Friday, 27 July 2007

Daily Chesterton #4 Heretics [chapter 2]

II. On the Negative Spirit
Much has been said, and said truly, of the monkish morbidity,of the hysteria which has often gone with the visions of hermits or nuns.But let us never forget that this visionary religion is, in one sense,necessarily more wholesome than our modern and reasonable morality.It is more wholesome for this reason, that it can contemplate the ideaof success or triumph in the hopeless fight towards the ethical ideal,in what Stevenson called, with his usual startling felicity,"the lost fight of virtue." A modern morality, on the other hand,can only point with absolute conviction to the horrors that followbreaches of law; its only certainty is a certainty of ill.It can only point to imperfection. It has no perfection to point to.But the monk meditating upon Christ or Buddha has in his mindan image of perfect health, a thing of clear colours and clean air.He may contemplate this ideal wholeness and happiness far more than he ought;he may contemplate it to the neglect or exclusion of essential things,he may contemplate it until he has become a dreamer or a driveller;but still it is wholeness and happiness that he is contemplating.He may even go mad; but he is going mad for the love of sanity.But the modern student of ethics, even if he remains sane, remains sanefrom an insane dread of insanity.The anchorite rolling on the stones in a frenzy of submissionis a healthier person fundamentally than many a sober manin a silk hat who is walking down Cheapside. For manysuch are good only through a withering knowledge of evil.I am not at this moment claiming for the devotee anythingmore than this primary advantage, that though he may be makinghimself personally weak and miserable, he is still fixinghis thoughts largely on gigantic strength and happiness,on a strength that has no limits, and a happiness that has no end.Doubtless there are other objections which can be urged withoutunreason against the influence of gods and visions in morality,whether in the cell or street. But this advantage the mysticmorality must always have--it is always jollier. A young manmay keep himself from vice by continually thinking of disease.He may keep himself from it also by continually thinking ofthe Virgin Mary. There may be question about which method isthe more reasonable, or even about which is the more efficient.But surely there can be no question about which is the more wholesome.I remember a pamphlet by that able and sincere secularist, Mr. G. W. Foote,which contained a phrase sharply symbolizing and dividing these two methods.The pamphlet was called "Beer and Bible", those two very noble things,all the nobler for a conjunction which Mr. Foote, in his stern oldPuritan way, seemed to think sardonic, but which I confess to thinkingappropriate and charming. I have not the work by me, but I rememberthat Mr. Foote dismissed very contemptuously any attempts to dealwith the problem of strong drink by religious offices or intercessions,and said that a picture of a drunkard's liver would be moreefficacious in the matter of temperance than any prayer or praise.In that picturesque expression, it seems to me, is perfectly embodiedthe incurable morbidity of modern ethics. In that temple the lightsare low, the crowds kneel, the solemn anthems are uplifted. But that uponthe altar to which all men kneel is no longer the perfect flesh, the bodyand substance of the perfect man; it is still flesh, but it is diseased.It is the drunkard's liver of the New Testament that is marred for us,which we take in remembrance of him.Now, it is this great gap in modern ethics, the absenceof vivid pictures of purity and spiritual triumph, which liesat the back of the real objection felt by so many sane mento the realistic literature of the nineteenth century.If any ordinary man ever said that he was horrified by the subjectsdiscussed in Ibsen or Maupassant, or by the plain languagein which they are spoken of, that ordinary man was lying.The average conversation of average men throughout the wholeof modern civilization in every class or trade is such as Zolawould never dream of printing. Nor is the habit of writingthus of these things a new habit. On the contrary, it isthe Victorian prudery and silence which is new still, though itis already dying. The tradition of calling a spade a spadestarts very early in our literature and comes down very late.But the truth is that the ordinary honest man, whatever vagueaccount he may have given of his feelings, was not eitherdisgusted or even annoyed at the candour of the moderns.What disgusted him, and very justly, was not the presenceof a clear realism, but the absence of a clear idealism.Strong and genuine religious sentiment has never had anyobjection to realism; on the contrary, religion was therealistic thing, the brutal thing, the thing that called names.This is the great difference between some recent developments ofNonconformity and the great Puritanism of the seventeenth century.It was the whole point of the Puritans that they cared nothingfor decency. Modern Nonconformist newspapers distinguishthemselves by suppressing precisely those nouns and adjectiveswhich the founders of Nonconformity distinguished themselvesby flinging at kings