Eugenics and other evils by G. K. Chesterton. - HTML preview

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CHAPTER IV

THE LUNATIC AND THE LAW

The modern evil, we have said, greatly turns on this: that people do not see that the exception proves the rule. Thus it

may or may not be right to kill a murderer; but it can only conceivably be right to kill a murderer because it is wrong to kill

a man. If the hangman, having got his hand in, proceeded to hang friends and relatives to his taste and fancy, he would

(intellectually) unhang the first man, though the first man might not think so. Or thus again, if you say an insane man is

irresponsible, you imply that a sane man is responsible. He is responsible for the insane man. And the attempt of the

Eugenists and other fatalists to treat all men as irresponsible is the largest and flattest folly in philosophy. The Eugenist

has to treat everybody, including himself, as an exception to a rule that isn’t there.

The Eugenists, as a first move, have extended the frontiers of the lunatic asylum: let us take this as our definite starting

point, and ask ourselves what lunacy is, and what is its fundamental relation to human society. Now that raw juvenile

scepticism that clogs all thought with catchwords may often be heard to remark that the mad are only the minority, the

sane only the majority. There is a neat exactitude about such people’s nonsense; they seem to miss the point by magic.

The mad are not a minority because they are not a corporate body; and that is what their madness means. The sane are

not a majority; they are mankind. And mankind (as its name would seem to imply) is a kind, not a degree. In so far as the

lunatic differs, he differs from all minorities and majorities in kind. The madman who thinks he is a knife cannot go into

partnership with the other who thinks he is a fork. There is no trysting place outside reason; there is no inn on those wild

roads that are beyond the world.

The madman is not he that defies the world. The saint, the criminal, the martyr, the cynic, the nihilist may all defy the

world quite sanely. And even if such fanatics would destroy the world, the world owes them a strictly fair trial according to

proof and public law. But the madman is not the man who defies the world; he is the man who denies it. Suppose we are

all standing round a field and looking at a tree in the middle of it. It is perfectly true that we all see it (as the decadents

say) in infinitely different aspects: that is not the point; the point is that we all say it is a tree. Suppose, if you will, that we

are all poets, which seems improbable; so that each of us could turn his aspect into a vivid image distinct from a tree.

Suppose one says it looks like a green cloud and another like a green fountain, and a third like a green dragon and the

fourth like a green cheese. The fact remains: that they all say it looks like these things. It is a tree. Nor are any of the

poets in the least mad because of any opinions they may form, however frenzied, about the functions or future of the

tree. A conservative poet may wish to clip the tree; a revolutionary poet may wish to burn it. An optimist poet may want to

make it a Christmas tree and hang candles on it. A pessimist poet may want to hang himself on it. None of these are

mad, because they are all talking about the same thing. But there is another man who is talking horribly about something

else. There is a monstrous exception to mankind. Why he is so we know not; a new theory says it is heredity; an older

theory says it is devils. But in any case, the spirit of it is the spirit that denies, the spirit that really denies realities. This is

the man who looks at the tree and does not say it looks like a lion, but says that it is a lamp–post.

I do not mean that all mad delusions are as concrete as this, though some are more concrete. Believing your own body

is glass is a more daring denial of reality than believing a tree is a glass lamp at the top of a pole. But all true delusions

have in them this unalterable assertion—that what is not is. The difference between us and the maniac is not about how

things look or how things ought to look, but about what they self–evidently are. The lunatic does not say that he ought to

be King; Perkin Warbeck might say that. He says he is King. The lunatic does not say he is as wise as Shakespeare;

Bernard Shaw might say that. The lunatic says he is Shakespeare. The lunatic does not say he is divine in the same

sense as Christ; Mr. R.J. Campbell would say that. The lunatic says he is Christ. In all cases the difference is a

difference about what is there; not a difference touching what should be done about it.

For this reason, and for this alone, the lunatic is outside public law. This is the abysmal difference between him and the

criminal. The criminal admits the facts, and therefore permits us to appeal to the facts. We can so arrange the facts

around him that he may really understand that agreement is in his own interests. We can say to him, "Do not steal apples

from this tree, or we will hang you on that tree." But if the man really thinks one tree is a lamp–post and the other tree a

Trafalgar Square fountain, we simply cannot treat with him at all. It is obviously useless to say, "Do not steal apples from

this lamp–post, or I will hang you on that fountain." If a man denies the facts, there is no answer but to lock him up. He

cannot speak our language: not that varying verbal language which often misses fire even with us, but that enormous

alphabet of sun and moon and green grass and blue sky in which alone we meet, and by which alone we can signal to

each other. That unique man of genius, George Macdonald, described in one of his weird stories two systems of space

co–incident; so that where I knew there was a piano standing in a drawing–room you knew there was a rose–bush

growing in a garden. Something of this sort is in small or great affairs the matter with the madman. He cannot have a

vote, because he is the citizen of another country. He is a foreigner. Nay, he is an invader and an enemy; for the city he

lives in has been super–imposed on ours.

