UPTON,
June 11, 1904.
DEAR HERBERT,--Yes, I am sure you are right. The thing I get more and
more impatient of every year is conventionality in every form. It is
rather foolish, I am well aware, to be impatient about anything; and
great conventionality of mind is not inconsistent with entire
sincerity, for the simple reason that conventionality is what
ninety-nine hundredths of the human race enjoy. Most people have no
wish to make up their own minds about anything; they do not care to
know what they like or why they like it. This is often the outcome of a
deep-seated modesty. The ordinary person says to himself, "Who am I
that I should set up a standard? If all the people that I know like
certain occupations and certain amusements, they are probably right,
and I will try to like them too." I don't mean that this feeling is
often put into words, but it is there; and there is for most people an
immense power in habit. People grow to like what they do, and seldom
inquire if they really like it, or why they like it.
Of course, to a certain extent, conventionality is a useful, peaceful
thing. I am not here recommending eccentricity of any kind. People
ought to fall in simply and quietly with ordinary modes of life, dress,
and behaviour; it saves time and trouble; it sets the mind free. But
what I rather mean is that, when the ordinary usages of life have been
complied with, all sensible people ought to have a line of their own
about occupation, amusements, friends, and not run to and fro like
sheep just where the social current sets. What I mean is best explained
by a couple of instances. I met at dinner last night our old
acquaintance, Foster, who was at school with us. He was in my house; I
don't think you ever knew much of him. He was a pleasant, good-humoured
boy enough; but his whole mind was set on discovering the exact code of
social school life. He wanted to play the right games, to wear the
right clothes, to know the right people. He liked being what he called
"in the swim." He never made friends with an obscure or unfashionable
boy. He was quite pleasant to his associates when he was himself
obscure; but he waited quietly for his opportunity to recommend himself
to prominent boys, and, when the time came, he gently threw over all
his old companions and struck out into more distinguished regions. He
was never disagreeable or conceited; he merely dropped his humble
friends until they too were approved as worthy of greater distinction,
and then he took them up again. He succeeded in his ambitions, as most
cool and clear-headed persons do. He became what would be called very
popular; he gave himself no airs; he was always good company; he was
never satirical or critical. The same thing has gone on ever since. He
married a nice wife; he secured a good official position. Last night,
as I say, I met him here. He came into the room with the same old
pleasant smile, beautifully dressed, soberly appointed. His look and
gestures were perfectly natural and appropriate. He has never made any
attempt to see me or keep up old acquaintance; but here, where I have a
certain standing and position, it was obviously the right thing to
treat me with courteous deference. He came up to me with a genial
welcome, and, but for a little touch of prosperous baldness, I could
have imagined that he was hardly a day older than when he was a boy. He
reminded me of some cheerful passages of boyhood; he asked with kindly
interest after my work; he paid me exactly the right compliments; and I
became aware that I was, for the moment, one of the pawns in his game,
to be delicately pushed about where it suited him. We talked of other
matters; he held exactly the right political opinions, a mild and
cautious liberalism; he touched on the successes of certain politicians
and praised them appropriately; he deplored the failure of certain old
friends in political life. "A very good fellow," he said of Hughes,
"but just a little--what shall I say?--impracticable?" He had seen all
the right plays, heard the right music, read the right books. He
deplored the obscurity of George Meredith, but added that he was an
undoubted genius. He confessed himself to be an ardent admirer of
Wagner; he thought Elgar a man of great power; but he had not made up
his mind about Strauss. I found that "not making up his mind about" a
person was one of his favourite expressions. If he sees that some man
is showing signs of vigour and originality in any department of life,
he keeps his eye upon him; if he passes safely through the shallows, he
praises him, saying that he has watched his rise; if he fails, our
friend will be ready with the reasons for his failure, adding that he
always feared that so-and-so was a little unpractical.
I can't describe to you the dreariness and oppression that fell upon
me. The total absence of generosity, of independent interest, weighed
on my soul. The one quality that this equable and judicious critic was
on the look-out for was the power of being approved. Foster's view
seemed to knock the bottom out of life, to deprive everything equally
of charm and individuality.
