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The Value of the World and of Oneself
 The Value of the
World and of Oneself
Philosophical Optimism and Pessimism
from Aristotle to Modernity

M O R SE G EV
 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Segev, Mor, author.
Title: The value of the world and of oneself : philosophical optimism
and pessimism from Aristotle to Modernity/ Mor Segev.
Description: New York, NY, United States of America : Oxford University Press, [2022] |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022000740 (print) | LCCN 2022000741 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780197634073 (hb) | ISBN 9780197634097 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Optimism. | Pessimism. | Philosophy.
Classification: LCC B829 .S425 2022 (print) | LCC B829 (ebook) |
DDC 149/.5—dc23/eng/20220203
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022000740
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022000741

DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197634073.001.0001

1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2
Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America
To the memory of Martha Leonhardt,
née Löwenberg (1902–1943).
 Contents

Acknowledgments  ix
Abbreviations  xi

Introduction  1

1. Schopenhauer’s Critique of the Optimism of the

Hebrew Bible and Spinoza  18

2. Self-​Abnegation and Its Reversion to

Optimism: Schopenhauer  43

3. Nihilism and Self-​Deification: Camus’s Critical

Analysis of Nietzsche in The Rebel  78

4. Aristotle’s Critique of Ancient Pessimism  113

5. Optimism and Self-​Devaluation #1: Aristotle  158

6. Optimism and Self-​Devaluation #2: Maimonides on

Aristotle and the Hebrew Bible  194

7. An Aristotelian Response to Schopenhauer’s

Challenge to Optimism  223

References  245
Index  253
 Acknowledgments

This book is a product of years of thinking about and comparing

the philosophical views of Aristotle, Maimonides, Spinoza,
Nietzsche, Schopenhauer, and Camus. Between 2016 and 2021,
parts of this project were presented in Jerusalem, Oxford, Krakow,
Tampa, Newcastle, Milwaukee, and Budapest, and I am thankful to
my audiences on these occasions for many helpful comments and
suggestions. My ideas took shape over the years with the help of
feedback from and conversations with many individuals, including
Audrey Anton, Hanoch Ben-Yami, Anastasia Berg, István Bodnár,
Robert Bolton, Katarzyna Borkowska, Abraham Bos, Ursula
Coope, John Cooper, John Cottingham, Kati Farkas, Maciej Kałuża,
Andrea Kern, Philipp Koralus, Iddo Landau, Oksana Maksymchuk,
Yitzhak Melamed, Angela Mendelovici, Alexander Nehamas, Sarah
Nooter, Ács Pál, Michael Peramatzis, Max Rosochinsky, Anna
Schriefl, Christiane Tewinkel, Andrea Timár, David Weberman,
Robert Wicks, Jessica Williams, and Eric Winsberg.
I am grateful to the Hardt Foundation for the Study of Classical
Antiquity for granting me the Research Scholarship for Young
Researchers in 2018, to the Institute for Advanced Study at the
Central European University for granting me a fellowship in 2020,
which enabled me to complete most of this book and to present and
discuss it with colleagues from a variety of fields, to St. Catherine’s
College, Oxford, for hosting me as a Visiting Fellow in 2021, and to
the Faculty of Philosophy at Oxford University for allowing me to
present the project at the Workshop in Ancient Philosophy during
my stay. Thanks are also due to Lucy Randall, Hannah Doyle, Sean
Decker, and Leslie Johnson at Oxford University Press, to my anon-
ymous referees for their helpful comments and suggestions, and to
x Acknowledgments

Nandhini Thanga Alugu and Dorothy Bauhoff for their assistance

with the production of the book.
Chapter 1 is based on my chapter “Schopenhauer on Spinoza’s
Pantheism, Optimism, and Egoism,” in Y. Y. Melamed (ed.), A
Companion to Spinoza (Hoboken, NJ, 2021), 557–​67. Chapter 4 is
based in part on my “Death, Immortality and the Value of Human
Existence in Aristotle’s Eudemus Fr. 6, Ross,” Classical Philology
(forthcoming). Parts of Chapters 5 and 6 are based on my “Aristotle
on the Proper Attitude Toward Divinity,” American Catholic
Philosophical Quarterly (2020). I would like to thank the publishers
for allowing me to make use of these materials.
 Abbreviations

The following are the abbreviations used for the titles of the works
by the main authors discussed in this book.

Works by Aristotle:
Cael. De caelo
DA De anima
De phil. De philosophia
Div. De divinatione per somnum
EE Eudemian Ethics
GA Generation of Animals
GC Generation and Corruption
HA History of Animals
IA Progression of Animals
Metaph. Metaphysics
Meteor. Meteorology
MM Magna Moralia
NE Nicomachean Ethics
PA Parts of Animals
Poet. Poetics
Pol. Politics
Protr. Protrepticus
Rh. Rhetoric
Top. Topics

Works by Maimonides:
EC Eight Chapters
GP The Guide of the Perplexed
MT Mishneh Torah
HD Hilchot Deot (in MT )
xii Abbreviations

Works by Spinoza:
E Ethics
TTP Tractatus Theologico-​Politicus
Works by Schopenhauer:
MR Manuscript Remains
PP Parerga and Paralipomena
FHP Fragments for the History of Philosophy (in PP)
WWR The World as Will and Representation

Works by Nietzsche:
BGE Beyond Good and Evil
BT The Birth of Tragedy
BVN Briefe von Nietzsche (Nietzsche’s letters)
EH Ecce Homo
GM The Genealogy of Morals
GS The Gay Science
HH Human, all too Human
NCW Nietzsche contra Wagner
NF Nachgelassene Fragmente (Posthumous fragments)
Z Thus Spoke Zarathustra
Works by Camus:
F The Fall
MS The Myth of Sisyphus
R The Rebel
 Introduction

In evaluating the world and one’s life within it, two positions, dia-
metrically opposed to one another, have often been taken by prom-
inent figures in the history of philosophy. The view traditionally
referred to as philosophical optimism may be encapsulated by the
two following propositions:

O1: The world is optimally arranged and is accordingly valuable.

O2: As part of the world, human life is valuable enough to make
one’s own existence preferable over one’s nonexistence.

Philosophical pessimists, by contrast, maintain the following:

P1: The world is in a woeful condition and is ultimately valueless.1

P2: Our nonexistence in the world is, or would have been, pref-
erable over our existence.

The commitment to either of these two corresponding pairs of

propositions—regarding the value of the world and the value of
human life—appears again and again in traditional formulations
and characterizations of philosophical optimism and pessimism.
Arthur Schopenhauer, reacting to optimism, characterizes it

1 Throughout, by “x is valueless” I mean, not that x cannot be evaluated, but rather

that, upon evaluation, it turns out that x is not at all valuable (notice that, in addition,
P1’s evaluation of the condition of the world as woeful in fact attributes disvalue to the
world). The view that one might not appropriately form value judgments concerning the
world, or anything in it, will be considered in Chapter 3.

The Value of the World and of Oneself. Mor Segev, Oxford University Press.
© Oxford University Press 2022. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197634073.003.0001
2 Introduction

as a view countenancing that “the world is what is best” (WWR

II.L: 644), and that “our existence [is] to be gratefully acknowl-
edged as the gift of the highest goodness guided by wisdom” and is
thus “in itself praiseworthy, commendable, and delightful” (WWR
II.XLV: 570).2 Implied in this description is the idea that the world
is valuable, and is ordered rationally and optimally (O1), and that
it is these features that ground the preferability of one’s own ex-
istence as a part of that good whole (O2). Schopenhauer goes on
to characterize (without, however, naming) pessimism as the view
according to which “this [human] existence is a kind of false step
or wrong path” and “is the work of an originally blind will, the
luckiest development of which is that it comes to itself in order
to abolish itself ” (WWR II.XLV: 570). Disregarding the details
of the metaphysical theory underlying this statement (to which
we shall return later), the general point of contrast between this
view and the optimism that Schopenhauer objects to is that pes-
simism rejects the existence of an ultimately valuable, rationally
ordered world, and with it the prospects of viewing human exist-
ence as valuable, worthwhile, or otherwise choice-worthy. Indeed,
Schopenhauer claims, approvingly, that in the Gospels “world
and evil are used almost as synonymous expressions” (WWR
I, §59: 326). He also explicitly speaks of the “wretched condition of
the world” (die jammervolle Beschaffenheit der Welt), associating it
with pessimism (WWR II.XLVIII: 621), and repeatedly attributes
“vanity” (Nichtigkeit) and “valuelessness” (Werthlosigkeit) to all
things (P1),3 which he thinks expresses itself in the suffering of
all that lives (I, §68: 397), and which in turn for him implies that

2 All translations and page numbers of Schopenhauer’s texts are taken from E. F.

J. Payne, unless otherwise noted.

3 WWR II.XXXVII: 434; II.XLVI: 574; Brieftasche 9, pp. 17–18 (Payne, 160–1);

Reisebuch 33, pp. 30–1 (Payne, 13–14). See Chapter 2 for a more detailed discussion
of these texts. Payne translates Werthlosigkeit as “worthlessness”; reasonably, since
Schopenhauer uses the word as an evaluative term (as I use “valuelessness” throughout).
Nichtigkeit, for him, is an evaluative term as well (making Payne’s translation of it as
“vanity” appropriate), as it denotes primarily the futility of all striving and aiming, which
inevitably lead to suffering (WWR I, §68: 385, 394–7; II.XXXVII: 435; II.XLVI: 634–5).
 Introduction 3

“complete nonexistence would be decidedly preferable to” human

life (I, §59: 324) (P2).
This understanding of philosophical optimism and pessimism
is still quite standard. The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy, for ex-
ample, describes as “the starkest expression of pessimism” the claim
made by the chorus in Sophocles’s Oedipus at Colonus that it is best
not to be born and second best to die as soon as possible (cf. OC
1224–7) (P2), and associates optimism with, e.g., Aristotelian phi-
losophy and its “sense of the harmony of nature and the attaina-
bility of ends,” implying, similarly to optimism as we have just seen
Schopenhauer presents it, that the rational ordering of the world
makes both the world itself and one’s existence within it valuable
and their existence worthwhile (O1–O2).4 However, several other
ideas are often associated, and sometimes conflated, with these two
views. Discussions of optimism and pessimism often refer, respec-
tively, to the ideas that progress is possible or impossible, that this
world is the best or worst one possible,5 and that there is more good
in the world than evil or vice versa.6 For the sake of terminological
clarity, let us distinguish these different ideas from optimism and
pessimism as we have defined them and as they will be discussed in
the rest of this book.7
It is natural enough to associate a view locating value in the
world with the idea that progress is possible or even forthcoming.
But an optimist may well hold the view that progress is unneces-
sary, or even impossible, because the world is already perfectly

4 S. Blackburn, The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy, 3rd ed. (Oxford, 2008), ad “opti-

mism and pessimism.”

5 N. Bunnin and J. Yu, The Blackwell Dictionary of Western Philosophy (Maiden, 2004),

ad “optimism” and “pessimism.”

6 L. E. Loemker, “Pessimism and Optimism,” in D. M. Borchert (ed.), Encyclopedia of

Philosophy, 2nd ed., vol. 7 (Detroit, 2006), 244–54, at 244–5.

7 P. Prescott, “What Pessimism Is,” Journal of Philosophical Research 37 (2012),

337–56, helpfully distinguishes pessimism from cynicism, fatalism, the affirmation of

decline, nihilism, and despair. Prescott’s own definition of pessimism is as “the belief that
the bad prevails over the good.” He also claims, contrary to my understanding of pessi-
mism in this book, that pessimism essentially involves “personal investment” and hence
also “emotional commitment.”
4 Introduction

good in its current condition. By the same token, a pessimist may

concede the possibility of various kinds of progress—say, in the dis-
tribution of resources and the enactment of human rights—while
maintaining that even at their peak, it would be better if human
beings and the world at large had not existed.8 Similarly, although
one would generally expect an optimist to adhere to the Leibnizian
idea that ours is the best of all possible worlds, committing oneself
to that idea is not enough to count as an optimist. Pessimists may
consistently adhere to that same conception of the world, while
arguing that even the best possible world is not good enough to
justify its existence.9 As James Branch Cabell puts it in The Silver
Stallion: “The optimist proclaims that we live in the best of all pos-
sible worlds; and the pessimist fears this is true.”10 Furthermore,
both a consistently optimistic view and a consistently pessimistic
one may hold that this world is both the best and worst one pos-
sible, if they maintain in addition that this world is the only one
possible.11 Finally, thinking that the world on balance contains
more good than bad is insufficient for motivating an optimistic
position, since the world in that case may still contain enough evil
pertaining to the human species, e.g., so as to make it preferable for
humans not to exist. Sophocles’s dictum—that it is best not to be
born and second best to die quickly—is clearly not meant to apply
to the gods, who are of course repeatedly appealed to throughout
the play, and the worth of whose life is left unchallenged, and this
fact nevertheless does not detract from the pessimistic tone of that

8 On this point see also Prescott (2012, 341–3), discussing J. F. Dienstag, Pessimism

(Princeton, NJ, 2006).

