Selections from G.K.Chesterton
THE DEBATER
HUMOUR AND GRAVITY
AN ATHEISTIC NIGHTMARE
THE ANATOMY OF THE JOKE
PUNCH AND JUDY
PUNCH AND JUDY, II
THE SAINT AND THE DRAGON
A UNIVERSAL RELEVANCE
CREEDS AND COBWEBS
A PLEA FOR POPULAR PHILOSOPHY
RUBBISH
NO SUCH THING
THE PROTECTION OF THE BIBLE
SPIRITUALISM
THE ENGLISHMAN’S RELIGION
THE ENGLISH WAY
HIGH OR LOW?
STRAIGHT THINKING
A MAN OF DISTINCTION
ST PIUS X
THE BLACK LINES
THE COSMIC STEW-POT
THE SENTINEL
EVERYMAN
POETRY AND BELIEFS
TWO GREAT TORIES
THE FALLACY OF FREEDOM
LIBERTY
THE SERVILE STATE
THE SIN OF PROHIBITION
AUTOMATIC EVIL
THE TYRANNICAL SCEPTIC
THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME
SKY SIGNS
THE MONSTROSITY
POLITICS AND DISCONTENT
AGAINST DIVINE DISCONTENT
RELIGION AND REVOLUTION
THE EVIL DAY
WHAT WAS RATIONALISM?
FROM DICKENS TO GISSING
THE CORNER
CHAOS
THE VENGEANCE OF VICTORIA
PRIVACY
NORTHCLIFFE
THE VISION OF VULGARITY, I
THE VISION OF VULGARITY, II
THE HUMBLEST ANIMAL
PUTTING THE CLOCK BACK
THE NUMBER YOU FIRST THOUGHT OF
THE LIVING PAST
THE UNCHANGING VISION
THE WHITE HOUSE
THE ICONOCLAST
THE RETURN OF THE ANGELS
THE NECESSITY OF LUXURY
THE CLUB
THE BIG THING AND THE SMALL
‘WORKING OUT THE BRUTE’
ORANGE PEEL AND THE FALL
ORIGINAL SIN
THE OUTLINE OF THE FALL
NEUROSIS
THE BATTLE
THE DECORATION
SURPRISE
THE PHILOSOPHY OF PUMPKINS
‘IN THE BEGINNING’
THE SAGE
INTIMATIONS
THE LITTLE THINGS
‘MERE PARADOX’
THE HIPPOPOTAMUS AND THE CROCODILE
CHANGE AND DECAY
THE ENEMIES OF JOY
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
LIFE AND LIBERTY
THE LESSON
THE TRUE CRITIC
FAIRY TALES
THE ETHICS OF FAIRYLAND
DIVINE IMMANENCE
A LOCAL HABITATION
SACRAMENT OR MAGIC
THE CONCRETE AND THE ABSTRACT
THE LIGHT AND THE HEAT
A NOTE ON COMPARATIVE RELIGION
ASSIMILATION AND REJECTION
THE WINTER FEAST
THE THREE GIFTS
THE SPRING IN THE SOUL
THE PERSON OF JESUS CHRIST
THE DIVINE COMEDY
THE DRAGON
THE DEBATER
I have always engaged, and always shall engage, in any sort of discussion on the first principles of human existence.
Daily News, July 7th, 1906
HUMOUR AND GRAVITY
There is one very fixed, and I think very false, conception current in human life—the conception that to laugh at a thing is in some strange way to score off it. The literature of blasphemy, for in stance, always assumes that when a thing has been shown to be ridiculous, it has in some way been shown to be disgusting or untrue. So far from having been shown to be disgusting, it has not even been shown to be undignified; so far from having been shown to be untrue, it has not even been shown to be improbable. … A thing may be too sad to be believed or too wicked to be believed or too good to be believed; but it cannot be too absurd to be believed in this planet of frogs and elephants, of crocodiles and cuttle-fish. The round earth itself is so round that it is impossible to say for certain that it is not standing on its head.
Nor is it true that the fact of a thing being ludicrous impugns its moral value. Many modern writers seem under the persistent impression that a man or a cause, when it becomes laughable, betrays itself and gives inherent signs of failure. If that were so, scarcely one of the causes that have risen and ruled over the world of men would ever have come into any maturity at all. Science and Christianity, Democracy and Imperialism, conceptions and ideals of the most widely divergent character, are all alike in this one fact, that they were all, at the very first glance, absurd … And the matter, of course, goes much further than this, for the element of the laughable is not only always potential, but sometimes inevitable and inherent. There is something about heroic postures and heroic words which renders very probable this reaction of derision and entertainment. Have the humorists ever considered what was the meaning of that ‘mocking’ to which so many martyrs and prophets are described as subject? The tyrants and the populace did not ‘mock’ the martyr because they had a natural malice against courage or purity. They ‘mocked’ the hero or the prophet for a very excellent reason: because the hero and the prophet were really funny.
This being so, we are driven to ask ourselves whether this sense of humour, which is so persistently exalted in our day, really deserves the full measure of its encomiums; whether it is really, as is so constantly implied, a test of character, a guide in conduct, an Ithuriel’s spear against evil, a standard and a method, a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. It has impugned many sanctities; it also has become a sanctity and it is time it was impugned …
Of course it is perfectly evident, were we concerned with what is perfectly evident, that a sense of humour has enormous advantages. It gives us delicacy and a secret independence of mind. It makes a man elvishly quick and accurate. But there is one thing to be said against a sense of humour, a thing that has to be said most seriously and most decisively; it does not assist, it rather hinders, the joy of life. The two elements of joy and humour, of exaltation and amusement, are commonly combined in one eudemonistic theory, in one worship of pleasure. But they are in truth vitally antagonistic. If the hedonist asks, ‘Where is the glory that was Greece? Where are the gods and priests of delight?’, it ought to be easy to answer him. They have vanished at the first whisper of modern humour. It was not the monks nor the saints that slew them; it was the jesters.
This vital kinship between gravity and pleasure is one of those principles which, once they are realized, explain a perpetually increasing mass of facts. To take one man out of a thousand. Whether or no Gladstone was the best or the cleverest or greatest or most statesmanlike of any particular body of men, there can be no doubt as to one supreme fact about him— he was certainly about the happiest man that ever lived. And this was considerably due to the fact that he was not tormented by any very strong sense of humour. To have splendid talents, to move in a thrilling theatre of events, to plan vast remedies, to defend them with dramatic pronouncements, to believe with equal intensity in one’s own capacity and one’s own cause, to enjoy clean habits and heroic health, to live to a pleasant old age in a glow of fame and personal dignity; this seems an almost legendary life, but this was his. But laughter would have spoilt it. It is only necessary to make one remark about Gladstone’s great rival. No one who has enjoyed the wit and laughing wisdom of Disraeli and really understood its essence, would be surprised to hear that he was an unhappy man. Let us rather pray for that appalling gravity which marks the happiest of all human creatures, lovers in ecstasy and children at play.
Black and White, April 18th, 1903
AN ATHEISTIC NIGHTMARE
In the whole world of things conceivable there is nothing so unmercifully hopeless as an infinity of mere facetiousness, a tyrannical nightmare of jesting. All the really popular humorists such as Sterne and Dickens have really owed their place by the fireside, not to the fact that they were humorous, but to the fact that they were serious, that all their jokes were bubbles upon a great sea of sympathy. Without this assurance, the human soul is more chilled and homeless in the world of pure humour than in the Arctic circle. There are few of us who would not prefer to find ourselves in the deepest of Dante’s hells, throttled in the ice among the traitors, to finding ourselves in a world such as that which is eternally renewed by the new comic papers, with their men who care for nothing but dancing girls and their dancing girls who care for nothing but money. In the circle of the traitors, amid the black and crushing memories of perjury and oppression, it might be possible to pass a thousand years with the hope that some mellow and generous memory might awaken for a moment in the heart of one of the damned. But the world of pure levity is a world by itself; its bloodless and godless inhabitants have never had any serious moments, and to a man with any human capacity for joy their faces are all as strange and cruel as those of invaders from some other planet. To dream of such a world of unremitting and inevitable jest and luxury would be an atheistic nightmare from which a man might with a good deal of relief awake to be hanged.
The Speaker, August 10th, 1901
THE ANATOMY OF THE JOKE
There is nothing comic about a falling tree. There is nothing really funny about a falling star. And there is very little amusement to be got out of a falling thunderbolt, unless it knocks over some carefully selected and suitable person; such as a sociologist proving that he can foresee all future eventualities or an astronomer disproving the existence of thunderbolts.
In short, a falling star is not fantastic, but a falling man is, or can be, fantastic. Why? I do not believe the question can be fully answered, for the same reason that I do believe the current answers are wrong; because it lies deep in the mysterious matter of what did really happen when man received or evolved the mind that sunders him from the beasts and birds. But I will throw out a few vague suggestions about the proper direction of inquiry.
Man himself is a joke in the sense of a paradox. That there is something very extraordinary about his position, and therefore presumably about his past, is the clearest sort of common sense. Alone of all creatures he is not self-sufficient, even while he is supreme.
He dare not sleep in his own skin; he cannot simply put his own food into his own stomach. He has to put the latter first into an oven and cover the former first with external and foreign hair; always sleeping in somebody else’s skin. In one sense he is a cripple amongst the creatures; he is at once imperfect and artificial like a monster with two glass eyes and two wooden legs. He is propped upon crutches that are called furniture; he is patched and protected with bandages that are called clothes.
Properly visualized, he is grotesque, not when he sits on a hat, but when he allows a hat to sit on him. Properly understood, he is not so ridiculous when he sits on a hat as when he sits on a chair; for then he is acting like some monstrous sort of crippled quadruped and equipping himself with four wooden legs. Why the lord of creation is a cripple in this queer sense is an open question; but some maintain that it is because he once had a bad fall.
Now this humorous human quality can, as a matter of fact, be much more easily connected with this old idea of a fall of man than with the current and conventional ideas about the evolution of man. To begin with, the explanation, whatever it is, must be some thing more or less peculiar to man.
Those who have heard the hyena laugh will not admit that his laughter would add much to the mirth of a happy fireside. The fantastic shapes of the other animals are only fantastic as mirrored in the mind of man. In this sense we may say that the camel’s hump and the rhinoceros’ horn are human secrets and even human possessions; and that we know the pelican and the penguin better than they know themselves.
To all appearance the animal world is unconscious of the grotesque; and considered in the light of mere animal evolution, there is hardly anything grotesque about their innocence.
But let us entertain, merely as a hypothesis and without any reference to doctrinal details or applications, some such supposition as this. That at some time in the unknowable past the creature that has become man received some sort of shock or revelation, by the expansion of his own or the visitation of other psychical forces, whereby he gained a sense of a separate and more divine destiny; that he afterwards lost this direct vision and lived on a lower plane, so that he was haunted with a curious sensation that the accidents of this world are in a sense alien to him, while their very inappropriateness is mixed with some memories of happiness and some hope of recovery. To put it shortly, he is in a sense pleased to be the only creature who is in the wrong place, while all other creatures are in the right one.
It seems to me that the problem of humour presents one primary condition and difficulty which divides it from most others. It seems to me quite clear that the process which ends in a joke necessarily begins with a certain idea of dignity. The dignity is in some way implied beforehand. Beauty or knowledge might conceivably break on a person without previous implications. But incongruity cannot break on him without the pre-existence or pre-supposition of something with which it fails to be congruous. So far as one can see, that pre-supposition is of something erect and, as it were, respectable about the station or stature of humanity.
We think the projection of an elephant’s trunk grotesque because it is near enough to being a caricature of a man’s nose. We do not think the projection of a precipice grotesque because it is not near enough to imply any comparison with humanity at all.
The more this dark matter is independently considered, the more, I think, we shall find this human standard, as of an erect figure, dominating it like a statue. All depends on this dim or fantastic tracing everywhere of the image of man; and I believe the key is somewhere in that mysterious oracle which identified it with the image of God.
Hearst’s International, June, 1922
PUNCH AND JUDY
There is something which is popular and still poor. There is something that is successful and yet bankrupt. There is a drama before the public which the public always applauds. It has run for a million nights and still it does not pay. That is a case for municipal enterprise. I propose that Punch and Judy should be put on the rates.
I have heard the oddest things said about Punch by literary men. I have heard him called Pagan. I have heard him degraded to the level of the Superman. Surely, however, it is obvious that Punch is the most Christian of all possible figures. Punch is Christian because Punch is grotesque.
The one thing that we have all forgotten about Mr Punch is the one thing that our fathers made most prominent—his hump. The victories of Punch are, indeed, the victories of a violent person, but they are the victories of a hunchback. That is, they are the victories of a grotesque cripple. No human being of any imagination ever took the smallest interest in the victories of the strong. It is only the victories of the weak that can be interesting. And all the victories, almost literally without exception, which humanity has celebrated at all, have been the victories of the weak— the weak in size, as in Jack the Giant-killer; or in numbers as at Marathon or Thermopylae; or in station and obvious chances, as in Cinderella or modern socialism; or in bodily defect, as in the blind Samson or the hump-backed Punch.
There are, indeed, human stories like that of Samson, of a man stronger than any other individual man. But there are no stories of this strong man conquering another weaker man and exulting in his strength … Strong as he is, his enemy must be stronger than he. And this is obviously the real meaning of Mr Punch. The whole point of the drama is that one highly ridiculous person with a hump is a match for all the organized forces of society, including the Beadle and the Hangman. The emphasis is not on the fact that he claims victory or has a right to expect it; the point is that he does not expect the victory, but does get it. The whole point of the story is that of a forlorn hope. The whole point is not that Punch puts his foot down, but that he has his back to the wall …
But the moral claim of Punch and Judy, though obvious, is not its only claim. Artistically it represents something sadder than a lost art; it represents a frustrated art. The technical conception of the whole thing, that of managing a dolt with the thumb and two fingers, is exactly one of those direct arts that ought not to be allowed to die. It is probably as subtle as fencing, which is also chiefly managed by the thumb and forefinger. There must be men who can do it, undeservedly starving amongst men who cannot do it. The ragged English Punch and Judy is infinitely superior (on the first principles of art) to the elaborate and civilized Italian system of marionettes. Marionettes are mechanism, like mere trains and telephones. Punch and Judy is manual labour; it is in a strict sense handicraft. The man works this thing—works it by personal and vital gestures—as if he were himself the actor. It is his own right hand that has become to him a separate person. It is his right hand that has lost or has not lost its cunning. It is his right hand that has taught him terrible things. And when he lifts the three fingers that make a doll into a man, he is lifting the same three fingers that all High Pontiffs have lifted in benediction.
If Punch and Judy is permitted to die, there will die with it three things. First, a genuine historic survival of the old Christian farce, in which the clown or fool always had the best of everybody. Secondly, there will die a definite mode of dexterity; one which could be applied to a hundred other hearty pantomimes besides this of Punch and Judy. Thirdly, it will mean the disappearance of a great pleasure of the poor.
Daily News, October 26th, 1907
PUNCH AND JUDY, II
The art of the Punch and Judy show, like the art of the old guilds, is a handicraft. It is that low thing called manual labour, like the work of the sculptor, the violinist and the painter of the Transfiguration. The interest of it lies in the fact that the only instrument really employed is the hand, and the costume of the comic figure is merely a kind of glove. Everything is done with these three fingers, or rather two fingers and a thumb, with which, in fact, all the mightiest or most ingenious works of man have been done. Everything turns on the co-operation of that trinity of digits: the pen, the pencil, the bow of the violin, and even the foil or the sword. In this respect Punch and Judy has a purity and classical simplicity as a form of art, superior even to what is more commonly called the puppet show— the more mechanical system of marionettes that work on wires. And there is this final touch of disgrace in the neglect of it: that while marionettes are mostly a foreign amusement, Punch has become a purely English survival. It is very English, it is really popular, it is within the reach of comparatively poor men. Who can wonder that it is dying out?
Illustrated London News, October 8th, 1921
THE SAINT AND THE DRAGON
The primary things in the universe, before all letters and all language, are a note of exclamation and a note of interrogation. The very shapes of them are startlingly symbolic; the first straight and simple, the second crooked and looking like a sneer. The note of admiration is Man, erect and wondering, worshipping the wonderful sky. The note of interrogation is the only thinking thing that was with him in Eden from the first. The note of interrogation is the Serpent, curved and at once cowering and insinuating. The first appreciates; the second depreciates. The two have been allegorized and repeated in every bewildering blazon of mythology and heraldry. St George was the note of admiration; he was Adam in armour. The dragon was the note of interrogation gorgeously engraved, like a capital in a Gothic missal. They have come together in many ages with the sound of steel, the, straight swords of simplicity and the curved scimitars of scepticism; nor has there been any other battle since the beginning of the world.
Daily News, July 8th, 1905
A UNIVERSAL RELEVANCE
You cannot evade the issue of God; whether you talk about pigs or the binomial theory, you are still talking about Him. Now if Christianity be … a fragment of metaphysical nonsense invented by a few people, then, of course, defending it will simply mean talking that metaphysical nonsense over and over again. But if Christianity should happen to be true—that is to say, if its God is the real God of the universe—then defending it may mean talking about anything or everything. Things can be irrelevant to the proposition that Christianity is false, but nothing can be irrelevant to the proposition that Christianity is true. Zulus, gardening, butchers’ shops, lunatics asylums, housemaids and the French Revolution—all these things not only may have something to do with the Christian God, but must have something to do with Him if He really lives and reigns.
Daily News, December 12th, 1903
CREEDS AND COBWEBS
People talk nowadays of getting rid of dogmas and all agreeing like brethren. But upon what can they all agree except upon a common dogma? If you agree, you must agree on some statement, if it is only that a cat has four legs. If the dogmas in front of you are false, get rid of them; but do not say that you are getting rid of dogmas. Say that you are getting rid of lies. If the dogmas are true, what can you do but try to get men to agree with them?
Nevertheless there is something deeper behind the rather vague attack on dogma which is widespread in our world. I think what the honest anti-dogmatists really mean about dogma is something like this: it is quite true that when one is talking to simple people such as children or the very poor, one does not repeat theoretic dogmas in their very theoretic form. One does not use frigid and philosophical language. One does not, in short, define the dogma. But let no one suppose that one is any the less dogmatic. For the simple truth is that, instead of defining the dogma, we simply assume the dogma. A mother does not say to her child, ‘There is a personal God, the moral and intelligent Governor of the universe’. She says, ‘God will be pleased if you are good’. She is quite as dogmatic as a college of theologians. Nay, she is more dogmatic, for it is more dogmatic to assume that a dogma is true than to declare that a dogma is true. But she is certainly simpler and better adapted to looking after babies than a college of theologians would be. And from this fact flows a singular consequence. It does often happen that the more good or innocent a man is, the more he imagines that he is undogmatic. The truth is that, so far from being undogmatic, he believes his dogmas so implicitly that he thinks that they are truisms. …
But if there is one thing psychologically certain, it is that men cannot live wholly by instincts, even wholesome instincts. Men must have theories—even to build a wall. It is neither respectful to them, nor dignified in us, that we should always dance round them and implore them to accept our creed. They will find the truth, as we have found it, who deserved it so much less. And the truth is that a man’s philosophy of the cosmos is directly concerned in every act of his life. Call theories threads of cotton; still the strain of life is on those threads Call the metaphysics of free will a mere cob-web; still in the hour of temptation everything will hang on that cob-web. Call the mystical nature of man a mere fancy; the time may come when nothing but that prevents you from shooting a nigger.
Daily News, February 13th, 1906
A PLEA FOR POPULAR PHILOSOPHY
What modern people want to be made to understand is simply that all argument begins with an assumption; that is, with something that you do not doubt. You can, of course, if you like, doubt the assumption at the beginning of your argument, but in that case you are beginning a different argument with another assumption at the beginning of it. Every argument begins with an infallible dogma, and that infallible dogma can only be disputed by falling back on some other infallible dogma; you can never prove your first statement or it would not be your first. All this is the alphabet of thinking… And it has this special and positive point about it, that it can be taught in a school, like the other alphabet. Not to start an argument without stating your postulates could be taught in philosophy as it is taught in Euclid, in a common schoolroom with a blackboard. And I think it might be taught in some simple and rational degree even to the young, before they go out into the streets and are delivered over entirely to the logic and philosophy of the Daily Mail.
Much of our chaos about religion and doubt arises from this—that our modern sceptics always begin by telling us what they do not believe. But even in a sceptic we want to know first what he does believe. Before arguing, we want to know what we need not argue about. And this confusion is infinitely increased by the fact that all the sceptics of our time are sceptics at different degrees of the dissolution of scepticism. …
Now you and I have, I hope, this advantage over all those clever new philosophers, that we happen not to be mad. All of us believe in St Paul’s Cathedral; most of us believe in St Paul. But let us clearly realize this fact, that we do believe in a number of things which are part of our existence, but which cannot be demonstrated. Leave religion for the moment wholly out of the question. All sane men, I say, believe firmly and unalterably in a certain number of things which are unproved and unprovable. Let us state them roughly.
(1) Every sane man believes that the world around him and the people in it are real, and not his own delusion or dream. No man starts burning London in the belief, that his servant will soon wake him for breakfast. But that I, at any given moment, am not in a dream, is unproved and unprovable. That anything exists except myself is unproved and unprovable.
(2) All sane men believe that this world not only exists, but matters. Every man believes there is a sort of obligation on us to interest ourselves in this vision or panorama of life. He would think a man wrong who said, ‘I did not ask for this farce and it bores me. I am aware that an old lady is being murdered down stairs, but I am going to sleep.’ That there is any such duty to improve the things we did not make is a thing unproved and unprovable.
(3) All sane men believe that there is such a thing as a self or ego, which is continuous. There is no inch of my brain matter the same as it was ten years ago. But if I have saved a man in battle ten years ago, I am proud; if I have run away, I am ashamed. That there is such a paramount ‘I’ is unproved and unprovable. But it is more than unproved and unprovable; it is definitely disputed by many metaphysicians.
(4) Lastly, most sane men believe, and all sane men in practice assume, that they have a power of choice and responsibility for action…
Surely it might be possible to establish some plain, dull statement such as the above, to make people see where they stand. And if the youth of the future must not (at present) be taught any religion, it might at least be taught, clearly and firmly, the three or four sanities and certainties of human free thought.
Daily News, June 22nd, 1907
RUBBISH
This title, however true, is not a mere explosion of my literary modesty. It refers, not solely to the article itself, but also to a superb pile of wood, straw, tar, paper and every random substance which is erected in a field just beyond the end of my garden. It is, as you may guess, a Coronation bonfire; but we remote rustics have to write our articles months, so to speak, before the actual Coronation, and the pile is at present, unfinished and indeed deficient. I have ransacked house and garden for some time to find rubbish to assist the conflagration; and my eye has suddenly fallen on a pile of fine old quarterlies, works on agnosticism, etc. These I am carrying across to the bonfire. Do not fancy that when I speak of rubbish, I mean only the things that I dislike. I mean a particular kind of vagueness and verbiage which must be cut away and cleared before a man can deal with his real adversaries. I do not call Socialism rubbish; I call it a very powerful, plausible and dangerous drug. I do not call Imperialism rubbish; I call it poison. But I do call ‘true Imperialism’ rubbish and ‘true Socialism’ rubbish, for they amount to nothing more than a mild Pharisaism about one’s own marvellous merit in loving one’s country or being sorry for the poor. Nor would I treat as rubbish anything, how ever alien or fantastic, which had a positive significance of any sort. I would not throw into my bonfire the Crown of France or the Koran or the Lord’s Day Observance Act or the Stuart tartan. I should not see mere rubbish in things that meant something, even if we cannot now decipher what it was, as in obscure and perhaps frightful figures and legends that crumble on Assyrian bas-reliefs in Bloomsbury, or in that ring of rock that stands over Salisbury Plain like stones in the crown of some primordial king of giants. Nor again would I class as rubbish (in this sense) those other examples in which we can decipher the statements and see that they are untrue; as in the case of the Monument in Fish Street or the scientific works of Mr Haeckel.
But I mean things that never meant anything; I mean the states manlike pronouncements, the wide outlooks and the well-considered conclusions; I mean whole shelves of Hansard and whole stacks of the Higher Thought Review; all the leading articles that oscillate faintly between two unimportant opinions; all the public speakers who are ‘far from saying’ this or ‘the last to say’ that; all the servile compromises justified by ‘evolution’; all the things that ‘every thoughtful man’ is supposed to think; all the things ‘modern ideas’ are supposed somehow or other to involve; all the owlishly stupid ‘rebukes’ and ‘severe comments’ uttered by judges and statesmen in utterly artificial wrath against utterly insignificant things; all the streams of sentimentalism poured out when you turn the tap, in defence of the dirtiest convenience or the dullest hack politics; all the consciousness of the solemnity of the responsibility, all the realization of the reality of the tendency; in short, all that grows in that wilderness of pride and folly, where pomposity grows like tall grass and polysyllables crawl about like caterpillars. …
But I must break off; because I have to carry all my modern problem novels and books of philosophy and high-class quarterly magazines across to the bonfire beyond the end of my garden.
Daily News, June 24th, 1911
NO SUCH THING
Educational conferences are always interesting for the simple reason that under the title of Education you can discuss anything whatever that comes into your head. This is the main fact which, in spite of all the talk on the subject of education, no one seems to notice in connection with it. The chief thing about the subject of education is that it is not a subject at all. There is no such thing as education. The thing is merely a loose phrase for the passing on to others of whatever truth or virtue we happen to have ourselves. It is typical of our time that the more doubtful we are about the value of philosophy, the more certain we are about the value of education. That is to say, the more doubtful we are about whether we have any truth, the more certain we are (apparently) that we can teach it to children. The smaller our faith in doctrine, the larger is our faith in doctors.
Hence, I believe that the whole business of modern education is an immense imposture or convention, an excuse for grown-up people talking about large matters at large. The poor wretches are forbidden in our time to have a proper human religion; that which they ought to discuss in the form of theology they are driven to discuss under the disgusting excuse of education. Talking about serious questions is a pleasure; it is perhaps the greatest mere pleasure known to man. Even devils (as Milton truly perceived) would discuss theology. But in our time it is a secret pleasure; it is enjoyed in dark corners, like a vice.
I need hardly say that the fact that education allows of a man discussing anything is the reason why I have put it first. The actual text which caught my eye and revealed the vagaries and various possibilities of the theme was the report of the Conference of Head Teachers at which Professor Muirhead lectured on Moral Instruction. The phrase Moral Instruction is generally used, of course, with reference to such a programme as that advanced by the Moral Instruction League; it is generally used as signifying the proposal to substitute certain ethical lessons for the religious instruction (somewhat dim and dubious as it is) which is given in most schools. So far as this meaning is concerned, my own position is a simple and, I hope, an inoffensive one. I even offer a compromise or bargain, exactly as if I were a politician. I am quite prepared to promise the secularists secular education if they on their side will promise (on the tombs of their mothers) not to have moral instruction. Secular education seems to me intellectually clean and comprehensible. Moral instruction seems to me unclean, intolerable; I would destroy it with fire. Teaching the Old Testament by itself means teaching ancient Hebrew ethics which are simple, barbaric, rudimentary, and, to a Christian, unsatisfying. Teaching moral instruction means teaching modern London, Birmingham and Boston ethics which are not barbaric and rudimentary, but are corrupt, hysterical and crawling with worms and which are, to a Christian, not unsatisfying but detestable. The old Jew who says you must fight only for your tribe is inadequate; but the modern prig who says you must never fight for anything is substantially and specifically immoral. I know quite well, of course, that the non-religious ethics suggested for modern schools do not verbally assert these things; they only talk about peaceful reform, true Christianity and the importance of Count Tolstoy. It is all a matter of tone and implication; but then so is all teaching. Education is implication. It is not the things you say which children respect; when you say things, they very commonly laugh and do the opposite. It is the things you assume that really sink into them. It is the things you forget even to teach that they learn.
Churches, philosophies, sects, social influences, all educational authorities have disagreed, have distorted each other’s meaning, have destroyed each other’s proposals, in this matter of education. But here I hope I offer a peaceful proposition on which all churches and all philosophies can agree. I am the bearer of the only real olive-branch. All educational authorities can agree upon the simple proposition that I lay down. There is no such thing as education. Education does not exist. That will indeed be a blessed gospel to spread through the modern world and even my feet will be beautiful upon the mountains when I proclaim it. For indeed this is the nearest statement of the truth. There is no education apart from some particular kind of education. There is no education that is not sectarian education.
Illustrated London News, January 12th, 1907
THE PROTECTION OF THE BIBLE
It is a matter of great gratification that an official voice in practical education has spoken in favour of that exclusion of all theologies from the national schools for which many have long pleaded. It is a policy promoted, generally speaking, by the most lucid and magnanimous of all parties. Some, and I am one of them, do not wish theology to interfere with education. Some, and I am again one of them, have the greatest horror of education presuming to interfere with theology, which is so much more living and exciting a subject. And a very interesting question is undoubtedly raised by the distinction between the teaching of theology and the teaching of the Bible. The question of whether the Bible can be taught merely as literature is a question that raises the whole riddle of things that have two meanings, a big meaning and a small meaning. Can the Koran be treated as literature? Yes, anywhere except in Islam. Can the Bible be taught as pure literature? Yes, anywhere except in a Protestant country.
There are several popular misconceptions about this educational aspect of Scripture. One quite curious mistake is this. It is always somehow assumed that, if the Bible is taken out of the schools, it will be taken out in the interest of those who do not believe in it. This is a complete mistake. Those who do not believe in it are exactly the people who have no reason to object to it. It is the people who do believe in it who have a right to get restless. A reasonable Freethinker need not have the faintest objection to his child learning a chapter of Isaiah merely as literature. In so far as he is reasonable, he will agree that it is literature, and in so far as he is a Freethinker he will agree that it is literature. The man who is hardly used by such teaching of the Bible is precisely the orthodox man, the man to whom Isaiah means first and foremost the blood-stirring prophecy of a world-shattering event. I should not mind my children learning Icelandic folklore. Nor should I mind them learning Jewish folklore—if it is only folklore. I should not mind my children being told about Mahomet, because I am not a Mohammedan. If I were a Mohammedan, I should very much want to know what they were told about him.
Therefore I sympathize with secular education, but not because my sympathy is with the new-fashioned Puritan who wishes the Bible to be treated as literature. My sympathy is with the old fashioned Puritan who does not want the Bible to be treated as literature, because he happens to to have a religion which is about the most interesting thing a man can have. It is the old-fashioned theologians who ought to insist on secular education. It is the orthodox Puritans who ought to want the Bible kept out of the schools. The truth can, indeed, be put in a kind of dilemma. Either the Bible must be offered as something extraordinary or as some thing ordinary. If it is offered as something extraordinary, that is certainly unfair to the agnostics and the doubters. If it is offered as something ordinary, that is grossly and atrociously unfair to the theologians and the believers. … The Bible compromise is false both to the civic idea of liberty and to the Protestant idea of the Bible.
Daily News, April 17th, 1909
SPIRITUALISM
We are told today that we should be better for a religion without a theology. I believe our brains would be the better even for a theology without a religion.
The special mark of the modern world is not that it is sceptical, but that it is dogmatic without knowing it. It says, in mockery of old devotees, that they believed without knowing why they believed. But the moderns believe without knowing what they believe— and without even knowing that they do believe it. Their freedom consists in first freely assuming a creed, and then freely forgetting that they are assuming it. In short, they always have an unconscious dogma; and an unconscious dogma is the definition of a prejudice. …
The debate on the ethics of Spiritualism is a strong example of this. The Spiritualists act upon a dogma, which they cannot state dogmatically; and therefore only assume dogmatically. Most Anti Spiritualists also, I may add, assume a dogma without knowing it—and a much staler and stupider dogma at that. But the point here is that they differ from the old creeds in never being stated clearly as creeds. What a Spiritualist assumes is practically this; it is not merely the existence of spirits, but the non-existence of evil spirits— or at least of the extreme evil done to us by evil spirits. To put it popularly, Spiritualists are optimists about the spiritual world. The Puritans and the people of the seventeenth century generally were pessimists about the spiritual world. They thought it a thousand to one that anybody dealing with spirits was dealing with bad spirits. Hence, they turned even the worst sort of witch-burning from murder to massacre. These were very appalling deductions from one axiom that human nature is nearer to wicked spirits than to good ones. But at least the Puritans could state their pessimistic axiom as an axiom. The Spiritualists cannot state their optimistic axiom as an axiom at all; they do not even know it is optimistic. They simply feel it unconsciously as the spirit of their time— that is, as something not even as solid as climate, but rather as fickle as the weather.
Now the main objection to Spiritualism is almost identical with the claim of Spiritualism. The objection is that it puts a man under the control of spiritual forces, or that it brings him in contact with the unknown. In fact, it is almost impossible to find any commendation of such a belief in spirits which will not serve as a condemnation in the mouth of those who believe in bad spirits. The very words ‘medium’ or ‘control’ will indeed affect many of us as immoral words—I might say indecent words. They imply a spiritual surrender which is dubious even if the in be good, and shocking if it be bad. Now it certainly is not self- evident, from the analogy of all we know, that it cannot be bad. … That the investigators do not insist on this danger, or do not insist on it as dangerous, is simply due to that forgotten first principle to which I have referred. The Spiritualists are forbidden to accept the deduction from the Spiritualist parallel because it would involve a denial of the spiritualist dogma. And it is none the less felt as an infallible dogma because it is an unconscious dogma. … If a man’s view of the universe allows him to be the medium of he knows not what and under the control of he knows not whom, let him say so and state his view of the universe clearly, like his fathers before him. Then at least he will not fall into a mere slush of likes and dislikes, and choose to fancy angels only with white wings because he prefers them to black ones.
Illustrated London News, March 15th, 1919
THE ENGLISHMAN’S RELIGION
… that queer, beautiful, laughable thing, the English religious feeling, so hazy, so reverent, so illogical, so humane, so kindly, so vulgar.
The Bystander, June 1st, 1904
THE ENGLISH WAY
No one can understand the nature of England or of English politics who does not realize that this island of ours is and always has been covered with a kind of beautiful cloud. No one can be good critic of England who does not understand fogs. And no one can be a really patriotic Englishman who does not like fogs. Of all national histories, the history of England must be the hardest to write, for the English, with all their great epochs, not only did not know what they were doing, but, so far as one can make out, did not want to know what they were doing. They always did a thing in such a way that a hundred years afterwards it could be maintained that they had done the precise opposite. They always said a thing in such a way that it could mean something different. This was not craft … It was their ingrained poetry.
There are no people so poetical as the English, no people that are so full of a sense of vague distances and perspectives; there are no people so full of a certain fine formless sentiment. They see all things melting into one another like the mists of their northern sky; the Latin sees everything as clear cut as the crests of the Alps against the hard blue enamel of heaven. The English law, for instance, is uncommonly like an impressionist picture of a rainy day. The Code Napoleon is like a coloured photograph of Rome.
The haphazard, hand-to-mouth quality both in our legislation and our judicature is partly, no doubt, the result of selfish aristocratic raids and intrigues, but is still more the result of a certain dim kindliness, a sort of desperate kindliness, living in the heart of a confusion and never daring to trust itself to a general rule. This quality of a humane vagueness has made inexpressibly difficult the study of all the great European crises in their particular effect on England. It is grasped that what was in other countries a revolution was in England commonly a compromise. But in England commonly it was more than a compromise; it was a riddle. The Reformation came, for instance. Scotland went Protestant; Ireland went Catholic; England went something or other, but what no modern historian can perfectly demonstrate. Englishmen argued with each other, burnt each other, set up and pulled down kings, but all in such a manner as to leave it reasonably doubtful in the twentieth century whether anything happened at all. … There is something wholly English and quite unexplainable about this innocent juggling; this calm and beneficent humbug.
Daily News, March 16th, 1905
HIGH OR LOW?
The one thing that the modern English will not understand is that when you have lost your way quite hope , quickest thing is to go back along the road you know to the place from which you started. You may call it reaction, you may call it repetition, you may call it tiresome theory, but it is the quickest way out of the wood. No Ritual Commissions and no other kind of Commissions ever do the least good, because they will not step back to the first facts of the situation. Now the first facts are never material facts. The invisible always comes before the visible, the immaterial before the material, even in our everyday experience … The modern English will never settle their problems until they under stand that the shortest cut to the practical is through the theoretical; and there could not possibly be a stronger instance of it than the instance of ritualism and the Ritual Commission.
The whole point of the quarrel about ritualism is very simple; it is that it is not a quarrel about ritualism at all. Nobody can quarrel about ritualism. If a gentleman, instead of offering me his hand, offers me his foot, explaining at the same time that to him this rite has the same meaning as hand-shaking, I may regard him as amusing, but certainly not as wicked. But if I am offended at such an act, it is because the sudden waving of his foot in the air does not immediately convey its meaning, but may even be regarded by the over-sensitive as a sort of symbolic or non-effective kick. In the same way, nobody cares one atom what any clergyman does in his church. … All that any of them care is what a clergyman means. He might have, not two but two hundred candles on the altar if the altar did not mean something—that is if the altar were not an altar. The clergyman might wear six copes and seven mitres if he were wearing them merely as his private taste in the matter of a suit of clothes. In a word, ritual is not even ritual without the question of doctrine. And doctrine, I believe, the Commission was not allowed to discuss.
The ultimate problem about the Church of England is not easy to settle, but it is easy enough to state, and these Commissions have never even heard it stated. It is that a quarrel exists in the Church of England very unique in human institutions. The Church of England is quarrelling about what the Church of England is. The House of Commons is quarrelling about what the House of Commons shall do. The House of Lords is quarrelling about what the House of Lords shall do. Even a private ship quarrels about what it shall do; it does not quarrel about whether it is a private ship or a missionary boat or a man of war. Even a band of robbers quarrels about what it shall do; it does not quarrel about whether it is an omnibus company or a plumbers’ union. But the quarrel in the Church of England is not about what it shall do; it is about what it shall be—indeed, about what it has been. Does its whole authority lie in being a branch of the Catholic Church? Or does its whole authority lie in being a protest, a part of the great sixteenth-century protest, against that Catholic Church? All commissions are useless which attempt to discuss what it does, without discussing what it is. Until this first question is settled, it is as childish to discuss a clergyman’s vestments as to discuss his wall paper.
Illustrated London News, July 14th, 1906
STRAIGHT THINKING
Logic and truth, as a matter of fact, have very little to do with each other. Logic is concerned merely with the fidelity and accuracy with which a certain process is performed, a process which can be performed with any materials, with any assumption. You can be as logical about griffins and basilisks as about sheep and pigs. On the assumption that a man has two ears, it is good logic that three men have six ears, but on the assumption that a man has four ears, it is equally good logic that three men have twelve. And the power of seeing how many ears the average man, as a fact, possesses, the power of counting a gentleman’s ears accurately and without mathematical confusion, is not a logical thing but a primary and direct experience, like a physical sense, like a religious vision. The power of counting ears may be limited by a blow on the head; it may be disturbed and even augmented by two bottles of champagne; but it cannot be affected by argument. Logic has again and again been expended, and expended most brilliantly and effectively, on things that do not exist at all. There is far more logic, more sustained consistency of the mind, in the science of heraldry than in the science of biology. … There is more logic in Alice in Wonderland than in the Statute Book or the Blue Books. The relations of logic to truth depend, then, not upon its perfection as logic, but upon certain pre-logical faculties and certain pre-logical discoveries, upon the possession of those faculties, upon the power of making those discoveries. If a man starts with certain assumptions, he may be a good logician and a good citizen, a wise man, a successful figure. If he starts with certain other assumptions, he may be an equally good logician and a bankrupt, a criminal, a raving lunatic. Logic, then, is not necessarily an instrument for finding truth; on the contrary, truth is necessarily an instrument for using logic— for using it, that is, for the discovery of further truth and for the profit of humanity. Briefly, you can only find truth with logic if you have already found truth without it.
Daily News, February 2nd, 1905
A MAN OF DISTINCTION
It is obvious that there fell with Arthur Balfour one of the few remaining pillars of that old patriotic aristocracy which not only governed England but practically was England, so far as England was a personality dealing personally with other nations. It is one of the paradoxes, so typical of England, that many of the men who thus understood and summed up her policy came from Scotland. It has been said that it requires a surgical operation to get a joke into the head of a Scotsman. I wonder no Scotsman has retorted, what would often be more correct, that it requires a surgical operation to get a serious idea into the head of an Englishman. When it happened, the operation was often performed by a Scotch surgeon. The English squire was an unconscious aristocrat; the Scotch laird was a conscious aristocrat; and Lord Balfour, with all his social grace and graciousness, was conscious and even self-conscious. But this was only another way of saying that he had a mind which mirrored everything, including himself and that, whatever else he did, he did not act blindly or in the dark. He was sometimes quite wrong; but his errors were purely patriotic, both in the narrow sense of nationalism and in the larger sense of loyalty and disinterestedness. … He was a man of strong and stoical character and nothing showed the falsity of political journalism so much as the legend which represented him as a drooping aesthete or a broken lily. In some ways he seems to me to have been too good a Stoic to be entirely a good Christian; or rather (to put it more correctly) to feel, like the rest of us, that he was a bad Christian. But about his virtues, both public and private, there can be no doubt, for they contained great elements that stood out as rather unique in his time. Courage, dignity, self-control, these were much more the essentials of his character than the social elegance and suavity attributed to him by all his critics and some of his admirers. There was much more in him of the Scotch Puritan than of the English Cavalier.
But he made one great contribution to modern politics which it will be well to understand because it was entirely misunderstood. It is supremely characteristic of the present Parliamentary atmosphere that everybody accused Lord Balfour of incomprehensible compromise and vagueness because he was completely logical and absolutely clear. Clarity does look like a cloud of confusion to people whose minds live in confusion twice confounded. What is called the modern mind is soaked in associations and cannot understand distinctions, even when they are absolutely reasonable distinctions, The people stuffed with our journalese culture or popular science can only understand anything in relation to ‘all that sort of thing’; they cannot comprehend that something a little like it is really quite a different sort of thing. … They can understand, to take an instance, the general tendency to put more and more things under the control of the State and the argument which says that as the highroad is public, so the railroad should be public; and if the railroad, then the house and the kitchen garden and the cat and the dog must all be owned by the public. They can understand, and perhaps more sympathetically, the contrary process of distrusting the State and putting things back into private hands; first the railroad and then the road and then, for all I know the Post Office and the Army and Navy. They are acquainted with the sort of expanding cant that can be used at any stage of either of these drifts or tendencies. But if you try to point out what the wisest sages and legislators have meant by the difference between public and private property, if you explain that nationalizing the roads is not the same as nationalizing the land, you will generally find that they are merely puzzled and suppose it to be some sort of mystification— because it is quite clear. They cannot make out whether you are in favour of ‘Socialism and all that sort of thing’. Lord Balfour once rent the murky sky of politics with one lightning-flash of lucidity by giving the exact economic definition of the collectivist idea, and then adding, ‘That is Socialism and nothing else is Socialism’. It was probably regarded as one of his Fine-spun evasions.
That is the intellectual virtue of which Lord Balfour really left a valuable example. People said his distinctions were fine distinctions, and so they were; very fine indeed. A fine distinction is like a fine painting or a fine poem or anything else fine; a triumph of the human mind. In these days when large-mindedness is supposed to consist of confusing everything with everything else, of saying that man is the same as woman and religion the same as irreligion, and the unnatural as good as the natural and all the rest of it, it is well to keep high in the mind the great power of distinction; by which man becomes in the true sense distinguished.
G. K.’s Weekly, March 29th, 1930
ST PIUS X
Among the many true and touching expressions of respect for the tragedy of the Vatican, most have commented on the fact that the late Pope was by birth a peasant. Yet few or none, I think, traced that truth to its most interesting and even tremendous conclusion. For the truth is that the Papacy is practically the only authority in modern Europe in which it could have happened. It is the oldest, immeasurably the oldest, throne in Europe; and it is the only one that a peasant could climb. In semi-Asiatic States there are doubtless raids and usurpations. But these are of brigands rather than peasants; I speak of the pure peasant advanced for pure merit. This is the only real elective monarchy left in the world; and any peasant can still be elected to it. … Even in high and heroic republics like those of France and of Switzerland, can one say that the ruler is really the plain man in power?
Now all the evidence, from foes as much as friends, attests that this really was true of the great priest who lately gave back to God the most tremendous power in the world. Those who admired him most, admired the simplicity and sanity of a peasant. Those who murmured against him most, complained of the obstinacy and reluctance of a peasant. But for that very reason it was clear that the oldest representative institution in Europe was working; when all the new ones have broken down. It is still possible to get the strong, patient, humorous type that keeps cheerfulness and charity alive among millions, alive and supreme in an official institution.
As has been pointed out, with subtle power and all proper delicacy, in numberless liberal and large-minded journals, the great and good priest now dead had all the prejudices of a peasant. He had a prejudice to the effect that the mystical word ‘Yes’ should be distinguished from the equally unfathomable expression ‘No’ … The Pope never pretended to have an extraordinary intellect; but he professed to be right—and he was. All honest atheists, all honest Calvinists, all honest men who mean anything or believe anything or deny anything, will have reason to thank their stars (a heathen habit) for the peasant in that high place. He left people to agree with his creed or disagree with it; but not free to misrepresent it. It was exactly what any peasant taken from any of our hills and plains would have said. But there was something more in him that would not have been in the ordinary peasant. For all this time he had wept for our tears; and he broke his heart for our bloodshed.
Illustrated London News, August 29th, 1914
THE BLACK LINES
There are about as many definitions of man as there are men. Let me, however, offer the reader another. Man is a creature who creates cataclysms. Man’s whole nature and object on the earth is to draw those black lines that do not exist in inorganic nature. He separates things and makes them special. Take, for the sake of an instance, the admirable and fascinating subject of meals. A cow eats all day; its hunger, I suppose, grows gradually and vaguely at the beginning, is slowly and increasingly satisfied, and then gradually and vaguely dies away. It is an evolutionist. But man is made for revolutions, or rather he makes them; he is formed for abrupt departures and great experiments. He faces the cataclysm called Lunch. It is a thing of black lines; decisive like a religion or a rebellion. It begins at some time and (except in extreme cases) ends at some time. Man makes monogamy, patriotism, oaths before magistrates, monetary obligations, religion, honour, civic obedience, theology, all on the same sacred principle on which he makes lunch. He has less, perhaps, and the cow has more. But then he has something; and the cow only has anything. If man were to run about on all fours eating a field full of mutton chops, his meals would not have the meaning they have now, a meaning of hospitality, comradeship, human symbolism. His mutton chops would not be the mystical things that they are at present. Man is the animal that draws black lines. Sometimes they are lines round a land, and they make patriotism. Sometimes they are lines round an animal, and they make humanity. But in all cases this is true, that men learn to love their limitations, that men learn to love not only the picture, but the frame. Thus artists grow fond of the fact that they are working in wood only, or in iron only, or what not; they love the thing that isolates them. And so those who began by loving England came to love her frame, the sea.
Daily News, September 9th, 1905
THE COSMIC STEW-POT
There has crept into our thoughts, through a thousand small openings, a curious and unnatural idea. I mean the idea that unity is itself a good thing; that there is something high and spiritual about things being blended and absorbed into each other. That all rivers should run into one river, that all vegetables should go into one pot— that is spoken of as the last and best fulfilment of being. Boys are to be ‘at one’ with girls; … all sects are to be ‘at one’ in the New Theology; beasts fade into men and men fade into God; union in itself is a noble thing. Now union in itself is not a noble thing. Love is a noble thing; but love is not union. Nay, it is rather a vivid sense of separation and identity. Maudlin, inferior love poetry does, indeed, talk of lovers being ‘one soul’ just as maudlin, inferior religious poetry talks of being lost in God; but the best poetry does not. When Dante meets Beatrice, he feels his distance from her, not his proximity; and all the greatest saints have felt their lowness, not their highness, in the moment of ecstasy. And what is true of these grave and heroic matters (I do not say, of course, that saints and lovers have never used the language of union too, true enough in its own place and proper limitation of meaning)—what is true of these is equally true of all the lighter and less essential forms of appreciation or surprise. Division and variety are essential to praise; division and variety are what is right with the world. There is nothing specially right about mere contact and coalescence. …
In short, this vast, vague idea of unity is the one ‘reactionary’ thing in the world. It is perhaps the only connection in which that foolish word ‘reactionary’ can be used with significance and truth. For this blending of men and women, nations and nations, is truly a return to the chaos and unconsciousness that were before the world was made. There is, of course, another kind of unity of which I do not speak here: unity in the possession of truth and the perception of the need for these varieties. But the varieties themselves; the reflection of man and woman in each other, as in two distinct mirrors; the wonder of man at nature as a strange thing at once above and below him; the quaint and solitary kingdom of childhood; the local affections and the colour of certain landscapes— these actually are the things that are the grace and honour of the earth; these are the things that make life worth living and the whole framework of things well worthy to be sustained. And the best thing remains; that this view, whether conscious or not, always has been and still is the view of the living and labouring millions. While a few prigs on platforms are talking about ‘oneness’ and absorption in ‘The All’, the folk that dwell in all the valleys of this ancient earth are renewing the varieties for ever. With them a woman is loved for being unmanly, and a man loved for being unwomanly. With them the church and the home are both beautiful, because they are both different; with them fields are personal and flags are sacred; they are the virtue of existence, for they are not mankind but man.
T. P.’s Weekly, Christmas Number, 1910
THE SENTINEL
The great conception which lay at the back of the Hebrew and Christian scriptures was the conception that to man had been given a certain law, to champion which was his sole and simple business. ‘He hath shown thee, O man, that which is good’ is perhaps of all earthly sayings the one which has the deepest ring; it seems, as it were, too true and simple to be comprehended. The stars in their courses might fight against his honour, scientific discoveries might make the world seem more perilous and equivocal; at the turning of a stone or the splitting of a sea beast, the whole cosmic army might seem suddenly to desert to the devil. But man had in his heart a secret which would outlast these things; he had his orders; he was the sentinel of God.
The Speaker, October 19th, 1901
EVERYMAN
The meanest man is immortal and the mightiest movement is temporal, not to say temporary.
Blackfriars, January, 1923
DEATH OF AN ARTIST
The first impulse of any serious person on hearing that G. F. Watts is dead must of necessity be an impulse to say, as we said of Gladstone, ‘All the great are dying’. This is not mere journalese. It is a genuine impression and in one sense it is true: there are none left who carry themselves as these great men did. But there is a danger in this mode of speech, and also an error, for in it is involved the very evil of this age, out of which its littleness comes. There are many evils in this particular period of ours. One of the worst, doubtless, is that we never produce great men; but the worst of all is that we are always looking for them. The men of the great time of Watts did not look for great men, but for great causes; and in a great cause almost anyone may become great.
There are none left who carry themselves as these heroes did, because there are none left who are so indifferent to mere intellectual eminence. Watts and such men as he were the children of the great republican revolution that began the nineteenth century, which filled men with a furious belief in humanity and was the latest of the religions of mankind. They were great men because they did not believe in great men; they believed in men. They mingled in a common and equal competition of enthusiasm for something outside individual men, and out of that only comes real individuality. They sought first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness; they sought first the important things, and trifles— such as greatness and genius—were added unto them.
We shall not again have a man of the greatness of Watts until we have something better to think about than greatness. One thing at any rate stands out of his whole character; one thing must be burningly vivid to anybody who ever had, even as briefly as I had, the honour of meeting him; that he himself cared for the thing called greatness not a single straw. He cared only for the spread of certain conceptions, true or false, with which he had identified himself.. . He belonged in this matter, beyond question, to an age of causes and will therefore be found in this matter incredible. If our civilization pursues its present course (which is absurd), he will become in a very short time a heroic myth.
The note of this greatness of his was well expressed in his artistic work, especially his artistic work in early years. Sometimes his work was admirable, sometimes bad, but it was always simple and it was always ambitious. The technique of art is so far from being immoral that a moral transition can be quite easily deduced from it; moral changes can be seen physically in chalk and oil. And one great fact is this: that all the great men younger than Watts sought to work in a style and scheme that was of its nature transient. They wished to decorate a room with peacocks, for rooms are tired of and taken down, or to fill a paper with epigrams, for epigrams are repeated nine hundred and ninety times and then forgotten, or to effect exquisite sketches on brown paper, for these owe their very charm to the fact that they can be thrown away like brown paper. But Watts had the old dream of building in eternal brass; he loved designing public frescoes, public statues, public mosaics. There is a mosaic of his in the Whitechapel Road, a fresco in the House of Lords, a picture in St Paul’s Cathedral. One cannot move St Paul’s Cathedral as one moves the Peacock Room. One cannot throw away the Whitechapel Road as one throws away brown paper. I am not saying that this monumental solidity proves that the art is great. But I say that it proves that the artist is confident.
Another quality very characteristic of the atmosphere to which Watts belonged is the quality of his moral indignation. He always had the temper of the meliorist, whilst he had at the same time much of the temper of the old Rousseauist optimist. He was really angry with the evils of the modern world. .. . In all his moral and religious allegories, especially when they touch upon the diabolic side of things, there is apparent this sudden and sacred impatience. Under the picture of ‘Mammon’, under the picture of ‘The Minotaur’, under the picture of anything evil in his gallery, seems printed in letters of fire ‘Shall this be endured for another moment?’ And it was this innocent and startled wrath which was the note of the whole of Watts’ age, the age of the Reform Bill. It was because the old political idealists had something of the child’s ignorance and horror of evil that they swept away so many abuses. Compare with some picture by Watts, which is full of a young and wide-eyed anger, some ultra-modern picture of an evil thing, some work of the new pessimistic atmosphere. Take, for instance, Degas’ brilliant picture called ‘Absinthe’, which depicts two wrecks of humanity soaking themselves in the maddening wormwood. The picture is steeped in devilish resignation. We feel as we look at it that these two human creatures have drunk absinthe from the beginning of the world and will go on drinking it while the grass grows and until the stars fall into ruin. Here there is no astonishment, therefore there is no indignation. There is a thing that may truly be called religious resignation. But there is a deeper and stiller and more terrible thing and its name is irreligious resignation. Because of Watts’ intensely religious nature the painting of such a picture as this would be absolutely impossible to him. If he had conceived and painted ‘Absinthe’, there would have been something fierce and insistent about the picture. Something fiendish and strained in the faces would have declared that the situation was unnatural. Something bitter and burning in the green colour of that shameful wine would have shown like the green eyes of a witch’s cat. However dark and repulsive and merciless the picture might be, there would be something in it that suggested that it was dark against some white and blazing background, a background of the astonishment of the angels and the dreadful wonder of God.
The Speaker, July 9th, 1904
POETRY AND BELIEFS
You never work so well for art’s sake as when you are working for the sake of something else. The greatest of the decadent art-philosophers, in that admirable essay ‘The Decay of Lying’, described how art could take its disciple through the fires of Dante’s perdition and the lilies of Dante’s beatitude. But he forgot one point. He forgot that Dante wrote that prodigious thing, not, of course, believing that its story was literally true, but believing that its philosophy was absolutely true and that all counter-philosophies were the lies of devils. Out of the furnace of that certainty came those tremendous things. And, to this day, all our clever irreligious poetry is only the echo of them. Blasphemy itself could not survive religion; if anyone doubts that, let him try to blaspheme Odin. The school which held that literature could be great, independent of convictions, has been free and running about for some thirty years in England and forty in France. Heaven knows its poets have not been hampered by convictions. Has it produced any grander paganisms than that of the man in the tomb of fire? Has it produced any loftier defiance of Omnipotence than that which Milton the Puritan imagined and wrote down? Where are the fruits of its freedom? They are little indeed beside the fruit of that immemorial and sublime bondage.
Daily News, June 25th, 1904
TWO GREAT TORIES
Two very great men have only recently passed from us, to all appearances very different—the one a butterfly with a sting, the other a buffalo with a touch of attractive weakness. But Henley and Whistler were, I believe, up to the last friends; and it is good that they should have been friends, for of all men on earth the most pathetic are those who, like them, have a noble talent for finding friends and a noble talent for losing them. Moreover, they stood together on yet greater things. They were both representatives of that great intellectual and artistic reaction which followed the exhaustion of the Liberalism of the French Revolution; they were both what an able writer some days ago called ‘strong Illiberals’. They were both Tories; that is, pessimists. Nothing strikes one so much about the attitude of both as the fact that a superb melancholy made it necessary for both to take refuge in something, in something outside current life. Henley took refuge among criminals and Whistler (less happy) among artists; but they were both brave and sad men. Henley as a poet was great only when he uttered the very rhapsody of stoicism. Whistler’s whole life was a nocturne; it was like one of his own pictures in which the darkness is lit only with one red or lemon gleam, the Chinese lanterns of art.
Whistler and Henley, amid all their differences, had this essential point in common—that they were both provocative, that they both took a pleasure in putting their views in an extreme form. This is commonly regarded in our country as a mark of frivolity, but it is in truth a mark of faith to joke about one’s convictions, to exaggerate them as a proof of their solidity and security; for nobody exaggerates unless he is feeling satisfied and safe. A man dances on a rock, not on a tightrope. The English, however, along with their admirable virtues, have one very impracticable delusion. They tend to think that an extreme course must be unreasonable and that a middle course must be reasonable. This, of course, depends entirely on the nature of the proposal or proposition involved. There are some proposals and propositions in which a middle course is a great deal more insane than either extreme; but even in these we tend as a nation to adopt the moonstruck compromise. … But there have been from time to time men among us who have felt that this worship of compromise as compromise was not sensible in the least. They have felt that a position was not necessarily unreasonable because it was consistent and clear. They have felt that a position was not necessarily reasonable merely because it was neither fish, flesh nor herring. They held that if a sane man had views at all, it was part of his sanity to see the views fully and see far into them. In short, they regarded the thing called ‘moderation’ as one of the cloudiest manias of the asylum. Of these men were Henley and Whistler.
Their main thesis was, of course, that of making art immoral or occasionally (in the case of the more exuberant Henley) anti-moral. As a revolt against a certain form of moral art, common in the Royal Academy, of course they were right enough. A picture of a kindly vicar listening to the violin-playing of a worthy-looking country boy is doubtless evil, but not merely because it is inartistic. It is also evil because it is immoral, because it is full of diabolical snobbishness and cowardice and vulgarity and meanness of spirit. They showed that art was immoral, but only where it happened that morality was immoral.
In truth, the real relation between art and morals is very perfectly exemplified in the case of Whistler and Henley themselves. The real relation between art and morals is merely this, that as both exist in an intelligible world, they exhibit something of the same general laws and phenomena. This is quite a different thing from the defence of the ‘anecdotal’ picture, which Whistler rightly ridiculed; to say that a picture is a good picture because it exhibits a man giving sixpence to a beggar is quite as absurd as to say that giving the sixpence is wicked if it is done in a red waist coat with a purple tie. But it may easily happen that the violation of the Divine Law of charity may exhibit parallel symptoms on its own plane, to the violation of God’s darker or more mystic canon against red waistcoats.
Let me give an instance. Everyone who has ever amused himself with black and white sketching knows that it is the instinct of the artist to draw much more lightly and softly with a BB pencil than with an HB. But perhaps everyone has not observed the abyss of ethical significance in this fact, the vast effect of it on multitudinous commandments and by-laws, its effect on the Position of Women, on Christian Social Theory, on the late war in South Africa, on the conception of a gentleman and on the politics of Mr Henley. Many a careless young fellow, it may be, has retouched a sketch with a BB without thinking of all this or at least without thinking of it intensely and with tears. A man draws delicately with a strong pencil because the sense of power makes him easy and tactful and gives a pleasure to the thought of gaining great things at a touch, in other words, the idea that the strong are gentle, the idea which in morals is the basis of chivalry and charity, is not a mere sentimental patchwork; it is an actual organic principle of existence, discoverable in dead materials, traceable in a lead pencil and a scrap of paper. The merciful man is not only merciful to his beast, but merciful to his sketching-block, and in both cases because he feels his power. And this truth applies with almost startling accuracy to the two very men we were considering. For this element of a powerful mildness was the one thing lacking in Henley’s ethics. And it was the one thing splendidly present in Whistler’s art. The great painter’s line was never so faint and filmy as when he worked in charcoal or black chalk or such rich and dark substances, capable, if necessary, of painting the hollows of Hell. His touch on the paper was a kind of terrible caress. He seemed at times to have brushed it only with a feather, but the feather was in the wing of an archangel who could have laid the world waste with the whirlwind of his wings. Through the whole runs the great law of force and gentleness which is the same in ethics. Whistler the painter gives what the healthy moralist gives—hints.
Impressionism is but Christianity [applied] to a canvas. And this Christianity was, as I say, the one thing absent in Henley. He had force, but never reserve force; energy but not ease. He wrote with an iron pen, but he never seemed sure that there was enough ink in it. Sometimes it ended, as such exasperating inkless pens end, with a savage scratch. And so the two great men went on saying triumphantly to each other and to the world that art was immoral, that ethics had no place in it, that the true picture was only an arrangement or a symphony. And all the time the very arrangements and symphonies of Whistler were sharp moral criticisms of Henley. Every sketch and scrawl was a personal parable and the great critic might have found in a few grey strokes on white paper the secret of his own unhappy life.
The truth is surely that both schools, the school of the violent ethics of Henley and the school of the touch-and-go art of Whistler, were divided, vastly to their own detriment, by the chaos of the Tory revival. We live in the Tory revival. That is to say, we live in a world in which artists care for nothing but art, and ethicalists for nothing but ethics. The worst of all conceivable curses has fallen upon art, it has become solely artistic; the saddest of all damnations has fallen upon morality, it has become purely moral. There was a time when art and morals together were part of a great general view of life called philosophy or religion. The last appearance of that universal theory was the French Revolution, which defined the rights of man; the last appearance before that was the Christian morality which defined his obligations. But the supreme value of all religion has been this, and it is a value which a man can quite easily feel, even if he cannot admit any religious assumptions. The historic advantage of religion was that it made every part of a man’s life, art and ethics and the rest, dependent upon a general view of life itself.
We awake at our birth staring at a very funny place. After serious examination of it we receive two fairly definite impressions; the first, delight and the second, fear. The first leads us to dance and kick about in the sunlight; the second leads us not to do it too much for fear we should get sunstroke. The first leads us, that is to say, to institute festivals and so create art. The second leads us to institute rules and so create morality. One tells us that the praise of the Lord is the beginning of art; the other, that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. And in the days of religion, in the days of the Catholic democracy or the Puritan democracy, these two things, however exaggerated in one direction or another, were still parts of a whole. The old rules of moral observance might run to fanaticism or a fantastic scrupulosity; but still they were the laws of God— that is, a part of the All; the old forms and festivals might run to the wildest pageantry and excess, but still they were the praise of God—that is, a part of the All. But in that great breakdown of belief which is the beginning of the new Toryism, they have, for a sign, been totally separated. Law has become cruel in Henley and art supercilious in Whistler— both because they have been separated from the rest of life. Men have become idolatrous towards these things and treated art and morality respectively as gods. For assuredly they are children of God and when God has been eliminated, they may be called, for want of anything better, his heirs. As they look to us today with their melancholy eyes, they may be heirs; they are certainly orphans.
Daily News, August 1st, 1903
THE FALLACY OF FREEDOM
Anarchism, appeals to absolute liberty, renunciation of limitations as such—all this is incurably futile and childish, because it will not face a fundamental logical fact. This fact is that there is no such thing as a condition of complete emancipation, unless we can speak of a condition of nonentity. What we call emancipation is always and of necessity simply the free choice of the soul between one set of limitations and another. If I have a piece of chalk in my hand, I can make either a circle or a square; that is the sacred thing called liberty. But I cannot make a thing that is both a circle and a square. I cannot make an unlimited square. I cannot draw an emancipated circle. If I wish to make anything at all, I must abide by the limitations and principles of the thing I make. … And any man who makes anything whatever, if it be with a piece of chalk, is doing exactly what a man does when he marries or enlists in an army. He is courageously selling himself into a splendid slavery. And, of course, in moral matters it is the same; there is no lawlessness, there is only a free choice between limitations.
Daily News, December 21st, 1905
LIBERTY
One of the truisms which I was taught from infancy and have only learned in extreme old age is this; that the life of a commonwealth is its liberty. This very word liberty is old-fashioned. You have hardly heard it seriously mentioned as an ideal since the days of Byron and Miss Jane Porter. Now the reason why people in that time talked about liberty was quite simple; it was that they had some. They had tasted, they had even drunk, the dreadful wine. …
I am more and more convinced that we have to ask again the old question, ‘Is this a free country?’ It is still a very rich country; it will always, I think, be a great country; it is everywhere a humorous and in some patches a happy country; and anyhow, it is my country and that is enough for me. But it is not a free country. For some time past it has been losing, first slowly but now rapidly, the last vestiges of that particular thing called freedom.
Loyalty is the heart of the commonwealth; but liberty is its lungs. You find out the necessity of liberty as you find out the necessity of air—by not having enough of it and gasping.
Daily News, March 18th, 1911
THE SERVILE STATE
When you break the big laws, you do not get liberty; you do not even get anarchy. You get the small laws.
Daily News, July 29th, 1905
THE SIN OF PROHIBITION
Today a criticism of Prohibition cannot be an attack; it can only be an autopsy. … Prohibition has fallen down dead of its own crawling corruption; of the foul humours that infected its own body; and not by any adequate attack from without. It was, if ever there was one, a thing that failed because it had been tried; that found its doom because it had its chance; that was a practical failure because it was a practical fact; that was ruined, not by being frustrated but by being fulfilled; and came to its unnatural end because it had run its natural course. Prohibition died because it was deserted by Prohibitionists; even more than because it was always derided by sensible men and by men with a sense of history and civilization. It is true that there are still various legal entanglements, twisted and re-twisted by the unthinkable fanatics at the feverish moment of their power; but hardly anybody pretends that Prohibition is morally tenable or tolerable today, and indeed it is only a question of whether it is a repealed law or a dead letter. And as the autopsy may well be more elaborate and complete than the attack, I should like to point out especially that the poison that is present in the remains, the poison of which the victim undoubtedly died, is in fact a poison of a certain spiritual sort which is the worst enemy of life.
That poison is sin. And Prohibition perished because the spirit within it is sinful and has the quality of all the sins that destroy the soul. We pay the Prohibitionists far too high a compliment when we call them over-righteous or self-righteous or even Pharisaical. The evil was not really in any exaggeration of ethical seriousness; in the sense, for instance, in which the old Puritan might really be rather unbalanced in his horror at harlotry and the brazen profession of prostitution; or a sensitive person might go a little mad from the mere shock of encountering some madness of moral perversion. The evil of the thing lay much deeper, because it was not a narrowing of the moral sense; it was a violent dislocation and uprooting of the moral sense. The common conscience of sane people is a thing which I and others continue to call the voice of God; but anyhow it is the voice of Man. It is the healthy response of the universal human mind to certain ideas and it does not really differ very widely in its deliberate and conscious decisions; though of course it is modified by particular perils, particular duties of the moment, and the rest. Now if you take a normal person, a nice child, a reasonably trained man, a human being not falling short of the fulness of human nature, you will find that such a person knows that certain decisions are unjust, certain actions cruel, certain risks ordinary, certain matters a man’s own business, and so on. Only by perverting his conscience, only by making his mind crooked, can you induce him to believe that drinking beer is some thing like assassination or betrayal. And by the time that you have succeeded, you have ruined his moral sense. It is no longer a spontaneous spiritual thing; it is no longer a natural thing that can smell evil; it is only capable of repeating a dead, distorted lesson like something imposed by a mesmerist. That mesmerist is not a moralist. He is, in the most emphatic sense, an immoralist. He corrupts the conscience of the young.
Far too little attention has been paid to this point of very practical psychology. You wreck the tribunal of truth when you bribe or bully it into pronouncing the innocent guilty, just as you do when you similarly induce it to pronounce the guilty innocent. As it is with an innocent man, so it is with an innocent practice. You have to destroy all innocence to make anyone detest an innocent practice. By the time that you have persuaded a nice and normal child that it is wicked to fetch his poor old father a glass of ale, you have so bewildered the mind that it may end by saying it is not wicked to put prussic acid in the ale. The logical, mathematical, intellectually inevitable effect of doing this is a general loosening of all morality. It is also the actual effect; and there is the actual state of modern America to prove it. Begin with a heresy in morals, whether it be a negative or a permission, and it will end in the worst and wildest licence that could follow on the loosest permission. And if anyone doubts this psychological fact, which is also a theological truth, then let him explain the howling nightmare and hell of nonsense and anarchy that has actually followed in the track of the Prohibition Law.
True Temperance Quarterly, May, 1933
AUTOMATIC EVIL
A sophistry may affect the mind, but an obscenity must affect the mind; it is a violence. It may do one of two things equally direct and instinctive; it may shock purity or it may inflame impurity. But in both cases the process is brutal and irrational. A picture or a sentence which shocks sensibility or sharpens sensuality does not offer itself for discussion. It is no more open to argument than a squeaking slate pencil is open to argument, or the choking smell of ether is open to argument. The human victim is drugged—or he is sick.
Therefore (without carrying the parallel, of course, to any lengths of literalism), I think we may speak of indecorum as an assault. In the matter of violations of traditional public decency (however plausibly defended) I am entirely with the Puritans. The ordinary argument that sex can be treated calmly and freely like anything else is the most loathsome cant in this canting epoch. The parallels from other crimes are insolently fallacious. A man reading about a burglary is not any more likely to commit a burglary. A man who has seen a pocket picked is not in the least likely to become a pickpocket. But there is one evil which, by its hold on the imagination (the creative and reproductive part of man), can reproduce itself even by report. We have a right to protect ourselves and especially our top-heavy and groping children against startling and uncivilized appeals to this instinct. Heretics have a legal claim to persuade human souls to err and sin like human souls; they have no business to make them jump like monkeys on a stick. I have no more right to give an unwilling citizen a sexual shock than to give him an electric shock. I have no more right to come behind him and inflame his passions than to come behind him and inflame his coattails. …
The appeal to animal appetite may succeed by its very familiarity. Indecency is not wild and lawless. The danger of indecency is exactly that it is tame, dull, direct, inevitable; a mere law in the members. It is automatic evil. Pride makes a man a devil; but lust makes him a machine.
Daily News, February 19th, 1910
THE TYRANNICAL SCEPTIC
It is a total error to suppose that the possession of convictions— of hard, strong, unquenchable convictions—makes a man bigoted. It is quite the other way. The most bigoted people in the world are the people who have not got any convictions at all. It may seem an extreme or fanciful statement, but it is really true that there are no subjects in the world on which men are so noisy, so aggressive, so violent and angry even unto slaying, as the subjects about which they do not care. … Men have said that the ground of bigotry is ignorance, but more is true than that: the ground of bigotry is indifference. There is one figure who has dominated history and been the oppressor of all religions, good and bad; all philosophies, true and false. He is the tyrannical sceptic—and his name is Pilate.
Black and White, March 7th, 1903
THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME
The earnest Freethinkers need not worry themselves so much about the persecutions of the past. Before the Liberal idea is dead or triumphant, we shall see wars and persecutions the like of which the world has never seen. They need not reserve their tears for the victims of Bonner or Claverhouse. They may weep for themselves and for their children.
Daily News, February 18th, 1905
SKY SIGNS
The next great heresy is going to be simply an attack on morality; and especially on sexual morality. And it is coming, not from a few Socialists surviving from the Fabian Society, but from the living exultant energy of the rich resolved to enjoy themselves at last, with neither Popery nor Puritanism nor Socialism to hold them back. … The roots of the new heresy, God knows, are as deep as nature itself, whose flower is the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eye and the pride of life. I say that the man who cannot see this cannot see the signs of the times; cannot see even the sky-signs in the street that are the new sort of signs in heaven. The madness of tomorrow is not in Moscow but Manhattan— but most of what was in Broadway is already in Piccadilly.
G. K.’s Weekly, June 19th, 1926
THE MONSTROSITY
When a dead body is rotting, it does not diminish; it swells. Ignorance of this elementary truth is at the back of nearly all our political blindness. When we speak of a decaying people or a dying institution, we always have somehow the notion of their dwindling; of sparser and sparser tribes gathering on their mountains, of meaner and meaner buildings arising in their skies. But it is not so that social bodies really rot. They rot like physical bodies, being horribly distended from within by revolting gases demanding egress. Institutions, like corpses, grow larger and larger as they grow more and more shapeless. A dying monarchy is always one that has too much power, not too little; a dying religion always interferes more than it ought, not less. Our own country is really in this state of swollen decay, and the test of it is this: that every function of the State has grown more formless and more vast. Every power, public and private, has been stretched long past all sane definition and we live under a government of entangled exaggerations. It is a government that has all the practical effects of anarchy. Indeed, it is something worse than chaos; a warring polytheism. It is a conflict of incalculable autocracies, under any of which at the moment we may fall.
Daily News, March 11th, 1911
POLITICS AND DISCONTENT
Europe at present exhibits a concentration upon politics which is partly the unfortunate result of our loss of religion, partly the just and needful result of our social inequality and iniquity. These causes, however, will not remain in operation for ever. Religion is returning from her exile; it is more likely that the future will be crazily and corruptly superstitious, than that it will be merely rationalist. … On the other hand, our attempts to right the extreme imbalance of wealth must soon have some issue; something will be done to lessen the perpetual torture of incompetent compassion; some scheme will be substituted for our malevolent anarchy, if it be only one of benevolent servitude. And as these two special unrests about the universe and the State settle down into more silent and enduring systems, there will emerge more and more those primary and archaic truths which the dust of these two conflicts has veiled. The secondary questions relatively solved, we shall find ourselves all the more in the presence of the primary questions of man.
For at present we all, tend to one mistake; we tend to make politics too important. We tend to forget how huge a part of a man’s life is the same under a Sultan and a Senate, under Nero or St Louis. Daybreak is a never-ending glory, getting out of bed is a never-ending nuisance; food and friends will be welcomed: work and strangers must be accepted and endured: birds will go bedwards and children won’t, to the end of the last evening. And the worst danger is that in our modern revolt against intolerable accidents we may have unsettled those things that alone make daily life tolerable. … There is danger that the social reformer may silently and occultly develop some of the madness of the millionaire whom he denounces. He may find that he has learnt how to build playgrounds, but forgotten how to play. He may agitate for peace and quiet, but only propagate his own mental agitation. In his long fight to get a slave a half-holiday he may an deny those ancient and natural things, the zest of being, the divinity of man, the sacredness of simple things, the health and humour of the earth, which alone make a half-holiday even half a holiday or a slave even half a man.
