Courage

Courage is the virtue by which a man faces what he fears: danger in battle, pain in the body, the threat of the powerful, the approach of death, the long wearing of misfortune. Its opposite is cowardice. Its excess, or its imitation, is rashness and bravado. At its height it is called heroism. Few ideas run so continuously through the Harvard Classics. The epics and sagas are largely made of it, and the philosophers try to define it. Saints and martyrs remake it, satirists mock its absence, and voyagers and soldiers record it plainly. The same questions keep returning. Does courage lie in feeling no fear or in governing fear? Must it be joined to wisdom and justice? Is the endurance of the martyr a higher thing than the daring of the warrior? Which counts for more: the brave deed, or the steadiness that bears what cannot be changed?

The most persistent definition makes courage a mastery of fear grounded in a true reckoning of danger. Confucius can say simply that courage is being without fear¹. Yet he also says that to see the right and not do it is want of courage², and he rejects the rash bravery that would attack a tiger unarmed³. Homer already knows that the reckoning matters. Odysseus checks his impulse to stab the sleeping Cyclops because his men could not then move the stone⁴. Circe tells him that against an immortal plague flight is the bravest way⁵. Locke gives the doctrine its clearest modern form. Foolhardiness and timidity are both unreasonable, and courage requires a just estimate of danger⁶. True fortitude is quiet self-possession and the doing of one’s duty amid any danger, not merely bravery on the battlefield^7,8. Hobbes treats courage more mechanically. It is aversion joined with hope of avoiding hurt by resistance⁹, and it is honourable because it proceeds from consciousness of power¹⁰. Against all such calm analysis, Pliny the Younger wonders whether his reading of Livy during the earthquake was courage or folly¹¹. Emerson holds that fear springs from ignorance and is conquered by facing and understanding its object¹².

A second tradition insists that courage cut off from the other virtues is not a virtue at all. In the *Phaedo*, courage severed from wisdom is a mere shadow of virtue¹³. Confucius warns that courage without a sense of right makes rebels of the great and robbers of the poor¹⁴, and that love of courage without learning sinks into turbulence¹⁵. Pascal admires the valour of Epaminondas only because it was joined with equal kindness¹⁶. Dryden holds that valour without other virtues earns no true esteem¹⁷. Marcus Aurelius goes further and finds the true strength and nerve of courage in mildness and gentleness rather than in fits of passion¹⁸.

The counterfeits receive a whole literature of their own. Bacon calls boldness a child of ignorance and baseness. It fascinates the shallow, is blind to dangers, is bad in counsel and good only in execution^19,20. Hobbes notes that vainglorious men retreat when danger appears²¹. Penn says that courting danger to show one’s skill is weakness²². Cervantes makes the counterfeit both comic and touching. Don Quixote boasts that he is worth a hundred men and is beaten by carriers²³. He sees terror as a spur to his valiant heart²⁴, yet he rides toward the fearful noise genuinely resigned to death²⁵. Macbeth’s boldness rests on a prophecy, and his scorn of his servant’s pale cowardice is the confidence of a man who believes he cannot be harmed²⁶. Bunyan’s Christian warns against vaunting one’s manhood, remembering that Peter swaggered and was foiled²⁷.

The hardest question about the nature of courage is whether bravery that springs from fear of worse things is genuine. Socrates argues in the *Phaedo* that ordinary men are courageous only from fear of greater evils, a strange courage that is really cowardice²⁸. Other texts dwell on courage born of despair without condemning it. Aeneas tells his band that despair of life is itself the means of fighting on²⁹. More’s Utopians place cowards among bold men so that necessity turns their cowardice into prowess³⁰. Hamlet speaks of the “compelled valour” with which he boarded the pirate ship³¹. Milton’s Moloch is fearless only because nothing could be worse than his present torment³². Emerson ironically suggests that English courage comes from disgust of life³³.