9 L. E. Loemker (2006, 244–5) and F. C. Beiser, Weltschmerz: Pessimism in German

Philosophy 1860–1900 (Oxford, 2016), 153, associate a similar move with Eduard
von Hartmann. See also S. Neiman, Evil in Modern Thought: An Alternative History
of Philosophy (Princeton, NJ, 2015), 22; M. Migotti, “Schopenhauer’s Pessimism in
Context,” in R. Wicks (ed.), The Oxford Handbook of Schopenhauer (Oxford, 2020), 284–
98 at 285–6.
10 J. B. Cabell, The Silver Stallion (New York, 1926), 129. Quoted in D. Benatar, The

Human Predicament (Oxford, 2017), 5; Cf. Migotti (2020), 285–6.

11 Cf. Migotti (2020), 286.
 Introduction 5

dictum. And, conversely, one may think that evil predominates in

the world and still reject the pessimistic conclusion that a human
life is not worth having.
Though the terms “optimism” and “pessimism” are fairly re-
cent,12 their basic tenets date back to the earliest stages of recorded
philosophical discussion, and understandably so, given the basic
questions that they address and their relevance to evaluating one’s
environment and one’s own existence. It is sometimes argued that
tracing optimistic and pessimistic views to pre-modern philos-
ophy is anachronistic. Joshua Foa Dienstag, for instance, claims
that “pessimism is a modern phenomenon” since, “[l]ike opti-
mism, pessimism relies on an underlying linear concept of time, a
concept that only became a force in Western thinking in the early
modern period,” with ancient thought being dominated by a “cy-
clical” conception of time.13 We need not assess Dienstag’s view
of the gradual change in conceptions of time. It suffices for our
purposes to note that optimism and pessimism, as we have de-
fined them, apply on either conception. As we have noted, both
optimism and pessimism may be consistently adhered to whether
or not one even takes a stance on the possibility or likelihood
of historical progress. Given the definitions we have offered, we
seem warranted to look for optimistic and pessimistic views in
any period and culture in which one could ask—as one clearly al-
ready did ask in, say, ancient Israel and classical Greece—whether
the world is perfectly ordered and good, and whether human life
is worth living.
In this book we shall compare the views of several philosophers
who did ask themselves just these questions and have answered
them by constructing views that can appropriately be described
as either optimistic or pessimistic, in entirely different intellec-
tual environments and historical periods ranging from classical

12 Loemker (2006, 244) traces the term “optimism” to 1737 and “pessimism” to 1795.
13 Dienstag (2006), 8–9; cf. ibid., 166.
6 Introduction

Greece to twentieth-century France. It would not be feasible, and

there shall be no attempt, to provide a comprehensive survey of
relevant views during that time frame. Instead, we shall focus
on representative cases—Aristotle, Maimonides, Spinoza,
Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and Camus—which lend themselves
particularly well to mutual comparison, especially since some of
them engage with the others’ views explicitly. Maimonides con-
sciously and openly adopts and develops major parts of Aristotle’s
views concerning the value of the world and of human exist-
ence. Schopenhauer engages with Spinoza and criticizes his view,
which he associates with the optimism that he finds in the Hebrew
Bible. Nietzsche criticizes Schopenhauer’s pessimism, and Camus
in turn criticizes Nietzsche and his attempt at transcending both
optimism and pessimism. Of course, by creating a dialogue be-
tween themselves and their predecessors on these issues, the
philosophers in question could have themselves been guilty of
anachronism to some degree. Even if so, it arguably would still be
worthwhile to examine their understanding and use of previous
views, e.g., in order to analyze the chain of influence leading to
modern theories on relevant issues.14 But I hope to show that, as
I have already argued so far, comparing the views of all of these
philosophers on the issues focused on in this book is both in-
structive and appropriate.
Even on the assumption that ancient, medieval, and modern
optimistic and pessimistic views may be safely compared,
questions may nevertheless arise concerning the potential im-
port of such a comparison. To begin with, it is sometimes
suggested that optimism is a puerile position, upheld unreal-
istically and irrationally by those who have not been properly
exposed to the evils of the world, and rejected and supplanted

14 On the usefulness of anachronism for such purposes, see D. Graham, “Anachronism

in the History of Philosophy,” in P. H. Hare (ed.), Doing Philosophy Historically (Buffalo,

NY, 1988), 137–48, esp. 142–4.
 Introduction 7

by those who have. Discussing ancient Hebrew optimism, one

scholar writes:15

Unclouded skies and perfect happiness are conditions of inno-

cent childhood. But as the child grows older, clouds appear in the
skies and happiness becomes less and less perfect. Thus while the
ancient Hebrews during many centuries seemed wholly satisfied
with the affairs of life, never doubting for one moment that JHVH
had ordered everything for the best, the time came when they
began to ask the why and wherefore of many happenings.

Similarly, as we shall see in Chapter 1, Schopenhauer criticizes op-

timism (in its monotheistic and pantheistic varieties), among other
things, for its naïveté, and for failing to account for the suffering
and misfortune prevalent in the world, having instead to blindly
assert that all phenomena are manifestations of the world’s perfec-
tion, and hence that all human and even animal behavior, e.g., is
“equally divine and excellent” (WWR II.XLVII: 590). Perhaps, then,
optimistic views, as such, are too naïve to merit serious considera-
tion? However, optimism, as we have defined it, need not be naïve
in this way. For one may posit that the world is optimally arranged
and is perfectly valuable without conceding that each and every one
of its parts is equally valuable.
Indeed, as we shall see in Chapters 5 and 6, both Aristotle and
Maimonides offer a complex optimistic theory, on which the world,
though perfectly arranged and valuable (O1), contains an axiological
hierarchy pertaining to its various parts. Since humans are placed
relatively low on that hierarchy, the world’s perfection and absolute
value are not compromised by the imperfections pertaining to and
the pain undergone by them. But, given the world’s perfection, the
existence of such creatures, flawed though they are, is preferable to

15 A. Guttmacher, Optimism and Pessimism in the Old and New Testaments (Baltimore,

MD, 1903), 125.

8 Introduction

their nonexistence (O2). This version of optimism presents a viable

alternative to pessimistic approaches. This is especially true because,
as we shall see in Chapters 2 and 3, both the most influential modern
pessimistic position (by Schopenhauer) and an influential attempt
to do away with both optimism and pessimism (by Nietzsche) have
been criticized for ultimately reverting to optimism, and hence for
being fundamentally inconsistent. This fact raises the question as to
whether “pure” pessimism, or a complete rejection of optimism, is
possible in principle. And, if it is not, then it seems that conscious
and explicit optimism could prove a viable alternative.
As a second consideration, one might argue that the debate be-
tween optimism and pessimism is really a debate over the exist-
ence of a perfect deity. As we shall see in Chapter 3, this is precisely
what Nietzsche does argue (cf. HH I.28). But, if that is the case, then
one might be inclined to bracket the debate between optimism and
pessimism as a theological controversy, and hence as potentially ir-
relevant for those who wish to evaluate the world and human life
without recourse to the question of God’s existence. Indeed, all of
the views discussed in this book do engage with the existence and
nature of divinity and with religion, either supportively or critically.
Schopenhauer responds to optimism primarily in its monotheistic
and pantheistic varieties, and he links his own pessimistic view to
Christianity and Buddhism. Nietzsche, while himself associating
both optimism and pessimism with a theological framework and
criticizing both on that account, is himself later criticized by Camus,
ironically, for “deifying” the world and envisaging a divine human
being in the form of an Übermensch. In turn, Aristotle’s view of the
magnanimous person, and Maimonides’s corresponding notion of
the “righteous person” (hassid), are both informed by the attitude
such a person would have toward divinity. And the world’s perfec-
tion, for both thinkers, is a function of its divinity or its relation to
the divine. It is therefore not surprising that the traditional debate be-
tween optimism and pessimism also reserves a special place (e.g., in
Maimonides’s and Schopenhauer’s works, as we shall see in Chapter 2
and Chapters 6–7) for an engagement with the classical “problem of
 Introduction 9

evil,” challenging the existence of a benevolent and omnipotent deity

in the light of the suffering and imperfections contained in the world.
However, though the issues dealt with by philosophical optimism
and pessimism intersect with discussions in theology and the phi-
losophy of religion, they do not clearly depend on those domains of
inquiry. An optimally ordered world, in principle, may be so without
either having been created by a deity or being identified with one.
And the existence of a given species within such a world could argu-
ably also be worthwhile regardless of any relation to a deity. Thus, a
pessimistic response to optimism need not attack the conception of
divinity underlying it, and indeed would be potentially incomplete
if it addressed only that conception. Similarly, the classical problem
of evil admits of variations, and ones which need not appeal to the
existence of God. Schopenhauer, as we shall see in Chapter 1, thinks
that this problem confronts Spinozistic pantheism—which does not
countenance the existence of a benevolent and omnipotent God—
because the world as God must on pantheism make the existence
of suffering impossible. By the same token, a non-theistic and non-
pantheistic optimistic view could also be confronted with a version
of the problem of evil, appropriately modified: How could a per-
fectly ordered and positively valuable world include imperfections
and untoward agony? In this case, it seems that neither the question
nor the answer needs to appeal to God or religion.
One may also wonder whether it is neither optimism nor pes-
simism, but rather some intermediate position, that is more likely
to ultimately convince. Without committing oneself to the optimal
arrangement of the cosmos, nor to its valuelessness, one may locate
some order and goodness in the world, and may attach such value
specifically to certain human endeavors or experiences, which, if
attained, may make human existence either worth having (O2) or
not (P2), without thereby leading one either to full-fledged opti-
mism (O1 + O2) or to outright pessimism (P1 + P2).16 We may refer
to views locating enough value to support O2 as quasi-optimistic,

16 I am thankful to Anna Schriefl for a helpful discussion concerning this point.

10 Introduction

and call those rejecting enough such value to support P2 quasi-

pessimistic. All of these views, as well as an intermediate position
that remains neutral concerning the worth of human life, may be
represented on a spectrum as follows:

Human nonexistence Human existence

is preferable is preferable
(pessimistic “camp”) (optimistic “camp”)

