On Mending and Ending Things
G. K. Chesterton
A certain politician (whom I would not discuss here on any account) once said of a certain institution (which wild horses shall not induce me to name) that “It must be mended or ended.” Few people who use this useful phrase about reform notice the important thing about it. The important thing about it is that the two methods described here are not similar but opposite; between mending and ending that is not a difference of degree but of vital antagonism of kind. Mending is based upon the idea that the original nature of a thing is good; ending is based upon the idea that the original nature of a thing is bad or at least, has lost all power of being good.
If I “mend” an armchair it is because I want an armchair. I mend the armchair because I wish to restore it to a state of more complete armchairishness. My objection to the armchair in its unmended state is that its defects prevent it from being in the fullest sense an armchair at all. If (let us say) the back has come off and three of the legs have disappeared, I realize, in looking at it, not merely that it presents a sense of general irregularity to the eye; I realize that in such and such respects it does definitely fall short of the Divine and Archetypal Armchair, which, as Plato would have pointed out, exists in heaven.
But it is possible that I might possess among my drawing room furniture some object, let us say a rack or a thumbscrew, of which the nature and raison d’être was repellent to my moral feelings. If my thumbscrew fell into slight disrepair, I should not mend it at all; because the more I mended my thumbscrew the more thumbscrewy it would be. If my private rack were out of order, I should be in no way disturbed; for my private code of ethics prevents me from racking anyone, and the more it was out of order the less likely it would be that any casual passer-by could get racked on it.
In short, a thing is either bad or good in its original aims and functions. If it is good, we are in favor of mending it; and because we are in favor of mending it, we are necessarily opposed to ending it. If it is bad, we are in favor of ending it; and because we are in favor of ending it, we ought to fly into a passion at the mere thought of mending it. It is the question of this fundamental alternative, the right or wrong of the primary idea, which we have to settle in the case of receiving money for charity from members of dubious or disputed trades, from a publican or a pirate.
This is an extremely good example of the fact I have often enunciated, the fact that there is nothing so really practical and urgent as ideal philosophy. If being a publican is a bad thing in its nature, the quickest way of getting a good settlement is to punish the man for being a publican, to suppress him like a smuggler, to treat the man who administers beer like a man who administers poison. But if being a publican is a good thing in itself, the quickest way of getting a good publican is to admire the man because he is a publican, to follow him in great crowds, and crown him with laurel because he is a publican. It is a practical course to destroy a thing; but the only other practical course is to idealize it. A respected despot may sometimes be good; but a despicable despot must always be despicable. If you are going to end an innkeeper, it can be done quite easily with a hatchet. But if you are going to mend an innkeeper, you must do it tenderly, you must do it reverently. You must nail an extra arm or leg on his person, keeping always before you the Platonic image of the perfect innkeeper, to whose shape you seek to restore him.
So I would deal with the seller of whiskey or of battleships, whose contributions to charity were spurned for conscience’ sake by Mr. Bernard Shaw’s latest dramatic creation. Certainly Major Barbara’s rejection of the alms cannot rationally be imitated unless we suppress the trades. If we think these tradesmen wrong, it is absurd merely to refuse their contributions to charities. To do so amounts merely to this: that we tolerate them all the time they are doing evil, and only begin to insult them when they begin to do good.
Illustrated London News, December 23, 1905
On Mending and Ending Things
G. K. Chesterton
A certain politician (whom I would not discuss here on any account) once said of a certain institution (which wild horses shall not induce me to name) that “It must be mended or ended.” Few people who use this useful phrase about reform notice the important thing about it. The important thing about it is that the two methods described here are not similar but opposite; between mending and ending that is not a difference of degree but of vital antagonism of kind. Mending is based upon the idea that the original nature of a thing is good; ending is based upon the idea that the original nature of a thing is bad or at least, has lost all power of being good.
If I “mend” an armchair it is because I want an armchair. I mend the armchair because I wish to restore it to a state of more complete armchairishness. My objection to the armchair in its unmended state is that its defects prevent it from being in the fullest sense an armchair at all. If (let us say) the back has come off and three of the legs have disappeared, I realize, in looking at it, not merely that it presents a sense of general irregularity to the eye; I realize that in such and such respects it does definitely fall short of the Divine and Archetypal Armchair, which, as Plato would have pointed out, exists in heaven.
But it is possible that I might possess among my drawing room furniture some object, let us say a rack or a thumbscrew, of which the nature and raison d’être was repellent to my moral feelings. If my thumbscrew fell into slight disrepair, I should not mend it at all; because the more I mended my thumbscrew the more thumbscrewy it would be. If my private rack were out of order, I should be in no way disturbed; for my private code of ethics prevents me from racking anyone, and the more it was out of order the less likely it would be that any casual passer-by could get racked on it.
In short, a thing is either bad or good in its original aims and functions. If it is good, we are in favor of mending it; and because we are in favor of mending it, we are necessarily opposed to ending it. If it is bad, we are in favor of ending it; and because we are in favor of ending it, we ought to fly into a passion at the mere thought of mending it. It is the question of this fundamental alternative, the right or wrong of the primary idea, which we have to settle in the case of receiving money for charity from members of dubious or disputed trades, from a publican or a pirate.
