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diff --git a/old/12264-8.txt b/old/12264-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a3be4e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12264-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11185 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Father Payne, by Arthur Christopher Benson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Father Payne + +Author: Arthur Christopher Benson + +Release Date: May 4, 2004 [EBook #12264] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FATHER PAYNE *** + + + + +Produced by David Newman and PG Distributed Proofreaders. Produced +from images provided by the Million Book Project. + + + + + +FATHER PAYNE + +By Arthur Christopher Benson + + +1915 + + + + +PREFACE + +Often as I have thought of my old friend "Father Payne," as we +affectionately called him, I had somehow never intended to write about him, +or if I did, it was "like as a dream when one awaketh," a vision that +melted away at the touch of common life. Yet I always felt that his was one +of those rich personalities well worth depicting, if the attitude and +gesture with which he faced the world could be caught and fixed. The +difficulty was that he was a man of ideas rather than of performance, +suggestive rather than active: and the whole history of his experiment with +life was evasive, and even to ordinary views fantastic. + +Besides, my own life has been a busy one, full of hard ordinary work: it +was not until the war gave me, like many craftsmen, a most reluctant and +unwelcome space of leisure, that I ever had the opportunity of considering +the possibility of writing this book. I am too old to be a combatant, and +too much of a specialist in literature to transmute my activities. I lately +found myself with my professional occupations suddenly suspended, and +moreover, like many men who have followed a wholly peaceful profession, +plunged in a dark bewilderment as to the onset of the forces governing the +social life of Europe. In the sad inactivity which followed, I set to work +to look through my old papers, for the sake of distraction and employment, +and found much material almost ready for use, careful notes of +conversations, personal reminiscences, jottings of characteristic touches, +which seemed as if they could be easily shaped. Moreover, the past suddenly +revived, and became eloquent and vivid. I found in the beautiful memories +of those glowing days that I spent with Father Payne--it was only three +years--some consolation and encouragement in my distress. + +This little volume is the result. I am well aware that the busy years which +have intervened have taken the edge off some of my recollections, while the +lapse of time has possibly touched others with a sunset glow. That can +hardly be avoided, and I am not sure that I wish to avoid it. + +I am not here concerned with either criticising or endorsing Father Payne's +views. I see both inconsistencies and fallacies in them. I even detect +prejudices and misinterpretations of which I was not conscious at the time. +I have no wish to idealise my subject unduly, but it is clear to me, and I +hope I have made it clear to others, that Father Payne was a man who had a +very definite theory of life and faith, and who at all events lived +sincerely and even passionately in the light of his beliefs. Moreover, when +he came to put them to the supreme test, the test of death, they did not +desert or betray him: he passed on his way rejoicing. + +He used, I remember, to warn us against attempting too close an analysis of +character. He used to say that the consciousness of a man, the intuitive +instinct which impelled him, his _attack_ upon experience, was a thing +almost independent both of his circumstances and of his reason. He used to +take his parable from the weaving of a tapestry, and say that a box full of +thread and a loom made up a very small part of the process. It was the +inventive instinct of the craftsman, the faculty of designing, that was +all-important. + +He himself was a man of large designs, but he lacked perhaps the practical +gift of embodiment. I looked upon him as a man of high poetical powers, +with a great range of hopes and visions, but without the technical +accomplishment which lends these their final coherence. He was fully aware +of this himself, but he neither regretted it nor disguised it. The truth +was that his interest in existence was so intense, that he lacked the power +of self-limitation needed for an artistic success. What, however, he gave +to all who came in touch with him, was a strong sense of the richness and +greatness of life and all its issues. He taught us to approach it with no +preconceived theories, no fears, no preferences. He had a great mistrust of +conventional interpretation and traditional explanations. At the same time +he abhorred controversy and wrangling. He had no wish to expunge the ideals +of others, so long as they were sincerely formed rather than meekly +received. Though I have come myself to somewhat different conclusions, he +at least taught me to draw my own inferences from my own experiences, +without either deferring to or despising the conclusions of others. + +The charm of his personality lay in his independence, his sympathy, his +eager freshness of view, his purity of motive, his perfect simplicity; and +it is all this which I have attempted to depict, rather than to trace his +theories, or to present a philosophy which was always concrete rather than +abstract, and passionate rather than deliberate. To use a homely proverb, +Father Payne was a man who filled his chair! + +Of one thing I feel sure, and that is that wherever Father Payne is, and +whatever he may be doing--for I have as absolute a conviction of the +continued existence of his fine spirit as I have of the present existence +of my own--he will value my attempt to depict him as he was. I remember his +telling me a story of Dr. Johnson, how in the course of his last illness, +when he could not open his letters, he asked Boswell to read them for him. +Boswell opened a letter from some person in the North of England, of a +complimentary kind, and thinking it would fatigue Dr. Johnson to have it +read aloud, merely observed that it was highly in his praise. Dr. Johnson +at once desired it to be read to him, and said with great earnestness, +"_The applause of a single human being is of great consequence._" +Father Payne added that it was one of Johnson's finest sayings, and had no +touch of vanity or self-satisfaction in it, but the vital stuff of +humanity. That I believe to be profoundly true: and that is the spirit in +which I have set all this down. + +_September_ 30, 1915. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +I. FATHER PAYNE +II. AVELEY +III. THE SOCIETY +IV. THE SUMMONS +V. THE SYSTEM +VI. FATHER PAYNE +VII. THE MEN +VIII. THE METHOD +IX. FATHER PAYNE +X. CHARACTERISTICS +XI. CONVERSATION +XII. OF GOING TO CHURCH +XIII. OF NEWSPAPERS +XIV. OF HATE +XV. OF WRITING +XVI. OF MARRIAGE +XVII. OF LOVING GOD +XVIII. OF FRIENDSHIP +XIX. OF PHYLLIS +XX. OF CERTAINTY +XXI. OF BEAUTY +XXII. OF WAR +XXIII. OF CADS AND PHARISEES +XXIV. OF CONTINUANCE +XXV. OF PHILANTHROPY +XXVI. OF FEAR +XXVII. OF ARISTOCRACY +XXVIII. OF CRYSTALS +XXIX. EARLY LIFE +XXX. OF BLOODSUCKERS +XXXI. OF INSTINCTS +XXXII. OF HUMILITY +XXXIII. OF MEEKNESS +XXXIV. OF CRITICISM +XXXV. OF THE SENSE OF BEAUTY +XXXVI. OF BIOGRAPHY +XXXVII. OF POSSESSIONS +XXXVIII. OF LONELINESS +XXXIX. OF THE WRITER'S LIFE +XL. OF WASTE +XLI. OF EDUCATION +XLII. OF RELIGION +XLIII. OF CRITICS +XLIV. OF WORSHIP +XLV. OF A CHANGE OF RELIGION +XLVI. OF AFFECTION +XLVII. OF RESPECT OF PERSONS +XLVIII. OF AMBIGUITY +XLIX. OF BELIEF +L. OF HONOUR +LI. OF WORK +LII. OF COMPANIONSHIP +LIII. OF MONEY +LIV. OF PEACEABLENESS +LV. OF LIFE-FORCE +LVI. OF CONSCIENCE +LVII. OF RANK +LVIII. OF BIOGRAPHY +LIX. OF EXCLUSIVENESS +LX. OF TAKING LIFE +LXI. OF BOOKISHNESS +LXII. OF CONSISTENCY +LXIII. OF WRENS AND LILIES +LXIV. OF POSE +LXV. OF REVENANTS +LXVI. OF DISCIPLINE +LXVII. OF INCREASE +LXVIII. OF PRAYER +LXIX. THE SHADOW +LXX. OF WEAKNESS +LXXI. THE BANK OF THE RIVER +LXXII. THE CROSSING +LXXIII. AFTER-THOUGHTS +LXXIV. DEPARTURE + + + + +FATHER PAYNE + + + +I + +FATHER PAYNE + + +It was a good many years ago, soon after I left Oxford, when I was +twenty-three years old, that all this happened. I had taken a degree in +Classics, and I had not given much thought to my future profession. There +was no very obvious opening for me, no family business, no influence in any +particular direction. My father had been in the Army, but was long dead. My +mother and only sister lived quietly in the country. I had no prosaic and +practical uncles to push me into any particular line; while on coming of +age I had inherited a little capital which brought me in some two hundred a +year, so that I could afford to wait and look round. My only real taste was +for literature. I wanted to write, but I had no very pressing aspirations +or inspirations. I may confess that I was indolent, fond of company, but +not afraid of comparative solitude, and I was moreover an entire +dilettante. I read a good many books, and tried feverishly to write in the +style of the authors who most attracted me, I settled down at home, more or +less, in a country village where I knew everyone; I travelled a little; and +I paid occasional visits to London, where several of my undergraduate and +school friends lived, with a vague idea of getting to know literary people; +but they were not very easy to meet, and, when I did meet them, they did +not betray any very marked interest in my designs and visions. + +I was dining one night at a restaurant with a College friend of mine, Jack +Vincent, whose tastes were much the same as my own, only more strenuous; +his father and mother lived in London, and when I went there I generally +stayed with them. They were well-to-do, good-natured people; but, beyond +occasionally reminding Jack that he ought to be thinking about a +profession, they left him very much to his own devices, and he had begun to +write a novel, and a play, and two or three other masterpieces. + +That particular night his father and mother were dining out, so we +determined to go to a restaurant. And it was there that Vincent told me +about "Father" Payne, as he was called by his friends, though he was a +layman and an Anglican. He had heard all about him from an Oxford man, +Leonard Barthrop, some years older than ourselves, who was one of the +circle of men whom Father Payne had collected about him. Vincent was very +full of the subject. He said that Father Payne was an elderly man, who had +been for a good many years a rather unsuccessful teacher in London, and +that he had unexpectedly inherited a little country estate in +Northamptonshire. He had gradually gathered about him a small knot of men, +mainly interested in literature, who were lodged and boarded free, and were +a sort of informal community, bound by no very strict regulations, except +that they were pledged to produce a certain amount of work at stated +intervals for Father Payne's inspection. As long as they did this, they +were allowed to work very much as they liked, and Father Payne was always +ready to give criticism and advice. Father Payne reserved the right of +dismissing them if they were idle, quarrelsome, or troublesome in any way, +and exercised it decisively. But Barthrop had told him that it was a most +delightful life; that Father Payne was a very interesting, good-natured, +and amusing man; and that the whole thing was both pleasant and +stimulating. There were certain rules about work and hours, and members of +the circle were not allowed to absent themselves without leave, while +Father Payne sometimes sent them off for a time, if he thought they +required a change. "I gather," said Vincent, "that he is an absolute +autocrat, and that you have to do what he tells you; but that he doesn't +preach, and he doesn't fuss. Barthrop says he has never been so happy in +his life." He went on to say that there were at least two vacancies in the +circle--one of the number had lately married, and another had accepted a +journalistic post. "Now what do you say," said Vincent, "to us two trying +to go there for a bit? You can try it, I believe, without pledging +yourself, for two or three months; and then if Father Payne approves, and +you want to go on, you can regularly join." + +I confess that it seemed to me a very attractive affair, and all that +Vincent told me of the place, and particularly of Father Payne, attracted +me. Vincent said that he had mentioned me to Barthrop, and that Barthrop +had said that I might have a chance of getting in. It appeared that we +should have to go down to the place to be interviewed. + +We made up our minds to apply, and that night Vincent wrote to Barthrop. +The answer was favourable. Two days later Vincent received a note from +Father Payne, written in a big, finely-formed hand, to the effect that he +would be glad to see Vincent any night that he could come down, and that I +might also arrange an interview, if I wished, but that we were to come +separately. "Mind," said the letter, "I can make no promises and can give +no reasons; but I will not keep either of you waiting." + +Vincent went first. He spent a night at Aveley Hall, as the place was +called. I continued my visit to his people, and awaited his return with +great interest. + +He told me what had happened. He had been met at the station by an odd +little trap, had driven up to the house--a biggish place, close to a small +church, on the outskirts of a tiny village. It was dark when he arrived, +and he had found Father Payne at tea with four or five men, in a flagged +hall. There had been a good deal of talk and laughter. "He is a big man, +Father Payne, with a beard, dressed rather badly, like a country squire, +very good-natured and talkative. Everyone seemed to say pretty much what +they liked, but he kept them in order, too, I could see that!" Then he had +been carried off to a little study and questioned. "He simply turned me +inside out," said Vincent, "and I told him all my biography, and everything +I had ever done and thought of. He didn't seem to look at me much, but I +felt he was overhauling me somehow. Then I went and read in a sort of +library, and then we had dinner--just the same business. Then the men +mostly disappeared, and Barthrop carried me off for a talk, and told me a +lot about everything. Then I went to my room, a big, ugly, comfortable +bedroom; and in the morning there was breakfast, where people dropped in, +read papers or letters, did not talk, and went off when they had done. Then +I walked about in a nice, rather wild garden. There seemed a lot of fields +and trees beyond, all belonging to the house, but no park, and only a small +stable, with a kitchen-garden. There were very few servants that I saw--an +old butler and some elderly maids--and then I came away. Father Payne just +came out and shook hands, and said he would write to me. It seemed exactly +the sort of thing I should like. I only hope we shall both get in." + +It certainly sounded attractive, and it was with great curiosity that I +went off on the following day, as appointed, for my own interview. + + + +II + +AVELEY + + +The train drew up at a little wayside station soon after four o'clock on a +November afternoon. It was a bare, but rather an attractive landscape. The +line ran along a wide, shallow valley, with a stream running at the bottom, +with many willows, and pools fringed with withered sedges. The fields were +mostly pastures, with here and there a fallow. There were a good many bits +of woodland all about, and a tall spire of pale stone, far to the south, +overtopped the roofs of a little town. I was met by an old groom or +coachman, with a little ancient open cart, and we drove sedately along +pleasant lanes, among woods, till we entered a tiny village, which he told +me was Aveley, consisting of three or four farmhouses, with barns and +ricks, and some rows of stone-built cottages. We turned out of the village +in the direction of a small and plain church of some antiquity, behind +which I saw a grove of trees and the chimneys of a house surmounted by a +small cupola. The house stood close by the church, having an open space of +grass in front, with an old sundial, and a low wall separating it from the +churchyard. We drove in at a big gate, standing open, with stone +gate-posts. The Hall was a long, stone-built Georgian house, perhaps a +hundred and fifty years old, with two shallow wings and a stone-tiled roof, +and was obviously of considerable size. Some withered creepers straggled +over it, and it was neatly kept, but with no sort of smartness. The trees +grew rather thickly to the east of the house, and I could see to the right +a stable-yard, and beyond that the trees of the garden. We drew up--it was +getting dark--and an old manservant with a paternal air came out, took +possession of my bag, and led me through a small vestibule into a long +hall, with a fire burning in a great open fireplace. There was a gallery at +one end, with a big organ in it. The hall was paved with black and white +stone, and there were some comfortable chairs, a cabinet or two, and some +dim paintings on the walls. Tea was spread at a small table by the fire, +and four or five men, two of them quite young, the others rather older, +were sitting about on chairs and sofas, or helping themselves to tea at the +table. On the hearth, with his back to the fire, stood a great, burly man +with a short, grizzled beard and tumbled gray hair, rather bald, dressed in +a rough suit of light-brown homespun, with huge shooting boots, whom I saw +at once to be my host. The talk stopped as I entered, and I was aware that +I was being scrutinised with some curiosity. Father Payne did not move, but +extended a hand, which I advanced and shook, and said: "Very glad to see +you, Mr. Duncan--you are just in time for tea." He mentioned the names of +the men present, who came and shook hands very cordially. Barthrop gave me +some tea, and I was inducted into a chair by the fire. I thought for a +moment that I was taking Father Payne's place, and feebly murmured +something about taking his chair. "They're all mine, thanks!" he said with +a smile, "but I claim no privileges." Someone gave a faint whistle at this, +and Father Payne, turning his eyes but not his head towards the young man +who had uttered the sound, said: "All right, Pollard, if you are going to +be mutinous, we shall have a little business to transact together, as Mr. +Squeers said." "Oh, I'm not mutinous, sir," said the young man--"I'm quite +submissive--I was just betrayed into it by amazement!" "You shouldn't get +into the habit of thinking aloud," said Father Payne; "at least not among +bachelors--when you are married you can do as you like!--I hope you are +polite?" he went on, looking round at me. "I think so," I said, feeling +rather shy, "That's right," he said. "It's the first and only form of +virtue! If you are only polite, there is nothing that you may not do. This +is a school of manners, you know!" One of the men, Rose by name, laughed--a +pleasant musical laugh. "I remember," he said, "that when I was a boy at +Eton, my excellent but very bluff and rough old tutor called upon us, and +was so much taken up with being hearty, that he knocked over the +coal-scuttle, and didn't let anyone get a word in; and when he went off in +a sort of whirlwind, my old aunt, who was an incisive lady, said in a +meditative tone: 'How strange it is that the only thing that the Eton +masters seem able to teach their boys is the only thing they don't +themselves possess!'" + +Father Payne uttered a short, loud laugh at this, and said: "Is there any +chance of meeting your aunt?" "No, sir, she is long since dead!" "Blew off +too much steam, perhaps," said Father Payne. "That woman must have had the +steam up! I should have liked to have known her--a remarkable woman! Have +you any more stories of the same sort about her?" + +"Not to-day," said Rose, smiling. + +"Quite right," said Father Payne. "You keep them for an acceptable time. +Never tell strings of stories--and, by the way, my young friends, that's +the art of writing. Don't cram in good things--space them out, Barthrop!" + +"I think I can spread the butter as thin as anyone," said Barthrop, +smiling. + +"So you can, so you can!" said Father Payne enthusiastically, "and very +thin slices too! I give you full credit for that!" + +The men had begun to drift away, and I was presently left alone with Father +Payne. "Now you come along of me!" he said to me; and when I got up, he +took my arm in a pleasant fashion, led me to a big curtained archway at the +far end of the hall, under the gallery, and along a flagged passage to the +right. As we went he pointed to the doors--"Smoking-room--Library"--and at +the end of the passage he opened a door, and led me into a small panelled +room with a big window, closely curtained. It was a solid and stately +place, wholly bare of ornament. It had a writing-table, a bookcase, two +armchairs of leather, a fine fireplace with marble pillars, and an old +painting let into the panelling above it. There was a bright, unshaded lamp +on the table. "This is my room," he said, "and there's nothing in it that I +don't use, except those pillars; and when I haul on them, like Samson, the +house comes down. Now you sit down there, and we'll have a talk. Do you +mind the light? No? Well, that's all right, as I want to have a good look +at you, you know! You can get a smoke afterwards--this is business!" + +He sate down in the chair opposite me, and stirred the fire. He had fine, +large, solid hands, the softness of which, like silk, had struck me when I +shook hands with him; and, though he was both elderly and bulky, he moved +with a certain grace and alertness. "Tell me your tale from the beginning," +he said, "Don't leave out any details--I like details. Let's have your life +and death and Christian sufferings, as the tracts say." + +He heard me with much patience, sometimes smiling, sometimes nodding, when +I had finished, he said: "Now I must ask you a few questions--you don't +mind if they are plain questions--rather unpleasant questions?" He bent his +brows upon me and smiled. "No," I said, "not at all." "Well, then," he +said, "where's the vocation in all this? This place, to be brief, is for +men who have a real vocation for writing, and yet never would otherwise +have the time or the leisure to train for it. You see, in England, people +think that you needn't train for writing--that you have just got to begin, +and there you are. Very few people have the money to wait a few years--they +have to write, not what they want to write, but what other people want to +read. And so it comes about that by the time that they have earned the +money and the leisure, the spring is gone, the freshness is gone, there's +no invention and no zest. Writing can't be done in a little corner of life. +You have to give up your life to it--and then that means giving up your +life to a great deal of what looks like pure laziness--loafing about, +looking about, travelling, talking, mooning; that is the only way to learn +proportion; and it is the only way, too, of learning what not to write +about--a great many things that are written about are not really material +for writing at all. And all this can't be done in a drivelling mood--you +must pick your way if you are going to write. That's a long preface; but I +mean this place to be a place to give men the right sort of start. I happen +to be able to teach people, more or less, how to write, if they have got +the stuff in them--and to be frank, I'm not sure that you have! You think +this would be a pleasant sort of experience--so it can be; but it isn't +done on slack and chattering lines. It is just meant to save people from +hanging about at the start, a thing which spoils a lot of good writers. But +it's deadly serious, and it isn't a dilettante life at all. Do you grasp +all that?" + +"Yes," I said, "and I believe I can work! I know I have wasted my time, but +it was not because I wanted to waste time, but because the sort of things I +have always had to do--the classics--always seemed to me so absolutely +pointless. No one who taught me ever distinguished between what was good +and what was bad. Whatever it was--a Greek play, Homer, Livy, Tacitus--it +was always supposed to be the best thing of the kind. I was always sure +that much of it was rot, and some of it was excellent; but I didn't know +why, and no one ever told me why." + +"You thought all that?" said he. "Well, that's more hopeful! Have you ever +done any essay work?" + +"Yes," I said, "and that was the worst of all--no one ever showed me how to +do it in my own way, but always in some one else's way." + +He sate a little in silence. Then he said: "But mind you, that's not all! I +don't think writing is the end of life. The real point is to feel the +things, to understand the business, to have ideas about life. I don't want +people to learn how to write interestingly about things in which they are +not interested--but to be interested first, and then to write if they can. +I like to turn out a good writer, who can say what he feels and believes. +But I'm just as pleased when a man tells me that writing is rubbish, and +that he is going away to do something real. The real--that's what I care +about! I don't want men to come and pick up grains of truth and reality, +and work them into their stuff. I have turned out a few men like that, and +those are my worst failures. You have got to care about ideas, if you come +here, and to get the ideas into shape. You have got to learn what is +beautiful and what is not, because the only business of a real writer is +with beauty--not a sickly exotic sort of beauty, but the beauty of health +and strength and generous feeling. I can't have any humbugs here, though I +have sent out some humbugs. It's a hard life this, and a tiring life; +though if you are the right sort of fellow, you will get plenty of fun out +of it. But we don't waste time here; and if a man wastes time, out he +goes." + +"I believe I can work as hard as anyone," I said, "though I have shown no +signs of it--and anyhow, I should like to try. And I do really want to +learn how to distinguish between things, how to know what matters. No one +has ever shown me how to do that!" + +"That's all right!" he said, "But are you sure you don't want simply to +make a bit of a name--to be known as a clever man? It's very convenient, +you know, in England, to have a label. Because I want you clearly to +understand that this place of mine has nothing whatever to do with that. I +take no stock in what is called success. This is a sort of monastery, you +know; and the worst of some monasteries is that they cultivate dreams. +That's a beautiful thing in its way, but it isn't what I aim at. I don't +want men to drug themselves with dreams. The great dreamers don't do that. +Shelley, for instance--his dreams were all made out of real feeling, real +beauty. He wanted to put things right in his own way. He was enraged with +life because he was fine, while Byron was enraged with life because he was +vulgar. Vulgarity--that's the one fatal complaint; it goes down deep to the +bottom of the mind. And I may as well say plainly that that is what I fight +against here." + +"I don't honestly think I am vulgar," I said. + +"Not on the surface, perhaps," he said, "but present-day education is a +snare. We are a vulgar nation, you know. That is what is really the matter +with us--our ambitions are vulgar, our pride is vulgar. We want to fit into +the world and get the most we can out of it; we don't, most of us, just +want to give it our best. That's what I mean by vulgarity, wanting to take +and not wanting to give." + +He was silent for a minute, and then he said: "Do you believe in God?" + +"I hardly know," I said. "Not very much, I am afraid, in the kind of God +that I have heard preached about." + +"What do you mean?" he said. + +"Well," I said, "it's rather a large question--but I used to think, both at +school and at Oxford, that many of the men who were rather disapproved of, +that did quite bad things, and tried experiments, and knocked up against +nastiness of various kinds, but who were brave in their way and kind, and +not mean or spiteful or fault-finding, were more the sort of people that +the force--or whatever it is, behind the world--was trying to produce than +many of the virtuous people. What was called virtue and piety had something +stifling and choking about it, I used to think. I had a tutor at school who +was a parson, and he was a good sort of man, too, in a way. But I used to +feel suddenly dreary with him, as if there were a whole lot of real things +and interesting things which he was afraid of. I couldn't say what I +thought to him--only what I felt he wanted me to think. That's a bad +answer," I went on, "but I haven't really considered it." + +"No, it isn't a bad answer," he said, "It's all right! The moment you feel +stifled with anyone, whatever the subject is--art, books, religion, +life--there is something wrong. Do you say any prayers?" + +"No," I said, "to be honest, I don't." + +"You must take to it again," he said. "You can't get on without prayer. And +if you come here," he said, "you may expect to hear about God. I talk a +good deal about God. I don't believe in things being too sacred to talk +about--it's the bad things that ought not to be mentioned. I am interested +in God, more than I am interested in anything else. I can't make Him +out--and yet I believe that He needs me, in a way, as much as I need Him. +Does that sound profane to you?" + +"No," I said, "it's new to me. No one ever spoke about God to me like that +before." + +"We have to suffer with Him!" he said in a curious tone, his face lighting +up. "That is the point of Christianity, that God suffers, because He wants +to remake the world, and cannot do it all at once. That is the secret of +all life and hope, that if we believe in God, we must suffer with Him. It's +a fight, a hard fight; and He needs us on His side: But I won't talk about +that now; yet if you don't want to believe in God, and to be friends with +Him, and to fight and suffer with Him, you needn't think of coming here. +That's behind all I do. And to come here is simply that you may find out +where He needs you. Why writing is important is, because the world needs +freer and plainer talk about God--about beauty and health and happiness and +energy, and all the things which He stands for. Half the evil comes from +silence, and the end of all my experiments is the word in the New +Testament, Ephphatha--Be opened! That is what I try for, to give men the +power of opening their hearts and minds to others, without fear and yet +without offence. I don't want men to attack things or to criticise things, +but just to speak plainly about what is beautiful and wholesome and true. +So you see this isn't a place for lazy and fanciful people--not a fortress +of quiet, and still less a place for asses to slake their thirst! We don't +set out to amuse ourselves, but to perceive things, and to say them if we +can. My men must be sound and serious, and they must be civil and amusing +too. They have got to learn how to get on with each other, and with me, and +with the village people--and with God! If you want just to dangle about, +this isn't the place for you; but if you want to work hard and be knocked +into shape, I'll consider it." + +There was something tremendous about Father Payne! I looked at him with a +sense of terror. His face dissolved in a smile. "You needn't look at me +like that!" he said. "I only want you to know exactly what you are in for!" + +"I would like to try," I said. + +"Well, we'll see!" he said. "And now you must be off!" he added. "We shall +dine in an hour--you needn't dress. Here, you don't know which your room +is, I suppose?" + +He rang the bell, and I went off with the old butler, who was amiable and +communicative. "So, you think of becoming one of the gentlemen, sir?" he +said. "If you'll have me," I replied. "Oh, that will be all right, sir," he +said. "I could see that the Father took to you at first sight!" + +He showed me my room--a big bare place. It had a small bed and accessories, +but it was also fitted as a sitting-room, with a writing-table, an +armchair, and a bookcase full of books. The house was warmed, I saw, with +hot water to a comfortable temperature. "Would you like a fire?" he said. I +declined, and he went on: "Now if you lived here, sir, you would have to do +that yourself!" He gave a little laugh. "Anyone may have a fire, but they +have to lay it, and fetch the coal, and clean the grate. Very few of the +gentlemen do it. Anything else, sir? I have put out your things, and you +will find hot water laid on." + +He left me, and I flung myself into the chair. I had a good deal to think +about. + + + +III + +THE SOCIETY + + +A very quiet evening followed. A bell rang out above the roof at 8.15. I +went down to the hall, where the men assembled. Father Payne came in. He +had changed his clothes, and was wearing a dark, loose-fitting suit, which +became him well--he always looked at home in his clothes. The others wore +similar suits or smoking jackets. Father Payne appeared abstracted, and +only gave me a nod. A gong sounded, and he marched straight out through a +door by the fireplace into the dining-room. + +The dining-room was a rather grand place, panelled in dark wood, and with a +few portraits. At each end of the room was a section cut off from the +central portion by an oak column on each side. Three windows on one side +looked into the garden. It was lighted by candles only. We were seven in +all, and I sate by Father Payne. Dinner was very plain. There was soup, a +joint with vegetables, and a great apple-tart. The things were mostly +passed about from hand to hand, but the old butler kept a benignant eye +upon the proceedings, and saw that I was well supplied. There was a good +and simple claret in large flat-bottomed decanters, which most of the men +drank. There was a good deal of talk of a lively kind. Father Payne was +rather silent, though he struck in now and then, but his silence imposed no +constraint on the party. He was pressed to tell a story for my benefit, +which he did with much relish, but briefly. I was pleased at the simplicity +of it all. There was only one man who seemed a little out of tune--a +clerical-looking, handsome fellow of about thirty, called Lestrange, with +an air of some solemnity. He made remarks of rather an earnest type, and +was ironically assailed once or twice. Father Payne intervened once, and +said: "Lestrange is perfectly right, and you would think so too, if only he +could give what he said a more secular twist. 'Be soople in things +immaterial,' Lestrange, as the minister says in _Kidnapped_." "But who +is to judge if it _is_ immaterial?" said Lestrange rather +pertinaciously. "It mostly is," said Father Payne. "Anything is better than +being shocked! It's better to be ashamed afterwards of not speaking up than +to feel you have made a circle uncomfortable. You must not rebuke people +unless you really hate doing it. If you like doing it, you may be pretty +sure that it is vanity; a Christian ought not to feel out of place in a +smoking-room!" + +The whole thing did not take more than three-quarters of an hour. Coffee +was brought in, very strong and good. Some of the party went off, and +Father Payne disappeared. I went to the smoking-room with two of the men, +and we talked a little. Finally I went away to my room, and tried to commit +my impressions of the whole thing to my diary before I went to bed. It +certainly seemed a happy life, and I was struck with the curious mixture of +freedom, frankness, and yet courtesy about the whole. There was no +roughness or wrangling or stupidity, nor had I any sense either of +exclusion, or of being elaborately included in the life of the circle. I +would call the atmosphere brotherly, if brotherliness did not often mean +the sort of frankness which is so unpleasant to strangers. There certainly +was an atmosphere about it, and I felt too that Father Payne, for all his +easiness, had somehow got the reins in his hands. + +The next morning I went down to breakfast, which was, I found, like +breakfast at a club, as Vincent had said. It was a plain meal--cold bacon, +a vast dish of scrambled eggs kept hot by a spirit lamp and a hot-water +arrangement. You could make toast for yourself if you wished, and there was +a big fresh loaf, with excellent butter, marmalade, and jam--not an ascetic +breakfast at all. There were daily papers on the table, and no one talked. +I did not see Father Payne, who must have come in later. + +After breakfast, Barthrop showed me the rooms of the house. The library was +fitted up with bookshelves and easy-chairs for reading, with a big round +oak table in the centre. The floor was of stained oak boards and covered +with rugs. There was also a capacious smoking-room, and I learned that +smoking was not allowed elsewhere. It was, in fact, a solid old family +mansion of some dignity. There were three or four oil paintings in all the +rooms, portraits and landscapes. The general tone of decoration was +dark--red wall-papers and fittings stained brown. It was all clean and +simple, and there was a total absence of ornament, I went and walked in the +garden, which was of the same very straightforward kind--plain grass, +shrubberies, winding paths, with comfortable wooden seats in sheltered +places; one or two big beds, evidently of old-fashioned perennials, and +some trellises for ramblers. The garden was adjoined by a sort of +wilderness, with big trees and ground-ivy, and open spaces in which +aconites and snowdrops were beginning to show themselves. Father Payne, I +gathered, was fond of the garden and often worked there; but there were no +curiosities--it was all very simple. Beyond that were pasture-fields, with +a good many clumps and hedgerow trees, running down to a stream, which had +been enlarged into a deep pool at one place, where there was a timbered +bathing-shed. The stream fed, through little sluices, a big, square pond, +full, I was told, in summer of bulrushes and water-lilies. I noticed a +couple of lawn-tennis courts, and there was a bowling-green by the house. +Then there was a large kitchen-garden, with standards and espaliers, and +box-edged beds. The stables, which were spacious, contained only a pony and +the little cart I had driven up in, and a few bicycles. I liked the solid +air of the big house, which had two wings at the back, corresponding to the +wings in front; the long row of stone pedimented windows, with heavy white +casements, was plain and stately, and there were some fine magnolias and +wisterias trained upon the walls. It all looked stately, and yet home-like; +there was nothing neglected about it, and yet it looked wholesomely left +alone; everything was neat, but nothing was smart. + +I was strolling about, enjoying the gleams of bright sunshine and the cold +air, when I saw Father Payne coming down the garden towards me. He gave me +a pleasant nod: I said something about the beauty of the place; he smiled, +and said "Yes, it is the kind of thing I like--but I am so used to it that +I can hardly even see it! That's the worst of habit; but there is nothing +about the place to get on your nerves. It's a well-bred old house, I think, +and knows how to hold its tongue, without making you uncomfortable," Then +he went on presently: "You know how I came by it? It's an odd story. It had +been in my family, till my grandfather left it to his second wife, and cut +my father out. There was a son by the second wife, who was meant to have +it; but he died, and it went to a brother of the second wife, and his widow +left it back to me. It was an entire surprise, because I did not know her, +and the only time I had ever seen the house was once when I came down on +the sly, just to look at the old place, little thinking I should ever come +here. She had some superstition about it, I fancy! Anyhow, while I was +grubbing away in town, fifteen years ago, and hardly able to make two ends +meet, I suddenly found myself put in possession of it; and though I am +poor, as squires go, the farms and cottages bring me in quite enough to rub +along. At any rate it enabled me to try some experiments, and I have been +doing so ever since. Leisure and solitude! Those are the only two things +worth having that money can buy. Perhaps you don't think there's much +solitude about our life? But solitude only means the power to think your +own thoughts, without having other people's thoughts trailed across the +track. Loneliness is quite a different thing, and that's not wholesome." + +He strolled on, looking about him. "Do you ever garden?" he said. "It's the +best fun in the world--making plants do as _you_ like, while all the +time they think they are doing as _they_ like. That's the secret of +it! You can't bully these wild things, but they are very obedient, as long +as they believe they are free. They are like children; they will take any +amount of trouble as long as you don't call it work." + +Presently we heard the clatter of hoofs in the stable-yard. "That's for +you!" he said. "Will you go and see that they have brought your things +down? I'll meet you at the door." I went up and found my things had been +packed by the old butler. I gave him a little tip, and he said +confidentially: "I daresay we shall be seeing you back here, sir, one of +these days." "I hope so," I said, to which he replied with a mysterious +wink and nod. + +Father Payne shook hands. "Well, good-bye!" he said. "It's good of you to +have come down, and I'm glad to have made acquaintance, whatever +happens--I'll drop you a line." I drove away, and he stood at the door +looking after me, till the little cart drove out of the gate. + + + +IV + +THE SUMMONS + + +I must confess that I was much excited about my visit; the whole thing +seemed to me to be almost too good to be true, and I hardly dared hope that +I should be allowed to return. I went back to town and rejoined Vincent, +and we talked much about the delights of Aveley. + +The following morning we each received a letter in Father Payne's firm +hand. That to Vincent was very short. It ran as follows: + + DEAR VINCENT,--_I shall be glad to take you in if you wish to + join us, for three months. At the end of that time, we shall both + be entirely free to choose. I hope you will be happy here. You + can come as soon as you like; and if Duncan, after reading my + letter, decides to come too, you had better arrange to arrive + together. It will save me the trouble of describing our way of + life to each separately. Please let me have a line, and I will + see that your room is ready for you.--Sincerely yours,_ + + C. PAYNE. + +"That's all right!" said Vincent, with an air of relief. "Now what does he +say to you?" My letter was a longer one. It ran: + + MY DEAR YOUNG MAN,--_I am going to be very frank with you, and + to say that, though I liked you very much, I nearly decided that + I could not ask you to join us. I will tell you why. I am not + sure that you are not too easy-going and impulsive. We should all + find you agreeable, and I am sure you would find the whole thing + great fun at first; but I rather think you would get bored. It + does not seem to me as if you had ever had the smallest + discipline, and I doubt if you have ever disciplined yourself; + and discipline is a tiresome thing, unless you like it. I think + you are quick, receptive, and polite--all that is to the good. + But are you serious? I found in you a very quick perception, and + you held up a flattering mirror with great spontaneity to my mind + and heart--that was probably why I liked you so much. But I don't + want people here to reflect me or anyone else. The whole point of + my scheme is independence, with just enough discipline to keep + things together, like the hem on a handkerchief._ + + _But you may have a try, if you wish; and in any case, I think + you will have a pleasant three months here, and make us all sorry + to lose you if you do not return. I have told your friend Vincent + he can come, and I think he is more likely to stay than you are, + because he is more himself. I don't suppose that he took in the + whole place and the idea of it as quickly as you did. I expect + you could write a very interesting description of it, and I don't + expect he could._ + + _Still, I will say that I shall be truly sorry if, after this + letter, you decide not to come to us. I like your company; and I + shall not get tired of it. But to be more frank still, I think + you are one of those charming and sympathetic people who is tough + inside, with a toughness which is based on the determination to + find things amusing and interesting--and that is not the sort of + toughness I can do anything with. People like yourself are + incapable as a rule of suffering, whatever happens to them. It's + a very happy disposition, but it does not grow. You are sensitive + enough, but I don't want sensitiveness, I want men who are not + sensitive, and who yet can suffer at not getting nearer and more + quickly than they can to the purpose ahead of them, whatever that + may be. It is a stiff sort of thing that I want. I can help to + make a stiff nature pliable; I'm not very good at making a + pliable nature stiff. That's the truth._ + + _So I shall be delighted--more than you think--if you say + "Yes." but in a way more hopeful about you if you say "No."_ + + _Come with Vincent, if you come; and as soon as you like.--Ever + yours truly,_ + + C. PAYNE. + +"Does he want me to go, or does he not?" I said. "Is he letting me down +with a compliment?" + +"Oh no," said Vincent, "it's all right. He only thinks that you are a +butterfly which will flutter by, and he would rather like you to do a +little fluttering down there." + +"But I'm not going to go there," I said, "to wear a cap and bells for a +bit, and then to be spun when I have left my golden store, like the radiant +morn; he puts me on my mettle. I _will_ go, and he _shall_ keep +me! I don't want to fool about any more." + +"All right!" said Vincent. "It's a bargain, then! Will you be ready to go +the day after to-morrow? There are some things I want to buy, now that I'm +going to school again. But I'm awfully relieved--it's just what I want. I +was getting into a mess with all my work, and becoming a muddled loafer." + +"And I an elegant trifler, it appears," I said. + + + +V + +THE SYSTEM + + +We went off together on the Saturday, and I think we were both decidedly +nervous. What were we in for? I had a feeling that I had plunged headlong +into rather a foolish adventure. + +We did not talk much on the way down; it was all rather solemn. We were +going to put the bit in our mouths again, and Father Payne was an unknown +quantity. We both felt that there was something decidedly big and strong +there to be reckoned with. + +We arrived, as before, at tea-time, and we both received a cordial +greeting. After tea Father Payne took us away, and told us the rules of the +house. They were simple enough; he described the day. Breakfast was from +8.30 to 9.15, and was a silent meal. "It's a bad thing to begin the day by +chattering and arguing," said Father Payne. Then we were supposed to work +in our own rooms or the library till one. We might stroll about, if we +wished, but there was to be no talking to anyone else, unless he himself +gave leave for any special reason. Luncheon was a cold meal, quite +informal, and was on the table for an hour. There was to be no talk then +either. From two to five we could do as we liked, and it was expected that +we should take at least an hour's exercise, and if possible two. Tea at +five, and work afterwards. At 8.15, dinner, and we could do as we wished +afterwards, but we were not to congregate in anyone's room, and it was +understood that no one was to go to another man's bedroom, which was also +his study, at any time, unless he was definitely invited, or just to ask a +question. The smoking-room was always free for general talk, but Father +Payne said that on the whole he discouraged any gatherings or cliques. The +point of the whole was solitary work, with enough company to keep things +fresh and comfortable. + +He said that we were expected to valet ourselves entirely, and that if we +wanted a fire, we must lay it and clean it up afterwards. If we wanted to +get anything, or have anything done, we could ask him or the butler. "But I +rather expect everyone to look after himself," he said. We were not to +absent ourselves without his leave, and we were to go away if he told us to +do so. "Sometimes a man wants a little change and does not know it," he +said. + +Then he also said that he would ask us, from time to time, what we were +doing--hear it read, and criticise it; and that one of the most definite +conditions of our remaining was that he must be satisfied that we really +were at work. If we wanted any special books, he said, we might ask him, +and he could generally get them from the London Library; but that we should +find a good many books of reference and standard works in the library. + +He told us, too, of certain conditions of which we had not heard--that we +were to be away, either at home, or travelling wherever he chose to send +us, for three months in the year, and that he supplied the funds if +necessary. Moreover, for one month in the summer he kept open house. Half +of us were to go away for the first fortnight in July, and the other half +were to stay and entertain his guests, or even our own, if we wished to +invite them; then the other half of the men returned, and had their guests +to entertain, while the first half went away; and that during that time +there was to be very little work done. We were not to be always writing, +but there was to be reading, about which he would advise. Once a week there +was a meeting, on Saturday evening, when one of the men had to read +something aloud, and be generally criticised. "You see the idea?" he said. +"It sounds complicated now, but it really is very simple. It is just to get +solid work done regularly, with a certain amount of supervision and +criticism, and, what is more important still, real intervals of travelling. +I shall send you to a particular place for a particular purpose, and you +will have to write about it on lines which I shall indicate. The danger of +this sort of life is that of getting stale. That's why I don't want you to +see too much of each other. And last of all," he said, rather gravely, "you +must do what I tell you to do. There must be no mistake about that--but +with all the apparent discipline of it, I believe you will find it worth +while." + +Then he saw us each separately. He inquired into our finances. Vincent had +a small allowance from his parents, about £50, which he was told to keep +for pocket-money, but Father Payne said he would pay his travelling +expenses. I gathered that he gave an allowance to men who had nothing of +their own. He told me that I should have to travel at my own expense, but +he was careful first to inquire whether my mother was in any way dependent +on me. Then he said to me with a smile: "I am glad you decided to come--I +thought my letter would have offended you. No? That's all right. Now, I +don't expect heroic exertions--just hard work. Mind," he said, "I will add +one thing to my letter, and that is that I think you _may_ make a +success of this--if you _do_ take to it, you will do well; but you +will have to be patient, and you may have a dreary time; but I want you to +tell me exactly at any time how you are feeling about it. You won't be +driven, and I think your danger is that you may try to make the pace too +much." + +He further asked me exactly what I was writing. It happened to be some +essays on literary subjects. He mentioned a few books, and told me it would +do very well to start with. He was very kind and fatherly in his manner, +and when I rose to go, he put his arm through mine and said: "Come, it will +be strange if we can't hit it off together. I like your presence and talk, +and am glad to think you are in the house. Don't be anxious! The difficulty +with you is that you will foresee all your troubles beforehand, and try to +bolt them in a lump, instead of swallowing them one by one as they come. +Live for the day!" There was something magnetic about him, for by these few +words he established a little special relation with me which was never +broken. + +When he dismissed me, I went and changed my things, and then came down. I +found that it was the custom for the men to go down to the hall about +eight. Father Payne said that it was a great mistake to work to the last +minute, and then to rush in to dinner. He said it made people nervous and +dyspeptic. He generally strolled in himself a few minutes before, and sate +silent by the fire. + +Just as it struck eight, and the hum of the clock in the hall died away, a +little tune in harmony, like a gavotte, was played by softly-tingling tiny +bells. I could not tell where the music came from; it seemed to me like the +Ariel music in _The Tempest_, between earth and heaven, or the +"chiming shower of rare device" in _The Beryl Stone_. + +Father Payne smiled at the little gesture I involuntarily made. "You're +right!" he said, when it was over. "How _can_ people talk through +that? It's the clock in the gallery that does it--they say it belonged to +George III. I hope, if so, that it gave him a few happier moments! It is an +ingenious little thing, with silver bells and hammers; I'll show it you +some day. It rings every four hours." + +"I think I had rather not see the machinery," I said. "I never heard +anything so delicious." + +"You're right again," said Father Payne; + + "'The isle is full of noises, + Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.' + +Let it stay at that!" + +I little thought how much I should grow to connect that fairy gavotte with +Aveley. It always seemed to me like a choir of spirits. I would awake +sometimes on summer nights and hear it chiming in the silent house, or at +noon it would come faintly through the passages. That, and the songs of the +birds in the shrubberies, always flash into my mind when I think of the +place; because it was essentially a silent house, more noiseless than any I +have ever lived in; and I love the thought of its silence; and of its +fragrance--for that was another note of the place. In the hall stood great +china jars with pierced covers, which were always full of pot-pourri; there +was another in the library, and another in Father Payne's study, and two +more in the passage above which looked out by the little gallery upon the +hall. Silence and fragrance always, in the background of all we did; and +outlining itself upon the stillness, the little melody, jetting out like a +fountain of silver sound. + + + +VI + +FATHER PAYNE + + +That evening after dinner we two were left with Barthrop in the +smoking-room, and we talked freely about Father Payne. Barthrop said that +his past was a little mysterious. "He was at Marlborough, you know, and +Oxford; and after that, he lived in town, took pupils, and tried to +write--but he was not successful, and had much difficulty in getting +along." "What is his line exactly?" said Vincent. "That's just it," said +Barthrop, "he hasn't any line. He has a wide knowledge of things, and is +quicker at picking up the drift of a subject than anyone I know; and he has +a rare power of criticism. But he isn't anything in particular. He can't +write a bit, he is not a speaker, he isn't learned, he can teach able +people, but he couldn't teach stupid men--he hasn't enough patience. I +can't imagine any line of life for which he would be exactly fitted: and +yet he's the biggest person I have ever met; he carries us all along with +him, like a river. You can't resist him, you can't contradict him. That is +the one danger, that he exerts more influence than he knows, so that when +you are with him, it is hard to be quite yourself. But he puts the wind +into your sails; and, my word, he can take it out of your sails, if he +likes! I have only seen him really angry about twice, and then it was +really appalling. Once was when a man lied to him, and once was when a man +was impertinent to him. He simply blasted them with his displeasure--that +is the only word. He hates getting angry--I expect he had a bad temper +once--and he apologises afterwards; but it's no use--it's like a +thunderstorm apologising to a tree which has been struck. I don't think he +knows his strength. He believes himself to be sensitive and weak-willed--I +have heard him say so. The fact is that he dislikes doing an unpleasant +thing or speaking severely; and he will take a lot of trouble to avoid a +scene, or to keep an irritable man in a good temper. But if he lets himself +loose! I can't express to you the sort of terror I have in thinking of +those two occasions. He didn't say very much, but he looked as if he were +possessed by any number of devils." + +"He was never married, I suppose?" I said. + +"No," said Barthrop, "and yet he seems to make friends with women very +easily--in fact, they tend to fall in love with him, if I may say so. He +has got a beautiful manner with them, and he is simply devoted to children. +You will see that they really rather worship him in the village. He knows +everyone in the place, and never forgets a fact about them." + +"What does he _do_ mostly?" I said. + +"I really don't know," said Barthrop. "He is rather a solitary man. He very +often has one of us in for an hour in the evening or morning--but we don't +see much of him in the afternoon; he gardens or walks about. He has a quick +eye for things, birds and plants, and so on; and he can find more nests in +an hour than any man I ever saw. Sometimes he will go and shut himself up +in the church--he is rather fond of going to church; he always goes to the +Communion." + +"Does he expect us to go?" I said. + +"No," said Barthrop. "He rather likes us to go, but he doesn't at all like +us going to please him. 'I want you to want to go,' I heard him say once, +'but I don't want you to go _because_ I want you.' And he has no +particular views, I think, about the whole thing--at least not for other +people." + +"Tell me some more about him," I said. + +"What is there to say?" said Barthrop. "He is just there--the biggest fact +on the horizon. Oh yes, there is one thing; he is tremendously devoted to +music. We have some music in the evenings very often. You saw the organ in +the gallery--it is rather a fine one, and he generally has someone here who +can play. Lestrange is a first-rate musician. Father Payne can't play +himself, but he knows all about it, and composes sometimes. But I think he +looks on music as rather a dangerous indulgence, and does not allow himself +very much of it. You can see how it affects him. And you mustn't be taken +in by his manner. You might think him heavy and unperceptive, with that +quiet and rather secret eye of his; yet he notices everything, always, and +far quicker than anyone else. But it is hard to describe him, because he +can't do anything much, and you might think he was indolent; and yet he is +the biggest person I have ever seen, the one drawback being that he credits +other people with being big too." + +"I notice that you call him 'Father Payne,'" said Vincent. "Does that mean +anything in particular?" + +"No," said Barthrop, smiling. "It began as a sort of joke, I believe--but +it seemed to fit him; and it's rather convenient. We can't begin by calling +him 'Payne,' and 'Mr. Payne' is a little formal. Some of the men call him +'sir,' but I think he likes 'Father Payne' best, or simply 'Father,' You +will find it exactly expresses him." + +"Yes," I said, "I am sure it does!" + +I did not sleep much that night. The great change in my life had all taken +place with such rapidity and ease that I felt bewildered, and the thought +of the time ahead was full of a vague excitement. But most of all the +thought of Father Payne ran in my mind, I regarded him with a singular +mixture of interest, liking, admiration, and dread. Yet he had contrived to +kindle a curious flame in my mind. It was not that I fully understood what +he was working for, but I was conscious of a great desire to prove to him +that I could do something, exhibit some tenacity, approve myself to him. I +wanted to make him retract what he had said about me; and, further on, I +had a dim sense of an initiation into ideas, familiar enough, but which had +only been words to me hitherto--power, purpose, seriousness. They had been +ideas which before this had just vaguely troubled my peace, clouds hanging +in a bright sky. I had the sense that there were some duties which I ought +to perform, efforts to be made, ends to fulfil; but they had seemed to me +expressed in rather priggish phrases, words which oppressed me, and ruffled +the surface of my easy joy. Now they loomed up before me as big realities +which could not be escaped, hills to climb, with no pleasant path round +about their bases. I seemed in sight of some inspiring secret. I could not +tell what it was, but Father Payne knew it, might show it me? + +Thus I drowsed and woke, a dozen times, till in the glimmer of the early +light I rose and drew back my curtains. The dawn was struggling up fitfully +in the east, among cloudy bars, tipping and edging them with smouldering +flashes of light, and there was a lustrous radiance in the air. Then, to my +surprise, looking down at the silent garden, pale with dew, I saw the great +figure of Father Payne, bare-headed, wrapt in a cloak, pacing solidly and, +I thought, happily among the shrubberies, stopping every now and then to +watch the fiery light and to breathe the invigorating air--and I felt then +that, whatever he might be doing, he at all events _was_ something, in +a sense which applied to but few people I knew. He was not hard, +unimaginative, fenced in by stupidity and self-righteousness from +unhappiness and doubt, as were some of the men accounted successful whom I +knew. No, it was something positive, some self-created light, some stirring +of hidden force, that emanated from him, such as I had never encountered +before. + + + +VII + +THE MEN + + +I can attempt no sort of chronicle of our days, which indeed were quiet and +simple enough. I have only preserved in my diary the record of a few scenes +and talks and incidents. I will, however, first indicate how our party, as +I knew it, was constituted, so that the record may be intelligible. + +First of us came Leonard Barthrop, who was, partly by his seniority and +partly by his temperament, a sort of second-in-command in the house, much +consulted and trusted by Father Payne. He was a man of about thirty-five, +grave, humorous, pleasant. If one was in a minor difficulty, too trivial to +take to Father Payne, it was natural to consult Barthrop; and he sometimes, +too, would say a word of warning to a man, if a storm seemed to be brewing. +It must not be denied that men occasionally got on Father Payne's nerves, +quite unconsciously, through tactlessness or stupid mannerisms--and +Barthrop was able to smooth the situation out by a word in season. He had a +power of doing this without giving offence, from the obvious goodwill which +permeated all he did. Barthrop was not very sociable or talkative, and he +was occupied, I think, in some sort of historical research--I believe he +has since made his name as a judicious and interesting historian; but I +knew little of what he was doing, and indeed was hardly intimate with him, +though always at ease in his company. He was not a man with strong +preferences or prejudices, nor was he in any sense a brilliant or +suggestive writer, I think he had merged himself very much in the life of +our little society, and kept things together more than I was at first +aware. + +Then came Kaye, one of the least conspicuous of the whole group, though he +has since become perhaps the best known, by his poems and his beautiful +critical studies in both art and literature. Kaye is known as one of those +rare figures in literature, a creative critic. His rich and elaborate +style, his exquisite sidelights, his poetical faculty of interpretation, +make his work famous, though hardly popular. But I found that he worked +very slowly and even painfully, deliberately secreting his honey, and +depositing it cell by cell. He had a peculiar intimacy with Father Payne, +who treated him with a marked respect. Kaye was by far the most absorbed of +the party, went and came like a great moth, was the first to disappear, and +generally the last to arrive. Neither did he make any attempt at +friendship. He was a handsome and graceful fellow, now about thirty, with a +worn sort of beauty in his striking features, curling hair, long languid +frame, and fine hands. His hands, I used to think, were the most eloquent +things about him, and he was ever making silent little gestures with them, +as though they were accompanying unuttered trains of thought; but he had, +too, a strained and impatient air, as if he found the pursuit of phrases a +wearing and hazardous occupation. I used to feel Kaye the most attractive +and impressive of our society; but he neither made nor noticed any signals +of goodwill, though always courteous and kindly. + +Pollard was a totally different man: he was about twenty-eight, and he was +writing some work of fiction. He was a small, sturdy, rubicund creature, +with beady eyes and pink cheeks, cherubic in aspect, entirely good-natured +and lively, full of not very exalted humour, and with a tendency to wild +and even hysterical giggling. I used to think that Father Payne did not +like him very much; but he was a quick and regular worker, and it was +impossible to find fault with him. He was extremely sociable and +appreciative, and I used to find his company a relief from the strain which +at times made itself felt. Pollard had a way of getting involved in absurd +adventures, which he related with immense gusto; and he had a really +wonderful power of description--more so in conversation than in +writing--and of humorous exaggeration, which made him a delightful +companion. But he was never able to put the best of himself into his books, +which tended to be sentimental and even conventional. + +Then there was Lestrange; and I think he was the least congenial of the +lot. He was a handsome, rather clerical-looking man of about twenty-eight, +who had been brought up to take orders, and had decided against doing so. +He was very much in earnest, in rather a tiresome way, and his phrases were +conventional and pietistic. I used to feel that he jarred a good deal on +Father Payne, but much was forgiven him because of his musical talents, +which were really remarkable. His organ-playing, with its verve, its +delicacy, and its quiet mastery, was delicious to hear, he was engaged in +writing music mainly, and had a piano all to himself in a little remote +room beyond the dining-room, which looked out to the stable-yard and had +formerly been an estate-office. We used to hear faint sounds wafted down +the garden when the wind was in the west. He was friendly, but he had the +absorption of the musician in his art, which is unlike all other artistic +absorptions, because it seems literally to check the growth of other +qualities and interests. In fact, in many ways Lestrange was like a pious +child. He was apt to be snubbed by Father Payne, but he was wholly +indifferent to all irony. I used to listen to him playing the organ in the +evenings, and a language of emotions and visions certainly streamed from +his fingers which he was never able to put into words. Father Payne treated +him as one might treat an inspired fool, with a mixture of respect and +sharpness. + +Then there was Rose, a man of twenty-five, a curious mixture of knowledge, +cynicism, energy, and affectionateness. I found Rose a very congenial +companion, though I never felt sure what he thought, and never aired my +enthusiasms in his presence. He had great aplomb, and was troubled by no +shyness nor hesitation. There was a touch of frostiness at times between +him and Father Payne. Rose was paradoxical and whimsical, and was apt to +support fantastic positions with apparent earnestness. But he was an +extremely capable and sensible man, and had a knack of dropping his +contentiousness the moment it began to give offence. He was by far the most +mundane of us, and had some command of money. I used to fancy that Father +Payne was a little afraid of him, when he displayed his very considerable +knowledge of the world. His father was a wealthy man, a member of +Parliament, and Rose really knew social personages of the day. I doubt if +he was ever quite in sympathy with the idea of the place, but I used to +feel that his presence was a wholesome sort of corrective, like the vinegar +in the salad. I believe he was writing a play, but he has done nothing +since in literature, and was in many ways more like a visitor than an +inmate. + +Then came my friend Vincent, a solid, good-natured, hard-working man, with +a real enthusiasm for literature, not very critical or even imaginative, +but with a faculty for clear and careful writing. He was at work on a +realistic novel, which made some little reputation; but he has become +since, what I think he always was meant to be, an able journalist and an +excellent leader-writer on political and social topics. Vincent was the +most interested of all of us in current affairs, but at the same time had a +quiet sort of enthusiasm, and a power of idealising people, ardently but +unsentimentally, which made him the most loyal of friends. + +The only other person of whom we saw anything was the Vicar of the +parish--a safe, decorous, useful man, a distant cousin of Father Payne's. +His wife was a good-humoured and conventional woman. Their two daughters +were pleasant, unaffected girls, just come to womanhood. Lestrange +afterwards married one of them. + +We were not much troubled by sociabilities. The place was rather isolated, +and Father Payne had the reputation of being something of an eccentric. +Moreover, the big neighbouring domain, Whitbury Park, blocked all access to +north and west. The owner was an old and invalid peer, who lived a very +secluded life and entertained no one. To the south there was nothing for +miles but farms and hamlets, while the only near neighbour in the east was +a hunting squire, who thought Father Payne kept a sort of boarding-house, +and ignored him entirely. The result was that callers were absolutely +unknown, and the wildest form of dissipation was that Pollard and Rose +occasionally played lawn-tennis at neighbouring vicarages. + +We were not often all there together, because Father Payne's scheme of +travel was strictly adhered to. He considered it a very integral part of +our life. I never quite knew what his plan was; but he would send a man +off, generally alone, with a solid sum for travelling expenses. Thus +Lestrange was sent for a month to Berlin when Joachim held court there, or +to Dresden and Munich. I remember Pollard and Vincent being packed off to +Switzerland together to climb mountains, with stern injunctions to be +sociable. Rose went to Spain, to Paris, to St. Petersburg. Kaye went more +than once to Italy; but we often went to different parts of England, and +then we were generally allowed to go together; but Father Payne's theory +was that we should travel alone, learn to pick up friends, and to fend for +ourselves. He had acquaintances in several parts of the Continent, and we +were generally provided with a letter of introduction to some one. We had a +fortnight in June and a fortnight at Christmas to go home--so that we were +always away for three months in the year, while Father Payne was apt to +send us off for a week at a time, if he thought we needed a change. +Barthrop, I think, made his own plans, and it was all reasonable enough, as +Father Payne would always listen to objections. Some of us paid for +ourselves on those tours, but he was always willing to supplement it +generously. + +It used to be a puzzle to me how Father Payne had the command of so much +money; his estate was not large; but in the first place he spent very +little on himself, and our life was extremely simple. Moreover, I became +aware that some of his former pupils and friends used to send him money at +times for this express purpose. + +The staff consisted of the old butler, whose wife was cook. There were +three other maid-servants; the gardener was also coachman. The house was +certainly clean and well-kept; we looked after ourselves to a great extent; +but there was never any apparent lack of money, though, on the other hand, +there was every sign of careful economy. Father Payne never talked about +money. "It's an interesting thing, money," I have heard him say, "and it's +curious to see how people handle it--but we must not do it too much honour, +and it isn't a thing that can be spoken of in general conversation." + + + +VIII + +THE METHOD + + +I do not propose to make any history of events, or to say how, within a +very short time, I fell into the life of the place. I will only say what +were the features of the scheme, and how the rule, such as it was, worked +out. + +First of all, and above all, came the personality of Father Payne, which +permeated and sustained the whole affair. It was not that he made it his +business to drive us along. It was not a case of "the guiding hand in front +and the propelling foot behind." He seldom interfered, and sometimes for a +considerable space one would have no very direct contact with him. He was a +man who was always intent, but by no means always intent on shepherding. I +should find it hard to say how he spent his time. He was sometimes to all +appearances entirely indolent and good-natured, when he would stroll about, +talk to the people in the village, and look after the little farm which he +kept in his own hands under a bailiff. At another time he would be for long +together in an abstracted mood, silent, absent-minded, pursuing some train +of thought. At another time he would be very busy with what we were doing, +and hold long interviews with us, making us read our work to him and giving +us detailed criticisms. On these occasions he was extremely stimulating, +for the simple reason that he always seemed to grasp what it was that one +was aiming at, and his criticisms were all directed to the question of how +far the original conception was being worked out. He did not, as a rule, +point out a different conception, or indicate how the work could be done on +other lines. He always grasped the plan and intention, and really seemed to +be inside the mind of the contriver. He would say; "I think the theme is +weak here--and you can't make a weak place strong by filling it with +details, however good in themselves. That is like trying to mend the Slough +of Despond with cartloads of texts. The thing is not to fall in, or, if you +fall in, to get out." His three divisions of a subject were "what you say, +what you wanted to say, what you ought to have wanted to say." Sometimes he +would listen in silence, and then say: "I can't criticise that--it is all +off the lines. You had better destroy it and begin again," Or he would say: +"You had better revise that and polish it up. It won't be any good when it +is done--these patched-up things never are; but it will be good practice," +He was encouraging, because he never overlooked the good points of any +piece of writing. He would say: "The detail is good, but it is all too big +for its place, quite out of scale; it is like a huge ear on a small head," +Or he would say: "Those are all things worth saying and well said, but they +are much too diffuse." He used to tell me that I was apt to stop the +carriage when I was bound on a rapid transit, and go for a saunter among +fields. "I don't object to your sauntering, but you must _intend_ to +saunter--you must not be attracted by a pleasant footpath." Sometimes he +could be severe, "That's vulgar," he once said to me, "and you can't make +it attractive by throwing scent about," Or he would say: "That's a +platitude--which means that it may be worth thinking and feeling, but not +worth saying. You can depend upon your reader feeling it without your +help," Or he would say: "You don't understand that point. It is a case of +the blind leading the blind. Cut the whole passage, and think it out +again," Or he would say: "That is all too compressed. You began by walking, +and now you are jumping." Or he would say: "There is a note of personal +irritation about that; it sounds as if you had been reading an unpleasant +review. It is like the complaint of the nightingale leaning her breast +against a thorn in order to get the sensation of pain. You seem to be +wiping your eyes all through--you have not got far enough away from your +vexation. Your attempt to give it a humorous turn reminds me of Miss +Squeers' titter--you must never titter!" Once or twice in early times I +used to ask him how _he_ would do it. "Don't ask me!" he said. "I +haven't got to do it--that's your business; it's no use your doing it in +_my_ way; all I know is that you are not doing it in _your_ way." +He was very quick at noticing any mannerisms or favourite words. "All good +writers have mannerisms, of course," he would say, "but the moment that the +reader sees that it is a mannerism the charm is gone." His praise was +rarely given, and when it came it was generous and rich. "That is +excellent," I can hear him say, "You have filled your space exactly, and +filled it well. There is not a word to add or to take away." He was always +prepared to listen to argument or defence. "Very well--read it again." +Then, at the end, he would say: "Yes, there is something in that. You meant +to anticipate? I don't mind that! But you have anticipated too much, made +it too clear; it should just be a hint, no more, which will be explained +later. Don't blurt! You have taken the wind out of your sails by explaining +it too fully." + +Sometimes he would leave us alone for two or three weeks together, and then +say frankly that one had been wasting time, or the reverse. "You must not +depend upon me too much; you must learn to walk alone." + +Every week we had a meeting, at which some one read a fragment aloud. At +these meetings he criticised little himself, but devoted his attention to +our criticisms. He would not allow harshness or abruptness in what we said. +"We don't want your conclusions or your impressions--we want your reasons." +Or he would say: "That is a fair criticism, but unsympathetic. It is in the +spirit of a reviewer who wants to smash a man. We don't want Stephen to be +stoned here, we want him confuted." I remember once how he said with +indignation: "That is simply throwing a rotten egg! And its maturity shows +that it was kept for that purpose! You are not criticising, you are only +paying off an old score!" + +But I think that the two ways in which he most impressed himself were by +his conversation, when we were all together, and by his _tête-à-tête_ +talks, if one happened to be his companion. When we were all together he +was humorous, ironical, frank. He did not mind what was said to him, so +long as it was courteously phrased; but I have heard him say: "We must +remember we are fencing--we must not use bludgeons." Or: "You must not talk +as if you were scaring birds away--we are all equal here." He was very +unguarded himself in what he said, and always maintained that talkers ought +to contribute their own impressions freely and easily. He used to quote +with much approval Dr. Johnson's remark about his garrulous old +school-fellow, Edwards. Boswell said, when Edwards had gone, that he +thought him a weak man. "Why, yes, sir," said Johnson. "Here is a man who +has passed through life without experiences; yet I would rather have him +with me than a more sensible man who will not talk readily. This man is +always willing to say what he has to say." Father Payne used to add: "The +point is to talk; you must not consider your reputation; say whatever comes +into your head, and when you have learnt to talk, you can begin to select." +I have heard him say; "Go on, some one! It is everybody's business here to +avoid a pause. Don't be sticky! Pauses are for a _tête-à-tête_." Or, +again, I have heard him say: "You mustn't examine witnesses here! You +should never ask more than three questions running." He did not by any +means keep his own rules; but he would apologise sometimes for his +shortcomings. "I'm hopeless to-day. I can't attend, I can't think of +anything in particular. I'm diluted, I'm weltering--I'm coming down like a +shower." + +The result of this certainly was that we most of us did learn to talk. He +liked to thrash a subject out, but he hated too protracted a discussion. +"Here, we've had enough of this. It's very important, but I'm getting +bored. I feel priggish. Help, help!" + +On the other hand, he was even more delightful in a _tête-à-tête_. He +would say profound and tender things, let his emotions escape him. He had +with me, and I expect with others, a sort of indulgent and paternal way +with him. He never forgot a confidence, and he used to listen delightedly +to stories of one's home circle. "Tell me some stories about Aunt Jane," he +would say to me. "There is something impotently fiery about that good lady +that I like. Tell me again what she said when she found cousin Frank in a +smoking-cap reading Thomas-à-Kempis." He had a way of quoting one's own +stories which was subtly flattering, and he liked sidelights of a +good-natured kind on the character of other members. "Why won't he say such +things to me?" he used to say. "He thinks I should respect him less, when +really I should admire him more. He won't let me see when his box is empty! +I suspect him of reading Bartlett's _Familiar Quotations_ before he +goes a walk with me!" Or he would say: "In a general talk you must think +about your companions; in a _tête-à-tête_ you must only feel him." + +But the most striking thing about Father Payne was this. Though we were all +very conscious of his influence, and indeed of his authority; though we +knew that he meant to have his own way, and was quite prepared to speak +frankly and act decisively, we were never conscious of being watched or +censured or interfered with. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it was a +pure pleasure to meet him and to be with him, and many a time have I seen +him, in a moment of leisure, strolling in the garden, and hurried out just +on the chance of getting a word or a smile, or, if he was in an expansive +mood, having my arm taken by him for a little turn. In the hundredth case, +it happened that one might have said or done something which one knew that +he would disapprove. But, as he never stored things up or kept you waiting, +you could be sure he would speak soon or not at all. Often, too, he would +just say: "I don't think that your remark to Kaye gave a fair impression of +yourself," or, "Why waste your powder as you did to-night?" I was only once +or twice directly rebuked by him, and that was for a prolonged neglect. +"You don't _care_," he once said to me emphatically. "I can't do +anything for you if you don't care!" But he was the most entirely placable +of men. A word of regret or apology, and he would say: "Don't give it +another thought, my boy," or, "That's all right, then." + +The real secret of his influence was that he took not a critical or even a +dispassionate view of each of us, but an enthusiastic view. He took no +pleasure in our shortcomings; they were rather of the nature of an active +personal disappointment. The result was simply that you were natural with +him, but natural with the added sense that he liked you and thought well of +you, and expected friendship and even brilliance from you. You felt that he +knew you well, and recognised your faults and weaknesses, but that he knew +your best side even better, and enjoyed the presence of it. I never knew +anyone who was so appreciative, and though I said foolish things to him +sometimes, I felt that he was glad that I should be my undisguised self. It +was thus delicately flattering to be with him, and it gave confidence and +self-respect. That was the basis of our whole life, the goodwill and +affection of Father Payne, and the desire to please him. + + + +IX + +FATHER PAYNE + + +Father Payne was a big solid man, as I have said, but he contrived to give +the impression of being even bigger than he was. It was like the Irish +estate, of which its owner said that it had more land to the acre than any +place he knew. This was the result, I suppose, of what Barthrop once dryly +called the "effortless expansion" of Father Payne's personality. I suppose +he was about six-foot-two in height, and he must have weighed fifteen stone +or even more. He was not stout, but all his limbs were solid, so that he +filled his clothes. His hands were big, his feet were big. He wore a rather +full beard: he was slightly bald when I knew him, but his hair grew rather +long and curly. He always wore old clothes--but you were never conscious of +what he wore: he never looked, as some people do, like a suit of clothes +with a person inside them. Thinking it over, it seems to me that the reason +why you noticed his clothes so little, when you were with him, was because +you were always observing his face, or his hands, which were extremely +characteristic of him, or his motions, which had a lounging sort of grace +about them. Heavy men are apt on occasions to look lumbering, but Father +Payne never looked that. His whole body was under his full control. When he +walked, he swung easily along; when he moved, he moved impetuously and +eagerly. But his face was the most remarkable thing about him. It had no +great distinction of feature, and it was sanguine, often sunburnt, in hue. +But, solid as it was, it was all alive. His big dark eyes were brimful of +amusement and kindliness, and it was like coming into a warm room on a cold +day to have his friendly glance directed upon you. As he talked, his +eyebrows moved swiftly, and he had a look, with his eyes half-closed and +his brows drawn up, as he waited for an answer, of what the old books call +"quizzical"--a sort of half-caressing irony, which was very attractive. He +had an impatient little frown which passed over his face, like a ruffle of +wind, if things went too slowly or heavily for his taste; and he had, too, +on occasions a deep, abstracted look, as if he were following a thought +far. There was also another look, well known to his companions, when he +turned his eyes upwards with a sort of resignation, generally accompanied +by a deprecating gesture of the hand. Altogether it was a most expressive +face, because, except in his abstracted mood, he always seemed to be +entirely _there_, not concealing or repressing anything, but bending +his whole mind upon what was being said. Moreover, if you said anything +personal or intimate to him, a word of gratitude or pleasure, he had a +quick, beautiful, affectionate look, so rewarding, so embracing that I +often tried to evoke it--though an attempt to evoke it deliberately often +produced no more than a half-smile, accompanied by a little wink, as if he +saw through the attempt. + +His great soft white hands, always spotlessly clean--he was the +cleanest-looking man I ever saw--were really rather extraordinary. They +looked at first sight clumsy, and even limp; but he was unusually deft and +adroit with his fingers, and his touch on plants, in gardening, his tying +of strings--he liked doing up parcels--was very quick and delicate. He was +fond of all sorts of little puzzles, toys of wood and metal, which had to +be fitted together; and the puzzles took shape or fell to pieces under his +fingers like magic. They were extremely sensitive to pain, his hands, and a +little pinch or abrasion would cause him marked discomfort. His handwriting +was rapid and fine, and he occasionally would draw a tiny sketch to +illustrate something, which showed much artistic skill. He often deplored +his ignorance of handicraft, which, he said would have been a great relief +to him. + +His voice, again, was remarkable. It was not in ordinary talk either deep +or profound, though it could and did become both on occasions, especially +when he made a quotation, which he did with some solemnity. I used at first +to think that there was a touch of rhetorical affectation about his +quotations. They were made in a high musical tone, and as often as not +ended with the tears coming into his eyes. He spoke to me once about this. +He said that it was a mistake to think he was _deeply_ affected by a +quotation. "In fact," he said, "I am not easily affected by passionate or +tragic emotion--what does affect me is a peculiar touch of beauty, but it +is a luxurious and superficial thing. It would entirely prevent me," he +added, "from reading many poems or prose passages aloud which I greatly +admire. I simply could not command myself! In fact," he went on, smiling, +"I very often can only get to the end of a quotation by fixing my mind on +something else. I add up the digits giving the number of the page, or I +count the plates at the dinner-table. It's very absurd--but it takes me in +just the same way when I am alone. I could not read the last chapter of the +Book of Revelation aloud to myself, or the chapter on 'The Wilderness' in +Isaiah, without shedding tears. But it doesn't mean anything; it is just +the _hysterica passio_, you know!" + +His voice, when he first joined in a talk, was often low and even +hesitating; but when he became interested and absorbed, it gathered volume +and emphasis. Barthrop once said to me that Father Payne was the only +person he knew who always talked in italics. But he very seldom harangued, +though it is difficult to make that clear in recording his talks, because +he often spoke continuously. Yet it was never a soliloquy: he always +included the listeners. He used to look round at them, explore their faces, +catch an eye and smile, indicate the particular person addressed by a +darted-out finger; and he had many little free gestures with his hands as +he talked. He would trace little hieroglyphics with his finger, as if he +were writing a word, sweep an argument aside, bring his hands together as +though he were shaping something. This was a little confusing at first, and +used to divert my attention, because of the great mobility of his hands; +but after a little it seemed to me to bring out and illustrate his points +in a remarkably salient way. + +His habits were curious and a little mysterious. They were by no means +regular. Sometimes for days together we hardly saw him. He often rose early +and walked in the garden. If he found a book which interested him, he would +read it with absorbed attention, quite unconscious of the flight of time. +"I do love getting really _buried_ in a book," he would say; "it's the +best of tests." Sometimes he wrote, sometimes he composed music, sometimes +he would have his table covered with bits of paper full of unintelligible +designs and patterns. He did not mind being questioned, but he would not +satisfy one's curiosity. "It's only some nonsense of mine," he would say. +He did not write many letters, and they were generally short. At times he +would be very busy on his farm, at times occupied in the village, at times +he took long walks alone; very occasionally he went away for a day or two. +He was both uncommunicative and communicative. He would often talk with the +utmost frankness and abandon about his private affairs; but, on the other +hand, I always had the sense of much that was hidden in his life. And I +have no doubt that he spent much time in prayer and meditation. He seldom +spoke of this, but it played a large part in his life. He gave the +impression of great ease, cheerfulness, and tranquillity, attained by some +deliberate resolve, because he was both restless and sensitive, took +sorrows and troubles hardly, and was deeply shocked and distressed by sad +news of any kind. I have heard him say that he often had great difficulty +in forcing himself to open a letter which he thought likely to be +distressing or unpleasant. He was naturally, I imagine, of an almost +neurotic tendency; but he did not seem so much to combat this by occupation +and determination as to have arrived at some mechanical way of dealing with +it. I remember that he said to me once: "If you have a bad business on +hand, an unhappy or wounding affair, it is best to receive it fully and +quietly. Let it do its worst, realise it, take it in--don't resist it, +don't try to distract your mind: see the full misery of it, don't attempt +to minimise it. If you do that, you will suddenly find something within you +come to your rescue and say, 'Well, I can bear that!' and then it is all +right. But if you try to dodge it, it's my experience that there comes a +kind of back-wash which hurts very much indeed. Let the stream go over you, +and then emerge. To fight against it simply prolongs the agony." He +certainly recovered himself quicker than anyone I have ever known: indeed I +think his recuperation was the best sign of his enormous vitality. "I'm +sensitive," he said to me once, "but I'm tough--I have a fearful power of +forgetting--it's much better than forgiving." But the thing which remains +most strongly in my mind about him is the way in which he pervaded the +whole place. It was fancy, perhaps, but I used to think I knew whether he +was in the house or not. Certainly, if I wanted to speak to him, I used to +go off to his study on occasions, quite sure that I should find him; while +on other occasions--and I more than once put this to the test--I have +thought to myself, "It's no use going--the Father is out." His presence at +any sort of gathering was entirely unmistakable. It was not that you felt +hampered or controlled: it was more like the flowing of some clear stream. +When he was away, the thing seemed tame and spiritless; when he was there, +it was all full of life. But his presence was not, at least to me, at all +wearisome or straining. I have known men of great vitality who were +undeniably fatiguing, because they overcame one like a whirlwind. But with +Father Payne it always seemed as though he put wind into one's sails, but +left one to steer one's own course. He did not thwart or deflect, or even +direct: he simply multiplied one's own energy. I never had the sensation +with him of suppressing any thought in my mind, or of saying to myself, +"The Father won't care about that." He always did care, and I used to feel +that he was glad to be inquired of, glad to have his own thoughts diverted, +glad to be of use. He never nagged; or found petty fault, or "chivied" you, +as the boys say. If you asked him a question, or asked him to stroll or +walk, you always felt that he was delighted, that it was the one thing he +enjoyed. He liked to have childish secrets. He and I had several little +_caches_ in the holes of trees, or the chinks of buildings, where we +concealed small coins or curious stones on our walks, and at a later date +revisited them. We were frankly silly about certain things. He and I had +some imaginary personages--Dr. Waddilove, supposed to be a rich beneficed +clergyman of Tory views; Mr. McTurk, a matter-of-fact Scotsman; Henry +Bland, a retired schoolmaster with copious stores of information; and +others--and we used often to discourse in character. But he always knew +when to stop. He would say to me suddenly: "Dr. Waddilove said to me +yesterday that he never argued with atheists or radicals, because they +always came round in the end." Or he would say, in Henry Bland's flute-like +tones: "Your mention of Robert Browning induces me to relate an anecdote, +which I think may prove not wholly uninteresting to you." At times we used +to tell long stories on our walks, stopping short in the middle of a +sentence, when the other had instantly to continue the narrative. I do not +mean that the wit was very choice or the humour at all remarkable--it would +not bear being written down--but it amused us both. "Come, what shall we do +to-day?" I can hear him say. "Dr. Waddilove and Mr. Bland might have a walk +and discuss the signs of the times?" And then the ridiculous dialogue would +begin. + +That was the delightful thing about him, that he was always ready to fall +in with a mood, always light of touch and gay. He could be tender and +sympathetic, as well as incisive and sensible if it was needed; but he was +never either contradictory or severe or improving. He would sometimes pull +himself up and say: "Here, we must be business-like," but he was never +reproachful or grieved or shocked by what we said to him. He could be +decisive, stern, abrupt, if it was really needed. But his most pungent +reproofs were inflicted by a blank silence, which was one of the most +appalling things to encounter. He generally began to speak again a few +moments later, on a totally different subject, while any such sign of +displeasure was extremely rare. He never under any circumstances reminded +anyone of his generosity, or the trouble he had taken, or the favours he +had conferred, while he would often remind one of some trifling kindness +done to him. "I often remember how good you were about those accounts, old +boy! I should never have got through without you!" + +His demeanour was generally that of an indulgent uncle, with that +particular touch of nearness which in England is apt to exist only among +relations. He would consult us about his own private worries with entire +frankness, and this more than anything made us ready to confide in him. He +used to hand us cheques or money if required, with a little wink. "That's +your screw!" he used to say; and he liked any thanks that seemed natural. + +"Natural,"--that is the word that comes before me all through. I can +remember no one so unembarrassed, so easy, so transparent. His thought +flowed into his talk; and his silences were not reticences, but the busy +silence of the child who has "a plan." He gave himself away without economy +and without disguise, and he accepted gratefully and simply whatever you +cared to give him of thought or love. I think oftenest of how I sometimes +went to see him in the evenings: if he was busy, as he often was, he used +just to murmur half to himself, "Well, old man?" indicate a chair, put his +finger on his lips, and go on with his work or his book; but at intervals +he would just glance at me with a little smile, and I knew that he was glad +to have me at hand in that simple companionship when there is no need of +speech or explanation. And then the book or paper would be dropped, and he +would say: "Well, out with it." If one said, "Nothing--only company," he +would give one of his best and sweetest smiles. + + + +X + +CHARACTERISTICS + + +But whatever may have been Father Payne's effect upon us individually or +collectively, or however the result may have been achieved, there was no +question of one thing, and that was the ardent and beautiful happiness of +the place. Joy deliberately schemed for and planned is apt to evaporate. +But we were not hunting for happiness as men dig for gold. We were looking +for something quite different. We were all doing work for which we cared, +with kind and yet incisive criticism to help us; and then the simplicity +and regularity of the life, the total absence of all indulgence, the +exercise, the companionship, the discipline, all generated a kind of high +spirits that I have known in no other place and at no other time. I used to +awake in the morning fresh and alert, free from all anxiety, all sense of +tiresome engagements, all possibility of boredom. All staleness, weariness, +all complications and conventional duties, all jealousies and envyings, +were absent. We were not competing with each other, we were not bent on +asserting ourselves, we had just each our own bit of work to do; moreover +our spaces of travel had an invigorating effect, and sent us back to Aveley +with the zest of returning to a beloved home. Of course there were little +bickerings at times, little complexities of friendship; but these never +came to anything in Father Payne's kindly present. Sometimes a man would +get fretful or worried over his work; if so, he was generally despatched on +a brief holiday, with an injunction to do no work at all; and I am sure +that the prospect of even temporary banishment was the strongest of all +motives for the suppression of strife. I remember spring mornings, when the +birds began to sing in the shrubberies, and the beds were full of rising +flower-blades, when one's whole mind and heart used to expand in an ecstasy +of hope and delight; I remember long rambles or bicycle rides far into the +quiet pastoral country, in the summer heat, alone or with a single +companion, when life seemed almost too delicious to continue; then there +would be the return, and a plunge into the bathing-pool, and another quiet +hour or two at the work in hand, and the delight of feeling that one was +gaining skill and ease of expression; or again there would be the quick +tramp in winter along muddy roads, with the ragged clouds hurrying across +the sky, with the prospect ahead of a fire-lit evening of study and talk; +and best of all a walk and a conversation with Father Payne himself, when +all that he said seemed to interpret life afresh and to put it in a new and +exciting aspect. I never met anyone with such a power of linking the loose +ends of life together, and of giving one so joyful a sense of connection +and continuance. How it was done I cannot guess; but whereas other minds +could cast light upon problems, Father Payne somehow made light shine +through them, and gave them a soft translucence. But while he managed to +give one a great love of life itself, it never rested there; he made me +feel engaged in some sort of eternal business, and though he used no +conventional expressions, I had in his presence a sense of vast horizons +and shining tracks passing into an infinite distance full of glory and +sweetness, and of death itself as a mystery of surprise and wonder. He +taught me to look for beauty and harmony, not to waste time in mean +controversy or in futile regret, but to be always moving forwards, and +welcoming every sign of confidence and goodwill. He had a way, too, of +making one realise the dignity and necessity of work, without cherishing +any self-absorbed illusions about its impressiveness or its importance. His +creed was the recognition of all beauty and vividness as an unquestionable +sign of the presence of God, the Power that made for order and health and +strength and peace; and the deep necessity of growing to understand one +another with unsuspicious trustfulness and sympathy--the Fatherhood of God, +and the Brotherhood of Man, these were the doctrines by which he lived. + +It used to be an extraordinary pleasure to me to accompany him about the +village; he knew every one, and could talk with a simple directness and a +quiet humour that was inimitable. I never saw so naturally pastoral a man. +He carried good-temper about with him, and yet he could rebuke with a +sharpness which surprised me, if there was need. He was curiously tolerant, +I used to think, of sensual sins, but in the presence of cruelty or +meanness or deliberate deceit he used to explode into the most violent +language. I remember a scene which it is almost a terror to me now to +recollect, when I was walking with him, and we met a tipsy farmer of a +neighbouring village flogging his horse along a lane. He ran up beside the +cart, he stopped the horse, he roared at the farmer, "Get out of your cart, +you d--d brute, and lead it home." The farmer descended in a state of +stupefaction. Father Payne snatched the whip out of his hand, broke it, +threw it over the hedge, threatened him with all the terrors of the law, +and reduced him to a state of abject submission. Presently he recovered +somewhat, and in drunken wrath began to abuse Father Payne. "Very well," +said Father Payne, "you can take your choice: either you lead the horse +home quietly, and I'll see it done; or else I come with you to the village, +and tell the people what I think of you in the open street. And if you put +up your fist like that again, I'll run you home myself and hand you over to +the policeman. I'll be d--d if I won't do it now. Here, Duncan," he said to +me, "you go and fetch the policeman, and we'll have a little procession +back." The ruffian thought better of it, and led the horse away muttering, +while we walked behind until we were near the farm, "Now get in, and behave +yourself," said Father Payne. "And if you choose to come over to-morrow and +beg my pardon, you may; and if you don't, I'll have you up before the +magistrates on Saturday next." + +I had never seen such wrath; but the tempest subsided instantly, and he +walked back with me in high good-humour. The next day the man came over, +and Father Payne said to me in the evening: "We had quite an affecting +scene. I gave him a bit of my mind, and he thanked me for speaking +straight. He's a low brute, but I don't think he'll do the same sort of +thing in a hurry. I'll give him six weeks to get over his fright, and then +I'll do a little patrolling!" + +His gentleness, on the other hand, with women and children was beautiful to +see. It was as natural for Father Payne to hurry to a scene of disaster or +grief as it was for others to wish to stay away. He used to speak to a +sufferer or a mourner with great directness. "Tell me all about it," he +would say, and he would listen with little nods and gestures, raising his +eyebrows or even shutting his eyes, saying very little, except a word or +two of sympathy at the end. He knew all the children, but he never petted +them or made favourites, but treated them with a serious kind of gravity +which he assured us they infinitely preferred. He used to have a Christmas +entertainment for them at the Hall, as well as a summer feast. He +encouraged the boys and young men to botanise and observe nature in all +forms, and though he would never allow nests to be taken, or even eggs if +he could help it, he would give little prizes for the noting of any rare +bird or butterfly. "If you want men to live in the country, they must love +the country," he used to say. He kept a village club going, but he never +went there. "It's embarrassing," he used to say. "They don't want me +strolling in any more than I want them strolling in. Philanthropists have +no sense of privacy." He did not call at the villagers' houses, unless +there was some special event, and his talks were confined to chance +meetings. Neither was there any sense of duty about it. "No one is taken in +by formal visiting," he said. "You must just do it if you like it, or else +stay away. 'To keep yourself to yourself' is the highest praise these +people can give. No one likes a fuss!" + +The same sort of principles regulated our own intercourse. "We are not +monks," he used to say; "we are Carthusians, hermits, living together for +comfort or convenience." The solitude and privacy of everyone was +respected. We used to do our talking when we took exercise; but there was +very little sitting and gossiping together _tête-à-tête._ "I don't +want everyone to try to be intimate with everyone else," he used to say. +"The point is just to get on amicably together; we won't have any cliques +or coteries." He himself never came to any of our rooms, but sent a message +if he wanted to see us. One small thing he strongly objected to, the +shouting up from the garden to anyone's window: "Most offensive!" He +disliked all loud shouting and calling or singing aloud. "You mustn't use +the world as a private sitting-room." And the one thing which used to fret +him was a voice stridently raised. "Don't rouse the echoes!" he would say. +"You have no more right to make a row than you have to use a strong scent +or to blow a post-horn--that's not liberty!" The result of this was that +the house was a singularly quiet one, and this sense of silence and subdued +sound lives in my memory as one of its most refreshing characteristics. "A +row is only pleasant if it is deliberate and organised," he used to say. +"Native woodnotes wild are all very well, but they are not civilisation. To +talk audibly and quietly is the best proof of virtue and honour!" + + + +XI + +CONVERSATION + + +I am going to try to give a few impressions of talks with Father +Payne--both public and private talks. It is, however, difficult to do this +without giving, perhaps, a wrong impression. I used to get into the habit +of jotting down the things he had said, and I improved by practice. But he +was a rapid talker and somewhat discursive, and he was often deflected from +his main subject by a question or a discussion. Yet I do not want it to be +thought that he was fond of monologue and soliloquy. He was not, I should +say, a very talkative man; days would sometimes pass without his doing more +than just taking a hand in conversation. He liked to follow the flow of a +talk, and to contribute a remark now and then; sometimes he was markedly +silent; but in no case was he ever oppressive. Occasionally, and more often +in _tête-à-tête,_ he went ahead and talked copiously, but this was +rather the exception than the rule. I have not thought it worth while to +try to give the effect of our own talk. We were young, excitable, and +argumentative, and, though it was at the time often delightful and +stimulating, it was also often very crude and immature. Father Payne was +good at helping a talker out, and would often do justice to a +clumsily-expressed remark which he thought was interesting. But he was by +far the most interesting member of the circle; he spoke easily and +flowingly when he was moved, and there always seemed to me a sense of form +about his talk which was absent from ours. But under no circumstance did he +ever become tedious--indeed he was extremely sensitive to the smallest +signs of impatience. We often tried, so to speak, to draw him out; but if +he had the smallest suspicion that he was being drawn, he became instantly +silent. + +There is more coherence about some of the talks I have recorded than was +actually the case. He would diverge to tell a story, or he would call one's +attention to some sight or sound. + +Moreover his face, his movements, his gestures, all added much to his talk. +He had a way of wrinkling up his brows, of shaking his head, of looking +round with an awestruck expression, his eyes wide open, his mouth pursed +up, especially when he had reached some triumphantly absurd conclusion. He +had two little quick gestures of the hands as he spoke, opening his +fingers, waving a point aside, emphasizing an argument by a quick downward +motion of his forefinger. He had, too, a quick, loud, ebullient laugh, +sometimes shrill, sometimes deep; and he abandoned himself to laughter at +an absurd story or jest as completely as anyone I have ever seen. Rose was +an excellent mimic, and Father Payne used to fall into agonising paroxysms +of laughter at many of his representations. But he always said that +laughter was with him a social mood, and that he had never any inclination +to laugh when he was alone. + +So the record of his talks must be taken not as typical of his everyday +mood, but as instances of the kind of things he said when he was moved to +speak at large; and even so they give, I am aware, too condensed an +impression. He never talked as if he were playing on a party or a companion +with a hose-pipe. There was never anyone who was more easily silenced or +diverted. But to anyone who knew him they will give, I believe, a true +impression of his method of talk; and perhaps they may give to those who +never saw him a faint reflection of his lively and animated mind, the +energy with which he addressed himself to small problems, and the firm +belief which he always maintained, that any evidence of life, however +elementary, was more encouraging and inspiring than the most elaborate +logic or the profoundest intellectual grasp of abstract subjects. + + + +XII + +OF GOING TO CHURCH + + +I had been to church one summer Sunday morning--a very simple affair it +was, with nothing sung but a couple of hymns; but the Vicar read +beautifully, neither emphatically nor lifelessly, with a little thrill in +his voice at times that I liked to hear. It did not compel you to listen so +much as invite you to join. Lestrange played the organ most divinely; he +generally extemporised before the service, and played a simple piece at the +end; but he never strained the resources of the little organ, and it was +all simple and formal music, principally Bach or Handel. + +Father Payne himself was a regular attendant at church, and Sunday was a +decidedly leisurely day. He advised us to put aside our writing work, to +write letters, read, make personal jottings, talk, though there was no +inquisition into such things. + +Father Payne was a somewhat irregular responder, but it was a pleasure to +sit near him, because his deep, rapid voice gave a new quality to the +words. He seemed happy in church, and prayed with great absorption, though +I noticed that his Bible was often open before him all through the service. +The Vicar's sermons were good of their kind, suggestive rather than +provocative, about very simple matters of conduct rather than belief. I +have heard Father Payne speak of them with admiration as never being +discursive, and I gathered that the Vicar was a great admirer of Newman's +sermons. + +We came away together, Father Payne and I, and we strolled a little in the +garden. I felt emboldened to ask him the plain question why he went to +church. "Oh, for a lot of reasons," he said, "none of them very conclusive! +I like to meet my friends in the first place; and then a liturgy has a +charm for me. It has a beauty of its own, and I like ceremony. It is not +that I think it sacred--only beautiful. But I quite admit the weakness of +it, which is simply that it does not appeal to everyone, and I don't think +that our Anglican service is an ideal service. It is too refined and +formal; and many people would feel it was more religious if it were more +extempore--prayer and plain advice." + +I told him something of my old childish experience, saying that I used to +regard church as a sort of calling-over, and that God would be vexed if one +did not appear. + +He laughed at this. "Yes, I don't think we can insist on it as being a +levée," he said, "where one is expected to come and make one's bow and pay +formal compliments. That idea is an old anthropomorphic one, of course. It +is superstitious--it is almost debasing to think of God demanding praise as +a duty incumbent on us. 'To thee all angels cry aloud'--I confess I don't +like the idea of heaven as a place of cheerful noise--that isn't +attractive! + +"And also I think that the attention demanded in our service is a +mistake--it's a mixture of two ideas; the liturgical ceremony which touches +the eye and the emotion, rather than the reason; and the sermon and the +prayer in which the reason is supposed to be concerned. I think the +Catholic idea is a better one, a solemnity performed, in which you don't +take part, but receive impressions. There's no greater strain on the mind +than forcing it to follow a rapid and exalted train of intellectual and +literary thought and expression. I confess I don't attempt that, it seems +to me just a joyful and neighbourly business, where one puts the mind in a +certain expectant mood, and is lucky if one carries a single thrill or +aspiration away." + +"What do you _do_, then?" I said. + +"Well, I meditate," said Father Payne. "I believe in meditation very much, +and in solitude it is very hard work. But the silent company of friends, +and the old arches and woodwork, some simple music, a ceremony, and a +little plan of thought going on--that seems to me a fruitful atmosphere. +Some verse, some phrase, which I have heard a hundred times before, +suddenly seems written in letters of gold. I follow it a little way into +the dark, I turn it over, I wonder about it, I enjoy its beauty. I don't +say that my thoughts are generally very startling or poignant or profound; +but I feel the sense of the Fatherly, tolerant, indulgent presence of God, +and a brotherly affection for my fellow-men. It's a great thing to be in +the same place with a number of people, all silent, and on the whole +thinking quiet, happy, and contented thoughts. It all brings me into line +with my village friends, it gives me a social mood, and I feel for once +that we all want the same things from life--and that for once instead of +having to work and push for them, we are fed and comforted. 'Open thy mouth +wide, and I will fill it'--that's a wholesome, childlike verse, you know. +The whole thing seems to me a simple device for producing a placid and +expectant mood--I don't know anything else that produces it so well." + +"You mean it is something mystical--almost hypnotic?" I said. + +"Perhaps I should if I knew what those big words meant," said Father Payne, +smiling. "No; church seems to me a thing that has really grown up out of +human nature, not a thing imposed upon it. I don't like what may be called +ecclesiasticism, partly because it emphasizes the intellectual side of +belief, partly because it tries to cast a slur on the people who don't like +ceremonial, and whom it does not suit--and most of all because +ecclesiasticism aims at making you believe that other people can transact +spiritual business on your account. In these democratic days, you can't +have spiritual authority--you have got to find what people need, and help +them to find it for themselves. The plain truth is that we don't want +dogma. Of course it isn't to be despised, because it once meant something, +even if it does not now. Dogmas are not unintelligible intellectual +propositions imposed on the world. They are explanations, interpretations, +attempts to link facts together. They have the sacredness of ideas which +people lived by, and for which they were prepared to die. But many of them +are scientific in form only, and the substance has gone out of them. We +know more in one sense about life and God than we did, but we also know +less, because we realise there is so much more to know. But now we want, I +believe, two or three great ideas which everyone can understand--like +Fatherhood and Brotherhood, like peace and orderliness and beauty. I think +that a church service means all these things, or ought to. What people need +is simplicity and beauty of life--joy and hope and kindness. Anything which +helps these things on is fine; anything which bewilders and puzzles and +gives a sense of dreariness is simply injurious. I want to be told to be +quiet, to try again, not to be disheartened by failures, not to be angry +with other people, to give up things, rather than to get them with a sauce +of envy and spite--the feeling of a happy and affectionate family, in fact. +The sort of thing I don't want is the Athanasian Creed. I can't regard it +simply as a picturesque monument of ancient and ferocious piety. It seems +to me an overhanging cloud of menace and mystification! It doesn't hurt the +unintelligent Christian, of course--he simply doesn't understand it; but to +the moderately intelligent it is like a dog barking furiously which may +possibly get loose; a little more intelligence, and it is all right. You +know the dog is safely tied up! Again, I don't mind the cursing psalms, +because they give the parson the power of saying: 'We say this to remind +ourselves that it was what people used to feel, and which Christ came to +change.' I don't mind anything that is human--what I can't tolerate is +anything inhuman or unintelligible. No one can misunderstand the +Beatitudes; very few people can follow the arguments of St. Paul! You don't +want only elaborate reasons for clever people, you want still more +beautiful motives for simple people. It isn't perfect, our service, I +admit, but it does me good." + +"Tell me," I said--"to go back for a moment--something more about +meditating--I like that!" + +"Well," said Father Payne, "it's like anchoring to a thought. Thought is a +fidgety thing, restless, perverse. It anchors itself very easily on to a +grievance, or an unpleasant incident, or a squabble. Don't you know the +misery of being jerked back, time after time, by an unpleasant thought? I +think one ought to practise the opposite--and I know now by experience that +it is possible. I will make a confession. I don't care for many of the Old +Testament lessons myself. I think there's too much fact, or let us say +incident, in them, and not enough poetry. Well, I take up my Bible, and I +look at Job, or Isaiah, or the Revelation, and I read quietly on. Suddenly +there's a gleam of gold in the bed of the stream--some splendid, deep, fine +thought. I follow it out; I think how it has appeared in my own life, or in +the lives of other people--it bears me away on its wings, I pray about it, +I hope to be more like that--and so on. Sometimes it is a sharp revelation +of something ugly and perverse in my own nature--I don't dwell long on +that, but I see in imagination how it is likely to trouble me, and I hope +that it will not delude me again; because these evil things delude one, +they call noxious tricks by fine names. I say to myself, 'What you pretend +is self-respect, or consistency, is really irritable vanity or stupid +unimaginativeness.' But it is a mistake, I think, to dwell long on one's +deficiencies: what one has got to do is to fill one's life full of +positive, active, beautiful things, until there is no room for the ugly +intruders. And, to put it shortly, a service makes me think about other +people and about God; I fear it doesn't make me contrite or sorrowful. I +don't believe in any sort of self-pity, nor do I think one ought to +cultivate shame; those things lie close to death, and it is life that I am +in search of--fulness of life. Don't let us bemoan ourselves, or think that +a sign of grace!" + +"But if you find yourself grubby, nasty, suspicious, irritable, isn't it a +good thing to rub it in sometimes?" I said. + +"No, no," said Father Payne, "life will do that hard enough. Turn your back +on it all, look at the beautiful things, leave a thief to catch a thief, +and the dead to bury the dead. Don't sniff at the evil thing; go and get a +breath of fresh air." + + + +XIII + +OF NEWSPAPERS + + +Father Payne was a very irregular reader of the newspaper; he was not +greedy of news, and he was incurious about events, while he disliked the +way in which they were professionally dished up for human consumption. At +times, however, he would pore long and earnestly over a daily paper with +knitted brows and sighs. "You seem to be suffering a good deal over your +paper to-day, Father!" said Barthrop once, regarding him with amusement. +Father Payne lifted up his head, and then broke into a smile. "It's all +right, my boy!" he said. "I don't despair of the world itself, but I feel +that if the average newspaper represents the mind of the average man, the +human race is very feeble--not worth saving! This sort of +thing"--indicating the paper with a wave of his hand--"makes me realise how +many things there are that don't interest me--and I can't get at them +either through the medium of these writers' minds. They don't seem to want +simply to describe the facts, but to manipulate them; they try to make you +uncomfortable about the future, and contented with the past. It ought to be +just the other way! And then I ask myself, 'Ought I, as a normal human +being, to be as one-sided, as submissive, as trivial, as sentimental as +this?' These vast summaries of public opinion, do they represent anyone's +opinion at all, or are they simply the sort of thing you talk about in a +railway-carriage with a man you don't know? Does anyone's mind really dwell +on such things and ponder them? The newspapers do not really know what is +happening--everything takes them by surprise. The ordinary person is +interested in his work, his amusements, the people he lives with--in real +things. There seems to be nothing real here; it is all shadowy, I want to +get at men's minds, not at what journalists think is in men's minds. The +human being in the newspapers seems to me an utterly unreal person, +picturesque, theatrical, fatuous, slobbering, absurd. Does not the +newspaper-convention misrepresent us as much as the book-convention +misrepresents us? We straggle irregularly along, we are capable of +entertaining at the same moment two wholly contrary opinions, we do what we +don't intend to do, we don't carry out our hopes or our purposes. The man +in the papers is agitated, excited, wild, inquisitive--the ordinary person +is calm, indifferent, and on the whole fairly happy, unless some one +frightens him. I can't make it out, because it isn't a conspiracy to +deceive, and yet it does deceive; and what is more, most people don't even +seem to know that they are being misrepresented. It all seems to me to +differ as much from real life as the Morning Service read in church differs +from the thoughts of the congregation!" + +"How would you mend it?" said Barthrop. "It seems to me it must represent +_something_." + +"Something!" said Father Payne. "I don't know! I don't believe we are so +stupid and so ignoble! As to mending it, that's another question. Writing +is such a curious thing--it seems to represent anything in the world except +the current of a man's thoughts. Reverie--has anyone ever tried to +represent that? I have been out for a walk sometimes, and reflected when I +came in that if what has passed through my mind were all printed in full in +a book, it would make a large octavo volume--and precious stuff, too! Yet +the few thoughts which do stand out when it is all over, the few bright +flashes, they are things which can hardly be written down--at least they +never are written down." + +"But what would you do?" I said--"with the newspapers, I mean." + +"Well," said Father Payne, "a great deal of the news most worth telling can +be told best in pictures. I believe very much in illustrated papers. They +really do help the imagination. That's the worst of words--a dozen +scratches on a bit of paper do more to make one realise a scene than +columns of description. I would do a lot with pictures, and a bit of print +below to tell people what to notice. Then we must have a number of bare +facts and notices--weather, business, trade, law--the sort of thing that +people concerned must read. But I would make a clean sweep of fashion, and +all sensational intelligence--murders, accidents, sudden deaths. I would +have much more biography of living people as well as dead, and a few of the +big speeches. Then I would have really good articles with pictures about +foreign countries--we ought to know what the world looks like, and how the +other people live. And then I would have one or two really fine little +essays every day by the very best people I could get, amusing, serious, +beautiful articles about nature and art and books and ideas and +qualities--some real, good, plain, wise, fine, simple thinking. You want to +get people in touch with the best minds!" + +"And how many people would read such a paper?" I said. + +"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure," said Father Payne with a groan. "I would for +one! I want to have the feeling of being in touch day by day with the +clever, interesting, lively, active-minded people, as if I had been +listening to good talk. Isn't that possible? Instead of which I sit here, +day after day, overflowing with my own ridiculous thoughts--and the world +discharging all its staleness and stupidity like a sewer in these horrible +documents. Take it away from me, someone! I'm fascinated by the disgusting +smell of it!" I withdrew the paper from under his hands. "Thank you," said +Father Payne feebly. "That's the horror of it--that the world isn't a dull +place or a sensational place or a nasty place--and those papers make me +feel it is all three!" + +"I'm sorry you are so low about it," said Barthrop. + +"Yes, because journalism ought to be the finest thing in the world," said +Father Payne. "Just imagine! The power of talking, without any of the +inconveniences of personality, to half-a-million people." + +"But why doesn't it improve?" said Barthrop. "You always say that the +public finds out what it wants, and will have it." + +"In books, yes!" said Father Payne; "but in daily life we are all so +damnably afraid of the truth--that's what is the matter with us, and it is +that which journalism caters for. Suppress the truth, pepper it up, flavour +it, make it appetising--try to persuade people that the world is +romantic--that's the aim of the journalist. He flies from the truth, he +makes a foolish tale out of it, he makes people despise the real interests +of life, he makes us all want to escape from life into something that never +has been and never will be. I loathe romance with all my heart. The way of +escape is within, and not without." + +"You had better go for a walk," said Barthrop soothingly. + +"I must," said Father Payne. "I'm drunk and drugged with unreality. I will +go and have a look round the farm--no, I won't have any company, thank you. +I shall only go on fuming and stewing, if I have sympathetic listeners. You +are too amiable, you fellows. You encourage me to talk, when you ought to +stop your ears and run from me." And Father Payne swung out of the room. + + + +XIV + +OF HATE + + +It was at dinner, one frosty winter evening, and we were all in good +spirits. Two or three animated conversations were going on at the table. +Father Payne was telling one of his dreams to the three who were nearest to +him, and, funny as most of his dreams were, this was unusually so. There +was a burst of laughter and a silence--a sudden sharp silence, in which +Vincent, who was continuing a conversation, was heard to say to Barthrop, +in a tone of fierce vindictiveness, "I hate him like the devil!" Another +laugh followed, and Vincent blushed. "Perhaps I ought not to say that?" he +said in hurried tones. + +"You are quite right," said Father Payne to Vincent, encouragingly--"at +least you may be quite right. I don't know of whom you were speaking." + +"Yes, who is it, Vincent?" said someone, leaning forwards. + +"No, no," said Father Payne, "that's not fair! It was meant to be a private +confession." + +"But you don't hate people, Father?" said Lestrange, looking rather pained. + +"I, dear man?" said Father Payne. "Yes, of course I do! I loathe them! +Where are your eyes and ears? All decent people do. How would the world get +on without it?" + +Lestrange looked rather shocked. "I don't understand," he said. "I always +gathered that you thought it our business to--well, to love people." + +"Our business, yes!" said Father Payne; "but our pleasure, no! One must +begin by hating people. What is there to like about many of us?" + +"Why, Father," said Vincent, "you are the most charitable of men!" + +Father Payne gave him a little bow. "Come," he said, "I will make a +confession. I am by nature the most suspicious of mankind. I have all the +uncivilised instincts. There are people of whom I hate the sight and the +sound, and even the scent. My natural impulse is to see the worst points of +everyone. I admit that people generally improve upon acquaintance, but I +have no weak sentiment about my fellow-men--they are often ugly, stupid, +ill-mannered, ill-tempered, unpleasant, unkind, selfish. It is a positive +delight sometimes to watch a thoroughly nasty person, and to reflect how +much one detests him. It is a sign of grace to do so. How otherwise should +one learn to hate oneself? If you hate nobody, what reason is there for +trying to improve? It is impossible to realise how nasty you yourself can +be until you have seen other people being nasty. Then you say to yourself, +'Come, that is the kind of thing that I do. Can I really be like that?'" + +"But surely," said Lestrange, "if you do not try to love people, you cannot +do anything for them; you cannot wish them to be different." + +"Why not?" said Father Payne, laughing. "You may hate them so much that you +may wish them to be different. That is the sound way to begin. I say to +myself, 'Here is a truly dreadful person! I would abolish and obliterate +him if I could; but as I cannot, I must try to get him out of this mess, +that we may live more at ease,' It is simple humbug to pretend to like +everyone. You may not think it is entirely people's fault that they are so +unpleasant; but if you really love fine and beautiful things, you must hate +mean and ugly things. Don't let there be any misunderstanding," he said, +smiling round the table. "I have hated most of you at different times, some +of you very much. I don't deny there are good points about you, but that +isn't enough. Sometimes you are detestable!" + +"I see what you mean," said Barthrop; "but you don't hate people--you only +hate things in them and about them. It is just a selection." + +"Not at all," said Father Payne. "How are you going to separate people's +qualities and attributes from themselves? It is a process of addition and +subtraction, if you like. There may be a balance in your favour. But when a +bad mood is on, when a person is bilious, fractious, ugly, cross, you hate +him. It is natural to do so, and it is right to do so. I do loathe this +talk of mild, weak, universal love. The only chance of human beings getting +on at all, or improving at all, is that they should detest what is +detestable, as they abominate a bad smell. The only reason why we are clean +is because we have gradually learnt to hate bad smells. A bad smell means +something dangerous in the background--so do ugliness, ill-health, bad +temper, vanity, greediness, stupidity, meanness. They are all danger +signals. We have no business to ignore them, or to forget them, or to make +allowances for them. They are all part of the beastliness of the world." + +"But if we believe in God, and in God's goodness--if He does not hate +anything which He has made," said Lestrange rather ruefully, "ought we not +to try to do the same?" + +"My dear Lestrange," said Father Payne, "one would think you were teaching +a Sunday-school class! How do you know that God made the nasty things? One +must not think so ill of Him as that! It is better to think of God as +feeble and inefficient, than to make Him responsible for all the filth and +ugliness of the world. He hates them as much as you do, you may be sure of +that--and is as anxious as you are, and a great deal more anxious, to get +rid of them. God is infinitely more concerned about it, much more +disappointed about it, than you or me. Why, you and I are often taken in. +We don't always know when things are rotten. I have made friends before now +with people who seemed charming, and I have found out that I was wrong. But +I do not think that God is taken in. It is a very mixed affair, of course; +but one thing is clear, that something very filthy is discharging itself +into the world, like a sewer into a river, I am not going to credit God +with that; He is trying to get rid of it, you may be sure, and He cannot do +it as fast as He would like. We have got to sympathise with Him, and we +have got to help Him. Come, someone else must talk--I must get on with my +dinner," Father Payne addressed himself to his plate with obvious appetite. + +"It is all my fault," said Vincent, "but I am not going to tell you whom I +meant, and Barthrop must not. But I will tell you how it was. I was with +this man, who is an old acquaintance of mine. I used to know him when I was +living in London. I met him the other day, and he asked me to luncheon. He +was pleasant enough, but after lunch he said to me that he was going to +take the privilege of an old friend, and give me some advice. He began by +paying me compliments; he said that he had thought a year ago that I was +really going to do something in literature. 'You had made a little place +for yourself,' he said; 'you had got your foot on the ladder. You knew the +right people. You had a real chance of success. Then, in the middle of it +all, you go and bury yourself in the country with an old'--no, I can't say +it." + +"Don't mind me!" said Father Payne. + +"Very well," said Vincent, "if you _will_ hear it--'with an old +humbug, and a set of asses. You sit in each others' pockets, you praise +each others' stuff, you lead what you call the simple life. Where will you +all be five years hence?' I told him that I didn't know, and I didn't care. +Then he lost his temper, and, what was worse, he thought he was keeping it. +'Very well,' he said. 'Now I will tell you what you ought to be doing. You +ought to have buckled to your work, pushed yourself quietly in all +directions, never have written anything, or made a friend, or accepted an +invitation, without saying, "Will this add to my consequence?" We must all +nurse our reputations in this world. They don't come of themselves--they +have to be made!' Well, I thought this all very sickening, and I said I +didn't care a d--n about my reputation. I said I had a chance of living +with people whom I liked, and of working at things I cared about, and I +thought his theories simply disgusting and vulgar. He showed his teeth at +that, and said that he had spoken as a true friend, and that it had been a +painful task; and then I said I was much obliged to him, and came away. +That's the story!" + +"That's all right," said Father Payne, "and I am much obliged to you for +the sidelight on my character. But there is something in what he said, you +know. You are rather unpractical! I shall send you back for a bit to +London, I think!" + +"Why on earth do you say that?" said Vincent, looking a little crestfallen. + +"Because you mind it too much, my boy," said Father Payne. "You must not +get soft. That's the danger of this life! It's all very well for me; I'm +tough, and I'm moderately rich. But you would not have cared so much if you +had not thought there _was_ something in what he said. It was very +low, no doubt, and I give you leave to hate him; though, if you are going +to lead the detached life, you must be detached. But now I have caught you +up--and we will go back a little. The mistake you made, Vincent, if I may +say so, was to be angry. You may hate people, but you must not show that +you hate them. That is the practical side of the principle. The moment you +begin to squabble, and to say wounding things, and to try to _hurt_ +the person you hate, you are simply putting yourself on his level. And you +must not be shocked or pained either. That is worse still, because it makes +you superior, without making you engaging." + +"Then what _are_ you to do?" said Barthrop. + +"Try persuasion if you like," said Father Payne, "but you had better fall +back on attractive virtue! You must ignore the nastiness, and give the +pleasant qualities, if there are any, room to manoeuvre. But I admit it is +a difficult job, and needs some practice." + +"But I don't see any principle about it," said Vincent. + +"There isn't any," said Father Payne;--"at least there is, but you must not +dig it in. You mustn't use principles as if they were bayonets. Civility is +the best medium. If you appear to be fatuously unconscious of other +people's presence, of course they want to make themselves felt. But if you +are good-humoured and polite, they will try to make you think well of them. +That is probably why your friend calls me a humbug--he thinks I can't feel +as polite as I seem." + +"But if you are dealing with a real egotist," said Vincent, "what are you +to do then?" + +"Keep the talk firmly on himself," said Father Payne, "and, if he ever +strays from the subject, ask him a question about himself. Egotists are +generally clever people, and no clever people like being drawn out, while +no egotists like to be perceived to be egotists. You know the old saying +that a bore is a person who wants to talk about _himself_ when you +want to talk about _yourself_. It is the pull against him that makes +the bore want to hold his own. The first duty of the evangelist is to learn +to pay compliments unobtrusively." + +"That's rather a nauseous prescription!" said Lestrange, making a face. + +"Well, you can begin with that," said Father Payne, "and when I see you +perfect in it, I will tell you something else. Let's have some music, and +let me get the taste of all this high talk out of my mouth!" + + + +XV + +OF WRITING + + +There were certain days when Father Payne would hurry in to meals late and +abstracted, with, a cloudy eye, that, as he ate, was fixed on a point about +a yard in front of him, or possibly about two miles away. He gave vague or +foolish replies to questions, he hastened away again, having heard voices +but seen no one. I doubt if he could have certainly named anyone in the +room afterwards. + +I had a little question of business to ask him on one such occasion after +breakfast. I slipped out but two minutes after him, went to his study, and +knocked. An obscure sound came from within. He was seated on his chair, +bending over his writing-table. + +"May I ask you something?" I said. + +"Damnation!" said Father Payne. + +I apologised, and tried to withdraw on tiptoe, but he said, turning half +round, somewhat impatiently, "Oh, come in, come in--it's all right. What do +you want?" + +"I don't want to disturb you," I said. + +"Come in, I tell you!" he said, adding, "you may just as well, because I +have nothing to do for a quarter of an hour." He threw a pen on the table. +"It's one of my very few penances. If I swear when I am at work, I do no +work for a quarter of an hour; so you can keep me company. Sit down there!" +He indicated a chair with his large foot, and I sat down. + +My question was soon asked and sooner answered. Father Payne beamed upon me +with an indulgent air, and I said: "May I ask what you were doing?" + +"You may," he said. "I rejoice to talk about it. It's my novel." + +"Your novel!" I said. "I didn't know you wrote novels. What sort of a book +is it?" + +"It's wretched," he said, "it's horrible, it's grotesque! It's more like +all other novels than any book I know. It's written in the most abominable +style; there isn't a single good point about it. The incidents are all +hackneyed, there isn't a single lifelike character in it, or a single good +description, or a single remark worth making. I should think it's the worst +book ever written. Will you hear a bit of it? Do, now! only a short bit. I +should love to read it to you." + +"Yes, of course," I said, "there is nothing I should like better." + +He read a passage. It was very bad indeed, I couldn't have imagined that an +able man could have written such stuff. I had an awful feeling that I had +heard every word before. + +"There," he said at last, "that's rather a favourable specimen. What do you +think of it? Come, out with it." + +"I'm afraid I'm not very much of a judge," I said. + +His face fell. "That's what everyone says," he said. "I know what you mean. +But I'll publish it--I'll be d----d if I won't! Oh, dash it, that's five +minutes more. No--I wasn't working, was I? Just conversing." + +"But why do you write it, if you are so dissatisfied with it?" I said +feebly. + +"Why?" he said in a loud voice. "Why? Because I love it. I'm besotted by +it. It's like strong drink to me. I doubt if there's a man in England who +enjoys himself more than I do when I'm writing. The worst of it is, that it +won't come out--it's beautiful enough when I think of it, but I can't get +it down. It's my second novel, mind you, and I have got plans for three +more. Do you suppose I'm going to sit here, with all you fellows enjoying +yourselves, and not have my bit of fun? But it's hopeless, and I ought to +be ashamed of myself. There simply isn't anything in the world that I +should not be better employed in doing than in scribbling this stuff. I +know that; but all the authors I know say that writing a book is the part +they enjoy--they don't care about correcting proofs, or publishing, or +seeing reviews, or being paid for it. Very disinterested and noble, of +course! Now I should enjoy it all through, but I simply daren't publish my +last one--I should be hooted in the village when the reviews appeared. But +I am going to have my fun--the act of creation, you know! But it's too late +to begin, and I have had no training. The beastly thing is as sticky as +treacle. It's a sort of vomit of all the novels I have ever read, and +that's the truth!" + +"I simply don't understand," I said. "I have heard you criticise books, I +have heard you criticise some of our work--you have criticised mine. I +think you one of the best critics I ever heard. You seem to know exactly +how it ought to be done." + +"Yes," he said, frowning, "I believe I do. That's just it! I'm a critic, +pure and simple. I can't look at anything, from a pigstye to a cathedral, +or listen to anything, from a bird singing to an orchestra, or read +anything, from Bradshaw to Shakespeare, without seeing when it is out of +shape and how it ought to be done. I'm like the man in Ezekiel, whose +appearance was like the appearance of brass, with a line of flax in his +hand and a measuring reed. He goes on measuring everything for about five +chapters, and nothing comes of it, as far as I can remember! I suppose I +ought to be content with that, but I can't bear it. I hate fault-finding. I +want to make beautiful things. I spent months over my last novel, and, as +Aaron said to Moses, 'There came out this calf!' I'm a very unfortunate +man. If I had not had to work so hard for many years for a bare living, I +could have done something with writing, I think. But now I'm a sort of +plumber, mending holes in other people's work. Never mind. I _will_ +waste my time!" + +All this while he was eyeing the little clock on his table. "Now be off!" +he said suddenly, "My penance is over, and I won't be disturbed!" He caught +up his pen. "You had better tell the others not to come near me, or I'm +blessed if I won't read the whole thing aloud after dinner!" And he was +immersed in his work again. + +Two or three days later I found Father Payne strolling in the garden, on a +bright morning. It was just on the verge of spring. There were catkins in +the shrubbery. The lilacs were all knobbed with green. The aconite was in +full bloom under the trees, and the soil was all pricked with little green +blades. He was drinking it all in with delighted glances. I said something +about his book. + +"Oh, the fit's off!" said he; "I'm sober again! I finished the chapter, +and, by Jove, I think it's the worst thing I have done yet. It's simply +infamous! I read it with strong sensations of nausea! I really don't know +how I can get such deplorable rubbish down on paper. No matter, I get all +the rapture of creation, and that's the best part of it. I simply couldn't +live without it. It clears off some perilous stuff or other, and now I feel +like a convalescent. Did you ever see anything so enchanting as that +aconite? The colour of it, and the way the little round head is tucked down +on the leaves! I could improve on it a trifle, but not much. God must have +had a delicious time designing flowers--I wonder why He gave up doing it, +and left it to the market-gardeners. I can't make out why new flowers don't +keep appearing. I could offer a few suggestions. I dream of flowers +sometimes--great banks of bloom rising up out of crystal rivers, in deep +gorges, full of sunshine and scent. How nice it is to be idle! I'm sure +I've earned it, after that deplorable chapter. It really is a miracle of +flatness! You go back to your work, my boy, and thank God you can say what +you mean! And then you can bring it to me, and I'll tell you to an inch +what it is worth!" + + + +XVI + +OF MARRIAGE + + +We were all at dinner one day, and Father Payne came in, in an excited +mood, with a letter in his hand. "Here's a bit of nonsense," he said. +"Here's my old friend Davenport giving me what he calls a piece of his +mind--he can't have much left--about my 'celibate brotherhood,' as he calls +it. It's all the other way! I am rather relieved when I hear that any of +you people are happily engaged to be married. Celibacy is the danger of my +experiment, not the object of it." + +"Do you wish us to be married?" said Kaye. "That's new to me. I thought +this was a little fortress against the eternal feminine." + +"What rubbish!" said Father Payne. "The worst of using ridiculous words +like feminine is that it blinds people to the truth. Masculine and feminine +have nothing to do with sex. In the first place, intellectual people are +all rather apt to be sexless; in the next place, all sensible people, men +and women alike, are what is meant by masculine--that is to say, spirited, +generous, tolerant, good-natured, frank. Thirdly, all suspicious, scheming, +sensitive, theatrical, irritable, vain people are what is meant by +feminine. And artistic natures are all prone to those failings, because +they desire dignity and influence--they want to be felt. The real +difference between people is whether they want to live, or whether they +want to be known to exist. The worst of feminine people is that they are +probably the people who ought not to marry, unless they marry a masculine +person; and they are not, as a rule, attracted by masculinity." + +"But one can't get married in cold blood," said Vincent. "I often wish that +marriages could just be arranged, as they do it in France. I think I should +be a very good husband, but I shall never have the courage or the time to +go in search of a wife." + +"That's why I send you all out into the world," said Father Payne. "Most +people ought to be married. It's a normal thing--it isn't a transcendental +thing. In my experience most marriages are successful. It does everyone +good to be obliged to live at close quarters with other people, and to be +unable to get away from them." + +"I didn't know you were interested in such matters," said someone. + +"I have gone into it pretty considerably, sir," said Father Payne, "The one +thing that does interest me is human admixtures. It does no one any good to +get too much attached to his own point of view." + +"But surely," said Rose, "there are some marriages which are obviously bad +for all concerned--real incompatibilities? People who can't understand each +other or their children--children who can't understand their parents? It +always seems to me rather horrible that people should be shut up together +like rats in a cage." + +"I expect we shall have legislation before long," said Father Payne, "for +breaking up homes where some definite evil like drunkenness is at work--but +I don't want industrial schools for children; that is even more inhuman +than a bad home. We want more boarding out, but that's expensive. Someone +has to pay, if children are to be planted out, and to pay well. There's no +motive of duty so strong for an Englishman as good wages. People are honest +about giving fair money's worth. But it is no good talking about these +things, because they are all so far ahead of us. The question is whether +anyone can suggest any practical means of filing away any of the +roughnesses of marriage. I do not believe that the problem is very serious +among workers. It is the marriage of idle people that is apt to be +disastrous." + +"The thing that damages many marriages," said Rose, "is the fact that +people have got to see so much of each other. What people really want is a +holiday from each other." + +"Yes, but that is impossible financially," said Father Payne. "Apart from +love and children, marriage is a small joint-stock company for cheap +comfort. But it is of no use to go vapouring on about these big schemes, +because in a democracy people won't do what philosophers wish, but what +they want. Let's take a notorious case, known to everyone. Can anyone say +what practical advice he could have given to either Carlyle or to Mrs. +Carlyle, which would have improved that witches' cauldron? There were two +high-principled Puritanical people, which is the same thing as saying that +they both were disposed to consider that anyone who disagreed with them did +so for a bad motive, and exalted their own whims and prejudices into moral +principles; both of them irritable and sensitive, both able to give +instantaneous and elaborate expression to their vaguest thoughts,--Carlyle +himself with eloquence which he wielded like a bludgeon, and Mrs. Carlyle +with incisiveness which she used like a sharp knife--Carlyle with too much +to do, and Mrs. Carlyle with less than nothing to do--each passionately +attached to the other as soon as they were separated, and both capable of +saying the sweetest and most affectionate things by letter, which they +could not for the life of them utter in talk. They did, as a matter of +fact, spend an immense amount of time apart; and when they were together, +Carlyle, having been trained as a peasant and one of a large family, +roughly neglected Mrs. Carlyle, while Mrs. Carlyle, with a middle-class +training, and moreover indulged as an only daughter, was too proud to +complain, but not proud enough not to resent the neglect deeply. What could +have been done for them? Were they impossible people to live with? Was it +true, as Tennyson bluntly said, that it was as well that they married, +because two people were unhappy instead of four?" + +"They wanted a child as a go-between!" said Barthrop. + +"Of course they did!" said Father Payne. "That would have pulled the whole +ménage together. And don't tell me that it was a wise dispensation that +they were childless! Cleansing fires? The fires in which they lived, with +Carlyle raging about porridge and milk and crowing cocks, working alone, +walking alone, flying off to see Lady Ashburton, sleeping alone; and Mrs. +Carlyle, whom everyone else admired and adored, eating her heart out +because she could not get him to value her company;--there was not much +that was cleansing about all that! The cleansing came when she was dead, +and when he saw what he had done." + +"I expect they have made it up by now," said Kaye. + +"You're quite right!" said Father Payne. "It matters less with those great +vivid people. They can afford to remember. But the little people, who +simply end further back than they began, what is to be done for them?" + + + +XVII + +OF LOVING GOD + + +Father Payne suddenly said to me once in a loud voice, after a long +silence--we were walking together--"Writers, preachers, moralists, +sentimentalists, are much to blame for not explaining more what they mean +by loving God--perhaps they do not know! Love is so large a word, and +covers so great a range of feelings. What sort of love are we to give +God--the love of the lover, or the son, or the daughter, or the friend, or +the patriot, or the dog? Is it to be passion, or admiration, or reverence, +or fidelity, or pity? All of these enter into love." + +"What do you think yourself?" I said. + +"How am I to tell?" said Father Payne. "I am in many minds about it--it +cannot be passion, because, whatever one may say, something of physical +satisfaction is mingled with that. It cannot be a dumb fidelity--that is +irrational. It cannot be an equal friendship, because there is no equality +possible. It cannot be that of the child for the mother, because the mind +is hardly concerned in that. Can one indeed love the Unknown? Again, it +cannot be all receiving and no giving. We must have something to give God +which He desires to have and which we can withhold. To say that the answer +is, 'My son, give Me thy heart,' begs the question, because the one thing +certain about love is that we _cannot_ give it to whom we will--it +must be evoked; and even if it is wanted, we cannot always give it. We may +respect and reverence a person very much, but, as Charlotte Brontë said, +'our veins may run ice whenever we are near him.' + +"And then, too, can we love any one who knows us perfectly, through and +through? Is it not of the essence of love to be blind? Is it possible for +us to feel that we are worthy of the love of anyone who really knows us? + +"And then, too, if disaster and suffering and cruel usage and terror come +from God, without reference to the sensitiveness of the soul and body on +which they fall, can we possibly love the Power which behaves so? What +child could love a father who might at any time strike him? I cannot +believe that God wants an unquestioning and fatuous trust, and still less +the sort of deference we pay to one who may do us a mischief if we do not +cringe before him. All that is utterly unworthy of the mind and soul." + +"Is it not possible to believe," I said, "that all experience may be good +for us, however harsh it seems?" + +"No rational man can think that," said Father Payne. "Suffering is not good +for people if it is severe and protracted. I have seen many natures go +utterly to pieces under it." + +"What do you believe, then?" I said. + +"Of course the only obvious explanation," said Father Payne, "is that +suffering, misery, evil, disaster, disease do not come from God at all; +that He is the giver of health and joy and light and happiness; that He +gives us all He can, and spares us all He can; but that there is a great +enemy in the world, whom He cannot instantly conquer; that He is doing all +He can to shield us, and to repair the harm that befalls us--that we can +make common cause with Him, and pity Him for His thwarted plans, His +endless disappointments, His innumerable failures, His grievous sufferings. +It would be easy to love God if He were like that--yet who dares to say it +or to teach it? It is the dreadful doctrine of His Omnipotence that ruins +everything. I cannot hold any communication with Omnipotence--it is a +consuming fire; but if I could know that God was strong and patient and +diligent, but not all-powerful or all-knowing, then I could commune with +Him. If, when some evil mishap overtakes me, I could say to Him, 'Come, +help me, console me, show me how to mend this, give me all the comfort you +can,' then I could turn to Him in love and trust, so long as I could feel +that He did not wish the disaster to happen to me but could not ward it +off, and was as miserable as myself that it had happened. Not _so_ +miserable, of course, because He has waited so long, suffered so much, and +can discern so bright and distant a hope. Then, too, I might feel that +death was perhaps our escape from many kinds of evil, and that I should be +clasped to His heart for awhile, even though He sent me out again to fight +His battles. That would evoke all my love and energy and courage, because I +could feel that I could give Him my help; but if He is Almighty, and could +have avoided all the sorrow and pain, then I am simply bewildered and +frightened, because I can predicate nothing about Him." + +"Is not that the idea which Christianity aims at?" I said. + +"Yes," he said; "the suffering Saviour, who can resist evil and amend it, +but cannot instantly subdue it; but, even so, it seems to set up two Gods +for one. The mind cannot really _identify_ the Saviour with the +Almighty Designer of the Universe. But the thought of the Saviour +_does_ interpret the sense of God's failure and suffering, does bring +it all nearer to the heart. But if there is Omnipotence behind, it all +falls to the ground again--at least it does for me. I cannot pray to +Omnipotence and Omniscience, because it is useless to do so. The limited +and the unlimited cannot join hands. I must, if I am to believe in God, +believe in Him as a warrior arriving on a scene of disorder, and trying to +make all well. He must not have permitted the disorder to grow up, and then +try to subdue it. It must be there first. It is a battle obviously--but it +must be a real battle against a real foe, not a sham fight between hosts +created by God. In that case, 'to think of oneself as an instrument of +God's designs is a privilege one shares with the devil,' as someone said. I +will not believe that He is so little in earnest as that. No, He is the +great invader, who desires to turn darkness to light, rage to peace, misery +to happiness. Then, and only then, can I enlist under His banner, fight for +Him, honour Him, worship Him, compassionate Him, and even love Him; but if +He is in any way responsible for evil, by design or by neglect, then I am +lost indeed!" + + + +XVIII + +OF FRIENDSHIP + + +"He is the sort of man who is always losing his friends," said Pollard at +dinner to Father Payne, describing someone, "and I always think that's a +bad sign." + +"And I, on the contrary," said Father Payne, "think that a man who always +keeps his friends is almost always an ass!" He opened his mouth and drew in +his breath. + +"Or else it means," said Barthrop, "that he has never really made any +friends at all!" + +"Quite right," said Father Payne. "People talk about friendship as if it +was a perfectly normal thing, like eating and drinking--it's not that! It's +a difficult thing, and it is a rare thing. I do not mean mere proximities +and easy comradeships and muddled alliances; there are plenty of frank and +pleasant companionships about of a solid kind. Still less do I mean the +sort of thing which is contained in such an expression as 'Dear old boy!' +which is always a half-contemptuous phrase." + +"But isn't loyalty a fine quality?" said Lestrange. + +"Loyalty!" said Father Payne. "Of course you must play fair, and be ready +to stick by a man, and do him a kindness, and help him up if he has a fall; +but that is not friendship--at least it isn't what I mean by friendship. +Friendship is a sort of passion, without anything sexual or reproductive +about it. There is a physical basis about it, of course. I mean there are +certain quite admirable, straightforward, pleasant people, whom you may +meet and like, and yet with whom you could never be friends, though they +may be quite capable of friendship, and have friends of their own. A man's +presence and his views and emotions must be in some sort of tune with your +own. There are certain people, not in the least repellent, genial, kindly, +handsome, excellent in every way, with whom you simply are not comfortable. +On the other hand, there are people of no great obvious attractiveness with +whom you feel instantaneously at ease. There is something mysterious about +it, some currents that don't mix, and some that do. A thousand years hence +we shall probably know something about it we don't now." + +"I feel that very strongly about books," said Kaye. "There are certain +authors, who have skill, charm, fancy, invention, style--all the things you +value--who yet leave you absolutely cold. They have every qualification for +pleasing except the power to please. It is simply a case of Dr. Fell! You +can't give a single valid reason why you don't like them." + +"Yes, indeed," said Father Payne. "and then, again, there are authors whom +you like at a certain age and under certain circumstances, and who end by +boring you; and again, authors whom you don't like when you are young, and +like better when you are old. Does your idea of loyalty apply also to +books, Lestrange, or to music?" + +"No," said Lestrange, "to be frank, it does not; but I think that is +different--a lot of technical things come in, and then one's taste alters." + +"And that is just the same with people," said Father Payne. "Why, what does +loyalty mean in such a connection? You have admired a book or a piece of +music; you cease to admire it. Are you to go on saying you admire it, or to +pretend to yourself that you admire it? Of course not--that is simply +hypocrisy--there is nothing real about that." + +"But what are you to do," said Vincent, "about people? You can't treat them +like books or music. You need not go on reading a book which you have +ceased to admire. But what if you have made a friend, and then ceased to +care for him, and he goes on caring for you? Are you to throw him over?" + +"I admit that there is a difficulty," said Father Payne; "I agree that you +must not disappoint people; but it is also somehow your duty to get out of +a relation that is no longer a real one. It can't be wholesome to simulate +emotions for the sake of loyalty. It must all depend upon which you think +the finer thing--the emotion or the tie. Personally, I think the emotion is +the more sacred of the two." + +"But does it not mean that you have made a mistake somehow," said Vincent, +"if you have made a friend, and then cease to care about him?" + +"Not a bit," said Father Payne. "Why, people change very much, and some +people change faster than others. A man may be exactly what you want at a +certain time of life; he may be ahead of you in ideas, in qualities, in +emotions; and what starts a friendship is the perception of something fine +and desirable in another, which you admire and want to imitate. But then +you may outstrip your friend. Take the case of an artist. He may have an +admiration for another artist, and gain much from him; but then he may go +right ahead of him. He can't go on admiring and deferring out of mere +loyalty." + +"But must there not be in every real friendship a _purpose_ of +continuance?" said Vincent. "It surely is a very selfish sort of business, +if you say to yourself, 'I will make friends with this man because I admire +him now, but when, I have got all I can out of him, I will discard him.'" + +"Of course, you must not think in that coldblooded way," said Father Payne, +"but it can never be more than a _hope_ of continuance. You may +_hope_ to find a friendship a continuous and far-reaching thing. It +may be quite right to get to know a man, believing him to have fine +qualities; but you can't pledge yourself to admire whatever you find in +him. We have to try experiments in friendship as in everything else. It is +purely sentimental to say, 'I am going to believe in this man blindfold, +whatever I find him to be,' That's a rash vow! You must not take rash vows; +and if you do, you must be prepared to break them. Besides, you can't +depend upon your friend not altering. He may lose some of the very things +you most admire. The mistake is to believe that anything can be consistent +or permanent." + +"But if you _don't_ believe that," said Lestrange, "are you justified +in entering upon intimate relations at all?" + +"Of course you are," said Father Payne; "you can't live life on prudent +lines. You can't say, 'I won't engage in life, or take a hand in it, or +believe in it, or love it, till I know more about it.' You can't foresee +all contingencies and risks. You must take risks." + +"I expect," said Barthrop, "that we are meaning different things by +friendship. Let us define our terms. What do _you_ mean by friendship, +Father?" + +"Well," said Father Payne, "I will tell you if I can. I mean a +consciousness, which generally comes rather suddenly, of the charm of a +particular person. You have a sudden curiosity about him. You want to know +what his ideas, motives, views of life are. It is not by any means always +that you think he feels about things as you do yourself. It is often the +difference in him which attracts you. But you like his manner, his +demeanour, his handling of life. What he says, his looks, his gestures, his +personality, affect you in a curious way. And at the same time you seem to +discern a corresponding curiosity in him about yourself. It is a +pleasurable surprise both to discover that he agrees with you, and also +that he disagrees with you. There is a beauty, a mystery, about it all. +Generally you think it rather surprising that he should find you +interesting. You wish to please him and to satisfy his expectations. That +is the dangerous part of friendship, that two people in this condition make +efforts, sacrifices, suppressions in order to be liked. Even if you +disagree, you both give hints that you are prepared to be converted. There +is a sudden increase of richness in life, the sense of a moving current +whose impulse you feel. You meet, you talk, you find a freshness of +feeling, light cast upon dark things, a new range of ideas vividly +present." + +"But isn't all that rather intellectual?" said Vincent, who had been +growing restive. "The thing can surely be much simpler than that?" + +"Yes, of course it can," said Father Payne, "among simple people--but we +are all complicated people here." + +"Yes," said Vincent, "we are! But isn't it possible for an intellectual man +to feel a real friendship for a quite unintellectual man--not a desire to +discuss everything with him, but a simple admiration for fine frank +qualities?" + +"Oh yes," said Father Payne, "there can be all sorts of alliances; but I am +not speaking of them. I am speaking of a sort of mutual understanding. In +friendship, as I understand it, the two must not speak different languages. +They must be able to put their minds fairly together--there can be a kind +of man-and-dog friendship, of course, but that is more a sort of love and +trust. Now in friendship people must be mutually intelligible. It need not +be equality--it is very often far removed from that; but there must not be +any condescension. There must be a _desire_ for equality, at all +events. Each must lament anything, whether it is superiority or +inferiority, which keeps the two apart. It must be a desire for unity above +everything. There must not be the smallest shadow of contempt on either +side--it must be a frank proffer of the best you have to give, and a +knowledge that the other can give you something--sympathy, support, +help--which you cannot do without. What breaks friendship, in my +experience, is the loss of that sense of equality; and the moment that +friends become critical--in the sense, I mean, that they want to alter or +improve each other--I think a friendship is in danger. If you have a +friend, you must be indulgent to his faults--like him, not in spite of +them, but almost because of them, I think." + +"That's very difficult," said Vincent. "Mayn't you want a friend to +improve? If he has some patent and obvious fault, I mean?" + +"You mustn't want to improve him," said Father Payne, smiling; "that's not +your business--unless he _wants_ you to help him to improve; and even +then you have to be very delicate-handed. It must _hurt_ you to have +to wish him different." + +"But isn't that what you call sentimental?" said Vincent. + +"No," said Father Payne, "it is sentiment to try to pretend to yourself and +others that the fault isn't there. But I am speaking of a tie which you +can't risk breaking for anything so trivial as a fault. The moment that the +fault stands out, naked and unpleasant, then you may know that the +friendship is over. There must be a glamour even about your friend's +faults. You must love them, as you love the dints and cracks in an old +building." + +"That seems to me weak," said Vincent. + +"You will find that it is true," said Father Payne. "We can't afford to sit +in judgment on each other. We must simply try to help each other along. We +must not say, 'You ought not to be tired.'" + +"But surely we may pity people?" said Lestrange. + +"Not your friends," said Father Payne. "Pity is _fatal_ to friendship. +There is always something complacent in pity--it means conscious strength. +You can't both pity and admire. You can't separate people up into +qualities--they all come out of the depth of a man; I am quite sure of +this, that the moment you begin to differentiate a friend's qualities, that +moment what I call friendship is over. It must simply be a case of you and +me--not my weakness and your virtue, and still less your weakness and my +virtue. And you must be content to lose friends and to be discarded by +friends. What is sentimental is to believe that it can be otherwise." + + + +XIX + +OF PHYLLIS + + +It was in the course of July, the month given to hospitality. Father Payne +used to have guests of various kinds, quite unaccountable people, some of +them, with whom he seemed to be on the easiest of terms, but whom he never +mentioned at any other time. "It is a time when I have _old friends_ +to stay with me," he once said, "and I decline to define the term. There +are _reasons_--you must assume that there are _reasons_--which +may not be apparent, for the tie. They are not all selected for +intellectual or artistic brilliance--they are the symbols of undesigned +friendships, which existed before I exercised the faculty of choice. They +are there, uncriticised, unexplained, these friends of mine. The modest +man, you will remember, finds his circle ready-made. I am attached to them, +and they to me. They understand no language, some of them, as you will see, +except the language of the heart; but you will help me, I know, to make +them feel at home and happy." + +They certainly were odd people, several of them--dumb, good-natured, +elderly men with no ostensible purpose in the world; elderly ladies, who +called Father Payne "dear"; some simple and homely married couples, who +seemed to be living in another century. But Father Payne welcomed them, +chattered with them, jested with them, took them drives and walks, and +seemed well-contented with their company, though I confess that I generally +felt as though I were staying in a seaside boarding-house on such +occasions. We used to speculate as to who they were, and how Father Payne +had made their acquaintance: we gathered that they were mostly the friends +and acquaintances of his youth, or people into whose company he had drifted +when he lived in London. Sometimes, before a new arrival, he would touch +off his or her character and circumstances in a few words. On one occasion +he said after breakfast to Barthrop and me: "Arrivals to-day, Mr. and Mrs. +Wetherall--the man a retired coal-merchant, rather wealthy, interested in +foreign missions; the woman inert; daughter prevented from coming, and they +bring a niece, Phyllis by name, understood to be charming. I undertake the +sole charge of Wetherall himself, Mrs. Wetherall requires no specific +attentions--placid woman, writes innumerable letters--Miss Phyllis an +unknown quantity." + +The Wetheralls duly appeared, and proved very simple people. Father Payne, +to our surprise, seemed to be soaked in mission literature, and drew out +Mr. Wetherall with patient skill. But Miss Phyllis was a perfectly +delightful girl, very simple and straightforward, extremely pretty in a +boyish fashion, and quite used to the ways of the world. We would willingly +have entertained her, and did our best; but she made fast friends with +Father Payne, with the utmost promptitude, and the two were for ever +strolling about or sitting out together. The talk at meals was of a sedate +character, but Miss Phyllis used to intercept Father Payne's humorous +remarks with a delighted little smile, and Father Payne would shake his +head gravely at her in return. Miss Phyllis said to me one morning, as we +were sitting in the garden: "You seem to have a very good time here, all of +you--it feels like something in a book--it is too good to be true!" + +"Ah," I said, "but this is a holiday, of course! We work very hard in +term-time, and we are very serious." Miss Phyllis looked at me with her +blue eyes in silence for a moment, with an ironical little curve of her +lips, and said: "I don't believe a word of it! I believe it is just a +little Paradise, and I suspect it of being rather a selfish Paradise. Why +do you shut everyone out?" + +"Oh, it is a case of 'business first'!" I said. "Father Payne keeps us all +in very good order." "Yes," said Phyllis, "I expect he can do that. But do +any of you men realise what an absolutely enchanting person he is? I have +never seen anyone in the least like him! He understands everything, and +sees everything, and cares for everything--he is so big and kind and +clever. Why, isn't he something tremendous?" "He is," I said. "Oh yes, but +you know what I mean," said Miss Phyllis; "he's a _great_ man, and he +ought to have the reins in his hand. He ought not to potter about here!" + +"Well," I said, "I have wondered about that myself. But he knows his own +mind--he's a very happy man!" Miss Phyllis pondered silently, and said: "I +don't think you realise your blessings. Father Payne is like the boy in the +story--the man born to be king, you know. He ought not to be wasted like +this! He ought to be ruler over ten cities. Dear me, I don't often wish I +were a man, but I would give anything to be one of you. Won't you tell me +something more about him?" + +I did my best, and Phyllis listened absorbed, dangling a shapely little +foot over her knee, and playing with a flower. "Yes," she said at last, +"that is what I thought! I see you _do_ appreciate him after all. I +won't make that mistake again." And she gave me a fine smile. I liked the +company of this radiant creature, but at this moment Father Payne appeared +at the other end of the garden. "Don't think me rude," said Miss Phyllis, +"but I am going to talk to Father Payne. It's my last day, and I must get +all I can out of him." She fled, and presently they went off together for a +stroll, a charming picture. She carried him off likewise after dinner, and +they sate long in the dusk. I could hear Father Payne's emphatic tones and +Phyllis's refreshing laughter. + +The next morning the Wetheralls went off. Barthrop and I, with Father +Payne, saw them go. The Wetheralls were serenely enjoying the prospect of +returning home after a successful visit, but Miss Phyllis looked mournful, +and as if she were struggling with concealed emotions. She kissed her hand +to Father Payne as the carriage drove away. + +"Very worthy people!" said Father Payne cheerfully, as the carriage passed +out of sight. "I am very glad to have seen them, and no less thankful that +they are gone." + +"But the charming Phyllis?" said Barthrop, "Is that all you have to say +about her? I never saw a more delightful girl!" + +"She is--quite delightful," said Father Payne. "Phyllis is my only joy! The +sight of her and the sound of her make me feel as if I had been reading an +Elizabethan song-book--'Sing hey, nonny nonny!' But why didn't one of you +fellows make up to her?--that's a girl worth the winning!" + +"Why didn't we make up to her?" I said indignantly. "I wonder you have the +face to ask, Father! Why, she was simply taken up with you, and she hadn't +a word or a look for anyone else. I never saw such a case of love at first +sight!" + +"She gave me a flower this morning," said Father Payne meditatively, "and I +believe I kissed her hand. It was like a scene in one of my novels. It +wasn't my fault--the woman tempted me, of course! But I think she is a +charming creature, and as clever as she is pretty. I could have made love +to her with the best will in the world! But that wouldn't do, and I just +made friends with her. She wants an older friend, I think. She has ideas, +the pretty Phyllis, and she doesn't strike out sparks from the Wetheralls +much." + +Barthrop went off, smiling to himself, and I strolled about with Father +Payne. + +"You really could hardly do better than be Phyllis's faithful shepherd," he +said to me, smiling. "She's a fine creature, you know, full of fire and +vitality, and eager for life. She must marry a nice man and have nice +children. We want more people like Phyllis. You consider it, old man! I +would like to see you happily married." + +"Why, Father," I said boldly, "if you feel like that, why don't you put in +for her yourself? Phyllis is in love with you! You may not know it--she may +not know it--but I know it. She could talk of nothing else." + +"Get thee behind me, Satan!" said Father Payne very emphatically. Don't say +such things to me! The pretty Phyllis wants a father confessor--that's all +I can, do for her." + +"I don't think that is so, Father," I said. "She would be prepared for +something much closer than that, if you held out your hand." + +Father Payne smiled benignantly at me. "Yes, I know what you mean, old +man," he said, "and I daresay it is true! But I mustn't allow myself to +think of such things at my age. It wouldn't do. I'm old enough to be her +father--and she has just had a pretty fancy, that's all. It's rather a +romantic setting, this place, you know; and she is hungering and thirsting +for all sorts of ideas and beautiful adventures; and she finds a +good-humoured old bird like myself, who can give her something of what she +wants. She is fitful and impetuous, and she wants something strong and +fatherly to lean upon and to worship, perhaps. Bless you, I see it all +clearly enough! But put the clock on for a few years: the charming Phyllis +is made for better things than tying my muffler and walking beside my +bath-chair. No, she must have a run for her money. And what's more, I'm not +sure that I want the sole charge of that sweet nymph--she would want a lot +of response and sympathy and understanding. It's altogether too big a job +for me, and I don't feel the call. What do I want, then, with the pretty +child? Why, I like to be with her, and to see her, and to hear her talk and +laugh. I want to help her along if I can--she is a high-spirited creature, +and will take things hardly. But I cannot be romantic, and take advantage +of a romantic child. Mind you, I think that these friendships between men +and women are good for both, if they aren't complicated by love: the worst +of it is that passion is a tindery thing, and lights up suddenly when +people least expect it. But I'm too old for all that; and one of the +pleasures of growing old is that one can see a beautiful creature like +Phyllis--high-spirited, vivid, full of grace and delight--without wanting +to claim her for one's own or take her away into a corner. I'm just glad to +be with her, glad to think she is in the world, glad to think she comes +direct from the Divine hand. It moves me tremendously, that flashing and +brightening charm of hers--but I see and feel it, I think, as something +beyond and outside of her, which comes as a message to me. She's a darling! +But I am not going to interfere with her or complicate her life. She must +find a fit mate, and I am going to let her feel that she can depend on me +for any service I can do for her. I don't mind saying, old man," added +Father Payne, in a different tone, "that there isn't a touch of temptation +about it all. I yield in imagination to it quite frankly--I think how jolly +it would be to have a creature like that living in this old house, telling +me all she thought about, making a home beautiful. I could make a very fair +lover if I tried! But I have got myself well in hand, and I know better. It +isn't what she wants, and it isn't really what I want. I have got my work +cut out for me; but I'll give her all I can, and be thankful if she gives +me a bit of her heart; and I shall love to think of her going about the +world, and reminding everyone she meets of the best and purest sort of +beauty. I love Phyllis with all my old heart--is that enough for you?