The Duel (24 page)

And elsewhere he remarks that sin, according to the Confucian moral standard, “becomes an act which robs a man of his self-respect, and offends his sense of right,” and is not regarded as a transgression of God’s law.”

Of modern writers who, asserting the existence of a moral sense, consider the intuitions it yields as guides to conduct, we may distinguish two classes. There are those who, taking a view like that of Confucius just indicated, hold that the
dicta
of conscience are authoritative, irrespective of alleged divine commands; and, indeed, furnish a test by which commands may be known as not divine if they do not withstand it. On the other hand there are those who regard the authority of conscience as second to that of commands which they accept as divine, and as having for its function to prompt obedience to such commands. But the two are at one in so far as they place the dicta of conscience above considerations of expediency; and also in so far as they tacitly regard conscience as having a supernatural origin. To which add that while alike in recognizing the moral sentiment as innate, and in accepting the ordinary dogma that human nature is everywhere the same, they are, by implication, alike in supposing that the moral sentiment is identical in all men.

But, as the beginning of this section shows, it is possible to agree with moralists of the intuitive school respecting the existence of a moral sense, while differing from them respecting its origin. I have contended in the foregoing division of this work, and elsewhere, that though there exist feelings of the kind alleged, they are not of supernatural origin but of natural origin; that, being generated by the discipline of the social activities, internal and external, they are not alike in all men, but differ more or less everywhere in proportion as the social activities differ; and that, in virtue of their mode of genesis, they have a co-ordinate authority with the inductions of utility.

Before going further it will be well to sum up these various detailed statements, changing somewhat the order and point of view.

Survival of the fittest insures that the faculties of every species of creature tend to adapt themselves to its mode of life. It must be so with man. From the earliest times groups of men whose feelings and conceptions were congruous with the conditions they lived under, must, other things equal, have spread and replaced those whose feelings and conceptions were incongruous with their conditions.

—from
The Principles Of Ethics
by
Herbert Spencer
.
Spencer (1829–1903) was an English philosopher, biologist and seminal figure in sociology. He was heavily influenced by the work of Charles Darwin. Herbert Spencer is credited with coining the expression, “the survival of the fittest” and whether intentional or not, Spencer is considered the founder of the line of thought known as Social-Darwinism. Spencer’s theories were influential in the late 19
^th
century through the early 20
^th
century
.

“There go the macaques for you …” Von Koren began, wrapping himself up in his raincoat and closing his eyes. “Did you hear, she doesn’t want to study insects and bugs because people are suffering. That’s how we brothers are judged by all macaques. A race of slaves, cunning, taught fear by ten generations of the lash and the fist. It trembles, is adoring and burns incense only in the face of violence, but you release a macaque into open territory where there is no one to grab it by the scruff of its neck, that’s where it unfurls and makes a name for itself. Just look at the audacity she displays at art exhibitions, in the museums, in the theatres or drawing conclusions about science: she bristles, rears, argues, criticizes … And will criticize without fail—it’s a slavish trait! You heed what I say: people belonging to the liberal professions are berated more often than swindlers—that’s because three quarters of society are made up of slaves, of these very same macaques. It’s unheard of for a slave to extend his hand and to say in all
sincerity thank you, for the work that you do.”

“I don’t know what you want!” Samoylenko said, yawning. “In her naiveté, the poor little thing just wanted to chat with you about intelligent matters, but you pass judgment. You’re angry at him for some reason, and with her by association. And she’s an excellent woman!”

“Hey, enough already! She’s a typical kept woman, debauched and crass. Listen to me, Alexander Davidich, if you encounter a simple broad, one who’s not living with her husband, who does nothing except hee-hees, agrees, and haa-haas, you’d tell her: get to work. Why are you being so timid about this, afraid of speaking the truth? It’s only that Nadezhda Fyodorovna is kept not by some sailor, but by a functionary.”

Samoylenko grew angry, “What would you have me do? Would you have me beat her?”

