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FEAR
FEAR
BY
ANGELO MOSSO
TRANSLATED FROM THE FIFTH EDITION OF THE ITALIAN
BY
E. LOUGH AND F. KIESOW
_AUTHORISED TRANSLATION_
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BOMBAY
1896
All rights reserved
_TO
PROFESSOR ANGELO MOSSO
OF TURIN_
_from whom both have received many kindnesses of a personal character,
and to whom one of us is indebted for furtherance in scientific
research, we offer our sincerest thanks, with the assurance that we
have looked upon the translation of this splendid little work, as the
fulfilment of an agreeable duty._
_E. L. and F. K._
_August 1895_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
I. HOW THE BRAIN WORKS 20
II. REFLEX ACTION AND THE FUNCTIONS OF THE SPINAL
CORD 32
III. THE BRAIN 50
IV. THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD IN THE BRAIN
DURING EMOTION 64
V. PALLOR AND BLUSHING 87
VI. THE BEATING OF THE HEART 102
VII. RESPIRATION AND OPPRESSION 121
VIII. TREMBLING 134
IX. THE EXPRESSION OF THE FACE 155
X. THE EXPRESSION OF THE FOREHEAD AND EYE 167
XI. THE PHYSIOGNOMY OF PAIN 185
XII. A FEW PHENOMENA CHARACTERISTIC OF FEAR 213
XIII. FEAR IN CHILDREN. DREAMS 226
XIV. FRIGHT AND TERROR 236
XV. MALADIES PRODUCED BY FEAR 249
XVI. HEREDITARY TRANSMISSION. EDUCATION 262
ILLUSTRATIONS
FIG. PAGE
1. PULSE OF THE HUMAN BRAIN DURING SLEEP 78
2. BALANCE FOR THE STUDY OF THE CIRCULATION OF THE
BLOOD IN MAN 96
3. CURVE SHOWING CARDIAC PULSATIONS OF A QUIET
DOG 109
4. CARDIAC PULSATION DURING EMOTION 111
5. NORMAL CARDIAC PULSATION 112
6. ALTERATION OF THE CARDIAC PULSATION THROUGH
EMOTION 113
7. ACCELERATION OF THE CARDIAC PULSATIONS THROUGH
FEAR (IN A AND B) 115
THE PHYSIOGNOMY OF PAIN { _To be placed between_
PLATES I. & II. { _pages_ 202 _and_ 203
FEAR
INTRODUCTION
I
Never shall I forget that evening! From behind the curtains of a
glass door I peered into the large amphitheatre crowded with people.
It was my first appearance as a lecturer, and most humbly did I
repent having undertaken to try my powers in the same hall in which
my most celebrated teachers had so often spoken. All I had to do was
to communicate the results of some of my investigations into the
physiology of sleep, and yet, as the hour drew nearer, stronger waxed
within me the fear that I should become confused, lose myself, and
finally stand gaping, speechless before my audience. My heart beat
violently, its very strings seemed to tighten, and my breath came and
went, as when one looks down into a yawning abyss. At last it struck
eight. As I cast a last glance at my notes, I became aware, to my
horror, that the chain of ideas was broken and the links lost beyond
recall. Experiments performed a hundred times, long periods which I
had thought myself able to repeat word for word--all seemed forgotten,
swept away as though it had never been.
My anguish reached a climax. So great was my perturbation that the
recollection of it is dim and shadowy. I remember seeing the usher
touch the handle of the door, and that, as he opened it, I seemed to
feel a puff of wind in my face; there was a singing in my ears, and
then I found myself near a table in the midst of an oppressive silence,
as though, after a plunge in a stormy sea, I had raised my head above
water and seized hold of a rock in the centre of the vast amphitheatre.
How strange was the sound of my first words! My voice seemed to lose
itself in a great wilderness, words, scarce fallen from my lips,
to tremble and die away. After a few sentences jerked out almost
mechanically, I perceived that I had already finished the introduction
to my speech, and discovered with dismay that memory had played me
false just at that point where I had thought myself most sure; but
there was now no turning back, and so, in great confusion, I proceeded.
