Schopenhauer devoted attention to this subject and wrote as follows: “That nature herself may produce a condition totally opposed to the natural function offers a paradoxical problem of very deep interest.”[119] It is clear, however, when we consider the disharmonies in the development and activities of the functions in question, that the apparently paradoxical and strange aberrations of sexuality are natural enough.
The existing disharmony gives rise to many evils from earliest youth to advanced age, and, consequently, it is not surprising to find that religions have denounced sexuality more or less severely. Dr. Christian expresses his astonishment “that in nearly all religions it has been considered a homage to the Deity to abstain from sexual intercourse.”[120] It is simply because the disharmonies of sexuality lead to sexual aberrations that religions have found cause for denouncing human nature as vile.[121]
As the functions of reproduction are seated deep in the organic world and none the less present cases of striking disharmony in mankind, it is not surprising to find similar want of adaptation in the family instincts of man, as these instincts have been acquired more recently and are less widespread in the living world.
It has been shown that the animal world provides many examples of onanism and of aberrations of sexual congress. On the other hand, there are no cases in the animal world in which pregnancy is destroyed by aberrant instincts.
To the human race belongs the distinction of having invented modes of sexual congress which are necessarily barren. No doubt the loss of the os penis has made such occurrences more easy, as the presence of that bone would render interruption of coition more difficult. But there are many ways in which the spermatozoa may be prevented from accomplishing their function, and these are so common and so familiar that it is unnecessary to enumerate them. In civilised countries procreation is limited chiefly by such means. In its early days, the human race must have been distinguished by its unusual procreative capacity, but with the growth of civilisation many devices have been employed to limit that.
Savages and races of low civilisation have recourse to artificial abortion rather than to means for preventing fertilisation, and abortion is almost universal among them.
The great treatise of Ploss, “Das Weib,” to which I have made repeated reference, contains a whole chapter[122] on this subject. Deliberate abortion with the object of limiting the number of children is customary all over the globe. In most primitive races and among peoples of low civilisation it is practised openly without the smallest restraint. Many of these peoples have adopted the custom of limiting the family to two children by procuring abortion in subsequent pregnancies. The aborigines of Kaisar and of the islands of Watubela observe the rule strictly. Among the natives of the islands of Aaru it is rare to find more than three children in a family, because any others are destroyed by artificial abortion.
A similar custom is widespread in India, being quite as common among the Hindoos who are ruled by England as among independent races. In the peninsula of Kutch, women frequently procure abortion, and one woman boasted to Macmurdo that she had made use of the practice five times. Abortion is equally common in Africa and America.
Even in Europe there are nations amongst which abortion is permitted within certain limits. The Turks do not regard a fœtus as being really alive until after the fifth month, and have no scruple in causing its abortion. Even at later stages, when the operation becomes criminal, it is frequently practised. In 1872, at Constantinople, more than three thousand cases of abortion were brought before the Courts in a period of ten months. Under such circumstances it is not surprising that illegitimate children are rare in the East.
Artificial abortion is not a modern invention, but was common in ancient times. The old Greeks practised it openly, without any legal restraint. Plato regarded it as within the province of the midwife, and Aristotle permitted it to married people when a pregnancy that was not desired took place.
Steller, writing of the natives of Kamchatka of the eighteenth century, stated that among them marriage was contracted rather for sensual gratification than for the procreation of children, because they interfered with pregnancies by various kinds of medicaments and by violent operative interferences.
The arts by which abortion has been produced are numerous and varied. In addition to the administration of drugs, chiefly of vegetable origin, implements have been employed. The natives of Greenland use the ribs of seals or of the walrus, and the Hawaians of the Sandwich Islands employ for the purpose a wooden implement fashioned as a deity.
On the other hand, certain races have strongly opposed the practice of abortion. In the ancient world such races were the Medes, the Bactrians, the Persians, and Jews. Among the ancient Incas, abortion was a crime punished with death. Later on, the Christian nations followed this view. However, the reprobation of abortion occurs only in a comparatively small number of the nations of the earth, and even amongst these the practice is common in secret.
Animals which are unable to procure abortion very often destroy their young, as I described in the second chapter of this volume. In the human race, infanticide is too common. The Greeks and Romans did not regard the newly born infants as possessing any right to live. The old Germans held themselves free to expose their infants. The Arabs, before the faith of Islam had spread to them, were in the habit of burying many female children alive. In India a similar custom is common, and in China it is notorious. According to figures collected by Eitel,[123] the Chinese of the province of Canton very often kill female children immediately after birth. “It may be said,” he wrote, “that the murder of female infants is the general rule among the Hak-lo, and especially among the Hak-ka of the agricultural classes. The Hak-ka themselves estimate the number of female children exposed as about two-thirds of those born.” In a little village in which the author lived for several years, an investigation, made with the help of some Christians, showed that without exception women who had given birth to two children had killed at least one of them.
