors, namely nature, habit, and reason,
he clearly holds that good habits are what makes all the difference.¹ He famously
opens his discussion of the virtues of character in the NE with the assertion that
the virtues of character are in us through habituation:

Virtue, then, is of two kinds, of thought and of character. Virtue of thought arises
and grows mainly from teaching; that is why it requires experience and time.
Character virtue, on the other hand, comes about from habit; that is why also its
name is one that is formed by a slight variation from the word for ‘habit’ (ethos).²
(NE II 1, 1103a14–18)

While good habits are clearly the core of his account, Aristotle does not deny that
nature plays an important role in the acquisition of character virtues. On the
contrary, he claims that “we are adapted by nature (pephukosi) to acquire them,
but are made perfect (teleioumenois) through habit”³ (NE II 1, 1103a25–26). His
view is that we become just by doing just actions, courageous by doing courageous
actions, and in general, virtuous by doing virtuous actions. And we are naturally
equipped to become good by doing such actions. What kinds of habits lead
learners towards virtue? And what are the conditions that make learners ready to
receive the virtues and allow them to succeed in becoming good? In this chapter I

¹ For the claim that virtues of character are the result of a combination of nature, habit, and reason
see e.g. Politics (Pol) VII 13, 1332a38–b11, and the closing remarks of the NE at X 9, 1179b18–31. In EE
I 1, 1214a14–30, Aristotle mentions these factors, adding also chance, as the causes of happiness. As
Burnyeat 1980 indicates, the question about the origin of virtue was a “well-worn topic of discussion” in
Aristotle’s time, and the beginning of Plato’s Meno (70a) offers a typical example of the usual way of
framing the debate.
² Διττῆς δὴ τῆς ἀρετῆς οὔσης, τῆς μὲν διανοητικῆς τῆς δὲ ἠθικῆς, ἡ μὲν διανοητικὴ τὸ πλεῖον ἐκ
διδασκαλίας ἔχει καὶ τὴν γένεσιν καὶ τὴν αὔξησιν, διόπερ ἐμπειρίας δεῖται καὶ χρόνου, ἡ δ’ ἠθικὴ ἐξ ἔθους
περιγίνεται, ὅθεν καὶ τοὔνομα ἔσχηκε μικρὸν παρεκκλῖνον ἀπὸ τοῦ ἔθους.
³ πεφυκόσι μὲν ἡμῖν δέξασθαι αὐτάς, τελειουμένοις δὲ διὰ τοῦ ἔθους.

Aristotle on Shame and Learning to Be Good. Marta Jimenez, Oxford University Press (2020). © Marta Jimenez.
DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780198829683.003.0002
 --,  , &   19

present the beginning of an answer by paying attention to how Aristotle deals with
a potential gap in his explanation.
The claim that we become virtuous by doing virtuous actions is open to a
familiar objection concerning the priority of actions over dispositions: How can
we perform virtuous actions unless we are already virtuous? My goal is to explore
Aristotle’s response to this “priority objection” in NE II 4, with special attention to
how considerations of continuity between the practices of the learners and those of
virtuous people affect his understanding of the process of moral upbringing. My
main concern is to keep track of the fact that the learners’ actions need to be
continuous with the dispositions that those actions produce, so I argue that proper
habituation involves doing virtuous actions in a way that can count as an exercise
of the cognitive and motivational capacities and tendencies that constitute virtue,
even though those capacities and tendencies are not fully developed or activated in
the learners. To explain how the proper exercise of those capacities and tendencies
is possible for the learners, I argue, we need to have a robust account of what
Aristotle means when he says that we are naturally able to receive the virtues of
character.
In the central sections of the chapter, I explain and reject a common reading
of Aristotle’s response to the priority objection, a reading that I call the
motivationally-neutral view because it offers a deflationary account of the learners’
actions in relation to motivation. The problem with this view is, I argue, that it
fails to provide continuity between the learners’ actions and the resulting disposi-
tions to act for the sake of the noble. To conclude, I lay out an alternative proposal,
inspired by a parallel text from Metaphysics (Metaph) IX 8, 1049b29–1050a2, that
enables us to understand moral development as a continuous process, where the
dispositions do not arise in agents ex nihilo so to speak, through the practice of
fully non-virtuous capacities and tendencies, but instead, they grow out of the
learners’ proper use of proto-virtuous resources that they already have.
My goal is to show that (and explain why) Aristotle alludes in his ethical
treatises to emotional resources available to learners that could allow them to
somehow aim at the noble in their actions and grasp the value of virtuous actions
before they possess virtuous dispositions of character. Because learners can make
use of such emotional resources before having virtue, their practices can resemble
those of virtuous people not simply in their external outcomes, but also in the
relevant internal motivational aspects.

1.2 Learning-by-Doing, Priority Objection,

and Virtue Acquisition

NE II 1 presents Aristotle’s familiar view that virtues of character come about “as a
result of habit” (ex ethous, 1103a17). Virtues of character are dispositions that are
20      

neither present in us from birth nor arise in us as part of our natural development,
but instead require our active involvement for their coming into being and their
completion—we are born only with the ability to form them “through habit” (dia
tou ethous, 1103a26). Although this view seems straightforward in its initial
formulation, Aristotle’s explanation in the lines which immediately follow, in
terms of the learners “having exercised” (energēsantes) and “doing” (prattontes)
virtuous actions before possessing the corresponding dispositions, involves some
complications.⁴
The complications of the account become apparent in NE II 4, 1105a17–21,
where Aristotle himself admits that the claim that learners perform virtuous
actions before having virtue gives rise to a potential objection concerning the
priority of actions over dispositions: How can learners perform virtuous actions
unless they are already (ēdē) virtuous? In other words, how can learners become
virtuous by doing virtuous actions, if one must be virtuous prior to doing virtuous
actions? Aristotle responds to this priority objection by denying that having virtue
is a requirement for all cases of doing virtuous actions. His strategy is to distin-
guish between (a) simply doing virtuous actions, i.e. doing actions that are “in
accordance with the virtues” (kata tas aretas); and (b) doing virtuous actions
virtuously (or ‘justly’ (dikaiōs), ‘temperately’ (sōphronōs), etc.), which requires the
agent to fulfill three further crucial requirements concerning knowledge, motiv-
ation, and stability (NE II 4, 1105a26–b12).
But Aristotle’s response to the priority objection seems to generate a new
problem—this time a problem of discontinuity. If we take his view to be that
learners become virtuous by doing virtuous actions, but in a different way than how
virtuous people do them—i.e. not virtuously—then it is hard to see how actions
performed in that way can contribute to the formation of truly virtuous dispositions.
Indeed, the more deflationary the characterization of the way that learners perform
virtuous actions, the more difficult it is to find any significant continuity between
those actions and the virtuous dispositions they are expected to yield.