The hall seemed enveloped in mist. Slowly the cloud began to lift, and
here and there in the crowd I could distinguish benevolent, friendly
faces, and on these I fixed my gaze, as a man struggling with the
waves clings to a floating spar. I could discern, too, the attentive
countenances of eager listeners, holding a hand to their ear as though
unwilling to lose a single word, and nodding occasionally in token
of affirmation. And lastly, I saw myself in this semicircle, alone,
humbled, discouraged, dejected--like a sinner at confession. The first
greatest emotional disturbance was over; but my throat was parched,
my cheeks burned, my breath came in gasps, my voice was strained and
trembling. The harmony of the period was often interrupted in the
middle by a rapid inspiration, or painfully drawn out, as the chest was
compressed to lend force to the last words of a sentence. But to my
joy, in spite of all, the ideas began to unfold of their own accord,
following each other in regular order along the magic thread to which I
blindly clung without a backward glance, and which was to lead me out
of the labyrinth. Even the trembling of the hands, which had made me
shake the instruments and drawings I had from time to time to exhibit,
ceased at last. A heaviness crept over my whole body, the muscles
seemed to stiffen, and my knees shook.
Towards the end I felt the blood begin to circulate again. A few
minutes passed of which I remember nothing save a great anxiety. My
trembling voice had assumed the conclusive tone adopted at the close
of a speech. I was perspiring, exhausted, my strength was failing;
I glanced at the tiers of seats, and it seemed to me that they were
slowly opening in front of me, like the jaws of a monster ready to
devour me as soon as the last word should re-echo within its throat.
II
He who one day will write a book on the physiology of the orator will
render a great service to society--to us who have to pay so dearly for
'that extravagant idolatry of ourselves’ which incites us to speak in
public. But such a work must be a complete treatise, a mirror in which
each might see himself and learn to what ridicule he exposes himself,
what punishment awaits him, when he mounts the rostrum uncalled for and
untried. Each must see himself with pallid cheeks, perturbed, distorted
countenance, suffering from that unhealthy excitement which, like a
storm of emotion, breaks out in trembling. Before entering the lists
let each feel the oppression on the chest, the cough, the compression
of the bladder, the loss of appetite, the unquenchable thirst, the
dizziness which will blind him; and lastly, let each endure in advance
all the innumerable gradations of pitying sympathy awakened in the
audience by his own timidity.
We can better understand the influence of the emotions on the organism
if we consider the long novitiate, the unwearying efforts and the
countless trials of even the greatest orators before they attained to
self-control, and to the simple end of preserving before the public
the same intonation, gestures, and persuasive force which are natural
to them when in the company of their friends or the retirement of the
family circle.
I have seen men of brilliant intelligence standing rigid, their arms
hanging at their sides like recruits, their features distorted and
their eyes fixed on the ground, stammering and grinding out their
speech, so as to move one to pity. Others, known to their intimates
as jovial anecdotists, make one turn away one’s eyes in compassion
when, on important occasions, they stop short in the middle of a
sentence, gasp, repeat the same word four or five times, struggling
for utterance, and at last stand still open-mouthed, clutching the
table or their watch-chain, as though in search of an anchor of
salvation. Others, again, go to a banquet and succeed in damping all
gaiety. At the very beginning it is evident that food is swallowed with
difficulty, their speech lies heavy on their heart, they are nervous
and tortured by the fear that their memory may leave them in the lurch.
One pities them when at last they rise pale and trembling, then speak
confusedly, jerkily, swaying to and fro with wide-open eyes, as though
stupefied with agitation.
A former master of mine, once professor of sacred rhetoric at the
Athenæum of Turin, could, at the beginning of a nervous affection,
only speak sitting, owing to the excessive trembling of his legs; and
at last he was obliged to renounce the triumphs which his masterly and
enviable gift of eloquence procured him, as he was unable, after having
concluded his speech, either to rise, to descend from the cathedra, or
to walk.
But why does the simple fact that we are standing before the public
produce such disquietude within us? Why is it followed by such a
far-reaching disturbance of the organic functions? We say it is the
nerves, the brain, anxiety, the physical nature of man which we cannot
control. But there is confusion also in our ideas. What is this
much-praised force of will, this power of the soul which makes us so
bold when alone and yet so cowardly before the eyes of a few people?
I confess the problem is difficult, and I believe the easiest way to a
partial solution is to analyse without prejudice what we all know about
cerebral activity, and to see what physiologists have discovered in
studying the emotions and the physical phenomena of thought.
III
Before, however, entering the field of experimental physiology, I allow
myself the following remarks. In strict justice the names of many
physiologists should be repeatedly mentioned, but I prefer to do so
only from time to time, as I fear the interruption of the sentence by
names and notes might be tiresome to those whose eye is unaccustomed
to the perusal of scientific books, nor do I think there are many who
would be curious to know the paternity of every assertion I shall make
use of. In order, however, that no undeserved merit may be ascribed
to me, I shall, without further ceremony, write in the first person
only when an experience or an idea of my own is to be communicated, so
that, if I shall be at fault, science may not be held responsible for a
personal error.