Now these two things are primarily to be noted in his case. First, that we can only condemn him to a general doom,

because we only know his general nature. All criminals, who do particular things for particular reasons (things and

reasons which, however criminal, are always comprehensible), have been more and more tried for such separate actions

under separate and suitable laws ever since Europe began to become a civilisation—and until the rare and recent re–

incursions of barbarism in such things as the Indeterminate Sentence. Of that I shall speak later; it is enough for this

argument to point out the plain facts. It is the plain fact that every savage, every sultan, every outlawed baron, every

brigand–chief has always used this instrument of the Indeterminate Sentence, which has been recently offered us as

something highly scientific and humane. All these people, in short, being barbarians, have always kept their captives

captive until they (the barbarians) chose to think the captives were in a fit frame of mind to come out. It is also the plain

fact that all that has been called civilisation or progress, justice or liberty, for nearly three thousand years, has had the

general direction of treating even the captive as a free man, in so far as some clear case of some defined crime had to

be shown against him. All law has meant allowing the criminal, within some limits or other, to argue with the law: as Job

was allowed, or rather challenged, to argue with God. But the criminal is, among civilised men, tried by one law for one

crime for a perfectly simple reason: that the motive of the crime, like the meaning of the law, is conceivable to the

common intelligence. A man is punished specially as a burglar, and not generally as a bad man, because a man may be

a burglar and in many other respects not be a bad man. The act of burglary is punishable because it is intelligible. But

when acts are unintelligible, we can only refer them to a general untrustworthiness, and guard against them by a general

restraint. If a man breaks into a house to get a piece of bread, we can appeal to his reason in various ways. We can

hang him for housebreaking; or again (as has occurred to some daring thinkers) we can give him a piece of bread. But if

he breaks in, let us say, to steal the parings of other people’s finger nails, then we are in a difficulty: we cannot imagine

what he is going to do with them, and therefore cannot easily imagine what we are going to do with him. If a villain comes

in, in cloak and mask, and puts a little arsenic in the soup, we can collar him and say to him distinctly, "You are guilty of

Murder; and I will now consult the code of tribal law, under which we live, to see if this practice is not forbidden." But if a

man in the same cloak and mask is found at midnight putting a little soda–water in the soup, what can we say? Our

charge necessarily becomes a more general one. We can only observe, with a moderation almost amounting to

weakness, "You seem to be the sort of person who will do this sort of thing." And then we can lock him up. The principle

of the indeterminate sentence is the creation of the indeterminate mind. It does apply to the incomprehensible creature,

the lunatic. And it applies to nobody else.

The second thing to be noted is this: that it is only by the unanimity of sane men that we can condemn this man as

utterly separate. If he says a tree is a lamp–post he is mad; but only because all other men say it is a tree. If some men

thought it was a tree with a lamp on it, and others thought it was a lamp–post wreathed with branches and vegetation,

then it would be a matter of opinion and degree; and he would not be mad, but merely extreme. Certainly he would not be

mad if nobody but a botanist could see it was a tree. Certainly his enemies might be madder than he, if nobody but a

lamplighter could see it was not a lamp–post. And similarly a man is not imbecile if only a Eugenist thinks so. The

question then raised would not be his sanity, but the sanity of one botanist or one lamplighter or one Eugenist. That

which can condemn the abnormally foolish is not the abnormally clever, which is obviously a matter in dispute. That

which can condemn the abnormally foolish is the normally foolish. It is when he begins to say and do things that even

stupid people do not say or do, that we have a right to treat him as the exception and not the rule. It is only because we

none of us profess to be anything more than man that we have authority to treat him as something less.

Now the first principle behind Eugenics becomes plain enough. It is the proposal that somebody or something should

criticise men with the same superiority with which men criticise madmen. It might exercise this right with great moderation;

but I am not here talking about the exercise, but about the right. Its claim certainly is to bring all human life under the

Lunacy Laws.

