Having perceived the sexual impulse in general to be of the nature of instinct, the next question is, Whether the like is true of the individualisation of the same, or whether this springs from the conditions of consciousness? Among animals we distinguish the following cases:—Either the sexual impulse is merely general, the selection of the individual is entirely left to chance, and all intercourse ceases with coition, as, e.g., among the lower marine animals, the fishes which copulate, frogs, &c.; or the pairs remain together for the time of one rut, as most rodents and several of the cat tribe; or till the period of delivery, as bears; or for some time after, till the young are more developed, as most birds, bats, wolves, badgers, weasels, moles, beavers, hares; or they remain together for life and form a family. Here, again, we meet with polygamy and monogamy. The former is found among the gallinaceous birds, the ruminants, the solipeds, pachyderms, and seals; the latter among a few crustacea, sepiæ, pigeons, and parrots, among eagles, storks, deer, and Cetacea. We may reasonably assume that among monogamous animals the conclusion of marriages, which are so faithfully kept, is not mere result of chance; but that the motives of such preference must be looked for in the nature of the couples themselves. Do we not often see, even in animals of a higher mental grade, which couple irregularly, a sexual selection accompanied by decided passion (e.g., in noble stallions and dogs)? A widowed eagle usually continues unmarried for the rest of her life. It was observed that a stork sought its female, which it could not take with it on account of a wound, every spring for three years, but in the following years remained with her even during the winter. In monogamic animals sometimes the one cannot live without the other; thus, e.g., of a pair of inseparables, the second often dies a few hours after the first. The like has sometimes been observed of the Kamichi, a South American marsh-bird, as well as of turtledoves and Mirikina apes. Woodlarks can only be kept in a cage in pairs. We cannot suppose that that which has overcome the powerful migratory instinct in the stork, which kills inseparables in a short space of time, is anything else than instinct; otherwise it could not so speedily and so profoundly affect the being’s core. That the various forms of the sexual relations are instincts is also proved by their unchangeableness within the limits of the species. According to the analogy of these phenomena, we must even in the case of man regard the cohabitation of spouses in marriage as an institution of instinct and not of deliberate consciousness, as also the tendency to found a family, which is closely connected therewith. The intentional pursuit of illicit transitory love we must, on the other hand, regard as something contrary to instinct, which is only called forth by conscious egoism. Here, however, I do not understand by marriage the ecclesiastical or civil ceremony, but the intention to make the relation a lasting one.
The question arises, Whether polygamy or monogamy is the form natural to man, and how it happens that the human is the only animal species where different forms of sexual relations are to be found co-existing? This enigma seems to me resolvable in this way: that the instinct of the man demands polygamy, that of the woman monogamy; that therefore, wherever the man exclusively rules, polygamy exclusively prevails. On the other hand, wherever, owing to higher cultivation, man has accorded to woman a worthier place, monogamy has become the sole legally valid form; whilst, as a matter of fact, in no part of the world is it strictly kept on the part of men. That monogamy is the form which will, in fact, prevail among mankind for the longest period of its existence, is indicated by the equal number of the individuals of the two sexes. If adulterous longings are so hard for man to conquer, this is only an effect of his polygamous instinct; but when a woman, who has in her husband a whole husband, has adulterous desires, this is either a consequence of thorough depravity or of passionate love. The difference of the instinct in man and woman may be easily comprehended, when one considers, that a man is physically competent to beget upwards of a hundred children in a single year, but the woman can only bear one child; that the man is able under favourable circumstances to maintain several women and their children, but the wife can only dwell in one man’s household, and feels herself and her children injured by every rival introduced therein; lastly, that in case of adultery only the husband, not the wife, runs the risk of regarding the children of others as his own, and of having the love for his own children undermined through distrust of conjugal fidelity.
The sexual instinct in man having now been illustrated both in the case of the race and of the individual, there still remains the question, why it is concentrated exclusively on this individual and not on that? i.e., the question of the determining grounds of this fastidious sexual selection.
