part I

must confess myself not so much on the side of Judge Lindsey as further away from Father McMenamin on the other side out beyond Judge Lindsey. I want people to have all the knowledge and freedom I can in these things as in all things. I think that compulsion defeats its own ends and that animals and human beings have an instinctive disposition to resist being forced along paths that, left to themselves, they would quite naturally follow. A vast amount of sexual misbehaviour is _provoked_ by prohibitions and proscriptions. It does not follow that because a thing is very, very good it ought to be forced upon everybody. There are great varieties of character in the world and for many of them married love is impossible. There are many who miss a full natural development of married love and yet have a reasonable claim for respect and consideration in less complete or less enduring relationships.

People are needlessly afraid of a variety of reputable contracts and of freedom in the unions of men and women because they do not realize how natural and necessary is the habitual association of one man with one woman in the workaday world. It is a thing you can safely leave most people to discover and realize for themselves. If people were completely free to do anything they pleased in sexual matters, they would do, only more easily and happily, much the same things that we take great pains to insist they shall do and compel them to do now. As many would pair as pair now and perhaps more, and the unfortunate and the unpairable would not be made to suffer for bad luck or singularity of temperament. People would not be constrained; there would be less shame and less persecution through it all. There would be easier readjustment after mistakes, earlier mating in most cases, and a great diminution of prostitution and the quasi-criminal sexual underworld.

On the whole, I think that popular thought and will are moving steadily in the direction of rationalism, candour, and charity in sexual things and away from emotionalism, concealment, compulsion, and repression. This dispute at Denver is certainly only one of the opening incidents in a very wide and far-reaching movement for the courageous revision and modernization of marriage.

_26 June, 1927._

XIX

NEW LIGHT ON MENTAL LIFE: MR. J. W. DUNNE’S EXPERIMENTS WITH DREAMING

An old friend, Mr. J. W. Dunne, has recently sent me a new book he has written, “An Experiment with Time.” I find it a fantastically interesting book. It has stirred my imagination vividly and I think most imaginative people will be stirred by the queer things he has advanced in it. I do not think it has yet been given nearly enough attention.

Years ago, in the last century, Mr. Dunne came to see me for the first time. He was then a young captain in the army, and he had to go out to the South African war. He wanted to tell me something, an idea, that he didn’t want to have lost if, too abruptly for explanations, some Boer marksman chanced to wipe him out of existence. It was the idea of an aeroplane with V-shaped wings based on a number of experiments he had made with paper models--a perfectly sound idea, which has since been realized in a very stable but not very swift or agile machine. If Dunne had had money and opportunity for experiment, I am sure that about A.D. 1902–3 he would have constructed a practicable heavier-than-air machine, but he had to go off to his blockhouse work in the Orange River Colony, and he never got a free hand to build until other investigators had passed him by.

In those days it was extraordinarily hard to get people to show a practical interest in the air. He came to me because I had written what was considered very wild stuff about flight. I had said that we should fly before 1950! Not a dazzling hit, but better than the mighty majority opinion that we should never fly at all. This magnificent encouragement won Dunne’s gratitude and confidence; he put all he had done so far in my hands and I was to lock it up and keep it secret for him until he was either killed or could go on with his experiments again. He had to come to me, a perfect stranger, before he could find any one who would take him seriously enough to harbour what he had to deposit.

I still remember very cheerfully a funny afternoon we spent in my garden at Sandgate, while Dunne rushed about, climbing up walls and jumping on garden seats, to release little fluttering paper models which illustrated this or that aspect of his idea.

He struck me then as having one of the most patient and persistent minds I had ever encountered. None of the magnesium flare about his mind, the sort of thing that goes fizz and lights up everything--as much as it is ever going to light up everything--but wary, observing, and, when at last it gets on a trail, indefatigable. He worried on with aviation for a long time, bad health and the Great War used him up and

## partly veiled him from me, and it is only now that I learn of another

scent that he has been following to the most remarkable conclusions.

