Father Payne, talking one evening, made a statement which involved an
assumption that the world was progressing. Rose attacked him on this point.
"Isn't that just one of the large generalisations," he said, "which you are
always telling us to beware of?"
"It isn't an assumption," said Father Payne, "but a conviction of mine,
based upon a good deal of second-hand evidence. I don't think it can be
doubted. I can't array all my reasons now, or we should sit here all
night--but I will tell you one main reason, and that is the immensely
increased peaceableness of the world. Fighting has gone out in schools, and
none but decayed clubmen dare to deplore it: corporal punishment has
diminished, and isn't needed, because children don't do savage things;
bullying is extinct in decent schools; crimes of violence are much more
rare; duelling is no longer a part of social life, except for an occasional
farcical performance between literary men or politicians in France--I saw
an account of one in the papers the other day. It was raining, and one of
the combatants would not furl his umbrella: his seconds said that it made
him a bigger target. "I may be shot," he said, "but that is no reason why I
should get wet!" Then there is the mediaeval nonsense among students in
Germany, where they fence like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Generally
speaking, however, the belief that a blow is an argument has gone out. Then
war has become more rare, and is more reluctantly engaged in. I suppose
that till the date of Waterloo there was hardly a year in history when some
fighting was not going on. No, I think it is impossible not to believe that
the impulse to kick and scratch and bite is really on the decline."
"But need that be a proof of progress?" said Rose. "May it not only mean a
decrease of personal courage, and a greater sensitiveness to pain?"
"I think not," said Father Payne, "because when there _is_ fighting to
be done, it is done just as courageously--indeed I think _more_
courageously than used to be the case. No, I think it is the training of an
instinct--the instinct of self-restraint. I believe that people have more
imagination and more sympathy than they used to have; there is more
tolerance of adverse opinion, a greater sense of liberty in the air:
opponents have more respect for each other, and do not attribute bad
motives so easily. Why, consider how much milder even the newspapers are.
If one reads old reviews, old books of political controversy, old
pamphlets--how much more blackguarding and calling names one sees.
Anonymous journalists, anonymous reviewers, are now the only people who
keep up the tradition of public bad manners--all signed articles and
criticisms are infinitely politer than they used to be."
"But," persisted Rose, "isn't that simply a possible proof of the general
declension of force?"
"Certainly not," said Father Payne, "it only means more equilibrium. You
must remember that equilibrium means a balance of forces, not a mere
diminution of them. There is more force present in a banked-up reservoir
than in a rushing stream. The rushing stream merely means a force making
itself felt without a counterbalancing force--but that isn't nearly as
strong as the pressure in a reservoir exerted by the water which is trying
to get out, and the resistance of the dam which is trying to keep it in.
You must not be taken in by apparent placidity: it often means two forces
at work instead of one. Peace, as opposed to war, is a tremendous
counterpoising of forces, and it simply means an organised resistance. In
old days, there was no cohesion of the forces which desire peace, and
violence was unresisted. There can be no doubt, I think, that in a
civilised country there are many more forces at work than in a combative
country. I do not suppose that we can either of us prove whether the forces
at work in the world have increased or diminished. Let us grant that the
amount is constant. If so, a great deal of the force that was combative has
now been transformed to the force which resists combat. But I imagine that
on the whole most people would grant that human energies have increased: if
that is so, certainly the combative element has not increased in
proportion, while the peaceful element has increased out of all
proportion."
"But," said Vincent, "you often talk in the most bellicose way, Father. You
say that we ought all to be fighting on the side of good."
"Yes," said Father Payne, "on the side of resistance to evil, I admit; but
you can fight without banging and smashing things, as the dam fights the
reservoir by silent cohesion. There is a temptation, from which some people
suffer, to think that one can't be fighting for God at all, unless one is
doing it furiously, and all the time, and successfully, and on a large and
impressive scale. That is a fatal blunder. To hide your adversary's sword
is often a very good way of fighting. To have an open tussle often makes
the bystanders sympathise with the assailant. It is really a far more
civilised thing, and often stands for a higher degree of force and honour,
to be able to bear contradiction not ignobly. Direct conflict is a mistake,
as a rule--blaming, fault-finding, censuring, snapping, punishing. The
point is to put all your energy into your own life and work, and make it
outweigh the energy of the combative critic. Do not fight by destroying
faulty opinion, but by creating better opinion. You fight darkness by
lighting a candle, not by waving a fan to clear it away. Look at one of the
things we have been talking about--bullying in schools. That has not been
conquered by expelling or whipping boys, or preaching about it--it has been
abolished by kindlier and gentler family life, by humaner school-masters
living with and among their boys, till the happiness of more peaceful
relations all round has been instinctively perceived."
"But isn't it right to show up mean and dishonest people, to turn the light
of publicity upon cruel and detestable things?" said Vincent.
"Exactly, my dear Vincent," said Father Payne; "but you can't turn the
light of publicity on evil unless the light is there to turn. The reason
why bullying continued was because people believed in it as inseparable
from school life, and even, on the whole, bracing. What has got rid of it
is a kinder and more tender spirit outside. I don't object to showing up
bad things at all. By all means put them, if you can, in a clear light, and
show their ugliness. Show your shame and disgust if you like, but do not
condescend to personal abuse. That only weakens your case, because it
merely proves that you have still some of the bully left in you. Be
peaceable writers, my dear boys," said Father Payne, expanding in a large
smile. "Don't squabble, don't try to scathe, don't be affronted! If your
critic reveals a weak place in your work, admit it, and do better! I want
to turn you out peace-makers, and that needs as much energy and restraint
as any other sort of fighting. Don't make the fact that your opponent may
be a cad into a personal grievance. Make your own idea clear, stick to it,
repeat it, say it again in a more attractive way. Don't you see that not
yielding to a bad impulse is fighting? The positive assertion of good, the
shaping of beauty, the presentment of a fruitful thought in so desirable a
light that other people go down with fresh courage into the dreariness and
dullness of life, with all the delight of having a new way of behaving in
their minds and hearts--that's how I want you to fight! It requires the
toughest sort of courage, I can tell you. But instead of showing your
spirit by returning a blow, show your spirit by propounding your idea in a
finer shape. Don't be taken in by the silly and ugly old war-metaphors--the
trumpet blown, the gathering of the hosts. That's simply a sensational
waste of your time! Look out of your window, and then sit down to your
work. That's the way to win, without noise or fuss."