In Tahiti two-thirds of new-born children are killed, those of the female sex making up the greater part of the numbers. The first three infants and all twins are killed, and as a rule not more than two or at most three are actually reared.[124] Among the Melanesians the custom of infanticide is very common. “It must also be assumed,” said Ratzel,[125] “that in Ugi (Solomon Islands) all the infants are killed, to be replaced by the Bauros.”
It is not surprising that such a widespread occurrence of artificial abortion and of infanticide among primitive races is bringing about a rapid diminution in the numbers of these, and may lead even to their extinction. This is taking place in the case of the natives of New South Wales, of New Guinea, and of the islands of Aaru. Nothing could show more plainly the feebleness of the human family instinct. In more highly civilised nations, the rude proceedings of savages have been replaced by clever devices to prevent conception, and infanticide has become rare. Artificial abortion is excited by modern methods suggested by the progress of science. The embryonic membranes are pierced not by the ribs of seals or hair-pins, but by sterilised sounds, and the operation is performed with strict asepsis. In averting the natural results of passion the woman is subjected to the smallest possible risk.
It is indubitable that more than one race has perished because of its lack of the instinct of family. However, it need not be feared that the human race itself will disappear because of the failure of procreation. But it is plain that the readiness with which devices to prevent the production of children have been adopted shows the weakness of the family instinct in man, and opens up a problem to which the attention of moralists and legislators may well be directed.
The family instinct is deeply seated, as it arose among animals more ancient than man; none the less it exhibits disturbances and aberrations in the human race capable of bringing about the extinction of peoples or nations. It is, however, strong enough to secure that man will persist in the future.
Man certainly is a social animal, but the instinct impelling him towards union with his fellows is of recent origin. Such animal societies as are to be found among insects are not comparable with human associations. Among mammals, the nearest allies of man, the social instincts are developed only to a slight extent, and even the anthropoid apes show very little progress in this direction. Many of these creatures have shown in captivity the aptitude to become friendly with man or with other animals, and thus have displayed the beginnings of the capacity to form societies. But, in the wild condition, anthropoids live only in families, and these contain few individuals. As regards the social capacities of the chimpanzee Dr. Savage wrote:[126] “They cannot be called gregarious, seldom more than five, or ten at most, being found together. It has been said on good authority that they occasionally assemble in large numbers in gambols. My informant asserts that he saw once not less than fifty so engaged; hooting, screaming, and drumming with sticks on old logs, which is done in the latter case with equal facility by the four extremities.”
We have little acquaintance with the social life of the anthropoids, but, so far as we know, these creatures present only the merest beginnings of the social instinct. Man has moved much beyond them in that direction. Even the lowest races and the most primitive of living peoples such as, for instance, the Bushmen or the aborigines of Australia, display a well-developed social instinct.[127]
The universal presence of the social instinct among human beings would seem to afford the basis of a happy life. In the numerous attempts made to find a purely rational principle that may serve as the basis for morality without the intervention of supernatural sanction, abundant use has been made of man’s craving to live in association with his fellows. Those who have tried to deduce moral law from the essential constitution of man have relied largely upon the innate sympathy between man and his fellows. Such a line of argument is so common and has been employed so frequently that I need not spend much space in developing it. I shall limit myself to a few examples.
Towards the end of last century Büchner,[128] a German physician, published a materialistic code of morality that made a considerable sensation. He wrote as follows on the question now before us: “What we term the moral sense arose from the social instincts and habits which, under pain of extinction, are developed in every society of men and animals. Morality depends on sociability, and varies with the peculiar conditions of each particular association. As man is essentially a social animal, and to be regarded, apart from society, merely as a wild beast, it is plain that the needs of the community must impose on him certain restrictions and directions that in time will pass into a settled code of morals.”
Half a century later practically the same idea was repeated. Haeckel,[129] the well-known German naturalist, expressed it as follows in a volume that appeared a few years ago:—
“Modern science shows that the feeling of duty does not rest on an illusory ‘categorical imperative,’ but on the solid ground of social instinct, as we find it in the case of all the social animals. It regards as the highest aim of all morality the re-establishment of a sound harmony between egoism and altruism, between self-love and the love of one’s neighbour.... If a man desire to have the advantage of living in an organised community he has to consult not only his own fortune but also that of the society and of the ‘neighbours’ who form the society. He must realise that its prosperity is his own prosperity, and that it cannot suffer without his own injury. This fundamental law of society is so simple and so inevitable that one cannot understand how it can be contradicted in theory or in practice; and yet that is done to-day and has been done for thousands of years.”
