III Pessimism in Its Relation to Health and Age
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.