OF TAKING LIFE
I was walking with Father Payne one hot summer day upon a field-path he was very fond of. There was a copse, through the middle of which the little river, the Fyllot, ran. It was the boundary of the Aveley estate, and it here joined another stream, the Rode, which came in from the south. The path went through the copse, dense with hazels, and there was always a musical sound of lapsing waters hidden in the wood. The birds sang shrill in the thicket, and Father Payne said, "This is the juncture of Pison and Hiddekel, you know, rivers of Paradise. Aveley is Havilah, where the gold is good, and where there is bdellium, if we only knew where to look for it.
I fancy it is rich in bdellium. I came down here, I remember, the first day I took possession. It was wonderful, after being so long among the tents of Kedar, to plant my flag in Havilah; I made a vow that day--I don"t know if I have kept it!"
"What was that?" I said.
"Only that I would not get too fond of it all," said Father Payne, smiling, "and that I would share it with other people. But I have got very fond of it, and I haven"t shared it. Asking people to stay with you, that they may see what a nice place you have to live in, is hardly sharing it. It is rather the other way--the last refinement of possession, in fact!"
"It"s very odd," he went on, "that I should love this little bit of the world so much as I do. It"s called mine--that"s a curious idea. I have got very little power over it. I can"t prevent the trees and flowers from growing here, or the birds from nesting here, if they have a mind to do so.
I can only keep human beings out of it, more or less. And yet I love it with a sort of pa.s.sion, so that I want other people to love it too. I should like to think that after I am gone, some one should come here and see how exquisitely beautiful it is, and wish to keep it and tend it.
That"s what lies behind the principle of inheritance; it isn"t the money or the position only that we desire to hand on to our children--it"s the love of the earth and all that grows out of it; and possession means the desire of keeping it unspoiled and beautiful, I could weep at the idea of this all being swept away, and a bdellium-mine being started here, with a factory-chimney and rows of little houses; and yet I suppose that if the population increased, and the land was all nationalised, a great deal of the beauty of England would go. I hope, however, that the sense of beauty might increase too--I don"t think the country people here have much notion of beauty. They only like things to remain as they know them. It"s a fearful luxury really for a man like myself to live in a land like this, so full of old woodland and pasture, which is only possible under rich proprietors. I"m an abuse, of course. I have got a much larger slice of my native soil than any one man ought to have; but I don"t see the way out.
The individual can"t dispossess himself--it"s the system which is wrong."
He stopped in the middle of the copse, and said: "Did you ever see anything so perfectly lovely as this place? And yet it is all living in a state of war and anarchy. The trees and plants against each other, all fighting for a place in the sun. The rabbit against the gra.s.s, the bird against the worm, the cat against the bird. There"s no peace here really--it"s full of terrors! Only the stream is taking it easy. It hasn"t to live by taking life, and the very sound of it is innocent."
Presently he said: "This is all cut down every five years. It"s all made into charcoal and bobbins. Then the flowers all come up in a rush; then the copse begins to grow again--I never can make up my mind which is most beautiful. I come and help the woodmen when they cut the copse. That"s pleasant work, you know, cutting and binding. I sometimes wonder if the hazels hate being slashed about. I expect they do; but it can"t hurt them much, for up they come again. It"s the right way to live, of course, to begin again the minute you are cut down to the roots, to struggle out to the air and sun again, and to give thanks for life. Don"t you feel yourself as if you were good for centuries of living?"
"I"m not sure that I do," I said, "I don"t feel as if I had quite got my hand in."