What set him going was a very common experience, the fact that dreams in an odd, erratic way seem to foreshadow events. Many of us have had the experience of an anticipatory dream, and usually we have been so vague about it that the story was hardly worth the telling. Mr. Townley Searle, the London bookseller, told the other day of an unusually lucid one. He dreamt he was among the stalls in the Caledonian Market, and found and bought a first edition of Thomas Hardy’s “Desperate Remedies,” which is worth £100 nowadays. So vivid was the impression that he got up the next morning and went straight to the market, bought an umbrella for sixpence because it was coming on to rain, and then, recognizing the stall of his dream, went straight to it and got the three volumes for a shilling, a clear profit of £99, 18_s._ 6_d._

That was a rarely simple case. The ordinary dream with foreshadowing elements is more mixed than that. One of my own has stuck in my mind for years and is much more typical. In my dream I was riding a bicycle on the Neva, which was frozen over; the bicycle skidded on the ice, went faster and faster, and got more and more out of control; ahead of me appeared a great sledge with a gaunt horse driven by a woman in white furs; I swept towards it helplessly and collided with the horse, clung to its head, and pulled it down as I awoke. The moment of clinging to the head of the horse was prolonged, and it haunted me. I had a vivid sense of the feel of the animal’s ears and long cheek. I was then actually learning to ride the bicycle and, a day or so after, I came round a corner on a little chariot-like milk-cart on the wrong side of the road. I lacked the skill to avoid this and found myself clinging to the head of the pony, which came down in exactly the mood of suspense, and with exactly the same feel as the sledge horse did in my dream. But as I am not of Dunne’s curious and persistent quality I never followed up that very striking experience. I had not told it to any one before the accident and I accepted very uncritically the current explanation of these apparently foreshadowing dreams.

Probably the reader knows that “explanation.” It is that there is lack of simultaneousness in the action of the two hemispheres of the brain so that one lags a little behind the other; there is a double impression and the second one has the effect of being a memory of some previous event. The theory is that there was no real dream at all, but only the delusion of a memory of a dream produced by the flagging impression. That accounts for the resemblances of the event to the pseudo-dream but manifestly it does not account for the differences; the lady in white furs and the Neva for example have still to be accounted for. If I never really had that dream, as a dream how did they get into my memory? Why wasn’t the dream exactly like the event?

Dunne seems to have had more than one such experience. He dreamt, for example, of the great volcanic outbreak in Martinique while he was soldiering in the Orange Free State. He saw it just about to happen, fissures opening in the ground and steam jetting out. What he saw was quite unlike what probably did happen. In his dream he made violent attempts to warn the inhabitants; he was very clear about the number. He woke up shouting, “Four thousand people will be killed.” Days later came a newspaper. Headlines proclaimed the disaster and the probable loss of forty thousand, not four thousand, lives. The reading of these headlines was the event foreshadowed by the dream. He read them hastily, misread the figures as four thousand, and the paper passed out of his reach. Long afterwards he found that these figures, both four thousand and forty thousand, were quite erroneous. His dream, it is plain, was not of the actual event, but merely an anticipation of his mental impression when he looked at the paper.

Several occurrences of this sort put Dunne on the alert. He decided to write down all his dreams so soon as he was awake. He kept a bedside notebook. He trained himself to watch for his dreams at the moment of awakening and acquired considerable skill at recovering his dreams as they slipped away into nothingness. He made a parallel daylight diary of his more vivid waking impressions. And he induced several other people to take up this business of dream watching. He has accumulated records. All this he tells very interestingly in this book of his. And the striking conclusion that emerges from these observations is this, that the share of future mental impressions is almost as important or quite as important in the making of dreams as mental impressions in the past. To-morrow’s happenings are just as likely to appear, clipped and disturbed, in the dream flow as yesterday’s.