That among human beings, especially the more educated classes, the number of desirable individuals of the other sex is essentially limited, lies in the hindrances which must first be overcome, namely, aversion on both sides, and modesty especially in the female sex. The corporeal contact is so close, and is so multiplied through the instinctive accompanying actions, as kissing, &c., that the loathing, if it is not already blunted, enters into its full right, and opposes a powerful resistance to sexual union with each and every individual. Shame in the female sex, and in the male the knowledge of the resistance which this shame will arouse in opposition, are almost still more effective limitations. Both, however, only negatively explain why this and that individual are excluded, and not positively why this one is desired. The sense of beauty may certainly also co-operate,—just as one prefers to ride a beautiful horse, even apart from its step, and also when nobody sees it, than an ugly one, although it is by no means obvious what beauty or ugliness has to do with enjoyment in coition, or generally with the sexual relations; for if, as e.g., in Shakespeare’s “All’s well that ends well,” the wrong person is foisted upon a passionate lover in the darkness of the night, it manifestly does not detract from his enjoyment. Vanity also, to be able to call a pretty woman one’s wife before others, might have something to say in the matter, although the subject of this vanity again requires explanation; at bottom we do not get a step nearer a solution, because, in the first place, there are many pretty people, and, secondly, the handsomest are by no means the most attractive sexually. A better answer would be: The man has to conquer feminine modesty in order to attain his end; if he has once begun this work, which is only gradually effected, he has with this particular individual a lighter task before him than with others, to secure a victory for his vanity. But although this may often enough be the state of the case, still this answer is by itself altogether insufficient, not only because it again leaves the first beginning entirely to chance, but also because, if this were the determining circumstance, the mistress already won would be preferred to all fresh conquests from simple convenience, which certainly is not true.—We must then before all things maintain, that the physical impulse as such, or as one says the senses, are by themselves thoroughly incapable of explaining the concentration of the impulse on a specific individual. The mere stimulus of sense never leads to love, but only to libertinage, preferentially to the unnatural, if it is only strong enough and is not restrained from such courses by other impulses. Even where sense holds to natural courses, and seeks to attain the heightening of enjoyment by external artifices, where, in the ominous unbelief in the metaphysical nature of love, it imagines itself able to snatch the charm of the latter by outward gratification, even there does it soon become aware, with disgust, that mere flesh always turns to carrion, and, instead of love, it folds to its heart only its repulsive corpse. As certainly as a putative love without sense is only the fleshless and bloodless spectral fancy of the perverted soul, so certainly is mere sensuality only the soulless corpse of the foam-born goddess. The whole of the following proof rests on this foundation, that sense can only explain the snatching at some sort of sexual enjoyment, but never sexual love.
It would seem, then, that it must be mental qualities, which condition sexual selection. It is quite impossible directly to suppose this, since in respect of sexual enjoyment mental q
ualities are perfectly indifferent, still more indifferent than corporeal beauty. The statement could therefore be only understood to imply that mental qualities call forth a mental harmony and mutual attraction, which rest on conscious foundations, and promise the greatest possible happiness in future cohabitation. This conscious relation of souls, which is entirely identical with the notion of friendship, would then condition sexual selection, i.e., be the cause why the sexual intercourse with the specially favoured individual is preferred to all others. This process is, in fact, a very common one, especially on the side of the female sex, which cannot choose, but is chosen. It is by no means usually to be expected that a bride should have any other love than this for a bridegroom whom her parents propose for her, or to whom she has for the first time spoken in private when he made his declaration, and her interest in whom has no deeper root than the bare supposition of his being interested in herself. Having become betrothed, she strains her fancy to apply to this single being all the extravagances she has ever read of in romances, swears love for him, soon herself believes in it, having grown accustomed constantly to unite his image with her excited general sensual impulse, and afterwards obeys at once her duty and her inclination, when she remains faithful to this man, the father of her children, for whom she has conceived respect and friendship, and to whom she has grown accustomed. Closely examined, however, all these ingredients—general sexual impulse, fancy, respect, friend ship, fidelity to duty, &c.—mingle and blend them as on may, still give no spark of what may and should be singly and alone denoted by the name love; and what appears to be such is for the most part a delusion of others and soon even of the actors themselves, since after the giver pledge, they are bound in a becoming fashion to give away also a heart of love, and for the rest, in the happy hours of betrothed lovers, they sufficiently amuse themselves. The bridegroom believes the cheat as willingly as the bride practises it, for what does not man believe if only it sufficiently flatters his vanity? After the wedding, when both parties have other things to think of, the comedy comes to an end soon enough, whether it be played in earnest or in jest.