The sources of courage are variously traced to nature, training, faith and honour. The Volsung saga tests boys by whether they flinch, and kills the timid one^34,35. Locke would build steadiness by sparing children early fright and inuring them gradually to pain^36,37. Milton would temper weapon exercise with lessons on fortitude³⁸. Rousseau charges that civilized softness costs man his courage³⁹. Against all this stands the courage that comes from trusting God. The psalmist asks what man can do unto him⁴⁰. Luke’s Jesus bids his hearers not fear those who kill the body⁴¹. The believers of the Koran answer threats with the words “God is enough for us”⁴². Bacon compares man gaining magnanimity from trust in divine protection to a dog gaining courage from its master⁴³. Manzoni’s Cardinal says that courage comes from reliance on God, as it did for the martyrs⁴⁴. Honour and love supply a third source. Sidney observes that Alexander drew more bravery from the pattern of Achilles than from any definition of fortitude⁴⁵. Locke would use praise to make a child prefer reputation to the avoidance of pain⁴⁶. Dante crosses the fire only at the name of Beatrice⁴⁷.

The Stoics turn the question inward. For Epictetus, death and pain are not to be feared; only the fear of them is⁴⁸. God matches a man with a rough antagonist as a wrestling trainer does, so that toil brings victory in the crisis⁴⁹, and every man has received the fortitude to endure whatever happens⁵⁰. Marcus Aurelius bids himself stand like a promontory against the waves⁵¹ and holds that to bear misfortune nobly is good fortune⁵². The image of the rock passes from Virgil’s Aeneas, unmoved like an oak in storm⁵³, to Henley’s unconquerable soul⁵⁴. Paul’s version of it, pressed and struck down yet not destroyed, rests on a different ground⁵⁵. Browne gives the Stoic thought a Christian twist. To contemn death is valour, but to dare to live when life is worse is the truest valour, and Job surpasses the Roman heroes⁵⁶.

Death is the test the books return to most. Socrates cared not a straw for death and feared only doing an unholy thing⁵⁷. He refused to plead with tears⁵⁸ and drank the poison cheerfully, steadying his weeping friends⁵⁹. His comparison of philosophy to a soldier holding his post⁶⁰ is echoed by Marcus Aurelius⁶¹. The chosen death raises harder questions. Plutarch’s Antony is ashamed to show tardier courage than a woman⁶². Pliny admires Arria⁶³, and he praises Aristo’s calm resolution as a hero’s, unlike blind rushing into death⁶⁴. Marcus permits a courageous departure from life rather than a degrading clinging to it⁶⁵. Shakespeare’s cornered Macbeth, by contrast, refuses suicide and fights on⁶⁶. Another kind of dying meets death with jest. Thomas More jokes on the scaffold and encourages his executioner⁶⁷. Hogni laughs as his heart is cut out⁶⁸. Emerson makes this good humour in suffering a mark of the heroic character⁶⁹.

With the martyrs the scale of values shifts. Browne holds that martyrs give the true examples of fortitude, surpassing Alexander and Caesar, whom Aristotle’s requirements for true valour hardly fit⁷⁰. Pascal finds that the noble deaths of the Lacedaemonians scarcely move us, while the martyrs’ resolution can form our own⁷¹. In Corneille, Severus marvels that Christians tortured and slain never fail themselves⁷². The Acts show unlearned men astonishing their judges by their boldness⁷³ and rejoicing to be beaten for the Name⁷⁴. Bunyan turns the whole Christian life into a warfare. Christian stands his ground against Apollyon because he has no armour on his back⁷⁵, and Great-heart slays giants while trusting his Master rather than himself⁷⁶. Bunyan is psychologically subtle as well as martial. Mr. Fearing, faint-hearted, will neither turn back nor venture easily⁷⁷, and his weakness is of mind, not of spirit⁷⁸. Manzoni brings the question to the ministry itself. Against Don Abbondio’s plea that he cannot give himself courage, the Cardinal insists that facing danger for charity is the priest’s calling^79,80.

