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Henry Sidgwick- Eye of the Universe

Page 84

by Bart Schultz

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  Henry Sidgwick: Eye of the Universe

  no sensation of touch. I thought that I was near death; when, suddenly, my soul

  became aware of God, who was manifestly dealing with me, handling me, so to

  speak, in an intense personal present reality. I felt Him streaming in like light upon me, and heard Him saying in no language, but as hands touch hands and communicate sensation, ‘I led you, I guided you; you will never sin, and weep, and wail in madness any more; for, now, you have seen Me.’ My whole consciousness seemed

  brought into one point of absolute conviction; the independence of my mind from

  my body was proved by the phenomena of this acute sensibility to spiritual facts,

  this utter deadness of the senses; Life and Death seemed mere names, for what was

  there then but my soul and God, two indestructible existences in close relation. I

  could reason a little, to this extent that I said; ‘Some have said they were convinced by miracles and spirit-rapping, but my conviction is a real new sense.’ I also felt

  God saying, ‘I have suffered you to feel sin and madness, to ache and be abandoned,

  in order that now you might know and gladly greet Me. Did you think the an-

  guish of the last few days and this experience you are undergoing were fortuitous

  coincidences?’ Then as I gradually awoke from the influence of the anaesthetics,

  the old sense of my relation to the world began to return, the new sense of my

  relation to God began to fade. I suddenly leapt to my feet on the chair where I was

  sitting, and shrieked out, ‘It is too horrible, it is too horrible, it is too horrible,’

  meaning that I could not bear this disillusionment. Then I flung myself on the

  ground, and at last awoke covered with blood, calling to the two surgeons (who

  were frightened), ‘Why did you not kill me? Why would you not let me die?’ Only

  think of it. To have felt for that long dateless ecstasy of vision the very God, in all purity and tenderness and truth and absolute love, and then to find that I had after

  all had no revelation, but that I had been tricked by the abnormal excitement of my

  brain.

  Yet, this question remains, Is it possible that the inner sense of reality which

  succeeded, when my flesh was dead to impressions from without, to the ordinary

  sense of physical relations, was not a delusion but an actual experience? Is it

  possible that I, in that moment, felt what some of the saints have said they always

  felt, the undemonstrable but irrefragable certainty of God?

  Symonds appeared to be “knocked flat,” at least for a time. He wrote

  to Dakyns a little later that the

  vision I had in London of God still haunts me. It was not all a dream. ‘Behind the

  veil’ has an odd meaning for me now; & yet I stick to your idea of writing out a

  series of memories. What remains to us upon this shore of oblivion but to place

  some waifs & strays of our dying selves – some portion of that which made us be –

  upon ledges above the surf & spray? Because such a work is introspective it has

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  not therefore no value, nay rather it has therefore its value. Up then! Woo beauty,

  while yet you may. Love – for Art is Love – while you still can.

  But this was indeed a felt experience. As he later explained to Green,

  in June of :

  I always feel that theological philosophy starts with a petitio principii about God, and that the subjective proof to which you so eloquently appeal is unsatisfactory

  to the very people who require to be convinced – those who have it not. . . . Why Nature should not be without a thinking subject . . . I could never comprehend. I am so obtuse that I cannot get over the reflection of what Nature must have been

  before man appeared, and is where man is not. That the spirit of man is no part

  of what we call nature may be conceded arg.gr. without the corollary that God is to be sought in it, or that it is the creative principle of the Universe. It is just this latter position: viz. that humanity is Deity in the sense of effectuating Nature by

  its thought, which seems to me to divide you, and those who think with you, from

  those who, however they feel the Divine in the Universe, do not venture to assert

  its cognisability.

  Thus, Symonds’s vision of God was the type of unphilosophized, raw,

  paranormal psychological experience that James and Sidgwick, at least,

  found so suggestive and promising. Symonds the nonphilosopher, rather

  than Green the philosopher, was the one raising the right question – and

  this at the very time that Sidgwick was completing the Methods. And

  this sensibility, of tenuous dying selves falling before a greater reality,

  was stamped all over Many Moods, particularly the parts that Sidgwick

  admired. As ever, Sidgwick was positively addicted to “psychological ex-

  periments.” However, there is no evidence that he shared Symonds’s habit

  of using sleep-inducing drugs, and even such recreational items as hashish,

  to stretch his own consciousness in such ways.

  Yet with the retreat to Davos and the Alps, Symonds’s consciousness

  was to take a new turn. Already, with his academic hopes smashed and his

  happy experience with soldier love, he was mentally very much beyond

  Many Moods and the forms of dipsychia that England had fostered in him.

