The Troubled Soul

At our last meeting, we considered the healthy-minded temperament, the temperament which has a constitutional incapacity for prolonged suffering, and in which the tendency to see things optimistically is like a water of crystallization in which the individual's character is set. We saw how this temperament may become the basis for a peculiar type of religion, a religion in which good, even the good of this world's life, is regarded as the essential thing for a rational being to attend to. This religion directs him to settle his scores with the more evil aspects of the universe by systematically declining to lay them to heart or make much of them, by ignoring them in his reflective calculations, or even, on occasion, by denying outright that they exist. Evil is a disease; and worry over disease is itself an additional form of disease, which only adds to the original complaint. Even repentance and remorse, affections which come in the character of ministers of good, may be but sickly and relaxing impulses. The best repentance is to up and act for righteousness, and forget that you ever had relations with sin.

At our last meeting, we considered the healthy-minded temperament. People with this temperament are constitutionally incapable of prolonged suffering. Their tendency to see things optimistically is like water of crystallization, in which their character is formed. We saw how this temperament can become the basis for a particular kind of religion. In this religion, good is what a rational person should focus on, even the good in this world. The religion directs people to deal with the universe’s more evil aspects by systematically refusing to take them to heart or dwell on them. They should leave these evils out of their thoughtful calculations or even, at times, deny outright that they exist. Evil is a disease, and worrying about disease is itself another form of disease. It only adds to the original illness. Even repentance and remorse, feelings that come as servants of good, may be merely sickly impulses that weaken us. The best repentance is to get up and act for righteousness, and forget that you ever had anything to do with sin.

Spinoza's philosophy has this sort of healthy-mindedness woven into the heart of it, and this has been one secret of its fascination. He whom Reason leads, according to Spinoza, is led altogether by the influence over his mind of good. Knowledge of evil is an “inadequate” knowledge, fit only for slavish minds. So Spinoza categorically condemns repentance. When men make mistakes, he says,—

This kind of healthy-mindedness is woven into the heart of Spinoza's philosophy. It is one reason his philosophy has been so fascinating. According to Spinoza, a person guided by Reason is led entirely by the influence of good on their mind. Knowledge of evil is an “inadequate” kind of knowledge, fit only for slavish minds. So Spinoza firmly condemns repentance. When people make mistakes, he says:

Within the Christian body, for which repentance of sins has from the beginning been the critical religious act, healthy-mindedness has always come forward with its milder interpretation. Repentance according to such healthy-minded Christians means getting away from the sin, not groaning and writhing over its commission. The Catholic practice of confession and absolution is in one of its aspects little more than a systematic method of keeping healthy-mindedness on top. By it a man's accounts with evil are periodically squared and audited, so that he may start the clean page with no old debts inscribed. Any Catholic will tell us how clean and fresh and free he feels after the purging operation. Martin Luther by no means belonged to the healthy-minded type in the radical sense in which we have discussed it, and he repudiated priestly absolution for sin. Yet in this matter of repentance he had some very healthy-minded ideas, due in the main to the largeness of his conception of God.

Within Christianity, repentance for sins has been the central religious act from the beginning. Yet healthy-mindedness has always offered a milder interpretation. For healthy-minded Christians, repentance means getting away from sin, not groaning and writhing over having committed it. In one respect, the Catholic practice of confession and absolution is little more than a systematic way of keeping healthy-mindedness on top. Through confession and absolution, a person's accounts with evil are regularly settled and checked. This allows the person to start a clean page with no old debts recorded. Any Catholic will tell us how clean, fresh, and free they feel after this cleansing. Martin Luther was by no means healthy-minded in the radical sense we have discussed, and he rejected priestly absolution for sin. Yet he had some very healthy-minded ideas about repentance, mainly because of his broad conception of God.

One of the heresies for which the Jesuits got that spiritual genius, Molinos, the founder of Quietism, so abominably condemned was his healthy-minded opinion of repentance:—

The Jesuits had Molinos, the spiritual genius who founded Quietism, condemned in a truly abominable way. One of his supposed heresies was his healthy-minded view of repentance:

Now in contrast with such healthy-minded views as these, if we treat them as a way of deliberately minimizing evil, stands a radically opposite view, a way of maximizing evil, if you please so to call it, based on the persuasion that the evil aspects of our life are of its very essence, and that the world's meaning most comes home to us when we lay them most to heart. We have now to address ourselves to this more morbid way of looking at the situation. But as I closed our last hour with a general philosophical reflection on the healthy-minded way of taking life, I should like at this point to make another philosophical reflection upon it before turning to that heavier task. You will excuse the brief delay.

If we treat these healthy-minded views as a way of deliberately minimizing evil, a radically opposite view stands in contrast. You might call it a way of maximizing evil. It rests on the belief that evil is part of the very essence of our lives. According to this view, the world’s meaning becomes clearest when we take its evils most to heart. We must now turn to this more morbid way of looking at things. But I ended our last session with a general philosophical reflection on the healthy-minded view of life. Before turning to the heavier task, I would like to make another philosophical reflection on that view. Please excuse the brief delay.

If we admit that evil is an essential part of our being and the key to the interpretation of our life, we load ourselves down with a difficulty that has always proved burdensome in philosophies of religion. Theism, whenever it has erected itself into a systematic philosophy of the universe, has shown a reluctance to let God be anything less than All-in-All. In other words, philosophic theism has always shown a tendency to become pantheistic and monistic, and to consider the world as one unit of absolute fact; and this has been at variance with popular or practical theism, which latter has ever been more or less frankly pluralistic, not to say polytheistic, and shown itself perfectly well satisfied with a universe composed of many original principles, provided we be only allowed to believe that the divine principle remains supreme, and that the others are subordinate. In this latter case God is not necessarily responsible for the existence of evil; he would only be responsible if it were not finally overcome. But on the monistic or pantheistic view, evil, like everything else, must have its foundation in God; and the difficulty is to see how this can possibly be the case if God be absolutely good. This difficulty faces us in every form of philosophy in which the world appears as one flawless unit of fact. Such a unit is an Individual, and in it the worst parts must be as essential as the best, must be as necessary to make the individual what he is; since if any part whatever in an individual were to vanish or alter, it would no longer be that individual at all. The philosophy of absolute idealism, so vigorously represented both in Scotland and America to-day, has to struggle with this difficulty quite as much as scholastic theism struggled in its time; and although it would be premature to say that there is no speculative issue whatever from the puzzle, it is perfectly fair to say that there is no clear or easy issue, and that the only obvious escape from paradox here is to cut loose from the monistic assumption altogether, and to allow the world to have existed from its origin in pluralistic form, as an aggregate or collection of higher and lower things and principles, rather than an absolutely unitary fact. For then evil would not need to be essential; it might be, and may always have been, an independent portion that had no rational or absolute right to live with the rest, and which we might conceivably hope to see got rid of at last.

If we accept that evil is an essential part of our being and the key to understanding our lives, we face a difficulty. This difficulty has always burdened philosophies of religion. Whenever theism has become a systematic philosophy of the universe, it has been reluctant to see God as anything less than All-in-All. In other words, philosophical theism has always tended toward pantheism and monism, treating the world as one absolute whole. This has conflicted with popular or practical theism. Practical theism has always been more or less openly pluralistic, if not polytheistic. It has been perfectly satisfied with a universe made up of many original principles, provided we can believe that the divine principle remains supreme and the others are subordinate. In that case, God is not necessarily responsible for the existence of evil. He would be responsible only if evil were not finally overcome. But in the monistic or pantheistic view, evil, like everything else, must have its foundation in God. The difficulty is seeing how this can possibly be true if God is absolutely good. This difficulty confronts us in every philosophy that presents the world as one flawless whole. Such a whole is an Individual. Its worst parts must be as essential as its best parts, and just as necessary to making the individual what it is. If any part of an individual vanished or changed, it would no longer be that individual at all. Absolute idealism, a philosophy so strongly represented in Scotland and America today, must struggle with this difficulty just as much as scholastic theism did in its time. It would be premature to say that there is no possible theoretical solution to the puzzle. But it is perfectly fair to say that there is no clear or easy solution. The only obvious escape from the paradox is to abandon the monistic assumption altogether. We must allow that the world existed from the beginning in a pluralistic form, as a collection of higher and lower things and principles, rather than as an absolutely unified whole. For then evil would not need to be essential. It might be, and may always have been, an independent part of the world with no rational or absolute right to exist alongside the rest. We could conceivably hope to see it eliminated at last.

