Let us now return to the consideration of the “knowledge of persons.”
How do we gain knowledge of a human being, that is to say of his
motives? “By observing his actions in many different circumstances,
especially in extremities of joy, sorrow, fear, temptation, and then by
comparing his actions with what we, or others, have done in the same
circumstances?” But this is a very difficult and delicate business,
especially that part of it which involves comparison. Here we may easily
go wrong; and we therefore naturally ask what test have we that our
knowledge is correct. One test of any useful knowledge of a machine
would be, not our power to discourse fluently about it, but our power to
“work” it, _i.e._ to make it perform the work for which it is intended:
and similarly one test of useful knowledge of a human being must be our
power to “work” him, _i.e._ to make him perform the work for which he is
intended. A perfectly selfish man of the world may have considerable
knowledge of men and “work” them cleverly in a certain sense: he is not
cheated by them; he is perhaps obeyed by some, not thwarted by others;
he knows the weak points of all, jostles down one, persuades another to
lift him up, gets something out of every one, and is, in a word, largely
successful in making men help him to do _what he intends_. But this is a
very poor kind of “working,” as compared with that which has been
practised by the lawgivers, poets, philosophers, and founders of
religion; who have moulded and fashioned great masses of men so as to be
better able than they were before to do the noblest works that men can
do, the works for _which they are intended_. Now I think it will not be
denied that the men who, in this sense, have “worked” mankind have had
great ideas of what men could do and ought to do. Sometimes they have
had ideas so high that they have seemed impossible of attainment and
almost absurd, even as ideas. Yet these are the men, these idealizers of
humanity, who have most helped mankind on the path of progress. And this
would lead us to the conclusion that the men who have “worked” mankind
best have been those who have refused to accept men as they are.
Constrained by the Imagination, they have kept before their eyes an
Ideal of humanity, towards which they have aspired and laboured with
sanguine enthusiasm.
To the same effect tends our observation of mankind in smaller groups,
and especially in that smallest of groups called the family. It is
generally the parents who have most influence over their child, most
power to “work” him; and we can often see that the reason of their
influence does not arise from the power to reward or punish, but from
their affection for him, and from their faith in him. Especially do we
perceive this in the familiar but mysterious process called forgiving.
We see parents, yes even wise parents, constantly placing faith in a
child beyond what seems to a dispassionate observer to be warranted by
facts, treating him as though he were better than he has shewn himself
to be, better than he appears to us likely ever to become. And, strange
to say, this imaginative system has on the whole proved more successful
than the impartial and dispassionate disposition which would take a
human being exactly for what he is, and treat him as being that and no
more. I do not mean to say that there have not been blind and fond
parents in abundance who—having no high moral standard and being merely
desirous to see comfort and bright faces around them—have done their
children harm by ignoring their faults and regarding them as perfect:
but on the other hand, I call on you to admit the paradox that just,
wise, and righteous parents, who have had a high moral standard, have
been most successful in enabling their child to rise to that standard,
by treating him as though he were better than he really has been.
Further, I say that this system has been pursued by all those who have
forgiven others, and by Him above all others who has done most to make
forgiveness “current coin” among mankind.
I can understand a man of cold-blooded and dispassionate temperament
objecting to any such idealization of humanity. “The whole theory,” he
might say, “is radically unfair and unreasonable. You argue that you
ought to love a man and ignore his faults if you wish to know him and
move him. You might just as well argue that you ought to hate a man and
ignore his virtues for the same purpose. Hate is as keen-eyed as love.
Hate spies out the least defects, anticipates each false step, predicts
each hasty word, and caricatures beforehand each hasty gesture. Hate
makes a study of its objects: hate, therefore, as well as love, might be
said to stimulate us to know others. But the right course is neither to
hate, nor to love, but to judge. As hate blinds us to virtues, so love
blinds us to vices. We ought to be blind to nothing, to extenuate
nothing, to ignore nothing, but to be purely and reasonably critical.
Thus we shall know humanity as it is.”
The answer to this very plausible theory is extremely simple: “Your
theory appears to be just and wise upon a cursory and unscientific view
of human nature: but it has not endured the scientific test of
experiment; it has not _worked_. I believe the reason why it does not
work is, that it ignores some faintly discernible but growing tendencies
in human nature which are not to be discerned without more sympathy than
you appear to possess: no human being can be understood in the daylight
of Reason alone; affection and Imagination are needed to transport us as
it were into the heart of a fellow-creature, to enable us to realize him
as we realize ourselves, and to treat him as we would ourselves be
treated; faith also in the possibilities of humanity is a very powerful
help not only towards discerning the best and noblest that men can do,
but also towards developing their power of doing it. But in any case,
whatever may be the reasons for its failure, your theory does not
‘work,’ and must therefore be given up.