We most of us have some idea of the making of dreams. Some sound, some internal or external disturbance lifts the mental existence out of the unconscious towards waking. The mind ceases to forget, memory and attention dawn, and the drifting mental content groups itself with an assumption of reasonable connectedness about the disturbing sensation. Then we either wake and remember, or the whole stir subsides back into forgetfulness and unconsciousness. Most of us realize how the impressions of yesterday in particular, and of remote yesterdays less patently, supply forms and colour to the stir, and how desires we have thwarted and temptations we have resisted escape into this dream of life and play havoc with our suppressions. What most of us do not realize, says Dunne, is the share which little scraps of tomorrow’s impressions also contribute. That is the essence of his discovery. It is difficult at the time to sift the foreshadowings from the recollections and the distorted, escaped suppressions, so unimportant and elusive they seem to be. It is only when the premonitions are exceptionally striking that they are remembered and recognized when they turn up in actual fact, and so detected. They have to be very vivid or very peculiar. But the more closely and skilfully you watch, he insists, the more of the futurist element is evident in the dream.

Moreover, he had added to the observation of what I may call natural dreaming the observation of states of mind when the attention is deliberately relaxed so as to leave the mental existence at a level hardly above the level of recording consciousness. He turns his back, as it were, on the mental existence, and then suddenly snatches what is there before it sails out of reach, and in these phases of mind also he finds the images of future and past impressions mingling together.

Now I think it may be possible to put these facts into a comprehensible relationship to quite a number of other facts which do not enter into Dunne’s speculation. I won’t exactly follow him in this statement that follows, which is necessarily in the space at my disposal a very sketchy statement. Partly it derives from him and

## partly I am adding something of my own. The point of interest is that

our mind can be considered as existing in the past and in the future, as extending, so to speak, both ways beyond what we consider to be the actual moment. I hope that does not strike the reader as too crazy a proposition. Most of us have given very little thought to what we mean by the actual moment. What do we mean by “now”? How much time is it? Behind “now” stretches the past, ahead is the future, but is it itself an infinitesimal instant? Do we merely exist as a flash, as a series of flashes, so to speak, of no duration at all, between a past gone by and a future still to come, or does “now” bulge into both past and future? This will be a novel and amusing question to most people and a profoundly irritating one to certain types. They will be so accustomed to speak of past and future as though they were in actual contact at the present, that the assertion will be astonishing and difficult, and yet as they think it over it will acquire an insinuating and troublesome plausibility, that “now” is perhaps always a measurable, and may under certain circumstances be a quite considerable, piece of time. It sounds paradoxical to say that portions of the past and future both enter into “now,” but actual experience gives a feeling in favour of that illogical view. To be illogical is not necessarily to be in error. Mankind may have been thinking about past and future in the wrong way.

Next I would suggest that as we become attentive to anything and excited by actual fact, “now” gathers itself together, and the more excited and attentive we are, the more “now” gathers itself together towards its central point. As we become increasingly active and “on the spot,” the acuter and the narrower does the “now” under attention become. In our crises we live, as we say, only for the moment. As we relapse towards inattention, reverie, dreaminess, “now” becomes obtuse and broader and broader. In the hypnotic condition, in dreaming, and still more so in dreamless sleep, “now” may broaden down towards and below the limit of consciousness, until it spreads, it may be, to large parts, and even to all of our mental life from beginning to end. In the sleeping mind or in the dead mind nothing is past or future. As we rouse ourselves, as we become alert, as we wake up and pay attention to things, that vague “now” is drawn together towards the moment of

## action. But as the attention leaps to action, it trails with it faint

and rapidly fading impressions of the more diffused state of mind from which it has arisen.