The first really important book on the physiology of the passions was
written by Descartes, the great restorer of science, who, with his
prodigious force of intellect, embraced all branches of knowledge,
and was at once mathematician, physicist, and physiologist. His is
the honour of having shown that the old Aristotelian philosophy,
then prevalent in the schools, had never solved one of the problems
respecting life. In the treatise upon 'The Passions of the Soul,’ the
following words appear in a section in which he investigates the manner
in which the passions are excited: 'If the appearance of an animal
is very strange and frightful--that is, if it has much resemblance
with those things which were originally hurtful to the body, it will
excite in the mind the passion of fear, then of boldness or of horror,
according to the different temperaments of the body or the force of the
soul, and according as one has been able or not to provide one’s self
with the means of defence, or of flight from those dangerous things
with which the present impression has points of resemblance. This in
some men disposes the brain in such a manner that the spirits, excited
by the image and formed in the pineal gland (or central part of the
brain), pass thence, partly to the nerves which serve to turn the body
and move the legs in flight, and partly to those nerves which enlarge
and contract the valves of the heart, or stimulate the other parts,
whence the blood is sent to them in such a manner that this blood,
otherwise elaborated, sends spirits to the brain capable of fomenting
and increasing the passion of fear; that is, they are able to keep open
or reopen the pores of the brain which conduct them to the nerves.’[1]
No one before Descartes had had so simple a conception of the mechanism
by which the involuntary movements accompanying the emotions are
produced, and he it is who laid the foundations of the physiological
study of the mind. Two centuries and a half have already passed, and
his work still remains a monument worthy of all admiration. Science has
advanced so greatly that perhaps no one now who wished to learn the
elements of physiology would study his treatise on man, and yet none
who know the history of science but are moved by those marvellous pages
out of which breathes that spirit of innovation which has fertilised
the science of centuries. Malebranche relates that when he first took
up the treatise--'L’homme et la formation du fœtus,’ by Descartes--the
new ideas it stirred up within him gave him a pleasure so intense, and
so filled him with admiration, that his heart palpitated and he was
obliged to pause from time to time.
[1] Œuvres de Descartes, _Les passions de l’âme_, xxxvi.
Other two no less celebrated names must also be mentioned here, on
account of the strictly scientific character they have given to the
study of the emotions. These are Herbert Spencer and Charles Darwin.
Next to these stands Paolo Mantegazza, with his celebrated researches
on pain and his book on physiognomy and mimicry, dedicated to 'Charles
Darwin, who, by his immortal work on the expression of the emotions,
opened up a limitless horizon to the science of the future.’ The homage
of the illustrious Italian physiologist is worthy of the great English
master and philosopher. Darwin was a man of genius and at the same
time one of the greatest masters of the popular style of authorship.
His force lies in the caution with which he made statements and
drew conclusions, thus avoiding all absolute formulæ, and this will
always make him an incomparable model. Dogmatism, that worm which
gnaws and sterilises mediocre minds, which corrupts the rationality
of the many--dogmatism, that plague of science, had no hold on him,
Darwin knew it not. He candidly shows the public the gaps in science,
criticises himself unmercifully, and does not hesitate to point out the
defects in doctrines he himself propounded. In reading his books one is
inclined to think that he was continually haunted by the fear of being
misunderstood by readers insufficiently educated for the comprehension
of deeper scientific questions. He was so careful, so temperate in
his assertions, so cautious in his inductions, that in his book, 'The
Expression of the Emotions,’ which, in my opinion, is one of the less
excellent of his works, he leaves not one point on which one can
conscientiously contradict him, by taxing him with an error.
And if we are able now to add to his discoveries and to correct
some of the judgments in his works, it is only thus because science
marches onward with such giant strides that we, although we were his
contemporaries, belong even now to a later age, as the context of
this work will more clearly show. The theory of evolution will always
remain the foundation-stone of modern science, but certain principles
formulated by Spencer and Darwin will be modified as our knowledge of
the adaptation of organs to their functions increases.
IV
Darwin attributed, I think, too much importance to the will considered
as the cause of expression. We younger physiologists are more
mechanical; we examine the organism more minutely, and it is in the
structure of the organs that we seek the reasons of their functions.
I shall here give an example of this different way in which I have
explained a few phenomena.