There is danger in that modern phrase ‘divine discontent’. There is truth in it also, of course; but it is only truth of a special and secondary kind. Much of the quarrel between Christianity and the world has been due to this fact; that there are generally two truths, as it were, at any given moment, the ingenious, paradoxical truth suitable to some moment of revolt or reaction, and the ancient underlying truism which is nevertheless true all the time. It is sometimes worth while to point out that black is not so black as it is painted; but black is still black, and not white. So with the merits of content and discontent. It is true that in certain acute and painful crises of oppression or disgrace, discontent is a duty, and shame should call us like a trumpet. But it is not true that man should look at life with an eye of discontent, however high-minded. It is not true that in his primary, naked relation to the world, in his relation to sex, to pain, to comradeship, to the grave or to the weather, man ought to make discontent his ideal; it is black lunacy. Half his poor little hopes of happiness hang on his thinking a small house pretty, a plain wife charming, a lame foot not unbearable, and bad cards not so bad. The voice of the special rebels and prophets, recommending discontent, should, as I have said, sound now and then suddenly, like a trumpet. But the voices of the saints and sages, recommending contentment, should sound unceasingly, like the sea.
T. P.’s Weekly, Christmas Number, 1910
AGAINST DIVINE DISCONTENT
I remember hearing a good deal about divine discontent from my early youth; indeed, rather specially in my early youth. For I was born towards the end of the Victorian age, which many writers, strangely enough, imagine to have been a time of conservative placidity and of people content with their stations in life. As a fact, it was exactly the opposite. It was the period during which two modern ideas came into the world and fought; a true idea that we must raise the economic as well as the political status of the poor; and a fake idea that every man must raise his own economic status, even if he kills everybody else and ultimately himself as well. To both of these different things the more earnest Victorians gave the name of ‘divine discontent’. But the mistake of the earnest Victorians was that they tried to make a new morality without having studied any really good philosophy. The thing became rhetoric and sentiment, a thing of words; and they got even the words mixed, as in this case.
For the truth is that the one thoroughly bad sort of discontent is divine discontent. We can all sympathize with human discontent. For human discontent means discontent with inhuman conditions. But divine discontent must really mean discontent with divine conditions. And curiously enough, that is exactly what it did mean in the older and wiser theologies and philosophies, where it was rightly branded as the source of all our woe. I am astonished that this simple truth has not been more simply seen. Thus, Mr Bernard Shaw once wrote a little book on the Bible; full of rather crude criticisms, I think, about the Fall and the Flood and the fear of the devil and all the rest. He judges them, of course, in the light of his familiar evolutionary fancy, that the Creator progresses as well as the Creation; indeed, it looks as if the Creation really creates the Creator. I have noted that the moderns lack philosophy. But I do dislike seeing a very clever man so clumsily missing the point; and in the matter of the Bible, the Fall and the Devil and so on, he does entirely miss the point. He tries to apply to such things the general sentiment of revolt which he feels as a Socialist and which any man may quite reasonably feel as a social reformer. But revolt or righteous indignation of that sort is always a discontent with bad conditions. The whole point of the spiritual revolt, dealt with in the Bible, is that it is always a revolt against good conditions.
I am not now bothering about Mr Shaw’s belief in the Bible. But I repeat that there is such a thing as seeing the point; and this is the point of the old moralities about the rebel angels or the rebellion of Adam. The point of the story of Satan is not that he revolted against being in hell, but that he revolted against being in heaven. The point about Adam is not that he was discontented with the conditions of the earth, but that he was discontented with the conditions of the earthly paradise. That is a totally different idea (and I will add a much deeper idea) than the obvious reasonableness of revolt against gross tyranny. And until it is understood once more, people will go on being discontented even with contentment. The rich will be even more discontented than the poor. They will explain that theirs is a divine discontent; and divine discontent is the very devil. You will observe that I use the term in a serious theological sense.
New York American, December 15th, 1932
RELIGION AND REVOLUTION
It has always seemed to me that the problem of religion arises most vividly after the problem of politics or economics has been solved. When we have satisfied men about the problem of their living, we shall then be instantly challenged to satisfy them about the problem of their life. Indeed, their depression will not be finally dealt with till we also satisfy them about the problem of their death. Getting rid of the fear of starvation is not getting rid of the fear of death. And how far men feel themselves under the shadow of death, how near death seems to them in the span of their brief life, depends on all sorts of other matters connected with mood or creed or individual condition; but cannot possibly depend on the mere fact of their economic safety. Monks have a small and secure economic support, and feel one way about death; maniacs in asylums have a small and secure economic support, and feel quite another way about it. But those who fear death most and feel most the mutability of things and find their pleasures most poisoned by pessimism are often the most wealthy and luxurious people in the world. They quite frequently fear death, but they not infrequently hate life; and jump off liners or blow out their brains with revolvers. All this realm of reality is not concerned with prosperity, but with happiness. And when an economic revolution, whether reasonable or unreasonable, has given them prosperity, we have still to consider how to give them happiness. …
I have always done my best to claim for men this purely economic justice, though I would rather they had it with liberty in the Distributist way than with slavery in the Bolshevist way. But I never thought that filling their stomachs would stop all the movements of their minds. And their minds still have to deal with two very terrible enemies of man, the one classed as a mere mood and the other as a cosmic conclusion; their names are Boredom and Despair.
New York American, April 1st, 1933
THE EVIL DAY
I think the time has come when I should say something in favour of Imperialism and Socialism, and it also happens by a delightful coincidence that I have actually thought of something favourable to say.
Anyone who wishes to do justice either to Imperialism or to Socialism should sharply remember the epoch in which they arose, I mean, of course, arose in this country, and recently. They are both as old as human error. Sparta was Socialistic and Babylon was Imperialist … Now the great thing to be said for these two great exaggerations or heresies (and every heresy is a truth taught out of proportion) is that they were both rebellions against the age in which I was born. The society against which they raised their voices was a very intellectual and artistic society. I have felt its atmosphere and I truly think that if they had been silent, the very stones would have cried out.
This dark period began vaguely about 1870; that end of the great Liberal epoch, the year when Paris fell and when Dickens died. It spreads equally vaguely up to the retirement of Gladstone and the abandonment of Home Rule, the last Liberal crusade that was unmistakably Liberal and unmistakably dangerous. All that period was filled with emptiness. Oscar Wilde was justly its greatest man; because he alone could really do levity on a large scale. Its products include many men whom I count as my best friends— myself among others. But I can hardly think of one of them who would not have been both better and happier if he had been born in any other period from the Stone Age to the Reign of Terror. For almost all other ages have set one enthusiasm against another; but of this brief and black age only can it be said that it sneered at enthusiasm simply for being enthusiastic. All men had dreaded the lightning because it was destruction; but these disdained the lightning because it was the light.
It is idle presumably to speculate as to the causes of this queer interregnum and vacuum. The truth, I fancy, is this: that religion and politics (man’s chief concerns, almost his only concerns) alternate in history, but are seldom absent simultaneously. A rude society may be rich in saints; or a time of frigid infidelity, such as the eighteenth century, may be heroic in politics. But at the particular point I speak of, both these waves were spent. … The impression was that heavy hands had shut the doors of man’s two great outlets—liberty and faith; the one was blocked by Bismarck with his blood and iron, and the other by Darwin with his blood and bones. The appearance of 1870 was that political materialism had broken political idealism for ever. And the appearance of ‘The Descent of Man’ was that it was really a descent of man—that man been kicked off his pedestal on to the floor.
Whether for this cause or some other, the years of which I speak were years of yawning; they were like the hours of an afternoon ‘At Home’ in a rich house on a rainy day when nobody comes to call. Their poems and pictures showed a real genius in tracing the leaden tints and echoing the tuneless tones of an afternoon like that. One hardly heard anything but pessimism—except Art, which is worse. Now whenever I wish to feel tender towards Imperialists or Socialists, I always remember that at least their Union Jacks and their red ties interrupted the twilight of that infernal afternoon. … Rudyard Kipling did show that romance could be found in coarse and laborious affairs. And the Socialists have at least done one excellent thing; they have brought back creeds into politics. … For a creed is the sword of the spirit; the only tool with which the mind can fight.
That empty time is now so utterly forgotten that many even who lived in it will hardly know of what I speak. Of its weary wits and philosophic dandies hardly one remains. Some are dead; some have gone into exile; some have gone to pieces. Two I know who were of real genius, a genius which survived that season of ashes and went on burning into our own time. … One of them was a small vivid man, one of the black Scotch, with dark burning eyes and a high colour. He had been the most piercing lyrist of the old minor poets, but of late he had taken up newer notions, going in with Mr Shaw for enormous images of the Superman or the last giants of evolution. His talk was all of expanding life and unceasing activity. The other was a quieter and much cleverer man; one of the most perfectly clever men ever born. He was tall, slow, saturnine, an omnivorous observer, a very fastidious judge. His work was almost wholly in a world of cool and almost heartless comedy. He had a slight smile always on his face. He also had dropped the mere pessimism of the dark age and was doing hopeful and constructive work in the creation of a new and more solid English drama.
These are the only two men who have come triumphant out of that strange old atmosphere. Each of them during the last few months has died by his own hand.
Daily News, June 26th, 1909
[The two men were John Davidson, the poet, and St John Hankin, the dramatist.]
WHAT WAS RATIONALISM?
What Rationalism really was and (in some corners) still is, is substantially this: It was a premature synthesis. It was not the opening of the house of reason, but the impatient closing of it. It did not open the human head like a new hotel. It shut the human head like a packed bag. I call it the Victorian Compromise because it put in the bag as many of the old relics and reverences as it could. I call it the Victorian Rationalism because it was guided in its selection by a very clear but very crude theory. In other words, it planned out the packing scientifically, but it never asked whether the bag was big enough. And the result on which I want specially to insist was this; that this false finality of the reason has left behind it a prolonged and increasing torture to the instincts. That is what I mean when I say that Dickens rebelled against it ignorantly and by the light of nature. That is why the war against it was a war of poets, sometimes as irrational as a war of criminals. Ever since Rationalism became the rule, the mysterious thing called human nature has scratched like a cat in a cupboard. … The Rationalist was pursued by enemies, blind but strong; the most terrible enemies a man has—the things he has forgotten.
New Witness, March 20th, 1913
FROM DICKENS TO GISSING
The tribute paid by George Gissing to Charles Dickens was one of that great tribune and poet of the people, because it was a message from the antipodes. It was a compliment to Dickens, not from a Dickensian, but rather from one who might well be expected to be an Anti-Dickensian. Gissing was a realist whose realism is not even enlivened by a controversy about coarseness. The suburban world he describes seems a hundred times more common by not being vulgar. He is also one of those in whom the depression at the end of the nineteenth century had not even the energy to turn into a dance of death, but only into a life too dull for dancing. His carnation turned grey and not green. But he was a man of clear and acute mind, of solid and splendid intellectual honesty; and in spite of his realism, he was in touch with reality. He did see things as they are and therefore saw Dickens as. he is; a great wind and a flame and a spirit creating like a god.
The change from Dickens to Gissing is among other things an economic or at least a sociological change. It marks the difference between the men who built the industrial town and the men who were born in it. Or to put it another way, it is the contrast between the jovial swagger with which the young man from the country came to London and the gloom that settled upon him when he really discovered that he could never get back to the country. It is generally supposed, for instance, that the clerks and comic servants in Dickens are mere flights of his own poetic fancy. But it is not altogether so. In this and other things there is a great deal of exaggeration about his exaggeration. There was a type to be exaggerated, and nowadays it is not exaggerated because it is not there. It was the sort of Cockney who was not only exuberant but solemnly and rhetorically exuberant; relishing romantic poetry and rolling words. My father told me of an aged clerk in an ancient eating-house who regularly every day said to the waiter in a deep booming voice, ‘Tell Mrs Bayfield that the steak was excellent, the potatoes done to a turn, in short, a dinner fit for an epicure’. That is the voice of Micawber and Swiveller and many characters of Dickens; even of Fred Bayham and many characters of Thackeray. And who will ever forget the schoolmaster who said to every lady he danced with, ‘Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne’er could injure you’? It is the great gusto; it is life enjoyed like the steak of Mrs Bayfield; existence as something much too joyful to be taken frivolously; enjoyment as something to be prolonged with a prodigious gravity; in short, a dinner fit for an epicure. After a hundred modem criticisms there remains in the poetry of Byron and Tom Moore, which these men quoted, a richness that has never been recovered or imitated. Many moderns have learnt from Yeats that our souls are love and a continual farewell; but not many can say farewell to Miss Wackles with the great and virile gesture: ‘My boat is on the shore and my barque is on the sea.’ Men naturally made game of the Byronic youth; but remember that he enjoyed woe more than the modems enjoy enjoyment.
Now by the time of Gissing we are beginning to get into the world of Wells. The small stumpy heroes of Wells are still courageous, but the courage is almost the courage of despair. It seems as if they were stumpy through being stunted by a bludgeoning from above. And indeed they have felt the full weight of the club of the giant called Capitalism. They can still joke; but when they joke, they jeer and even sneer. I know there is plenty to sneer at; and that the little man’s bitter tongue is the only sword we have left him. But certainly he does sneer, not to say snarl. And Sam Weller never snarled; he never even sneered. It was all unlike his great and gracious ways; it was quite beneath his dignity. But then Sam Weller felt free; he had run loose and been a waggoner’s boy and many things, and travelled from inn to inn and job to job; he had never felt the weight of the modern terror, pinning a man to one place which it is ruin to lose. For in that old England there was indeed no equality, but there was liberty; an instinct in poor and rich alike for letting people wander and take their chance. Hence the string of episodes in the Pickwick Papers and the general feeling that London cannot contain or control the characters. I think there is something of it even in the mere change in illiterate speech that has often been noted as separating us from Sam Weller. In modem Cockney, I am sorry to say there is not only something of a snarl; there is something very like a whine. It has its masterpieces of irony; it is a good speech for satirists, but it is not quite a speech for free men. Now the old Weller dialect is said by some to have been the Kentish dialect, and certainly it is as rich and deep as the gardens of Kent. In that interchange of V’s and W’s there is something of swagger, some thing of waggishness, but something also of leisure and ease.
But in any case the Weller dialect, whether or not it was a county dialect, was in spirit a country speech. It was a speech that had grown luxuriant and even long-winded in long hours of talk in the taverns of the age of toleration, Its very jokes were in a manner ceremonial. The jokes of the later generation consist entirely of what is appropriately called chipping; and they are very small chips of that old block, of that original Yule-log of the Pickwick period. And, as I say, I think there is something of it even in the sound and style of the slang. Those waggish W’s suggest only a slight laxity and, according to the lateness of the hour, perhaps indistinctness in the edges of the spoken word. They have nothing of the snigger or the whine. Sir John Falstaff was a gentleman by birth; but I can almost imagine even Falstaff saying with his thick accent, ‘What, because you are wirchuous shall there be no more cakes and ale?’ But I cannot imagine Falstaff saying, ‘Shall there be no more cikes and ile?’. …
I believe the explanation of the change is that which I have given; the fact that by the later date the traveller no longer stopped at London as an inn, but found himself caught in London as in a trap; a network of communications snaring him like a net. Shades of the prison house began to close in more senses than one; but poor Gissing was really more imprisoned in Fleet Sheet than Pickwick in Fleet Prison. The economic element begins to be exaggerated and literature begins to deal with livelihood rather than life.
But Gissing’s book is a monument of the fact that literature can almost always understand literature, and that the world which a man appreciates is wider than the world he describes. For what the realist critics forgot was that the world exactly reproduced by Gissing will vanish much more completely than the world exaggerated by Dickens. Life as described in Pickwick is much more like life as described in Don Quixote or in the Canterbury Tales or in the Odyssey or even in the Bible, than like in a psychological novel of the suburbs; because it refers to fundamentals, travels and inns and simple jokes. It is like life; it is in that sense like eternal life, for it is still alive.
G. K.’s Weekly, October 17th, 1925
THE CORNER
Modem England cannot live any longer on that old compromise of Queen Victoria, loyalty and liberty, Anglicanism and agnosticism, Lord Tennyson and the party system. It was a generous age; it was a liberal and honourable age; we all owe everything to it. There was something about its innocent assumption of all good things at once, its combination of all the inconsistent virtues, that will always remind us of a home. But it is no house for us any longer. We have gone down a road; and we have turned a corner.
Daily News, May 14th, 1910
CHAOS
Humanity has passed through every sort of storm and shipwreck, but never before was it so doubtful which was the storm and which the shipwreck, and which the ship and which the ship’s crew; and what we are rescuing from what.
New York Herald Tribune Magazine, July 5th, 1931
THE VENGEANCE OF VICTORIA
Nobody has yet appreciated the post-Victorian Age; our histories do not yet record that it has begun; they could hardly be expected to record that it has ended. The young are still flaunting their superiority to Victorianism which died a quarter of a century ago. They do not realize that Victorianism was itself immensely superior to that much more powerful thing that only died yesterday. The thing I mean might be broadly indicated by many names. Perhaps the most popular way of putting it would be to say that the Victorian Age was followed by the American Age. The Age of Public Opinion, which meant only the things the middle classes thought or believed, was followed by the Age of Publicity, which meant the loud assertion of things that nobody believed. The age in which the middle-class man was supposed to be content to be middle class or even rather stodgily proud of being middle class, was followed by a sort of feverish Utopia of unrest in which every middle-class man was idiot enough to suppose he could become a millionaire. The age of port; in which men drank after dinner, was followed by the age of cocktails, in which women had to get drunk in order to face the prospect of dinner. All that has happened since the death of Victoria. It has begun since the death of Victoria. It has died since the death of Victoria. For there will not even be any money for it much longer. But it has died so recently that nobody has given it any epitaph; nobody has even given it a name.
On all that sort of thing poor old Queen Victoria has already been avenged. It is perfectly self-evident that Victorianism, with all its vices, was vastly superior to the thing which so rapidly sprang up in its place and so rapidly withered in its place. For instance, Victorian morality, passing from Puritanism to Positivism, did not understand much of the mystical sort of humility. But it did understand something of the ordinary manly sort of modesty; the decent restraint known to pagans like the Romans or the Chinese. It was followed by a mere lunatic asylum of lying and bragging that was called advertisement and salesmanship; with the final financial result that nothing can be sold and that all the money for advertisement has been wasted. It was the post-Victorians who went in for mere go-getting; and it has gone no where and got nothing. We have all heard of a famous occasion when Queen Victoria was not amused. But I fancy that even she might be amused now.
G. K.’s Weekly, October 15th, 1932
PRIVACY
Privacy is like property in this: that while a few people ought to have less of it, most people ought to have more of it.
New Witness, October 7th, 1921
NORTHCLIFFE
It is perfectly apparent that Alfred Harmsworth never had any ideas at all. He must have had intelligence in the business sense; and something much more valuable in business, that sort of natural heat and hurry which can work too fast to think of why it is working. He was not without his good points; perhaps it would be more exact to say that he was not without his good moments, for he had no conceptions dear enough to perpetuate them at the expense of the bad ones. He did pay his proletariat better than many; he did do good-natured as well as ill-tempered things. Also he had everything against him in the intellectual and moral sense. He was born of respectable middle-class people in the small Protestant professional classes in Dublin. He received in succession all the general political suggestions of his time. He was thrilled by Jameson and Joe Chamberlain; he apparently believed up to the very moment of the Great War that there was a place called Ulster. In other words, he had at the best all the healthy and hazy associations and prejudices which all his ten million readers had as much as he had; and he was by nature ignorant of the very idea of an idea. But while Alfred Harmsworth was exactly like Albert Huggins or any other man travelling in the same train or tube, there came upon him to his destruction two things that were not normal to the rest. He became enormously rich which always cuts a man off from reality. And he dealt, not in his native elements like pork or petrol, but in politics and public opinion. He bought a pulpit from which ideas could have been given, when he had no ideas to give. …
An excellent example of all these things is to be found in the business about Lord Kitchener. … The truth is that Harmsworth never had anything to do with Kitchener at all. He had to do with a sort of legendary bully who was only to be admired for bullying, and then with an equally legendary dug-out to be dismissed because he was not in a hurry to bully. It was a great stunt to declare that a strong man stood ready to save England; a great stunt to declare that England was betrayed. The real story of the shell shortage was something totally different; but that story would never have made a stunt. It is typical of him that as soon as he had left off cheering for the mere name of Kitchener, and then left off booing at the mere name of Kitchener, he began cheering again at the mere name of Lloyd George. No real person ever appeared in his portrait gallery. But dull megalomania of this sort is always vaguely impressed by a stupid swagger in others. Dullness calls unto dullness across the modern world, like deep calling unto deep.
It was perhaps this spirit of illusion, of indirect rather than direct things, that produced in his mind the tragedy of the final divorce from reality. None will deny that such a tragedy should teach us to consider him as a human being; but the sympathy is thwarted by considering him as a hero. It was the fault of his age rather than himself that he lived among shadows, fighting in a shadow pantomime. Publicity consists, not of things, but of their vast shadows thrown upon a wall. And to make them so vast, the light must be held very low down.
G. K.’s Weekly, September 17th, 1927
THE VISION OF VULGARITY, I
Vulgarity is one of the great new modem inventions, like the telephone or the wireless set. It may be plausibly maintained that the telephone is less of an instrument of torture than the thumbscrew or the rack; and in the same way that other ages had other vices that were worse than this new or modern vice. As we may find fanciful sketches of aeroplanes in the sketch-books of Leonardo da Vinci or speculations very near to modern physics in the philosophers of ancient Greece, so we may find here and there in history a hint or foreshadowing of the great and golden vision of Vulgarity that was later to burst on the world. We may find it in the smell of Punic plutocracy that stank in the nostrils of Greeks and Romans, or in a certain touch of bad taste in an aesthete like Nero. Nevertheless, the thing is so new that the new world has not yet really found a name for it, but has had to borrow a rather misleading name which is really the Latin word for something else. So we have to go on using the Greek name of amber as the only name of electricity, because we have no notion what is the real name or nature of electricity. And so we have to go on using the Latin word vulgus, which only means the common people, to describe something that is not particularly common among the common people. Indeed, through long spaces of human history and over wide spaces of the habitable globe, it is very uncommon amongst the common people. Farmers living by long agricultural traditions, peasants in normal villages, even savages in savage tribes, are hardly ever vulgar. Even when they massacre and enslave, even when they offer human sacrifice or eat human flesh, they are hardly ever vulgar. All travellers attest the natural dignity of their carriage and the ceremonial gravity of their customs. Even in the more complex modern cities and civilizations, the poor as such are not particularly vulgar. No; there is a new thing which really needs a new name and still more a new definition. I do not say I can define Vulgarity; but having just been reading a modern book about Love, I feel inclined to throw out a few suggestions.
In so far as I can get near to its essence, it consists largely of two elements, which I should describe as Facility and Familiarity. The first means that a man does, as the phrase goes, ‘gush’; that is, that his self-expression flows without effort, selection or control. It does not come from him like picked or pointed words, passing through an articulate organ; it simply streams from him like perspiration. He need never stop explaining himself, for he understands neither himself nor the limits of explanation. He is the sort of man who understands women; he is the man who can always get on with the boys; he finds it easy to talk, easy to write, easy to speak in public; for his own self-satisfaction carries with it a sort of huge cloud and illusion of applause.
And the second element is Familiarity which, if understood, would be called Profanity. Horace spoke of the ‘profane vulgar’; and it is true that this familiarity is the loss of holy fear and a sin against the mystical side of man. In practice it means handling things confidently and contemptuously, without the sense that all things in their way are sacred things. Its most recent mode is the readiness to write torrents of tosh on either side of any serious subject; for you hardly ever get real vulgarity on a frivolous subject. The point is that the fool is so subjective that it never occurs to him to be afraid of the subject. For instance, he can be a Pagan fool as well as a Puritan fool in the debate on modem morals; but in the first case there will be torrents of tosh about Love and Passion and the Right to Live, and in the other, exactly similar torrents of tosh about Christian Manhood and Healthy Boyhood and Noble Motherhood and the rest. The trouble is that they are so infernally familiar with these things. Never do you find that note in a real lover writing of the woman he loves, or in a real saint writing of the sin he hates. Both say the right thing because they would rather say nothing at all.
New York American, July 22nd, 1933
THE VISION OF VULGARITY, II
I do not know very much about the movement or institution covered by the title of Toc H. But I know the man who inspired it, my old schoolfellow Philip Bayard Clayton; and though some of my other friends have differed from some of its sociology, I am quite sure that in him and his immediate following the movement was generous and genuine. And I can testify that on one occasion of my attending its meetings, the ceremony commemorating those dead in the war was as decent and reticent and virile a thing as I ever knew. It was the only satisfactory modern ceremonial that I ever knew. I liked it all the better because it was not in the loose modern sense religious. It was made up by soldiers among themselves, and it might have been made by noble heathens in the antique world. So far as I remember, it was merely the burning out of a candle and, when it was extinguished, someone saying those lines of Laurence Binyon which are worthy to pass into an impersonal and immortal rite.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
That was all, and that was a good thing to remember.
Now I open the large Sunday paper of the Express group and the first thing that knocks me in the eye is a huge headline about the Toc H ceremony as recently conducted. It is an announcement in gigantic letters ‘D.S.O. Sobs at Ceremony’ and immediately underneath in slightly smaller letters, ‘Prince of Wales Lights the Lamp’. The journalist does print the words of Mr Binyon’s poem; but as he prints them in pros; he is presumably unaware that they are verse. I do not expect him to be aware that they are poetry. He takes his place with that celebrated journalist who wrote, ‘The right hon. gentleman concluded by saying that kind hearts were in his opinion better than coronets and simple faith greatly prefer able to Norman blood’. Only in the older case there was more excuse; for I cannot but think the poetry was more prosaic. Tennyson could be Virgilian like Laurence Binyon; but I should hardly select that passage to prove it.
Now if it be asked what I dislike in the domination of this type of Trust journalism, I answer that I dislike ‘D.S.O. Sobs’ and the man who does not dislike ‘D.S.O. Sobs’ and the domination of the man who is capable of writing ‘D.S.O. Sobs’ and the type of society that is supposed to be impressed favourably with ‘D.S.O. Sobs’ and the whole hideous idea of human pathos which insults you and me with the supposition that ‘D.S.O. Sobs’ could conceivably move us to anything but mirth or murder. And if the journalist does not understand it, all the more do I protest against the power and influence of the man who does not understand it. And if anybody says he does like it, all the more do I weep and wail over the existence of anybody who does like it. If it was untrue, I denounce it; and if it was true, I denounce it more. My tradition makes no treaty with the man who could first spy on a man’s tears then elaborately note his rank, and then clump the two things in colossal letters at the top of the column before he had even told the story; hallooing his remarkable good luck as if he had seen a shark off Margate or the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo. It is because that is the tone of the Trust and all its literature and view of life that I hope to withstand it till I die. Coarseness about coarse things is not vulgar. It is not in itself immoral; it is in various degrees improper or inexpedient according to conditions and occasion and, above all, motive. But anyhow, to talk grossly about a gross topic is not necessarily to be in the least a vulgarian. But to talk grossly about a sensitive and austere topic, to speak loudly about something that remains in high-strung silence like a harp string, to discover what is deliberately invisible and gape at it, to hear what cannot be spoken and bellow it— this is the shame not to be found among rude and simple men. It is nowhere in the popular tales or traditions; it is not found in the old ballads or the Christmas carols; it is a mixture of weak curiosity and strained attention and a stunted mind and an idiot light heartedness, which is altogether peculiar to our civilization. … We alone have had the honour of producing this fine flower of progress. And this flower will overrun our garden like a weed, when that culture has fully come into its own.
G. K.’s Weekly, January 1st, 1927
THE HUMBLEST ANIMAL
It is in the nature of man to find symbols outside himself of the qualities within himself. Thus, for instance, he has divided his virtues among the beasts of the field. He makes the lion represent bravery; yet men are braver than lions. No lions are ever burnt for their opinions. He makes the fox the type of cunning; yet men are more cunning than foxes. No fox has ever thought of getting on a horse’s back to travel faster. He makes the ant a symbol of industry; but he is himself a stronger symbol of industry. He speaks of dog-like fidelity; it would be more emphatic to speak of man-like fidelity. Men are merrier than larks and much more hypocritical than crocodiles. But we men cannot see ourselves as the great things that we are, and perhaps it is our greatness that we cannot. Perhaps this fantastic modesty is the highest of the attributes of man. Perhaps, amid the arrogance of oysters and the self-sufficiency of snails, man is the only humble animal.
Daily News, March 21st, 1906
PUTTING THE CLOCK BACK
In the present and the quite recent past we see a debris of effects of which we do not know the causes. The fire is choked with its own ashes, the fountain is sealed with its own ice; the original purpose of the thing does not pierce through. The only way to deal with it is to go back and ask what the thing in question— a throne or a theory or a vote—was primarily supposed to be. Nine times out of ten the only way of really building the future is to imagine yourself in some much ruder society in the remote past. You may call this reactionary and barbaric if you choose, just as you can call it reactionary and barbaric to take a bath. Taking a bath certainly involves the removal of many civilized externals and an invitation to the nakedness of savages. But it is the only way to get clean.
Illustrated London News, July 8th, 1911
THE NUMBER YOU FIRST THOUGHT OF
They that go about the world asking riddles and doing puzzles (those enemies of the human race) used to have one particular game which, after ramifications of arithmetic, ended with ‘taking away the number you first thought of’. It is a silly game and, like many other silly games, has been played by great empires and on a large scale. That touch of over-civilization which is always the first touch [sic] of a returning barbarism can best be noted when ever we note this game of subtracting the original thought with which everything began. I mean that men will build up institutions and elaborations round the central pillar of some thought. Then, after the passage of centuries, the central pillar falls down, but the rest of the edifice remains. Such an edifice is not always in danger, but it is in decay.
Our forefathers in the morning of the world appear in certain ancient and, as I think, eternal attitudes; in the posture of the performance of certain primal human acts; such as hunting or dancing or feasting or sacrificing to the gods. It is right and natural that these things should grow richer and more complex with time. But it is decadent and dangerous when these things forget their origin and alter their inmost nature; when, after a stretch of centuries, they have turned into something else, sometimes into some thing opposite.
In order to avoid the fascinating topics of drink and religion, let us take the case of hunting. Sport has silently and subtly reversed its old character. The essence of the change is this; that men began with the comparatively generous idea of killing wild beasts and have ended up with the comparatively paltry idea of preserving them. … I do not mean to indicate that I think it wrong to preserve or shoot birds; I do not. I merely use this reversal of the heroic in hunting as an instance of the way in which over-elaborate societies end up with their tails in their mouths; in a posture not merely twisted, but inverted.
Of course, there are other instances. There was the primitive man offering sacrifice to the gods. The sacrificer builds an altar and pours wine or blood or something on it and holds up his hands to the sky and talks to somebody he can’t see. Then, as time goes on, he turns his remarks into an ordered chant and then, perhaps, into a written book; and he has a roof to cover the people who come to see him sacrifice, and a lectern to read the book from, and a sort of forum or pulpit to stand in and explain what he had been doing, and so on. And then, when civilization has grown for some centuries, there comes an Ethical Society—the advance guard of barbarism. You may know it by this extraordinary fact; that it doesn’t take away the additions and excretions round the old human thing; it takes away the old human thing itself. It leaves the reading-desk and the talking-box and the people sitting still on hard seats. But it takes away the altar. It takes away the God. It takes away the number it first thought of.
I might have given many other examples of this turning a thing tail foremost, of this subtraction of the original aim. I have given the case of the hunter who is now chiefly concerned to preserve the very creatures which he set out to destroy. I have given the case of the Ethical Idealist, a really reverent person, who still insists on kneeling even when he has nothing to kneel to. I can only suggest that in this train of thought will really be found a clue in the criticism of the modern world, which is first and last a topsy-turvy world. That is why the few mild and rational people are accused of standing on their heads.
Illustrated London News, February 24th, 1912
THE LIVING PAST
If we want in any shape or sense what is commonly called progress, then we must stick to tradition. If you want practical experiments, alterations and improvements, then you must cling convulsively to the past. Read new books if you want an artistic sensation of novelty, a feeling that you are smelling a fresh flower, but not if you want anything done in legislation or social reform; for tradition is the only thing that ever does anything. Read old books if you want new Blue Books.
Man is an animal with his feet foremost and his face turned back. I defy anyone to mention any plain case of what is ordinarily called progress in human history in which the mind of the progressive people was not specially fixed upon some ideal in the past. Of the Renaissance I need not speak; the very word Renaissance proves the point. But the French Revolution is quite as clear a case; it was founded upon a theory of primitive right and it was perpetually taking for its model the old pagan republics. Rousseau’s theory of the social contract was purely an appeal to our human past; recent thinkers doubtless deny that human past, but most of them are sufficiently logical to deny democracy as well. There has not been actually any progress anywhere without some passionate admiration of the past. … Man is like Perseus; he cannot look at the Gorgon of the future except in the mirror of the past. All those who have tried to look at a fixed future directly have been turned to stone. The human heart has been petrified in them. The old Calvinists, with their predestination and necessity, were turned to stone. The modem scientific sociologists, with their anthropology and their absurd eugenics, are turned to stone. They make amusing statues.
It is utterly useless to talk about enlarging one’s mind with visions of the future. The future does not enlarge one’s mind in the least. The future is a blank wall on which I paint my own portrait as large as I like. … We are attracted to the future because it is what is called a soft job. In front of us lies an unknown or unreal world which we can mould according to every cowardice or triviality in our own temperaments. But if we look back at our fathers, as they gather in the gate of history, we see it like the gate of Eden described by one of them in verse which we cannot imitate:
‘With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms’.
Daily News, December 7th, 1907
THE UNCHANGING VISION
The principle of progress in which all sane men believe is mainly this: that we are engaged and ought to be engaged in a persistent effort to change the external world into the image of something that is within ourselves; to turn what is, as far as we are concerned, a chaos into what shall be, as far as we are concerned, a cosmos. God did not give us a universe, but rather the materials of a universe. The world is not a picture, it is a palette. Most of us who can remember our childhood at all will agree that the best present that can be given to a child on his birthday is in all probability a paint-box. Many fathers know this; the Father of us all knew it well. He gave man a paint-box. He gave him the crude materials of something; the crude materials of everything. That brown earth beneath you is only raw umber, which you are destined to turn into cooked umber. That blue sea which you think spherical and perfect, is only the element and beginning of something beyond the sea. How gratifying it is to reflect that the word ‘ultramarine’ literally means ‘something beyond the sea’! That green grass is only the material out of which you may make elves and foresters and the figure of Robin Hood. That blood-red sunset which you unwisely call perfect is nothing but a lake of crimson (called for the sake of brevity crimson lake) from which you may fish up the flaming images of purple seraphims and scarlet devils. Heaven gave us this splendid chaos of colours and materials. Heaven gave us a few instinctive rules of practice and caution corresponding to ‘do not put the brush in the mouth’. And Heaven gave us a vision.
Now, to make the real world in any way like our vision of it requires an agony of toil, extended over many years and centuries. My own sympathies are all with sudden and decisive change when it can possibly be obtained; but the complete transformation of nature into the vision of a man can only be obtained slowly, if, indeed, it can be obtained at all. Therefore there does come into the realm of ideas the thing called progress. It may be that we shall never reach perfection, but we may continue to approach it. But even if we only approach it, we must believe that it exists, we must believe that I want to go to Brighton or only towards Brighton. If Brighton has no place or meaning at all, how can I even aim at it? It may be that my human strength will be exhausted before I reach Brighton. It may be that the earth will be burnt up in the sun long before I reach Brighton. It may be that inexorable and awful laws of human limitation keep an armed watch round Brighton and that I can never see the shining gates of that city until I become more than man. But certainly it is just as important to know what Brighton is in order to try to get there, as it is in order to get there after all. And the human race (in the main) has always believed that it knew the broad facts about the site and approachability of Brighton.
When I say Brighton, I use a close metaphor for the New Jerusalem. Men have always believed that, however long or however short might be the time required to reach perfection, perfection had certain clear recognizable lines about it. It would involve justice; it would involve mercy; it would involve truth; it would involve courage. Our attempts to reach this might jump about. But Brighton would not jump about. We should now use this colour, now that colour, of our cosmic paint-box to produce the proper effect. But our vision would not alter. We should always have in our minds the picture that we wanted. Thousands of years ago a great poet put the perfect vision of mercy. ‘The lion shall lie down with the lamb.’ It will take us a long time to teach him to do it.
But in our own time another and quite different thing has happened. The vision has been attacked, not the picture. The thing we are aiming at is everywhere challenged. Mercy is denied. Justice is denied. The object of all our sacrifices is being talked of as dubious. Brighton is jumping about. It would take many generations (perhaps) of philosophical lion-tamers to induce the lion to lie down with the lamb. But it clearly cannot be done at all if every other generation of lion-tamers thinks that it is not worth doing.
The whole matter, then, can be put in one statement. So long as there is constancy in ideals, there can be progress towards those ideals. The moment there is change in those ideals, the progress, always difficult, becomes impossible. If there is progress in ideals, there cannot be progress in anything else.
Daily News, September 15th, 1906
THE WHITE HOUSE
All conservatism goes upon the assumption that if you leave a thing alone, you leave a thing as it is. But you do not. If you leave a thing to itself, you are leaving it to wild and violent changes. All nature is change; it is only man (apart from religious ideas) whose name is constancy. For instance, if you want a white house, you must not leave it white. If you leave it white in our atmosphere, it will soon be black. If you want a white house, you must continually be painting it white, beginning all over again and re-creating your ideal. In other words, if you want your old white house, you must have a new white house. You must have a revolution.
The foundation of the true doctrine of progress is that all things tend to get worse. Man must perpetually interfere to resist a natural degeneration; if man does not reform a thing, Nature will deform it. He must always be altering the thing even in order to keep it the same. If a man wants to keep his garden the same, he does not leave it to itself, for left to itself it will become quite different. If he wants it to remain the same, he goes about it with a ferocious speed, uprooting things like a walking revolution. For the man who weeds plays the part of a pitiless and positive up rooter. In other words, he plays the part of a Radical. The trimness and tidiness of all our gardens depends upon a persistent Radicalism; and all those ranked flowers and rigid lawns are kept clear and quiet by a principle of perpetual revolution. Similarly, every spring cleaning is a revolution but, like all others, a conservative revolution. Like all other revolutions, it disturbs, maddens, destroys and may even degrade. But its object is to give a man his old clean house, whereas otherwise he would have a new house and a nasty one. The white house must be washed or painted at the first hint of grey.
Now it is specially the misfortune of England for the last few hundred years that we have left our institutions untouched under the impression that we were leaving them unspoilt; whereas, in truth, time and circumstances were steadily spoiling them. We have prided ourselves on being conservative; but in fact we have not even conserved. We would not alter our institutions for the better and so Social Evolution (bless its heart) has altered them for the worse. … For the whole advantage of evil is in its being so often imperceptible and silent; evil comes at leisure like the disease; good comes in a hurry like the doctor. Conservatives commonly denounce a revolution as premature; it is Irish, but true, to say that a revolution must often come prematurely or come too late.
Daily News, August 24th, 1907
THE ICONOCLAST
In the whole range of human occupations is it possible to imagine a poorer thing to be than an iconoclast? It is the lowest of all the unskilled trades.
Daily News, April 26th, 1905
THE RETURN OF THE ANGELS
I write these remarks with one great hope, that of arousing controversy. It is really a singular matter that amid all the talk of the great work of physical science and its alleged victory over religious dogmatism, no one has noticed what the greatest of all the triumphs of science really was. It was a discovery far greater than that of evolution. It was the discovery, not of a fact, but of a method, the mother of innumerable facts. That method is, of course, what is known in scientific theory as the method of the hypothesis. It can be most clearly and simply conveyed in common language by saying that it is the principle that the best way to see if a coat fits a man is not to measure both of them, but to try it on. It is the replacing of the very slow, logical method of accumulating, point by point, an absolute proof by a rapid, experimental and imaginative method which gives us, long before we can get absolute proof, a very good working belief. I hear, let us say, of a certain theory about the universe. As a trial, I assume it to be true; then, if I discover with a start that, once assumed, it explains the boots on my feet and the nose on my face, that my umbrella has a new and radiant meaning, that my front door suddenly explains itself, that truths about my cat and dog and wife and hat and sideboard crowd upon me all day and everyday, I believe that theory and go on believing it more and more.
On the other hand, if the theory be not true, I may be perfectly certain that ten minutes after I have experimentally assumed it, I shall break my shins over some contradiction. We have buttoned the coat round the world (that rotund and patient old gentleman) and it has split down the back. It is surely quite obvious that this is the method on which we base all our real beliefs and that on this, above all, we base our belief in evolution. Of the thousands of brilliant and elegant persons like ourselves who believe roughly in the Darwinian doctrine, how many are there who know which fossil or skeleton, which parrot’s tail or which cuttle-fish’s stomach, is really believed to be the conclusive example and absolute datum of natural selection? We know scarcely anything of the Darwinian facts that lead to conversion. What we know is much more important: the Darwinian facts that come after conversion. What we know, to use a higher language, are the fruits of the spirit. We know that with this idea once inside our heads a million things become transparent as if a lamp were lit behind them: we see the thing in the dog in the street, in the pear on the wall, in the book of history we are reading, in the baby in the perambulator and in the last news from Borneo. And the fulfilments pour in upon us in so natural and continual a cataract that at last is reached that paradox of the condition which is called belief. We have seen so many evidences of the theory that we have forgotten them all. The theory is so clear to us that we can scarcely even defend it, If we walked up to the nearest rationalist we know and asked him to prove evolution, he would be dazed, like a man asked to defend justice.
Now it ought to be clearly stated at this stage of philosophical development that it is most emphatically by this method of the successful hypothesis, of the theory that justifies itself, that so large a number of the young in this generation have returned to a certain doctrine of the spiritual. What this doctrine is it may be right to state as baldly and as briefly as possible; it is the view that the world, closely examined, does point with an extreme suggestiveness to the existence of a spiritual world, of a world of agencies not apparently produced by matter, capable to some extent of controlling and inspiring, capable to some extent of being known. It ought, I say, to be plainly stated that numbers of us have returned to this belief; and that we have returned to it, not because of this argument or that argument, but because the theory, when it is adopted, works out everywhere; because the coat, when it is tried on, fits in every crease. It ought to be stated because the old rationalists are rightly indignant with us, in so far as they fancy that we base such a tremendous doctrine on a few desperate quibbles; in so far as they fancy, as they do, that we are hanging on to religion by sticks and straws. … The return to the spiritual theory rests on none of these things. It rests, like the movement towards evolution, on the fact that the thing works out. We put on the theory like a magic hat and history becomes translucent like a house of glass.
Let us begin at the beginning. A startling and sensational event occurred recently; I allude to the emergence of the creature called man. It is a recent event, cosmically considered; it is, comparatively speaking, only a little too old to have been headlined in the evening papers. The newness, suddenness and utter uniqueness of the rise of man reminds one of Japan in the East; only it is more so. … There may be a hundred explanations of this. No sane man would say that it involved a spiritual deduction. But it fits in with it, and fits in with it very well, to suppose that there is another atmosphere of life besides the animal and that this spiritual world irrupted in some way into that creature at the moment. The phenomenon does not prove Religion, but religion explains the Phenomenon. The Phenomenon is quite as solitary as the Incarnation. It can be explained by saying that in a sense it was the Incarnation. Then we go on. There is one thing which the whole human race, without any exception at all, attests. From the dimmest ages and lands, wherever the seed of man is found, it declares this— that such an irruption did take place in the beginning, that they or their fathers have had dealings with a darker or more wonderful being. If human evidence means anything at all, this is perhaps the only thing on which we have overwhelming evidence.
We have nearly overwhelming human witness to the necessity of morality; we have quite overwhelming human witness to the reality of the spiritual life. We are ready enough to quote the evidence of all mankind in support of police regulations or the data of ethics; but we think mankind must be talking nonsense when, with one universal shout it cries out to this thing which is older than sin. That Marcus Aurelius and the Red Indians, that Hindu sages and Italian brigands and Mr Spurgeon and Sir William Crookes should all by various roads come to this conclusion, this is an important thing. A more important thing still is that this belief in spirit, so far from being a morbid thing, is held by almost all people who are physically strong and live in the open air. Powerful peasants and farmers six feet high all believe in fairies. Rationalism is a disease of the towns, like the housing problem. All this is, of course, only suggestive, but it is very suggestive. The Phenomenon does not prove Religion; but Religion explains the Phenomenon. … We have not returned to the spiritual theory because of this or that triviality—because of a justification of the Fourth Gospel or a rap on the table. We have returned to it because, by the rejection of rationalism, the world becomes suddenly rational.
Daily News, March 14th, 1903
THE NECESSITY OF LUXURY
The great number of abuses peculiar to our present social state work back to that one great heresy which is the perversion of Darwin; I mean the heresy that man is an animal first and a spirit afterwards. The truth is that man is an animal and a spirit simultaneously, and his spiritual life is no more a luxury than his physical; except in the sense that he cannot rationally explain why he denies either of them. A humane and civilized happiness is one of man’s needs, not merely one of his pleasures. Luxury is itself a necessity. Man does not live by bread alone but, at the very lowest level of thought, by bread and butter. All arguments about the treatment of the poor which are based on the idea that we can make them first contented animals and then go on to their souls, are false down to the root. By giving a man just enough air, just enough oatmeal, just enough exercise, just enough cocoa, you can not make him a contented beast; but only a discontented man. … We shall never really get any further with our plans for the relief of distress until we have sufficient humility and sense of humour to leave off talking about what people need and bestow more attention on what they want.
The Open Review, July, 1906
THE CLUB
Mankind is not a tribe of animals to which we owe compassion. Mankind is a club to which we owe our subscription.
Daily News, April 10th, 1906
THE BIG THING AND THE SMALL
Sanity does not consist in seeing things; madmen see things more clearly than other people. Sanity consists in seeing the big things big and the small things small. A man can have this sense of pro portion even if he is wrong. … Here is one case. Human society is the big and certain thing; pre-human evolution is the small and fanciful thing. To talk of ‘humanity’s’ place in evolution is to be foolish and topsy-turvy. We do not know there was any evolution in the sense that we know that there is humanity. Some men hold that they are the children of apes; some that they are the children of Adam or of Wrath or of Mumbo-Jumbo.
These are creeds. But all men know that they are men; all men know that they belong to a positive human society, with rules of justice and mercy, and that they cannot even conceive themselves belonging to anything else. We belong to a club which is so old that nobody knows anything about its origin. We only know that in this club alone we can get our meals; in this club alone we can meet our friends; in this club alone we can sleep or argue or organize or pray. This club holds endless debates about everything— stars, boots, biology, sacraments, Alps, origins. Among the many minor things our human club discusses (for the fun of the thing) is how the club itself arose. The question is all the more interesting because nobody can answer it; the origins are in the fog of the utterly forgotten. Still, it is amusing to guess, and this guess or that guess is fashionable at any given time. At one time the club accepts the view that it was founded by a Mr Adam. At another time it records a vote that it was probably an affiliated branch of the Monkey’s Club. But these discussions of the forgotten origins are meant to amuse the club. No one ever dreamt of their being allowed to destroy it. Yet they would certainly destroy the Human Club if once they meant that we were to be rude to the members or stingy to the waiters. This is the strongest instance I know of the big thing against the small; that Humanity is the huge house that I live in, while Evolution is the small but interesting animal which has quite recently asked to be domesticated in it.
Daily News, September 19th, 1908
‘WORKING OUT THE BRUTE’
The worst result of popular evolutionism has been this. It has substituted the Beast for the Devil. It has made us think that our enemy is what they call our ‘lower nature’, which means our mere lusts and appetites, things entirely innocent in themselves. The most typical moderns have joined in this. Tennyson, for instance, spoke of moral improvement as ‘moving upward, working out the brute’. But was he right? Why should we work out the brute? I no more desire, as such, to work out the brute from myself than to work out the brute from between the shafts of a hansom cab. The brute in me and the brute in the cab must both be kept in order. The brute in me and the brute in the cab have both very obvious uses. The thing that is wrong in us is not, as evolutionists say, the brute. The thing wrong in us is the devil, the austere, intellectual virgin devil of the medieval story. He will suffer for evil. He will perform heroic acts for evil…
Pigs are not corrupted with the Higher Imperialism. Tigers have no spiritual pride. Whales never sneer. Crocodiles are not (despite a pleasing legend) in the least hypocritical. On examining their exterior, it is difficult to understand why anyone ever gave them credit for so vivacious and ingenious a quality. The worst sins of all are the purely human sins. You may move upwards, working out the brute, and not work them out in the least. Nay, you may work them in. The less beastly you grow, the more bad you may grow.
Daily News, February 3rd, 1906
ORANGE PEEL AND THE FALL
This life of ours and the great pathway of history and civilization is a road entirely carpeted with orange peel. The obstacles are so numerous, the complications are so varied that we live, as it were, in an eternal crisis, in an immortal catastrophe. We are permanently in an exceptional state; nay, we are permanently in an unnatural state; this is what is meant by the Fall of Man. Even if we do not admit the Fall of Man, we must admit his continuous state of the staggers. The apple that Eve ate was an orange; and its peel has ever since strewed the ways of the world.
The Bystander, May 11th, 1904
ORIGINAL SIN
The true doctrine of original sin may be stated in a million ways, like every very central and solid truth. You may put it this way: that moral health is not a thing which will fulfil itself automatically in any complete man like physical health. Or this way: that we all start in a state of war. Or this way: that everything in a cabbage is trying to make a good cabbage, whereas everything in a man is not trying to make what we call a good man. Or this way: that virtue is a creditable thing and not merely, like the greenness of a cabbage, an admirable thing.
Daily News, September 2nd, 1905
THE OUTLINE OF THE FALL
Whether or no the garden was an allegory, the truth itself can be very well allegorized as a garden. And the point of it is that Man, whatever else he is, is certainly not merely one of the plants of the garden that has plucked its roots out of the soil and walked about with them like legs, or, on the principle of a double dahlia, has grown duplicate eyes and ears. He is something else, something strange and solitary, and more like the statue that was once the god of the garden; but the statue has fallen from its pedestal and lies broken among the plants and weeds. This conception has nothing to do with materialism as it refers to materials. The image might be made of wood; the wood might have come from the garden; the sculptor presumably might, and probably did, allow for the growth and grain of the wood in what he carved and expressed. But my fable fixes the two truths of the truer Scripture. The first is that the wood was graven or stamped with an image, deliberately and from outside; in this case the image of God. The second is that this image has been damaged and defaced so that it is now both better and worse than the mere plants in the garden which are perfect according to their own plan. There is room for any amount of speculation about the history of the tree before it was turned into an image; there is room for any amount of doubt and mystery about what really happened when it was turned into an image; there is room for any amount of hope and imagination about what it will look like when it is really mended and made into the perfect statue we have never seen. But it has the two fixed points, that man was uplifted at the first and fell; and to answer it by saying ‘Where is the Garden of Eden?’ is like answering a philosophical Buddhist by saying ‘When were you last a donkey?’
The Fall is a view of life. It is not only the only enlightening but the only encouraging view of life. It holds, as against the only real alternative philosophies, those of the Buddhist or the Pessimist or the Promethean, that we have misused a good world and not merely been entrapped into a bad one. It refers evil back to the wrong use of the will and thus declares that it can eventually be righted by the right use of the will. Every other creed except that one is some form of surrender to fate. A man who holds this view of life will find it giving light on a thousand things on which mere evolutionary ethics have not a word to say. For instance, on the colossal contrast between the completeness of man’s machines and the continued corruption of his motives; on the fact that no social progress really seems to leave self behind; on the fact that the first and not the last men of any school or revolution are generally the best and purest, as William Penn was better than a Quaker millionaire or Washington better than an American oil magnate; on that proverb which says ‘The price of liberty is eternal vigilance’, which is only what the theologians say of every other virtue and is itself only a way of stating the truth of original sin; on those extremes of good and evil by which man exceeds all the animals by the measure of heaven and hell; on that sublime sense of loss that is in the very sound of all great poetry, and nowhere more than in the poetry of pagans and sceptics—‘We look before and after and pine for what is not’; which cries against all prigs and progressives out of the very depths and abysses of the broken heart of man that happiness is not only a hope but also in some strange manner a memory; and that we are all kings in exile.
G. K.’s Weekly, September 25th, 1926
NEUROSIS
According to [a modern critic], it is morbid to confess your sins. I should say that the morbid thing is not to confess them. The morbid thing is to conceal your sins and let them eat your heart out, which is the happy state of most people in highly civilized communities.
Daily News, January 18th, 1908
THE BATTLE
The true secret and hope of human life is something much more dark and beautiful than it would be if suffering were a mark of sin. A mere scheme of rewards and punishments would be some thing much meaner and more mechanical than this exasperating and inspiring life of ours. An automatic scheme of ‘Karma’ or ‘reaping what we sow’ would be just as gross and material as sowing beans or reaping barley. It might satisfy mechanicians or monists or theosophists or cautious financiers, but not brave men. It is no paradox to say that the one thing that would make suffering intolerable would be the thought that it was systematically inflicted upon sinners. The one thing that would make our agony infamous would be the idea that it was deserved. On the other hand, the doctrine which makes it most endurable is exactly the opposite doctrine, that life is a battle in which the best put their bodies in the front, in which God sends only his holiest into the hail of the arrows of hell. In the book of Job is foreshadowed that better doctrine, full of a dark chivalry, that he that bore the worst that man can suffer was the best that bore the form of man.
The Speaker, September 9th, 1905
THE DECORATION
The Book of Job is better worth hearing than any modern philosophical conversation in the whole modern philosophical world. It is more philosophical. It is much more witty and humorous. It is, as that word is really meant, much more modern. From it the modern Agnostic may for the first time learn Agnosticism: a sane and sacred and manly ignorance. From it the modern Christian may with astonishment learn Christianity; learn, that is, that suffering may be a strange honour and not a vulgar punishment; that the King may be conferring a decoration when he pins the man on the cross, as much as when he pins the cross on the man.
Illustrated London News, February 10th, 1906
SURPRISE
Of one thing I am certain, that the age needs, first and foremost to be startled; to be taught the nature of wonder.
Black and White, February 14th, 1903
THE PHILOSOPHY OF PUMPKINS
There is no philosophical case against miracles. There are such things as the laws of Nature, rationally speaking. What everybody knows is this only, that there is repetition in nature. What every body knows is that pumpkins produce pumpkins. What nobody knows is why they should not produce elephants and giraffes.
The question of miracles is merely this. Do you know why a pumpkin goes on being a pumpkin? If you do not, you cannot possibly tell whether a pumpkin could turn into a coach or couldn’t. That is all.
All the other scientific expressions you are in the habit of using at breakfast are words and winds. You say, ‘It is a law of nature that pumpkins should remain pumpkins’. That only means that pumpkins generally do remain pumpkins, which is obvious; it does not say why. You say, ‘Experience is against it’. That only means, ‘I have known many pumpkins intimately and none of them turned into coaches’. …
What Christianity says is merely this—that this repetition in Nature has its origin, not in a thing resembling a law, but in a thing resembling a will. Of course its phrase of a Heavenly Father is drawn from an earthly father. Quite equally [the] phrase of a universal law is a metaphor from an Act of Parliament. But Christianity holds that the world and its repetition came by will or love, as children are begotten by a father, and therefore that other and different things might come by it. Briefly, it believes that a God who could do anything so extraordinary as making pumpkins go on being pumpkins is, like the prophet Habakkuk, capable de tout. If you do not think it extraordinary that a pumpkin is always a pumpkin, think again. You have not yet even begun philosophy. You have not even seen a pumpkin.
Daily News, September 2nd, 1905
‘IN THE BEGINNING’
What is right with the world is the world. In fact, nearly every thing else is wrong with it. This is that great truth in the tremendous tale of Creation, a truth that our people must remember or perish. It is at the beginning that things are good, and not (as the more pallid progressives say) only at the end. The primordial things— existence, energy, fruition—are good so far as they go. You cannot have evil life, though you can have notorious evil livers. Manhood and womanhood are good things, though men and women are often perfectly pestilent. You can use poppies to drug people, or birch trees to beat them, or stones to make an idol, or corn to make a corner; but it remains true that, in the abstract, before you have done anything, each of these four things is in strict truth a glory, a beneficent speciality and variety. We do praise the Lord that there are birch trees growing amongst the rocks and poppies amongst the corn; we do praise the Lord, even if we do not believe in Him. We do admire and applaud the project of a world, just as if we had been called to council in the primal darkness and seen the first starry plan of the skies. We are, as a matter of fact, far more certain that this life of ours is a magnificent and amazing enterprise than we are that it will succeed.
I am much more sure that everything is good at the beginning than I am that everything will be good at the end. … That all this frame of things, this flesh, these stones, are good things, of that I am more brutally certain than I can say. But as for what will happen to them, that is to take a step into dogma and prophecy. I speak here, of course, solely of my personal feelings, not even of my reasoned creed. But on my instincts alone I should have no notion what would ultimately happen to this material world I think so magnificent. I am an agnostic, like most people with a positive theology. But I do affirm, with the full weight of sincerity, that trees and flowers are good at the beginning, whatever happens to them at the end; that human lives were good at the beginning, whatever happens to them in the end. The ordinary modern progressive position is that this is a bad universe, but will certainly get better. I say it is certainly a good universe, even if it gets worse. I say that these trees and flowers, stars and sexes, are primarily, not merely ultimately, good. In the Beginning the power beyond words created heaven and earth. In the Beginning He looked on them and saw that they were good.
All this unavoidable theory (for theory is always unavoidable) may be popularly pulled together thus. We are to regard existence as a raid or great adventure; it is to be judged, therefore, not by what calamities it encounters, but by what flag it follows and what high town it assaults. The most dangerous thing in the world is to be alive; one is always in danger of one’s life. But anyone who shrinks from this is a traitor to the great scheme and experiment of being.
T. P.’s Weekly, Christmas Number, 1910
THE SAGE
If we test the matter by strict originality of outlook, George Macdonald was one of the three or four greatest men of nineteenth-century Britain. He does not in the ordinary sense occupy that position, because his art, though highly individual and fanciful, does not reach the level of his thought and passion. In the matter of expression, indeed, he suffered from his originality in a way that is more common than people realize. A man with a view of his own often cannot convey it to others, not because he does not understand his own view, but because he does not understand theirs. … Hence arises a peculiar quality which may be noticed in the works of almost every man with a novel point of view; I mean, a tendency to become for a time unaccountably weak and obvious, to labour the simplest pieces of sentiment, to write pages of platitude. This, as I say, exists par excellence in the original men. It was so with Dickens. It was so with Victor Hugo. It was so with Ruskin. It was so with Thackeray. It was most assuredly so with George Macdonald. But those bursts of mysterious dullness or mysterious feebleness are, as above suggested, the direct product of the writer’s bold independence and intense originality. He is so independent of conventions that he becomes conventional by accident. He is so unconscious of the beaten track that he even walks in it.
To appreciate properly men like Macdonald, it is necessary to remember a type of man who is a pillar of simple societies, but whom complex societies tend to turn into something else. I mean the sage, the sayer of things. He is not the poet, for he does not sing; he is not the prose writer, for generally he cannot write. The things he produces form an artistic class by themselves; they are logia or great passionate maxims, the proverbs of philosophy. Confucius was a man of this kind, and the real Socrates and most of the founders of the great religions. But in our modern and respectable and highly specialized world we do not like to leave an old gentleman loose about the streets merely saying things. The man who is naturally and spiritually of this type is in our time forced to pretend to be something else, a minor poet or a novelist or some sad kind of political reformer.
For instance, a man in the modern world who belonged naturally to this class in a pre-eminent degree was Walt Whitman. Critics fuss themselves for ever about whether he was a poet or a prose writer. As a matter of fact, he was neither a poet nor a prose writer; he was a sayer of great things. He excelled in a sort of primeval epigram. ‘I do not give lectures or a little charity; when I give, I give myself.’ ‘Do we find life so well provided for and think that death is not equally well provided for?’ These have all the characteristics of the logia on which were founded the larger faiths of mankind. And Whitman would have much preferred to have shouted them in the streets, like John the Baptist or Mahomet, to being obliged to include them in what he was obliged to call poems.
George Macdonald was in the same way not a born writer; he was a born maker of spontaneous texts. He also would have very much preferred to walk about the streets of some Greek or eastern village with a long white beard, simply saying what he had to say. But just as Whitman had to label his tracts of truth poetry, Macdonald labelled his novels. There are some exceptions, but in the main it is true to say that we only remember his novels, as we only remember Whitman’s poetry, by certain bursts of an astonishing sagacity, often uttered in five words. Anyone who has read Macdonald’s novels will remember a sort of celestial wit in some of the dialogues, retorts that seem really like thunderbolts from heaven.
For him the secret of the Cosmos was a secret, because it was too good to tell, The stars and all things in his world tingled with the tension of that painful pleasure of the soul. For him the pity of God was so positive as to be a definite passion like thirst; it was a fierce tenderness; he was never fired of saying that his God was a consuming fire.
Daily News, September 23rd, 1905
INTIMATIONS
Matthew Arnold did not often say a thoroughly silly thing, but he did when he criticized Wordsworth for talking of the wonderland of childhood and objected that a man of thirty had a better appreciation of landscape, as of course he has in the sense of landscape gardening. But the white light which Wordsworth meant was not in the sky the child looked at, but in the child. He happened to be a country child; but it was really only a geographical accident that it was meadow, grove and stream, and not post, pavement and policeman that were apparelled in celestial light, the glory and freshness of a dream. Nor is it the mere memory of vigour and adventure which really is stronger at sixteen than at six; it is quite a different sensation. And to this day I cannot see certain things such as a white horse or wood painted white, with out a pang of pleasure going through me stronger than sex or the fear of death. And unlike sex and death, it does not concentrate; for an instant, like a lost lightning flash, it has spread over the whole world, full of too many wonders to be wondered at.
Here enters the psychological educationist with his subconsciousness and his first impressions, to remark shrewdly, ‘This is because somebody in your childhood gave you a wooden horse or painted it white for you’. To which I reply respectfully, ‘Yes, fool, yes. Admirable and astonishing idiot, quite so. But has it ever occurred to you to ask why a pot of paint and a piece of wood should blaze with divine beauty to anybody at any time; or why they should do it to a child of four any more than to a man of forty? When you have retired for a few years to reflect on the point, we will resume this conversation.’
The New Witness, June 17th, 1921
THE LITTLE THINGS
Sir Thomas Browne was an exalted mystic [whose mysticism] owed much to his literary style. Style, in his sense, did not merely mean sound, but an attempt to give some twist of wit or symbolism to every clause or parenthesis; when he went over his work again, he did not merely polish brass, he fitted in gold. This habit of working with a magnifying glass, this turning and twisting of minor words, is the true parent of mysticism; for the mystic is not a man who reverences large things so much as a man who reverences small ones, who reduces himself to a point, without parts or magnitude, so that to him the grass is really a forest and the grasshopper a dragon. Little things please great minds.
The Speaker, December 15th, 1900
‘MERE PARADOX’
The simplest and commonest of all the causes which lead to the charge of ‘mere paradox’ being slung about as it is, is one fundamental assumption. Everybody takes it for granted that universal and ordinary arrangements, historic institutions, daily habits are reasonable. They are good, they are sensible, they are holy and splendid often enough, but they are not reasonable. They are themselves paradoxes; paradox is built into the very foundations of human affairs.
Black and White, February 14th, 1903
THE HIPPOPOTAMUS AND THE CROCODILE
There is one central conception of the book of Job which literally makes it immortal, which will make it survive our modern time and our modern philosophies, as it has survived many better times and many better philosophies. That is the conception that the universe, if it is to be admired, is to be admired for its strangeness and not for its rationality, for its splendid unreason and not for its reason. Job’s friends attempt to comfort him with philosophical optimism, like the intellectuals of the eighteenth century. Job tries to comfort himself with philosophical pessimism, like the intellectuals of the nineteenth century. But God comforts Job with indecipherable mystery, and for the first time Job is comforted. Eliphaz gives one answer, Job gives another answer, and the question still remains an open wound. God simply refuses to answer, and somehow the question is answered. Job flings at God one riddle, God flings back at Job a hundred riddles, and Job is at peace. He is comforted with conundrums. For the grand and enduring idea in the poem, as suggested above, is that if we are to be reconciled to this great cosmic experience, it must be as something divinely strange and divinely violent, a quest or a conspiracy or some sacred joke. The last chapters of the colossal monologue of the Almighty are devoted, in a style superficially queer enough, to the detailed description of two monsters. Behemoth and Leviathan may or may not be the hippopotamus and the crocodile. But whatever they are, they are evidently embodiments of the enormous absurdity of nature. They typify that cosmic trait which anyone may see in the Zoological Gardens, the folly of the Lord which is wisdom. And in connection with one of them, God is made to utter a splendid satire upon the prim and orderly piety of the vulgar optimist. ‘Wilt thou play with him as with a bird? Wilt thou bind him for thy maidens?’ That is the main message of the book of Job. What ever this cosmic monster may be, a good animal or a bad animal, he is at least a wild animal and not a tame animal. It is a wild world and not a tame world.
The Speaker, September 9th, 1905
CHANGE AND DECAY
All this talk about optimism and pessimism is itself a dismal fall from the old talk about right and wrong. Our fathers said that a nation had sinned and suffered, like a man. We say it has decayed, like a cheese.
Illustrated London News, July 10th, 1920
THE ENEMIES OF JOY
It is a blunder to imagine, as many do, that those who agree with me wish to make every man a Robinson Crusoe, making all his own clothes and living only for himself. As a fact, the peasant, though he has much of the handy universality of Robinson Crusoe, can never be content with the solitude of Robinson Crusoe. A peasant lives in a peasantry and not on a desert island. He is by nature as ready for co-operation as he is resolute against communism. Still, there is something symbolic in the figure of Robinson Crusoe and especially in its fascination of the innocent imagination of the most creative period of childhood. Why is it that a child is delighted with the idea of Robinson Crusoe, complete with his gun and umbrella, his goat and parrot, his axe and antiquated sword? It is precisely because he is complete and also compact; that he has a limited number of things but these things immediately at hand and directly under his control. It is equally or perhaps even more because these things have been barely snatched from the bottomless peril of shipwreck and the dark infinity of the sea. That is the right view of the good things of life; we should possess them directly, but we should possess them thriftily and above all, we should possess them thankfully. They and we have been saved by God out of the sea of nothing and the night that was before the world.
Now in the course of my life I have seen this compact conception, symbolized by Robinson Crusoe in the children’s books, attacked by two opposite enemies, but with equal enmity. The old enemy called itself pessimism; the new enemy calls itself Progress and Optimism; but both invade the desert island with the destructive frenzy of the cannibals. The old fashion took the form of pointing out how very desert was the desert island, how very dull was the life of Crusoe and how very insignificant, intrinsically considered, was each of the pleasures that remained to him. What was a parrot but a proverb for something that repeated itself over and over again? What is the use of a goat—except to play the goat? What is an umbrella, said one sad philosopher, but something which can only be opened when it is shut and then shut when it is open? He always implied that life was dreary on a desert island only because it would be dreary anywhere else. For him England was a desert island; for him the coming of Friday would indeed have marked a day of ill luck. He was the sort of pessimist who curses both the solitude and the intruder on the solitude. This sort of sweeping negation moved me in my youth to a romantic revolt and a wild enthusiasm for the poetry of umbrellas. I shocked some critics by a sympathy with playing the goat; others still more by a sympathy with playing with the gun. But while I valued these things, I valued them most of all because they were few and clear, and picked out in conspicuous colours against the desolation of the destructive sea.
I have since seen something which claims to be the contrary philosophy, but for me is the same heresy. The world has improved on the one parrot by becoming a screaming parrot-house. It has improved on the faithful goat by filling the island with herds and herds of goats that have not a goatherd. I have seen it proclaimed that Crusoe’s umbrella will be universally popular if it is expanded into the awning of a universal pavilion, placarded with advertisements of pills or pictures of mixed bathing. I have seen even the gun excused if it is a big enough gun manufactured by a big enough firm; and the axe counted innocent if it is what we call ‘an axe to grind’. Yet all this paradise of perfect happiness fails to lift my heart or reawaken the faintest hint of that first romantic interest in Robinson Crusoe. And the reason is that this sort of sweeping generalization, quite as much as the old sweeping negation, implies a contempt for the few original facts of the story which alone made it interesting. The optimist, as much as the pessimist, asks what is the good of one shabby old umbrella or one shaggy old goat. That is, he commits the star-blasting blasphemy of depreciating the things that the man has actually saved from the wreck. The sin of the optimist is that he does not recognize the wreck; as the sin of the pessimist is that he does not recognize the rescue.
Now I am fundamentally convinced that the only thing worth calling a thrill (to use the juvenile jargon of today) is the thought that comes in the transition from the wreck to the rescue. It belongs to a class of thoughts which are best represented by thanks, but which are approximately represented by an imaginative realization of what is and what might have been. It exists on an edge, like the edge of the land and sea; and is unknown to the suicide who feels himself a castaway in mid-ocean and to the self-satisfied settler who has travelled so far inland as to forget the bright fear or shining mystery of the sea. All real happiness I have ever had or have ever seen anybody else having had something in it of that first unfamiliarity and shyness; and it is lost by the pride of possession as by the pride of refusal. Therefore those who say they are running after the thrill are in reality running away from the thrill. They are leaving it further and further behind, the more they accumulate more luxuries than they can enjoy or combine more pleasures than they can distinguish.
G. K.’s Weekly, October 11th, 1930
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
The heresies that have attacked human happiness in my time have all been variations of either presumption or despair; which in the controversies of modern culture are called optimism and pessimism. And if I wanted to write an autobiography in a sentence (and I hope I shall never write a longer one), I should say that my literary life has lasted from a time when men were losing happiness by despair to a time when they are losing it by presumption.
Blackfriars, January, ‘923
LIFE AND LIBERTY
(This next passage was obviously not written by Chesterton. It is presumably a write-up of an interview with him but is worth including here for its intrinsic interest.)
I was brought up in a fairly typical middle-class English family. My father had been prosperous in business and he had felt that something more than business was needed to square oneself with the universe.
He was a Unitarian.
There was not a Unitarian tradition in the family. But that was the mode of the age.
And I think that from my very junior youth I felt that some thing more was needed.
I don’t think that I myself have ever changed.
From the beginning I think I was staggered by the stupendous marvel of existence—by the miracle of sunlight coming through a window, by the miracle of people walking on legs through the streets, by the miracle of people talking to each other.
This marvel fascinated me, as it does today.
And I said to myself—or I might have said to myself—well, is not that enough? And Echo might have answered:
‘Yes, it is enough. If you see it. And if you will always see it.’ Rather a large mouthful for Echo! But as a matter of fact, that is what Echo said.
Which brings me to what was an important event in my life, though, as I say, thinking led up to it.
I got hold of Leaves of Grass by Watt Whitman, I called it then a revelation. It put in black and white the things I had always known. The glory and magic of God’s universe—the shows of night and day and ‘in the midst, God’s beautiful right hand’.
Well, very soon I found that those who imitated Whitman’s irregular lines missed out the magic of the universe and were definitely antagonistic to God’s beautiful right hand. That was disturbing. God was all right, the universe was all right, Whitman was all right. But something had gone wrong.
Then again, as a very young fellow, I was a Socialist.
I think I have always hated the idea of things being done from a centre.
I hated bureaucracy.
But they told me that if I wanted to get rid of the manifold iniquities of aggressive capital, of interest, I must get rid of private property.
And so I believed them.
Although what I really believed in was the sort of thing that William Morris pictures, with every craftsman running his own show.
Perhaps the catastrophic event—if you want one— was the South African War.
There I saw something which seemed to me to be the meanest kind of financial grab, supported by fine sincere fellows like Stopford Brooke (at whose feet I had sat as a child), York Powell and the Fabians— apparently merely because the British Empire was big and the Transvaal Republic was little.
That stirred me up. Why did all these fine men and women go wrong?
Again, I have always believed in Liberty.
But I noticed that all those who said they believed in Liberty and nothing else, proceeded at once to shackle themselves.
Look at the old S.D.F.-ers. Splendid fellows like Hyndman and Bax!
But what they did was to adopt an economic creed (which the Russians hold today) that everything that happens must happen—that, in fact, nobody can be free. It seemed a poor way to use your freedom.
And, mark you, I have noticed that the modern idea of freedom seems to be that you are not to be allowed to bring up your family as you choose, that you are not to be allowed to marry as you choose, that you are not to be allowed to drink as you choose.
I soon came to realize that liberty was a more complicated thing than I had imagined and that it seemed to need somebody (perhaps God) standing outside human life as an arbiter.
One of the things that have made a difference to me is owning my own place in the country. I was born and bred a Cockney. I was altogether urban. And then I moved into the country and bought a field. My own field! My very own!
And then I built a studio on it. My very own studio. I could enact my own (or my wife’s) plays in that studio and whoever said me nay could go to blazes. And then the house grew on to the studio.
And now I am proud to say that I can grow in my garden enough to keep my family alive if our toppling system of credit went to pieces and our great cities were famine-stricken.
Yes, I have learnt the meaning of ownership. I know what liberty really means.
But I cannot leave out God. For I have seen so many things go wrong when they left out God.
Liberty became licence—desperate, sordid licence— or became sheer slavery, property became monopoly. And the miracle of everyday life became of no account at all.
And so I, who began as a Protestant, remain one as a Catholic— a Protestant against the destruction of all the material, simple things.
I have not changed. God made me; and here I am. Socialism failed me and I have turned my back on that because it was not social.
Protestantism failed me and I have turned my back on that because it did not protest.
These things endure: life and liberty and the boundless magic of night and day—and what comes after.
