_RESPIRATION AND OPPRESSION_
I
Oppression on the chest has in it something so irresistible that the
will cannot subdue it. A slight emotion, a little exertion, a loss of
blood, or a fever is sufficient, nay, it is only necessary to enter
a room where the air is warm or bad, to stoop or to go up steps, in
order at once to accelerate the breath. So long as we are quiet, we may
believe ourselves able to modify our respiratory movements at will;
but, when the calm ceases, the working of our machine becomes apparent,
and we are no longer able to arrest it. Our liberty is in no respect
complete with regard to the functions of the organism. We are like
children whom Nature allows to play so long as there is no danger to
life.
In order to understand the meaning of the continual variations which
respiration undergoes, we must remember that our body is a very
complicated furnace, in which, to keep the flame of life aglow,
something must constantly be burnt. The respiratory movements, the
expansion and contraction of the lungs, represent the untiring work
of a bellows which keeps up the fire in the smithy of our organism.
We may breathe in two ways: either we expand the upper part of the
thorax by raising the ribs, or we expand it lower down by depressing
the diaphragm. The first movement is more common with women, in whom
the rise and fall of the bosom during emotion is so characteristic;
the other is more usual with men. When we sleep it is especially the
diaphragm which reposes; with some persons the abdomen is almost
motionless during sleep, but a slight noise or push, a voice, or any
external action suffices to make it resume its functions, and the
diaphragmatic breathing becomes more active. This takes place suddenly,
without our waking or being aware of it, and without any recollection
of it remaining in consciousness.
After this slight uneasiness, during which sleep becomes lighter
for a few minutes, is past, the respiration resumes the rhythm and
characteristic form of deep sleep. These changes, which take place
without any participation of the will, form one of the most wonderful
arrangements observable in this perfect machine of ours. When we lose
consciousness, Nature could not expose our body to the influences
of the external world, leaving it defenceless, a prey to dangerous
enemies. It is necessary that a detachment of the nerve-centres should,
even during sleep, keep watch on the outside world, and in good time
prepare the material conditions of consciousness and the attitude of
resistance. All unconscious phenomena which I have seen appear in
the transition from sleeping to waking are destined to increase the
circulation of the blood in the brain and reanimate the functions and
energy of the body. These centres are sentinels on the defensive,
watching continually and sounding the alarm when danger is nigh.
Man falls asleep after the labours of the day. The muscles relax, head
and arms fall powerless, the lids droop and cover the eyes, the legs
no longer hold us erect. The feverish waking activity ceases, the
fire slackens gradually within us, combustion is so much less active,
that the respiratory movements, which, during calm, waking moments
introduce about seven litres of air into the lungs every minute, have
now reduced the ventilation to one litre per minute. The heart, too,
rests by lessening the frequency of its contractions and diminishing
the energy and extent of the systole; the vessels enlarge, the pressure
of blood falls, and the body becomes noticeably colder. But, in spite
of this loss of consciousness and complete relaxation of the body,
there is still a close net of nerves and masses of nerve-cells which
retain their energy and watch over us. A voice, a distant noise, a ray
of light, a slight touch, any impression is enough to rouse the bellows
to renewed activity, to double the number of heart-beats, to cause the
vessels of the whole surface of the skin to contract, thus driving the
blood to the centres of life and restoring the material conditions of
consciousness.
In the struggle for existence that organism will most easily escape the
injuries of the external world in which this unconscious vigilance is
most perfect, and which is able with the greatest promptitude to pass
from the condition of profound repose to that of greatest activity
before the danger comes too near and injury is inevitable.
II
These studies of mine of the respiration in sleeping and waking man
make us understand more readily the signification of oppression during
emotion. The difference is only one of intensity and degree, not of
the nature and quality of the phenomenon. There is the same relation
between waking and sleeping as between calm and agitation of mind. Let
us consider the proof of this.
If we wish to study the respiratory movements with great accuracy,
it is no longer sufficient to observe how the thorax expands and
contracts; we must apply to chest and abdomen extremely delicate
instruments which mark automatically the slightest motion of the
thorax. These instruments, called _pneumographs_, are made in such a
manner as to cause no annoyance to the person on whom they are applied.
I shall communicate a few observations which I made on my dog. He is
such a good animal, that when I apply the pneumograph to the thorax
and put him on the table in order to write the respiratory movements,
he lies for hours quietly slumbering. But a mere nothing, the slightest
noise, is sufficient to cause an alteration in the rhythm of breathing.
This is an experiment which I have often repeated before my colleagues,
in order to show the extreme sensibility of the respiratory mechanism
to psychic conditions.
While all was quiet and the pneumograph was writing the respiratory
curve, it was enough if I spoke to someone, if I gave an order, touched
the apparatus or the table, or even if I looked at the dog and spoke
kindly to him--his breathing immediately became more rapid.
If the impression were slight, the effect lasted a few seconds;
sometimes I found that a single respiration had become quicker, but
generally the effect lasted longer. If a person whom the dog did not
know placed himself before him, the former respiratory rhythm did not
return; if I scolded him, the effect lasted many minutes till the
emotion had subsided.
