There are two ways of recording and communicating to others an
impression, say, of a building or a place. One way is to sit down at a
definite point, and make an elaborate picture. It is thus perhaps that
one grasps the artistic significance and unity of the object best; one
sees it in a chosen light of noon or eve; one feels its dominant
emotion, its harmony of proportion and outline. Or else one may wander
about and take sketches of it from a dozen different points of view,
record little delicacies of detail, tiny whims and irregularities; and
thus one learns more of the variety and humours of the place, its
gestures and irritabilities, its failures of purpose or design. The
question is whether you like a thing idealised or realised. As to the
different methods of interpretation, they can hardly be compared or
subordinated. An artist does not choose his method, because his method
is himself.
The book that follows is an attempt, or rather a hundred attempts, to
sketch some of the details of life, seen from a simple plane enough,
and with no desire to conform it to a theory, or to find anything very
definite in it, or to omit anything because it did not fit in with
prejudices or predilections. The only unity of mood which it reflects
is the unity of purpose which comes from a decision. I had chosen a
life which seemed to me then to be wholesome, temperate, and simple, in
exchange for a life that was complicated, restless, and mechanical. The
choice was not in the least a revolt against conventions; it was only
the result of a deliberate belief that conventions were not necessary
to contentment, and that if one never ventured anything in general, one
would never gain anything in particular. It was not, to speak with
absolute frankness, intended to be an attempt to shirk my fair share of
the natural human burden. If I had believed in my own power of bearing
that burden profitably and efficiently, I hope I should not have laid
it down. It was rather that I thought that I had carried a burden long
enough, without having the curiosity to see what it contained. When I
did untie it and inspect it, it seemed to me that a great part of what
it contained was not particularly useful, but designed, like the
furniture of the White Knight's horse, in _Through the Looking Glass_,
to provide against unlikely contingencies. I thought that I might live
life, of the brevity and frailty of which I had become suddenly aware,
upon simpler and more rational lines.
I was then, in embarking upon this book, in what may be described as a
holiday-making frame of mind, as a man might be who, after a long
period of sedentary life, finds himself at leisure, strolling about on
a sunny morning in a picturesque foreign town, in that delicious mood
when the smallest sights and sounds and incidents have a sharpness and
delicacy of flavour which brings back the untroubled and joyful
passivity of childhood, when one had no need to do anything in
particular, because it was enough to be. It seemed so futile to go on
consuming stolidly and grimly the porridge of life, when one might take
one's choice of its dainties! I had no temptation to waste my substance
in riotous living. I had no relish for the passionate and feverish
delights of combat and chase. It did not seem to be worth while to
pretend that I had, merely for the sake of being considered robust and
full-blooded. To speak the truth, I did not particularly care what
other people thought of my experiment. It seemed to me that I had
deferred to all that too long; and though I had no wish to break
violently with the world or to set it at defiance, I thought I might
venture to find a little corner and a little book, and see the current
spin by. It seemed to me, too, that most of the people who waxed
eloquent about the normal duties and responsibilities of life chose
them not reluctantly and philosophically, but because, on the whole
they preferred them, and felt dull without them; and I imagined that I
had my right to a preference too, particularly if it was not pursued at
the expense of other people.
Whether or not the choice was wise or foolish will be seen, or may be
inferred. But I do not abjure the theory. I think and believe that
there are a good many people in the world who pursue lives for which
they are not fitted, and lose all contentment in the process, simply
because they respect conventions too much, and have not the courage to
break away from them. Some of the most useful people I know are people
who not only think least about being useful, but are ready to condemn
themselves for their desultoriness. The people who have time to listen
and to talk, to welcome friends and to sympathise with them, to enjoy
and to help others to enjoy, seem to me often to do more for the world
than the people who hurry from committee to committee, address
meetings, and do what is called some of the drudgery of the world,
which might in a hundred cases be just as well undone. It is most of it
merely a childish game either way; and the child who looks on and
applauds is often better employed than the child who makes a long
score, and thinks of nothing else for the rest of the afternoon.
And anyhow, this is what I saw and thought and did; not a very
magnificent performance, but a little piece of life observed and
experienced and written down.