“Don’t pander to her vices. We curse vice only when it is out of sight, but that’s just flipping it the bird without removing your hand from your pocket. I am a zoologist, or a sociologist, they’re one and the same, you—you’re a doctor. Society trusts in us. We are obligated to point out that frightful detriment that menaces it and future generations to come, the likes of ladies like Nadezhda Ivanovna.”

“Fyodorovna,” Samoylenko corrected. “And what is society to do about this?”

“Do? That’s society’s business. In my opinion, the most direct and reliable path is force. Manu militari
²
, she should be sent back to her husband, and if her husband won’t have her, then give her over to hard labor or some sort of correctional facility.”

“Oofff!” Samoylenko sighed. He was silent, then inquired quietly: “Some days ago you spoke of how those kinds of people, like Laevsky, must be annihilated … Tell me, if it were the case … for argument’s sake, that government or society entrusted you with the task of annihilating him, would you then … resolve the matter?”

“My hand would be steady.”

—from
The Duel
by
Anton Chekhov
.

The slave-revolt in morality begins by resentment itself becoming creative and giving birth to values—the resentment of such beings, as real reaction, the reaction of deeds, is impossible to, and as nothing but an imaginary vengeance will serve to indemnify. Whereas, on the one hand, all noble morality takes its rise from a triumphant Yea-saying to one’s self, slave-morality will, on the other hand, from the very beginning, say No to something “exterior,” “different,” “not-self;” this No being its creative deed. This reversion of the value-positing eye—this necessary glance outwards instead of backwards upon itself—is part of resentment. Slave-morality, in order to arise, needs in the first place, an opposite and outer world; it needs, physiologically speaking, external irritants, in order to act at all;—its action is, throughout, reaction. The reverse is true in the case of noble valuation. It acts and grows spontaneously. It only seeks for its antithesis in order to say, still more thankfully, still more rejoicing, Yea to itself. Its negative concept “low,” “mean,” “bad,” is merely a late-born and pale afterimage in comparison with the positive fundamental concept of the noble valuation which is thoroughly saturated with the life and passion and says: “We, the noble, we, the good, we, the fair, we, the happy!” If the noble manner of valuation mistakes in, and sins against reality, this happens in respect to the sphere, which is not sufficiently known to it,—the true knowledge of which, in fact, it stubbornly opposes. Under certain circumstances it will mistake the sphere it despises, the sphere of the common man, of the lower people. On the other hand, one should observe, that in any case the emotion of contempt, of looking down upon, of looking superior (supposing even that the picture of the
despised be falsified by it), will remain far behind the falsification, with which suppressed hatred, the revenge of the impotent, will—of course in effigy—maltreat its opponent.

—from The Genealogy of Morals by
Friedrich Nietzsche
(1844
–
1900). At the time of Chekhov’s publication of The Duel, Nietzsche’s writings were in vogue all over Europe and Russia. This popularity was due in part to the proliferation of disparate editions and interpretations of his philosophy. The bombastic character of Von Koren draws heavily on this popular wave of interest
.

By the following morning the storm had blown itself quite out and the
Ghost
was rolling slightly on a calm sea without a breath of wind. Occasional light airs were felt, however, and Wolf Larsen patrolled the poop constantly, his eyes ever searching the sea to the north-eastward, from which direction the great trade-wind must blow.

The men were all on deck and busy preparing their various boats for the season’s hunting. There are seven boats aboard, the captain’s dingey, and the six which the hunters will use. Three, a hunter, a boat-puller, and a boat-steerer, compose a boat’s crew. On board the schooner the boat-pullers and steerers are the crew. The hunters, too, are supposed to be in command of the watches, subject, always, to the orders of Wolf Larsen.

All this, and more, I have learned. The
Ghost
is considered the fastest schooner in both the San Francisco and Victoria fleets. In fact, she was once a private yacht, and was built for speed. Her lines and fittings—though I know nothing about such things—speak for themselves. Johnson was telling me about her in a short chat I had with him during yesterday’s second dog-watch. He spoke enthusiastically, with the love for a fine craft such as some men feel for horses. He is greatly disgusted with the outlook, and I am given to understand that Wolf Larsen bears a very unsavoury reputation among the sealing captains. It was the
Ghost
herself that lured Johnson into signing for the voyage, but he is already beginning to repent.