Value in the world

0
Pessimism Quasi-Pessimism Quasi-Optimism Optimism

One challenge facing positions falling in between optimism and

pessimism is to provide specific criteria for determining just how
much value found in the world justifies supporting either the op-
timistic assessment of human existence as worthwhile, or the pes-
simistic counterpart of that assessment. Another challenge would
be to show that value of the right kind and amount, once deter-
mined, can be reliably expected to persist so as to support those
assessments consistently. Part of the attraction of a fully optimistic
or pessimistic theory, by contrast, is that it provides an evaluation
of the world that is clear-cut and unfluctuating. Furthermore, op-
timism provides a unique reason for maintaining that human ex-
istence is worthwhile, which seems unavailable to other theories.
For, if the world is perfectly ordered and good, then human life,
however individually potentially distressing, may be worthwhile
simply insofar as it contributes to that perfection as one of its parts
(as we shall see in Chapter 4, Aristotle reasons along these lines in
motivating his view of death as an evil). Granted, it may be the case
that both optimism and pessimism can be conclusively shown to
be false, with some intermediate theory being shown to be more
plausible. Even in such a case, however, examining optimism and
pessimism exhaustively would still prove beneficial. These theories
 Introduction 11

could function as limiting cases, and their shortcomings may point

out which type of intermediate theory is more likely to be true—
one falling in the “optimistic camp” (i.e., upholding that there is
enough value in the world to make human life preferable over non-
existence) or in the “pessimistic camp.”
In Chapter 1, I examine Arthur Schopenhauer’s critique of the
optimism he reads in the Hebrew Bible and in Spinoza’s philosophy.
According to Schopenhauer, the Hebrew Bible presents a consist-
ently optimistic worldview. Already in Genesis, Schopenhauer
points out, the acts of creation are followed by the locu-
tion: “And God saw that [it was] good” (‫)וירא אלהים כי טוב‬. In fact,
Schopenhauer continues, so good is this creation, according to the
biblical view, that it leaves nothing to look forward to outside of this
world, and the Bible consequently recommends simply rejoicing
in the joys of the present (Ecclesiastes IX. 7– 10). On that view, the
world in all its parts is impeccable by hypothesis. Any seeming im-
perfection within the world, including those pertaining to human
beings and their lives, must be merely apparent.
Schopenhauer finds an equivalent view in Spinoza’s pantheism.
For Spinoza, God is a being whose “essence excludes all imper-
fection and involves absolute perfection” (E1p9s), and it is the
only substance of which we can conceive (E1p14) and in which
we (like everything else) have our being (E1p15). The conclusion
to draw is that we, too, are parts of that perfect entity. And so, as
Schopenhauer sees it, Spinoza’s theory, just like the biblical world-
view, is essentially optimistic. By the basic assumption of these two
systems, there can be no fault in our existence, and hence nothing
to improve. Schopenhauer, however, finds this optimistic outlook
unconvincing, for two main reasons. First, given the immense suf-
fering one witnesses in the world, optimism generally generates
some version of the classical problem of evil, which it is unable to
solve. One’s individual life cannot plausibly be construed as “per-
fect,” as it must be if we consider it a part of a perfectly created
cosmos. Second, optimism itself, once adopted, ironically makes
12 Introduction

individuals worse than they otherwise would have been. For, since
optimism encourages one to look favorably upon one’s individual
life, it also promotes egoism, which inevitably leads to cruelty.
In Chapter 2, we shall turn to Schopenhauer’s own pessimistic
theory and to Nietzsche’s critique of it. Schopenhauer presents an
alternative to Jewish and pantheistic optimism, and the unreason-
able self-commendation that he believes they promote. Human
life, as Schopenhauer thinks it is standardly lived, is objectively fu-
tile and indeed miserable. Life, for him, involves continuous strife
(WWR I, §61: 331), which is inescapable even by means of suicide
(§54: 281). Whenever we find ourselves under the impression that
our human condition is any better than that, we are simply mis-
taken. However, Schopenhauer also thinks that there is a way out
of this predicament. The solution is to be found in his notion of the
“denial of the will-to-live” (§68: 397). Knowing and acknowledging
that no form of life can be free from suffering, and that attempting
to alleviate one’s suffering from within the framework of one’s
life is necessarily done in vain, one gradually grows frustrated
with living as such, and ceases to will it. Such a process, if carried
out properly, ultimately yields “[t]rue salvation” (§68: 397). By
dimming (and, ultimately, eliminating) the subjective investment
in one’s own life, with its various aims, goals, choices, and values,
Schopenhauer thinks, one could potentially exist in an objectively
praiseworthy way.
However, Schopenhauer’s claim that self-abnegation is pref-
erable over any standard instance of individual life seems to in-
volve him in a paradox. As Nietzsche (GM III.28) argues directly
against Schopenhauer, and as Thomas Nagel (in Mortal Questions)
later argued against similar positions, the recommendation of
eliminating one’s aims is itself explainable only as the willful pursuit
of an aim. Willing not to will, in other words, is still willing, and a
desire not to desire is still a desire. Indeed, this criticism exposes
an even graver problem for Schopenhauer. Since Schopenhauer
promotes self-abnegation as a desirable goal, his view turns out to
 Introduction 13

share an important element in common with the Jewish and pan-

theistic optimistic views he sets out to reject. The very prospect of
solving totally the misery and misfortune inherent to the human
condition implies that, at least in principle, we need not find our-
selves, or at least remain, in an imperfect world or in a less than
fully desirable state.
The problem intensifies when we attend to the theoretical basis
for Schopenhauer’s recommendation. He believes that the de-
nial of the will-to-live would bring about the most desirable state
one could aspire to, precisely because in that state one ceases, for
all intents and purposes, to exist as an individual human being or
phenomenon. But that presupposes that there is something beyond
phenomena for humans to exist as. For Schopenhauer, that is the
“will”—the “thing-in-itself ”—constituting the true reality under-
lying all phenomena. If what we most truly are is a non-phenomenal
metaphysical substratum, however, then whatever phenomenal
attributes we have, including all the imperfections and suffering
Schopenhauer locates in the human condition, do not truly belong
to us. At bottom, we are immutable, eternal, and impeccable, as is
the entire world. As it turns out, the very commendation of world
and self that Schopenhauer abhors in what he calls Jewish and pan-
theistic optimism can be attributed to Schopenhauer’s own view
of the world and the self (understood as what they essentially and
truly are).
Nietzsche does not simply reject Schopenhauer’s recommenda-
tion of the denial of the will-to-live, along with the metaphysics un-
derlying it. He also suggests an alternative. This alternative, which
itself faces a formidable challenge, is the subject of Chapter 3.
Based on his idea of the “death of God” and his rejection of abso-
lute values, Nietzsche recommends creating novel values through
affirming the world and oneself. Nietzsche envisages his al-
ternative as overcoming the problems of both pessimism (à la
Schopenhauer) and optimism (of the kind Schopenhauer him-
self rejects). He describes his Zarathustra as recognizing that the
14 Introduction

optimist is just as bad as, if not worse than, the pessimist (EH IV.4).
Nevertheless, Nietzsche’s view arguably does ultimately revert to
the same evaluation of the world and of oneself that both he and
Schopenhauer find problematic. It has been argued, that is, that
Nietzsche, too, endows the world and its various parts, including
individual human beings, with ultimate value. In The Rebel, Albert
Camus suggests that Nietzsche’s top goal—“creation” (Schaffen)
or “yes-saying” (Ja-sagen), roughly, aligning one’s will with the
world—amounts to thinking of the world as a deity and of one-
self as divine, after and despite the “death of God.” Thus, although
Nietzsche criticizes monotheism for privileging God as singularly
valuable and believers in Him as singularly correct (GS 143), he
himself privileges the world and those individuals who value it in
just this way.
Both Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, though criticizing optimistic
views for overvaluing human beings, are nevertheless led, in dif-
ferent ways, to overvalue individual human beings to an arguably
unprecedented degree. There is, however, one readily available view
that seems to deliberately and consistently avoid this consequence.
This view, which dates back to Aristotle and is later developed by
Moses Maimonides, is interestingly one which both Schopenhauer
and Nietzsche would consider optimistic, and rightly so.
Aristotelian optimism will be examined in detail in Chapters 5 and
6. However, in order to appreciate the relevance of that theory to
later views, we will first, in Chapter 4, compare the ancient pessi-
mistic approaches that Aristotle engages with to their modern
counterparts, and especially to Schopenhauer’s view (as we have
already seen, pessimistic sentiments and views make an appear-
ance already in ancient Greek philosophy and literature, and the
connections of those to modern pessimism, as we shall see, do not
elude Schopenhauer himself). In a fragment from a lost dialogue,
titled the Eudemus, Aristotle tells a story about Silenus, who, upon
being captured by King Midas, utters a statement encapsulating a
pessimistic view resembling Schopenhauer’s views on human life
 Introduction 15

and existence. I shall argue that Aristotle presents Silenus’s words

in order to reject them, along with Plato’s view in the Phaedo of
death as a blessing and a release. This criticism is applicable to
Schopenhauer’s general view, and it sets the ground for establishing
Aristotle’s own alternative to pessimism.
In Chapter 5, I turn to the details of Aristotle’s optimistic theory.
For Aristotle, the person who has reached the highest value hu-
manly possible, and recognizes her value adequately, qualifies as
“magnanimous” (megalopsuchos). Occupying a middle position
between the “small-souled” and the “vain,” the magnanimous
person is concerned with “honors and dishonors” exactly appropri-
ately, knowing when to accept and reject them and taking the right
amount of pleasure in them when they are deserved (NE IV.3).
Despite a long controversy surrounding the criteria Aristotle thinks
a magnanimous person must meet, there are good reasons to iden-
tify that person with Aristotle’s philosopher, who is best equipped
to appreciate and assess, not only human honors and dishonors, but
also what in Aristotle’s system are the greatest honors in existence—
those attributed to the unmoved movers of the heavenly bodies and
spheres, i.e., Aristotle’s gods. Being acquainted with these ultimate
causes of reality and their magnificence, the magnanimous person
comes to devalue humanity and devotes her life and efforts to the
divine. This devotion to the divine, which seems to go against the
natural tendency of organisms to further their own lives and spe-
cies, is nevertheless quite consistent with Aristotle’s teleological
view of nature, according to which nature exhibits a clear hierarchy
of species, with each species teleologically oriented not only to-
ward its own interests but also toward the good of superior species.
Importantly, this view of nature is predicated on the assumption
that the world functions optimally and is perfectly good as is. Thus,
Aristotle’s view presents an alternative to pessimism. However, it
also avoids a core feature characteristic of biblical and Spinozist op-
timism as characterized by Schopenhauer, of the unintentionally
optimistic features of Schopenhauer’s theory revealed by Nietzsche,
16 Introduction

and of Nietzsche’s inadvertent optimism as analyzed by Camus.

For Aristotle’s view devalues humanity by comparison to superior
entities, and hence resists overvaluing humanity or oneself.
Moses Maimonides consciously appropriates much of Aristotelian
theory and integrates it into both his philosophical system and his
biblical interpretation. In Chapter 6, I discuss Maimonides’s appro-
priation and development of Aristotle’s optimism, which helps to
put that theory in conversation with post-classical debates on the
value of the world and of human life. In the Guide of the Perplexed III,
Maimonides sets out to solve the classical problem of evil. His solu-
tion rests, not on disregarding or explaining away suffering or evil in
the world, but rather on the devaluation of human beings. Coming
to terms with our own inferiority as humans to higher entities such
as the heavenly bodies and the separate intellects, Maimonides
thinks, allows us to adopt a sober and correct optimistic worldview.
In establishing his devaluation of human beings for this purpose,
Maimonides relies on his interpretation of Jewish sources and, im-
plicitly, on his understanding of Aristotle’s philosophy. Various bib-
lical and Talmudic texts venerate viewing oneself, and indeed the
whole of humankind, as lowly. Abraham, Moses, King David, Isaiah,
and Job have all been described as, and commended for, sharing in
this recognition and conducting their lives in accordance with it.
Humans, in general, are likened to a “vanity” in Psalms 144:4, and
to maggots and worms in Job 25:6. Maimonides harmonizes such
statements with his own conception (and ideal) of the righteous
person and prophet—a philosopher who, like Aristotle’s magnan-
imous person, devalues humanity and herself and devotes her life
and efforts to the divine. Based on these views, Maimonides is able
to sustain an optimistic worldview which, far from implying the im-
peccability of human beings, is in fact grounded in the devaluation of
humanity.
Finally, in Chapter 7, I assess the degree to which Aristotelian
theory is capable of answering the challenge that Schopenhauer
poses to optimism. I conclude that, contra Schopenhauer, Aristotle’s
 Introduction 17

view, especially as developed by Maimonides, is capable of dealing

with the classical problem of evil without compromising its opti-
mistic principles and without having to resort to personal immor-
tality. I also outline an Aristotelian-Maimonidean response to
Schopenhauer’s claim that optimism inevitably leads to moral de-
pravity and cruelty. Indeed, the Aristotelian-Maimonidean stance
on these issues not only defends optimism against Schopenhauer’s
challenge, but also suggests that it is indeed a view such as
Schopenhauer’s that is essentially self-centered and hence poten-
tially morally hazardous. I close by considering further objections
to optimism (raised both by Schopenhauer and by others), and the
ways in which Aristotelian optimism might respond to them. One
group of such objections focuses on the irrelevance of Aristotle’s
theory to contemporary discussion, given its teleological principles
and commitment to such things as the eternity of biological spe-
cies. I argue that a modified version of Aristotelian optimism can
withstand such objections.
 1
Schopenhauer’s Critique of the
Optimism of the Hebrew Bible
and Spinoza

Schopenhauer frequently assimilates Spinoza’s pantheism with

Jewish monotheism, and contrasts both with his own system. In
his view, both Spinoza and Judaism reject personal immortality
and endorse a belief in a deity with the same “moral character”
(moralischen Charakter) and “value” (Werth) (WWR II.L). This
confluence of Spinozism and Judaism, and Schopenhauer’s oppo-
sition to both, seem surprising at first sight. First, Schopenhauer,
by his own admission (WWR II.L), shares with Spinoza the basic
view that the true nature of the world is single and unified, and that,
contra Abrahamic monotheism, the world is not created. Second,
belief in personal immortality is not standardly characterized as
incompatible with Judaism. Indeed, according to recent influential
accounts, it is precisely for rejecting this belief that Spinoza was so
severely excommunicated from the Jewish community he had been
a part of. Third, Spinoza is standardly taken to reject the Jewish con-
ception of God, not least for its moral and practical implications.
Hence it may seem, as indeed has been argued, that Schopenhauer’s
assimilation of Spinozism to Judaism is simply the result of either
anti-Semitism or sheer ignorance (or both).
In fact, however, Schopenhauer’s thesis is the conclusion of a
carefully worked out argument, according to which the basic prem-
ises of both pantheism and theism lead directly to optimism. This
argument, which is undoubtedly mounted in order to reject both

The Value of the World and of Oneself. Mor Segev, Oxford University Press.
© Oxford University Press 2022. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780197634073.003.0002
 SCHOPENHAUER'S CRITIQUE OF OPTIMISM 19

Spinoza’s philosophy and Judaism, is nevertheless a testament to

Schopenhauer’s admiration for the internal consistency of both sys-
tems, a feature he explicitly denies to Christianity. It is specifically
the optimism to which their ground assumptions allegedly inevi-
tably lead that Schopenhauer rejects in both Judaism and Spinoza’s
pantheism. Schopenhauer views that optimism as doubly problem-
atic. First, he contends, since the world is evidently full of suffering,
optimists face the problem of evil, and cannot successfully respond
to it (at least without resorting to such ideas as personal immor-
tality, which are inconsistent with their theoretical commitments).
Second, it is Schopenhauer’s assessment that, by promoting the
adherence to individual life as an ideal, optimism leads to egoism,
which in turn promotes cruelty, both toward one’s fellow humans
and, even more so, toward nonhuman animals.

