UPTON,
May 9, 1904.
MY DEAR HERBERT,--I am going back to the subject of ambition--do you
mind?
Yesterday in chapel one of my colleagues preached rather a fine sermon
on Activity. The difficulty under which he laboured is a common one in
sermons; it is simply this--How far is a Christian teacher justified in
recommending ambition to Christian hearers? I think that, if one reads
the Gospel, it is clear that ambition is not a Christian motive. The
root of the teaching of Christ seems to me to be that one should have
or acquire a passion for virtue; love it for its beauty, as an artist
loves beauty of form or colour; and the simplicity which is to be the
distinguishing mark of a Christian seems to me to be inconsistent with
personal ambition. I do not see that there is any hint of a Christian
being allowed to wish to do, what is called in domestic language
"bettering" himself. The idea rather is that the all-wise and
all-loving Father puts a man into the world where he intends him to be;
and that a man is to find his highest pleasure in trying to serve the
Father's will, with a heart full of love for all living things. A rich
man is to disembarrass himself of his riches, or at least be sure that
they are no hindrance to him; a poor man is not to attempt to win them.
Of course it may be possible that the original Christians were intended
to take a special line while the faith was leavening the world, and
that a different economy was to prevail when society had been
Christianised. This is a point of view which can be subtly defended,
but I think it is hard to find any justification for it in the Gospel.
Ambition practically means that, if one is to shoulder to the front,
one must push other people out of the way; one must fight for one's own
hand. To succeed at no one's expense is only possible to people of very
high character and genius.
But it is difficult to see what motive to set before boys in the
matter; the ideas of fame and glory, the hope of getting what all
desire and what all cannot have, are deeply rooted in the childish
mind. Moreover, we encourage ambition so frankly, both in work and
play, that it is difficult to ascend the school pulpit and take quite a
different line. To tell boys that they must simply do their best for
the sake of doing their best, without any thought of the rewards of
success--it is a very fine ideal, but is it a practical one? If we gave
prizes to the stupid boys who work without hope of success, and if we
gave colours to the boys who played games hard without attaining
competence in them, we might then dare to speak of the rewards of
virtue. But boys despise unsuccessful conscientiousness, and all the
rewards we distribute are given to aptitude. Some preachers think they
get out of the difficulty by pointing to examples of lives that battled
nobly and unsuccessfully against difficulties; but the point always is
the ultimate recognition. The question is not whether we can provide a
motive for the unsuccessful; but whether we ought not to discourage
ambition in every form? Yet it is the highest motive power in the case
of most generous and active-minded boys.
In the course of the sermon the preacher quoted some lines of Omar
Khayyam in order to illustrate the shamefulness of the indolent life.
That is a very dangerous thing to do. The lovely stanzas, sweet as
honey, flowed out upon the air in all their stately charm. The old
sinner stole my heart away with his gentle, seductive, Epicurean grace.
I am afraid that I felt like Paolo as he sate beside Francesca. I heard
no more of the sermon that day; I repeated to myself many of the
incomparable quatrains, and felt the poem to be the most beautiful
presentment of pure Agnosticism that has ever been given to the world.
The worst of it is that the delicate traitor makes it so beautiful that
one does not feel the shame and the futility of it.
This evening I have been reading the new life of FitzGerald, so you may
guess what was the result of the sermon for me. It is not a wholly
pleasing book, but it is an interesting one; it gives a better picture
of the man than any other book or article, simply by the great
minuteness with which it enters into details. And now I find myself
confronted by the problem in another shape. Was FitzGerald's life an
unworthy one? He had great literary ambitions, but he made nothing of
them. He lived a very pure, innocent, secluded life, delighting in
nature and in the company of simple people; loving his friends with a
passion that reminds one of Newman; doing endless little kindnesses to
all who came within his circle; and tenderly loved by several
great-hearted men of genius. He felt himself that he was to blame; he
urged others to the activities which he could not practise. And yet the
results of his life are such as many other more busy, more
conscientious men have not achieved. He has left a large body of good
literary work, and one immortal poem of incomparable beauty. He also
left, quite unconsciously, I believe, many of the most beautiful,
tender, humorous, wise letters in the English tongue; and I find myself
wondering whether all this could have been brought to pass in any other
way.
Yet I could not conscientiously advise any one to take FitzGerald's
life as a model It was shabby, undecided, futile; he did many silly,
almost fatuous things; he was deplorably idle and unstrung. At the same
time a terrible suspicion creeps upon me that many busy men are living
worse lives. I don't mean men who give themselves to activities,
however dusty, which affect other people. I will grant at once that
doctors, teachers, clergymen, philanthropists, even Members of
Parliament are justified in their lives; then, too, men who do the
necessary work of the world--farmers, labourers, workmen, fishermen,
are justifiable. But business men who make fortunes for their children;
lawyers, artists, writers, who work for money and for praise--are these
after all so much nobler than our indolent friend? To begin with,
FitzGerald's life was one of extraordinary simplicity. He lived on
almost nothing, he had no luxuries; he was like a lily of the field. If
he had been a merely selfish man it would have been different; but he
loved his fellow-men deeply and tenderly, and he showered unobtrusive
kindness on all round him.
I find it very hard to make up my mind; it is true that the fabric of
the world would fall to pieces if we were all FitzGeralds. But so, too,
as has often been pointed out, would it fall to pieces if we all lived
literally on the lines of the Sermon on the Mount. Activities are for
many people a purely selfish thing, to fill the time because they are
otherwise bored; and it is hard to see why a man who can fill his life
with less strenuous pleasures, books, music, strolling, talking, should
not be allowed to do so.
Solve me the riddle, if you can! The simplicity of the Gospel seems to
me to be inconsistent with the Expansion of England; and I dare not say
off-hand that the latter is the finer ideal.--Ever yours,