⁴ NE II 1, 1103a26–b2 (quoted and discussed in detail in Section 1.7.3 of this chapter). The puzzling
claim, as discussed below, is “we acquire the virtues by first having exercised them” (τὰς δ’ ἀρετὰς
λαμβάνομεν ἐνεργήσαντες πρότερον, 1103a31). The explanation in the final section of EE II 1 might be
susceptible to similar complications, although it is not explicitly formulated in terms of exercise-before-
possession: “Virtue, then, is a tendency of this kind, which is brought about by the best movements of
the soul and which produces the best functions and affections of the soul” (καὶ ἡ ἀρετὴ ἄρα ἡ τοιαύτη
διάθεσις ἐστίν, ἣ γίνεταί τε ὑπὸ τῶν ἀρίστων περὶ ψυχὴν κινήσεων καὶ ἀφ’ ἧς πράττεται τὰ ἄριστα τῆς
ψυχῆς ἔργα καὶ πάθη, 1120a29–32) and “a thing gets habituated as a result of a pattern of conduct that is
not innate, by repeated movement of one sort or another, so that eventually it is capable of being active
in that way” (ἐθίζεται δὲ τὸ ὑπ’ ἀγωγῆς μὴ ἐμφύτου τῷ πολλάκις κινεῖσθαι πώς, οὕτως ἤδη τὸ
ἐνεργητικόν, 1120b1–3).
 --,  , &   21

Many recent commentators have highlighted this difficulty,⁵ and many have
proposed accounts of habituation that aim at finding continuity in the process.⁶
Precisely for this reason, most commentators have abandoned the so-called
mechanical view of habituation, according to which habituation is conceived as
a mostly non-rational process of shaping—typically through repetitions, punish-
ments, and rewards—the learners’ emotional responses and their relationship to
pleasure and pain.⁷ On the mechanical view, the actions of learners are externally
similar to those of virtuous people but nonetheless lack the intellectual and
affective components that characterize virtuous people’s actions. Against this
view, numerous scholars assert that habituation is not mindless repetition, but
instead involves from the start the cultivation of the learners’ perceptive and
critical powers.⁸ These scholars argue that if learners do not exercise their

⁵ Many commentators worry that Aristotle’s response in NE II 4 seems at first to make mysterious
the formation of mature moral character through practice and that we need further explanation. For
example, Broadie writes: “the more he stresses the differences, the more one is entitled to wonder how
merely performing the actions leads to moral character” (1991, 104); Curzer 2012 finds Aristotle’s
response lacking as he takes it to be presented in NE II 4, and he rightly locates the problem in the fact
that habituation (as repetition of merely virtuous acts not done virtuously) does not seem to explain
how learners acquire the knowledge and motivation required for virtue: “It is easy enough to see how
performing virtuous acts can provide dispositions of virtuous action. . . . But the acquisition of the two
remaining components of virtue seems mysterious. How do we acquire the ability to identify virtuous
acts? How do we come to desire virtuous acts for their own sake?” (318–19, my emphasis). Similarly,
Taylor 2006 finds Aristotle’s explanations in NE II 4 unsatisfactory and claims that “Aristotle seems to
have slipped away from addressing the crucial problem, at least as it arises from the formulation in
chapter 1. . . . If that is still his problem in this chapter, he does not solve it by distinguishing between
exercising a skill and doing the things prescribed by the skill without possessing it. For the latter is not
exercising the skill; hence the distinction contributes nothing to answering the question ‘How is it
possible to acquire a skill by exercising it?’ ” (82).
⁶ As I advance in the Introduction (Section 0.2), an explicit concern for continuity is present, for
example, in Burnyeat‘s characterization of Aristotle’s views on moral development, where he relies on
the basic rule that there must be an intimate dependence between Aristotle’s understanding of the
process of acquisition of virtue and his conception of virtue (1980, 69). See also Sherman 1989
(esp. 159), quoted above in Section 0.2.
⁷ The expression “mechanical theory” is used by Grant 1885 to refer to the view that there is no
significant involvement of reason in habituation (480). This expression is later taken up by Sherman
1989 in her rejection of this theory and her defense of the view she calls “critical habituation” (157–9).
Early defenders of the mechanical view of habituation are Grant 1885; Stewart 1892; and Joachim 1951.
This view has also modern defenders, e.g. Engberg-Pedersen 1983, although his position is only
moderately mechanical, since he explicitly rejects the view that habituation is a “mindless process”
(158). Another moderate version of the mechanical view can be found in Curzer 2012, who under-
stands habituation as the “mechanism of internalizing the punishments,” and appeals to Pol 1338b4
(“education is to be in habits before it is in reason”) to minimize the presence of reason in habituation
(317).
⁸ There is a long and varied list of authors who explicitly reject the mechanical view and hold that
habituation must include the cultivation of the learners’ cognitive powers. For example, Burnyeat 1980:
“Aristotle is not simply giving us a bland reminder that virtue takes practice. Rather, practice has
cognitive powers, in that it is the way in which we learn what is noble or just” (73); Sherman 1989:
“Contrary to the popular interpretation according to which ethical habituation is nonrational, I argue
that it includes early on the engagement of cognitive capacities” (7), and “We misconstrue Aristotle’s
notion of action producing character if we isolate the exterior moment of action from the interior
cognitive and affective moments which characterize even the beginner’s ethical behaviour” (178);
Broadie 1991: “Forming a habit is connected with repetition, but where what is repeated are (for
example) just acts, habituation cannot be a mindless process, and the habit (once formed) of acting
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Lucie wou direct de koffers pakken.

