He was plain. It was his great quality. Others might have graces,
subtleties, originality, fire, and charm; they had not his plainness.
It was that which made him so important, not only in his country’s
estimation, but in his own. For he felt that nothing was more valuable
to the world than for a man to have no doubts, and no fancies, but to
be quite plain about everything. And the knowledge that he was looked
up to by the press, and pulpit, and the politician sustained him in the
daily perfecting of that unique personality which he shared with all
other plain men. In an age which bred so much that was freakish and
peculiar, to know that there was always himself with his sane and plain
outlook to fall back on, was an extraordinary comfort to him. He knew
that he could rely on his own judgment, and never scrupled to give it
to a public which never tired of asking for it.
In literary matters especially was it sought for, as invaluable.
Whether he had read an author or not, he knew what to think of him. For
he had in his time unwittingly lighted on books before he knew what he
was doing. They had served him as fixed stars forever after; so that if
he heard any writer spoken of as “advanced,” “erotic,” “socialistic,”
“morbid,” “pessimistic,” “tragic,” or what not unpleasant, he knew
exactly what he was like, and thereafter only read him by accident. He
liked a healthy tale, preferably of love or of adventure (of detective
stories he was, perhaps, fondest), and insisted upon a happy ending,
for, as he very justly said, there was plenty of unhappiness in life
without gratuitously adding to it, and as to “ideas,” he could get all
he wanted and to spare from the papers. He deplored altogether the bad
habit that literature seemed to have of seeking out situations which
explored the recesses of the human spirit or of the human institution.
As a plain man he felt this to be unnecessary. He himself was not
conscious of having these recesses, or perhaps too conscious, knowing
that if he once began to look, there would be no end to it; nor would
he admit the use of staring through the plain surface of society’s
arrangements. To do so, he thought, greatly endangered, if it did not
altogether destroy, those simple faculties which men required for the
fulfilment of the plain duties of everyday life, such as: Item, the
acquisition and investment of money; item, the attendance at church and
maintenance of religious faith; item, the control of wife and children;
item, the serenity of nerves and digestion; item, contentment with
things as they were.
For there was just that difference between him and all those of whom
he strongly disapproved, that whereas _they_ wanted to _see_ things as
they were, _he_ wanted to _keep_ things as they were. But he would not
for a moment have admitted this little difference to be sound, since
his instinct told him that he himself saw things as they were better
than ever did such cranky people. If a human being had got to get into
spiritual fixes, as those fellows seemed to want one to believe, then
certainly the whole unpleasant matter should be put into poetry, and
properly removed from comprehension. “And, anyway,” he would say: “In
real life, I shall know it fast enough when I get there, and I’m not
going to waste my time nosin’ it over beforehand.” His view of literary
and, indeed, all art, was that it should help him to be cheerful.
And he would make a really extraordinary outcry if amongst a hundred
cheerful plays and novels he inadvertently came across one that was
tragic. At once he would write to the papers to complain of the gloomy
tone of modern literature; and the papers, with few exceptions, would
echo his cry, because he was the plain man, and took them in. “What on
earth,” he would remark, “is the good of showin’ me a lot of sordid
sufferin’? It doesn’t make me any happier. Besides”--he would add--“it
isn’t art. The function of art is beauty.” Some one had told him this,
and he was very emphatic on the point, going religiously to any show
where there was a great deal of light and colour. The shapes of women
pleased him, too, up to a point. But he knew where to stop; for he felt
himself, as it were, the real censor of the morals of his country. When
the plain man was shocked it was time to suppress the entertainment,
whether play, dance, or novel. Something told him that he, beyond
all other men, knew what was good for his wife and children. He often
meditated on that question coming in to the City from his house in
Surrey; for in the train he used to see men reading novels, and this
stimulated his imagination. Essentially a believer in liberty, like
every Englishman, he was only for putting down a thing when it offended
his own taste. In speaking with his friends on this subject, he would
express himself thus: “These fellows talk awful skittles. Any plain
man knows what’s too hot and what isn’t. All this ‘flim-flam’ about
art, and all that, is beside the point. The question simply is: Would
you take your wife and daughters? If not, there’s an end of it, and
it ought to be suppressed.” And he would think of his own daughters,
very nice, and would feel sure. Not that he did not himself like a
“full-blooded” book, as he called it, provided it had the right moral
and religious tone. Indeed, a certain kind of fiction which abounded
in descriptions “of her lovely bosom” often struck him pink, as he
hesitated to express it; but there was never in such masterpieces
of emotion any nasty subversiveness, or wrong-headed idealism, but
frequently the opposite.
Though it was in relation to literature and drama, perhaps, that his
quality of plainness was most valuable, he felt the importance of it,
too, in regard to politics. When they had all done “messing about,” he
knew that they would come to him, because, after all, there he was,
a plain man wanting nothing but his plain rights, not in the least
concerned with the future, and Utopia, and all that, but putting things
to the plain touchstone: “How will it affect me?” and forming his plain
conclusions one way or the other. He felt, above all things, each
new penny of the income tax before they put it on, and saw to it if
possible that they did not. He was extraordinarily plain about that,
and about national defence, which instinct told him should be kept up
to the mark at all costs. But there must be ways, he felt, of doing the
latter without having recourse to the income tax, and he was prepared
to turn out any government that went on lines unjust to the plainest
principles of property. In matters of national honour he was even
plainer, for he never went into the merits of the question, knowing,
as a simple patriot, that his country must be right; or that, if not
right, it would never do to say she wasn’t. So aware were statesmen and
the press of this sound attitude of his mind, that, without waiting to
ascertain it, they acted on it in perfect confidence.