Daily Sketch, May 14th, 1931
THE LESSON
Pessimism is a thing which is learnt from books, as sorrow is a thing learnt from life. Sorrow can never be pessimistic, for it is founded upon the value of things.
Daily News, June 13th, 1903
THE TRUE CRITIC
Optimism is said to be unpopular just at present, and optimism in criticism lies under a specially withering disdain. But for all that, criticism will have to become more optimistic or lose altogether its hold upon the future. The only bad thing about criticism is its name. It is derived from a word signifying a criminal judge, and hitherto it has been supposed in consequence that criticism has to do with literary crimes. The favourable judgement of the critic has always been, in the ordinary opinion, to acquit a man of sin, not to convict him of a merit. If criticism were in a sound state, it would have discovered some one epithet to express the value of Coleridge instead of half a hundred epithets to express the uselessness of Marie Corelli.
Optimism, or the utmost possible praise of all things, ought to be the keynote of criticism. It may appear to be an audacious assertion, but it may be tested by one very large and simple process. Compare the reality of a man’s criticism when praising anything with its reality when excluding anything, and we shall all feel how much more often we agree with the former than with the latter … In praising great men we cheerfully agree to a superlative, but we emphatically decline a comparative. We come very near to the optimism of that universal superlative which in the morning of the world declared all things to be very good.
One of the results of this fact is that when a critic is really large-minded and really sympathetic and comprehensive, and really has hold of a guiding and enlightening idea, he should still watch with the greatest suspicion his own limitations and rejections. His praise will almost certainly be sound; his blame should always remain to his own mind a little dubious.
The Speaker, May 3rd, 1902
FAIRY TALES
Fairy tales are the only true accounts that man has ever given of his destiny. ‘Jack the Giant-Killer’ is the embodiment of the first of the three great paradoxes by which men live. It is the paradox of Courage: the paradox which says, ‘You must defy the thing that is terrifying; unless you are frightened, you are not brave.’ ‘Cinderella’ is the embodiment of the second of the paradoxes by which men live: the paradox of Humility which says ‘Look for the best in the thing, ignorant of its merit; he that abases himself shall be exalted’. And ‘Beauty and the Beast’ is the embodiment of the third of the paradoxes by which men live: the paradox of Faith— the absolutely necessary and wildly unreasonable maxim which says to every mother with a child or to every patriot with a country, ‘You must love the thing first and make it lovable after wards.’
The World, September 27th, 1904
THE ETHICS OF FAIRYLAND
Of all forms of literature, it seems to me, fairy tales give the truest picture of life. There may be errors in detail, but in a world so full of strange things they scarcely matter. Two-headed giants and beanstalks that climb up into the sky may not be true, but assuredly they are not too wonderful to be true. But the atmosphere of the fairy tale is astonishingly true to life. It deals with the silent witchery that lies in common things, corn and stones and apple trees and fire. It presents these, no doubt, as magic stones and magic apple trees, and if anyone will stare at them steadily in a field at twilight, he will find himself quite unable to assert that they are not magic.
Let me take one quite practical example of the truth of fairy tales. In these stories success is made to depend upon a number of small material objects and observances; life is a chain of talismans. If a man touches three trees in passing, he is safe; if he touches four, he is ruined. If the hero meets a miller without a beard, he is to answer none of his questions. If he plucks a red flower in a particular meadow, he will have power over the mighty kings of some distant city. Now this poetic sense of the decisiveness of some flying detail is a thousand times more genuine and practical than the pompous insistence on some moral or scientific law which is the basis of most realistic novels. None of us know when we have done something irrevocable. Our fate has been often decided by the twist of a road or the shape of a tree. Nay, it has often been decided by an omnibus or an advertisement, and there can there fore be little reason for denying that it is a magic omnibus or a magic advertisement.
The great truth and value of the fairy-tale view of life cannot be better conveyed than by saying that it chiefly arises from the entire absence of the supernatural in fairy tales. There is no miraculous department there, nothing conceived as outrageous or exceptional, nothing that recalls crystal-gazing and planchette. There is no trace or hint of that modern ‘spiritual world’ which implies that this world is not spiritual. In the fairy tales, portents are orderly and inevitable; they are part of the very texture of natural life. In a place so strange as this earth it is as natural to meet griffins and witches and three-headed dogs as to meet geese and oxen. This earth of ours is conceived as a place full of innumerable marvels … The fairy-tale hero is impressed, doubtless, when the pumpkin turns into a coach or the castle soars into the air. But he is not impressed for the mean and stupid reason that he had thought the world was prosaic. Life for him is an illimitable sea of monsters. He is often astonished, but, if I may employ the phrase, he would be more astonished if he were not astonished.
It is a great mistake to imagine that fairy tales are either immoral or unmoral. They do not tally with the trivialities of every particular moral code, but in this respect they resemble all works of art. … In them we see the great lines of elementary laws and ideals as we see them nowhere else. We learn first and foremost that all doors fly open to courage and to hope. We learn that the world is bound together in mysterious bonds of trust and compact and prevision, and that even green dragons keep their promises. We learn that nothing is wasted in the mills of the world, that a jewel thrown into the sea, a kindness to a stricken bird, an idle word to a ragged wayfarer, have in them some terrible value and are here bound up with the destiny of men. Nothing is more typical and recurrent in the ethics of the fairy tale than the great idea that nothing can be lost. … The world is ruled by a sublime parsimony; there is no such thing as a dustbin in the house of God.
This is one very characteristic moral of fairy tales, the idea of the indestructibility of an essence or an act. Another fully as common and even more essential is the great idea which lies at the heart of the story of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ and a hundred kindred tales; the idea that by loving a thing we make it beautiful. The fairy tale warns us to be on our guard against the disguises of things and to regard every ugly and repellent exterior with a hopeful and divine suspicion.
But all these massive fragments of primitive morality are secondary to the great moral spirit which is the very heart of the fairy tales. That spirit is the principle appearing and reappearing in a thousand folklore stories, that nothing can do a man harm unless he fears it. At no time in the history of civilization, perhaps, has there been so much need to recall the ethics of the ancient warfare of Jack against the Giant, of the small against the gigantic. Those who in our day express a peculiar sympathy with the weak in their struggle against the strong are often accused of indulging a hyper-sensitive humanitarianism unknown to the robuster ages of the world. The thing is a delusion. The sympathy for the weak against the strong speaks out of the oldest twilight; it is the very backbone of the most savage stories with which we have to deal in anthropology. For the fairy tale is only the history of man himself, at once the weakest and the strongest of the creatures.
The Speaker, October 12th, 1901
DIVINE IMMANENCE
It is evident that, though all things are divine, all things are limited. And among other divine things, man himself is limited. He has not the memory nor the imagination nor the vigilance nor the sheer physical health to realize the Godhead in every atom or object that passes under his hands. A person who never neglected any object: a man who burst into religious tears as he fastened a divine collar with an inspired collar-stud, and continued thus with everything he looked at, would go mad in five minutes; he would see God and die. The only things which man, a limited animal, can do in this matter, are two; first, he can believe (as an absolute thing of faith) that there is this divinity in things, whether he sees it or not; second, he can leave himself reasonably open to those sudden revelations whereby one or two of these things—a cloud, a man’s face, a noise in the dark—may for some reason no one has ever been able to offer, capriciously reveal its divinity. …
I believe that every object is divine in a very definite and thorough sense. I believe, that is to say, that there is a great pressure of spiritual reality behind things as they seem, and of this view, as I have said continuously, the proof lies in the explanation it affords of countless human affairs. And I believe that the supreme instance and the supreme demonstration of it is this; that if a man, dismissing the Cosmos and all such trifles, looks steadily and with some special and passionate adoration it some one thing, that thing suddenly speaks to him. Divinity lurks not in the All, but in everything; and that, if it be true, is the explanation of a load of human chronicles, of a cataract of human testimony of all the religions, and all the wild tales of the world. … Providence desires its gifts received, intensely and with humility and it is possible to look at one of them steadily and confidently until, with a great cry, it gives up its god.
Daily News, March 24th, 1903
A LOCAL HABITATION
It is not enough for a religion to include everything. It must include everything and something over. That is, it must include everything and include something as well. It must answer that deep and mysterious human demand for something as distinct from the demand for everything, even if the nature of that demand be too deep to be easily defined in logic. It will never cease to be described in poetry. We might almost say that all poetry is a description of it. Even when you have only natural religion, you will still have supernatural poetry. And it will be poetic because it is particular, not because it is general. The new priest may proclaim, ‘The sea is God, the land is God and the sky is God; but yet there are not three Gods, but one God’. But even if the old priest be silenced, the old poet will always answer, ‘God is in a cave; God is in a stable; God is disguised and hidden. I alone know where he is; he is herding the cattle of Admetus, he is pouring out the wine of Cana.’ The new republic may make the philosophical declaration, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all trees are evolved equal and endowed with the dignity of creative evolution.’ But if in the silence that follows we overhear the poor nurse or the peasant mother telling fairy tales to the children, she will always be saying, ‘And in the seventh garden beyond the seventh gate was the tree with the golden apples’; or ‘They sailed and sailed until they came to an island, and on the island was a meadow, and in the meadow the tree of life’…
Now if this particularism always stubbornly recurs even in poetry, how can it be left out of philosophy? What is the meaning of this incurable itch to give to airy nothing, or still more airy everything, a local habitation and a name? Why is it always some thing at once odd and objective, a precious fruit or a flying cup or a buried key, that symbolizes the mystery of the world? Why should not the world symbolize the world? Why should not a sphere sufficiently symbolize universalism, so that the faithful might be found adoring a plum-pudding or a cannon-ball? Why should not a spiral sufficiently represent progress, and the pious bow down before a corkscrew? In practice we know that it would be impossible to dissociate a Christmas pudding from the sacramental specialism of Christmas; and the worship of the corkscrew, that hieratic serpent, would probably be traced to the mysteries of Dionysius. In a word, why are all mysteries concerned with the notion of finding a particular thing in a particular place? If we are to find the real meaning of every element in mythology, what is the real meaning of that element in it? I can see only one possible answer that satisfies the new more serious and sympathetic study of religion, even among sceptics, and that is that there really is something to which all these fancies are what forgeries are to a signature; that if the soul could be satisfied with the truth, it would find it a tale as particular, as positive and as personal; that the light which we follow first as a wide white star actually narrows as we draw nearer to it, till we find that the trailing meteor is something like a light in a window or a candle in a room.
New Witness, July 15th, 1921
SACRAMENT OR MAGIC
Whenever men really believe that they can get to the spiritual, they always employ the material. When the purpose is good, it is bread and wine; when the purpose is evil, it is eye of newt and toe of frog.
Illustrated London News, September 22nd, 1906
THE CONCRETE AND THE ABSTRACT
Thinkers of [a certain] school have a tendency to believe that the concrete is the symbol of the abstract. The truth, the truth at the root of all mysticism, is quite the other way. The abstract is the symbol of the concrete. This may possibly seem at first sight a paradox; but it is a purely transcendental truth. We see a green tree. It is the green tree that we cannot understand; it is the green tree which we fear; it is the green tree which we worship. Then, because there are so many green trees, so many men, so many elephants, so many butterflies, so many daisies, so many animalculae, we coin a general term ‘Life’. And then the mystic comes and says that a green tree symbolizes life. It is not so. Life symbolizes a green tree. Just in so far as we get into the abstract, we get away from the reality, we get away from the mystery, we get away from the tree. And this is the reason that so many transcendental discourses are merely blank and tedious to us, because they have to do with Truth and Beauty and the Destiny of the Soul and all the great faint, jaded symbols of the reality. And this is why poetry is so interesting to us, because it has to do with sides, with woods, with battles, with temples, with women and with wine, with the ultimate miracles which no philosopher could create. The difference between the concrete and the abstract is the difference between the country and the town. God made the concrete, but man made the abstract. A truthful man is a miracle, but the truth is a commonplace.
The Speaker, May 31st, 1902
THE LIGHT AND THE HEAT
The Jews, with their wonderful instinct for practical religion, swore that he who looked upon Jehovah died; but in a large number of transcendental schools and sages the sentence of death has been commuted to a doom of gibbering idiocy. To the Buddhists was given a conception of God of extraordinary intellectual purity; but in growing familiar with the featureless splendour, they have lost their heads; they babble; they say that everything is nothing and nothing is everything, that black is white because white is black. We fancy that the frightful universal negatives at which they have at last arrived, are really little more than the final mental collapse of men trying always to find an abstraction big enough for all things. ‘I have said what I understood not, things too great for me that I know not. I will put my hand upon my mouth.’ Job was a wise man. … Buddhism stands for a simplification of the mind and a reliance on the most indestructible ideas; Christianity stands for a simplification of the heart and a reliance on the most indestructible sentiments. The greater Christian insistence upon personal deity and immortality is not, we fancy, the cause so much as the effect of this essential trend towards an ancient passion and pathos as the power that most nearly rends the veil from the nature of things. Both creeds grope after the same secret sun, but Buddhism dreams of its light and Christianity of its heat. Buddhism seeks after God with the largest conception it can find, the all-producing and all-absorbing One; Christianity seeks after God with the most elementary passion it can find— the craving for a father, the hunger that is as old as the hills. It turns the whole cry of a lost universe into the cry of a lost child.
The Speaker, November 17th, 1900
A NOTE ON COMPARATIVE RELIGION
Christianity is not a religion; it is a Church. There may be a Moslem religion; but it would not come natural to anybody to talk about the Moslem Church. There may be a Buddhist religion; but nobody would call it the Buddhist Church. … I say that the very idea of a Catholic Church is sui generis, apart from claims to embody it. I am not now talking about the comparison with Christian heresies, but of the comparison with heathen religions. It does indeed illustrate the incongruous and incomparable assortment of rival religions that one of them does actually belong to this other category. One of the heathen religions really is a Christian heresy. The more we know of the great Moslem movement, the more we see that it was really a post-Christian revision, or subsequent simplification rather like the Arian movement. Of the other things that we call Eastern religions many existed before Christianity, and almost any might have existed without Christianity. I take it as certain that Islam would never have existed without Christianity. I take it to be as clear as that Calvinism or Lollardism or Lutheranism would never have existed without Christianity. Nor was the Moslem movement in the modern sense anti-Christian. It gave to Christ as high a moral position as is given Him by most Unitarians, and indeed a more supernatural status than is given by some Broad Churchmen. To do Mahomet justice, his main attack was against the idolatries of Asia. …
Now we might apply this principle of differentiation to each of the rival religions in turn. Each of them is not only in a different category from the Catholic Church, but in a different category from the others. Islam, if it is to go into a class at all, ought not to go into a class of Islam, Christianity, Confucianism and Brahminism, but rather into a class of Islam, Manicheeism, Pelagianism and Protestantism. In the same way, Buddha ought not really to go into a class of Buddha, Christ, Mahomet and the rest; but rather into some such class as Buddha, Pythagoras, Plato and so on. He belongs to that class of philosophical mystics for whom what we commonly call religion was really only symbolical, and the main matter was a metaphysical unification. He may have had some of the virtues of a saint, but he was in reality a sage. He may have been what we call an idealist; he was also something very like a pessimist. But anyhow he was not a Church and did not found a Church. To consider what he did found, we should have to go back to the foundations in Brahminism; and when we do so, we find that this in turn is not another variation of the same thing, but an utterly different sort of thing with variations of its own. It is rather an old popular mythology, like our own old pagan mythology. At the back of it Brahminism is probably nature-worship, and Buddhism is certainly the very opposite of nature-worship. It would be true to call it an iconoclasm directed to destroy the idol called nature.
Finally, it is fairly clear that Confucianism is not a religion, unless the English public-school system is a religion or the Kultur of imperial Germany was a religion. In a sense they may be so described, since everything rests on a conscious or unconscious religion, or negation of religion. But nobody would call any of them a Church; and nobody can compare them with a Church calling itself dogmatic and divine. All these disparate things, of which one is an imitation and another a doubt and another a book of etiquette, have nothing in common except that they are none of them Churches; and that they are all examples of the various things in which man might be expected to experiment in the absence of a Church. …
It is a simple and historical fact about the Catholic Church that its character is as extraordinary as its claim. It is not merely the only thing that deserves a particular kind of service; it is the only thing that asks for it. It is quite possible to be a pagan and hate the Church; it is equally possible to be a pessimist and hate the universe. But there is one Church exactly as there is one universe; and no wise man will wander about looking for another.
Blackfriars, March, 1923
ASSIMILATION AND REJECTION
The instant it is said that we should take the good things from every atmosphere or system, an immediate question springs to the lips. But what about the bad things? … A religion should not only be instinctively absorbent of whatever is consonant with its ideal; it should be instinctively resistant to anything that is against that ideal. Men look to a faith to purge them of all native poisons as well as to develop all native functions and pleasures. A Church should have drainage as well as ventilation. It should drive bad smells out as well as let good smells in; it should not only cast out devils, but keep them out.
Daily News, March 19th, 1910
THE WINTER FEAST
It is the greatest glory of the Christian tradition that it has incorporated so many Pagan traditions. But it is most glorious of all, to my mind, when they are popular traditions. And the best and most obvious example is the way in which Christianity did incorporate, in so far as it did incorporate, the old human and heathen conception of the Winter Feast. …
There is a perfectly natural parallel between a religion that defies the world and a ritual that defies the weather. Heathenism in the sense of hedonism, the concentration of the mind on pure pleasure as such, would chiefly concentrate on the conception of a Summer Feast. But in winter even a rich man receives some faint hint of the problem of a poor man; he may avoid being hungry, but he cannot always avoid being cold. To choose that moment of common freezing for the assertion of common fraternity is, in its own intrinsic nature, a foreshadowing of what we call the Christian idea. It involves the suggestion that joy comes from within and not from without. It involves the suggestion that peril and the potentiality of pain are themselves a ground for gratitude and rejoicing. It involves the suggestion that even when we are merely Pagans, we are not merely Pantheists. We are not merely nature worshippers; because a man smiles when nature frowns. It has always involved, under varying limitations in varying societies, the idea of hospitality, especially hospitality to the stranger and generally to the poor. Of course there are perfectly natural reasons for wanting to drink wine or warm ourselves at the fire in winter; but that is not an answer, except to those who have the ill-informed prejudice that Christianity must be opposed to things merely because they are natural. The point is in making a point of it; the special interest is in the special occasion, in the fact that during the Winter Feast, whether Pagan or Christian, there always was in some degree the idea of extending the enjoyment to others, of passing round the wine or seating the wanderer by the hearth. It is no controversial point against the Christians that they felt they could take up and continue such traditions among the Pagans; it only shows that the Christians knew a Christian thing when they saw it.
The real history of Christmas is very relevant to the real crisis of Christendom. We live in a terrible time of war and rumour of war; with a barbaric danger of the real reaction that goes back, not to the old form, but to the old formlessness. International idealism in its effort to hold the world together in a peace that can resist wars and revolutions, is admittedly weakened and often disappointed. I should say simply that it does not go deep enough. Christianity could draw life out of the depths of Paganism; but mere Modernism cannot draw on the depths of either. Charity is too much of a manufactured article and too little of a natural product. The League of Nations is too new to be natural. The modern materialistic humanitarianism is too young to be vigorous. If we really wish to make vivid the horrors of destruction and mere disciplined murder, we must see them more simply as attacks on the hearth and the human family. If we want to talk about poverty, we must talk about it as the hunger of a human being, a pain as positive as toothache; and not as the fall in wages or the failure of imports or even the lowering of the economic standard of living. We must say first of the beggar, not that there is insufficient housing accommodation but that he has nowhere to lay his head. We must say first of the human family, not that there are no jobs for them in the factory, but that there is no room for them in the inn. That is, we must talk of the human family in language as plain and practical and positive as that in which mystics used to talk of the Holy Family. We must learn again to use the naked words that describe a natural thing, and dispense for a moment with all those sociological polysyllables with which an artificial society has learned to talk of it as an artificial thing. Then we shall draw on the driving force of many thousand years, and call up a real humanitarianism out of the depths of humanity.
G. K.’s Weekly, January 2nd, 1936
THE THREE GIFTS
There were three things prefigured and promised by the gifts in the cave of Bethlehem concerning the Child who received them; that He should be crowned like a King: that He should be worshipped like a God; and that He should die like a man. And these things would sound like Eastern flattery, were it not for the third.
G. K.’s Weekly, December 12th, 1931
THE SPRING IN THE SOUL
Easter which opens on earth the gateway of the Spring, has been for all our race and culture the season of Resurrection. But in diseased conditions like our own there has come to be a standing quarrel between two schools about the order of the two ideas. Christians and all inhabiters of the ancient culture feel that Spring is the symbol of Easter. Materialists, notably all sorts of atheist anthropologists, hold that Easter was only a symbol of spring. Professors of folklore insisted that primitive men (with whom they seemed to be on very intimate terms) had made up a rather unnatural masquerade of myth, merely to cover the natural facts of experience. By the time that common sense began to pluck up courage to question what were called the Conclusions of Science, it became apparent that there were a good many questions which science could not answer, and a good many points on which her conclusions were anything but conclusive. Why should anyone want to cover up ordinary facts with an extraordinary story? Why should anybody think he could keep the grass a secret by the invention of a grass-god? And why could not primitive man be primitive enough to leave plain facts as they were? Was it not much more natural to imagine flowers or foliage as ornaments for a god or hero than to imagine a hollow idol invented only to stand between men and flowers? Is it not more sane to say that the visible renewal of the earth gives hints or signs to those who already believe in heaven? But whatever mysteries were accepted by the ancient pagans have become mere mystifications in the minds of the modern Pantheists. I imagine no man’s mind was ever in so complete a muddle as the mind of the great poet Shelley when he wrote the famous line, ‘If winter comes, can spring be far behind?’
To begin with, the more chilly are in the habit of reminding the poet that when Winter comes, Spring is at least a quarter of the year behind. But it will also strike the natural man (as distinct from that most unnatural man whom we call the nature-worshipper) that it would be just as easy to turn the phrase from optimism to pessimism by taking another section of the year. It would be quite as sensible to say, ‘If summer comes, can autumn be far behind?’ And it is probably within the range of the intelligence, even of a pantheist surveying the whole universe, to foresee that Winter will not only come, but will certainly come again. There is nothing but nonsense, therefore, in all pretences that the mere round of Nature itself is the source of our highest hopes or could by itself have evolved all that is meant by Resurrection. It is the soul that has received an unspeakable secret from heaven which it can only express in images of the earth, and naturally expresses in terms of the temporary resurrections of the earth. In other words, it uses Spring as a symbol of Easter; not Easter as a symbol of Spring. Anyone who will compare the beautiful lines of Shelley with some equally beautiful lines in one of Mr Belloc’s sonnets will measure the difference made by a philosophy that happens to make sense.
For as you pass, the natural life of things Proclaims the Resurrection; as you pass, Remembered summer shines along the grass And something in me of the immortal sings.
Here the poet does not talk as if next spring would last for ever; on the contrary, he talks of last summer that is already dead. But he can sing over both because of something in him different which does not die.
In this Spring more than all the other Springs, in this Easter more than all other Easters, we have to face the awful exaltation of that truth. I mean the truth that Resurrection is of faith and not of any false analogy from the senses or the seasons. Three things at least, peculiar to the present time, prevent us from identifying that hope with a revival or riot of vegetation. First, the beautiful condition to which a few centuries of progress have reduced half the landscapes of the land. Remembered summer does not shine along the grass in Pudsey or Wigan, because there is no grass to shine. The natural life of things does not proclaim the Resurrection in Sheffield and Huddersfield, because the life of things is not natural. It is only the supernatural life that dares to proclaim it there. Poets cannot describe the town landscapes as changing with the spring. They cannot say that in the spring a brighter scarlet glows in the suburban pillar-box, or in the spring the wanton policeman gets himself another crest or even another helmet. It is only human hopefulness that can see any hope in the human institution of the pillar-box; and only by a great act of faith do we affirm that policemen shall rise again from the dead. Nature cannot help us now, even as a symbol; for industrialism has destroyed the natural, but it cannot destroy the supernatural.
Second, we shall not fall into the pantheist fallacy of Shelley because it is only too likely that Nature, in the sense of immediate material resourses, will take on a sterner aspect in later and darker days; the days in which nature-worshippers become devil-worshippers. Merely natural optimists will become very unnatural pessimists— and it will be quite natural.
Lastly, the very task before us is enough to prove that things begin in the mind and that the spirit must blow its trumpet before any resurrection. For we are trying to bring back a Spring that as yet only exists in the spirit; to create grass and green things which must exist in a dream before they can exist in a landscape; the growth of which will be a miracle in the sense of something turning back the whole trend and movement of the earth. A Revolution is a mild thing compared with a Resurrection; and nothing less can raise us from the dead.
G. K.’s Weekly, March 26th, 1932
THE PERSON OF JESUS CHRIST
Chesterton had been invited to reply to an article in The Hibbert Journal, which had challenged our Lord’s divinity and attributed human fallibility and error to His teaching. He begins by saying that he intends to speak of ‘the actual Jesus as He appears in the New Testament; not as He appears to a believer, but as He appears to anybody; as He appeared to me when I was an agnostic; as He appeared and still appears to pagans when they first read about Him.’ If, therefore, he says, I speak of Him in this article with something that even sounds like levity, let it be understood that l am speaking for the sake of argument of a hypothetical human Jesus in the Syrian documents and not of that divine personality in whom I believe.’
‘Now, the thing that strikes me most about [the critic] is that he is wrong on the facts. He is especially wrong on the primary fact of what sort of person the Jesus of the Gospels appears to be. The whole of [his] contention is ultimately this; that when we look, so to speak, through the four windows of the Evangelists at this mysterious figure, we can see there a recognizable Jew of the first century, with the traceable limitations of such a man. Now this is exactly what we do not see. If we must put the thing profanely and without sympathy, what we see is this: an extraordinary being who would certainly have seemed as mad in one century as another, who makes a vague and vast claim to divinity, who constantly contradicts himself, who imposes impossible commands, who where he seems wrong to us would certainly have seemed quite as wrong to anybody else, who where he seems right to us is often in tune with matters not ancient but modern, such, for instance, as the adoration of children. For some of his utterances men might fairly call him a maniac; for others, men long centuries afterwards might justly call him a prophet. But what nobody can possibly call him is a Galilean of the time of Tiberius. That was not how he appeared to his own family who tried to lock him up as a lunatic. That is not how he appeared to his own nation, who lynched him, still shuddering at his earth-shaking blasphemies. The impression produced on sceptics, ancient and modern, is not that of limits, but rather of a dangerous absence of limits; a certain shapelessness and mystery of which one cannot say how far it will go. … The thing to say about Jesus, if you do not like Him, is that He was a megalomaniac like Nero or a mystagogue like Cagliostro. But whether or no He was small, it is plain that the Gospels are too small for Him. Whether or no He is large, He is too large for the stage. …
If I take it for granted (as most modern people do) that Jesus of Nazareth was one of the ordinary teachers of men, then I find Him splendid and suggestive indeed, but full of riddles and outrageous demands, by no means so workable and everyday an adviser as many heathens and many Jesuits. But if I put myself hypothetically into the other attitude, the case becomes curiously arresting and even thrilling. If I say ‘Suppose the Divine did really walk and talk upon the earth, what should we be likely to think of it?’—then the foundations of my mind are moved. So far as I can form any conjecture, I think we should see in such a being exactly the perplexities that we see in the central figure of the Gospels: I think he would seem to us extreme and violent; because he would see some further development in virtue which would be for us untried. I think he would seem to us to contradict himself; because, looking down on life like a map, he would see a connection between things which to us are disconnected. I think, how ever, that he would always ring true to our own sense of right, but ring (so to speak) too loud and too clear. He would be too good but never too bad for us: ‘Be ye perfect.’ I think would be, in the nature of things, some tragic collision between him and the humanity he had created, culminating in something that would be at once a crime and an expiation. I think he would be blamed as a hard prophet for dragging down the haughty, and blamed also as a weak sentimentalist for loving the things that cling in corners, children or beggars. I think, in short, that he would give us a sensation that he was turning all our standards upside down, and yet also a sensation that he had undeniably put them the right way up. So, if I had been a Greek sage or an Arab poet before Christ, I should have figured to myself, in a dream, what would actually happen if this earth bore secretly the father of gods and men. In the abstract, it may be that it is still only a dream. Between those who think it is a dream and those who do not, is to be waged the great war of our future in which all these frivolities will be forgotten.
Hibbert Journal, July, 1909
THE DIVINE COMEDY
At the beginning and at the end of all life, learned and ignorant, there is the abiding truth that in the inmost theatre of the soul of man, with a scenery of bottomless infinities and appalling abstractions, there is always going forward one ancient mystery play in which there are only two characters.
The Speaker, February 9th, 1901
THE DRAGON
The following is the last sentence of Chesterton’s first published essay; it appeared in the first number of The Debater, the journal of the famous J.D.C. at St Paul’s School. In spite of its schoolboy rhetoric, it expresses something of which Chesterton’s whole literary career was, in a very real sense, a fulfilment.
Reader, when you or I meet him [the dragon], under whatever disguise, and perhaps rescue a few captives from his black cavern, may we bear a brave lance and a spotless shield through the crashing mêlée of life’s narrow lists and may our wearied swords have struck fiercely on the painted crests of Imposture and Injustice when the Dark Herald comes to lead us to the pavilion of the King.
The Debater, March—April, 1891
THE DIVINE COMEDY THE DRAGON THE DEBATER
I have always engaged, and always shall engage, in any sort of discussion on the first principles of human existence.
Daily News, July 7th, 1906
LA DIVINA COMMEDIA IL DRAGO IL DISPUTATORE
Mi sono sempre impegnato, e sempre mi impegnerò, in ogni sorta di discussione sui primi princìpi dell’esistenza umana.
Daily News, 7 luglio 1906
HUMOUR AND GRAVITY
There is one very fixed, and I think very false, conception current in human life—the conception that to laugh at a thing is in some strange way to score off it. The literature of blasphemy, for in stance, always assumes that when a thing has been shown to be ridiculous, it has in some way been shown to be disgusting or untrue. So far from having been shown to be disgusting, it has not even been shown to be undignified; so far from having been shown to be untrue, it has not even been shown to be improbable. … A thing may be too sad to be believed or too wicked to be believed or too good to be believed; but it cannot be too absurd to be believed in this planet of frogs and elephants, of crocodiles and cuttle-fish. The round earth itself is so round that it is impossible to say for certain that it is not standing on its head.
Nor is it true that the fact of a thing being ludicrous impugns its moral value. Many modern writers seem under the persistent impression that a man or a cause, when it becomes laughable, betrays itself and gives inherent signs of failure. If that were so, scarcely one of the causes that have risen and ruled over the world of men would ever have come into any maturity at all. Science and Christianity, Democracy and Imperialism, conceptions and ideals of the most widely divergent character, are all alike in this one fact, that they were all, at the very first glance, absurd … And the matter, of course, goes much further than this, for the element of the laughable is not only always potential, but sometimes inevitable and inherent. There is something about heroic postures and heroic words which renders very probable this reaction of derision and entertainment. Have the humorists ever considered what was the meaning of that ‘mocking’ to which so many martyrs and prophets are described as subject? The tyrants and the populace did not ‘mock’ the martyr because they had a natural malice against courage or purity. They ‘mocked’ the hero or the prophet for a very excellent reason: because the hero and the prophet were really funny.
This being so, we are driven to ask ourselves whether this sense of humour, which is so persistently exalted in our day, really deserves the full measure of its encomiums; whether it is really, as is so constantly implied, a test of character, a guide in conduct, an Ithuriel’s spear against evil, a standard and a method, a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. It has impugned many sanctities; it also has become a sanctity and it is time it was impugned …
Of course it is perfectly evident, were we concerned with what is perfectly evident, that a sense of humour has enormous advantages. It gives us delicacy and a secret independence of mind. It makes a man elvishly quick and accurate. But there is one thing to be said against a sense of humour, a thing that has to be said most seriously and most decisively; it does not assist, it rather hinders, the joy of life. The two elements of joy and humour, of exaltation and amusement, are commonly combined in one eudemonistic theory, in one worship of pleasure. But they are in truth vitally antagonistic. If the hedonist asks, ‘Where is the glory that was Greece? Where are the gods and priests of delight?’, it ought to be easy to answer him. They have vanished at the first whisper of modern humour. It was not the monks nor the saints that slew them; it was the jesters.
This vital kinship between gravity and pleasure is one of those principles which, once they are realized, explain a perpetually increasing mass of facts. To take one man out of a thousand. Whether or no Gladstone was the best or the cleverest or greatest or most statesmanlike of any particular body of men, there can be no doubt as to one supreme fact about him— he was certainly about the happiest man that ever lived. And this was considerably due to the fact that he was not tormented by any very strong sense of humour. To have splendid talents, to move in a thrilling theatre of events, to plan vast remedies, to defend them with dramatic pronouncements, to believe with equal intensity in one’s own capacity and one’s own cause, to enjoy clean habits and heroic health, to live to a pleasant old age in a glow of fame and personal dignity; this seems an almost legendary life, but this was his. But laughter would have spoilt it. It is only necessary to make one remark about Gladstone’s great rival. No one who has enjoyed the wit and laughing wisdom of Disraeli and really understood its essence, would be surprised to hear that he was an unhappy man. Let us rather pray for that appalling gravity which marks the happiest of all human creatures, lovers in ecstasy and children at play.
Black and White, April 18th, 1903
AN ATHEISTIC NIGHTMARE
In the whole world of things conceivable there is nothing so unmercifully hopeless as an infinity of mere facetiousness, a tyrannical nightmare of jesting. All the really popular humorists such as Sterne and Dickens have really owed their place by the fireside, not to the fact that they were humorous, but to the fact that they were serious, that all their jokes were bubbles upon a great sea of sympathy. Without this assurance, the human soul is more chilled and homeless in the world of pure humour than in the Arctic circle. There are few of us who would not prefer to find ourselves in the deepest of Dante’s hells, throttled in the ice among the traitors, to finding ourselves in a world such as that which is eternally renewed by the new comic papers, with their men who care for nothing but dancing girls and their dancing girls who care for nothing but money. In the circle of the traitors, amid the black and crushing memories of perjury and oppression, it might be possible to pass a thousand years with the hope that some mellow and generous memory might awaken for a moment in the heart of one of the damned. But the world of pure levity is a world by itself; its bloodless and godless inhabitants have never had any serious moments, and to a man with any human capacity for joy their faces are all as strange and cruel as those of invaders from some other planet. To dream of such a world of unremitting and inevitable jest and luxury would be an atheistic nightmare from which a man might with a good deal of relief awake to be hanged.
The Speaker, August 10th, 1901
UN INCUBO ATEO
In tutto il mondo delle cose concepibili non v’è nulla di così spietatamente disperante quanto un’infinità di pura arguzia, un tirannico incubo di facezie. Tutti gli umoristi davvero popolari, come Sterne e Dickens, hanno in realtà dovuto il loro posto accanto al focolare non al fatto di essere umoristici, ma al fatto di essere seri, al fatto che tutte le loro battute erano bolle sulla superficie di un grande mare di simpatia. Senza questa certezza, l’anima umana si sente più intirizzita e più senza patria nel mondo del puro umorismo che non nel circolo polare artico. Pochi tra noi non preferirebbero ritrovarsi nel più profondo degli inferni di Dante, strozzati nel ghiaccio in mezzo ai traditori, piuttosto che ritrovarsi in un mondo come quello eternamente rinnovato dai nuovi giornali comici, con i loro uomini che non si curano di nulla se non delle ballerine e le loro ballerine che non si curano di nulla se non del denaro. Nel cerchio dei traditori, tra i neri e schiaccianti ricordi dello spergiuro e della sopraffazione, potrebbe essere possibile trascorrere mille anni con la speranza che un ricordo dolce e generoso si ridesti per un istante nel cuore di uno dei dannati. Ma il mondo della pura leggerezza è un mondo a sé; i suoi abitanti esangui e senza Dio non hanno mai avuto momenti seri, e per un uomo dotato di una qualunque umana capacità di gioia i loro volti appaiono tutti tanto strani e crudeli quanto quelli di invasori venuti da qualche altro pianeta. Sognare un simile mondo di facezia e di lusso incessanti e ineluttabili sarebbe un incubo ateo dal quale un uomo potrebbe risvegliarsi, con non poco sollievo, per andare a farsi impiccare.
The Speaker, 10 agosto 1901
THE ANATOMY OF THE JOKE
There is nothing comic about a falling tree. There is nothing really funny about a falling star. And there is very little amusement to be got out of a falling thunderbolt, unless it knocks over some carefully selected and suitable person; such as a sociologist proving that he can foresee all future eventualities or an astronomer disproving the existence of thunderbolts.
In short, a falling star is not fantastic, but a falling man is, or can be, fantastic. Why? I do not believe the question can be fully answered, for the same reason that I do believe the current answers are wrong; because it lies deep in the mysterious matter of what did really happen when man received or evolved the mind that sunders him from the beasts and birds. But I will throw out a few vague suggestions about the proper direction of inquiry.
Man himself is a joke in the sense of a paradox. That there is something very extraordinary about his position, and therefore presumably about his past, is the clearest sort of common sense. Alone of all creatures he is not self-sufficient, even while he is supreme.
He dare not sleep in his own skin; he cannot simply put his own food into his own stomach. He has to put the latter first into an oven and cover the former first with external and foreign hair; always sleeping in somebody else’s skin. In one sense he is a cripple amongst the creatures; he is at once imperfect and artificial like a monster with two glass eyes and two wooden legs. He is propped upon crutches that are called furniture; he is patched and protected with bandages that are called clothes.
Properly visualized, he is grotesque, not when he sits on a hat, but when he allows a hat to sit on him. Properly understood, he is not so ridiculous when he sits on a hat as when he sits on a chair; for then he is acting like some monstrous sort of crippled quadruped and equipping himself with four wooden legs. Why the lord of creation is a cripple in this queer sense is an open question; but some maintain that it is because he once had a bad fall.
Now this humorous human quality can, as a matter of fact, be much more easily connected with this old idea of a fall of man than with the current and conventional ideas about the evolution of man. To begin with, the explanation, whatever it is, must be some thing more or less peculiar to man.
Those who have heard the hyena laugh will not admit that his laughter would add much to the mirth of a happy fireside. The fantastic shapes of the other animals are only fantastic as mirrored in the mind of man. In this sense we may say that the camel’s hump and the rhinoceros’ horn are human secrets and even human possessions; and that we know the pelican and the penguin better than they know themselves.
To all appearance the animal world is unconscious of the grotesque; and considered in the light of mere animal evolution, there is hardly anything grotesque about their innocence.
But let us entertain, merely as a hypothesis and without any reference to doctrinal details or applications, some such supposition as this. That at some time in the unknowable past the creature that has become man received some sort of shock or revelation, by the expansion of his own or the visitation of other psychical forces, whereby he gained a sense of a separate and more divine destiny; that he afterwards lost this direct vision and lived on a lower plane, so that he was haunted with a curious sensation that the accidents of this world are in a sense alien to him, while their very inappropriateness is mixed with some memories of happiness and some hope of recovery. To put it shortly, he is in a sense pleased to be the only creature who is in the wrong place, while all other creatures are in the right one.
It seems to me that the problem of humour presents one primary condition and difficulty which divides it from most others. It seems to me quite clear that the process which ends in a joke necessarily begins with a certain idea of dignity. The dignity is in some way implied beforehand. Beauty or knowledge might conceivably break on a person without previous implications. But incongruity cannot break on him without the pre-existence or pre-supposition of something with which it fails to be congruous. So far as one can see, that pre-supposition is of something erect and, as it were, respectable about the station or stature of humanity.
We think the projection of an elephant’s trunk grotesque because it is near enough to being a caricature of a man’s nose. We do not think the projection of a precipice grotesque because it is not near enough to imply any comparison with humanity at all.
The more this dark matter is independently considered, the more, I think, we shall find this human standard, as of an erect figure, dominating it like a statue. All depends on this dim or fantastic tracing everywhere of the image of man; and I believe the key is somewhere in that mysterious oracle which identified it with the image of God.
Hearst’s International, June, 1922
L’ANATOMIA DELLA BATTUTA
Non c’è nulla di comico in un albero che cade. Non c’è nulla di davvero buffo in una stella che cade. E ben poco divertimento si ricava da un fulmine che cade, a meno che non abbatta qualche persona accuratamente scelta e appropriata: un sociologo che va dimostrando di saper prevedere tutti gli eventi futuri, oppure un astronomo che va confutando l’esistenza dei fulmini.
In breve, una stella cadente non è fantastica, mentre un uomo che cade lo è, o può esserlo. Perché? Non credo che alla domanda si possa dare piena risposta, per la stessa ragione per cui credo che le risposte correnti siano sbagliate: perché essa giace nel profondo della misteriosa questione di che cosa sia realmente accaduto quando l’uomo ricevette, o sviluppò, la mente che lo separa dalle bestie e dagli uccelli. Ma azzarderò qualche vago suggerimento sulla giusta direzione dell’indagine.
L’uomo stesso è una battuta, nel senso di un paradosso. Che vi sia qualcosa di assai straordinario nella sua condizione, e dunque presumibilmente nel suo passato, è la specie più limpida di buon senso. Solo fra tutte le creature egli non basta a se stesso, anche mentre è supremo.
Non osa dormire nella propria pelle; non può semplicemente mettere il proprio cibo nel proprio stomaco. Deve prima infilare quest’ultimo in un forno, e ricoprire il primo con peli esterni ed estranei; dorme sempre nella pelle di qualcun altro. In un certo senso egli è uno storpio fra le creature; è al tempo stesso imperfetto e artificiale, come un mostro con due occhi di vetro e due gambe di legno. È puntellato su stampelle che si chiamano mobili; è rattoppato e protetto con bende che si chiamano vestiti.
Visto come si deve, egli è grottesco non quando si siede su un cappello, ma quando permette a un cappello di sedersi su di lui. Compreso come si deve, non è tanto ridicolo quando si siede su un cappello quanto quando si siede su una sedia; poiché allora agisce come una sorta di mostruoso quadrupede storpio, dotandosi di quattro gambe di legno. Perché il signore del creato sia uno storpio in questo bizzarro senso è una questione aperta; ma taluni sostengono che sia perché un tempo fece una brutta caduta.
Ora, questa umoristica qualità umana può, di fatto, essere connessa assai più agevolmente a questa antica idea di una caduta dell’uomo che non alle idee correnti e convenzionali sull’evoluzione dell’uomo. Tanto per cominciare, la spiegazione, qualunque essa sia, dev’essere qualcosa di più o meno peculiare all’uomo.
Chi ha udito ridere la iena non ammetterà che la sua risata aggiungerebbe granché all’allegria di un lieto focolare. Le forme fantastiche degli altri animali sono fantastiche soltanto in quanto rispecchiate nella mente dell’uomo. In questo senso possiamo dire che la gobba del cammello e il corno del rinoceronte sono segreti umani, e persino possessi umani; e che noi conosciamo il pellicano e il pinguino meglio di quanto essi conoscano se stessi.
A quanto pare, il mondo animale è inconsapevole del grottesco; e considerata alla luce della mera evoluzione animale, non c’è quasi nulla di grottesco nella loro innocenza.
Ma consideriamo, puramente come ipotesi e senza alcun riferimento a dettagli o applicazioni dottrinali, una supposizione di questo genere. Che in un qualche momento dell’inconoscibile passato la creatura che è divenuta uomo abbia ricevuto una sorta di scossa o di rivelazione, per l’espansione delle proprie forze psichiche o per la visitazione di altre, mediante la quale acquistò il senso di un destino separato e più divino; che in seguito abbia perduto questa visione diretta e sia vissuta su un piano inferiore, sicché rimase perseguitata dalla curiosa sensazione che gli accidenti di questo mondo le siano in un certo senso estranei, mentre la loro stessa inadeguatezza si mescola a certi ricordi di felicità e a certe speranze di recupero. Per dirla in breve, egli è in un certo senso lieto di essere l’unica creatura che si trova nel posto sbagliato, mentre tutte le altre creature si trovano in quello giusto.
Mi sembra che il problema dell’umorismo presenti una condizione e una difficoltà primaria che lo separa dalla maggior parte degli altri. Mi sembra del tutto chiaro che il processo il quale sfocia in una battuta comincia necessariamente da una certa idea di dignità. La dignità è in qualche modo presupposta in anticipo. La bellezza o la conoscenza potrebbero, concepibilmente, irrompere su una persona senza previe implicazioni. Ma l’incongruità non può irrompere su di lui senza la pre-esistenza o il pre-supposto di qualcosa con cui essa non riesce a essere congrua. Per quel che si può vedere, tale presupposto è quello di qualcosa di eretto e, per così dire, rispettabile intorno alla posizione o alla statura dell’umanità.
Riteniamo grottesca la protuberanza della proboscide di un elefante perché è abbastanza vicina a essere una caricatura del naso di un uomo. Non riteniamo grottesca la sporgenza di un precipizio, perché non è abbastanza vicina da implicare alcun paragone con l’umanità.
Quanto più questa oscura materia viene considerata di per sé, tanto più, credo, troveremo questo standard umano, quello di una figura eretta, che la domina come una statua. Tutto dipende da questa fioca o fantastica traccia, ovunque disseminata, dell’immagine dell’uomo; e credo che la chiave stia in qualche punto di quel misterioso oracolo che la identificò con l’immagine di Dio.
Hearst’s International, giugno 1922
PUNCH AND JUDY
There is something which is popular and still poor. There is something that is successful and yet bankrupt. There is a drama before the public which the public always applauds. It has run for a million nights and still it does not pay. That is a case for municipal enterprise. I propose that Punch and Judy should be put on the rates.
I have heard the oddest things said about Punch by literary men. I have heard him called Pagan. I have heard him degraded to the level of the Superman. Surely, however, it is obvious that Punch is the most Christian of all possible figures. Punch is Christian because Punch is grotesque.
The one thing that we have all forgotten about Mr Punch is the one thing that our fathers made most prominent—his hump. The victories of Punch are, indeed, the victories of a violent person, but they are the victories of a hunchback. That is, they are the victories of a grotesque cripple. No human being of any imagination ever took the smallest interest in the victories of the strong. It is only the victories of the weak that can be interesting. And all the victories, almost literally without exception, which humanity has celebrated at all, have been the victories of the weak— the weak in size, as in Jack the Giant-killer; or in numbers as at Marathon or Thermopylae; or in station and obvious chances, as in Cinderella or modern socialism; or in bodily defect, as in the blind Samson or the hump-backed Punch.
There are, indeed, human stories like that of Samson, of a man stronger than any other individual man. But there are no stories of this strong man conquering another weaker man and exulting in his strength … Strong as he is, his enemy must be stronger than he. And this is obviously the real meaning of Mr Punch. The whole point of the drama is that one highly ridiculous person with a hump is a match for all the organized forces of society, including the Beadle and the Hangman. The emphasis is not on the fact that he claims victory or has a right to expect it; the point is that he does not expect the victory, but does get it. The whole point of the story is that of a forlorn hope. The whole point is not that Punch puts his foot down, but that he has his back to the wall …
But the moral claim of Punch and Judy, though obvious, is not its only claim. Artistically it represents something sadder than a lost art; it represents a frustrated art. The technical conception of the whole thing, that of managing a dolt with the thumb and two fingers, is exactly one of those direct arts that ought not to be allowed to die. It is probably as subtle as fencing, which is also chiefly managed by the thumb and forefinger. There must be men who can do it, undeservedly starving amongst men who cannot do it. The ragged English Punch and Judy is infinitely superior (on the first principles of art) to the elaborate and civilized Italian system of marionettes. Marionettes are mechanism, like mere trains and telephones. Punch and Judy is manual labour; it is in a strict sense handicraft. The man works this thing—works it by personal and vital gestures—as if he were himself the actor. It is his own right hand that has become to him a separate person. It is his right hand that has lost or has not lost its cunning. It is his right hand that has taught him terrible things. And when he lifts the three fingers that make a doll into a man, he is lifting the same three fingers that all High Pontiffs have lifted in benediction.
If Punch and Judy is permitted to die, there will die with it three things. First, a genuine historic survival of the old Christian farce, in which the clown or fool always had the best of everybody. Secondly, there will die a definite mode of dexterity; one which could be applied to a hundred other hearty pantomimes besides this of Punch and Judy. Thirdly, it will mean the disappearance of a great pleasure of the poor.
Daily News, October 26th, 1907
PUNCH E JUDY
C’è qualcosa che è popolare eppure povero. C’è qualcosa che ha successo eppure è in bancarotta. C’è un dramma dinanzi al pubblico che il pubblico applaude sempre. È andato in scena per un milione di sere e ancora non rende. È un caso da impresa municipale. Propongo che Punch e Judy siano messi a carico dell’erario.
Ho udito le cose più strane dette su Punch da uomini di lettere. L’ho sentito chiamare pagano. L’ho sentito degradare al livello del Superuomo. Eppure è sicuramente ovvio che Punch è la più cristiana di tutte le figure possibili. Punch è cristiano perché Punch è grottesco.
L’unica cosa che tutti abbiamo dimenticato di Mr Punch è l’unica cosa che i nostri padri mettevano più in risalto: la sua gobba. Le vittorie di Punch sono, in verità, le vittorie di una persona violenta, ma sono le vittorie di un gobbo. Ossia, sono le vittorie di uno storpio grottesco. Nessun essere umano dotato d’immaginazione ha mai provato il minimo interesse per le vittorie del forte. Sono soltanto le vittorie del debole a poter essere interessanti. E tutte le vittorie, quasi alla lettera senza eccezione, che l’umanità ha mai celebrato, sono state le vittorie del debole: il debole per statura, come in Jack l’ammazzagiganti; o per numero, come a Maratona o alle Termopili; o per condizione e possibilità evidenti, come in Cenerentola o nel socialismo moderno; o per difetto corporeo, come nel cieco Sansone o nel gobbo Punch.
Ci sono, in verità, storie umane come quella di Sansone, di un uomo più forte di qualsiasi altro uomo singolo. Ma non ci sono storie di questo uomo forte che sconfigge un altro uomo più debole ed esulta della propria forza… Per quanto egli sia forte, il suo nemico dev’essere più forte di lui. E questo è ovviamente il vero significato di Mr Punch. Tutto il senso del dramma sta nel fatto che una persona altamente ridicola con una gobba tiene testa a tutte le forze organizzate della società, compresi il Balivo e il Boia. L’accento non è posto sul fatto che egli rivendichi la vittoria o abbia diritto di aspettarsela; il punto è che egli non si aspetta la vittoria, eppure la ottiene. Tutto il senso della storia è quello di una impresa disperata. Tutto il senso non è che Punch batte i pugni, ma che ha le spalle al muro…
Ma la pretesa morale di Punch e Judy, per quanto ovvia, non è la sua unica pretesa. Artisticamente rappresenta qualcosa di più triste di un’arte perduta: rappresenta un’arte frustrata. La concezione tecnica dell’intera faccenda, quella di manovrare un fantoccio col pollice e due dita, è esattamente una di quelle arti dirette che non dovrebbe essere lasciata morire. È probabilmente sottile quanto la scherma, che pure è governata soprattutto dal pollice e dall’indice. Ci devono essere uomini capaci di farlo, che muoiono di fame immeritatamente tra uomini che non ne sono capaci. Il povero, sdrucito Punch e Judy inglese è infinitamente superiore (secondo i primi principi dell’arte) all’elaborato e civilizzato sistema italiano delle marionette. Le marionette sono meccanismo, come i semplici treni e telefoni. Punch e Judy è lavoro manuale; è, in senso stretto, artigianato. L’uomo aziona questa cosa — la aziona con gesti personali e vitali — come se fosse egli stesso l’attore. È la sua stessa mano destra a essersi fatta per lui persona a parte. È la sua mano destra ad aver perduto o a non aver perduto la sua abilità. È la sua mano destra ad avergli insegnato cose terribili. E quando egli solleva le tre dita che fanno di un fantoccio un uomo, solleva le stesse tre dita che tutti i Sommi Pontefici hanno sollevato in benedizione.
Se si permette a Punch e Judy di morire, con esso moriranno tre cose. Primo, una genuina sopravvivenza storica dell’antica farsa cristiana, in cui il clown o buffone aveva sempre la meglio su tutti. Secondo, morirà un preciso modo di destrezza; uno che potrebbe applicarsi a cento altre gioviali pantomime oltre a questa di Punch e Judy. Terzo, significherà la scomparsa di un grande piacere dei poveri.
Daily News, 26 ottobre 1907
PUNCH AND JUDY, II
The art of the Punch and Judy show, like the art of the old guilds, is a handicraft. It is that low thing called manual labour, like the work of the sculptor, the violinist and the painter of the Transfiguration. The interest of it lies in the fact that the only instrument really employed is the hand, and the costume of the comic figure is merely a kind of glove. Everything is done with these three fingers, or rather two fingers and a thumb, with which, in fact, all the mightiest or most ingenious works of man have been done. Everything turns on the co-operation of that trinity of digits: the pen, the pencil, the bow of the violin, and even the foil or the sword. In this respect Punch and Judy has a purity and classical simplicity as a form of art, superior even to what is more commonly called the puppet show— the more mechanical system of marionettes that work on wires. And there is this final touch of disgrace in the neglect of it: that while marionettes are mostly a foreign amusement, Punch has become a purely English survival. It is very English, it is really popular, it is within the reach of comparatively poor men. Who can wonder that it is dying out?
Illustrated London News, October 8th, 1921
PUNCH E JUDY, II
L’arte dello spettacolo di Punch e Judy, come l’arte delle antiche corporazioni, è un artigianato. È quella cosa umile chiamata lavoro manuale, come l’opera dello scultore, del violinista e del pittore della Trasfigurazione. Il suo interesse sta nel fatto che l’unico strumento realmente impiegato è la mano, e il costume della figura comica non è che una specie di guanto. Tutto è fatto con queste tre dita, o piuttosto due dita e un pollice, coi quali, in effetti, tutte le opere più poderose o più ingegnose dell’uomo sono state compiute. Tutto ruota attorno alla cooperazione di quella trinità di dita: la penna, la matita, l’archetto del violino, e perfino il fioretto o la spada. Sotto questo aspetto Punch e Judy possiede una purezza e una classica semplicità come forma d’arte, superiore perfino a ciò che più comunemente si chiama spettacolo di burattini — il più meccanico sistema delle marionette che si muovono su fili. E c’è questo ultimo tocco di vergogna nel trascurarlo: che mentre le marionette sono per lo più un divertimento straniero, Punch è diventato una sopravvivenza puramente inglese. È molto inglese, è davvero popolare, è alla portata di uomini relativamente poveri. Chi può stupirsi che stia scomparendo?
Illustrated London News, 8 ottobre 1921
THE SAINT AND THE DRAGON
The primary things in the universe, before all letters and all language, are a note of exclamation and a note of interrogation. The very shapes of them are startlingly symbolic; the first straight and simple, the second crooked and looking like a sneer. The note of admiration is Man, erect and wondering, worshipping the wonderful sky. The note of interrogation is the only thinking thing that was with him in Eden from the first. The note of interrogation is the Serpent, curved and at once cowering and insinuating. The first appreciates; the second depreciates. The two have been allegorized and repeated in every bewildering blazon of mythology and heraldry. St George was the note of admiration; he was Adam in armour. The dragon was the note of interrogation gorgeously engraved, like a capital in a Gothic missal. They have come together in many ages with the sound of steel, the, straight swords of simplicity and the curved scimitars of scepticism; nor has there been any other battle since the beginning of the world.
Daily News, July 8th, 1905
IL SANTO E IL DRAGO
Le cose primarie nell’universo, prima di ogni lettera e di ogni linguaggio, sono un punto esclamativo e un punto interrogativo. Le loro stesse forme sono sorprendentemente simboliche; il primo diritto e semplice, il secondo storto e simile a un ghigno. Il punto ammirativo è l’Uomo, eretto e stupito, che adora il cielo meraviglioso. Il punto interrogativo è l’unica creatura pensante che fu con lui nell’Eden fin dal principio. Il punto interrogativo è il Serpente, ricurvo e insieme acquattato e insinuante. Il primo apprezza; il secondo deprezza. I due sono stati allegorizzati e ripetuti in ogni sconcertante blasone di mitologia e araldica. San Giorgio era il punto ammirativo; era Adamo in armatura. Il drago era il punto interrogativo splendidamente inciso, come un capolettera in un messale gotico. Si sono scontrati in molte epoche col suono dell’acciaio, le diritte spade della semplicità e le curve scimitarre dello scetticismo; né vi è stata altra battaglia dal principio del mondo.
Daily News, 8 luglio 1905
A UNIVERSAL RELEVANCE
You cannot evade the issue of God; whether you talk about pigs or the binomial theory, you are still talking about Him. Now if Christianity be … a fragment of metaphysical nonsense invented by a few people, then, of course, defending it will simply mean talking that metaphysical nonsense over and over again. But if Christianity should happen to be true—that is to say, if its God is the real God of the universe—then defending it may mean talking about anything or everything. Things can be irrelevant to the proposition that Christianity is false, but nothing can be irrelevant to the proposition that Christianity is true. Zulus, gardening, butchers’ shops, lunatics asylums, housemaids and the French Revolution—all these things not only may have something to do with the Christian God, but must have something to do with Him if He really lives and reigns.
Daily News, December 12th, 1903
UNA RILEVANZA UNIVERSALE
Non si può eludere la questione di Dio; che si parli di maiali o del teorema binomiale, si sta pur sempre parlando di Lui. Ora, se il cristianesimo fosse… un frammento di sciocchezza metafisica inventato da poche persone, allora, naturalmente, difenderlo significherebbe semplicemente ripetere quella sciocchezza metafisica ancora e ancora. Ma se il cristianesimo dovesse per caso essere vero — vale a dire, se il suo Dio è il Dio reale dell’universo — allora difenderlo può significare parlare di qualsiasi cosa e di ogni cosa. Le cose possono essere irrilevanti rispetto alla proposizione che il cristianesimo è falso, ma nulla può essere irrilevante rispetto alla proposizione che il cristianesimo è vero. Zulù, giardinaggio, botteghe di macellai, manicomi, domestiche e la Rivoluzione francese — tutte queste cose non solo possono avere qualcosa a che fare col Dio cristiano, ma devono avere qualcosa a che fare con Lui, se davvero Egli vive e regna.
Daily News, 12 dicembre 1903
CREEDS AND COBWEBS
People talk nowadays of getting rid of dogmas and all agreeing like brethren. But upon what can they all agree except upon a common dogma? If you agree, you must agree on some statement, if it is only that a cat has four legs. If the dogmas in front of you are false, get rid of them; but do not say that you are getting rid of dogmas. Say that you are getting rid of lies. If the dogmas are true, what can you do but try to get men to agree with them?
Nevertheless there is something deeper behind the rather vague attack on dogma which is widespread in our world. I think what the honest anti-dogmatists really mean about dogma is something like this: it is quite true that when one is talking to simple people such as children or the very poor, one does not repeat theoretic dogmas in their very theoretic form. One does not use frigid and philosophical language. One does not, in short, define the dogma. But let no one suppose that one is any the less dogmatic. For the simple truth is that, instead of defining the dogma, we simply assume the dogma. A mother does not say to her child, ‘There is a personal God, the moral and intelligent Governor of the universe’. She says, ‘God will be pleased if you are good’. She is quite as dogmatic as a college of theologians. Nay, she is more dogmatic, for it is more dogmatic to assume that a dogma is true than to declare that a dogma is true. But she is certainly simpler and better adapted to looking after babies than a college of theologians would be. And from this fact flows a singular consequence. It does often happen that the more good or innocent a man is, the more he imagines that he is undogmatic. The truth is that, so far from being undogmatic, he believes his dogmas so implicitly that he thinks that they are truisms. …
But if there is one thing psychologically certain, it is that men cannot live wholly by instincts, even wholesome instincts. Men must have theories—even to build a wall. It is neither respectful to them, nor dignified in us, that we should always dance round them and implore them to accept our creed. They will find the truth, as we have found it, who deserved it so much less. And the truth is that a man’s philosophy of the cosmos is directly concerned in every act of his life. Call theories threads of cotton; still the strain of life is on those threads Call the metaphysics of free will a mere cob-web; still in the hour of temptation everything will hang on that cob-web. Call the mystical nature of man a mere fancy; the time may come when nothing but that prevents you from shooting a nigger.
Daily News, February 13th, 1906
CREDI E RAGNATELE
Oggigiorno si parla di sbarazzarsi dei dogmi e di trovarsi tutti d’accordo come fratelli. Ma su che cosa possono trovarsi tutti d’accordo se non su un dogma comune? Se si è d’accordo, bisogna esserlo su una qualche affermazione, non fosse che quella che un gatto ha quattro zampe. Se i dogmi che avete davanti sono falsi, sbarazzatevene; ma non dite di sbarazzarvi dei dogmi. Dite di sbarazzarvi delle menzogne. Se i dogmi sono veri, che potete fare se non cercare di indurre gli uomini a concordarvi?
Nondimeno c’è qualcosa di più profondo dietro il piuttosto vago attacco al dogma che è diffuso nel nostro mondo. Credo che ciò che gli onesti antidogmatici intendono davvero riguardo al dogma sia qualcosa del genere: è del tutto vero che quando si parla a persone semplici come i bambini o i molto poveri, non si ripetono i dogmi teorici nella loro forma tutta teorica. Non si usa un linguaggio freddo e filosofico. Non si definisce, insomma, il dogma. Ma nessuno supponga che si sia perciò meno dogmatici. Poiché la semplice verità è che, invece di definire il dogma, semplicemente lo assumiamo. Una madre non dice al suo bambino: «C’è un Dio personale, il Governatore morale e intelligente dell’universo». Dice: «Dio sarà contento se sarai buono». Ella è dogmatica esattamente quanto un collegio di teologi. Anzi, è più dogmatica, poiché è più dogmatico assumere che un dogma sia vero che dichiarare che un dogma è vero. Ma è certamente più semplice e più adatta a occuparsi dei bambini di quanto lo sarebbe un collegio di teologi. E da questo fatto scaturisce una singolare conseguenza. Accade spesso che quanto più un uomo è buono o innocente, tanto più egli immagina di essere non dogmatico. La verità è che, lungi dall’essere non dogmatico, egli crede nei suoi dogmi così implicitamente da ritenerli verità lapalissiane. …
Ma se c’è una cosa psicologicamente certa, è che gli uomini non possono vivere interamente d’istinti, nemmeno d’istinti sani. Gli uomini devono avere teorie — anche solo per costruire un muro. Non è né rispettoso verso di loro, né dignitoso da parte nostra, che si danzi sempre intorno a loro implorandoli di accettare il nostro credo. Troveranno la verità, come l’abbiamo trovata noi, essi che l’hanno meritata tanto meno. E la verità è che la filosofia di un uomo riguardo al cosmo è direttamente coinvolta in ogni atto della sua vita. Chiamate le teorie fili di cotone; eppure la tensione della vita grava su quei fili. Chiamate la metafisica del libero arbitrio una mera ragnatela; eppure nell’ora della tentazione tutto penderà da quella ragnatela. Chiamate la natura mistica dell’uomo una mera fantasia; può venire il momento in cui null’altro che essa v’impedirà di sparare a un negro.
Daily News, 13 febbraio 1906
A PLEA FOR POPULAR PHILOSOPHY
What modern people want to be made to understand is simply that all argument begins with an assumption; that is, with something that you do not doubt. You can, of course, if you like, doubt the assumption at the beginning of your argument, but in that case you are beginning a different argument with another assumption at the beginning of it. Every argument begins with an infallible dogma, and that infallible dogma can only be disputed by falling back on some other infallible dogma; you can never prove your first statement or it would not be your first. All this is the alphabet of thinking… And it has this special and positive point about it, that it can be taught in a school, like the other alphabet. Not to start an argument without stating your postulates could be taught in philosophy as it is taught in Euclid, in a common schoolroom with a blackboard. And I think it might be taught in some simple and rational degree even to the young, before they go out into the streets and are delivered over entirely to the logic and philosophy of the Daily Mail.
Much of our chaos about religion and doubt arises from this—that our modern sceptics always begin by telling us what they do not believe. But even in a sceptic we want to know first what he does believe. Before arguing, we want to know what we need not argue about. And this confusion is infinitely increased by the fact that all the sceptics of our time are sceptics at different degrees of the dissolution of scepticism. …
Now you and I have, I hope, this advantage over all those clever new philosophers, that we happen not to be mad. All of us believe in St Paul’s Cathedral; most of us believe in St Paul. But let us clearly realize this fact, that we do believe in a number of things which are part of our existence, but which cannot be demonstrated. Leave religion for the moment wholly out of the question. All sane men, I say, believe firmly and unalterably in a certain number of things which are unproved and unprovable. Let us state them roughly.
(1) Every sane man believes that the world around him and the people in it are real, and not his own delusion or dream. No man starts burning London in the belief, that his servant will soon wake him for breakfast. But that I, at any given moment, am not in a dream, is unproved and unprovable. That anything exists except myself is unproved and unprovable.
(2) All sane men believe that this world not only exists, but matters. Every man believes there is a sort of obligation on us to interest ourselves in this vision or panorama of life. He would think a man wrong who said, ‘I did not ask for this farce and it bores me. I am aware that an old lady is being murdered down stairs, but I am going to sleep.’ That there is any such duty to improve the things we did not make is a thing unproved and unprovable.
(3) All sane men believe that there is such a thing as a self or ego, which is continuous. There is no inch of my brain matter the same as it was ten years ago. But if I have saved a man in battle ten years ago, I am proud; if I have run away, I am ashamed. That there is such a paramount ‘I’ is unproved and unprovable. But it is more than unproved and unprovable; it is definitely disputed by many metaphysicians.
(4) Lastly, most sane men believe, and all sane men in practice assume, that they have a power of choice and responsibility for action…
Surely it might be possible to establish some plain, dull statement such as the above, to make people see where they stand. And if the youth of the future must not (at present) be taught any religion, it might at least be taught, clearly and firmly, the three or four sanities and certainties of human free thought.
Daily News, June 22nd, 1907
UN’ARRINGA IN FAVORE DELLA FILOSOFIA POPOLARE
Ciò che si dovrebbe far comprendere alle persone moderne è semplicemente che ogni argomentazione comincia con un assunto; ossia con qualcosa di cui non si dubita. Si può, naturalmente, se si vuole, dubitare dell’assunto all’inizio della propria argomentazione, ma in tal caso si sta cominciando un’argomentazione diversa con un altro assunto all’inizio di essa. Ogni argomentazione comincia con un dogma infallibile, e quel dogma infallibile può essere contestato solo ripiegando su qualche altro dogma infallibile; non si può mai dimostrare la propria prima affermazione, o non sarebbe la prima. Tutto ciò è l’abbecedario del pensiero… E ha in sé questo particolare e positivo pregio: che può essere insegnato a scuola, come l’altro abbecedario. Non avviare un’argomentazione senza enunciare i propri postulati potrebbe insegnarsi nella filosofia come s’insegna in Euclide, in una comune aula scolastica con una lavagna. E credo che potrebbe insegnarsi in qualche misura semplice e razionale perfino ai giovani, prima che escano nelle strade e siano consegnati interamente alla logica e alla filosofia del Daily Mail.
Gran parte del nostro caos intorno alla religione e al dubbio nasce da questo — che i nostri scettici moderni cominciano sempre col dirci ciò in cui non credono. Ma anche in uno scettico vogliamo sapere prima ciò in cui egli crede. Prima di argomentare, vogliamo sapere su che cosa non abbiamo bisogno di argomentare. E questa confusione è infinitamente accresciuta dal fatto che tutti gli scettici del nostro tempo sono scettici a gradi diversi della dissoluzione dello scetticismo. …
Ora io e voi abbiamo, spero, questo vantaggio su tutti quei brillanti nuovi filosofi: che per l’appunto non siamo pazzi. Tutti noi crediamo nella Cattedrale di San Paolo; la maggior parte di noi crede in San Paolo. Ma rendiamoci chiaramente conto di questo fatto, che crediamo davvero in un certo numero di cose che sono parte della nostra esistenza, ma che non possono essere dimostrate. Lasciamo per un momento la religione del tutto fuori questione. Tutti gli uomini sani di mente, dico, credono fermamente e immutabilmente in un certo numero di cose che sono non provate e non provabili. Enunciamole grossolanamente.
(1) Ogni uomo sano di mente crede che il mondo intorno a lui e le persone che vi sono siano reali, e non una sua illusione o un suo sogno. Nessun uomo si mette a incendiare Londra nella convinzione che il suo servitore lo sveglierà presto per la colazione. Ma che io, in un dato momento qualsiasi, non stia sognando, è cosa non provata e non provabile. Che qualcosa esista all’infuori di me stesso è cosa non provata e non provabile.
(2) Tutti gli uomini sani di mente credono che questo mondo non solo esiste, ma conta. Ogni uomo crede che ci sia una sorta di obbligo per noi d’interessarci a questa visione o panorama della vita. Riterrebbe nel torto un uomo che dicesse: «Non ho chiesto io questa farsa e mi annoia. So che una vecchia signora sta venendo assassinata al piano di sotto, ma io ho intenzione di dormire.» Che vi sia un simile dovere di migliorare le cose che non abbiamo fatto noi è cosa non provata e non provabile.
(3) Tutti gli uomini sani di mente credono che esista una cosa come un io o ego, che è continuo. Non c’è un solo centimetro della mia materia cerebrale che sia lo stesso di dieci anni fa. Ma se ho salvato un uomo in battaglia dieci anni or sono, ne sono fiero; se sono fuggito, me ne vergogno. Che esista un simile sovrano «io» è cosa non provata e non provabile. Ma è più che non provata e non provabile; è decisamente contestata da molti metafisici.
(4) Infine, la maggior parte degli uomini sani di mente crede, e tutti gli uomini sani di mente in pratica assumono, di avere un potere di scelta e una responsabilità dell’azione…
Sicuramente sarebbe possibile stabilire qualche affermazione piana e scialba come quella di sopra, per far vedere alla gente dove si trova. E se la gioventù del futuro non deve (per ora) essere istruita in alcuna religione, potrebbe almeno esserle insegnato, chiaramente e fermamente, le tre o quattro sanità e certezze del libero pensiero umano.
Daily News, 22 giugno 1907
RUBBISH
This title, however true, is not a mere explosion of my literary modesty. It refers, not solely to the article itself, but also to a superb pile of wood, straw, tar, paper and every random substance which is erected in a field just beyond the end of my garden. It is, as you may guess, a Coronation bonfire; but we remote rustics have to write our articles months, so to speak, before the actual Coronation, and the pile is at present, unfinished and indeed deficient. I have ransacked house and garden for some time to find rubbish to assist the conflagration; and my eye has suddenly fallen on a pile of fine old quarterlies, works on agnosticism, etc. These I am carrying across to the bonfire. Do not fancy that when I speak of rubbish, I mean only the things that I dislike. I mean a particular kind of vagueness and verbiage which must be cut away and cleared before a man can deal with his real adversaries. I do not call Socialism rubbish; I call it a very powerful, plausible and dangerous drug. I do not call Imperialism rubbish; I call it poison. But I do call ‘true Imperialism’ rubbish and ‘true Socialism’ rubbish, for they amount to nothing more than a mild Pharisaism about one’s own marvellous merit in loving one’s country or being sorry for the poor. Nor would I treat as rubbish anything, how ever alien or fantastic, which had a positive significance of any sort. I would not throw into my bonfire the Crown of France or the Koran or the Lord’s Day Observance Act or the Stuart tartan. I should not see mere rubbish in things that meant something, even if we cannot now decipher what it was, as in obscure and perhaps frightful figures and legends that crumble on Assyrian bas-reliefs in Bloomsbury, or in that ring of rock that stands over Salisbury Plain like stones in the crown of some primordial king of giants. Nor again would I class as rubbish (in this sense) those other examples in which we can decipher the statements and see that they are untrue; as in the case of the Monument in Fish Street or the scientific works of Mr Haeckel.
But I mean things that never meant anything; I mean the states manlike pronouncements, the wide outlooks and the well-considered conclusions; I mean whole shelves of Hansard and whole stacks of the Higher Thought Review; all the leading articles that oscillate faintly between two unimportant opinions; all the public speakers who are ‘far from saying’ this or ‘the last to say’ that; all the servile compromises justified by ‘evolution’; all the things that ‘every thoughtful man’ is supposed to think; all the things ‘modern ideas’ are supposed somehow or other to involve; all the owlishly stupid ‘rebukes’ and ‘severe comments’ uttered by judges and statesmen in utterly artificial wrath against utterly insignificant things; all the streams of sentimentalism poured out when you turn the tap, in defence of the dirtiest convenience or the dullest hack politics; all the consciousness of the solemnity of the responsibility, all the realization of the reality of the tendency; in short, all that grows in that wilderness of pride and folly, where pomposity grows like tall grass and polysyllables crawl about like caterpillars. …
But I must break off; because I have to carry all my modern problem novels and books of philosophy and high-class quarterly magazines across to the bonfire beyond the end of my garden.
Daily News, June 24th, 1911
ROBACCIA
Questo titolo, per quanto veritiero, non è una mera esplosione della mia modestia letteraria. Si riferisce non soltanto all’articolo in sé, ma anche a un superbo mucchio di legna, paglia, catrame, carta e ogni sorta di materia casuale che è eretto in un campo appena oltre il limite del mio giardino. È, come potete indovinare, un falò per l’Incoronazione; ma noi rustici sperduti dobbiamo scrivere i nostri articoli mesi, per così dire, prima dell’Incoronazione vera e propria, e il mucchio è al momento incompiuto e anzi carente. Ho frugato per un po’ casa e giardino in cerca di robaccia per alimentare la conflagrazione; e il mio occhio è caduto d’improvviso su un mucchio di vecchie e pregevoli riviste trimestrali, opere sull’agnosticismo, ecc. Queste le sto portando fin laggiù al falò. Non crediate che quando parlo di robaccia io intenda soltanto le cose che mi sono sgradite. Intendo un particolare genere di vaghezza e di verbosità che va tagliato via e sgombrato prima che un uomo possa vedersela coi suoi veri avversari. Non chiamo robaccia il socialismo; lo chiamo una droga assai potente, plausibile e pericolosa. Non chiamo robaccia l’imperialismo; lo chiamo veleno. Ma chiamo bensì robaccia il «vero imperialismo» e robaccia il «vero socialismo», poiché non ammontano a nulla più di un mite fariseismo circa il proprio meraviglioso merito nell’amare il proprio paese o nel provar pena per i poveri. Né tratterei da robaccia alcunché, per quanto estraneo o fantastico, che avesse un qualche significato positivo di qualsiasi sorta. Non getterei nel mio falò la Corona di Francia o il Corano o il Lord’s Day Observance Act o il tartan degli Stuart. Non vedrei mera robaccia in cose che significavano qualcosa, anche se ora non riusciamo a decifrare che cosa fosse, come in oscure e forse spaventose figure e leggende che si sgretolano sui bassorilievi assiri a Bloomsbury, o in quel cerchio di roccia che sovrasta la Piana di Salisbury come pietre nella corona di qualche primordiale re dei giganti. Né ancora classificherei come robaccia (in questo senso) quegli altri esempi in cui riusciamo a decifrare le affermazioni e a vedere che sono false; come nel caso del Monumento in Fish Street o delle opere scientifiche del signor Haeckel.