„Laat dat nu tot morgen,” zei Van Brakel. „Ik moet nog eerst
telegrapheeren om kamers te bestellen. Op een dag vroeger of later
komt het niet aan. Wij hebben den tijd aan ons.”

In het behaaglijk gevoel dier vrijheid, rekte hij zich uit in zijn
luierdstoel.

„Zie je,” zei hij, „dat ken je niet als ambtenaar. Of je op ’t kantoor
bent of thuis, op de plaats of op reis, in dienst of met verlof,—je
draagt altijd dat zekere gevoel met je om, dat er menschen zijn, die
boven je staan en van wier b o n p l a i s i r je afhankelijk bent.”

„Hm!” bromde vader Drütlich, vervaarlijke rookwolken uit zijn

Duitsche pijp blazend, „dat mag zoo zijn, maar ik heb nog liever een
mensch tot chef, dan mijn portemonnaie; als die leeg is, wordt ze
kwaadaardiger dan alle chefs ter wereld.”

„Kom, oude heer, haal je nu geen muizenissen in het hoofd. Als ik

nog een paar jaar voortgewerkt heb en het loopt een beetje mee,
dan begin je p l a n - p l a n aan een kleine onderneming.” [234]

Het was zijn illusie. Maar Drütlich gaf er nooit antwoord op: bij had
geen illusiën meer van dien aard.

Toen zijn schoonvader niets zei, nam Van Brakel de courant en keek
die in. Onwillekeurig keek hij altijd het eerst onder de officiëele
berichten: ondanks alles was hij vol belangstelling voor de
bevorderingen en overplaatsingen bij de B. O. W.

„Verdomd!” riep hij plotseling luid: „dat heb ik wel gedacht! Dat doet
me plezier. Luus, kom eens gauw hier!”

„Wat is het?” vroeg Lucie naar voren stuivend vol nieuwsgierigheid.

„De smeerlap is er uit!”

„Is het waarachtig?”

„Daar staat het: „Eervol ontslagen de hoofdingenieur 2de kl. bij de

B. O. W. Willert.” Daar kies ik geen duizend gulden voor. Wat doet
me dàt ’n genoegen! Die smerige gladakker heeft het dubbel en
dwars aan me verdiend.”

Met hun drieën scholden zij nu in koor. Allerlei invectieven, het een
al leelijker dan het andere, vlogen door de voorgalerij.

De hoofdingenieur Willert liep bleek en zwijgend zijn kamer op en

neer. Neen, dàt had hij niet verdiend! Dat was geen loon voor zijn
veeljarigen trouwen dienst! Er viel niets aan te merken op zijn ijver,
zijn gedrag, zijn bekwaamheid. Toch had hij, nog in de kracht zijns
levens, ook zijn „boterbriefje” thuis gekregen. Waarom? Het kwam
zoo in de kraam te pas. Hij zat anderen in den weg: neefjes en
vriendjes. Die konden niet spoedig genoeg vooruitkomen; hun
invloedrijke relatiën in Nederland waren daar ontevreden over.
Dáárom moest hij, [235]de eenvoudige man, die zijn positie s l e c h t s
had verkregen door zijn arbeid, plaats maken; dáárom was het
noodig geoordeeld in ’s lands belang niet verder prijs te stellen op
zijn diensten.

Hij had nooit anders gedaan, dan wat hij vermeende dat zijn plicht
was jegens „den Lande.” Streng en onverbiddelijk was hij geweest,
waar het den dienst gold van het Gouvernement; onder zijn
inferieuren was hij daarom meer gevreesd dan bemind. En naast de
algemeene belangen van den Staat had hij altijd gesteld de
bijzondere van den Waterstaat. Dáárvoor had hij óók gestreden en
als hij opkwam voor zijn dienst tot in de geringste détails, dan kende
hij geen vrees voor andere autoriteiten. Hij wist wel, dat velen hem
niet gaarne mochten; dat residenten hem stug en onhandelbaar
noemden; dat de eerstaanwezende genie-officieren even dikwijls
met hem overhoop lagen als het Binnenlandsch Bestuur,—maar wat
zou dat? Nooit had hij eenig eigenbelang gekweekt of bevorderd.
Liever duizend gulden had hij gegeven uit zijn zak, dan der schatkist
een cent te benadeelen, of toe te staan zonder protest, dat dit door
anderen bij zijn dienst geschiedde. Hij was geen aangenaam
mensch in den ambtelijken omgang en hij had zich ook nooit daarop
toegelegd.

Geleefd had hij uitsluitend voor zijn ambt. Onder die toewijding had
alles geleden: zijn huiselijk leven, zijn huwelijksgeluk, zijn
persoonlijke levensvreugd,—alles had moeten achterstaan bij den
ambtsijver, die hem verteerde, en de liefde voor d e n dienst, tot
afgoderij bij hem aangegroeid. In zijn lange loopbaan had hij „den”
lande voor millioenen bevoordeeld, door economischen arbeid en
streng toezicht; al wat [236]uit zijn handen kwam of onder zijn oog
was verricht, had elken toets kunnen doorstaan. Zijn positie had hij
slechts dááraan te danken; indien hij het had moeten hebben van
vleierij of intriges,—hij ware gestorven als opzichter zóóveelste
klasse.

Dat anderen belooningen kregen en buitengewone eerbewijzen voor

luttele diensten den Staat bewezen, hinderde hem niet; dat er nu en
dan stoompromoties werden gemaakt, door ambtenaren, van wie
men niet wist waar ze de verdiensten vandaan haalden,—hij had er
de schouders voor opgetrokken.

Hij vond dat, zoolang hij persoonlijk niet werd miskend,

voorbijgegaan of gegriefd, het niet aanging zich in te laten met
anderen; dáárvan sprak hij nooit en stil ging hij zijn gang, nauwgezet
voor zichzelven, evenals hij dat was voor zijn ondergeschikten. Hij
vroeg niets en verlangde niets, dan wat hem toekwam naar de
meest elementaire beginselen van eerlijkheid en goede trouw.
En nu stond hij daar, aan den dijk gezet door een gewetenloos
nepotisme; aan den dijk gezet door lieden, die op niets jacht
maakten dan op hooge ambten met hooge traktementen en hooge
toelagen; voor wie niets heilig was, als het hen slechts kon brengen
tot vermeerdering van materiëel levensgenot voor hen en hun
vrienden. Daar stond hij!

