Читать книгу Human Work - Charlotte Perkins Gilman - Страница 5

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The most familiar facts are often hardest to understand. This is described by Ward as “the illusion of the near.” Because of nearness we get no perspective; because of continual presence we become used to one view and fail to perceive others.

To the consideration of new facts we come with comparatively open minds, impressed by each item and its relation to the rest; but facts long known are supposed to be understood, and we resent the slight offered to our intelligence in the proposal to reconsider. Yet the most revolutionary discoveries have been made among precisely the most familiar facts; as in the nature and use of steam, or the endless potentialities of coal tar.

We had, and used, and supposed we knew, our own bodies, through long centuries of living and dying, yet our late-learned physiology was able to show us facts most vitally important which we had never dreamed of. Social phenomena have been going on about us since we began to be human; they are as familiar as physical or physiological phenomena, but even less understood. Yet the interaction of social forces and social conditions form increasingly prominent factors in human life.

Primitive man was most affected by physical conditions, he had to adjust himself mainly to the exigencies of climate, of the soil, of animal competitors. Modern man has to adjust himself mainly to social conditions; he is most affected by governments, religions, economic systems, education, general customs. Yet the study of this especially pressing and important environment is but little advanced. The smooth-worn commonplace facts slip through our fingers, and we fail to see the meaning of our most important surroundings simply because we have always had them. Also we allow ourselves to be discouraged by the extent and complexity of social conditions. This is quite needless.

Grass may be studied in any patch, regardless of the acreage of our prairies, or the height of the plumes of the Pampas. A tree would seem appallingly complex if we tried to understand it from a cross-section taken through the branching top; but from root to leaf it is not so hard to follow. Moreover, early writers on this subject have frightened us with technicalities. Mention some patent fact about our social composition, show a relation, suggest a law, and your alarmed hearer cries: “Oh, that is Political Economy! I cannot understand that, it is too difficult!” It is really a pity that such awe should be felt in the contemplation of our social processes; as though a man were afraid to learn anything about his digestion on the ground that it was “physiology.”

The statement, “Hens lay eggs,” expresses a fact in Ornithology, Zoölogy, and Biology—but it is none the more difficult to grasp. The special student may, if he so desires, amass enough knowledge in these lapping sciences to appall the uninitiated; but a mere practical farmer can learn enough of the nature and habits of hens to insure a profitable supply of eggs, without overtaxing his brain. There may be fields of sociological science quite beyond the average mind, and rightly left to the learned specialist; but that is no reason why we should not learn enough of the nature and habits of society to insure a more profitable and pleasant life.

With our fertility of resource and high attainments in skill, knowledge, power, and their material product, it is strange indeed that we have made so little progress in the management of our social processes. The civilisation natural to our age is conspicuously retarded by ignorance, disease, crime, poverty, and other disagreeable anachronisms. These things no more belong to this period of civilisation because they coexist with it than do the Bushman and Hottentot because they coexist with it, or than the vermiform appendix belongs to our stage of physiological development because it still exists in it—a mischievous rudiment. Our sociological rudiments cause us increasing pain.

The growing social consciousness of our times is most keenly stirred by a sense of pain. We are beginning to feel the great common processes of human life; but we feel them, at first, only when they hurt. Our individual distresses we have always felt; and have voiced our anguish and resentment more and more loudly as civilisation progressed. Earlier man—and in particular the unhappy savage, with his unavoidable privations, dangers, and mishaps, and his ingenious systems of self-torture—had more to hurt him, but made far less fuss about it. For many an age the pain of human life has formed so conspicuous a fact that we have called the earth “The Star of Suffering.” Our common illustrations of happiness are drawn from the lower animals: “as happy as a clam,” we say; “as gay as a lark”; “as merry as a cricket.”

The world’s greatest religions have rested on a conception of general human unhappiness. Divine curses are held to account for it, Divine blessings to allay it, and a future life to recompense us for it—if we are good; but the basic proposition is the unhappiness of human life. Again, we are given a theory of reincarnation; of a slow transmigration through many lines towards a plane where we do not feel, feeling being admitted to mean pain. In Heaven, Paradise, Nirvana, from the Happy Hunting Grounds and Walhalla to our most refined conception of eternal progress, the bliss of a future life is advanced as some countercheck to the misery of this one, some hope to enable us to live.

So unbearable is the amount of human pain that we alone among all animals manifest the remarkable phenomenon of suicide—a deliberate effort of a form of life to stop living because living hurts so much. Social evolution does not proportionately abate social suffering; it improves external conditions and insures physical existence more and more reliably; but it does not make us commensurately happier. We die of different diseases, and we do not die so soon, but we continue to suffer while alive, we continue to refer to “the sea of human misery,” we continue to kill ourselves because we cannot bear the pain of being alive.

