_My dear MacWhittlesey_:
No, I have not become a pessimist. If I ever was an optimist, I am
certainly one still. But to my mind the only use of being an optimist
about the universe is that one can the more boldly be a pessimist about
the world. That you may see I can discern the good signals as well as
the bad, I will tell you three recent things with which I am thoroughly
delighted. With brazen audacity, I will even put first the one topic
you know all about and I know nothing about. I am thoroughly delighted
with the election of the American President, with the election of the
French President, and with the victory in the Balkans. You may think
these three things have nothing to do with one another. Wait till I
have done explaining things; it will not last long or hurt much.
[Illustration]
Don’t imagine I have any newspaper illusions about any of the three.
I am a journalist and never believe the newspapers. I know there will
be a lot of merely fashionable fuss about the American and the French
presidents; I know we shall hear how fond Mr. Wilson is of canaries
or how interested M. Poincaré is in yachting. It is truer still, of
course, about the Balkan War. I have been anti-Turk through times when
nearly every one else was pro-Turk. I may therefore be entitled to say
that much of the turnover of sympathy is pure snobbery. Silly fashions
always follow the track of any victory. After 1870 our regiments
adopted Prussian spikes on their helmets, as though the Prussians had
fought with their heads, like bisons. Doubtless there will be a crop
of the same sort of follies after the Balkan War. We shall see the
altering of inscriptions, titles, and advertisements. Turkish baths may
be called Bulgarian baths. The sweetmeat called Turkish Delight may
probably be called Servian Delight. A Turkey carpet, very much kicked
about and discolored, may be sold again as a Montenegro carpet. These
cheap changes may easily occur, and in the same way the international
world (which consists of hotels instead of homes) may easily make the
same mistake about the French and American presidents. Thousands of
Englishmen will read the American affair as a mere question of Colonel
Roosevelt. Thousands will read of the Poincaré affair as a mere echo of
the Dreyfus case. Thousands have never thought of the near East except
as the sultan and Constantinople. For such masses of men Roosevelt is
the only American there ever was. For them the Dreyfus question was
the only French question there ever was. They had never heard that the
Servians had a country, let alone an army.
The fact in which the three events meet is this: they are all realities
on the spot. Most Englishmen have never heard of Mr. Woodrow Wilson;
so they know that Americans really trust him. Most Englishmen have
never heard of M. Poincaré; so they know that Frenchmen know he is a
Frenchman. Neither is a member of the International Club, the members
of which advertise one another.
Do you know what I mean? Do you not know that International Club? Like
many other secret societies, it is unaware of its own existence. But
there is a sort of ring of celebrities known all over the world, and
more important all over the world than any of them are at home. Even
when they do not know one another, they talk about one another. Let me
see if I can find a name that typifies them. Well, I have no thought
of disrespect to the memory of a man I liked and admired personally,
and who died with a tragic dignity fitted for one who had always longed
to be a link between your country and mine; but I think the late W. T.
Stead was the unconscious secretary of that unconscious International
Club. The other members, roughly speaking, were Colonel Roosevelt, the
German Emperor, Tolstoy, Cecil Rhodes, and somebody like Mr. Edison.
In an interview with Roosevelt, Rhodes would be the most important man
in England, the Kaiser (or Tolstoy) the most important man in Europe.
In an interview with Rhodes, the Kaiser would be important, Mr. Edison
more important, Mr. Stead rather important; Bulgaria and M. Poincaré
not important at all. Interview the Kaiser, and you will probably find
the only interviewer he remembers is Stead. Could Rhodes have been
taken to Russia you would probably find the only Russian he had really
heard of was Tolstoy. For the rest, the Nobel prize, the Harmsworth
newspaper group, the Marconi inventions, the attempts at a universal
language--all these strike the note. I forgot the British Empire, on
which the sun never sets, a horribly unpoetical state of things. Think
of having a native land without any sunsets!
This International Club is breaking up. Men are more and more trusting
men they know to have been honest in a small way; men faithful in one
city to rule over many cities. Imperialists like Roosevelt and Rhodes
stood for unrealities. Please observe that I do not for one moment say
insincerities. Tolstoy was splendidly sincere; but the cult of him was
an unreality to this extent, that it left large masses in America and
England with a general idea that he was the only Christian in the east
of Europe. Since then we have seen Christianity on the march as it was
in the Middle Ages, a thing of thousands, ready for pilgrimage and
crusade. I don’t ask you to like it if you don’t like it. I only say
it’s jolly different from Tolstoy, and equally sincere. It is a reality
on the spot.
Well, just as Russia and the Slavs meant for us Tolstoy, so France
and French literature meant for many of us Zola. Poincaré’s election
represents a France that hates Zola more than the Balkans hate the
Turk. The old definite, domestic, patriotic Frenchman has come
to the top. I can’t help fancying that with you the old serious,
self-governing, idealistic, and really republican American has come to
the top, too. But there I speak of things I know not, and await your
next letter with alarm.
Faithfully yours,
_G. K. Chesterton_.