Ma intendo cose che non hanno mai significato nulla; intendo i pronunciamenti da statista, le ampie prospettive e le conclusioni ben ponderate; intendo intere scaffalature di Hansard e intere cataste della Higher Thought Review; tutti gli articoli di fondo che oscillano fiaccamente tra due opinioni irrilevanti; tutti gli oratori pubblici che sono «lungi dal dire» questo o «gli ultimi a dire» quello; tutti i servili compromessi giustificati dall’«evoluzione»; tutte le cose che «ogni uomo assennato» è tenuto a pensare; tutte le cose che le «idee moderne» sono ritenute in un modo o nell’altro implicare; tutti quegli stupidamente pomposi «rimproveri» e «severe osservazioni» pronunciati da giudici e statisti con un’ira del tutto artificiosa contro cose del tutto insignificanti; tutti i rivoli di sentimentalismo riversati quando si apre il rubinetto, in difesa del più sordido tornaconto o della più scialba politica di bottega; tutta la consapevolezza della solennità della responsabilità, tutta la percezione della realtà della tendenza; in breve, tutto ciò che cresce in quella landa di orgoglio e follia, dove la pomposità cresce come erba alta e i paroloni strisciano in giro come bruchi. …
Ma devo interrompermi; perché mi tocca portare tutti i miei moderni romanzi a tesi e libri di filosofia e riviste trimestrali di alto rango fin laggiù al falò oltre il limite del mio giardino.
Daily News, 24 giugno 1911
NO SUCH THING
Educational conferences are always interesting for the simple reason that under the title of Education you can discuss anything whatever that comes into your head. This is the main fact which, in spite of all the talk on the subject of education, no one seems to notice in connection with it. The chief thing about the subject of education is that it is not a subject at all. There is no such thing as education. The thing is merely a loose phrase for the passing on to others of whatever truth or virtue we happen to have ourselves. It is typical of our time that the more doubtful we are about the value of philosophy, the more certain we are about the value of education. That is to say, the more doubtful we are about whether we have any truth, the more certain we are (apparently) that we can teach it to children. The smaller our faith in doctrine, the larger is our faith in doctors.
Hence, I believe that the whole business of modern education is an immense imposture or convention, an excuse for grown-up people talking about large matters at large. The poor wretches are forbidden in our time to have a proper human religion; that which they ought to discuss in the form of theology they are driven to discuss under the disgusting excuse of education. Talking about serious questions is a pleasure; it is perhaps the greatest mere pleasure known to man. Even devils (as Milton truly perceived) would discuss theology. But in our time it is a secret pleasure; it is enjoyed in dark corners, like a vice.
I need hardly say that the fact that education allows of a man discussing anything is the reason why I have put it first. The actual text which caught my eye and revealed the vagaries and various possibilities of the theme was the report of the Conference of Head Teachers at which Professor Muirhead lectured on Moral Instruction. The phrase Moral Instruction is generally used, of course, with reference to such a programme as that advanced by the Moral Instruction League; it is generally used as signifying the proposal to substitute certain ethical lessons for the religious instruction (somewhat dim and dubious as it is) which is given in most schools. So far as this meaning is concerned, my own position is a simple and, I hope, an inoffensive one. I even offer a compromise or bargain, exactly as if I were a politician. I am quite prepared to promise the secularists secular education if they on their side will promise (on the tombs of their mothers) not to have moral instruction. Secular education seems to me intellectually clean and comprehensible. Moral instruction seems to me unclean, intolerable; I would destroy it with fire. Teaching the Old Testament by itself means teaching ancient Hebrew ethics which are simple, barbaric, rudimentary, and, to a Christian, unsatisfying. Teaching moral instruction means teaching modern London, Birmingham and Boston ethics which are not barbaric and rudimentary, but are corrupt, hysterical and crawling with worms and which are, to a Christian, not unsatisfying but detestable. The old Jew who says you must fight only for your tribe is inadequate; but the modern prig who says you must never fight for anything is substantially and specifically immoral. I know quite well, of course, that the non-religious ethics suggested for modern schools do not verbally assert these things; they only talk about peaceful reform, true Christianity and the importance of Count Tolstoy. It is all a matter of tone and implication; but then so is all teaching. Education is implication. It is not the things you say which children respect; when you say things, they very commonly laugh and do the opposite. It is the things you assume that really sink into them. It is the things you forget even to teach that they learn.
Churches, philosophies, sects, social influences, all educational authorities have disagreed, have distorted each other’s meaning, have destroyed each other’s proposals, in this matter of education. But here I hope I offer a peaceful proposition on which all churches and all philosophies can agree. I am the bearer of the only real olive-branch. All educational authorities can agree upon the simple proposition that I lay down. There is no such thing as education. Education does not exist. That will indeed be a blessed gospel to spread through the modern world and even my feet will be beautiful upon the mountains when I proclaim it. For indeed this is the nearest statement of the truth. There is no education apart from some particular kind of education. There is no education that is not sectarian education.
Illustrated London News, January 12th, 1907
THE PROTECTION OF THE BIBLE
It is a matter of great gratification that an official voice in practical education has spoken in favour of that exclusion of all theologies from the national schools for which many have long pleaded. It is a policy promoted, generally speaking, by the most lucid and magnanimous of all parties. Some, and I am one of them, do not wish theology to interfere with education. Some, and I am again one of them, have the greatest horror of education presuming to interfere with theology, which is so much more living and exciting a subject. And a very interesting question is undoubtedly raised by the distinction between the teaching of theology and the teaching of the Bible. The question of whether the Bible can be taught merely as literature is a question that raises the whole riddle of things that have two meanings, a big meaning and a small meaning. Can the Koran be treated as literature? Yes, anywhere except in Islam. Can the Bible be taught as pure literature? Yes, anywhere except in a Protestant country.
There are several popular misconceptions about this educational aspect of Scripture. One quite curious mistake is this. It is always somehow assumed that, if the Bible is taken out of the schools, it will be taken out in the interest of those who do not believe in it. This is a complete mistake. Those who do not believe in it are exactly the people who have no reason to object to it. It is the people who do believe in it who have a right to get restless. A reasonable Freethinker need not have the faintest objection to his child learning a chapter of Isaiah merely as literature. In so far as he is reasonable, he will agree that it is literature, and in so far as he is a Freethinker he will agree that it is literature. The man who is hardly used by such teaching of the Bible is precisely the orthodox man, the man to whom Isaiah means first and foremost the blood-stirring prophecy of a world-shattering event. I should not mind my children learning Icelandic folklore. Nor should I mind them learning Jewish folklore—if it is only folklore. I should not mind my children being told about Mahomet, because I am not a Mohammedan. If I were a Mohammedan, I should very much want to know what they were told about him.
Therefore I sympathize with secular education, but not because my sympathy is with the new-fashioned Puritan who wishes the Bible to be treated as literature. My sympathy is with the old fashioned Puritan who does not want the Bible to be treated as literature, because he happens to to have a religion which is about the most interesting thing a man can have. It is the old-fashioned theologians who ought to insist on secular education. It is the orthodox Puritans who ought to want the Bible kept out of the schools. The truth can, indeed, be put in a kind of dilemma. Either the Bible must be offered as something extraordinary or as some thing ordinary. If it is offered as something extraordinary, that is certainly unfair to the agnostics and the doubters. If it is offered as something ordinary, that is grossly and atrociously unfair to the theologians and the believers. … The Bible compromise is false both to the civic idea of liberty and to the Protestant idea of the Bible.
Daily News, April 17th, 1909
NON ESISTE NULLA DEL GENERE
Le conferenze pedagogiche sono sempre interessanti per la semplice ragione che sotto il titolo di Educazione si può discutere qualunque cosa passi per la testa. Questo è il fatto principale che, malgrado tutte le chiacchiere sul tema dell’educazione, nessuno pare notare a suo riguardo. La cosa fondamentale del tema dell’educazione è che non è affatto un tema. Non esiste nulla del genere: l’educazione. La cosa è soltanto una formula vaga per la trasmissione ad altri di qualunque verità o virtù ci capiti di possedere noi stessi. È tipico del nostro tempo che più siamo dubbiosi sul valore della filosofia, più siamo certi del valore dell’educazione. Vale a dire, più siamo dubbiosi sul fatto di possedere una qualche verità, più siamo certi (a quanto pare) di poterla insegnare ai bambini. Più piccola la nostra fede nella dottrina, più grande la nostra fede nei dottori.
Ritengo dunque che tutta la faccenda dell’educazione moderna sia un’immensa impostura o convenzione, un pretesto perché le persone adulte discorrano di grandi questioni alla buona. A quei poveri disgraziati è vietato nel nostro tempo avere una religione umana come si deve; ciò che dovrebbero discutere sotto forma di teologia sono costretti a discuterlo sotto il pretesto disgustoso dell’educazione. Discutere di questioni serie è un piacere; è forse il più grande dei semplici piaceri noti all’uomo. Perfino i diavoli (come Milton ben comprese) discuterebbero di teologia. Ma nel nostro tempo è un piacere segreto; lo si gode negli angoli bui, come un vizio.
Non c’è bisogno che dica che il fatto che l’educazione consenta a un uomo di discutere di qualunque cosa è il motivo per cui l’ho messa al primo posto. Il testo che in realtà mi colpì l’occhio e rivelò i capricci e le varie possibilità del tema fu il resoconto della Conferenza dei Presidi in cui il Professor Muirhead tenne una relazione sull’Istruzione Morale. L’espressione Istruzione Morale è generalmente usata, s’intende, in riferimento a un programma come quello proposto dalla Lega per l’Istruzione Morale; è generalmente usata a significare la proposta di sostituire certe lezioni etiche all’istruzione religiosa (alquanto fioca e dubbia com’è) che si impartisce in gran parte delle scuole. Per quanto riguarda questo significato, la mia posizione è semplice e, spero, inoffensiva. Offro persino un compromesso o un patto, esattamente come se fossi un politico. Sono prontissimo a promettere ai laicisti un’educazione laica se essi da parte loro promettono (sulle tombe delle loro madri) di non fare istruzione morale. L’educazione laica mi pare intellettualmente pulita e comprensibile. L’istruzione morale mi pare sudicia, intollerabile; la distruggerei col fuoco. Insegnare l’Antico Testamento da solo significa insegnare l’antica etica ebraica, che è semplice, barbarica, rudimentale e, per un cristiano, insoddisfacente. Insegnare l’istruzione morale significa insegnare l’etica moderna di Londra, Birmingham e Boston, che non è barbarica e rudimentale, ma corrotta, isterica e brulicante di vermi, e che è, per un cristiano, non insoddisfacente ma detestabile. Il vecchio ebreo che dice che devi combattere solo per la tua tribù è inadeguato; ma il moderno saccente che dice che non devi mai combattere per nulla è sostanzialmente e specificamente immorale. So bene, naturalmente, che l’etica non religiosa proposta per le scuole moderne non afferma verbalmente queste cose; parla soltanto di pacifica riforma, di vero Cristianesimo e dell’importanza del Conte Tolstoj. È tutta questione di tono e di sottinteso; ma d’altronde lo è ogni insegnamento. L’Educazione è sottinteso. Non sono le cose che dici che i bambini rispettano; quando dici delle cose, molto spesso ridono e fanno l’opposto. Sono le cose che dai per scontate che davvero penetrano in loro. Sono le cose che dimentichi persino di insegnare che essi imparano.
Chiese, filosofie, sette, influenze sociali, tutte le autorità educative hanno dissentito, hanno distorto il senso l’una dell’altra, hanno distrutto le proposte l’una dell’altra, in questa materia dell’educazione. Ma qui spero di offrire una proposta pacifica su cui tutte le chiese e tutte le filosofie possono concordare. Sono il portatore dell’unico vero ramoscello d’ulivo. Tutte le autorità educative possono concordare sulla semplice proposta che io enuncio. Non esiste nulla del genere: l’educazione. L’Educazione non esiste. Sarà davvero un vangelo benedetto da diffondere per il mondo moderno, e persino i miei piedi saranno belli sui monti quando lo proclamerò. Perché questa è in verità la formulazione più vicina alla verità. Non esiste educazione al di fuori di qualche particolare tipo di educazione. Non esiste educazione che non sia educazione settaria.
Illustrated London News, 12 gennaio 1907
LA PROTEZIONE DELLA BIBBIA
È motivo di grande soddisfazione che una voce ufficiale dell’educazione pratica si sia pronunciata a favore di quell’esclusione di ogni teologia dalle scuole nazionali per cui in molti hanno a lungo perorato. È una politica promossa, in generale, dal più lucido e magnanimo di tutti i partiti. Alcuni, e io sono tra loro, non desiderano che la teologia interferisca con l’educazione. Alcuni, e sono di nuovo uno di loro, nutrono il massimo orrore per l’educazione che pretenda di interferire con la teologia, che è un tema tanto più vivo ed eccitante. E una questione assai interessante è indubbiamente sollevata dalla distinzione tra l’insegnamento della teologia e l’insegnamento della Bibbia. La questione se la Bibbia possa essere insegnata semplicemente come letteratura è una questione che solleva tutto l’enigma delle cose che hanno due significati, un significato grande e un significato piccolo. Si può trattare il Corano come letteratura? Sì, ovunque tranne che nell’Islam. Si può insegnare la Bibbia come pura letteratura? Sì, ovunque tranne che in un paese protestante.
Vi sono diversi malintesi diffusi su questo aspetto educativo della Scrittura. Un errore assai curioso è questo. Si dà sempre in qualche modo per scontato che, se la Bibbia viene tolta dalle scuole, verrà tolta nell’interesse di chi non vi crede. Questo è un errore completo. Chi non vi crede è esattamente la gente che non ha ragione di opporvisi. È la gente che vi crede ad avere il diritto di agitarsi. Un ragionevole libero pensatore non ha da avere la minima obiezione al fatto che il suo figlio impari un capitolo di Isaia semplicemente come letteratura. Nella misura in cui è ragionevole, converrà che è letteratura, e nella misura in cui è un libero pensatore converrà che è letteratura. L’uomo che è malservito da un simile insegnamento della Bibbia è precisamente l’uomo ortodosso, l’uomo per cui Isaia significa anzitutto e soprattutto la profezia mozza-sangue di un evento che scuote il mondo. Non mi dispiacerebbe che i miei figli imparassero il folklore islandese. Né mi dispiacerebbe che imparassero il folklore ebraico — se è solo folklore. Non mi dispiacerebbe che ai miei figli si parlasse di Maometto, perché io non sono maomettano. Se fossi maomettano, vorrei sapere benissimo che cosa venisse loro detto di lui.
Perciò simpatizzo con l’educazione laica, ma non perché la mia simpatia vada al puritano di nuova foggia che vuole che la Bibbia sia trattata come letteratura. La mia simpatia va al puritano all’antica che non vuole che la Bibbia sia trattata come letteratura, perché si dà il caso che egli abbia una religione, che è pressappoco la cosa più interessante che un uomo possa avere. Sono i teologi all’antica che dovrebbero insistere sull’educazione laica. Sono i puritani ortodossi che dovrebbero volere la Bibbia tenuta fuori dalle scuole. La verità può, in effetti, essere posta in una sorta di dilemma. O la Bibbia va offerta come qualcosa di straordinario o come qualcosa di ordinario. Se è offerta come qualcosa di straordinario, ciò è certamente ingiusto verso gli agnostici e i dubbiosi. Se è offerta come qualcosa di ordinario, ciò è grossolanamente e atrocemente ingiusto verso i teologi e i credenti. … Il compromesso sulla Bibbia è falso sia rispetto all’idea civica di libertà sia rispetto all’idea protestante della Bibbia.
Daily News, 17 aprile 1909
SPIRITUALISM
We are told today that we should be better for a religion without a theology. I believe our brains would be the better even for a theology without a religion.
The special mark of the modern world is not that it is sceptical, but that it is dogmatic without knowing it. It says, in mockery of old devotees, that they believed without knowing why they believed. But the moderns believe without knowing what they believe— and without even knowing that they do believe it. Their freedom consists in first freely assuming a creed, and then freely forgetting that they are assuming it. In short, they always have an unconscious dogma; and an unconscious dogma is the definition of a prejudice. …
The debate on the ethics of Spiritualism is a strong example of this. The Spiritualists act upon a dogma, which they cannot state dogmatically; and therefore only assume dogmatically. Most Anti Spiritualists also, I may add, assume a dogma without knowing it—and a much staler and stupider dogma at that. But the point here is that they differ from the old creeds in never being stated clearly as creeds. What a Spiritualist assumes is practically this; it is not merely the existence of spirits, but the non-existence of evil spirits— or at least of the extreme evil done to us by evil spirits. To put it popularly, Spiritualists are optimists about the spiritual world. The Puritans and the people of the seventeenth century generally were pessimists about the spiritual world. They thought it a thousand to one that anybody dealing with spirits was dealing with bad spirits. Hence, they turned even the worst sort of witch-burning from murder to massacre. These were very appalling deductions from one axiom that human nature is nearer to wicked spirits than to good ones. But at least the Puritans could state their pessimistic axiom as an axiom. The Spiritualists cannot state their optimistic axiom as an axiom at all; they do not even know it is optimistic. They simply feel it unconsciously as the spirit of their time— that is, as something not even as solid as climate, but rather as fickle as the weather.
Now the main objection to Spiritualism is almost identical with the claim of Spiritualism. The objection is that it puts a man under the control of spiritual forces, or that it brings him in contact with the unknown. In fact, it is almost impossible to find any commendation of such a belief in spirits which will not serve as a condemnation in the mouth of those who believe in bad spirits. The very words ‘medium’ or ‘control’ will indeed affect many of us as immoral words—I might say indecent words. They imply a spiritual surrender which is dubious even if the in be good, and shocking if it be bad. Now it certainly is not self- evident, from the analogy of all we know, that it cannot be bad. … That the investigators do not insist on this danger, or do not insist on it as dangerous, is simply due to that forgotten first principle to which I have referred. The Spiritualists are forbidden to accept the deduction from the Spiritualist parallel because it would involve a denial of the spiritualist dogma. And it is none the less felt as an infallible dogma because it is an unconscious dogma. … If a man’s view of the universe allows him to be the medium of he knows not what and under the control of he knows not whom, let him say so and state his view of the universe clearly, like his fathers before him. Then at least he will not fall into a mere slush of likes and dislikes, and choose to fancy angels only with white wings because he prefers them to black ones.
Illustrated London News, March 15th, 1919
SPIRITISMO
Ci si dice oggi che staremmo meglio con una religione senza teologia. Io credo che i nostri cervelli starebbero meglio persino con una teologia senza religione.
Il segno particolare del mondo moderno non è che sia scettico, ma che è dogmatico senza saperlo. Dice, per farsi beffe degli antichi devoti, che essi credevano senza sapere perché credessero. Ma i moderni credono senza sapere che cosa credono — e senza nemmeno sapere di crederlo. La loro libertà consiste nell’assumere dapprima liberamente un credo, e poi nel dimenticare liberamente di assumerlo. In breve, hanno sempre un dogma inconsapevole; e un dogma inconsapevole è la definizione di pregiudizio. …
Il dibattito sull’etica dello Spiritismo ne è un forte esempio. Gli spiritisti agiscono in base a un dogma, che non sanno enunciare dogmaticamente; e che perciò assumono soltanto dogmaticamente. Anche gran parte degli antispiritisti, posso aggiungere, assume un dogma senza saperlo — e un dogma assai più stantio e stolto per giunta. Ma il punto qui è che essi differiscono dai vecchi credi per il fatto di non essere mai enunciati chiaramente come credi. Ciò che uno spiritista assume è in pratica questo; non è soltanto l’esistenza degli spiriti, ma la non-esistenza degli spiriti maligni — o almeno del male estremo fattoci dagli spiriti maligni. A dirlo in modo popolare, gli spiritisti sono ottimisti riguardo al mondo spirituale. I puritani e la gente del diciassettesimo secolo in generale erano pessimisti riguardo al mondo spirituale. Ritenevano mille contro uno che chiunque avesse a che fare con gli spiriti avesse a che fare con spiriti cattivi. Perciò trasformarono persino il peggior genere di rogo delle streghe da omicidio in massacro. Erano deduzioni assai spaventose da un solo assioma: che la natura umana è più vicina agli spiriti malvagi che a quelli buoni. Ma almeno i puritani sapevano enunciare il loro assioma pessimistico come un assioma. Gli spiritisti non sanno enunciare affatto il loro assioma ottimistico come un assioma; non sanno nemmeno che è ottimistico. Lo sentono semplicemente in modo inconsapevole come lo spirito del loro tempo — cioè come qualcosa di neppure solido quanto il clima, ma piuttosto mutevole quanto il tempo atmosferico.
Ora, l’obiezione principale allo Spiritismo è quasi identica alla pretesa dello Spiritismo. L’obiezione è che esso pone un uomo sotto il controllo di forze spirituali, o che lo mette in contatto con l’ignoto. In effetti è quasi impossibile trovare una lode di una simile credenza negli spiriti che non serva da condanna in bocca a chi crede negli spiriti cattivi. Le parole stesse ‘medium’ o ‘controllo’ agiranno certo su molti di noi come parole immorali — direi parole indecenti. Implicano una resa spirituale che è dubbia anche se lo spirito è buono, e sconvolgente se è cattivo. Ora, non è certo auto-evidente, per analogia con tutto ciò che sappiamo, che esso non possa essere cattivo. … Che gli investigatori non insistano su questo pericolo, o non insistano su di esso come pericoloso, è dovuto semplicemente a quel primo principio dimenticato a cui ho fatto riferimento. Agli spiritisti è vietato accettare la deduzione dal parallelo spiritista perché comporterebbe una negazione del dogma spiritista. E non per questo esso è meno sentito come un dogma infallibile per il fatto di essere un dogma inconsapevole. … Se la visione dell’universo di un uomo gli consente di essere il medium di non sa che cosa e sotto il controllo di non sa chi, che lo dica e enunci chiaramente la sua visione dell’universo, come i suoi padri prima di lui. Allora almeno non cadrà in un mero pantano di simpatie e antipatie, e non sceglierà di figurarsi angeli soltanto dalle ali bianche perché li preferisce a quelle nere.
Illustrated London News, 15 marzo 1919
THE ENGLISHMAN’S RELIGION
… that queer, beautiful, laughable thing, the English religious feeling, so hazy, so reverent, so illogical, so humane, so kindly, so vulgar.
The Bystander, June 1st, 1904
LA RELIGIONE DELL’INGLESE
… quella cosa bizzarra, bella, risibile che è il sentimento religioso inglese, così nebuloso, così reverente, così illogico, così umano, così benevolo, così volgare.
The Bystander, 1º giugno 1904
THE ENGLISH WAY
No one can understand the nature of England or of English politics who does not realize that this island of ours is and always has been covered with a kind of beautiful cloud. No one can be good critic of England who does not understand fogs. And no one can be a really patriotic Englishman who does not like fogs. Of all national histories, the history of England must be the hardest to write, for the English, with all their great epochs, not only did not know what they were doing, but, so far as one can make out, did not want to know what they were doing. They always did a thing in such a way that a hundred years afterwards it could be maintained that they had done the precise opposite. They always said a thing in such a way that it could mean something different. This was not craft … It was their ingrained poetry.
There are no people so poetical as the English, no people that are so full of a sense of vague distances and perspectives; there are no people so full of a certain fine formless sentiment. They see all things melting into one another like the mists of their northern sky; the Latin sees everything as clear cut as the crests of the Alps against the hard blue enamel of heaven. The English law, for instance, is uncommonly like an impressionist picture of a rainy day. The Code Napoleon is like a coloured photograph of Rome.
The haphazard, hand-to-mouth quality both in our legislation and our judicature is partly, no doubt, the result of selfish aristocratic raids and intrigues, but is still more the result of a certain dim kindliness, a sort of desperate kindliness, living in the heart of a confusion and never daring to trust itself to a general rule. This quality of a humane vagueness has made inexpressibly difficult the study of all the great European crises in their particular effect on England. It is grasped that what was in other countries a revolution was in England commonly a compromise. But in England commonly it was more than a compromise; it was a riddle. The Reformation came, for instance. Scotland went Protestant; Ireland went Catholic; England went something or other, but what no modern historian can perfectly demonstrate. Englishmen argued with each other, burnt each other, set up and pulled down kings, but all in such a manner as to leave it reasonably doubtful in the twentieth century whether anything happened at all. … There is something wholly English and quite unexplainable about this innocent juggling; this calm and beneficent humbug.
Daily News, March 16th, 1905
IL MODO INGLESE
Nessuno può comprendere la natura dell’Inghilterra o della politica inglese se non si rende conto che questa nostra isola è e sempre è stata coperta da una sorta di bella nube. Nessuno può essere un buon critico dell’Inghilterra se non capisce le nebbie. E nessuno può essere un inglese davvero patriottico se non ama le nebbie. Di tutte le storie nazionali, la storia dell’Inghilterra dev’essere la più difficile da scrivere, perché gli inglesi, con tutte le loro grandi epoche, non solo non sapevano ciò che stavano facendo, ma, per quanto si possa capire, non volevano sapere ciò che stavano facendo. Facevano sempre una cosa in modo tale che un secolo dopo si potesse sostenere che avevano fatto esattamente l’opposto. Dicevano sempre una cosa in modo tale che potesse significare qualcosa di diverso. Questo non era artificio … Era la loro poesia connaturata.
Non c’è popolo tanto poetico quanto gli inglesi, nessun popolo tanto pieno di un senso di vaghe distanze e prospettive; non c’è popolo tanto pieno di un certo raffinato sentimento informe. Vedono ogni cosa dissolversi l’una nell’altra come le brume del loro cielo settentrionale; il latino vede tutto netto come le creste delle Alpi contro il duro smalto azzurro del cielo. La legge inglese, per esempio, somiglia in modo insolito a un quadro impressionista di una giornata di pioggia. Il Codice Napoleonico è come una fotografia a colori di Roma.
La qualità casuale, alla giornata, sia nella nostra legislazione sia nella nostra giurisprudenza è in parte, senza dubbio, il risultato di razzie e intrighi aristocratici egoistici, ma è ancor più il risultato di una certa fioca benevolenza, una sorta di disperata benevolenza, che vive nel cuore di una confusione e non osa mai affidarsi a una regola generale. Questa qualità di una umana vaghezza ha reso indicibilmente difficile lo studio di tutte le grandi crisi europee nel loro effetto particolare sull’Inghilterra. Si capisce che ciò che in altri paesi fu una rivoluzione fu in Inghilterra comunemente un compromesso. Ma in Inghilterra comunemente fu più di un compromesso; fu un enigma. Venne la Riforma, per esempio. La Scozia si fece protestante; l’Irlanda si fece cattolica; l’Inghilterra si fece qualcosa o altro, ma cosa nessuno storico moderno può dimostrare perfettamente. Gli inglesi discutevano l’uno con l’altro, si bruciavano l’un l’altro, innalzavano e detronizzavano re, ma tutto in modo tale da lasciare ragionevolmente dubbio nel ventesimo secolo se fosse mai successo qualcosa. … C’è qualcosa di interamente inglese e del tutto inspiegabile in questo innocente giocoleria; questa calma e benefica montatura.
Daily News, 16 marzo 1905
HIGH OR LOW?
The one thing that the modern English will not understand is that when you have lost your way quite hope , quickest thing is to go back along the road you know to the place from which you started. You may call it reaction, you may call it repetition, you may call it tiresome theory, but it is the quickest way out of the wood. No Ritual Commissions and no other kind of Commissions ever do the least good, because they will not step back to the first facts of the situation. Now the first facts are never material facts. The invisible always comes before the visible, the immaterial before the material, even in our everyday experience … The modern English will never settle their problems until they under stand that the shortest cut to the practical is through the theoretical; and there could not possibly be a stronger instance of it than the instance of ritualism and the Ritual Commission.
The whole point of the quarrel about ritualism is very simple; it is that it is not a quarrel about ritualism at all. Nobody can quarrel about ritualism. If a gentleman, instead of offering me his hand, offers me his foot, explaining at the same time that to him this rite has the same meaning as hand-shaking, I may regard him as amusing, but certainly not as wicked. But if I am offended at such an act, it is because the sudden waving of his foot in the air does not immediately convey its meaning, but may even be regarded by the over-sensitive as a sort of symbolic or non-effective kick. In the same way, nobody cares one atom what any clergyman does in his church. … All that any of them care is what a clergyman means. He might have, not two but two hundred candles on the altar if the altar did not mean something—that is if the altar were not an altar. The clergyman might wear six copes and seven mitres if he were wearing them merely as his private taste in the matter of a suit of clothes. In a word, ritual is not even ritual without the question of doctrine. And doctrine, I believe, the Commission was not allowed to discuss.
The ultimate problem about the Church of England is not easy to settle, but it is easy enough to state, and these Commissions have never even heard it stated. It is that a quarrel exists in the Church of England very unique in human institutions. The Church of England is quarrelling about what the Church of England is. The House of Commons is quarrelling about what the House of Commons shall do. The House of Lords is quarrelling about what the House of Lords shall do. Even a private ship quarrels about what it shall do; it does not quarrel about whether it is a private ship or a missionary boat or a man of war. Even a band of robbers quarrels about what it shall do; it does not quarrel about whether it is an omnibus company or a plumbers’ union. But the quarrel in the Church of England is not about what it shall do; it is about what it shall be—indeed, about what it has been. Does its whole authority lie in being a branch of the Catholic Church? Or does its whole authority lie in being a protest, a part of the great sixteenth-century protest, against that Catholic Church? All commissions are useless which attempt to discuss what it does, without discussing what it is. Until this first question is settled, it is as childish to discuss a clergyman’s vestments as to discuss his wall paper.
Illustrated London News, July 14th, 1906
ALTO O BASSO?
L’unica cosa che gli inglesi moderni non vogliono capire è che quando hai perso del tutto la via, speranza, la cosa più svelta è tornare indietro lungo la strada che conosci fino al luogo da cui sei partito. Puoi chiamarla reazione, puoi chiamarla ripetizione, puoi chiamarla tediosa teoria, ma è la via più svelta per uscire dal bosco. Nessuna Commissione sui Riti e nessun altro genere di Commissione fa mai il minimo bene, perché non vogliono tornare indietro ai fatti primi della situazione. Ora, i fatti primi non sono mai fatti materiali. L’invisibile viene sempre prima del visibile, l’immateriale prima del materiale, persino nella nostra esperienza quotidiana … Gli inglesi moderni non risolveranno mai i loro problemi finché non capiranno che la scorciatoia più breve verso il pratico passa per il teorico; e non potrebbe esserci esempio più forte di ciò che l’esempio del ritualismo e della Commissione sui Riti.
Tutto il nocciolo della disputa sul ritualismo è molto semplice; è che non è affatto una disputa sul ritualismo. Nessuno può disputare sul ritualismo. Se un gentiluomo, invece di offrirmi la mano, mi offre il piede, spiegando al tempo stesso che per lui questo rito ha lo stesso significato di una stretta di mano, posso considerarlo divertente, ma di certo non malvagio. Ma se mi offendo per un atto simile, è perché l’improvviso agitare del suo piede in aria non ne trasmette immediatamente il significato, ma può persino essere considerato dall’ipersensibile come una sorta di calcio simbolico o non-effettivo. Allo stesso modo, a nessuno importa un atomo di ciò che un qualsiasi ecclesiastico fa nella sua chiesa. … Tutto ciò che a chiunque di loro importa è ciò che un ecclesiastico intende. Potrebbe avere, non due ma duecento candele sull’altare, se l’altare non significasse qualcosa — cioè se l’altare non fosse un altare. L’ecclesiastico potrebbe indossare sei piviali e sette mitrie se li indossasse soltanto per suo gusto privato in fatto di vestiario. In una parola, il rito non è nemmeno rito senza la questione della dottrina. E la dottrina, credo, alla Commissione non fu permesso di discuterla.
Il problema ultimo riguardo alla Chiesa d’Inghilterra non è facile da risolvere, ma è abbastanza facile da enunciare, e queste Commissioni non l’hanno mai nemmeno sentito enunciare. È che una disputa esiste nella Chiesa d’Inghilterra assai singolare tra le istituzioni umane. La Chiesa d’Inghilterra sta disputando su che cosa la Chiesa d’Inghilterra sia. La Camera dei Comuni sta disputando su che cosa la Camera dei Comuni debba fare. La Camera dei Lord sta disputando su che cosa la Camera dei Lord debba fare. Perfino una nave privata disputa su che cosa debba fare; non disputa se sia una nave privata o un battello missionario o una nave da guerra. Perfino una banda di ladri disputa su che cosa debba fare; non disputa se sia una compagnia di omnibus o una corporazione di idraulici. Ma la disputa nella Chiesa d’Inghilterra non riguarda ciò che essa debba fare; riguarda ciò che essa debba essere — anzi, ciò che essa è stata. La sua intera autorità sta nell’essere un ramo della Chiesa Cattolica? O la sua intera autorità sta nell’essere una protesta, una parte della grande protesta cinquecentesca, contro quella Chiesa Cattolica? Sono inutili tutte le commissioni che tentano di discutere ciò che essa fa, senza discutere ciò che essa è. Finché questa prima domanda non è risolta, è puerile discutere i paramenti di un ecclesiastico quanto discutere la sua carta da parati.
Illustrated London News, 14 luglio 1906
STRAIGHT THINKING
Logic and truth, as a matter of fact, have very little to do with each other. Logic is concerned merely with the fidelity and accuracy with which a certain process is performed, a process which can be performed with any materials, with any assumption. You can be as logical about griffins and basilisks as about sheep and pigs. On the assumption that a man has two ears, it is good logic that three men have six ears, but on the assumption that a man has four ears, it is equally good logic that three men have twelve. And the power of seeing how many ears the average man, as a fact, possesses, the power of counting a gentleman’s ears accurately and without mathematical confusion, is not a logical thing but a primary and direct experience, like a physical sense, like a religious vision. The power of counting ears may be limited by a blow on the head; it may be disturbed and even augmented by two bottles of champagne; but it cannot be affected by argument. Logic has again and again been expended, and expended most brilliantly and effectively, on things that do not exist at all. There is far more logic, more sustained consistency of the mind, in the science of heraldry than in the science of biology. … There is more logic in Alice in Wonderland than in the Statute Book or the Blue Books. The relations of logic to truth depend, then, not upon its perfection as logic, but upon certain pre-logical faculties and certain pre-logical discoveries, upon the possession of those faculties, upon the power of making those discoveries. If a man starts with certain assumptions, he may be a good logician and a good citizen, a wise man, a successful figure. If he starts with certain other assumptions, he may be an equally good logician and a bankrupt, a criminal, a raving lunatic. Logic, then, is not necessarily an instrument for finding truth; on the contrary, truth is necessarily an instrument for using logic— for using it, that is, for the discovery of further truth and for the profit of humanity. Briefly, you can only find truth with logic if you have already found truth without it.
Daily News, February 2nd, 1905
PENSARE DRITTO
La Logica e la verità, in realtà, hanno pochissimo a che fare l’una con l’altra. La Logica riguarda soltanto la fedeltà e l’accuratezza con cui viene eseguito un certo procedimento, un procedimento che può essere eseguito con qualunque materiale, con qualunque assunto. Si può essere logici sui grifoni e sui basilischi come sulle pecore e sui maiali. Sull’assunto che un uomo abbia due orecchie, è buona logica che tre uomini abbiano sei orecchie, ma sull’assunto che un uomo abbia quattro orecchie, è altrettanto buona logica che tre uomini ne abbiano dodici. E la facoltà di vedere quante orecchie l’uomo medio, di fatto, possieda, la facoltà di contare le orecchie di un gentiluomo accuratamente e senza confusione matematica, non è una cosa logica ma un’esperienza primaria e diretta, come un senso fisico, come una visione religiosa. La facoltà di contare le orecchie può essere limitata da un colpo in testa; può essere turbata e persino accresciuta da due bottiglie di champagne; ma non può essere alterata da un ragionamento. La Logica è stata più e più volte profusa, e profusa nel modo più brillante ed efficace, su cose che non esistono affatto. C’è molta più logica, più costante coerenza della mente, nella scienza dell’araldica che nella scienza della biologia. … C’è più logica in Alice nel Paese delle Meraviglie che nel Codice o nei Libri Blu. Le relazioni della logica con la verità dipendono, allora, non dalla sua perfezione in quanto logica, ma da certe facoltà pre-logiche e da certe scoperte pre-logiche, dal possesso di quelle facoltà, dalla facoltà di compiere quelle scoperte. Se un uomo parte da certi assunti, può essere un buon logico e un buon cittadino, un uomo saggio, una figura di successo. Se parte da certi altri assunti, può essere un logico altrettanto buono e un fallito, un criminale, un folle delirante. La Logica, allora, non è necessariamente uno strumento per trovare la verità; al contrario, la verità è necessariamente uno strumento per usare la logica — per usarla, cioè, per la scoperta di ulteriore verità e per il profitto dell’umanità. In breve, puoi trovare la verità con la logica soltanto se hai già trovato la verità senza di essa.
Daily News, 2 febbraio 1905
A MAN OF DISTINCTION
It is obvious that there fell with Arthur Balfour one of the few remaining pillars of that old patriotic aristocracy which not only governed England but practically was England, so far as England was a personality dealing personally with other nations. It is one of the paradoxes, so typical of England, that many of the men who thus understood and summed up her policy came from Scotland. It has been said that it requires a surgical operation to get a joke into the head of a Scotsman. I wonder no Scotsman has retorted, what would often be more correct, that it requires a surgical operation to get a serious idea into the head of an Englishman. When it happened, the operation was often performed by a Scotch surgeon. The English squire was an unconscious aristocrat; the Scotch laird was a conscious aristocrat; and Lord Balfour, with all his social grace and graciousness, was conscious and even self-conscious. But this was only another way of saying that he had a mind which mirrored everything, including himself and that, whatever else he did, he did not act blindly or in the dark. He was sometimes quite wrong; but his errors were purely patriotic, both in the narrow sense of nationalism and in the larger sense of loyalty and disinterestedness. … He was a man of strong and stoical character and nothing showed the falsity of political journalism so much as the legend which represented him as a drooping aesthete or a broken lily. In some ways he seems to me to have been too good a Stoic to be entirely a good Christian; or rather (to put it more correctly) to feel, like the rest of us, that he was a bad Christian. But about his virtues, both public and private, there can be no doubt, for they contained great elements that stood out as rather unique in his time. Courage, dignity, self-control, these were much more the essentials of his character than the social elegance and suavity attributed to him by all his critics and some of his admirers. There was much more in him of the Scotch Puritan than of the English Cavalier.
But he made one great contribution to modern politics which it will be well to understand because it was entirely misunderstood. It is supremely characteristic of the present Parliamentary atmosphere that everybody accused Lord Balfour of incomprehensible compromise and vagueness because he was completely logical and absolutely clear. Clarity does look like a cloud of confusion to people whose minds live in confusion twice confounded. What is called the modern mind is soaked in associations and cannot understand distinctions, even when they are absolutely reasonable distinctions, The people stuffed with our journalese culture or popular science can only understand anything in relation to ‘all that sort of thing’; they cannot comprehend that something a little like it is really quite a different sort of thing. … They can understand, to take an instance, the general tendency to put more and more things under the control of the State and the argument which says that as the highroad is public, so the railroad should be public; and if the railroad, then the house and the kitchen garden and the cat and the dog must all be owned by the public. They can understand, and perhaps more sympathetically, the contrary process of distrusting the State and putting things back into private hands; first the railroad and then the road and then, for all I know the Post Office and the Army and Navy. They are acquainted with the sort of expanding cant that can be used at any stage of either of these drifts or tendencies. But if you try to point out what the wisest sages and legislators have meant by the difference between public and private property, if you explain that nationalizing the roads is not the same as nationalizing the land, you will generally find that they are merely puzzled and suppose it to be some sort of mystification— because it is quite clear. They cannot make out whether you are in favour of ‘Socialism and all that sort of thing’. Lord Balfour once rent the murky sky of politics with one lightning-flash of lucidity by giving the exact economic definition of the collectivist idea, and then adding, ‘That is Socialism and nothing else is Socialism’. It was probably regarded as one of his Fine-spun evasions.
That is the intellectual virtue of which Lord Balfour really left a valuable example. People said his distinctions were fine distinctions, and so they were; very fine indeed. A fine distinction is like a fine painting or a fine poem or anything else fine; a triumph of the human mind. In these days when large-mindedness is supposed to consist of confusing everything with everything else, of saying that man is the same as woman and religion the same as irreligion, and the unnatural as good as the natural and all the rest of it, it is well to keep high in the mind the great power of distinction; by which man becomes in the true sense distinguished.
G. K.’s Weekly, March 29th, 1930
UN UOMO DI DISTINZIONE
È evidente che con Arthur Balfour cadde uno dei pochi pilastri superstiti di quella vecchia aristocrazia patriottica che non solo governava l’Inghilterra ma praticamente era l’Inghilterra, nella misura in cui l’Inghilterra era una personalità che trattava personalmente con altre nazioni. È uno dei paradossi, tanto tipici dell’Inghilterra, che molti degli uomini che così compresero e riassunsero la sua politica venissero dalla Scozia. Si è detto che ci vuole un’operazione chirurgica per far entrare una battuta nella testa di uno scozzese. Mi chiedo come mai nessuno scozzese abbia ribattuto, cosa che sarebbe spesso più corretta, che ci vuole un’operazione chirurgica per far entrare un’idea seria nella testa di un inglese. Quando accadeva, l’operazione era spesso eseguita da un chirurgo scozzese. Lo squire inglese era un aristocratico inconsapevole; il laird scozzese era un aristocratico consapevole; e Lord Balfour, con tutta la sua grazia e cortesia sociale, era consapevole e persino auto-consapevole. Ma questo era solo un altro modo di dire che aveva una mente che rispecchiava ogni cosa, se stesso incluso, e che, qualunque altra cosa facesse, non agiva alla cieca o nell’oscurità. Talvolta aveva del tutto torto; ma i suoi errori erano puramente patriottici, sia nel senso stretto del nazionalismo sia nel senso più largo della lealtà e del disinteresse. … Era un uomo di carattere forte e stoico, e nulla mostrò la falsità del giornalismo politico quanto la leggenda che lo rappresentava come un esteta languido o un giglio spezzato. Per certi versi mi pare sia stato uno Stoico troppo buono per essere del tutto un buon cristiano; o piuttosto (per dirla più correttamente) per sentire, come il resto di noi, di essere un cattivo cristiano. Ma sulle sue virtù, sia pubbliche sia private, non ci può essere dubbio, perché contenevano grandi elementi che spiccavano come piuttosto singolari nel suo tempo. Coraggio, dignità, auto-controllo, questi erano molto più gli elementi essenziali del suo carattere che l’eleganza e l’affabilità sociale attribuitegli da tutti i suoi critici e da alcuni dei suoi ammiratori. C’era in lui molto più del puritano scozzese che del cavaliere inglese.
Ma egli diede un grande contributo alla politica moderna che sarà bene comprendere, perché fu del tutto frainteso. È sommamente caratteristico dell’attuale atmosfera parlamentare che tutti accusassero Lord Balfour di incomprensibile compromesso e vaghezza perché era completamente logico e assolutamente chiaro. La chiarezza sembra davvero una nube di confusione a gente le cui menti vivono in una confusione due volte confusa. Ciò che si chiama la mente moderna è impregnato di associazioni e non sa comprendere le distinzioni, anche quando sono distinzioni assolutamente ragionevoli. La gente imbottita della nostra cultura giornalistica o di scienza popolare sa solo comprendere qualcosa in relazione a ‘tutte quelle cose lì’; non sa comprendere che qualcosa un po’ simile è in realtà tutt’altro genere di cosa. … Sanno comprendere, per fare un esempio, la generale tendenza a porre sempre più cose sotto il controllo dello Stato e l’argomento che dice che siccome la strada maestra è pubblica, così la ferrovia dovrebbe essere pubblica; e se la ferrovia, allora la casa e l’orto e il gatto e il cane devono essere tutti di proprietà pubblica. Sanno comprendere, e forse con maggiore simpatia, il processo contrario di diffidare dello Stato e rimettere le cose in mani private; prima la ferrovia e poi la strada e poi, per quel che ne so, l’Ufficio Postale e l’Esercito e la Marina. Hanno familiarità con quella sorta di ciarla dilagante che può essere usata a qualsiasi stadio dell’una o dell’altra di queste derive o tendenze. Ma se provate a far notare che cosa i più saggi sapienti e legislatori hanno inteso per differenza tra proprietà pubblica e privata, se spiegate che nazionalizzare le strade non è lo stesso che nazionalizzare la terra, generalmente scoprirete che sono soltanto sconcertati e la suppongono una sorta di mistificazione — perché è del tutto chiara. Non riescono a capire se siate a favore del ‘Socialismo e tutte quelle cose lì’. Lord Balfour una volta squarciò il cielo fosco della politica con un lampo di lucidità dando l’esatta definizione economica dell’idea collettivista, e aggiungendo poi: ‘Questo è Socialismo, e nient’altro è Socialismo’. Fu probabilmente considerato uno dei suoi cavilli sottili.
Questa è la virtù intellettuale di cui Lord Balfour lasciò davvero un prezioso esempio. La gente diceva che le sue distinzioni erano distinzioni sottili, e così erano; sottilissime davvero. Una distinzione sottile è come un quadro raffinato o una poesia raffinata o qualsiasi altra cosa raffinata; un trionfo della mente umana. In questi giorni in cui l’apertura mentale si suppone consista nel confondere ogni cosa con ogni altra, nel dire che l’uomo è lo stesso della donna e la religione la stessa dell’irreligione, e l’innaturale buono quanto il naturale e tutto il resto, è bene tenere alta nella mente la grande facoltà di distinzione; per la quale l’uomo diventa nel vero senso distinto.
G. K.’s Weekly, 29 marzo 1930
ST PIUS X
Among the many true and touching expressions of respect for the tragedy of the Vatican, most have commented on the fact that the late Pope was by birth a peasant. Yet few or none, I think, traced that truth to its most interesting and even tremendous conclusion. For the truth is that the Papacy is practically the only authority in modern Europe in which it could have happened. It is the oldest, immeasurably the oldest, throne in Europe; and it is the only one that a peasant could climb. In semi-Asiatic States there are doubtless raids and usurpations. But these are of brigands rather than peasants; I speak of the pure peasant advanced for pure merit. This is the only real elective monarchy left in the world; and any peasant can still be elected to it. … Even in high and heroic republics like those of France and of Switzerland, can one say that the ruler is really the plain man in power?
Now all the evidence, from foes as much as friends, attests that this really was true of the great priest who lately gave back to God the most tremendous power in the world. Those who admired him most, admired the simplicity and sanity of a peasant. Those who murmured against him most, complained of the obstinacy and reluctance of a peasant. But for that very reason it was clear that the oldest representative institution in Europe was working; when all the new ones have broken down. It is still possible to get the strong, patient, humorous type that keeps cheerfulness and charity alive among millions, alive and supreme in an official institution.
As has been pointed out, with subtle power and all proper delicacy, in numberless liberal and large-minded journals, the great and good priest now dead had all the prejudices of a peasant. He had a prejudice to the effect that the mystical word ‘Yes’ should be distinguished from the equally unfathomable expression ‘No’ … The Pope never pretended to have an extraordinary intellect; but he professed to be right—and he was. All honest atheists, all honest Calvinists, all honest men who mean anything or believe anything or deny anything, will have reason to thank their stars (a heathen habit) for the peasant in that high place. He left people to agree with his creed or disagree with it; but not free to misrepresent it. It was exactly what any peasant taken from any of our hills and plains would have said. But there was something more in him that would not have been in the ordinary peasant. For all this time he had wept for our tears; and he broke his heart for our bloodshed.
Illustrated London News, August 29th, 1914
SAN PIO X
Fra le molte espressioni sincere e commoventi di rispetto per la tragedia del Vaticano, la maggior parte ha rilevato il fatto che il defunto Papa fosse per nascita un contadino. Eppure pochi o nessuno, credo, hanno ricondotto quella verità alla sua conclusione più interessante e persino tremenda. Perché la verità è che il Papato è praticamente la sola autorità nell’Europa moderna in cui ciò sarebbe potuto accadere. È il più antico, incommensurabilmente il più antico, trono d’Europa; ed è l’unico a cui un contadino potesse ascendere. Negli Stati semiasiatici vi sono senza dubbio scorrerie e usurpazioni. Ma sono opera di briganti più che di contadini; io parlo del puro contadino elevato per puro merito. Questa è l’unica vera monarchia elettiva rimasta al mondo; e ogni contadino può ancora esservi eletto. … Persino in alte ed eroiche repubbliche come quelle di Francia e di Svizzera, si può dire che chi governa sia davvero l’uomo comune al potere?
Ora tutte le testimonianze, dei nemici non meno che degli amici, attestano che ciò fu davvero vero del grande sacerdote che di recente rese a Dio il potere più tremendo del mondo. Coloro che lo ammirarono di più, ne ammirarono la semplicità e il buon senso di un contadino. Coloro che più mormorarono contro di lui, si lamentarono dell’ostinazione e della riluttanza di un contadino. Ma proprio per questa ragione era chiaro che la più antica istituzione rappresentativa d’Europa funzionava; mentre tutte le nuove sono crollate. È ancora possibile trovare il tipo forte, paziente, arguto che tiene viva l’allegria e la carità fra milioni di persone, vivo e sovrano in un’istituzione ufficiale.
Come è stato osservato, con sottile acume e con ogni dovuta delicatezza, in innumerevoli giornali liberali e di larghe vedute, il grande e buono sacerdote ora defunto aveva tutti i pregiudizi di un contadino. Aveva il pregiudizio secondo cui la mistica parola «Sì» andasse distinta dall’espressione altrettanto insondabile «No» … Il Papa non pretese mai di avere un intelletto straordinario; ma professava di avere ragione—e l’aveva. Tutti gli atei onesti, tutti i calvinisti onesti, tutti gli uomini onesti che intendono qualcosa o credono in qualcosa o negano qualcosa, avranno motivo di ringraziare la loro stella (abitudine pagana) per il contadino salito a quel luogo eccelso. Lasciava le persone libere di concordare o dissentire dal suo credo; ma non libere di travisarlo. Era esattamente ciò che qualunque contadino preso da una qualsiasi delle nostre colline e pianure avrebbe detto. Ma c’era in lui qualcosa di più che non ci sarebbe stato nel contadino comune. Perché per tutto questo tempo aveva pianto per le nostre lacrime; e si spezzò il cuore per il nostro sangue versato.
Illustrated London News, 29 agosto 1914
THE BLACK LINES
There are about as many definitions of man as there are men. Let me, however, offer the reader another. Man is a creature who creates cataclysms. Man’s whole nature and object on the earth is to draw those black lines that do not exist in inorganic nature. He separates things and makes them special. Take, for the sake of an instance, the admirable and fascinating subject of meals. A cow eats all day; its hunger, I suppose, grows gradually and vaguely at the beginning, is slowly and increasingly satisfied, and then gradually and vaguely dies away. It is an evolutionist. But man is made for revolutions, or rather he makes them; he is formed for abrupt departures and great experiments. He faces the cataclysm called Lunch. It is a thing of black lines; decisive like a religion or a rebellion. It begins at some time and (except in extreme cases) ends at some time. Man makes monogamy, patriotism, oaths before magistrates, monetary obligations, religion, honour, civic obedience, theology, all on the same sacred principle on which he makes lunch. He has less, perhaps, and the cow has more. But then he has something; and the cow only has anything. If man were to run about on all fours eating a field full of mutton chops, his meals would not have the meaning they have now, a meaning of hospitality, comradeship, human symbolism. His mutton chops would not be the mystical things that they are at present. Man is the animal that draws black lines. Sometimes they are lines round a land, and they make patriotism. Sometimes they are lines round an animal, and they make humanity. But in all cases this is true, that men learn to love their limitations, that men learn to love not only the picture, but the frame. Thus artists grow fond of the fact that they are working in wood only, or in iron only, or what not; they love the thing that isolates them. And so those who began by loving England came to love her frame, the sea.
Daily News, September 9th, 1905
LE LINEE NERE
Vi sono press’a poco tante definizioni dell’uomo quanti sono gli uomini. Lasciate però che ne offra al lettore un’altra. L’uomo è una creatura che crea cataclismi. Tutta la natura e lo scopo dell’uomo sulla terra consistono nel tracciare quelle linee nere che non esistono nella natura inorganica. Egli separa le cose e le rende speciali. Prendiamo, a titolo d’esempio, l’ammirevole e affascinante argomento dei pasti. Una mucca mangia tutto il giorno; la sua fame, suppongo, cresce a poco a poco e vagamente all’inizio, viene lentamente e via via saziata, e poi gradualmente e vagamente si spegne. È un’evoluzionista. Ma l’uomo è fatto per le rivoluzioni, o piuttosto è lui a farle; è plasmato per le partenze improvvise e i grandi esperimenti. Egli affronta il cataclisma chiamato Pranzo. È una cosa di linee nere; decisiva come una religione o una ribellione. Comincia a una certa ora e (salvo casi estremi) finisce a una certa ora. L’uomo fa la monogamia, il patriottismo, i giuramenti davanti ai magistrati, gli obblighi monetari, la religione, l’onore, l’obbedienza civica, la teologia, tutto sullo stesso sacro principio su cui fa il pranzo. Ne ha di meno, forse, e la mucca ne ha di più. Ma allora lui ha qualcosa; e la mucca ha soltanto qualsiasi cosa. Se l’uomo corresse a quattro zampe divorando un campo pieno di costolette di montone, i suoi pasti non avrebbero il significato che hanno ora, un significato di ospitalità, cameratismo, simbolismo umano. Le sue costolette di montone non sarebbero le cose mistiche che sono al presente. L’uomo è l’animale che traccia linee nere. Talvolta sono linee attorno a una terra, e fanno il patriottismo. Talvolta sono linee attorno a un animale, e fanno l’umanità. Ma in ogni caso questo è vero, che gli uomini imparano ad amare i propri limiti, che gli uomini imparano ad amare non solo il quadro, ma la cornice. Così gli artisti si affezionano al fatto di lavorare soltanto il legno, o soltanto il ferro, o che so io; amano la cosa che li isola. E così coloro che cominciarono amando l’Inghilterra giunsero ad amare la sua cornice, il mare.
Daily News, 9 settembre 1905
THE COSMIC STEW-POT
There has crept into our thoughts, through a thousand small openings, a curious and unnatural idea. I mean the idea that unity is itself a good thing; that there is something high and spiritual about things being blended and absorbed into each other. That all rivers should run into one river, that all vegetables should go into one pot— that is spoken of as the last and best fulfilment of being. Boys are to be ‘at one’ with girls; … all sects are to be ‘at one’ in the New Theology; beasts fade into men and men fade into God; union in itself is a noble thing. Now union in itself is not a noble thing. Love is a noble thing; but love is not union. Nay, it is rather a vivid sense of separation and identity. Maudlin, inferior love poetry does, indeed, talk of lovers being ‘one soul’ just as maudlin, inferior religious poetry talks of being lost in God; but the best poetry does not. When Dante meets Beatrice, he feels his distance from her, not his proximity; and all the greatest saints have felt their lowness, not their highness, in the moment of ecstasy. And what is true of these grave and heroic matters (I do not say, of course, that saints and lovers have never used the language of union too, true enough in its own place and proper limitation of meaning)—what is true of these is equally true of all the lighter and less essential forms of appreciation or surprise. Division and variety are essential to praise; division and variety are what is right with the world. There is nothing specially right about mere contact and coalescence. …
In short, this vast, vague idea of unity is the one ‘reactionary’ thing in the world. It is perhaps the only connection in which that foolish word ‘reactionary’ can be used with significance and truth. For this blending of men and women, nations and nations, is truly a return to the chaos and unconsciousness that were before the world was made. There is, of course, another kind of unity of which I do not speak here: unity in the possession of truth and the perception of the need for these varieties. But the varieties themselves; the reflection of man and woman in each other, as in two distinct mirrors; the wonder of man at nature as a strange thing at once above and below him; the quaint and solitary kingdom of childhood; the local affections and the colour of certain landscapes— these actually are the things that are the grace and honour of the earth; these are the things that make life worth living and the whole framework of things well worthy to be sustained. And the best thing remains; that this view, whether conscious or not, always has been and still is the view of the living and labouring millions. While a few prigs on platforms are talking about ‘oneness’ and absorption in ‘The All’, the folk that dwell in all the valleys of this ancient earth are renewing the varieties for ever. With them a woman is loved for being unmanly, and a man loved for being unwomanly. With them the church and the home are both beautiful, because they are both different; with them fields are personal and flags are sacred; they are the virtue of existence, for they are not mankind but man.
T. P.’s Weekly, Christmas Number, 1910
IL PENTOLONE COSMICO
Si è insinuata nei nostri pensieri, attraverso mille piccoli spiragli, un’idea curiosa e innaturale. Intendo l’idea che l’unità sia in sé una cosa buona; che vi sia qualcosa di alto e spirituale nel fatto che le cose vengano fuse e assorbite l’una nell’altra. Che tutti i fiumi debbano confluire in un solo fiume, che tutte le verdure debbano finire in un’unica pentola— questo viene descritto come l’ultimo e migliore compimento dell’essere. I ragazzi devono essere «uno» con le ragazze; … tutte le sette devono essere «una» nella Nuova Teologia; le bestie sfumano negli uomini e gli uomini sfumano in Dio; l’unione in sé è cosa nobile. Ora l’unione in sé non è cosa nobile. L’amore è cosa nobile; ma l’amore non è unione. Anzi, è piuttosto un vivido senso di separazione e di identità. La poesia d’amore lacrimosa e mediocre parla, in effetti, di amanti che sono «una sola anima» proprio come la lacrimosa, mediocre poesia religiosa parla di perdersi in Dio; ma la migliore poesia non lo fa. Quando Dante incontra Beatrice, egli sente la propria distanza da lei, non la propria vicinanza; e tutti i più grandi santi hanno sentito la propria bassezza, non la propria altezza, nel momento dell’estasi. E ciò che è vero di queste gravi ed eroiche questioni (non dico, naturalmente, che santi e amanti non abbiano mai usato il linguaggio dell’unione anch’esso, vero abbastanza nel suo giusto luogo e propria limitazione di significato)—ciò che è vero di queste è ugualmente vero di tutte le forme più leggere e meno essenziali di apprezzamento o di stupore. La divisione e la varietà sono essenziali alla lode; la divisione e la varietà sono ciò che è giusto nel mondo. Non c’è nulla di particolarmente giusto nel mero contatto e nella coalescenza. …
In breve, questa vasta, vaga idea di unità è la sola cosa «reazionaria» al mondo. È forse l’unico contesto in cui quella sciocca parola «reazionario» possa essere usata con senso e verità. Perché questa fusione di uomini e donne, di nazioni e nazioni, è veramente un ritorno al caos e all’incoscienza che erano prima che il mondo fosse fatto. Vi è, naturalmente, un altro genere di unità di cui non parlo qui: l’unità nel possesso della verità e nella percezione della necessità di queste varietà. Ma le varietà stesse; il riflesso dell’uomo e della donna l’uno nell’altra, come in due specchi distinti; la meraviglia dell’uomo di fronte alla natura come cosa strana insieme sopra e sotto di lui; il bizzarro e solitario regno dell’infanzia; gli affetti locali e il colore di certi paesaggi— queste sono davvero le cose che sono la grazia e l’onore della terra; queste sono le cose che rendono la vita degna di essere vissuta e l’intera struttura delle cose ben degna di essere sostenuta. E la cosa migliore rimane; che questa visione, cosciente o no, è sempre stata ed è tuttora la visione dei milioni che vivono e faticano. Mentre pochi saccenti sui palchi discorrono di «unicità» e di assorbimento nel «Tutto», la gente che dimora in tutte le valli di questa antica terra rinnova le varietà in eterno. Presso di loro una donna è amata perché non è virile, e un uomo è amato perché non è femmineo. Presso di loro la chiesa e la casa sono entrambe belle, perché sono entrambe diverse; presso di loro i campi sono personali e le bandiere sacre; essi sono la virtù dell’esistenza, perché non sono l’umanità ma l’uomo.
T. P.’s Weekly, Numero di Natale, 1910
THE SENTINEL
The great conception which lay at the back of the Hebrew and Christian scriptures was the conception that to man had been given a certain law, to champion which was his sole and simple business. ‘He hath shown thee, O man, that which is good’ is perhaps of all earthly sayings the one which has the deepest ring; it seems, as it were, too true and simple to be comprehended. The stars in their courses might fight against his honour, scientific discoveries might make the world seem more perilous and equivocal; at the turning of a stone or the splitting of a sea beast, the whole cosmic army might seem suddenly to desert to the devil. But man had in his heart a secret which would outlast these things; he had his orders; he was the sentinel of God.
The Speaker, October 19th, 1901
LA SENTINELLA
La grande concezione che stava alla base delle scritture ebraiche e cristiane era la concezione che all’uomo fosse stata data una certa legge, difendere la quale era il suo unico e semplice compito. «Egli ti ha mostrato, o uomo, ciò che è bene» è forse fra tutti i detti terreni quello che ha la risonanza più profonda; sembra, per così dire, troppo vero e semplice per essere compreso. Le stelle nei loro corsi potrebbero combattere contro il suo onore, le scoperte scientifiche potrebbero far apparire il mondo più insidioso ed equivoco; al rivoltarsi di una pietra o allo squarciarsi di un mostro marino, l’intero esercito cosmico potrebbe sembrare d’un tratto disertare verso il diavolo. Ma l’uomo aveva nel cuore un segreto che sarebbe sopravvissuto a queste cose; aveva i suoi ordini; era la sentinella di Dio.
The Speaker, 19 ottobre 1901
EVERYMAN
The meanest man is immortal and the mightiest movement is temporal, not to say temporary.
Blackfriars, January, 1923
OGNUNO
L’uomo più infimo è immortale e il movimento più possente è temporale, per non dire temporaneo.
Blackfriars, gennaio 1923
DEATH OF AN ARTIST
The first impulse of any serious person on hearing that G. F. Watts is dead must of necessity be an impulse to say, as we said of Gladstone, ‘All the great are dying’. This is not mere journalese. It is a genuine impression and in one sense it is true: there are none left who carry themselves as these great men did. But there is a danger in this mode of speech, and also an error, for in it is involved the very evil of this age, out of which its littleness comes. There are many evils in this particular period of ours. One of the worst, doubtless, is that we never produce great men; but the worst of all is that we are always looking for them. The men of the great time of Watts did not look for great men, but for great causes; and in a great cause almost anyone may become great.
There are none left who carry themselves as these heroes did, because there are none left who are so indifferent to mere intellectual eminence. Watts and such men as he were the children of the great republican revolution that began the nineteenth century, which filled men with a furious belief in humanity and was the latest of the religions of mankind. They were great men because they did not believe in great men; they believed in men. They mingled in a common and equal competition of enthusiasm for something outside individual men, and out of that only comes real individuality. They sought first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness; they sought first the important things, and trifles— such as greatness and genius—were added unto them.
We shall not again have a man of the greatness of Watts until we have something better to think about than greatness. One thing at any rate stands out of his whole character; one thing must be burningly vivid to anybody who ever had, even as briefly as I had, the honour of meeting him; that he himself cared for the thing called greatness not a single straw. He cared only for the spread of certain conceptions, true or false, with which he had identified himself.. . He belonged in this matter, beyond question, to an age of causes and will therefore be found in this matter incredible. If our civilization pursues its present course (which is absurd), he will become in a very short time a heroic myth.
The note of this greatness of his was well expressed in his artistic work, especially his artistic work in early years. Sometimes his work was admirable, sometimes bad, but it was always simple and it was always ambitious. The technique of art is so far from being immoral that a moral transition can be quite easily deduced from it; moral changes can be seen physically in chalk and oil. And one great fact is this: that all the great men younger than Watts sought to work in a style and scheme that was of its nature transient. They wished to decorate a room with peacocks, for rooms are tired of and taken down, or to fill a paper with epigrams, for epigrams are repeated nine hundred and ninety times and then forgotten, or to effect exquisite sketches on brown paper, for these owe their very charm to the fact that they can be thrown away like brown paper. But Watts had the old dream of building in eternal brass; he loved designing public frescoes, public statues, public mosaics. There is a mosaic of his in the Whitechapel Road, a fresco in the House of Lords, a picture in St Paul’s Cathedral. One cannot move St Paul’s Cathedral as one moves the Peacock Room. One cannot throw away the Whitechapel Road as one throws away brown paper. I am not saying that this monumental solidity proves that the art is great. But I say that it proves that the artist is confident.
Another quality very characteristic of the atmosphere to which Watts belonged is the quality of his moral indignation. He always had the temper of the meliorist, whilst he had at the same time much of the temper of the old Rousseauist optimist. He was really angry with the evils of the modern world. .. . In all his moral and religious allegories, especially when they touch upon the diabolic side of things, there is apparent this sudden and sacred impatience. Under the picture of ‘Mammon’, under the picture of ‘The Minotaur’, under the picture of anything evil in his gallery, seems printed in letters of fire ‘Shall this be endured for another moment?’ And it was this innocent and startled wrath which was the note of the whole of Watts’ age, the age of the Reform Bill. It was because the old political idealists had something of the child’s ignorance and horror of evil that they swept away so many abuses. Compare with some picture by Watts, which is full of a young and wide-eyed anger, some ultra-modern picture of an evil thing, some work of the new pessimistic atmosphere. Take, for instance, Degas’ brilliant picture called ‘Absinthe’, which depicts two wrecks of humanity soaking themselves in the maddening wormwood. The picture is steeped in devilish resignation. We feel as we look at it that these two human creatures have drunk absinthe from the beginning of the world and will go on drinking it while the grass grows and until the stars fall into ruin. Here there is no astonishment, therefore there is no indignation. There is a thing that may truly be called religious resignation. But there is a deeper and stiller and more terrible thing and its name is irreligious resignation. Because of Watts’ intensely religious nature the painting of such a picture as this would be absolutely impossible to him. If he had conceived and painted ‘Absinthe’, there would have been something fierce and insistent about the picture. Something fiendish and strained in the faces would have declared that the situation was unnatural. Something bitter and burning in the green colour of that shameful wine would have shown like the green eyes of a witch’s cat. However dark and repulsive and merciless the picture might be, there would be something in it that suggested that it was dark against some white and blazing background, a background of the astonishment of the angels and the dreadful wonder of God.
The Speaker, July 9th, 1904
MORTE DI UN ARTISTA
Il primo impulso di qualunque persona seria nell’apprendere che G. F. Watts è morto dev’essere per forza l’impulso a dire, come dicemmo di Gladstone, «Tutti i grandi stanno morendo». Non è mero giornalese. È un’impressione genuina e in un senso è vera: non ne restano che si portino come si portavano questi grandi uomini. Ma c’è un pericolo in questo modo di parlare, e anche un errore, perché in esso è implicato il male stesso di quest’epoca, da cui viene la sua piccolezza. Vi sono molti mali in questo nostro particolare periodo. Uno dei peggiori, senza dubbio, è che non produciamo mai grandi uomini; ma il peggiore di tutti è che li stiamo sempre cercando. Gli uomini del grande tempo di Watts non cercavano grandi uomini, ma grandi cause; e in una grande causa quasi chiunque può diventare grande.
Non ne restano che si portino come si portavano questi eroi, perché non ne restano che siano così indifferenti alla mera eminenza intellettuale. Watts e uomini come lui erano i figli della grande rivoluzione repubblicana che iniziò l’Ottocento, che riempì gli uomini di una furiosa fede nell’umanità e fu l’ultima delle religioni del genere umano. Erano grandi uomini perché non credevano nei grandi uomini; credevano negli uomini. Si mescolavano in una comune e pari competizione di entusiasmo per qualcosa al di fuori dei singoli uomini, e solo da ciò nasce la vera individualità. Cercavano prima il Regno di Dio e la Sua giustizia; cercavano prima le cose importanti, e le inezie— come la grandezza e il genio—venivano loro date in aggiunta.
Non avremo di nuovo un uomo della grandezza di Watts finché non avremo qualcosa di meglio a cui pensare che la grandezza. Una cosa a ogni modo risalta di tutto il suo carattere; una cosa dev’essere ardentemente vivida per chiunque abbia mai avuto, sia pure brevemente quanto l’ebbi io, l’onore di incontrarlo; che egli stesso non si curava della cosa chiamata grandezza nemmeno un briciolo. Si curava soltanto della diffusione di certe concezioni, vere o false, con le quali si era identificato.. . Egli apparteneva in questa faccenda, fuor di dubbio, a un’epoca di cause e sarà perciò trovato in questa faccenda incredibile. Se la nostra civiltà prosegue il suo corso attuale (cosa assurda), egli diverrà in brevissimo tempo un mito eroico.
La nota di questa sua grandezza era ben espressa nella sua opera artistica, specialmente nell’opera artistica dei primi anni. Talvolta la sua opera era mirabile, talvolta cattiva, ma era sempre semplice ed era sempre ambiziosa. La tecnica dell’arte è tanto lontana dall’essere immorale che una transizione morale se ne può dedurre assai facilmente; i mutamenti morali si possono vedere fisicamente nel gesso e nell’olio. E un grande fatto è questo: che tutti i grandi uomini più giovani di Watts cercarono di lavorare in uno stile e in un disegno che per natura era transitorio. Volevano decorare una stanza con pavoni, perché le stanze ci si stanca di esse e vengono smantellate, o riempire un foglio di epigrammi, perché gli epigrammi si ripetono novecentonovanta volte e poi si dimenticano, o eseguire squisiti schizzi su carta da pacchi, perché essi devono il loro fascino stesso al fatto di poter essere gettati via come carta da pacchi. Ma Watts aveva l’antico sogno di edificare nel bronzo eterno; amava progettare affreschi pubblici, statue pubbliche, mosaici pubblici. Vi è un suo mosaico nella Whitechapel Road, un affresco nella Camera dei Lord, un quadro nella Cattedrale di San Paolo. Non si può spostare la Cattedrale di San Paolo come si sposta la Peacock Room. Non si può gettar via la Whitechapel Road come si getta via la carta da pacchi. Non sto dicendo che questa solidità monumentale provi che l’arte sia grande. Ma dico che prova che l’artista è sicuro di sé.
Un’altra qualità assai caratteristica dell’atmosfera a cui Watts apparteneva è la qualità della sua indignazione morale. Ebbe sempre il temperamento del meliorista, mentre aveva al tempo stesso molto del temperamento del vecchio ottimista rousseauiano. Era davvero adirato con i mali del mondo moderno. .. . In tutte le sue allegorie morali e religiose, specie quando toccano il lato diabolico delle cose, è manifesta questa improvvisa e sacra impazienza. Sotto il quadro di «Mammona», sotto il quadro del «Minotauro», sotto il quadro di qualunque cosa malvagia nella sua galleria, sembra stampato in lettere di fuoco «Dovrà questo essere sopportato ancora un istante?» E fu questa collera innocente e sbigottita a essere la nota dell’intera epoca di Watts, l’epoca della Riforma elettorale. Fu perché i vecchi idealisti politici avevano qualcosa dell’ignoranza e dell’orrore del male propri del fanciullo che spazzarono via tanti abusi. Confrontate con qualche quadro di Watts, che è pieno di una giovane e sgranata collera, qualche quadro ultramoderno di una cosa malvagia, qualche opera della nuova atmosfera pessimistica. Prendete, per esempio, il brillante quadro di Degas intitolato «L’assenzio», che raffigura due relitti d’umanità che s’imbevono nel folle liquore d’assenzio. Il quadro è intriso di una diabolica rassegnazione. Guardandolo sentiamo che queste due creature umane hanno bevuto assenzio dal principio del mondo e continueranno a berlo finché cresce l’erba e finché le stelle non cadranno in rovina. Qui non c’è stupore, perciò non c’è indignazione. C’è una cosa che si può veramente chiamare rassegnazione religiosa. Ma c’è una cosa più profonda e più immota e più terribile e il suo nome è rassegnazione irreligiosa. A causa dell’intensamente religiosa natura di Watts, dipingere un quadro come questo gli sarebbe stato assolutamente impossibile. Se avesse concepito e dipinto «L’assenzio», ci sarebbe stato qualcosa di feroce e di insistente nel quadro. Qualcosa di demoniaco e di teso nei volti avrebbe dichiarato che la situazione era innaturale. Qualcosa di amaro e di ardente nel colore verde di quel vino vergognoso avrebbe brillato come gli occhi verdi del gatto d’una strega. Per quanto scuro e ripugnante e spietato potesse essere il quadro, ci sarebbe stato in esso qualcosa che suggeriva che era scuro contro uno sfondo bianco e fiammeggiante, uno sfondo dello stupore degli angeli e del tremendo prodigio di Dio.