“By ‘failure,’ I do not mean that your theory will prevent you from
getting on and making your way in the world, but that it will prevent
you from operating on yourself and on mankind, so that you and they may
do the work which you are intended to do. You say the business of a
student of men is to be critical. I say that such a student is a mere
pedant, a book-philosopher: but the scientific student of men is he who
knows how to ‘work’ them: and those who have in the true sense of the
term ‘worked’ men, have not been of the critical temperament which you
eulogize, but often quite uncritical, wondrously uncritical, but full of
a fervent faith in a high ideal of humanity, and in a destiny that would
ultimately conform humanity to its ideal. If you aim at exerting no
social ennobling influence of this kind, if you are content, while
leading the life of a man of the world, to abide, spiritually speaking,
in the cave of a recluse, then keep on your present course. Criticize
men dispassionately to your heart’s content. Try to persuade yourself
that you know them. But you will never succeed—you will never persuade
even yourself that you have succeeded—in making a single human being the
better for your influence.
“In morals as in mathematics nothing can be done without faith in the
Ideal. If you want to operate scientifically upon imperfect men you must
keep constantly before your mind the image of the Perfect Man. We have
seen that, before we can attain to ‘applied mathematics,’ which
constitute the basis of those sciences by which we dominate the material
world, we have to begin with ‘pure mathematics.’ In that region of study
we have to idealize and speak of things, not as they are in our
experience, but as they might be if certain tendencies that we see
around us could be infinitely—yes, and we must add, impossibly—extended.
Yet in the end, if we go patiently onward, we find that our ‘pure
mathematics’ lead us to conclusions of immense practical importance.
“It is precisely the same in the science of humanity, which we may call
anthropology. In order to prepare the way for ‘applied anthropology’
whereby we may dominate the immaterial world, the minds and tempers of
men, we must begin with ‘pure anthropology’; that is to say, we must
idealize and speak of man not as he is but as he would be if certain
tendencies which we see in him, conducive to social order and individual
development, could be infinitely—yes, and we must add, if we limit our
horizon to this present life, impossibly—extended. In the end, if we go
patiently onward, we shall find that ‘pure anthropology’ will be of
immense practical importance in helping us to control and develop
ourselves and individuals around us and all communities of men. This
‘pure anthropology,’ having to do with the Ideal of humanity, is
necessarily associated or identified with the conception of God; and
some would call it ‘theology’ or ‘Christianity.’ But that is a mere
matter of names. Call it by whatever name you please, but study it you
must. You will never ‘work’ mankind—that is to say you will never make
men do the work for which they are intended—till you have studied the
Ideal Man.”
You may reply, and with some justice, that there is a danger in this
repeated appeal to the test of “working.” “What,” you may ask, “about
the Buddhist and the Mohammedan, the one with his peaceful missions, the
other with his victorious sword? Cannot both make the same appeal? In
advocating the invariable appeal to ‘working,’ do we not come
dangerously near urging the acceptance of any doctrine that will afford
good leverage to moral effort, regardless of its truth or falsehood?
Ought not, after all, the harmony of the doctrine with Reason (in the
highest sense—not only syllogistic, but intuitive, imaginative, or
whatever you choose to call it) to be the ultimate criterion?”
I suppose there is a “danger” in every means of attaining truth, a
danger in observation, a danger in experiment, a danger in inductive, a
danger in deductive, reasoning: but it does not follow that any of these
means are to be discarded, only that they are to be carefully used. If
the Buddhist can appeal to the successes of centuries, that proves, I
should say, that there is some element of genuine truth in his religion;
if the Mohammedan points to conversions, in India and elsewhere, far
more rapid than those made by Christianity and not dependent on “the
victorious sword,” that also proves that in some important respects for
example in the practical recognition of the equality of all believers
without respect to rank or race—Mohammedans have been far more faithful
to their teacher than we have been to ours. And generally, any religion
that succeeds in making men better with it than they were without it,
must be admitted (I think) to contain (so far as it succeeds) some
element of divine revelation. And therefore, while admitting the appeal
to Reason, I cannot reject the appeal to Experience as well. Do not
think that, in laying so much stress on “working,” I ignore the
difference between the propositions of Natural Science and those of
Religion, or forget how much more ready and convincing verification is
in the former than in the latter. The means of verifying may differ in
different ages: why not? In the earliest period of Christianity, men
had, as a test, the contrast between the heathen and the Christian life;
the burning zeal of the freshly imparted Spirit of Christ; and the
“mighty works” wrought by the Apostles and perhaps by some of their
successors. Now, for us in Christendom, the proof from “contrast” is
less obvious, and we have lost also something of the fresh and fiery
zeal—must we not add the occasionally misguided zeal?—of the first
Christians: but by way of compensation, we have, besides our individual
experiences, the collective evidence of many generations shewing what
Christ’s Spirit can do to help us when we obey it, to chasten us when we
disobey. Are we wrong then in inferring that one test of religions is
the same which our Lord appointed for testing men: “By their fruits ye
shall know them”?
There is undoubtedly a great difference between proof in Science and
proof in matters of Religion: and Religion depends, far more than
Science, upon Imagination. But I have not ignored this difference. On
the contrary, I have attempted to show that, since Religion depends _far
more_ than Science upon Imagination; and since Science itself depends
_largely_ upon Imagination; therefore Religion must depend _very
largely_ upon Imagination, and especially upon that form of Imagination
to which we give the name of Faith.
VI
IMAGINATION AND REASON