The sexual and family instincts may be satisfied in many different ways, and this is also the case with the social instincts. Onanism and perverted passion may satisfy the sexual instinct; celibacy, artificial abortion and infanticide exist alongside the love of the wife and the parental cares. So also the social instinct of a criminal may be satisfied by his association with other criminals. It is well known that the most hardened criminals have their own codes, and they join faithfulness to their own companions to an atrocious attitude towards the rest of the world.
It is not enough then merely to give scope to the social instincts that we all possess. We have to determine how far, and towards which of our fellow creatures, we are to exercise such instincts, and it is here that the difficulty arises which as yet has not been resolved by religion or rationalism. Must our social instincts reach to our relatives near or distant, or to our fellow townsmen, or compatriots, or to all white men, or to all men, white and black, or to the good only, or to the good and bad alike? Perhaps we should limit the operation of the instinct to those of our own religion, or who share our views of life? The instinctive feeling is quite silent on these points, and it is precisely on them that the difficulties arise. It is well known that at different epochs and in different circumstances very different answers have been given to such questions. When religion was predominant, a common faith was a bond transcending patriotism. Later on, patriotism itself became the dominant bond. In recent days, a conception of international solidarity began to appear. Thus, for instance, there was recently a combination of different nations against China, and nationality was forgotten. Some of the European nations banded themselves together and even assumed an Asiatic race in the union, with the object of punishing a common enemy. What was the bond that united nations so different? It was not religion, for the bond included Catholics and Protestants, orthodox Christians and Buddhists. Most probably the bond of union was a community of interest, the result of similar civilisation and military and political organisation.
It has been suggested occasionally that the social instinct, or human sympathy, for the terms are practically identical, may stretch further and further and become so widespread that all the members of the human stock will unite and act only for the common good. But the problem is complex. Sympathy, when pushed too far, may become harmful. Nations have taken part in a campaign, impelled by some feeling of sympathy, and have brought harm on themselves. Sympathy extended to criminals and wicked persons is equally harmful. The social instinct itself must be regulated for the good of the community which it holds together.
Ought we to extend our sympathy to all humanity, or to limit it to some particular section? Theorists have spoken of the solidarity of all humanity, believing it possible to extend our sympathy to the races furthest removed from us. In countries in which different races are brought in contact, very practical difficulties are encountered by the theorists. In America and in some other countries, for instance, laws have been passed against the Chinese, excluding the latter from the consideration granted to other races. The negro question also is very difficult in those countries in which the black race dwells amongst whites. In Europe it has been the custom to condemn the action of civilised races in taking their land from natives of primitive type. Sutherland, the author of a striking work on the origin and development of morality, justifies such arbitrary conduct. To the question, “Was it right for the whites to take possession of the Australian forests of the blacks?” he replied in the affirmative. “No doubt,” he said, “there is a moral instinct against it, but the action undoubtedly was right.”[130] In a summary of his conclusions he lays down that moral conduct is a compromise between the individual and social instincts that so often are opposed. But he has no more to say than his predecessors as to the rational basis of the compromise.
The social instinct has been acquired by mankind too recently, and it is still too feeble, to be a trustworthy guide in all conduct. To obviate this difficulty, at many different times, divine sanction has been evoked to control the relations among men. The categorical law has been formulated with the same object. Thus by one means or another, some kind of social order has been kept up. The efficacy of these additional guides is seen clearly on those rare occasions when some special combination of circumstances has set people free from them. Thus at Moscow, in 1812, before the arrival of the French army restored authority, and lately, after the eruption in Martinique, the ordinary authority lapsed, the anti-social instincts of the people were loose, and a clear idea was given of the inherent weakness of the human social instinct.
I have shown that in man the instinct for choosing food and the sexual and social instincts are still so weak that it is impossible to trust to them in the absence of other guidance. It is as equally necessary to determine what kind of food is most suitable for men in different conditions of life, and what means are best fitted to satisfy rationally his sexual and family instincts. So also it is urgent to determine exactly the direction and object of the social instinct. For the love of our fellow creatures we should seek the best ways of making them happy.