  The last of his peccant pamphlets, Rhaetica, was perhaps the boldest of

  all. About this, Sidgwick was feeling none too cooperative. As Symonds

  related to Dakyns, in June of :

  I found here yesterday an awful letter from H. Sidg about Rhaetica. If I were not

  so ill & hopeless & impervious, it would have crushed me. But as it is, I am bored

  & less sanguine than before.

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  The gist is that I am on the brink of a precipice, on the verge of losing my

  reputation & bringing disgrace on Henry & you & all who call me friend. Rhaetica, if smelt out by a Critic, would precipitate me altogether.

  I think I ought to ask you, under these conditions, to destroy the peccant

  pamphlet, together perhaps with all my confounded verse in print or out of it. I

  am sure they are not as well worth keeping as they seem to be perilous, & to you

  they must only now be very ancient bores – pathetic perhaps & a little humorous,

  if we think about them in the past. If you don’t wish to burn them, make a packet

  of the things addressed to me, to be consigned by your executors or burned unseen

  if I am dead first.

  I think this is due to Henry, who is really in a state.

  Among other things, Rhaetica included a poem “To H. F. B.” and

  another called “What Might Have Been,” with the lines “The love we

  might have known, if we / Had turned this way instead of that; / The

  lips we might have kissed, which he / For whom they parted, pouted at!”

  It is uncertain just when this poem
was penned, but it carries a peculiar

  resonance with a certain turn of phrase common to Symonds, Dakyns,

  and Sidgwick. In a letter of uncertain date, but surely from sometime in

  , just around the time of his wedding, Dakyns had in his singular way

  challenged Sidgwick:

  I saw one letter (the last?) from you to Johnnie about the various scepticisms, & your right to comprehend them. It was a ray of light – (to continue the ancient

  simile of me regarding you by a disciple of K’ung fou tsze regards the earth or sun

  without need of speech resting under or upon the general embrace – but now if the

  sun be dark, or earth thorny, then the disciple no more believes in the existence of

  benign unseen powers). So I liked one ray. But you don’t comprehend vermicular

  scepticism I think & rejoice to think. It perhaps isn’t worth even classification e fango é mondo. (CWC)

  Dakyns apparently shared Symonds’s shrewd assessment of the limits of

  Sidgwick’s sympathy and skepticism, as suggested by the brilliant phrasing

  “vermicular scepticism.”

  In a letter just prior to this, carrying the salutation “Dear Friend” and

  written to accept the role of trustee for Dakyns’s marriage settlement,

  Sidgwick had written, in a passage carefully abridged in the Memoir:

  As for our past – you do not think that I have any such thoughts as you suggest.

  I feel often as unrelated and unadapted to my universe as man can feel: except

  on the one side of friendship: and there, in my deepest gloom all seems strangely

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  good: and you among the best. And if you might have been more – I know nothing

  of Might-have-been, and suspect too that if I did enquire, the fault would turn

  out to be my own.

  But ‘golden news’ expect none unless I light perchance on the Secret of the

  Universe, in which case I will let you know. (CWC)

  Coincidence? What “Might-have-been” but for Henry’s fault?

  At any rate, it is not at all surprising that by the time of Rhaetica,

  Sidgwick should worry about any potential scandal that might erupt over

  Symonds and his poetry. Sidgwick is married, building an academic career

  (in part as an ethicist), and sheparding Newnham College into existence,

  along with his psychical research. And he is of course generally known

  as one of Symonds’s friends and supporters, who sought to place him in

  a professorship at Oxford. In short, he has a great deal to lose, should

  Symonds, safely off in Davos, provide Tyrwhitt and his ilk the ammuni-

  tion to mount another attack on the pagans and their circle. The whole

  cause of university reform, of reducing the influence of religion in aca-

  demics, could suffer immeasurable damage if the academic liberals could

  be linked to the Platonic revival and then to a paganism in sharp conflict

  with commonsense morality. Sidgwick knew full well precisely how stupid

  conservative religious opinion could be in general, and particularly when

  it came to anything having to do with sex. His “new casuistry,” in con-

  nection with Symonds’s coming out, is perfectly consistent with his old

  casuistry, in connection with his resignation, despite the different resul-

  tant actions – if uncertain, remain silent, and everything depends on just

  what the public is ripe for. Moral rigorism was subject to consequentialist

  reckoning. And now, Sidgwick was Praelector of Moral and Political

  Philosophy, and an aspirant to the Knightbridge Professorship.