Rabbits are, as is well known, extremely timid animals, and it is
remarkable that no other blushes and grows pale so easily as the
rabbit. The changes in circulation produced by psychical impressions
and by the emotions are more observable in the ears than in the face,
as is indeed the case with many men. In Northern Italy, after someone
has received a vigorous scolding, I have heard the popular expression
used: 'He caught it hot enough to make his ears turn red.’ In the
middle of the auricle of the rabbit’s ear there is an artery, running
from the base to the summit, which ramifies and winds in such a manner
as to form two veins on the edge of the auricle. In 1854, Moritz Schiff
observed that this artery showed alternate movements of contraction
and expansion, not corresponding to the systole and diastole of the
heart. If one looks at the rabbit’s ear against the light, from time to
time one sees the artery decrease in diameter, until at last it quite
disappears, then it increases again, and, as it swells, it expands
all its branches, so that the whole ear becomes of a vivid red and
also warmer. This fulness of blood in the ear lasts a few seconds,
then artery and branches contract and the redness gradually dies away.
Schiff called this artery an accessory heart, because he imagined that
the contractions and expansions observed by him in the vessels of the
ear were to promote a better circulation of blood in the ear of the
rabbit, just as the heart does for the rest of the body.
In repeating Schiff’s observations I used certain precautions which
others would perhaps have thought superfluous. Instead of watching the
rabbit while holding it in my hands, I thought to spare it all emotion,
by enabling myself to observe the ears without its becoming aware of
the fact. For this purpose I had a cage made in such a manner that it
fitted exactly into the inside frame of a window, and whereas it was
impossible for the rabbits to look into the room, I could watch quite
easily, without being seen, through a few holes in the cage. By means
of this simple arrangement I could observe the rabbits at my leisure,
and study their habits while they were quiet, without a suspicion that
they were being noticed. The first time that I so watched them, I saw,
to my surprise, that the ears were no longer so red as when the animals
were startled by feeling themselves seized and held fast in my hands
on the table. The rapid movements of dilatation and contraction in
the blood-vessels of the ear, the sudden blushing and loss of colour
so characteristic of the timidity of these animals, were no longer
observable. The artery of the ear remained dilated and of a vivid
red for a long time, often for hours. I noticed this especially in
summer, when the animals were uniformly tranquil. A state of absolute
repose, however, is not always accompanied by an expansion of the
blood-vessels. All rabbits have not ears equally red or pale at the
same time and under the same conditions. A similar circumstance may
be noticed at any time in the faces of men. Young rabbits blush more
easily than old ones. Often while watching the buck and doe with the
young ones, one could see the ruddy ears of the latter turn pale every
now and then, while the former, like old people with us, remained calm
and had pale ears. But even amongst the young ones of the same litter,
one finds considerable differences in the facility for blushing.
At the market I chose those animals that blushed most easily and
frequently, just as the slave-dealer picks out for the harem those
women who charm by blushing more vividly than the others. If one
studies attentively the loss of colour in the ears of a rabbit when
perfectly quiet, one can nearly always discover the cause in some
external circumstance. Often while the animal has red ears and is
breathing quietly, one notices a sudden change in the rhythm of
respiration; the rabbit lifts its head, looks around, or sniffs; a
contraction of the blood-vessels follows, and the ears become pale.
After a few minutes, if nothing happens, the ear becomes red again. Any
noise causes renewed pallor. A whistle, a cry, a sound of any kind, the
bark of a dog, a sunbeam suddenly penetrating into the cage, the shadow
of a swiftly passing cloud, the flight of a distant bird, each suffices
to produce a rapid loss of colour in the ears, shortly followed by
a more vivid flush. We may therefore maintain that the circulation
of blood in the ears reflects the psychic condition of the animal,
and that nothing takes place either in itself or in its surroundings
without immediately acting upon these blood-vessels.
Thus the fact observed by Schiff receives confirmation, but the
explanation which I give of it differs from his. The dilatation and
contraction of the arteries in the rabbit’s ear can no longer be
compared to the movements of an accessory heart, and, in my opinion,
correspond to the colour or pallor of the human face. In this manner
the phenomenon is deprived of the exceptional character with which
it was introduced into science, and takes its place amongst those
observable in man and nearly all animals.
We may see the same phenomenon noticeable in the rabbit’s ear, in the
cock’s comb and wittles; during emotion the fleshy protuberances and
the skin on the neck of the turkey distinctly blush and grow pale, and
in men and dogs not only the face but also the feet are subject to
these changes of colour.
