the development of strong, independent spirits and philosophers than the gentle, refined, yielding good-nature, and habit of taking things easily, which are prized, and rightly prized in a learned man.  Presupposing always, to begin with, that the term “philosopher” be not confined to the philosopher who writes books, or even introduces his philosophy into books!—­Stendhal furnishes a last feature of the portrait of the free-spirited philosopher, which for the sake of German taste I will not omit to underline—­for it is opposed to German taste.  “Pour etre bon philosophe,” says this last great psychologist, “il faut etre sec, clair, sans illusion.  Un banquier, qui a fait fortune, a une partie du caractere requis pour faire des decouvertes en philosophie, c’est-a-dire pour voir clair dans ce qui est.”

40.  Everything that is profound loves the mask:  the profoundest things have a hatred even of figure and likeness.  Should not the contrary only be the right disguise for the shame of a God to go about in?  A question worth asking!—­it would be strange if some mystic has not already ventured on the same kind of thing.  There are proceedings of such a delicate nature that it is well to overwhelm them with coarseness and make them unrecognizable; there are actions of love and of an extravagant magnanimity after which nothing can be wiser than to take a stick and thrash the witness soundly:  one thereby obscures his recollection.  Many a one is able to obscure and abuse his own memory, in order at least to have vengeance on this sole party in the secret:  shame is inventive.  They are not the worst things of which one is most ashamed:  there is not only deceit behind a mask—­there is so much goodness in craft.  I could imagine that a man with something costly and fragile to conceal, would roll through life clumsily and rotundly like an old, green, heavily-hooped wine-cask:  the refinement of his shame requiring it to be so.  A man who has depths in his shame meets his destiny and his delicate decisions upon paths which few ever reach, and with regard to the existence of which his nearest and most intimate friends may be ignorant; his mortal danger conceals itself from their eyes, and equally so his regained security.  Such a hidden nature, which instinctively employs speech for silence and concealment, and is inexhaustible in evasion of communication, desires and insists that a mask of himself shall occupy his place in the hearts and heads of his friends; and supposing he does not desire it, his eyes will some day be opened to the fact that there is nevertheless a mask of him there—­and that it is well to be so.  Every profound spirit needs a mask; nay, more, around every profound spirit there continually grows a mask, owing to the constantly false, that is to say, superficial interpretation of every word he utters, every step he takes, every sign of life he manifests.