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ALL THINGS CONSIDERED
BY
G. K. CHESTERTON
Ninth Edition
CONTENTS
THE CASE FOR THE EPHEMERAL
COCKNEYS AND THEIR JOKES
THE FALLACY OF SUCCESS
ON RUNNING AFTER ONE’S HAT
THE VOTE AND THE HOUSE
CONCEIT AND CARICATURE
PATRIOTISM AND SPORT
AN ESSAY ON TWO CITIES
FRENCH AND ENGLISH
THE ZOLA CONTROVERSY
OXFORD FROM WITHOUT
WOMAN
THE MODERN MARTYR
ON POLITICAL SECRECY
EDWARD VII. AND SCOTLAND
THOUGHTS AROUND KOEPENICK
THE BOY
LIMERICKS AND COUNSELS OF PERFECTION
ANONYMITY AND FURTHER COUNSELS
ON THE CRYPTIC AND THE ELLIPTIC
THE WORSHIP OF THE WEALTHY
SCIENCE AND RELIGION
THE METHUSELAHITE
SPIRITUALISM
THE ERROR OF IMPARTIALITY
PHONETIC SPELLING
HUMANITARIANISM AND STRENGTH
WINE WHEN IT IS RED
DEMAGOGUES AND MYSTAGOGUES
THE “EATANSWILL GAZETTE”
FAIRY TALES
THE MAID OF ORLEANS
A DEAD POET
CHRISTMAS
ALL THINGS CONSIDERED
THE CASE FOR THE EPHEMERAL
I cannot understand the people who take literature seriously; but I can love them, and I do. Out of my love I warn them to keep clear of this book. It is a collection of crude and shapeless papers upon current or rather flying subjects; and they must be published pretty much as they stand. They were written, as a rule, at the last moment; they were handed in the moment before it was too late, and I do not think that our commonwealth would have been shaken to its foundations if they had been handed in the moment after. They must go out now, with all their imperfections on their head, or rather on mine; for their vices are too vital to be improved with a blue pencil, or with anything I can think of, except dynamite.
Their chief vice is that so many of them are very serious; because I had no time to make them flippant. It is so easy to be solemn; it is so hard to be frivolous. Let any honest reader shut his eyes for a few moments, and approaching the secret tribunal of his soul, ask himself whether he would really rather be asked in the next two hours to write the front page of the Times, which is full of long leading articles, or the front page of Tit-Bits, which is full of short jokes. If the reader is the fine conscientious fellow I take him for, he will at once reply that he would rather on the spur of the moment write ten Times articles than one Tit-Bits joke. Responsibility, a heavy and cautious responsibility of speech, is the easiest thing in the world; anybody can do it. That is why so many tired, elderly, and wealthy men go in for politics. They are responsible, because they have not the strength of mind left to be irresponsible. It is more dignified to sit still than to dance the Barn Dance. It is also easier. So in these easy pages I keep myself on the whole on the level of the Times: it is only occasionally that I leap upwards almost to the level of Tit-Bits.
I resume the defence of this indefensible book. These articles have another disadvantage arising from the scurry in which they were written; they are too long-winded and elaborate. One of the great disadvantages of hurry is that it takes such a long time. If I have to start for High-gate this day week, I may perhaps go the shortest way. If I have to start this minute, I shall almost certainly go the longest. In these essays (as I read them over) I feel frightfully annoyed with myself for not getting to the point more quickly; but I had not enough leisure to be quick. There are several maddening cases in which I took two or three pages in attempting to describe an attitude of which the essence could be expressed in an epigram; only there was no time for epigrams. I do not repent of one shade of opinion here expressed; but I feel that they might have been expressed so much more briefly and precisely. For instance, these pages contain a sort of recurring protest against the boast of certain writers that they are merely recent. They brag that their philosophy of the universe is the last philosophy or the new philosophy, or the advanced and progressive philosophy. I have said much against a mere modernism. When I use the word “modernism,” I am not alluding specially to the current quarrel in the Roman Catholic Church, though I am certainly astonished at any intellectual group accepting so weak and unphilosophical a name. It is incomprehensible to me that any thinker can calmly call himself a modernist; he might as well call himself a Thursdayite. But apart altogether from that particular disturbance, I am conscious of a general irritation expressed against the people who boast of their advancement and modernity in the discussion of religion. But I never succeeded in saying the quite clear and obvious thing that is really the matter with modernism. The real objection to modernism is simply that it is a form of snobbishness. It is an attempt to crush a rational opponent not by reason, but by some mystery of superiority, by hinting that one is specially up to date or particularly “in the know.” To flaunt the fact that we have had all the last books from Germany is simply vulgar; like flaunting the fact that we have had all the last bonnets from Paris. To introduce into philosophical discussions a sneer at a creed’s antiquity is like introducing a sneer at a lady’s age. It is caddish because it is irrelevant. The pure modernist is merely a snob; he cannot bear to be a month behind the fashion.
Similarly I find that I have tried in these pages to express the real objection to philanthropists and have not succeeded. I have not seen the quite simple objection to the causes advocated by certain wealthy idealists; causes of which the cause called teetotalism is the strongest case. I have used many abusive terms about the thing, calling it Puritanism, or superciliousness, or aristocracy; but I have not seen and stated the quite simple objection to philanthropy; which is that it is religious persecution. Religious persecution does not consist in thumbscrews or fires of Smithfield; the essence of religious persecution is this: that the man who happens to have material power in the State, either by wealth or by official position, should govern his fellow-citizens not according to their religion or philosophy, but according to his own. If, for instance, there is such a thing as a vegetarian nation; if there is a great united mass of men who wish to live by the vegetarian morality, then I say in the emphatic words of the arrogant French marquis before the French Revolution, “Let them eat grass.” Perhaps that French oligarch was a humanitarian; most oligarchs are. Perhaps when he told the peasants to eat grass he was recommending to them the hygienic simplicity of a vegetarian restaurant. But that is an irrelevant, though most fascinating, speculation. The point here is that if a nation is really vegetarian let its government force upon it the whole horrible weight of vegetarianism. Let its government give the national guests a State vegetarian banquet. Let its government, in the most literal and awful sense of the words, give them beans. That sort of tyranny is all very well; for it is the people tyrannising over all the persons. But “temperance reformers” are like a small group of vegetarians who should silently and systematically act on an ethical assumption entirely unfamiliar to the mass of the people. They would always be giving peerages to greengrocers. They would always be appointing Parliamentary Commissions to enquire into the private life of butchers. Whenever they found a man quite at their mercy, as a pauper or a convict or a lunatic, they would force him to add the final touch to his inhuman isolation by becoming a vegetarian. All the meals for school children will be vegetarian meals. All the State public houses will be vegetarian public houses. There is a very strong case for vegetarianism as compared with teetotalism. Drinking one glass of beer cannot by any philosophy be drunkenness; but killing one animal can, by this philosophy, be murder. The objection to both processes is not that the two creeds, teetotal and vegetarian, are not admissible; it is simply that they are not admitted. The thing is religious persecution because it is not based on the existing religion of the democracy. These people ask the poor to accept in practice what they know perfectly well that the poor would not accept in theory. That is the very definition of religious persecution. I was against the Tory attempt to force upon ordinary Englishmen a Catholic theology in which they do not believe. I am even more against the attempt to force upon them a Mohamedan morality which they actively deny.
Again, in the case of anonymous journalism I seem to have said a great deal without getting out the point very clearly. Anonymous journalism is dangerous, and is poisonous in our existing life simply because it is so rapidly becoming an anonymous life. That is the horrible thing about our contemporary atmosphere. Society is becoming a secret society. The modern tyrant is evil because of his elusiveness. He is more nameless than his slave. He is not more of a bully than the tyrants of the past; but he is more of a coward. The rich publisher may treat the poor poet better or worse than the old master workman treated the old apprentice. But the apprentice ran away and the master ran after him. Nowadays it is the poet who pursues and tries in vain to fix the fact of responsibility. It is the publisher who runs away. The clerk of Mr. Solomon gets the sack: the beautiful Greek slave of the Sultan Suliman also gets the sack; or the sack gets her. But though she is concealed under the black waves of the Bosphorus, at least her destroyer is not concealed. He goes behind golden trumpets riding on a white elephant. But in the case of the clerk it is almost as difficult to know where the dismissal comes from as to know where the clerk goes to. It may be Mr. Solomon or Mr. Solomon’s manager, or Mr. Solomon’s rich aunt in Cheltenham, or Mr. Soloman’s rich creditor in Berlin. The elaborate machinery which was once used to make men responsible is now used solely in order to shift the responsibility. People talk about the pride of tyrants; but we in this age are not suffering from the pride of tyrants. We are suffering from the shyness of tyrants; from the shrinking modesty of tyrants. Therefore we must not encourage leader-writers to be shy; we must not inflame their already exaggerated modesty. Rather we must attempt to lure them to be vain and ostentatious; so that through ostentation they may at last find their way to honesty.
The last indictment against this book is the worst of all. It is simply this: that if all goes well this book will be unintelligible gibberish. For it is mostly concerned with attacking attitudes which are in their nature accidental and incapable of enduring. Brief as is the career of such a book as this, it may last just twenty minutes longer than most of the philosophies that it attacks. In the end it will not matter to us whether we wrote well or ill; whether we fought with flails or reeds. It will matter to us greatly on what side we fought.
COCKNEYS AND THEIR JOKES
A writer in the Yorkshire Evening Post is very angry indeed with my performances in this column. His precise terms of reproach are, “Mr. G. K. Chesterton is not a humourist: not even a Cockney humourist.” I do not mind his saying that I am not a humourist—in which (to tell the truth) I think he is quite right. But I do resent his saying that I am not a Cockney. That envenomed arrow, I admit, went home. If a French writer said of me, “He is no metaphysician: not even an English metaphysician,” I could swallow the insult to my metaphysics, but I should feel angry about the insult to my country. So I do not urge that I am a humourist; but I do insist that I am a Cockney. If I were a humourist, I should certainly be a Cockney humourist; if I were a saint, I should certainly be a Cockney saint. I need not recite the splendid catalogue of Cockney saints who have written their names on our noble old City churches. I need not trouble you with the long list of the Cockney humourists who have discharged their bills (or failed to discharge them) in our noble old City taverns. We can weep together over the pathos of the poor Yorkshireman, whose county has never produced some humour not intelligible to the rest of the world. And we can smile together when he says that somebody or other is “not even” a Cockney humourist like Samuel Johnson or Charles Lamb. It is surely sufficiently obvious that all the best humour that exists in our language is Cockney humour. Chaucer was a Cockney; he had his house close to the Abbey. Dickens was a Cockney; he said he could not think without the London streets. The London taverns heard always the quaintest conversation, whether it was Ben Johnson’s at the Mermaid or Sam Johnson’s at the Cock. Even in our own time it may be noted that the most vital and genuine humour is still written about London. Of this type is the mild and humane irony which marks Mr. Pett Ridge’s studies of the small grey streets. Of this type is the simple but smashing laughter of the best tales of Mr. W. W. Jacobs, telling of the smoke and sparkle of the Thames. No; I concede that I am not a Cockney humourist. No; I am not worthy to be. Some time, after sad and strenuous after-lives; some time, after fierce and apocalyptic incarnations; in some strange world beyond the stars, I may become at last a Cockney humourist. In that potential paradise I may walk among the Cockney humourists, if not an equal, at least a companion. I may feel for a moment on my shoulder the hearty hand of Dryden and thread the labyrinths of the sweet insanity of Lamb. But that could only be if I were not only much cleverer, but much better than I am. Before I reach that sphere I shall have left behind, perhaps, the sphere that is inhabited by angels, and even passed that which is appropriated exclusively to the use of Yorkshiremen.
No; London is in this matter attacked upon its strongest ground. London is the largest of the bloated modern cities; London is the smokiest; London is the dirtiest; London is, if you will, the most sombre; London is, if you will, the most miserable. But London is certainly the most amusing and the most amused. You may prove that we have the most tragedy; the fact remains that we have the most comedy, that we have the most farce. We have at the very worst a splendid hypocrisy of humour. We conceal our sorrow behind a screaming derision. You speak of people who laugh through their tears; it is our boast that we only weep through our laughter. There remains always this great boast, perhaps the greatest boast that is possible to human nature. I mean the great boast that the most unhappy part of our population is also the most hilarious part. The poor can forget that social problem which we (the moderately rich) ought never to forget. Blessed are the poor; for they alone have not the poor always with them. The honest poor can sometimes forget poverty. The honest rich can never forget it.
I believe firmly in the value of all vulgar notions, especially of vulgar jokes. When once you have got hold of a vulgar joke, you may be certain that you have got hold of a subtle and spiritual idea. The men who made the joke saw something deep which they could not express except by something silly and emphatic. They saw something delicate which they could only express by something indelicate. I remember that Mr. Max Beerbohm (who has every merit except democracy) attempted to analyse the jokes at which the mob laughs. He divided them into three sections: jokes about bodily humiliation, jokes about things alien, such as foreigners, and jokes about bad cheese. Mr. Max Beerbohm thought he understood the first two forms; but I am not sure that he did. In order to understand vulgar humour it is not enough to be humorous. One must also be vulgar, as I am. And in the first case it is surely obvious that it is not merely at the fact of something being hurt that we laugh (as I trust we do) when a Prime Minister sits down on his hat. If that were so we should laugh whenever we saw a funeral. We do not laugh at the mere fact of something falling down; there is nothing humorous about leaves falling or the sun going down. When our house falls down we do not laugh. All the birds of the air might drop around us in a perpetual shower like a hailstorm without arousing a smile. If you really ask yourself why we laugh at a man sitting down suddenly in the street you will discover that the reason is not only recondite, but ultimately religious. All the jokes about men sitting down on their hats are really theological jokes; they are concerned with the Dual Nature of Man. They refer to the primary paradox that man is superior to all the things around him and yet is at their mercy.
Quite equally subtle and spiritual is the idea at the back of laughing at foreigners. It concerns the almost torturing truth of a thing being like oneself and yet not like oneself. Nobody laughs at what is entirely foreign; nobody laughs at a palm tree. But it is funny to see the familiar image of God disguised behind the black beard of a Frenchman or the black face of a Negro. There is nothing funny in the sounds that are wholly inhuman, the howling of wild beasts or of the wind. But if a man begins to talk like oneself, but all the syllables come out different, then if one is a man one feels inclined to laugh, though if one is a gentleman one resists the inclination.
Mr. Max Beerbohm, I remember, professed to understand the first two forms of popular wit, but said that the third quite stumped him. He could not see why there should be anything funny about bad cheese. I can tell him at once. He has missed the idea because it is subtle and philosophical, and he was looking for something ignorant and foolish. Bad cheese is funny because it is (like the foreigner or the man fallen on the pavement) the type of the transition or transgression across a great mystical boundary. Bad cheese symbolises the change from the inorganic to the organic. Bad cheese symbolises the startling prodigy of matter taking on vitality. It symbolises the origin of life itself. And it is only about such solemn matters as the origin of life that the democracy condescends to joke. Thus, for instance, the democracy jokes about marriage, because marriage is a part of mankind. But the democracy would never deign to joke about Free Love, because Free Love is a piece of priggishness.
As a matter of fact, it will be generally found that the popular joke is not true to the letter, but is true to the spirit. The vulgar joke is generally in the oddest way the truth and yet not the fact. For instance, it is not in the least true that mothers-in-law are as a class oppressive and intolerable; most of them are both devoted and useful. All the mothers-in-law I have ever had were admirable. Yet the legend of the comic papers is profoundly true. It draws attention to the fact that it is much harder to be a nice mother-in-law than to be nice in any other conceivable relation of life. The caricatures have drawn the worst mother-in-law a monster, by way of expressing the fact that the best mother-in-law is a problem. The same is true of the perpetual jokes in comic papers about shrewish wives and henpecked husbands. It is all a frantic exaggeration, but it is an exaggeration of a truth; whereas all the modern mouthings about oppressed women are the exaggerations of a falsehood. If you read even the best of the intellectuals of to-day you will find them saying that in the mass of the democracy the woman is the chattel of her lord, like his bath or his bed. But if you read the comic literature of the democracy you will find that the lord hides under the bed to escape from the wrath of his chattel. This is not the fact, but it is much nearer the truth. Every man who is married knows quite well, not only that he does not regard his wife as a chattel, but that no man can conceivably ever have done so. The joke stands for an ultimate truth, and that is a subtle truth. It is one not very easy to state correctly. It can, perhaps, be most correctly stated by saying that, even if the man is the head of the house, he knows he is the figurehead.
But the vulgar comic papers are so subtle and true that they are even prophetic. If you really want to know what is going to happen to the future of our democracy, do not read the modern sociological prophecies, do not read even Mr. Wells’s Utopias for this purpose, though you should certainly read them if you are fond of good honesty and good English. If you want to know what will happen, study the pages of Snaps or Patchy Bits as if they were the dark tablets graven with the oracles of the gods. For, mean and gross as they are, in all seriousness, they contain what is entirely absent from all Utopias and all the sociological conjectures of our time: they contain some hint of the actual habits and manifest desires of the English people. If we are really to find out what the democracy will ultimately do with itself, we shall surely find it, not in the literature which studies the people, but in the literature which the people studies.
I can give two chance cases in which the common or Cockney joke was a much better prophecy than the careful observations of the most cultured observer. When England was agitated, previous to the last General Election, about the existence of Chinese labour, there was a distinct difference between the tone of the politicians and the tone of the populace. The politicians who disapproved of Chinese labour were most careful to explain that they did not in any sense disapprove of Chinese. According to them, it was a pure question of legal propriety, of whether certain clauses in the contract of indenture were not inconsistent with our constitutional traditions: according to them, the case would have been the same if the people had been Kaffirs or Englishmen. It all sounded wonderfully enlightened and lucid; and in comparison the popular joke looked, of course, very poor. For the popular joke against the Chinese labourers was simply that they were Chinese; it was an objection to an alien type; the popular papers were full of gibes about pigtails and yellow faces. It seemed that the Liberal politicians were raising an intellectual objection to a doubtful document of State; while it seemed that the Radical populace were merely roaring with idiotic laughter at the sight of a Chinaman’s clothes. But the popular instinct was justified, for the vices revealed were Chinese vices.
But there is another case more pleasant and more up to date. The popular papers always persisted in representing the New Woman or the Suffragette as an ugly woman, fat, in spectacles, with bulging clothes, and generally falling off a bicycle. As a matter of plain external fact, there was not a word of truth in this. The leaders of the movement of female emancipation are not at all ugly; most of them are extraordinarily good-looking. Nor are they at all indifferent to art or decorative costume; many of them are alarmingly attached to these things. Yet the popular instinct was right. For the popular instinct was that in this movement, rightly or wrongly, there was an element of indifference to female dignity, of a quite new willingness of women to be grotesque. These women did truly despise the pontifical quality of woman. And in our streets and around our Parliament we have seen the stately woman of art and culture turn into the comic woman of Comic Bits. And whether we think the exhibition justifiable or not, the prophecy of the comic papers is justified: the healthy and vulgar masses were conscious of a hidden enemy to their traditions who has now come out into the daylight, that the scriptures might be fulfilled. For the two things that a healthy person hates most between heaven and hell are a woman who is not dignified and a man who is.
THE FALLACY OF SUCCESS
There has appeared in our time a particular class of books and articles which I sincerely and solemnly think may be called the silliest ever known among men. They are much more wild than the wildest romances of chivalry and much more dull than the dullest religious tract. Moreover, the romances of chivalry were at least about chivalry; the religious tracts are about religion. But these things are about nothing; they are about what is called Success. On every bookstall, in every magazine, you may find works telling people how to succeed. They are books showing men how to succeed in everything; they are written by men who cannot even succeed in writing books. To begin with, of course, there is no such thing as Success. Or, if you like to put it so, there is nothing that is not successful. That a thing is successful merely means that it is; a millionaire is successful in being a millionaire and a donkey in being a donkey. Any live man has succeeded in living; any dead man may have succeeded in committing suicide. But, passing over the bad logic and bad philosophy in the phrase, we may take it, as these writers do, in the ordinary sense of success in obtaining money or worldly position. These writers profess to tell the ordinary man how he may succeed in his trade or speculation—how, if he is a builder, he may succeed as a builder; how, if he is a stockbroker, he may succeed as a stockbroker. They profess to show him how, if he is a grocer, he may become a sporting yachtsman; how, if he is a tenth-rate journalist, he may become a peer; and how, if he is a German Jew, he may become an Anglo-Saxon. This is a definite and business-like proposal, and I really think that the people who buy these books (if any people do buy them) have a moral, if not a legal, right to ask for their money back. Nobody would dare to publish a book about electricity which literally told one nothing about electricity; no one would dare to publish an article on botany which showed that the writer did not know which end of a plant grew in the earth. Yet our modern world is full of books about Success and successful people which literally contain no kind of idea, and scarcely any kind of verbal sense.
It is perfectly obvious that in any decent occupation (such as bricklaying or writing books) there are only two ways (in any special sense) of succeeding. One is by doing very good work, the other is by cheating. Both are much too simple to require any literary explanation. If you are in for the high jump, either jump higher than any one else, or manage somehow to pretend that you have done so. If you want to succeed at whist, either be a good whist-player, or play with marked cards. You may want a book about jumping; you may want a book about whist; you may want a book about cheating at whist. But you cannot want a book about Success. Especially you cannot want a book about Success such as those which you can now find scattered by the hundred about the book-market. You may want to jump or to play cards; but you do not want to read wandering statements to the effect that jumping is jumping, or that games are won by winners. If these writers, for instance, said anything about success in jumping it would be something like this: “The jumper must have a clear aim before him. He must desire definitely to jump higher than the other men who are in for the same competition. He must let no feeble feelings of mercy (sneaked from the sickening Little Englanders and Pro-Boers) prevent him from trying to do his best. He must remember that a competition in jumping is distinctly competitive, and that, as Darwin has gloriously demonstrated, THE WEAKEST GO TO THE WALL.” That is the kind of thing the book would say, and very useful it would be, no doubt, if read out in a low and tense voice to a young man just about to take the high jump. Or suppose that in the course of his intellectual rambles the philosopher of Success dropped upon our other case, that of playing cards, his bracing advice would run—“In playing cards it is very necessary to avoid the mistake (commonly made by maudlin humanitarians and Free Traders) of permitting your opponent to win the game. You must have grit and snap and go in to win. The days of idealism and superstition are over. We live in a time of science and hard common sense, and it has now been definitely proved that in any game where two are playing IF ONE DOES NOT WIN THE OTHER WILL.” It is all very stirring, of course; but I confess that if I were playing cards I would rather have some decent little book which told me the rules of the game. Beyond the rules of the game it is all a question either of talent or dishonesty; and I will undertake to provide either one or the other— which, it is not for me to say.
Turning over a popular magazine, I find a queer and amusing example. There is an article called “The Instinct that Makes People Rich.” It is decorated in front with a formidable portrait of Lord Rothschild. There are many definite methods, honest and dishonest, which make people rich; the only “instinct” I know of which does it is that instinct which theological Christianity crudely describes as “the sin of avarice.” That, however, is beside the present point. I wish to quote the following exquisite paragraphs as a piece of typical advice as to how to succeed. It is so practical; it leaves so little doubt about what should be our next step—“The name of Vanderbilt is synonymous with wealth gained by modern enterprise. ‘Cornelius,’ the founder of the family, was the first of the great American magnates of commerce. He started as the son of a poor farmer; he ended as a millionaire twenty times over.”
“He had the money-making instinct. He seized his opportunities, the opportunities that were given by the application of the steam-engine to ocean traffic, and by the birth of railway locomotion in the wealthy but undeveloped United States of America, and consequently he amassed an immense fortune.
“Now it is, of course, obvious that we cannot all follow exactly in the footsteps of this great railway monarch. The precise opportunities that fell to him do not occur to us. Circumstances have changed. But, although this is so, still, in our own sphere and in our own circumstances, we can follow his general methods; we can seize those opportunities that are given us, and give ourselves a very fair chance of attaining riches.”
In such strange utterances we see quite clearly what is really at the bottom of all these articles and books. It is not mere business; it is not even mere cynicism. It is mysticism; the horrible mysticism of money. The writer of that passage did not really have the remotest notion of how Vanderbilt made his money, or of how anybody else is to make his. He does, indeed, conclude his remarks by advocating some scheme; but it has nothing in the world to do with Vanderbilt. He merely wished to prostrate himself before the mystery of a millionaire. For when we really worship anything, we love not only its clearness but its obscurity. We exult in its very invisibility. Thus, for instance, when a man is in love with a woman he takes special pleasure in the fact that a woman is unreasonable. Thus, again, the very pious poet, celebrating his Creator, takes pleasure in saying that God moves in a mysterious way. Now, the writer of the paragraph which I have quoted does not seem to have had anything to do with a god, and I should not think (judging by his extreme unpracticality) that he had ever been really in love with a woman. But the thing he does worship—Vanderbilt—he treats in exactly this mystical manner. He really revels in the fact his deity Vanderbilt is keeping a secret from him. And it fills his soul with a sort of transport of cunning, an ecstasy of priestcraft, that he should pretend to be telling to the multitude that terrible secret which he does not know.
Speaking about the instinct that makes people rich, the same writer remarks---
“In olden days its existence was fully understood. The Greeks enshrined it in the story of Midas, of the ‘Golden Touch.’ Here was a man who turned everything he laid his hands upon into gold. His life was a progress amidst riches. Out of everything that came in his way he created the precious metal. ‘A foolish legend,’ said the wiseacres of the Victorian age. ‘A truth,’ say we of to-day. We all know of such men. We are ever meeting or reading about such persons who turn everything they touch into gold. Success dogs their very footsteps. Their life’s pathway leads unerringly upwards. They cannot fail.”
Unfortunately, however, Midas could fail; he did. His path did not lead unerringly upward. He starved because whenever he touched a biscuit or a ham sandwich it turned to gold. That was the whole point of the story, though the writer has to suppress it delicately, writing so near to a portrait of Lord Rothschild. The old fables of mankind are, indeed, unfathomably wise; but we must not have them expurgated in the interests of Mr. Vanderbilt. We must not have King Midas represented as an example of success; he was a failure of an unusually painful kind. Also, he had the ears of an ass. Also (like most other prominent and wealthy persons) he endeavoured to conceal the fact. It was his barber (if I remember right) who had to be treated on a confidential footing with regard to this peculiarity; and his barber, instead of behaving like a go-ahead person of the Succeed-at-all-costs school and trying to blackmail King Midas, went away and whispered this splendid piece of society scandal to the reeds, who enjoyed it enormously. It is said that they also whispered it as the winds swayed them to and fro. I look reverently at the portrait of Lord Rothschild; I read reverently about the exploits of Mr. Vanderbilt. I know that I cannot turn everything I touch to gold; but then I also know that I have never tried, having a preference for other substances, such as grass, and good wine. I know that these people have certainly succeeded in something; that they have certainly overcome somebody; I know that they are kings in a sense that no men were ever kings before; that they create markets and bestride continents. Yet it always seems to me that there is some small domestic fact that they are hiding, and I have sometimes thought I heard upon the wind the laughter and whisper of the reeds.
At least, let us hope that we shall all live to see these absurd books about Success covered with a proper derision and neglect. They do not teach people to be successful, but they do teach people to be snobbish; they do spread a sort of evil poetry of worldliness. The Puritans are always denouncing books that inflame lust; what shall we say of books that inflame the viler passions of avarice and pride? A hundred years ago we had the ideal of the Industrious Apprentice; boys were told that by thrift and work they would all become Lord Mayors. This was fallacious, but it was manly, and had a minimum of moral truth. In our society, temperance will not help a poor man to enrich himself, but it may help him to respect himself. Good work will not make him a rich man, but good work may make him a good workman. The Industrious Apprentice rose by virtues few and narrow indeed, but still virtues. But what shall we say of the gospel preached to the new Industrious Apprentice; the Apprentice who rises not by his virtues, but avowedly by his vices?
ON RUNNING AFTER ONE’S HAT
I feel an almost savage envy on hearing that London has been flooded in my absence, while I am in the mere country. My own Battersea has been, I understand, particularly favoured as a meeting of the waters. Battersea was already, as I need hardly say, the most beautiful of human localities. Now that it has the additional splendour of great sheets of water, there must be something quite incomparable in the landscape (or waterscape) of my own romantic town. Battersea must be a vision of Venice. The boat that brought the meat from the butcher’s must have shot along those lanes of rippling silver with the strange smoothness of the gondola. The greengrocer who brought cabbages to the corner of the Latchmere Road must have leant upon the oar with the unearthly grace of the gondolier. There is nothing so perfectly poetical as an island; and when a district is flooded it becomes an archipelago.
Some consider such romantic views of flood or fire slightly lacking in reality. But really this romantic view of such inconveniences is quite as practical as the other. The true optimist who sees in such things an opportunity for enjoyment is quite as logical and much more sensible than the ordinary “Indignant Ratepayer” who sees in them an opportunity for grumbling. Real pain, as in the case of being burnt at Smithfield or having a toothache, is a positive thing; it can be supported, but scarcely enjoyed. But, after all, our toothaches are the exception, and as for being burnt at Smithfield, it only happens to us at the very longest intervals. And most of the inconveniences that make men swear or women cry are really sentimental or imaginative inconveniences—things altogether of the mind. For instance, we often hear grown-up people complaining of having to hang about a railway station and wait for a train. Did you ever hear a small boy complain of having to hang about a railway station and wait for a train? No; for to him to be inside a railway station is to be inside a cavern of wonder and a palace of poetical pleasures. Because to him the red light and the green light on the signal are like a new sun and a new moon. Because to him when the wooden arm of the signal falls down suddenly, it is as if a great king had thrown down his staff as a signal and started a shrieking tournament of trains. I myself am of little boys’ habit in this matter. They also serve who only stand and wait for the two fifteen. Their meditations may be full of rich and fruitful things. Many of the most purple hours of my life have been passed at Clapham Junction, which is now, I suppose, under water. I have been there in many moods so fixed and mystical that the water might well have come up to my waist before I noticed it particularly. But in the case of all such annoyances, as I have said, everything depends upon the emotional point of view. You can safely apply the test to almost every one of the things that are currently talked of as the typical nuisance of daily life.
For instance, there is a current impression that it is unpleasant to have to run after one’s hat. Why should it be unpleasant to the well-ordered and pious mind? Not merely because it is running, and running exhausts one. The same people run much faster in games and sports. The same people run much more eagerly after an uninteresting little leather ball than they will after a nice silk hat. There is an idea that it is humiliating to run after one’s hat; and when people say it is humiliating they mean that it is comic. It certainly is comic; but man is a very comic creature, and most of the things he does are comic—eating, for instance. And the most comic things of all are exactly the things that are most worth doing—such as making love. A man running after a hat is not half so ridiculous as a man running after a wife.
Now a man could, if he felt rightly in the matter, run after his hat with the manliest ardour and the most sacred joy. He might regard himself as a jolly huntsman pursuing a wild animal, for certainly no animal could be wilder. In fact, I am inclined to believe that hat-hunting on windy days will be the sport of the upper classes in the future. There will be a meet of ladies and gentlemen on some high ground on a gusty morning. They will be told that the professional attendants have started a hat in such-and-such a thicket, or whatever be the technical term. Notice that this employment will in the fullest degree combine sport with humanitarianism. The hunters would feel that they were not inflicting pain. Nay, they would feel that they were inflicting pleasure, rich, almost riotous pleasure, upon the people who were looking on. When last I saw an old gentleman running after his hat in Hyde Park, I told him that a heart so benevolent as his ought to be filled with peace and thanks at the thought of how much unaffected pleasure his every gesture and bodily attitude were at that moment giving to the crowd.
The same principle can be applied to every other typical domestic worry. A gentleman trying to get a fly out of the milk or a piece of cork out of his glass of wine often imagines himself to be irritated. Let him think for a moment of the patience of anglers sitting by dark pools, and let his soul be immediately irradiated with gratification and repose. Again, I have known some people of very modern views driven by their distress to the use of theological terms to which they attached no doctrinal significance, merely because a drawer was jammed tight and they could not pull it out. A friend of mine was particularly afflicted in this way. Every day his drawer was jammed, and every day in consequence it was something else that rhymes to it. But I pointed out to him that this sense of wrong was really subjective and relative; it rested entirely upon the assumption that the drawer could, should, and would come out easily. “But if,” I said, “you picture to yourself that you are pulling against some powerful and oppressive enemy, the struggle will become merely exciting and not exasperating. Imagine that you are tugging up a lifeboat out of the sea. Imagine that you are roping up a fellow-creature out of an Alpine crevass. Imagine even that you are a boy again and engaged in a tug-of-war between French and English.” Shortly after saying this I left him; but I have no doubt at all that my words bore the best possible fruit. I have no doubt that every day of his life he hangs on to the handle of that drawer with a flushed face and eyes bright with battle, uttering encouraging shouts to himself, and seeming to hear all round him the roar of an applauding ring.
So I do not think that it is altogether fanciful or incredible to suppose that even the floods in London may be accepted and enjoyed poetically. Nothing beyond inconvenience seems really to have been caused by them; and inconvenience, as I have said, is only one aspect, and that the most unimaginative and accidental aspect of a really romantic situation. An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered. The water that girdled the houses and shops of London must, if anything, have only increased their previous witchery and wonder. For as the Roman Catholic priest in the story said: “Wine is good with everything except water,” and on a similar principle, water is good with everything except wine.
THE VOTE AND THE HOUSE
Most of us will be canvassed soon, I suppose; some of us may even canvass. Upon which side, of course, nothing will induce me to state, beyond saying that by a remarkable coincidence it will in every case be the only side in which a high-minded, public-spirited, and patriotic citizen can take even a momentary interest. But the general question of canvassing itself, being a non-party question, is one which we may be permitted to approach. The rules for canvassers are fairly familiar to any one who has ever canvassed. They are printed on the little card which you carry about with you and lose. There is a statement, I think, that you must not offer a voter food or drink. However hospitable you may feel towards him in his own house, you must not carry his lunch about with you. You must not produce a veal cutlet from your tail-coat pocket. You must not conceal poached eggs about your person. You must not, like a kind of conjurer, produce baked potatoes from your hat. In short, the canvasser must not feed the voter in any way. Whether the voter is allowed to feed the canvasser, whether the voter may give the canvasser veal cutlets and baked potatoes, is a point of law on which I have never been able to inform myself. When I found myself canvassing a gentleman, I have sometimes felt tempted to ask him if there was any rule against his giving me food and drink; but the matter seemed a delicate one to approach. His attitude to me also sometimes suggested a doubt as to whether he would, even if he could. But there are voters who might find it worth while to discover if there is any law against bribing a canvasser. They might bribe him to go away.
The second veto for canvassers which was printed on the little card said that you must not persuade any one to personate a voter. I have no idea what it means. To dress up as an average voter seems a little vague. There is no well-recognised uniform, as far as I know, with civic waistcoat and patriotic whiskers. The enterprise resolves itself into one somewhat similar to the enterprise of a rich friend of mine who went to a fancy-dress ball dressed up as a gentleman. Perhaps it means that there is a practice of personating some individual voter. The canvasser creeps to the house of his fellow-conspirator carrying a make-up in a bag. He produces from it a pair of white moustaches and a single eyeglass, which are sufficient to give the most common-place person a startling resemblance to the Colonel at No. 80. Or he hurriedly affixes to his friend that large nose and that bald head which are all that is essential to an illusion of the presence of Professor Budger. I do not undertake to unravel these knots. I can only say that when I was a canvasser I was told by the little card, with every circumstance of seriousness and authority, that I was not to persuade anybody to personate a voter: and I can lay my hand upon my heart and affirm that I never did.
The third injunction on the card was one which seemed to me, if interpreted exactly and according to its words, to undermine the very foundations of our politics. It told me that I must not “threaten a voter with any consequence whatever.” No doubt this was intended to apply to threats of a personal and illegitimate character; as, for instance, if a wealthy candidate were to threaten to raise all the rents, or to put up a statue of himself. But as verbally and grammatically expressed, it certainly would cover those general threats of disaster to the whole community which are the main matter of political discussion. When a canvasser says that if the opposition candidate gets in the country will be ruined, he is threatening the voters with certain consequences. When the Free Trader says that if Tariffs are adopted the people in Brompton or Bayswater will crawl about eating grass, he is threatening them with consequences. When the Tariff Reformer says that if Free Trade exists for another year St. Paul’s Cathedral will be a ruin and Ludgate Hill as deserted as Stonehenge, he is also threatening. And what is the good of being a Tariff Reformer if you can’t say that? What is the use of being a politician or a Parliamentary candidate at all if one cannot tell the people that if the other man gets in, England will be instantly invaded and enslaved, blood be pouring down the Strand, and all the English ladies carried off into harems. But these things are, after all, consequences, so to speak.
The majority of refined persons in our day may generally be heard abusing the practice of canvassing. In the same way the majority of refined persons (commonly the same refined persons) may be heard abusing the practice of interviewing celebrities. It seems a very singular thing to me that this refined world reserves all its indignation for the comparatively open and innocent element in both walks of life. There is really a vast amount of corruption and hypocrisy in our election politics; about the most honest thing in the whole mess is the canvassing. A man has not got a right to “nurse” a constituency with aggressive charities, to buy it with great presents of parks and libraries, to open vague vistas of future benevolence; all this, which goes on unrebuked, is bribery and nothing else. But a man has got the right to go to another free man and ask him with civility whether he will vote for him. The information can be asked, granted, or refused without any loss of dignity on either side, which is more than can be said of a park. It is the same with the place of interviewing in journalism. In a trade where there are labyrinths of insincerity, interviewing is about the most simple and the most sincere thing there is. The canvasser, when he wants to know a man’s opinions, goes and asks him. It may be a bore; but it is about as plain and straight a thing as he could do. So the interviewer, when he wants to know a man’s opinions, goes and asks him. Again, it may be a bore; but again, it is about as plain and straight as anything could be. But all the other real and systematic cynicisms of our journalism pass without being vituperated and even without being known—the financial motives of policy, the misleading posters, the suppression of just letters of complaint. A statement about a man may be infamously untrue, but it is read calmly. But a statement by a man to an interviewer is felt as indefensibly vulgar. That the paper should misrepresent him is nothing; that he should represent himself is bad taste. The whole error in both cases lies in the fact that the refined persons are attacking politics and journalism on the ground of vulgarity. Of course, politics and journalism are, as it happens, very vulgar. But their vulgarity is not the worst thing about them. Things are so bad with both that by this time their vulgarity is the best thing about them. Their vulgarity is at least a noisy thing; and their great danger is that silence that always comes before decay. The conversational persuasion at elections is perfectly human and rational; it is the silent persuasions that are utterly damnable.
If it is true that the Commons’ House will not hold all the Commons, it is a very good example of what we call the anomalies of the English Constitution. It is also, I think, a very good example of how highly undesirable those anomalies really are. Most Englishmen say that these anomalies do not matter; they are not ashamed of being illogical; they are proud of being illogical. Lord Macaulay (a very typical Englishman, romantic, prejudiced, poetical), Lord Macaulay said that he would not lift his hand to get rid of an anomaly that was not also a grievance. Many other sturdy romantic Englishmen say the same. They boast of our anomalies; they boast of our illogicality; they say it shows what a practical people we are. They are utterly wrong. Lord Macaulay was in this matter, as in a few others, utterly wrong. Anomalies do matter very much, and do a great deal of harm; abstract illogicalities do matter a great deal, and do a great deal of harm. And this for a reason that any one at all acquainted with human nature can see for himself. All injustice begins in the mind. And anomalies accustom the mind to the idea of unreason and untruth. Suppose I had by some prehistoric law the power of forcing every man in Battersea to nod his head three times before he got out of bed. The practical politicians might say that this power was a harmless anomaly; that it was not a grievance. It could do my subjects no harm; it could do me no good. The people of Battersea, they would say, might safely submit to it. But the people of Battersea could not safely submit to it, for all that. If I had nodded their heads for them for fifty years I could cut off their heads for them at the end of it with immeasurably greater ease. For there would have permanently sunk into every man’s mind the notion that it was a natural thing for me to have a fantastic and irrational power. They would have grown accustomed to insanity.
For, in order that men should resist injustice, something more is necessary than that they should think injustice unpleasant. They must think injustice absurd; above all, they must think it startling. They must retain the violence of a virgin astonishment. That is the explanation of the singular fact which must have struck many people in the relations of philosophy and reform. It is the fact (I mean) that optimists are more practical reformers than pessimists. Superficially, one would imagine that the railer would be the reformer; that the man who thought that everything was wrong would be the man to put everything right. In historical practice the thing is quite the other way; curiously enough, it is the man who likes things as they are who really makes them better. The optimist Dickens has achieved more reforms than the pessimist Gissing. A man like Rousseau has far too rosy a theory of human nature; but he produces a revolution. A man like David Hume thinks that almost all things are depressing; but he is a Conservative, and wishes to keep them as they are. A man like Godwin believes existence to be kindly; but he is a rebel. A man like Carlyle believes existence to be cruel; but he is a Tory. Everywhere the man who alters things begins by liking things. And the real explanation of this success of the optimistic reformer, of this failure of the pessimistic reformer, is, after all, an explanation of sufficient simplicity. It is because the optimist can look at wrong not only with indignation, but with a startled indignation. When the pessimist looks at any infamy, it is to him, after all, only a repetition of the infamy of existence. The Court of Chancery is indefensible—like mankind. The Inquisition is abominable— like the universe. But the optimist sees injustice as something discordant and unexpected, and it stings him into action. The pessimist can be enraged at wrong; but only the optimist can be surprised at it.
And it is the same with the relations of an anomaly to the logical mind. The pessimist resents evil (like Lord Macaulay) solely because it is a grievance. The optimist resents it also, because it is an anomaly; a contradiction to his conception of the course of things. And it is not at all unimportant, but on the contrary most important, that this course of things in politics and elsewhere should be lucid, explicable and defensible. When people have got used to unreason they can no longer be startled at injustice. When people have grown familiar with an anomaly, they are prepared to that extent for a grievance; they may think the grievance grievous, but they can no longer think it strange. Take, if only as an excellent example, the very matter alluded to before; I mean the seats, or rather the lack of seats, in the House of Commons. Perhaps it is true that under the best conditions it would never happen that every member turned up. Perhaps a complete attendance would never actually be. But who can tell how much influence in keeping members away may have been exerted by this calm assumption that they would stop away? How can any man be expected to help to make a full attendance when he knows that a full attendance is actually forbidden? How can the men who make up the Chamber do their duty reasonably when the very men who built the House have not done theirs reasonably? If the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself for the battle? And what if the remarks of the trumpet take this form, “I charge you as you love your King and country to come to this Council. And I know you won’t.”
CONCEIT AND CARICATURE
If a man must needs be conceited, it is certainly better that he should be conceited about some merits or talents that he does not really possess. For then his vanity remains more or less superficial; it remains a mere mistake of fact, like that of a man who thinks he inherits the royal blood or thinks he has an infallible system for Monte Carlo. Because the merit is an unreal merit, it does not corrupt or sophisticate his real merits. He is vain about the virtue he has not got; but he may be humble about the virtues that he has got. His truly honourable qualities remain in their primordial innocence; he cannot see them and he cannot spoil them. If a man’s mind is erroneously possessed with the idea that he is a great violinist, that need not prevent his being a gentleman and an honest man. But if once his mind is possessed in any strong degree with the knowledge that he is a gentleman, he will soon cease to be one.
But there is a third kind of satisfaction of which I have noticed one or two examples lately—another kind of satisfaction which is neither a pleasure in the virtues that we do possess nor a pleasure in the virtues we do not possess. It is the pleasure which a man takes in the presence or absence of certain things in himself without ever adequately asking himself whether in his case they constitute virtues at all. A man will plume himself because he is not bad in some particular way, when the truth is that he is not good enough to be bad in that particular way. Some priggish little clerk will say, “I have reason to congratulate myself that I am a civilised person, and not so bloodthirsty as the Mad Mullah.” Somebody ought to say to him, “A really good man would be less bloodthirsty than the Mullah. But you are less bloodthirsty, not because you are more of a good man, but because you are a great deal less of a man. You are not bloodthirsty, not because you would spare your enemy, but because you would run away from him.” Or again, some Puritan with a sullen type of piety would say, “I have reason to congratulate myself that I do not worship graven images like the old heathen Greeks.” And again somebody ought to say to him, “The best religion may not worship graven images, because it may see beyond them. But if you do not worship graven images, it is only because you are mentally and morally quite incapable of graving them. True religion, perhaps, is above idolatry. But you are below idolatry. You are not holy enough yet to worship a lump of stone.”
Mr. F. C. Gould, the brilliant and felicitous caricaturist, recently delivered a most interesting speech upon the nature and atmosphere of our modern English caricature. I think there is really very little to congratulate oneself about in the condition of English caricature. There are few causes for pride; probably the greatest cause for pride is Mr. F. C. Gould. But Mr. F. C. Gould, forbidden by modesty to adduce this excellent ground for optimism, fell back upon saying a thing which is said by numbers of other people, but has not perhaps been said lately with the full authority of an eminent cartoonist. He said that he thought “that they might congratulate themselves that the style of caricature which found acceptation nowadays was very different from the lampoon of the old days.” Continuing, he said, according to the newspaper report, “On looking back to the political lampoons of Rowlandson’s and Gilray’s time they would find them coarse and brutal. In some countries abroad still, ‘even in America,’ the method of political caricature was of the bludgeon kind. The fact was we had passed the bludgeon stage. If they were brutal in attacking a man, even for political reasons, they roused sympathy for the man who was attacked. What they had to do was to rub in the point they wanted to emphasise as gently as they could.” (Laughter and applause.)
Anybody reading these words, and anybody who heard them, will certainly feel that there is in them a great deal of truth, as well as a great deal of geniality. But along with that truth and with that geniality there is a streak of that erroneous type of optimism which is founded on the fallacy of which I have spoken above. Before we congratulate ourselves upon the absence of certain faults from our nation or society, we ought to ask ourselves why it is that these faults are absent. Are we without the fault because we have the opposite virtue? Or are we without the fault because we have the opposite fault? It is a good thing assuredly, to be innocent of any excess; but let us be sure that we are not innocent of excess merely by being guilty of defect. Is it really true that our English political satire is so moderate because it is so magnanimous, so forgiving, so saintly? Is it penetrated through and through with a mystical charity, with a psychological tenderness? Do we spare the feelings of the Cabinet Minister because we pierce through all his apparent crimes and follies down to the dark virtues of which his own soul is unaware? Do we temper the wind to the Leader of the Opposition because in our all-embracing heart we pity and cherish the struggling spirit of the Leader of the Opposition? Briefly, have we left off being brutal because we are too grand and generous to be brutal? Is it really true that we are better than brutality? Is it really true that we have passed the bludgeon stage?
I fear that there is, to say the least of it, another side to the matter. Is it not only too probable that the mildness of our political satire, when compared with the political satire of our fathers, arises simply from the profound unreality of our current politics? Rowlandson and Gilray did not fight merely because they were naturally pothouse pugilists; they fought because they had something to fight about. It is easy enough to be refined about things that do not matter; but men kicked and plunged a little in that portentous wrestle in which swung to and fro, alike dizzy with danger, the independence of England, the independence of Ireland, the independence of France. If we wish for a proof of this fact that the lack of refinement did not come from mere brutality, the proof is easy. The proof is that in that struggle no personalities were more brutal than the really refined personalities. None were more violent and intolerant than those who were by nature polished and sensitive. Nelson, for instance, had the nerves and good manners of a woman: nobody in his senses, I suppose, would call Nelson “brutal.” But when he was touched upon the national matter, there sprang out of him a spout of oaths, and he could only tell men to “Kill! kill! kill the d----d Frenchmen.” It would be as easy to take examples on the other side. Camille Desmoulins was a man of much the same type, not only elegant and sweet in temper, but almost tremulously tender and humanitarian. But he was ready, he said, “to embrace Liberty upon a pile of corpses.” In Ireland there were even more instances. Robert Emmet was only one famous example of a whole family of men at once sensitive and savage. I think that Mr. F.C. Gould is altogether wrong in talking of this political ferocity as if it were some sort of survival from ruder conditions, like a flint axe or a hairy man. Cruelty is, perhaps, the worst kind of sin. Intellectual cruelty is certainly the worst kind of cruelty. But there is nothing in the least barbaric or ignorant about intellectual cruelty. The great Renaissance artists who mixed colours exquisitely mixed poisons equally exquisitely; the great Renaissance princes who designed instruments of music also designed instruments of torture. Barbarity, malignity, the desire to hurt men, are the evil things generated in atmospheres of intense reality when great nations or great causes are at war. We may, perhaps, be glad that we have not got them: but it is somewhat dangerous to be proud that we have not got them. Perhaps we are hardly great enough to have them. Perhaps some great virtues have to be generated, as in men like Nelson or Emmet, before we can have these vices at all, even as temptations. I, for one, believe that if our caricaturists do not hate their enemies, it is not because they are too big to hate them, but because their enemies are not big enough to hate. I do not think we have passed the bludgeon stage. I believe we have not come to the bludgeon stage. We must be better, braver, and purer men than we are before we come to the bludgeon stage.
Let us then, by all means, be proud of the virtues that we have not got; but let us not be too arrogant about the virtues that we cannot help having. It may be that a man living on a desert island has a right to congratulate himself upon the fact that he can meditate at his ease. But he must not congratulate himself on the fact that he is on a desert island, and at the same time congratulate himself on the self-restraint he shows in not going to a ball every night. Similarly our England may have a right to congratulate itself upon the fact that her politics are very quiet, amicable, and humdrum. But she must not congratulate herself upon that fact and also congratulate herself upon the self-restraint she shows in not tearing herself and her citizens into rags. Between two English Privy Councillors polite language is a mark of civilisation, but really not a mark of magnanimity.
Allied to this question is the kindred question on which we so often hear an innocent British boast—the fact that our statesmen are privately on very friendly relations, although in Parliament they sit on opposite sides of the House. Here, again, it is as well to have no illusions. Our statesmen are not monsters of mystical generosity or insane logic, who are really able to hate a man from three to twelve and to love him from twelve to three. If our social relations are more peaceful than those of France or America or the England of a hundred years ago, it is simply because our politics are more peaceful; not improbably because our politics are more fictitious. If our statesmen agree more in private, it is for the very simple reason that they agree more in public. And the reason they agree so much in both cases is really that they belong to one social class; and therefore the dining life is the real life. Tory and Liberal statesmen like each other, but it is not because they are both expansive; it is because they are both exclusive.
PATRIOTISM AND SPORT.
I notice that some papers, especially papers that call themselves patriotic, have fallen into quite a panic over the fact that we have been twice beaten in the world of sport, that a Frenchman has beaten us at golf, and that Belgians have beaten us at rowing. I suppose that the incidents are important to any people who ever believed in the self-satisfied English legend on this subject. I suppose that there are men who vaguely believe that we could never be beaten by a Frenchman, despite the fact that we have often been beaten by Frenchmen, and once by a Frenchwoman. In the old pictures in Punch you will find a recurring piece of satire. The English caricaturists always assumed that a Frenchman could not ride to hounds or enjoy English hunting. It did not seem to occur to them that all the people who founded English hunting were Frenchmen. All the Kings and nobles who originally rode to hounds spoke French. Large numbers of those Englishmen who still ride to hounds have French names. I suppose that the thing is important to any one who is ignorant of such evident matters as these. I suppose that if a man has ever believed that we English have some sacred and separate right to be athletic, such reverses do appear quite enormous and shocking. They feel as if, while the proper sun was rising in the east, some other and unexpected sun had begun to rise in the north-north-west by north. For the benefit, the moral and intellectual benefit of such people, it may be worth while to point out that the Anglo-Saxon has in these cases been defeated precisely by those competitors whom he has always regarded as being out of the running; by Latins, and by Latins of the most easy and unstrenuous type; not only by Frenchman, but by Belgians. All this, I say, is worth telling to any intelligent person who believes in the haughty theory of Anglo-Saxon superiority. But, then, no intelligent person does believe in the haughty theory of Anglo-Saxon superiority. No quite genuine Englishman ever did believe in it. And the genuine Englishman these defeats will in no respect dismay.
The genuine English patriot will know that the strength of England has never depended upon any of these things; that the glory of England has never had anything to do with them, except in the opinion of a large section of the rich and a loose section of the poor which copies the idleness of the rich. These people will, of course, think too much of our failure, just as they thought too much of our success. The typical Jingoes who have admired their countrymen too much for being conquerors will, doubtless, despise their countrymen too much for being conquered. But the Englishman with any feeling for England will know that athletic failures do not prove that England is weak, any more than athletic successes proved that England was strong. The truth is that athletics, like all other things, especially modern, are insanely individualistic. The Englishmen who win sporting prizes are exceptional among Englishmen, for the simple reason that they are exceptional even among men. English athletes represent England just about as much as Mr. Barnum’s freaks represent America. There are so few of such people in the whole world that it is almost a toss-up whether they are found in this or that country.
If any one wants a simple proof of this, it is easy to find. When the great English athletes are not exceptional Englishmen they are generally not Englishmen at all. Nay, they are often representatives of races of which the average tone is specially incompatible with athletics. For instance, the English are supposed to rule the natives of India in virtue of their superior hardiness, superior activity, superior health of body and mind. The Hindus are supposed to be our subjects because they are less fond of action, less fond of openness and the open air. In a word, less fond of cricket. And, substantially, this is probably true, that the Indians are less fond of cricket. All the same, if you ask among Englishmen for the very best cricket-player, you will find that he is an Indian. Or, to take another case: it is, broadly speaking, true that the Jews are, as a race, pacific, intellectual, indifferent to war, like the Indians, or, perhaps, contemptuous of war, like the Chinese: nevertheless, of the very good prize-fighters, one or two have been Jews.
This is one of the strongest instances of the particular kind of evil that arises from our English form of the worship of athletics. It concentrates too much upon the success of individuals. It began, quite naturally and rightly, with wanting England to win. The second stage was that it wanted some Englishmen to win. The third stage was (in the ecstasy and agony of some special competition) that it wanted one particular Englishman to win. And the fourth stage was that when he had won, it discovered that he was not even an Englishman.
This is one of the points, I think, on which something might really be said for Lord Roberts and his rather vague ideas which vary between rifle clubs and conscription. Whatever may be the advantages or disadvantages otherwise of the idea, it is at least an idea of procuring equality and a sort of average in the athletic capacity of the people; it might conceivably act as a corrective to our mere tendency to see ourselves in certain exceptional athletes. As it is, there are millions of Englishmen who really think that they are a muscular race because C.B. Fry is an Englishman. And there are many of them who think vaguely that athletics must belong to England because Ranjitsinhji is an Indian.
But the real historic strength of England, physical and moral, has never had anything to do with this athletic specialism; it has been rather hindered by it. Somebody said that the Battle of Waterloo was won on Eton playing-fields. It was a particularly unfortunate remark, for the English contribution to the victory of Waterloo depended very much more than is common in victories upon the steadiness of the rank and file in an almost desperate situation. The Battle of Waterloo was won by the stubbornness of the common soldier— that is to say, it was won by the man who had never been to Eton. It was absurd to say that Waterloo was won on Eton cricket-fields. But it might have been fairly said that Waterloo was won on the village green, where clumsy boys played a very clumsy cricket. In a word, it was the average of the nation that was strong, and athletic glories do not indicate much about the average of a nation. Waterloo was not won by good cricket-players. But Waterloo was won by bad cricket-players, by a mass of men who had some minimum of athletic instincts and habits.
It is a good sign in a nation when such things are done badly. It shows that all the people are doing them. And it is a bad sign in a nation when such things are done very well, for it shows that only a few experts and eccentrics are doing them, and that the nation is merely looking on. Suppose that whenever we heard of walking in England it always meant walking forty-five miles a day without fatigue. We should be perfectly certain that only a few men were walking at all, and that all the other British subjects were being wheeled about in Bath-chairs. But if when we hear of walking it means slow walking, painful walking, and frequent fatigue, then we know that the mass of the nation still is walking. We know that England is still literally on its feet.
The difficulty is therefore that the actual raising of the standard of athletics has probably been bad for national athleticism. Instead of the tournament being a healthy mêlée into which any ordinary man would rush and take his chance, it has become a fenced and guarded tilting-yard for the collision of particular champions against whom no ordinary man would pit himself or even be permitted to pit himself. If Waterloo was won on Eton cricket-fields it was because Eton cricket was probably much more careless then than it is now. As long as the game was a game, everybody wanted to join in it. When it becomes an art, every one wants to look at it. When it was frivolous it may have won Waterloo: when it was serious and efficient it lost Magersfontein.
In the Waterloo period there was a general rough-and-tumble athleticism among average Englishmen. It cannot be re-created by cricket, or by conscription, or by any artificial means. It was a thing of the soul. It came out of laughter, religion, and the spirit of the place. But it was like the modern French duel in this—that it might happen to anybody. If I were a French journalist it might really happen that Monsieur Clemenceau might challenge me to meet him with pistols. But I do not think that it is at all likely that Mr. C. B. Fry will ever challenge me to meet him with cricket-bats.
AN ESSAY ON TWO CITIES.
A little while ago I fell out of England into the town of Paris. If a man fell out of the moon into the town of Paris he would know that it was the capital of a great nation. If, however, he fell (perhaps off some other side of the moon) so as to hit the city of London, he would not know so well that it was the capital of a great nation; at any rate, he would not know that the nation was so great as it is. This would be so even on the assumption that the man from the moon could not read our alphabet, as presumably he could not, unless elementary education in that planet has gone to rather unsuspected lengths. But it is true that a great part of the distinctive quality which separates Paris from London may be even seen in the names. Real democrats always insist that England is an aristocratic country. Real aristocrats always insist (for some mysterious reason) that it is a democratic country. But if any one has any real doubt about the matter let him consider simply the names of the streets. Nearly all the streets out of the Strand, for instance, are named after the first name, second name, third name, fourth, fifth, and sixth names of some particular noble family; after their relations, connections, or places of residence— Arundel Street, Norfolk Street, Villiers Street, Bedford Street, Southampton Street, and any number of others. The names are varied, so as to introduce the same family under all sorts of different surnames. Thus we have Arundel Street and also Norfolk Street; thus we have Buckingham Street and also Villiers Street. To say that this is not aristocracy is simply intellectual impudence. I am an ordinary citizen, and my name is Gilbert Keith Chesterton; and I confess that if I found three streets in a row in the Strand, the first called Gilbert Street, the second Keith Street, and the third Chesterton Street, I should consider that I had become a somewhat more important person in the commonwealth than was altogether good for its health. If Frenchmen ran London (which God forbid!), they would think it quite as ludicrous that those streets should be named after the Duke of Buckingham as that they should be named after me. They are streets out of one of the main thoroughfares of London. If French methods were adopted, one of them would be called Shakspere Street, another Cromwell Street, another Wordsworth Street; there would be statues of each of these persons at the end of each of these streets, and any streets left over would be named after the date on which the Reform Bill was passed or the Penny Postage established.
Suppose a man tried to find people in London by the names of the places. It would make a fine farce, illustrating our illogicality. Our hero having once realised that Buckingham Street was named after the Buckingham family, would naturally walk into Buckingham Palace in search of the Duke of Buckingham. To his astonishment he would meet somebody quite different. His simple lunar logic would lead him to suppose that if he wanted the Duke of Marlborough (which seems unlikely) he would find him at Marlborough House. He would find the Prince of Wales. When at last he understood that the Marlboroughs live at Blenheim, named after the great Marlborough’s victory, he would, no doubt, go there. But he would again find himself in error if, acting upon this principle, he tried to find the Duke of Wellington, and told the cabman to drive to Waterloo. I wonder that no one has written a wild romance about the adventures of such an alien, seeking the great English aristocrats, and only guided by the names; looking for the Duke of Bedford in the town of that name, seeking for some trace of the Duke of Norfolk in Norfolk. He might sail for Wellington in New Zealand to find the ancient seat of the Wellingtons. The last scene might show him trying to learn Welsh in order to converse with the Prince of Wales.
But even if the imaginary traveller knew no alphabet of this earth at all, I think it would still be possible to suppose him seeing a difference between London and Paris, and, upon the whole, the real difference. He would not be able to read the words “Quai Voltaire;” but he would see the sneering statue and the hard, straight roads; without having heard of Voltaire he would understand that the city was Voltairean. He would not know that Fleet Street was named after the Fleet Prison. But the same national spirit which kept the Fleet Prison closed and narrow still keeps Fleet Street closed and narrow. Or, if you will, you may call Fleet Street cosy, and the Fleet Prison cosy. I think I could be more comfortable in the Fleet Prison, in an English way of comfort, than just under the statue of Voltaire. I think that the man from the moon would know France without knowing French; I think that he would know England without having heard the word. For in the last resort all men talk by signs. To talk by statues is to talk by signs; to talk by cities is to talk by signs. Pillars, palaces, cathedrals, temples, pyramids, are an enormous dumb alphabet: as if some giant held up his fingers of stone. The most important things at the last are always said by signs, even if, like the Cross on St. Paul’s, they are signs in heaven. If men do not understand signs, they will never understand words.
For my part, I should be inclined to suggest that the chief object of education should be to restore simplicity. If you like to put it so, the chief object of education is not to learn things; nay, the chief object of education is to unlearn things. The chief object of education is to unlearn all the weariness and wickedness of the world and to get back into that state of exhilaration we all instinctively celebrate when we write by preference of children and of boys. If I were an examiner appointed to examine all examiners (which does not at present appear probable), I would not only ask the teachers how much knowledge they had imparted; I would ask them how much splendid and scornful ignorance they had erected, like some royal tower in arms. But, in any case, I would insist that people should have so much simplicity as would enable them to see things suddenly and to see things as they are. I do not care so much whether they can read the names over the shops. I do care very much whether they can read the shops. I do not feel deeply troubled as to whether they can tell where London is on the map so long as they can tell where Brixton is on the way home. I do not even mind whether they can put two and two together in the mathematical sense; I am content if they can put two and two together in the metaphorical sense. But all this longer statement of an obvious view comes back to the metaphor I have employed. I do not care a dump whether they know the alphabet, so long as they know the dumb alphabet.
Unfortunately, I have noticed in many aspects of our popular education that this is not done at all. One teaches our London children to see London with abrupt and simple eyes. And London is far more difficult to see properly than any other place. London is a riddle. Paris is an explanation. The education of the Parisian child is something corresponding to the clear avenues and the exact squares of Paris. When the Parisian boy has done learning about the French reason and the Roman order he can go out and see the thing repeated in the shapes of many shining public places, in the angles of many streets. But when the English boy goes out, after learning about a vague progress and idealism, he cannot see it anywhere. He cannot see anything anywhere, except Sapolio and the Daily Mail. We must either alter London to suit the ideals of our education, or else alter our education to suit the great beauty of London.
FRENCH AND ENGLISH
It is obvious that there is a great deal of difference between being international and being cosmopolitan. All good men are international. Nearly all bad men are cosmopolitan. If we are to be international we must be national. And it is largely because those who call themselves the friends of peace have not dwelt sufficiently on this distinction that they do not impress the bulk of any of the nations to which they belong. International peace means a peace between nations, not a peace after the destruction of nations, like the Buddhist peace after the destruction of personality. The golden age of the good European is like the heaven of the Christian: it is a place where people will love each other; not like the heaven of the Hindu, a place where they will be each other. And in the case of national character this can be seen in a curious way. It will generally be found, I think, that the more a man really appreciates and admires the soul of another people the less he will attempt to imitate it; he will be conscious that there is something in it too deep and too unmanageable to imitate. The Englishman who has a fancy for France will try to be French; the Englishman who admires France will remain obstinately English. This is to be particularly noticed in the case of our relations with the French, because it is one of the outstanding peculiarities of the French that their vices are all on the surface, and their extraordinary virtues concealed. One might almost say that their vices are the flower of their virtues.
Thus their obscenity is the expression of their passionate love of dragging all things into the light. The avarice of their peasants means the independence of their peasants. What the English call their rudeness in the streets is a phase of their social equality. The worried look of their women is connected with the responsibility of their women; and a certain unconscious brutality of hurry and gesture in the men is related to their inexhaustible and extraordinary military courage. Of all countries, therefore, France is the worst country for a superficial fool to admire. Let a fool hate France: if the fool loves it he will soon be a knave. He will certainly admire it, not only for the things that are not creditable, but actually for the things that are not there. He will admire the grace and indolence of the most industrious people in the world. He will admire the romance and fantasy of the most determinedly respectable and commonplace people in the world. This mistake the Englishman will make if he admires France too hastily; but the mistake that he makes about France will be slight compared with the mistake that he makes about himself. An Englishman who professes really to like French realistic novels, really to be at home in a French modern theatre, really to experience no shock on first seeing the savage French caricatures, is making a mistake very dangerous for his own sincerity. He is admiring something he does not understand. He is reaping where he has not sown, and taking up where he has not laid down; he is trying to taste the fruit when he has never toiled over the tree. He is trying to pluck the exquisite fruit of French cynicism, when he has never tilled the rude but rich soil of French virtue.
The thing can only be made clear to Englishmen by turning it round. Suppose a Frenchman came out of democratic France to live in England, where the shadow of the great houses still falls everywhere, and where even freedom was, in its origin, aristocratic. If the Frenchman saw our aristocracy and liked it, if he saw our snobbishness and liked it, if he set himself to imitate it, we all know what we should feel. We all know that we should feel that that particular Frenchman was a repulsive little gnat. He would be imitating English aristocracy; he would be imitating the English vice. But he would not even understand the vice he plagiarised: especially he would not understand that the vice is partly a virtue. He would not understand those elements in the English which balance snobbishness and make it human: the great kindness of the English, their hospitality, their unconscious poetry, their sentimental conservatism, which really admires the gentry. The French Royalist sees that the English like their King. But he does not grasp that while it is base to worship a King, it is almost noble to worship a powerless King. The impotence of the Hanoverian Sovereigns has raised the English loyal subject almost to the chivalry and dignity of a Jacobite. The Frenchman sees that the English servant is respectful: he does not realise that he is also disrespectful; that there is an English legend of the humorous and faithful servant, who is as much a personality as his master; the Caleb Balderstone, the Sam Weller. He sees that the English do admire a nobleman; he does not allow for the fact that they admire a nobleman most when he does not behave like one. They like a noble to be unconscious and amiable: the slave may be humble, but the master must not be proud. The master is Life, as they would like to enjoy it; and among the joys they desire in him there is none which they desire more sincerely than that of generosity, of throwing money about among mankind, or, to use the noble mediæval word, largesse—the joy of largeness. That is why a cabman tells you are no gentleman if you give him his correct fare. Not only his pocket, but his soul is hurt. You have wounded his ideal. You have defaced his vision of the perfect aristocrat. All this is really very subtle and elusive; it is very difficult to separate what is mere slavishness from what is a sort of vicarious nobility in the English love of a lord. And no Frenchman could easily grasp it at all. He would think it was mere slavishness; and if he liked it, he would be a slave. So every Englishman must (at first) feel French candour to be mere brutality. And if he likes it, he is a brute. These national merits must not be understood so easily. It requires long years of plenitude and quiet, the slow growth of great parks, the seasoning of oaken beams, the dark enrichment of red wine in cellars and in inns, all the leisure and the life of England through many centuries, to produce at last the generous and genial fruit of English snobbishness. And it requires battery and barricade, songs in the streets, and ragged men dead for an idea, to produce and justify the terrible flower of French indecency.
When I was in Paris a short time ago, I went with an English friend of mine to an extremely brilliant and rapid succession of French plays, each occupying about twenty minutes. They were all astonishingly effective; but there was one of them which was so effective that my friend and I fought about it outside, and had almost to be separated by the police. It was intended to indicate how men really behaved in a wreck or naval disaster, how they break down, how they scream, how they fight each other without object and in a mere hatred of everything. And then there was added, with all that horrible irony which Voltaire began, a scene in which a great statesman made a speech over their bodies, saying that they were all heroes and had died in a fraternal embrace. My friend and I came out of this theatre, and as he had lived long in Paris, he said, like a Frenchman: “What admirable artistic arrangement! Is it not exquisite?” “No,” I replied, assuming as far as possible the traditional attitude of John Bull in the pictures in Punch—“No, it is not exquisite. Perhaps it is unmeaning; if it is unmeaning I do not mind. But if it has a meaning I know what the meaning is; it is that under all their pageant of chivalry men are not only beasts, but even hunted beasts. I do not know much of humanity, especially when humanity talks in French. But I know when a thing is meant to uplift the human soul, and when it is meant to depress it. I know that ‘Cyrano de Bergerac’ (where the actors talked even quicker) was meant to encourage man. And I know that this was meant to discourage him.” “These sentimental and moral views of art,” began my friend, but I broke into his words as a light broke into my mind. “Let me say to you,” I said, “what Jaurès said to Liebknecht at the Socialist Conference: ‘You have not died on the barricades’. You are an Englishman, as I am, and you ought to be as amiable as I am. These people have some right to be terrible in art, for they have been terrible in politics. They may endure mock tortures on the stage; they have seen real tortures in the streets. They have been hurt for the idea of Democracy. They have been hurt for the idea of Catholicism. It is not so utterly unnatural to them that they should be hurt for the idea of literature. But, by blazes, it is altogether unnatural to me! And the worst thing of all is that I, who am an Englishman, loving comfort, should find comfort in such things as this. The French do not seek comfort here, but rather unrest. This restless people seeks to keep itself in a perpetual agony of the revolutionary mood. Frenchmen, seeking revolution, may find the humiliation of humanity inspiring. But God forbid that two pleasure-seeking Englishmen should ever find it pleasant!”
THE ZOLA CONTROVERSY
The difference between two great nations can be illustrated by the coincidence that at this moment both France and England are engaged in discussing the memorial of a literary man. France is considering the celebration of the late Zola, England is considering that of the recently deceased Shakspere. There is some national significance, it may be, in the time that has elapsed. Some will find impatience and indelicacy in this early attack on Zola or deification of him; but the nation which has sat still for three hundred years after Shakspere’s funeral may be considered, perhaps, to have carried delicacy too far. But much deeper things are involved than the mere matter of time. The point of the contrast is that the French are discussing whether there shall be any monument, while the English are discussing only what the monument shall be. In other words, the French are discussing a living question, while we are discussing a dead one. Or rather, not a dead one, but a settled one, which is quite a different thing.
When a thing of the intellect is settled it is not dead: rather it is immortal. The multiplication table is immortal, and so is the fame of Shakspere. But the fame of Zola is not dead or not immortal; it is at its crisis, it is in the balance; and may be found wanting. The French, therefore, are quite right in considering it a living question. It is still living as a question, because it is not yet solved. But Shakspere is not a living question: he is a living answer.
For my part, therefore, I think the French Zola controversy much more practical and exciting than the English Shakspere one. The admission of Zola to the Pantheon may be regarded as defining Zola’s position. But nobody could say that a statue of Shakspere, even fifty feet high, on the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral, could define Shakspere’s position. It only defines our position towards Shakspere. It is he who is fixed; it is we who are unstable. The nearest approach to an English parallel to the Zola case would be furnished if it were proposed to put some savagely controversial and largely repulsive author among the ashes of the greatest English poets. Suppose, for instance, it were proposed to bury Mr. Rudyard Kipling in Westminster Abbey. I should be against burying him in Westminster Abbey; first, because he is still alive (and here I think even he himself might admit the justice of my protest); and second, because I should like to reserve that rapidly narrowing space for the great permanent examples, not for the interesting foreign interruptions, of English literature. I would not have either Mr. Kipling or Mr. George Moore in Westminster Abbey, though Mr. Kipling has certainly caught even more cleverly than Mr. Moore the lucid and cool cruelty of the French short story. I am very sure that Geoffrey Chaucer and Joseph Addison get on very well together in the Poets’ Corner, despite the centuries that sunder them. But I feel that Mr. George Moore would be much happier in Pere-la-Chaise, with a riotous statue by Rodin on the top of him; and Mr. Kipling much happier under some huge Asiatic monument, carved with all the cruelties of the gods.
As to the affair of the English monument to Shakspere, every people has its own mode of commemoration, and I think there is a great deal to be said for ours. There is the French monumental style, which consists in erecting very pompous statues, very well done. There is the German monumental style, which consists in erecting very pompous statues, badly done. And there is the English monumental method, the great English way with statues, which consists in not erecting them at all. A statue may be dignified; but the absence of a statue is always dignified. For my part, I feel there is something national, something wholesomely symbolic, in the fact that there is no statue of Shakspere. There is, of course, one in Leicester Square; but the very place where it stands shows that it was put up by a foreigner for foreigners. There is surely something modest and manly about not attempting to express our greatest poet in the plastic arts in which we do not excel. We honour Shakspere as the Jews honour God— by not daring to make of him a graven image. Our sculpture, our statues, are good enough for bankers and philanthropists, who are our curse: not good enough for him, who is our benediction. Why should we celebrate the very art in which we triumph by the very art in which we fail?
England is most easily understood as the country of amateurs. It is especially the country of amateur soldiers (that is, of Volunteers), of amateur statesmen (that is, of aristocrats), and it is not unreasonable or out of keeping that it should be rather specially the country of a careless and lounging view of literature. Shakspere has no academic monument for the same reason that he had no academic education. He had small Latin and less Greek, and (in the same spirit) he has never been commemorated in Latin epitaphs or Greek marble. If there is nothing clear and fixed about the emblems of his fame, it is because there was nothing clear and fixed about the origins of it. Those great schools and Universities which watch a man in his youth may record him in his death; but Shakspere had no such unifying traditions. We can only say of him what we can say of Dickens. We can only say that he came from nowhere and that he went everywhere. For him a monument in any place is out of place. A cold statue in a certain square is unsuitable to him as it would be unsuitable to Dickens. If we put up a statue of Dickens in Portland Place to-morrow we should feel the stiffness as unnatural. We should fear that the statue might stroll about the street at night.
But in France the question of whether Zola shall go to the Panthéon when he is dead is quite as practicable as the question whether he should go to prison when he was alive. It is the problem of whether the nation shall take one turn of thought or another. In raising a monument to Zola they do not raise merely a trophy, but a finger-post. The question is one which will have to be settled in most European countries; but like all such questions, it has come first to a head in France; because France is the battlefield of Christendom. That question is, of course, roughly this: whether in that ill-defined area of verbal licence on certain dangerous topics it is an extenuation of indelicacy or an aggravation of it that the indelicacy was deliberate and solemn. Is indecency more indecent if it is grave, or more indecent if it is gay? For my part, I belong to an old school in this matter. When a book or a play strikes me as a crime, I am not disarmed by being told that it is a serious crime. If a man has written something vile, I am not comforted by the explanation that he quite meant to do it. I know all the evils of flippancy; I do not like the man who laughs at the sight of virtue. But I prefer him to the man who weeps at the sight of virtue and complains bitterly of there being any such thing. I am not reassured, when ethics are as wild as cannibalism, by the fact that they are also as grave and sincere as suicide. And I think there is an obvious fallacy in the bitter contrasts drawn by some moderns between the aversion to Ibsen’s “Ghosts” and the popularity of some such joke as “Dear Old Charlie.” Surely there is nothing mysterious or unphilosophic in the popular preference. The joke of “Dear Old Charlie” is passed—because it is a joke. “Ghosts” are exorcised—because they are ghosts.
This is, of course, the whole question of Zola. I am grown up, and I do not worry myself much about Zola’s immorality. The thing I cannot stand is his morality. If ever a man on this earth lived to embody the tremendous text, “But if the light in your body be darkness, how great is the darkness,” it was certainly he. Great men like Ariosto, Rabelais, and Shakspere fall in foul places, flounder in violent but venial sin, sprawl for pages, exposing their gigantic weakness, are dirty, are indefensible; and then they struggle up again and can still speak with a convincing kindness and an unbroken honour of the best things in the world: Rabelais, of the instruction of ardent and austere youth; Ariosto, of holy chivalry; Shakspere, of the splendid stillness of mercy. But in Zola even the ideals are undesirable; Zola’s mercy is colder than justice—nay, Zola’s mercy is more bitter in the mouth than injustice. When Zola shows us an ideal training he does not take us, like Rabelais, into the happy fields of humanist learning. He takes us into the schools of inhumanist learning, where there are neither books nor flowers, nor wine nor wisdom, but only deformities in glass bottles, and where the rule is taught from the exceptions. Zola’s truth answers the exact description of the skeleton in the cupboard; that is, it is something of which a domestic custom forbids the discovery, but which is quite dead, even when it is discovered. Macaulay said that the Puritans hated bear-baiting, not because it gave pain to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators. Of such substance also was this Puritan who had lost his God. A Puritan of this type is worse than the Puritan who hates pleasure because there is evil in it. This man actually hates evil because there is pleasure in it. Zola was worse than a pornographer, he was a pessimist. He did worse than encourage sin: he encouraged discouragement. He made lust loathsome because to him lust meant life.
OXFORD FROM WITHOUT
Some time ago I ventured to defend that race of hunted and persecuted outlaws, the Bishops; but until this week I had no idea of how much persecuted they were. For instance, the Bishop of Birmingham made some extremely sensible remarks in the House of Lords, to the effect that Oxford and Cambridge were (as everybody knows they are) far too much merely plutocratic playgrounds. One would have thought that an Anglican Bishop might be allowed to know something about the English University system, and even to have, if anything, some bias in its favour. But (as I pointed out) the rollicking Radicalism of Bishops has to be restrained. The man who writes the notes in the weekly paper called the Outlook feels that it is his business to restrain it. The passage has such simple sublimity that I must quote it—
“Dr. Gore talked unworthily of his reputation when he spoke of the older Universities as playgrounds for the rich and idle. In the first place, the rich men there are not idle. Some of the rich men are, and so are some of the poor men. On the whole, the sons of noble and wealthy families keep up the best traditions of academic life.”
So far this seems all very nice. It is a part of the universal principle on which Englishmen have acted in recent years. As you will not try to make the best people the most powerful people, persuade yourselves that the most powerful people are the best people. Mad Frenchmen and Irishmen try to realise the ideal. To you belongs the nobler (and much easier) task of idealising the real. First give your Universities entirely into the power of the rich; then let the rich start traditions; and then congratulate yourselves on the fact that the sons of the rich keep up these traditions. All that is quite simple and jolly. But then this critic, who crushes Dr. Gore from the high throne of the Outlook, goes on in a way that is really perplexing. “It is distinctly advantageous,” he says, “that rich and poor—i. e., young men with a smooth path in life before them, and those who have to hew out a road for themselves— should be brought into association. Each class learns a great deal from the other. On the one side, social conceit and exclusiveness give way to the free spirit of competition amongst all classes; on the other side, angularities and prejudices are rubbed away.” Even this I might have swallowed. But the paragraph concludes with this extraordinary sentence: “We get the net result in such careers as those of Lord Milner, Lord Curzon, and Mr. Asquith.”
Those three names lay my intellect prostrate. The rest of the argument I understand quite well. The social exclusiveness of aristocrats at Oxford and Cambridge gives way before the free spirit of competition amongst all classes. That is to say, there is at Oxford so hot and keen a struggle, consisting of coal-heavers, London clerks, gypsies, navvies, drapers’ assistants, grocers’ assistants—in short, all the classes that make up the bulk of England—there is such a fierce competition at Oxford among all these people that in its presence aristocratic exclusiveness gives way. That is all quite clear. I am not quite sure about the facts, but I quite understand the argument. But then, having been called upon to contemplate this bracing picture of a boisterous turmoil of all the classes of England, I am suddenly asked to accept as example of it, Lord Milner, Lord Curzon, and the present Chancellor of the Exchequer. What part do these gentlemen play in the mental process? Is Lord Curzon one of the rugged and ragged poor men whose angularities have been rubbed away? Or is he one of those whom Oxford immediately deprived of all kind of social exclusiveness? His Oxford reputation does not seem to bear out either account of him. To regard Lord Milner as a typical product of Oxford would surely be unfair. It would be to deprive the educational tradition of Germany of one of its most typical products. English aristocrats have their faults, but they are not at all like Lord Milner. What Mr. Asquith was meant to prove, whether he was a rich man who lost his exclusiveness, or a poor man who lost his angles, I am utterly unable to conceive.
There is, however, one mild but very evident truth that might perhaps be mentioned. And it is this: that none of those three excellent persons is, or ever has been, a poor man in the sense that that word is understood by the overwhelming majority of the English nation. There are no poor men at Oxford in the sense that the majority of men in the street are poor. The very fact that the writer in the Outlook can talk about such people as poor shows that he does not understand what the modern problem is. His kind of poor man rather reminds me of the Earl in the ballad by that great English satirist, Sir W.S. Gilbert, whose angles (very acute angles) had, I fear, never been rubbed down by an old English University. The reader will remember that when the Periwinkle-girl was adored by two Dukes, the poet added—
“A third adorer had the girl, A man of lowly station; A miserable grovelling Earl Besought her approbation.”
Perhaps, indeed, some allusion to our University system, and to the universal clash in it of all the classes of the community, may be found in the verse a little farther on, which says—
“He’d had, it happily befell, A decent education; His views would have befitted well A far superior station.”
Possibly there was as simple a chasm between Lord Curzon and Lord Milner. But I am afraid that the chasm will become almost imperceptible, a microscopic crack, if we compare it with the chasm that separates either or both of them from the people of this country.
Of course the truth is exactly as the Bishop of Birmingham put it. I am sure that he did not put it in any unkindly or contemptuous spirit towards those old English seats of learning, which whether they are or are not seats of learning, are, at any rate, old and English, and those are two very good things to be. The Old English University is a playground for the governing class. That does not prove that it is a bad thing; it might prove that it was a very good thing. Certainly if there is a governing class, let there be a playground for the governing class. I would much rather be ruled by men who know how to play than by men who do not know how to play. Granted that we are to be governed by a rich section of the community, it is certainly very important that that section should be kept tolerably genial and jolly. If the sensitive man on the Outlook does not like the phrase, “Playground of the rich,” I can suggest a phrase that describes such a place as Oxford perhaps with more precision. It is a place for humanising those who might otherwise be tyrants, or even experts.
To pretend that the aristocrat meets all classes at Oxford is too ludicrous to be worth discussion. But it may be true that he meets more different kinds of men than he would meet under a strictly aristocratic regime of private tutors and small schools. It all comes back to the fact that the English, if they were resolved to have an aristocracy, were at least resolved to have a good-natured aristocracy. And it is due to them to say that almost alone among the peoples of the world, they have succeeded in getting one. One could almost tolerate the thing, if it were not for the praise of it. One might endure Oxford, but not the Outlook.
When the poor man at Oxford loses his angles (which means, I suppose, his independence), he may perhaps, even if his poverty is of that highly relative type possible at Oxford, gain a certain amount of worldly advantage from the surrender of those angles. I must confess, however, that I can imagine nothing nastier than to lose one’s angles. It seems to me that a desire to retain some angles about one’s person is a desire common to all those human beings who do not set their ultimate hopes upon looking like Humpty-Dumpty. Our angles are simply our shapes. I cannot imagine any phrase more full of the subtle and exquisite vileness which is poisoning and weakening our country than such a phrase as this, about the desirability of rubbing down the angularities of poor men. Reduced to permanent and practical human speech, it means nothing whatever except the corrupting of that first human sense of justice which is the critic of all human institutions.
It is not in any such spirit of facile and reckless reassurance that we should approach the really difficult problem of the delicate virtues and the deep dangers of our two historic seats of learning. A good son does not easily admit that his sick mother is dying; but neither does a good son cheerily assert that she is “all right.” There are many good arguments for leaving the two historic Universities exactly as they are. There are many good arguments for smashing them or altering them entirely. But in either case the plain truth told by the Bishop of Birmingham remains. If these Universities were destroyed, they would not be destroyed as Universities. If they are preserved, they will not be preserved as Universities. They will be preserved strictly and literally as playgrounds; places valued for their hours of leisure more than for their hours of work. I do not say that this is unreasonable; as a matter of private temperament I find it attractive. It is not only possible to say a great deal in praise of play; it is really possible to say the highest things in praise of it. It might reasonably be maintained that the true object of all human life is play. Earth is a task garden; heaven is a playground. To be at last in such secure innocence that one can juggle with the universe and the stars, to be so good that one can treat everything as a joke— that may be, perhaps, the real end and final holiday of human souls. When we are really holy we may regard the Universe as a lark; so perhaps it is not essentially wrong to regard the University as a lark. But the plain and present fact is that our upper classes do regard the University as a lark, and do not regard it as a University. It also happens very often that through some oversight they neglect to provide themselves with that extreme degree of holiness which I have postulated as a necessary preliminary to such indulgence in the higher frivolity.
Humanity, always dreaming of a happy race, free, fantastic, and at ease, has sometimes pictured them in some mystical island, sometimes in some celestial city, sometimes as fairies, gods, or citizens of Atlantis. But one method in which it has often indulged is to picture them as aristocrats, as a special human class that could actually be seen hunting in the woods or driving about the streets. And this never was (as some silly Germans say) a worship of pride and scorn; mankind never really admired pride; mankind never had any thing but a scorn for scorn. It was a worship of the spectacle of happiness; especially of the spectacle of youth. This is what the old Universities in their noblest aspect really are; and this is why there is always something to be said for keeping them as they are. Aristocracy is not a tyranny; it is not even merely a spell. It is a vision. It is a deliberate indulgence in a certain picture of pleasure painted for the purpose; every Duchess is (in an innocent sense) painted, like Gainsborough’s “Duchess of Devonshire.” She is only beautiful because, at the back of all, the English people wanted her to be beautiful. In the same way, the lads at Oxford and Cambridge are only larking because England, in the depths of its solemn soul, really wishes them to lark. All this is very human and pardonable, and would be even harmless if there were no such things in the world as danger and honour and intellectual responsibility. But if aristocracy is a vision, it is perhaps the most unpractical of all visions. It is not a working way of doing things to put all your happiest people on a lighted platform and stare only at them. It is not a working way of managing education to be entirely content with the mere fact that you have (to a degree unexampled in the world) given the luckiest boys the jolliest time. It would be easy enough, like the writer in the Outlook, to enjoy the pleasures and deny the perils. Oh what a happy place England would be to live in if only one did not love it!
WOMAN
A correspondent has written me an able and interesting letter in the matter of some allusions of mine to the subject of communal kitchens. He defends communal kitchens very lucidly from the standpoint of the calculating collectivist; but, like many of his school, he cannot apparently grasp that there is another test of the whole matter, with which such calculation has nothing at all to do. He knows it would be cheaper if a number of us ate at the same time, so as to use the same table. So it would. It would also be cheaper if a number of us slept at different times, so as to use the same pair of trousers. But the question is not how cheap are we buying a thing, but what are we buying? It is cheap to own a slave. And it is cheaper still to be a slave.
My correspondent also says that the habit of dining out in restaurants, etc., is growing. So, I believe, is the habit of committing suicide. I do not desire to connect the two facts together. It seems fairly clear that a man could not dine at a restaurant because he had just committed suicide; and it would be extreme, perhaps, to suggest that he commits suicide because he has just dined at a restaurant. But the two cases, when put side by side, are enough to indicate the falsity and poltroonery of this eternal modern argument from what is in fashion. The question for brave men is not whether a certain thing is increasing; the question is whether we are increasing it. I dine very often in restaurants because the nature of my trade makes it convenient: but if I thought that by dining in restaurants I was working for the creation of communal meals, I would never enter a restaurant again; I would carry bread and cheese in my pocket or eat chocolate out of automatic machines. For the personal element in some things is sacred. I heard Mr. Will Crooks put it perfectly the other day: “The most sacred thing is to be able to shut your own door.”
My correspondent says, “Would not our women be spared the drudgery of cooking and all its attendant worries, leaving them free for higher culture?” The first thing that occurs to me to say about this is very simple, and is, I imagine, a part of all our experience. If my correspondent can find any way of preventing women from worrying, he will indeed be a remarkable man. I think the matter is a much deeper one. First of all, my correspondent overlooks a distinction which is elementary in our human nature. Theoretically, I suppose, every one would like to be freed from worries. But nobody in the world would always like to be freed from worrying occupations. I should very much like (as far as my feelings at the moment go) to be free from the consuming nuisance of writing this article. But it does not follow that I should like to be free from the consuming nuisance of being a journalist. Because we are worried about a thing, it does not follow that we are not interested in it. The truth is the other way. If we are not interested, why on earth should we be worried? Women are worried about housekeeping, but those that are most interested are the most worried. Women are still more worried about their husbands and their children. And I suppose if we strangled the children and poleaxed the husbands it would leave women free for higher culture. That is, it would leave them free to begin to worry about that. For women would worry about higher culture as much as they worry about everything else.
I believe this way of talking about women and their higher culture is almost entirely a growth of the classes which (unlike the journalistic class to which I belong) have always a reasonable amount of money. One odd thing I specially notice. Those who write like this seem entirely to forget the existence of the working and wage-earning classes. They say eternally, like my correspondent, that the ordinary woman is always a drudge. And what, in the name of the Nine Gods, is the ordinary man? These people seem to think that the ordinary man is a Cabinet Minister. They are always talking about man going forth to wield power, to carve his own way, to stamp his individuality on the world, to command and to be obeyed. This may be true of a certain class. Dukes, perhaps, are not drudges; but, then, neither are Duchesses. The Ladies and Gentlemen of the Smart Set are quite free for the higher culture, which consists chiefly of motoring and Bridge. But the ordinary man who typifies and constitutes the millions that make up our civilisation is no more free for the higher culture than his wife is.
Indeed, he is not so free. Of the two sexes the woman is in the more powerful position. For the average woman is at the head of something with which she can do as she likes; the average man has to obey orders and do nothing else. He has to put one dull brick on another dull brick, and do nothing else; he has to add one dull figure to another dull figure, and do nothing else. The woman’s world is a small one, perhaps, but she can alter it. The woman can tell the tradesman with whom she deals some realistic things about himself. The clerk who does this to the manager generally gets the sack, or shall we say (to avoid the vulgarism), finds himself free for higher culture. Above all, as I said in my previous article, the woman does work which is in some small degree creative and individual. She can put the flowers or the furniture in fancy arrangements of her own. I fear the bricklayer cannot put the bricks in fancy arrangements of his own, without disaster to himself and others. If the woman is only putting a patch into a carpet, she can choose the thing with regard to colour. I fear it would not do for the office boy dispatching a parcel to choose his stamps with a view to colour; to prefer the tender mauve of the sixpenny to the crude scarlet of the penny stamp. A woman cooking may not always cook artistically; still she can cook artistically. She can introduce a personal and imperceptible alteration into the composition of a soup. The clerk is not encouraged to introduce a personal and imperceptible alteration into the figures in a ledger.
The trouble is that the real question I raised is not discussed. It is argued as a problem in pennies, not as a problem in people. It is not the proposals of these reformers that I feel to be false so much as their temper and their arguments. I am not nearly so certain that communal kitchens are wrong as I am that the defenders of communal kitchens are wrong. Of course, for one thing, there is a vast difference between the communal kitchens of which I spoke and the communal meal (monstrum horrendum, informe) which the darker and wilder mind of my correspondent diabolically calls up. But in both the trouble is that their defenders will not defend them humanly as human institutions. They will not interest themselves in the staring psychological fact that there are some things that a man or a woman, as the case may be, wishes to do for himself or herself. He or she must do it inventively, creatively, artistically, individually— in a word, badly. Choosing your wife (say) is one of these things. Is choosing your husband’s dinner one of these things? That is the whole question: it is never asked.
And then the higher culture. I know that culture. I would not set any man free for it if I could help it. The effect of it on the rich men who are free for it is so horrible that it is worse than any of the other amusements of the millionaire— worse than gambling, worse even than philanthropy. It means thinking the smallest poet in Belgium greater than the greatest poet of England. It means losing every democratic sympathy. It means being unable to talk to a navvy about sport, or about beer, or about the Bible, or about the Derby, or about patriotism, or about anything whatever that he, the navvy, wants to talk about. It means taking literature seriously, a very amateurish thing to do. It means pardoning indecency only when it is gloomy indecency. Its disciples will call a spade a spade; but only when it is a grave-digger’s spade. The higher culture is sad, cheap, impudent, unkind, without honesty and without ease. In short, it is “high.” That abominable word (also applied to game) admirably describes it.
No; if you were setting women free for something else, I might be more melted. If you can assure me, privately and gravely, that you are setting women free to dance on the mountains like mænads, or to worship some monstrous goddess, I will make a note of your request. If you are quite sure that the ladies in Brixton, the moment they give up cooking, will beat great gongs and blow horns to Mumbo-Jumbo, then I will agree that the occupation is at least human and is more or less entertaining. Women have been set free to be Bacchantes; they have been set free to be Virgin Martyrs; they have been set free to be Witches. Do not ask them now to sink so low as the higher culture.
I have my own little notions of the possible emancipation of women; but I suppose I should not be taken very seriously if I propounded them. I should favour anything that would increase the present enormous authority of women and their creative action in their own homes. The average woman, as I have said, is a despot; the average man is a serf. I am for any scheme that any one can suggest that will make the average woman more of a despot. So far from wishing her to get her cooked meals from outside, I should like her to cook more wildly and at her own will than she does. So far from getting always the same meals from the same place, let her invent, if she likes, a new dish every day of her life. Let woman be more of a maker, not less. We are right to talk about “Woman;” only blackguards talk about women. Yet all men talk about men, and that is the whole difference. Men represent the deliberative and democratic element in life. Woman represents the despotic.
THE MODERN MARTYR
The incident of the Suffragettes who chained themselves with iron chains to the railings of Downing Street is a good ironical allegory of most modern martyrdom. It generally consists of a man chaining himself up and then complaining that he is not free. Some say that such larks retard the cause of female suffrage, others say that such larks alone can advance it; as a matter of fact, I do not believe that they have the smallest effect one way or the other.
The modern notion of impressing the public by a mere demonstration of unpopularity, by being thrown out of meetings or thrown into jail is largely a mistake. It rests on a fallacy touching the true popular value of martyrdom. People look at human history and see that it has often happened that persecutions have not only advertised but even advanced a persecuted creed, and given to its validity the public and dreadful witness of dying men. The paradox was pictorially expressed in Christian art, in which saints were shown brandishing as weapons the very tools that had slain them. And because his martyrdom is thus a power to the martyr, modern people think that any one who makes himself slightly uncomfortable in public will immediately be uproariously popular. This element of inadequate martyrdom is not true only of the Suffragettes; it is true of many movements I respect and some that I agree with. It was true, for instance, of the Passive Resisters, who had pieces of their furniture sold up. The assumption is that if you show your ordinary sincerity (or even your political ambition) by being a nuisance to yourself as well as to other people, you will have the strength of the great saints who passed through the fire. Any one who can be hustled in a hall for five minutes, or put in a cell for five days, has achieved what was meant by martyrdom, and has a halo in the Christian art of the future. Miss Pankhurst will be represented holding a policeman in each hand— the instruments of her martyrdom. The Passive Resister will be shown symbolically carrying the teapot that was torn from him by tyrannical auctioneers.
But there is a fallacy in this analogy of martyrdom. The truth is that the special impressiveness which does come from being persecuted only happens in the case of extreme persecution. For the fact that the modern enthusiast will undergo some inconvenience for the creed he holds only proves that he does hold it, which no one ever doubted. No one doubts that the Nonconformist minister cares more for Nonconformity than he does for his teapot. No one doubts that Miss Pankhurst wants a vote more than she wants a quiet afternoon and an armchair. All our ordinary intellectual opinions are worth a bit of a row: I remember during the Boer War fighting an Imperialist clerk outside the Queen’s Hall, and giving and receiving a bloody nose; but I did not think it one of the incidents that produce the psychological effect of the Roman amphitheatre or the stake at Smithfield. For in that impression there is something more than the mere fact that a man is sincere enough to give his time or his comfort. Pagans were not impressed by the torture of Christians merely because it showed that they honestly held their opinion; they knew that millions of people honestly held all sorts of opinions. The point of such extreme martyrdom is much more subtle. It is that it gives an appearance of a man having something quite specially strong to back him up, of his drawing upon some power. And this can only be proved when all his physical contentment is destroyed; when all the current of his bodily being is reversed and turned to pain. If a man is seen to be roaring with laughter all the time that he is skinned alive, it would not be unreasonable to deduce that somewhere in the recesses of his mind he had thought of a rather good joke. Similarly, if men smiled and sang (as they did) while they were being boiled or torn in pieces, the spectators felt the presence of something more than mere mental honesty: they felt the presence of some new and unintelligible kind of pleasure, which, presumably, came from somewhere. It might be a strength of madness, or a lying spirit from Hell; but it was something quite positive and extraordinary; as positive as brandy and as extraordinary as conjuring. The Pagan said to himself: “If Christianity makes a man happy while his legs are being eaten by a lion, might it not make me happy while my legs are still attached to me and walking down the street?” The Secularists laboriously explain that martyrdoms do not prove a faith to be true, as if anybody was ever such a fool as to suppose that they did. What they did prove, or, rather, strongly suggest, was that something had entered human psychology which was stronger than strong pain. If a young girl, scourged and bleeding to death, saw nothing but a crown descending on her from God, the first mental step was not that her philosophy was correct, but that she was certainly feeding on something. But this particular point of psychology does not arise at all in the modern cases of mere public discomfort or inconvenience. The causes of Miss Pankhurst’s cheerfulness require no mystical explanations. If she were being burned alive as a witch, if she then looked up in unmixed rapture and saw a ballot-box descending out of heaven, then I should say that the incident, though not conclusive, was frightfully impressive. It would not prove logically that she ought to have the vote, or that anybody ought to have the vote. But it would prove this: that there was, for some reason, a sacramental reality in the vote, that the soul could take the vote and feed on it; that it was in itself a positive and overpowering pleasure, capable of being pitted against positive and overpowering pain.
I should advise modern agitators, therefore, to give up this particular method: the method of making very big efforts to get a very small punishment. It does not really go down at all; the punishment is too small, and the efforts are too obvious. It has not any of the effectiveness of the old savage martyrdom, because it does not leave the victim absolutely alone with his cause, so that his cause alone can support him. At the same time it has about it that element of the pantomimic and the absurd, which was the cruellest part of the slaying and the mocking of the real prophets. St. Peter was crucified upside down as a huge inhuman joke; but his human seriousness survived the inhuman joke, because, in whatever posture, he had died for his faith. The modern martyr of the Pankhurst type courts the absurdity without making the suffering strong enough to eclipse the absurdity. She is like a St. Peter who should deliberately stand on his head for ten seconds and then expect to be canonised for it.
Or, again, the matter might be put in this way. Modern martyrdoms fail even as demonstrations, because they do not prove even that the martyrs are completely serious. I think, as a fact, that the modern martyrs generally are serious, perhaps a trifle too serious. But their martyrdom does not prove it; and the public does not always believe it. Undoubtedly, as a fact, Dr. Clifford is quite honourably indignant with what he considers to be clericalism, but he does not prove it by having his teapot sold; for a man might easily have his teapot sold as an actress has her diamonds stolen—as a personal advertisement. As a matter of fact, Miss Pankhurst is quite in earnest about votes for women. But she does not prove it by being chucked out of meetings. A person might be chucked out of meetings just as young men are chucked out of music-halls—for fun. But no man has himself eaten by a lion as a personal advertisement. No woman is broiled on a gridiron for fun. That is where the testimony of St. Perpetua and St. Faith comes in. Doubtless it is no fault of these enthusiasts that they are not subjected to the old and searching penalties; very likely they would pass through them as triumphantly as St. Agatha. I am simply advising them upon a point of policy, things being as they are. And I say that the average man is not impressed with their sacrifices simply because they are not and cannot be more decisive than the sacrifices which the average man himself would make for mere fun if he were drunk. Drunkards would interrupt meetings and take the consequences. And as for selling a teapot, it is an act, I imagine, in which any properly constituted drunkard would take a positive pleasure. The advertisement is not good enough; it does not tell. If I were really martyred for an opinion (which is more improbable than words can say), it would certainly only be for one or two of my most central and sacred opinions. I might, perhaps, be shot for England, but certainly not for the British Empire. I might conceivably die for political freedom, but I certainly wouldn’t die for Free Trade. But as for kicking up the particular kind of shindy that the Suffragettes are kicking up, I would as soon do it for my shallowest opinion as for my deepest one. It never could be anything worse than an inconvenience; it never could be anything better than a spree. Hence the British public, and especially the working classes, regard the whole demonstration with fundamental indifference; for, while it is a demonstration that probably is adopted from the most fanatical motives, it is a demonstration which might be adopted from the most frivolous.
ON POLITICAL SECRECY
Generally, instinctively, in the absence of any special reason, humanity hates the idea of anything being hidden—that is, it hates the idea of anything being successfully hidden. Hide-and-seek is a popular pastime; but it assumes the truth of the text, “Seek and ye shall find.” Ordinary mankind (gigantic and unconquerable in its power of joy) can get a great deal of pleasure out of a game called “hide the thimble,” but that is only because it is really a game of “see the thimble.” Suppose that at the end of such a game the thimble had not been found at all; suppose its place was unknown for ever: the result on the players would not be playful, it would be tragic. That thimble would hag-ride all their dreams. They would all die in asylums. The pleasure is all in the poignant moment of passing from not knowing to knowing. Mystery stories are very popular, especially when sold at sixpence; but that is because the author of a mystery story reveals. He is enjoyed not because he creates mystery, but because he destroys mystery. Nobody would have the courage to publish a detective-story which left the problem exactly where it found it. That would rouse even the London public to revolution. No one dare publish a detective-story that did not detect.
There are three broad classes of the special things in which human wisdom does permit privacy. The first is the case I have mentioned— that of hide-and-seek, or the police novel, in which it permits privacy only in order to explode and smash privacy. The author makes first a fastidious secret of how the Bishop was murdered, only in order that he may at last declare, as from a high tower, to the whole democracy the great glad news that he was murdered by the governess. In that case, ignorance is only valued because being ignorant is the best and purest preparation for receiving the horrible revelations of high life. Somewhat in the same way being an agnostic is the best and purest preparation for receiving the happy revelations of St. John.
This first sort of secrecy we may dismiss, for its whole ultimate object is not to keep the secret, but to tell it. Then there is a second and far more important class of things which humanity does agree to hide. They are so important that they cannot possibly be discussed here. But every one will know the kind of things I mean. In connection with these, I wish to remark that though they are, in one sense, a secret, they are also always a “sécret de Polichinelle.” Upon sex and such matters we are in a human freemasonry; the freemasonry is disciplined, but the freemasonry is free. We are asked to be silent about these things, but we are not asked to be ignorant about them. On the contrary, the fundamental human argument is entirely the other way. It is the thing most common to humanity that is most veiled by humanity. It is exactly because we all know that it is there that we need not say that it is there.
Then there is a third class of things on which the best civilisation does permit privacy, does resent all inquiry or explanation. This is in the case of things which need not be explained, because they cannot be explained, things too airy, instinctive, or intangible— caprices, sudden impulses, and the more innocent kind of prejudice. A man must not be asked why he is talkative or silent, for the simple reason that he does not know. A man is not asked (even in Germany) why he walks slow or quick, simply because he could not answer. A man must take his own road through a wood, and make his own use of a holiday. And the reason is this: not because he has a strong reason, but actually because he has a weak reason; because he has a slight and fleeting feeling about the matter which he could not explain to a policeman, which perhaps the very appearance of a policeman out of the bushes might destroy. He must act on the impulse, because the impulse is unimportant, and he may never have the same impulse again. If you like to put it so he must act on the impulse because the impulse is not worth a moment’s thought. All these fancies men feel should be private; and even Fabians have never proposed to interfere with them.
Now, for the last fortnight the newspapers have been full of very varied comments upon the problem of the secrecy of certain parts of our political finance, and especially of the problem of the party funds. Some papers have failed entirely to understand what the quarrel is about. They have urged that Irish members and Labour members are also under the shadow, or, as some have said, even more under it. The ground of this frantic statement seems, when patiently considered, to be simply this: that Irish and Labour members receive money for what they do. All persons, as far as I know, on this earth receive money for what they do; the only difference is that some people, like the Irish members, do it.
I cannot imagine that any human being could think any other human being capable of maintaining the proposition that men ought not to receive money. The simple point is that, as we know that some money is given rightly and some wrongly, an elementary common-sense leads us to look with indifference at the money that is given in the middle of Ludgate Circus, and to look with particular suspicion at the money which a man will not give unless he is shut up in a box or a bathing-machine. In short, it is too silly to suppose that anybody could ever have discussed the desirability of funds. The only thing that even idiots could ever have discussed is the concealment of funds. Therefore, the whole question that we have to consider is whether the concealment of political money-transactions, the purchase of peerages, the payment of election expenses, is a kind of concealment that falls under any of the three classes I have mentioned as those in which human custom and instinct does permit us to conceal. I have suggested three kinds of secrecy which are human and defensible. Can this institution be defended by means of any of them?
Now the question is whether this political secrecy is of any of the kinds that can be called legitimate. We have roughly divided legitimate secrets into three classes. First comes the secret that is only kept in order to be revealed, as in the detective stories; secondly, the secret which is kept because everybody knows it, as in sex; and third, the secret which is kept because it is too delicate and vague to be explained at all, as in the choice of a country walk. Do any of these broad human divisions cover such a case as that of secrecy of the political and party finances? It would be absurd, and even delightfully absurd, to pretend that any of them did. It would be a wild and charming fancy to suggest that our politicians keep political secrets only that they may make political revelations. A modern peer only pretends that he has earned his peerage in order that he may more dramatically declare, with a scream of scorn and joy, that he really bought it. The Baronet pretends that he deserved his title only in order to make more exquisite and startling the grand historical fact that he did not deserve it. Surely this sounds improbable. Surely all our statesmen cannot be saving themselves up for the excitement of a death-bed repentance. The writer of detective tales makes a man a duke solely in order to blast him with a charge of burglary. But surely the Prime Minister does not make a man a duke solely in order to blast him with a charge of bribery. No; the detective-tale theory of the secrecy of political funds must (with a sigh) be given up.
Neither can we say that the thing is explained by that second case of human secrecy which is so secret that it is hard to discuss it in public. A decency is preserved about certain primary human matters precisely because every one knows all about them. But the decency touching contributions, purchases, and peerages is not kept up because most ordinary men know what is happening; it is kept up precisely because most ordinary men do not know what is happening. The ordinary curtain of decorum covers normal proceedings. But no one will say that being bribed is a normal proceeding.