Now the gospel of healthy-mindedness, as we have described it, casts its vote distinctly for this pluralistic view. Whereas the monistic philosopher finds himself more or less bound to say, as Hegel said, that everything actual is rational, and that evil, as an element dialectically required, must be pinned in and kept and consecrated and have a function awarded to it in the final system of truth, healthy-mindedness refuses to say anything of the sort.⁶⁹ Evil, it says, is emphatically irrational, and not to be pinned in, or preserved, or consecrated in any final system of truth. It is a pure abomination to the Lord, an alien unreality, a waste element, to be sloughed off and negated, and the very memory of it, if possible, wiped out and forgotten. The ideal, so far from being co-extensive with the whole actual, is a mere extract from the actual, marked by its deliverance from all contact with this diseased, inferior, and excrementitious stuff.

The gospel of healthy-mindedness, as we have described it, clearly favors this pluralistic view. By contrast, the monistic philosopher feels more or less bound to say, as Hegel did, that everything actual is rational. The philosopher must also say that evil is an element required by the dialectic. Evil must be included, preserved, made sacred, and given a function in the final system of truth. Healthy-mindedness refuses to say anything of the kind.⁶⁹ It says that evil is emphatically irrational. Evil is not to be included, preserved, or made sacred in any final system of truth. It is utterly hateful to the Lord, an alien unreality and a waste element to be cast off and rejected. Even the memory of evil should, if possible, be wiped out and forgotten. Far from including everything that actually exists, the ideal is only an extract from it. The ideal is defined by its freedom from all contact with this diseased, inferior, and excrement-like stuff.

Here we have the interesting notion fairly and squarely presented to us, of there being elements of the universe which may make no rational whole in conjunction with the other elements, and which, from the point of view of any system which those other elements make up, can only be considered so much irrelevance and accident—so much “dirt,” as it were, and matter out of place. I ask you now not to forget this notion; for although most philosophers seem either to forget it or to disdain it too much ever to mention it, I believe that we shall have to admit it ourselves in the end as containing an element of truth. The mind-cure gospel thus once more appears to us as having dignity and importance. We have seen it to be a genuine religion, and no mere silly appeal to imagination to cure disease; we have seen its method of experimental verification to be not unlike the method of all science; and now here we find mind-cure as the champion of a perfectly definite conception of the metaphysical structure of the world. I hope that, in view of all this, you will not regret my having pressed it upon your attention at such length.

Here we have an interesting idea presented plainly. Some elements of the universe may not form a rational whole with the other elements. From the perspective of any system formed by those other elements, they can only be seen as irrelevant and accidental. They are, as it were, “dirt,” matter out of place. I ask you not to forget this idea. Most philosophers seem either to forget it or to dismiss it too readily to mention it. But I believe we shall have to admit in the end that it contains some truth. The mind-cure gospel thus once again appears dignified and important. We have seen that it is a genuine religion, not merely a silly appeal to imagination to cure disease. We have seen that its method of experimental verification is much like the method of all science. And now we find that mind-cure champions a perfectly definite conception of the metaphysical structure of the world. In view of all this, I hope you will not regret that I have drawn your attention to mind-cure at such length.

Let us now say good-by for a while to all this way of thinking, and turn towards those persons who cannot so swiftly throw off the burden of the consciousness of evil, but are congenitally fated to suffer from its presence. Just as we saw that in healthy-mindedness there are shallower and profounder levels, happiness like that of the mere animal, and more regenerate sorts of happiness, so also are there different levels of the morbid mind, and the one is much more formidable than the other. There are people for whom evil means only a mal-adjustment with things, a wrong correspondence of one's life with the environment. Such evil as this is curable, in principle at least, upon the natural plane, for merely by modifying either the self or the things, or both at once, the two terms may be made to fit, and all go merry as a marriage bell again. But there are others for whom evil is no mere relation of the subject to particular outer things, but something more radical and general, a wrongness or vice in his essential nature, which no alteration of the environment, or any superficial rearrangement of the inner self, can cure, and which requires a supernatural remedy. On the whole, the Latin races have leaned more towards the former way of looking upon evil, as made up of ills and sins in the plural, removable in detail; while the Germanic races have tended rather to think of Sin in the singular, and with a capital S, as of something ineradicably ingrained in our natural subjectivity, and never to be removed by any superficial piecemeal operations.⁷⁰ These comparisons of races are always open to exception, but undoubtedly the northern tone in religion has inclined to the more intimately pessimistic persuasion, and this way of feeling, being the more extreme, we shall find by far the more instructive for our study.

Let us now leave this way of thinking for a while. Let us turn to people who cannot so quickly cast off the burden of being aware of evil. They are born destined to suffer from its presence. As we saw, healthy-mindedness has shallower and deeper levels. There is happiness like that of an animal, and there are more spiritually renewed kinds of happiness. The troubled mind also has different levels, and one is much more formidable than the other. For some people, evil means only a poor adjustment to things, a mismatch between their lives and their surroundings. This kind of evil can, at least in principle, be cured by natural means. By changing either the self or the surroundings, or both at once, the two can be made to fit. Then everything can go merrily along again, like wedding bells. But for others, evil is not merely a matter of how a person relates to particular things outside them. It is something more deep-rooted and general: a wrongness or flaw in their essential nature. No change in their surroundings or superficial rearrangement of their inner self can cure it. It requires a supernatural remedy. On the whole, the Latin races have leaned more toward the first view of evil. They have seen it as a collection of specific ills and sins that can be removed one by one. The Germanic races, on the other hand, have tended to think of Sin in the singular, with a capital S. They have seen it as something rooted ineradicably in our natural inner selves. It can never be removed by any superficial, piecemeal efforts.⁷⁰ Comparisons between races always have exceptions. But the northern tone in religion has undoubtedly leaned toward the more deeply pessimistic view. Because this way of feeling is more extreme, we shall find it by far the more instructive for our study.

Recent psychology has found great use for the word “threshold” as a symbolic designation for the point at which one state of mind passes into another. Thus we speak of the threshold of a man's consciousness in general, to indicate the amount of noise, pressure, or other outer stimulus which it takes to arouse his attention at all. One with a high threshold will doze through an amount of racket by which one with a low threshold would be immediately waked. Similarly, when one is sensitive to small differences in any order of sensation, we say he has a low “difference-threshold”—his mind easily steps over it into the consciousness of the differences in question. And just so we might speak of a “pain-threshold,” a “fear-threshold,” a “misery-threshold,” and find it quickly overpassed by the consciousness of some individuals, but lying too high in others to be often reached by their consciousness. The sanguine and healthy-minded live habitually on the sunny side of their misery-line, the depressed and melancholy live beyond it, in darkness and apprehension. There are men who seem to have started in life with a bottle or two of champagne inscribed to their credit; whilst others seem to have been born close to the pain-threshold, which the slightest irritants fatally send them over.

Recent psychology has found the word “threshold” very useful as a way to describe where one state of mind passes into another. For example, we speak of the threshold of a person's consciousness in general. This means how much noise, pressure, or other outside stimulus it takes to get the person's attention at all. Someone with a high threshold will sleep through noise that would immediately wake someone with a low threshold. Similarly, someone who is sensitive to small differences in any kind of sensation has a low “difference-threshold.” That person's mind easily crosses the threshold into awareness of those differences. In the same way, we might speak of a “pain-threshold,” a “fear-threshold,” or a “misery-threshold.” Some people quickly become aware of these feelings, while others have thresholds too high to reach often. Optimistic and healthy-minded people usually live on the sunny side of their misery line. Depressed and melancholy people live beyond it, in darkness and fear. Some people seem to have started life with a bottle or two of champagne to their credit. Others seem to have been born close to the pain-threshold, where the slightest irritations are bound to send them over it.

Does it not appear as if one who lived more habitually on one side of the pain-threshold might need a different sort of religion from one who habitually lived on the other? This question, of the relativity of different types of religion to different types of need, arises naturally at this point, and will become a serious problem ere we have done. But before we confront it in general terms, we must address ourselves to the unpleasant task of hearing what the sick souls, as we may call them in contrast to the healthy-minded, have to say of the secrets of their prison-house, their own peculiar form of consciousness. Let us then resolutely turn our backs on the once-born and their sky-blue optimistic gospel; let us not simply cry out, in spite of all appearances, “Hurrah for the Universe!—God's in his Heaven, all's right with the world.” Let us see rather whether pity, pain, and fear, and the sentiment of human helplessness may not open a profounder view and put into our hands a more complicated key to the meaning of the situation.

