The great misfortune of the modern English is not at all that they are
more boastful than other people (they are not); it is that they are
boastful about those particular things which nobody can boast of
without losing them. A Frenchman can be proud of being bold and
logical, and still remain bold and logical. A German can be proud of
being reflective and orderly, and still remain reflective and orderly.
But an Englishman cannot be proud of being simple and direct, and still
remain simple and direct. In the matter of these strange virtues, to
know them is to kill them. A man may be conscious of being heroic or
conscious of being divine, but he cannot (in spite of all the
Anglo-Saxon poets) be conscious of being unconscious.
Now, I do not think that it can be honestly denied that some portion of
this impossibility attaches to a class very different in their own
opinion, at least, to the school of Anglo-Saxonism. I mean that school
of the simple life, commonly associated with Tolstoy. If a perpetual
talk about one’s own robustness leads to being less robust, it is even
more true that a perpetual talking about one’s own simplicity leads to
being less simple. One great complaint, I think, must stand against the
modern upholders of the simple life—the simple life in all its varied
forms, from vegetarianism to the honourable consistency of the
Doukhobors. This complaint against them stands, that they would make us
simple in the unimportant things, but complex in the important things.
They would make us simple in the things that do not matter—that is, in
diet, in costume, in etiquette, in economic system. But they would make
us complex in the things that do matter—in philosophy, in loyalty, in
spiritual acceptance, and spiritual rejection. It does not so very much
matter whether a man eats a grilled tomato or a plain tomato; it does
very much matter whether he eats a plain tomato with a grilled mind.
The only kind of simplicity worth preserving is the simplicity of the
heart, the simplicity which accepts and enjoys. There may be a
reasonable doubt as to what system preserves this; there can surely be
no doubt that a system of simplicity destroys it. There is more
simplicity in the man who eats caviar on impulse than in the man who
eats grape-nuts on principle. The chief error of these people is to be
found in the very phrase to which they are most attached—“plain living
and high thinking.” These people do not stand in need of, will not be
improved by, plain living and high thinking. They stand in need of the
contrary. They would be improved by high living and plain thinking. A
little high living (I say, having a full sense of responsibility, a
little high living) would teach them the force and meaning of the human
festivities, of the banquet that has gone on from the beginning of the
world. It would teach them the historic fact that the artificial is,
if anything, older than the natural. It would teach them that the
loving-cup is as old as any hunger. It would teach them that ritualism
is older than any religion. And a little plain thinking would teach
them how harsh and fanciful are the mass of their own ethics, how very
civilized and very complicated must be the brain of the Tolstoyan who
really believes it to be evil to love one’s country and wicked to
strike a blow.
A man approaches, wearing sandals and simple raiment, a raw tomato held
firmly in his right hand, and says, “The affections of family and
country alike are hindrances to the fuller development of human love;”
but the plain thinker will only answer him, with a wonder not untinged
with admiration, “What a great deal of trouble you must have taken in
order to feel like that.” High living will reject the tomato. Plain
thinking will equally decisively reject the idea of the invariable
sinfulness of war. High living will convince us that nothing is more
materialistic than to despise a pleasure as purely material. And plain
thinking will convince us that nothing is more materialistic than to
reserve our horror chiefly for material wounds.
The only simplicity that matters is the simplicity of the heart. If
that be gone, it can be brought back by no turnips or cellular
clothing; but only by tears and terror and the fires that are not
quenched. If that remain, it matters very little if a few Early
Victorian armchairs remain along with it. Let us put a complex entree
into a simple old gentleman; let us not put a simple entree into a
complex old gentleman. So long as human society will leave my
spiritual inside alone, I will allow it, with a comparative submission,
to work its wild will with my physical interior. I will submit to
cigars. I will meekly embrace a bottle of Burgundy. I will humble
myself to a hansom cab. If only by this means I may preserve to myself
the virginity of the spirit, which enjoys with astonishment and fear. I
do not say that these are the only methods of preserving it. I incline
to the belief that there are others. But I will have nothing to do
with simplicity which lacks the fear, the astonishment, and the joy
alike. I will have nothing to do with the devilish vision of a child
who is too simple to like toys.
The child is, indeed, in these, and many other matters, the best guide.
And in nothing is the child so righteously childlike, in nothing does
he exhibit more accurately the sounder order of simplicity, than in the
fact that he sees everything with a simple pleasure, even the complex
things. The false type of naturalness harps always on the distinction
between the natural and the artificial. The higher kind of naturalness
ignores that distinction. To the child the tree and the lamp-post are
as natural and as artificial as each other; or rather, neither of them
are natural but both supernatural. For both are splendid and
unexplained. The flower with which God crowns the one, and the flame
with which Sam the lamplighter crowns the other, are equally of the
gold of fairy-tales. In the middle of the wildest fields the most
rustic child is, ten to one, playing at steam-engines. And the only
spiritual or philosophical objection to steam-engines is not that men
pay for them or work at them, or make them very ugly, or even that men
are killed by them; but merely that men do not play at them. The evil
is that the childish poetry of clockwork does not remain. The wrong is
not that engines are too much admired, but that they are not admired
enough. The sin is not that engines are mechanical, but that men are
mechanical.
In this matter, then, as in all the other matters treated in this book,
our main conclusion is that it is a fundamental point of view, a
philosophy or religion which is needed, and not any change in habit or
social routine. The things we need most for immediate practical
purposes are all abstractions. We need a right view of the human lot,
a right view of the human society; and if we were living eagerly and
angrily in the enthusiasm of those things, we should, ipso facto, be
living simply in the genuine and spiritual sense. Desire and danger
make every one simple. And to those who talk to us with interfering
eloquence about Jaeger and the pores of the skin, and about Plasmon and
the coats of the stomach, at them shall only be hurled the words that
are hurled at fops and gluttons, “Take no thought what ye shall eat or
what ye shall drink, or wherewithal ye shall be clothed. For after all
these things do the Gentiles seek. But seek first the kingdom of God
and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added unto you.”
Those amazing words are not only extraordinarily good, practical
politics; they are also superlatively good hygiene. The one supreme
way of making all those processes go right, the processes of health,
and strength, and grace, and beauty, the one and only way of making
certain of their accuracy, is to think about something else. If a man
is bent on climbing into the seventh heaven, he may be quite easy about
the pores of his skin. If he harnesses his waggon to a star, the
process will have a most satisfactory effect upon the coats of his
stomach. For the thing called “taking thought,” the thing for which
the best modern word is “rationalizing,” is in its nature, inapplicable
to all plain and urgent things. Men take thought and ponder
rationalistically, touching remote things—things that only
theoretically matter, such as the transit of Venus. But only at their
peril can men rationalize about so practical a matter as health.