There has appeared in our time a particular class of books and articles
which I sincerely and solemnly think may be called the silliest ever
known among men. They are much more wild than the wildest romances of
chivalry and much more dull than the dullest religious tract. Moreover,
the romances of chivalry were at least about chivalry; the religious
tracts are about religion. But these things are about nothing; they are
about what is called Success. On every bookstall, in every magazine,
you may find works telling people how to succeed. They are books
showing men how to succeed in everything; they are written by men who
cannot even succeed in writing books. To begin with, of course, there
is no such thing as Success. Or, if you like to put it so, there is
nothing that is not successful. That a thing is successful merely means
that it is; a millionaire is successful in being a millionaire and a
donkey in being a donkey. Any live man has succeeded in living; any
dead man may have succeeded in committing suicide. But, passing over
the bad logic and bad philosophy in the phrase, we may take it, as
these writers do, in the ordinary sense of success in obtaining money
or worldly position. These writers profess to tell the ordinary man how
he may succeed in his trade or speculation—how, if he is a builder, he
may succeed as a builder; how, if he is a stockbroker, he may succeed
as a stockbroker. They profess to show him how, if he is a grocer, he
may become a sporting yachtsman; how, if he is a tenth-rate journalist,
he may become a peer; and how, if he is a German Jew, he may become an
Anglo-Saxon. This is a definite and business-like proposal, and I
really think that the people who buy these books (if any people do buy
them) have a moral, if not a legal, right to ask for their money back.
Nobody would dare to publish a book about electricity which literally
told one nothing about electricity; no one would dare to publish an
article on botany which showed that the writer did not know which end
of a plant grew in the earth. Yet our modern world is full of books
about Success and successful people which literally contain no kind of
idea, and scarcely any kind of verbal sense.
It is perfectly obvious that in any decent occupation (such as
bricklaying or writing books) there are only two ways (in any special
sense) of succeeding. One is by doing very good work, the other is by
cheating. Both are much too simple to require any literary explanation.
If you are in for the high jump, either jump higher than any one else,
or manage somehow to pretend that you have done so. If you want to
succeed at whist, either be a good whist-player, or play with marked
cards. You may want a book about jumping; you may want a book about
whist; you may want a book about cheating at whist. But you cannot want
a book about Success. Especially you cannot want a book about Success
such as those which you can now find scattered by the hundred about the
book-market. You may want to jump or to play cards; but you do not want
to read wandering statements to the effect that jumping is jumping, or
that games are won by winners. If these writers, for instance, said
anything about success in jumping it would be something like this: “The
jumper must have a clear aim before him. He must desire definitely to
jump higher than the other men who are in for the same competition. He
must let no feeble feelings of mercy (sneaked from the sickening Little
Englanders and Pro-Boers) prevent him from trying to _do his best_. He
must remember that a competition in jumping is distinctly competitive,
and that, as Darwin has gloriously demonstrated, THE WEAKEST GO TO THE
WALL.” That is the kind of thing the book would say, and very useful it
would be, no doubt, if read out in a low and tense voice to a young man
just about to take the high jump. Or suppose that in the course of his
intellectual rambles the philosopher of Success dropped upon our other
case, that of playing cards, his bracing advice would run—“In playing
cards it is very necessary to avoid the mistake (commonly made by
maudlin humanitarians and Free Traders) of permitting your opponent to
win the game. You must have grit and snap and go _in to win_. The days
of idealism and superstition are over. We live in a time of science and
hard common sense, and it has now been definitely proved that in any
game where two are playing IF ONE DOES NOT WIN THE OTHER WILL.” It is
all very stirring, of course; but I confess that if I were playing
cards I would rather have some decent little book which told me the
rules of the game. Beyond the rules of the game it is all a question
either of talent or dishonesty; and I will undertake to provide either
one or the other—which, it is not for me to say.
Turning over a popular magazine, I find a queer and amusing example.
There is an article called “The Instinct that Makes People Rich.” It is
decorated in front with a formidable portrait of Lord Rothschild. There
are many definite methods, honest and dishonest, which make people
rich; the only “instinct” I know of which does it is that instinct
which theological Christianity crudely describes as “the sin of
avarice.” That, however, is beside the present point. I wish to quote
the following exquisite paragraphs as a piece of typical advice as to
how to succeed. It is so practical; it leaves so little doubt about
what should be our next step—
“The name of Vanderbilt is synonymous with wealth gained by modern
enterprise. ‘Cornelius,’ the founder of the family, was the first of
the great American magnates of commerce. He started as the son of a
poor farmer; he ended as a millionaire twenty times over.
“He had the money-making instinct. He seized his opportunities, the
opportunities that were given by the application of the steam-engine to
ocean traffic, and by the birth of railway locomotion in the wealthy
but undeveloped United States of America, and consequently he amassed
an immense fortune.
