For Byron, besides diseases, death and slavery, the evils that we see, there are others:—
In many of his works he insists on the feeling of satiety which was almost continually upon him. Every sensation of pleasure that came to him was rapidly succeeded by a still stronger feeling of disgust.
Heine thought that existence was evil and saw
As I urged in The Nature of Man, consciousness of the shortness of human life has been an important factor in exciting pessimism, and we find this theme recurring in pessimistic writers. Leopardi returns to it again and again in his poems. “Falling in peril of death from some mysterious disease,” he said in his Souvenirs, “I lamented over my sweet youth and the flower of my poor days which was to fall so soon, and often in the midnight hours wove from my sorrows, by the pale light of my lamp, a sad poem, and in the silence of the night wept over my fleeting life, and half fainting, sang to myself my funeral song” (loc. cit., p. 28). The bas-relief on an ancient tomb, representing the departure of a young girl who took farewell of her friends, suggested to Leopardi the following thoughts: “Mother, who from their birth makes her family of living beings tremble and weep, Nature, monster unworthy of our praise, who brings into the world and nurtures only to kill, if the premature death of a mortal be evil, why do you bring it on so many innocent heads? If it be a good, why do you make it sad for those who go and for those left behind? Why is it the hardest grief to console? The only relief from our woes is death, death, the inevitable end, the immutable law which you have established for human beings. Why, alas, after the sad voyage of life, do you not make the arrival joyful? This certain end, this end which is in our souls all our lives, which alone can soothe our troubles, why do you drape it in black and surround it with mournful shades? Why do you make the harbour more terrible than the open seas?” (loc. cit., p. 55).
The three chief grievances—injustice, disease, and death—often come together. From the anthropomorphic point of view fate is represented as a sort of wicked being who commits injustice by visiting all kinds of evils on mankind.
A pessimistic conception of life is arrived at by a complex psychological process in which both feelings and reflection are involved, and hence it is difficult to analyse it satisfactorily. Formerly, therefore, writers were content with general and very vague estimates of the process by which we may become pessimists. Ed. von Hartmann has tried to deal more exactly with this inner process of the human mind. In the first place, he lays stress on the fact that pleasures always bring less satisfaction than pains bring grief. False notes in music, for instance, are more painful than the best music is delightful. The pain of toothache is much more violent than the pleasure when relief comes. So also with all diseases. In love, according to Hartmann, the pleasure is always very greatly over-balanced by the pain. Muscular work brings pleasure only in a very small degree, and devotion to science and art and intellectual work in general brings more pain than pleasure to the votaries. As the result of an analysis, Hartmann is convinced that there is much more pain than pleasure in the world. Pessimism is founded upon the essential nature of human feelings.
M. Kowalevsky,181 a German philosopher at Koenigsberg, adopting the modern habit of measuring mental processes as exactly as possible, has recently published an attempt to analyse pessimism psychologically. Although this has not solved the problem, it is extremely interesting as an instance of the application of the methods now being adopted in modern psychology.
M. Kowalevsky took advantage of all the known methods of estimating the relative values of our emotions; he tried to make use of the notes of Munsterberg, another living psychologist who kept a journal in which he set down daily his psychical and psycho-physical impressions. The object of the work had no relation to the question of pessimism, and for that reason Kowalevsky thought that it was specially important in his investigations.
Munsterberg was not content with the existing classification of emotions as agreeable or painful. He subdivided them much further. He recognised, for instance, emotions of tranquillity and excitement, serious and pleasant impressions. Having completed the reckoning, Kowalevsky came to the conclusion that his colleague, who was by no means a pessimist, but a psychologist of well-balanced mind, experienced many more painful emotions (about 60 per cent. as compared with 40 per cent.) than agreeable emotions. “Such a result is in favour of pessimism,” concluded Kowalevsky.
However, he went beyond the foregoing enquiry. By several other methods, he tried to gain an exact idea of the value of our emotions. He visited elementary schools in order to investigate the pleasures and pains of the scholars. In the case of 104 boys, of eleven to thirteen years of age, he found that pain was much more deeply felt than corresponding pleasure. Thus, while in 88 cases illness was set down as an evil, only in 21 was health reckoned as a good. One-third of the pupils noted down war amongst evils, whilst only one noted peace amongst the good things. Poverty was written down thirteen times as an evil, against twice in which riches were put down as a good. In another series of investigations, Kowalevsky took notes on the pleasures and pains felt by pupils of the two sexes attending the same school. The result was that the greatest evil, according to them, was illness, noted 43 times, then death 42 times, after which came fire 37 times, hunger 23 times, floods 20 times. Amongst the good things, the first place was given, as might have been expected, to games (30) and the second to presents.
As Kowalevsky did not find that such investigations could solve the problem, he tried to discover a more exact method. With this object, he turned to different sensations, such as those of smell, hearing and taste, to which he applied methods of exact measurement. In the case of taste, for instance, he determined the minimum quantity of different substances which could excite definitely pleasant or unpleasant sensations. In his experiments, Kowalevsky found that doses which gave bad tastes were not balanced by those which gave good tastes. For instance, to neutralise the unpleasant taste of quinine, it was necessary to employ a much larger quantity of sugar. He was specially pleased with one experiment. Four persons were given definite mixtures of sugar and quinine in order to discover the proportion of the two substances necessary to obtain a neutral sensation. He found that to take away the bad taste of quinine, it was necessary to double the quantity of sugar given. Similarly with smells, he found that those which were unpleasant were appreciated much more strongly than those which were pleasant. Here, then, was a series of scientific results supporting the view of the pessimists. Must we really conclude from them that the world is very badly arranged? The analysis of good and bad temper made by Kowalevsky is in favour of such an interpretation. In order to estimate these conditions of mind, he measured the gait, that is to say, the number of steps taken in a minute. This method depended upon the following idea. It is an accepted view that the condition of mind is shown by the rapidity of the human walk; we have only to compare the slow pace of a man in deep grief with the rapid steps of a man in a state of joy. Pain, as a general rule, depresses, while joy stimulates voluntary movements. The result of the measurements taken according to this method give a new argument in favour of pessimism. However, it is useless to attempt to analyse these figures on which Kowalevsky had to employ the integral calculus, because the principle of his method cannot be supported. As a matter of fact, the rapidity of walking is an index of the degree of excitation, and not of the happy or unhappy condition of the mind. When a person suddenly undergoes a strong impression, either pleasant or unpleasant, he takes to walking actively about in his room, and may even want to go out of doors to walk more quickly. A letter which has been received and which gives some unexpected news, as for instance of the infidelity of a person one loves, or of an inheritance which one did not expect, produces a condition of excitement shown chiefly by rapid walking. Many orators and professors have to make gestures and to walk about in the course of their lectures. A man of science to whom some new idea comes and who wishes to think it out, rises from his chair and begins to walk. But not only on such pleasant occasions, but when one has to face an insult or an act of defiance which makes one very angry, the need to walk actively is felt. It is therefore impossible to utilise records of movements in the study of the pessimistic state of mind.