Doesn’t it seem that someone who usually lives on one side of the pain threshold might need a different kind of religion from someone who usually lives on the other? This raises a natural question: how do different kinds of religion relate to different kinds of need? This will become a serious problem before we are done. But before we face it in general terms, we have an unpleasant task. We must listen to what the sick souls, as we may call them in contrast to the healthy-minded, have to say. They must tell us the secrets of their prison, their own particular way of experiencing life. Let us firmly turn our backs on the once-born and their sky-blue optimistic gospel. Despite all appearances, let us not simply cry out, “Hurrah for the Universe! God’s in his Heaven, all’s right with the world.” Let us instead ask whether pity, pain, fear, and the sense of human helplessness may give us a deeper view. They may also put a more complicated key to the meaning of the situation in our hands.

To begin with, how can things so insecure as the successful experiences of this world afford a stable anchorage? A chain is no stronger than its weakest link, and life is after all a chain. In the healthiest and most prosperous existence, how many links of illness, danger, and disaster are always interposed? Unsuspectedly from the bottom of every fountain of pleasure, as the old poet said, something bitter rises up: a touch of nausea, a falling dead of the delight, a whiff of melancholy, things that sound a knell, for fugitive as they may be, they bring a feeling of coming from a deeper region and often have an appalling convincingness. The buzz of life ceases at their touch as a piano-string stops sounding when the damper falls upon it.

To begin with, how can the successes of this world provide a stable anchor when they are so insecure? A chain is only as strong as its weakest link, and life is, after all, a chain. Even in the healthiest and most prosperous life, how many links of illness, danger, and disaster are always mixed in? As the old poet said, something bitter rises unexpectedly from the bottom of every fountain of pleasure. It may be a touch of nausea, a sudden loss of delight, or a hint of melancholy. These things sound like a death knell. Though they may be fleeting, they feel as if they come from somewhere deeper and are often terrifyingly convincing. At their touch, the buzz of life stops, just as a piano string falls silent when the damper comes down.

Of course the music can commence again;—and again and again,—at intervals. But with this the healthy-minded consciousness is left with an irremediable sense of precariousness. It is a bell with a crack; it draws its breath on sufferance and by an accident.

Of course, the music can begin again, and again and again, at intervals. But this leaves the healthy-minded consciousness with a lasting sense of insecurity. It is like a cracked bell. It draws breath only by chance and as long as it is allowed to.

Even if we suppose a man so packed with healthy-mindedness as never to have experienced in his own person any of these sobering intervals, still, if he is a reflecting being, he must generalize and class his own lot with that of others; and, doing so, he must see that his escape is just a lucky chance and no essential difference. He might just as well have been born to an entirely different fortune. And then indeed the hollow security! What kind of a frame of things is it of which the best you can say is, “Thank God, it has let me off clear this time!” Is not its blessedness a fragile fiction? Is not your joy in it a very vulgar glee, not much unlike the snicker of any rogue at his success? If indeed it were all success, even on such terms as that! But take the happiest man, the one most envied by the world, and in nine cases out of ten his inmost consciousness is one of failure. Either his ideals in the line of his achievements are pitched far higher than the achievements themselves, or else he has secret ideals of which the world knows nothing, and in regard to which he inwardly knows himself to be found wanting.

Even if a man is so full of optimism that he has never experienced any of these sobering periods himself, he must still reflect on his situation if he is a thoughtful person. He must compare his lot with that of others. And when he does, he must see that his escape is just a matter of luck, not any essential difference. He could just as easily have been born to a completely different fate. And then how hollow his security is! What kind of world is it when the best you can say of it is, “Thank God, it has let me off clear this time!” Is its happiness not a fragile illusion? Is your joy in it not a rather vulgar delight, much like a rogue snickering at his own success? If only it were all success, even on those terms! But take the happiest man, the one the world envies most. Nine times out of ten, he feels deep down that he has failed. Either his goals for what he has accomplished are far higher than his actual achievements, or he has secret ideals the world knows nothing about. And he knows in his heart that he has fallen short of those ideals.

When such a conquering optimist as Goethe can express himself in this wise, how must it be with less successful men?

If even a triumphant optimist like Goethe can speak this way, how must it be for less successful men?

What single-handed man was ever on the whole as successful as Luther? yet when he had grown old, he looked back on his life as if it were an absolute failure.

What man working alone was ever as successful overall as Luther? Yet in old age, he looked back on his life as if it had been a complete failure.

Failure, then, failure! so the world stamps us at every turn. We strew it with our blunders, our misdeeds, our lost opportunities, with all the memorials of our inadequacy to our vocation. And with what a damning emphasis does it then blot us out! No easy fine, no mere apology or formal expiation, will satisfy the world's demands, but every pound of flesh exacted is soaked with all its blood. The subtlest forms of suffering known to man are connected with the poisonous humiliations incidental to these results.

Failure, then, failure! That is how the world labels us at every turn. We litter the world with our mistakes, our misdeeds, and our lost opportunities. All of them are reminders that we are not equal to our calling. And how damningly the world then wipes us out! No easy fine, mere apology, or formal act of atonement will satisfy the world's demands. Every pound of flesh it demands comes soaked in blood. The poisonous humiliations that come with these failures are among the most subtle forms of suffering known to humanity.

And they are pivotal human experiences. A process so ubiquitous and everlasting is evidently an integral part of life. “There is indeed one element in human destiny,” Robert Louis Stevenson writes, “that not blindness itself can controvert. Whatever else we are intended to do, we are not intended to succeed; failure is the fate allotted.”⁷¹ And our nature being thus rooted in failure, is it any wonder that theologians should have held it to be essential, and thought that only through the personal experience of humiliation which it engenders the deeper sense of life's significance is reached?⁷²

And they are crucial human experiences. A process so widespread and enduring is clearly an integral part of life. “There is one element of human destiny,” Robert Louis Stevenson writes, “that even blindness cannot deny. Whatever else we are meant to do, we are not meant to succeed. Failure is the fate assigned to us.”⁷¹ Our nature is rooted in failure. So is it any wonder that theologians have considered failure essential? They have thought that only by personally experiencing the humiliation failure brings can we reach a deeper sense of life’s meaning.⁷²

But this is only the first stage of the world-sickness. Make the human being's sensitiveness a little greater, carry him a little farther over the misery-threshold, and the good quality of the successful moments themselves when they occur is spoiled and vitiated. All natural goods perish. Riches take wings; fame is a breath; love is a cheat; youth and health and pleasure vanish. Can things whose end is always dust and disappointment be the real goods which our souls require? Back of everything is the great spectre of universal death, the all-encompassing blackness:—

But this is only the first stage of world-sickness. Make a person a little more sensitive, and push them a little farther past the threshold of misery. Then even successful moments lose their goodness when they occur. All natural goods perish. Wealth flies away. Fame is a breath. Love is a deception. Youth, health, and pleasure vanish. Can things that always end in dust and disappointment be the true goods our souls need? Behind everything looms the great specter of universal death, the all-encompassing darkness:

In short, life and its negation are beaten up inextricably together. But if the life be good, the negation of it must be bad. Yet the two are equally essential facts of existence; and all natural happiness thus seems infected with a contradiction. The breath of the sepulchre surrounds it.

In short, life and its opposite are mixed together and cannot be separated. But if life is good, its opposite must be bad. Yet both are equally essential facts of existence. So all natural happiness seems tainted by a contradiction. The breath of the grave surrounds it.

To a mind attentive to this state of things and rightly subject to the joy-destroying chill which such a contemplation engenders, the only relief that healthy-mindedness can give is by saying: “Stuff and nonsense, get out into the open air!” or “Cheer up, old fellow, you'll be all right erelong, if you will only drop your morbidness!” But in all seriousness, can such bald animal talk as that be treated as a rational answer? To ascribe religious value to mere happy-go-lucky contentment with one's brief chance at natural good is but the very consecration of forgetfulness and superficiality. Our troubles lie indeed too deep for that cure. The fact that we can die, that we can be ill at all, is what perplexes us; the fact that we now for a moment live and are well is irrelevant to that perplexity. We need a life not correlated with death, a health not liable to illness, a kind of good that will not perish, a good in fact that flies beyond the Goods of nature.