And if we apply the third test to this problem of political secrecy, the case is even clearer and even more funny. Surely no one will say that the purchase of peerages and such things are kept secret because they are so light and impulsive and unimportant that they must be matters of individual fancy. A child sees a flower and for the first time feels inclined to pick it. But surely no one will say that a brewer sees a coronet and for the first time suddenly thinks that he would like to be a peer. The child’s impulse need not be explained to the police, for the simple reason that it could not be explained to anybody. But does any one believe that the laborious political ambitions of modern commercial men ever have this airy and incommunicable character? A man lying on the beach may throw stones into the sea without any particular reason. But does any one believe that the brewer throws bags of gold into the party funds without any particular reason? This theory of the secrecy of political money must also be regretfully abandoned; and with it the two other possible excuses as well. This secrecy is one which cannot be justified as a sensational joke nor as a common human freemasonry, nor as an indescribable personal whim. Strangely enough, indeed, it violates all three conditions and classes at once. It is not hidden in order to be revealed: it is hidden in order to be hidden. It is not kept secret because it is a common secret of mankind, but because mankind must not get hold of it. And it is not kept secret because it is too unimportant to be told, but because it is much too important to bear telling. In short, the thing we have is the real and perhaps rare political phenomenon of an occult government. We have an exoteric and an esoteric doctrine. England is really ruled by priestcraft, but not by priests. We have in this country all that has ever been alleged against the evil side of religion; the peculiar class with privileges, the sacred words that are unpronounceable; the important things known only to the few. In fact we lack nothing except the religion.
EDWARD VII. AND SCOTLAND
I have received a serious, and to me, at any rate, an impressive remonstrance from the Scottish Patriotic Association. It appears that I recently referred to Edward VII. of Great Britain and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith, under the horrible description of the King of England. The Scottish Patriotic Association draws my attention to the fact that by the provisions of the Act of Union, and the tradition of nationality, the monarch should be referred to as the King of Britain. The blow thus struck at me is particularly wounding because it is particularly unjust. I believe in the reality of the independent nationalities under the British Crown much more passionately and positively than any other educated Englishman of my acquaintance believes in it. I am quite certain that Scotland is a nation; I am quite certain that nationality is the key of Scotland; I am quite certain that all our success with Scotland has been due to the fact that we have in spirit treated it as a nation. I am quite certain that Ireland is a nation; I am quite certain that nationality is the key to Ireland; I am quite certain that all our failure in Ireland arose from the fact that we would not in spirit treat it as a nation. It would be difficult to find, even among the innumerable examples that exist, a stronger example of the immensely superior importance of sentiment to what is called practicality than this case of the two sister nations. It is not that we have encouraged a Scotchman to be rich; it is not that we have encouraged a Scotchman to be active; it is not that we have encouraged a Scotchman to be free. It is that we have quite definitely encouraged a Scotchman to be Scotch.
A vague, but vivid impression was received from all our writers of history, philosophy, and rhetoric that the Scottish element was something really valuable in itself, was something which even Englishmen were forced to recognise and respect. If we ever admitted the beauty of Ireland, it was as something which might be loved by an Englishman but which could hardly be respected even by an Irishman. A Scotchman might be proud of Scotland; it was enough for an Irishman that he could be fond of Ireland. Our success with the two nations has been exactly proportioned to our encouragement of their independent national emotion; the one that we would not treat nationally has alone produced Nationalists. The one nation that we would not recognise as a nation in theory is the one that we have been forced to recognise as a nation in arms. The Scottish Patriotic Association has no need to draw my attention to the importance of the separate national sentiment or the need of keeping the Border as a sacred line. The case is quite sufficiently proved by the positive history of Scotland. The place of Scottish loyalty to England has been taken by English admiration of Scotland. They do not need to envy us our titular leadership, when we seem to envy them their separation.
I wish to make very clear my entire sympathy with the national sentiment of the Scottish Patriotic Association. But I wish also to make clear this very enlightening comparison between the fate of Scotch and of Irish patriotism. In life it is always the little facts that express the large emotions, and if the English once respected Ireland as they respect Scotland, it would come out in a hundred small ways. For instance, there are crack regiments in the British Army which wear the kilt—the kilt which, as Macaulay says with perfect truth, was regarded by nine Scotchmen out of ten as the dress of a thief. The Highland officers carry a silver-hilted version of the old barbarous Gaelic broadsword with a basket-hilt, which split the skulls of so many English soldiers at Killiecrankie and Prestonpans. When you have a regiment of men in the British Army carrying ornamental silver shillelaghs you will have done the same thing for Ireland, and not before—or when you mention Brian Boru with the same intonation as Bruce.
Let me be considered therefore to have made quite clear that I believe with a quite special intensity in the independent consideration of Scotland and Ireland as apart from England. I believe that, in the proper sense of the words, Scotland is an independent nation, even if Edward VII. is the King of Scotland. I believe that, in the proper sense of words, Ireland is an independent nation, even if Edward VII. is King of Ireland. But the fact is that I have an even bolder and wilder belief than either of these. I believe that England is an independent nation. I believe that England also has its independent colour and history, and meaning. I believe that England could produce costumes quite as queer as the kilt; I believe that England has heroes fully as untranslateable as Brian Boru, and consequently I believe that Edward VII. is, among his innumerable other functions, really King of England. If my Scotch friends insist, let us call it one of his quite obscure, unpopular, and minor titles; one of his relaxations. A little while ago he was Duke of Cornwall; but for a family accident he might still have been King of Hanover. Nor do I think that we should blame the simple Cornishmen if they spoke of him in a rhetorical moment by his Cornish title, nor the well-meaning Hanoverians if they classed him with Hanoverian Princes.
Now it so happens that in the passage complained of I said the King of England merely because I meant the King of England. I was speaking strictly and especially of English Kings, of Kings in the tradition of the old Kings of England. I wrote as an English nationalist keenly conscious of the sacred boundary of the Tweed that keeps (or used to keep) our ancient enemies at bay. I wrote as an English nationalist resolved for one wild moment to throw off the tyranny of the Scotch and Irish who govern and oppress my country. I felt that England was at least spiritually guarded against these surrounding nationalities. I dreamed that the Tweed was guarded by the ghosts of Scropes and Percys; I dreamed that St. George’s Channel was guarded by St. George. And in this insular security I spoke deliberately and specifically of the King of England, of the representative of the Tudors and Plantagenets. It is true that the two Kings of England, of whom I especially spoke, Charles II. and George III., had both an alien origin, not very recent and not very remote. Charles II. came of a family originally Scotch. George III. came of a family originally German. But the same, so far as that goes, could be said of the English royal houses when England stood quite alone. The Plantagenets were originally a French family. The Tudors were originally a Welsh family. But I was not talking of the amount of English sentiment in the English Kings. I was talking of the amount of English sentiment in the English treatment and popularity of the English Kings. With that Ireland and Scotland have nothing whatever to do.
Charles II. may, for all I know, have not only been King of Scotland; he may, by virtue of his temper and ancestry, have been a Scotch King of Scotland. There was something Scotch about his combination of clear-headedness with sensuality. There was something Scotch about his combination of doing what he liked with knowing what he was doing. But I was not talking of the personality of Charles, which may have been Scotch. I was talking of the popularity of Charles, which was certainly English. One thing is quite certain: whether or no he ever ceased to be a Scotch man, he ceased as soon as he conveniently could to be a Scotch King. He had actually tried the experiment of being a national ruler north of the Tweed, and his people liked him as little as he liked them. Of Presbyterianism, of the Scottish religion, he left on record the exquisitely English judgment that it was “no religion for a gentleman.” His popularity then was purely English; his royalty was purely English; and I was using the words with the utmost narrowness and deliberation when I spoke of this particular popularity and royalty as the popularity and royalty of a King of England. I said of the English people specially that they like to pick up the King’s crown when he has dropped it. I do not feel at all sure that this does apply to the Scotch or the Irish. I think that the Irish would knock his crown off for him. I think that the Scotch would keep it for him after they had picked it up.
For my part, I should be inclined to adopt quite the opposite method of asserting nationality. Why should good Scotch nationalists call Edward VII. the King of Britain? They ought to call him King Edward I. of Scotland. What is Britain? Where is Britain? There is no such place. There never was a nation of Britain; there never was a King of Britain; unless perhaps Vortigern or Uther Pendragon had a taste for the title. If we are to develop our Monarchy, I should be altogether in favour of developing it along the line of local patriotism and of local proprietorship in the King. I think that the Londoners ought to call him the King of London, and the Liverpudlians ought to call him the King of Liverpool. I do not go so far as to say that the people of Birmingham ought to call Edward VII. the King of Birmingham; for that would be high treason to a holier and more established power. But I think we might read in the papers: “The King of Brighton left Brighton at half-past two this afternoon,” and then immediately afterwards, “The King of Worthing entered Worthing at ten minutes past three.” Or, “The people of Margate bade a reluctant farewell to the popular King of Margate this morning,” and then, “His Majesty the King of Ramsgate returned to his country and capital this afternoon after his long sojourn in strange lands.” It might be pointed out that by a curious coincidence the departure of the King of Oxford occurred a very short time before the triumphal arrival of the King of Reading. I cannot imagine any method which would more increase the kindly and normal relations between the Sovereign and his people. Nor do I think that such a method would be in any sense a depreciation of the royal dignity; for, as a matter of fact, it would put the King upon the same platform with the gods. The saints, the most exalted of human figures, were also the most local. It was exactly the men whom we most easily connected with heaven whom we also most easily connected with earth.
THOUGHTS AROUND KOEPENICK
A famous and epigrammatic author said that life copied literature; it seems clear that life really caricatures it. I suggested recently that the Germans submitted to, and even admired, a solemn and theatrical assertion of authority. A few hours after I had sent up my “copy,” I saw the first announcement of the affair of the comic Captain at Koepenick. The most absurd part of this absurd fraud (at least, to English eyes) is one which, oddly enough, has received comparatively little comment. I mean the point at which the Mayor asked for a warrant, and the Captain pointed to the bayonets of his soldiery and said. “These are my authority.” One would have thought any one would have known that no soldier would talk like that. The dupes were blamed for not knowing that the man wore the wrong cap or the wrong sash, or had his sword buckled on the wrong way; but these are technicalities which they might surely be excused for not knowing. I certainly should not know if a soldier’s sash were on inside out or his cap on behind before. But I should know uncommonly well that genuine professional soldiers do not talk like Adelphi villains and utter theatrical epigrams in praise of abstract violence.
We can see this more clearly, perhaps, if we suppose it to be the case of any other dignified and clearly distinguishable profession. Suppose a Bishop called upon me. My great modesty and my rather distant reverence for the higher clergy might lead me certainly to a strong suspicion that any Bishop who called on me was a bogus Bishop. But if I wished to test his genuineness I should not dream of attempting to do so by examining the shape of his apron or the way his gaiters were done up. I have not the remotest idea of the way his gaiters ought to be done up. A very vague approximation to an apron would probably take me in; and if he behaved like an approximately Christian gentleman he would be safe enough from my detection. But suppose the Bishop, the moment he entered the room, fell on his knees on the mat, clasped his hands, and poured out a flood of passionate and somewhat hysterical extempore prayer, I should say at once and without the smallest hesitation, “Whatever else this man is, he is not an elderly and wealthy cleric of the Church of England. They don’t do such things.” Or suppose a man came to me pretending to be a qualified doctor, and flourished a stethoscope, or what he said was a stethoscope. I am glad to say that I have not even the remotest notion of what a stethoscope looks like; so that if he flourished a musical-box or a coffee-mill it would be all one to me. But I do think that I am not exaggerating my own sagacity if I say that I should begin to suspect the doctor if on entering my room he flung his legs and arms about, crying wildly, “Health! Health! priceless gift of Nature! I possess it! I overflow with it! I yearn to impart it! Oh, the sacred rapture of imparting health!” In that case I should suspect him of being rather in a position to receive than to offer medical superintendence.
Now, it is no exaggeration at all to say that any one who has ever known any soldiers (I can only answer for English and Irish and Scotch soldiers) would find it just as easy to believe that a real Bishop would grovel on the carpet in a religious ecstasy, or that a real doctor would dance about the drawing-room to show the invigorating effects of his own medicine, as to believe that a soldier, when asked for his authority, would point to a lot of shining weapons and declare symbolically that might was right. Of course, a real soldier would go rather red in the face and huskily repeat the proper formula, whatever it was, as that he came in the King’s name.
Soldiers have many faults, but they have one redeeming merit; they are never worshippers of force. Soldiers more than any other men are taught severely and systematically that might is not right. The fact is obvious. The might is in the hundred men who obey. The right (or what is held to be right) is in the one man who commands them. They learn to obey symbols, arbitrary things, stripes on an arm, buttons on a coat, a title, a flag. These may be artificial things; they may be unreasonable things; they may, if you will, be wicked things; but they are weak things. They are not Force, and they do not look like Force. They are parts of an idea: of the idea of discipline; if you will, of the idea of tyranny; but still an idea. No soldier could possibly say that his own bayonets were his authority. No soldier could possibly say that he came in the name of his own bayonets. It would be as absurd as if a postman said that he came inside his bag. I do not, as I have said, underrate the evils that really do arise from militarism and the military ethic. It tends to give people wooden faces and sometimes wooden heads. It tends moreover (both through its specialisation and through its constant obedience) to a certain loss of real independence and strength of character. This has almost always been found when people made the mistake of turning the soldier into a statesman, under the mistaken impression that he was a strong man. The Duke of Wellington, for instance, was a strong soldier and therefore a weak statesman. But the soldier is always, by the nature of things, loyal to something. And as long as one is loyal to something one can never be a worshipper of mere force. For mere force, violence in the abstract, is the enemy of anything we love. To love anything is to see it at once under lowering skies of danger. Loyalty implies loyalty in misfortune; and when a soldier has accepted any nation’s uniform he has already accepted its defeat.
Nevertheless, it does appear to be possible in Germany for a man to point to fixed bayonets and say, “These are my authority,” and yet to convince ordinarily sane men that he is a soldier. If this is so, it does really seem to point to some habit of high-falutin’ in the German nation, such as that of which I spoke previously. It almost looks as if the advisers, and even the officials, of the German Army had become infected in some degree with the false and feeble doctrine that might is right. As this doctrine is invariably preached by physical weaklings like Nietzsche it is a very serious thing even to entertain the supposition that it is affecting men who have really to do military work. It would be the end of German soldiers to be affected by German philosophy. Energetic people use energy as a means, but only very tired people ever use energy as a reason. Athletes go in for games, because athletes desire glory. Invalids go in for calisthenics; for invalids (alone of all human beings) desire strength. So long as the German Army points to its heraldic eagle and says, “I come in the name of this fierce but fabulous animal,” the German Army will be all right. If ever it says, “I come in the name of bayonets,” the bayonets will break like glass, for only the weak exhibit strength without an aim.
At the same time, as I said before, do not let us forget our own faults. Do not let us forget them any the more easily because they are the opposite to the German faults. Modern England is too prone to present the spectacle of a person who is enormously delighted because he has not got the contrary disadvantages to his own. The Englishman is always saying “My house is not damp” at the moment when his house is on fire. The Englishman is always saying, “I have thrown off all traces of anæmia” in the middle of a fit of apoplexy. Let us always remember that if an Englishman wants to swindle English people, he does not dress up in the uniform of a soldier. If an Englishman wants to swindle English people he would as soon think of dressing up in the uniform of a messenger boy. Everything in England is done unofficially, casually, by conversations and cliques. The one Parliament that really does rule England is a secret Parliament; the debates of which must not be published— the Cabinet. The debates of the Commons are sometimes important; but only the debates in the Lobby, never the debates in the House. Journalists do control public opinion; but it is not controlled by the arguments they publish—it is controlled by the arguments between the editor and sub-editor, which they do not publish. This casualness is our English vice. It is at once casual and secret. Our public life is conducted privately. Hence it follows that if an English swindler wished to impress us, the last thing he would think of doing would be to put on a uniform. He would put on a polite slouching air and a careless, expensive suit of clothes; he would stroll up to the Mayor, be so awfully sorry to disturb him, find he had forgotten his card-case, mention, as if he were ashamed of it, that he was the Duke of Mercia, and carry the whole thing through with the air of a man who could get two hundred witnesses and two thousand retainers, but who was too tired to call any of them. And if he did it very well I strongly suspect that he would be as successful as the indefensible Captain at Koepenick.
Our tendency for many centuries past has been, not so much towards creating an aristocracy (which may or may not be a good thing in itself), as towards substituting an aristocracy for everything else. In England we have an aristocracy instead of a religion. The nobility are to the English poor what the saints and the fairies are to the Irish poor, what the large devil with a black face was to the Scotch poor—the poetry of life. In the same way in England we have an aristocracy instead of a Government. We rely on a certain good humour and education in the upper class to interpret to us our contradictory Constitution. No educated man born of woman will be quite so absurd as the system that he has to administer. In short, we do not get good laws to restrain bad people. We get good people to restrain bad laws. And last of all we in England have an aristocracy instead of an Army. We have an Army of which the officers are proud of their families and ashamed of their uniforms. If I were a king of any country whatever, and one of my officers were ashamed of my uniform, I should be ashamed of my officer. Beware, then, of the really well-bred and apologetic gentleman whose clothes are at once quiet and fashionable, whose manner is at once diffident and frank. Beware how you admit him into your domestic secrets, for he may be a bogus Earl. Or, worse still, a real one.
THE BOY
I have no sympathy with international aggression when it is taken seriously, but I have a certain dark and wild sympathy with it when it is quite absurd. Raids are all wrong as practical politics, but they are human and imaginable as practical jokes. In fact, almost any act of ragging or violence can be forgiven on this strict condition—that it is of no use at all to anybody. If the aggressor gets anything out of it, then it is quite unpardonable. It is damned by the least hint of utility or profit. A man of spirit and breeding may brawl, but he does not steal. A gentleman knocks off his friend’s hat; but he does not annex his friend’s hat. For this reason (as Mr. Belloc has pointed out somewhere), the very militant French people have always returned after their immense raids— the raids of Godfrey the Crusader, the raids of Napoleon; “they are sucked back, having accomplished nothing but an epic.”
Sometimes I see small fragments of information in the newspapers which make my heart leap with an irrational patriotic sympathy. I have had the misfortune to be left comparatively cold by many of the enterprises and proclamations of my country in recent times. But the other day I found in the Tribune the following paragraph, which I may be permitted to set down as an example of the kind of international outrage with which I have by far the most instinctive sympathy. There is something attractive, too, in the austere simplicity with which the affair is set forth—
“Geneva, Oct. 31.
“The English schoolboy Allen, who was arrested at Lausanne railway station on Saturday, for having painted red the statue of General Jomini of Payerne, was liberated yesterday, after paying a fine of £24. Allen has proceeded to Germany, where he will continue his studies. The people of Payerne are indignant, and clamoured for his detention in prison.”
Now I have no doubt that ethics and social necessity require a contrary attitude, but I will freely confess that my first emotions on reading of this exploit were those of profound and elemental pleasure. There is something so large and simple about the operation of painting a whole stone General a bright red. Of course I can understand that the people of Payerne were indignant. They had passed to their homes at twilight through the streets of that beautiful city (or is it a province?), and they had seen against the silver ending of the sunset the grand grey figure of the hero of that land remaining to guard the town under the stars. It certainly must have been a shock to come out in the broad white morning and find a large vermilion General staring under the staring sun. I do not blame them at all for clamouring for the schoolboy’s detention in prison; I dare say a little detention in prison would do him no harm. Still, I think the immense act has something about it human and excusable; and when I endeavour to analyse the reason of this feeling I find it to lie, not in the fact that the thing was big or bold or successful, but in the fact that the thing was perfectly useless to everybody, including the person who did it. The raid ends in itself; and so Master Allen is sucked back again, having accomplished nothing but an epic.
There is one thing which, in the presence of average modern journalism, is perhaps worth saying in connection with such an idle matter as this. The morals of a matter like this are exactly like the morals of anything else; they are concerned with mutual contract, or with the rights of independent human lives. But the whole modern world, or at any rate the whole modern Press, has a perpetual and consuming terror of plain morals. Men always attempt to avoid condemning a thing upon merely moral grounds. If I beat my grandmother to death to-morrow in the middle of Battersea Park, you may be perfectly certain that people will say everything about it except the simple and fairly obvious fact that it is wrong. Some will call it insane; that is, will accuse it of a deficiency of intelligence. This is not necessarily true at all. You could not tell whether the act was unintelligent or not unless you knew my grandmother. Some will call it vulgar, disgusting, and the rest of it; that is, they will accuse it of a lack of manners. Perhaps it does show a lack of manners; but this is scarcely its most serious disadvantage. Others will talk about the loathsome spectacle and the revolting scene; that is, they will accuse it of a deficiency of art, or æsthetic beauty. This again depends on the circumstances: in order to be quite certain that the appearance of the old lady has definitely deteriorated under the process of being beaten to death, it is necessary for the philosophical critic to be quite certain how ugly she was before. Another school of thinkers will say that the action is lacking in efficiency: that it is an uneconomic waste of a good grandmother. But that could only depend on the value, which is again an individual matter. The only real point that is worth mentioning is that the action is wicked, because your grandmother has a right not to be beaten to death. But of this simple moral explanation modern journalism has, as I say, a standing fear. It will call the action anything else— mad, bestial, vulgar, idiotic, rather than call it sinful.
One example can be found in such cases as that of the prank of the boy and the statue. When some trick of this sort is played, the newspapers opposed to it always describe it as “a senseless joke.” What is the good of saying that? Every joke is a senseless joke. A joke is by its nature a protest against sense. It is no good attacking nonsense for being successfully nonsensical. Of course it is nonsensical to paint a celebrated Italian General a bright red; it is as nonsensical as “Alice in Wonderland.” It is also, in my opinion, very nearly as funny. But the real answer to the affair is not to say that it is nonsensical or even to say that it is not funny, but to point out that it is wrong to spoil statues which belong to other people. If the modern world will not insist on having some sharp and definite moral law, capable of resisting the counter-attractions of art and humour, the modern world will simply be given over as a spoil to anybody who can manage to do a nasty thing in a nice way. Every murderer who can murder entertainingly will be allowed to murder. Every burglar who burgles in really humorous attitudes will burgle as much as he likes.
There is another case of the thing that I mean. Why on earth do the newspapers, in describing a dynamite outrage or any other political assassination, call it a “dastardly outrage” or a cowardly outrage? It is perfectly evident that it is not dastardly in the least. It is perfectly evident that it is about as cowardly as the Christians going to the lions. The man who does it exposes himself to the chance of being torn in pieces by two thousand people. What the thing is, is not cowardly, but profoundly and detestably wicked. The man who does it is very infamous and very brave. But, again, the explanation is that our modern Press would rather appeal to physical arrogance, or to anything, rather than appeal to right and wrong.
In most of the matters of modern England, the real difficulty is that there is a negative revolution without a positive revolution. Positive aristocracy is breaking up without any particular appearance of positive democracy taking its place. The polished class is becoming less polished without becoming less of a class; the nobleman who becomes a guinea-pig keeps all his privileges but loses some of his tradition; he becomes less of a gentleman without becoming less of a nobleman. In the same way (until some recent and happy revivals) it seemed highly probable that the Church of England would cease to be a religion long before it had ceased to be a Church. And in the same way, the vulgarisation of the old, simple middle class does not even have the advantage of doing away with class distinctions; the vulgar man is always the most distinguished, for the very desire to be distinguished is vulgar.
At the same time, it must be remembered that when a class has a morality it does not follow that it is an adequate morality. The middle-class ethic was inadequate for some purposes; so is the public-school ethic, the ethic of the upper classes. On this last matter of the public schools Dr. Spenser, the Head Master of University College School, has lately made some valuable observations. But even he, I think, overstates the claim of the public schools. “The strong point of the English public schools,” he says, “has always lain in their efficiency as agencies for the formation of character and for the inculcation of the great notion of obligation which distinguishes a gentleman. On the physical and moral sides the public-school men of England are, I believe, unequalled.” And he goes on to say that it is on the mental side that they are defective. But, as a matter of fact, the public-school training is in the strict sense defective upon the moral side also; it leaves out about half of morality. Its just claim is that, like the old middle class (and the Zulus), it trains some virtues and therefore suits some people for some situations. Put an old English merchant to serve in an army and he would have been irritated and clumsy. Put the men from English public schools to rule Ireland, and they make the greatest hash in human history.
Touching the morality of the public schools, I will take one point only, which is enough to prove the case. People have got into their heads an extraordinary idea that English public-school boys and English youth generally are taught to tell the truth. They are taught absolutely nothing of the kind. At no English public school is it even suggested, except by accident, that it is a man’s duty to tell the truth. What is suggested is something entirely different: that it is a man’s duty not to tell lies. So completely does this mistake soak through all civilisation that we hardly ever think even of the difference between the two things. When we say to a child, “You must tell the truth,” we do merely mean that he must refrain from verbal inaccuracies. But the thing we never teach at all is the general duty of telling the truth, of giving a complete and fair picture of anything we are talking about, of not misrepresenting, not evading, not suppressing, not using plausible arguments that we know to be unfair, not selecting unscrupulously to prove an ex parte case, not telling all the nice stories about the Scotch, and all the nasty stories about the Irish, not pretending to be disinterested when you are really angry, not pretending to be angry when you are really only avaricious. The one thing that is never taught by any chance in the atmosphere of public schools is exactly that—that there is a whole truth of things, and that in knowing it and speaking it we are happy.
If any one has the smallest doubt of this neglect of truth in public schools he can kill his doubt with one plain question. Can any one on earth believe that if the seeing and telling of the whole truth were really one of the ideals of the English governing class, there could conceivably exist such a thing as the English party system? Why, the English party system is founded upon the principle that telling the whole truth does not matter. It is founded upon the principle that half a truth is better than no politics. Our system deliberately turns a crowd of men who might be impartial into irrational partisans. It teaches some of them to tell lies and all of them to believe lies. It gives every man an arbitrary brief that he has to work up as best he may and defend as best he can. It turns a room full of citizens into a room full of barristers. I know that it has many charms and virtues, fighting and good-fellowship; it has all the charms and virtues of a game. I only say that it would be a stark impossibility in a nation which believed in telling the truth.
LIMERICKS AND COUNSELS OF PERFECTION
It is customary to remark that modern problems cannot easily be attacked because they are so complex. In many cases I believe it is really because they are so simple. Nobody would believe in such simplicity of scoundrelism even if it were pointed out. People would say that the truth was a charge of mere melodramatic villainy; forgetting that nearly all villains really are melodramatic. Thus, for instance, we say that some good measures are frustrated or some bad officials kept in power by the press and confusion of public business; whereas very often the reason is simple healthy human bribery. And thus especially we say that the Yellow Press is exaggerative, over-emotional, illiterate, and anarchical, and a hundred other long words; whereas the only objection to it is that it tells lies. We waste our fine intellects in finding exquisite phraseology to fit a man, when in a well-ordered society we ought to be finding handcuffs to fit him.
This criticism of the modern type of righteous indignation must have come into many people’s minds, I think, in reading Dr. Horton’s eloquent expressions of disgust at the “corrupt Press,” especially in connection with the Limerick craze. Upon the Limerick craze itself, I fear Dr. Horton will not have much effect; such fads perish before one has had time to kill them. But Dr. Horton’s protest may really do good if it enables us to come to some clear understanding about what is really wrong with the popular Press, and which means it might be useful and which permissible to use for its reform. We do not want a censorship of the Press; but we are long past talking about that. At present it is not we that silence the Press; it is the Press that silences us. It is not a case of the Commonwealth settling how much the editors shall say; it is a case of the editors settling how much the Commonwealth shall know. If we attack the Press we shall be rebelling, not repressing. But shall we attack it?
Now it is just here that the chief difficulty occurs. It arises from the very rarity and rectitude of those minds which commonly inaugurate such crusades. I have the warmest respect for Dr. Horton’s thirst after righteousness; but it has always seemed to me that his righteousness would be more effective without his refinement. The curse of the Nonconformists is their universal refinement. They dimly connect being good with being delicate, and even dapper; with not being grotesque or loud or violent; with not sitting down on one’s hat. Now it is always a pleasure to be loud and violent, and sometimes it is a duty. Certainly it has nothing to do with sin; a man can be loudly and violently virtuous—nay, he can be loudly and violently saintly, though that is not the type of saintliness that we recognise in Dr. Horton. And as for sitting on one’s hat, if it is done for any sublime object (as, for instance, to amuse the children), it is obviously an act of very beautiful self-sacrifice, the destruction and surrender of the symbol of personal dignity upon the shrine of public festivity. Now it will not do to attack the modern editor merely for being unrefined, like the great mass of mankind. We must be able to say that he is immoral, not that he is undignified or ridiculous. I do not mind the Yellow Press editor sitting on his hat. My only objection to him begins to dawn when he attempts to sit on my hat; or, indeed (as is at present the case), when he proceeds to sit on my head.
But in reading between the lines of Dr. Horton’s invective one continually feels that he is not only angry with the popular Press for being unscrupulous: he is partly angry with the popular Press for being popular. He is not only irritated with Limericks for causing a mean money-scramble; he is also partly irritated with Limericks for being Limericks. The enormous size of the levity gets on his nerves, like the glare and blare of Bank Holiday. Now this is a motive which, however human and natural, must be strictly kept out of the way. It takes all sorts to make a world; and it is not in the least necessary that everybody should have that love of subtle and unobtrusive perfections in the matter of manners or literature which does often go with the type of the ethical idealist. It is not in the least desirable that everybody should be earnest. It is highly desirable that everybody should be honest, but that is a thing that can go quite easily with a coarse and cheerful character. But the ineffectualness of most protests against the abuse of the Press has been very largely due to the instinct of democracy (and the instinct of democracy is like the instinct of one woman, wild but quite right) that the people who were trying to purify the Press were also trying to refine it; and to this the democracy very naturally and very justly objected. We are justified in enforcing good morals, for they belong to all mankind; but we are not justified in enforcing good manners, for good manners always mean our own manners. We have no right to purge the popular Press of all that we think vulgar or trivial. Dr. Horton may possibly loathe and detest Limericks just as I loathe and detest riddles; but I have no right to call them flippant and unprofitable; there are wild people in the world who like riddles. I am so afraid of this movement passing off into mere formless rhetoric and platform passion that I will even come close to the earth and lay down specifically some of the things that, in my opinion, could be, and ought to be, done to reform the Press.
First, I would make a law, if there is none such at present, by which an editor, proved to have published false news without reasonable verification, should simply go to prison. This is not a question of influences or atmospheres; the thing could be carried out as easily and as practically as the punishment of thieves and murderers. Of course there would be the usual statement that the guilt was that of a subordinate. Let the accused editor have the right of proving this if he can; if he does, let the subordinate be tried and go to prison. Two or three good rich editors and proprietors properly locked up would take the sting out of the Yellow Press better than centuries of Dr. Horton.
Second, it’s impossible to pass over altogether the most unpleasant, but the most important part of this problem. I will deal with it as distantly as possible. I do not believe there is any harm whatever in reading about murders; rather, if anything, good; for the thought of death operates very powerfully with the poor in the creation of brotherhood and a sense of human dignity. I do not believe there is a pennyworth of harm in the police news, as such. Even divorce news, though contemptible enough, can really in most cases be left to the discretion of grown people; and how far children get hold of such things is a problem for the home and not for the nation. But there is a certain class of evils which a healthy man or woman can actually go through life without knowing anything about at all. These, I say, should be stamped and blackened out of every newspaper with the thickest black of the Russian censor. Such cases should either be always tried in camera or reporting them should be a punishable offence. The common weakness of Nature and the sins that flesh is heir to we can leave people to find in newspapers. Men can safely see in the papers what they have already seen in the streets. They may safely find in their journals what they have already found in themselves. But we do not want the imaginations of rational and decent people clouded with the horrors of some obscene insanity which has no more to do with human life than the man in Bedlam who thinks he is a chicken. And, if this vile matter is admitted, let it be simply with a mention of the Latin or legal name of the crime, and with no details whatever. As it is, exactly the reverse is true. Papers are permitted to terrify and darken the fancy of the young with innumerable details, but not permitted to state in clean legal language what the thing is about. They are allowed to give any fact about the thing except the fact that it is a sin.
Third, I would do my best to introduce everywhere the practice of signed articles. Those who urge the advantages of anonymity are either people who do not realise the special peril of our time or they are people who are profiting by it. It is true, but futile, for instance, to say that there is something noble in being nameless when a whole corporate body is bent on a consistent aim: as in an army or men building a cathedral. The point of modern newspapers is that there is no such corporate body and common aim; but each man can use the authority of the paper to further his own private fads and his own private finances.
ANONYMITY AND FURTHER COUNSELS
The end of the article which I write is always cut off, and, unfortunately, I belong to that lower class of animals in whom the tail is important. It is not anybody’s fault but my own; it arises from the fact that I take such a long time to get to the point. Somebody, the other day, very reasonably complained of my being employed to write prefaces. He was perfectly right, for I always write a preface to the preface, and then I am stopped; also quite justifiably.
In my last article I said that I favoured three things—first, the legal punishment of deliberately false information; secondly, a distinction, in the matter of reported immorality, between those sins which any healthy man can see in himself and those which he had better not see anywhere; and thirdly, an absolute insistence in the great majority of cases upon the signing of articles. It was at this point that I was cut short, I will not say by the law of space, but rather by my own lawlessness in the matter of space. In any case, there is something more that ought to be said.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I hope some day to see an anonymous article counted as dishonourable as an anonymous letter. For some time to come, the idea of the leading article, expressing the policy of the whole paper, must necessarily remain legitimate; at any rate, we have all written such leading articles, and should never think the worse of any one for writing one. But I should certainly say that writing anonymously ought to have some definite excuse, such as that of the leading article. Writing anonymously ought to be the exception; writing a signed article ought to be the rule. And anonymity ought to be not only an exception, but an accidental exception; a man ought always to be ready to say what anonymous article he had written. The journalistic habit of counting it something sacred to keep secret the origin of an article is simply part of the conspiracy which seeks to put us who are journalists in the position of a much worse sort of Jesuits or Freemasons.
As has often been said, anonymity would be all very well if one could for a moment imagine that it was established from good motives. Suppose, for instance, that we were all quite certain that the men on the Thunderer newspaper were a band of brave young idealists who were so eager to overthrow Socialism, Municipal and National, that they did not care to which of them especially was given the glory of striking it down. Unfortunately, however, we do not believe this. What we believe, or, rather, what we know, is that the attack on Socialism in the Thunderer arises from a chaos of inconsistent and mostly evil motives, any one of which would lose simply by being named. A jerry-builder whose houses have been condemned writes anonymously and becomes the Thunderer. A Socialist who has quarrelled with the other Socialists writes anonymously, and he becomes the Thunderer. A monopolist who has lost his monopoly, and a demagogue who has lost his mob, can both write anonymously and become the same newspaper. It is quite true that there is a young and beautiful fanaticism in which men do not care to reveal their names. But there is a more elderly and a much more common excitement in which men do not dare to reveal them.
Then there is another rule for making journalism honest on which I should like to insist absolutely. I should like it to be a fixed thing that the name of the proprietor as well as the editor should be printed upon every paper. If the paper is owned by shareholders, let there be a list of shareholders. If (as is far more common in this singularly undemocratic age) it is owned by one man, let that one man’s name be printed on the paper, if possible in large red letters. Then, if there are any obvious interests being served, we shall know that they are being served. My friends in Manchester are in a terrible state of excitement about the power of brewers and the dangers of admitting them to public office. But at least, if a man has controlled politics through beer, people generally know it: the subject of beer is too fascinating for any one to miss such personal peculiarities. But a man may control politics through journalism, and no ordinary English citizen know that he is controlling them at all. Again and again in the lists of Birthday Honours you and I have seen some Mr. Robinson suddenly elevated to the Peerage without any apparent reason. Even the Society papers (which we read with avidity) could tell us nothing about him except that he was a sportsman or a kind landlord, or interested in the breeding of badgers. Now I should like the name of that Mr. Robinson to be already familiar to the British public. I should like them to know already the public services for which they have to thank him. I should like them to have seen the name already on the outside of that organ of public opinion called Tootsie’s Tips, or The Boy Blackmailer, or Nosey Knows, that bright little financial paper which did so much for the Empire and which so narrowly escaped a criminal prosecution. If they had seen it thus, they would estimate more truly and tenderly the full value of the statement in the Society paper that he is a true gentleman and a sound Churchman.
Finally, it should be practically imposed by custom (it so happens that it could not possibly be imposed by law) that letters of definite and practical complaint should be necessarily inserted by any editor in any paper. Editors have grown very much too lax in this respect. The old editor used dimly to regard himself as an unofficial public servant for the transmitting of public news. If he suppressed anything, he was supposed to have some special reason for doing so; as that the material was actually libellous or literally indecent. But the modern editor regards himself far too much as a kind of original artist, who can select and suppress facts with the arbitrary ease of a poet or a caricaturist. He “makes up” the paper as man “makes up” a fairy tale, he considers his newspaper solely as a work of art, meant to give pleasure, not to give news. He puts in this one letter because he thinks it clever. He puts in these three or four letters because he thinks them silly. He suppresses this article because he thinks it wrong. He suppresses this other and more dangerous article because he thinks it right. The old idea that he is simply a mode of the expression of the public, an “organ” of opinion, seems to have entirely vanished from his mind. To-day the editor is not only the organ, but the man who plays on the organ. For in all our modern movements we move away from Democracy.
This is the whole danger of our time. There is a difference between the oppression which has been too common in the past and the oppression which seems only too probable in the future. Oppression in the past, has commonly been an individual matter. The oppressors were as simple as the oppressed, and as lonely. The aristocrat sometimes hated his inferiors; he always hated his equals. The plutocrat was an individualist. But in our time even the plutocrat has become a Socialist. They have science and combination, and may easily inaugurate a much greater tyranny than the world has ever seen.
ON THE CRYPTIC AND THE ELLIPTIC
Surely the art of reporting speeches is in a strange state of degeneration. We should not object, perhaps, to the reporter’s making the speeches much shorter than they are; but we do object to his making all the speeches much worse than they are. And the method which he employs is one which is dangerously unjust. When a statesman or philosopher makes an important speech, there are several courses which the reporter might take without being unreasonable. Perhaps the most reasonable course of all would be not to report the speech at all. Let the world live and love, marry and give in marriage, without that particular speech, as they did (in some desperate way) in the days when there were no newspapers. A second course would be to report a small part of it; but to get that right. A third course, far better if you can do it, is to understand the main purpose and argument of the speech, and report that in clear and logical language of your own. In short, the three possible methods are, first, to leave the man’s speech alone; second, to report what he says or some complete part of what he says; and third, to report what he means. But the present way of reporting speeches (mainly created, I think, by the scrappy methods of the Daily Mail) is something utterly different from both these ways, and quite senseless and misleading.
The present method is this: the reporter sits listening to a tide of words which he does not try to understand, and does not, generally speaking, even try to take down; he waits until something occurs in the speech which for some reason sounds funny, or memorable, or very exaggerated, or, perhaps, merely concrete; then he writes it down and waits for the next one. If the orator says that the Premier is like a porpoise in the sea under some special circumstances, the reporter gets in the porpoise even if he leaves out the Premier. If the orator begins by saying that Mr. Chamberlain is rather like a violoncello, the reporter does not even wait to hear why he is like a violoncello. He has got hold of something material, and so he is quite happy. The strong words are all put in; the chain of thought is left out. If the orator uses the word “donkey,” down goes the word “donkey.” If the orator uses the word “damnable,” down goes the word “damnable.” They follow each other so abruptly in the report that it is often hard to discover the fascinating fact as to what was damnable or who was being compared with a donkey. And the whole line of argument in which these things occurred is entirely lost. I have before me a newspaper report of a speech by Mr. Bernard Shaw, of which one complete and separate paragraph runs like this—
“Capital meant spare money over and above one’s needs. Their country was not really their country at all except in patriotic songs.”
I am well enough acquainted with the whole map of Mr. Bernard Shaw’s philosophy to know that those two statements might have been related to each other in a hundred ways. But I think that if they were read by an ordinary intelligent man, who happened not to know Mr. Shaw’s views, he would form no impression at all except that Mr. Shaw was a lunatic of more than usually abrupt conversation and disconnected mind. The other two methods would certainly have done Mr. Shaw more justice: the reporter should either have taken down verbatim what the speaker really said about Capital, or have given an outline of the way in which this idea was connected with the idea about patriotic songs.
But we have not the advantage of knowing what Mr. Shaw really did say, so we had better illustrate the different methods from something that we do know. Most of us, I suppose, know Mark Antony’s Funeral Speech in “Julius Cæsar.” Now Mark Antony would have no reason to complain if he were not reported at all; if the Daily Pilum or the Morning Fasces, or whatever it was, confined itself to saying, “Mr. Mark Antony also spoke,” or “Mr. Mark Antony, having addressed the audience, the meeting broke up in some confusion.” The next honest method, worthy of a noble Roman reporter, would be that since he could not report the whole of the speech, he should report some of the speech. He might say—“Mr. Mark Antony, in the course of his speech, said—
‘When that the poor have cried Cæsar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.’”
In that case one good, solid argument of Mark Antony would be correctly reported. The third and far higher course for the Roman reporter would be to give a philosophical statement of the purport of the speech. As thus—“Mr. Mark Antony, in the course of a powerful speech, conceded the high motives of the Republican leaders, and disclaimed any intention of raising the people against them; he thought, however, that many instances could be quoted against the theory of Cæsar’s ambition, and he concluded by reading, at the request of the audience, the will of Cæsar, which proved that he had the most benevolent designs towards the Roman people.” That is (I admit) not quite so fine as Shakspere, but it is a statement of the man’s political position. But if a Daily Mail reporter were sent to take down Antony’s oration, he would simply wait for any expressions that struck him as odd and put them down one after another without any logical connection at all. It would turn out something like this: “Mr. Mark Antony wished for his audience’s ears. He had thrice offered Cæsar a crown. Cæsar was like a deer. If he were Brutus he would put a wound in every tongue. The stones of Rome would mutiny. See what a rent the envious Casca paid. Brutus was Cæsar’s angel. The right honourable gentleman concluded by saying that he and the audience had all fallen down.” That is the report of a political speech in a modern, progressive, or American manner, and I wonder whether the Romans would have put up with it.
The reports of the debates in the Houses of Parliament are constantly growing smaller and smaller in our newspapers. Perhaps this is partly because the speeches are growing duller and duller. I think in some degree the two things act and re-act on each other. For fear of the newspapers politicians are dull, and at last they are too dull even for the newspapers. The speeches in our time are more careful and elaborate, because they are meant to be read, and not to be heard. And exactly because they are more careful and elaborate, they are not so likely to be worthy of a careful and elaborate report. They are not interesting enough. So the moral cowardice of modern politicians has, after all, some punishment attached to it by the silent anger of heaven. Precisely because our political speeches are meant to be reported, they are not worth reporting. Precisely because they are carefully designed to be read, nobody reads them.
Thus we may concede that politicians have done something towards degrading journalism. It was not entirely done by us, the journalists. But most of it was. It was mostly the fruit of our first and most natural sin—the habit of regarding ourselves as conjurers rather than priests, for the definition is that a conjurer is apart from his audience, while a priest is a part of his. The conjurer despises his congregation; if the priest despises any one, it must be himself. The curse of all journalism, but especially of that yellow journalism which is the shame of our profession, is that we think ourselves cleverer than the people for whom we write, whereas, in fact, we are generally even stupider. But this insolence has its Nemesis; and that Nemesis is well illustrated in this matter of reporting.
For the journalist, having grown accustomed to talking down to the public, commonly talks too low at last, and becomes merely barbaric and unintelligible. By his very efforts to be obvious he becomes obscure. This just punishment may specially be noticed in the case of those staggering and staring headlines which American journalism introduced and which some English journalism imitates. I once saw a headline in a London paper which ran simply thus: “Dobbin’s Little Mary.” This was intended to be familiar and popular, and therefore, presumably, lucid. But it was some time before I realised, after reading about half the printed matter underneath, that it had something to do with the proper feeding of horses. At first sight, I took it, as the historical leader of the future will certainly take it, as containing some allusion to the little daughter who so monopolised the affections of the Major at the end of “Vanity Fair.” The Americans carry to an even wilder extreme this darkness by excess of light. You may find a column in an American paper headed “Poet Brown Off Orange-flowers,” or “Senator Robinson Shoehorns Hats Now,” and it may be quite a long time before the full meaning breaks upon you: it has not broken upon me yet.
And something of this intellectual vengeance pursues also those who adopt the modern method of reporting speeches. They also become mystical, simply by trying to be vulgar. They also are condemned to be always trying to write like George R. Sims, and succeeding, in spite of themselves, in writing like Maeterlinck. That combination of words which I have quoted from an alleged speech of Mr. Bernard Shaw’s was written down by the reporter with the idea that he was being particularly plain and democratic. But, as a matter of fact, if there is any connection between the two sentences, it must be something as dark as the deepest roots of Browning, or something as invisible as the most airy filaments of Meredith. To be simple and to be democratic are two very honourable and austere achievements; and it is not given to all the snobs and self-seekers to achieve them. High above even Maeterlinck or Meredith stand those, like Homer and Milton, whom no one can misunderstand. And Homer and Milton are not only better poets than Browning (great as he was), but they would also have been very much better journalists than the young men on the Daily Mail.
As it is, however, this misrepresentation of speeches is only a part of a vast journalistic misrepresentation of all life as it is. Journalism is popular, but it is popular mainly as fiction. Life is one world, and life seen in the newspapers another; the public enjoys both, but it is more or less conscious of the difference. People do not believe, for instance, that the debates in the House of Commons are as dramatic as they appear in the daily papers. If they did they would go, not to the daily paper, but to the House of Commons. The galleries would be crowded every night as they were in the French Revolution; for instead of seeing a printed story for a penny they would be seeing an acted drama for nothing. But the, people know in their hearts that journalism is a conventional art like any other, that it selects, heightens, and falsifies. Only its Nemesis is the same as that of other arts: if it loses all care for truth it loses all form likewise. The modern who paints too cleverly produces a picture of a cow which might be the earthquake at San Francisco. And the journalist who reports a speech too cleverly makes it mean nothing at all.
THE WORSHIP OF THE WEALTHY
There has crept, I notice, into our literature and journalism a new way of flattering the wealthy and the great. In more straightforward times flattery itself was more straightforward; falsehood itself was more true. A poor man wishing to please a rich man simply said that he was the wisest, bravest, tallest, strongest, most benevolent and most beautiful of mankind; and as even the rich man probably knew that he wasn’t that, the thing did the less harm. When courtiers sang the praises of a King they attributed to him things that were entirely improbable, as that he resembled the sun at noonday, that they had to shade their eyes when he entered the room, that his people could not breathe without him, or that he had with his single sword conquered Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. The safety of this method was its artificiality; between the King and his public image there was really no relation. But the moderns have invented a much subtler and more poisonous kind of eulogy. The modern method is to take the prince or rich man, to give a credible picture of his type of personality, as that he is business-like, or a sportsman, or fond of art, or convivial, or reserved; and then enormously exaggerate the value and importance of these natural qualities. Those who praise Mr. Carnegie do not say that he is as wise as Solomon and as brave as Mars; I wish they did. It would be the next most honest thing to giving their real reason for praising him, which is simply that he has money. The journalists who write about Mr. Pierpont Morgan do not say that he is as beautiful as Apollo; I wish they did. What they do is to take the rich man’s superficial life and manner, clothes, hobbies, love of cats, dislike of doctors, or what not; and then with the assistance of this realism make the man out to be a prophet and a saviour of his kind, whereas he is merely a private and stupid man who happens to like cats or to dislike doctors. The old flatterer took for granted that the King was an ordinary man, and set to work to make him out extraordinary. The newer and cleverer flatterer takes for granted that he is extraordinary, and that therefore even ordinary things about him will be of interest.
I have noticed one very amusing way in which this is done. I notice the method applied to about six of the wealthiest men in England in a book of interviews published by an able and well-known journalist. The flatterer contrives to combine strict truth of fact with a vast atmosphere of awe and mystery by the simple operation of dealing almost entirely in negatives. Suppose you are writing a sympathetic study of Mr. Pierpont Morgan. Perhaps there is not much to say about what he does think, or like, or admire; but you can suggest whole vistas of his taste and philosophy by talking a great deal about what he does not think, or like, or admire. You say of him—“But little attracted to the most recent schools of German philosophy, he stands almost as resolutely aloof from the tendencies of transcendental Pantheism as from the narrower ecstasies of Neo-Catholicism.” Or suppose I am called upon to praise the charwoman who has just come into my house, and who certainly deserves it much more. I say—“It would be a mistake to class Mrs. Higgs among the followers of Loisy; her position is in many ways different; nor is she wholly to be identified with the concrete Hebraism of Harnack.” It is a splendid method, as it gives the flatterer an opportunity of talking about something else besides the subject of the flattery, and it gives the subject of the flattery a rich, if somewhat bewildered, mental glow, as of one who has somehow gone through agonies of philosophical choice of which he was previously unaware. It is a splendid method; but I wish it were applied sometimes to charwomen rather than only to millionaires.
There is another way of flattering important people which has become very common, I notice, among writers in the newspapers and elsewhere. It consists in applying to them the phrases “simple,” or “quiet,” or “modest,” without any sort of meaning or relation to the person to whom they are applied. To be simple is the best thing in the world; to be modest is the next best thing. I am not so sure about being quiet. I am rather inclined to think that really modest people make a great deal of noise. It is quite self-evident that really simple people make a great deal of noise. But simplicity and modesty, at least, are very rare and royal human virtues, not to be lightly talked about. Few human beings, and at rare intervals, have really risen into being modest; not one man in ten or in twenty has by long wars become simple, as an actual old soldier does by long wars become simple. These virtues are not things to fling about as mere flattery; many prophets and righteous men have desired to see these things and have not seen them. But in the description of the births, lives, and deaths of very luxurious men they are used incessantly and quite without thought. If a journalist has to describe a great politician or financier (the things are substantially the same) entering a room or walking down a thoroughfare, he always says, “Mr. Midas was quietly dressed in a black frock coat, a white waistcoat, and light grey trousers, with a plain green tie and simple flower in his button-hole.” As if any one would expect him to have a crimson frock coat or spangled trousers. As if any one would expect him to have a burning Catherine wheel in his button-hole.
But this process, which is absurd enough when applied to the ordinary and external lives of worldly people, becomes perfectly intolerable when it is applied, as it always is applied, to the one episode which is serious even in the lives of politicians. I mean their death. When we have been sufficiently bored with the account of the simple costume of the millionaire, which is generally about as complicated as any that he could assume without being simply thought mad; when we have been told about the modest home of the millionaire, a home which is generally much too immodest to be called a home at all; when we have followed him through all these unmeaning eulogies, we are always asked last of all to admire his quiet funeral. I do not know what else people think a funeral should be except quiet. Yet again and again, over the grave of every one of those sad rich men, for whom one should surely feel, first and last, a speechless pity— over the grave of Beit, over the grave of Whiteley—this sickening nonsense about modesty and simplicity has been poured out. I well remember that when Beit was buried, the papers said that the mourning-coaches contained everybody of importance, that the floral tributes were sumptuous, splendid, intoxicating; but, for all that, it was a simple and quiet funeral. What, in the name of Acheron, did they expect it to be? Did they think there would be human sacrifice— the immolation of Oriental slaves upon the tomb? Did they think that long rows of Oriental dancing-girls would sway hither and thither in an ecstasy of lament? Did they look for the funeral games of Patroclus? I fear they had no such splendid and pagan meaning. I fear they were only using the words “quiet” and “modest” as words to fill up a page—a mere piece of the automatic hypocrisy which does become too common among those who have to write rapidly and often. The word “modest” will soon become like the word “honourable,” which is said to be employed by the Japanese before any word that occurs in a polite sentence, as “Put honourable umbrella in honourable umbrella-stand;” or “condescend to clean honourable boots.” We shall read in the future that the modest King went out in his modest crown, clad from head to foot in modest gold and attended with his ten thousand modest earls, their swords modestly drawn. No! if we have to pay for splendour let us praise it as splendour, not as simplicity. When next I meet a rich man I intend to walk up to him in the street and address him with Oriental hyperbole. He will probably run away.
SCIENCE AND RELIGION
In these days we are accused of attacking science because we want it to be scientific. Surely there is not any undue disrespect to our doctor in saying that he is our doctor, not our priest, or our wife, or ourself. It is not the business of the doctor to say that we must go to a watering-place; it is his affair to say that certain results of health will follow if we do go to a watering-place. After that, obviously, it is for us to judge. Physical science is like simple addition: it is either infallible or it is false. To mix science up with philosophy is only to produce a philosophy that has lost all its ideal value and a science that has lost all its practical value. I want my private physician to tell me whether this or that food will kill me. It is for my private philosopher to tell me whether I ought to be killed. I apologise for stating all these truisms. But the truth is, that I have just been reading a thick pamphlet written by a mass of highly intelligent men who seem never to have heard of any of these truisms in their lives.
Those who detest the harmless writer of this column are generally reduced (in their final ecstasy of anger) to calling him “brilliant;” which has long ago in our journalism become a mere expression of contempt. But I am afraid that even this disdainful phrase does me too much honour. I am more and more convinced that I suffer, not from a shiny or showy impertinence, but from a simplicity that verges upon imbecility. I think more and more that I must be very dull, and that everybody else in the modern world must be very clever. I have just been reading this important compilation, sent to me in the name of a number of men for whom I have a high respect, and called “New Theology and Applied Religion.” And it is literally true that I have read through whole columns of the things without knowing what the people were talking about. Either they must be talking about some black and bestial religion in which they were brought up, and of which I never even heard, or else they must be talking about some blazing and blinding vision of God which they have found, which I have never found, and which by its very splendour confuses their logic and confounds their speech. But the best instance I can quote of the thing is in connection with this matter of the business of physical science on the earth, of which I have just spoken. The following words are written over the signature of a man whose intelligence I respect, and I cannot make head or tail of them—
“When modern science declared that the cosmic process knew nothing of a historical event corresponding to a Fall, but told, on the contrary, the story of an incessant rise in the scale of being, it was quite plain that the Pauline scheme—I mean the argumentative processes of Paul’s scheme of salvation—had lost its very foundation; for was not that foundation the total depravity of the human race inherited from their first parents? … But now there was no Fall; there was no total depravity, or imminent danger of endless doom; and, the basis gone, the superstructure followed.”
It is written with earnestness and in excellent English; it must mean something. But what can it mean? How could physical science prove that man is not depraved? You do not cut a man open to find his sins. You do not boil him until he gives forth the unmistakable green fumes of depravity. How could physical science find any traces of a moral fall? What traces did the writer expect to find? Did he expect to find a fossil Eve with a fossil apple inside her? Did he suppose that the ages would have spared for him a complete skeleton of Adam attached to a slightly faded fig-leaf? The whole paragraph which I have quoted is simply a series of inconsequent sentences, all quite untrue in themselves and all quite irrelevant to each other. Science never said that there could have been no Fall. There might have been ten Falls, one on top of the other, and the thing would have been quite consistent with everything that we know from physical science. Humanity might have grown morally worse for millions of centuries, and the thing would in no way have contradicted the principle of Evolution. Men of science (not being raving lunatics) never said that there had been “an incessant rise in the scale of being;” for an incessant rise would mean a rise without any relapse or failure; and physical evolution is full of relapse and failure. There were certainly some physical Falls; there may have been any number of moral Falls. So that, as I have said, I am honestly bewildered as to the meaning of such passages as this, in which the advanced person writes that because geologists know nothing about the Fall, therefore any doctrine of depravity is untrue. Because science has not found something which obviously it could not find, therefore something entirely different—the psychological sense of evil— is untrue. You might sum up this writer’s argument abruptly, but accurately, in some way like this—“We have not dug up the bones of the Archangel Gabriel, who presumably had none, therefore little boys, left to themselves, will not be selfish.” To me it is all wild and whirling; as if a man said—“The plumber can find nothing wrong with our piano; so I suppose that my wife does love me.”
I am not going to enter here into the real doctrine of original sin, or into that probably false version of it which the New Theology writer calls the doctrine of depravity. But whatever else the worst doctrine of depravity may have been, it was a product of spiritual conviction; it had nothing to do with remote physical origins. Men thought mankind wicked because they felt wicked themselves. If a man feels wicked, I cannot see why he should suddenly feel good because somebody tells him that his ancestors once had tails. Man’s primary purity and innocence may have dropped off with his tail, for all anybody knows. The only thing we all know about that primary purity and innocence is that we have not got it. Nothing can be, in the strictest sense of the word, more comic than to set so shadowy a thing as the conjectures made by the vaguer anthropologists about primitive man against so solid a thing as the human sense of sin. By its nature the evidence of Eden is something that one cannot find. By its nature the evidence of sin is something that one cannot help finding.
Some statements I disagree with; others I do not understand. If a man says, “I think the human race would be better if it abstained totally from fermented liquor,” I quite understand what he means, and how his view could be defended. If a man says, “I wish to abolish beer because I am a temperance man,” his remark conveys no meaning to my mind. It is like saying, “I wish to abolish roads because I am a moderate walker.” If a man says, “I am not a Trinitarian,” I understand. But if he says (as a lady once said to me), “I believe in the Holy Ghost in a spiritual sense,” I go away dazed. In what other sense could one believe in the Holy Ghost? And I am sorry to say that this pamphlet of progressive religious views is full of baffling observations of that kind. What can people mean when they say that science has disturbed their view of sin? What sort of view of sin can they have had before science disturbed it? Did they think that it was something to eat? When people say that science has shaken their faith in immortality, what do they mean? Did they think that immortality was a gas?
Of course the real truth is that science has introduced no new principle into the matter at all. A man can be a Christian to the end of the world, for the simple reason that a man could have been an Atheist from the beginning of it. The materialism of things is on the face of things; it does not require any science to find it out. A man who has lived and loved falls down dead and the worms eat him. That is Materialism if you like. That is Atheism if you like. If mankind has believed in spite of that, it can believe in spite of anything. But why our human lot is made any more hopeless because we know the names of all the worms who eat him, or the names of all the parts of him that they eat, is to a thoughtful mind somewhat difficult to discover. My chief objection to these semi-scientific revolutionists is that they are not at all revolutionary. They are the party of platitude. They do not shake religion: rather religion seems to shake them. They can only answer the great paradox by repeating the truism.
THE METHUSELAHITE
I Saw in a newspaper paragraph the other day the following entertaining and deeply philosophical incident. A man was enlisting as a soldier at Portsmouth, and some form was put before him to be filled up, common, I suppose, to all such cases, in which was, among other things, an inquiry about what was his religion. With an equal and ceremonial gravity the man wrote down the word “Methuselahite.” Whoever looks over such papers must, I should imagine, have seen some rum religions in his time; unless the Army is going to the dogs. But with all his specialist knowledge he could not “place” Methuselahism among what Bossuet called the variations of Protestantism. He felt a fervid curiosity about the tenets and tendencies of the sect; and he asked the soldier what it meant. The soldier replied that it was his religion “to live as long as he could.”
Now, considered as an incident in the religious history of Europe, that answer of that soldier was worth more than a hundred cartloads of quarterly and monthly and weekly and daily papers discussing religious problems and religious books. Every day the daily paper reviews some new philosopher who has some new religion; and there is not in the whole two thousand words of the whole two columns one word as witty as or wise as that word “Methuselahite.” The whole meaning of literature is simply to cut a long story short; that is why our modern books of philosophy are never literature. That soldier had in him the very soul of literature; he was one of the great phrase-makers of modern thought, like Victor Hugo or Disraeli. He found one word that defines the paganism of to-day.
Henceforward, when the modern philosophers come to me with their new religions (and there is always a kind of queue of them waiting all the way down the street) I shall anticipate their circumlocutions and be able to cut them short with a single inspired word. One of them will begin, “The New Religion, which is based upon that Primordial Energy in Nature…” “Methuselahite,” I shall say sharply; “good morning.” “Human Life,” another will say, “Human Life, the only ultimate sanctity, freed from creed and dogma…” “Methuselahite!” I shall yell. “Out you go!” “My religion is the Religion of Joy,” a third will explain (a bald old man with a cough and tinted glasses), “the Religion of Physical Pride and Rapture, and my…” “Methuselahite!” I shall cry again, and I shall slap him boisterously on the back, and he will fall down. Then a pale young poet with serpentine hair will come and say to me (as one did only the other day): “Moods and impressions are the only realities, and these are constantly and wholly changing. I could hardly therefore define my religion…” “I can,” I should say, somewhat sternly. “Your religion is to live a long time; and if you stop here a moment longer you won’t fulfil it.”
A new philosophy generally means in practice the praise of some old vice. We have had the sophist who defends cruelty, and calls it masculinity. We have had the sophist who defends profligacy, and calls it the liberty of the emotions. We have had the sophist who defends idleness, and calls it art. It will almost certainly happen—it can almost certainly be prophesied— that in this saturnalia of sophistry there will at some time or other arise a sophist who desires to idealise cowardice. And when we are once in this unhealthy world of mere wild words, what a vast deal there would be to say for cowardice! “Is not life a lovely thing and worth saving?” the soldier would say as he ran away. “Should I not prolong the exquisite miracle of consciousness?” the householder would say as he hid under the table. “As long as there are roses and lilies on the earth shall I not remain here?” would come the voice of the citizen from under the bed. It would be quite as easy to defend the coward as a kind of poet and mystic as it has been, in many recent books, to defend the emotionalist as a kind of poet and mystic, or the tyrant as a kind of poet and mystic. When that last grand sophistry and morbidity is preached in a book or on a platform, you may depend upon it there will be a great stir in its favour, that is, a great stir among the little people who live among books and platforms. There will be a new great Religion, the Religion of Methuselahism: with pomps and priests and altars. Its devout crusaders will vow themselves in thousands with a great vow to live long. But there is one comfort: they won’t.
For, indeed, the weakness of this worship of mere natural life (which is a common enough creed to-day) is that it ignores the paradox of courage and fails in its own aim. As a matter of fact, no men would be killed quicker than the Methuselahites. The paradox of courage is that a man must be a little careless of his life even in order to keep it. And in the very case I have quoted we may see an example of how little the theory of Methuselahism really inspires our best life. For there is one riddle in that case which cannot easily be cleared up. If it was the man’s religion to live as long as he could, why on earth was he enlisting as a soldier?
SPIRITUALISM.
I have received a letter from a gentleman who is very indignant at what he considers my flippancy in disregarding or degrading Spiritualism. I thought I was defending Spiritualism; but I am rather used to being accused of mocking the thing that I set out to justify. My fate in most controversies is rather pathetic. It is an almost invariable rule that the man with whom I don’t agree thinks I am making a fool of myself, and the man with whom I do agree thinks I am making a fool of him. There seems to be some sort of idea that you are not treating a subject properly if you eulogise it with fantastic terms or defend it by grotesque examples. Yet a truth is equally solemn whatever figure or example its exponent adopts. It is an equally awful truth that four and four make eight, whether you reckon the thing out in eight onions or eight angels, or eight bricks or eight bishops, or eight minor poets or eight pigs. Similarly, if it be true that God made all things, that grave fact can be asserted by pointing at a star or by waving an umbrella. But the case is stronger than this. There is a distinct philosophical advantage in using grotesque terms in a serious discussion.
I think seriously, on the whole, that the more serious is the discussion the more grotesque should be the terms. For this, as I say, there is an evident reason. For a subject is really solemn and important in so far as it applies to the whole cosmos, or to some great spheres and cycles of experience at least. So far as a thing is universal it is serious. And so far as a thing is universal it is full of comic things. If you take a small thing, it may be entirely serious: Napoleon, for instance, was a small thing, and he was serious: the same applies to microbes. If you isolate a thing, you may get the pure essence of gravity. But if you take a large thing (such as the Solar System) it must be comic, at least in parts. The germs are serious, because they kill you. But the stars are funny, because they give birth to life, and life gives birth to fun. If you have, let us say, a theory about man, and if you can only prove it by talking about Plato and George Washington, your theory may be a quite frivolous thing. But if you can prove it by talking about the butler or the postman, then it is serious, because it is universal. So far from it being irreverent to use silly metaphors on serious questions, it is one’s duty to use silly metaphors on serious questions. It is the test of one’s seriousness. It is the test of a responsible religion or theory whether it can take examples from pots and pans and boots and butter-tubs. It is the test of a good philosophy whether you can defend it grotesquely. It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it.
When I was a very young journalist I used to be irritated at a peculiar habit of printers, a habit which most persons of a tendency similar to mine have probably noticed also. It goes along with the fixed belief of printers that to be a Rationalist is the same thing as to be a Nationalist. I mean the printer’s tendency to turn the word “cosmic” into the word “comic.” It annoyed me at the time. But since then I have come to the conclusion that the printers were right. The democracy is always right. Whatever is cosmic is comic.
Moreover, there is another reason that makes it almost inevitable that we should defend grotesquely what we believe seriously. It is that all grotesqueness is itself intimately related to seriousness. Unless a thing is dignified, it cannot be undignified. Why is it funny that a man should sit down suddenly in the street? There is only one possible or intelligent reason: that man is the image of God. It is not funny that anything else should fall down; only that a man should fall down. No one sees anything funny in a tree falling down. No one sees a delicate absurdity in a stone falling down. No man stops in the road and roars with laughter at the sight of the snow coming down. The fall of thunderbolts is treated with some gravity. The fall of roofs and high buildings is taken seriously. It is only when a man tumbles down that we laugh. Why do we laugh? Because it is a grave religious matter: it is the Fall of Man. Only man can be absurd: for only man can be dignified.
The above, which occupies the great part of my article, is a parenthises. It is time that I returned to my choleric correspondent who rebuked me for being too frivolous about the problem of Spiritualism. My correspondent, who is evidently an intelligent man, is very angry with me indeed. He uses the strongest language. He says I remind him of a brother of his: which seems to open an abyss or vista of infamy. The main substance of his attack resolves itself into two propositions. First, he asks me what right I have to talk about Spiritualism at all, as I admit I have never been to a séance. This is all very well, but there are a good many things to which I have never been, but I have not the smallest intention of leaving off talking about them. I refuse (for instance) to leave off talking about the Siege of Troy. I decline to be mute in the matter of the French Revolution. I will not be silenced on the late indefensible assassination of Julius Cæsar. If nobody has any right to judge of Spiritualism except a man who has been to a séance, the results, logically speaking, are rather serious: it would almost seem as if nobody had any right to judge of Christianity who had not been to the first meeting at Pentecost. Which would be dreadful. I conceive myself capable of forming my opinion of Spiritualism without seeing spirits, just as I form my opinion of the Japanese War without seeing the Japanese, or my opinion of American millionaires without (thank God) seeing an American millionaire. Blessed are they who have not seen and yet have believed: a passage which some have considered as a prophecy of modern journalism.
But my correspondent’s second objection is more important. He charges me with actually ignoring the value of communication (if it exists) between this world and the next. I do not ignore it. But I do say this—That a different principle attaches to investigation in this spiritual field from investigation in any other. If a man baits a line for fish, the fish will come, even if he declares there are no such things as fishes. If a man limes a twig for birds, the birds will be caught, even if he thinks it superstitious to believe in birds at all. But a man cannot bait a line for souls. A man cannot lime a twig to catch gods. All wise schools have agreed that this latter capture depends to some extent on the faith of the capturer. So it comes to this: If you have no faith in the spirits your appeal is in vain; and if you have—is it needed? If you do not believe, you cannot. If you do—you will not.
That is the real distinction between investigation in this department and investigation in any other. The priest calls to the goddess, for the same reason that a man calls to his wife, because he knows she is there. If a man kept on shouting out very loud the single word “Maria,” merely with the object of discovering whether if he did it long enough some woman of that name would come and marry him, he would be more or less in the position of the modern spiritualist. The old religionist cried out for his God. The new religionist cries out for some god to be his. The whole point of religion as it has hitherto existed in the world was that you knew all about your gods, even before you saw them, if indeed you ever did. Spiritualism seems to me absolutely right on all its mystical side. The supernatural part of it seems to me quite natural. The incredible part of it seems to me obviously true. But I think it so far dangerous or unsatisfactory that it is in some degree scientific. It inquires whether its gods are worth inquiring into. A man (of a certain age) may look into the eyes of his lady-love to see that they are beautiful. But no normal lady will allow that young man to look into her eyes to see whether they are beautiful. The same vanity and idiosyncrasy has been generally observed in gods. Praise them; or leave them alone; but do not look for them unless you know they are there. Do not look for them unless you want them. It annoys them very much.
THE ERROR OF IMPARTIALITY
The refusal of the jurors in the Thaw trial to come to an agreement is certainly a somewhat amusing sequel to the frenzied and even fantastic caution with which they were selected. Jurymen were set aside for reasons which seem to have only the very wildest relation to the case—reasons which we cannot conceive as giving any human being a real bias. It may be questioned whether the exaggerated theory of impartiality in an arbiter or juryman may not be carried so far as to be more unjust than partiality itself. What people call impartiality may simply mean indifference, and what people call partiality may simply mean mental activity. It is sometimes made an objection, for instance, to a juror that he has formed some primâ-facie opinion upon a case: if he can be forced under sharp questioning to admit that he has formed such an opinion, he is regarded as manifestly unfit to conduct the inquiry. Surely this is unsound. If his bias is one of interest, of class, or creed, or notorious propaganda, then that fact certainly proves that he is not an impartial arbiter. But the mere fact that he did form some temporary impression from the first facts as far as he knew them—this does not prove that he is not an impartial arbiter— it only proves that he is not a cold-blooded fool.
If we walk down the street, taking all the jurymen who have not formed opinions and leaving all the jurymen who have formed opinions, it seems highly probable that we shall only succeed in taking all the stupid jurymen and leaving all the thoughtful ones. Provided that the opinion formed is really of this airy and abstract kind, provided that it has no suggestion of settled motive or prejudice, we might well regard it not merely as a promise of capacity, but literally as a promise of justice. The man who took the trouble to deduce from the police reports would probably be the man who would take the trouble to deduce further and different things from the evidence. The man who had the sense to form an opinion would be the man who would have the sense to alter it.
It is worth while to dwell for a moment on this minor aspect of the matter because the error about impartiality and justice is by no means confined to a criminal question. In much more serious matters it is assumed that the agnostic is impartial; whereas the agnostic is merely ignorant. The logical outcome of the fastidiousness about the Thaw jurors would be that the case ought to be tried by Esquimaux, or Hottentots, or savages from the Cannibal Islands— by some class of people who could have no conceivable interest in the parties, and moreover, no conceivable interest in the case. The pure and starry perfection of impartiality would be reached by people who not only had no opinion before they had heard the case, but who also had no opinion after they had heard it. In the same way, there is in modern discussions of religion and philosophy an absurd assumption that a man is in some way just and well-poised because he has come to no conclusion; and that a man is in some way knocked off the list of fair judges because he has come to a conclusion. It is assumed that the sceptic has no bias; whereas he has a very obvious bias in favour of scepticism. I remember once arguing with an honest young atheist, who was very much shocked at my disputing some of the assumptions which were absolute sanctities to him (such as the quite unproved proposition of the independence of matter and the quite improbable proposition of its power to originate mind), and he at length fell back upon this question, which he delivered with an honourable heat of defiance and indignation: “Well, can you tell me any man of intellect, great in science or philosophy, who accepted the miraculous?” I said, “With pleasure. Descartes, Dr. Johnson, Newton, Faraday, Newman, Gladstone, Pasteur, Browning, Brunetiere—as many more as you please.” To which that quite admirable and idealistic young man made this astonishing reply—“Oh, but of course they had to say that; they were Christians.” First he challenged me to find a black swan, and then he ruled out all my swans because they were black. The fact that all these great intellects had come to the Christian view was somehow or other a proof either that they were not great intellects or that they had not really come to that view. The argument thus stood in a charmingly convenient form: “All men that count have come to my conclusion; for if they come to your conclusion they do not count.”
It did not seem to occur to such controversialists that if Cardinal Newman was really a man of intellect, the fact that he adhered to dogmatic religion proved exactly as much as the fact that Professor Huxley, another man of intellect, found that he could not adhere to dogmatic religion; that is to say (as I cheerfully admit), it proved precious little either way. If there is one class of men whom history has proved especially and supremely capable of going quite wrong in all directions, it is the class of highly intellectual men. I would always prefer to go by the bulk of humanity; that is why I am a democrat. But whatever be the truth about exceptional intelligence and the masses, it is manifestly most unreasonable that intelligent men should be divided upon the absurd modern principle of regarding every clever man who cannot make up his mind as an impartial judge, and regarding every clever man who can make up his mind as a servile fanatic. As it is, we seem to regard it as a positive objection to a reasoner that he has taken one side or the other. We regard it (in other words) as a positive objection to a reasoner that he has contrived to reach the object of his reasoning. We call a man a bigot or a slave of dogma because he is a thinker who has thought thoroughly and to a definite end. We say that the juryman is not a juryman because he has brought in a verdict. We say that the judge is not a judge because he gives judgment. We say that the sincere believer has no right to vote, simply because he has voted.
PHONETIC SPELLING
A correspondent asks me to make more lucid my remarks about phonetic spelling. I have no detailed objection to items of spelling-reform; my objection is to a general principle; and it is this. It seems to me that what is really wrong with all modern and highly civilised language is that it does so largely consist of dead words. Half our speech consists of similes that remind us of no similarity; of pictorial phrases that call up no picture; of historical allusions the origin of which we have forgotten. Take any instance on which the eye happens to alight. I saw in the paper some days ago that the well-known leader of a certain religious party wrote to a supporter of his the following curious words: “I have not forgotten the talented way in which you held up the banner at Birkenhead.” Taking the ordinary vague meaning of the word “talented,” there is no coherency in the picture. The trumpets blow, the spears shake and glitter, and in the thick of the purple battle there stands a gentleman holding up a banner in a talented way. And when we come to the original force of the word “talent” the matter is worse: a talent is a Greek coin used in the New Testament as a symbol of the mental capital committed to an individual at birth. If the religious leader in question had really meant anything by his phrases, he would have been puzzled to know how a man could use a Greek coin to hold up a banner. But really he meant nothing by his phrases. “Holding up the banner” was to him a colourless term for doing the proper thing, and “talented” was a colourless term for doing it successfully.
Now my own fear touching anything in the way of phonetic spelling is that it would simply increase this tendency to use words as counters and not as coins. The original life in a word (as in the word “talent”) burns low as it is: sensible spelling might extinguish it altogether. Suppose any sentence you like: suppose a man says, “Republics generally encourage holidays.” It looks like the top line of a copy-book. Now, it is perfectly true that if you wrote that sentence exactly as it is pronounced, even by highly educated people, the sentence would run: “Ripubliks jenrally inkurrij hollidies.” It looks ugly: but I have not the smallest objection to ugliness. My objection is that these four words have each a history and hidden treasures in them: that this history and hidden treasure (which we tend to forget too much as it is) phonetic spelling tends to make us forget altogether. Republic does not mean merely a mode of political choice. Republic (as we see when we look at the structure of the word) means the Public Thing: the abstraction which is us all.
A Republican is not a man who wants a Constitution with a President. A Republican is a man who prefers to think of Government as impersonal; he is opposed to the Royalist, who prefers to think of Government as personal. Take the second word, “generally.” This is always used as meaning “in the majority of cases.” But, again, if we look at the shape and spelling of the word, we shall see that “generally” means something more like “generically,” and is akin to such words as “generation” or “regenerate.” “Pigs are generally dirty” does not mean that pigs are, in the majority of cases, dirty, but that pigs as a race or genus are dirty, that pigs as pigs are dirty—an important philosophical distinction. Take the third word, “encourage.” The word “encourage” is used in such modern sentences in the merely automatic sense of promote; to encourage poetry means merely to advance or assist poetry. But to encourage poetry means properly to put courage into poetry— a fine idea. Take the fourth word, “holidays.” As long as that word remains, it will always answer the ignorant slander which asserts that religion was opposed to human cheerfulness; that word will always assert that when a day is holy it should also be happy. Properly spelt, these words all tell a sublime story, like Westminster Abbey. Phonetically spelt, they might lose the last traces of any such story. “Generally” is an exalted metaphysical term; “jenrally” is not. If you “encourage” a man, you pour into him the chivalry of a hundred princes; this does not happen if you merely “inkurrij” him. “Republics,” if spelt phonetically, might actually forget to be public. “Holidays,” if spelt phonetically, might actually forget to be holy.
Here is a case that has just occurred. A certain magistrate told somebody whom he was examining in court that he or she “should always be polite to the police.” I do not know whether the magistrate noticed the circumstance, but the word “polite” and the word “police” have the same origin and meaning. Politeness means the atmosphere and ritual of the city, the symbol of human civilisation. The policeman means the representative and guardian of the city, the symbol of human civilisation. Yet it may be doubted whether the two ideas are commonly connected in the mind. It is probable that we often hear of politeness without thinking of a policeman; it is even possible that our eyes often alight upon a policeman without our thoughts instantly flying to the subject of politeness. Yet the idea of the sacred city is not only the link of them both, it is the only serious justification and the only serious corrective of them both. If politeness means too often a mere frippery, it is because it has not enough to do with serious patriotism and public dignity; if policemen are coarse or casual, it is because they are not sufficiently convinced that they are the servants of the beautiful city and the agents of sweetness and light. Politeness is not really a frippery. Politeness is not really even a thing merely suave and deprecating. Politeness is an armed guard, stern and splendid and vigilant, watching over all the ways of men; in other words, politeness is a policeman. A policeman is not merely a heavy man with a truncheon: a policeman is a machine for the smoothing and sweetening of the accidents of everyday existence. In other words, a policeman is politeness; a veiled image of politeness—sometimes impenetrably veiled. But my point is here that by losing the original idea of the city, which is the force and youth of both the words, both the things actually degenerate. Our politeness loses all manliness because we forget that politeness is only the Greek for patriotism. Our policemen lose all delicacy because we forget that a policeman is only the Greek for something civilised. A policeman should often have the functions of a knight-errant. A policeman should always have the elegance of a knight-errant. But I am not sure that he would succeed any the better in remembering this obligation of romantic grace if his name were spelt phonetically, supposing that it could be spelt phonetically. Some spelling-reformers, I am told, in the poorer parts of London do spell his name phonetically, very phonetically. They call him a “pleeceman.” Thus the whole romance of the ancient city disappears from the word, and the policeman’s reverent courtesy of demeanour deserts him quite suddenly. This does seem to me the case against any extreme revolution in spelling. If you spell a word wrong you have some temptation to think it wrong.
HUMANITARIANISM AND STRENGTH
Somebody writes complaining of something I said about progress. I have forgotten what I said, but I am quite certain that it was (like a certain Mr. Douglas in a poem which I have also forgotten) tender and true. In any case, what I say now is this. Human history is so rich and complicated that you can make out a case for any course of improvement or retrogression. I could make out that the world has been growing more democratic, for the English franchise has certainly grown more democratic. I could also make out that the world has been growing more aristocratic, for the English Public Schools have certainly grown more aristocratic I could prove the decline of militarism by the decline of flogging; I could prove the increase of militarism by the increase of standing armies and conscription. But I can prove anything in this way. I can prove that the world has always been growing greener. Only lately men have invented absinthe and the Westminster Gazette. I could prove the world has grown less green. There are no more Robin Hood foresters, and fields are being covered with houses. I could show that the world was less red with khaki or more red with the new penny stamps. But in all cases progress means progress only in some particular thing. Have you ever noticed that strange line of Tennyson, in which he confesses, half consciously, how very conventional progress is?—
“Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.”
Even in praising change, he takes for a simile the most unchanging thing. He calls our modern change a groove. And it is a groove; perhaps there was never anything so groovy.
Nothing would induce me in so idle a monologue as this to discuss adequately a great political matter like the question of the military punishments in Egypt. But I may suggest one broad reality to be observed by both sides, and which is, generally speaking, observed by neither. Whatever else is right, it is utterly wrong to employ the argument that we Europeans must do to savages and Asiatics whatever savages and Asiatics do to us. I have even seen some controversialists use the metaphor, “We must fight them with their own weapons.” Very well; let those controversialists take their metaphor, and take it literally. Let us fight the Soudanese with their own weapons. Their own weapons are large, very clumsy knives, with an occasional old-fashioned gun. Their own weapons are also torture and slavery. If we fight them with torture and slavery, we shall be fighting badly, precisely as if we fought them with clumsy knives and old guns. That is the whole strength of our Christian civilisation, that it does fight with its own weapons and not with other people’s. It is not true that superiority suggests a tit for tat. It is not true that if a small hooligan puts his tongue out at the Lord Chief Justice, the Lord Chief Justice immediately realises that his only chance of maintaining his position is to put his tongue out at the little hooligan. The hooligan may or may not have any respect at all for the Lord Chief Justice: that is a matter which we may contentedly leave as a solemn psychological mystery. But if the hooligan has any respect at all for the Lord Chief Justice, that respect is certainly extended to the Lord Chief Justice entirely because he does not put his tongue out.
Exactly in the same way the ruder or more sluggish races regard the civilisation of Christendom. If they have any respect for it, it is precisely because it does not use their own coarse and cruel expedients. According to some modern moralists whenever Zulus cut off the heads of dead Englishmen, Englishmen must cut off the heads of dead Zulus. Whenever Arabs or Egyptians constantly use the whip to their slaves, Englishmen must use the whip to their subjects. And on a similar principle (I suppose), whenever an English Admiral has to fight cannibals the English Admiral ought to eat them. However unattractive a menu consisting entirely of barbaric kings may appear to an English gentleman, he must try to sit down to it with an appetite. He must fight the Sandwich Islanders with their own weapons; and their own weapons are knives and forks. But the truth of the matter is, of course, that to do this kind of thing is to break the whole spell of our supremacy. All the mystery of the white man, all the fearful poetry of the white man, so far as it exists in the eyes of these savages, consists in the fact that we do not do such things. The Zulus point at us and say, “Observe the advent of these inexplicable demi-gods, these magicians, who do not cut off the noses of their enemies.” The Soudanese say to each other, “This hardy people never flogs its servants; it is superior to the simplest and most obvious human pleasures.” And the cannibals say, “The austere and terrible race, the race that denies itself even boiled missionary, is upon us: let us flee.”
Whether or no these details are a little conjectural, the general proposition I suggest is the plainest common sense. The elements that make Europe upon the whole the most humanitarian civilisation are precisely the elements that make it upon the whole the strongest. For the power which makes a man able to entertain a good impulse is the same as that which enables him to make a good gun; it is imagination. It is imagination that makes a man outwit his enemy, and it is imagination that makes him spare his enemy. It is precisely because this picturing of the other man’s point of view is in the main a thing in which Christians and Europeans specialise that Christians and Europeans, with all their faults, have carried to such perfection both the arts of peace and war.
They alone have invented machine-guns, and they alone have invented ambulances; they have invented ambulances (strange as it may sound) for the same reason for which they have invented machine-guns. Both involve a vivid calculation of remote events. It is precisely because the East, with all its wisdom, is cruel, that the East, with all its wisdom, is weak. And it is precisely because savages are pitiless that they are still—merely savages. If they could imagine their enemy’s sufferings they could also imagine his tactics. If Zulus did not cut off the Englishman’s head they might really borrow it. For if you do not understand a man you cannot crush him. And if you do understand him, very probably you will not.
When I was about seven years old I used to think that the chief modern danger was a danger of over-civilisation. I am inclined to think now that the chief modern danger is that of a slow return towards barbarism, just such a return towards barbarism as is indicated in the suggestions of barbaric retaliation of which I have just spoken. Civilisation in the best sense merely means the full authority of the human spirit over all externals. Barbarism means the worship of those externals in their crude and unconquered state. Barbarism means the worship of Nature; and in recent poetry, science, and philosophy there has been too much of the worship of Nature. Wherever men begin to talk much and with great solemnity about the forces outside man, the note of it is barbaric. When men talk much about heredity and environment they are almost barbarians. The modern men of science are many of them almost barbarians. Mr. Blatchford is in great danger of becoming a barbarian. For barbarians (especially the truly squalid and unhappy barbarians) are always talking about these scientific subjects from morning till night. That is why they remain squalid and unhappy; that is why they remain barbarians. Hottentots are always talking about heredity, like Mr. Blatchford. Sandwich Islanders are always talking about environment, like Mr. Suthers. Savages—those that are truly stunted or depraved—dedicate nearly all their tales and sayings to the subject of physical kinship, of a curse on this or that tribe, of a taint in this or that family, of the invincible law of blood, of the unavoidable evil of places. The true savage is a slave, and is always talking about what he must do; the true civilised man is a free man and is always talking about what he may do. Hence all the Zola heredity and Ibsen heredity that has been written in our time affects me as not merely evil, but as essentially ignorant and retrogressive. This sort of science is almost the only thing that can with strict propriety be called reactionary. Scientific determinism is simply the primal twilight of all mankind; and some men seem to be returning to it.
Another savage trait of our time is the disposition to talk about material substances instead of about ideas. The old civilisation talked about the sin of gluttony or excess. We talk about the Problem of Drink—as if drink could be a problem. When people have come to call the problem of human intemperance the Problem of Drink, and to talk about curing it by attacking the drink traffic, they have reached quite a dim stage of barbarism. The thing is an inverted form of fetish worship; it is no sillier to say that a bottle is a god than to say that a bottle is a devil. The people who talk about the curse of drink will probably progress down that dark hill. In a little while we shall have them calling the practice of wife-beating the Problem of Pokers; the habit of housebreaking will be called the Problem of the Skeleton-Key Trade; and for all I know they may try to prevent forgery by shutting up all the stationers’ shops by Act of Parliament.
I cannot help thinking that there is some shadow of this uncivilised materialism lying at present upon a much more dignified and valuable cause. Every one is talking just now about the desirability of ingeminating peace and averting war. But even war and peace are physical states rather than moral states, and in talking about them only we have by no means got to the bottom of the matter. How, for instance, do we as a matter of fact create peace in one single community? We do not do it by vaguely telling every one to avoid fighting and to submit to anything that is done to him. We do it by definitely defining his rights and then undertaking to avenge his wrongs. We shall never have a common peace in Europe till we have a common principle in Europe. People talk of “The United States of Europe;” but they forget that it needed the very doctrinal “Declaration of Independence” to make the United States of America. You cannot agree about nothing any more than you can quarrel about nothing.
WINE WHEN IT IS RED
I suppose that there will be some wigs on the green in connection with the recent manifesto signed by a string of very eminent doctors on the subject of what is called “alcohol.” “Alcohol” is, to judge by the sound of it, an Arabic word, like “algebra” and “Alhambra,” those two other unpleasant things. The Alhambra in Spain I have never seen; I am told that it is a low and rambling building; I allude to the far more dignified erection in Leicester Square. If it is true, as I surmise, that “alcohol” is a word of the Arabs, it is interesting to realise that our general word for the essence of wine and beer and such things comes from a people which has made particular war upon them. I suppose that some aged Moslem chieftain sat one day at the opening of his tent and, brooding with black brows and cursing in his black beard over wine as the symbol of Christianity, racked his brains for some word ugly enough to express his racial and religious antipathy, and suddenly spat out the horrible word “alcohol.” The fact that the doctors had to use this word for the sake of scientific clearness was really a great disadvantage to them in fairly discussing the matter. For the word really involves one of those beggings of the question which make these moral matters so difficult. It is quite a mistake to suppose that, when a man desires an alcoholic drink, he necessarily desires alcohol.
Let a man walk ten miles steadily on a hot summer’s day along a dusty English road, and he will soon discover why beer was invented. The fact that beer has a very slight stimulating quality will be quite among the smallest reasons that induce him to ask for it. In short, he will not be in the least desiring alcohol; he will be desiring beer. But, of course, the question cannot be settled in such a simple way. The real difficulty which confronts everybody, and which especially confronts doctors, is that the extraordinary position of man in the physical universe makes it practically impossible to treat him in either one direction or the other in a purely physical way. Man is an exception, whatever else he is. If he is not the image of God, then he is a disease of the dust. If it is not true that a divine being fell, then we can only say that one of the animals went entirely off its head. In neither case can we really argue very much from the body of man simply considered as the body of an innocent and healthy animal. His body has got too much mixed up with his soul, as we see in the supreme instance of sex. It may be worth while uttering the warning to wealthy philanthropists and idealists that this argument from the animal should not be thoughtlessly used, even against the atrocious evils of excess; it is an argument that proves too little or too much.
Doubtless, it is unnatural to be drunk. But then in a real sense it is unnatural to be human. Doubtless, the intemperate workman wastes his tissues in drinking; but no one knows how much the sober workman wastes his tissues by working. No one knows how much the wealthy philanthropist wastes his tissues by talking; or, in much rarer conditions, by thinking. All the human things are more dangerous than anything that affects the beasts—sex, poetry, property, religion. The real case against drunkenness is not that it calls up the beast, but that it calls up the Devil. It does not call up the beast, and if it did it would not matter much, as a rule; the beast is a harmless and rather amiable creature, as anybody can see by watching cattle. There is nothing bestial about intoxication; and certainly there is nothing intoxicating or even particularly lively about beasts. Man is always something worse or something better than an animal; and a mere argument from animal perfection never touches him at all. Thus, in sex no animal is either chivalrous or obscene. And thus no animal ever invented anything so bad as drunkenness— or so good as drink.
The pronouncement of these particular doctors is very clear and uncompromising; in the modern atmosphere, indeed, it even deserves some credit for moral courage. The majority of modern people, of course, will probably agree with it in so far as it declares that alcoholic drinks are often of supreme value in emergencies of illness; but many people, I fear, will open their eyes at the emphatic terms in which they describe such drink as considered as a beverage; but they are not content with declaring that the drink is in moderation harmless: they distinctly declare that it is in moderation beneficial. But I fancy that, in saying this, the doctors had in mind a truth that runs somewhat counter to the common opinion. I fancy that it is the experience of most doctors that giving any alcohol for illness (though often necessary) is about the most morally dangerous way of giving it. Instead of giving it to a healthy person who has many other forms of life, you are giving it to a desperate person, to whom it is the only form of life. The invalid can hardly be blamed if by some accident of his erratic and overwrought condition he comes to remember the thing as the very water of vitality and to use it as such. For in so far as drinking is really a sin it is not because drinking is wild, but because drinking is tame; not in so far as it is anarchy, but in so far as it is slavery. Probably the worst way to drink is to drink medicinally. Certainly the safest way to drink is to drink carelessly; that is, without caring much for anything, and especially not caring for the drink.
The doctor, of course, ought to be able to do a great deal in the way of restraining those individual cases where there is plainly an evil thirst; and beyond that the only hope would seem to be in some increase, or, rather, some concentration of ordinary public opinion on the subject. I have always held consistently my own modest theory on the subject. I believe that if by some method the local public-house could be as definite and isolated a place as the local post-office or the local railway station, if all types of people passed through it for all types of refreshment, you would have the same safeguard against a man behaving in a disgusting way in a tavern that you have at present against his behaving in a disgusting way in a post-office: simply the presence of his ordinary sensible neighbours. In such a place the kind of lunatic who wants to drink an unlimited number of whiskies would be treated with the same severity with which the post office authorities would treat an amiable lunatic who had an appetite for licking an unlimited number of stamps. It is a small matter whether in either case a technical refusal would be officially employed. It is an essential matter that in both cases the authorities could rapidly communicate with the friends and family of the mentally afflicted person. At least, the postmistress would not dangle a strip of tempting sixpenny stamps before the enthusiast’s eyes as he was being dragged away with his tongue out. If we made drinking open and official we might be taking one step towards making it careless. In such things to be careless is to be sane: for neither drunkards nor Moslems can be careless about drink.
DEMAGOGUES AND MYSTAGOGUES
I once heard a man call this age the age of demagogues. Of this I can only say, in the admirably sensible words of the angry coachman in “Pickwick,” that “that remark’s political, or what is much the same, it ain’t true.” So far from being the age of demagogues, this is really and specially the age of mystagogues. So far from this being a time in which things are praised because they are popular, the truth is that this is the first time, perhaps, in the whole history of the world in which things can be praised because they are unpopular. The demagogue succeeds because he makes himself understood, even if he is not worth understanding. But the mystagogue succeeds because he gets himself misunderstood; although, as a rule, he is not even worth misunderstanding. Gladstone was a demagogue: Disraeli a mystagogue. But ours is specially the time when a man can advertise his wares not as a universality, but as what the tradesmen call “a speciality.” We all know this, for instance, about modern art. Michelangelo and Whistler were both fine artists; but one is obviously public, the other obviously private, or, rather, not obvious at all. Michelangelo’s frescoes are doubtless finer than the popular judgment, but they are plainly meant to strike the popular judgment. Whistler’s pictures seem often meant to escape the popular judgment; they even seem meant to escape the popular admiration. They are elusive, fugitive; they fly even from praise. Doubtless many artists in Michelangelo’s day declared themselves to be great artists, although they were unsuccessful. But they did not declare themselves great artists because they were unsuccessful: that is the peculiarity of our own time, which has a positive bias against the populace.
Another case of the same kind of thing can be found in the latest conceptions of humour. By the wholesome tradition of mankind, a joke was a thing meant to amuse men; a joke which did not amuse them was a failure, just as a fire which did not warm them was a failure. But we have seen the process of secrecy and aristocracy introduced even into jokes. If a joke falls flat, a small school of æsthetes only ask us to notice the wild grace of its falling and its perfect flatness after its fall. The old idea that the joke was not good enough for the company has been superseded by the new aristocratic idea that the company was not worthy of the joke. They have introduced an almost insane individualism into that one form of intercourse which is specially and uproariously communal. They have made even levities into secrets. They have made laughter lonelier than tears.
There is a third thing to which the mystagogues have recently been applying the methods of a secret society: I mean manners. Men who sought to rebuke rudeness used to represent manners as reasonable and ordinary; now they seek to represent them as private and peculiar. Instead of saying to a man who blocks up a street or the fireplace, “You ought to know better than that,” the moderns say, “You, of course, don’t know better than that.”
I have just been reading an amusing book by Lady Grove called “The Social Fetich,” which is a positive riot of this new specialism and mystification. It is due to Lady Grove to say that she has some of the freer and more honourable qualities of the old Whig aristocracy, as well as their wonderful worldliness and their strange faith in the passing fashion of our politics. For instance, she speaks of Jingo Imperialism with a healthy English contempt; and she perceives stray and striking truths, and records them justly— as, for instance, the greater democracy of the Southern and Catholic countries of Europe. But in her dealings with social formulæ here in England she is, it must frankly be said, a common mystagogue. She does not, like a decent demagogue, wish to make people understand; she wishes to make them painfully conscious of not understanding. Her favourite method is to terrify people from doing things that are quite harmless by telling them that if they do they are the kind of people who would do other things, equally harmless. If you ask after somebody’s mother (or whatever it is), you are the kind of person who would have a pillow-case, or would not have a pillow-case. I forget which it is; and so, I dare say, does she. If you assume the ordinary dignity of a decent citizen and say that you don’t see the harm of having a mother or a pillow-case, she would say that of course you wouldn’t. This is what I call being a mystagogue. It is more vulgar than being a demagogue; because it is much easier.
The primary point I meant to emphasise is that this sort of aristocracy is essentially a new sort. All the old despots were demagogues; at least, they were demagogues whenever they were really trying to please or impress the demos. If they poured out beer for their vassals it was because both they and their vassals had a taste for beer. If (in some slightly different mood) they poured melted lead on their vassals, it was because both they and their vassals had a strong distaste for melted lead. But they did not make any mystery about either of the two substances. They did not say, “You don’t like melted lead? … Ah! no, of course, you wouldn’t; you are probably the kind of person who would prefer beer… It is no good asking you even to imagine the curious undercurrent of psychological pleasure felt by a refined person under the seeming shock of melted lead.” Even tyrants when they tried to be popular, tried to give the people pleasure; they did not try to overawe the people by giving them something which they ought to regard as pleasure.
It was the same with the popular presentment of aristocracy. Aristocrats tried to impress humanity by the exhibition of qualities which humanity admires, such as courage, gaiety, or even mere splendour. The aristocracy might have more possession in these things, but the democracy had quite equal delight in them. It was much more sensible to offer yourself for admiration because you had drunk three bottles of port at a sitting, than to offer yourself for admiration (as Lady Grove does) because you think it right to say “port wine” while other people think it right to say “port.” Whether Lady Grove’s preference for port wine (I mean for the phrase port wine) is a piece of mere nonsense I do not know; but at least it is a very good example of the futility of such tests in the matter even of mere breeding. “Port wine” may happen to be the phrase used in certain good families; but numberless aristocrats say “port,” and all barmaids say “port wine.” The whole thing is rather more trivial than collecting tram-tickets; and I will not pursue Lady Grove’s further distinctions. I pass over the interesting theory that I ought to say to Jones (even apparently if he is my dearest friend), “How is Mrs. Jones?” instead of “How is your wife?” and I pass over an impassioned declamation about bedspreads (I think) which has failed to fire my blood.
The truth of the matter is really quite simple. An aristocracy is a secret society; and this is especially so when, as in the modern world, it is practically a plutocracy. The one idea of a secret society is to change the password. Lady Grove falls naturally into a pure perversity because she feels subconsciously that the people of England can be more effectively kept at a distance by a perpetual torrent of new tests than by the persistence of a few old ones. She knows that in the educated “middle class” there is an idea that it is vulgar to say port wine; therefore she reverses the idea— she says that the man who would say “port” is a man who would say, “How is your wife?” She says it because she knows both these remarks to be quite obvious and reasonable.
The only thing to be done or said in reply, I suppose, would be to apply the same principle of bold mystification on our own part. I do not see why I should not write a book called “Etiquette in Fleet Street,” and terrify every one else out of that thoroughfare by mysterious allusions to the mistakes that they generally make. I might say: “This is the kind of man who would wear a green tie when he went into a tobacconist’s,” or “You don’t see anything wrong in drinking a Benedictine on Thursday? … No, of course you wouldn’t.” I might asseverate with passionate disgust and disdain: “The man who is capable of writing sonnets as well as triolets is capable of climbing an omnibus while holding an umbrella.” It seems a simple method; if ever I should master it perhaps I may govern England.
THE “EATANSWILL GAZETTE.”
The other day some one presented me with a paper called the Eatanswill Gazette. I need hardly say that I could not have been more startled if I had seen a coach coming down the road with old Mr. Tony Weller on the box. But, indeed, the case is much more extraordinary than that would be. Old Mr. Weller was a good man, a specially and seriously good man, a proud father, a very patient husband, a sane moralist, and a reliable ally. One could not be so very much surprised if somebody pretended to be Tony Weller. But the Eatanswill Gazette is definitely depicted in “Pickwick” as a dirty and unscrupulous rag, soaked with slander and nonsense. It was really interesting to find a modern paper proud to take its name. The case cannot be compared to anything so simple as a resurrection of one of the “Pickwick” characters; yet a very good parallel could easily be found. It is almost exactly as if a firm of solicitors were to open their offices to-morrow under the name of Dodson and Fogg.
It was at once apparent, of course, that the thing was a joke. But what was not apparent, what only grew upon the mind with gradual wonder and terror, was the fact that it had its serious side. The paper is published in the well-known town of Sudbury, in Suffolk. And it seems that there is a standing quarrel between Sudbury and the county town of Ipswich as to which was the town described by Dickens in his celebrated sketch of an election. Each town proclaims with passion that it was Eatanswill. If each town proclaimed with passion that it was not Eatanswill, I might be able to understand it. Eatanswill, according to Dickens, was a town alive with loathsome corruption, hypocritical in all its public utterances, and venal in all its votes. Yet, two highly respectable towns compete for the honour of having been this particular cesspool, just as ten cities fought to be the birthplace of Homer. They claim to be its original as keenly as if they were claiming to be the original of More’s “Utopia” or Morris’s “Earthly Paradise.” They grow seriously heated over the matter. The men of Ipswich say warmly, “It must have been our town; for Dickens says it was corrupt, and a more corrupt town than our town you couldn’t have met in a month.” The men of Sudbury reply with rising passion, “Permit us to tell you, gentlemen, that our town was quite as corrupt as your town any day of the week. Our town was a common nuisance; and we defy our enemies to question it.” “Perhaps you will tell us,” sneer the citizens of Ipswich, “that your politics were ever as thoroughly filthy as----” “As filthy as anything,” answer the Sudbury men, undauntedly. “Nothing in politics could be filthier. Dickens must have noticed how disgusting we were.” “And could he have failed to notice,” the others reason indignantly, “how disgusting we were? You could smell us a mile off. You Sudbury fellows may think yourselves very fine, but let me tell you that, compared to our city, Sudbury was an honest place.” And so the controversy goes on. It seems to me to be a new and odd kind of controversy.
Naturally, an outsider feels inclined to ask why Eatanswill should be either one or the other. As a matter of fact, I fear Eatanswill was every town in the country. It is surely clear that when Dickens described the Eatanswill election he did not mean it as a satire on Sudbury or a satire on Ipswich; he meant it as a satire on England. The Eatanswill election is not a joke against Eatanswill; it is a joke against elections. If the satire is merely local, it practically loses its point; just as the “Circumlocution Office” would lose its point if it were not supposed to be a true sketch of all Government offices; just as the Lord Chancellor in “Bleak House” would lose his point if he were not supposed to be symbolic and representative of all Lord Chancellors. The whole moral meaning would vanish if we supposed that Oliver Twist had got by accident into an exceptionally bad workhouse, or that Mr. Dorrit was in the only debtors’ prison that was not well managed. Dickens was making game, not of places, but of methods. He poured all his powerful genius into trying to make the people ashamed of the methods. But he seems only to have succeeded in making people proud of the places. In any case, the controversy is conducted in a truly extraordinary way. No one seems to allow for the fact that, after all, Dickens was writing a novel, and a highly fantastic novel at that. Facts in support of Sudbury or Ipswich are quoted not only from the story itself, which is wild and wandering enough, but even from the yet wilder narratives which incidentally occur in the story, such as Sam Weller’s description of how his father, on the way to Eatanswill, tipped all the voters into the canal. This may quite easily be (to begin with) an entertaining tarradiddle of Sam’s own invention, told, like many other even more improbable stories, solely to amuse Mr. Pickwick. Yet the champions of these two towns positively ask each other to produce a canal, or to fail for ever in their attempt to prove themselves the most corrupt town in England. As far as I remember, Sam’s story of the canal ends with Mr. Pickwick eagerly asking whether everybody was rescued, and Sam solemnly replying that one old gentleman’s hat was found, but that he was not sure whether his head was in it. If the canal is to be taken as realistic, why not the hat and the head? If these critics ever find the canal I recommend them to drag it for the body of the old gentleman.
Both sides refuse to allow for the fact that the characters in the story are comic characters. For instance, Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, the eminent student of Dickens, writes to the Eatanswill Gazette to say that Sudbury, a small town, could not have been Eatanswill, because one of the candidates speaks of its great manufactures. But obviously one of the candidates would have spoken of its great manufactures if it had had nothing but a row of apple-stalls. One of the candidates might have said that the commerce of Eatanswill eclipsed Carthage, and covered every sea; it would have been quite in the style of Dickens. But when the champion of Sudbury answers him, he does not point out this plain mistake. He answers by making another mistake exactly of the same kind. He says that Eatanswill was not a busy, important place. And his odd reason is that Mrs. Pott said she was dull there. But obviously Mrs. Pott would have said she was dull anywhere. She was setting her cap at Mr. Winkle. Moreover, it was the whole point of her character in any case. Mrs. Pott was that kind of woman. If she had been in Ipswich she would have said that she ought to be in London. If she was in London she would have said that she ought to be in Paris. The first disputant proves Eatanswill grand because a servile candidate calls it grand. The second proves it dull because a discontented woman calls it dull.
The great part of the controversy seems to be conducted in the spirit of highly irrelevant realism. Sudbury cannot be Eatanswill, because there was a fancy-dress shop at Eatanswill, and there is no record of a fancy-dress shop at Sudbury. Sudbury must be Eatanswill because there were heavy roads outside Eatanswill, and there are heavy roads outside Sudbury. Ipswich cannot be Eatanswill, because Mrs. Leo Hunter’s country seat would not be near a big town. Ipswich must be Eatanswill because Mrs. Leo Hunter’s country seat would be near a large town. Really, Dickens might have been allowed to take liberties with such things as these, even if he had been mentioning the place by name. If I were writing a story about the town of Limerick, I should take the liberty of introducing a bun-shop without taking a journey to Limerick to see whether there was a bun-shop there. If I wrote a romance about Torquay, I should hold myself free to introduce a house with a green door without having studied a list of all the coloured doors in the town. But if, in order to make it particularly obvious that I had not meant the town for a photograph either of Torquay or Limerick, I had gone out of my way to give the place a wild, fictitious name of my own, I think that in that case I should be justified in tearing my hair with rage if the people of Limerick or Torquay began to argue about bun-shops and green doors. No reasonable man would expect Dickens to be so literal as all that even about Bath or Bury St. Edmunds, which do exist; far less need he be literal about Eatanswill, which didn’t exist.
I must confess, however, that I incline to the Sudbury side of the argument. This does not only arise from the sympathy which all healthy people have for small places as against big ones; it arises from some really good qualities in this particular Sudbury publication. First of all, the champions of Sudbury seem to be more open to the sensible and humorous view of the book than the champions of Ipswich—at least, those that appear in this discussion. Even the Sudbury champion, bent on finding realistic clothes, rebels (to his eternal honour) when Mr. Percy Fitzgerald tries to show that Bob Sawyer’s famous statement that he was neither Buff nor Blue, “but a sort of plaid,” must have been copied from some silly man at Ipswich who said that his politics were “half and half.” Anybody might have made either of the two jokes. But it was the whole glory and meaning of Dickens that he confined himself to making jokes that anybody might have made a little better than anybody would have made them.
FAIRY TALES
Some solemn and superficial people (for nearly all very superficial people are solemn) have declared that the fairy tales are immoral; they base this upon some accidental circumstances or regrettable incidents in the war between giants and boys, some cases in which the latter indulged in unsympathetic deceptions or even in practical jokes. The objection, however, is not only false, but very much the reverse of the facts. The fairy tales are at root not only moral in the sense of being innocent, but moral in the sense of being didactic, moral in the sense of being moralising. It is all very well to talk of the freedom of fairyland, but there was precious little freedom in fairyland by the best official accounts. Mr. W.B. Yeats and other sensitive modern souls, feeling that modern life is about as black a slavery as ever oppressed mankind (they are right enough there), have especially described elfland as a place of utter ease and abandonment— a place where the soul can turn every way at will like the wind. Science denounces the idea of a capricious God; but Mr. Yeats’s school suggests that in that world every one is a capricious god. Mr. Yeats himself has said a hundred times in that sad and splendid literary style which makes him the first of all poets now writing in English (I will not say of all English poets, for Irishmen are familiar with the practice of physical assault), he has, I say, called up a hundred times the picture of the terrible freedom of the fairies, who typify the ultimate anarchy of art—
“Where nobody grows old or weary or wise, Where nobody grows old or godly or grave.”