"Yes, that"s all right for you, old boy," said Father Payne. "You are learning to live, and you are living. But an old fellow like me, who has got in the way of it, and has found out at last how good it is to be alive, has to realise that he has only got a f.a.g-end left. I don"t at all want to die; I"ve got my hands as full as they can hold of pretty and delightful things; and I don"t at all want to be cut down like the copse, and to have to build up my branches again. Yes," he added, pondering, "I used to think I should not live long, and I didn"t much want to, I believe! But now--it"s almost disgraceful to think how much I prize life, and how interesting I find it. Depend upon it, on we go! The only thing that is mysterious to me is why I love a place like this so much. I don"t suppose it loves me. I suppose there isn"t a beast or a bird, perhaps not a tree or a flower, in the place that won"t be rather relieved when I go back home without having killed something. I expect, in fact, that I have left a track of death behind me in the gra.s.s--little beetles and things that weren"t doing any harm, and that liked being alive. That"s pretty beastly, you know, but how is one to help it? Then my affection for it is very futile. I can"t establish a civilised system here; I can"t prevent the creatures from eating each other, or the trees from crowding out the flowers. I can"t eat or use the things myself, I can"t take them away with me; I can only stand and yearn with cheap sentiment.
"And yet," he said after a moment, "there"s something here in this bit of copse that whispers to me beautiful secrets--the sunshine among the stems, the rustle of leaves, the wandering breeze, the scent and coolness of it all! It is crammed with beauty; it is all trying to live, and glad to live.
You may say, of course, that you don"t see all that in it, and it is I that am abnormal. But that doesn"t explain it away. The fact that I feel it is a better proof that it is there than the fact that you don"t feel it is a proof that it isn"t there! The only thing about it that isn"t beautiful to me is the fact that life can"t live except by taking life--that there is no right to live; and that, I admit, is disconcerting. You may say to me, "You old bully, crammed with the corpses of sheep and potatoes, which you haven"t even had the honesty to kill for yourself, you dare to come here, and talk this stuff about the beauty of it all, and the joy of living. If all the bodies of the things you have consumed in your bloated life were piled together, it would make a thing as big as a whole row of ricks!" If you say that, I admit that you take the sentiment out of my sails!"
"But I don"t say it," said I: "Who dies if Father Payne live?"
He laughed at this, and clapped me on the back. "You"re in the same case as I, old man," he said, "only you haven"t got such a pile of blood and bones to your credit! Here, we must stow this talk, or we shall become both humbugs and materialists. It"s a puzzling business, talking! It leads you into some very ugly places!"
LXI
OF BOOKISHNESS
I went in to see Father Payne one morning about some work. He was reading a book with knitted brows: he looked up, gave a nod, but no smile, pointed to a chair, and I sate down: a minute or two later he shut the book--a neat enough little volume--with a snap, and skimmed it deftly from where he sate, into his large waste-paper basket. This, by the way, was a curious little accomplishment of his,--throwing things with unerring aim. He could skim more cards across a room into a hat than anyone I have ever seen who was not a professed student of legerdemain.
"What are you doing?" I said--"such a nice little book!" I rose and rescued the volume, which was a careful enough edition of some poems and sc.r.a.ps of poems, posthumously discovered, of a well-known poet.
"Pray accept it with my kindest regards," said Father Payne. "No, I don"t know that I _ought_ to give it you. It is the sort of book I object to."
"Why?" I said, examining it--"it seems harmless enough."
"It"s the wrong sort of literature," said Father Payne. "There isn"t time, or there ought not to be, to go fumbling about with these old sc.r.a.ps. They aren"t good enough to publish--and what"s more, if the man didn"t publish them himself, you may be sure he had very good reasons for _not_ doing so. The only interest of them is that so good a poet could write such drivel, and that he knew it was drivel sufficiently well not to publish it.
But the man who can edit it doesn"t know that, and the critics who review it don"t know it either--it was a respectful review that made me buy the rubbish--and as for the people who read it, G.o.d alone knows what they think of it. It"s a case of
""Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes in holy dread."
"You have to shut your eyes pretty tight not to see what bosh it all is--it is all this infernal reverence paid by people, who have no independence of judgment, to great reputations. It reminds me of the barber who used to cut the Duke of Wellington"s hair and nails, who made quite a lot of money by selling clippings to put in lockets!"