and queens. But if it was a chiefclaim of religion that it spoke plainly about evil, it wasthe chief claim of all that it spoke plainly about good.The thing which is resented, and, as I think, rightly resented,in that great modern literature of which Ibsen is typical,is that while the eye that can perceive what are the wrongthings increases in an uncanny and devouring clarity,the eye which sees what things are right is growing mistierand mistier every moment, till it goes almost blind with doubt.If we compare, let us say, the morality of the "Divine Comedy"with the morality of Ibsen's "Ghosts", we shall see allthat modern ethics have really done. No one, I imagine,will accuse the author of the "Inferno" of an Early Victorianprudishness or a Podsnapian optimism. But Dante describesthree moral instruments--Heaven, Purgatory, and Hell, the visionof perfection, the vision of improvement, and the vision of failure.Ibsen has only one--Hell. It is often said, and with perfect truth,that no one could read a play like GHOSTS and remainindifferent to the necessity of an ethical self-command.That is quite true, and the same is to be said of the mostmonstrous and material descriptions of the eternal fire.It is quite certain the realists like Zola do in one sensepromote morality--they promote it in the sense in which the hangmanpromotes it, in the sense in which the devil promotes it.But they only affect that small minority which will acceptany virtue as long as we do not ask them for the virtueof courage. Most healthy people dismiss these moral dangersas they dismiss the possibility of bombs or microbes.Modern realists are indeed Terrorists, like the dynamiters;and they fail just as much in their effort to create a thrill.Both realists and dynamiters are well-meaning people engagedin the task, so obviously ultimately hopeless, of using scienceto promote morality.I do not wish the reader to confuse me for a moment with those vaguepersons who imagine that Ibsen is what they call a pessimist.There are plenty of wholesome people in Ibsen, plenty ofgood people, plenty of happy people, plenty of examples of menacting wisely and things ending well. That is not my meaning.My meaning is that Ibsen has throughout, and does not disguise,a certain vagueness and a changing attitude as well as a doubtingattitude towards what is really wisdom and virtue in this life--a vagueness which contrasts very remarkably with the decisivenesswith which he pounces on something which he perceives to be a rootof evil, some convention, some deception, some ignorance.We know that the hero of "Ghosts" is mad, and we know why he is mad.We do also know that Dr. Stockman is sane; but we do not knowwhy he is sane. Ibsen does not profess to know how virtueand happiness are brought about, in the sense that he professesto know how our modern sexual tragedies are brought about.Falsehood works ruin in "The Pillars of Society", but truth worksequal ruin in "The Wild Duck". There are no cardinal virtuesof Ibsenism. There is no ideal man of Ibsen. All this is notonly admitted, but vaunted in the most valuable and thoughtfulof all the eulogies upon Ibsen, Mr. Bernard Shaw's "Quintessenceof Ibsenism". Mr. Shaw sums up Ibsen's teaching in the phrase,"The golden rule is that there is no golden rule." In his eyesthis absence of an enduring and positive ideal, this absenceof a permanent key to virtue, is the one great Ibsen merit.I am not discussing now with any fullness whether this is so or not.All I venture to point out, with an increased firmness,is that this omission, good or bad, does leave us face to facewith the problem of a human consciousness filled with verydefinite images of evil, and with no definite image of good.To us light must be henceforward the dark thing--the thing of whichwe cannot speak. To us, as to Milton's devils in Pandemonium,it is darkness that is visible. The human race, according to religion,fell once, and in falling gained knowledge of good and of evil.Now we have fallen a second time, and only the knowledge of evilremains to us.A great silent collapse, an enormous unspoken disappointment,has in our time fallen on our Northern civilization. All previousages have sweated and been crucified in an attempt to realizewhat is really the right life, what was really the good man.A definite part of the modern world has come beyond questionto the conclusion that there is no answer to these questions,that the most that we can do is to set up a few notice-boardsat places of obvious danger, to warn men, for instance,against drinking themselves to death, or ignoring the mereexistence of their neighbours. Ibsen is the first to returnfrom the baffled hunt to bring us the tidings of great failure.Every one of the popular modern phrases and ideals isa dodge in order to shirk the problem of what is good.We are fond of talking about "liberty"; that, as we talk of it,is a dodge to avoid discussing what is good. We are fond of talkingabout "progress"; that is a dodge to avoid discussing what is good.We are fond of talking about "education"; that is a dodgeto avoid discussing what is good. The modern man says, "Let usleave all these arbitrary standards and embrace liberty."This is, logically rendered, "Let us not decide what is good,but let it be considered