The essential fact of the matter is, that the conscious knowledge of mental qualities can always and ever only bring about conscious mental relations, respect and friendship, and that friendship and love are things different as light from darkness. Friendship can also awake no love, for when, e.g., in a friendship between two young people of different sex, a little love easily insinuates itself, this is only a liberation of the general sexual impulse in a direction facilitated by mutual confidences, or they might have fallen in love even without friendship, and this slumbering potential love has been only aroused through opportunity. But there may very well be, at least on the man’s side, a pure friendship without any sexual ingredients (especially if the sexual love is already fixed in another quarter), and if this is said not to be possible on the woman’s side, this is only because women are generally capable of no pure and true friendship, with men as little with one another, because friendship is a product of the conscious mind, but they are only capable of what is great, when they draw from the well of the unconscious life of the soul. That friendship is a much more indispensable and solid foundation of a lasting good relation for the individual wellbeing of the married pair than love does not admit of doubt; and it is a fortunate circumstance that the same relation of characters and mental qualities, which has power to evoke the strongest love, forms at the same time the best substructure of friendship, that is, as we shall see later on, the polar completion, which includes fundamental harmony as well as diametrical opposition on this common ground. It is only to be remarked that in friendship the stress is laid on harmony, but in love on contrast, so that there still remains a wide possibility of divergence between love and friendship in the same persons. At all events, friendship, which in the majority of marriages must either take the place of love from the first, or comes imperceptibly to be substituted for it in course of time, is something by no means problematical, but the problem, with which we are here concerned, is that love which precedes sexual union, and passionately urges to it.
Two true friends, just as two lovers also, cannot live without one another, and are capable of making sacrifices for each other, but what a difference between friendship and love! The one a beautiful mild autumn evening of full-toned colour, the other an awful rapturous vernal tempest; the one the lightly-living gods of Olympus, the other the heaven-storming Titans; the one self-sure and self-satisfied, the other “hoping and fearing in passionate pain;” the one perceiving its limits with full consciousness, the other always striving after infinitude in longing, joy and sorrow,“ now shouting in triumph, now sunk in despair;” the one a clear and pure harmony, the other the ghostly tinkling and rustling of the Eolian harp, the eternally incomprehensible, unutterable, ineffable, because never to be grasped by consciousness, the mysterious music sounding from a home far far away; the one a bright temple, the other an eternally veiled mystery. No year passes in this our Europe without a number of self-murders, double murders, and cases of insanity due to unsuccessful love; but I know no instance of any one having killed himself or lost his wits through unreturned friendship. That and the many existences marred by love (especially of women, and were it only for weeks or months) prove clearly enough, that in love one has not to do with a farce, a romantic drollery, but with a very real power, a demon who ever and again demands his victims. The sexual doings of humanity in all the easily pierced masquerading and mumming are so singular, so absurd, so comical and ridiculous, and yet for the most part so tragical, that there is only one way of failing to see the whole absurdity, that is, by standing in the midst of it, when it appears to us, as to a drunkard in a company of drunkards; we find everything quite natural and in order. The only difference is, that every one can when sober have the instructive spectacle of a drunken revel, but not be sexless; or one must be far gone in years, or must (as I myself) have already observed and reflected on these doings before having taken part in them, and then have doubted (as I have), whether oneself or all the rest of the world was crazed. And all this is brought about by that demon, whom already the ancients feared.