A person who considers this situation will rightly feel the joy drain away. For such a person, the only relief healthy-mindedness can offer is to say: “Nonsense, get out into the fresh air!” or “Cheer up, old fellow, you'll be all right soon, if you just stop dwelling on gloomy thoughts!” But seriously, can such blunt, animal talk count as a rational answer? To give religious value to mere carefree contentment with our brief chance at the good things nature offers is to make forgetting and superficiality sacred. Our troubles run too deep for that cure. What troubles us is the fact that we can die and that we can become ill at all. The fact that we are alive and well for the moment does nothing to resolve that question. We need a life that is not tied to death, health that cannot give way to illness, and a kind of good that will not perish. In fact, we need a good that goes beyond the goods of nature.

It all depends on how sensitive the soul may become to discords. “The trouble with me is that I believe too much in common happiness and goodness,” said a friend of mine whose consciousness was of this sort, “and nothing can console me for their transiency. I am appalled and disconcerted at its being possible.” And so with most of us: a little cooling down of animal excitability and instinct, a little loss of animal toughness, a little irritable weakness and descent of the pain-threshold, will bring the worm at the core of all our usual springs of delight into full view, and turn us into melancholy metaphysicians. The pride of life and glory of the world will shrivel. It is after all but the standing quarrel of hot youth and hoary eld. Old age has the last word: the purely naturalistic look at life, however enthusiastically it may begin, is sure to end in sadness.

It all depends on how sensitive the soul becomes to disharmony. A friend of mine who felt this way once said, “My trouble is that I believe too much in ordinary happiness and goodness. Nothing can console me for the fact that they pass away. I am appalled and shaken that they can pass away at all.” And so it is with most of us. Our physical excitement and instincts need only cool a little, or our physical toughness weaken a little. A little irritable weakness and a lower threshold for pain can have the same effect. The hidden decay at the heart of all our usual pleasures then comes fully into view. We become melancholy thinkers, pondering the nature of things. Life’s pride and the world’s glory shrivel. After all, this is just the age-old quarrel between passionate youth and white-haired old age. Old age has the last word: a purely naturalistic view of life is sure to end in sadness, however enthusiastically it begins.

This sadness lies at the heart of every merely positivistic, agnostic, or naturalistic scheme of philosophy. Let sanguine healthy-mindedness do its best with its strange power of living in the moment and ignoring and forgetting, still the evil background is really there to be thought of, and the skull will grin in at the banquet. In the practical life of the individual, we know how his whole gloom or glee about any present fact depends on the remoter schemes and hopes with which it stands related. Its significance and framing give it the chief part of its value. Let it be known to lead nowhere, and however agreeable it may be in its immediacy, its glow and gilding vanish. The old man, sick with an insidious internal disease, may laugh and quaff his wine at first as well as ever, but he knows his fate now, for the doctors have revealed it; and the knowledge knocks the satisfaction out of all these functions. They are partners of death and the worm is their brother, and they turn to a mere flatness.

This sadness lies at the heart of every purely positivist, agnostic, or naturalistic philosophy. Let cheerful optimism do its best, with its strange ability to live in the moment, ignore things, and forget. The evil in the background is still there to be thought about, and the skull will grin in at the banquet. In our practical lives, we know how much our gloom or joy about any present fact depends on the larger plans and hopes connected with it. A fact gets most of its value from its meaning and context. Once we know that it leads nowhere, its glow and shine vanish, however pleasant it may be in the moment. An old man with a slowly developing internal disease may at first laugh and drink his wine as well as ever. But he now knows his fate, because the doctors have revealed it. That knowledge takes the satisfaction out of all these activities. They are partners of death, and the worm is their brother. They become merely flat.

The lustre of the present hour is always borrowed from the background of possibilities it goes with. Let our common experiences be enveloped in an eternal moral order; let our suffering have an immortal significance; let Heaven smile upon the earth, and deities pay their visits; let faith and hope be the atmosphere which man breathes in;—and his days pass by with zest; they stir with prospects, they thrill with remoter values. Place round them on the contrary the curdling cold and gloom and absence of all permanent meaning which for pure naturalism and the popular science evolutionism of our time are all that is visible ultimately, and the thrill stops short, or turns rather to an anxious trembling.

The brightness of the present moment always comes from the possibilities surrounding it. Imagine our ordinary experiences surrounded by an eternal moral order. Imagine that our suffering has immortal significance, that Heaven smiles upon the earth, and that gods visit us. Imagine faith and hope as the air we breathe. Then our days pass with zest. They are alive with possibilities and thrilling with deeper, more distant values. Now imagine the opposite. Surround our days with the chilling cold, gloom, and absence of all lasting meaning. For pure naturalism and the popular scientific evolutionism of our time, these are all that can ultimately be seen. Then the thrill stops, or rather turns into anxious trembling.

For naturalism, fed on recent cosmological speculations, mankind is in a position similar to that of a set of people living on a frozen lake, surrounded by cliffs over which there is no escape, yet knowing that little by little the ice is melting, and the inevitable day drawing near when the last film of it will disappear, and to be drowned ignominiously will be the human creature's portion. The merrier the skating, the warmer and more sparkling the sun by day, and the ruddier the bonfires at night, the more poignant the sadness with which one must take in the meaning of the total situation.

According to naturalism, informed by recent theories about the universe, humanity is like a group of people living on a frozen lake. Cliffs surround the lake, and there is no escape over them. The people know that the ice is slowly melting. The day is inevitably approaching when the last thin layer will disappear, and they will drown in a humiliating end. The happier the skating, the warmer and brighter the daytime sun, and the redder the bonfires at night, the more painful it is to grasp the meaning of the whole situation.

The early Greeks are continually held up to us in literary works as models of the healthy-minded joyousness which the religion of nature may engender. There was indeed much joyousness among the Greeks—Homer's flow of enthusiasm for most things that the sun shines upon is steady. But even in Homer the reflective passages are cheerless,⁷³ and the moment the Greeks grew systematically pensive and thought of ultimates, they became unmitigated pessimists.⁷⁴ The jealousy of the gods, the nemesis that follows too much happiness, the all-encompassing death, fate's dark opacity, the ultimate and unintelligible cruelty, were the fixed background of their imagination. The beautiful joyousness of their polytheism is only a poetic modern fiction. They knew no joys comparable in quality of preciousness to those which we shall erelong see that Brahmans, Buddhists, Christians, Mohammedans, twice-born people whose religion is non-naturalistic, get from their several creeds of mysticism and renunciation.

Literary works often hold up the early Greeks as models of the healthy-minded joy that a religion of nature may inspire. There was indeed much joy among the Greeks. Homer's enthusiasm for most things under the sun flows steadily. But even in Homer, the reflective passages are gloomy,⁷³ and as soon as the Greeks began to reflect systematically on ultimate questions, they became unqualified pessimists.⁷⁴ Their imaginations always had the same dark background: the jealousy of the gods, the punishment that follows too much happiness, death that comes to all, the dark mystery of fate, and the ultimate, incomprehensible cruelty of things. The beautiful joy attributed to their polytheism is only a modern poetic fiction. The Greeks knew no joys as precious as those we shall soon see Brahmans, Buddhists, Christians, and Mohammedans find in their various creeds of mysticism and renunciation. These are twice-born people whose religion is not based on nature.

Stoic insensibility and Epicurean resignation were the farthest advance which the Greek mind made in that direction. The Epicurean said: “Seek not to be happy, but rather to escape unhappiness; strong happiness is always linked with pain; therefore hug the safe shore, and do not tempt the deeper raptures. Avoid disappointment by expecting little, and by aiming low; and above all do not fret.” The Stoic said: “The only genuine good that life can yield a man is the free possession of his own soul; all other goods are lies.” Each of these philosophies is in its degree a philosophy of despair in nature's boons. Trustful self-abandonment to the joys that freely offer has entirely departed from both Epicurean and Stoic; and what each proposes is a way of rescue from the resultant dust-and-ashes state of mind. The Epicurean still awaits results from economy of indulgence and damping of desire. The Stoic hopes for no results, and gives up natural good altogether. There is dignity in both these forms of resignation. They represent distinct stages in the sobering process which man's primitive intoxication with sense-happiness is sure to undergo. In the one the hot blood has grown cool, in the other it has become quite cold; and although I have spoken of them in the past tense, as if they were merely historic, yet Stoicism and Epicureanism will probably be to all time typical attitudes, marking a certain definite stage accomplished in the evolution of the world-sick soul.⁷⁵ They mark the conclusion of what we call the once-born period, and represent the highest flights of what twice-born religion would call the purely natural man—Epicureanism, which can only by great courtesy be called a religion, showing his refinement, and Stoicism exhibiting his moral will. They leave the world in the shape of an unreconciled contradiction, and seek no higher unity. Compared with the complex ecstasies which the supernaturally regenerated Christian may enjoy, or the oriental pantheist indulge in, their receipts for equanimity are expedients which seem almost crude in their simplicity.