Hij was e e r v o l ontslagen, ongeveer op de manier als Van Brakel

en dergelijken, dacht hij. Er schoot hem geen traan in het oog,
daarvoor was hij te veel man; maar een moord had hij kunnen doen
op dat oogenblik.

Men had zich niet eens de moeite gegeven hem vooraf het f a i t
a c c o m p l i mede te deelen. Hij las het in de courant [237]onder de
telegrammen. Wat ook deed het er toe, tegenover een landsdienaar
als hij, die s l e c h t s door veeljarigen stalen arbeid geworden was
wat hij was? Wat beteekenden zulke antecedenten tegenover de
belangen van fortuinzoekers en baantjesjagers?

Zoo dacht hij vol bitterheid en misschien in zekere mate onbillijk, in

het diep gekrenkt gevoel van die ambtelijke eigenwaarde, welke
jarenlang zijn grootste kracht, zijn grootste steun was geweest.

En terwijl hij werktuiglijk bleef loopen van den eenen kant zijner
kamer naar den anderen, ging zijn geheele levensloop hem door het
hoofd, van ’t oogenblik dat hij als jongeling in dienst trad, tot nu hij in
de kracht zijns levens zonder eenig motief werd weggezonden.

Om den hoek der openstaande deur keek mevrouw Willert naar

binnen.

„Je hebt het zeker gelezen?” vroeg hij.

Zij knikte toestemmend, trad de kamer binnen en ging zitten. En hij
uitte alles wat er was omgegaan in zijn gemoed; er was woede en
verontwaardiging en haat in zijn stem, maar nu en dan klonk er een
toon door van den weemoed en het verdriet van den eerlijken,
mishandelden man.

Het trof haar niet. Zij bleef er koud onder. Zonder een woord er
tusschen te brengen, liet zij hem uitspreken; en toen hij gedaan had,
keek ze hem aan zonder een zweem van medelijden.

„Ik begrijp dat het heel hard is voor j o u , maar verg asjeblieft niet dat
ik er om treur.”

Hij keek haar verschrikt aan met een pijnlijken trek op [238]het
gezicht. Het sloeg hem uit het veld. Wat bedoelde ze? Zij was toch
waarlijk anders geen ongevoelige vrouw. Integendeel, ze had
meermalen, met tranen in de oogen, getracht in de bres te springen
voor anderen; zelfs voor dien Van Brakel. En nu keek ze hem aan
met de grootste onverschilligheid,—nu het h e m z e l f betrof.

Mevrouw Willert wendde het hoofd af.

„Het is voor mij een zegen; misschien krijg ik nu nog een gelukkig
leven.”

„Hadt je dat dan niet?” vroeg hij verwonderd.

„Neen, Willert. Het tegendeel is waar. Jij hebt dat nooit opgemerkt; jij
ging geheel op in den dienst: dat was alles voor jou, maar voor mij
was het een ramp; door je stiptheid in dienst mochten de meeste
menschen je niet lijden, en hoezeer men ons beleefd behandelde,—
vriendschap ondervonden wij nooit.”

„Ik heb er nooit behoefte aan gehad,” bromde hij verstoord.

„Dat weet ik wel; maar i k had er w e l behoefte aan. Voor jou was
de dienst niet slechts een plicht, het was een genoegen, een wellust,
een manie. Je stondt er mee op en je ging er mee slapen; bij het
ontbijt sprak je me over de dienstzaken, die des daags moesten
volgen, en ’s middags over de dienstzaken, die op den dag waren
voorgekomen.…”

„Je hebt je er nooit over beklaagd.”

„Zeker niet. Het zou niet hebben geholpen. Van een zoo vreugdeloos
leven als het mijne kon je toch geen besef hebben en ik wist heel
goed dat het niet baten zou. Die ongelukkige dienst had je in zijn
klauwen, als de duivel een [239]menschenziel. Zoolang je er in waart,
was daartegen niets te doen.”

„Het is overdreven voorgesteld.”

„Dat is het niet, en n u voel je ook wel, dat ik gelijk heb. We zijn
jarenlang getrouwd geweest, maar een aangenaam huwelijksleven
hebben we nooit gehad. Het was of je altijd in dienst waart. Denk je,
dat een vrouw daarbij gelukkig wezen kan? Je waart steeds heel
goed voor me en ik geloof dat je veel van me houdt op jou manier;
maar van den dienst hieldt je meer; dat wist ik. Iedereen vond, dat ik
het zoo gelukkig had getroffen: een knap man, een braaf man, een
man die altijd vooruitging in maatschappelijke positie,—o zeker;
maar ik had liever gehad, dat alles minder was geweest en je wat
meer getoond hadt iets voor m i j te zijn.”
„De vrouwen zijn nooit tevreden.”

„Dat is niet waar. Zij zijn zelfs heel gemakkelijk tevreden. Maar met
niets kan men niet tevreden zijn. En ik heb niets aan mijn leven
gehad. Het is hier voor het beste deel voorbijgegaan, vreugdeloos,
vervelend. Ik heb jaar in jaar uit elken dag in een net huisje gezeten,
zonder werk of verstrooiïng met de herinnering aan onze
ochtendconversatie over den Waterstaat en als naaste toekomst een
middaggesprek over den Waterstaat, dien ik vervloekt heb.…..”

„Hè? Dat is te veel!” riep Willert nijdig. Hij was nu wel ontslagen,
maar dat iemand en nog wel zijn eigen vrouw den Waterstaat zat te
vervloeken,—dàt was hem te erg.

Zij nam er geen notitie van.

„En nu ben ik blij; ik dank God, dat je er af bent. We gaan nu naar

Europa; wij zijn nog jong genoeg om van het [240]leven te genieten.
Kinderen hebben we niet, maar wie weet, wat nog kan gebeuren in
een koel klimaat en bevrijd van den waterstaatsdienst. Het pensioen
is voldoende en al was het dat niet, dan kunnen wij er iets bijdoen.”