In regard to social reform, while recognising, of course, the need
for it, he felt that, in practice, one should do just as much as was
absolutely necessary and no more; a plain man did not go out of his way
to make quixotic efforts, but neither did he sit upon a boiler till he
was blown up.
In the matter of religion he regarded his position as the only sound
one, for however little in these days one could believe and all that,
yet, as a plain man, he did not for a moment refuse to go to church and
say he was a Christian; on the contrary, he was rather more particular
about it than formerly, since when a spirit has departed, one must
be very careful of the body, lest it fall to pieces. He continued,
therefore, to be a churchman--living in Hertfordshire.
He often spoke of science, medical or not, and it was his plain
opinion that these fellows all had an axe to grind; for _his_ part
he only believed in them just in so far as they benefited a plain
man. The latest sanitary system, the best forms of locomotion and
communication, the newest antiseptics, and time-saving machines--of
all these, of course, he made full use; but as to the researches,
speculations, and theories of scientists--to speak plainly, they were,
he thought, “pretty good rot.”
He abominated the word “humanitarian.” No plain man wanted to inflict
suffering, especially on himself. He would be the last person to do
any such thing, but the plain facts of life must be considered, and
convenience and property duly safeguarded. He wrote to the papers
perhaps more often on this subject than on any other, and was gratified
to read in their leading articles continual allusion to himself:
“The plain man is not prepared to run the risks which a sentimental
treatment of this subject would undoubtedly involve”; “After all, it
is to the plain man that we must go for the sanity and common sense of
this matter.” For he had no dread in life like that of being called a
sentimentalist. If an instance of cruelty came under his own eyes he
was as much moved as any man, and took immediate steps to manifest his
disapproval. To act thus on his feelings was not at all his idea of
being sentimental. But what he could not stand was making a fuss about
cruelties, as people called them, which had not actually come under his
own plain vision; to be indignant in regard to such _was_ sentimental,
he was sure, involving as it did an exercise of imagination, than which
there was nothing he distrusted more. Some deep instinct no doubt
informed him perpetually that if he felt anything, other than what
disturbed him personally at first hand, he would suffer unnecessarily,
and perhaps be encouraging such public action as might diminish his
comfort. But he was no alarmist, and, on the whole, felt pretty sure
that while he was there, living in Kent, with his plain views, there
was no chance of anything being done that would cause him any serious
inconvenience.
On the woman’s question generally he had long made his position plain.
He would move when the majority moved, and not before. And he expected
all plain men (and women--if there were any, which he sometimes
doubted) to act in the same way. In this policy he felt instinctively,
rather than consciously, that there was no risk. No one--at least, no
one that mattered, no plain, solid person--would move until he did, and
he would not, of course, move until they did; in this way there was a
perfectly plain position. And it was an extraordinary gratification to
him to feel, from the tone of politicians, the pulpit, and the press,
that he had the country with him. He often said to his wife: “One
thing’s plain to me; we shall never have the suffrage till the country
wants it.” But he rarely discussed the question with other women,
having observed that many of them could not keep their tempers when he
gave them his plain view of the matter.
He was sometimes at a loss to think what on earth they would do without
him on juries, of which he was usually elected foreman. And he never
failed to listen with pleasure to the words that never failed to be
spoken to him: “As plain men, gentlemen, you will at once see how
improbable in every particular is the argument of my friend.” That he
was valued in precisely the same way by both sides and ultimately by
the judge filled him sometimes with a modest feeling that only a plain
man was of any value whatever, certainly that he was the only kind of
man who had any sort of judgment.
He often wondered what the country would do without him; into what
abysmal trouble she would get in her politics, her art, her law, and
her religion. It seemed to him that he alone stood between her and
manifold destructions. How many times had he not seen her reeling in
her cups and sophistries, and beckoning to him to save her! And had he
ever failed her, with his simple philosophy of a plain man: “Follow me,
and the rest will follow itself”? Never! As witness the veneration in
which he saw that he was held every time he opened a paper, attended
the performance of a play, heard a sermon, or listened to a speech.
Some day he meant to sit for his portrait, believing that this was due
from him to posterity; and now and then he would look into the glass
to fortify his resolution. What he saw there always gave him secret
pleasure. Here was a face that he knew he could trust, and even in
a way admire. Nothing brilliant, showy, eccentric, soulful; nothing
rugged, devotional, profound, or fiery; not even anything proud, or
stubborn; no surplus of kindliness, sympathy, or aspiration; but just
simple, solid lines, a fresh colour, and sensible, rather prominent
eyes--just the face that he would have expected and desired, the face
of a plain man.