The conversation turned on golf, and one of the guests, whom I am
shortly about to describe, said bluffly that he considered golf and
drink to be the two curses of the country. Our polite friend turned
courteously towards him, treated the remark as an excellent sally, and
then said that he feared he must himself plead guilty to a great
devotion to golf. "You see all kinds of pleasant people," he said, "in
such a pleasant way; and then it tempts one into the open air; and it
is such an excellent investment, in the way of exercise, for one's age;
a man can play a very decent game till he is sixty--though, of course,
it is no doubt a little overdone." We all felt that he was right; he
took the rational, the sensible view; but it tempted me, though I
successfully resisted the temptation, to express an exaggerated dislike
of golf which I do not feel.
The guest whose remark had occasioned this discourse is one of my
colleagues, Murchison by name--you don't know him--a big, rugged, shy,
sociable fellow, who is in many ways one of the best masters here. He
is always friendly, amusing, courteous. He holds strong opinions, which
he does not produce unless the occasion demands it. He keeps a good
deal to himself, follows his own pursuits, and knows his own mind. He
is very tolerant, and can get on with almost everybody. The boys
respect him, like his teaching, think him clever, sensible, and
amusing. There are a great many things about which he knows nothing,
and is always ready to confess his ignorance. But whenever he does
understand a subject, and he has a strong taste for art and letters,
you always feel that his thoughts and opinions are fresh and living.
They are not produced like sardines from a tin, with a painful
similarity and regularity. He has strong prejudices, for which he can
always give a reason; but he is always ready to admit that it is a
matter of taste. He does not tilt in a Quixotic manner at established
things, but he goes along trying to do his work in the best manner
attainable. He is no genius, and his character is by no means a perfect
one; he has pronounced faults, of which he is perfectly conscious, and
which he never attempts to disguise. But he is simple, straightforward,
affectionate, and sincere. If he were more courageous, more fiery, he
would be, I think, a really great man; but this he somehow misses.
The two men, Foster and Murchison, are as great a contrast as can well
be imagined. They serve to illustrate exactly what I mean. Our friend
Foster is perfectly correct and admirably pleasant. You would never
think of confiding in him, or saying to him what you really felt; but,
on the other hand, there is no one whom I would more willingly consult
in a small and delicate point of practical conduct--and his advice
would be excellent.
But Murchison is a real man; he knows his limitations, but he takes
nothing second-hand. He brings his own mind and character to bear on
every problem, and judges people and things on their own merits.
Of course one does not desire that conventional people should strive
after unconventionality. That produces the most sickening
conventionality of all, because it is merely an attempt to construct a
pose that shall be accepted as unconventional. The only thing is to be
natural; and, after all, if one merely desires to see how the cat jumps
and then to jump after it, it is better to do so frankly and make no
pretence about it.
But I am sure that it is one's duty as a teacher to try and show boys
that no opinions, no tastes, no emotions are worth much unless they are
one's own. I suffered acutely as a boy from the lack of being shown
this. I found--I am now speaking of intellectual things--that certain
authors were held up to me as models which I was unfortunate enough to
dislike. Instead of making up my own mind about it, instead of trying
to see what I did admire and why I admired it, I tried feebly for years
to admire what I was told was admirable. The result was waste of time
and confusion of thought. In the same way I followed feebly, as a boy,
after the social code. I tried to like the regulation arrangements, and
thought dimly that I was in some way to blame because I did not. Not
until I went up to Cambridge did the conception of mental liberty steal
upon me--and then only partly. Of course if I had had more originality
I should have perceived this earlier. But the world appeared to me a
great, organised, kindly conspiracy, which must be joined, in however
feeble a spirit. I have learnt gradually that, after a decent
compliance with superficial conventionalities, there are not only no
penalties attached to independence, but that there, and there alone, is
happiness to be found; and that the rewards of a free judgement and an
authentic admiration are among the best and highest things that the
world has to bestow. . . .--Ever yours,