Job soon became angry with the three friends that came to console him, and they passed the rest of their time together in recrimination. Sorrow draws Romeo to the tomb of Juliet, and this impulse being opposed by Paris, provokes him to anger : 'Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man, Fly hence and leave me ; ... Pull not another sin upon my head, By urging me to fury: . . ."1 Not only does sorrow tend to arouse anger in defence of its end, but also a revengeful anger against its cause. Thus the wife of Job said to him: "Dost thou still retain thine integrity? Curse God and die." And Job "cursed his day": "Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived." 3 In two out of the three types of sorrow which De Quincey draws in the " Suspiria de Profundis," anger is represented as in the closest connection with sorrow. Of the "Mater Lacrymarum" he writes: "Her eyes are sweet and subtle, wild and sleepy by turns; oftentimes rising to the clouds; oftentimes challenging the heavens." Of the terrible "Mater Tenebrarum," that "She is the defier of God. . . the mother of lunacies, and the suggestress of suicides." If even our tender sorrows are often accompanied by anger, this is normally the case with the bitter sorrows of self-love. Envy, though a peculiar emotion, is often based on sorrow at our own ill-success, combined with anger against those who possess what we have failed to get. Seneca, in the contrasted portraits which he draws of the griefs of Octavia and Livia at their sons' deaths, one of which he holds up to our disapproval and the other to our approval, says of the former, She hated all mothers, and raged against Livia with especial fury, because it seemed that the brilliant prospects once in store for her own child were now transferred to Livia's son." But of Livia he says that, having laid her son in the tomb, she left her sorrow there. . . . She did not cease to make frequent mention of her Drusus, to set up his portrait in all " 1 'Romeo and Juliet,' a. v. sc. iii. 2 Job, ch. ii. 3 Ibid. ch. iii. places, and to speak of him and listen with the greatest pleasure while others spoke of him: she lived with his memory; which none can embrace and consort with who has made it painful to himself.”1 "Choose between these cases,” he says, and if you choose the former, “you will shun the sight of other people's children and your own." 2 The law of the connection between sorrow and anger is one that we cannot precisely define, because it essentially depends on a certain quantity or degree of opposition which we cannot measure. This degree must be neither too small nor too great. If too small it leaves us unaffected; if too great it overwhelms us, and increases sorrow. Nor is even this degree constant; but it varies with the available energy we possess. When we are well and strong it takes a greater power to crush us; when we are weak and ill, a much less. There must therefore be a ratio between the energy at our disposal and the opposition to which we are subjected, before the arrested impulse of sorrow, or that of any other emotion, can excite anger. Recognising these facts we may give this inadequate expression to the law: (75) Sorrow tends to arouse anger under opposition to its impulse, when the opposing force is not too strong and there is sufficient available energy to resist it. The union of sorrow with anger points then to the fact thatthere is still sufficient energy present to pursue the end of sorrow, and resist obstructions to it. For even in desperate sorrow, as that of Romeo at the supposed death of Juliet, union in death is possible, and to that end all the available energy may be directed. Anger will subserve this end and free it from obstruction. But where anger breaks out against the cause, and accuses Heaven, or revenges itself on the innocent, it no longer subserves this end of sorrow. It is anger caused by the fact of the painful emotion itself, and the suffering it inflicts. For man, in his self-love, puts forward claims to happiness and exemption from suffering; and his pride is set to avoid humiliation. But all sorrow is a humiliation to pride. When therefore self-love predominates, and this kind of anger is aroused, sorrow becomes the indirect 1 'Of Consolation,' iii. 2 Ibid. occasion of some of the worst effects attributed to it. We meet men embittered by misfortunes who, where they do not hate, secretly envy others and rejoice at the misfortunes that overtake them. This is the type that Seneca draws in his portrait of Octavia. Still it has a certain strength: it is doing something; and this distinguishes it from the next type of sorrow, which does nothing. 