Stoic indifference and Epicurean resignation were as far as the Greek mind advanced in that direction. The Epicurean said: “Do not seek happiness. Instead, try to escape unhappiness. Intense happiness always comes with pain. So stay close to the safe shore and do not venture into deeper raptures. Avoid disappointment by expecting little and aiming low. Above all, do not fret.” The Stoic said: “The only real good life can offer a person is free possession of their own soul. All other goods are lies.” Each philosophy, in its own way, has given up hope in nature’s gifts. Both the Epicurean and the Stoic have entirely lost the ability to surrender trustfully to the joys freely offered them. Each proposes a way to escape the resulting sense that life is dust and ashes. The Epicurean still hopes for results from limiting indulgence and dampening desire. The Stoic hopes for no results and gives up natural good altogether. There is dignity in both forms of resignation. They represent distinct stages in a sobering process. A person’s original intoxication with the happiness of the senses is sure to undergo that process. In Epicureanism, the hot blood has cooled. In Stoicism, it has grown quite cold. I have spoken of them in the past tense, as if they belonged only to history. Yet Stoicism and Epicureanism will probably remain typical attitudes for all time. They mark a definite stage reached in the development of the world-sick soul.⁷⁵ They mark the end of what we call the once-born period. They represent the highest achievements of what twice-born religion would call the purely natural person. Epicureanism shows that person’s refinement, though only with great courtesy can it be called a religion. Stoicism shows that person’s moral will. Both leave the world as an unresolved contradiction, and neither seeks a higher unity. The supernaturally regenerated Christian may enjoy complex ecstasies, and the oriental pantheist may indulge in them. Compared with these ecstasies, the Stoic and Epicurean recipes for peace of mind seem almost crude in their simplicity.

Please observe, however, that I am not yet pretending finally to judge any of these attitudes. I am only describing their variety.

Please note, however, that I am not yet claiming to make a final judgment about any of these attitudes. I am only describing their variety.

The securest way to the rapturous sorts of happiness of which the twice-born make report has as an historic matter of fact been through a more radical pessimism than anything that we have yet considered. We have seen how the lustre and enchantment may be rubbed off from the goods of nature. But there is a pitch of unhappiness so great that the goods of nature may be entirely forgotten, and all sentiment of their existence vanish from the mental field. For this extremity of pessimism to be reached, something more is needed than observation of life and reflection upon death. The individual must in his own person become the prey of a pathological melancholy. As the healthy-minded enthusiast succeeds in ignoring evil's very existence, so the subject of melancholy is forced in spite of himself to ignore that of all good whatever: for him it may no longer have the least reality. Such sensitiveness and susceptibility to mental pain is a rare occurrence where the nervous constitution is entirely normal; one seldom finds it in a healthy subject even where he is the victim of the most atrocious cruelties of outward fortune. So we note here the neurotic constitution, of which I said so much in my first lecture, making its active entrance on our scene, and destined to play a part in much that follows. Since these experiences of melancholy are in the first instance absolutely private and individual, I can now help myself out with personal documents. Painful indeed they will be to listen to, and there is almost an indecency in handling them in public. Yet they lie right in the middle of our path; and if we are to touch the psychology of religion at all seriously, we must be willing to forget conventionalities, and dive below the smooth and lying official conversational surface.

Historically, the surest path to the rapturous happiness reported by the twice-born has been through a more radical pessimism than any we have yet considered. We have seen how the goods of nature can lose their brightness and enchantment. But unhappiness can become so great that the goods of nature are forgotten entirely. All sense that they exist may vanish from the mind. To reach this extreme pessimism, more is needed than observing life and reflecting on death. A person must fall prey to a pathological melancholy. The healthy-minded enthusiast succeeds in ignoring the very existence of evil. In the same way, a person suffering from melancholy is forced, against their will, to ignore the existence of all good. For that person, good may no longer have the slightest reality. Such sensitivity and susceptibility to mental pain are rare in someone with an entirely normal nervous constitution. One seldom finds them in a healthy person, even when they suffer the most atrocious cruelties of external fortune. Here, then, we see the neurotic constitution actively enter the scene. I spoke at length about it in my first lecture, and it will play a part in much that follows. Because these experiences of melancholy are, first of all, entirely private and individual, I can now draw on personal documents. They will indeed be painful to listen to, and there is almost something indecent about discussing them in public. Yet they lie directly in our path. If we are to take the psychology of religion at all seriously, we must be willing to set conventions aside. We must dive beneath the smooth and deceptive surface of official conversation.

One can distinguish many kinds of pathological depression. Sometimes it is mere passive joylessness and dreariness, discouragement, dejection, lack of taste and zest and spring. Professor Ribot has proposed the name anhedonia to designate this condition.

There are many kinds of pathological depression. Sometimes it is simply a passive state of joylessness, gloom, discouragement, and dejection. It involves a lack of interest, enthusiasm, and energy. Professor Ribot proposed the name anhedonia for this condition.

Prolonged seasickness will in most persons produce a temporary condition of anhedonia. Every good, terrestrial or celestial, is imagined only to be turned from with disgust. A temporary condition of this sort, connected with the religious evolution of a singularly lofty character, both intellectual and moral, is well described by the Catholic philosopher, Father Gratry, in his autobiographical recollections. In consequence of mental isolation and excessive study at the Polytechnic school, young Gratry fell into a state of nervous exhaustion with symptoms which he thus describes:—

Prolonged seasickness will cause a temporary state of anhedonia in most people. They imagine every good thing, earthly or heavenly, only to turn away from it in disgust. The Catholic philosopher Father Gratry describes such a temporary state well in his autobiographical recollections. It was connected with his religious development as a person of unusually high intellectual and moral character. Mental isolation and excessive study at the Polytechnic school caused young Gratry to suffer nervous exhaustion. He describes his symptoms as follows:

So much for melancholy in the sense of incapacity for joyous feeling. A much worse form of it is positive and active anguish, a sort of psychical neuralgia wholly unknown to healthy life. Such anguish may partake of various characters, having sometimes more the quality of loathing; sometimes that of irritation and exasperation; or again of self-mistrust and self-despair; or of suspicion, anxiety, trepidation, fear. The patient may rebel or submit; may accuse himself, or accuse outside powers; and he may or he may not be tormented by the theoretical mystery of why he should so have to suffer. Most cases are mixed cases, and we should not treat our classifications with too much respect. Moreover, it is only a relatively small proportion of cases that connect themselves with the religious sphere of experience at all. Exasperated cases, for instance, as a rule do not. I quote now literally from the first case of melancholy on which I lay my hand. It is a letter from a patient in a French asylum.

So much for melancholy as the inability to feel joy. A much worse form is active, intense anguish, a kind of mental pain entirely unknown in healthy life. This anguish can take various forms. Sometimes it feels more like loathing, or like irritation and exasperation. At other times, it feels like self-doubt and despair about oneself, or like suspicion, anxiety, dread, or fear. The patient may rebel or submit, blame himself or blame outside forces. He may or may not be troubled by the question of why he must suffer so. Most cases combine these features, and we should not place too much importance on our classifications. Moreover, only a relatively small proportion of cases have any connection with religious experience. Cases marked by exasperation, for instance, generally do not. I will now quote directly from the first case of melancholy I happen to find. It is a letter from a patient in a French asylum.

This letter shows two things. First, you see how the entire consciousness of the poor man is so choked with the feeling of evil that the sense of there being any good in the world is lost for him altogether. His attention excludes it, cannot admit it: the sun has left his heaven. And secondly you see how the querulous temper of his misery keeps his mind from taking a religious direction. Querulousness of mind tends in fact rather towards irreligion; and it has played, so far as I know, no part whatever in the construction of religious systems.