"But isn"t it worth while to see a great poet"s inferior jottings, and to grasp how he worked?" said I.
"No," said Father Payne;--"at least it would be worth while to see how he brought off his good strokes, but it isn"t worth while seeing how he missed his stroke altogether. This deification business is all unwholesome. In art, in life, in religion, in literature, it"s a mistake to worship the saints--you don"t make them divine, you only confuse things, and bring down the divine to your own level. The truth--the truth--why can"t people see how splendid it is, and that it is one"s only chance of getting on! To shut your eyes to the possibility of the great man having a touch of the commonplace, a touch of the a.s.s, even a touch of the knave in him, doesn"t enn.o.ble your conception of human nature. If you can only glorify humanity by telling lies about it, and by ruling out all the flaws in it, you end by being a sentimentalist. "See thou do it not ... worship G.o.d!" that"s one of the finest things in the Bible. Of course it is magnificent to see a streak of the divine turning up again and again in human nature--but you have got to wash the dirt to find the diamond. Believe in the beauty behind and in and beyond us all--but don"t worship the imperfect thing. This sort of book is like selling the dirt out of which the diamonds have been washed, and which would appear to have gained holiness by contact. I hate to see people stopping short on the symbol and the ill.u.s.tration, instead of pa.s.sing on to the truth behind--it"s idolatry. It"s one degree better than worshipping nothing; but the danger of idolatry is that you are content to get no further: and that is what makes idolatry so ingenious a device of the devil, that it persuades people to stop still and not to get on."
"But aren"t you making too much out of it?" I said. "At the worst, this is a harmless literary blunder, a foolish bit of hero-worship?"
"Yes," said Father Payne, "in a sense that is true, that these little literary hucksters and pedlars don"t do any very great harm--I don"t mean that they cause much mischief: but they are the symptom of a grave disease.
It is this d----d _bookishness_ which is so unreal. I would like to say a word about it to you, if you have time, instead of doing our work to-day--for if you will allow me to say so, my boy, you have got a touch of it about you--only a touch--and I think if I can show you what I mean, you can throw it off--I have heard you say rather solemn things about books!
But I want you to get through that. It reminds me of the talk of ritualists. I have a poor friend who is a very harmless sort of parson--but I have heard him talk of a bit of ceremonial with tears in his eyes. "It was exquisite, exquisite," he will say,--"the celebrant wore a cope--a bit, I believe of genuine pre-Reformation work--of course remounted--and the Gospeller and Epistoller had copes so perfectly copied that it would have been hard to say which was the real one. And then Father Wynne holds himself so n.o.bly--such a mixture of humility and pride--a priest ought to exhibit both, I think, at that moment?--and his gestures are so inevitable--so inevitable--that"s the only word: there"s no sense of rehearsal about it: it is just the supreme act of worship expressing itself in utter abandonment"--He will go on like that for an hour if he can find a great enough goose to listen to him. Now, I don"t mean to say that the man hasn"t a sense of beauty--he has the real ritual instinct, a perfectly legitimate branch of art. But he doesn"t know it"s art--he thinks it is religion. He thinks that G.o.d is preoccupied with such things; "a full choral High Ma.s.s, at nine o"clock, that"s a thing to live and die for," I have heard him say. Of course it"s a sort of idealism, but you must know what you are about, and what you are idealising: and you mustn"t think that your kind is better than any other kind of idealising."
He made a pause, and then held out his hand for the book.