But, after all (it is a shocking thing to say), I doubt whether Mr. Yeats really knows the real philosophy of the fairies. He is not simple enough; he is not stupid enough. Though I say it who should not, in good sound human stupidity I would knock Mr. Yeats out any day. The fairies like me better than Mr. Yeats; they can take me in more. And I have my doubts whether this feeling of the free, wild spirits on the crest of hill or wave is really the central and simple spirit of folk-lore. I think the poets have made a mistake: because the world of the fairy tales is a brighter and more varied world than ours, they have fancied it less moral; really it is brighter and more varied because it is more moral. Suppose a man could be born in a modern prison. It is impossible, of course, because nothing human can happen in a modern prison, though it could sometimes in an ancient dungeon. A modern prison is always inhuman, even when it is not inhumane. But suppose a man were born in a modern prison, and grew accustomed to the deadly silence and the disgusting indifference; and suppose he were then suddenly turned loose upon the life and laughter of Fleet Street. He would, of course, think that the literary men in Fleet Street were a free and happy race; yet how sadly, how ironically, is this the reverse of the case! And so again these toiling serfs in Fleet Street, when they catch a glimpse of the fairies, think the fairies are utterly free. But fairies are like journalists in this and many other respects. Fairies and journalists have an apparent gaiety and a delusive beauty. Fairies and journalists seem to be lovely and lawless; they seem to be both of them too exquisite to descend to the ugliness of everyday duty. But it is an illusion created by the sudden sweetness of their presence. Journalists live under law; and so in fact does fairyland.
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other—the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery tales. The whole happiness of fairyland hangs upon a thread, upon one thread. Cinderella may have a dress woven on supernatural looms and blazing with unearthly brilliance; but she must be back when the clock strikes twelve. The king may invite fairies to the christening, but he must invite all the fairies or frightful results will follow. Bluebeard’s wife may open all doors but one. A promise is broken to a cat, and the whole world goes wrong. A promise is broken to a yellow dwarf, and the whole world goes wrong. A girl may be the bride of the God of Love himself if she never tries to see him; she sees him, and he vanishes away. A girl is given a box on condition she does not open it; she opens it, and all the evils of this world rush out at her. A man and woman are put in a garden on condition that they do not eat one fruit: they eat it, and lose their joy in all the fruits of the earth.
This great idea, then, is the backbone of all folk-lore— the idea that all happiness hangs on one thin veto; all positive joy depends on one negative. Now, it is obvious that there are many philosophical and religious ideas akin to or symbolised by this; but it is not with them I wish to deal here. It is surely obvious that all ethics ought to be taught to this fairy tale tune; that, if one does the thing forbidden, one imperils all the things provided. A man who breaks his promise to his wife ought to be reminded that, even if she is a cat, the case of the fairy-cat shows that such conduct may be incautious. A burglar just about to open some one else’s safe should be playfully reminded that he is in the perilous posture of the beautiful Pandora: he is about to lift the forbidden lid and loosen evils unknown. The boy eating some one’s apples in some one’s apple tree should be a reminder that he has come to a mystical moment of his life, when one apple may rob him of all others. This is the profound morality of fairy tales; which, so far from being lawless, go to the root of all law. Instead of finding (like common books of ethics) a rationalistic basis for each Commandment, they find the great mystical basis for all Commandments. We are in this fairyland on sufferance; it is not for us to quarrel with the conditions under which we enjoy this wild vision of the world. The vetoes are indeed extraordinary, but then so are the concessions. The idea of property, the idea of some one else’s apples, is a rum idea; but then the idea of there being any apples is a rum idea. It is strange and weird that I cannot with safety drink ten bottles of champagne; but then the champagne itself is strange and weird, if you come to that. If I have drunk of the fairies’ drink it is but just I should drink by the fairies’ rules. We may not see the direct logical connection between three beautiful silver spoons and a large ugly policeman; but then who in fairy tales ever could see the direct logical connection between three bears and a giant, or between a rose and a roaring beast? Not only can these fairy tales be enjoyed because they are moral, but morality can be enjoyed because it puts us in fairyland, in a world at once of wonder and of war.
The two hundredth anniversary of Henry Fielding is very justly celebrated, even if, as far as can be discovered, it is only celebrated by the newspapers. It would be too much to expect that any such merely chronological incident should induce the people who write about Fielding to read him; this kind of neglect is only another name for glory. A great classic means a man whom one can praise without having read. This is not in itself wholly unjust; it merely implies a certain respect for the realisation and fixed conclusions of the mass of mankind. I have never read Pindar (I mean I have never read the Greek Pindar; Peter Pindar I have read all right), but the mere fact that I have not read Pindar, I think, ought not to prevent me and certainly would not prevent me from talking of “the masterpieces of Pindar,” or of “great poets like Pindar or Æschylus.” The very learned men are angularly unenlightened on this as on many other subjects; and the position they take up is really quite unreasonable. If any ordinary journalist or man of general reading alludes to Villon or to Homer, they consider it a quite triumphant sneer to say to the man, “You cannot read mediæval French,” or “You cannot read Homeric Greek.” But it is not a triumphant sneer—or, indeed, a sneer at all. A man has got as much right to employ in his speech the established and traditional facts of human history as he has to employ any other piece of common human information. And it is as reasonable for a man who knows no French to assume that Villon was a good poet as it would be for a man who has no ear for music to assume that Beethoven was a good musician. Because he himself has no ear for music, that is no reason why he should assume that the human race has no ear for music. Because I am ignorant (as I am), it does not follow that I ought to assume that I am deceived. The man who would not praise Pindar unless he had read him would be a low, distrustful fellow, the worst kind of sceptic, who doubts not only God, but man. He would be like a man who could not call Mount Everest high unless he had climbed it. He would be like a man who would not admit that the North Pole was cold until he had been there.
But I think there is a limit, and a highly legitimate limit, to this process. I think a man may praise Pindar without knowing the top of a Greek letter from the bottom. But I think that if a man is going to abuse Pindar, if he is going to denounce, refute, and utterly expose Pindar, if he is going to show Pindar up as the utter ignoramus and outrageous impostor that he is, then I think it will be just as well perhaps—I think, at any rate, it would do no harm— if he did know a little Greek, and even had read a little Pindar. And I think the same situation would be involved if the critic were concerned to point out that Pindar was scandalously immoral, pestilently cynical, or low and beastly in his views of life. When people brought such attacks against the morality of Pindar, I should regret that they could not read Greek; and when they bring such attacks against the morality of Fielding, I regret very much that they cannot read English.
There seems to be an extraordinary idea abroad that Fielding was in some way an immoral or offensive writer. I have been astounded by the number of the leading articles, literary articles, and other articles written about him just now in which there is a curious tone of apologising for the man. One critic says that after all he couldn’t help it, because he lived in the eighteenth century; another says that we must allow for the change of manners and ideas; another says that he was not altogether without generous and humane feelings; another suggests that he clung feebly, after all, to a few of the less important virtues. What on earth does all this mean? Fielding described Tom Jones as going on in a certain way, in which, most unfortunately, a very large number of young men do go on. It is unnecessary to say that Henry Fielding knew that it was an unfortunate way of going on. Even Tom Jones knew that. He said in so many words that it was a very unfortunate way of going on; he said, one may almost say, that it had ruined his life; the passage is there for the benefit of any one who may take the trouble to read the book. There is ample evidence (though even this is of a mystical and indirect kind), there is ample evidence that Fielding probably thought that it was better to be Tom Jones than to be an utter coward and sneak. There is simply not one rag or thread or speck of evidence to show that Fielding thought that it was better to be Tom Jones than to be a good man. All that he is concerned with is the description of a definite and very real type of young man; the young man whose passions and whose selfish necessities sometimes seemed to be stronger than anything else in him.
The practical morality of Tom Jones is bad, though not so bad, spiritually speaking, as the practical morality of Arthur Pendennis or the practical morality of Pip, and certainly nothing like so bad as the profound practical immorality of Daniel Deronda. The practical morality of Tom Jones is bad; but I cannot see any proof that his theoretical morality was particularly bad. There is no need to tell the majority of modern young men even to live up to the theoretical ethics of Henry Fielding. They would suddenly spring into the stature of archangels if they lived up to the theoretic ethics of poor Tom Jones. Tom Jones is still alive, with all his good and all his evil; he is walking about the streets; we meet him every day. We meet with him, we drink with him, we smoke with him, we talk with him, we talk about him. The only difference is that we have no longer the intellectual courage to write about him. We split up the supreme and central human being, Tom Jones, into a number of separate aspects. We let Mr. J. M. Barrie write about him in his good moments, and make him out better than he is. We let Zola write about him in his bad moments, and make him out much worse than he is. We let Maeterlinck celebrate those moments of spiritual panic which he knows to be cowardly; we let Mr. Rudyard Kipling celebrate those moments of brutality which he knows to be far more cowardly. We let obscene writers write about the obscenities of this ordinary man. We let puritan writers write about the purities of this ordinary man. We look through one peephole that makes men out as devils, and we call it the new art. We look through another peephole that makes men out as angels, and we call it the New Theology. But if we pull down some dusty old books from the bookshelf, if we turn over some old mildewed leaves, and if in that obscurity and decay we find some faint traces of a tale about a complete man, such a man as is walking on the pavement outside, we suddenly pull a long face, and we call it the coarse morals of a bygone age.
The truth is that all these things mark a certain change in the general view of morals; not, I think, a change for the better. We have grown to associate morality in a book with a kind of optimism and prettiness; according to us, a moral book is a book about moral people. But the old idea was almost exactly the opposite; a moral book was a book about immoral people. A moral book was full of pictures like Hogarth’s “Gin Lane” or “Stages of Cruelty,” or it recorded, like the popular broadsheet, “God’s dreadful judgment” against some blasphemer or murderer. There is a philosophical reason for this change. The homeless scepticism of our time has reached a subconscious feeling that morality is somehow merely a matter of human taste—an accident of psychology. And if goodness only exists in certain human minds, a man wishing to praise goodness will naturally exaggerate the amount of it that there is in human minds or the number of human minds in which it is supreme. Every confession that man is vicious is a confession that virtue is visionary. Every book which admits that evil is real is felt in some vague way to be admitting that good is unreal. The modern instinct is that if the heart of man is evil, there is nothing that remains good. But the older feeling was that if the heart of man was ever so evil, there was something that remained good—goodness remained good. An actual avenging virtue existed outside the human race; to that men rose, or from that men fell away. Therefore, of course, this law itself was as much demonstrated in the breach as in the observance. If Tom Jones violated morality, so much the worse for Tom Jones. Fielding did not feel, as a melancholy modern would have done, that every sin of Tom Jones was in some way breaking the spell, or we may even say destroying the fiction of morality. Men spoke of the sinner breaking the law; but it was rather the law that broke him. And what modern people call the foulness and freedom of Fielding is generally the severity and moral stringency of Fielding. He would not have thought that he was serving morality at all if he had written a book all about nice people. Fielding would have considered Mr. Ian Maclaren extremely immoral; and there is something to be said for that view. Telling the truth about the terrible struggle of the human soul is surely a very elementary part of the ethics of honesty. If the characters are not wicked, the book is.
This older and firmer conception of right as existing outside human weakness and without reference to human error can be felt in the very lightest and loosest of the works of old English literature. It is commonly unmeaning enough to call Shakspere a great moralist; but in this particular way Shakspere is a very typical moralist. Whenever he alludes to right and wrong it is always with this old implication. Right is right, even if nobody does it. Wrong is wrong, even if everybody is wrong about it.
THE MAID OF ORLEANS
A considerable time ago (at far too early an age, in fact) I read Voltaire’s “La Pucelle,” a savage sarcasm on the traditional purity of Joan of Arc, very dirty, and very funny. I had not thought of it again for years, but it came back into my mind this morning because I began to turn over the leaves of the new “Jeanne d’Arc,” by that great and graceful writer, Anatole France. It is written in a tone of tender sympathy, and a sort of sad reverence; it never loses touch with a noble tact and courtesy, like that of a gentleman escorting a peasant girl through the modern crowd. It is invariably respectful to Joan, and even respectful to her religion. And being myself a furious admirer of Joan the Maid, I have reflectively compared the two methods, and I come to the conclusion that I prefer Voltaire’s.
When a man of Voltaire’s school has to explode a saint or a great religious hero, he says that such a person is a common human fool, or a common human fraud. But when a man like Anatole France has to explode a saint, he explains a saint as somebody belonging to his particular fussy little literary set. Voltaire read human nature into Joan of Arc, though it was only the brutal part of human nature. At least it was not specially Voltaire’s nature. But M. France read M. France’s nature into Joan of Arc—all the cold kindness, all the homeless sentimental sin of the modern literary man. There is one book that it recalled to me with startling vividness, though I have not seen the matter mentioned anywhere; Renan’s “Vie de Jésus.” It has just the same general intention: that if you do not attack Christianity, you can at least patronise it. My own instinct, apart from my opinions, would be quite the other way. If I disbelieved in Christianity, I should be the loudest blasphemer in Hyde Park. Nothing ought to be too big for a brave man to attack; but there are some things too big for a man to patronise.
And I must say that the historical method seems to me excessively unreasonable. I have no knowledge of history, but I have as much knowledge of reason as Anatole France. And, if anything is irrational, it seems to me that the Renan-France way of dealing with miraculous stories is irrational. The Renan-France method is simply this: you explain supernatural stories that have some foundation simply by inventing natural stories that have no foundation. Suppose that you are confronted with the statement that Jack climbed up the beanstalk into the sky. It is perfectly philosophical to reply that you do not think that he did. It is (in my opinion) even more philosophical to reply that he may very probably have done so. But the Renan-France method is to write like this: “When we consider Jack’s curious and even perilous heredity, which no doubt was derived from a female greengrocer and a profligate priest, we can easily understand how the ideas of heaven and a beanstalk came to be combined in his mind. Moreover, there is little doubt that he must have met some wandering conjurer from India, who told him about the tricks of the mango plant, and how it is sent up to the sky. We can imagine these two friends, the old man and the young, wandering in the woods together at evening, looking at the red and level clouds, as on that night when the old man pointed to a small beanstalk, and told his too imaginative companion that this also might be made to scale the heavens. And then, when we remember the quite exceptional psychology of Jack, when we remember how there was in him a union of the prosaic, the love of plain vegetables, with an almost irrelevant eagerness for the unattainable, for invisibility and the void, we shall no longer wonder that it was to him especially that was sent this sweet, though merely symbolic, dream of the tree uniting earth and heaven.” That is the way that Renan and France write, only they do it better. But, really, a rationalist like myself becomes a little impatient and feels inclined to say, “But, hang it all, what do you know about the heredity of Jack or the psychology of Jack? You know nothing about Jack at all, except that some people say that he climbed up a beanstalk. Nobody would ever have thought of mentioning him if he hadn’t. You must interpret him in terms of the beanstalk religion; you cannot merely interpret religion in terms of him. We have the materials of this story, and we can believe them or not. But we have not got the materials to make another story.”
It is no exaggeration to say that this is the manner of M. Anatole France in dealing with Joan of Arc. Because her miracle is incredible to his somewhat old-fashioned materialism, he does not therefore dismiss it and her to fairyland with Jack and the Beanstalk. He tries to invent a real story, for which he can find no real evidence. He produces a scientific explanation which is quite destitute of any scientific proof. It is as if I (being entirely ignorant of botany and chemistry) said that the beanstalk grew to the sky because nitrogen and argon got into the subsidiary ducts of the corolla. To take the most obvious example, the principal character in M. France’s story is a person who never existed at all. All Joan’s wisdom and energy, it seems, came from a certain priest, of whom there is not the tiniest trace in all the multitudinous records of her life. The only foundation I can find for this fancy is the highly undemocratic idea that a peasant girl could not possibly have any ideas of her own. It is very hard for a freethinker to remain democratic. The writer seems altogether to forget what is meant by the moral atmosphere of a community. To say that Joan must have learnt her vision of a virgin overthrowing evil from a priest, is like saying that some modern girl in London, pitying the poor, must have learnt it from a Labour Member. She would learn it where the Labour Member learnt it—in the whole state of our society.
But that is the modern method: the method of the reverent sceptic. When you find a life entirely incredible and incomprehensible from the outside, you pretend that you understand the inside. As Renan, the rationalist, could not make any sense out of Christ’s most public acts, he proceeded to make an ingenious system out of His private thoughts. As Anatole France, on his own intellectual principle, cannot believe in what Joan of Arc did, he professes to be her dearest friend, and to know exactly what she meant. I cannot feel it to be a very rational manner of writing history; and sooner or later we shall have to find some more solid way of dealing with those spiritual phenomena with which all history is as closely spotted and spangled as the sky is with stars.
Joan of Arc is a wild and wonderful thing enough, but she is much saner than most of her critics and biographers. We shall not recover the common sense of Joan until we have recovered her mysticism. Our wars fail, because they begin with something sensible and obvious—such as getting to Pretoria by Christmas. But her war succeeded—because it began with something wild and perfect—the saints delivering France. She put her idealism in the right place, and her realism also in the right place: we moderns get both displaced. She put her dreams and her sentiment into her aims, where they ought to be; she put her practicality into her practice. In modern Imperial wars, the case is reversed. Our dreams, our aims are always, we insist, quite practical. It is our practice that is dreamy.
It is not for us to explain this flaming figure in terms of our tired and querulous culture. Rather we must try to explain ourselves by the blaze of such fixed stars. Those who called her a witch hot from hell were much more sensible than those who depict her as a silly sentimental maiden prompted by her parish priest. If I have to choose between the two schools of her scattered enemies, I could take my place with those subtle clerks who thought her divine mission devilish, rather than with those rustic aunts and uncles who thought it impossible.
A DEAD POET
With Francis Thompson we lose the greatest poetic energy since Browning. His energy was of somewhat the same kind. Browning was intellectually intricate because he was morally simple. He was too simple to explain himself; he was too humble to suppose that other people needed any explanation. But his real energy, and the real energy of Francis Thompson, was best expressed in the fact that both poets were at once fond of immensity and also fond of detail. Any common Imperialist can have large ideas so long as he is not called upon to have small ideas also. Any common scientific philosopher can have small ideas so long as he is not called upon to have large ideas as well. But great poets use the telescope and also the microscope. Great poets are obscure for two opposite reasons; now, because they are talking about something too large for any one to understand, and now again because they are talking about something too small for any one to see. Francis Thompson possessed both these infinities. He escaped by being too small, as the microbe escapes; or he escaped by being too large, as the universe escapes. Any one who knows Francis Thompson’s poetry knows quite well the truth to which I refer. For the benefit of any person who does not know it, I may mention two cases taken from memory. I have not the book by me, so I can only render the poetical passages in a clumsy paraphrase. But there was one poem of which the image was so vast that it was literally difficult for a time to take it in; he was describing the evening earth with its mist and fume and fragrance, and represented the whole as rolling upwards like a smoke; then suddenly he called the whole ball of the earth a thurible, and said that some gigantic spirit swung it slowly before God. That is the case of the image too large for comprehension. Another instance sticks in my mind of the image which is too small. In one of his poems, he says that abyss between the known and the unknown is bridged by “Pontifical death.” There are about ten historical and theological puns in that one word. That a priest means a pontiff, that a pontiff means a bridge-maker, that death is certainly a bridge, that death may turn out after all to be a reconciling priest, that at least priests and bridges both attest to the fact that one thing can get separated from another thing—these ideas, and twenty more, are all actually concentrated in the word “pontifical.” In Francis Thompson’s poetry, as in the poetry of the universe, you can work infinitely out and out, but yet infinitely in and in. These two infinities are the mark of greatness; and he was a great poet.
Beneath the tide of praise which was obviously due to the dead poet, there is an evident undercurrent of discussion about him; some charges of moral weakness were at least important enough to be authoritatively contradicted in the Nation; and, in connection with this and other things, there has been a continuous stir of comment upon his attraction to and gradual absorption in Catholic theological ideas. This question is so important that I think it ought to be considered and understood even at the present time. It is, of course, true that Francis Thompson devoted himself more and more to poems not only purely Catholic, but, one may say, purely ecclesiastical. And it is, moreover, true that (if things go on as they are going on at present) more and more good poets will do the same. Poets will tend towards Christian orthodoxy for a perfectly plain reason; because it is about the simplest and freest thing now left in the world. On this point it is very necessary to be clear. When people impute special vices to the Christian Church, they seem entirely to forget that the world (which is the only other thing there is) has these vices much more. The Church has been cruel; but the world has been much more cruel. The Church has plotted; but the world has plotted much more. The Church has been superstitious; but it has never been so superstitious as the world is when left to itself.
Now, poets in our epoch will tend towards ecclesiastical religion strictly because it is just a little more free than anything else. Take, for instance, the case of symbol and ritualism. All reasonable men believe in symbol; but some reasonable men do not believe in ritualism; by which they mean, I imagine, a symbolism too complex, elaborate, and mechanical. But whenever they talk of ritualism they always seem to mean the ritualism of the Church. Why should they not mean the ritual of the world? It is much more ritualistic. The ritual of the Army, the ritual of the Navy, the ritual of the Law Courts, the ritual of Parliament are much more ritualistic. The ritual of a dinner-party is much more ritualistic. Priests may put gold and great jewels on the chalice; but at least there is only one chalice to put them on. When you go to a dinner-party they put in front of you five different chalices, of five weird and heraldic shapes, to symbolise five different kinds of wine; an insane extension of ritual from which Mr. Percy Dearmer would fly shrieking. A bishop wears a mitre; but he is not thought more or less of a bishop according to whether you can see the very latest curves in his mitre. But a swell is thought more or less of a swell according to whether you can see the very latest curves in his hat. There is more fuss about symbols in the world than in the Church.
And yet (strangely enough) though men fuss more about the worldly symbols, they mean less by them. It is the mark of religious forms that they declare something unknown. But it is the mark of worldly forms that they declare something which is known, and which is known to be untrue. When the Pope in an Encyclical calls himself your father, it is a matter of faith or of doubt. But when the Duke of Devonshire in a letter calls himself yours obediently, you know that he means the opposite of what he says. Religious forms are, at the worst, fables; they might be true. Secular forms are falsehoods; they are not true. Take a more topical case. The German Emperor has more uniforms than the Pope. But, moreover, the Pope’s vestments all imply a claim to be something purely mystical and doubtful. Many of the German Emperor’s uniforms imply a claim to be something which he certainly is not and which it would be highly disgusting if he were. The Pope may or may not be the Vicar of Christ. But the Kaiser certainly is not an English Colonel. If the thing were reality it would be treason. If it is mere ritual, it is by far the most unreal ritual on earth.
Now, poetical people like Francis Thompson will, as things stand, tend away from secular society and towards religion for the reason above described: that there are crowds of symbols in both, but that those of religion are simpler and mean more. To take an evident type, the Cross is more poetical than the Union Jack, because it is simpler. The more simple an idea is, the more it is fertile in variations. Francis Thompson could have written any number of good poems on the Cross, because it is a primary symbol. The number of poems which Mr. Rudyard Kipling could write on the Union Jack is, fortunately, limited, because the Union Jack is too complex to produce luxuriance. The same principle applies to any possible number of cases. A poet like Francis Thompson could deduce perpetually rich and branching meanings out of two plain facts like bread and wine; with bread and wine he can expand everything to everywhere. But with a French menu he cannot expand anything; except perhaps himself. Complicated ideas do not produce any more ideas. Mongrels do not breed. Religious ritual attracts because there is some sense in it. Religious imagery, so far from being subtle, is the only simple thing left for poets. So far from being merely superhuman, it is the only human thing left for human beings.
CHRISTMAS
There is no more dangerous or disgusting habit than that of celebrating Christmas before it comes, as I am doing in this article. It is the very essence of a festival that it breaks upon one brilliantly and abruptly, that at one moment the great day is not and the next moment the great day is. Up to a certain specific instant you are feeling ordinary and sad; for it is only Wednesday. At the next moment your heart leaps up and your soul and body dance together like lovers; for in one burst and blaze it has become Thursday. I am assuming (of course) that you are a worshipper of Thor, and that you celebrate his day once a week, possibly with human sacrifice. If, on the other hand, you are a modern Christian Englishman, you hail (of course) with the same explosion of gaiety the appearance of the English Sunday. But I say that whatever the day is that is to you festive or symbolic, it is essential that there should be a quite clear black line between it and the time going before. And all the old wholesome customs in connection with Christmas were to the effect that one should not touch or see or know or speak of something before the actual coming of Christmas Day. Thus, for instance, children were never given their presents until the actual coming of the appointed hour. The presents were kept tied up in brown-paper parcels, out of which an arm of a doll or the leg of a donkey sometimes accidentally stuck. I wish this principle were adopted in respect of modern Christmas ceremonies and publications. Especially it ought to be observed in connection with what are called the Christmas numbers of magazines. The editors of the magazines bring out their Christmas numbers so long before the time that the reader is more likely to be still lamenting for the turkey of last year than to have seriously settled down to a solid anticipation of the turkey which is to come. Christmas numbers of magazines ought to be tied up in brown paper and kept for Christmas Day. On consideration, I should favour the editors being tied up in brown paper. Whether the leg or arm of an editor should ever be allowed to protrude I leave to individual choice.
Of course, all this secrecy about Christmas is merely sentimental and ceremonial; if you do not like what is sentimental and ceremonial, do not celebrate Christmas at all. You will not be punished if you don’t; also, since we are no longer ruled by those sturdy Puritans who won for us civil and religious liberty, you will not even be punished if you do. But I cannot understand why any one should bother about a ceremonial except ceremonially. If a thing only exists in order to be graceful, do it gracefully or do not do it. If a thing only exists as something professing to be solemn, do it solemnly or do not do it. There is no sense in doing it slouchingly; nor is there even any liberty. I can understand the man who takes off his hat to a lady because it is the customary symbol. I can understand him, I say; in fact, I know him quite intimately. I can also understand the man who refuses to take off his hat to a lady, like the old Quakers, because he thinks that a symbol is superstition. But what point would there be in so performing an arbitrary form of respect that it was not a form of respect? We respect the gentleman who takes off his hat to the lady; we respect the fanatic who will not take off his hat to the lady. But what should we think of the man who kept his hands in his pockets and asked the lady to take his hat off for him because he felt tired?
This is combining insolence and superstition; and the modern world is full of the strange combination. There is no mark of the immense weak-mindedness of modernity that is more striking than this general disposition to keep up old forms, but to keep them up informally and feebly. Why take something which was only meant to be respectful and preserve it disrespectfully? Why take something which you could easily abolish as a superstition and carefully perpetuate it as a bore? There have been many instances of this half-witted compromise. Was it not true, for instance, that the other day some mad American was trying to buy Glastonbury Abbey and transfer it stone by stone to America? Such things are not only illogical, but idiotic. There is no particular reason why a pushing American financier should pay respect to Glastonbury Abbey at all. But if he is to pay respect to Glastonbury Abbey, he must pay respect to Glastonbury. If it is a matter of sentiment, why should he spoil the scene? If it is not a matter of sentiment, why should he ever have visited the scene? To call this kind of thing Vandalism is a very inadequate and unfair description. The Vandals were very sensible people. They did not believe in a religion, and so they insulted it; they did not see any use for certain buildings, and so they knocked them down. But they were not such fools as to encumber their march with the fragments of the edifice they had themselves spoilt. They were at least superior to the modern American mode of reasoning. They did not desecrate the stones because they held them sacred.
Another instance of the same illogicality I observed the other day at some kind of “At Home.” I saw what appeared to be a human being dressed in a black evening-coat, black dress-waistcoat, and black dress-trousers, but with a shirt-front made of Jaeger wool. What can be the sense of this sort of thing? If a man thinks hygiene more important than convention (a selfish and heathen view, for the beasts that perish are more hygienic than man, and man is only above them because he is more conventional), if, I say, a man thinks that hygiene is more important than convention, what on earth is there to oblige him to wear a shirt-front at all? But to take a costume of which the only conceivable cause or advantage is that it is a sort of uniform, and then not wear it in the uniform way—this is to be neither a Bohemian nor a gentleman. It is a foolish affectation, I think, in an English officer of the Life Guards never to wear his uniform if he can help it. But it would be more foolish still if he showed himself about town in a scarlet coat and a Jaeger breast-plate. It is the custom nowadays to have Ritual Commissions and Ritual Reports to make rather unmeaning compromises in the ceremonial of the Church of England. So perhaps we shall have an ecclesiastical compromise by which all the Bishops shall wear Jaeger copes and Jaeger mitres. Similarly the King might insist on having a Jaeger crown. But I do not think he will, for he understands the logic of the matter better than that. The modern monarch, like a reasonable fellow, wears his crown as seldom as he can; but if he does it at all, then the only point of a crown is that it is a crown. So let me assure the unknown gentleman in the woollen vesture that the only point of a white shirt-front is that it is a white shirt-front. Stiffness may be its impossible defect; but it is certainly its only possible merit.
Let us be consistent, therefore, about Christmas, and either keep customs or not keep them. If you do not like sentiment and symbolism, you do not like Christmas; go away and celebrate something else; I should suggest the birthday of Mr. McCabe. No doubt you could have a sort of scientific Christmas with a hygienic pudding and highly instructive presents stuffed into a Jaeger stocking; go and have it then. If you like those things, doubtless you are a good sort of fellow, and your intentions are excellent. I have no doubt that you are really interested in humanity; but I cannot think that humanity will ever be much interested in you. Humanity is unhygienic from its very nature and beginning. It is so much an exception in Nature that the laws of Nature really mean nothing to it. Now Christmas is attacked also on the humanitarian ground. Ouida called it a feast of slaughter and gluttony. Mr. Shaw suggested that it was invented by poulterers. That should be considered before it becomes more considerable.
I do not know whether an animal killed at Christmas has had a better or a worse time than it would have had if there had been no Christmas or no Christmas dinners. But I do know that the fighting and suffering brotherhood to which I belong and owe everything, Mankind, would have a much worse time if there were no such thing as Christmas or Christmas dinners. Whether the turkey which Scrooge gave to Bob Cratchit had experienced a lovelier or more melancholy career than that of less attractive turkeys is a subject upon which I cannot even conjecture. But that Scrooge was better for giving the turkey and Cratchit happier for getting it I know as two facts, as I know that I have two feet. What life and death may be to a turkey is not my business; but the soul of Scrooge and the body of Cratchit are my business. Nothing shall induce me to darken human homes, to destroy human festivities, to insult human gifts and human benefactions for the sake of some hypothetical knowledge which Nature curtained from our eyes. We men and women are all in the same boat, upon a stormy sea. We owe to each other a terrible and tragic loyalty. If we catch sharks for food, let them be killed most mercifully; let any one who likes love the sharks, and pet the sharks, and tie ribbons round their necks and give them sugar and teach them to dance. But if once a man suggests that a shark is to be valued against a sailor, or that the poor shark might be permitted to bite off a nigger’s leg occasionally; then I would court-martial the man— he is a traitor to the ship.
And while I take this view of humanitarianism of the anti-Christmas kind, it is cogent to say that I am a strong anti-vivisectionist. That is, if there is any vivisection, I am against it. I am against the cutting-up of conscious dogs for the same reason that I am in favour of the eating of dead turkeys. The connection may not be obvious; but that is because of the strangely unhealthy condition of modern thought. I am against cruel vivisection as I am against a cruel anti-Christmas asceticism, because they both involve the upsetting of existing fellowships and the shocking of normal good feelings for the sake of something that is intellectual, fanciful, and remote. It is not a human thing, it is not a humane thing, when you see a poor woman staring hungrily at a bloater, to think, not of the obvious feelings of the woman, but of the unimaginable feelings of the deceased bloater. Similarly, it is not human, it is not humane, when you look at a dog to think about what theoretic discoveries you might possibly make if you were allowed to bore a hole in his head. Both the humanitarians’ fancy about the feelings concealed inside the bloater, and the vivisectionists’ fancy about the knowledge concealed inside the dog, are unhealthy fancies, because they upset a human sanity that is certain for the sake of something that is of necessity uncertain. The vivisectionist, for the sake of doing something that may or may not be useful, does something that certainly is horrible. The anti-Christmas humanitarian, in seeking to have a sympathy with a turkey which no man can have with a turkey, loses the sympathy he has already with the happiness of millions of the poor.
It is not uncommon nowadays for the insane extremes in reality to meet. Thus I have always felt that brutal Imperialism and Tolstoian non-resistance were not only not opposite, but were the same thing. They are the same contemptible thought that conquest cannot be resisted, looked at from the two standpoints of the conqueror and the conquered. Thus again teetotalism and the really degraded gin-selling and dram-drinking have exactly the same moral philosophy. They are both based on the idea that fermented liquor is not a drink, but a drug. But I am specially certain that the extreme of vegetarian humanity is, as I have said, akin to the extreme of scientific cruelty—they both permit a dubious speculation to interfere with their ordinary charity. The sound moral rule in such matters as vivisection always presents itself to me in this way. There is no ethical necessity more essential and vital than this: that casuistical exceptions, though admitted, should be admitted as exceptions. And it follows from this, I think, that, though we may do a horrid thing in a horrid situation, we must be quite certain that we actually and already are in that situation. Thus, all sane moralists admit that one may sometimes tell a lie; but no sane moralist would approve of telling a little boy to practise telling lies, in case he might one day have to tell a justifiable one. Thus, morality has often justified shooting a robber or a burglar. But it would not justify going into the village Sunday school and shooting all the little boys who looked as if they might grow up into burglars. The need may arise; but the need must have arisen. It seems to me quite clear that if you step across this limit you step off a precipice.
Now, whether torturing an animal is or is not an immoral thing, it is, at least, a dreadful thing. It belongs to the order of exceptional and even desperate acts. Except for some extraordinary reason I would not grievously hurt an animal; with an extraordinary reason I would grievously hurt him. If (for example) a mad elephant were pursuing me and my family, and I could only shoot him so that he would die in agony, he would have to die in agony. But the elephant would be there. I would not do it to a hypothetical elephant. Now, it always seems to me that this is the weak point in the ordinary vivisectionist argument, “Suppose your wife were dying.” Vivisection is not done by a man whose wife is dying. If it were it might be lifted to the level of the moment, as would be lying or stealing bread, or any other ugly action. But this ugly action is done in cold blood, at leisure, by men who are not sure that it will be of any use to anybody— men of whom the most that can be said is that they may conceivably make the beginnings of some discovery which may perhaps save the life of some one else’s wife in some remote future. That is too cold and distant to rob an act of its immediate horror. That is like training the child to tell lies for the sake of some great dilemma that may never come to him. You are doing a cruel thing, but not with enough passion to make it a kindly one.
So much for why I am an anti-vivisectionist; and I should like to say, in conclusion, that all other anti-vivisectionists of my acquaintance weaken their case infinitely by forming this attack on a scientific speciality in which the human heart is commonly on their side, with attacks upon universal human customs in which the human heart is not at all on their side. I have heard humanitarians, for instance, speak of vivisection and field sports as if they were the same kind of thing. The difference seems to me simple and enormous. In sport a man goes into a wood and mixes with the existing life of that wood; becomes a destroyer only in the simple and healthy sense in which all the creatures are destroyers; becomes for one moment to them what they are to him—another animal. In vivisection a man takes a simpler creature and subjects it to subtleties which no one but man could inflict on him, and for which man is therefore gravely and terribly responsible.
Meanwhile, it remains true that I shall eat a great deal of turkey this Christmas; and it is not in the least true (as the vegetarians say) that I shall do it because I do not realise what I am doing, or because I do what I know is wrong, or that I do it with shame or doubt or a fundamental unrest of conscience. In one sense I know quite well what I am doing; in another sense I know quite well that I know not what I do. Scrooge and the Cratchits and I are, as I have said, all in one boat; the turkey and I are, to say the most of it, ships that pass in the night, and greet each other in passing. I wish him well; but it is really practically impossible to discover whether I treat him well. I can avoid, and I do avoid with horror, all special and artificial tormenting of him, sticking pins in him for fun or sticking knives in him for scientific investigation. But whether by feeding him slowly and killing him quickly for the needs of my brethren, I have improved in his own solemn eyes his own strange and separate destiny, whether I have made him in the sight of God a slave or a martyr, or one whom the gods love and who die young— that is far more removed from my possibilities of knowledge than the most abstruse intricacies of mysticism or theology. A turkey is more occult and awful than all the angels and archangels. In so far as God has partly revealed to us an angelic world, he has partly told us what an angel means. But God has never told us what a turkey means. And if you go and stare at a live turkey for an hour or two, you will find by the end of it that the enigma has rather increased than diminished.
THE CASE FOR THE EPHEMERAL
I cannot understand the people who take literature seriously; but I can love them, and I do. Out of my love I warn them to keep clear of this book. It is a collection of crude and shapeless papers upon current or rather flying subjects; and they must be published pretty much as they stand. They were written, as a rule, at the last moment; they were handed in the moment before it was too late, and I do not think that our commonwealth would have been shaken to its foundations if they had been handed in the moment after. They must go out now, with all their imperfections on their head, or rather on mine; for their vices are too vital to be improved with a blue pencil, or with anything I can think of, except dynamite.
Their chief vice is that so many of them are very serious; because I had no time to make them flippant. It is so easy to be solemn; it is so hard to be frivolous. Let any honest reader shut his eyes for a few moments, and approaching the secret tribunal of his soul, ask himself whether he would really rather be asked in the next two hours to write the front page of the Times, which is full of long leading articles, or the front page of Tit-Bits, which is full of short jokes. If the reader is the fine conscientious fellow I take him for, he will at once reply that he would rather on the spur of the moment write ten Times articles than one Tit-Bits joke. Responsibility, a heavy and cautious responsibility of speech, is the easiest thing in the world; anybody can do it. That is why so many tired, elderly, and wealthy men go in for politics. They are responsible, because they have not the strength of mind left to be irresponsible. It is more dignified to sit still than to dance the Barn Dance. It is also easier. So in these easy pages I keep myself on the whole on the level of the Times: it is only occasionally that I leap upwards almost to the level of Tit-Bits.
I resume the defence of this indefensible book. These articles have another disadvantage arising from the scurry in which they were written; they are too long-winded and elaborate. One of the great disadvantages of hurry is that it takes such a long time. If I have to start for High-gate this day week, I may perhaps go the shortest way. If I have to start this minute, I shall almost certainly go the longest. In these essays (as I read them over) I feel frightfully annoyed with myself for not getting to the point more quickly; but I had not enough leisure to be quick. There are several maddening cases in which I took two or three pages in attempting to describe an attitude of which the essence could be expressed in an epigram; only there was no time for epigrams. I do not repent of one shade of opinion here expressed; but I feel that they might have been expressed so much more briefly and precisely. For instance, these pages contain a sort of recurring protest against the boast of certain writers that they are merely recent. They brag that their philosophy of the universe is the last philosophy or the new philosophy, or the advanced and progressive philosophy. I have said much against a mere modernism. When I use the word “modernism,” I am not alluding specially to the current quarrel in the Roman Catholic Church, though I am certainly astonished at any intellectual group accepting so weak and unphilosophical a name. It is incomprehensible to me that any thinker can calmly call himself a modernist; he might as well call himself a Thursdayite. But apart altogether from that particular disturbance, I am conscious of a general irritation expressed against the people who boast of their advancement and modernity in the discussion of religion. But I never succeeded in saying the quite clear and obvious thing that is really the matter with modernism. The real objection to modernism is simply that it is a form of snobbishness. It is an attempt to crush a rational opponent not by reason, but by some mystery of superiority, by hinting that one is specially up to date or particularly “in the know.” To flaunt the fact that we have had all the last books from Germany is simply vulgar; like flaunting the fact that we have had all the last bonnets from Paris. To introduce into philosophical discussions a sneer at a creed’s antiquity is like introducing a sneer at a lady’s age. It is caddish because it is irrelevant. The pure modernist is merely a snob; he cannot bear to be a month behind the fashion.
Similarly I find that I have tried in these pages to express the real objection to philanthropists and have not succeeded. I have not seen the quite simple objection to the causes advocated by certain wealthy idealists; causes of which the cause called teetotalism is the strongest case. I have used many abusive terms about the thing, calling it Puritanism, or superciliousness, or aristocracy; but I have not seen and stated the quite simple objection to philanthropy; which is that it is religious persecution. Religious persecution does not consist in thumbscrews or fires of Smithfield; the essence of religious persecution is this: that the man who happens to have material power in the State, either by wealth or by official position, should govern his fellow-citizens not according to their religion or philosophy, but according to his own. If, for instance, there is such a thing as a vegetarian nation; if there is a great united mass of men who wish to live by the vegetarian morality, then I say in the emphatic words of the arrogant French marquis before the French Revolution, “Let them eat grass.” Perhaps that French oligarch was a humanitarian; most oligarchs are. Perhaps when he told the peasants to eat grass he was recommending to them the hygienic simplicity of a vegetarian restaurant. But that is an irrelevant, though most fascinating, speculation. The point here is that if a nation is really vegetarian let its government force upon it the whole horrible weight of vegetarianism. Let its government give the national guests a State vegetarian banquet. Let its government, in the most literal and awful sense of the words, give them beans. That sort of tyranny is all very well; for it is the people tyrannising over all the persons. But “temperance reformers” are like a small group of vegetarians who should silently and systematically act on an ethical assumption entirely unfamiliar to the mass of the people. They would always be giving peerages to greengrocers. They would always be appointing Parliamentary Commissions to enquire into the private life of butchers. Whenever they found a man quite at their mercy, as a pauper or a convict or a lunatic, they would force him to add the final touch to his inhuman isolation by becoming a vegetarian. All the meals for school children will be vegetarian meals. All the State public houses will be vegetarian public houses. There is a very strong case for vegetarianism as compared with teetotalism. Drinking one glass of beer cannot by any philosophy be drunkenness; but killing one animal can, by this philosophy, be murder. The objection to both processes is not that the two creeds, teetotal and vegetarian, are not admissible; it is simply that they are not admitted. The thing is religious persecution because it is not based on the existing religion of the democracy. These people ask the poor to accept in practice what they know perfectly well that the poor would not accept in theory. That is the very definition of religious persecution. I was against the Tory attempt to force upon ordinary Englishmen a Catholic theology in which they do not believe. I am even more against the attempt to force upon them a Mohamedan morality which they actively deny.
Again, in the case of anonymous journalism I seem to have said a great deal without getting out the point very clearly. Anonymous journalism is dangerous, and is poisonous in our existing life simply because it is so rapidly becoming an anonymous life. That is the horrible thing about our contemporary atmosphere. Society is becoming a secret society. The modern tyrant is evil because of his elusiveness. He is more nameless than his slave. He is not more of a bully than the tyrants of the past; but he is more of a coward. The rich publisher may treat the poor poet better or worse than the old master workman treated the old apprentice. But the apprentice ran away and the master ran after him. Nowadays it is the poet who pursues and tries in vain to fix the fact of responsibility. It is the publisher who runs away. The clerk of Mr. Solomon gets the sack: the beautiful Greek slave of the Sultan Suliman also gets the sack; or the sack gets her. But though she is concealed under the black waves of the Bosphorus, at least her destroyer is not concealed. He goes behind golden trumpets riding on a white elephant. But in the case of the clerk it is almost as difficult to know where the dismissal comes from as to know where the clerk goes to. It may be Mr. Solomon or Mr. Solomon’s manager, or Mr. Solomon’s rich aunt in Cheltenham, or Mr. Soloman’s rich creditor in Berlin. The elaborate machinery which was once used to make men responsible is now used solely in order to shift the responsibility. People talk about the pride of tyrants; but we in this age are not suffering from the pride of tyrants. We are suffering from the shyness of tyrants; from the shrinking modesty of tyrants. Therefore we must not encourage leader-writers to be shy; we must not inflame their already exaggerated modesty. Rather we must attempt to lure them to be vain and ostentatious; so that through ostentation they may at last find their way to honesty.
The last indictment against this book is the worst of all. It is simply this: that if all goes well this book will be unintelligible gibberish. For it is mostly concerned with attacking attitudes which are in their nature accidental and incapable of enduring. Brief as is the career of such a book as this, it may last just twenty minutes longer than most of the philosophies that it attacks. In the end it will not matter to us whether we wrote well or ill; whether we fought with flails or reeds. It will matter to us greatly on what side we fought.
IN DIFESA DELL’EFFIMERO
Non riesco a capire coloro che prendono la letteratura sul serio; ma posso amarli, e lo faccio. Proprio in nome del mio amore li ammonisco a tenersi alla larga da questo libro. È una raccolta di scritti rozzi e informi su argomenti d’attualità, o piuttosto di passaggio; e devono essere pubblicati più o meno così come sono. Furono composti, di regola, all’ultimo momento; furono consegnati un attimo prima che fosse troppo tardi, e non credo che la nostra repubblica sarebbe stata scossa dalle fondamenta se fossero stati consegnati un attimo dopo. Devono uscire adesso, con tutte le loro imperfezioni sul capo, o piuttosto sul mio; giacché i loro vizi sono troppo radicali per essere corretti con la matita blu, o con qualunque altra cosa mi venga in mente, salvo la dinamite.
Il loro vizio principale è che tanti di essi sono assai seri; perché non ebbi il tempo di renderli leggeri. È così facile essere solenni; è così difficile essere frivoli. Che ogni lettore onesto chiuda gli occhi per qualche istante e, accostandosi al segreto tribunale della propria anima, si domandi se davvero preferirebbe che gli si chiedesse, nelle prossime due ore, di scrivere la prima pagina del Times, che è colma di lunghi articoli di fondo, oppure la prima pagina di Tit-Bits, che è colma di brevi facezie. Se il lettore è quel bravo e coscienzioso individuo che io lo credo, risponderà subito che preferirebbe, lì per lì, scrivere dieci articoli del Times piuttosto che una sola facezia di Tit-Bits. La responsabilità, una pesante e cauta responsabilità del discorso, è la cosa più facile del mondo; chiunque ne è capace. È per questo che tanti uomini stanchi, attempati e facoltosi si danno alla politica. Sono responsabili perché non hanno più la forza d’animo sufficiente a essere irresponsabili. È più dignitoso starsene seduti immobili che ballare la danza campestre. Ed è anche più facile. Così, in queste pagine facili, mi mantengo per lo più al livello del Times: soltanto di tanto in tanto spicco un balzo verso l’alto, quasi fino al livello di Tit-Bits.
Riprendo la difesa di questo libro indifendibile. Questi articoli hanno un altro difetto, nato dalla fretta con cui furono scritti: sono troppo prolissi ed elaborati. Uno dei grandi svantaggi della fretta è che porta via un tempo così lungo. Se devo mettermi in cammino per High-gate fra una settimana, forse prenderò la via più breve. Se devo partire in questo istante, prenderò quasi certamente la più lunga. In questi saggi (rileggendoli) provo un fastidio tremendo verso me stesso per non essere arrivato al punto più in fretta; ma non ebbi abbastanza agio per essere rapido. Vi sono parecchi casi esasperanti in cui impiegai due o tre pagine nel tentativo di descrivere un atteggiamento la cui essenza avrebbe potuto esprimersi in un epigramma; solo che non c’era tempo per gli epigrammi. Non mi pento di una sola sfumatura delle opinioni qui espresse; ma sento che avrebbero potuto essere espresse in modo assai più breve e preciso. Per esempio, queste pagine contengono una sorta di ricorrente protesta contro il vanto di certi scrittori d’essere semplicemente recenti. Si gloriano che la loro filosofia dell’universo sia l’ultima filosofia, o la nuova filosofia, o la filosofia avanzata e progressiva. Ho detto molto contro un puro modernismo. Quando adopero la parola «modernismo» non alludo in particolare all’attuale disputa nella Chiesa cattolica romana, benché io sia certamente stupito che un qualsiasi gruppo intellettuale accetti un nome tanto debole e antifilosofico. Mi è incomprensibile che un pensatore possa tranquillamente definirsi modernista; tanto varrebbe allora che si definisse un giovedista. Ma a parte del tutto quella particolare agitazione, sono consapevole di una generale irritazione espressa contro coloro che si vantano del proprio progresso e della propria modernità nel discutere di religione. Non riuscii però mai a dire la cosa del tutto chiara ed evidente che davvero non va nel modernismo. La vera obiezione al modernismo è semplicemente che esso è una forma di snobismo. È un tentativo di schiacciare un avversario razionale non con la ragione, ma con qualche mistero di superiorità, insinuando che si è particolarmente aggiornati o particolarmente «al corrente». Ostentare il fatto d’aver ricevuto tutti gli ultimi libri dalla Germania è semplicemente volgare; come ostentare il fatto d’aver ricevuto tutte le ultime cuffiette da Parigi. Introdurre in una discussione filosofica uno scherno verso l’antichità di un credo è come introdurre uno scherno verso l’età di una dama. È da cafone, perché è irrilevante. Il puro modernista è nient’altro che uno snob; non sopporta di essere in ritardo di un mese sulla moda.
Similmente, mi accorgo d’aver tentato in queste pagine di esprimere la vera obiezione ai filantropi, e di non esservi riuscito. Non ho colto l’obiezione del tutto semplice alle cause perorate da certi idealisti facoltosi; cause di cui quella detta astinenzismo è l’esempio più forte. Ho usato molti termini ingiuriosi a proposito di quella cosa, chiamandola puritanesimo, o supponenza, o aristocrazia; ma non ho colto né enunciato l’obiezione del tutto semplice alla filantropia; ossia che essa è persecuzione religiosa. La persecuzione religiosa non consiste nelle morse per i pollici o nei roghi di Smithfield; l’essenza della persecuzione religiosa è questa: che l’uomo il quale per caso detiene il potere materiale nello Stato, o per ricchezza o per carica ufficiale, debba governare i propri concittadini non secondo la loro religione o filosofia, ma secondo la propria. Se, per esempio, esiste una cosa come una nazione vegetariana; se esiste una grande massa unita di uomini che desiderano vivere secondo la morale vegetariana, allora io dico, con le enfatiche parole dell’arrogante marchese francese prima della Rivoluzione francese: «Che mangino erba». Forse quell’oligarca francese era un umanitario; la maggior parte degli oligarchi lo è. Forse, quando disse ai contadini di mangiare erba, raccomandava loro la igienica semplicità di un ristorante vegetariano. Ma questa è una speculazione irrilevante, per quanto affascinante. Il punto qui è che, se una nazione è davvero vegetariana, che il suo governo le imponga tutto l’orribile peso del vegetarianismo. Che il suo governo offra agli ospiti nazionali un banchetto vegetariano di Stato. Che il suo governo, nel senso più letterale e tremendo delle parole, li lasci a pane e fagioli. Quel genere di tirannia va benissimo; giacché è il popolo che tiranneggia tutte le singole persone. Ma i «riformatori della temperanza» sono come un piccolo gruppo di vegetariani che agisse in silenzio e sistematicamente in base a un presupposto etico del tutto estraneo alla massa del popolo. Non farebbero che concedere titoli nobiliari agli ortolani. Non farebbero che nominare Commissioni parlamentari incaricate di indagare sulla vita privata dei macellai. Ogni volta che trovassero un uomo del tutto alla loro mercé, come un mendicante o un galeotto o un pazzo, lo costringerebbero ad aggiungere il tocco finale al suo disumano isolamento diventando vegetariano. Tutti i pasti per gli scolari saranno pasti vegetariani. Tutte le osterie di Stato saranno osterie vegetariane. C’è un argomento assai forte a favore del vegetarianismo se paragonato all’astinenzismo. Bere un solo bicchiere di birra non può, per nessuna filosofia, essere ubriachezza; ma uccidere un solo animale può, secondo questa filosofia, essere omicidio. L’obiezione a entrambi i procedimenti non è che i due credi, quello astinente e quello vegetariano, siano inammissibili; è semplicemente che non sono ammessi. La cosa è persecuzione religiosa perché non si fonda sulla religione esistente della democrazia. Costoro chiedono ai poveri di accettare in pratica ciò che sanno benissimo che i poveri non accetterebbero in teoria. È questa la definizione stessa della persecuzione religiosa. Ero contrario al tentativo dei conservatori di imporre agli inglesi comuni una teologia cattolica in cui non credono. Sono ancora più contrario al tentativo di imporre loro una morale maomettana che essi attivamente rifiutano.
Di nuovo, nel caso del giornalismo anonimo mi pare d’aver detto moltissimo senza far emergere il punto con molta chiarezza. Il giornalismo anonimo è pericoloso, ed è velenoso nella nostra esistenza attuale semplicemente perché questa sta diventando così rapidamente un’esistenza anonima. È questa la cosa orribile della nostra atmosfera contemporanea. La società sta diventando una società segreta. Il tiranno moderno è malvagio a causa della sua inafferrabilità. È più senza nome del suo stesso schiavo. Non è più prepotente dei tiranni del passato; ma è più vile. Il ricco editore può trattare il povero poeta meglio o peggio di come l’antico mastro artigiano trattava l’antico apprendista. Ma l’apprendista fuggiva e il maestro gli correva dietro. Oggigiorno è il poeta che insegue e tenta invano di fissare il dato della responsabilità. È l’editore che se la dà a gambe. Il commesso del signor Solomon viene licenziato; anche la bella schiava greca del sultano Solimano viene gettata nel sacco; o piuttosto è il sacco a prendere lei. Ma per quanto ella sia occultata sotto le onde nere del Bosforo, almeno il suo carnefice non è occultato. Egli avanza dietro trombe d’oro, cavalcando un elefante bianco. Nel caso del commesso, invece, è quasi altrettanto difficile sapere da dove provenga il licenziamento quanto sapere dove vada a finire il commesso. Può essere il signor Solomon, o il direttore del signor Solomon, o la ricca zia del signor Solomon a Cheltenham, o il ricco creditore del signor Solomon a Berlino. L’elaborato meccanismo un tempo impiegato per rendere gli uomini responsabili viene ora usato unicamente per scaricare la responsabilità. Si parla dell’orgoglio dei tiranni; ma noi, in quest’epoca, non soffriamo dell’orgoglio dei tiranni. Soffriamo della timidezza dei tiranni; della ritrosa modestia dei tiranni. Perciò non dobbiamo incoraggiare gli editorialisti a essere timidi; non dobbiamo alimentare la loro modestia già esagerata. Dobbiamo piuttosto tentare di indurli a essere vanitosi e ostentatori; sicché, attraverso l’ostentazione, possano finalmente trovare la via dell’onestà.
L’ultima accusa contro questo libro è la peggiore di tutte. È semplicemente questa: che, se tutto andrà bene, questo libro sarà un farfugliamento incomprensibile. Poiché si occupa per lo più di attaccare atteggiamenti che sono, per loro natura, accidentali e incapaci di durare. Per quanto breve sia la carriera di un libro come questo, esso potrà sopravvivere giusto venti minuti più a lungo della maggior parte delle filosofie che attacca. Alla fine non conterà nulla, per noi, l’aver scritto bene o male; l’aver combattuto con correggiati o con canne. Ci importerà grandemente da quale parte abbiamo combattuto.
COCKNEYS AND THEIR JOKES
A writer in the Yorkshire Evening Post is very angry indeed with my performances in this column. His precise terms of reproach are, “Mr. G. K. Chesterton is not a humourist: not even a Cockney humourist.” I do not mind his saying that I am not a humourist—in which (to tell the truth) I think he is quite right. But I do resent his saying that I am not a Cockney. That envenomed arrow, I admit, went home. If a French writer said of me, “He is no metaphysician: not even an English metaphysician,” I could swallow the insult to my metaphysics, but I should feel angry about the insult to my country. So I do not urge that I am a humourist; but I do insist that I am a Cockney. If I were a humourist, I should certainly be a Cockney humourist; if I were a saint, I should certainly be a Cockney saint. I need not recite the splendid catalogue of Cockney saints who have written their names on our noble old City churches. I need not trouble you with the long list of the Cockney humourists who have discharged their bills (or failed to discharge them) in our noble old City taverns. We can weep together over the pathos of the poor Yorkshireman, whose county has never produced some humour not intelligible to the rest of the world. And we can smile together when he says that somebody or other is “not even” a Cockney humourist like Samuel Johnson or Charles Lamb. It is surely sufficiently obvious that all the best humour that exists in our language is Cockney humour. Chaucer was a Cockney; he had his house close to the Abbey. Dickens was a Cockney; he said he could not think without the London streets. The London taverns heard always the quaintest conversation, whether it was Ben Johnson’s at the Mermaid or Sam Johnson’s at the Cock. Even in our own time it may be noted that the most vital and genuine humour is still written about London. Of this type is the mild and humane irony which marks Mr. Pett Ridge’s studies of the small grey streets. Of this type is the simple but smashing laughter of the best tales of Mr. W. W. Jacobs, telling of the smoke and sparkle of the Thames. No; I concede that I am not a Cockney humourist. No; I am not worthy to be. Some time, after sad and strenuous after-lives; some time, after fierce and apocalyptic incarnations; in some strange world beyond the stars, I may become at last a Cockney humourist. In that potential paradise I may walk among the Cockney humourists, if not an equal, at least a companion. I may feel for a moment on my shoulder the hearty hand of Dryden and thread the labyrinths of the sweet insanity of Lamb. But that could only be if I were not only much cleverer, but much better than I am. Before I reach that sphere I shall have left behind, perhaps, the sphere that is inhabited by angels, and even passed that which is appropriated exclusively to the use of Yorkshiremen.
No; London is in this matter attacked upon its strongest ground. London is the largest of the bloated modern cities; London is the smokiest; London is the dirtiest; London is, if you will, the most sombre; London is, if you will, the most miserable. But London is certainly the most amusing and the most amused. You may prove that we have the most tragedy; the fact remains that we have the most comedy, that we have the most farce. We have at the very worst a splendid hypocrisy of humour. We conceal our sorrow behind a screaming derision. You speak of people who laugh through their tears; it is our boast that we only weep through our laughter. There remains always this great boast, perhaps the greatest boast that is possible to human nature. I mean the great boast that the most unhappy part of our population is also the most hilarious part. The poor can forget that social problem which we (the moderately rich) ought never to forget. Blessed are the poor; for they alone have not the poor always with them. The honest poor can sometimes forget poverty. The honest rich can never forget it.
I believe firmly in the value of all vulgar notions, especially of vulgar jokes. When once you have got hold of a vulgar joke, you may be certain that you have got hold of a subtle and spiritual idea. The men who made the joke saw something deep which they could not express except by something silly and emphatic. They saw something delicate which they could only express by something indelicate. I remember that Mr. Max Beerbohm (who has every merit except democracy) attempted to analyse the jokes at which the mob laughs. He divided them into three sections: jokes about bodily humiliation, jokes about things alien, such as foreigners, and jokes about bad cheese. Mr. Max Beerbohm thought he understood the first two forms; but I am not sure that he did. In order to understand vulgar humour it is not enough to be humorous. One must also be vulgar, as I am. And in the first case it is surely obvious that it is not merely at the fact of something being hurt that we laugh (as I trust we do) when a Prime Minister sits down on his hat. If that were so we should laugh whenever we saw a funeral. We do not laugh at the mere fact of something falling down; there is nothing humorous about leaves falling or the sun going down. When our house falls down we do not laugh. All the birds of the air might drop around us in a perpetual shower like a hailstorm without arousing a smile. If you really ask yourself why we laugh at a man sitting down suddenly in the street you will discover that the reason is not only recondite, but ultimately religious. All the jokes about men sitting down on their hats are really theological jokes; they are concerned with the Dual Nature of Man. They refer to the primary paradox that man is superior to all the things around him and yet is at their mercy.
I COCKNEY E LE LORO FACEZIE
Un articolista dello Yorkshire Evening Post è oltremodo indignato per le mie prestazioni in questa rubrica. I suoi precisi termini di rimprovero suonano così: «Il signor G. K. Chesterton non è un umorista: nemmeno un umorista cockney». Non m’importa che dica che non sono un umorista — nel che (a dire il vero) credo abbia perfettamente ragione. Ma mi risento davvero che dica che non sono un cockney. Quel dardo avvelenato, lo confesso, andò a segno. Se uno scrittore francese dicesse di me: «Non è un metafisico: nemmeno un metafisico inglese», potrei inghiottire l’insulto alla mia metafisica, ma proverei collera per l’insulto alla mia patria. Perciò non insisto d’essere un umorista; ma insisto d’essere un cockney. Se fossi un umorista, sarei certamente un umorista cockney; se fossi un santo, sarei certamente un santo cockney. Non ho bisogno di recitare lo splendido catalogo dei santi cockney che hanno scritto i loro nomi sulle nostre nobili vecchie chiese della City. Non ho bisogno di tediarvi con la lunga lista degli umoristi cockney che hanno saldato i loro conti (o non son riusciti a saldarli) nelle nostre nobili vecchie taverne della City. Possiamo piangere insieme sul patetico caso del povero uomo dello Yorkshire, la cui contea non ha mai prodotto un umorismo che non fosse intelligibile al resto del mondo. E possiamo sorridere insieme quando egli dice che il tale o il tal altro non è «nemmeno» un umorista cockney come Samuel Johnson o Charles Lamb. È di certo sufficientemente ovvio che tutto il migliore umorismo che esista nella nostra lingua sia umorismo cockney. Chaucer era un cockney; aveva la sua casa a due passi dall’Abbazia. Dickens era un cockney; diceva di non saper pensare senza le strade di Londra. Le taverne di Londra udirono sempre la conversazione più bizzarra, fosse quella di Ben Johnson alla Mermaid o quella di Sam Johnson al Cock. Persino ai nostri giorni si può notare che l’umorismo più vitale e genuino si scrive tuttora su Londra. Di questo genere è la mite e umana ironia che contraddistingue gli studi del signor Pett Ridge sulle piccole strade grigie. Di questo genere è la risata semplice ma travolgente dei migliori racconti del signor W. W. Jacobs, che narrano del fumo e dello scintillio del Tamigi. No; concedo di non essere un umorista cockney. No; non ne sono degno. Un giorno, dopo tristi e faticose vite ulteriori; un giorno, dopo feroci e apocalittiche incarnazioni; in qualche strano mondo al di là delle stelle, potrò forse diventare finalmente un umorista cockney. In quel paradiso potenziale potrò forse camminare fra gli umoristi cockney, se non da pari, almeno da compagno. Potrò forse sentire per un istante sulla spalla la cordiale mano di Dryden e infilarmi nei labirinti della dolce follia di Lamb. Ma ciò potrebbe accadere solo se fossi non soltanto assai più abile, ma assai migliore di quanto io sia. Prima di raggiungere quella sfera avrò lasciato dietro di me, forse, la sfera abitata dagli angeli, e avrò varcato persino quella riservata esclusivamente all’uso degli uomini dello Yorkshire.
No; Londra è in questa faccenda attaccata sul suo terreno più saldo. Londra è la più grande delle gonfie città moderne; Londra è la più fumosa; Londra è la più sudicia; Londra è, se volete, la più tetra; Londra è, se volete, la più misera. Ma Londra è di certo la più divertente e la più divertita. Potrete dimostrare che abbiamo la maggior tragedia; resta il fatto che abbiamo la maggior commedia, che abbiamo la maggior farsa. Abbiamo, nella peggiore delle ipotesi, una splendida ipocrisia di umorismo. Nascondiamo il nostro dolore dietro una derisione sguaiata. Voi parlate di gente che ride tra le lacrime; è nostro vanto piangere soltanto tra le risate. Rimane sempre questo grande vanto, forse il più grande vanto possibile alla natura umana. Intendo il grande vanto che la parte più infelice della nostra popolazione sia anche la più ilare. I poveri sanno dimenticare quel problema sociale che noi (i moderatamente ricchi) non dovremmo mai dimenticare. Beati i poveri; poiché essi soli non hanno sempre i poveri con sé. Il povero onesto può talvolta dimenticare la povertà. Il ricco onesto non può mai dimenticarla.
Credo fermamente nel valore di tutte le nozioni volgari, e specialmente delle facezie volgari. Una volta che avrete afferrato una facezia volgare, potrete esser certi d’aver afferrato un’idea sottile e spirituale. Gli uomini che hanno fatto la facezia vedevano qualcosa di profondo che non riuscivano a esprimere se non con qualcosa di sciocco ed enfatico. Vedevano qualcosa di delicato che potevano esprimere soltanto con qualcosa d’indelicato. Ricordo che il signor Max Beerbohm (che ha ogni pregio tranne la democrazia) tentò di analizzare le facezie di cui ride la folla. Le divise in tre categorie: facezie sull’umiliazione corporea, facezie sulle cose estranee, quali gli stranieri, e facezie sul formaggio andato a male. Il signor Max Beerbohm credeva di comprendere le prime due forme; ma non sono sicuro che le comprendesse. Per comprendere l’umorismo volgare non basta essere umoristi. Bisogna anche essere volgari, come lo sono io. E nel primo caso è di certo ovvio che non è semplicemente al fatto che qualcosa si faccia male che noi ridiamo (come confido che facciamo) quando un Primo Ministro si siede sul proprio cappello. Se così fosse, dovremmo ridere ogni volta che vedessimo un funerale. Non ridiamo del mero fatto che qualcosa cada; non c’è nulla di comico nelle foglie che cadono o nel sole che tramonta. Quando la nostra casa crolla non ridiamo. Tutti gli uccelli dell’aria potrebbero piombarci attorno in una pioggia perpetua come una grandinata senza suscitare un sorriso. Se davvero vi domandate perché ridiamo di un uomo che si siede all’improvviso in mezzo alla strada, scoprirete che la ragione è non solo recondita, ma in ultima analisi religiosa. Tutte le facezie sugli uomini che si siedono sul proprio cappello sono in realtà facezie teologiche; riguardano la Duplice Natura dell’Uomo. Si riferiscono al paradosso primario per cui l’uomo è superiore a tutte le cose che lo circondano e tuttavia è alla loro mercé.
Quite equally subtle and spiritual is the idea at the back of laughing at foreigners. It concerns the almost torturing truth of a thing being like oneself and yet not like oneself. Nobody laughs at what is entirely foreign; nobody laughs at a palm tree. But it is funny to see the familiar image of God disguised behind the black beard of a Frenchman or the black face of a Negro. There is nothing funny in the sounds that are wholly inhuman, the howling of wild beasts or of the wind. But if a man begins to talk like oneself, but all the syllables come out different, then if one is a man one feels inclined to laugh, though if one is a gentleman one resists the inclination.
Mr. Max Beerbohm, I remember, professed to understand the first two forms of popular wit, but said that the third quite stumped him. He could not see why there should be anything funny about bad cheese. I can tell him at once. He has missed the idea because it is subtle and philosophical, and he was looking for something ignorant and foolish. Bad cheese is funny because it is (like the foreigner or the man fallen on the pavement) the type of the transition or transgression across a great mystical boundary. Bad cheese symbolises the change from the inorganic to the organic. Bad cheese symbolises the startling prodigy of matter taking on vitality. It symbolises the origin of life itself. And it is only about such solemn matters as the origin of life that the democracy condescends to joke. Thus, for instance, the democracy jokes about marriage, because marriage is a part of mankind. But the democracy would never deign to joke about Free Love, because Free Love is a piece of priggishness.
As a matter of fact, it will be generally found that the popular joke is not true to the letter, but is true to the spirit. The vulgar joke is generally in the oddest way the truth and yet not the fact. For instance, it is not in the least true that mothers-in-law are as a class oppressive and intolerable; most of them are both devoted and useful. All the mothers-in-law I have ever had were admirable. Yet the legend of the comic papers is profoundly true. It draws attention to the fact that it is much harder to be a nice mother-in-law than to be nice in any other conceivable relation of life. The caricatures have drawn the worst mother-in-law a monster, by way of expressing the fact that the best mother-in-law is a problem. The same is true of the perpetual jokes in comic papers about shrewish wives and henpecked husbands. It is all a frantic exaggeration, but it is an exaggeration of a truth; whereas all the modern mouthings about oppressed women are the exaggerations of a falsehood. If you read even the best of the intellectuals of to-day you will find them saying that in the mass of the democracy the woman is the chattel of her lord, like his bath or his bed. But if you read the comic literature of the democracy you will find that the lord hides under the bed to escape from the wrath of his chattel. This is not the fact, but it is much nearer the truth. Every man who is married knows quite well, not only that he does not regard his wife as a chattel, but that no man can conceivably ever have done so. The joke stands for an ultimate truth, and that is a subtle truth. It is one not very easy to state correctly. It can, perhaps, be most correctly stated by saying that, even if the man is the head of the house, he knows he is the figurehead.
But the vulgar comic papers are so subtle and true that they are even prophetic. If you really want to know what is going to happen to the future of our democracy, do not read the modern sociological prophecies, do not read even Mr. Wells’s Utopias for this purpose, though you should certainly read them if you are fond of good honesty and good English. If you want to know what will happen, study the pages of Snaps or Patchy Bits as if they were the dark tablets graven with the oracles of the gods. For, mean and gross as they are, in all seriousness, they contain what is entirely absent from all Utopias and all the sociological conjectures of our time: they contain some hint of the actual habits and manifest desires of the English people. If we are really to find out what the democracy will ultimately do with itself, we shall surely find it, not in the literature which studies the people, but in the literature which the people studies.
I can give two chance cases in which the common or Cockney joke was a much better prophecy than the careful observations of the most cultured observer. When England was agitated, previous to the last General Election, about the existence of Chinese labour, there was a distinct difference between the tone of the politicians and the tone of the populace. The politicians who disapproved of Chinese labour were most careful to explain that they did not in any sense disapprove of Chinese. According to them, it was a pure question of legal propriety, of whether certain clauses in the contract of indenture were not inconsistent with our constitutional traditions: according to them, the case would have been the same if the people had been Kaffirs or Englishmen. It all sounded wonderfully enlightened and lucid; and in comparison the popular joke looked, of course, very poor. For the popular joke against the Chinese labourers was simply that they were Chinese; it was an objection to an alien type; the popular papers were full of gibes about pigtails and yellow faces. It seemed that the Liberal politicians were raising an intellectual objection to a doubtful document of State; while it seemed that the Radical populace were merely roaring with idiotic laughter at the sight of a Chinaman’s clothes. But the popular instinct was justified, for the vices revealed were Chinese vices.
But there is another case more pleasant and more up to date. The popular papers always persisted in representing the New Woman or the Suffragette as an ugly woman, fat, in spectacles, with bulging clothes, and generally falling off a bicycle. As a matter of plain external fact, there was not a word of truth in this. The leaders of the movement of female emancipation are not at all ugly; most of them are extraordinarily good-looking. Nor are they at all indifferent to art or decorative costume; many of them are alarmingly attached to these things. Yet the popular instinct was right. For the popular instinct was that in this movement, rightly or wrongly, there was an element of indifference to female dignity, of a quite new willingness of women to be grotesque. These women did truly despise the pontifical quality of woman. And in our streets and around our Parliament we have seen the stately woman of art and culture turn into the comic woman of Comic Bits. And whether we think the exhibition justifiable or not, the prophecy of the comic papers is justified: the healthy and vulgar masses were conscious of a hidden enemy to their traditions who has now come out into the daylight, that the scriptures might be fulfilled. For the two things that a healthy person hates most between heaven and hell are a woman who is not dignified and a man who is.
Del tutto ugualmente sottile e spirituale è l’idea che sta dietro il ridere degli stranieri. Concerne la quasi tormentosa verità di una cosa che è simile a noi stessi e tuttavia diversa da noi stessi. Nessuno ride di ciò che è interamente estraneo; nessuno ride di una palma. Ma è buffo vedere la familiare immagine di Dio travestita dietro la barba nera di un francese o la faccia nera di un negro. Non c’è nulla di buffo nei suoni che sono del tutto disumani, l’ululato delle belve o del vento. Ma se un uomo comincia a parlare come noi, e però tutte le sillabe gli escono diverse, allora, se si è uomini, ci si sente inclini a ridere, benché, se si è gentiluomini, si resista all’inclinazione.
Il signor Max Beerbohm, lo ricordo, dichiarava di comprendere le prime due forme dello spirito popolare, ma diceva che la terza lo lasciava del tutto perplesso. Non riusciva a capire perché ci dovesse essere alcunché di buffo nel formaggio andato a male. Posso spiegarglielo all’istante. Gli è sfuggita l’idea perché essa è sottile e filosofica, mentre egli cercava qualcosa d’ignorante e sciocco. Il formaggio andato a male è buffo perché è (come lo straniero o l’uomo caduto sul selciato) il tipo del passaggio o della trasgressione attraverso un grande confine mistico. Il formaggio andato a male simboleggia il mutamento dall’inorganico all’organico. Il formaggio andato a male simboleggia lo strabiliante prodigio della materia che assume vitalità. Simboleggia l’origine stessa della vita. Ed è soltanto su faccende solenni come l’origine della vita che la democrazia si degna di scherzare. Così, per esempio, la democrazia scherza sul matrimonio, perché il matrimonio è una parte del genere umano. Ma la democrazia non si degnerebbe mai di scherzare sul Libero Amore, perché il Libero Amore è un pezzo di saccenteria.
In verità, si troverà per lo più che la facezia popolare non è vera alla lettera, ma è vera nello spirito. La facezia volgare è di solito, nel modo più bizzarro, la verità e tuttavia non il fatto. Per esempio, non è affatto vero che le suocere siano, come categoria, opprimenti e intollerabili; la maggior parte di esse sono insieme devote e utili. Tutte le suocere che ho mai avuto erano ammirevoli. Eppure la leggenda dei giornali umoristici è profondamente vera. Richiama l’attenzione sul fatto che è assai più difficile essere una buona suocera che essere buoni in qualsiasi altra concepibile relazione della vita. Le caricature hanno raffigurato la peggiore suocera come un mostro, per esprimere il fatto che la migliore suocera è un problema. Lo stesso vale per le perpetue facezie dei giornali umoristici sulle mogli bisbetiche e i mariti succubi. È tutta una frenetica esagerazione, ma è l’esagerazione di una verità; laddove tutte le moderne declamazioni sulle donne oppresse sono le esagerazioni di una falsità. Se leggete anche i migliori tra gli intellettuali d’oggi, li troverete affermare che nella massa della democrazia la donna è il bene mobile del suo signore, al pari della sua vasca o del suo letto. Ma se leggete la letteratura comica della democrazia, troverete che è il signore a nascondersi sotto il letto per sfuggire all’ira del suo bene mobile. Questo non è il fatto, ma è assai più vicino alla verità. Ogni uomo sposato sa benissimo, non solo di non considerare la propria moglie un bene mobile, ma che nessun uomo può mai concepibilmente averlo fatto. La facezia sta per una verità ultima, e questa è una verità sottile. Non è facilissima da enunciare correttamente. La si può, forse, enunciare nel modo più corretto dicendo che, anche se l’uomo è il capo della casa, egli sa d’esserne la polena.
Ma i volgari giornali umoristici sono così sottili e veri da essere persino profetici. Se davvero volete sapere che ne sarà del futuro della nostra democrazia, non leggete le moderne profezie sociologiche, non leggete neppure le Utopie del signor Wells a tale scopo, benché dobbiate certamente leggerle se amate la buona onestà e il buon inglese. Se volete sapere che cosa accadrà, studiate le pagine di Snaps o di Patchy Bits come se fossero le oscure tavolette incise con gli oracoli degli dèi. Poiché, per meschine e grossolane che siano, in tutta serietà, esse contengono ciò che è del tutto assente da tutte le Utopie e da tutte le congetture sociologiche del nostro tempo: contengono qualche indizio delle reali abitudini e dei manifesti desideri del popolo inglese. Se davvero vogliamo scoprire che cosa la democrazia farà in ultimo di sé, lo troveremo di sicuro non nella letteratura che studia il popolo, ma nella letteratura che il popolo studia.
Posso addurre due casi fortuiti in cui la facezia comune, o cockney, fu una profezia assai migliore delle attente osservazioni dell’osservatore più colto. Quando l’Inghilterra fu agitata, prima delle ultime elezioni generali, dalla questione dell’esistenza della manodopera cinese, vi fu una netta differenza tra il tono dei politici e il tono della popolazione. I politici che disapprovavano la manodopera cinese erano oltremodo attenti a spiegare che non disapprovavano in alcun senso i cinesi. Secondo loro, era una pura questione di correttezza giuridica, se cioè certe clausole nel contratto di ingaggio non fossero incompatibili con le nostre tradizioni costituzionali: secondo loro, il caso sarebbe stato lo stesso se quella gente fosse stata composta di cafri o di inglesi. Tutto suonava meravigliosamente illuminato e lucido; e al confronto la facezia popolare appariva, naturalmente, assai misera. Poiché la facezia popolare contro i lavoratori cinesi era semplicemente che essi erano cinesi; era un’obiezione a un tipo estraneo; i giornali popolari erano pieni di frizzi sui codini e sulle facce gialle. Sembrava che i politici liberali sollevassero un’obiezione intellettuale a un dubbio documento di Stato; mentre sembrava che la plebe radicale non facesse che sghignazzare in un’idiota risata alla vista degli abiti di un cinese. Ma l’istinto popolare fu giustificato, poiché i vizi rivelati furono vizi cinesi.
Ma c’è un altro caso più piacevole e più attuale. I giornali popolari si ostinarono sempre a rappresentare la Donna Nuova, o la Suffragetta, come una donna brutta, grassa, con gli occhiali, dagli abiti gonfi, e generalmente in atto di cadere da una bicicletta. In fatto di pura realtà esteriore, non c’era una parola di verità in tutto ciò. Le capofila del movimento di emancipazione femminile non sono affatto brutte; la maggior parte di esse è straordinariamente avvenente. Né sono affatto indifferenti all’arte o all’abbigliamento ricercato; molte di esse sono allarmantemente attaccate a queste cose. Eppure l’istinto popolare aveva ragione. Poiché l’istinto popolare era che in questo movimento, a torto o a ragione, vi fosse un elemento d’indifferenza alla dignità femminile, di una del tutto nuova disponibilità delle donne a rendersi grottesche. Queste donne disprezzavano davvero la qualità pontificale della donna. E nelle nostre strade e attorno al nostro Parlamento abbiamo veduto la maestosa donna dell’arte e della cultura mutarsi nella donna comica di Comic Bits. E che si giudichi l’esibizione giustificabile o no, la profezia dei giornali umoristici è giustificata: le masse sane e volgari erano consapevoli di un nemico occulto alle loro tradizioni, il quale è ora venuto alla luce del giorno, affinché le scritture si adempissero. Poiché le due cose che una persona sana odia di più tra il cielo e l’inferno sono una donna che non è dignitosa e un uomo che lo è.
THE FALLACY OF SUCCESS
There has appeared in our time a particular class of books and articles which I sincerely and solemnly think may be called the silliest ever known among men. They are much more wild than the wildest romances of chivalry and much more dull than the dullest religious tract. Moreover, the romances of chivalry were at least about chivalry; the religious tracts are about religion. But these things are about nothing; they are about what is called Success. On every bookstall, in every magazine, you may find works telling people how to succeed. They are books showing men how to succeed in everything; they are written by men who cannot even succeed in writing books. To begin with, of course, there is no such thing as Success. Or, if you like to put it so, there is nothing that is not successful. That a thing is successful merely means that it is; a millionaire is successful in being a millionaire and a donkey in being a donkey. Any live man has succeeded in living; any dead man may have succeeded in committing suicide. But, passing over the bad logic and bad philosophy in the phrase, we may take it, as these writers do, in the ordinary sense of success in obtaining money or worldly position. These writers profess to tell the ordinary man how he may succeed in his trade or speculation—how, if he is a builder, he may succeed as a builder; how, if he is a stockbroker, he may succeed as a stockbroker. They profess to show him how, if he is a grocer, he may become a sporting yachtsman; how, if he is a tenth-rate journalist, he may become a peer; and how, if he is a German Jew, he may become an Anglo-Saxon. This is a definite and business-like proposal, and I really think that the people who buy these books (if any people do buy them) have a moral, if not a legal, right to ask for their money back. Nobody would dare to publish a book about electricity which literally told one nothing about electricity; no one would dare to publish an article on botany which showed that the writer did not know which end of a plant grew in the earth. Yet our modern world is full of books about Success and successful people which literally contain no kind of idea, and scarcely any kind of verbal sense.
It is perfectly obvious that in any decent occupation (such as bricklaying or writing books) there are only two ways (in any special sense) of succeeding. One is by doing very good work, the other is by cheating. Both are much too simple to require any literary explanation. If you are in for the high jump, either jump higher than any one else, or manage somehow to pretend that you have done so. If you want to succeed at whist, either be a good whist-player, or play with marked cards. You may want a book about jumping; you may want a book about whist; you may want a book about cheating at whist. But you cannot want a book about Success. Especially you cannot want a book about Success such as those which you can now find scattered by the hundred about the book-market. You may want to jump or to play cards; but you do not want to read wandering statements to the effect that jumping is jumping, or that games are won by winners. If these writers, for instance, said anything about success in jumping it would be something like this: “The jumper must have a clear aim before him. He must desire definitely to jump higher than the other men who are in for the same competition. He must let no feeble feelings of mercy (sneaked from the sickening Little Englanders and Pro-Boers) prevent him from trying to do his best. He must remember that a competition in jumping is distinctly competitive, and that, as Darwin has gloriously demonstrated, THE WEAKEST GO TO THE WALL.” That is the kind of thing the book would say, and very useful it would be, no doubt, if read out in a low and tense voice to a young man just about to take the high jump. Or suppose that in the course of his intellectual rambles the philosopher of Success dropped upon our other case, that of playing cards, his bracing advice would run—“In playing cards it is very necessary to avoid the mistake (commonly made by maudlin humanitarians and Free Traders) of permitting your opponent to win the game. You must have grit and snap and go in to win. The days of idealism and superstition are over. We live in a time of science and hard common sense, and it has now been definitely proved that in any game where two are playing IF ONE DOES NOT WIN THE OTHER WILL.” It is all very stirring, of course; but I confess that if I were playing cards I would rather have some decent little book which told me the rules of the game. Beyond the rules of the game it is all a question either of talent or dishonesty; and I will undertake to provide either one or the other— which, it is not for me to say.
Turning over a popular magazine, I find a queer and amusing example. There is an article called “The Instinct that Makes People Rich.” It is decorated in front with a formidable portrait of Lord Rothschild. There are many definite methods, honest and dishonest, which make people rich; the only “instinct” I know of which does it is that instinct which theological Christianity crudely describes as “the sin of avarice.” That, however, is beside the present point. I wish to quote the following exquisite paragraphs as a piece of typical advice as to how to succeed. It is so practical; it leaves so little doubt about what should be our next step—“The name of Vanderbilt is synonymous with wealth gained by modern enterprise. ‘Cornelius,’ the founder of the family, was the first of the great American magnates of commerce. He started as the son of a poor farmer; he ended as a millionaire twenty times over.”
“He had the money-making instinct. He seized his opportunities, the opportunities that were given by the application of the steam-engine to ocean traffic, and by the birth of railway locomotion in the wealthy but undeveloped United States of America, and consequently he amassed an immense fortune.
“Now it is, of course, obvious that we cannot all follow exactly in the footsteps of this great railway monarch. The precise opportunities that fell to him do not occur to us. Circumstances have changed. But, although this is so, still, in our own sphere and in our own circumstances, we can follow his general methods; we can seize those opportunities that are given us, and give ourselves a very fair chance of attaining riches.”
In such strange utterances we see quite clearly what is really at the bottom of all these articles and books. It is not mere business; it is not even mere cynicism. It is mysticism; the horrible mysticism of money. The writer of that passage did not really have the remotest notion of how Vanderbilt made his money, or of how anybody else is to make his. He does, indeed, conclude his remarks by advocating some scheme; but it has nothing in the world to do with Vanderbilt. He merely wished to prostrate himself before the mystery of a millionaire. For when we really worship anything, we love not only its clearness but its obscurity. We exult in its very invisibility. Thus, for instance, when a man is in love with a woman he takes special pleasure in the fact that a woman is unreasonable. Thus, again, the very pious poet, celebrating his Creator, takes pleasure in saying that God moves in a mysterious way. Now, the writer of the paragraph which I have quoted does not seem to have had anything to do with a god, and I should not think (judging by his extreme unpracticality) that he had ever been really in love with a woman. But the thing he does worship—Vanderbilt—he treats in exactly this mystical manner. He really revels in the fact his deity Vanderbilt is keeping a secret from him. And it fills his soul with a sort of transport of cunning, an ecstasy of priestcraft, that he should pretend to be telling to the multitude that terrible secret which he does not know.
Speaking about the instinct that makes people rich, the same writer remarks---
“In olden days its existence was fully understood. The Greeks enshrined it in the story of Midas, of the ‘Golden Touch.’ Here was a man who turned everything he laid his hands upon into gold. His life was a progress amidst riches. Out of everything that came in his way he created the precious metal. ‘A foolish legend,’ said the wiseacres of the Victorian age. ‘A truth,’ say we of to-day. We all know of such men. We are ever meeting or reading about such persons who turn everything they touch into gold. Success dogs their very footsteps. Their life’s pathway leads unerringly upwards. They cannot fail.”
Unfortunately, however, Midas could fail; he did. His path did not lead unerringly upward. He starved because whenever he touched a biscuit or a ham sandwich it turned to gold. That was the whole point of the story, though the writer has to suppress it delicately, writing so near to a portrait of Lord Rothschild. The old fables of mankind are, indeed, unfathomably wise; but we must not have them expurgated in the interests of Mr. Vanderbilt. We must not have King Midas represented as an example of success; he was a failure of an unusually painful kind. Also, he had the ears of an ass. Also (like most other prominent and wealthy persons) he endeavoured to conceal the fact. It was his barber (if I remember right) who had to be treated on a confidential footing with regard to this peculiarity; and his barber, instead of behaving like a go-ahead person of the Succeed-at-all-costs school and trying to blackmail King Midas, went away and whispered this splendid piece of society scandal to the reeds, who enjoyed it enormously. It is said that they also whispered it as the winds swayed them to and fro. I look reverently at the portrait of Lord Rothschild; I read reverently about the exploits of Mr. Vanderbilt. I know that I cannot turn everything I touch to gold; but then I also know that I have never tried, having a preference for other substances, such as grass, and good wine. I know that these people have certainly succeeded in something; that they have certainly overcome somebody; I know that they are kings in a sense that no men were ever kings before; that they create markets and bestride continents. Yet it always seems to me that there is some small domestic fact that they are hiding, and I have sometimes thought I heard upon the wind the laughter and whisper of the reeds.
At least, let us hope that we shall all live to see these absurd books about Success covered with a proper derision and neglect. They do not teach people to be successful, but they do teach people to be snobbish; they do spread a sort of evil poetry of worldliness. The Puritans are always denouncing books that inflame lust; what shall we say of books that inflame the viler passions of avarice and pride? A hundred years ago we had the ideal of the Industrious Apprentice; boys were told that by thrift and work they would all become Lord Mayors. This was fallacious, but it was manly, and had a minimum of moral truth. In our society, temperance will not help a poor man to enrich himself, but it may help him to respect himself. Good work will not make him a rich man, but good work may make him a good workman. The Industrious Apprentice rose by virtues few and narrow indeed, but still virtues. But what shall we say of the gospel preached to the new Industrious Apprentice; the Apprentice who rises not by his virtues, but avowedly by his vices?
L’ILLUSIONE DEL SUCCESSO
È comparsa nel nostro tempo una particolare categoria di libri e di articoli che, sinceramente e solennemente, ritengo possa dirsi la più sciocca mai conosciuta tra gli uomini. Sono assai più stravaganti dei più stravaganti romanzi cavallereschi e assai più tediosi del più tedioso opuscolo religioso. Per di più, i romanzi cavallereschi trattavano almeno di cavalleria; gli opuscoli religiosi trattano di religione. Ma queste cose non trattano di nulla; trattano di ciò che si chiama Successo. Su ogni bancarella, in ogni rivista, potete trovare opere che spiegano alla gente come riuscire. Sono libri che mostrano agli uomini come riuscire in tutto; sono scritti da uomini che non riescono nemmeno a riuscire a scrivere libri. Tanto per cominciare, ovviamente, non esiste alcuna cosa che sia il Successo. Oppure, se preferite metterla così, non c’è nulla che non abbia successo. Che una cosa abbia successo significa soltanto che essa è; un milionario ha successo nell’essere un milionario, e un asino nell’essere un asino. Ogni uomo vivo è riuscito a vivere; ogni uomo morto può essere riuscito a commettere il suicidio. Ma, passando sopra alla cattiva logica e alla cattiva filosofia insite nella formula, possiamo intenderla, come fanno costoro, nel senso ordinario del successo nell’ottenere denaro o posizione mondana. Questi scrittori si professano capaci di dire all’uomo comune come possa riuscire nel suo mestiere o nella sua speculazione: come, se è un costruttore, possa riuscire da costruttore; come, se è un agente di cambio, possa riuscire da agente di cambio. Si professano capaci di mostrargli come, se è un droghiere, possa diventare un signorile proprietario di yacht; come, se è un giornalista di decima categoria, possa diventare un pari del regno; e come, se è un ebreo tedesco, possa diventare un anglosassone. Questa è una proposta precisa e concreta, e io penso davvero che coloro i quali comprano questi libri (se pure qualcuno li compra) abbiano il diritto morale, se non legale, di chiedere indietro il proprio denaro. Nessuno oserebbe pubblicare un libro sull’elettricità che letteralmente non dicesse nulla sull’elettricità; nessuno oserebbe pubblicare un articolo di botanica dal quale risultasse che l’autore non sa quale estremità di una pianta cresca nella terra. Eppure il nostro mondo moderno è pieno di libri sul Successo e sugli uomini di successo che letteralmente non contengono alcuna idea, e a malapena una qualche parvenza di senso compiuto.
È perfettamente ovvio che in qualunque occupazione dignitosa (come porre mattoni o scrivere libri) vi sono soltanto due modi (in un senso particolare) di riuscire. L’uno consiste nel fare un lavoro assai buono, l’altro nel barare. Entrambi sono troppo semplici per richiedere una spiegazione letteraria. Se vi cimentate nel salto in alto, o saltate più in alto di chiunque altro, oppure trovate in qualche modo il modo di far credere di averlo fatto. Se volete riuscire al whist, o siate buoni giocatori di whist, oppure giocate con carte segnate. Potete desiderare un libro sul saltare; potete desiderare un libro sul whist; potete desiderare un libro su come barare al whist. Ma non potete desiderare un libro sul Successo. E soprattutto non potete desiderare un libro sul Successo come quelli che oggi trovate sparsi a centinaia per il mercato librario. Potete voler saltare o giocare a carte; ma non volete leggere divaganti affermazioni secondo cui saltare è saltare, o secondo cui le partite sono vinte dai vincitori. Se costoro, per esempio, dicessero qualcosa sul successo nel saltare, suonerebbe pressappoco così: «Il saltatore deve avere davanti a sé una meta chiara. Deve desiderare precisamente di saltare più in alto degli altri uomini iscritti alla medesima gara. Non deve permettere che deboli sentimenti di pietà (carpiti ai nauseabondi Little Englanders e ai filo-boeri) gli impediscano di provare a dare il meglio di sé. Deve ricordare che una gara di salto è schiettamente competitiva e che, come Darwin ha gloriosamente dimostrato, I PIÙ DEBOLI VANNO AL MURO». Ecco il genere di cose che direbbe il libro, e molto utili sarebbero, senza dubbio, se lette a voce bassa e tesa a un giovane in procinto di affrontare il salto in alto. Oppure supponete che, nel corso delle sue divagazioni intellettuali, il filosofo del Successo si imbattesse nell’altro nostro caso, quello del giocare a carte: il suo tonificante consiglio suonerebbe così: «Nel giocare a carte è quanto mai necessario evitare l’errore (comunemente commesso dagli sdolcinati umanitari e dai liberoscambisti) di permettere all’avversario di vincere la partita. Bisogna avere grinta, scatto e slancio per vincere. I giorni dell’idealismo e della superstizione sono finiti. Viviamo in un tempo di scienza e di sano buon senso, e ormai è stato definitivamente provato che in qualunque gioco a cui giochino in due, SE UNO NON VINCE, VINCERÀ L’ALTRO». Tutto ciò è molto esaltante, senza dubbio; ma confesso che, se stessi giocando a carte, preferirei avere un qualche dignitoso libretto che mi spiegasse le regole del gioco. Al di là delle regole del gioco, è tutta una questione o di talento o di disonestà; e io mi impegno a fornire l’uno o l’altra: quale, non sta a me dirlo.
Sfogliando una rivista popolare, trovo un esempio curioso e divertente. C’è un articolo intitolato «L’istinto che rende ricca la gente». È ornato in apertura da un formidabile ritratto di Lord Rothschild. Vi sono molti metodi precisi, onesti e disonesti, che rendono ricca la gente; l’unico «istinto» che io conosca capace di ciò è quell’istinto che la teologia cristiana descrive rozzamente come «il peccato dell’avarizia». Questo, tuttavia, esula dal punto presente. Desidero citare i seguenti squisiti paragrafi come esempio tipico di consiglio su come riuscire. È così pratico; lascia così poco dubbio su quale debba essere il nostro prossimo passo: «Il nome di Vanderbilt è sinonimo di ricchezza conquistata dall’intraprendenza moderna. “Cornelius”, il fondatore della famiglia, fu il primo dei grandi magnati americani del commercio. Iniziò come figlio di un povero contadino; finì venti volte milionario».
«Aveva l’istinto per far denaro. Colse le sue occasioni, le occasioni offerte dall’applicazione della macchina a vapore al traffico oceanico e dalla nascita della locomozione ferroviaria negli Stati Uniti d’America, ricchi ma ancora poco sviluppati, e di conseguenza accumulò un’immensa fortuna.
«Ora, è ovvio, naturalmente, che non tutti possiamo seguire esattamente le orme di questo grande monarca delle ferrovie. Le precise occasioni che a lui toccarono non si presentano a noi. Le circostanze sono cambiate. Ma, per quanto ciò sia vero, tuttavia, nella nostra sfera e nelle nostre circostanze, noi possiamo seguire i suoi metodi generali; possiamo cogliere le occasioni che ci vengono offerte e concederci una discreta possibilità di conseguire la ricchezza».
In simili strane affermazioni vediamo con chiarezza che cosa vi sia realmente in fondo a tutti questi articoli e libri. Non è mero affarismo; non è nemmeno mero cinismo. È misticismo; l’orribile misticismo del denaro. L’autore di quel passo non aveva realmente la più remota nozione di come Vanderbilt avesse fatto il proprio denaro, né di come chiunque altro debba fare il proprio. In verità egli conclude le sue osservazioni caldeggiando un certo progetto; ma esso non ha nulla al mondo a che vedere con Vanderbilt. Egli desiderava semplicemente prostrarsi dinanzi al mistero di un milionario. Poiché, quando davvero adoriamo qualcosa, ne amiamo non solo la limpidezza, ma anche l’oscurità. Esultiamo della sua stessa invisibilità. Così, per esempio, quando un uomo è innamorato di una donna, prova un piacere particolare nel fatto che una donna sia irragionevole. Così, ancora, il poeta assai pio, celebrando il proprio Creatore, si compiace di dire che Dio si muove per vie misteriose. Ora, l’autore del paragrafo che ho citato non sembra aver mai avuto a che fare con un dio, e io non penserei (a giudicare dalla sua estrema impraticità) che sia mai stato davvero innamorato di una donna. Ma la cosa che egli adora davvero — Vanderbilt — la tratta esattamente in questo modo mistico. Egli letteralmente si crogiola nel fatto che la sua divinità, Vanderbilt, gli tenga celato un segreto. E gli riempie l’anima di una sorta di trasporto d’astuzia, di un’estasi da mestiere sacerdotale, il poter fingere di rivelare alla moltitudine quel terribile segreto che egli non conosce.
Parlando dell’istinto che rende ricca la gente, lo stesso scrittore osserva:
«Nei tempi antichi la sua esistenza era pienamente compresa. I Greci la consacrarono nella storia di Mida, del “Tocco d’Oro”. Ecco un uomo che trasformava in oro tutto ciò su cui posava le mani. La sua vita fu un procedere in mezzo alle ricchezze. Di tutto ciò che gli capitava a tiro egli creava il metallo prezioso. “Una sciocca leggenda”, dicevano i sapientoni dell’età vittoriana. “Una verità”, diciamo noi d’oggi. Tutti conosciamo uomini di questa sorta. Ci imbattiamo di continuo, o leggiamo di continuo, in persone simili che trasformano in oro tutto ciò che toccano. Il Successo segue le loro stesse orme. Il sentiero della loro vita conduce infallibilmente verso l’alto. Non possono fallire».
Sfortunatamente, però, Mida poteva fallire; e fallì. Il suo sentiero non condusse infallibilmente verso l’alto. Egli morì di fame perché ogni volta che toccava un biscotto o un panino al prosciutto, quello si tramutava in oro. Era questo l’intero senso della storia, per quanto lo scrittore debba sopprimerlo con delicatezza, scrivendo così vicino a un ritratto di Lord Rothschild. Le antiche favole dell’umanità sono, invero, insondabilmente sagge; ma non dobbiamo lasciarcele espurgare nell’interesse del signor Vanderbilt. Non dobbiamo lasciar rappresentare re Mida come un esempio di successo; egli fu un fallito di specie insolitamente penosa. Inoltre, aveva le orecchie d’asino. Inoltre (come la maggior parte delle altre persone eminenti e facoltose) si sforzava di celare il fatto. Fu il suo barbiere (se ben ricordo) a dover essere trattato in confidenza riguardo a questa particolarità; e il suo barbiere, invece di comportarsi come un intraprendente adepto della scuola del Riesci-a-ogni-costo e di provare a ricattare re Mida, se ne andò e sussurrò questo splendido pettegolezzo mondano alle canne, che se ne dilettarono immensamente. Si dice che anch’esse lo sussurrassero mentre i venti le facevano ondeggiare avanti e indietro. Io guardo con reverenza il ritratto di Lord Rothschild; leggo con reverenza le imprese del signor Vanderbilt. So di non poter trasformare in oro tutto ciò che tocco; ma so anche di non averci mai provato, avendo una predilezione per altre sostanze, come l’erba e il buon vino. So che questa gente ha certamente avuto successo in qualcosa; che ha certamente sopraffatto qualcuno; so che sono re in un senso in cui nessun uomo fu mai re prima; che creano mercati e scavalcano continenti. Eppure mi sembra sempre che vi sia qualche piccolo fatto domestico che essi vanno celando, e talvolta ho creduto di udire sul vento la risata e il sussurro delle canne.
Almeno, speriamo di vivere tutti abbastanza a lungo da vedere questi assurdi libri sul Successo ricoperti di una giusta derisione e dimenticanza. Essi non insegnano alla gente a riuscire, ma le insegnano a essere snob; diffondono una sorta di malvagia poesia della mondanità. I Puritani denunciano di continuo i libri che infiammano la lussuria; che cosa diremo dei libri che infiammano le passioni più vili dell’avarizia e dell’orgoglio? Cento anni fa avevamo l’ideale del Garzone Diligente; ai ragazzi si diceva che con parsimonia e lavoro sarebbero tutti diventati Lord Sindaci. Era fallace, ma era virile, e conteneva un minimo di verità morale. Nella nostra società la temperanza non aiuterà un uomo povero ad arricchirsi, ma può aiutarlo a rispettare se stesso. Il buon lavoro non ne farà un uomo ricco, ma il buon lavoro può farne un buon lavoratore. Il Garzone Diligente si elevava grazie a virtù invero poche e anguste, ma pur sempre virtù. Ma che cosa diremo del vangelo predicato al nuovo Garzone Diligente; il Garzone che si eleva non per le sue virtù, ma dichiaratamente per i suoi vizi?
ON RUNNING AFTER ONE’S HAT
I feel an almost savage envy on hearing that London has been flooded in my absence, while I am in the mere country. My own Battersea has been, I understand, particularly favoured as a meeting of the waters. Battersea was already, as I need hardly say, the most beautiful of human localities. Now that it has the additional splendour of great sheets of water, there must be something quite incomparable in the landscape (or waterscape) of my own romantic town. Battersea must be a vision of Venice. The boat that brought the meat from the butcher’s must have shot along those lanes of rippling silver with the strange smoothness of the gondola. The greengrocer who brought cabbages to the corner of the Latchmere Road must have leant upon the oar with the unearthly grace of the gondolier. There is nothing so perfectly poetical as an island; and when a district is flooded it becomes an archipelago.
Some consider such romantic views of flood or fire slightly lacking in reality. But really this romantic view of such inconveniences is quite as practical as the other. The true optimist who sees in such things an opportunity for enjoyment is quite as logical and much more sensible than the ordinary “Indignant Ratepayer” who sees in them an opportunity for grumbling. Real pain, as in the case of being burnt at Smithfield or having a toothache, is a positive thing; it can be supported, but scarcely enjoyed. But, after all, our toothaches are the exception, and as for being burnt at Smithfield, it only happens to us at the very longest intervals. And most of the inconveniences that make men swear or women cry are really sentimental or imaginative inconveniences—things altogether of the mind. For instance, we often hear grown-up people complaining of having to hang about a railway station and wait for a train. Did you ever hear a small boy complain of having to hang about a railway station and wait for a train? No; for to him to be inside a railway station is to be inside a cavern of wonder and a palace of poetical pleasures. Because to him the red light and the green light on the signal are like a new sun and a new moon. Because to him when the wooden arm of the signal falls down suddenly, it is as if a great king had thrown down his staff as a signal and started a shrieking tournament of trains. I myself am of little boys’ habit in this matter. They also serve who only stand and wait for the two fifteen. Their meditations may be full of rich and fruitful things. Many of the most purple hours of my life have been passed at Clapham Junction, which is now, I suppose, under water. I have been there in many moods so fixed and mystical that the water might well have come up to my waist before I noticed it particularly. But in the case of all such annoyances, as I have said, everything depends upon the emotional point of view. You can safely apply the test to almost every one of the things that are currently talked of as the typical nuisance of daily life.
For instance, there is a current impression that it is unpleasant to have to run after one’s hat. Why should it be unpleasant to the well-ordered and pious mind? Not merely because it is running, and running exhausts one. The same people run much faster in games and sports. The same people run much more eagerly after an uninteresting little leather ball than they will after a nice silk hat. There is an idea that it is humiliating to run after one’s hat; and when people say it is humiliating they mean that it is comic. It certainly is comic; but man is a very comic creature, and most of the things he does are comic—eating, for instance. And the most comic things of all are exactly the things that are most worth doing—such as making love. A man running after a hat is not half so ridiculous as a man running after a wife.
Now a man could, if he felt rightly in the matter, run after his hat with the manliest ardour and the most sacred joy. He might regard himself as a jolly huntsman pursuing a wild animal, for certainly no animal could be wilder. In fact, I am inclined to believe that hat-hunting on windy days will be the sport of the upper classes in the future. There will be a meet of ladies and gentlemen on some high ground on a gusty morning. They will be told that the professional attendants have started a hat in such-and-such a thicket, or whatever be the technical term. Notice that this employment will in the fullest degree combine sport with humanitarianism. The hunters would feel that they were not inflicting pain. Nay, they would feel that they were inflicting pleasure, rich, almost riotous pleasure, upon the people who were looking on. When last I saw an old gentleman running after his hat in Hyde Park, I told him that a heart so benevolent as his ought to be filled with peace and thanks at the thought of how much unaffected pleasure his every gesture and bodily attitude were at that moment giving to the crowd.
The same principle can be applied to every other typical domestic worry. A gentleman trying to get a fly out of the milk or a piece of cork out of his glass of wine often imagines himself to be irritated. Let him think for a moment of the patience of anglers sitting by dark pools, and let his soul be immediately irradiated with gratification and repose. Again, I have known some people of very modern views driven by their distress to the use of theological terms to which they attached no doctrinal significance, merely because a drawer was jammed tight and they could not pull it out. A friend of mine was particularly afflicted in this way. Every day his drawer was jammed, and every day in consequence it was something else that rhymes to it. But I pointed out to him that this sense of wrong was really subjective and relative; it rested entirely upon the assumption that the drawer could, should, and would come out easily. “But if,” I said, “you picture to yourself that you are pulling against some powerful and oppressive enemy, the struggle will become merely exciting and not exasperating. Imagine that you are tugging up a lifeboat out of the sea. Imagine that you are roping up a fellow-creature out of an Alpine crevass. Imagine even that you are a boy again and engaged in a tug-of-war between French and English.” Shortly after saying this I left him; but I have no doubt at all that my words bore the best possible fruit. I have no doubt that every day of his life he hangs on to the handle of that drawer with a flushed face and eyes bright with battle, uttering encouraging shouts to himself, and seeming to hear all round him the roar of an applauding ring.
So I do not think that it is altogether fanciful or incredible to suppose that even the floods in London may be accepted and enjoyed poetically. Nothing beyond inconvenience seems really to have been caused by them; and inconvenience, as I have said, is only one aspect, and that the most unimaginative and accidental aspect of a really romantic situation. An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered. The water that girdled the houses and shops of London must, if anything, have only increased their previous witchery and wonder. For as the Roman Catholic priest in the story said: “Wine is good with everything except water,” and on a similar principle, water is good with everything except wine.
DEL CORRERE DIETRO AL PROPRIO CAPPELLO
Provo un’invidia quasi feroce nell’apprendere che Londra è stata allagata durante la mia assenza, mentre io me ne sto nella semplice campagna. La mia cara Battersea, a quanto capisco, è stata particolarmente favorita come luogo d’incontro delle acque. Battersea era già, come è quasi superfluo che io dica, la più bella tra tutte le contrade umane. Ora che possiede lo splendore aggiuntivo di grandi distese d’acqua, vi dev’essere qualcosa di assolutamente incomparabile nel paesaggio (o acquapaesaggio) della mia romantica cittadina. Battersea dev’essere una visione di Venezia. La barca che portava la carne dalla bottega del macellaio deve aver filato lungo quei vicoli d’argento increspato con la strana levità della gondola. L’ortolano che recava i cavoli all’angolo di Latchmere Road deve essersi appoggiato al remo con la grazia ultraterrena del gondoliere. Non v’è nulla di così perfettamente poetico come un’isola; e quando un rione è allagato, esso diventa un arcipelago.