But now, what then is that demon, who thus sprawls himself out and will into the infinite, and makes the whole world dance on his fool’s rope, what is he then in fine? His goal is sexual satisfaction, not exactly sexual satisfaction in general, but only with this particular individual, whatever shift he may make to disguise and deny it, and however big he may talk with hollow phrases. For if it were not this, what should it be? Return love? No indeed! With the hottest return of love is no one seriously contented, even with the possibility of constant intercourse, if the impossibility of possession be clear, and many a one in such a situation has blown out his brains. For the possession of the beloved one, on the other hand, the lover gives up everything; even if return love is utterly wanting he can be consoled with possession, as the many marriages prove, which are brought about by base bribing of the bride, or the parents, with rank, wealth, birth, &c., and finally the instances of rape confirm, where even crime is not shunned by the demon of love. But when the sexual power is extinguished, there love also is extinguished; read the letters of Abelard and Heloise; she still all fire, life, and love; he cool, babbling friendship. So, too, immediately after satisfaction passion perceptibly declines, if it do not also directly disappear, which, however, often speedily follows, although friendly and so-called Platonic love may always continue. No passion of love very long survives enjoyment, at least not in the man, as all experience testifies, although it may at first increase for a brief time; for whatever subsequently is attributed to love in this sense is mostly feigned for other purposes. Love is a tempest; it does not discharge its electrical material in a single flash, but by degrees in many; and when it has discharged itself, then comes the cool wind, and the sky of consciousness gets clear again, and gazes in astonishment at the fertilising rain on the ground, and the clouds drawing off in
the distant horizon.
The goal of the demon, then, is really and truly nothing but sexual satisfaction, and with a particular individual, and everything connected therewith, as, harmony of soul, adoration, admiration, is only weak and false show, or it is something else, something next door to love. The test is simply this, does it disappear without a trace when the cool wind comes? What then remains has not been love, but friendship. It is however by no means thereby affirmed that he who is possessed by this demon must have the goal of sexual satisfaction in his consciousness; on the contrary, the highest and purest love will not at all confess this aim, and especially in a first love the thought is certainly far away, that this nameless longing should have merely this end. Even if the thought of sexual union is obtruded from without, it is at this stage rejected from consciousness with chaste aversion, as one inadequate to the infinity of longing and hope, and unworthy the unapproachable sublimity of the dreamt ideal; and only in later stages does the unconscious aim come to appear in consciousness, though always as secondary, when the heavenly dream has so far descended to earth as to see in sexual union no longer a desecration of its ideal,—a point of view for whose speedy advent Nature has taken good care, by instinctively compelling the lovers to pass from the tenderest glances step by step to ever more intimate bodily contact, each one bound up in ever stronger stimulation of sense. The illimitable nature of the longing and striving spring, then, precisely from the ineffableness and incomprehensibility of a conscious goal, which would be absurd want of aim, were not an unconscious purpose the invisible spring of this powerful apparatus of feeling,—an unconscious purpose, of which we can only say that the sexual union of these particular individuals must be the means to its fulfilment. Only when this sole and exclusive goal has not yet as such (either, not at all, or only as secondary goal of endeavour) entered into consciousness, is love a perfectly healthy process, a process without inner contradiction; only then does feeling possess that innocence which alone lends it true nobility and charm. When on the other hand sexual intercourse is recognised by consciousness as the only aim of the extravagance of the feeling of love, love as such ceases to be a healthy process; for from that moment consciousness also perceives the absurdity of the vastness of this impulse, the want of proportion in means and end in relation to the individual, and it now enters into the passion with the certainty for its part of doing a stupid thing—an uncomfortable feeling from which it can just as little ever again completely free itself, as from egoism itself.
Philosophy of the Unconscious Page 26