"Now here is the same sort of intemperate rapture," he said. "Look at this introduction! "It is his very self that his poems give, and the sharpest jealousy of his name and fame is enkindled by them. Not to find him there, his pa.s.sion, endurance, faith, rapture, despair, is merely a confession of want in ourselves." That"s not sane, you know--it"s the intoxication of the Corybant! It isn"t the man himself we want to fix our eyes upon. He felt these things, no doubt: but we mustn"t worship his raptures--we must worship what he worshipped. This sort of besotted agitation is little better than a dancing dervish. The poems are little sparks, struck out from a sc.r.a.p of humanity by some prodigious and glorious force: but we must worship the force, not the spark: the spark is only an evidence, a system, a symbol if you like, of the force. And then see how utterly the man has lost all sense of proportion--he has spent hours and days in identifying with uncommon patience the exact date of these tepid sc.r.a.ps, and he says he is content to have laid a single stone in the "unamended, unabridged, authentic temple" of his idol"s fame. That seems to me simply degrading: and then the portentous a.s.s, whose review I read, says that if the editor had done nothing else, he is sure of an honoured place for ever in the hierarchy of impeccable critics! And what is all this jabber about--a few rhymes which a man made when he was feeling a little off colour, and which he did not think it worth while to publish!
"You mustn"t get into this kind of a mess, my boy. The artist mustn"t indulge in emotion for the sake of the emotion. "The weakness of life,"
says this pompous a.s.s, "is that it deviates from art!" You might just as well say that the weakness of food was that it deviated from a well-cooked leg of mutton! Art is just an attempt to disentangle something, to get at one of the big const.i.tuents of life. It helps you to see clearly, not to confuse one thing with another, not to be vaguely impressed--the hideous danger of bookishness is that it is one of the blind alleys into which people get. These two fellows, the editor and his critic, have got stuck there: they can"t see out: they think their little valley is the end of the world. I expect they are both of them very happy men, as happy as a man who goes to bed comfortably drunk. But, good G.o.d, the awakening!" Father Payne relapsed into a long silence, with knitted brows. I tried to start him afresh.
"But you often tell us to be serious, to be deadly earnest, about our work?" I said.
"Oh yes," said Father Payne, "that"s another matter. We have to work hard, and put the best of ourselves into what we do. I don"t want you to be an amiable dilettante. But I also want you to see past even the best art. You mustn"t think that the stained-gla.s.s window is the body of heaven in its clearness. The sort of worshippers I object to are the men who shut themselves up in a church, and what with the colour and the music and the incense-smoke, think they are in heaven already. It"s an intoxication, all that. I don"t get you men to come here to make you drunk, but to get you to loathe drunkenness. G.o.d--that"s the end of it all! G.o.d, who reveals Himself in beauty and kindness, and trustfulness, and charm and interest, and in a hundred pure and fine forces--yet each of them are but avenues which lead up to Him, the streets of the city, full of living water. But it is movement I am in search of--and I would rather be drowned in the depth of the sea than mislead anyone, or help him to sit still. I have made an awful row about it all," said Father Payne, relapsing into a milder mood--"But you will forgive me, I know. I can"t bear to see these worthy men blocking the way with their una.s.sailable, unabridged, authentic editions. They are like barbed-wire entanglements: and the worst of it is that, in spite of all their holy air of triumph, they enjoy few things more than tripping each other up! They condemn each other to eternal perdition for misplacing a date or misspelling a name. It"s like getting into a bed of nettles to get in among these little hierophants. They remind me of the bishops at some ancient Church Council or other who tore the clothes off two right reverend consultants, and literally pulled them limb from limb in the name of Christ. That"s the end of these holy raptures, my boy! They unchain the beast within."
LXII
OF CONSISTENCY
There had been a little vague talk about politics, and someone had quoted a definition of a true Liberal as a man who, if he had only to press a b.u.t.ton in a dark room to annihilate all cranks, faddists, political quacks, extremists, propagandists, and nostrum-mongers, would not dream of doing so, as a matter of conscience, on the ground that everyone has a right to hold his own beliefs and to persuade the world to accept them if he can.
Father Payne laughed at this; but Rose, who had been nettled, I fancy, at a lack of deference for his political experience, his father being a Unionist M.P., said loudly, "Hear, hear! that"s the only sort of Liberal whom I respect."
