“Then he must have been brave,” said I.
“No. Pushing oneself in where you are not needed, does not prove you to be brave.”
“Then what do you call brave?”
“Brave?—Brave?—” repeated the captain, with the air of one to whom such a question presents itself for the first time. “He who does what he ought to do is brave,” he said, after thinking awhile.
I remembered that Plato defines courage as “The knowledge of what should and what should not be feared,” and despite the looseness and vagueness of the captain’s definition, I thought that the fundamental ideas of the two were not so different as they might appear, and that the captain’s definition was even more correct than that of the Greek philosopher. For if the captain had been able to express himself like Plato, he would no doubt have said that, “He is brave, who fears only what should be feared and not what should not be feared.”
I wished to explain my idea to the captain.
“Yes,” said I. “It seems to me that in every danger there is a choice; and a choice made under the influence of a sense of duty—is courage, but a choice made under the influence of a base motive—is cowardice. Therefore a man who risks his life from vanity, curiosity, or greed, cannot be called brave; while, on the other hand, one who avoids a danger from honest consideration for his family, or simply from conviction, cannot be called a coward.”
The captain looked at me with a curious kind of expression while I was speaking.
“Well, that I cannot prove to you,” he said, filling his pipe, “but we have a cadet here who is fond of philosophizing. You should have a talk with him. He also writes verses.”