This queer idea that the “now” of the dreaming and inattentive mind may extend to an undefined amount into both past and future is compatible with all Dunne’s dreaming and quasi-dreaming phenomena. On any other supposition they are inexplicable. And it is consistent with the remarkable story of Mr. Townley Searle, and many other like tales of premonition. Moreover, Professor Gilbert Murray recently published some disconcerting facts, disconcerting, that is, for the sceptic, with regard to what he considered to be telepathy. One would as soon doubt his word as one would doubt that of Aristides. He is above suspicion even of careless testimony. I have not the report of his experiments by me, but they were very puzzling and perplexing indeed. They went something in this way: he would, with various friends, read or be told or agree upon some strange scene and event, and his daughter would then come into the room and open her mind, as it were, to any floating impression that offered itself, while he and his friends fixed their minds on the chosen topic. On this theory it was unnecessary so to fix the mind, but that, I believe, was what was done. Presently she would describe what came to her. Many of her guesses were amazingly good. She was then told the actual thing chosen, and no doubt she saw it very vividly as it was described to her. She would be keen to know how near she had got to the chosen subject. But that she should see the thing before it was described to her and because it was presently to be described to her, is all of a piece with Dunne seeing the Martinique explosion before the newspaper headings evoked the picture in his imagination. It would be extremely interesting if Professor Murray would try to get scenes to his daughter which would not be revealed to her later. If he failed to do that, it would be confirmatory of this supposition, that what happened was merely the foreshadowing of a strong impression, exactly on the lines of Dunne’s anticipatory dreams.

The idea that the mental “now” prolongs itself into the past and future, as the attention flattens down from its waking acuteness into a state of suspense, also brings many of the more remarkable and hitherto abnormal phenomena of hypnotism into line with the general body of interpreted fact. The feats of many of the more successful mediums in producing the names and significant incidents in the lives of people hitherto unknown to them, but whose names and circumstances they were personally to know, cease to be isolated phenomena. They are no longer in the least discordant with everyday reality so soon as we clear our minds of the delusion that the practical, fleshly, substantial “now” of ordinary experience is a mathematical instant, a locus, an infinitesimal abstraction, and accept the view I am propounding here that it has duration, and that its duration in both directions, past and future, increases with the weakening of our attention and our lapse from acute contact with outer reality.

By this reasoning people must often be dreaming ahead of the winners of races, of winning numbers in lotteries, speculative opportunities and the like. They are. But dreams draw their material not only from the future but from the past, from our bodily desires and cravings, our hopes, our mental preoccupations, and the interpretation and misinterpretation of noises and other impressions. Very rarely have they a convincing quality of reality. The dream artist in us is essentially and incurably unsystematic and maundering. We all, as our attention sinks down towards the threshold of consciousness, become false and incoherent in our associations. Every sleeping, hypnotized, anæsthetized, or dreaming man is, so to speak, insane. Sanity is a waking state. Accordingly, I do not see any prospect of our keeping so sufficiently alive to what we are doing as to direct our minds to the next big race or the run of the numbers for the next hour at roulette, and at the same time letting ourselves go sufficiently to tap the mental states ahead. Things may and do happen as they happened to Mr. Townley Searle, but such dreams are gifts and cannot be forced or persuaded to come by any means now known to us. Practical life lies in the present. Dream states, like drug states, are a dangerous field of exploration for any but very specially endowed and guarded minds.

_10 July, 1927._

XX

POPULAR FEELING AND THE ADVANCEMENT OF SCIENCE. ANTI-VIVISECTION

There are some questions that really serve to classify men’s minds. Nowadays the popularly received classifications rarely mean anything at all. Are you Republican or Democrat, are you Liberal, Labour, or Conservative? The answer tells you only of accidents of upbringing and circumstance. Are you a Socialist? “We are all Socialists nowadays.” Are you a Christian? Yes and no, or a “Yes”--and a long explanation. But these other questions are test questions. Fairly put and fairly answered they reveal the quality--or rather, let me say, the key and colour--of a mind quite definitively. They mean exact things. They show you are this sort of man or that.

