These are the false accusations; the accusation of classicism, the
accusation of cruelty, and the accusation of an exclusiveness based on
perfection of pedigree. English public-school boys are not pedants,
they are not torturers; and they are not, in the vast majority of
cases, people fiercely proud of their ancestry, or even people with any
ancestry to be proud of. They are taught to be courteous, to be good
tempered, to be brave in a bodily sense, to be clean in a bodily sense;
they are generally kind to animals, generally civil to servants, and to
anyone in any sense their equal, the jolliest companions on earth. Is
there then anything wrong in the public-school ideal? I think we all
feel there is something very wrong in it, but a blinding network of
newspaper phraseology obscures and entangles us; so that it is hard to
trace to its beginning, beyond all words and phrases, the faults in this
great English achievement.
Surely, when all is said, the ultimate objection to the English public
school is its utterly blatant and indecent disregard of the duty of
telling the truth. I know there does still linger among maiden ladies
in remote country houses a notion that English schoolboys are taught to
tell the truth, but it cannot be maintained seriously for a moment.
Very occasionally, very vaguely, English schoolboys are told not to tell
lies, which is a totally different thing. I may silently support all the
obscene fictions and forgeries in the universe, without once telling a
lie. I may wear another man’s coat, steal another man’s wit, apostatize
to another man’s creed, or poison another man’s coffee, all without
ever telling a lie. But no English school-boy is ever taught to tell the
truth, for the very simple reason that he is never taught to desire the
truth. From the very first he is taught to be totally careless about
whether a fact is a fact; he is taught to care only whether the fact can
be used on his “side” when he is engaged in “playing the game.” He takes
sides in his Union debating society to settle whether Charles I ought to
have been killed, with the same solemn and pompous frivolity with
which he takes sides in the cricket field to decide whether Rugby or
Westminster shall win. He is never allowed to admit the abstract notion
of the truth, that the match is a matter of what may happen, but that
Charles I is a matter of what did happen--or did not. He is Liberal or
Tory at the general election exactly as he is Oxford or Cambridge at the
boat race. He knows that sport deals with the unknown; he has not even a
notion that politics should deal with the known. If anyone really
doubts this self-evident proposition, that the public schools definitely
discourage the love of truth, there is one fact which I should think
would settle him. England is the country of the Party System, and it
has always been chiefly run by public-school men. Is there anyone out
of Hanwell who will maintain that the Party System, whatever its
conveniences or inconveniences, could have been created by people
particularly fond of truth?
The very English happiness on this point is itself a hypocrisy. When a
man really tells the truth, the first truth he tells is that he himself
is a liar. David said in his haste, that is, in his honesty, that
all men are liars. It was afterwards, in some leisurely official
explanation, that he said the Kings of Israel at least told the truth.
When Lord Curzon was Viceroy he delivered a moral lecture to the Indians
on their reputed indifference to veracity, to actuality and intellectual
honor. A great many people indignantly discussed whether orientals
deserved to receive this rebuke; whether Indians were indeed in a
position to receive such severe admonition. No one seemed to ask, as I
should venture to ask, whether Lord Curzon was in a position to give
it. He is an ordinary party politician; a party politician means a
politician who might have belonged to either party. Being such a person,
he must again and again, at every twist and turn of party strategy,
either have deceived others or grossly deceived himself. I do not know
the East; nor do I like what I know. I am quite ready to believe that
when Lord Curzon went out he found a very false atmosphere. I only say
it must have been something startlingly and chokingly false if it was
falser than that English atmosphere from which he came. The English
Parliament actually cares for everything except veracity. The
public-school man is kind, courageous, polite, clean, companionable;
but, in the most awful sense of the words, the truth is not in him.