Now this is the first weakness in the case of the Eugenists: that they cannot define who is to control whom; they cannot

say by what authority they do these things. They cannot see the exception is different from the rule—even when it is

misrule, even when it is an unruly rule. The sound sense in the old Lunacy Law was this: that you cannot deny that a

man is a citizen until you are practically prepared to deny that he is a man. Men, and only men, can be the judges of

whether he is a man. But any private club of prigs can be judges of whether he ought to be a citizen. When once we step

down from that tall and splintered peak of pure insanity we step on to a tableland where one man is not so widely

different from another. Outside the exception, what we find is the average. And the practical, legal shape of the quarrel is

this: that unless the normal men have the right to expel the abnormal, what particular sort of abnormal men have the right

to expel the normal men? If sanity is not good enough, what is there that is saner than sanity?

Without any grip of the notion of a rule and an exception, the general idea of judging people’s heredity breaks down

and is useless. For this reason: that if everything is the result of a doubtful heredity, the judgment itself is the result of a

doubtful heredity also. Let it judge not that it be not judged. Eugenists, strange to say, have fathers and mothers like

other people; and our opinion about their fathers and mothers is worth exactly as much as their opinions about ours.

None of the parents were lunatics, and the rest is mere likes and dislikes. Suppose Dr. Saleeby had gone up to Byron

and said, "My lord, I perceive you have a club–foot and inordinate passions: such are the hereditary results of a

profligate soldier marrying a hot–tempered woman." The poet might logically reply (with characteristic lucidity and

impropriety), "Sir, I perceive you have a confused mind and an unphilosophic theory about other people’s love affairs.

Such are the hereditary delusions bred by a Syrian doctor marrying a Quaker lady from York." Suppose Dr. Karl Pearson

had said to Shelley, "From what I see of your temperament, you are running great risks in forming a connection with the

daughter of a fanatic and eccentric like Godwin." Shelley would be employing the strict rationalism of the older and

stronger free thinkers, if he answered, "From what I observe of your mind, you are rushing on destruction in marrying the

great–niece of an old corpse of a courtier and dilettante like Samuel Rogers." It is only opinion for opinion. Nobody can

pretend that either Mary Godwin or Samuel Rogers was mad; and the general view a man may hold about the

healthiness of inheriting their blood or type is simply the same sort of general view by which men do marry for love or

liking. There is no reason to suppose that Dr. Karl Pearson is any better judge of a bridegroom than the bridegroom is of

a bride.

An objection may be anticipated here, but it is very easily answered. It may be said that we do, in fact, call in medical

specialists to settle whether a man is mad; and that these specialists go by technical and even secret tests that cannot

be known to the mass of men. It is obvious that this is true; it is equally obvious that it does not affect our argument.

When we ask the doctor whether our grandfather is going mad, we still mean mad by our own common human definition.

We mean, is he going to be a certain sort of person whom all men recognise when once he exists. That certain

specialists can detect the approach of him, before he exists, does not alter the fact that it is of the practical and popular

madman that we are talking, and of him alone. The doctor merely sees a certain fact potentially in the future, while we,

with less information, can only see it in the present; but his fact is our fact and everybody’s fact, or we should not bother

about it at all. Here is no question of the doctor bringing an entirely new sort of person under coercion, as in the Feeble–

Minded Bill. The doctor can say, "Tobacco is death to you," because the dislike of death can be taken for granted, being

a highly democratic institution; and it is the same with the dislike of the indubitable exception called madness. The doctor

can say, "Jones has that twitch in the nerves, and he may burn down the house." But it is not the medical detail we fear,

but the moral upshot. We should say, "Let him twitch, as long as he doesn’t burn down the house." The doctor may say,

"He has that look in the eyes, and he may take the hatchet and brain you all." But we do not object to the look in the eyes

as such; we object to consequences which, once come, we should all call insane if there were no doctors in the world.

We should say, "Let him look how he likes; as long as he does not look for the hatchet."

Now, that specialists are valuable for this particular and practical purpose, of predicting the approach of enormous and

admitted human calamities, nobody but a fool would deny. But that does not bring us one inch nearer to allowing them

the right to define what is a calamity; or to call things calamities which common sense does not call calamities. We call in

the doctor to save us from death; and, death being admittedly an evil, he has the right to administer the queerest and

most recondite pill which he may think is a cure for all such menaces of death. He has not the right to administer death,

as the cure for all human ills. And as he has no moral authority to enforce a new conception of happiness, so he has no

moral authority to enforce a new conception of sanity. He may know I am going mad; for madness is an isolated thing like

leprosy; and I know nothing about leprosy. But if he merely thinks my mind is weak, I may happen to think the same of

his. I often do.