M. Kowalevsky employed still another mode of attacking the problem. He examined the recollection of painful or pleasant impressions. He asked the children of both sexes, whom he was investigating, questions which gave him indications as to whether pleasures or pains made the more lasting impression on the memory, and he registered the answers. The result, which agreed with what had already been obtained by Mr. Colegrove, an American psychologist, was unfavourable to the pessimistic view. He found, in fact, that in the majority of cases (70 per cent.) recollection of pleasant impressions predominated. However, in such investigations there is a facile source of error arising from the condition of mind of those who are being questioned. It is probable that Kowalevsky made his enquiry in school during recreation time, when most of the pupils were free from the boredom of the actual class. When we are happy the tendency exists in us to recall pleasant impressions of the past. If the enquiry had been made during a difficult or wearying lesson, or on children shut up in a hospital, or undergoing punishment, it is probable that the result would have been reversed.
It is evident that all such attempts to solve a problem so complex as that of pessimism, even by the so-called exact methods of physiological psychology, cannot lead to any convincing result. Thus Kowalevsky’s different investigations led to contradictory conclusions. Whilst some of his series of facts supported the pessimistic conception, others were opposed to it, and he obtained no definite general conclusion. How can one expect to apply a method of measurement to sensations and emotions so different, not only from the qualitative point of view, but also in relation to their intensity? Take, for instance, the case of an individual who has experienced in one day nine sensations which were painful and one which was agreeable. According to the valuation of experimental psychologists, he ought to have reason to become a pessimist. However, this may be far from the case, if the nine painful impressions were much weaker than the single happy impression. The first were provoked by small wounds to his pride, fleeting pains of no importance, and small losses of money, whilst the happy emotion came from receiving a love letter. The sum of the ten impressions would be a happy one, and might well put him in an optimistic frame of mind. The learned attempts of experimental psychologists must be abandoned, as incapable of illuminating the problem. If, however, the human spirit still seeks some means of explaining the psychology of pessimism, there remains only the less subtle method given by the biographical study of human beings.
Relation between pessimism and the state of the health—History of a man of science who was pessimistic when young, and who became an optimist in old age—Optimism of Schopenhauer when old—Development of the sense of life—Development of the senses in blind people—The sense of obstacles
Animals and children in good health are generally cheerful and of optimistic temperament. As soon as they fall ill they become sad and melancholy until their recovery. We may infer from this that an optimistic view is correlated with normal health, whilst pessimism arises from some physical or mental disease. And so in the case of the prophets of pessimism, we may seek for the origin of their views in some affliction. The pessimism of Byron has been attributed to his club-foot, and that of Leopardi to tuberculosis, these two nineteenth century exponents of pessimism having died whilst young. Buddha and Schopenhauer, on the other hand, reached old age, whilst Hartmann died when sixty-four years old. Their diseases at the time when they formed their theories could not have been very dangerous, and none the less they took a most gloomy view of human existence. The recent historical investigations of Dr. Iwan Bloch182 make it very probable that Schopenhauer, in his youth, contracted syphilis. There has been found a note-book of the great philosopher in which he wrote down the details of the severe mercurial treatment which he had to undergo. The disease, however, was not contracted until several years after the appearance of his great pessimistic work.
Although we must attach due weight to the connection between disease and pessimism, we can assure ourselves that the problem is more complex than it appears at first sight. It is well known that blind people often enjoy a constant good humour, and, amongst the apostles of optimism, there has been the philosopher Duering,183 who lost his sight during his youth.
Moreover, it has been noticed that persons affected with chronic diseases frequently have a very optimistic conception of life, whilst young people in full strength may become sad, melancholic, and abandoned to the most extreme pessimism. Such a contrast has been well described by Émile Zola in his novel La Joie de Vivre, where a rheumatic old man, tried by severe attacks of gout, maintained his good humour, whilst his young son, although vigorous and in good health, professed extreme pessimism.
I have a cousin who lost his sight in early youth. When he grew up he formed a most enviable judgment of life. He lived in his imagination and everything in life seemed to him good and beautiful; he married, and pictured his wife to himself as the most beautiful woman in the world, and thus he feared nothing more than the recovery of his sight. He had adapted himself to live without sight, and was convinced that the reality was much lower than his imagination. He feared that if he were able to see his wife she would appear to him less beautiful.
I know a girl twenty-six years old, blind from her birth, the subject of infantile paralysis and liable to fits of epilepsy. She is nearly an idiot, lives in a carriage, and sees life from its best side. She is certainly the most happy member of all her family.
The good humour and megalomania of those affected with general paralysis of the insane also is well known. All such examples show that pessimism cannot be explained as depending on bad health.
Examination of the state of mind of a pessimist may throw some light on the subject. There has been within my own circle a typical case of a person who went through a phase of life in which everything seemed as gloomy as possible. My intimate knowledge of him makes it possible to apply my observations to the matter under discussion.