This weakness of untruthfulness in the English public schools, in the
English political system, and to some extent in the English
character, is a weakness which necessarily produces a curious crop of
superstitions, of lying legends, of evident delusions clung to through
low spiritual self-indulgence. There are so many of these public-school
superstitions that I have here only space for one of them, which may be
called the superstition of soap. It appears to have been shared by
the ablutionary Pharisees, who resembled the English public-school
aristocrats in so many respects: in their care about club rules and
traditions, in their offensive optimism at the expense of other people,
and above all in their unimaginative plodding patriotism in the worst
interests of their country. Now the old human common sense about washing
is that it is a great pleasure. Water (applied externally) is a splendid
thing, like wine. Sybarites bathe in wine, and Nonconformists drink
water; but we are not concerned with these frantic exceptions. Washing
being a pleasure, it stands to reason that rich people can afford it
more than poor people, and as long as this was recognized all was
well; and it was very right that rich people should offer baths to poor
people, as they might offer any other agreeable thing--a drink or a
donkey ride. But one dreadful day, somewhere about the middle of the
nineteenth century, somebody discovered (somebody pretty well off)
the two great modern truths, that washing is a virtue in the rich and
therefore a duty in the poor. For a duty is a virtue that one can’t do.
And a virtue is generally a duty that one can do quite easily; like
the bodily cleanliness of the upper classes. But in the public-school
tradition of public life, soap has become creditable simply because it
is pleasant. Baths are represented as a part of the decay of the Roman
Empire; but the same baths are represented as part of the energy and
rejuvenation of the British Empire. There are distinguished public
school men, bishops, dons, headmasters, and high politicians, who,
in the course of the eulogies which from time to time they pass upon
themselves, have actually identified physical cleanliness with moral
purity. They say (if I remember rightly) that a public-school man is
clean inside and out. As if everyone did not know that while saints can
afford to be dirty, seducers have to be clean. As if everyone did
not know that the harlot must be clean, because it is her business to
captivate, while the good wife may be dirty, because it is her business
to clean. As if we did not all know that whenever God’s thunder cracks
above us, it is very likely indeed to find the simplest man in a muck
cart and the most complex blackguard in a bath.
There are other instances, of course, of this oily trick of turning the
pleasures of a gentleman into the virtues of an Anglo-Saxon. Sport, like
soap, is an admirable thing, but, like soap, it is an agreeable thing.
And it does not sum up all mortal merits to be a sportsman playing the
game in a world where it is so often necessary to be a workman doing the
work. By all means let a gentleman congratulate himself that he has
not lost his natural love of pleasure, as against the blase, and
unchildlike. But when one has the childlike joy it is best to have also
the childlike unconsciousness; and I do not think we should have special
affection for the little boy who ever lastingly explained that it was
his duty to play Hide and Seek and one of his family virtues to be
prominent in Puss in the Corner.
Another such irritating hypocrisy is the oligarchic attitude towards
mendicity as against organized charity. Here again, as in the case of
cleanliness and of athletics, the attitude would be perfectly human and
intelligible if it were not maintained as a merit. Just as the obvious
thing about soap is that it is a convenience, so the obvious thing about
beggars is that they are an inconvenience. The rich would deserve very
little blame if they simply said that they never dealt directly with
beggars, because in modern urban civilization it is impossible to deal
directly with beggars; or if not impossible, at least very difficult.
But these people do not refuse money to beggars on the ground that such
charity is difficult. They refuse it on the grossly hypocritical ground
that such charity is easy. They say, with the most grotesque gravity,
“Anyone can put his hand in his pocket and give a poor man a penny; but
we, philanthropists, go home and brood and travail over the poor man’s
troubles until we have discovered exactly what jail, reformatory,
workhouse, or lunatic asylum it will really be best for him to go to.”
This is all sheer lying. They do not brood about the man when they get
home, and if they did it would not alter the original fact that their
motive for discouraging beggars is the perfectly rational one that
beggars are a bother. A man may easily be forgiven for not doing this
or that incidental act of charity, especially when the question is as
genuinely difficult as is the case of mendicity. But there is something
quite pestilently Pecksniffian about shrinking from a hard task on the
plea that it is not hard enough. If any man will really try talking to
the ten beggars who come to his door he will soon find out whether it is
really so much easier than the labor of writing a check for a hospital.
*****