These things were unknown owing to insufficient observation. It was
thought that animals did not blush, because the blood-vessels of their
skin lie concealed under hair, feathers, or scales, and because the
epidermis is less transparent and the pigment cells more abundant in
the lower layers of the skin. And so blushing was deemed a privilege of
man, which, however, is not the case. It suffices to study the face of
the rabbit attentively in order to see that it is very sensitive, even
to the slightest impressions. If one looks carefully at the nostrils
and lips, considerable variations in the colour may be observed,
corresponding to those occurring at the same time in the blood-vessels
of the ear. These phenomena became so familiar to me during my study
of rabbits, that I needed only observe the muzzle of the animal, and
more particularly the tip, in order to know at once whether the ears
were at that moment pale or red. This certainty was in part due to
the alteration in the rhythm of breathing and in the movement of the
nostrils produced by the slightest emotion, as also in man.
V
Many may regret that such a characteristic difference between man
and the other animals should be effaced, and that we should try in
cold blood to prove that what is most noble, beautiful, and human in
our countenance, we have in common with the brutes. But we console
ourselves with the reflection that poetry, enthusiasm, inspiration and
passion rise again under new and stronger forms in the contemplation of
reality, that in the search after truth there lies a fascination which
beautifies and ennobles the human intelligence, and that sentiment is
never extinguished by any advance of science.
To-day, when the experimental method is spreading so rapidly, it
behoves us physiologists to be humble and to ask for hospitality in
the studio of the artist, in the libraries of men of letters, in the
drawing-rooms of cultured people, in order to diffuse the elementary
principles of our science. The time has come when we must throw off our
professorial robes, tie on our aprons, roll up our sleeves, and begin
the vivisection of the human heart according to scientific methods.
Let the artist no longer confine himself to a blind imitation of
nature, to a perpetual reproduction on canvas, in marble, or in books
of the phenomena and forms of life; he must know the why and wherefore
of things, completely or in part, the connection between cause and
effect; he must convince himself that nothing is the result of chance
and that there is a reason behind every phenomenon. Blushing--that
ideal token of innocence and purity--is no accidental fact; it was
not given to man as a sign of nobility, nor as a mirror to reflect
the agitation of his heart; it is a fact rendered necessary by bodily
functions and which the will can neither produce nor suppress. It is
simply caused by the structure of our vital machine, by the activity of
the blood-vessels in all organs and in all animals.
Darwin believed, on the contrary, that it was a phenomenon produced by
means of the will. I consider it advisable to quote here in full the
explanation which he gives of blushing, as no other naturalist made
it the object of such special study, and because his hypothesis is at
variance with the facts of my observation.
'Men and women, and especially the young, have always valued, in a
high degree, their personal appearance, and have likewise regarded the
appearance of others. The face has been the chief object of attention,
though, when man aboriginally went naked, the whole surface of his
body would have been attended to. Our self-attention is excited almost
exclusively by the opinion of others, for no person living in absolute
solitude would care about his appearance. Everyone feels blame more
acutely than praise. Now, whenever we know, or suppose, that others
are depreciating our personal appearance, our attention is strongly
drawn toward ourselves, more especially to our faces. The probable
effect of this will be, as has just been explained, to excite into
activity that part of the sensorium which receives the sensory nerves
of the face; and this will react through the vaso-motor system on
the facial capillaries. By frequent reiteration during numberless
generations, the process will have become so habitual, in association
with the belief that others are thinking of us, that even a suspicion
of their depreciation suffices to relax the capillaries, without any
conscious thought about our faces. With some sensitive persons it is
enough even to notice their dress to produce the same effect. Through
the force, also, of association and inheritance our capillaries are
relaxed, whenever we know, or imagine, that anyone is blaming, though
in silence, our actions, thoughts, or character; and, again, when we
are highly praised.’
'On this hypothesis we can understand how it is that the face blushes
more than any other part of the body.’ 'Of all expressions, blushing
seems to be the most strictly human.’ 'But it does not seem possible
that any animal, until its mental powers had been developed to an equal
or nearly equal degree with those of man, would have closely considered
and been sensitive about its own personal appearance. Therefore we may
conclude that blushing originated at a very late period in the long
line of our descent.’[2]
[2] Charles Darwin: _The Expression of the Emotions_, pp. 345 and 364.
London, 1872.
I hold that this explanation of blushing is no longer tenable, and I
think that perhaps Darwin himself would have accepted mine, since it
seems to me truer, more in correspondence with the theory of evolution,
more Darwinian, if I may be allowed the expression.