But what is happiness? Is it the feeling of well-being experienced by the individual himself, or is it the judgment of others on his sensations? It is notoriously difficult to pronounce on the happiness of another. From the outside, when a man seems to enjoy health, to have a family and comfortable means of subsistence, we are inclined to call him happy; but the individual himself may have a very different opinion about himself. It is often impossible to rely on the judgment of others. On the other hand, the opinion of an individual himself on his own condition may be equally fallacious. Very often the feeling of well-being is a symptom of general paralysis, as may be inferred from the following quotation: “The patient is well pleased with himself, and delighted with his constitution and circumstances. He boasts without ceasing of his robust health, his muscular strength, the clearness of his complexion and of his general ‘fitness.’ His clothing is magnificent and his residence palatial. In a more advanced stage of the disease, the exaggeration becomes extreme. He believes that he is able to blow down the walls with his breath, or that he could carry a ton, or drink a hogshead of wine, or that nothing could tire him out. Then megalomania begins, and the patients believe themselves in possession of titles, of power, and wealth. They are members of parliament, noblemen, princes, generals, kings, emperors, and popes, or God Himself.”[131]
As general paralysis is a result of syphilis, in order to make a large number of persons believe themselves thoroughly happy, it would be necessary only to spread this disease. Without lingering on this paradox, I may at least point out that the problem of happiness, which is associated intimately with social life, is extremely difficult.
The social instinct is equally powerless to solve the problem of justice in its relation to the general interest of humanity. It is plain enough that, in the existing condition of human knowledge, we all inflict and undergo injustices of different degrees. This misfortune is a consequence of the disharmony of human nature.
From what I have already said, it must be clear that before we can find a rational guide to direct us in the operation of our social instinct, we should have to determine exactly the nature of true happiness for the individual and of true justice. Then only should we be in a position to set about making human life as happy as is possible.
The instinct of self-preservation in animals—Man’s instinctive love of life—Indifference to life during childhood—Buddhist legend on instinctive self-preservation and the fear of death—Fear of death treated in literature—Confessions of Tolstoi regarding the fear of death—Other opinions on the subject—The fear of death an instinctive phenomenon—Development in man of a love of life—Treatment of the aged—Murder of old people—Suicide of old men—Absence of harmony between the love of life and the conditions of human existence—The part played by the fear of death in religions and systems of philosophy
It is not to be wondered at that man’s social instinct exhibits so many imperfections and disharmonies, seeing that it is still in an unsettled condition, and is a recent acquisition. On the other hand, we should expect to find that love of life and the instinct of self-preservation had reached a high degree of harmony, since these have been in process of development throughout the whole animal series that culminated in man. Even in the lowest forms of life many contrivances exist for purposes of protection. Creatures, the bodies of which are merely microscopic drops of protoplasm, the living material, may be protected by shells from external influences which threaten their destruction. Plants protect themselves, sometimes by means of thorns which prevent them from being eaten, sometimes by secretions either merely irritant in character or actually poisonous. Among animals the means employed for self-preservation are even more numerous. Shields and shells, the secretion of fluids exhaling unpleasant odours, or facilitating escape by clouding the water, as in the case of the ink of the cuttlefish, offensive weapons, strong teeth, and many other characters, serve no other purpose than to protect the individual life. The exposition of this subject would involve writing a complete treatise on the comparative anatomy of plants and animals.
Among lower animals the preservation of life is accomplished without mental connivance, conscious or unconscious. Soon, however, protective instincts begin to appear. Simple cases of these are flight at the approach of danger, protection by a covering of slimy froth secreted by the creatures themselves, or built up from this excreta, or from foreign matter. Such facts show that the love of life and the instinct of self-preservation are almost universal in the living world.
All these devices for the avoidance of danger and escape from death could have been developed in animals before these had any distinct idea as to what death was. We know that some animals can distinguish between living and dead prey. Some carnivora recognise the smell of dead bodies. Those which are accustomed to feed on living creatures refuse all others, detecting the difference by the absence of movement. As in such cases the idea of death is imperfect, it is easy to deceive the creatures by offering carcases artificially set in motion, or living prey rendered motionless by some means or other. In order to escape from enemies so readily imposed upon, many insects when alarmed become motionless and feign death; and that may be regarded as yet another instance in the category of natural means for the protection of individual life.
Moreover, the higher animals, such as mammals, exhibit a profound ignorance of death, many of them remaining completely undisturbed in the presence of dead companions, or even devouring the latter at the risk of contracting a fatal disease. Rats, for instance, eat the bodies of rats which have died of plague, and while appeasing their hunger themselves contract the disease which they transmit to other animals, particularly to human beings. Unlike those animals, however, which are indifferent to the death of their kind, there are others that instinctively shrink at seeing the dead bodies of their own species. Horses on passing a dead horse show signs of discomfort, and attempt to run away. Bullocks when witnessing the slaughter of others also exhibit evidences of distress and fear. In spite of these examples, however, it is quite certain that animals, even those highest in the scale of life, are unconscious of the inevitability of death, and of the ultimate fate of all living things. This knowledge is a human acquisition.