Maar zijn gezicht klaarde niet op bij het vooruitzicht van een mogelijk
vaderschap. Zijn hart hing aan den dienst en dat deed hem beseffen,
hoeveel waarheid er kon liggen in de kalme verwijten van zijn vrouw.

„Je praat er maar luchtig over; je k u n t niet begrijpen, wat het is.
Aan één kant heb je misschien gelijk: ik heb me te veel met de
zaken vereenzelvigd; misschien ware het beter geweest te doen als
zooveel anderen; maar dat k o n ik niet. Laat ons er niet verder over
spreken. Ik hoop nu maar, dat ik zoo spoedig mogelijk het bureau
kan overgeven. Als ik je leven werkelijk zoo heb vergald,” voegde hij
er verdrietig bij, „dan zal ik mijn best doen om het kwaad te
herstellen.”

Zij moest zich geweld aandoen. Maar zij wilde nu niet zwak of
toegeeflijk zijn en daarom knikte ze alleen even met het hoofd, als
wilde zij zeggen: doe dat, het is een staaltje van je plicht.

Dezelfde courant bracht nog een verrassing. Lucie Van Brakel was
reeds weder in haar kamer gegaan en haar man vervolgde zijn
lectuur. Hij sloeg een blik op de advertenties.

„Luus, Luus?” schreeuwde hij weer. „Wel lieve hemel.…”

„Nu, wat is er nog meer?” riep ze naar voren komend.

„Zoo’n kwajongen!”

„Wie? Wat?”

„Wel, die Geerling. Hier lees ik waarachtig dat hij met die meid
getrouwd is.” [241]

„Och!.….….”

Alsof ze het niet geloofde, nam ze ’t blad uit zijn hand en las zelve
de advertentie.

„’t Is verschrikkelijk! Nu, daar zal te Amsterdam wat over te doen

wezen!”

„Ja, ’t is een beetje erg,” zei Van Brakel.

„Zoo,” antwoordde Lucie met een zijdelingschen verwijtenden blik,

„hou jij je mond maar; als je jongmensch waart geweest, zou je
misschien getrouwd zijn met dat.….”

Maar hij was opgestaan en hield haar met zijn hand den mond dicht.

„Het is gemeen!” riep hij lachend. „Je hebt beloofd er niet meer van
te spreken.”

Ze stoeiden een oogenblik, tot groote woede der kinderen, die hen
bij de kleeren trokken, en tot bezorgdheid van den ouden heer
Drütlich, die met beide handen de tafel vasthield voor het geval ze er
met hun zware lichamen tegen zouden aankomen.

„Kom,” zei ze hem lachend afwerend met de handen en met het

hoofd zijwaarts achterover, coquetteerend met haar krachtig
ontwikkelde buste, „kom, malle vent, schei er nu uit.”

Hij was spoedig buiten adem; dat was in physieken zin zijn merkbaar
teeken van achteruitgang.

„Daar zou men warm van worden,” zei hij lachend en ging zitten.

„Wat doe je ook te beginnen?”

Zij streek haar kleeren glad en begon weer over het nieuws van den
dag. Dat Geerling een dwaas was, een kwajongen, die zich
verslingerde, stond vast; dat Ceciel een meisje van [242]verdachte
zeden mocht heeten, liet geen twijfel toe. Het was pleizierig voor een
fatsoenlijke familie zoo’n slet in haar midden te moeten opnemen!
Maar ze zou wel niet in den kring worden toegelaten; het zou te erg
zijn als zoo’n oude patricische Amsterdamsche familie zich op zulk
een wijze compromitteerde.
Zij keerden van het „stadhuis” terug. „Stadhuis” zeiden de oudjes
bijwijze van spreken en ze bedoelden het gewestelijk bureau, waar
de gewestelijke secretaris dienst deed als plaatselijk ambtenaar van
den burgerlijken stand. „Het kantoor” was niet vertegenwoordigd; de
getuigen waren een paar kennissen van Geerling en een paar ex-
zeil-kapiteins, oude vrienden van de familie der bruid. Receptie zou
er niet gehouden worden. Van den kant van Jules zou toch niemand
komen en Ceciel was niets gesteld op visite van haar kant.

Een dinertje voor de getuigen,—daarmee zou alles gedaan zijn en

bukkend voor het onvermijdelijke, had Ceciel besloten tante Du Roy
maar te laten mee-eten, bijwijze van galgemaal.

Zij reed naar huis in een gehuurde trouwcoupé. Schoon was ze als
een engel; niet als een vol van de onschuld der onwetendheid, niet
als een kalverachtig onnoozel meisje, dat zich nog onnoozeler
voordoet dan ze is, opdat men toch vooral zien zal, hoe weinig ze
zich van de naaste toekomst bewust is,—maar als een engel des
verstands; schoon door lijnen en kleuren, schoon door zichzelve,
zonder dat de illusie van een oogenblik daartoe iets behoefde bij te
dragen. Men kon het haar aanzien, dat zij geen vluchtig parfum was,
maar een [243]blijvende essence, in staat te overwinnen in den strijd
om een frisch en langdurig bestaan.

Jules Geerling keurig in ’t zwart, met al wat hij aan had van ’t beste
S c h n i t t en de duurste qualiteit, had den ganschen dag niets
gedaan, dan haar bewonderen. En toch lag hem iets als lood op het
hart; het was gebrek aan zelfvertrouwen. Naarmate de dag vorderde
en hij Ceciel ernstiger en beslister had gezien in haar doen en laten,
was dat erger geworden. Zij scheen hem iets te krijgen van een
hooger wezen, wat door haar wit satijnen bruidstoilet en den witten
sluier nog werd verhoogd. Geen lachje nog had haar gezicht
opgevroolijkt; geen traan was haar in het oog gekomen. Zij sprak
kalm, als altijd, en dat had hem geducht op de zenuwen gewerkt.