The Speaker, 9 luglio 1904
POETRY AND BELIEFS
You never work so well for art’s sake as when you are working for the sake of something else. The greatest of the decadent art-philosophers, in that admirable essay ‘The Decay of Lying’, described how art could take its disciple through the fires of Dante’s perdition and the lilies of Dante’s beatitude. But he forgot one point. He forgot that Dante wrote that prodigious thing, not, of course, believing that its story was literally true, but believing that its philosophy was absolutely true and that all counter-philosophies were the lies of devils. Out of the furnace of that certainty came those tremendous things. And, to this day, all our clever irreligious poetry is only the echo of them. Blasphemy itself could not survive religion; if anyone doubts that, let him try to blaspheme Odin. The school which held that literature could be great, independent of convictions, has been free and running about for some thirty years in England and forty in France. Heaven knows its poets have not been hampered by convictions. Has it produced any grander paganisms than that of the man in the tomb of fire? Has it produced any loftier defiance of Omnipotence than that which Milton the Puritan imagined and wrote down? Where are the fruits of its freedom? They are little indeed beside the fruit of that immemorial and sublime bondage.
Daily News, June 25th, 1904
POESIA E CREDENZE
Non si lavora mai così bene per amore dell’arte come quando si lavora per amore di qualcos’altro. Il più grande dei decadenti filosofi dell’arte, in quel mirabile saggio «La Decadenza della Menzogna», descrisse come l’arte potesse condurre il proprio discepolo attraverso i fuochi della perdizione di Dante e i gigli della beatitudine di Dante. Ma dimenticò un punto. Dimenticò che Dante scrisse quella cosa prodigiosa non, s’intende, credendo che la sua storia fosse letteralmente vera, ma credendo che la sua filosofia fosse assolutamente vera e che tutte le contro-filosofie fossero menzogne di diavoli. Dalla fornace di quella certezza vennero quelle tremende cose. E, fino ad oggi, tutta la nostra abile poesia irreligiosa non è che l’eco di esse. La bestemmia stessa non potrebbe sopravvivere alla religione; se qualcuno ne dubita, provi a bestemmiare Odino. La scuola che sosteneva che la letteratura potesse essere grande, indipendente dalle convinzioni, è stata libera e in circolazione per una trentina d’anni in Inghilterra e quaranta in Francia. Il cielo sa che i suoi poeti non sono stati impacciati da convinzioni. Ha prodotto paganesimi più grandiosi di quello dell’uomo nella tomba di fuoco? Ha prodotto sfida più altera all’Onnipotenza di quella che Milton il puritano immaginò e mise per iscritto? Dove sono i frutti della sua Libertà? Sono ben scarsi accanto al frutto di quella immemorabile e sublime schiavitù.
Daily News, 25 giugno 1904
TWO GREAT TORIES
Two very great men have only recently passed from us, to all appearances very different—the one a butterfly with a sting, the other a buffalo with a touch of attractive weakness. But Henley and Whistler were, I believe, up to the last friends; and it is good that they should have been friends, for of all men on earth the most pathetic are those who, like them, have a noble talent for finding friends and a noble talent for losing them. Moreover, they stood together on yet greater things. They were both representatives of that great intellectual and artistic reaction which followed the exhaustion of the Liberalism of the French Revolution; they were both what an able writer some days ago called ‘strong Illiberals’. They were both Tories; that is, pessimists. Nothing strikes one so much about the attitude of both as the fact that a superb melancholy made it necessary for both to take refuge in something, in something outside current life. Henley took refuge among criminals and Whistler (less happy) among artists; but they were both brave and sad men. Henley as a poet was great only when he uttered the very rhapsody of stoicism. Whistler’s whole life was a nocturne; it was like one of his own pictures in which the darkness is lit only with one red or lemon gleam, the Chinese lanterns of art.
Whistler and Henley, amid all their differences, had this essential point in common—that they were both provocative, that they both took a pleasure in putting their views in an extreme form. This is commonly regarded in our country as a mark of frivolity, but it is in truth a mark of faith to joke about one’s convictions, to exaggerate them as a proof of their solidity and security; for nobody exaggerates unless he is feeling satisfied and safe. A man dances on a rock, not on a tightrope. The English, however, along with their admirable virtues, have one very impracticable delusion. They tend to think that an extreme course must be unreasonable and that a middle course must be reasonable. This, of course, depends entirely on the nature of the proposal or proposition involved. There are some proposals and propositions in which a middle course is a great deal more insane than either extreme; but even in these we tend as a nation to adopt the moonstruck compromise. … But there have been from time to time men among us who have felt that this worship of compromise as compromise was not sensible in the least. They have felt that a position was not necessarily unreasonable because it was consistent and clear. They have felt that a position was not necessarily reasonable merely because it was neither fish, flesh nor herring. They held that if a sane man had views at all, it was part of his sanity to see the views fully and see far into them. In short, they regarded the thing called ‘moderation’ as one of the cloudiest manias of the asylum. Of these men were Henley and Whistler.
Their main thesis was, of course, that of making art immoral or occasionally (in the case of the more exuberant Henley) anti-moral. As a revolt against a certain form of moral art, common in the Royal Academy, of course they were right enough. A picture of a kindly vicar listening to the violin-playing of a worthy-looking country boy is doubtless evil, but not merely because it is inartistic. It is also evil because it is immoral, because it is full of diabolical snobbishness and cowardice and vulgarity and meanness of spirit. They showed that art was immoral, but only where it happened that morality was immoral.
In truth, the real relation between art and morals is very perfectly exemplified in the case of Whistler and Henley themselves. The real relation between art and morals is merely this, that as both exist in an intelligible world, they exhibit something of the same general laws and phenomena. This is quite a different thing from the defence of the ‘anecdotal’ picture, which Whistler rightly ridiculed; to say that a picture is a good picture because it exhibits a man giving sixpence to a beggar is quite as absurd as to say that giving the sixpence is wicked if it is done in a red waist coat with a purple tie. But it may easily happen that the violation of the Divine Law of charity may exhibit parallel symptoms on its own plane, to the violation of God’s darker or more mystic canon against red waistcoats.
Let me give an instance. Everyone who has ever amused himself with black and white sketching knows that it is the instinct of the artist to draw much more lightly and softly with a BB pencil than with an HB. But perhaps everyone has not observed the abyss of ethical significance in this fact, the vast effect of it on multitudinous commandments and by-laws, its effect on the Position of Women, on Christian Social Theory, on the late war in South Africa, on the conception of a gentleman and on the politics of Mr Henley. Many a careless young fellow, it may be, has retouched a sketch with a BB without thinking of all this or at least without thinking of it intensely and with tears. A man draws delicately with a strong pencil because the sense of power makes him easy and tactful and gives a pleasure to the thought of gaining great things at a touch, in other words, the idea that the strong are gentle, the idea which in morals is the basis of chivalry and charity, is not a mere sentimental patchwork; it is an actual organic principle of existence, discoverable in dead materials, traceable in a lead pencil and a scrap of paper. The merciful man is not only merciful to his beast, but merciful to his sketching-block, and in both cases because he feels his power. And this truth applies with almost startling accuracy to the two very men we were considering. For this element of a powerful mildness was the one thing lacking in Henley’s ethics. And it was the one thing splendidly present in Whistler’s art. The great painter’s line was never so faint and filmy as when he worked in charcoal or black chalk or such rich and dark substances, capable, if necessary, of painting the hollows of Hell. His touch on the paper was a kind of terrible caress. He seemed at times to have brushed it only with a feather, but the feather was in the wing of an archangel who could have laid the world waste with the whirlwind of his wings. Through the whole runs the great law of force and gentleness which is the same in ethics. Whistler the painter gives what the healthy moralist gives—hints.
Impressionism is but Christianity [applied] to a canvas. And this Christianity was, as I say, the one thing absent in Henley. He had force, but never reserve force; energy but not ease. He wrote with an iron pen, but he never seemed sure that there was enough ink in it. Sometimes it ended, as such exasperating inkless pens end, with a savage scratch. And so the two great men went on saying triumphantly to each other and to the world that art was immoral, that ethics had no place in it, that the true picture was only an arrangement or a symphony. And all the time the very arrangements and symphonies of Whistler were sharp moral criticisms of Henley. Every sketch and scrawl was a personal parable and the great critic might have found in a few grey strokes on white paper the secret of his own unhappy life.
The truth is surely that both schools, the school of the violent ethics of Henley and the school of the touch-and-go art of Whistler, were divided, vastly to their own detriment, by the chaos of the Tory revival. We live in the Tory revival. That is to say, we live in a world in which artists care for nothing but art, and ethicalists for nothing but ethics. The worst of all conceivable curses has fallen upon art, it has become solely artistic; the saddest of all damnations has fallen upon morality, it has become purely moral. There was a time when art and morals together were part of a great general view of life called philosophy or religion. The last appearance of that universal theory was the French Revolution, which defined the rights of man; the last appearance before that was the Christian morality which defined his obligations. But the supreme value of all religion has been this, and it is a value which a man can quite easily feel, even if he cannot admit any religious assumptions. The historic advantage of religion was that it made every part of a man’s life, art and ethics and the rest, dependent upon a general view of life itself.
We awake at our birth staring at a very funny place. After serious examination of it we receive two fairly definite impressions; the first, delight and the second, fear. The first leads us to dance and kick about in the sunlight; the second leads us not to do it too much for fear we should get sunstroke. The first leads us, that is to say, to institute festivals and so create art. The second leads us to institute rules and so create morality. One tells us that the praise of the Lord is the beginning of art; the other, that the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. And in the days of religion, in the days of the Catholic democracy or the Puritan democracy, these two things, however exaggerated in one direction or another, were still parts of a whole. The old rules of moral observance might run to fanaticism or a fantastic scrupulosity; but still they were the laws of God— that is, a part of the All; the old forms and festivals might run to the wildest pageantry and excess, but still they were the praise of God—that is, a part of the All. But in that great breakdown of belief which is the beginning of the new Toryism, they have, for a sign, been totally separated. Law has become cruel in Henley and art supercilious in Whistler— both because they have been separated from the rest of life. Men have become idolatrous towards these things and treated art and morality respectively as gods. For assuredly they are children of God and when God has been eliminated, they may be called, for want of anything better, his heirs. As they look to us today with their melancholy eyes, they may be heirs; they are certainly orphans.
Daily News, August 1st, 1903
DUE GRANDI TORY
Due uomini davvero grandi ci hanno lasciato solo di recente, a tutta apparenza assai diversi: l’uno una farfalla munita di pungiglione, l’altro un bufalo con un tocco di seducente debolezza. Ma Henley e Whistler furono, credo, amici fino all’ultimo; ed è bene che lo siano stati, poiché fra tutti gli uomini sulla terra i più patetici sono quelli che, come loro, hanno un nobile talento nel trovare amici e un nobile talento nel perderli. Per di più, essi si trovavano concordi su cose ancora più grandi. Erano entrambi rappresentanti di quella grande reazione intellettuale e artistica che seguì all’esaurirsi del liberalismo della Rivoluzione francese; erano entrambi ciò che un abile scrittore, giorni fa, chiamò ‘illiberali convinti’. Erano entrambi Tory; ossia pessimisti. Nulla colpisce tanto, nell’atteggiamento di entrambi, quanto il fatto che una superba malinconia rendesse per entrambi necessario cercare rifugio in qualcosa, in qualcosa di estraneo alla vita corrente. Henley cercò rifugio tra i criminali e Whistler (meno felice) tra gli artisti; ma erano entrambi uomini coraggiosi e tristi. Henley, come poeta, fu grande solo quando pronunciò la vera e propria rapsodia dello stoicismo. Tutta la vita di Whistler fu un notturno; era come uno dei suoi stessi quadri, in cui l’oscurità è rischiarata soltanto da un unico bagliore rosso o limone, le lanterne cinesi dell’arte.
Whistler e Henley, in mezzo a tutte le loro differenze, avevano questo punto essenziale in comune: erano entrambi provocatori, entrambi traevano piacere dal presentare le proprie idee in forma estrema. Ciò è comunemente ritenuto, nel nostro paese, un segno di frivolezza, ma in verità è segno di fede scherzare sulle proprie convinzioni, esagerarle come prova della loro solidità e sicurezza; poiché nessuno esagera se non si sente soddisfatto e al sicuro. Un uomo danza su una roccia, non su una fune tesa. Gli inglesi, tuttavia, insieme alle loro mirabili virtù, hanno un’illusione assai poco pratica. Tendono a pensare che una via estrema debba essere irragionevole e che una via di mezzo debba essere ragionevole. Ciò, naturalmente, dipende interamente dalla natura della proposta o della proposizione in questione. Vi sono alcune proposte e proposizioni in cui una via di mezzo è di gran lunga più folle di entrambi gli estremi; eppure anche in queste tendiamo, come nazione, ad adottare il compromesso lunatico. … Ma di tempo in tempo vi sono stati fra noi uomini che hanno sentito che questo culto del compromesso in quanto compromesso non era affatto sensato. Hanno sentito che una posizione non era necessariamente irragionevole per il fatto di essere coerente e chiara. Hanno sentito che una posizione non era necessariamente ragionevole per il solo fatto di non essere né carne né pesce né aringa. Sostenevano che, se un uomo sano di mente aveva delle idee, era parte della sua sanità mentale vederle appieno e vederle in profondità. In breve, consideravano la cosa chiamata ‘moderazione’ come una delle più nebbiose manie del manicomio. Di questi uomini furono Henley e Whistler.
La loro tesi principale era, naturalmente, quella di rendere l’arte immorale oppure, occasionalmente (nel caso del più esuberante Henley), anti-morale. Come rivolta contro una certa forma di arte morale, comune nella Royal Academy, avevano senza dubbio abbastanza ragione. Un quadro di un affabile vicario che ascolta il violino suonato da un dignitoso ragazzo di campagna è indubbiamente malvagio, ma non soltanto perché inartistico. È malvagio anche perché è immorale, perché è pieno di diabolico snobismo e di viltà e di volgarità e di grettezza di spirito. Essi mostrarono che l’arte era immorale, ma solo là dove capitava che la moralità fosse immorale.
In verità, il vero rapporto tra arte e morale è perfettamente esemplificato nel caso stesso di Whistler e Henley. Il vero rapporto tra arte e morale è semplicemente questo: che, esistendo entrambe in un mondo intelligibile, esse mostrano qualcosa delle stesse leggi e degli stessi fenomeni generali. Ciò è cosa ben diversa dalla difesa del quadro ‘aneddotico’, che Whistler giustamente mise in ridicolo; dire che un quadro è un buon quadro perché mostra un uomo che dà sei pence a un mendicante è altrettanto assurdo che dire che dare quei sei pence è cosa malvagia se lo si fa in panciotto rosso e cravatta viola. Ma può ben accadere che la violazione della Legge Divina della carità mostri, sul proprio piano, sintomi paralleli alla violazione del canone più oscuro o più mistico di Dio contro i panciotti rossi.
Lasciate che vi porti un esempio. Chiunque si sia mai dilettato di disegno in bianco e nero sa che è istinto dell’artista tracciare in modo assai più leggero e morbido con una matita BB che con una HB. Ma forse non tutti hanno osservato l’abisso di significato etico racchiuso in questo fatto, il suo vasto effetto su innumerevoli comandamenti e regolamenti, il suo effetto sulla Condizione della Donna, sulla Teoria Sociale Cristiana, sulla recente guerra in Sud Africa, sulla concezione del gentiluomo e sulla politica del signor Henley. Molti giovani sbadati, forse, hanno ritoccato uno schizzo con una BB senza pensare a tutto ciò, o almeno senza pensarci intensamente e con le lacrime. Un uomo disegna delicatamente con una matita dura perché il senso della potenza lo rende disinvolto e delicato e dà un piacere all’idea di conquistare grandi cose con un tocco; in altre parole, l’idea che i forti sono gentili, l’idea che in morale è il fondamento della cavalleria e della carità, non è un mero rappezzo sentimentale; è un effettivo principio organico dell’esistenza, rintracciabile in materie inanimate, riconoscibile in una matita di piombo e in un ritaglio di carta. L’uomo misericordioso non è misericordioso soltanto con la sua bestia, ma misericordioso con il suo blocco da disegno, e in entrambi i casi perché avverte la propria potenza. E questa verità si applica con accuratezza quasi sorprendente ai due uomini stessi che andavamo considerando. Poiché questo elemento di una potente mitezza era la sola cosa che mancava nell’etica di Henley. Ed era la sola cosa splendidamente presente nell’arte di Whistler. La linea del grande pittore non era mai così tenue e diafana come quando lavorava a carboncino o a gesso nero o con altre sostanze ricche e scure, capaci, all’occorrenza, di dipingere le cavità dell’Inferno. Il suo tocco sulla carta era una specie di terribile carezza. Pareva a volte che l’avesse solo sfiorata con una piuma, ma la piuma era nell’ala di un arcangelo che avrebbe potuto devastare il mondo con il turbine delle sue ali. Attraverso tutto scorre la grande legge della forza e della gentilezza che è la stessa nell’etica. Whistler il pittore dà ciò che il moralista sano dà: allusioni.
L’impressionismo non è che il cristianesimo [applicato] a una tela. E questo cristianesimo era, come dico, la sola cosa assente in Henley. Egli aveva forza, ma mai forza di riserva; energia ma non agio. Scriveva con una penna di ferro, ma non pareva mai sicuro che vi fosse abbastanza inchiostro dentro. A volte si esauriva, come si esauriscono queste esasperanti penne senza inchiostro, con un selvaggio graffio. E così i due grandi uomini continuavano a dirsi trionfalmente l’un l’altro e al mondo che l’arte era immorale, che l’etica non aveva posto in essa, che il vero quadro era solo una disposizione o una sinfonia. E per tutto il tempo le stesse disposizioni e sinfonie di Whistler erano taglienti critiche morali di Henley. Ogni schizzo e ogni scarabocchio era una parabola personale, e il grande critico avrebbe potuto trovare in pochi tratti grigi su carta bianca il segreto della propria infelice vita.
La verità è certamente che entrambe le scuole, la scuola dell’etica violenta di Henley e la scuola dell’arte fugace di Whistler, erano divise, a grande loro danno, dal caos della rinascita Tory. Noi viviamo nella rinascita Tory. Vale a dire, viviamo in un mondo in cui gli artisti non si curano di nulla se non dell’arte, e i moralisti di nulla se non dell’etica. La peggiore di tutte le maledizioni concepibili è caduta sull’arte: essa è divenuta unicamente artistica; la più triste di tutte le dannazioni è caduta sulla morale: essa è divenuta puramente morale. Vi fu un tempo in cui l’arte e la morale insieme erano parte di una grande visione generale della vita chiamata filosofia o religione. L’ultima apparizione di quella teoria universale fu la Rivoluzione francese, che definì i diritti dell’uomo; l’ultima apparizione prima di quella fu la morale cristiana, che ne definì gli obblighi. Ma il valore supremo di ogni religione è stato questo, ed è un valore che un uomo può ben facilmente sentire, anche se non può ammettere alcun presupposto religioso. Il vantaggio storico della religione era che rendeva ogni parte della vita di un uomo, l’arte e l’etica e tutto il resto, dipendente da una visione generale della vita stessa.
Ci destiamo alla nascita fissando un luogo assai buffo. Dopo seria disamina di esso riceviamo due impressioni abbastanza definite: la prima, la gioia, e la seconda, la paura. La prima ci porta a danzare e a scalciare al sole; la seconda ci porta a non farlo troppo, per timore di prendere un colpo di sole. La prima ci porta, cioè, a istituire feste e così a creare l’arte. La seconda ci porta a istituire regole e così a creare la morale. L’una ci dice che la lode del Signore è il principio dell’arte; l’altra, che il timore del Signore è il principio della sapienza. E nei giorni della religione, nei giorni della democrazia cattolica o della democrazia puritana, queste due cose, per quanto esagerate in una direzione o nell’altra, erano ancora parti di un tutto. Le antiche regole dell’osservanza morale potevano spingersi al fanatismo o a una fantastica scrupolosità; ma restavano pur sempre le leggi di Dio, cioè una parte del Tutto; le antiche forme e feste potevano spingersi alle più sfrenate parate ed eccessi, ma restavano pur sempre la lode di Dio, cioè una parte del Tutto. Ma in quel grande crollo della fede che è il principio del nuovo Toryismo, esse, per segno, sono state totalmente separate. La legge è divenuta crudele in Henley e l’arte sdegnosa in Whistler: entrambe perché sono state separate dal resto della vita. Gli uomini sono divenuti idolatri verso queste cose e hanno trattato l’arte e la morale rispettivamente come dèi. Poiché di certo esse sono figlie di Dio, e quando Dio è stato eliminato, esse possono chiamarsi, in mancanza di meglio, i suoi eredi. Come ci guardano oggi con i loro occhi malinconici, forse sono eredi; di certo sono orfane.
Daily News, 1° agosto 1903
THE FALLACY OF FREEDOM
Anarchism, appeals to absolute liberty, renunciation of limitations as such—all this is incurably futile and childish, because it will not face a fundamental logical fact. This fact is that there is no such thing as a condition of complete emancipation, unless we can speak of a condition of nonentity. What we call emancipation is always and of necessity simply the free choice of the soul between one set of limitations and another. If I have a piece of chalk in my hand, I can make either a circle or a square; that is the sacred thing called liberty. But I cannot make a thing that is both a circle and a square. I cannot make an unlimited square. I cannot draw an emancipated circle. If I wish to make anything at all, I must abide by the limitations and principles of the thing I make. … And any man who makes anything whatever, if it be with a piece of chalk, is doing exactly what a man does when he marries or enlists in an army. He is courageously selling himself into a splendid slavery. And, of course, in moral matters it is the same; there is no lawlessness, there is only a free choice between limitations.
Daily News, December 21st, 1905
LA FALLACIA DELLA LIBERTÀ
L’anarchismo, gli appelli alla libertà assoluta, la rinuncia ai limiti in quanto tali: tutto ciò è incurabilmente futile e puerile, perché non vuole guardare in faccia un fatto logico fondamentale. Questo fatto è che non esiste alcuna cosa quale una condizione di completa emancipazione, a meno che non si possa parlare di una condizione di non-essere. Ciò che chiamiamo emancipazione è sempre e necessariamente soltanto la libera scelta dell’anima tra un insieme di limiti e un altro. Se ho in mano un pezzo di gesso, posso fare o un cerchio o un quadrato; questa è la cosa sacra chiamata libertà. Ma non posso fare una cosa che sia insieme cerchio e quadrato. Non posso fare un quadrato illimitato. Non posso tracciare un cerchio emancipato. Se voglio fare una cosa qualsiasi, devo attenermi ai limiti e ai principi della cosa che faccio. … E qualunque uomo faccia una cosa qualsiasi, fosse pure con un pezzo di gesso, sta facendo esattamente ciò che fa un uomo quando si sposa o si arruola in un esercito. Sta coraggiosamente vendendosi in una splendida schiavitù. E, naturalmente, nelle questioni morali è lo stesso; non vi è alcuna assenza di legge, vi è solo una libera scelta tra limiti.
Daily News, 21 dicembre 1905
LIBERTY
One of the truisms which I was taught from infancy and have only learned in extreme old age is this; that the life of a commonwealth is its liberty. This very word liberty is old-fashioned. You have hardly heard it seriously mentioned as an ideal since the days of Byron and Miss Jane Porter. Now the reason why people in that time talked about liberty was quite simple; it was that they had some. They had tasted, they had even drunk, the dreadful wine. …
I am more and more convinced that we have to ask again the old question, ‘Is this a free country?’ It is still a very rich country; it will always, I think, be a great country; it is everywhere a humorous and in some patches a happy country; and anyhow, it is my country and that is enough for me. But it is not a free country. For some time past it has been losing, first slowly but now rapidly, the last vestiges of that particular thing called freedom.
Loyalty is the heart of the commonwealth; but liberty is its lungs. You find out the necessity of liberty as you find out the necessity of air—by not having enough of it and gasping.
Daily News, March 18th, 1911
LIBERTÀ
Uno dei truismi che mi furono insegnati fin dall’infanzia e che ho appreso soltanto in estrema vecchiaia è questo: che la vita di uno Stato è la sua libertà. Questa stessa parola libertà è fuori moda. L’avete a malapena sentita menzionare seriamente come ideale dai tempi di Byron e di Miss Jane Porter. Ora, la ragione per cui in quel tempo la gente parlava di libertà era assai semplice: era che ne aveva un po’. L’avevano assaggiato, avevano perfino bevuto, quel vino tremendo. …
Sono sempre più convinto che dobbiamo tornare a porci la vecchia domanda: ‘È questo un paese libero?’ È ancora un paese assai ricco; sarà sempre, credo, un grande paese; è dappertutto un paese pieno di umorismo e, a tratti, un paese felice; e comunque è il mio paese, e questo mi basta. Ma non è un paese libero. Da qualche tempo va perdendo, dapprima lentamente ma ora rapidamente, le ultime vestigia di quella cosa particolare chiamata libertà.
La lealtà è il cuore dello Stato; ma la libertà ne sono i polmoni. Scopri la necessità della libertà come scopri la necessità dell’aria: non avendone abbastanza e boccheggiando.
Daily News, 18 marzo 1911
THE SERVILE STATE
When you break the big laws, you do not get liberty; you do not even get anarchy. You get the small laws.
Daily News, July 29th, 1905
LO STATO SERVILE
Quando infrangi le grandi leggi, non ottieni la libertà; non ottieni nemmeno l’anarchia. Ottieni le piccole leggi.
Daily News, 29 luglio 1905
THE SIN OF PROHIBITION
Today a criticism of Prohibition cannot be an attack; it can only be an autopsy. … Prohibition has fallen down dead of its own crawling corruption; of the foul humours that infected its own body; and not by any adequate attack from without. It was, if ever there was one, a thing that failed because it had been tried; that found its doom because it had its chance; that was a practical failure because it was a practical fact; that was ruined, not by being frustrated but by being fulfilled; and came to its unnatural end because it had run its natural course. Prohibition died because it was deserted by Prohibitionists; even more than because it was always derided by sensible men and by men with a sense of history and civilization. It is true that there are still various legal entanglements, twisted and re-twisted by the unthinkable fanatics at the feverish moment of their power; but hardly anybody pretends that Prohibition is morally tenable or tolerable today, and indeed it is only a question of whether it is a repealed law or a dead letter. And as the autopsy may well be more elaborate and complete than the attack, I should like to point out especially that the poison that is present in the remains, the poison of which the victim undoubtedly died, is in fact a poison of a certain spiritual sort which is the worst enemy of life.
That poison is sin. And Prohibition perished because the spirit within it is sinful and has the quality of all the sins that destroy the soul. We pay the Prohibitionists far too high a compliment when we call them over-righteous or self-righteous or even Pharisaical. The evil was not really in any exaggeration of ethical seriousness; in the sense, for instance, in which the old Puritan might really be rather unbalanced in his horror at harlotry and the brazen profession of prostitution; or a sensitive person might go a little mad from the mere shock of encountering some madness of moral perversion. The evil of the thing lay much deeper, because it was not a narrowing of the moral sense; it was a violent dislocation and uprooting of the moral sense. The common conscience of sane people is a thing which I and others continue to call the voice of God; but anyhow it is the voice of Man. It is the healthy response of the universal human mind to certain ideas and it does not really differ very widely in its deliberate and conscious decisions; though of course it is modified by particular perils, particular duties of the moment, and the rest. Now if you take a normal person, a nice child, a reasonably trained man, a human being not falling short of the fulness of human nature, you will find that such a person knows that certain decisions are unjust, certain actions cruel, certain risks ordinary, certain matters a man’s own business, and so on. Only by perverting his conscience, only by making his mind crooked, can you induce him to believe that drinking beer is some thing like assassination or betrayal. And by the time that you have succeeded, you have ruined his moral sense. It is no longer a spontaneous spiritual thing; it is no longer a natural thing that can smell evil; it is only capable of repeating a dead, distorted lesson like something imposed by a mesmerist. That mesmerist is not a moralist. He is, in the most emphatic sense, an immoralist. He corrupts the conscience of the young.
Far too little attention has been paid to this point of very practical psychology. You wreck the tribunal of truth when you bribe or bully it into pronouncing the innocent guilty, just as you do when you similarly induce it to pronounce the guilty innocent. As it is with an innocent man, so it is with an innocent practice. You have to destroy all innocence to make anyone detest an innocent practice. By the time that you have persuaded a nice and normal child that it is wicked to fetch his poor old father a glass of ale, you have so bewildered the mind that it may end by saying it is not wicked to put prussic acid in the ale. The logical, mathematical, intellectually inevitable effect of doing this is a general loosening of all morality. It is also the actual effect; and there is the actual state of modern America to prove it. Begin with a heresy in morals, whether it be a negative or a permission, and it will end in the worst and wildest licence that could follow on the loosest permission. And if anyone doubts this psychological fact, which is also a theological truth, then let him explain the howling nightmare and hell of nonsense and anarchy that has actually followed in the track of the Prohibition Law.
True Temperance Quarterly, May, 1933
IL PECCATO DEL PROIBIZIONISMO
Oggi una critica al Proibizionismo non può essere un attacco; può essere soltanto un’autopsia. … Il Proibizionismo è caduto stecchito per la propria strisciante corruzione; per gli umori putridi che infettavano il suo stesso corpo; e non per un qualche adeguato attacco dall’esterno. Fu, se mai ve ne fu uno, una cosa che fallì perché era stata provata; che trovò la propria rovina perché ebbe la propria occasione; che fu un fallimento pratico perché era un fatto pratico; che fu rovinata non per essere stata frustrata ma per essere stata compiuta; e giunse alla sua fine innaturale perché aveva percorso il suo corso naturale. Il Proibizionismo morì perché fu abbandonato dai proibizionisti; ancor più che per essere stato sempre deriso da uomini sensati e da uomini con il senso della storia e della civiltà. È vero che vi sono ancora vari intrichi legali, attorcigliati e riattorcigliati dai fanatici impensabili nel febbrile momento del loro potere; ma quasi nessuno pretende che il Proibizionismo sia oggi moralmente sostenibile o tollerabile, e in verità è solo una questione se sia una legge abrogata o lettera morta. E poiché l’autopsia può ben essere più elaborata e completa dell’attacco, vorrei sottolineare in particolare che il veleno presente nei resti, il veleno di cui la vittima indubbiamente morì, è in realtà un veleno di una certa specie spirituale, che è il peggior nemico della vita.
Quel veleno è il peccato. E il Proibizionismo perì perché lo spirito che vi era dentro è peccaminoso e ha la qualità di tutti i peccati che distruggono l’anima. Facciamo ai proibizionisti un complimento fin troppo alto quando li chiamiamo troppo giusti o giusti ai propri occhi o addirittura farisaici. Il male non era davvero in una qualche esagerazione della serietà etica; nel senso, per esempio, in cui il vecchio puritano poteva davvero essere piuttosto squilibrato nel suo orrore verso la lascivia e la sfrontata professione della prostituzione; oppure una persona sensibile poteva impazzire un poco per il solo urto dell’imbattersi in una qualche follia di perversione morale. Il male della cosa stava assai più in profondità, perché non era un restringimento del senso morale; era una violenta dislocazione e uno sradicamento del senso morale. La comune coscienza delle persone sane di mente è una cosa che io e altri continuiamo a chiamare la voce di Dio; ma comunque è la voce dell’Uomo. È la risposta sana della mente umana universale a certe idee e non differisce davvero molto ampiamente nelle sue deliberate e coscienti decisioni; benché, naturalmente, sia modificata da particolari pericoli, particolari doveri del momento, e via dicendo. Ora, se prendi una persona normale, un bravo bambino, un uomo ragionevolmente educato, un essere umano che non manca della pienezza della natura umana, scoprirai che una tale persona sa che certe decisioni sono ingiuste, certe azioni crudeli, certi rischi ordinari, certe faccende affari propri di un uomo, e così via. Solo pervertendo la sua coscienza, solo rendendo storta la sua mente, puoi indurlo a credere che bere birra sia qualcosa di simile all’assassinio o al tradimento. E quando ci sarai riuscito, avrai rovinato il suo senso morale. Non è più una cosa spontanea e spirituale; non è più una cosa naturale capace di fiutare il male; è solo capace di ripetere una lezione morta e distorta, come qualcosa imposto da un mesmerizzatore. Quel mesmerizzatore non è un moralista. Egli è, nel senso più enfatico, un immoralista. Corrompe la coscienza dei giovani.
Fin troppo poca attenzione è stata prestata a questo punto di psicologia assai pratica. Mandi in rovina il tribunale della verità quando lo corrompi o lo intimidisci fino a fargli pronunciare colpevole l’innocente, proprio come fai quando similmente lo induci a pronunciare innocente il colpevole. Come è con un uomo innocente, così è con una pratica innocente. Devi distruggere ogni innocenza per far detestare a chicchessia una pratica innocente. Quando avrai persuaso un bravo e normale bambino che è cosa malvagia portare al suo povero vecchio padre un bicchiere di birra chiara, avrai talmente sconvolto la mente che essa potrà finire col dire che non è cosa malvagia mettere acido prussico nella birra. L’effetto logico, matematico, intellettualmente inevitabile del fare ciò è un generale allentamento di ogni moralità. È anche l’effetto reale; e c’è lo stato reale della moderna America a provarlo. Comincia con un’eresia in morale, sia essa una negazione o un permesso, ed essa finirà nella peggiore e più sfrenata licenza che possa seguire al più lasco dei permessi. E se qualcuno dubita di questo fatto psicologico, che è anche una verità teologica, allora gli spieghi l’urlante incubo e l’inferno di assurdità e anarchia che ha effettivamente fatto seguito sulle tracce della legge sul Proibizionismo.
True Temperance Quarterly, maggio 1933
AUTOMATIC EVIL
A sophistry may affect the mind, but an obscenity must affect the mind; it is a violence. It may do one of two things equally direct and instinctive; it may shock purity or it may inflame impurity. But in both cases the process is brutal and irrational. A picture or a sentence which shocks sensibility or sharpens sensuality does not offer itself for discussion. It is no more open to argument than a squeaking slate pencil is open to argument, or the choking smell of ether is open to argument. The human victim is drugged—or he is sick.
Therefore (without carrying the parallel, of course, to any lengths of literalism), I think we may speak of indecorum as an assault. In the matter of violations of traditional public decency (however plausibly defended) I am entirely with the Puritans. The ordinary argument that sex can be treated calmly and freely like anything else is the most loathsome cant in this canting epoch. The parallels from other crimes are insolently fallacious. A man reading about a burglary is not any more likely to commit a burglary. A man who has seen a pocket picked is not in the least likely to become a pickpocket. But there is one evil which, by its hold on the imagination (the creative and reproductive part of man), can reproduce itself even by report. We have a right to protect ourselves and especially our top-heavy and groping children against startling and uncivilized appeals to this instinct. Heretics have a legal claim to persuade human souls to err and sin like human souls; they have no business to make them jump like monkeys on a stick. I have no more right to give an unwilling citizen a sexual shock than to give him an electric shock. I have no more right to come behind him and inflame his passions than to come behind him and inflame his coattails. …
The appeal to animal appetite may succeed by its very familiarity. Indecency is not wild and lawless. The danger of indecency is exactly that it is tame, dull, direct, inevitable; a mere law in the members. It is automatic evil. Pride makes a man a devil; but lust makes him a machine.
Daily News, February 19th, 1910
IL MALE AUTOMATICO
Un sofisma può influenzare la mente, ma un’oscenità deve influenzare la mente; è una violenza. Può fare una di due cose ugualmente dirette e istintive; può scandalizzare la purezza o può infiammare l’impurità. Ma in entrambi i casi il processo è brutale e irrazionale. Un quadro o una frase che scandalizza la sensibilità o aguzza la sensualità non si offre alla discussione. Non è più aperto all’argomentazione di quanto lo sia una lavagnetta stridula, o l’odore soffocante dell’etere. La vittima umana è drogata, oppure sta male.
Perciò (senza spingere il parallelo, s’intende, ad alcun eccesso di letteralismo), penso che possiamo parlare dell’indecoro come di un’aggressione. In materia di violazioni della tradizionale decenza pubblica (per quanto plausibilmente difese) sto interamente con i puritani. Il solito argomento secondo cui il sesso può essere trattato con calma e libertà come qualunque altra cosa è la più ripugnante ipocrisia di questa ipocrita epoca. I paralleli tratti da altri crimini sono insolentemente fallaci. Un uomo che legge di uno scasso non è per questo più incline a commettere uno scasso. Un uomo che ha visto svaligiare una tasca non è affatto incline a diventare un borseggiatore. Ma c’è un male che, per la sua presa sull’immaginazione (la parte creatrice e riproduttrice dell’uomo), può riprodursi anche per semplice racconto. Abbiamo il diritto di proteggere noi stessi e specialmente i nostri bambini malfermi e brancolanti contro gli allarmanti e incivili appelli a questo istinto. Gli eretici hanno un diritto legale a persuadere le anime umane a errare e peccare come anime umane; non hanno alcun titolo a farle saltare come scimmie su un bastone. Non ho più diritto di dare a un cittadino riluttante uno shock sessuale di quanto ne abbia di dargli uno shock elettrico. Non ho più diritto di venirgli alle spalle e infiammargli le passioni di quanto ne abbia di venirgli alle spalle e infiammargli le falde della giacca. …
L’appello all’appetito animale può riuscire proprio per la sua familiarità. L’indecenza non è selvaggia e senza legge. Il pericolo dell’indecenza è esattamente che è mansueta, ottusa, diretta, inevitabile; una mera legge nelle membra. È male automatico. L’orgoglio fa di un uomo un diavolo; ma la lussuria ne fa una macchina.
Daily News, 19 febbraio 1910
THE TYRANNICAL SCEPTIC
It is a total error to suppose that the possession of convictions— of hard, strong, unquenchable convictions—makes a man bigoted. It is quite the other way. The most bigoted people in the world are the people who have not got any convictions at all. It may seem an extreme or fanciful statement, but it is really true that there are no subjects in the world on which men are so noisy, so aggressive, so violent and angry even unto slaying, as the subjects about which they do not care. … Men have said that the ground of bigotry is ignorance, but more is true than that: the ground of bigotry is indifference. There is one figure who has dominated history and been the oppressor of all religions, good and bad; all philosophies, true and false. He is the tyrannical sceptic—and his name is Pilate.
Black and White, March 7th, 1903
LO SCETTICO TIRANNICO
È un errore totale supporre che il possesso di convinzioni, di convinzioni salde, forti, inestinguibili, renda un uomo bigotto. È proprio il contrario. Le persone più bigotte al mondo sono quelle che non hanno convinzioni di sorta. Può sembrare un’affermazione estrema o bizzarra, ma è davvero vero che non vi sono al mondo argomenti su cui gli uomini siano tanto chiassosi, tanto aggressivi, tanto violenti e adirati fino perfino all’uccidere, quanto gli argomenti che non stanno loro a cuore. … Gli uomini hanno detto che il fondamento del bigottismo è l’ignoranza, ma più di questo è vero: il fondamento del bigottismo è l’indifferenza. C’è una figura che ha dominato la storia ed è stata l’oppressore di tutte le religioni, buone e cattive; di tutte le filosofie, vere e false. È lo scettico tirannico, e il suo nome è Pilato.
Black and White, 7 marzo 1903
THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME
The earnest Freethinkers need not worry themselves so much about the persecutions of the past. Before the Liberal idea is dead or triumphant, we shall see wars and persecutions the like of which the world has never seen. They need not reserve their tears for the victims of Bonner or Claverhouse. They may weep for themselves and for their children.
Daily News, February 18th, 1905
LA FORMA DELLE COSE A VENIRE
I fervidi Liberi Pensatori non hanno bisogno di tormentarsi tanto per le persecuzioni del passato. Prima che l’idea liberale sia morta o trionfante, vedremo guerre e persecuzioni quali il mondo non ha mai visto. Non c’è bisogno che serbino le loro lacrime per le vittime di Bonner o di Claverhouse. Possono piangere per se stessi e per i loro figli.
Daily News, 18 febbraio 1905
SKY SIGNS
The next great heresy is going to be simply an attack on morality; and especially on sexual morality. And it is coming, not from a few Socialists surviving from the Fabian Society, but from the living exultant energy of the rich resolved to enjoy themselves at last, with neither Popery nor Puritanism nor Socialism to hold them back. … The roots of the new heresy, God knows, are as deep as nature itself, whose flower is the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eye and the pride of life. I say that the man who cannot see this cannot see the signs of the times; cannot see even the sky-signs in the street that are the new sort of signs in heaven. The madness of tomorrow is not in Moscow but Manhattan— but most of what was in Broadway is already in Piccadilly.
G. K.’s Weekly, June 19th, 1926
INSEGNE NEL CIELO
La prossima grande eresia sarà semplicemente un attacco alla morale; e specialmente alla morale sessuale. E non verrà da pochi Socialisti superstiti della Società Fabiana, ma dalla viva ed esultante energia dei ricchi decisi a godersi finalmente la vita, senza più Papismo né Puritanesimo né Socialismo a trattenerli. … Le radici della nuova eresia, Dio sa, sono profonde quanto la natura stessa, il cui fiore è la concupiscenza della carne e la concupiscenza degli occhi e la superbia della vita. Dico che l’uomo che non riesce a vedere questo non riesce a vedere i segni dei tempi; non riesce a vedere neppure le insegne nel cielo, lungo le strade, che sono la nuova specie di segni in cielo. La follia di domani non è a Mosca ma a Manhattan— ma gran parte di ciò che era a Broadway è già a Piccadilly.
G. K.’s Weekly, 19 giugno 1926
THE MONSTROSITY
When a dead body is rotting, it does not diminish; it swells. Ignorance of this elementary truth is at the back of nearly all our political blindness. When we speak of a decaying people or a dying institution, we always have somehow the notion of their dwindling; of sparser and sparser tribes gathering on their mountains, of meaner and meaner buildings arising in their skies. But it is not so that social bodies really rot. They rot like physical bodies, being horribly distended from within by revolting gases demanding egress. Institutions, like corpses, grow larger and larger as they grow more and more shapeless. A dying monarchy is always one that has too much power, not too little; a dying religion always interferes more than it ought, not less. Our own country is really in this state of swollen decay, and the test of it is this: that every function of the State has grown more formless and more vast. Every power, public and private, has been stretched long past all sane definition and we live under a government of entangled exaggerations. It is a government that has all the practical effects of anarchy. Indeed, it is something worse than chaos; a warring polytheism. It is a conflict of incalculable autocracies, under any of which at the moment we may fall.
Daily News, March 11th, 1911
LA MOSTRUOSITÀ
Quando un corpo morto imputridisce, non diminuisce; si gonfia. L’ignoranza di questa elementare verità sta alla radice di quasi tutta la nostra cecità politica. Quando parliamo di un popolo in decadenza o di un’istituzione morente, abbiamo sempre in qualche modo l’idea di un loro rimpicciolirsi; di tribù sempre più rade che si radunano sulle loro montagne, di edifici sempre più meschini che si levano nei loro cieli. Ma non è così che i corpi sociali marciscono davvero. Marciscono come i corpi fisici, orribilmente distesi dall’interno da gas rivoltanti che esigono uno sfogo. Le istituzioni, come i cadaveri, si fanno più grandi e più grandi via via che diventano più informi. Una monarchia morente è sempre una che ha troppo potere, non troppo poco; una religione morente si intromette sempre più di quanto dovrebbe, non meno. Il nostro paese è davvero in questo stato di gonfia decadenza, e la prova è questa: che ogni funzione dello Stato si è fatta più informe e più smisurata. Ogni potere, pubblico e privato, è stato dilatato ben oltre ogni sana definizione e viviamo sotto un governo di esagerazioni aggrovigliate. È un governo che ha tutti gli effetti pratici dell’anarchia. Anzi, è qualcosa di peggiore del caos; un politeismo in guerra. È un conflitto di incalcolabili autocrazie, sotto una qualsiasi delle quali da un momento all’altro possiamo cadere.
Daily News, 11 marzo 1911
POLITICS AND DISCONTENT
Europe at present exhibits a concentration upon politics which is partly the unfortunate result of our loss of religion, partly the just and needful result of our social inequality and iniquity. These causes, however, will not remain in operation for ever. Religion is returning from her exile; it is more likely that the future will be crazily and corruptly superstitious, than that it will be merely rationalist. … On the other hand, our attempts to right the extreme imbalance of wealth must soon have some issue; something will be done to lessen the perpetual torture of incompetent compassion; some scheme will be substituted for our malevolent anarchy, if it be only one of benevolent servitude. And as these two special unrests about the universe and the State settle down into more silent and enduring systems, there will emerge more and more those primary and archaic truths which the dust of these two conflicts has veiled. The secondary questions relatively solved, we shall find ourselves all the more in the presence of the primary questions of man.
For at present we all, tend to one mistake; we tend to make politics too important. We tend to forget how huge a part of a man’s life is the same under a Sultan and a Senate, under Nero or St Louis. Daybreak is a never-ending glory, getting out of bed is a never-ending nuisance; food and friends will be welcomed: work and strangers must be accepted and endured: birds will go bedwards and children won’t, to the end of the last evening. And the worst danger is that in our modern revolt against intolerable accidents we may have unsettled those things that alone make daily life tolerable. … There is danger that the social reformer may silently and occultly develop some of the madness of the millionaire whom he denounces. He may find that he has learnt how to build playgrounds, but forgotten how to play. He may agitate for peace and quiet, but only propagate his own mental agitation. In his long fight to get a slave a half-holiday he may an deny those ancient and natural things, the zest of being, the divinity of man, the sacredness of simple things, the health and humour of the earth, which alone make a half-holiday even half a holiday or a slave even half a man.
There is danger in that modern phrase ‘divine discontent’. There is truth in it also, of course; but it is only truth of a special and secondary kind. Much of the quarrel between Christianity and the world has been due to this fact; that there are generally two truths, as it were, at any given moment, the ingenious, paradoxical truth suitable to some moment of revolt or reaction, and the ancient underlying truism which is nevertheless true all the time. It is sometimes worth while to point out that black is not so black as it is painted; but black is still black, and not white. So with the merits of content and discontent. It is true that in certain acute and painful crises of oppression or disgrace, discontent is a duty, and shame should call us like a trumpet. But it is not true that man should look at life with an eye of discontent, however high-minded. It is not true that in his primary, naked relation to the world, in his relation to sex, to pain, to comradeship, to the grave or to the weather, man ought to make discontent his ideal; it is black lunacy. Half his poor little hopes of happiness hang on his thinking a small house pretty, a plain wife charming, a lame foot not unbearable, and bad cards not so bad. The voice of the special rebels and prophets, recommending discontent, should, as I have said, sound now and then suddenly, like a trumpet. But the voices of the saints and sages, recommending contentment, should sound unceasingly, like the sea.
T. P.’s Weekly, Christmas Number, 1910
POLITICA E SCONTENTO
L’Europa mostra al presente una concentrazione sulla politica che è in parte lo sventurato frutto della nostra perdita della religione, in parte il giusto e necessario frutto della nostra disuguaglianza e iniquità sociale. Queste cause, tuttavia, non resteranno in atto per sempre. La religione sta tornando dal suo esilio; è più probabile che il futuro sarà follemente e corrottamente superstizioso, piuttosto che meramente razionalista. … D’altra parte, i nostri tentativi di raddrizzare l’estremo squilibrio della ricchezza dovranno presto avere qualche esito; qualcosa si farà per attenuare il perpetuo tormento di una compassione incompetente; qualche disegno sarà sostituito alla nostra malevola anarchia, foss’anche solo quello di una servitù benevola. E via via che questi due particolari fermenti, quello sull’universo e quello sullo Stato, si assestano in sistemi più silenziosi e duraturi, emergeranno sempre più quelle verità primarie e arcaiche che la polvere di questi due conflitti aveva velato. Risolte relativamente le questioni secondarie, ci ritroveremo tanto più al cospetto delle questioni primarie dell’uomo.
Poiché al presente noi tutti tendiamo a un errore; tendiamo a rendere la politica troppo importante. Tendiamo a dimenticare quanto immensa parte della vita di un uomo sia la stessa sotto un Sultano e sotto un Senato, sotto Nerone o sotto San Luigi. L’alba è una gloria che non finisce mai, alzarsi dal letto è una seccatura che non finisce mai; il cibo e gli amici saranno benvenuti: il lavoro e gli estranei si devono accettare e sopportare: gli uccelli andranno a dormire e i bambini no, fino alla fine dell’ultima sera. E il pericolo peggiore è che, nella nostra moderna rivolta contro gli intollerabili accidenti, abbiamo forse scompaginato quelle cose che sole rendono tollerabile la vita quotidiana. … C’è il pericolo che il riformatore sociale sviluppi silenziosamente e occultamente un poco della follia del milionario che denuncia. Può scoprire di aver imparato a costruire terreni di gioco, ma di aver dimenticato come si gioca. Può agitarsi per la pace e la quiete, ma non fare che propagare la propria agitazione mentale. Nella sua lunga lotta per ottenere a uno schiavo una mezza vacanza può finire col negare quelle antiche e naturali cose, il gusto dell’essere, la divinità dell’uomo, la sacralità delle cose semplici, la salute e l’umorismo della terra, che sole rendono una mezza vacanza almeno mezza vacanza o uno schiavo almeno mezzo uomo.
C’è un pericolo in quella moderna espressione, ‘divino scontento’. C’è anche una verità in essa, di certo; ma è soltanto verità di una specie speciale e secondaria. Molta della contesa fra il Cristianesimo e il mondo è dovuta a questo fatto; che ci sono generalmente due verità, per così dire, in ogni dato momento, la verità ingegnosa e paradossale adatta a qualche momento di rivolta o di reazione, e l’antico truismo sottostante che è nondimeno vero in ogni tempo. Talvolta vale la pena di far notare che il nero non è così nero come lo si dipinge; ma il nero è pur sempre nero, e non bianco. Così è coi meriti della contentezza e dello scontento. È vero che in certe acute e dolorose crisi di oppressione o di disonore, lo scontento è un dovere, e la vergogna dovrebbe chiamarci come una tromba. Ma non è vero che l’uomo debba guardare la vita con occhio di scontento, per quanto nobile. Non è vero che nella sua relazione primaria e nuda col mondo, nella sua relazione col sesso, col dolore, con la fratellanza, con la tomba o col tempo atmosferico, l’uomo debba fare dello scontento il suo ideale; è cieca follia. Metà delle sue povere piccole speranze di felicità dipende dal ritenere graziosa una piccola casa, incantevole una moglie qualunque, non insopportabile un piede zoppo, e non così cattive le cattive carte. La voce dei ribelli e dei profeti speciali, che raccomanda lo scontento, dovrebbe, come ho detto, risuonare di quando in quando all’improvviso, come una tromba. Ma le voci dei santi e dei saggi, che raccomandano la contentezza, dovrebbero risuonare incessantemente, come il mare.
T. P.’s Weekly, Numero di Natale, 1910
AGAINST DIVINE DISCONTENT
I remember hearing a good deal about divine discontent from my early youth; indeed, rather specially in my early youth. For I was born towards the end of the Victorian age, which many writers, strangely enough, imagine to have been a time of conservative placidity and of people content with their stations in life. As a fact, it was exactly the opposite. It was the period during which two modern ideas came into the world and fought; a true idea that we must raise the economic as well as the political status of the poor; and a fake idea that every man must raise his own economic status, even if he kills everybody else and ultimately himself as well. To both of these different things the more earnest Victorians gave the name of ‘divine discontent’. But the mistake of the earnest Victorians was that they tried to make a new morality without having studied any really good philosophy. The thing became rhetoric and sentiment, a thing of words; and they got even the words mixed, as in this case.
For the truth is that the one thoroughly bad sort of discontent is divine discontent. We can all sympathize with human discontent. For human discontent means discontent with inhuman conditions. But divine discontent must really mean discontent with divine conditions. And curiously enough, that is exactly what it did mean in the older and wiser theologies and philosophies, where it was rightly branded as the source of all our woe. I am astonished that this simple truth has not been more simply seen. Thus, Mr Bernard Shaw once wrote a little book on the Bible; full of rather crude criticisms, I think, about the Fall and the Flood and the fear of the devil and all the rest. He judges them, of course, in the light of his familiar evolutionary fancy, that the Creator progresses as well as the Creation; indeed, it looks as if the Creation really creates the Creator. I have noted that the moderns lack philosophy. But I do dislike seeing a very clever man so clumsily missing the point; and in the matter of the Bible, the Fall and the Devil and so on, he does entirely miss the point. He tries to apply to such things the general sentiment of revolt which he feels as a Socialist and which any man may quite reasonably feel as a social reformer. But revolt or righteous indignation of that sort is always a discontent with bad conditions. The whole point of the spiritual revolt, dealt with in the Bible, is that it is always a revolt against good conditions.
I am not now bothering about Mr Shaw’s belief in the Bible. But I repeat that there is such a thing as seeing the point; and this is the point of the old moralities about the rebel angels or the rebellion of Adam. The point of the story of Satan is not that he revolted against being in hell, but that he revolted against being in heaven. The point about Adam is not that he was discontented with the conditions of the earth, but that he was discontented with the conditions of the earthly paradise. That is a totally different idea (and I will add a much deeper idea) than the obvious reasonableness of revolt against gross tyranny. And until it is understood once more, people will go on being discontented even with contentment. The rich will be even more discontented than the poor. They will explain that theirs is a divine discontent; and divine discontent is the very devil. You will observe that I use the term in a serious theological sense.
New York American, December 15th, 1932
CONTRO IL DIVINO SCONTENTO
Ricordo di aver sentito parlare parecchio di divino scontento fin dalla mia prima giovinezza; anzi, in modo piuttosto speciale nella mia prima giovinezza. Poiché nacqui verso la fine dell’età vittoriana, che molti scrittori, per quanto strano, immaginano essere stata un tempo di placidità conservatrice e di gente contenta della propria condizione nella vita. In realtà, era esattamente l’opposto. Fu il periodo durante il quale due idee moderne vennero al mondo e si combatterono; un’idea vera, che dobbiamo elevare la condizione economica oltre che quella politica dei poveri; e un’idea falsa, che ogni uomo debba elevare la propria condizione economica, anche se uccide tutti gli altri e alla fine anche se stesso. A entrambe queste cose diverse i Vittoriani più fervidi davano il nome di ‘divino scontento’. Ma l’errore dei fervidi Vittoriani fu che tentarono di fabbricare una nuova morale senza aver studiato alcuna filosofia davvero buona. La cosa divenne retorica e sentimento, una cosa di parole; e mescolarono perfino le parole, come in questo caso.
Poiché la verità è che l’unica specie di scontento del tutto cattiva è il divino scontento. Possiamo tutti simpatizzare con lo scontento umano. Poiché lo scontento umano significa scontento con condizioni disumane. Ma il divino scontento deve davvero significare scontento con condizioni divine. E, curiosamente, è esattamente ciò che esso significava nelle teologie e filosofie più antiche e più sagge, dove era giustamente bollato come la fonte di ogni nostra sventura. Sono stupito che questa semplice verità non sia stata vista più semplicemente. Così, il signor Bernard Shaw scrisse una volta un libretto sulla Bibbia; pieno di critiche piuttosto rozze, penso, sulla Caduta e sul Diluvio e sulla paura del diavolo e tutto il resto. Li giudica, naturalmente, alla luce della sua familiare fantasia evoluzionistica, che il Creatore progredisce così come la Creazione; anzi, sembra quasi che la Creazione crei davvero il Creatore. Ho notato che i moderni difettano di filosofia. Ma detesto vedere un uomo tanto abile mancare così goffamente il punto; e in materia di Bibbia, di Caduta, di Diavolo e via dicendo, egli manca interamente il punto. Cerca di applicare a tali cose il sentimento generale di rivolta che prova come Socialista e che ogni uomo può ben ragionevolmente provare come riformatore sociale. Ma la rivolta o l’indignazione giusta di quella specie è sempre uno scontento con cattive condizioni. Tutto il punto della rivolta spirituale, trattata nella Bibbia, è che essa è sempre una rivolta contro buone condizioni.
Non mi sto ora occupando della fede del signor Shaw nella Bibbia. Ma ripeto che esiste una cosa come il vedere il punto; e questo è il punto delle vecchie morali sugli angeli ribelli o sulla ribellione di Adamo. Il punto della storia di Satana non è che egli si ribellò all’essere nell’inferno, ma che si ribellò all’essere in cielo. Il punto su Adamo non è che fosse scontento delle condizioni della terra, ma che fosse scontento delle condizioni del paradiso terrestre. Questa è un’idea totalmente diversa (e aggiungerò un’idea assai più profonda) dall’ovvia ragionevolezza della rivolta contro una grossolana tirannide. E finché non si comprenderà di nuovo, la gente seguiterà a essere scontenta perfino della contentezza. I ricchi saranno perfino più scontenti dei poveri. Spiegheranno che il loro è un divino scontento; e il divino scontento è proprio il demonio. Osserverete che uso il termine in un serio senso teologico.
New York American, 15 dicembre 1932
RELIGION AND REVOLUTION
It has always seemed to me that the problem of religion arises most vividly after the problem of politics or economics has been solved. When we have satisfied men about the problem of their living, we shall then be instantly challenged to satisfy them about the problem of their life. Indeed, their depression will not be finally dealt with till we also satisfy them about the problem of their death. Getting rid of the fear of starvation is not getting rid of the fear of death. And how far men feel themselves under the shadow of death, how near death seems to them in the span of their brief life, depends on all sorts of other matters connected with mood or creed or individual condition; but cannot possibly depend on the mere fact of their economic safety. Monks have a small and secure economic support, and feel one way about death; maniacs in asylums have a small and secure economic support, and feel quite another way about it. But those who fear death most and feel most the mutability of things and find their pleasures most poisoned by pessimism are often the most wealthy and luxurious people in the world. They quite frequently fear death, but they not infrequently hate life; and jump off liners or blow out their brains with revolvers. All this realm of reality is not concerned with prosperity, but with happiness. And when an economic revolution, whether reasonable or unreasonable, has given them prosperity, we have still to consider how to give them happiness. …
I have always done my best to claim for men this purely economic justice, though I would rather they had it with liberty in the Distributist way than with slavery in the Bolshevist way. But I never thought that filling their stomachs would stop all the movements of their minds. And their minds still have to deal with two very terrible enemies of man, the one classed as a mere mood and the other as a cosmic conclusion; their names are Boredom and Despair.
New York American, April 1st, 1933
RELIGIONE E RIVOLUZIONE
Mi è sempre sembrato che il problema della religione sorga nel modo più vivido dopo che il problema della politica o dell’economia è stato risolto. Quando avremo soddisfatto gli uomini circa il problema del loro vivere, saremo poi immediatamente chiamati a soddisfarli circa il problema della loro vita. Anzi, la loro depressione non sarà definitivamente affrontata finché non li avremo soddisfatti anche circa il problema della loro morte. Liberarsi dalla paura della fame non è liberarsi dalla paura della morte. E fino a che punto gli uomini si sentano sotto l’ombra della morte, quanto vicina la morte sembri loro nell’arco della loro breve vita, dipende da ogni sorta di altre faccende connesse all’umore o al credo o alla condizione individuale; ma non può in alcun modo dipendere dal mero fatto della loro sicurezza economica. I monaci hanno un piccolo e sicuro sostegno economico, e sentono in un certo modo riguardo alla morte; i maniaci nei manicomi hanno un piccolo e sicuro sostegno economico, e sentono in tutt’altro modo riguardo ad essa. Ma coloro che più temono la morte e sentono di più la mutevolezza delle cose e trovano i loro piaceri più avvelenati dal pessimismo sono spesso le persone più ricche e sfarzose del mondo. Assai di frequente temono la morte, ma non di rado odiano la vita; e si gettano dai transatlantici o si fanno saltare le cervella coi revolver. Tutto questo regno della realtà non ha a che fare con la prosperità, ma con la felicità. E quando una rivoluzione economica, ragionevole o irragionevole, avrà dato loro la prosperità, dovremo ancora considerare come dare loro la felicità. …
Ho sempre fatto del mio meglio per rivendicare agli uomini questa giustizia puramente economica, per quanto preferirei che l’avessero con la libertà, alla maniera Distributista, piuttosto che con la schiavitù, alla maniera Bolscevica. Ma non ho mai pensato che riempire loro lo stomaco avrebbe fermato tutti i movimenti delle loro menti. E le loro menti hanno ancora da fare i conti con due terribilissimi nemici dell’uomo, l’uno classificato come mero umore e l’altro come conclusione cosmica; i loro nomi sono la Noia e la Disperazione.
New York American, 1 aprile 1933
THE EVIL DAY
I think the time has come when I should say something in favour of Imperialism and Socialism, and it also happens by a delightful coincidence that I have actually thought of something favourable to say.
Anyone who wishes to do justice either to Imperialism or to Socialism should sharply remember the epoch in which they arose, I mean, of course, arose in this country, and recently. They are both as old as human error. Sparta was Socialistic and Babylon was Imperialist … Now the great thing to be said for these two great exaggerations or heresies (and every heresy is a truth taught out of proportion) is that they were both rebellions against the age in which I was born. The society against which they raised their voices was a very intellectual and artistic society. I have felt its atmosphere and I truly think that if they had been silent, the very stones would have cried out.
This dark period began vaguely about 1870; that end of the great Liberal epoch, the year when Paris fell and when Dickens died. It spreads equally vaguely up to the retirement of Gladstone and the abandonment of Home Rule, the last Liberal crusade that was unmistakably Liberal and unmistakably dangerous. All that period was filled with emptiness. Oscar Wilde was justly its greatest man; because he alone could really do levity on a large scale. Its products include many men whom I count as my best friends— myself among others. But I can hardly think of one of them who would not have been both better and happier if he had been born in any other period from the Stone Age to the Reign of Terror. For almost all other ages have set one enthusiasm against another; but of this brief and black age only can it be said that it sneered at enthusiasm simply for being enthusiastic. All men had dreaded the lightning because it was destruction; but these disdained the lightning because it was the light.
It is idle presumably to speculate as to the causes of this queer interregnum and vacuum. The truth, I fancy, is this: that religion and politics (man’s chief concerns, almost his only concerns) alternate in history, but are seldom absent simultaneously. A rude society may be rich in saints; or a time of frigid infidelity, such as the eighteenth century, may be heroic in politics. But at the particular point I speak of, both these waves were spent. … The impression was that heavy hands had shut the doors of man’s two great outlets—liberty and faith; the one was blocked by Bismarck with his blood and iron, and the other by Darwin with his blood and bones. The appearance of 1870 was that political materialism had broken political idealism for ever. And the appearance of ‘The Descent of Man’ was that it was really a descent of man—that man been kicked off his pedestal on to the floor.
Whether for this cause or some other, the years of which I speak were years of yawning; they were like the hours of an afternoon ‘At Home’ in a rich house on a rainy day when nobody comes to call. Their poems and pictures showed a real genius in tracing the leaden tints and echoing the tuneless tones of an afternoon like that. One hardly heard anything but pessimism—except Art, which is worse. Now whenever I wish to feel tender towards Imperialists or Socialists, I always remember that at least their Union Jacks and their red ties interrupted the twilight of that infernal afternoon. … Rudyard Kipling did show that romance could be found in coarse and laborious affairs. And the Socialists have at least done one excellent thing; they have brought back creeds into politics. … For a creed is the sword of the spirit; the only tool with which the mind can fight.
That empty time is now so utterly forgotten that many even who lived in it will hardly know of what I speak. Of its weary wits and philosophic dandies hardly one remains. Some are dead; some have gone into exile; some have gone to pieces. Two I know who were of real genius, a genius which survived that season of ashes and went on burning into our own time. … One of them was a small vivid man, one of the black Scotch, with dark burning eyes and a high colour. He had been the most piercing lyrist of the old minor poets, but of late he had taken up newer notions, going in with Mr Shaw for enormous images of the Superman or the last giants of evolution. His talk was all of expanding life and unceasing activity. The other was a quieter and much cleverer man; one of the most perfectly clever men ever born. He was tall, slow, saturnine, an omnivorous observer, a very fastidious judge. His work was almost wholly in a world of cool and almost heartless comedy. He had a slight smile always on his face. He also had dropped the mere pessimism of the dark age and was doing hopeful and constructive work in the creation of a new and more solid English drama.
These are the only two men who have come triumphant out of that strange old atmosphere. Each of them during the last few months has died by his own hand.
Daily News, June 26th, 1909
[The two men were John Davidson, the poet, and St John Hankin, the dramatist.]
IL GIORNO MALVAGIO
Penso sia giunto il tempo in cui dovrei dire qualcosa in favore dell’Imperialismo e del Socialismo, e accade anche per una deliziosa coincidenza che io abbia effettivamente pensato a qualcosa di favorevole da dire.
Chiunque desideri render giustizia sia all’Imperialismo sia al Socialismo dovrebbe ricordare bene l’epoca in cui essi sorsero, intendo, naturalmente, sorsero in questo paese, e di recente. Sono entrambi vecchi quanto l’errore umano. Sparta era Socialista e Babilonia era Imperialista … Ora, la gran cosa da dire a favore di queste due grandi esagerazioni o eresie (e ogni eresia è una verità insegnata fuori proporzione) è che esse furono entrambe ribellioni contro l’età in cui nacqui. La società contro la quale levarono la loro voce era una società assai intellettuale e artistica. Ne ho sentito l’atmosfera e credo davvero che, se essi fossero rimasti in silenzio, le pietre stesse avrebbero gridato.
Questo periodo oscuro cominciò vagamente attorno al 1870; quella fine della grande epoca Liberale, l’anno in cui Parigi cadde e in cui Dickens morì. Si estende, altrettanto vagamente, fino al ritiro di Gladstone e all’abbandono dell’Autonomia irlandese, l’ultima crociata Liberale che fu inequivocabilmente Liberale e inequivocabilmente pericolosa. Tutto quel periodo era colmo di vuoto. Oscar Wilde ne fu giustamente il più grande uomo; perché egli solo sapeva davvero fare della leggerezza su vasta scala. I suoi prodotti includono molti uomini che annovero fra i miei migliori amici— me stesso fra gli altri. Ma a stento riesco a pensare a uno di loro che non sarebbe stato insieme migliore e più felice se fosse nato in qualunque altra epoca, dall’Età della Pietra al Regime del Terrore. Poiché quasi tutte le altre età hanno opposto un entusiasmo a un altro; ma solo di questa breve e nera età si può dire che essa sogghignava dell’entusiasmo semplicemente perché era entusiasta. Tutti gli uomini avevano temuto il fulmine perché era distruzione; ma costoro disdegnavano il fulmine perché era luce.
È presumibilmente ozioso speculare sulle cause di questo strano interregno e vuoto. La verità, immagino, è questa: che la religione e la politica (le principali cure dell’uomo, quasi le sue uniche cure) si alternano nella storia, ma di rado sono assenti simultaneamente. Una società rozza può essere ricca di santi; o un tempo di gelida miscredenza, come il diciottesimo secolo, può essere eroico in politica. Ma nel particolare punto di cui parlo, entrambe queste onde erano esaurite. … L’impressione era che mani pesanti avessero chiuso le porte dei due grandi sbocchi dell’uomo—la libertà e la fede; l’una fu sbarrata da Bismarck col suo sangue e ferro, e l’altra da Darwin col suo sangue e ossa. L’apparenza del 1870 era che il materialismo politico avesse spezzato l’idealismo politico per sempre. E l’apparenza di ‘The Descent of Man’ era che si trattasse davvero di una discesa dell’uomo—che l’uomo fosse stato buttato giù dal suo piedistallo sul pavimento.
Sia per questa causa o per qualche altra, gli anni di cui parlo furono anni di sbadigli; erano come le ore di un pomeriggio ‘In casa’ in una ricca dimora in un giorno di pioggia, quando nessuno viene a far visita. Le loro poesie e i loro quadri mostravano un vero genio nel rendere le tinte plumbee e nell’echeggiare i toni stonati di un pomeriggio così. Non si udiva quasi nient’altro che pessimismo—tranne l’Arte, che è peggio. Ora, ogni volta che desidero provare tenerezza verso gli Imperialisti o i Socialisti, ricordo sempre che almeno le loro Union Jack e le loro cravatte rosse interruppero il crepuscolo di quell’infernale pomeriggio. … Rudyard Kipling mostrò davvero che il romanzesco poteva trovarsi in faccende rozze e faticose. E i Socialisti hanno fatto almeno una cosa eccellente; hanno riportato i credi nella politica. … Poiché un credo è la spada dello spirito; l’unico strumento col quale la mente possa combattere.
Quel tempo vuoto è ormai così del tutto dimenticato che molti persino di coloro che vi vissero a stento sapranno di che cosa parlo. Dei suoi spiriti stanchi e dei suoi dandy filosofici a stento ne resta uno. Alcuni sono morti; alcuni sono andati in esilio; alcuni sono andati in pezzi. Due ne conosco che furono di vero genio, un genio che sopravvisse a quella stagione di ceneri e continuò a bruciare fin dentro il nostro tempo. … Uno di loro era un uomo piccolo e vivace, uno degli scozzesi neri, con occhi scuri e ardenti e un colorito acceso. Era stato il più penetrante lirico dei vecchi poeti minori, ma di recente aveva abbracciato idee più nuove, seguendo il signor Shaw verso enormi immagini del Superuomo o degli ultimi giganti dell’evoluzione. I suoi discorsi erano tutti di vita in espansione e attività incessante. L’altro era un uomo più quieto e assai più intelligente; uno degli uomini più perfettamente intelligenti mai nati. Era alto, lento, saturnino, un osservatore onnivoro, un giudice assai schizzinoso. Il suo lavoro era quasi interamente in un mondo di fredda e quasi insensibile commedia. Aveva sempre un lieve sorriso sul volto. Anche lui aveva abbandonato il mero pessimismo dell’età oscura e stava compiendo un lavoro pieno di speranza e costruttivo nella creazione di un nuovo e più solido dramma inglese.
Questi sono i soli due uomini che siano usciti trionfanti da quella strana vecchia atmosfera. Ciascuno di loro, negli ultimi mesi, è morto per propria mano.
Daily News, 26 giugno 1909
[I due uomini erano John Davidson, il poeta, e St John Hankin, il drammaturgo.]
WHAT WAS RATIONALISM?
What Rationalism really was and (in some corners) still is, is substantially this: It was a premature synthesis. It was not the opening of the house of reason, but the impatient closing of it. It did not open the human head like a new hotel. It shut the human head like a packed bag. I call it the Victorian Compromise because it put in the bag as many of the old relics and reverences as it could. I call it the Victorian Rationalism because it was guided in its selection by a very clear but very crude theory. In other words, it planned out the packing scientifically, but it never asked whether the bag was big enough. And the result on which I want specially to insist was this; that this false finality of the reason has left behind it a prolonged and increasing torture to the instincts. That is what I mean when I say that Dickens rebelled against it ignorantly and by the light of nature. That is why the war against it was a war of poets, sometimes as irrational as a war of criminals. Ever since Rationalism became the rule, the mysterious thing called human nature has scratched like a cat in a cupboard. … The Rationalist was pursued by enemies, blind but strong; the most terrible enemies a man has—the things he has forgotten.
New Witness, March 20th, 1913
CHE COSA FU IL RAZIONALISMO?
Che cosa fu davvero il Razionalismo e (in certi angoli) ancora è, in sostanza è questo: fu una sintesi prematura. Non fu l’apertura della casa della ragione, ma la sua impaziente chiusura. Non aprì la testa umana come un albergo nuovo. Chiuse la testa umana come una valigia stipata. Lo chiamo il Compromesso Vittoriano perché ficcò nella valigia quante più poté delle vecchie reliquie e delle vecchie reverenze. Lo chiamo il Razionalismo Vittoriano perché fu guidato nella sua scelta da una teoria assai chiara ma assai rozza. In altre parole, pianificò l’impacchettamento in modo scientifico, ma non si domandò mai se la valigia fosse abbastanza grande. E il risultato su cui voglio insistere in particolare fu questo: che questa falsa definitività della ragione si è lasciata dietro una tortura prolungata e crescente degli istinti. È questo che intendo quando dico che Dickens si ribellò contro di essa ignorantemente e alla luce della natura. È per questo che la guerra contro di essa fu una guerra di poeti, talvolta irrazionale quanto una guerra di criminali. Da quando il Razionalismo divenne la regola, quella cosa misteriosa chiamata natura umana ha graffiato come un gatto in un armadio. … Il Razionalista era inseguito da nemici, ciechi ma forti; i nemici più terribili che un uomo possa avere: le cose che ha dimenticato.
New Witness, 20 marzo 1913
FROM DICKENS TO GISSING
The tribute paid by George Gissing to Charles Dickens was one of that great tribune and poet of the people, because it was a message from the antipodes. It was a compliment to Dickens, not from a Dickensian, but rather from one who might well be expected to be an Anti-Dickensian. Gissing was a realist whose realism is not even enlivened by a controversy about coarseness. The suburban world he describes seems a hundred times more common by not being vulgar. He is also one of those in whom the depression at the end of the nineteenth century had not even the energy to turn into a dance of death, but only into a life too dull for dancing. His carnation turned grey and not green. But he was a man of clear and acute mind, of solid and splendid intellectual honesty; and in spite of his realism, he was in touch with reality. He did see things as they are and therefore saw Dickens as. he is; a great wind and a flame and a spirit creating like a god.
The change from Dickens to Gissing is among other things an economic or at least a sociological change. It marks the difference between the men who built the industrial town and the men who were born in it. Or to put it another way, it is the contrast between the jovial swagger with which the young man from the country came to London and the gloom that settled upon him when he really discovered that he could never get back to the country. It is generally supposed, for instance, that the clerks and comic servants in Dickens are mere flights of his own poetic fancy. But it is not altogether so. In this and other things there is a great deal of exaggeration about his exaggeration. There was a type to be exaggerated, and nowadays it is not exaggerated because it is not there. It was the sort of Cockney who was not only exuberant but solemnly and rhetorically exuberant; relishing romantic poetry and rolling words. My father told me of an aged clerk in an ancient eating-house who regularly every day said to the waiter in a deep booming voice, ‘Tell Mrs Bayfield that the steak was excellent, the potatoes done to a turn, in short, a dinner fit for an epicure’. That is the voice of Micawber and Swiveller and many characters of Dickens; even of Fred Bayham and many characters of Thackeray. And who will ever forget the schoolmaster who said to every lady he danced with, ‘Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne’er could injure you’? It is the great gusto; it is life enjoyed like the steak of Mrs Bayfield; existence as something much too joyful to be taken frivolously; enjoyment as something to be prolonged with a prodigious gravity; in short, a dinner fit for an epicure. After a hundred modem criticisms there remains in the poetry of Byron and Tom Moore, which these men quoted, a richness that has never been recovered or imitated. Many moderns have learnt from Yeats that our souls are love and a continual farewell; but not many can say farewell to Miss Wackles with the great and virile gesture: ‘My boat is on the shore and my barque is on the sea.’ Men naturally made game of the Byronic youth; but remember that he enjoyed woe more than the modems enjoy enjoyment.