But why do we blush? some will ask, who insist on penetrating to the
root of things. Why, under certain conditions, does the blood flow
more abundantly into the rabbit’s ear and the human face? The answer
to this question will be better understood when I have shown that the
brain also becomes redder after an emotion. For the maintenance of life
it is necessary that a dilatation of the blood-vessels should take
place in all those organs in which a disturbance occurs. We all know
that when our hand has been firmly squeezed, or when we have received
a blow or contusion, the skin reddens at once. This change in the
circulation is indispensable, for the more copious flow of blood to
that part which has suffered an arrest of nutrition serves to renew
the vital processes and to repair the damage caused by the injury. The
same phenomena appear in the brain under psychic conditions. Emotion
occasions greater energy in the chemical processes of the brain; there
is a modification in the nutrition of the cells, the nervous force is
more rapidly consumed, and therefore the expansion of the blood-vessels
of head and brain tend, by a more abundant supply of blood, to preserve
the activity of the nerve-centres.
It is in the tissues, in the properties of the living substances
which constitute the vital machine, that we must seek the reasons of
numerous phenomena which Darwin deduced from external causes, natural
selection or environment. We shall endeavour to confine within much
narrower limits the effects of chance, will, and accident, which play
such an important part in Darwin’s theory. Nothing is the result of a
creative force serving a premeditated end; organisms have formed and
changed themselves through causes exclusively mechanical. Work perfects
organisms, and the operative parts undergo, through their own activity,
far-reaching modifications, which render their structure still more
perfect.
CHAPTER I
_HOW THE BRAIN WORKS_
I
Before beginning the study of the nerve-centres I shall remind the
reader of a few very simple facts, which, doubtless, he already knows,
but which, recalled, will render more apparent the part taken by the
body in the functions of the mind.
In order to know how the brain works, it is sufficient to recall the
pictures and visions which pass before us when we are absent-minded.
How curious it is when the mind sets out on its fanciful wanderings!
when, unconsciously, we leave the everyday world behind us and stand
motionless, with open eyes, seeing and hearing nothing.
How often in the quiet of our study, while reading a book, have
we not seen the words gradually fade one into another, until we
found ourselves as though enveloped in a cloud, far away amid the
recollections of childhood or the hopes of the future! And what
wonderful forms grow out of the flames, the logs, and the sparks
glowing under the ashes, when we draw close to the fire in lonely
evenings!
It is an actual relief to many, this repose of attention, this
extinction of the will which steals over us in the midst of life’s
troubles, lifting the burden of care and allowing us to contemplate
quietly the curious spectacle which, when left to itself, the brain at
work presents. How rapidly things and thoughts are transformed, melting
into each other without order, aim, or pause! How easily we glide by
winding paths through time and space, while in endless succession new
horizons and new countries rise before us! What airy phantoms look
down from the clouds above, what voices and harmonies strike the ear
in the waterfalls of the brooks, what living pictures peer at us from
amongst the flowers and grasses on the bank! Then suddenly a flood of
memories rushes over us and leaves us confused, bewildered, as it rolls
on again to the dim horizon of consciousness. And in this rushing flood
of thoughts and forms we see the familiar faces of those whom the grave
seems to give back to us, and we hasten to meet them with smiling lips
or with tears in our eyes.
II
And yet these are nought but dreams of the waking mind. Even when the
force of attention and the energy of thought are greater, we still are
carried away by the wilful, untamable current of cerebral activity;
because the will can do nothing within the domain of the imagination,
and because the brain is no slave who will obey our very nod. Who does
not remember the painful and useless endeavours made to rid oneself of
an annoying thought and that incapacity for mental work which afflicts
us, without our knowing whence it came? How often have we sat for
hours at the desk, with idle pen, our head in our hands, unable to
wrest even one thought from the mind which we dared transmit to paper!
How depressed we are on those days when the sources of the mind seem
dried up, when we torture ourselves in vain, ransacking our brains
and finding nothing but fragments, crumbs of thought which we reject
angrily as worthless refuse!
We must resign ourselves. We feel ourselves humbled as though the door
of our own house had been shut in our face. It is of no use to be sad
and annoyed; even if we give way to furious passion, it does not help
us. We stand behind a high wall which we cannot break down. An English
physiologist compared the thinking man to a simple engine-driver. He
does not move the trains, neither does he determine their departure or
their stoppage, he merely guides their movement, directing them first
in one direction then in another.
The brain is perpetually at work, and it is impossible for the mind to
embrace its activities in every part. The greater the attention is in
one part, the more vague is the knowledge which we have of contiguous
parts, the less vivid are the impressions which the senses transmit
from the outside world. We need only recall the well-known example
of Archimedes who was killed by a Roman soldier during the siege of
Syracuse, while he stood in calm contemplation of some geometrical
figures.