In man, the instinct of self-preservation is well developed. Hardly appreciable during infancy, it manifests itself in a marked degree in young children. At the sight of a human corpse, children become panic-stricken, as though confronted by a wild beast or snake.
In young adults this instinct of self-preservation, which is closely connected with an instinctive fear of death, is not fully developed. It often takes some special circumstance to awaken it, such as a dangerous illness, an accident, or the perils of war. Young people who while in good health believe their lives to be in danger, often take it to heart so as to make themselves really ill. Relating his impressions during the siege of Sebastopol, Tolstoi, who at that time was only twenty-six years of age, writes as follows: “Notwithstanding the distractions offered by various and urgent duties, the instinct of self-preservation, and the longing to quit this horrible place of death was present in the hearts of all. This desire was equally strong in all; in those mortally wounded, and in the volunteer rushing with all his might into the centre of the fray to open a path for the horse of the general, in the general himself as he directed and controlled his men. The officer of marines, in the middle of a battalion in action, crushed so that he could hardly breathe, felt it equally with the wounded man carried on a stretcher by four soldiers until, further progress being impossible, he had been set down just under the Nicolai battery, or the artilleryman who had served his gun for sixteen years.” In the normal course of life, however, the young do not show an instinctive clinging to life in any marked degree. They often risk their lives for trifling reasons, and commit all sorts of indiscretions hurtful to life or health without a thought of the consequences. They may be inspired by the highest motives, but they are equally ready to fritter strength away in the gratification of the lowest appetites. Youth is the age of disinterested sacrifice, but also of indulgence in all kinds of excesses, alcoholic, sexual and others. Youths seem to think that they will always attach the same value to life, and that between death at thirty years of age and death at sixty, there is a difference only of time. As their love of life is indifferently developed, young people are often extremely exacting, the pleasure they enjoy being but moderate, whilst the suffering provoked in them by the slightest annoyance is intense. They consequently become epicureans in the lowest sense of the word, or else abandon themselves to exaggerated pessimism.
“Edite, bibite, post mortem nulla voluptas” was the motto of German students, greedy for pleasure, and unknowing that a love of life develops with age in every human being. On the other hand, in order to keep the balance between joy and sorrow, youth, true to its instincts, undervalues the former and exaggerates the latter, thus arriving at a pessimistic view of life, and declaring that existence is a misfortune in itself. It is significant that Schopenhauer published his theory of pessimism at the age of thirty-one. His successor, R. Hartmann, when twenty-six years old, proclaimed that human existence is an evil which one should get rid of at all costs. Optimistic theories, on the other hand, have been set forth either by persons advanced in years or by persons whom special circumstances have caused to appreciate the joy of living. As a counterbalance to the pessimism of German philosophers, Duhring formulated a theory of optimism in his book “Der Wert des Lebens,” but was himself blind at the time. Sir John Lubbock published some years ago a book entitled “The Pleasures of Life,” which opens with the following sentence: “Life is a great gift.” His attitude towards life is entirely opposed to that of the pessimists, but then he formulated it at the age of fifty-three.
It has long been recognised that the old attach a higher value to life than do the young. J. J. Rousseau, for instance, says: “Life becomes dearer to us as its joys pass away. The old cling to it more closely than the young.”[132]
This reflection is absolutely correct, and is proved by a number of facts. I once knew very intimately a scientific man who had passed a very unhappy youth. Being hypersensitive to pain, he tried to assuage it by every means in his power. Some trifling annoyance sufficing to throw him into a state of utter prostration, he was in the habit of resorting to the aid of narcotics. In order to escape from mental anguish he inoculated himself with poisons. By the time he had arrived at an advanced age his hypersensitiveness gave place to feelings much less acute. He ceased to resent the ills of life so bitterly as he did in his youth; while he came to appreciate better the positive side of life, and even in moments of unhappiness he did not contemplate putting an end to his existence.
In youth he was pessimistic, and insisted upon the preponderance of evil over good. As he became older, his attitude towards existence became entirely modified.
I do not say, however, that it is necessary to be old in order to realise the misfortune of death. “He who pretends to face death without fear is a liar,” said J. J. Rousseau. “That all men fear to die is the great law dominating the thinking world, and without which all living things would soon cease to exist. This fear is a natural impulse, and is not merely an accident but an important factor in the whole order of things.”[133]
One often hears people express their indifference to death, but an examination into their real feelings on the subject soon shows the true state of affairs. I once happened to be present when a lady, already well advanced in years, expressed a wish for death, and said that she had no fear of it whatever. On acquiring a fuller knowledge of her case, I recognised that she was seriously ill, and that she regarded death as the only possible termination to her sufferings. As soon as she found that recovery was possible, she manifested intense delight at the prospect of a prolonged life freed from incessant pain.