The subject was born of parents of good health and in comfortable circumstances, so that, from the beginning of his life, he was surrounded by a favourite environment. He lived in the country and escaped the diseases of childhood, so that he reached maturity in good health, and passed well through college and the university. Science attracted him, and he had the ambition to become a distinguished investigator. He threw himself into a scientific career with zeal and ability. His ardent disposition, although certainly favourable to work, was the cause of many troubles. He wished to succeed too quickly, and the obstacles he encountered embittered him. As he thought himself naturally talented, he conceived it to be the duty of his seniors to aid his development. And so, when he met with natural and very common indifference from those who had already become successful, the young man thought that there was a plot against him, to bring to nothing his scientific talents. From this view, many quarrels and difficulties arose, and as he could not overcome these sufficiently quickly, he fell into a mood of pessimism. In this life, he said to himself, the main thing is to adapt oneself to external conditions. According to Darwin’s law of natural selection, the individuals who do not succeed in adapting themselves go to the wall. The survivors are not the best but only the most cunning. In the history of the earth it has been seen that many lower animals have long survived creatures much higher in organisation and general evolution. Whilst so many of the higher mammals, the nearest relatives of man, have been crushed out of existence, simpler animals, such as evil-smelling cockroaches, have survived from the remotest times, and multiply in the neighbourhood of man in despite of his efforts to exterminate them. The animal series and human evolution itself show that delicacy of the nervous system, with its concomitant extreme development of the sensibilities, hinders the power of adaptation and brings with it insuperable evils. The least blow to his pride, or a slighting word from a comrade, threw this pessimist into a most painful condition. No, he would cry, it would be better to be without friends, if one is to be wounded so deeply by them. It would be best to seclude oneself in some remote spot and be engrossed in one’s work. He was very impressionable and a lover of music, and from his visits to the opera, he retained in his mind an air from the “Flûte enchantée.” “Were I as small as a snail, I would hide myself in my shell.” His moral hypersensibility was associated with physical hyperæsthesia. Noises of all kinds, such as the whistling of railway-trains, the cries of street-vendors, or the barking of dogs, excited extremely painful sensations. The least trace of light prevented him from sleeping at night. The unpleasant flavour of most drugs made it impossible for him to take medicine. He agreed thoroughly with the pessimistic philosophers who declare that the ills of life far surpass the good things. He required no experiments on the sense of taste to convince him. He believed that the organisation of his body prevented him from becoming adapted to external conditions and that he would have to disappear like the mammoth and the anthropoid apes.
The course of his life confirmed the convictions of our pessimist. He had no private fortune and married a woman who became affected with tuberculosis, and so was confronted with the greatest evils of existence. A young lady, hitherto in good health, contracted influenza in some northern town. It was a mere nothing, said the doctors; influenza is everywhere and no one escapes it; after a little patience and rest, she will be well again. However the “influenza” persisted and brought with it feebleness and wasting. The doctors then found that there was a little dullness in the apex of the left lung, but as there was no bad family history, there was nothing to fear. I need not describe the familiar course of events. The trifling influenza was replaced by degeneration of the left lung, and brought death after four years of great suffering. Towards the end, when there was no hope, the patient found her only solace in morphine. Under the influence of that drug, she passed hours free from pain and in relative calm, but her excited imagination passed almost into hallucination.
It is not surprising that the death of his wife was a severe shock to the husband. His pessimism became complete. He was a widower at the age of twenty-eight years, and, in his condition of mental and physical exhaustion, took to morphine like his wife. He knew that it was a poison which would complete the ruin of his constitution and make his work impossible. But what was the value of his life? As his organisation was too nervous for him to adapt himself to external conditions, was it not as well to come to the aid of natural selection and so make room for others? As it happened, a large dose of morphia did not solve the problem. It produced in him a condition of extraordinary happiness combined with extreme physical weakness. Little by little the instinct of life awoke in him, and he resumed his work. Pessimism, however, remained the fundamental quality in his character. Life was not worth the pains necessary to protect it. It would be a true crime to bring into the world other living beings doomed to elimination by natural selection. Moral and physical sensibility, as they continued to develop, brought with them so much evil that there could be no good end. The “injustice” of those who were unwilling to “understand” him made life painful to the man himself and to those about him. The closest absorption and hard work made his existence more tolerable, but his pessimistic conception was not in the least altered. Thus, he was easily driven to morphia for consolation, when he suffered from some act of “injustice” or vexation. A severe fit of poisoning, however, stopped this excess.
Years passed. When he discussed with his friends the problem of the goal of human life and similar topics, he was always ardent in supporting the point of view of pessimism. However, he occasionally wondered if his pleading for this were really sincere. As his nature was honest and frank, this question which he put to his conscience appeared most curious to him. Analysis of what passed in his mind revealed to him a change. It was not that his conceptions had changed in the course of years, but rather his feelings and sensations. As he was now in full maturity, between forty-five and fifty years old, he found that there was a great change in the intensity of these last. Disagreeable sounds did not trouble him to the same extent as formerly, and he was undisturbed by the caterwauling of cats or by harsh street cries. As his hypersensibility diminished his character became more tolerant. Even the injustices or wounds to his pride which formerly drove him to morphia, no longer provoked in him any painful reaction. He could easily conceal the bad effect of these upon him, and no longer felt them with the same intensity. Thus his character had become much more supportable to those with him, and much better balanced.
“It is old age which is come upon me,” he cried; “I feel painful impressions much less acutely and pleasant impressions have less effect on me. The relative proportions of the two remain as before, that is to say, unpleasant things still impress me much more strongly than pleasant things.” By analysing and comparing his emotions, he discovered something new, in fact that some impressions were, so to speak, neutral. As he was less sensitive to unharmonious sounds, and at the same time less affected by music itself, he found himself in a more tranquil condition. Awakening in the middle of the night, he experienced a kind of happiness which reminded him of that formerly produced by morphine, and which was characterised by his hearing no sound, either pleasant or unpleasant. He became less disgusted by drugs, but at the same time indifferent to the pleasures of the table which he had appreciated in his youth. He also delighted in consuming more and more simple food. A piece of black bread and a glass of water became real treats to him. Insipid dishes, which he formerly despised, were now specially agreeable to him.
Just as in the evolution of art, violent coloration has yielded to the low tones of Puvis de Chavannes, as views of fields and meadows are preferred to those of mountains and lakes; just as in literature, tragic and romantic studies have been successfully replaced by scenes of daily life, so the psychical development of my friend displayed a similar change. Instead of taking his pleasure in mountains or in places famed for their picturesqueness, he was content to watch the budding of the leaves of the trees of his garden, or a snail overcoming its fears and putting out its horns. The simplest occurrences, such as the lisping or the smile of a baby or the first words of a child, became sources of real delight to this elderly man of science. What was the meaning of these changes which took so many years to be accomplished? It was the growth of his sense of life. The instinct of life is little developed in youth. Just as a young woman gets more pain than pleasure from the earlier part of her married life, just as a new-born baby cries, so the impressions from life, especially when they are very keenly felt, bring more pain than pleasure during a long period of human life. The sensations and feelings are not stable; they undergo evolution, and when that takes place more or less normally, it brings about a state of psychical equilibrium.