Now by the time of Gissing we are beginning to get into the world of Wells. The small stumpy heroes of Wells are still courageous, but the courage is almost the courage of despair. It seems as if they were stumpy through being stunted by a bludgeoning from above. And indeed they have felt the full weight of the club of the giant called Capitalism. They can still joke; but when they joke, they jeer and even sneer. I know there is plenty to sneer at; and that the little man’s bitter tongue is the only sword we have left him. But certainly he does sneer, not to say snarl. And Sam Weller never snarled; he never even sneered. It was all unlike his great and gracious ways; it was quite beneath his dignity. But then Sam Weller felt free; he had run loose and been a waggoner’s boy and many things, and travelled from inn to inn and job to job; he had never felt the weight of the modern terror, pinning a man to one place which it is ruin to lose. For in that old England there was indeed no equality, but there was liberty; an instinct in poor and rich alike for letting people wander and take their chance. Hence the string of episodes in the Pickwick Papers and the general feeling that London cannot contain or control the characters. I think there is something of it even in the mere change in illiterate speech that has often been noted as separating us from Sam Weller. In modem Cockney, I am sorry to say there is not only something of a snarl; there is something very like a whine. It has its masterpieces of irony; it is a good speech for satirists, but it is not quite a speech for free men. Now the old Weller dialect is said by some to have been the Kentish dialect, and certainly it is as rich and deep as the gardens of Kent. In that interchange of V’s and W’s there is something of swagger, some thing of waggishness, but something also of leisure and ease.
But in any case the Weller dialect, whether or not it was a county dialect, was in spirit a country speech. It was a speech that had grown luxuriant and even long-winded in long hours of talk in the taverns of the age of toleration, Its very jokes were in a manner ceremonial. The jokes of the later generation consist entirely of what is appropriately called chipping; and they are very small chips of that old block, of that original Yule-log of the Pickwick period. And, as I say, I think there is something of it even in the sound and style of the slang. Those waggish W’s suggest only a slight laxity and, according to the lateness of the hour, perhaps indistinctness in the edges of the spoken word. They have nothing of the snigger or the whine. Sir John Falstaff was a gentleman by birth; but I can almost imagine even Falstaff saying with his thick accent, ‘What, because you are wirchuous shall there be no more cakes and ale?’ But I cannot imagine Falstaff saying, ‘Shall there be no more cikes and ile?’. …
I believe the explanation of the change is that which I have given; the fact that by the later date the traveller no longer stopped at London as an inn, but found himself caught in London as in a trap; a network of communications snaring him like a net. Shades of the prison house began to close in more senses than one; but poor Gissing was really more imprisoned in Fleet Sheet than Pickwick in Fleet Prison. The economic element begins to be exaggerated and literature begins to deal with livelihood rather than life.
But Gissing’s book is a monument of the fact that literature can almost always understand literature, and that the world which a man appreciates is wider than the world he describes. For what the realist critics forgot was that the world exactly reproduced by Gissing will vanish much more completely than the world exaggerated by Dickens. Life as described in Pickwick is much more like life as described in Don Quixote or in the Canterbury Tales or in the Odyssey or even in the Bible, than like in a psychological novel of the suburbs; because it refers to fundamentals, travels and inns and simple jokes. It is like life; it is in that sense like eternal life, for it is still alive.
G. K.’s Weekly, October 17th, 1925
DA DICKENS A GISSING
Il tributo reso da George Gissing a Charles Dickens fu quello a quel grande tribuno e poeta del popolo, perché fu un messaggio dagli antipodi. Fu un omaggio a Dickens, non da parte di un dickensiano, ma piuttosto di uno da cui ci si sarebbe ben potuto aspettare che fosse un anti-dickensiano. Gissing era un realista il cui realismo non è nemmeno ravvivato da una polemica sulla volgarità. Il mondo suburbano che descrive appare cento volte più ordinario proprio per il fatto di non essere volgare. È anche uno di quegli uomini in cui la depressione di fine Ottocento non ebbe neppure l’energia di trasformarsi in una danza macabra, ma solo in una vita troppo grigia per danzare. Il suo garofano divenne grigio e non verde. Ma era un uomo di mente chiara e acuta, di solida e splendida onestà intellettuale; e a dispetto del suo realismo, era in contatto con la realtà. Vide davvero le cose come sono e perciò vide Dickens com’egli è: un grande vento e una fiamma e uno spirito che crea come un dio.
Il passaggio da Dickens a Gissing è, tra le altre cose, un mutamento economico o almeno sociologico. Segna la differenza tra gli uomini che costruirono la città industriale e gli uomini che vi nacquero. Oppure, per dirla altrimenti, è il contrasto tra la gioviale spavalderia con cui il giovane venuto dalla campagna arrivava a Londra e la cupezza che lo assaliva quando scopriva davvero che non sarebbe mai più potuto tornare in campagna. Si suppone generalmente, per esempio, che gli impiegati e i servi comici di Dickens siano semplici voli della sua fantasia poetica. Ma non è affatto così. In questo come in altre cose c’è una gran quantità di esagerazione riguardo alla sua esagerazione. C’era un tipo umano da esagerare, e oggigiorno non è esagerato perché non c’è più. Era quella specie di Cockney che non solo era esuberante, ma solennemente e retoricamente esuberante; che si compiaceva della poesia romantica e delle parole rotonde. Mio padre mi raccontò di un anziano impiegato in una vetusta trattoria che ogni giorno regolarmente diceva al cameriere con voce cupa e tonante: «Dite alla signora Bayfield che la bistecca era eccellente, le patate cotte a puntino, in breve, un pranzo degno di un epicureo». Questa è la voce di Micawber e di Swiveller e di molti personaggi di Dickens; persino di Fred Bayham e di molti personaggi di Thackeray. E chi potrà mai dimenticare il maestro di scuola che diceva a ogni dama con cui ballava: «Avessi un cuore foggiato alla menzogna, mai potrei farvi torto»? È il grande gusto; è la vita goduta come la bistecca della signora Bayfield; l’esistenza come qualcosa di troppo gioioso per essere presa con leggerezza; il godimento come qualcosa da prolungare con una gravità prodigiosa; in breve, un pranzo degno di un epicureo. Dopo cento critiche moderne, rimane nella poesia di Byron e di Tom Moore, che questi uomini citavano, una ricchezza che non è mai stata recuperata né imitata. Molti moderni hanno imparato da Yeats che le nostre anime sono amore e un continuo commiato; ma non molti sanno dire addio a Miss Wackles con il gesto grande e virile: «La mia barca è sulla riva e il mio vascello è sul mare». Gli uomini naturalmente si burlavano del giovane byroniano; ma si ricordi che egli godeva del dolore più di quanto i moderni godano del godimento.
Ora, ai tempi di Gissing cominciamo a entrare nel mondo di Wells. I piccoli eroi tozzi di Wells sono ancora coraggiosi, ma il loro coraggio è quasi il coraggio della disperazione. Sembra quasi che fossero tozzi per essere stati atrofizzati da una randellata dall’alto. E in effetti hanno sentito tutto il peso della clava del gigante chiamato Capitalismo. Sanno ancora scherzare; ma quando scherzano, sghignazzano e perfino ghignano. So che c’è di che ghignare; e che la lingua amara dell’ometto è l’unica spada che gli abbiamo lasciato. Ma di certo egli ghigna, per non dire ringhia. E Sam Weller non ringhiò mai; non ghignò nemmeno. Era tutto contrario ai suoi modi grandi e cortesi; era del tutto al di sotto della sua dignità. Ma d’altronde Sam Weller si sentiva libero; aveva vagabondato ed era stato garzone di un carrettiere e molte altre cose, e aveva viaggiato di locanda in locanda e di lavoro in lavoro; non aveva mai sentito il peso del terrore moderno, che inchioda un uomo a un solo luogo che perderlo è la rovina. Poiché in quella vecchia Inghilterra non c’era certo uguaglianza, ma c’era libertà; un istinto, nel povero come nel ricco, di lasciar vagare la gente e tentare la sorte. Di qui la sfilza di episodi nei Documenti del Circolo Pickwick e la sensazione generale che Londra non possa contenere né controllare i personaggi. Penso che ce ne sia qualcosa perfino nel semplice cambiamento della parlata incolta che è stato spesso notato come ciò che ci separa da Sam Weller. Nel Cockney moderno, mi dispiace dirlo, non c’è soltanto qualcosa di un ringhio; c’è qualcosa di molto simile a un piagnucolìo. Ha i suoi capolavori d’ironia; è una buona lingua per i satirici, ma non è propriamente una lingua per uomini liberi. Ora, si dice da alcuni che il vecchio dialetto di Weller fosse il dialetto del Kent, e certo è ricco e profondo quanto i giardini del Kent. In quello scambio di V e di W c’è qualcosa di spavaldo, qualcosa di burlesco, ma anche qualcosa di ozio e di agio.
Ma in ogni caso il dialetto di Weller, che fosse o no un dialetto di contea, era nello spirito una parlata di campagna. Era una parlata cresciuta rigogliosa e perfino prolissa nelle lunghe ore di chiacchiere nelle taverne dell’età della tolleranza. Le sue stesse battute erano in un certo modo cerimoniose. Le battute della generazione successiva consistono interamente in ciò che si chiama, appunto, scheggiare; e sono ben piccole schegge di quel vecchio ceppo, di quell’originario ceppo natalizio del periodo Pickwick. E, come dico, penso che ce ne sia qualcosa perfino nel suono e nello stile del gergo. Quelle W burlesche suggeriscono solo un lieve rilassamento e, a seconda dell’ora tarda, forse un’indistinzione nei contorni della parola parlata. Non hanno nulla del sogghigno o del piagnucolìo. Sir John Falstaff era un gentiluomo di nascita; ma quasi riesco a immaginare persino Falstaff dire con il suo accento greve: «Cosa, perché sei wirtuoso non ci saranno più dolci e birra?» Ma non riesco a immaginare Falstaff dire: «Non ci saranno più dolzi e bira?». …
Credo che la spiegazione del mutamento sia quella che ho dato; il fatto che alla data più tarda il viaggiatore non si fermava più a Londra come a una locanda, ma si ritrovava preso a Londra come in una trappola; una rete di comunicazioni che lo irretiva come una rete. Le ombre della prigione cominciarono a serrarsi in più di un senso; ma il povero Gissing era davvero più imprigionato in Fleet Street di quanto Pickwick lo fosse nella Fleet Prison. L’elemento economico comincia a essere esagerato e la letteratura comincia a occuparsi del sostentamento piuttosto che della vita.
Ma il libro di Gissing è un monumento al fatto che la letteratura può quasi sempre comprendere la letteratura, e che il mondo che un uomo apprezza è più ampio del mondo che descrive. Poiché ciò che i critici realisti dimenticavano era che il mondo esattamente riprodotto da Gissing svanirà molto più completamente del mondo esagerato da Dickens. La vita come descritta nel Pickwick è molto più simile alla vita come descritta nel Don Chisciotte o nei Racconti di Canterbury o nell’Odissea o perfino nella Bibbia, che non a quella descritta in un romanzo psicologico dei sobborghi; perché essa rimanda ai fondamentali, ai viaggi e alle locande e alle semplici battute. È simile alla vita; è in quel senso simile alla vita eterna, perché è ancora viva.
G. K.’s Weekly, 17 ottobre 1925
THE CORNER
Modem England cannot live any longer on that old compromise of Queen Victoria, loyalty and liberty, Anglicanism and agnosticism, Lord Tennyson and the party system. It was a generous age; it was a liberal and honourable age; we all owe everything to it. There was something about its innocent assumption of all good things at once, its combination of all the inconsistent virtues, that will always remind us of a home. But it is no house for us any longer. We have gone down a road; and we have turned a corner.
Daily News, May 14th, 1910
LA SVOLTA
L’Inghilterra moderna non può più vivere di quel vecchio compromesso della regina Vittoria: lealtà e libertà, anglicanesimo e agnosticismo, Lord Tennyson e il sistema dei partiti. Fu un’epoca generosa; fu un’epoca liberale e onorevole; le dobbiamo tutti tutto. C’era qualcosa, nel suo innocente presumere tutte le cose buone in una volta, nella sua combinazione di tutte le virtù incoerenti, che ci ricorderà sempre una casa. Ma non è più una dimora per noi. Abbiamo percorso una strada; e abbiamo svoltato l’angolo.
Daily News, 14 maggio 1910
CHAOS
Humanity has passed through every sort of storm and shipwreck, but never before was it so doubtful which was the storm and which the shipwreck, and which the ship and which the ship’s crew; and what we are rescuing from what.
New York Herald Tribune Magazine, July 5th, 1931
CAOS
L’umanità ha attraversato ogni sorta di tempesta e di naufragio, ma mai prima d’ora fu così incerto quale fosse la tempesta e quale il naufragio, e quale la nave e quale l’equipaggio della nave; e che cosa stiamo salvando da che cosa.
New York Herald Tribune Magazine, 5 luglio 1931
THE VENGEANCE OF VICTORIA
Nobody has yet appreciated the post-Victorian Age; our histories do not yet record that it has begun; they could hardly be expected to record that it has ended. The young are still flaunting their superiority to Victorianism which died a quarter of a century ago. They do not realize that Victorianism was itself immensely superior to that much more powerful thing that only died yesterday. The thing I mean might be broadly indicated by many names. Perhaps the most popular way of putting it would be to say that the Victorian Age was followed by the American Age. The Age of Public Opinion, which meant only the things the middle classes thought or believed, was followed by the Age of Publicity, which meant the loud assertion of things that nobody believed. The age in which the middle-class man was supposed to be content to be middle class or even rather stodgily proud of being middle class, was followed by a sort of feverish Utopia of unrest in which every middle-class man was idiot enough to suppose he could become a millionaire. The age of port; in which men drank after dinner, was followed by the age of cocktails, in which women had to get drunk in order to face the prospect of dinner. All that has happened since the death of Victoria. It has begun since the death of Victoria. It has died since the death of Victoria. For there will not even be any money for it much longer. But it has died so recently that nobody has given it any epitaph; nobody has even given it a name.
On all that sort of thing poor old Queen Victoria has already been avenged. It is perfectly self-evident that Victorianism, with all its vices, was vastly superior to the thing which so rapidly sprang up in its place and so rapidly withered in its place. For instance, Victorian morality, passing from Puritanism to Positivism, did not understand much of the mystical sort of humility. But it did understand something of the ordinary manly sort of modesty; the decent restraint known to pagans like the Romans or the Chinese. It was followed by a mere lunatic asylum of lying and bragging that was called advertisement and salesmanship; with the final financial result that nothing can be sold and that all the money for advertisement has been wasted. It was the post-Victorians who went in for mere go-getting; and it has gone no where and got nothing. We have all heard of a famous occasion when Queen Victoria was not amused. But I fancy that even she might be amused now.
G. K.’s Weekly, October 15th, 1932
LA VENDETTA DI VITTORIA
Nessuno ha ancora saputo apprezzare l’età post-vittoriana; le nostre storie non registrano ancora che è cominciata; difficilmente ci si potrebbe attendere che registrino che è finita. I giovani ancora ostentano la loro superiorità sul vittorianesimo che morì un quarto di secolo fa. Non si rendono conto che il vittorianesimo era esso stesso immensamente superiore a quella cosa ben più potente che è morta soltanto ieri. La cosa che intendo si potrebbe indicare, a grandi linee, con molti nomi. Forse il modo più diffuso di esprimerla sarebbe dire che all’età vittoriana seguì l’età americana. All’età dell’Opinione Pubblica, che significava soltanto le cose che le classi medie pensavano o credevano, seguì l’età della Pubblicità, che significava la rumorosa affermazione di cose che nessuno credeva. All’età in cui si supponeva che l’uomo del ceto medio fosse contento di essere ceto medio, o addirittura piuttosto ottusamente fiero di esserlo, seguì una sorta di febbrile Utopia dell’inquietudine in cui ogni uomo del ceto medio era abbastanza idiota da supporre di poter diventare milionario. All’età del porto, in cui gli uomini bevevano dopo cena, seguì l’età dei cocktail, in cui le donne dovevano ubriacarsi per affrontare la prospettiva della cena. Tutto questo è accaduto dalla morte di Vittoria. È cominciato dalla morte di Vittoria. È morto dalla morte di Vittoria. Poiché fra non molto non ci sarà nemmeno più denaro per esso. Ma è morto così di recente che nessuno gli ha dato un epitaffio; nessuno gli ha neppure dato un nome.
Di tutta quella roba la povera vecchia regina Vittoria è già stata vendicata. È perfettamente evidente che il vittorianesimo, con tutti i suoi vizi, era immensamente superiore alla cosa che così rapidamente spuntò al suo posto e così rapidamente appassì al suo posto. Per esempio, la morale vittoriana, passando dal puritanesimo al positivismo, non capiva granché di quella specie mistica di umiltà. Ma capiva qualcosa dell’ordinaria, virile specie di modestia; il decoroso ritegno noto ai pagani come i Romani o i Cinesi. Le seguì un puro manicomio di menzogna e spacconeria che si chiamava reclame e arte di vendere; con il risultato finanziario finale che nulla può essere venduto e che tutto il denaro per la reclame è stato sprecato. Furono i post-vittoriani a darsi al puro arrivismo; e non sono andati da nessuna parte e non hanno ottenuto nulla. Abbiamo tutti sentito di una famosa occasione in cui la regina Vittoria non fu divertita. Ma mi immagino che perfino lei potrebbe divertirsi adesso.
G. K.’s Weekly, 15 ottobre 1932
PRIVACY
Privacy is like property in this: that while a few people ought to have less of it, most people ought to have more of it.
New Witness, October 7th, 1921
LA PRIVATEZZA
La privatezza è come la proprietà in questo: che mentre poche persone dovrebbero averne di meno, la maggior parte delle persone dovrebbe averne di più.
New Witness, 7 ottobre 1921
NORTHCLIFFE
It is perfectly apparent that Alfred Harmsworth never had any ideas at all. He must have had intelligence in the business sense; and something much more valuable in business, that sort of natural heat and hurry which can work too fast to think of why it is working. He was not without his good points; perhaps it would be more exact to say that he was not without his good moments, for he had no conceptions dear enough to perpetuate them at the expense of the bad ones. He did pay his proletariat better than many; he did do good-natured as well as ill-tempered things. Also he had everything against him in the intellectual and moral sense. He was born of respectable middle-class people in the small Protestant professional classes in Dublin. He received in succession all the general political suggestions of his time. He was thrilled by Jameson and Joe Chamberlain; he apparently believed up to the very moment of the Great War that there was a place called Ulster. In other words, he had at the best all the healthy and hazy associations and prejudices which all his ten million readers had as much as he had; and he was by nature ignorant of the very idea of an idea. But while Alfred Harmsworth was exactly like Albert Huggins or any other man travelling in the same train or tube, there came upon him to his destruction two things that were not normal to the rest. He became enormously rich which always cuts a man off from reality. And he dealt, not in his native elements like pork or petrol, but in politics and public opinion. He bought a pulpit from which ideas could have been given, when he had no ideas to give. …
An excellent example of all these things is to be found in the business about Lord Kitchener. … The truth is that Harmsworth never had anything to do with Kitchener at all. He had to do with a sort of legendary bully who was only to be admired for bullying, and then with an equally legendary dug-out to be dismissed because he was not in a hurry to bully. It was a great stunt to declare that a strong man stood ready to save England; a great stunt to declare that England was betrayed. The real story of the shell shortage was something totally different; but that story would never have made a stunt. It is typical of him that as soon as he had left off cheering for the mere name of Kitchener, and then left off booing at the mere name of Kitchener, he began cheering again at the mere name of Lloyd George. No real person ever appeared in his portrait gallery. But dull megalomania of this sort is always vaguely impressed by a stupid swagger in others. Dullness calls unto dullness across the modern world, like deep calling unto deep.
It was perhaps this spirit of illusion, of indirect rather than direct things, that produced in his mind the tragedy of the final divorce from reality. None will deny that such a tragedy should teach us to consider him as a human being; but the sympathy is thwarted by considering him as a hero. It was the fault of his age rather than himself that he lived among shadows, fighting in a shadow pantomime. Publicity consists, not of things, but of their vast shadows thrown upon a wall. And to make them so vast, the light must be held very low down.
G. K.’s Weekly, September 17th, 1927
NORTHCLIFFE
È perfettamente evidente che Alfred Harmsworth non ebbe mai alcuna idea, proprio nessuna. Deve aver avuto intelligenza in senso commerciale; e qualcosa di assai più prezioso negli affari, quella sorta di calore e di fretta naturali che sanno lavorare troppo in fretta per pensare al perché stiano lavorando. Non era privo di buone qualità; forse sarebbe più esatto dire che non era privo di buoni momenti, poiché non aveva concezioni abbastanza care da perpetuarle a spese di quelle cattive. Pagava davvero il suo proletariato meglio di molti; faceva davvero cose bonarie oltre che cose bisbetiche. Inoltre aveva tutto contro di sé, in senso intellettuale e morale. Nacque da rispettabile gente del ceto medio, nelle piccole classi professionali protestanti di Dublino. Ricevette in successione tutte le suggestioni politiche generali del suo tempo. Fu elettrizzato da Jameson e da Joe Chamberlain; a quanto pare credette fino al momento stesso della Grande Guerra che esistesse un luogo chiamato Ulster. In altre parole, aveva nel migliore dei casi tutte le associazioni e i pregiudizi sani e nebulosi che tutti i suoi dieci milioni di lettori avevano tanto quanto lui; ed era per natura ignaro dell’idea stessa di un’idea. Ma mentre Alfred Harmsworth era esattamente come Albert Huggins o qualunque altro uomo che viaggiasse sullo stesso treno o metrò, gli capitarono a sua rovina due cose che non erano normali per gli altri. Divenne enormemente ricco, cosa che sempre taglia fuori un uomo dalla realtà. E trattava, non nei suoi elementi nativi come il maiale o la benzina, ma in politica e opinione pubblica. Comprò un pulpito da cui si sarebbero potute impartire idee, quando non aveva idee da impartire. …
Un ottimo esempio di tutto questo si trova nella faccenda di Lord Kitchener. … La verità è che Harmsworth non ebbe mai nulla a che fare con Kitchener. Ebbe a che fare con una sorta di leggendario prepotente che andava ammirato solo per la prepotenza, e poi con un altrettanto leggendario richiamato in servizio da congedare perché non aveva fretta di fare il prepotente. Fu una gran trovata proclamare che un uomo forte era pronto a salvare l’Inghilterra; una gran trovata proclamare che l’Inghilterra era tradita. La vera storia della penuria di proiettili era qualcosa di totalmente diverso; ma quella storia non avrebbe mai fatto una trovata. È tipico di lui che, non appena ebbe smesso di acclamare il puro nome di Kitchener, e poi ebbe smesso di fischiare il puro nome di Kitchener, ricominciò ad acclamare il puro nome di Lloyd George. Nessuna persona reale comparve mai nella sua galleria di ritratti. Ma l’ottusa megalomania di questa specie è sempre vagamente colpita da una stupida spavalderia altrui. L’ottusità chiama l’ottusità attraverso il mondo moderno, come l’abisso chiama l’abisso.
Fu forse questo spirito d’illusione, delle cose indirette piuttosto che dirette, a produrre nella sua mente la tragedia del divorzio finale dalla realtà. Nessuno negherà che una simile tragedia dovrebbe insegnarci a considerarlo come un essere umano; ma la simpatia è frustrata dal considerarlo come un eroe. Fu colpa della sua epoca più che sua se egli visse tra le ombre, combattendo in una pantomima d’ombre. La pubblicità consiste, non delle cose, ma delle loro ombre immense proiettate su una parete. E per renderle così immense, la luce va tenuta molto in basso.
G. K.’s Weekly, 17 settembre 1927
THE VISION OF VULGARITY, I
Vulgarity is one of the great new modem inventions, like the telephone or the wireless set. It may be plausibly maintained that the telephone is less of an instrument of torture than the thumbscrew or the rack; and in the same way that other ages had other vices that were worse than this new or modern vice. As we may find fanciful sketches of aeroplanes in the sketch-books of Leonardo da Vinci or speculations very near to modern physics in the philosophers of ancient Greece, so we may find here and there in history a hint or foreshadowing of the great and golden vision of Vulgarity that was later to burst on the world. We may find it in the smell of Punic plutocracy that stank in the nostrils of Greeks and Romans, or in a certain touch of bad taste in an aesthete like Nero. Nevertheless, the thing is so new that the new world has not yet really found a name for it, but has had to borrow a rather misleading name which is really the Latin word for something else. So we have to go on using the Greek name of amber as the only name of electricity, because we have no notion what is the real name or nature of electricity. And so we have to go on using the Latin word vulgus, which only means the common people, to describe something that is not particularly common among the common people. Indeed, through long spaces of human history and over wide spaces of the habitable globe, it is very uncommon amongst the common people. Farmers living by long agricultural traditions, peasants in normal villages, even savages in savage tribes, are hardly ever vulgar. Even when they massacre and enslave, even when they offer human sacrifice or eat human flesh, they are hardly ever vulgar. All travellers attest the natural dignity of their carriage and the ceremonial gravity of their customs. Even in the more complex modern cities and civilizations, the poor as such are not particularly vulgar. No; there is a new thing which really needs a new name and still more a new definition. I do not say I can define Vulgarity; but having just been reading a modern book about Love, I feel inclined to throw out a few suggestions.
In so far as I can get near to its essence, it consists largely of two elements, which I should describe as Facility and Familiarity. The first means that a man does, as the phrase goes, ‘gush’; that is, that his self-expression flows without effort, selection or control. It does not come from him like picked or pointed words, passing through an articulate organ; it simply streams from him like perspiration. He need never stop explaining himself, for he understands neither himself nor the limits of explanation. He is the sort of man who understands women; he is the man who can always get on with the boys; he finds it easy to talk, easy to write, easy to speak in public; for his own self-satisfaction carries with it a sort of huge cloud and illusion of applause.
And the second element is Familiarity which, if understood, would be called Profanity. Horace spoke of the ‘profane vulgar’; and it is true that this familiarity is the loss of holy fear and a sin against the mystical side of man. In practice it means handling things confidently and contemptuously, without the sense that all things in their way are sacred things. Its most recent mode is the readiness to write torrents of tosh on either side of any serious subject; for you hardly ever get real vulgarity on a frivolous subject. The point is that the fool is so subjective that it never occurs to him to be afraid of the subject. For instance, he can be a Pagan fool as well as a Puritan fool in the debate on modem morals; but in the first case there will be torrents of tosh about Love and Passion and the Right to Live, and in the other, exactly similar torrents of tosh about Christian Manhood and Healthy Boyhood and Noble Motherhood and the rest. The trouble is that they are so infernally familiar with these things. Never do you find that note in a real lover writing of the woman he loves, or in a real saint writing of the sin he hates. Both say the right thing because they would rather say nothing at all.
New York American, July 22nd, 1933
LA VISIONE DELLA VOLGARITÀ, I
La volgarità è una delle grandi invenzioni moderne, come il telefono o la radio. Si potrebbe plausibilmente sostenere che il telefono sia uno strumento di tortura meno atroce della morsa o del cavalletto; e che, allo stesso modo, altre epoche ebbero altri vizi peggiori di questo vizio nuovo o moderno. Come possiamo trovare schizzi fantasiosi di aeroplani nei taccuini di Leonardo da Vinci, o speculazioni assai prossime alla fisica moderna nei filosofi dell’antica Grecia, così possiamo trovare qua e là nella storia un accenno o un presagio della grande e dorata visione della Volgarità che più tardi sarebbe esplosa sul mondo. Possiamo trovarla nel puzzo della plutocrazia punica che ammorbava le narici di Greci e Romani, o in un certo tocco di cattivo gusto in un esteta come Nerone. Eppure la cosa è così nuova che il mondo nuovo non le ha ancora trovato un vero nome, ma ha dovuto prendere a prestito un nome piuttosto fuorviante che in realtà è la parola latina per qualcos’altro. Così dobbiamo continuare a usare il nome greco dell’ambra come unico nome dell’elettricità, perché non abbiamo idea di quale sia il vero nome o la vera natura dell’elettricità. E così dobbiamo continuare a usare la parola latina vulgus, che significa soltanto il popolo comune, per descrivere qualcosa che non è particolarmente comune tra la gente comune. Anzi, attraverso ampi spazi della storia umana e su vaste distese del globo abitabile, essa è assai poco comune tra la gente comune. I contadini che vivono di lunghe tradizioni agricole, i villici dei villaggi normali, persino i selvaggi nelle tribù selvagge, non sono quasi mai volgari. Persino quando massacrano e riducono in schiavitù, persino quando offrono sacrifici umani o mangiano carne umana, non sono quasi mai volgari. Tutti i viaggiatori attestano la naturale dignità del loro portamento e la gravità cerimoniale dei loro costumi. Persino nelle città e civiltà moderne più complesse, i poveri in quanto tali non sono particolarmente volgari. No; c’è una cosa nuova che ha davvero bisogno di un nome nuovo e ancor più di una definizione nuova. Non dico di saper definire la Volgarità; ma avendo appena finito di leggere un libro moderno sull’Amore, mi sento incline a buttare lì qualche suggerimento.
Per quanto io riesca ad avvicinarmi alla sua essenza, essa consiste in gran parte di due elementi, che descriverei come Facilità e Familiarità. Il primo significa che un uomo, come si suol dire, «sdilinquisce»; ossia che la sua autoespressione fluisce senza sforzo, scelta o controllo. Non esce da lui come parole scelte o appuntite, che passano attraverso un organo articolato; semplicemente scorre da lui come sudore. Non ha mai bisogno di smettere di spiegarsi, perché non comprende né sé stesso né i limiti della spiegazione. È il genere d’uomo che capisce le donne; è l’uomo che va sempre d’accordo con i ragazzi; gli riesce facile parlare, facile scrivere, facile parlare in pubblico; poiché la sua stessa autosoddisfazione porta con sé una specie di immensa nube e illusione d’applauso.
E il secondo elemento è la Familiarità che, se ben compresa, andrebbe chiamata Profanità. Orazio parlò del «volgo profano»; ed è vero che questa familiarità è la perdita del santo timore e un peccato contro il lato mistico dell’uomo. In pratica significa maneggiare le cose con sicurezza e disprezzo, senza il senso che tutte le cose, a modo loro, siano cose sacre. Il suo modo più recente è la prontezza a scrivere torrenti di sciocchezze da entrambe le parti di qualunque argomento serio; perché quasi mai si trova vera volgarità su un argomento frivolo. Il punto è che lo sciocco è tanto soggettivo che non gli passa mai per la mente di aver timore dell’argomento. Per esempio, può essere uno sciocco Pagano non meno che uno sciocco Puritano nel dibattito sulla morale moderna; ma nel primo caso ci saranno torrenti di sciocchezze su Amore e Passione e Diritto di Vivere, e nell’altro, torrenti di sciocchezze esattamente simili sulla Virilità Cristiana e la Sana Fanciullezza e la Nobile Maternità e tutto il resto. Il guaio è che sono così infernalmente familiari con queste cose. Mai troverai quella nota in un vero innamorato che scrive della donna che ama, o in un vero santo che scrive del peccato che odia. Entrambi dicono la cosa giusta perché preferirebbero non dire nulla del tutto.
New York American, 22 luglio 1933
THE VISION OF VULGARITY, II
I do not know very much about the movement or institution covered by the title of Toc H. But I know the man who inspired it, my old schoolfellow Philip Bayard Clayton; and though some of my other friends have differed from some of its sociology, I am quite sure that in him and his immediate following the movement was generous and genuine. And I can testify that on one occasion of my attending its meetings, the ceremony commemorating those dead in the war was as decent and reticent and virile a thing as I ever knew. It was the only satisfactory modern ceremonial that I ever knew. I liked it all the better because it was not in the loose modern sense religious. It was made up by soldiers among themselves, and it might have been made by noble heathens in the antique world. So far as I remember, it was merely the burning out of a candle and, when it was extinguished, someone saying those lines of Laurence Binyon which are worthy to pass into an impersonal and immortal rite.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
That was all, and that was a good thing to remember.
Now I open the large Sunday paper of the Express group and the first thing that knocks me in the eye is a huge headline about the Toc H ceremony as recently conducted. It is an announcement in gigantic letters ‘D.S.O. Sobs at Ceremony’ and immediately underneath in slightly smaller letters, ‘Prince of Wales Lights the Lamp’. The journalist does print the words of Mr Binyon’s poem; but as he prints them in pros; he is presumably unaware that they are verse. I do not expect him to be aware that they are poetry. He takes his place with that celebrated journalist who wrote, ‘The right hon. gentleman concluded by saying that kind hearts were in his opinion better than coronets and simple faith greatly prefer able to Norman blood’. Only in the older case there was more excuse; for I cannot but think the poetry was more prosaic. Tennyson could be Virgilian like Laurence Binyon; but I should hardly select that passage to prove it.
Now if it be asked what I dislike in the domination of this type of Trust journalism, I answer that I dislike ‘D.S.O. Sobs’ and the man who does not dislike ‘D.S.O. Sobs’ and the domination of the man who is capable of writing ‘D.S.O. Sobs’ and the type of society that is supposed to be impressed favourably with ‘D.S.O. Sobs’ and the whole hideous idea of human pathos which insults you and me with the supposition that ‘D.S.O. Sobs’ could conceivably move us to anything but mirth or murder. And if the journalist does not understand it, all the more do I protest against the power and influence of the man who does not understand it. And if anybody says he does like it, all the more do I weep and wail over the existence of anybody who does like it. If it was untrue, I denounce it; and if it was true, I denounce it more. My tradition makes no treaty with the man who could first spy on a man’s tears then elaborately note his rank, and then clump the two things in colossal letters at the top of the column before he had even told the story; hallooing his remarkable good luck as if he had seen a shark off Margate or the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo. It is because that is the tone of the Trust and all its literature and view of life that I hope to withstand it till I die. Coarseness about coarse things is not vulgar. It is not in itself immoral; it is in various degrees improper or inexpedient according to conditions and occasion and, above all, motive. But anyhow, to talk grossly about a gross topic is not necessarily to be in the least a vulgarian. But to talk grossly about a sensitive and austere topic, to speak loudly about something that remains in high-strung silence like a harp string, to discover what is deliberately invisible and gape at it, to hear what cannot be spoken and bellow it— this is the shame not to be found among rude and simple men. It is nowhere in the popular tales or traditions; it is not found in the old ballads or the Christmas carols; it is a mixture of weak curiosity and strained attention and a stunted mind and an idiot light heartedness, which is altogether peculiar to our civilization. … We alone have had the honour of producing this fine flower of progress. And this flower will overrun our garden like a weed, when that culture has fully come into its own.
G. K.’s Weekly, January 1st, 1927
LA VISIONE DELLA VOLGARITÀ, II
Non so gran che del movimento o dell’istituzione che va sotto il nome di Toc H. Ma conosco l’uomo che lo ispirò, il mio vecchio compagno di scuola Philip Bayard Clayton; e benché alcuni altri miei amici abbiano dissentito da una parte della sua sociologia, sono certo che in lui e nel suo seguito più immediato il movimento fu generoso e genuino. E posso testimoniare che in una certa occasione, mentre assistevo a una delle sue adunanze, la cerimonia in commemorazione dei caduti in guerra fu una cosa tanto dignitosa, sobria e virile quanto poche altre io abbia mai conosciuto. Fu l’unico cerimoniale moderno soddisfacente che io abbia mai conosciuto. Mi piacque tanto più in quanto non era religioso nel senso vago del moderno. Era stato composto da soldati tra loro, e avrebbe potuto essere composto da nobili pagani del mondo antico. Per quanto ricordi, consisteva soltanto nel consumarsi di una candela e, quando essa si spense, nel fatto che qualcuno recitava quei versi di Laurence Binyon che meritano di passare in un rito impersonale e immortale.
Essi non invecchieranno, come noi che restiamo invecchiamo: l’età non li affaticherà, né gli anni li condanneranno. Al calare del sole e nel mattino noi li ricorderemo.
Questo era tutto, ed era una buona cosa da ricordare.
Ora apro il grande giornale domenicale del gruppo Express e la prima cosa che mi colpisce in un occhio è un enorme titolo sulla cerimonia del Toc H come recentemente celebrata. È un annuncio a lettere gigantesche «Un D.S.O. singhiozza alla cerimonia» e subito sotto, a lettere leggermente più piccole, «Il Principe di Galles accende la Lampada». Il giornalista stampa sì le parole della poesia del signor Binyon; ma poiché le stampa in prosa, presumibilmente ignora che siano versi. Non mi aspetto che sappia che sono poesia. Prende posto accanto a quel celebre giornalista che scrisse: «L’onorevole gentiluomo concluse dicendo che i cuori gentili erano, a suo avviso, migliori delle corone e che una semplice fede è di gran lunga preferibile al sangue normanno». Solo che nel caso più vecchio c’era maggiore scusante; perché non posso non pensare che la poesia fosse più prosaica. Tennyson poteva essere virgiliano come Laurence Binyon; ma difficilmente sceglierei quel passo per dimostrarlo.
Ora, se mi si chiede che cosa detesto nel dominio di questo tipo di giornalismo dei Trust, rispondo che detesto «Un D.S.O. singhiozza» e l’uomo che non detesta «Un D.S.O. singhiozza» e il dominio dell’uomo capace di scrivere «Un D.S.O. singhiozza» e il tipo di società che si suppone favorevolmente colpita da «Un D.S.O. singhiozza» e l’intera orribile idea del pathos umano che insulta te e me con la supposizione che «Un D.S.O. singhiozza» possa concepibilmente commuoverci a qualcosa che non sia ilarità o assassinio. E se il giornalista non lo capisce, tanto più protesto contro il potere e l’influenza dell’uomo che non lo capisce. E se qualcuno dice che gli piace, tanto più piango e mi lamento sull’esistenza di chiunque a cui piaccia. Se era falso, lo denuncio; e se era vero, lo denuncio ancora di più. La mia tradizione non fa alcun patto con l’uomo che potrebbe prima spiare le lacrime di un uomo, poi annotarne minuziosamente il grado, e poi ammassare le due cose in lettere colossali in cima alla colonna prima ancora di aver raccontato la storia; strombazzando la propria straordinaria fortuna come se avesse avvistato uno squalo al largo di Margate o l’uomo che sbancò il casinò di Montecarlo. È perché quello è il tono del Trust e di tutta la sua letteratura e visione della vita che io spero di resistergli fino alla morte. La rozzezza sulle cose rozze non è volgare. Non è di per sé immorale; è in vari gradi sconveniente o inopportuna a seconda delle condizioni e dell’occasione e, soprattutto, del movente. Ma in ogni caso, parlare grossolanamente di un argomento grossolano non è necessariamente essere il minimo del volgare. Ma parlare grossolanamente di un argomento sensibile e austero, parlare ad alta voce di qualcosa che rimane in un silenzio teso come la corda di un’arpa, scoprire ciò che è deliberatamente invisibile e restarne a bocca aperta, udire ciò che non si può dire e sbraitarlo— questa è la vergogna che non si trova tra gli uomini rudi e semplici. Non è da nessuna parte nei racconti o nelle tradizioni popolari; non si trova nelle vecchie ballate o nei canti di Natale; è un miscuglio di debole curiosità e attenzione forzata e mente atrofizzata e idiota spensieratezza, che è del tutto peculiare alla nostra civiltà. … Noi soli abbiamo avuto l’onore di produrre questo fine fiore del progresso. E questo fiore invaderà il nostro giardino come un’erbaccia, quando quella cultura sarà pienamente giunta a sé stessa.
G. K.’s Weekly, 1° gennaio 1927
THE HUMBLEST ANIMAL
It is in the nature of man to find symbols outside himself of the qualities within himself. Thus, for instance, he has divided his virtues among the beasts of the field. He makes the lion represent bravery; yet men are braver than lions. No lions are ever burnt for their opinions. He makes the fox the type of cunning; yet men are more cunning than foxes. No fox has ever thought of getting on a horse’s back to travel faster. He makes the ant a symbol of industry; but he is himself a stronger symbol of industry. He speaks of dog-like fidelity; it would be more emphatic to speak of man-like fidelity. Men are merrier than larks and much more hypocritical than crocodiles. But we men cannot see ourselves as the great things that we are, and perhaps it is our greatness that we cannot. Perhaps this fantastic modesty is the highest of the attributes of man. Perhaps, amid the arrogance of oysters and the self-sufficiency of snails, man is the only humble animal.
Daily News, March 21st, 1906
L’ANIMALE PIÙ UMILE
È nella natura dell’uomo trovare fuori di sé simboli delle qualità che sono dentro di sé. Così, per esempio, egli ha ripartito le sue virtù tra le bestie dei campi. Fa del leone il simbolo del coraggio; eppure gli uomini sono più coraggiosi dei leoni. Nessun leone è mai stato arso per le proprie opinioni. Fa della volpe il tipo dell’astuzia; eppure gli uomini sono più astuti delle volpi. A nessuna volpe è mai venuto in mente di montare a cavallo per viaggiare più in fretta. Fa della formica un simbolo dell’industriosità; ma egli stesso è un simbolo più forte dell’industriosità. Parla di fedeltà canina; sarebbe più efficace parlare di fedeltà umana. Gli uomini sono più allegri delle allodole e molto più ipocriti dei coccodrilli. Ma noi uomini non riusciamo a vederci come le grandi cose che siamo, e forse è proprio la nostra grandezza che non lo riusciamo. Forse questa fantastica modestia è la più alta delle qualità dell’uomo. Forse, tra l’arroganza delle ostriche e l’autosufficienza delle lumache, l’uomo è l’unico animale umile.
Daily News, 21 marzo 1906
PUTTING THE CLOCK BACK
In the present and the quite recent past we see a debris of effects of which we do not know the causes. The fire is choked with its own ashes, the fountain is sealed with its own ice; the original purpose of the thing does not pierce through. The only way to deal with it is to go back and ask what the thing in question— a throne or a theory or a vote—was primarily supposed to be. Nine times out of ten the only way of really building the future is to imagine yourself in some much ruder society in the remote past. You may call this reactionary and barbaric if you choose, just as you can call it reactionary and barbaric to take a bath. Taking a bath certainly involves the removal of many civilized externals and an invitation to the nakedness of savages. But it is the only way to get clean.
Illustrated London News, July 8th, 1911
RIPORTARE INDIETRO L’OROLOGIO
Nel presente e nel passato assai recente vediamo un cumulo di effetti di cui non conosciamo le cause. Il fuoco è soffocato dalle sue stesse ceneri, la fonte è sigillata dal suo stesso ghiaccio; lo scopo originario della cosa non riesce a trapassare. L’unico modo per venirne a capo è tornare indietro e chiedersi che cosa la cosa in questione— un trono o una teoria o un voto—dovesse essere in origine. Nove volte su dieci l’unico modo per costruire davvero il futuro è immaginare sé stessi in una società assai più rozza del remoto passato. Puoi chiamarlo reazionario e barbaro, se ti pare, proprio come puoi chiamare reazionario e barbaro fare un bagno. Fare un bagno comporta certamente la rimozione di molti orpelli civilizzati e un invito alla nudità dei selvaggi. Ma è l’unico modo per lavarsi.
Illustrated London News, 8 luglio 1911
THE NUMBER YOU FIRST THOUGHT OF
They that go about the world asking riddles and doing puzzles (those enemies of the human race) used to have one particular game which, after ramifications of arithmetic, ended with ‘taking away the number you first thought of’. It is a silly game and, like many other silly games, has been played by great empires and on a large scale. That touch of over-civilization which is always the first touch [sic] of a returning barbarism can best be noted when ever we note this game of subtracting the original thought with which everything began. I mean that men will build up institutions and elaborations round the central pillar of some thought. Then, after the passage of centuries, the central pillar falls down, but the rest of the edifice remains. Such an edifice is not always in danger, but it is in decay.
Our forefathers in the morning of the world appear in certain ancient and, as I think, eternal attitudes; in the posture of the performance of certain primal human acts; such as hunting or dancing or feasting or sacrificing to the gods. It is right and natural that these things should grow richer and more complex with time. But it is decadent and dangerous when these things forget their origin and alter their inmost nature; when, after a stretch of centuries, they have turned into something else, sometimes into some thing opposite.
In order to avoid the fascinating topics of drink and religion, let us take the case of hunting. Sport has silently and subtly reversed its old character. The essence of the change is this; that men began with the comparatively generous idea of killing wild beasts and have ended up with the comparatively paltry idea of preserving them. … I do not mean to indicate that I think it wrong to preserve or shoot birds; I do not. I merely use this reversal of the heroic in hunting as an instance of the way in which over-elaborate societies end up with their tails in their mouths; in a posture not merely twisted, but inverted.
Of course, there are other instances. There was the primitive man offering sacrifice to the gods. The sacrificer builds an altar and pours wine or blood or something on it and holds up his hands to the sky and talks to somebody he can’t see. Then, as time goes on, he turns his remarks into an ordered chant and then, perhaps, into a written book; and he has a roof to cover the people who come to see him sacrifice, and a lectern to read the book from, and a sort of forum or pulpit to stand in and explain what he had been doing, and so on. And then, when civilization has grown for some centuries, there comes an Ethical Society—the advance guard of barbarism. You may know it by this extraordinary fact; that it doesn’t take away the additions and excretions round the old human thing; it takes away the old human thing itself. It leaves the reading-desk and the talking-box and the people sitting still on hard seats. But it takes away the altar. It takes away the God. It takes away the number it first thought of.
I might have given many other examples of this turning a thing tail foremost, of this subtraction of the original aim. I have given the case of the hunter who is now chiefly concerned to preserve the very creatures which he set out to destroy. I have given the case of the Ethical Idealist, a really reverent person, who still insists on kneeling even when he has nothing to kneel to. I can only suggest that in this train of thought will really be found a clue in the criticism of the modern world, which is first and last a topsy-turvy world. That is why the few mild and rational people are accused of standing on their heads.
Illustrated London News, February 24th, 1912
IL NUMERO CHE AVEVI PENSATO ALL’INIZIO
Coloro che vanno in giro per il mondo a proporre indovinelli e rompicapi (quei nemici del genere umano) avevano un tempo un gioco particolare che, dopo ramificazioni aritmetiche, si concludeva col «togliere il numero che avevi pensato all’inizio». È un gioco sciocco e, come molti altri giochi sciocchi, è stato giocato da grandi imperi e su vasta scala. Quel tocco di ipercivilizzazione che è sempre il primo tocco [sic] di una barbarie di ritorno si può notare al meglio ogni volta che notiamo questo gioco di sottrarre il pensiero originario con cui tutto è cominciato. Voglio dire che gli uomini erigono istituzioni ed elaborazioni intorno al pilastro centrale di un pensiero. Poi, dopo il trascorrere di secoli, il pilastro centrale crolla, ma il resto dell’edificio rimane. Un tale edificio non è sempre in pericolo, ma è in declino.
I nostri antenati, nel mattino del mondo, appaiono in certi atteggiamenti antichi e, come credo, eterni; nella postura del compimento di certi atti umani primordiali; come cacciare o danzare o banchettare o offrire sacrifici agli dèi. È giusto e naturale che queste cose crescano più ricche e più complesse col tempo. Ma è decadente e pericoloso quando queste cose dimenticano la propria origine e alterano la propria natura più intima; quando, dopo un tratto di secoli, si sono trasformate in qualcos’altro, talvolta in qualcosa di opposto.
Per evitare gli affascinanti temi del bere e della religione, prendiamo il caso della caccia. Lo sport ha silenziosamente e sottilmente capovolto il suo antico carattere. L’essenza del mutamento è questa; che gli uomini cominciarono con l’idea comparativamente generosa di uccidere le bestie selvagge e sono finiti con l’idea comparativamente meschina di preservarle. … Non intendo con ciò indicare che io ritenga sbagliato preservare o cacciare uccelli; non lo penso. Uso soltanto questo capovolgimento dell’eroico nella caccia come esempio del modo in cui le società troppo elaborate finiscono con la coda in bocca; in una postura non solo attorcigliata, ma rovesciata.
Naturalmente, ci sono altri esempi. C’era l’uomo primitivo che offriva sacrifici agli dèi. Il sacrificante costruisce un altare e vi versa sopra vino o sangue o qualcos’altro e leva le mani al cielo e parla a qualcuno che non può vedere. Poi, col passare del tempo, egli trasforma le sue parole in un canto ordinato e poi, forse, in un libro scritto; e ha un tetto a coprire le persone che vengono a vederlo sacrificare, e un leggio da cui leggere il libro, e una sorta di foro o pulpito in cui stare a spiegare ciò che aveva fatto, e così via. E poi, quando la civiltà è cresciuta per qualche secolo, arriva una Società Etica—l’avanguardia della barbarie. La puoi riconoscere da questo fatto straordinario; che non toglie le aggiunte e le escrescenze intorno alla vecchia cosa umana; toglie la vecchia cosa umana stessa. Lascia il leggio e la cassetta delle chiacchiere e la gente seduta immobile su duri sedili. Ma toglie l’altare. Toglie Dio. Toglie il numero che aveva pensato all’inizio.
Avrei potuto fare molti altri esempi di questo rivoltare una cosa a rovescio, di questa sottrazione dello scopo originario. Ho fatto il caso del cacciatore che ora si preoccupa soprattutto di preservare le stesse creature che si era prefisso di distruggere. Ho fatto il caso dell’Idealista Etico, persona davvero riverente, che continua a insistere per inginocchiarsi anche quando non ha nulla dinanzi a cui inginocchiarsi. Posso solo suggerire che in questo filo di pensiero si troverà davvero una chiave nella critica del mondo moderno, che è dal principio alla fine un mondo alla rovescia. È per questo che le poche persone miti e ragionevoli sono accusate di stare a testa in giù.
Illustrated London News, 24 febbraio 1912
THE LIVING PAST
If we want in any shape or sense what is commonly called progress, then we must stick to tradition. If you want practical experiments, alterations and improvements, then you must cling convulsively to the past. Read new books if you want an artistic sensation of novelty, a feeling that you are smelling a fresh flower, but not if you want anything done in legislation or social reform; for tradition is the only thing that ever does anything. Read old books if you want new Blue Books.
Man is an animal with his feet foremost and his face turned back. I defy anyone to mention any plain case of what is ordinarily called progress in human history in which the mind of the progressive people was not specially fixed upon some ideal in the past. Of the Renaissance I need not speak; the very word Renaissance proves the point. But the French Revolution is quite as clear a case; it was founded upon a theory of primitive right and it was perpetually taking for its model the old pagan republics. Rousseau’s theory of the social contract was purely an appeal to our human past; recent thinkers doubtless deny that human past, but most of them are sufficiently logical to deny democracy as well. There has not been actually any progress anywhere without some passionate admiration of the past. … Man is like Perseus; he cannot look at the Gorgon of the future except in the mirror of the past. All those who have tried to look at a fixed future directly have been turned to stone. The human heart has been petrified in them. The old Calvinists, with their predestination and necessity, were turned to stone. The modem scientific sociologists, with their anthropology and their absurd eugenics, are turned to stone. They make amusing statues.
It is utterly useless to talk about enlarging one’s mind with visions of the future. The future does not enlarge one’s mind in the least. The future is a blank wall on which I paint my own portrait as large as I like. … We are attracted to the future because it is what is called a soft job. In front of us lies an unknown or unreal world which we can mould according to every cowardice or triviality in our own temperaments. But if we look back at our fathers, as they gather in the gate of history, we see it like the gate of Eden described by one of them in verse which we cannot imitate:
‘With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms’.
Daily News, December 7th, 1907
IL PASSATO VIVENTE
Se vogliamo, in qualsiasi forma o senso, ciò che comunemente si chiama progresso, allora dobbiamo tenerci saldi alla tradizione. Se vuoi esperimenti pratici, mutamenti e miglioramenti, allora devi aggrapparti convulsamente al passato. Leggi libri nuovi se vuoi una sensazione artistica di novità, l’impressione di annusare un fiore fresco, ma non se vuoi che si faccia qualcosa in materia di legislazione o riforma sociale; perché la tradizione è l’unica cosa che abbia mai fatto qualcosa. Leggi libri vecchi se vuoi nuovi Libri Blu.
L’uomo è un animale con i piedi in avanti e il viso rivolto all’indietro. Sfido chiunque a citare un solo caso evidente di ciò che ordinariamente si chiama progresso nella storia umana in cui la mente del popolo progressista non fosse specialmente fissata su qualche ideale del passato. Del Rinascimento non ho bisogno di parlare; la parola stessa Rinascimento dimostra il punto. Ma la Rivoluzione francese è un caso altrettanto chiaro; fu fondata su una teoria del diritto primitivo e prendeva perpetuamente a modello le antiche repubbliche pagane. La teoria del contratto sociale di Rousseau era un puro appello al nostro passato umano; i pensatori recenti indubbiamente negano quel passato umano, ma la maggior parte di essi è abbastanza logica da negare anche la democrazia per giunta. Non c’è stato in realtà alcun progresso in nessun luogo senza una qualche appassionata ammirazione del passato. … L’uomo è come Perseo; non può guardare la Gorgone del futuro se non nello specchio del passato. Tutti coloro che hanno cercato di guardare direttamente un futuro fisso sono stati tramutati in pietra. Il cuore umano si è pietrificato in loro. I vecchi calvinisti, con la loro predestinazione e necessità, furono tramutati in pietra. I moderni sociologi scientifici, con la loro antropologia e la loro assurda eugenetica, sono tramutati in pietra. Fanno statue divertenti.
È del tutto inutile parlare di ampliare la propria mente con visioni del futuro. Il futuro non amplia la mente nel minimo. Il futuro è un muro bianco su cui dipingo il mio ritratto grande quanto mi pare. … Siamo attratti dal futuro perché è ciò che si dice un lavoro comodo. Davanti a noi giace un mondo ignoto o irreale che possiamo modellare secondo ogni viltà o banalità dei nostri temperamenti. Ma se guardiamo indietro ai nostri padri, mentre si radunano alla porta della storia, li vediamo come la porta dell’Eden descritta da uno di loro in versi che non possiamo imitare:
«Di volti terribili affollata e d’armi fiammeggianti».
Daily News, 7 dicembre 1907
THE UNCHANGING VISION
The principle of progress in which all sane men believe is mainly this: that we are engaged and ought to be engaged in a persistent effort to change the external world into the image of something that is within ourselves; to turn what is, as far as we are concerned, a chaos into what shall be, as far as we are concerned, a cosmos. God did not give us a universe, but rather the materials of a universe. The world is not a picture, it is a palette. Most of us who can remember our childhood at all will agree that the best present that can be given to a child on his birthday is in all probability a paint-box. Many fathers know this; the Father of us all knew it well. He gave man a paint-box. He gave him the crude materials of something; the crude materials of everything. That brown earth beneath you is only raw umber, which you are destined to turn into cooked umber. That blue sea which you think spherical and perfect, is only the element and beginning of something beyond the sea. How gratifying it is to reflect that the word ‘ultramarine’ literally means ‘something beyond the sea’! That green grass is only the material out of which you may make elves and foresters and the figure of Robin Hood. That blood-red sunset which you unwisely call perfect is nothing but a lake of crimson (called for the sake of brevity crimson lake) from which you may fish up the flaming images of purple seraphims and scarlet devils. Heaven gave us this splendid chaos of colours and materials. Heaven gave us a few instinctive rules of practice and caution corresponding to ‘do not put the brush in the mouth’. And Heaven gave us a vision.
Now, to make the real world in any way like our vision of it requires an agony of toil, extended over many years and centuries. My own sympathies are all with sudden and decisive change when it can possibly be obtained; but the complete transformation of nature into the vision of a man can only be obtained slowly, if, indeed, it can be obtained at all. Therefore there does come into the realm of ideas the thing called progress. It may be that we shall never reach perfection, but we may continue to approach it. But even if we only approach it, we must believe that it exists, we must believe that I want to go to Brighton or only towards Brighton. If Brighton has no place or meaning at all, how can I even aim at it? It may be that my human strength will be exhausted before I reach Brighton. It may be that the earth will be burnt up in the sun long before I reach Brighton. It may be that inexorable and awful laws of human limitation keep an armed watch round Brighton and that I can never see the shining gates of that city until I become more than man. But certainly it is just as important to know what Brighton is in order to try to get there, as it is in order to get there after all. And the human race (in the main) has always believed that it knew the broad facts about the site and approachability of Brighton.
When I say Brighton, I use a close metaphor for the New Jerusalem. Men have always believed that, however long or however short might be the time required to reach perfection, perfection had certain clear recognizable lines about it. It would involve justice; it would involve mercy; it would involve truth; it would involve courage. Our attempts to reach this might jump about. But Brighton would not jump about. We should now use this colour, now that colour, of our cosmic paint-box to produce the proper effect. But our vision would not alter. We should always have in our minds the picture that we wanted. Thousands of years ago a great poet put the perfect vision of mercy. ‘The lion shall lie down with the lamb.’ It will take us a long time to teach him to do it.
But in our own time another and quite different thing has happened. The vision has been attacked, not the picture. The thing we are aiming at is everywhere challenged. Mercy is denied. Justice is denied. The object of all our sacrifices is being talked of as dubious. Brighton is jumping about. It would take many generations (perhaps) of philosophical lion-tamers to induce the lion to lie down with the lamb. But it clearly cannot be done at all if every other generation of lion-tamers thinks that it is not worth doing.
The whole matter, then, can be put in one statement. So long as there is constancy in ideals, there can be progress towards those ideals. The moment there is change in those ideals, the progress, always difficult, becomes impossible. If there is progress in ideals, there cannot be progress in anything else.
Daily News, September 15th, 1906
LA VISIONE IMMUTABILE
Il principio del progresso in cui tutti gli uomini assennati credono è essenzialmente questo: che siamo impegnati e dobbiamo essere impegnati in uno sforzo tenace di trasformare il mondo esterno nell’immagine di qualcosa che è dentro di noi; di mutare ciò che è, per quanto ci riguarda, un caos in ciò che sarà, per quanto ci riguarda, un cosmo. Dio non ci ha dato un universo, ma piuttosto i materiali di un universo. Il mondo non è un quadro, è una tavolozza. La maggior parte di noi che sa ricordare la propria infanzia converrà che il regalo migliore che si possa fare a un bambino per il suo compleanno è con ogni probabilità una scatola di colori. Molti padri lo sanno; il Padre di tutti noi lo sapeva bene. Diede all’uomo una scatola di colori. Gli diede i materiali grezzi di qualcosa; i materiali grezzi di ogni cosa. Quella terra bruna sotto di te non è che terra d’ombra cruda, che sei destinato a mutare in terra d’ombra bruciata. Quel mare azzurro che credi sferico e perfetto, non è che l’elemento e il principio di qualcosa oltre il mare. Com’è gratificante riflettere che la parola «oltremare» significa letteralmente «qualcosa oltre il mare»! Quell’erba verde non è che il materiale con cui puoi fare elfi e guardaboschi e la figura di Robin Hood. Quel tramonto rosso sangue che tu incautamente chiami perfetto non è altro che un lago di cremisi (chiamato per brevità lacca di cremisi) da cui puoi pescare le immagini fiammeggianti di serafini purpurei e diavoli scarlatti. Il Cielo ci ha dato questo splendido caos di colori e materiali. Il Cielo ci ha dato alcune regole istintive di pratica e cautela corrispondenti a «non mettere il pennello in bocca». E il Cielo ci ha dato una visione.
Ora, rendere il mondo reale in qualche modo simile alla nostra visione di esso richiede un’agonia di fatica, distesa su molti anni e secoli. Le mie simpatie stanno tutte per il cambiamento improvviso e decisivo, quando può in qualche modo ottenersi; ma la completa trasformazione della natura nella visione di un uomo può ottenersi solo lentamente, se, invero, può ottenersi affatto. Perciò entra davvero nel regno delle idee la cosa chiamata progresso. Può darsi che non raggiungeremo mai la perfezione, ma possiamo continuare ad avvicinarci ad essa. Ma anche se soltanto ci avviciniamo, dobbiamo credere che essa esista, dobbiamo credere che io voglia andare a Brighton, o almeno verso Brighton. Se Brighton non ha alcun luogo o significato, come posso anche solo mirarvi? Può darsi che le mie forze umane si esauriscano prima che io raggiunga Brighton. Può darsi che la terra sia arsa dal sole molto prima che io raggiunga Brighton. Può darsi che leggi inesorabili e terribili del limite umano tengano una guardia armata intorno a Brighton e che io non possa mai vedere le fulgide porte di quella città finché non divenga più che uomo. Ma di certo è altrettanto importante sapere che cos’è Brighton per tentare di arrivarci, quanto lo è per arrivarci alla fine. E il genere umano (nel complesso) ha sempre creduto di conoscere i grandi dati di fatto sull’ubicazione e l’accessibilità di Brighton.
Quando dico Brighton, uso una metafora stretta per la Nuova Gerusalemme. Gli uomini hanno sempre creduto che, per quanto lungo o per quanto breve fosse il tempo necessario a raggiungere la perfezione, la perfezione avesse certi chiari lineamenti riconoscibili. Comporterebbe giustizia; comporterebbe misericordia; comporterebbe verità; comporterebbe coraggio. I nostri tentativi di raggiungerla potrebbero saltellare qua e là. Ma Brighton non saltellerebbe. Ora useremmo questo colore, ora quello, della nostra cosmica scatola di colori per produrre l’effetto giusto. Ma la nostra visione non muterebbe. Avremmo sempre in mente il quadro che desideravamo. Migliaia di anni fa un grande poeta espresse la visione perfetta della misericordia. «Il leone giacerà accanto all’agnello.» Ci vorrà molto tempo per insegnargli a farlo.
Ma ai nostri tempi è accaduta un’altra cosa, del tutto diversa. È stata attaccata la visione, non il quadro. La cosa a cui miriamo è ovunque messa in discussione. La misericordia è negata. La giustizia è negata. L’oggetto di tutti i nostri sacrifici viene dichiarato dubbio. Brighton sta saltellando. Ci vorrebbero molte generazioni (forse) di filosofici domatori di leoni per indurre il leone a giacere accanto all’agnello. Ma la cosa chiaramente non può affatto compiersi se ogni altra generazione di domatori di leoni pensa che non valga la pena farla.
L’intera questione, dunque, si può racchiudere in un solo enunciato. Finché c’è costanza negli ideali, ci può essere progresso verso quegli ideali. Nel momento in cui c’è mutamento in quegli ideali, il progresso, sempre difficile, diventa impossibile. Se c’è progresso negli ideali, non ci può essere progresso in nient’altro.
Daily News, 15 settembre 1906
THE WHITE HOUSE
All conservatism goes upon the assumption that if you leave a thing alone, you leave a thing as it is. But you do not. If you leave a thing to itself, you are leaving it to wild and violent changes. All nature is change; it is only man (apart from religious ideas) whose name is constancy. For instance, if you want a white house, you must not leave it white. If you leave it white in our atmosphere, it will soon be black. If you want a white house, you must continually be painting it white, beginning all over again and re-creating your ideal. In other words, if you want your old white house, you must have a new white house. You must have a revolution.
The foundation of the true doctrine of progress is that all things tend to get worse. Man must perpetually interfere to resist a natural degeneration; if man does not reform a thing, Nature will deform it. He must always be altering the thing even in order to keep it the same. If a man wants to keep his garden the same, he does not leave it to itself, for left to itself it will become quite different. If he wants it to remain the same, he goes about it with a ferocious speed, uprooting things like a walking revolution. For the man who weeds plays the part of a pitiless and positive up rooter. In other words, he plays the part of a Radical. The trimness and tidiness of all our gardens depends upon a persistent Radicalism; and all those ranked flowers and rigid lawns are kept clear and quiet by a principle of perpetual revolution. Similarly, every spring cleaning is a revolution but, like all others, a conservative revolution. Like all other revolutions, it disturbs, maddens, destroys and may even degrade. But its object is to give a man his old clean house, whereas otherwise he would have a new house and a nasty one. The white house must be washed or painted at the first hint of grey.
Now it is specially the misfortune of England for the last few hundred years that we have left our institutions untouched under the impression that we were leaving them unspoilt; whereas, in truth, time and circumstances were steadily spoiling them. We have prided ourselves on being conservative; but in fact we have not even conserved. We would not alter our institutions for the better and so Social Evolution (bless its heart) has altered them for the worse. … For the whole advantage of evil is in its being so often imperceptible and silent; evil comes at leisure like the disease; good comes in a hurry like the doctor. Conservatives commonly denounce a revolution as premature; it is Irish, but true, to say that a revolution must often come prematurely or come too late.
Daily News, August 24th, 1907
LA CASA BIANCA
Ogni conservatorismo procede dal presupposto che, se lasci una cosa in pace, la lasci come è. Ma non è così. Se lasci una cosa a se stessa, la lasci in balìa di mutamenti selvaggi e violenti. Tutta la natura è mutamento; solo l’uomo (a parte le idee religiose) porta il nome di costanza. Per esempio, se vuoi una casa bianca, non devi lasciarla bianca. Se la lasci bianca nella nostra atmosfera, presto sarà nera. Se vuoi una casa bianca, devi dipingerla di bianco di continuo, ricominciando ogni volta da capo e ricreando il tuo ideale. In altre parole, se vuoi la tua vecchia casa bianca, devi avere una nuova casa bianca. Devi fare una rivoluzione.
Il fondamento della vera dottrina del progresso è che tutte le cose tendono a peggiorare. L’uomo deve intervenire di continuo per resistere a una degenerazione naturale; se l’uomo non riforma una cosa, la Natura la deforma. Egli deve sempre alterare la cosa perfino per mantenerla identica. Se un uomo vuole tenere il suo giardino sempre uguale, non lo lascia a se stesso, poiché, lasciato a se stesso, diventerà tutt’altra cosa. Se vuole che rimanga uguale, vi si dedica con una feroce foga, sradicando le cose come una rivoluzione ambulante. Poiché l’uomo che estirpa le erbacce fa la parte di uno spietato e positivo sradicatore. In altre parole, fa la parte di un Radicale. L’ordine e la pulizia di tutti i nostri giardini dipendono da un Radicalismo tenace; e tutti quei fiori allineati e quei prati rigidi sono tenuti netti e quieti da un principio di rivoluzione perpetua. Allo stesso modo, ogni pulizia di primavera è una rivoluzione ma, come tutte le altre, una rivoluzione conservatrice. Come tutte le altre rivoluzioni, essa disturba, fa impazzire, distrugge e può perfino degradare. Ma il suo scopo è restituire all’uomo la sua vecchia casa pulita, mentre altrimenti egli avrebbe una casa nuova e sudicia. La casa bianca dev’essere lavata o dipinta al primo accenno di grigio.
Ora, è una sventura tutta particolare dell’Inghilterra, in questi ultimi secoli, che noi abbiamo lasciato intatte le nostre istituzioni con l’impressione di lasciarle inalterate; mentre, in verità, il tempo e le circostanze le andavano lentamente guastando. Ci siamo vantati di essere conservatori; ma in realtà non abbiamo neppure conservato. Non volevamo mutare in meglio le nostre istituzioni, e così l’Evoluzione Sociale (che il cielo la benedica) le ha mutate in peggio. … Poiché tutto il vantaggio del male sta nel suo essere così spesso impercettibile e silenzioso; il male viene con calma come la malattia; il bene viene in fretta come il medico. I conservatori denunciano abitualmente una rivoluzione come prematura; è una frase all’irlandese, ma vera, dire che una rivoluzione deve spesso arrivare prematuramente oppure arrivare troppo tardi.
Daily News, 24 agosto 1907
THE ICONOCLAST
In the whole range of human occupations is it possible to imagine a poorer thing to be than an iconoclast? It is the lowest of all the unskilled trades.
Daily News, April 26th, 1905
L’ICONOCLASTA
In tutta la gamma delle occupazioni umane, è possibile immaginare cosa più misera che l’essere un iconoclasta? È il più infimo di tutti i mestieri senza arte.
Daily News, 26 aprile 1905
THE RETURN OF THE ANGELS
I write these remarks with one great hope, that of arousing controversy. It is really a singular matter that amid all the talk of the great work of physical science and its alleged victory over religious dogmatism, no one has noticed what the greatest of all the triumphs of science really was. It was a discovery far greater than that of evolution. It was the discovery, not of a fact, but of a method, the mother of innumerable facts. That method is, of course, what is known in scientific theory as the method of the hypothesis. It can be most clearly and simply conveyed in common language by saying that it is the principle that the best way to see if a coat fits a man is not to measure both of them, but to try it on. It is the replacing of the very slow, logical method of accumulating, point by point, an absolute proof by a rapid, experimental and imaginative method which gives us, long before we can get absolute proof, a very good working belief. I hear, let us say, of a certain theory about the universe. As a trial, I assume it to be true; then, if I discover with a start that, once assumed, it explains the boots on my feet and the nose on my face, that my umbrella has a new and radiant meaning, that my front door suddenly explains itself, that truths about my cat and dog and wife and hat and sideboard crowd upon me all day and everyday, I believe that theory and go on believing it more and more.
On the other hand, if the theory be not true, I may be perfectly certain that ten minutes after I have experimentally assumed it, I shall break my shins over some contradiction. We have buttoned the coat round the world (that rotund and patient old gentleman) and it has split down the back. It is surely quite obvious that this is the method on which we base all our real beliefs and that on this, above all, we base our belief in evolution. Of the thousands of brilliant and elegant persons like ourselves who believe roughly in the Darwinian doctrine, how many are there who know which fossil or skeleton, which parrot’s tail or which cuttle-fish’s stomach, is really believed to be the conclusive example and absolute datum of natural selection? We know scarcely anything of the Darwinian facts that lead to conversion. What we know is much more important: the Darwinian facts that come after conversion. What we know, to use a higher language, are the fruits of the spirit. We know that with this idea once inside our heads a million things become transparent as if a lamp were lit behind them: we see the thing in the dog in the street, in the pear on the wall, in the book of history we are reading, in the baby in the perambulator and in the last news from Borneo. And the fulfilments pour in upon us in so natural and continual a cataract that at last is reached that paradox of the condition which is called belief. We have seen so many evidences of the theory that we have forgotten them all. The theory is so clear to us that we can scarcely even defend it, If we walked up to the nearest rationalist we know and asked him to prove evolution, he would be dazed, like a man asked to defend justice.
Now it ought to be clearly stated at this stage of philosophical development that it is most emphatically by this method of the successful hypothesis, of the theory that justifies itself, that so large a number of the young in this generation have returned to a certain doctrine of the spiritual. What this doctrine is it may be right to state as baldly and as briefly as possible; it is the view that the world, closely examined, does point with an extreme suggestiveness to the existence of a spiritual world, of a world of agencies not apparently produced by matter, capable to some extent of controlling and inspiring, capable to some extent of being known. It ought, I say, to be plainly stated that numbers of us have returned to this belief; and that we have returned to it, not because of this argument or that argument, but because the theory, when it is adopted, works out everywhere; because the coat, when it is tried on, fits in every crease. It ought to be stated because the old rationalists are rightly indignant with us, in so far as they fancy that we base such a tremendous doctrine on a few desperate quibbles; in so far as they fancy, as they do, that we are hanging on to religion by sticks and straws. … The return to the spiritual theory rests on none of these things. It rests, like the movement towards evolution, on the fact that the thing works out. We put on the theory like a magic hat and history becomes translucent like a house of glass.
Let us begin at the beginning. A startling and sensational event occurred recently; I allude to the emergence of the creature called man. It is a recent event, cosmically considered; it is, comparatively speaking, only a little too old to have been headlined in the evening papers. The newness, suddenness and utter uniqueness of the rise of man reminds one of Japan in the East; only it is more so. … There may be a hundred explanations of this. No sane man would say that it involved a spiritual deduction. But it fits in with it, and fits in with it very well, to suppose that there is another atmosphere of life besides the animal and that this spiritual world irrupted in some way into that creature at the moment. The phenomenon does not prove Religion, but religion explains the Phenomenon. The Phenomenon is quite as solitary as the Incarnation. It can be explained by saying that in a sense it was the Incarnation. Then we go on. There is one thing which the whole human race, without any exception at all, attests. From the dimmest ages and lands, wherever the seed of man is found, it declares this— that such an irruption did take place in the beginning, that they or their fathers have had dealings with a darker or more wonderful being. If human evidence means anything at all, this is perhaps the only thing on which we have overwhelming evidence.
We have nearly overwhelming human witness to the necessity of morality; we have quite overwhelming human witness to the reality of the spiritual life. We are ready enough to quote the evidence of all mankind in support of police regulations or the data of ethics; but we think mankind must be talking nonsense when, with one universal shout it cries out to this thing which is older than sin. That Marcus Aurelius and the Red Indians, that Hindu sages and Italian brigands and Mr Spurgeon and Sir William Crookes should all by various roads come to this conclusion, this is an important thing. A more important thing still is that this belief in spirit, so far from being a morbid thing, is held by almost all people who are physically strong and live in the open air. Powerful peasants and farmers six feet high all believe in fairies. Rationalism is a disease of the towns, like the housing problem. All this is, of course, only suggestive, but it is very suggestive. The Phenomenon does not prove Religion; but Religion explains the Phenomenon. … We have not returned to the spiritual theory because of this or that triviality—because of a justification of the Fourth Gospel or a rap on the table. We have returned to it because, by the rejection of rationalism, the world becomes suddenly rational.