“Now it is, of course, obvious that we cannot all follow exactly in the
footsteps of this great railway monarch. The precise opportunities that
fell to him do not occur to us. Circumstances have changed. But,
although this is so, still, in our own sphere and in our own
circumstances, we _can_ follow his general methods; we can seize those
opportunities that are given us, and give ourselves a very fair chance
of attaining riches.”
In such strange utterances we see quite clearly what is really at the
bottom of all these articles and books. It is not mere business; it is
not even mere cynicism. It is mysticism; the horrible mysticism of
money. The writer of that passage did not really have the remotest
notion of how Vanderbilt made his money, or of how anybody else is to
make his. He does, indeed, conclude his remarks by advocating some
scheme; but it has nothing in the world to do with Vanderbilt. He
merely wished to prostrate himself before the mystery of a millionaire.
For when we really worship anything, we love not only its clearness but
its obscurity. We exult in its very invisibility. Thus, for instance,
when a man is in love with a woman he takes special pleasure in the
fact that a woman is unreasonable. Thus, again, the very pious poet,
celebrating his Creator, takes pleasure in saying that God moves in a
mysterious way. Now, the writer of the paragraph which I have quoted
does not seem to have had anything to do with a god, and I should not
think (judging by his extreme unpracticality) that he had ever been
really in love with a woman. But the thing he does
worship—Vanderbilt—he treats in exactly this mystical manner. He really
revels in the fact his deity Vanderbilt is keeping a secret from him.
And it fills his soul with a sort of transport of cunning, an ecstasy
of priestcraft, that he should pretend to be telling to the multitude
that terrible secret which he does not know.
Speaking about the instinct that makes people rich, the same writer
remarks—
“In olden days its existence was fully understood. The Greeks enshrined
it in the story of Midas, of the ‘Golden Touch.’ Here was a man who
turned everything he laid his hands upon into gold. His life was a
progress amidst riches. Out of everything that came in his way he
created the precious metal. ‘A foolish legend,’ said the wiseacres of
the Victorian age. ‘A truth,’ say we of to-day. We all know of such
men. We are ever meeting or reading about such persons who turn
everything they touch into gold. Success dogs their very footsteps.
Their life’s pathway leads unerringly upwards. They cannot fail.”
Unfortunately, however, Midas could fail; he did. His path did not lead
unerringly upward. He starved because whenever he touched a biscuit or
a ham sandwich it turned to gold. That was the whole point of the
story, though the writer has to suppress it delicately, writing so near
to a portrait of Lord Rothschild. The old fables of mankind are,
indeed, unfathomably wise; but we must not have them expurgated in the
interests of Mr. Vanderbilt. We must not have King Midas represented as
an example of success; he was a failure of an unusually painful kind.
Also, he had the ears of an ass. Also (like most other prominent and
wealthy persons) he endeavoured to conceal the fact. It was his barber
(if I remember right) who had to be treated on a confidential footing
with regard to this peculiarity; and his barber, instead of behaving
like a go-ahead person of the Succeed-at-all-costs school and trying to
blackmail King Midas, went away and whispered this splendid piece of
society scandal to the reeds, who enjoyed it enormously. It is said
that they also whispered it as the winds swayed them to and fro. I look
reverently at the portrait of Lord Rothschild; I read reverently about
the exploits of Mr. Vanderbilt. I know that I cannot turn everything I
touch to gold; but then I also know that I have never tried, having a
preference for other substances, such as grass, and good wine. I know
that these people have certainly succeeded in something; that they have
certainly overcome somebody; I know that they are kings in a sense that
no men were ever kings before; that they create markets and bestride
continents. Yet it always seems to me that there is some small domestic
fact that they are hiding, and I have sometimes thought I heard upon
the wind the laughter and whisper of the reeds.
At least, let us hope that we shall all live to see these absurd books
about Success covered with a proper derision and neglect. They do not
teach people to be successful, but they do teach people to be snobbish;
they do spread a sort of evil poetry of worldliness. The Puritans are
always denouncing books that inflame lust; what shall we say of books
that inflame the viler passions of avarice and pride? A hundred years
ago we had the ideal of the Industrious Apprentice; boys were told that
by thrift and work they would all become Lord Mayors. This was
fallacious, but it was manly, and had a minimum of moral truth. In our
society, temperance will not help a poor man to enrich himself, but it
may help him to respect himself. Good work will not make him a rich
man, but good work may make him a good workman. The Industrious
Apprentice rose by virtues few and narrow indeed, but still virtues.
But what shall we say of the gospel preached to the new Industrious
Apprentice; the Apprentice who rises not by his virtues, but avowedly
by his vices?