fellows that the qualities and the condition of the human machine are
put to the test and strained. That part of my life which I conduct by
myself, without reference--or at any rate without direct reference--to
others, I can usually manage in such a way that the gods do not
positively weep at the spectacle thereof. My environment is simpler,
less puzzling, when I am alone, my calm and my self-control less liable
to violent fluctuations. Impossible to be disturbed by a chair!
Impossible that a chair should get on one's nerves! Impossible to blame
a chair for not being as reasonable, as archangelic as I am myself! But
when it comes to people!... Well, that is
'living,' then! The art of life, the art of extracting all its power
from the human machine, does not lie chiefly in processes of
bookish-culture, nor in contemplations of the beauty and majesty of
existence. It lies chiefly in keeping the peace, the whole peace, and
nothing but the peace, with those with whom one is 'thrown.' Is it in
sitting ecstatic over Shelley, Shakespeare, or Herbert Spencer, solitary
in my room of a night, that I am 'improving myself' and learning to
live? Or is it in watching over all my daily human contacts? Do not seek
to escape the comparison by insinuating that I despise study, or by
pointing out that the eternal verities are beyond dailiness. Nothing of
the kind! I am so 'silly' about books that merely to possess them gives
me pleasure. And if the verities are good for eternity they ought to be
good for a day. If I cannot exchange them for daily coin--if I can't
buy happiness for a single day because I've nothing less than an eternal
verity about me and nobody has sufficient change--then my eternal verity
is not an eternal verity. It is merely an unnegotiable bit of glass
(called a diamond), or even a note on the Bank of Engraving.
I can say to myself when I arise in the morning: 'I am master of my
brain. No one can get in there and rage about like a bull in a china
shop. If my companions on the planet's crust choose to rage about they
cannot affect _me_! I will not let them. I have power to maintain my own
calm, and I will. No earthly being can force me to be false to my
principles, or to be blind to the beauty of the universe, or to be
gloomy, or to be irritable, or to complain against my lot. For these
things depend on the brain; cheerfulness, kindliness, and honest
thinking are all within the department of the brain. The disciplined
brain can accomplish them. And my brain is disciplined, and I will
discipline it more and more as the days pass. I am, therefore,
independent of hazard, and I will back myself to conduct all intercourse
as becomes a rational creature.' ... I can say this. I can ram this
argument by force of will into my brain, and by dint of repeating it
often enough I shall assuredly arrive at the supreme virtues of reason.
I should assuredly conquer--the brain being such a machine of
habit--even if I did not take the trouble to consider in the slightest
degree what manner of things my fellow-men are--by acting merely in my
own interests. But the way of perfection (I speak relatively) will be
immensely shortened and smoothed if I do consider, dispassionately, the
case of the other human machines. Thus:--
The truth is that my attitude towards my fellows is fundamentally and
totally wrong, and that it entails on my thinking machine a strain
which is quite unnecessary, though I may have arranged the machine so as
to withstand the strain successfully. The secret of smooth living is a
calm cheerfulness which will leave me always in full possession of my
reasoning faculty--in order that I may live by reason instead of by
instinct and momentary passion. The secret of calm cheerfulness is
kindliness; no person can be consistently cheerful and calm who does not
consistently think kind thoughts. But how can I be kindly when I pass
the major portion of my time in blaming the people who surround me--who
are part of my environment? If I, blaming, achieve some approach to
kindliness, it is only by a great and exhausting effort of self-mastery.
The inmost secret, then, lies in not blaming, in not judging and
emitting verdicts. Oh! I do not blame by word of mouth! I am far too
advanced for such a puerility. I keep the blame in my own breast, where
it festers. I am always privately forgiving, which is bad for me.
Because, you know, there is nothing to forgive. I do not have to forgive
bad weather; nor, if I found myself in an earthquake, should I have to
forgive the earthquake.