This letter shows two things. First, the poor man’s mind is so overwhelmed by the feeling of evil that he has lost all sense of good in the world. His attention shuts out any sense of good and cannot admit it. The sun has left his sky. Second, the complaining nature of his misery keeps his mind from turning toward religion. In fact, a complaining state of mind tends instead toward irreligion. As far as I know, it has played no part at all in the development of religious systems.

Religious melancholy must be cast in a more melting mood. Tolstoy has left us, in his book called My Confession, a wonderful account of the attack of melancholy which led him to his own religious conclusions. The latter in some respects are peculiar; but the melancholy presents two characters which make it a typical document for our present purpose. First it is a well-marked case of anhedonia, of passive loss of appetite for all life's values; and second, it shows how the altered and estranged aspect which the world assumed in consequence of this stimulated Tolstoy's intellect to a gnawing, carking questioning and effort for philosophic relief. I mean to quote Tolstoy at some length; but before doing so, I will make a general remark on each of these two points.

Religious melancholy must be described in a more tender mood. In his book My Confession, Tolstoy gives a remarkable account of the depression that led him to his own religious conclusions. Those conclusions are unusual in some respects. But his depression has two features that make his account a typical example for our present purpose. First, it is a clear case of anhedonia, a passive loss of desire for all that life has to offer. Second, it shows how the resulting sense that the world had changed and become strange drove Tolstoy to relentless, troubling questions. He also sought relief through philosophy. I intend to quote Tolstoy at some length. But first, I will make a general observation about each of these two points.

First on our spiritual judgments and the sense of value in general.

First, on our spiritual judgments and our sense of value in general.

It is notorious that facts are compatible with opposite emotional comments, since the same fact will inspire entirely different feelings in different persons, and at different times in the same person; and there is no rationally deducible connection between any outer fact and the sentiments it may happen to provoke. These have their source in another sphere of existence altogether, in the animal and spiritual region of the subject's being. Conceive yourself, if possible, suddenly stripped of all the emotion with which your world now inspires you, and try to imagine it as it exists, purely by itself, without your favorable or unfavorable, hopeful or apprehensive comment. It will be almost impossible for you to realize such a condition of negativity and deadness. No one portion of the universe would then have importance beyond another; and the whole collection of its things and series of its events would be without significance, character, expression, or perspective. Whatever of value, interest, or meaning our respective worlds may appear endued with are thus pure gifts of the spectator's mind. The passion of love is the most familiar and extreme example of this fact. If it comes, it comes; if it does not come, no process of reasoning can force it. Yet it transforms the value of the creature loved as utterly as the sunrise transforms Mont Blanc from a corpse-like gray to a rosy enchantment; and it sets the whole world to a new tune for the lover and gives a new issue to his life. So with fear, with indignation, jealousy, ambition, worship. If they are there, life changes. And whether they shall be there or not depends almost always upon non-logical, often on organic conditions. And as the excited interest which these passions put into the world is our gift to the world, just so are the passions themselves gifts,—gifts to us, from sources sometimes low and sometimes high; but almost always non-logical and beyond our control. How can the moribund old man reason back to himself the romance, the mystery, the imminence of great things with which our old earth tingled for him in the days when he was young and well? Gifts, either of the flesh or of the spirit; and the spirit bloweth where it listeth; and the world's materials lend their surface passively to all the gifts alike, as the stage-setting receives indifferently whatever alternating colored lights may be shed upon it from the optical apparatus in the gallery.

It is well known that the same facts can inspire opposite emotional responses. The same fact can inspire entirely different feelings in different people, or in the same person at different times. There is no logical connection between an external fact and the feelings it happens to provoke. Those feelings come from a different sphere of existence altogether, the animal and spiritual side of the person experiencing them. Imagine, if you can, that you are suddenly stripped of all the emotions your world now inspires in you. Try to imagine the world as it exists, purely on its own, without your approval or disapproval, hope or fear. You will find it almost impossible to imagine such emptiness and lifelessness. No part of the universe would have more importance than another. All its things and all its sequences of events would lack significance, character, expression, or perspective. Whatever value, interest, or meaning our worlds seem to have are therefore pure gifts from the minds of those who observe them. Love is the most familiar and extreme example of this fact. If love comes, it comes. If it does not come, no reasoning can force it. Yet love transforms the value of the person loved as completely as sunrise transforms Mont Blanc. It turns a corpse-like gray into a rosy enchantment. For the lover, love also sets the whole world to a new tune and gives life a new direction. The same is true of fear, indignation, jealousy, ambition, and worship. If these feelings are present, life changes. And whether they are present depends almost always on non-logical conditions, often on conditions in the body. These passions give the world an intense interest, and that interest is our gift to the world. In the same way, the passions themselves are gifts to us. Their sources are sometimes low and sometimes high, but they are almost always non-logical and beyond our control. How can a dying old man reason himself back to the feelings he had when he was young and healthy? The old earth once thrilled him with romance, mystery, and the sense that great things were about to happen. These are gifts, either of the flesh or of the spirit. And the spirit blows where it chooses. The materials of the world passively lend their surfaces to all these gifts alike. They are like stage scenery that receives whatever changing colored lights are cast on it from the lighting equipment in the gallery.

Meanwhile the practically real world for each one of us, the effective world of the individual, is the compound world, the physical facts and emotional values in indistinguishable combination. Withdraw or pervert either factor of this complex resultant, and the kind of experience we call pathological ensues.

Meanwhile, the world that is practically real for each of us combines physical facts and emotional values so closely that they cannot be separated. Remove or distort either element, and the result is the kind of experience we call pathological.

In Tolstoy's case the sense that life had any meaning whatever was for a time wholly withdrawn. The result was a transformation in the whole expression of reality. When we come to study the phenomenon of conversion or religious regeneration, we shall see that a not infrequent consequence of the change operated in the subject is a transfiguration of the face of nature in his eyes. A new heaven seems to shine upon a new earth. In melancholiacs there is usually a similar change, only it is in the reverse direction. The world now looks remote, strange, sinister, uncanny. Its color is gone, its breath is cold, there is no speculation in the eyes it glares with. “It is as if I lived in another century,” says one asylum patient.—“I see everything through a cloud,” says another, “things are not as they were, and I am changed.”—“I see,” says a third, “I touch, but the things do not come near me, a thick veil alters the hue and look of everything.”—“Persons move like shadows, and sounds seem to come from a distant world.”—“There is no longer any past for me; people appear so strange; it is as if I could not see any reality, as if I were in a theatre; as if people were actors, and everything were scenery; I can no longer find myself; I walk, but why? Everything floats before my eyes, but leaves no impression.”—“I weep false tears, I have unreal hands: the things I see are not real things.”—Such are expressions that naturally rise to the lips of melancholy subjects describing their changed state.⁷⁹

In Tolstoy's case, the sense that life had any meaning at all disappeared completely for a time. As a result, the whole appearance of reality changed. Later, we will study conversion or religious regeneration. We will see that the change in a person often transforms how nature appears to them. A new heaven seems to shine upon a new earth. People suffering from melancholy usually experience a similar change, but in the opposite direction. The world now looks remote, strange, sinister, and uncanny. Its color is gone, its breath is cold, and there is no awareness in the eyes that glare at them. “It is as if I lived in another century,” says one patient in an asylum. “I see everything through a cloud,” says another. “Things are not as they were, and I have changed.” “I see,” says a third, “I touch, but things do not come close to me. A thick veil changes the color and appearance of everything.” “People move like shadows, and sounds seem to come from a distant world.” “There is no longer any past for me. People seem so strange. It is as if I could not see any reality, as if I were in a theater. It is as if people were actors and everything were scenery. I can no longer find myself. I walk, but why? Everything floats before my eyes, but leaves no impression.” “I weep false tears, I have unreal hands. The things I see are not real things.” These are the kinds of things people suffering from melancholy naturally say when describing their changed state.⁷⁹

Now there are some subjects whom all this leaves a prey to the profoundest astonishment. The strangeness is wrong. The unreality cannot be. A mystery is concealed, and a metaphysical solution must exist. If the natural world is so double-faced and unhomelike, what world, what thing is real? An urgent wondering and questioning is set up, a poring theoretic activity, and in the desperate effort to get into right relations with the matter, the sufferer is often led to what becomes for him a satisfying religious solution.

