British satirists are very scornful of snobbery; they seem oppressed
by the thought that wealth, rank, and finery are hideously inane and
that they are hideously powerful. Are these moralists really overcome
by a sense of the vanity of human wishes? It would hardly seem so;
for they often breathe a sentimental adoration for romantic love or
philanthropy or adventure or mystic piety or good cheer or ruthless
will--all of them passions as little likely as any snobbish impulse to
arise without some illusion or to end without some disappointment. Why
this exclusive hostility to the vanities dear to the snob? Have birth,
money, and fashion no value whatever? Do they not dazzle the innocent
and unsophisticated with a distant image of happiness? Are they not
actually, when enjoyed, very comforting and delightful things in their
way? What else than this sensitiveness to better social example--which
we may call snobbery if we please--lends English life in particular
its most characteristic excellences--order without constraint, leisure
without apathy, seclusion without solitude, good manners without
punctilio, emulation without intrigue, splendour without hollowness?
Why such bitterness about the harmless absurdities that may fringe
this national discipline? Are these moralists in fact only envious
and sulky? Is it sour grapes? It would sometimes seem as if, in
England, the less representative a man was the more eagerly he took to
literature, and thought that by hating his fellow-men and despising
their prevalent feelings he rendered himself eminently fit to be their
guide and redeemer.
In fact, there is a philosophical principle implied in snobbery, a
principle which is certainly false if made absolute, but which fairly
expresses the moral relations of things in a certain perspective. If
we all really stood on different steps in a single ladder of progress,
then to admire and imitate those above us and to identify ourselves
with them by hook or by crook would be simply to accelerate our natural
development, to expand into our higher self, and to avoid fatal abysses
to the right and to the left of the path marked out for us by our
innate vocation. Life would then be like the simple game which children
call Follow the Leader; and this scrupulous discipleship would be
perfect freedom, since the soul of our leader and our own soul that
chooses him would be the same. This principle is precisely that of
the transcendental philosophy where it maintains that there is but
one spirit in all men, and one logical moral evolution for the world.
In fact, it is the Germans rather than the English that are solemn,
convinced, and universal snobs. If they do not seem so much snobs in
particular, it is because they are snobs _überhaupt_. It is not only
from the nobility that grateful dews descend on their sensitive hearts,
as upon open flowers; they yearn also after the professors and the
artists, and assiduously dress their domestic mind, so far as the cloth
will go, in the latest intellectual fashion. Their respect for what
holds the official stage, and holds it for the moment, is beautiful in
its completeness. They can change their front without changing their
formation. And the occasional pricks and heartburnings of snobbery are
entirely drowned, in their case, in its voluminous vicarious joys.
On the whole, however, snobbish sentiment and transcendental philosophy
do not express the facts of nature. Men and nations do not really march
in single file, as if they were being shepherded into some Noah's Ark.
They have perhaps a common root and similar beginnings, but they
branch out at every step into forms of life between which there is
no further interchange of sap, and no common destiny. Their several
fruits become incommensurable in beauty and in value, like the poetry
of different languages, and more disparate the more each is perfected
after its kind. The whale is not a first sketch for the butterfly,
nor its culmination; the mind of an ox is not a fuller expression of
that of a rabbit. The poet does not evolve into the general, nor _vice
versa_; nor does a man, in growing further, become a woman, superior
as she may be in her own way. That is why snobbery is really a vice:
it tempts us to neglect and despise our proper virtues in aping those
of other people. If an angel appeared to me displaying his iridescent
wings and treble voice and heart fluttering with eternal love, I should
say, "Certainly, I congratulate you, but I do not wish to resemble
you." Snobbery haunts those who are not reconciled with themselves;
evolution is the hope of the immature. You cannot be everything. Why
not be what you are?
This contentment with oneself, in its rational mixture of pride with
humility, and its infinite indifference to possibilities which to
us are impossible, is well understood in the great East--which is a
moral as well as a geographical climate. There every one feels that
circumstances have not made and cannot unmake the soul. Variations of
fortune do not move a man from his inborn centre of gravity. Whatever
happens and whatever people say he puts up with as he would with bad
weather. He lets them thunder and rage, and continues to sit on his
heels in his corner, in the shade or in the sun according to the
season, munching his crust of bread, meditating on heaven and earth,
and publishing on occasion to the passers-by, or to the wilderness, the
revelations he receives from the spirit; and if these are particularly
vivid, he will not hesitate to cry, "So saith the Lord," with an equal
dignity or assurance whether he be sage, king, or beggar. Such firmness
and independence of character are admirable, so long as the expression
of them remains merely poetical or moral. It is enough if confessions
are sincere, and aspirations true to the heart that utters them. In the
heights and the depths we are all solitary, and we are deceived if we
think otherwise, even when people say they agree with us, or form a
sect under our name. As our radical bodily functions are incorrigibly
selfish and persistent, so our ultimate ideals, if they are sincere,
must for ever deviate from those of others and find their zenith in
a different star. The moral world is round like the heavens, and the
directions which life can take are infinitely divergent and unreturning.
But in the world of circumstances, in matters of politics and business,
information, and thrift, civilized men move together: their interests,
if not identical, are parallel, and their very conflicts and rivalries
arise out of this contact and relevance in their aims. Eminence in this
worldly sphere is unmistakable. One fortune in money can be measured
against another and may be increased to equal it; and in government,
fashion, and notoriety some people are unmistakably at the top of the
tree, and doubtless deserve to be there, having found the right method
of climbing. It is only natural that those who wish to climb too should
study and imitate them. Awe and respect for such persons is an honest
expression of social idealism: it is an admiration mixed with curiosity
and with the desire for propinquity, because their achievements are
in our own line of business and a prospective partnership is not
out of the question. Their life is the ideal of ours. Yet all such
conventional values and instrumentalities, in which we are perhaps
absorbed, in the end say nothing to the heart. If by chance, in the
shifts of this world, we pop up near the people whom we distantly
admired, and reach the crest of the wave in their company, we discover
how great an illusion it was that it would be good or possible for us
to resemble them; conventional friends, we have no instincts, joys, or
memories in common. It is, perhaps, from quite another age or race,
from an utterly different setting of worldly tasks and ambitions,
that some hint of true friendship and understanding reaches us in our
hermitage; and even this hint is probably a hollow reverberation of
our own soliloquy. In this slippery competitive earth snobbery is not
unreasonable; but in heaven and hell there are no snobs. There every
despised demon hugs his favourite vice for ever, and even the smallest
of the stars shines with a singular glory.
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