Daily News, March 14th, 1903
IL RITORNO DEGLI ANGELI
Scrivo queste osservazioni con una grande speranza: quella di suscitare polemica. È davvero cosa singolare che, in mezzo a tutto il parlare della grande opera della scienza fisica e della sua presunta vittoria sul dogmatismo religioso, nessuno abbia notato quale fosse in realtà il più grande di tutti i trionfi della scienza. Fu una scoperta ben più grande di quella dell’evoluzione. Fu la scoperta non di un fatto, ma di un metodo, la madre di innumerevoli fatti. Quel metodo è, naturalmente, ciò che nella teoria scientifica è noto come il metodo dell’ipotesi. Lo si può esprimere nel modo più chiaro e semplice, in linguaggio comune, dicendo che è il principio per cui il modo migliore di vedere se un abito calza bene a un uomo non è misurare entrambi, ma provarglielo addosso. È la sostituzione del lentissimo metodo logico che accumula, punto per punto, una prova assoluta, con un metodo rapido, sperimentale e immaginativo che ci dà, molto prima che possiamo ottenere una prova assoluta, una convinzione operativa assai buona. Sento parlare, poniamo, di una certa teoria sull’universo. Per prova, la assumo come vera; poi, se scopro con un sussulto che, una volta assunta, essa spiega gli stivali che ho ai piedi e il naso che ho in faccia, che il mio ombrello acquista un significato nuovo e radioso, che la mia porta di casa d’un tratto si spiega da sé, che verità sul mio gatto e sul mio cane e su mia moglie e sul mio cappello e sulla mia credenza mi si affollano addosso tutto il giorno e ogni giorno, allora credo a quella teoria e continuo a crederle sempre di più.
D’altro canto, se la teoria non è vera, posso essere perfettamente certo che, dieci minuti dopo averla assunta in via sperimentale, mi romperò gli stinchi contro qualche contraddizione. Abbiamo abbottonato l’abito attorno al mondo (quel vecchio signore rotondo e paziente) e questo si è squarciato lungo la schiena. È certo del tutto evidente che questo è il metodo su cui fondiamo tutte le nostre convinzioni reali e che su questo, soprattutto, fondiamo la nostra credenza nell’evoluzione. Delle migliaia di persone brillanti ed eleganti come noi che credono a grandi linee nella dottrina darwiniana, quante ce ne sono che sanno quale fossile o scheletro, quale coda di pappagallo o quale stomaco di seppia, sia realmente ritenuto l’esempio conclusivo e il dato assoluto della selezione naturale? Non sappiamo quasi nulla dei fatti darwiniani che conducono alla conversione. Ciò che sappiamo è assai più importante: i fatti darwiniani che vengono dopo la conversione. Ciò che sappiamo, per usare un linguaggio più elevato, sono i frutti dello spirito. Sappiamo che, una volta entrata questa idea nella nostra testa, un milione di cose diventano trasparenti come se una lampada fosse stata accesa dietro di esse: vediamo la cosa nel cane per strada, nella pera sul muro, nel libro di storia che stiamo leggendo, nel neonato nella carrozzina e nelle ultime notizie dal Borneo. E i compimenti si riversano su di noi in una cateratta così naturale e continua che alla fine si raggiunge quel paradosso della condizione che si chiama credenza. Abbiamo visto tante prove della teoria che le abbiamo dimenticate tutte. La teoria ci è così chiara che a stento riusciamo perfino a difenderla. Se ci avvicinassimo al più prossimo razionalista che conosciamo e gli chiedessimo di dimostrare l’evoluzione, egli resterebbe sbigottito, come un uomo a cui si chiede di difendere la giustizia.
Ora, a questo stadio dello sviluppo filosofico dovrebbe essere detto con chiarezza che è proprio con questo metodo dell’ipotesi riuscita, della teoria che si giustifica da sé, che un così gran numero di giovani di questa generazione sono tornati a una certa dottrina dello spirituale. Quale sia questa dottrina è forse giusto enunciarlo nel modo più schietto e più breve possibile; è l’idea che il mondo, esaminato da vicino, indichi con estrema forza suggestiva l’esistenza di un mondo spirituale, di un mondo di agenti non prodotti, a quanto pare, dalla materia, capaci in una certa misura di controllare e di ispirare, capaci in una certa misura di essere conosciuti. Dovrebbe, dico, essere detto chiaramente che molti di noi sono tornati a questa credenza; e che vi siamo tornati, non a causa di questo o quell’argomento, ma perché la teoria, quando la si adotta, torna dovunque; perché l’abito, quando lo si prova, calza in ogni piega. Va detto perché i vecchi razionalisti hanno ragione a essere indignati con noi, nella misura in cui si figurano che noi fondiamo una dottrina così tremenda su pochi disperati cavilli; nella misura in cui si figurano, come fanno, che ci aggrappiamo alla religione con fuscelli e pagliuzze. … Il ritorno alla teoria spirituale non poggia su nessuna di queste cose. Poggia, come il movimento verso l’evoluzione, sul fatto che la cosa torna. Ci mettiamo la teoria come un cappello magico e la storia diventa traslucida come una casa di vetro.
Cominciamo dal principio. Un evento sorprendente e sensazionale è accaduto di recente; alludo alla comparsa della creatura chiamata uomo. È un evento recente, cosmicamente considerato; è, relativamente parlando, appena un po’ troppo antico per essere finito nei titoli dei giornali della sera. La novità, la subitaneità e la totale unicità dell’ascesa dell’uomo fanno pensare al Giappone in Oriente; solo che lo è ancor di più. … Di questo potrebbero esserci cento spiegazioni. Nessun uomo sano di mente direbbe che ciò comporti una deduzione spirituale. Ma vi si accorda, e vi si accorda benissimo, il supporre che esista un’altra atmosfera di vita oltre a quella animale e che questo mondo spirituale abbia in qualche modo fatto irruzione in quella creatura in quel momento. Il fenomeno non prova la Religione, ma la religione spiega il Fenomeno. Il Fenomeno è solitario esattamente quanto l’Incarnazione. Lo si può spiegare dicendo che in un certo senso era l’Incarnazione. Poi andiamo avanti. C’è una cosa che l’intera razza umana, senza alcuna eccezione, attesta. Dalle età e dalle terre più remote, ovunque si trovi il seme dell’uomo, esso dichiara questo: che una tale irruzione ebbe luogo al principio, che essi o i loro padri hanno avuto a che fare con un essere più oscuro o più meraviglioso. Se la testimonianza umana significa qualcosa, questa è forse l’unica cosa su cui abbiamo prove schiaccianti.
Abbiamo prove umane quasi schiaccianti della necessità della morale; abbiamo prove umane del tutto schiaccianti della realtà della vita spirituale. Siamo pronti a citare la testimonianza dell’intera umanità a sostegno dei regolamenti di polizia o dei dati dell’etica; ma pensiamo che l’umanità debba dire sciocchezze quando, con un unico grido universale, essa acclama questa cosa che è più antica del peccato. Che Marco Aurelio e i Pellerossa, che i saggi indù e i briganti italiani e il signor Spurgeon e Sir William Crookes giungano tutti per varie vie a questa conclusione, è una cosa importante. Cosa ancor più importante è che questa credenza nello spirito, lungi dall’essere una cosa morbosa, è sostenuta da quasi tutte le persone fisicamente forti che vivono all’aria aperta. Vigorosi contadini e fattori alti un metro e ottanta credono tutti nelle fate. Il razionalismo è una malattia delle città, come il problema degli alloggi. Tutto questo è, naturalmente, solo suggestivo, ma è assai suggestivo. Il Fenomeno non prova la Religione; ma la Religione spiega il Fenomeno. … Non siamo tornati alla teoria spirituale a causa di questa o quella banalità: a causa di una giustificazione del Quarto Vangelo o di un colpetto sul tavolo. Vi siamo tornati perché, con il rigetto del razionalismo, il mondo diventa d’un tratto razionale.
Daily News, 14 marzo 1903
THE NECESSITY OF LUXURY
The great number of abuses peculiar to our present social state work back to that one great heresy which is the perversion of Darwin; I mean the heresy that man is an animal first and a spirit afterwards. The truth is that man is an animal and a spirit simultaneously, and his spiritual life is no more a luxury than his physical; except in the sense that he cannot rationally explain why he denies either of them. A humane and civilized happiness is one of man’s needs, not merely one of his pleasures. Luxury is itself a necessity. Man does not live by bread alone but, at the very lowest level of thought, by bread and butter. All arguments about the treatment of the poor which are based on the idea that we can make them first contented animals and then go on to their souls, are false down to the root. By giving a man just enough air, just enough oatmeal, just enough exercise, just enough cocoa, you can not make him a contented beast; but only a discontented man. … We shall never really get any further with our plans for the relief of distress until we have sufficient humility and sense of humour to leave off talking about what people need and bestow more attention on what they want.
The Open Review, July, 1906
LA NECESSITÀ DEL LUSSO
Il gran numero di abusi propri del nostro attuale stato sociale risale a quell’unica grande eresia che è la perversione di Darwin; intendo l’eresia secondo cui l’uomo è prima un animale e poi uno spirito. La verità è che l’uomo è un animale e uno spirito simultaneamente, e la sua vita spirituale non è più un lusso della sua vita fisica; se non nel senso che egli non può spiegare razionalmente perché neghi l’una o l’altra. Una felicità umana e civile è uno dei bisogni dell’uomo, non semplicemente uno dei suoi piaceri. Il lusso è esso stesso una necessità. L’uomo non vive di solo pane ma, al più basso livello del pensiero, di pane e burro. Tutti gli argomenti sul trattamento dei poveri fondati sull’idea che possiamo farne dapprima animali contenti e poi passare alle loro anime sono falsi fin dalla radice. Dando a un uomo appena abbastanza aria, appena abbastanza avena, appena abbastanza esercizio, appena abbastanza cacao, non potete farne una bestia contenta; ma soltanto un uomo scontento. … Non faremo mai davvero alcun progresso con i nostri piani per il sollievo della miseria finché non avremo umiltà e senso dell’umorismo sufficienti a smettere di parlare di ciò di cui la gente ha bisogno e a dedicare più attenzione a ciò che la gente desidera.
The Open Review, luglio 1906
THE CLUB
Mankind is not a tribe of animals to which we owe compassion. Mankind is a club to which we owe our subscription.
Daily News, April 10th, 1906
IL CIRCOLO
L’umanità non è una tribù di animali cui dobbiamo compassione. L’umanità è un circolo cui dobbiamo la nostra quota d’iscrizione.
Daily News, 10 aprile 1906
THE BIG THING AND THE SMALL
Sanity does not consist in seeing things; madmen see things more clearly than other people. Sanity consists in seeing the big things big and the small things small. A man can have this sense of pro portion even if he is wrong. … Here is one case. Human society is the big and certain thing; pre-human evolution is the small and fanciful thing. To talk of ‘humanity’s’ place in evolution is to be foolish and topsy-turvy. We do not know there was any evolution in the sense that we know that there is humanity. Some men hold that they are the children of apes; some that they are the children of Adam or of Wrath or of Mumbo-Jumbo.
These are creeds. But all men know that they are men; all men know that they belong to a positive human society, with rules of justice and mercy, and that they cannot even conceive themselves belonging to anything else. We belong to a club which is so old that nobody knows anything about its origin. We only know that in this club alone we can get our meals; in this club alone we can meet our friends; in this club alone we can sleep or argue or organize or pray. This club holds endless debates about everything— stars, boots, biology, sacraments, Alps, origins. Among the many minor things our human club discusses (for the fun of the thing) is how the club itself arose. The question is all the more interesting because nobody can answer it; the origins are in the fog of the utterly forgotten. Still, it is amusing to guess, and this guess or that guess is fashionable at any given time. At one time the club accepts the view that it was founded by a Mr Adam. At another time it records a vote that it was probably an affiliated branch of the Monkey’s Club. But these discussions of the forgotten origins are meant to amuse the club. No one ever dreamt of their being allowed to destroy it. Yet they would certainly destroy the Human Club if once they meant that we were to be rude to the members or stingy to the waiters. This is the strongest instance I know of the big thing against the small; that Humanity is the huge house that I live in, while Evolution is the small but interesting animal which has quite recently asked to be domesticated in it.
Daily News, September 19th, 1908
‘WORKING OUT THE BRUTE’
The worst result of popular evolutionism has been this. It has substituted the Beast for the Devil. It has made us think that our enemy is what they call our ‘lower nature’, which means our mere lusts and appetites, things entirely innocent in themselves. The most typical moderns have joined in this. Tennyson, for instance, spoke of moral improvement as ‘moving upward, working out the brute’. But was he right? Why should we work out the brute? I no more desire, as such, to work out the brute from myself than to work out the brute from between the shafts of a hansom cab. The brute in me and the brute in the cab must both be kept in order. The brute in me and the brute in the cab have both very obvious uses. The thing that is wrong in us is not, as evolutionists say, the brute. The thing wrong in us is the devil, the austere, intellectual virgin devil of the medieval story. He will suffer for evil. He will perform heroic acts for evil…
Pigs are not corrupted with the Higher Imperialism. Tigers have no spiritual pride. Whales never sneer. Crocodiles are not (despite a pleasing legend) in the least hypocritical. On examining their exterior, it is difficult to understand why anyone ever gave them credit for so vivacious and ingenious a quality. The worst sins of all are the purely human sins. You may move upwards, working out the brute, and not work them out in the least. Nay, you may work them in. The less beastly you grow, the more bad you may grow.
Daily News, February 3rd, 1906
LA COSA GRANDE E LA COSA PICCOLA
La sanità mentale non consiste nel vedere le cose; i pazzi vedono le cose più chiaramente delle altre persone. La sanità mentale consiste nel vedere grandi le cose grandi e piccole le cose piccole. Un uomo può avere questo senso della proporzione anche se sbaglia. … Ecco un caso. La società umana è la cosa grande e certa; l’evoluzione preumana è la cosa piccola e fantasiosa. Parlare del posto dell’«umanità» nell’evoluzione è essere sciocchi e rovesciare tutto. Non sappiamo che vi sia stata alcuna evoluzione nel senso in cui sappiamo che c’è l’umanità. Certi uomini sostengono di essere figli delle scimmie; altri di essere figli di Adamo o dell’Ira o di Mumbo-Jumbo.
Questi sono credi. Ma tutti gli uomini sanno di essere uomini; tutti gli uomini sanno di appartenere a una società umana positiva, con regole di giustizia e di misericordia, e che non possono neppure concepirsi appartenenti a qualcos’altro. Apparteniamo a un circolo così antico che nessuno sa nulla della sua origine. Sappiamo soltanto che in questo circolo soltanto possiamo consumare i nostri pasti; in questo circolo soltanto possiamo incontrare i nostri amici; in questo circolo soltanto possiamo dormire o discutere o organizzare o pregare. Questo circolo tiene dibattiti senza fine su ogni cosa: stelle, stivali, biologia, sacramenti, Alpi, origini. Tra le tante piccole cose di cui il nostro circolo umano discute (per il gusto della cosa) c’è come il circolo stesso sia sorto. La questione è tanto più interessante in quanto nessuno sa rispondervi; le origini stanno nella nebbia del tutto dimenticato. Eppure è divertente indovinare, e questa o quella congettura è di moda in un dato momento. A un certo momento il circolo accetta la tesi che sia stato fondato da un signor Adamo. A un altro momento mette a verbale un voto secondo cui era probabilmente una sezione affiliata del Circolo delle Scimmie. Ma queste discussioni sulle origini dimenticate hanno lo scopo di divertire il circolo. A nessuno è mai passato per la mente che si potesse lasciarle distruggerlo. Eppure esse distruggerebbero di certo il Circolo Umano se una volta intendessero che dovessimo essere scortesi con i membri o tirchi con i camerieri. Questo è il più forte esempio che io conosca della cosa grande contro la piccola; che l’Umanità è l’enorme casa in cui vivo, mentre l’Evoluzione è il piccolo ma interessante animale che da pochissimo ha chiesto di esservi addomesticato.
Daily News, 19 settembre 1908
«ESPELLERE LA BESTIA»
Il peggior risultato dell’evoluzionismo popolare è stato questo. Ha sostituito la Bestia al Demonio. Ci ha fatto credere che il nostro nemico sia ciò che chiamano la nostra «natura inferiore», il che significa le nostre mere brame e i nostri appetiti, cose in se stesse del tutto innocenti. I moderni più tipici vi hanno aderito. Tennyson, per esempio, parlava del miglioramento morale come di un «salire in alto, espellere la bestia». Ma aveva ragione? Perché mai dovremmo espellere la bestia? Non desidero, in quanto tale, espellere la bestia da me stesso più di quanto desideri espellere la bestia da tra le stanghe di una carrozza da nolo. La bestia in me e la bestia nella carrozza vanno entrambe tenute in ordine. La bestia in me e la bestia nella carrozza hanno entrambe usi assai ovvi. Ciò che è sbagliato in noi non è, come dicono gli evoluzionisti, la bestia. Ciò che è sbagliato in noi è il demonio, l’austero, intellettuale demonio vergine della storia medievale. Egli soffrirà per il male. Egli compirà atti eroici per il male…
I maiali non sono corrotti dall’Imperialismo Superiore. Le tigri non hanno alcuna superbia spirituale. Le balene non sogghignano mai. I coccodrilli non sono (a dispetto di una piacevole leggenda) minimamente ipocriti. A esaminarne l’aspetto esteriore, è difficile capire perché qualcuno abbia mai attribuito loro una qualità così vivace e ingegnosa. I peggiori peccati di tutti sono i peccati puramente umani. Puoi salire in alto, espellendo la bestia, e non espellere affatto quelli. Anzi, puoi anzi coltivarli. Meno bestiale diventi, più cattivo puoi diventare.
Daily News, 3 febbraio 1906
ORANGE PEEL AND THE FALL
This life of ours and the great pathway of history and civilization is a road entirely carpeted with orange peel. The obstacles are so numerous, the complications are so varied that we live, as it were, in an eternal crisis, in an immortal catastrophe. We are permanently in an exceptional state; nay, we are permanently in an unnatural state; this is what is meant by the Fall of Man. Even if we do not admit the Fall of Man, we must admit his continuous state of the staggers. The apple that Eve ate was an orange; and its peel has ever since strewed the ways of the world.
The Bystander, May 11th, 1904
LE BUCCE D’ARANCIA E LA CADUTA
Questa nostra vita e il grande cammino della storia e della civiltà è una strada interamente tappezzata di bucce d’arancia. Gli ostacoli sono così numerosi, le complicazioni così varie, che viviamo, per così dire, in una crisi eterna, in una catastrofe immortale. Siamo stabilmente in uno stato eccezionale; anzi, siamo stabilmente in uno stato innaturale; è questo che s’intende per Caduta dell’Uomo. Anche se non ammettiamo la Caduta dell’Uomo, dobbiamo ammettere il suo continuo stato di barcollamento. La mela che Eva mangiò era un’arancia; e la sua buccia da allora ha cosparso le vie del mondo.
The Bystander, 11 maggio 1904
ORIGINAL SIN
The true doctrine of original sin may be stated in a million ways, like every very central and solid truth. You may put it this way: that moral health is not a thing which will fulfil itself automatically in any complete man like physical health. Or this way: that we all start in a state of war. Or this way: that everything in a cabbage is trying to make a good cabbage, whereas everything in a man is not trying to make what we call a good man. Or this way: that virtue is a creditable thing and not merely, like the greenness of a cabbage, an admirable thing.
Daily News, September 2nd, 1905
IL PECCATO ORIGINALE
La vera dottrina del peccato originale può essere enunciata in un milione di modi, come ogni verità davvero centrale e solida. Potete metterla così: che la salute morale non è cosa che si compia automaticamente in ogni uomo completo, come la salute fisica. Oppure così: che tutti cominciamo in uno stato di guerra. Oppure così: che ogni cosa in un cavolo tende a fare un buon cavolo, mentre ogni cosa in un uomo non tende a fare ciò che chiamiamo un buon uomo. Oppure così: che la virtù è cosa meritoria e non soltanto, come il verde di un cavolo, cosa ammirevole.
Daily News, 2 settembre 1905
THE OUTLINE OF THE FALL
Whether or no the garden was an allegory, the truth itself can be very well allegorized as a garden. And the point of it is that Man, whatever else he is, is certainly not merely one of the plants of the garden that has plucked its roots out of the soil and walked about with them like legs, or, on the principle of a double dahlia, has grown duplicate eyes and ears. He is something else, something strange and solitary, and more like the statue that was once the god of the garden; but the statue has fallen from its pedestal and lies broken among the plants and weeds. This conception has nothing to do with materialism as it refers to materials. The image might be made of wood; the wood might have come from the garden; the sculptor presumably might, and probably did, allow for the growth and grain of the wood in what he carved and expressed. But my fable fixes the two truths of the truer Scripture. The first is that the wood was graven or stamped with an image, deliberately and from outside; in this case the image of God. The second is that this image has been damaged and defaced so that it is now both better and worse than the mere plants in the garden which are perfect according to their own plan. There is room for any amount of speculation about the history of the tree before it was turned into an image; there is room for any amount of doubt and mystery about what really happened when it was turned into an image; there is room for any amount of hope and imagination about what it will look like when it is really mended and made into the perfect statue we have never seen. But it has the two fixed points, that man was uplifted at the first and fell; and to answer it by saying ‘Where is the Garden of Eden?’ is like answering a philosophical Buddhist by saying ‘When were you last a donkey?’
The Fall is a view of life. It is not only the only enlightening but the only encouraging view of life. It holds, as against the only real alternative philosophies, those of the Buddhist or the Pessimist or the Promethean, that we have misused a good world and not merely been entrapped into a bad one. It refers evil back to the wrong use of the will and thus declares that it can eventually be righted by the right use of the will. Every other creed except that one is some form of surrender to fate. A man who holds this view of life will find it giving light on a thousand things on which mere evolutionary ethics have not a word to say. For instance, on the colossal contrast between the completeness of man’s machines and the continued corruption of his motives; on the fact that no social progress really seems to leave self behind; on the fact that the first and not the last men of any school or revolution are generally the best and purest, as William Penn was better than a Quaker millionaire or Washington better than an American oil magnate; on that proverb which says ‘The price of liberty is eternal vigilance’, which is only what the theologians say of every other virtue and is itself only a way of stating the truth of original sin; on those extremes of good and evil by which man exceeds all the animals by the measure of heaven and hell; on that sublime sense of loss that is in the very sound of all great poetry, and nowhere more than in the poetry of pagans and sceptics—‘We look before and after and pine for what is not’; which cries against all prigs and progressives out of the very depths and abysses of the broken heart of man that happiness is not only a hope but also in some strange manner a memory; and that we are all kings in exile.
G. K.’s Weekly, September 25th, 1926
I LINEAMENTI DELLA CADUTA
Che il giardino fosse o no un’allegoria, la verità stessa può essere benissimo allegorizzata come un giardino. E il punto è che l’Uomo, qualunque altra cosa sia, non è di certo semplicemente una delle piante del giardino che abbia strappato le sue radici dal suolo e se ne vada in giro con esse come fossero gambe, o che, secondo il principio di una dalia doppia, abbia fatto crescere occhi e orecchie in duplice copia. Egli è qualcos’altro, qualcosa di strano e di solitario, più simile alla statua che un tempo era il dio del giardino; ma la statua è caduta dal suo piedistallo e giace spezzata tra le piante e le erbacce. Questa concezione non ha nulla a che vedere con il materialismo nel senso di riferirsi ai materiali. L’immagine potrebbe essere fatta di legno; il legno potrebbe provenire dal giardino; lo scultore presumibilmente poteva, e probabilmente lo fece, tener conto della crescita e delle venature del legno in ciò che scolpiva ed esprimeva. Ma la mia favola fissa le due verità della Scrittura più vera. La prima è che il legno fu inciso o impresso con un’immagine, deliberatamente e dall’esterno; in questo caso l’immagine di Dio. La seconda è che questa immagine è stata danneggiata e deturpata, sicché ora è insieme migliore e peggiore delle semplici piante del giardino, che sono perfette secondo il loro proprio disegno. C’è spazio per qualsiasi quantità di congetture sulla storia dell’albero prima che fosse trasformato in immagine; c’è spazio per qualsiasi quantità di dubbio e di mistero su ciò che davvero accadde quando fu trasformato in immagine; c’è spazio per qualsiasi quantità di speranza e d’immaginazione su come apparirà quando sarà davvero riparato e reso la statua perfetta che non abbiamo mai visto. Ma esso ha i due punti fissi: che l’uomo fu innalzato in principio e cadde; e rispondere a ciò dicendo «Dov’è il Giardino dell’Eden?» è come rispondere a un buddista filosofo dicendo «Quand’è che sei stato l’ultima volta un asino?».
La Caduta è una visione della vita. Non è soltanto la sola visione illuminante, ma la sola visione incoraggiante della vita. Essa sostiene, contro le sole vere filosofie alternative, quelle del buddista, del pessimista o del prometeico, che abbiamo fatto cattivo uso di un mondo buono e non che siamo stati semplicemente intrappolati in uno cattivo. Riconduce il male al cattivo uso della volontà e dichiara così che esso può alla fine essere raddrizzato dal buon uso della volontà. Ogni altro credo, tranne quello, è una qualche forma di resa al fato. Un uomo che accolga questa visione della vita la troverà capace di gettar luce su mille cose su cui la mera etica evoluzionistica non ha una parola da dire. Per esempio, sul colossale contrasto tra la compiutezza delle macchine dell’uomo e la perdurante corruzione dei suoi moventi; sul fatto che nessun progresso sociale sembra davvero lasciarsi alle spalle l’io; sul fatto che i primi e non gli ultimi uomini di ogni scuola o rivoluzione sono generalmente i migliori e i più puri, come William Penn fu migliore di un milionario quacchero, o Washington migliore di un magnate americano del petrolio; su quel proverbio che dice «Il prezzo della libertà è l’eterna vigilanza», che non è se non ciò che i teologi dicono di ogni altra virtù, ed è esso stesso soltanto un modo di enunciare la verità del peccato originale; su quegli estremi di bene e di male per cui l’uomo supera tutti gli animali della misura del cielo e dell’inferno; su quel sublime senso di perdita che è nel suono stesso di ogni grande poesia, e in nessun luogo più che nella poesia dei pagani e degli scettici — «Guardiamo prima e dopo e struggiamo per ciò che non è»; la quale grida contro tutti i saccenti e i progressisti dalle profondità stesse e dagli abissi del cuore spezzato dell’uomo che la felicità non è soltanto una speranza, ma anche, in qualche strano modo, un ricordo; e che siamo tutti re in esilio.
G. K.’s Weekly, 25 settembre 1926
NEUROSIS
According to [a modern critic], it is morbid to confess your sins. I should say that the morbid thing is not to confess them. The morbid thing is to conceal your sins and let them eat your heart out, which is the happy state of most people in highly civilized communities.
Daily News, January 18th, 1908
NEVROSI
Secondo [un critico moderno], è morboso confessare i propri peccati. Io direi che la cosa morbosa è non confessarli. La cosa morbosa è nascondere i propri peccati e lasciare che ti divorino il cuore, che è il felice stato della maggior parte della gente nelle comunità altamente civilizzate.
Daily News, 18 gennaio 1908
THE BATTLE
The true secret and hope of human life is something much more dark and beautiful than it would be if suffering were a mark of sin. A mere scheme of rewards and punishments would be some thing much meaner and more mechanical than this exasperating and inspiring life of ours. An automatic scheme of ‘Karma’ or ‘reaping what we sow’ would be just as gross and material as sowing beans or reaping barley. It might satisfy mechanicians or monists or theosophists or cautious financiers, but not brave men. It is no paradox to say that the one thing that would make suffering intolerable would be the thought that it was systematically inflicted upon sinners. The one thing that would make our agony infamous would be the idea that it was deserved. On the other hand, the doctrine which makes it most endurable is exactly the opposite doctrine, that life is a battle in which the best put their bodies in the front, in which God sends only his holiest into the hail of the arrows of hell. In the book of Job is foreshadowed that better doctrine, full of a dark chivalry, that he that bore the worst that man can suffer was the best that bore the form of man.
The Speaker, September 9th, 1905
LA BATTAGLIA
Il vero segreto e la vera speranza della vita umana sono qualcosa di assai più oscuro e bello di quanto sarebbero se la sofferenza fosse un marchio del peccato. Un semplice schema di ricompense e castighi sarebbe qualcosa di assai più meschino e più meccanico di questa nostra vita esasperante e stimolante. Uno schema automatico di «Karma» o del «raccogliere ciò che si semina» sarebbe grossolano e materiale tanto quanto seminare fagioli o mietere orzo. Potrebbe soddisfare i meccanicisti o i monisti o i teosofi o i prudenti finanzieri, ma non gli uomini coraggiosi. Non è un paradosso dire che l’unica cosa che renderebbe la sofferenza intollerabile sarebbe il pensiero che essa fosse sistematicamente inflitta ai peccatori. L’unica cosa che renderebbe la nostra agonia infame sarebbe l’idea che fosse meritata. D’altra parte, la dottrina che la rende più sopportabile è esattamente la dottrina opposta, quella che la vita è una battaglia in cui i migliori mettono i loro corpi in prima linea, in cui Dio manda soltanto i suoi più santi nella grandine delle frecce dell’inferno. Nel libro di Giobbe è prefigurata quella dottrina migliore, piena di una oscura cavalleria, che colui che sopportò il peggio che l’uomo possa soffrire era il migliore tra quanti portarono la forma dell’uomo.
The Speaker, 9 settembre 1905
THE DECORATION
The Book of Job is better worth hearing than any modern philosophical conversation in the whole modern philosophical world. It is more philosophical. It is much more witty and humorous. It is, as that word is really meant, much more modern. From it the modern Agnostic may for the first time learn Agnosticism: a sane and sacred and manly ignorance. From it the modern Christian may with astonishment learn Christianity; learn, that is, that suffering may be a strange honour and not a vulgar punishment; that the King may be conferring a decoration when he pins the man on the cross, as much as when he pins the cross on the man.
Illustrated London News, February 10th, 1906
L’ONORIFICENZA
Il Libro di Giobbe merita d’essere ascoltato più di qualsiasi moderna conversazione filosofica in tutto il moderno mondo filosofico. È più filosofico. È molto più arguto e umoristico. È, nel senso vero della parola, molto più moderno. Da esso l’Agnostico moderno può per la prima volta imparare l’Agnosticismo: una sana e sacra e virile ignoranza. Da esso il Cristiano moderno può con stupore imparare il Cristianesimo; imparare, cioè, che la sofferenza può essere uno strano onore e non un volgare castigo; che il Re può conferire un’onorificenza quando inchioda l’uomo sulla croce, tanto quanto quando appunta la croce sull’uomo.
Illustrated London News, 10 febbraio 1906
SURPRISE
Of one thing I am certain, that the age needs, first and foremost to be startled; to be taught the nature of wonder.
Black and White, February 14th, 1903
SORPRESA
Di una cosa sono certo: che l’epoca ha bisogno, prima e più di tutto, di essere sorpresa; di essere ammaestrata sulla natura della meraviglia.
Black and White, 14 febbraio 1903
THE PHILOSOPHY OF PUMPKINS
There is no philosophical case against miracles. There are such things as the laws of Nature, rationally speaking. What everybody knows is this only, that there is repetition in nature. What every body knows is that pumpkins produce pumpkins. What nobody knows is why they should not produce elephants and giraffes.
The question of miracles is merely this. Do you know why a pumpkin goes on being a pumpkin? If you do not, you cannot possibly tell whether a pumpkin could turn into a coach or couldn’t. That is all.
All the other scientific expressions you are in the habit of using at breakfast are words and winds. You say, ‘It is a law of nature that pumpkins should remain pumpkins’. That only means that pumpkins generally do remain pumpkins, which is obvious; it does not say why. You say, ‘Experience is against it’. That only means, ‘I have known many pumpkins intimately and none of them turned into coaches’. …
What Christianity says is merely this—that this repetition in Nature has its origin, not in a thing resembling a law, but in a thing resembling a will. Of course its phrase of a Heavenly Father is drawn from an earthly father. Quite equally [the] phrase of a universal law is a metaphor from an Act of Parliament. But Christianity holds that the world and its repetition came by will or love, as children are begotten by a father, and therefore that other and different things might come by it. Briefly, it believes that a God who could do anything so extraordinary as making pumpkins go on being pumpkins is, like the prophet Habakkuk, capable de tout. If you do not think it extraordinary that a pumpkin is always a pumpkin, think again. You have not yet even begun philosophy. You have not even seen a pumpkin.
Daily News, September 2nd, 1905
‘IN THE BEGINNING’
What is right with the world is the world. In fact, nearly every thing else is wrong with it. This is that great truth in the tremendous tale of Creation, a truth that our people must remember or perish. It is at the beginning that things are good, and not (as the more pallid progressives say) only at the end. The primordial things— existence, energy, fruition—are good so far as they go. You cannot have evil life, though you can have notorious evil livers. Manhood and womanhood are good things, though men and women are often perfectly pestilent. You can use poppies to drug people, or birch trees to beat them, or stones to make an idol, or corn to make a corner; but it remains true that, in the abstract, before you have done anything, each of these four things is in strict truth a glory, a beneficent speciality and variety. We do praise the Lord that there are birch trees growing amongst the rocks and poppies amongst the corn; we do praise the Lord, even if we do not believe in Him. We do admire and applaud the project of a world, just as if we had been called to council in the primal darkness and seen the first starry plan of the skies. We are, as a matter of fact, far more certain that this life of ours is a magnificent and amazing enterprise than we are that it will succeed.
I am much more sure that everything is good at the beginning than I am that everything will be good at the end. … That all this frame of things, this flesh, these stones, are good things, of that I am more brutally certain than I can say. But as for what will happen to them, that is to take a step into dogma and prophecy. I speak here, of course, solely of my personal feelings, not even of my reasoned creed. But on my instincts alone I should have no notion what would ultimately happen to this material world I think so magnificent. I am an agnostic, like most people with a positive theology. But I do affirm, with the full weight of sincerity, that trees and flowers are good at the beginning, whatever happens to them at the end; that human lives were good at the beginning, whatever happens to them in the end. The ordinary modern progressive position is that this is a bad universe, but will certainly get better. I say it is certainly a good universe, even if it gets worse. I say that these trees and flowers, stars and sexes, are primarily, not merely ultimately, good. In the Beginning the power beyond words created heaven and earth. In the Beginning He looked on them and saw that they were good.
All this unavoidable theory (for theory is always unavoidable) may be popularly pulled together thus. We are to regard existence as a raid or great adventure; it is to be judged, therefore, not by what calamities it encounters, but by what flag it follows and what high town it assaults. The most dangerous thing in the world is to be alive; one is always in danger of one’s life. But anyone who shrinks from this is a traitor to the great scheme and experiment of being.
T. P.’s Weekly, Christmas Number, 1910
LA FILOSOFIA DELLE ZUCCHE
Non esiste argomento filosofico contro i miracoli. Esistono cose come le leggi della Natura, razionalmente parlando. Ciò che tutti sanno è soltanto questo: che nella natura c’è ripetizione. Ciò che tutti sanno è che le zucche producono zucche. Ciò che nessuno sa è perché non dovrebbero produrre elefanti e giraffe.
La questione dei miracoli è semplicemente questa. Sapete perché una zucca continua a essere una zucca? Se non lo sapete, non potete affatto dire se una zucca possa trasformarsi in una carrozza o no. Tutto qui.
Tutte le altre espressioni scientifiche che avete l’abitudine di usare a colazione sono parole e vento. Voi dite: «È una legge di natura che le zucche restino zucche». Ciò significa soltanto che le zucche generalmente restano zucche, il che è ovvio; non dice perché. Voi dite: «L’esperienza è contraria». Ciò significa soltanto: «Ho conosciuto intimamente molte zucche e nessuna di esse si è trasformata in carrozza». …
Ciò che il Cristianesimo dice è semplicemente questo: che questa ripetizione nella Natura ha la sua origine non in una cosa che somiglia a una legge, ma in una cosa che somiglia a una volontà. Naturalmente la sua espressione di un Padre Celeste è tratta da un padre terreno. Del tutto ugualmente l’espressione di una legge universale è una metafora tratta da un Atto del Parlamento. Ma il Cristianesimo sostiene che il mondo e la sua ripetizione sono venuti per volontà o per amore, come i figli sono generati da un padre, e che perciò altre e diverse cose potrebbero venirne. In breve, esso crede che un Dio capace di fare qualcosa di così straordinario come far continuare le zucche a essere zucche sia, come il profeta Abacuc, capace de tout. Se non ritenete straordinario che una zucca sia sempre una zucca, ripensateci. Non avete ancora nemmeno cominciato la filosofia. Non avete nemmeno visto una zucca.
Daily News, 2 settembre 1905
«IN PRINCIPIO»
Ciò che va bene nel mondo è il mondo. In realtà, quasi ogni altra cosa in esso va storta. Questa è quella grande verità nel tremendo racconto della Creazione, una verità che il nostro popolo deve ricordare o perire. È al principio che le cose sono buone, e non (come dicono i più pallidi progressisti) soltanto alla fine. Le cose primordiali — l’esistenza, l’energia, il frutto — sono buone per quel che valgono. Non potete avere una vita malvagia, benché possiate avere notori viventi malvagi. La virilità e la femminilità sono cose buone, benché uomini e donne siano spesso perfettamente pestilenziali. Potete usare i papaveri per drogare la gente, o le betulle per bastonarla, o le pietre per farne un idolo, o il grano per farne un monopolio; ma resta vero che, in astratto, prima di aver fatto qualsiasi cosa, ciascuna di queste quattro cose è in stretta verità una gloria, una benefica specialità e varietà. Noi lodiamo il Signore che vi siano betulle che crescono tra le rocce e papaveri tra il grano; noi lodiamo il Signore, anche se non crediamo in Lui. Noi ammiriamo e applaudiamo il progetto di un mondo, proprio come se fossimo stati chiamati a consiglio nella tenebra primordiale e avessimo veduto il primo stellato disegno dei cieli. Siamo, di fatto, assai più certi che questa nostra vita sia un’impresa magnifica e stupefacente di quanto lo siamo che essa riuscirà.
Sono molto più sicuro che ogni cosa sia buona al principio di quanto lo sia che ogni cosa sarà buona alla fine. … Che tutta questa impalcatura di cose, questa carne, queste pietre, siano cose buone, di ciò sono più brutalmente certo di quanto sappia dire. Ma quanto a ciò che accadrà loro, questo è fare un passo nel dogma e nella profezia. Parlo qui, s’intende, unicamente dei miei sentimenti personali, e nemmeno del mio credo ragionato. Ma solo per i miei istinti non avrei idea di ciò che alla fine accadrà a questo mondo materiale che ritengo tanto magnifico. Sono un agnostico, come la maggior parte delle persone con una teologia positiva. Ma affermo, con tutto il peso della sincerità, che gli alberi e i fiori sono buoni al principio, qualunque cosa accada loro alla fine; che le vite umane erano buone al principio, qualunque cosa accada loro alla fine. L’ordinaria posizione progressista moderna è che questo sia un universo cattivo, ma che certamente migliorerà. Io dico che è certamente un universo buono, anche se peggiora. Io dico che questi alberi e fiori, stelle e sessi, sono buoni in primo luogo, non soltanto in ultima istanza. In Principio la potenza al di là delle parole creò il cielo e la terra. In Principio Egli li guardò e vide che erano buoni.
Tutta questa inevitabile teoria (poiché la teoria è sempre inevitabile) può essere popolarmente riassunta così. Dobbiamo considerare l’esistenza come un’incursione o una grande avventura; essa va giudicata, dunque, non dalle calamità che incontra, ma dalla bandiera che segue e dall’alta città che assale. La cosa più pericolosa al mondo è essere vivi; si è sempre in pericolo di vita. Ma chiunque si ritragga da questo è un traditore del grande disegno e dell’esperimento dell’essere.
T. P.’s Weekly, Numero di Natale, 1910
THE SAGE
If we test the matter by strict originality of outlook, George Macdonald was one of the three or four greatest men of nineteenth-century Britain. He does not in the ordinary sense occupy that position, because his art, though highly individual and fanciful, does not reach the level of his thought and passion. In the matter of expression, indeed, he suffered from his originality in a way that is more common than people realize. A man with a view of his own often cannot convey it to others, not because he does not understand his own view, but because he does not understand theirs. … Hence arises a peculiar quality which may be noticed in the works of almost every man with a novel point of view; I mean, a tendency to become for a time unaccountably weak and obvious, to labour the simplest pieces of sentiment, to write pages of platitude. This, as I say, exists par excellence in the original men. It was so with Dickens. It was so with Victor Hugo. It was so with Ruskin. It was so with Thackeray. It was most assuredly so with George Macdonald. But those bursts of mysterious dullness or mysterious feebleness are, as above suggested, the direct product of the writer’s bold independence and intense originality. He is so independent of conventions that he becomes conventional by accident. He is so unconscious of the beaten track that he even walks in it.
To appreciate properly men like Macdonald, it is necessary to remember a type of man who is a pillar of simple societies, but whom complex societies tend to turn into something else. I mean the sage, the sayer of things. He is not the poet, for he does not sing; he is not the prose writer, for generally he cannot write. The things he produces form an artistic class by themselves; they are logia or great passionate maxims, the proverbs of philosophy. Confucius was a man of this kind, and the real Socrates and most of the founders of the great religions. But in our modern and respectable and highly specialized world we do not like to leave an old gentleman loose about the streets merely saying things. The man who is naturally and spiritually of this type is in our time forced to pretend to be something else, a minor poet or a novelist or some sad kind of political reformer.
For instance, a man in the modern world who belonged naturally to this class in a pre-eminent degree was Walt Whitman. Critics fuss themselves for ever about whether he was a poet or a prose writer. As a matter of fact, he was neither a poet nor a prose writer; he was a sayer of great things. He excelled in a sort of primeval epigram. ‘I do not give lectures or a little charity; when I give, I give myself.’ ‘Do we find life so well provided for and think that death is not equally well provided for?’ These have all the characteristics of the logia on which were founded the larger faiths of mankind. And Whitman would have much preferred to have shouted them in the streets, like John the Baptist or Mahomet, to being obliged to include them in what he was obliged to call poems.
George Macdonald was in the same way not a born writer; he was a born maker of spontaneous texts. He also would have very much preferred to walk about the streets of some Greek or eastern village with a long white beard, simply saying what he had to say. But just as Whitman had to label his tracts of truth poetry, Macdonald labelled his novels. There are some exceptions, but in the main it is true to say that we only remember his novels, as we only remember Whitman’s poetry, by certain bursts of an astonishing sagacity, often uttered in five words. Anyone who has read Macdonald’s novels will remember a sort of celestial wit in some of the dialogues, retorts that seem really like thunderbolts from heaven.
For him the secret of the Cosmos was a secret, because it was too good to tell, The stars and all things in his world tingled with the tension of that painful pleasure of the soul. For him the pity of God was so positive as to be a definite passion like thirst; it was a fierce tenderness; he was never fired of saying that his God was a consuming fire.
Daily News, September 23rd, 1905
IL SAGGIO
Se giudichiamo la questione secondo la rigorosa originalità dello sguardo, George Macdonald fu uno dei tre o quattro uomini più grandi della Gran Bretagna dell’Ottocento. Egli non occupa, nel senso comune, quella posizione, perché la sua arte, benché assai personale e fantasiosa, non raggiunge il livello del suo pensiero e della sua passione. Nella materia dell’espressione, in verità, egli patì la propria originalità in un modo più diffuso di quanto la gente immagini. Un uomo con una visione tutta sua spesso non riesce a comunicarla agli altri, non perché non comprenda la propria visione, ma perché non comprende la loro. … Di qui nasce una qualità peculiare che si può notare nelle opere di quasi ogni uomo con un punto di vista nuovo; intendo, una tendenza a diventare per un tratto inspiegabilmente debole e ovvio, a rimasticare i più semplici moti del sentimento, a scrivere pagine di banalità. Questo, come dico, esiste par excellence negli uomini originali. Fu così con Dickens. Fu così con Victor Hugo. Fu così con Ruskin. Fu così con Thackeray. Fu così, con assoluta certezza, con George Macdonald. Ma quelle esplosioni di misteriosa piattezza o di misteriosa fiacchezza sono, come si è suggerito sopra, il prodotto diretto dell’audace indipendenza e dell’intensa originalità dello scrittore. Egli è tanto indipendente dalle convenzioni da diventare convenzionale per accidente. È tanto inconsapevole del sentiero battuto da finire persino col percorrerlo.
Per apprezzare come si deve uomini come Macdonald, è necessario ricordare un tipo d’uomo che è pilastro delle società semplici, ma che le società complesse tendono a trasformare in qualcos’altro. Intendo il saggio, il dicitore di cose. Non è il poeta, perché non canta; non è il prosatore, perché in genere non sa scrivere. Le cose che produce formano una classe artistica a sé; sono logia o grandi massime appassionate, i proverbi della filosofia. Confucio fu un uomo di questa specie, e il vero Socrate e la maggior parte dei fondatori delle grandi religioni. Ma nel nostro mondo moderno, rispettabile e altamente specializzato, non ci piace lasciare un vecchio signore libero per le strade a dire soltanto cose. L’uomo che è per natura e per spirito di questo tipo è ai nostri tempi costretto a fingersi qualcos’altro, un poeta minore o un romanziere o qualche triste specie di riformatore politico.
Per esempio, un uomo del mondo moderno che apparteneva per natura a questa classe in grado eminente fu Walt Whitman. I critici si affannano in eterno a stabilire se fosse un poeta o un prosatore. In realtà non era né poeta né prosatore; era un dicitore di grandi cose. Eccelleva in una sorta di epigramma primevo. ‘Non tengo conferenze né faccio una piccola carità; quando dono, dono me stesso.’ ‘Troviamo la vita così ben provveduta e pensiamo che la morte non sia provveduta altrettanto bene?’ Queste hanno tutti i caratteri dei logia su cui furono fondate le maggiori fedi dell’umanità. E Whitman avrebbe di gran lunga preferito gridarle per le strade, come Giovanni il Battista o Maometto, piuttosto che essere obbligato a includerle in ciò che era obbligato a chiamare poesie.
George Macdonald non era, allo stesso modo, uno scrittore nato; era un creatore nato di testi spontanei. Anch’egli avrebbe di gran lunga preferito passeggiare per le strade di qualche villaggio greco o orientale con una lunga barba bianca, dicendo semplicemente ciò che aveva da dire. Ma come Whitman dovette etichettare come poesia i suoi trattati di verità, Macdonald etichettò i suoi come romanzi. Vi sono alcune eccezioni, ma nel complesso è vero dire che ricordiamo i suoi romanzi, come ricordiamo la poesia di Whitman, soltanto per certe esplosioni di stupefacente sagacia, spesso pronunciate in cinque parole. Chiunque abbia letto i romanzi di Macdonald ricorderà una sorta di arguzia celeste in alcuni dei dialoghi, repliche che paiono davvero folgori venute dal cielo.
Per lui il segreto del Cosmo era un segreto, perché era troppo bello per essere detto. Le stelle e tutte le cose del suo mondo vibravano della tensione di quel doloroso piacere dell’anima. Per lui la pietà di Dio era tanto positiva da essere una passione definita come la sete; era una tenerezza feroce; non si stancava mai di dire che il suo Dio era un fuoco divorante.
Daily News, 23 settembre 1905
INTIMATIONS
Matthew Arnold did not often say a thoroughly silly thing, but he did when he criticized Wordsworth for talking of the wonderland of childhood and objected that a man of thirty had a better appreciation of landscape, as of course he has in the sense of landscape gardening. But the white light which Wordsworth meant was not in the sky the child looked at, but in the child. He happened to be a country child; but it was really only a geographical accident that it was meadow, grove and stream, and not post, pavement and policeman that were apparelled in celestial light, the glory and freshness of a dream. Nor is it the mere memory of vigour and adventure which really is stronger at sixteen than at six; it is quite a different sensation. And to this day I cannot see certain things such as a white horse or wood painted white, with out a pang of pleasure going through me stronger than sex or the fear of death. And unlike sex and death, it does not concentrate; for an instant, like a lost lightning flash, it has spread over the whole world, full of too many wonders to be wondered at.
Here enters the psychological educationist with his subconsciousness and his first impressions, to remark shrewdly, ‘This is because somebody in your childhood gave you a wooden horse or painted it white for you’. To which I reply respectfully, ‘Yes, fool, yes. Admirable and astonishing idiot, quite so. But has it ever occurred to you to ask why a pot of paint and a piece of wood should blaze with divine beauty to anybody at any time; or why they should do it to a child of four any more than to a man of forty? When you have retired for a few years to reflect on the point, we will resume this conversation.’
The New Witness, June 17th, 1921
PRESENTIMENTI
Matthew Arnold non diceva spesso cose del tutto sciocche, ma lo fece quando rimproverò a Wordsworth di parlare del paese delle meraviglie dell’infanzia e obiettò che un uomo di trent’anni possiede una migliore capacità di apprezzare il paesaggio, come naturalmente l’ha nel senso dell’arte dei giardini. Ma la luce bianca che Wordsworth intendeva non era nel cielo che il bambino guardava, bensì nel bambino stesso. Si dava il caso che fosse un bambino di campagna; ma era in realtà soltanto un accidente geografico che fossero il prato, il boschetto e il ruscello, e non il palo, il selciato e il poliziotto, a essere rivestiti di luce celeste, della gloria e freschezza di un sogno. Né si tratta del semplice ricordo del vigore e dell’avventura, che è davvero più forte a sedici anni che a sei; è una sensazione del tutto diversa. E ancora oggi non riesco a guardare certe cose, come un cavallo bianco o del legno dipinto di bianco, senza che mi trafigga una fitta di piacere più forte del sesso o della paura della morte. E, a differenza del sesso e della morte, essa non si concentra; per un istante, come un lampo perduto, si è diffusa sul mondo intero, colmo di troppe meraviglie perché ci si possa meravigliare.
Qui entra in scena l’educatore psicologo con il suo subconscio e le sue prime impressioni, per osservare con acume: «Questo accade perché qualcuno, nella tua infanzia, ti diede un cavallo di legno o te lo dipinse di bianco». Al che rispondo rispettosamente: «Sì, sciocco, sì. Ammirevole e sbalorditivo idiota, proprio così. Ma ti è mai venuto in mente di chiederti perché un barattolo di vernice e un pezzo di legno debbano fiammeggiare di divina bellezza per chiunque e in qualunque momento; o perché debbano farlo per un bambino di quattro anni più che per un uomo di quaranta? Quando ti sarai ritirato per qualche anno a riflettere sul punto, riprenderemo questa conversazione».
The New Witness, 17 giugno 1921
THE LITTLE THINGS
Sir Thomas Browne was an exalted mystic [whose mysticism] owed much to his literary style. Style, in his sense, did not merely mean sound, but an attempt to give some twist of wit or symbolism to every clause or parenthesis; when he went over his work again, he did not merely polish brass, he fitted in gold. This habit of working with a magnifying glass, this turning and twisting of minor words, is the true parent of mysticism; for the mystic is not a man who reverences large things so much as a man who reverences small ones, who reduces himself to a point, without parts or magnitude, so that to him the grass is really a forest and the grasshopper a dragon. Little things please great minds.
The Speaker, December 15th, 1900
‘MERE PARADOX’
The simplest and commonest of all the causes which lead to the charge of ‘mere paradox’ being slung about as it is, is one fundamental assumption. Everybody takes it for granted that universal and ordinary arrangements, historic institutions, daily habits are reasonable. They are good, they are sensible, they are holy and splendid often enough, but they are not reasonable. They are themselves paradoxes; paradox is built into the very foundations of human affairs.
Black and White, February 14th, 1903
LE PICCOLE COSE
Sir Thomas Browne era un mistico sublime [il cui misticismo] doveva molto al proprio stile letterario. Lo stile, nel senso che gli dava, non significava soltanto suono, ma il tentativo di conferire qualche guizzo di arguzia o di simbolismo a ogni proposizione o parentesi; quando riprendeva in mano la propria opera, non si limitava a lucidare l’ottone: vi incastonava l’oro. Questa abitudine di lavorare con la lente d’ingrandimento, questo rigirare e cesellare le parole minori, è il vero genitore del misticismo; poiché il mistico non è tanto un uomo che venera le cose grandi quanto un uomo che venera le piccole, che si riduce a un punto, senza parti né grandezza, così che per lui l’erba è davvero una foresta e la cavalletta un drago. Le piccole cose dilettano le grandi menti.
The Speaker, 15 dicembre 1900
«MERO PARADOSSO»
La più semplice e comune di tutte le cause che portano a scagliare, come si usa, l’accusa di «mero paradosso», è un presupposto fondamentale. Tutti danno per scontato che le disposizioni universali e ordinarie, le istituzioni storiche, le abitudini quotidiane siano ragionevoli. Sono buone, sono sensate, sono sovente sante e splendide, ma non sono ragionevoli. Sono esse stesse paradossi; il paradosso è edificato nelle fondamenta stesse delle vicende umane.
Black and White, 14 febbraio 1903
THE HIPPOPOTAMUS AND THE CROCODILE
There is one central conception of the book of Job which literally makes it immortal, which will make it survive our modern time and our modern philosophies, as it has survived many better times and many better philosophies. That is the conception that the universe, if it is to be admired, is to be admired for its strangeness and not for its rationality, for its splendid unreason and not for its reason. Job’s friends attempt to comfort him with philosophical optimism, like the intellectuals of the eighteenth century. Job tries to comfort himself with philosophical pessimism, like the intellectuals of the nineteenth century. But God comforts Job with indecipherable mystery, and for the first time Job is comforted. Eliphaz gives one answer, Job gives another answer, and the question still remains an open wound. God simply refuses to answer, and somehow the question is answered. Job flings at God one riddle, God flings back at Job a hundred riddles, and Job is at peace. He is comforted with conundrums. For the grand and enduring idea in the poem, as suggested above, is that if we are to be reconciled to this great cosmic experience, it must be as something divinely strange and divinely violent, a quest or a conspiracy or some sacred joke. The last chapters of the colossal monologue of the Almighty are devoted, in a style superficially queer enough, to the detailed description of two monsters. Behemoth and Leviathan may or may not be the hippopotamus and the crocodile. But whatever they are, they are evidently embodiments of the enormous absurdity of nature. They typify that cosmic trait which anyone may see in the Zoological Gardens, the folly of the Lord which is wisdom. And in connection with one of them, God is made to utter a splendid satire upon the prim and orderly piety of the vulgar optimist. ‘Wilt thou play with him as with a bird? Wilt thou bind him for thy maidens?’ That is the main message of the book of Job. What ever this cosmic monster may be, a good animal or a bad animal, he is at least a wild animal and not a tame animal. It is a wild world and not a tame world.
The Speaker, September 9th, 1905
CHANGE AND DECAY
All this talk about optimism and pessimism is itself a dismal fall from the old talk about right and wrong. Our fathers said that a nation had sinned and suffered, like a man. We say it has decayed, like a cheese.
Illustrated London News, July 10th, 1920
L’IPPOPOTAMO E IL COCCODRILLO
C’è nel libro di Giobbe una concezione centrale che lo rende letteralmente immortale, e che lo farà sopravvivere al nostro tempo moderno e alle nostre filosofie moderne, come è sopravvissuto a molti tempi migliori e a molte filosofie migliori. È la concezione secondo cui l’universo, se lo si deve ammirare, va ammirato per la sua stranezza e non per la sua razionalità, per la sua splendida irragionevolezza e non per la sua ragione. Gli amici di Giobbe cercano di consolarlo con un ottimismo filosofico, al modo degli intellettuali del diciottesimo secolo. Giobbe cerca di consolare se stesso con un pessimismo filosofico, al modo degli intellettuali del diciannovesimo secolo. Ma Dio consola Giobbe con un mistero indecifrabile, e per la prima volta Giobbe è consolato. Elifaz dà una risposta, Giobbe ne dà un’altra, e la domanda resta una ferita aperta. Dio si rifiuta semplicemente di rispondere, e in qualche modo alla domanda è data risposta. Giobbe scaglia contro Dio un enigma, Dio rilancia contro Giobbe cento enigmi, e Giobbe trova pace. È consolato con indovinelli. Poiché l’idea grande e duratura del poema, come si è accennato sopra, è che, se dobbiamo riconciliarci con questa grande esperienza cosmica, dovrà essere come con qualcosa di divinamente strano e divinamente violento, una ricerca o una congiura o qualche sacro scherzo. Gli ultimi capitoli del colossale monologo dell’Onnipotente sono dedicati, in uno stile solo in apparenza abbastanza bizzarro, alla descrizione dettagliata di due mostri. Behemoth e Leviatano possono essere o non essere l’ippopotamo e il coccodrillo. Ma qualunque cosa siano, sono evidentemente incarnazioni dell’enorme assurdità della natura. Rappresentano quel tratto cosmico che chiunque può vedere ai Giardini Zoologici: la follia del Signore che è saggezza. E a proposito di uno di essi, si fa pronunciare a Dio una splendida satira sulla pietà compunta e ordinata dell’ottimista volgare. «Scherzerai tu con lui come con un uccello? Lo legherai forse per le tue fanciulle?» Questo è il messaggio principale del libro di Giobbe. Qualunque cosa sia questo mostro cosmico, un animale buono o un animale cattivo, è quantomeno un animale selvaggio e non un animale addomesticato. È un mondo selvaggio e non un mondo addomesticato.
The Speaker, 9 settembre 1905
MUTAMENTO E DECADENZA
Tutto questo parlare di ottimismo e pessimismo è di per sé una caduta desolante rispetto all’antico parlare di giusto e sbagliato. I nostri padri dicevano che una nazione aveva peccato e sofferto, come un uomo. Noi diciamo che si è decomposta, come un formaggio.
Illustrated London News, 10 luglio 1920
THE ENEMIES OF JOY
It is a blunder to imagine, as many do, that those who agree with me wish to make every man a Robinson Crusoe, making all his own clothes and living only for himself. As a fact, the peasant, though he has much of the handy universality of Robinson Crusoe, can never be content with the solitude of Robinson Crusoe. A peasant lives in a peasantry and not on a desert island. He is by nature as ready for co-operation as he is resolute against communism. Still, there is something symbolic in the figure of Robinson Crusoe and especially in its fascination of the innocent imagination of the most creative period of childhood. Why is it that a child is delighted with the idea of Robinson Crusoe, complete with his gun and umbrella, his goat and parrot, his axe and antiquated sword? It is precisely because he is complete and also compact; that he has a limited number of things but these things immediately at hand and directly under his control. It is equally or perhaps even more because these things have been barely snatched from the bottomless peril of shipwreck and the dark infinity of the sea. That is the right view of the good things of life; we should possess them directly, but we should possess them thriftily and above all, we should possess them thankfully. They and we have been saved by God out of the sea of nothing and the night that was before the world.
Now in the course of my life I have seen this compact conception, symbolized by Robinson Crusoe in the children’s books, attacked by two opposite enemies, but with equal enmity. The old enemy called itself pessimism; the new enemy calls itself Progress and Optimism; but both invade the desert island with the destructive frenzy of the cannibals. The old fashion took the form of pointing out how very desert was the desert island, how very dull was the life of Crusoe and how very insignificant, intrinsically considered, was each of the pleasures that remained to him. What was a parrot but a proverb for something that repeated itself over and over again? What is the use of a goat—except to play the goat? What is an umbrella, said one sad philosopher, but something which can only be opened when it is shut and then shut when it is open? He always implied that life was dreary on a desert island only because it would be dreary anywhere else. For him England was a desert island; for him the coming of Friday would indeed have marked a day of ill luck. He was the sort of pessimist who curses both the solitude and the intruder on the solitude. This sort of sweeping negation moved me in my youth to a romantic revolt and a wild enthusiasm for the poetry of umbrellas. I shocked some critics by a sympathy with playing the goat; others still more by a sympathy with playing with the gun. But while I valued these things, I valued them most of all because they were few and clear, and picked out in conspicuous colours against the desolation of the destructive sea.
I have since seen something which claims to be the contrary philosophy, but for me is the same heresy. The world has improved on the one parrot by becoming a screaming parrot-house. It has improved on the faithful goat by filling the island with herds and herds of goats that have not a goatherd. I have seen it proclaimed that Crusoe’s umbrella will be universally popular if it is expanded into the awning of a universal pavilion, placarded with advertisements of pills or pictures of mixed bathing. I have seen even the gun excused if it is a big enough gun manufactured by a big enough firm; and the axe counted innocent if it is what we call ‘an axe to grind’. Yet all this paradise of perfect happiness fails to lift my heart or reawaken the faintest hint of that first romantic interest in Robinson Crusoe. And the reason is that this sort of sweeping generalization, quite as much as the old sweeping negation, implies a contempt for the few original facts of the story which alone made it interesting. The optimist, as much as the pessimist, asks what is the good of one shabby old umbrella or one shaggy old goat. That is, he commits the star-blasting blasphemy of depreciating the things that the man has actually saved from the wreck. The sin of the optimist is that he does not recognize the wreck; as the sin of the pessimist is that he does not recognize the rescue.
Now I am fundamentally convinced that the only thing worth calling a thrill (to use the juvenile jargon of today) is the thought that comes in the transition from the wreck to the rescue. It belongs to a class of thoughts which are best represented by thanks, but which are approximately represented by an imaginative realization of what is and what might have been. It exists on an edge, like the edge of the land and sea; and is unknown to the suicide who feels himself a castaway in mid-ocean and to the self-satisfied settler who has travelled so far inland as to forget the bright fear or shining mystery of the sea. All real happiness I have ever had or have ever seen anybody else having had something in it of that first unfamiliarity and shyness; and it is lost by the pride of possession as by the pride of refusal. Therefore those who say they are running after the thrill are in reality running away from the thrill. They are leaving it further and further behind, the more they accumulate more luxuries than they can enjoy or combine more pleasures than they can distinguish.
G. K.’s Weekly, October 11th, 1930
I NEMICI DELLA GIOIA
È un errore immaginare, come molti fanno, che coloro i quali concordano con me vogliano fare di ogni uomo un Robinson Crusoe, che si cuce da sé tutti i vestiti e vive soltanto per se stesso. In realtà il contadino, per quanto possieda molta della operosa universalità di Robinson Crusoe, non può mai accontentarsi della solitudine di Robinson Crusoe. Un contadino vive in una comunità contadina, non su un’isola deserta. Egli è per natura pronto alla cooperazione quanto è risoluto contro il comunismo. Eppure c’è qualcosa di simbolico nella figura di Robinson Crusoe, e specialmente nel fascino che essa esercita sull’immaginazione innocente del periodo più creativo dell’infanzia. Perché mai un bambino si delizia all’idea di Robinson Crusoe, completo di fucile e ombrello, della capra e del pappagallo, dell’ascia e della sua spada antiquata? È precisamente perché egli è completo e insieme compatto; perché possiede un numero limitato di cose, ma queste cose gli stanno immediatamente sotto mano e direttamente sotto il suo controllo. Lo è altrettanto, o forse anche di più, perché tali cose sono state a stento strappate al pericolo senza fondo del naufragio e all’oscura infinità del mare. Questa è la giusta visione delle cose buone della vita: dovremmo possederle direttamente, ma dovremmo possederle con parsimonia e, soprattutto, dovremmo possederle con gratitudine. Esse e noi siamo stati salvati da Dio dal mare del nulla e dalla notte che precedette il mondo.
Ora, nel corso della mia vita, ho visto questa concezione compatta, simboleggiata da Robinson Crusoe nei libri per l’infanzia, assalita da due nemici opposti, ma con eguale inimicizia. Il vecchio nemico si faceva chiamare pessimismo; il nuovo nemico si fa chiamare Progresso e Ottimismo; ma entrambi invadono l’isola deserta con la frenesia distruttrice dei cannibali. La vecchia maniera prendeva la forma di mostrare quanto fosse davvero deserta l’isola deserta, quanto fosse davvero tediosa la vita di Crusoe, e quanto fosse davvero insignificante, considerato in sé, ciascuno dei piaceri che gli rimanevano. Che cos’era un pappagallo se non il proverbio di qualcosa che si ripete sempre uguale a se stesso? A che serve una capra, se non a fare la capra? Che cos’è un ombrello, diceva un triste filosofo, se non qualcosa che può aprirsi solo quando è chiuso, e chiudersi solo quando è aperto? Egli sottintendeva sempre che la vita era desolante su un’isola deserta soltanto perché sarebbe stata desolante in qualunque altro luogo. Per lui l’Inghilterra era un’isola deserta; per lui l’arrivo di Venerdì avrebbe davvero segnato un giorno di malaugurio. Era il tipo di pessimista che maledice tanto la solitudine quanto l’intruso che turba la solitudine. Questa sorta di negazione totale mi spinse, in gioventù, a una rivolta romantica e a un selvaggio entusiasmo per la poesia degli ombrelli. Scandalizzai alcuni critici con la mia simpatia per il fare la capra; altri ancora di più con la mia simpatia per il giocare col fucile. Ma mentre apprezzavo queste cose, le apprezzavo soprattutto perché erano poche e nette, e si stagliavano in colori cospicui contro la desolazione del mare distruttore.
Da allora ho visto qualcosa che pretende di essere la filosofia contraria, ma che per me è la medesima eresia. Il mondo ha migliorato l’unico pappagallo trasformandosi in una stridula casa di pappagalli. Ha migliorato la fedele capra riempiendo l’isola di mandrie e mandrie di capre che non hanno un capraio. Ho visto proclamare che l’ombrello di Crusoe sarà universalmente popolare se lo si dilata nel tendone di un padiglione universale, tappezzato di réclame di pillole o di immagini di bagni promiscui. Ho visto scusare persino il fucile, purché sia un fucile abbastanza grosso fabbricato da una ditta abbastanza grossa; e ho visto ritenere innocente l’ascia, purché sia quella che noi chiamiamo «un’ascia da arrotare» per i propri fini. Eppure tutto questo paradiso di perfetta felicità non riesce a sollevarmi il cuore né a ridestare il più tenue accenno di quel primo, romantico interesse per Robinson Crusoe. E la ragione è che questa sorta di generalizzazione totale, non meno della vecchia negazione totale, implica un disprezzo per i pochi fatti originari della storia, che soli la rendevano interessante. L’ottimista, non meno del pessimista, si chiede a che serva un solo vecchio ombrello sdrucito o una sola vecchia capra irsuta. Vale a dire, commette la bestemmia che offende le stelle, svalutando le cose che l’uomo ha effettivamente salvato dal naufragio. Il peccato dell’ottimista è di non riconoscere il naufragio; come il peccato del pessimista è di non riconoscere il salvataggio.
Ora, sono fondamentalmente convinto che l’unica cosa che meriti il nome di brivido (per usare il gergo giovanile d’oggi) sia il pensiero che sopraggiunge nel passaggio dal naufragio al salvataggio. Appartiene a una classe di pensieri che sono meglio rappresentati dal ringraziamento, ma che sono all’incirca rappresentati da una realizzazione immaginativa di ciò che è e di ciò che avrebbe potuto essere. Esiste su un margine, come il margine tra la terra e il mare; ed è ignoto al suicida che si sente naufrago in mezzo all’oceano, come al colono soddisfatto di sé che si è spinto tanto addentro nell’entroterra da dimenticare il luminoso timore, il fulgido mistero del mare. Ogni felicità autentica che io abbia mai avuto, o che abbia mai visto avere da altri, aveva in sé qualcosa di quella prima estraneità e timidezza; e si perde tanto per l’orgoglio del possesso quanto per l’orgoglio del rifiuto. Perciò coloro che dicono di correre in cerca del brivido, in realtà stanno correndo lontano dal brivido. Se lo lasciano sempre più indietro, quanto più accumulano più lussi di quanti ne possano godere, o combinano più piaceri di quanti ne possano distinguere.
G. K.’s Weekly, 11 ottobre 1930
AUTOBIOGRAPHY
The heresies that have attacked human happiness in my time have all been variations of either presumption or despair; which in the controversies of modern culture are called optimism and pessimism. And if I wanted to write an autobiography in a sentence (and I hope I shall never write a longer one), I should say that my literary life has lasted from a time when men were losing happiness by despair to a time when they are losing it by presumption.
Blackfriars, January, ‘923
AUTOBIOGRAFIA
Le eresie che ai miei tempi hanno assalito la felicità umana sono state tutte varianti o della presunzione o della disperazione; le quali, nelle controversie della cultura moderna, si chiamano ottimismo e pessimismo. E se volessi scrivere un’autobiografia in una sola frase (e spero di non doverne mai scrivere una più lunga), direi che la mia vita letteraria si è protratta da un tempo in cui gli uomini perdevano la felicità per disperazione a un tempo in cui la stanno perdendo per presunzione.
Blackfriars, gennaio 1923
LIFE AND LIBERTY
(This next passage was obviously not written by Chesterton. It is presumably a write-up of an interview with him but is worth including here for its intrinsic interest.)
I was brought up in a fairly typical middle-class English family. My father had been prosperous in business and he had felt that something more than business was needed to square oneself with the universe.
He was a Unitarian.
There was not a Unitarian tradition in the family. But that was the mode of the age.
And I think that from my very junior youth I felt that some thing more was needed.
I don’t think that I myself have ever changed.
From the beginning I think I was staggered by the stupendous marvel of existence—by the miracle of sunlight coming through a window, by the miracle of people walking on legs through the streets, by the miracle of people talking to each other.
This marvel fascinated me, as it does today.
And I said to myself—or I might have said to myself—well, is not that enough? And Echo might have answered:
‘Yes, it is enough. If you see it. And if you will always see it.’ Rather a large mouthful for Echo! But as a matter of fact, that is what Echo said.
Which brings me to what was an important event in my life, though, as I say, thinking led up to it.
I got hold of Leaves of Grass by Watt Whitman, I called it then a revelation. It put in black and white the things I had always known. The glory and magic of God’s universe—the shows of night and day and ‘in the midst, God’s beautiful right hand’.
Well, very soon I found that those who imitated Whitman’s irregular lines missed out the magic of the universe and were definitely antagonistic to God’s beautiful right hand. That was disturbing. God was all right, the universe was all right, Whitman was all right. But something had gone wrong.
Then again, as a very young fellow, I was a Socialist.
I think I have always hated the idea of things being done from a centre.
I hated bureaucracy.
But they told me that if I wanted to get rid of the manifold iniquities of aggressive capital, of interest, I must get rid of private property.
And so I believed them.
Although what I really believed in was the sort of thing that William Morris pictures, with every craftsman running his own show.
Perhaps the catastrophic event—if you want one— was the South African War.
There I saw something which seemed to me to be the meanest kind of financial grab, supported by fine sincere fellows like Stopford Brooke (at whose feet I had sat as a child), York Powell and the Fabians— apparently merely because the British Empire was big and the Transvaal Republic was little.
That stirred me up. Why did all these fine men and women go wrong?
Again, I have always believed in Liberty.
But I noticed that all those who said they believed in Liberty and nothing else, proceeded at once to shackle themselves.
Look at the old S.D.F.-ers. Splendid fellows like Hyndman and Bax!
But what they did was to adopt an economic creed (which the Russians hold today) that everything that happens must happen—that, in fact, nobody can be free. It seemed a poor way to use your freedom.
And, mark you, I have noticed that the modern idea of freedom seems to be that you are not to be allowed to bring up your family as you choose, that you are not to be allowed to marry as you choose, that you are not to be allowed to drink as you choose.
I soon came to realize that liberty was a more complicated thing than I had imagined and that it seemed to need somebody (perhaps God) standing outside human life as an arbiter.
One of the things that have made a difference to me is owning my own place in the country. I was born and bred a Cockney. I was altogether urban. And then I moved into the country and bought a field. My own field! My very own!
And then I built a studio on it. My very own studio. I could enact my own (or my wife’s) plays in that studio and whoever said me nay could go to blazes. And then the house grew on to the studio.
And now I am proud to say that I can grow in my garden enough to keep my family alive if our toppling system of credit went to pieces and our great cities were famine-stricken.
Yes, I have learnt the meaning of ownership. I know what liberty really means.
But I cannot leave out God. For I have seen so many things go wrong when they left out God.
Liberty became licence—desperate, sordid licence— or became sheer slavery, property became monopoly. And the miracle of everyday life became of no account at all.
And so I, who began as a Protestant, remain one as a Catholic— a Protestant against the destruction of all the material, simple things.
I have not changed. God made me; and here I am. Socialism failed me and I have turned my back on that because it was not social.
Protestantism failed me and I have turned my back on that because it did not protest.
These things endure: life and liberty and the boundless magic of night and day—and what comes after.
Daily Sketch, May 14th, 1931
VITA E LIBERTÀ
(Questo brano evidentemente non fu scritto da Chesterton. Si tratta presumibilmente della trascrizione di un’intervista con lui, ma vale la pena includerlo qui per il suo interesse intrinseco.)
Fui allevato in una famiglia inglese borghese abbastanza tipica. Mio padre era stato un uomo d’affari prospero e aveva sentito che occorreva qualcosa di più degli affari per mettersi in pace con l’universo.
Era un unitariano.
Non c’era una tradizione unitariana in famiglia. Ma era quella la moda dell’epoca.
E credo che fin dalla mia primissima giovinezza sentissi che occorreva qualcosa di più.
Non credo di essere mai cambiato io stesso.
Fin dal principio, credo, fui sbalordito dallo stupendo prodigio dell’esistenza: dal miracolo della luce del sole che entra da una finestra, dal miracolo della gente che cammina sulle proprie gambe per le strade, dal miracolo della gente che si parla l’un l’altro.
Questo prodigio mi affascinava, come mi affascina ancora oggi.
E dissi a me stesso—o avrei potuto dire a me stesso—ebbene, non basta questo? E l’Eco avrebbe potuto rispondere:
«Sì, basta. Se lo vedi. E se saprai vederlo sempre.» Un bel bocconcino, per un’Eco! Ma, in verità, è proprio questo che l’Eco disse.
Il che mi porta a quello che fu un evento importante della mia vita, benché, come dico, vi conducesse il pensiero.
Mi capitò tra le mani Leaves of Grass di Watt Whitman; allora la chiamai una rivelazione. Metteva nero su bianco le cose che avevo sempre saputo. La gloria e la magia dell’universo di Dio: gli spettacoli della notte e del giorno, e «nel mezzo, la bella mano destra di Dio».