C’è chi giudica simili visioni romantiche dell’inondazione o dell’incendio un poco carenti di realtà. Ma in verità questa visione romantica di tali disagi è del tutto pratica quanto l’altra. Il vero ottimista, che in simili cose scorge un’occasione di godimento, è altrettanto logico e assai più assennato dell’ordinario «Contribuente Indignato», che vi scorge un’occasione per lagnarsi. Il dolore vero, come nel caso di essere arsi a Smithfield o di avere un mal di denti, è cosa positiva; lo si può sopportare, ma difficilmente goderne. Ma, dopo tutto, i nostri mal di denti sono l’eccezione, e quanto all’essere arsi a Smithfield, ciò ci accade soltanto agli intervalli più lunghi che si possano immaginare. E la maggior parte dei disagi che fanno imprecare gli uomini o piangere le donne sono in realtà disagi sentimentali o immaginari: cose tutte quante della mente. Per esempio, udiamo spesso persone adulte lamentarsi di dover ciondolare in una stazione ferroviaria ad aspettare un treno. Avete mai udito un ragazzino lamentarsi di dover ciondolare in una stazione ferroviaria ad aspettare un treno? No; perché per lui essere dentro una stazione ferroviaria è essere dentro una caverna di meraviglia e un palazzo di piaceri poetici. Perché per lui la luce rossa e la luce verde del segnale sono come un nuovo sole e una nuova luna. Perché per lui, quando il braccio di legno del segnale cade all’improvviso, è come se un grande re avesse gettato il suo scettro a mo’ di segnale, dando inizio a uno strepitante torneo di treni. Io stesso, in questa faccenda, ho l’indole dei ragazzini. Servono anch’essi coloro che soltanto stanno e aspettano il treno delle due e un quarto. Le loro meditazioni possono essere colme di cose ricche e feconde. Molte delle ore più purpuree della mia vita le ho trascorse a Clapham Junction, che ora, suppongo, si trova sott’acqua. Vi sono stato in stati d’animo tanto fissi e mistici che l’acqua avrebbe ben potuto salirmi fino alla cintola prima che me ne accorgessi in modo particolare. Ma nel caso di tutte queste seccature, come ho detto, tutto dipende dal punto di vista emotivo. Si può applicare la prova con sicurezza a quasi ognuna delle cose che oggi si additano come il tipico fastidio della vita quotidiana.
Per esempio, corre l’impressione che sia spiacevole dover rincorrere il proprio cappello. Perché mai dovrebbe essere spiacevole per una mente ben ordinata e pia? Non semplicemente perché si tratta di correre, e il correre spossa. Le stesse persone corrono assai più veloci nei giochi e negli sport. Le stesse persone corrono assai più bramosamente dietro a un’insignificante pallina di cuoio di quanto non facciano dietro a un bel cappello di seta. C’è l’idea che sia umiliante rincorrere il proprio cappello; e quando la gente dice che è umiliante, intende dire che è comico. Comico lo è certamente; ma l’uomo è una creatura assai comica, e la maggior parte delle cose che fa sono comiche: il mangiare, per esempio. E le più comiche di tutte le cose sono esattamente quelle che più valgono la pena di essere fatte, come il fare l’amore. Un uomo che rincorre un cappello non è neppure la metà così ridicolo di un uomo che rincorre una moglie.
Ora, un uomo potrebbe, se sentisse rettamente la cosa, rincorrere il proprio cappello col più virile ardore e con la più sacra gioia. Potrebbe considerarsi un allegro cacciatore all’inseguimento di una belva, ché di certo nessuna belva potrebbe essere più selvaggia. In verità, sono incline a credere che la caccia al cappello nelle giornate ventose sarà, in avvenire, lo sport delle classi elevate. Vi sarà un raduno di dame e gentiluomini su qualche altura, in un mattino di raffiche. Sarà loro annunciato che gli inservienti professionisti hanno stanato un cappello in tale o tal altra macchia, o quale che sia il termine tecnico. Si noti che questo passatempo unirà nel più pieno grado lo sport all’umanitarismo. I cacciatori sentirebbero di non infliggere alcun dolore. Anzi, sentirebbero di infliggere piacere, un piacere ricco, quasi tumultuoso, alla gente che stesse a guardare. L’ultima volta che vidi un vecchio signore rincorrere il proprio cappello a Hyde Park, gli dissi che un cuore tanto benevolo come il suo avrebbe dovuto colmarsi di pace e di gratitudine al pensiero di quanto schietto piacere ogni suo gesto e ogni sua posa corporea stessero in quel momento donando alla folla.
Il medesimo principio si può applicare a ogni altro tipico affanno domestico. Un gentiluomo che si sforzi di togliere una mosca dal latte o un pezzetto di sughero dal proprio bicchiere di vino spesso si immagina irritato. Che pensi per un istante alla pazienza dei pescatori seduti presso oscure pozze, e la sua anima verrà subito irradiata di soddisfazione e di riposo. Del pari, ho conosciuto certe persone di vedute assai moderne spinte dal loro cruccio all’uso di termini teologici cui non attribuivano alcun significato dottrinale, unicamente perché un cassetto s’era incastrato e non riuscivano a tirarlo fuori. Un mio amico era particolarmente afflitto in questo modo. Ogni giorno il suo cassetto s’incastrava, e ogni giorno, di conseguenza, era qualcos’altro che con esso fa rima. Ma gli feci notare che questo senso di torto subìto era in realtà soggettivo e relativo; esso poggiava interamente sull’assunto che il cassetto potesse, dovesse e volesse uscire con facilità. «Ma se», gli dissi, «tu ti raffiguri di tirare contro un nemico potente e oppressivo, la lotta diverrà semplicemente eccitante e non esasperante. Immagina di issare su dal mare una scialuppa di salvataggio. Immagina di tirare su con la fune un tuo simile da un crepaccio alpino. Immagina persino di essere di nuovo un ragazzo, impegnato in un tiro alla fune tra Francesi e Inglesi.» Poco dopo aver detto questo lo lasciai; ma non ho alcun dubbio che le mie parole abbiano recato il miglior frutto possibile. Non ho alcun dubbio che ogni giorno della sua vita egli si aggrappi alla maniglia di quel cassetto col volto acceso e gli occhi lucenti di battaglia, lanciando a se stesso grida d’incoraggiamento e parendogli di udire tutt’intorno il ruggito di un anello di spettatori plaudenti.
Così non credo che sia del tutto fantasioso o incredibile supporre che perfino le inondazioni di Londra possano essere accolte e godute poeticamente. Nulla al di là del disagio pare sia stato davvero causato da esse; e il disagio, come ho detto, non è che un aspetto, e per giunta l’aspetto più privo di immaginazione e più accidentale di una situazione realmente romantica. Un’avventura non è che un disagio considerato per il verso giusto. Un disagio non è che un’avventura considerata per il verso storto. L’acqua che cingeva le case e le botteghe di Londra deve, semmai, non aver fatto altro che accrescere il loro incanto e la loro meraviglia di prima. Poiché, come disse il prete cattolico romano nel racconto: «Il vino è buono con ogni cosa tranne che con l’acqua», e per un simile principio, l’acqua è buona con ogni cosa tranne che col vino.
THE VOTE AND THE HOUSE
Most of us will be canvassed soon, I suppose; some of us may even canvass. Upon which side, of course, nothing will induce me to state, beyond saying that by a remarkable coincidence it will in every case be the only side in which a high-minded, public-spirited, and patriotic citizen can take even a momentary interest. But the general question of canvassing itself, being a non-party question, is one which we may be permitted to approach. The rules for canvassers are fairly familiar to any one who has ever canvassed. They are printed on the little card which you carry about with you and lose. There is a statement, I think, that you must not offer a voter food or drink. However hospitable you may feel towards him in his own house, you must not carry his lunch about with you. You must not produce a veal cutlet from your tail-coat pocket. You must not conceal poached eggs about your person. You must not, like a kind of conjurer, produce baked potatoes from your hat. In short, the canvasser must not feed the voter in any way. Whether the voter is allowed to feed the canvasser, whether the voter may give the canvasser veal cutlets and baked potatoes, is a point of law on which I have never been able to inform myself. When I found myself canvassing a gentleman, I have sometimes felt tempted to ask him if there was any rule against his giving me food and drink; but the matter seemed a delicate one to approach. His attitude to me also sometimes suggested a doubt as to whether he would, even if he could. But there are voters who might find it worth while to discover if there is any law against bribing a canvasser. They might bribe him to go away.
The second veto for canvassers which was printed on the little card said that you must not persuade any one to personate a voter. I have no idea what it means. To dress up as an average voter seems a little vague. There is no well-recognised uniform, as far as I know, with civic waistcoat and patriotic whiskers. The enterprise resolves itself into one somewhat similar to the enterprise of a rich friend of mine who went to a fancy-dress ball dressed up as a gentleman. Perhaps it means that there is a practice of personating some individual voter. The canvasser creeps to the house of his fellow-conspirator carrying a make-up in a bag. He produces from it a pair of white moustaches and a single eyeglass, which are sufficient to give the most common-place person a startling resemblance to the Colonel at No. 80. Or he hurriedly affixes to his friend that large nose and that bald head which are all that is essential to an illusion of the presence of Professor Budger. I do not undertake to unravel these knots. I can only say that when I was a canvasser I was told by the little card, with every circumstance of seriousness and authority, that I was not to persuade anybody to personate a voter: and I can lay my hand upon my heart and affirm that I never did.
The third injunction on the card was one which seemed to me, if interpreted exactly and according to its words, to undermine the very foundations of our politics. It told me that I must not “threaten a voter with any consequence whatever.” No doubt this was intended to apply to threats of a personal and illegitimate character; as, for instance, if a wealthy candidate were to threaten to raise all the rents, or to put up a statue of himself. But as verbally and grammatically expressed, it certainly would cover those general threats of disaster to the whole community which are the main matter of political discussion. When a canvasser says that if the opposition candidate gets in the country will be ruined, he is threatening the voters with certain consequences. When the Free Trader says that if Tariffs are adopted the people in Brompton or Bayswater will crawl about eating grass, he is threatening them with consequences. When the Tariff Reformer says that if Free Trade exists for another year St. Paul’s Cathedral will be a ruin and Ludgate Hill as deserted as Stonehenge, he is also threatening. And what is the good of being a Tariff Reformer if you can’t say that? What is the use of being a politician or a Parliamentary candidate at all if one cannot tell the people that if the other man gets in, England will be instantly invaded and enslaved, blood be pouring down the Strand, and all the English ladies carried off into harems. But these things are, after all, consequences, so to speak.
The majority of refined persons in our day may generally be heard abusing the practice of canvassing. In the same way the majority of refined persons (commonly the same refined persons) may be heard abusing the practice of interviewing celebrities. It seems a very singular thing to me that this refined world reserves all its indignation for the comparatively open and innocent element in both walks of life. There is really a vast amount of corruption and hypocrisy in our election politics; about the most honest thing in the whole mess is the canvassing. A man has not got a right to “nurse” a constituency with aggressive charities, to buy it with great presents of parks and libraries, to open vague vistas of future benevolence; all this, which goes on unrebuked, is bribery and nothing else. But a man has got the right to go to another free man and ask him with civility whether he will vote for him. The information can be asked, granted, or refused without any loss of dignity on either side, which is more than can be said of a park. It is the same with the place of interviewing in journalism. In a trade where there are labyrinths of insincerity, interviewing is about the most simple and the most sincere thing there is. The canvasser, when he wants to know a man’s opinions, goes and asks him. It may be a bore; but it is about as plain and straight a thing as he could do. So the interviewer, when he wants to know a man’s opinions, goes and asks him. Again, it may be a bore; but again, it is about as plain and straight as anything could be. But all the other real and systematic cynicisms of our journalism pass without being vituperated and even without being known—the financial motives of policy, the misleading posters, the suppression of just letters of complaint. A statement about a man may be infamously untrue, but it is read calmly. But a statement by a man to an interviewer is felt as indefensibly vulgar. That the paper should misrepresent him is nothing; that he should represent himself is bad taste. The whole error in both cases lies in the fact that the refined persons are attacking politics and journalism on the ground of vulgarity. Of course, politics and journalism are, as it happens, very vulgar. But their vulgarity is not the worst thing about them. Things are so bad with both that by this time their vulgarity is the best thing about them. Their vulgarity is at least a noisy thing; and their great danger is that silence that always comes before decay. The conversational persuasion at elections is perfectly human and rational; it is the silent persuasions that are utterly damnable.
IL VOTO E LA CAMERA
La maggior parte di noi sarà presto sottoposta al giro dei propagandisti elettorali, suppongo; qualcuno di noi potrebbe persino farlo di persona. Da quale parte, s’intende, nulla mi indurrà a dichiararlo, salvo il dire che, per una notevole coincidenza, sarà in ogni caso l’unica parte alla quale un cittadino di alti principii, animato da spirito civico e da patriottismo, possa dedicare anche solo un momentaneo interesse. Ma la questione generale della propaganda elettorale in sé, essendo una questione al di sopra delle parti, è una a cui ci sia forse consentito accostarci. Le regole per i propagandisti sono abbastanza note a chiunque abbia mai fatto propaganda. Sono stampate sul cartoncino che ci si porta appresso e che si perde. C’è una prescrizione, credo, secondo cui non si deve offrire all’elettore né cibo né bevanda. Per quanto ospitali ci si possa sentire verso di lui nella sua casa, non gli si deve portare in giro il pranzo. Non si deve estrarre una cotoletta di vitello dalla tasca della marsina. Non si devono nascondere sulla propria persona uova in camicia. Non si devono, alla maniera di un prestigiatore, tirar fuori patate al forno dal cappello. Insomma, il propagandista non deve nutrire l’elettore in nessun modo. Se poi all’elettore sia consentito nutrire il propagandista, se l’elettore possa dare al propagandista cotolette di vitello e patate al forno, è un punto di diritto sul quale non sono mai riuscito a informarmi. Quando mi sono trovato a fare propaganda presso un gentiluomo, mi sono a volte sentito tentato di chiedergli se vi fosse qualche regola che gli vietasse di darmi da mangiare e da bere; ma la faccenda pareva delicata da affrontare. Anche il suo atteggiamento nei miei confronti suggeriva talora un dubbio circa il fatto che l’avrebbe fatto, ammesso che avesse potuto. Ma vi sono elettori che potrebbero trovar conveniente scoprire se esiste qualche legge contro il corrompere un propagandista. Potrebbero corromperlo perché se ne andasse.
Il secondo divieto per i propagandisti stampato sul cartoncino diceva che non si deve indurre nessuno a impersonare un elettore. Non ho la minima idea di che cosa significhi. Travestirsi da elettore medio pare cosa alquanto vaga. Non esiste alcuna uniforme ben riconosciuta, per quanto ne so, con panciotto civico e fedine patriottiche. L’impresa si riduce a qualcosa di piuttosto simile all’impresa di un mio ricco amico che si recò a un ballo in maschera travestito da gentiluomo. Forse significa che esiste la pratica di impersonare qualche singolo elettore. Il propagandista si insinua fino alla casa del suo complice recando un trucco dentro una borsa. Ne estrae un paio di baffi bianchi e un monocolo, che bastano a conferire alla persona più insignificante una sorprendente rassomiglianza col Colonnello del N. 80. Oppure applica in fretta al suo amico quel gran naso e quel cranio calvo che sono tutto ciò che occorre per creare l’illusione della presenza del Professor Budger. Non mi assumo l’impegno di sciogliere questi nodi. Posso solo dire che, quando ero propagandista, mi fu comunicato dal cartoncino, con ogni circostanza di serietà e autorità, che non dovevo indurre alcuno a impersonare un elettore: e posso porre la mano sul cuore e affermare che non l’ho mai fatto.
La terza ingiunzione del cartoncino era una che mi parve, se interpretata esattamente e alla lettera, minare le fondamenta stesse della nostra politica. Mi diceva che non dovevo «minacciare un elettore con conseguenza alcuna di sorta». Senza dubbio ciò era inteso ad applicarsi alle minacce di carattere personale e illegittimo; come, per esempio, se un candidato facoltoso minacciasse di far salire tutti gli affitti, o di erigere una statua di sé stesso. Ma così com’è espresso verbalmente e grammaticalmente, esso coprirebbe certamente quelle generali minacce di disastro per l’intera comunità che costituiscono la materia principale della discussione politica. Quando un propagandista dice che, se il candidato dell’opposizione va al potere, il paese sarà rovinato, egli sta minacciando gli elettori con determinate conseguenze. Quando il liberoscambista dice che, se si adottano le tariffe, la gente di Brompton o di Bayswater andrà carponi a brucare l’erba, li sta minacciando con conseguenze. Quando il riformatore delle tariffe dice che, se il libero scambio dura ancora un anno, la Cattedrale di San Paolo sarà una rovina e Ludgate Hill sarà deserta come Stonehenge, anch’egli sta minacciando. E che gusto c’è a essere un riformatore delle tariffe, se non si può dire questo? Che senso ha essere un politico o un candidato al Parlamento, se non si può dire alla gente che, se l’altro va al potere, l’Inghilterra sarà all’istante invasa e ridotta in schiavitù, il sangue scorrerà giù per lo Strand, e tutte le dame inglesi verranno portate via negli harem. Ma queste cose, dopo tutto, sono conseguenze, per così dire.
La maggioranza delle persone raffinate dei nostri giorni si può generalmente udire mentre inveisce contro la pratica della propaganda elettorale. Allo stesso modo la maggioranza delle persone raffinate (di solito le medesime persone raffinate) si può udire mentre inveisce contro la pratica di intervistare le celebrità. Mi pare cosa oltremodo singolare che questo mondo raffinato riservi tutta la sua indignazione all’elemento relativamente aperto e innocente di entrambe le sfere della vita. C’è davvero una quantità sterminata di corruzione e di ipocrisia nella nostra politica elettorale; e la cosa più onesta in tutto quel pasticcio è proprio la propaganda. Un uomo non ha il diritto di «coltivare» un collegio elettorale con aggressive opere di beneficenza, di comprarlo con grandi doni di parchi e biblioteche, di aprire vaghe prospettive di future benevolenze; tutto questo, che avviene senza rimprovero alcuno, è corruzione e niente altro. Ma un uomo ha il diritto di andare da un altro uomo libero e chiedergli con cortesia se voterà per lui. L’informazione può essere chiesta, concessa o rifiutata senza perdita di dignità da nessuna delle due parti, il che è più di quanto si possa dire di un parco. Lo stesso vale per il posto che occupa l’intervista nel giornalismo. In un mestiere in cui vi sono labirinti di insincerità, l’intervista è quasi la cosa più semplice e più sincera che ci sia. Il propagandista, quando vuole conoscere le opinioni di un uomo, va e gliele chiede. Sarà magari una seccatura; ma è quanto di più schietto e diretto egli possa fare. Così l’intervistatore, quando vuole conoscere le opinioni di un uomo, va e gliele chiede. Di nuovo, sarà magari una seccatura; ma di nuovo, è quanto di più schietto e diretto vi possa essere. Ma tutti gli altri cinismi reali e sistematici del nostro giornalismo passano senza essere vituperati e persino senza essere conosciuti — i moventi finanziari della linea editoriale, i manifesti ingannevoli, la soppressione di giuste lettere di protesta. Un’affermazione a proposito di un uomo può essere infamemente falsa, eppure la si legge con calma. Ma un’affermazione fatta da un uomo a un intervistatore è avvertita come indifendibilmente volgare. Che il giornale lo travisi non è nulla; che egli rappresenti sé stesso è cattivo gusto. L’intero errore, in entrambi i casi, sta nel fatto che le persone raffinate attaccano la politica e il giornalismo sul terreno della volgarità. Certo, la politica e il giornalismo sono, per l’appunto, molto volgari. Ma la loro volgarità non è la cosa peggiore che li riguardi. Le cose stanno così male con entrambi che ormai a quest’ora la loro volgarità è la cosa migliore che li riguardi. La loro volgarità è almeno una cosa rumorosa; e il loro grande pericolo è quel silenzio che precede sempre il disfacimento. La persuasione conversevole delle elezioni è perfettamente umana e razionale; sono le persuasioni silenziose a essere del tutto dannabili.
If it is true that the Commons’ House will not hold all the Commons, it is a very good example of what we call the anomalies of the English Constitution. It is also, I think, a very good example of how highly undesirable those anomalies really are. Most Englishmen say that these anomalies do not matter; they are not ashamed of being illogical; they are proud of being illogical. Lord Macaulay (a very typical Englishman, romantic, prejudiced, poetical), Lord Macaulay said that he would not lift his hand to get rid of an anomaly that was not also a grievance. Many other sturdy romantic Englishmen say the same. They boast of our anomalies; they boast of our illogicality; they say it shows what a practical people we are. They are utterly wrong. Lord Macaulay was in this matter, as in a few others, utterly wrong. Anomalies do matter very much, and do a great deal of harm; abstract illogicalities do matter a great deal, and do a great deal of harm. And this for a reason that any one at all acquainted with human nature can see for himself. All injustice begins in the mind. And anomalies accustom the mind to the idea of unreason and untruth. Suppose I had by some prehistoric law the power of forcing every man in Battersea to nod his head three times before he got out of bed. The practical politicians might say that this power was a harmless anomaly; that it was not a grievance. It could do my subjects no harm; it could do me no good. The people of Battersea, they would say, might safely submit to it. But the people of Battersea could not safely submit to it, for all that. If I had nodded their heads for them for fifty years I could cut off their heads for them at the end of it with immeasurably greater ease. For there would have permanently sunk into every man’s mind the notion that it was a natural thing for me to have a fantastic and irrational power. They would have grown accustomed to insanity.
For, in order that men should resist injustice, something more is necessary than that they should think injustice unpleasant. They must think injustice absurd; above all, they must think it startling. They must retain the violence of a virgin astonishment. That is the explanation of the singular fact which must have struck many people in the relations of philosophy and reform. It is the fact (I mean) that optimists are more practical reformers than pessimists. Superficially, one would imagine that the railer would be the reformer; that the man who thought that everything was wrong would be the man to put everything right. In historical practice the thing is quite the other way; curiously enough, it is the man who likes things as they are who really makes them better. The optimist Dickens has achieved more reforms than the pessimist Gissing. A man like Rousseau has far too rosy a theory of human nature; but he produces a revolution. A man like David Hume thinks that almost all things are depressing; but he is a Conservative, and wishes to keep them as they are. A man like Godwin believes existence to be kindly; but he is a rebel. A man like Carlyle believes existence to be cruel; but he is a Tory. Everywhere the man who alters things begins by liking things. And the real explanation of this success of the optimistic reformer, of this failure of the pessimistic reformer, is, after all, an explanation of sufficient simplicity. It is because the optimist can look at wrong not only with indignation, but with a startled indignation. When the pessimist looks at any infamy, it is to him, after all, only a repetition of the infamy of existence. The Court of Chancery is indefensible—like mankind. The Inquisition is abominable— like the universe. But the optimist sees injustice as something discordant and unexpected, and it stings him into action. The pessimist can be enraged at wrong; but only the optimist can be surprised at it.
And it is the same with the relations of an anomaly to the logical mind. The pessimist resents evil (like Lord Macaulay) solely because it is a grievance. The optimist resents it also, because it is an anomaly; a contradiction to his conception of the course of things. And it is not at all unimportant, but on the contrary most important, that this course of things in politics and elsewhere should be lucid, explicable and defensible. When people have got used to unreason they can no longer be startled at injustice. When people have grown familiar with an anomaly, they are prepared to that extent for a grievance; they may think the grievance grievous, but they can no longer think it strange. Take, if only as an excellent example, the very matter alluded to before; I mean the seats, or rather the lack of seats, in the House of Commons. Perhaps it is true that under the best conditions it would never happen that every member turned up. Perhaps a complete attendance would never actually be. But who can tell how much influence in keeping members away may have been exerted by this calm assumption that they would stop away? How can any man be expected to help to make a full attendance when he knows that a full attendance is actually forbidden? How can the men who make up the Chamber do their duty reasonably when the very men who built the House have not done theirs reasonably? If the trumpet give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare himself for the battle? And what if the remarks of the trumpet take this form, “I charge you as you love your King and country to come to this Council. And I know you won’t.”
Se è vero che la Camera dei Comuni non riuscirà a contenere tutti i Comuni, essa è un ottimo esempio di ciò che chiamiamo le anomalie della Costituzione inglese. È anche, io credo, un ottimo esempio di quanto quelle anomalie siano in realtà altamente indesiderabili. La maggior parte degli inglesi afferma che queste anomalie non hanno importanza; non si vergognano di essere illogici; sono fieri di essere illogici. Lord Macaulay (un inglese quanto mai tipico, romantico, prevenuto, poetico), Lord Macaulay disse che non avrebbe alzato un dito per sbarazzarsi di un’anomalia che non fosse anche una prevaricazione. Molti altri robusti e romantici inglesi dicono lo stesso. Si vantano delle nostre anomalie; si vantano della nostra illogicità; dicono che ciò dimostra quale popolo pratico noi siamo. Hanno completamente torto. Lord Macaulay, in questa faccenda come in poche altre, aveva completamente torto. Le anomalie contano eccome, e fanno un gran danno; le illogicità astratte contano eccome, e fanno un gran danno. E questo per una ragione che chiunque abbia una qualche dimestichezza con la natura umana può constatare da sé. Ogni ingiustizia comincia nella mente. E le anomalie abituano la mente all’idea dell’irragionevolezza e della falsità. Supponiamo che io avessi, per qualche legge preistorica, il potere di costringere ogni uomo di Battersea a chinare il capo tre volte prima di scendere dal letto. I politici pratici potrebbero dire che questo potere era un’anomalia innocua; che non era una prevaricazione. Non poteva far male ai miei sudditi; non poteva far bene a me. Gli abitanti di Battersea, direbbero, potrebbero tranquillamente sottomettervisi. Eppure gli abitanti di Battersea non potrebbero tranquillamente sottomettervisi, nonostante tutto. Se avessi fatto chinare loro il capo per cinquant’anni, alla fine potrei tagliar loro il capo con incommensurabilmente maggiore facilità. Poiché si sarebbe insinuata in modo permanente nella mente di ciascuno la nozione che fosse cosa naturale per me possedere un potere fantastico e irrazionale. Si sarebbero abituati alla follia.
Poiché, affinché gli uomini resistano all’ingiustizia, occorre qualcosa di più che il ritenere l’ingiustizia sgradevole. Essi devono ritenere l’ingiustizia assurda; e soprattutto, devono ritenerla sconcertante. Devono conservare la veemenza di un verginale stupore. Ecco la spiegazione del singolare fatto che deve aver colpito molti nei rapporti tra filosofia e riforma. È il fatto (intendo dire) che gli ottimisti sono riformatori più concreti dei pessimisti. Superficialmente, si immaginerebbe che a fare il riformatore fosse chi impreca; che l’uomo il quale ritiene che tutto sia storto sia l’uomo destinato a raddrizzare ogni cosa. Nella pratica storica le cose stanno esattamente all’opposto; per quanto curioso, è l’uomo a cui le cose piacciono così come sono che davvero le rende migliori. L’ottimista Dickens ha realizzato più riforme del pessimista Gissing. Un uomo come Rousseau ha una teoria della natura umana fin troppo rosea; eppure produce una rivoluzione. Un uomo come David Hume pensa che quasi tutte le cose siano deprimenti; ma è un conservatore, e desidera mantenerle come sono. Un uomo come Godwin crede che l’esistenza sia benevola; ma è un ribelle. Un uomo come Carlyle crede che l’esistenza sia crudele; ma è un tory. Ovunque l’uomo che muta le cose comincia dall’amarle. E la vera spiegazione di questo successo del riformatore ottimista, di questo fallimento del riformatore pessimista, è, in fin dei conti, una spiegazione di sufficiente semplicità. È perché l’ottimista sa guardare l’ingiustizia non soltanto con indignazione, ma con un’indignazione trasecolata. Quando il pessimista guarda una qualsiasi infamia, essa è per lui, dopo tutto, solo una ripetizione dell’infamia dell’esistenza. La Corte di Cancelleria è indifendibile — come il genere umano. L’Inquisizione è abominevole — come l’universo. Ma l’ottimista vede l’ingiustizia come qualcosa di discordante e inatteso, ed essa lo pungola all’azione. Il pessimista può montare in collera davanti al torto; ma solo l’ottimista può esserne sorpreso.
E lo stesso avviene nei rapporti tra un’anomalia e la mente logica. Il pessimista si risente del male (come Lord Macaulay) unicamente perché è una prevaricazione. L’ottimista se ne risente anche perché è un’anomalia; una contraddizione alla sua concezione del corso delle cose. E non è affatto privo d’importanza, ma al contrario è della massima importanza, che questo corso delle cose, in politica e altrove, sia lucido, spiegabile e difendibile. Quando la gente si è abituata all’irragionevolezza, non può più trasecolare davanti all’ingiustizia. Quando la gente ha preso familiarità con un’anomalia, è preparata in quella misura a una prevaricazione; potrà ritenere grave la prevaricazione, ma non potrà più ritenerla strana. Si prenda, non fosse che come esempio eccellente, la questione stessa a cui si accennava prima; intendo i seggi, o piuttosto la mancanza di seggi, nella Camera dei Comuni. Forse è vero che, nelle migliori condizioni, non accadrebbe mai che ogni membro si presentasse. Forse una presenza al completo non si verificherebbe mai davvero. Ma chi può dire quanta influenza nel tenere lontani i membri possa essere stata esercitata da questo pacato presupposto che essi si sarebbero astenuti dal venire? Come ci si può aspettare che un uomo contribuisca a formare una presenza al completo, quando sa che una presenza al completo è addirittura vietata? Come possono gli uomini che compongono la Camera adempiere ragionevolmente al proprio dovere, quando gli uomini stessi che costruirono la Camera non hanno adempiuto ragionevolmente al loro? Se la tromba dà un suono incerto, chi mai si preparerà alla battaglia? E che dire se le parole della tromba prendessero questa forma: «Vi scongiuro, per l’amore che portate al vostro Re e al vostro paese, di venire a questo Consiglio. E so che non verrete».
CONCEIT AND CARICATURE
If a man must needs be conceited, it is certainly better that he should be conceited about some merits or talents that he does not really possess. For then his vanity remains more or less superficial; it remains a mere mistake of fact, like that of a man who thinks he inherits the royal blood or thinks he has an infallible system for Monte Carlo. Because the merit is an unreal merit, it does not corrupt or sophisticate his real merits. He is vain about the virtue he has not got; but he may be humble about the virtues that he has got. His truly honourable qualities remain in their primordial innocence; he cannot see them and he cannot spoil them. If a man’s mind is erroneously possessed with the idea that he is a great violinist, that need not prevent his being a gentleman and an honest man. But if once his mind is possessed in any strong degree with the knowledge that he is a gentleman, he will soon cease to be one.
But there is a third kind of satisfaction of which I have noticed one or two examples lately—another kind of satisfaction which is neither a pleasure in the virtues that we do possess nor a pleasure in the virtues we do not possess. It is the pleasure which a man takes in the presence or absence of certain things in himself without ever adequately asking himself whether in his case they constitute virtues at all. A man will plume himself because he is not bad in some particular way, when the truth is that he is not good enough to be bad in that particular way. Some priggish little clerk will say, “I have reason to congratulate myself that I am a civilised person, and not so bloodthirsty as the Mad Mullah.” Somebody ought to say to him, “A really good man would be less bloodthirsty than the Mullah. But you are less bloodthirsty, not because you are more of a good man, but because you are a great deal less of a man. You are not bloodthirsty, not because you would spare your enemy, but because you would run away from him.” Or again, some Puritan with a sullen type of piety would say, “I have reason to congratulate myself that I do not worship graven images like the old heathen Greeks.” And again somebody ought to say to him, “The best religion may not worship graven images, because it may see beyond them. But if you do not worship graven images, it is only because you are mentally and morally quite incapable of graving them. True religion, perhaps, is above idolatry. But you are below idolatry. You are not holy enough yet to worship a lump of stone.”
Mr. F. C. Gould, the brilliant and felicitous caricaturist, recently delivered a most interesting speech upon the nature and atmosphere of our modern English caricature. I think there is really very little to congratulate oneself about in the condition of English caricature. There are few causes for pride; probably the greatest cause for pride is Mr. F. C. Gould. But Mr. F. C. Gould, forbidden by modesty to adduce this excellent ground for optimism, fell back upon saying a thing which is said by numbers of other people, but has not perhaps been said lately with the full authority of an eminent cartoonist. He said that he thought “that they might congratulate themselves that the style of caricature which found acceptation nowadays was very different from the lampoon of the old days.” Continuing, he said, according to the newspaper report, “On looking back to the political lampoons of Rowlandson’s and Gilray’s time they would find them coarse and brutal. In some countries abroad still, ‘even in America,’ the method of political caricature was of the bludgeon kind. The fact was we had passed the bludgeon stage. If they were brutal in attacking a man, even for political reasons, they roused sympathy for the man who was attacked. What they had to do was to rub in the point they wanted to emphasise as gently as they could.” (Laughter and applause.)
Anybody reading these words, and anybody who heard them, will certainly feel that there is in them a great deal of truth, as well as a great deal of geniality. But along with that truth and with that geniality there is a streak of that erroneous type of optimism which is founded on the fallacy of which I have spoken above. Before we congratulate ourselves upon the absence of certain faults from our nation or society, we ought to ask ourselves why it is that these faults are absent. Are we without the fault because we have the opposite virtue? Or are we without the fault because we have the opposite fault? It is a good thing assuredly, to be innocent of any excess; but let us be sure that we are not innocent of excess merely by being guilty of defect. Is it really true that our English political satire is so moderate because it is so magnanimous, so forgiving, so saintly? Is it penetrated through and through with a mystical charity, with a psychological tenderness? Do we spare the feelings of the Cabinet Minister because we pierce through all his apparent crimes and follies down to the dark virtues of which his own soul is unaware? Do we temper the wind to the Leader of the Opposition because in our all-embracing heart we pity and cherish the struggling spirit of the Leader of the Opposition? Briefly, have we left off being brutal because we are too grand and generous to be brutal? Is it really true that we are better than brutality? Is it really true that we have passed the bludgeon stage?
I fear that there is, to say the least of it, another side to the matter. Is it not only too probable that the mildness of our political satire, when compared with the political satire of our fathers, arises simply from the profound unreality of our current politics? Rowlandson and Gilray did not fight merely because they were naturally pothouse pugilists; they fought because they had something to fight about. It is easy enough to be refined about things that do not matter; but men kicked and plunged a little in that portentous wrestle in which swung to and fro, alike dizzy with danger, the independence of England, the independence of Ireland, the independence of France. If we wish for a proof of this fact that the lack of refinement did not come from mere brutality, the proof is easy. The proof is that in that struggle no personalities were more brutal than the really refined personalities. None were more violent and intolerant than those who were by nature polished and sensitive. Nelson, for instance, had the nerves and good manners of a woman: nobody in his senses, I suppose, would call Nelson “brutal.” But when he was touched upon the national matter, there sprang out of him a spout of oaths, and he could only tell men to “Kill! kill! kill the d----d Frenchmen.” It would be as easy to take examples on the other side. Camille Desmoulins was a man of much the same type, not only elegant and sweet in temper, but almost tremulously tender and humanitarian. But he was ready, he said, “to embrace Liberty upon a pile of corpses.” In Ireland there were even more instances. Robert Emmet was only one famous example of a whole family of men at once sensitive and savage. I think that Mr. F.C. Gould is altogether wrong in talking of this political ferocity as if it were some sort of survival from ruder conditions, like a flint axe or a hairy man. Cruelty is, perhaps, the worst kind of sin. Intellectual cruelty is certainly the worst kind of cruelty. But there is nothing in the least barbaric or ignorant about intellectual cruelty. The great Renaissance artists who mixed colours exquisitely mixed poisons equally exquisitely; the great Renaissance princes who designed instruments of music also designed instruments of torture. Barbarity, malignity, the desire to hurt men, are the evil things generated in atmospheres of intense reality when great nations or great causes are at war. We may, perhaps, be glad that we have not got them: but it is somewhat dangerous to be proud that we have not got them. Perhaps we are hardly great enough to have them. Perhaps some great virtues have to be generated, as in men like Nelson or Emmet, before we can have these vices at all, even as temptations. I, for one, believe that if our caricaturists do not hate their enemies, it is not because they are too big to hate them, but because their enemies are not big enough to hate. I do not think we have passed the bludgeon stage. I believe we have not come to the bludgeon stage. We must be better, braver, and purer men than we are before we come to the bludgeon stage.
Let us then, by all means, be proud of the virtues that we have not got; but let us not be too arrogant about the virtues that we cannot help having. It may be that a man living on a desert island has a right to congratulate himself upon the fact that he can meditate at his ease. But he must not congratulate himself on the fact that he is on a desert island, and at the same time congratulate himself on the self-restraint he shows in not going to a ball every night. Similarly our England may have a right to congratulate itself upon the fact that her politics are very quiet, amicable, and humdrum. But she must not congratulate herself upon that fact and also congratulate herself upon the self-restraint she shows in not tearing herself and her citizens into rags. Between two English Privy Councillors polite language is a mark of civilisation, but really not a mark of magnanimity.
Allied to this question is the kindred question on which we so often hear an innocent British boast—the fact that our statesmen are privately on very friendly relations, although in Parliament they sit on opposite sides of the House. Here, again, it is as well to have no illusions. Our statesmen are not monsters of mystical generosity or insane logic, who are really able to hate a man from three to twelve and to love him from twelve to three. If our social relations are more peaceful than those of France or America or the England of a hundred years ago, it is simply because our politics are more peaceful; not improbably because our politics are more fictitious. If our statesmen agree more in private, it is for the very simple reason that they agree more in public. And the reason they agree so much in both cases is really that they belong to one social class; and therefore the dining life is the real life. Tory and Liberal statesmen like each other, but it is not because they are both expansive; it is because they are both exclusive.
VANITÀ E CARICATURA
Se un uomo proprio deve essere vanitoso, è certamente meglio che lo sia a proposito di meriti o talenti che in realtà non possiede. Perché allora la sua vanità rimane più o meno superficiale; resta un semplice errore di fatto, come quello di chi crede di aver ereditato il sangue regale, o di possedere un sistema infallibile per Monte Carlo. Poiché il merito è un merito irreale, esso non corrompe né adultera i suoi meriti veri. Egli è vanitoso della virtù che non possiede; ma può restare umile riguardo alle virtù che possiede. Le sue qualità davvero onorevoli permangono nella loro primordiale innocenza; egli non riesce a vederle e non riesce a guastarle. Se la mente di un uomo è erroneamente invasa dall’idea di essere un grande violinista, ciò non gli impedisce affatto di essere un gentiluomo e un uomo onesto. Ma se una volta la sua mente è invasa, in qualche misura forte, dalla consapevolezza di essere un gentiluomo, egli cesserà ben presto di esserlo.
Ma c’è un terzo genere di soddisfazione, di cui ho notato un esempio o due negli ultimi tempi: un altro genere di soddisfazione, che non è né il compiacimento per le virtù che possediamo, né il compiacimento per le virtù che non possediamo. È il piacere che un uomo prova alla presenza o all’assenza di certe cose in sé stesso, senza mai chiedersi adeguatamente se, nel suo caso, esse costituiscano affatto delle virtù. Un uomo si vanterà di non essere cattivo in un certo modo particolare, quando la verità è che non è abbastanza buono per essere cattivo in quel modo particolare. Un qualche presuntuoso ometto d’ufficio dirà: «Ho ragione di rallegrarmi di essere una persona civile, e di non essere assetato di sangue come il Mad Mullah». Qualcuno dovrebbe dirgli: «Un uomo davvero buono sarebbe meno assetato di sangue del Mullah. Ma tu sei meno assetato di sangue non perché tu sia più uomo dabbene, bensì perché sei assai meno uomo. Tu non sei assetato di sangue, non perché risparmieresti il tuo nemico, ma perché scapperesti davanti a lui». Oppure, ancora, qualche puritano dalla pietà arcigna direbbe: «Ho ragione di rallegrarmi di non adorare immagini scolpite come gli antichi pagani greci». E, di nuovo, qualcuno dovrebbe dirgli: «La religione migliore può anche non adorare immagini scolpite, perché può vedere al di là di esse. Ma se tu non adori immagini scolpite, è soltanto perché sei, mentalmente e moralmente, del tutto incapace di scolpirle. La vera religione, forse, è al di sopra dell’idolatria. Ma tu sei al di sotto dell’idolatria. Non sei ancora abbastanza santo per adorare un blocco di pietra».
Il signor F. C. Gould, il brillante e felice caricaturista, ha di recente pronunciato un discorso oltremodo interessante sulla natura e sull’atmosfera della nostra moderna caricatura inglese. Ritengo che, in verità, vi sia ben poco di cui rallegrarsi nella condizione della caricatura inglese. Poche sono le ragioni di orgoglio; probabilmente la più grande ragione di orgoglio è il signor F. C. Gould. Ma il signor F. C. Gould, cui la modestia vietava di addurre questo eccellente fondamento di ottimismo, ripiegò sul dire una cosa che è detta da moltissime altre persone, ma che forse non era stata detta di recente con la piena autorità di un eminente vignettista. Egli disse di pensare «che essi potevano rallegrarsi che lo stile di caricatura oggigiorno in voga fosse assai diverso dal libello satirico dei tempi andati». E, proseguendo, disse, stando al resoconto del giornale: «Guardando indietro ai libelli politici del tempo di Rowlandson e Gilray, li si troverebbe grossolani e brutali. In alcuni paesi all’estero, ancora, “perfino in America”, il metodo della caricatura politica era del genere randellante. Il fatto è che noi avevamo oltrepassato lo stadio del randello. Se essi si mostravano brutali nell’attaccare un uomo, anche per ragioni politiche, suscitavano simpatia per l’uomo attaccato. Ciò che dovevano fare era rimarcare, con quanta più delicatezza potevano, il punto che volevano mettere in risalto». (Risa e applausi.)
Chiunque legga queste parole, e chiunque le abbia udite, sentirà certamente che in esse vi è una gran dose di verità, come pure una gran dose di cordialità. Ma insieme a quella verità e a quella cordialità vi è una vena di quel tipo erroneo di ottimismo che si fonda sulla fallacia di cui ho parlato sopra. Prima di rallegrarci dell’assenza di certi difetti dalla nostra nazione o dalla nostra società, dovremmo domandarci il perché di quell’assenza. Siamo forse privi del difetto perché possediamo la virtù opposta? Oppure siamo privi del difetto perché possediamo il difetto opposto? È cosa buona, senza dubbio, essere innocenti di ogni eccesso; ma assicuriamoci di non essere innocenti di eccesso solo per il fatto di essere colpevoli di difetto. È davvero vero che la nostra satira politica inglese è tanto moderata perché è tanto magnanima, tanto indulgente, tanto santa? È essa penetrata da parte a parte da una mistica carità, da una tenerezza psicologica? Risparmiamo forse i sentimenti del Ministro di Gabinetto perché trapassiamo tutti i suoi apparenti delitti e le sue follie fino alle oscure virtù di cui la sua stessa anima è inconsapevole? Temperiamo forse il vento al Capo dell’Opposizione perché, nel nostro cuore che tutto abbraccia, compatiamo e coltiviamo lo spirito in affanno del Capo dell’Opposizione? In breve: abbiamo forse smesso di essere brutali perché siamo troppo grandi e generosi per essere brutali? È davvero vero che siamo migliori della brutalità? È davvero vero che abbiamo oltrepassato lo stadio del randello?
Temo che vi sia, a dir poco, un altro lato della faccenda. Non è forse fin troppo probabile che la mitezza della nostra satira politica, se paragonata alla satira politica dei nostri padri, nasca semplicemente dalla profonda irrealtà della nostra politica attuale? Rowlandson e Gilray non combattevano solo perché fossero per natura dei rissaioli da taverna; combattevano perché avevano qualcosa per cui combattere. È abbastanza facile mostrarsi raffinati riguardo a cose che non contano; ma gli uomini scalciavano e si dibattevano un poco in quel portentoso corpo a corpo in cui oscillavano avanti e indietro, del pari vertiginose di pericolo, l’indipendenza dell’Inghilterra, l’indipendenza dell’Irlanda, l’indipendenza della Francia. Se desideriamo una prova del fatto che la mancanza di raffinatezza non veniva da pura brutalità, la prova è facile. La prova è che, in quella lotta, nessuna personalità fu più brutale delle personalità davvero raffinate. Nessuno fu più violento e intollerante di coloro che erano per natura levigati e sensibili. Nelson, per esempio, aveva i nervi e le buone maniere di una donna: nessuno sano di mente, suppongo, chiamerebbe Nelson «brutale». Ma quando lo si toccava sulla questione nazionale, sgorgava da lui un fiotto di imprecazioni, ed egli non sapeva far altro che ordinare agli uomini di «Ammazzare! ammazzare! ammazzare quei maledetti francesi». Sarebbe altrettanto facile prendere esempi dall’altra parte. Camille Desmoulins era un uomo pressappoco dello stesso tipo, non solo elegante e dolce di carattere, ma quasi tremulamente tenero e umanitario. Eppure era pronto, diceva, «ad abbracciare la Libertà su un cumulo di cadaveri». In Irlanda gli esempi erano anche più numerosi. Robert Emmet fu solo uno degli esempi famosi di un’intera famiglia di uomini a un tempo sensibili e feroci. Penso che il signor F. C. Gould si sbagli del tutto nel parlare di questa ferocia politica come se fosse una sorta di sopravvivenza da condizioni più rozze, come un’ascia di selce o un uomo villoso. La crudeltà è, forse, il peggior genere di peccato. La crudeltà intellettuale è certamente il peggior genere di crudeltà. Ma non c’è nulla di minimamente barbarico o ignorante nella crudeltà intellettuale. I grandi artisti del Rinascimento, che mescolavano i colori con squisitezza, mescolavano i veleni con pari squisitezza; i grandi principi del Rinascimento, che progettavano strumenti musicali, progettavano anche strumenti di tortura. La barbarie, la malignità, il desiderio di far male agli uomini sono le cose malvagie generate in atmosfere di intensa realtà, quando grandi nazioni o grandi cause sono in guerra. Possiamo, forse, rallegrarci di non averle: ma è alquanto pericoloso essere fieri di non averle. Forse siamo appena abbastanza grandi da averle. Forse certe grandi virtù devono essere generate, come in uomini quali Nelson o Emmet, prima che possiamo avere questi vizi, sia pure soltanto come tentazioni. Io, per parte mia, credo che se i nostri caricaturisti non odiano i loro nemici, non è perché siano troppo grandi per odiarli, ma perché i loro nemici non sono abbastanza grandi da essere odiati. Non credo che abbiamo oltrepassato lo stadio del randello. Credo che non siamo ancora giunti allo stadio del randello. Dovremo essere uomini migliori, più coraggiosi e più puri di quanto siamo, prima di giungere allo stadio del randello.
Siamo dunque, in ogni caso, fieri delle virtù che non abbiamo; ma non siamo troppo arroganti riguardo alle virtù che non possiamo fare a meno di avere. Può darsi che un uomo il quale viva su un’isola deserta abbia il diritto di rallegrarsi del fatto di poter meditare a suo agio. Ma non deve rallegrarsi del fatto di trovarsi su un’isola deserta e, al tempo stesso, rallegrarsi dell’autocontrollo che dimostra nel non andare a un ballo ogni notte. Similmente, la nostra Inghilterra può avere il diritto di rallegrarsi del fatto che la sua politica è assai quieta, amichevole e monotona. Ma non deve rallegrarsi di quel fatto e insieme rallegrarsi dell’autocontrollo che dimostra nel non fare a brandelli sé stessa e i propri cittadini. Fra due Consiglieri Privati inglesi, il linguaggio cortese è un segno di civiltà, ma davvero non un segno di magnanimità.
Affine a questa questione è quella consimile su cui tanto spesso udiamo un innocente vanto britannico: il fatto che i nostri statisti intrattengano privatamente rapporti assai cordiali, benché in Parlamento siedano su lati opposti della Camera. Anche qui, è bene non farsi illusioni. I nostri statisti non sono mostri di mistica generosità o di logica insensata, capaci davvero di odiare un uomo dalle tre alle dodici e di amarlo dalle dodici alle tre. Se i nostri rapporti sociali sono più pacifici di quelli della Francia o dell’America o dell’Inghilterra di cent’anni fa, è semplicemente perché la nostra politica è più pacifica; non improbabilmente perché la nostra politica è più fittizia. Se i nostri statisti concordano di più in privato, è per la semplicissima ragione che concordano di più in pubblico. E la ragione per cui concordano tanto in entrambi i casi è, in verità, che appartengono a una sola classe sociale; e perciò la vita conviviale è la vita reale. Gli statisti Tory e Liberali si piacciono l’un l’altro, ma non perché siano entrambi espansivi; è perché sono entrambi esclusivi.
PATRIOTISM AND SPORT.
I notice that some papers, especially papers that call themselves patriotic, have fallen into quite a panic over the fact that we have been twice beaten in the world of sport, that a Frenchman has beaten us at golf, and that Belgians have beaten us at rowing. I suppose that the incidents are important to any people who ever believed in the self-satisfied English legend on this subject. I suppose that there are men who vaguely believe that we could never be beaten by a Frenchman, despite the fact that we have often been beaten by Frenchmen, and once by a Frenchwoman. In the old pictures in Punch you will find a recurring piece of satire. The English caricaturists always assumed that a Frenchman could not ride to hounds or enjoy English hunting. It did not seem to occur to them that all the people who founded English hunting were Frenchmen. All the Kings and nobles who originally rode to hounds spoke French. Large numbers of those Englishmen who still ride to hounds have French names. I suppose that the thing is important to any one who is ignorant of such evident matters as these. I suppose that if a man has ever believed that we English have some sacred and separate right to be athletic, such reverses do appear quite enormous and shocking. They feel as if, while the proper sun was rising in the east, some other and unexpected sun had begun to rise in the north-north-west by north. For the benefit, the moral and intellectual benefit of such people, it may be worth while to point out that the Anglo-Saxon has in these cases been defeated precisely by those competitors whom he has always regarded as being out of the running; by Latins, and by Latins of the most easy and unstrenuous type; not only by Frenchman, but by Belgians. All this, I say, is worth telling to any intelligent person who believes in the haughty theory of Anglo-Saxon superiority. But, then, no intelligent person does believe in the haughty theory of Anglo-Saxon superiority. No quite genuine Englishman ever did believe in it. And the genuine Englishman these defeats will in no respect dismay.
The genuine English patriot will know that the strength of England has never depended upon any of these things; that the glory of England has never had anything to do with them, except in the opinion of a large section of the rich and a loose section of the poor which copies the idleness of the rich. These people will, of course, think too much of our failure, just as they thought too much of our success. The typical Jingoes who have admired their countrymen too much for being conquerors will, doubtless, despise their countrymen too much for being conquered. But the Englishman with any feeling for England will know that athletic failures do not prove that England is weak, any more than athletic successes proved that England was strong. The truth is that athletics, like all other things, especially modern, are insanely individualistic. The Englishmen who win sporting prizes are exceptional among Englishmen, for the simple reason that they are exceptional even among men. English athletes represent England just about as much as Mr. Barnum’s freaks represent America. There are so few of such people in the whole world that it is almost a toss-up whether they are found in this or that country.
If any one wants a simple proof of this, it is easy to find. When the great English athletes are not exceptional Englishmen they are generally not Englishmen at all. Nay, they are often representatives of races of which the average tone is specially incompatible with athletics. For instance, the English are supposed to rule the natives of India in virtue of their superior hardiness, superior activity, superior health of body and mind. The Hindus are supposed to be our subjects because they are less fond of action, less fond of openness and the open air. In a word, less fond of cricket. And, substantially, this is probably true, that the Indians are less fond of cricket. All the same, if you ask among Englishmen for the very best cricket-player, you will find that he is an Indian. Or, to take another case: it is, broadly speaking, true that the Jews are, as a race, pacific, intellectual, indifferent to war, like the Indians, or, perhaps, contemptuous of war, like the Chinese: nevertheless, of the very good prize-fighters, one or two have been Jews.
This is one of the strongest instances of the particular kind of evil that arises from our English form of the worship of athletics. It concentrates too much upon the success of individuals. It began, quite naturally and rightly, with wanting England to win. The second stage was that it wanted some Englishmen to win. The third stage was (in the ecstasy and agony of some special competition) that it wanted one particular Englishman to win. And the fourth stage was that when he had won, it discovered that he was not even an Englishman.
This is one of the points, I think, on which something might really be said for Lord Roberts and his rather vague ideas which vary between rifle clubs and conscription. Whatever may be the advantages or disadvantages otherwise of the idea, it is at least an idea of procuring equality and a sort of average in the athletic capacity of the people; it might conceivably act as a corrective to our mere tendency to see ourselves in certain exceptional athletes. As it is, there are millions of Englishmen who really think that they are a muscular race because C.B. Fry is an Englishman. And there are many of them who think vaguely that athletics must belong to England because Ranjitsinhji is an Indian.
But the real historic strength of England, physical and moral, has never had anything to do with this athletic specialism; it has been rather hindered by it. Somebody said that the Battle of Waterloo was won on Eton playing-fields. It was a particularly unfortunate remark, for the English contribution to the victory of Waterloo depended very much more than is common in victories upon the steadiness of the rank and file in an almost desperate situation. The Battle of Waterloo was won by the stubbornness of the common soldier— that is to say, it was won by the man who had never been to Eton. It was absurd to say that Waterloo was won on Eton cricket-fields. But it might have been fairly said that Waterloo was won on the village green, where clumsy boys played a very clumsy cricket. In a word, it was the average of the nation that was strong, and athletic glories do not indicate much about the average of a nation. Waterloo was not won by good cricket-players. But Waterloo was won by bad cricket-players, by a mass of men who had some minimum of athletic instincts and habits.
It is a good sign in a nation when such things are done badly. It shows that all the people are doing them. And it is a bad sign in a nation when such things are done very well, for it shows that only a few experts and eccentrics are doing them, and that the nation is merely looking on. Suppose that whenever we heard of walking in England it always meant walking forty-five miles a day without fatigue. We should be perfectly certain that only a few men were walking at all, and that all the other British subjects were being wheeled about in Bath-chairs. But if when we hear of walking it means slow walking, painful walking, and frequent fatigue, then we know that the mass of the nation still is walking. We know that England is still literally on its feet.
The difficulty is therefore that the actual raising of the standard of athletics has probably been bad for national athleticism. Instead of the tournament being a healthy mêlée into which any ordinary man would rush and take his chance, it has become a fenced and guarded tilting-yard for the collision of particular champions against whom no ordinary man would pit himself or even be permitted to pit himself. If Waterloo was won on Eton cricket-fields it was because Eton cricket was probably much more careless then than it is now. As long as the game was a game, everybody wanted to join in it. When it becomes an art, every one wants to look at it. When it was frivolous it may have won Waterloo: when it was serious and efficient it lost Magersfontein.
In the Waterloo period there was a general rough-and-tumble athleticism among average Englishmen. It cannot be re-created by cricket, or by conscription, or by any artificial means. It was a thing of the soul. It came out of laughter, religion, and the spirit of the place. But it was like the modern French duel in this—that it might happen to anybody. If I were a French journalist it might really happen that Monsieur Clemenceau might challenge me to meet him with pistols. But I do not think that it is at all likely that Mr. C. B. Fry will ever challenge me to meet him with cricket-bats.
PATRIOTTISMO E SPORT.
Noto che certi giornali, e in particolar modo quelli che si fregiano dell’aggettivo patriottico, sono caduti in un vero e proprio panico di fronte al fatto che siamo stati due volte battuti nel mondo dello sport, che un francese ci ha battuti al golf e che dei belgi ci hanno battuti nel canottaggio. Immagino che questi episodi rivestano una certa importanza per chiunque abbia mai creduto alla leggenda inglese compiaciuta di sé in materia. Immagino esistano uomini convinti, in modo vago, che non potremmo mai essere battuti da un francese, e ciò a dispetto del fatto che siamo stati spesso battuti da francesi, e una volta persino da una francese. Nelle vecchie vignette del Punch troverete un motivo ricorrente di satira. I caricaturisti inglesi davano sempre per scontato che un francese non sapesse cavalcare al seguito della muta né gustare la caccia all’inglese. Non pareva sfiorarli il pensiero che tutti coloro i quali fondarono la caccia all’inglese fossero francesi. Tutti i re e i nobili che in origine cavalcavano dietro ai cani parlavano francese. Gran parte di quegli inglesi che ancora oggi cavalcano dietro ai cani portano nomi francesi. Immagino che la cosa rivesta una certa importanza per chi ignori verità tanto evidenti come queste. Immagino che, se un uomo ha mai creduto che noi inglesi possediamo un diritto sacro e privativo all’atletismo, simili rovesci gli appaiano davvero enormi e sconvolgenti. Provano la sensazione che, mentre il sole giusto sorge a oriente, un altro e inatteso sole abbia preso a levarsi a nord-nord-ovest verso nord. A beneficio, a beneficio morale e intellettuale di siffatte persone, può valere la pena di far notare che l’anglosassone, in questi casi, è stato sconfitto precisamente da quegli avversari che egli ha sempre considerato fuori dai giochi; da latini, e da latini del tipo più molle e indolente; non solo da francesi, ma da belgi. Tutto ciò, ripeto, merita di essere raccontato a ogni persona intelligente che creda nell’altezzosa teoria della superiorità anglosassone. Se non che nessuna persona intelligente crede all’altezzosa teoria della superiorità anglosassone. Nessun inglese autentico vi ha mai creduto. E l’inglese autentico non si lascerà minimamente sgomentare da queste disfatte.
Il patriota inglese autentico saprà che la forza dell’Inghilterra non è mai dipesa da nessuna di queste cose; che la gloria dell’Inghilterra non ha mai avuto nulla a che spartire con esse, se non nell’opinione di una vasta schiera di ricchi e di una sparuta schiera di poveri che scimmiotta l’ozio dei ricchi. Costoro, naturalmente, faranno troppo caso alla nostra sconfitta, esattamente come facevano troppo caso al nostro successo. I tipici sciovinisti che hanno ammirato oltre misura i loro connazionali in quanto conquistatori, senza dubbio disprezzeranno oltre misura i loro connazionali in quanto conquistati. Ma l’inglese che abbia un qualche sentimento per l’Inghilterra saprà che le sconfitte atletiche non provano che l’Inghilterra sia debole, non più di quanto le vittorie atletiche provassero che l’Inghilterra fosse forte. La verità è che l’atletica, come tutte le altre cose, e specialmente le cose moderne, è follemente individualistica. Gli inglesi che vincono premi sportivi sono eccezionali fra gli inglesi, per la semplice ragione che sono eccezionali persino fra gli uomini. Gli atleti inglesi rappresentano l’Inghilterra press’a poco quanto i fenomeni da baraccone del signor Barnum rappresentano l’America. Di individui simili ce ne sono così pochi nel mondo intero che è quasi un lancio di moneta stabilire se si trovino in questo o in quel paese.
Se qualcuno cerca una prova semplice di ciò, è facile trovarla. Quando i grandi atleti inglesi non sono inglesi eccezionali, per lo più non sono affatto inglesi. Anzi, spesso sono rappresentanti di razze il cui tono medio è particolarmente incompatibile con l’atletica. Per esempio, si suppone che gli inglesi governino i nativi dell’India in virtù della loro superiore tempra, della loro superiore attività, della loro superiore salute di corpo e di mente. Si suppone che gli indù siano nostri sudditi perché meno inclini all’azione, meno inclini all’aria aperta e agli spazi aperti. In una parola, meno inclini al cricket. E, in sostanza, è probabilmente vero che gli indiani siano meno inclini al cricket. Ciò nondimeno, se cercate fra gli inglesi il miglior giocatore di cricket in assoluto, scoprirete che è un indiano. Oppure, per prendere un altro caso: è, in linea di massima, vero che gli ebrei siano, come razza, pacifici, intellettuali, indifferenti alla guerra come gli indiani, o forse, sprezzanti della guerra come i cinesi: eppure, fra i pugili di prim’ordine, uno o due sono stati ebrei.
Questo è uno dei più forti esempi di quel particolare genere di male che nasce dalla nostra forma inglese di culto dell’atletica. Essa si concentra troppo sul successo dei singoli. Ha cominciato, in modo del tutto naturale e giusto, col volere che l’Inghilterra vincesse. Il secondo stadio è stato che voleva che vincessero alcuni inglesi. Il terzo stadio è stato (nell’estasi e nell’agonia di qualche competizione particolare) che voleva che vincesse un inglese in particolare. E il quarto stadio è stato che, quando costui aveva vinto, si scopriva che non era nemmeno inglese.
Questo è uno dei punti, credo, sui quali qualcosa si potrebbe davvero dire in favore di Lord Roberts e delle sue idee piuttosto vaghe, che oscillano tra i circoli di tiro e la coscrizione. Quali che siano, del resto, i vantaggi o gli svantaggi dell’idea, essa è quantomeno un’idea volta a procurare uguaglianza e una sorta di media nella capacità atletica del popolo; potrebbe concepibilmente agire da correttivo alla nostra semplice tendenza a vedere noi stessi in certi atleti eccezionali. Le cose stanno invece così: vi sono milioni di inglesi convinti sul serio di essere una razza muscolosa perché C.B. Fry è inglese. E molti di loro pensano vagamente che l’atletica debba appartenere all’Inghilterra perché Ranjitsinhji è indiano.
Ma la vera forza storica dell’Inghilterra, fisica e morale, non ha mai avuto nulla a che fare con questo specialismo atletico; ne è stata semmai intralciata. Qualcuno disse che la battaglia di Waterloo fu vinta sui campi da gioco di Eton. Fu un’osservazione particolarmente infelice, giacché il contributo inglese alla vittoria di Waterloo dipese assai più di quanto sia comune nelle vittorie dalla saldezza della truppa in una situazione pressoché disperata. La battaglia di Waterloo fu vinta dalla caparbietà del soldato semplice, vale a dire fu vinta dall’uomo che non aveva mai messo piede a Eton. Era assurdo dire che Waterloo fu vinta sui campi da cricket di Eton. Ma si sarebbe potuto ben dire che Waterloo fu vinta sul prato del villaggio, dove goffi ragazzi giocavano a un cricket assai goffo. In una parola, era la media della nazione a essere forte, e le glorie atletiche non dicono granché sulla media di una nazione. Waterloo non fu vinta da bravi giocatori di cricket. Ma Waterloo fu vinta da cattivi giocatori di cricket, da una massa d’uomini che possedeva un qualche minimo di istinti e di abitudini atletiche.
È buon segno, in una nazione, quando queste cose si fanno male. Dimostra che tutto il popolo le fa. Ed è cattivo segno, in una nazione, quando queste cose si fanno molto bene, perché dimostra che soltanto pochi esperti ed eccentrici le fanno, e che la nazione si limita a stare a guardare. Supponiamo che, ogni volta che sentiamo parlare di camminare in Inghilterra, ciò significhi sempre camminare per quarantacinque miglia al giorno senza fatica. Saremmo perfettamente certi che soltanto pochi uomini camminano affatto, e che tutti gli altri sudditi britannici vengono trasportati in giro su sedie a rotelle. Ma se, quando sentiamo parlare di camminare, ciò significa camminare lento, camminare faticoso e frequente stanchezza, allora sappiamo che la massa della nazione cammina ancora. Sappiamo che l’Inghilterra è ancora, letteralmente, in piedi.
La difficoltà è dunque che l’effettivo innalzamento del livello dell’atletica è stato probabilmente dannoso per l’atletismo nazionale. Anziché essere una sana mêlée nella quale ogni uomo comune si getterebbe a tentare la sorte, il torneo è divenuto un recinto di giostra, chiuso e sorvegliato, per lo scontro di campioni particolari contro i quali nessun uomo comune vorrebbe misurarsi, né gli sarebbe permesso di misurarsi. Se Waterloo fu vinta sui campi da cricket di Eton, fu perché il cricket di Eton era allora probabilmente assai più noncurante di quanto sia oggi. Finché il gioco era un gioco, tutti volevano parteciparvi. Quando diventa un’arte, tutti vogliono starlo a guardare. Quando era frivolo può aver vinto Waterloo: quando è divenuto serio ed efficiente ha perso Magersfontein.
Nell’epoca di Waterloo esisteva un generale atletismo alla buona, alla carlona, fra gli inglesi qualunque. Non lo si può ricreare col cricket, né con la coscrizione, né con alcun mezzo artificiale. Era cosa dell’anima. Nasceva dal riso, dalla religione e dallo spirito del luogo. Ma somigliava al moderno duello francese in questo: che poteva capitare a chiunque. Se fossi un giornalista francese, potrebbe davvero accadere che Monsieur Clemenceau mi sfidasse a battermi con lui alla pistola. Ma non credo affatto probabile che il signor C. B. Fry mi sfidi mai a battermi con lui a colpi di mazza da cricket.
AN ESSAY ON TWO CITIES.
A little while ago I fell out of England into the town of Paris. If a man fell out of the moon into the town of Paris he would know that it was the capital of a great nation. If, however, he fell (perhaps off some other side of the moon) so as to hit the city of London, he would not know so well that it was the capital of a great nation; at any rate, he would not know that the nation was so great as it is. This would be so even on the assumption that the man from the moon could not read our alphabet, as presumably he could not, unless elementary education in that planet has gone to rather unsuspected lengths. But it is true that a great part of the distinctive quality which separates Paris from London may be even seen in the names. Real democrats always insist that England is an aristocratic country. Real aristocrats always insist (for some mysterious reason) that it is a democratic country. But if any one has any real doubt about the matter let him consider simply the names of the streets. Nearly all the streets out of the Strand, for instance, are named after the first name, second name, third name, fourth, fifth, and sixth names of some particular noble family; after their relations, connections, or places of residence— Arundel Street, Norfolk Street, Villiers Street, Bedford Street, Southampton Street, and any number of others. The names are varied, so as to introduce the same family under all sorts of different surnames. Thus we have Arundel Street and also Norfolk Street; thus we have Buckingham Street and also Villiers Street. To say that this is not aristocracy is simply intellectual impudence. I am an ordinary citizen, and my name is Gilbert Keith Chesterton; and I confess that if I found three streets in a row in the Strand, the first called Gilbert Street, the second Keith Street, and the third Chesterton Street, I should consider that I had become a somewhat more important person in the commonwealth than was altogether good for its health. If Frenchmen ran London (which God forbid!), they would think it quite as ludicrous that those streets should be named after the Duke of Buckingham as that they should be named after me. They are streets out of one of the main thoroughfares of London. If French methods were adopted, one of them would be called Shakspere Street, another Cromwell Street, another Wordsworth Street; there would be statues of each of these persons at the end of each of these streets, and any streets left over would be named after the date on which the Reform Bill was passed or the Penny Postage established.
Suppose a man tried to find people in London by the names of the places. It would make a fine farce, illustrating our illogicality. Our hero having once realised that Buckingham Street was named after the Buckingham family, would naturally walk into Buckingham Palace in search of the Duke of Buckingham. To his astonishment he would meet somebody quite different. His simple lunar logic would lead him to suppose that if he wanted the Duke of Marlborough (which seems unlikely) he would find him at Marlborough House. He would find the Prince of Wales. When at last he understood that the Marlboroughs live at Blenheim, named after the great Marlborough’s victory, he would, no doubt, go there. But he would again find himself in error if, acting upon this principle, he tried to find the Duke of Wellington, and told the cabman to drive to Waterloo. I wonder that no one has written a wild romance about the adventures of such an alien, seeking the great English aristocrats, and only guided by the names; looking for the Duke of Bedford in the town of that name, seeking for some trace of the Duke of Norfolk in Norfolk. He might sail for Wellington in New Zealand to find the ancient seat of the Wellingtons. The last scene might show him trying to learn Welsh in order to converse with the Prince of Wales.
But even if the imaginary traveller knew no alphabet of this earth at all, I think it would still be possible to suppose him seeing a difference between London and Paris, and, upon the whole, the real difference. He would not be able to read the words “Quai Voltaire;” but he would see the sneering statue and the hard, straight roads; without having heard of Voltaire he would understand that the city was Voltairean. He would not know that Fleet Street was named after the Fleet Prison. But the same national spirit which kept the Fleet Prison closed and narrow still keeps Fleet Street closed and narrow. Or, if you will, you may call Fleet Street cosy, and the Fleet Prison cosy. I think I could be more comfortable in the Fleet Prison, in an English way of comfort, than just under the statue of Voltaire. I think that the man from the moon would know France without knowing French; I think that he would know England without having heard the word. For in the last resort all men talk by signs. To talk by statues is to talk by signs; to talk by cities is to talk by signs. Pillars, palaces, cathedrals, temples, pyramids, are an enormous dumb alphabet: as if some giant held up his fingers of stone. The most important things at the last are always said by signs, even if, like the Cross on St. Paul’s, they are signs in heaven. If men do not understand signs, they will never understand words.
For my part, I should be inclined to suggest that the chief object of education should be to restore simplicity. If you like to put it so, the chief object of education is not to learn things; nay, the chief object of education is to unlearn things. The chief object of education is to unlearn all the weariness and wickedness of the world and to get back into that state of exhilaration we all instinctively celebrate when we write by preference of children and of boys. If I were an examiner appointed to examine all examiners (which does not at present appear probable), I would not only ask the teachers how much knowledge they had imparted; I would ask them how much splendid and scornful ignorance they had erected, like some royal tower in arms. But, in any case, I would insist that people should have so much simplicity as would enable them to see things suddenly and to see things as they are. I do not care so much whether they can read the names over the shops. I do care very much whether they can read the shops. I do not feel deeply troubled as to whether they can tell where London is on the map so long as they can tell where Brixton is on the way home. I do not even mind whether they can put two and two together in the mathematical sense; I am content if they can put two and two together in the metaphorical sense. But all this longer statement of an obvious view comes back to the metaphor I have employed. I do not care a dump whether they know the alphabet, so long as they know the dumb alphabet.
Unfortunately, I have noticed in many aspects of our popular education that this is not done at all. One teaches our London children to see London with abrupt and simple eyes. And London is far more difficult to see properly than any other place. London is a riddle. Paris is an explanation. The education of the Parisian child is something corresponding to the clear avenues and the exact squares of Paris. When the Parisian boy has done learning about the French reason and the Roman order he can go out and see the thing repeated in the shapes of many shining public places, in the angles of many streets. But when the English boy goes out, after learning about a vague progress and idealism, he cannot see it anywhere. He cannot see anything anywhere, except Sapolio and the Daily Mail. We must either alter London to suit the ideals of our education, or else alter our education to suit the great beauty of London.
UN SAGGIO SU DUE CITTÀ.
Poco tempo fa caddi dall’Inghilterra nella città di Parigi. Se un uomo cadesse dalla luna nella città di Parigi, saprebbe che essa era la capitale di una grande nazione. Se invece cadesse (magari da qualche altro lato della luna) sì da piombare sulla città di Londra, non saprebbe altrettanto bene che essa era la capitale di una grande nazione; o, per lo meno, non saprebbe che la nazione era tanto grande quanto in realtà è. Ciò varrebbe anche ammettendo che l’uomo venuto dalla luna non sapesse leggere il nostro alfabeto, come presumibilmente non saprebbe, a meno che l’istruzione elementare su quel pianeta non sia giunta a limiti piuttosto insospettati. Ma è vero che gran parte di quella qualità distintiva che separa Parigi da Londra si può cogliere perfino nei nomi. I veri democratici insistono sempre che l’Inghilterra è un paese aristocratico. I veri aristocratici insistono sempre (per qualche misteriosa ragione) che è un paese democratico. Ma se qualcuno ha un dubbio reale sulla faccenda, gli basti considerare semplicemente i nomi delle strade. Quasi tutte le strade che si dipartono dallo Strand, per esempio, prendono nome dal primo nome, dal secondo, dal terzo, dal quarto, dal quinto e dal sesto nome di questa o quella nobile famiglia; dai loro parenti, dalle loro relazioni o dalle loro residenze: Arundel Street, Norfolk Street, Villiers Street, Bedford Street, Southampton Street e un numero qualsiasi di altre. I nomi vengono variati, sì da introdurre la medesima famiglia sotto ogni sorta di cognomi diversi. Così abbiamo Arundel Street e anche Norfolk Street; così abbiamo Buckingham Street e anche Villiers Street. Dire che questa non è aristocrazia è semplicemente impudenza intellettuale. Io sono un cittadino qualunque, e mi chiamo Gilbert Keith Chesterton; e confesso che, se trovassi tre strade in fila nello Strand, la prima chiamata Gilbert Street, la seconda Keith Street e la terza Chesterton Street, riterrei di essere divenuto una persona alquanto più importante nella cosa pubblica di quanto fosse del tutto salutare per la sua salute. Se i francesi governassero Londra (che Dio non voglia!), troverebbero altrettanto ridicolo che quelle strade fossero intitolate al Duca di Buckingham quanto che fossero intitolate a me. Sono strade che si dipartono da una delle principali arterie di Londra. Se si adottassero i metodi francesi, una di esse si chiamerebbe Shakspere Street, un’altra Cromwell Street, un’altra ancora Wordsworth Street; vi sarebbero statue di ciascuno di questi personaggi in fondo a ciascuna di queste strade, e le strade che avanzassero prenderebbero nome dalla data in cui fu approvata la legge di Riforma o istituita la tariffa postale del penny.
Supponiamo che un uomo tentasse di trovare le persone a Londra servendosi dei nomi dei luoghi. Ne verrebbe fuori una bella farsa, illustrazione della nostra illogicità. Il nostro eroe, reso conto una volta che Buckingham Street prendeva nome dalla famiglia Buckingham, entrerebbe naturalmente in Buckingham Palace in cerca del Duca di Buckingham. Con suo stupore, incontrerebbe qualcuno di tutt’altra fatta. La sua semplice logica lunare lo indurrebbe a supporre che, se volesse il Duca di Marlborough (cosa che pare improbabile), lo troverebbe a Marlborough House. Vi troverebbe il Principe di Galles. Quando finalmente comprendesse che i Marlborough vivono a Blenheim, così chiamata dalla vittoria del grande Marlborough, vi si recherebbe, senza dubbio. Ma di nuovo si troverebbe in errore se, agendo secondo questo principio, cercasse di trovare il Duca di Wellington e ordinasse al vetturino di condurlo a Waterloo. Mi meraviglio che nessuno abbia scritto un folle romanzo sulle avventure di un tale straniero, in cerca dei grandi aristocratici inglesi, e guidato unicamente dai nomi; alla ricerca del Duca di Bedford nella città di quel nome, in cerca di qualche traccia del Duca di Norfolk nel Norfolk. Potrebbe salpare per Wellington in Nuova Zelanda per trovare l’antica sede dei Wellington. L’ultima scena potrebbe mostrarlo mentre cerca di imparare il gallese per conversare con il Principe di Galles.
Ma anche se l’immaginario viaggiatore non conoscesse alcun alfabeto di questa terra, credo che sarebbe pur sempre possibile supporlo capace di vedere una differenza tra Londra e Parigi, e, nel complesso, la differenza vera. Non saprebbe leggere le parole «Quai Voltaire»; ma vedrebbe la statua sogghignante e le strade dure e diritte; senza aver mai udito parlare di Voltaire, capirebbe che la città era volteriana. Non saprebbe che Fleet Street prendeva nome dalla Fleet Prigione. Ma quel medesimo spirito nazionale che teneva la Fleet Prigione chiusa e angusta tiene tuttora Fleet Street chiusa e angusta. Oppure, se preferite, potete dire che Fleet Street è accogliente, e accogliente la Fleet Prigione. Credo che potrei star più comodo nella Fleet Prigione, alla maniera inglese della comodità, che proprio sotto la statua di Voltaire. Credo che l’uomo venuto dalla luna conoscerebbe la Francia senza conoscere il francese; credo che conoscerebbe l’Inghilterra senza averne udito la parola. Poiché, in ultima analisi, tutti gli uomini parlano per segni. Parlare per statue è parlare per segni; parlare per città è parlare per segni. Pilastri, palazzi, cattedrali, templi, piramidi sono un enorme alfabeto muto: come se qualche gigante levasse in alto le sue dita di pietra. Le cose più importanti, alla fine, si dicono sempre per segni, anche se, come la Croce su St. Paul’s, sono segni in cielo. Se gli uomini non comprendono i segni, non comprenderanno mai le parole.
Da parte mia, sarei incline a suggerire che lo scopo principale dell’istruzione dovrebbe essere quello di restaurare la semplicità. Se preferite metterla così, lo scopo principale dell’istruzione non è imparare le cose; anzi, lo scopo principale dell’istruzione è disimparare le cose. Lo scopo principale dell’istruzione è disimparare tutta la stanchezza e la malvagità del mondo e ritornare a quello stato di esultanza che tutti istintivamente celebriamo quando scriviamo di preferenza di fanciulli e di ragazzi. Se fossi un esaminatore incaricato di esaminare tutti gli esaminatori (cosa che al momento non pare probabile), non solo chiederei ai maestri quanta conoscenza avessero impartito; chiederei loro quanta splendida e sdegnosa ignoranza avessero eretto, come qualche torre regale in armi. Ma, in ogni caso, insisterei perché la gente avesse tanta semplicità da poter vedere le cose all’improvviso e vederle come sono. Non m’importa granché che sappiano leggere i nomi sopra le botteghe. M’importa moltissimo che sappiano leggere le botteghe. Non mi sento profondamente turbato dal fatto che sappiano dire dove sia Londra sulla carta, purché sappiano dire dove sia Brixton sulla via di casa. Non m’importa nemmeno che sappiano fare due più due nel senso matematico; mi accontento che sappiano mettere insieme due più due nel senso metaforico. Ma tutta questa più lunga esposizione di un’ovvia veduta ritorna alla metafora che ho impiegato. Non me ne importa un fico che conoscano l’alfabeto, purché conoscano l’alfabeto muto.
Purtroppo, ho notato in molti aspetti della nostra istruzione popolare che questo non si fa affatto. Si insegna ai nostri fanciulli di Londra a vedere Londra con occhi netti e semplici. E Londra è assai più difficile da vedere a dovere di qualunque altro luogo. Londra è un enigma. Parigi è una spiegazione. L’istruzione del fanciullo parigino è qualcosa che corrisponde ai chiari viali e alle esatte piazze di Parigi. Quando il ragazzo parigino ha finito d’imparare intorno alla ragione francese e all’ordine romano, può uscire e vedere la cosa ripetuta nelle forme di molte splendenti piazze pubbliche, negli angoli di molte strade. Ma quando il ragazzo inglese esce, dopo aver imparato intorno a un vago progresso e a un vago idealismo, non riesce a vederlo da nessuna parte. Non riesce a vedere nulla da nessuna parte, se non il Sapolio e il Daily Mail. Dobbiamo o mutare Londra per adattarla agli ideali della nostra istruzione, oppure mutare la nostra istruzione per adattarla alla grande bellezza di Londra.
FRENCH AND ENGLISH
It is obvious that there is a great deal of difference between being international and being cosmopolitan. All good men are international. Nearly all bad men are cosmopolitan. If we are to be international we must be national. And it is largely because those who call themselves the friends of peace have not dwelt sufficiently on this distinction that they do not impress the bulk of any of the nations to which they belong. International peace means a peace between nations, not a peace after the destruction of nations, like the Buddhist peace after the destruction of personality. The golden age of the good European is like the heaven of the Christian: it is a place where people will love each other; not like the heaven of the Hindu, a place where they will be each other. And in the case of national character this can be seen in a curious way. It will generally be found, I think, that the more a man really appreciates and admires the soul of another people the less he will attempt to imitate it; he will be conscious that there is something in it too deep and too unmanageable to imitate. The Englishman who has a fancy for France will try to be French; the Englishman who admires France will remain obstinately English. This is to be particularly noticed in the case of our relations with the French, because it is one of the outstanding peculiarities of the French that their vices are all on the surface, and their extraordinary virtues concealed. One might almost say that their vices are the flower of their virtues.
Thus their obscenity is the expression of their passionate love of dragging all things into the light. The avarice of their peasants means the independence of their peasants. What the English call their rudeness in the streets is a phase of their social equality. The worried look of their women is connected with the responsibility of their women; and a certain unconscious brutality of hurry and gesture in the men is related to their inexhaustible and extraordinary military courage. Of all countries, therefore, France is the worst country for a superficial fool to admire. Let a fool hate France: if the fool loves it he will soon be a knave. He will certainly admire it, not only for the things that are not creditable, but actually for the things that are not there. He will admire the grace and indolence of the most industrious people in the world. He will admire the romance and fantasy of the most determinedly respectable and commonplace people in the world. This mistake the Englishman will make if he admires France too hastily; but the mistake that he makes about France will be slight compared with the mistake that he makes about himself. An Englishman who professes really to like French realistic novels, really to be at home in a French modern theatre, really to experience no shock on first seeing the savage French caricatures, is making a mistake very dangerous for his own sincerity. He is admiring something he does not understand. He is reaping where he has not sown, and taking up where he has not laid down; he is trying to taste the fruit when he has never toiled over the tree. He is trying to pluck the exquisite fruit of French cynicism, when he has never tilled the rude but rich soil of French virtue.
The thing can only be made clear to Englishmen by turning it round. Suppose a Frenchman came out of democratic France to live in England, where the shadow of the great houses still falls everywhere, and where even freedom was, in its origin, aristocratic. If the Frenchman saw our aristocracy and liked it, if he saw our snobbishness and liked it, if he set himself to imitate it, we all know what we should feel. We all know that we should feel that that particular Frenchman was a repulsive little gnat. He would be imitating English aristocracy; he would be imitating the English vice. But he would not even understand the vice he plagiarised: especially he would not understand that the vice is partly a virtue. He would not understand those elements in the English which balance snobbishness and make it human: the great kindness of the English, their hospitality, their unconscious poetry, their sentimental conservatism, which really admires the gentry. The French Royalist sees that the English like their King. But he does not grasp that while it is base to worship a King, it is almost noble to worship a powerless King. The impotence of the Hanoverian Sovereigns has raised the English loyal subject almost to the chivalry and dignity of a Jacobite. The Frenchman sees that the English servant is respectful: he does not realise that he is also disrespectful; that there is an English legend of the humorous and faithful servant, who is as much a personality as his master; the Caleb Balderstone, the Sam Weller. He sees that the English do admire a nobleman; he does not allow for the fact that they admire a nobleman most when he does not behave like one. They like a noble to be unconscious and amiable: the slave may be humble, but the master must not be proud. The master is Life, as they would like to enjoy it; and among the joys they desire in him there is none which they desire more sincerely than that of generosity, of throwing money about among mankind, or, to use the noble mediæval word, largesse—the joy of largeness. That is why a cabman tells you are no gentleman if you give him his correct fare. Not only his pocket, but his soul is hurt. You have wounded his ideal. You have defaced his vision of the perfect aristocrat. All this is really very subtle and elusive; it is very difficult to separate what is mere slavishness from what is a sort of vicarious nobility in the English love of a lord. And no Frenchman could easily grasp it at all. He would think it was mere slavishness; and if he liked it, he would be a slave. So every Englishman must (at first) feel French candour to be mere brutality. And if he likes it, he is a brute. These national merits must not be understood so easily. It requires long years of plenitude and quiet, the slow growth of great parks, the seasoning of oaken beams, the dark enrichment of red wine in cellars and in inns, all the leisure and the life of England through many centuries, to produce at last the generous and genial fruit of English snobbishness. And it requires battery and barricade, songs in the streets, and ragged men dead for an idea, to produce and justify the terrible flower of French indecency.
When I was in Paris a short time ago, I went with an English friend of mine to an extremely brilliant and rapid succession of French plays, each occupying about twenty minutes. They were all astonishingly effective; but there was one of them which was so effective that my friend and I fought about it outside, and had almost to be separated by the police. It was intended to indicate how men really behaved in a wreck or naval disaster, how they break down, how they scream, how they fight each other without object and in a mere hatred of everything. And then there was added, with all that horrible irony which Voltaire began, a scene in which a great statesman made a speech over their bodies, saying that they were all heroes and had died in a fraternal embrace. My friend and I came out of this theatre, and as he had lived long in Paris, he said, like a Frenchman: “What admirable artistic arrangement! Is it not exquisite?” “No,” I replied, assuming as far as possible the traditional attitude of John Bull in the pictures in Punch—“No, it is not exquisite. Perhaps it is unmeaning; if it is unmeaning I do not mind. But if it has a meaning I know what the meaning is; it is that under all their pageant of chivalry men are not only beasts, but even hunted beasts. I do not know much of humanity, especially when humanity talks in French. But I know when a thing is meant to uplift the human soul, and when it is meant to depress it. I know that ‘Cyrano de Bergerac’ (where the actors talked even quicker) was meant to encourage man. And I know that this was meant to discourage him.” “These sentimental and moral views of art,” began my friend, but I broke into his words as a light broke into my mind. “Let me say to you,” I said, “what Jaurès said to Liebknecht at the Socialist Conference: ‘You have not died on the barricades’. You are an Englishman, as I am, and you ought to be as amiable as I am. These people have some right to be terrible in art, for they have been terrible in politics. They may endure mock tortures on the stage; they have seen real tortures in the streets. They have been hurt for the idea of Democracy. They have been hurt for the idea of Catholicism. It is not so utterly unnatural to them that they should be hurt for the idea of literature. But, by blazes, it is altogether unnatural to me! And the worst thing of all is that I, who am an Englishman, loving comfort, should find comfort in such things as this. The French do not seek comfort here, but rather unrest. This restless people seeks to keep itself in a perpetual agony of the revolutionary mood. Frenchmen, seeking revolution, may find the humiliation of humanity inspiring. But God forbid that two pleasure-seeking Englishmen should ever find it pleasant!”
FRANCESI E INGLESI
È evidente che passa una grande differenza tra l’essere internazionali e l’essere cosmopoliti. Tutti gli uomini buoni sono internazionali. Quasi tutti gli uomini cattivi sono cosmopoliti. Se vogliamo essere internazionali dobbiamo essere nazionali. E se coloro che si chiamano amici della pace non riescono a fare presa sul grosso delle nazioni cui appartengono, ciò dipende in larga misura dal non aver essi sufficientemente meditato su questa distinzione. La pace internazionale significa una pace tra le nazioni, non una pace dopo la distruzione delle nazioni, come la pace buddista dopo la distruzione della personalità. L’età dell’oro del buon europeo somiglia al paradiso del cristiano: è un luogo dove gli uomini si ameranno l’un l’altro; e non al paradiso dell’indù, un luogo dove essi saranno l’un l’altro. E nel caso del carattere nazionale ciò si vede in un modo curioso. In generale si scoprirà, credo, che quanto più un uomo apprezza e ammira davvero l’anima di un altro popolo, tanto meno tenterà di imitarlo; sarà consapevole che vi è in essa qualcosa di troppo profondo e di troppo ingovernabile perché lo si possa imitare. L’inglese che ha un debole per la Francia cercherà di farsi francese; l’inglese che ammira la Francia resterà ostinatamente inglese. Ciò si nota in modo particolare nel caso dei nostri rapporti con i francesi, poiché è una delle singolarità più spiccate dei francesi che i loro vizi stanno tutti in superficie, e le loro straordinarie virtù restano nascoste. Si potrebbe quasi dire che i loro vizi sono il fiore delle loro virtù.
Così la loro oscenità è l’espressione del loro appassionato amore di trascinare ogni cosa alla luce. L’avarizia dei loro contadini significa l’indipendenza dei loro contadini. Ciò che gli inglesi chiamano la loro sguaiataggine per le strade è un aspetto della loro eguaglianza sociale. L’aria affannata delle loro donne è legata alla responsabilità delle loro donne; e una certa inconscia brutalità di fretta e di gesto negli uomini è connessa al loro inesauribile e straordinario coraggio militare. Fra tutti i paesi, dunque, la Francia è il peggiore che uno sciocco superficiale possa ammirare. Che uno sciocco odî pure la Francia: se lo sciocco l’ama, presto diventerà un furfante. Certamente l’ammirerà, non soltanto per le cose che non le fanno onore, ma addirittura per le cose che non esistono. Ammirerà la grazia e l’indolenza del popolo più industrioso del mondo. Ammirerà il romanzesco e la fantasia del popolo più risolutamente rispettabile e prosaico del mondo. Questo errore lo commetterà l’inglese se ammira la Francia con troppa fretta; ma l’errore che egli compie sulla Francia sarà lieve a paragone di quello che compie su sé stesso. Un inglese che dichiari di gustare davvero i romanzi realistici francesi, di sentirsi davvero a casa in un teatro francese moderno, di non provare alcuno shock nel vedere per la prima volta le selvagge caricature francesi, commette un errore assai pericoloso per la propria sincerità. Sta ammirando qualcosa che non comprende. Miete dove non ha seminato, e raccoglie dove non ha deposto nulla; cerca di gustare il frutto senza mai aver faticato attorno all’albero. Cerca di cogliere lo squisito frutto del cinismo francese, senza mai aver dissodato il terreno rude ma ricco della virtù francese.
La cosa può diventare chiara agli inglesi solo capovolgendola. Si supponga che un francese venisse dalla Francia democratica a vivere in Inghilterra, dove l’ombra delle grandi dimore cade ancora dappertutto, e dove perfino la libertà fu, alle sue origini, aristocratica. Se quel francese vedesse la nostra aristocrazia e ne fosse compiaciuto, se vedesse il nostro snobismo e ne fosse compiaciuto, se si mettesse a imitarlo, tutti sappiamo che cosa proveremmo. Tutti sappiamo che sentiremmo che quel francese in particolare è un ripugnante moscerino. Starebbe imitando l’aristocrazia inglese; starebbe imitando il vizio inglese. Ma non capirebbe nemmeno il vizio che plagia: soprattutto non capirebbe che il vizio è in parte una virtù. Non capirebbe quegli elementi negli inglesi che bilanciano lo snobismo e lo rendono umano: la grande bontà degli inglesi, la loro ospitalità, la loro inconscia poesia, il loro sentimentale conservatorismo, che ammira davvero la piccola nobiltà. Il realista francese vede che gli inglesi amano il loro re. Ma non afferra che, se è vile adorare un re, è quasi nobile adorare un re senza potere. L’impotenza dei sovrani hannoveriani ha innalzato il fedele suddito inglese quasi alla cavalleria e alla dignità di un giacobita. Il francese vede che il servitore inglese è rispettoso: non si avvede che è anche irrispettoso; che esiste una leggenda inglese del servitore arguto e fedele, che è una personalità tanto quanto il suo padrone; il Caleb Balderstone, il Sam Weller. Vede che gli inglesi ammirano davvero un nobiluomo; ma non tiene conto del fatto che lo ammirano tanto più quanto meno si comporta da tale. Amano che un nobile sia inconsapevole e affabile: lo schiavo può essere umile, ma il padrone non deve essere superbo. Il padrone è la Vita, quale essi vorrebbero goderla; e tra le gioie che desiderano in lui non ve n’è alcuna che desiderino più sinceramente di quella della generosità, del gettare denaro in mezzo agli uomini, o, per usare la nobile parola medievale, largesse—la gioia della larghezza. Ecco perché un vetturino vi dice che non siete un gentiluomo se gli date la corsa esatta. Non solo la sua tasca, ma la sua anima è ferita. Gli avete offeso l’ideale. Gli avete deturpato la visione del perfetto aristocratico. Tutto ciò è in verità assai sottile e sfuggente; è molto difficile separare ciò che è mera servilità da ciò che è una sorta di nobiltà per procura nell’amore inglese per un lord. E nessun francese potrebbe facilmente afferrarlo. Lo giudicherebbe pura servilità; e se gli piacesse, sarebbe uno schiavo. Così ogni inglese deve (in un primo momento) sentire il candore francese come pura brutalità. E se gli piace, è un bruto. Questi meriti nazionali non vanno intesi con tanta facilità. Occorrono lunghi anni di abbondanza e di quiete, la lenta crescita dei grandi parchi, la stagionatura delle travi di quercia, l’oscuro arricchirsi del vino rosso nelle cantine e nelle locande, tutto l’ozio e la vita dell’Inghilterra attraverso molti secoli, per produrre alla fine il frutto generoso e gioviale dello snobismo inglese. E occorrono cannonate e barricate, canti per le strade, e uomini cenciosi morti per un’idea, per produrre e giustificare il terribile fiore dell’indecenza francese.
Quando mi trovavo a Parigi non molto tempo fa, andai con un mio amico inglese ad assistere a una successione di commedie francesi straordinariamente brillante e rapida, ciascuna della durata di una ventina di minuti. Erano tutte di un’efficacia sorprendente; ma ce ne fu una così efficace che il mio amico ed io ci mettemmo a litigare fuori dal teatro, e per poco non dovette separarci la polizia. Voleva mostrare come si comportino realmente gli uomini in un naufragio o in un disastro navale, come si sfascino, come strillino, come si azzuffino l’un l’altro senza scopo e per puro odio di ogni cosa. E poi vi si aggiungeva, con tutta quell’orribile ironia che Voltaire inaugurò, una scena in cui un grande statista pronunciava un discorso sui loro cadaveri, dicendo che erano tutti eroi e che erano morti in un fraterno abbraccio. Il mio amico ed io uscimmo da quel teatro, ed egli, che aveva vissuto a lungo a Parigi, disse, da francese: «Che ammirevole disposizione artistica! Non è squisito?». «No», risposi io, assumendo per quanto possibile l’atteggiamento tradizionale di John Bull nelle vignette del Punch—«No, non è squisito. Forse è privo di significato; se è privo di significato, non me ne importa. Ma se ha un significato, so qual è; è che, sotto tutto il loro fasto di cavalleria, gli uomini non sono soltanto bestie, ma perfino bestie braccate. Non m’intendo molto di umanità, specie quando l’umanità parla in francese. Ma so riconoscere quando una cosa è fatta per elevare l’anima umana, e quando è fatta per deprimerla. So che ‘Cyrano de Bergerac’ (dove gli attori parlavano ancora più in fretta) era fatto per incoraggiare l’uomo. E so che questo era fatto per scoraggiarlo». «Queste concezioni sentimentali e morali dell’arte», cominciò il mio amico, ma gli troncai le parole come una luce mi troncò la mente. «Lasciate che vi dica», dissi, «ciò che Jaurès disse a Liebknecht al Congresso socialista: ‘Voi non siete morto sulle barricate’. Voi siete inglese, come me, e dovreste essere affabile quanto lo sono io. Costoro hanno qualche diritto di essere terribili nell’arte, perché sono stati terribili nella politica. Possono sopportare torture finte sulla scena; hanno visto torture vere nelle strade. Sono stati straziati per l’idea di Democrazia. Sono stati straziati per l’idea di Cattolicesimo. Non è per loro così del tutto innaturale che siano straziati per l’idea di letteratura. Ma, per mille fulmini, per me è assolutamente innaturale! E la cosa peggiore di tutte è che io, che sono inglese, e amo l’agio, trovi conforto in cose simili. I francesi non cercano qui il conforto, ma piuttosto l’inquietudine. Questo popolo irrequieto cerca di mantenersi in un’agonia perpetua dell’umore rivoluzionario. I francesi, in cerca di rivoluzione, possono trovare esaltante l’umiliazione dell’umanità. Ma Dio non voglia che due inglesi in cerca di piacere la trovino mai piacevole!».
THE ZOLA CONTROVERSY
The difference between two great nations can be illustrated by the coincidence that at this moment both France and England are engaged in discussing the memorial of a literary man. France is considering the celebration of the late Zola, England is considering that of the recently deceased Shakspere. There is some national significance, it may be, in the time that has elapsed. Some will find impatience and indelicacy in this early attack on Zola or deification of him; but the nation which has sat still for three hundred years after Shakspere’s funeral may be considered, perhaps, to have carried delicacy too far. But much deeper things are involved than the mere matter of time. The point of the contrast is that the French are discussing whether there shall be any monument, while the English are discussing only what the monument shall be. In other words, the French are discussing a living question, while we are discussing a dead one. Or rather, not a dead one, but a settled one, which is quite a different thing.
When a thing of the intellect is settled it is not dead: rather it is immortal. The multiplication table is immortal, and so is the fame of Shakspere. But the fame of Zola is not dead or not immortal; it is at its crisis, it is in the balance; and may be found wanting. The French, therefore, are quite right in considering it a living question. It is still living as a question, because it is not yet solved. But Shakspere is not a living question: he is a living answer.
For my part, therefore, I think the French Zola controversy much more practical and exciting than the English Shakspere one. The admission of Zola to the Pantheon may be regarded as defining Zola’s position. But nobody could say that a statue of Shakspere, even fifty feet high, on the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral, could define Shakspere’s position. It only defines our position towards Shakspere. It is he who is fixed; it is we who are unstable. The nearest approach to an English parallel to the Zola case would be furnished if it were proposed to put some savagely controversial and largely repulsive author among the ashes of the greatest English poets. Suppose, for instance, it were proposed to bury Mr. Rudyard Kipling in Westminster Abbey. I should be against burying him in Westminster Abbey; first, because he is still alive (and here I think even he himself might admit the justice of my protest); and second, because I should like to reserve that rapidly narrowing space for the great permanent examples, not for the interesting foreign interruptions, of English literature. I would not have either Mr. Kipling or Mr. George Moore in Westminster Abbey, though Mr. Kipling has certainly caught even more cleverly than Mr. Moore the lucid and cool cruelty of the French short story. I am very sure that Geoffrey Chaucer and Joseph Addison get on very well together in the Poets’ Corner, despite the centuries that sunder them. But I feel that Mr. George Moore would be much happier in Pere-la-Chaise, with a riotous statue by Rodin on the top of him; and Mr. Kipling much happier under some huge Asiatic monument, carved with all the cruelties of the gods.
As to the affair of the English monument to Shakspere, every people has its own mode of commemoration, and I think there is a great deal to be said for ours. There is the French monumental style, which consists in erecting very pompous statues, very well done. There is the German monumental style, which consists in erecting very pompous statues, badly done. And there is the English monumental method, the great English way with statues, which consists in not erecting them at all. A statue may be dignified; but the absence of a statue is always dignified. For my part, I feel there is something national, something wholesomely symbolic, in the fact that there is no statue of Shakspere. There is, of course, one in Leicester Square; but the very place where it stands shows that it was put up by a foreigner for foreigners. There is surely something modest and manly about not attempting to express our greatest poet in the plastic arts in which we do not excel. We honour Shakspere as the Jews honour God— by not daring to make of him a graven image. Our sculpture, our statues, are good enough for bankers and philanthropists, who are our curse: not good enough for him, who is our benediction. Why should we celebrate the very art in which we triumph by the very art in which we fail?
England is most easily understood as the country of amateurs. It is especially the country of amateur soldiers (that is, of Volunteers), of amateur statesmen (that is, of aristocrats), and it is not unreasonable or out of keeping that it should be rather specially the country of a careless and lounging view of literature. Shakspere has no academic monument for the same reason that he had no academic education. He had small Latin and less Greek, and (in the same spirit) he has never been commemorated in Latin epitaphs or Greek marble. If there is nothing clear and fixed about the emblems of his fame, it is because there was nothing clear and fixed about the origins of it. Those great schools and Universities which watch a man in his youth may record him in his death; but Shakspere had no such unifying traditions. We can only say of him what we can say of Dickens. We can only say that he came from nowhere and that he went everywhere. For him a monument in any place is out of place. A cold statue in a certain square is unsuitable to him as it would be unsuitable to Dickens. If we put up a statue of Dickens in Portland Place to-morrow we should feel the stiffness as unnatural. We should fear that the statue might stroll about the street at night.
But in France the question of whether Zola shall go to the Panthéon when he is dead is quite as practicable as the question whether he should go to prison when he was alive. It is the problem of whether the nation shall take one turn of thought or another. In raising a monument to Zola they do not raise merely a trophy, but a finger-post. The question is one which will have to be settled in most European countries; but like all such questions, it has come first to a head in France; because France is the battlefield of Christendom. That question is, of course, roughly this: whether in that ill-defined area of verbal licence on certain dangerous topics it is an extenuation of indelicacy or an aggravation of it that the indelicacy was deliberate and solemn. Is indecency more indecent if it is grave, or more indecent if it is gay? For my part, I belong to an old school in this matter. When a book or a play strikes me as a crime, I am not disarmed by being told that it is a serious crime. If a man has written something vile, I am not comforted by the explanation that he quite meant to do it. I know all the evils of flippancy; I do not like the man who laughs at the sight of virtue. But I prefer him to the man who weeps at the sight of virtue and complains bitterly of there being any such thing. I am not reassured, when ethics are as wild as cannibalism, by the fact that they are also as grave and sincere as suicide. And I think there is an obvious fallacy in the bitter contrasts drawn by some moderns between the aversion to Ibsen’s “Ghosts” and the popularity of some such joke as “Dear Old Charlie.” Surely there is nothing mysterious or unphilosophic in the popular preference. The joke of “Dear Old Charlie” is passed—because it is a joke. “Ghosts” are exorcised—because they are ghosts.
This is, of course, the whole question of Zola. I am grown up, and I do not worry myself much about Zola’s immorality. The thing I cannot stand is his morality. If ever a man on this earth lived to embody the tremendous text, “But if the light in your body be darkness, how great is the darkness,” it was certainly he. Great men like Ariosto, Rabelais, and Shakspere fall in foul places, flounder in violent but venial sin, sprawl for pages, exposing their gigantic weakness, are dirty, are indefensible; and then they struggle up again and can still speak with a convincing kindness and an unbroken honour of the best things in the world: Rabelais, of the instruction of ardent and austere youth; Ariosto, of holy chivalry; Shakspere, of the splendid stillness of mercy. But in Zola even the ideals are undesirable; Zola’s mercy is colder than justice—nay, Zola’s mercy is more bitter in the mouth than injustice. When Zola shows us an ideal training he does not take us, like Rabelais, into the happy fields of humanist learning. He takes us into the schools of inhumanist learning, where there are neither books nor flowers, nor wine nor wisdom, but only deformities in glass bottles, and where the rule is taught from the exceptions. Zola’s truth answers the exact description of the skeleton in the cupboard; that is, it is something of which a domestic custom forbids the discovery, but which is quite dead, even when it is discovered. Macaulay said that the Puritans hated bear-baiting, not because it gave pain to the bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators. Of such substance also was this Puritan who had lost his God. A Puritan of this type is worse than the Puritan who hates pleasure because there is evil in it. This man actually hates evil because there is pleasure in it. Zola was worse than a pornographer, he was a pessimist. He did worse than encourage sin: he encouraged discouragement. He made lust loathsome because to him lust meant life.
LA CONTROVERSIA SU ZOLA
La differenza tra due grandi nazioni può essere illustrata dalla coincidenza che, proprio in questo momento, tanto la Francia quanto l’Inghilterra sono intente a discutere il monumento a un uomo di lettere. La Francia sta considerando la celebrazione del defunto Zola, l’Inghilterra quella di Shakespeare, morto di recente. Vi è forse un qualche significato nazionale nel tempo trascorso. Alcuni scorgeranno impazienza e indelicatezza in questo precoce assalto a Zola, o nella sua deificazione; ma la nazione che è rimasta immobile per trecento anni dopo i funerali di Shakespeare può forse essere accusata di aver spinto la delicatezza troppo oltre. Eppure vi sono in gioco cose ben più profonde della semplice questione del tempo. Il punto del contrasto è che i francesi discutono se debba esserci un qualche monumento, mentre gli inglesi discutono soltanto quale il monumento debba essere. In altre parole, i francesi discutono una questione viva, mentre noi ne discutiamo una morta. O piuttosto non morta, ma decisa, che è cosa assai diversa.
Quando una cosa dell’intelletto è decisa, essa non è morta: è piuttosto immortale. La tavola pitagorica è immortale, e così pure è la fama di Shakespeare. Ma la fama di Zola non è morta né immortale; è al suo culmine critico, è sospesa sulla bilancia, e potrebbe essere trovata mancante di peso. I francesi, dunque, hanno pienamente ragione a considerarla una questione viva. Essa vive ancora come questione, poiché non è ancora risolta. Ma Shakespeare non è una questione viva: è una risposta viva.
Per parte mia, dunque, ritengo la controversia francese su Zola assai più pratica ed entusiasmante di quella inglese su Shakespeare. L’ammissione di Zola al Pantheon può essere considerata come una definizione della posizione di Zola. Ma nessuno potrebbe dire che una statua di Shakespeare, fosse pure alta quindici metri, in cima alla cattedrale di San Paolo, possa definire la posizione di Shakespeare. Essa definisce soltanto la nostra posizione nei confronti di Shakespeare. È lui a essere fisso; siamo noi a essere instabili. L’approssimazione inglese più vicina al caso Zola si avrebbe se si proponesse di collocare qualche autore ferocemente controverso e in larga parte ripugnante tra le ceneri dei più grandi poeti inglesi. Si supponga, per esempio, che si proponesse di seppellire il signor Rudyard Kipling nell’abbazia di Westminster. Io mi opporrei a seppellirlo nell’abbazia di Westminster; primo, perché è ancora vivo (e qui credo che perfino lui stesso potrebbe ammettere la giustizia della mia protesta); e secondo, perché vorrei riservare quello spazio che si va rapidamente restringendo ai grandi esempi permanenti, e non alle interessanti interruzioni straniere, della letteratura inglese. Non vorrei nell’abbazia di Westminster né il signor Kipling né il signor George Moore, benché il signor Kipling abbia certamente colto, con maggiore ingegno perfino del signor Moore, la lucida e fredda crudeltà della novella francese. Sono ben sicuro che Geoffrey Chaucer e Joseph Addison vadano assai d’accordo nell’Angolo dei Poeti, nonostante i secoli che li separano. Ma sento che il signor George Moore sarebbe molto più felice al Père-Lachaise, con sopra di sé una tumultuosa statua di Rodin; e il signor Kipling molto più felice sotto qualche immenso monumento asiatico, scolpito con tutte le crudeltà degli dèi.
Quanto alla faccenda del monumento inglese a Shakespeare, ogni popolo ha il proprio modo di commemorare, e credo che vi sia molto da dire a favore del nostro. C’è lo stile monumentale francese, che consiste nell’erigere statue assai pompose, assai ben fatte. C’è lo stile monumentale tedesco, che consiste nell’erigere statue assai pompose, mal fatte. E c’è il metodo monumentale inglese, il grande modo inglese di trattare le statue, che consiste nel non erigerle affatto. Una statua può essere dignitosa; ma l’assenza di una statua è sempre dignitosa. Per parte mia, sento che vi è qualcosa di nazionale, qualcosa di salutarmente simbolico, nel fatto che non esista alcuna statua di Shakespeare. Ce n’è una, s’intende, a Leicester Square; ma il luogo stesso in cui sorge dimostra che fu innalzata da uno straniero per gli stranieri. C’è di certo qualcosa di modesto e virile nel non tentare di esprimere il nostro massimo poeta in quelle arti plastiche in cui non eccelliamo. Noi onoriamo Shakespeare come gli Ebrei onorano Dio: non osando farne un’immagine scolpita. La nostra scultura, le nostre statue, vanno bene per i banchieri e i filantropi, che sono la nostra maledizione: non vanno bene per lui, che è la nostra benedizione. Perché mai dovremmo celebrare proprio l’arte in cui trionfiamo per mezzo proprio dell’arte in cui falliamo?