And thus my friend, formerly so entrenched in pessimism, came to share my optimistic view of life. The discussions that we had had for so many years ended in complete agreement. “However,” said he, “to understand the value of life, one must have lived long; otherwise one is in the position of a man blind from his birth to whom are recounted the beauties of colours.” In a word, my friend towards the end of his life changed from abject pessimism to complete optimism.
Such a transformation or evolution cannot be regarded as unusual. In The Nature of Man, I showed that most of the great pessimistic writers had been young men. Such were Buddha, Byron, Leopardi, Schopenhauer, Hartmann, and Mailaender, and there might be added many other names of less well known men.
The question has often been asked why Schopenhauer, who was certainly sincere in his philosophy and who extolled Nirvana as the perfect state, came to have a strong attachment to life, instead of putting it to a premature end as was done later on by Mailaender. The reason was that the philosopher of Frankfort lived long enough to acquire a strong instinct of life. M. Moebius,184 a well-known authority on madness, has made a close investigation of Schopenhauer’s biography, and has established the fact that towards the end of his life his views were tinged with optimistic colours. On his seventieth anniversary, he took pleasure in the consoling idea of the Hindoo Oupanischad and of Flourens that the span of man’s life might reach a century. As Moebius put it, “Schopenhauer as an old man enjoyed life and was no longer a pessimist” (p. 94). Not long before his death he still hoped to survive yet another twenty years. It is true that Schopenhauer never recanted his early pessimistic writings, but that was probably because he did not fully realise his own mental evolution.
In looking through the work of modern psychologists, I cannot find recognition of the cycle of evolution of the human mind. In Kowalevsky’s able and conscientious study of pessimism, I was specially struck by one phrase. “Evils such as hunger, disease, and death are equally terrible at all stages of life and in every rank of society” (p. 95) said that author. I notice here a failure to recognise the modification of the emotions in the course of life which, none the less, is one of the great facts of human nature. Fear of death is by no means equally great at all stages of life. A child is ignorant of death and has no conscious aversion from it. The youth and the young man know that death is a terrible thing, but they have not the horror of it that comes to a mature man in whom the instinct of life has become fully developed. And we see that young men are careless of the laws of hygiene, whilst old men devote to them sedulous attention. This difference is probably a notable cause of pessimism in young men. In his studies of the mind, Moebius185 has stated his view that pessimism is a phase of youth which is succeeded by a serener spirit. “One may remain a pessimist in theory,” he says, “but actually to be one, it is necessary to be young. As years increase, a man clings more firmly to life.” “When an old man is free from melancholia, he is not a pessimist at heart.” “We cannot yet explain clearly the psychology of the pessimism of the young, but at least we can lay down the proposition that it is a disease of youth” (p. 182).
The cases of Schopenhauer and of the man of science whose psychical history I have sketched fully confirm the view of the alienist of Leipzig.
The conception that there is an evolution of the instinct of life in the course of the development of a human being is the true foundation of optimistic philosophy. It is so important that it should be examined with the minutest care. Our senses are capable of great cultivation. Artists develop the sense of colour far beyond the point attained by ordinary men, and distinguish shades that others do not notice. Hearing, taste, and smell also can be educated. Wine tasters have an appreciation of wine much more acute than that of other men. A friend of mine, who does not drink wine, can distinguish burgundy from claret only by the shapes of the bottles, but is devoted to tea and has a very fine palate for different blends. I do not know if a good palate is a natural gift, but however this may be, it is certain that the palate can be brought to a high condition of perfection.
The development of the senses is specially notable in the case of the blind in whom other powers become extremely acute. As I thought that investigation of the educability of other senses in blind persons very important from the point of view of the development of the sense of life, I have tried to obtain the best available information on the question. The perfection of touch in the blind is accepted so generally as a truth that one would have expected to find convincing facts in its favour. However, it is not true. Griesbach,186 using a well-known method for estimating tactile discrimination, found that the sense of touch is not more acute in the blind than in normal persons. Blind persons distinguished the points of a pair of compasses as separate, only when they were at least as far apart as in case of normal persons. Dr. Javal,187 a well-known oculist who himself became blind, stated his surprise at finding that “tactile discrimination is quite notably less acute in the case of the blind than in the case of those with unimpaired vision. For instance, the index finger of a blind man who was a great reader got separate sensations from the points of a pair of compasses only when these were three millimetres apart, whilst a man with normal sight had the double sensation at a distance of two millimetres” (p. 123). Griesbach goes still farther, stating that neither hearing nor smell is better developed in the blind than amongst normal people. Although these senses may come to replace to a certain extent the sense of sight, this occurs merely because the blind person uses impressions which the clear-sighted person hardly notices. As we see what is going on around us, we do not concentrate our attention on the different sounds and smells or other such phenomena. The blind person, on the other hand, not being absorbed by impressions of sight, gives attention to the others. Such and such a sound tells him that the garden gate of his neighbour has been opened to let out a carriage which he must avoid. A particular smell lets him recognise the place where he is, as stable or kitchen.
From the present point of view, it is not exactly the acuteness of the senses which is most important. The acuteness might be equal in a blind person and in a normal person. It might even be greater in the latter, and yet it is only the blind person who can decipher without difficulty raised points so as to understand their meaning as well as when a normal person reads a printed book. This power of the blind person is developed only after a long period of learning, and depends on the appreciation of very delicate tactile impressions. I must point out, moreover, that the method of deciding by means of a pair of compasses gives information only with regard to one side of the tactile sense.
However, although we admit that blind people do not really gain anything in the four remaining senses, there is developed in them a special kind of sensibility, which is spoken of in their case as a sixth sense, the “sense of obstacles.” Blind people, especially those who have lost their sight in youth, acquire a surprising habit of avoiding obstacles and of recognising at a distance objects round about them. Blind children, for instance, can play in a garden, without knocking themselves against the trees.
Dr. Javal188 states that some blind people, when passing in front of a house, can count the ground floor windows. A professor, who had been blind from the age of four years, could walk in the garden without striking against a tree or post. He appreciated a wall at a distance of two metres from it. One day, going for the first time into a large apartment, he recognised the presence of a big piece of furniture in the middle, which he took to be a billiard table.