Instinctive love of life, and fear of death, which is only a manifestation of the former, are of an importance in the study of human nature impossible to over-estimate; it is therefore necessary to consider a few instances throwing light upon the subject. Even the ancients were interested in the problem. The subject is perhaps as well dealt with in a Buddhist legend as anywhere.[134] “The young Prince Çakya-Mouni, the founder of the Buddhist faith, being desirous of discovering the true meaning of life, expressed a wish to leave the world and devote himself to a religious life. In order to turn him from his purpose, his father built him a magnificent palace, wherein he could indulge in every sort of pleasure, and in which he would be protected from all sorrow. Under this system he never saw old people, nor those who were diseased, nor the dead. In spite of being thus strictly guarded, the young prince often contrived to escape into the outer world in order to drive about. During his first drive, he met a broken-down, decrepid old man, with varicose veins, decayed teeth, a wrinkled skin, and grey hair, bent double with age like the roof of a house, leaning upon a stick; all traces of youth had departed from him, only inarticulate words came from his throat, his procumbent body resting on the stick, and his limbs and every part of them trembling.” Having learnt from his coachman that this was an old man, and that “in all living creatures age creeps upon youth,” that every one came to it and that “there was no way out of it,” the prince was so deeply impressed that he said to his coachman, “What a misfortune to be a weak foolish person, whose intelligence, blinded by the pride of youth, sees nothing of old age. Turn round my chariot. I would return. What are games and pleasures to me whose body is the future dwelling-place of old age?” Another time Çakya-Mouni met on the road a man consumed by fever, his body weakened, his breathing difficult. Informed by his coachman that the man was suffering from disease, the young prince exclaimed; “Health, then, is a mere dream, and the fear of disease takes a terrible form. What wise man, having seen such a phase of human existence, could continue to be gay and happy?” Shortly after Çakya-Mouni went out for the third time, and “saw a dead man placed on a bier covered by a pall, surrounded by his relations, all weeping, lamenting, wailing, their hair disordered, placing dust upon their heads, and beating their breasts.” The violent emotion produced by the sight of the dead man caused the prince to say to himself: “Woe to youth threatened with old age! Woe to health, the prey of every kind of disease! Woe to the life of man which lasts but a little while! Woe to the attractions of pleasure which seduce the hearts of the wise.” These reflections of Çakya-Mouni are the basis upon which Buddhism is founded, and that religious philosophy is impregnated with pessimistic doctrines relating to human life.
Modern pessimists hold views resembling Buddhism. Schopenhauer from early youth was engrossed by the great problems of human life. His mother, in a letter to him[135] reproached him with “grumbling at the inevitable,” which shows that at twenty-seven years of age he had revolted against the idea of death. The problem of mortality was one of those in which he was most deeply interested, and his fear of disease and death was such that he left Berlin at the first outbreak of cholera in 1831 (influenced by the death of Hegel, who succumbed to the disease), and went to live at Frankfort, a town unvisited by the epidemic. He affirms[136] that “the greatest, and generally speaking the worst, misfortune that can befall any one is to die, and there is no fear equal to the fear of death.” It was the impossibility of escape that suggested to him the idea of a pessimistic philosophy.
The literatures as well as the philosophies of all periods have dealt with the problem of death. Edmond de Goncourt tells in his “Journal” how, in conversation with his friends, this question was always recurring. The following is an account of one of these conversations:[137] “Our old established dinner of five took place to-day. Flaubert was missing, so there were only Tourguéneff, Zola, Daudet, and me. The ethical ennui of some of us, the physical sufferings of the others, led the conversation to death, which we discussed until eleven o’clock, sometimes passing to other subjects, but always coming back to the gloomy topic. Daudet declared that in his case it was an obsession, a poisoning of his life, and that he never moved into a new house without looking round for the place where his coffin would come to lie. Zola told us that his mother had died at Médan, and that, as the staircase proved too narrow, the coffin had had to be lowered from a window; he declared that he never looked at that window without wondering who would be taken out that way next, he or his wife. “Yes,” he said, “ever since that day death has always been in the background of our thoughts, and very often during the night, looking at my sleepless wife, I feel that like me she is thinking of it, and we lie quietly without saying aloud what is in our minds—for shame, yes, for very shame—Oh! it is terrible, that thought—and the terror of it becomes visible! There have been nights when I have leapt suddenly out of bed, and held myself for a second or two in a state of abject terror.”