As he told me, the
Ghost
is an eighty-ton schooner of a remarkably fine model. Her beam, or width, is twenty-three feet, and her length a little over ninety feet. A lead keel of fabulous but unknown weight makes her very stable, while she carries an immense spread of canvas. From the deck to the truck of the maintopmast is something over a hundred feet, while the foremast with its topmast is eight or ten feet shorter. I am giving these details so that the size of this little floating world which holds twenty-two men may be appreciated. It is a very little world, a mote, a speck, and I marvel that men should dare to venture the sea on a contrivance so small and fragile.

Wolf Larsen has, also, a reputation for reckless carrying on of sail. I overheard Henderson and another of the hunters, Standish, a Californian, talking about it. Two years ago he dismasted the
Ghost
in a gale on Bering Sea, whereupon the present masts were put in, which are stronger and heavier in every way. He is said to have remarked, when he put them in, that he preferred turning her over to losing the sticks.

Every man aboard, with the exception of Johansen, who is rather overcome by his promotion, seems to have an excuse for having sailed on the
Ghost
. Half the men forward are deep-water sailors, and their excuse is that they did not know anything about her or her captain. And those who do know, whisper that the hunters, while excellent shots, were so notorious for their quarrelsome and rascally proclivities that they could not sign on any decent schooner.

I have made the acquaintance of another one of the crew,—Louis he is called, a rotund and jovial-faced Nova Scotia Irishman, and a very sociable fellow, prone to talk as long as he can find a listener. In the afternoon, while the cook was below asleep and I was peeling the everlasting potatoes, Louis dropped into the galley for a “yarn.” His excuse for being aboard was that he was drunk when he signed. He assured me again and again that it was the last thing in the world he would dream of doing in a sober moment. It seems that he has been seal-hunting regularly each season for a dozen years, and is accounted one of the two or three very best boat-steerers in both fleets.

“Ah, my boy,” he shook his head ominously at me, “ ’tis the worst schooner ye could iv selected, nor were ye
drunk at the time as was I. ’Tis sealin’ is the sailor’s paradise—on other ships than this. The mate was the first, but mark me words, there’ll be more dead men before the trip is done with. Hist, now, between you an’ meself and the stanchion there, this Wolf Larsen is a regular devil, an’ the
Ghost’ll
be a hell-ship like she’s always ben since he had hold iv her. Don’t I know? Don’t I know? Don’t I remember him in Hakodate two years gone, when he had a row an’ shot four iv his men? Wasn’t I a-layin’ on the
Emma L.
, not three hundred yards away? An’ there was a man the same year he killed with a blow iv his fist. Yes, sir, killed ‘im dead-oh. His head must iv smashed like an eggshell. An’ wasn’t there the Governor of Kura Island, an’ the Chief iv Police, Japanese gentlemen, sir, an’ didn’t they come aboard the
Ghost
as his guests, a-bringin’ their wives along—wee an’ pretty little bits of things like you see ’em painted on fans. An’ as he was a-gettin’ under way, didn’t the fond husbands get left astern-like in their sampan, as it might be by accident? An’ wasn’t it a week later that the poor little ladies was put ashore on the other side of the island, with nothin’ before ’em but to walk home acrost the mountains on their weeny-teeny little straw sandals which wouldn’t hang together a mile? Don’t I know? ’Tis the beast he is, this Wolf Larsen—the great big beast mentioned iv in Revelation; an’ no good end will he ever come to. But I’ve said nothin’ to ye, mind ye. I’ve whispered never a word; for old fat Louis’ll live the voyage out if the last mother’s son of yez go to the fishes.”

“Wolf Larsen!” he snorted a moment later. “Listen to the word, will ye! Wolf—’tis what he is. He’s not black-hearted like some men. ’Tis no heart he has at all. Wolf, just wolf, ’tis what he is. D’ye wonder he’s well named?”