Ebbene, ben presto scoprii che coloro i quali imitavano i versi irregolari di Whitman tralasciavano la magia dell’universo ed erano decisamente ostili alla bella mano destra di Dio. Ciò era inquietante. Dio andava bene, l’universo andava bene, Whitman andava bene. Ma qualcosa era andato storto.
Poi, di nuovo, da giovanissimo, fui socialista.
Credo di aver sempre detestato l’idea che le cose vengano fatte a partire da un centro.
Odiavo la burocrazia.
Ma mi dissero che, se volevo sbarazzarmi delle molteplici iniquità del capitale aggressivo, dell’interesse, dovevo sbarazzarmi della proprietà privata.
E così credetti loro.
Sebbene ciò in cui davvero credevo fosse quel genere di cosa che raffigura William Morris, con ogni artigiano padrone della propria bottega.
Forse l’evento catastrofico—se ne volete uno—fu la guerra sudafricana.
Vi scorsi qualcosa che mi parve la più meschina forma di rapina finanziaria, sostenuta da persone perbene e sincere come Stopford Brooke (ai cui piedi mi ero seduto da bambino), York Powell e i Fabiani—a quanto pareva unicamente perché l’Impero britannico era grande e la Repubblica del Transvaal era piccola.
Ciò mi turbò profondamente. Perché tutti questi uomini e queste donne per bene sbagliavano?
E ancora: ho sempre creduto nella Libertà.
Ma notai che tutti coloro i quali dicevano di credere nella Libertà e in nient’altro si affrettavano subito a incatenarsi.
Si guardino i vecchi militanti della S.D.F. Uomini splendidi come Hyndman e Bax!
Ma ciò che fecero fu adottare un credo economico (quello che oggi professano i russi) secondo cui tutto ciò che accade deve accadere—che, in realtà, nessuno può essere libero. Mi parve un modo ben misero di usare la propria libertà.
E, badate bene, ho notato che l’idea moderna di libertà pare consistere in questo: che non vi sia consentito allevare la vostra famiglia come volete, che non vi sia consentito sposarvi come volete, che non vi sia consentito bere come volete.
Ben presto compresi che la libertà era cosa più complicata di quanto avessi immaginato, e che pareva aver bisogno di qualcuno (forse Dio) che stesse fuori dalla vita umana come arbitro.
Una delle cose che hanno fatto la differenza per me è il possedere un mio luogo in campagna. Ero nato e cresciuto Cockney. Ero del tutto cittadino. E poi mi trasferii in campagna e comprai un campo. Il mio campo! Tutto mio!
E poi vi costruii uno studio. Il mio studio, tutto mio. In quello studio potevo mettere in scena i miei drammi (o quelli di mia moglie), e chiunque mi dicesse di no poteva andare al diavolo. E poi la casa crebbe attorno allo studio.
E ora sono orgoglioso di poter dire che riesco a coltivare nel mio giardino abbastanza da tenere in vita la mia famiglia, se il nostro traballante sistema del credito andasse in pezzi e le nostre grandi città fossero colpite dalla carestia.
Sì, ho appreso il significato della proprietà. So che cosa significhi davvero la libertà.
Ma non posso escludere Dio. Perché ho visto tante cose andare storte quando escludevano Dio.
La libertà divenne licenza—licenza disperata, sordida—oppure divenne pura e semplice schiavitù, la proprietà divenne monopolio. E il miracolo della vita quotidiana non contò più nulla.
E così io, che cominciai come protestante, tale rimango da cattolico—un protestante contro la distruzione di tutte le cose materiali e semplici.
Non sono cambiato. Dio mi fece; ed eccomi qui. Il socialismo mi deluse e gli ho voltato le spalle, perché non era sociale.
Il protestantesimo mi deluse e gli ho voltato le spalle, perché non protestava.
Queste cose durano: la vita e la libertà e la sconfinata magia della notte e del giorno—e ciò che viene dopo.
Daily Sketch, 14 maggio 1931
THE LESSON
Pessimism is a thing which is learnt from books, as sorrow is a thing learnt from life. Sorrow can never be pessimistic, for it is founded upon the value of things.
Daily News, June 13th, 1903
LA LEZIONE
Il pessimismo è cosa che s’impara dai libri, come il dolore è cosa che s’impara dalla vita. Il dolore non può mai essere pessimista, poiché si fonda sul valore delle cose.
Daily News, 13 giugno 1903
THE TRUE CRITIC
Optimism is said to be unpopular just at present, and optimism in criticism lies under a specially withering disdain. But for all that, criticism will have to become more optimistic or lose altogether its hold upon the future. The only bad thing about criticism is its name. It is derived from a word signifying a criminal judge, and hitherto it has been supposed in consequence that criticism has to do with literary crimes. The favourable judgement of the critic has always been, in the ordinary opinion, to acquit a man of sin, not to convict him of a merit. If criticism were in a sound state, it would have discovered some one epithet to express the value of Coleridge instead of half a hundred epithets to express the uselessness of Marie Corelli.
Optimism, or the utmost possible praise of all things, ought to be the keynote of criticism. It may appear to be an audacious assertion, but it may be tested by one very large and simple process. Compare the reality of a man’s criticism when praising anything with its reality when excluding anything, and we shall all feel how much more often we agree with the former than with the latter … In praising great men we cheerfully agree to a superlative, but we emphatically decline a comparative. We come very near to the optimism of that universal superlative which in the morning of the world declared all things to be very good.
One of the results of this fact is that when a critic is really large-minded and really sympathetic and comprehensive, and really has hold of a guiding and enlightening idea, he should still watch with the greatest suspicion his own limitations and rejections. His praise will almost certainly be sound; his blame should always remain to his own mind a little dubious.
The Speaker, May 3rd, 1902
IL VERO CRITICO
Si dice che l’ottimismo sia impopolare proprio di questi tempi, e che l’ottimismo in materia di critica giaccia sotto un disprezzo particolarmente sferzante. Eppure, malgrado tutto, la critica dovrà farsi più ottimista, o perdere del tutto la sua presa sull’avvenire. L’unica cosa cattiva della critica è il suo nome. Esso deriva da una parola che significa giudice penale, e di conseguenza si è finora supposto che la critica abbia a che fare con delitti letterari. Il giudizio favorevole del critico è sempre stato, nell’opinione corrente, un assolvere un uomo dal peccato, non un riconoscergli un merito. Se la critica fosse in buona salute, avrebbe scoperto un solo epiteto per esprimere il valore di Coleridge, invece di una mezza centuria di epiteti per esprimere l’inutilità di Marie Corelli.
L’ottimismo, ossia la più alta lode possibile di tutte le cose, dovrebbe essere la nota dominante della critica. Può sembrare un’affermazione audace, ma la si può mettere alla prova con un procedimento molto ampio e semplice. Si confronti la genuinità della critica di un uomo quando loda qualcosa con la sua genuinità quando esclude qualcosa, e tutti sentiremo quanto più spesso concordiamo con la prima che con la seconda … Nel lodare i grandi uomini acconsentiamo di buon grado a un superlativo, ma rifiutiamo recisamente un comparativo. Ci accostiamo assai all’ottimismo di quel superlativo universale che, nel mattino del mondo, dichiarò tutte le cose molto buone.
Uno dei risultati di questo fatto è che, quando un critico è davvero di larghe vedute, davvero comprensivo e simpatetico, e davvero possiede un’idea che lo guida e lo illumina, egli dovrebbe pur sempre sorvegliare con il più grande sospetto i propri limiti e i propri rifiuti. La sua lode sarà quasi certamente fondata; il suo biasimo dovrebbe sempre restare, alla sua stessa mente, un poco dubbio.
The Speaker, 3 maggio 1902
FAIRY TALES
Fairy tales are the only true accounts that man has ever given of his destiny. ‘Jack the Giant-Killer’ is the embodiment of the first of the three great paradoxes by which men live. It is the paradox of Courage: the paradox which says, ‘You must defy the thing that is terrifying; unless you are frightened, you are not brave.’ ‘Cinderella’ is the embodiment of the second of the paradoxes by which men live: the paradox of Humility which says ‘Look for the best in the thing, ignorant of its merit; he that abases himself shall be exalted’. And ‘Beauty and the Beast’ is the embodiment of the third of the paradoxes by which men live: the paradox of Faith— the absolutely necessary and wildly unreasonable maxim which says to every mother with a child or to every patriot with a country, ‘You must love the thing first and make it lovable after wards.’
The World, September 27th, 1904
LE FIABE
Le fiabe sono gli unici resoconti veri che l’uomo abbia mai dato del proprio destino. «Jack l’ammazzagiganti» è l’incarnazione del primo dei tre grandi paradossi in virtù dei quali gli uomini vivono. È il paradosso del Coraggio: il paradosso che dice, «Devi sfidare la cosa che atterrisce; se non hai paura, non sei coraggioso». «Cenerentola» è l’incarnazione del secondo dei paradossi in virtù dei quali gli uomini vivono: il paradosso dell’Umiltà, che dice: «Cerca il meglio nella cosa, ignaro del suo merito; chi si abbassa sarà innalzato». E «La bella e la bestia» è l’incarnazione del terzo dei paradossi in virtù dei quali gli uomini vivono: il paradosso della Fede— la massima assolutamente necessaria e follemente irragionevole che dice a ogni madre con un figlio o a ogni patriota con una patria, «Devi prima amare la cosa, e renderla amabile in seguito».
The World, 27 settembre 1904
THE ETHICS OF FAIRYLAND
Of all forms of literature, it seems to me, fairy tales give the truest picture of life. There may be errors in detail, but in a world so full of strange things they scarcely matter. Two-headed giants and beanstalks that climb up into the sky may not be true, but assuredly they are not too wonderful to be true. But the atmosphere of the fairy tale is astonishingly true to life. It deals with the silent witchery that lies in common things, corn and stones and apple trees and fire. It presents these, no doubt, as magic stones and magic apple trees, and if anyone will stare at them steadily in a field at twilight, he will find himself quite unable to assert that they are not magic.
Let me take one quite practical example of the truth of fairy tales. In these stories success is made to depend upon a number of small material objects and observances; life is a chain of talismans. If a man touches three trees in passing, he is safe; if he touches four, he is ruined. If the hero meets a miller without a beard, he is to answer none of his questions. If he plucks a red flower in a particular meadow, he will have power over the mighty kings of some distant city. Now this poetic sense of the decisiveness of some flying detail is a thousand times more genuine and practical than the pompous insistence on some moral or scientific law which is the basis of most realistic novels. None of us know when we have done something irrevocable. Our fate has been often decided by the twist of a road or the shape of a tree. Nay, it has often been decided by an omnibus or an advertisement, and there can there fore be little reason for denying that it is a magic omnibus or a magic advertisement.
The great truth and value of the fairy-tale view of life cannot be better conveyed than by saying that it chiefly arises from the entire absence of the supernatural in fairy tales. There is no miraculous department there, nothing conceived as outrageous or exceptional, nothing that recalls crystal-gazing and planchette. There is no trace or hint of that modern ‘spiritual world’ which implies that this world is not spiritual. In the fairy tales, portents are orderly and inevitable; they are part of the very texture of natural life. In a place so strange as this earth it is as natural to meet griffins and witches and three-headed dogs as to meet geese and oxen. This earth of ours is conceived as a place full of innumerable marvels … The fairy-tale hero is impressed, doubtless, when the pumpkin turns into a coach or the castle soars into the air. But he is not impressed for the mean and stupid reason that he had thought the world was prosaic. Life for him is an illimitable sea of monsters. He is often astonished, but, if I may employ the phrase, he would be more astonished if he were not astonished.
It is a great mistake to imagine that fairy tales are either immoral or unmoral. They do not tally with the trivialities of every particular moral code, but in this respect they resemble all works of art. … In them we see the great lines of elementary laws and ideals as we see them nowhere else. We learn first and foremost that all doors fly open to courage and to hope. We learn that the world is bound together in mysterious bonds of trust and compact and prevision, and that even green dragons keep their promises. We learn that nothing is wasted in the mills of the world, that a jewel thrown into the sea, a kindness to a stricken bird, an idle word to a ragged wayfarer, have in them some terrible value and are here bound up with the destiny of men. Nothing is more typical and recurrent in the ethics of the fairy tale than the great idea that nothing can be lost. … The world is ruled by a sublime parsimony; there is no such thing as a dustbin in the house of God.
This is one very characteristic moral of fairy tales, the idea of the indestructibility of an essence or an act. Another fully as common and even more essential is the great idea which lies at the heart of the story of ‘Beauty and the Beast’ and a hundred kindred tales; the idea that by loving a thing we make it beautiful. The fairy tale warns us to be on our guard against the disguises of things and to regard every ugly and repellent exterior with a hopeful and divine suspicion.
But all these massive fragments of primitive morality are secondary to the great moral spirit which is the very heart of the fairy tales. That spirit is the principle appearing and reappearing in a thousand folklore stories, that nothing can do a man harm unless he fears it. At no time in the history of civilization, perhaps, has there been so much need to recall the ethics of the ancient warfare of Jack against the Giant, of the small against the gigantic. Those who in our day express a peculiar sympathy with the weak in their struggle against the strong are often accused of indulging a hyper-sensitive humanitarianism unknown to the robuster ages of the world. The thing is a delusion. The sympathy for the weak against the strong speaks out of the oldest twilight; it is the very backbone of the most savage stories with which we have to deal in anthropology. For the fairy tale is only the history of man himself, at once the weakest and the strongest of the creatures.
The Speaker, October 12th, 1901
L’ETICA DEL PAESE DELLE FATE
Di tutte le forme di letteratura, mi pare, le fiabe danno il ritratto più veritiero della vita. Vi potranno essere errori nei particolari, ma in un mondo così pieno di cose strane essi hanno ben poca importanza. Giganti a due teste e fusti di fagiolo che si arrampicano fino al cielo potranno anche non essere veri, ma di certo non sono troppo meravigliosi per essere veri. L’atmosfera della fiaba, invece, è sorprendentemente fedele alla vita. Ha a che fare con la silenziosa magia che si annida nelle cose comuni, il grano e le pietre e i meli e il fuoco. Ce le presenta, senza dubbio, come pietre magiche e meli magici, e se qualcuno le fisserà a lungo in un campo al crepuscolo, si troverà del tutto incapace di affermare che non siano magiche.
Prenderò un esempio del tutto pratico della verità delle fiabe. In queste storie il successo è fatto dipendere da una quantità di piccoli oggetti e osservanze materiali; la vita è una catena di talismani. Se un uomo tocca tre alberi passando, è salvo; se ne tocca quattro, è rovinato. Se l’eroe incontra un mugnaio senza barba, non deve rispondere a nessuna delle sue domande. Se coglie un fiore rosso in un dato prato, avrà potere sui possenti re di qualche lontana città. Ora, questo senso poetico del carattere decisivo di un qualche dettaglio fuggevole è mille volte più genuino e pratico della pomposa insistenza su qualche legge morale o scientifica che sta a fondamento della maggior parte dei romanzi realistici. Nessuno di noi sa quando abbia compiuto qualcosa di irrevocabile. Il nostro destino è stato spesso deciso dalla svolta di una strada o dalla forma di un albero. Anzi, è stato spesso deciso da un omnibus o da un’inserzione, e non vi può essere dunque gran motivo per negare che si tratti di un omnibus magico o di un’inserzione magica.
La grande verità e il valore della visione fiabesca della vita non possono essere meglio espressi che dicendo che essa scaturisce soprattutto dalla totale assenza del soprannaturale nelle fiabe. Là non esiste alcun reparto miracoloso, nulla di concepito come oltraggioso o eccezionale, nulla che richiami la lettura nella sfera di cristallo e la planchette. Non v’è traccia né sentore di quel moderno «mondo spirituale» che implica che questo mondo non sia spirituale. Nelle fiabe i prodigi sono ordinati e inevitabili; fanno parte della trama stessa della vita naturale. In un luogo tanto strano come questa terra è naturale imbattersi in grifoni e streghe e cani a tre teste quanto imbattersi in oche e buoi. Questa nostra terra è concepita come un luogo pieno di innumerevoli meraviglie … L’eroe della fiaba resta colpito, senza dubbio, quando la zucca si muta in carrozza o il castello si leva in aria. Ma non resta colpito per il gretto e stupido motivo di aver creduto che il mondo fosse prosaico. Per lui la vita è un mare sconfinato di mostri. È spesso stupito, ma, se posso servirmi della frase, sarebbe più stupito se non fosse stupito.
È un grave errore immaginare che le fiabe siano immorali o amorali. Non coincidono con le trivialità di ogni particolare codice morale, ma sotto questo aspetto esse somigliano a tutte le opere d’arte. … In esse vediamo le grandi linee delle leggi e degli ideali elementari come non le vediamo in nessun altro luogo. Impariamo, prima e soprattutto, che tutte le porte si spalancano al coraggio e alla speranza. Impariamo che il mondo è tenuto insieme da misteriosi vincoli di fiducia, di patto e di previdenza, e che perfino i draghi verdi mantengono le loro promesse. Impariamo che nulla va sprecato nei mulini del mondo, che un gioiello gettato in mare, una gentilezza a un uccello ferito, una parola oziosa a un vagabondo cencioso, hanno in sé un qualche terribile valore e sono qui legati al destino degli uomini. Nulla è più tipico e ricorrente nell’etica della fiaba della grande idea che nulla può andare perduto. … Il mondo è retto da una sublime parsimonia; non esiste cosa come una pattumiera nella casa di Dio.
Questa è una morale assai caratteristica delle fiabe, l’idea dell’indistruttibilità di un’essenza o di un atto. Un’altra altrettanto comune e ancor più essenziale è la grande idea che sta nel cuore della storia della «Bella e la bestia» e di un centinaio di racconti affini; l’idea che amando una cosa la rendiamo bella. La fiaba ci ammonisce a stare in guardia contro i travestimenti delle cose e a considerare ogni esteriorità brutta e repellente con un sospetto pieno di speranza e divino.
Ma tutti questi massicci frammenti di moralità primitiva sono secondari rispetto al grande spirito morale che è il cuore stesso delle fiabe. Quello spirito è il principio che appare e riappare in mille storie del folklore, secondo cui nulla può nuocere a un uomo se egli non lo teme. In nessun tempo della storia della civiltà, forse, vi è stato tanto bisogno di richiamare l’etica dell’antica guerra di Jack contro il Gigante, del piccolo contro il gigantesco. Coloro che ai nostri giorni esprimono una peculiare simpatia per il debole nella sua lotta contro il forte sono spesso accusati di indulgere a un umanitarismo ipersensibile, ignoto alle più robuste età del mondo. La cosa è un’illusione. La simpatia per il debole contro il forte parla dal più antico crepuscolo; è la spina dorsale stessa delle storie più selvagge di cui abbiamo a che fare nell’antropologia. Poiché la fiaba non è altro che la storia dell’uomo stesso, a un tempo la più debole e la più forte delle creature.
The Speaker, 12 ottobre 1901
DIVINE IMMANENCE
It is evident that, though all things are divine, all things are limited. And among other divine things, man himself is limited. He has not the memory nor the imagination nor the vigilance nor the sheer physical health to realize the Godhead in every atom or object that passes under his hands. A person who never neglected any object: a man who burst into religious tears as he fastened a divine collar with an inspired collar-stud, and continued thus with everything he looked at, would go mad in five minutes; he would see God and die. The only things which man, a limited animal, can do in this matter, are two; first, he can believe (as an absolute thing of faith) that there is this divinity in things, whether he sees it or not; second, he can leave himself reasonably open to those sudden revelations whereby one or two of these things—a cloud, a man’s face, a noise in the dark—may for some reason no one has ever been able to offer, capriciously reveal its divinity. …
I believe that every object is divine in a very definite and thorough sense. I believe, that is to say, that there is a great pressure of spiritual reality behind things as they seem, and of this view, as I have said continuously, the proof lies in the explanation it affords of countless human affairs. And I believe that the supreme instance and the supreme demonstration of it is this; that if a man, dismissing the Cosmos and all such trifles, looks steadily and with some special and passionate adoration it some one thing, that thing suddenly speaks to him. Divinity lurks not in the All, but in everything; and that, if it be true, is the explanation of a load of human chronicles, of a cataract of human testimony of all the religions, and all the wild tales of the world. … Providence desires its gifts received, intensely and with humility and it is possible to look at one of them steadily and confidently until, with a great cry, it gives up its god.
Daily News, March 24th, 1903
L’IMMANENZA DIVINA
È evidente che, per quanto tutte le cose siano divine, tutte le cose sono limitate. E fra le altre cose divine, l’uomo stesso è limitato. Egli non ha la memoria né l’immaginazione né la vigilanza né la pura salute fisica per cogliere la divinità in ogni atomo o oggetto che gli passa fra le mani. Una persona che non trascurasse mai alcun oggetto: un uomo che prorompesse in lacrime religiose nell’allacciarsi un divino colletto con un ispirato bottone da colletto, e continuasse così con ogni cosa su cui posasse lo sguardo, impazzirebbe in cinque minuti; vedrebbe Dio e morirebbe. Le sole cose che l’uomo, animale limitato, può fare in questa materia, sono due; primo, egli può credere (come cosa assoluta di fede) che vi sia questa divinità nelle cose, che egli la veda o no; secondo, egli può tenersi ragionevolmente aperto a quelle improvvise rivelazioni per cui una o due di queste cose—una nuvola, il volto di un uomo, un rumore nel buio—possono, per qualche ragione che nessuno è mai stato in grado di offrire, capricciosamente rivelare la propria divinità. …
Io credo che ogni oggetto sia divino in un senso assai definito e compiuto. Credo, cioè, che vi sia una grande pressione di realtà spirituale dietro le cose quali appaiono, e di questa visione, come ho detto di continuo, la prova sta nella spiegazione che essa offre di innumerevoli faccende umane. E credo che l’istanza suprema e la suprema dimostrazione di ciò sia questa; che se un uomo, congedando il Cosmo e tutte simili inezie, guarda fisso e con una speciale e appassionata adorazione a una qualche cosa, quella cosa a un tratto gli parla. La divinità non si annida nel Tutto, ma in ogni cosa; e ciò, se è vero, è la spiegazione di un carico di cronache umane, di una cateratta di testimonianze umane di tutte le religioni, e di tutti i selvaggi racconti del mondo. … La Provvidenza desidera che i suoi doni siano ricevuti, intensamente e con umiltà, ed è possibile guardare a uno di essi con fermezza e fiducia finché, con un grande grido, esso rende il suo dio.
Daily News, 24 marzo 1903
A LOCAL HABITATION
It is not enough for a religion to include everything. It must include everything and something over. That is, it must include everything and include something as well. It must answer that deep and mysterious human demand for something as distinct from the demand for everything, even if the nature of that demand be too deep to be easily defined in logic. It will never cease to be described in poetry. We might almost say that all poetry is a description of it. Even when you have only natural religion, you will still have supernatural poetry. And it will be poetic because it is particular, not because it is general. The new priest may proclaim, ‘The sea is God, the land is God and the sky is God; but yet there are not three Gods, but one God’. But even if the old priest be silenced, the old poet will always answer, ‘God is in a cave; God is in a stable; God is disguised and hidden. I alone know where he is; he is herding the cattle of Admetus, he is pouring out the wine of Cana.’ The new republic may make the philosophical declaration, ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all trees are evolved equal and endowed with the dignity of creative evolution.’ But if in the silence that follows we overhear the poor nurse or the peasant mother telling fairy tales to the children, she will always be saying, ‘And in the seventh garden beyond the seventh gate was the tree with the golden apples’; or ‘They sailed and sailed until they came to an island, and on the island was a meadow, and in the meadow the tree of life’…
Now if this particularism always stubbornly recurs even in poetry, how can it be left out of philosophy? What is the meaning of this incurable itch to give to airy nothing, or still more airy everything, a local habitation and a name? Why is it always some thing at once odd and objective, a precious fruit or a flying cup or a buried key, that symbolizes the mystery of the world? Why should not the world symbolize the world? Why should not a sphere sufficiently symbolize universalism, so that the faithful might be found adoring a plum-pudding or a cannon-ball? Why should not a spiral sufficiently represent progress, and the pious bow down before a corkscrew? In practice we know that it would be impossible to dissociate a Christmas pudding from the sacramental specialism of Christmas; and the worship of the corkscrew, that hieratic serpent, would probably be traced to the mysteries of Dionysius. In a word, why are all mysteries concerned with the notion of finding a particular thing in a particular place? If we are to find the real meaning of every element in mythology, what is the real meaning of that element in it? I can see only one possible answer that satisfies the new more serious and sympathetic study of religion, even among sceptics, and that is that there really is something to which all these fancies are what forgeries are to a signature; that if the soul could be satisfied with the truth, it would find it a tale as particular, as positive and as personal; that the light which we follow first as a wide white star actually narrows as we draw nearer to it, till we find that the trailing meteor is something like a light in a window or a candle in a room.
New Witness, July 15th, 1921
UNA DIMORA LOCALE
Non basta che una religione includa ogni cosa. Essa deve includere ogni cosa e qualcosa di più. Vale a dire, deve includere ogni cosa e includere anche qualcosa. Deve rispondere a quella profonda e misteriosa domanda umana di qualcosa come distinta dalla domanda di ogni cosa, anche se la natura di quella domanda sia troppo profonda per essere agevolmente definita nella logica. Non cesserà mai di essere descritta in poesia. Potremmo quasi dire che tutta la poesia è una descrizione di essa. Anche quando si possiede soltanto la religione naturale, si avrà ancora una poesia soprannaturale. E sarà poetica perché è particolare, non perché è generale. Il nuovo sacerdote potrà proclamare: «Il mare è Dio, la terra è Dio e il cielo è Dio; eppure non vi sono tre Dèi, ma un solo Dio». Ma anche se il vecchio sacerdote venisse messo a tacere, il vecchio poeta risponderà sempre: «Dio è in una caverna; Dio è in una stalla; Dio è travestito e nascosto. Io solo so dov’egli è; egli pascola gli armenti di Admeto, egli versa il vino di Cana». La nuova repubblica potrà fare la dichiarazione filosofica: «Noi riteniamo queste verità di per sé evidenti, che tutti gli alberi si sono evoluti uguali e sono dotati della dignità dell’evoluzione creatrice». Ma se nel silenzio che segue cogliamo per caso la povera balia o la madre contadina che raccontano fiabe ai bambini, ella dirà sempre: «E nel settimo giardino oltre la settima porta stava l’albero dalle mele d’oro»; oppure: «Navigarono e navigarono finché giunsero a un’isola, e sull’isola vi era un prato, e nel prato l’albero della vita»…
Ora, se questo particolarismo ricorre sempre ostinatamente persino in poesia, come lo si può lasciar fuori dalla filosofia? Qual è il significato di questo inguaribile prurito di dare all’aereo nulla, o al ancor più aereo tutto, una dimora locale e un nome? Perché è sempre una cosa a un tempo bizzarra e oggettiva, un frutto prezioso o una coppa volante o una chiave sepolta, a simboleggiare il mistero del mondo? Perché il mondo non dovrebbe simboleggiare il mondo? Perché una sfera non dovrebbe simboleggiare a sufficienza l’universalismo, sicché i fedeli potrebbero venire trovati in adorazione di un budino di prugne o di una palla di cannone? Perché una spirale non dovrebbe rappresentare a sufficienza il progresso, e i pii inchinarsi davanti a un cavatappi? In pratica sappiamo che sarebbe impossibile dissociare un budino di Natale dallo specialismo sacramentale del Natale; e il culto del cavatappi, quel ieratico serpente, verrebbe probabilmente ricondotto ai misteri di Dioniso. In una parola, perché tutti i misteri hanno a che fare con la nozione di trovare una cosa particolare in un luogo particolare? Se dobbiamo trovare il vero significato di ogni elemento nella mitologia, qual è il vero significato di quell’elemento in essa? Non riesco a vedere che una sola risposta possibile che soddisfi il nuovo studio, più serio e simpatetico, della religione, persino tra gli scettici, ed è che vi sia davvero qualcosa rispetto a cui tutte queste fantasie stanno come i falsi stanno a una firma; che se l’anima potesse essere appagata dalla verità, la troverebbe un racconto altrettanto particolare, altrettanto positivo e personale; che la luce che dapprima seguiamo come un’ampia stella bianca in realtà si restringe man mano che le ci avviciniamo, finché scopriamo che la meteora dalla scia è qualcosa di simile a una luce in una finestra o a una candela in una stanza.
New Witness, 15 luglio 1921
SACRAMENT OR MAGIC
Whenever men really believe that they can get to the spiritual, they always employ the material. When the purpose is good, it is bread and wine; when the purpose is evil, it is eye of newt and toe of frog.
Illustrated London News, September 22nd, 1906
SACRAMENTO O MAGIA
Ogniqualvolta gli uomini credono davvero di poter raggiungere lo spirituale, ricorrono sempre al materiale. Quando lo scopo è buono, si tratta di pane e vino; quando lo scopo è malvagio, si tratta di occhio di tritone e dito di rana.
Illustrated London News, 22 settembre 1906
THE CONCRETE AND THE ABSTRACT
Thinkers of [a certain] school have a tendency to believe that the concrete is the symbol of the abstract. The truth, the truth at the root of all mysticism, is quite the other way. The abstract is the symbol of the concrete. This may possibly seem at first sight a paradox; but it is a purely transcendental truth. We see a green tree. It is the green tree that we cannot understand; it is the green tree which we fear; it is the green tree which we worship. Then, because there are so many green trees, so many men, so many elephants, so many butterflies, so many daisies, so many animalculae, we coin a general term ‘Life’. And then the mystic comes and says that a green tree symbolizes life. It is not so. Life symbolizes a green tree. Just in so far as we get into the abstract, we get away from the reality, we get away from the mystery, we get away from the tree. And this is the reason that so many transcendental discourses are merely blank and tedious to us, because they have to do with Truth and Beauty and the Destiny of the Soul and all the great faint, jaded symbols of the reality. And this is why poetry is so interesting to us, because it has to do with sides, with woods, with battles, with temples, with women and with wine, with the ultimate miracles which no philosopher could create. The difference between the concrete and the abstract is the difference between the country and the town. God made the concrete, but man made the abstract. A truthful man is a miracle, but the truth is a commonplace.
The Speaker, May 31st, 1902
IL CONCRETO E L’ASTRATTO
I pensatori di [una certa] scuola tendono a credere che il concreto sia il simbolo dell’astratto. La verità, la verità che sta alla radice di ogni misticismo, è esattamente l’opposto. L’astratto è il simbolo del concreto. A prima vista questo potrà forse sembrare un paradosso; ma è una verità puramente trascendentale. Vediamo un albero verde. È l’albero verde che non riusciamo a comprendere; è l’albero verde che temiamo; è l’albero verde che adoriamo. Poi, poiché vi sono tanti alberi verdi, tanti uomini, tanti elefanti, tante farfalle, tante margherite, tanti animalculi, coniamo un termine generale, «Vita». E allora arriva il mistico e dice che un albero verde simboleggia la vita. Non è così. La vita simboleggia un albero verde. Nella misura esatta in cui entriamo nell’astratto, ci allontaniamo dalla realtà, ci allontaniamo dal mistero, ci allontaniamo dall’albero. Ed è per questo che tanti discorsi trascendentali ci risultano semplicemente vuoti e tediosi, perché hanno a che fare con la Verità e la Bellezza e il Destino dell’Anima e tutti i grandi simboli sbiaditi e stanchi della realtà. Ed è per questo che la poesia ci risulta tanto interessante, perché ha a che fare con i pendii, con i boschi, con le battaglie, con i templi, con le donne e con il vino, con gli ultimi miracoli che nessun filosofo potrebbe creare. La differenza tra il concreto e l’astratto è la differenza tra la campagna e la città. Dio ha fatto il concreto, ma l’uomo ha fatto l’astratto. Un uomo veritiero è un miracolo, ma la verità è un luogo comune.
The Speaker, 31 maggio 1902
THE LIGHT AND THE HEAT
The Jews, with their wonderful instinct for practical religion, swore that he who looked upon Jehovah died; but in a large number of transcendental schools and sages the sentence of death has been commuted to a doom of gibbering idiocy. To the Buddhists was given a conception of God of extraordinary intellectual purity; but in growing familiar with the featureless splendour, they have lost their heads; they babble; they say that everything is nothing and nothing is everything, that black is white because white is black. We fancy that the frightful universal negatives at which they have at last arrived, are really little more than the final mental collapse of men trying always to find an abstraction big enough for all things. ‘I have said what I understood not, things too great for me that I know not. I will put my hand upon my mouth.’ Job was a wise man. … Buddhism stands for a simplification of the mind and a reliance on the most indestructible ideas; Christianity stands for a simplification of the heart and a reliance on the most indestructible sentiments. The greater Christian insistence upon personal deity and immortality is not, we fancy, the cause so much as the effect of this essential trend towards an ancient passion and pathos as the power that most nearly rends the veil from the nature of things. Both creeds grope after the same secret sun, but Buddhism dreams of its light and Christianity of its heat. Buddhism seeks after God with the largest conception it can find, the all-producing and all-absorbing One; Christianity seeks after God with the most elementary passion it can find— the craving for a father, the hunger that is as old as the hills. It turns the whole cry of a lost universe into the cry of a lost child.
The Speaker, November 17th, 1900
LA LUCE E IL CALORE
Gli Ebrei, con il loro straordinario istinto per la religione pratica, giurarono che chi guardava Jehovah moriva; ma in un gran numero di scuole e di saggi trascendentali la sentenza di morte è stata commutata in una condanna a un’ebete idiozia farfugliante. Ai Buddhisti fu concepita un’idea di Dio di straordinaria purezza intellettuale; ma, prendendo dimestichezza con quello splendore senza tratti, hanno perso la testa; farneticano; dicono che tutto è nulla e che il nulla è tutto, che il nero è bianco perché il bianco è nero. Immaginiamo che gli spaventosi negativi universali cui alla fine sono giunti, siano in realtà poco più del crollo mentale definitivo di uomini che cercano sempre un’astrazione abbastanza grande da contenere ogni cosa. «Ho parlato di ciò che non comprendevo, di cose troppo grandi per me che non conosco. Metterò la mano sulla mia bocca.» Giobbe era un uomo saggio. … Il Buddhismo sta per una semplificazione della mente e per un affidarsi alle idee più indistruttibili; il Cristianesimo sta per una semplificazione del cuore e per un affidarsi ai sentimenti più indistruttibili. La maggiore insistenza cristiana sulla deità personale e sull’immortalità non è, ci pare, tanto la causa quanto l’effetto di questa tendenza essenziale verso un’antica passione e un antico pathos come la forza che più da vicino strappa il velo dalla natura delle cose. Entrambi i credi vanno a tentoni verso lo stesso sole segreto, ma il Buddhismo ne sogna la luce e il Cristianesimo il calore. Il Buddhismo cerca Dio con la più vasta idea che riesca a trovare, l’Uno che tutto produce e tutto assorbe; il Cristianesimo cerca Dio con la passione più elementare che riesca a trovare: la brama di un padre, la fame antica come le colline. Trasforma l’intero grido di un universo perduto nel grido di un bambino perduto.
The Speaker, 17 novembre 1900
A NOTE ON COMPARATIVE RELIGION
Christianity is not a religion; it is a Church. There may be a Moslem religion; but it would not come natural to anybody to talk about the Moslem Church. There may be a Buddhist religion; but nobody would call it the Buddhist Church. … I say that the very idea of a Catholic Church is sui generis, apart from claims to embody it. I am not now talking about the comparison with Christian heresies, but of the comparison with heathen religions. It does indeed illustrate the incongruous and incomparable assortment of rival religions that one of them does actually belong to this other category. One of the heathen religions really is a Christian heresy. The more we know of the great Moslem movement, the more we see that it was really a post-Christian revision, or subsequent simplification rather like the Arian movement. Of the other things that we call Eastern religions many existed before Christianity, and almost any might have existed without Christianity. I take it as certain that Islam would never have existed without Christianity. I take it to be as clear as that Calvinism or Lollardism or Lutheranism would never have existed without Christianity. Nor was the Moslem movement in the modern sense anti-Christian. It gave to Christ as high a moral position as is given Him by most Unitarians, and indeed a more supernatural status than is given by some Broad Churchmen. To do Mahomet justice, his main attack was against the idolatries of Asia. …
Now we might apply this principle of differentiation to each of the rival religions in turn. Each of them is not only in a different category from the Catholic Church, but in a different category from the others. Islam, if it is to go into a class at all, ought not to go into a class of Islam, Christianity, Confucianism and Brahminism, but rather into a class of Islam, Manicheeism, Pelagianism and Protestantism. In the same way, Buddha ought not really to go into a class of Buddha, Christ, Mahomet and the rest; but rather into some such class as Buddha, Pythagoras, Plato and so on. He belongs to that class of philosophical mystics for whom what we commonly call religion was really only symbolical, and the main matter was a metaphysical unification. He may have had some of the virtues of a saint, but he was in reality a sage. He may have been what we call an idealist; he was also something very like a pessimist. But anyhow he was not a Church and did not found a Church. To consider what he did found, we should have to go back to the foundations in Brahminism; and when we do so, we find that this in turn is not another variation of the same thing, but an utterly different sort of thing with variations of its own. It is rather an old popular mythology, like our own old pagan mythology. At the back of it Brahminism is probably nature-worship, and Buddhism is certainly the very opposite of nature-worship. It would be true to call it an iconoclasm directed to destroy the idol called nature.
Finally, it is fairly clear that Confucianism is not a religion, unless the English public-school system is a religion or the Kultur of imperial Germany was a religion. In a sense they may be so described, since everything rests on a conscious or unconscious religion, or negation of religion. But nobody would call any of them a Church; and nobody can compare them with a Church calling itself dogmatic and divine. All these disparate things, of which one is an imitation and another a doubt and another a book of etiquette, have nothing in common except that they are none of them Churches; and that they are all examples of the various things in which man might be expected to experiment in the absence of a Church. …
It is a simple and historical fact about the Catholic Church that its character is as extraordinary as its claim. It is not merely the only thing that deserves a particular kind of service; it is the only thing that asks for it. It is quite possible to be a pagan and hate the Church; it is equally possible to be a pessimist and hate the universe. But there is one Church exactly as there is one universe; and no wise man will wander about looking for another.
Blackfriars, March, 1923
UNA NOTA DI RELIGIONE COMPARATA
Il Cristianesimo non è una religione; è una Chiesa. Vi può essere una religione musulmana; ma a nessuno verrebbe naturale parlare della Chiesa musulmana. Vi può essere una religione buddhista; ma nessuno la chiamerebbe la Chiesa buddhista. … Sostengo che l’idea stessa di una Chiesa cattolica è sui generis, a prescindere dalle pretese di incarnarla. Non sto ora parlando del confronto con le eresie cristiane, ma del confronto con le religioni pagane. In effetti, l’assortimento incongruo e incomparabile delle religioni rivali è ben illustrato dal fatto che una di esse appartiene realmente a quest’altra categoria. Una delle religioni pagane è davvero un’eresia cristiana. Più conosciamo il grande movimento musulmano, più vediamo che fu in realtà una revisione post-cristiana, o una successiva semplificazione, piuttosto simile al movimento ariano. Delle altre cose che chiamiamo religioni orientali molte esistevano prima del Cristianesimo, e quasi tutte avrebbero potuto esistere senza il Cristianesimo. Ritengo per certo che l’Islam non sarebbe mai esistito senza il Cristianesimo. Lo ritengo tanto chiaro quanto che il calvinismo o il lollardismo o il luteranesimo non sarebbero mai esistiti senza il Cristianesimo. Né il movimento musulmano fu, nel senso moderno, anticristiano. Riconobbe a Cristo una posizione morale tanto alta quanta gliene riconoscono la maggior parte degli unitariani, e anzi uno status più soprannaturale di quello concessogli da certi Broad Churchmen. Per rendere giustizia a Maometto, il suo attacco principale era rivolto contro le idolatrie dell’Asia. …
Ora potremmo applicare questo principio di differenziazione a ciascuna delle religioni rivali a turno. Ognuna di esse è non solo in una categoria diversa da quella della Chiesa cattolica, ma in una categoria diversa da quella delle altre. L’Islam, se proprio deve rientrare in una classe, non dovrebbe rientrare in una classe composta da Islam, Cristianesimo, Confucianesimo e Brahmanesimo, ma piuttosto in una classe di Islam, Manicheismo, Pelagianesimo e Protestantesimo. Allo stesso modo, il Buddha non dovrebbe in realtà rientrare in una classe di Buddha, Cristo, Maometto e via dicendo; ma piuttosto in una classe come quella di Buddha, Pitagora, Platone e così via. Egli appartiene a quella classe di mistici filosofici per i quali ciò che comunemente chiamiamo religione era in realtà solo simbolico, e la questione principale era un’unificazione metafisica. Può aver avuto alcune delle virtù di un santo, ma in realtà era un saggio. Può essere stato ciò che chiamiamo un idealista; era anche qualcosa di molto simile a un pessimista. Ma in ogni caso non era una Chiesa e non fondò una Chiesa. Per considerare ciò che effettivamente fondò, dovremmo risalire alle fondamenta del Brahmanesimo; e, facendolo, scopriamo che questo a sua volta non è un’altra variazione della stessa cosa, ma un tipo di cosa del tutto diverso, con variazioni proprie. È piuttosto un’antica mitologia popolare, come la nostra antica mitologia pagana. In fondo il Brahmanesimo è probabilmente un culto della natura, e il Buddhismo è di certo l’esatto opposto del culto della natura. Sarebbe corretto chiamarlo un’iconoclastia diretta a distruggere l’idolo chiamato natura.
Infine, è abbastanza chiaro che il Confucianesimo non è una religione, a meno che il sistema delle public school inglesi non sia una religione o la Kultur della Germania imperiale non fosse una religione. In un certo senso li si può descrivere così, poiché ogni cosa poggia su una religione consapevole o inconsapevole, o su una negazione della religione. Ma nessuno chiamerebbe alcuna di esse una Chiesa; e nessuno può confrontarle con una Chiesa che si dichiara dogmatica e divina. Tutte queste cose disparate, di cui una è un’imitazione e un’altra un dubbio e un’altra ancora un manuale di etichetta, non hanno nulla in comune se non che nessuna di esse è una Chiesa; e che sono tutte esempi delle varie cose in cui ci si potrebbe aspettare che l’uomo si cimenti in assenza di una Chiesa. …
È un fatto semplice e storico, a proposito della Chiesa cattolica, che il suo carattere sia straordinario quanto la sua pretesa. Non è soltanto l’unica cosa che meriti un genere particolare di servizio; è l’unica cosa che lo chieda. È perfettamente possibile essere pagani e odiare la Chiesa; è ugualmente possibile essere pessimisti e odiare l’universo. Ma vi è una sola Chiesa esattamente come vi è un solo universo; e nessun uomo saggio andrà in giro a cercarne un’altra.
Blackfriars, marzo 1923
ASSIMILATION AND REJECTION
The instant it is said that we should take the good things from every atmosphere or system, an immediate question springs to the lips. But what about the bad things? … A religion should not only be instinctively absorbent of whatever is consonant with its ideal; it should be instinctively resistant to anything that is against that ideal. Men look to a faith to purge them of all native poisons as well as to develop all native functions and pleasures. A Church should have drainage as well as ventilation. It should drive bad smells out as well as let good smells in; it should not only cast out devils, but keep them out.
Daily News, March 19th, 1910
ASSIMILAZIONE E RIFIUTO
Nell’istante in cui si dice che dovremmo prendere le cose buone da ogni atmosfera o sistema, un’immediata domanda sale alle labbra. Ma le cose cattive? … Una religione non dovrebbe soltanto essere istintivamente capace di assorbire tutto ciò che si accorda con il proprio ideale; dovrebbe essere istintivamente capace di resistere a tutto ciò che è contro quell’ideale. Gli uomini si rivolgono a una fede perché li purghi di tutti i veleni nativi non meno che perché sviluppi tutte le funzioni e i piaceri nativi. Una Chiesa dovrebbe avere le fognature non meno della ventilazione. Dovrebbe cacciar fuori i cattivi odori non meno che lasciar entrare quelli buoni; non dovrebbe soltanto scacciare i demoni, ma tenerli fuori.
Daily News, 19 marzo 1910
THE WINTER FEAST
It is the greatest glory of the Christian tradition that it has incorporated so many Pagan traditions. But it is most glorious of all, to my mind, when they are popular traditions. And the best and most obvious example is the way in which Christianity did incorporate, in so far as it did incorporate, the old human and heathen conception of the Winter Feast. …
There is a perfectly natural parallel between a religion that defies the world and a ritual that defies the weather. Heathenism in the sense of hedonism, the concentration of the mind on pure pleasure as such, would chiefly concentrate on the conception of a Summer Feast. But in winter even a rich man receives some faint hint of the problem of a poor man; he may avoid being hungry, but he cannot always avoid being cold. To choose that moment of common freezing for the assertion of common fraternity is, in its own intrinsic nature, a foreshadowing of what we call the Christian idea. It involves the suggestion that joy comes from within and not from without. It involves the suggestion that peril and the potentiality of pain are themselves a ground for gratitude and rejoicing. It involves the suggestion that even when we are merely Pagans, we are not merely Pantheists. We are not merely nature worshippers; because a man smiles when nature frowns. It has always involved, under varying limitations in varying societies, the idea of hospitality, especially hospitality to the stranger and generally to the poor. Of course there are perfectly natural reasons for wanting to drink wine or warm ourselves at the fire in winter; but that is not an answer, except to those who have the ill-informed prejudice that Christianity must be opposed to things merely because they are natural. The point is in making a point of it; the special interest is in the special occasion, in the fact that during the Winter Feast, whether Pagan or Christian, there always was in some degree the idea of extending the enjoyment to others, of passing round the wine or seating the wanderer by the hearth. It is no controversial point against the Christians that they felt they could take up and continue such traditions among the Pagans; it only shows that the Christians knew a Christian thing when they saw it.
The real history of Christmas is very relevant to the real crisis of Christendom. We live in a terrible time of war and rumour of war; with a barbaric danger of the real reaction that goes back, not to the old form, but to the old formlessness. International idealism in its effort to hold the world together in a peace that can resist wars and revolutions, is admittedly weakened and often disappointed. I should say simply that it does not go deep enough. Christianity could draw life out of the depths of Paganism; but mere Modernism cannot draw on the depths of either. Charity is too much of a manufactured article and too little of a natural product. The League of Nations is too new to be natural. The modern materialistic humanitarianism is too young to be vigorous. If we really wish to make vivid the horrors of destruction and mere disciplined murder, we must see them more simply as attacks on the hearth and the human family. If we want to talk about poverty, we must talk about it as the hunger of a human being, a pain as positive as toothache; and not as the fall in wages or the failure of imports or even the lowering of the economic standard of living. We must say first of the beggar, not that there is insufficient housing accommodation but that he has nowhere to lay his head. We must say first of the human family, not that there are no jobs for them in the factory, but that there is no room for them in the inn. That is, we must talk of the human family in language as plain and practical and positive as that in which mystics used to talk of the Holy Family. We must learn again to use the naked words that describe a natural thing, and dispense for a moment with all those sociological polysyllables with which an artificial society has learned to talk of it as an artificial thing. Then we shall draw on the driving force of many thousand years, and call up a real humanitarianism out of the depths of humanity.
G. K.’s Weekly, January 2nd, 1936
LA FESTA D’INVERNO
È la più grande gloria della tradizione cristiana l’aver incorporato tante tradizioni pagane. Ma è ancor più glorioso di tutto, a mio parere, quando si tratta di tradizioni popolari. E l’esempio migliore e più evidente è il modo in cui il Cristianesimo incorporò davvero, nella misura in cui la incorporò, l’antica concezione umana e pagana della Festa d’inverno. …
Vi è un parallelo perfettamente naturale tra una religione che sfida il mondo e un rito che sfida il tempo atmosferico. Il paganesimo nel senso dell’edonismo, la concentrazione della mente sul puro piacere in quanto tale, si concentrerebbe soprattutto sulla concezione di una Festa d’estate. Ma in inverno perfino un uomo ricco riceve qualche debole accenno del problema dell’uomo povero; potrà evitare di aver fame, ma non sempre potrà evitare di aver freddo. Scegliere quel momento di comune gelo per l’affermazione di una comune fraternità è, per sua stessa intrinseca natura, un preannuncio di ciò che chiamiamo l’idea cristiana. Comporta il suggerimento che la gioia venga da dentro e non da fuori. Comporta il suggerimento che il pericolo e la potenzialità del dolore siano essi stessi un motivo di gratitudine e di esultanza. Comporta il suggerimento che anche quando siamo semplicemente pagani, non siamo semplicemente panteisti. Non siamo semplicemente adoratori della natura, perché un uomo sorride quando la natura aggrotta le ciglia. Ha sempre comportato, sotto limiti mutevoli in società mutevoli, l’idea dell’ospitalità, specie l’ospitalità verso lo straniero e in generale verso il povero. Naturalmente vi sono ragioni perfettamente naturali per voler bere vino o scaldarsi al fuoco d’inverno; ma questa non è una risposta, se non per coloro che nutrono il malinformato pregiudizio secondo cui il Cristianesimo debba opporsi alle cose semplicemente perché sono naturali. Il punto sta nel farne un punto; l’interesse speciale sta nell’occasione speciale, nel fatto che durante la Festa d’inverno, pagana o cristiana che fosse, vi era sempre in qualche misura l’idea di estendere la gioia agli altri, di far girare il vino o di far sedere il viandante accanto al focolare. Non è affatto un argomento polemico contro i cristiani il fatto che ritenessero di poter riprendere e continuare simili tradizioni tra i pagani; mostra soltanto che i cristiani sapevano riconoscere una cosa cristiana quando la vedevano.
La vera storia del Natale è quanto mai pertinente alla vera crisi della Cristianità. Viviamo in un tempo terribile di guerra e di voci di guerra; con un pericolo barbarico di quella vera reazione che riporta indietro, non all’antica forma, ma all’antica informità. L’idealismo internazionale, nel suo sforzo di tenere insieme il mondo in una pace capace di resistere alle guerre e alle rivoluzioni, è riconosciutamente indebolito e spesso deluso. Direi semplicemente che non va abbastanza in profondità. Il Cristianesimo poteva trarre vita dalle profondità del paganesimo; ma il mero modernismo non può attingere alle profondità né dell’uno né dell’altro. La carità è troppo un articolo di fabbrica e troppo poco un prodotto naturale. La Società delle Nazioni è troppo nuova per essere naturale. Il moderno umanitarismo materialistico è troppo giovane per essere vigoroso. Se davvero vogliamo rendere vivi gli orrori della distruzione e del mero omicidio disciplinato, dobbiamo vederli più semplicemente come attacchi al focolare e alla famiglia umana. Se vogliamo parlare di povertà, dobbiamo parlarne come della fame di un essere umano, un dolore tanto positivo quanto un mal di denti; e non come della caduta dei salari o del venir meno delle importazioni o perfino dell’abbassamento del tenore di vita economico. Del mendicante dobbiamo dire prima di tutto, non che l’alloggio è insufficiente, ma che non ha dove posare il capo. Della famiglia umana dobbiamo dire prima di tutto, non che non ci sono lavori per essa nella fabbrica, ma che non c’è posto per essa nella locanda. Vale a dire, dobbiamo parlare della famiglia umana in un linguaggio tanto piano e pratico e positivo quanto quello con cui i mistici parlavano un tempo della Sacra Famiglia. Dobbiamo imparare di nuovo a usare le parole nude che descrivono una cosa naturale, e fare a meno per un momento di tutti quei polisillabi sociologici con cui una società artificiale ha imparato a parlarne come di una cosa artificiale. Allora attingeremo alla forza motrice di molte migliaia di anni, e chiameremo in vita un vero umanitarismo dalle profondità dell’umanità.
G. K.’s Weekly, 2 gennaio 1936
THE THREE GIFTS
There were three things prefigured and promised by the gifts in the cave of Bethlehem concerning the Child who received them; that He should be crowned like a King: that He should be worshipped like a God; and that He should die like a man. And these things would sound like Eastern flattery, were it not for the third.
G. K.’s Weekly, December 12th, 1931
I TRE DONI
Vi erano tre cose prefigurate e promesse dai doni nella grotta di Betlemme riguardo al Bambino che li ricevette; che Egli sarebbe stato incoronato come un Re: che sarebbe stato adorato come un Dio; e che sarebbe morto come un uomo. E queste cose suonerebbero come adulazione orientale, non fosse per la terza.
G. K.’s Weekly, 12 dicembre 1931
THE SPRING IN THE SOUL
Easter which opens on earth the gateway of the Spring, has been for all our race and culture the season of Resurrection. But in diseased conditions like our own there has come to be a standing quarrel between two schools about the order of the two ideas. Christians and all inhabiters of the ancient culture feel that Spring is the symbol of Easter. Materialists, notably all sorts of atheist anthropologists, hold that Easter was only a symbol of spring. Professors of folklore insisted that primitive men (with whom they seemed to be on very intimate terms) had made up a rather unnatural masquerade of myth, merely to cover the natural facts of experience. By the time that common sense began to pluck up courage to question what were called the Conclusions of Science, it became apparent that there were a good many questions which science could not answer, and a good many points on which her conclusions were anything but conclusive. Why should anyone want to cover up ordinary facts with an extraordinary story? Why should anybody think he could keep the grass a secret by the invention of a grass-god? And why could not primitive man be primitive enough to leave plain facts as they were? Was it not much more natural to imagine flowers or foliage as ornaments for a god or hero than to imagine a hollow idol invented only to stand between men and flowers? Is it not more sane to say that the visible renewal of the earth gives hints or signs to those who already believe in heaven? But whatever mysteries were accepted by the ancient pagans have become mere mystifications in the minds of the modern Pantheists. I imagine no man’s mind was ever in so complete a muddle as the mind of the great poet Shelley when he wrote the famous line, ‘If winter comes, can spring be far behind?’
To begin with, the more chilly are in the habit of reminding the poet that when Winter comes, Spring is at least a quarter of the year behind. But it will also strike the natural man (as distinct from that most unnatural man whom we call the nature-worshipper) that it would be just as easy to turn the phrase from optimism to pessimism by taking another section of the year. It would be quite as sensible to say, ‘If summer comes, can autumn be far behind?’ And it is probably within the range of the intelligence, even of a pantheist surveying the whole universe, to foresee that Winter will not only come, but will certainly come again. There is nothing but nonsense, therefore, in all pretences that the mere round of Nature itself is the source of our highest hopes or could by itself have evolved all that is meant by Resurrection. It is the soul that has received an unspeakable secret from heaven which it can only express in images of the earth, and naturally expresses in terms of the temporary resurrections of the earth. In other words, it uses Spring as a symbol of Easter; not Easter as a symbol of Spring. Anyone who will compare the beautiful lines of Shelley with some equally beautiful lines in one of Mr Belloc’s sonnets will measure the difference made by a philosophy that happens to make sense.
For as you pass, the natural life of things Proclaims the Resurrection; as you pass, Remembered summer shines along the grass And something in me of the immortal sings.
Here the poet does not talk as if next spring would last for ever; on the contrary, he talks of last summer that is already dead. But he can sing over both because of something in him different which does not die.
In this Spring more than all the other Springs, in this Easter more than all other Easters, we have to face the awful exaltation of that truth. I mean the truth that Resurrection is of faith and not of any false analogy from the senses or the seasons. Three things at least, peculiar to the present time, prevent us from identifying that hope with a revival or riot of vegetation. First, the beautiful condition to which a few centuries of progress have reduced half the landscapes of the land. Remembered summer does not shine along the grass in Pudsey or Wigan, because there is no grass to shine. The natural life of things does not proclaim the Resurrection in Sheffield and Huddersfield, because the life of things is not natural. It is only the supernatural life that dares to proclaim it there. Poets cannot describe the town landscapes as changing with the spring. They cannot say that in the spring a brighter scarlet glows in the suburban pillar-box, or in the spring the wanton policeman gets himself another crest or even another helmet. It is only human hopefulness that can see any hope in the human institution of the pillar-box; and only by a great act of faith do we affirm that policemen shall rise again from the dead. Nature cannot help us now, even as a symbol; for industrialism has destroyed the natural, but it cannot destroy the supernatural.
Second, we shall not fall into the pantheist fallacy of Shelley because it is only too likely that Nature, in the sense of immediate material resourses, will take on a sterner aspect in later and darker days; the days in which nature-worshippers become devil-worshippers. Merely natural optimists will become very unnatural pessimists— and it will be quite natural.
Lastly, the very task before us is enough to prove that things begin in the mind and that the spirit must blow its trumpet before any resurrection. For we are trying to bring back a Spring that as yet only exists in the spirit; to create grass and green things which must exist in a dream before they can exist in a landscape; the growth of which will be a miracle in the sense of something turning back the whole trend and movement of the earth. A Revolution is a mild thing compared with a Resurrection; and nothing less can raise us from the dead.
G. K.’s Weekly, March 26th, 1932
LA PRIMAVERA NELL’ANIMA
La Pasqua, che sulla terra dischiude la soglia della Primavera, è stata per tutta la nostra stirpe e la nostra civiltà la stagione della Resurrezione. Ma in condizioni malate come le nostre è sorta una perpetua contesa fra due scuole intorno all’ordine delle due idee. I cristiani e tutti coloro che abitano l’antica civiltà sentono che la Primavera è il simbolo della Pasqua. I materialisti, e in particolare gli antropologi atei d’ogni risma, sostengono che la Pasqua fu soltanto un simbolo della primavera. I professori di folclore insistevano che l’uomo primitivo (col quale parevano trovarsi in confidenza assai intima) avesse imbastito una mascherata di mito piuttosto innaturale, al solo scopo di velare i naturali fatti dell’esperienza. Quando il buon senso cominciò a farsi coraggio e a mettere in dubbio ciò che veniva chiamato le Conclusioni della Scienza, si vide chiaramente che c’erano parecchie domande a cui la scienza non sapeva rispondere, e parecchi punti sui quali le sue conclusioni erano tutt’altro che conclusive. Perché mai qualcuno dovrebbe voler coprire fatti ordinari con una storia straordinaria? Perché mai si dovrebbe credere di poter tenere segreta l’erba inventando un dio dell’erba? E perché l’uomo primitivo non poteva essere abbastanza primitivo da lasciare i fatti semplici così com’erano? Non era assai più naturale immaginare fiori o fronde come ornamenti di un dio o di un eroe, che immaginare un idolo cavo inventato solo per frapporsi fra gli uomini e i fiori? Non è più sensato dire che il visibile rinnovarsi della terra offre accenni o segni a coloro che già credono nel cielo? Ma qualunque mistero fosse accolto dagli antichi pagani è diventato mera mistificazione nella mente dei moderni panteisti. Immagino che nessuna mente umana sia mai stata in così completa confusione come la mente del grande poeta Shelley quando scrisse il celebre verso: «Se giunge l’inverno, può la primavera essere lontana?»
Per cominciare, i più freddolosi hanno l’abitudine di ricordare al poeta che, quando giunge l’inverno, la Primavera è distante almeno un quarto dell’anno. Ma verrà pure in mente all’uomo naturale (a differenza di quell’uomo quanto mai innaturale che chiamiamo adoratore della natura) che sarebbe altrettanto facile volgere la frase dall’ottimismo al pessimismo scegliendo un’altra sezione dell’anno. Sarebbe altrettanto sensato dire: «Se giunge l’estate, può l’autunno essere lontano?» Ed è probabilmente alla portata dell’intelligenza, persino di un panteista che passi in rassegna l’intero universo, prevedere che l’Inverno non solo verrà, ma tornerà di certo a venire. Non c’è dunque che sciocchezza in ogni pretesa che il semplice giro della Natura sia di per sé la sorgente delle nostre speranze più alte, o che possa da solo aver generato tutto ciò che si intende per Resurrezione. È l’anima, che ha ricevuto dal cielo un segreto indicibile, a poterlo esprimere soltanto in immagini della terra, e a esprimerlo naturalmente nei termini delle resurrezioni temporanee della terra. In altre parole, essa usa la Primavera come simbolo della Pasqua; non la Pasqua come simbolo della Primavera. Chiunque vorrà mettere a confronto i bei versi di Shelley con altri versi ugualmente belli di uno dei sonetti del signor Belloc misurerà la differenza che fa una filosofia la quale per avventura abbia senso.
Poiché al tuo passare, la vita naturale delle cose Proclama la Resurrezione; al tuo passare, L’estate ricordata risplende lungo l’erba E qualcosa in me d’immortale canta.
Qui il poeta non parla come se la prossima primavera dovesse durare in eterno; al contrario, parla dell’estate scorsa che è già morta. Ma di entrambe può cantare in virtù di qualcosa di diverso, in lui, che non muore.
In questa Primavera più che in tutte le altre Primavere, in questa Pasqua più che in tutte le altre Pasque, ci tocca affrontare la tremenda esaltazione di quella verità. Intendo la verità che la Resurrezione è cosa di fede, e non di alcuna falsa analogia con i sensi o con le stagioni. Almeno tre cose, proprie del tempo presente, ci impediscono di identificare quella speranza con un risveglio o un tripudio di vegetazione. Primo, la bella condizione a cui pochi secoli di progresso hanno ridotto la metà dei paesaggi del paese. L’estate ricordata non risplende lungo l’erba a Pudsey o a Wigan, perché non c’è erba che risplenda. La vita naturale delle cose non proclama la Resurrezione a Sheffield e a Huddersfield, perché la vita delle cose non è naturale. È soltanto la vita soprannaturale che osa proclamarla laggiù. I poeti non possono descrivere i paesaggi cittadini come mutevoli con la primavera. Non possono dire che in primavera uno scarlatto più vivo risplende nella cassetta postale suburbana, o che in primavera il capriccioso poliziotto si procura un altro cimiero, o addirittura un altro elmo. È solo la speranza umana a poter vedere qualche speranza nell’umana istituzione della cassetta postale; e soltanto con un grande atto di fede affermiamo che i poliziotti risorgeranno dai morti. La Natura non può soccorrerci ora, neppure come simbolo; poiché l’industrialismo ha distrutto il naturale, ma non può distruggere il soprannaturale.
Secondo, non cadremo nella fallacia panteista di Shelley, perché è fin troppo probabile che la Natura, nel senso delle immediate risorse materiali, assuma un aspetto più severo nei giorni più tardi e più oscuri; i giorni in cui gli adoratori della natura diventano adoratori del diavolo. Gli ottimisti meramente naturali diventeranno pessimisti quanto mai innaturali… e sarà cosa del tutto naturale.
Da ultimo, il compito stesso che ci sta dinanzi basta a provare che le cose cominciano nella mente, e che lo spirito deve suonare la sua tromba prima di ogni resurrezione. Poiché stiamo cercando di ricondurre una Primavera che finora esiste soltanto nello spirito; di creare erba e verzure che devono esistere in un sogno prima di poter esistere in un paesaggio; il cui germogliare sarà un miracolo nel senso di qualcosa che inverte l’intero corso e movimento della terra. Una Rivoluzione è cosa mite in confronto a una Resurrezione; e nulla di meno può risollevarci dai morti.
G. K.’s Weekly, 26 marzo 1932
THE PERSON OF JESUS CHRIST
Chesterton had been invited to reply to an article in The Hibbert Journal, which had challenged our Lord’s divinity and attributed human fallibility and error to His teaching. He begins by saying that he intends to speak of ‘the actual Jesus as He appears in the New Testament; not as He appears to a believer, but as He appears to anybody; as He appeared to me when I was an agnostic; as He appeared and still appears to pagans when they first read about Him.’ If, therefore, he says, I speak of Him in this article with something that even sounds like levity, let it be understood that l am speaking for the sake of argument of a hypothetical human Jesus in the Syrian documents and not of that divine personality in whom I believe.’
‘Now, the thing that strikes me most about [the critic] is that he is wrong on the facts. He is especially wrong on the primary fact of what sort of person the Jesus of the Gospels appears to be. The whole of [his] contention is ultimately this; that when we look, so to speak, through the four windows of the Evangelists at this mysterious figure, we can see there a recognizable Jew of the first century, with the traceable limitations of such a man. Now this is exactly what we do not see. If we must put the thing profanely and without sympathy, what we see is this: an extraordinary being who would certainly have seemed as mad in one century as another, who makes a vague and vast claim to divinity, who constantly contradicts himself, who imposes impossible commands, who where he seems wrong to us would certainly have seemed quite as wrong to anybody else, who where he seems right to us is often in tune with matters not ancient but modern, such, for instance, as the adoration of children. For some of his utterances men might fairly call him a maniac; for others, men long centuries afterwards might justly call him a prophet. But what nobody can possibly call him is a Galilean of the time of Tiberius. That was not how he appeared to his own family who tried to lock him up as a lunatic. That is not how he appeared to his own nation, who lynched him, still shuddering at his earth-shaking blasphemies. The impression produced on sceptics, ancient and modern, is not that of limits, but rather of a dangerous absence of limits; a certain shapelessness and mystery of which one cannot say how far it will go. … The thing to say about Jesus, if you do not like Him, is that He was a megalomaniac like Nero or a mystagogue like Cagliostro. But whether or no He was small, it is plain that the Gospels are too small for Him. Whether or no He is large, He is too large for the stage. …
If I take it for granted (as most modern people do) that Jesus of Nazareth was one of the ordinary teachers of men, then I find Him splendid and suggestive indeed, but full of riddles and outrageous demands, by no means so workable and everyday an adviser as many heathens and many Jesuits. But if I put myself hypothetically into the other attitude, the case becomes curiously arresting and even thrilling. If I say ‘Suppose the Divine did really walk and talk upon the earth, what should we be likely to think of it?’—then the foundations of my mind are moved. So far as I can form any conjecture, I think we should see in such a being exactly the perplexities that we see in the central figure of the Gospels: I think he would seem to us extreme and violent; because he would see some further development in virtue which would be for us untried. I think he would seem to us to contradict himself; because, looking down on life like a map, he would see a connection between things which to us are disconnected. I think, how ever, that he would always ring true to our own sense of right, but ring (so to speak) too loud and too clear. He would be too good but never too bad for us: ‘Be ye perfect.’ I think would be, in the nature of things, some tragic collision between him and the humanity he had created, culminating in something that would be at once a crime and an expiation. I think he would be blamed as a hard prophet for dragging down the haughty, and blamed also as a weak sentimentalist for loving the things that cling in corners, children or beggars. I think, in short, that he would give us a sensation that he was turning all our standards upside down, and yet also a sensation that he had undeniably put them the right way up. So, if I had been a Greek sage or an Arab poet before Christ, I should have figured to myself, in a dream, what would actually happen if this earth bore secretly the father of gods and men. In the abstract, it may be that it is still only a dream. Between those who think it is a dream and those who do not, is to be waged the great war of our future in which all these frivolities will be forgotten.
Hibbert Journal, July, 1909
THE DIVINE COMEDY
At the beginning and at the end of all life, learned and ignorant, there is the abiding truth that in the inmost theatre of the soul of man, with a scenery of bottomless infinities and appalling abstractions, there is always going forward one ancient mystery play in which there are only two characters.
The Speaker, February 9th, 1901
LA PERSONA DI GESÙ CRISTO
Chesterton era stato invitato a rispondere a un articolo dell’Hibbert Journal, che aveva messo in dubbio la divinità di nostro Signore e attribuito fallibilità ed errore umani al suo insegnamento. Egli comincia dicendo che intende parlare del «Gesù reale quale appare nel Nuovo Testamento; non come appare a un credente, ma come appare a chiunque; come apparve a me quando ero agnostico; come apparve e ancora appare ai pagani quando per la prima volta leggono di lui». Se dunque, dice, io parlo di lui in questo articolo con qualcosa che suona persino come leggerezza, si intenda che parlo, per amore di argomentazione, di un ipotetico Gesù umano nei documenti siriaci, e non di quella divina personalità in cui credo.»
«Ora, la cosa che più mi colpisce di [chi critica] è che ha torto sui fatti. Ha torto soprattutto sul fatto primario, ossia quale sorta di persona appaia essere il Gesù dei Vangeli. Tutta la [sua] tesi si riduce in ultima analisi a questo: che quando guardiamo, per così dire, attraverso le quattro finestre degli Evangelisti questa misteriosa figura, vi scorgiamo un riconoscibile ebreo del primo secolo, con i tracciabili limiti di un uomo simile. Ora, questo è esattamente ciò che non vediamo. Se dobbiamo dire la cosa in modo profano e senza simpatia, ciò che vediamo è questo: un essere straordinario che sarebbe certamente sembrato folle in un secolo come in un altro, che avanza una vaga e vasta pretesa di divinità, che si contraddice di continuo, che impone comandi impossibili, che laddove ci sembra in torto sarebbe certamente sembrato altrettanto in torto a chiunque altro, e che laddove ci sembra nel giusto è spesso in sintonia con cose non antiche ma moderne, come, per esempio, l’adorazione dei bambini. Per alcune delle sue affermazioni gli uomini potrebbero a buon diritto chiamarlo maniaco; per altre, gli uomini di lunghi secoli posteriori potrebbero giustamente chiamarlo profeta. Ma ciò che nessuno può in alcun modo chiamarlo è un galileo del tempo di Tiberio. Non così apparve alla sua stessa famiglia, che tentò di rinchiuderlo come un pazzo. Non così apparve alla sua stessa nazione, che lo linciò, ancora rabbrividendo alle sue bestemmie che scuotevano la terra. L’impressione prodotta sugli scettici, antichi e moderni, non è quella di limiti, ma piuttosto di una pericolosa assenza di limiti; una certa informità e un mistero di cui non si può dire fino a che punto arriverà. … La cosa da dire di Gesù, se non vi piace, è che fu un megalomane come Nerone o un mistagogo come Cagliostro. Ma sia stato piccolo o no, è chiaro che i Vangeli sono troppo piccoli per lui. Sia grande o no, egli è troppo grande per la scena. …
Se do per scontato (come fa la maggior parte della gente moderna) che Gesù di Nazareth fu uno degli ordinari maestri degli uomini, allora lo trovo splendido e suggestivo davvero, ma pieno di enigmi e di pretese oltraggiose, tutt’altro che un consigliere così pratico e quotidiano come molti pagani e molti gesuiti. Ma se mi pongo ipoteticamente nell’altro atteggiamento, il caso diventa curiosamente avvincente e persino emozionante. Se dico: «Supponiamo che il Divino abbia davvero camminato e parlato sulla terra: che cosa saremmo portati a pensarne?» — allora le fondamenta stesse della mia mente sono scosse. Per quanto io possa formulare una congettura, penso che vedremmo in un tale essere esattamente le perplessità che vediamo nella figura centrale dei Vangeli: penso che ci sembrerebbe estremo e violento, perché vedrebbe qualche ulteriore sviluppo nella virtù che per noi sarebbe non sperimentato. Penso che ci sembrerebbe contraddirsi, perché, guardando dall’alto la vita come una mappa, vedrebbe una connessione fra cose che per noi sono sconnesse. Penso, tuttavia, che egli suonerebbe sempre vero al nostro stesso senso del giusto, ma suonerebbe (per così dire) troppo forte e troppo chiaro. Sarebbe troppo buono, ma mai troppo cattivo per noi: «Siate perfetti». Penso che vi sarebbe, nella natura delle cose, qualche tragica collisione fra lui e l’umanità che aveva creato, culminante in qualcosa che sarebbe a un tempo un delitto e un’espiazione. Penso che sarebbe biasimato come un duro profeta per aver abbattuto i superbi, e biasimato anche come un debole sentimentale per aver amato le cose che si stringono negli angoli, i bambini o i mendicanti. Penso, in breve, che ci darebbe la sensazione di capovolgere tutti i nostri criteri, e insieme la sensazione di averli innegabilmente rimessi nel verso giusto. Così, se fossi stato un saggio greco o un poeta arabo prima di Cristo, mi sarei figurato, in un sogno, che cosa accadrebbe davvero se questa terra portasse segretamente il padre degli dèi e degli uomini. In astratto, può darsi che sia ancora soltanto un sogno. Fra coloro che pensano sia un sogno e coloro che non lo pensano si combatterà la grande guerra del nostro futuro, nella quale tutte queste frivolezze saranno dimenticate.
Hibbert Journal, luglio 1909
LA DIVINA COMMEDIA
Al principio e al termine di ogni vita, dotta e ignorante, permane la verità che nell’intimo teatro dell’anima dell’uomo, con una scenografia di infiniti senza fondo e di spaventose astrazioni, si svolge sempre un antico dramma sacro in cui non vi sono che due personaggi.
The Speaker, 9 febbraio 1901
THE DRAGON
The following is the last sentence of Chesterton’s first published essay; it appeared in the first number of The Debater, the journal of the famous J.D.C. at St Paul’s School. In spite of its schoolboy rhetoric, it expresses something of which Chesterton’s whole literary career was, in a very real sense, a fulfilment.
Reader, when you or I meet him [the dragon], under whatever disguise, and perhaps rescue a few captives from his black cavern, may we bear a brave lance and a spotless shield through the crashing mêlée of life’s narrow lists and may our wearied swords have struck fiercely on the painted crests of Imposture and Injustice when the Dark Herald comes to lead us to the pavilion of the King.
The Debater, March—April, 1891
IL DRAGO
La frase che segue è l’ultima del primo saggio pubblicato da Chesterton; apparve nel primo numero del Debater, il giornale della celebre J.D.C. della St Paul’s School. Nonostante la sua retorica da scolaretto, essa esprime qualcosa di cui l’intera carriera letteraria di Chesterton fu, in un senso quanto mai reale, l’adempimento.
Lettore, quando tu o io lo incontreremo [il drago], sotto qualunque travestimento, e libereremo forse alcuni prigionieri dalla sua nera caverna, possiamo noi recare una lancia coraggiosa e uno scudo immacolato attraverso la fragorosa mischia degli angusti steccati della vita, e possano le nostre spade affaticate aver colpito ferocemente i cimieri dipinti dell’Impostura e dell’Ingiustizia quando l’Oscuro Araldo verrà a condurci al padiglione del Re.
The Debater, marzo-aprile 1891