Zij had niet anders kunnen zijn dien dag. ’t Was geen komediespel,
waarlijk niet; ’t was de invloed van het groote feit, van het offer dat
ze in werkelijkheid bracht. Op het altaar van haar zucht naar fatsoen
en stand, slachtte zij al wat in haar leefde voor wederkeerige liefde.
Nooit had ze gedacht, dat het haar zwaar zou vallen, maar nu het
gebeurde, drukte het haar ter neer. Zij had Geerling ingepalmd en ze
wist zeker, dat ze het ook zijn Amsterdamsche familie zou doen. Al
wat dit huwelijk mogelijk maakte, zou ze door haar ontwikkeling en
haar ongenaakbare deugd stellig veroveren; maar van aanspraken
op die gloeiende, robuste genegenheid, die overeenkwam met haar
physieke ontwikkeling en haar temperament,—dáárvan moest ze
voor goed afstand doen; daarvan mocht nooit of nimmer sprake zijn;
dáárvoor was een hoofdvoorwaarde niet aanwezig, noch in den
persoon [244]van Geerling, noch in het bitter weinige, dat ze voor
hem gevoelde.

Aan dat alles dacht ze. De accessoires van het leven en de

demonstratie der gelegenheid lieten haar koud: zij vond die klein en
onbeduidend, vergeleken bij hetgeen omging in haar eigen
gedachten; die hielden haar bezig den ganschen dag en lieten haar
eerst los tegen het diner, toen haar goede gezondheid haar eischen
deed gelden en haar dwong tot het vroolijk bewustzijn, gewekt door
een hongerige maag aan den eenen en den geur van fijne schotels
aan den anderen kant.

„Kom Ciel,” zei Geerling haar kussend, „dat doet me genoegen. ’t Is

voor het eerst, dat ik een glimlach op je gezicht zie vandaag.”

„Het is een ernstige dag,” antwoordde ze, en haar woorden

uitleggend in zijn geest, stemde hij toe.
„Zeker, maar we moeten nu vroolijk zijn, ja?”

„Wel ja,” voegde zijn schoonvader er aan toe, wiens tong nu reeds
verraderlijk dubbel sloeg, „jullie moeten wat vroolijker wezen; je zit
daar of we op een begrafenis zijn.”

En allen waren het met hem eens, ook tante Du Roy, die er zeer
goed uitzag en onder de aanwezige oud-gezagvoerders grooten
opgang maakte.

Er vielen aardigheden aan tafel, waarover Ceciel zich ergerde, maar

waarop zij geen aanmerking wilde maken; er werden verscheiden
wijnsoorten dooreengedronken; tante Du Roy stelde zich aan en
gilde lachend als de scheepskapiteins haar onder de tafel in de
beenen knepen. Er werden toosten geslagen, heel goed bedoeld,
maar slecht gezegd; de lucht in de binnengalerij, nog warmer door
de menschen en [245]de spijzen, was met gastronomische geuren
vervuld, die de hersenen benevelden. De zeelieden werden
herinnerd aan de vervlogen jaren hunner jeugd; de geest van den
wijn verdreef den ernst des levens en de bedachtzaamheid van den
leeftijd. Een hunner stond op, eenigszins waggelend, en begon met
een glas wijn in de hand, waaruit hij telkens een weinig op het
tafellaken stortte, een lied, waarmee hij gedurende zijn
bootsmansjaren veel succes had gehad; met kon het zijn goedig
rood en verweerd gelaat, door een grijzen ringbaard omlijst, aanzien
dat hij het uitstekend meende; niettemin klonk het lied over zekeren
Krelis, die voor de eerste maal getrouwd was met zeker Kniertje, in
hooge mate onaangenaam voor het nette jeugdige paar, dat het
aanhoorde met een zuurzoeten glimlach, terwijl tante Du Roy bij elke
equivoque zinspeling allerverleidelijkste knipoogjes van
verstandhouding gaf aan haar overbuur om toch vooral te doen zien,
hoe goed ze van begrip was.
Zelfs toen Ceciel, voor goed nu, het vaderlijk huis verliet, gevoelde
zij geen spoor van aandoening. Inwendig juichte ze: er uit, er uit! En
toen, terwijl alles in de voorgalerij stond te schreien, haar ouders van
wezenlijk verdriet om de scheiding van haar kind, haar tante
vanwege de teergevoeligheid, en de rest van den weerstuit, wierp zij
zich achterover in de kussens van het rijtuig met een zucht van
verlichting en een welgemeend: Goddank!

Voor Geerling liep alles ten beste af. Ceciel was doodmoe, daarbij
nieuwsgierig noch zenuwachtig, wat zoo weldadig op zijn stemming
werkte, dat hij, toen ze in het kleine dorpslogement, waar ze vertoefd
hadden, ’s morgens koffie dronken, [246]met ’t prachtigste uitzicht ter
wereld op ’t boschrijk gebergte,—zich de gelukkigste m a n ter
wereld achtte.

Het jonge vrouwtje genoot ’t geluk volstrekt niet in die mate. Zij had
alleen ’t gevoel van welbehagen, dat iemand heeft, die geslaagd is in
een lang gekoesterd en met groote zorg overwogen en voorbereid
plan. Ongestoord liet ze hem begaan, schoon ’t haar verveelde, dat
hij zijn handen geen oogenblik van haar lijf kon houden.

„Willen wij een eindje opwandelen?” vroeg ze.

Natuurlijk vond hij dat uitstekend; het was een voortreffelijk

denkbeeld; hij zou tegen iedereen hebben volgehouden, dat slechts
z i j n vrouwtje in staat was zoo’n eminent idee op te vatten, als het
doen van een ochtendwandeling.

’t Was in deze bergstreek heerlijk koel, zonder het kille, dat de

hoogere zône oplevert.