All blame, uttered or unexpressed, is wrong. I do not blame myself. I
can explain myself to myself. I can invariably explain myself. If I
forged a friend's name on a cheque I should explain the affair quite
satisfactorily to myself. And instead of blaming myself I should
sympathise with myself for having been driven into such an excessively
awkward corner. Let me examine honestly my mental processes, and I must
admit that my attitude towards others is entirely different from my
attitude towards myself. I must admit that in the seclusion of my mind,
though I say not a word, I am constantly blaming others because I am
not happy. Whenever I bump up against an opposing personality and my
smooth progress is impeded, I secretly blame the opposer. I act as
though I had shouted to the world: 'Clear out of the way, every one, for
I am coming!' Every one does not clear out of the way. I did not really
expect every one to clear out of the way. But I act, within, as though I
had so expected. I blame. Hence kindliness, hence cheerfulness, is
rendered vastly more difficult for me.
What I ought to do is this! I ought to reflect again and again, and yet
again, that the beings among whom I have to steer, the living
environment out of which I have to manufacture my happiness, are just as
inevitable in the scheme of evolution as I am myself; have just as much
right to be themselves as I have to be myself; are precisely my equals
in the face of Nature; are capable of being explained as I am capable
of being explained; are entitled to the same latitude as I am entitled
to, and are no more responsible for their composition and their
environment than I for mine. I ought to reflect again and again, and yet
again, that they all deserve from me as much sympathy as I give to
myself. Why not? Having thus reflected in a general manner, I ought to
take one by one the individuals with whom I am brought into frequent
contact, and seek, by a deliberate effort of the imagination and the
reason, to understand them, to understand why they act thus and thus,
what their difficulties are, what their 'explanation' is, and how
friction can be avoided. So I ought to reflect, morning after morning,
until my brain is saturated with the cases of these individuals. Here is
a course of discipline. If I follow it I shall gradually lose the
preposterous habit of blaming, and I shall have laid the foundations of
that quiet, unshakable self-possession which is the indispensable
preliminary of conduct according to reason, of thorough efficiency in
the machine of happiness. But something in me, something distinctly
base, says: 'Yes. The put-yourself-in-his-place business over again! The
do-unto-others business over again!' Just so! Something in me is ashamed
of being 'moral.' (You all know the feeling!) Well, morals are naught
but another name for reasonable conduct; a higher and more practical
form of egotism--an egotism which, while freeing others, frees myself. I
have tried the lower form of egotism. And it has failed. If I am afraid
of being moral, if I prefer to cut off my nose to spite my face, well, I
must accept the consequences. But truth will prevail.
VIII
THE DAILY FRICTION
It is with common daily affairs that I am now dealing, not with heroic
enterprises, ambitions, martyrdoms. Take the day, the ordinary day in
the ordinary house or office. Though it comes seven times a week, and is
the most banal thing imaginable, it is quite worth attention. How does
the machine get through it? Ah! the best that can be said of the machine
is that it does get through it, somehow. The friction, though seldom
such as to bring matters to a standstill, is frequent--the sort of
friction that, when it occurs in a bicycle, is just sufficient to annoy
the rider, but not sufficient to make him get off the machine and
examine the bearings. Occasionally the friction is very loud; indeed,
disturbing, and at rarer intervals it shrieks, like an omnibus brake out
of order. You know those days when you have the sensation that life is
not large enough to contain the household or the office-staff, when the
business of intercourse may be compared to the manoeuvres of two people
who, having awakened with a bad headache, are obliged to dress
simultaneously in a very small bedroom. 'After you with that towel!' in
accents of bitter, grinding politeness. 'If you could kindly move your
things off this chair!' in a voice that would blow brains out if it were
a bullet. I venture to say that you know those days. 'But,' you reply,
'such days are few. Usually...!' Well, usually, the friction, though
less intense, is still proceeding. We grow accustomed to it. We scarcely
notice it, as a person in a stuffy chamber will scarcely notice the
stuffiness. But the deteriorating influence due to friction goes on,
even if unperceived. And one morning we perceive its ravages--and write
a letter to the _Telegraph_ to inquire whether life is worth living, or
whether marriage is a failure, or whether men are more polite than
women. The proof that friction, in various and varying degrees, is
practically conscious in most households lies in the fact that when we
chance on a household where there is no friction we are startled. We
can't recover from the phenomenon. And in describing this household to
our friends, we say: 'They get on so well together,' as if we were
saying: 'They have wings and can fly! Just fancy! Did you ever hear of
such a thing?'
