CHAPTER VI

DISHARMONIES IN THE INSTINCT OF SELF-PRESERVATION

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:—

I live, But live to die; and living, see nothing To make death hateful, save an _innate clinging_, A loathsome, and yet all _invincible_ _Instinct of life_, which I abhor, as I Despise myself, yet cannot overcome— And so I live.

Later on in the same poem Byron makes Cain say of his father Adam:—

Ere he plucked The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. Alas, I scarcely now know what it is; And yet I fear it, fear I know not what.

It is then indubitable that among the instincts of man there is one which loves life and fears death. This instinct develops slowly and progressively with age. In that respect it is astonishingly different from other instincts. When hunger or thirst or sexual desire is gratified a sensation of satisfaction is experienced, and this readily passes into satiety or even indifference. The mood lasts for a certain time, and then the instinctive needs reawaken. The instinct of life, however, behaves very differently. In most human beings it develops slowly and becomes stronger and stronger as the years pass by. In childhood and early youth we are very anxious to “grow up,” but when we are adult we have no desire to grow old. We are greatly disturbed by the appearance of wrinkles and grey hair. Instead of being glad to have finished a great part of our mortal career, we feel sad at being nearer the inevitable end. Old age, as it usually presents itself, is marked by ugly features, and often by repugnant or even horrible characters. Little children are usually terrified by the appearance of very old persons, and it is a familiar nursery threat to send for an old man.

The murder of the aged is a custom widespread amongst the lower races. The natives of Fiji bury their old men alive, on the pretext that they have become utterly useless. The custom is in existence throughout Melanesia, and occurs in New Caledonia and in most of the adjacent Polynesian islands. Old age is universally despised in that part of the world. The natives of Australia respect old people so long as they retain their activity, but once they become unable to take care of themselves they are abandoned. Often they are killed and eaten, and this custom is favoured by their religious beliefs.[155] The ancient inhabitants of Germany, according to the investigations of Grimm, “killed the old and the sick, and often buried them alive.”

The modern civilised world has certainly made considerable progress. The old are no longer killed; they are tolerated, and accorded liberty to commit suicide. In many countries work is often refused to the old on the plea that they are not strong enough for it, and at the same time they are refused admission to almshouses on the pretext that they are not yet old enough. Dealing with the question of the average life and of the normal life, Paul Bert[156] expressed himself with regard to the aged as follows: “They deserve congratulations, care and consideration, _but the prolongation of their lives does not demand any special solicitude from society_.”

However, in spite of the characters of old age which make it horrible and useless, and at best no more than to be tolerated, and in spite of the physical and intellectual weakness that accompany it, the instinctive love of life is preserved in the aged in its strongest form. To make quite certain about this I have visited almshouses for the aged, and it was easy to see that all the inmates hoped that their days might be prolonged. In a Home occupied by fairly well-educated persons, I discovered that one and all felt as if they were continually being threatened by death, as if they were convicts awaiting the day of execution. At the Salpêtrière, where there are a number of very old women, septuagenarians are regarded almost as young girls. The great ambition of women of eighty is to live to one hundred, and the desire to live is almost universal.

