Heroic, Unkind Love

It is sometimes suggested that we don't know how strong someone's love is until that love is put to the test. What would we do for the people we supposedly love? Would we stand by them when times are hard? Would we sacrifice anything of value?

Love may fail the test. For instance, in Henrik Ibsen's play Doll's House, Nora discovers that her husband Torvald is not devoted to her in the way she thinks. Once, when Torvald was ill, Nora borrowed money illegally, by forging her deceased father's signature so that Nora and Torvald could go on a trip to Italy for the sake of Torvald's health. Ever since, Nora has been saving money and little by little repaying the loan.

An employee of Torvald's, Krogstad, knows about the forged signature. As chance would have it, Torvald decides to fire Krogstad from his job at the bank where both men work. Nora pleads with her husband not to fire Krogstad, but Torvald is determined. Krogstad sends a letter to Torvald detailing Nora's fraud. This letter is the test of Torvald's commitment. Nora expects that her husband would stand by her, understand she has only done what she has done for his sake. But Torvald becomes enraged that Krogstad has leverage, calls Nora dishonest and immoral, and suggests that from then on, their marriage would be in name only, for the sake of public appearance.

Shortly after, Krogstad has a change of heart. He sends a letter to Torvald that contains all incriminating evidence. Torvald burns the letter and the evidence and, relieved, tries to reconcile with Nora and to persuade her he loves her more than ever. But Nora does not want to reconcile. Torvald's love has failed the test. She decides to leave him.

Couple with their backs toward each other.

Source: Cottonbro/Pexels

Such cases can reveal a good deal not only about love but about a person’s character. We have an occasion to see, as we say, a person's "true colors." There are, however, cases in which a person’s devotion can pass the test Torvald’s commitment fails, yet the love is deficient in a different way: It lacks ordinary thoughtfulness and amiability. It is, as I wish to put it, heroic but unkind.

George Meredith notes the possibility I have in mind. In an essay on comedy, he writes:

Each one of an affectionate couple may be willing, as we say, to die for each other, yet unwilling to utter the agreeable word at the right moment.

What explains this phenomenon?

The situation, perhaps, resembles that of heroism versus ordinary virtue in general. Some people are capable of extraordinary acts of the will under extreme circumstances such as war or disaster, but they struggle with being reliably good in everyday life. While trying situations may provoke our worst, most selfish tendencies—making us run for our lives if it meant stepping over the bodies of other people—they may and do also inspire us; awake our best selves.

In addition, opportunities for heroism contain what we may call a moral temptation: the promise of a great moral reward. Perhaps we hope, unconsciously, that we can erase multiple small failings from our characters by acting like champions on a single occasion.

Same with love: The valiant lovers too may be inspired and hope to smooth over multiple small imperfections by doing one great thing for the other on some special occasion.

It is possible also that our own conviction our love would pass the test if it came to it makes us more likely to misbehave on a day-to-day basis. For it may seem to us that if we are willing to make a great sacrifice in time of need, we have nothing to prove. We don’t have to be patient or kind, or acknowledge a fault, or say we are sorry. We have, after all, the fearless, epic kind of love.

This conviction is not entirely groundless. If I and the person I love know we would die for each other if it came to it, then we can be assured that in some sense, our love is as powerful as a force of nature.

But just as the capacity for valor is not the only measure of virtue in general, so also the heroism of a lover is not the only measure of love. There is more than one way to evaluate love. We can look at how it fares in times of extreme hardship, but we can also examine it on ordinary days. The everyday measure of love is a capacity to live in peace; to get along.

This often seems more difficult than it is or, at least, than it should be. For the usual grievances we have about each other are generally petty and prosaic. We have arguments about trifles, which is precisely why no heroism on anyone’s part is called for to resolve them.

Why is kindness sometimes more difficult than fortitude? We already mentioned one reason: consistently good behavior is not easy for humans. When facing a tremendous challenge, we feel inspired, rise to the occasion. But the challenges of everyday life may appear too insignificant to be worth the effort.

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This, however, is a misunderstanding. The fact is that life does not often present us with opportunities for immense sacrifice or bravery. It mostly consists of ordinary days, days on which what’s called for is not jumping in the fire for the one we love but finding a kind word or acknowledging fault. If we believe that those things are not worth the effort, then it is not only love we misunderstand but life.

George Meredith, in the essay I quoted from earlier, suggests that in fact, often, all that’s required to restore peace between people who love each other is the realization that the quarrel is tiny in comparison with their love. I mentioned previously that our faith in the heroism of our own love may make us certain that we have nothing to prove, or perhaps, that we’ll show ourselves worthy if the situation arises. Meredith, however, points to a way in which our faith in the strength of our own affection can be used to bring back warmth and harmony. Perhaps, all we need to do if we find ourselves in a hostile argument with the person we love is compare, in our minds, the magnitude of the mundane problem we are facing to that of our mutual love.

If we do that, Meredith thinks, we may discover that the hostility is in fact comical. It is as though we and the other share the sun and stars but cannot agree on who should have a grain of sand. Meredith goes on to say about the lovers who would die for each other yet wouldn’t say a kind word:

but if the wits were sufficiently quick for them to perceive that they are in a comic situation, as affectionate couples must be when they quarrel, they would not wait for the moon or the almanac … to bring back the flood tide of tender feelings, that they should join hands and lips …

If Meredith is right, heroic love can be unkind, but there is something absurd and absurdly comical about grand and fearless yet unkind love; and if we saw that, kindness may come back of its own accord.

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