simplest conditions of spiritual progress. “Blessed,” indeed, “are ye, when men shall revile you for my sake.” In the words of a modern Indian folksong, “They say, and what do they say? let them say.” It requires the highest degree of moral courage to accept the stigma of cowardice. This part of the argument at least is unworthy and valueless.
Krishna proceeds to point out that this is a righteous war—was there ever a war admittedly unjustified?—and to fight in a righteous cause, for the protection of the wronged, is the duty and vocation of a knight, which he may not betray. The arguments of commitment, social debt and functions are involved here. Arjuna was not only born of the knightly class, but had accepted all his life the status of his class, whose function lies in “protection”—had he the right to desert the cause at a critical moment ? This consideration is at least so far logical, that Arjuna could not consistently have refused to fight, and afterwards have returned to resume his old position in society.
Just in the same way it might be argued that those who all their life have formed a part of a modern industrial community, normally conducting war by peaceful methods, and suddenly brought face to face with the development of an armed conflict, have no right to stand aside from the war for which the very social order of which they form a part is to be held responsible: it might be argued that only those who have already announced their opposition to the social order in question have a right to “conscientious objection” in time of war. And even if it should be the case that the eyes of the conscientious objector are opened for the first time by the actual crisis of impending battle, we have at least the right to expect of him a future consistency.
Krishna, however, seems to suspect that Arjuna is actuated by motives of mere pity: and mere pity is akin to cowardice, as for example, in the case of the surgeon who dares not inflict the necessary pain. Renunciation of conflict—non-resistance—should be based on vision, rather than on pity.
But the last consideration reduces the case to an argumentum ad hominem, while the Gita is plainly intended to present a general case, in which we are entitled to assume the most abstract motives and to neglect the personal feelings of compassion or hatred.
As Deussen has very justly remarked, “When the knowledge of the Self has been gained, every action, and therefore every moral action also, has been deprived of meaning. Only painfully and artificially has the Bhagavat Gita the skill to derive from these premises (the doctrine of the unconditioned Brahman) a demand for heroic action.” It is, in fact, impossible to connect the doctrine of the Absolute with behaviour on the plane of duality: and the Gita is really a tendem-schrift, with a case to prove, and a foregone conclusion. Laotse is nearer the mark when he asks, “What leisure have you to attend to the doings of wicked men, when you have not yet found the Way for yourself?” And when the Way has been found, it is impossible to conceive that activity should any longer be determined by motives.
All that could be deduced is that action should exhibit the character of manifestation, rather than purpose—and it would follow from this, only that those who feel the conflict to be inevitable (which is not the case of Arjuna) commit no sin in taking part in it. It is a falling away from this position to put forward tile practical arguments that Krishna adduces. An argument still farther fetched might be based on the identity of all interests which a monistic point of view must assume; in this case the battle should be as much for the enemy’s good as for our own. But we are not entitled to force our view of the matter—little likely as it is to be unprejudiced—in this fashion: the case