Now some people are left deeply astonished by all this. The strangeness is wrong. The unreality cannot be real. A mystery is hidden here, and there must be a metaphysical solution. If the natural world has two such different faces and feels so unfamiliar, what world, what thing is real? The person begins urgently wondering and questioning, pondering possible explanations. In a desperate effort to come to terms with the matter, the sufferer is often led to a religious solution that satisfies them.

At about the age of fifty, Tolstoy relates that he began to have moments of perplexity, of what he calls arrest, as if he knew not “how to live,” or what to do. It is obvious that these were moments in which the excitement and interest which our functions naturally bring had ceased. Life had been enchanting, it was now flat sober, more than sober, dead. Things were meaningless whose meaning had always been self-evident. The questions “Why?” and “What next?” began to beset him more and more frequently. At first it seemed as if such questions must be answerable, and as if he could easily find the answers if he would take the time; but as they ever became more urgent, he perceived that it was like those first discomforts of a sick man, to which he pays but little attention till they run into one continuous suffering, and then he realizes that what he took for a passing disorder means the most momentous thing in the world for him, means his death.

Around the age of fifty, Tolstoy says, he began to have moments of confusion, of what he calls being stopped. It was as if he did not know “how to live,” or what to do. Clearly, these were moments when his activities no longer brought their natural excitement and interest. Life had been enchanting. Now it was flat and sober, more than sober, dead. Things whose meaning had always been self-evident became meaningless. The questions “Why?” and “What next?” began to trouble him more and more often. At first, these questions seemed answerable, and he thought he could easily find the answers if he took the time. But as the questions became more urgent, he saw that they were like the first discomforts of a sick man. The man pays little attention to them until they become one continuous suffering. Then he realizes that what he thought was a passing illness means the most important thing in the world to him: his death.

These questions “Why?” “Wherefore?” “What for?” found no response.

The questions “Why?” “For what reason?” and “What for?” went unanswered.

To prove this point, Tolstoy quotes the Buddha, Solomon, and Schopenhauer. And he finds only four ways in which men of his own class and society are accustomed to meet the situation. Either mere animal blindness, sucking the honey without seeing the dragon or the mice,—“and from such a way,” he says, “I can learn nothing, after what I now know;” or reflective epicureanism, snatching what it can while the day lasts,—which is only a more deliberate sort of stupefaction than the first; or manly suicide; or seeing the mice and dragon and yet weakly and plaintively clinging to the bush of life.

To prove this point, Tolstoy quotes the Buddha, Solomon, and Schopenhauer. He finds only four ways that men of his own class and society usually face the situation. The first is sheer animal blindness, sucking the honey without seeing the dragon or the mice. “From such a way,” he says, “I can learn nothing, after what I now know.” The second is thoughtful epicureanism, grabbing what pleasure one can while the day lasts. This is only a more deliberate kind of numbing than the first. The third is manly suicide. The fourth is to see the mice and the dragon, yet cling weakly and tearfully to the bush of life.

Suicide was naturally the consistent course dictated by the logical intellect.

Suicide was naturally the consistent course of action that logic demanded.

Of the process, intellectual as well as emotional, which, starting from this idea of God, led to Tolstoy's recovery, I will say nothing in this lecture, reserving it for a later hour. The only thing that need interest us now is the phenomenon of his absolute disenchantment with ordinary life, and the fact that the whole range of habitual values may, to a man as powerful and full of faculty as he was, come to appear so ghastly a mockery.

I will say nothing in this lecture about the process that led to Tolstoy's recovery. It began with this idea of God and involved both thought and emotion. I will return to it in a later lecture. For now, we need only consider his complete disenchantment with ordinary life. The whole range of familiar values can come to seem a ghastly mockery, even to a man as powerful and capable as Tolstoy.

When disillusionment has gone as far as this, there is seldom a restitutio ad integrum. One has tasted of the fruit of the tree, and the happiness of Eden never comes again. The happiness that comes, when any does come,—and often enough it fails to return in an acute form, though its form is sometimes very acute,—is not the simple ignorance of ill, but something vastly more complex, including natural evil as one of its elements, but finding natural evil no such stumbling-block and terror because it now sees it swallowed up in supernatural good. The process is one of redemption, not of mere reversion to natural health, and the sufferer, when saved, is saved by what seems to him a second birth, a deeper kind of conscious being than he could enjoy before.

When disillusionment has gone this far, there is seldom a complete return to the original state. One has tasted the fruit of the tree, and the happiness of Eden never returns. If happiness does return, it is often no longer intense, though sometimes it is very intense. This happiness is not a simple ignorance of evil, but something much more complex. It includes natural evil as one of its elements. But natural evil is no longer such an obstacle or source of terror, because it is now seen as swallowed up in supernatural good. The process is one of redemption, not simply a return to natural health. When the sufferer is saved, it seems to be through a second birth, a deeper kind of conscious life than was possible before.

We find a somewhat different type of religious melancholy enshrined in literature in John Bunyan's autobiography. Tolstoy's preoccupations were largely objective, for the purpose and meaning of life in general was what so troubled him; but poor Bunyan's troubles were over the condition of his own personal self. He was a typical case of the psychopathic temperament, sensitive of conscience to a diseased degree, beset by doubts, fears, and insistent ideas, and a victim of verbal automatisms, both motor and sensory. These were usually texts of Scripture which, sometimes damnatory and sometimes favorable, would come in a half-hallucinatory form as if they were voices, and fasten on his mind and buffet it between them like a shuttlecock. Added to this were a fearful melancholy self-contempt and despair.

We find a somewhat different kind of religious melancholy in John Bunyan's autobiography. Tolstoy's concerns were largely objective. What troubled him was the purpose and meaning of life in general. But poor Bunyan was troubled by the condition of his own self. He was a typical case of the psychopathic temperament. His conscience was sensitive to an unhealthy degree, and he was plagued by doubts, fears, and persistent thoughts. He also suffered from verbal automatisms, both motor and sensory. These were usually passages of Scripture, sometimes condemning him and sometimes offering hope. They came to him almost as hallucinations, as if they were voices. They gripped his mind and tossed it back and forth like a shuttlecock. Along with all this, he suffered from terrible melancholy, self-contempt, and despair.

Poor patient Bunyan, like Tolstoy, saw the light again, but we must also postpone that part of his story to another hour. In a later lecture I will also give the end of the experience of Henry Alline, a devoted evangelist who worked in Nova Scotia a hundred years ago, and who thus vividly describes the high-water mark of the religious melancholy which formed its beginning. The type was not unlike Bunyan's.

Poor, patient Bunyan, like Tolstoy, saw the light again. But we must leave that part of his story for another time. In a later lecture, I will also tell how Henry Alline’s experience ended. Alline was a devoted evangelist who worked in Nova Scotia a hundred years ago. His experience began with religious melancholy, and he vividly describes its worst point below. His melancholy was much like Bunyan’s.

Envy of the placid beasts seems to be a very widespread affection in this type of sadness.

Envy of peaceful animals seems to be a very common feeling in this kind of sadness.

The worst kind of melancholy is that which takes the form of panic fear. Here is an excellent example, for permission to print which I have to thank the sufferer. The original is in French, and though the subject was evidently in a bad nervous condition at the time of which he writes, his case has otherwise the merit of extreme simplicity. I translate freely.

The worst kind of melancholy takes the form of panic fear. Here is an excellent example. I thank the person who suffered it for permission to print his account. The original is in French. The man was clearly in a poor nervous state at the time he describes. Even so, his case has the advantage of being extremely simple in other respects. I translate freely.

On asking this correspondent to explain more fully what he meant by these last words, the answer he wrote was this:—

I asked this correspondent to explain more fully what he meant by his last words. He wrote back:

There is no need of more examples. The cases we have looked at are enough. One of them gives us the vanity of mortal things; another the sense of sin; and the remaining one describes the fear of the universe;—and in one or other of these three ways it always is that man's original optimism and self-satisfaction get leveled with the dust.

There is no need for more examples. The cases we have examined are enough. One shows the futility of worldly things, another the sense of sin, and the last the fear of the universe. It is always in one of these three ways that human beings’ initial optimism and self-satisfaction are crushed.