1.1 Monotheistic and Pantheistic Optimism

Schopenhauer regards Judaism as “the only purely monothe-

istic religion” teaching “a God creator as the origin of all things”
(FHP §13: 127). He contrasts this tradition with both Buddhism,
which is entirely atheistic, and Brahmanism, as well as Phoenician,
Greek, Roman, and North American religions, which posit
divinities but no Creator God (FHP §13: 127). For Schopenhauer,
the word God necessarily indicates a “world- cause that is not only
different from the world, but is intelligent, that is to say, knows
and wills, and so is personal and consequently also individual”
(FHP §13: 115). The God of Judaism, Schopenhauer thinks, cer-
tainly meets these criteria. Not only has He intentionally and
intelligently created the world, but He also assesses His own cre-
ation as a good one, as is exemplified by the recurring statement
in Genesis 1, following His deeds of creation: “And God saw that
[it was] good” (orig.: ‫)וירא אלהים כי טוב‬. This “optimistic history
of creation,” as Schopenhauer calls it (WWR II.XLVIII: 620), sets
20 The Value of the World and of Oneself

the tone for the rest of Jewish religion and culture as he sees them.
Interestingly, he finds the most distinct pronouncement of this ap-
proach in Clement of Alexandria— a Church Father. In Stromata
III.3, Schopenhauer notes, Clement opposes the Marcionites for
“having found fault with the creation” (WWR II.XLVIII: 621). For
Clement, he continues, upon accepting the fact that God created
the world “it is a priori certain that it is excellent, no matter what
it looks like” (WWR II.XLVIII: 622). This attitude, Schopenhauer
concludes, makes Clement “more of a Jew than a Christian” (WWR
II.XLVIII: 622). Judaism, for Schopenhauer, is essentially opti-
mistic. It is founded on the belief in a God responsible for the crea-
tion of an absolutely flawless world.
Schopenhauer’s interpretation of Judaism on this point is con-
sonant with prominent voices in Jewish theology and philosophy.
In GP III.13, Maimonides comments on Genesis 1:31, where it is
stated that “God saw all that He has created, and behold, [it was]
very good (‫)והנה טוב מאד‬.” The word “very” (‫ )מאד‬is added at
Genesis 1:31 for the first time, after repeated references earlier
in the chapter to God’s seeing His creation and simply declaring
it “good.” According to Maimonides, this addition means that
Creation, in its entirety, conforms to God’s intention perma-
nently (327:16– 21).1 Later, he assimilates that idea to “the philo-
sophical opinion (‫ דעת הפילוסופים‬,‫ ”)אלראי אלפלספי‬that “in all
natural things there is nothing that may be described as futile”
(III.25, 365:30– 366:9), i.e., to the Aristotelian dictum that “nature
does nothing in vain” (e.g., IA 8, 708a9– 11).2 Thus, in GP III.10,
Maimonides extends the statement at Genesis 1:31 to the exist-
ence of particular natural phenomena, including organisms made
of inferior, perishable matter, such as human beings. In the light
of Genesis 1:31, Maimonides thinks, such beings are doomed to

1 The pagination and Judeo-Arabic text of the Guide is based on Joel 1930/1. The

Hebrew translation following quotations of the Guide is by Ibn-Tibbon.

2 Translations of Maimonides’s Guide are taken from S. Pines, Maimonides: The Guide

of the Perplexed (Chicago, 1963), unless otherwise stated.

 SCHOPENHAUER'S CRITIQUE OF OPTIMISM 21

undergo evils, including their eventual death, but “all of that is

good as well (‫ כל זה גם כן טוב‬,‫)כל דׄ לך איצׄ א טוב‬,” because of the
permanence of being through reproduction and the cycle of life
(317:10– 16).3 For Maimonides, then, the account of Creation in
Genesis implies that the world as such is perfectly good, and that
the particular ordering of phenomena as we observe it in the nat-
ural world invariably contributes to that perfection.
One finds endorsement of the optimistic reading of Genesis
1, very much along Schopenhauerian lines, in twentieth-century
biblical scholarship as well.4 More recently, one scholar describes
the account of Creation in Genesis 1 as revealing a “majestic, ra-
tionally ordered, and morally good universe,” a cosmos in which
“nothing . . . is random or incomplete,” and a structure of re-
ality that is “orderly and philosophical.”5 It has also been argued,
based on a comprehensive examination of Scripture, that, much
like Schopenhauer concludes, the Hebrew Bible as a whole is pre-
dominantly optimistic, by contrast to the New Testament.6 Broad
generalizations such as this are of course prone to being chal-
lenged, as indeed they have been.7 But, whichever opinion one
reaches about the philosophical position underlying the books

3 Maimonides, in this respect, alludes to the emendation in Genesis Rabbah 9:5 of

‫ טוב מאד‬at Genesis 1:31 to ‫“( טוב מות‬it is good to die”). Interestingly, this text is often
interpreted as indicating pessimism; see Guttmacher (1903), 78.
4 Thus, Guttmacher (1903, 28–9) reads the declarations in Genesis 1 of Creation as

“good” as endorsing optimism and finds further evidence for this view in the Hebrew
Bible, such as Isaiah 45:18; Psalms 33:6, 9; 104:10–15.
5 R. Hendel, The Book of Genesis: A Biography (Princeton, NJ, 2013), 37–9. However,

Hendel (2015, 43) adds that, by contrast, the account of the Garden of Eden in Genesis
2–3 “depicts a reality that is very earthly and—from the human point of view—very
imperfect.”
6 Guttmacher (1903), 241.
7 In a recent work, Lasine, discussing Schopenhauer’s and Guttmacher’s evaluation

of the Hebrew Bible as optimistic, goes on to survey recent pessimistic interpretations

of parts of books such as Genesis, Deuteronomy, Jeremiah, Elijah, and Ecclesiastes; see
S. Lasine, Jonah and the Human Condition (London, 2019), ch. 1–2 et passim. Lasine
(2019), 15, for his part, argues that the Hebrew Bible contains both optimistic and pessi-
mistic sentiments and that “each of its readers is called upon to decide where they stand
on the issue of human worth and the appropriate role God should play in their lives.” Cf.
n. 23 in this chapter.
22 The Value of the World and of Oneself

comprising the Hebrew Bible, it is reasonable, assuming that such

a unified position does dominate or at least is present consistently
throughout these texts, to turn to Genesis 1 in order to identify
it. For it has been argued that the Priestly writer (‘P’)—a domi-
nant source throughout the Pentateuch responsible for the first
Creation account in Genesis 1—“exhibited . . . consistent thematic
interests,” and in particular was “far more optimistic and expan-
sive [than ‘J’—the Jahwist source], embracing a narrative arc that
began with God’s establishment of the ‘very good’ created order
and culminating in the assurance of God’s enduring presence
among the people through the establishment of a legitimate cult at
Mount Sinai.”8 At the very least, then, Schopenhauer seems to be
on firm ground in tracking a consistently (if not solely) optimistic
tone throughout the Pentateuch, beginning with Genesis 1 and its
account of Creation.
Let us turn to Schopenhauer’s assessment of Spinoza. In the very
last chapter of The World as Will and Representation (II.L), titled
“Epiphilosophy,” Schopenhauer presents an overview of the signif-
icance of his philosophical project, as well as its limitations. He
states that philosophy, be it his or anyone else’s, cannot achieve “a
perfect understanding of the existence, inner nature, and origin
of the world” (WWR II.L: 642). Instead, philosophy, practiced
properly, “sticks to the actual facts of outward and inward expe-
rience as they are accessible to everyone, and shows their true and
deepest connexion, yet without really going beyond them to any
extramundane things, and the relations of these to the world”
(WWR II.L: 640). Though we may not gain perfect knowledge of
the inner nature of the world, we nevertheless may learn quite a
lot, in Schopenhauer’s view. By analyzing phenomena available
for one to experience, and especially oneself (as the phenomenon

8 R. B. Robinson, “Primeval History: Genesis 1–11,” in E. Fahlbusch, J. M. Lochman, J.

Mbiti, J. Pelikan, L. Vischer, G. W. Bromiley, and D. B. Barrett (eds.), The Encyclopedia of

Christianity (Leiden, 2005), 352.
 SCHOPENHAUER'S CRITIQUE OF OPTIMISM 23

most readily available for one to experience and examine), one

may gain a “key to the inner nature of the world,” and come to
understand the way in which all phenomena relate to this inner
nature, namely, as manifestations or representations of it (WWR
II.L: 642). Schopenhauer takes himself to be the first to have ad-
equately identified this metaphysical substratum underlying all
objects of experience. He acknowledges, however, that others
before him have already attended to the more basic, and crucial,
idea that “the inner essence in all things is absolutely one and the
same” (WWR II.L: 642). Schopenhauer attributes the recognition
of this truth to such thinkers as Parmenides, John Scotus Eriugena,
Giordano Bruno, and Spinoza, who “had taught it in detail” by
Schopenhauer’s time, in his estimation (WWR II.L: 642).
Schopenhauer, then, credits Spinoza with recognizing and de-
veloping a fundamental philosophical truth. Spinoza’s system,
Schopenhauer maintains, elaborately captures the observation,
at the core of both pantheism and Schopenhauer’s own theory,
that all experienced phenomena share a single metaphysical sub-
stratum, and that in this sense everything is one (WWR II.L: 643).
Indeed, the positive influence on Schopenhauer of Spinoza’s phi-
losophy, as well as of his life, has been the subject of extensive dis-
cussion.9 However, Schopenhauer also thinks that Spinoza, like
previous pantheists, makes a crucial error by identifying the true
nature of the world with the Deity, and concluding that everything
is God (WWR II.L: 643). This move, Schopenhauer thinks, leads
directly to “optimism,” i.e., to the view that the world, in all its parts
and details, is perfect (WWR II.L: 644). As we shall see in the next
sections, Schopenhauer believes that systems of thought leading