A look of sudden anger pa.s.sed over Father Payne"s face--unmistakable and uncompromising wrath. "Come, Rose," he said, "this isn"t a political meeting; and even if it were, why proclaim yourself as accepting a definition which is almost within the comprehension of a chimpanzee?"
There was a faint laugh at this, but everyone had an uncomfortable sense of thunder in the air. Rose got rather white, and his nostrils expanded. "I"m sorry I put it in that way," he said rather frostily, "if you object. But I mean it, I think. I don"t like diluted Liberalism."
"Yes, but you beg the question by calling it diluted," said Father Payne.
"If anyone had said that the only Tory he respected was a man who if he could press a b.u.t.ton in a still darker room, and by doing so bring it to pa.s.s that all inst.i.tutions on the face of the earth would remain immutably fixed for ever and ever, and would feel himself bound conscientiously to do it, you wouldn"t accept that as a definition of Conservatism? These things are not hard and fast matters of principle--they are only tendencies.
Toryism is an instinct to trust custom and authority, Liberalism is an instinct to welcome development and change. All that the definition of Liberalism which was quoted means is, that the Liberal has a deep respect for freedom of opinion; and all that my grotesque definition of Toryism means is that a Tory prefers to trust a fixed tradition. But, of course, both want a settled Government, and both have to recognise that the world and its conditions change. The Tory says, "Look before you leap"; the Liberal says, "Leap before you look." But it is really all a matter of infinite gradations, and what differentiates people is merely their idea of the pace at which things can go and ought to go. Why should you say that you can only respect a man who wants to go at sixty miles an hour, any more than I should say I can only respect a man who wants to remain absolutely still?"
Rose had by this time recovered his temper, and said, "It was rather crude, I admit. But what I meant was that if a man feels that all opinions are of equal value, he must give full weight to all opinions. The doctrinaire Liberal seems to me to be just as much inclined to tyrannise as the doctrinaire Tory, and to use his authority on the side of suppression when it is convenient to do so, and against all his own principles."
"I don"t think that is quite fair," said Father Payne. "You must have a working system; you can"t try everyone"s experiments. All that the Liberal says is, "Persuade us if you can." Pure Liberalism would be anarchy, just as pure Toryism would be tyranny. Both are intolerable. But just as the Liberal has to compromise and say, "This may not be the ultimate theory of the Government, but meanwhile the world has to be governed," so the Tory has to compromise, if a large majority of the people say, "We will not be governed by a minority for their interest; we will be governed for our own." The parliamentary vote is just a way of avoiding civil war; you can"t always resort to force, so you resort to arbitration. But why the Liberal position is on the whole the stronger is because it says frankly, "If you Tories can persuade the nation to ask you to govern it, we will obey you."
The weakness of the Tory position is that it has to make exactly the same concessions, while it claims to be inspired by a divine sort of knowledge as to what is just and right. I personally mistrust all intuitions which lead to tyranny. Of course, the weakness of the whole affair is that the man who believes in democracy has to a.s.sume that all have equal rights; that would be fair enough if all people were born equal in character and ability, and influence and wealth. But that isn"t the case; and so the Liberal says, "Democracy is a bad system perhaps, but it is the only system," and it is fairer to maintain that everyone who gets into the world has as good a right as anyone else to be there, than it is to say, "Some people have a right to manage the world and some have only a duty to obey."
Both represent a side of the truth, but neither represents the whole truth.
At worst Liberalism is a combination of the weak against the strong, and Toryism a combination of the strong against the weak! I personally wish the weak to have a chance; but what we all really desire is to be governed by the wise and good, and my hope for the world is that the quality of it is improving. I want the weak to become sensible and self-restrained, and the strong to become unselfish and disinterested. It is generosity that I want to see increase--it is the finest of all qualities--the desire, I mean to serve others, to admire, to sympathise, to share, to rejoice, in other people"s happiness. That would solve all our difficulties."
"Yes, of course," said Rose. "But I would like to go back again, and say that what I was praising was consistency."