Ninety per cent. of all daily friction is caused by tone--mere tone of
voice. Try this experiment. Say: 'Oh, you little darling, you sweet pet,
you entirely charming creature!' to a baby or a dog; but roar these
delightful epithets in the tone of saying: 'You infernal little
nuisance! If I hear another sound I'll break every bone in your body!'
The baby will infallibly whimper, and the dog will infallibly mouch off.
True, a dog is not a human being, neither is a baby. They cannot
understand. It is precisely because they cannot understand and
articulate words that the experiment is valuable; for it separates the
effect of the tone from the effect of the word spoken. He who speaks,
speaks twice. His words convey his thought, and his tone conveys his
mental attitude towards the person spoken to. And certainly the
attitude, so far as friction goes, is more important than the thought.
Your wife may say to you: 'I shall buy that hat I spoke to you about.'
And you may reply, quite sincerely, 'As you please.' But it will depend
on your tone whether you convey: 'As you please. I am sympathetically
anxious that your innocent caprices should be indulged.' Or whether you
convey: 'As you please. Only don't bother me with hats. I am above hats.
A great deal too much money is spent in this house on hats. However, I'm
helpless!' Or whether you convey: 'As you please, heart of my heart, but
if you would like to be a nice girl, go gently. We're rather tight.' I
need not elaborate. I am sure of being comprehended.
As tone is the expression of attitude, it is, of course, caused by
attitude. The frictional tone is chiefly due to that general attitude of
blame which I have already condemned as being absurd and unjustifiable.
As, by constant watchful discipline, we gradually lose this silly
attitude of blame, so the tone will of itself gradually change. But the
two ameliorations can proceed together, and it is a curious thing that
an agreeable tone, artificially and deliberately adopted, will
influence the mental attitude almost as much as the mental attitude will
influence the tone. If you honestly feel resentful against some one,
but, having understood the foolishness of fury, intentionally mask your
fury under a persuasive tone, your fury will at once begin to abate. You
will be led into a rational train of thought; you will see that after
all the object of your resentment has a right to exist, and that he is
neither a doormat nor a scoundrel, and that anyhow nothing is to be
gained, and much is to be lost, by fury. You will see that fury is
unworthy of you.
Do you remember the gentleness of the tone which you employed after the
healing of your first quarrel with a beloved companion? Do you remember
the persuasive tone which you used when you wanted to obtain something
from a difficult person on whom your happiness depended? Why should not
your tone always combine these qualities? Why should you not carefully
school your tone? Is it beneath you to ensure the largest possible
amount of your own 'way' by the simplest means? Or is there at the back
of your mind that peculiarly English and German idea that politeness,
sympathy, and respect for another immortal soul would imply deplorable
weakness on your part? You say that your happiness does not depend on
every person whom you happen to speak to. Yes, it does. Your happiness
is always dependent on just that person. Produce friction, and you
suffer. Idle to argue that the person has no business to be upset by
your tone! You have caused avoidable friction, simply because your
machine for dealing with your environment was suffering from pride,
ignorance, or thoughtlessness. You say I am making a mountain out of a
mole-hill. No! I am making a mountain out of ten million mole-hills.
And that is what life does. It is the little but continuous causes that
have great effects. I repeat: Why not deliberately adopt a gentle,
persuasive tone--just to see what the results are? Surely you are not
ashamed to be wise. You may smile superiorly as you read this. Yet you
know very well that more than once you _have_ resolved to use a gentle
and persuasive tone on all occasions, and that the sole reason why you
had that fearful shindy yesterday with your cousin's sister-in-law was
that you had long since failed to keep your resolve. But you were of my
mind once, and more than once.