In none of these cases was there any intellectual insanity or delusion about matters of fact; but were we disposed to open the chapter of really insane melancholia, with its hallucinations and delusions, it would be a worse story still—desperation absolute and complete, the whole universe coagulating about the sufferer into a material of overwhelming horror, surrounding him without opening or end. Not the conception or intellectual perception of evil, but the grisly blood-freezing heart-palsying sensation of it close upon one, and no other conception or sensation able to live for a moment in its presence. How irrelevantly remote seem all our usual refined optimisms and intellectual and moral consolations in presence of a need of help like this! Here is the real core of the religious problem: Help! help! No prophet can claim to bring a final message unless he says things that will have a sound of reality in the ears of victims such as these. But the deliverance must come in as strong a form as the complaint, if it is to take effect; and that seems a reason why the coarser religions, revivalistic, orgiastic, with blood and miracles and supernatural operations, may possibly never be displaced. Some constitutions need them too much.

In none of these cases was there any intellectual madness or delusion about matters of fact. But if we turned to truly insane melancholia, with its hallucinations and delusions, the story would be worse still. The desperation is absolute and complete. The whole universe hardens around the sufferer into a substance of overwhelming horror, enclosing him with no opening and no end. It is not the idea or intellectual perception of evil, but the grisly, blood-freezing, heart-stopping sensation of evil close at hand. No other idea or sensation can survive for a moment in its presence. How irrelevant and remote all our usual refined optimism and intellectual and moral consolations seem when someone needs help like this! Here is the real core of the religious problem: Help! help! No prophet can claim to bring a final message unless his words sound real to victims like these. But the deliverance must be as powerful as the suffering if it is to have an effect. That seems to be one reason why the rougher religions may never be displaced. These are religions of revival and ecstasy, with blood, miracles, and supernatural acts. Some people are made in such a way that they need them too much.

Arrived at this point, we can see how great an antagonism may naturally arise between the healthy-minded way of viewing life and the way that takes all this experience of evil as something essential. To this latter way, the morbid-minded way, as we might call it, healthy-mindedness pure and simple seems unspeakably blind and shallow. To the healthy-minded way, on the other hand, the way of the sick soul seems unmanly and diseased. With their grubbing in rat-holes instead of living in the light; with their manufacture of fears, and preoccupation with every unwholesome kind of misery, there is something almost obscene about these children of wrath and cravers of a second birth. If religious intolerance and hanging and burning could again become the order of the day, there is little doubt that, however it may have been in the past, the healthy-minded would at present show themselves the less indulgent party of the two.

At this point, we can see how naturally a great conflict may arise between two ways of viewing life. One is the healthy-minded view. The other treats all this experience of evil as essential. To people with the latter view, which we might call morbid-minded, pure and simple healthy-mindedness seems unspeakably blind and shallow. To the healthy-minded, on the other hand, the way of the sick soul seems unmanly and diseased. These children of wrath, who crave a second birth, dig around in rat holes instead of living in the light. They manufacture fears and dwell on every unhealthy kind of misery. There is something almost obscene about them. If religious intolerance, hanging, and burning could again become the order of the day, the healthy-minded would almost certainly be the less tolerant of the two groups today, whatever may have been true in the past.

In our own attitude, not yet abandoned, of impartial onlookers, what are we to say of this quarrel? It seems to me that we are bound to say that morbid-mindedness ranges over the wider scale of experience, and that its survey is the one that overlaps. The method of averting one's attention from evil, and living simply in the light of good is splendid as long as it will work. It will work with many persons; it will work far more generally than most of us are ready to suppose; and within the sphere of its successful operation there is nothing to be said against it as a religious solution. But it breaks down impotently as soon as melancholy comes; and even though one be quite free from melancholy one's self, there is no doubt that healthy-mindedness is inadequate as a philosophical doctrine, because the evil facts which it refuses positively to account for are a genuine portion of reality; and they may after all be the best key to life's significance, and possibly the only openers of our eyes to the deepest levels of truth.

We are still impartial observers. What should we say about this dispute? It seems to me that we must say that morbid-mindedness covers a wider range of experience. Its view includes more. Turning one’s attention away from evil and living simply in the light of good is splendid as long as it works. It works for many people, and far more often than most of us are ready to suppose. Where it works, there is nothing to be said against it as a religious solution. But this approach fails completely as soon as melancholy comes. And even if one is entirely free from melancholy, healthy-mindedness is inadequate as a philosophical doctrine. That is because the evil facts it refuses to account for are a real part of reality. After all, those facts may be the best key to life’s meaning. They may even be the only things that open our eyes to the deepest levels of truth.

The normal process of life contains moments as bad as any of those which insane melancholy is filled with, moments in which radical evil gets its innings and takes its solid turn. The lunatic's visions of horror are all drawn from the material of daily fact. Our civilization is founded on the shambles, and every individual existence goes out in a lonely spasm of helpless agony. If you protest, my friend, wait till you arrive there yourself! To believe in the carnivorous reptiles of geologic times is hard for our imagination—they seem too much like mere museum specimens. Yet there is no tooth in any one of those museum-skulls that did not daily through long years of the foretime hold fast to the body struggling in despair of some fated living victim. Forms of horror just as dreadful to their victims, if on a smaller spatial scale, fill the world about us to-day. Here on our very hearths and in our gardens the infernal cat plays with the panting mouse, or holds the hot bird fluttering in her jaws. Crocodiles and rattlesnakes and pythons are at this moment vessels of life as real as we are; their loathsome existence fills every minute of every day that drags its length along; and whenever they or other wild beasts clutch their living prey, the deadly horror which an agitated melancholiac feels is the literally right reaction on the situation.⁸⁵

Ordinary life contains moments as terrible as any found in the depths of madness and despair. In those moments, absolute evil gets its chance and takes a solid turn. The horrifying visions of a person driven mad are all drawn from the facts of daily life. Our civilization is built on slaughter, and every individual life ends in a lonely spasm of helpless agony. If you object, my friend, wait until you get there yourself! It is hard for us to imagine the flesh-eating reptiles of prehistoric times. They seem too much like mere museum specimens. Yet every tooth in every one of those museum skulls once gripped the body of a doomed living victim. For many long years, those victims struggled in despair every day. Horrors just as dreadful to their victims fill the world around us today, though on a smaller scale. Here by our own firesides and in our gardens, the devilish cat plays with the panting mouse. Or she holds the warm bird fluttering in her jaws. Crocodiles, rattlesnakes, and pythons are alive at this very moment, just as we are. Their revolting existence fills every minute of every day as it drags along. And whenever they or other wild beasts seize their living prey, the mortal horror felt by a person in agitated despair is literally the right response to the situation.⁸⁵

It may indeed be that no religious reconciliation with the absolute totality of things is possible. Some evils, indeed, are ministerial to higher forms of good; but it may be that there are forms of evil so extreme as to enter into no good system whatsoever, and that, in respect of such evil, dumb submission or neglect to notice is the only practical resource. This question must confront us on a later day. But provisionally, and as a mere matter of program and method, since the evil facts are as genuine parts of nature as the good ones, the philosophic presumption should be that they have some rational significance, and that systematic healthy-mindedness, failing as it does to accord to sorrow, pain, and death any positive and active attention whatever, is formally less complete than systems that try at least to include these elements in their scope.

It may be that no religious reconciliation with the whole of reality is possible. Some evils do indeed serve higher forms of good. But some forms of evil may be so extreme that they have no place in any good system. When faced with such evil, silently submitting or ignoring it may be our only practical options. We must confront this question later. But for now, as a matter of approach and method, philosophy should presume that evil has some rational significance. This is because evil is as much a part of nature as good. Systematic healthy-mindedness gives no positive, active attention to sorrow, pain, or death. It is therefore less complete in its structure than systems that at least try to include these elements.

The completest religions would therefore seem to be those in which the pessimistic elements are best developed. Buddhism, of course, and Christianity are the best known to us of these. They are essentially religions of deliverance: the man must die to an unreal life before he can be born into the real life. In my next lecture, I will try to discuss some of the psychological conditions of this second birth. Fortunately from now onward we shall have to deal with more cheerful subjects than those which we have recently been dwelling on.

The most complete religions would therefore seem to be those that develop their pessimistic elements most fully. Buddhism and Christianity are, of course, the best known to us. Both are essentially religions of deliverance: a person must die to an unreal life before being born into real life. In my next lecture, I will try to discuss some of the psychological conditions of this second birth. Fortunately, from now on, we will turn to more cheerful subjects than those we have recently been considering.