"But isn"t it rather a pity?" said Barthrop. "After all, most emotions are useless, if you come to that! Why should you cut yourself off from a place you are so fond of, and which is quite the most beautiful place in England too? Isn"t it rather--well,--weak?"
"Yes," said Father Payne, "it"s weak, no doubt! That is to say, if I were differently made, more hard-hearted, more sure of myself, I should go, and I should enjoy myself, and moon about, and bore you to death with old stories about the chimes at midnight--everybody would be a dear old boy or a good old soul, and I should hand out tips, and get perfectly maudlin in the evenings over a gla.s.s of claret. That"s the normal thing, no doubt--that"s what a n.o.ble-minded man in a novel of Thackeray"s would do!"
"Well," said Barthrop, "you know best--but I expect that if you did take the plunge and go there, you would find yourself quite at ease."
"I might," said Father Payne; "but then I also might not--and I prefer not to risk it. You see, it would be merely wallowing in sentiment--and I don"t approve of sentiment. I want my emotions to live with, not to bathe in!"
"But you don"t mind going back to London," said Barthrop.
"No," said Father Payne, "but that bucks me up. I was infernally unhappy in London, and it puts me in a thoroughly sensible and cheerful mood to go and look at the outside of my old lodgings, and the place where I used to teach, and to say to myself, "Thank G.o.d, that"s all over!" Then I go on my way rejoicing, and make no end of plans. But if I went to Oxford, I should just remember how happy and young I was; and I might even commit the folly of regretting the lapse of time, and of wishing I could have it back again.
I don"t think it is wholesome to do anything which makes one discontented, or anything which forces one to dwell on what one has lost. That doesn"t matter. Nothing really is ever lost, and it only takes the starch out of one to think about it from that angle. I don"t believe in the past. It seems unalterable, and I suppose in a sense it is so. But if you begin to dwell on unalterable things, you become a fatalist, and I"m always trying to get away from that. The point is that no one is unalterable, and, thank G.o.d, we are always altering. To potter about in the past is like grubbing in an ash-heap, and shedding tears over broken bits of china. The plate, or whatever it is, was pretty enough, and it had its place and its use; and when the stuff of which it is made is wanted again, it will be used again.
It is simply fatuous to waste time over the broken pieces of old dreams and visions; and I mean to use my emotions and my imagination to see new dreams and finer visions. Perhaps the time will come when I can dream no more--the brain gets tired and languid, no doubt. But even then I shall try to be interested in what is going on."
"I see your point," said Barthrop; "but, for the life of me, I can"t see why the old place should not take its part in the new visions! When I go down to Oxford I don"t regret it. I go gratefully and happily about, and I like to see the young men as jolly as I was, and as unaware what a good time they are having. An old pal of mine is a Don, and he puts me up in College, and it amuses me to go into Hall, and to see some of the young lions at close quarters. It"s all pure and simple refreshment."
"I"ve no doubt of it, old man," said Father Payne; "and it"s an excellent thing for you to go, and to draw fresh life from the ancient earth, like Antaeus. But I"m not made that way. I"m not loyal--that is to say, I am not faithful to things simply because I once admired and loved them. If you are loyal in the right way, as you are, it"s different. But these old attachments are a kind of idolatry to me--a false worship. I"m naturally full of unreasonable devotion to the old and beautiful things; but they get round my neck like a mill-stone, and it is all so much more weight that I have to carry. I sometimes go to see an old cousin of mine, a widow in the country, who lives entirely in the past, never allows anything to be changed in the house, never talks about anyone who isn"t dead or ill. The woman"s life is simply buried under old memories, mountains of old china, family plate, receipts for jam and marmalade--everything has got to be done as it was in the beginning. Now most of her friends think that very beautiful and tender, and talk of the old-world atmosphere of the place; but I think it simply a stuffy waste of time. I don"t tell her so--G.o.d forbid! But I feel that she is lolling in an arbour by the roadside instead of getting on. It"s innocent enough, but it does not seem to me beautiful."
"But I still don"t see why you give way to the feeling," said Barthrop.
"I"m sure that if I felt as you do about Oxford, or any other place, you would tell me it was my duty to conquer it."