One of these test questions is birth control, because on your belief whether that is possible and desirable or whether it is not, hang, logically and necessarily, all your ideas of the competition of types, peoples, and races, and of the possibility of socialism and world peace. If you can believe it is possible then world peace is possible, and if you think it is impossible all talk of world peace is just sentimental foolishness or a humbugging preparation for propaganda in the next war. Another test issue is the question whether the Mass as performed by a properly qualified priest is or is not the central fact of Christian religious life. If your answer is “Yes,” you are a Catholic, and if “No” a Protestant. All the other points at issue among the different sorts of Christians are subordinate to that, and you will find that the decisions people make upon them are always more or less clearly consequent upon that primary decision. Your attitude towards education will be different, and towards literature and history. You will face death differently and pain differently. Upon a great multitude of the important problems of to-day you do not know where you are, you are just maundering about, until you have thought out and decided clearly on these two key matters and adjusted your ideas to them.

A third cardinal issue, not perhaps quite so far-reaching in its implications as these others, but very far-reaching, is the question of vivisection. To get your attitude to that quite clear and settled in your mind is--after these other two--as sound and profitable an enterprise in self-examination as it is possible to imagine.

What is vivisection? It is a clumsy and misleading name for experimentation on animals for the sake of the knowledge to be gained thereby. It is clumsy and misleading because it means literally cutting up alive and trails with it to most uninstructed minds a suggestion of highly sensitive creatures, bound and helpless, being slowly anatomized to death. This is an idea naturally repulsive to gentle and kindly spirits, and it puts an imputation of extreme cruelty on vivisection which warps the discussion from the outset. But the larger bulk of experiments upon animals for scientific purposes involve no cutting about and very little pain. Many cause discomfort rather than actual pain. There may be the prick of an injection and a subsequent illness. Where there is actual cutting it is nearly always performed under anæsthetics, and in a considerable proportion of such cases there is no need for the animal to recover consciousness and it does not recover consciousness.

Still, a residue of cases remains in which real suffering is inflicted. Far more pain, terror, and distress is inflicted on the first day of pheasant shooting every year, for no purpose at all except the satisfaction of the guns, upon the wounded and mutilated birds which escape than is inflicted by all the scientific investigators in the world vivisecting for a year. The lives of “fancy” dogs, again, invalid and grotesque deformations of the canine type, must make an aggregation of prolonged discomfort beyond all comparison greater than that of the creatures inoculated by the physiologist. But such considerations do not release us from the straight question whether it is right and permissible to cut even a single animal about, or indeed to hurt any living creature at all, for the sake of knowledge.

That is what the scientific experimentalist claims to be free to do and which the anti-vivisectionists labour strenuously to prevent. There is no denial on the part of the scientific experimentalist that a certain number of experiments are painful and have to be painful, and that they are of a sort that have to be performed upon animals of an order of intelligence that leaves one in no doubt of the reality of the sufferings inflicted. The large majority of experiments involve no inconvenience to the creatures tested, but there is this residuum of admittedly painful cases. It is an amount of suffering infinitesimal in comparison with the gross aggregate of pain inflicted day by day upon sentient creatures by mankind, but it occurs.

The anti-vivisectionist wants legislation to prevent all experiment upon living things for the sake of knowledge. Failing that he wants to prevent experiment upon dogs in particular, even when the experiment involves no pain whatever to the subject. But you will find that the typical anti-vivisectionist is incapable of believing that an experiment can be painless; his imagination is too vivid for any assurance to the contrary. The idea of living substance cut while it quivers and feels is too powerful for him. When the arguments and imaginative appeals to his agitation are scrutinized it will be found that his objection is to real or imagined pain, inflicted in cold blood to no matter what beneficial end.

That is what he wants to stop. His propaganda literature is filled with assertions that no knowledge of any value has ever been gained by biological experimentation, but these preposterous denials of widely known facts are the natural and habitual exaggerations of controversial literature. The sound anti-vivisectionist would not rest his case on any such proposition, for, even if it were true, a single wonderful discovery to-morrow would upset it again. Pushed into a corner he will admit that he does not care whether the knowledge gained is worth while or no. He will not have knowledge gained in this fashion.