Jean Finot[138] was told in confidence by E. de Goncourt that if he could banish the thought of death from his mind life would be relieved of an almost intolerable burden. Jean Finot also relates that in the course of a memorable evening spent with Victor Hugo at the house of the latter, nearly all of the distinguished persons who were present, when questioned as to their ideas on the subject of death, frankly admitted that the thought of it inspired them with fear and sadness. Amongst modern authors Count Léon Tolstoi has dealt most with the problem of death. In many of his works whole pages of memorable reflections on the subject are to be found, but the most harrowing and terrible picture he ever painted is contained in his “Confessions.”[139] The reader will pardon my propensity for quoting passages relating to death. He will recall the account of the Siege of Sebastopol already quoted by me, in which every one was described as fearing death when faced by danger; but this fear, as the author was a young man of twenty-six, was not wholly absorbing.
Shortly before he attained his fiftieth year, Tolstoi became bitterly tormented by the thought of death. He describes the beginning of this mental crisis in the following words: “First there came moments of perplexity, of arrest of vital force, as though I had lost the power of living and moving; I felt utterly lost, and fell into a state of complete dejection. This passed away, however, and I continued to live on as before. Before long the moments of perplexity became more frequent; the arrest of my living energies was always manifested by a renewal of the same questions, ‘Why? and What comes after?’”[140] For some time Tolstoi did not pay much attention to his mental condition, but by degrees he began to analyse it, and reached the following conclusion: “The fact is that life is a blind alley. I had lived, worked and marched onward, and had arrived at the edge of an abyss, and nothing remained to me but to fall into it. And yet I could neither stop nor retrace my footsteps, nor shut my eyes in order not to see suffering and inevitable death. It was a void, a complete annihilation.”[141] “In this condition I felt that I must cease to live, and, fearing death, I had to employ various ruses to prevent myself from taking my life.”[142] “I could attach no reasonable meaning to any action of my life. I was merely astonished to think I had failed to realise the position from the beginning. All that, I said to myself, must have been patent to all the world long ago. If not to-day, then to-morrow, disease and death—they are already here—will attack elderly persons—me—and there will remain only corruption and worms. My deeds, whatever they may be, will be forgotten sooner or later, and I shall be no more. Why then take pains about anything? How a man can know all this and yet go on living amazes me. One can only go on living just so long as one is intoxicated with life; once sober, however, one cannot fail to see what an idiotic fraud it all is. It is also true that there is nothing even amusing or intelligent about it; it is simply stupid and cruel and nothing more.” Seeing no way out of this, Tolstoi turned his reflections on family love: “My family ... I say to myself ... but then my family, my wife, and children are also merely human beings! They live under the same conditions as I myself. They have the choice between living a lie or facing the horrible truth. Why then should they live at all? Why should I love, cherish, and protect them? In order that they may experience the same despair, or that they may go through life like idiots? Loving them, I cannot conceal the truth from them; every step forward in knowledge leads to this truth; and the truth is death.”[143] To conclude this series of quotations, which must have given the reader some idea of the love of life and the fear of death, I shall give one more example, taken, not from the pen of a master but from daily life.[144] It refers to the death in the Christian community of a “minister of God, who was pious as a S. Francis of Assisi, candid as a young girl, of a rigid asceticism, and renowned for his charity.” Logically speaking, the death of such a man should have been peaceful. Had he been a fictitious character, his author would not have described his death except in the conventional fashion. This is what really occurred, according to the letters of an intimate friend of the dying man, who wrote as follows: “Our poor friend is fighting death inch by inch in a way that is positively tragic. He who was so full of resignation, so serene, so perfectly at peace with his own soul, is terrified by the approach of death. It is a horrible sight, that moves one to tears. We are powerless not only to afford him physical relief but to console the terrible anguish which assails the clear intellect that clings so desperately to life, and which death will claim while fully alive. ‘I could still,’ he cried, ‘give a course of lectures on theology or political economy, and I must die.... It is terrible to be fully conscious.... How much better it would be if I could not think!... And what is it that we ask of God? Eternal happiness! It is just as if one of your workpeople came and asked you for a thousand francs for a day’s work!’ You would answer him, ‘What nonsense you talk, you must be mad, my friend!’ It is hard to die. I confess to you, my friend, that this makes one reconsider religion and philosophy.... The goodness of God is not what we think ... there is a mystery over us.... Is death then truly the King of Terrors for those who have led good lives?”