"Very likely!" said Father Payne. "But doctors don"t feel bound to take their own prescriptions! Everyone must decide for himself, and I know that I should fall under the luxurious enchantment. I should go into cheap raptures, I should talk about "the tender grace of a day that is dead"--it"s no use putting your head in a noose to see what being strangled feels like."
"But do you apply that to everything," I said, "old friendships, old affections, old memories? They seem to me beautiful, and harmlessly beautiful."
"Well, if you can use them up quite freshly, and make a poetical dish out of them, for present consumption, I don"t mind," said Father Payne. "But that isn"t my way--I"m not robust enough. It"s all I can do to take things in as they come along. Of course an old memory sometimes goes through one like a sword, but I pull it out as quick as I can, and cast it away. I am not going to dance with Death if I can help it! I have got my job cut out for me, and I am not going to be hampered by old rubbish. Mind you, I don"t say that it was rubbish at the time; but I have no use for anything that I can"t use. Sentiment seems to me like letting valuable steam off. The people I have loved are all there still, whether they are dead or alive.
They did a bit of the journey with me, and I enjoyed their company, and I shall enjoy it again, if it so comes about. But we have to live our life, and we can"t keep more than a certain number of things in mind--that is an obvious limitation. Do you remember the old fairy story of the man who carried a magic goose, and everyone who touched it, or touched anyone who touched it, could not leave go, with the result that there was a long train of helpless people trotting about behind the man. I don"t want to live like that, with a long train of old memories and traditions and friendships and furniture trailing helplessly behind me. My business is with my present circle, my present work, and I can"t waste my strength in drawing about vehicles full of goods. If anyone wants me, here I am, and I will do my best to meet his wishes; but I am not going to be frightened by words like loyalty into pretending that I am going to stagger along carrying the whole of my past. No, my boy," said Father Payne, turning to Barthrop, "you go to Oxford, and enjoy yourself! But the old place is too tight about my heart for me to put my nose into it. I"m a free man, and I am not going to be in bondage to my old fancies. You may give my love to Corpus and to Wadham Garden--it"s all dreadfully bewitching--but I"m not going to run the risk of falling in love with the phantom of the past--that"s _La Belle Dame Sans Merci_ for me, and I"m riding on--I"m riding on. I won"t have the hussy on my horse.
"I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sideways would she lean, and sing A faery"s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild and manna dew.
And sure in language strange she said, "I love thee true,""
He stopped a moment, as he often did when he made a quotation, overcome with feeling. Then he smiled, and added half to himself, "No; I should say, as Dr. Johnson said to the lady in Fleet Street; "No, no; it won"t do, my girl!""
LXVI
OF DISCIPLINE
"Well, anyhow," said Vincent at dinner, commenting on something that had been said, "you may not get anything else out of a disagreeable affair like that, but you get a sort of discipline."
"Come, hold on," said Father Payne; "that won"t do, you know! Discipline, in my belief, is in itself a bad thing, unless you not only get something out of it, but, what is more, know what you get out of it. You can"t discipline anyone, unless he desires it! Discipline means the repressing of something--you must be quite sure that it is worth repressing."
"What I mean," said Vincent, "is that it makes you tougher and harder."
"Yes," said Father Payne, "but that is not a good thing in itself, unless there is something soft and weak in you. Discipline may easily knock the good things out of you. There"s a general kind of belief that, because the world is a rough place, where you may get tumbles and shocks without any fault of your own, therefore it is as well to have something rough about you. I don"t believe in that. The reason why a man gets roughly handled, in nine cases out of ten, is not because he is obnoxious or offensive, but because other people are harsh and indifferent. I want to apply discipline to the brutal, not to brutalise the sensitive. If discipline simply made people brave and patient, it would be different, but it often makes them callous and unpleasant."
"But doesn"t everyone want discipline of some kind?" said Vincent.