In short, unless pilots are to be permitted to ram ships on to the rocks and then say that heaven is the only true

harbour; unless judges are to be allowed to let murderers loose, and explain afterwards that the murder had done good

on the whole; unless soldiers are to be allowed to lose battles and then point out that true glory is to be found in the

valley of humiliation; unless cashiers are to rob a bank in order to give it an advertisement; or dentists to torture people to

give them a contrast to their comforts; unless we are prepared to let loose all these private fancies against the public and

accepted meaning of life or safety or prosperity or pleasure—then it is as plain as Punch’s nose that no scientific man

must be allowed to meddle with the public definition of madness. We call him in to tell us where it is or when it is. We

could not do so, if we had not ourselves settled what it is.

As I wish to confine myself in this chapter to the primary point of the plain existence of sanity and insanity, I will not be

led along any of the attractive paths that open here. I shall endeavour to deal with them in the next chapter. Here I

confine myself to a sort of summary. Suppose a man’s throat has been cut, quite swiftly and suddenly, with a table knife,

at a small table where we sit. The whole of civil law rests on the supposition that we are witnesses; that we saw it; and if

we do not know about it, who does? Now suppose all the witnesses fall into a quarrel about degrees of eyesight.

Suppose one says he had brought his reading–glasses instead of his usual glasses; and therefore did not see the man

fall across the table and cover it with blood. Suppose another says he could not be certain it was blood, because a slight

colour–blindness was hereditary in his family. Suppose a third says he cannot swear to the uplifted knife, because his

oculist tells him he is astigmatic, and vertical lines do not affect him as do horizontal lines. Suppose another says that

dots have often danced before his eyes in very fantastic combinations, many of which were very like one gentleman

cutting another gentleman’s throat at dinner. All these things refer to real experiences. There is such a thing as myopia;

there is such a thing as colour–blindness; there is such a thing as astigmatism; there is such a thing as shifting shapes

swimming before the eyes. But what should we think of a whole dinner party that could give nothing except these highly

scientific explanations when found in company with a corpse? I imagine there are only two things we could think: either

that they were all drunk, or they were all murderers.

And yet there is an exception. If there were one man at table who was admittedly blind, should we not give him the

benefit of the doubt? Should we not honestly feel that he was the exception that proved the rule? The very fact that he

could not have seen would remind us that the other men must have seen. The very fact that he had no eyes must remind

us of eyes. A man can be blind; a man can be dead; a man can be mad. But the comparison is necessarily weak, after

all. For it is the essence of madness to be unlike anything else in the world: which is perhaps why so many men wiser

than we have traced it to another.

Lastly, the literal maniac is different from all other persons in dispute in this vital respect: that he is the only person

whom we can, with a final lucidity, declare that we do not want. He is almost always miserable himself, and he always

makes others miserable. But this is not so with the mere invalid. The Eugenists would probably answer all my examples

by taking the case of marrying into a family with consumption (or some such disease which they are fairly sure is

hereditary) and asking whether such cases at least are not clear cases for a Eugenic intervention. Permit me to point out

to them that they once more make a confusion of thought. The sickness or soundness of a consumptive may be a clear

and calculable matter. The happiness or unhappiness of a consumptive is quite another matter, and is not calculable at

all. What is the good of telling people that if they marry for love, they may be punished by being the parents of Keats or

the parents of Stevenson? Keats died young; but he had more pleasure in a minute than a Eugenist gets in a month.

Stevenson had lung–trouble; and it may, for all I know, have been perceptible to the Eugenic eye even a generation

before. But who would perform that illegal operation: the stopping of Stevenson? Intercepting a letter bursting with good

news, confiscating a hamper full of presents and prizes, pouring torrents of intoxicating wine into the sea, all this is a faint

approximation for the Eugenic inaction of the ancestors of Stevenson. This, however, is not the essential point; with

Stevenson it is not merely a case of the pleasure we get, but of the pleasure he got. If he had died without writing a line,

he would have had more red–hot joy than is given to most men. Shall I say of him, to whom I owe so much, let the day

perish wherein he was born? Shall I pray that the stars of the twilight thereof be dark and it be not numbered among the

days of the year, because it shut not up the doors of his mother’s womb? I respectfully decline; like Job, I will put my

hand upon my mouth.