--and +a great deal too well to confiscate her, as I should certainly have tried +to do twenty years ago." + +Father Payne stopped, and looked at me with one of his great clear smiles. + +"Well, I must say," I began-- + +"No, you mustn't," said Father Payne. "I know all the excellent arguments +you would advance. Why shouldn't two people be happy and not look ahead, +and all that? I do look ahead, and I'm going to make her happy if I can. +Shall I use my influence in your favour, my boy? How does that strike you?" + +I laughed and reddened. Father Payne put his arm in mine, and said: "Now, I +have turned my heart out for your inspection, and you can't convert me. Let +the pretty child go her way! I only wish she was likely to get more fun out +of the Wetheralls. Such excellent people too: but a lack of +inspiration--not propelled from quite the central fount of beauty, I fancy! +But it will do Phyllis good to make the best of them, and I fancy she is +trying pretty hard. Dear me, I wish she were my niece! But I couldn't have +her here--we should all be at daggers drawn in a fortnight: that's the +puzzling thing about these beautiful people, that they light up such +conflagrations, and make such havoc of divine philosophy, old boy!" + + + +XX + +OF CERTAINTY + + +We were returning from a walk, Father Payne and I; as we passed the +churchyard, he said: "Do you remember that story of Lamennais at La +Chénaie? He was sitting behind the chapel under two Scotch firs which grew +there, with some of his young disciples. He took his stick, and marked out +a grave on the turf, and said: 'It is there I would wish to be buried, but +no tombstone! Only a simple mound of grass. Oh, how well I shall be there!' +That is what I call sentiment. If Lamennais really thought he would be +confined in spirit to such a place, he would not tolerate it--least of all +a combative fellow like Lamennais--it would be a perpetual solitary +confinement. Such a cry is merely a theatrical way of saying that he felt +tired. Yet it is such sayings which impress people, because men love +rhetoric." + +Presently he went on: "It is strange that what one fears in death is the +vagueness and the solitude of it--we are afraid of finding ourselves lost +in the night. It would be agitating, but not frightful, if we were sure of +finding company; and if we were _sure_ of meeting those whom we had +loved and lost, death would not frighten us at all. Dying is simple enough, +and indeed easy, for most of us. But I expect that something very precise +and definite happens to us, the moment we die. It is probable, I think, +that we shall set about building up a new body to inhabit at once, as a +snail builds its shell. We are very definite creatures, all of us, with +clearly apportioned tastes and energies, preferences and dislikes. The only +puzzling thing is that we do not all of us seem to have the bodies which +suit us here on earth: fiery spirits should have large phlegmatic bodies, +and they too often have weak and inadequate bodies. Beautiful spirits +cannot always make their bodies beautiful, and evil people have often very +lovely shapes and faces. I confess I find all that very mysterious; +heredity is quite beyond me. If it were merely confined to the body and +even the mind, I should not wonder at it, but it seems to affect the soul +as well. Who can feel free in will, if that is the case? And now, too, they +say with some certainty that it seems as though all their own qualities +need not be transmitted by parents but that no quality can be transmitted +which is not present in the parents--that we can lose qualities, that is, +but not gain them. If that is true, then all our qualities were present in +primitive forms of life, and we are not really developing, we are only +specialising. All this hurts one to think of, because it ties us hand and +foot." + +Presently he went on: "How ludicrous, after all, to make up our mind about +things as most of us do! I believe that the desire for certainty is one of +the worst temptations of the devil. It means closing our eyes and minds and +hearts to experience; and yet it seems the only way to accomplish anything. +I trust," he said, turning to me with a look of concern, "that you do not +feel that you are being formed or moulded here, by me or by any of the +others?" + +"No," I said, "certainly not! I feel, indeed, since I came here, that I +have got a wider horizon of ideas, and I hope I am a little more tolerant. +I have certainly learnt from you not to despise ideas or experiences at +first sight, but to look into them." + +He seemed pleased at this, and said: "Yes, to look into them--we must do +that! When we see anyone acting in a way that we admire, or even in a way +which we dislike, we must try to see why he acts so, what makes him what he +is. We must not despise any indications. On the whole, I think that people +behave well when they are happy, and ill when they are afraid. All violence +and spite come when we are afraid of being left out; and we are happy when +we are using all our powers. Don't be too prudent! Don't ever be afraid of +uprooting yourself," he added with great emphasis. "Try experiments--in +life, in work, in companionship. Have an open mind! That is why we should +be so careful what we pray for, because in my experience prayers are +generally granted, and often with a fine irony. The grand irony of God! It +is one of the things that most reassures me about Him, to find that He can +be ironical and indulgent; because our best chance of discovering the +nature of things is that we should be given what we wish, just in order to +find out that it was not what we wished at all!" + +"But," I said, "if you are for ever experimenting, always moving on, always +changing your mind, don't you run the risk of never mixing with life at +all?" + +"Oh, life will take care of that!" said Father Payne, smiling, "The time +will come when you will know where to post your battery, and what to fire +at. But don't try to make up your mind too early--don't try to fortify +yourself against doubts and anxieties. That is the danger of all sensitive +people. You can't attain to proved certainties in this life--at least, you +can't at present. I don't say that there are not certainties--indeed, I +think that it is all certainty, and that we mustn't confuse the unknown +with the unknowable. As you go on, if you are fair-minded and sympathetic, +you will get intuitions; you will discover gradually exactly what you are +worth, and what you can do, and how you can do it best. But don't expect to +know that too soon. And don't yield to the awful temptation of saying, 'So +many good, fine, reasonable people seem certain of this and that; I had +better assume it to be true.' It isn't better, it is only more comfortable. +A great many more people suffer from making up their mind too early and too +decisively than suffer from open-mindedness and the power to relate new +experience to old experience. No one can write you out a prescription for +life. You can't anticipate experience; and if you do, you will only find +that you have to begin all over again." + + + +XXI + +OF BEAUTY + + +Father Payne had been away on one of his rare journeys. He always +maintained that a journey was one of the most enlivening things in the +world, if it was not too often indulged in. "It intoxicates me," he said, +"to see new places, houses, people." + +"Why don't you travel more, then?" said someone. + +"For that very reason," said Father Payne; "because it intoxicates me--and +I am too old for that sort of self-indulgence!" + +"It's a dreadful business," he went on, "that northern industrial country. +There's a grandeur about it--the bare valleys, the steep bleak fields, the +dead or dying trees, the huge factories. Those great furnaces, with tall +iron cylinders and galleries, and spidery contrivances, and black pipes, +and engines swinging vast burdens about, and moving wheels, are fearfully +interesting and magnificent. They stand for all sorts of powers and forces; +they frighten me by their strength and fierceness and submissiveness. But +the land is awfully barren of beauty, and I doubt if that can be wholesome. +It all fascinates me, it increases my pride, but it makes me unhappy too, +because it excludes beauty so completely. Those bleak stone-walled fields +of dirty grass, the lines of grey houses, are fine in their way--but one +wants colour and clearness. I longed for a glimpse of elms and +water-meadows, and soft-wooded pastoral hills. It produces a shrewd, +strong, good-tempered race, but very little genius. There is something +harsh about Northerners--they haven't enough colour." + +"But you are always saying," said Rose, "that we must look after form, and +chance colour." + +"Yes, but that is because you are _in statu pupillari_," said Father +Payne, "If a man begins by searching for colour and ornament and richness, +he gets clotted and glutinous. Colour looks after itself--but it isn't +clearness that I am afraid of, it is shrewdness--I think that is, on the +whole, a low quality, but it is awfully strong! What I am afraid of, in +bare laborious country like that, is that people should only think of what +is comfortable and sensible. Imagination is what really matters. It is not +enough to have solid emotions; one ought not to be too reasonable about +emotions. The thing is to care in an unreasonable and rapturous way about +beautiful things, and not to know why one cares. That is the point of +things which are simply beautiful and nothing else,--that you feel it isn't +all capable of explanation." + +"But isn't that rather sentimental?" said Rose. + +"No, no, it's just the opposite," said Father Payne. "Sentiment is when one +understands and exaggerates an emotion; beauty isn't that--it is something +mysterious and inexplicable; it makes you bow the head and worship. Take +the sort of thing you may see on the coast of Italy--a blue sea, with gray +and orange cliffs falling steeply down into deep water; a gap, with a +clustering village, coming down, tier by tier, to the sea's edge; fantastic +castles on spires of rock, thickets and dingles running down among the +clefts and out on the ledges, and perhaps a glimpse of pale, fantastic +hills behind. No one could make it or design it; but every line, every +blending colour, all combine to give you the sense of something +marvellously and joyfully contrived, and made for the richness and +sweetness of it. That is the sort of moment when I feel the overwhelming +beauty and nearness of God--everything done on a vast scale, which floods +mind and heart with utter happiness and wonder. Anything so overpoweringly +joyful and delicious and useless as all that _must_ come out of a +fulness of joy. The sharp cliffs mean some old cutting and slashing, the +blistering and burning of the earth; and yet those old rents have been +clothed and mollified by some power that finds it worth while to do it--and +it isn't done for you or me, either--there must be treasures of loveliness +going on hidden for centuries in tropic forests. It's done for the sake of +doing it; and we are granted a glimpse of it, just to show us perhaps that +we are right to adore it, and to try in our clumsy way to make beautiful +things too. That is why I envy the musician, because he creates beauty more +directly then any other mind--and the best kind of poetry is of the same +order." + +"But isn't there a danger in all this?" said Lestrange. "No, I don't want +to say anything priggish," he added, seeing a contraction of Father Payne's +brows; "I only want to say what I feel. I recognise the fascination of it +as much as anyone can--but isn't it, as you said about travelling, a kind +of intoxication? I mean, may it not be right to interpose it, but yet not +right to follow it? Isn't it a selfish thing, and doesn't it do the very +thing which you often speak against--blind us to other experience, that +is?" + +"Yes, there is something in that," said Father Payne. "Of course that is +always the difficulty about the artist, that he appears to live selfishly +in joy--but it applies to most things. The best you can do for the world is +often to turn your back upon it. Philanthropy is a beautiful thing in its +way, but it must be done by people who like it--it is useless if it is done +in a grim and self-penalising way. If a man is really big enough to follow +art, he had better follow it. I do not believe very much in the doctrine +that service to be useful must be painful. No one doubts that Wordsworth +gave more joy to humanity by living his own life than if he had been a +country doctor. Of course the sad part of it is when a man follows art and +does _not_ succeed in giving pleasure. But you must risk that--and a +real devotion to a thing gives the best chance of happiness to a man, and +is perhaps, too, his best chance of giving something to others. There is no +reason to think that Shakespeare was a philanthropist." + +"But does that apply to things like horse-racing or golf?" said Rose. + +"No, you must not pursue comfort," said Father Payne; "but I don't believe +in the theory that we have all got to set out to help other people. That +implies that a man is aware of valuable things which he has to give away. +Make friends if you can, love people if you can, but don't do it with a +sense of duty. Do what is natural and beautiful and attractive to do. Make +the little circle which surrounds you happy by sympathy and interest. Don't +deal in advice. The only advice people take is that with which they agree. +And have your own work. I think we are--many of us--afraid of enjoying +work; but in any case, if we can show other people how to perceive and +enjoy beauty, we have done a very great thing. The sense of beauty is +growing in the world. Many people are desiring it, and religion doesn't +cater for it, nor does duty cater for it. But it is the only way to make +progress--and religion has got to find out how to include beauty in its +programme, or it will be left stranded. Nothing but beauty ever lifted +people higher--the unsensuous, inexplicable charm, which makes them ashamed +of dull, ugly, greedy, quarrelsome ways. It is only by virtue of beauty +that the world climbs higher--and if the world does climb higher by +something which isn't obviously beautiful, it is only that we do not +recognise it as beautiful. Sin and evil are signals from the unknown, of +course; but they are danger signals, and we follow them with terror--but +beauty is a signal too, and it is the signal made by peace and happiness +and joy." + + + +XXII + +OF WAR + + +The talk one evening turned on War; Lestrange said that he believed it was +good for a nation to have a war: "It unites them with the sense of a common +purpose, it evokes self-sacrifice, it makes them turn to God." + +"Yes, yes," said Father Payne, rather impatiently. "But you can't personify +a nation like that; that personification of societies and classes and +sections of the human race does no end of harm. It is all a matter of +statistics, not of generalisation. Take your three statements. 'It is good +for a nation to have a war.' You mean, I suppose, that, in spite of the +loss of the best stock and the disabling of strong young men, and the +disintegration of families, and the hideous waste of time and +money--subtracting all that--there is a balance of good to the survivors?" + +"Yes, I think so," said Lestrange. + +"But are you sure about this?" said Father Payne. "How do you know? Would +you feel the same if you yourself were turned out a helpless invalid for +life with your occupation gone? Are you sure that you are not only +expressing the feeling of relief in the community at having a danger over? +Is it more than the sense of gratitude of a man who has not suffered +unbearably, to the people who _have_ died and suffered? The only +evidence worth having is that of the real sufferers. Take the case of the +people who have died. You can't get evidence from them. It is an assumption +that they are content to have died. Is not the glory which surrounds +them--and how short a time that lasts!--a human attempt to make consciences +comfortable, and to relieve human doubts? The worst of that theory is that +it makes so light of the worth of life; and, after all, a soldier's +business is to kill and not to be killed; while, generally speaking, the +worst turn that a strong, healthy, and honest man can do to his country is +to die prematurely. Of course war has a great and instinctive prestige +about it; are we not misled by that into accepting it as an inevitable +business?" + +"No, I believe there is a real gain," said Lestrange, "in the national +sense of unity, in the feeling of having been equal to an emergency." + +"But are you speaking of a nation which conquers or a nation which is +defeated?" said Father Payne. + +"Both," said Lestrange; "it unites a nation in any case." + +"But if a nation is defeated," said Father Payne, "are they the better for +the common depression of _not_ having been equal to the emergency?" + +"It may make them set their teeth," said Lestrange, "and prepare themselves +better." + +"Then it does not matter," said Father Payne, "whether they are united by +the complacency of conquest or by the desire for revenge?" + +"I would not quite say that," said Lestrange. "But at all events a desire +for revenge might teach them discipline." + +"I can't believe that," said Father Payne; "it seems to me to make all the +difference what the purpose has been. I do not believe that a nation gains +by being united for a predatory and aggressive purpose. I think the victory +of the Germans in the Franco-Prussian war has been wholly bad for them. It +has made them believe in aggressiveness. A nation naturally philosophical +and moral, and also both energetic and stupid, acquires the sense of a +divine mission like that. I don't believe that a belief in your own methods +of virtue is a wholesome belief. That seems to me likely to perpetuate +war--and I suppose that we should all believe that war was an evil, if we +could produce the good results of it without war." + +We all agreed to this. + +"I will grant," said Father Payne, "that if a nation which sincerely +believes in peace and wishes to cultivate goodwill, is wantonly and +aggressively attacked, and repels that attack, it may gain much from war if +it sticks to its theory, does not attempt reprisals, and leaves the +conquered bully in a position to see its mistake and regain its +self-respect. But it is a very dangerous kind of success for all that. I do +not believe that complacency ever does anything but harm. The purpose must +be a good one in the first place, the cause must be a great one, and it +must be honestly pursued to the end, if it is to help a nation. But it lets +all sorts of old and evil passions loose, and it makes slaughter glorious. +No, I believe that at best it is a relapse into barbarism. Hardly any +nation is strong enough and great enough to profit either by conquest or by +defeat." + +"But what about the splendid self-sacrifice it all evokes?" said Lestrange. +"People give up their comfort, their careers, they go to face the last +risk--is that nothing?" + +"No," said Father Payne; "it is a very magnificent and splendid thing,--I +don't deny that. But even so, that can't be preserved artificially. I mean +that no one would think that, if there were no chance of a real war, it +would be a good thing to evoke such self-sacrifice by having manoeuvres in +which the best youth of the country were pitted against each other, to kill +each other if possible. There must be a _real_ cause behind it. No one +would say it was a noble thing for the youth of a country to fling +themselves down over a cliff or to infect themselves with leprosy to show +that they could despise suffering and death. If it were possible to settle +the differences between nations without war, war would be a wholly evil +thing. The only thing that one can say is that while there exists a strong +nation which believes enough in war to make war aggressively, other nations +are bound to resist it. But the nation which believes in war is _ipso +facto_ an uncivilised nation." + +"But does not a war," said Lestrange, "clear the air, and take people away +from petty aims and trivial squabbles into a sterner and larger +atmosphere?" + +"Yes, I think it does," said Father Payne; "but a great pestilence might do +that. We might be thankful for all the good we could get out of a +pestilence, and be grateful for it; but we should never dream of +artificially renewing it for that reason. I look upon war as a sort of +pestilence, a contagion which spreads under certain conditions. But we +disguise the evil of it from ourselves, if we allow ourselves to believe in +its being intrinsically glorious. I can't believe that highway robbery has +only to be organised on a sufficiently large scale to make it glorious. A +man who resists highway robbery, and runs the risk of death, because he +wants to put a stop to it, seems to me a noble person--quite different from +the man who sees a row going on and joins in it because he does not want to +be out of a good thing! Do you remember the story of the Irishman who saw a +fight proceeding, and rushed into the fray wielding his shillelagh, and +praying that it might fall on the right heads? We have all of us +uncivilised instincts, but it does not make them civilised to join with a +million other people in indulging them. I think that a man who refuses to +join from conviction, at the risk of being hooted as a coward, is probably +doing a braver thing still." + +"But I have often, heard you say that life must be a battle," said +Lestrange. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but I know what I want to fight. I want the +human race to join in fighting crime and disease, evil conditions of +nurture, dishonesty and sensuality. I don't want to pit the finest stock of +each country against each other. That is simple suicide, for two nations to +kill off the men who could fight evil best. I want the nations to combine +collectively for a good purpose, not to combine separately for a bad one." + +"I see that," said Lestrange; "but I regard war as an inevitable element in +society as at present constituted. I don't think the world can be persuaded +out of it. If it ever ceases, it will die a natural death because it will +suddenly be regarded as absurd. Meantime, I think it is our duty to regard +the benefits of it; and, as I said, it turns a nation to God--it takes them +out of petty squabbles, and makes them recognise a power beyond and behind +the world." + +"Yes, that is so," said Father Payne, "if you regard war as caused by God. +But I rather believe that it is one of the things that God is fighting +against! And I don't agree that it produces a noble temper all through. It +does in many of the combatants; but there is nothing so characteristic at +the outbreak of war as the amount of bullying that is done. Peaceful people +are hooted at and shouted down; thousands of general convictions are +over-ridden; the violent have it their own way; it seems to me to organise +the unruly and obstreperous, and to force all gentler and more civilised +natures into an unconvinced silence. Many of the people who do most for the +happiness of the world can't face unpopularity. They are apt to think that +there must be something wrong with themselves, something spiritless and +abnormal, if they find themselves loathing the cruelties of which others +seem to approve. I do not believe that war organises wholesome and sane +opinion; I believe that it silences it. It is a time when base, heartless, +cruel people can become heroes. It is true that it also gives serene, +courageous, and calm people a great opportunity. But on the whole it is a +bad time for sober, orderly, and peaceable people. I believe that it evokes +a good many fine qualities--simplicity, uncomplaining patience, +unselfishness, but it reveals them rather than creates them. It shows the +worth of a nation, but it should want a great deal of evidence before I +believe that it does more than prove to people that they are braver than +they know. I can't believe vaguely in death and sorrow and disablement and +waste being good things. It is merely a question of what you are paying so +ghastly a price for. In the Napoleonic wars the price was paid for the +liberties of Europe, to show a great nation that it must abandon the ideal +of domination. That is a great cause; but it is great because men are evil, +and not because they are good. War seems to me the temporary triumph of the +old bad past over the finer and more beautiful future. Do not let us be +taken in by the romance of it. That is the childish view, that loves the +sight and sound of the marching column and the stirring music. People find +it hard to believe that anything so strong and gallant and cheerful +_can_ have a sinister side. And no doubt for a young, strong, and bold +man the excitement of it is an intense pleasure. But what we have to ask is +whether we are right in taking so heavy a toll from the world for all that: +I do not think it right, though it may be inevitable. But then I belong to +the future, and I think I should be more at home in the world a thousand +years hence than I am to-day." + +"But I go back to my point," said Lestrange: "does not a great war like +that send people to their knees in faith?" + +"Depend upon it," said Father Payne, "that anything which makes people +acquiesce in preventable evil, and see the beautiful effects of death and +pain and waste, is the direct influence of the devil. It is the last and +most guileful subtlety that he practises, to make us solemnly mournful and +patient in the presence of calamities for which we have ourselves to thank. +The only prayer worth praying in the time of war is not, 'Help us to bear +this,' but 'Help us to cure this'; and to behave with meek reverence is to +behave like the old servant in _The Master of Ballantrae_, who bore +himself like an afflicted saint under an illness, the root of which was +drunkenness. The worst religion is that which keeps its sense of repentance +alive by its own misdeeds!" + +He was silent for a moment, and then he said: "No, we mustn't make terms +with war, any more than we must do with cholera. It's a great, +heartbreaking evil, and it puts everything back a stage. Of course it +brings out fine qualities--I know that--and so does a plague of cholera. +It's the evil in both that brings out the fine things to oppose it. But we +ought to have more faith, and believe that the fine qualities are +there--war doesn't create them, it only shows you that they are +present--and we believe in war because it reassures us about the presence +of the great qualities. It shows them, and then blows them out, like the +flame of a candle. But we want to keep them; we don't want just to be shown +them, with a risk of extinguishing them. Example can do something, but not +half as much as inheritance; and we sweep away the inheritance for the sake +of the romantic delight of seeing the great virtues flare up. No," he said, +"war is one of the evil things that is trying to hurt mankind, and +disguising itself in shining armour; but it means men ill; it is for ever +trying to bring their dreams to an end." + + + +XXIII + +OF CADS AND PHARISEES + + +"There are only two sorts of people with whom it is impossible to live," +said Father Payne one day, in a loud, mournful tone. + +"Elderly women and young women, I suppose he means," said Rose softly. + +"No," said Father Payne, "I protest! I adore sensible women, simple women, +clever women, all non-predatory women--it is they who will not live with +me. I forget they are not men, and they do not like that. And then they are +so much more unselfish than men, that they have generally axes to grind, +and I don't like that." + +"Whom do you mean, then?" said I. + +"Cads and Pharisees," said Father Payne, "and they are not two sorts +really, but one. They are the people without imagination. It is that which +destroys social life, the lack of imagination. The Pharisee is the cad with +a tincture of Puritanism." + +"What is the cad, then?" said I. + +"Well," said Father Payne, "he is very easy to detect, and not very easy to +define. He is the man who has got a perfectly definite idea of what he +wants, and he suffers from isolation. He can't put himself into anyone's +place, or get inside other people's minds. He is stupid, and he is +unperceptive. He does not detect the little looks, gestures, tones of +voice, which show when people are uncomfortable or disgusted. He is not +uncomfortable or easily disgusted himself, and he does not much mind other +people being so. He says what he thinks, and you have got to lump it. +Sometimes he is good-natured enough, and even brave. There is an admirable +sketch of a good-natured cad in one of Mrs. Walford's novels, who is the +acme of kind indelicacy. The cad is dreadful to live with, because he is +always making one ashamed, and ashamed of being ashamed, because many of +the things he does do not really matter very much. Then, when he is out of +sight and hearing, you cannot trust him. He makes mischief; he throws mud. +If he is vexed with you, he injures you with other people. We are all +criticised behind our backs, of course, and we have all faults which amuse +and interest our friends; and it is not caddish to criticise friends if one +is only interested in them. But the cad is not interested, except in +clearing other people out of his way. He is treacherous and spiteful. He +drops in upon you uninvited, and then he tells people he could not get +enough to eat. He repeats things you have said about your friends to the +people of whom you have spoken, leaving out all the justifications, and +says that he thinks they ought to know how you abuse them. He borrows money +of you, and if you ask him for repayment, he says he is not accustomed to +be dunned. He never can bring himself to apologise for anything, and if you +lose your temper with him, he says you are getting testy in your old age. +His one idea is to be formidable, and he says that he does not let people +take liberties with him. He takes a mean and solitary view of the world, +and other people are merely channels for his own wishes, or obstacles to +them. The only way is to keep him at arm's length, because he is not +disarmed by any generosity or trustfulness; the discovery of caddishness in +a man is the only excuse for breaking off a companionship. The worst of it +is that cads are sometimes very clever, and don't let the caddishness +appear till you are hooked. The mischief really is that the cad has no +morals, no sense of social duty." + +"What about Pharisees?" said I. + +"Well, the Pharisee has too many morals," said Father Payne. "He is the +person whose own tastes are a sort of standard. If you disagree with him, +he thinks you must be wicked. If your tastes differ from his, they are of +the nature of sin. You live under his displeasure. If he dresses for +dinner, it is sloppy and middle-class not to do so. If he doesn't dress for +dinner, the people who do are either wasting time or aping the manners of +the great. He is always very strong about wasting time. If he likes +gardening, he says it is the best sort of exercise; if he does not, he says +that it is bilious work muddling about in a corner. Everything that he does +is done on principle, but he uses his principles to bludgeon other people. +If you make him the subject of a harmless jest, he says that he cannot bear +personalities. You can please him only by deferring to him, and the only +way to manage him is by gross flattery. A Pharisee can be a gentleman, and +he isn't purely noxious like the cad; he is only unpleasant and +discouraging. He is quite impervious to argument, and only says that he +thought the principle he is contending for was generally accepted. The +Pharisee wants in a heavy way to improve the world, and thinks meanly of +it, while the cad thinks meanly of it, and wants to exploit it. The +Pharisee is a tyrant, and hates freedom; but you can often make a friend of +him by asking him a favour, if you are also prepared to be subsequently +reminded of the trouble he took to serve you. + +"I think that the Pharisee perhaps does most harm in the end, because he +hates all experiments. He does harm to the young, because he makes them +dislike virtue and mistrust beauty. The cad does not corrupt--in fact, I +think he rather improves people, because he is so ugly a case of what no +one wishes to be--and it is better to hate people than to be frightened of +them. If we got a cad and a Pharisee in here, for instance, it would be +easier to get rid of the cad than the Pharisee." + +"I begin to breathe more freely," said Vincent. "I had begun to review my +conscience." + +Father Payne laughed. "It's all blank cartridge," he said. + + + +XXIV + +OF CONTINUANCE + + +I was walking with Father Payne in the garden one day of spring. I think I +liked him better when I was alone with him than I did when we were all +together. His mind expanded more tenderly and simply--less +epigrammatically. He spoke of this once to me, saying: "I am at my best +when alone; even one companion deflects me. I find myself wishing to please +him, pinching off roughnesses, perfuming truth, diplomatising. This ought +not to be, of course; and if one was not thorny, self-assertive, stupid, it +would not be so; and every companion added makes me worse, because the +strain of accommodation grows--I become vulgar and rough and boisterous in +a large circle. I often feel: 'How these young men must be hating this +gibbering and giggling ape, which after all is not really me!'" I tried to +reassure him, but he shook his head, though with a smiling air. "Barthrop +is not like that," he said, "the wise Barthrop! He is never suspicious or +hasty--he does not think it necessary to affirm; yet you are never in any +doubt what he thinks! He moves along like water, never anxious if he is +held up or divided, creeping on as the land lies--that is the right way." + +Presently he stopped, and looked long at some daffodil blades which were +thrusting up in a sheltered place. "Look at the gray bloom on those +blades," he said; "isn't that perfect? Fancy thinking of that--each of them +so obviously the same thought taking shape, yet each of them different. Do +not you see in them something calm, continuous, active--happy, in fact--at +work; often tripped up and imprisoned, and thwarted--but moving on?" He was +silent a little, and then he said: "This force of _life_--what a +fascinating mystery it is--never dying, never ceasing, always coming back +to shape itself into matter. I wonder sometimes it is not content to exist +alone; but no, it is always back again, arranging matter, manipulating it +into beautiful shapes and creatures, never discouraged; even when the plant +falls ill and begins to pine away, the happy life is within it--languid +perhaps, but just waiting for the release, till the cage in which it has +imprisoned itself is opened, and then--so I believe--back again in an +instant somewhere else. + +"I am inclined to believe," he went on, "that that is what we are all +about; it seems to me the only explanation for the fact that we care so +much about the past and the future. If we are creatures of a day, why +should we be interested? The only reason we care about the past is because +we ourselves were there in it; and we care about the future because we +shall be there in it again." + +"You mean a sort of re-incarnation," I said. + +"That's an ugly word for a beautiful thing," he said. "But this love of +life, this impulse to live, to protect ourselves, to keep ourselves alive, +must surely mean that we have always lived and shall always live. Some +people think that dreadful. They think it is taking liberties with them. If +they are rich and comfortable and dignified, they cannot bear to think that +they may have to begin again, perhaps as a baby in a slum--or they grow +tired, and think they want rest; but we can't rest--we must live again, we +must be back at work; and of course the real hope in it all is that, when +we do anything to make the world happier, it is our own future that we are +working for. Who could care about the future of the world, if he was to be +banished from it for ever? I was reading a book the other day, in which a +wise and a good man said that he felt about the future progress of the +world as Moses did about the promised land, 'not as of something we want to +have for ourselves, but as of something which we want to exist, whether we +exist or no,' I can't take so impersonal a view! If one really believed +that one was going to be extinguished in death, one would care no more +about the world's future than one cares where the passengers in a train are +going to, when we get out at a station. Who, on arriving at home, can lose +himself in wondering where his fellow-travellers have got to? We have +better things to do than that! That is the sham altruism. It is as if a boy +at school, instead of learning his own lesson, spent his time in imploring +the other boys to learn theirs. That is what we are whipped for--for not +learning our own lesson." + +"But if all this is so," I said, "why don't we _know_ that we shall +live again? Why is the one thing which is important for us to know hidden +from us?" + +"I think we do know it," said Father Payne, "deep down in ourselves. It is +why it is worth while to go on living. If we believed our reason, which +tells us that we come to an end and sink into silence, we could not care to +live, to suffer, to form passionate ties which must all be severed, only to +sink into nothingness ourselves. If we will listen to our instincts, they +assure us that it _is_ all worth doing, because it all has a +significance for us in the life that comes next." + +"But if we are to go on living," I said, "are we to forget all the love and +interest and delight of life? There seems no continuance of identity +without memory." + +"Oh," said Father Payne, "that is another delusion of reason. Our qualities +remain--our power of being interested, of loving, of caring, of suffering. +We practise them a little in one life, we practise them again in the +next--that is why we improve. I forget who it was who said it, but it is +quite true, that there are numberless people now alive, who, because of +their orderliness, their patience, their kindness, their sweetness, would +have been adored as saints if they had lived in mediaeval times. And that +is the best reason we have for suppressing as far as we can our evil +dispositions, and for living bravely and freely in happy energy, that we +shall make a little better start next time. It is not the particular people +we love who matter--it is the power of loving other people--and if we meet +the same people as those we loved again, we shall love them again; and if +we do not, why, there will be others to love. One of the worst limitations +I feel is the fact that there are so many thousand people on earth whom I +could love, if I could but meet them--and I am not going to believe that +this wretched span of days is my only chance of meeting them. We need not +be in a hurry--and yet we have no time to waste!" + +He stopped for a moment, and then added: "When I lived in London, and was +very poor, and had either too much or not enough to do, and was altogether +very unhappy, I used to wander about the streets and wonder how I could be +so much alone when there were so many possible friends. Just above Ludgate +Railway Viaduct, as you go to St. Paul's, there is a church on your left, a +Wren church, very plain, of white and blackened stone, and an odd lead +spire at the top. It has hardly any ornament, but just over the central +doorway, under a sort of pediment, there is a little childish angel's head, +a beautiful little baby face, with such an expression of stifled +bewilderment. It seems to say, 'Why should I hang here, covered with soot, +with this mob of people jostling along below, in all this noise and dirt?' +The child looks as if it was just about to burst into tears. I used to feel +like that. I used to feel that I was meant to be happy, and even to make +people happy, and that I had been caught and pinned down in a sort of +pillory. It's a grievous mistake to feel like that. Self-pity is the worst +of all luxuries! But I think I owe all my happiness to that bad time. +Coming here was like a resurrection; and I never grudged the time when I +was face to face with a nasty, poky, useless life. And if that can happen +inside a single existence, I am not going to despair about the possibility +of its happening in many existences. I dreamed the other night that I saw a +party of little angels singing a song together, all absorbed in making +music, and I recognised the little child of Ludgate Hill in the middle of +them singing loud and clear. He gave me a little smile and something like a +wink, and I knew that he had got his promotion. We ought all of us, and +always, to be expecting that. But we have got to earn it, of course. It +does not come if we wait with folded hands." + + + +XXV + +OF PHILANTHROPY + + +Father Payne told us an odd story to-day of a big house on the outskirts of +London, with a great garden and some fields belonging to it, that was shut +up for years and seemed neglected. It was inhabited by an old retired +Colonel and his daughter: the daughter had become an invalid, and her mind +was believed to be affected. No one ever came to the house or called there. +A wall ran, round it, and the trees grew thick and tangled within; the big +gates were locked. Occasionally the Colonel came out of a side-door, a tall +handsome man, and took a brisk walk; sometimes he would be seen handing his +daughter, much wrapped up, into a carriage, and they drove together. But +the place had a sinister air, and was altogether regarded with a gloomy +curiosity. + +When the Colonel died, it was discovered that the place was beautifully +kept within, and the house delightfully furnished. It came out that, after +a period of mental depression, the daughter had recovered her spirits, +though her health was still delicate. The two were devoted to each other, +and they decided that, instead of living an ordinary sociable life, they +would just enjoy each other's society in peace. It had been the happiest +life, simple, tenderly affectionate, the two living in and for each other, +and one, moreover, of open-handed, secret benevolence. Apart from the +expenses of the household, the Colonel's wealth had been used to support +every kind of good work. Only one old friend of the Colonel's was in the +secret, and he spoke of it as one of the most beautiful homes he had ever +seen. + +Someone of us criticised the story, and asked whether it was not a case of +refined selfishness. He added rather incisively that the expenditure of +money on charitable objects seemed to him to show that the Colonel's +conscience was ill at ease. + +Father Payne was very indignant. He said the world had gone mad on +philanthropy and social service. Three-quarters of it was only fussy +ambition. He went on to say that a beautiful and simple life was probably +the thing most worth living in the world, and that two people could hardly +be better employed than in making each other happy. He said that he did not +believe in self-denial unless people liked it. Was it really a finer life +to chatter at dinner-parties and tea-parties, and occasionally to inspect +an orphanage? Perspiration was not the only evidence of godliness. Why, was +it to be supposed that one could not live worthily unless one was always +poking one's nose into one's neighbour's concerns? He said that you might +as well say that it was refined selfishness to have a rose-tree in your +garden, unless you cut off every bud the moment it appeared and sent it to +a hospital. If the critic really believed what he said, Aveley was no place +for him. Let him go to Chicago! + + + +XXVI + +OF FEAR + + +I forget what led up to the subject; perhaps I did not hear; but Father +Payne said, "It isn't for nothing that 'the fearful' head the list of all +the abominable people--murderers, sorcerers, idolaters; and liars--who are +reserved for the lake of fire and brimstone! Fear is the one thing that we +are always wrong in yielding to: I don't mean timidity and cowardice, but +the sort of heavy, mild, and rather pious sort of foreboding that wakes one +up early in the morning, and that takes all the wind out of one's sails; +fear of not being liked, of having given offence, of living uselessly, of +wasting time and opportunities. Whatever we do, we must not lead an +apologetic kind of life. If we on the whole intend to do something which we +think may be wrong, it is better to do it--it is wrong to be cautious and +prudent. I love experiments." + +"Isn't that rather immoral?" said Lestrange. + +"No, my dear boy," said Father Payne, "we must make mistakes: better make +them! I am not speaking of things obviously wrong, cruel, unkind, +ungenerous, spiteful things; but it is right to give oneself away, to yield +to impulses, not to take advice too much, and not to calculate consequences +too much. I hate the Robinson Crusoe method of balancing pros and cons. +Live your own life, do what you are inclined to do, as long as you really +do it. That is probably the best way of serving the world. Don't be argued +into things, or bullied out of them. You need not parade it--but rebel +silently. It is absolutely useless going about knocking people down. That +proves nothing except that you are stronger. Don't show up people, or fight +people; establish a stronger influence if you can, and make people see that +it is happier and pleasanter to live as you live. Make them envy you--don't +make them fear you. You must not play with fear, and you must not yield to +fear." + + + +XXVII + +OF ARISTOCRACY + + +Father Payne came into the hall one morning after breakfast when I was +opening a parcel of books which had arrived for me. It was a fine, sunny +day, and the sun lit up the portrait framed in the panelling over the +mantelpiece, an old and skilful copy (at least I suppose it was a copy) of +Reynolds' fine portrait of James, tenth Earl of Shropshire. Father Payne +regarded the picture earnestly. "Isn't he magnificent?" he said. "But he +was a very poor creature really, and came to great grief. My +great-great-grandfather! His granddaughter married my grandfather. Now look +at that--that's the best we can do in the way of breeding! There's a man +whose direct ancestors, father to son, had simply the best that money can +buy--fine houses to live in, power, the pick of the matrimonial market, the +best education, a fine tradition, every inducement to behave like a hero; +and what did he do--he gambled away his inheritance, and died of drink and +bad courses. We can't get what we want, it would seem, by breeding human +beings, though we can do it with cows and pigs. Where and how does the +thing go wrong? His father and mother were both of them admirable +people--fine in every sense of the word. + +"And then people talk, too, as if we had got rid of idolatry! We make a man +a peer, we heap wealth upon him, and then we worship him for his +magnificence, and are deeply affected if he talks civilly to us. We don't +do it quite so much now, perhaps--but in that man's day, think what an +aroma of rank and splendour is cast, even in Boswell's _Life of +Johnson_, over a dinner-party where a man like that was present! If he +paid Johnson the most trumpery of compliments, Johnson bowed low, and down +it went on Boswell's cuff! Yet we go on perpetuating it. We don't require +that such a man should be active, public-spirited, wise. If he is fond of +field-sports, fairly business-like, kindly, courteous, decently virtuous, +we think him a great man, and feel mildly elated at meeting him and being +spoken to civilly by him. I don't mean that only snobs feel that; but +respectable people, who don't pursue fashion, would be more pleased if an +Earl they knew turned up and asked for a cup of tea than if the worthiest +of their neighbours did so. I don't exaggerate the power of rank--it +doesn't make a man necessarily powerful now, but a very little ability, +backed up by rank, will go a long way. A great general or a great statesman +likes to be made an Earl; and yet a good many people would like an Earl of +long descent quite as much. There are a lot of people about who feel as +Melbourne did when he said he liked the Garter so much because there was no +d----d merit about it. I believe we admire people who inherit magnificence +better than we admire people who earn it; and while that feeling is there, +what can be done to alter it?" + +"I don't think I want to alter it," I said; "it is very picturesque!" + +"Yes, there's the mischief," said Father Payne, "it _is_ more +picturesque, hang it all! The old aristocrat who feels like a prince and +behaves like one, _is_ more picturesque than the person who has +sweated himself into it. Think of the old Duke who was told he _must_ +retrench, and that he need not have six still-room maids in his +establishment, and said, after a brief period of reflection, 'D----n it, a +man must have a biscuit!' We _like_ insolence! That is to say, we like +it in its place, because we admire power. It's ten times more impressive +than the meekness of the saint. The mischief is that we like anything from +a man of power. If he is insolent, we think it grand; if he is stupid, we +think it a sort of condescension; if he is mild and polite, we think it +marvellous; if he is boorish, we think it is simple-minded. It is power +that we admire, or rather success, and both can be inherited. If a man gets +a big position in England, he is always said to grow into it; but that is +because we care about the position more than we care about the man. + +"When I was younger," he went on, "I used to like meeting successful +people--it was only rarely that I got the chance--but I gradually +discovered that they were not, on the whole, the interesting people. +Sometimes they were, of course, when they were big animated men, full of +vitality and interest. But many men use themselves up in attaining success, +and haven't anything much to give you except their tired side. No, I soon +found out that freshness was the interesting thing, wherever it was to be +found--and, mind you, it isn't very common. Many people have to arrive at +success by resolute self-limitation; and that becomes very uninteresting. +Buoyancy, sympathy, quick interests, perceptiveness--that's the supreme +charm; and the worst of it is that it mostly belongs to the people who +haven't taken too much out of themselves. When we have got a really +well-ordered State, no one will have any reason to work too hard, and then +we shall all be the happier. These gigantic toilers, it's a sort of +morbidity, you know; the real success is to enjoy work, not to drudge +yourself dry. One must overflow--not pump!" + +"But what is an artist to do," I said, "who is simply haunted by the desire +to make something beautiful?" + +"He must hold his hand," said Father Payne; "he must learn to waste his +time, and he must love wasting it. A habit of creative work is an awful +thing." + +"Come out for a turn," he went on; "never mind these rotten books; don't +get into a habit of reading--it's like endlessly listening to good talk +without ever joining in it--it makes a corpulent mind!" + +We went and walked in the garden; he stopped before some giant hemlocks. +"Just look at those great things," he said, "built up as geometrically as a +cathedral, tier above tier, and yet not _quite_ regular. There must be +something very hard at work inside that, piling it all up, adding cell to +cell, carrying out a plan, and enjoying it all. Yet the beauty of it is +that it isn't perfectly regular. You see the underlying scheme, yet the +separate shoots are not quite mechanical--they lean away from each other, +that joint is a trifle shorter--there wasn't quite room at the start in +that stem, and the pressure goes on showing right up to the top, I suppose +our lives would look very nearly as geometrical to anyone who +_knew_--really knew; but how little geometrical we feel! I don't +suppose this hemlock is cursed by the power of thinking it might have done +otherwise, or envies the roses. We mustn't spend time in envying, or +repenting either--or still less in renouncing life." + +"But if I want to renounce it," I said, "why shouldn't I?" + +"Yes, there you have me," said Father Payne; "we know so little about +ourselves, that we don't always know whether we do better to renounce a +thing or to seize it. Make experiments, I say--don't make habits." + +"But you are always drilling me into habits," I said. + +He gave me a little shake with his hand. "Yes, the habit of being able to +do a thing," he said, "not the habit of being unable to do anything else! +Hang these metaphysics, if that is what they are! What I want you young men +to do is to get a firm hold upon life, and to feel that it is a finer thing +than any little presentment of it. I want you to feel and enjoy for +yourselves, and to live freely and generously. Bad things happen to all of +us, of course; but we mustn't mind that--not to be petty or quarrelsome, or +hidebound or prudish or over-particular, that's the point. To leave other +people alone, except on the rare occasions when they are not letting other +people alone; to be peaceable, and yet not to be afraid; not to be hurt and +vexed; to practise forgetting; not to want to pouch things! It's all very +well for me to talk," he said; "I made a sufficient hash of it, when I was +poor and miserable and overworked; and then I was transplanted out of a +slum window-box into a sunny garden, just in time; yet I'm sure that most +of my old troubles were in a way of my own making, because I hated being so +insignificant; but I fear that was a little poison lurking in me from the +Earls of Shropshire. That is the odd thing about ambitions, that they seem +so often like regaining a lost position rather than making a new one. The +truth is that we are caged; and the only thing to do is to think about the +cage as little as we can." + + + +XXVIII + +OF CRYSTALS + + +One day I was strolling down the garden among the winding paths, when I +came suddenly upon Father Payne, who was hurrying towards the house. He had +in each of his hands a large roughly spherical stone, and looked at me a +little shamefacedly. + +"You look, Father," I said, "as if you were going to stone Stephen." + +He laughed, and looked at the stones. "Yes," he said, "they are what the +Greeks called 'hand-fillers,' for use in battle--but I have no nefarious +designs." + +"What are you going to do with them?" I said + +"That's a secret!" he said, and made as if he were going in. Then he said, +"Come, you shall hear it--you shall share my secret, and be a partner in my +dreams, as the fisherman says in Theocritus." But he did not tell me what +he was going to do, and seemed half shy of doing so. + +"It's like Dr. Johnson and the orange-peel," I said. "'Nay, Sir, you shall +know their fate no further.'" + +"Well, the truth is," he said at last, "that I'm a perfect baby. I never +can resist looking into a hole in the ground, and I happened to look into +the pit where we dig gravel. I can't tell you how long I spent there." + +"What were you doing?" I said. + +"Looking for fossils," he said; "I had a great gift for finding them when I +was a child. I didn't find any fossils to-day, but I found these stones, +and I think they contain crystals. I am going to break them and see." + +I took one in my hand. "I think they are only fossil sponges," I said; +"there will only be a rusty sort of core inside." + +"You know that!" he said, brightening up; "you know about stones too? But +these are not sponges--they would rattle if they were--no, they contain +crystals--I am sure of it. Come and see!" + +We went into the stable-yard. Father Payne fetched a hammer, and then +selected a convenient place in the cobbled yard to break the stones. He put +one of them in position, and aimed a blow at it, but it glanced off, and +the stone flew off with the impact to some distance. "Lie still, can't +you?" said Father Payne, apostrophising the stone, and adding, "This is for +my pleasure, not for yours." I recovered the stone, and brought it back, +and Father Payne broke it with a well-directed blow. He gathered up the +pieces eagerly. "Yes," he said, "it's all right--they are blue crystals: +better than I had hoped." + +He handed a fragment to me to look at. The inside of the stone was hollow. +It had a coagulated appearance, and was thickly coated with minute bluish +crystals, very beautiful. + +"I don't know that I ever saw a stone I liked as well as this," said Father +Payne, musing over another piece. "Think what millions of years this has +been like that,--before Abraham was! It has never seen the light of day +before--it's a splash of some molten stone, which fell plop into a cool +sea-current, I suppose. I wish I knew all about it. The question, is, why +is it so beautiful? It couldn't help it, I suppose! But for whose delight?" +Then he said, "I suppose this was a vacuum in here till it was broken? That +is why it is so clear and fresh. Good Heavens, what would I not give to +know why this thing cooled into these lovely little shapes. It's no use +talking about the laws of matter--why are the laws of matter what they are, +and not different? And odder still, why do I like the look of it?" + +"Perhaps that is a law of matter too," I said. + +"Oh, shut up!" said Father Payne to me. "But I understand--and of course +the temptation is to believe that this was all done on your account and +mine. That is as odd a thing as the stone itself, if you come to think of +it, that we should be made so that we refer everything to ourselves, and to +believe that God prepared this pretty show for us." + +"I suppose we come in somewhere?" I said. + +"Yes, we are allowed to see it," said Father Payne. "But it wasn't arranged +for the benefit of a silly old man like me. That is the worst of our +religious theories--that we believe that God is for ever making personal +appeals to us. It is that sort of self-importance which spoils everything." + +"But I can hardly believe that we have this sense of self-importance only +to get rid of it," I said. "It all seems to me a dreadful muddle--to shut +up these lovely little things inside millions of stones, and then to give +us the wish to break a couple, only that we may reflect that they were not +meant for us to see at all." + +Father Payne gave a groan. "Yes, it is a muddle!" he said. "But one thing I +feel clear about--that a beautiful thing like this means a sense of joy +somewhere: some happiness went to the making of things which in a sense are +quite useless, but are unutterably lovely all the same. Beauty implies +consciousness--but come, we are neglecting our business. Give me the other +stone at once!" + +I gave it him, and he cracked it. "Very disappointing!" he said. "I made +sure there was a beautiful stone, but it is all solid--only a flaky sort of +jelly--it's no use at all!" + +He threw it aside, but carefully gathered up the fragments of the +crystalline stone. "Don't tell of me!" he said, looking at me whimsically. +"This is the sort of nonsense which our sensible friends won't understand. +But now that I know that you care about stones, we will have a rare hunt +together one of these days. But mind--no stuff about geology! It's beauty +that we are in search of, you and I." + + + +XXIX + +EARLY LIFE + + +One day, to my surprise and delight, Father Payne indulged in some personal +reminiscences about his early life. He did not as a rule do this. He used +to say that it was the surest sign of decadence to think much about the +past. "Sometimes when I wake early," he said, "I find myself going back to +my childhood, and living through scene after scene. It's not wholesome--I +always know I am a little out of sorts when I do that--it is only one +degree better than making plans about the future!" + +However, on this occasion he was very communicative. He had been talking +about Ruskin, and he said: "Do you remember in _Praeterita_ how +Ruskin, writing about his sheltered and complacent childhood, describes how +entirely he lived in the pleasure of _sight_? He noticed everything, +the shapes and colours of things, the almond blossom, the ants that made +nests in the garden walk, the things they saw in their travels. He was +entirely absorbed in sense-impressions. Well, that threw a light on my own +life, because it was exactly what happened to me as a child. I lived wholly +in observation. I had no mind and very little heart. I suppose that I had +so much to do looking at everything, getting the shapes and the textures +and the qualities of everything by heart, that I had no time to think about +ideas and emotions. I had a very lonely childhood, you know, brought up in +the country by my mother, who was rather an invalid, my father being dead. +I had no companions to speak of, and I didn't care about anyone or need +anyone--it was all simply a collecting of impressions. The result is that I +can visualise anything and everything--speak of a larch-bud or a fir-cone, +and there it is before me--the little rosy fragrant tuft, or the glossy +rectangular squares of the cone. Then I went to Marlborough, and I was +dreadfully unhappy, I hated everything and everybody--the ugliness and +slovenliness of it all, the noise, the fuss, the stink. I did not feel I +had anything in common with those little brutes, as I thought them. I lived +the life of a blind creature in a fright, groping aimlessly about. I joined +in nothing--but I was always strong, and so I was left alone. No one dared +to interfere with me; and I have sometimes wished I hadn't been so strong, +that I had had the experience of being weak. I dare say that nasty things +might have happened--but I should have known more what the world was like, +I should have depended more upon other people, I should have made friends. +As it was, I left school entirely innocent, very solitary, very modest, +thinking myself a complete duffer, and everyone else a beast. It got a +little better at the end of my time, and I had a companion or two--but I +never dreamed of telling anyone what I was really thinking about." + +He broke off suddenly. "This is awful twaddle!" he said. "Why should you +care to hear about all this? I was thinking aloud." + +"Do go on thinking aloud a little," I said; "it is most interesting!" + +"Ah," he said, "with the flatterers were busy mockers! You enjoy staring +and looking upon me." + +"No, no," I said, rather nettled. "Father Payne, don't you understand? I +want to hear more about you. I want to know how you came to be what you +are: it interests me more than I can say. You asked me about myself when I +came here, and I told you. Why shouldn't I ask you, for a change?" + +He smiled, obviously pleased at this. "Why, then," he said, "I'll go on. +I'm not above liking to tell my tale, like the Ancient Mariner. You can +beat your breast when you are tired of it." He was intent for a moment, and +then went on. "Well, I went up to Oxford--to Corpus. A funny little place, +I now think--rather intellectual. I could hardly believe my senses when I +found how different it was from school, and how independent. Heavens, how +happy I was! I made some friends--I found I could make friends after all--I +could say what I liked, I could argue, I could even amuse them. I really +couldn't make you realise how I adored some of those men. I used to go to +sleep after a long evening of chatter, simply hating the darkness which +separated me from life and company. There were two in particular, very +ordinary young men, I expect. But they were fond of me, and liked being +with me, and I thought them the most wonderful and enchanting persons, with +a wide knowledge of the great mysterious world. The world! It wasn't, I +saw, a nasty, jostling place, as I had thought at school, but a great +beautiful affair, full of love and delight, of interest and ideas. I read, +I talked, I flew about--it was simply a new birth! I felt like a prisoner +suddenly released. Of course, the mischief was that I neglected my work. +There wasn't time for that: and I fell in love, too, or thought I did, with +the sister of one of those friends, with whom I went to stay. I wonder if +anyone was ever in love like that! I daresay it's common enough. But I +won't go into that; these raptures are for private consumption. I was +roughly jerked up. I took a bad degree. My mother died--I had very little +in common with her: she was an invalid without any hold on life, and I took +no trouble to be kind to her--I was perfectly selfish and wilful. Then I +had to earn my living. I would have given anything to stay at Oxford: and +you know, even now, when I think of Oxford, a sort of electric shock goes +through me, I love it so much. I daren't even set foot there, I'm so afraid +of finding it altered. But when I think of those dark courts and bowery +gardens, and the men moving about, and the fronts of blistered stone, and +the little quaint streets, and the meadows and elms, and the country all +about, I have a physical yearning that is almost a pain--a sort of +home-sickness--" + +He broke off, and was silent for a moment, and I saw that his eyes were +full of tears. + +"Then it was London, that accursed place! I had a tiny income: I got a job +at a coaching establishment, I worked like the devil. That was a cruel +time. I couldn't dream of marriage--that all vanished, and she married +pretty soon, I couldn't get a holiday--I was too poor. I tried writing, but +I made a hash of that. I simply went down into hell. One of my great +friends died, and the other--well, it was awkward to meet, when I had had +to break it off with his sister. I simply can't describe to you how utterly +horrible it all was. I used to teach all the terms, and in the vacations I +simply mooned about. I hadn't a club, and I used to read at the +Museum--read just to keep my senses. Then, I suppose I got used to it. Of +course, if I had had any adventurousness in me, I should have gone off and +become a day-labourer or anything--but I am not that sort of person. + +"That went on till I was about thirty-three--and then quite suddenly, and +without any warning, I had my experience. I suppose that something was +going on inside me all the time, something being burnt out of me in those +fires. It was a mixture of selfishness and stupidity and perverseness that +was the matter with me. I didn't see that I could do anything. I was simply +furious with the world for being such a hole, and with God for sticking me +in the middle of it. The occasion of the change was simply too ridiculous. +It was nothing else but coming back to my rooms and finding a big bowl of +daffodils there. They had been left, my landlady told me, by a young +gentleman. It sounds foolish enough--but it suddenly occurred to me to +think that someone was interested in me, pitied me, cared for me. A sort of +mist cleared away from my eyes, and I saw in a flash, what was the +mischief--that I had walled myself in by my misery and bad temper, and by +my expectation that something must be done for me. The next day I had to +take a lot of pupils, one after another, for composition. One of them had a +daffodil in his hand, which he put down carelessly on the table. I stared +at it and at him, and he blushed. He wasn't an interesting young man to +look at or to talk to--but it was just a bit of simple humanity. It all +came out. I had been good to him--I looked as if I were having a bad time. +It was just a little human, signal, and a beautiful one. It was there, +then, all the time, I saw--human affection--if I cared to put out my hand +for it. I can't describe to you how it all developed, but my heart had +melted somehow--thawed like a lump of ice. I saw that there was no specific +ill-will to me in the world. I saw that everything was there, if I only +chose to take it. That was my second awakening--a glimmer of light through +a chink--and suddenly, it was day! I had been growling over bones and straw +in a filthy kennel, and I was not really tied up at all. Life was running +past me, a crystal river. I was dying of thirst: and all because it was not +given me in a clean glass on a silver tray, I would not drink it--and God +smiling at me all the time." + +Father Payne walked on in silence. + +"The truth is, my boy," he said a minute later, "that I'm a converted man, +and it isn't everyone who can say that--nor do I wish everyone to be +converted, because it's a ghastly business preparing for the operation. It +isn't everyone who needs it--only those self-willed, devilish, stand-off, +proud people, who have to be braised in a mortar and pulverised to atoms. +Then, when you are all to bits, you can be built up. Do you remember that +stone we broke the other day? Well, I was a melted blob of stone, and then +I was crystallised--now I'm full of eyes within! And the best of it is that +they are little living eyes, and not sparkling flints--they see, they don't +reflect! At least I think so; and I don't think trouble is brewing for me +again--though that is always the danger!" + +I was very deeply moved by this, and said something about being grateful. + +"Oh, not that," said Father Payne; "you don't know what fun it has been to +me to tell you. That's the sort of thing that I want to get into one of my +novels, but I can't manage it. But the moral is, if I may say so: Be afraid +of self-pity and dignity and self-respect--don't be afraid of happiness and +simplicity and kindness. Give yourself away with both hands. It's easy for +me to talk, because I have been loaded with presents ever since: the clouds +drop fatness--a rich but expressive image that!" + + + +XXX + +OF BLOODSUCKERS + + +"I'm feeling low to-night," said Father Payne in answer to a question about +his prolonged silence. "I'm not myself: virtue has gone out of me--I'm in +the clutches of a bloodsucker." + +"Old debts with compound interest?" said Rose cheerfully. + +"Yes," said Father Payne with a frown; "old emotional I.O.U.'s. I didn't +know what I was putting my name to." + +"A man or a woman?" said Rose. + +"Thank God, it's a man!" said Father Payne. "Female bloodsuckers are worse +still. A man, at all events, only wants the blood; a woman wants the +pleasure of seeing you wince as well!" + +"It sounds very tragic," said Kaye. + +"No, it's not tragic," said Father Payne; "there would be something +dignified about that! It's only unutterably low and degrading. Come, I'll +tell you about it. It will do me good to get it off my chest. + +"It is one of my old pupils," Father Payne went on. "He once got into +trouble about money, and I paid his debts--he can't forgive me that!" + +"Does he want you to pay some more?" said Rose. + +"Yes, he does," said Father Payne, "but he wants to be high-minded too. He +wants me to press him to take the money, to prevail upon him to accept it +as a favour. He implies that if I hadn't begun by paying his debts +originally, he would not have ever acquired what he calls 'the unhappy +habit of dependence.' Of course he doesn't think that really: he wants the +money, but he also wants to feel dignified. 'If I thought it would make you +happier if I accepted it,' he says, 'of course I should view the matter +differently. It would give me a reason for accepting what I must confess +would be a humiliation,' Isn't that infernal? Then he says that I may +perhaps think that his troubles have coarsened him, but that he unhappily +retains all his old sensitiveness. Then he goes on to say that it was I who +encouraged him to preserve a high standard of delicacy in these matters." + +"He must be a precious rascal," said Vincent. + +"No, he isn't," said Father Payne, "that's the worst of it--but he is a +frantic poseur. He has got so used to talking and thinking about his +feelings, that he doesn't know what he really does feel. That's the part of +it which bothers me: because if he was a mere hypocrite, I would say so +plainly. One must not be taken in by apparent hypocrisy. It often +represents what a man did once really think, but which has become a mere +memory. One must not be hard on people's reminiscences. Don't you know how +the mildest people are often disposed to make out that they were reckless +and daring scapegraces at school? That isn't a lie; it is imagination +working on very slender materials." + +We laughed at this, and then Barthrop said, "Let me write to him, Father. I +won't be offensive." + +"I know you wouldn't," said Father Payne; "but no one can help me. It's not +my fault, but my misfortune. It all comes of acting for the best. I ought +to have paid his debts, and made myself thoroughly unpleasant about it. +What I did was to be indulgent and sympathetic. It's all that accursed +sentimentality that does it. I have been trying to write a letter to him +all the morning, showing him up to himself without being brutal. But he +will only write back and say that I have made him miserable, and that I +have wholly misunderstood him: and then I shall explain and apologise; and +then he will take the money to show that he forgives me. I see a horrible +vista of correspondence ahead. After four or five letters, I shall not have +the remotest idea what it is all about, and he will be full of reproaches. +He will say that it isn't the first time that he has found how the increase +of wealth makes people ungenerous. Oh, don't I know every step of the way! +He is going to have the money, and he is going to put me in the wrong: that +is his plan, and it is going to come off. I shall be in the wrong: I feel +in the wrong already!" + +"Then in that case there is certainly no necessity for losing the money +too!" said Rose. + +"It's all very well for you to talk in that impersonal way, Rose," said +Father Payne. "Of course I know very well that you would handle the +situation kindly and decisively; but you don't know what it is to suffer +from politeness like a disease. I have done nothing wrong except that I +have been polite when I might have been dry. I see right through the man, +but he is absolutely impervious; and it is my accursed politeness that +makes it impossible for me to say bluntly what I know he will dislike and +what he genuinely will not understand. I know what you are thinking, every +one of you--that I say lots of things that you dislike--but then you +_do_ understand! I could no more tell this wretch the truth than I +could trample on a blind old man." + +"What will you really do?" said Barthrop. + +"I shall send him the money," said Father Payne firmly, "and I shall +compliment him on his delicacy; and then, thank God, I shall forget, until +it all begins again. I am a wretched old opportunist, of course; a sort of +Ally Sloper--not fit company for strong and concise young men!" + + + +XXXI + +OF INSTINCTS + + +I do not remember what led to this remark of Father Payne's:--"It's a +painful fact, from the ethical point of view, that qualities are more +admired, and more beautiful indeed, the more instinctive they are. We don't +admire the faculty of taking pains very much. The industrious boy at school +is rather disliked than otherwise, while the brilliant boy who can construe +his lesson without learning it is envied. Take a virtue like courage: the +love of danger, the contempt of fear, the power of dashing headlong into a +thing without calculating the consequences is the kind of courage we +admire. The person who is timid and anxious, and yet just manages +desperately to screw himself up to the sticking-point, does not get nearly +as much credit as the bold devil-may-care person. It is so with most +performances; we admire ease and rapidity much more than perseverance and +tenacity, what obviously costs little effort rather than what costs a great +deal. + +"We all rather tend to be bored by a display of regularity and discipline. +Do you remember that letter of Keats, where he confesses his intense +irritation at the way in which his walking companion, Brown, I think, +always in the evening got out his writing-materials in the same +order--first the paper, then the ink, then the pen. 'I say to him,' says +Keats, 'why not the pen sometimes first?' We don't like precision; look at +the word 'Methodist,' which originally was a nick-name for people of +strictly disciplined life. We like something a little more gay and +inconsequent. + +"Yet the power of forcing oneself by an act of will to do something +unpleasant is one of the finest qualities in the world. There is a story of +a man who became a Bishop. He was a delicate and sensitive fellow, much +affected by a crowd, and particularly by the sight of people passing in +front of him. He began his work by holding an enormous confirmation, and +five times in the course of it he actually had to retire to the vestry, +where he was physically sick. That's a heroic performance; but we admire +still more a bland and cheerful Bishop who is not sick, but enjoys a +ceremony." + +"Surely that is all right, Father Payne?" said Barthrop. "When we see a +performance, we are concerned with appreciating the merit of it. A man with +a bad headache, however gallant, is not likely to talk as well as a man in +perfect health and high spirits; but if we are not considering the +performance, but the virtues of the performer, we might admire the man who +pumped up talk when he was feeling wretched more than the man from whom it +flowed." + +"The judicious Barthrop!" said Father Payne. "Yes, you are right--but for +all that we do not instinctively admire effort as much as we admire easy +brilliance. We are much more inclined to imitate the brilliant man than we +are to imitate the man who has painfully developed an accomplishment. The +truth is, we are all of us afraid of effort; and instinct is generally so +much more in the right than reason, that I end by believing that it is +better to live freely in our good qualities, than painfully to conquer our +bad qualities; not to take up work that we can't do from a sense of duty, +but to take up work that we can do from a sense of pleasure. I believe in +finding our real life more than in sticking to one that is not real for the +sake of virtue. Trained inclination is the secret. That is why I should +never make a soldier. I love being in a rage--no one more--it has all the +advantages and none of the disadvantages of getting drunk. But I can't do +it on the word of command." + +"Isn't that what is called hedonism?" said Lestrange. + +"You must not get in the way of calling names!" said Father Payne; +"hedonism is a word invented by Puritans to discourage the children of +light. It is not a question of doing what you like, but of liking what you +do. Of course everyone has got to choose--you can't gratify all your +impulses, because they thwart each other; but if you freely gratify your +finer impulses, you will have much less temptation to indulge your baser +inclinations. It is more important to have the steam up and to use the +brake occasionally, than never to have the steam up at all." + + + +XXXII + +OF HUMILITY + + +We had been listening to a paper by Kaye--a beautiful and fanciful piece of +work; when he finished, Father Payne said: "That's a charming thing, +Kaye--a little sticky in places, but still beautiful." + +"It's not so good as I had hoped," said Kaye mildly. + +"Oh, don't be humble," said Father Payne; "that's the basest of the +virtues, because it vanishes the moment you realise it! Make your bow like +a man. It may not be as good as you hoped--nothing ever is--but surely it +is better than you expected?" + +Kaye blushed, and said, "Well, yes, it is." + +"Now let me say generally," said Father Payne, "that in art you ought never +to undervalue your own work. You ought all to be able to recognise how far +you have done what you intended. The big men, like Tennyson and Morris, +were always quite prepared to praise their own work. They did it quite +modestly, more as if some piece of good fortune had befallen them than as +if they deserved credit. There's no such thing as taking credit to oneself +in art. What you try to do is always bound to be miles ahead of what you +can do--that is where the humility comes in. But a man who can't admire his +own work on occasions, can't admire anyone's work. If you do a really good +thing, you ought to feel as if you had been digging for diamonds and had +found a big one. Hang it, you _intend_ to make a fine thing! You are +not likely to be conceited about it, because you can't make a beautiful +thing every day; and the humiliation comes in when, after turning out a +good thing, you find yourself turning out a row of bad ones. The only +artists who are conceited are those who can't distinguish between what is +good and what is inferior in their own work. You must not expect much +praise, and least of all from other artists, because no artist is ever very +deeply interested in another artist's work, except in the work of the two +or three who can do easily what he is trying to do. But it is a deep +pleasure, which may be frankly enjoyed, to turn out a fine bit of work; +though you must not waste much time over enjoying it, because you have got +to go on to the next." + +"I always think it must be very awful," said Vincent, "when it dawns upon a +man that his mind is getting stiff and his faculty uncertain, and that he +is not doing good work any more. What ought people to do about stopping?" + +"It's very hard to say," said Father Payne. "The happiest thing of all is, +I expect, to die before that comes; and the next best thing is to know when +to stop and to want to stop. But many people get a habit of work, and fall +into dreariness without it." + +"Isn't it better to go on with the delusion that you are just as good as +ever--like Wordsworth and Browning?" said Rose. + +"No, I don't think that is better," said Father Payne, "because it means a +sort of blindness. It is very curious in the case of Browning, because he +learned exactly how to do things. He had his method, he fixed upon an +abnormal personality or a curious incident, and he turned it inside out +with perfect fidelity. But after a certain time in his life, the thing +became suddenly heavy and uninteresting. Something evaporated--I do not +know what! The trick is done just as deftly, but one is bored; one simply +doesn't care to see the inside of a new person, however well dissected. +There's no life, no beauty about the later things. Wordsworth is somehow +different--he is always rather noble and prophetic. The later poems are not +beautiful, but they issue from a beautiful idea--a passion of some kind. +But the later Browning poems are not passionate--they remind one of a +surgeon tucking up his sleeves for a set of operations. I expect that +Browning was too humble; he loved a gentlemanly convention, and Wordsworth +certainly did not do that. If you want to know how a poet should +_live_, read Dorothy Wordsworth's journals at Grasmere; if you want to +know how he should _feel_, read the letters of Keats." + + + +XXXIII + +OF MEEKNESS + + +I had been having some work looked over by Father Payne, who had been +somewhat trenchant. "You have been beating a broken drum, you know," he had +said, with a smile. + +"Yes," I said. "It's poor stuff, I see. But I didn't know it was so bad +when I wrote it; I thought I was making the best of a poor subject rather +ingeniously. I am afraid I am rather stupid." + +"If I thought you really felt like that," said Father Payne, "I should be +sorry for you. But I expect it is only your idea of modesty?" + +"No," I said, "it isn't modesty--it's humility, I think." + +"No one has any business to think himself humble," said Father Payne. "The +moment you do that, you are conceited. It's not a virtue to grovel. A man +ought to know exactly what he is worth. You needn't be always saying what +you are, worth, of course. It's modest to hold your tongue. But humility +is, or ought to be, extinct as a virtue. It belongs to the time when people +felt bound to deplore the corruption of their heart, and to speak of +themselves as worms, and to compare themselves despondently with God. That +in itself is a piece of insolence; and it isn't a wholesome frame of mind +to dwell on one's worthlessness, and to speak of one's righteousness as +filthy rags. It removes every stimulus to effort. If you really feel like +that, you had better take to your bed permanently--you will do less harm +there than pretending to do work in the value of which you don't believe." + +"But what is the word for the feeling which one has when one reads a really +splendid book, let us say, or hears a perfect piece of music?" I said. + +"Well, it ought to be gratitude and admiration," said Father Payne. "Why +mix yourself up with it at all?" + +"Because I can't help it," I said; "I think of the way in which I muddle on +with my writing, and I feel how hopeless I am." + +"That's all wrong, my boy," said Father Payne; "you ought to say to +yourself--'So that is _his_ way of putting things and, by Jove, it's +superb. Now I've got to find my way of putting things!' You had better go +and work in the fields like an honest man, if you don't feel you have got +anything to say worth saying. You have your own point of view, you know: +try and get it down on paper. It isn't exactly the same as, let us say, +Shakespeare's point of view: but if you feel that he has seen everything +worth seeing, and said everything worth saying, then, of course, it is no +good going on. But that is pure grovelling; no lively person ever does feel +that--he says, 'Hang it, he has left _some_ things out!' After all, +everyone has a right to his point of view, and if it can be expressed, why, +it is worth expressing. We want all the sidelights we can get." + +"That's one comfort!" I said. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but you know perfectly well that you knew it +before I told you. Why be so undignified? You need not want to astonish or +amuse the whole civilised world. You probably won't do that; but you can +fit a bit of the mosaic in, if you have it in you. Now look you here! I +know exactly what I am worth. I can't write--though I think I can when I'm +at it--but I can perceive, and see when a thing is amiss, and lay my finger +on a fault; I can be of some use to a fellow like yourself--and I can +manage an estate in my own way, and I can keep my tenants' spirits up. I +have got a perfectly definite use in the world, and I'm going to play my +part for all that I'm worth. I'm not going to pretend that I am a worm or +an outcast--I don't feel one; and I am as sure as I can be of anything, +that God does not wish me to feel one. He needs me; He can't get on without +me just here; and when He can, He will say the word. I don't think I am of +any far-reaching significance: but neither am I going to say that I am +nothing but vile earth and a miserable sinner. I'm lazy, I'm cross, I'm +unkind, I'm greedy: but I know when I am wasting time and temper, and I +don't do it all the time. It's no use being abject. The mistake is to go +about comparing yourself with other people and weighing yourself against +them. The right thing to do is to be able to recognise generously and +desirously when you see anyone doing something finely which you do badly, +and to say, 'Come, that's the right way! I must do better.' But to be +humble is to be grubby, because it makes one proud, in a nasty sort of way, +of doing things badly. 