All this distress, formerly borne by each man as simply his “lot,”—his personal allowance,—was yet vaguely recognised by larger thinkers as “our common lot”; even physical diseases, those most personal facts, we have generalised as “the ills that flesh is heir to.” This generalising is a most legitimate social instinct; now grown keener, more accurate, felt by far more persons; and in its light we have begun to recognise many of those long-borne “ills” as not only remediable, but preventable. Yet, though we have done something, our condition remains lamentable. The general causes of our still-existing difficulties are internal rather than external.

Society has long since mastered the difficulties of adjustment with physical conditions, but cannot arrange its own intersocial conditions on a satisfactory basis. “Man’s inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn”—not nature’s. From the Arctic Circle to the Tropics man gets along contentedly enough with natural obstacles; he may be checked and modified in development, but he is not unhappy; he strikes a balance with nature and is comparatively at rest. But in his progressive social development he has not yet been able to strike a balance; his interhuman relations are uncertain and mischievous. So far as history shows us, each social group seems to have carried within it the seeds of disease; to have grown worse as it progressed; and, while conquering all external difficulties, to have succumbed in the end to its own inward disorders. The suffering of an advanced society is not that of one struggling for subsistence, or in combat with enemies, but of one in the throes of disease. Society has safety, peace, shelter, warmth, enough to eat,—and chronic indigestion!

Are these disadvantages of human life essential, as heretofore supposed; or are they merely pathological phenomena and quite unnecessary? We are now beginning to take the latter view, and a most cheerful one it is.

Instead of accepting “human nature” as a fixed condition of mingled pain and pleasure, goodness and badness, with the pain and badness preponderating, we are now recognising that human nature grows and changes like the rest of created forms; that it has already greatly changed and improved, and will continue to do so. We are learning that the troubles of any race and time are partly external and subduable; partly internal and these also subduable. See, for instance, a savage tribe in North America. Their existence is retarded by certain conditions of climate and geography; of the fauna and flora surrounding them; of animal and human enemies and competitors; but also and more seriously by their superstitions. The theory of witchcraft; the ignorance as to hygiene and belief in “the medicine man”; the contempt for women and so for productive labour—these kept the savage savage in the same region where another race is civilised. That race, dominated by larger and truer concepts, has conquered the same external difficulties and risen to far higher levels.

So we, in our present stage of civilisation, are partly retarded by natural conditions of environment. We are still decimated by wild beasts, though it takes a microscope to find them, and by still more bloodthirsty vegetables, of similar dimensions. We are still frozen to death, sunstruck, drowned, and shocked by lightning. We fight the phylloxera, the cottony scale, and anopheles; we have to tunnel mountains, irrigate deserts, bridge rivers, and cross seas; our struggle with the environment is still highly educative. But meanwhile our progress is retarded far more by conditions of social pathology—by ignorance, poverty, and crime; and these conditions are no part of our essential environment, but are due to economic errors and superstitions. If we could straighten out our internal difficulties we could get on gaily with the outside ones.

Now, since we can easily see in history how we have at given times suffered from certain popular mistakes, and how on better knowledge we have outgrown those errors and their painful consequences, why is it not reasonable to assume that we may outgrow our present mistakes and superstitions and their painful consequences? Is it not possible that the persistence in society of certain morbid phenomena is due to an equal persistence of certain false ideas? and that the one may be removed by removing the other? So long as we believe in witchcraft, or in the divine right of kings, or in chattel slavery, so long do we act from that belief, and so long is our action injurious.

Our most conspicuous troubles to-day are economic. We have reached a stage of religious freedom where the growing power of the human brain is allowed to work unchecked toward higher perceptions of truth, and beautiful results have followed. We have reached a stage of political freedom where we can express the public will in public action, as far as the great majority of one sex is concerned, and are rapidly advancing to where the whole nation will share the same position. Here, too, beautiful results have followed. But in economic development we find that whereas there is a great extension and multiplication of economic processes, and commensurately of wealth, yet there is a mighty product of evil which seems to keep pace with the advance of civilisation.

So many of our troubles are patently due to economic sources that our rough-and-ready philosophy has accepted the statement, “the love of money is the root of all evil.” Some shorten the accusation to money itself.

This general observation is right in its direction, but not sufficiently accurate to be reliable. Money being a concrete fact, and in its function as representative of all purchasable goods of fascinating importance, we quite naturally attach to it directly the glaring evils we find in its company. We see the misery and sin caused by too little of it and the misery and sin caused by too much of it; we see the various villainies practised to get it, from robbery so small and direct that you catch the thief’s hand in your pocket, to robbery so large and indirect that the thieving hand filches uncaught from a million pockets, via hired railroads, hired legislators, and hired newspapers; we see all this, and attach our condemnation to money itself, or, at farthest, to the love of it.

