I walked one afternoon with Father Payne just as winter turned to spring,
in the pastures. There was a mound at the corner of one of his fields, on
which grew a row of beech trees of which Father Payne was particularly
fond. He pointed out to me to-day how the most southerly of the trees,
exposed as it was to the full force of the wind, grew lower and sturdier
than the rest, and how as the trees progressed towards the north, each one
profiting more by the shelter of his comrades, they grew taller and more
graceful. "I like the way that stout little fellow at the end grows," said
Father Payne. "He doesn't know, I suppose, that he is protecting the rest,
and giving them room to expand. But he holds on; and though he isn't so
tall, he is bulkier and denser than his brethren. He knows that he has to
bear the brunt of the wind, so he puts out no sail. He just devotes himself
to standing four-square--he is not going to be bullied! He would like to be
as smooth and as shapely as the rest, but he knows his own business, and he
has adapted himself, like a sensible fellow, to his rough conditions."
A little later Father Payne stopped to look at a great sow-thistle that was
growing vigorously under a hedge-row. "Did you ever see such a bit of pure
force?" said Father Payne. "I see a fierce conscious life in every inch of
that plant. Look at the way he clips himself in, and strains to the earth:
look at his great rays of leaves, thrust out so geometrically from the
centre, with the sharp, horny, uncompromising thorns. And see how he
flattens down his leaves over the surrounding grasses: they haven't a
chance; he just squeezes them down and strangles them. There is no mild and
delicate waving of fronds in the air. He means to sit down firmly on the
top of his comrades. I don't think I ever saw anything with such a muscular
pull on--you can't lift his leaves up; look, he resists with all his might!
Just consider the immense force which he is using: he is not merely
snuggling down: he is just hauling things about. You don't mean to tell me
that this thistle isn't conscious! He knows he has enemies, but he is going
to make the place his very own--and all that out of a drifting little arrow
of down!"
"Now that may not be a sympathetic or even Christian way of doing things,"
he went on presently, "but for all that, I do love to see the force of
life, the intentness of living. I like our friend the beech a little
better, because he is helping his friends, though he doesn't know it, and
the thistle is only helping himself. But I am sure that it is the right way
to go at it! We mustn't be always standing aside and making room: we
mustn't obliterate ourselves. We have a right to our joy in life, and we
mustn't be afraid of it. If we give away what we have got, it must cost us
something--it must not be a mere relinquishing."
"It is rather hard to combine the two principles," I said--"the living of
life, I mean, and the giving away of life."
"Well, I think that devotion is better than self-sacrifice," said Father
Payne. "On the whole I mistrust weakness more than I mistrust strength.
It's easy to dislike violence--but I rather worship vitality. I would
almost rather see a man forcing his way through with some callousness, than
backing out, smiling and apologising. You can convert strength, you can't
do anything with weakness. Take the sort of work you fellows do. I always
feel I can chasten and direct exuberance: what I can't do is to impart
vigour. If a man says his essay is short because he can't think of anything
to write, I feel inclined to say, 'Then for goodness' sake hold your
tongue!' It's the people who can't hold their tongue, who go on roughly
pointing things out, and commenting, and explaining, and thrusting
themselves in front of the show, who do something. Of course force has to
be kept in order, but there it is--it lives, it must have its say. What you
have to learn is to insinuate yourself into life, like ivy, but without
spoiling other people's pleasure. That's liberty! The old thistle has no
respect for liberty, and that is why he is rooted up. But it's rather sad
work doing it, because he does so very much want to be alive. But it isn't
liberty simply to efface yourself, because you may interfere with other
people. The thing is to fit in, without disorganising everything about
you."
He mused for a little in silence; then he said, "It's like almost
everything else--it's a weighing of claims! I don't want you fellows to be
either tyrannical or slavish. It's tyrannical to bully, it's slavish to
defer. The thing is to have a firm opinion, not to be ashamed of it or
afraid of it; to say it reasonably and gently, and to stick to it amiably.
Good does not attack, though if it is attacked it can slay. Good fights
evil, but it knows what it is fighting, while evil fights good and evil
alike. I think that is true. I don't want you people to be controversial or
quarrelsome in what you write, and to go in for picking holes in others'
work. If you want to help a man to do better, criticise him
privately--don't slap him in public, to show how hard you can lay on. Make
your own points, explain if you like, but don't apologise. The great
writers, mind you, are the people who can go on. It's volume rather than
delicacy that matters in the end. It must flow like honey--good solid
stuff--not drip like rain, out of mere weakness. But the thing is to flow,
and largeness of production is better than little bits of overhandled work.
Mind that, my boy! It's force that tells: and that's why I don't want you
to be over-interested in your work. You must go on filling up with
experience; but it doesn't matter where or how you get it, as long as it is
eagerly done. Be on the side of life! _Amor fati_, that's the motto
for a man--to love his destiny passionately, and all that is before him;
not to droop, or sentimentalise, or submit, but to plunge on, like a
'sea-shouldering whale'! You remember old Kit Smart--
'Strong against tide, the enormous whale
Emerges as he goes.'
"Mind you _emerge!_ Never heed the tide: there's plenty of room for it
as well as for you!"