This is an extremely good example of the fact I have often enunciated, the fact that there is nothing so really practical and urgent as ideal philosophy. If being a publican is a bad thing in its nature, the quickest way of getting a good settlement is to punish the man for being a publican, to suppress him like a smuggler, to treat the man who administers beer like a man who administers poison. But if being a publican is a good thing in itself, the quickest way of getting a good publican is to admire the man because he is a publican, to follow him in great crowds, and crown him with laurel because he is a publican. It is a practical course to destroy a thing; but the only other practical course is to idealize it. A respected despot may sometimes be good; but a despicable despot must always be despicable. If you are going to end an innkeeper, it can be done quite easily with a hatchet. But if you are going to mend an innkeeper, you must do it tenderly, you must do it reverently. You must nail an extra arm or leg on his person, keeping always before you the Platonic image of the perfect innkeeper, to whose shape you seek to restore him.
So I would deal with the seller of whiskey or of battleships, whose contributions to charity were spurned for conscience’ sake by Mr. Bernard Shaw’s latest dramatic creation. Certainly Major Barbara’s rejection of the alms cannot rationally be imitated unless we suppress the trades. If we think these tradesmen wrong, it is absurd merely to refuse their contributions to charities. To do so amounts merely to this: that we tolerate them all the time they are doing evil, and only begin to insult them when they begin to do good.
Illustrated London News, December 23, 1905
Del Riparare e del Por Fine alle Cose
G. K. Chesterton
Un certo uomo politico (di cui non discuterò qui per nessuna ragione al mondo) disse una volta di una certa istituzione (che neppure cavalli selvaggi mi indurranno a nominare) che «va riparata o soppressa». Poche delle persone che si servono di questa comoda frase sulla riforma si accorgono di ciò che in essa vi è di importante. La cosa importante è che i due metodi qui descritti non sono simili, ma opposti: tra il riparare e il sopprimere non corre una differenza di grado, bensì un vitale antagonismo di specie. Il riparare si fonda sull’idea che la natura originaria di una cosa sia buona; il sopprimere si fonda sull’idea che la natura originaria di una cosa sia cattiva, o per lo meno abbia perduto ogni facoltà di essere buona.
Se io «riparo» una poltrona, è perché desidero una poltrona. Riparo la poltrona perché voglio restituirla a uno stato di più compiuta poltronaggine. La mia obiezione contro la poltrona non riparata è che i suoi difetti le impediscono di essere, nel senso pieno, una poltrona. Se (poniamo) lo schienale si è staccato e tre delle gambe sono scomparse, io, guardandola, mi rendo conto non soltanto che essa offre all’occhio una sensazione di generale irregolarità; mi rendo conto che sotto questo o quell’aspetto essa manca decisamente di raggiungere la Divina e Archetipa Poltrona che, come avrebbe fatto notare Platone, esiste in cielo.
Ma è possibile che io possegga, tra i mobili del mio salotto, qualche oggetto — poniamo un cavalletto di tortura o una morsa per i pollici — la cui natura e la cui ragion d’essere ripugnino al mio sentimento morale. Se la mia morsa per i pollici cadesse in un lieve stato di sconquasso, non la riparerei affatto; perché quanto più riparassi la mia morsa, tanto più morsuta essa diverrebbe. Se il mio privato cavalletto di tortura fosse fuori uso, non ne sarei in alcun modo turbato; perché il mio privato codice etico mi vieta di mettere chicchessia al cavalletto, e quanto più esso fosse fuori uso, tanto meno probabile sarebbe che un qualsiasi casuale passante potesse esservi disteso.
In breve, una cosa è o cattiva o buona nei suoi scopi e nelle sue funzioni originarie. Se è buona, siamo favorevoli al ripararla; e poiché siamo favorevoli al ripararla, siamo necessariamente contrari al sopprimerla. Se è cattiva, siamo favorevoli al sopprimerla; e poiché siamo favorevoli al sopprimerla, dovremmo montare in furore al solo pensiero di ripararla. È la questione di questa alternativa fondamentale — la giustezza o l’errore dell’idea primaria — che dobbiamo risolvere nel caso di chi riceva denaro per carità da membri di mestieri dubbi o discussi, da un oste o da un pirata.
Questo è un ottimo esempio del fatto che ho enunciato tante volte: il fatto che non vi è nulla di così realmente pratico e urgente quanto la filosofia ideale. Se essere oste è una cosa cattiva nella sua natura, il modo più spiccio di giungere a una buona soluzione è punire l’uomo perché è oste, sopprimerlo come un contrabbandiere, trattare chi somministra birra come chi somministra veleno. Ma se essere oste è una cosa buona in sé, il modo più spiccio di ottenere un buon oste è ammirare l’uomo perché è oste, seguirlo in grandi folle e cingerlo di alloro con la corona perché è oste. Distruggere una cosa è un corso pratico; ma l’unico altro corso pratico è idealizzarla. Un despota rispettato può talvolta essere buono; ma un despota spregevole dev’essere sempre spregevole. Se vuoi por fine a un locandiere, lo puoi fare assai facilmente con un’accetta. Ma se vuoi riparare un locandiere, devi farlo con tenerezza, devi farlo con reverenza. Devi inchiodargli addosso un braccio o una gamba in più, tenendo sempre davanti agli occhi l’immagine platonica del locandiere perfetto, alla cui forma cerchi di ricondurlo.
Così tratterei io il venditore di whisky o di corazzate, i cui contributi alla carità furono respinti per scrupolo di coscienza dall’ultima creazione drammatica del signor Bernard Shaw. Certo, il rifiuto delle elemosine da parte della Maggiore Barbara non può essere razionalmente imitato se non sopprimendo quei mestieri. Se giudichiamo in errore quei commercianti, è assurdo limitarsi a rifiutare i loro contributi alle opere di beneficenza. Farlo equivale semplicemente a questo: che noi li tolleriamo per tutto il tempo in cui fanno il male, e cominciamo a insultarli soltanto quando cominciano a fare il bene.