  What happens after his “awful letter”? Once again, there is no “rift

  in the lute.” To the contrary, Symonds repairs to Davos permanently;

  Sidgwick is his frequent visitor; and to compensate for the lack of per-

  sonal contact, they decide on an exchange of their private confidential

  journals, kept intermittently from  to . Rhaetica never sees the

  light of day – in its original, naked, pamphlet version – and Symonds is

  increasingly steered, by Sidgwick and others, to channel his candor into

  a course bearing the stamp of scientific legitimacy – as in his work with

  Havelock Ellis. It was all just too shrewd. Plainly, if anyone deserves the

  credit – or blame – for keeping Symonds from something like the scandal

  that engulfed Oscar Wilde, it was his very well-connected friend Sidgwick,

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  Henry Sidgwick: Eye of the Universe

  who, however deficient in vermicular skepticism, had a much better feel

  for the deficiences of commonsense morality.

  Sidgwick received a great deal in return. His invalid, sexually active,

  God-feeling friend would shepard him into and out of another very real

  crisis.

  VII. Vermicular Skepticism

  Weaving throughout all these encounters between Sidgwick and Symonds,

  Noel and Dakyns, one finds, in slightly altered, more immediate, personal-

  ized form, so many of the very same conflicts informing Sidgwick’s better

  known philosophical work: the haziness of practical ethics, the claims of

  egoism, the problem of self-sacrifice, the mystery of the true self, the im-

  portance of immortality, the worries about hypocrisy, and so on and on.

  Indeed, the very language of Sidgwick’s religious and philosophical strug-

  gles was rife with allusions to and appropriations of the pregnant poetry

  of Symonds. And nowhere, outside of this nexus, is it more striking just

  how esoteric much of Sidgwick’s moral thinking was. Sidgwick wanted

  Symonds’s Whitmania relegated to the enlightened future rather than the

  bigoted present.

  But ultimately, what was so remarkable to Sidgwick about the Symonds

  “psychological experiment” was the paradoxical way in which Symonds’s

  ongoing invalidism effectively rendered him a case study in attitudes to-

  ward death – the great test for any working philosophy. For all of Symonds’s

  envy of Sidgwick’s robustness and strength, he was very perceptive in chal-

  lenging Sidgwick’s estimate of his own sympathetic powers, and, ironically

  enough, of the normality of the human longing for personal immortality.

  Here, after all, was someone who at many points counted his life by days or

  months rather than by years – particularly after , when the graveness

  of his consumptive condition was impressed upon him by various eminent

  physicians, leading to his sojourn to Davos. How was Sidgwick supposed

  to lecture him about attitudes toward death?

  Recall how, in his early Apostolic days, some such issues had figured

  in that paper for the “Wise and the Good” in which Sidgwick considered

  whether prayer would “be a universal function of the ideal humanity” and

  challenged his religious sentiments with an appreciation of “a rather rare

&
nbsp; and very admirable class of men: men that are in mind what the models

  of the Greek Statues were in body, healthy, finely moulded, well nerved,

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  symmetrical.” His defense of prayer invoked the “one trial that may befall

  the most symmetrical – old age which is rarely borne as well as youth by

  the non-religious.” Impending death was the final test of unbelief. To be

  sure, religion was “not yet quite fitted to become the crown of glory of a

  symmetrical nature.” But he looks “forward to a type of man combining

  the highest pagan with highest medieval excellences” – that is, with a much

  greater capacity for sympathy and benevolence.” (CWC) Like Symonds,

  Sidgwick was working on a new religion, a new synthesis. And his inter-

  est in the “symmetrical people” was evidently lifelong: he addressed the

  very same issue at a meeting of the Synthetic Society held on May ,

   – the last such philosophical meeting (this one private) that he would

  attend.

  But Symonds increasingly put the lie to the claim that ill health or

  an unfavorable constitution or the confrontation with death could not be

  borne without the comfort of belief in personal immortality, theistic if not

  orthodox. Paradoxically enough, despite (or because of ) his invalidism,

  Symonds lived and breathed the ideal of symmetry – in the Greeks, in

  Goethe, in Whitman. By contrast, Sidgwick’s reconciliation project ap-

  pears asymmetrical and weak, more modern and less Hellenistic, more

  distrusting of the deeper self.

  The in-built tensions in their friendship come to a head in the s,

  when Sidgwick finds himself in another crisis, a crisis that in a great

  many respects was the old one over subscription revived. In  and

  , Sidgwick finds all his familiar bothers coming back to haunt him.

  Although he has won many honors, he has also, like Symonds, suffered

  woe upon woe – the death of various old friends; being passed over for the

  mastership of Trinity; frustration with the economy, academic politics,

 

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