2. Of the Tendency of Sorrow to break the Spirit. If sorrow under one degree of obstruction arouses anger, under a greater degree the sorrow is itself increased. Still the impulse of sorrow persists, and puts forward again its ineffectual longings, which return to it again repressed and crushed. From this circle there seems to be no escape. The belief that nothing can be done, that a loss is irreparable and cannot be mitigated,-which arises so often at the death of a beloved object, or when love is rejected or forgotten, or the belief in the worth of the object is destroyed, -where there are self-control and patience, may yet be modified or proved to be mistaken; for there is always some end still possible where sorrow is guided and restrained by love. But supposing it persists, and that anger does not strengthen sorrow, because the obstruction is too great or prolonged, and the energy of resistance too small, what will be the effect? The sorrow will remain with its longing; but nothing will be done to give effect to it. It will brood and maintain the same thoughts, and only resist interference. It will become incapable of willing anything else, indolent, and indifferent to everything around it. It will lose hope and courage. Yet if this is the general tendency, the stronger the love, the more energetic and courageous the natural temper, the more will these counteract the depressing effect. But in weak characters, and wherever its full effects are accomplished, the 'heart' or 'spirit' is broken. We shall now attempt to formulate the general law of this type of sorrow: (76) In proportion to the degree and frequency with which the impulse of Sorrow has been crushed or suffered frustration, are energy, self-control, and courage destroyed, as well as the susceptibility to all stimulating emotions, as anger, hope, and confidence. We may take the following descriptions from literature as evidence of this Law. Tourgueneff in "L'Abandonnée gives a girl's description of herself after abandonment by her lover:-" Moi je restais indifférente à tout. Une insensibilité complète me gagna; mon propre sort ne m'inspirait plus aucun intérêt. Me rappeler, penser à lui, c'était là ma seule occupation, ma joie unique. . . . Il s'écoula deux ans, trois ans . . . six, sept ans passèrent, le temps s'enfuyait. Indifférente je le regardais s'enfuir, et la vie avec lui." 1 2 Dostoievsky in "L'Esprit souterrain " has also described the effect of the frustration of sexual love on a weak but ardent character:-" Cette mélancolique aventure d'un amour sans espoir et jamais guéri devait avoir sur le caractère d'Ordinov une triste influence. Ce cœur ardent, cette âme de poète furent aigris et stérilisés ; il vécut inutile aux autres, insupportable à lui-même." But with him the depressing effect was not so complete. He was " embittered," and therefore still able to feel anger. He did not, like the other, live in the tender memory and ideal of his love; but in the preoccupations of his self-love. Grief for him was taken as suffering; and he did not accept this suffering; but sought relief from it in sensual indulgences. What is more remarkable, he took delight in his own degradation :-" Je goûtais de secrètes délices, monstrueuses et viles, à songer en rentrant dans mon coin par une de ces nuits pétersbourgeoises . . . que . . . aujourd'hui encore j'avais fait une action honteuse, et que ce qui était fait était irréparable, et à aigrir mes remords. et à me suer l'esprit et à irriter ma plaie à tel point que ma douleur se transformait en une sorte d'ignoble plaisir maudit, mais réel et tangible. . . le plaisir consistait justement en une intense conscience de la dégradation." Thus he had not only surrendered the ideals of his love, but, through spite or hatred, sought to make himself the opposite of what those ideals would have had him be. Now it is clear that Sorrow could neither have a destructive 1 'Étranges Histoires': 'L'Abandonnée.' 3 Ibid. or debasing effect on character so general, nor could break the 'spirit' or 'heart,' if its influence were limited to the sentiment of which it is a part. If we have lost one object of love, there are others still left us. Why do they no longer console us? 3. Of the Tendency of Sorrow to Destroy the Value set upon the Objects of other Sentiments and to Increase the Value set on its own. It may seem strange at first sight that the emotion of one sentiment should have such a widespread influence on the emotional life of other systems, yet no fact is more conspicuous, or more amply illustrated in literature, than that sorrow tends to diminish and destroy the value which other sentiments attach to their objects. This is often referred to in metaphorical terms. The earth seems to be darkened.' We can see nothing cheerful around us; we dress in black, and sit in darkened rooms. Occupations that we had formerly pursued with zest lose their interest, or inspire us with repugnance. These marked changes may only be manifested in great sorrows; but the tendency, though often counteracted, is present in all. Augustine thus describes his sorrow in youth at the death of a beloved companion : this grief my heart was utterly darkened, and whatever I beheld was death. My native country was a torment to me, and my father's house a strange unhappiness; and whatever I had shared with him, wanting him, became a distracting torture. Mine eyes sought him everywhere . . . and I hated all places for that they had not him . . . I became a great riddle to myself." 1 Werther the student and lover of nature writes: "I am unable to work, I cannot think. I have no longer any feeling for the beauties of nature, and books are distasteful to me." 2 Tennyson compares his sorrow at the loss of his friend to that of a lover: "A happy lover who has come To look on her that loves him well, Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell, 14 Confessions,' B. iv. 9. Goethe,' The Sorrows of Werther,' Aug. 22. |