in this business of daily living, of ordinary usage of the machine in hourly intercourse, there occurs sometimes a phenomenon which is the cause of a great deal of trouble, and the result of a very ill-tended machine. it is a phenomenon impossible to ignore, and yet, so shameful is it, so degrading, so shocking, so miserable, that i hesitate to mention it. for one class of reader is certain to ridicule me, loftily saying: 'one really doesn't expect to find this sort of thing in print nowadays!' and another class of reader is certain to get angry. nevertheless, as one of my main objects in the present book is to discuss matters which 'people don't talk about,' i shall discuss this matter. but my diffidence in doing so is such that i must approach it deviously, describing it first by means of a figure.
imagine that, looking at a man's house, you suddenly perceive it to be on fire. the flame is scarcely perceptible. you could put it out if you had a free hand. but you have not got a free hand. it is his house, not yours. he may or may not know that his house is burning. you are aware, by experience, however, that if you directed his attention to the flame, the effect of your warning would be exceedingly singular, almost incredible. for the effect would be that he would instantly begin to strike matches, pour on petroleum, and fan the flame, violently resenting interference. therefore you can only stand and watch, hoping that he will notice the flames before they are beyond control, and extinguish them. the probability is, however, that he will notice the flames too late. and powerless to avert disaster, you are condemned, therefore, to watch the damage of valuable property. the flames leap higher and higher, and they do not die down till they have burned themselves out. you avert your gaze from the spectacle, and until you are gone the owner of the house pretends that nothing has occurred. when alone he curses himself for his carelessness.
the foregoing is meant to be a description of what happens when a man passes through the incendiary experience known as 'losing his temper.' (there! the cat of my chapter is out of the bag!) a man who has lost his temper is simply being 'burnt out.' his constitutes one of the most curious and (for everybody) humiliating spectacles that life offers. it is an insurrection, a boiling over, a sweeping storm. dignity, common sense, justice are shrivelled up and destroyed. anarchy reigns. the devil has broken his chain. instinct is stamping on the face of reason. and in that man civilisation has temporarily receded millions of years. of course, the thing amounts to a nervous disease, and i think it is almost universal. you at once protest that you never lose your temper—haven't lost your temper for ages! but do you not mean that you have not smashed furniture for ages? these fires are of varying intensities. some of them burn very dully. yet they burn. one man loses his temper; another is merely 'ruffled.' but the event is the same in kind. when you are 'ruffled,' when you are conscious of a resentful vibration that surprises all your being, when your voice changes, when you notice a change in the demeanour of your companion, who sees that he has 'touched a tender point,' you may not go to the length of smashing furniture, but you have had a fire, and your dignity is damaged. you admit it to yourself afterwards. i am sure you know what i mean. and i am nearly sure that you, with your courageous candour, will admit that from time to time you suffer from these mysterious 'fires.'
'temper,' one of the plagues of human society, is generally held to be incurable, save by the vague process of exercising self-control—a process which seldom has any beneficial results. it is regarded now as smallpox used to be regarded—as a visitation of providence, which must be borne. but i do not hold it to be incurable. i am convinced that it is permanently curable. and its eminent importance as a nuisance to mankind at large deserves, i think, that it should receive particular attention. anyhow, i am strongly against the visitation of providence theory, as being unscientific, primitive, and conducive to unashamed laissez-aller. a man can be master in his own house. if he cannot be master by simple force of will, he can be master by ruse and wile. i would employ cleverness to maintain the throne of reason when it is likely to be upset in the mind by one of these devastating and disgraceful insurrections of brute instinct.
it is useless for a man in the habit of losing or mislaying his temper to argue with himself that such a proceeding is folly, that it serves no end, and does nothing but harm. it is useless for him to argue that in allowing his temper to stray he is probably guilty of cruelty, and certainly guilty of injustice to those persons who are forced to witness the loss. it is useless for him to argue that a man of uncertain temper in a house is like a man who goes about a house with a loaded revolver sticking from his pocket, and that all considerations of fairness and reason have to be subordinated in that house to the fear of the revolver, and that such peace as is maintained in that house is often a shameful and an unjust peace. these arguments will not be strong enough to prevail against one of the most powerful and capricious of all habits. this habit must be met and conquered (and it can be!) by an even more powerful quality in the human mind; i mean the universal human horror of looking ridiculous. the man who loses his temper often thinks he is doing something rather fine and majestic. on the contrary, so far is this from being the fact, he is merely making an ass of himself. he is merely parading himself as an undignified fool, as that supremely contemptible figure—a grown-up baby. he may intimidate a feeble companion by his raging, or by the dark sullenness of a more subdued flame, but in the heart of even the weakest companion is a bedrock feeling of contempt for him. the way in which a man of uncertain temper is treated by his friends proves that they despise him, for they do not treat him as a reasonable being. how should they treat him as a reasonable being when the tenure of his reason is so insecure? and if only he could hear what is said of him behind his back!...
the invalid can cure himself by teaching his brain the habit of dwelling upon his extreme fatuity. let him concentrate regularly, with intense fixation, upon the ideas: 'when i lose my temper, when i get ruffled, when that mysterious vibration runs through me, i am making a donkey of myself, a donkey, and a donkey! you understand, a preposterous donkey! i am behaving like a great baby. i look a fool. i am a spectacle bereft of dignity. everybody despises me, smiles at me in secret, disdains the idiotic ass with whom it is impossible to reason.'
ordinarily the invalid disguises from himself this aspect of his disease, and his brain will instinctively avoid it as much as it can. but in hours of calm he can slowly and regularly force his brain, by the practice of concentration, to familiarise itself with just this aspect, so that in time its instinct will be to think first, and not last, of just this aspect. when he has arrived at that point he is saved. no man who, at the very inception of the fire, is visited with a clear vision of himself as an arrant ass and pitiable object of contempt, will lack the volition to put the fire out. but, be it noted, he will not succeed until he can do it at once. a fire is a fire, and the engines must gallop by themselves out of the station instantly. this means the acquirement of a mental habit. during the preliminary stages of the cure he should, of course, avoid inflammable situations. this is a perfectly simple thing to do, if the brain has been disciplined out of its natural forgetfulness.