'What a poor creature I am,' says the humble man, +'and how nice to know that I am so poor a creature; how noble and unworldly +I am.' The mistake is to want to do a thing better than Smith or Jones: the +right way is to want to do it better than yourself." + +"Yes," I said, "that's perfectly true, Father: and I won't be such a fool +again." + +"You haven't been a fool, so far as I am aware," said Father Payne. "It is +only that you are just a thought too polite. You mustn't be polite in mind, +you know--only in manners. Politeness only consists in not saying all you +think unless you are asked. But humility consists in trying to believe that +you think less than you think. It's like holding your nose, and saying that +the bad smell has gone--it is playing tricks with your mind: and if you get +into the way of doing that, you will find that your mind has a nasty way of +playing tricks upon you. Here! hold on! I am rapidly becoming like +Chadband! Send me Vincent, will you--there's a good man? He comes next." + + + +XXXIV + +OF CRITICISM + + +Father Payne had told me that my writing was becoming too juicy and too +highly-scented. "You mustn't hide the underlying form," he said; "have +plenty of plain spaces. This sort of writing is only for readers who want +to be vaguely soothed and made to feel comfortable by a book--it's a +stimulant, it's not a food!" + +"Yes," I said with a sigh, "I suppose you are right." + +"Up to a certain point, I am right," he replied, "because you are in +training at present--and people in training have to do abnormal things: you +can't _live_ as if you were in training, of course; but when you begin +to work on your own account, you must find your own pace and your own +manner: and even now you needn't agree with me unless you like." + +I determined, however, that I would give him something very different next +time. He suggested that I should write an essay on a certain writer of +fiction. I read the novels with great care, and I then produced the driest +and most technical criticism I could. I read it aloud to Father Payne a +month later. He heard it in silence, stroking his beard with his left hand, +as his manner was. When I had finished, he said: "Well, you have taken my +advice with a vengeance; and as an exercise--indeed, as a +_tour-de-force_--it is good. I didn't think you had it in you to +produce such a bit of anatomy. I think it's simply the most uninteresting +essay I ever heard in my life--chip, chip, chip, the whole time. It won't +do you any harm to have written it, but, of course, it's a mere caricature. +No conceivable reason could be assigned for your writing it. It's like the +burial of the dead--ashes to ashes, dust to dust!" + +"I admit," I said, "that I did it on purpose, to show you how judicious I +could be." + +"Oh yes," he said, "I quite realise that--and that's why I admire it. If +you had produced it as a real thing, and not by way of reprisal, I should +think very ill of your prospects. It's like the work of an analytical +chemist--I tell you what it's like, it's like the diagnosis of the symptoms +of some sick person of rank in a doctor's case-book! But, of course, you +know you mustn't write like that, as well as I do. There must be some +motive for writing, some touch of admiration and sympathy, something you +can show to other people which might escape them, and which is worth while +for them to see. In writing--at present, at all events--one can't be so +desperately scientific and technical as all that. I suppose that some day, +when we treat human thought and psychology scientifically, we shall have to +dissect like that; but even so, it will be in the interests of science, not +in the interests of literature. One must not confuse the two, and no doubt, +when we begin to analyse the development of human thought, its heredity, +its genesis and growth, we shall have a Shelley-culture in a test-tube, and +we shall be able to isolate a Browning-germ: but we haven't got there yet." + +"In that case," I said, "I don't really see what was so wrong with my last +essay." + +"Why, it was a mere extemporisation," said Father Payne; "a phrase +suggested a phrase, a word evoked a lot of other words--there was no real +connection of thought. It was pretty enough, but you were not even roving +from one place to another, you were just drifting with the stream. Now this +last essay is purely business-like. You have analysed the points--but +there's no beauty or pleasure in it. It is simply what an engineer might +say to an engineer about the building of a bridge. Mind, I am not finding +fault with your essay. You did what you set out to do, and you have done it +well. I only say there is not any conceivable reason why it should have +been written, and there is every conceivable reason why it should not be +read." + +"It was just an attempt," I said, "to see the points and to disentangle +them." + +"Yes, yes," said Father Payne; "I see that, and I give you full credit for +it. But, after all, you must look on writing as a species of human +communication. The one reason for writing is that the writer sees something +which other people overlook, perceives the beauty and interest of it, gets +behind it, sees the quality of it, and how it differs from other similar +things. If the writer is worth anything, his subject must be so interesting +or curious or beautiful to himself that he can't help setting it down. The +motive of it all must be the fact that he is interested--not the hope of +interesting other people. You must risk that, though the more you are +interested, the better is your chance of interesting others. Then the next +point is that things mustn't be presented in a cold and abstract light--you +have done that here--it must be done as you see it, not as a photographic +plate records it: and that is where the personality of the artist comes in, +and where writers are handicapped, according as they have or have not a +personal charm. That is the unsolved mystery of writing--the personal +charm: apart from that there is little in it. A man may see a thing with +hideous distinctness, but he may not be able to invest it with charm: and +the danger of charm is that some people can invest very shallow, muddled, +and shabby thinking with a sort of charm. It is like a cloak, if I may say +so. If I wear an old cloak, it looks shabby and disgraceful, as it is. But +if I lend it to a shapely and well-made friend, it gets a beauty from the +wearer. There are men I know who can tell me a story as old as the hills, +and yet make it fresh and attractive. Look at that delicious farrago of +nonsense and absurdity, Ruskin's _Fors Clavigera_. He crammed in +anything that came into his head--his reminiscences, scraps out of old +dreary books he had read, paragraphs snipped out of the papers. There's no +order, no sequence about it, and yet it is irresistible. But then Ruskin +had the charm, and managed to pour it into all that he wrote. He is always +_there_, that whimsical, generous, perverse, affectionate, afflicted, +pathetic creature, even in the smallest scrap of a letter or the dreariest +old tag of quotation. But you and I can't play tricks like that. You are +sometimes there, I confess, in what you write, while I am never there in +anything that I write. What I want to teach you to do is to be really +yourself in all that you write." + +"But isn't it apt to be very tiresome," said I, "if the writer is always +obtruding himself?" + +"Yes, if he obtrudes himself, of course he is tiresome," said Father Payne. +"But look at Ruskin again. I imagine, from all that I read about him, that +if he was present at a gathering, he was the one person whom everyone +wanted to hear. If he was sulky or silent, it was everyone's concern to +smoothe him down--if _only_ he would talk. What you must learn to do +is to give exactly as much of yourself as people want. But it must be a +transfusion of yourself, not a presentment, I don't imagine that Ruskin +always talked about himself--he talked about what interested him, and +because he saw five times as much as anyone else saw in a picture, and +about three times as much as was ever there, it was fascinating: but the +primary charm was in Ruskin himself. Don't you know the curious delight of +seeing a house once inhabited by anyone whom one has much admired and +loved? However dull and commonplace it is, you keep on saying to yourself, +'That was what his eyes rested on, those were the books he handled; how +could he bear to have such curtains, how could he endure that wallpaper?' +The most hideous things become interesting, because he tolerated them. In +writing, all depends upon how much of what is interesting, original, +emphatic, charming in yourself you can communicate to what you are writing. +It has got to _live_; that is the secret of the commonplace and even +absurd books which reviewers treat with contempt, and readers buy in +thousands. They have _life!_" + +"But that is very far from being art, isn't it?" I said. + +"Of course!" said Father Payne, "but the use of art, as I understand it, is +just that--that all you present shall have life, and that you should learn +not to present what has not got life. Why I objected to your last essay was +because you were not alive in it: you were just echoing and repeating +things: you seemed to me to be talking in your sleep. Why I object to this +essay is that you are too wide awake--you are just talking shop." + +"I confess I rather despair," I said. + +"What rubbish!" said Father Payne; "all I want you to do is to _live_ +in your ideas--make them your own, don't just slop them down without having +understood or felt them. I'll tell you what you shall do next. You shall +just put aside all this dreary collection of formulae and scalpel-work, and +you shall write me an essay on the whole subject, saying the best that you +feel about it all, not the worst that a stiff intelligence can extract from +it. Don't be pettish about it! I assure you I respect your talent very +much. I didn't think it was in you to produce anything so loathsomely +judicious." + + + +XXXV + +OF THE SENSE OF BEAUTY + + +There had been some vague ethical discussion during dinner in which Father +Payne had not intervened; but he suddenly joined in briskly, though I don't +remember who or what struck the spark out. "You are running logic too +hard," he said; "the difficulty with all morality is not to know where it +is to begin, but where it is to stop." + +"I didn't know it had to stop," said Vincent; "I thought it had to go on." + +"Yes, but not as morality," said Father Payne; "as instinct and +feeling--only very elementary people indeed obey rules, _because_ they +are rules. The righteous man obeys them because on the whole he agrees with +them." + +"But in one sense it isn't possible to be too good?" said Vincent. + +"No," said Father Payne, "not if you are sure what good is--but it is quite +easy to be too righteous, to have too many rules and scruples--not to live +your own life at all, but an anxious, timid, broken-winged sort of life, +like some of the fearful saints in the _Pilgrim's Progress_, who got +no fun out of the business at all. Don't you remember what Mr. Feeblemind +says? I can't quote--it's a glorious passage." + +Barthrop slipped out and fetched a _Pilgrim's Progress_, which he put +over Father Payne's shoulder. "Thank you, old man," said Father Payne, +"that's very kind of you--that is morality translated into feeling!" + +He turned over the pages, and read the bit in his resonant voice: + +"'I am, as I said, a man of a weak and feeble mind, and shall be offended +and made weak at that which others can bear. I shall like no Laughing: I +shall like no gay Attire: I shall like no unprofitable Questions. Nay, I am +so weak a man, as to be offended with that which others have a liberty to +do. I do not know all the truth: I am a very ignorant Christian man; +sometimes, if I hear some rejoice in the Lord, it troubles me, because I +cannot do so too.'" + +"There," he said, "that's very good writing, you know--full of +freshness--but you are not meant to admire the poor soul: _that's_ not +the way to go on pilgrimage! There is something wrong with a man's +religion, if it leaves him in that state. I don't mean that to be happy is +always a sign of grace--it often is simply a lack of sympathy and +imagination; but to be as good as Mr. Feeblemind, and at the same time as +unhappy, is a clear sign that something is wrong. He is like a dog that +_will_ try to get through a narrow gap with a stick in his mouth--he +can't make out why he can't do his duty and bring the stick--it catches on +both sides, and won't let him through. He knows it is his business to bring +the thing back at once, but he is prevented in some mysterious way. It +doesn't occur to him to put the stick down, get through himself, and then +pull it through by the end. That is why our duty is often so hard, because +we think we ought to do it simply and directly, when it really wants a +little adjusting--we regard the momentary precept, not the ultimate +principle." + +"But what is to tell us where to draw the line," said Vincent, "and when to +disregard the precept?" + +"Ah," said Father Payne, "that's my great discovery, which no one else will +ever recognise--that is where the sense of beauty comes in!" + +"I don't see that the sense of beauty has anything to do with morality," +said Vincent. + +"Ah, but that is because you are at heart a Puritan," said Father Payne; +"and the mistake of all Puritans is to disregard the sense of beauty--all +the really great saints have felt about morality as an artist feels about +beauty. They don't do good things because they are told to do them, but +because they feel them to be beautiful, splendid, attractive; and they +avoid having anything to do with evil things, because such things are ugly +and repellent." + +"But when you have to do a thoroughly disagreeable thing," said Vincent, +"there often isn't anything beautiful about it either way. I'll give you a +small instance. Some months ago I had been engaged for a fortnight to go to +a thoroughly dull dinner-party with some dreary relations of mine, and a +man asked me to come and dine at his club and meet George Meredith, whom I +would have given simply anything to meet. Of course I couldn't do it--I had +to go on with the other thing. I had to do what I hated, without the +smallest hope of being anything but fearfully bored: and I had to give up +doing what would have interested me more than anything in the world. Of +course, that is only a small instance, but it will suffice." + +"It all depends on how you behaved at your dinner-party when you got +there," said Father Payne, smiling; "were you sulky and cross, or were you +civil and decent?" + +"I don't know," said Vincent; "I expect I was pretty much as usual. After +all, it wasn't their fault!" + +"You are all right, my boy," said Father Payne; "you have got the sense of +beauty right enough, though you probably call it by some uncomfortable +name. I won't make you blush by praising you, but I give you a good mark +for the whole affair. If you had excused yourself, or asked to be let off, +or told a lie, it would have been ugly. What you did was in the best taste: +and that is what I mean. The ugly thing is to clutch and hold on. You did +more for yourself by being polite and honest than even George Meredith +could have done for you. What I mean by the sense of beauty, as applied to +morality, is that a man must be a gentleman first, and a moralist +afterwards, if he can. It is grabbing at your own sense of righteousness, +if you use it to hurt other people. Your own complacency of conscience is +not as important as the duty of not making other people uncomfortable. Of +course there are occasions when it is right to stand up to a moral bully, +and then you may go for him for all you are worth: but these cases are +rare; and what you must not do is to get into the way of a sort of moral +skirmishing. In ordinary life, people draw their lines in slightly +different places according to preference: you must allow for temperament. +You mustn't interfere with other people's codes, unless you are prepared to +be interfered with. It is impossible to be severely logical. Take a thing +like the use of money: it is good to be generous, but you mustn't give away +what you can't afford, because then your friends have to pay your bills. +What everyone needs is something to tell him when he must begin practising +a virtue, and when to stop practising it. You may say that common sense +does that. Well, I don't think it does! I know sensible people who do very +brutal things: there must be something finer than common sense: it must be +a mixture of sense and sympathy and imagination, and delicacy and humour +and tact--and I can't find a better way of expressing it than to call it a +sense of beauty, a faculty of judging, in a fine, sweet-tempered, gentle, +quiet way, with a sort of instinctive prescience as to where the ripples of +what you do and say will spread to, and what sort of effect they will +produce. That's the right sort of virtue--attractive virtue--which makes +other people wish to behave likewise. I don't say that a man who lives like +that can avoid suffering: he suffers a good deal, because he sees ugly +things going on all about him; but he doesn't cause suffering--unless he +intends to--and even so he doesn't like doing it. He is never spiteful or +jealous. He often makes mistakes, but he recognises them. He doesn't erect +barriers between himself and other people. He isn't always exactly popular, +because many people hate superiority whenever they see it: but he is +trusted and loved and even taken advantage of, because he doesn't go in for +reprisals." + +"But if you haven't got this sense of beauty," said Vincent, "how are you +to get it?" + +"By admiring it," said Father Payne. "I don't say that the people who have +got it are conscious of it--in fact they are generally quite unconscious of +it. Do you remember what Shelley--who was, I think, one of the people who +had the sense of beauty as strongly as anyone who ever lived--what he said +to Hogg, when Hogg told him how he had shut up an impertinent young +ruffian? 'I wish I could be as exclusive as you are,' said Shelley with a +sigh, feeling, no doubt, a sense of real failure--'but I cannot!' Shelley's +weakness was a much finer thing than Hogg's strength. I don't say that +Shelley was perfect: his imagination ran away with him to an extent that +may be called untruthful; he idealised people, and then threw them over +when he discovered them to be futile; but that is the right kind of mistake +to make: the wrong kind of mistake is to see people too clearly, and to +take for granted that they are not as delightful as they seem." + +"You mean that if one must choose," said Vincent, "it is better to be a +fool than a knave." + +"Why, of course," said Father Payne; "but don't call it 'a fool'--call it +'a child': that's the kind of beauty I mean, the unsuspicious, guileless, +trustful, affectionate temper--that to begin with: and you must learn, as +you go on, a quality which the child has not always got--a sense of humour. +That is what experience ought to give you--a power, that is, of seeing what +is really there, and of being more amused than shocked by it. That helps +you to distinguish real knavishness from childish faults. A great many of +the absurd, perverse, unkind, unpleasant things which people do are not +knavish at all--they are silly, selfish little diplomacies, guileless +obedience to conventions, unreasonable deference to imaginary authority. +People don't mean any harm by such tricks--they are the subterfuges of +weakness: but when you come upon real cynical deliberate knavishness--that +is different. There's nothing amusing about that. But you must be indulgent +to weakness, and only severe with strength." + +"I'm getting a little confused," said Vincent. + +"Not as much as I am," said Father Payne; "I don't know where I have got +to, I am sure. I seem to have changed hares! But one thing does emerge, and +that is, that a sort of inspired good taste is the only thing which can +regulate morals. The root of all morals is ultimately beauty. Why are we +not all as greedy and dirty as the old cave-men? For the simple reason that +something, for which he was not responsible, began to work in the caveman's +mind. He said to himself, 'This is not the way to behave: it would be nicer +not to have killed Mary when I was angry.' And then, when that impulse is +once started, human beings go too fast, and want to carry out their new +discoveries of rules and principles too far: and you must have a regulating +force: and if you can find a better force than the instinct for what is +beautiful, tell me, and I'll undertake to talk for at least as long about +it. I must stop! My sense of beauty warns me that I am becoming a bore." + + + +XXXVI + +OF BIOGRAPHY + + +Father Payne broke out suddenly after dinner to two or three of us about a +book he had been reading. + +"It's called a _Life_," he said, "at the top of every page almost. I +don't wonder the author felt it necessary to remind you--or perhaps he was +reminding himself? I can see him," said Father Payne, "saying to himself +with a rueful expression, 'This is a Life, undoubtedly!' Why, the waxworks +of Madame Tussaud are models of vivacity and agility compared to it. I +never set eyes on such a book!" + +"Why on earth did you go on reading it?" said I. + +"Well may you ask!" said Father Payne. "It's one of my weaknesses; if I +begin a book, I can put it down if it is moderately good; but if it is +either very good or very bad, I can't get out of it--I feel like a wasp in +a honey-pot. I make faint sticky motions of flight--but on I go." + +"Whose life was it?" I said, laughing. + +"I hardly know," said Father Payne. "It leaves on my mind the impression of +his having been a decent old party enough. I think he must have been a +general merchant--he seems to have had pretty nearly everything on hand. He +wrote books, I gather"; and Father Payne groaned. + +"What were they about?" I said. + +"I don't know, I'm sure," said Father Payne. "History and stuff--literary +essays, and people's influence, perhaps. He went in for accounting for +things, I fancy, and explaining things away. There were extracts which +alienated my attention faster than any extracts I ever read. I could not +keep my mind on them. God preserve me from ever falling in with any of his +books; I should spend days in reading them! He travelled too--he was always +travelling. Why couldn't he leave Europe alone? He has left his trail all +over Europe, like a snail. He has defiled all the finest scenery on the +Continent. But, by Jove, he met his match in his biographer; he has been +accounted for all right. And yet I feel that it was rather hard on him. If +_he_ could have held his tongue about things in general, and if his +biographer could have held his tongue about _him_, it would have been +all right. He did no harm, so far as I can make out--he was honest and +upright; he would have done very well as a trustee." + +Father Payne stopped, and looked round with a melancholy air. "I have +gathered," he said, "after several hours' reading, three interesting facts +about him. The first is that he wore rather loud checks--I liked that--I +detected a touch of vanity in that. The second is that he was fond of +quoting poetry, and the moment he did so, his voice became wholly inaudible +from emotion--that's a good touch. And the third is that, if he had a guest +staying with him, he used to talk continuously in the smoking-room, light +his candle, go on talking, walk away talking--by Jove, I can hear him doing +it--all up the stairs, along the passage to his bedroom--talk, talk, +talk--in they went--then he used to begin to undress--no escape--I can hear +his voice muffled as he pulled off his shirt--off went his socks--talking +still--then he would actually get into bed--more explanations, more +quotations, I wonder how the guest got away; that isn't related--in the +intervals of an inaudible quotation, perhaps? What do you think?" + +We exploded in laughter, in which Father Payne joined. Then he said: "But +look here, you know, it's not really a joke--it's horribly serious! A man +ought really to be prosecuted for writing such a book. That is the worst of +English people, that they have no idea who deserves a biography and who +does not. It isn't enough to be a rich man, or a public man, or a man of +virtue. No one ought to be written about, simply because he has _done_ +things. He must be content with that. No one should have a biography unless +he was either beautiful or picturesque or absurd, just as no one should +have a portrait painted unless he is one of the three. Now this poor +fellow--I daresay there were people who loved him--think what their +feelings must be at seeing him stuffed and set up like this! A biography +must be a work of art--it ought not to be a post-dated testimonial! Most of +us are only fit, when we have finished our work, to go straight into the +waste-paper basket. The people who deserve biographies are the vivid, rich, +animated natures who lived life with zest and interest. There are a good +many such men, who can say vigorous, shrewd, lively, fresh things in talk, +but who cannot express themselves in writing. The curse of most biographies +is the letters; not many people can write good letters, and yet it becomes +a sacred duty to pad a Life out with dull and stodgy documents; it is all +so utterly inartistic and decorous and stupid. A biography ought to be well +seasoned with faults and foibles. That is the one encouraging thing about +life, that a man can have plenty of failings and still make a fine business +out of it all. Yet it is regarded as almost treacherous to hint at +imperfections. Now if I had had our friend the general merchant to +biographise, I would have taken careful notes of his talk while +undressing--there's something picturesque about that! I would have told how +he spent his day, how he looked and moved, ate and drank. A real portrait +of an uninteresting man might be quite a treasure." + +"Yes, but you know it wouldn't do," said Barthrop; "his friends would be +out at you like a swarm of wasps." + +"Oh, I know that," said Father Payne. "It is all this infernal +sentimentality which spoils everything; as long as we think of the dead as +elderly angels hovering over us while we pray, there is nothing to be done. +If we really believe that we migrate out of life into an atmosphere of mild +piety, and lose all our individuality at once, then, of course, the less +said the better. As long as we hold that, then death must remain as the +worst of catastrophes for everyone concerned. The result of it all is that +a bad biography is the worst of books, because it quenches our interest in +life, and makes life insupportably dull. The first point is that the +biographer is infinitely more important than his subject. Look what an +enchanting book Carlyle made out of the Life of Sterling. Sterling was a +man of real charm who could only talk. He couldn't write a line. His +writings are pitiful. Carlyle put them all aside with a delicious irony; +and yet he managed to depict a swift, restless, delicate, radiant creature, +whom one loves and admires. It is one of the loveliest books ever written. +But, on the other hand, there are hundreds of fine creatures who have been +hopelessly buried for ever and ever under their biographies--the sepulchre +made sure, the stone sealed, and the watch set." + +"But there are some good biographies?" said Barthrop. + +"About a dozen," said Father Payne. "I won't give a list of them, or I +should become like our friend the merchant. I feel it coming on, by Jove--I +feel like accounting for things and talking you all up to my bedroom." + +"But what can be done about it all?" I said. + +"Nothing whatever, my boy," said Father Payne; "as long as people are not +really interested in life, but in money and committees, there is nothing to +be done. And as long as they hold things sacred, which means a strong +dislike of the plain truth, it's hopeless. If a man is prepared to write a +really veracious biography, he must also be prepared to fly for his life +and to change his name. Public opinion is for sentiment and against truth; +and you must change public opinion. But, oh dear me, when I think of the +fascination of real personality, and the waste of good material, and the +careful way in which the pious biographer strains out all the meat and +leaves nothing but a thin and watery decoction, I could weep over the +futility of mankind. The dread of being interesting or natural, the +adoration of pomposity and full dress, the sickening love of romance, the +hatred of reality--oh, it's a deplorable world!" + + + +XXXVII + +OF POSSESSIONS + + +"I wonder," said Father Payne one day at dinner, "whether any nation's +proverbs are such a disgrace to them as our national proverbs are to us. +Ours are horribly Anglo-Saxon and characteristic. They seem to me to have +been all invented by a shrewd, selfish, complacent, suspicious old farmer, +in a very small way of business, determined that he will not be +over-reached, and equally determined, too, that he will take full advantage +of the weakness of others. 'Charity begins at home,' 'Possession is nine +points of the law,' 'Don't count your chickens before they are hatched,' +'When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window.' They are +all equally disgraceful. They deride all emotion, they despise imagination, +they are unutterably low and hard, and what is called sensible; they are +frankly unchristian as well as ungentlemanly. No wonder we are called a +nation of shopkeepers." + +"But aren't we a great deal better than our proverbs?" said Barthrop: "do +they really express anything more than a contempt for weakness and +sentiment?" + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but I don't like them any better for that. Why +should we be ashamed of all our better feelings? I admit that we have a +sense of justice; but that only means that we care for material possessions +so much that we are afraid not to admit that others have the right to do +the same. The real obstacle to socialism in England is the sense of +sanctity about a man's savings. The moment that a man has saved a few +pounds, he agrees to any legislation that allows him to hold on to them." + +"But aren't we, behind all that," said Barthrop, "an intensely sentimental +nation?" + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but that's a fault really--we don't believe in +real justice, only in picturesque justice. We are hopeless individualists. +We melt into tears over a child that is lost, or a dog that howls; and we +let all sorts of evil systems and arrangements grow and flourish. We can't +think algebraically, only arithmetically. We can be kind to a single case +of hardship; we can't take in a widespread system of oppression. We are +improving somewhat; but it is always the particular case that affects us, +and not the general principle." + +"But to go back to our sense of possession," I said, "is that really much +more than a matter of climate? Does it mean more than this, that we, in a +temperate climate inclining to cold, need more elaborate houses and more +heat-producing food than nations who live in warmer climates? Are not the +nations who live in warmer climates less attached to material things simply +because they are less important?" + +"There is something in that, no doubt," said Father Payne. "Of course, +where nature is more hostile to life, men will have to work longer hours to +support life than where 'the spicy breezes blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle.' +But it isn't that of which I complain--it is the awful sense of +respectability attaching to possessions, the hideous way in which we fill +our houses with things which we do not want or use, just because they are a +symbol of respectability. We like hoarding, and we like luxuries, not +because we enjoy them, but because we like other people to know that we can +pay for them. I do not imagine that there is any nation in the world whose +hospitality differs so much from the mode in which people actually live as +ours does. In a sensible society, if we wanted to see our friends, we +should ask them to bring their cold mutton round, and have a picnic. What +we do actually do is to have a meal which we can't afford, and which our +guests know is not in the least like our ordinary meals; and then we expect +to be asked back to a similarly ostentatious banquet." + +"But isn't there something," said Barthrop, "in Dr. Johnson's dictum, that +a meal was good enough to eat, but not good enough to ask a man to? Isn't +it a good impulse to put your best before a guest?" + +"Oh, no doubt," said Father Payne, "but there's a want of simplicity about +it if you only want to entertain people in order that they may see you do +it, and not because you want to see them. It's vulgar, somehow--that's what +I suspect our nation of being. Our inability to speak frankly of money is +another sign. We do money too much honour by being so reticent about it. +The fact is that it is the one sacred subject among us. People are reticent +about religion and books and art, because they are not sure that other +people are interested in them. But they are reticent about money as a +matter of duty, because they are sure that everyone is deeply interested. +People talk about money with nods and winks and hints--those are all the +signs of a sacred mystery!" + +"Well, I wonder," said Barthrop, "whether we are as base as you seem to +think!" + +"I will tell you when I will change my mind," said Father Payne; "all the +talk of noble aims and strong purposes will not deceive me. What would +convert me would be if I saw generous giving a custom so common that it +hardly excited remark. You see a few generous _wills_--but even then a +will which leaves money to public purposes is generally commented upon; and +it almost always means, too, if you look into it, that a man has had no +near relations, and that he has stuck to his money and the power it gives +him during his life. If I could see a few cases of men impoverishing +themselves and their families in their lifetime for public objects; if I +saw evidence of men who have heaped up wealth content to let their children +start again in the race, and determined to support the State rather than +the family; if I could hear of a rich man's children beseeching their +father to endow the State rather than themselves, and being ready to work +for a livelihood rather than to receive an inherited fortune; if I could +hear of a few rich men living simply and handing out their money for +general purposes,--then I would believe! But none of these things is +anything but a rare exception; a man who gives away his fortune, as Ruskin +did, in great handfuls, is generally thought to be slightly crazy; and, +speaking frankly, the worth of a man seems to depend not upon what he has +given to the world, but upon what he has gained from the world. You may say +it is a rough test;--so it is! But when we begin to feel that a man is +foolish in hoarding and wise in lavishing, instead of being foolish in +lavishing and wise in hoarding, then, and not till then, shall I believe +that we are a truly great nation. At present the man whom we honour most is +the man who has been generous to public necessities, and has yet retained a +large fortune for himself. That is the combination which we are not ashamed +to admire." + + + +XXXVIII + +OF LONELINESS + + +We were walking together, Father Payne and I. It was in the early summer--a +still, hot day. The place, as I remember it, was very beautiful. We crossed +the stream by a little foot-bridge, and took a bypath across the meadows; +up the slope you came to a beautiful bit of old forest country, the trees +of all ages, some of them very ancient; there were open glades running into +the heart of the woodland, with thorn thickets and stretches of bracken. +Hidden away in the depth of the woods, and approached only by green rides, +were the ruins of what must have been a big old Jacobean mansion; but +nothing remained of it except some grassy terraces, a bit of a fine façade +of stone with empty windows, half-hidden in ivy, and some tall stone +chimney-stacks. The forest lay silent and still; and, along one of the +branching rides, you could discern far away a glimpse of blue hills. The +scene was so entirely beautiful that we had gradually ceased to talk, and +had given ourselves up to the sweet and quiet influence of the place. + +We stood for awhile upon one of the terraces, looking at the old house, and +Father Payne said, "I'm not sure that I approve of the taste for ruins; +there is something to be said for a deserted castle, because it is a +reminder that we do not need to safeguard ourselves so much against each +others' ill-will; but a roofless church or a crumbling house--there's +something sad about them. It seems to me a little like leaving a man +unburied in order that we may come and sentimentalise over his bones. It +means, this house, the decay of an old centre of life--there's nothing evil +or cruel about it, as there is about a castle; and I am not sure that it +ought not to be either repaired or removed-- + + "'And doorways where a bridegroom trode + Stand open to the peering air.'" + +"I don't know," I said; "I'm sure that this is somehow beautiful. Can't one +feel that nature is half-tender, half-indifferent to our broken designs?" + +"Perhaps," said Father Payne, "but I don't like being reminded of death and +waste--I don't want to think that they can end by being charming--the +vanity of human wishes is more sad than picturesque. I think Dr. Johnson +was right when he said, 'After all, it is a sad thing that a man should lie +down and die.'" + +A little while afterwards he said, "How strange it is that the loneliness +of this place should be so delightful! I like my fellow-beings on the +whole--I don't want to avoid them or to abolish them--but yet it is one of +the greatest luxuries in the world to find a place where one is pretty sure +of not meeting one of them." + +"Yes," I said, "it is very odd! I have been feeling to-day that I should +like time to stand still this summer afternoon, and to spend whole days in +rambling about here. I won't say," I said with a smile, "that I should +prefer to be quite alone; but I shouldn't mind even that in a place like +this. I never feel like that in a big town--there is always a sense of +hostile currents there. To be alone in a town is always rather melancholy; +but here it is just the reverse." + +"Indeed, yes," said Father Payne, "and it is one of the great mysteries of +all to me what we really want with company. It does not actually take away +from us our sense of loneliness at all. You can't look into my mind, nor +can I look into yours; whatever we do or say to break down the veil between +us, we can't do it. And I have often been happier when alone than I have +ever been in any company." + +"Isn't it a sense of security?" I said; "I suppose that it is an instinct +derived from old savage days which makes us dread other human beings. The +further back you go, the more hatred and mistrust you find; and I suppose +that the presence of a friend, or rather of someone with whom one has a +kind of understanding, gives a feeling of comparative safety against +attack." + +"That's it, no doubt," said Father Payne; "but if I had to choose between +spending the rest of my life in solitude, or in spending it without a +chance of solitude, I should be in a great difficulty. I am afraid that I +regard company rather as a wholesome medicine against the evils of solitude +than I regard solitude as a relief from company. After all, what is it that +we want with each other?--what do we expect to get from each other? I +remember," he said, smiling, "a witty old lady saying to me once that +eternity was a nightmare to her.--'For instance,' she said, 'I enjoy +sitting here and talking to you very much; but if I thought it was going on +to all eternity, I shouldn't like it at all.' Do we really want the company +of any one for ever and ever? And if so, why? Do we want to agree or to +disagree? Is the point of it that we want similarity or difference? Do we +want to hear about other people's experiences, or do we simply want to tell +our own? Is the desire, I mean, for congenial company anything more than +the pleasure of seeing our own thoughts and ideas reflected in the minds of +others; or is it a real desire to alter our own thoughts and ideas by +comparing them with the experiences of others? Why do we like books, for +instance? Isn't it more because we recognise our own feelings than because +we make acquaintance with unfamiliar feelings? It comes to this? Can we +really ever gain an idea, or can we only recognise our own ideas?" + +"It is very difficult," I said; "if I answered hastily, I should say that I +liked being with you because you give me many new ideas; but if I think +about it, it seems to me that it is only because you make me recognise my +own thoughts." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "I think that is so. If I see another man +behaving well where I should behave ill, I recognise that I have all the +elements in my own mind for doing the same, but that I have given undue +weight to some of them and not enough weight to others. I don't think, on +the whole, that anyone can give one a new idea; he can only help one to a +sense of proportion. But I want to get deeper than that. You and I are +friends--at least I think so; but what exactly do we give each other? How +do you affect my solitude, or I yours? I'm blessed if I know. It looks to +me, indeed, as if you and I might be parts of one great force, one great +spirit, and that we recognise our unity, through some material condition +which keeps us apart. I am not sure that it isn't only the body that +divides us, and that we are a part of the same thing behind it all." + +"But why, if that is so," said I, "do we feel a sense of unity with some +people, and not at all with others? There are people, I mean, with whom I +feel that I have simply nothing in common, and that our spirits could not +possibly mix or blend. With you, to speak frankly, it is different. I feel +as though I had known you far longer than a few months, and should never be +in any real doubt about you. I recognise myself in you and yourself in me. +But there are many people in whom I don't recognise myself at all." + +Father Payne put his arm through mine, "Well, old man," he said, "we must +be content to have found each other, but we mustn't give up trying to find +other people too. I think that is what civilisation means--a mutual +recognition--we're only just at the start of it, you know. I'm in no doubt +as to what you give me--it's a sense of trust. When I think about you, I +feel, 'Come, there is someone at all events who will try to understand me +and to forgive me and to share his best with me'--but even so, my boy, I +shall enjoy being alone sometimes. I shall want to get away from everyone, +even from you! There are thoughts I cannot share with you, because I want +you to think better of me than I do of myself. I suppose that is +vanity--but still old Wordsworth was right when he wrote: + + "'And many love me; but by none + Am I enough beloved.'" + + + +XXXIX + +OF THE WRITER'S LIFE + + +I was walking once with Father Payne in the fields, and he was talking +about the difficulties of the writer's life. He said that the great problem +for all industrious writers was how to work in such a way as not to be a +nuisance to the people they lived with. "Of course men vary very much in +their habits," he said; "but if you look at the lives of authors, they +often seem tiresome people to get on with. The difficulty is mostly this," +he went on, "that a writer can't write to any purpose for more than about +three hours a day--if he works really hard, even that is quite enough to +tire him out. Think what the brain is doing--it is concentrated on some +idea, some scene, some situation. Take a novelist: he has to have a picture +in his mind all the time--a clear visualisation of a place--a room, a +garden, a wood; then he must know how his people move and look and speak, +and he has to fly backwards and forwards from one to another; then he has +the talk to create, and he has to be always rejecting thoughts and +impressions and words, good enough in themselves, but not characteristic. +It is a fearful strain on imagination and emotion, on phrase-making and +word-finding. The real wonder is not that a few people can do it better +than others, but that anyone can do it at all. The difference between the +worst novelist and the best is much less than the difference between the +worst novelist and the person who can't write at all. + +"Well, then, there is such a thing as inspiration; most creative writers +get a book in their minds, and can think of nothing else, day and night, +while it is on. The difficulty is to know what a writer is to do in the +intervals between his books, and in the hours in which he is not writing. +He has got to take it easy somehow, and the question is what is he to do. +He can't, as a rule, do much in the way of hard exercise. Violent exercise +in the open air is pleasant enough, but it leaves the brain torpid and +stagnant. A man who really makes a business of writing has got to live +through ten or twelve hours of a day when he isn't writing. He can't afford +to read very much--at least he can't afford to read authors whom he +admires, because they affect his style. There is something horribly +contagious about style, because it is often much easier to do a thing in +someone else's way than to do it in one's own. Pater was asked once if he +had read Stevenson or Kipling, I forget which--'Oh no, I daren't!' he said, +'I have peeped into him occasionally, but I can't afford to read him. I +have learnt exactly how I can approach and develop a subject, and if I +looked to see how he does it, I should soon lose my power. The man with a +style is debarred from reading fine books unless they are on lines entirely +apart from his own.' That is perfectly true, I expect. There is nothing so +dreadful as reading a writer whom one likes, and seeing that he has got +deflected from his manner by reading some other craftsman. The effect is a +very subtle one. If you really want to see that sort of sympathy at work, +you should look at Ruskin's letters--his letters are deeply affected by the +correspondent to whom he is writing. If he wrote to Carlyle or to Browning, +he wrote like Carlyle and Browning, because, as he wrote, they were +strongly in his mind. + +"With a painter or a musician it is different--a lot of hand-work comes in +which relieves the brain, so that they can work longer hours. But a writer, +as a rule, while he is writing, can't even afford to talk very much to +interesting people, because talking is hard work too. + +"Well, then, a writer, as an artistic person, is rather easily bored. He +likes vivid sensations and emphatic preferences--and it is not really good +for him to be bored; a man may read the paper, write a few letters, stroll, +garden, chatter--but if he takes his writing seriously, he must somehow be +fresh for it. It isn't easy to combine writing with any other occupation, +and it leaves many hours unoccupied. + +"Carlyle is a terrible instance, because he was wretched and depressed when +he was not writing; he was melancholy, peevish, physically unwell; and when +he was writing, he was wholly absorbed very impatient of his labour, and +most intolerable. Indeed, it does not look as if the home lives of writers +have generally been very happy--there is too often a patent conspiracy to +keep the great irritable babyish giant amused--and that's a bad atmosphere +for anyone to live in--an unreal, a royal sort of atmosphere, of +deferential scheming." + +I said something about Walter Scott. "Ah yes," said Father Payne, "but +Scott's work was amazing--it just seemed to overflow from a gigantic +reservoir of vitality. He could do his day's work in the early hours, and +then tramp about all day, chattering, farming, planting, +entertaining--endlessly good-humoured. Of course he wore himself out at +last by perfectly ghastly work--most of it very poor stuff. Browning and +Thackeray were men of the same sort, sociable, genial, exuberant. They +overflowed too--they didn't batter things out. + +"But, as a rule, most men who want to do good work, must be content to +potter about, and seem lazy and even self-indulgent. And one of the reasons +why many men who start as promising writers come to nothing is because they +can't be inert, acquiescent, easy-going. I have often thought that a good +novel might be written about the wife of a great writer, who marries him, +dazzled by his brilliance and then finds him to be a petty, suspicious, +wayward sort of child, with all his force lying in one supreme faculty of +vision and expression. It must be a fiery trial to see deep, wise, +beautiful things produced by a man who can't _live_ his thoughts--can +only write them." + +"But what should a man _do_?" I said. + +"Well," said Father Payne, "I think, as a practical matter, it would be a +good thing to cultivate a hobby of a manual kind--and also, above all, the +power of genial loafing. Of course, the real pity is that we are not all +taught to do some house-work as a matter of course--we depend too much on +servants, and house-work is the natural and amusing outlet of our physical +energies; as it is, we specialise too much, and half of our maladies and +discomforts and miseries are due to that--that we work a part of ourselves +too hard, and the other parts not hard enough. The thing to aim at is +equanimity, and the existence of unsatisfied instincts in us is what +poisons life for many people." + +He was silent for a little, and then he said, "And then, too, there is the +great danger of all writers--the feeling that he has the power of giving +people what they want, when he ought to remember that he has only the good +fortune of expressing what people feel. Art oughtn't to be a thing +sprinkled on life, as you shake sugar out on to a pudding--it is just a +power of disentangling things; we suffer most of us from finding life too +complicated--we don't understand it--it's a mass of confused impressions. +Well, the artist puts it all in order, isolates the important things, makes +the values distinct--he helps people to feel clearly--that's his only use. +And then, if he succeeds, there come silly flatteries and adorations--until +he gets to feel as if he were handing down pots of jam and bottles of wine +from a high shelf out of reach--until he grows to believe that he put them +there, when he only found them there. It's a dreadful thing for an artist +never to succeed at all, because then his life appears the most useless +business conceivable; but it is almost a worse thing to get to depend upon +success--and it is undeniably pleasant to be a personage, to cause a little +stir when you enter a room, to find that people know all about you and like +meeting you, and saying they have met you. I never had any of that: and I +have sometimes found myself with successful writers who made me thank God I +couldn't write--such complacency, such lolling among praise, such vexation +at not being deferred to! The best fate for a man is to be fairly +successful, and to be at the same time pretty severely criticised. That +keeps him modest, while it gives him a degree of confidence that he is +doing something useful. The danger is of drifting right out of life into +unreal civilities and compliments, which you don't wholly like and yet +can't do without. The fact is that writing doesn't generally end in very +much happiness, except perhaps the happiness of work. That's the solid part +of it really, and no one can deprive you of that, whatever happens." + + + +XL + +OF WASTE + + +We were discussing Keats and his premature death. Someone had said that, +beside being one of the best, he was also one of the most promising of +poets; and Father Payne had remarked that reading Keats's letters made him +feel more directly in the presence of a man of genius than any other book +he knew. Kaye had added that the death of Keats seemed to him the most +ghastly kind of waste, at which Father Payne had smiled, and said that that +presupposed that he was knocked out by some malign or indifferent force. +"It is possible--isn't it?" he added, "that he was needed elsewhere and +summoned away." "Then why was he so elaborately tortured first?" said Kaye. +"Well," said Father Payne, "I can conceive that if he had recovered his +health, and escaped from his engagement with Fanny Brawne, he might have +been a much finer fellow afterwards. There were two weak points in Keats, +you know--his over-sensuousness and a touch of commonness--I won't call it +vulgarity," he added, "but his jokes are not of the best quality! I do not +feel sure that his suffering might not have cleared away the poisonous +stuff." + +"Perhaps," said Kaye; "but doesn't that make it more wasteful still? The +world needs beauty--and for a man to die so young with his best music in +him seems to me a clumsy affair." + +"I don't know," said Father Payne; "it seems to me harder to define the +word _waste_ than almost any word I know. Of course there are cases +when it is obviously applicable--if a big steamer carrying a cargo of wheat +goes down in a storm, that is a lot of human trouble thrown away--and a war +is wasteful, because nations lose their best and healthiest parental stock. +But it isn't a word to play with. In a middle-class household it is applied +mainly to such things as there being enough left of a nice dish for the +servants to enjoy; and, generally speaking, I think it might be applied to +all cases in which the toil spent over the making of a thing is out of all +proportion to the enjoyment derived from it. But the difficulty underlying +it is that it assumes a knowledge of what a man's duty is in this +world--and I am not by any means sure that we know. Look at the phrase 'a +waste of time.' How do we know exactly how much time a man ought to allot +to sleep, to work, to leisure? I had an old puritanical friend who was very +fond of telling people that they wasted time. He himself spent nearly two +hours of every day in dressing and undressing. That is to say that when he +died at the age of seventy-six, he had spent about six entire years in +making and unmaking his toilet! Let us assume that everyone is bound to +give a certain amount of time to doing the necessary work of the +world--enough to support, feed, clothe, and house himself, with a margin to +spare for the people who can't support themselves and can't work. Then +there are a lot of outlying things which must be done--the work of +statesmen, lawyers, doctors, writers--all the people who organise, keep +order, cure, or amuse people. Then there are all the people who make +luxuries and comforts--things not exactly necessary, but still reasonable +indulgences. Now let us suppose that anyone is genuinely and sensibly +occupied in any one of these ways, and does his or her fair share of the +world's work: who is to say how such workers are to spend their margin of +time? There are obviously certain people who are mere drones in the +hive--rich, idle, extravagant people: we will admit that they are wasters. +But I don't admit for a moment that all the time spent in enjoying oneself +is wasted, and I think that people have a right to choose what they do +enjoy. I am inclined to believe that we are here to live, and that work is +only a part of our material limitations. A great deal of the usefulness of +work is not its intrinsic value, but its value to ourselves. It isn't only +what we perform that matters; it is the fact that work forces us into +relations with other people, which I take to be the experience we all need. +In the old dreary books of my childhood, the elders were always hounding +the young people into doing something useful--useful reading, useful +sewing, and so forth. But I am inclined to believe that sociability and +talk are more useful than reading, and that solitary musing and dreaming +and looking about are useful too. All activity is useful, all interchange, +all perception. What isn't useful is anything which hides life from you, +any habit that drugs you into inactivity and idleness, anything which makes +you believe that life is romantic and sentimental and fatuous. I wouldn't +even go so far as to say that _all_ the time spent in squabbling and +quarrelling is useless, because it brings you up against people who think +differently from yourself. That becomes wasteful the moment it leaves you +with the impotent desire to hurt your adversary. No, I am inclined to think +that the only thing which is wasteful is anything which suspends interest +and animation and the love of life; and I don't blame idle and extravagant +people who live with zest and liveliness for doing that. I only blame them +for not seeing that their extravagance is keeping people at the other end +of the scale in drudgery and dulness. Of course the difficulty of it is, +that if we offered the lowest stratum of workers a great increase of +leisure, they would largely misuse it; and that is why I believe that in +the future a large part of the education of workers will be devoted to +teaching them how to employ their leisure agreeably and not noxiously. And +I believe that there are thousands of cases in the world which are +infinitely worse than the case of Keats--who, after all, had more joy of +the finest quality in his short life than most of us achieve. I mean the +cases of men and women with fine and sensitive instincts, who by being born +under base and down-trodden conditions are never able to get a taste of +clean, wholesome, and beautiful life at all--that's a much darker +problem." + +"But how do you fit that into your theories of life at all?" said Vincent. + +"Oh, it fits my theory of life well enough," said Father Payne. "You see, I +believe it to be a real battle, and not a sham fight. I believe in God as +the source of all the fine, beautiful, and free instincts, casting them +lavishly into the world, against a horribly powerful and relentless but +ultimately stupid foe. 'Who put the evil there?' you may say, 'and how did +it get there first?' Ah, I don't know that--that is the origin of evil. But +I don't believe that God put it there first, just for the interest of the +fight. I don't believe that He is responsible for waste--I think it is one +of the forces He is fighting. He pushes battalion after battalion to the +assault, and down they go. It's cruel work, but it isn't anything like so +cruel as to suppose that He arranged it all or even permitted it all. That +would indeed sicken and dishearten me. No, I believe that God never wastes +anything; but it's a fearful and protracted battle; and I believe that He +will win in the end. I read a case in the paper the other day of a little +child in a workhouse that had learnt a lot of infamous language, and cursed +and swore if it was given milk instead of beer or brandy. Am I to believe +that God was in any way responsible for putting a little child in that +position?--for allowing things to take shape so, if He could have checked +it? No, indeed! I do not believe in a God as helpless or as wicked as that! +There is something devilish there, for which He is not responsible, and +against which He is fighting as hard as He can." + +"But doesn't heredity come in there?" said Vincent. "It isn't the child's +fault, and probably no amount of decent conditions would turn that child +into anything respectable." + +"Yes," said Father Payne; "heredity is just one of the evil devices--but +don't you see the stupidity of it? It stops progress, but it also helps it +on--it hinders, but it also helps; and nothing in the world seems to me so +Divine as the way in which God is using and mastering heredity for good. It +multiplies evil, but it also multiplies good; and God has turned that +weapon against the contriver of it. The wiser that the world grows, the +more they will see how to use heredity for happiness, by preventing the +tainted from continuing to taint the races. The slow civilisation of the +world is the strongest proof I know that the battle is going the right way. +The forces of evil are being slowly transformed into the forces of good. +The waste of noble things is but the slow arrival of the new armies of +light. There is something real in fighting for a General who has a very +urgent and terrible business on hand. There is nothing real about fighting +for one who has brought both the armies into the field. It doesn't do to +sentimentalise about evil, and to say that it is hidden good! The world is +a probation, I don't doubt--but it is testing your strength against +something which is really there, and can do you a lot of harm, not against +something which is only there for the purpose of testing what might have +been made and kept both innocent and strong." + + + +XLI + +OF EDUCATION + + +Father Payne generally declined to talk about education. "Teaching is one +of the things, like golf and hunting, which is exciting to do and pleasant +to remember, but intolerable to talk about," he said one evening. + +"Well," I said, "it is certainly intolerable to listen to people discussing +education, or to read about it; but if you know anything about it, I should +have thought it was good fun to talk about it." + +"Ah," said Father Payne, "you say, 'If you know anything about it.' The +worst of it is that everybody knows everything about it. A man who is a +success, thinks that his own education is the only one worth having; a man +who is a failure thinks that all systems of education are wrong. And as for +talking about teaching, you can't talk about it--you can only relate your +own experience, and listen with such patience as you can muster to another +man relating his. That's not talking!" + +"But it is interesting in a general way," said Vincent,--"the kind of thing +you are aiming at, what you want to produce, and so on." + +"Yes, my dear Vincent," said Father Payne, "but education isn't that--it's +an obstinate sort of tradition; it's a quest, like the Philosopher's Stone. +Most people think that it is a sort of charm which, if you could discover +it, would transmute all baser metals into gold. The justification of the +Philosopher's Stone is, I suppose, that different metals are not really +different substances, but only different arrangements of the same atoms. +But we can't predicate that of human spirits as yet; and to attempt to find +one formula of education is like planting the same crop in different soils. +It is the ridiculous democratic doctrine of human equality which is the +real difficulty. There is no natural equality in human nature, and the +question really is whether you are going to try to reduce all human beings +to the same level, which is the danger of discipline, or to let people +follow their own instincts unchecked, which is the shadow of liberty. I'm +all for liberty, of course." + +"But why 'of course'?" said Vincent. + +"Because I take the aristocratic view," said Father Payne, "which is that +you do more for the human race by having a few fine people, than by having +an infinite number of second-rate people. What the first-rate man thinks +to-day, the second-rate people think to-morrow--that is how we make +progress; and I would like to take infinite pains with the best material, +if I could find it, and leave discipline for the second-rate. The Jews and +the Greeks, both first-class nations, have done more for the world on the +whole than the Romans and the Anglo-Saxons, who are the best of the +second-rate stocks." + +"But how are you going to begin to sort your material?" said Barthrop. + +"Yes, you have me there," said Father Payne. "But I don't despair of our +ultimately finding that out. At present, the worst of men of genius is that +they are not always the most brisk and efficient boys. A genius is apt to +be perceptive and sensitive. His perceptiveness makes him seem bewildered, +because he is vaguely interested in everything that he sees; his +sensitiveness makes him hold his tongue, because he gets snubbed if he asks +too many questions. Men of genius are not as a rule very precocious--they +are often shy, awkward, absent-minded. Genius is often strangely like +stupidity in its early stages. The stupid boy escapes notice because he is +stupid. The genius escapes notice because he is diffident, and _wants_ +to escape notice." + +"But how would you set about discovering which was which?" said Barthrop. + +"Well," said Father Payne, "if you ask me, I don't think we discriminate; I +think we go in for teaching children too much, and not trying to make them +observe and think more. We give them things to do, and to get by heart; we +imprison them in a narrow round of gymnastics. As Dr. Johnson said once, +'You teach your children the use of the globes, and when they get older you +wonder that they do not seek your society!' The whole thing is so devilish +dull, and it saves the teacher such a lot of trouble! I myself was fairly +quick as a boy, and found that it paid to do what I was told. But I never +made the smallest pretence to be interested in what I had to do--grammar, +Euclid, tiny scraps of Latin and Greek. I used to thank God, in Xenophon +lessons, when a bit was all about stages and parasangs, because there were +fewer words to look out. The idea of teaching languages like that! If I had +a clever boy to teach a language, I would read some interesting book with +him, telling him the meaning of words, until he got a big stock of ordinary +words; I would just teach him the common inflexions; and when he could read +an easy book, and write the language intelligibly, then I would try to +teach him a few niceties and idioms, and make him look out for differences +of style and language. But we begin at the wrong end, and store his memory +with exceptions and idioms and niceties first. No sensible human being who +wanted, let us say, to know enough Italian to read Dante, would dream of +setting to work as we set to work on classics. Well then," Father Payne +went on, "I should cultivate the imagination of children a great deal more. +I should try to teach them all I could about the world as it is--the +different nations, and how they live, the distribution of plants and +animals, the simpler sorts of science. I don't think that it need be very +accurate, all that. But children ought to realise that the world is a big +place, with all sorts of interesting and exciting things going on. I would +try to give them a general view of history and the movement of +civilisation. I don't mean a romantic view of it, with the pomps and shows +and battles in the foreground; but a real view--how people lived, and what +they were driving at. The thing could be done, if it were not for the +bugbear of inaccuracy. To know a little perfectly isn't enough; of course, +people ought to be able to write their own language accurately, and to do +arithmetic. Outside of that, you want a lot of general ideas. It is no good +teaching everything as if everyone was to end as a Professor." + +"That is a reasonable general scheme," said Barthrop, "but what about +special aptitudes?" + +"Why," said Father Payne, "I should go on those general lines till boys and +girls were about fourteen. And I should teach them with a view to the lives +they were going to live. I should teach girls a good deal of house-work, +and country boys about the country--we mustn't forget that the common work +of the world has to be done. You must somehow interest people in the sort +of work they are going to do. It is hopeless without that. And then we must +gradually begin to specialise. But I'm not going into all that now. The +general aim I should have in view would be to give people some idea of the +world they were living in, and try to interest them in the part they were +going to play; and I should try to teach them how to employ their leisure. +That seems entirely left out at present. I want to develop people on simple +and contented lines, with intelligent interests and, if possible, a special +taste. The happy man is the man who likes his work, and all education is a +fraud if it turns out people who don't like their work; and then I want +people to have something to fall back upon which they enjoy. No one can +live a decent life without having things to look forward to. But, of +course, the whole thing turns on Finance, and that is what makes it so +infernally dull. You want more teachers and better teachers; you want to +make teaching a profession which attracts the best people. You can't do +that without money, and at present education is looked upon as an expensive +luxury. That's all part of the stodgy Anglo-Saxon mind. It doesn't want +ideas--it wants positions which, carry high salaries; and really the one +thing which blocks the way in all our education is that we care so much for +money and property, and can't think of happiness apart from them. As long +as our real aim in England is income, we shall not make progress; because +we persist in thinking of ideas as luxuries in which a man can indulge if +he has a sufficient income to afford to do so." + +"You take a gloomy view of our national ideals, Father," said Vincent. + +"Not a gloomy view, my boy," said Father Payne; "only a dull view! We are a +respectable nation--we adore respectability; and I don't think it is a +sympathetic quality. What I want is more sympathy and more imagination. I +think they lead to happiness; and I don't think the Anglo-Saxon cares +enough about happiness; if he is happy, he has an uneasy idea that he is in +for a disaster of some kind." + + + +XLII + +OF RELIGION + + +I found Father Payne one morning reading a letter with knitted brows. +Presently he cast it down on the table with a gesture of annoyance. "What a +fool one is to argue!" he said--and then stopping, he said, "But you wanted +something--what is it?" It was a question about some books which was soon +answered. Then he said: "Stay a few minutes, won't you, unless you are +pressed? I have got a tiresome letter, and if you will let me pour out my +complaint to you, I shall be all right--otherwise I shall go about +grumbling and muttering all day, and inventing repartees." + +I sate down in a chair. "Yes, do tell me!" I said; "I have really very +little to do this morning, but finish up a bit of work." + +He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. "I expect you ought to be at +work," he said, "and if I were conscientious, I should send you away--but +this is rather interesting, I think." + +He meditated for a moment, and then went on. "It's this! I have got +involved in an argument with an old friend of mine who is a stiff sort of +High-Churchman--a parson. It's about religion, too, and it's no good +arguing about religion. You only confirm your adversary in his opinion. He +brings forth the bow, and makes ready the arrows within the quiver. I +needn't go into the argument. It's the old story. He objected to something +I said as 'vague,' and I was ass enough to answer him. He is one of those +people who is very strong on dogma, and treats his religion as if it were a +sort of trades' union. He thinks I am a kind of blackleg, not true to my +principles; or rather he thinks that I am not a Christian at all, and only +call myself one for the sake of the associations. Of course he triumphs +over me at every point. He is entrenched in what he calls a logical system, +and he fires off texts as if from a machine-gun. Of course my point is that +all strict denominations have got a severely logical system, but that they +can't all be sound, because they all deduce different conclusions from the +same evidence. All denominational positions are drawn up by able men, and I +imagine that an old theology like the Catholic theology is one of the most +ingenious constructions in the world from the logical point of view. But +the mischief of it all is that the data are incomplete, and many of them +are not mathematically demonstrable at all. They are all coloured by human +ideas and personalities and temperaments, and half of them are intuitions +and experiences, which vary at different times and under different +circumstances. All precise denominational systems are the outcome of the +desire for a precise certainty in the minds of business-like people--the +people who say that they wish to know exactly where they are. Now I don't +go so far as to say, or even to think, that religion will always be as +mysterious a thing as it is now. I fully expect that we shall know much +more about it some day. But we don't at present know very much about the +central things of all--the nature of God, the relation of good and evil, +life after death, human psychology. We have not reached the point of being +able definitely to identify the moral force of the world with the forces +which do not appear to be moral, but are undoubtedly, active--with +realities, that is, as we come into contact with them. There are no +scientific certainties on these points--we simply have not reached that +stage. My friend's view is that out of a certain number of denominations, +one is undoubtedly right. My view is that all are necessarily incomplete. +But the moment I say this, he says that my religion is so vague as not to +be a religion at all. + +"Now my own position is this, that I think religion, by which I mean our +relation to the Power behind the world, is the most important fact in the +world, as well as the most absorbingly interesting. Whatever form of +religion I study, I seem to see the same thing going on. The saints, +however much they differ in dogma, seem to me to have a strong family +likeness. Mysticism is a very definite thing indeed, and I have never any +doubt that all mystics have the same or a very similar experience, namely, +the perception of some perfectly definite force--as real a force as +electricity, for instance--with which they are in touch. Something, which +is quite clearly there, is affecting them in a particular way. + +"If you ask me what that something is, I don't know. I believe it to be a +sort of life-force, which can and does mingle itself with our own life; and +I believe that we are all affected by it, just as every drop of water on +the earth is affected by the moon's attraction--though we can measure that +effect in an ocean by observing the tides, when we can't measure it in a +basin of water. We are not all equally conscious of it, and I don't know +why that is. Sometimes I am aware of it myself, and sometimes not. But I +have had enough experience of it to feel that something is making signals +to me, affecting me, attracting me. And the reason why I am a Christian is +because in Christianity and in the teaching of Christ I feel the influence +of it in a way that I feel it nowhere else in the same degree. I feel that +Christ was closer to what I recognise as God; knew God better than anyone +that ever lived, and in a different kind of way--from inside, so to speak. +But it's a _life_ that I find in the Gospel, and not a _creed_: +and I believe that this is religion, to be somehow in touch with a higher +life and a higher sort of beauty. + +"But I personally don't want this explained and defined and codified. That +seems to me only to hem it in and limit it. The moment I find it reduced to +dogma and rule, to definite channels of grace, to particular powers +entrusted to particular persons, then I begin to be stifled and, what is +worse, bored. I don't feel it to be a logical affair at all--I feel it to +be a living force, the qualities of which are virtue, beauty, peace, +enthusiasm, happiness; all the things which glow and sparkle in life, and +make me long to be different--to be stronger, wiser, more patient, more +interested, more serene. I want to share my secret with others, not to keep +it to myself. But when I argue with my friend, I don't feel it is my secret +but his, and that in his mind the force itself is missing, while a lot of +rules and logical propositions and arrangements have taken its place. It is +just as though I were in love with a girl, and were taken to task by +someone, and informed of a score of conventions which I must observe if I +wish to be considered really in love. I know what love means to me, and I +know, how I want to make love; and the same sort of thing is happening to +lovers all the world over, though they don't all make love in the same way. +You can't codify the rules of love!" + +Presently he went on: "It seems to me like this--like seeing the reflection +of the moon. You may see it in the marble basin of a fountain, clear and +distinct. You may see it blurred into ripples on a wind-stirred sea. You +may see it moulded into liquid curves on a swift stream. The changing +shapes of it matter little--you are sure that it is the same thing which is +being reflected, however differently it appears. I believe that human +nature has a power of reflecting God, and the different denominations seem +to me to reflect Him in different ways, like the fountain and the stream +and the sea. But the same thing is there, though the forms seem to vary. +And therefore we must not quarrel with the different attempts to reflect +it--or even be vexed if the fountain tells the sea that it is not +reflecting the moon at all. Take my advice, my boy," he added, smiling, +"and never argue about religion--only try to make your own spirit as calm +and true as you can!" + + + +XLIII + +OF CRITICS + + +I came in from a stroll one day with Father Payne and Barthrop. Father +Payne opened a letter which was lying on the hall table, and saying, +"Hallo, Leonard, look at this. Gladwin is coming down for Sunday--that will +be rather fun!" + +"I don't know about fun," said Barthrop; "at least I doubt if I should find +it fun, if I had the responsibility of entertaining him." + +"Yes, it's a great responsibility," said Father Payne. "I feel that. +Gladwin is a man who has to be taken as you find him, but who never makes +any pretence of taking you as he finds you! But it will amuse me to put him +through his paces a bit!" + +"Who on earth is Gladwin?" said I, consumed by curiosity. + +Father Payne and Barthrop laughed. "I should like Gladwin to hear that!" +said Barthrop. + +"Only it would grieve him still more if Duncan _had_ heard of him," +said Father Payne; "there would be a commonness about that!" Then turning +to me, he said, "Gladwin? Well, he's about the most critical man in +England, I suppose. He does a little work--a very little: and I think he +might have been a great man, if he hadn't become so fearfully dry. He began +by despising everyone else, and ended by despising himself--and now it's +almost a torture to him to make up his mind. 'There's something base about +a _decision_,' he once said to me. But 'despising' isn't the right +word. He doesn't despise--that would be coarse. He only feels the +coarseness of things in general. He has got too fine an edge on his +mind--everything blunts it!" + +"Do you remember Rose's song about him?" said Barthrop. + +"Yes, what was it?" said Father Payne. + +"The refrain," said Barthrop, "was + + "'Not too much of whatever is best, + That is enough for me!'" + +Father Payne laughed. "Yes, I remember!" he said; "'Not too much' is a good +stroke!" + +I happened to be with Father Payne when Gladwin arrived. He was a small, +trim, compact man, about forty, unembarrassed and graceful, but with an air +of dejection. He had a short pointed beard and moustache, and his hair was +growing grey. He had fine thin hands, and he was dressed in old but +well-fitting clothes. He had an atmosphere of great distinction about him. +I had expected something incisive and clear-cut about him, but he was +conspicuously gentle, and even deprecating in manner. He greeted Father +Payne smilingly, and shook hands with me, with a courteous little bow. We +strolled a little in the garden. Father Payne did most of the talking, but +Gladwin's silence was sympathetic and impressive. He listened to us +tolerantly, as a man might listen to the prattle of children. + +"What are you doing just now?" said Father Payne after a pause. + +"Oh, nothing worth mentioning," said Gladwin softly. "I work more slowly +than ever, I believe. It can hardly be called work, indeed. In fact, I want +to consult you about a few little bits--they can hardly be called anything +so definite as 'pieces'--but I am in doubt about their arrangement. The +placing of independent pieces is such a difficulty to me, you know! One +must secure some sort of a progression!" + +"Ah, I shall enjoy that," said Father Payne. "But you won't take my advice, +you know--you never do!" + +"Oh, don't say that," said Gladwin. "Of course one must be ultimately +responsible. It can't be otherwise. But I always respect your judgment. You +always help me to the materials, at all events, for a decision!" + +Father Payne laughed, and said, "Well, I shall be at your service any +time!" + +A little while after, Gladwin said he thought he would go to his room. "I +know your ways here," he said to me with a smile; "one mustn't interfere +with a system. Besides I like it! It is such a luxury to obliterate +oneself!" When we met again before dinner, Gladwin walked across to a big +picture, an old sea-piece, rather effectively painted, which Father Payne +had found in a garret, and had had restored and framed. + +"What is this?" said Gladwin very gently; "I think this is new?" + +Father Payne told him the story of its discovery, adding, "I don't suppose +it is worth much--but it has a certain breeziness about it, I think." + +Gladwin considered it in silence, and then turned away. + +"Do you like it?" said Father Payne--a little maliciously, I thought. + +"Like it?" said Gladwin meditatively, "I don't know that I can go as far as +that! I like it in your house." + +Gladwin said very little at dinner. He ate and drank sparingly; and I +noticed that he looked at any dish that was offered him with a quick +scrutinising glance. He tasted his first glass of wine with the same air of +suspense, and then appeared to be relieved from a preoccupation. But he +joined little in the talk, and exercised rather a sobering effect upon us. +Once or twice he spoke out. Mention was made of Gissing's _Papers of +Henry Ryecroft_, and Father Payne asked him if he had read it. "Oh no, I +couldn't _read_ it, of course," said Gladwin; "I looked into it, and +had to put it away. I felt as if I had opened a letter addressed to someone +else by mistake!" + +At a later period of the evening, a discussion arose about the laws of +taste. Father Payne had said that the one phenomenon in art he could not +understand was the almost inevitable reaction which seemed to take place in +the way in which the work of a great writer or painter or musician is +regarded a few years after his vogue declines. "I am not speaking," said +Father Payne, "of poor, commonplace, merely popular work, but of work which +was acclaimed as great by the best critics of the time, and which will +probably return to pre-eminence," He instanced, I remember, Mendelssohn and +Tennyson. "Of course," he said, "they both wrote a great deal--perhaps too +much--and some kind of sorting is necessary. I don't mind the _Idylls of +the King_, or the _Elijah_, being relegated to oblivion, because +they both show signs of having been done with one eye on the public. But +the progressive young man won't hear of Tennyson or Mendelssohn being +regarded as serious figures in art at all. Yet I honestly believe that +poems like 'Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal,' or 'Come down, O Maid,' have a +high and permanent beauty about them; or, again, the overture to the +_Midsummer Night's Dream_. I can't believe that it isn't a thing full +of loveliness and delight. I can't for the life of me see what happens to +cause such things to be forgotten. Tennyson and Mendelssohn seem to me to +have been penetrated with a sense of beauty, and to have been great +craftsmen too: and their work at its best not only satisfied the most +exacting and trained critics, but thrilled all the most beauty-loving +spirits of the time with ineffable content, as of a dream fulfilled beyond +the reach of hope. And yet all the light seems to die out of them as the +years go on. The new writers and musicians, the new critics, the new +audience, are all preoccupied with a different presentment of beauty. And +then, very slowly, the light seems to return to the old things--at least to +the best of them: but they have to suffer an eclipse, during which they are +nothing but symbols of all that is hackneyed and commonplace in music and +literature. I think things are either beautiful or not: I can't believe in +a real shifting of taste, a merely relative and temporary beauty. If it +only happened to the second-rate kinds of goodness, it would be +intelligible--but it seems to involve the best as well. What do you think, +Gladwin?" + +Gladwin, who had been dreamily regarding the wine in his glass, gave a +little start almost of pain, as if a thorn had pricked him. He glanced +round the table, and then said in his gentlest voice, "Well, Payne, I don't +quite know from what point of view you are speaking--from the point of view +of serious investigation, or of edification, or of mere curiosity? I should +have to be sure of that. But, speaking hurriedly and perhaps intemperately, +I should be inclined to think that there was a sort of natural revolt +against a convention, a spontaneous disgust at deference being taken for +granted. Isn't it like what takes place in politics--though, of course, I +know nothing about politics--the way, I mean, in which the electors get +simply tired of a political party being in power, and give the other side a +chance of doing better? I mean that the gross and unintelligent laudation +of any artist who arrives at what is called assured fame, naturally turns +one's mind on to the critical consciousness of his imperfections. I don't +say it's noble or right--in fact, I think it is probably ungenerous--but I +think it is natural." + +"Yes, there is a good deal in that," said Father Payne, "but ought not the +trained critics to withstand it?" + +"The trained critic," said Gladwin, "the man who sells his opinion of a +work of art for money, is, of course, the debased outcome of a degrading +system. If you press me, I should consider that both the extravagant +laudation and the equally extravagant reaction are entirely vulgar and +horrible. Personally, I am not easily pleased: but then what does it matter +whether I am pleased or not?" + +"But you sometimes bring yourself to form, and even express, an opinion?" +said Father Payne with a smile. + +"An opinion--an opinion"--said Gladwin, shaking his head, "I don't know +that I ever get so far as that. One has a kind of feeling, no doubt; but it +is so far underground, that one hardly knows what its operations may be." + +"'Well said, old mole! Canst work i' the earth so fast? A worthy pioneer!'" +said Payne, laughing. + +Gladwin gave a quick smile: "A good quotation!" he said, "that was very +ready! I congratulate you on that! But there's more of the mole than the +pioneer about my work, such as it is!" + + +Gladwin drifted about the next day like a tired fairy. + +He had a long conference with Father Payne, and at dinner he seemed aloof, +and hardly spoke at all. He vanished the next day with an air of relief. +"Well, what did you think of our guest?" said Father Payne to me, meeting +me in the garden before dinner. + +"Well," I said, "he seemed to me an unhappy, heavily-burdened man--but he +was evidently extraordinarily able." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "that's about it. His mind is too big for him to +carry. He sees everything, understands everything, and passes judgment on +everything. But he hasn't enough vitality. It must be an awful curse to +have no illusions--to see the inferiority of everything so clearly. He's +awfully lonely, and I must try to see more of him. But it is very +difficult. I used to amuse him, and he appointed me, in a way he has, a +sort of State Jester--Royal Letters Patent, you know. But then he began to +detect the commonness of my mind and taste, and, one by one, all the +avenues of communication became closed. If I liked a book which he +disliked, and praised it to him, he became inflicted with a kind of mental +nausea: and it's impossible to see much of a man, with any real comfort, +when you realise that you are constantly turning him faint and sick. I had +a dreary time with him yesterday. He produced some critical essays of his +own, which he was thinking of making into a book. They were awfully dry, +like figs which have been kept too long--not a drop of juice in them. They +were hideously acute, I saw that. But there wasn't any reason why they +should have been written. They were mere dissections: I suggested that he +should call them 'Depreciations,' and he shivered, and I felt a brute. But +that didn't last long, because he has a way of putting you in your place. I +felt like something in a nightmare he was having. He annexes you, and he +disapproves of you at the same time. I am awfully sorry for him, but I +can't help him. The moment I try, I run up against his disapproval, and my +vulgar spirit revolts. He's an aristocrat, through and through. He comes +and hoists his flag over a place. I felt all yesterday as if I were a +rather unwelcome guest in his house, you know. It's a stifling atmosphere. +I can't breathe or speak, because I instantly feel myself suspected of +crudity! The truth is that Gladwin thinks you can live upon light, and +forgets that you also want air." + +"It seems rather a ghastly business," I said. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "it's a wretched business! That combination of +great sensitiveness and great self-righteousness is the most melancholy +thing I know. You have to get rid of one or the other--and yet that is how +Gladwin is made. Now, I have plenty of opinions of my own, but I don't +consider them final or absolute. It ends, of course, in poor Gladwin +knowing about a hundredth part of what is going on in the world, and +thinking that it's d--d bad. Of course it is, if you neglect the other +ninety-nine parts altogether!" + + + +XLIV + +OF WORSHIP + + +It was one of those perfectly fine and radiant days of early summer, with a +touch of easterly about the breeze, which means perhaps a drier air, and +always seems to bring out the true colours of our countryside, as with a +touch of ethereal golden-tinged varnish. The humid rain-washed days, so +common in England, are beautiful enough, with their rolling cloud-ranges +and their soft mistiness: but the clear sparkle of this brighter weather, +summer without its haze, intensifying each tone of colour and sharply +defining each several tint, has a special beauty of form as well as of hue. + +I walked with Father Payne far among the fields. He was at first in a +silent mood, observing and enjoying. We passed a field carpeted with +buttercups, and he said, "That's a beautiful touch, 'the flower-enamelled +field'--it isn't just washed with colour, it is like hammered work of +beaten gold, like the letters in old missals!" Presently he burst out into +talk: "I don't want to say anything affected," he began, "but a day like +this, out in the country, gives me a stronger feeling of what I can only +describe as _worship_ than anything else in the world, because the +scene holds the beauty of life so firmly up before you. Worship means the +sense of the unmistakable presence of beauty, I am sure--a beauty great and +overwhelming, which one has had no part in making--'The sea is His, and He +made it, and His hands prepared the dry land. O come, let us worship and +fall down, and kneel before the Lord our Maker'--it's that exactly--a sense +of joyful abasement in the presence of something great and infinitely +beautiful. I do wish that were more clearly stated and understood and +believed. Religion, as we know it in its technical sense, is so +faint-hearted about it all! It has limited worship to things beautiful +enough, arches and music and ceremony: and it is so afraid of vagueness, so +considerate of man's feeble grasp and small outlook, that it is afraid of +recognising all the channels by which that sense is communicated, for fear +of weakening a special effect. I'll tell you two or three of the +experiences I mean. You know old Mrs. Chetwynd, who is fading away in that +little cottage beyond the churchyard. She is poor, old, ill. She can hardly +be said to have a single pleasure, as you and I reckon pleasures. She just +lies there in that poky room waiting for death, always absolutely patient +and affectionate and sweet-tempered, grateful for everything, never saying +a hard or cross word. Well, I go to see her sometimes--not as often as I +ought. She shakes hands with that old knotted-looking hand of hers which +has grown soft enough now after its endless labours. She talks a +little--she is interested in all the news, she doesn't regret things, or +complain, or think it hard that she can't be out and about. After I have +been with her for two minutes, with her bright old eyes looking at me out +of such a thicket, so to speak, of wrinkles,--her face simply hacked and +seamed by life,--I feel myself in the presence of something very divine +indeed,--a perfectly pure, tender, joyful, human spirit, suffering the last +extremity of discomfort and infirmity, and yet entirely radiant and +undimmed. It is then that I feel inclined to kneel down before God, and +thank Him humbly for having made and shown me so utterly beautiful a thing +as that poor old woman's courage and sweetness. I feel as I suppose the +devout Catholic feels before the reserved Sacrament in the shrine--in the +presence of a divine mystery; and I rejoice silently that God is what He +is, and that I see Him for once unveiled. + +"And then the sight of a happy and contented child, kind and spirited and +affectionate, like little Molly Akers, never making a fuss, or seeming to +want things for herself, or cross, or tiresome--that gives me the same +feeling! Then flowers often give me the same feeling, with their cleanness +and fresh beauty and pure outline and sweet scent--so useless in a way, +often so unregarded, and yet so content just to be what they are, so apart +from every stain and evil passion. + +"And then in the middle of that you see a man like Barlow stumbling home +tipsy to his frightened wife and children, or you read a bad case in the +papers, or a letter from a man of virtue finding fault with everybody and +slinging pious Billingsgate about: or I lose my own temper about something, +and feel I have made a hash of my life--and then I wonder what is the foul +poison that has got into things, and what is the dismal ugliness that seems +smeared all over life, so that the soul seems like a beautiful bird caught +in a slime-pit, and trying to struggle out, with its pinions fouled and +dabbled, wondering miserably what it has done to be so filthily hampered." + +He stopped for a minute, and I could see that his eyes were full of tears. + +"It is no good giving up the game!" he said. "We are in the devil of a +mess, no doubt: and even if we try our best to avoid it, we dip into the +slime sometimes! But we must hold fast to the beautiful things, and be on +the look-out for them everywhere. Not shut our eyes in a rapture of +sentiment, and think that we can: + + "'Walk all day, like the Sultan of old, in a garden + of spice!' + +"That won't do, of course! We can't get out of it like that! But we must +never allow ourselves to doubt the beauty and goodness of God, or make any +mistake about which side He is on. The marvel of dear old Mrs. Chetwynd is +just that beauty has triumphed, in spite of everything. With every kind of +trouble, every temptation to be dispirited and spiteful and wretched, that +fine spirit has got through--and, by George, I envy her the awakening, when +that sweet old soul slips away from the cage where she is caught, and goes +straight to the arms of God!" + +He turned away from me as he said this, and I could see that he struggled +with a sob. Then he looked at me with a smile, and put his arm in mine. +"Old man," he said, "I oughtn't to behave like this--but a day like this, +when the world looks as it was meant to look, and as, please God, it +_will_ look more and more, goes to my heart! I seem to see what God +desires, and what He can't bring about yet, for all His pains. And I want +to help Him, if I can! + + "'We too! We ask no pledge of grace, + No rain of fire, no heaven-hung sign. + Thy need is written on Thy face-- + Take Thou our help, as we take Thine!' + +"That's what I mean by worship--the desire to be _used_ in the service +of a Power that longs to make things pure and happy, with groanings that +cannot be uttered. The worst of some kinds of worship is that they drug you +with a sort of lust for beauty, which makes you afraid to go back and pick +up your spade. We mustn't swoon in happiness or delight, but if we say +'Take me, use me, let me help!' it is different, because we want to share +whatever is given us, to hand it on, not to pile it up. Of course it's +little enough that we can do: but think of old Mrs. Chetwynd again--what +has she to give? Yet it is more than Solomon in all his beauty had to +offer. We must be simple, we mustn't be ambitious. Do you remember the old +statesman who, praising a disinterested man, said that he was that rare and +singular type of man who did public work for the sake of the public? That's +what I want you to do--that is what a writer can do. He can remind the +world of beauty and simplicity and purity. He can be 'a messenger, an +interpreter, one among a thousand, _to show unto man his +uprightness_!' That's what you have got to do, old boy! Don't show unto +man his nastiness--don't show him up! Keep on reminding him of what he +really is or can be." + +He went on after a moment. "I ought not to talk like this," he said, +"because I have failed all along the line. 'I put in my thumb and pull out +a plum,' like Jack Homer. I try a little to hand it on, but it is awfully +nice, you know, that plum! I don't pretend it isn't." + +"Why, Father," I said, much moved at his kind sincerity, "I don't know +anyone in the world who eats fewer of his plums than you!" + +"Ah, that's a friendly word!" said Father Payne. "But you can't count the +plum-stones on my plate." + +We did not say much after this. We walked back in the summer twilight, and +my mind began to stir and soar, as indeed it often did when Father Payne +showed me his heart in all its strength and cleanness. No one whom I ever +met had his power of lighting a flame of pure desire and beautiful +hopefulness, in the fire of which all that was base and mean seemed to +shrivel away. + + + +XLV + +OF A CHANGE OF RELIGION + + +I was walking one day with Father Payne; he said to me, "I have been +reading Newman's _Apologia_ over again--I must have read it a dozen +times! It is surely one of the most beautiful and singular books in the +whole world?--and I think that the strangest sentence in it is this,--'Who +would ever dream of making the world his confidant?' Did Newman, do you +suppose, not realise that he had done that? And what is stranger still, did +he not know that he had told the world, not the trivial things, the little +tastes and fancies which anyone might hear, but the most intimate and +sacred things, which a man would hardly dare to say to God upon his knees. +Newman seems to me in that book to have torn out his beating and +palpitating heart, and set it in a crystal phial for all the world to gaze +upon. And further, did Newman really not know that this was what he always +desired to do and mostly did--to confide in the world, to tell his story as +a child might tell it to a mother? It is clear to me that Newman was a man +who did not only desire to be loved by a few friends, but wished everybody +to love him. I will not say that he was never happy till he had told his +tale, and I will not say that artist-like he loved applause: but he did +_not_ wish to be hidden, and he earnestly desired to be approved. He +craved to be allowed to say what he thought--it is pathetic to hear him say +so often how 'fierce' he was--and yet he hated suspicion and hostility and +misunderstanding: and though he loved a refined sort of quiet, he even more +loved, I think, to be the centre of a fuss! I feel little doubt in my own +mind that, even when he was living most retired, he wished people to be +curious about what he was doing. He was one of those men who felt he had a +special mission, a prophetical function. He was a dramatic creature, a +performer, you know. He read the lessons like an actor: he preached like an +actor; he was intensely self-conscious. Naturally enough! If you feel like +a prophet, the one sign of failure is that your audience melts away." + +Father Payne paused a moment, lost in thought. + +"But," I said, "do you mean that Newman calculated all his effects?" + +"Oh, not deliberately," said Father Payne, "but he was an artist pure and +simple--he was never less by himself than when he was alone, as the old +Provost of Oriel said of him. He lived dramatically by a kind of instinct. +The unselfconscious man goes his own way, and does not bother his head +about other people: but Newman was not like that. When he was reading, it +was always like the portrait of a student reading. That's the artist's +way--he is always living in a sort of picture-frame. Why, you can see from +the _Apologia_, which he wrote in a few weeks, and often, as he once +said, in tears, how tenderly and eagerly he remembered all he had ever done +or thought. His descriptions of himself are always romantic: he lived in +memories, like all poets." + +"But that gives one a disagreeable sense of unreality--of pose," I said. + +"Ah, but that's very short-sighted," said Father Payne. "Newman's was a +beautiful spirit--wonderfully tender-hearted, self-restrained, gentle, +sensitive, beauty-loving. He loved beauty as much as any man who ever +lived--beautiful conduct, beautiful life--and then his gift of expression! +There's a marvellous thing. It's pure poetry, most of the _Apologia_: +look at the way he flashes into metaphor, at his exquisite pictures of +persons, at his irony, his courtesy, his humour, his pathos. He and Ruskin +knew exactly how to confide in the world, how to humiliate themselves +gracefully in public, how to laugh at themselves, how to be gay--it's all +so well-bred, so delicate! Depend upon it, that's the way to make the world +love you--to tell it all about yourself like a charming child, without any +boasting or bragging. The world is awfully stupid! It adores well-bred +egotism. We are all deeply inquisitive about _people_; and if you can +reveal yourself without vanity, and are a lovable creature, the world will +overwhelm you with love. You can't pay the world a greater compliment than +to open your heart to it. You must not bore it, of course, nor must you +seem to be demanding its applause. You must just seem to be in need of +sympathy and comfort. You must be a little sad, a little tired, a little +bewildered. I don't say that is easy to do, and a man must not set out to +do it. But if a man has got something childlike and innocent about him, and +a naïve way with him, the world will take him to its heart. The world loves +to pity, to compassionate, to sympathise, much more than it loves to +admire." + +"But what about the religious side of it all?" I said. + +"Ah," said Father Payne, "I think that is more touching still. The people +who change their religion, as it is called,--there is something extremely +captivating about them as a rule. To want to change your form of religion +simply means that you are unhappy and uneasy. You want more beauty, or more +assurance, or more sympathy, or more antiquity. Have you never noticed how +all converts personify their new Church in feminine terms? She becomes a +Madonna, something at once motherly and young. It is the passion with which +the child turns away from what is male and rough, to the mother, the nurse, +the elder sister. The convert isn't really in search of dogmas and +doctrines: he is in love with a presence, a shape, something which can +clasp and embrace and love him. I don't feel any real doubt of that. The +man who turns away to some other form of faith wants a home. He sees the +ugliness, the spite, the malice, the contentiousness of his own Church. He +loathes the hardness and uncharitableness of it; he is like a boy at school +sick for home. To me Newman's logic is like the effort of a man desperately +constructing a bridge to escape to the other side of the river. The land +beyond is like a landscape seen from a hill, a scene of woods and waters, +of fields and hamlets--everything seems peaceful and idyllic there. He +wants the wings of a dove, to flee away and be at rest. It is the same +feeling which makes people wish to travel. When you travel, the new land is +a spectacular thing--it is all a picture. It is not that you crave to live +in a foreign land: you merely want the luxury of seeing life without living +life. No ordinary person goes to live in Italy because he has studied the +political constitution and organisation of Italy, and prefers it to that of +England. So, too, the charm of a religious conversion is that it doesn't +seem unpatriotic to do it--but you get the feel of a new country without +having to quit your own. And the essence of it is a flight from conditions +which you dread and dislike. Of course Newman does not describe it so--that +is all a part of his guilelessness--he speaks of the shadow of a hand upon +the wall: but I don't doubt that his subconscious mind thrilled with the +sense of a possible escape that way. His heart was converted long before +his mind. What he hated in the English Church was having to decide for +himself--he wanted to lean on something, to put himself inside a +stronghold: he wanted to obey. Some people dislike the way in which he made +himself obey,--the way he argued himself into holding things which were +frankly irrational. But I don't mind that! It is the pleasure of the child +in being told what to do instead of having to amuse itself." + +He was silent for a little, and then he said: "I see it all so clearly, and +yet of course it is in a sense inconceivable to me, because to my mind all +the Churches have got a burden of belief which they can't carry. The Gospel +is simple enough, and it is as much as I can do to live on those lines. +Besides, I don't want to obey--I want to obey as little as I can! The +ecclesiastical and the theological tradition is all a world of shadows to +me. I can't be bound by the pious fancies of men who knew no science, and +very little about evidence of any kind. What I want is just a simple and +beautiful principle of living, such as I feel thrills through the words of +Christ. The Prodigal Son--that's almost enough for me! It is simplification +that I want, and independence. Of course I see that if that isn't what a +man wants, if he requires that something or someone should be infallible, +then he does require a good deal of argument and information and history. +But though I don't object to people who want all that, it isn't what I am +in search of. I want as much strong emotion and as little system as I can +get. By emotion I don't mean sentiment, but real motives for acting or not +acting. I want to hear someone saying, 'Come up hither,' and to see +something in his face which makes me believe he sees something that I don't +see and that I wish to see. I don't feel that with Newman! He is fifty +times better than myself, but I couldn't do the thing in his way, though I +love him with all my heart: it's a quiet sort of brotherhood that I want, +and not too many rules. In fact, it is _laws_ I want, and not +_rules_, and to feel the laws rather than to know them, I can't help +feeling that Newman spent too much of his time in the law-court, pleading +and arguing: and it's stuffy in there! But he will remain for ever one of +those figures whom the world will love, because it can pity him as well as +admire him. Newman goes to one's head, you know, or to one's heart! And I +expect that it was exactly what he wanted to do all the time!" + + + +XLVI + +OF AFFECTION + + +Father Payne, on our walks, invariably stopped and spoke to animals. I will +not say that animals were always fond of him, because that is a privilege +confined to saints, and heroes of romantic legends. But they generally +responded to his advances. It used to amuse me to hear the way he used to +talk to animals. He would stop to whistle to a caged bird: "You like your +little prison, don't you, sweet?" he would say. Or he would apostrophise a +cat, "Well, Ma'am, you must find it wearing to carry on your expeditions +all night, and to live the life of a domestic saint all day?" I asked him +once why he did not keep a dog, when he was so fond of animals. "Oh, I +couldn't," he said; "it is so dreadful when dogs get old and ill, and when +they die! It's sentiment, too; and I can't afford to multiply +emotions--there are too many as it is! Besides, there is something rather +terrible to me about the affection of a dog--it's so unreasonable a +devotion, and I like more critical affections--I prefer to earn affection! +I read somewhere the other day," he went on, "that it might easily be +argued that the dog was a higher flight of nature even than man; that man +has gone ahead in mind and inventiveness; but that the dog is on the whole +the better Christian, because he does by instinct what man fails to do by +intention--he is so sympathetic, so unresentful, so trustful! It is really +amazing, if you come to think of it, the dog's power of attachment to +another species. We must seem very mysterious to dogs, and yet they never +question our right to use them as we will, while nothing shakes their love. +And then there is something wonderful in the way in which the dog, however +old he is, always wants to play. Most animals part with that after their +first youth; but a dog plays, partly for the fun of it, and partly to make +sure that you like his company and are happy. And yet it is a little +undignified to care for people like that, you know!" + +"How ought one to care for people?" I said. + +"Ah, that's a large question," said Father Payne, "the duty of loving--it's +a contradiction in terms! To love people seems the one thing in the world +you cannot do because you ought to do it; and yet to love your neighbour as +yourself can't _only_ mean to behave _as if_ you loved him. And +then, what does caring about people mean? It seems impossible to say. It +isn't that you want anything which they can give you--it isn't that they +need anything you can give them; it isn't always even that you want to see +them. There are people for whom I care who rather bore me; there are people +who care for me who bore me to extinction; and again there are people whose +company I like for whom I don't care. It isn't always by any means that I +admire the people for whom I care. I see their faults, I don't want to +resemble them. Then, too, there have been people for whom I have cared very +much, and wanted to please, who have not cared in the least for me. Some of +the best-loved people in the world seem to have had very little love to +give away! I have a sort of feeling that the people who evoke most +affection are the people who have something of the child always in +them--something petulant, wilful, self-absorbed, claiming sympathy and +attention. It is a certain innocence and freshness that we love, I think; +the quality that seems to say, 'Oh, do make me happy'; and I think that +caring for people generally means just that you would like to make them +happy, or that they have it in their power to make you happy. I think it is +a kind of conspiracy to be happy together, if possible. Probably the +mistake we make is to think it is one definite thing, when a good many +things go to make it up. I have been interested in a very large number of +people--in fact, I am generally interested in people; but I haven't cared +for all of them, while I have cared for a good many people in whom I have +not been at all interested. But it is easier to say what the qualities are +that repel affection, than what the qualities are which attract it. I don't +think any faults prevent it, if people are sorry for their faults and are +sorry to have hurt you. It seems to me impossible to care for spiteful +people, or for the people who turn on you in a sudden anger, and don't want +to be forgiven, but are glad to have made you fear them. I don't care for +people who claim affection as a right, or who bargain for sacrifices. The +bargaining element must be wholly absent from affection. The feeling 'it is +your turn to be nice' is fatal to it. No, I think that it is a feeling that +you can live at peace with the particular person that is the basis of +friendship. The element of reproach must be wholly absent: I don't mean the +element of criticism--that can be impersonal--but the feeling 'you ought +not to behave like this to me.'" + +Father Payne relapsed into silence. "But," I said, "surely the people who +make claims for affection are very often most beloved, even when they are +unjust, inconsiderate, ill-tempered?" + +"By women," said Father Payne, "but not by men--and there's another +difficulty. Men and women mean such utterly different things by affection, +that they can't even discuss it together. Women will do anything for you, +if you claim their help, and make it clear that you need them; they will +love you if you do that. A man, on the other hand, will often do his very +best to help you, if you appeal to him, but he won't care for you, as a +rule, in consequence. Women like emotional surprises, men do not. A man +wants to get done with excitement, and to enter on an easy +partnership--women like the excitement more than the ease. And then it is +all complicated by the admixture of the masculine and feminine +temperaments. As a rule, however, women are interested in moody +temperaments, and men are bored by them. Personally, my own pleasure in +meeting a real friend, or in hearing from a friend, is the pleasure of +feeling 'Yes, you are there, just the same,'--it's the tranquillity that +one values. The possibility of finding a man angry or pettish is unpleasant +to me. I feel 'so all this nonsense has to be cleared away again!' I don't +want to be questioned and scrutinised, with a sense that I am on my trial. +I don't mind an ironical letter, which shows that a friend is fully aware +of my faults and foibles; but it's an end of all friendship with me if I +feel a man is bent on improving me, especially if it is for his own +convenience. I'm sure that the fault-finding element is fatal to affection. +That may sound weak, but I can't be made to feel that I am responsible to +other people. I don't recognise anyone's right to censure me. A man may +criticise me if he likes, but he mustn't impose upon me the duty of living +up to his ideal. I don't believe that even God does that!" + +"I don't understand," I said. + +"Well," said Father Payne, "I don't believe that God says, 'This is my law, +and you must obey it because I choose," I believe He says, 'This is the +law, for Me as well as for you, and you will not be happy till you obey +it,'--Yes, I have got it, I believe--the essence of affection is +_equality_. I don't mean that you may not recognise superiorities in +your friend, and he in you; but they must not come into the question of +affection. Love makes equal, and when there is a real sense of equality, +love can begin." + +"But," I said, "the passion of lovers--isn't that all based on the worship +of something infinitely superior to oneself?" + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but that means a sight of something beyond--of +the thing which we all love--beauty. I don't say that equality is the thing +we love--it's only the condition of loving. The lover can't love, if he +feels himself _really_ unworthy of love. He must believe that at worst +he _can_ be loved, though he may be astonished at being loved; it is +in love that it is possible to meet; it is love that brings beauty within +your reach, or down, to your level. It is beauty that you love in your +friend, not his right to improve you. He is what you want to be; and the +comfort of being loved is the comfort of feeling that there is some touch +of the same beauty in yourself. It is so easy to feel dreary, stupid, +commonplace--and then someone appears, and you see in his glance and talk +that there is, after all, some touch of the same thing in yourself which +you love in him, some touch of the beauty which you love in God. But the +glory of beauty is that it is concerned with being beautiful and becoming +beautiful--not in mocking or despising or finding fault or improving. Love +is the finding your friend beautiful in mind and heart, and the joy of +being loved is the sense that you are beautiful to him--that you are equal +in that! When you once know that, little quarrels and frictions do not +matter--what _does_ matter is the recognising of some ugly thing which +the man whom you thought was your friend really clings to and worships. +Faults do not matter if only the friend is aware of them, and ashamed of +them: it is the self-conscious fault, proud of its power to wound, and +using affection as the channel along which the envenomed stream may flow, +which destroys affection and trust." + +"Then it comes to this," I said, "that affection is a mutual recognition of +beauty and a sense of equality?" + +"It _is_ that, more or less, I believe," said Father Payne. "I don't +mean that friends need be aware of that--you need not philosophise about +your friendships--but if you ask me, as an analyst, what it all consists +in, I believe that those are the essential elements of it--and I believe +that it holds good of the dog-and-man friendship as well!" + + + +XLVII + +OF RESPECT OF PERSONS + + +Father Payne had been out to luncheon one day with some neighbours. He had +groaned over the prospect the day before, and had complained that such +goings-on unsettled him. + +"Well, Father," said Rose at dinner, "so you have got through your ordeal! +Was it very bad?" + +"Bad!" said Father Payne, "why should it be bad? I'm crammed with +impressions--I'm a perfect mine of them." + +"But you didn't like the prospect of going?" said Rose. + +"No," said Father Payne, "I shrank from the strain--you phlegmatic, +aristocratic people,--men-of-the-world, blasés, highly-born and +highly-placed,--have no conception of the strain these things are on a +child of nature. You are used to such things, Rose, no doubt--you do not +anticipate a luncheon-party with a mixture of curiosity and gloom. But it +is good for me to go to such affairs--it is like a waterbreak in a +stream--it aerates and agitates the mind. But _you_ don't realise the +amount of observation I bring to bear on such an event--the strange house, +the unfamiliar food, the new inscrutable people--everything has to be +observed, dealt with, if possible accounted for, and if unaccountable, then +inflexibly faced and recollected. A torrent of impressions has poured in +upon me--to say nothing of the anxious consideration beforehand of topics +of conversation, and modes of investigation! To stay in a new house crushes +me with fatigue--and even a little party like this, which seems, I daresay, +to some of you, a negligible, even a tedious thing, is to me rich in +far-flung experience." + +"Mayn't we have the benefit of some of it?" said Rose. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "you may--you must, indeed! I am grateful to you +for introducing the subject--it is more graceful than if I had simply +divested myself of my impressions unsolicited." + +"What was it all about?" said Rose. + +"Why," said Father Payne, "the answer to that is simple enough--it was to +meet an American! I know that race! Who but an American would have heard of +our little experiment here, and not only wanted to know--they all do +that--but positively arranged to know? Yes, he was a hard-featured man--a +man of wealth, I imagine--from some place, the grotesque and extravagant +name of which I could not even accurately retain, in the State of +Minnesota." + +"Did he want to try a similar experiment?" said Barthrop. + +"He did not," said Father Payne. "I gathered that he had no such +intention--but he desired to investigate ours. He was full of compliments, +of information, even of rhetoric. I have seldom heard a simple case stated +more emphatically, or with such continuous emphasis. My mind simply reeled +before it. He pursued me as a harpooner might pursue a whale. He had the +whole thing out of me in no time. He interrogated me as a corkscrew +interrogates a cork. That consumed the whole of luncheon. I made a poor +show. My experiment, such as it is, stood none of the tests he applied to +it. It appeared to be lacking in all earnestness and zeal. I was painfully +conscious of my lack of earnestness. 'Well, sir,' he said at the conclusion +of my examination-in-chief, 'I seem to detect that this business of yours +is conducted mainly with a view to your own entertainment, and I admit that +it causes me considerable disappointment.' The fact is, my boys," said +Father Payne, surveying the table, "that we must be more conscious of +higher aims here, and we must put them on a more commercial footing!" + +"But that was not all?" said Barthrop. + +"No, it was not all," said Father Payne; "and, to tell you the truth, I was +more alarmed by than interested in the Minnesota merchant. I couldn't state +my case--I failed in that--and I very much doubt if I could have convinced +him that there was anything in it. Indeed, he said that my conceptions of +culture were not as clear-cut as he had hoped." + +"He seems to have been fairly frank," said Rose. + +"He was frank, but not uncivil," said Father Payne. "He did not deride my +absence of definiteness, he only deplored it. But I really got more out of +the subsequent talk. We adjourned to a sort of portico, a pretty place +looking on to a formal garden: it was really very charmingly done--a clever +fake of an, old garden, but with nothing really beautiful about it. It +looked as if no one had ever lived in it, though the illusion of age was +skilfully contrived--old paving-stones, old bricks, old lead vases, but all +looking as if they were shy, and had only been just introduced to each +other. There was no harmony of use about it. But the talk--that was the +amazing thing! Such pleasant intelligent people, nice smiling women, +courteous grizzled men. By Jove, there wasn't a single writer or artist or +musician that they didn't seem to know intimately! It was a literary party, +I gathered: but even so there was a haze of politics and society about +it--vistas of politicians and personages of every kind, all known +intimately, all of them quoted, everything heard and whispered in the +background of events--we had no foregrounds, I can tell you, nothing +second-hand, no concealments or reticences. Everyone in the world worth +knowing seemed to have confided their secrets to that group. It was a +privilege, I can tell you! We simply swam in influences and authenticities. +I seemed to be in the innermost shrine of the world's forces--where they +get the steam up, you know!" + +"But who are these people, after all?" said Rose. + +"My dear Rose!" said Father Payne. "You mustn't destroy my illusions in +that majestic manner! What would I not have given to be able to ask myself +that question! To me they were simply the innermost circle, to whom the +writers and artists of the day told their dreams, and from whom they sought +encouragement and sympathy. That was enough for me. I stored my memory with +anecdotes and noble names, like the man in _Pride and Prejudice_." + +"But what did it all come to?" said Rose. + +"Well," said Father Payne, "to tell you the truth, it didn't amount to very +much! At the time I was dazzled and stupefied--but subsequent reflection +has convinced me that the cooking was better than the food, so to speak." + +"You mean that it was mostly humbug?" said Rose. + +"Well, I wouldn't go quite as far as that," said Father Payne, "but it was +not very nutritive--no, the nutriment was lacking! Come, I'll tell you +frankly what I did think, as I came away. I thought these pretty people +very adventurous, very quick, very friendly. But I don't truly think they +were interested in the real thing at all--only interested in the words of +the wise, and in the unconsidered trifles of the Major Prophets, so to +speak. I didn't think it exactly pretentious--but they obviously only cared +for people of established reputation. They didn't admire the ideas behind, +only the reputations of the people who said the things. They had +undoubtedly seen and heard the great people--I confess it amazed me to +think how easily the men of mark can be exploited--but I did not discern +that they cared about the things represented,--only about the +representatives. The American was different. He, I think, cared about the +ideas, though he cared about them in the wrong way. I mean that he claimed +to find everything distinct, whereas the big things are naturally +indistinct. They loom up in a shadowy way, and the American was examining +them through field-glasses. But my other friends seemed to me to be only +interested in the people who had the entrée, so to speak--the priests of +the shrine. They had noticed everything that doesn't matter about the high +and holy ones--how they looked, spoke, dressed, behaved. It was awfully +clever, some of it; one of the women imitated Legard the essayist down to +the ground--the way he pontificates, you know--but nothing else. They were +simply interested in the great men, and not interested in what make the +great men different from other people, but simply in their resemblance to +other people. Even great people have to eat, you know! Legard himself eats, +though it's a leisurely process; and this woman imitated the way he forked +up a bit, held it till the bit dropped off, and put the empty fork into his +mouth. It was excruciatingly funny--I'll admit that. But they missed the +point, after all. They didn't care about Legard's books a bit--they cared +much more about that funny cameo ring he wears on his tie!" + +"It all seems to me horribly vulgar," said Kaye. + +"No, it was no more vulgar than a dance of gnats," said Father Payne. "They +were all alive, those people. They were just gnats, now I come to think of +it! They had stung all the great men of the day--even drawn a little +blood--and they were intoxicated by it. Mind, I don't say that it is worth +doing, that kind of thing! But they were having their fun--and the only +mistake they made was in thinking they cared about these people for the +right reasons. No, the only really rueful part of the business was the +revelation to me of what the great people can put up with, in the way of +being fêted, and the extent to which they seem able to give themselves away +to these pretty women. It must be enervating, I think, and even exhausting, +to be so pawed and caressed; but it's natural enough, and if it amuses +them, I'm not going to find fault. My only fear is that Legard and the rest +think they are really _living_ with these people. They are not doing +that; they are only being roped in for the fun of the performance. These +charming ladies just ensnare the big people, make them chatter, and then +get together, as they did to-day, and compare the locks of hair they have +snipped from their Samsons. But it isn't a bit malicious--it's simply +childish; and, by Jove, I enjoyed myself tremendously. Now, don't pull a +long face, Kaye! Of course it was very cheap--and I don't say that anyone +ought to enjoy that sort of thing enough to pursue it. But if it comes in +my way, why, it is like a dish of sweetmeats! I don't approve of it, but it +was like a story out of Boccaccio, full of life and zest, even though the +pestilence was at work down in the city. We must not think ill of life too +easily! I don't say that these people are living what is called the highest +life. But, after all, I only saw them amusing themselves. There were some +children about, nice children, sensibly dressed, well-behaved, full of go, +and yet properly drilled. These women are good wives and good mothers; and +I expect they have both spirit and tenderness, when either is wanted. I'm +not going to bemoan their light-mindedness; at all events, I thought it was +very pleasant, and they were very good to me. They saw I wasn't a +first-hander or a thoroughbred, and they made it easy for me. No, it was a +happy time for me--and, by George, how they fed us! I expect the women +looked after all that. I daresay that, as far as economics go, it was all +wrong, and that these people are only a sort of scum on the surface of +society. But it is a pretty scum, shot with bright colours. Anyhow, it is +no good beginning by trying to alter _them_! If you could alter +everything else, they would fall into line, because they are good-humoured +and sensible. And as long as people are kindly and full of life, I shall +not complain; I would rather have that than a dreary high-mindedness." + +Father Payne rose. "Oh, do go on, Father!" said someone. + +"No, my boy," said Father Payne, "I'm boiling over with impressions--rooms, +carpets, china, flowers, ladies' dresses! But that must all settle down a +bit. In a few days I'll interrogate my memory, like Wordsworth, and see if +there is anything of permanent worth there!" + + + +XLVIII + +OF AMBIGUITY + + +Father Payne had been listening to some work of mine: and he said at the +end, "That is graceful enough, and rather attractive--but it has a great +fault: it is sometimes ambiguous. Several of your sentences can have more +than one meaning. I remember once at Oxford," he said, smiling, "that +Collins, one of our lecturers, had been going through a translation-paper +with me, and had told me three quite distinct ways of rendering a sentence, +each backed by a great scholar. I asked him, I remember, whether that meant +that the original writer--it was Livy, I think--had been in any doubt as to +what his words were meant to convey. He laughed, and said, 'No, I don't +imagine that Livy intended to make his meaning obscure. I expect, if we +took the passage to him with the three renderings, he would deride at least +two of them, and possibly all three, and would point out that we simply did +not know the usage of some word or phrase which would have been absolutely +clear to a contemporary reader,' But Collins went on to say that there +might also be a real ambiguity about the passage: and then he quoted the +supposed remark of the bishop who declined to wear gaiters, and said, 'I +shall wear no clothes to distinguish myself from my fellow-Christians.' +This was printed in his biography, 'I shall wear no clothes, to distinguish +myself from my fellow-Christians.' 'That sentence may be fairly called +ambiguous,' Collins said, 'when its sense so much depends upon +punctuation.' + +"Now," Father Payne went on, "you must remember, in writing, that you write +for the eye, you don't write for the ear. A book isn't primarily meant to +be read aloud: and you mustn't resort to tricks of emphasis, such as +italics and so forth, which can only be rendered by voice-inflections. It +is your first duty to be absolutely clear and limpid. You mustn't write +long involved sentences which necessitate the mind holding in solution a +lot of qualifying clauses. You must break up your sentences, and even +repeat yourself rather than be confused. There is no beauty of style like +perfect clearness, and in all writing mystification is a fault. You ought +never to make your reader turn back to the page before to see what you are +driving at." + +"But surely," I said, "there are great writers like Carlyle and George +Meredith, for instance, who have been difficult to understand." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but that's a fault, though it may be a +magnificent fault. It may mean such a pressure of ideas and images that the +thing can hardly be written at length--and it may give you a sense of +exuberant greatness. You may have to forgive a great writer his +exuberance--you may even have to forgive him the trouble it costs to +penetrate his exact thoughts, for the sake of steeping yourself in the rush +and splendour of the style. But obscurity isn't a thing to aim at for +anyone who is trying to write; it may be, in the case of a great writer, a +sort of vociferousness which intoxicates you: and the man may convey a kind +of inspiration by his very obscurities. But it must be an impulse which +simply overpowers him--it mustn't be an effect deliberately planned. You +may perhaps feel the bigness of the thought all the more in the presence of +a writer who, for all his power, can't confine the stream, and comes down +in a cataract of words. But if you begin trying for an effect, it is like +splashing about in a pool to make people believe it is a rushing river. The +movement mustn't be your own contortions, but the speed of the stream. If +you want to see the bad side of obscurity, look at Browning. The idea is +often a very simple one when you get at it; it's only obscure because it is +conveyed by hints and jerks and nudges. In _Pickwick_, for instance, +one does not read Jingle's remarks for the underlying thought--only for the +pleasure of seeing how he leaps from stepping-stone to stepping-stone. You +mustn't confuse the pleasure of unravelling thought with the pleasure of +thought. If you can make yourself so attractive to your readers that they +love your explosions and collisions, and say with a half-compassionate +delight--'how characteristic--but it _is_ worth while unravelling!' +you have achieved a certain success. But the chance is that future ages +won't trouble you much. Disentangling obscurities isn't bad fun for +contemporaries, who know by instinct the nuances of words; but it becomes +simply a bore a century later, when people are not interested in old +nuances, but simply want to know what you thought. Only scholars love +obscurity--but then they are detectives, and not readers." + +"But isn't it possible to be too obvious?" I said--"to get a namby-pamby +way of writing--what a reviewer calls painfully kind?" + +"Well, of course, the thought must be tough," said Father Payne, "but it's +your duty to make a tough thought digestible, not to make an easy thought +tough. No, my boy, you may depend upon it that, if you want people to +attend to you, you must be intelligible. Don't, for God's sake, think that +Carlyle or Meredith or Browning _meant_ to be unintelligible, or even +thought they were being unintelligible. They were only thinking too +concisely or too rapidly for the reader. But don't you try to produce that +sort of illusion. Try to say things like Newman or Ruskin--big, beautiful, +profound, delicate things, with an almost childlike naïveté. That is the +most exquisite kind of charm, when you find that half-a-dozen of the +simplest words in the language have expressed a thought which holds you +spell-bound with its truth and loveliness. That is what lasts. People want +to be fed, not to be drugged: That, I believe, is the real difference +between romance and realism, and I am one of those who gratefully believe +that romance has had its day. We want the romance that comes from realism, +not the romance which comes by neglecting it. But that's another subject." + + + +XLIX + +OF BELIEF + + +"I don't think there is a single word in the English language," said Father +Payne, "which is responsible for such unhappiness as the word 'believe.' It +is used with a dozen shades of intensity by people; and yet it is the one +word which is always being used in theological argument, and which, like +the ungodly, 'is a sword of thine.'" + +"I always mean the same thing by it, I believe!" I said. + +"Excuse me," said Father Payne, "but if you will take observations of your +talk, you will find you do not. At any rate, _I_ do not, and I am more +careful about the words I use than many people. If I have a heated argument +with a man, and think he takes up a perverse or eccentric opinion, I am +quite capable of saying of him, 'I believe he must be crazy.' Now such a +sentence to a foreigner would carry the evidence of a deep and clear +conviction; but, as I say it, it doesn't really express the faintest +suspicion of my opponent's sanity--it means little more than that I don't +agree with him; and yet when I say, 'If there is one thing that I do +believe, it is in the actual existence of evil,' it means a slowly +accumulated and almost unalterable opinion. In the Creed, one uses the word +'believe' as the nearest that conviction can come to knowledge, short of +indisputable evidence; and some people go further still, and use it as if +it meant an almost higher sort of knowledge. The real meaning is just what +Tennyson said, + + "'Believing where we cannot prove,' + +where it signifies a conviction which we cannot actually test, but on which +we are content to act." + +"But," I said, "if I say to a friend--'You are a real sceptic--you seem to +me to believe nothing,' I mean to imply something almost cynical." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "you mean that he has no enthusiasm or ideals, +and holds nothing sacred, because those are just the convictions which +cannot be proved." + +"Some people," I said, "seem to me simply to mean by the word 'believe' +that they hold an opinion in such a way that they would be upset if it +turned out to be untrue." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "it is the intrusion of the nasty personal +element which spoils the word. Belief ought to be a very impersonal thing. +It ought simply to mean a convergence of your own experience on a certain +result; but most people are quite as much annoyed at your disbelieving a +thing which they _believe_, as at your disbelieving a thing which they +_know_. You ought never to be annoyed at people not accepting your +conclusions, and still less when your conclusion is partly intuition, and +does not depend upon evidence. This is the sort of scale I have in my +mind--'practically certain, probable, possible, unproved, unprovable.' Now, +I am so far sceptical that, apart from practical certainties, which are +just the convergence of all normal experience, the fact that any one person +or any number of persons believed a thing would not affect my own faith in +it, unless I felt sure that the people who believed it were fully as +sceptical as and more clear-headed than myself, and had really gone into +the evidence. But even so, as I said, the things most worth believing are +the things that can't be proved by any evidence." + +"What sort of things do you mean?" I said. + +"Well, a thing like the existence of God," said Father Payne; "that at best +is only a generalisation from an immense range of facts, and a special +interpretation of them. But the amazing thing in the world is the vast +number of people who are content to believe important things on hearsay, +because, on the whole, they love or trust the people who teach them. The +word 'believing,' when I use it, doesn't mean that a good man says it, and +that I can't disprove it, but a sort of vital assent, so that I can act +upon the belief almost as if I knew it. It means for me some sort of +personal experience, I could not love or hate a man on hearsay, just +because people whom I loved or trusted said that they either loved or hated +him. I might be so far biassed that I should meet him expecting to find him +either lovable or hateful, but I could not adopt a personal emotion on +hearsay--that must be the result of a personal experience; and yet the +adoption of a personal emotion on hearsay is just what most people seem to +me to be able to do. I might believe that a man had done good or bad things +on hearsay: but I could have no feeling about him unless I had seen him. I +could not either love or hate a historical personage: the most I could do +would be to like or dislike all stories told about him so much that I could +wish to have met him or not to have met him." + +"Isn't it a question of imagination?" I said. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "and most ordinary religious belief is simply an +imaginative personification: but that is a childish affair, not a +reasonable affair: and that is why most religious teachers praise what they +call a childlike faith, but what is really a childish faith. I don't +honestly think that our religious beliefs ought to be a dog-like kind of +fidelity, unresentful, unquestioning, undignified confidence. The love of +Bill Sikes' terrier for Bill Sikes doesn't make Bill Sikes an admirable or +lovable man: it only proves his terrier a credulous terrier. The only +reason why we admire such a faith is because it is pleasant and convenient +to be blindly trusted, and to feel that we can behave as badly as we like +without alienating that sort of trust. I have sometimes thought that the +deepest anguish of God must lie in His being loved and trusted by people to +whom He has been unable so far to show Himself a loving and careful Father. +I don't believe God can wish us to love Him in an unreasonable way--I mean +by simply overlooking the bad side of things. A man, let us say, with some +hideous inherited disease or vice ought not to love God, unless he can be +sure that God has not made him the helpless victim of disease or vice." + +"But may the victim not have a faith in God through and in spite of a +disease or a vice?" I said. + +"Yes, if he really faces the fact of the evil," said Father Payne; "but he +must not believe in a muddled sort of way, with a sort of abject timidity, +that God may have brought about his weakness or his degradation. He ought +to be quite clear that God wishes him to be free and happy and strong, and +grieves, like Himself, over the miserable limitation. He must have no sort +of doubt that God wishes him to be healthy or clean-minded. Then he can +pray, he can strive for patience, he can fight his fault: he can't do it, +if he really thinks that God allowed him to be born with this horror in his +blood. If God could have avoided evil--I don't mean the sharp sorrows and +trials which have a noble thing behind them, but the ailments of body or +soul that simply debase and degrade--if He could have done without evil, +but let it creep in, then it seems to me a hopeless business, trying to +believe in God's power or His goodness. I believe in the reality of evil, +and I believe too in God with all my heart and soul. But I stand with God +against evil: I don't stand facing God, and not knowing on which side He is +fighting. Everything may not be evil which I think evil: but there are some +sorts of evil--cruelty, selfish lust, spite, hatred, which I believe that +God detests as much as and far more than I detest them. That is what I mean +by a belief, a conviction which I cannot prove, but on which I can and do +act." + +"But am I justified in not sharing that belief?" I said. + +"Yes," said Father Payne; "if you, in the light of your experience, think +otherwise, you need not believe it--you cannot believe it! But it is the +only interpretation of the facts which sets me free to love God, which I do +not only with heart and soul, but with mind and strength. If I could +believe that God had ever tampered with what I feel to be evil, ever +permitted it to exist, ever condoned it, I could fear Him--I should fear +Him with a ghastly fear--but I could not believe in Him, or love Him as I +do." + + + +L + +OF HONOUR + + +"No, I couldn't do that," said Lestrange to Barthrop, in one of those +unhappy little silences which so often seemed to lie in wait for +Lestrange's most platitudinal utterances. "It wouldn't be consistent with a +sense of honour." + +Father Payne gave a chuckle, and Lestrange looked pained, "Oughtn't one to +have a code of honour?" he said. + +"Why, certainly!" said Father Payne, "but you mustn't impose your code on +other people. You mustn't take for granted that your idea of honour means +the same thing to everyone. Suppose you lost money at cards, and called it +a debt of honour, and thought it dishonourable not to pay it; while at the +same time you didn't think it dishonourable not to pay a poor tradesman +whose goods you had ordered and consumed, am I bound to accept your code of +honour?" + +"But there _is_ a difference there," said Rose, "because the man to +whom you owe a gambling debt can't recover it by law, while a tradesman +can. All that a debt of honour means is that you feel bound to pay it, +though you are not legally compelled to do so." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "that is so, in a sense, I admit. But still, one +mustn't shelter oneself behind big words unless one is certain that they +mean exactly the same to one's opponent. When I was at school there was a +master who used to be fond, as he said, of putting the boys on their +honour: but he never asked if we accepted the obligation. If I say, 'I give +you my honour not to do a thing,' then I can be called dishonourable if I +don't do it; but you can't put me on my honour unless I consent." + +"But surely honour means something quite definite?" said Lestrange. + +"Tell me what it is, then," said Father Payne. "Rose, you seem to have +ideas on the subject. What do you mean by honour?" + +"Isn't it one of the ultimate things," said Rose, "which can't be defined, +but which everyone recognises--like blue and green, let me say, or sweet +and bitter?" + +"No," said Father Payne; "at least I don't think so. It seems to me rather +an artificial thing, because it varies at different dates. It used, not so +long ago, to be considered an affair of honour to fight a duel with a man +if he threw a glass of wine in your face. And what do you make of the old +proverb, 'All is fair in love and war'? That seems to mean that honour is +not a universal obligation. Then there's the phrase, 'Honour among +thieves,' which isn't a very exalted one; or the curious thing, schoolboy +honour, which dictates that a boy may know that another boy is being +disgracefully and cruelly bullied, and yet is prevented by his sense of +honour from telling a master about it. I admit that honour is a fine idea; +but it seems to me to cover a lot of things in human nature which are very +bad indeed. It may mean only a sort of prudential arrangement which binds a +set of people together for a bad purpose, because they do not choose to be +interfered with, and yet call the thing honour for the sake of the +associations." + +"Yes, I don't think it is necessarily a moral thing," said Rose, "but that +doesn't seem to me to matter. It is simply an obligation, pledged or +implied, that you will act in a certain way. It may conflict with a moral +obligation, and then you have to decide which is the greater obligation." + +"Yes, that is perfectly true," said Father Payne, "and as long as you admit +that honour isn't in itself bound to be a good thing, that is all I want. +Lestrange seemed to use it as if you had only got to say that a motive was +honourable, to have it recognised by everyone as right. Take the case of +what are called 'national obligations.' A certain party in the State, +having secured a majority of votes, enters into some arrangement--a treaty, +let us say--without consulting the nation. Is that held to be for ever +binding on a nation till it is formally repealed? Is it dishonourable for a +citizen belonging, let us say, to the minority which is not represented by +the particular Government which makes the treaty, to repudiate it?" + +"Yes, I think it may be fairly called dishonourable," said Rose; "there is +an obligation on a citizen to back up his Government." + +"Then I should feel that honour is a very complicated thing," said Father +Payne. "If a citizen thinks a treaty dishonourable, and if it is also +dishonourable for him to repudiate it, it seems to me he is dishonourable +whatever he does. He is obliged to consent for the sake of honour to a +dishonourable thing being done. It seems to me perilously like a director +of a firm having to condone fraudulent practices, because it is +dishonourable to give his fellow-directors away. It is this conflict +between individual honour and public honour which puzzles me, and which +makes me feel that honour isn't a simple thing at all. A high conception of +private honour seems to me a very fine thing indeed. I mean by it a +profound hatred of anything false or cowardly or perfidious, and a loathing +of anything insincere or treacherous. That sort of proud and stainless +chivalry seems to me to be about the brightest thing we can discern, and +the furthest beauty we can recognise. But honour seems also, according to +you, to be a principle to which you can be committed by a majority of +votes, whether you approve of it or not; and then it seems to me a merely +detestable thing, if you can be bound by honour to acquiesce in something +which you honestly believe to be base. It seems to me a case of what +Tennyson describes: + + "'His honour rooted in dishonour stood, + And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.'" + +"But surely social obligations must often conflict with private beliefs," +said Rose. "A nation or a society has got to act collectively, and a +minority must be over-ridden." + +"I quite agree," said Father Payne, "but why mix up honour with it at all? +I don't object to a man who conscientiously dissents to some national move +being told that he must lump it. But if he is called dishonourable for +dissenting, then honour does not seem to me to be a real word at all, but +only a term of abuse for a man who objects to some concerted plan. You +can't make a dishonest thing honest because a majority choose to do it--at +least I do not believe that morality is purely a matter of majorities, or +that the dishonour of one century can become the honour of the next. I am +inclined to believe just the opposite. I believe that the man who has so +sensitive a conscience about what is honourable or not, that he is called a +Quixotic fool by his contemporaries, is far more likely to be right than +the coarser majority who only see that a certain course is expedient. I +should believe that he saw some truth of morality clearly which the rougher +sort of minds did not see. The saint--call him what you like--is only the +man who stands higher up, and sees the sunrise before the people who stand +lower down." + +"But everyone has a right to his own sense of honour," said Rose. + +"Certainly," said Father Payne, "but you must be certain that a man's sense +of honour is lower than your own before you call him dishonourable for +differing from you. If a man is less scrupulous than myself, I may think +him dishonourable, if I also think that he knows better. But what I do not +think that any of us has a right to do is to call a man dishonourable if he +has more scruples than oneself. He may be over-scrupulous, but the chances +are that any man who sacrifices his convenience to a scruple has a higher +sense of honour than the man who throws over a scruple for the sake of his +convenience. That is why I think honour is a dangerous word to play with, +because it is so often used to frighten people who don't fall in with what +is for the convenience of a gang." + +"But surely," said Rose, "morality is after all only a word for what +society agrees to consider moral." + +"Yes, in a sense that is so," said Father Payne; "it is only a word to +express a phenomenon. But I believe that morality is a real thing, for all +that; and that our conceptions of it get clearer, as the world goes on. It +is something outside of us--a law of nature if you like--which we are +learning; not merely a thing which we invent for our convenience. +But that is too big a business to go into now." + + + +LI + +OF WORK + + +I cannot remember now what public man it was who had died of a breakdown +from overwork, but I heard Father Payne say, after dinner, referring to the +event, "I wish it to be clearly understood that I think a man who dies of +deliberate or reckless overwork is a victim of self-indulgence. It is +nothing more or less than giving way to a passion. I am as sure as I can be +of anything," he went on, "that a thousand years hence that will be +recognised by human beings, and that they will feel it to be as shameful +for a man to die of spontaneous overwork as for him to die of drink or +gluttony or any other vice. I don't of course mean," he added, "the cases +of men who have had some definite and critical job to carry through, and +have decided that the risk is worth running. A man has always the right to +risk his life for a definite aim--but I mean the men--you can see it in +biographies, and the worst of it is that they are often the biographies of +clergymen--who, in spite of physical warnings, and entreaties from their +friends, and definite statements by their doctors that they are shortening +their lives by labour, still cannot stop, or, if they stop, begin again too +soon. No man has any right to think his work so important as that--to take +unimportant things too seriously is the worst sort of frivolity." + +"But isn't it the finer kind of people," said Kaye, "who make the mistake?" + +"Yes, of course," said Father Payne, "but so, too, if you look into it, you +will too often find that it is the finer kinds of imaginative people who +take to drink and drugs. I remember," he added, "once going to see a poor +friend of mine in an asylum, and the old doctor at the head of it said, 'It +isn't the stupid people who come here, Mr. Payne; it is the clever +people!'" + +"But does not your principle about the right to risk one's life hold good +here too?" said Barthrop. + +"No, I think not," said Father Payne. "A man may choose to try a dangerous +thing, climb a mountain, explore a perilous country, go up in a balloon, +where an element of risk is inseparable from the experiment; but ordinary +work isn't risky in itself. Why," he added, "I was reading a book the other +day, the life of Fitzherbert, you know, who was a man of prodigious +laboriousness, who died early, worn out. He had an impossible standard of +perfection. If he had to write an article, he read all the literature on +the subject over and over; he wrote and re-wrote his stuff. There was a +case quoted in the book, as if it were to Fitzherbert's credit, when he had +to send in an article by a certain date--just a _Quarterly_ article. +It had to go in on the Friday. He had finished it on the Monday before, +when his mind misgave him. He destroyed the article, began again, sate up +all Monday night and all Wednesday night, and wrote the whole thing afresh. +He was laid up for a month after it. That is simply the act of an +unbalanced mind." + +"I can't help feeling that there is something fine about it," said Vincent. + +"There is always something fine about unreasonable things," said Father +Payne, "or in a man making a sacrifice for an idea. But there is an entire +lack of proportion about this performance; and if Fitzherbert thought his +work so valuable as that, then he ought to have reflected that he was +simply limiting his future output by this reckless expenditure of force. +But the whole case was a sad one--Fitzherbert worked in a ghastly way as a +boy and as a young man. He had a very broad outlook, he was interested in +everything; and when he was at Oxford, he told a friend that he was +discovering a hundred subjects on which he hoped to have a say. Well, then, +the middle part of his life was spent in preparing himself, under the same +sort of pressure, to entitle himself to have his say: and then came his +first bad break-down--and the end of his life, which was a wretched period, +was spent in finding elaborate reasons why he should not commit himself to +any opinion whatever. If he was asked his opinion, he always said he had +not studied the subject adequately. That seems to me the life of a man +suffering from a sort of nightmare. Things are not so deep as all that--at +least, if no one is to give an opinion on any point until he has mastered +the whole sum of human opinion on the point, then we shall never make any +progress at all. I remember Fitzherbert's strong condemnation of Ruskin, +for giving his opinion cursorily on all subjects of importance. Yet Ruskin +did a greater work than Fitzherbert, because he at least made people think, +while Fitzherbert only prevented them from daring to think. I don't mean +that people ought to feel competent to express an opinion on +everything--yet even that habit cures itself, because, if you do it, no one +pays any attention. But if a man has gone into a subject with decent care, +or if he has reflected upon problems of which the data are fairly well +known, I think there is every reason why he should give an opinion. It is +very easy to be too conscientious. There are plenty of fine hints of +opinions in Fitzherbert's letters. You could make a very good book of +_Pensées_ out of them--he had a clear, forcible, and original mind; +but he did not dare to say what he thought; and you may remember that if he +was ever sharply criticised, he felt it deeply, as a sort of imputation of +dishonesty. A man must not go down before criticism like that." + +"But everyone must do their work in their own way?" said I. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but Fitzherbert ended by doing nothing--he only +snubbed and silenced his own fine mind, by giving way to this unholy +passion for examining things. No, I want you fellows to have common-sense +about these matters. There is a great deal too much sanctity attached to +print. The written word--there's a dark superstition about it! A man has as +much right to write as he has to talk. He may say to the world, to his +unseen and unknown friends in it, whatever he may say to his intimates. You +should write just as you could talk to any gentleman, with the same +courtesy and frankness. Of course you must run the risk of your book +falling into the hands of ill-bred people--that can't be helped--and of +course you must not pretend that your book is the result of deep and +copious labour, if it is nothing of the kind. But heart-breaking toil is +not the only qualification for speaking. There are plenty of complicated +little topics--all the problems which arise from the combination of +individuals into societies--which people ought to think about, and which +are really everyone's concern. The interplay, I mean, of human +relations--the moral, religious, social, intellectual ideas--which have all +got to be co-ordinated. A man does not need immense knowledge for that; in +fact if he studies the history of such things too deeply, he is often apt +to forget that old interpreters of such things had not got all the present +data. There is an immense future before writers who will interest people in +and familiarise them with ideas. Some people get absorbed in life in the +wrong way, just bent on acquisition and comfort--some people, again, live +as if they were staying in somebody else's house--but what you want to +induce men and women to do is to realise the sort of thing that life really +is, and to attempt to put it in some kind of proportion. The mischief done +by men like Fitzherbert, who was fond of snapping at people who produced +ideas for inspection, is that ordinary people get to confuse wisdom with +knowledge; and that won't do! And so the man who sets to work like +Fitzherbert loses his alertness and his observation, with the result that +instead of bringing a very fresh and incisive mind to bear on life, he +loses his way in books, and falls a victim to the awful passion for feeling +able to despise other people's opinions." + +"But isn't it possible," said Vincent, "for a man to get the best out of +life for himself by a sort of passion for exact knowledge--like the man in +the Grammarian's funeral, I mean?" + +"Personally," said Father Payne, "I always think that Browning did a lot of +harm by that poem. He was glorifying a real vice, I think. If the +Grammarian had said to himself, 'There is all this nasty work to be done by +someone; I can do it, and I can save other people having to waste their +time over it, by doing it once and for all,' it would have been different. +But I think he was partly indulging a poor sort of vanity by just +determining to know what no other man knew. The point of work is twofold. +It is partly good for the worker, to tranquillise his life and to reduce it +to a certain order and discipline; but you mustn't do it only for the sake +of your own tranquillity, any more than the artist must work for the sake +of luxuriating in his own emotions. You must have something to give away: +you must have some idea of combination, of helping other people to find +each other and to understand each other. It is vicious to isolate yourself +for your own satisfaction. Fitzherbert and the Grammarian were really +misers. They just accumulated, and enjoyed the pleasure of having their own +minds clear. That doesn't seem to me in itself to be a fine thing at all. +It is simply the oldest of temptations, 'Ye shall be as gods, knowing good +and evil.' That is the danger of the critical mind, that it says, 'I will +know within myself what is good,' The only excuse for the critical mind is +to help people not to be taken in by what is bad. It is better to be like +Plato and Ruskin, to make mistakes, to have prejudices, to be unfair, even +to be silly, because at least you encourage people to think that life is +interesting--and that is about as much as any of us can do." + + + +LII + +OF COMPANIONSHIP + + +"Isn't it rather odd," said someone to Father Payne after dinner, "that +great men have as a rule rather preferred the company of their inferiors to +the company of their equals?" + +"I don't know," said Father Payne; "I think it's rather natural! By Jove, I +know that a very little of the society of a really superior person goes a +very long way with me. No, I think it is what one would expect. When the +great man is at work, he is on the strain and doing the lofty business for +all he is worth; when he is at leisure, he doesn't want any more strain--he +has done his full share." + +"But take the big groups," said someone, "like the Wordsworth set, or the +pre-Raphaelite set--or take any of the great biographies--the big men of +any time seem always to have been mutual friends and correspondents. You +have letters to and from Ruskin from and to all the great men of his day." + +"Letters, yes!" said Father Payne; "of course the great men know each +other, and respect each other; but they don't tend to coagulate. They +relish an occasional meeting and an occasional letter, and they say how +deeply they regret not seeing more of each other--but they tend to seek the +repose of their own less exalted circle. The man who has fine ideas prefers +his own disciples to the men who have got a different set of fine ideas. +That is natural enough! You want to impart the ideas you believe in--you +don't want to argue about them, or to have them knocked out of your hand. +Depend upon it, the society of an intelligent person, who can understand +you enough to stimulate you, and who is grateful for your talk, is much +pleasanter, and indeed more fruitful, than the society of a man who is +fully as intelligent as yourself, and thinks some of your conclusions to be +rot!" + +"But doesn't all that encourage people to be prophets?" Vincent said. "One +of the depressing things about great men is that they grow to consider +themselves a sort of special providence--the originators of great ideas +rather than the interpreters." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "of course the little coteries and courts of +great men are rather repulsive. But the best people don't do that. They +live contentedly in a circle which combines with its admiration for the +hero a comfortable feeling that, if other people knew what they know, they +wouldn't feel genius to be quite so extraordinary as is commonly believed. +And we must remember, too, that most great men seem greater afterwards than +they did at the time. More of a treat and a privilege, I mean." + +"Do you think one ought to try to catch a sight of great men who are +contemporaries?" said I. + +"Yes, a sight, I think," said Father Payne. "It's a pleasant thing to +realise how your big man sits and looks and talks, what his house is like, +and so forth. I have often rather regretted I haven't had the curiosity to +get a sight of the giants. It helps you to understand them. I remember a +pleasant old gentleman, Vinter by name, who lived in London. Vinter the +novelist was his son. When young Vinter became famous for a bit, and people +wanted to know him, old Vinter made a glorious rule. He told his son that +he might invite any well-known person he liked to the house, to luncheon or +dinner--but that unless he made a special exception in any one's favour, +they were not to be invited again. There's a fine old Epicurean! He liked +to realise what the bosses looked like, but he wasn't going to be bothered +by having to talk respectfully to them time after time." + +"But that's rather tame," said Vincent. "The point surely would be to get +to know a big man well." + +"Why, yes," said Father Payne, "but Vinter was a wise _old_ man; now I +should say to any _young_ man who had a chance of really having a +friendship with a great man, 'Of course, take it and thank your stars!' But +I shouldn't advise any young man to make a collection of celebrities, or to +go about hunting them. In fact I think for an original young man, it is apt +to be rather dangerous to have a real friendship with a great man. There's +a danger of being diverted from your own line, and of being drawn into +imitative worship. A very moderate use of great men in person should +suffice anyone. Your real friends ought to be people with whom you are +entirely at ease, not people whom you reverence and defer to. It's better +to learn to bark than to wag your tail. I don't think the big men +themselves often begin by being disciples." + +"Then who _is_ worth seeing?" said Vincent. "There must be somebody!" + +"Why, to be frank," said Father Payne, "agreeable men like me, who haven't +got too much authority, and are not surrounded by glory and worship! I'm +interested in most things, and have learnt more or less how to talk--you +look out for ingenious and kindly elderly men, who haven't been too +successful, and haven't frozen into Tories, and yet have had some +experience;--men of humour and liveliness, who have a rather more extended +horizon than yourself, and who will listen to what you say instead of +shutting you up, and saying 'Very likely' as Newman did--after which you +were expected to go into a corner and think over your sins! Or clever, +sympathetic, interesting women--not too young. Those are the people whom it +is worth taking a little trouble to see." + +"But what about the young people!" said Vincent. + +"Oh, that will look after itself," said Father Payne. "There's no +difficulty about that! You asked me whom it was worth while taking some +trouble to see, and I prescribe a very occasional great man, and a good +many well-bred, cultivated, experienced, civil men and women. It isn't very +easy to find, that sort of society, for a young man; but it is worth trying +for." + +"But do you mean that you should pursue good talk?" said Vincent. + +"A little, I think," said Father Payne; "there's a good deal of art in +it--unconscious art in England, probably--but much of our life is spent in +talking, and there's no reason why we shouldn't learn how to get the best +and the most out of talk--how to start a subject, and when to drop it--how +to say the sort of things which make other people want to join in, and so +on. Of course you can't learn to talk unless you have a lot to say, but you +can learn _how_ to do it, and better still how _not_ to do it. I +used to feel in the old days, when I met a clever man--it was rare enough, +alas!--how much more I could have got out of him if I had known how to do +the trick. It's a great pleasure, good talk; and the fact that it is so +tiring shows what a real pleasure it must be. But a man with whom you can +only talk _hard_ isn't a companion--he's an adversary in a game. There +have been times in my life when I have had a real tough talker staying here +with me, when I have suffered from crushing intellectual fatigue, and felt +inclined to say, like Elijah, 'Take away my life, for I am not better than +my fathers.' That is the strange thing to me about most human beings--the +extent to which they seem able to talk without being tired. I agree with +Walter Scott, when he said, 'If the question was eternal company without +the power of retiring within myself, or solitary confinement for life, I +should say, "Turnkey, lock the cell!"' Companionship doesn't seem to me the +normal thing. Solitude is the normal thing, with a few bits of talk thrown +in, like meals, for refreshment. But you can't lay down rules for people +about it. Some people are simply gregarious, and twitter together like +starlings in a shrubbery: that isn't talk--it's only a series of signals +and exclamations. The danger of solitude is that the machinery runs just as +you wish it to run--and that wears it out." + +"But isn't your whole idea of talk rather strenuous--a little artificial?" +said Vincent. + +"Not more so than fixed meals," said Father Payne, "or regular exercise. +But, of course silent companionship is the greatest boon of all. I have a +belief that even in silent companionship there is a real intermingling of +vital and mental currents, and that one is much pervaded and affected by +the people one lives with, even if one does not talk to them. The very +sight of some people is as bad as an argument! The ideal thing, of course, +is to have a few intimate friends and some comfortable acquaintances. But I +am rather a fatalist about friendship, and I think that most of us get +about as much as we deserve. Anyhow, it's all worth taking some trouble +about; and most people make the mistake of not taking any trouble or +putting themselves about; and that's not the way to behave!" + + + +LIII + +OF MONEY + + +I suppose I had said something high-minded, showing a supposed contempt of +money, for Father Payne looked at me in silence. + +"You mustn't say such things," said he, at last. "I'll tell you why! What +you said was perfectly genuine, and I have no doubt you feel it--but, if +I may say so, it's like talking about a place where you have never been, as +if you had visited it, when you have only read about it in the guide-book. +I don't mean that you wish to deceive for an instant--but you simply don't +know! That's the tragic thing about money--that it is both so important and +so unimportant. If you have enough money, you need never give it a thought; +if you haven't, it's the devil! It's like health--no one who hasn't been on +the wrong side of the dividing line knows what a horrible place the wrong +side is. Those two things--I daresay there are others--poverty and +ill-health--put a man on the rack. The healthy man, and the man with a +sufficient income, are apt to think that the poor man and the ill man make +a great fuss about very little. I don't know about ill-health, but by +George, I know all about poverty--and I'll tell you once for all. For +twenty years I was poor, and this is what that means. To be tied hand and +foot to a piece of hideous drudgery--morning by morning, month by month, +and with the consciousness too that, if health fails you, or if you lose +your work, you will either starve or have to sponge on your friends--never +to be able to do what you like or go where you like--to know that the world +is full of beautiful places, delightful people, interesting ideas, books, +talk, art, music--to sicken for all these things, and not even to have the +time or energy to get hold of such scraps of them as can be found cheap in +London--to feel time slipping away, and all your instincts for beautiful +things unused and unsated--to live a solitary, grubby, nasty life--never +able to entertain a friend, or to go a trip with a friend, or to do a +kindness, or to help anyone generously--and yet to feel that with an income +which many people would regard as ridiculously inadequate, you could do +most of these things--the slavery, the bondage, the dreariness of it!" He +broke off, much moved. + +"But," said I, "don't many quite poor people live happily and contentedly +and kindly with minute incomes?" + +"Why, yes," said Father Payne, "of course they do!--and I'm willing enough +to admit that I ought to have done better than I did. But then I had been +brought up differently, and by the time I had done with Oxford, I had all +the tastes and instincts of the well-to-do man. That was the mischief, that +I had tasted freedom. Of course, if I had been cast in a stronger and +nobler mould, it would have been different--but all my senses had been +acutely developed, my faculties of interest and enjoyment and +appreciation--not gross things, mind you, nor feelings that _ought_ to +be starved, but just the wholesome delights of the well-educated man. I did +not want to be extravagant, and I knew too that there were millions of +people in the same case as myself. There was every reason why I should +behave decently about it! If I had been really interested in my work, I +could have done better--but I did not believe in the value of my work--I +taught men, not to educate them, but that they might pass an examination +and never look at the beastly stuff again. Whenever I reached the point at +which I became interested, I had to hold my hand. And then, too, the work +tired me without exercising my mind. There were the vacations, of +course--but I couldn't afford to leave London--I simply lived in hell. I +don't say that I didn't get some discipline out of it--and my escape gave +me a stock of gratitude and delight that has been simply inexhaustible. The +misery of it for me was that I had to live an unreal life. If I had been +poor, and had had my leisure, and had worked at things I cared about, with +a set, let us say, of young artists, all working too at things which they +cared about, it would have been different--but I hadn't the energy left to +make friends, or the time to find any congenial people. I can't describe +what a nightmare it all was--so that when I hear you speaking as if money +didn't really matter, I simply feel that you don't know what a tragedy it +can be, or what your own income saves you from. You and I have the +Epicurean temperament, my boy; it's no good pretending we haven't--things +appeal to our mind and senses in a way they don't appeal to everyone. So I +don't think that people ought to talk lightly about money, unless they have +known poverty and _not_ suffered under it. I used to ask myself in +those days if it was possible to suffer more, when every avenue reaching +away out of my life to the things I loved and cared for seemed to be closed +to me by an impassable barrier." + +"But one can practise oneself in doing without things?" I said. + +"With about as much success," said Father Payne, "as you can practise doing +without food." + +"But isn't it partly that people are unduly reticent about money?" I said. +"If people could only say frankly what they can and what they can't afford, +it would simplify things very much." + +"I don't know," said Father Payne. "Money is one of those curious +things--uninteresting if you have enough, tragic if you haven't. I don't +think talking about money is vulgar--I think it is simply dull: to discuss +poverty is like discussing a disease--to discuss wealth is like talking +about food or wine. The poverty that simply humiliates and pinches can't be +joked about--it's far too serious for that! Of course, there are men who +don't really feel the call of life. Look at our friend Kaye! If Kaye had to +live in London lodgings, he wouldn't mind a bit, if he could get to the +Museum Reading-Room--he only wants books and his own work--he doesn't want +company or music or art or talk or friends. He is wholly indifferent to +nasty food or squalor. Poverty is not a real evil to him. If he had money +he wouldn't know how to spend it. I read a book the other day about a +priest who lived a very devoted life in the slums--he had two rooms in a +clergy-house--and there was a chapter in praise of the way in which he +endured his poverty. But it was all wrong! What that man really enjoyed was +preaching and ceremonial and company--he had a real love of human beings. +Well, that man's life was crammed with joy--he got exactly what he wanted +all day long. It wasn't a self-sacrificing life--it would have been to you +and me--but he no doubt woke day after day, with a prospect of having his +whole time taken up with things he thoroughly enjoyed." + +"But what about the people," I said, "who really enjoy just the sense of +power which money gives them, without using it--or the people whose only +purpose in using it is the pleasure of being known to have it?" + +"Oh, of course, they are simply barbarians," said Father Payne, "and it +doesn't do _them_ any harm to be poor. No, the tragedy lies in the +case of a man with really expansive, generous, civilised instincts, to whom +the world is full of wholesome and urgent delights, and whose life is +simply starved out of him by poverty. I have a great mind to send you to +London for a couple of months, to live on a pound a week, and see what you +make of it." + +"I'll go if you wish it," I said. + +"It might bring things home to you," said Father Payne, smiling, "but again +it probably would not, because it would only be a game--the real pinch +would not come. Most people would rather enjoy migrating to hell from +heaven for a month--it would just give them a sharper relish for heaven." + +"But do you really think your poverty hurt you?" I said. + +"I have no doubt it did," said Father Payne. "Of course I was rescued in +time, before the bitterness really sank down into my soul. But I think it +prevented my ever being more than a looker-on. I believe I could have done +some work worth doing, if I could have tried a few experiments. I don't +know! Perhaps I am ungrateful after all. My poverty certainly gave me a +wish to help things along, and I doubt if I should have learnt that +otherwise. And I think, too, it taught me not to waste compassion on the +wrong things. The people to be pitied are simply the people whose minds and +souls are pinched and starved--the over-sensitive, responsive people, who +feel hunted and punished without knowing why. It's temperament always, and +not circumstance, which is the happy or the unhappy thing. I felt, when you +said what you did about poverty, that you neither knew how harmless it +could be, or how infinitely noxious it might be. I don't take a high-minded +view of money myself. I don't tell people to despise it. I always tell the +fellows here to realise what they can endure and what they can't. The first +requisite for a sensible man is to find work which he enjoys, and the next +requisite is for him to earn as much as he really needs--that is to say +without having to think daily and hourly about money. I don't over-estimate +what money can do, but it is foolish to under-estimate what the want of it +can do. I have seen more fine natures go to pieces under the stress of +poverty than under any other stress that I know. Money is perfectly +powerless as a shield against many troubles--and on the other hand it can +save a man from innumerable little wretchednesses and horrors which destroy +the beauty and dignity of life. I don't believe mechanically in humiliation +and renunciation and ignominy and contempt, as purifying influences. It all +depends upon whether they are gallantly and adventurously and humorously +borne. They often make some people only sore and diffident, and I don't +believe in learning to hate life. Not to learn your own limitations is +childish: and one of the insolences which is most heavily punished is that +of making a sacrifice without knowing if you can endure the consequences of +it. The people who begin by despising money as vulgar are generally the +people who end by making a mess which other people have to sweep up. So +don't be either silly or prudent about money, my boy! Just realise that +your first duty is not to be a burden on yourself or on other people. Find +out your minimum, and secure it if you can; and then don't give the matter +another thought. If it is any comfort to you, reflect that the best authors +and artists have almost invariably been good men of business, and don't +court squalor of any kind unless you really enjoy it." + + + +LIV + +OF PEACEABLENESS + + +Father Payne, talking one evening, made a statement which involved an +assumption that the world was progressing. Rose attacked him on this point. +"Isn't that just one of the large generalisations," he said, "which you are +always telling us to beware of?" + +"It isn't an assumption," said Father Payne, "but a conviction of mine, +based upon a good deal of second-hand evidence. I don't think it can be +doubted. I can't array all my reasons now, or we should sit here all +night--but I will tell you one main reason, and that is the immensely +increased peaceableness of the world. Fighting has gone out in schools, and +none but decayed clubmen dare to deplore it: corporal punishment has +diminished, and isn't needed, because children don't do savage things; +bullying is extinct in decent schools; crimes of violence are much more +rare; duelling is no longer a part of social life, except for an occasional +farcical performance between literary men or politicians in France--I saw +an account of one in the papers the other day. It was raining, and one of +the combatants would not furl his umbrella: his seconds said that it made +him a bigger target. "I may be shot," he said, "but that is no reason why I +should get wet!" Then there is the mediaeval nonsense among students in +Germany, where they fence like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Generally +speaking, however, the belief that a blow is an argument has gone out. Then +war has become more rare, and is more reluctantly engaged in. I suppose +that till the date of Waterloo there was hardly a year in history when some +fighting was not going on. No, I think it is impossible not to believe that +the impulse to kick and scratch and bite is really on the decline." + +"But need that be a proof of progress?" said Rose. "May it not only mean a +decrease of personal courage, and a greater sensitiveness to pain?" + +"I think not," said Father Payne, "because when there _is_ fighting to +be done, it is done just as courageously--indeed I think _more_ +courageously than used to be the case. No, I think it is the training of an +instinct--the instinct of self-restraint. I believe that people have more +imagination and more sympathy than they used to have; there is more +tolerance of adverse opinion, a greater sense of liberty in the air: +opponents have more respect for each other, and do not attribute bad +motives so easily. Why, consider how much milder even the newspapers are. +If one reads old reviews, old books of political controversy, old +pamphlets--how much more blackguarding and calling names one sees. +Anonymous journalists, anonymous reviewers, are now the only people who +keep up the tradition of public bad manners--all signed articles and +criticisms are infinitely politer than they used to be." + +"But," persisted Rose, "isn't that simply a possible proof of the general +declension of force?" + +"Certainly not," said Father Payne, "it only means more equilibrium. You +must remember that equilibrium means a balance of forces, not a mere +diminution of them. There is more force present in a banked-up reservoir +than in a rushing stream. The rushing stream merely means a force making +itself felt without a counterbalancing force--but that isn't nearly as +strong as the pressure in a reservoir exerted by the water which is trying +to get out, and the resistance of the dam which is trying to keep it in. +You must not be taken in by apparent placidity: it often means two forces +at work instead of one. Peace, as opposed to war, is a tremendous +counterpoising of forces, and it simply means an organised resistance. In +old days, there was no cohesion of the forces which desire peace, and +violence was unresisted. There can be no doubt, I think, that in a +civilised country there are many more forces at work than in a combative +country. I do not suppose that we can either of us prove whether the forces +at work in the world have increased or diminished. Let us grant that the +amount is constant. If so, a great deal of the force that was combative has +now been transformed to the force which resists combat. But I imagine that +on the whole most people would grant that human energies have increased: if +that is so, certainly the combative element has not increased in +proportion, while the peaceful element has increased out of all +proportion." + +"But," said Vincent, "you often talk in the most bellicose way, Father. You +say that we ought all to be fighting on the side of good." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "on the side of resistance to evil, I admit; but +you can fight without banging and smashing things, as the dam fights the +reservoir by silent cohesion. There is a temptation, from which some people +suffer, to think that one can't be fighting for God at all, unless one is +doing it furiously, and all the time, and successfully, and on a large and +impressive scale. That is a fatal blunder. To hide your adversary's sword +is often a very good way of fighting. To have an open tussle often makes +the bystanders sympathise with the assailant. It is really a far more +civilised thing, and often stands for a higher degree of force and honour, +to be able to bear contradiction not ignobly. Direct conflict is a mistake, +as a rule--blaming, fault-finding, censuring, snapping, punishing. The +point is to put all your energy into your own life and work, and make it +outweigh the energy of the combative critic. Do not fight by destroying +faulty opinion, but by creating better opinion. You fight darkness by +lighting a candle, not by waving a fan to clear it away. Look at one of the +things we have been talking about--bullying in schools. That has not been +conquered by expelling or whipping boys, or preaching about it--it has been +abolished by kindlier and gentler family life, by humaner school-masters +living with and among their boys, till the happiness of more peaceful +relations all round has been instinctively perceived." + +"But isn't it right to show up mean and dishonest people, to turn the light +of publicity upon cruel and detestable things?" said Vincent. + +"Exactly, my dear Vincent," said Father Payne; "but you can't turn the +light of publicity on evil unless the light is there to turn. The reason +why bullying continued was because people believed in it as inseparable +from school life, and even, on the whole, bracing. What has got rid of it +is a kinder and more tender spirit outside. I don't object to showing up +bad things at all. By all means put them, if you can, in a clear light, and +show their ugliness. Show your shame and disgust if you like, but do not +condescend to personal abuse. That only weakens your case, because it +merely proves that you have still some of the bully left in you. Be +peaceable writers, my dear boys," said Father Payne, expanding in a large +smile. "Don't squabble, don't try to scathe, don't be affronted! If your +critic reveals a weak place in your work, admit it, and do better! I want +to turn you out peace-makers, and that needs as much energy and restraint +as any other sort of fighting. Don't make the fact that your opponent may +be a cad into a personal grievance. Make your own idea clear, stick to it, +repeat it, say it again in a more attractive way. Don't you see that not +yielding to a bad impulse is fighting? The positive assertion of good, the +shaping of beauty, the presentment of a fruitful thought in so desirable a +light that other people go down with fresh courage into the dreariness and +dullness of life, with all the delight of having a new way of behaving in +their minds and hearts--that's how I want you to fight! It requires the +toughest sort of courage, I can tell you. But instead of showing your +spirit by returning a blow, show your spirit by propounding your idea in a +finer shape. Don't be taken in by the silly and ugly old war-metaphors--the +trumpet blown, the gathering of the hosts. That's simply a sensational +waste of your time! Look out of your window, and then sit down to your +work. That's the way to win, without noise or fuss." + + + +LV + +OF LIFE-FORCE + + +I walked one afternoon with Father Payne just as winter turned to spring, +in the pastures. There was a mound at the corner of one of his fields, on +which grew a row of beech trees of which Father Payne was particularly +fond. He pointed out to me to-day how the most southerly of the trees, +exposed as it was to the full force of the wind, grew lower and sturdier +than the rest, and how as the trees progressed towards the north, each one +profiting more by the shelter of his comrades, they grew taller and more +graceful. "I like the way that stout little fellow at the end grows," said +Father Payne. "He doesn't know, I suppose, that he is protecting the rest, +and giving them room to expand. But he holds on; and though he isn't so +tall, he is bulkier and denser than his brethren. He knows that he has to +bear the brunt of the wind, so he puts out no sail. He just devotes himself +to standing four-square--he is not going to be bullied! He would like to be +as smooth and as shapely as the rest, but he knows his own business, and he +has adapted himself, like a sensible fellow, to his rough conditions." + +A little later Father Payne stopped to look at a great sow-thistle that was +growing vigorously under a hedge-row. "Did you ever see such a bit of pure +force?" said Father Payne. "I see a fierce conscious life in every inch of +that plant. Look at the way he clips himself in, and strains to the earth: +look at his great rays of leaves, thrust out so geometrically from the +centre, with the sharp, horny, uncompromising thorns. And see how he +flattens down his leaves over the surrounding grasses: they haven't a +chance; he just squeezes them down and strangles them. There is no mild and +delicate waving of fronds in the air. He means to sit down firmly on the +top of his comrades. I don't think I ever saw anything with such a muscular +pull on--you can't lift his leaves up; look, he resists with all his might! +Just consider the immense force which he is using: he is not merely +snuggling down: he is just hauling things about. You don't mean to tell me +that this thistle isn't conscious! He knows he has enemies, but he is going +to make the place his very own--and all that out of a drifting little arrow +of down!" + +"Now that may not be a sympathetic or even Christian way of doing things," +he went on presently, "but for all that, I do love to see the force of +life, the intentness of living. I like our friend the beech a little +better, because he is helping his friends, though he doesn't know it, and +the thistle is only helping himself. But I am sure that it is the right way +to go at it! We mustn't be always standing aside and making room: we +mustn't obliterate ourselves. We have a right to our joy in life, and we +mustn't be afraid of it. If we give away what we have got, it must cost us +something--it must not be a mere relinquishing." + +"It is rather hard to combine the two principles," I said--"the living of +life, I mean, and the giving away of life." + +"Well, I think that devotion is better than self-sacrifice," said Father +Payne. "On the whole I mistrust weakness more than I mistrust strength. +It's easy to dislike violence--but I rather worship vitality. I would +almost rather see a man forcing his way through with some callousness, than +backing out, smiling and apologising. You can convert strength, you can't +do anything with weakness. Take the sort of work you fellows do. I always +feel I can chasten and direct exuberance: what I can't do is to impart +vigour. If a man says his essay is short because he can't think of anything +to write, I feel inclined to say, 'Then for goodness' sake hold your +tongue!' It's the people who can't hold their tongue, who go on roughly +pointing things out, and commenting, and explaining, and thrusting +themselves in front of the show, who do something. Of course force has to +be kept in order, but there it is--it lives, it must have its say. What you +have to learn is to insinuate yourself into life, like ivy, but without +spoiling other people's pleasure. That's liberty! The old thistle has no +respect for liberty, and that is why he is rooted up. But it's rather sad +work doing it, because he does so very much want to be alive. But it isn't +liberty simply to efface yourself, because you may interfere with other +people. The thing is to fit in, without disorganising everything about +you." + +He mused for a little in silence; then he said, "It's like almost +everything else--it's a weighing of claims! I don't want you fellows to be +either tyrannical or slavish. It's tyrannical to bully, it's slavish to +defer. The thing is to have a firm opinion, not to be ashamed of it or +afraid of it; to say it reasonably and gently, and to stick to it amiably. +Good does not attack, though if it is attacked it can slay. Good fights +evil, but it knows what it is fighting, while evil fights good and evil +alike. I think that is true. I don't want you people to be controversial or +quarrelsome in what you write, and to go in for picking holes in others' +work. If you want to help a man to do better, criticise him +privately--don't slap him in public, to show how hard you can lay on. Make +your own points, explain if you like, but don't apologise. The great +writers, mind you, are the people who can go on. It's volume rather than +delicacy that matters in the end. It must flow like honey--good solid +stuff--not drip like rain, out of mere weakness. But the thing is to flow, +and largeness of production is better than little bits of overhandled work. +Mind that, my boy! It's force that tells: and that's why I don't want you +to be over-interested in your work. You must go on filling up with +experience; but it doesn't matter where or how you get it, as long as it is +eagerly done. Be on the side of life! _Amor fati_, that's the motto +for a man--to love his destiny passionately, and all that is before him; +not to droop, or sentimentalise, or submit, but to plunge on, like a +'sea-shouldering whale'! You remember old Kit Smart-- + + 'Strong against tide, the enormous whale + Emerges as he goes.' + +"Mind you _emerge!_ Never heed the tide: there's plenty of room for it +as well as for you!" + + + +LVI + +OF CONSCIENCE + + +Lestrange was being genially bantered by Rose one day at dinner on what +Rose called "problems of life and being," or "springs of action," or even +"higher ground." Lestrange was oppressively earnest, but he was always +good-natured. + +"Ultimately?" he had said, "why, ultimately, of course, you must obey your +conscience." + +"No, no!" said Father Payne, "that won't do, Lestrange! Who are _you_, +after all? I mean that the 'you' you speak of has something to say about +it, to decide whether to disobey or to obey. And then, too, the same 'you' +seems to have decided that conscience is to be obeyed. The thing that you +describe as 'yourself' is much more ultimate than conscience, because if it +is not convinced that conscience is to be obeyed, it will not obey. I mean +that there is something which criticises even the conscience. It can't be +reason, because your conscience over-rides your reason, and it can't be +instinct, generally speaking, because conscience often over-rides +instinct." + +"I am confused," said Lestrange. "I mean by conscience the thing which says +'You _ought!_' That is what seems to me to prove the existence of God, +that there is a sense of a moral law which one does not invent, and which +is sometimes very inconveniently aggressive." + +"Yes, that is all right," said Father Payne, "but how is it when there are +two 'oughts,' as there often are? A man ought to work--and he ought not to +overwork--something else has to be called in to decide where one 'ought' +begins and the other ends. There is a perpetual balancing of moral claims. +Your conscience tells you to do two things which are mutually +exclusive--both are right in the abstract. What are you to do then?" + +"I suppose that reason comes in there," said Lestrange. + +"Then reason is the ultimate guide?" said Father Payne. + +"Oh, Father, you are darkening counsel," said Lestrange. + +"No, no," said Father Payne, "I am just trying to face facts." + +"Well, then," said Lestrange, "what is the ultimate thing?" + +"The ultimate thing," said Father Payne, "is of course the thing you call +yourself--but the ultimate instinct is probably a sense of proportion--a +sense of beauty, if you like!" + +"But how does that work out in practice?" said Vincent. "It seems to me to +be a mere argument about names and titles. You are using conscience as the +sense of right and wrong, and, as you say, they often seem to have +conflicting claims. Lestrange used it in the further sense of the thing +which ultimately decides your course. It is right to be philanthropic, it +is right to be artistic--they may conflict; but something ultimately tells +you what you _can_ do, which is really more important than what you +_ought to_ do." + +"That is right," said Father Payne, "I think the test is simply this--that +whenever you feel yourself paralysed, and your natural growth arrested by +your obedience to any one claim--instinct, reason, conscience, whatever it +is--the ultimate power cuts the knot, and tells you unfailingly where your +real life lies. That is the real failure, when owing to some habit, some +dread, some shrinking, you do not follow your real life. That, it seems to +me, is where the old unflinching doctrines of sin and repentance have done +harm. The old self-mortifying saints, who thought so badly of human nature, +and who tore themselves to pieces, resisting wholesome impulses--celibate +saints who ought to have been married, morbidly introspective saints who +needed hard secular work, those were the people who did not dare to trust +the sense of proportion, and were suspicious of the call of life. Look at +St. Augustine in the wonderful passage about light, 'sliding by me in +unnumbered guises'--he can only end by praying to be delivered from the +temptation to enjoy the sight of dawn and sunset, as setting his affections +too much upon the things of earth. I mistrust the fear of life--I mistrust +all fear--at least I think it will take care of itself, and must not be +cultivated. I think the call of God is the call of joy--and I believe that +the superstitious dread of joy is one of the most potent agencies of the +devil." + +"But there are many joys which one has to mistrust," said Lestrange; "mere +sensual delights, for instance." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but most healthy and normal people, after a very +little meddling with such delights, learn certainly enough that they only +obscure the real, wholesome, temperate joys. You have to compromise wisely +with your instincts, I think. You mustn't spend too much time in frontal +attacks upon them. You have a quick temper, let us say. Well, it is better +to lose it occasionally and apologise, than to hold your tongue about +matters in which you are interested for fear of losing it. You are +avaricious--well, hoard your money, and then yield on occasions to a +generous impulse. That's a better way to defeat evil, than by dribbling +money away in giving little presents which no one wants. I don't believe in +petty warfare against faults. You know the proverb that if you knock too +long at a closed door, the Devil opens it to you? Just give your sins a +knock-down blow every now and then. I believe in the fire of life more than +I believe in the cold water you use to quench it. Everything can be +forgiven to passion; nothing can be forgiven to chilly calculation. The +beautiful impulse is the thing that one must not disobey; and when I see +people do big, wrong-headed, unguarded, unwise things, get into rows, +sacrifice a reputation or a career without counting the cost, I am inclined +to feel that they have probably done better for themselves than if they had +been prudent and cautious. I don't say that they are always right, because +people yield sometimes to a mere whim, and sometimes to a childishly +overwhelming desire; but if there is a real touch of unselfishness about a +sacrifice--that's the test, that some one else's joy should be +involved--then I feel that it isn't my business to approve or disapprove. I +feel in the presence of a force--an 'ought' as Lestrange says, which makes +me shy of intervening. It's the wind of the Spirit--it blows where it +will--and I know this, that I'm thankful beyond everything when I feel it +in my own sails." + +"Tell me when you feel it next, Father," said Vincent. + +"I feel it now," said Father Payne, "now and here." And there was something +in his face which made us disinclined to ask him any further questions. + + + +LVII + +OF RANK + + +Someone had been telling a curious story about a contested peerage. It was +a sensational affair, involving the alteration of registers, the burning +down of a vestry, and the flight of a clergyman. + +"I like that story," said Father Payne, "and I like heraldry and rank and +all that. It's decidedly picturesque. I enjoy the zigzagging of a title +through generations. But the worst of it is that the most picturesque of +all distinctions, like being the twentieth baron, let us say, in direct +descent, is really of the nature of a stigma; a man whose twentieth +ancestor was a baron has no excuse for not being a duke." + +"But what I don't like," said Rose, "is the awful sense of sanctity which +some people have about it. I read a book the other day where the hero +sacrificed everything in turn, a career, a fortune, an engagement to a +charming girl, a reputation, and last of all an undoubted claim to an +ancient barony. I don't remember exactly why he did all these things--it +was noble, undoubtedly it was noble! But there was something which made me +vaguely uncomfortable about the order in which he spun his various +advantages." + +"It's only a sense of beauty slightly awry," said Father Payne; "names are +curiously sacred things--they often seem to be part of the innermost +essence of a man. I confess I would rather change most things than change +my name. I would rather shave my head, for instance." + +"But my hero would have had to change his name if he had claimed the +peerage," said Rose. + +"Yes, but you see the title was his _right_ name," said Father Payne; +"he was only masquerading as a commoner, you must remember. Why I should +value an ancient peerage is because I think it might improve my manners." + +"Impossible!" said Vincent. + +"Thank you," said Father Payne. "Yes, my manners are very good for a +commoner--but I should like to be a little more in the grand style. I +should like to be able to look long at a person, who said something of +which I disapproved, and then change the subject. That would be fine! But I +daren't do that now. Now I have to argue. Do you remember in _Daniel +Deronda_, Grandcourt's habit of looking stonily at smiling persons. I +have often envied that! Whereas my chief function in life is looking +smilingly at stony persons, and that's very bourgeois." + +"We must show more animation," said Barthrop to his neighbour. + +"I mean it!" said Father Payne, "but come, I won't be personal! Seriously, +you know, the one thing I have admired in the very few great people I have +ever met is the absence of embarrassment. They don't need to explain who +they are, they haven't got to preface their statements of opinion by +fragments of autobiography, to show their right to speak. It is convenient +to feel that if people don't know who you are, they will feel slightly +foolish afterwards when they discover, like the man who shook hands warmly +with Queen Victoria, and said, "I know the face quite well, but I can't put +a name to it." It did not show any pride of birth in the Queen to be +extremely amused by the incident. But even more than that I admire the case +which people of that sort get by having had, from childhood onwards, to +meet all sorts of persons, and to behave themselves, and to see that people +do not feel shy or uncomfortable. I sometimes go about the village simply +teeming with benevolence, and I pass some one, and can't think of anything +to say. If I had the great manner, I should say, "Why, Tommy, is that you?" +or some such human signal, which would not mean anything in particular, but +would after all express exactly what is in my mind. But I can't just do +that. I rack my brains for an _appropriate_ remark, because I am +bourgeois, and have not the point of honour, as the French say. And by the +time I have elaborated it, Tommy is gone, and Jack is passing, and I begin +elaborating again; whereas I should simply add, if I were aristocratic, +'And that's you, Jack, isn't it?' That's the way to talk." + +We all laughed; and Barthrop said, "Well, I must say, Father, that I have +often envied you your power of saying something to everyone." + +"I have spent more trouble on it than it is worth," said Father Payne; "and +that's my point, that if I were only a great man, I should have learnt it +all in childhood, and should not have to waste time over it at all. That's +the best of rank; it's a device for saving trouble; it saves introduction +and explanation and autobiography and elaborate civility, and makes people +willing to be pleased by the smallest sign of affability. You may depend +upon it that it was a very true instinct which made the Scotch minister +pray that all might have honourable ancestors. It isn't a sacred thing, +rank, and it isn't a magnificent thing--but it's a pleasant human sort of +thing in the right hands. What is more, in these democratic days, it tends +to make people of rank additionally anxious not to parade the fact--and I +doubt if there is anything on the whole happier than having advantages +which you don't want to parade--it gives a tranquil sort of contentment, +and it removes all futile ambitions. To be, by descent, what a desperately +industrious lawyer or a successful general feels himself amply rewarded for +his toil by becoming, isn't nothing. I'm always rather suspicious of the +people who try to pretend that it is nothing at all. The rank is but the +guinea stamp, of course. But after all the stamp is what makes it a guinea +instead of an unnegotiable disc of metal!" + + + +LVIII + +OF BIOGRAPHY + + +Father Payne used often to say that he was more interested in biography +than in any other form of art, and believed that there was a greater future +before it than before any other sort of literature. "Just think," I +remember his saying, "human portraiture--the most interesting thing in the +world by far--what the novel tries to do and can't do!" + +"What exactly do you mean by 'can't do'?" I said. + +"Why, my boy," said Father Payne, "because we are all so horrified at the +idea of telling the truth or looking the truth in the face. The novel +accommodates human nature, patches it up, varnishes it, puts it in a good +light: it may be artistic and romantic and poetical--but it hasn't got the +beauty of truth. Life is much more interesting than any imaginative +fricassee of it! These realistic fellows--they are moving towards +biography, but they haven't got much beyond the backgrounds yet." + +"But why shouldn't it be done?" I said. "There's Boswell's Johnson--why +does that stand almost alone?" + +"Why, think of all the difficulties, my boy," said Father Payne. "There's +nothing like Boswell's Johnson, of course--but what a subject! There's +nothing that so proves Boswells genius--we mustn't forget that--as the +other wretched stuff written about Johnson. There's a passage in Boswell, +when he didn't see Johnson for a long time, and stuck in a few stories +collected from other friends. They are awfully flat and flabby--they have +all been rolled about in some one's mind, till they are as smooth as +pebbles--some bits of the crudest rudeness, not worked up to--some +knock-down schoolboy retorts which most civilised men would have had the +decency to repress--and then we get back to the real Boswell again, and how +fresh and lively it is!" + +"But what are the difficulties you spoke of?" I said. + +"Why, in the first place," said Father Payne, "a biography ought to be +written _during_ a man's life and not _after_ it--and very few +people will take the trouble to write things down day after day about +anyone else, as Boswell did. If it waits till after a man's death, a hush +falls on the scene--everyone is pious and sentimental. Of course, Boswell's +life is inartistic enough--it wanders along, here a letter, there a lot of +criticism, here a talk, there a reminiscence. It isn't arranged--it has no +scheme: but how full of _zest_ it is! And then you have to be pretty +shameless in pursuing your hero, and elbowing other people away, and +drawing him out; and you have to be prepared to be kicked and trampled +upon, when the hero is cross: and then you have to be a considerable snob, +and say what you really value and admire, however vulgar it is. And then +you must expect to be called hard names when the book appears. I was +reading a review the other day of what seemed to me to be a harmless +biography enough--a little frank and enthusiastic affair, I gathered: and +the reviewer wrote in the style of Pecksniff, caddish and priggish at the +same time: he called the man to task for botanising on his friend's +grave--that unfortunate verse of Wordsworth's, you know--and he left the +impression that the writer had done something indelicate and impious, and +all with a consciousness of how high-minded he himself was. + +"You ought to write a biography as though you were telling your tale in a +friendly and gentle ear--you ought not to lose your sense of humour, or be +afraid of showing your subject in a trivial or ridiculous light. Look at +Boswell again--I don't suppose a more deadly case could be made out against +any man, with perfect truth, than could be made out against Johnson. You +could show him as brutal, rough, greedy, superstitious, prejudiced, unjust, +and back it all up by indisputable evidence--but it's the balance, the net +result, that matters! We have all of us faults; we know them, our friends +know them--why the devil should not everyone know them? But then an +interesting man dies, and everyone becomes loyal and sentimental. Not a +word must be said which could pain or wound anyone. The friends and +relations, it would seem, are not pained by the dead man's faults, they are +only pained that other people should know them. The biography becomes a +mixture of disinfectants and perfumes, as if it were all meant to hide some +putrid thing. It's like what Jowett said about a testimonial, 'There's a +strong smell here of something left out!' We have hardly ever had anything +but romantic biographies hitherto, and they all smell of something left +out. There's a tribe somewhere in Africa who will commit murder if anyone +tries to sketch them. They think it brings bad luck to be sketched, a sort +of 'overlooking' as they say. Well that seems to be the sort of +superstition that many people have about biographies, as if the departed +spirit would be vexed by anything which isn't a compliment. I suppose it is +partly this--that many people are ill-bred, glum, and suspicious, and can't +bear the idea of their faults being recorded. They hate all frankness: and +so when anything frank gets written, they talk about violating sacred +confidences, and about shameless exposures. It is really that we are all +horribly uncivilised, and can't bear to give ourselves away, or to be given +away. Of course we don't want biographies of merely selfish, stupid, +brutal, ill-bred men--but everyone ought to be thankful when a life can be +told frankly, and when there's enough that is good and beautiful to make it +worth telling. + +"But, as I said, the thing can't be done, unless it is written to a great +extent in a man's lifetime. Conversation is a very difficult thing to +remember--it can't be remembered afterwards--it needs notes at the time: +and few people's talk is worth recording; and even if it is, people are a +little ashamed of doing it--there seems something treacherous about it: but +it ought to be done, for all that! You don't want so very much of it--I +don't suppose that Boswell has got down a millionth part of all Johnson +said--you just want specimens--enough to give the feeling of it and the +quality of it. One doesn't want immensely long biographies--just enough to +make you feel that you have seen a man and sat with him and heard him +talk--and the kind of way in which he dealt with things and people. I'll +tell you a man who would have made a magnificent biography--Lord Melbourne. +He had a great charm, and a certain whimsical and fantastic humour, which +made him do funny little undignified things, like a child. But every single +dictum of Melbourne's has got something original and graceful about +it--always full of good sense, never pompous, always with a delicious +lightness of touch. The only person who took the trouble to put down +Melbourne's sayings, just as they came out, was Queen Victoria--but then +she was in love with him without knowing it: and in the end he got stuck +into the heaviest and most ponderous of biographies, and is lost to the +world. Stale politics--there's nothing to beat them for dulness +unutterable!" + +"But isn't it an almost impossible thing," I said, "to expect a man who is +a first-rate writer, with ambitions in authorship, to devote himself to +putting down things about some interesting person with the chance of their +never being published? Very few people would have sufficient +self-abnegation for that." + +"That's true enough," said Father Payne, "and of course it is a risk--a man +must run the risk of sacrificing a good deal of his time and energy to +recording unimportant details, perhaps quite uselessly, but with this +possibility ahead of him, that he may produce an immortal book--and I grant +you that the infernal vanity and self-glorification of authors is a real +difficulty in the way." + +He was silent for a minute or two, and then he said: "Now, I'll tell you +another difficulty, that at present people only want biographies of men of +affairs, of big performers, men who have done things--I don't want that. I +want biographies of people who wielded a charm of personality, even if they +didn't _do_ things--people, I mean, who deserve to live and to be +loved.--Those are the really puzzling figures a generation later, the men +who lived in an atmosphere of admiring and delighted friendship, radiating +a sort of enchanting influence, having the most extravagant things said and +believed about them by their friends, and yet never doing anything in +particular. People, I mean, like Arthur Hallam, whose letters and remains +are fearfully pompous and tiresome--and who yet had _In Memoriam_ +written about him, and who was described by Gladstone as the most perfect +human being, physically, intellectually and morally, he had ever seen. Then +there is Browning's Domett--the prototype of Waring--and Keats's friend +James Rice, and Stevenson's friend Ferrier--that's a matchless little +biographical fragment, Stevenson's letter about Ferrier--those are the sort +of figures I mean, the men who charmed and delighted everyone, were brave +and humorous, gave a pretty turn to everything they said--those are the +roses by the wayside! They had ill-health some of them, they hadn't the +requisite toughness for work, they even took to drink, or went to the bad. +But they are the people of quality and tone, about whom one wants to know +much more than about sun-burnt and positive Generals--the strong silent +sort--or overworked politicians bent on conciliating the riff-raff. I don't +want to know about men simply because they did honest work, and still less +about men who never dared to say what they thought and felt. You can't make +a striking picture out of a sense of responsibility! I'm not underrating +good work--it's fine in every way, but it can't always be written about. +There are exceptions, of course. Nelson and Wellington would have been +splendid subjects, if anyone had really Boswellised them. But Nelson had a +theatrical touch about him, and became almost too romantic a hero; while +the Duke had a fund of admirable humour and almost grotesque directness of +expression,--and he has never been half done justice to, though you can see +from Lord Mahon's little book of _Table Talk_ and Benjamin Haydon's +_Diary_, and the letters to Miss J., what a rich affair it all might +have been, if only there had been a perfectly bold, candid, and truthful +biographer." + +"But the charming people of whom you spoke," I said--"isn't the whole thing +often too evanescent to be recorded?" + +"Not a bit of it!" said Father Payne, "and these are the people we want to +hear about, because they represent the fine flower of civilisation. If a +man has a delightful friend like that, always animated, fresh, humorous, +petulant, original, he couldn't do better than observe him, keep scraps of +his talk, record scenes where he took a leading part, get the impression +down. It may come to nothing, of course, but it may also come to something +worth more than a thousand twaddling novels. The immense _use_ of +it--if one must think about the use--is that such a life might really show +commonplace and ordinary people how to handle the simplest materials of +life with zest and delicacy. Novels don't really do that--they only make +people want to escape from middle-class conditions, what everyone is the +better for seeing is not how life might conceivably be handled, but how it +actually has been handled, freshly and distinctly, by someone in a +commonplace milieu. Life isn't a bit romantic, but it is devilish +interesting. It doesn't go as you want it to go. Sometimes it lags, +sometimes it dances; and horrible things happen, often most unexpectedly. +In the novel, everything has to be rounded off and led up to, and you never +get a notion of the inconsequence of life. The interest of life is not what +happens, but how it affects people, how they meet it, how they fly from it: +the relief of a biography is that you haven't got to invent your setting +and your character--all that is done for you: you have just got to select +the characteristic things, and not to blur the things that you would have +wished otherwise. For God's sake, let us get at the truth in books, and not +use them as screens to keep the fire off, or as things to distract one from +the depressing facts in one's bank-book. I welcome all this output of +novels, because it at least shows that people are interested in life, and +trying to shape it. But I don't want romance, and I don't want ugly and +sensational realism either. That is only romance in another shape. I want +real men and women--not from an autobiographical point of view, because +that is generally romantic too--but from the point of view of the friends +to whom they showed themselves frankly and naturally, and without that +infernal reticence which is not either reverence or chivalry, but simply an +inability to face the truth,--which is the direct influence of the spirit +of evil. If one of my young men turns out a good biography of an +interesting person, however ineffective he was, I shall not have lived in +vain. For, mind this--very few people's performances are worth remembering, +while very many people's personalities are." + + + +LIX + +OF EXCLUSIVENESS + + +Rose told a story one night which amused Father Payne immensely. He had +been up in town, and had sate next a Minister's wife, who had been very +confidential. She had said to Rose that her husband had just been elected +into a small dining-club well known in London, where the numbers were very +limited, the society very choice, and where a single negative vote excluded +a candidate. "I don't think," said the good lady, "that my husband has ever +been so pleased at anything that has befallen him, not even when he was +first given office--such a distinguished club--and so exclusive!" Father +Payne laughed loud and shrill. "That's human nature at its nakedest!" he +said. "It's like Miss Tox, in _Dombey and Son_, you know, who, when +Dombey asked her if the school she recommended was select, said, 'It's +exclusion itself!' What people love is the power of being able to +_exclude_--not necessarily disagreeable people, or tiresome people, +but simply people who would like to be inside-- + + "'Loving not, hating not, just choosing so.' + +"Those are the two great forces of society, you know--the exclusive force, +and the inclusive force: the force that says, 'We few, we happy few, we +band of brothers'; and the force which says, 'The more the merrier.' The +exclusive force is represented by caste and class, by gentility and +donnishness, by sectarianism and nationalism, and even by patriotism--and +the inclusive force is represented by Walt Whitmanism and Christianity." + +"But what about St. Paul's words," said Lestrange, "'Honour all men: love +the brotherhood'?" + +"That's an attempt to recognise both," said Father Payne, smiling. "Of +course you can't love everyone equally--that's the error of +democracy--democracy is really one of the exclusive forces, because it +excludes the heroes--it is '_mundus contra Athanasium_,'--it is best +illustrated by what the American democrat said to Charles Kingsley, 'My +principle is "whenever you see a head above the crowd, hit it."' Democracy +is, at its worst, the jealousy of the average man for the superior man." + +"But which is the best principle?" said Vincent. + +"Both are necessary," said Father Payne. "One must aim at inclusiveness, of +course: and we must be quite certain that we exclude on the ground of +qualities, and not on the ground of superficial differences. The best +influences in the world arise not from individuals but from groups--and +there is no sort of reason why groups should spoil their intensive +qualities by trying to admit outsiders. The strength of a group lies in the +fact that one gets the sense of fellowship and common purpose, of sympathy +and encouragement. A man who has to fight a battle single-handed is always +tempted to wonder whether, after all, it is worth all the trouble and +misunderstanding. But, on the other hand, you are at liberty to mistrust +the men who say that they don't want to know people. Do you remember how +Charles Lamb once said, 'I do hate the Trotters!' 'But I thought you didn't +know them?' said someone. 'That's just it,' said Charles Lamb, 'I never can +hate anyone that I know!' The best bred man is the man who finds it easy to +get on with everybody on equal terms: but it's part of the snobbishness of +human nature that exclusiveness is rather admired than otherwise. There's a +delightfully exclusive woman in one of Henry James' novels, who refuses to +be introduced to a family. She entirely declines, and the man who is +anxious to effect the introduction says, 'I can't think why you object to +them.' 'They are hopelessly vulgar,' says the incisive lady, 'and in this +short life, that is enough!' But St. Paul's remark is really very good, +because it means 'Treat everyone with courtesy--but reserve your fine +affections for the inner circle, whose worth you really know!'--it's a +better theory than that of the man who said, 'It is enough for me to be +with those whom I love!' That's rather inhuman." + +"Do you remember," said Barthrop, "the lines in Tennyson's Guinevere, which +sum up the knightly attributes? + + "'High thought, and amiable words, + And courtliness, and the desire of fame, + And love of truth, and all that makes a man.'" + +"That's very interesting and curious!" said Father Payne. "Dear me, I had +forgotten that--did Tennyson say that?--Come--let's have it again!" + +Barthrop repeated the lines again. + +"Now, that's the gentlemanly ideal of the sixties," said Father Payne, +"and, good heavens, how offensive it sounds! The most curious part of it +really is 'the desire of fame'--of course, a hundred years ago, no one made +any secret of that! You remember Nelson's frank confession, made not once, +but many times, that he pursued glory, 'Defeat--or Westminster +Abbey'--didn't he say that?" + +"But surely people pursue fame as much as ever?" said Vincent. + +"I daresay," said Father Payne, "but it isn't now considered good taste to +say so. You have got to pretend, at all events, that you wish to benefit +humanity now-a-days. If a man had said to Ruskin or Carlyle, 'Why do you +write all these books?' and they replied, 'It is because of my desire for +fame,' it would have been thought vulgar. There's that odd story of Robert +Browning, when he received an ovation at Oxford, and someone said to him, +'I suppose you don't care about all this,' he said, 'It is what I have +waited for all my life!' I wonder if he _did_ say it! I think he must +have done, because it is exactly the sort of thing that one is supposed not +to say--and I confess I don't like it--it seems to me vain, and not proud, +I don't mind a kind of pride--I think a man ought to know what he is +worth: but I hate vanity. Perhaps that's only because I haven't been a +success myself." + +"But mayn't you desire fame?" said Vincent. "It seems to me rather priggish +to condemn it!" + +"Many fine things sound priggish when they are said," said Father Payne. +"But, to be frank, I don't think that a man ought to desire fame. I think +he may desire to do a thing well. I don't think he ought to desire to do it +better than other people. It is the wanting to beat other people which is +low. Why not wish them to do it well too?" + +"You mean that the difference between pride and vanity lies there?" said +Barthrop. + +"Yes, I do," said Father Payne, "and it is a pity that pride is included in +the deadly sins, because the word has changed its sense. Pride used to mean +the contempt of others--that's a deadly sin, if you like. It used to mean a +ghastly sort of self-satisfaction, arrived at by comparison of yourself +with others. But now to be called a proud man is a real compliment. It +means that a man can't condescend to anything mean or base. We ought all to +be proud--not proud _of_ anything, because that is vulgar, but ashamed +of doing anything which we know to be feeble or low. The Pharisee in the +parable was vain, not proud, because he was comparing himself with other +people. But it is all right to be grateful to God for having a sense of +decency, just as you may be grateful for having a sense of beauty. The +hatefulness of it comes in when you are secretly glad that other people +love indecency and ugliness." + +"That is the exclusive feeling then?" said Barthrop. + +"Yes, the bad kind of exclusiveness," said Father Payne--"the kind of +exclusiveness which ministers to self-satisfaction. And that is the fault +of the group when it becomes a coterie. The coterie means a set of inferior +people, bolstering up each other's vanity by mutual admiration. In a +coterie you purchase praise for your own bad work, by pretending to admire +the bad work of other people. But the real group is interested, not in each +other's fame, but in the common work." + +"It seems to me confusing," said Vincent. + +"Not a bit of it," said Father Payne; "we have to consider our limitations: +we are limited by time and space. You can't know everybody and love +everybody and admire everybody--and you can't sacrifice the joy and +happiness of real intimacy with a few for a diluted acquaintance with five +hundred people. But you mustn't think that your own group is the only +one--that is the bad exclusiveness--you ought to think that there are +thousands of intimate groups all over the world, which you could love just +as enthusiastically as you love your own, if you were inside them: and +then, apart from your own group, you ought to be prepared to find +reasonable and amiable and companionable people everywhere, and to be able +to put yourself in line with them. Why, good heavens, there are millions of +possible friends in the world! and one of my deepest and firmest hopes +about the next world, so to speak, is that there will be some chance of +communicating with them all at once, instead of shutting ourselves up in a +frowsy room like this, smelling of meat and wine. I don't deny you are very +good fellows, but if you think that you are the only fit and desirable +company in the world for me or for each other, I tell you plainly that you +are utterly mistaken. That's why I insist on your travelling about, to +avoid our becoming a coterie." + +"Then it comes to this," said Vincent drily, "that you can't be inclusive, +and that you ought not to be exclusive?" + +"Yes, that's exactly it!" said Father Payne. "You meant to shut me up with +one of our patent Oxford epigrams, I know--and, of course, it is deuced +smart! But put it the other way round, and it's all right. You can't help +being exclusive, and you must try to be inclusive--that's the truth, with +the Oxford tang taken out!" + +We laughed at this, and Vincent reddened. + +"Don't mind me, old man!" said Father Payne, "but try to make your epigrams +genial instead of contemptuous--inclusive rather than exclusive. They are +just as true, and the bitter flavour is only fit for the vitiated taste of +Dons." And Father Payne stretched out a large hand down the table, and +enclosed Vincent's in his own. + +"Yes, it was a nasty turn," said Vincent, smiling, "I see what you mean." + +"The world is a friendlier place than people know," said Father Payne. "We +have inherited a suspicion of the unknown and the unfamiliar. Don't you +remember how the ladies in _The Mill on the Floss_ mistrusted each +other's recipes, and ate dry bread in other houses rather than touch jam or +butter made on different methods. That is the old bad taint. But I think we +are moving in the right direction. I fancy that the awakening may be very +near, when we shall suddenly realise that we are all jolly good fellows, +and wonder that we have been so blind." + +"A Roman Catholic friend of mine," said Rose--"he is a priest--told me that +he attended a clerical dinner the other day. The health of the Pope was +proposed, and they all got up and sang, 'For he's a jolly good fellow!'" + +There was a loud laugh at this. "I like that," said Father Payne, "I like +their doing that! I expect that that is exactly what the Pope is! I should +dearly love to have a good long quiet talk with him! I think I could let in +a little light: and I should like to ask him if he enjoyed his fame, dear +old boy: and whether he was interested in his work! 'Why, Mr. Payne, it's +rather anxious work, you know, the care of all the churches'--I can hear +him saying--'but I rub along, and the time passes quickly! though, to be +sure, I'm not as young as I was once: and while I am on the subject, Mr. +Payne, you look to me to be getting on in years yourself!' And then I +should say 'Yes, your Holiness, I am a man that has seen trouble.' And he +would say, 'I'm sorry to hear that! Tell me all about it!' That's how we +should talk, like old friends, in a snug parlour in the Vatican, looking +out on the gardens!" + + + +LX + +OF TAKING LIFE + + +I was walking with Father Payne one hot summer day upon a field-path he was +very fond of. There was a copse, through the middle of which the little +river, the Fyllot, ran. It was the boundary of the Aveley estate, and it +here joined another stream, the Rode, which came in from the south. The +path went through the copse, dense with hazels, and there was always a +musical sound of lapsing waters hidden in the wood. The birds sang shrill +in the thicket, and Father Payne said, "This is the juncture of Pison and +Hiddekel, you know, rivers of Paradise. Aveley is Havilah, where the gold +is good, and where there is bdellium, if we only knew where to look for it. +I fancy it is rich in bdellium. I came down here, I remember, the first day +I took possession. It was wonderful, after being so long among the tents of +Kedar, to plant my flag in Havilah; I made a vow that day--I don't know if +I have kept it!" + +"What was that?" I said. + +"Only that I would not get too fond of it all," said Father Payne, smiling, +"and that I would share it with other people. But I have got very fond of +it, and I haven't shared it. Asking people to stay with you, that they may +see what a nice place you have to live in, is hardly sharing it. It is +rather the other way--the last refinement of possession, in fact!" + +"It's very odd," he went on, "that I should love this little bit of the +world so much as I do. It's called mine--that's a curious idea. I have got +very little power over it. I can't prevent the trees and flowers from +growing here, or the birds from nesting here, if they have a mind to do so. +I can only keep human beings out of it, more or less. And yet I love it +with a sort of passion, so that I want other people to love it too. I +should like to think that after I am gone, some one should come here and +see how exquisitely beautiful it is, and wish to keep it and tend it. +That's what lies behind the principle of inheritance; it isn't the money or +the position only that we desire to hand on to our children--it's the love +of the earth and all that grows out of it; and possession means the desire +of keeping it unspoiled and beautiful, I could weep at the idea of this all +being swept away, and a bdellium-mine being started here, with a +factory-chimney and rows of little houses; and yet I suppose that if the +population increased, and the land was all nationalised, a great deal of +the beauty of England would go. I hope, however, that the sense of beauty +might increase too--I don't think the country people here have much notion +of beauty. They only like things to remain as they know them. It's a +fearful luxury really for a man like myself to live in a land like this, so +full of old woodland and pasture, which is only possible under rich +proprietors. I'm an abuse, of course. I have got a much larger slice of my +native soil than any one man ought to have; but I don't see the way out. +The individual can't dispossess himself--it's the system which is wrong." + +He stopped in the middle of the copse, and said: "Did you ever see anything +so perfectly lovely as this place? And yet it is all living in a state of +war and anarchy. The trees and plants against each other, all fighting for +a place in the sun. The rabbit against the grass, the bird against the +worm, the cat against the bird. There's no peace here really--it's full of +terrors! Only the stream is taking it easy. It hasn't to live by taking +life, and the very sound of it is innocent." + +Presently he said: "This is all cut down every five years. It's all made +into charcoal and bobbins. Then the flowers all come up in a rush; then the +copse begins to grow again--I never can make up my mind which is most +beautiful. I come and help the woodmen when they cut the copse. That's +pleasant work, you know, cutting and binding. I sometimes wonder if the +hazels hate being slashed about. I expect they do; but it can't hurt them +much, for up they come again. It's the right way to live, of course, to +begin again the minute you are cut down to the roots, to struggle out to +the air and sun again, and to give thanks for life. Don't you feel yourself +as if you were good for centuries of living?" + +"I'm not sure that I do," I said, "I don't feel as if I had quite got my +hand in." + +"Yes, that's all right for you, old boy," said Father Payne. "You are +learning to live, and you are living. But an old fellow like me, who has +got in the way of it, and has found out at last how good it is to be alive, +has to realise that he has only got a fag-end left. I don't at all want to +die; I've got my hands as full as they can hold of pretty and delightful +things; and I don't at all want to be cut down like the copse, and to have +to build up my branches again. Yes," he added, pondering, "I used to think +I should not live long, and I didn't much want to, I believe! But now--it's +almost disgraceful to think how much I prize life, and how interesting I +find it. Depend upon it, on we go! The only thing that is mysterious to me +is why I love a place like this so much. I don't suppose it loves me. I +suppose there isn't a beast or a bird, perhaps not a tree or a flower, in +the place that won't be rather relieved when I go back home without having +killed something. I expect, in fact, that I have left a track of death +behind me in the grass--little beetles and things that weren't doing any +harm, and that liked being alive. That's pretty beastly, you know, but how +is one to help it? Then my affection for it is very futile. I can't +establish a civilised system here; I can't prevent the creatures from +eating each other, or the trees from crowding out the flowers. I can't eat +or use the things myself, I can't take them away with me; I can only stand +and yearn with cheap sentiment. + +"And yet," he said after a moment, "there's something here in this bit of +copse that whispers to me beautiful secrets--the sunshine among the stems, +the rustle of leaves, the wandering breeze, the scent and coolness of it +all! It is crammed with beauty; it is all trying to live, and glad to live. +You may say, of course, that you don't see all that in it, and it is I that +am abnormal. But that doesn't explain it away. The fact that I feel it is a +better proof that it is there than the fact that you don't feel it is a +proof that it isn't there! The only thing about it that isn't beautiful to +me is the fact that life can't live except by taking life--that there is no +right to live; and that, I admit, is disconcerting. You may say to me, 'You +old bully, crammed with the corpses of sheep and potatoes, which you +haven't even had the honesty to kill for yourself, you dare to come here, +and talk this stuff about the beauty of it all, and the joy of living. If +all the bodies of the things you have consumed in your bloated life were +piled together, it would make a thing as big as a whole row of ricks!' If +you say that, I admit that you take the sentiment out of my sails!" + +"But I don't say it," said I: "Who dies if Father Payne live?" + +He laughed at this, and clapped me on the back. "You're in the same case as +I, old man," he said, "only you haven't got such a pile of blood and bones +to your credit! Here, we must stow this talk, or we shall become both +humbugs and materialists. It's a puzzling business, talking! It leads you +into some very ugly places!" + + + +LXI + +OF BOOKISHNESS + + +I went in to see Father Payne one morning about some work. He was reading a +book with knitted brows: he looked up, gave a nod, but no smile, pointed to +a chair, and I sate down: a minute or two later he shut the book--a neat +enough little volume--with a snap, and skimmed it deftly from where he +sate, into his large waste-paper basket. This, by the way, was a curious +little accomplishment of his,--throwing things with unerring aim. He could +skim more cards across a room into a hat than anyone I have ever seen who +was not a professed student of legerdemain. + +"What are you doing?" I said--"such a nice little book!" I rose and rescued +the volume, which was a careful enough edition of some poems and scraps of +poems, posthumously discovered, of a well-known poet. + +"Pray accept it with my kindest regards," said Father Payne. "No, I don't +know that I _ought_ to give it you. It is the sort of book I object +to." + +"Why?" I said, examining it--"it seems harmless enough." + +"It's the wrong sort of literature," said Father Payne. "There isn't time, +or there ought not to be, to go fumbling about with these old scraps. They +aren't good enough to publish--and what's more, if the man didn't publish +them himself, you may be sure he had very good reasons for _not_ doing +so. The only interest of them is that so good a poet could write such +drivel, and that he knew it was drivel sufficiently well not to publish it. +But the man who can edit it doesn't know that, and the critics who review +it don't know it either--it was a respectful review that made me buy the +rubbish--and as for the people who read it, God alone knows what they think +of it. It's a case of + + "'Weave a circle round him thrice, + And close your eyes in holy dread.' + +"You have to shut your eyes pretty tight not to see what bosh it all is--it +is all this infernal reverence paid by people, who have no independence of +judgment, to great reputations. It reminds me of the barber who used to cut +the Duke of Wellington's hair and nails, who made quite a lot of money by +selling clippings to put in lockets!" + +"But isn't it worth while to see a great poet's inferior jottings, and to +grasp how he worked?" said I. + +"No," said Father Payne;--"at least it would be worth while to see how he +brought off his good strokes, but it isn't worth while seeing how he missed +his stroke altogether. This deification business is all unwholesome. In +art, in life, in religion, in literature, it's a mistake to worship the +saints--you don't make them divine, you only confuse things, and bring down +the divine to your own level. The truth--the truth--why can't people see +how splendid it is, and that it is one's only chance of getting on! To shut +your eyes to the possibility of the great man having a touch of the +commonplace, a touch of the ass, even a touch of the knave in him, doesn't +ennoble your conception of human nature. If you can only glorify humanity +by telling lies about it, and by ruling out all the flaws in it, you end by +being a sentimentalist. "See thou do it not ... worship God!" that's one of +the finest things in the Bible. Of course it is magnificent to see a streak +of the divine turning up again and again in human nature--but you have got +to wash the dirt to find the diamond. Believe in the beauty behind and in +and beyond us all--but don't worship the imperfect thing. This sort of book +is like selling the dirt out of which the diamonds have been washed, and +which would appear to have gained holiness by contact. I hate to see people +stopping short on the symbol and the illustration, instead of passing on to +the truth behind--it's idolatry. It's one degree better than worshipping +nothing; but the danger of idolatry is that you are content to get no +further: and that is what makes idolatry so ingenious a device of the +devil, that it persuades people to stop still and not to get on." + +"But aren't you making too much out of it?" I said. "At the worst, this is +a harmless literary blunder, a foolish bit of hero-worship?" + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "in a sense that is true, that these little +literary hucksters and pedlars don't do any very great harm--I don't mean +that they cause much mischief: but they are the symptom of a grave disease. +It is this d----d _bookishness_ which is so unreal. I would like to +say a word about it to you, if you have time, instead of doing our work +to-day--for if you will allow me to say so, my boy, you have got a touch of +it about you--only a touch--and I think if I can show you what I mean, you +can throw it off--I have heard you say rather solemn things about books! +But I want you to get through that. It reminds me of the talk of +ritualists. I have a poor friend who is a very harmless sort of parson--but +I have heard him talk of a bit of ceremonial with tears in his eyes. 'It +was exquisite, exquisite,' he will say,--'the celebrant wore a cope--a bit, +I believe of genuine pre-Reformation work--of course remounted--and the +Gospeller and Epistoller had copes so perfectly copied that it would have +been hard to say which was the real one. And then Father Wynne holds +himself so nobly--such a mixture of humility and pride--a priest ought to +exhibit both, I think, at that moment?--and his gestures are so +inevitable--so inevitable--that's the only word: there's no sense of +rehearsal about it: it is just the supreme act of worship expressing itself +in utter abandonment'--He will go on like that for an hour if he can find a +great enough goose to listen to him. Now, I don't mean to say that the man +hasn't a sense of beauty--he has the real ritual instinct, a perfectly +legitimate branch of art. But he doesn't know it's art--he thinks it is +religion. He thinks that God is preoccupied with such things; 'a full +choral High Mass, at nine o'clock, that's a thing to live and die for,' I +have heard him say. Of course it's a sort of idealism, but you must know +what you are about, and what you are idealising: and you mustn't think that +your kind is better than any other kind of idealising." + +He made a pause, and then held out his hand for the book. + +"Now here is the same sort of intemperate rapture," he said. "Look at this +introduction! 'It is his very self that his poems give, and the sharpest +jealousy of his name and fame is enkindled by them. Not to find him there, +his passion, endurance, faith, rapture, despair, is merely a confession of +want in ourselves.' That's not sane, you know--it's the intoxication of the +Corybant! It isn't the man himself we want to fix our eyes upon. He felt +these things, no doubt: but we mustn't worship his raptures--we must +worship what he worshipped. This sort of besotted agitation is little +better than a dancing dervish. The poems are little sparks, struck out from +a scrap of humanity by some prodigious and glorious force: but we must +worship the force, not the spark: the spark is only an evidence, a system, +a symbol if you like, of the force. And then see how utterly the man has +lost all sense of proportion--he has spent hours and days in identifying +with uncommon patience the exact date of these tepid scraps, and he says he +is content to have laid a single stone in the "unamended, unabridged, +authentic temple" of his idol's fame. That seems to me simply degrading: +and then the portentous ass, whose review I read, says that if the editor +had done nothing else, he is sure of an honoured place for ever in the +hierarchy of impeccable critics! And what is all this jabber about--a few +rhymes which a man made when he was feeling a little off colour, and which +he did not think it worth while to publish! + +"You mustn't get into this kind of a mess, my boy. The artist mustn't +indulge in emotion for the sake of the emotion. 'The weakness of life,' +says this pompous ass, 'is that it deviates from art!' You might just as +well say that the weakness of food was that it deviated from a well-cooked +leg of mutton! Art is just an attempt to disentangle something, to get at +one of the big constituents of life. It helps you to see clearly, not to +confuse one thing with another, not to be vaguely impressed--the hideous +danger of bookishness is that it is one of the blind alleys into which +people get. These two fellows, the editor and his critic, have got stuck +there: they can't see out: they think their little valley is the end of the +world. I expect they are both of them very happy men, as happy as a man who +goes to bed comfortably drunk. But, good God, the awakening!" Father Payne +relapsed into a long silence, with knitted brows. I tried to start him +afresh. + +"But you often tell us to be serious, to be deadly earnest, about our +work?" I said. + +"Oh yes," said Father Payne, "that's another matter. We have to work hard, +and put the best of ourselves into what we do. I don't want you to be an +amiable dilettante. But I also want you to see past even the best art. You +mustn't think that the stained-glass window is the body of heaven in its +clearness. The sort of worshippers I object to are the men who shut +themselves up in a church, and what with the colour and the music and the +incense-smoke, think they are in heaven already. It's an intoxication, all +that. I don't get you men to come here to make you drunk, but to get you to +loathe drunkenness. God--that's the end of it all! God, who reveals Himself +in beauty and kindness, and trustfulness, and charm and interest, and in a +hundred pure and fine forces--yet each of them are but avenues which lead +up to Him, the streets of the city, full of living water. But it is +movement I am in search of--and I would rather be drowned in the depth of +the sea than mislead anyone, or help him to sit still. I have made an awful +row about it all," said Father Payne, relapsing into a milder mood--"But +you will forgive me, I know. I can't bear to see these worthy men blocking +the way with their unassailable, unabridged, authentic editions. They are +like barbed-wire entanglements: and the worst of it is that, in spite of +all their holy air of triumph, they enjoy few things more than tripping +each other up! They condemn each other to eternal perdition for misplacing +a date or misspelling a name. It's like getting into a bed of nettles to +get in among these little hierophants. They remind me of the bishops at +some ancient Church Council or other who tore the clothes off two right +reverend consultants, and literally pulled them limb from limb in the name +of Christ. That's the end of these holy raptures, my boy! They unchain the +beast within." + + + +LXII + +OF CONSISTENCY + + +There had been a little vague talk about politics, and someone had quoted a +definition of a true Liberal as a man who, if he had only to press a button +in a dark room to annihilate all cranks, faddists, political quacks, +extremists, propagandists, and nostrum-mongers, would not dream of doing +so, as a matter of conscience, on the ground that everyone has a right to +hold his own beliefs and to persuade the world to accept them if he can. +Father Payne laughed at this; but Rose, who had been nettled, I fancy, at a +lack of deference for his political experience, his father being a Unionist +M.P., said loudly, "Hear, hear! that's the only sort of Liberal whom I +respect." + +A look of sudden anger passed over Father Payne's face--unmistakable and +uncompromising wrath. "Come, Rose," he said, "this isn't a political +meeting; and even if it were, why proclaim yourself as accepting a +definition which is almost within the comprehension of a chimpanzee?" + +There was a faint laugh at this, but everyone had an uncomfortable sense of +thunder in the air. Rose got rather white, and his nostrils expanded. "I'm +sorry I put it in that way," he said rather frostily, "if you object. But I +mean it, I think. I don't like diluted Liberalism." + +"Yes, but you beg the question by calling it diluted," said Father Payne. +"If anyone had said that the only Tory he respected was a man who if he +could press a button in a still darker room, and by doing so bring it to +pass that all institutions on the face of the earth would remain immutably +fixed for ever and ever, and would feel himself bound conscientiously to do +it, you wouldn't accept that as a definition of Conservatism? These things +are not hard and fast matters of principle--they are only tendencies. +Toryism is an instinct to trust custom and authority, Liberalism is an +instinct to welcome development and change. All that the definition of +Liberalism which was quoted means is, that the Liberal has a deep respect +for freedom of opinion; and all that my grotesque definition of Toryism +means is that a Tory prefers to trust a fixed tradition. But, of course, +both want a settled Government, and both have to recognise that the world +and its conditions change. The Tory says, 'Look before you leap'; the +Liberal says, 'Leap before you look.' But it is really all a matter of +infinite gradations, and what differentiates people is merely their idea of +the pace at which things can go and ought to go. Why should you say that +you can only respect a man who wants to go at sixty miles an hour, any more +than I should say I can only respect a man who wants to remain absolutely +still?" + +Rose had by this time recovered his temper, and said, "It was rather crude, +I admit. But what I meant was that if a man feels that all opinions are of +equal value, he must give full weight to all opinions. The doctrinaire +Liberal seems to me to be just as much inclined to tyrannise as the +doctrinaire Tory, and to use his authority on the side of suppression when +it is convenient to do so, and against all his own principles." + +"I don't think that is quite fair," said Father Payne. "You must have a +working system; you can't try everyone's experiments. All that the Liberal +says is, 'Persuade us if you can.' Pure Liberalism would be anarchy, just +as pure Toryism would be tyranny. Both are intolerable. But just as the +Liberal has to compromise and say, 'This may not be the ultimate theory of +the Government, but meanwhile the world has to be governed,' so the Tory +has to compromise, if a large majority of the people say, 'We will not be +governed by a minority for their interest; we will be governed for our +own.' The parliamentary vote is just a way of avoiding civil war; you can't +always resort to force, so you resort to arbitration. But why the Liberal +position is on the whole the stronger is because it says frankly, 'If you +Tories can persuade the nation to ask you to govern it, we will obey you.' +The weakness of the Tory position is that it has to make exactly the same +concessions, while it claims to be inspired by a divine sort of knowledge +as to what is just and right. I personally mistrust all intuitions which +lead to tyranny. Of course, the weakness of the whole affair is that the +man who believes in democracy has to assume that all have equal rights; +that would be fair enough if all people were born equal in character and +ability, and influence and wealth. But that isn't the case; and so the +Liberal says, 'Democracy is a bad system perhaps, but it is the only +system,' and it is fairer to maintain that everyone who gets into the world +has as good a right as anyone else to be there, than it is to say, 'Some +people have a right to manage the world and some have only a duty to obey.' +Both represent a side of the truth, but neither represents the whole truth. +At worst Liberalism is a combination of the weak against the strong, and +Toryism a combination of the strong against the weak! I personally wish the +weak to have a chance; but what we all really desire is to be governed by +the wise and good, and my hope for the world is that the quality of it is +improving. I want the weak to become sensible and self-restrained, and the +strong to become unselfish and disinterested. It is generosity that I want +to see increase--it is the finest of all qualities--the desire, I mean to +serve others, to admire, to sympathise, to share, to rejoice, in other +people's happiness. That would solve all our difficulties." + +"Yes, of course," said Rose. "But I would like to go back again, and say +that what I was praising was consistency." + +"But there is no such thing," said Father Payne, "except in combination +with entire irrationality. One can't say at any time of one's life, 'I know +everything worth knowing. I am in a position to form a final judgment.' You +can say, 'I will shut off all fresh light from my mind, and I will consider +no further evidence,' but that isn't a thing to respect! I begin to +suspect, Rose, that why you praised the uncompromising Liberal, as you call +him, is because he is the only kind of opponent who isn't dangerous. A man +who takes up such a position as I have described is practically insane. He +has a fixed idea, which neither argument nor evidence can alter. The +uncompromising man of fixed opinions, whatever those opinions may be, is +almost the only man I do not respect, because he is really the only +inconsistent person. He says, 'I have formed an opinion which is based on +experience, and I shall not alter it.' That is tantamount to saying that +you have done with experience; it is a claim to have attained infallibility +through fallible faculties. Where is the dignity of that? It's just a +deification of stupidity and stubbornness and insolence and complacency." + +"But you must take your stand on _some_ certainties," said Rose. + +"The fewer the better," said Father Payne. "One may learn to discriminate +between things, and to observe differences; but that is very different from +saying that you have got at the ultimate essence of any one thing. I am all +for clearness--we ought not to confuse things with each other, or use the +same names for different things; but I'm all against claiming absolute and +impeccable knowledge. It may be a comfortable system for a man who doesn't +want to be bothered; but he is only deferring the bother--he is like a man +who stays in bed because he doesn't like dressing. But it isn't a solution +to stay in bed--it is only suspending the solution. No, we mustn't have any +regard for human consistency--it's a very paltry attribute; it's the +opposite of anthropomorphism. That makes out God to be in the image of man, +but consistency claims for man the privilege of God. And that isn't +wholesome, you know, either for a man or his friends!" + +"I give up," said Rose: "can nothing be logical?" + +"Hardly anything," said Father Payne, "except logic itself. You have to +coin logical ideas into counters to play with. No two things, for instance, +can ever be absolutely equal, except imaginary equalities--and that's the +mischief of logic applied to life, that it presumes an exact valuation of +the ideas it works with, when no two people's valuations of the same idea +are identical, and even one person's valuation varies from time to time; +and logic breeds a phantom sort of consistency which only exists in the +imagination. You know the story of how Smith and Jones were arguing, and +Smith said, 'Brown will agree with me': 'Yes,' said Jones triumphantly, 'he +will, but for my reasons!'" + + + +LXIII + +OF WRENS AND LILIES + + +It was the first warm and sunny day, after a cold and cloudy spring: I took +a long and leisurely walk with Father Payne down a valley among woods, of +which Father Payne was very fond. "Almost precipitous for Northamptonshire, +eh?" he used to say. I was very full of a book I had been reading, but I +could not get him to talk. He made vague and foolish replies, and said +several times, "I shall have to think that over, you know," which was, I +well knew, a polite intimation that he was not in a mood for talk. But I +persisted, and at last he said, "Hang it, you know, I'm not attending--I'm +very sorry--it isn't your fault--but there's such a lot going on +everywhere." He quoted a verse of _The Shropshire Lad_, of which he +was very fond: + + "'Now, of my threescore years and ten, + Twenty will not come again, + And take from seventy springs a score, + It only leaves me fifty more'"; + +adding, "That's the only instance I know of a subtraction sum made into +perfect poetry--but it's the other way round, worse luck! + + "And _add_ to seventy springs a score, + _That_ only leaves me forty more!" + +The birds were singing very sweetly in the copses as we passed--"That isn't +art, I believe," said Father Payne. "It's only the reproductive instinct, I +am told! I wish it took such an artistic form in my beloved brothers in the +Lord! There," he added, stopping and speaking in a low tone; "don't +move--there's a cock-wren singing his love-song--you can see his wings +quivering." There followed a little tremolo, with four or five emphatic +notes for a finish. "Now, if you listen, you'll hear the next wren answer +him!" said Father Payne. In a moment the same little song came like an echo +from a bush a few yards away. "The wren sings in stricter time than any +bird but the cuckoo," said Father Payne--"four quavers to a bar. That's +very important! Those two ridiculous creatures will go on doing that half +the morning. They are so excited that they build sham nests, you know, +about now--quite useless piles of twigs and moss, not intended for eggs, +just to show what they can do. But that little song! It has all the passion +of the old chivalry in it--it is only to say, 'My Dulcinea is prettier, +sweeter, brighter-eyed than yours!' and the other says, 'You wait till I +can get at you, and then we will see!' If they were two old knights, they +would fight to the death over it, till the world had lost a brave man, and +one of the Dulcineas was a hapless widow, and nothing proved. That's the +sort of thing that men admire, full of fine sentiment. Why can't we leave +each other alone? Why does loving one person make you want to fight +another? Just look at that wren: he's as full of joy and pride as he can +hold: look at the angle at which he holds his tail: he feels the lord of +the world, sure enough!" + +We walked on, and I asked no more questions. "There's a bit of colour," +said Father Payne, pointing to a bare wood, all carpeted with green blades. +"That's pure emerald, like the seventh foundation of the city. Now, if I +ask you, who are a bit of a poet, what those leaves are, what do you say? +You say hyacinth or daffodil, or perhaps lily-of-the-valley. But what does +the simple botanist--that's me--say? Garlic, my boy, and nothing else! and +you had better not walk musing there, or you will come in smelling of +spring onions, like a greengrocer's shop. So much for poetry! It's the +loveliest green in creation, and it has a pretty flower too--but it's never +once mentioned in English poetry, so far as I know. And yet Keats had the +face to say that Beauty was Truth and Truth Beauty! That's the way we play +the game." + +We rambled on, and passed a pleasant old stone-built cottage in the wood, +with a tiny garden. "It's a curious thing," said Father Payne, "but in the +spring I always want to live in all the houses I see. It's the nesting +instinct, no doubt. I think I could be very happy here, for instance--much +happier than in my absurd big house, with all you fellows about. Why did I +ever start it? I ought to have had more sense. I want a cottage like this, +and a little garden to work in, and a few books. I would live on bread and +cold bacon and cheese and cabbages, with a hive of my own honey. I should +get wise and silent, and not run on like this." + +A dog came out of the cottage garden, and followed us a little way. "Do we +belong to your party, sir, or do you belong to ours?" said Father Payne. +The dog put his head on one side, and wagged his tail. "It appears I have +the pleasure of your acquaintance!" said Father Payne to him. "Very well, +you can set us on our way if you like!" The dog gave a short shrill bark, +and trotted along with us. When we got to the end of the lane, where it +turned into the high road, Father Payne said to the dog, "Now, sir, I +expect that's all the time you can spare this morning? You must go back and +guard the house, and be a faithful dog. Duty first!" The dog looked +mournfully at us, and wagged his tail, but did not attempt to come farther. +He watched us for a little longer, but as we did not invite him to come on, +he presently turned round and trotted off home. "Now, that's the sort of +case where I feel sentimental," said Father Payne. "It's the sham sort of +pathos. I hate to see anyone disappointed. A person offering flowers in the +street for sale, and people not buying them--the men in London showing off +little toys by the pavement, which nobody wants--I can't bear that. It +makes me feel absurdly wretched to see anyone hoping to please, and not +pleasing. And if the people who do it look old and frail and unhappy, I'm +capable of buying the whole stock. The great uncomforted! It's silly, of +course, and there is nothing in the world so silly as useless emotion! It +is so easy to overflow with cheap benevolence, but the first step towards +the joyful wisdom is to be afraid of the emotion that costs you nothing: +but we won't be metaphysical to-day!" + +Presently Father Payne insisted on sitting down in a sheltered place. He +flung his hat off, and sate there, looking round him with a smile, his arms +clasped round his big knees. "Well," he said, "it's a jolly place, the old +world, to be sure! Plenty of nasty and ugly things, I suppose, going on in +corners; but if you look round, they are only a small percentage of the +happy things. They don't force themselves upon the eye and ear, the beastly +things: and it's a stupid and faithless mistake to fix the imagination and +the reason too much upon them. We are all of us in a tight place +occasionally, and we have to meet it as best we can. But I don't think we +do it any better by anticipating it beforehand. What is more, no one can +really help us or deliver us: we can be made a little more comfortable, and +that's all, by what they call cooling drinks, and flowers in a vase by the +bedside. And it's a bad thing to get the misery of the world in a vague way +on our nerves. That's the useless emotion. We have got certain quite +definite things to do for other people in our own circle, and we are bound +to do them; we mustn't shirk them, and we mustn't shirk our own troubles, +though the less we bother about them the better. I am not at all sure that +the curse of the newspapers is not that they collect all the evils of the +world into a hideous posy, and thrust it under our nose. They don't collect +the fine, simple, wholesome things. Now you and I are better employed +to-day in being agreeable to each other--at least you are being kind to me, +even though I can't talk about that book--and in looking at the delightful +things going on everywhere--just think of all the happiness in the world +to-day, symbolised by that ridiculous wren!--we are better employed, I say, +than if we were extending the commerce of England, or planning how to make +war, or scolding people in sermons about their fatal indifference to the +things that belong to their peace. Men and women must find and make their +own peace, and we are doing both to-day. That awful vague sense of +responsibility, that desire to interfere, that wish that everyone else +should do uncomplaining what we think to be their duty--that's all my eye! +It is the kindly, eager, wholesome life which affects the world, wherever +it is lived: and that is the best which most of us can do. We can't be +always fighting. Even the toughest old veteran soldier--how many hours of +his life has he spent actually under fire? No, I'm not forgetting the +workers either: but you need not tell me that they are all sick at heart +because they are not dawdling in a country lane. It would bore them to +death, and they can live a very happy life without it. That's the false +pathos again--to think that everyone who can't do as _we_ like must be +miserable. And anyhow, I have done my twenty-five years on the treadmill, +and I am not going to pretend it was noble work, because it wasn't. It was +useless and disgraceful drudgery, most of it!" + +"Ah," I said, "but that doesn't help me. You may have earned a holiday, but +I have never done any real drudgery--I haven't earned anything." + +"Be content," said Father Payne; "take two changes of raiment! You have got +your furrow to plough--all in good time! You are working hard now, and +don't let me hear any stuff about being ashamed because you enjoy it! The +reward of labour is life: to enjoy our work is the secret. If you could +persuade people that the spring of life lies there, you would do more for +the happiness of man than by attending fifty thousand committees. But I +won't talk any more. I want to consider the lilies of the field, how they +grow. They don't do it every day!" + + + +LXIV + +OF POSE + + +Someone said rashly, after dinner to-night, that the one detestable and +unpardonable thing in a man was pose. A generalisation of this kind acted +on Father Payne very often like a ferret on a rabbit. He had been +mournfully abstracted during dinner, shaking his head slowly, and turning +his eyes to heaven when he was asked leading questions. But now he said: "I +don't think that is reasonable--you might as well say that you always +disliked length in a book. A book has got to be some length--it is as short +as it's long. Of course, the moment you begin to say, 'How long this book +is!' you mean that it is too long, and excess is a fault. Do you remember +the subject proposed in a school debating society, 'That too much athletics +is worthy of our admiration'? Pose is like that--when you become conscious +of pose it is generally disagreeable--that is, if it is meant to deceive: +but it is often amusing too, like the pose of the unjust judge in the +parable, who prefaces his remarks by saying, 'Though I fear not God, +neither regard man.'" + +"Oh, but you know what I mean, Father," said the speaker, "the pose of +knowing when you don't know, and being well-bred when you are snobbish, and +being kind when you are mean, and so on." + +"I think you mean humbug rather than pose," said Father Payne; "but even +so, I don't agree with you. I have a friend who would be intolerable, but +for his pose of being agreeable. He isn't agreeable, and he doesn't feel +agreeable; but he behaves as if he was, and it is the only thing that makes +him bearable. What you really mean is the pose of superiority--the man +whose motives are always just ahead of your own, and whose taste is always +slightly finer, and who knows the world a little better. But there is a lot +of pose that isn't that. What _is_ pose, after all? Can anyone define +it?" + +"It's an artist's phrase, I think," said Barthrop; "it means a position in +which you look your best." + +"Like the Archbishop who was always painted in a gibbous attitude--first +quarter, you know--with his back turned to you, and his face just visible +over his lawn sleeve," said Father Payne, "but that was in order to hide an +excrescence on his left cheek. Do you remember what Lamb said of Barry +Cornwall's wen on the nape of his neck? Some one said that Barry Cornwall +was thinking of having it cut off. 