It would be easy to convict the anti-vivisectionist movement of many manifest inconsistencies, but my object here is rather to disentangle a fundamental idea than to exhibit confusions of thought. I want to disentangle what is at the root of the feelings of the anti-vivisectionist, and not to score controversial points. But I must call attention to the marked disregard shown by the active spirits in this agitation for any sort of experimenting with animals, however productive of pain, that does not produce scientific results. The world of pet animals is a world of aimless experimenting with life. The lives of the “pets” of careless women are for the most part remarkable histories of wrong and excessive feeding and fitful fussing and negligence, and these creatures are themselves, in many of their varieties, products of a ruthlessly dysgenic breeding industry which sacrifices vigour and vitality to minuteness, quaintness, and delicious ugliness, but the anti-vivisectionist has never shown the slightest disposition to couple this ugly trade in animal deformity with the pursuit of scientific research. Nor does he show any animus against the importation of little monkeys and suchlike small attractive beasts, dragged from their natural environment to die en route or perish miserably but “amusingly” in uncongenial and often terrifying surroundings. Indeed, a large part of the social and financial support of anti-vivisection seems to come from just the sort of people who sustain the breeders and procurers of animals for “petting.”

But very probably the toy-dog lover does not realize the biological abomination of these practices. In his disregard of possible pain and discomfort in one case and in his exaggeration of pain and discomfort in the other, we find the clue to the fundamental issue of this controversy. The pet is to him a dear little thing and its incessant struggles to breathe with its pug nose are considered to be funny; its fitful appetite is interpreted as fastidiousness; its manifest ill-health is “delicacy”; if it is constantly washed and combed it does not smell and it is a sweet creature; its abject physical dependence on its owner, its terror and hatred of the world beyond the proprietary aura is very flattering and easily interpreted as love. There is the same disinclination to see the realities in the case of the pet dog as in the case of the dog in the hands of the experimentalist, but the disinclination is set at a different angle. The former leads a life of general discomfort, but it is necessary for the pet-owning and pet-protecting type to think of it as exquisitely indulged; the latter may not suffer in the slightest degree, and may show the friendliest feelings to the man who has made it a contributor to science or may jump on the table eagerly for the injection that is followed by a pat and a tit-bit of food, but it has to be regarded as being thrillingly and outrageously tormented. These, however, are honest delusions, the outcome of a peculiar mental make-up, and the anti-vivisectionist is not to be charged with wilful inconsistency. His or her--it is more commonly her--intention is to prevent and forbid the infliction in cold blood and for a scientific end of anything that looks like pain on any animal that can be imagined to suffer.

The hatred is not against pain as such; it is against pain inflicted for knowledge. The medical profession is massively in support of vivisection, and its testimony is that the knowledge derived from vivisection has made possible the successful treatment of many cases of human suffering. So far as we can measure one pain against another, or the pain of this creature against the pain of that, vivisection has diminished the pain of the world very considerably. But the anti-vivisectionists will hear nothing of that. They will hear nothing of that because it is not material to their conception of the case.

The peculiar animus of the anti-vivisectionist is clearly against the deliberation and the scientific aim and not against the pain in itself. The general subjugation of animals to human ends is not questioned. Many anti-vivisectionists are, like their pets, carnivorous. They will leave the abattoir to go on when they have closed the laboratory; they will recognize the right and duty of the owner of a big dog to beat his fortunate possession into good behaviour and keep it short of food to tame it. They would be indignant if they were refused the freedom of giving their pets anything to eat that they fancied--provided always that no scientific knowledge ensued from its subsequent reactions. It is the quiet determination of the clean-handed man with the scalpel that they cannot endure.