What you have to do is to teach the new habit to your brain by daily
concentration on it; by forcing your brain to think of nothing else for
half an hour of a morning. After a time the brain will begin to remember
automatically. For, of course, the explanation of your previous
failures is that your brain, undisciplined, merely forgot at the
critical moment. The tone was out of your mouth before your brain had
waked up. It is necessary to watch, as though you were a sentinel, not
only against the wrong tone, but against the other symptoms of the
attitude of blame. Such as the frown. It is necessary to regard yourself
constantly, and in minute detail. You lie in bed for half an hour and
enthusiastically concentrate on this beautiful new scheme of the right
tone. You rise, and because you don't achieve a proper elegance of
necktie at the first knotting, you frown and swear and clench your
teeth! There is a symptom of the wrong attitude towards your
environment. You are awake, but your brain isn't. It is in such a
symptom that you may judge yourself. And not a trifling symptom either!
If you will frown at a necktie, if you will use language to a necktie
which no gentleman should use to a necktie, what will you be capable of
to a responsible being?... Yes, it is very difficult. But it can be
done.
IX
'FIRE!'
In this business of daily living, of ordinary usage of the machine in
hourly intercourse, there occurs sometimes a phenomenon which is the
cause of a great deal of trouble, and the result of a very ill-tended
machine. It is a phenomenon impossible to ignore, and yet, so shameful
is it, so degrading, so shocking, so miserable, that I hesitate to
mention it. For one class of reader is certain to ridicule me, loftily
saying: 'One really doesn't expect to find this sort of thing in print
nowadays!' And another class of reader is certain to get angry.
Nevertheless, as one of my main objects in the present book is to
discuss matters which 'people don't talk about,' I shall discuss this
matter. But my diffidence in doing so is such that I must approach it
deviously, describing it first by means of a figure.
Imagine that, looking at a man's house, you suddenly perceive it to be
on fire. The flame is scarcely perceptible. You could put it out if you
had a free hand. But you have not got a free hand. It is his house, not
yours. He may or may not know that his house is burning. You are aware,
by experience, however, that if you directed his attention to the flame,
the effect of your warning would be exceedingly singular, almost
incredible. For the effect would be that he would instantly begin to
strike matches, pour on petroleum, and fan the flame, violently
resenting interference. Therefore you can only stand and watch, hoping
that he will notice the flames before they are beyond control, and
extinguish them. The probability is, however, that he will notice the
flames too late. And powerless to avert disaster, you are condemned,
therefore, to watch the damage of valuable property. The flames leap
higher and higher, and they do not die down till they have burned
themselves out. You avert your gaze from the spectacle, and until you
are gone the owner of the house pretends that nothing has occurred. When
alone he curses himself for his carelessness.
The foregoing is meant to be a description of what happens when a man
passes through the incendiary experience known as 'losing his temper.'
(There! the cat of my chapter is out of the bag!) A man who has lost his
temper is simply being 'burnt out.' His constitutes one of the most
curious and (for everybody) humiliating spectacles that life offers. It
is an insurrection, a boiling over, a sweeping storm. Dignity, common
sense, justice are shrivelled up and destroyed. Anarchy reigns. The
devil has broken his chain. Instinct is stamping on the face of reason.
And in that man civilisation has temporarily receded millions of years.
Of course, the thing amounts to a nervous disease, and I think it is
almost universal. You at once protest that you never lose your
temper--haven't lost your temper for ages! But do you not mean that you
have not smashed furniture for ages? These fires are of varying
intensities. Some of them burn very dully. Yet they burn. One man loses
his temper; another is merely 'ruffled.' But the event is the same in
kind. When you are 'ruffled,' when you are conscious of a resentful
vibration that surprises all your being, when your voice changes, when
you notice a change in the demeanour of your companion, who sees that he
has 'touched a tender point,' you may not go to the length of smashing
furniture, but you have had a fire, and your dignity is damaged. You
admit it to yourself afterwards. I am sure you know what I mean. And I
am nearly sure that you, with your courageous candour, will admit that
from time to time you suffer from these mysterious 'fires.'
