UPTON,
March 15, 1904.
DEAR HERBERT,--You say I am not ambitious enough; well, I wish I could
make up my mind clearly on the subject of ambition; it has been brought
before me rather acutely lately. A post here has just fallen vacant--a
post to which I should have desired to succeed. I have no doubt that if
I had frankly expressed my wishes on the subject, if I had even told a
leaky, gossipy colleague what I desired, and begged him to keep it to
himself, the thing would have got out, and the probability is that the
post would have been offered to me. But I held my tongue, not, I
confess, from any very high motive, but merely from a natural dislike
of being importunate--it does not seem to me consistent with good
manners.
Well, I made no sign; and another man was appointed. I have no doubt
that a man of the world would say frankly that I was a fool, and,
though I am rather inclined to agree with him, I don't think I could
have acted otherwise.
I am inclined to encourage ambition of every kind among the boys. I
think it is an appropriate virtue for their age and temperament. It is
not a Christian virtue; for it is certain that, if one person succeeds
in an ambitious prospect, there must be a dozen who are disappointed.
But though I don't approve of it on abstract grounds, yet I think it is
so tremendous a motive for activity and keenness that it seems to me
that boys are the better for it. I don't believe that in education the
highest motive is always the best; indeed, the most effective motive,
in dealing with immature minds, is the thing which we have to discover
and use.
I mean, for instance, that I think it is probably more effective to say
to a boy who is disposed to be physically indolent, "You have a chance
of getting your colours this half, and I should like to see you get
them," than to say, "I don't want you to think about colours. I want
you to play football for the glory of God, because it makes you into a
stronger, more wholesome, more cheerful man." It seems to me that boys
should learn for themselves that there are often better and bigger
reasons for having done a thing than the reason that made them do it.
What makes an object seem desirable to a boy is that others desire to
have it too, and that he should be the fortunate person to get it. I
don't see how the sense of other people's envy and disappointment can
be altogether subtracted from the situation--it certainly is one of the
elements which makes success seem desirable to many boys--though a
generous nature will not indulge the thought.
But I am equally sure that, as one gets older, one ought to put aside
such thoughts altogether. That one ought to trample down ambitious
desires and even hopes. That glory, according to the old commonplace,
ought to follow and not to be followed.
I think one ought to pursue one's own line, to do one's own business to
the best of one's ability, and leave the rest to God. If He means one
to be in a big place, to do a big work, it will be clearly enough
indicated; and the only chance of doing it in a big way is to be
simple-minded, sincere, generous, and contented.
The worst of that theory is this. One sees people in later life who
have just missed big chances; some over-subtle delicacy of mind, some
untimely reticence or frankness, some indolent hanging-back, some
scrupulousness, has just checked them from taking a bold step forward
when it was needed. And one sees them with large powers, noble
capacities, wise thoughts, relegated to the crowd of unconsidered and
inconsiderable persons whose opinion has no weight, whose suggestions
have no effectiveness. Are they to be blamed? Or has one humbly and
faithfully to take it as an indication that they are just not fit, from
some secret weakness, some fibre of feebleness, to take the tiller?
I am speaking with entire sincerity when I say to you that I think I am
myself rather cast in that mould. I have always just missed getting
what used to be called "situations of dignity and emolument," and I
have often been condoled with as the person who ought to have had them.
Well, I expect that this is probably a very wholesome discipline for
me, but I cannot say that it is pleasant, or that use has made it
easier.
The worst of it is that I have an odd mixture of practicality and
mysticism within me, and I have sometimes thought that one has damaged
the other. My mysticism has pulled me back when I ought to have taken a
decided step, urging "Leave it to God"--and then, when I have failed to
get what I wanted, my mysticism has failed to comfort me, and the
practical side of me has said, "The decided step was what God clearly
indicated to you was needed; and you were lazy and would not take it."
I have a highly practical friend, the most absolutely and admirably
worldly person I know. In talk he sometimes lets fall very profound
maxims. We were talking the other day about this very point, and he
said musingly, "It is a very good rule in this world not to ask for
anything unless you are pretty sure to get it." That is the cream of
the worldly attitude. Such a man is not going to make himself tiresome
by importunity. He knows what he desires, he works for it, and, when
the moment comes, he just gives the little push that is needed, and
steps into his kingdom.
That is exactly what I cannot do. It is not a sign of high-mindedness,
for I am by nature greedy, acquisitive, and ambitious. But it is a want
of firmness, I suppose. Anyhow, there it is, and one cannot alter one's
temperament.
The conclusion which I come to for myself and for all like-minded
persons--not a very happy class, I fear--is that one should absolutely
steel oneself against disappointment, not allow oneself to indulge in
pleasing visions, not form plans or count chickens, but try to lay hold
of the things which do bring one tranquillity, the simple joys of
ordinary and uneventful life. One may thus arrive at a certain degree
of independence. And though the heart may ache a little at the chances
missed, yet one may console oneself by thinking that it is happier not
to realise an ambition and be disappointed, than to realise it and be
disappointed.
It all comes from over-estimating one's own powers, after all. If one
is decently humble, no disappointment is possible; and such little
successes as one does attain are like gleams of sunlight on a misty
day.--Ever yours,