"Of the right kind, yes," said Father Payne. "Some people want a good deal more than they get, and some a certain amount less than they get. It"s a delicate business. It is not always fortifying. Take a simple case. A bold, brazen sort of boy who is untruthful may want a whipping; but a timid and imaginative boy who is untruthful doesn"t necessarily want a whipping at all--it makes him more, and not less, timid. One of the most ridiculous and persistent blunders in human life is to believe that a certain penalty is divinely appointed for a certain offence. Our theory of punishment is all wrong; we inflict punishment, as a rule, not to improve an offender, but out of revenge, or because it gives us a comfortable sense of our own justice. And the whole difficulty of discipline is that it is apt to be applied in lumps, and distributed wholesale to people who don"t all want the same amount. We haven"t really got very far away from the Squeers theory of giving all the boys brimstone and treacle alike."
"Yes, but in a school," said Vincent, "would not the boys themselves resent it, if they were punished differently for the same offence?"
"That is to say," said Father Payne, "that you are to treat boys, whom you are supposed to be training, in accordance with their ideas of justice, and not in accordance with yours! Why should you confirm them in a wholly erroneous view of justice? Justice isn"t a mathematical thing--or rather, it ought to be a mathematical thing, because you ought to take into account a lot of factors, which you simply omit from your calculation. I believe very little in punishment, to tell you the truth; it ought only to be inflicted after many warnings, when the offence is deliberately repeated. I don"t believe that the sane and normal person is a habitual and deliberate offender. The kind of absence of self-restraint which makes people unable to resist temptation, in any form, is a disease, and ought to be segregated. I haven"t the slightest doubt that we shall end by segregating or sterilising the person of criminal tendencies, which only means a total inability, in the presence of a temptation, to foresee consequences, and which gratifies a momentary desire."
"But apart from definite moral disease," said Vincent, "isn"t it a good thing to compel people, if possible, into a certain sort of habit? I am speaking of faults which are not criminal--things like unpunctuality, laziness, small excesses, mild untrustworthiness, and so forth."
"Well, I don"t personally believe in coercive discipline at all," said Father Payne. "I think it simply gets people out of shape. I believe in trying to give people a real motive for self-discipline: take unpunctuality, for instance. The only way to make an unpunctual person punctual is to convince him that it is rude and unjust to keep other people waiting. There is nothing sacred about punctuality in itself, unless some one else suffers by your being unpunctual. If it comes to that, isn"t it quite as good a discipline for punctual people to learn to wait without impatience for the unpunctual? Supposing an unpunctual person were to say, "I do it on principle, to teach precise people not to mind waiting," where is the flaw in that? Take what you call laziness. Some people work better by fits and starts, some do better work by regularity. The point is to know how you work best. You must not make the convenience of average people into a moral law. The thing to aim at is that a man should not go on doing a thing which he honestly believes to be wrong and hurtful, out of a mere habit. Take the small excesses of which you speak--food, drink, sleep, tobacco. Some people want more of these things than others; you can"t lay down exact laws. A man ought to find out precisely what suits him best; but I"m not prepared to say that regularity in these matters is absolutely good for everyone. The thing is not to be interfered with by your habits; and the end of all discipline is, I believe, efficiency, vitality, and freedom; but it is no good subst.i.tuting one tyranny for another. I was reading the life of a man the other day who simply could not believe that anyone could think a thing wrong and yet do it. His biographer said, very shrewdly, that his sense of sin was as dead as his ear for music--that he did not possess even the common liberty of right and wrong. That"s a bad case of atrophy!
You must not, of course, be at the mercy of your moods, but you must not be at the mercy of your ethical habits either. Of the two, I am not sure that the habit isn"t the most dangerous."
"You seem to be holding a brief all round, Father," said Vincent.
"No, I am not doing that," said Father Payne, "but my theory is this. You must know, first of all, what you are aiming at, and you must apply your discipline sensibly to that. There are certain things in us which we know to be sloppy--we lie in bed, we dawdle, we eat too much, we moon over our work. All that is obviously no good, and all sensible people try to pull themselves up. When you have found out what suits you, do it boldly; but the man who admires discipline for its own sake is a sort of hypochondriac--a medicine-drinker. I have a friend who says that if he stays in a house, and sees a bottle of medicine in a cupboard, he is always tempted to take a dose. "Is it that you feel ill?" I once said to him.
"No," he said; "but I have an idea that it might do me good." The disciplinarian is like that: he is always putting a little strain upon himself, cutting off this and that, trying new rules, heading himself off.