'Temper,' one of the plagues of human society, is generally held to be
incurable, save by the vague process of exercising self-control--a
process which seldom has any beneficial results. It is regarded now as
smallpox used to be regarded--as a visitation of Providence, which must
be borne. But I do not hold it to be incurable. I am convinced that it
is permanently curable. And its eminent importance as a nuisance to
mankind at large deserves, I think, that it should receive particular
attention. Anyhow, I am strongly against the visitation of Providence
theory, as being unscientific, primitive, and conducive to unashamed
_laissez-aller._ A man can be master in his own house. If he cannot be
master by simple force of will, he can be master by ruse and wile. I
would employ cleverness to maintain the throne of reason when it is
likely to be upset in the mind by one of these devastating and
disgraceful insurrections of brute instinct.
It is useless for a man in the habit of losing or mislaying his temper
to argue with himself that such a proceeding is folly, that it serves no
end, and does nothing but harm. It is useless for him to argue that in
allowing his temper to stray he is probably guilty of cruelty, and
certainly guilty of injustice to those persons who are forced to witness
the loss. It is useless for him to argue that a man of uncertain temper
in a house is like a man who goes about a house with a loaded revolver
sticking from his pocket, and that all considerations of fairness and
reason have to be subordinated in that house to the fear of the
revolver, and that such peace as is maintained in that house is often a
shameful and an unjust peace. These arguments will not be strong enough
to prevail against one of the most powerful and capricious of all
habits. This habit must be met and conquered (and it _can_ be!) by an
even more powerful quality in the human mind; I mean the universal human
horror of looking ridiculous. The man who loses his temper often thinks
he is doing something rather fine and majestic. On the contrary, so far
is this from being the fact, he is merely making an ass of himself. He
is merely parading himself as an undignified fool, as that supremely
contemptible figure--a grown-up baby. He may intimidate a feeble
companion by his raging, or by the dark sullenness of a more subdued
flame, but in the heart of even the weakest companion is a bedrock
feeling of contempt for him. The way in which a man of uncertain temper
is treated by his friends proves that they despise him, for they do not
treat him as a reasonable being. How should they treat him as a
reasonable being when the tenure of his reason is so insecure? And if
only he could hear what is said of him behind his back!...
The invalid can cure himself by teaching his brain the habit of dwelling
upon his extreme fatuity. Let him concentrate regularly, with intense
fixation, upon the ideas: 'When I lose my temper, when I get ruffled,
when that mysterious vibration runs through me, I am making a donkey of
myself, a donkey, and a donkey! You understand, a preposterous donkey! I
am behaving like a great baby. I look a fool. I am a spectacle bereft of
dignity. Everybody despises me, smiles at me in secret, disdains the
idiotic ass with whom it is impossible to reason.'
Ordinarily the invalid disguises from himself this aspect of his
disease, and his brain will instinctively avoid it as much as it can.
But in hours of calm he can slowly and regularly force his brain, by
the practice of concentration, to familiarise itself with just this
aspect, so that in time its instinct will be to think first, and not
last, of just this aspect. When he has arrived at that point he is
saved. No man who, at the very inception of the fire, is visited with a
clear vision of himself as an arrant ass and pitiable object of
contempt, will lack the volition to put the fire out. But, be it noted,
he will not succeed until he can do it at once. A fire is a fire, and
the engines must gallop by themselves out of the station instantly. This
means the acquirement of a mental habit. During the preliminary stages
of the cure he should, of course, avoid inflammable situations. This is
a perfectly simple thing to do, if the brain has been disciplined out of
its natural forgetfulness.
X
MISCHIEVOUSLY OVERWORKING IT
I have dealt with the two general major causes of friction in the daily
use of the machine. I will now deal with a minor cause, and make an end
of mere dailiness. This minor cause--and after all I do not know that
its results are so trifling as to justify the epithet 'minor'--is the
straining of the machine by forcing it to do work which it was never
intended to do. Although we are incapable of persuading our machines to
do effectively that which they are bound to do somehow, we continually
overburden them with entirely unnecessary and inept tasks. We cannot, it
would seem, let things alone.