L’Inghilterra si comprende con la massima facilità come il paese dei dilettanti. È in particolare il paese dei soldati dilettanti (cioè dei Volontari), degli statisti dilettanti (cioè degli aristocratici), e non è cosa irragionevole o fuori tono che debba essere anche, in modo piuttosto speciale, il paese di una visione noncurante e indolente della letteratura. Shakespeare non ha alcun monumento accademico per la stessa ragione per cui non ebbe alcuna istruzione accademica. Aveva poco latino e ancor meno greco, e (nel medesimo spirito) non è mai stato commemorato in epitaffi latini o in marmi greci. Se non vi è nulla di chiaro e di fisso negli emblemi della sua fama, è perché non vi era nulla di chiaro e di fisso nelle sue origini. Quelle grandi scuole e Università che vegliano su un uomo nella sua giovinezza possono registrarlo nella sua morte; ma Shakespeare non ebbe simili tradizioni unificanti. Di lui possiamo dire soltanto ciò che possiamo dire di Dickens. Possiamo dire soltanto che venne dal nulla e che andò dappertutto. Per lui un monumento in un luogo qualsiasi è fuori luogo. Una fredda statua in una certa piazza gli è tanto inadatta quanto lo sarebbe a Dickens. Se domani innalzassimo una statua di Dickens a Portland Place, ne avvertiremmo la rigidità come qualcosa di innaturale. Temeremmo che la statua se ne andasse a passeggio per le strade di notte.
Ma in Francia la questione se Zola debba andare al Panthéon una volta morto è del tutto pratica quanto lo era la questione se dovesse andare in prigione quando era vivo. È il problema se la nazione debba prendere un indirizzo di pensiero oppure un altro. Innalzando un monumento a Zola non si innalza soltanto un trofeo, bensì un segnale indicatore. È una questione che dovrà essere risolta nella maggior parte dei paesi europei; ma, come tutte le questioni di questa specie, è venuta a maturazione per prima in Francia, perché la Francia è il campo di battaglia della cristianità. Quella questione è, grosso modo, naturalmente questa: se, in quell’area mal definita della licenza verbale su certi argomenti pericolosi, sia un’attenuante dell’indelicatezza oppure un’aggravante il fatto che l’indelicatezza fosse deliberata e solenne. L’indecenza è più indecente se è grave, o più indecente se è gaia? Per parte mia, in questa materia appartengo alla vecchia scuola. Quando un libro o un dramma mi colpisce come un delitto, non mi lascio disarmare da chi mi dice che è un delitto serio. Se un uomo ha scritto qualcosa di vile, non mi consola la spiegazione che intendeva proprio farlo. Conosco tutti i mali della leggerezza; non mi piace l’uomo che ride alla vista della virtù. Ma lo preferisco all’uomo che piange alla vista della virtù e si lamenta amaramente che esista una simile cosa. Non mi rassicura, quando l’etica è selvaggia come il cannibalismo, il fatto che sia anche grave e sincera come il suicidio. E credo vi sia una fallacia evidente negli amari contrasti tracciati da certi moderni tra l’avversione per gli «Spettri» di Ibsen e la popolarità di qualche scherzo come «Caro vecchio Charlie». Non vi è di certo nulla di misterioso o di antifilosofico in questa preferenza popolare. Lo scherzo di «Caro vecchio Charlie» passa liscio, perché è uno scherzo. Gli «Spettri» sono esorcizzati, perché sono spettri.
Questa è, s’intende, l’intera questione di Zola. Sono adulto, e non mi tormento molto per l’immoralità di Zola. La cosa che non riesco a sopportare è la sua moralità. Se mai un uomo su questa terra visse per incarnare quel tremendo testo, «Ma se la luce che è nel tuo corpo è tenebra, quanto grande sarà la tenebra», costui fu certamente lui. Grandi uomini come Ariosto, Rabelais e Shakespeare cadono in luoghi immondi, sguazzano in un peccato violento ma veniale, si distendono per intere pagine esponendo la loro gigantesca debolezza, sono sordidi, sono indifendibili; e poi si rialzano faticosamente e sanno ancora parlare con convincente bontà e con onore intatto delle cose migliori del mondo: Rabelais, dell’educazione della gioventù ardente e austera; Ariosto, della santa cavalleria; Shakespeare, della splendida quiete della misericordia. Ma in Zola perfino gli ideali sono indesiderabili; la misericordia di Zola è più fredda della giustizia; anzi, la misericordia di Zola è più amara in bocca dell’ingiustizia. Quando Zola ci mostra un’educazione ideale non ci conduce, come Rabelais, nei felici campi del sapere umanistico. Ci conduce nelle scuole del sapere disumanistico, dove non ci sono né libri né fiori, né vino né saggezza, ma soltanto deformità in bottiglie di vetro, e dove la regola è insegnata a partire dalle eccezioni. La verità di Zola risponde all’esatta descrizione dello scheletro nell’armadio; ossia, è qualcosa la cui scoperta una consuetudine domestica vieta, ma che è del tutto morto, anche quando viene scoperto. Macaulay disse che i Puritani odiavano il combattimento contro l’orso non perché arrecasse dolore all’orso, ma perché arrecava piacere agli spettatori. Di simile sostanza era anche questo Puritano che aveva perduto il proprio Dio. Un Puritano di questo tipo è peggiore del Puritano che odia il piacere perché in esso c’è del male. Costui, in realtà, odia il male perché in esso c’è del piacere. Zola era peggio di un pornografo, era un pessimista. Fece di peggio che incoraggiare il peccato: incoraggiò lo scoraggiamento. Rese la lussuria ripugnante perché per lui la lussuria significava la vita.
OXFORD FROM WITHOUT
Some time ago I ventured to defend that race of hunted and persecuted outlaws, the Bishops; but until this week I had no idea of how much persecuted they were. For instance, the Bishop of Birmingham made some extremely sensible remarks in the House of Lords, to the effect that Oxford and Cambridge were (as everybody knows they are) far too much merely plutocratic playgrounds. One would have thought that an Anglican Bishop might be allowed to know something about the English University system, and even to have, if anything, some bias in its favour. But (as I pointed out) the rollicking Radicalism of Bishops has to be restrained. The man who writes the notes in the weekly paper called the Outlook feels that it is his business to restrain it. The passage has such simple sublimity that I must quote it—
“Dr. Gore talked unworthily of his reputation when he spoke of the older Universities as playgrounds for the rich and idle. In the first place, the rich men there are not idle. Some of the rich men are, and so are some of the poor men. On the whole, the sons of noble and wealthy families keep up the best traditions of academic life.”
So far this seems all very nice. It is a part of the universal principle on which Englishmen have acted in recent years. As you will not try to make the best people the most powerful people, persuade yourselves that the most powerful people are the best people. Mad Frenchmen and Irishmen try to realise the ideal. To you belongs the nobler (and much easier) task of idealising the real. First give your Universities entirely into the power of the rich; then let the rich start traditions; and then congratulate yourselves on the fact that the sons of the rich keep up these traditions. All that is quite simple and jolly. But then this critic, who crushes Dr. Gore from the high throne of the Outlook, goes on in a way that is really perplexing. “It is distinctly advantageous,” he says, “that rich and poor—i. e., young men with a smooth path in life before them, and those who have to hew out a road for themselves— should be brought into association. Each class learns a great deal from the other. On the one side, social conceit and exclusiveness give way to the free spirit of competition amongst all classes; on the other side, angularities and prejudices are rubbed away.” Even this I might have swallowed. But the paragraph concludes with this extraordinary sentence: “We get the net result in such careers as those of Lord Milner, Lord Curzon, and Mr. Asquith.”
Those three names lay my intellect prostrate. The rest of the argument I understand quite well. The social exclusiveness of aristocrats at Oxford and Cambridge gives way before the free spirit of competition amongst all classes. That is to say, there is at Oxford so hot and keen a struggle, consisting of coal-heavers, London clerks, gypsies, navvies, drapers’ assistants, grocers’ assistants—in short, all the classes that make up the bulk of England—there is such a fierce competition at Oxford among all these people that in its presence aristocratic exclusiveness gives way. That is all quite clear. I am not quite sure about the facts, but I quite understand the argument. But then, having been called upon to contemplate this bracing picture of a boisterous turmoil of all the classes of England, I am suddenly asked to accept as example of it, Lord Milner, Lord Curzon, and the present Chancellor of the Exchequer. What part do these gentlemen play in the mental process? Is Lord Curzon one of the rugged and ragged poor men whose angularities have been rubbed away? Or is he one of those whom Oxford immediately deprived of all kind of social exclusiveness? His Oxford reputation does not seem to bear out either account of him. To regard Lord Milner as a typical product of Oxford would surely be unfair. It would be to deprive the educational tradition of Germany of one of its most typical products. English aristocrats have their faults, but they are not at all like Lord Milner. What Mr. Asquith was meant to prove, whether he was a rich man who lost his exclusiveness, or a poor man who lost his angles, I am utterly unable to conceive.
There is, however, one mild but very evident truth that might perhaps be mentioned. And it is this: that none of those three excellent persons is, or ever has been, a poor man in the sense that that word is understood by the overwhelming majority of the English nation. There are no poor men at Oxford in the sense that the majority of men in the street are poor. The very fact that the writer in the Outlook can talk about such people as poor shows that he does not understand what the modern problem is. His kind of poor man rather reminds me of the Earl in the ballad by that great English satirist, Sir W.S. Gilbert, whose angles (very acute angles) had, I fear, never been rubbed down by an old English University. The reader will remember that when the Periwinkle-girl was adored by two Dukes, the poet added—
“A third adorer had the girl, A man of lowly station; A miserable grovelling Earl Besought her approbation.”
Perhaps, indeed, some allusion to our University system, and to the universal clash in it of all the classes of the community, may be found in the verse a little farther on, which says—
“He’d had, it happily befell, A decent education; His views would have befitted well A far superior station.”
Possibly there was as simple a chasm between Lord Curzon and Lord Milner. But I am afraid that the chasm will become almost imperceptible, a microscopic crack, if we compare it with the chasm that separates either or both of them from the people of this country.
Of course the truth is exactly as the Bishop of Birmingham put it. I am sure that he did not put it in any unkindly or contemptuous spirit towards those old English seats of learning, which whether they are or are not seats of learning, are, at any rate, old and English, and those are two very good things to be. The Old English University is a playground for the governing class. That does not prove that it is a bad thing; it might prove that it was a very good thing. Certainly if there is a governing class, let there be a playground for the governing class. I would much rather be ruled by men who know how to play than by men who do not know how to play. Granted that we are to be governed by a rich section of the community, it is certainly very important that that section should be kept tolerably genial and jolly. If the sensitive man on the Outlook does not like the phrase, “Playground of the rich,” I can suggest a phrase that describes such a place as Oxford perhaps with more precision. It is a place for humanising those who might otherwise be tyrants, or even experts.
OXFORD VISTA DA FUORI
Qualche tempo fa mi arrischiai a difendere quella razza di fuorilegge braccati e perseguitati, i Vescovi; ma solo questa settimana ho compreso fino a che punto siano perseguitati. Il Vescovo di Birmingham, per esempio, pronunciò alcune osservazioni quanto mai sensate alla Camera dei Lord, per dire che Oxford e Cambridge erano (come tutti sanno che sono) fin troppo dei semplici parchi di svago plutocratici. Si sarebbe pensato che a un Vescovo anglicano fosse concesso di sapere qualcosa del sistema universitario inglese, e persino di nutrire, semmai, qualche pregiudizio in suo favore. Ma (come ho fatto notare) il Radicalismo gioviale dei Vescovi va tenuto a freno. L’uomo che scrive le note nel settimanale intitolato l’Outlook sente che è affar suo tenerlo a freno. Il brano ha una sublimità tanto candida che debbo citarlo per intero…
«Il dottor Gore parlò in modo indegno della sua reputazione quando definì le Università più antiche parchi di svago per i ricchi e gli oziosi. In primo luogo, i ricchi che le frequentano non sono oziosi. Alcuni ricchi lo sono, e così pure alcuni poveri. Nel complesso, i figli delle famiglie nobili e facoltose mantengono vive le migliori tradizioni della vita accademica.»
Fin qui tutto sembra assai gradevole. Fa parte di quel principio universale su cui gli Inglesi hanno agito in questi ultimi anni. Poiché non volete adoperarvi a rendere i migliori i più potenti, persuadetevi che i più potenti sono i migliori. I Francesi pazzi e gli Irlandesi si sforzano di realizzare l’ideale. A voi spetta il compito più nobile (e assai più facile) di idealizzare il reale. Prima consegnate le vostre Università interamente in potere dei ricchi; poi lasciate che i ricchi diano vita a tradizioni; e infine congratulatevi del fatto che i figli dei ricchi mantengano vive quelle tradizioni. Tutto ciò è assai semplice e allegro. Ma poi questo critico, che schiaccia il dottor Gore dall’alto trono dell’Outlook, prosegue in un modo davvero sconcertante. «È decisamente vantaggioso», dice, «che ricchi e poveri — vale a dire, i giovani che hanno davanti a sé un cammino agevole nella vita, e quelli che devono aprirsi una strada da sé — vengano posti in reciproca frequentazione. Ciascuna classe impara moltissimo dall’altra. Da un lato, la vanità sociale e l’esclusivismo cedono il posto al libero spirito di competizione fra tutte le classi; dall’altro, le spigolosità e i pregiudizi vengono smussati.» Persino questo avrei potuto ingoiarlo. Ma il paragrafo si conclude con questa straordinaria frase: «Ne otteniamo il risultato netto in carriere come quelle di Lord Milner, di Lord Curzon e del signor Asquith.»
Quei tre nomi prostrano il mio intelletto. Il resto dell’argomentazione lo comprendo assai bene. L’esclusivismo sociale degli aristocratici a Oxford e a Cambridge cede dinanzi al libero spirito di competizione fra tutte le classi. Vale a dire che a Oxford vi è una lotta tanto rovente e accanita, composta di scaricatori di carbone, impiegatucci di Londra, zingari, sterratori, commessi di merciai, commessi di droghieri — in breve, tutte le classi che formano il grosso dell’Inghilterra — vi è a Oxford una competizione così feroce fra tutta questa gente che, alla sua presenza, l’esclusivismo aristocratico cede. Tutto ciò è chiarissimo. Non sono del tutto sicuro dei fatti, ma comprendo perfettamente l’argomento. Se non che, dopo essere stato invitato a contemplare questo tonificante quadro di un turbolento tumulto di tutte le classi dell’Inghilterra, mi si chiede all’improvviso di accettarne come esempio Lord Milner, Lord Curzon e l’attuale Cancelliere dello Scacchiere. Quale parte recitano questi signori nel processo mentale? È forse Lord Curzon uno di quei poveri rudi e cenciosi le cui spigolosità sono state smussate? Oppure è uno di coloro che Oxford privò all’istante di ogni sorta di esclusivismo sociale? La sua reputazione a Oxford non sembra confermare né l’una né l’altra descrizione. Considerare Lord Milner un prodotto tipico di Oxford sarebbe di certo ingiusto. Sarebbe privare la tradizione educativa della Germania di uno dei suoi prodotti più tipici. Gli aristocratici inglesi hanno i loro difetti, ma non somigliano affatto a Lord Milner. Che cosa il signor Asquith dovesse dimostrare — se fosse un ricco che aveva perduto il suo esclusivismo, o un povero che aveva perduto le sue spigolosità — mi è del tutto impossibile concepire.
Vi è, tuttavia, una mite ma assai evidente verità che forse varrebbe la pena di ricordare. Ed è questa: che nessuna di quelle tre eccellenti persone è, o è mai stata, un povero nel senso in cui quella parola è intesa dalla schiacciante maggioranza della nazione inglese. A Oxford non esistono poveri nel senso in cui è povera la maggioranza degli uomini che si incontrano per strada. Il fatto stesso che lo scrittore dell’Outlook possa parlare di gente simile come di poveri dimostra che egli non comprende quale sia il problema moderno. La sua specie di povero mi ricorda piuttosto il Conte della ballata di quel grande satirico inglese, Sir W.S. Gilbert, le cui spigolosità (spigolosità assai acute) non erano mai state, temo, smussate da un’antica Università inglese. Il lettore ricorderà che, quando la fanciulla del Pervinca era adorata da due Duchi, il poeta aggiunse…
«Un terzo spasimante ebbe la ragazza, uomo di umile condizione; un miserabile Conte strisciante ne implorava l’approvazione.»
Forse, in verità, qualche allusione al nostro sistema universitario, e all’universale collisione in esso di tutte le classi della comunità, si potrebbe rinvenire nella strofa poco più avanti, che dice…
«Aveva avuto, per felice sorte, una educazione decorosa; le sue vedute si sarebbero addette bene a una condizione assai superiore.»
Forse fra Lord Curzon e Lord Milner correva un abisso altrettanto semplice. Ma temo che l’abisso diverrà quasi impercettibile, una crepa microscopica, se lo paragoniamo all’abisso che separa l’uno o entrambi dal popolo di questo paese.
Naturalmente la verità è esattamente come l’ha esposta il Vescovo di Birmingham. Sono certo che egli non la espose con alcun spirito scortese o sprezzante verso quelle antiche sedi inglesi del sapere, le quali, che siano o non siano sedi del sapere, sono comunque antiche e inglesi, e queste sono due ottime cose da essere. L’antica Università inglese è un parco di svago per la classe dirigente. Ciò non prova che sia una cosa cattiva; potrebbe provare che è una cosa ottima. Certo, se una classe dirigente ci ha da essere, che vi sia un parco di svago per la classe dirigente. Preferirei di gran lunga essere governato da uomini che sanno giocare che da uomini che non sanno giocare. Ammesso che dobbiamo essere governati da una sezione facoltosa della comunità, è di certo assai importante che quella sezione sia tenuta tollerabilmente cordiale e gioviale. Se l’uomo suscettibile dell’Outlook non gradisce l’espressione «Parco di svago dei ricchi», posso suggerirgli un’espressione che descrive un luogo come Oxford forse con maggiore precisione. È un luogo dove umanizzare coloro che altrimenti potrebbero essere tiranni, o addirittura esperti.
To pretend that the aristocrat meets all classes at Oxford is too ludicrous to be worth discussion. But it may be true that he meets more different kinds of men than he would meet under a strictly aristocratic regime of private tutors and small schools. It all comes back to the fact that the English, if they were resolved to have an aristocracy, were at least resolved to have a good-natured aristocracy. And it is due to them to say that almost alone among the peoples of the world, they have succeeded in getting one. One could almost tolerate the thing, if it were not for the praise of it. One might endure Oxford, but not the Outlook.
When the poor man at Oxford loses his angles (which means, I suppose, his independence), he may perhaps, even if his poverty is of that highly relative type possible at Oxford, gain a certain amount of worldly advantage from the surrender of those angles. I must confess, however, that I can imagine nothing nastier than to lose one’s angles. It seems to me that a desire to retain some angles about one’s person is a desire common to all those human beings who do not set their ultimate hopes upon looking like Humpty-Dumpty. Our angles are simply our shapes. I cannot imagine any phrase more full of the subtle and exquisite vileness which is poisoning and weakening our country than such a phrase as this, about the desirability of rubbing down the angularities of poor men. Reduced to permanent and practical human speech, it means nothing whatever except the corrupting of that first human sense of justice which is the critic of all human institutions.
It is not in any such spirit of facile and reckless reassurance that we should approach the really difficult problem of the delicate virtues and the deep dangers of our two historic seats of learning. A good son does not easily admit that his sick mother is dying; but neither does a good son cheerily assert that she is “all right.” There are many good arguments for leaving the two historic Universities exactly as they are. There are many good arguments for smashing them or altering them entirely. But in either case the plain truth told by the Bishop of Birmingham remains. If these Universities were destroyed, they would not be destroyed as Universities. If they are preserved, they will not be preserved as Universities. They will be preserved strictly and literally as playgrounds; places valued for their hours of leisure more than for their hours of work. I do not say that this is unreasonable; as a matter of private temperament I find it attractive. It is not only possible to say a great deal in praise of play; it is really possible to say the highest things in praise of it. It might reasonably be maintained that the true object of all human life is play. Earth is a task garden; heaven is a playground. To be at last in such secure innocence that one can juggle with the universe and the stars, to be so good that one can treat everything as a joke— that may be, perhaps, the real end and final holiday of human souls. When we are really holy we may regard the Universe as a lark; so perhaps it is not essentially wrong to regard the University as a lark. But the plain and present fact is that our upper classes do regard the University as a lark, and do not regard it as a University. It also happens very often that through some oversight they neglect to provide themselves with that extreme degree of holiness which I have postulated as a necessary preliminary to such indulgence in the higher frivolity.
Humanity, always dreaming of a happy race, free, fantastic, and at ease, has sometimes pictured them in some mystical island, sometimes in some celestial city, sometimes as fairies, gods, or citizens of Atlantis. But one method in which it has often indulged is to picture them as aristocrats, as a special human class that could actually be seen hunting in the woods or driving about the streets. And this never was (as some silly Germans say) a worship of pride and scorn; mankind never really admired pride; mankind never had any thing but a scorn for scorn. It was a worship of the spectacle of happiness; especially of the spectacle of youth. This is what the old Universities in their noblest aspect really are; and this is why there is always something to be said for keeping them as they are. Aristocracy is not a tyranny; it is not even merely a spell. It is a vision. It is a deliberate indulgence in a certain picture of pleasure painted for the purpose; every Duchess is (in an innocent sense) painted, like Gainsborough’s “Duchess of Devonshire.” She is only beautiful because, at the back of all, the English people wanted her to be beautiful. In the same way, the lads at Oxford and Cambridge are only larking because England, in the depths of its solemn soul, really wishes them to lark. All this is very human and pardonable, and would be even harmless if there were no such things in the world as danger and honour and intellectual responsibility. But if aristocracy is a vision, it is perhaps the most unpractical of all visions. It is not a working way of doing things to put all your happiest people on a lighted platform and stare only at them. It is not a working way of managing education to be entirely content with the mere fact that you have (to a degree unexampled in the world) given the luckiest boys the jolliest time. It would be easy enough, like the writer in the Outlook, to enjoy the pleasures and deny the perils. Oh what a happy place England would be to live in if only one did not love it!
Pretendere che l’aristocratico incontri a Oxford tutte le classi è troppo ridicolo perché valga la pena discuterne. Ma può darsi che sia vero che egli incontri più tipi diversi di uomini di quanti ne incontrerebbe sotto un rigido régime aristocratico di precettori privati e piccole scuole. Tutto si riconduce al fatto che gli Inglesi, se erano decisi ad avere un’aristocrazia, erano almeno decisi ad avere un’aristocrazia bonaria. E bisogna rendere loro giustizia dicendo che quasi soli fra i popoli del mondo, essi ci sono riusciti. Si potrebbe quasi tollerare la cosa, se non fosse per l’elogio che se ne fa. Si potrebbe sopportare Oxford, ma non l’Outlook.
Quando il povero a Oxford perde le proprie spigolosità (il che significa, suppongo, la propria indipendenza), egli forse, anche se la sua povertà è di quel tipo altamente relativo possibile a Oxford, ricava un certo vantaggio mondano dalla resa di quelle spigolosità. Devo confessare, tuttavia, che non riesco a immaginare nulla di più ripugnante del perdere le proprie spigolosità. Mi pare che il desiderio di conservare qualche spigolo intorno alla propria persona sia un desiderio comune a tutti quegli esseri umani che non ripongono le loro speranze ultime nell’assomigliare a Humpty-Dumpty. I nostri spigoli sono semplicemente le nostre forme. Non riesco a immaginare frase più colma di quella sottile e squisita vigliaccheria che sta avvelenando e indebolendo il nostro paese di una frase come questa, sull’opportunità di smussare le spigolosità dei poveri. Ridotta a un linguaggio umano permanente e pratico, essa non significa assolutamente nulla, se non la corruzione di quel primo senso umano di giustizia che è il critico di tutte le istituzioni umane.
Non è certo con uno spirito di rassicurazione facile e sconsiderata che dovremmo accostarci al problema davvero difficile delle delicate virtù e dei profondi pericoli delle nostre due storiche sedi del sapere. Un buon figlio non ammette facilmente che la sua madre malata stia morendo; ma neppure un buon figlio afferma allegramente che ella «sta benissimo». Vi sono molti buoni argomenti per lasciare le due storiche Università esattamente come sono. Vi sono molti buoni argomenti per demolirle o per trasformarle interamente. Ma in entrambi i casi la semplice verità detta dal Vescovo di Birmingham resta. Se queste Università venissero distrutte, non verrebbero distrutte in quanto Università. Se vengono conservate, non verranno conservate in quanto Università. Verranno conservate rigorosamente e letteralmente come parchi di svago; luoghi apprezzati per le loro ore di ozio più che per le loro ore di lavoro. Non dico che ciò sia irragionevole; per temperamento privato lo trovo attraente. Non solo è possibile dire moltissimo in lode del gioco; è davvero possibile dire in sua lode le cose più alte. Si potrebbe ragionevolmente sostenere che il vero fine di ogni vita umana è il gioco. La Terra è un giardino di fatiche; il cielo è un parco di svago. Trovarsi finalmente in una tale sicura innocenza da poter giocolare con l’universo e con le stelle, essere così buoni da poter trattare ogni cosa come uno scherzo — questo forse è il vero fine e la vacanza definitiva delle anime umane. Quando siamo davvero santi possiamo considerare l’Universo come uno spasso; sicché forse non è essenzialmente sbagliato considerare l’Università come uno spasso. Ma il fatto semplice e presente è che le nostre classi superiori considerano davvero l’Università come uno spasso, e non la considerano affatto come un’Università. Accade inoltre assai spesso che, per qualche disattenzione, esse trascurino di provvedersi di quell’estremo grado di santità che ho postulato come premessa necessaria a un simile indulgere nella frivolità superiore.
L’umanità, sognando da sempre una razza felice, libera, fantasiosa e serena, l’ha talvolta raffigurata in qualche mistica isola, talvolta in qualche città celeste, talvolta come fate, dèi o cittadini di Atlantide. Ma un modo in cui essa ha spesso indulto è quello di raffigurarla come aristocratici, come una speciale classe umana che si potesse effettivamente vedere andare a caccia nei boschi o passare in carrozza per le strade. E questo non fu mai (come dicono certi sciocchi Tedeschi) un culto dell’orgoglio e del disprezzo; l’umanità non ammirò mai davvero l’orgoglio; l’umanità non ebbe mai altro che disprezzo per il disprezzo. Fu un culto dello spettacolo della felicità; specialmente dello spettacolo della giovinezza. Questo è ciò che le antiche Università, nel loro aspetto più nobile, davvero sono; e questo è il motivo per cui vi è sempre qualcosa da dire in favore del conservarle come sono. L’aristocrazia non è una tirannia; non è neppure semplicemente un incantesimo. È una visione. È un deliberato indulgere in un certo quadro di piacere dipinto allo scopo; ogni Duchessa è (in senso innocente) dipinta, come la «Duchessa di Devonshire» di Gainsborough. Ella è bella soltanto perché, in fondo a tutto, il popolo inglese volle che fosse bella. Allo stesso modo, i ragazzi di Oxford e di Cambridge fanno baldoria soltanto perché l’Inghilterra, nel profondo della sua solenne anima, desidera davvero che facciano baldoria. Tutto ciò è assai umano e perdonabile, e sarebbe persino innocuo se non esistessero al mondo cose come il pericolo e l’onore e la responsabilità intellettuale. Ma se l’aristocrazia è una visione, essa è forse la più impraticabile di tutte le visioni. Non è un modo funzionale di fare le cose collocare tutta la vostra gente più felice su una piattaforma illuminata e fissare soltanto quella. Non è un modo funzionale di gestire l’educazione accontentarsi del semplice fatto che avete (a un grado senza esempi nel mondo) concesso ai ragazzi più fortunati il tempo più allegro. Sarebbe assai facile, come lo scrittore dell’Outlook, godere dei piaceri e negare i pericoli. Oh, che luogo felice sarebbe l’Inghilterra in cui vivere, se solo non la si amasse!
WOMAN
A correspondent has written me an able and interesting letter in the matter of some allusions of mine to the subject of communal kitchens. He defends communal kitchens very lucidly from the standpoint of the calculating collectivist; but, like many of his school, he cannot apparently grasp that there is another test of the whole matter, with which such calculation has nothing at all to do. He knows it would be cheaper if a number of us ate at the same time, so as to use the same table. So it would. It would also be cheaper if a number of us slept at different times, so as to use the same pair of trousers. But the question is not how cheap are we buying a thing, but what are we buying? It is cheap to own a slave. And it is cheaper still to be a slave.
My correspondent also says that the habit of dining out in restaurants, etc., is growing. So, I believe, is the habit of committing suicide. I do not desire to connect the two facts together. It seems fairly clear that a man could not dine at a restaurant because he had just committed suicide; and it would be extreme, perhaps, to suggest that he commits suicide because he has just dined at a restaurant. But the two cases, when put side by side, are enough to indicate the falsity and poltroonery of this eternal modern argument from what is in fashion. The question for brave men is not whether a certain thing is increasing; the question is whether we are increasing it. I dine very often in restaurants because the nature of my trade makes it convenient: but if I thought that by dining in restaurants I was working for the creation of communal meals, I would never enter a restaurant again; I would carry bread and cheese in my pocket or eat chocolate out of automatic machines. For the personal element in some things is sacred. I heard Mr. Will Crooks put it perfectly the other day: “The most sacred thing is to be able to shut your own door.”
My correspondent says, “Would not our women be spared the drudgery of cooking and all its attendant worries, leaving them free for higher culture?” The first thing that occurs to me to say about this is very simple, and is, I imagine, a part of all our experience. If my correspondent can find any way of preventing women from worrying, he will indeed be a remarkable man. I think the matter is a much deeper one. First of all, my correspondent overlooks a distinction which is elementary in our human nature. Theoretically, I suppose, every one would like to be freed from worries. But nobody in the world would always like to be freed from worrying occupations. I should very much like (as far as my feelings at the moment go) to be free from the consuming nuisance of writing this article. But it does not follow that I should like to be free from the consuming nuisance of being a journalist. Because we are worried about a thing, it does not follow that we are not interested in it. The truth is the other way. If we are not interested, why on earth should we be worried? Women are worried about housekeeping, but those that are most interested are the most worried. Women are still more worried about their husbands and their children. And I suppose if we strangled the children and poleaxed the husbands it would leave women free for higher culture. That is, it would leave them free to begin to worry about that. For women would worry about higher culture as much as they worry about everything else.
I believe this way of talking about women and their higher culture is almost entirely a growth of the classes which (unlike the journalistic class to which I belong) have always a reasonable amount of money. One odd thing I specially notice. Those who write like this seem entirely to forget the existence of the working and wage-earning classes. They say eternally, like my correspondent, that the ordinary woman is always a drudge. And what, in the name of the Nine Gods, is the ordinary man? These people seem to think that the ordinary man is a Cabinet Minister. They are always talking about man going forth to wield power, to carve his own way, to stamp his individuality on the world, to command and to be obeyed. This may be true of a certain class. Dukes, perhaps, are not drudges; but, then, neither are Duchesses. The Ladies and Gentlemen of the Smart Set are quite free for the higher culture, which consists chiefly of motoring and Bridge. But the ordinary man who typifies and constitutes the millions that make up our civilisation is no more free for the higher culture than his wife is.
Indeed, he is not so free. Of the two sexes the woman is in the more powerful position. For the average woman is at the head of something with which she can do as she likes; the average man has to obey orders and do nothing else. He has to put one dull brick on another dull brick, and do nothing else; he has to add one dull figure to another dull figure, and do nothing else. The woman’s world is a small one, perhaps, but she can alter it. The woman can tell the tradesman with whom she deals some realistic things about himself. The clerk who does this to the manager generally gets the sack, or shall we say (to avoid the vulgarism), finds himself free for higher culture. Above all, as I said in my previous article, the woman does work which is in some small degree creative and individual. She can put the flowers or the furniture in fancy arrangements of her own. I fear the bricklayer cannot put the bricks in fancy arrangements of his own, without disaster to himself and others. If the woman is only putting a patch into a carpet, she can choose the thing with regard to colour. I fear it would not do for the office boy dispatching a parcel to choose his stamps with a view to colour; to prefer the tender mauve of the sixpenny to the crude scarlet of the penny stamp. A woman cooking may not always cook artistically; still she can cook artistically. She can introduce a personal and imperceptible alteration into the composition of a soup. The clerk is not encouraged to introduce a personal and imperceptible alteration into the figures in a ledger.
The trouble is that the real question I raised is not discussed. It is argued as a problem in pennies, not as a problem in people. It is not the proposals of these reformers that I feel to be false so much as their temper and their arguments. I am not nearly so certain that communal kitchens are wrong as I am that the defenders of communal kitchens are wrong. Of course, for one thing, there is a vast difference between the communal kitchens of which I spoke and the communal meal (monstrum horrendum, informe) which the darker and wilder mind of my correspondent diabolically calls up. But in both the trouble is that their defenders will not defend them humanly as human institutions. They will not interest themselves in the staring psychological fact that there are some things that a man or a woman, as the case may be, wishes to do for himself or herself. He or she must do it inventively, creatively, artistically, individually— in a word, badly. Choosing your wife (say) is one of these things. Is choosing your husband’s dinner one of these things? That is the whole question: it is never asked.
And then the higher culture. I know that culture. I would not set any man free for it if I could help it. The effect of it on the rich men who are free for it is so horrible that it is worse than any of the other amusements of the millionaire— worse than gambling, worse even than philanthropy. It means thinking the smallest poet in Belgium greater than the greatest poet of England. It means losing every democratic sympathy. It means being unable to talk to a navvy about sport, or about beer, or about the Bible, or about the Derby, or about patriotism, or about anything whatever that he, the navvy, wants to talk about. It means taking literature seriously, a very amateurish thing to do. It means pardoning indecency only when it is gloomy indecency. Its disciples will call a spade a spade; but only when it is a grave-digger’s spade. The higher culture is sad, cheap, impudent, unkind, without honesty and without ease. In short, it is “high.” That abominable word (also applied to game) admirably describes it.
No; if you were setting women free for something else, I might be more melted. If you can assure me, privately and gravely, that you are setting women free to dance on the mountains like mænads, or to worship some monstrous goddess, I will make a note of your request. If you are quite sure that the ladies in Brixton, the moment they give up cooking, will beat great gongs and blow horns to Mumbo-Jumbo, then I will agree that the occupation is at least human and is more or less entertaining. Women have been set free to be Bacchantes; they have been set free to be Virgin Martyrs; they have been set free to be Witches. Do not ask them now to sink so low as the higher culture.
I have my own little notions of the possible emancipation of women; but I suppose I should not be taken very seriously if I propounded them. I should favour anything that would increase the present enormous authority of women and their creative action in their own homes. The average woman, as I have said, is a despot; the average man is a serf. I am for any scheme that any one can suggest that will make the average woman more of a despot. So far from wishing her to get her cooked meals from outside, I should like her to cook more wildly and at her own will than she does. So far from getting always the same meals from the same place, let her invent, if she likes, a new dish every day of her life. Let woman be more of a maker, not less. We are right to talk about “Woman;” only blackguards talk about women. Yet all men talk about men, and that is the whole difference. Men represent the deliberative and democratic element in life. Woman represents the despotic.
LA DONNA
Un corrispondente mi ha scritto una lettera abile e interessante a proposito di certe mie allusioni al tema delle cucine comuni. Egli difende le cucine comuni con grande lucidità dal punto di vista del collettivista calcolatore; ma, come molti della sua scuola, pare incapace di afferrare che esiste un altro metro per giudicare l’intera faccenda, con cui simili calcoli non hanno nulla a che fare. Sa bene che costerebbe meno se un certo numero di noi mangiasse alla stessa ora, così da servirsi della stessa tavola. E infatti sarebbe così. Costerebbe pure meno se un certo numero di noi dormisse a ore diverse, così da servirsi dello stesso paio di calzoni. Ma la questione non è a quanto poco stiamo comprando una cosa, bensì che cosa stiamo comprando. Costa poco possedere uno schiavo. E costa ancora meno essere uno schiavo.
Il mio corrispondente osserva inoltre che l’abitudine di pranzare fuori, nei ristoranti e simili, va crescendo. Anche l’abitudine di commettere suicidio, credo, va crescendo. Non ho alcun desiderio di collegare fra loro i due fatti. Pare abbastanza evidente che un uomo non potrebbe pranzare al ristorante per il fatto di aver appena commesso suicidio; e sarebbe forse eccessivo suggerire che egli commetta suicidio per il fatto di aver appena pranzato al ristorante. Ma i due casi, posti l’uno accanto all’altro, bastano a indicare la falsità e la vigliaccheria di questo eterno argomento moderno fondato su ciò che è di moda. La questione, per gli uomini coraggiosi, non è se una certa cosa stia aumentando; la questione è se siamo noi ad aumentarla. Io pranzo spesso al ristorante perché la natura del mio mestiere lo rende comodo; ma se pensassi che, pranzando al ristorante, lavoravo alla creazione dei pasti comuni, non metterei mai più piede in un ristorante; mi porterei in tasca pane e formaggio, oppure mangerei cioccolato ai distributori automatici. Poiché in certe cose l’elemento personale è sacro. Ho udito il signor Will Crooks esprimerlo alla perfezione l’altro giorno: «La cosa più sacra è poter chiudere la porta di casa propria.»
Il mio corrispondente dice: «Non verrebbero forse risparmiate alle nostre donne la fatica del cucinare e tutte le preoccupazioni che vi si accompagnano, lasciandole libere per una cultura più alta?» La prima cosa che mi viene da dire al riguardo è assai semplice, e fa parte, immagino, dell’esperienza di tutti noi. Se il mio corrispondente riesce a trovare un modo qualsiasi per impedire alle donne di preoccuparsi, sarà davvero un uomo notevole. Credo che la faccenda sia molto più profonda. Anzitutto, il mio corrispondente trascura una distinzione elementare nella nostra natura umana. In teoria, suppongo, chiunque vorrebbe essere liberato dalle preoccupazioni. Ma nessuno al mondo vorrebbe sempre essere liberato dalle occupazioni che danno preoccupazione. A me piacerebbe moltissimo (per quel che valgono i miei sentimenti in questo momento) essere libero dalla logorante seccatura di scrivere questo articolo. Ma non ne consegue che vorrei essere libero dalla logorante seccatura di fare il giornalista. Il fatto che una cosa ci preoccupi non significa che non ci interessi. La verità è tutto il contrario. Se una cosa non ci interessa, per quale ragione al mondo dovremmo preoccuparcene? Le donne si preoccupano della casa, ma quelle più interessate sono le più preoccupate. Le donne si preoccupano ancor di più dei loro mariti e dei loro figli. E suppongo che, se strangolassimo i figli e accoppassimo i mariti, ciò lascerebbe le donne libere per una cultura più alta. Vale a dire, le lascerebbe libere di cominciare a preoccuparsi di quella. Poiché le donne si preoccuperebbero della cultura più alta tanto quanto si preoccupano di ogni altra cosa.
Credo che questo modo di parlare delle donne e della loro cultura più alta sia quasi interamente un prodotto delle classi che (a differenza della classe giornalistica cui io appartengo) hanno sempre una ragionevole quantità di denaro. Una cosa singolare noto in modo particolare. Coloro che scrivono in tal maniera sembrano dimenticare del tutto l’esistenza delle classi lavoratrici e salariate. Dicono eternamente, come il mio corrispondente, che la donna comune è sempre una schiava del lavoro. E che cosa, in nome dei Nove Dèi, è l’uomo comune? Costoro sembrano credere che l’uomo comune sia un ministro di gabinetto. Parlano sempre dell’uomo che va nel mondo a esercitare il potere, a tracciarsi la propria strada, a imprimere la propria individualità sul mondo, a comandare e a essere obbedito. Questo può essere vero di una certa classe. I duchi, forse, non sono schiavi del lavoro; ma, del resto, non lo sono neppure le duchesse. Le dame e i gentiluomini del Bel Mondo sono ben liberi per la cultura più alta, che consiste principalmente nell’automobile e nel Bridge. Ma l’uomo comune, che rappresenta e costituisce i milioni di cui è fatta la nostra civiltà, non è più libero per la cultura più alta di quanto lo sia sua moglie.
Anzi, non è neppure così libero. Dei due sessi, è la donna a trovarsi nella posizione più potente. Poiché la donna media sta a capo di qualcosa con cui può fare quel che le pare; l’uomo medio deve obbedire agli ordini e nient’altro. Deve posare un mattone spento su un altro mattone spento, e nient’altro; deve sommare una cifra spenta a un’altra cifra spenta, e nient’altro. Il mondo della donna è piccolo, forse, ma lei può modificarlo. La donna può dire al bottegaio con cui tratta qualche verità realistica sul suo conto. L’impiegato che fa altrettanto col direttore di solito viene messo alla porta, oppure, per evitare il volgarismo, diciamo che si ritrova libero per la cultura più alta. Soprattutto, come dissi nel mio precedente articolo, la donna svolge un lavoro che è in qualche piccola misura creativo e individuale. Può disporre i fiori o i mobili secondo estri tutti suoi. Temo che il muratore non possa disporre i mattoni secondo estri suoi, senza rovina per sé e per gli altri. Se la donna deve solo mettere una toppa in un tappeto, può scegliere la stoffa badando al colore. Temo che non andrebbe bene, per il fattorino che spedisce un pacco, scegliere i francobolli in vista del colore; preferire il tenero malva del sei pence al crudo scarlatto del francobollo da un penny. Una donna che cucina può non cucinare sempre artisticamente; eppure può cucinare artisticamente. Può introdurre un’alterazione personale e impercettibile nella composizione di una minestra. All’impiegato non si concede di introdurre un’alterazione personale e impercettibile nelle cifre di un registro contabile.
Il guaio è che la vera questione che ho sollevato non viene discussa. La si dibatte come un problema di soldi, non come un problema di persone. Non sono tanto le proposte di questi riformatori che avverto come false, quanto il loro spirito e i loro argomenti. Non sono affatto così certo che le cucine comuni siano sbagliate quanto lo sono che i difensori delle cucine comuni siano nel torto. Certo, tanto per cominciare, corre una differenza enorme fra le cucine comuni di cui parlavo e il pasto comune (monstrum horrendum, informe) che la mente più tetra e più selvaggia del mio corrispondente evoca diabolicamente. Ma in entrambi i casi il guaio è che i loro difensori non li difendono umanamente, come istituzioni umane. Non si vogliono interessare all’evidentissimo fatto psicologico che vi sono certe cose che un uomo, o una donna, a seconda dei casi, desidera fare da sé. Egli, o ella, deve farle inventivamente, creativamente, artisticamente, individualmente: in una parola, male. Scegliere la propria moglie (poniamo) è una di queste cose. Scegliere il pranzo del proprio marito è una di queste cose? Ecco l’intera questione: che non viene mai posta.
E poi la cultura più alta. Io la conosco, quella cultura. Non libererei alcun uomo per essa, se potessi impedirlo. L’effetto che produce sugli uomini ricchi che sono liberi di dedicarvisi è così orribile da risultare peggiore di qualunque altro svago del milionario: peggiore del gioco d’azzardo, peggiore perfino della filantropia. Significa reputare il più piccolo poeta del Belgio più grande del più grande poeta d’Inghilterra. Significa perdere ogni simpatia democratica. Significa essere incapaci di parlare con uno sterratore di sport, o di birra, o della Bibbia, o del Derby, o di patriottismo, o di qualsiasi cosa al mondo di cui egli, lo sterratore, voglia parlare. Significa prendere sul serio la letteratura, cosa quanto mai dilettantesca. Significa perdonare l’indecenza soltanto quando è indecenza tetra. I suoi discepoli chiamano vanga una vanga; ma solo quando è la vanga di uno scavatore di fosse. La cultura più alta è triste, meschina, impudente, scortese, priva di onestà e priva di disinvoltura. In breve, è «di gran gusto». Quell’abominevole espressione (che si applica anche alla selvaggina frollata) la descrive mirabilmente.
No; se steste liberando le donne per qualcos’altro, potrei intenerirmi di più. Se poteste assicurarmi, in privato e con gravità, che state liberando le donne perché possano danzare sui monti come menadi, o adorare qualche mostruosa dea, prenderei nota della vostra richiesta. Se foste ben certi che le signore di Brixton, nell’istante in cui rinunciano al cucinare, si metteranno a battere grandi gong e a soffiare nei corni in onore di Mumbo-Jumbo, allora converrei che l’occupazione è quanto meno umana ed è più o meno divertente. Le donne sono state liberate per essere Baccanti; sono state liberate per essere Vergini Martiri; sono state liberate per essere Streghe. Non chiedete loro ora di abbassarsi tanto quanto la cultura più alta.
Ho anch’io le mie piccole idee sulla possibile emancipazione della donna; ma suppongo che non sarei preso molto sul serio se le esponessi. Sarei favorevole a tutto ciò che accrescesse l’enorme autorità di cui la donna già gode e la sua azione creativa nella propria casa. La donna media, come ho detto, è un despota; l’uomo medio è un servo della gleba. Sono a favore di qualunque piano chiunque possa proporre che renda la donna media ancor più despota. Ben lungi dal desiderare che si faccia arrivare i pasti già cotti da fuori, vorrei che cucinasse in modo più selvaggio e a proprio piacimento di quanto non faccia. Ben lungi dal ricevere sempre gli stessi pasti dallo stesso luogo, che inventi, se le va, un piatto nuovo per ogni giorno della sua vita. Sia la donna più creatrice, non meno. Facciamo bene a parlare della «Donna»; solo i mascalzoni parlano delle donne. Eppure tutti gli uomini parlano degli uomini, ed è in questo tutta la differenza. Gli uomini rappresentano l’elemento deliberativo e democratico della vita. La donna rappresenta quello despotico.
THE MODERN MARTYR
The incident of the Suffragettes who chained themselves with iron chains to the railings of Downing Street is a good ironical allegory of most modern martyrdom. It generally consists of a man chaining himself up and then complaining that he is not free. Some say that such larks retard the cause of female suffrage, others say that such larks alone can advance it; as a matter of fact, I do not believe that they have the smallest effect one way or the other.
The modern notion of impressing the public by a mere demonstration of unpopularity, by being thrown out of meetings or thrown into jail is largely a mistake. It rests on a fallacy touching the true popular value of martyrdom. People look at human history and see that it has often happened that persecutions have not only advertised but even advanced a persecuted creed, and given to its validity the public and dreadful witness of dying men. The paradox was pictorially expressed in Christian art, in which saints were shown brandishing as weapons the very tools that had slain them. And because his martyrdom is thus a power to the martyr, modern people think that any one who makes himself slightly uncomfortable in public will immediately be uproariously popular. This element of inadequate martyrdom is not true only of the Suffragettes; it is true of many movements I respect and some that I agree with. It was true, for instance, of the Passive Resisters, who had pieces of their furniture sold up. The assumption is that if you show your ordinary sincerity (or even your political ambition) by being a nuisance to yourself as well as to other people, you will have the strength of the great saints who passed through the fire. Any one who can be hustled in a hall for five minutes, or put in a cell for five days, has achieved what was meant by martyrdom, and has a halo in the Christian art of the future. Miss Pankhurst will be represented holding a policeman in each hand— the instruments of her martyrdom. The Passive Resister will be shown symbolically carrying the teapot that was torn from him by tyrannical auctioneers.
But there is a fallacy in this analogy of martyrdom. The truth is that the special impressiveness which does come from being persecuted only happens in the case of extreme persecution. For the fact that the modern enthusiast will undergo some inconvenience for the creed he holds only proves that he does hold it, which no one ever doubted. No one doubts that the Nonconformist minister cares more for Nonconformity than he does for his teapot. No one doubts that Miss Pankhurst wants a vote more than she wants a quiet afternoon and an armchair. All our ordinary intellectual opinions are worth a bit of a row: I remember during the Boer War fighting an Imperialist clerk outside the Queen’s Hall, and giving and receiving a bloody nose; but I did not think it one of the incidents that produce the psychological effect of the Roman amphitheatre or the stake at Smithfield. For in that impression there is something more than the mere fact that a man is sincere enough to give his time or his comfort. Pagans were not impressed by the torture of Christians merely because it showed that they honestly held their opinion; they knew that millions of people honestly held all sorts of opinions. The point of such extreme martyrdom is much more subtle. It is that it gives an appearance of a man having something quite specially strong to back him up, of his drawing upon some power. And this can only be proved when all his physical contentment is destroyed; when all the current of his bodily being is reversed and turned to pain. If a man is seen to be roaring with laughter all the time that he is skinned alive, it would not be unreasonable to deduce that somewhere in the recesses of his mind he had thought of a rather good joke. Similarly, if men smiled and sang (as they did) while they were being boiled or torn in pieces, the spectators felt the presence of something more than mere mental honesty: they felt the presence of some new and unintelligible kind of pleasure, which, presumably, came from somewhere. It might be a strength of madness, or a lying spirit from Hell; but it was something quite positive and extraordinary; as positive as brandy and as extraordinary as conjuring. The Pagan said to himself: “If Christianity makes a man happy while his legs are being eaten by a lion, might it not make me happy while my legs are still attached to me and walking down the street?” The Secularists laboriously explain that martyrdoms do not prove a faith to be true, as if anybody was ever such a fool as to suppose that they did. What they did prove, or, rather, strongly suggest, was that something had entered human psychology which was stronger than strong pain. If a young girl, scourged and bleeding to death, saw nothing but a crown descending on her from God, the first mental step was not that her philosophy was correct, but that she was certainly feeding on something. But this particular point of psychology does not arise at all in the modern cases of mere public discomfort or inconvenience. The causes of Miss Pankhurst’s cheerfulness require no mystical explanations. If she were being burned alive as a witch, if she then looked up in unmixed rapture and saw a ballot-box descending out of heaven, then I should say that the incident, though not conclusive, was frightfully impressive. It would not prove logically that she ought to have the vote, or that anybody ought to have the vote. But it would prove this: that there was, for some reason, a sacramental reality in the vote, that the soul could take the vote and feed on it; that it was in itself a positive and overpowering pleasure, capable of being pitted against positive and overpowering pain.
I should advise modern agitators, therefore, to give up this particular method: the method of making very big efforts to get a very small punishment. It does not really go down at all; the punishment is too small, and the efforts are too obvious. It has not any of the effectiveness of the old savage martyrdom, because it does not leave the victim absolutely alone with his cause, so that his cause alone can support him. At the same time it has about it that element of the pantomimic and the absurd, which was the cruellest part of the slaying and the mocking of the real prophets. St. Peter was crucified upside down as a huge inhuman joke; but his human seriousness survived the inhuman joke, because, in whatever posture, he had died for his faith. The modern martyr of the Pankhurst type courts the absurdity without making the suffering strong enough to eclipse the absurdity. She is like a St. Peter who should deliberately stand on his head for ten seconds and then expect to be canonised for it.
Or, again, the matter might be put in this way. Modern martyrdoms fail even as demonstrations, because they do not prove even that the martyrs are completely serious. I think, as a fact, that the modern martyrs generally are serious, perhaps a trifle too serious. But their martyrdom does not prove it; and the public does not always believe it. Undoubtedly, as a fact, Dr. Clifford is quite honourably indignant with what he considers to be clericalism, but he does not prove it by having his teapot sold; for a man might easily have his teapot sold as an actress has her diamonds stolen—as a personal advertisement. As a matter of fact, Miss Pankhurst is quite in earnest about votes for women. But she does not prove it by being chucked out of meetings. A person might be chucked out of meetings just as young men are chucked out of music-halls—for fun. But no man has himself eaten by a lion as a personal advertisement. No woman is broiled on a gridiron for fun. That is where the testimony of St. Perpetua and St. Faith comes in. Doubtless it is no fault of these enthusiasts that they are not subjected to the old and searching penalties; very likely they would pass through them as triumphantly as St. Agatha. I am simply advising them upon a point of policy, things being as they are. And I say that the average man is not impressed with their sacrifices simply because they are not and cannot be more decisive than the sacrifices which the average man himself would make for mere fun if he were drunk. Drunkards would interrupt meetings and take the consequences. And as for selling a teapot, it is an act, I imagine, in which any properly constituted drunkard would take a positive pleasure. The advertisement is not good enough; it does not tell. If I were really martyred for an opinion (which is more improbable than words can say), it would certainly only be for one or two of my most central and sacred opinions. I might, perhaps, be shot for England, but certainly not for the British Empire. I might conceivably die for political freedom, but I certainly wouldn’t die for Free Trade. But as for kicking up the particular kind of shindy that the Suffragettes are kicking up, I would as soon do it for my shallowest opinion as for my deepest one. It never could be anything worse than an inconvenience; it never could be anything better than a spree. Hence the British public, and especially the working classes, regard the whole demonstration with fundamental indifference; for, while it is a demonstration that probably is adopted from the most fanatical motives, it is a demonstration which might be adopted from the most frivolous.
IL MARTIRE MODERNO
L’episodio delle Suffragette che si incatenarono con catene di ferro alle ringhiere di Downing Street è una bella allegoria ironica della gran parte del martirio moderno. Esso consiste, di regola, in un uomo che si incatena da sé e poi si lamenta di non essere libero. Alcuni dicono che simili bravate ritardino la causa del suffragio femminile, altri che simili bravate sole possano farla avanzare; per la verità, non credo che abbiano il minimo effetto né in un senso né nell’altro.
L’idea moderna di impressionare il pubblico con una semplice dimostrazione di impopolarità, facendosi buttar fuori dalle assemblee o gettare in prigione, è in gran parte un errore. Riposa su un sofisma che tocca il vero valore popolare del martirio. La gente guarda alla storia umana e vede che è spesso accaduto che le persecuzioni non solo abbiano reclamizzato, ma perfino promosso un credo perseguitato, offrendo alla sua validità la testimonianza pubblica e terribile degli uomini morenti. Il paradosso venne espresso figurativamente nell’arte cristiana, in cui i santi erano raffigurati mentre brandivano come armi gli stessi strumenti che li avevano uccisi. E poiché il suo martirio è così una forza per il martire, i moderni pensano che chiunque si renda leggermente scomodo in pubblico diverrà all’istante clamorosamente popolare. Questo elemento di martirio inadeguato non è vero soltanto delle Suffragette; è vero di molti movimenti che rispetto e di alcuni con cui sono d’accordo. Era vero, per esempio, dei Resistenti Passivi, ai quali venivano messi all’asta pezzi del mobilio. Il presupposto è che, se dimostri la tua sincerità ordinaria (o persino la tua ambizione politica) rendendoti molesto a te stesso oltre che agli altri, avrai la forza dei grandi santi che passarono attraverso il fuoco. Chiunque possa essere spintonato in una sala per cinque minuti, o messo in cella per cinque giorni, ha conseguito ciò che si intendeva col martirio, e ha un’aureola nell’arte cristiana del futuro. Miss Pankhurst sarà raffigurata mentre tiene un poliziotto per mano — gli strumenti del suo martirio. Il Resistente Passivo sarà raffigurato mentre porta simbolicamente la teiera strappatagli da tirannici banditori d’asta.
Ma c’è un sofisma in questa analogia del martirio. La verità è che la speciale solennità che deriva dall’essere perseguitati si produce soltanto nel caso della persecuzione estrema. Poiché il fatto che l’entusiasta moderno voglia subire qualche disagio per il credo che professa prova soltanto che egli quel credo lo professa davvero, cosa di cui nessuno ha mai dubitato. Nessuno dubita che il ministro anticonformista abbia più a cuore l’anticonformismo che la propria teiera. Nessuno dubita che Miss Pankhurst desideri un voto più di quanto desideri un pomeriggio tranquillo e una poltrona. Tutte le nostre comuni opinioni intellettuali valgono un po’ di baruffa: ricordo che, durante la guerra boera, azzuffandomi con un impiegato imperialista davanti alla Queen’s Hall, diedi e ricevetti un naso sanguinante; ma non pensai che fosse uno di quegli episodi che producono l’effetto psicologico dell’anfiteatro romano o del rogo di Smithfield. Poiché in quell’impressione c’è qualcosa di più del mero fatto che un uomo sia abbastanza sincero da dare il suo tempo o il suo agio. I pagani non erano impressionati dal supplizio dei cristiani semplicemente perché mostrava che essi tenevano onestamente alla loro opinione; sapevano che milioni di persone tenevano onestamente a ogni sorta di opinioni. Il punto di un martirio tanto estremo è assai più sottile. È che dà l’apparenza di un uomo che abbia qualcosa di tutto particolarmente forte a sostenerlo, che attinga a qualche potenza. E questo può essere provato soltanto quando ogni suo appagamento fisico è distrutto; quando l’intera corrente del suo essere corporeo è rovesciata e volta al dolore. Se si vedesse un uomo sganasciarsi dalle risa per tutto il tempo in cui viene scorticato vivo, non sarebbe irragionevole dedurne che da qualche parte nei recessi della sua mente avesse pensato a una battuta piuttosto buona. Similmente, se degli uomini sorridevano e cantavano (come facevano) mentre venivano bolliti o dilaniati, gli spettatori avvertivano la presenza di qualcosa di più della mera onestà mentale: avvertivano la presenza di una specie nuova e incomprensibile di piacere, che, presumibilmente, veniva da qualche parte. Poteva essere una forza di follia, o uno spirito menzognero venuto dall’Inferno; ma era qualcosa di del tutto positivo e straordinario; positivo come l’acquavite e straordinario come un gioco di prestigio. Il pagano diceva fra sé: «Se il Cristianesimo rende felice un uomo mentre le sue gambe vengono divorate da un leone, non potrebbe rendere felice me mentre le mie gambe sono ancora attaccate al corpo e camminano per la strada?». I Secolaristi spiegano laboriosamente che i martirî non provano che una fede sia vera, come se qualcuno fosse mai stato tanto sciocco da supporre che lo provassero. Ciò che essi provavano, o, piuttosto, suggerivano con forza, era che qualcosa era entrato nella psicologia umana che era più forte di un forte dolore. Se una fanciulla, flagellata e sanguinante fino alla morte, non vedeva altro che una corona discendere su di lei da Dio, il primo passo mentale non era che la sua filosofia fosse corretta, ma che ella certamente si nutriva di qualcosa. Ma questo particolare punto di psicologia non si presenta affatto nei casi moderni di semplice disagio o incomodo pubblico. Le cause dell’allegria di Miss Pankhurst non richiedono spiegazioni mistiche. Se ella venisse arsa viva come una strega, se allora levasse lo sguardo in un rapimento senza mistura e vedesse un’urna elettorale discendere dal cielo, allora direi che l’episodio, per quanto non conclusivo, sarebbe spaventosamente solenne. Non proverebbe logicamente che ella dovrebbe avere il voto, o che chiunque dovrebbe averlo. Ma proverebbe questo: che vi era, per qualche ragione, una realtà sacramentale nel voto, che l’anima poteva prendere il voto e nutrirsene; che esso era in sé un piacere positivo e travolgente, capace di essere contrapposto a un dolore positivo e travolgente.
Consiglierei dunque agli agitatori moderni di rinunciare a questo particolare metodo: il metodo di compiere sforzi grandissimi per ottenere una punizione piccolissima. Non fa presa affatto; la punizione è troppo piccola, e gli sforzi troppo evidenti. Non possiede nulla dell’efficacia dell’antico e selvaggio martirio, perché non lascia la vittima assolutamente sola con la sua causa, così che la sua causa sola possa sostenerla. Al tempo stesso ha in sé quell’elemento del pantomimico e dell’assurdo, che era la parte più crudele dell’uccidere e dello schernire i veri profeti. San Pietro fu crocifisso a testa in giù come un’enorme, disumana beffa; ma la sua umana serietà sopravvisse alla beffa disumana, perché, in qualunque postura, era morto per la sua fede. Il martire moderno del tipo Pankhurst corteggia l’assurdità senza rendere la sofferenza abbastanza forte da eclissare l’assurdità. È come un San Pietro che si mettesse deliberatamente a testa in giù per dieci secondi e poi si aspettasse di venir canonizzato per questo.
Oppure, di nuovo, la cosa potrebbe essere posta in questo modo. I martirî moderni falliscono persino come dimostrazioni, perché non provano nemmeno che i martiri siano completamente seri. Ritengo, di fatto, che i martiri moderni siano generalmente seri, forse un tantino troppo seri. Ma il loro martirio non lo prova; e il pubblico non sempre lo crede. Indubbiamente, di fatto, il dottor Clifford è assai onorevolmente indignato con ciò che considera clericalismo, ma non lo prova facendosi vendere la teiera; poiché a un uomo potrebbe agevolmente venir venduta la teiera come a un’attrice vengono rubati i diamanti — a scopo di pubblicità personale. Per la verità, Miss Pankhurst fa sul serio riguardo al voto alle donne. Ma non lo prova facendosi buttar fuori dalle assemblee. Una persona potrebbe farsi buttar fuori dalle assemblee proprio come i giovanotti si fanno buttar fuori dai music-hall — per divertimento. Ma nessun uomo si fa divorare da un leone a scopo di pubblicità personale. Nessuna donna viene arrostita su una graticola per divertimento. È qui che entra in gioco la testimonianza di Santa Perpetua e di Santa Faith. Non è certo colpa di questi entusiasti se non vengono sottoposti alle antiche e severe pene; molto probabilmente vi passerebbero attraverso trionfalmente come Sant’Agatha. Sto semplicemente dando loro un consiglio su un punto di strategia, stando così le cose. E dico che l’uomo medio non è impressionato dai loro sacrifici semplicemente perché essi non sono e non possono essere più decisivi dei sacrifici che l’uomo medio stesso compirebbe per puro divertimento se fosse ubriaco. Gli ubriachi interromperebbero le assemblee e ne subirebbero le conseguenze. E quanto al vendere una teiera, è un atto, immagino, in cui qualunque ubriaco ben costituito troverebbe un piacere positivo. La pubblicità non è abbastanza buona; non fa presa. Se fossi davvero martirizzato per un’opinione (cosa più improbabile di quanto le parole possano dire), lo sarei di certo soltanto per una o due delle mie opinioni più centrali e sacre. Potrei, forse, farmi fucilare per l’Inghilterra, ma di certo non per l’Impero Britannico. Potrei magari morire per la libertà politica, ma di certo non morirei per il Libero Scambio. Ma quanto a fare quel particolare tipo di baccano che le Suffragette stanno facendo, lo farei tanto volentieri per la mia opinione più superficiale quanto per la mia più profonda. Non potrebbe mai essere nulla di peggio di un incomodo; non potrebbe mai essere nulla di meglio di una scampagnata. Di qui il pubblico britannico, e specialmente le classi lavoratrici, guarda all’intera dimostrazione con fondamentale indifferenza; poiché, mentre è una dimostrazione che probabilmente viene adottata per i più fanatici dei motivi, è una dimostrazione che potrebbe essere adottata per i più frivoli.
ON POLITICAL SECRECY
Generally, instinctively, in the absence of any special reason, humanity hates the idea of anything being hidden—that is, it hates the idea of anything being successfully hidden. Hide-and-seek is a popular pastime; but it assumes the truth of the text, “Seek and ye shall find.” Ordinary mankind (gigantic and unconquerable in its power of joy) can get a great deal of pleasure out of a game called “hide the thimble,” but that is only because it is really a game of “see the thimble.” Suppose that at the end of such a game the thimble had not been found at all; suppose its place was unknown for ever: the result on the players would not be playful, it would be tragic. That thimble would hag-ride all their dreams. They would all die in asylums. The pleasure is all in the poignant moment of passing from not knowing to knowing. Mystery stories are very popular, especially when sold at sixpence; but that is because the author of a mystery story reveals. He is enjoyed not because he creates mystery, but because he destroys mystery. Nobody would have the courage to publish a detective-story which left the problem exactly where it found it. That would rouse even the London public to revolution. No one dare publish a detective-story that did not detect.
There are three broad classes of the special things in which human wisdom does permit privacy. The first is the case I have mentioned— that of hide-and-seek, or the police novel, in which it permits privacy only in order to explode and smash privacy. The author makes first a fastidious secret of how the Bishop was murdered, only in order that he may at last declare, as from a high tower, to the whole democracy the great glad news that he was murdered by the governess. In that case, ignorance is only valued because being ignorant is the best and purest preparation for receiving the horrible revelations of high life. Somewhat in the same way being an agnostic is the best and purest preparation for receiving the happy revelations of St. John.
This first sort of secrecy we may dismiss, for its whole ultimate object is not to keep the secret, but to tell it. Then there is a second and far more important class of things which humanity does agree to hide. They are so important that they cannot possibly be discussed here. But every one will know the kind of things I mean. In connection with these, I wish to remark that though they are, in one sense, a secret, they are also always a “sécret de Polichinelle.” Upon sex and such matters we are in a human freemasonry; the freemasonry is disciplined, but the freemasonry is free. We are asked to be silent about these things, but we are not asked to be ignorant about them. On the contrary, the fundamental human argument is entirely the other way. It is the thing most common to humanity that is most veiled by humanity. It is exactly because we all know that it is there that we need not say that it is there.
Then there is a third class of things on which the best civilisation does permit privacy, does resent all inquiry or explanation. This is in the case of things which need not be explained, because they cannot be explained, things too airy, instinctive, or intangible— caprices, sudden impulses, and the more innocent kind of prejudice. A man must not be asked why he is talkative or silent, for the simple reason that he does not know. A man is not asked (even in Germany) why he walks slow or quick, simply because he could not answer. A man must take his own road through a wood, and make his own use of a holiday. And the reason is this: not because he has a strong reason, but actually because he has a weak reason; because he has a slight and fleeting feeling about the matter which he could not explain to a policeman, which perhaps the very appearance of a policeman out of the bushes might destroy. He must act on the impulse, because the impulse is unimportant, and he may never have the same impulse again. If you like to put it so he must act on the impulse because the impulse is not worth a moment’s thought. All these fancies men feel should be private; and even Fabians have never proposed to interfere with them.
Now, for the last fortnight the newspapers have been full of very varied comments upon the problem of the secrecy of certain parts of our political finance, and especially of the problem of the party funds. Some papers have failed entirely to understand what the quarrel is about. They have urged that Irish members and Labour members are also under the shadow, or, as some have said, even more under it. The ground of this frantic statement seems, when patiently considered, to be simply this: that Irish and Labour members receive money for what they do. All persons, as far as I know, on this earth receive money for what they do; the only difference is that some people, like the Irish members, do it.
I cannot imagine that any human being could think any other human being capable of maintaining the proposition that men ought not to receive money. The simple point is that, as we know that some money is given rightly and some wrongly, an elementary common-sense leads us to look with indifference at the money that is given in the middle of Ludgate Circus, and to look with particular suspicion at the money which a man will not give unless he is shut up in a box or a bathing-machine. In short, it is too silly to suppose that anybody could ever have discussed the desirability of funds. The only thing that even idiots could ever have discussed is the concealment of funds. Therefore, the whole question that we have to consider is whether the concealment of political money-transactions, the purchase of peerages, the payment of election expenses, is a kind of concealment that falls under any of the three classes I have mentioned as those in which human custom and instinct does permit us to conceal. I have suggested three kinds of secrecy which are human and defensible. Can this institution be defended by means of any of them?
Now the question is whether this political secrecy is of any of the kinds that can be called legitimate. We have roughly divided legitimate secrets into three classes. First comes the secret that is only kept in order to be revealed, as in the detective stories; secondly, the secret which is kept because everybody knows it, as in sex; and third, the secret which is kept because it is too delicate and vague to be explained at all, as in the choice of a country walk. Do any of these broad human divisions cover such a case as that of secrecy of the political and party finances? It would be absurd, and even delightfully absurd, to pretend that any of them did. It would be a wild and charming fancy to suggest that our politicians keep political secrets only that they may make political revelations. A modern peer only pretends that he has earned his peerage in order that he may more dramatically declare, with a scream of scorn and joy, that he really bought it. The Baronet pretends that he deserved his title only in order to make more exquisite and startling the grand historical fact that he did not deserve it. Surely this sounds improbable. Surely all our statesmen cannot be saving themselves up for the excitement of a death-bed repentance. The writer of detective tales makes a man a duke solely in order to blast him with a charge of burglary. But surely the Prime Minister does not make a man a duke solely in order to blast him with a charge of bribery. No; the detective-tale theory of the secrecy of political funds must (with a sigh) be given up.
Neither can we say that the thing is explained by that second case of human secrecy which is so secret that it is hard to discuss it in public. A decency is preserved about certain primary human matters precisely because every one knows all about them. But the decency touching contributions, purchases, and peerages is not kept up because most ordinary men know what is happening; it is kept up precisely because most ordinary men do not know what is happening. The ordinary curtain of decorum covers normal proceedings. But no one will say that being bribed is a normal proceeding.
And if we apply the third test to this problem of political secrecy, the case is even clearer and even more funny. Surely no one will say that the purchase of peerages and such things are kept secret because they are so light and impulsive and unimportant that they must be matters of individual fancy. A child sees a flower and for the first time feels inclined to pick it. But surely no one will say that a brewer sees a coronet and for the first time suddenly thinks that he would like to be a peer. The child’s impulse need not be explained to the police, for the simple reason that it could not be explained to anybody. But does any one believe that the laborious political ambitions of modern commercial men ever have this airy and incommunicable character? A man lying on the beach may throw stones into the sea without any particular reason. But does any one believe that the brewer throws bags of gold into the party funds without any particular reason? This theory of the secrecy of political money must also be regretfully abandoned; and with it the two other possible excuses as well. This secrecy is one which cannot be justified as a sensational joke nor as a common human freemasonry, nor as an indescribable personal whim. Strangely enough, indeed, it violates all three conditions and classes at once. It is not hidden in order to be revealed: it is hidden in order to be hidden. It is not kept secret because it is a common secret of mankind, but because mankind must not get hold of it. And it is not kept secret because it is too unimportant to be told, but because it is much too important to bear telling. In short, the thing we have is the real and perhaps rare political phenomenon of an occult government. We have an exoteric and an esoteric doctrine. England is really ruled by priestcraft, but not by priests. We have in this country all that has ever been alleged against the evil side of religion; the peculiar class with privileges, the sacred words that are unpronounceable; the important things known only to the few. In fact we lack nothing except the religion.
SUL SEGRETO POLITICO
In generale, d’istinto, in assenza di qualsiasi ragione particolare, l’umanità detesta l’idea che qualcosa venga tenuto nascosto; ossia, detesta l’idea che qualcosa venga nascosto con successo. Il rimpiattino è un passatempo assai popolare; ma esso presuppone la verità del versetto: «Cercate e troverete». Il genere umano comune (gigantesco e invincibile nella sua capacità di gioia) sa trarre grande diletto da un gioco chiamato «nascondi il ditale», ma solo perché in realtà è un gioco di «scopri il ditale». Supponiamo che al termine di un tale gioco il ditale non fosse stato trovato affatto; supponiamo che il suo nascondiglio restasse ignoto per sempre: l’effetto sui giocatori non sarebbe giocoso, sarebbe tragico. Quel ditale tormenterebbe come un incubo tutti i loro sogni. Morrebbero tutti in manicomio. Il piacere sta interamente nell’istante struggente del passaggio dal non sapere al sapere. I racconti del mistero sono assai popolari, specie se venduti a sei pence; ma ciò accade perché l’autore di un racconto del mistero rivela. Lo si apprezza non perché crea il mistero, ma perché lo distrugge. Nessuno avrebbe il coraggio di pubblicare un racconto poliziesco che lasciasse il problema esattamente dove lo aveva trovato. Ciò spingerebbe alla rivoluzione perfino il pubblico di Londra. Nessuno oserebbe pubblicare un racconto poliziesco che non svelasse nulla.
Vi sono tre ampie categorie di cose particolari in cui la saggezza umana concede il segreto. La prima è quella che ho già menzionato: quella del rimpiattino, ovvero del romanzo poliziesco, in cui esso concede la segretezza soltanto per far esplodere e mandare in frantumi la segretezza. L’autore fa dapprima un mistero scrupoloso di come il Vescovo sia stato assassinato, soltanto perché possa infine proclamare, come dall’alto di una torre, all’intera democrazia la grande lieta novella che a ucciderlo è stata la governante. In tal caso, l’ignoranza è apprezzata soltanto perché essere ignari è la migliore e più pura preparazione a ricevere le orribili rivelazioni dell’alta società. Un po’ allo stesso modo, essere agnostici è la migliore e più pura preparazione a ricevere le liete rivelazioni di san Giovanni.
Questo primo genere di segretezza possiamo scartarlo, giacché il suo intero fine ultimo non è di custodire il segreto, bensì di rivelarlo. Vi è poi una seconda e assai più importante categoria di cose che l’umanità conviene di nascondere. Sono così importanti che non è affatto possibile discuterne qui. Ma tutti sapranno bene di quale genere di cose io intenda parlare. A proposito di esse, desidero osservare che, per quanto siano, in un certo senso, un segreto, esse sono pur sempre un «secret de Polichinelle». Riguardo al sesso e a simili faccende ci troviamo in una massoneria umana; la massoneria è disciplinata, ma la massoneria è libera. Ci si chiede di tacere su queste cose, ma non ci si chiede di ignorarle. Al contrario, il fondamentale argomento umano va interamente nella direzione opposta. È la cosa più comune all’umanità quella che dall’umanità è più velata. È appunto perché tutti sappiamo che essa è lì che non abbiamo bisogno di dire che è lì.
Vi è poi una terza categoria di cose su cui la migliore civiltà concede il segreto, mal sopporta ogni indagine o spiegazione. È il caso delle cose che non hanno bisogno di essere spiegate, perché non possono essere spiegate, cose troppo aeree, istintive o impalpabili: capricci, impulsi improvvisi, e la specie più innocente di pregiudizio. A un uomo non si deve chiedere perché sia loquace o taciturno, per la semplice ragione che egli non lo sa. A un uomo non si chiede (nemmeno in Germania) perché cammini lento o svelto, semplicemente perché non saprebbe rispondere. Un uomo deve prendere la propria strada attraverso un bosco, e fare a suo modo di una giornata di vacanza. E la ragione è questa: non perché egli abbia una ragione forte, ma anzi proprio perché ha una ragione debole; perché ha un sentimento lieve e fuggevole intorno alla cosa che non saprebbe spiegare a un poliziotto, e che forse la sola comparsa di un poliziotto tra i cespugli basterebbe a distruggere. Egli deve agire d’impulso, perché l’impulso è privo d’importanza, e potrebbe non provare mai più il medesimo impulso. Se preferite dirla così, egli deve agire d’impulso perché l’impulso non merita un momento di riflessione. Tutte queste fantasie gli uomini sentono che dovrebbero restare private; e nemmeno i Fabiani hanno mai proposto d’interferire con esse.
Ora, da una quindicina di giorni i giornali sono pieni dei più svariati commenti intorno al problema della segretezza di certi aspetti della nostra finanza politica, e in particolare al problema dei fondi di partito. Alcuni giornali hanno del tutto mancato di comprendere di che cosa verta la contesa. Hanno sostenuto che anche i deputati irlandesi e i deputati laburisti sono sotto la medesima ombra, o, come taluni hanno detto, ancora di più. Il fondamento di questa frenetica affermazione, se lo si considera con pazienza, sembra essere semplicemente questo: che i deputati irlandesi e laburisti ricevono denaro per ciò che fanno. Tutti gli esseri umani, per quanto ne so, su questa terra ricevono denaro per ciò che fanno; l’unica differenza è che alcuni, come i deputati irlandesi, qualcosa la fanno.
Non riesco a immaginare che un essere umano possa credere un altro essere umano capace di sostenere la tesi che gli uomini non dovrebbero ricevere denaro. Il punto è semplicemente che, poiché sappiamo che certo denaro è dato lecitamente e certo altro illecitamente, un elementare buon senso ci porta a guardare con indifferenza al denaro che è dato in mezzo a Ludgate Circus, e a guardare con particolare sospetto al denaro che un uomo non dà se non a patto d’essere rinchiuso in una cassa o in una cabina da bagno. In breve, è troppo sciocco supporre che qualcuno abbia mai potuto discutere se sia desiderabile disporre di fondi. L’unica cosa che perfino gli idioti avrebbero mai potuto discutere è l’occultamento dei fondi. Perciò l’intera questione che dobbiamo esaminare è se l’occultamento delle transazioni politiche di denaro, l’acquisto di titoli nobiliari, il pagamento delle spese elettorali, sia un genere di occultamento che rientra in una qualsiasi delle tre categorie da me menzionate tra quelle in cui l’usanza e l’istinto umani ci permettono di occultare. Ho suggerito tre generi di segretezza che sono umani e difendibili. Può questa istituzione essere difesa per mezzo di uno qualsiasi di essi?
Ora, la questione è se questa segretezza politica appartenga a uno qualsiasi dei generi che si possono dire legittimi. Abbiamo grosso modo diviso i segreti legittimi in tre categorie. Viene per primo il segreto che si custodisce soltanto per essere rivelato, come nei racconti polizieschi; in secondo luogo, il segreto che si custodisce perché tutti lo conoscono, come nel sesso; e in terzo luogo, il segreto che si custodisce perché è troppo delicato e vago per poter essere spiegato affatto, come nella scelta di una passeggiata in campagna. Copre una qualsiasi di queste ampie categorie umane un caso come quello della segretezza delle finanze politiche e di partito? Sarebbe assurdo, e persino deliziosamente assurdo, pretendere che una di esse lo copra. Sarebbe una fantasia sfrenata e affascinante suggerire che i nostri politici custodiscano segreti politici soltanto per poter fare rivelazioni politiche. Un pari moderno finge d’aver guadagnato il proprio titolo soltanto perché possa dichiarare più drammaticamente, con un grido di scherno e di gioia, che in realtà lo ha comprato. Il baronetto finge d’aver meritato il proprio titolo soltanto per rendere più squisito e sorprendente il grande fatto storico che non lo ha meritato affatto. Certo questo suona improbabile. Certo tutti i nostri statisti non possono serbarsi per l’emozione di un pentimento in punto di morte. Lo scrittore di racconti polizieschi fa di un uomo un duca unicamente al fine di fulminarlo con un’accusa di furto con scasso. Ma di certo il Primo Ministro non fa di un uomo un duca unicamente al fine di fulminarlo con una accusa di corruzione. No; la teoria da racconto poliziesco della segretezza dei fondi politici deve (con un sospiro) essere abbandonata.
Né possiamo dire che la cosa si spieghi con quel secondo caso di segretezza umana che è tanto segreta da riuscire difficile discuterne in pubblico. Un certo pudore si conserva intorno a certe primarie faccende umane appunto perché tutti sanno tutto di esse. Ma il pudore che tocca contributi, acquisti e titoli nobiliari non è mantenuto perché la maggior parte degli uomini comuni sappia ciò che accade; è mantenuto appunto perché la maggior parte degli uomini comuni non sa ciò che accade. Il consueto sipario del decoro copre i procedimenti normali. Ma nessuno dirà che l’essere corrotti sia un procedimento normale.
E se applichiamo il terzo criterio a questo problema della segretezza politica, il caso è ancora più chiaro e ancora più comico. Di certo nessuno dirà che l’acquisto di titoli nobiliari e simili cose sian tenuti segreti perché così lievi, impulsivi e privi d’importanza da dover essere questioni di fantasia individuale. Un bambino vede un fiore e per la prima volta sente l’impulso di coglierlo. Ma di certo nessuno dirà che un birraio veda una corona nobiliare e per la prima volta pensi improvvisamente che gli piacerebbe essere un pari. L’impulso del bambino non ha bisogno d’essere spiegato alla polizia, per la semplice ragione che non potrebbe essere spiegato a nessuno. Ma vi è forse qualcuno che crede che le laboriose ambizioni politiche dei moderni uomini d’affari abbiano mai questo carattere aereo e incomunicabile? Un uomo disteso sulla spiaggia può gettar sassi in mare senza alcuna ragione particolare. Ma vi è forse qualcuno che crede che il birraio getti sacchi d’oro nei fondi di partito senza alcuna ragione particolare? Anche questa teoria della segretezza del denaro politico dev’essere con rammarico abbandonata; e con essa le altre due possibili giustificazioni del pari. Questa segretezza è tale da non potersi giustificare né come uno scherzo sensazionale, né come una comune massoneria umana, né come un indescrivibile capriccio personale. Cosa strana, invero, essa viola tutte e tre le condizioni e le categorie a un tempo. Non è nascosta al fine di essere rivelata: è nascosta al fine di essere nascosta. Non è tenuta segreta perché è un segreto comune del genere umano, ma perché il genere umano non deve mettervi le mani. E non è tenuta segreta perché è troppo priva d’importanza per essere detta, ma perché è fin troppo importante per sopportare d’essere detta. In breve, ciò che abbiamo dinanzi è il reale e forse raro fenomeno politico di un governo occulto. Abbiamo una dottrina essoterica e una esoterica. L’Inghilterra è in realtà governata da un’arte sacerdotale, ma non da sacerdoti. Abbiamo in questo paese tutto ciò che mai sia stato imputato al lato malvagio della religione: la classe particolare coi suoi privilegi, le parole sacre che è vietato pronunciare, le cose importanti note soltanto a pochi. In verità non ci manca nulla, tranne la religione.
EDWARD VII. AND SCOTLAND
I have received a serious, and to me, at any rate, an impressive remonstrance from the Scottish Patriotic Association. It appears that I recently referred to Edward VII. of Great Britain and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith, under the horrible description of the King of England. The Scottish Patriotic Association draws my attention to the fact that by the provisions of the Act of Union, and the tradition of nationality, the monarch should be referred to as the King of Britain. The blow thus struck at me is particularly wounding because it is particularly unjust. I believe in the reality of the independent nationalities under the British Crown much more passionately and positively than any other educated Englishman of my acquaintance believes in it. I am quite certain that Scotland is a nation; I am quite certain that nationality is the key of Scotland; I am quite certain that all our success with Scotland has been due to the fact that we have in spirit treated it as a nation. I am quite certain that Ireland is a nation; I am quite certain that nationality is the key to Ireland; I am quite certain that all our failure in Ireland arose from the fact that we would not in spirit treat it as a nation. It would be difficult to find, even among the innumerable examples that exist, a stronger example of the immensely superior importance of sentiment to what is called practicality than this case of the two sister nations. It is not that we have encouraged a Scotchman to be rich; it is not that we have encouraged a Scotchman to be active; it is not that we have encouraged a Scotchman to be free. It is that we have quite definitely encouraged a Scotchman to be Scotch.
A vague, but vivid impression was received from all our writers of history, philosophy, and rhetoric that the Scottish element was something really valuable in itself, was something which even Englishmen were forced to recognise and respect. If we ever admitted the beauty of Ireland, it was as something which might be loved by an Englishman but which could hardly be respected even by an Irishman. A Scotchman might be proud of Scotland; it was enough for an Irishman that he could be fond of Ireland. Our success with the two nations has been exactly proportioned to our encouragement of their independent national emotion; the one that we would not treat nationally has alone produced Nationalists. The one nation that we would not recognise as a nation in theory is the one that we have been forced to recognise as a nation in arms. The Scottish Patriotic Association has no need to draw my attention to the importance of the separate national sentiment or the need of keeping the Border as a sacred line. The case is quite sufficiently proved by the positive history of Scotland. The place of Scottish loyalty to England has been taken by English admiration of Scotland. They do not need to envy us our titular leadership, when we seem to envy them their separation.
I wish to make very clear my entire sympathy with the national sentiment of the Scottish Patriotic Association. But I wish also to make clear this very enlightening comparison between the fate of Scotch and of Irish patriotism. In life it is always the little facts that express the large emotions, and if the English once respected Ireland as they respect Scotland, it would come out in a hundred small ways. For instance, there are crack regiments in the British Army which wear the kilt—the kilt which, as Macaulay says with perfect truth, was regarded by nine Scotchmen out of ten as the dress of a thief. The Highland officers carry a silver-hilted version of the old barbarous Gaelic broadsword with a basket-hilt, which split the skulls of so many English soldiers at Killiecrankie and Prestonpans. When you have a regiment of men in the British Army carrying ornamental silver shillelaghs you will have done the same thing for Ireland, and not before—or when you mention Brian Boru with the same intonation as Bruce.
Let me be considered therefore to have made quite clear that I believe with a quite special intensity in the independent consideration of Scotland and Ireland as apart from England. I believe that, in the proper sense of the words, Scotland is an independent nation, even if Edward VII. is the King of Scotland. I believe that, in the proper sense of words, Ireland is an independent nation, even if Edward VII. is King of Ireland. But the fact is that I have an even bolder and wilder belief than either of these. I believe that England is an independent nation. I believe that England also has its independent colour and history, and meaning. I believe that England could produce costumes quite as queer as the kilt; I believe that England has heroes fully as untranslateable as Brian Boru, and consequently I believe that Edward VII. is, among his innumerable other functions, really King of England. If my Scotch friends insist, let us call it one of his quite obscure, unpopular, and minor titles; one of his relaxations. A little while ago he was Duke of Cornwall; but for a family accident he might still have been King of Hanover. Nor do I think that we should blame the simple Cornishmen if they spoke of him in a rhetorical moment by his Cornish title, nor the well-meaning Hanoverians if they classed him with Hanoverian Princes.
Now it so happens that in the passage complained of I said the King of England merely because I meant the King of England. I was speaking strictly and especially of English Kings, of Kings in the tradition of the old Kings of England. I wrote as an English nationalist keenly conscious of the sacred boundary of the Tweed that keeps (or used to keep) our ancient enemies at bay. I wrote as an English nationalist resolved for one wild moment to throw off the tyranny of the Scotch and Irish who govern and oppress my country. I felt that England was at least spiritually guarded against these surrounding nationalities. I dreamed that the Tweed was guarded by the ghosts of Scropes and Percys; I dreamed that St. George’s Channel was guarded by St. George. And in this insular security I spoke deliberately and specifically of the King of England, of the representative of the Tudors and Plantagenets. It is true that the two Kings of England, of whom I especially spoke, Charles II. and George III., had both an alien origin, not very recent and not very remote. Charles II. came of a family originally Scotch. George III. came of a family originally German. But the same, so far as that goes, could be said of the English royal houses when England stood quite alone. The Plantagenets were originally a French family. The Tudors were originally a Welsh family. But I was not talking of the amount of English sentiment in the English Kings. I was talking of the amount of English sentiment in the English treatment and popularity of the English Kings. With that Ireland and Scotland have nothing whatever to do.
Charles II. may, for all I know, have not only been King of Scotland; he may, by virtue of his temper and ancestry, have been a Scotch King of Scotland. There was something Scotch about his combination of clear-headedness with sensuality. There was something Scotch about his combination of doing what he liked with knowing what he was doing. But I was not talking of the personality of Charles, which may have been Scotch. I was talking of the popularity of Charles, which was certainly English. One thing is quite certain: whether or no he ever ceased to be a Scotch man, he ceased as soon as he conveniently could to be a Scotch King. He had actually tried the experiment of being a national ruler north of the Tweed, and his people liked him as little as he liked them. Of Presbyterianism, of the Scottish religion, he left on record the exquisitely English judgment that it was “no religion for a gentleman.” His popularity then was purely English; his royalty was purely English; and I was using the words with the utmost narrowness and deliberation when I spoke of this particular popularity and royalty as the popularity and royalty of a King of England. I said of the English people specially that they like to pick up the King’s crown when he has dropped it. I do not feel at all sure that this does apply to the Scotch or the Irish. I think that the Irish would knock his crown off for him. I think that the Scotch would keep it for him after they had picked it up.
For my part, I should be inclined to adopt quite the opposite method of asserting nationality. Why should good Scotch nationalists call Edward VII. the King of Britain? They ought to call him King Edward I. of Scotland. What is Britain? Where is Britain? There is no such place. There never was a nation of Britain; there never was a King of Britain; unless perhaps Vortigern or Uther Pendragon had a taste for the title. If we are to develop our Monarchy, I should be altogether in favour of developing it along the line of local patriotism and of local proprietorship in the King. I think that the Londoners ought to call him the King of London, and the Liverpudlians ought to call him the King of Liverpool. I do not go so far as to say that the people of Birmingham ought to call Edward VII. the King of Birmingham; for that would be high treason to a holier and more established power. But I think we might read in the papers: “The King of Brighton left Brighton at half-past two this afternoon,” and then immediately afterwards, “The King of Worthing entered Worthing at ten minutes past three.” Or, “The people of Margate bade a reluctant farewell to the popular King of Margate this morning,” and then, “His Majesty the King of Ramsgate returned to his country and capital this afternoon after his long sojourn in strange lands.” It might be pointed out that by a curious coincidence the departure of the King of Oxford occurred a very short time before the triumphal arrival of the King of Reading. I cannot imagine any method which would more increase the kindly and normal relations between the Sovereign and his people. Nor do I think that such a method would be in any sense a depreciation of the royal dignity; for, as a matter of fact, it would put the King upon the same platform with the gods. The saints, the most exalted of human figures, were also the most local. It was exactly the men whom we most easily connected with heaven whom we also most easily connected with earth.
EDOARDO VII E LA SCOZIA
Ho ricevuto una rimostranza seria, e per me, almeno, assai autorevole, da parte della Scottish Patriotic Association. Pare che di recente io abbia parlato di Edoardo VII di Gran Bretagna e d’Irlanda, Re, Difensore della Fede, sotto l’orribile designazione di Re d’Inghilterra. La Scottish Patriotic Association richiama la mia attenzione sul fatto che, per le disposizioni dell’Atto di Unione e per la tradizione della nazionalità, il monarca andrebbe indicato come Re di Britannia. Il colpo così vibratomi riesce tanto più doloroso in quanto è particolarmente ingiusto. Io credo nella realtà delle nazionalità indipendenti sotto la Corona britannica con assai maggiore passione e convinzione di qualunque altro inglese colto di mia conoscenza. Sono del tutto certo che la Scozia è una nazione; sono del tutto certo che la nazionalità è la chiave della Scozia; sono del tutto certo che tutto il nostro successo con la Scozia è dovuto al fatto che nello spirito l’abbiamo trattata come una nazione. Sono del tutto certo che l’Irlanda è una nazione; sono del tutto certo che la nazionalità è la chiave dell’Irlanda; sono del tutto certo che tutto il nostro fallimento in Irlanda è nato dal fatto che nello spirito non abbiamo voluto trattarla come una nazione. Sarebbe difficile trovare, persino fra gli innumerevoli esempi che esistono, una prova più forte dell’importanza immensamente superiore del sentimento rispetto a ciò che si chiama praticità, di questo caso delle due nazioni sorelle. Non è che abbiamo incoraggiato uno scozzese a essere ricco; non è che abbiamo incoraggiato uno scozzese a essere attivo; non è che abbiamo incoraggiato uno scozzese a essere libero. È che abbiamo, in modo del tutto preciso, incoraggiato uno scozzese a essere scozzese.
Un’impressione vaga, ma vivida, si riceveva da tutti i nostri scrittori di storia, di filosofia e di retorica: che l’elemento scozzese fosse qualcosa di realmente prezioso in sé, qualcosa che perfino gli inglesi erano costretti a riconoscere e a rispettare. Se mai ammettevamo la bellezza dell’Irlanda, era come qualcosa che poteva essere amato da un inglese ma che difficilmente poteva essere rispettato persino da un irlandese. Uno scozzese poteva essere orgoglioso della Scozia; a un irlandese bastava poter voler bene all’Irlanda. Il nostro successo con le due nazioni è stato esattamente proporzionato all’incoraggiamento che abbiamo dato alla loro emozione nazionale indipendente; quella che non abbiamo voluto trattare come nazione ha sola prodotto Nazionalisti. L’unica nazione che non abbiamo voluto riconoscere come nazione in teoria è quella che siamo stati costretti a riconoscere come nazione in armi. La Scottish Patriotic Association non ha alcun bisogno di richiamare la mia attenzione sull’importanza del distinto sentimento nazionale o sulla necessità di mantenere il Confine come una linea sacra. Il caso è provato in modo più che sufficiente dalla storia positiva della Scozia. Il posto della lealtà scozzese verso l’Inghilterra è stato preso dall’ammirazione inglese per la Scozia. Non hanno bisogno d’invidiarci la nostra preminenza titolare, quando noi sembriamo invidiare a loro la loro separazione.
Desidero rendere assai chiara la mia intera simpatia per il sentimento nazionale della Scottish Patriotic Association. Ma desidero anche rendere chiaro questo confronto oltremodo illuminante fra la sorte del patriottismo scozzese e di quello irlandese. Nella vita sono sempre i piccoli fatti che esprimono le grandi emozioni, e se gli inglesi una volta rispettassero l’Irlanda come rispettano la Scozia, ciò verrebbe fuori in cento piccoli modi. Per esempio, vi sono reggimenti scelti nell’Esercito britannico che portano il kilt: il kilt che, come dice Macaulay con perfetta verità, era considerato da nove scozzesi su dieci come l’abito di un ladro. Gli ufficiali delle Highlands portano una versione dall’elsa d’argento dell’antico e barbaro spadone gaelico dall’elsa a paniere, che spaccò i crani di tanti soldati inglesi a Killiecrankie e a Prestonpans. Quando avrete nell’Esercito britannico un reggimento di uomini che porta ornamentali shillelagh d’argento, allora avrete fatto la stessa cosa per l’Irlanda, e non prima; oppure quando pronuncerete il nome di Brian Boru con la stessa intonazione di quello di Bruce.
Si consideri dunque che io abbia reso del tutto chiaro come io creda, con una intensità del tutto particolare, nella considerazione indipendente della Scozia e dell’Irlanda come distinte dall’Inghilterra. Credo che, nel senso proprio delle parole, la Scozia sia una nazione indipendente, anche se Edoardo VII è il Re di Scozia. Credo che, nel senso proprio delle parole, l’Irlanda sia una nazione indipendente, anche se Edoardo VII è Re d’Irlanda. Ma il fatto è che io nutro una convinzione ancora più audace e temeraria di entrambe queste. Credo che l’Inghilterra sia una nazione indipendente. Credo che anche l’Inghilterra abbia il suo colore, la sua storia, e il suo significato indipendenti. Credo che l’Inghilterra potrebbe produrre costumi altrettanto bizzarri del kilt; credo che l’Inghilterra abbia eroi pienamente intraducibili quanto Brian Boru, e di conseguenza credo che Edoardo VII sia, fra le sue innumerevoli altre funzioni, realmente Re d’Inghilterra. Se i miei amici scozzesi insistono, chiamiamolo pure uno dei suoi titoli del tutto oscuri, impopolari e minori; uno dei suoi svaghi. Poco tempo fa era Duca di Cornovaglia; se non fosse stato per un caso di famiglia, potrebbe ancora essere Re di Hannover. Né penso che dovremmo biasimare i semplici cornici se parlassero di lui, in un momento retorico, col suo titolo cornico, né i benintenzionati hannoveriani se lo annoverassero fra i Principi di Hannover.
Ora, si dà il caso che nel passo di cui ci si lamenta io abbia detto il Re d’Inghilterra semplicemente perché intendevo il Re d’Inghilterra. Parlavo in senso stretto e specifico dei Re inglesi, dei Re nella tradizione degli antichi Re d’Inghilterra. Scrivevo come un nazionalista inglese acutamente consapevole del sacro confine del Tweed che tiene (o teneva) a bada i nostri antichi nemici. Scrivevo come un nazionalista inglese risoluto, per un istante folle, a scrollarsi di dosso la tirannia degli scozzesi e degli irlandesi che governano e opprimono il mio Paese. Sentivo che l’Inghilterra era almeno spiritualmente difesa contro queste nazionalità circostanti. Sognavo che il Tweed fosse custodito dai fantasmi degli Scrope e dei Percy; sognavo che il Canale di San Giorgio fosse custodito da San Giorgio. E in questa insulare sicurezza parlai deliberatamente e specificamente del Re d’Inghilterra, del rappresentante dei Tudor e dei Plantageneti. È vero che i due Re d’Inghilterra di cui parlai in special modo, Carlo II e Giorgio III, ebbero entrambi un’origine straniera, non troppo recente e non troppo remota. Carlo II proveniva da una famiglia originariamente scozzese. Giorgio III proveniva da una famiglia originariamente tedesca. Ma lo stesso, per quel che vale, si potrebbe dire delle case reali inglesi quando l’Inghilterra stava del tutto sola. I Plantageneti erano in origine una famiglia francese. I Tudor erano in origine una famiglia gallese. Ma io non parlavo della quantità di sentimento inglese presente nei Re inglesi. Parlavo della quantità di sentimento inglese presente nel trattamento inglese e nella popolarità inglese dei Re inglesi. E con ciò l’Irlanda e la Scozia non hanno assolutamente nulla a che fare.
Carlo II può, per quel che ne so, non solo essere stato Re di Scozia; può, in virtù del suo temperamento e della sua ascendenza, essere stato uno scozzese Re di Scozia. C’era qualcosa di scozzese nella sua combinazione di lucidità mentale e sensualità. C’era qualcosa di scozzese nella sua combinazione di fare ciò che gli piaceva e di sapere ciò che faceva. Ma io non parlavo della personalità di Carlo, che può essere stata scozzese. Parlavo della popolarità di Carlo, che fu certamente inglese. Una cosa è del tutto certa: che egli cessasse o no di essere uno scozzese, cessò appena poté, comodamente, di essere un Re scozzese. Aveva effettivamente tentato l’esperimento di essere un sovrano nazionale a nord del Tweed, e il suo popolo lo amò tanto poco quanto egli amava esso. Del presbiterianesimo, della religione scozzese, lasciò a verbale quel giudizio squisitamente inglese secondo cui essa era «una religione non da gentiluomini». La sua popolarità fu dunque puramente inglese; la sua regalità fu puramente inglese; e usavo le parole con la più estrema ristrettezza e deliberazione quando parlai di questa particolare popolarità e regalità come della popolarità e della regalità di un Re d’Inghilterra. Dissi degli inglesi in special modo che a loro piace raccogliere la corona del Re quando egli l’ha lasciata cadere. Non mi sento affatto sicuro che questo valga per gli scozzesi o per gli irlandesi. Penso che gli irlandesi gli farebbero saltar via la corona dal capo. Penso che gli scozzesi gliela conserverebbero, dopo averla raccolta.
Da parte mia, sarei incline ad adottare un metodo del tutto opposto per affermare la nazionalità. Perché mai i buoni nazionalisti scozzesi dovrebbero chiamare Edoardo VII Re di Britannia? Dovrebbero chiamarlo Re Edoardo I di Scozia. Cos’è la Britannia? Dov’è la Britannia? Non esiste un luogo simile. Non ci fu mai una nazione di Britannia; non ci fu mai un Re di Britannia; a meno che forse Vortigern o Uther Pendragon non avessero un gusto per il titolo. Se dobbiamo sviluppare la nostra Monarchia, sarei del tutto favorevole a svilupparla lungo la linea del patriottismo locale e della proprietà locale del Re. Penso che i londinesi dovrebbero chiamarlo il Re di Londra, e gli abitanti di Liverpool dovrebbero chiamarlo il Re di Liverpool. Non mi spingo fino a dire che gli abitanti di Birmingham dovrebbero chiamare Edoardo VII il Re di Birmingham; ché ciò sarebbe alto tradimento verso un potere più sacro e più consolidato. Ma penso che potremmo leggere sui giornali: «Il Re di Brighton ha lasciato Brighton alle due e mezza di questo pomeriggio», e poi, immediatamente dopo, «Il Re di Worthing è entrato a Worthing alle tre e dieci». Oppure: «Gli abitanti di Margate hanno dato questa mattina un riluttante addio al popolare Re di Margate», e poi: «Sua Maestà il Re di Ramsgate ha fatto ritorno questo pomeriggio al suo Paese e alla sua capitale dopo il lungo soggiorno in terre straniere». Si potrebbe far notare che, per una curiosa coincidenza, la partenza del Re di Oxford è avvenuta assai poco tempo prima dell’arrivo trionfale del Re di Reading. Non riesco a immaginare alcun metodo che accrescerebbe maggiormente le relazioni cordiali e normali fra il Sovrano e il suo popolo. Né penso che un tale metodo sarebbe, in alcun senso, una svalutazione della dignità reale; poiché, in verità, metterebbe il Re sullo stesso piano degli dèi. I santi, le più eccelse fra le figure umane, erano anche le più locali. Erano proprio gli uomini che più facilmente collegavamo al cielo quelli che pure più facilmente collegavamo alla terra.
THOUGHTS AROUND KOEPENICK
A famous and epigrammatic author said that life copied literature; it seems clear that life really caricatures it. I suggested recently that the Germans submitted to, and even admired, a solemn and theatrical assertion of authority. A few hours after I had sent up my “copy,” I saw the first announcement of the affair of the comic Captain at Koepenick. The most absurd part of this absurd fraud (at least, to English eyes) is one which, oddly enough, has received comparatively little comment. I mean the point at which the Mayor asked for a warrant, and the Captain pointed to the bayonets of his soldiery and said. “These are my authority.” One would have thought any one would have known that no soldier would talk like that. The dupes were blamed for not knowing that the man wore the wrong cap or the wrong sash, or had his sword buckled on the wrong way; but these are technicalities which they might surely be excused for not knowing. I certainly should not know if a soldier’s sash were on inside out or his cap on behind before. But I should know uncommonly well that genuine professional soldiers do not talk like Adelphi villains and utter theatrical epigrams in praise of abstract violence.
We can see this more clearly, perhaps, if we suppose it to be the case of any other dignified and clearly distinguishable profession. Suppose a Bishop called upon me. My great modesty and my rather distant reverence for the higher clergy might lead me certainly to a strong suspicion that any Bishop who called on me was a bogus Bishop. But if I wished to test his genuineness I should not dream of attempting to do so by examining the shape of his apron or the way his gaiters were done up. I have not the remotest idea of the way his gaiters ought to be done up. A very vague approximation to an apron would probably take me in; and if he behaved like an approximately Christian gentleman he would be safe enough from my detection. But suppose the Bishop, the moment he entered the room, fell on his knees on the mat, clasped his hands, and poured out a flood of passionate and somewhat hysterical extempore prayer, I should say at once and without the smallest hesitation, “Whatever else this man is, he is not an elderly and wealthy cleric of the Church of England. They don’t do such things.” Or suppose a man came to me pretending to be a qualified doctor, and flourished a stethoscope, or what he said was a stethoscope. I am glad to say that I have not even the remotest notion of what a stethoscope looks like; so that if he flourished a musical-box or a coffee-mill it would be all one to me. But I do think that I am not exaggerating my own sagacity if I say that I should begin to suspect the doctor if on entering my room he flung his legs and arms about, crying wildly, “Health! Health! priceless gift of Nature! I possess it! I overflow with it! I yearn to impart it! Oh, the sacred rapture of imparting health!” In that case I should suspect him of being rather in a position to receive than to offer medical superintendence.
Now, it is no exaggeration at all to say that any one who has ever known any soldiers (I can only answer for English and Irish and Scotch soldiers) would find it just as easy to believe that a real Bishop would grovel on the carpet in a religious ecstasy, or that a real doctor would dance about the drawing-room to show the invigorating effects of his own medicine, as to believe that a soldier, when asked for his authority, would point to a lot of shining weapons and declare symbolically that might was right. Of course, a real soldier would go rather red in the face and huskily repeat the proper formula, whatever it was, as that he came in the King’s name.
Soldiers have many faults, but they have one redeeming merit; they are never worshippers of force. Soldiers more than any other men are taught severely and systematically that might is not right. The fact is obvious. The might is in the hundred men who obey. The right (or what is held to be right) is in the one man who commands them. They learn to obey symbols, arbitrary things, stripes on an arm, buttons on a coat, a title, a flag. These may be artificial things; they may be unreasonable things; they may, if you will, be wicked things; but they are weak things. They are not Force, and they do not look like Force. They are parts of an idea: of the idea of discipline; if you will, of the idea of tyranny; but still an idea. No soldier could possibly say that his own bayonets were his authority. No soldier could possibly say that he came in the name of his own bayonets. It would be as absurd as if a postman said that he came inside his bag. I do not, as I have said, underrate the evils that really do arise from militarism and the military ethic. It tends to give people wooden faces and sometimes wooden heads. It tends moreover (both through its specialisation and through its constant obedience) to a certain loss of real independence and strength of character. This has almost always been found when people made the mistake of turning the soldier into a statesman, under the mistaken impression that he was a strong man. The Duke of Wellington, for instance, was a strong soldier and therefore a weak statesman. But the soldier is always, by the nature of things, loyal to something. And as long as one is loyal to something one can never be a worshipper of mere force. For mere force, violence in the abstract, is the enemy of anything we love. To love anything is to see it at once under lowering skies of danger. Loyalty implies loyalty in misfortune; and when a soldier has accepted any nation’s uniform he has already accepted its defeat.
Nevertheless, it does appear to be possible in Germany for a man to point to fixed bayonets and say, “These are my authority,” and yet to convince ordinarily sane men that he is a soldier. If this is so, it does really seem to point to some habit of high-falutin’ in the German nation, such as that of which I spoke previously. It almost looks as if the advisers, and even the officials, of the German Army had become infected in some degree with the false and feeble doctrine that might is right. As this doctrine is invariably preached by physical weaklings like Nietzsche it is a very serious thing even to entertain the supposition that it is affecting men who have really to do military work. It would be the end of German soldiers to be affected by German philosophy. Energetic people use energy as a means, but only very tired people ever use energy as a reason. Athletes go in for games, because athletes desire glory. Invalids go in for calisthenics; for invalids (alone of all human beings) desire strength. So long as the German Army points to its heraldic eagle and says, “I come in the name of this fierce but fabulous animal,” the German Army will be all right. If ever it says, “I come in the name of bayonets,” the bayonets will break like glass, for only the weak exhibit strength without an aim.
At the same time, as I said before, do not let us forget our own faults. Do not let us forget them any the more easily because they are the opposite to the German faults. Modern England is too prone to present the spectacle of a person who is enormously delighted because he has not got the contrary disadvantages to his own. The Englishman is always saying “My house is not damp” at the moment when his house is on fire. The Englishman is always saying, “I have thrown off all traces of anæmia” in the middle of a fit of apoplexy. Let us always remember that if an Englishman wants to swindle English people, he does not dress up in the uniform of a soldier. If an Englishman wants to swindle English people he would as soon think of dressing up in the uniform of a messenger boy. Everything in England is done unofficially, casually, by conversations and cliques. The one Parliament that really does rule England is a secret Parliament; the debates of which must not be published— the Cabinet. The debates of the Commons are sometimes important; but only the debates in the Lobby, never the debates in the House. Journalists do control public opinion; but it is not controlled by the arguments they publish—it is controlled by the arguments between the editor and sub-editor, which they do not publish. This casualness is our English vice. It is at once casual and secret. Our public life is conducted privately. Hence it follows that if an English swindler wished to impress us, the last thing he would think of doing would be to put on a uniform. He would put on a polite slouching air and a careless, expensive suit of clothes; he would stroll up to the Mayor, be so awfully sorry to disturb him, find he had forgotten his card-case, mention, as if he were ashamed of it, that he was the Duke of Mercia, and carry the whole thing through with the air of a man who could get two hundred witnesses and two thousand retainers, but who was too tired to call any of them. And if he did it very well I strongly suspect that he would be as successful as the indefensible Captain at Koepenick.