What is this love of life which makes death so terrible? It is a very interesting question, and Tolstoi himself has published an essay on “the fear of death.”[145]
He tries to prove that the feeling arises from a false conception of life. “Those who fear death,” he says, “fear it because it seems an empty darkness, but the darkness and emptiness present themselves merely because they have a false conception of life.”[146] According to Tolstoi man should have no greater fear of death than of any of the other changes to which it is subjected by life. “No one is afraid of falling asleep,” he says, “and yet the phenomena of sleep are like those of death—there is the same loss of consciousness. Man does not fear sleep, although the arrest of consciousness is as complete as in death.”[147]
Tolstoi thinks that the fear of death is a superstition, and that it disappears when we see life as it is.[148]
Tokarsky,[149] another Russian writer, a few years ago published a treatise on the fear of death, and tried to show how little reason there was for it. The writer was a physician for the insane, and knew himself to be afflicted with an incurable and fatal disease. His observations on the fear of death were probably based on his own feelings. Judging from the evidence of a number of persons who had been in mortal danger, Tokarsky declared that death had no terror, and that it was unnecessary to fear it.
Tokarsky’s theory was supported in recent years by Finot[150] whose arguments in its favour were similar to those of his predecessor. He held that man himself created the fear of death, and that the prospect of an unknown future played a considerable part in it. “Beyond that which we see,” says Finot, “there is always something that we cannot see, and it is the invisible that we fear.”[151] The idea that death is generally attended by pain seems to Finot quite erroneous, and he comes to the conclusion that “our ignorances and prejudices are responsible for the creation of this superstition, so terrible to contemplate, so far removed from the truth.”[152] Instances which have occurred of people threatened with death and suddenly restored to life, give proofs, according to Finot, that death, far from being painful, is attended by pleasant sensations. With regard to this, Heim, a Swiss savant, says that tourists who have had serious falls while mountaineering, and have been so near to death that they experienced all the premonitory symptoms, felt above all a sensation of ecstasy.
It cannot be denied that some forms of death are pleasant, but it is no less certain that in many other cases, and these too the majority—the sensation of approaching death is, on the contrary, extremely painful. This question, however, is not necessarily connected with the fear of death that may come to those who are not yet about to die. But it is precisely the latter mode of fear that is so important a factor in human life. Men who are dying of starvation do not feel painfully hungry at the moment of death. The actual pain of hunger lasts only for a limited period, probably, in the case of man, only about twenty hours, after which it is succeeded by a condition of lassitude and general weakness, which however is different from painful hunger. The fear of death is similar, for in certain cases it does not last up to the end of life. The pain of thirst, on the other hand, is much more persistent, lasting up to the end.
Finot discussed the instinctiveness of the fear of death. “The question,” he wrote, “is important. For if the fear be instinctive, it is independent of our will and not to be controlled by reason. It would then break out in every case at the approach of death. Now the evidence of many persons who have no more than escaped mortal danger is clearly against the view.”[153] Hunger is certainly instinctive, and yet is not always felt when the body is exhausted by want of food or menaced by death from starvation.
Closer investigation leaves no doubt but that the fear of death is truly an instinct. In some of the higher animals it exhibits itself in the same fashion as other instincts. The intimate friend, whom I have already mentioned, was for years in constant expectation of death, and faced its approach with perfect calmness. Believing that he had played his part in life to the best of his power, not only did he think it quite natural that he should cease to live, but he regarded the possibility of a decrepid and painful old age with the greatest possible repugnance. In his case, neither reason nor desire led to a fear of death. When, however, it was definitely diagnosed that he suffered from a disease which might prove fatal, there was aroused in him a certain sensation which must have been the fear of death. Analysis of Tolstoi’s statements in his “Confessions” makes it clear that his sensations on reflecting that he too would cease to be, and that there would be left only corruption and worms, were no other than the instinctive fear of death, a fear that his reason was powerless to control. To follow Tolstoi in telling any one that the fear of death is a form of superstition which must be subdued by the intelligence, is no better than to attempt to console a woman about to undergo ovariotomy by telling her that as in future she will be unable to bear children she ought to subdue her sexual instincts. She will find out that her desire is not under control of the will but is a pure instinct.
The fear of death has long been recognised as an instinct. Schopenhauer,[154] for instance, interpreted it in that way. According to him, “from the point of view of intelligence there is no ground for fearing death. Reason, which is the outcome of knowledge, does not present death to us as an evil. It is certainly not the rational, conscious part of ourselves which fears death; the fuga mortis which pervades all living beings is an emanation of the blind will.” This “blind will” is no other than a pure instinct which is independent of our rational will.
I need not pursue the subject, but I may recall that Lord Byron came to the conclusion that the fear of death is an instinctive manifestation of the soul. In “Cain” he expressed this view sufficiently clearly:—