If a man must needs be conceited, it is certainly better that he should
be conceited about some merits or talents that he does not really
possess. For then his vanity remains more or less superficial; it
remains a mere mistake of fact, like that of a man who thinks he
inherits the royal blood or thinks he has an infallible system for
Monte Carlo. Because the merit is an unreal merit, it does not corrupt
or sophisticate his real merits. He is vain about the virtue he has not
got; but he may be humble about the virtues that he has got. His truly
honourable qualities remain in their primordial innocence; he cannot
see them and he cannot spoil them. If a man’s mind is erroneously
possessed with the idea that he is a great violinist, that need not
prevent his being a gentleman and an honest man. But if once his mind
is possessed in any strong degree with the knowledge that he is a
gentleman, he will soon cease to be one.
But there is a third kind of satisfaction of which I have noticed one
or two examples lately—another kind of satisfaction which is neither a
pleasure in the virtues that we do possess nor a pleasure in the
virtues we do not possess. It is the pleasure which a man takes in the
presence or absence of certain things in himself without ever
adequately asking himself whether in his case they constitute virtues
at all. A man will plume himself because he is not bad in some
particular way, when the truth is that he is not good enough to be bad
in that particular way. Some priggish little clerk will say, “I have
reason to congratulate myself that I am a civilised person, and not so
bloodthirsty as the Mad Mullah.” Somebody ought to say to him, “A
really good man would be less bloodthirsty than the Mullah. But you are
less bloodthirsty, not because you are more of a good man, but because
you are a great deal less of a man. You are not bloodthirsty, not
because you would spare your enemy, but because you would run away from
him.” Or again, some Puritan with a sullen type of piety would say, “I
have reason to congratulate myself that I do not worship graven images
like the old heathen Greeks.” And again somebody ought to say to him,
“The best religion may not worship graven images, because it may see
beyond them. But if you do not worship graven images, it is only
because you are mentally and morally quite incapable of graving them.
True religion, perhaps, is above idolatry. But you are below idolatry.
You are not holy enough yet to worship a lump of stone.”
Mr. F. C. Gould, the brilliant and felicitous caricaturist, recently
delivered a most interesting speech upon the nature and atmosphere of
our modern English caricature. I think there is really very little to
congratulate oneself about in the condition of English caricature.
There are few causes for pride; probably the greatest cause for pride
is Mr. F. C. Gould. But Mr. F. C. Gould, forbidden by modesty to adduce
this excellent ground for optimism, fell back upon saying a thing which
is said by numbers of other people, but has not perhaps been said
lately with the full authority of an eminent cartoonist. He said that
he thought “that they might congratulate themselves that the style of
caricature which found acceptation nowadays was very different from the
lampoon of the old days.” Continuing, he said, according to the
newspaper report, “On looking back to the political lampoons of
Rowlandson’s and Gilray’s time they would find them coarse and brutal.
In some countries abroad still, ‘even in America,’ the method of
political caricature was of the bludgeon kind. The fact was we had
passed the bludgeon stage. If they were brutal in attacking a man, even
for political reasons, they roused sympathy for the man who was
attacked. What they had to do was to rub in the point they wanted to
emphasise as gently as they could.” (Laughter and applause.)
Anybody reading these words, and anybody who heard them, will certainly
feel that there is in them a great deal of truth, as well as a great
deal of geniality. But along with that truth and with that geniality
there is a streak of that erroneous type of optimism which is founded
on the fallacy of which I have spoken above. Before we congratulate
ourselves upon the absence of certain faults from our nation or
society, we ought to ask ourselves why it is that these faults are
absent. Are we without the fault because we have the opposite virtue?
Or are we without the fault because we have the opposite fault? It is a
good thing assuredly, to be innocent of any excess; but let us be sure
that we are not innocent of excess merely by being guilty of defect. Is
it really true that our English political satire is so moderate because
it is so magnanimous, so forgiving, so saintly? Is it penetrated
through and through with a mystical charity, with a psychological
tenderness? Do we spare the feelings of the Cabinet Minister because we
pierce through all his apparent crimes and follies down to the dark
virtues of which his own soul is unaware? Do we temper the wind to the
Leader of the Opposition because in our all-embracing heart we pity and
cherish the struggling spirit of the Leader of the Opposition? Briefly,
have we left off being brutal because we are too grand and generous to
be brutal? Is it really true that we are _better_ than brutality? Is it
really true that we have _passed_ the bludgeon stage?