Since I was in the laboratory at Leipzig I have made researches into
the changes which cerebral activity exercises on the respiratory
movements of men. This is a very complicated problem, as individual
differences are great. In the curves which I obtained from some of
my colleagues, who kindly placed themselves at my disposition for
my observations on respiration, I found that the differences during
intense mental work are very considerable. The reason for this
must be sought in the variable excitability of the nerve-centres,
and especially in the fact that the respiratory mechanism acts in a
contrary manner during strong and during weak emotions. I made a few
experiments on myself in order to see how the breathing changed, when
someone suddenly made a great noise, as, for instance, by firing a gun
behind my back while I was reading or absent-minded. I repeated these
experiments on dogs, and always found that a deeper, often very deep,
inspiration is caused, then there seems to be an arrest of respiration
which may last for several seconds, the respiratory movements becoming
immediately afterwards more frequent than before. Sometimes in a dog I
observed that a shot caused, first, a deep inspiration, then a light
expiration and inspiration, while the chest was much expanded; then
another deep inspiration like the first, after which the chest emptied
itself of the air accumulated in the lungs, and a succession of quicker
breaths with more rapid inspirations than usual was drawn. Those who
wish to find at once a plausible reason for all phenomena will perhaps
say that these deep breaths serve to oxidise and vivify the blood
streaming through the lungs, so that in this way the organism may
prepare itself for defence.
III
Let us now see of what parts the respiratory machine consists, and how
it puts its force into operation. In man the different parts of this
mechanism never act sufficiently in independence of each other to allow
of our surprising them separately at work. Only after decapitation has
the head been seen to make inspiratory movements although separated
from the trunk. Physicians who have had to be present at the execution
of the condemned tell of the terrible effect produced when the head of
the man rolls, gasping, to the ground, becoming instantaneously of a
corpse-like pallor, and disfigured by strange, spasmodic contractions,
the eyes rolling irregularly, horribly, for several seconds. The trunk
is already motionless, the blood, which at first poured forth in
great streams from the arteries of the neck, only spurts feebly and
at intervals, still obeying the weakening pulsations of the heart.
The eyes at last turn upwards, but life is not yet quite extinct, the
mouth still opens from time to time as though with a great effort. The
inspirations which at first distended the nostrils and opened wide the
mouth soon become less distinct and less frequent, until at last they
die away altogether.
If, after cutting off the head of a very young animal, we stop the
hæmorrhage by means of a bandage and then introduce a bellows into the
trachea, so that respiration may be artificially stimulated, we see
that the headless animal begins to breathe after the cessation of the
perturbing influence of the first shock. With kittens it is sufficient
to administer a small dose of strychnine (0·0005 gr.) in order to
produce respiratory movements in the trunk after decapitation, which,
however, become gradually weaker as they no longer suffice to maintain
the excitability of the nerve-centres through the oxidation of the
blood.
This simple experiment proves that respiration is accomplished by
nerves branching off from the brain and spinal cord. The consciousness
of our ego is not necessary; even a decapitated animal responds by
modifications of respiration when we pinch or squeeze his paws, because
the sensory nerves of the skin transmit the impressions of the external
world to the spinal cord. The deep, noisy, and interrupted inspirations
of anyone taking a plunge-bath are also involuntary, and when we
are overcome by fear it is the same mechanism which produces a deep
inspiration.
At every step which physiology makes, we discover fresh complications,
other wheels, if I may use the expression, within the wheels of our
organism. Until quite recently it was thought that the brain controlled
the respiratory centre, accelerating or arresting its movements; but it
has now been shown by Christiani that by means of a vivid light which
must strike the eyes of the animal, deep and frequent inspirations
may be produced even after the brain has been removed. Impressions of
sound, which would have frightened the animal, produce the same effect,
the oppression being even greater than in normal conditions. This
experiment shows us that, independently of cerebral action and psychic
operations, the rhythm of breathing alters at every change which
takes place in the external world, at every peripheral irritation of
the sensory nerves. Thus are explained the oppression and palpitation
of the heart which befall us at the banging of a door, at a clap of
thunder, and which we cannot suppress, which are produced by a sudden
noise on a thousand occasions before we learn the cause, and do not
disappear even when we have done so, and recognised the unimportant
origin of our perturbation.
In these studies, also, the materiality of psychic processes becomes
evident, as well as the slowness of operation in those phenomena which
are believed to be the most rapid in life.
Just as an electric spark or a flash of lightning which lasts the
one-thousandth part of a second leaves an impression in us a hundred
times longer; just as our eye is unable to follow the different
positions of a burning brand swung round in the dark, but sees, as
it were, a ribbon of fire; just as we burn our hand when we touch a
glowing object before we have time to feel the pain; just as, when
in movement, we often stumble against obstacles which confront us
without our having time to stop; so the impressions which reach the
nerve-centres keep us agitated for some time without our having the
force to stand still midway on the declivity down which the sudden
impetus of the emotion is speeding us. We have all experienced this
inability of the organism, we know that we do not succeed in subduing
even the slightest mental perturbations. Suppose a person is walking
quietly along, when suddenly he sees before him the figure of a
man whom he was trying to avoid. At once his blood begins to boil.