Our tendency for many centuries past has been, not so much towards creating an aristocracy (which may or may not be a good thing in itself), as towards substituting an aristocracy for everything else. In England we have an aristocracy instead of a religion. The nobility are to the English poor what the saints and the fairies are to the Irish poor, what the large devil with a black face was to the Scotch poor—the poetry of life. In the same way in England we have an aristocracy instead of a Government. We rely on a certain good humour and education in the upper class to interpret to us our contradictory Constitution. No educated man born of woman will be quite so absurd as the system that he has to administer. In short, we do not get good laws to restrain bad people. We get good people to restrain bad laws. And last of all we in England have an aristocracy instead of an Army. We have an Army of which the officers are proud of their families and ashamed of their uniforms. If I were a king of any country whatever, and one of my officers were ashamed of my uniform, I should be ashamed of my officer. Beware, then, of the really well-bred and apologetic gentleman whose clothes are at once quiet and fashionable, whose manner is at once diffident and frank. Beware how you admit him into your domestic secrets, for he may be a bogus Earl. Or, worse still, a real one.
PENSIERI INTORNO A KOEPENICK
Un celebre autore, maestro dell’epigramma, disse che la vita copia la letteratura; a me pare evidente che la vita, in realtà, la caricaturizzi. Osservavo di recente che i tedeschi si sottomettono, e persino ammirano, una solenne e teatrale affermazione dell’autorità. Poche ore dopo aver spedito il mio «pezzo», vidi il primo annuncio della vicenda del comico Capitano di Koepenick. La parte più assurda di questa assurda impostura (almeno agli occhi di un inglese) è quella che, per quanto strano, ha ricevuto un commento relativamente scarso. Intendo il momento in cui il Sindaco chiese un mandato, e il Capitano indicò le baionette dei suoi soldati e disse: «Ecco la mia autorità». Verrebbe da pensare che chiunque avrebbe saputo che nessun soldato parlerebbe in quel modo. Si rimproverarono i gonzi di non aver notato che l’uomo portava il berretto sbagliato o la sciarpa sbagliata, o aveva la spada agganciata dalla parte scorretta; ma queste sono tecnicità che ben si può scusarli di non conoscere. Io di certo non saprei dire se la sciarpa di un soldato è indossata a rovescio o il berretto messo davanti dietro. Ma saprei benissimo, e con assoluta sicurezza, che i veri soldati di professione non parlano come i cattivi da melodramma dell’Adelphi né sfornano epigrammi teatrali in lode della violenza astratta.
Lo vediamo forse più chiaramente se immaginiamo il caso di un’altra qualunque professione dignitosa e nettamente riconoscibile. Supponiamo che un Vescovo venga a farmi visita. La mia grande modestia e la mia riverenza piuttosto distante per l’alto clero potrebbero certo indurmi al forte sospetto che ogni Vescovo che mi facesse visita fosse un Vescovo fasullo. Ma se volessi saggiarne l’autenticità, non mi sognerei di tentare l’impresa esaminando la foggia del suo grembiule o il modo in cui sono allacciate le sue ghette. Non ho la più remota idea di come debbano essere allacciate le sue ghette. Una vaghissima approssimazione a un grembiule mi trarrebbe probabilmente in inganno; e se costui si comportasse da gentiluomo all’incirca cristiano, sarebbe al sicuro dalle mie indagini. Ma supponiamo che il Vescovo, appena entrato nella stanza, cadesse in ginocchio sullo zerbino, giungesse le mani e riversasse un fiotto di appassionata e alquanto isterica preghiera improvvisata: direi subito e senza la minima esitazione: «Qualunque cosa sia costui, non è un anziano e facoltoso ecclesiastico della Chiesa d’Inghilterra. Queste cose non le fanno». Oppure supponiamo che un uomo venisse da me spacciandosi per medico qualificato e brandisse uno stetoscopio, o ciò che egli dicesse essere uno stetoscopio. Mi rallegra dire che non ho neppure la più remota nozione di che aspetto abbia uno stetoscopio; sicché, se brandisse un carillon o un macinacaffè, per me sarebbe tutt’uno. Ma credo di non esagerare la mia perspicacia se dico che comincerei a sospettare del dottore se, entrando nella mia stanza, agitasse gambe e braccia gridando come un forsennato: «Salute! Salute! dono inestimabile della Natura! Io la possiedo! Ne trabocco! Ardo dal desiderio di elargirla! Oh, il sacro rapimento di elargire la salute!». In tal caso lo sospetterei di trovarsi piuttosto nella condizione di ricevere che di offrire sorveglianza medica.
Ora, non è affatto un’esagerazione dire che chiunque abbia mai conosciuto qualche soldato (io posso rispondere soltanto per i soldati inglesi, irlandesi e scozzesi) troverebbe altrettanto facile credere che un vero Vescovo si prostri sul tappeto in estasi religiosa, o che un vero medico si metta a danzare per il salotto per mostrare gli effetti corroboranti della propria medicina, quanto credere che un soldato, richiesto della sua autorità, indichi un mucchio di armi lucenti e dichiari simbolicamente che la forza è diritto. Naturalmente, un vero soldato si farebbe piuttosto rosso in viso e ripeterebbe con voce rauca la formula d’uso, quale che fosse, dicendo per esempio che veniva nel nome del Re.
I soldati hanno molti difetti, ma hanno un merito che li riscatta: non sono mai adoratori della forza. I soldati, più di ogni altro uomo, imparano con rigore e sistematicità che la forza non è diritto. Il fatto è ovvio. La forza sta nei cento uomini che obbediscono. Il diritto (o ciò che si ritiene tale) sta nell’unico uomo che li comanda. Essi imparano a obbedire a simboli, a cose arbitrarie: galloni su un braccio, bottoni su una giubba, un titolo, una bandiera. Possono essere cose artificiali; possono essere cose irragionevoli; possono, se volete, essere cose malvagie; ma sono cose deboli. Non sono Forza, e non hanno l’aspetto della Forza. Sono parti di un’idea: dell’idea di disciplina; se volete, dell’idea di tirannia; ma pur sempre un’idea. Nessun soldato potrebbe mai dire che le proprie baionette fossero la sua autorità. Nessun soldato potrebbe mai dire di venire nel nome delle proprie baionette. Sarebbe assurdo come se un postino dicesse di venire dentro la propria sacca. Non sottovaluto, come ho detto, i mali che davvero scaturiscono dal militarismo e dall’etica militare. Esso tende a dare alla gente facce di legno e talvolta teste di legno. Tende inoltre (sia per la sua specializzazione sia per la sua costante obbedienza) a una certa perdita di reale indipendenza e forza di carattere. Ciò si è quasi sempre riscontrato quando si è commesso l’errore di trasformare il soldato in uomo di Stato, nell’errata convinzione che fosse un uomo forte. Il Duca di Wellington, per esempio, fu un forte soldato e perciò un debole uomo di Stato. Ma il soldato è sempre, per la natura stessa delle cose, fedele a qualcosa. E finché si è fedeli a qualcosa, non si può mai essere adoratori della mera forza. Poiché la mera forza, la violenza in astratto, è nemica di tutto ciò che amiamo. Amare qualcosa significa vederlo subito sotto i cieli plumbei del pericolo. La lealtà implica lealtà nella sventura; e quando un soldato ha accettato la divisa di una nazione, ne ha già accettato la sconfitta.
Ciononostante, pare davvero possibile, in Germania, che un uomo indichi le baionette inastate e dica: «Ecco la mia autorità», e riesca tuttavia a convincere uomini di ordinario buon senso che è un soldato. Se così è, ciò sembra proprio additare una qualche inclinazione all’ampollosità nella nazione tedesca, quella stessa di cui parlavo in precedenza. Sembra quasi che i consiglieri, e persino i funzionari, dell’Esercito tedesco si siano in qualche misura contagiati della falsa e fiacca dottrina secondo cui la forza è diritto. Poiché questa dottrina è invariabilmente predicata da mingherlini come Nietzsche, è cosa assai grave anche solo accarezzare la supposizione che stia intaccando uomini che devono davvero attendere all’opera militare. Sarebbe la fine dei soldati tedeschi essere intaccati dalla filosofia tedesca. Le persone energiche usano l’energia come mezzo, ma solo le persone stanchissime usano mai l’energia come ragione. Gli atleti si dedicano ai giochi perché gli atleti desiderano la gloria. Gli infermi si dedicano alla ginnastica; giacché gli infermi (soli fra tutti gli esseri umani) desiderano la forza. Finché l’Esercito tedesco indicherà la sua aquila araldica e dirà: «Vengo nel nome di questo animale feroce ma favoloso», l’Esercito tedesco andrà benissimo. Se mai dirà: «Vengo nel nome delle baionette», le baionette si spezzeranno come vetro, poiché solo i deboli ostentano la forza senza uno scopo.
Al tempo stesso, come ho detto poc’anzi, non dimentichiamo i nostri difetti. Non dimentichiamoli tanto più facilmente perché sono l’opposto dei difetti tedeschi. L’Inghilterra moderna è fin troppo incline a offrire lo spettacolo di chi si compiace enormemente di non avere gli svantaggi contrari ai propri. L’inglese va sempre dicendo «La mia casa non ha umidità» proprio nel momento in cui la sua casa va a fuoco. L’inglese va sempre dicendo «Mi sono liberato di ogni traccia di anemia» nel bel mezzo di un attacco di apoplessia. Ricordiamo sempre che se un inglese vuole truffare gli inglesi, non si travestirà da soldato. Se un inglese vuole truffare gli inglesi, gli verrebbe altrettanto in mente di travestirsi da fattorino. In Inghilterra tutto si fa in modo ufficioso, casuale, per conversazioni e cricche. L’unico Parlamento che governa davvero l’Inghilterra è un Parlamento segreto, i cui dibattiti non devono essere pubblicati: il Gabinetto. I dibattiti dei Comuni sono talora importanti; ma contano solo i dibattiti nell’atrio, mai i dibattiti nella Camera. I giornalisti controllano sì l’opinione pubblica; ma essa non è controllata dagli argomenti che pubblicano — è controllata dagli argomenti scambiati fra direttore e vicedirettore, che essi non pubblicano. Questa noncuranza è il nostro vizio inglese. È al tempo stesso casuale e segreta. La nostra vita pubblica si svolge in privato. Ne consegue che, se un truffatore inglese volesse impressionarci, l’ultima cosa che gli verrebbe in mente sarebbe indossare una divisa. Si darebbe un’aria cortese e trasandata e un abito noncurante e costoso; si avvicinerebbe con calma al Sindaco, dispiacendosi tremendamente di disturbarlo, si accorgerebbe di aver dimenticato il portabiglietti, accennerebbe, come se se ne vergognasse, di essere il Duca di Mercia, e porterebbe a termine tutta la faccenda con l’aria di chi potrebbe procurarsi duecento testimoni e duemila servitori, ma era troppo stanco per convocarne uno solo. E se lo facesse molto bene, sospetto fortemente che avrebbe lo stesso successo dell’inescusabile Capitano di Koepenick.
La nostra tendenza, da molti secoli a questa parte, è stata non tanto quella di creare un’aristocrazia (che può essere o non essere una cosa buona in sé), quanto quella di sostituire un’aristocrazia a ogni altra cosa. In Inghilterra abbiamo un’aristocrazia al posto di una religione. La nobiltà è per i poveri d’Inghilterra ciò che i santi e le fate sono per i poveri d’Irlanda, ciò che il grande diavolo dalla faccia nera era per i poveri di Scozia: la poesia della vita. Allo stesso modo, in Inghilterra abbiamo un’aristocrazia al posto di un Governo. Confidiamo in un certo buon umore e in una certa educazione della classe superiore perché ci interpreti la nostra contraddittoria Costituzione. Nessun uomo colto, nato di donna, sarà mai tanto assurdo quanto il sistema che è chiamato ad amministrare. In breve, non otteniamo buone leggi per frenare i cattivi. Otteniamo buoni uomini per frenare le cattive leggi. E, ultimo di tutti, in Inghilterra abbiamo un’aristocrazia al posto di un Esercito. Abbiamo un Esercito i cui ufficiali sono fieri delle proprie famiglie e si vergognano delle proprie divise. Se fossi re di un qualsiasi paese, e uno dei miei ufficiali si vergognasse della mia divisa, io mi vergognerei del mio ufficiale. Guardatevi, dunque, dal gentiluomo davvero beneducato e in atteggiamento di scusa, i cui abiti sono al tempo stesso sobri e alla moda, i cui modi sono al tempo stesso schivi e franchi. Guardatevi dall’ammetterlo nei vostri segreti domestici, poiché potrebbe essere un Conte fasullo. O, peggio ancora, uno vero.
THE BOY
I have no sympathy with international aggression when it is taken seriously, but I have a certain dark and wild sympathy with it when it is quite absurd. Raids are all wrong as practical politics, but they are human and imaginable as practical jokes. In fact, almost any act of ragging or violence can be forgiven on this strict condition—that it is of no use at all to anybody. If the aggressor gets anything out of it, then it is quite unpardonable. It is damned by the least hint of utility or profit. A man of spirit and breeding may brawl, but he does not steal. A gentleman knocks off his friend’s hat; but he does not annex his friend’s hat. For this reason (as Mr. Belloc has pointed out somewhere), the very militant French people have always returned after their immense raids— the raids of Godfrey the Crusader, the raids of Napoleon; “they are sucked back, having accomplished nothing but an epic.”
Sometimes I see small fragments of information in the newspapers which make my heart leap with an irrational patriotic sympathy. I have had the misfortune to be left comparatively cold by many of the enterprises and proclamations of my country in recent times. But the other day I found in the Tribune the following paragraph, which I may be permitted to set down as an example of the kind of international outrage with which I have by far the most instinctive sympathy. There is something attractive, too, in the austere simplicity with which the affair is set forth—
“Geneva, Oct. 31.
“The English schoolboy Allen, who was arrested at Lausanne railway station on Saturday, for having painted red the statue of General Jomini of Payerne, was liberated yesterday, after paying a fine of £24. Allen has proceeded to Germany, where he will continue his studies. The people of Payerne are indignant, and clamoured for his detention in prison.”
Now I have no doubt that ethics and social necessity require a contrary attitude, but I will freely confess that my first emotions on reading of this exploit were those of profound and elemental pleasure. There is something so large and simple about the operation of painting a whole stone General a bright red. Of course I can understand that the people of Payerne were indignant. They had passed to their homes at twilight through the streets of that beautiful city (or is it a province?), and they had seen against the silver ending of the sunset the grand grey figure of the hero of that land remaining to guard the town under the stars. It certainly must have been a shock to come out in the broad white morning and find a large vermilion General staring under the staring sun. I do not blame them at all for clamouring for the schoolboy’s detention in prison; I dare say a little detention in prison would do him no harm. Still, I think the immense act has something about it human and excusable; and when I endeavour to analyse the reason of this feeling I find it to lie, not in the fact that the thing was big or bold or successful, but in the fact that the thing was perfectly useless to everybody, including the person who did it. The raid ends in itself; and so Master Allen is sucked back again, having accomplished nothing but an epic.
There is one thing which, in the presence of average modern journalism, is perhaps worth saying in connection with such an idle matter as this. The morals of a matter like this are exactly like the morals of anything else; they are concerned with mutual contract, or with the rights of independent human lives. But the whole modern world, or at any rate the whole modern Press, has a perpetual and consuming terror of plain morals. Men always attempt to avoid condemning a thing upon merely moral grounds. If I beat my grandmother to death to-morrow in the middle of Battersea Park, you may be perfectly certain that people will say everything about it except the simple and fairly obvious fact that it is wrong. Some will call it insane; that is, will accuse it of a deficiency of intelligence. This is not necessarily true at all. You could not tell whether the act was unintelligent or not unless you knew my grandmother. Some will call it vulgar, disgusting, and the rest of it; that is, they will accuse it of a lack of manners. Perhaps it does show a lack of manners; but this is scarcely its most serious disadvantage. Others will talk about the loathsome spectacle and the revolting scene; that is, they will accuse it of a deficiency of art, or æsthetic beauty. This again depends on the circumstances: in order to be quite certain that the appearance of the old lady has definitely deteriorated under the process of being beaten to death, it is necessary for the philosophical critic to be quite certain how ugly she was before. Another school of thinkers will say that the action is lacking in efficiency: that it is an uneconomic waste of a good grandmother. But that could only depend on the value, which is again an individual matter. The only real point that is worth mentioning is that the action is wicked, because your grandmother has a right not to be beaten to death. But of this simple moral explanation modern journalism has, as I say, a standing fear. It will call the action anything else— mad, bestial, vulgar, idiotic, rather than call it sinful.
One example can be found in such cases as that of the prank of the boy and the statue. When some trick of this sort is played, the newspapers opposed to it always describe it as “a senseless joke.” What is the good of saying that? Every joke is a senseless joke. A joke is by its nature a protest against sense. It is no good attacking nonsense for being successfully nonsensical. Of course it is nonsensical to paint a celebrated Italian General a bright red; it is as nonsensical as “Alice in Wonderland.” It is also, in my opinion, very nearly as funny. But the real answer to the affair is not to say that it is nonsensical or even to say that it is not funny, but to point out that it is wrong to spoil statues which belong to other people. If the modern world will not insist on having some sharp and definite moral law, capable of resisting the counter-attractions of art and humour, the modern world will simply be given over as a spoil to anybody who can manage to do a nasty thing in a nice way. Every murderer who can murder entertainingly will be allowed to murder. Every burglar who burgles in really humorous attitudes will burgle as much as he likes.
IL RAGAZZO
Non provo alcuna simpatia per l’aggressione internazionale quando è presa sul serio, ma provo una certa oscura e selvaggia simpatia per essa quando è del tutto assurda. Le scorrerie sono senz’altro sbagliate come politica pratica, ma sono umane e concepibili come scherzi pratici. Anzi, quasi ogni atto di baldoria o di violenza può essere perdonato a questa rigorosa condizione: che non serva assolutamente a nessuno. Se l’aggressore ne ricava qualcosa, allora la cosa diventa del tutto imperdonabile. È dannata dal minimo sentore di utilità o di profitto. Un uomo di spirito e di buona educazione può fare a botte, ma non ruba. Un gentiluomo fa saltare il cappello dalla testa dell’amico, ma non se lo annette. Per questa ragione (come Mr. Belloc ha osservato in qualche luogo) il popolo francese, così battagliero, è sempre tornato indietro dopo le sue immense scorrerie: le scorrerie di Goffredo il Crociato, le scorrerie di Napoleone; «vengono risucchiati indietro, non avendo compiuto nulla se non un poema epico».
A volte scorgo sui giornali piccoli frammenti d’informazione che mi fanno balzare il cuore per un’irrazionale simpatia patriottica. Ho avuto la sventura di essere lasciato relativamente freddo da molte delle imprese e dei proclami del mio paese in tempi recenti. Ma l’altro giorno ho trovato nel Tribune il seguente trafiletto, che mi sia concesso riportare come esempio di quel genere di oltraggio internazionale verso cui nutro di gran lunga la più istintiva simpatia. C’è qualcosa di attraente, per giunta, nell’austera semplicità con cui la faccenda viene esposta:
«Ginevra, 31 ottobre.
«Lo scolaro inglese Allen, che è stato arrestato alla stazione ferroviaria di Losanna sabato scorso, per aver dipinto di rosso la statua del generale Jomini di Payerne, è stato rimesso in libertà ieri, dopo aver pagato un’ammenda di 24 sterline. Allen si è recato in Germania, dove proseguirà i suoi studi. La popolazione di Payerne è indignata, e ha reclamato a gran voce la sua reclusione in carcere».
Ora, non ho alcun dubbio che l’etica e la necessità sociale esigano un atteggiamento contrario, ma confesserò senza reticenze che le mie prime emozioni nel leggere di questa impresa furono quelle di un piacere profondo ed elementare. C’è qualcosa di così ampio e semplice nell’operazione di dipingere un intero generale di pietra di un bel rosso vivo. Naturalmente posso capire che la popolazione di Payerne fosse indignata. Erano rincasati al crepuscolo attraverso le vie di quella bella città (o è una provincia?), e avevano visto stagliarsi contro l’orlo argenteo del tramonto la grande figura grigia dell’eroe di quella terra, rimasto a vegliare sulla cittadina sotto le stelle. Dev’essere stato certo un colpo uscire nel pieno chiarore del mattino e trovare un enorme generale vermiglio che fissava l’aria sotto il sole abbagliante. Non li biasimo affatto per aver reclamato a gran voce la reclusione dello scolaro in carcere; oserei dire che un po’ di reclusione in carcere non gli farebbe alcun male. Eppure penso che quell’atto smisurato abbia in sé qualcosa di umano e di scusabile; e quando mi sforzo di analizzare la ragione di questo sentimento, la trovo non nel fatto che la cosa fosse grande, o audace, o riuscita, ma nel fatto che la cosa fosse perfettamente inutile a chiunque, compreso colui che l’aveva compiuta. La scorreria si esaurisce in se stessa; e così il giovane Allen viene risucchiato indietro, non avendo compiuto nulla se non un poema epico.
C’è una cosa che, al cospetto del giornalismo medio dei nostri giorni, vale forse la pena di dire a proposito di una faccenda tanto oziosa quanto questa. La morale di una faccenda come questa è esattamente come la morale di qualunque altra cosa; ha a che fare con il patto reciproco, o con i diritti di vite umane indipendenti. Ma tutto il mondo moderno, o quantomeno tutta la Stampa moderna, ha un perpetuo e divorante terrore della semplice morale. Gli uomini tentano sempre di evitare di condannare una cosa su basi meramente morali. Se domani pestassi a morte mia nonna in mezzo a Battersea Park, potete essere assolutamente certi che la gente direbbe di tutto sull’accaduto, tranne il fatto semplice e piuttosto ovvio che è sbagliato. Alcuni lo definiranno pazzesco; ossia lo accuseranno di una carenza d’intelligenza. Il che non è affatto necessariamente vero. Non si potrebbe stabilire se l’atto sia stato o meno privo d’intelligenza senza conoscere mia nonna. Altri lo definiranno volgare, disgustoso, e via dicendo; ossia lo accuseranno di una mancanza di buone maniere. Forse rivela davvero una mancanza di buone maniere; ma questo è ben lungi dall’esserne l’inconveniente più grave. Altri ancora parleranno del ripugnante spettacolo e della scena rivoltante; ossia lo accuseranno di una carenza d’arte, o di bellezza estetica. Anche questo, però, dipende dalle circostanze: per essere del tutto certi che l’aspetto dell’anziana signora sia decisamente peggiorato nel corso del processo di essere pestata a morte, occorre che il critico filosofico sia del tutto certo di quanto ella fosse brutta prima. Un’altra scuola di pensatori dirà che l’azione manca di efficienza: che è un antieconomico spreco di una buona nonna. Ma questo potrebbe dipendere soltanto dal valore, che è di nuovo una questione individuale. L’unico punto reale che valga la pena di menzionare è che l’azione è malvagia, perché vostra nonna ha il diritto di non essere pestata a morte. Ma di questa semplice spiegazione morale il giornalismo moderno ha, come dico, una perenne paura. Definirà l’azione in qualunque altro modo — folle, bestiale, volgare, idiota — piuttosto che definirla peccaminosa.
Un esempio si può trovare in casi come quello della bravata del ragazzo e della statua. Quando viene giocato un tiro di questo genere, i giornali che gli si oppongono lo descrivono sempre come «uno scherzo insensato». A che serve dire questo? Ogni scherzo è uno scherzo insensato. Uno scherzo è per sua natura una protesta contro il senso. Non serve a nulla attaccare l’insensatezza per il fatto di essere riuscita nella sua insensatezza. Naturalmente è insensato dipingere un celebre generale italiano di un bel rosso vivo; è insensato quanto «Alice nel Paese delle Meraviglie». Ed è anche, a mio parere, quasi altrettanto spassoso. Ma la vera risposta alla faccenda non è dire che è insensata, e neppure dire che non è spassosa, bensì far notare che è sbagliato deturpare statue che appartengono ad altre persone. Se il mondo moderno non insisterà nell’avere una legge morale netta e definita, capace di resistere alle contro-attrazioni dell’arte e dell’umorismo, il mondo moderno sarà semplicemente abbandonato in preda a chiunque riesca a compiere una cosa sgradevole in modo garbato. A ogni assassino capace di assassinare in modo divertente sarà consentito di assassinare. Ogni ladro che scassini in atteggiamenti davvero spiritosi scassinerà quanto gli pare.
There is another case of the thing that I mean. Why on earth do the newspapers, in describing a dynamite outrage or any other political assassination, call it a “dastardly outrage” or a cowardly outrage? It is perfectly evident that it is not dastardly in the least. It is perfectly evident that it is about as cowardly as the Christians going to the lions. The man who does it exposes himself to the chance of being torn in pieces by two thousand people. What the thing is, is not cowardly, but profoundly and detestably wicked. The man who does it is very infamous and very brave. But, again, the explanation is that our modern Press would rather appeal to physical arrogance, or to anything, rather than appeal to right and wrong.
In most of the matters of modern England, the real difficulty is that there is a negative revolution without a positive revolution. Positive aristocracy is breaking up without any particular appearance of positive democracy taking its place. The polished class is becoming less polished without becoming less of a class; the nobleman who becomes a guinea-pig keeps all his privileges but loses some of his tradition; he becomes less of a gentleman without becoming less of a nobleman. In the same way (until some recent and happy revivals) it seemed highly probable that the Church of England would cease to be a religion long before it had ceased to be a Church. And in the same way, the vulgarisation of the old, simple middle class does not even have the advantage of doing away with class distinctions; the vulgar man is always the most distinguished, for the very desire to be distinguished is vulgar.
At the same time, it must be remembered that when a class has a morality it does not follow that it is an adequate morality. The middle-class ethic was inadequate for some purposes; so is the public-school ethic, the ethic of the upper classes. On this last matter of the public schools Dr. Spenser, the Head Master of University College School, has lately made some valuable observations. But even he, I think, overstates the claim of the public schools. “The strong point of the English public schools,” he says, “has always lain in their efficiency as agencies for the formation of character and for the inculcation of the great notion of obligation which distinguishes a gentleman. On the physical and moral sides the public-school men of England are, I believe, unequalled.” And he goes on to say that it is on the mental side that they are defective. But, as a matter of fact, the public-school training is in the strict sense defective upon the moral side also; it leaves out about half of morality. Its just claim is that, like the old middle class (and the Zulus), it trains some virtues and therefore suits some people for some situations. Put an old English merchant to serve in an army and he would have been irritated and clumsy. Put the men from English public schools to rule Ireland, and they make the greatest hash in human history.
Touching the morality of the public schools, I will take one point only, which is enough to prove the case. People have got into their heads an extraordinary idea that English public-school boys and English youth generally are taught to tell the truth. They are taught absolutely nothing of the kind. At no English public school is it even suggested, except by accident, that it is a man’s duty to tell the truth. What is suggested is something entirely different: that it is a man’s duty not to tell lies. So completely does this mistake soak through all civilisation that we hardly ever think even of the difference between the two things. When we say to a child, “You must tell the truth,” we do merely mean that he must refrain from verbal inaccuracies. But the thing we never teach at all is the general duty of telling the truth, of giving a complete and fair picture of anything we are talking about, of not misrepresenting, not evading, not suppressing, not using plausible arguments that we know to be unfair, not selecting unscrupulously to prove an ex parte case, not telling all the nice stories about the Scotch, and all the nasty stories about the Irish, not pretending to be disinterested when you are really angry, not pretending to be angry when you are really only avaricious. The one thing that is never taught by any chance in the atmosphere of public schools is exactly that—that there is a whole truth of things, and that in knowing it and speaking it we are happy.
If any one has the smallest doubt of this neglect of truth in public schools he can kill his doubt with one plain question. Can any one on earth believe that if the seeing and telling of the whole truth were really one of the ideals of the English governing class, there could conceivably exist such a thing as the English party system? Why, the English party system is founded upon the principle that telling the whole truth does not matter. It is founded upon the principle that half a truth is better than no politics. Our system deliberately turns a crowd of men who might be impartial into irrational partisans. It teaches some of them to tell lies and all of them to believe lies. It gives every man an arbitrary brief that he has to work up as best he may and defend as best he can. It turns a room full of citizens into a room full of barristers. I know that it has many charms and virtues, fighting and good-fellowship; it has all the charms and virtues of a game. I only say that it would be a stark impossibility in a nation which believed in telling the truth.
C’è un altro caso della cosa che intendo. Perché mai i giornali, nel descrivere un attentato dinamitardo o qualsiasi altro assassinio politico, lo chiamano «vile oltraggio» o oltraggio codardo? È perfettamente evidente che non è affatto vile. È perfettamente evidente che è più o meno codardo quanto i cristiani che andavano incontro ai leoni. L’uomo che lo compie si espone all’eventualità di essere fatto a pezzi da duemila persone. La cosa non è codarda, bensì profondamente e detestabilmente malvagia. L’uomo che la compie è infamissimo e coraggiosissimo. Ma, di nuovo, la spiegazione è che la nostra Stampa moderna preferirebbe fare appello all’arroganza fisica, o a qualsiasi altra cosa, piuttosto che fare appello al giusto e all’ingiusto.
Nella maggior parte delle faccende dell’Inghilterra moderna, la vera difficoltà è che c’è una rivoluzione negativa senza una rivoluzione positiva. L’aristocrazia positiva si sta disgregando senza che appaia in particolare una democrazia positiva a prenderne il posto. La classe raffinata sta diventando meno raffinata senza diventare meno una classe; il nobiluomo che diventa un cavia da laboratorio conserva tutti i suoi privilegi ma perde qualcosa della sua tradizione; diventa meno un gentiluomo senza diventare meno un nobiluomo. Allo stesso modo (fino a certe recenti e felici rinascite) sembrava altamente probabile che la Chiesa d’Inghilterra avrebbe cessato di essere una religione molto prima di aver cessato di essere una Chiesa. E allo stesso modo, la volgarizzazione della vecchia, semplice classe media non ha nemmeno il vantaggio di abolire le distinzioni di classe; l’uomo volgare è sempre il più distinto, giacché il desiderio stesso di distinguersi è volgare.
Al tempo stesso, bisogna ricordare che quando una classe ha una morale non ne consegue che sia una morale adeguata. L’etica della classe media era inadeguata a certi scopi; e altrettanto lo è l’etica delle scuole pubbliche, l’etica delle classi superiori. Su quest’ultima questione delle scuole pubbliche il dottor Spenser, preside della University College School, ha di recente formulato alcune preziose osservazioni. Ma anche lui, credo, sopravvaluta le pretese delle scuole pubbliche. «Il punto di forza delle scuole pubbliche inglesi», dice, «è sempre stato la loro efficienza come agenzie per la formazione del carattere e per l’inculcazione di quella grande nozione di obbligo che distingue un gentiluomo. Sul versante fisico e morale gli uomini formatisi nelle scuole pubbliche d’Inghilterra sono, io credo, senza pari». E prosegue affermando che è sul versante intellettuale che essi risultano difettosi. Ma, in realtà, l’educazione delle scuole pubbliche è in senso stretto difettosa anche sul versante morale; tralascia all’incirca metà della morale. La sua legittima pretesa è che, come la vecchia classe media (e gli Zulù), essa educa alcune virtù e perciò rende alcune persone adatte ad alcune situazioni. Mettete un vecchio mercante inglese a servire in un esercito e sarebbe stato irritabile e goffo. Mettete gli uomini usciti dalle scuole pubbliche inglesi a governare l’Irlanda, e combinano il più grande pasticcio della storia umana.
Toccando la morale delle scuole pubbliche, prenderò un solo punto, che basta a dimostrare la tesi. La gente si è ficcata in testa la straordinaria idea che ai ragazzi delle scuole pubbliche inglesi e alla gioventù inglese in generale venga insegnato a dire la verità. Non gli viene insegnato assolutamente nulla del genere. In nessuna scuola pubblica inglese si suggerisce nemmeno, se non per caso, che sia dovere di un uomo dire la verità. Ciò che si suggerisce è qualcosa di interamente diverso: che sia dovere di un uomo non dire menzogne. Tanto completamente questo equivoco impregna l’intera civiltà, che quasi mai pensiamo perfino alla differenza tra le due cose. Quando diciamo a un bambino: «Devi dire la verità», intendiamo semplicemente che deve astenersi dalle inesattezze verbali. Ma la cosa che non insegniamo mai è il dovere generale di dire la verità, di offrire un quadro completo e onesto di qualunque cosa stiamo trattando, di non travisare, non eludere, non sopprimere, non ricorrere ad argomenti plausibili che sappiamo essere sleali, non selezionare senza scrupoli per provare una causa di parte, non raccontare tutte le storie graziose sugli scozzesi e tutte le storie odiose sugli irlandesi, non fingersi disinteressati quando in realtà si è adirati, non fingersi adirati quando in realtà si è soltanto avidi. L’unica cosa che non viene mai insegnata, per nessun caso, nell’atmosfera delle scuole pubbliche è esattamente questa: che esiste un’intera verità delle cose, e che nel conoscerla e nel dirla siamo felici.
Se qualcuno nutre il minimo dubbio su questa negligenza della verità nelle scuole pubbliche, può uccidere il proprio dubbio con una sola, semplice domanda. Può qualcuno al mondo credere che, se il vedere e il dire dell’intera verità fossero davvero uno degli ideali della classe dirigente inglese, potrebbe concepibilmente esistere una cosa come il sistema inglese dei partiti? Ma se il sistema inglese dei partiti è fondato sul principio che dire l’intera verità non conta nulla! È fondato sul principio che mezza verità è meglio di nessuna politica. Il nostro sistema trasforma deliberatamente una folla di uomini che potrebbero essere imparziali in fazioni irrazionali. Insegna ad alcuni di loro a dire menzogne e a tutti loro a credere alle menzogne. Assegna a ogni uomo un incarico arbitrario che egli deve elaborare come meglio può e difendere come meglio riesce. Trasforma una stanza piena di cittadini in una stanza piena di avvocati. So che ha molte grazie e virtù, la lotta e il cameratismo; ha tutte le grazie e le virtù di un gioco. Dico soltanto che sarebbe una pura impossibilità in una nazione che credesse nel dire la verità.
LIMERICKS AND COUNSELS OF PERFECTION
It is customary to remark that modern problems cannot easily be attacked because they are so complex. In many cases I believe it is really because they are so simple. Nobody would believe in such simplicity of scoundrelism even if it were pointed out. People would say that the truth was a charge of mere melodramatic villainy; forgetting that nearly all villains really are melodramatic. Thus, for instance, we say that some good measures are frustrated or some bad officials kept in power by the press and confusion of public business; whereas very often the reason is simple healthy human bribery. And thus especially we say that the Yellow Press is exaggerative, over-emotional, illiterate, and anarchical, and a hundred other long words; whereas the only objection to it is that it tells lies. We waste our fine intellects in finding exquisite phraseology to fit a man, when in a well-ordered society we ought to be finding handcuffs to fit him.
This criticism of the modern type of righteous indignation must have come into many people’s minds, I think, in reading Dr. Horton’s eloquent expressions of disgust at the “corrupt Press,” especially in connection with the Limerick craze. Upon the Limerick craze itself, I fear Dr. Horton will not have much effect; such fads perish before one has had time to kill them. But Dr. Horton’s protest may really do good if it enables us to come to some clear understanding about what is really wrong with the popular Press, and which means it might be useful and which permissible to use for its reform. We do not want a censorship of the Press; but we are long past talking about that. At present it is not we that silence the Press; it is the Press that silences us. It is not a case of the Commonwealth settling how much the editors shall say; it is a case of the editors settling how much the Commonwealth shall know. If we attack the Press we shall be rebelling, not repressing. But shall we attack it?
Now it is just here that the chief difficulty occurs. It arises from the very rarity and rectitude of those minds which commonly inaugurate such crusades. I have the warmest respect for Dr. Horton’s thirst after righteousness; but it has always seemed to me that his righteousness would be more effective without his refinement. The curse of the Nonconformists is their universal refinement. They dimly connect being good with being delicate, and even dapper; with not being grotesque or loud or violent; with not sitting down on one’s hat. Now it is always a pleasure to be loud and violent, and sometimes it is a duty. Certainly it has nothing to do with sin; a man can be loudly and violently virtuous—nay, he can be loudly and violently saintly, though that is not the type of saintliness that we recognise in Dr. Horton. And as for sitting on one’s hat, if it is done for any sublime object (as, for instance, to amuse the children), it is obviously an act of very beautiful self-sacrifice, the destruction and surrender of the symbol of personal dignity upon the shrine of public festivity. Now it will not do to attack the modern editor merely for being unrefined, like the great mass of mankind. We must be able to say that he is immoral, not that he is undignified or ridiculous. I do not mind the Yellow Press editor sitting on his hat. My only objection to him begins to dawn when he attempts to sit on my hat; or, indeed (as is at present the case), when he proceeds to sit on my head.
But in reading between the lines of Dr. Horton’s invective one continually feels that he is not only angry with the popular Press for being unscrupulous: he is partly angry with the popular Press for being popular. He is not only irritated with Limericks for causing a mean money-scramble; he is also partly irritated with Limericks for being Limericks. The enormous size of the levity gets on his nerves, like the glare and blare of Bank Holiday. Now this is a motive which, however human and natural, must be strictly kept out of the way. It takes all sorts to make a world; and it is not in the least necessary that everybody should have that love of subtle and unobtrusive perfections in the matter of manners or literature which does often go with the type of the ethical idealist. It is not in the least desirable that everybody should be earnest. It is highly desirable that everybody should be honest, but that is a thing that can go quite easily with a coarse and cheerful character. But the ineffectualness of most protests against the abuse of the Press has been very largely due to the instinct of democracy (and the instinct of democracy is like the instinct of one woman, wild but quite right) that the people who were trying to purify the Press were also trying to refine it; and to this the democracy very naturally and very justly objected. We are justified in enforcing good morals, for they belong to all mankind; but we are not justified in enforcing good manners, for good manners always mean our own manners. We have no right to purge the popular Press of all that we think vulgar or trivial. Dr. Horton may possibly loathe and detest Limericks just as I loathe and detest riddles; but I have no right to call them flippant and unprofitable; there are wild people in the world who like riddles. I am so afraid of this movement passing off into mere formless rhetoric and platform passion that I will even come close to the earth and lay down specifically some of the things that, in my opinion, could be, and ought to be, done to reform the Press.
First, I would make a law, if there is none such at present, by which an editor, proved to have published false news without reasonable verification, should simply go to prison. This is not a question of influences or atmospheres; the thing could be carried out as easily and as practically as the punishment of thieves and murderers. Of course there would be the usual statement that the guilt was that of a subordinate. Let the accused editor have the right of proving this if he can; if he does, let the subordinate be tried and go to prison. Two or three good rich editors and proprietors properly locked up would take the sting out of the Yellow Press better than centuries of Dr. Horton.
Second, it’s impossible to pass over altogether the most unpleasant, but the most important part of this problem. I will deal with it as distantly as possible. I do not believe there is any harm whatever in reading about murders; rather, if anything, good; for the thought of death operates very powerfully with the poor in the creation of brotherhood and a sense of human dignity. I do not believe there is a pennyworth of harm in the police news, as such. Even divorce news, though contemptible enough, can really in most cases be left to the discretion of grown people; and how far children get hold of such things is a problem for the home and not for the nation. But there is a certain class of evils which a healthy man or woman can actually go through life without knowing anything about at all. These, I say, should be stamped and blackened out of every newspaper with the thickest black of the Russian censor. Such cases should either be always tried in camera or reporting them should be a punishable offence. The common weakness of Nature and the sins that flesh is heir to we can leave people to find in newspapers. Men can safely see in the papers what they have already seen in the streets. They may safely find in their journals what they have already found in themselves. But we do not want the imaginations of rational and decent people clouded with the horrors of some obscene insanity which has no more to do with human life than the man in Bedlam who thinks he is a chicken. And, if this vile matter is admitted, let it be simply with a mention of the Latin or legal name of the crime, and with no details whatever. As it is, exactly the reverse is true. Papers are permitted to terrify and darken the fancy of the young with innumerable details, but not permitted to state in clean legal language what the thing is about. They are allowed to give any fact about the thing except the fact that it is a sin.
Third, I would do my best to introduce everywhere the practice of signed articles. Those who urge the advantages of anonymity are either people who do not realise the special peril of our time or they are people who are profiting by it. It is true, but futile, for instance, to say that there is something noble in being nameless when a whole corporate body is bent on a consistent aim: as in an army or men building a cathedral. The point of modern newspapers is that there is no such corporate body and common aim; but each man can use the authority of the paper to further his own private fads and his own private finances.
LIMERICK E CONSIGLI DI PERFEZIONE
È usanza osservare che i problemi moderni non si lasciano facilmente affrontare perché sono troppo complessi. In molti casi, io credo, è piuttosto perché sono troppo semplici. Nessuno crederebbe a una simile semplicità della furfanteria, nemmeno se gliela si additasse. La gente direbbe che la verità è un’accusa di mera scelleratezza melodrammatica; dimenticando che quasi tutti i furfanti sono davvero melodrammatici. Così, per esempio, diciamo che certe buone misure vengono frustrate o certi cattivi funzionari mantenuti al potere dalla stampa e dalla confusione degli affari pubblici; mentre assai spesso la ragione è la buona, sana corruzione umana. E così soprattutto diciamo che la stampa scandalistica è esagerata, sovreccitata, illetterata, anarchica, e altri cento paroloni; mentre l’unica obiezione da farle è che dice bugie. Sprechiamo i nostri begli ingegni nel trovare una fraseologia squisita che si attagli a un uomo, quando in una società ben ordinata dovremmo trovare le manette che gli si attagliano.
Questa critica al moderno tipo di giusta indignazione dev’essere venuta in mente a molti, credo, leggendo le eloquenti espressioni di disgusto del dottor Horton verso la «stampa corrotta», specie in rapporto alla mania del Limerick. Sulla mania del Limerick in sé, temo che il dottor Horton non avrà grande effetto; simili mode periscono prima che si abbia il tempo di ucciderle. Ma la protesta del dottor Horton potrebbe davvero far del bene, se ci mettesse in grado di giungere a una chiara intesa su ciò che davvero non va nella stampa popolare, e su quali mezzi possano essere utili e quali leciti da impiegare per la sua riforma. Non vogliamo una censura della stampa; ma è da un pezzo che abbiamo smesso di parlarne. Attualmente non siamo noi a far tacere la stampa; è la stampa che fa tacere noi. Non è il caso in cui la Comunità stabilisce quanto gli editori debbano dire; è il caso in cui gli editori stabiliscono quanto la Comunità debba sapere. Se attacchiamo la stampa ci ribelleremo, non reprimeremo. Ma la attaccheremo?
Ora è proprio qui che sorge la difficoltà principale. Nasce dalla rarità stessa e dalla rettitudine di quelle menti che sogliono inaugurare simili crociate. Ho il più caldo rispetto per la sete di giustizia del dottor Horton; ma mi è sempre parso che la sua giustizia sarebbe più efficace senza la sua raffinatezza. La maledizione dei Non-conformisti è la loro universale raffinatezza. Confusamente associano l’esser buoni all’esser delicati, e persino azzimati; al non esser grotteschi o rumorosi o violenti; al non sedersi sul proprio cappello. Ora, è sempre un piacere essere rumorosi e violenti, e talvolta è un dovere. Certo non ha nulla a che fare col peccato; un uomo può essere rumorosamente e violentemente virtuoso — anzi, può essere rumorosamente e violentemente santo, benché non sia quel tipo di santità che riconosciamo nel dottor Horton. E quanto al sedersi sul proprio cappello, se lo si fa per un qualche sublime scopo (come, per esempio, divertire i bambini), è evidentemente un atto di bellissimo sacrificio di sé, la distruzione e resa del simbolo della dignità personale sull’altare della festosità pubblica. Ora, non va bene attaccare il moderno editore soltanto perché è privo di raffinatezza, come la gran massa dell’umanità. Dobbiamo poter dire che è immorale, non che è indegno o ridicolo. Non m’importa che l’editore della stampa scandalistica si sieda sul proprio cappello. La mia unica obiezione contro di lui comincia ad albeggiare quando egli tenta di sedersi sul mio cappello; o, invero (com’è attualmente il caso), quando procede a sedersi sulla mia testa.
Ma leggendo tra le righe dell’invettiva del dottor Horton si avverte di continuo che egli non è adirato con la stampa popolare soltanto perché è priva di scrupoli: è in parte adirato con la stampa popolare perché è popolare. Non è soltanto irritato coi Limerick perché provocano una meschina baruffa per il denaro; è anche in parte irritato coi Limerick perché sono Limerick. La mole enorme di quella frivolezza gli dà sui nervi, come il chiasso e lo sfarzo di un giorno di festa. Ora questo è un movente che, per quanto umano e naturale, dev’essere tenuto rigorosamente in disparte. Ci vuole di tutto per fare un mondo; e non è affatto necessario che chiunque nutra quell’amore per le sottili e discrete perfezioni in fatto di maniere o di letteratura che spesso accompagna il tipo dell’idealista etico. Non è affatto desiderabile che tutti siano solenni. È altamente desiderabile che tutti siano onesti, ma è cosa che può benissimo andare d’accordo con un carattere rozzo e allegro. Ma l’inefficacia della maggior parte delle proteste contro l’abuso della stampa è dovuta in gran parte all’istinto della democrazia (e l’istinto della democrazia è come l’istinto di una donna, selvaggio ma del tutto giusto) che avvertiva come coloro che cercavano di purificare la stampa cercassero anche di raffinarla; e a ciò la democrazia assai naturalmente e assai giustamente si opponeva. Siamo giustificati nell’imporre la buona morale, perché appartiene a tutta l’umanità; ma non siamo giustificati nell’imporre le buone maniere, perché le buone maniere significano sempre le nostre proprie maniere. Non abbiamo alcun diritto di purgare la stampa popolare di tutto ciò che noi giudichiamo volgare o triviale. Il dottor Horton può forse aborrire e detestare i Limerick, così come io aborro e detesto gli indovinelli; ma non ho alcun diritto di chiamarli frivoli e inutili; vi sono al mondo persone stravaganti a cui gli indovinelli piacciono. Ho tanta paura che questo movimento sfumi in mera retorica informe e in passione da comizio, che scenderò persino coi piedi per terra e stabilirò specificamente alcune delle cose che, a mio parere, potrebbero e dovrebbero esser fatte per riformare la stampa.
Primo: farei una legge, se al presente non ce n’è alcuna, per cui un editore, provato colpevole di aver pubblicato notizie false senza ragionevole verifica, dovrebbe semplicemente andare in prigione. Non è questione di influssi o di atmosfere; la cosa potrebbe attuarsi con la stessa facilità e praticità della punizione dei ladri e degli assassini. Naturalmente si avrebbe la consueta dichiarazione che la colpa era di un subalterno. Si conceda all’editore accusato il diritto di provarlo, se può; se ci riesce, sia il subalterno processato e vada in prigione. Due o tre buoni editori e proprietari ben ricchi, debitamente messi al fresco, toglierebbero il pungiglione alla stampa scandalistica meglio di secoli di dottor Horton.
Secondo: è impossibile sorvolare del tutto sulla parte più sgradevole, ma più importante, di questo problema. Lo tratterò il più distaccatamente possibile. Non credo che vi sia alcun male nel leggere di omicidi; piuttosto, semmai, del bene; poiché il pensiero della morte opera assai potentemente nei poveri per creare fratellanza e senso della dignità umana. Non credo che vi sia un soldo di male nella cronaca nera in quanto tale. Persino le notizie di divorzio, per quanto abbastanza spregevoli, possono nella maggior parte dei casi essere lasciate alla discrezione delle persone adulte; e fino a che punto i bambini vengano a conoscenza di simili cose è un problema per la famiglia e non per la nazione. Ma vi è una certa classe di mali che un uomo o una donna sani possono realmente attraversare l’intera vita senza mai saperne nulla. Questi, dico, dovrebbero essere cancellati e anneriti da ogni giornale col nero più fitto del censore russo. Simili casi dovrebbero essere sempre giudicati a porte chiuse, oppure riferirli dovrebbe costituire reato punibile. Le comuni debolezze della natura e i peccati di cui la carne è erede possiamo pur lasciare che la gente li trovi nei giornali. Gli uomini possono senza pericolo vedere nei giornali ciò che hanno già visto per le strade. Possono senza pericolo trovare nelle loro gazzette ciò che hanno già trovato in sé stessi. Ma non vogliamo che le immaginazioni di persone razionali e per bene siano offuscate dagli orrori di qualche oscena follia che ha nulla più a che fare con la vita umana del pazzo del manicomio che si crede una gallina. E, se questa vile materia viene ammessa, sia semplicemente con la menzione del nome latino o legale del delitto, e senza dettaglio alcuno. Così com’è, è vero esattamente il contrario. Ai giornali è permesso terrorizzare e oscurare la fantasia dei giovani con innumerevoli dettagli, ma non è loro permesso enunciare in pulito linguaggio legale di che cosa si tratti. È loro concesso di fornire ogni fatto sulla cosa, tranne il fatto che è un peccato.
Terzo: farei del mio meglio per introdurre dovunque la pratica degli articoli firmati. Coloro che perorano i vantaggi dell’anonimato o sono persone che non si rendono conto del pericolo speciale del nostro tempo, oppure sono persone che ne traggono profitto. È vero, ma vano, per esempio, dire che vi è qualcosa di nobile nell’essere senza nome quando un intero corpo collettivo è teso a uno scopo coerente: come in un esercito, o in uomini che innalzano una cattedrale. Il punto dei giornali moderni è che non vi è alcun tale corpo collettivo e alcuno scopo comune; ma ciascuno può usare l’autorità del giornale per promuovere le proprie private fissazioni e le proprie private finanze.
ANONYMITY AND FURTHER COUNSELS
The end of the article which I write is always cut off, and, unfortunately, I belong to that lower class of animals in whom the tail is important. It is not anybody’s fault but my own; it arises from the fact that I take such a long time to get to the point. Somebody, the other day, very reasonably complained of my being employed to write prefaces. He was perfectly right, for I always write a preface to the preface, and then I am stopped; also quite justifiably.
In my last article I said that I favoured three things—first, the legal punishment of deliberately false information; secondly, a distinction, in the matter of reported immorality, between those sins which any healthy man can see in himself and those which he had better not see anywhere; and thirdly, an absolute insistence in the great majority of cases upon the signing of articles. It was at this point that I was cut short, I will not say by the law of space, but rather by my own lawlessness in the matter of space. In any case, there is something more that ought to be said.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I hope some day to see an anonymous article counted as dishonourable as an anonymous letter. For some time to come, the idea of the leading article, expressing the policy of the whole paper, must necessarily remain legitimate; at any rate, we have all written such leading articles, and should never think the worse of any one for writing one. But I should certainly say that writing anonymously ought to have some definite excuse, such as that of the leading article. Writing anonymously ought to be the exception; writing a signed article ought to be the rule. And anonymity ought to be not only an exception, but an accidental exception; a man ought always to be ready to say what anonymous article he had written. The journalistic habit of counting it something sacred to keep secret the origin of an article is simply part of the conspiracy which seeks to put us who are journalists in the position of a much worse sort of Jesuits or Freemasons.
As has often been said, anonymity would be all very well if one could for a moment imagine that it was established from good motives. Suppose, for instance, that we were all quite certain that the men on the Thunderer newspaper were a band of brave young idealists who were so eager to overthrow Socialism, Municipal and National, that they did not care to which of them especially was given the glory of striking it down. Unfortunately, however, we do not believe this. What we believe, or, rather, what we know, is that the attack on Socialism in the Thunderer arises from a chaos of inconsistent and mostly evil motives, any one of which would lose simply by being named. A jerry-builder whose houses have been condemned writes anonymously and becomes the Thunderer. A Socialist who has quarrelled with the other Socialists writes anonymously, and he becomes the Thunderer. A monopolist who has lost his monopoly, and a demagogue who has lost his mob, can both write anonymously and become the same newspaper. It is quite true that there is a young and beautiful fanaticism in which men do not care to reveal their names. But there is a more elderly and a much more common excitement in which men do not dare to reveal them.
Then there is another rule for making journalism honest on which I should like to insist absolutely. I should like it to be a fixed thing that the name of the proprietor as well as the editor should be printed upon every paper. If the paper is owned by shareholders, let there be a list of shareholders. If (as is far more common in this singularly undemocratic age) it is owned by one man, let that one man’s name be printed on the paper, if possible in large red letters. Then, if there are any obvious interests being served, we shall know that they are being served. My friends in Manchester are in a terrible state of excitement about the power of brewers and the dangers of admitting them to public office. But at least, if a man has controlled politics through beer, people generally know it: the subject of beer is too fascinating for any one to miss such personal peculiarities. But a man may control politics through journalism, and no ordinary English citizen know that he is controlling them at all. Again and again in the lists of Birthday Honours you and I have seen some Mr. Robinson suddenly elevated to the Peerage without any apparent reason. Even the Society papers (which we read with avidity) could tell us nothing about him except that he was a sportsman or a kind landlord, or interested in the breeding of badgers. Now I should like the name of that Mr. Robinson to be already familiar to the British public. I should like them to know already the public services for which they have to thank him. I should like them to have seen the name already on the outside of that organ of public opinion called Tootsie’s Tips, or The Boy Blackmailer, or Nosey Knows, that bright little financial paper which did so much for the Empire and which so narrowly escaped a criminal prosecution. If they had seen it thus, they would estimate more truly and tenderly the full value of the statement in the Society paper that he is a true gentleman and a sound Churchman.
Finally, it should be practically imposed by custom (it so happens that it could not possibly be imposed by law) that letters of definite and practical complaint should be necessarily inserted by any editor in any paper. Editors have grown very much too lax in this respect. The old editor used dimly to regard himself as an unofficial public servant for the transmitting of public news. If he suppressed anything, he was supposed to have some special reason for doing so; as that the material was actually libellous or literally indecent. But the modern editor regards himself far too much as a kind of original artist, who can select and suppress facts with the arbitrary ease of a poet or a caricaturist. He “makes up” the paper as man “makes up” a fairy tale, he considers his newspaper solely as a work of art, meant to give pleasure, not to give news. He puts in this one letter because he thinks it clever. He puts in these three or four letters because he thinks them silly. He suppresses this article because he thinks it wrong. He suppresses this other and more dangerous article because he thinks it right. The old idea that he is simply a mode of the expression of the public, an “organ” of opinion, seems to have entirely vanished from his mind. To-day the editor is not only the organ, but the man who plays on the organ. For in all our modern movements we move away from Democracy.
This is the whole danger of our time. There is a difference between the oppression which has been too common in the past and the oppression which seems only too probable in the future. Oppression in the past, has commonly been an individual matter. The oppressors were as simple as the oppressed, and as lonely. The aristocrat sometimes hated his inferiors; he always hated his equals. The plutocrat was an individualist. But in our time even the plutocrat has become a Socialist. They have science and combination, and may easily inaugurate a much greater tyranny than the world has ever seen.
L’ANONIMATO E ALTRI CONSIGLI
La coda dell’articolo che scrivo mi viene sempre mozzata; e, per mia sventura, appartengo a quella classe inferiore di animali in cui la coda ha la sua importanza. Non è colpa di nessuno se non mia; deriva dal fatto che impiego un tempo così lungo per venire al punto. Qualcuno, l’altro giorno, si lamentava con ogni ragione che mi si affidasse la stesura di prefazioni. Aveva perfettamente ragione, poiché io scrivo sempre una prefazione alla prefazione, e a quel punto vengo fermato; anche questo, del resto, assai giustamente.
Nel mio ultimo articolo dicevo di essere favorevole a tre cose: primo, alla punizione legale delle informazioni deliberatamente false; secondo, a una distinzione, in materia di immoralità riferita, fra quei peccati che ogni uomo sano può scorgere in sé stesso e quelli che sarebbe meglio non scorgesse in nessun luogo; e terzo, all’assoluta esigenza, nella grande maggioranza dei casi, che gli articoli siano firmati. Fu proprio a questo punto che venni troncato, non dirò dalla legge dello spazio, ma piuttosto dalla mia personale illegalità in materia di spazio. In ogni caso, c’è qualcosa di più che va detto.
Sarebbe un’esagerazione dire che io spero di vedere un giorno un articolo anonimo considerato tanto disonorevole quanto una lettera anonima. Per qualche tempo a venire, l’idea dell’articolo di fondo, che esprime la linea dell’intero giornale, dovrà necessariamente restare legittima; in ogni caso, tutti noi abbiamo scritto simili articoli di fondo, e non dovremmo mai stimare da meno chi ne scriva uno. Ma direi certamente che scrivere in forma anonima dovrebbe avere qualche scusa ben definita, come appunto quella dell’articolo di fondo. Scrivere in forma anonima dovrebbe essere l’eccezione; scrivere un articolo firmato dovrebbe essere la regola. E l’anonimato dovrebbe essere non soltanto un’eccezione, ma un’eccezione accidentale; un uomo dovrebbe sempre essere pronto a dire quale articolo anonimo abbia scritto. L’abitudine giornalistica di considerare cosa sacra il tener segreta l’origine di un articolo è semplicemente parte di quella congiura che cerca di collocare noi giornalisti nella posizione di una specie assai peggiore di gesuiti o di massoni.
Come spesso è stato detto, l’anonimato andrebbe benissimo se solo per un istante si potesse immaginare che fosse instaurato da buoni motivi. Supponiamo, per esempio, che fossimo tutti ben certi che gli uomini del giornale Thunderer formassero una schiera di giovani e coraggiosi idealisti, tanto ansiosi di rovesciare il Socialismo, municipale e nazionale, da non curarsi a quale di loro in particolare toccasse la gloria di abbatterlo. Purtroppo, però, non lo crediamo. Ciò che crediamo, o, meglio, ciò che sappiamo, è che l’attacco al Socialismo sul Thunderer nasce da un caos di motivi incoerenti e per lo più malvagi, ciascuno dei quali perderebbe forza semplicemente a essere nominato. Un palazzinaro le cui case sono state dichiarate inagibili scrive in forma anonima e diventa il Thunderer. Un socialista che ha litigato con gli altri socialisti scrive in forma anonima, e diventa il Thunderer. Un monopolista che ha perduto il suo monopolio, e un demagogo che ha perduto la sua plebe, possono entrambi scrivere in forma anonima e diventare lo stesso giornale. È verissimo che esiste un fanatismo giovane e bello in cui gli uomini non si curano di rivelare il proprio nome. Ma esiste un’agitazione più attempata e assai più comune in cui gli uomini non osano rivelarlo.
Poi c’è un’altra regola per rendere onesto il giornalismo sulla quale vorrei insistere in modo assoluto. Vorrei che fosse cosa stabilita che il nome del proprietario, oltre a quello del direttore, sia stampato su ogni giornale. Se il giornale è di proprietà di azionisti, si pubblichi l’elenco degli azionisti. Se (come è assai più comune in questa nostra età singolarmente antidemocratica) è di proprietà di un solo uomo, si stampi sul giornale il nome di quel solo uomo, se possibile a grandi lettere rosse. Allora, se vi sono interessi evidenti che vengono serviti, sapremo che vengono serviti. I miei amici di Manchester sono in uno stato di terribile eccitazione a proposito del potere dei birrai e dei pericoli di ammetterli alle cariche pubbliche. Ma perlomeno, se un uomo ha controllato la politica attraverso la birra, la gente in genere lo sa: l’argomento della birra è troppo affascinante perché qualcuno possa lasciarsi sfuggire simili peculiarità personali. Un uomo, invece, può controllare la politica attraverso il giornalismo, e nessun comune cittadino inglese sa affatto che egli la sta controllando. Ancora e ancora, negli elenchi delle Onorificenze del Compleanno reale, io e voi abbiamo visto un certo signor Robinson innalzato d’un tratto al rango di Pari senza alcuna ragione apparente. Persino i giornali mondani (che leggiamo con avidità) non sapevano dirci nulla di lui, se non che era uno sportivo, o un padrone gentile con i suoi affittuari, o che si interessava dell’allevamento dei tassi. Ora, a me piacerebbe che il nome di quel signor Robinson fosse già familiare al pubblico britannico. Mi piacerebbe che si conoscessero già i servigi pubblici per i quali gli si deve gratitudine. Mi piacerebbe che si fosse già visto quel nome in cima a quell’organo della pubblica opinione chiamato Le Dritte di Tootsie, o Il Ragazzo Ricattatore, o Ficcanaso Sa Tutto, quel vispo giornaletto finanziario che tanto fece per l’Impero e che per un pelo scampò a un procedimento penale. Se lo avessero visto così, valuterebbero con maggiore verità e tenerezza il pieno valore dell’affermazione, contenuta nel giornale mondano, che egli è un vero gentiluomo e un solido figlio della Chiesa.
Infine, si dovrebbe imporre in pratica per consuetudine (giacché si dà il caso che non si possa affatto imporre per legge) che le lettere di lagnanza precisa e concreta debbano necessariamente essere pubblicate da ogni direttore su ogni giornale. I direttori sono diventati fin troppo rilassati in questo. Il vecchio direttore usava considerarsi, in modo confuso, una sorta di ufficioso servitore pubblico incaricato di trasmettere le notizie pubbliche. Se sopprimeva qualcosa, si supponeva che avesse qualche ragione speciale per farlo; per esempio che il materiale fosse effettivamente diffamatorio o letteralmente indecente. Ma il direttore moderno si considera fin troppo come una specie di artista originale, che può selezionare e sopprimere i fatti con l’arbitraria disinvoltura di un poeta o di un caricaturista. Egli “confeziona” il giornale come un uomo “confeziona” una fiaba, considera il proprio giornale unicamente come un’opera d’arte, destinata a dare piacere, non a dare notizie. Inserisce questa lettera perché la ritiene arguta. Inserisce queste altre tre o quattro lettere perché le ritiene sciocche. Sopprime questo articolo perché lo ritiene sbagliato. Sopprime quest’altro articolo, più pericoloso, perché lo ritiene giusto. La vecchia idea che egli sia semplicemente un modo dell’espressione del pubblico, un “organo” dell’opinione, sembra svanita del tutto dalla sua mente. Oggi il direttore non è soltanto l’organo, ma l’uomo che suona l’organo. Poiché in tutti i nostri moderni movimenti noi ci allontaniamo dalla Democrazia.
È questo l’intero pericolo del nostro tempo. C’è una differenza fra l’oppressione che è stata fin troppo comune nel passato e l’oppressione che appare fin troppo probabile nel futuro. L’oppressione, in passato, è stata comunemente una faccenda individuale. Gli oppressori erano semplici quanto gli oppressi, e altrettanto soli. L’aristocratico talvolta odiava i suoi inferiori; odiava sempre i suoi pari. Il plutocrate era un individualista. Ma nel nostro tempo persino il plutocrate è diventato un socialista. Costoro dispongono della scienza e dell’associazione, e potrebbero facilmente inaugurare una tirannia assai più grande di quante il mondo abbia mai viste.
ON THE CRYPTIC AND THE ELLIPTIC
Surely the art of reporting speeches is in a strange state of degeneration. We should not object, perhaps, to the reporter’s making the speeches much shorter than they are; but we do object to his making all the speeches much worse than they are. And the method which he employs is one which is dangerously unjust. When a statesman or philosopher makes an important speech, there are several courses which the reporter might take without being unreasonable. Perhaps the most reasonable course of all would be not to report the speech at all. Let the world live and love, marry and give in marriage, without that particular speech, as they did (in some desperate way) in the days when there were no newspapers. A second course would be to report a small part of it; but to get that right. A third course, far better if you can do it, is to understand the main purpose and argument of the speech, and report that in clear and logical language of your own. In short, the three possible methods are, first, to leave the man’s speech alone; second, to report what he says or some complete part of what he says; and third, to report what he means. But the present way of reporting speeches (mainly created, I think, by the scrappy methods of the Daily Mail) is something utterly different from both these ways, and quite senseless and misleading.
The present method is this: the reporter sits listening to a tide of words which he does not try to understand, and does not, generally speaking, even try to take down; he waits until something occurs in the speech which for some reason sounds funny, or memorable, or very exaggerated, or, perhaps, merely concrete; then he writes it down and waits for the next one. If the orator says that the Premier is like a porpoise in the sea under some special circumstances, the reporter gets in the porpoise even if he leaves out the Premier. If the orator begins by saying that Mr. Chamberlain is rather like a violoncello, the reporter does not even wait to hear why he is like a violoncello. He has got hold of something material, and so he is quite happy. The strong words are all put in; the chain of thought is left out. If the orator uses the word “donkey,” down goes the word “donkey.” If the orator uses the word “damnable,” down goes the word “damnable.” They follow each other so abruptly in the report that it is often hard to discover the fascinating fact as to what was damnable or who was being compared with a donkey. And the whole line of argument in which these things occurred is entirely lost. I have before me a newspaper report of a speech by Mr. Bernard Shaw, of which one complete and separate paragraph runs like this—
“Capital meant spare money over and above one’s needs. Their country was not really their country at all except in patriotic songs.”
I am well enough acquainted with the whole map of Mr. Bernard Shaw’s philosophy to know that those two statements might have been related to each other in a hundred ways. But I think that if they were read by an ordinary intelligent man, who happened not to know Mr. Shaw’s views, he would form no impression at all except that Mr. Shaw was a lunatic of more than usually abrupt conversation and disconnected mind. The other two methods would certainly have done Mr. Shaw more justice: the reporter should either have taken down verbatim what the speaker really said about Capital, or have given an outline of the way in which this idea was connected with the idea about patriotic songs.
But we have not the advantage of knowing what Mr. Shaw really did say, so we had better illustrate the different methods from something that we do know. Most of us, I suppose, know Mark Antony’s Funeral Speech in “Julius Cæsar.” Now Mark Antony would have no reason to complain if he were not reported at all; if the Daily Pilum or the Morning Fasces, or whatever it was, confined itself to saying, “Mr. Mark Antony also spoke,” or “Mr. Mark Antony, having addressed the audience, the meeting broke up in some confusion.” The next honest method, worthy of a noble Roman reporter, would be that since he could not report the whole of the speech, he should report some of the speech. He might say—“Mr. Mark Antony, in the course of his speech, said—
‘When that the poor have cried Cæsar hath wept: Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.’”
In that case one good, solid argument of Mark Antony would be correctly reported. The third and far higher course for the Roman reporter would be to give a philosophical statement of the purport of the speech. As thus—“Mr. Mark Antony, in the course of a powerful speech, conceded the high motives of the Republican leaders, and disclaimed any intention of raising the people against them; he thought, however, that many instances could be quoted against the theory of Cæsar’s ambition, and he concluded by reading, at the request of the audience, the will of Cæsar, which proved that he had the most benevolent designs towards the Roman people.” That is (I admit) not quite so fine as Shakspere, but it is a statement of the man’s political position. But if a Daily Mail reporter were sent to take down Antony’s oration, he would simply wait for any expressions that struck him as odd and put them down one after another without any logical connection at all. It would turn out something like this: “Mr. Mark Antony wished for his audience’s ears. He had thrice offered Cæsar a crown. Cæsar was like a deer. If he were Brutus he would put a wound in every tongue. The stones of Rome would mutiny. See what a rent the envious Casca paid. Brutus was Cæsar’s angel. The right honourable gentleman concluded by saying that he and the audience had all fallen down.” That is the report of a political speech in a modern, progressive, or American manner, and I wonder whether the Romans would have put up with it.
The reports of the debates in the Houses of Parliament are constantly growing smaller and smaller in our newspapers. Perhaps this is partly because the speeches are growing duller and duller. I think in some degree the two things act and re-act on each other. For fear of the newspapers politicians are dull, and at last they are too dull even for the newspapers. The speeches in our time are more careful and elaborate, because they are meant to be read, and not to be heard. And exactly because they are more careful and elaborate, they are not so likely to be worthy of a careful and elaborate report. They are not interesting enough. So the moral cowardice of modern politicians has, after all, some punishment attached to it by the silent anger of heaven. Precisely because our political speeches are meant to be reported, they are not worth reporting. Precisely because they are carefully designed to be read, nobody reads them.
Thus we may concede that politicians have done something towards degrading journalism. It was not entirely done by us, the journalists. But most of it was. It was mostly the fruit of our first and most natural sin—the habit of regarding ourselves as conjurers rather than priests, for the definition is that a conjurer is apart from his audience, while a priest is a part of his. The conjurer despises his congregation; if the priest despises any one, it must be himself. The curse of all journalism, but especially of that yellow journalism which is the shame of our profession, is that we think ourselves cleverer than the people for whom we write, whereas, in fact, we are generally even stupider. But this insolence has its Nemesis; and that Nemesis is well illustrated in this matter of reporting.
For the journalist, having grown accustomed to talking down to the public, commonly talks too low at last, and becomes merely barbaric and unintelligible. By his very efforts to be obvious he becomes obscure. This just punishment may specially be noticed in the case of those staggering and staring headlines which American journalism introduced and which some English journalism imitates. I once saw a headline in a London paper which ran simply thus: “Dobbin’s Little Mary.” This was intended to be familiar and popular, and therefore, presumably, lucid. But it was some time before I realised, after reading about half the printed matter underneath, that it had something to do with the proper feeding of horses. At first sight, I took it, as the historical leader of the future will certainly take it, as containing some allusion to the little daughter who so monopolised the affections of the Major at the end of “Vanity Fair.” The Americans carry to an even wilder extreme this darkness by excess of light. You may find a column in an American paper headed “Poet Brown Off Orange-flowers,” or “Senator Robinson Shoehorns Hats Now,” and it may be quite a long time before the full meaning breaks upon you: it has not broken upon me yet.
And something of this intellectual vengeance pursues also those who adopt the modern method of reporting speeches. They also become mystical, simply by trying to be vulgar. They also are condemned to be always trying to write like George R. Sims, and succeeding, in spite of themselves, in writing like Maeterlinck. That combination of words which I have quoted from an alleged speech of Mr. Bernard Shaw’s was written down by the reporter with the idea that he was being particularly plain and democratic. But, as a matter of fact, if there is any connection between the two sentences, it must be something as dark as the deepest roots of Browning, or something as invisible as the most airy filaments of Meredith. To be simple and to be democratic are two very honourable and austere achievements; and it is not given to all the snobs and self-seekers to achieve them. High above even Maeterlinck or Meredith stand those, like Homer and Milton, whom no one can misunderstand. And Homer and Milton are not only better poets than Browning (great as he was), but they would also have been very much better journalists than the young men on the Daily Mail.
As it is, however, this misrepresentation of speeches is only a part of a vast journalistic misrepresentation of all life as it is. Journalism is popular, but it is popular mainly as fiction. Life is one world, and life seen in the newspapers another; the public enjoys both, but it is more or less conscious of the difference. People do not believe, for instance, that the debates in the House of Commons are as dramatic as they appear in the daily papers. If they did they would go, not to the daily paper, but to the House of Commons. The galleries would be crowded every night as they were in the French Revolution; for instead of seeing a printed story for a penny they would be seeing an acted drama for nothing. But the, people know in their hearts that journalism is a conventional art like any other, that it selects, heightens, and falsifies. Only its Nemesis is the same as that of other arts: if it loses all care for truth it loses all form likewise. The modern who paints too cleverly produces a picture of a cow which might be the earthquake at San Francisco. And the journalist who reports a speech too cleverly makes it mean nothing at all.
SUL CRIPTICO E SULL’ELLITTICO
Certo l’arte di riportare i discorsi versa in un curioso stato di degenerazione. Non avremmo forse nulla da obiettare se il cronista rendesse i discorsi assai più brevi di quanto sono; ma obiettiamo eccome che li renda tutti assai peggiori di quanto sono. E il metodo che egli adopera è di quelli pericolosamente iniqui. Quando uno statista o un filosofo pronuncia un discorso importante, sono parecchie le vie che il cronista potrebbe imboccare senza per questo essere irragionevole. Forse la più ragionevole di tutte sarebbe non riportare affatto il discorso. Lasciate che il mondo viva e ami, si sposi e vada a nozze in matrimonio, senza quel particolare discorso, come si faceva (in qualche modo disperato) ai tempi in cui non c’erano giornali. Una seconda via sarebbe riportarne una piccola parte; ma quella riportarla per bene. Una terza via, di gran lunga migliore se ci si riesce, è cogliere lo scopo principale e l’argomentazione del discorso, e riportarli in un linguaggio chiaro e logico tutto proprio. In breve, i tre metodi possibili sono, primo, lasciare in pace il discorso dell’uomo senz’altro; secondo, riportare ciò che egli dice, o qualche parte compiuta di ciò che dice; e terzo, riportare ciò che egli intende. Ma l’odierna maniera di riportare i discorsi (creata principalmente, io credo, dai metodi frammentari del Daily Mail) è qualcosa di affatto diverso da entrambe queste vie, e del tutto insensata e fuorviante.
Il metodo odierno è questo: il cronista siede ad ascoltare una marea di parole che non tenta di comprendere, e neppure, in genere, tenta di trascrivere; attende finché non affiora nel discorso qualcosa che per qualche ragione suona buffo, o memorabile, o assai iperbolico, o, magari, semplicemente concreto; allora lo mette per iscritto e attende il successivo. Se l’oratore dice che il Primo Ministro somiglia a una focena nel mare in certe speciali circostanze, il cronista acchiappa la focena anche se tralascia il Primo Ministro. Se l’oratore esordisce dicendo che il signor Chamberlain somiglia piuttosto a un violoncello, il cronista non attende nemmeno di udire perché somigli a un violoncello. Ha messo le mani su qualcosa di materiale, e perciò è del tutto contento. Le parole forti vengono tutte infilate; la catena del pensiero è lasciata fuori. Se l’oratore usa la parola «asino», giù va la parola «asino». Se l’oratore usa la parola «esecrabile», giù va la parola «esecrabile». Si susseguono così bruscamente nel resoconto che spesso è arduo scoprire l’affascinante fatto di che cosa fosse esecrabile o chi venisse paragonato a un asino. E l’intera linea argomentativa in cui queste cose comparivano va interamente perduta. Ho davanti a me il resoconto giornalistico di un discorso del signor Bernard Shaw, di cui un intero e distinto paragrafo suona così:
«Il capitale significava denaro in eccedenza rispetto ai propri bisogni. Il loro paese non era davvero affatto il loro paese se non nelle canzoni patriottiche.»
Conosco abbastanza bene l’intera mappa della filosofia del signor Bernard Shaw per sapere che quelle due affermazioni avrebbero potuto essere collegate tra loro in cento modi. Ma penso che, se venissero lette da un uomo di ordinaria intelligenza, cui capitasse di non conoscere le vedute del signor Shaw, egli non ne ricaverebbe altra impressione se non che il signor Shaw fosse un pazzo dalla conversazione più che d’ordinario brusca e dalla mente sconnessa. Gli altri due metodi avrebbero certamente reso al signor Shaw maggior giustizia: il cronista avrebbe dovuto o trascrivere alla lettera ciò che l’oratore disse realmente sul capitale, o dare un abbozzo del modo in cui quest’idea era connessa con l’idea sulle canzoni patriottiche.
Ma noi non abbiamo il vantaggio di sapere ciò che il signor Shaw realmente disse, sicché faremo meglio a illustrare i diversi metodi con qualcosa che invece conosciamo. Quasi tutti noi, suppongo, conosciamo l’orazione funebre di Mark Antony nel «Giulio Cesare». Ora Mark Antony non avrebbe motivo di lamentarsi se non venisse affatto riportato; se il Daily Pilum o il Morning Fasces, o comunque si chiamasse, si limitasse a dire: «Ha parlato anche il signor Mark Antony», oppure: «Il signor Mark Antony, dopo aver arringato l’uditorio, l’adunanza si sciolse in una certa confusione». Il metodo, altrettanto onesto, degno di un nobile cronista romano, sarebbe stato che, non potendo riportare l’intero discorso, ne riportasse una parte. Egli potrebbe dire: «Il signor Mark Antony, nel corso del suo discorso, ha detto:
“Quando i poveri han pianto, Cesare ha pianto: d’una stoffa più dura dovrebbe esser fatta l’ambizione.”»
In tal caso un buon, solido argomento di Mark Antony verrebbe riportato correttamente. La terza e assai più alta via per il cronista romano sarebbe dare un enunciato filosofico del significato del discorso. Così: «Il signor Mark Antony, nel corso di un poderoso discorso, ha concesso gli alti moventi dei capi repubblicani, e ha disconosciuto ogni intenzione di sollevare il popolo contro di loro; riteneva, tuttavia, che molti esempi si potessero addurre contro la teoria dell’ambizione di Cesare, e ha concluso leggendo, su richiesta dell’uditorio, il testamento di Cesare, il quale provava che egli nutriva i più benevoli disegni verso il popolo romano.» Ciò (lo ammetto) non è così bello come Shakespeare, ma è un enunciato della posizione politica dell’uomo. Ma se un cronista del Daily Mail fosse mandato a trascrivere l’orazione di Antonio, egli si limiterebbe ad attendere qualsiasi espressione gli paresse bizzarra e a metterla giù una dopo l’altra senza connessione logica alcuna. Ne verrebbe fuori qualcosa del genere: «Il signor Mark Antony desiderava le orecchie del suo uditorio. Aveva per tre volte offerto a Cesare una corona. Cesare era come un cervo. Se fosse Brutus metterebbe una ferita in ogni lingua. Le pietre di Roma si ammutinerebbero. Guardate che squarcio pagò l’invidioso Casca. Brutus era l’angelo di Cesare. L’onorevole gentiluomo ha concluso dicendo che lui e l’uditorio erano tutti caduti a terra.» Questo è il resoconto di un discorso politico alla maniera moderna, progressista, o americana, e mi domando se i Romani l’avrebbero sopportato.
I resoconti dei dibattiti nelle Camere del Parlamento vanno di continuo facendosi più piccoli e più piccoli nei nostri giornali. Forse ciò è in parte dovuto al fatto che i discorsi vanno facendosi più tediosi e più tediosi. Penso che in qualche misura le due cose agiscano e reagiscano l’una sull’altra. Per paura dei giornali i politici sono tediosi, e alla fine riescono troppo tediosi persino per i giornali. I discorsi del nostro tempo sono più accurati ed elaborati, perché sono destinati a essere letti, e non uditi. E proprio perché sono più accurati ed elaborati, non è così probabile che siano degni di un accurato ed elaborato resoconto. Non sono abbastanza interessanti. Così la viltà morale dei politici moderni ha, dopo tutto, una qualche pena a essa annessa dalla silenziosa ira del cielo. Proprio perché i nostri discorsi politici sono destinati a essere riportati, non valgono la pena di essere riportati. Proprio perché sono accuratamente congegnati per essere letti, nessuno li legge.
Possiamo dunque concedere che i politici abbiano fatto qualcosa per degradare il giornalismo. Non è stato interamente opera nostra, di noi giornalisti. Ma per la massima parte lo è stata. È stata per lo più il frutto del nostro primo e più naturale peccato: l’abitudine di considerarci prestigiatori anziché sacerdoti, giacché la definizione è che il prestigiatore sta separato dal suo pubblico, mentre il sacerdote ne è parte. Il prestigiatore disprezza la sua congregazione; se il sacerdote disprezza qualcuno, dev’essere se stesso. La maledizione di tutto il giornalismo, ma specialmente di quel giornalismo scandalistico che è la vergogna della nostra professione, è che ci crediamo più acuti della gente per cui scriviamo, mentre, in realtà, siamo generalmente persino più ottusi. Ma questa insolenza ha la sua Nemesi; e quella Nemesi è bene illustrata in questa faccenda del riportare.
Poiché il giornalista, avvezzatosi a parlare dall’alto in basso al pubblico, alla fine comunemente parla troppo in basso, e diventa meramente barbarico e inintelligibile. Proprio per i suoi sforzi di essere ovvio diventa oscuro. Questa giusta pena può notarsi in special modo nel caso di quei titoli sbalorditivi e sgranati che il giornalismo americano ha introdotto e che qualche giornalismo inglese imita. Vidi una volta in un giornale di Londra un titolo che recitava semplicemente così: «La Piccola Mary di Dobbin». Ciò era inteso a essere familiare e popolare, e perciò, presumibilmente, lampante. Ma passò un po’ di tempo prima che io realizzassi, dopo aver letto circa metà della materia stampata al di sotto, che aveva a che fare con il corretto nutrimento dei cavalli. A prima vista lo presi, come certamente lo prenderà lo storico di parte dell’avvenire, come contenente qualche allusione alla piccola figlia che tanto monopolizzò gli affetti del Maggiore alla fine di «La fiera delle vanità». Gli Americani spingono a un estremo ancor più selvaggio questa tenebra per eccesso di luce. Potete trovare in un giornale americano una colonna intitolata «Il Poeta Brown Congeda i Fiori d’Arancio Flowers», o «Il Senatore Robinson Ora Calza Cappelli col Corno», e può passare un bel po’ di tempo prima che il pieno significato vi si dischiuda: a me non si è ancora dischiuso.
E qualcosa di questa vendetta intellettuale insegue anche coloro che adottano il metodo moderno di riportare i discorsi. Anch’essi diventano mistici, semplicemente per il tentativo di essere volgari. Anch’essi sono condannati a tentare sempre di scrivere come George R. Sims, e a riuscire, loro malgrado, a scrivere come Maeterlinck. Quella combinazione di parole che ho citato da un preteso discorso del signor Bernard Shaw fu messa per iscritto dal cronista con l’idea di essere particolarmente piano e democratico. Ma, in verità, se pur c’è una qualche connessione tra le due frasi, dev’essere qualcosa di oscuro come le più profonde radici di Browning, o qualcosa d’invisibile come i più aerei filamenti di Meredith. Essere semplici ed essere democratici sono due conquiste assai onorevoli e austere; e non è dato a tutti gli snob e agli arrivisti arrivisti di conseguirle. Ben al di sopra persino di Maeterlinck o di Meredith stanno coloro che, come Omero e Milton, nessuno può fraintendere. E Omero e Milton non solo sono poeti migliori di Browning (per grande che egli fosse), ma sarebbero anche stati giornalisti di gran lunga migliori dei giovanotti del Daily Mail.
Così com’è, tuttavia, questa distorsione dei discorsi è soltanto una parte di una vasta distorsione giornalistica di tutta la vita quale essa è. Il giornalismo è popolare, ma è popolare principalmente come finzione. La vita è un mondo, e la vita vista nei giornali un altro; il pubblico gode d’entrambi, ma è più o meno cosciente della differenza. La gente non crede, per esempio, che i dibattiti alla Camera dei Comuni siano drammatici quanto appaiono nei quotidiani. Se lo credesse, andrebbe, non al quotidiano, ma alla Camera dei Comuni. Le tribune sarebbero gremite ogni notte come lo furono nella Rivoluzione francese; poiché, invece di vedere una storia stampata per un penny, vedrebbero un dramma recitato per niente. Ma la gente sa in cuor suo che il giornalismo è un’arte convenzionale come ogni altra, che seleziona, esalta e falsifica. Solo che la sua Nemesi è la medesima delle altre arti: se perde ogni cura per la verità, perde parimenti ogni forma. Il moderno che dipinge con troppa abilità produce il quadro di una mucca che potrebbe essere il terremoto di San Francisco. E il giornalista che riporta un discorso con troppa abilità fa sì che esso non significhi più nulla.
THE WORSHIP OF THE WEALTHY
There has crept, I notice, into our literature and journalism a new way of flattering the wealthy and the great. In more straightforward times flattery itself was more straightforward; falsehood itself was more true. A poor man wishing to please a rich man simply said that he was the wisest, bravest, tallest, strongest, most benevolent and most beautiful of mankind; and as even the rich man probably knew that he wasn’t that, the thing did the less harm. When courtiers sang the praises of a King they attributed to him things that were entirely improbable, as that he resembled the sun at noonday, that they had to shade their eyes when he entered the room, that his people could not breathe without him, or that he had with his single sword conquered Europe, Asia, Africa, and America. The safety of this method was its artificiality; between the King and his public image there was really no relation. But the moderns have invented a much subtler and more poisonous kind of eulogy. The modern method is to take the prince or rich man, to give a credible picture of his type of personality, as that he is business-like, or a sportsman, or fond of art, or convivial, or reserved; and then enormously exaggerate the value and importance of these natural qualities. Those who praise Mr. Carnegie do not say that he is as wise as Solomon and as brave as Mars; I wish they did. It would be the next most honest thing to giving their real reason for praising him, which is simply that he has money. The journalists who write about Mr. Pierpont Morgan do not say that he is as beautiful as Apollo; I wish they did. What they do is to take the rich man’s superficial life and manner, clothes, hobbies, love of cats, dislike of doctors, or what not; and then with the assistance of this realism make the man out to be a prophet and a saviour of his kind, whereas he is merely a private and stupid man who happens to like cats or to dislike doctors. The old flatterer took for granted that the King was an ordinary man, and set to work to make him out extraordinary. The newer and cleverer flatterer takes for granted that he is extraordinary, and that therefore even ordinary things about him will be of interest.
I have noticed one very amusing way in which this is done. I notice the method applied to about six of the wealthiest men in England in a book of interviews published by an able and well-known journalist. The flatterer contrives to combine strict truth of fact with a vast atmosphere of awe and mystery by the simple operation of dealing almost entirely in negatives. Suppose you are writing a sympathetic study of Mr. Pierpont Morgan. Perhaps there is not much to say about what he does think, or like, or admire; but you can suggest whole vistas of his taste and philosophy by talking a great deal about what he does not think, or like, or admire. You say of him—“But little attracted to the most recent schools of German philosophy, he stands almost as resolutely aloof from the tendencies of transcendental Pantheism as from the narrower ecstasies of Neo-Catholicism.” Or suppose I am called upon to praise the charwoman who has just come into my house, and who certainly deserves it much more. I say—“It would be a mistake to class Mrs. Higgs among the followers of Loisy; her position is in many ways different; nor is she wholly to be identified with the concrete Hebraism of Harnack.” It is a splendid method, as it gives the flatterer an opportunity of talking about something else besides the subject of the flattery, and it gives the subject of the flattery a rich, if somewhat bewildered, mental glow, as of one who has somehow gone through agonies of philosophical choice of which he was previously unaware. It is a splendid method; but I wish it were applied sometimes to charwomen rather than only to millionaires.
There is another way of flattering important people which has become very common, I notice, among writers in the newspapers and elsewhere. It consists in applying to them the phrases “simple,” or “quiet,” or “modest,” without any sort of meaning or relation to the person to whom they are applied. To be simple is the best thing in the world; to be modest is the next best thing. I am not so sure about being quiet. I am rather inclined to think that really modest people make a great deal of noise. It is quite self-evident that really simple people make a great deal of noise. But simplicity and modesty, at least, are very rare and royal human virtues, not to be lightly talked about. Few human beings, and at rare intervals, have really risen into being modest; not one man in ten or in twenty has by long wars become simple, as an actual old soldier does by long wars become simple. These virtues are not things to fling about as mere flattery; many prophets and righteous men have desired to see these things and have not seen them. But in the description of the births, lives, and deaths of very luxurious men they are used incessantly and quite without thought. If a journalist has to describe a great politician or financier (the things are substantially the same) entering a room or walking down a thoroughfare, he always says, “Mr. Midas was quietly dressed in a black frock coat, a white waistcoat, and light grey trousers, with a plain green tie and simple flower in his button-hole.” As if any one would expect him to have a crimson frock coat or spangled trousers. As if any one would expect him to have a burning Catherine wheel in his button-hole.
But this process, which is absurd enough when applied to the ordinary and external lives of worldly people, becomes perfectly intolerable when it is applied, as it always is applied, to the one episode which is serious even in the lives of politicians. I mean their death. When we have been sufficiently bored with the account of the simple costume of the millionaire, which is generally about as complicated as any that he could assume without being simply thought mad; when we have been told about the modest home of the millionaire, a home which is generally much too immodest to be called a home at all; when we have followed him through all these unmeaning eulogies, we are always asked last of all to admire his quiet funeral. I do not know what else people think a funeral should be except quiet. Yet again and again, over the grave of every one of those sad rich men, for whom one should surely feel, first and last, a speechless pity— over the grave of Beit, over the grave of Whiteley—this sickening nonsense about modesty and simplicity has been poured out. I well remember that when Beit was buried, the papers said that the mourning-coaches contained everybody of importance, that the floral tributes were sumptuous, splendid, intoxicating; but, for all that, it was a simple and quiet funeral. What, in the name of Acheron, did they expect it to be? Did they think there would be human sacrifice— the immolation of Oriental slaves upon the tomb? Did they think that long rows of Oriental dancing-girls would sway hither and thither in an ecstasy of lament? Did they look for the funeral games of Patroclus? I fear they had no such splendid and pagan meaning. I fear they were only using the words “quiet” and “modest” as words to fill up a page—a mere piece of the automatic hypocrisy which does become too common among those who have to write rapidly and often. The word “modest” will soon become like the word “honourable,” which is said to be employed by the Japanese before any word that occurs in a polite sentence, as “Put honourable umbrella in honourable umbrella-stand;” or “condescend to clean honourable boots.” We shall read in the future that the modest King went out in his modest crown, clad from head to foot in modest gold and attended with his ten thousand modest earls, their swords modestly drawn. No! if we have to pay for splendour let us praise it as splendour, not as simplicity. When next I meet a rich man I intend to walk up to him in the street and address him with Oriental hyperbole. He will probably run away.
L’ADORAZIONE DEI RICCHI
Si è insinuato, mi accorgo, nella nostra letteratura e nel nostro giornalismo un nuovo modo di adulare i ricchi e i grandi. In tempi più schietti l’adulazione stessa era più schietta; la menzogna stessa era più veritiera. Un pover’uomo che desiderasse compiacere un ricco gli diceva semplicemente che era il più saggio, il più coraggioso, il più alto, il più forte, il più benevolo e il più bello degli uomini; e poiché perfino il ricco sapeva probabilmente di non essere tutto ciò, la cosa faceva meno danno. Quando i cortigiani cantavano le lodi di un Re gli attribuivano cose del tutto inverosimili: che somigliava al sole del meriggio, che dovevano schermarsi gli occhi quando entrava nella stanza, che il suo popolo non poteva respirare senza di lui, oppure che con la sola sua spada aveva conquistato l’Europa, l’Asia, l’Africa e l’America. La sicurezza di questo metodo stava nella sua artificiosità: fra il Re e la sua immagine pubblica non v’era in realtà alcuna relazione. Ma i moderni hanno inventato una specie di elogio assai più sottile e più velenosa. Il metodo moderno consiste nel prendere il principe o il ricco, nel darne un ritratto credibile del suo tipo di personalità — che è metodico negli affari, o sportivo, o amante dell’arte, o gioviale, o riservato — e poi nell’esagerare a dismisura il valore e l’importanza di queste qualità naturali. Coloro che lodano il signor Carnegie non dicono che è saggio come Salomone e coraggioso come Marte; vorrei che lo dicessero. Sarebbe la cosa più onesta dopo quella di dichiarare la vera ragione per cui lo lodano, che è semplicemente il suo denaro. I giornalisti che scrivono del signor Pierpont Morgan non dicono che è bello come Apollo; vorrei che lo dicessero. Ciò che fanno è prendere la vita e i modi superficiali del ricco, gli abiti, i passatempi, l’amore per i gatti, l’avversione per i medici, o che so io; e poi, con l’aiuto di questo realismo, fanno dell’uomo un profeta e un salvatore del genere umano, mentre non è che un privato cittadino stupido che per caso ama i gatti o detesta i medici. Il vecchio adulatore dava per scontato che il Re fosse un uomo comune, e si metteva all’opera per farlo apparire straordinario. Il nuovo e più scaltro adulatore dà per scontato che egli sia straordinario, e che perciò anche le cose comuni che lo riguardano saranno di interesse.
Ho notato un modo assai divertente in cui ciò si fa. Ne osservo il metodo applicato a una mezza dozzina fra gli uomini più ricchi d’Inghilterra, in un libro di interviste pubblicato da un abile e ben noto giornalista. L’adulatore riesce a combinare la stretta verità dei fatti con una vasta atmosfera di soggezione e di mistero mediante la semplice operazione di trattare quasi esclusivamente per negazioni. Supponiamo che stiate scrivendo uno studio partecipe sul signor Pierpont Morgan. Forse non c’è molto da dire su ciò che egli pensa, ama o ammira; ma potete suggerire intere prospettive del suo gusto e della sua filosofia parlando a lungo di ciò che egli non pensa, non ama, non ammira. Direte di lui: «Ma poco attratto dalle più recenti scuole della filosofia tedesca, egli si tiene tanto risolutamente in disparte dalle tendenze del Panteismo trascendentale quanto dalle più anguste estasi del Neo-Cattolicesimo». Oppure, supponiamo che io sia chiamato a lodare la donna delle pulizie che è appena entrata in casa mia, e che certamente lo merita assai di più. Dirò: «Sarebbe un errore annoverare la signora Higgs fra i seguaci del Loisy; la sua posizione è per molti versi diversa; né la si può del tutto identificare con il concreto Ebraismo dell’Harnack». È un metodo splendido, poiché offre all’adulatore l’occasione di parlare di qualcos’altro oltre all’oggetto dell’adulazione, e conferisce all’oggetto dell’adulazione un ricco, seppur alquanto sconcertato, ardore mentale, come di chi abbia in qualche modo attraversato agonie di scelta filosofica di cui prima ignorava l’esistenza. È un metodo splendido; ma vorrei che talvolta venisse applicato alle donne delle pulizie anziché soltanto ai milionari.
C’è un altro modo di adulare le persone importanti che è divenuto molto comune, mi accorgo, fra gli scrittori dei giornali e altrove. Consiste nell’applicare loro gli aggettivi «semplice», o «quieto», o «modesto», senza alcun senso o relazione con la persona a cui vengono applicati. Essere semplici è la cosa migliore del mondo; essere modesti è la seconda migliore. Sull’essere quieti non sono così sicuro. Sono anzi propenso a pensare che le persone davvero modeste facciano un gran chiasso. È del tutto evidente di per sé che le persone davvero semplici facciano un gran chiasso. Ma la semplicità e la modestia, almeno, sono virtù umane assai rare e regali, non da nominarsi alla leggera. Pochi esseri umani, e a rari intervalli, si sono davvero elevati fino a essere modesti; non un uomo su dieci o su venti è divenuto semplice per lunghe guerre, come lo diviene per lunghe guerre un vero vecchio soldato. Queste virtù non sono cose da sventolare come mera adulazione; molti profeti e uomini giusti hanno desiderato vedere queste cose e non le hanno viste. Ma nella descrizione delle nascite, delle vite e delle morti degli uomini più lussuosi esse vengono usate incessantemente e del tutto sconsideratamente. Se un giornalista deve descrivere un grande uomo politico o un grande finanziere (le due cose sono sostanzialmente la stessa) mentre entra in una stanza o percorre una via, dice sempre: «Il signor Mida era vestito con sobrietà: giacca a coda nera, panciotto bianco e pantaloni grigio chiaro, con una semplice cravatta verde e un semplice fiore all’occhiello». Come se qualcuno si aspettasse che portasse una giacca a coda cremisi o pantaloni cosparsi di lustrini. Come se qualcuno si aspettasse che portasse una girandola di fuoco, una ruota di Santa Caterina, all’occhiello.
Ma questo procedimento, già abbastanza assurdo quando applicato alla vita ordinaria ed esteriore dei mondani, diviene perfettamente intollerabile quando è applicato, com’è sempre applicato, all’unico episodio che è serio perfino nella vita degli uomini politici. Intendo la loro morte. Quando siamo stati abbastanza annoiati dal resoconto del semplice abbigliamento del milionario — abbigliamento che di solito è complicato quanto il più complicato che egli potesse assumere senza essere semplicemente giudicato pazzo; quando ci hanno parlato della modesta dimora del milionario, una dimora che di solito è troppo immodesta per essere chiamata dimora; quando lo abbiamo seguito attraverso tutti questi elogi insensati, ci si chiede sempre, buon’ultimo, di ammirare il suo quieto funerale. Non so che altro la gente pensi debba essere un funerale, se non quieto. Eppure, ancora e ancora, sulla tomba di ciascuno di quei tristi ricchi, per i quali si dovrebbe certo provare, prima e dopo ogni cosa, una pietà senza parole — sulla tomba di Beit, sulla tomba di Whiteley — è stata versata questa nauseante sciocchezza sulla modestia e sulla semplicità. Ricordo bene che, quando Beit fu sepolto, i giornali dissero che le carrozze del lutto contenevano tutte le persone d’importanza, che gli omaggi floreali erano sontuosi, splendidi, inebrianti; ma, nonostante tutto ciò, fu un funerale semplice e quieto. Che cosa, in nome dell’Acheronte, si aspettavano che fosse? Pensavano forse che vi sarebbero stati sacrifici umani — l’immolazione di schiavi orientali sulla tomba? Pensavano forse che lunghe file di danzatrici orientali si sarebbero dondolate di qua e di là in un’estasi di lamento? Cercavano forse i giochi funebri di Patroclo? Temo che non avessero alcun significato tanto splendido e pagano. Temo che usassero soltanto le parole «quieto» e «modesto» come parole per riempire una pagina — un mero brandello di quell’automatica ipocrisia che diviene troppo comune fra coloro che devono scrivere in fretta e spesso. La parola «modesto» diverrà presto come la parola «onorevole», che si dice venga impiegata dai giapponesi davanti a qualsiasi vocabolo ricorra in una frase cortese, come «Riponga l’onorevole ombrello nell’onorevole portaombrelli», oppure «si degni di pulire gli onorevoli stivali». Leggeremo in futuro che il modesto Re uscì con la sua modesta corona, vestito da capo a piedi di modesto oro e attorniato dai suoi diecimila modesti conti, con le spade modestamente sguainate. No! se dobbiamo pagare per lo splendore, lodiamolo come splendore, non come semplicità. La prossima volta che incontrerò un ricco, ho intenzione di avvicinarmi a lui per strada e di rivolgermi a lui con iperbole orientale. Probabilmente scapperà.
SCIENCE AND RELIGION
In these days we are accused of attacking science because we want it to be scientific. Surely there is not any undue disrespect to our doctor in saying that he is our doctor, not our priest, or our wife, or ourself. It is not the business of the doctor to say that we must go to a watering-place; it is his affair to say that certain results of health will follow if we do go to a watering-place. After that, obviously, it is for us to judge. Physical science is like simple addition: it is either infallible or it is false. To mix science up with philosophy is only to produce a philosophy that has lost all its ideal value and a science that has lost all its practical value. I want my private physician to tell me whether this or that food will kill me. It is for my private philosopher to tell me whether I ought to be killed. I apologise for stating all these truisms. But the truth is, that I have just been reading a thick pamphlet written by a mass of highly intelligent men who seem never to have heard of any of these truisms in their lives.
Those who detest the harmless writer of this column are generally reduced (in their final ecstasy of anger) to calling him “brilliant;” which has long ago in our journalism become a mere expression of contempt. But I am afraid that even this disdainful phrase does me too much honour. I am more and more convinced that I suffer, not from a shiny or showy impertinence, but from a simplicity that verges upon imbecility. I think more and more that I must be very dull, and that everybody else in the modern world must be very clever. I have just been reading this important compilation, sent to me in the name of a number of men for whom I have a high respect, and called “New Theology and Applied Religion.” And it is literally true that I have read through whole columns of the things without knowing what the people were talking about. Either they must be talking about some black and bestial religion in which they were brought up, and of which I never even heard, or else they must be talking about some blazing and blinding vision of God which they have found, which I have never found, and which by its very splendour confuses their logic and confounds their speech. But the best instance I can quote of the thing is in connection with this matter of the business of physical science on the earth, of which I have just spoken. The following words are written over the signature of a man whose intelligence I respect, and I cannot make head or tail of them—
“When modern science declared that the cosmic process knew nothing of a historical event corresponding to a Fall, but told, on the contrary, the story of an incessant rise in the scale of being, it was quite plain that the Pauline scheme—I mean the argumentative processes of Paul’s scheme of salvation—had lost its very foundation; for was not that foundation the total depravity of the human race inherited from their first parents? … But now there was no Fall; there was no total depravity, or imminent danger of endless doom; and, the basis gone, the superstructure followed.”
It is written with earnestness and in excellent English; it must mean something. But what can it mean? How could physical science prove that man is not depraved? You do not cut a man open to find his sins. You do not boil him until he gives forth the unmistakable green fumes of depravity. How could physical science find any traces of a moral fall? What traces did the writer expect to find? Did he expect to find a fossil Eve with a fossil apple inside her? Did he suppose that the ages would have spared for him a complete skeleton of Adam attached to a slightly faded fig-leaf? The whole paragraph which I have quoted is simply a series of inconsequent sentences, all quite untrue in themselves and all quite irrelevant to each other. Science never said that there could have been no Fall. There might have been ten Falls, one on top of the other, and the thing would have been quite consistent with everything that we know from physical science. Humanity might have grown morally worse for millions of centuries, and the thing would in no way have contradicted the principle of Evolution. Men of science (not being raving lunatics) never said that there had been “an incessant rise in the scale of being;” for an incessant rise would mean a rise without any relapse or failure; and physical evolution is full of relapse and failure. There were certainly some physical Falls; there may have been any number of moral Falls. So that, as I have said, I am honestly bewildered as to the meaning of such passages as this, in which the advanced person writes that because geologists know nothing about the Fall, therefore any doctrine of depravity is untrue. Because science has not found something which obviously it could not find, therefore something entirely different—the psychological sense of evil— is untrue. You might sum up this writer’s argument abruptly, but accurately, in some way like this—“We have not dug up the bones of the Archangel Gabriel, who presumably had none, therefore little boys, left to themselves, will not be selfish.” To me it is all wild and whirling; as if a man said—“The plumber can find nothing wrong with our piano; so I suppose that my wife does love me.”
I am not going to enter here into the real doctrine of original sin, or into that probably false version of it which the New Theology writer calls the doctrine of depravity. But whatever else the worst doctrine of depravity may have been, it was a product of spiritual conviction; it had nothing to do with remote physical origins. Men thought mankind wicked because they felt wicked themselves. If a man feels wicked, I cannot see why he should suddenly feel good because somebody tells him that his ancestors once had tails. Man’s primary purity and innocence may have dropped off with his tail, for all anybody knows. The only thing we all know about that primary purity and innocence is that we have not got it. Nothing can be, in the strictest sense of the word, more comic than to set so shadowy a thing as the conjectures made by the vaguer anthropologists about primitive man against so solid a thing as the human sense of sin. By its nature the evidence of Eden is something that one cannot find. By its nature the evidence of sin is something that one cannot help finding.
Some statements I disagree with; others I do not understand. If a man says, “I think the human race would be better if it abstained totally from fermented liquor,” I quite understand what he means, and how his view could be defended. If a man says, “I wish to abolish beer because I am a temperance man,” his remark conveys no meaning to my mind. It is like saying, “I wish to abolish roads because I am a moderate walker.” If a man says, “I am not a Trinitarian,” I understand. But if he says (as a lady once said to me), “I believe in the Holy Ghost in a spiritual sense,” I go away dazed. In what other sense could one believe in the Holy Ghost? And I am sorry to say that this pamphlet of progressive religious views is full of baffling observations of that kind. What can people mean when they say that science has disturbed their view of sin? What sort of view of sin can they have had before science disturbed it? Did they think that it was something to eat? When people say that science has shaken their faith in immortality, what do they mean? Did they think that immortality was a gas?
Of course the real truth is that science has introduced no new principle into the matter at all. A man can be a Christian to the end of the world, for the simple reason that a man could have been an Atheist from the beginning of it. The materialism of things is on the face of things; it does not require any science to find it out. A man who has lived and loved falls down dead and the worms eat him. That is Materialism if you like. That is Atheism if you like. If mankind has believed in spite of that, it can believe in spite of anything. But why our human lot is made any more hopeless because we know the names of all the worms who eat him, or the names of all the parts of him that they eat, is to a thoughtful mind somewhat difficult to discover. My chief objection to these semi-scientific revolutionists is that they are not at all revolutionary. They are the party of platitude. They do not shake religion: rather religion seems to shake them. They can only answer the great paradox by repeating the truism.
SCIENZA E RELIGIONE
Di questi tempi ci accusano di attaccare la scienza per il solo fatto che la vorremmo scientifica. Non v’è certo alcuna indebita mancanza di rispetto verso il nostro medico nel dire che egli è il nostro medico, e non il nostro sacerdote, né nostra moglie, né noi stessi. Non spetta al medico dirci che dobbiamo recarci a una stazione termale; è affar suo dirci che certi effetti sulla salute seguiranno se davvero vi ci recheremo. Dopo di che, evidentemente, tocca a noi giudicare. La scienza fisica è come la semplice addizione: o è infallibile o è falsa. Mescolare la scienza con la filosofia non fa che produrre una filosofia che ha perduto ogni suo valore ideale e una scienza che ha perduto ogni suo valore pratico. Voglio che il mio medico personale mi dica se questo o quel cibo mi ucciderà. Spetta invece al mio filosofo personale dirmi se io meriti d’essere ucciso. Chiedo scusa d’enunciare tutte queste ovvietà. Ma la verità è che ho appena finito di leggere un grosso opuscolo scritto da una massa di uomini altamente intelligenti che sembrano non aver mai udito, in vita loro, nessuna di queste ovvietà.