It is not that he is cruel, because manifestly he is not cruel--if he had a lust for cruelty the richly emotional nature of the anti-vivisectionists would probably understand him better--it is because he is not driven by his feelings or cravings to do what he does, but by a will for abstract lucidity, that he rouses the antagonism, the violent sense of difference, in his “antis.” Vivisection is only occasionally and incidentally the infliction of pain, and anti-vivisection is not really a campaign against pain at all. The real campaign is against the thrusting of a scientific probe into mysteries and hidden things which it is felt should either be approached in a state of awe, tenderness, excitement, or passion, or else avoided. It is, we begin to realize, a campaign to protect a world of fantasy against science, a cherished and necessary world of fantasy. It is a counter-attack upon a treatment of animals that gives the lie to a delightful and elaborated mythology in which these poor limited creatures are humanized and have thrust upon them responses, loyalties, and sympathetic understandings of which they are, in reality, scarcely more capable than plants. The curious, materialistic, shameless, and intelligent monkey lends itself far less easily than the dog to such mythological interpretation, and so gets far less consideration from the anti-vivisectionists. It pulls everything to pieces, including pleasant fantasies about itself. But you can tell a dog that it thinks and feels anything you like, however noble and complex, and it watches you hopefully and wags its tail. And so it is about the dog that the controversy centres and the passions of the dispute rage most obstinately.

To the question we have posed, whether it is justifiable to inflict pain upon animals if need be for the sake of knowledge, the supporter of vivisection says “Yes.” He says “Yes” because he regards the whole animal creation as existing not merely for its present sensations, but as a contributing part of a continuing and developing reality which increases in knowledge and power. His disposition is to see things plainly and to accept the subservience of beasts to man in man’s increasing effort to understand and control. He regards animals as limited and simplified cognates of our own infinitely more complex and important beings, illuminating inferiors, and he can conceive no better or more profitable use for their lives than to serve the ends of mental growth. What otherwise are their lives? A play of desires and fears, that ends in being devoured by other creatures great and small. To this mentality that of the natural anti-vivisectionist is in the completest contrast. The world that the pro-vivisectionist is by his nature impelled to strip bare, the anti-vivisectionist clothes in rich swathings of feeling and self-projection. He imagines souls in birds and beasts, long memories and intricate criticism. He can imagine dogs and cats pressed by forebodings, a prey to anxiety, vexed and thwarted. He does not clearly separate them from humanity. Often he will compare these dream-enriched animals of his with mankind to the disadvantage of the latter. He enriches reality but at the same time he distorts and conceals it by these ornamentations. He is afraid of bare reality as a child is afraid of a skeleton.

The biological experimenter experiments because he wants to know. He is neither dismayed by pain nor does he desire that pain should enter into his experiments. He avoids it when possible. I doubt if his work is largely determined by practical ends, or whether it would have much value if he undertook it directly for the sake of curing disease, benefiting humanity, or anything of that sort. Sentimental aims mean loose, sentimental, ineffective work. He wants knowledge because he wants knowledge; it is his characteristic good. Practical applications follow unsought. He is a type of humanity that may or may not be increasing in the world. Most of us do not stand up to knowledge like that. We want to keep our illusions. We do not want knowledge for ourselves or others very much, we prefer to be happy in our imaginations, and the rescue of animals from the “clutches” of the vivisectionists appeals to our deep instinctive self-protection quite as much as it does to the widely diffused desire to champion the weak against the strong.

_24 July, 1927._

XXI

THE NEW AMERICAN PEOPLE: WHAT IS WRONG WITH IT?

The American people is far less sensitive to foreign opinion than it used to be, but three or four letters to this address witness that there are still Americans who want to have themselves discussed. They ask for prophecies of the American future. The demand is too big for me. But, in common with many other English people, I have been made to think rather vividly about certain aspects of the American future in the last few months, and it may be interesting to turn over the convergent reactions and conclusions.

