In the Strangers’ room of the Strangers’ Club the usual solitude was
reigning when the Angel Æthereal entered.
“You will be quiet here,” said his dragoman, drawing up two leather
chairs to the hearth, “and comfortable,” he added, as the Angel crossed
his legs. “After our recent experience, I thought it better to bring
you where your mind would be composed, since we have to consider so
important a subject as morality. There is no place, indeed, where we
could be so completely sheltered from life, or so free to evolve from
our inner consciousness the momentous conclusions of the armchair
moralist. When you have had your sneeze,” he added, glancing at the
Angel, who was taking snuff, “I shall make known to you the conclusions
I have formed in the course of a chequered career.”
“Before you do that,” said the Angel, “it would perhaps be as well to
limit the sphere of our inquiry.”
“As to that,” remarked his dragoman, “I shall confine my information to
the morals of the English since the opening of the Great Skirmish, in
1914, just a short generation of three and thirty years ago; and you
will find my theme readily falls, sir, into the two main compartments
of public and private morality. When I have finished you can ask me any
questions.”
“Proceed!” said the Angel, letting his eyelids droop.
“Public morality,” his dragoman began, “is either superlative,
comparative, positive, or negative. And superlative morality is found,
of course, only in the newspapers. It is the special prerogative of
leader writers. Its note, remote and unchallengeable, was well struck
by almost every organ at the commencement of the Great Skirmish, and
may be summed up in a single solemn phrase: ‘We will sacrifice on the
altar of duty the last life and the last dollar--except the last life
and dollar of the last leader-writer.’ For, as all must see, that
one had to be preserved, to ensure and comment on the consummation
of the sacrifice. What loftier morality can be conceived? And it has
ever been a grief to the multitude that the lives of those patriots
and benefactors of their species should, through modesty, have been
unrevealed to such as pant to copy them. Here and there the lineaments
of a tip-topper were discernible beneath the disguise of custom; but
what fair existences were screened! I may tell you at once, sir, that
the State was so much struck at the time of the Great Skirmish by this
doctrine of the utter sacrifice of others that it almost immediately
adopted the idea, and has struggled to retain it ever since. Indeed,
only the unaccountable reluctance of ‘others’ to be utterly sacrificed
has ensured their perpetuity.”
“In 1910,” said the Angel, “I happened to notice that the Prussians had
already perfected that system. Yet it was against the Prussians that
this country fought?”
“That is so,” returned his dragoman; “there were many who drew
attention to the fact. And at the conclusion of the Great Skirmish
the reaction was such that for a long moment even the leader-writers
wavered in their selfless doctrines; nor could continuity be secured
till the Laborious Party came solidly to the saddle in 1930. Since
then the principle has been firm but the practice has been firmer, and
public morality has never been altogether superlative. Let us pass to
comparative public morality. In the days of the Great Skirmish this
was practised by those with names, who told others what to do. This
large and capable body included all the preachers, publicists, and
politicians of the day, and in many cases there is even evidence that
they would have been willing to practise what they preached if their
age had not been so venerable or their directive power so invaluable.”
“_In_-valuable,” murmured the Angel; “has that word a negative
signification?”
“Not in all cases,” said his dragoman with a smile; “there were men
whom it would have been difficult to replace, though not many, and
those perhaps the least comparatively moral. In this category, too,
were undoubtedly the persons known as conchies.”
“From conch, a shell?” asked the Angel.
“Not precisely,” returned his dragoman; “and yet you have hit it,
sir, for into their shells they certainly withdrew, refusing to have
anything to do with this wicked world. Sufficient unto them was the
voice within. They were not well treated by an unfeeling populace.”
“This is interesting to me,” said the Angel. “To what did they object?”
“To war,” replied his dragoman. “‘What is it to us,’ they said,
‘that there should be barbarians like these Prussians, who override
the laws of justice and humanity?’--words, sir, very much in vogue in
those days. ‘How can it effect our principles if these rude foreigners
have not our views, and are prepared, by cutting off the food
supplies of this island, to starve us into submission to their rule?
Rather than turn a deaf ear to the voice within we are prepared for
general starvation; whether we are prepared for the starvation of our
individual selves we cannot, of course, say until we experience it. But
we hope for the best, and believe that we shall go through with it to
death, in the undesired company of all who do not agree with us.’ And
it is certain, sir, that some of them were capable of this; for there
is, as you know, a type of man who will die rather than admit that his
views are too extreme to keep himself and his fellow-men alive.”
“How entertaining!” said the Angel. “Do such persons still exist?”
“Oh! yes,” replied the dragoman; “and always will. Nor is it, in my
opinion, altogether to the disadvantage of mankind, for they afford a
salutary warning to the human species not to isolate itself in fancy
from the realities of existence and extinguish human life before its
time has come. We shall now consider the positively moral. At the
time of the Great Skirmish these were such as took no sugar in their
tea and invested all they had in War Stock at five per cent. without
waiting for what were called Premium Bonds to be issued. They were a
large and healthy group, more immediately concerned with commerce than
the war. But the largest body of all were the negatively moral. These
were they who did what they crudely called ‘their bit,’ which I may
tell you, sir, was often very bitter. I myself was a ship’s steward
at the time, and frequently swallowed much salt water, owing to the
submarines. But I was not to be deterred, and would sign on again when
it had been pumped out of me. Our morality was purely negative, if not
actually low. We acted, as it were, from instinct, and often wondered
at the sublime sacrifices which were being made by our betters. Most
of us were killed or injured in one way or another; but a blind and
obstinate mania for not giving in possessed us. We were a simple lot.”
The dragoman paused and fixed his eyes on the empty hearth. “I will not
disguise from you,” he added “that we were fed-up nearly all the time;
and yet--we couldn’t stop. Odd, was it not?”
“I wish I had been with you,” said the Angel, “for--to use that word
without which you English seem unable to express anything--you were
heroes.”
“Sir,” said his dragoman, “you flatter us by such encomium. We were,
I fear, dismally lacking in commercial spirit, just men and women in
the street having neither time nor inclination to examine our conduct
and motives, nor to question or direct the conduct of others. Purely
negative beings, with perhaps a touch of human courage and human
kindliness in us. All this, however, is a tale of long ago. You can now
ask me any questions, sir, before I pass to private morality.”
“You allude to courage and kindliness,” said the Angel: “How do these
qualities now stand?”
“The quality of courage,” responded his dragoman, “received a set-back
in men’s estimation at the time of the Great Skirmish, from which it
has never properly recovered. For physical courage was then, for the
first time, perceived to be most excessively common; it is, indeed,
probably a mere attribute of the bony chin, especially prevalent in the
English-speaking races. As to moral courage, it was so hunted down that
it is still somewhat in hiding. Of kindliness there are, as you know,
two sorts: that which people manifest towards their own belongings; and
that which they do not as a rule manifest towards every one else.”
“Since we attended the Divorce Court,” remarked the Angel with
deliberation, “I have been thinking. And I fancy no one can be really
kind unless they have had matrimonial trouble, preferably in conflict
with the law.”
“A new thought to me,” observed his dragoman attentively; “and yet
you may be right, for there is nothing like being morally outcast to
make you feel the intolerance of others. But that brings us to private
morality.”
“Quite!” said the Angel, with relief. “I forgot to ask you this morning
how the ancient custom of marriage was now regarded in the large?”
“Not indeed as a sacrament,” replied his dragoman; “such a view was
becoming rare already at the time of the Great Skirmish. Yet the notion
might have been preserved but for the opposition of the Pontifical of
those days to the reform of the Divorce Laws. When principle opposes
common sense too long, a landslide follows.”
“Of what nature, then, is marriage now?”
“Purely a civil, or uncivil, contract, as the case may be. The holy
state of judicial separation, too, has long been unknown.”
“Ah!” said the Angel, “that was the custom by which the man became a
monk and the lady a nun, was it not?”
“In theory, sir,” replied his dragoman, “but in practice not a little
bit, as you may well suppose. The Pontifical, however, and the women,
old and otherwise, who supported them, had but small experience of
life to go on, and honestly believed that they were punishing those
still-married but erring persons who were thus separated. These, on the
contrary, almost invariably assumed that they were justified in free
companionships, nor were they particular to avoid promiscuity! So it
ever is, sir, when the great laws of Nature are violated in deference
to the Higher Doctrine.”
“Are children still-born out of wedlock?” asked the Angel.
“Yes,” said his dragoman, “but no longer considered responsible for the
past conduct of their parents.”
“Society, then, is more humane?”
“Well, sir, we shall not see the Millennium in that respect for some
years to come. Zoos are still permitted, and I read only yesterday a
letter from a Scottish gentleman pouring scorn on the humane proposal
that prisoners should be allowed to see their wives once a month
without bars or the presence of a third party; precisely as if we still
lived in the days of the Great Skirmish. Can you tell me why it is that
such letters are always written by Scotsmen?”
“Is it a riddle?” asked the Angel.
“It is indeed, sir.”
“Then it bores me. Speaking generally, are you satisfied with current
virtue now that it is a State matter, as you informed me yesterday?”
“To tell you the truth, sir, I do not judge my neighbours; sufficient
unto myself is the vice thereof. But one thing I observe, the less
virtuous people assume themselves to be, the more virtuous they
commonly are. Where the lime-light is not, the flower blooms. Have
you not frequently noticed that they who day by day cheerfully endure
most unpleasant things, while helping their neighbours at the expense
of their own time and goods, are often rendered lyrical by receiving
a sovereign from some one who would never miss it, and are ready to
enthrone him in their hearts as a king of men? The truest virtue, sir,
must be sought among the lowly. Sugar and snow may be seen on the top,
but for the salt of the earth one must look to the bottom.”
“I believe you,” said the Angel. “It is probably harder for a man in
the lime-light to enter virtue than for the virtuous to enter the
lime-light. Ha, ha! Is the good old custom of buying honour still
preserved?”
“No, sir; honour is now only given to such as make themselves too noisy
to be endured, and saddles the recipient with an obligation to preserve
public silence for a period not exceeding three years. That maximum
sentence is given for a dukedom. It is reckoned that few can survive so
fearful a term.”
“Concerning the morality of this new custom,” said the Angel, “I feel
doubtful. It savours of surrender to the bully and the braggart, does
it not?”
“Rather to the bore, sir; not necessarily the same thing. But whether
men be decorated for making themselves useful, or troublesome, the
result in either case is to secure a comparative inertia, which has
ever been the desideratum; for you must surely be aware, sir, how a
man’s dignity weighs him down.”
“Are women also rewarded in this way?”
“Yes, and very often; for although their dignity is already ample,
their tongues are long, and they have little shame and no nerves in
the matter of public speaking.”
“And what price their virtue?” asked the Angel.
“There is some change since the days of the Great Skirmish,” responded
his dragoman. “They do not now so readily sell it, except for a
wedding-ring; and many marry for love. Women, indeed, are often
deplorably lacking in commercial spirit; and though they now mix in
commerce, have not yet been able to adapt themselves. Some men even go
so far as to think that their participation in active life is not good
for trade and keeps the country back.”
“They are a curious sex,” said the Angel; “I like them, but they make
too much fuss about babies.”
“Ah! sir; there is the great flaw. The mother instinct--so heedless and
uncommercial! They seem to love the things just for their own sakes.”
“Yes,” said the Angel, “there’s no future in it. Give me a cigar.”