Scarcely, however, has he seen the man before he becomes aware that he
has made a mistake, and he is glad; but his heart has already begun
to beat more vigorously, the perturbation and oppression do not at
once subside, but continue to annoy for some time. They are like the
continued vibrations of a cord that has been shaken, like a flame
shooting up as the spark disturbs the equilibrium of the molecules
in the nerve-centres, like the echo of a sound reverberating in the
nervous fibres and slowly dying away.
IV
What is the last expression of pain, the last manifestation of
sensibility? This is a question we must study in order to learn the
relative importance of the phenomena making up the picture of fear,
and to see which of these offer the most lengthened resistance in the
struggle with death.
By means of chloral or alcohol I have produced such a profound sleep in
dogs or rabbits that they could not rouse themselves again. One cannot
imagine a quieter decease, a gentler and more gradual sinking of the
organism into the arms of death.
As soon as a strong dose of chloral or alcohol has been administered,
the animal becomes somewhat excited, the hind legs begin to give
way; when we call him he cannot turn without falling; he rises,
makes another attempt, totters, turns round, falls again, rises with
difficulty, and finally lies down stretched out and tranquil. From time
to time he tries to raise his head and then falls into a leaden sleep.
The respiration is slower, the temperature gradually falls, at length
the wagging of the tail ceases. The lids droop over the sleepy eyes,
the face is tranquil, the ears motionless, whatever pain the efforts
made to awaken him may cause. One might think he was dead.
The only method which physiologists had of finding out whether
an animal in this condition was still capable of feeling was by
investigating whether the heart and blood-vessels still responded to
painful stimuli.
My friend, Professor Foà, showed in a work carried out together with
Professor M. Schiff,[14] that even when heart and blood-vessels
no longer respond, when the circulation is no longer modified,
whatever may be the perturbation of the nerve-centres, a last trace
of sensibility may still be observed in the eye, the pupil dilating
whenever the animal is irritated.
[14] Foà e M. Schiff. _La pupilla come estesiometro._ In the
_Imparziale_, 1874, p. 617.
But I have seen dogs, poisoned with chloral, of which the temperature
had sunk to 30°, so extremely slow had the chemical processes of
respiration become; no electric current, no mechanical action was
capable of producing even the slightest movement of the limbs or
face; the pulse, pressure of blood, the pupil, in a word everything
had become impassive, no effect being obtained on the pulse even when
the cardiac nerves were laid bare, severed, irritated by electric
currents--and yet the animal was still sensible. By carefully studying
the respiration I saw that it was modified whenever a leg or any other
part of the body was pinched.
The alteration of the breathing is therefore the last function of the
organism in which sensibility and emotion reveal themselves.
V
We know that, whatever nerve of the skin is irritated, a succession of
deeper and more frequent inspirations follows, and we have seen that
this phenomenon is useful to the organism. But if the excitement of a
nerve becomes so strong as to cause violent pain, or if a very vivid
impression is received as in fright, the mechanism stops short midway
in a deep inspiration, and this is injurious.
Some few times I have been in danger of my life, and always remember
to have felt a terrible oppression, as though my breath had been cut
short. A few months ago I was overtaken by a storm on the mountains,
when the lightning struck the ground about fifty steps from me, and
I remember having noticed that respiration was arrested for several
seconds.
We, who carry this fragile machine of our body about with us
continually, ought to remember that every shock which exceeds the usual
measure may prove fatal. A slight touch of the pendulum accelerates
the rotation of the wheels, a stronger one stops their movement; a
slight impetus helps us onward, a rude push throws us to the ground. It
is thus that the phenomena of fear, which may be useful to us in lesser
degrees, become morbid and fatal to the organism as soon as they exceed
a certain limit; for this reason fear must be looked upon as a disease.
Most noticeable is this irregularity of respiration in children. We
all remember to have seen children fall, and to have remarked with
astonishment that, after a shrill scream, they remained still for
some time, finally bursting into broken sobs. This is a suspension of
respiration. When the sudden pain of a violent blow is felt, the child
draws a deep breath with contracted glottis, and emits a sharp cry,
then at the height of the inspiration a spasmodic arrest occurs.
There are some very nervous children in whom this spasmodic arrest
takes place even in slight emotions. I knew a child of this kind, who,
one day, because its father had not taken it with him, began to cry
brokenly, and suffered an arrest of breath which lasted a minute or
longer. The child’s mouth was wide open, he became livid, lips and
countenance were purplish, the eyes were half shut and full of tears.
The struggle for breath was so great that the child lost its balance
and fell, expelled fæces and urine, and then recovered as though
nothing had happened. I was told that this took place whenever the
child was thwarted.