9 S. Rappaport, Spinoza und Schopenhauer (Halle a/S, 1899), 117–42; H. W. Brann,

“Schopenhauer and Spinoza,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 10.2 (1972), 181–96;
P. F. Moreau, “Spinoza’s Reception and Influence,” in D. Garrett (ed.), The Cambridge
Companion to Spinoza (Cambridge, 1995), 408–33 at 423–5; J. Golomb, “The Inscrutable
Riddle of Schopenhauer’s Relations to Jews and to Judaism,” in R. Wicks (ed.), The
Oxford Handbook of Schopenhauer (Oxford, 2020), 425–51, at 426–7; 437–8.
24 The Value of the World and of Oneself

to this “optimism” are significantly challenged by certain unfavor-

able theoretical and ethical consequences that follow from it. It is
important at the outset, though, to see what Schopenhauer thinks
Spinoza’s “optimism” amounts to, and in what way he takes his own
view to deviate from it.
Schopenhauer, both in WWR II.L and consistently throughout
his writings, compares Spinoza’s optimistic worldview to that of
Judaism, and that comparison sheds light on his overall inter-
pretation of Spinoza. Like Jewish monotheism, Schopenhauer
thinks, “[p]antheism is essentially and necessarily optimism”
(FHP §12: 73). Spinoza’s God is different from that of Judaism,
to be sure. In fact, Schopenhauer notes, it would have been pru-
dent of Spinoza not to even call his substance God (or, Deus)
(FHP §12: 72). As indicated earlier, Schopenhauer thinks God is
by definition a personal being. He also says expressly that person-
ality is precisely what Spinoza denies his God (WWR II.L: 644). In
fact, Schopenhauer thinks Spinoza shares his own basic view, in
that both maintain that the world exists, not due to a creator God,
but rather “by its own inner power and through itself ” (WWR
II.L: 644). Nevertheless, Schopenhauer deviates from Spinoza on
the characterization of the “inner nature of the world” (Spinoza’s
Deus), which he thinks leads in Spinoza’s case directly to optimism
reminiscent of Judaism (WWR II.L: 644). Spinoza’s God is a being
whose “essence excludes all imperfection and involves absolute
perfection” (E1p11s: eius essentia omnem imperfectionem secludit
absolutamque perfectionem involvit). Thus, Schopenhauer’s as-
sociation between Spinoza’s Deus and the monotheistic God (in
WWR II.L) is compatible with his recognition (e.g., in FHP §12)
of the substantial dissimilarities between the two.10 The associ-
ation seems to work, for Schopenhauer, as long as both deities
are assumed to be perfect by both systems. And of course, in
Spinoza’s system, God is the only substance conceivable (E1p14),

10 Contra Rappaport (1899), 55–8.

 SCHOPENHAUER'S CRITIQUE OF OPTIMISM 25

and “Whatever has being, has its being in God” (E1p15: Quicquid
est, in Deo est). The inevitable consequence of deriving one’s
explanations of the natural world from such a starting point, for
Schopenhauer, is the rejection of the possibility of anything less
than a perfect state of the world a priori. The pantheistic world, as
Schopenhauer puts it, exhausts the “entire possibility of all being,”
and it is for this reason that he thinks pantheism, like Judaism, is
“essentially optimism” (WWR II.L: 644).
The optimistic worldview underlying both Judaism and
Spinozism is a crucial common denominator between them, and
constitutes a crucial difference between them and other religions
or systems of thought, in Schopenhauer’s view. As he puts it
(WWR II.XVII: 170):

I cannot, as is generally done, put the fundamental difference of

all religions in the question whether they are monotheistic, poly-
theistic, pantheistic, or atheistic, but only in the question whether
they are optimistic or pessimistic, in other words, whether they
present the existence of this world as justified by itself, and con-
sequently praise and commend it, or consider it as something
which can be conceived only as the consequence of our guilt, and
thus really ought not to be, in that they recognize that pain and
death cannot lie in the eternal, original, and immutable order of
things, that which in every respect ought to be.

On the most crucial issue, then, Judaism and Spinozism are

grouped together, and are contrasted with both Christianity and
Schopenhauer’s philosophy. Significant though the difference
might be between a personal benevolent Creator God and God
understood as an infinite and eternal substance functioning as the
inner nature of the world, Schopenhauer believes both principles
consistently lead to importantly similar results. In particular, as
we shall see, he thinks that by excluding the possibility of consid-
ering the world anything less than perfect, both systems lead to
26 The Value of the World and of Oneself

identical views on the problem of evil, the possibility of an afterlife,

and certain ethical issues. Indeed, Schopenhauer criticizes both
systems, occasionally simultaneously, specifically for upholding
these views.

1.2. The “Problem of Evil”

Any view or system of thought upholding optimism must con-

front the challenge of accounting for those features of the world
that appear to be less than optimal. Schopenhauer thus takes
Spinoza’s theory to be faced with that challenge as well. He thinks
that it ultimately fails to meet the challenge. Since here, again,
he links the failure with the connection between Spinoza’s pan-
theism and Jewish monotheism, it is helpful to discuss, first, the
reasons why Judaism cannot successfully accomplish that task, in
his view.
For Schopenhauer, Judaism is committed to the good-
ness of the world given its creation by a personal God. Unlike
Christianity, which introduces an evil force to account for the
world’s ills, and even regards “the devil” as “ruler” over “the
world,” Judaism seems to simply accept this world as entirely
good (WWR II.XLVIII: 624). It is perhaps this feature that leads
Schopenhauer to declare Judaism “the only purely monotheistic
religion” (FHP §13: 127), which he indeed says is a distinction
(Ruhm), by contrast to other features for which it ought to be
criticized (more on these later) (FHP §13: 126). Surely, it is not
its “monotheism” per se that Schopenhauer commends Judaism
for, since he thinks (as does Spinoza) that a personal Creator
God cannot exist. Rather, Schopenhauer applauds the “purity”
of Judaism’s monotheism. Judaism begins with postulating a
perfectly good, omnipotent God, and consistently attributes to
Him all of creation, without introducing additional agents or
factors.
 SCHOPENHAUER'S CRITIQUE OF OPTIMISM 27

But, given such a commitment on the part of Judaism, it must

according to Schopenhauer face up to the following fact (FHP
§13: 120–1):

. . . the melancholy constitution of a world whose living beings

subsist by devouring one another, the consequent distress and
death of all that lives, the multitude and colossal magnitude of
evils, the variety and inevitability of sufferings often swelling to
the dreadful, the burden of life itself hurrying forward to the bit-
terness of death, all this cannot honestly be reconciled with the
idea that the world is supposed to be the work of a united infinite
goodness, wisdom, and power.

Alluding to the classical problem of evil, Schopenhauer says here

that God cannot be perfectly good and omnipotent while still
allowing for the imperfections and evils we know the world to con-
tain. Theism, Schopenhauer notes, often responds to this problem
by invoking “all kinds of shifts, evasions, and theodicies” (WWR
II.XLVII: 591). Such shifts might include, for instance, introducing
the devil as a counterforce to God’s goodness. Even such moves,
Schopenhauer thinks, “succumbed irretrievably to the arguments
of Hume and Voltaire”—both presenting versions of the classical
problem of evil (WWR II.XLVII: 591). But Judaism does not even
have such means at its disposal. It must content itself with God’s
own assessment concerning His creation—that it is “good”—in the
face of even our most direct experience.
A similar problem arises for pantheism, or so Schopenhauer
charges. In fact, after discussing the problem of evil and its
consequences for theism, he continues: “[b]ut pantheism is
wholly untenable in face of [the] evil side of the world” (WWR
II.XLVII: 591). Of course, the problem of evil confronting pan-
theism results from the inconsistency between the existence
of evil in the world and the existence of the pantheistic, not the
theistic, God. The basic problem with the pantheistic God, for
28 The Value of the World and of Oneself

Schopenhauer, is that it is supposed to provide an explanation of

all of reality, without itself being known or explained by any means,
and a fortiori not by means of experience (WWR II.L: 643). If eve-
rything in existence has its being in and as a direct consequence of a
perfect God, then anything, regardless of the way we experience it,
must itself be divine and faultless. As Schopenhauer puts it, on the
assumptions of pantheism “the world would be a theophany” (WWR
II.XXVIII: 349). But this optimism is untenable, Schopenhauer
suggests, since it goes against the observable fact that “pain as such
is inevitable and essential to life” (WWR I, §57: 315). We have, as
Schopenhauer often reminds us, direct knowledge and experience
of the “preponderance of want, suffering, and misery, of dissension,
wickedness, infamy, and absurdity” (WWR II.XLVII: 591). Such
“terrible and ghastly phenomena,” as Schopenhauer sarcastically
puts it in response to John Scotus Eriugena’s proto-pantheistic view,
would make “fine theophanies!” (WWR II.L: 643).
Though Schopenhauer does mention “palliatives and quack
remedies” used by pantheists to combat charges such as his (WWR
II.L: 643), it is not clear specifically what these devices are and,
since they are mentioned in the context of discussing pantheism
in general, it is not clear that Schopenhauer thinks they have been
adopted by Spinoza himself. It is possible, however, that one of
those pantheistic “quack remedies” for the problem of evil which
Schopenhauer appeals to is Spinoza’s own oft-discussed doctrine,
stated in the preface to Ethics 4, that “good and bad (bonum et
malum)” are “no positive [property] in things considered by them-
selves (nihil etiam positivum in rebus, in se scilicet consideratis),”
but rather merely indicate “modes of thought or notions (cogitandi
modos seu notiones)” resulting from our comparisons between
objects. As it seems, had Spinoza embraced that doctrine in its en-
tirety, it would have provided him with a possible solution to the
problem of evil as it pertains to his philosophy, since there would
be nothing objectively evil to generate such a problem to begin
with. However, as has been pointed out by Steven Nadler, Spinoza
in fact does not have this solution at his disposal. For, as it turns out,
 SCHOPENHAUER'S CRITIQUE OF OPTIMISM 29

Spinoza does maintain that some things, like gaining knowledge of

God, are objectively good (E4p28), implying that good and bad (or
evil) are not entirely subjective, human-made categories.11 Spinoza,
then, could not defend his optimism against Schopenhauer’s charge
by appealing to the subjectivity of good and evil.
It has also been argued, in the context of comparing Spinoza
to Schopenhauer, that (1) for Spinoza, thinking that evil is prev-
alent in the world is an error, resulting from failure to recognize
the necessity of all events and the absolute perfection of God,12 and
(2) despite Schopenhauer’s criticisms (cf. WWR II.XLVII; WWR
II.XVII), for Spinoza one’s astonishment at the suffering in the
world is resolved with true knowledge, similarly to the way that
for Schopenhauer himself recognizing the will as the essence of
all things explains suffering.13 However, as far as Schopenhauer is
concerned, (1) explaining away the prevalence of evil in the world
is necessarily one-sided, restricting one to evaluating the world
exclusively “from the outside,” or “from the physical side” (WWR
II.XLVII: 591). Looking at things also “from within,” or from “the
subjective and the moral side,” Schopenhauer argues, one comes to
realize that the prevalence of evil and suffering is ultimately ine-
liminable and that, consequently, the characterization of the world
as a deity is wholly inappropriate (WWR II.XLVII: 591). And (2),
quite distinctly from the prevalence of evils, pantheism is incapable
of accounting for the fact that we tend to be astonished by the very
existence of the world and “the evil and wickedness” within it, which
would be felt, and would demand an explanation, even if evils
were “far outweighed by the good” (WWR II.XVII: 170–2). Such
astonishment, Schopenhauer thinks, leads to the true conclusion
that the world’s nonexistence “is preferable to its existence” (WWR
II.XVII: 171; cf. WWR II.XLVI: 576)—a conclusion that Spinoza’s
optimism cannot accommodate.

11 S. Nadler, “Spinoza in the Garden of Good and Evil,” in E. J. Kremer and M. J. Latzer

(eds.), The Problem of Evil in Early Modern Philosophy (Toronto, 2001a), 66–80, at 69–70.
12 Rappaport (1899), 42, citing E5p6s, E5p15, and E5p33.
13 Rappaport (1899), 49–51.
30 The Value of the World and of Oneself

1.3. Denial of Personal Immortality

One standard way out of the problem of evil is of course via the idea
of reward in an afterlife. While Schopenhauer criticizes Spinoza for
not supporting either this or an analogous feature, he also thinks
that he would have been inconsistent in doing so. No internally
consistent optimistic theory can allow for the possibility that any
features of either human life or the world at large leave anything to
be desired. And so, it is to Spinoza’s credit that he does not compro-
mise the consistency of his theory by resorting to an idea promising
improvement in a life to come.
Here, too, Schopenhauer interprets Judaism as closely akin to,
and as substantially informing, Spinoza’s theory. For Schopenhauer,
Judaism “has absolutely no doctrine of immortality” (FHP §13: 125).
He is often accused of being ignorant on the subject,14 and he has been
more generally called a “metaphysical anti-Semite” who “abhorred
Judaism, of which he knew very little.”15 More recently, it has been
shown that at least Schopenhauer’s early comments on Judaism were
either neutral or even positive.16 In any case, Schopenhauer is aware
of discussions of metempsychosis in testimonies regarding Jews (e.g.,
in Tertullian and Justin) (WWR II.XLI: 506). He also reads a part of
the Talmud (Sota 12a) as referring to the transmigration of soul be-
tween Abel, Seth, and Moses (WWR II.XLI: 506),17 though it should
be noted that the Talmudic text only implicitly draws a connection

14 H. Zohn, “Review of Schopenhauer und das Judentum by Henry Walter

Brann,” International Philosophical Quarterly 17.3 (1977), 359–60, at 359; D. Brann,

Schopenhauer und das Judentum (Bonn, 1975), 12–13; C. Janaway, “Schopenhauer’s
Christian Perspectives,” in S. Shapshay (ed.), The Palgrave Schopenhauer Handbook
(Cham, 2017c), 351–72, at n. 8; Golomb (2020), 433–4; n. 31.
15 Brann (1972), 195. For a recent account arguing that Schopenhauer’s views were

not antisemitic, despite his metaphysical critique of Judaism and occasional antisemitic
remarks (especially in later writings), but rather engaged critically with Judaism, re-
garding it as a “formidable enemy,” see Golomb (2020), 440 et passim.
16 See R. Wicks, “Schopenhauer and Judaism,” in S. Shapshay (ed.), The Palgrave

Schopenhauer Handbook (Cham, 2017), 325–49.