The whole of our brain is never at work at one time; now it is the one
half, then the other which is in action.
When looking at the sky or at a wall in a uniform light with only one
eye, I found that the field of vision changed alternately from light
to dark. This does not depend upon the eye but upon the brain, because
unconsciously we use first one eye then the other; and, in the same
way, the two hemispheres of the brain do not work simultaneously,
sometimes it is the one sometimes the other which is in a state of
activity. A French general had lost one half of his brain from a wound
which clove the skull. He recovered and retained his intelligence and
gaiety, but he used soon to grow tired during conversation and could
only continue any intense mental work for a few minutes at a time.
There are many philosophers who maintain that a considerable portion of
our cerebral activity is purely automatic, so that our mind is often
in operation without our being conscious of it. When an idea, says
Maudsley,[3] disappears from the horizon of consciousness, it need
not vanish totally, but may remain, as it were, latent or veiled,
continuing by its movements to awaken, to give rise to, other ideas
without our being aware of this activity. But when our consciousness is
unexpectedly drawn off from its work, or roused by something which had
before occupied it, then we catch the idea at work.
[3] Maudsley: _The Physiology of Mind_, p. 305. London, 1876.
This opinion is rendered probable by a few phenomena which I observed
during my studies of the circulation of the blood in the brain, and we
may easily convince ourselves also, if we reflect, how often, quite
unexpectedly, names and events occur to us when we were least thinking
of them, and which we were unable to recall for a long time and in
spite of wearisome efforts, when we wished to do so. And we all know
that we are unable to fall asleep at will, so little mastery have we
over our thoughts. We direct our minds first to this object then to
that, in order to draw it away from that which occupies it and keeps us
awake. We try to suppress an idea which torments us by calling other
ideas to our assistance in ousting it, and often wait powerless for the
coming of that silent oblivion and calm of mind which alone can give us
rest.
If, in the moments preceding sleep, when the mind is comparatively
quiet, we make an effort to fix our thoughts on something, we notice
how they vacillate, disappearing and reappearing, as though we were in
a boat and our heads were lifted from time to time above the waves.
Even when awake we find ourselves only too often in this humble bark
in which every puff of wind drives us far from the shore we wish to
reach, when impetuous currents of thought prevent our entering the
haven, or when the waves open to plunge us into unfathomable depths out
of which we can see no horizon.
III
But in order better to see the link which binds the substance of our
organism to the activity of thought, the correlation between the
nutrition of the body and the mental state, or, as one is accustomed to
say, the relation between body and soul, let us carefully notice what
takes place when a number of friends are assembled at table.
After a few cheerful remarks made by the most jovial as they take their
places, a certain gloom spreads over the company. One might almost
think only a few were sociably inclined. Someone attempts to break the
ice, but it is a failure; one feels that the conversation is forced,
jerky, altogether wanting in sparkle. Little by little the guests
brighten up. A hum ensues, then a confused buzz, like the tuning of
the instruments of an orchestra, which rapidly increases in pitch, as
though each were trying to make his voice heard above his neighbour’s.
It seems as though something in their brains had been loosened and the
vocal cords had gradually got into working order. At dessert even the
more taciturn, if they have done full justice to the banquet, pour
forth an unceasing stream of conversation. Moody faces become smiling,
and melancholy gives place to gaiety. The cross-fire of talk, the
hot discussions, the frequent bursts of laughter, the lively play of
feature, the witty interruptions, the excited gesticulations, all show
a hundredfold increase of vital action.
And from the glowing faces, the sparkling eyes, we know that the blood
is rushing in abundance to the brain. The tongue is loosed, ideas
accumulate in the mind, as though some kind hand had set the rusty
wheels of thought in motion and poured oil on the hinges of the vocal
mechanism.
There is no need to say more. We have all experienced this
transformation which takes place in the work of the brain. It enters on
another phase when the wine begins to circulate. If we had not already
met the guests on similar social occasions, we should be greatly
surprised at their metamorphosis, and feel constrained to correct
previous misconceptions of their character. Men, whom I had always
thought silent and cold, I have seen, to my amazement, carrying on the
most daring discussions with brilliant fluency, and rebutting sarcasms
with such promptitude and success as to earn them loud applause. Other
timid ones, known to all as slow, tiresome, clumsy talkers, find in
the wine-glass a sparkling vivacity, a flow of speech which makes them
more agreeable; nor do they hesitate to propose toasts and drink to the
health of each of the guests. They rise, glass in hand, finding a witty
word for each and showering compliments on all sides. Men, calm and
sedate, in whom none suspected a poetic soul, are capable of rising and
improvising verses, and we are full of admiration at their skill, and
at the harmonious grace of rhythm, metaphor, and rhyme.