Another blind man, walking in the street, could distinguish houses from shops and could count the number of doors and windows. The existence of this sense of obstacles rests upon so many exact facts that it is indubitable. The opinions as to the mechanism by which it operates, however, are very varied. Dr. Zell189 thinks that it is not a sense peculiar to blind people and “that those of normal sight could equally well acquire it by practice, because it exists in nearly everyone without being noticed.” None the less, there are some blind people who, even in the course of years, do not acquire it. M. Javal, for instance, learnt to read with his fingers extremely well, but was never able to distinguish obstacles at a distance.
The most probable hypothesis refers this sixth sense to the action of the tympanic membrane and the auditory apparatus. It is known that loud noise makes it more difficult to perceive obstacles, and snow, by dulling the sound of steps, has a precisely similar effect. Blind tuners, in whom the sense of hearing is well developed, have the sixth sense very marked.
The examples I have given show that the human body possesses senses which come into operation only in special conditions, and which require a special education. The “sense of life” to a certain extent comes within this category. In some persons it develops very imperfectly, generally revealing itself only late in life, but sometimes a disease or the danger of losing life stimulates its earlier development. Occasionally in persons who have tried to commit suicide, a strong instinct of life wakens suddenly, and impels them to make frantic efforts to escape.
It happens, therefore, that the sense of life develops sometimes in healthy people, sometimes in those who suffer from acute or chronic disease. These variations are parallel with the development of the sexual instinct, which in some women is completely absent and in others develops only very late. In certain cases, it is awakened only by special conditions, such as child-birth, or even some defect of health.
As the sense of life can be developed, special pains ought to be taken with it, just as with the making perfect of the other senses in the blind. Young people who are inclined to pessimism ought to be informed that their condition of mind is only temporary, and that according to the laws of human nature it will later on be replaced by optimism.
Goethe’s youth—Pessimism of youth—Werther—Tendency to suicide—Work and love—Goethe’s conception of life in his maturity
There can be drawn from analysis of the lives of great men information that is very important in the study of the constitution of man. I have chosen Goethe for several reasons. He was a man of genius distinguished by the comprehensive character of his ability. He was a poet and dramatist of the highest rank, his mind was stored with the most varied knowledge, and he contributed to the advancement of natural science. As minister of state and as the director of a theatre, he was occupied with practical affairs. He reached the age of eighty-three years, and he passed through the phases of life in relatively normal circumstances; in his many writings there are most valuable facts which throw a keen light on his life and nature. The Goethe cult in Germany has brought about the existence of fuller biographical details than exist regarding any other great man. He aspired to lead “the higher life,” and, throughout his existence, he occupied himself with the most serious problems of humanity.
It is not surprising that Goethe became a subject of investigation for me, but as the main facts as to his history are widely known I need not elaborate them here.
Goethe was reared in circumstances that were favourable in every respect, and from his earliest years showed remarkable traits. As his memory was good and his imagination vast, the study of ancient and modern languages and the routine curriculum of a classical education were little more than an amusement to him. The rich library of his father placed all sorts of books at his disposal, and whilst he was still young he devoted himself to reading with the enthusiasm and passion that were the chief qualities of his character. When he was fifteen years old he began to write verses, although he was still unconscious of his destiny as a poet. He intended to be a learned man, and looked forward to the career of a professor.
At the age of sixteen, he entered the University of Leipzig with the intention of studying natural science seriously. Law and philosophy interested him but little; he turned to natural science and medicine, although his actual study was rather superficial. His disposition was lively and restless; he made many friends, frequented the theatre and plunged into all kinds of gaiety. Extracts from letters he wrote during this period show the kind of life he led. When he was a student, eighteen years old, he wrote to a friend, “And so good-night; I am drunk as a hog.” A month later, to the same friend, he summed up his life as a “delirium in the arms of Jetty.”
He graduated in law at Strassburg, and became a barrister, but realising that such a career was unsuitable, he became a man of letters, encouraged by the success of his first literary efforts.
From the point of view of a writer, he sought all kinds of experiences. He devoted himself to literature and science, including even the occult sciences, and frequented the theatre and society. He was specially attracted by the imaginative side and gave little thought to the problems of science. “I must have movement,” he wrote in one of his note-books.
When he was young, his temper was violent and he fell into fits of passionate rage. His contemporaries have related that when he was in such a condition he would destroy the illustrations and tear up the books on his work-table. These experiences have been vividly described in his famous romance, The Sorrows of Werther. I shall give a few extracts to show the exact state of mind of the young pessimist. “It is the fate of some men not to be understood.” “Human life is a dream; I am not the first to say that, but the idea haunts me. When I reflect on the narrow limits which circumscribe the powers of man, his activities and intelligence; when I see how we exhaust our forces in satisfying our wants and that these wants are for no more than the prolongation of a miserable existence; that our acquiescence in so much is merely resignation engendered by dreams, like that of a prisoner who has covered the walls of his cell with pictures and new landscapes; such things, my friend, plunge me into silence.” “Our learned teachers all agree that children do not know why they have desires; but that grown men should move on the earth like children, and, like these, be ignorant whence they have come and whither they go, like these strive little for real things, but be ruled by cakes and sweets and rods; no one will believe such things, though their truth is patent. I admit readily (for I know what you will say) that they are the happiest men who live from day to day like children, who play with their dolls, dress them and undress them, who reverence the cupboard where mamma keeps the gingerbread, and who, when they have got what they wish, cry, with their mouths full, ‘How happy we are!’”
Werther proclaimed his pessimism before his romance with Charlotte, and it was his view of life that made his love-affair turn out unhappily. But the fame of Goethe’s Werther was due, not to the tragic fate of the young lover, but to the general views which were in harmony with the conception of the world held by the best minds of the time. Byronism was born before Byron.
Werther affords a good illustration of the disharmonies in the development of man’s psychical nature. Inclination and desires develop extremely strongly and before will. Just as in the development of the reproductive functions, as I showed in The Nature of Man, the different factors develop unequally and unharmoniously, so there is inequality and disharmony in the order of the appearance of the higher psychical faculties. Sexual appreciation and a vague attraction to the other sex appear at a time when there can be no possibility of the normal physical side of sex, with the result that many evils come about in the long period of youth. The precocious development of sensibility brings about a kind of diffused hyperæsthesia which may lead to trouble. The infant wishes to lay hold of everything he sees before him; he stretches out his arms to grasp the moon and suffers from his inability to gratify his desires. In youth there is still well-marked disharmony. Young people cannot realise the true relations of things, and formulate their desires before they understand that their will-power is not strong enough to gratify them, as will is the latest of the human powers to develop.