This line of thought culminates in the claim that patience is the higher fortitude. Milton’s narrator sets patience and heroic martyrdom above fabled battles⁸¹, and his chorus calls patience the saints’ fortitude⁸². Voltaire observes that Quaker pacifism is not fear⁸³. Whittier shows a veteran’s true courage in meek non-resistance⁸⁴. Emerson admits that no valour commands his respect more than standing for non-resistance⁸⁵. Endurance takes humbler forms too: Odysseus hardening his heart against insult⁸⁶, Scott paying his debts by writing until his heart broke⁸⁷, Wordsworth’s leech-gatherer⁸⁸. It appears again in the voyagers who press on through hunger and storm. Raleigh’s starving men are told that turning back means scorn as well as starvation⁸⁹. Dana’s sailors furl an ice-cased sail with bare hands in a hurricane⁹⁰. Recovery after defeat is its own form of courage. Emerson calls valour the power of self-recovery⁹¹, Browning’s fighter falls only to rise⁹², and Arnold bids the hissed and out-talked charge once more⁹³.

Emerson gives heroism its fullest modern statement. It is the soul’s warlike attitude, self-trust and contempt for safety and ease^94,95. It shows itself as gay and playful greatness⁹⁶, and its rule is to do what you are afraid to do⁹⁷. This courage often stands against opinion rather than against the sword. Milton’s Abdiel is unshaken alone among multitudes⁹⁸. Lowell says heroes stand alone while the multitude later honours the martyrs⁹⁹. Mill warns that intellectual pacification is bought at the price of the moral courage of the human mind¹⁰⁰. Defiance may also turn against the gods. Prometheus refuses to plead¹⁰¹. Milton’s Satan has the courage “never to submit or yield”¹⁰², a line Arnold offers as an instance of the highest poetry¹⁰³. That raises the unsettled question of whether such courage, cut loose from right, is the virtue the philosophers meant. The Buddhist texts offer a contrasting image of undefeatable resolve: the Future Buddha sitting unmoved against every terror of Mara¹⁰⁴.

War remains the plainest theatre. Roland refuses the craven counsel and holds the pass against odds¹⁰⁵. Turpin declares that a knight must be strong in battle or else be a monk¹⁰⁶. Beowulf goes alone against the dragon while his comrades flee¹⁰⁷. Wiglaf shows what an earl should be on danger’s day¹⁰⁸. Plutarch’s Caesar exposes himself to every hardship¹⁰⁹ and shames timorous officers by offering to march with the tenth legion alone¹¹⁰. Haskell, at Gettysburg, sees brave men turn pale yet stand steady¹¹¹. Nations differ as well. Bacon holds numbers to matter little where a people lacks courage¹¹². Macaulay explains how valour ceased to be needed among Italian soldiers while cowardice remained the foulest reproach in the north¹¹³. Emerson finds that the English prize pluck above everything¹¹⁴. The weak and the women claim their share: Camilla among the warriors¹¹⁵, Goethe’s Clara shaming the burghers¹¹⁶, Swift’s Stella shooting an armed intruder¹¹⁷, and Dana’s smaller boy who grows bolder the more he is hurt¹¹⁸.

Cowardice is the necessary foil, and it is treated sometimes with scorn and sometimes with laughter. Lady Macbeth’s taunt “Are you a man?”¹¹⁹ and Brynhild’s contempt for Gunnar¹²⁰ are reproaches in earnest. Aristophanes, by contrast, makes Dionysus faint in the lion-skin of Heracles¹²¹. Grimm’s seven mock heroes flee from a beetle¹²². Manzoni’s Don Abbondio, a clawless and toothless animal who yet wishes not to be devoured¹²³, stands neutral and blames priests who risk themselves for the weak¹²⁴. Great men fail too. Peter denies his master from fear¹²⁵. Demosthenes throws away his shield¹²⁶. Cicero wavers in flight¹²⁷. Hamlet asks whether he is a coward¹²⁸. Penn holds that where right calls, a neuter is a coward or a hypocrite¹²⁹. Sancho, however, keeps the old Homeric caveat alive: retreat is not flight, and discretion is wise¹³⁰.

The questions stay open. The books do not settle whether courage is a passion or a virtue, nor whether it belongs to the warrior or to the patient sufferer. They leave undecided whether despair can be its honest root, and whether defiance without justice deserves its name. They agree only that a man is measured by what he does when he is afraid.