17 See Brann (1975), 13.
 SCHOPENHAUER'S CRITIQUE OF OPTIMISM 31

between these three figures, which is then developed as an account

of metempsychosis (gilgul) in Lurianic Kabbalah.18 But these ideas,
in Schopenhauer’s estimation, deviate from “the real religion of the
Jews,” i.e., from the texts of the Hebrew Bible (FHP §13: 125). These
texts, he says, directly exclude the possibility of an afterlife, in sev-
eral places (FHP §13: 125–6; cf. 2 Chronicles 34:28; Exodus 34:7;
Numbers 14:8; Tobias 3:6: Deuteronomy 5:16, 33; Ecclesiastes 3:19),
and when such ideas are presented, e.g., in Daniel 12:2, they are due
to external (Babylonian) influences, mentioned explicitly in Daniel
1:4, 6 (FHP §13: 125–6). And here again, Schopenhauer is on firm
ground. According to the Encyclopedia Judaica, the Hebrew Bible as
a whole “is comparatively inexplicit on the fate of the individual after
death,” and, although it seems to emerge from certain passages that
“there existed a belief in an afterlife of one form or another,” “the first
explicit biblical formulation of the doctrine of the resurrection of the
dead occurs in the book of Daniel [sc. 12:2].”19
For Schopenhauer, the absence of personal immortality from
Judaism in its original form should not surprise us. First, since
only eternal, and hence uncreated, things can be imperishable
(FHP §13: 124), Judaism, which is committed to the creation of
humans “out of nothing” (WWR II.XLI: 506), cannot consistently
promise the lingering of human souls after death. “[N]o doctrine
of immortality is appropriate to a creation out of nothing” (WWR
II.XLI: 488), and Judaism, unlike Christianity and Islam, thus
exhibits “perfect consistency” on this issue (FHP §13: 125).20 The

18 See S. Magid, From Metaphysics to Midrash: Myth, History and the Interpretation of

Scripture in Lurianic Kabbala (Bloomington, 2008), 68; 256 n. 193.

19 F. Skolnik and M. Berenbaum (eds.), Encyclopedia Judaica, 2nd edition, vol.

1 (Detroit, 2007), 441. For Guttmacher (1903, 115), Daniel 12:2 is exceptional in the
Hebrew Bible for introducing the idea of immortality. See also Lasine (2019, 132–4)
on the general absence of personal immortality from the Hebrew Bible, with a few
exceptions which nevertheless “prove the rule: nothing worthwhile happens after one
dies,” so that we might as well follow Eccl. 9:7–10 and “content ourselves with eating
our bread and drinking our wine with joy . . .” (2019, 134). As we shall see presently,
Schopenhauer appeals to these verses in a similar vein.
20 See Wicks (2017), 341.
32 The Value of the World and of Oneself

second reason why Schopenhauer thinks Judaism should not ad-

vocate personal immortality, if it is to remain consistent, is that its
belief in a Creator God implies optimism, as we have seen. If every-
thing created by God “turned out excellently,” Schopenhauer says,
again echoing the opening chapter of Genesis, then one should
“just enjoy his life as long as it lasts” (WWR II.L: 644). Indeed, he
finds a conclusion to just this effect in Ecclesiastes 9:7–10, in which
Qoheleth recommends joyfully eating one’s bread and drinking
one’s wine, wearing white clothing, letting one’s head lack no oil,
and living one’s life with a beloved wife throughout one’s “vain days”
under the sun, for “there is no deed, calculation, knowledge or
wisdom in the grave [orig.: ‫ ]שאול‬to which you are headed.” At the
same time, Schopenhauer also recognizes as pessimistic “the Fall”
in Genesis,21 as well as Ecclesiastes 7:3, stating that “sorrow is better
than laughter.”22 Indeed, Schopenhauer says of Ecclesiastes 7:3 that
it is a text Spinoza should have attended to (FHP §12: 72– 3). And
it has been argued that there is more in the Bible that is congenial
to Schopenhauer’s view, and that Ecclesiastes’s optimism, which
is built “on pessimistic foundations,” is echoed by Schopenhauer’s
philosophy, particularly in the Aphorisms on the Wisdom of Life.23

21 It is also possible, however, to read Genesis 3 as consonant with optimism.

Guttmacher (1903, 42–4; 57–8), while calling the account of “the Fall” “a sad and some-
what pessimistic tale,” goes on to say that it does not originally trace sin back to Adam,
and that the idea of the inherent moral depravity of human nature is added to the ac-
count and given the status of doctrine in Christianity, giving that religion “a pessimistic
tinge” distinguishing it from Judaism.
22 See Brann (1975), 14–18; cf. WWR II.XLVIII–XLIX; FHP §12. Again, Guttmacher,

while interpreting Ecclesiastes as overall pessimistic (1903, 84–5), qualifies that reading
by saying that “Ecclesiastes is not a Pessimist, in the modern acceptation of that term”
because, “[u]nlike the modern Pessimist, he nowhere makes assertion that this is the
worst of all possible worlds” (on this point, Guttmacher cites Schopenhauer), and does
not adhere to the idea that the world either degenerates or is to be denied (1903, 87).
Unlike Schopenhauer, Guttmacher adds (1903, 88), Ecclesiastes’s despair does not lead
him “to a denial of God’s existence.”
23 See Golomb (2020), 430– 1; Brann (1975), 14– 18. Controversy on the assessment

of the attitude and general message of Ecclesiastes still rages to this day. Knopf reads
the book as containing an optimism regarding the permanence of certain things in
the cosmos and one’s potential share in good deeds; see “The Optimism of Koheleth,”
Journal of Biblical Literature 49.2 (1930), 195– 9. More recently, Sneed argues against
interpretations maintaining “that the recurrent carpe diem found throughout the book
Another random document with
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 CHAPTER XXII
CAROLINA CONSTRUCTS A DRAMA

A thunderstorm routed the procession, sending the candle-

bearers helter-skelter into doorways, covered alleys, under the
awnings of the shops. At the first flash and report of the sky’s artillery
Andrea deserted his push-cart and its royal occupant. But the
dauntless leader of the election district was at hand. With heroic
calm he lifted the Queen in his arms and unaided carried her into the
Caffè of the Beautiful Sicilian. Mulberry had but few men who could
do that—she was of solid Carrara—and thoughtful voters saw in the
feat a new mark of his fitness for political chieftainship. She was
placed on a marble-top table in the corner and the crown
straightened on her spotless brow. All night she held court, and until
the vender songs of the morning market were heard in the streets.
Bottle after bottle joined the dead men, the rude quips and quibbles
grew noisy, quarrelsome, yet no man drained a glass without first
tipping it in homage to the snub-nosed damsel whose hollow eyes
stared at every one all the time.
An hour before midnight Bertino and Armando returned to Casa
Di Bello to report to Carolina the lodging place of the Last Lady.
Hardly had the bell sounded when the door flew open, and Carolina
came out, finger at lips, with a great air of mystery, and drawing to
the panelled oak behind her.
“Be off at once!” she said, her voice fluttering. “Here is money. Go
anywhere to-night—anywhere out of Mulberry. You, Bertino, must not
come back until—until I am ready for you. If she saw you it would
ruin all. Go! Ask no questions. To-morrow Armando will tell me where
you are, and we shall meet. Away!”
With puzzled faces and mystified shakes of the head Armando
and Bertino took themselves off, and Carolina re-entered at the
moment that Signor Di Bello was mounting the staircase to his
bedroom. A few minutes before he had taunted her with the failure of
her scheme to cheat him of a wife, and proclaimed again the idiocy
of the priest and all others who asserted that there was a bust or a
husband of Juno. A pretty show they had made of him. All Mulberry
was laughing. But his time would come. Next Sunday he would turn
the tide, for she would be his in spite of them all. Carolina could do
as she liked, go or stay; but a wedding there must and should be, for
that alone could save his good name as a merchant and a signore.
He had spent a busy night with the flasks of the Three Gardens
along with some choice comrades of the Genovese, and the years
had told Carolina that with her brother it was always in vino veritas.
Wherefore she knew that he had spoken naught less than a secret of
his heart—that a wish to wipe out the stain of ridicule was an added
spur to his determination to marry. And this knowledge sparked an
idea that keyed her cunning to its highest pitch. Without an instant’s
delay she began to put the idea into practice. Her first move was to
keep mum about the return of Bertino, although she had waited up to
flaunt in her brother’s face the news that his bride’s husband would
stand before him in a few minutes. But the new design that her crafty
wits had seized upon made that petty triumph seem not worth while
—at least not until the tragic moment she was preparing. Her next
step, as we have seen, was to get Bertino out of the way. The
corners of her closed mouth curved in a smile of wily content as she
watched Signor Di Bello going up to his room in blank ignorance of
the little society drama that was in her head.
“Good night, my dear brother,” she said. “To-morrow I will begin
to make ready for the wedding.”
“Good night.”
On the morrow she gave Angelica orders to prepare a wedding
feast that should be the equal of the one that had gone to Father
Nicodemo’s poor. She ordered her as well to keep her mouth shut
about the turning up of Bertino, and the same command she issued
to Marianna. Neither the girl nor the cook was able to fathom the
purpose of Carolina, but Marianna could not shake off a besetting
fear that it boded no good for her.