Werther fell in love with a kindred spirit and gave way to his passion without consideration of the difficulties, Charlotte being already betrothed to another. This is the plot of the tragedy of the young man, who committed suicide, having given way to pessimism. He had not the will-power to conquer his sentiments and so fell into a state of lassitude, until, weary of life, he could see no other end than to blow out his brains.
I need not linger over the last phase of the story of Werther, for it is the character of Goethe himself that is of interest. Goethe was able to subdue his passion for Lotte, and, after many amorous woes, consoled himself with another woman. Notwithstanding this difference, it is certain that in Werther, Goethe was telling part of the story of his own youth. Goethe himself is a witness to this, for in a letter to Kestner he wrote that “he was at work on the artistic reproduction of his own case.” The letter was written in July, 1773, whilst Goethe, then a writer twenty-four years old, was relating the sorrows of young Werther.
The general tendency of Werther has been described excellently by Carlyle.190 “Werther,” he wrote, “is but the cry of that dim, rooted pain, under which all thoughtful men of a certain age were languishing; it paints the misery, it passionately utters the complaint; and heart and voice, all over Europe, loudly and at once responded to it.” Werther was “the first thrilling peal of that impassioned dirge which, in country after country, men’s ears have listened to, till they were deaf to all else.”
In the pessimistic period of his life, Goethe often cherished the idea of suicide. In his biography he relates that at this time he used to have, by his bedside, a poisoned dagger, and that he had repeatedly tried to plunge it in his bosom. Of these times he wrote to his friend Zelter191—“I know what it has cost me in effort to resist the waves of death.” The suicide which was the subject of the end of his romance made a deep impression upon him. Although he overcame his passion for Charlotte, his view of life remained tinged with pessimism for many years; in a note-book of 1773, for instance, he wrote “I am not made for this world.”192 These words are the more striking as they date from a period when exact ideas regarding the adaptation of the organism and the character to the environment did not exist. Goethe, with his too delicate sensibility, felt himself out of harmony with his environment.
It is very interesting to trace Goethe’s subsequent development and the transformation of a youthful pessimist into a convinced optimist. Goethe found a remedy for his crises of grief in work, poetical creation and love. He declared that the mere describing his woes on paper brought assuagement. The tears that they shed console women and children; and the poetry in which he expresses his suffering consoles the poet. Goethe’s romance with Charlotte was not quite at an end when he found himself ready to love her sister Helen. He wrote to Kestner in December, 1772:—“I was about to ask you if Helen had arrived, when I got the letter telling me of her return.” “To judge from her portrait she must be charming, even more charming than Charlotte. Well, I am free and I am thirsting for love.” “I am here at Frankfort again with new plans and new dreams, and all will be well if I find someone to love.” Soon afterwards, in another letter to Kestner, he wrote:—“Tell Charlotte that I have found here a girl whom I love with all my heart; if I wanted to marry, I should choose her before anyone else.”
As he had not yet realised his true vocation, Goethe became a court minister at Weimar. He devoted himself to his duties with an enthusiasm that carried him far beyond the usual affairs of state. He wished to deepen his knowledge of such administrative problems as the construction of roads and the management of mines, and he studied geology and mineralogy with a real zest. Forest administration and agriculture led him seriously into botany, and as he had the direction of a school of design, he thought it necessary to learn anatomy. Such varied work gave him a real taste for science. It was no longer the superficial interest that characterised his work at Leipzig and Strassburg but a true devotion which led him to important discoveries, some of which have become classic.
Even such varied occupations did not absorb his prodigious genius. In his leisure he wrote poetry and prose. Engrossed in so much work, he was happy. His discovery of the human intermaxillary bone suffused him with joy. His intense activity was strengthened by his love for Madame von Stein, a love that he declared was “a life-belt supporting him in the sea.” A few hours with her in the evenings set free his soul.
The powerful influence of love on the life of Goethe was specially prominent in this period when he was passing from pessimistic youth to optimistic maturity. Being forced to separate from Madame von Stein, he gave way to grief that plunged him again in the worst hours of his life. At the age of thirty-seven he fell back into a crisis like that of the days of Werther. “I have discovered,” he said in 1786, “that the author of Werther would have done well to blow out his brains when he had finished his work.” Soon afterwards he wrote that “death would have been better than the last years of his life.”
This relapse into pessimism was shorter and less acute than his first experience. He began to find that frequently his delight in existence and sense of life were proved by his fear of death. When he was little more than thirty years old, he began to take precautions against the chance of his death. He wrote to Lavater:—“I have no time to lose; I am already getting on in years, and it may be that fate will destroy me in the midst of my life.” On all sides his wish to live and his shrinking from death reveal themselves. It was at this time, a few days after his thirty-first birthday, that he wrote those famous lines, counted amongst the finest of his poetry, on the summit of the Gickelhahn, on the wall of a small room, and which end with the presentiment of his own death, “Before long, you also will be at rest.”
The crisis through which he passed at the age of thirty-seven, as the immediate result of his separation from Madame von Stein, but perhaps also partly due to brain fatigue, brought about his sudden departure from Weimar and his long sojourn in Italy. There he came to life again, and everything interested him, archæology, art and nature. The joy of life came back to him, and he soon consoled himself for the lost love of the blue-stocking Baroness in the arms of a pretty, blue-eyed girl of Milan. This girl, whose name was Maddalena Riggi, like Charlotte, was already betrothed, a circumstance, however, that had a different result. Even after she had given up the man to whom she had been engaged, Goethe avoided any permanent bond and soon abandoned her definitely. He chose to associate with Faustine, another Italian girl, with whom he lived during the last period of his stay at Rome. This affair, which was less ideal and much simpler than his love for Madame von Stein, he has described in his Roman Elegies, which throw a vivid light on his temperament. I shall give some characteristic extracts.