Coloro che detestano l’innocuo estensore di questa rubrica sono in genere ridotti (nella loro estasi finale di collera) a chiamarlo «brillante»; parola che da tempo, nel nostro giornalismo, è divenuta mera espressione di disprezzo. Ma temo che perfino questa frase sdegnosa mi renda troppo onore. Sono sempre più convinto di soffrire non di una lucida o vistosa impertinenza, ma di una semplicità che rasenta l’imbecillità. Penso sempre più che io debba essere assai ottuso, e che tutti gli altri nel mondo moderno debbano essere assai intelligenti. Ho appena letto questa importante compilazione, inviatami a nome di un certo numero di uomini per i quali nutro grande rispetto, e intitolata «New Theology and Applied Religion». Ed è letteralmente vero che ho letto per intere colonne quelle cose senza sapere di che cosa la gente stesse parlando. O parlano di qualche religione nera e bestiale nella quale furono allevati, e di cui io non ho mai neppure sentito parlare, oppure parlano di qualche fiammeggiante e accecante visione di Dio che essi hanno trovato, che io non ho mai trovato, e che per il suo stesso splendore confonde la loro logica e sconvolge il loro eloquio. Ma il miglior esempio che io possa citare della cosa riguarda proprio questa faccenda del compito della scienza fisica sulla terra, di cui ho appena parlato. Le seguenti parole sono scritte sotto la firma di un uomo la cui intelligenza rispetto, e non riesco a cavarne né capo né coda:
«Quando la scienza moderna dichiarò che il processo cosmico non conosceva alcun evento storico corrispondente a una Caduta, ma narrava, al contrario, la storia di un’incessante ascesa nella scala dell’essere, fu del tutto chiaro che lo schema paolino — intendo i procedimenti argomentativi dello schema di salvezza di Paolo — aveva perduto il suo stesso fondamento; poiché non era forse quel fondamento la totale depravazione del genere umano ereditata dai suoi primi progenitori? … Ma ora non c’era più alcuna Caduta; non c’era alcuna totale depravazione, né imminente pericolo d’eterna dannazione; e, venuta meno la base, ne seguì la sovrastruttura.»
È scritto con serietà e in un inglese eccellente; qualcosa deve pur significare. Ma che cosa può mai significare? Come potrebbe la scienza fisica provare che l’uomo non è depravato? Non si seziona un uomo per trovarvi i suoi peccati. Non lo si fa bollire finché non emani gli inconfondibili fumi verdi della depravazione. Come potrebbe la scienza fisica trovare tracce di una caduta morale? Quali tracce si aspettava di trovare, lo scrittore? Si aspettava forse di trovare una Eva fossile con dentro una mela fossile? Immaginava che le ere gli avessero conservato uno scheletro completo di Adamo, con annessa una foglia di fico lievemente sbiadita? L’intero capoverso che ho citato è semplicemente una serie di frasi sconnesse, tutte del tutto false in sé e tutte del tutto irrilevanti l’una per l’altra. La scienza non ha mai detto che non possa esserci stata alcuna Caduta. Potrebbero esserci state dieci Cadute, l’una sopra l’altra, e la cosa sarebbe stata del tutto coerente con tutto ciò che sappiamo dalla scienza fisica. L’umanità potrebbe essere divenuta moralmente peggiore per milioni di secoli, e la cosa non avrebbe in alcun modo contraddetto il principio dell’Evoluzione. Gli uomini di scienza (non essendo furiosi lunatici) non hanno mai detto che ci fosse stata «un’incessante ascesa nella scala dell’essere»; poiché un’ascesa incessante significherebbe un’ascesa senza alcuna ricaduta o insuccesso; e l’evoluzione fisica è piena di ricadute e d’insuccessi. Vi furono certamente alcune cadute fisiche; potrebbero esservi state innumerevoli cadute morali. Sicché, come ho detto, sono sinceramente sconcertato quanto al significato di passi come questo, in cui la persona progredita scrive che, poiché i geologi non sanno nulla della Caduta, ogni dottrina della depravazione è dunque falsa. Poiché la scienza non ha trovato qualcosa che evidentemente non poteva trovare, ne segue che qualcosa d’interamente diverso — il senso psicologico del male — sarebbe falso. Si potrebbe riassumere bruscamente, ma con esattezza, il ragionamento di questo scrittore più o meno così: «Non abbiamo dissotterrato le ossa dell’Arcangelo Gabriele, il quale presumibilmente non ne aveva, dunque i bambini, lasciati a se stessi, non saranno egoisti». A me tutto ciò appare sregolato e vorticoso; come se un uomo dicesse: «L’idraulico non trova nulla che non vada nel nostro pianoforte; suppongo dunque che mia moglie mi ami».
Non intendo qui addentrarmi nella vera dottrina del peccato originale, né in quella versione probabilmente falsa di essa che lo scrittore della New Theology chiama dottrina della depravazione. Ma qualunque altra cosa sia stata la peggiore dottrina della depravazione, essa fu un prodotto di convinzione spirituale; non aveva nulla a che vedere con remote origini fisiche. Gli uomini pensavano che il genere umano fosse malvagio perché sentivano malvagi se stessi. Se un uomo si sente malvagio, non vedo perché dovrebbe d’un tratto sentirsi buono solo perché qualcuno gli dice che i suoi antenati un tempo avevano la coda. La purezza e l’innocenza primaria dell’uomo può darsi che siano cadute insieme alla sua coda, per quel che ne sa chiunque. L’unica cosa che tutti sappiamo di quella purezza e innocenza primaria è che noi non la possediamo. Nulla può esservi, nel senso più stretto della parola, di più comico che contrapporre una cosa tanto evanescente come le congetture avanzate dai più vaghi antropologi intorno all’uomo primitivo a una cosa tanto solida come il senso umano del peccato. Per sua natura l’evidenza dell’Eden è qualcosa che non si può trovare. Per sua natura l’evidenza del peccato è qualcosa che non si può fare a meno di trovare.
Con alcune affermazioni non concordo; altre non le comprendo. Se un uomo dice: «Penso che il genere umano starebbe meglio se si astenesse totalmente dalle bevande fermentate», comprendo benissimo che cosa intenda, e come si possa difendere la sua tesi. Se un uomo dice: «Voglio abolire la birra perché sono un uomo temperante», la sua osservazione non trasmette alcun senso alla mia mente. È come dire: «Voglio abolire le strade perché sono un camminatore moderato». Se un uomo dice: «Non sono trinitario», comprendo. Ma se dice (come una signora una volta mi disse): «Credo nello Spirito Santo in senso spirituale», rimango allibito. In quale altro senso si potrebbe credere nello Spirito Santo? E mi duole dire che questo opuscolo di vedute religiose progressiste è pieno di osservazioni sconcertanti di quel genere. Che cosa possono mai voler dire quando affermano che la scienza ha turbato la loro concezione del peccato? Che sorta di concezione del peccato potevano avere, prima che la scienza la turbasse? Pensavano forse che fosse qualcosa da mangiare? Quando dicono che la scienza ha scosso la loro fede nell’immortalità, che cosa intendono? Pensavano forse che l’immortalità fosse un gas?
Naturalmente la vera verità è che la scienza non ha introdotto nella questione alcun nuovo principio. Un uomo può essere cristiano fino alla fine del mondo, per la semplice ragione che un uomo avrebbe potuto essere ateo fin dal suo principio. Il materialismo delle cose sta sulla superficie delle cose; non occorre alcuna scienza per scoprirlo. Un uomo che è vissuto e ha amato cade morto e i vermi lo divorano. Questo è Materialismo, se vi piace. Questo è Ateismo, se vi piace. Se l’umanità ha creduto a dispetto di ciò, può credere a dispetto di qualsiasi cosa. Ma perché la nostra sorte umana sia resa più disperata per il fatto che conosciamo i nomi di tutti i vermi che lo divorano, o i nomi di tutte le parti di lui che essi mangiano, è cosa che a una mente riflessiva riesce alquanto difficile scoprire. La mia principale obiezione a questi rivoluzionari semiscientifici è che non sono affatto rivoluzionari. Sono il partito del luogo comune. Non scuotono la religione: piuttosto è la religione che sembra scuotere loro. Sanno rispondere al grande paradosso soltanto ripetendo il truismo.
THE METHUSELAHITE
I Saw in a newspaper paragraph the other day the following entertaining and deeply philosophical incident. A man was enlisting as a soldier at Portsmouth, and some form was put before him to be filled up, common, I suppose, to all such cases, in which was, among other things, an inquiry about what was his religion. With an equal and ceremonial gravity the man wrote down the word “Methuselahite.” Whoever looks over such papers must, I should imagine, have seen some rum religions in his time; unless the Army is going to the dogs. But with all his specialist knowledge he could not “place” Methuselahism among what Bossuet called the variations of Protestantism. He felt a fervid curiosity about the tenets and tendencies of the sect; and he asked the soldier what it meant. The soldier replied that it was his religion “to live as long as he could.”
Now, considered as an incident in the religious history of Europe, that answer of that soldier was worth more than a hundred cartloads of quarterly and monthly and weekly and daily papers discussing religious problems and religious books. Every day the daily paper reviews some new philosopher who has some new religion; and there is not in the whole two thousand words of the whole two columns one word as witty as or wise as that word “Methuselahite.” The whole meaning of literature is simply to cut a long story short; that is why our modern books of philosophy are never literature. That soldier had in him the very soul of literature; he was one of the great phrase-makers of modern thought, like Victor Hugo or Disraeli. He found one word that defines the paganism of to-day.
Henceforward, when the modern philosophers come to me with their new religions (and there is always a kind of queue of them waiting all the way down the street) I shall anticipate their circumlocutions and be able to cut them short with a single inspired word. One of them will begin, “The New Religion, which is based upon that Primordial Energy in Nature…” “Methuselahite,” I shall say sharply; “good morning.” “Human Life,” another will say, “Human Life, the only ultimate sanctity, freed from creed and dogma…” “Methuselahite!” I shall yell. “Out you go!” “My religion is the Religion of Joy,” a third will explain (a bald old man with a cough and tinted glasses), “the Religion of Physical Pride and Rapture, and my…” “Methuselahite!” I shall cry again, and I shall slap him boisterously on the back, and he will fall down. Then a pale young poet with serpentine hair will come and say to me (as one did only the other day): “Moods and impressions are the only realities, and these are constantly and wholly changing. I could hardly therefore define my religion…” “I can,” I should say, somewhat sternly. “Your religion is to live a long time; and if you stop here a moment longer you won’t fulfil it.”
A new philosophy generally means in practice the praise of some old vice. We have had the sophist who defends cruelty, and calls it masculinity. We have had the sophist who defends profligacy, and calls it the liberty of the emotions. We have had the sophist who defends idleness, and calls it art. It will almost certainly happen—it can almost certainly be prophesied— that in this saturnalia of sophistry there will at some time or other arise a sophist who desires to idealise cowardice. And when we are once in this unhealthy world of mere wild words, what a vast deal there would be to say for cowardice! “Is not life a lovely thing and worth saving?” the soldier would say as he ran away. “Should I not prolong the exquisite miracle of consciousness?” the householder would say as he hid under the table. “As long as there are roses and lilies on the earth shall I not remain here?” would come the voice of the citizen from under the bed. It would be quite as easy to defend the coward as a kind of poet and mystic as it has been, in many recent books, to defend the emotionalist as a kind of poet and mystic, or the tyrant as a kind of poet and mystic. When that last grand sophistry and morbidity is preached in a book or on a platform, you may depend upon it there will be a great stir in its favour, that is, a great stir among the little people who live among books and platforms. There will be a new great Religion, the Religion of Methuselahism: with pomps and priests and altars. Its devout crusaders will vow themselves in thousands with a great vow to live long. But there is one comfort: they won’t.
For, indeed, the weakness of this worship of mere natural life (which is a common enough creed to-day) is that it ignores the paradox of courage and fails in its own aim. As a matter of fact, no men would be killed quicker than the Methuselahites. The paradox of courage is that a man must be a little careless of his life even in order to keep it. And in the very case I have quoted we may see an example of how little the theory of Methuselahism really inspires our best life. For there is one riddle in that case which cannot easily be cleared up. If it was the man’s religion to live as long as he could, why on earth was he enlisting as a soldier?
Il MATUSALEMITA
Vidi l’altro giorno, in un trafiletto di giornale, il seguente episodio, divertente e profondamente filosofico. Un uomo si stava arruolando come soldato a Portsmouth, e gli venne posto davanti un modulo da compilare, comune, immagino, a tutti i casi simili, nel quale figurava, fra le altre cose, una domanda sulla sua religione. Con gravità pari e cerimoniosa l’uomo scrisse la parola «matusalemita». Chi passa in rassegna simili carte deve pure, immagino, aver visto qualche bizzarra religione ai suoi tempi; sempre che l’Esercito non stia andando in malora, ai cani. Ma con tutta la sua conoscenza specialistica non riuscì a «collocare» il matusalemismo fra quelle che Bossuet chiamava le variazioni del Protestantesimo. Sentì una fervida curiosità circa i princìpi e le tendenze della setta; e chiese al soldato che cosa significasse. Il soldato rispose che la sua religione consisteva nel «vivere il più a lungo possibile».
Ora, considerata come un episodio nella storia religiosa d’Europa, quella risposta di quel soldato valeva più di un centinaio di carrettate di giornali trimestrali, mensili, settimanali e quotidiani che discutono di problemi religiosi e di libri religiosi. Ogni giorno il quotidiano recensisce qualche nuovo filosofo che ha qualche nuova religione; e in tutte le duemila parole delle due intere colonne non c’è una sola parola arguta o saggia quanto quella parola: «matusalemita». Tutto il senso della letteratura sta semplicemente nell’accorciare una lunga storia; ecco perché i nostri moderni libri di filosofia non sono mai letteratura. Quel soldato aveva in sé l’anima stessa della letteratura; era uno dei grandi coniatori di frasi del pensiero moderno, come Victor Hugo o Disraeli. Aveva trovato l’unica parola che definisce il paganesimo d’oggi.
D’ora in avanti, quando i filosofi moderni verranno da me con le loro nuove religioni (e c’è sempre una specie di coda di essi che attende lungo tutta la strada), io anticiperò le loro circonlocuzioni e potrò troncarli con una sola parola ispirata. Uno di loro comincerà: «La Nuova Religione, che si fonda su quell’Energia Primordiale della Natura…». «Matusalemita», dirò io secco; «buongiorno». «La Vita Umana», dirà un altro, «la Vita Umana, unica santità ultima, affrancata da ogni credo e dogma…». «Matusalemita!», urlerò io. «Fuori di qui!». «La mia religione è la Religione della Gioia», spiegherà un terzo (un vecchio calvo, con la tosse e gli occhiali colorati), «la Religione dell’Orgoglio Fisico e del Rapimento, e la mia…». «Matusalemita!», griderò di nuovo, e gli darò una robusta pacca sulla schiena, ed egli cadrà a terra. Poi verrà un pallido giovane poeta dai capelli serpentini e mi dirà (come uno fece proprio l’altro giorno): «Gli umori e le impressioni sono le uniche realtà, e queste mutano di continuo e per intero. Difficilmente potrei perciò definire la mia religione…». «Io posso», dirò, con una certa severità. «La tua religione è vivere per lungo tempo; e se ti fermi qui un momento di più non l’adempirai».
Una nuova filosofia significa di solito, in pratica, l’elogio di qualche vecchio vizio. Abbiamo avuto il sofista che difende la crudeltà, e la chiama virilità. Abbiamo avuto il sofista che difende la dissolutezza, e la chiama libertà delle emozioni. Abbiamo avuto il sofista che difende l’ozio, e lo chiama arte. Accadrà quasi certamente — si può quasi certamente profetizzare — che in questo saturnale di sofisticheria sorgerà in un tempo o nell’altro un sofista che desidera idealizzare la vigliaccheria. E una volta che ci troviamo in questo malsano mondo di mere parole sfrenate, quante mai cose ci sarebbero da dire in favore della vigliaccheria! «Non è forse la vita una cosa deliziosa e degna d’essere salvata?», direbbe il soldato mentre scappa. «Non dovrei forse prolungare lo squisito miracolo della coscienza?», direbbe il padrone di casa mentre si nasconde sotto il tavolo. «Finché ci sono rose e gigli sulla terra, non dovrei forse restarmene qui?», verrebbe la voce del cittadino da sotto il letto. Sarebbe altrettanto facile difendere il vigliacco come una sorta di poeta e mistico, come è stato fatto, in molti libri recenti, difendendo l’emotivo come una sorta di poeta e mistico, o il tiranno come una sorta di poeta e mistico. Quando quest’ultima grandiosa sofisteria e morbosità sarà predicata in un libro o su un palco, potete star certi che ci sarà un gran fermento in suo favore, cioè un gran fermento fra la piccola gente che vive tra i libri e i palchi. Ci sarà una nuova grande Religione, la Religione del Matusalemismo: con pompe e sacerdoti e altari. I suoi devoti crociati si voteranno a migliaia con un gran voto di vivere a lungo. Ma c’è una consolazione: non lo faranno.
Poiché, in verità, la debolezza di questo culto della mera vita naturale (che è oggi un credo assai comune) è che ignora il paradosso del coraggio e fallisce nel suo stesso scopo. In realtà, nessun uomo verrebbe ucciso più in fretta dei matusalemiti. Il paradosso del coraggio è che un uomo deve essere un poco incurante della propria vita anche solo per conservarla. E proprio nel caso che ho citato possiamo vedere un esempio di quanto poco la teoria del matusalemismo ispiri davvero la nostra vita migliore. Poiché in quel caso c’è un enigma che non si può facilmente sciogliere. Se era religione di quell’uomo vivere il più a lungo possibile, perché diamine si stava arruolando come soldato?
SPIRITUALISM.
I have received a letter from a gentleman who is very indignant at what he considers my flippancy in disregarding or degrading Spiritualism. I thought I was defending Spiritualism; but I am rather used to being accused of mocking the thing that I set out to justify. My fate in most controversies is rather pathetic. It is an almost invariable rule that the man with whom I don’t agree thinks I am making a fool of myself, and the man with whom I do agree thinks I am making a fool of him. There seems to be some sort of idea that you are not treating a subject properly if you eulogise it with fantastic terms or defend it by grotesque examples. Yet a truth is equally solemn whatever figure or example its exponent adopts. It is an equally awful truth that four and four make eight, whether you reckon the thing out in eight onions or eight angels, or eight bricks or eight bishops, or eight minor poets or eight pigs. Similarly, if it be true that God made all things, that grave fact can be asserted by pointing at a star or by waving an umbrella. But the case is stronger than this. There is a distinct philosophical advantage in using grotesque terms in a serious discussion.
I think seriously, on the whole, that the more serious is the discussion the more grotesque should be the terms. For this, as I say, there is an evident reason. For a subject is really solemn and important in so far as it applies to the whole cosmos, or to some great spheres and cycles of experience at least. So far as a thing is universal it is serious. And so far as a thing is universal it is full of comic things. If you take a small thing, it may be entirely serious: Napoleon, for instance, was a small thing, and he was serious: the same applies to microbes. If you isolate a thing, you may get the pure essence of gravity. But if you take a large thing (such as the Solar System) it must be comic, at least in parts. The germs are serious, because they kill you. But the stars are funny, because they give birth to life, and life gives birth to fun. If you have, let us say, a theory about man, and if you can only prove it by talking about Plato and George Washington, your theory may be a quite frivolous thing. But if you can prove it by talking about the butler or the postman, then it is serious, because it is universal. So far from it being irreverent to use silly metaphors on serious questions, it is one’s duty to use silly metaphors on serious questions. It is the test of one’s seriousness. It is the test of a responsible religion or theory whether it can take examples from pots and pans and boots and butter-tubs. It is the test of a good philosophy whether you can defend it grotesquely. It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it.
When I was a very young journalist I used to be irritated at a peculiar habit of printers, a habit which most persons of a tendency similar to mine have probably noticed also. It goes along with the fixed belief of printers that to be a Rationalist is the same thing as to be a Nationalist. I mean the printer’s tendency to turn the word “cosmic” into the word “comic.” It annoyed me at the time. But since then I have come to the conclusion that the printers were right. The democracy is always right. Whatever is cosmic is comic.
Moreover, there is another reason that makes it almost inevitable that we should defend grotesquely what we believe seriously. It is that all grotesqueness is itself intimately related to seriousness. Unless a thing is dignified, it cannot be undignified. Why is it funny that a man should sit down suddenly in the street? There is only one possible or intelligent reason: that man is the image of God. It is not funny that anything else should fall down; only that a man should fall down. No one sees anything funny in a tree falling down. No one sees a delicate absurdity in a stone falling down. No man stops in the road and roars with laughter at the sight of the snow coming down. The fall of thunderbolts is treated with some gravity. The fall of roofs and high buildings is taken seriously. It is only when a man tumbles down that we laugh. Why do we laugh? Because it is a grave religious matter: it is the Fall of Man. Only man can be absurd: for only man can be dignified.
The above, which occupies the great part of my article, is a parenthises. It is time that I returned to my choleric correspondent who rebuked me for being too frivolous about the problem of Spiritualism. My correspondent, who is evidently an intelligent man, is very angry with me indeed. He uses the strongest language. He says I remind him of a brother of his: which seems to open an abyss or vista of infamy. The main substance of his attack resolves itself into two propositions. First, he asks me what right I have to talk about Spiritualism at all, as I admit I have never been to a séance. This is all very well, but there are a good many things to which I have never been, but I have not the smallest intention of leaving off talking about them. I refuse (for instance) to leave off talking about the Siege of Troy. I decline to be mute in the matter of the French Revolution. I will not be silenced on the late indefensible assassination of Julius Cæsar. If nobody has any right to judge of Spiritualism except a man who has been to a séance, the results, logically speaking, are rather serious: it would almost seem as if nobody had any right to judge of Christianity who had not been to the first meeting at Pentecost. Which would be dreadful. I conceive myself capable of forming my opinion of Spiritualism without seeing spirits, just as I form my opinion of the Japanese War without seeing the Japanese, or my opinion of American millionaires without (thank God) seeing an American millionaire. Blessed are they who have not seen and yet have believed: a passage which some have considered as a prophecy of modern journalism.
But my correspondent’s second objection is more important. He charges me with actually ignoring the value of communication (if it exists) between this world and the next. I do not ignore it. But I do say this—That a different principle attaches to investigation in this spiritual field from investigation in any other. If a man baits a line for fish, the fish will come, even if he declares there are no such things as fishes. If a man limes a twig for birds, the birds will be caught, even if he thinks it superstitious to believe in birds at all. But a man cannot bait a line for souls. A man cannot lime a twig to catch gods. All wise schools have agreed that this latter capture depends to some extent on the faith of the capturer. So it comes to this: If you have no faith in the spirits your appeal is in vain; and if you have—is it needed? If you do not believe, you cannot. If you do—you will not.
That is the real distinction between investigation in this department and investigation in any other. The priest calls to the goddess, for the same reason that a man calls to his wife, because he knows she is there. If a man kept on shouting out very loud the single word “Maria,” merely with the object of discovering whether if he did it long enough some woman of that name would come and marry him, he would be more or less in the position of the modern spiritualist. The old religionist cried out for his God. The new religionist cries out for some god to be his. The whole point of religion as it has hitherto existed in the world was that you knew all about your gods, even before you saw them, if indeed you ever did. Spiritualism seems to me absolutely right on all its mystical side. The supernatural part of it seems to me quite natural. The incredible part of it seems to me obviously true. But I think it so far dangerous or unsatisfactory that it is in some degree scientific. It inquires whether its gods are worth inquiring into. A man (of a certain age) may look into the eyes of his lady-love to see that they are beautiful. But no normal lady will allow that young man to look into her eyes to see whether they are beautiful. The same vanity and idiosyncrasy has been generally observed in gods. Praise them; or leave them alone; but do not look for them unless you know they are there. Do not look for them unless you want them. It annoys them very much.
LO SPIRITISMO.
Ho ricevuto una lettera da un gentiluomo assai indignato per quella che egli considera la mia leggerezza nel trascurare o svilire lo Spiritismo. Io credevo di difendere lo Spiritismo; ma sono ormai abbastanza avvezzo a sentirmi accusare di schernire proprio ciò che mi ero proposto di giustificare. Il mio destino, nella maggior parte delle controversie, è piuttosto patetico. È una regola pressoché immancabile che colui con cui non sono d’accordo pensi che io stia facendo la figura dello sciocco, e colui con cui sono d’accordo pensi che io stia prendendolo per uno sciocco. Sembra esservi una certa convinzione secondo cui non si tratta convenientemente un argomento se lo si elogia con termini fantasiosi o lo si difende con esempi grotteschi. Eppure una verità è ugualmente solenne, qualunque figura o esempio adotti chi la espone. È una verità altrettanto tremenda che quattro più quattro faccia otto, sia che tu faccia il conto con otto cipolle o otto angeli, o otto mattoni o otto vescovi, o otto poeti minori o otto porci. Allo stesso modo, se è vero che Dio ha fatto tutte le cose, questo solenne fatto può essere affermato indicando una stella oppure agitando un ombrello. Ma il caso è ancora più forte di così. Vi è un preciso vantaggio filosofico nell’usare termini grotteschi in una discussione seria.
Penso seriamente, tutto sommato, che quanto più seria è la discussione, tanto più grotteschi dovrebbero essere i termini. Di ciò, come dico, vi è una ragione evidente. Poiché un argomento è veramente solenne e importante nella misura in cui si applica all’intero cosmo, o quantomeno a qualche grande sfera e ciclo dell’esperienza. Nella misura in cui una cosa è universale, essa è seria. E nella misura in cui una cosa è universale, essa è piena di cose comiche. Se prendi una cosa piccola, essa può essere interamente seria: Napoleone, per esempio, era una cosa piccola, ed era serio; lo stesso vale per i microbi. Se isoli una cosa, puoi ottenere la pura essenza della gravità. Ma se prendi una cosa grande (come il Sistema Solare), essa dev’essere comica, almeno in parte. I germi sono seri, perché ti uccidono. Ma le stelle sono buffe, perché danno vita alla vita, e la vita dà vita al buffo. Se hai, poniamo, una teoria sull’uomo, e se puoi dimostrarla soltanto parlando di Platone e di George Washington, la tua teoria potrebbe essere cosa del tutto frivola. Ma se puoi dimostrarla parlando del maggiordomo o del postino, allora è cosa seria, perché è universale. Tanto è lontano dall’essere irriverente l’usare metafore sciocche su questioni serie, che è anzi dovere di ciascuno usare metafore sciocche su questioni serie. È la prova della propria serietà. È la prova di una religione o di una teoria responsabile la capacità di trarre esempi da pentole e padelle, da stivali e barattoli di burro. È la prova di una buona filosofia la capacità di difenderla grottescamente. È la prova di una buona religione la capacità di scherzarci sopra.
Quando ero un giovanissimo giornalista, ero solito irritarmi per una peculiare abitudine dei tipografi, abitudine che probabilmente anche la maggior parte delle persone di indole simile alla mia avrà notato. Essa va di pari passo con la ferma convinzione dei tipografi che essere Razionalista sia la stessa cosa che essere Nazionalista. Intendo la tendenza del tipografo a trasformare la parola «cosmico» nella parola «comico». Al tempo mi seccava. Ma da allora sono giunto alla conclusione che i tipografi avevano ragione. La democrazia ha sempre ragione. Tutto ciò che è cosmico è comico.
Vi è inoltre un’altra ragione che rende quasi inevitabile che difendiamo grottescamente ciò in cui crediamo seriamente. Ed è che ogni grottesco è esso stesso intimamente legato alla serietà. A meno che una cosa non sia dignitosa, essa non può essere indegna. Perché è buffo che un uomo si sieda all’improvviso in mezzo alla strada? Vi è una sola ragione possibile o intelligente: che l’uomo è l’immagine di Dio. Non è buffo che qualsiasi altra cosa cada; buffo è soltanto che cada un uomo. Nessuno vede nulla di buffo in un albero che cade. Nessuno scorge una delicata assurdità in una pietra che cade. Nessun uomo si ferma sulla strada e ruggisce di risa alla vista della neve che scende. La caduta dei fulmini è trattata con una certa gravità. La caduta di tetti e di alti edifici è presa sul serio. È soltanto quando un uomo ruzzola a terra che ridiamo. Perché ridiamo? Perché è una solenne questione religiosa: è la Caduta dell’Uomo. Solo l’uomo può essere assurdo, poiché solo l’uomo può essere dignitoso.
Quanto precede, che occupa la gran parte del mio articolo, è una parentesi. È tempo che io ritorni al mio collerico corrispondente, il quale mi ha rimproverato di essere troppo frivolo riguardo al problema dello Spiritismo. Il mio corrispondente, che è evidentemente un uomo intelligente, è davvero assai in collera con me. Usa il linguaggio più energico. Dice che gli ricordo un suo fratello: il che sembra aprire un abisso, o una prospettiva, di infamia. La sostanza principale del suo attacco si risolve in due proposizioni. Anzitutto, egli mi chiede quale diritto io abbia di parlare in generale di Spiritismo, dal momento che ammetto di non essere mai stato a una séance. Tutto ciò va molto bene, ma vi sono parecchie cose a cui non sono mai stato, senza per questo avere la minima intenzione di smettere di parlarne. Mi rifiuto (per esempio) di smettere di parlare dell’Assedio di Troia. Declino di restare muto in materia di Rivoluzione francese. Non mi lascerò zittire riguardo alla recente e indifendibile uccisione di Giulio Cesare. Se nessuno ha alcun diritto di giudicare lo Spiritismo salvo chi sia stato a una séance, le conseguenze, logicamente parlando, sono piuttosto serie: parrebbe quasi che nessuno abbia alcun diritto di giudicare il Cristianesimo senza essere stato alla prima riunione della Pentecoste. Il che sarebbe spaventoso. Mi ritengo capace di formarmi la mia opinione sullo Spiritismo senza vedere spiriti, proprio come mi formo la mia opinione sulla guerra giapponese senza vedere i giapponesi, o la mia opinione sui milionari americani senza (grazie a Dio) vedere un milionario americano. Beati coloro che non hanno visto e tuttavia hanno creduto: passo che alcuni hanno considerato una profezia del giornalismo moderno.
Ma la seconda obiezione del mio corrispondente è più importante. Mi accusa di ignorare addirittura il valore della comunicazione (se essa esiste) fra questo mondo e l’altro. Io non la ignoro. Ma dico bensì questo: che un principio diverso si applica all’indagine in questo campo spirituale rispetto all’indagine in qualsiasi altro. Se un uomo innesca una lenza per i pesci, i pesci verranno, anche se egli dichiara che i pesci non esistono affatto. Se un uomo invischia un ramoscello per gli uccelli, gli uccelli saranno catturati, anche se egli ritiene superstizioso credere negli uccelli. Ma un uomo non può innescare una lenza per le anime. Un uomo non può invischiare un ramoscello per catturare gli dèi. Tutte le scuole sapienti hanno convenuto che quest’ultima cattura dipende in qualche misura dalla fede di chi cattura. Sicché si riduce a questo: se non hai fede negli spiriti, il tuo appello è vano; e se ne hai, è forse necessario? Se non credi, non puoi. Se credi, non lo farai.
Questa è la vera distinzione fra l’indagine in questo dipartimento e l’indagine in qualsiasi altro. Il sacerdote invoca la dea per la stessa ragione per cui un uomo chiama la propria moglie: perché sa che è lì. Se un uomo continuasse a gridare a gran voce la sola parola «Maria», col solo scopo di scoprire se, insistendo abbastanza a lungo, qualche donna di quel nome venisse a sposarlo, egli si troverebbe più o meno nella posizione dello spiritista moderno. L’antico devoto gridava per il suo Dio. Il nuovo devoto grida perché qualche dio divenga suo. Tutto il senso della religione, così come è esistita finora nel mondo, stava nel fatto che tu sapevi tutto dei tuoi dèi, persino prima di vederli, ammesso che tu mai li vedessi. Lo Spiritismo mi pare assolutamente nel giusto in tutto il suo lato mistico. La parte soprannaturale di esso mi pare del tutto naturale. La parte incredibile di esso mi pare ovviamente vera. Ma lo giudico pericoloso o insoddisfacente in quanto è, in qualche grado, scientifico. Esso indaga se i suoi dèi valgano la pena d’essere indagati. Un uomo (di una certa età) può guardare negli occhi la sua dama e il suo amore per constatare che sono belli. Ma nessuna dama normale permetterà a quel giovanotto di guardarla negli occhi per accertare se essi siano belli. La stessa vanità e idiosincrasia è stata generalmente osservata negli dèi. Lodateli; oppure lasciateli in pace; ma non cercateli, a meno che non sappiate che sono lì. Non cercateli, a meno che non li vogliate. Li irrita moltissimo.
THE ERROR OF IMPARTIALITY
The refusal of the jurors in the Thaw trial to come to an agreement is certainly a somewhat amusing sequel to the frenzied and even fantastic caution with which they were selected. Jurymen were set aside for reasons which seem to have only the very wildest relation to the case—reasons which we cannot conceive as giving any human being a real bias. It may be questioned whether the exaggerated theory of impartiality in an arbiter or juryman may not be carried so far as to be more unjust than partiality itself. What people call impartiality may simply mean indifference, and what people call partiality may simply mean mental activity. It is sometimes made an objection, for instance, to a juror that he has formed some primâ-facie opinion upon a case: if he can be forced under sharp questioning to admit that he has formed such an opinion, he is regarded as manifestly unfit to conduct the inquiry. Surely this is unsound. If his bias is one of interest, of class, or creed, or notorious propaganda, then that fact certainly proves that he is not an impartial arbiter. But the mere fact that he did form some temporary impression from the first facts as far as he knew them—this does not prove that he is not an impartial arbiter— it only proves that he is not a cold-blooded fool.
If we walk down the street, taking all the jurymen who have not formed opinions and leaving all the jurymen who have formed opinions, it seems highly probable that we shall only succeed in taking all the stupid jurymen and leaving all the thoughtful ones. Provided that the opinion formed is really of this airy and abstract kind, provided that it has no suggestion of settled motive or prejudice, we might well regard it not merely as a promise of capacity, but literally as a promise of justice. The man who took the trouble to deduce from the police reports would probably be the man who would take the trouble to deduce further and different things from the evidence. The man who had the sense to form an opinion would be the man who would have the sense to alter it.
It is worth while to dwell for a moment on this minor aspect of the matter because the error about impartiality and justice is by no means confined to a criminal question. In much more serious matters it is assumed that the agnostic is impartial; whereas the agnostic is merely ignorant. The logical outcome of the fastidiousness about the Thaw jurors would be that the case ought to be tried by Esquimaux, or Hottentots, or savages from the Cannibal Islands— by some class of people who could have no conceivable interest in the parties, and moreover, no conceivable interest in the case. The pure and starry perfection of impartiality would be reached by people who not only had no opinion before they had heard the case, but who also had no opinion after they had heard it. In the same way, there is in modern discussions of religion and philosophy an absurd assumption that a man is in some way just and well-poised because he has come to no conclusion; and that a man is in some way knocked off the list of fair judges because he has come to a conclusion. It is assumed that the sceptic has no bias; whereas he has a very obvious bias in favour of scepticism. I remember once arguing with an honest young atheist, who was very much shocked at my disputing some of the assumptions which were absolute sanctities to him (such as the quite unproved proposition of the independence of matter and the quite improbable proposition of its power to originate mind), and he at length fell back upon this question, which he delivered with an honourable heat of defiance and indignation: “Well, can you tell me any man of intellect, great in science or philosophy, who accepted the miraculous?” I said, “With pleasure. Descartes, Dr. Johnson, Newton, Faraday, Newman, Gladstone, Pasteur, Browning, Brunetiere—as many more as you please.” To which that quite admirable and idealistic young man made this astonishing reply—“Oh, but of course they had to say that; they were Christians.” First he challenged me to find a black swan, and then he ruled out all my swans because they were black. The fact that all these great intellects had come to the Christian view was somehow or other a proof either that they were not great intellects or that they had not really come to that view. The argument thus stood in a charmingly convenient form: “All men that count have come to my conclusion; for if they come to your conclusion they do not count.”
It did not seem to occur to such controversialists that if Cardinal Newman was really a man of intellect, the fact that he adhered to dogmatic religion proved exactly as much as the fact that Professor Huxley, another man of intellect, found that he could not adhere to dogmatic religion; that is to say (as I cheerfully admit), it proved precious little either way. If there is one class of men whom history has proved especially and supremely capable of going quite wrong in all directions, it is the class of highly intellectual men. I would always prefer to go by the bulk of humanity; that is why I am a democrat. But whatever be the truth about exceptional intelligence and the masses, it is manifestly most unreasonable that intelligent men should be divided upon the absurd modern principle of regarding every clever man who cannot make up his mind as an impartial judge, and regarding every clever man who can make up his mind as a servile fanatic. As it is, we seem to regard it as a positive objection to a reasoner that he has taken one side or the other. We regard it (in other words) as a positive objection to a reasoner that he has contrived to reach the object of his reasoning. We call a man a bigot or a slave of dogma because he is a thinker who has thought thoroughly and to a definite end. We say that the juryman is not a juryman because he has brought in a verdict. We say that the judge is not a judge because he gives judgment. We say that the sincere believer has no right to vote, simply because he has voted.
L’ERRORE DELL’IMPARZIALITÀ
Il rifiuto dei giurati, nel processo Thaw, di giungere a un accordo è di certo un epilogo alquanto spassoso della cautela frenetica e persino fantastica con cui essi erano stati selezionati. Alcuni giurati furono scartati per ragioni che sembrano avere soltanto il più stravagante dei rapporti con la causa: ragioni che non riusciamo a immaginare capaci di conferire ad alcun essere umano una parzialità reale. Ci si può domandare se la teoria esagerata dell’imparzialità in un arbitro o in un giurato non possa essere spinta tanto oltre da risultare più ingiusta della parzialità medesima. Ciò che la gente chiama imparzialità può voler dire semplicemente indifferenza, e ciò che la gente chiama parzialità può voler dire semplicemente attività della mente. Talvolta si muove come obiezione, per esempio, a un giurato che egli si sia formato una qualche opinione primâ facie intorno a una causa: se lo si può costringere, sotto un interrogatorio incalzante, ad ammettere di essersi formato una simile opinione, lo si giudica manifestamente inadatto a condurre l’indagine. Certo questo è un ragionamento malfermo. Se la sua inclinazione è d’interesse, di classe, o di credo, o di notoria propaganda, allora tale fatto prova senza dubbio che egli non è un arbitro imparziale. Ma il semplice fatto ch’egli si sia formato una qualche impressione temporanea dai primi fatti per quanto ne sapeva — questo non prova ch’egli non sia un arbitro imparziale: prova soltanto ch’egli non è un imbecille dal sangue freddo.
Se andassimo giù per la strada prendendo tutti i giurati che non si sono formati opinioni e lasciando tutti i giurati che se ne sono formate, pare altamente probabile che riusciremmo soltanto a prendere tutti i giurati stupidi e a lasciare tutti quelli riflessivi. Purché l’opinione formata sia davvero di questa specie eterea e astratta, purché non abbia in sé alcuna traccia di movente stabilito o di pregiudizio, potremmo ben considerarla non soltanto come una promessa di capacità, ma alla lettera come una promessa di giustizia. L’uomo che si è preso il disturbo di dedurre qualcosa dai rapporti di polizia sarebbe probabilmente l’uomo che si prenderebbe il disturbo di dedurre dalle prove cose ulteriori e diverse. L’uomo che ha avuto il buon senso di formarsi un’opinione sarebbe l’uomo che avrebbe il buon senso di mutarla.
Vale la pena soffermarsi un istante su questo aspetto minore della faccenda, perché l’errore intorno all’imparzialità e alla giustizia non è affatto confinato a una questione criminale. In materie ben più gravi si dà per scontato che l’agnostico sia imparziale; laddove l’agnostico è semplicemente ignorante. Lo sbocco logico di quella schizzinosità a proposito dei giurati di Thaw sarebbe che la causa dovrebbe essere giudicata da Eschimesi, o da Ottentotti, o da selvaggi delle Isole dei Cannibali — da qualche categoria di persone che non potessero avere alcun concepibile interesse nelle parti e, per di più, alcun concepibile interesse nella causa. La pura e stellare perfezione dell’imparzialità sarebbe raggiunta da persone che non solo non avessero opinione alcuna prima di aver udito la causa, ma che non ne avessero alcuna neppure dopo averla udita. Allo stesso modo, nelle moderne discussioni di religione e di filosofia vi è l’assurdo presupposto che un uomo sia in qualche modo giusto e ben equilibrato perché non è giunto a nessuna conclusione; e che un uomo sia in qualche modo cancellato dall’elenco dei giudici equi perché è giunto a una conclusione. Si dà per scontato che lo scettico non abbia inclinazione alcuna; laddove egli ha un’inclinazione assai evidente in favore dello scetticismo. Ricordo che una volta discutevo con un onesto giovane ateo, il quale era assai scandalizzato ch’io contestassi alcuni dei presupposti che per lui erano sacralità assolute (come la proposizione affatto indimostrata dell’indipendenza della materia e la proposizione affatto improbabile della sua facoltà di generare la mente), ed egli alla fine si trincerò dietro questa domanda, ch’egli pronunciò con un onorevole ardore di sfida e d’indignazione: «Ebbene, sapete indicarmi un solo uomo d’ingegno, grande nella scienza o nella filosofia, che abbia accettato il miracoloso?». Io risposi: «Con piacere. Descartes, il dottor Johnson, Newton, Faraday, Newman, Gladstone, Pasteur, Browning, Brunetière — e quanti altri vi aggrada». Al che quell’ammirevole e idealista giovanotto diede questa stupefacente replica: «Oh, ma naturalmente essi dovevano dirlo; erano cristiani». Dapprima mi sfidò a trovare un cigno nero, e poi mi escluse tutti i cigni perché erano neri. Il fatto che tutti questi grandi ingegni fossero pervenuti alla veduta cristiana era in un modo o nell’altro la prova o che non erano grandi ingegni, o che non erano davvero pervenuti a quella veduta. L’argomento assumeva così una forma deliziosamente comoda: «Tutti gli uomini che contano sono giunti alla mia conclusione; perché se giungono alla vostra conclusione non contano».
Non pareva venire in mente a simili polemisti che, se il cardinale Newman era davvero un uomo d’ingegno, il fatto ch’egli aderisse a una religione dogmatica provava esattamente tanto quanto il fatto che il professor Huxley, altro uomo d’ingegno, trovasse di non poter aderire a una religione dogmatica; vale a dire (come allegramente ammetto), provava assai poca cosa nell’uno come nell’altro senso. Se v’è una categoria di uomini che la storia ha dimostrato particolarmente e supremamente capace di andare del tutto fuori strada in ogni direzione, è la categoria degli uomini di alto ingegno. Preferirei sempre attenermi al grosso dell’umanità; ecco perché sono un democratico. Ma quale che sia la verità intorno all’intelligenza eccezionale e alle masse, è manifestamente irragionevolissimo che gli uomini intelligenti debbano dividersi secondo l’assurdo principio moderno che considera ogni uomo di spirito incapace di decidersi come un giudice imparziale, e considera ogni uomo di spirito che sappia decidersi come un fanatico servile. Così stando le cose, pare che consideriamo come un’obiezione positiva contro un ragionatore il fatto ch’egli abbia preso l’una o l’altra parte. Consideriamo (in altre parole) come un’obiezione positiva contro un ragionatore il fatto ch’egli sia riuscito a raggiungere l’oggetto del suo ragionamento. Chiamiamo un uomo bigotto o schiavo del dogma perché è un pensatore che ha pensato a fondo e sino a un fine preciso. Diciamo che il giurato non è un giurato perché ha emesso un verdetto. Diciamo che il giudice non è un giudice perché pronuncia una sentenza. Diciamo che il credente sincero non ha diritto di votare, semplicemente perché ha votato.
PHONETIC SPELLING
A correspondent asks me to make more lucid my remarks about phonetic spelling. I have no detailed objection to items of spelling-reform; my objection is to a general principle; and it is this. It seems to me that what is really wrong with all modern and highly civilised language is that it does so largely consist of dead words. Half our speech consists of similes that remind us of no similarity; of pictorial phrases that call up no picture; of historical allusions the origin of which we have forgotten. Take any instance on which the eye happens to alight. I saw in the paper some days ago that the well-known leader of a certain religious party wrote to a supporter of his the following curious words: “I have not forgotten the talented way in which you held up the banner at Birkenhead.” Taking the ordinary vague meaning of the word “talented,” there is no coherency in the picture. The trumpets blow, the spears shake and glitter, and in the thick of the purple battle there stands a gentleman holding up a banner in a talented way. And when we come to the original force of the word “talent” the matter is worse: a talent is a Greek coin used in the New Testament as a symbol of the mental capital committed to an individual at birth. If the religious leader in question had really meant anything by his phrases, he would have been puzzled to know how a man could use a Greek coin to hold up a banner. But really he meant nothing by his phrases. “Holding up the banner” was to him a colourless term for doing the proper thing, and “talented” was a colourless term for doing it successfully.
Now my own fear touching anything in the way of phonetic spelling is that it would simply increase this tendency to use words as counters and not as coins. The original life in a word (as in the word “talent”) burns low as it is: sensible spelling might extinguish it altogether. Suppose any sentence you like: suppose a man says, “Republics generally encourage holidays.” It looks like the top line of a copy-book. Now, it is perfectly true that if you wrote that sentence exactly as it is pronounced, even by highly educated people, the sentence would run: “Ripubliks jenrally inkurrij hollidies.” It looks ugly: but I have not the smallest objection to ugliness. My objection is that these four words have each a history and hidden treasures in them: that this history and hidden treasure (which we tend to forget too much as it is) phonetic spelling tends to make us forget altogether. Republic does not mean merely a mode of political choice. Republic (as we see when we look at the structure of the word) means the Public Thing: the abstraction which is us all.
A Republican is not a man who wants a Constitution with a President. A Republican is a man who prefers to think of Government as impersonal; he is opposed to the Royalist, who prefers to think of Government as personal. Take the second word, “generally.” This is always used as meaning “in the majority of cases.” But, again, if we look at the shape and spelling of the word, we shall see that “generally” means something more like “generically,” and is akin to such words as “generation” or “regenerate.” “Pigs are generally dirty” does not mean that pigs are, in the majority of cases, dirty, but that pigs as a race or genus are dirty, that pigs as pigs are dirty—an important philosophical distinction. Take the third word, “encourage.” The word “encourage” is used in such modern sentences in the merely automatic sense of promote; to encourage poetry means merely to advance or assist poetry. But to encourage poetry means properly to put courage into poetry— a fine idea. Take the fourth word, “holidays.” As long as that word remains, it will always answer the ignorant slander which asserts that religion was opposed to human cheerfulness; that word will always assert that when a day is holy it should also be happy. Properly spelt, these words all tell a sublime story, like Westminster Abbey. Phonetically spelt, they might lose the last traces of any such story. “Generally” is an exalted metaphysical term; “jenrally” is not. If you “encourage” a man, you pour into him the chivalry of a hundred princes; this does not happen if you merely “inkurrij” him. “Republics,” if spelt phonetically, might actually forget to be public. “Holidays,” if spelt phonetically, might actually forget to be holy.
Here is a case that has just occurred. A certain magistrate told somebody whom he was examining in court that he or she “should always be polite to the police.” I do not know whether the magistrate noticed the circumstance, but the word “polite” and the word “police” have the same origin and meaning. Politeness means the atmosphere and ritual of the city, the symbol of human civilisation. The policeman means the representative and guardian of the city, the symbol of human civilisation. Yet it may be doubted whether the two ideas are commonly connected in the mind. It is probable that we often hear of politeness without thinking of a policeman; it is even possible that our eyes often alight upon a policeman without our thoughts instantly flying to the subject of politeness. Yet the idea of the sacred city is not only the link of them both, it is the only serious justification and the only serious corrective of them both. If politeness means too often a mere frippery, it is because it has not enough to do with serious patriotism and public dignity; if policemen are coarse or casual, it is because they are not sufficiently convinced that they are the servants of the beautiful city and the agents of sweetness and light. Politeness is not really a frippery. Politeness is not really even a thing merely suave and deprecating. Politeness is an armed guard, stern and splendid and vigilant, watching over all the ways of men; in other words, politeness is a policeman. A policeman is not merely a heavy man with a truncheon: a policeman is a machine for the smoothing and sweetening of the accidents of everyday existence. In other words, a policeman is politeness; a veiled image of politeness—sometimes impenetrably veiled. But my point is here that by losing the original idea of the city, which is the force and youth of both the words, both the things actually degenerate. Our politeness loses all manliness because we forget that politeness is only the Greek for patriotism. Our policemen lose all delicacy because we forget that a policeman is only the Greek for something civilised. A policeman should often have the functions of a knight-errant. A policeman should always have the elegance of a knight-errant. But I am not sure that he would succeed any the better in remembering this obligation of romantic grace if his name were spelt phonetically, supposing that it could be spelt phonetically. Some spelling-reformers, I am told, in the poorer parts of London do spell his name phonetically, very phonetically. They call him a “pleeceman.” Thus the whole romance of the ancient city disappears from the word, and the policeman’s reverent courtesy of demeanour deserts him quite suddenly. This does seem to me the case against any extreme revolution in spelling. If you spell a word wrong you have some temptation to think it wrong.
L’ORTOGRAFIA FONETICA
Un corrispondente mi chiede di rendere più limpide le mie osservazioni sull’ortografia fonetica. Non ho obiezioni particolari verso singoli punti della riforma ortografica; la mia obiezione riguarda un principio generale, ed è questa. Mi pare che il vero difetto di ogni lingua moderna e altamente incivilita stia nel fatto che essa consista in così larga misura di parole morte. Metà del nostro parlare si compone di similitudini che non ci ricordano alcuna somiglianza; di frasi pittoresche che non evocano alcuna immagine; di allusioni storiche di cui abbiamo dimenticato l’origine. Prendete un esempio qualsiasi su cui l’occhio venga per caso a posarsi. Ho letto sul giornale, qualche giorno fa, che il noto capo di un certo partito religioso scriveva a un suo sostenitore queste curiose parole: «Non ho dimenticato il modo talentuoso in cui teneste alta la bandiera a Birkenhead». Prendendo il significato ordinario e vago della parola «talentuoso», nell’immagine non v’è coerenza alcuna. Le trombe squillano, le lance vibrano e scintillano, e nel folto della purpurea battaglia sta un gentiluomo che tiene alta una bandiera in modo talentuoso. E quando risaliamo alla forza originaria della parola «talento» la cosa si fa peggiore: il talento è una moneta greca adoperata nel Nuovo Testamento come simbolo del capitale mentale affidato all’individuo alla nascita. Se il capo religioso in questione avesse davvero inteso qualcosa con le sue frasi, sarebbe rimasto imbarazzato a immaginare come un uomo potesse servirsi di una moneta greca per tenere alta una bandiera. Ma in verità con le sue frasi non intendeva nulla. «Tenere alta la bandiera» era per lui un termine incolore che significava fare la cosa giusta, e «talentuoso» un termine incolore che significava farla con successo.
Ora, il mio timore a proposito di qualunque forma di ortografia fonetica è che essa non farebbe che accrescere questa tendenza a usare le parole come gettoni e non come monete. La vita originaria racchiusa in una parola (come nella parola «talento») arde già fioca di per sé: un’ortografia ragionevole potrebbe estinguerla del tutto. Immaginate la frase che preferite: immaginate che un uomo dica: «Le repubbliche generalmente incoraggiano le feste». Sembra la riga superiore di un quaderno di bella scrittura. Ora, è perfettamente vero che se scriveste quella frase esattamente come la si pronuncia, perfino da persone assai istruite, essa suonerebbe: «Ripubbliche gieneralmente inkoraggiano le feste». Sembra brutta: ma io non ho la minima obiezione contro la bruttezza. La mia obiezione è che ciascuna di queste parole ha in sé una storia e tesori nascosti; e che questa storia e questo tesoro nascosto (che già tendiamo troppo a dimenticare) l’ortografia fonetica tende a farci dimenticare del tutto. Repubblica non significa semplicemente un modo di scelta politica. Repubblica (come vediamo osservando la struttura della parola) significa la Cosa Pubblica: l’astrazione che siamo noi tutti.
Un repubblicano non è un uomo che desidera una Costituzione con un Presidente. Un repubblicano è un uomo che preferisce pensare al Governo come impersonale; egli si oppone al monarchico, che preferisce pensare al Governo come personale. Prendete la seconda parola, «generalmente». La si adopera sempre nel senso di «nella maggior parte dei casi». Ma, ancora una volta, se osserviamo la forma e l’ortografia della parola, vedremo che «generalmente» significa qualcosa di più simile a «genericamente», ed è affine a parole come «generazione» o «rigenerare». «I maiali sono generalmente sudici» non significa che i maiali siano, nella maggioranza dei casi, sudici, ma che i maiali come razza o genere sono sudici, che i maiali in quanto maiali sono sudici — un’importante distinzione filosofica. Prendete la terza parola, «incoraggiare». La parola «incoraggiare» è usata in queste frasi moderne nel senso meramente automatico di promuovere; incoraggiare la poesia significa semplicemente farla progredire o assisterla. Ma incoraggiare la poesia significa propriamente infondere coraggio nella poesia — una bella idea. Prendete la quarta parola, «feste». Finché quella parola resterà, essa risponderà sempre all’ignorante calunnia secondo cui la religione fu nemica dell’allegrezza umana; quella parola affermerà sempre che quando un giorno è santo dovrebbe anche essere lieto. Scritte correttamente, queste parole raccontano tutte una sublime storia, come l’Abbazia di Westminster. Scritte foneticamente, potrebbero perdere le ultime tracce di ogni simile storia. «Generalmente» è un termine metafisico ed elevato; «gieneralmente» non lo è. Se «incoraggiate» un uomo, riversate in lui la cavalleria di cento principi; ciò non avviene se semplicemente lo «inkoraggiate». «Repubbliche», se scritte foneticamente, potrebbero effettivamente dimenticare di essere pubbliche. «Feste», se scritte foneticamente, potrebbero effettivamente dimenticare di essere sante.
Ecco un caso appena accaduto. Un certo magistrato disse a qualcuno che stava interrogando in tribunale che costui, o costei, «dovrebbe sempre essere cortese con la polizia». Non so se il magistrato notasse la circostanza, ma la parola «cortese» e la parola «polizia» hanno la stessa origine e lo stesso significato. Cortesia significa l’atmosfera e il rituale della città, il simbolo della civiltà umana. Il poliziotto significa il rappresentante e il custode della città, il simbolo della civiltà umana. Eppure è lecito dubitare che le due idee siano comunemente collegate nella mente. È probabile che spesso udiamo parlare di cortesia senza pensare a un poliziotto; è perfino possibile che i nostri occhi si posino spesso su un poliziotto senza che il nostro pensiero corra all’istante al tema della cortesia. Eppure l’idea della sacra città non è soltanto il legame di entrambe: è la sola seria giustificazione e il solo serio correttivo di entrambe. Se la cortesia significa troppo spesso una mera frivolezza, è perché ha troppo poco a che fare con il serio patriottismo e con la dignità pubblica; se i poliziotti sono rozzi o distratti, è perché non sono sufficientemente convinti di essere i servitori della bella città e gli agenti della dolcezza e della luce. La cortesia non è affatto una frivolezza. La cortesia non è affatto neppure cosa meramente soave e ossequiosa. La cortesia è una guardia armata, severa e splendida e vigile, che veglia su tutte le vie degli uomini; in altre parole, la cortesia è un poliziotto. Un poliziotto non è semplicemente un uomo massiccio con un manganello: un poliziotto è una macchina per lisciare e addolcire gli accidenti dell’esistenza quotidiana. In altre parole, un poliziotto è la cortesia; un’immagine velata della cortesia — talora impenetrabilmente velata. Ma il mio punto qui è che, perdendo l’idea originaria della città, che è la forza e la giovinezza di entrambe le parole, entrambe le cose effettivamente degenerano. La nostra cortesia perde ogni virilità perché dimentichiamo che «cortesia» non è che il greco per patriottismo. I nostri poliziotti perdono ogni delicatezza perché dimentichiamo che «poliziotto» non è che il greco per qualcosa di civile. Un poliziotto dovrebbe avere spesso le funzioni di un cavaliere errante. Un poliziotto dovrebbe avere sempre l’eleganza di un cavaliere errante. Ma non sono sicuro che egli riuscirebbe meglio a ricordare questo obbligo di grazia romanzesca se il suo nome fosse scritto foneticamente, ammesso che possa scriversi foneticamente. Alcuni riformatori dell’ortografia, mi si dice, nei quartieri più poveri di Londra scrivono davvero il suo nome foneticamente, molto foneticamente. Lo chiamano un «polissiotto». Così l’intero romanzesco dell’antica città scompare dalla parola, e la reverente cortesia del contegno del poliziotto lo abbandona tutt’a un tratto. Questo mi pare davvero l’argomento contro ogni rivoluzione estrema nell’ortografia. Se scrivete male una parola, avete una certa tentazione di pensarla male.
HUMANITARIANISM AND STRENGTH
Somebody writes complaining of something I said about progress. I have forgotten what I said, but I am quite certain that it was (like a certain Mr. Douglas in a poem which I have also forgotten) tender and true. In any case, what I say now is this. Human history is so rich and complicated that you can make out a case for any course of improvement or retrogression. I could make out that the world has been growing more democratic, for the English franchise has certainly grown more democratic. I could also make out that the world has been growing more aristocratic, for the English Public Schools have certainly grown more aristocratic I could prove the decline of militarism by the decline of flogging; I could prove the increase of militarism by the increase of standing armies and conscription. But I can prove anything in this way. I can prove that the world has always been growing greener. Only lately men have invented absinthe and the Westminster Gazette. I could prove the world has grown less green. There are no more Robin Hood foresters, and fields are being covered with houses. I could show that the world was less red with khaki or more red with the new penny stamps. But in all cases progress means progress only in some particular thing. Have you ever noticed that strange line of Tennyson, in which he confesses, half consciously, how very conventional progress is?—
“Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.”
Even in praising change, he takes for a simile the most unchanging thing. He calls our modern change a groove. And it is a groove; perhaps there was never anything so groovy.
Nothing would induce me in so idle a monologue as this to discuss adequately a great political matter like the question of the military punishments in Egypt. But I may suggest one broad reality to be observed by both sides, and which is, generally speaking, observed by neither. Whatever else is right, it is utterly wrong to employ the argument that we Europeans must do to savages and Asiatics whatever savages and Asiatics do to us. I have even seen some controversialists use the metaphor, “We must fight them with their own weapons.” Very well; let those controversialists take their metaphor, and take it literally. Let us fight the Soudanese with their own weapons. Their own weapons are large, very clumsy knives, with an occasional old-fashioned gun. Their own weapons are also torture and slavery. If we fight them with torture and slavery, we shall be fighting badly, precisely as if we fought them with clumsy knives and old guns. That is the whole strength of our Christian civilisation, that it does fight with its own weapons and not with other people’s. It is not true that superiority suggests a tit for tat. It is not true that if a small hooligan puts his tongue out at the Lord Chief Justice, the Lord Chief Justice immediately realises that his only chance of maintaining his position is to put his tongue out at the little hooligan. The hooligan may or may not have any respect at all for the Lord Chief Justice: that is a matter which we may contentedly leave as a solemn psychological mystery. But if the hooligan has any respect at all for the Lord Chief Justice, that respect is certainly extended to the Lord Chief Justice entirely because he does not put his tongue out.
Exactly in the same way the ruder or more sluggish races regard the civilisation of Christendom. If they have any respect for it, it is precisely because it does not use their own coarse and cruel expedients. According to some modern moralists whenever Zulus cut off the heads of dead Englishmen, Englishmen must cut off the heads of dead Zulus. Whenever Arabs or Egyptians constantly use the whip to their slaves, Englishmen must use the whip to their subjects. And on a similar principle (I suppose), whenever an English Admiral has to fight cannibals the English Admiral ought to eat them. However unattractive a menu consisting entirely of barbaric kings may appear to an English gentleman, he must try to sit down to it with an appetite. He must fight the Sandwich Islanders with their own weapons; and their own weapons are knives and forks. But the truth of the matter is, of course, that to do this kind of thing is to break the whole spell of our supremacy. All the mystery of the white man, all the fearful poetry of the white man, so far as it exists in the eyes of these savages, consists in the fact that we do not do such things. The Zulus point at us and say, “Observe the advent of these inexplicable demi-gods, these magicians, who do not cut off the noses of their enemies.” The Soudanese say to each other, “This hardy people never flogs its servants; it is superior to the simplest and most obvious human pleasures.” And the cannibals say, “The austere and terrible race, the race that denies itself even boiled missionary, is upon us: let us flee.”
Whether or no these details are a little conjectural, the general proposition I suggest is the plainest common sense. The elements that make Europe upon the whole the most humanitarian civilisation are precisely the elements that make it upon the whole the strongest. For the power which makes a man able to entertain a good impulse is the same as that which enables him to make a good gun; it is imagination. It is imagination that makes a man outwit his enemy, and it is imagination that makes him spare his enemy. It is precisely because this picturing of the other man’s point of view is in the main a thing in which Christians and Europeans specialise that Christians and Europeans, with all their faults, have carried to such perfection both the arts of peace and war.
They alone have invented machine-guns, and they alone have invented ambulances; they have invented ambulances (strange as it may sound) for the same reason for which they have invented machine-guns. Both involve a vivid calculation of remote events. It is precisely because the East, with all its wisdom, is cruel, that the East, with all its wisdom, is weak. And it is precisely because savages are pitiless that they are still—merely savages. If they could imagine their enemy’s sufferings they could also imagine his tactics. If Zulus did not cut off the Englishman’s head they might really borrow it. For if you do not understand a man you cannot crush him. And if you do understand him, very probably you will not.
When I was about seven years old I used to think that the chief modern danger was a danger of over-civilisation. I am inclined to think now that the chief modern danger is that of a slow return towards barbarism, just such a return towards barbarism as is indicated in the suggestions of barbaric retaliation of which I have just spoken. Civilisation in the best sense merely means the full authority of the human spirit over all externals. Barbarism means the worship of those externals in their crude and unconquered state. Barbarism means the worship of Nature; and in recent poetry, science, and philosophy there has been too much of the worship of Nature. Wherever men begin to talk much and with great solemnity about the forces outside man, the note of it is barbaric. When men talk much about heredity and environment they are almost barbarians. The modern men of science are many of them almost barbarians. Mr. Blatchford is in great danger of becoming a barbarian. For barbarians (especially the truly squalid and unhappy barbarians) are always talking about these scientific subjects from morning till night. That is why they remain squalid and unhappy; that is why they remain barbarians. Hottentots are always talking about heredity, like Mr. Blatchford. Sandwich Islanders are always talking about environment, like Mr. Suthers. Savages—those that are truly stunted or depraved—dedicate nearly all their tales and sayings to the subject of physical kinship, of a curse on this or that tribe, of a taint in this or that family, of the invincible law of blood, of the unavoidable evil of places. The true savage is a slave, and is always talking about what he must do; the true civilised man is a free man and is always talking about what he may do. Hence all the Zola heredity and Ibsen heredity that has been written in our time affects me as not merely evil, but as essentially ignorant and retrogressive. This sort of science is almost the only thing that can with strict propriety be called reactionary. Scientific determinism is simply the primal twilight of all mankind; and some men seem to be returning to it.
Another savage trait of our time is the disposition to talk about material substances instead of about ideas. The old civilisation talked about the sin of gluttony or excess. We talk about the Problem of Drink—as if drink could be a problem. When people have come to call the problem of human intemperance the Problem of Drink, and to talk about curing it by attacking the drink traffic, they have reached quite a dim stage of barbarism. The thing is an inverted form of fetish worship; it is no sillier to say that a bottle is a god than to say that a bottle is a devil. The people who talk about the curse of drink will probably progress down that dark hill. In a little while we shall have them calling the practice of wife-beating the Problem of Pokers; the habit of housebreaking will be called the Problem of the Skeleton-Key Trade; and for all I know they may try to prevent forgery by shutting up all the stationers’ shops by Act of Parliament.
I cannot help thinking that there is some shadow of this uncivilised materialism lying at present upon a much more dignified and valuable cause. Every one is talking just now about the desirability of ingeminating peace and averting war. But even war and peace are physical states rather than moral states, and in talking about them only we have by no means got to the bottom of the matter. How, for instance, do we as a matter of fact create peace in one single community? We do not do it by vaguely telling every one to avoid fighting and to submit to anything that is done to him. We do it by definitely defining his rights and then undertaking to avenge his wrongs. We shall never have a common peace in Europe till we have a common principle in Europe. People talk of “The United States of Europe;” but they forget that it needed the very doctrinal “Declaration of Independence” to make the United States of America. You cannot agree about nothing any more than you can quarrel about nothing.
UMANITARISMO E FORZA
Qualcuno mi scrive lamentandosi di qualcosa che ho detto a proposito del progresso. Ho dimenticato che cosa dissi, ma sono del tutto certo che fosse (come un certo Mr. Douglas in una poesia che ho parimenti dimenticato) tenero e sincero. In ogni caso, ecco quel che dico ora. La storia umana è tanto ricca e intricata che si può costruire una tesi a favore di qualsiasi corso di miglioramento o di regresso. Potrei dimostrare che il mondo è andato facendosi più democratico, poiché il suffragio inglese è di certo divenuto più democratico. Potrei del pari dimostrare che il mondo è andato facendosi più aristocratico, poiché le Public Schools inglesi sono di certo divenute più aristocratiche. Potrei provare il declino del militarismo con il declino della fustigazione; potrei provare l’incremento del militarismo con l’incremento degli eserciti permanenti e della coscrizione. Ma per questa via posso provare qualunque cosa. Posso provare che il mondo è sempre andato facendosi più verde. Solo di recente gli uomini hanno inventato l’assenzio e la Westminster Gazette. Potrei provare che il mondo si è fatto meno verde. Non ci sono più i forestali di Robin Hood, e i campi vanno coprendosi di case. Potrei mostrare che il mondo era meno rosso di kaki o più rosso dei nuovi francobolli da un penny. Ma in tutti i casi il progresso significa progresso soltanto in qualche cosa particolare. Avete mai notato quello strano verso di Tennyson, in cui egli confessa, per metà consapevolmente, quanto sia convenzionale il progresso?—
«Lascia che il vasto mondo ruoti in eterno giù per i risonanti solchi del mutamento.»
Persino nel lodare il mutamento, egli prende a similitudine la cosa più immutabile. Chiama solco il nostro mutamento moderno. Ed è un solco; forse non ci fu mai nulla di tanto solcato.
Nulla mi indurrebbe, in un monologo tanto ozioso quanto questo, a discutere in modo adeguato una grande questione politica come quella delle punizioni militari in Egitto. Ma posso suggerire una vasta realtà da osservarsi da entrambe le parti, e che, in generale, non è osservata da nessuna delle due. Qualunque altra cosa sia giusta, è del tutto sbagliato ricorrere all’argomento secondo cui noi Europei dobbiamo fare ai selvaggi e agli Asiatici tutto ciò che i selvaggi e gli Asiatici fanno a noi. Ho persino visto qualche polemista usare la metafora: «Dobbiamo combatterli con le loro stesse armi». Benissimo; che quei polemisti prendano la loro metafora, e la prendano alla lettera. Combattiamo i Sudanesi con le loro stesse armi. Le loro armi sono grandi coltelli, assai rozzi, con qualche occasionale fucile d’antico modello. Le loro armi sono anche la tortura e la schiavitù. Se li combattiamo con la tortura e la schiavitù, combatteremo male, esattamente come se li combattessimo con coltelli rozzi e vecchi fucili. Sta tutta qui la forza della nostra civiltà cristiana: che essa combatte con le proprie armi e non con quelle altrui. Non è vero che la superiorità suggerisca il render pan per focaccia. Non è vero che, se un piccolo teppista fa la linguaccia al Lord Chief Justice, il Lord Chief Justice si renda immediatamente conto che la sua unica possibilità di mantenere la propria posizione è fare la linguaccia al piccolo teppista. Il teppista può nutrire o meno un qualche rispetto per il Lord Chief Justice: questione che possiamo lasciare tranquillamente come un solenne mistero psicologico. Ma se il teppista nutre un qualche rispetto per il Lord Chief Justice, quel rispetto è di certo accordato al Lord Chief Justice proprio perché egli non fa la linguaccia.
Esattamente allo stesso modo le razze più rozze o più torpide considerano la civiltà della Cristianità. Se hanno un qualche rispetto per essa, è proprio perché essa non ricorre ai loro rozzi e crudeli espedienti. Secondo taluni moralisti moderni, ogni volta che gli Zulù mozzano il capo agli Inglesi morti, gli Inglesi devono mozzare il capo agli Zulù morti. Ogni volta che gli Arabi o gli Egiziani usano continuamente la frusta sui loro schiavi, gli Inglesi devono usare la frusta sui loro sudditi. E, secondo un principio analogo (suppongo), ogni volta che un ammiraglio inglese deve combattere i cannibali, l’ammiraglio inglese dovrebbe mangiarli. Per quanto poco attraente possa apparire a un gentiluomo inglese un menù composto interamente di re barbari, egli deve pur cercare di mettervisi a tavola con appetito. Deve combattere gli abitanti delle Isole Sandwich con le loro stesse armi; e le loro armi sono coltelli e forchette. Ma la verità della faccenda è, s’intende, che fare cose di questo genere significa spezzare l’intero incantesimo della nostra supremazia. Tutto il mistero dell’uomo bianco, tutta la spaventosa poesia dell’uomo bianco, in quanto esiste agli occhi di questi selvaggi, consiste nel fatto che noi non facciamo simili cose. Gli Zulù ci additano e dicono: «Osservate l’avvento di questi inspiegabili semidèi, di questi maghi, che non mozzano il naso ai loro nemici». I Sudanesi si dicono l’un l’altro: «Questo popolo tenace non frusta mai i propri servi; è superiore ai piaceri umani più semplici e più ovvii». E i cannibali dicono: «La razza austera e terribile, la razza che si nega persino il missionario lesso, è su di noi: fuggiamo».
Che questi dettagli siano o no un poco congetturali, la proposizione generale che suggerisco è il più schietto buon senso. Gli elementi che fanno dell’Europa, nel complesso, la civiltà più umanitaria sono precisamente gli elementi che ne fanno, nel complesso, la più forte. Poiché la potenza che rende un uomo capace di accogliere un buon impulso è la medesima che gli consente di fabbricare un buon fucile; è l’immaginazione. È l’immaginazione che rende un uomo capace di soverchiare in astuzia il proprio nemico, ed è l’immaginazione che lo rende capace di risparmiarlo. È proprio perché questo raffigurarsi il punto di vista dell’altro è in sostanza cosa in cui i Cristiani e gli Europei si specializzano, che i Cristiani e gli Europei, con tutti i loro difetti, hanno portato a tanta perfezione tanto le arti della pace quanto quelle della guerra.
Essi soli hanno inventato le mitragliatrici, ed essi soli hanno inventato le ambulanze; hanno inventato le ambulanze (per quanto possa suonare strano) per la medesima ragione per cui hanno inventato le mitragliatrici. L’una e l’altra cosa implicano un vivido calcolo di eventi remoti. È proprio perché l’Oriente, con tutta la sua saggezza, è crudele, che l’Oriente, con tutta la sua saggezza, è debole. Ed è proprio perché i selvaggi sono spietati che essi restano ancora — soltanto selvaggi. Se sapessero immaginare le sofferenze del loro nemico, saprebbero immaginare anche la sua tattica. Se gli Zulù non mozzassero il capo all’Inglese, potrebbero davvero prenderlo a prestito. Poiché, se non comprendete un uomo, non potete schiacciarlo. E se lo comprendete, molto probabilmente non lo schiaccerete.
Quando avevo all’incirca sette anni, ero solito pensare che il principale pericolo moderno fosse un pericolo di eccesso di civiltà. Ora sono incline a pensare che il principale pericolo moderno sia quello di un lento ritorno verso la barbarie, proprio un ritorno verso la barbarie come quello indicato nei suggerimenti di ritorsione barbarica di cui ho or ora parlato. La civiltà, nel senso migliore, non significa altro che la piena autorità dello spirito umano su tutto ciò che è esteriore. La barbarie significa il culto di quelle cose esteriori nel loro stato grezzo e non domato. La barbarie significa il culto della Natura; e nella poesia, nella scienza e nella filosofia recenti vi è stato troppo culto della Natura. Ogniqualvolta gli uomini cominciano a parlare molto e con gran solennità delle forze esterne all’uomo, la nota che ne risuona è barbarica. Quando gli uomini parlano molto di ereditarietà e di ambiente, sono quasi barbari. Gli uomini di scienza moderni, molti di loro, sono quasi barbari. Mr. Blatchford corre gran pericolo di divenire un barbaro. Poiché i barbari (specialmente i barbari veramente squallidi e infelici) parlano sempre di questi argomenti scientifici dalla mattina alla sera. È per questo che restano squallidi e infelici; è per questo che restano barbari. Gli Ottentotti parlano sempre di ereditarietà, come Mr. Blatchford. Gli abitanti delle Isole Sandwich parlano sempre di ambiente, come Mr. Suthers. I selvaggi — quelli veramente stentati o depravati — dedicano quasi tutti i loro racconti e i loro detti al tema della parentela fisica, di una maledizione su questa o quella tribù, di una macchia in questa o quella famiglia, dell’invincibile legge del sangue, dell’inevitabile male dei luoghi. Il vero selvaggio è uno schiavo, e parla sempre di ciò che deve fare; il vero uomo civile è un uomo libero e parla sempre di ciò che può fare. Perciò tutta l’ereditarietà alla Zola e l’ereditarietà alla Ibsen che si è scritta ai nostri tempi mi colpisce come non semplicemente malvagia, ma come essenzialmente ignorante e retrograda. Questa sorta di scienza è quasi l’unica cosa che con stretta proprietà si possa chiamare reazionaria. Il determinismo scientifico non è che il crepuscolo primordiale di tutta l’umanità; e alcuni uomini paiono farvi ritorno.
Un altro tratto selvaggio dei nostri tempi è la disposizione a parlare di sostanze materiali anziché di idee. L’antica civiltà parlava del peccato di gola o di eccesso. Noi parliamo del Problema del Bere — come se il bere potesse essere un problema. Quando la gente è giunta a chiamare il problema dell’intemperanza umana il Problema del Bere, e a parlare di curarlo attaccando il commercio degli alcolici, ha raggiunto uno stadio assai fosco di barbarie. La cosa è una forma rovesciata di culto del feticcio; non è più sciocco dire che una bottiglia è un dio che dire che una bottiglia è un diavolo. Coloro che parlano della maledizione del bere probabilmente progrediranno giù per quella tenebrosa china. Fra non molto li avremo a chiamare la pratica del picchiare la moglie il Problema degli Attizzatoi; l’abitudine dello scasso sarà chiamata il Problema del Commercio delle Chiavi Passe-partout; e per quel che ne so potrebbero tentare d’impedire la falsificazione facendo chiudere per Atto del Parlamento tutte le cartolerie.
Non posso fare a meno di pensare che vi sia qualche ombra di questo incivile materialismo posata al presente su una causa ben più dignitosa e preziosa. Ognuno parla proprio ora della desiderabilità di reiterare la pace e di scongiurare la guerra. Ma persino la guerra e la pace sono stati fisici anziché stati morali, e parlando soltanto di essi non siamo affatto giunti al fondo della questione. Come facciamo, per esempio, di fatto a creare la pace in una singola comunità? Non lo facciamo dicendo vagamente a ognuno di evitare di combattere e di sottomettersi a qualunque cosa gli venga fatta. Lo facciamo definendo con precisione i suoi diritti e impegnandoci poi a vendicare i suoi torti. Non avremo mai una pace comune in Europa finché non avremo un principio comune in Europa. La gente parla degli «Stati Uniti d’Europa»; ma dimentica che ci volle la ben dottrinale «Dichiarazione d’Indipendenza» per fare gli Stati Uniti d’America. Non si può concordare sul nulla, non più di quanto si possa litigare sul nulla.
WINE WHEN IT IS RED
I suppose that there will be some wigs on the green in connection with the recent manifesto signed by a string of very eminent doctors on the subject of what is called “alcohol.” “Alcohol” is, to judge by the sound of it, an Arabic word, like “algebra” and “Alhambra,” those two other unpleasant things. The Alhambra in Spain I have never seen; I am told that it is a low and rambling building; I allude to the far more dignified erection in Leicester Square. If it is true, as I surmise, that “alcohol” is a word of the Arabs, it is interesting to realise that our general word for the essence of wine and beer and such things comes from a people which has made particular war upon them. I suppose that some aged Moslem chieftain sat one day at the opening of his tent and, brooding with black brows and cursing in his black beard over wine as the symbol of Christianity, racked his brains for some word ugly enough to express his racial and religious antipathy, and suddenly spat out the horrible word “alcohol.” The fact that the doctors had to use this word for the sake of scientific clearness was really a great disadvantage to them in fairly discussing the matter. For the word really involves one of those beggings of the question which make these moral matters so difficult. It is quite a mistake to suppose that, when a man desires an alcoholic drink, he necessarily desires alcohol.
Let a man walk ten miles steadily on a hot summer’s day along a dusty English road, and he will soon discover why beer was invented. The fact that beer has a very slight stimulating quality will be quite among the smallest reasons that induce him to ask for it. In short, he will not be in the least desiring alcohol; he will be desiring beer. But, of course, the question cannot be settled in such a simple way. The real difficulty which confronts everybody, and which especially confronts doctors, is that the extraordinary position of man in the physical universe makes it practically impossible to treat him in either one direction or the other in a purely physical way. Man is an exception, whatever else he is. If he is not the image of God, then he is a disease of the dust. If it is not true that a divine being fell, then we can only say that one of the animals went entirely off its head. In neither case can we really argue very much from the body of man simply considered as the body of an innocent and healthy animal. His body has got too much mixed up with his soul, as we see in the supreme instance of sex. It may be worth while uttering the warning to wealthy philanthropists and idealists that this argument from the animal should not be thoughtlessly used, even against the atrocious evils of excess; it is an argument that proves too little or too much.
Doubtless, it is unnatural to be drunk. But then in a real sense it is unnatural to be human. Doubtless, the intemperate workman wastes his tissues in drinking; but no one knows how much the sober workman wastes his tissues by working. No one knows how much the wealthy philanthropist wastes his tissues by talking; or, in much rarer conditions, by thinking. All the human things are more dangerous than anything that affects the beasts—sex, poetry, property, religion. The real case against drunkenness is not that it calls up the beast, but that it calls up the Devil. It does not call up the beast, and if it did it would not matter much, as a rule; the beast is a harmless and rather amiable creature, as anybody can see by watching cattle. There is nothing bestial about intoxication; and certainly there is nothing intoxicating or even particularly lively about beasts. Man is always something worse or something better than an animal; and a mere argument from animal perfection never touches him at all. Thus, in sex no animal is either chivalrous or obscene. And thus no animal ever invented anything so bad as drunkenness— or so good as drink.
The pronouncement of these particular doctors is very clear and uncompromising; in the modern atmosphere, indeed, it even deserves some credit for moral courage. The majority of modern people, of course, will probably agree with it in so far as it declares that alcoholic drinks are often of supreme value in emergencies of illness; but many people, I fear, will open their eyes at the emphatic terms in which they describe such drink as considered as a beverage; but they are not content with declaring that the drink is in moderation harmless: they distinctly declare that it is in moderation beneficial. But I fancy that, in saying this, the doctors had in mind a truth that runs somewhat counter to the common opinion. I fancy that it is the experience of most doctors that giving any alcohol for illness (though often necessary) is about the most morally dangerous way of giving it. Instead of giving it to a healthy person who has many other forms of life, you are giving it to a desperate person, to whom it is the only form of life. The invalid can hardly be blamed if by some accident of his erratic and overwrought condition he comes to remember the thing as the very water of vitality and to use it as such. For in so far as drinking is really a sin it is not because drinking is wild, but because drinking is tame; not in so far as it is anarchy, but in so far as it is slavery. Probably the worst way to drink is to drink medicinally. Certainly the safest way to drink is to drink carelessly; that is, without caring much for anything, and especially not caring for the drink.
The doctor, of course, ought to be able to do a great deal in the way of restraining those individual cases where there is plainly an evil thirst; and beyond that the only hope would seem to be in some increase, or, rather, some concentration of ordinary public opinion on the subject. I have always held consistently my own modest theory on the subject. I believe that if by some method the local public-house could be as definite and isolated a place as the local post-office or the local railway station, if all types of people passed through it for all types of refreshment, you would have the same safeguard against a man behaving in a disgusting way in a tavern that you have at present against his behaving in a disgusting way in a post-office: simply the presence of his ordinary sensible neighbours. In such a place the kind of lunatic who wants to drink an unlimited number of whiskies would be treated with the same severity with which the post office authorities would treat an amiable lunatic who had an appetite for licking an unlimited number of stamps. It is a small matter whether in either case a technical refusal would be officially employed. It is an essential matter that in both cases the authorities could rapidly communicate with the friends and family of the mentally afflicted person. At least, the postmistress would not dangle a strip of tempting sixpenny stamps before the enthusiast’s eyes as he was being dragged away with his tongue out. If we made drinking open and official we might be taking one step towards making it careless. In such things to be careless is to be sane: for neither drunkards nor Moslems can be careless about drink.
IL VINO QUANDO È ROSSO
Immagino che voleranno stracci a proposito del recente manifesto sottoscritto da una lunga schiera di eminentissimi medici sul tema di ciò che si chiama «alcol». «Alcol», a giudicare dal suono, è una parola araba, come «algebra» e «Alhambra», altre due cose sgradevoli. L’Alhambra di Spagna non l’ho mai vista; mi dicono che sia un edificio basso e disordinato; io alludo alla ben più dignitosa costruzione di Leicester Square. Se è vero, come suppongo, che «alcol» è una parola degli arabi, è interessante rendersi conto che il nostro termine generale per l’essenza del vino, della birra e di simili cose provenga da un popolo che a esse ha mosso guerra particolare. Immagino che qualche attempato capo musulmano sedesse un giorno all’ingresso della sua tenda e, rimuginando con nere sopracciglia e imprecando nella sua nera barba contro il vino come simbolo del Cristianesimo, si scervellasse in cerca di una parola tanto brutta da esprimere la sua antipatia di razza e di religione, e a un tratto sputasse fuori l’orribile parola «alcol». Il fatto che i medici abbiano dovuto usare questa parola per amore di chiarezza scientifica è stato in realtà un grande svantaggio per loro nel discutere onestamente la questione. Poiché la parola implica davvero una di quelle petizioni di principio che rendono così difficili queste faccende morali. È un vero errore supporre che, quando un uomo desidera una bevanda alcolica, desideri necessariamente l’alcol.
Lasciate che un uomo cammini di buon passo per dieci miglia in una calda giornata d’estate lungo una polverosa strada inglese, e presto scoprirà perché fu inventata la birra. Il fatto che la birra abbia una lievissima qualità stimolante sarà tra le più piccole ragioni che lo inducono a chiederla. Insomma, egli non desidererà affatto l’alcol; desidererà la birra. Ma, naturalmente, la questione non può essere risolta in modo così semplice. La vera difficoltà che sta di fronte a tutti, e che sta di fronte soprattutto ai medici, è che la straordinaria posizione dell’uomo nell’universo fisico rende praticamente impossibile trattarlo in un senso o nell’altro in maniera puramente fisica. L’uomo è un’eccezione, qualunque altra cosa egli sia. Se non è l’immagine di Dio, allora è una malattia della polvere. Se non è vero che un essere divino è caduto, allora possiamo solo dire che uno degli animali è impazzito del tutto. In nessuno dei due casi possiamo davvero argomentare granché dal corpo dell’uomo considerato semplicemente come il corpo di un innocente e sano animale. Il suo corpo si è troppo mescolato alla sua anima, come vediamo nell’istanza suprema del sesso. Vale forse la pena di rivolgere l’avvertimento ai ricchi filantropi e idealisti che questo argomento tratto dall’animale non andrebbe usato sconsideratamente, nemmeno contro gli atroci mali dell’eccesso; è un argomento che prova troppo poco o troppo.
Senza dubbio è innaturale essere ubriachi. Ma poi, in un senso reale, è innaturale essere umani. Senza dubbio l’operaio intemperante sciupa i suoi tessuti bevendo; ma nessuno sa quanto l’operaio sobrio sciupi i suoi tessuti lavorando. Nessuno sa quanto il ricco filantropo sciupi i suoi tessuti parlando; o, in condizioni assai più rare, pensando. Tutte le cose umane sono più pericolose di qualunque cosa riguardi le bestie: il sesso, la poesia, la proprietà, la religione. La vera accusa contro l’ubriachezza non è che essa richiami la bestia, ma che richiami il Diavolo. Non richiama la bestia, e se anche lo facesse la cosa non avrebbe, di regola, gran peso; la bestia è una creatura innocua e piuttosto amabile, come chiunque può constatare osservando il bestiame. Non c’è nulla di bestiale nell’ebbrezza; e certamente non c’è nulla di inebriante né di particolarmente vivace nelle bestie. L’uomo è sempre qualcosa di peggiore o di migliore di un animale; e un mero argomento tratto dalla perfezione animale non lo tocca affatto. Così, nel sesso nessun animale è cavalleresco né osceno. E così nessun animale ha mai inventato nulla di tanto cattivo quanto l’ubriachezza… né di tanto buono quanto il bere.
Il pronunciamento di questi particolari medici è chiarissimo e senza compromessi; nell’atmosfera moderna, anzi, merita perfino qualche riconoscimento per il suo coraggio morale. La maggioranza delle persone moderne, naturalmente, concorderà probabilmente con esso nella misura in cui dichiara che le bevande alcoliche sono spesso di supremo valore nelle emergenze della malattia; ma molti, temo, spalancheranno gli occhi di fronte ai termini enfatici con cui descrivono tale bevanda considerata come bibita; poiché non si accontentano di dichiarare che la bevanda è, con moderazione, innocua: dichiarano distintamente che, con moderazione, è benefica. Ma ho l’impressione che, nel dire questo, i medici avessero in mente una verità che corre in qualche modo contro l’opinione comune. Ho l’impressione che sia esperienza della maggior parte dei medici che somministrare alcol per la malattia (per quanto spesso necessario) sia il modo pressoché più moralmente pericoloso di somministrarlo. Invece di darlo a una persona sana che ha molte altre forme di vita, lo si dà a una persona disperata, per la quale esso è l’unica forma di vita. Difficilmente si può biasimare l’infermo se, per qualche accidente della sua condizione instabile e sovreccitata, giunge a ricordare quella cosa come la vera acqua della vitalità e a usarla come tale. Poiché, nella misura in cui il bere è davvero un peccato, non lo è perché il bere sia sfrenato, ma perché il bere è docile; non nella misura in cui è anarchia, ma nella misura in cui è schiavitù. Probabilmente il modo peggiore di bere è bere a scopo medicinale. Di certo il modo più sicuro di bere è bere con noncuranza; vale a dire, senza curarsi molto di nulla, e specialmente senza curarsi della bevanda.
Il medico, naturalmente, dovrebbe poter fare molto per frenare quei casi individuali in cui c’è chiaramente una sete malvagia; e oltre a ciò l’unica speranza sembrerebbe stare in un qualche incremento, o piuttosto in una qualche concentrazione, dell’ordinaria opinione pubblica sull’argomento. Ho sempre sostenuto con coerenza la mia modesta teoria in proposito. Credo che se con qualche metodo la osteria locale potesse essere un luogo tanto definito e isolato quanto l’ufficio postale locale o la stazione ferroviaria locale, se tutti i tipi di persone vi passassero per ogni sorta di ristoro, si avrebbe la stessa garanzia contro il fatto che un uomo si comporti in modo disgustoso in una taverna che si ha attualmente contro il suo comportarsi in modo disgustoso in un ufficio postale: semplicemente la presenza dei suoi ordinari, assennati vicini. In un luogo simile il tipo di pazzo che vuole bere un numero illimitato di whisky sarebbe trattato con la stessa severità con cui le autorità postali tratterebbero un amabile pazzo che avesse l’appetito di leccare un numero illimitato di francobolli. È cosa da poco se in entrambi i casi si ricorresse ufficialmente a un rifiuto formale. È cosa essenziale che in entrambi i casi le autorità potessero comunicare rapidamente con gli amici e i familiari della persona mentalmente afflitta. Per lo meno, la postina non farebbe penzolare una striscia di allettanti francobolli da sei pence davanti agli occhi dell’entusiasta mentre lo si trascina via con la lingua di fuori. Se rendessimo il bere aperto e ufficiale, faremmo forse un passo verso il renderlo noncurante. In tali cose essere noncuranti è essere sani di mente: poiché né gli ubriaconi né i musulmani possono essere noncuranti riguardo al bere.
DEMAGOGUES AND MYSTAGOGUES
I once heard a man call this age the age of demagogues. Of this I can only say, in the admirably sensible words of the angry coachman in “Pickwick,” that “that remark’s political, or what is much the same, it ain’t true.” So far from being the age of demagogues, this is really and specially the age of mystagogues. So far from this being a time in which things are praised because they are popular, the truth is that this is the first time, perhaps, in the whole history of the world in which things can be praised because they are unpopular. The demagogue succeeds because he makes himself understood, even if he is not worth understanding. But the mystagogue succeeds because he gets himself misunderstood; although, as a rule, he is not even worth misunderstanding. Gladstone was a demagogue: Disraeli a mystagogue. But ours is specially the time when a man can advertise his wares not as a universality, but as what the tradesmen call “a speciality.” We all know this, for instance, about modern art. Michelangelo and Whistler were both fine artists; but one is obviously public, the other obviously private, or, rather, not obvious at all. Michelangelo’s frescoes are doubtless finer than the popular judgment, but they are plainly meant to strike the popular judgment. Whistler’s pictures seem often meant to escape the popular judgment; they even seem meant to escape the popular admiration. They are elusive, fugitive; they fly even from praise. Doubtless many artists in Michelangelo’s day declared themselves to be great artists, although they were unsuccessful. But they did not declare themselves great artists because they were unsuccessful: that is the peculiarity of our own time, which has a positive bias against the populace.
Another case of the same kind of thing can be found in the latest conceptions of humour. By the wholesome tradition of mankind, a joke was a thing meant to amuse men; a joke which did not amuse them was a failure, just as a fire which did not warm them was a failure. But we have seen the process of secrecy and aristocracy introduced even into jokes. If a joke falls flat, a small school of æsthetes only ask us to notice the wild grace of its falling and its perfect flatness after its fall. The old idea that the joke was not good enough for the company has been superseded by the new aristocratic idea that the company was not worthy of the joke. They have introduced an almost insane individualism into that one form of intercourse which is specially and uproariously communal. They have made even levities into secrets. They have made laughter lonelier than tears.
There is a third thing to which the mystagogues have recently been applying the methods of a secret society: I mean manners. Men who sought to rebuke rudeness used to represent manners as reasonable and ordinary; now they seek to represent them as private and peculiar. Instead of saying to a man who blocks up a street or the fireplace, “You ought to know better than that,” the moderns say, “You, of course, don’t know better than that.”
I have just been reading an amusing book by Lady Grove called “The Social Fetich,” which is a positive riot of this new specialism and mystification. It is due to Lady Grove to say that she has some of the freer and more honourable qualities of the old Whig aristocracy, as well as their wonderful worldliness and their strange faith in the passing fashion of our politics. For instance, she speaks of Jingo Imperialism with a healthy English contempt; and she perceives stray and striking truths, and records them justly— as, for instance, the greater democracy of the Southern and Catholic countries of Europe. But in her dealings with social formulæ here in England she is, it must frankly be said, a common mystagogue. She does not, like a decent demagogue, wish to make people understand; she wishes to make them painfully conscious of not understanding. Her favourite method is to terrify people from doing things that are quite harmless by telling them that if they do they are the kind of people who would do other things, equally harmless. If you ask after somebody’s mother (or whatever it is), you are the kind of person who would have a pillow-case, or would not have a pillow-case. I forget which it is; and so, I dare say, does she. If you assume the ordinary dignity of a decent citizen and say that you don’t see the harm of having a mother or a pillow-case, she would say that of course you wouldn’t. This is what I call being a mystagogue. It is more vulgar than being a demagogue; because it is much easier.
The primary point I meant to emphasise is that this sort of aristocracy is essentially a new sort. All the old despots were demagogues; at least, they were demagogues whenever they were really trying to please or impress the demos. If they poured out beer for their vassals it was because both they and their vassals had a taste for beer. If (in some slightly different mood) they poured melted lead on their vassals, it was because both they and their vassals had a strong distaste for melted lead. But they did not make any mystery about either of the two substances. They did not say, “You don’t like melted lead? … Ah! no, of course, you wouldn’t; you are probably the kind of person who would prefer beer… It is no good asking you even to imagine the curious undercurrent of psychological pleasure felt by a refined person under the seeming shock of melted lead.” Even tyrants when they tried to be popular, tried to give the people pleasure; they did not try to overawe the people by giving them something which they ought to regard as pleasure.
It was the same with the popular presentment of aristocracy. Aristocrats tried to impress humanity by the exhibition of qualities which humanity admires, such as courage, gaiety, or even mere splendour. The aristocracy might have more possession in these things, but the democracy had quite equal delight in them. It was much more sensible to offer yourself for admiration because you had drunk three bottles of port at a sitting, than to offer yourself for admiration (as Lady Grove does) because you think it right to say “port wine” while other people think it right to say “port.” Whether Lady Grove’s preference for port wine (I mean for the phrase port wine) is a piece of mere nonsense I do not know; but at least it is a very good example of the futility of such tests in the matter even of mere breeding. “Port wine” may happen to be the phrase used in certain good families; but numberless aristocrats say “port,” and all barmaids say “port wine.” The whole thing is rather more trivial than collecting tram-tickets; and I will not pursue Lady Grove’s further distinctions. I pass over the interesting theory that I ought to say to Jones (even apparently if he is my dearest friend), “How is Mrs. Jones?” instead of “How is your wife?” and I pass over an impassioned declamation about bedspreads (I think) which has failed to fire my blood.
The truth of the matter is really quite simple. An aristocracy is a secret society; and this is especially so when, as in the modern world, it is practically a plutocracy. The one idea of a secret society is to change the password. Lady Grove falls naturally into a pure perversity because she feels subconsciously that the people of England can be more effectively kept at a distance by a perpetual torrent of new tests than by the persistence of a few old ones. She knows that in the educated “middle class” there is an idea that it is vulgar to say port wine; therefore she reverses the idea— she says that the man who would say “port” is a man who would say, “How is your wife?” She says it because she knows both these remarks to be quite obvious and reasonable.
The only thing to be done or said in reply, I suppose, would be to apply the same principle of bold mystification on our own part. I do not see why I should not write a book called “Etiquette in Fleet Street,” and terrify every one else out of that thoroughfare by mysterious allusions to the mistakes that they generally make. I might say: “This is the kind of man who would wear a green tie when he went into a tobacconist’s,” or “You don’t see anything wrong in drinking a Benedictine on Thursday? … No, of course you wouldn’t.” I might asseverate with passionate disgust and disdain: “The man who is capable of writing sonnets as well as triolets is capable of climbing an omnibus while holding an umbrella.” It seems a simple method; if ever I should master it perhaps I may govern England.
DEMAGOGHI E MISTAGOGHI
Un giorno sentii un tale definire questa la nostra età come l’età dei demagoghi. A tal proposito non posso che ribattere, con le parole mirabilmente assennate del cocchiere infuriato del «Pickwick», che «quell’osservazione è politica, o, che è poi la stessa cosa, non è vera». Ben lungi dall’essere l’età dei demagoghi, questa è in realtà, e in modo affatto particolare, l’età dei mistagoghi. Ben lungi dall’essere un tempo in cui le cose vengono lodate perché sono popolari, la verità è che questa è la prima volta, forse, in tutta la storia del mondo, in cui le cose possono essere lodate perché impopolari. Il demagogo riesce perché si fa capire, anche se non merita di essere capito. Il mistagogo, invece, riesce perché si fa fraintendere; benché, di regola, non meriti neppure di essere frainteso. Gladstone era un demagogo: Disraeli un mistagogo. Ma la nostra è specialmente l’epoca in cui un uomo può reclamizzare la propria mercanzia non come qualcosa di universale, bensì come ciò che i bottegai chiamano «una specialità». Tutti lo sappiamo, per esempio, riguardo all’arte moderna. Michelangelo e Whistler furono entrambi artisti egregi; ma l’uno è manifestamente pubblico, l’altro manifestamente privato, o, meglio, per nulla manifesto. Gli affreschi di Michelangelo sono senza dubbio più raffinati del giudizio popolare, eppure sono palesemente concepiti per colpire il giudizio popolare. I quadri di Whistler paiono spesso concepiti per sfuggire al giudizio popolare; sembrano anzi concepiti per sfuggire all’ammirazione popolare. Sono elusivi, fuggitivi; fuggono perfino dalla lode. Senza dubbio molti artisti ai tempi di Michelangelo si proclamavano grandi artisti, per quanto non avessero successo. Ma non si proclamavano grandi artisti perché non avevano successo: questa è la peculiarità del nostro tempo, che nutre un preciso pregiudizio contro la moltitudine.
Un altro caso dello stesso genere si può rintracciare nelle più recenti concezioni dell’umorismo. Secondo la salubre tradizione dell’umanità, una facezia era una cosa concepita per divertire gli uomini; una facezia che non li divertiva era un fallimento, proprio come un fuoco che non li scaldava era un fallimento. Ma abbiamo visto il procedimento della segretezza e dell’aristocrazia introdursi perfino nelle facezie. Se una battuta cade nel vuoto, una piccola scuola di esteti ci invita soltanto a notare la selvaggia grazia della sua caduta e la sua perfetta piattezza dopo la caduta. La vecchia idea che la battuta non fosse abbastanza buona per la compagnia è stata soppiantata dalla nuova idea aristocratica che la compagnia non fosse degna della battuta. Hanno introdotto un individualismo quasi folle in quell’unica forma di rapporto che è specialmente e rumorosamente comune a tutti. Hanno trasformato perfino le frivolezze in segreti. Hanno reso il riso più solitario delle lacrime.
C’è una terza cosa cui i mistagoghi hanno di recente applicato i metodi di una società segreta: intendo le buone maniere. Gli uomini che intendevano rimproverare la scortesia usavano presentare le buone maniere come ragionevoli e ovvie; ora cercano di presentarle come private e peculiari. Invece di dire a un uomo che ostruisce una via o il camino: «Dovreste saperlo bene», i moderni dicono: «Voi, naturalmente, non lo sapete affatto».
Ho appena finito di leggere un libro divertente di Lady Grove intitolato «The Social Fetich», che è un vero e proprio tripudio di questo nuovo specialismo e di questa nuova mistificazione. Va reso a Lady Grove il merito di possedere alcune delle qualità più libere e più onorevoli della vecchia aristocrazia whig, come pure la loro mirabile mondanità e la loro strana fede nella moda passeggera della nostra politica. Per esempio, parla dell’imperialismo jingoista con un sano disprezzo inglese; e coglie verità sparse e sorprendenti, e le registra con giustezza — come, per esempio, la maggiore democrazia dei paesi meridionali e cattolici d’Europa. Ma nel suo modo di trattare le formule sociali qui in Inghilterra è, va detto francamente, una comune mistagoga. Ella non desidera, come un dignitoso demagogo, far capire la gente; desidera renderla dolorosamente consapevole di non capire. Il suo metodo prediletto è terrorizzare la gente affinché non faccia cose del tutto innocue, dicendole che, se le facesse, sarebbe il tipo di persona che ne farebbe altre, altrettanto innocue. Se chiedete notizie della madre di qualcuno (o qualcosa del genere), siete il tipo di persona che avrebbe una federa, o che non l’avrebbe. Dimentico quale delle due; e oso dire che lo dimentica anche lei. Se assumete l’ordinaria dignità di un cittadino perbene e dite che non vedete che male ci sia ad avere una madre o una federa, ella replicherebbe che, naturalmente, voi non lo vedreste. Questo è ciò che io chiamo essere un mistagogo. È più volgare che essere un demagogo; perché è assai più facile.
Il punto essenziale che intendevo sottolineare è che questa sorta di aristocrazia è essenzialmente di specie nuova. Tutti gli antichi despoti erano demagoghi; almeno, erano demagoghi ogniqualvolta cercavano davvero di compiacere o di impressionare il demos. Se versavano birra per i loro vassalli, era perché tanto loro quanto i loro vassalli avevano il gusto della birra. Se (in un umore lievemente diverso) versavano piombo fuso sui loro vassalli, era perché tanto loro quanto i loro vassalli nutrivano una forte avversione per il piombo fuso. Ma non facevano alcun mistero di nessuna delle due sostanze. Non dicevano: «Non vi piace il piombo fuso?… Ah! no, naturalmente, voi non lo gradireste; siete probabilmente il tipo di persona che preferirebbe la birra… È inutile chiedervi anche solo di immaginare la curiosa corrente sotterranea di piacere psicologico provata da una persona raffinata sotto l’apparente urto del piombo fuso». Perfino i tiranni, quando cercavano di rendersi popolari, cercavano di dare piacere al popolo; non cercavano di soggiogare il popolo dandogli qualcosa che avrebbe dovuto considerare piacere.
Lo stesso valeva per la raffigurazione popolare dell’aristocrazia. Gli aristocratici cercavano di impressionare l’umanità con l’esibizione di qualità che l’umanità ammira, come il coraggio, la gaiezza, o anche il semplice sfarzo. L’aristocrazia poteva possederne di più, ma la democrazia ne traeva un diletto affatto pari. Era assai più sensato offrirsi all’ammirazione per aver bevuto tre bottiglie di porto in una sola seduta, che offrirsi all’ammirazione (come fa Lady Grove) perché si ritiene giusto dire «port wine» mentre altri ritengono giusto dire «port». Se la predilezione di Lady Grove per il porto (intendo per la locuzione «port wine») sia una mera sciocchezza non saprei dire; ma è quanto meno un ottimo esempio della futilità di simili prove anche solo in materia di buona educazione. «Port wine» potrà pure essere la locuzione usata in certe buone famiglie; ma innumerevoli aristocratici dicono «port», e tutte le cameriere di taverna dicono «port wine». L’intera faccenda è alquanto più triviale che collezionare biglietti del tram; e non intendo inseguire le ulteriori distinzioni di Lady Grove. Sorvolo sull’interessante teoria secondo cui io dovrei dire a Jones (anche, a quanto pare, se è il mio amico più caro): «Come sta la signora Jones?» invece di «Come sta tua moglie?»; e sorvolo su un’appassionata declamazione a proposito di copriletti (mi pare) che non è riuscita a infiammarmi il sangue.
La verità della faccenda è in realtà assai semplice. Un’aristocrazia è una società segreta; e ciò vale specialmente quando, come nel mondo moderno, è praticamente una plutocrazia. L’unica idea di una società segreta è cambiare la parola d’ordine. Lady Grove scivola naturalmente in una pura perversità perché sente inconsciamente che il popolo d’Inghilterra può essere tenuto a distanza più efficacemente da un torrente perpetuo di nuove prove che non dalla persistenza di poche prove antiche. Ella sa che nella «classe media» istruita vige l’idea che sia volgare dire «port wine»; perciò rovescia l’idea — dice che l’uomo capace di dire «port» è un uomo capace di dire «Come sta tua moglie?». Lo dice perché sa che entrambe queste osservazioni sono del tutto ovvie e ragionevoli.
L’unica cosa da fare o da dire in risposta, suppongo, sarebbe applicare a nostra volta lo stesso principio di audace mistificazione. Non vedo perché non dovrei scrivere un libro intitolato «Etiquette in Fleet Street», e terrorizzare chiunque altro tenendolo lontano da quella via con misteriose allusioni agli errori che di solito commette. Potrei dire: «Questo è il genere d’uomo che indosserebbe una cravatta verde entrando da un tabaccaio», oppure «Non vedete nulla di male nel bere un Benedictine di giovedì?… No, naturalmente, voi non lo vedreste». Potrei asseverare con appassionato disgusto e disdegno: «L’uomo capace di scrivere sonetti oltre che trioletti è capace di arrampicarsi su un omnibus reggendo un ombrello». Sembra un metodo semplice; se mai riuscissi a padroneggiarlo, forse potrei governare l’Inghilterra.
THE “EATANSWILL GAZETTE.”
The other day some one presented me with a paper called the Eatanswill Gazette. I need hardly say that I could not have been more startled if I had seen a coach coming down the road with old Mr. Tony Weller on the box. But, indeed, the case is much more extraordinary than that would be. Old Mr. Weller was a good man, a specially and seriously good man, a proud father, a very patient husband, a sane moralist, and a reliable ally. One could not be so very much surprised if somebody pretended to be Tony Weller. But the Eatanswill Gazette is definitely depicted in “Pickwick” as a dirty and unscrupulous rag, soaked with slander and nonsense. It was really interesting to find a modern paper proud to take its name. The case cannot be compared to anything so simple as a resurrection of one of the “Pickwick” characters; yet a very good parallel could easily be found. It is almost exactly as if a firm of solicitors were to open their offices to-morrow under the name of Dodson and Fogg.
It was at once apparent, of course, that the thing was a joke. But what was not apparent, what only grew upon the mind with gradual wonder and terror, was the fact that it had its serious side. The paper is published in the well-known town of Sudbury, in Suffolk. And it seems that there is a standing quarrel between Sudbury and the county town of Ipswich as to which was the town described by Dickens in his celebrated sketch of an election. Each town proclaims with passion that it was Eatanswill. If each town proclaimed with passion that it was not Eatanswill, I might be able to understand it. Eatanswill, according to Dickens, was a town alive with loathsome corruption, hypocritical in all its public utterances, and venal in all its votes. Yet, two highly respectable towns compete for the honour of having been this particular cesspool, just as ten cities fought to be the birthplace of Homer. They claim to be its original as keenly as if they were claiming to be the original of More’s “Utopia” or Morris’s “Earthly Paradise.” They grow seriously heated over the matter. The men of Ipswich say warmly, “It must have been our town; for Dickens says it was corrupt, and a more corrupt town than our town you couldn’t have met in a month.” The men of Sudbury reply with rising passion, “Permit us to tell you, gentlemen, that our town was quite as corrupt as your town any day of the week. Our town was a common nuisance; and we defy our enemies to question it.” “Perhaps you will tell us,” sneer the citizens of Ipswich, “that your politics were ever as thoroughly filthy as----” “As filthy as anything,” answer the Sudbury men, undauntedly. “Nothing in politics could be filthier. Dickens must have noticed how disgusting we were.” “And could he have failed to notice,” the others reason indignantly, “how disgusting we were? You could smell us a mile off. You Sudbury fellows may think yourselves very fine, but let me tell you that, compared to our city, Sudbury was an honest place.” And so the controversy goes on. It seems to me to be a new and odd kind of controversy.