He has an uneasy feeling that if he likes anything, it is a sort of sign that he should abstain from it: he mistrusts his impulses and instincts. He thinks he is getting to talk too much, and so he practises holding his tongue. The truth is that he is suspicious of life. He is like the schoolmaster who says, "Go and see what Jack is doing, and tell him not to!" Of course I am taking an extreme case, but there is a tendency in that direction in many people. They think that strength means the power to resist, when it really means the power to flow. I do not think that people ought to be deferential to criticism, timid before rebuke, depressed by disapproval: and, on the whole, I believe that more harm is done by self-repression, obedience, meekness than by the opposite qualities. I want men to live their own lives fearlessly--not offensively, of course--with a due regard to other people"s comfort, but without any regard to other people"s conventions. I believe in trusting yourself, on the whole, and trusting the world. I do not think it is wholesome or brave to live under the shadow of other people"s fears or other people"s convictions. All the people, it seems to me, who have done anything for the world, have been the people who have gone their own way; and I think that self-discipline, or external discipline meekly accepted, ends in a flattening out of men"s power and character. Of course you fellows here are learning to do a definite technical thing--but you will observe that all the discipline here is defensive, and not coercive. I don"t want you to take any shape or mould: I want you just to learn to do things in your own way. I don"t ever want you to interfere with each other"s minds too much. I don"t want to interfere with your minds myself, except in so far as to help you to get rid of sloppiness and prejudices. Here, I mustn"t go on--it"s becoming like a prospectus! but it comes to this, that I believe in the trained mind, and not in the moulded mind; and I think that the moment discipline ceases to train strength, and begins to mould weakness, it"s a thoroughly bad thing.
No one can be artificially protected from life without losing life--and life is what I am out for."
LXVII
OF INCREASE
I did not hear the argument, but I heard Vincent say to Father Payne: "Of course I couldn"t do that--it would have been so inconsistent."
"Oh! consistency"s a very cheap affair," said Father Payne; "it is mostly a blend of vanity and slow intelligence."
"But one must stick to _something_," said Vincent. "There"s nothing so tiresome as never knowing how a man is going to behave."
"Of course," said Father Payne, "inconsistency isn"t a virtue--it is generally the product of a quick and confused intelligence. But consistency ought not to be a principle of thought or action--you ought not to do or think a thing simply because you have thought it before--that is mere laziness! What one wants is a consistent sort of progress--you ought not to stay still."
"But you must have principles," said Vincent.
"Yes, but you must expect to change them," said Father Payne. "Principles are only deductions after all: and to remain consistent as a rule only means that you have ceased to do anything with your experience, or else it means that you have taken your principles second-hand. They ought to be living things, yielding fruits of increase. I don"t mean that you should be at the mercy of a persuasive speaker, or of the last book you have read--but, on the other hand, to meet an interesting man or to read a suggestive book ought to modify your views a little. You ought to be elastic. The only thing that is never quite the same is opinion; and to be holding a ten years" old opinion simply means that you are stranded.
There"s nothing worse than to be high and dry."
"But isn"t it worse still," said Vincent, "to see so many sides to a question that you can"t take a definite part?"
"I don"t feel sure," said Father Payne. "I know that the all-round sympathiser is generally found fault with in books; but it is an uncommon temperament, and means a great power of imagination. I am not sure that the faculty of taking a side is a very valuable one. People say that things get done that way; but a great many things get done wrong, and have to be undone. There is no blessing on the palpably one-sided people. Besides, there is a great movement in the world now towards approximation.
Majorities don"t want to bully minorities. Persecution has gone out. People are beginning to see that principles are few and interpretations many. I believe, as a matter of fact, that we ought always to be simplifying our principles, and getting them under a few big heads. Besides, you do not convert people by hammering away at principles. I always like the story of the Frenchman who said to his opponent, "Come, let us go for a little walk, and see if we can disagree.""
"I don"t exactly see what he meant," said Vincent.
"Why, he meant," said Father Payne, "that if they could bring their minds together, they would find that there wasn"t very much to quarrel about. But I don"t believe in arguing. I don"t think opinion changes in that way. I fancy it has tides of its own, and that ideas appear in numbers of minds all over the world, like flowers in spring.