Each one feels something like inspiration within him, as though warmed
by the quickening pulse of life.
But let us leave the joyous company: so far as our psychological
study is concerned, we have already lingered too long, and it would
be superfluous to follow them as they leave, in order to see how
confident, kind, and courageous they have all become.
The next day each will resume his own character and his own business.
If it happens that one of the guests meets another in the street, they
smile as they shake hands, and words which are a revelation are heard:
'We were a lively party last night, eh? I scarcely recognised _you_,
and as for some others, there was no keeping them quiet!’
IV
The analysis of memory better than anything else shows us the
connection between the various parts of the brain which enter into
activity in order to provide us with the elements that form speech.
We must distinguish two kinds of memory:
1. The fixation of impressions, whether these be images, or
representations of movements, words, sounds or sensations.
2. The re-awakening of these impressions as recollection.
The phenomena of memory remain quite incomprehensible if we do not
admit their intimate connection with physical changes of the nerve
substance. An external impression acting upon receptive nerve-cells is
retained by them permanently, as though it were photographed, if it
be allowable to explain the unknown by a comparison with the known.
It is the blood which carries those substances to the brain which are
necessary to the functions of memory. Attention cannot be developed
in all its intensity without causing considerable alterations in the
circulation. Now when we are absent-minded, images leave no lasting
impression on the memory, as no provision is then made by the physical
changes in the organism accompanying attention for a more rapid
circulation of blood in the cerebral hemispheres.
The old notion that the brain was a storehouse in which each idea had
its nook where it might stay till needed, is truer than it appears.
Modern science has proved that the matter is much more complicated than
one thinks. It suffices that the blood should coagulate in the artery
which carries it to some convolution, or that a tumour should destroy a
part of the brain, for us to lose, as it were, a province of memory.
Let us first consider verbal memory. That region of the brain in which
it is placed is, generally speaking, the parietal region of the left
side; so that anyone who has had a blow on the temple at that side
nearly always loses his speech, although he still remembers things and
can pronounce their names when they are repeated to him by others, a
sufficient proof that the movements of the tongue are not impeded.
Sometimes it happens that a person in this condition looks in the
dictionary for the missing word, in order to recover the pronunciation
of it.
In learning a language, we believe that certain cells undertake
functions which they did not before possess, that connections with
other cells are established, like very intricate nets in which the
impressions of nouns and verbs, the graphic representations of ideas
and words, are collected. As we exercise ourselves in the language,
the blood carries new elements to these cells, and the greater our
attention, the stronger become the impressions. Oxidation does not
destroy the impression once received, but it weakens it. If we have had
no practice for some years in speaking a language, we meet with great
difficulties, our communications being made in set, stiff words; but
after a few days one regains the former fluency.
We might quote cases in which, through illness, a man has completely
forgotten a language, recovering it as health returned. Others have
forgotten several languages in the order of succession in which they
had learnt them, regaining them later in the inverse order to that of
acquisition.
When groping in the dim recesses of memory, we always perceive
that there are associations and intimate connections amongst the
phenomena of thought. The blood, making its way into certain parts
of the brain, is like the light of a torch penetrating subterranean
passages, on the walls of which are painted pictures of things we
know. Often the blood-vessels do not yield, and we then wander in vain
in that labyrinth, retracing our steps, roaming hither and thither,
until suddenly we see an opening, and what we were seeking appears
unexpectedly before us. The supposition that we here have to do with
an effect of the blood, an expansion or contraction of the vessels,
and with phenomena of nutrition, seems to be strengthened by the
circumstance that sometimes, in consequence of violent emotion, a
succession of things which before seemed totally forgotten suddenly
reappears in our memory.
The link between physical phenomena and phenomena of memory is more
apparent during fatigue and the refreshing state of repose. Memory may
fail entirely from anæmia, from poisoning by narcotics, innutrition of
the brain, and in old age; for we all know how much better we remember
the events of our youth than those of later occurrence.
Men who have had wounds or contusions on the head have been known
to forget that they had children; authors have forgotten even the
titles of their works; but as soon as the fever had passed, or the
wound healed, they regained their memory. Others, during a fever, have
related events and remembered names which they had quite forgotten
previously, and which they were unable to recall after recovery.