“A sacred enthusiasm inspires me on this classic soil; the old world and the world around me raise their voices and draw me to them. Here I follow the ideas and turn over the pages of the ancient writers, giving myself no rest whilst day lasts and ever reaching new delights. By night love calls me to other cares; and if I am only half a philosopher, I am twice happy. But may I not say that I am also learning when my eye follows the contours of a loving breast, when with my hand I trace the lines of her form? It is then that I understand marble, I think and compare, I see with an eye that touches and touch with a hand that sees.” “Often I have made verses in her arms; often my playful finger has softly beaten out my hexameters on her back. As she breathes in her sweet sleep, her breath burns me to my innermost soul.”193
His stay in Italy brought Goethe definitely to maturity. On this important stage in his life let us hear his biographer, Bielschowsky. “The voyage to Italy made a new man of him. His sickliness and nervousness disappeared. The melancholy which led him to think of early death and made him regard death as better than the former conditions of his life was replaced by a sublime serenity and joy in living. The taciturn and preoccupied man who in no society abandoned his grave thoughts had become happy as a child” (vol. i, p. 412). “From this time on, in calm and enviable security, he passed through the cycle of life which seemed so mysterious to others. Goethe became the serene Olympian, the wonder of posterity, whilst many of his contemporaries no longer saw in him the passionate pilgrim” (ibid., p. 417).
It was after reaching the age of forty years that Goethe entered on the optimistic phase of his life.
Goethe’s optimistic period—His mode of life in that period—Influence of love in artistic production—Inclinations towards the arts must be regarded as secondary sexual characters—Senile love of Goethe—Relation between genius and the sexual activities
The moral equilibrium of the great writer was not established once for all. In the course of his life, Goethe had several relapses into pessimism which, however, were ephemeral, and after which he became a man as complete and harmonious as was possible in the circumstances of his life. He reached a serene old age, and his activity did not relax until after his eightieth year, when he died.
As I have already said, Goethe realised the value of life in good time. Having become an optimist, he experienced the joy of existence and coveted as much of it as possible. When he was an old man, he declared that life, like the Sibylline books, became more valuable the fewer of them were left. There appeared in him a normal phase of human nature. The conditions under which he lived, however, were far from ideal. His health was indifferent. In his youth he suffered from severe hæmorrhage, probably tuberculous, and throughout his life he was subject to various more or less serious maladies, such as gout, colic, nephritis, and intestinal troubles. His habits were unwholesome. He was brought up in a region of vineyards, and in his youth he acquired the habit of drinking wine in quantities certainly harmful. This he himself realised, and when he was thirty-one years old, after he had acquired the instinct of life, he gave it serious attention. “I wish I could abstain from wine,” he wrote in his note-book. Some weeks later he wrote, “I now drink almost no wine.”194
But he had not the strength of character to remain temperate, and soon after his decision, he had fits of bleeding at the nose, which he attributed to “having taken some glasses of wine.”195 To his last day, he took wine regularly, and sometimes to excess. J. H. Wolff, who dined with him at Weimar, when he was in his eightieth year, was surprised by his appetite and by the quantity of wine he drank. “In addition to other food, he ate an enormous portion of roast goose, and drank a bottle of red wine.”196 In Eckermann’s interesting narrative of the last ten years of Goethe’s life (1822-1832) there is repeated mention of wine. Goethe seized every occasion to drink it. Sometimes it was the visit of a stranger, sometimes a present of some famous vintage. It was said that he drank from one to two bottles of wine daily (Moebius). None the less, he was convinced that wine was not good for intellectual work. He had remarked that when his friend Schiller had drunk more than usual, to increase his strength and stimulate his literary activity, the result was deplorable. He said to Eckermann (March 11, 1828), “He will ruin his health and will spoil his work. That is why he has made the faults the critics have pointed out.” In another conversation (March 11, 1828) he stated that what was written under the influence of wine was abnormal and forced, and ought to be deleted.
Love was the great stimulus of Goethe’s genius. The love affairs, the histories of which fill his biography, are well known. Many have been shocked by them; others have tried to justify them. It has been suggested that his disposition made it necessary for him to impart his ideas and obtain sympathy for them, and that his love for women was the expression of a purely artistic feeling and had nothing in common with the ordinary passion.
The truth is that artistic genius and perhaps all kinds of genius are closely associated with sexual activity. I agree with the proposition formulated by Dr. Moebius197 that “artistic proclivities are probably to be regarded as secondary sexual characters.” Just as the beard and some other male characters are developed as means of attracting the female sex, so also bodily strength, strong voice and many of the talents must be regarded as due to the need to fulfil the sexual relations. In primitive conditions woman worked more than man; man’s superior force served him principally in fighting with other males, the object of the combats usually being possession of a woman. Just as a victorious combatant covets the presence of a woman as witness of his prowess, so an orator speaks better in the presence of a woman to whom he is devoted. Singers and poets are stimulated in their arts by the love they awaken. Poetic genius is intimately associated with sexual power and castration inhibits it. Just as castrated animals retain their physical strength, but become changed in character, losing in particular their combative nature, so a man of genius loses much of his quality with the sexual function. Amongst the eunuchs on record, Abelard is the only poet, but Abelard was forty years old when he ceased to be a man, and at the same time he ceased to be a poet. Many singers have been eunuchs, but they have been merely executants, and have taken no part in musical creation. Some musical composers have been eunuchs, but these were of mediocre ability and their names have been forgotten. When castration has taken place at an early age, it has a much more powerful influence in modifying the secondary sexual characters.
From the point of view of a naturalist, I cannot agree with the moralists who have blamed Goethe for his sexuality, nor do I share the views of those defenders of him who have wished to deny the facts or to explain them away by the suggestion that they did not relate to sexual love.
Extracts from the Roman Elegies show quite clearly what was the nature of Goethe’s love affairs. His feelings towards the Baroness von Stein have been taken as revealing merely idealistic love. But some of his letters to her are clear evidence that their relations were erotic (Moebius, Goethe, vol. ii, p. 89). The love which he bore for Minna Herzlieb, the girl who inspired him to write Elective Affinities (Wahlverwandschaften), has been described by Goethe himself in a poem so crudely erotic that it has been impossible to publish it (Lewes, vol. ii, p. 314).
A fact to which I specially desire to call attention is that Goethe’s amorous temperament survived until the end of his life, and all the world has been astonished by the vigour of his poetic genius in extreme old age.
Goethe has been the subject of derision because at the age of seventy-four years he fell deeply in love with Ulrique de Lewetzow, who was quite a young girl. This incident, however, merits close attention as it is a typical case of senile love in a man of genius.