English people will not consent to think of Americans as foreigners and aliens in the way in which they think of Turks or Italians. They have a great and intimate curiosity about things American. It is not always a friendly intimacy they feel; there is a great deal of irritation and hostility both ways. But while an Englishman will never say, “I might be an Italian,” it comes very easily to him to say, “I might be an American.” Imaginatively he tries on the stars and stripes. He is eager for American plays and receptive of American novels. He can see himself living like that. Without a monarchy, the “county” and our army people, I do not know how like Americans we English might not be.

American common life is being set down now very ably and vividly by American writers, primarily for the benefit of American readers, but their work is gaining the constantly increasing and constantly more respectful attention of European readers. Until quite our own time, American novels have been, so to speak, European novels about America; they followed European methods and respected European standards. Their characters had a morbid predisposition to cross the Atlantic. But now there is a growing school of American writers who take their own way with their own novel and enviable wealth of material. Sherwood Anderson, Sinclair Lewis, and above all Dreiser, are outstanding examples of this new-won American literary independence, of which Edgar Allan Poe and Whitman were the prophets and Stephen Crane the most brilliant pioneer. Upton Sinclair veils the power of a very considerable writer in the flag of a vehement propagandist, but he too must not be forgotten in the reckoning of America’s literary liberation.

“Babbitt” we felt was a great exposition of commercial America seen and written with complete originality, and though many of us found “Martin Arrowsmith” a little incredible and unconvincing, “Elmer Gantry” again has produced the distinctive Sinclair Lewis effect, which is that of looking at a vividly interesting reality through a lens which refracts and exaggerates indeed, but which may even exhibit all the better by virtue of its magnification. One believes in Babbitt and understands that the American world may be infested by innumerable Babbitts, while at the same time one may doubt whether there was ever quite such a Babbitt as Babbitt. “Elmer Gantry,” which deals with the popular religious life, is even more like seeing through the curves of a bottle. It has the quality of veracity. One feels, that is to say, that what is seen in it is truly there; that it is not “made up.” But also one feels that the thing seen is different in its proportions. The story is universal. Where there is revivalism and popular missioning, whether it be Catholic or Protestant, or “New Thought” or No Thought, there is the same danger of reaction between the “magnetic” preacher type and the excitable woman convert or associate. But the scale of the development is distinctive because of the entirely unprecedented social atmosphere in which it goes on, and there lies the major interest of the European observer.

The first quality that impresses the European is the abounding vigour of the social life these books reveal; the next is its immense crudity, and hard on that its lack of variety in culture and the absence of half shades, a sort of universal black and whiteness. Everybody seems to think the same things and to express them by the same common idioms. Henry James, in his all too rarely cited book, “The American Scene,” complains of his native land as he saw it in 1909, that “nothing in the array is ‘behind’ anything else--an odd result, I admit, of the fact that so many things affirm themselves as preponderantly before.” “Babbitt” and “Elmer Gantry” tell of a world that must be on the street line or perish. With the book in hand one might say, “This is a community wholly without criticism,” which would be to ignore completely the existence of the book in hand. But it is a community in which criticism and the idea of dropping out of the front line to think about things is evidently only beginning.

An American novel of outstanding power which is being read all over Europe with great curiosity and admiration is Dreiser’s “An American Tragedy.” Dreiser is, in the extreme sense of the word, a genius. He seems to work by some rare and inexplicable impulse, enormously, without self-criticism or any fun or fatigue in the writing. Long ago I admired his “Sister Carrie,” and rebelled against his long novel, “The Genius,” surely the largest, dullest piece of ineptitude that has ever been produced by a first-class writer. His “American Tragedy,” still vaster, is--I agree with Bennett--one of the very greatest novels of this century. It is a far more than life-size rendering of a poor little representative corner of American existence, lit up by a flash of miserable tragedy. But I would disagree with Bennett’s condemnation of its style. It is raw, full of barbaric locutions, but it never fatigues; it keeps the reader reading, it gets the large, harsh, superficial truth that it has to tell with a force that no grammatical precision and no correctitude could attain. Large, harsh, and superficial that truth is, and fresh from this