Wat Jules en Ceciel niet wisten, was, dat men hen hier van reputatie
en van aanzien kende; en zoo wisten zij ook niet, dat ze e n
p a s s a n t aanleiding gaven tot allerlei conjecturen en glossen op
hun jongste verleden. De onderwijzer, die met zijn vrouw hen al
wandelend passeerde, de dokter, die haastig met een collega naar
het hospitaal liep, de agent van den wagendienst, zijn magere
knollen inspecteerend, en de postcommies in rustige rust zijn pijpje
rookend voor zijn deur,—allen beschouwden hen met de grootste
belangstelling. Dat was dan die rijke Amsterdamsche
koopmanszoon, wiens huwelijk men op allerlei wijze had willen
beletten en die nu t o c h getrouwd was met dat meisje van
veelbesproken reputatie, dat nichtje van die bekende weduwe Du
Roy. Nu had hij zijn zin, maar niemand geloofde, dat hij zijn [247]zin
nog zoo heel weinig had voor den huwelijksdag.

Integendeel, iedereen was innig overtuigd, dat het huwelijk niets

meer was geweest dan de formaliteit noodig p o u r l e
couronnement de l’édifice.

Des middags vertrokken zij weer hoogerop en ’t was reeds donker,

voor zij de plaats bereikten, waar zij een dag of acht hoopten te
vertoeven. Geerling, die per telegram goede kamers had besteld,
kreeg die aan den eenen kant van den ingang van het
logementsgebouw, waar ze met openslaande deuren uitkwamen op
de voorgalerij. Moe van het rijden berg op, berg af, hotsend over een
half vervallen en sedert den spoorweg als zoodanig niet meer
gebruikten postweg, besloten zij in hun kamers te dineeren en
daarna te gaan slapen.

Verbaasd zag Geerling den volgenden ochtend op, toen hij buiten
kwam en aan den anderen kant van de voorgalerij Van Brakel zag
zitten met diens schoonvader. Vervelender kon het nu al niet! Hij
groette even met een hoofdknik en kreeg juist evenveel terug.

„Weet je wie onze buren zijn?” vroeg hij, in de kamer terruggaande.

„Nu?”
„De Van Brakels.”

„’t Is zeer onaangenaam. Maar ’t komt er zoo veel niet op aan.”

„We kunnen hen moeielijk op den duur zonder spreken voorbijgaan.”

„Dat is ook volstrekt niet noodig. Goeden morgen en goeden avond

weegt niet zwaar. Doe overigens maar net als ik.”

En Van Brakel zei tot Lucie, die nog in haar bed lag te luieren met
een kind in elken arm: [248]

„Zeg Lucie, dat treffen we beroerd. Die kwajongen en die meid

logeeren hier aan den anderen kant van de voorgalerij.”

„Laat ze!” antwoordde Lucie, half boos dat ze in haar naslaapje werd
gestoord. „Wat hebben wij met dat volk noodig? Wij kijken het niet
aan.”

Zij deed het ook.

Toen de Geerlings in de achtergalerij kwamen, waar het ontbijt

gereed stond, zat Van Brakel, die altijd honger had, „in de kou” zich
reeds aan boterhammen met ham te vergasten. Zij groetten en hij
was te goed opgevoed van huis uit om onbeleefd te wezen; hij
groette terug. Maar Lucie, die een oogenblik later kwam met haar
kinderen, ging met groote drukte en veel beweging zitten en toonde
door haar manier van spreken en de uitdrukking van haar gezicht,
dat zij met de nieuwe gasten niets wilde te maken hebben, en deed
eenvoudig alsof ze hen niet zag.

„Het is heel lief van haar,” meende Ceciel lachend. „Zij maakt het mij
erg gemakkelijk.”
Maar zóó gemakkelijk was het niet, want de kleine Van Brakeltjes
schenen zich door de jonge mevrouw erg aangetrokken te gevoelen,
en ofschoon Ceciel hoegenaamd niets deed om de kinderen te
lokken en ze ook niet aanhaalde, kwamen ze steeds aan haar kant
en stonden of zaten haar aan te kijken en kwamen vertrouwelijk
tegen haar aanleunen.

Lucie, woedend, riep ze dan terug, maar het hielp niet veel, want de
Van Brakelsche jeugd, in volle vrijheid gedresseerd, beantwoordde
het geroep met een welgemeend m ô , totdat Lucie de baboes zond
om de kinderen mee te trekken. Dan verzetten zich de lieve kleinen
met hand en tand, [249]schreeuwend en gillend en schoppend en
slaand; en tien minuten later zaten ze, nog met de tranen op het
gezicht, toch weer bij Ceciel.

De toestand, vond mevrouw Van Brakel na eenige dagen, werd

onhoudbaar. Haar zenuwen waren, na de levenservaring der laatste
jaren en door het druk dagelijksch gebruik van portwijn, bier en
andere geestrijke dranken, niet meer zoo rustig als in vroeger tijd.
Wanneer zij ’s ochtends, ’s middags en ’s avonds aan tafel in het
logement zich a i r s gaf en veinsde de Geerlings in het geheel niet
te zien, dan was er niemand, wien dit zoo geweldig irriteerde, als
haarzelf. Langs het koude masque der schoone jonge vrouw gleed
dat alles af, als langs gepolijst marmer. En Lucie benijdde haar die
imponeerende kalmte meer dan haar schoonheid, want zij was met
haar eigen uiterlijk zeer tevreden en zij zag wel aan de blikken der
mannen, dat haar rose vleesch van welgedane blondine
appétisanter was dan de matbleeke teint der inderdaad veel
schoonere mevrouw Geerling.

„Het is onuitstaanbaar,” zei ze.

„Dat is toch je eigen schuld,” zeide haar vader. „Waarom doe je niet
net als iedereen? Wat kunnen je die jonge menschen schelen?”
„Ze kunnen me niets schelen, pa! Juist dáárom. Maar er is meer
gebeurd, waarover ik zwijgen zal en waarin die twee de hand
hebben gehad. Herman zal me niet tegenspreken.”

Dat deed hij ook niet.

„Maar toch,” zei hij, „heb ik er meer dan genoeg van en stel ik voor
om elders heen te gaan.” [250]

„S c h a d e ,” meende Drütlich, behaaglijk aan zijn pijp zuigend, „het

is hier zoo lekker.”

Lucie gaf haar man een zoen.

„Je hebt groot gelijk en ik vind het lief van je. Dat nare volk bederft
me hier alle genoegen. De kinderen zijn niet van haar af te slaan en
zij doet toch niets; ze geeft ze niets en ze haalt ze niet aan. Ik begrijp
niet wat dien kinderen scheelt.”