Whilst he was at Carlsbad, Goethe became acquainted with a pretty girl seventeen years old, with beautiful blue eyes, brown hair, and of an ardent, good-humoured and happy disposition. In the first two seasons nothing in particular happened. But in the third summer, at Marienbad, Goethe became passionately enamoured of Ulrique, who was then nineteen years old and in the full bloom of her young womanhood. His love made him young again; he passed long hours with her and took to dancing with her. “I am quite certain,” he wrote to his son, “that it is many years since I have enjoyed such health of body and mind” (Aug. 30, 1823). His passion became so serious that the Grand Duke of Saxe-Weimar, on behalf of his friend, made a formal proposal of marriage for Mademoiselle de Lewetzow. The mother gave an evasive answer, and the matter rested in suspense for long, and ended in a refusal. Goethe withdrew to his family, but encountered there strong opposition to his project of marriage.
This misadventure troubled the old poet so seriously that he fell ill. He suffered from pain in the region of the heart and from profound mental disturbance. He complained to Eckermann “that he could do nothing, that he could get to work on nothing, and that his mind had lost its power.” “I can no longer work,” he said. “I cannot even read, and it is only in rare and fortunate moments that I can think, feeling myself partially soothed” (Eckermann, Nov. 16, 1823). Eckermann makes the following reflection on the state of mind of the great old man. “His trouble seems to be not merely physical. The passionate desire which he acquired for a young lady at Marienbad this summer, and against which he is still struggling, must be regarded as the chief cause of his illness” (Nov. 17, 1823).
As in all earlier crises, Goethe sought consolation in poetry and love. He left Marienbad in a carriage and began to set down verses astonishingly vigorous for so old a man. His Marienbad elegy is held to be one of the best of his poetical achievements. The following extracts will give an idea of his state of mind at that period.
“I am lost in unconquerable desire; there is nothing left but everlasting tears. Let them flow, let them flow unceasingly. But they can never extinguish the fire that burns me. My heart rages; it is torn in pieces, this heart where life and death meet in a horrible combat.” “I have lost the universe, I have lost myself, I who until now have been the favourite of the gods; they have put me to the question, they offered me Pandora, rich in treasure and still richer in perilous seductions; they made me drunken with the kisses of her mouth, which gave me its sweets; they have torn me from her arms, and have struck me with death.”
Goethe concealed his elegy for some time, guarding it as something sacred, but eventually handed it over to Eckermann. Poetic creation soothed his mind only for a time. His nature demanded some more efficacious consolation. A few weeks after the separation he began to complain bitterly of the absence of the Countess Julie von Egloffstein, whom he wanted very much. “She cannot know what she is keeping from me and what she makes me lose, nor can she know how I love her and how she engrosses my mind.” He derived a little comfort from the visits of Madame Szymanowska, whom he admired “not only as a great artist, but as a pretty woman” (Eckermann, Nov. 3, 1823). “I am deeply grateful to this charming woman,” he said to the chancellor, “for her beauty, her sweetness, and her art have soothed my passionate heart” (Bode, p. 151). He also renewed his relations with Marianne Jung, the retired actress and dancer. “When Goethe had to turn his thoughts from Ulrique, the image of the pretty owner of Gerbermühle again occupied his mind. A visit to her, and intimate correspondence with her, restored peace to his heart so greedy of love” (Bielschowsky, vol. ii, p. 487).
His devotion to Ulrique was Goethe’s last acute attack of love; but until the end of his days he felt the need of being surrounded by pretty women. As director of the theatre, he came in contact with many young women who wished engagements. He confessed to Eckermann that he required much strength of mind to resist feminine charms which tempted him to be unjustly favourable to the prettiest of those who sought employment. “If I allowed myself to fall into an intrigue of gallantry, I would become like a demagnetised needle as soon as the girl found a real lover” (Eckermann, March 22, 1825).
His daughter-in-law’s sister has related that Goethe liked to have young girls in his study whilst he was at work. They had to sit quietly, neither working nor talking, often a difficult task for them (Bode, p. 155).
Even on the last day of his life, whilst in delirium, he cried out, “What a pretty woman’s head with black curls on a black ground” (Lewes, vol. ii, p. 372). After uttering several other more or less incoherent phrases, he drew his last breath.
The facts which I described in the chapter of this book dealing with old age have made clear how long sexuality persists in men. As the testes resist atrophy better than other organs, and even in extreme old age still form active spermatozoa, it is natural that their condition should be reflected on the organism generally, and that feelings of love should still be excited. If by some accident Goethe had become a eunuch early in life, he would have been a different being. The moralists who have been shocked by his amorous intrigues would have been satisfied, but the world would have lost a great poet. Moreover, Goethe is no exceptional case amongst writers. The temperament of Victor Hugo and his devotion to women up to the end of his days are well known. More recently, after the death of Ibsen, a profound sensation was made by the revelation of his love for Mademoiselle Bardach, who inspired his genius during the last period of his life.
Not only poetic creation but other forms of genius are intimately associated with the sexual function. The philosopher Schopenhauer, who was no ascetic, wrote as follows, at the age of twenty-five, when he was in full creative activity, “In the days and at the hours when the voluptuous instinct is strongest, when it is a burning covetousness, it is then that the greatest forces of the mind and the greatest stores of knowledge are ready for the most intense activity.” “At such moments life is truly at its strongest and most active, for its two poles are then operating most actively; and this is plain in the man of the highest intelligence. In these hours one sees more than in years of passivity” (quoted in Moebius’ Schopenhauer, p. 55). “This means that in Schopenhauer intellectual creation was linked with erotic excitement” (ibid., p. 57).
It was facts of such a nature that led Brown-Séquard to his idea of strengthening cerebral activity by injections of the substance of testes. To obtain the same effect, he prescribed another means, the value of which was proved in the case of two individuals aged from forty-five to fifty years, the observations being continued over several years. “By my advice,” he said, “when these had to perform any great physical or intellectual work, they got themselves into a condition of sexual excitement.” “The testes being in this way thrown into functional activity, there was soon produced the desired increase in the power of the nerve centres.”198
Although I insist on the existence of a close relation between intellectual activity and the sexual function, I do not mean to assert that there have not existed exceptions to the rule.
Now that I have described certain important factors in the genius of Goethe, I shall pass on to a study of his state of mind in the last period of his life, the splendour and harmony of which have been so often admired.