I fear that there is, to say the least of it, another side to the
matter. Is it not only too probable that the mildness of our political
satire, when compared with the political satire of our fathers, arises
simply from the profound unreality of our current politics? Rowlandson
and Gilray did not fight merely because they were naturally pothouse
pugilists; they fought because they had something to fight about. It is
easy enough to be refined about things that do not matter; but men
kicked and plunged a little in that portentous wrestle in which swung
to and fro, alike dizzy with danger, the independence of England, the
independence of Ireland, the independence of France. If we wish for a
proof of this fact that the lack of refinement did not come from mere
brutality, the proof is easy. The proof is that in that struggle no
personalities were more brutal than the really refined personalities.
None were more violent and intolerant than those who were by nature
polished and sensitive. Nelson, for instance, had the nerves and good
manners of a woman: nobody in his senses, I suppose, would call Nelson
“brutal.” But when he was touched upon the national matter, there
sprang out of him a spout of oaths, and he could only tell men to
“Kill! kill! kill the d----d Frenchmen.” It would be as easy to take
examples on the other side. Camille Desmoulins was a man of much the
same type, not only elegant and sweet in temper, but almost tremulously
tender and humanitarian. But he was ready, he said, “to embrace Liberty
upon a pile of corpses.” In Ireland there were even more instances.
Robert Emmet was only one famous example of a whole family of men at
once sensitive and savage. I think that Mr. F.C. Gould is altogether
wrong in talking of this political ferocity as if it were some sort of
survival from ruder conditions, like a flint axe or a hairy man.
Cruelty is, perhaps, the worst kind of sin. Intellectual cruelty is
certainly the worst kind of cruelty. But there is nothing in the least
barbaric or ignorant about intellectual cruelty. The great Renaissance
artists who mixed colours exquisitely mixed poisons equally
exquisitely; the great Renaissance princes who designed instruments of
music also designed instruments of torture. Barbarity, malignity, the
desire to hurt men, are the evil things generated in atmospheres of
intense reality when great nations or great causes are at war. We may,
perhaps, be glad that we have not got them: but it is somewhat
dangerous to be proud that we have not got them. Perhaps we are hardly
great enough to have them. Perhaps some great virtues have to be
generated, as in men like Nelson or Emmet, before we can have these
vices at all, even as temptations. I, for one, believe that if our
caricaturists do not hate their enemies, it is not because they are too
big to hate them, but because their enemies are not big enough to hate.
I do not think we have passed the bludgeon stage. I believe we have not
come to the bludgeon stage. We must be better, braver, and purer men
than we are before we come to the bludgeon stage.
Let us then, by all means, be proud of the virtues that we have not
got; but let us not be too arrogant about the virtues that we cannot
help having. It may be that a man living on a desert island has a right
to congratulate himself upon the fact that he can meditate at his ease.
But he must not congratulate himself on the fact that he is on a desert
island, and at the same time congratulate himself on the self-restraint
he shows in not going to a ball every night. Similarly our England may
have a right to congratulate itself upon the fact that her politics are
very quiet, amicable, and humdrum. But she must not congratulate
herself upon that fact and also congratulate herself upon the
self-restraint she shows in not tearing herself and her citizens into
rags. Between two English Privy Councillors polite language is a mark
of civilisation, but really not a mark of magnanimity.
Allied to this question is the kindred question on which we so often
hear an innocent British boast—the fact that our statesmen are
privately on very friendly relations, although in Parliament they sit
on opposite sides of the House. Here, again, it is as well to have no
illusions. Our statesmen are not monsters of mystical generosity or
insane logic, who are really able to hate a man from three to twelve
and to love him from twelve to three. If our social relations are more
peaceful than those of France or America or the England of a hundred
years ago, it is simply because our politics are more peaceful; not
improbably because our politics are more fictitious. If our statesmen
agree more in private, it is for the very simple reason that they agree
more in public. And the reason they agree so much in both cases is
really that they belong to one social class; and therefore the dining
life is the real life. Tory and Liberal statesmen like each other, but
it is not because they are both expansive; it is because they are both
exclusive.