It was a bright morning, and bright were the spirits of Signor Di

Bello, and springy his step, as he walked to his shop in Paradise
Park. To his view there was not a speck on the matrimonial prospect,
and he exulted in the promise of laughing last at those who were
now laughing at him. It was the day that the proofs were to be
presented to Father Nicodemo, and he chuckled serenely over the
plight that the banker must be in.
He had gone less than a block when Armando rang the bell of
Casa Di Bello, and Marianna, who had been watching for him
eagerly at the window, threw open the door. Breathlessly she fell to
telling him of the plans for the wedding and her consequent sense of
impending disaster; how Carolina knew that Juno had one husband,
and was helping her to get another! She had closed her and
Angelica’s lips. What did it all mean? Something dreadful, she was
sure. If Armando would only take her away. If——
The interview was cut off by the voice of Carolina, who appeared
with her bonnet on and took charge of Armando.
“Not a word,” she admonished him, “about Bertino’s return or his
marriage to that baggage. Mind you do not tell a living soul. My
reasons you will know at the proper time. Now, lead me to the—Last
Lady.”
Together they walked to the Caffè of the Beautiful Sicilian. On the
threshold they came face to face with the ex-banker. He was in a fine
frenzy of indignation. At daybreak that morning he had started from
what was left of the iron villa with a push-cart load of dandelion
leaves. After visiting the rectory and making to Father Nicodemo the
humiliating report that the proofs had vanished, there had come to
his ear news of the marble Queen of Springtide, and the talk, current
on a thousand tongues, of her strong resemblance to the Neapolitan
who sang at La Scala, and whom the priest had refused to marry to
Signor Di Bello. And here was the bust of which he had been robbed.
Oh, the money it had cost him! One hundred and forty dollars for
duty. Ah! yes; it was the cause of his ruin. But for that cursed marble
he would be still a signore and one of the influential bankers of
Mulberry. He had demanded his property, but the foreman would not
surrender it until he had proved his ownership. What an outrage! But
it mattered not now, for they, Armando and Signorina Di Bello, would
be his witnesses. “Who well does climb is helped in time.”
“Excuse me, signore,” remarked Armando; “this bust does not
belong to you.”
“What!” shrieked the banker.
“No; it is mine.”
“Yours?”
“I made it.”
“You made it, eh?” the banker snapped. “Very good. But who paid
for it? Eh, who paid for it? Answer that. Who paid the one hundred
and forty dollars of Dogana—you or I? Give me back the duty money
and you may have the infernal thing! Ugly yellow snout!”
Now, Carolina had a lively desire to possess the bust, for she
needed it in the avenging play that she had begun to construct.
Nevertheless, her Italian thrift had not been swamped by the wave of
worldly purpose that had of late come over her churchly qualities. To
pay the sum Signor Tomato asked would necessitate an inroad upon
her savings-bank hoard, an act to which she nerved herself only in
the last resort. So she exerted the might of her tongue in behalf of
Armando’s claim, holding with primordial logic that the Last Lady
belonged to the sculptor by divine right of creation. But the foreman,
in his rôle of thief, custodian of the stolen goods, and judge in equity,
had a homelier code of ethics for his guide. It took him not a moment
to decide. He awarded the bust to the banker on the ground that it
was in his wife’s possession at the time of the theft, and must
therefore belong to her husband. It was only the reductio ad maritum
to which all questions are subject in Mulberry. The upshot was that in
the afternoon Carolina paid the one hundred and forty dollars.
 To Signor Tomato it seemed as if some fairy wand had touched
the world and made it a garden of joy. Now they might take away the
other pipe any time, and he did not care. His Bridget and the little
Tomatoes would not be homeless. In his transport of gladness the
rude life about him took on a poetic beauty. The fragrance of
Sorrentine orange groves filled the squalid streets; there was
rapturous music in the shrieks of the parrots on the fire escapes and
window sills; the raucous notes of the hucksters enchanted his ear.
To dear old Mulberry he could return now and resume his proper
estate of banker and signore. Long live the day in his thankfulness!
Never more would he quarrel with his lot. Ah! the grand truth in the
proverb, “Blind eyes lose their night when gold is in sight.”
Straightway he went to the landlord, got the key of the old shop, and,
when darkness had fallen, Bridget and her brood were eating
cabbage soup behind the nankeen sail in the revivified Banca
Tomato.
But the Last Lady was still with them, to the hearty disgust of
Bridget. Not yet had the hour arrived for Carolina to bring the bust on
the scene, and Signor Tomato, with many a word and grimace of
reluctance, consented, under an oath of secrecy, to keep it in his
place until the supreme moment. Pains were taken that it should not
be traced to its new biding place. Armando had pushed it away in a
cart, taking a round-about course from the Caffè of the Beautiful
Sicilian to Paradise Park. Thus it happened that when Signor Di
Bello, to whose ears had come the gossip of a bust that imaged his
lost bride, went to the caffè that morning to see for himself, the bird
had again flown.
“Bah! Another stupid jest!” he muttered, and thrashed out of the
room amid the titters of a group of Sicilians.
Soon afterward Juno, an unwonted air of wide-awake desire
about her, entered the caffè and asked to be shown the Queen of
Springtide. Before Signora Crispina, the proprietor’s peachblow wife,
could answer, there came from a half dozen throats the merry
chorus:
“Long live the Queen of Springtide!”
 “Where is it?” Juno asked.
“She is here, signorina,” said the wit of the company, rising and
tipping his hat. “The lifeless Queen has just left us, but her living
Majesty is here.—It is yourself, beautiful signorina.”
“Bah! Where is the bust?”
No one could answer. Armando was unknown in Mulberry, and
only three persons—Carolina, the banker, and himself—were in the
secret of his destination when he pushed away from the caffè with
the Last Lady in the cart. Juno went back to her lodgings greatly
disappointed. A dread had settled upon her that this marble ghost
would spring up in her path somehow, and foil her plans, after the
manner of all well-ordered avenging spirits. It had been her intention,
when she hurried to the caffè to sound the rumour about the bust, to
get Signor Di Bello to buy it and give it to her. Once in her hands,
she would have seen to it that the thing retired to a safe obscurity.
The bottom of the East River seemed to her a particularly fit place for
Armando’s masterpiece. She doubted no longer that the bust had
arrived in Mulberry, and the mystery of its whereabouts gave her no
peace.
But it was not so with Signor Di Bello. To the mind of the grocer,
put upon so hard by recent events, the talk about the Queen’s
resemblance to his lost bride appeared now as a hoax which had
accomplished its purpose of drawing him to the caffè only to be
laughed at. If not, where was the bust? Surely he knew his people
too well to misinterpret this latest prank. He knew. It was the first joke
of a practical turn that any one had dared play on him since the
blunder at the church marked him for the colony’s ridicule. And he
saw therein a sure omen that flat insult would quickly succeed the
coarse raillery. Before long women would spit at him in the street and
taunting youngsters tag at his heels. Others that he knew of had
tasted the strange persecution. But it should not be his lot, by the tail
of Lucifer! On the Feast of Sunday his marriage must silence every
idle tongue. For then he would cease to be that despised of all
creatures, a bridegroom without a bride.
 That his lively taste for Juno’s grace of person had become
second to a desire to avert the rising gale of mockery, Carolina
understood very well. And upon this change of his nuptial motive she
rested full confidence of success for her own designs. No bar to her
project showed itself until she visited Bertino, at the cheap hotel on
the East Side, whither he and Armando had taken themselves. Then
she found that the leading man of her drama had notions of his own
about his part that would wreck the plot. He was for killing the
feminine villain before the curtain rose. To her directions that he keep
out of sight until Sunday he demurred vehemently. How could he
wait so long when the vendetta was boiling in his veins? His wife had
done him a deadly wrong, and, per Dio! deadly should be the
accounting.
“See the grand trouble she has caused to me, to my friend, and
to poor Marianna!”
“To Marianna?” she asked, in genuine wonder. “What wrong has
she done her?”
“Were not she and Armando to wed when his Presidentessa
should be sold? A long time they must wait now. Thundering
heavens! But she shall pay.”
“You are mistaken,” rejoined Carolina, with a note of authority. “It
would have made no difference to Marianna. She was not to wed
Armando in any case.”
“I know better. Anyway, I shall not sit here biting my lips until the
Feast of Sunday, and perhaps be cheated of my right. Who knows
when she may fly?”
“No fear of that.”
“No? Why not? I tell you she knows what to expect from me, and
is no simpleton.” Then he lowered his voice to a stage whisper, first
opening the door and making sure that there was no listener in the
hall. “Twice I would have killed her, but once I deceived myself, and
the other time she gammoned me with a lie that made me try to kill
my uncle. Don’t you see that I can not wait here while she may be
getting away?”
 “I promise you she will not leave Mulberry. Do you wish to know
why? Well, it is because she thinks you have fled from America and
that she is free to become your uncle’s wife. Ah! don’t you see the
fine vendetta I am hatching for you? On the Feast of Sunday you
appear and stop the wedding. The Neapolitan beast is kicked out of
Casa Di Bello. You follow her and—claim your rights. Is it not a
sweet vendetta?”
“Yes,” said Bertino after a pause. “I will wait.”
 CHAPTER XXIII
A PARTNERSHIP IN TEN-INCH ST. PETERS

Though Carolina had not been blind to the meaning of the

signals flashed by Armando and Marianna’s eyes whenever the
lovers were together, Bertino’s words stirred her to the need of taking
instant measures to smother any marplot that might brew from their
attachment. To this end she resolved to keep them apart until the
final act of her private theatricals should be played. Thus it fell out
that on Friday, two days before the time for Signor Di Bello’s second
essay at a wedding, when Armando called to deliver a most weighty
message to Marianna, he was met at the door with Carolina’s avowal
that the girl was indisposed. He might have credited the dreadful
news but for a face that he saw at the window as he walked away,
and a pair of hands and lips that were telegraphing with much
energy. “Wait, and I shall be out,” was the only part of Marianna’s
excited display that he understood. But it was enough to insure his
waiting a week, had that been necessary. As it was, she did not
come until darkness had called lights to the caffè windows and the
banks and grocery shops had put up their shutters.
“It is finished now,” she said, hatless and breathing hard. “I can
never go back to Casa Di Bello.”
“What matter?” he asked, taking her hand, and for the first time in
many a day showing a joy and contempt for circumstance that
befitted his years. “Come along. I have beautiful news. Let us go to
the gardens of Paradise.”
It was the first music night of the season, and the Park had
become a vast potbouilli of Italy’s children, with a salting from the
Baxter Street Ghetto and a peppering of “Chimmies” and “Mamies”
from the old Fourth Ward. Armando and Marianna made their way
through the seething mass about the band, deaf to the rag-time
melody that filled the sultry air and without eyes for the gorgeous red
coats of the musicians. He was telling her how from the blackness of
his despair the light of knowledge had suddenly broken, and how in
the bitterness of his exile he had found the sweet of content. Far
from the band stand, they crowded on to a bench beside two women
with yellow babies at their breasts, and Armando continued:
“It was last night, and I was here alone, with only the stars for
companions. All Mulberry was asleep. First I thought only of myself,
and my heart was heavy. Then the points of gold in the sky seemed
to whisper—to whisper of you, my precious. After that I was happy.
Do you know why? Ah, it was because I had made up my mind.”
“Yes,” she repeated eagerly; “you made up your mind to——”
“Go home.”
“And I?”
“You go with me. There; do you not see now why I am happy?”
“Madonna-Maria be glorified!” she cried, and the women by their
side exchanged glances and grunts. “When?”
“By the first ship for Genoa.”
“When is that?”
“Some day next week.”
“Joy!”
“Ah! is it not fine? To go back to Italy!”
“Si; fine.” She paused a moment pensively, then asked, “Have
you bought the passage tickets?”
“No; she has not paid me yet for the bust.”
“Who has not paid you?”
“Signorina Di Bello.”
“How do you know she will give you any money?”
“Ah! I saw it in her eye. And did she not say, when I spoke of my
poor marble—did she not say that perhaps it would not prove so
poor, after all? Oh, she will pay, I am sure. How much? Ah! who can
tell that? But surely it will be enough to take us back to Cardinali, and
what more can we ask? There we shall be happy. No more shall you
go to the mill, for have I not my house and workshop, and will not
Genoa be glad again to buy my ten-inch Saint Peters?”
“Ah! si. Genoa will be glad. And I? Shall I not take them to the
Gallery of Cristoforo Colombo and sell them just as old Daniello did?
By my faith, I think I shall bring home as much silver as ever he did,
and more.”
“Si, si; who would not buy of you, angelo d’amore?”
He kissed her lips and fair tresses, and the women with their
nurslings left the bench. Thus, and for hours, the exiles lived in the
new-found bliss of their present while planning a joyous future. Over
the buzz of the grimy, toil-bound multitude the notes of the distant
band came to them vaguely—now in a fugitive creak, then in a faint
rumble or detached crash.
It was long after the music had died out, and the people had gone
to their tenements, and the pale eye of night had peeped tardily over
a zigzag line of low roofs, when Marianna said:
“Dio! So late! She will not let me in.”
They walked to Casa Di Bello at a smart pace, and timidly she
rang the bell, while Armando waited not many yards away. Instantly
the door opened, and he saw the hand of Carolina reach forth, grasp
his love by the shoulder, and jerk her into the house.
 CHAPTER XXIV
TWO TROUBLESOME WEDDING GIFTS