Naturally, an outsider feels inclined to ask why Eatanswill should be either one or the other. As a matter of fact, I fear Eatanswill was every town in the country. It is surely clear that when Dickens described the Eatanswill election he did not mean it as a satire on Sudbury or a satire on Ipswich; he meant it as a satire on England. The Eatanswill election is not a joke against Eatanswill; it is a joke against elections. If the satire is merely local, it practically loses its point; just as the “Circumlocution Office” would lose its point if it were not supposed to be a true sketch of all Government offices; just as the Lord Chancellor in “Bleak House” would lose his point if he were not supposed to be symbolic and representative of all Lord Chancellors. The whole moral meaning would vanish if we supposed that Oliver Twist had got by accident into an exceptionally bad workhouse, or that Mr. Dorrit was in the only debtors’ prison that was not well managed. Dickens was making game, not of places, but of methods. He poured all his powerful genius into trying to make the people ashamed of the methods. But he seems only to have succeeded in making people proud of the places. In any case, the controversy is conducted in a truly extraordinary way. No one seems to allow for the fact that, after all, Dickens was writing a novel, and a highly fantastic novel at that. Facts in support of Sudbury or Ipswich are quoted not only from the story itself, which is wild and wandering enough, but even from the yet wilder narratives which incidentally occur in the story, such as Sam Weller’s description of how his father, on the way to Eatanswill, tipped all the voters into the canal. This may quite easily be (to begin with) an entertaining tarradiddle of Sam’s own invention, told, like many other even more improbable stories, solely to amuse Mr. Pickwick. Yet the champions of these two towns positively ask each other to produce a canal, or to fail for ever in their attempt to prove themselves the most corrupt town in England. As far as I remember, Sam’s story of the canal ends with Mr. Pickwick eagerly asking whether everybody was rescued, and Sam solemnly replying that one old gentleman’s hat was found, but that he was not sure whether his head was in it. If the canal is to be taken as realistic, why not the hat and the head? If these critics ever find the canal I recommend them to drag it for the body of the old gentleman.
Both sides refuse to allow for the fact that the characters in the story are comic characters. For instance, Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, the eminent student of Dickens, writes to the Eatanswill Gazette to say that Sudbury, a small town, could not have been Eatanswill, because one of the candidates speaks of its great manufactures. But obviously one of the candidates would have spoken of its great manufactures if it had had nothing but a row of apple-stalls. One of the candidates might have said that the commerce of Eatanswill eclipsed Carthage, and covered every sea; it would have been quite in the style of Dickens. But when the champion of Sudbury answers him, he does not point out this plain mistake. He answers by making another mistake exactly of the same kind. He says that Eatanswill was not a busy, important place. And his odd reason is that Mrs. Pott said she was dull there. But obviously Mrs. Pott would have said she was dull anywhere. She was setting her cap at Mr. Winkle. Moreover, it was the whole point of her character in any case. Mrs. Pott was that kind of woman. If she had been in Ipswich she would have said that she ought to be in London. If she was in London she would have said that she ought to be in Paris. The first disputant proves Eatanswill grand because a servile candidate calls it grand. The second proves it dull because a discontented woman calls it dull.
The great part of the controversy seems to be conducted in the spirit of highly irrelevant realism. Sudbury cannot be Eatanswill, because there was a fancy-dress shop at Eatanswill, and there is no record of a fancy-dress shop at Sudbury. Sudbury must be Eatanswill because there were heavy roads outside Eatanswill, and there are heavy roads outside Sudbury. Ipswich cannot be Eatanswill, because Mrs. Leo Hunter’s country seat would not be near a big town. Ipswich must be Eatanswill because Mrs. Leo Hunter’s country seat would be near a large town. Really, Dickens might have been allowed to take liberties with such things as these, even if he had been mentioning the place by name. If I were writing a story about the town of Limerick, I should take the liberty of introducing a bun-shop without taking a journey to Limerick to see whether there was a bun-shop there. If I wrote a romance about Torquay, I should hold myself free to introduce a house with a green door without having studied a list of all the coloured doors in the town. But if, in order to make it particularly obvious that I had not meant the town for a photograph either of Torquay or Limerick, I had gone out of my way to give the place a wild, fictitious name of my own, I think that in that case I should be justified in tearing my hair with rage if the people of Limerick or Torquay began to argue about bun-shops and green doors. No reasonable man would expect Dickens to be so literal as all that even about Bath or Bury St. Edmunds, which do exist; far less need he be literal about Eatanswill, which didn’t exist.
I must confess, however, that I incline to the Sudbury side of the argument. This does not only arise from the sympathy which all healthy people have for small places as against big ones; it arises from some really good qualities in this particular Sudbury publication. First of all, the champions of Sudbury seem to be more open to the sensible and humorous view of the book than the champions of Ipswich—at least, those that appear in this discussion. Even the Sudbury champion, bent on finding realistic clothes, rebels (to his eternal honour) when Mr. Percy Fitzgerald tries to show that Bob Sawyer’s famous statement that he was neither Buff nor Blue, “but a sort of plaid,” must have been copied from some silly man at Ipswich who said that his politics were “half and half.” Anybody might have made either of the two jokes. But it was the whole glory and meaning of Dickens that he confined himself to making jokes that anybody might have made a little better than anybody would have made them.
LA «GAZZETTA DI EATANSWILL».
L’altro giorno qualcuno mi ha porto un giornale intitolato la Eatanswill Gazette. Non c’è bisogno che io dica quanto sarei rimasto meno sbalordito se avessi visto una diligenza scendere lungo la strada con il vecchio Mr. Tony Weller a cassetta. Ma, in verità, il caso è assai più straordinario di quanto quello sarebbe. Il vecchio Mr. Weller era un brav’uomo, un uomo buono in modo particolare e serio, un padre orgoglioso, un marito paziente all’estremo, un moralista assennato e un alleato fidato. Non ci si potrebbe stupire più di tanto se qualcuno fingesse di essere Tony Weller. Ma la Eatanswill Gazette è dipinta senza mezzi termini nel «Pickwick» come una gazzetta sudicia e senza scrupoli, imbevuta di calunnia e di sciocchezze. È stato davvero interessante scoprire un giornale moderno fiero di assumerne il nome. Il caso non si può paragonare a nulla di così semplice come la resurrezione di uno dei personaggi del «Pickwick»; eppure un ottimo parallelo si potrebbe trovare senza difficoltà. È quasi esattamente come se uno studio di procuratori aprisse domani i propri uffici sotto il nome di Dodson e Fogg.
Fu subito evidente, s’intende, che la cosa era uno scherzo. Ma ciò che non fu evidente, ciò che soltanto crebbe nella mente con graduale meraviglia e terrore, fu il fatto che aveva il suo lato serio. Il giornale è pubblicato nella nota cittadina di Sudbury, nel Suffolk. E pare che ci sia una lite perenne tra Sudbury e il capoluogo di contea, Ipswich, su quale delle due fosse la città descritta da Dickens nel suo celebre bozzetto di un’elezione. Ciascuna città proclama con passione di essere stata Eatanswill. Se ciascuna città proclamasse con passione di non essere stata Eatanswill, forse riuscirei a capirlo. Eatanswill, secondo Dickens, era una città brulicante di corruzione ripugnante, ipocrita in tutte le sue dichiarazioni pubbliche e venale in tutti i suoi voti. Eppure due città oltremodo rispettabili si contendono l’onore di essere state proprio questo pozzo nero, proprio come dieci città si contesero d’essere la patria di Omero. Rivendicano d’esserne l’originale con la stessa smania con cui rivendicherebbero d’essere l’originale dell’«Utopia» di More o del «Paradiso terrestre» di Morris. Si accalorano seriamente sulla faccenda. Gli uomini di Ipswich dicono con calore: «Dev’essere stata la nostra città; perché Dickens dice che era corrotta, e una città più corrotta della nostra non l’avreste incontrata in un mese di cammino». Gli uomini di Sudbury replicano con crescente foga: «Permetteteci di dirvi, signori, che la nostra città era corrotta esattamente quanto la vostra in qualunque giorno della settimana. La nostra città era una pubblica calamità; e sfidiamo i nostri nemici a metterlo in dubbio». «Forse vorrete dirci», sogghignano i cittadini di Ipswich, «che la vostra politica sia mai stata immonda quanto…» «Immonda quanto qualsiasi cosa», rispondono gli uomini di Sudbury, senza scomporsi. «Nulla in politica poteva essere più immondo. Dickens deve aver notato quanto fossimo disgustosi». «E poteva forse mancare di notare», ribattono gli altri con indignazione, «quanto disgustosi fossimo noi? Ci si sentiva puzzare da un miglio di distanza. Voi di Sudbury vi crederete pure gran cosa, ma lasciate che vi dica che, al confronto della nostra città, Sudbury era un luogo onesto». E così la controversia prosegue. Mi pare un genere di controversia nuovo e curioso.
Naturalmente, un estraneo si sente incline a chiedere perché mai Eatanswill debba essere l’una o l’altra. In verità, temo che Eatanswill fosse ogni città del paese. È sicuramente chiaro che quando Dickens descrisse l’elezione di Eatanswill non intendeva farne una satira di Sudbury o una satira di Ipswich; intendeva farne una satira dell’Inghilterra. L’elezione di Eatanswill non è uno scherzo contro Eatanswill; è uno scherzo contro le elezioni. Se la satira è meramente locale, perde praticamente il suo senso; proprio come il «Circumlocution Office» perderebbe il suo senso se non fosse inteso come un fedele bozzetto di tutti gli uffici governativi; proprio come il Lord Cancelliere in «Bleak House» perderebbe il suo senso se non fosse inteso come simbolo e rappresentante di tutti i Lord Cancellieri. Tutto il significato morale svanirebbe se supponessimo che Oliver Twist fosse finito per caso in un ospizio eccezionalmente brutto, o che Mr. Dorrit si trovasse nell’unica prigione per debitori che non fosse ben amministrata. Dickens si prendeva gioco non dei luoghi, ma dei metodi. Riversò tutto il suo potente genio nel tentativo di far vergognare la gente dei metodi. Ma pare che sia riuscito soltanto a rendere la gente orgogliosa dei luoghi. In ogni caso, la controversia è condotta in modo davvero straordinario. Nessuno sembra tener conto del fatto che, dopotutto, Dickens stava scrivendo un romanzo, e per giunta un romanzo assai fantastico. Fatti a sostegno di Sudbury o di Ipswich vengono citati non solo dalla storia stessa, che è già abbastanza sfrenata e vagabonda, ma perfino dalle narrazioni ancor più sfrenate che vi ricorrono incidentalmente, come la descrizione di Sam Weller di come suo padre, andando a Eatanswill, rovesciasse tutti gli elettori nel canale. Questa potrebbe benissimo essere (tanto per cominciare) una divertente frottola di pura invenzione di Sam, raccontata, come molte altre storie ancor più inverosimili, unicamente per divertire Mr. Pickwick. Eppure i campioni di queste due città si chiedono a vicenda, con la massima serietà, di produrre un canale, o di fallire per sempre nel tentativo di dimostrarsi la città più corrotta d’Inghilterra. Per quanto ricordo, la storia del canale di Sam finisce con Mr. Pickwick che chiede ansiosamente se tutti furono tratti in salvo, e con Sam che risponde solennemente che fu ritrovato il cappello di un vecchio signore, ma che non era sicuro se la testa vi fosse dentro. Se il canale va preso come realistico, perché non il cappello e la testa? Se questi critici mai troveranno il canale, raccomando loro di dragarlo in cerca del corpo del vecchio signore.
Entrambe le parti si rifiutano di tener conto del fatto che i personaggi della storia sono personaggi comici. Per esempio, Mr. Percy Fitzgerald, l’eminente studioso di Dickens, scrive alla Eatanswill Gazette per dire che Sudbury, cittadina piccola, non poteva essere stata Eatanswill, perché uno dei candidati parla delle sue grandi manifatture. Ma è ovvio che uno dei candidati avrebbe parlato delle sue grandi manifatture anche se non avesse avuto altro che una fila di banchi di mele. Uno dei candidati avrebbe potuto dire che il commercio di Eatanswill eclissava Cartagine e copriva ogni mare; sarebbe stato del tutto nello stile di Dickens. Ma quando il campione di Sudbury gli risponde, non fa notare questo palese errore. Risponde commettendo un altro errore esattamente dello stesso genere. Dice che Eatanswill non era un luogo affaccendato e importante. E la sua bizzarra ragione è che Mrs. Pott disse di annoiarvisi. Ma è ovvio che Mrs. Pott avrebbe detto di annoiarsi dovunque. Stava facendo la civetta con Mr. Winkle. E per di più era comunque tutto il senso del suo carattere. Mrs. Pott era quel tipo di donna. Se fosse stata a Ipswich, avrebbe detto che avrebbe dovuto trovarsi a Londra. Se si fosse trovata a Londra, avrebbe detto che avrebbe dovuto trovarsi a Parigi. Il primo disputante dimostra che Eatanswill era grandiosa perché un candidato servile la chiama grandiosa. Il secondo dimostra che era noiosa perché una donna scontenta la chiama noiosa.
La maggior parte della controversia sembra condotta nello spirito di un realismo assai fuor di luogo. Sudbury non può essere Eatanswill, perché a Eatanswill c’era un negozio di costumi in maschera, e non risulta che ci fosse un negozio di costumi in maschera a Sudbury. Sudbury dev’essere Eatanswill perché fuori Eatanswill c’erano strade pesanti, e fuori Sudbury ci sono strade pesanti. Ipswich non può essere Eatanswill, perché la residenza di campagna di Mrs. Leo Hunter non sarebbe stata vicina a una grande città. Ipswich dev’essere Eatanswill perché la residenza di campagna di Mrs. Leo Hunter sarebbe stata vicina a una grande città. Davvero, si sarebbe potuto concedere a Dickens di prendersi libertà con cose simili, anche se avesse nominato il luogo per nome. Se stessi scrivendo una storia sulla città di Limerick, mi prenderei la libertà di introdurvi una pasticceria senza fare un viaggio a Limerick per vedere se ci fosse una pasticceria. Se scrivessi un romanzo su Torquay, mi terrei libero di introdurvi una casa con la porta verde senza aver studiato l’elenco di tutte le porte colorate della città. Ma se, per rendere particolarmente evidente che non avevo inteso la città come una fotografia né di Torquay né di Limerick, mi fossi dato la pena di attribuire al luogo un nome fittizio e stravagante di mia invenzione, credo che in tal caso sarei giustificato nello strapparmi i capelli dalla rabbia se la gente di Limerick o di Torquay cominciasse a discutere di pasticcerie e di porte verdi. Nessun uomo ragionevole si aspetterebbe che Dickens fosse letterale a tal punto perfino a proposito di Bath o di Bury St. Edmunds, che esistono; tanto meno c’è bisogno che sia letterale a proposito di Eatanswill, che non esisteva.
Devo confessare, tuttavia, che propendo per la parte di Sudbury nella disputa. Ciò non nasce soltanto dalla simpatia che ogni persona sana prova per i luoghi piccoli contro quelli grandi; nasce da alcune qualità davvero buone di questa particolare pubblicazione di Sudbury. Anzitutto, i campioni di Sudbury sembrano più aperti alla veduta assennata e umoristica del libro di quanto lo siano i campioni di Ipswich — almeno quelli che compaiono in questa discussione. Persino il campione di Sudbury, tutto intento a trovare abiti realistici, si ribella (a suo eterno onore) quando Mr. Percy Fitzgerald cerca di dimostrare che la celebre affermazione di Bob Sawyer, secondo cui egli non era né dei Buff né dei Blue, «ma una sorta di scozzese a quadri», dev’essere stata ricalcata da qualche sciocco di Ipswich che aveva detto che la sua politica era «metà e metà». Chiunque avrebbe potuto fare l’una o l’altra delle due battute. Ma fu tutta la gloria e il senso di Dickens l’essersi limitato a fare battute che chiunque avrebbe potuto fare, un po’ meglio di come chiunque le avrebbe fatte.
FAIRY TALES
Some solemn and superficial people (for nearly all very superficial people are solemn) have declared that the fairy tales are immoral; they base this upon some accidental circumstances or regrettable incidents in the war between giants and boys, some cases in which the latter indulged in unsympathetic deceptions or even in practical jokes. The objection, however, is not only false, but very much the reverse of the facts. The fairy tales are at root not only moral in the sense of being innocent, but moral in the sense of being didactic, moral in the sense of being moralising. It is all very well to talk of the freedom of fairyland, but there was precious little freedom in fairyland by the best official accounts. Mr. W.B. Yeats and other sensitive modern souls, feeling that modern life is about as black a slavery as ever oppressed mankind (they are right enough there), have especially described elfland as a place of utter ease and abandonment— a place where the soul can turn every way at will like the wind. Science denounces the idea of a capricious God; but Mr. Yeats’s school suggests that in that world every one is a capricious god. Mr. Yeats himself has said a hundred times in that sad and splendid literary style which makes him the first of all poets now writing in English (I will not say of all English poets, for Irishmen are familiar with the practice of physical assault), he has, I say, called up a hundred times the picture of the terrible freedom of the fairies, who typify the ultimate anarchy of art—
“Where nobody grows old or weary or wise, Where nobody grows old or godly or grave.”
But, after all (it is a shocking thing to say), I doubt whether Mr. Yeats really knows the real philosophy of the fairies. He is not simple enough; he is not stupid enough. Though I say it who should not, in good sound human stupidity I would knock Mr. Yeats out any day. The fairies like me better than Mr. Yeats; they can take me in more. And I have my doubts whether this feeling of the free, wild spirits on the crest of hill or wave is really the central and simple spirit of folk-lore. I think the poets have made a mistake: because the world of the fairy tales is a brighter and more varied world than ours, they have fancied it less moral; really it is brighter and more varied because it is more moral. Suppose a man could be born in a modern prison. It is impossible, of course, because nothing human can happen in a modern prison, though it could sometimes in an ancient dungeon. A modern prison is always inhuman, even when it is not inhumane. But suppose a man were born in a modern prison, and grew accustomed to the deadly silence and the disgusting indifference; and suppose he were then suddenly turned loose upon the life and laughter of Fleet Street. He would, of course, think that the literary men in Fleet Street were a free and happy race; yet how sadly, how ironically, is this the reverse of the case! And so again these toiling serfs in Fleet Street, when they catch a glimpse of the fairies, think the fairies are utterly free. But fairies are like journalists in this and many other respects. Fairies and journalists have an apparent gaiety and a delusive beauty. Fairies and journalists seem to be lovely and lawless; they seem to be both of them too exquisite to descend to the ugliness of everyday duty. But it is an illusion created by the sudden sweetness of their presence. Journalists live under law; and so in fact does fairyland.
If you really read the fairy tales, you will observe that one idea runs from one end of them to the other—the idea that peace and happiness can only exist on some condition. This idea, which is the core of ethics, is the core of the nursery tales. The whole happiness of fairyland hangs upon a thread, upon one thread. Cinderella may have a dress woven on supernatural looms and blazing with unearthly brilliance; but she must be back when the clock strikes twelve. The king may invite fairies to the christening, but he must invite all the fairies or frightful results will follow. Bluebeard’s wife may open all doors but one. A promise is broken to a cat, and the whole world goes wrong. A promise is broken to a yellow dwarf, and the whole world goes wrong. A girl may be the bride of the God of Love himself if she never tries to see him; she sees him, and he vanishes away. A girl is given a box on condition she does not open it; she opens it, and all the evils of this world rush out at her. A man and woman are put in a garden on condition that they do not eat one fruit: they eat it, and lose their joy in all the fruits of the earth.
This great idea, then, is the backbone of all folk-lore— the idea that all happiness hangs on one thin veto; all positive joy depends on one negative. Now, it is obvious that there are many philosophical and religious ideas akin to or symbolised by this; but it is not with them I wish to deal here. It is surely obvious that all ethics ought to be taught to this fairy tale tune; that, if one does the thing forbidden, one imperils all the things provided. A man who breaks his promise to his wife ought to be reminded that, even if she is a cat, the case of the fairy-cat shows that such conduct may be incautious. A burglar just about to open some one else’s safe should be playfully reminded that he is in the perilous posture of the beautiful Pandora: he is about to lift the forbidden lid and loosen evils unknown. The boy eating some one’s apples in some one’s apple tree should be a reminder that he has come to a mystical moment of his life, when one apple may rob him of all others. This is the profound morality of fairy tales; which, so far from being lawless, go to the root of all law. Instead of finding (like common books of ethics) a rationalistic basis for each Commandment, they find the great mystical basis for all Commandments. We are in this fairyland on sufferance; it is not for us to quarrel with the conditions under which we enjoy this wild vision of the world. The vetoes are indeed extraordinary, but then so are the concessions. The idea of property, the idea of some one else’s apples, is a rum idea; but then the idea of there being any apples is a rum idea. It is strange and weird that I cannot with safety drink ten bottles of champagne; but then the champagne itself is strange and weird, if you come to that. If I have drunk of the fairies’ drink it is but just I should drink by the fairies’ rules. We may not see the direct logical connection between three beautiful silver spoons and a large ugly policeman; but then who in fairy tales ever could see the direct logical connection between three bears and a giant, or between a rose and a roaring beast? Not only can these fairy tales be enjoyed because they are moral, but morality can be enjoyed because it puts us in fairyland, in a world at once of wonder and of war.
LE FIABE
Certune persone solenni e superficiali (giacché quasi tutte le persone assai superficiali sono solenni) hanno dichiarato che le fiabe sono immorali; e fondano tale accusa su qualche circostanza accidentale o su qualche increscioso incidente nella guerra fra i giganti e i fanciulli, su taluni casi in cui questi ultimi si sono abbandonati a inganni poco caritatevoli, o addirittura a burle. L’obiezione, tuttavia, non è soltanto falsa, ma per l’appunto il rovescio dei fatti. Le fiabe, alla radice, non sono soltanto morali nel senso di essere innocenti, ma morali nel senso di essere didattiche, morali nel senso di essere moraleggianti. Sta tutto bene parlare della libertà del paese delle fate, ma di libertà, in quel paese, ce n’era assai poca, stando alle migliori relazioni ufficiali. Il signor W.B. Yeats e altre anime moderne dalla fine sensibilità, avvertendo che la vita moderna è pressappoco una schiavitù tra le più nere che mai abbiano oppresso il genere umano (e su questo hanno pienamente ragione), hanno descritto il regno degli elfi soprattutto come un luogo di assoluta agiatezza e abbandono: un luogo dove l’anima può volgersi in ogni direzione a suo talento, come il vento. La scienza condanna l’idea di un Dio capriccioso; ma la scuola del signor Yeats lascia intendere che, in quel mondo, ciascuno è un dio capriccioso. Il signor Yeats medesimo ha detto cento volte, in quello stile letterario mesto e splendido che ne fa il primo fra tutti i poeti che oggi scrivono in inglese (non dirò fra tutti i poeti inglesi, ché gli irlandesi hanno pratica dell’aggressione fisica), ha, dico, evocato cento volte l’immagine della terribile libertà delle fate, che simboleggiano l’ultima anarchia dell’arte:
«Dove nessuno diventa vecchio o stanco o saggio, Dove nessuno diventa vecchio o pio o grave.»
Ma, dopotutto (è cosa sconvolgente da dire), dubito che il signor Yeats conosca davvero la vera filosofia delle fate. Egli non è abbastanza semplice; non è abbastanza sciocco. Benché non stia a me dirlo, in fatto di buona, solida sciocchezza umana metterei al tappeto il signor Yeats un giorno qualunque. Le fate mi vogliono più bene che al signor Yeats; possono darla a bere più a me. E dubito assai che questo senso degli spiriti liberi e selvaggi sulla cresta della collina o dell’onda sia davvero lo spirito centrale e semplice del folklore. Credo che i poeti abbiano commesso un errore: poiché il mondo delle fiabe è un mondo più luminoso e più vario del nostro, l’hanno immaginato meno morale; in realtà è più luminoso e più vario proprio perché è più morale. Si supponga che un uomo potesse nascere in una prigione moderna. È impossibile, s’intende, giacché nulla di umano può accadere in una prigione moderna, benché talvolta potesse accadere in un antico sotterraneo. Una prigione moderna è sempre inumana, anche quando non è disumana. Ma si supponga che un uomo nascesse in una prigione moderna, e si fosse assuefatto al mortale silenzio e alla ripugnante indifferenza; e si supponga che poi venisse d’un tratto lasciato libero in mezzo alla vita e alle risa di Fleet Street. Penserebbe, s’intende, che i letterati di Fleet Street fossero una razza libera e felice; eppure quanto tristemente, quanto ironicamente è vero il contrario! E così, di rimando, questi affaticati servi della gleba di Fleet Street, quando colgono un barlume delle fate, credono che le fate siano assolutamente libere. Ma le fate somigliano ai giornalisti in questo e in molti altri rispetti. Le fate e i giornalisti hanno un’apparente allegria e una fallace bellezza. Le fate e i giornalisti paiono leggiadri e senza legge; paiono, gli uni e le altre, troppo squisiti per abbassarsi alla bruttezza del dovere quotidiano. Ma è un’illusione creata dall’improvvisa dolcezza della loro presenza. I giornalisti vivono sotto la legge; e così, di fatto, il paese delle fate.
Se leggete davvero le fiabe, osserverete che una sola idea le percorre da un capo all’altro: l’idea che la pace e la felicità possano esistere solo a una qualche condizione. Quest’idea, che è il nòcciolo dell’etica, è il nòcciolo dei racconti della culla. Tutta la felicità del paese delle fate è appesa a un filo, a un unico filo. Cenerentola può avere un abito tessuto su telai soprannaturali e sfolgorante di ultraterreno splendore; ma dev’essere di ritorno quando l’orologio batte la mezzanotte. Il re può invitare le fate al battesimo, ma deve invitarle tutte, altrimenti ne seguiranno spaventose conseguenze. La moglie di Barbablù può aprire tutte le porte tranne una. Si rompe una promessa a un gatto, e il mondo intero va a rovescio. Si rompe una promessa a un nano giallo, e il mondo intero va a rovescio. Una fanciulla può essere la sposa del Dio dell’Amore in persona, purché non tenti mai di vederlo; lo vede, ed egli svanisce. A una fanciulla viene dato uno scrigno a condizione che non lo apra; lo apre, e tutti i mali di questo mondo le si precipitano addosso. Un uomo e una donna vengono posti in un giardino a condizione che non mangino un solo frutto: lo mangiano, e perdono la gioia di tutti i frutti della terra.
Questa grande idea, dunque, è la spina dorsale di tutto il folklore: l’idea che ogni felicità sia appesa a un unico sottile divieto; che ogni gioia positiva dipenda da un’unica negazione. Ora, è ovvio che vi sono molte idee filosofiche e religiose affini a questa, o da essa simboleggiate; ma non è di esse che desidero occuparmi qui. È di certo ovvio che tutta l’etica dovrebbe essere insegnata su quest’aria di fiaba; che, se si fa la cosa proibita, si mette a repentaglio tutto ciò che è concesso. A un uomo che rompe la promessa fatta alla moglie si dovrebbe rammentare che, foss’anche lei un gatto, il caso della gatta fatata dimostra che una simile condotta può essere imprudente. A uno scassinatore in procinto di forzare la cassaforte altrui si dovrebbe scherzosamente rammentare ch’egli si trova nella pericolosa postura della bella Pandora: sta per sollevare il coperchio proibito e scatenare mali ignoti. Al ragazzo che mangia le mele altrui sull’albero altrui si dovrebbe rammentare ch’egli è giunto a un momento mistico della sua vita, in cui una sola mela può derubarlo di tutte le altre. Questa è la profonda moralità delle fiabe; le quali, ben lungi dall’essere senza legge, vanno alla radice di ogni legge. Invece di trovare (come i comuni manuali di etica) un fondamento razionalistico per ciascun Comandamento, esse trovano il grande fondamento mistico di tutti i Comandamenti. In questo paese delle fate noi ci stiamo per tolleranza; non spetta a noi litigare con le condizioni sotto le quali godiamo di questa selvaggia visione del mondo. I divieti sono davvero straordinari, ma altrettanto lo sono le concessioni. L’idea della proprietà, l’idea delle mele di qualcun altro, è un’idea bislacca; ma allora anche l’idea che vi siano delle mele è un’idea bislacca. È strano e stravagante ch’io non possa impunemente tracannare dieci bottiglie di champagne; ma allora, a ben vedere, lo champagne stesso è strano e stravagante. Se ho bevuto la bevanda delle fate, è pur giusto ch’io beva secondo le regole delle fate. Può darsi che non vediamo la connessione logica diretta fra tre bei cucchiai d’argento e un grosso, brutto poliziotto; ma d’altronde, chi mai, nelle fiabe, ha potuto vedere la connessione logica diretta fra tre orsi e un gigante, o fra una rosa e una belva ruggente? Non solo queste fiabe possono essere godute perché sono morali, ma la moralità può essere goduta perché ci pone nel paese delle fate, in un mondo insieme di meraviglia e di guerra.
The two hundredth anniversary of Henry Fielding is very justly celebrated, even if, as far as can be discovered, it is only celebrated by the newspapers. It would be too much to expect that any such merely chronological incident should induce the people who write about Fielding to read him; this kind of neglect is only another name for glory. A great classic means a man whom one can praise without having read. This is not in itself wholly unjust; it merely implies a certain respect for the realisation and fixed conclusions of the mass of mankind. I have never read Pindar (I mean I have never read the Greek Pindar; Peter Pindar I have read all right), but the mere fact that I have not read Pindar, I think, ought not to prevent me and certainly would not prevent me from talking of “the masterpieces of Pindar,” or of “great poets like Pindar or Æschylus.” The very learned men are angularly unenlightened on this as on many other subjects; and the position they take up is really quite unreasonable. If any ordinary journalist or man of general reading alludes to Villon or to Homer, they consider it a quite triumphant sneer to say to the man, “You cannot read mediæval French,” or “You cannot read Homeric Greek.” But it is not a triumphant sneer—or, indeed, a sneer at all. A man has got as much right to employ in his speech the established and traditional facts of human history as he has to employ any other piece of common human information. And it is as reasonable for a man who knows no French to assume that Villon was a good poet as it would be for a man who has no ear for music to assume that Beethoven was a good musician. Because he himself has no ear for music, that is no reason why he should assume that the human race has no ear for music. Because I am ignorant (as I am), it does not follow that I ought to assume that I am deceived. The man who would not praise Pindar unless he had read him would be a low, distrustful fellow, the worst kind of sceptic, who doubts not only God, but man. He would be like a man who could not call Mount Everest high unless he had climbed it. He would be like a man who would not admit that the North Pole was cold until he had been there.
But I think there is a limit, and a highly legitimate limit, to this process. I think a man may praise Pindar without knowing the top of a Greek letter from the bottom. But I think that if a man is going to abuse Pindar, if he is going to denounce, refute, and utterly expose Pindar, if he is going to show Pindar up as the utter ignoramus and outrageous impostor that he is, then I think it will be just as well perhaps—I think, at any rate, it would do no harm— if he did know a little Greek, and even had read a little Pindar. And I think the same situation would be involved if the critic were concerned to point out that Pindar was scandalously immoral, pestilently cynical, or low and beastly in his views of life. When people brought such attacks against the morality of Pindar, I should regret that they could not read Greek; and when they bring such attacks against the morality of Fielding, I regret very much that they cannot read English.
There seems to be an extraordinary idea abroad that Fielding was in some way an immoral or offensive writer. I have been astounded by the number of the leading articles, literary articles, and other articles written about him just now in which there is a curious tone of apologising for the man. One critic says that after all he couldn’t help it, because he lived in the eighteenth century; another says that we must allow for the change of manners and ideas; another says that he was not altogether without generous and humane feelings; another suggests that he clung feebly, after all, to a few of the less important virtues. What on earth does all this mean? Fielding described Tom Jones as going on in a certain way, in which, most unfortunately, a very large number of young men do go on. It is unnecessary to say that Henry Fielding knew that it was an unfortunate way of going on. Even Tom Jones knew that. He said in so many words that it was a very unfortunate way of going on; he said, one may almost say, that it had ruined his life; the passage is there for the benefit of any one who may take the trouble to read the book. There is ample evidence (though even this is of a mystical and indirect kind), there is ample evidence that Fielding probably thought that it was better to be Tom Jones than to be an utter coward and sneak. There is simply not one rag or thread or speck of evidence to show that Fielding thought that it was better to be Tom Jones than to be a good man. All that he is concerned with is the description of a definite and very real type of young man; the young man whose passions and whose selfish necessities sometimes seemed to be stronger than anything else in him.
The practical morality of Tom Jones is bad, though not so bad, spiritually speaking, as the practical morality of Arthur Pendennis or the practical morality of Pip, and certainly nothing like so bad as the profound practical immorality of Daniel Deronda. The practical morality of Tom Jones is bad; but I cannot see any proof that his theoretical morality was particularly bad. There is no need to tell the majority of modern young men even to live up to the theoretical ethics of Henry Fielding. They would suddenly spring into the stature of archangels if they lived up to the theoretic ethics of poor Tom Jones. Tom Jones is still alive, with all his good and all his evil; he is walking about the streets; we meet him every day. We meet with him, we drink with him, we smoke with him, we talk with him, we talk about him. The only difference is that we have no longer the intellectual courage to write about him. We split up the supreme and central human being, Tom Jones, into a number of separate aspects. We let Mr. J. M. Barrie write about him in his good moments, and make him out better than he is. We let Zola write about him in his bad moments, and make him out much worse than he is. We let Maeterlinck celebrate those moments of spiritual panic which he knows to be cowardly; we let Mr. Rudyard Kipling celebrate those moments of brutality which he knows to be far more cowardly. We let obscene writers write about the obscenities of this ordinary man. We let puritan writers write about the purities of this ordinary man. We look through one peephole that makes men out as devils, and we call it the new art. We look through another peephole that makes men out as angels, and we call it the New Theology. But if we pull down some dusty old books from the bookshelf, if we turn over some old mildewed leaves, and if in that obscurity and decay we find some faint traces of a tale about a complete man, such a man as is walking on the pavement outside, we suddenly pull a long face, and we call it the coarse morals of a bygone age.
The truth is that all these things mark a certain change in the general view of morals; not, I think, a change for the better. We have grown to associate morality in a book with a kind of optimism and prettiness; according to us, a moral book is a book about moral people. But the old idea was almost exactly the opposite; a moral book was a book about immoral people. A moral book was full of pictures like Hogarth’s “Gin Lane” or “Stages of Cruelty,” or it recorded, like the popular broadsheet, “God’s dreadful judgment” against some blasphemer or murderer. There is a philosophical reason for this change. The homeless scepticism of our time has reached a subconscious feeling that morality is somehow merely a matter of human taste—an accident of psychology. And if goodness only exists in certain human minds, a man wishing to praise goodness will naturally exaggerate the amount of it that there is in human minds or the number of human minds in which it is supreme. Every confession that man is vicious is a confession that virtue is visionary. Every book which admits that evil is real is felt in some vague way to be admitting that good is unreal. The modern instinct is that if the heart of man is evil, there is nothing that remains good. But the older feeling was that if the heart of man was ever so evil, there was something that remained good—goodness remained good. An actual avenging virtue existed outside the human race; to that men rose, or from that men fell away. Therefore, of course, this law itself was as much demonstrated in the breach as in the observance. If Tom Jones violated morality, so much the worse for Tom Jones. Fielding did not feel, as a melancholy modern would have done, that every sin of Tom Jones was in some way breaking the spell, or we may even say destroying the fiction of morality. Men spoke of the sinner breaking the law; but it was rather the law that broke him. And what modern people call the foulness and freedom of Fielding is generally the severity and moral stringency of Fielding. He would not have thought that he was serving morality at all if he had written a book all about nice people. Fielding would have considered Mr. Ian Maclaren extremely immoral; and there is something to be said for that view. Telling the truth about the terrible struggle of the human soul is surely a very elementary part of the ethics of honesty. If the characters are not wicked, the book is.
This older and firmer conception of right as existing outside human weakness and without reference to human error can be felt in the very lightest and loosest of the works of old English literature. It is commonly unmeaning enough to call Shakspere a great moralist; but in this particular way Shakspere is a very typical moralist. Whenever he alludes to right and wrong it is always with this old implication. Right is right, even if nobody does it. Wrong is wrong, even if everybody is wrong about it.
Il bicentenario di Henry Fielding viene celebrato con ogni giustizia, anche se, per quanto è dato scoprire, lo celebrano soltanto i giornali. Sarebbe troppo attendersi che un mero accidente cronologico di questo genere induca coloro che scrivono di Fielding a leggerlo; questa forma di negligenza non è che un altro nome della gloria. Un grande classico è un uomo che si può lodare senza averlo letto. La cosa non è di per sé del tutto ingiusta; implica soltanto un certo rispetto per le conclusioni maturate e stabilite dalla massa dell’umanità. Non ho mai letto Pindaro (intendo dire che non ho mai letto il Pindaro greco; Peter Pindar l’ho letto eccome), ma il semplice fatto che io non abbia letto Pindaro non dovrebbe, penso, e di certo non mi impedirebbe, di parlare dei «capolavori di Pindaro», o dei «grandi poeti come Pindaro o Eschilo». Gli uomini di grande dottrina sono singolarmente ottusi su questo, come su molti altri argomenti; e la posizione che assumono è davvero del tutto irragionevole. Se un qualunque giornalista o uomo di cultura generale accenna a Villon o a Omero, essi reputano una beffa del tutto trionfante ribattergli: «Voi non sapete leggere il francese medievale», oppure: «Voi non sapete leggere il greco omerico». Ma non è affatto una beffa trionfante, anzi non è affatto una beffa. Un uomo ha tutto il diritto di adoperare, nel suo discorso, i fatti consolidati e tradizionali della storia umana, così come ha diritto di adoperare qualsiasi altro elemento del comune sapere umano. Ed è tanto ragionevole per un uomo che non conosce il francese presumere che Villon fosse un buon poeta, quanto lo è per un uomo privo d’orecchio musicale presumere che Beethoven fosse un buon musicista. Il fatto che egli stesso non abbia orecchio per la musica non è ragione perché presuma che il genere umano non abbia orecchio per la musica. Il fatto che io sia ignorante (come lo sono) non comporta che io debba presumere di essere ingannato. L’uomo che non volesse lodare Pindaro senza averlo letto sarebbe un tipo meschino e diffidente, la peggior specie di scettico, che dubita non solo di Dio, ma dell’uomo. Sarebbe come un uomo che non potesse dire alto il Monte Everest senza averlo scalato. Sarebbe come un uomo che non ammettesse che il Polo Nord è freddo finché non ci fosse stato.
Ma credo che vi sia un limite, e un limite altamente legittimo, a questo procedimento. Credo che un uomo possa lodare Pindaro senza saper distinguere la cima di una lettera greca dal fondo. Ma credo che, se un uomo si accinge a insultare Pindaro, se intende denunciarlo, confutarlo e smascherarlo del tutto, se intende dimostrare che Pindaro è quell’ignorante integrale e quell’oltraggioso impostore che egli è, allora penso che non sarebbe male – penso, in ogni caso, che non nuocerebbe – che conoscesse un po’ di greco, e magari avesse letto un po’ di Pindaro. E credo che la stessa situazione si presenterebbe qualora il critico si preoccupasse di far notare che Pindaro era scandalosamente immorale, pestilenzialmente cinico, oppure basso e bestiale nelle sue vedute sulla vita. Quando qualcuno muove simili attacchi alla moralità di Pindaro, mi rincresce che non sappia leggere il greco; e quando muove simili attacchi alla moralità di Fielding, mi rincresce moltissimo che non sappia leggere l’inglese.
Sembra circolare l’idea straordinaria che Fielding fosse in qualche modo uno scrittore immorale o offensivo. Sono rimasto sbalordito dal numero di editoriali, di articoli letterari e di altri articoli scritti su di lui proprio in questi giorni, nei quali si avverte un curioso tono di scusa per l’uomo. Un critico dice che, dopotutto, non poté farne a meno, perché visse nel diciottesimo secolo; un altro dice che dobbiamo tener conto del mutamento dei costumi e delle idee; un altro dice che non era del tutto privo di sentimenti generosi e umani; un altro suggerisce che si aggrappò debolmente, dopotutto, a qualcuna delle virtù meno importanti. Che cosa diavolo significa tutto questo? Fielding descrisse Tom Jones mentre si comportava in un certo modo nel quale, per somma sventura, si comporta un numero assai grande di giovani uomini. È superfluo dire che Henry Fielding sapeva che era un modo sventurato di comportarsi. Perfino Tom Jones lo sapeva. Lo disse con tanto di parole, che era un modo assai sventurato di comportarsi; disse, si potrebbe quasi affermare, che quello gli aveva rovinato la vita; il passo è là, a beneficio di chiunque voglia prendersi la briga di leggere il libro. Vi sono ampie prove (per quanto anche queste siano di natura mistica e indiretta), vi sono ampie prove che Fielding pensasse probabilmente che fosse meglio essere Tom Jones che essere un vigliacco e un vile della peggior specie. Non c’è semplicemente uno straccio, un filo, un granello di prova che dimostri che Fielding pensasse fosse meglio essere Tom Jones che essere un uomo dabbene. Tutto ciò che gli sta a cuore è la descrizione di un tipo preciso e assai reale di giovane uomo; il giovane le cui passioni e le cui egoistiche necessità sembravano talvolta più forti di qualunque altra cosa fosse in lui.
La moralità pratica di Tom Jones è cattiva, benché non tanto cattiva, spiritualmente parlando, quanto la moralità pratica di Arthur Pendennis o la moralità pratica di Pip, e di certo nulla di paragonabile alla profonda immoralità pratica di Daniel Deronda. La moralità pratica di Tom Jones è cattiva; ma non riesco a scorgere alcuna prova che la sua moralità teorica fosse particolarmente cattiva. Non c’è alcun bisogno di dire alla maggioranza dei giovani moderni di attenersi anche solo all’etica teorica di Henry Fielding. Balzerebbero d’un tratto sino alla statura di arcangeli se si attenessero all’etica teorica del povero Tom Jones. Tom Jones è ancora vivo, con tutto il suo bene e tutto il suo male; cammina per le strade; lo incontriamo ogni giorno. Ci imbattiamo in lui, beviamo con lui, fumiamo con lui, parliamo con lui, parliamo di lui. L’unica differenza è che non abbiamo più il coraggio intellettuale di scrivere di lui. Frantumiamo l’essere umano supremo e centrale, Tom Jones, in una quantità di aspetti separati. Lasciamo che il signor J. M. Barrie scriva di lui nei suoi momenti buoni, e lo faccia apparire migliore di quel che è. Lasciamo che Zola scriva di lui nei suoi momenti cattivi, e lo faccia apparire assai peggiore di quel che è. Lasciamo che Maeterlinck celebri quei momenti di panico spirituale che egli sa essere vili; lasciamo che il signor Rudyard Kipling celebri quei momenti di brutalità che egli sa essere assai più vili. Lasciamo che scrittori osceni scrivano delle oscenità di quest’uomo comune. Lasciamo che scrittori puritani scrivano delle purezze di quest’uomo comune. Guardiamo attraverso uno spiraglio che fa apparire gli uomini come diavoli, e lo chiamiamo la nuova arte. Guardiamo attraverso un altro spiraglio che fa apparire gli uomini come angeli, e lo chiamiamo la Nuova Teologia. Ma se tiriamo giù dallo scaffale qualche vecchio libro impolverato, se sfogliamo qualche vecchia pagina ammuffita, e se in quell’oscurità e in quel disfacimento troviamo qualche debole traccia di un racconto intorno a un uomo completo, un uomo quale cammina sul marciapiede là fuori, ecco che d’un tratto tiriamo su un muso lungo, e lo chiamiamo i costumi grossolani di un’epoca trascorsa.
La verità è che tutte queste cose segnano un certo mutamento nella visione generale della morale; non, io credo, un mutamento in meglio. Siamo giunti ad associare la moralità in un libro con una sorta di ottimismo e di leziosità; secondo noi, un libro morale è un libro su persone morali. Ma la vecchia idea era quasi esattamente l’opposto; un libro morale era un libro su persone immorali. Un libro morale era pieno di immagini come «Gin Lane» di Hogarth o le «Fasi della crudeltà», oppure registrava, come il popolare foglio volante, il «tremendo giudizio di Dio» contro qualche bestemmiatore o assassino. Vi è una ragione filosofica per questo mutamento. Lo scetticismo senza dimora del nostro tempo è arrivato al sentimento subconscio che la moralità sia in qualche modo una mera questione di gusto umano – un accidente della psicologia. E se la bontà esiste soltanto in certe menti umane, un uomo che voglia lodare la bontà esagererà naturalmente la quantità di essa presente nelle menti umane, o il numero delle menti umane in cui essa è sovrana. Ogni confessione che l’uomo è vizioso è una confessione che la virtù è chimerica. Ogni libro che ammette che il male è reale viene sentito, in qualche modo vago, come un’ammissione che il bene è irreale. L’istinto moderno è che, se il cuore dell’uomo è malvagio, non rimane nulla di buono. Ma il sentimento più antico era che, per quanto malvagio fosse il cuore dell’uomo, rimaneva pur sempre qualcosa di buono – la bontà rimaneva buona. Una virtù vendicatrice e reale esisteva al di fuori del genere umano; verso di essa gli uomini si innalzavano, o da essa decadevano. Perciò, naturalmente, questa legge stessa era dimostrata tanto nella trasgressione quanto nell’osservanza. Se Tom Jones violava la moralità, tanto peggio per Tom Jones. Fielding non sentiva, come avrebbe sentito un malinconico moderno, che ogni peccato di Tom Jones in qualche modo spezzasse l’incantesimo, o si potrebbe perfino dire distruggesse la finzione della moralità. Si parlava del peccatore che infrangeva la legge; ma era piuttosto la legge a infrangere lui. E ciò che i moderni chiamano la turpitudine e la libertà di Fielding è in genere la severità e il rigore morale di Fielding. Egli non avrebbe pensato di servire in alcun modo la moralità se avesse scritto un libro tutto su persone ammodo. Fielding avrebbe considerato il signor Ian Maclaren estremamente immorale; e c’è qualcosa da dire a favore di questa opinione. Dire la verità intorno alla terribile lotta dell’anima umana è di sicuro una parte assai elementare dell’etica dell’onestà. Se i personaggi non sono malvagi, lo è il libro.
Questa concezione più antica e più salda del giusto come qualcosa che esiste al di fuori della debolezza umana e senza riferimento all’errore umano si può avvertire perfino nelle opere più lievi e più sciolte della vecchia letteratura inglese. È comunemente abbastanza privo di senso chiamare Shakespeare un grande moralista; ma in questo modo particolare Shakespeare è un moralista assai tipico. Ogni volta che allude al giusto e all’ingiusto, è sempre con questa antica implicazione. Il giusto è giusto, anche se nessuno lo fa. L’ingiusto è ingiusto, anche se tutti si sbagliano al riguardo.
THE MAID OF ORLEANS
A considerable time ago (at far too early an age, in fact) I read Voltaire’s “La Pucelle,” a savage sarcasm on the traditional purity of Joan of Arc, very dirty, and very funny. I had not thought of it again for years, but it came back into my mind this morning because I began to turn over the leaves of the new “Jeanne d’Arc,” by that great and graceful writer, Anatole France. It is written in a tone of tender sympathy, and a sort of sad reverence; it never loses touch with a noble tact and courtesy, like that of a gentleman escorting a peasant girl through the modern crowd. It is invariably respectful to Joan, and even respectful to her religion. And being myself a furious admirer of Joan the Maid, I have reflectively compared the two methods, and I come to the conclusion that I prefer Voltaire’s.
When a man of Voltaire’s school has to explode a saint or a great religious hero, he says that such a person is a common human fool, or a common human fraud. But when a man like Anatole France has to explode a saint, he explains a saint as somebody belonging to his particular fussy little literary set. Voltaire read human nature into Joan of Arc, though it was only the brutal part of human nature. At least it was not specially Voltaire’s nature. But M. France read M. France’s nature into Joan of Arc—all the cold kindness, all the homeless sentimental sin of the modern literary man. There is one book that it recalled to me with startling vividness, though I have not seen the matter mentioned anywhere; Renan’s “Vie de Jésus.” It has just the same general intention: that if you do not attack Christianity, you can at least patronise it. My own instinct, apart from my opinions, would be quite the other way. If I disbelieved in Christianity, I should be the loudest blasphemer in Hyde Park. Nothing ought to be too big for a brave man to attack; but there are some things too big for a man to patronise.
And I must say that the historical method seems to me excessively unreasonable. I have no knowledge of history, but I have as much knowledge of reason as Anatole France. And, if anything is irrational, it seems to me that the Renan-France way of dealing with miraculous stories is irrational. The Renan-France method is simply this: you explain supernatural stories that have some foundation simply by inventing natural stories that have no foundation. Suppose that you are confronted with the statement that Jack climbed up the beanstalk into the sky. It is perfectly philosophical to reply that you do not think that he did. It is (in my opinion) even more philosophical to reply that he may very probably have done so. But the Renan-France method is to write like this: “When we consider Jack’s curious and even perilous heredity, which no doubt was derived from a female greengrocer and a profligate priest, we can easily understand how the ideas of heaven and a beanstalk came to be combined in his mind. Moreover, there is little doubt that he must have met some wandering conjurer from India, who told him about the tricks of the mango plant, and how it is sent up to the sky. We can imagine these two friends, the old man and the young, wandering in the woods together at evening, looking at the red and level clouds, as on that night when the old man pointed to a small beanstalk, and told his too imaginative companion that this also might be made to scale the heavens. And then, when we remember the quite exceptional psychology of Jack, when we remember how there was in him a union of the prosaic, the love of plain vegetables, with an almost irrelevant eagerness for the unattainable, for invisibility and the void, we shall no longer wonder that it was to him especially that was sent this sweet, though merely symbolic, dream of the tree uniting earth and heaven.” That is the way that Renan and France write, only they do it better. But, really, a rationalist like myself becomes a little impatient and feels inclined to say, “But, hang it all, what do you know about the heredity of Jack or the psychology of Jack? You know nothing about Jack at all, except that some people say that he climbed up a beanstalk. Nobody would ever have thought of mentioning him if he hadn’t. You must interpret him in terms of the beanstalk religion; you cannot merely interpret religion in terms of him. We have the materials of this story, and we can believe them or not. But we have not got the materials to make another story.”
It is no exaggeration to say that this is the manner of M. Anatole France in dealing with Joan of Arc. Because her miracle is incredible to his somewhat old-fashioned materialism, he does not therefore dismiss it and her to fairyland with Jack and the Beanstalk. He tries to invent a real story, for which he can find no real evidence. He produces a scientific explanation which is quite destitute of any scientific proof. It is as if I (being entirely ignorant of botany and chemistry) said that the beanstalk grew to the sky because nitrogen and argon got into the subsidiary ducts of the corolla. To take the most obvious example, the principal character in M. France’s story is a person who never existed at all. All Joan’s wisdom and energy, it seems, came from a certain priest, of whom there is not the tiniest trace in all the multitudinous records of her life. The only foundation I can find for this fancy is the highly undemocratic idea that a peasant girl could not possibly have any ideas of her own. It is very hard for a freethinker to remain democratic. The writer seems altogether to forget what is meant by the moral atmosphere of a community. To say that Joan must have learnt her vision of a virgin overthrowing evil from a priest, is like saying that some modern girl in London, pitying the poor, must have learnt it from a Labour Member. She would learn it where the Labour Member learnt it—in the whole state of our society.
But that is the modern method: the method of the reverent sceptic. When you find a life entirely incredible and incomprehensible from the outside, you pretend that you understand the inside. As Renan, the rationalist, could not make any sense out of Christ’s most public acts, he proceeded to make an ingenious system out of His private thoughts. As Anatole France, on his own intellectual principle, cannot believe in what Joan of Arc did, he professes to be her dearest friend, and to know exactly what she meant. I cannot feel it to be a very rational manner of writing history; and sooner or later we shall have to find some more solid way of dealing with those spiritual phenomena with which all history is as closely spotted and spangled as the sky is with stars.
Joan of Arc is a wild and wonderful thing enough, but she is much saner than most of her critics and biographers. We shall not recover the common sense of Joan until we have recovered her mysticism. Our wars fail, because they begin with something sensible and obvious—such as getting to Pretoria by Christmas. But her war succeeded—because it began with something wild and perfect—the saints delivering France. She put her idealism in the right place, and her realism also in the right place: we moderns get both displaced. She put her dreams and her sentiment into her aims, where they ought to be; she put her practicality into her practice. In modern Imperial wars, the case is reversed. Our dreams, our aims are always, we insist, quite practical. It is our practice that is dreamy.
It is not for us to explain this flaming figure in terms of our tired and querulous culture. Rather we must try to explain ourselves by the blaze of such fixed stars. Those who called her a witch hot from hell were much more sensible than those who depict her as a silly sentimental maiden prompted by her parish priest. If I have to choose between the two schools of her scattered enemies, I could take my place with those subtle clerks who thought her divine mission devilish, rather than with those rustic aunts and uncles who thought it impossible.
LA PULZELLA D’ORLÉANS
Un tempo assai considerevole fa (in età, per la verità, fin troppo precoce) lessi «La Pucelle» di Voltaire, feroce sarcasmo contro la tradizionale purezza di Giovanna d’Arco, molto sporco e molto divertente. Non ci avevo più ripensato per anni, ma mi è tornato in mente stamattina, perché ho cominciato a voltare le pagine della nuova «Jeanne d’Arc» di quel grande e garbato scrittore che è Anatole France. È scritta in tono di tenera simpatia, e con una sorta di mesta reverenza; non perde mai il contatto con un nobile tatto e una nobile cortesia, come quelli di un gentiluomo che accompagni una contadinella attraverso la folla moderna. È invariabilmente rispettosa verso Giovanna, e persino rispettosa verso la sua religione. E poiché io stesso sono un furioso ammiratore di Giovanna la Pulzella, ho comparato con riflessione i due metodi, e giungo alla conclusione che preferisco quello di Voltaire.
Quando un uomo della scuola di Voltaire deve far saltare in aria un santo o un grande eroe religioso, dice che una tale persona è un comune sciocco umano, oppure un comune impostore umano. Ma quando un uomo come Anatole France deve far saltare in aria un santo, spiega il santo come qualcuno che appartiene alla sua particolare, pignola cerchia letteraria. Voltaire lesse la natura umana dentro Giovanna d’Arco, per quanto fosse soltanto la parte brutale della natura umana. Almeno non era la natura specificamente propria di Voltaire. Ma il signor France lesse la natura del signor France dentro Giovanna d’Arco: tutta la fredda gentilezza, tutto il sentimentale peccato senza patria dell’uomo di lettere moderno. C’è un libro che mi ha richiamato alla mente con sorprendente vivezza, benché non abbia trovato la cosa menzionata da nessuna parte: la «Vie de Jésus» di Renan. Ha esattamente la stessa intenzione generale: che, se non attacchi il Cristianesimo, puoi almeno degnarlo della tua protezione. Il mio istinto, a prescindere dalle mie opinioni, andrebbe proprio nella direzione opposta. Se non credessi nel Cristianesimo, sarei il più fragoroso bestemmiatore di Hyde Park. Nulla dovrebbe essere troppo grande perché un uomo coraggioso lo attacchi; ma vi sono alcune cose troppo grandi perché un uomo le degni della sua protezione.
E devo dire che il metodo storico mi pare eccessivamente irragionevole. Non ho alcuna conoscenza della storia, ma ho tanta conoscenza della ragione quanta ne ha Anatole France. E, se qualcosa è irrazionale, mi pare che sia irrazionale il modo Renan-France di trattare le storie miracolose. Il metodo Renan-France è semplicemente questo: si spiegano le storie soprannaturali che hanno qualche fondamento inventando semplicemente storie naturali che non hanno alcun fondamento. Supponete di trovarvi davanti all’affermazione che Gianni si arrampicò sul fagiolo magico fino al cielo. È perfettamente filosofico rispondere che non credete che l’abbia fatto. È (a mio parere) ancora più filosofico rispondere che con ogni probabilità può averlo fatto davvero. Ma il metodo Renan-France è scrivere così: «Quando consideriamo la curiosa e persino pericolosa eredità di Gianni, che senza dubbio gli derivava da una fruttivendola e da un prete dissoluto, possiamo facilmente comprendere come le idee del cielo e del fagiolo magico siano giunte a combinarsi nella sua mente. Inoltre, vi è poco dubbio che egli debba aver incontrato qualche saltimbanco errante venuto dall’India, il quale gli raccontò dei trucchi della pianta del mango, e di come essa venga fatta salire fino al cielo. Possiamo immaginare questi due amici, il vecchio e il giovane, vagare insieme per i boschi sul far della sera, guardando le nuvole rosse e distese, come in quella notte in cui il vecchio indicò un piccolo fagiolo, e disse al suo troppo fantasioso compagno che anche questo poteva essere fatto per scalare i cieli. E allora, quando ricordiamo la psicologia del tutto eccezionale di Gianni, quando ricordiamo come vi fosse in lui una unione del prosaico, l’amore per le semplici verdure, con un’ansia quasi irrilevante per l’irraggiungibile, per l’invisibilità e il vuoto, non ci meraviglieremo più che fosse proprio a lui che venne inviato questo dolce, benché meramente simbolico, sogno dell’albero che unisce terra e cielo». È così che scrivono Renan e France, solo che loro lo fanno meglio. Ma, davvero, un razionalista come me diventa un poco spazientito e si sente incline a dire: «Ma, diamine, cosa ne sapete voi dell’eredità di Gianni o della psicologia di Gianni? Non sapete assolutamente nulla di Gianni, se non che certuni dicono che si arrampicò su un fagiolo magico. Nessuno avrebbe mai pensato di menzionarlo, se non l’avesse fatto. Dovete interpretarlo nei termini della religione del fagiolo magico; non potete semplicemente interpretare la religione nei termini di lui. Abbiamo i materiali di questa storia, e possiamo crederci o no. Ma non abbiamo i materiali per costruirne un’altra».
Non è un’esagerazione dire che questa è la maniera del signor Anatole France nel trattare Giovanna d’Arco. Poiché il suo miracolo è incredibile al suo materialismo alquanto antiquato, egli non per questo respinge lei e il miracolo nel paese delle fate insieme a Gianni e il fagiolo magico. Cerca di inventare una storia reale, per la quale non riesce a trovare alcuna prova reale. Produce una spiegazione scientifica che è del tutto priva di qualsiasi prova scientifica. È come se io (essendo interamente ignorante di botanica e di chimica) dicessi che il fagiolo crebbe fino al cielo perché l’azoto e l’argon penetrarono nei dotti secondari della corolla. Per prendere l’esempio più ovvio, il personaggio principale della storia del signor France è una persona che non è mai esistita affatto. Tutta la saggezza e l’energia di Giovanna, a quanto pare, provenivano da un certo prete, del quale non vi è la più minuscola traccia in tutti i moltissimi documenti della sua vita. L’unico fondamento che riesco a trovare per questa fantasticheria è l’idea altamente antidemocratica che una contadinella non potesse assolutamente avere idee proprie. È molto difficile, per un libero pensatore, restare democratico. Lo scrittore sembra dimenticare del tutto cosa si intenda per atmosfera morale di una comunità. Dire che Giovanna deve aver appreso la sua visione di una vergine che rovescia il male da un prete, è come dire che qualche ragazza moderna di Londra, impietosita dai poveri, deve averla appresa da un deputato laburista. Ella l’apprenderebbe là dove il deputato laburista l’apprese: nell’intero stato della nostra società.
Ma questo è il metodo moderno: il metodo dello scettico reverente. Quando trovate una vita del tutto incredibile e incomprensibile dall’esterno, fingete di comprenderne l’interno. Poiché Renan, il razionalista, non riusciva a cavare alcun senso dagli atti più pubblici di Cristo, si mise a costruire un ingegnoso sistema a partire dai Suoi pensieri privati. Poiché Anatole France, per suo proprio principio intellettuale, non può credere in ciò che Giovanna d’Arco fece, si professa sua carissima amica, e dichiara di sapere esattamente cosa ella intendesse. Non riesco a sentirlo come un modo molto razionale di scrivere la storia; e prima o poi dovremo trovare qualche via più solida di trattare quei fenomeni spirituali di cui tutta la storia è così fittamente costellata e trapunta come il cielo lo è di stelle.
Giovanna d’Arco è una cosa abbastanza selvaggia e meravigliosa, ma è assai più sana di mente della maggior parte dei suoi critici e biografi. Non ritroveremo il buon senso di Giovanna finché non avremo ritrovato il suo misticismo. Le nostre guerre falliscono, perché cominciano con qualcosa di sensato e ovvio, come arrivare a Pretoria entro Natale. Ma la sua guerra riuscì, perché cominciò con qualcosa di selvaggio e perfetto: i santi che liberavano la Francia. Ella mise il suo idealismo al posto giusto, e anche il suo realismo al posto giusto: noi moderni ci ritroviamo entrambi fuori posto. Ella mise i suoi sogni e il suo sentimento nei suoi fini, dove dovevano stare; mise la sua concretezza nella sua pratica. Nelle moderne guerre imperiali, il caso è rovesciato. I nostri sogni, i nostri fini sono sempre, insistiamo, del tutto pratici. È la nostra pratica a essere sognante.
Non spetta a noi spiegare questa figura fiammeggiante nei termini della nostra cultura stanca e querula. Piuttosto dobbiamo cercare di spiegare noi stessi alla luce del fulgore di stelle così fisse. Coloro che la chiamarono strega uscita rovente dall’inferno furono assai più assennati di coloro che la dipingono come una sciocca fanciulla sentimentale suggestionata dal suo parroco. Se dovessi scegliere fra le due scuole dei suoi sparpagliati nemici, potrei prendere posto accanto a quei sottili chierici che ritennero diabolica la sua missione divina, piuttosto che accanto a quegli zii e zie campagnoli che la ritennero impossibile.
A DEAD POET
With Francis Thompson we lose the greatest poetic energy since Browning. His energy was of somewhat the same kind. Browning was intellectually intricate because he was morally simple. He was too simple to explain himself; he was too humble to suppose that other people needed any explanation. But his real energy, and the real energy of Francis Thompson, was best expressed in the fact that both poets were at once fond of immensity and also fond of detail. Any common Imperialist can have large ideas so long as he is not called upon to have small ideas also. Any common scientific philosopher can have small ideas so long as he is not called upon to have large ideas as well. But great poets use the telescope and also the microscope. Great poets are obscure for two opposite reasons; now, because they are talking about something too large for any one to understand, and now again because they are talking about something too small for any one to see. Francis Thompson possessed both these infinities. He escaped by being too small, as the microbe escapes; or he escaped by being too large, as the universe escapes. Any one who knows Francis Thompson’s poetry knows quite well the truth to which I refer. For the benefit of any person who does not know it, I may mention two cases taken from memory. I have not the book by me, so I can only render the poetical passages in a clumsy paraphrase. But there was one poem of which the image was so vast that it was literally difficult for a time to take it in; he was describing the evening earth with its mist and fume and fragrance, and represented the whole as rolling upwards like a smoke; then suddenly he called the whole ball of the earth a thurible, and said that some gigantic spirit swung it slowly before God. That is the case of the image too large for comprehension. Another instance sticks in my mind of the image which is too small. In one of his poems, he says that abyss between the known and the unknown is bridged by “Pontifical death.” There are about ten historical and theological puns in that one word. That a priest means a pontiff, that a pontiff means a bridge-maker, that death is certainly a bridge, that death may turn out after all to be a reconciling priest, that at least priests and bridges both attest to the fact that one thing can get separated from another thing—these ideas, and twenty more, are all actually concentrated in the word “pontifical.” In Francis Thompson’s poetry, as in the poetry of the universe, you can work infinitely out and out, but yet infinitely in and in. These two infinities are the mark of greatness; and he was a great poet.
Beneath the tide of praise which was obviously due to the dead poet, there is an evident undercurrent of discussion about him; some charges of moral weakness were at least important enough to be authoritatively contradicted in the Nation; and, in connection with this and other things, there has been a continuous stir of comment upon his attraction to and gradual absorption in Catholic theological ideas. This question is so important that I think it ought to be considered and understood even at the present time. It is, of course, true that Francis Thompson devoted himself more and more to poems not only purely Catholic, but, one may say, purely ecclesiastical. And it is, moreover, true that (if things go on as they are going on at present) more and more good poets will do the same. Poets will tend towards Christian orthodoxy for a perfectly plain reason; because it is about the simplest and freest thing now left in the world. On this point it is very necessary to be clear. When people impute special vices to the Christian Church, they seem entirely to forget that the world (which is the only other thing there is) has these vices much more. The Church has been cruel; but the world has been much more cruel. The Church has plotted; but the world has plotted much more. The Church has been superstitious; but it has never been so superstitious as the world is when left to itself.
Now, poets in our epoch will tend towards ecclesiastical religion strictly because it is just a little more free than anything else. Take, for instance, the case of symbol and ritualism. All reasonable men believe in symbol; but some reasonable men do not believe in ritualism; by which they mean, I imagine, a symbolism too complex, elaborate, and mechanical. But whenever they talk of ritualism they always seem to mean the ritualism of the Church. Why should they not mean the ritual of the world? It is much more ritualistic. The ritual of the Army, the ritual of the Navy, the ritual of the Law Courts, the ritual of Parliament are much more ritualistic. The ritual of a dinner-party is much more ritualistic. Priests may put gold and great jewels on the chalice; but at least there is only one chalice to put them on. When you go to a dinner-party they put in front of you five different chalices, of five weird and heraldic shapes, to symbolise five different kinds of wine; an insane extension of ritual from which Mr. Percy Dearmer would fly shrieking. A bishop wears a mitre; but he is not thought more or less of a bishop according to whether you can see the very latest curves in his mitre. But a swell is thought more or less of a swell according to whether you can see the very latest curves in his hat. There is more fuss about symbols in the world than in the Church.
And yet (strangely enough) though men fuss more about the worldly symbols, they mean less by them. It is the mark of religious forms that they declare something unknown. But it is the mark of worldly forms that they declare something which is known, and which is known to be untrue. When the Pope in an Encyclical calls himself your father, it is a matter of faith or of doubt. But when the Duke of Devonshire in a letter calls himself yours obediently, you know that he means the opposite of what he says. Religious forms are, at the worst, fables; they might be true. Secular forms are falsehoods; they are not true. Take a more topical case. The German Emperor has more uniforms than the Pope. But, moreover, the Pope’s vestments all imply a claim to be something purely mystical and doubtful. Many of the German Emperor’s uniforms imply a claim to be something which he certainly is not and which it would be highly disgusting if he were. The Pope may or may not be the Vicar of Christ. But the Kaiser certainly is not an English Colonel. If the thing were reality it would be treason. If it is mere ritual, it is by far the most unreal ritual on earth.
Now, poetical people like Francis Thompson will, as things stand, tend away from secular society and towards religion for the reason above described: that there are crowds of symbols in both, but that those of religion are simpler and mean more. To take an evident type, the Cross is more poetical than the Union Jack, because it is simpler. The more simple an idea is, the more it is fertile in variations. Francis Thompson could have written any number of good poems on the Cross, because it is a primary symbol. The number of poems which Mr. Rudyard Kipling could write on the Union Jack is, fortunately, limited, because the Union Jack is too complex to produce luxuriance. The same principle applies to any possible number of cases. A poet like Francis Thompson could deduce perpetually rich and branching meanings out of two plain facts like bread and wine; with bread and wine he can expand everything to everywhere. But with a French menu he cannot expand anything; except perhaps himself. Complicated ideas do not produce any more ideas. Mongrels do not breed. Religious ritual attracts because there is some sense in it. Religious imagery, so far from being subtle, is the only simple thing left for poets. So far from being merely superhuman, it is the only human thing left for human beings.
UN POETA MORTO
Con Francis Thompson perdiamo la più grande energia poetica dai tempi di Browning. La sua energia era press’a poco della stessa specie. Browning era intellettualmente intricato perché era moralmente semplice. Era troppo semplice per spiegare se stesso; era troppo umile per supporre che gli altri avessero bisogno di una qualche spiegazione. Ma la sua vera energia, e la vera energia di Francis Thompson, trovava la sua espressione migliore nel fatto che entrambi i poeti amavano a un tempo l’immensità e insieme il dettaglio. Qualunque imperialista di mezza tacca può avere idee grandi, purché non gli si chieda di avere altresì idee piccole. Qualunque comune filosofo scienziato può avere idee piccole, purché non gli si richieda di avere anche idee grandi. Ma i grandi poeti si servono del telescopio non meno che del microscopio. I grandi poeti sono oscuri per due ragioni opposte: ora perché parlano di qualcosa di troppo grande perché alcuno possa comprenderlo, ora invece perché parlano di qualcosa di troppo piccolo perché alcuno possa vederlo. Francis Thompson possedeva entrambe queste infinità. Sfuggiva per l’esser troppo piccolo, come sfugge il microbo; oppure sfuggiva per l’esser troppo grande, come sfugge l’universo. Chiunque conosca la poesia di Francis Thompson conosce assai bene la verità cui alludo. A beneficio di chi non la conoscesse, posso citare due casi tratti dalla memoria. Non ho il libro sottomano, sicché posso rendere i passi poetici solo in una goffa parafrasi. Ma vi era una poesia la cui immagine era tanto vasta che riusciva letteralmente difficile, per un tempo, coglierla appieno: egli descriveva la terra della sera con la sua nebbia, i suoi fumi e le sue fragranze, e rappresentava il tutto come qualcosa che saliva arrotolandosi al pari di un fumo; poi d’un tratto chiamò l’intero globo della terra un turibolo, e disse che uno spirito gigantesco lo dondolava lentamente al cospetto di Dio. Ecco il caso dell’immagine troppo grande per essere compresa. Un’altra istanza mi resta impressa nella mente, quella dell’immagine troppo piccola. In una delle sue poesie egli dice che l’abisso tra il noto e l’ignoto è gettato a ponte dalla «Morte pontificale». In quell’unica parola si racchiudono una decina di giochi di parole storici e teologici. Che un sacerdote sia un pontefice, che un pontefice sia un facitore di ponti, che la morte sia certamente un ponte, che la morte possa infine rivelarsi un sacerdote riconciliatore, che almeno i sacerdoti e i ponti attestino entrambi il fatto che una cosa può essere separata da un’altra: queste idee, e altre venti ancora, sono tutte realmente concentrate nella parola «pontificale». Nella poesia di Francis Thompson, come nella poesia dell’universo, si può procedere all’infinito verso l’esterno, e tuttavia all’infinito verso l’interno. Queste due infinità sono il segno della grandezza; ed egli fu un grande poeta.
Sotto la marea di elogi ovviamente dovuti al poeta morto, corre un’evidente corrente sotterranea di discussione sul suo conto; certe accuse di debolezza morale erano quantomeno importanti abbastanza da essere autorevolmente smentite sul Nation; e, in connessione con questo e con altre cose, vi è stato un continuo agitarsi di commenti intorno alla sua attrazione verso le idee teologiche cattoliche e al suo graduale assorbimento in esse. Questa questione è tanto importante che ritengo debba essere considerata e compresa anche nel tempo presente. È, naturalmente, vero che Francis Thompson si dedicò sempre più a poesie non soltanto puramente cattoliche, ma, si potrebbe dire, puramente ecclesiastiche. Ed è, inoltre, vero che (se le cose seguiteranno come stanno seguitando ora) sempre più buoni poeti faranno altrettanto. I poeti tenderanno all’ortodossia cristiana per una ragione perfettamente semplice: perché essa è pressoché la cosa più semplice e più libera rimasta oggi al mondo. Su questo punto è quanto mai necessario esser chiari. Quando la gente imputa vizi particolari alla Chiesa cristiana, pare dimenticare del tutto che il mondo (che è l’unica altra cosa esistente) possiede quei vizi in misura assai maggiore. La Chiesa è stata crudele; ma il mondo è stato assai più crudele. La Chiesa ha tramato; ma il mondo ha tramato assai di più. La Chiesa è stata superstiziosa; ma non è mai stata tanto superstiziosa quanto lo è il mondo lasciato a se stesso.
Ora, nella nostra epoca i poeti tenderanno alla religione ecclesiastica precisamente perché essa è appena un po’ più libera di ogni altra cosa. Si prenda, per esempio, il caso del simbolo e del ritualismo. Tutti gli uomini ragionevoli credono nel simbolo; ma alcuni uomini ragionevoli non credono nel ritualismo, intendendo con ciò, immagino, un simbolismo troppo complesso, elaborato e meccanico. Ma ogniqualvolta parlano di ritualismo sembrano sempre intendere il ritualismo della Chiesa. Perché non dovrebbero intendere il rituale del mondo? Esso è assai più ritualistico. Il rituale dell’Esercito, il rituale della Marina, il rituale delle Corti di Giustizia, il rituale del Parlamento sono assai più ritualistici. Il rituale di un pranzo di gala è assai più ritualistico. I sacerdoti potranno mettere oro e grandi gemme sul calice; ma almeno vi è un solo calice su cui metterle. Quando si va a un pranzo di gala, ti pongono davanti cinque calici diversi, di cinque fogge bizzarre e araldiche, a simboleggiare cinque diverse specie di vino: una folle dilatazione del rituale dinanzi alla quale il signor Percy Dearmer fuggirebbe strillando. Un vescovo porta la mitra; ma non lo si stima più o meno vescovo a seconda che si possano scorgere o no le curve più recenti della sua mitra. Un damerino, invece, è stimato più o meno damerino a seconda che si possano scorgere o no le curve più recenti del suo cappello. C’è più chiasso intorno ai simboli nel mondo che nella Chiesa.
Eppure (per quanto strano) benché gli uomini facciano più chiasso intorno ai simboli mondani, con essi intendono di meno. È proprio delle forme religiose il dichiarare qualcosa di ignoto. Ma è proprio delle forme mondane il dichiarare qualcosa che è noto, e che si sa essere falso. Quando il Papa in un’enciclica si dice tuo padre, è questione di fede o di dubbio. Ma quando il Duca di Devonshire in una lettera si firma vostro obbedientemente, sai che intende l’opposto di ciò che dice. Le forme religiose sono, nel peggiore dei casi, favole; potrebbero essere vere. Le forme secolari sono menzogne; non sono vere. Si prenda un caso più d’attualità. L’Imperatore di Germania ha più uniformi del Papa. Ma, per di più, i paramenti del Papa sottintendono tutti la pretesa di essere qualcosa di puramente mistico e dubbio. Molte delle uniformi dell’Imperatore di Germania sottintendono la pretesa di essere qualcosa che egli certamente non è e che sarebbe altamente disgustoso se fosse. Il Papa può essere o non essere il Vicario di Cristo. Ma il Kaiser di certo non è un colonnello inglese. Se la cosa fosse realtà, sarebbe tradimento. Se è mero rituale, è di gran lunga il rituale più irreale che vi sia sulla terra.
Ora, le persone di indole poetica come Francis Thompson, stando così le cose, tenderanno ad allontanarsi dalla società secolare e a volgersi verso la religione per la ragione sopra descritta: che in entrambe vi sono folle di simboli, ma che quelli della religione sono più semplici e significano di più. Per prendere un tipo evidente, la Croce è più poetica della Union Jack, perché è più semplice. Quanto più un’idea è semplice, tanto più è feconda di variazioni. Francis Thompson avrebbe potuto scrivere un numero qualsiasi di belle poesie sulla Croce, perché essa è un simbolo primario. Il numero di poesie che il signor Rudyard Kipling potrebbe scrivere sulla Union Jack è, per fortuna, limitato, perché la Union Jack è troppo complessa per generare rigoglio. Il medesimo principio si applica a un numero qualsivoglia di casi. Un poeta come Francis Thompson potrebbe dedurre in perpetuo significati ricchi e ramificati da due fatti spogli come il pane e il vino; col pane e col vino può dilatare ogni cosa fino a ogni dove. Ma con un menu francese non può dilatare nulla, se non forse se stesso. Le idee complicate non producono altre idee. I bastardi non figliano. Il rituale religioso attrae perché in esso vi è un qualche senso. L’immagine religiosa, lungi dall’essere sottile, è l’unica cosa semplice rimasta ai poeti. Lungi dall’essere meramente sovrumana, è l’unica cosa umana rimasta agli esseri umani.
CHRISTMAS
There is no more dangerous or disgusting habit than that of celebrating Christmas before it comes, as I am doing in this article. It is the very essence of a festival that it breaks upon one brilliantly and abruptly, that at one moment the great day is not and the next moment the great day is. Up to a certain specific instant you are feeling ordinary and sad; for it is only Wednesday. At the next moment your heart leaps up and your soul and body dance together like lovers; for in one burst and blaze it has become Thursday. I am assuming (of course) that you are a worshipper of Thor, and that you celebrate his day once a week, possibly with human sacrifice. If, on the other hand, you are a modern Christian Englishman, you hail (of course) with the same explosion of gaiety the appearance of the English Sunday. But I say that whatever the day is that is to you festive or symbolic, it is essential that there should be a quite clear black line between it and the time going before. And all the old wholesome customs in connection with Christmas were to the effect that one should not touch or see or know or speak of something before the actual coming of Christmas Day. Thus, for instance, children were never given their presents until the actual coming of the appointed hour. The presents were kept tied up in brown-paper parcels, out of which an arm of a doll or the leg of a donkey sometimes accidentally stuck. I wish this principle were adopted in respect of modern Christmas ceremonies and publications. Especially it ought to be observed in connection with what are called the Christmas numbers of magazines. The editors of the magazines bring out their Christmas numbers so long before the time that the reader is more likely to be still lamenting for the turkey of last year than to have seriously settled down to a solid anticipation of the turkey which is to come. Christmas numbers of magazines ought to be tied up in brown paper and kept for Christmas Day. On consideration, I should favour the editors being tied up in brown paper. Whether the leg or arm of an editor should ever be allowed to protrude I leave to individual choice.
Of course, all this secrecy about Christmas is merely sentimental and ceremonial; if you do not like what is sentimental and ceremonial, do not celebrate Christmas at all. You will not be punished if you don’t; also, since we are no longer ruled by those sturdy Puritans who won for us civil and religious liberty, you will not even be punished if you do. But I cannot understand why any one should bother about a ceremonial except ceremonially. If a thing only exists in order to be graceful, do it gracefully or do not do it. If a thing only exists as something professing to be solemn, do it solemnly or do not do it. There is no sense in doing it slouchingly; nor is there even any liberty. I can understand the man who takes off his hat to a lady because it is the customary symbol. I can understand him, I say; in fact, I know him quite intimately. I can also understand the man who refuses to take off his hat to a lady, like the old Quakers, because he thinks that a symbol is superstition. But what point would there be in so performing an arbitrary form of respect that it was not a form of respect? We respect the gentleman who takes off his hat to the lady; we respect the fanatic who will not take off his hat to the lady. But what should we think of the man who kept his hands in his pockets and asked the lady to take his hat off for him because he felt tired?
This is combining insolence and superstition; and the modern world is full of the strange combination. There is no mark of the immense weak-mindedness of modernity that is more striking than this general disposition to keep up old forms, but to keep them up informally and feebly. Why take something which was only meant to be respectful and preserve it disrespectfully? Why take something which you could easily abolish as a superstition and carefully perpetuate it as a bore? There have been many instances of this half-witted compromise. Was it not true, for instance, that the other day some mad American was trying to buy Glastonbury Abbey and transfer it stone by stone to America? Such things are not only illogical, but idiotic. There is no particular reason why a pushing American financier should pay respect to Glastonbury Abbey at all. But if he is to pay respect to Glastonbury Abbey, he must pay respect to Glastonbury. If it is a matter of sentiment, why should he spoil the scene? If it is not a matter of sentiment, why should he ever have visited the scene? To call this kind of thing Vandalism is a very inadequate and unfair description. The Vandals were very sensible people. They did not believe in a religion, and so they insulted it; they did not see any use for certain buildings, and so they knocked them down. But they were not such fools as to encumber their march with the fragments of the edifice they had themselves spoilt. They were at least superior to the modern American mode of reasoning. They did not desecrate the stones because they held them sacred.
Another instance of the same illogicality I observed the other day at some kind of “At Home.” I saw what appeared to be a human being dressed in a black evening-coat, black dress-waistcoat, and black dress-trousers, but with a shirt-front made of Jaeger wool. What can be the sense of this sort of thing? If a man thinks hygiene more important than convention (a selfish and heathen view, for the beasts that perish are more hygienic than man, and man is only above them because he is more conventional), if, I say, a man thinks that hygiene is more important than convention, what on earth is there to oblige him to wear a shirt-front at all? But to take a costume of which the only conceivable cause or advantage is that it is a sort of uniform, and then not wear it in the uniform way—this is to be neither a Bohemian nor a gentleman. It is a foolish affectation, I think, in an English officer of the Life Guards never to wear his uniform if he can help it. But it would be more foolish still if he showed himself about town in a scarlet coat and a Jaeger breast-plate. It is the custom nowadays to have Ritual Commissions and Ritual Reports to make rather unmeaning compromises in the ceremonial of the Church of England. So perhaps we shall have an ecclesiastical compromise by which all the Bishops shall wear Jaeger copes and Jaeger mitres. Similarly the King might insist on having a Jaeger crown. But I do not think he will, for he understands the logic of the matter better than that. The modern monarch, like a reasonable fellow, wears his crown as seldom as he can; but if he does it at all, then the only point of a crown is that it is a crown. So let me assure the unknown gentleman in the woollen vesture that the only point of a white shirt-front is that it is a white shirt-front. Stiffness may be its impossible defect; but it is certainly its only possible merit.
NATALE
Non c’è abitudine più pericolosa o più disgustosa di quella di celebrare il Natale prima che venga, come sto facendo io in questo articolo. È l’essenza stessa di una festa il fatto che essa irrompa sull’uomo brillante e improvvisa, che in un istante il gran giorno non ci sia e nell’istante successivo il gran giorno ci sia. Fino a un certo preciso momento vi sentite ordinari e tristi; poiché è soltanto mercoledì. Nell’istante seguente il cuore vi balza in petto e la vostra anima e il vostro corpo danzano insieme come amanti; poiché in un solo scoppio e vampata è divenuto giovedì. Do per scontato (naturalmente) che voi siate adoratori di Thor, e che ne celebriate il giorno una volta la settimana, magari con sacrifici umani. Se invece siete un moderno cristiano inglese, salutate (naturalmente) con la medesima esplosione di allegria l’apparire della domenica inglese. Ma io dico che, qualunque sia il giorno che per voi è festivo o simbolico, è essenziale che vi sia una linea nera del tutto netta tra esso e il tempo che lo precede. E tutte le antiche e salutari usanze legate al Natale tendevano a questo: che non si dovesse toccare né vedere né conoscere né parlare di alcunché prima dell’effettivo giungere del giorno di Natale. Così, per esempio, ai bambini non venivano mai dati i loro regali prima dell’effettivo arrivare dell’ora stabilita. I regali erano tenuti legati in pacchetti di carta marrone, dai quali talvolta sporgeva per caso il braccio di una bambola o la gamba di un asinello. Vorrei che questo principio venisse adottato riguardo alle moderne cerimonie e pubblicazioni natalizie. Specialmente dovrebbe essere osservato a proposito di ciò che si chiamano i numeri natalizi delle riviste. I direttori delle riviste fanno uscire i loro numeri natalizi con tanto anticipo sul tempo che è più probabile che il lettore stia ancora piangendo il tacchino dell’anno scorso di quanto si sia seriamente accinto a pregustare per bene il tacchino che ha da venire. I numeri natalizi delle riviste dovrebbero essere legati in carta marrone e conservati per il giorno di Natale. A ben pensarci, sarei favorevole a che venissero legati in carta marrone i direttori. Se poi la gamba o il braccio di un direttore debba mai essere lasciato sporgere, lo rimetto alla scelta individuale.
Naturalmente, tutta questa segretezza intorno al Natale è meramente sentimentale e cerimoniale; se non vi piace ciò che è sentimentale e cerimoniale, non celebrate affatto il Natale. Non sarete puniti, se non lo fate; e inoltre, poiché non siamo più governati da quei robusti Puritani che conquistarono per noi la libertà civile e religiosa, non sarete puniti nemmeno se lo fate. Ma non riesco a capire perché qualcuno dovrebbe darsi pena di un cerimoniale se non cerimonialmente. Se una cosa esiste soltanto per essere aggraziata, fatela con grazia oppure non fatela. Se una cosa esiste soltanto in quanto pretende di essere solenne, fatela solennemente oppure non fatela. Non ha senso farla in modo sciatto; né vi è in ciò alcuna libertà. Posso capire l’uomo che si toglie il cappello davanti a una signora perché è il simbolo consuetudinario. Lo capisco, dico; anzi, lo conosco assai intimamente. Posso anche capire l’uomo che si rifiuta di togliersi il cappello davanti a una signora, come gli antichi Quaccheri, perché ritiene che un simbolo sia superstizione. Ma che senso avrebbe eseguire una forma arbitraria di rispetto in modo tale che non fosse una forma di rispetto? Rispettiamo il gentiluomo che si toglie il cappello davanti alla signora; rispettiamo il fanatico che non vuole togliersi il cappello davanti alla signora. Ma che cosa dovremmo pensare dell’uomo che tenesse le mani in tasca e chiedesse alla signora di togliergli lui il cappello perché si sente stanco?
Questo significa combinare insolenza e superstizione; e il mondo moderno è pieno di questa strana combinazione. Non vi è segno della immensa debolezza mentale della modernità più impressionante di questa generale disposizione a mantenere le vecchie forme, ma a mantenerle in modo informale e fiacco. Perché prendere qualcosa che era inteso soltanto per essere rispettoso e conservarlo irrispettosamente? Perché prendere qualcosa che potreste facilmente abolire come superstizione e perpetuarlo con cura come una noia? Vi sono stati molti esempi di questo compromesso da mezze menti. Non era forse vero, per esempio, che l’altro giorno un americano folle stava cercando di comprare l’Abbazia di Glastonbury e di trasferirla pietra per pietra in America? Simili cose non sono soltanto illogiche, ma idiote. Non c’è ragione particolare per cui un intraprendente finanziere americano debba portare rispetto all’Abbazia di Glastonbury. Ma se deve portare rispetto all’Abbazia di Glastonbury, deve portare rispetto a Glastonbury. Se è questione di sentimento, perché dovrebbe rovinare la scena? Se non è questione di sentimento, perché mai avrebbe dovuto visitare la scena? Chiamare Vandalismo questo genere di cose è una descrizione assai inadeguata e ingiusta. I Vandali erano gente molto assennata. Non credevano in una religione, e perciò la insultavano; non vedevano alcuna utilità in certi edifici, e perciò li abbattevano. Ma non erano tanto sciocchi da ingombrare la loro marcia con i frammenti dell’edificio che essi stessi avevano guastato. Erano almeno superiori al moderno modo di ragionare americano. Non profanavano le pietre perché le tenevano per sacre.
Un altro esempio della stessa illogicità l’ho osservato l’altro giorno a una specie di «At Home». Vidi quello che sembrava un essere umano vestito con una marsina nera, un panciotto nero da sera e pantaloni neri da sera, ma con uno sparato di camicia fatto di lana Jaeger. Che senso può avere questa sorta di cosa? Se un uomo ritiene l’igiene più importante della convenzione (una veduta egoistica e pagana, poiché le bestie che periscono sono più igieniche dell’uomo, e l’uomo è al di sopra di esse soltanto perché è più convenzionale), se, dico, un uomo ritiene che l’igiene sia più importante della convenzione, che cosa mai lo obbliga a indossare uno sparato di camicia? Ma prendere un costume la cui unica concepibile ragione o vantaggio è che sia una specie di uniforme, e poi non indossarlo alla maniera dell’uniforme — questo significa non essere né un bohémien né un gentiluomo. È una sciocca affettazione, penso, in un ufficiale inglese delle Life Guards non indossare mai la propria uniforme se può farne a meno. Ma sarebbe ancora più sciocco se si mostrasse in giro per la città con una giubba scarlatta e una corazza Jaeger. È usanza oggigiorno avere Commissioni Rituali e Rapporti Rituali che stabiliscono compromessi piuttosto insensati nel cerimoniale della Chiesa d’Inghilterra. Così forse avremo un compromesso ecclesiastico per cui tutti i Vescovi indosseranno piviali Jaeger e mitrie Jaeger. Analogamente il Re potrebbe insistere per avere una corona Jaeger. Ma non credo che lo farà, poiché comprende la logica della faccenda meglio di così. Il monarca moderno, da persona ragionevole, porta la sua corona il più di rado che può; ma se la porta, allora l’unico senso di una corona è che sia una corona. Sicché lasciate che assicuri allo sconosciuto gentiluomo dalla veste di lana che l’unico senso di uno sparato di camicia bianco è che sia uno sparato di camicia bianco. La rigidità può esserne il difetto insormontabile; ma è certamente il suo unico possibile merito.
Let us be consistent, therefore, about Christmas, and either keep customs or not keep them. If you do not like sentiment and symbolism, you do not like Christmas; go away and celebrate something else; I should suggest the birthday of Mr. McCabe. No doubt you could have a sort of scientific Christmas with a hygienic pudding and highly instructive presents stuffed into a Jaeger stocking; go and have it then. If you like those things, doubtless you are a good sort of fellow, and your intentions are excellent. I have no doubt that you are really interested in humanity; but I cannot think that humanity will ever be much interested in you. Humanity is unhygienic from its very nature and beginning. It is so much an exception in Nature that the laws of Nature really mean nothing to it. Now Christmas is attacked also on the humanitarian ground. Ouida called it a feast of slaughter and gluttony. Mr. Shaw suggested that it was invented by poulterers. That should be considered before it becomes more considerable.
I do not know whether an animal killed at Christmas has had a better or a worse time than it would have had if there had been no Christmas or no Christmas dinners. But I do know that the fighting and suffering brotherhood to which I belong and owe everything, Mankind, would have a much worse time if there were no such thing as Christmas or Christmas dinners. Whether the turkey which Scrooge gave to Bob Cratchit had experienced a lovelier or more melancholy career than that of less attractive turkeys is a subject upon which I cannot even conjecture. But that Scrooge was better for giving the turkey and Cratchit happier for getting it I know as two facts, as I know that I have two feet. What life and death may be to a turkey is not my business; but the soul of Scrooge and the body of Cratchit are my business. Nothing shall induce me to darken human homes, to destroy human festivities, to insult human gifts and human benefactions for the sake of some hypothetical knowledge which Nature curtained from our eyes. We men and women are all in the same boat, upon a stormy sea. We owe to each other a terrible and tragic loyalty. If we catch sharks for food, let them be killed most mercifully; let any one who likes love the sharks, and pet the sharks, and tie ribbons round their necks and give them sugar and teach them to dance. But if once a man suggests that a shark is to be valued against a sailor, or that the poor shark might be permitted to bite off a nigger’s leg occasionally; then I would court-martial the man— he is a traitor to the ship.
And while I take this view of humanitarianism of the anti-Christmas kind, it is cogent to say that I am a strong anti-vivisectionist. That is, if there is any vivisection, I am against it. I am against the cutting-up of conscious dogs for the same reason that I am in favour of the eating of dead turkeys. The connection may not be obvious; but that is because of the strangely unhealthy condition of modern thought. I am against cruel vivisection as I am against a cruel anti-Christmas asceticism, because they both involve the upsetting of existing fellowships and the shocking of normal good feelings for the sake of something that is intellectual, fanciful, and remote. It is not a human thing, it is not a humane thing, when you see a poor woman staring hungrily at a bloater, to think, not of the obvious feelings of the woman, but of the unimaginable feelings of the deceased bloater. Similarly, it is not human, it is not humane, when you look at a dog to think about what theoretic discoveries you might possibly make if you were allowed to bore a hole in his head. Both the humanitarians’ fancy about the feelings concealed inside the bloater, and the vivisectionists’ fancy about the knowledge concealed inside the dog, are unhealthy fancies, because they upset a human sanity that is certain for the sake of something that is of necessity uncertain. The vivisectionist, for the sake of doing something that may or may not be useful, does something that certainly is horrible. The anti-Christmas humanitarian, in seeking to have a sympathy with a turkey which no man can have with a turkey, loses the sympathy he has already with the happiness of millions of the poor.
It is not uncommon nowadays for the insane extremes in reality to meet. Thus I have always felt that brutal Imperialism and Tolstoian non-resistance were not only not opposite, but were the same thing. They are the same contemptible thought that conquest cannot be resisted, looked at from the two standpoints of the conqueror and the conquered. Thus again teetotalism and the really degraded gin-selling and dram-drinking have exactly the same moral philosophy. They are both based on the idea that fermented liquor is not a drink, but a drug. But I am specially certain that the extreme of vegetarian humanity is, as I have said, akin to the extreme of scientific cruelty—they both permit a dubious speculation to interfere with their ordinary charity. The sound moral rule in such matters as vivisection always presents itself to me in this way. There is no ethical necessity more essential and vital than this: that casuistical exceptions, though admitted, should be admitted as exceptions. And it follows from this, I think, that, though we may do a horrid thing in a horrid situation, we must be quite certain that we actually and already are in that situation. Thus, all sane moralists admit that one may sometimes tell a lie; but no sane moralist would approve of telling a little boy to practise telling lies, in case he might one day have to tell a justifiable one. Thus, morality has often justified shooting a robber or a burglar. But it would not justify going into the village Sunday school and shooting all the little boys who looked as if they might grow up into burglars. The need may arise; but the need must have arisen. It seems to me quite clear that if you step across this limit you step off a precipice.
Siamo dunque coerenti riguardo al Natale, e o manteniamo le usanze o non le manteniamo. Se non vi piacciono il sentimento e il simbolismo, non vi piace il Natale; andatevene e celebrate qualcos’altro; suggerirei il compleanno del signor McCabe. Senza dubbio potreste avere una sorta di Natale scientifico con un budino igienico e regali altamente istruttivi infilati in una calza Jaeger; andate e fatelo, allora. Se vi piacciono quelle cose, siete senza dubbio un buon tipo, e le vostre intenzioni sono eccellenti. Non ho alcun dubbio che vi interessiate davvero all’umanità; ma non riesco a pensare che l’umanità s’interesserà mai molto a voi. L’umanità è antigienica fin dalla sua stessa natura e origine. È talmente un’eccezione nella Natura che le leggi della Natura non significano davvero nulla per essa. Ora, il Natale viene attaccato anche sul terreno umanitario. Ouida lo definì una festa di macello e di ghiottoneria. Il signor Shaw suggerì che fosse stato inventato dai pollivendoli. La cosa andrebbe considerata prima che diventi più considerevole.
Non so se un animale ucciso a Natale abbia avuto un tempo migliore o peggiore di quello che avrebbe avuto se non ci fosse stato alcun Natale o alcun pranzo di Natale. Ma so bene che la combattente e sofferente fratellanza cui appartengo e a cui devo ogni cosa, l’Umanità, avrebbe un tempo assai peggiore se non esistesse una cosa come il Natale o i pranzi di Natale. Se il tacchino che Scrooge donò a Bob Cratchit abbia sperimentato una carriera più amabile o più malinconica di quella di tacchini meno attraenti è un argomento sul quale non posso nemmeno congetturare. Ma che Scrooge fosse migliore per aver donato il tacchino, e Cratchit più felice per averlo ricevuto, lo so come due fatti, come so di avere due piedi. Che cosa possano essere la vita e la morte per un tacchino non sono affari miei; ma l’anima di Scrooge e il corpo di Cratchit sono affari miei. Nulla mi indurrà a rattristare le case degli uomini, a distruggere le festività umane, a insultare i doni umani e le umane beneficenze per amore di qualche ipotetica conoscenza che la Natura ha velato ai nostri occhi. Noi uomini e donne siamo tutti sulla stessa barca, sopra un mare in tempesta. Ci dobbiamo l’un l’altro una terribile e tragica lealtà. Se catturiamo squali per cibo, siano uccisi nel modo più pietoso; chi vuole ami pure gli squali, e li vezzeggi, e leghi nastri intorno al loro collo e dia loro zucchero e insegni loro a danzare. Ma se una volta un uomo suggerisce che uno squalo debba essere stimato più di un marinaio, o che al povero squalo possa esser permesso di staccare a morsi ogni tanto la gamba di un negro, allora sottoporrei quell’uomo alla corte marziale — è un traditore della nave.
E mentre assumo questa veduta dell’umanitarismo di stampo anti-natalizio, è pertinente dire che sono un fermo antivivisezionista. Vale a dire, se c’è una qualche vivisezione, io le sono contro. Sono contro il sezionamento di cani coscienti per la stessa ragione per cui sono a favore del mangiare tacchini morti. Il nesso può non essere ovvio; ma ciò è dovuto alla condizione stranamente malsana del pensiero moderno. Sono contro la crudele vivisezione come sono contro un crudele ascetismo anti-natalizio, perché entrambi comportano lo sconvolgimento di sodalizi esistenti e l’oltraggio di normali buoni sentimenti per amore di qualcosa che è intellettuale, fantasioso e remoto. Non è una cosa umana, non è una cosa umanitaria, quando vedete una povera donna fissare affamata un’aringa affumicata, pensare non agli ovvi sentimenti della donna, ma agli inimmaginabili sentimenti dell’aringa defunta. Similmente, non è umano, non è umanitario, quando guardate un cane, pensare a quali teoriche scoperte potreste forse fare se vi fosse permesso di praticargli un foro nella testa. Sia la fantasticheria degli umanitari sui sentimenti celati dentro l’aringa, sia la fantasticheria dei vivisezionisti sulla conoscenza celata dentro il cane, sono fantasticherie malsane, perché sconvolgono una umana sanità di mente che è certa per amore di qualcosa che è per necessità incerto. Il vivisezionista, per fare qualcosa che può essere o non essere utile, fa qualcosa che è certamente orribile. L’umanitario anti-natalizio, nel cercare di provare per un tacchino una simpatia che nessun uomo può provare per un tacchino, perde la simpatia che già ha per la felicità di milioni di poveri.
Non è raro oggigiorno che gli estremi folli, nella realtà, si incontrino. Così ho sempre sentito che il brutale Imperialismo e la non-resistenza tolstoiana non solo non fossero opposti, ma fossero la stessa cosa. Sono lo stesso spregevole pensiero, che la conquista non possa essere osteggiata, guardato dai due punti di vista del conquistatore e del conquistato. Così, di nuovo, il proibizionismo e il davvero degradato vendere gin e tracannare acquavite hanno esattamente la stessa filosofia morale. Sono entrambi fondati sull’idea che il liquore fermentato non sia una bevanda, ma una droga. Ma sono particolarmente certo che l’estremo dell’umanità vegetariana sia, come ho detto, affine all’estremo della crudeltà scientifica: entrambi permettono a una dubbia speculazione di interferire con la loro ordinaria carità. La sana regola morale in faccende come la vivisezione mi si presenta sempre in questo modo. Non vi è necessità etica più essenziale e vitale di questa: che le eccezioni casuistiche, pur ammesse, debbano essere ammesse come eccezioni. E ne consegue, io penso, che, per quanto si possa compiere una cosa orrenda in una situazione orrenda, dobbiamo essere del tutto certi di trovarci effettivamente e già in quella situazione. Così, tutti i moralisti sani ammettono che si possa talvolta dire una bugia; ma nessun moralista sano approverebbe che si insegni a un fanciullo a esercitarsi nel dire bugie, nel caso un giorno debba dirne una giustificabile. Così, la morale ha spesso giustificato lo sparare a un rapinatore o a uno scassinatore. Ma non giustificherebbe l’andare nella scuola domenicale del villaggio e sparare a tutti i fanciulli che avessero l’aria di poter crescere fino a diventare scassinatori. Il bisogno può sorgere; ma il bisogno dev’essere sorto. Mi pare del tutto chiaro che, se oltrepassate questo limite, fate un passo oltre un precipizio.
Now, whether torturing an animal is or is not an immoral thing, it is, at least, a dreadful thing. It belongs to the order of exceptional and even desperate acts. Except for some extraordinary reason I would not grievously hurt an animal; with an extraordinary reason I would grievously hurt him. If (for example) a mad elephant were pursuing me and my family, and I could only shoot him so that he would die in agony, he would have to die in agony. But the elephant would be there. I would not do it to a hypothetical elephant. Now, it always seems to me that this is the weak point in the ordinary vivisectionist argument, “Suppose your wife were dying.” Vivisection is not done by a man whose wife is dying. If it were it might be lifted to the level of the moment, as would be lying or stealing bread, or any other ugly action. But this ugly action is done in cold blood, at leisure, by men who are not sure that it will be of any use to anybody— men of whom the most that can be said is that they may conceivably make the beginnings of some discovery which may perhaps save the life of some one else’s wife in some remote future. That is too cold and distant to rob an act of its immediate horror. That is like training the child to tell lies for the sake of some great dilemma that may never come to him. You are doing a cruel thing, but not with enough passion to make it a kindly one.
So much for why I am an anti-vivisectionist; and I should like to say, in conclusion, that all other anti-vivisectionists of my acquaintance weaken their case infinitely by forming this attack on a scientific speciality in which the human heart is commonly on their side, with attacks upon universal human customs in which the human heart is not at all on their side. I have heard humanitarians, for instance, speak of vivisection and field sports as if they were the same kind of thing. The difference seems to me simple and enormous. In sport a man goes into a wood and mixes with the existing life of that wood; becomes a destroyer only in the simple and healthy sense in which all the creatures are destroyers; becomes for one moment to them what they are to him—another animal. In vivisection a man takes a simpler creature and subjects it to subtleties which no one but man could inflict on him, and for which man is therefore gravely and terribly responsible.
Meanwhile, it remains true that I shall eat a great deal of turkey this Christmas; and it is not in the least true (as the vegetarians say) that I shall do it because I do not realise what I am doing, or because I do what I know is wrong, or that I do it with shame or doubt or a fundamental unrest of conscience. In one sense I know quite well what I am doing; in another sense I know quite well that I know not what I do. Scrooge and the Cratchits and I are, as I have said, all in one boat; the turkey and I are, to say the most of it, ships that pass in the night, and greet each other in passing. I wish him well; but it is really practically impossible to discover whether I treat him well. I can avoid, and I do avoid with horror, all special and artificial tormenting of him, sticking pins in him for fun or sticking knives in him for scientific investigation. But whether by feeding him slowly and killing him quickly for the needs of my brethren, I have improved in his own solemn eyes his own strange and separate destiny, whether I have made him in the sight of God a slave or a martyr, or one whom the gods love and who die young— that is far more removed from my possibilities of knowledge than the most abstruse intricacies of mysticism or theology. A turkey is more occult and awful than all the angels and archangels. In so far as God has partly revealed to us an angelic world, he has partly told us what an angel means. But God has never told us what a turkey means. And if you go and stare at a live turkey for an hour or two, you will find by the end of it that the enigma has rather increased than diminished.
Ora, che torturare un animale sia o non sia una cosa immorale, è, quanto meno, una cosa spaventosa. Appartiene all’ordine degli atti eccezionali e persino disperati. Salvo che per qualche straordinaria ragione, non ferirei gravemente un animale; con una straordinaria ragione lo ferirei gravemente. Se (per esempio) un elefante impazzito inseguisse me e la mia famiglia, e potessi sparargli soltanto in modo tale che morisse in agonia, esso dovrebbe morire in agonia. Ma l’elefante ci sarebbe. Non lo farei a un elefante ipotetico. Ora, mi pare sempre che questo sia il punto debole dell’ordinario argomento vivisezionista: «Supponete che vostra moglie stia morendo». La vivisezione non è compiuta da un uomo la cui moglie sta morendo. Se lo fosse, potrebbe essere sollevata all’altezza del momento, come lo sarebbero il mentire o il rubare pane, o qualsiasi altra brutta azione. Ma questa brutta azione è compiuta a sangue freddo, con comodo, da uomini che non sono sicuri che essa sarà di una qualche utilità per qualcuno — uomini dei quali il massimo che si possa dire è che potrebbero forse gettare i primi germi di qualche scoperta che potrebbe magari salvare la vita della moglie di qualcun altro in un remoto futuro. Ciò è troppo freddo e distante per privare un atto del suo immediato orrore. È come addestrare il fanciullo a dire bugie per amore di qualche grande dilemma che potrebbe non presentarglisi mai. State facendo una cosa crudele, ma non con abbastanza passione da renderla benigna.
Tanto basti sul perché io sia antivivisezionista; e vorrei dire, in conclusione, che tutti gli altri antivivisezionisti di mia conoscenza indeboliscono infinitamente la loro causa nel congiungere questo attacco a una specialità scientifica, in cui il cuore umano è comunemente dalla loro parte, con attacchi a usanze umane universali, in cui il cuore umano non è affatto dalla loro parte. Ho udito degli umanitari, per esempio, parlare della vivisezione e degli sport all’aria aperta come se fossero lo stesso genere di cosa. La differenza mi pare semplice ed enorme. Nello sport un uomo entra in un bosco e si mescola alla vita esistente di quel bosco; diviene distruttore soltanto nel senso semplice e sano in cui tutte le creature sono distruttrici; diviene per un istante, per esse, ciò che esse sono per lui — un altro animale. Nella vivisezione un uomo prende una creatura più semplice e la sottopone a sottigliezze che nessuno tranne l’uomo potrebbe infliggerle, e delle quali l’uomo è perciò gravemente e terribilmente responsabile.
Nel frattempo, resta vero che mangerò una gran quantità di tacchino questo Natale; e non è affatto vero (come dicono i vegetariani) che lo farò perché non mi rendo conto di ciò che faccio, o perché faccio ciò che so essere male, o che lo faccia con vergogna o dubbio o un fondamentale turbamento della coscienza. In un senso so bene ciò che faccio; in un altro senso so bene di non sapere ciò che faccio. Scrooge e i Cratchit e io siamo, come ho detto, tutti in una sola barca; il tacchino e io siamo, a dir molto, navi che si incrociano nella notte e si salutano al passaggio. Gli auguro ogni bene; ma è davvero praticamente impossibile scoprire se lo tratto bene. Posso evitare, ed evito con orrore, ogni tormento speciale e artificiale a suo danno, il conficcargli spilli per divertimento o il conficcargli coltelli per indagine scientifica. Ma se, nutrendolo lentamente e uccidendolo rapidamente per i bisogni dei miei fratelli, io abbia migliorato ai suoi stessi occhi solenni il suo strano e separato destino, se io l’abbia reso, al cospetto di Dio, uno schiavo o un martire, o uno di coloro che gli dèi amano e che muoiono giovani — ciò è assai più lontano dalle mie possibilità di conoscenza dei più astrusi intrichi del misticismo o della teologia. Un tacchino è più occulto e tremendo di tutti gli angeli e gli arcangeli. Nella misura in cui Dio ci ha in parte rivelato un mondo angelico, ci ha in parte detto che cosa significhi un angelo. Ma Dio non ci ha mai detto che cosa significhi un tacchino. E se andate a fissare un tacchino vivo per un’ora o due, scoprirete alla fine di esse che l’enigma è piuttosto cresciuto che diminuito.