Now, knowing more of the nature of society, we can begin to classify and analyse its difficulties more intelligently and find them somewhat in this order. Let us call poverty in-nutrition—a large part of our social tissues are insufficiently nourished. Let us call wealth over-nutrition, or repletion, or congestion, or fatty degeneration—a small part of our social tissues are gorged and inflamed with too much nourishment. Then let us call our large supply of poor, false, bad things: adulterated articles of food, shoddy clothes, paper shoes,—all the flood of worthless stuff society produces and consumes,—mal-nutrition; the blood is bad and does not nourish. Back of these phenomena we find still more important conditions, having to do not with the nourishment of the body politic, but with its activities. There is wrong action in the social organism; it does not work properly. Hence this local congestion of wealth, this peculiar arrest of distribution which makes both rich and poor dissatisfied in the widest field of life—work.

Work is the most conspicuous feature of human life. In the conditions of work, in our ideas and feelings about work, in our habits, methods, and systems of work, lies the subject-matter of this book. It is held that our difficulties are to be found, not in any essential traits of human nature, and not in any essential conditions of human life, but merely in the preservation in our minds of certain ancient and erroneous ideas and feelings which act continually upon the normal processes of social economics, preventing the process and poisoning the product. See, for instance, among our American savages, how the accepted theory, that work is proper only to women, arrests their economic development and their personal progress as well. See, in the Southern States of earlier years, how the popular error, that work was proper only to slaves, arrested development in many lines. It is here asserted that we have still in the popular mind certain traditions—superstitions, falsehoods—about work, and that to them is traceable the economic distresses so conspicuous among us.

Our increasing consciousness of this distress is a most gratifying fact. Consciousness always involves power. The power to feel implies the power to act. Feeling was evolved as a guide to action; in nature’s wise administration there would have been no reason for giving conscious pain and pleasure to a creature which could neither avoid the one nor seek the other. The sensory nerves are developed in careful proportion to the motory: what feels can move, what moves can feel. This law is followed all the way up through physical evolution to social, and is just as true of the social body as of any other.

A comparatively inert primitive society reacts to injury or benefit as does a plant, but shows little evidence of pain or pleasure. Modern society, however, in proportion to its rapidly differentiating organism and its increase in swift, accurate, complex activity, manifests a corresponding increase in consciousness. We are now socially conscious to an acute degree; and this proves our equal ability to act, to avert injury, and seek benefit, not as individuals, but as a society.

Naturally pain is the most impressive fact, for pleasure is a normal condition and only felt in contrast to pain. Pain is some interference with natural law, and as such makes itself sharply felt. Man was led to the study of physiology through pathology; the ache introduced us to the stomach. So society feels first and most what hurts it, and our study of sociology is prefaced by social pathology. And as men, in their first gropings after relief from pain, practised all manner of tricks with fetich-worship, with wild, noisy dances, with filthy medicines, with murderous leeches and lances and poisonous pills; and as still, among the ignorant, any wide-blazoned patent medicine is sure of acceptance if it promises to cure the pain, felt but not understood; so society’s first efforts at relief are superstitious, empirical, and often deadly bad for its system.

We need the patient, scientific study of the social body, its structure and functions, anatomy, physiology, and pathology, as we have had it for the physical body; we need careful, recorded observation of the results of previous remedies, and of new ones as well, and all this is a new field of science. We have plenty of facts at hand; all history lies behind us with its glaring records; all life is before us to-day in every stage of development; but we have only begun to arrange and study those facts from the point of view of the sociologist. If a watch goes wrong, we examine its “works” for fracture, loss, misplacement, or some “foreign body”; but to do this successfully involves knowledge of what a watch is, what it is for, how it is made, and how it works. We must know the mechanics of the thing if we are to mend it. So if Society goes wrong we must examine its works, and we cannot tell if they are wrong, nor set them right, unless we have some knowledge of what Society is, what it is for, how it was made, and, above all, how it works.

This does not require all knowledge; no such complete information as Tennyson spoke of in the “Flower in the crannied wall.” Flowers are sufficiently understood for us to raise them in beauty and health and profusion; and we can learn enough about this last great form of life, Society, to mend its ways, without waiting for absolute wisdom.

This book is a study of the economic processes of society, explaining the immediate causes of a large part of our human suffering, and suggesting certain simple, swift, and easy changes of mind by which we may so alter our processes as to avoid that suffering and promote our growth and happiness.