This seems a contradiction of another fact demonstrated by statistics, that age increases the frequency of suicide. It is certain that more old men commit suicide than young men, but on careful inquiry into the statistics of the subject, it becomes evident that the chief incentive to suicide does not lie in the cessation of the will to live, but in the difficulties experienced by old people of earning a living, and in the frequent presence of disease in the aged. Deprived of the means of existence, refused the shelter of charitable institutions, old men are apt to fall back upon a rope or the fumes of charcoal. Statistics relating to the suicide of the aged show that the greatest number of victims belong to the poorer classes. The suicide of rich old men is generally prompted by the presence of incurable disease. There is, however, need for much wider inquiry into the subject. It would be interesting, for instance, to obtain more detailed information regarding the motives which urge the old to put an end to themselves. In recent times the suicide of Max von Pettenkofer aroused public attention. After a distinguished scientific career, he resigned his post of Professor at the University of Munich at the age of seventy-six. He went to live a little way outside the town on a property where he devoted himself to gardening and other country pursuits. Although a sufferer from diabetes, his intellect remained unimpaired, but he became a prey to extreme melancholy, owing to the death of some friends to whom he was greatly attached. Moreover, during the latter part of his life he suffered from a septic affection of the neck. This disease, not fatal in itself, was the indirect cause of Pettenkofer’s death, which occurred by suicide at the age of eighty-three. The _post-mortem_ examination[157] showed a fairly well preserved organic system, healthy, with the exception of chronic inflammation of the membranes of the brain and atheroma of the cerebral arteries. The circumstances relating to this particular case of suicide are unusually well known, and yet there are many obscure points about it which are of the highest importance. The chronic meningitis from which the aged scientist suffered conclusively precluded the theory that the motives which led him to commit suicide were prompted by the phenomena of normal life. On the other hand, instances are not wanting of old men of good education and refined surroundings who cling tenaciously to life, even at a much more advanced age than the Munich professor.

The instinctive love of life resembles the sexual instinct in a great many women. Just as the love of life goes on increasing when the best of life is past, sexual pleasure is often unfelt by women until their beauty is already faded.

Another character common to the love of life and the sexual instinct is that they both persist throughout old age, although they can no longer be satisfied.

Edmond de Goncourt relates in his diary that at his réunions of literary celebrities (Zola, Daudet, and Tourgéneff), the conversation turned most frequently upon the subjects of love, life and women. “Death or love, strangely enough,” says Edmond de Goncourt, “are always what we talk about after dinner.”[158] Old age was even then knocking at the doors of the distinguished writers mentioned, and so it is quite natural that their interest should have been wholly absorbed by the two instincts which exhibit such enigmatic and paradoxical tenacity.

We saw in the preceding chapter how disharmonious is the sexual instinct which often only develops at, and nearly always persists until, a period of life when its normal and regular functional activity is no longer possible. We saw, too, the ill resulting from this disharmony in the reproductive apparatus. The ill, however, although serious, only amounts in that case to an inconvenience which can be endured.

Far worse is the disharmony of the instinctive love of life which manifests itself when death is felt to be near at hand. It is then incomprehensible and particularly terrible, and humanity, from time immemorial, has sought the key to the tragic puzzle, and tried by all the means in its power to unravel the mystery. The religions of all times have been concerned with the problem. “Religion,” says Guyau,[159] “consists for the most part of meditation upon death. If we had not to die there would probably be still more superstitions among men, but there would probably be no systematised superstitions nor religions.” Philosophy also has tried to solve the question of death. Some ancient philosophers held the opinion that philosophy is only a meditation upon death. Socrates and Cicero[160] have well said that “the life of a philosopher is a continual meditation upon death.” In our own day Schopenhauer developed the same theory. “Death,” he said,[161] “is the real inspiring genius of philosophy.... Without death it is doubtful if philosophy would exist at all. It is therefore quite natural that a special essay on Death should preface the last, the most serious, and the most important of my books.”

Judging from the facts set forth in the last three chapters, there can be no doubt but that the human constitution, although in many ways perfect and sublime, exhibits numerous and serious disharmonies, which are the source of all our troubles. Not being so well adapted to the conditions of life as orchids are, for example, in the matter of their fertilisation by the mediation of insects, or the burrowing wasps for the protection of their young, humanity resembles rather those insects the instinct of which guides them towards the flame which burns their wings.

Even at a time when humanity had attained no definite knowledge of itself, a vague suspicion prevailed as to the existence of disharmonies, and an effort was made to remedy the evil. The following chapters will show what man has done with a view to remedying the natural disharmonies of his constitution.

PART II ATTEMPTS TO DIMINISH THE ILLS ARISING FROM THE DISHARMONIES OF THE HUMAN CONSTITUTION (RELIGIOUS AND PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEMS)