“What, then, is the present position of ‘the good’?” asked the Angel
Æthereal, taking wing from Watchester Cathedrome towards the City
Tabernacle.
“There are a number of discordant views, sir,” his dragoman whiffled
through his nose in the rushing air; “which is no more novel in
this year of Peace 1947 than it was when you were here in 1910. On
the far right are certain extremists, who believe it to be what it
was--omnipotent, but suffering the presence of ‘the bad’ for no reason
which has yet been ascertained; omnipresent, though presumably absent
where ‘the bad’ is present; mysterious, though perfectly revealed;
terrible, though loving; eternal, though limited by a beginning and
an end. They are not numerous, but all stall-holders, and chiefly
characterised by an almost perfect intolerance of those whose views
do not coincide with their own; nor will they suffer for a moment
any examination into the nature of ‘the good,’ which they hold to be
established for all time, in the form I have stated, by persons who
have long been dead. They are, as you may imagine, somewhat out of
touch with science, such as it is, and are regarded by the community at
large rather with curiosity than anything else.”
“The type is well known in the sky,” said the Angel. “Tell me: Do they
torture those who do not agree with them?”
“Not materially,” responded his dragoman. “Such a custom was extinct
even before the days of the Great Skirmish, though what would have
happened if the Patriotic or Prussian Party had been able to keep power
for any length of time we cannot tell. As it is, the torture they
apply is purely spiritual, and consists in looking down their noses at
all who have not their belief and calling them erratics. But it would
be a mistake to underrate their power, for human nature loves the
Pontifical, and there are those who will follow to the death any one
who looks down his nose, and says: ‘I know!’ Moreover, sir, consider
how unsettling a question ‘the good’ is, when you come to think about
it and how unfatiguing the faith which precludes all such speculation.”
“That is so,” said the Angel thoughtfully.
“The right centre,” continued his dragoman, “is occupied by the
small yet noisy Fifth Party. These are they who play the cornet and
tambourine, big drum and concertina, descendants of the Old Prophet,
and survivors of those who, following a younger prophet, joined
them at the time of the Great Skirmish. In a form ever modifying
with scientific discovery they hold that ‘the good’ is a superman,
bodiless yet bodily, with a beginning but without an end. It is an
attractive faith, enabling them to say to Nature: ‘_Je m’en fiche
de tout cela_. My big brother will look after me. Pom!’ One may
call it anthropomorphia, for it seems especially soothing to strong
personalities. Every man to his creed, as they say; and I would never
wish to throw cold water on such as seek to find ‘the good’ by closing
one eye instead of two, as is done by the extremists on the right.”
“You are tolerant,” said the Angel.
“Sir,” said his dragoman, “as one gets older, one perceives more
and more how impossible it is for man not to regard himself as the
cause of the universe, and for certain individual men not to believe
themselves the centre of the cause. For such to start a new belief is
a biological necessity, and should by no means be discouraged. It is a
safety-valve--the form of passion which the fires of youth take in men
after the age of fifty, as one may judge by the case of the prophet
Tolstoy and other great ones. But to resume: In the centre, of course,
are situated the enormous majority of the community, whose view is that
they have no view of what ‘the good’ is.”
“None?” repeated the Angel Æthereal, somewhat struck.
“Not the faintest,” answered his dragoman. “These are the only true
mystics; for what is a mystic if not one with an impenetrable belief in
the mystery of his own existence? This group embraces the great bulk
of the Laborious. It is true that many of them will repeat what is told
them of ‘the good’ as if it were their own view, without compunction,
but this is no more than the majority of persons have done from the
beginning of time.”
“Quite,” admitted the Angel; “I have observed that phenomenon in the
course of my travels. We will not waste words on them.”
“Ah, sir!” retorted his dragoman, “there is more wisdom in these
persons than you imagine. For, consider what would be the fate of their
brains if they attempted to think for themselves. Moreover, as you
know, all definite views about ‘the good’ are very wearing, and it is
better, so this great majority thinks, to let sleeping dogs lie than
to have them barking in its head. But I will tell you something,” the
dragoman added: “These innumerable persons have a secret belief of
their own, old as the Greeks, that good fellowship is all that matters.
And, in my opinion, taking ‘the good’ in its limited sense, it is an
admirable creed.”
“Oh! cut on!” said the Angel.
“My mistake, sir!” said his dragoman. “On the left centre are grouped
that increasing section whose view is that since everything is very
bad, ‘the good’ is ultimate extinction--‘Peace, perfect peace,’ as the
poet says. You will recollect the old tag: ‘To be or not to be.’ These
are they who have answered that question in the negative; pessimists
masquerading to an unsuspecting public as optimists. They are no doubt
descendants of such as used to be called ‘Theosophians,’ a sect which
presupposed everything and then desired to be annihilated; or, again,
of the Christian Scientites, who simply could not bear things as they
were, so set themselves to think they were not, with some limited
amount of success, if I remember rightly. I recall to mind the case of
a lady who lost her virtue, and recovered it by dint of remembering
that she had no body.”
“Curious!” said the Angel. “I should like to question her; let me have
her address after the lecture. Does the theory of reincarnation still
obtain?”
“I do not wonder, sir, that you are interested in the point, for
believers in that doctrine are compelled, by the old and awkward
rule that ‘Two and two make four,’ to draw on other spheres for the
reincarnation of their spirits.”
“I do not follow,” said the Angel.
“It is simple, however,” answered his dragoman, “for at one time on
earth, as is admitted, there was no life. The first incarnation,
therefore--an amœba, we used to be told--enclosed a spirit, possibly
from above. It may, indeed, have been yours, sir. Again, at some time
on this earth, as is admitted, there will again be no life; the last
spirit will therefore flit to an incarnation, possibly below; and
again, sir, who knows, it may be yours.”
“I cannot jest on such a subject,” said the Angel, with a sneeze.
“No offence,” murmured his dragoman. “The last group, on the far left,
to which indeed I myself am not altogether unaffiliated, is composed
of a small number of extremists, who hold that ‘the good’ is things
as they are--pardon the inevitable flaw in grammar. They consider
that what is now has always been, and will always be; that things do
but swell and contract and swell again, and so on for ever and ever;
and that, since they could not swell if they did not contract, since
without the black there could not be the white, nor pleasure without
pain, nor virtue without vice, nor criminals without judges; even
contraction, or the black, or pain, or vice, or judges, are not ‘the
bad,’ but only negatives; and that all is for the best in the best of
all possible worlds. They are Voltairean optimists masquerading to an
unsuspecting population as pessimists. ‘Eternal Variation’ is their
motto.”
“I gather,” said the Angel, “that these think there is no purpose in
existence?”
“Rather, sir, that existence _is_ the purpose. For, if you consider,
any other conception of purpose implies fulfilment, or an _end_, which
they do not admit, just as they do not admit a beginning.”
“How logical!” said the Angel. “It makes me dizzy! You have renounced
the idea of climbing, then?”
“Not so,” responded his dragoman. “We climb to the top of the pole,
slide imperceptibly down, and begin over again; but since we never
really know whether we are climbing or sliding, this does not depress
us.”
“To believe that this goes on for ever is futile,” said the Angel.
“So we are told,” replied his dragoman, without emotion. “_We_ think,
however, that the truth is with us, in spite of jesting Pilate.”
“It is not for me,” said the Angel with dignity, “to argue with my
dragoman.”
“No, sir, for it is always necessary to beware of the open mind. I
myself find it very difficult to believe the same thing every day.
And the fact that is whatever you believe will probably not alter the
truth, which may be said to have a certain mysterious immutability,
considering the number of efforts men have made to change it from
time to time. We are now, however, just above the City Tabernacle,
and if you will close your wings we shall penetrate it through the
claptrap-door which enables its preachers now and then to ascend to
higher spheres.”
“Stay!” said the Angel; “let me float a minute while I suck a
peppermint, for the audiences in these places often have colds.” And
with that delicious aroma clinging to them they made their entry
through a strait gate in the roof and took their seats in the front
row, below a tall prophet in eyeglasses, who was discoursing on the
stars. The Angel slept heavily.
“You have lost a good thing, sir,” said his dragoman reproachfully,
when they left the Tabernacle.
“In my opinion,” the Angel playfully responded, “I won a better, for I
went nap. What can a mortal know about the stars?”
“Believe me,” answered his dragoman, “the subject is not more abstruse
than is generally chosen.”
“If he had taken religion I should have listened with pleasure,” said
the Angel.
“Oh! sir, but in these days such a subject is unknown in a place of
worship. Religion is now exclusively a State affair. The change began
with discipline and the Education Bill in 1918, and has gradually
crystallised ever since. It is true that individual extremists on the
right make continual endeavours to encroach on the functions of the
State, but they preach to empty houses.”
“And the Deity?” said the Angel: “You have not once mentioned Him. It
has struck me as curious.”
“Belief in the Deity,” responded his dragoman, “perished shortly after
the Great Skirmish, during which there was too active and varied an
effort to revive it. Action, as you know, sir, always brings reaction,
and it must be said that the spiritual propaganda of those days was
so grossly tinged with the commercial spirit that it came under the
head of profiteering and earned for itself a certain abhorrence. For
no sooner had the fears and griefs brought by the Great Skirmish faded
from men’s spirits than they perceived that their new impetus towards
the Deity had been directed purely by the longing for protection,
solace, comfort, and reward, and not by any real desire for ‘the good’
in itself. It was this truth, together with the appropriation of the
word by Emperors, and the expansion of our towns, a process ever
destructive of traditions, which brought about extinction of belief in
His existence.”
“It was a large order,” said the Angel.
“It was more a change of nomenclature,” replied his dragoman. “The
ruling motive for belief in ‘the good’ is still the hope of getting
something out of it--the commercial spirit is innate.”
“Ah!” said the Angel, absently. “Can we have another lunch now? I could
do with a slice of beef.”
“An admirable idea, sir,” replied his dragoman, “we will have it in the
White City.”