good not to decide it." He says,"Away with your old moral formulae; I am for progress."This, logically stated, means, "Let us not settle what is good;but let us settle whether we are getting more of it."He says, "Neither in religion nor morality, my friend, lie the hopesof the race, but in education." This, clearly expressed,means, "We cannot decide what is good, but let us give itto our children."Mr. H.G. Wells, that exceedingly clear-sighted man, has pointed out in arecent work that this has happened in connection with economic questions.The old economists, he says, made generalizations, and they were(in Mr. Wells's view) mostly wrong. But the new economists, he says,seem to have lost the power of making any generalizations at all.And they cover this incapacity with a general claim to be, in specific cases,regarded as "experts," a claim "proper enough in a hairdresser or afashionable physician, but indecent in a philosopher or a man of science."But in spite of the refreshing rationality with which Mr. Wells hasindicated this, it must also be said that he himself has falleninto the same enormous modern error. In the opening pages of thatexcellent book "Mankind in the Making", he dismisses the ideals of art,religion, abstract morality, and the rest, and says that he is goingto consider men in their chief function, the function of parenthood.He is going to discuss life as a "tissue of births." He is not goingto ask what will produce satisfactory saints or satisfactory heroes,but what will produce satisfactory fathers and mothers. The whole is setforward so sensibly that it is a few moments at least before the readerrealises that it is another example of unconscious shirking. What is the goodof begetting a man until we have settled what is the good of being a man?You are merely handing on to him a problem you dare not settle yourself.It is as if a man were asked, "What is the use of a hammer?" and answered,"To make hammers"; and when asked, "And of those hammers, what isthe use?" answered, "To make hammers again". Just as such a man wouldbe perpetually putting off the question of the ultimate use of carpentry,so Mr. Wells and all the rest of us are by these phrases successfullyputting off the question of the ultimate value of the human life.The case of the general talk of "progress" is, indeed,an extreme one. As enunciated today, "progress" is simplya comparative of which we have not settled the superlative.We meet every ideal of religion, patriotism, beauty, or brutepleasure with the alternative ideal of progress--that is to say,we meet every proposal of getting something that we know about,with an alternative proposal of getting a great deal more of nobodyknows what. Progress, properly understood, has, indeed, a mostdignified and legitimate meaning. But as used in oppositionto precise moral ideals, it is ludicrous. So far from it beingthe truth that the ideal of progress is to be set against thatof ethical or religious finality, the reverse is the truth.Nobody has any business to use the word "progress" unlesshe has a definite creed and a cast-iron code of morals.Nobody can be progressive without being doctrinal; I might almostsay that nobody can be progressive without being infallible--at any rate, without believing in some infallibility.For progress by its very name indicates a direction;and the moment we are in the least doubtful about the direction,we become in the same degree doubtful about the progress.Never perhaps since the beginning of the world has there beenan age that had less right to use the word "progress" than we.In the Catholic twelfth century, in the philosophic eighteenthcentury, the direction may have been a good or a bad one,men may have differed more or less about how far they went, and inwhat direction, but about the direction they did in the main agree,and consequently they had the genuine sensation of progress.But it is precisely about the direction that we disagree.Whether the future excellence lies in more law or less law,in more liberty or less liberty; whether property will be finallyconcentrated or finally cut up; whether sexual passion will reachits sanest in an almost virgin intellectualism or in a fullanimal freedom; whether we should love everybody with Tolstoy,or spare nobody with Nietzsche;--these are the things about which weare actually fighting most. It is not merely true that the agewhich has settled least what is progress is this "progressive" age.It is, moreover, true that the people who have settled leastwhat is progress are the most "progressive" people in it.The ordinary mass, the men who have never troubled about progress,might be trusted perhaps to progress. The particular individualswho talk about progress would certainly fly to the fourwinds of heaven when the pistol-shot started the race.I do not, therefore, say that the word "progress" is unmeaning; I sayit is unmeaning without the previous definition of a moral doctrine,and that it can only be applied to groups of persons who holdthat doctrine in common. Progress is not an illegitimate word,but it is logically evident that it is illegitimate for us.It is a sacred word, a word which could only rightly be usedby rigid believers and in the ages of faith.

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