„De aantrekkingskracht der schoonheid,” liet Van Brakel zich

onvoorzichtig ontvallen.

„Schoonheid? Het is wat, zoo’n marmer schaap; zoo’n steenen

beeld! Neen, maar ik ben werkelijk bang, dat zij de kinderen behekst;
ze heeft er net zulke rare oogen voor. Daarmee heeft ze dien
Geerling ook betooverd, want z i j houdt niet van hem; geen zier!”

„Och wat!” zei haar vader, wrevelig over de soesah van het vertrek:
„wat weet jij er van? Laat toch die jonge menschen met rust. Het is
dwaasheid om hier vandaan te gaan; het is hier veel te lekker.”

Doch papa had goed praten,—den volgenden ochtend waren de

koffers gepakt en stond een groote reiswagen met een impériale
voor de vele bagage, te wachten aan het hotel, en onder groote
drukte trokken de Van Brakels af, in het gezicht hunner tegenpartij,
die kalm aan den anderen kant der voorgalerij een kopje koffie
dronk, al wippende met de schommelstoelen.

„Zij gaan nog hooger op,” zei Jules.

„Ja,” antwoordde Ceciel glimlachend, „dat dacht ik wel. Zij gaan op

de vlucht.”

„Op de vlucht?” vroeg hij verwonderd; „hoe bedoel je dat?” [251]

„Z i j kan het in m i j n nabijheid niet uithouden. Het is haar eigen

schuld. Ik begreep den eersten dag reeds, dat ze die aanstellerij niet
zou kunnen volhouden.”

Ten slotte speet het den Van Brakels niet, dat ze van tijdelijke
verblijfplaats waren veranderd, want ze amuseerden zich kostelijk.
Daarvoor gaven ze dan ook gruwelijk veel geld uit, en Van Brakel
nam zich voor, als ze weer beneden kwamen, spoedig uit te zien
naar wat werk, ten einde het gat, dat dit reisje in zijn financiën had
geslagen, weer te dichten.

Hij deed het ook, maar.… er was niets; het ergste was nog, dat er
zich gedurende zijn afwezigheid een andere bouwmeester op de
plaats had gevestigd en het eenige werk, dat open was gekomen,
hem achter den rug had weggekaapt.

De eene maand ging na de andere voorbij, maar werk van eenig

aanbelang kwam er niet; slechts kleine verbouwingen en reparaties;
om nu zoo weinig mogelijk in te teren, deed hij zijn best, die uit te
breiden en kostbaar te maken, tot woede en verdriet van de
eigenaars, die zich de haren uit het hoofd trokken bij het zien der
„gespecificeerde” rekeningen, waaruit zij toch niet wijs konden
worden, maar die op zeer respectabele totalen neerkwamen.
Wie voor dergelijk werk in zijn handen viel, beloofde zichzelven
plechtig, dat het voor de laatste maal zou zijn.

Zoo scharrelden zij het jaar door, elke maand inbrokkelend van
hetgeen ’t vorige jaar was verdiend, en toen wederom de Indische
Sint-Silvester zijn natte tronie liet zien onder de druipende
klapperboomen, bracht hij Van Brakel tot de slotsom, dat diens
zaken lang niet schitterend stonden en hij de [252]tering moest zetten
naar de nering, wilde hij niet spoedig aan den grond raken.

Maar voor Van Brakel en voor Drütlich was dit een onverstaanbare
taal; een taal, die ze begrepen noch verstonden. Ze namen er het
leven goed van, als zij geld hadden ten koste van zichzelven en
anders ten koste van hun leveranciers, in afwachting van betere
tijden. En op die laatste hoopten zij dien oudejaarsavond; met elk
glas, dat ze meer dronken, werd die hoop levendiger.

„Met den eersten flinken duit, dien ik verdien,” zei Van Brakel, „ga ik
eigen huizen bouwen.”

„Dat hadt je al lang moeten doen.”

„Dat had ik ook; maar nu ben ik er toe besloten. Ik maak tusschen

die twee voorname wegen een verbindingsweg.”

Hij haalde een stuk krijt en teekende zijn weg op de tafel, en zette de
huizen op een rij.

Het was een idee.

Met hun drieën lagen ze over de tafel, de hoofden bijeen, turend op

de witte lijnen. Van Brakel gevoelde zich een Hausmann in
miniatuur.
Hij teekende voort, vlug en vaardig, en hij zette zijn bedoeling nader
uiteen: de grootte van de erven, de inrichting der woningen, het punt
van uitgang over begroeide terreinen en door klappertuinen, tot het
snijpunt op den tweeden parallelweg.

„Prachtig!” riep Lucie vol bewondering.

„Het is een practisch denkbeeld,” vond haar vader. „Ik geloof wel, dat
je daarmee succes zult hebben. Er is behoefte aan zulke huizen.”
[253]

„Maar de duiten?”

„Zie dat je een geldschieter krijgt.”

„Als je eens naar h e m ging, je weet wel, die je toen met dien
speelbeer heeft geholpen?”

Langzaam en in gedachten knikte Van Brakel toestemmend. Dàt had

hij ook reeds gedacht; die zou hem wel willen helpen. Zij dronken op
het welslagen, tot de hanen reeds voor de tweede maal hadden
gekraaid en de nieuwe dag naderde van het nieuwe jaar.

Lucie ging naar bed, vrij soezerig, en ze sliep reeds voor zij
behoorlijk lag. Herman en Drütlich bleven nog in luierdstoelen zitten
bij hun zooveelste brendy-soda; de oude man dommelde in, en de
ingenieur sprak altijd maar voort met zware tong en nu en dan
haperende stem over zijn bouwplannen, tot hijzelf ook indommelde.

Langzaam rees de zon achter de huizen aan de overzijde van den

weg. Het ochtendschot was met een doffen dreun gevallen. De
krakende karren, die tot zoo lang buiten de poort hadden moeten
wachten, deden hun intocht; hier en daar doken de inlanders op uit
hun kampongs, met de sarongs tot aan de schouders opgetrokken of
de armen tegen het lijf gekruist, bibberend bij de koelte van den