Looking down upon Genoa through the blue reaches of the

upper crests is an Apennine peak which the people, high and low,
call Our Lady of the Windows. Ever mantled in snow, and a fit
emblem of icy virtue, she has for ages inspired a negative chord for
that region’s lyres of passion. The princeling in his hillside palazzo
sings of his dream lady—always an angel as fervid as the glacial
Madonna is cold; the red waterman, in his moonlight barcarole,
swears his love would melt that frozen heart. But she bears no
kinship to this chronicle save that Signor Di Bello, on the afternoon of
the pregnant Feast of Sunday, when all was primed for the wedding,
thus addressed his sister, who sat by a front casement:
“Ha! my Lady of the Windows, it is time to go and fetch my bride.”
Carolina gave back only a silent nod and a closer pressure of the
lips, and he made off to the Santa Lucia, crowing to himself over the
timely bite of his pleasantry. Hour after hour she had been at that
window watching for Bertino, ready to spring to the door and drive
him away should he appear too soon. She was determined that the
play should not be spoiled by the untimely entrance of her star actor.
His cue, as agreed upon, was the exit of Signor Di Bello, but the fear
had haunted her that his itching vendetta might make him forget the
book. That danger was past now, and before his uncle had gone a
block, Bertino was at the door. She bundled him upstairs to her
sanctum, and, turning the key, left him looking out blankly on the
graveyard. “In a little while I shall call you,” she said, after explaining
gravely that she locked him in that his uncle might be kept out. Then
she descended to the street door and waved her hand, a signal that
brought a push-cart out of a near-by alley, with Armando and the
banker at its shafts. Of course, their load was the Last Lady, but no
eye could see her face, for Bridget had given her best and only bed
coverlet to veil it. No easy task to lug the weighty dame upstairs, but
they managed it without mischance, while Carolina stood by
imploring care, and all with an ado of deepest secrecy. At length the
bust was set up in the back room of the second floor. In this room the
bride and groom were to wait before going down to the parlour for
the ceremony. A dressing case near the window answered for a
pedestal. In the bright light that fell upon it the snowy features of
Juno showed bold to the eye, while the mirror rendered back in
softer tone her sturdy neck and shoulders. With a spotless sheet
Carolina covered the bust, and with the others left the room and
locked the door.
Repeated jangling of the bell and a low drone in the parlour told
of arriving guests. Marianna had been cast for the part of door-
opener and welcomer to the first families. Armando, in the best attire
he could muster, had only a meditative rôle. Thus far he had done
naught but sit in the parlour and exchange confident glances with
Marianna whenever she ushered in a distinguished Calabriano,
Siciliano, or Napolitano.
A cab bearing Signor Di Bello and Juno drew up betimes, and
word was passed to Carolina. Instantly she unlocked the door that
shut in Bertino, and bade him be ready for her summons. Then she
called Marianna and Armando to the room where the bust was,
leaving Angelica to let in the bridal pair. Up the staircase they
rustled, Juno first, her skirts held free of the yellow boots, and Signor
Di Bello smiling after her with a quivering bunch of muslin roses.
“They are here,” said the guests, craning their necks and
whispering. “No fiasco this time.”
“This way, signorina,” piped Carolina, with a spidery smile,
stepping aside and waving her fly into the web.
They entered the room prepared for them, and Signor Di Bello
regarded in wonder the white shape on the dressing case. “Soul of a
camel!” he cried. “What is that?”
“A little surprise that we have for the bride,” answered Carolina,
advancing and raising the window shade. “A wedding present, in
fact. Eccolo!”
She drew off the veil quickly, and the Last Lady stood revealed in
the streaming sunlight.
“By the Egg of Columbus!”
Every eye turned from the marble Juno to the Juno of flesh and
blood. She had let fall the counterfeit blossoms that the signore had
just placed in her hand, but gave no other token of disquiet. A glow
of admiration lit up her face as she gazed steadily at her double in
stone.
“It is really beautiful,” she said calmly, moving nearer. “I knew I
should look well in marble.”
She passed one hand behind the bust as though to judge it by
the sense of touch, but before any one could hinder she lifted it to
the window sill and sent it somersaulting into the rear court. The
crash brought a score of heads to the lower windows, and the guests
set up a cry that disaster had again visited the wedding of Signor Di
Bello.
“Infame! infame!” chorused Carolina, Armando, and Marianna
when they looked out and beheld the Last Lady in a dozen pieces on
the flagstones, while the bridegroom merely laughed, for it seemed
to him a capital joke.
Juno was quick to follow her prompt action with suitable words.
“You dogs of Genovese!” she said, sweeping the company with her
flashing eyes. “Do you like the bust now? Did you think I would stand
still and be made a fool of, or that I would fall down and weep?”
Then, turning to Carolina, “And you, Signorina Old Maid, you are a
large piece of stupidity.”
“Ha! You do not like my present!” said Carolina, ready for the
combat. “That is a grand pity. But, mark you, on her wedding day a
married maid must be suited to her heart’s full desire. I will give you
another present—yes, a present that every married maid must have.
Do you guess? No? How strange!” She went into the hall and called,
“Bertino!” Instantly he darted in and stood panting before his wife.
“Here is the other present, my married maid—your husband!”
 At the same moment there arose from the parlour a tumult of
voices, and Angelica entered and said that the priest had arrived.
“Are you her husband?” groaned Signor Di Bello, his hope all
gone.
“Yes,” Bertino answered, glaring at Juno. “She is my wife, the
viper! She put me up to stabbing you, my uncle. She told me you
annoyed her; that she did not want you. But she shall pay!” he cried,
waving his hand above his head. “Do you hear, you Neapolitan thief?
You shall pay. After that to inferno with you, and may you remain
there as long as it takes a crab to go round the world! Figlia of a
priest! Wolf of——”
“Stop!” broke in Signor Di Bello. Going up to Juno, he asked
mournfully, “Is he your husband?”
She answered, tossing her head: “He says so. Let him prove it.”
Signor Di Bello grasped the other end of the straw. “Ah, yes;
prove it,” he roared, while Carolina smiled snugly, for she had looked
to it that the properties for this scene were not lacking.
“You want proof?” asked Bertino. “Well, it is here.” He drew a
marriage certificate from his pocket.
Signor Di Bello seized the document and cast his eye over it. The
disorder below had redoubled, and with the noisy demands for the
bride and groom were mingled derisive shouts of “Long live the
Genovese bachelor!” and “Another fiasco!”
“Soul of the moon! It is true!” breathed Di Bello, crunching the
paper in style theatrical.
“Bah!” returned Juno, moving near to him and putting her hand
on his arm. “You believe that?”
“Believe me, then, signori,” spoke up a strange voice, in
grammatical but English-bred Italian. It was the priest from over the
border of Mulberry, who had come upstairs to learn the reason of the
delay and heard the last few lines of the dialogue—the priest whom
Signor Di Bello had engaged because he would not meddle. Turning
to Juno he continued: “I had the honour, signora, of marrying you to
this man.”
“Padre!” exclaimed Bertino, who knew him at once for the
clergyman he had sought out so hurriedly at the rectory in Second
Avenue that day when, to outwit his uncle—black the hour!—he had
taken Juno to wife.
“I know him not,” said Juno, turning to Signor Di Bello, who had
dropped into a chair. But her game of bluff was lost. “Go!” the grocer
said to her, pointing to the door.
She moved to the threshold, turned about, spat into the room,
and said, “May you all die cross-eyed!”—a Neapolitan figure that
means “Be hanged to you!” since the gallows bird squints when the
noose tightens. Then she rustled downstairs, mindful of her purple
skirts. Bertino would have been at her heels but for Carolina, who
caught his arm.
“Wait,” she whispered. “This is not the time or place.”
“No matter!” he cried, shaking off her hold. “She shall pay, she
shall pay!”
The sight of Juno’s yellow boots on the staircase served to quiet
the troubled parlour for a brief moment, the people thinking that the
bride and groom were coming at last. But she had seen the stiletto in
her husband’s eye, and was out of the door, into the waiting coupé,
and driving off at high speed before the first families had wholly
grasped the scandalous fact. Next moment there was another flying
exit, and Bertino went tearing after the carriage. This was the signal
for unheard-of insults to Casa Di Bello. The men set up a sirocco of
hisses, and the women shouted mock bravoes for the twice-
brideless groom. During the uproar Alessandro the Macaroni Presser
led a push-and-grab attack on a side table heaped with the
kaleidoscopic dainties with which Mulberry loves to tickle its eye as
well as its gullet.
“Dio tremendo!” whimpered Signor Di Bello, the tumult downstairs
assailing his ears. “What a disgrace! what a disgrace!”
 It was Carolina’s cue, and she snapped it up. In a few quick
words she unmasked the marital climax her drama was meant to
produce.
“Disgrace?” she said. “What need of disgrace, my brother? Are
not the guests here, is the feast not waiting, also the priest, and the
bride ready?”
“The bride?”
“Yes, and one that is worth a hundred—nay, a thousand—of the
baggage that you have lost; the bride that I have brought you all the
way from Cardinali. Hear those cattle below, how they bellow and
stamp on your name! But my bride can shut their ugly mouths. Here
is the young and sympathetic Marianna.”
She turned slightly and beckoned Marianna to her side, but the
girl remained where she was, hand in hand with Armando.
“No, no,” said Marianna, recoiling.
“Bah! She is young, my brother, and does not know what she
wants. Can’t you see that if you are not married at once the colony
will always despise you? Never again shall you hold up your head.”
“But the people will know just the same that I have been put in a
sack,” groaned Di Bello.
“Listen,” said Carolina, putting a finger beside her nose shrewdly.
“Those people are fools. They will believe anything you say, if only
you go before them with a bride. Let it be one of your famous jokes.
A little surprise you have prepared for your dear friends. Naturally,
they had you betrothed to the wrong woman, for that was all a part of
the joke. You laugh at them then. You laugh last. How silly they will
feel! What merriment! Ah! they will say it is Signor Di Bello’s
grandest joke!”
“By the stars of heaven, I will!” cried the grocer.—“Here, my pretty
Marianna, do you wish to be a happy wife?”
“Yes,” the girl answered, nestling closer to Armando, “but—but
not yours.”
 The priest, looking out of the window, shook his sides.
“You must be his!” said Carolina, catching hold of her arm and
striving to drag her away from Armando.
“She shall not!” cried the sculptor, placing an arm about
Marianna, authority in his eye and voice. “Take off your hand. No one
else shall have her.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Signor Di Bello. “Let the pigs squeal. I am not
a man to marry a girl against her will.”
Carolina’s colour ran the scale of red and white, her fingers
writhed, and her eyes set upon Armando’s curling hair. She saw the
curtain ringing down on her self-serving drama, and the cherished
dénouement left out. In her fury she would have tested the roots of
the sculptor’s locks, but the priest stepped between them, and raised
his hand.
“Signorina,” he said, his voice a distinct note of calm above the
storm below, “if you sincerely desire to save your brother from the
contempt of his neighbours it may be done better by the union of
these young hearts than by tearing them asunder. Let us consider.
You speak of the merry jest.” Here the good man’s eyes twinkled his
zest in the wholesome trick to be played. “Would it not be a greater
joke if the people found that they had betrothed not alone the wrong
bride, but the wrong groom as well; in fact, had come to the marriage
of one couple only to find another walk into the parlour with the
priest?”
For a moment no one caught his meaning. Then he went on, with
equal countenance: “What I mean is that you silence the tongue of
scandal by having a wedding at once, with this pair of turtle-doves as
the bride and groom.”
“Bravo!” Signor Di Bello whooped, grasping the priest’s hand.
“Indeed a famous joke. I will tell them that it was all fun about my
getting married; that it was to be my foster niece and her sweetheart
all the time. Ah, the side-splitting joke!”
“Come, then,” said the priest, without waiting for Carolina’s
approval; and the joyous Armando and Marianna, with Signor Di
Bello last in the procession, followed him to the parlour.
Carolina did not go downstairs, but turned into her sanctum, and
with flooding eyes looked out on San Patrizio’s graveyard. She heard
the muffled outburst of wonder that greeted the bridal twain in the
parlour, and alert was her ear to the growing quiet that became
silence when the priest began the nuptial rites. Soon the merriment
of the feast rang beneath her feet. Plainly the lying joke was a great
success. Ah! what a fine vendetta it would be to go down there and
tell them all the truth—even now while her brother was cracking
walnuts on his head and making the table roar! But no; of strife she
was weary. She longed for peace—for the peace that lay beyond
that gray forest of mortuary shafts; the peace beyond that rectory
door, to which the latch string beckoned and a soft voice, clear
above the revelry, seemed calling: “Perpetua, perpetua, riposo,
pace.”

When Armando, with one hundred dollars in his pocket—the

grateful tribute of Signor Di Bello—went to Banca Tomato to buy two
second-class tickets for Genoa, the banker led him behind the
nankeen sail—sewed together again by Bridget—and whispered that
Bertino would be on the same ship in the steerage.
“Did she pay?” asked the sculptor.
“No, not all: a cut on the cheek; a clumsy thrust, dealt in a dark
alley, where he waited for her all night. But mark you, the fool wanted
to stay, to go back—to make her pay more—to pay all. He is not
satisfied; and in truth I do not blame him. She ought to pay all.”
“Si—all.”
“But how could he go back to her, where a dozen man-hunters
are waiting? They have been here, the loons, to see if he bought a
ticket. They will not find him. He will stay where he is until—until it is
time to go on the ship. Ah, my friend, it was grand trouble to make
him do this. He was for going back to her—to the man-hunters. But I
gave him the light of a wise proverb, and he saw: Better an egg to-
day than a hen to-morrow.”