'I hope he won't do that,' said Lamb, 'I +rather like it--it's redundant, like his poetry!' I rather agree with Lamb. +I like people to be a little redundant, and a harmless pose is pure +redundancy: it only means that a man is up to some innocent game or other, +some sort of mystification, and is enjoying himself. It's like a summer +haze over the landscape. Now, there's another friend of mine who was once +complimented on his 'uplifted' look. Whenever he thinks of it, and that's +pretty often, he looks uplifted, like a bird drinking, with his eyes fixed +on some far-off vision. I don't mind that! It's only a wish to look his +best. It's partly a wish to give pleasure, you know. It's the same thing +that makes people wear their hair long, or dress in a flamboyant way. I'll +tell you a little story. You know Bertie Nash, the artist. I met him once +in a Post Office, and he was buying a sheet of halfpenny stamps. I asked +him if he was going to send out some circulars. He looked at me sadly, and +said, 'No, I always use these--I can't use the penny stamps--such a crude +red!' Now, he didn't do that to impress me: but it was a pose in a way, and +he liked feeling so sensitive to colour." + +"But oughtn't one to avoid all that sort of nonsense?" said some one; "it's +better surely to be just what you are." + +"Yes, but what _are_ you, after all?" said Father Payne; "your moods +vary. It would be hopeless if everyone tried to keep themselves down to +their worst level for the sake of sincerity. The point is that you ought to +try to keep at your best level, even if you don't feel so. Hang it, good +manners are a pose, if it comes to that. The essence of good manners is +sometimes to conceal what you are feeling. Is it a pose to behave amiably +when you are tired or cross?" + +"No, but that is in order not to make other people uncomfortable," said +Vincent. + +"Well, it's very hard to draw the line," said Father Payne: "but what we +really mean by pose is, I imagine, the attempt to appear to be something +which you frankly are not--and that is where the word has changed its +sense, Barthrop. An artist's pose is something characteristic, which makes +a man look his best. What we generally mean by pose is the affecting a best +which one never reaches. Come, tell a story, some one! That's the best way +to get at a quality. Won't some one quote an illustration?" + +"What about my friend Pearce, the schoolmaster?" said Vincent. "He read a +book about schoolmastering, and he said he didn't think much of it. He +added that the author seemed only to be giving elegant reasons for doing +things which the born schoolmaster did by instinct." + +"Well, that's not a bad criticism," said Father Payne; "but it was pose if +he meant to convey that _he_ was a born schoolmaster. Is he one, by +the way?" + +"No," said Vincent, "he is not: he is much ragged by the boys; but he +comforts himself by thinking that all schoolmasters are ragged, but that he +is rather more successful than most in dealing with it. He has a great deal +of moral dignity, has Pearce! I don't know where he would be without it!" + +"Well, there's an instance," said Father Payne, "of a pose being of some +use. I think a real genuine pose often makes a man do better work in the +world than if he was drearily conscious of failure. It's a game, you +know--a dramatic game: and I think it's a sign of vitality and interest to +want to have a game. It's like the lawyer's clerk in _Our Mutual +Friend_, when Mr. Boffin calls to keep an appointment, being the +lawyer's only client; but the boy makes a show of looking it all up in a +ledger, runs his finger down a list of imaginary consultants, and says to +himself, 'Mr. Aggs, Mr. Baggs, Mr. Caggs, Mr. Daggs, Mr. Boffin--Yes, sir, +that is right!' Now there's no harm in that sort of thing--it's only a bit +of moral dignity, as Vincent says. It's no good acquiescing in being a +humble average person--we must do better than that! Most people believe in +themselves in spite of abundant evidence to the contrary--but it's better +than disbelieving in yourself. That's abject, you know." + +"But if you accept the principle of pose," said Lestrange, "I don't see +that you can find fault with any pose." + +"You might as well say," said Father Payne, "that if I accept the principle +of drinking alcohol, it doesn't matter how much I drink! Almost all +morality is relative--in fact, it is doubtful if it is ever absolute. The +mischief of pose is not when it makes a man try to be or to appear at his +best: but when a man lives a thoroughly unreal life, taking a high line in +theory and never troubling about practice, then it's incredible to what +lengths self-deception can go. Dr. Johnson said that he looked upon himself +as a polite man! It is quite easy to get to believe yourself impeccable in +certain points: and as one gets older, and less assailable, and less liable +to be pulled up and told the hard truth, it is astonishing how serenely you +can sail along. But that isn't pose exactly. It generally begins by a pose, +and becomes simple imperviousness; and that is, after all, the danger of +pose,--that it makes people blind to the truth about themselves." + +"I'm getting muddled," said Vincent. + +"It _is_ rather muddling," said Father Payne, "but, in a general way, +the point is this. When pose is a deliberate attempt to deceive other +people for your own credit, it is detestable. But when it is merely +harmless drama, to add to the interest of life and to retain your own +self-respect, it's an amiable foible, and need not be discouraged. The real +question is whether it is assumed seriously, or whether it is all a sort of +joke. We all like to play our little games, and I find it very easy to +forgive a person who enjoys dressing up, so to speak, and making remarks in +character. Come, I'll confess my sins in public. If I meet a stranger in +the roads, I rather like to be thought a bluff and hearty English squire, +striding about my broad acres. I prefer that to being thought a retired +crammer, a dominie who keeps a school and calls it an academy, as Lord +Auchinleck said of Johnson. But if I pretended in this house to be a kind +of abbot, and glided about in a cassock with a gold cross round my neck, +conferring a benediction on everyone, and then retired to my room to read a +French novel and to drink whisky-and-soda, that would be a very unpleasant +pose indeed!" + +We all implored Father Payne to adopt it, and he said he would give it his +serious consideration. + + + +LXV + +OF REVENANTS + + +I was sitting in the garden one evening in summer with Father Payne and +Barthrop. Barthrop was going off next day to Oxford, and was trying to +persuade Father Payne to come too. + +"No," he said, "I simply couldn't! Oxford is the city east of the sun and +west of the moon--like as a dream when one awaketh! I don't hold with +indulging fruitless sentiment, particularly about the past." + +"But isn't it rather a pity?" said Barthrop. "After all, most emotions are +useless, if you come to that! Why should you cut yourself off from a place +you are so fond of, and which is quite the most beautiful place in England +too? Isn't it rather--well,--weak?" + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "it's weak, no doubt! That is to say, if I were +differently made, more hard-hearted, more sure of myself, I should go, and +I should enjoy myself, and moon about, and bore you to death with old +stories about the chimes at midnight--everybody would be a dear old boy or +a good old soul, and I should hand out tips, and get perfectly maudlin in +the evenings over a glass of claret. That's the normal thing, no +doubt--that's what a noble-minded man in a novel of Thackeray's would do!" + +"Well," said Barthrop, "you know best--but I expect that if you did take +the plunge and go there, you would find yourself quite at ease." + +"I might," said Father Payne; "but then I also might not--and I prefer not +to risk it. You see, it would be merely wallowing in sentiment--and I don't +approve of sentiment. I want my emotions to live with, not to bathe in!" + +"But you don't mind going back to London," said Barthrop. + +"No," said Father Payne, "but that bucks me up. I was infernally unhappy in +London, and it puts me in a thoroughly sensible and cheerful mood to go and +look at the outside of my old lodgings, and the place where I used to +teach, and to say to myself, 'Thank God, that's all over!' Then I go on my +way rejoicing, and make no end of plans. But if I went to Oxford, I should +just remember how happy and young I was; and I might even commit the folly +of regretting the lapse of time, and of wishing I could have it back again. +I don't think it is wholesome to do anything which makes one discontented, +or anything which forces one to dwell on what one has lost. That doesn't +matter. Nothing really is ever lost, and it only takes the starch out of +one to think about it from that angle. I don't believe in the past. It +seems unalterable, and I suppose in a sense it is so. But if you begin to +dwell on unalterable things, you become a fatalist, and I'm always trying +to get away from that. The point is that no one is unalterable, and, thank +God, we are always altering. To potter about in the past is like grubbing +in an ash-heap, and shedding tears over broken bits of china. The plate, or +whatever it is, was pretty enough, and it had its place and its use; and +when the stuff of which it is made is wanted again, it will be used again. +It is simply fatuous to waste time over the broken pieces of old dreams and +visions; and I mean to use my emotions and my imagination to see new dreams +and finer visions. Perhaps the time will come when I can dream no more--the +brain gets tired and languid, no doubt. But even then I shall try to be +interested in what is going on." + +"I see your point," said Barthrop; "but, for the life of me, I can't see +why the old place should not take its part in the new visions! When I go +down to Oxford I don't regret it. I go gratefully and happily about, and I +like to see the young men as jolly as I was, and as unaware what a good +time they are having. An old pal of mine is a Don, and he puts me up in +College, and it amuses me to go into Hall, and to see some of the young +lions at close quarters. It's all pure and simple refreshment." + +"I've no doubt of it, old man," said Father Payne; "and it's an excellent +thing for you to go, and to draw fresh life from the ancient earth, like +Antaeus. But I'm not made that way. I'm not loyal--that is to say, I am not +faithful to things simply because I once admired and loved them. If you are +loyal in the right way, as you are, it's different. But these old +attachments are a kind of idolatry to me--a false worship. I'm naturally +full of unreasonable devotion to the old and beautiful things; but they get +round my neck like a mill-stone, and it is all so much more weight that I +have to carry. I sometimes go to see an old cousin of mine, a widow in the +country, who lives entirely in the past, never allows anything to be +changed in the house, never talks about anyone who isn't dead or ill. The +woman's life is simply buried under old memories, mountains of old china, +family plate, receipts for jam and marmalade--everything has got to be done +as it was in the beginning. Now most of her friends think that very +beautiful and tender, and talk of the old-world atmosphere of the place; +but I think it simply a stuffy waste of time. I don't tell her so--God +forbid! But I feel that she is lolling in an arbour by the roadside instead +of getting on. It's innocent enough, but it does not seem to me beautiful." + +"But I still don't see why you give way to the feeling," said Barthrop. +"I'm sure that if I felt as you do about Oxford, or any other place, you +would tell me it was my duty to conquer it." + +"Very likely!" said Father Payne. "But doctors don't feel bound to take +their own prescriptions! Everyone must decide for himself, and I know that +I should fall under the luxurious enchantment. I should go into cheap +raptures, I should talk about 'the tender grace of a day that is +dead'--it's no use putting your head in a noose to see what being strangled +feels like." + +"But do you apply that to everything," I said, "old friendships, old +affections, old memories? They seem to me beautiful, and harmlessly +beautiful." + +"Well, if you can use them up quite freshly, and make a poetical dish out +of them, for present consumption, I don't mind," said Father Payne. "But +that isn't my way--I'm not robust enough. It's all I can do to take things +in as they come along. Of course an old memory sometimes goes through one +like a sword, but I pull it out as quick as I can, and cast it away. I am +not going to dance with Death if I can help it! I have got my job cut out +for me, and I am not going to be hampered by old rubbish. Mind you, I don't +say that it was rubbish at the time; but I have no use for anything that I +can't use. Sentiment seems to me like letting valuable steam off. The +people I have loved are all there still, whether they are dead or alive. +They did a bit of the journey with me, and I enjoyed their company, and I +shall enjoy it again, if it so comes about. But we have to live our life, +and we can't keep more than a certain number of things in mind--that is an +obvious limitation. Do you remember the old fairy story of the man who +carried a magic goose, and everyone who touched it, or touched anyone who +touched it, could not leave go, with the result that there was a long train +of helpless people trotting about behind the man. I don't want to live like +that, with a long train of old memories and traditions and friendships and +furniture trailing helplessly behind me. My business is with my present +circle, my present work, and I can't waste my strength in drawing about +vehicles full of goods. If anyone wants me, here I am, and I will do my +best to meet his wishes; but I am not going to be frightened by words like +loyalty into pretending that I am going to stagger along carrying the whole +of my past. No, my boy," said Father Payne, turning to Barthrop, "you go to +Oxford, and enjoy yourself! But the old place is too tight about my heart +for me to put my nose into it. I'm a free man, and I am not going to be in +bondage to my old fancies. You may give my love to Corpus and to Wadham +Garden--it's all dreadfully bewitching--but I'm not going to run the risk +of falling in love with the phantom of the past--that's _La Belle Dame +Sans Merci_ for me, and I'm riding on--I'm riding on. I won't have the +hussy on my horse. + + "I set her on my pacing steed, + And nothing else saw all day long, + For sideways would she lean, and sing + A faery's song. + + She found me roots of relish sweet, + And honey wild and manna dew. + And sure in language strange she said, + 'I love thee true,'" + +He stopped a moment, as he often did when he made a quotation, overcome +with feeling. Then he smiled, and added half to himself, "No; I should say, +as Dr. Johnson said to the lady in Fleet Street; 'No, no; it won't do, my +girl!'" + + + +LXVI + +OF DISCIPLINE + + +"Well, anyhow," said Vincent at dinner, commenting on something that had +been said, "you may not get anything else out of a disagreeable affair like +that, but you get a sort of discipline." + +"Come, hold on," said Father Payne; "that won't do, you know! Discipline, +in my belief, is in itself a bad thing, unless you not only get something +out of it, but, what is more, know what you get out of it. You can't +discipline anyone, unless he desires it! Discipline means the repressing of +something--you must be quite sure that it is worth repressing." + +"What I mean," said Vincent, "is that it makes you tougher and harder." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but that is not a good thing in itself, unless +there is something soft and weak in you. Discipline may easily knock the +good things out of you. There's a general kind of belief that, because the +world is a rough place, where you may get tumbles and shocks without any +fault of your own, therefore it is as well to have something rough about +you. I don't believe in that. The reason why a man gets roughly handled, in +nine cases out of ten, is not because he is obnoxious or offensive, but +because other people are harsh and indifferent. I want to apply discipline +to the brutal, not to brutalise the sensitive. If discipline simply made +people brave and patient, it would be different, but it often makes them +callous and unpleasant." + +"But doesn't everyone want discipline of some kind?" said Vincent. + +"Of the right kind, yes," said Father Payne. "Some people want a good deal +more than they get, and some a certain amount less than they get. It's a +delicate business. It is not always fortifying. Take a simple case. A bold, +brazen sort of boy who is untruthful may want a whipping; but a timid and +imaginative boy who is untruthful doesn't necessarily want a whipping at +all--it makes him more, and not less, timid. One of the most ridiculous and +persistent blunders in human life is to believe that a certain penalty is +divinely appointed for a certain offence. Our theory of punishment is all +wrong; we inflict punishment, as a rule, not to improve an offender, but +out of revenge, or because it gives us a comfortable sense of our own +justice. And the whole difficulty of discipline is that it is apt to be +applied in lumps, and distributed wholesale to people who don't all want +the same amount. We haven't really got very far away from the Squeers +theory of giving all the boys brimstone and treacle alike." + +"Yes, but in a school," said Vincent, "would not the boys themselves resent +it, if they were punished differently for the same offence?" + +"That is to say," said Father Payne, "that you are to treat boys, whom you +are supposed to be training, in accordance with their ideas of justice, and +not in accordance with yours! Why should you confirm them in a wholly +erroneous view of justice? Justice isn't a mathematical thing--or rather, +it ought to be a mathematical thing, because you ought to take into account +a lot of factors, which you simply omit from your calculation. I believe +very little in punishment, to tell you the truth; it ought only to be +inflicted after many warnings, when the offence is deliberately repeated. I +don't believe that the sane and normal person is a habitual and deliberate +offender. The kind of absence of self-restraint which makes people unable +to resist temptation, in any form, is a disease, and ought to be +segregated. I haven't the slightest doubt that we shall end by segregating +or sterilising the person of criminal tendencies, which only means a total +inability, in the presence of a temptation, to foresee consequences, and +which gratifies a momentary desire." + +"But apart from definite moral disease," said Vincent, "isn't it a good +thing to compel people, if possible, into a certain sort of habit? I am +speaking of faults which are not criminal--things like unpunctuality, +laziness, small excesses, mild untrustworthiness, and so forth." + +"Well, I don't personally believe in coercive discipline at all," said +Father Payne. "I think it simply gets people out of shape. I believe in +trying to give people a real motive for self-discipline: take +unpunctuality, for instance. The only way to make an unpunctual person +punctual is to convince him that it is rude and unjust to keep other people +waiting. There is nothing sacred about punctuality in itself, unless some +one else suffers by your being unpunctual. If it comes to that, isn't it +quite as good a discipline for punctual people to learn to wait without +impatience for the unpunctual? Supposing an unpunctual person were to say, +'I do it on principle, to teach precise people not to mind waiting,' where +is the flaw in that? Take what you call laziness. Some people work better +by fits and starts, some do better work by regularity. The point is to know +how you work best. You must not make the convenience of average people into +a moral law. The thing to aim at is that a man should not go on doing a +thing which he honestly believes to be wrong and hurtful, out of a mere +habit. Take the small excesses of which you speak--food, drink, sleep, +tobacco. Some people want more of these things than others; you can't lay +down exact laws. A man ought to find out precisely what suits him best; but +I'm not prepared to say that regularity in these matters is absolutely good +for everyone. The thing is not to be interfered with by your habits; and +the end of all discipline is, I believe, efficiency, vitality, and freedom; +but it is no good substituting one tyranny for another. I was reading the +life of a man the other day who simply could not believe that anyone could +think a thing wrong and yet do it. His biographer said, very shrewdly, that +his sense of sin was as dead as his ear for music--that he did not possess +even the common liberty of right and wrong. That's a bad case of atrophy! +You must not, of course, be at the mercy of your moods, but you must not be +at the mercy of your ethical habits either. Of the two, I am not sure that +the habit isn't the most dangerous." + +"You seem to be holding a brief all round, Father," said Vincent. + +"No, I am not doing that," said Father Payne, "but my theory is this. You +must know, first of all, what you are aiming at, and you must apply your +discipline sensibly to that. There are certain things in us which we know +to be sloppy--we lie in bed, we dawdle, we eat too much, we moon over our +work. All that is obviously no good, and all sensible people try to pull +themselves up. When you have found out what suits you, do it boldly; but +the man who admires discipline for its own sake is a sort of +hypochondriac--a medicine-drinker. I have a friend who says that if he +stays in a house, and sees a bottle of medicine in a cupboard, he is always +tempted to take a dose. 'Is it that you feel ill?' I once said to him. +'No,' he said; 'but I have an idea that it might do me good.' The +disciplinarian is like that: he is always putting a little strain upon +himself, cutting off this and that, trying new rules, heading himself off. +He has an uneasy feeling that if he likes anything, it is a sort of sign +that he should abstain from it: he mistrusts his impulses and instincts. He +thinks he is getting to talk too much, and so he practises holding his +tongue. The truth is that he is suspicious of life. He is like the +schoolmaster who says, 'Go and see what Jack is doing, and tell him not +to!' Of course I am taking an extreme case, but there is a tendency in that +direction in many people. They think that strength means the power to +resist, when it really means the power to flow. I do not think that people +ought to be deferential to criticism, timid before rebuke, depressed by +disapproval: and, on the whole, I believe that more harm is done by +self-repression, obedience, meekness than by the opposite qualities. I want +men to live their own lives fearlessly--not offensively, of course--with a +due regard to other people's comfort, but without any regard to other +people's conventions. I believe in trusting yourself, on the whole, and +trusting the world. I do not think it is wholesome or brave to live under +the shadow of other people's fears or other people's convictions. All the +people, it seems to me, who have done anything for the world, have been the +people who have gone their own way; and I think that self-discipline, or +external discipline meekly accepted, ends in a flattening out of men's +power and character. Of course you fellows here are learning to do a +definite technical thing--but you will observe that all the discipline here +is defensive, and not coercive. I don't want you to take any shape or +mould: I want you just to learn to do things in your own way. I don't ever +want you to interfere with each other's minds too much. I don't want to +interfere with your minds myself, except in so far as to help you to get +rid of sloppiness and prejudices. Here, I mustn't go on--it's becoming like +a prospectus! but it comes to this, that I believe in the trained mind, and +not in the moulded mind; and I think that the moment discipline ceases to +train strength, and begins to mould weakness, it's a thoroughly bad thing. +No one can be artificially protected from life without losing life--and +life is what I am out for." + + + +LXVII + +OF INCREASE + + +I did not hear the argument, but I heard Vincent say to Father Payne: "Of +course I couldn't do that--it would have been so inconsistent." + +"Oh! consistency's a very cheap affair," said Father Payne; "it is mostly a +blend of vanity and slow intelligence." + +"But one must stick to _something_," said Vincent. "There's nothing so +tiresome as never knowing how a man is going to behave." + +"Of course," said Father Payne, "inconsistency isn't a virtue--it is +generally the product of a quick and confused intelligence. But consistency +ought not to be a principle of thought or action--you ought not to do or +think a thing simply because you have thought it before--that is mere +laziness! What one wants is a consistent sort of progress--you ought not to +stay still." + +"But you must have principles," said Vincent. + +"Yes, but you must expect to change them," said Father Payne. "Principles +are only deductions after all: and to remain consistent as a rule only +means that you have ceased to do anything with your experience, or else it +means that you have taken your principles second-hand. They ought to be +living things, yielding fruits of increase. I don't mean that you should be +at the mercy of a persuasive speaker, or of the last book you have +read--but, on the other hand, to meet an interesting man or to read a +suggestive book ought to modify your views a little. You ought to be +elastic. The only thing that is never quite the same is opinion; and to be +holding a ten years' old opinion simply means that you are stranded. +There's nothing worse than to be high and dry." + +"But isn't it worse still," said Vincent, "to see so many sides to a +question that you can't take a definite part?" + +"I don't feel sure," said Father Payne. "I know that the all-round +sympathiser is generally found fault with in books; but it is an uncommon +temperament, and means a great power of imagination. I am not sure that the +faculty of taking a side is a very valuable one. People say that things get +done that way; but a great many things get done wrong, and have to be +undone. There is no blessing on the palpably one-sided people. Besides, +there is a great movement in the world now towards approximation. +Majorities don't want to bully minorities. Persecution has gone out. People +are beginning to see that principles are few and interpretations many. I +believe, as a matter of fact, that we ought always to be simplifying our +principles, and getting them under a few big heads. Besides, you do not +convert people by hammering away at principles. I always like the story of +the Frenchman who said to his opponent, 'Come, let us go for a little walk, +and see if we can disagree.'" + +"I don't exactly see what he meant," said Vincent. + +"Why, he meant," said Father Payne, "that if they could bring their minds +together, they would find that there wasn't very much to quarrel about. But +I don't believe in arguing. I don't think opinion changes in that way. I +fancy it has tides of its own, and that ideas appear in numbers of minds +all over the world, like flowers in spring. + +"But how is one ever to act at all," said Vincent, "if one is always to be +feeling that a principle may turn out to be nonsense after all?" + +"Well, I think action is mainly a matter of instinct," said Father Payne. +"But I don't really believe in taking too diffuse a view of things in +general. Very few of us are strong enough and wise enough, let me say, to +read the papers with any profit. The newspapers emphasize the disunion of +the world, and I believe in its solidarity. Come, I'll tell you how I think +people ought really to live, if you like. I think a man ought to live his +own life, without attempting too much reference to what is going on in the +world. I think it becomes pretty plain to most of us, by the time we reach +years of discretion, what we can do and what we cannot. I don't mean that +life ought to be lived in blank selfishness, without reference to anyone +else. Most of us can't do that, anyhow--it requires extraordinary +concentration of will. But I think that our lives ought to be +intensive--that is to say, I don't think we ought to concern ourselves with +getting rid of our deficiencies, so much as by concentrating and +emphasizing our powers and faculties. We ought all of us to have a certain +circle in mind--I believe very much in _circles_. We are very much +limited, and our power of affecting people for good and evil is very small; +our chance of helping is small. The moment we try to extend our circle very +much, to widen our influence, we become like a juggler who keeps a dozen +plates spinning all at once--it is mere legerdemain. But we most of us live +really with about a score of people. We can't choose our circle altogether, +and there are generally certain persons in it whom we should wish away. I +think we ought to devote ourselves to our work, whatever it is, and outside +of that to getting a real, intimate, and vital understanding with the +people round us. That is a problem which is amply big enough for most of +us. Then I think we ought to go seriously to work, not arguing or finding +fault, not pushing or shoving people about, but just living on the finest +lines we can. The only real chance of converting other people to our +principles or own ideas, is to live in such a way that it is obvious that +our ideas bring us real and vital happiness. You may depend upon it, that +is the only way to live--the _positive_ way. We simply must not +quarrel with our associates: we must be patient and sympathetic and +imaginative." + +"But are there no exceptions?" said I. "I have heard you say that a man +must be prepared to lose friends on occasions." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "the circle shifts and changes a little, no +doubt. I admit that it becomes clear occasionally that you cannot live with +a particular person. But if you have alienated him or her by your +censoriousness and your want of sympathy, you have to be ashamed of +yourself. If it is the other way, and you are being tyrannised over, +deflected, hindered, then it may be necessary to break away--though, mind +you, I think it is finer still if you do not break away. But you must have +your liberty, and I don't believe in sacrificing that, because then you +live an unreal life--and, whatever happens, you must not do that." + +"But what is to be done when people are tied up by relationships, and can't +get away?" said I. + +"Yes, there are such cases," said Father Payne; "I don't deny it. If there +is really no escape possible, then you must tackle it, and make the finest +thing you can out of the situation. Fulness of life, that is what we must +aim at. Of course people are hemmed in in other ways too--by health, +poverty, circumstances of various kinds. But, however small your saucepan +is, it ought to be on the boil." + +"But can people _make_ themselves active and hopeful?" I said. "Isn't +that just the most awful problem of all, the listlessness which falls on +many of us, as the limitations draw round and the net encloses us?" + +"You must kick out for all you are worth," said Father Payne. "I fully +admit the difficulty. But one of the best things in life is the fact that +you can always do a little better than you expect. And then--you mustn't +forget God." + +"But a conscious touch with God?" I said. "Isn't that a rare thing?" + +"It need not be," said Father Payne, very seriously. "If there is one thing +which experience has taught me, it is this--that if you make a signal to +God, it is answered. I don't say that troubles roll away, or that you are +made instantly happy. But you will find that you can struggle on. People +simply don't try that experiment. The reason why they do not is, I honestly +believe, because of our services, where prayer is made so ceremoniously and +elaborately that people get a false sense of dignity and reverence. It is a +very natural instinct which made the disciples say, 'Teach us to pray,' and +I do not think that ecclesiastical systems do teach people to pray--at +least the examples they give are too intellectual, too much concerned with +good taste. A prayer need not be a verbal thing--the best prayers are not. +It is the mute glance of an eye, the holding out of a hand. And if you ask +me what can make people different, I say it is not will, but prayer." + + + +LXVIII + +OF PRAYER + + +I was walking about the garden on a wintry Sunday with Father Payne. He had +a particular mood on Sundays, I used to think, which made itself subtly +felt--a mood serious, restrained, and yet contented. I do not remember how +the subject came up, but he said something about prayer, and I replied: + +"I wish you would tell me exactly what you feel about prayer, Father. I +never quite understand. You always speak as if it played a great part in +your life, and yet I never am sure what exactly it means to you." + +"You might as well say," he said, smiling, "that you never felt quite sure +what breakfast meant to me." + +He stopped and looked at me for a moment. "Do we know what anything +_means_? We know what prayer _is_, at any rate--one of the +commonest and most natural of instincts. What is your difficulty?" + +"Oh, the usual one," I said, "that if the God to whom we pray is the Power +which puts into our minds good desires, and knows not only what is passing +in our thoughts, but the very direction which our thoughts are going to +take--reads us, in fact, like a book, as they say--what, then, is the +object or purpose of setting ourselves to pray to a Power that knows our +precise range of thoughts, and can disentangle them all far better than we +can ourselves?" + +"Why," said Father Payne, "that is pure fatalism. If you carry that on a +little further it means all absence of effort. You might as well say, 'I +will take no steps to provide myself with food--if God is All-Powerful, and +sends me a good appetite, it is His business to satisfy it!" + +"Oh," I said, "I see that. But if I set about providing myself with +breakfast, I know exactly what I want, and have a very fair chance of +obtaining it. But the essence of prayer is that you must not expect to get +your desires fulfilled." + +"I certainly do not pretend," said he, "that prayer is a mechanical method +of getting things; it isn't a _substitute_ for effort and action. Nor +do I think that God simply withholds things unless you ask for them, as a +dog has to beg for a piece of biscuit. I don't look upon prayer as the mere +formulating of a list of requests; and I dislike very much the way some +good people have of getting a large number of men and women to pray for the +same thing, as if you were canvassing for votes. And yet I believe that +prayers have a way of being granted. Indeed, I think that both the strength +and the danger of prayer lies in the fact that people do very much tend to +get what they have set their hearts upon. A recurrent prayer for a definite +thing is often a sign that a man is working hard to secure it. It is rather +perilous to desire definite things too definitely, not because you are +disappointed, but because you are often successful in attaining them." + +"Then that would be a reason for not praying," I said. + +Father Payne gave one of his little frowns, which I knew well. "I'm not +arguing for the sake of arguing, Father," I said; "I really want to +understand. It seems to me such a muddle." + +The little frown passed off in a smile. "Yes, it isn't a wholly rational +thing," said Father Payne, "but it's a natural and instinctive thing. To +forbid prayer seems to me like forbidding hope and love. Prayer seems to me +just a mingling of hope and desire and love and confidence. It is more like +talking over your plans and desires with God. It all depends upon whether +you say, 'My will be done,' which is the wrong sort of prayer, or 'Thy will +be done,' which is the right sort of prayer, and infinitely harder. I don't +mind telling you this, that my prayers are an attempt to put myself in +touch with the Spirit of God. I believe in God; I believe that He is trying +very hard to bring men and women to live in a certain way--the right, +joyful, beautiful way. He sees it clearly enough; but we are so tangled up +with material things that we don't see it clearly--we don't see where our +happiness lies; we mistake all kinds of things--pleasures, schemes, +successes, comforts, desires--for happiness; and prayer seems to me like +opening a sluice and letting a clear stream gush through. That's why I +believe one must set oneself to it. The sluice is not always open--we are +lazy, cowardly, timid; or again, we are confident, self-satisfied, proud of +our own inventiveness and resourcefulness. I don't know what the will is or +what its limitations are; but I believe it has a degree of liberty, and it +can exercise that liberty in welcoming God. Of course, if we think of God +as drearily moral, harsh, full of anger and disapproval, we are not likely +to welcome Him; but if we feel Him full of eagerness and sympathy, of +'comfort, light, and fire of love,' as the old hymn says, then we desire +His company. You have to prepare yourself for good company, you know. It is +a bit of a strain; and I feel that the people who won't pray are like the +lazy and sloppy people who won't put themselves out or forego their habits +or take any trouble to receive a splendid guest. The difference is that the +splendid guest is not to be got every day, while God is always glad of your +company, I think." + +"Then with you prayer isn't a process of asking?" I said. "But isn't it a +way of changing yourself by simply trying to get your ideals clear?" + +"No, no," said Father Payne; "it's just drawing water from a well when you +are thirsty. Of course you must go to the well, and let down the bucket. It +isn't a mere training of imagination; it is helping yourself to something +actually there. The more you pray, the less you ask for definite things. +You become ashamed to do that. Do you remember the story of Hans Andersen, +when he went to see the King of Denmark? The King made a pause at one point +and looked at Andersen, and Andersen said afterwards that the King had +evidently expected him to ask for a pension. 'But I could not,' he said. 'I +know I was a fool, but my heart would not let me.' One can trust God to +know one's desires, and one's heart will not let one ask for them. It is +His will that you want to know--your own will that you want to surrender. +Strength, clearsightedness, simplicity--those are what flow from contact +with God." + +"But what do you make," I said, "of contemplative Orders of monks and nuns, +who say that they specialise in prayer, and give up their whole time and +energy to it?" + +"Well," said Father Payne, "it's a harmless and beautiful life; but it +seems to me like abandoning yourself to one kind of rapture. Prayer seems +to me a part of life, not the whole of it. You have got to use the strength +given you. It is given you to do business with. It seems to me as if a man +argued that because eating gave him strength, it must be a good thing to +eat; and that he would therefore eat all day long. It isn't the gaining of +strength that is desirable, but the using of strength. You mustn't sponge +upon God, so to speak. And I don't honestly believe in any life which takes +you right away from life. Life is the duty of all of us; and prayer seems +to me just one of the things that help one to live." + +"But intercession," I said, "is there nothing in the idea that you can pray +for those who cannot or will not pray for themselves?" + +"I don't know," said Father Payne. "If you love people and wish them well, +and hate the thought of the evils which befall the innocent, and the +overflowings of ungodliness, you can't keep that out of your prayers, of +course. But I doubt very much whether one can do things vicariously. It +seems to land you in difficulties; if you say, for instance, 'I will +inflict sufferings upon myself, that others may be spared suffering,' +logically you might go on to say, 'I will enjoy myself that my enjoyment +may help those who cannot enjoy.' One doesn't really know how much one's +own experience does help other people. Living with others certainly does +affect them, but I don't feel sure that isolating oneself from others does. +I think, on the whole, that everyone must take his place in a circle. We +are limited by time and space and matter, you know. You can know and love a +dozen people; you can't know and love a hundred thousand to much purpose. I +remember when I was a boy that there was a run on a Bank where we lived. +Two of the partners went there, and did what they could. The third, a pious +fellow, shut himself up in his bedroom and prayed. The Bank was saved, and +he came down the next day and explained his absence by saying he had been +giving them the most effectual help in his power. He thought, I believe, +that he had saved the Bank; I don't think the other two men thought so, and +I am inclined to side with them. Mind, I am not deriding the idea of a +vocation for intercessory prayer. I don't know enough about the forces of +the world to do that. It's a harmless life, a beautiful life, and a hard +life too, and I won't say it is useless. But I am not convinced of its +usefulness. It seems to me on a par with the artistic life, a devotion to a +beautiful dream, I don't, on the whole, believe in art for art's sake, and +I don't think I believe in prayer for prayer's sake. But I don't propound +my ideas as final. I think it possible--I can't say more--that a life +devoted to the absorption of beautiful impressions may affect the +atmosphere of the world--we are bound up with each other behind the scenes +in mysterious ways--and similarly I think that lives of contemplative +prayer _may_ affect the world. I should not attempt to discourage +anyone from such a vocation. But it can't be taken for granted, and I think +that a man must show cause, apart from mere inclination, why he should not +live the common life of the world, and mingle with his fellows." + +"Then prayer, you think," I said, "is to you just one of the natural +processes of life?" + +"That's about it!" said Father Payne. "It seems to me as definite a way of +getting strength and clearness of view and hope and goodness, as eating and +sleeping are ways of getting strength of another kind. To neglect it is to +run the risk of living a hurried, muddled, self-absorbed life. I can't +explain it, any more than I can explain eating or breathing. It just seems +to me a condition of fine life, which we can practise to our help and +comfort, and neglect to our hurt. I don't think I can say more about it +than that, my boy!" + + + +LXIX + +THE SHADOW + + +One evening, when I was sitting with Barthrop in the smoking-room and the +others had gone away, he said to me suddenly, "There's something I want to +speak to you about: I have been worrying about it for some little time, and +it's a bad thing to do that. I daresay it is all nonsense, but I am +bothered about the Father. I don't think he is well, and I don't think he +thinks he is well. He is much thinner, you know, and he isn't in good +spirits. I don't mean that he isn't cheerful in a way, but it's an effort +to him. Now, have you noticed anything?" + +I thought for a minute, and then I said, "No, I don't think I have! He's +thinner, of course, but he joked to me about that--he said he had turned +the corner, as people do, and he wasn't going to be a pursy old party when +he got older. Now that you mention it, I think he has been rather silent +and abstracted lately. But then he often is that, you know, when we are all +together. And in his private talks with me--and I have had several +lately--he has seemed to me more tender and affectionate than usual even; +not so amusing, perhaps, not bubbling over with talk, and a little more +serious. If I have thought anything at all, it simply is that he is getting +older." + +"It may simply be that, of course," said Barthrop, looking relieved. "I +suppose he is about fifty-eight or so? But I'll tell you something else. I +went in to speak to him two or three days ago. Well you know how he always +seems to be doing something? He is never unoccupied indoors, though he has +certainly seen less of everyone's work of late--but that morning I found +him sitting in his chair, looking out of the window, doing nothing at all; +and I didn't like his look. How can I put it? He looked like a man who was +going off on a long journey--and he was tired and worn-looking--I have +never seen him looking _worn_ before--as if there was a strain of some +kind. There were lines about his face I hadn't noticed before, and his eyes +seemed larger and brighter. He said to me, half apologetically, 'Look here, +this won't do! I'm getting lazy,' Then he went on, 'I was thinking, you +know, about this place: it has been an experiment, and a good and happy +experiment. But it hasn't founded itself, as I hoped,' I asked him what +exactly he meant, and he laughed, and said: 'You know I don't believe in +founding things! A place like this has got to grow up of itself, and have a +life of its own. I don't think the place has got that. I put a seed or two +into the ground, but I'm not sure that they have quickened to life.' Then +he went on in a minute: 'You will know I don't say this conceitedly, but I +think it has all depended too much on me, and I know I'm only a tiller of +the ground. I don't believe I can give life to a society--I can keep it +lively, but that's not the same thing. Something has come of my plan, to be +sure, but it isn't going to spread like a tree--and I hoped it might! But +it's no good being disappointed--that's childish--you can't do what you +mean to do in this world, only what you are meant to do. I expect the +weakness has been that I meddle too much--I don't leave things alone +enough. I trust too much to myself, and not enough to God. It's been too +much a case of "See me do it!"--as the children say.'" + +"What did you say?" I said. + +"Nothing at all," said Barthrop; "that's where I fail. I can't rise to an +emergency. I murmured something about our all being very grateful to +him--it was awfully flat! If I could but have told him how I cared for him, +and how splendid he had always been! But those perfectly true, sincere, +fine things are just what one can't say, unless one has it all written down +on paper. I wish he would see a doctor, or go away for a bit; but I can't +advise him to do that--he hates a fuss about anything, and most of all +about health. He says you ought never to tell people how you are feeling, +because they have to pretend to be interested!" + +I smiled at this, and said, "I don't think there really is much the matter! +People can't be always at the top of their game, and he takes a lot out of +himself, of course. He's always giving out!" + +"He is indeed," said Barthrop; "but I won't say more now. I feel better for +having told you. Just you keep your eyes open--but, for Heaven's sake, +don't watch him--you know how sharp he is." + +I went off a little depressed by the talk, because it seemed so impossible +to connect anything but buoyant health with Father Payne. I did not see him +at breakfast, but he came in to lunch; and I saw at once that there was +something amiss with him. He ate little, and he looked tired. However, as I +rose to go--we did not, as I have said, talk at lunch--he just beckoned to +me, and pointed with his finger in the direction of his room. It was a +well-known gesture if he wanted to speak to one. I went there, and stood +before the fire surveying the room, which looked unwontedly tidy, the table +being almost free from books and papers. But there lay a long folded folio +sheet on the table, a legal document, and it gave me a chill to see the +word _Will_ on the top of it. Father Payne came in a moment later with +a smile. Then somehow divining, as he so often did, exactly what had +happened, he said, as if answering an unspoken question, "Yes, that's my +will! I have been, in fact, making it. It's a wholesome occupation for an +elderly man. But I only wanted to know if you would come for a stroll? Yes? +That's all right! You are sure I'm not interfering with any arrangement?" + +It was a late autumn day in November: the air was cold and damp, the roads +wet, the hedges hung with moisture and the leaves were almost gone from the +trees. "Most people don't like this sort of day," said Father Payne, as we +went out of the gate; "but I like it even better than spring. Everything +seems going contentedly to sleep, like a tired child. All the plants are +withdrawing into themselves, into the inner life. They have had a pleasant +time, waving their banners about--but they have no use for them any more. +They are all going to be alone for a bit. Do you remember that epithet of +Keats, about the 'cool-rooted' flowers? That's a bit of genius. That's what +makes the difference between people, I think--whether they are cool-rooted +or not." + +He walked more slowly than was his wont to-day, but he seemed in equable +spirits, and made many exclamations of delight. He said suddenly, "Do you +know one of the advantages of growing old? It is that if you have an +unpleasant thing ahead of you, instead of shadowing the mind, as it does +when you are young, it gives a sort of relish to the intervening time. I +can even imagine a man in the condemned cell, till the end gets close, +being able to look ahead to the day, when he wakes in the morning--the +square meals, the pipe--I believe they allow them to smoke--the talk with +the chaplain. It's always nice to feel it is your duty to talk about +yourself, and to explain how it all came about, and why you couldn't do +otherwise. Now I have got to go up to town on some tiresome business at the +end of this week, and I'm going to enjoy the days in between." + +He stopped and spoke with all his accustomed good humour to half a dozen +people whom we met. Then he said to me: "Do you know, my boy, I want to +tell you that you have been one of my successes! I did not honestly think +you would buckle to as you have done, and I don't think you are quite as +sympathetic as I once feared!" He gave me a smile as he said it, and went +on: "You know what I mean--I thought you would reflect people too much, and +be too responsive to your companions. And you have been a great comfort to +me, I don't deny it. But I thankfully discern a good hard stone in the +middle of all the juiciness, with a tight little kernel inside it--I'll +quote Keats again, and say 'a sweet-hearted kernel,' Mind, I don't say you +will do great things. You are facile, and you see things very quickly and +accurately, and you have a style. But I don't think you have got the tragic +quality or the passionate gift. You are too placid and contented--but you +spin along, and I think you see something of the reality of things. You +will be led forth beside the waters of comfort--you will lack nothing--your +cup will be full. But the great work is done by people with large empty +cups that take some filling--the people who are given the plenteousness of +tears to drink. It's a bitter draught--you won't have to drink it. But I +think you are on right and happy lines, and you must be content with good +work. Anyhow, you will always write like a gentleman, and that's a good +deal to say." + +This pleased and touched me very deeply. I began to murmur something. "Oh +no," said Father Payne, "you needn't! A boy at a prize-giving isn't +required to enter into easy talk with the presiding buffer! I have just +handed you your prize." + +He talked after this lightly of many small things--about Barthrop in +particular, and asked me many questions about him. "I am afraid I haven't +allowed him enough initiative," said Father Payne; "that's a bad habit of +mine. But if he had really had it, we should have squabbled--he's not quite +fiery enough, the beloved Barthrop! He's awfully judicious, but he must +have a lead. He's a submissioner, I'm afraid, as a witty prelate once said! +You know the two sides of the choir, _Decani_ and _Cantoris_ as +they are called. _Decani_ always begin the psalms and say the +versicles, _Cantoris_ always respond. People are always one or the +other, and Barthrop is a born _Cantoris_." + +We did not go very far, and he soon proposed to return. But just as we were +nearing home, he said, "I think the hardest thing in life to +understand--the very hardest of all--is our pleasure in the sense of +permanence! It's the supreme and constant illusion. I can't think where it +comes from, or why it is there, or what it is supposed to do for us. Do you +remember," he said with a smile, "how Shelley, the most hopelessly restless +of mortals, whenever he settled anywhere, always wrote to his friends that +he had established himself _for ever_? It's the instinct which is most +contrary to reason. Everything contradicts it--we are not the same people +for five minutes together, nothing that we see or hear or taste +continues--and yet we feel eternally and immutably fixed; and instead of +living each day as if it was our last--which is a thoroughly bad piece of +advice--we live each day as if it was one of an endlessly revolving chain +of days, and as if we were going to live to all eternity--as indeed I +believe we are! Probably the reason for it is to give us a hint that we +_are_ immortal, after all, though we are tempted to think that all +things come to an end. It is strange to think that nothing on which our +eyes rest at this moment is the same as it was when we started our +walk--the very stones of the wall are altered. It ought to make us ashamed +of pretending that we are anything but ourselves; and yet we do change a +little, thank God, and for the better. I've a fancy--though I can't say +more than that of that we aren't meant to _know_ anything: and I think +that the times when we know, or think we know, are the times when we stand +still. That seems hard!"--he broke off with an unusual emotion: but he was +himself again in a moment, and said, "I don't know why--it's the weather, +perhaps: but I feel inclined to do nothing but thank people all day, like +the man in _Happy Thoughts_ you know, who came down late for breakfast +and could say nothing but 'Thanks, thanks, awfully thanks--thanks (to the +butler), thanks (to the hostess)--thanks, thanks!' but it means +something--a real emotion, though grotesquely phrased!--I've enjoyed this +bit of a walk, my boy!" + + + +LXX + +OF WEAKNESS + + +This was, I think, the last talk I had with Father Payne before he left us, +so suddenly and so quietly, for his last encounter. + +It was a calm and sunny day, though the air was cold and fresh. I finished +some work I was doing, a little after noonday, and I walked down the +garden. I was on the grass, and turning the corner of a tiny thicket of +yews and hollies, where there was a secluded seat facing the south, I saw +that Father Payne was sitting there in the sun alone. I came up to him, and +was just about to speak, when I saw that his eyes were closed, though his +lips were moving. He sat in an attitude of fatigue and lassitude, I +thought, with one leg crossed over the other and his arm stretched out +along the seat-back. I would have stolen away again unobserved, when he +opened his eyes and saw me; he gave me one of his big smiles, and motioned +to me to come and sit down beside him. I did so, and he put his arm through +mine. I said something about disturbing him, and he said, "Not a bit of +it--I shall be glad of your company, old boy." Presently he said, "Do you +know what it is to feel _sad_? I suppose not. I don't mean troubled +about anything in particular--there's nothing to be troubled about--but +simply sad, in a causeless, listless way?" + +"Yes, I think so," I said. He smiled at that, and said, "Then you +_don't_ know what I mean, old man! You would be quite sure, if you had +ever felt it. I mean a sense of feebleness and wretchedness, as if there +was much to be done, and no desire to do it--as if your life had been a +long mistake from beginning to end. Of course it is quite morbid and +unreal, I know that! It is a temptation of the devil, sure enough, and it +is an uncommonly effective one. He gets inside the weakness of our mortal +nature, and tells us that we have come down to the truth at last. It's all +nonsense, of course, but it's infernally ingenious nonsense. He brings all +the failures of the world before your mind and heart, the thought of all +the people who have fallen by the roadside and can't get up, and, worse +still, all the people who have lost hope and pride, and don't want to be +different. He points out how brief our time is, and how little we know what +lies beyond. He shows us how the strong and unscrupulous and cruel people +succeed and have a good time, and how many well-meaning, sensitive, muddled +people come to hopeless grief. Oh, he has a score of instances, a quiver +full of poisonous shafts." He was silent for a minute, and then he said, +"Old boy, we won't heed him, you and I. We'll say, 'Yes, my dear Apollyon, +all that is undoubtedly true. You do a lot of mischief, but your time is +short. You wound us and disable us--you can even kill us; but it's a poor +policy at best. You defeat yourself, because we slip away and you can't +follow us. And when we are refreshed and renewed, we will come back, and go +on with the battle.' That's what well say, like old Sir Andrew Barton: + + "'I'll but lie down and bleed awhile, + And then I'll rise and fight again.' + +You must never mind being defeated, old man. You must never say that your +sins have done for you! I don't care what a man has done, I don't care how +cruel, wicked, sensual, evil he has been, if in the bottom of his heart he +can say, 'I belong to God, after all!' That's the last and worst assault of +the devil, when he comes and whispers to you that you have cut yourself off +from God. You can't do that, whatever you feel. I have been thinking to-day +of all the mistakes I have made, how I have drifted along, how I have +enjoyed myself, when I might have been helping other people; what a lazy, +greedy, ugly business it has all been, how little I have ever _made_ +myself do anything. But I don't care. I go straight to God and I say, +'Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no more +worthy to be called Thy son.' But I am His son, for all that, and I know it +and He knows it; and Apollyon may straddle across the way as much as he +likes, but he can't stop me. If he does stop me, he only sends me straight +home." + +I saw the tears stand in Father Payne's eyes, and I said hurriedly and +eagerly, "Why, Father, you have done so much, for me, for all of us, for +everyone you have ever had to do with. Don't speak so; it isn't true, it +hasn't been a failure. You are the only person I have met who has showed me +what goodness really is." + +Father Payne pressed my arm, but he did not speak for a moment. + +"You are very good to me, old man," he said in a moment. "I was not trying +to get a testimonial out of you, you know; and of course you can't judge +how far I have fallen short of all I might have done. But your affection +and your kindness are very precious to me. You give me a message from God! +It matters little how near the truth you are or how far away. God doesn't +think of that. He isn't a hard reckoner; He's only glad when we return to +Him, and put down our tired head upon His shoulder for a little. But even +so, that isn't the end. As soon as we are strong again, we must begin +again. There's plenty left to do. The battle isn't over because you or I +are tired. He is tired Himself, I dare say. But it all goes on, and there +is victory ahead. Don't forget that, dear boy. It's no good being +heart-broken or worn out. Rise and fight again as soon as you can. I'm +quite ready--I haven't had enough. I have had an easy post, I don't deny +that. I have suffered very little, as suffering goes; and I'm grateful for +that; but we mustn't fall in love with rest. If we sleep, it is only that +we may rise refreshed, and go off again singing. We mustn't be afraid of +weakness and suffering, and we mustn't be afraid of joy and strength +either. That's treachery, you know." + +Presently he said, "Now you must leave me here a little! You came in the +nick of time, and you brought me a message. It always comes, if you ask for +it! And I shall say a prayer for the Little Master himself, as Sintram +called him, before I go. He has his points, you know. He is uncommonly +shrewd and tenacious and brave. He's fighting for his life, and I pity him +whenever he suspects--and it must be pretty often--that things are not +going his way. I don't despair of the old fellow himself, if I may say so. +I suspect him of a sense of humour. I can't help thinking he will +capitulate and cut his losses some day, and then we shall get things right +in a trice. He will be conquered, and perhaps convinced; but he won't be +used vindictively, whatever happens. My knowledge of that, and of the fact +that he has got defeat ahead of him, and knows it, is the best defence +against him, even when it is his hour, and the power of darkness, as it has +been to-day." + +I got up and left him; he smiled at me and waved his hand. + + + +LXXI + +THE BANK OF THE RIVER + + +The week passed without anything further occurring to arouse our anxieties, +and Father Payne went up to town on the Monday: he went off in apparently +good spirits: but we got a wire in the course of the day to say that he was +detained in town by business and would write. On the following morning, +Barthrop came into my room in silence, shortly after breakfast, and handed +me a letter without a word. It was very short: it ran as follows: + + "DEAR LEONARD,--_I want you to come up to town to-morrow to see + me, and if Duncan cares to come, I shall be delighted to see him + too, though I know he has an artistic objection to seeing people + who are ill, and I understand that I am ill. I saw a doctor + yesterday, and he advised me to see a specialist, who advised me + to have an operation. It seems better to get it over at once; so + I went without delay into a nursing home, where I feel like a + child in the nursery again. I want to talk over matters, and it + will be better to say nothing which will cause a fuss. So just + run up to-morrow, there's a good man, and you can get back in the + evening. Ever yours,_ + + "C.P." + +It happened that there were only two of us at Aveley at the time, Kaye, and +a younger man, Raven, who had just joined. We determined to say nothing +about it till the following morning: the day passed heavily enough. I found +I could do nothing with the dread of what it might all mean overhanging me. +I admired Barthrop's common-sense: he spent the day, he told me, in doing +accounts--he acted as a sort of bursar--and he kept up a quiet conversation +at dinner in which I confess I played a very poor part. Kaye never noticed +anything, and had no curiosity, and Raven had no suspicion of anything +unusual. I slept ill that night, and found myself in a very much depressed +mood on the following morning. I realised at every moment how entirely +everything at Aveley was centred upon Father Payne, and how he was both in +the foreground as well as in the background of all that we did or thought. +Our journey passed almost in silence, and we drove straight to the nursing +home in Mayfair. We were admitted to a little waiting-room in a bright, +fresh-looking house, and were presently greeted by a genial and motherly +old lady, dressed in a sort of nursing uniform, who told us that Mr. Payne +was expecting us. We asked anxiously how he was. "Oh, he is very cheerful," +she said; "his nurse, Sister Jane, thinks he is the most amusing man she +ever saw. You must not worry about him. The operation is to be on +Friday--he seems very well and strong in himself, and we will soon have him +all right again--you will see! He is just the sort of man to make a good +recovery." Then she added, "Mr. Payne said he thought you would like to see +the doctor, so he is going to look in here in half an hour from now--he +will see Mr. Payne first, and then you can have a good talk to him. You are +going back this afternoon, I think?" + +"That depends!" said Barthrop. + +"Oh, Mr. Payne is expecting you to go back, I know--we will just run up and +see him now." + +We went up two flights of stairs: the matron knocked at a door in the +passage, and we went in. Father Payne was sitting up in bed, in a sort of +blue wrapper which gave him, I thought, a curiously monastic air--he was +reading quietly. The room was large and airy, and looked out on the backs +of tall houses: it was quiet enough: there was just a far-off murmur of the +town in the air. + +He greeted us with much animation, and smiled at me. "It's good of you to +come, I'm sure," he said, "with your feeling about ill people. I don't +object to that," he added in the familiar manner. "I think it's a sign of +health, you know!" We sat down beside him. "Now," said Father Payne, "don't +let's have any grave looks or hushed voices--you remember what Baines told +us, when he joined the Church of Rome, that when he got back after his +reception, his friends all spoke to him as if he had had a serious illness. +The matter is simple enough--and I'm going to speak plainly. I have got +some internal mischief, something that obstructs the passages, and it has +got to be removed. There's a risk, of course--they never can tell exactly +what they will find, but they don't think it has gone too far to be +remedied. I don't pretend to like it--in fact it's decidedly inconvenient. +I like my own little plans as well as anyone! and this time I don't seem +able to look ahead--there's a sort of wall ahead of me. I feel as if I had +come, like the boy in the _Water Babies_, to the place which was +called _Stop_!" He paused a moment and smiled on us, his big +good-natured smile. + +"But if I put my head out of the other end of the tunnel, I shall go on as +usual. If I _don't_, then I had better tell you what I have done. You +know I have no near relations. The noble family of Payne is practically +summed up in me. The Vicar's a sort of cousin, but a very diluted one. I +have arranged by my will that if you two fellows think you can keep the +place going on its present lines, you can have a try. But I don't think it +will do, I think it will be artificial and possibly ridiculous. I don't +think it has got life! And if you decide not to try, then it will all go to +my old College, which is quite alive. I would rather they would not sell +it--but bless me, what does it matter? It is a mistake to try and grip +anything with a dead hand. But if I get through, and I believe I have a +good chance of doing so, you must just keep things going till I get +back--which won't be long. There's the case in a nutshell! You quite +understand? I don't want you to do what you think I should wish, because I +_don't_ wish. And now we won't say another word about it, unless there +are any questions you would like to ask. By the way, I have arranged the +programme for the day. The doctor is coming to see me presently, and while +he is here you can have some lunch--they will see to that--and then you can +have a talk to him, while I have my lunch--I can tell you they do feed me +up here!--and then we will have a talk, and you can catch the 4.30. You +know how I like planning out a day." + +"But we thought we would like to stay in town, and see it all through," +said Barthrop. "We have brought up some things." + +"Stuff and nonsense!" said Father Payne in his old manner. "Back you go by +the 4.30, things and all! I have got the best nurse in the world, Sister +Jane. By George, it's a treat exploring that woman's mind. She's full of +kindness and common sense and courage, without a grain of reason. There's +nothing in the world that woman wouldn't do, and nothing she wouldn't +believe--she's entirely mediaeval. Then I have some books: and I'm going to +read and talk and play patience--I'm quite good at that already--and eat +and drink and sleep. I'm not to be disturbed, I tell you! To-morrow is a +complete holiday: and on Friday the great event comes off. I won't have any +useless emotion, or any bedside thoughts!" He glanced at us smiling and +said, "Oh, of course, my dear boys, I'm only joking. I know you would like +to stay, and I would like to have you here well enough: but see here--if +all goes well, what's the use of this drama?--people can't behave quite +naturally, however much they would like to, and I don't want any melting +looks: and if it goes the other way--well, I don't like good-byes. I agree +with dear old Mrs. Barbauld: + + "'Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime + Bid me Good-morning.'" + +He was silent for a moment--and just at that moment the doctor arrived. + +We went off to lunch with the old matron, who talked cheerfully about +things in general: and it was strange to feel that what was to us so deep a +tragedy was to her just a familiar experience, a thing that happened day by +day. + +Then the doctor came in, a tall, thin, pale, unembarrassed man, very frank +and simple. + +"Yes," he said, "there's a risk--I don't deny that! One never knows exactly +what the mischief is or how far it extends. I told Mr. Payne exactly what I +thought. He is the sort of man to whom one can do that. But he is strong, +he has lived a healthy life, he has a great vitality--everything is in his +favour. How long has he seemed to be ill, by the way?" + +"Some three or four months, I think," said Barthrop. "But it is difficult +when you see anyone every day to realise a change--and then he is always +cheerful." + +"He is," said the doctor. "I never saw a better patient. He told me his +symptoms like a doctor describing someone else's case, I never heard +anything so impersonal! We managed to catch Dr. Angus--that's the +specialist, you know, who will operate. Mr. Payne wasn't in the least +flurried. He showed no sign of being surprised: we sent him in here at +once, and he seems to have made friends with everyone. That's all to the +good, of course. He's not a nervous subject. No," he added reflectively, +"he has an excellent chance of recovery. But I should deceive you if I +pretended there was no risk. There _is_ a risk, and we must hope for +the best. By the way, gentlemen," he added, taking up his hat, "I hope you +won't think of staying in town. Mr. Payne seems most anxious that you +should go back, and I think his wish should be paramount. You can do +nothing here, and I think your remaining would fret him. I won't attempt to +dictate, but I feel that you would do well to go!" + +"Oh, yes, we will go," said Barthrop. "You will let us know how all goes?" + +"Of course!" said the doctor. "You shall hear at once!" + +We went back, and spent an hour with Father Payne. I shall never forget +that hour: he talked on quietly, seeing that we were unable to do our part. +He spoke about the men and their work, and gave pleasant, half-humorous +summaries of their characters. He gave us some little reminiscences of his +life in London; he talked about the villagers at Aveley, and the servants. +I realised afterwards that he had spoken a few words about every single +person in the circle, small or great. The time sped past, and presently +they told us that our cab was at the door, "Now don't make me think you are +going to miss the train, old boys!" said Father Payne, raising himself up +to shake hands. "I have enjoyed the sight of you. Give them all my love: be +good and wise! God bless you both!" He shook hands with Barthrop and with +me, and I felt the soft touch of his firm hand, as I had done at our first +meeting. Barthrop did not speak, and went hurriedly from the room, without +looking round. I could not help it, but I bent down and kissed his hand. +"Well, well!" he said indulgently, and gave me a most tender and beautiful +look out of his big eyes, and then he mentioned to me to go. I went in +silence. + +We felt, both of us, a premonition of the worst disaster. I knew in my +heart that it was the end. It seemed to me characteristic of Father Payne +to make his farewells simply, and without any dramatic emphasis. The way in +which he had spoken of all his friends, in that last hour we spent with +him, had been a series of adieux, and even as I recalled his words, they +seemed to me to shape themselves into unspoken messages. His own calmness +had been unmistakable, and was marvellous to me; but it was all the more +impressive because he did not, as one has read in some of the well-known +scenes recorded in history of the deaths of famous men, seem to be +attempting to say anything memorable or magnanimous. "What can I say that +will be worthy of myself?"--that question appears to me to be sometimes +lurking in the minds of men who have played a great part in the world, and +who are determined to play it to the end. It is, of course a noble sort of +courage which enables a man, at the very threshold of death, to force +himself to behave with dignity and grandeur: but it seemed to me now to be +an even more supreme courage to be, as Father Payne was, simply himself. +Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Thomas More, Charles II, Archbishop Laud all died +with a real greatness of undismayed bravery, but with just a sense of +enacting a part rehearsed. The death scene of Socrates, which is, I +suppose, a romantically constructed tale, does indeed give a picture of +perfect naturalness: and I thought that Father Payne's demeanour, like that +of Socrates, showed clearly enough that the idea of death was not an +overshadowing dread dispelled by an effort of the will, but that it was not +present as a fear in his mind at all, and rather regarded with a reverent +curiosity: and I was reminded of a saying of Father Payne's which I have +elsewhere recorded, that the virtues to which we give our most unhesitating +admiration are the instinctive virtues rather than the reasoned virtues. If +Father Payne had appeared to be keeping a firm hold on himself, and to be +obliging himself to speak things timely and fitting, I should have admired +him deeply: but I admired him all the more because of his unaffected +tranquillity and unuttered affection. He had just enveloped us in his own +calmness, and gone straight forward. + +We made our journey almost in silence: Barthrop was too much moved to +speak: and my own mind was dim with trouble, at all that we were to lose, +and yet drawn away into an infinite loyalty and tenderness for one who had +been more than a father to me. + + + +LXXII + +THE CROSSING + + +The end is soon told. On the following day, we thought it best to tell our +two companions and the Vicar what was happening, and we also told the old +butler that Father Payne was ill. It was a day of infinite dreariness to +me, with outbursts of sharp emotion at the sight of everything so closely +connected with Father Payne, and with the thought that he would see them no +more. + +I was sitting in my room on the Friday morning, after a sleepless night, +when Barthrop came in and handed me a telegram from the doctor. "Mr. Payne +never recovered consciousness, and died an hour after the operation. All +details arranged. Please await letter." I raised my eyes to Barthrop's +face, but saw that he could not speak. I could say nothing either: my mind +and heart seemed to crumble suddenly into a hopeless despair. + +A letter reached us the same evening by train. It was to the effect that +Father Payne had written down some exact directions the day before and +given them to the matron. He did not wish, in case of his death, that +anyone should see his body: he wished to be placed in the simplest of +coffins, as soon as possible, and that the coffin should be sent down by +train to Aveley, be taken from the station straight to the church, and if +possible to be buried at once. But even so, that was only his wish, and he +particularly desired to avoid alike all ceremony and inconvenience. But +besides that there were two notes enclosed addressed in Father Payne's hand +to Barthrop and myself, which ran as follows: + + "My dear Leonard,--_I thought it very good of you to come up to + see me, and no less good of you to go away as I desired. It is + possible, of course, that I may return to you, and all be as + before. But to be frank, I do not think it will be so. Even if I + survive, I shall, I think, be much weakened by this operation, + and shall have the possibility of a recurrence of the disease + hanging over me. Much as I love life, and the world where I have + found it pleasant to live, I do not want to lead a broken sort of + existence, with invalid precautions and limitations. I think that + this would bring out all that is worst in me, and would lead to + unhappiness both in myself and in all those about me. If it has + to be so, I shall do my best, but I think it would be a + discreditable performance. I do not, however, think that I shall + have this trial laid upon me. I feel that I am summoned + elsewhere, and I am glad to think that my passage will be a swift + one. I am not afraid of what lies beyond, because I believe death + to be simple and natural enough, and a perfectly definite thing. + Of what lies beyond it, I can form no idea; all our theories are + probably quite wide of the mark. But it will be the same for me + as it has been for all others who have died, and as it will some + day be for you; and when we know, we shall be surprised that we + did not see what it would be. I confess that I love the things + that I know, and dislike the unknown. The world is very dear and + familiar, and it has been kind and beautiful to me, as well as + full of interest. But I expect that things will be much + simplified. And please bear this in mind, that such a scene which + we went through yesterday is worse for those who stand by and can + do nothing than for the man himself; and you will believe me when + I say that I am neither afraid nor unhappy._ + + "_With regard to my wishes about the place being kept on, on + its present lines, remember that it is only a wish, and not to be + regarded as a binding obligation or undertaken against your + judgment. I trust you fully in this, as I have always trusted + you; and I will just thank you, once and for all, for all that + you have done and been. I shall always think of you with deep + gratitude and lasting affection. God bless you now and always. + Your old friend,_ + + "CHARLES PAYNE." + +To me he had written: + + "My dear boy,--_Please read my letter to Barthrop, which is + meant for you as well. I won't repeat myself--you know I dislike + that. But I would like just to say that you have been more like a + son to me than anyone I ever have known, and I thank God for + bringing you into my life, and for all your kind and faithful + affection. You must just go on as you have begun; and I can only + say that if I still have any knowledge of what goes on in the + world, my affection and interest will not fail; and if I have + not, I shall believe that we shall still find each other again, + and rejoice in mutual knowledge and confidence. You are very dear + to me, and always will be._ + + "_Settle everything with Leonard. I know that you will be able + to interpret my wishes as I should wish them to be interpreted. + Your affectionate old friend,_ + + "C. PAYNE." + +The last act was simple enough. The preparations were soon made. The coffin +arrived at midday, and was buried in the afternoon, between the church and +the Hall. It was sad and beautiful to see the heartfelt grief of the +villagers: and it was wonderful to me that at that moment I recovered a +kind of serenity on the surface of the grief below, so that in the still +afternoon as we walked away from the grave it seemed to me strange rather +than sorrowful. With those last letters in mind, it seemed to me almost +traitorous to mourn. He at least had his heart's desire, and I did not +doubt that he was abundantly satisfied. + + + +LXXIII + +AFTER-THOUGHTS + + +Barthrop and I decided that we could not hope to continue the scheme. We +had neither the force nor the experience. The whole society was, we felt, +just the expression of Father Payne's personality, and without it, it had +neither stability nor significance. Barthrop and the Vicar were left money +legacies: the servants all received little pensions: there was a sum for +distribution in the village, and a fund endowed to meet certain practical +needs of the place. We handed over the estate to Father Payne's old +College, the furniture and pictures to go with the house, which was to be +let, if possible, to a tenant who would be inclined to settle there and +make it his home: the income of the estate was to provide travelling +scholarships. All had been carefully thought out with much practical sense +and insight. + +Our other two companions went away. Barthrop and I stayed on at the Hall +together for some weeks to settle the final arrangements. We had some +wonderfully touching letters from old pupils and friends of Father Payne's. +One in particular, saying that the writer owed an infinite debt of +gratitude to Father Payne, for having saved him from himself and given him +a new life. + +We talked much of Father Payne in those days; and I went alone to all the +places where I had walked with him, recalling more gratefully than sadly +how he had looked and moved and talked and smiled. + +It came to the last night that we were to spend at the Hall together. +Everything had been gone through and arranged, and we were glad, I think, +to be departing. + +"I don't know what to say and think about it all," said Barthrop; "I feel +at present quite lost and stranded, as if my motive for living were gone, +and as if I could hardly take up my work again. I know it is wrong, and I +am ashamed of it. Father Payne always said that we must not depend +helplessly upon persons or institutions, but must find our own real life +and live it--you remember?" + +"Yes," I said, "indeed I do remember! But I do not think he ever realised +quite how strong he was, and how he affected those about him. He did not +need us--I sometimes think he did not need anyone--and he credited everyone +with living the same intent life that he lived. But I shall always be +infinitely grateful to him for showing me just that--that one must live +one's own life, through and in spite of everything grievous that happens. +The temptation is to indulge grief, and to feel that collapse in such a +case is a sign of loyalty. It isn't so--if one collapses, it only means +that one has been living an artificial and parasitical life. Father Payne +would have hated that--and I don't mean to do it. He has given me not only +an example, but an inspiration--a real current of life has flowed into my +life from his--or perhaps rather through his from some deeper origin." + +"That is so," said Barthrop, "that is perfectly true! and don't you +remember too how he always said life must be a _real_ fight--a joining +in the fight that was going forwards? It need not be wrangling or +disputing, or finding fault with other people, or maintaining and +confuting. He used to say that people fought in a hundred ways--with their +humour, their companionableness, their kindness, their friendliness--it +need not be violent, and indeed if it was violent, that was fighting on the +wrong side--it had only to be calm and sincere and dutiful." + +"Did he say that?" I said. "Yes, I am sure he did--no one else could say it +or think of it. Of course, we have to fight, but not by dealing injury and +harm, but by seeking and following peace and goodwill. Well, we must +try--and it may be that we shall find him again, though he is hidden for a +little while with God." + +"Yes," said Barthrop, "we shall find him, or he will find us--it makes +little difference: and he will always be the same, though I hope we may be +different!" + + + +LXXIV + +DEPARTURE + + +It was a soft and delicious spring morning when I left Aveley--and I have +never had the heart to visit it again. I had had a sleepless night, with +the thought of Father Payne continually in my mind. I saw him in a score of +attitudes, as he loitered in the garden with that look of inexpressible and +tender interest that he had for all that grew out of the +earth--worshipping, I used to think, at the shrine of life--or as he sat +rapt in thought in church, or as he strode beside me along the uplands, or +as he came and went in a hurried abstraction, or as he argued and +discussed, with his great animated smile and his quick little gestures. I +felt how his personality had filled our lives to the brim, as a spring +whose waters fail not. It was not that he was a perfect character, with a +tranquil and effortless superiority, or with a high intellectual tenacity, +or with an unruffled serenity. He was sensitive, impatient, fitful, +prejudiced. He had little constructive capacity, no creative or dramatic +power, no loftiness of tragic emotion. I knew all that; I did not regard +him with a false or uncritical reverence. But he was vital, generous, rich +in zest and joy, heroic, as no other man I had ever known. He had no petty +ambition, no thirst for recognition, no acidity of judgment. He never +sought to impress himself: but his was a large, affectionate, liberal +nature, more responsive to life, more lavish of self, more disinterested +than any human being that had crossed my path. He had never desired to make +disciples--he was not self-confident or self-regarding enough for that. But +he had continued to draw us all with him into a vortex of life, where the +stream ran swiftly, and where it seemed disgraceful to be either listless +or unconcerned. I blessed the kindly fate that had guided me to him, and +had won for me his deep regard. I did not wish to copy or imitate him--he +had infected me with a deep distrust for dependence--I only wished to live +my own life in the same eager spirit. As he had said to me once, the motto +for every man was to be _Amor Fati_--not a reluctant acquiescence, or +a feeble optimism, or a gentle resignation, but a passion for one's own +destiny, a deep desire to make the most and the best out of life, and a +strong purpose to share one's best with all who were journeying at one's +side. + +So the night passed, thick with recollections and regrets, deepening into a +horror of loss and darkness, and then slowly brightening into the calm +prelude of a day of farewell. The birds began to chirp and twitter in the +ivy; the thrush uttered her long-drawn notes, sweetly repeated and +sustained in the dusky bushes. That sound was much connected in my mind +with Aveley. To be awakened thus in the summer dawn, to listen awhile to +the delicious sound, to fall asleep again with the thought of the long +pleasant day of work and friendship ahead of me, had been one of my +greatest luxuries. + +I rose early, and made my last preparations, and then, having got a little +time before the last meal I was to take with Barthrop, I went round about +the garden with a desire to draw into my spirit for the last time the pure +and happy atmosphere of the place. + +I saw the beds fringed with purple polyanthus, and the daffodils in the +dewy grass. I gazed at the long lines of the low hills across the stream, +with the woodland spaces all flushed with spring. I heard the cawing of the +rooks in the soft air, and the bubbling song of the chaffinches filled the +shrubberies. + +I knew the mood of old--the mood in which, after a holiday sojourn in some +place which one has learned to love, a happy space of time stained by no +base anxiety, shadowed by no calamity, the call to rejoin the routine of +life makes itself heard half reluctantly, half ardently. The heart at such +moments tries to be grateful without regret, and hopeful without +indifference. The purpose to go, the desire to stay, wrestle together; and +now at the end of the happiest and most fruitful period I had ever known or +was ever, I thought, likely to know, I felt like Jacob wrestling with the +angel till the breaking of the day, and crying out, half in weakness, half +in strength, "I will not let thee go until thou bless me." + +It came, the sudden blessing which I desired. It fell like some full warm +shower upon the thirsty earth. In that moment I had the blissful instinct +which had before been but a reasoned conviction, that Father Payne was near +me, with me, about me, enfolding me with a swift tenderness, and yet at the +same time pointing me forward, bidding me clearly and almost, it seemed, +petulantly, to disengage myself from all dependence upon himself or his +example. He had other things to do, I felt with something like a smile, +than to hover over me and haunt my path with tenderness. Such weakness of +sentiment was worthy neither of himself nor of myself. I had all the world +before me, and I was to take my part in it with spirit and even gaiety. To +shrink into the shadow, to live in tearful retrospect--it was not to be +thought of; and I had in that moment a glow of thankful energy which made +light of grief and pain alike. I must take hold of life instantly and with +both hands. I saw it in a sudden flash of light. + +I went to the churchyard, I stood for an instant beside the grave, now +turfed over and planted with daffodils. I put aside from my heart, once and +for all, the old wistful instinct which ties the living to the dead. The +poor body that lay there, dust in dust, had no more to do with Father Payne +than the stained candle-socket with the flame that had leapt away upon the +air. That was a moment of true and certain joy; so that when I went back to +the house and joined Barthrop, I felt no longer the uneasy quivering of the +spirit which had long overmastered me. He too was calm and brave; we sat +together for the last time, we talked with an unaffected cheerfulness of +the future. He too, I saw, had experienced the same loosening of the spirit +from its trivial bonds, dear and beautiful as they were, so long as one did +not hug them close. + +"I never thought," he said to me at last, "to go light-heartedly away--and +yet I can do even that! I have heard something, I can hardly say what, +which tells me to go forward, not to hanker, not to look back--and which +tells me best of all that it would be almost like treachery to wish the +Father back again. It is better so! I say this," he went on, "not with +resignation, not with a mild desire to make the best of a bad business, but +with a serene certainty that it is not a bad business at all. I cannot tell +where it is gone, the cloud that has oppressed me--but it is gone, and it +will not come back." + +"Yes," I said, "I recognise that--I feel it too; our work here is done, and +we have work waiting for us. We shall meet, we shall compare experiences, +we shall love our fate. Life is to be a new quest, not an old worship. That +is to be our loyalty to Father Payne, that we are to believe in life, and +not only to believe in memory." + +It was soon over. Barthrop was to go later, and he came out to see me go. +Just before I started, the old clock played its sweet tune; we stood in +silence listening. "That is the best of omens," I said, "to depart with +thanksgiving and the voice of melody." He smiled in my face, we clasped +hands; I drove up the little road, while he stood at the door, smiling and +waving his hand, till I turned into the main road, between the blossoming +hedges, and saw Aveley no more. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Father Payne, by Arthur Christopher Benson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FATHER PAYNE *** + +***** This file should be named 12264-8.txt or 12264-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/2/6/12264/ + +Produced by David Newman and PG Distributed Proofreaders. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Father Payne + +Author: Arthur Christopher Benson + +Release Date: May 4, 2004 [EBook #12264] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FATHER PAYNE *** + + + + +Produced by David Newman and PG Distributed Proofreaders. Produced +from images provided by the Million Book Project. + + + + + +FATHER PAYNE + +By Arthur Christopher Benson + + +1915 + + + + +PREFACE + +Often as I have thought of my old friend "Father Payne," as we +affectionately called him, I had somehow never intended to write about him, +or if I did, it was "like as a dream when one awaketh," a vision that +melted away at the touch of common life. Yet I always felt that his was one +of those rich personalities well worth depicting, if the attitude and +gesture with which he faced the world could be caught and fixed. The +difficulty was that he was a man of ideas rather than of performance, +suggestive rather than active: and the whole history of his experiment with +life was evasive, and even to ordinary views fantastic. + +Besides, my own life has been a busy one, full of hard ordinary work: it +was not until the war gave me, like many craftsmen, a most reluctant and +unwelcome space of leisure, that I ever had the opportunity of considering +the possibility of writing this book. I am too old to be a combatant, and +too much of a specialist in literature to transmute my activities. I lately +found myself with my professional occupations suddenly suspended, and +moreover, like many men who have followed a wholly peaceful profession, +plunged in a dark bewilderment as to the onset of the forces governing the +social life of Europe. In the sad inactivity which followed, I set to work +to look through my old papers, for the sake of distraction and employment, +and found much material almost ready for use, careful notes of +conversations, personal reminiscences, jottings of characteristic touches, +which seemed as if they could be easily shaped. Moreover, the past suddenly +revived, and became eloquent and vivid. I found in the beautiful memories +of those glowing days that I spent with Father Payne--it was only three +years--some consolation and encouragement in my distress. + +This little volume is the result. I am well aware that the busy years which +have intervened have taken the edge off some of my recollections, while the +lapse of time has possibly touched others with a sunset glow. That can +hardly be avoided, and I am not sure that I wish to avoid it. + +I am not here concerned with either criticising or endorsing Father Payne's +views. I see both inconsistencies and fallacies in them. I even detect +prejudices and misinterpretations of which I was not conscious at the time. +I have no wish to idealise my subject unduly, but it is clear to me, and I +hope I have made it clear to others, that Father Payne was a man who had a +very definite theory of life and faith, and who at all events lived +sincerely and even passionately in the light of his beliefs. Moreover, when +he came to put them to the supreme test, the test of death, they did not +desert or betray him: he passed on his way rejoicing. + +He used, I remember, to warn us against attempting too close an analysis of +character. He used to say that the consciousness of a man, the intuitive +instinct which impelled him, his _attack_ upon experience, was a thing +almost independent both of his circumstances and of his reason. He used to +take his parable from the weaving of a tapestry, and say that a box full of +thread and a loom made up a very small part of the process. It was the +inventive instinct of the craftsman, the faculty of designing, that was +all-important. + +He himself was a man of large designs, but he lacked perhaps the practical +gift of embodiment. I looked upon him as a man of high poetical powers, +with a great range of hopes and visions, but without the technical +accomplishment which lends these their final coherence. He was fully aware +of this himself, but he neither regretted it nor disguised it. The truth +was that his interest in existence was so intense, that he lacked the power +of self-limitation needed for an artistic success. What, however, he gave +to all who came in touch with him, was a strong sense of the richness and +greatness of life and all its issues. He taught us to approach it with no +preconceived theories, no fears, no preferences. He had a great mistrust of +conventional interpretation and traditional explanations. At the same time +he abhorred controversy and wrangling. He had no wish to expunge the ideals +of others, so long as they were sincerely formed rather than meekly +received. Though I have come myself to somewhat different conclusions, he +at least taught me to draw my own inferences from my own experiences, +without either deferring to or despising the conclusions of others. + +The charm of his personality lay in his independence, his sympathy, his +eager freshness of view, his purity of motive, his perfect simplicity; and +it is all this which I have attempted to depict, rather than to trace his +theories, or to present a philosophy which was always concrete rather than +abstract, and passionate rather than deliberate. To use a homely proverb, +Father Payne was a man who filled his chair! + +Of one thing I feel sure, and that is that wherever Father Payne is, and +whatever he may be doing--for I have as absolute a conviction of the +continued existence of his fine spirit as I have of the present existence +of my own--he will value my attempt to depict him as he was. I remember his +telling me a story of Dr. Johnson, how in the course of his last illness, +when he could not open his letters, he asked Boswell to read them for him. +Boswell opened a letter from some person in the North of England, of a +complimentary kind, and thinking it would fatigue Dr. Johnson to have it +read aloud, merely observed that it was highly in his praise. Dr. Johnson +at once desired it to be read to him, and said with great earnestness, +"_The applause of a single human being is of great consequence._" +Father Payne added that it was one of Johnson's finest sayings, and had no +touch of vanity or self-satisfaction in it, but the vital stuff of +humanity. That I believe to be profoundly true: and that is the spirit in +which I have set all this down. + +_September_ 30, 1915. + + + + +CONTENTS + + +I. FATHER PAYNE +II. AVELEY +III. THE SOCIETY +IV. THE SUMMONS +V. THE SYSTEM +VI. FATHER PAYNE +VII. THE MEN +VIII. THE METHOD +IX. FATHER PAYNE +X. CHARACTERISTICS +XI. CONVERSATION +XII. OF GOING TO CHURCH +XIII. OF NEWSPAPERS +XIV. OF HATE +XV. OF WRITING +XVI. OF MARRIAGE +XVII. OF LOVING GOD +XVIII. OF FRIENDSHIP +XIX. OF PHYLLIS +XX. OF CERTAINTY +XXI. OF BEAUTY +XXII. OF WAR +XXIII. OF CADS AND PHARISEES +XXIV. OF CONTINUANCE +XXV. OF PHILANTHROPY +XXVI. OF FEAR +XXVII. OF ARISTOCRACY +XXVIII. OF CRYSTALS +XXIX. EARLY LIFE +XXX. OF BLOODSUCKERS +XXXI. OF INSTINCTS +XXXII. OF HUMILITY +XXXIII. OF MEEKNESS +XXXIV. OF CRITICISM +XXXV. OF THE SENSE OF BEAUTY +XXXVI. OF BIOGRAPHY +XXXVII. OF POSSESSIONS +XXXVIII. OF LONELINESS +XXXIX. OF THE WRITER'S LIFE +XL. OF WASTE +XLI. OF EDUCATION +XLII. OF RELIGION +XLIII. OF CRITICS +XLIV. OF WORSHIP +XLV. OF A CHANGE OF RELIGION +XLVI. OF AFFECTION +XLVII. OF RESPECT OF PERSONS +XLVIII. OF AMBIGUITY +XLIX. OF BELIEF +L. OF HONOUR +LI. OF WORK +LII. OF COMPANIONSHIP +LIII. OF MONEY +LIV. OF PEACEABLENESS +LV. OF LIFE-FORCE +LVI. OF CONSCIENCE +LVII. OF RANK +LVIII. OF BIOGRAPHY +LIX. OF EXCLUSIVENESS +LX. OF TAKING LIFE +LXI. OF BOOKISHNESS +LXII. OF CONSISTENCY +LXIII. OF WRENS AND LILIES +LXIV. OF POSE +LXV. OF REVENANTS +LXVI. OF DISCIPLINE +LXVII. OF INCREASE +LXVIII. OF PRAYER +LXIX. THE SHADOW +LXX. OF WEAKNESS +LXXI. THE BANK OF THE RIVER +LXXII. THE CROSSING +LXXIII. AFTER-THOUGHTS +LXXIV. DEPARTURE + + + + +FATHER PAYNE + + + +I + +FATHER PAYNE + + +It was a good many years ago, soon after I left Oxford, when I was +twenty-three years old, that all this happened. I had taken a degree in +Classics, and I had not given much thought to my future profession. There +was no very obvious opening for me, no family business, no influence in any +particular direction. My father had been in the Army, but was long dead. My +mother and only sister lived quietly in the country. I had no prosaic and +practical uncles to push me into any particular line; while on coming of +age I had inherited a little capital which brought me in some two hundred a +year, so that I could afford to wait and look round. My only real taste was +for literature. I wanted to write, but I had no very pressing aspirations +or inspirations. I may confess that I was indolent, fond of company, but +not afraid of comparative solitude, and I was moreover an entire +dilettante. I read a good many books, and tried feverishly to write in the +style of the authors who most attracted me, I settled down at home, more or +less, in a country village where I knew everyone; I travelled a little; and +I paid occasional visits to London, where several of my undergraduate and +school friends lived, with a vague idea of getting to know literary people; +but they were not very easy to meet, and, when I did meet them, they did +not betray any very marked interest in my designs and visions. + +I was dining one night at a restaurant with a College friend of mine, Jack +Vincent, whose tastes were much the same as my own, only more strenuous; +his father and mother lived in London, and when I went there I generally +stayed with them. They were well-to-do, good-natured people; but, beyond +occasionally reminding Jack that he ought to be thinking about a +profession, they left him very much to his own devices, and he had begun to +write a novel, and a play, and two or three other masterpieces. + +That particular night his father and mother were dining out, so we +determined to go to a restaurant. And it was there that Vincent told me +about "Father" Payne, as he was called by his friends, though he was a +layman and an Anglican. He had heard all about him from an Oxford man, +Leonard Barthrop, some years older than ourselves, who was one of the +circle of men whom Father Payne had collected about him. Vincent was very +full of the subject. He said that Father Payne was an elderly man, who had +been for a good many years a rather unsuccessful teacher in London, and +that he had unexpectedly inherited a little country estate in +Northamptonshire. He had gradually gathered about him a small knot of men, +mainly interested in literature, who were lodged and boarded free, and were +a sort of informal community, bound by no very strict regulations, except +that they were pledged to produce a certain amount of work at stated +intervals for Father Payne's inspection. As long as they did this, they +were allowed to work very much as they liked, and Father Payne was always +ready to give criticism and advice. Father Payne reserved the right of +dismissing them if they were idle, quarrelsome, or troublesome in any way, +and exercised it decisively. But Barthrop had told him that it was a most +delightful life; that Father Payne was a very interesting, good-natured, +and amusing man; and that the whole thing was both pleasant and +stimulating. There were certain rules about work and hours, and members of +the circle were not allowed to absent themselves without leave, while +Father Payne sometimes sent them off for a time, if he thought they +required a change. "I gather," said Vincent, "that he is an absolute +autocrat, and that you have to do what he tells you; but that he doesn't +preach, and he doesn't fuss. Barthrop says he has never been so happy in +his life." He went on to say that there were at least two vacancies in the +circle--one of the number had lately married, and another had accepted a +journalistic post. "Now what do you say," said Vincent, "to us two trying +to go there for a bit? You can try it, I believe, without pledging +yourself, for two or three months; and then if Father Payne approves, and +you want to go on, you can regularly join." + +I confess that it seemed to me a very attractive affair, and all that +Vincent told me of the place, and particularly of Father Payne, attracted +me. Vincent said that he had mentioned me to Barthrop, and that Barthrop +had said that I might have a chance of getting in. It appeared that we +should have to go down to the place to be interviewed. + +We made up our minds to apply, and that night Vincent wrote to Barthrop. +The answer was favourable. Two days later Vincent received a note from +Father Payne, written in a big, finely-formed hand, to the effect that he +would be glad to see Vincent any night that he could come down, and that I +might also arrange an interview, if I wished, but that we were to come +separately. "Mind," said the letter, "I can make no promises and can give +no reasons; but I will not keep either of you waiting." + +Vincent went first. He spent a night at Aveley Hall, as the place was +called. I continued my visit to his people, and awaited his return with +great interest. + +He told me what had happened. He had been met at the station by an odd +little trap, had driven up to the house--a biggish place, close to a small +church, on the outskirts of a tiny village. It was dark when he arrived, +and he had found Father Payne at tea with four or five men, in a flagged +hall. There had been a good deal of talk and laughter. "He is a big man, +Father Payne, with a beard, dressed rather badly, like a country squire, +very good-natured and talkative. Everyone seemed to say pretty much what +they liked, but he kept them in order, too, I could see that!" Then he had +been carried off to a little study and questioned. "He simply turned me +inside out," said Vincent, "and I told him all my biography, and everything +I had ever done and thought of. He didn't seem to look at me much, but I +felt he was overhauling me somehow. Then I went and read in a sort of +library, and then we had dinner--just the same business. Then the men +mostly disappeared, and Barthrop carried me off for a talk, and told me a +lot about everything. Then I went to my room, a big, ugly, comfortable +bedroom; and in the morning there was breakfast, where people dropped in, +read papers or letters, did not talk, and went off when they had done. Then +I walked about in a nice, rather wild garden. There seemed a lot of fields +and trees beyond, all belonging to the house, but no park, and only a small +stable, with a kitchen-garden. There were very few servants that I saw--an +old butler and some elderly maids--and then I came away. Father Payne just +came out and shook hands, and said he would write to me. It seemed exactly +the sort of thing I should like. I only hope we shall both get in." + +It certainly sounded attractive, and it was with great curiosity that I +went off on the following day, as appointed, for my own interview. + + + +II + +AVELEY + + +The train drew up at a little wayside station soon after four o'clock on a +November afternoon. It was a bare, but rather an attractive landscape. The +line ran along a wide, shallow valley, with a stream running at the bottom, +with many willows, and pools fringed with withered sedges. The fields were +mostly pastures, with here and there a fallow. There were a good many bits +of woodland all about, and a tall spire of pale stone, far to the south, +overtopped the roofs of a little town. I was met by an old groom or +coachman, with a little ancient open cart, and we drove sedately along +pleasant lanes, among woods, till we entered a tiny village, which he told +me was Aveley, consisting of three or four farmhouses, with barns and +ricks, and some rows of stone-built cottages. We turned out of the village +in the direction of a small and plain church of some antiquity, behind +which I saw a grove of trees and the chimneys of a house surmounted by a +small cupola. The house stood close by the church, having an open space of +grass in front, with an old sundial, and a low wall separating it from the +churchyard. We drove in at a big gate, standing open, with stone +gate-posts. The Hall was a long, stone-built Georgian house, perhaps a +hundred and fifty years old, with two shallow wings and a stone-tiled roof, +and was obviously of considerable size. Some withered creepers straggled +over it, and it was neatly kept, but with no sort of smartness. The trees +grew rather thickly to the east of the house, and I could see to the right +a stable-yard, and beyond that the trees of the garden. We drew up--it was +getting dark--and an old manservant with a paternal air came out, took +possession of my bag, and led me through a small vestibule into a long +hall, with a fire burning in a great open fireplace. There was a gallery at +one end, with a big organ in it. The hall was paved with black and white +stone, and there were some comfortable chairs, a cabinet or two, and some +dim paintings on the walls. Tea was spread at a small table by the fire, +and four or five men, two of them quite young, the others rather older, +were sitting about on chairs and sofas, or helping themselves to tea at the +table. On the hearth, with his back to the fire, stood a great, burly man +with a short, grizzled beard and tumbled gray hair, rather bald, dressed in +a rough suit of light-brown homespun, with huge shooting boots, whom I saw +at once to be my host. The talk stopped as I entered, and I was aware that +I was being scrutinised with some curiosity. Father Payne did not move, but +extended a hand, which I advanced and shook, and said: "Very glad to see +you, Mr. Duncan--you are just in time for tea." He mentioned the names of +the men present, who came and shook hands very cordially. Barthrop gave me +some tea, and I was inducted into a chair by the fire. I thought for a +moment that I was taking Father Payne's place, and feebly murmured +something about taking his chair. "They're all mine, thanks!" he said with +a smile, "but I claim no privileges." Someone gave a faint whistle at this, +and Father Payne, turning his eyes but not his head towards the young man +who had uttered the sound, said: "All right, Pollard, if you are going to +be mutinous, we shall have a little business to transact together, as Mr. +Squeers said." "Oh, I'm not mutinous, sir," said the young man--"I'm quite +submissive--I was just betrayed into it by amazement!" "You shouldn't get +into the habit of thinking aloud," said Father Payne; "at least not among +bachelors--when you are married you can do as you like!--I hope you are +polite?" he went on, looking round at me. "I think so," I said, feeling +rather shy, "That's right," he said. "It's the first and only form of +virtue! If you are only polite, there is nothing that you may not do. This +is a school of manners, you know!" One of the men, Rose by name, laughed--a +pleasant musical laugh. "I remember," he said, "that when I was a boy at +Eton, my excellent but very bluff and rough old tutor called upon us, and +was so much taken up with being hearty, that he knocked over the +coal-scuttle, and didn't let anyone get a word in; and when he went off in +a sort of whirlwind, my old aunt, who was an incisive lady, said in a +meditative tone: 'How strange it is that the only thing that the Eton +masters seem able to teach their boys is the only thing they don't +themselves possess!'" + +Father Payne uttered a short, loud laugh at this, and said: "Is there any +chance of meeting your aunt?" "No, sir, she is long since dead!" "Blew off +too much steam, perhaps," said Father Payne. "That woman must have had the +steam up! I should have liked to have known her--a remarkable woman! Have +you any more stories of the same sort about her?" + +"Not to-day," said Rose, smiling. + +"Quite right," said Father Payne. "You keep them for an acceptable time. +Never tell strings of stories--and, by the way, my young friends, that's +the art of writing. Don't cram in good things--space them out, Barthrop!" + +"I think I can spread the butter as thin as anyone," said Barthrop, +smiling. + +"So you can, so you can!" said Father Payne enthusiastically, "and very +thin slices too! I give you full credit for that!" + +The men had begun to drift away, and I was presently left alone with Father +Payne. "Now you come along of me!" he said to me; and when I got up, he +took my arm in a pleasant fashion, led me to a big curtained archway at the +far end of the hall, under the gallery, and along a flagged passage to the +right. As we went he pointed to the doors--"Smoking-room--Library"--and at +the end of the passage he opened a door, and led me into a small panelled +room with a big window, closely curtained. It was a solid and stately +place, wholly bare of ornament. It had a writing-table, a bookcase, two +armchairs of leather, a fine fireplace with marble pillars, and an old +painting let into the panelling above it. There was a bright, unshaded lamp +on the table. "This is my room," he said, "and there's nothing in it that I +don't use, except those pillars; and when I haul on them, like Samson, the +house comes down. Now you sit down there, and we'll have a talk. Do you +mind the light? No? Well, that's all right, as I want to have a good look +at you, you know! You can get a smoke afterwards--this is business!" + +He sate down in the chair opposite me, and stirred the fire. He had fine, +large, solid hands, the softness of which, like silk, had struck me when I +shook hands with him; and, though he was both elderly and bulky, he moved +with a certain grace and alertness. "Tell me your tale from the beginning," +he said, "Don't leave out any details--I like details. Let's have your life +and death and Christian sufferings, as the tracts say." + +He heard me with much patience, sometimes smiling, sometimes nodding, when +I had finished, he said: "Now I must ask you a few questions--you don't +mind if they are plain questions--rather unpleasant questions?" He bent his +brows upon me and smiled. "No," I said, "not at all." "Well, then," he +said, "where's the vocation in all this? This place, to be brief, is for +men who have a real vocation for writing, and yet never would otherwise +have the time or the leisure to train for it. You see, in England, people +think that you needn't train for writing--that you have just got to begin, +and there you are. Very few people have the money to wait a few years--they +have to write, not what they want to write, but what other people want to +read. And so it comes about that by the time that they have earned the +money and the leisure, the spring is gone, the freshness is gone, there's +no invention and no zest. Writing can't be done in a little corner of life. +You have to give up your life to it--and then that means giving up your +life to a great deal of what looks like pure laziness--loafing about, +looking about, travelling, talking, mooning; that is the only way to learn +proportion; and it is the only way, too, of learning what not to write +about--a great many things that are written about are not really material +for writing at all. And all this can't be done in a drivelling mood--you +must pick your way if you are going to write. That's a long preface; but I +mean this place to be a place to give men the right sort of start. I happen +to be able to teach people, more or less, how to write, if they have got +the stuff in them--and to be frank, I'm not sure that you have! You think +this would be a pleasant sort of experience--so it can be; but it isn't +done on slack and chattering lines. It is just meant to save people from +hanging about at the start, a thing which spoils a lot of good writers. But +it's deadly serious, and it isn't a dilettante life at all. Do you grasp +all that?" + +"Yes," I said, "and I believe I can work! I know I have wasted my time, but +it was not because I wanted to waste time, but because the sort of things I +have always had to do--the classics--always seemed to me so absolutely +pointless. No one who taught me ever distinguished between what was good +and what was bad. Whatever it was--a Greek play, Homer, Livy, Tacitus--it +was always supposed to be the best thing of the kind. I was always sure +that much of it was rot, and some of it was excellent; but I didn't know +why, and no one ever told me why." + +"You thought all that?" said he. "Well, that's more hopeful! Have you ever +done any essay work?" + +"Yes," I said, "and that was the worst of all--no one ever showed me how to +do it in my own way, but always in some one else's way." + +He sate a little in silence. Then he said: "But mind you, that's not all! I +don't think writing is the end of life. The real point is to feel the +things, to understand the business, to have ideas about life. I don't want +people to learn how to write interestingly about things in which they are +not interested--but to be interested first, and then to write if they can. +I like to turn out a good writer, who can say what he feels and believes. +But I'm just as pleased when a man tells me that writing is rubbish, and +that he is going away to do something real. The real--that's what I care +about! I don't want men to come and pick up grains of truth and reality, +and work them into their stuff. I have turned out a few men like that, and +those are my worst failures. You have got to care about ideas, if you come +here, and to get the ideas into shape. You have got to learn what is +beautiful and what is not, because the only business of a real writer is +with beauty--not a sickly exotic sort of beauty, but the beauty of health +and strength and generous feeling. I can't have any humbugs here, though I +have sent out some humbugs. It's a hard life this, and a tiring life; +though if you are the right sort of fellow, you will get plenty of fun out +of it. But we don't waste time here; and if a man wastes time, out he +goes." + +"I believe I can work as hard as anyone," I said, "though I have shown no +signs of it--and anyhow, I should like to try. And I do really want to +learn how to distinguish between things, how to know what matters. No one +has ever shown me how to do that!" + +"That's all right!" he said, "But are you sure you don't want simply to +make a bit of a name--to be known as a clever man? It's very convenient, +you know, in England, to have a label. Because I want you clearly to +understand that this place of mine has nothing whatever to do with that. I +take no stock in what is called success. This is a sort of monastery, you +know; and the worst of some monasteries is that they cultivate dreams. +That's a beautiful thing in its way, but it isn't what I aim at. I don't +want men to drug themselves with dreams. The great dreamers don't do that. +Shelley, for instance--his dreams were all made out of real feeling, real +beauty. He wanted to put things right in his own way. He was enraged with +life because he was fine, while Byron was enraged with life because he was +vulgar. Vulgarity--that's the one fatal complaint; it goes down deep to the +bottom of the mind. And I may as well say plainly that that is what I fight +against here." + +"I don't honestly think I am vulgar," I said. + +"Not on the surface, perhaps," he said, "but present-day education is a +snare. We are a vulgar nation, you know. That is what is really the matter +with us--our ambitions are vulgar, our pride is vulgar. We want to fit into +the world and get the most we can out of it; we don't, most of us, just +want to give it our best. That's what I mean by vulgarity, wanting to take +and not wanting to give." + +He was silent for a minute, and then he said: "Do you believe in God?" + +"I hardly know," I said. "Not very much, I am afraid, in the kind of God +that I have heard preached about." + +"What do you mean?" he said. + +"Well," I said, "it's rather a large question--but I used to think, both at +school and at Oxford, that many of the men who were rather disapproved of, +that did quite bad things, and tried experiments, and knocked up against +nastiness of various kinds, but who were brave in their way and kind, and +not mean or spiteful or fault-finding, were more the sort of people that +the force--or whatever it is, behind the world--was trying to produce than +many of the virtuous people. What was called virtue and piety had something +stifling and choking about it, I used to think. I had a tutor at school who +was a parson, and he was a good sort of man, too, in a way. But I used to +feel suddenly dreary with him, as if there were a whole lot of real things +and interesting things which he was afraid of. I couldn't say what I +thought to him--only what I felt he wanted me to think. That's a bad +answer," I went on, "but I haven't really considered it." + +"No, it isn't a bad answer," he said, "It's all right! The moment you feel +stifled with anyone, whatever the subject is--art, books, religion, +life--there is something wrong. Do you say any prayers?" + +"No," I said, "to be honest, I don't." + +"You must take to it again," he said. "You can't get on without prayer. And +if you come here," he said, "you may expect to hear about God. I talk a +good deal about God. I don't believe in things being too sacred to talk +about--it's the bad things that ought not to be mentioned. I am interested +in God, more than I am interested in anything else. I can't make Him +out--and yet I believe that He needs me, in a way, as much as I need Him. +Does that sound profane to you?" + +"No," I said, "it's new to me. No one ever spoke about God to me like that +before." + +"We have to suffer with Him!" he said in a curious tone, his face lighting +up. "That is the point of Christianity, that God suffers, because He wants +to remake the world, and cannot do it all at once. That is the secret of +all life and hope, that if we believe in God, we must suffer with Him. It's +a fight, a hard fight; and He needs us on His side: But I won't talk about +that now; yet if you don't want to believe in God, and to be friends with +Him, and to fight and suffer with Him, you needn't think of coming here. +That's behind all I do. And to come here is simply that you may find out +where He needs you. Why writing is important is, because the world needs +freer and plainer talk about God--about beauty and health and happiness and +energy, and all the things which He stands for. Half the evil comes from +silence, and the end of all my experiments is the word in the New +Testament, Ephphatha--Be opened! That is what I try for, to give men the +power of opening their hearts and minds to others, without fear and yet +without offence. I don't want men to attack things or to criticise things, +but just to speak plainly about what is beautiful and wholesome and true. +So you see this isn't a place for lazy and fanciful people--not a fortress +of quiet, and still less a place for asses to slake their thirst! We don't +set out to amuse ourselves, but to perceive things, and to say them if we +can. My men must be sound and serious, and they must be civil and amusing +too. They have got to learn how to get on with each other, and with me, and +with the village people--and with God! If you want just to dangle about, +this isn't the place for you; but if you want to work hard and be knocked +into shape, I'll consider it." + +There was something tremendous about Father Payne! I looked at him with a +sense of terror. His face dissolved in a smile. "You needn't look at me +like that!" he said. "I only want you to know exactly what you are in for!" + +"I would like to try," I said. + +"Well, we'll see!" he said. "And now you must be off!" he added. "We shall +dine in an hour--you needn't dress. Here, you don't know which your room +is, I suppose?" + +He rang the bell, and I went off with the old butler, who was amiable and +communicative. "So, you think of becoming one of the gentlemen, sir?" he +said. "If you'll have me," I replied. "Oh, that will be all right, sir," he +said. "I could see that the Father took to you at first sight!" + +He showed me my room--a big bare place. It had a small bed and accessories, +but it was also fitted as a sitting-room, with a writing-table, an +armchair, and a bookcase full of books. The house was warmed, I saw, with +hot water to a comfortable temperature. "Would you like a fire?" he said. I +declined, and he went on: "Now if you lived here, sir, you would have to do +that yourself!" He gave a little laugh. "Anyone may have a fire, but they +have to lay it, and fetch the coal, and clean the grate. Very few of the +gentlemen do it. Anything else, sir? I have put out your things, and you +will find hot water laid on." + +He left me, and I flung myself into the chair. I had a good deal to think +about. + + + +III + +THE SOCIETY + + +A very quiet evening followed. A bell rang out above the roof at 8.15. I +went down to the hall, where the men assembled. Father Payne came in. He +had changed his clothes, and was wearing a dark, loose-fitting suit, which +became him well--he always looked at home in his clothes. The others wore +similar suits or smoking jackets. Father Payne appeared abstracted, and +only gave me a nod. A gong sounded, and he marched straight out through a +door by the fireplace into the dining-room. + +The dining-room was a rather grand place, panelled in dark wood, and with a +few portraits. At each end of the room was a section cut off from the +central portion by an oak column on each side. Three windows on one side +looked into the garden. It was lighted by candles only. We were seven in +all, and I sate by Father Payne. Dinner was very plain. There was soup, a +joint with vegetables, and a great apple-tart. The things were mostly +passed about from hand to hand, but the old butler kept a benignant eye +upon the proceedings, and saw that I was well supplied. There was a good +and simple claret in large flat-bottomed decanters, which most of the men +drank. There was a good deal of talk of a lively kind. Father Payne was +rather silent, though he struck in now and then, but his silence imposed no +constraint on the party. He was pressed to tell a story for my benefit, +which he did with much relish, but briefly. I was pleased at the simplicity +of it all. There was only one man who seemed a little out of tune--a +clerical-looking, handsome fellow of about thirty, called Lestrange, with +an air of some solemnity. He made remarks of rather an earnest type, and +was ironically assailed once or twice. Father Payne intervened once, and +said: "Lestrange is perfectly right, and you would think so too, if only he +could give what he said a more secular twist. 'Be soople in things +immaterial,' Lestrange, as the minister says in _Kidnapped_." "But who +is to judge if it _is_ immaterial?" said Lestrange rather +pertinaciously. "It mostly is," said Father Payne. "Anything is better than +being shocked! It's better to be ashamed afterwards of not speaking up than +to feel you have made a circle uncomfortable. You must not rebuke people +unless you really hate doing it. If you like doing it, you may be pretty +sure that it is vanity; a Christian ought not to feel out of place in a +smoking-room!" + +The whole thing did not take more than three-quarters of an hour. Coffee +was brought in, very strong and good. Some of the party went off, and +Father Payne disappeared. I went to the smoking-room with two of the men, +and we talked a little. Finally I went away to my room, and tried to commit +my impressions of the whole thing to my diary before I went to bed. It +certainly seemed a happy life, and I was struck with the curious mixture of +freedom, frankness, and yet courtesy about the whole. There was no +roughness or wrangling or stupidity, nor had I any sense either of +exclusion, or of being elaborately included in the life of the circle. I +would call the atmosphere brotherly, if brotherliness did not often mean +the sort of frankness which is so unpleasant to strangers. There certainly +was an atmosphere about it, and I felt too that Father Payne, for all his +easiness, had somehow got the reins in his hands. + +The next morning I went down to breakfast, which was, I found, like +breakfast at a club, as Vincent had said. It was a plain meal--cold bacon, +a vast dish of scrambled eggs kept hot by a spirit lamp and a hot-water +arrangement. You could make toast for yourself if you wished, and there was +a big fresh loaf, with excellent butter, marmalade, and jam--not an ascetic +breakfast at all. There were daily papers on the table, and no one talked. +I did not see Father Payne, who must have come in later. + +After breakfast, Barthrop showed me the rooms of the house. The library was +fitted up with bookshelves and easy-chairs for reading, with a big round +oak table in the centre. The floor was of stained oak boards and covered +with rugs. There was also a capacious smoking-room, and I learned that +smoking was not allowed elsewhere. It was, in fact, a solid old family +mansion of some dignity. There were three or four oil paintings in all the +rooms, portraits and landscapes. The general tone of decoration was +dark--red wall-papers and fittings stained brown. It was all clean and +simple, and there was a total absence of ornament, I went and walked in the +garden, which was of the same very straightforward kind--plain grass, +shrubberies, winding paths, with comfortable wooden seats in sheltered +places; one or two big beds, evidently of old-fashioned perennials, and +some trellises for ramblers. The garden was adjoined by a sort of +wilderness, with big trees and ground-ivy, and open spaces in which +aconites and snowdrops were beginning to show themselves. Father Payne, I +gathered, was fond of the garden and often worked there; but there were no +curiosities--it was all very simple. Beyond that were pasture-fields, with +a good many clumps and hedgerow trees, running down to a stream, which had +been enlarged into a deep pool at one place, where there was a timbered +bathing-shed. The stream fed, through little sluices, a big, square pond, +full, I was told, in summer of bulrushes and water-lilies. I noticed a +couple of lawn-tennis courts, and there was a bowling-green by the house. +Then there was a large kitchen-garden, with standards and espaliers, and +box-edged beds. The stables, which were spacious, contained only a pony and +the little cart I had driven up in, and a few bicycles. I liked the solid +air of the big house, which had two wings at the back, corresponding to the +wings in front; the long row of stone pedimented windows, with heavy white +casements, was plain and stately, and there were some fine magnolias and +wisterias trained upon the walls. It all looked stately, and yet home-like; +there was nothing neglected about it, and yet it looked wholesomely left +alone; everything was neat, but nothing was smart. + +I was strolling about, enjoying the gleams of bright sunshine and the cold +air, when I saw Father Payne coming down the garden towards me. He gave me +a pleasant nod: I said something about the beauty of the place; he smiled, +and said "Yes, it is the kind of thing I like--but I am so used to it that +I can hardly even see it! That's the worst of habit; but there is nothing +about the place to get on your nerves. It's a well-bred old house, I think, +and knows how to hold its tongue, without making you uncomfortable," Then +he went on presently: "You know how I came by it? It's an odd story. It had +been in my family, till my grandfather left it to his second wife, and cut +my father out. There was a son by the second wife, who was meant to have +it; but he died, and it went to a brother of the second wife, and his widow +left it back to me. It was an entire surprise, because I did not know her, +and the only time I had ever seen the house was once when I came down on +the sly, just to look at the old place, little thinking I should ever come +here. She had some superstition about it, I fancy! Anyhow, while I was +grubbing away in town, fifteen years ago, and hardly able to make two ends +meet, I suddenly found myself put in possession of it; and though I am +poor, as squires go, the farms and cottages bring me in quite enough to rub +along. At any rate it enabled me to try some experiments, and I have been +doing so ever since. Leisure and solitude! Those are the only two things +worth having that money can buy. Perhaps you don't think there's much +solitude about our life? But solitude only means the power to think your +own thoughts, without having other people's thoughts trailed across the +track. Loneliness is quite a different thing, and that's not wholesome." + +He strolled on, looking about him. "Do you ever garden?" he said. "It's the +best fun in the world--making plants do as _you_ like, while all the +time they think they are doing as _they_ like. That's the secret of +it! You can't bully these wild things, but they are very obedient, as long +as they believe they are free. They are like children; they will take any +amount of trouble as long as you don't call it work." + +Presently we heard the clatter of hoofs in the stable-yard. "That's for +you!" he said. "Will you go and see that they have brought your things +down? I'll meet you at the door." I went up and found my things had been +packed by the old butler. I gave him a little tip, and he said +confidentially: "I daresay we shall be seeing you back here, sir, one of +these days." "I hope so," I said, to which he replied with a mysterious +wink and nod. + +Father Payne shook hands. "Well, good-bye!" he said. "It's good of you to +have come down, and I'm glad to have made acquaintance, whatever +happens--I'll drop you a line." I drove away, and he stood at the door +looking after me, till the little cart drove out of the gate. + + + +IV + +THE SUMMONS + + +I must confess that I was much excited about my visit; the whole thing +seemed to me to be almost too good to be true, and I hardly dared hope that +I should be allowed to return. I went back to town and rejoined Vincent, +and we talked much about the delights of Aveley. + +The following morning we each received a letter in Father Payne's firm +hand. That to Vincent was very short. It ran as follows: + + DEAR VINCENT,--_I shall be glad to take you in if you wish to + join us, for three months. At the end of that time, we shall both + be entirely free to choose. I hope you will be happy here. You + can come as soon as you like; and if Duncan, after reading my + letter, decides to come too, you had better arrange to arrive + together. It will save me the trouble of describing our way of + life to each separately. Please let me have a line, and I will + see that your room is ready for you.--Sincerely yours,_ + + C. PAYNE. + +"That's all right!" said Vincent, with an air of relief. "Now what does he +say to you?" My letter was a longer one. It ran: + + MY DEAR YOUNG MAN,--_I am going to be very frank with you, and + to say that, though I liked you very much, I nearly decided that + I could not ask you to join us. I will tell you why. I am not + sure that you are not too easy-going and impulsive. We should all + find you agreeable, and I am sure you would find the whole thing + great fun at first; but I rather think you would get bored. It + does not seem to me as if you had ever had the smallest + discipline, and I doubt if you have ever disciplined yourself; + and discipline is a tiresome thing, unless you like it. I think + you are quick, receptive, and polite--all that is to the good. + But are you serious? I found in you a very quick perception, and + you held up a flattering mirror with great spontaneity to my mind + and heart--that was probably why I liked you so much. But I don't + want people here to reflect me or anyone else. The whole point of + my scheme is independence, with just enough discipline to keep + things together, like the hem on a handkerchief._ + + _But you may have a try, if you wish; and in any case, I think + you will have a pleasant three months here, and make us all sorry + to lose you if you do not return. I have told your friend Vincent + he can come, and I think he is more likely to stay than you are, + because he is more himself. I don't suppose that he took in the + whole place and the idea of it as quickly as you did. I expect + you could write a very interesting description of it, and I don't + expect he could._ + + _Still, I will say that I shall be truly sorry if, after this + letter, you decide not to come to us. I like your company; and I + shall not get tired of it. But to be more frank still, I think + you are one of those charming and sympathetic people who is tough + inside, with a toughness which is based on the determination to + find things amusing and interesting--and that is not the sort of + toughness I can do anything with. People like yourself are + incapable as a rule of suffering, whatever happens to them. It's + a very happy disposition, but it does not grow. You are sensitive + enough, but I don't want sensitiveness, I want men who are not + sensitive, and who yet can suffer at not getting nearer and more + quickly than they can to the purpose ahead of them, whatever that + may be. It is a stiff sort of thing that I want. I can help to + make a stiff nature pliable; I'm not very good at making a + pliable nature stiff. That's the truth._ + + _So I shall be delighted--more than you think--if you say + "Yes." but in a way more hopeful about you if you say "No."_ + + _Come with Vincent, if you come; and as soon as you like.--Ever + yours truly,_ + + C. PAYNE. + +"Does he want me to go, or does he not?" I said. "Is he letting me down +with a compliment?" + +"Oh no," said Vincent, "it's all right. He only thinks that you are a +butterfly which will flutter by, and he would rather like you to do a +little fluttering down there." + +"But I'm not going to go there," I said, "to wear a cap and bells for a +bit, and then to be spun when I have left my golden store, like the radiant +morn; he puts me on my mettle. I _will_ go, and he _shall_ keep +me! I don't want to fool about any more." + +"All right!" said Vincent. "It's a bargain, then! Will you be ready to go +the day after to-morrow? There are some things I want to buy, now that I'm +going to school again. But I'm awfully relieved--it's just what I want. I +was getting into a mess with all my work, and becoming a muddled loafer." + +"And I an elegant trifler, it appears," I said. + + + +V + +THE SYSTEM + + +We went off together on the Saturday, and I think we were both decidedly +nervous. What were we in for? I had a feeling that I had plunged headlong +into rather a foolish adventure. + +We did not talk much on the way down; it was all rather solemn. We were +going to put the bit in our mouths again, and Father Payne was an unknown +quantity. We both felt that there was something decidedly big and strong +there to be reckoned with. + +We arrived, as before, at tea-time, and we both received a cordial +greeting. After tea Father Payne took us away, and told us the rules of the +house. They were simple enough; he described the day. Breakfast was from +8.30 to 9.15, and was a silent meal. "It's a bad thing to begin the day by +chattering and arguing," said Father Payne. Then we were supposed to work +in our own rooms or the library till one. We might stroll about, if we +wished, but there was to be no talking to anyone else, unless he himself +gave leave for any special reason. Luncheon was a cold meal, quite +informal, and was on the table for an hour. There was to be no talk then +either. From two to five we could do as we liked, and it was expected that +we should take at least an hour's exercise, and if possible two. Tea at +five, and work afterwards. At 8.15, dinner, and we could do as we wished +afterwards, but we were not to congregate in anyone's room, and it was +understood that no one was to go to another man's bedroom, which was also +his study, at any time, unless he was definitely invited, or just to ask a +question. The smoking-room was always free for general talk, but Father +Payne said that on the whole he discouraged any gatherings or cliques. The +point of the whole was solitary work, with enough company to keep things +fresh and comfortable. + +He said that we were expected to valet ourselves entirely, and that if we +wanted a fire, we must lay it and clean it up afterwards. If we wanted to +get anything, or have anything done, we could ask him or the butler. "But I +rather expect everyone to look after himself," he said. We were not to +absent ourselves without his leave, and we were to go away if he told us to +do so. "Sometimes a man wants a little change and does not know it," he +said. + +Then he also said that he would ask us, from time to time, what we were +doing--hear it read, and criticise it; and that one of the most definite +conditions of our remaining was that he must be satisfied that we really +were at work. If we wanted any special books, he said, we might ask him, +and he could generally get them from the London Library; but that we should +find a good many books of reference and standard works in the library. + +He told us, too, of certain conditions of which we had not heard--that we +were to be away, either at home, or travelling wherever he chose to send +us, for three months in the year, and that he supplied the funds if +necessary. Moreover, for one month in the summer he kept open house. Half +of us were to go away for the first fortnight in July, and the other half +were to stay and entertain his guests, or even our own, if we wished to +invite them; then the other half of the men returned, and had their guests +to entertain, while the first half went away; and that during that time +there was to be very little work done. We were not to be always writing, +but there was to be reading, about which he would advise. Once a week there +was a meeting, on Saturday evening, when one of the men had to read +something aloud, and be generally criticised. "You see the idea?" he said. +"It sounds complicated now, but it really is very simple. It is just to get +solid work done regularly, with a certain amount of supervision and +criticism, and, what is more important still, real intervals of travelling. +I shall send you to a particular place for a particular purpose, and you +will have to write about it on lines which I shall indicate. The danger of +this sort of life is that of getting stale. That's why I don't want you to +see too much of each other. And last of all," he said, rather gravely, "you +must do what I tell you to do. There must be no mistake about that--but +with all the apparent discipline of it, I believe you will find it worth +while." + +Then he saw us each separately. He inquired into our finances. Vincent had +a small allowance from his parents, about L50, which he was told to keep +for pocket-money, but Father Payne said he would pay his travelling +expenses. I gathered that he gave an allowance to men who had nothing of +their own. He told me that I should have to travel at my own expense, but +he was careful first to inquire whether my mother was in any way dependent +on me. Then he said to me with a smile: "I am glad you decided to come--I +thought my letter would have offended you. No? That's all right. Now, I +don't expect heroic exertions--just hard work. Mind," he said, "I will add +one thing to my letter, and that is that I think you _may_ make a +success of this--if you _do_ take to it, you will do well; but you +will have to be patient, and you may have a dreary time; but I want you to +tell me exactly at any time how you are feeling about it. You won't be +driven, and I think your danger is that you may try to make the pace too +much." + +He further asked me exactly what I was writing. It happened to be some +essays on literary subjects. He mentioned a few books, and told me it would +do very well to start with. He was very kind and fatherly in his manner, +and when I rose to go, he put his arm through mine and said: "Come, it will +be strange if we can't hit it off together. I like your presence and talk, +and am glad to think you are in the house. Don't be anxious! The difficulty +with you is that you will foresee all your troubles beforehand, and try to +bolt them in a lump, instead of swallowing them one by one as they come. +Live for the day!" There was something magnetic about him, for by these few +words he established a little special relation with me which was never +broken. + +When he dismissed me, I went and changed my things, and then came down. I +found that it was the custom for the men to go down to the hall about +eight. Father Payne said that it was a great mistake to work to the last +minute, and then to rush in to dinner. He said it made people nervous and +dyspeptic. He generally strolled in himself a few minutes before, and sate +silent by the fire. + +Just as it struck eight, and the hum of the clock in the hall died away, a +little tune in harmony, like a gavotte, was played by softly-tingling tiny +bells. I could not tell where the music came from; it seemed to me like the +Ariel music in _The Tempest_, between earth and heaven, or the +"chiming shower of rare device" in _The Beryl Stone_. + +Father Payne smiled at the little gesture I involuntarily made. "You're +right!" he said, when it was over. "How _can_ people talk through +that? It's the clock in the gallery that does it--they say it belonged to +George III. I hope, if so, that it gave him a few happier moments! It is an +ingenious little thing, with silver bells and hammers; I'll show it you +some day. It rings every four hours." + +"I think I had rather not see the machinery," I said. "I never heard +anything so delicious." + +"You're right again," said Father Payne; + + "'The isle is full of noises, + Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.' + +Let it stay at that!" + +I little thought how much I should grow to connect that fairy gavotte with +Aveley. It always seemed to me like a choir of spirits. I would awake +sometimes on summer nights and hear it chiming in the silent house, or at +noon it would come faintly through the passages. That, and the songs of the +birds in the shrubberies, always flash into my mind when I think of the +place; because it was essentially a silent house, more noiseless than any I +have ever lived in; and I love the thought of its silence; and of its +fragrance--for that was another note of the place. In the hall stood great +china jars with pierced covers, which were always full of pot-pourri; there +was another in the library, and another in Father Payne's study, and two +more in the passage above which looked out by the little gallery upon the +hall. Silence and fragrance always, in the background of all we did; and +outlining itself upon the stillness, the little melody, jetting out like a +fountain of silver sound. + + + +VI + +FATHER PAYNE + + +That evening after dinner we two were left with Barthrop in the +smoking-room, and we talked freely about Father Payne. Barthrop said that +his past was a little mysterious. "He was at Marlborough, you know, and +Oxford; and after that, he lived in town, took pupils, and tried to +write--but he was not successful, and had much difficulty in getting +along." "What is his line exactly?" said Vincent. "That's just it," said +Barthrop, "he hasn't any line. He has a wide knowledge of things, and is +quicker at picking up the drift of a subject than anyone I know; and he has +a rare power of criticism. But he isn't anything in particular. He can't +write a bit, he is not a speaker, he isn't learned, he can teach able +people, but he couldn't teach stupid men--he hasn't enough patience. I +can't imagine any line of life for which he would be exactly fitted: and +yet he's the biggest person I have ever met; he carries us all along with +him, like a river. You can't resist him, you can't contradict him. That is +the one danger, that he exerts more influence than he knows, so that when +you are with him, it is hard to be quite yourself. But he puts the wind +into your sails; and, my word, he can take it out of your sails, if he +likes! I have only seen him really angry about twice, and then it was +really appalling. Once was when a man lied to him, and once was when a man +was impertinent to him. He simply blasted them with his displeasure--that +is the only word. He hates getting angry--I expect he had a bad temper +once--and he apologises afterwards; but it's no use--it's like a +thunderstorm apologising to a tree which has been struck. I don't think he +knows his strength. He believes himself to be sensitive and weak-willed--I +have heard him say so. The fact is that he dislikes doing an unpleasant +thing or speaking severely; and he will take a lot of trouble to avoid a +scene, or to keep an irritable man in a good temper. But if he lets himself +loose! I can't express to you the sort of terror I have in thinking of +those two occasions. He didn't say very much, but he looked as if he were +possessed by any number of devils." + +"He was never married, I suppose?" I said. + +"No," said Barthrop, "and yet he seems to make friends with women very +easily--in fact, they tend to fall in love with him, if I may say so. He +has got a beautiful manner with them, and he is simply devoted to children. +You will see that they really rather worship him in the village. He knows +everyone in the place, and never forgets a fact about them." + +"What does he _do_ mostly?" I said. + +"I really don't know," said Barthrop. "He is rather a solitary man. He very +often has one of us in for an hour in the evening or morning--but we don't +see much of him in the afternoon; he gardens or walks about. He has a quick +eye for things, birds and plants, and so on; and he can find more nests in +an hour than any man I ever saw. Sometimes he will go and shut himself up +in the church--he is rather fond of going to church; he always goes to the +Communion." + +"Does he expect us to go?" I said. + +"No," said Barthrop. "He rather likes us to go, but he doesn't at all like +us going to please him. 'I want you to want to go,' I heard him say once, +'but I don't want you to go _because_ I want you.' And he has no +particular views, I think, about the whole thing--at least not for other +people." + +"Tell me some more about him," I said. + +"What is there to say?" said Barthrop. "He is just there--the biggest fact +on the horizon. Oh yes, there is one thing; he is tremendously devoted to +music. We have some music in the evenings very often. You saw the organ in +the gallery--it is rather a fine one, and he generally has someone here who +can play. Lestrange is a first-rate musician. Father Payne can't play +himself, but he knows all about it, and composes sometimes. But I think he +looks on music as rather a dangerous indulgence, and does not allow himself +very much of it. You can see how it affects him. And you mustn't be taken +in by his manner. You might think him heavy and unperceptive, with that +quiet and rather secret eye of his; yet he notices everything, always, and +far quicker than anyone else. But it is hard to describe him, because he +can't do anything much, and you might think he was indolent; and yet he is +the biggest person I have ever seen, the one drawback being that he credits +other people with being big too." + +"I notice that you call him 'Father Payne,'" said Vincent. "Does that mean +anything in particular?" + +"No," said Barthrop, smiling. "It began as a sort of joke, I believe--but +it seemed to fit him; and it's rather convenient. We can't begin by calling +him 'Payne,' and 'Mr. Payne' is a little formal. Some of the men call him +'sir,' but I think he likes 'Father Payne' best, or simply 'Father,' You +will find it exactly expresses him." + +"Yes," I said, "I am sure it does!" + +I did not sleep much that night. The great change in my life had all taken +place with such rapidity and ease that I felt bewildered, and the thought +of the time ahead was full of a vague excitement. But most of all the +thought of Father Payne ran in my mind, I regarded him with a singular +mixture of interest, liking, admiration, and dread. Yet he had contrived to +kindle a curious flame in my mind. It was not that I fully understood what +he was working for, but I was conscious of a great desire to prove to him +that I could do something, exhibit some tenacity, approve myself to him. I +wanted to make him retract what he had said about me; and, further on, I +had a dim sense of an initiation into ideas, familiar enough, but which had +only been words to me hitherto--power, purpose, seriousness. They had been +ideas which before this had just vaguely troubled my peace, clouds hanging +in a bright sky. I had the sense that there were some duties which I ought +to perform, efforts to be made, ends to fulfil; but they had seemed to me +expressed in rather priggish phrases, words which oppressed me, and ruffled +the surface of my easy joy. Now they loomed up before me as big realities +which could not be escaped, hills to climb, with no pleasant path round +about their bases. I seemed in sight of some inspiring secret. I could not +tell what it was, but Father Payne knew it, might show it me? + +Thus I drowsed and woke, a dozen times, till in the glimmer of the early +light I rose and drew back my curtains. The dawn was struggling up fitfully +in the east, among cloudy bars, tipping and edging them with smouldering +flashes of light, and there was a lustrous radiance in the air. Then, to my +surprise, looking down at the silent garden, pale with dew, I saw the great +figure of Father Payne, bare-headed, wrapt in a cloak, pacing solidly and, +I thought, happily among the shrubberies, stopping every now and then to +watch the fiery light and to breathe the invigorating air--and I felt then +that, whatever he might be doing, he at all events _was_ something, in +a sense which applied to but few people I knew. He was not hard, +unimaginative, fenced in by stupidity and self-righteousness from +unhappiness and doubt, as were some of the men accounted successful whom I +knew. No, it was something positive, some self-created light, some stirring +of hidden force, that emanated from him, such as I had never encountered +before. + + + +VII + +THE MEN + + +I can attempt no sort of chronicle of our days, which indeed were quiet and +simple enough. I have only preserved in my diary the record of a few scenes +and talks and incidents. I will, however, first indicate how our party, as +I knew it, was constituted, so that the record may be intelligible. + +First of us came Leonard Barthrop, who was, partly by his seniority and +partly by his temperament, a sort of second-in-command in the house, much +consulted and trusted by Father Payne. He was a man of about thirty-five, +grave, humorous, pleasant. If one was in a minor difficulty, too trivial to +take to Father Payne, it was natural to consult Barthrop; and he sometimes, +too, would say a word of warning to a man, if a storm seemed to be brewing. +It must not be denied that men occasionally got on Father Payne's nerves, +quite unconsciously, through tactlessness or stupid mannerisms--and +Barthrop was able to smooth the situation out by a word in season. He had a +power of doing this without giving offence, from the obvious goodwill which +permeated all he did. Barthrop was not very sociable or talkative, and he +was occupied, I think, in some sort of historical research--I believe he +has since made his name as a judicious and interesting historian; but I +knew little of what he was doing, and indeed was hardly intimate with him, +though always at ease in his company. He was not a man with strong +preferences or prejudices, nor was he in any sense a brilliant or +suggestive writer, I think he had merged himself very much in the life of +our little society, and kept things together more than I was at first +aware. + +Then came Kaye, one of the least conspicuous of the whole group, though he +has since become perhaps the best known, by his poems and his beautiful +critical studies in both art and literature. Kaye is known as one of those +rare figures in literature, a creative critic. His rich and elaborate +style, his exquisite sidelights, his poetical faculty of interpretation, +make his work famous, though hardly popular. But I found that he worked +very slowly and even painfully, deliberately secreting his honey, and +depositing it cell by cell. He had a peculiar intimacy with Father Payne, +who treated him with a marked respect. Kaye was by far the most absorbed of +the party, went and came like a great moth, was the first to disappear, and +generally the last to arrive. Neither did he make any attempt at +friendship. He was a handsome and graceful fellow, now about thirty, with a +worn sort of beauty in his striking features, curling hair, long languid +frame, and fine hands. His hands, I used to think, were the most eloquent +things about him, and he was ever making silent little gestures with them, +as though they were accompanying unuttered trains of thought; but he had, +too, a strained and impatient air, as if he found the pursuit of phrases a +wearing and hazardous occupation. I used to feel Kaye the most attractive +and impressive of our society; but he neither made nor noticed any signals +of goodwill, though always courteous and kindly. + +Pollard was a totally different man: he was about twenty-eight, and he was +writing some work of fiction. He was a small, sturdy, rubicund creature, +with beady eyes and pink cheeks, cherubic in aspect, entirely good-natured +and lively, full of not very exalted humour, and with a tendency to wild +and even hysterical giggling. I used to think that Father Payne did not +like him very much; but he was a quick and regular worker, and it was +impossible to find fault with him. He was extremely sociable and +appreciative, and I used to find his company a relief from the strain which +at times made itself felt. Pollard had a way of getting involved in absurd +adventures, which he related with immense gusto; and he had a really +wonderful power of description--more so in conversation than in +writing--and of humorous exaggeration, which made him a delightful +companion. But he was never able to put the best of himself into his books, +which tended to be sentimental and even conventional. + +Then there was Lestrange; and I think he was the least congenial of the +lot. He was a handsome, rather clerical-looking man of about twenty-eight, +who had been brought up to take orders, and had decided against doing so. +He was very much in earnest, in rather a tiresome way, and his phrases were +conventional and pietistic. I used to feel that he jarred a good deal on +Father Payne, but much was forgiven him because of his musical talents, +which were really remarkable. His organ-playing, with its verve, its +delicacy, and its quiet mastery, was delicious to hear, he was engaged in +writing music mainly, and had a piano all to himself in a little remote +room beyond the dining-room, which looked out to the stable-yard and had +formerly been an estate-office. We used to hear faint sounds wafted down +the garden when the wind was in the west. He was friendly, but he had the +absorption of the musician in his art, which is unlike all other artistic +absorptions, because it seems literally to check the growth of other +qualities and interests. In fact, in many ways Lestrange was like a pious +child. He was apt to be snubbed by Father Payne, but he was wholly +indifferent to all irony. I used to listen to him playing the organ in the +evenings, and a language of emotions and visions certainly streamed from +his fingers which he was never able to put into words. Father Payne treated +him as one might treat an inspired fool, with a mixture of respect and +sharpness. + +Then there was Rose, a man of twenty-five, a curious mixture of knowledge, +cynicism, energy, and affectionateness. I found Rose a very congenial +companion, though I never felt sure what he thought, and never aired my +enthusiasms in his presence. He had great aplomb, and was troubled by no +shyness nor hesitation. There was a touch of frostiness at times between +him and Father Payne. Rose was paradoxical and whimsical, and was apt to +support fantastic positions with apparent earnestness. But he was an +extremely capable and sensible man, and had a knack of dropping his +contentiousness the moment it began to give offence. He was by far the most +mundane of us, and had some command of money. I used to fancy that Father +Payne was a little afraid of him, when he displayed his very considerable +knowledge of the world. His father was a wealthy man, a member of +Parliament, and Rose really knew social personages of the day. I doubt if +he was ever quite in sympathy with the idea of the place, but I used to +feel that his presence was a wholesome sort of corrective, like the vinegar +in the salad. I believe he was writing a play, but he has done nothing +since in literature, and was in many ways more like a visitor than an +inmate. + +Then came my friend Vincent, a solid, good-natured, hard-working man, with +a real enthusiasm for literature, not very critical or even imaginative, +but with a faculty for clear and careful writing. He was at work on a +realistic novel, which made some little reputation; but he has become +since, what I think he always was meant to be, an able journalist and an +excellent leader-writer on political and social topics. Vincent was the +most interested of all of us in current affairs, but at the same time had a +quiet sort of enthusiasm, and a power of idealising people, ardently but +unsentimentally, which made him the most loyal of friends. + +The only other person of whom we saw anything was the Vicar of the +parish--a safe, decorous, useful man, a distant cousin of Father Payne's. +His wife was a good-humoured and conventional woman. Their two daughters +were pleasant, unaffected girls, just come to womanhood. Lestrange +afterwards married one of them. + +We were not much troubled by sociabilities. The place was rather isolated, +and Father Payne had the reputation of being something of an eccentric. +Moreover, the big neighbouring domain, Whitbury Park, blocked all access to +north and west. The owner was an old and invalid peer, who lived a very +secluded life and entertained no one. To the south there was nothing for +miles but farms and hamlets, while the only near neighbour in the east was +a hunting squire, who thought Father Payne kept a sort of boarding-house, +and ignored him entirely. The result was that callers were absolutely +unknown, and the wildest form of dissipation was that Pollard and Rose +occasionally played lawn-tennis at neighbouring vicarages. + +We were not often all there together, because Father Payne's scheme of +travel was strictly adhered to. He considered it a very integral part of +our life. I never quite knew what his plan was; but he would send a man +off, generally alone, with a solid sum for travelling expenses. Thus +Lestrange was sent for a month to Berlin when Joachim held court there, or +to Dresden and Munich. I remember Pollard and Vincent being packed off to +Switzerland together to climb mountains, with stern injunctions to be +sociable. Rose went to Spain, to Paris, to St. Petersburg. Kaye went more +than once to Italy; but we often went to different parts of England, and +then we were generally allowed to go together; but Father Payne's theory +was that we should travel alone, learn to pick up friends, and to fend for +ourselves. He had acquaintances in several parts of the Continent, and we +were generally provided with a letter of introduction to some one. We had a +fortnight in June and a fortnight at Christmas to go home--so that we were +always away for three months in the year, while Father Payne was apt to +send us off for a week at a time, if he thought we needed a change. +Barthrop, I think, made his own plans, and it was all reasonable enough, as +Father Payne would always listen to objections. Some of us paid for +ourselves on those tours, but he was always willing to supplement it +generously. + +It used to be a puzzle to me how Father Payne had the command of so much +money; his estate was not large; but in the first place he spent very +little on himself, and our life was extremely simple. Moreover, I became +aware that some of his former pupils and friends used to send him money at +times for this express purpose. + +The staff consisted of the old butler, whose wife was cook. There were +three other maid-servants; the gardener was also coachman. The house was +certainly clean and well-kept; we looked after ourselves to a great extent; +but there was never any apparent lack of money, though, on the other hand, +there was every sign of careful economy. Father Payne never talked about +money. "It's an interesting thing, money," I have heard him say, "and it's +curious to see how people handle it--but we must not do it too much honour, +and it isn't a thing that can be spoken of in general conversation." + + + +VIII + +THE METHOD + + +I do not propose to make any history of events, or to say how, within a +very short time, I fell into the life of the place. I will only say what +were the features of the scheme, and how the rule, such as it was, worked +out. + +First of all, and above all, came the personality of Father Payne, which +permeated and sustained the whole affair. It was not that he made it his +business to drive us along. It was not a case of "the guiding hand in front +and the propelling foot behind." He seldom interfered, and sometimes for a +considerable space one would have no very direct contact with him. He was a +man who was always intent, but by no means always intent on shepherding. I +should find it hard to say how he spent his time. He was sometimes to all +appearances entirely indolent and good-natured, when he would stroll about, +talk to the people in the village, and look after the little farm which he +kept in his own hands under a bailiff. At another time he would be for long +together in an abstracted mood, silent, absent-minded, pursuing some train +of thought. At another time he would be very busy with what we were doing, +and hold long interviews with us, making us read our work to him and giving +us detailed criticisms. On these occasions he was extremely stimulating, +for the simple reason that he always seemed to grasp what it was that one +was aiming at, and his criticisms were all directed to the question of how +far the original conception was being worked out. He did not, as a rule, +point out a different conception, or indicate how the work could be done on +other lines. He always grasped the plan and intention, and really seemed to +be inside the mind of the contriver. He would say; "I think the theme is +weak here--and you can't make a weak place strong by filling it with +details, however good in themselves. That is like trying to mend the Slough +of Despond with cartloads of texts. The thing is not to fall in, or, if you +fall in, to get out." His three divisions of a subject were "what you say, +what you wanted to say, what you ought to have wanted to say." Sometimes he +would listen in silence, and then say: "I can't criticise that--it is all +off the lines. You had better destroy it and begin again," Or he would say: +"You had better revise that and polish it up. It won't be any good when it +is done--these patched-up things never are; but it will be good practice," +He was encouraging, because he never overlooked the good points of any +piece of writing. He would say: "The detail is good, but it is all too big +for its place, quite out of scale; it is like a huge ear on a small head," +Or he would say: "Those are all things worth saying and well said, but they +are much too diffuse." He used to tell me that I was apt to stop the +carriage when I was bound on a rapid transit, and go for a saunter among +fields. "I don't object to your sauntering, but you must _intend_ to +saunter--you must not be attracted by a pleasant footpath." Sometimes he +could be severe, "That's vulgar," he once said to me, "and you can't make +it attractive by throwing scent about," Or he would say: "That's a +platitude--which means that it may be worth thinking and feeling, but not +worth saying. You can depend upon your reader feeling it without your +help," Or he would say: "You don't understand that point. It is a case of +the blind leading the blind. Cut the whole passage, and think it out +again," Or he would say: "That is all too compressed. You began by walking, +and now you are jumping." Or he would say: "There is a note of personal +irritation about that; it sounds as if you had been reading an unpleasant +review. It is like the complaint of the nightingale leaning her breast +against a thorn in order to get the sensation of pain. You seem to be +wiping your eyes all through--you have not got far enough away from your +vexation. Your attempt to give it a humorous turn reminds me of Miss +Squeers' titter--you must never titter!" Once or twice in early times I +used to ask him how _he_ would do it. "Don't ask me!" he said. "I +haven't got to do it--that's your business; it's no use your doing it in +_my_ way; all I know is that you are not doing it in _your_ way." +He was very quick at noticing any mannerisms or favourite words. "All good +writers have mannerisms, of course," he would say, "but the moment that the +reader sees that it is a mannerism the charm is gone." His praise was +rarely given, and when it came it was generous and rich. "That is +excellent," I can hear him say, "You have filled your space exactly, and +filled it well. There is not a word to add or to take away." He was always +prepared to listen to argument or defence. "Very well--read it again." +Then, at the end, he would say: "Yes, there is something in that. You meant +to anticipate? I don't mind that! But you have anticipated too much, made +it too clear; it should just be a hint, no more, which will be explained +later. Don't blurt! You have taken the wind out of your sails by explaining +it too fully." + +Sometimes he would leave us alone for two or three weeks together, and then +say frankly that one had been wasting time, or the reverse. "You must not +depend upon me too much; you must learn to walk alone." + +Every week we had a meeting, at which some one read a fragment aloud. At +these meetings he criticised little himself, but devoted his attention to +our criticisms. He would not allow harshness or abruptness in what we said. +"We don't want your conclusions or your impressions--we want your reasons." +Or he would say: "That is a fair criticism, but unsympathetic. It is in the +spirit of a reviewer who wants to smash a man. We don't want Stephen to be +stoned here, we want him confuted." I remember once how he said with +indignation: "That is simply throwing a rotten egg! And its maturity shows +that it was kept for that purpose! You are not criticising, you are only +paying off an old score!" + +But I think that the two ways in which he most impressed himself were by +his conversation, when we were all together, and by his _tete-a-tete_ +talks, if one happened to be his companion. When we were all together he +was humorous, ironical, frank. He did not mind what was said to him, so +long as it was courteously phrased; but I have heard him say: "We must +remember we are fencing--we must not use bludgeons." Or: "You must not talk +as if you were scaring birds away--we are all equal here." He was very +unguarded himself in what he said, and always maintained that talkers ought +to contribute their own impressions freely and easily. He used to quote +with much approval Dr. Johnson's remark about his garrulous old +school-fellow, Edwards. Boswell said, when Edwards had gone, that he +thought him a weak man. "Why, yes, sir," said Johnson. "Here is a man who +has passed through life without experiences; yet I would rather have him +with me than a more sensible man who will not talk readily. This man is +always willing to say what he has to say." Father Payne used to add: "The +point is to talk; you must not consider your reputation; say whatever comes +into your head, and when you have learnt to talk, you can begin to select." +I have heard him say; "Go on, some one! It is everybody's business here to +avoid a pause. Don't be sticky! Pauses are for a _tete-a-tete_." Or, +again, I have heard him say: "You mustn't examine witnesses here! You +should never ask more than three questions running." He did not by any +means keep his own rules; but he would apologise sometimes for his +shortcomings. "I'm hopeless to-day. I can't attend, I can't think of +anything in particular. I'm diluted, I'm weltering--I'm coming down like a +shower." + +The result of this certainly was that we most of us did learn to talk. He +liked to thrash a subject out, but he hated too protracted a discussion. +"Here, we've had enough of this. It's very important, but I'm getting +bored. I feel priggish. Help, help!" + +On the other hand, he was even more delightful in a _tete-a-tete_. He +would say profound and tender things, let his emotions escape him. He had +with me, and I expect with others, a sort of indulgent and paternal way +with him. He never forgot a confidence, and he used to listen delightedly +to stories of one's home circle. "Tell me some stories about Aunt Jane," he +would say to me. "There is something impotently fiery about that good lady +that I like. Tell me again what she said when she found cousin Frank in a +smoking-cap reading Thomas-a-Kempis." He had a way of quoting one's own +stories which was subtly flattering, and he liked sidelights of a +good-natured kind on the character of other members. "Why won't he say such +things to me?" he used to say. "He thinks I should respect him less, when +really I should admire him more. He won't let me see when his box is empty! +I suspect him of reading Bartlett's _Familiar Quotations_ before he +goes a walk with me!" Or he would say: "In a general talk you must think +about your companions; in a _tete-a-tete_ you must only feel him." + +But the most striking thing about Father Payne was this. Though we were all +very conscious of his influence, and indeed of his authority; though we +knew that he meant to have his own way, and was quite prepared to speak +frankly and act decisively, we were never conscious of being watched or +censured or interfered with. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it was a +pure pleasure to meet him and to be with him, and many a time have I seen +him, in a moment of leisure, strolling in the garden, and hurried out just +on the chance of getting a word or a smile, or, if he was in an expansive +mood, having my arm taken by him for a little turn. In the hundredth case, +it happened that one might have said or done something which one knew that +he would disapprove. But, as he never stored things up or kept you waiting, +you could be sure he would speak soon or not at all. Often, too, he would +just say: "I don't think that your remark to Kaye gave a fair impression of +yourself," or, "Why waste your powder as you did to-night?" I was only once +or twice directly rebuked by him, and that was for a prolonged neglect. +"You don't _care_," he once said to me emphatically. "I can't do +anything for you if you don't care!" But he was the most entirely placable +of men. A word of regret or apology, and he would say: "Don't give it +another thought, my boy," or, "That's all right, then." + +The real secret of his influence was that he took not a critical or even a +dispassionate view of each of us, but an enthusiastic view. He took no +pleasure in our shortcomings; they were rather of the nature of an active +personal disappointment. The result was simply that you were natural with +him, but natural with the added sense that he liked you and thought well of +you, and expected friendship and even brilliance from you. You felt that he +knew you well, and recognised your faults and weaknesses, but that he knew +your best side even better, and enjoyed the presence of it. I never knew +anyone who was so appreciative, and though I said foolish things to him +sometimes, I felt that he was glad that I should be my undisguised self. It +was thus delicately flattering to be with him, and it gave confidence and +self-respect. That was the basis of our whole life, the goodwill and +affection of Father Payne, and the desire to please him. + + + +IX + +FATHER PAYNE + + +Father Payne was a big solid man, as I have said, but he contrived to give +the impression of being even bigger than he was. It was like the Irish +estate, of which its owner said that it had more land to the acre than any +place he knew. This was the result, I suppose, of what Barthrop once dryly +called the "effortless expansion" of Father Payne's personality. I suppose +he was about six-foot-two in height, and he must have weighed fifteen stone +or even more. He was not stout, but all his limbs were solid, so that he +filled his clothes. His hands were big, his feet were big. He wore a rather +full beard: he was slightly bald when I knew him, but his hair grew rather +long and curly. He always wore old clothes--but you were never conscious of +what he wore: he never looked, as some people do, like a suit of clothes +with a person inside them. Thinking it over, it seems to me that the reason +why you noticed his clothes so little, when you were with him, was because +you were always observing his face, or his hands, which were extremely +characteristic of him, or his motions, which had a lounging sort of grace +about them. Heavy men are apt on occasions to look lumbering, but Father +Payne never looked that. His whole body was under his full control. When he +walked, he swung easily along; when he moved, he moved impetuously and +eagerly. But his face was the most remarkable thing about him. It had no +great distinction of feature, and it was sanguine, often sunburnt, in hue. +But, solid as it was, it was all alive. His big dark eyes were brimful of +amusement and kindliness, and it was like coming into a warm room on a cold +day to have his friendly glance directed upon you. As he talked, his +eyebrows moved swiftly, and he had a look, with his eyes half-closed and +his brows drawn up, as he waited for an answer, of what the old books call +"quizzical"--a sort of half-caressing irony, which was very attractive. He +had an impatient little frown which passed over his face, like a ruffle of +wind, if things went too slowly or heavily for his taste; and he had, too, +on occasions a deep, abstracted look, as if he were following a thought +far. There was also another look, well known to his companions, when he +turned his eyes upwards with a sort of resignation, generally accompanied +by a deprecating gesture of the hand. Altogether it was a most expressive +face, because, except in his abstracted mood, he always seemed to be +entirely _there_, not concealing or repressing anything, but bending +his whole mind upon what was being said. Moreover, if you said anything +personal or intimate to him, a word of gratitude or pleasure, he had a +quick, beautiful, affectionate look, so rewarding, so embracing that I +often tried to evoke it--though an attempt to evoke it deliberately often +produced no more than a half-smile, accompanied by a little wink, as if he +saw through the attempt. + +His great soft white hands, always spotlessly clean--he was the +cleanest-looking man I ever saw--were really rather extraordinary. They +looked at first sight clumsy, and even limp; but he was unusually deft and +adroit with his fingers, and his touch on plants, in gardening, his tying +of strings--he liked doing up parcels--was very quick and delicate. He was +fond of all sorts of little puzzles, toys of wood and metal, which had to +be fitted together; and the puzzles took shape or fell to pieces under his +fingers like magic. They were extremely sensitive to pain, his hands, and a +little pinch or abrasion would cause him marked discomfort. His handwriting +was rapid and fine, and he occasionally would draw a tiny sketch to +illustrate something, which showed much artistic skill. He often deplored +his ignorance of handicraft, which, he said would have been a great relief +to him. + +His voice, again, was remarkable. It was not in ordinary talk either deep +or profound, though it could and did become both on occasions, especially +when he made a quotation, which he did with some solemnity. I used at first +to think that there was a touch of rhetorical affectation about his +quotations. They were made in a high musical tone, and as often as not +ended with the tears coming into his eyes. He spoke to me once about this. +He said that it was a mistake to think he was _deeply_ affected by a +quotation. "In fact," he said, "I am not easily affected by passionate or +tragic emotion--what does affect me is a peculiar touch of beauty, but it +is a luxurious and superficial thing. It would entirely prevent me," he +added, "from reading many poems or prose passages aloud which I greatly +admire. I simply could not command myself! In fact," he went on, smiling, +"I very often can only get to the end of a quotation by fixing my mind on +something else. I add up the digits giving the number of the page, or I +count the plates at the dinner-table. It's very absurd--but it takes me in +just the same way when I am alone. I could not read the last chapter of the +Book of Revelation aloud to myself, or the chapter on 'The Wilderness' in +Isaiah, without shedding tears. But it doesn't mean anything; it is just +the _hysterica passio_, you know!" + +His voice, when he first joined in a talk, was often low and even +hesitating; but when he became interested and absorbed, it gathered volume +and emphasis. Barthrop once said to me that Father Payne was the only +person he knew who always talked in italics. But he very seldom harangued, +though it is difficult to make that clear in recording his talks, because +he often spoke continuously. Yet it was never a soliloquy: he always +included the listeners. He used to look round at them, explore their faces, +catch an eye and smile, indicate the particular person addressed by a +darted-out finger; and he had many little free gestures with his hands as +he talked. He would trace little hieroglyphics with his finger, as if he +were writing a word, sweep an argument aside, bring his hands together as +though he were shaping something. This was a little confusing at first, and +used to divert my attention, because of the great mobility of his hands; +but after a little it seemed to me to bring out and illustrate his points +in a remarkably salient way. + +His habits were curious and a little mysterious. They were by no means +regular. Sometimes for days together we hardly saw him. He often rose early +and walked in the garden. If he found a book which interested him, he would +read it with absorbed attention, quite unconscious of the flight of time. +"I do love getting really _buried_ in a book," he would say; "it's the +best of tests." Sometimes he wrote, sometimes he composed music, sometimes +he would have his table covered with bits of paper full of unintelligible +designs and patterns. He did not mind being questioned, but he would not +satisfy one's curiosity. "It's only some nonsense of mine," he would say. +He did not write many letters, and they were generally short. At times he +would be very busy on his farm, at times occupied in the village, at times +he took long walks alone; very occasionally he went away for a day or two. +He was both uncommunicative and communicative. He would often talk with the +utmost frankness and abandon about his private affairs; but, on the other +hand, I always had the sense of much that was hidden in his life. And I +have no doubt that he spent much time in prayer and meditation. He seldom +spoke of this, but it played a large part in his life. He gave the +impression of great ease, cheerfulness, and tranquillity, attained by some +deliberate resolve, because he was both restless and sensitive, took +sorrows and troubles hardly, and was deeply shocked and distressed by sad +news of any kind. I have heard him say that he often had great difficulty +in forcing himself to open a letter which he thought likely to be +distressing or unpleasant. He was naturally, I imagine, of an almost +neurotic tendency; but he did not seem so much to combat this by occupation +and determination as to have arrived at some mechanical way of dealing with +it. I remember that he said to me once: "If you have a bad business on +hand, an unhappy or wounding affair, it is best to receive it fully and +quietly. Let it do its worst, realise it, take it in--don't resist it, +don't try to distract your mind: see the full misery of it, don't attempt +to minimise it. If you do that, you will suddenly find something within you +come to your rescue and say, 'Well, I can bear that!' and then it is all +right. But if you try to dodge it, it's my experience that there comes a +kind of back-wash which hurts very much indeed. Let the stream go over you, +and then emerge. To fight against it simply prolongs the agony." He +certainly recovered himself quicker than anyone I have ever known: indeed I +think his recuperation was the best sign of his enormous vitality. "I'm +sensitive," he said to me once, "but I'm tough--I have a fearful power of +forgetting--it's much better than forgiving." But the thing which remains +most strongly in my mind about him is the way in which he pervaded the +whole place. It was fancy, perhaps, but I used to think I knew whether he +was in the house or not. Certainly, if I wanted to speak to him, I used to +go off to his study on occasions, quite sure that I should find him; while +on other occasions--and I more than once put this to the test--I have +thought to myself, "It's no use going--the Father is out." His presence at +any sort of gathering was entirely unmistakable. It was not that you felt +hampered or controlled: it was more like the flowing of some clear stream. +When he was away, the thing seemed tame and spiritless; when he was there, +it was all full of life. But his presence was not, at least to me, at all +wearisome or straining. I have known men of great vitality who were +undeniably fatiguing, because they overcame one like a whirlwind. But with +Father Payne it always seemed as though he put wind into one's sails, but +left one to steer one's own course. He did not thwart or deflect, or even +direct: he simply multiplied one's own energy. I never had the sensation +with him of suppressing any thought in my mind, or of saying to myself, +"The Father won't care about that." He always did care, and I used to feel +that he was glad to be inquired of, glad to have his own thoughts diverted, +glad to be of use. He never nagged; or found petty fault, or "chivied" you, +as the boys say. If you asked him a question, or asked him to stroll or +walk, you always felt that he was delighted, that it was the one thing he +enjoyed. He liked to have childish secrets. He and I had several little +_caches_ in the holes of trees, or the chinks of buildings, where we +concealed small coins or curious stones on our walks, and at a later date +revisited them. We were frankly silly about certain things. He and I had +some imaginary personages--Dr. Waddilove, supposed to be a rich beneficed +clergyman of Tory views; Mr. McTurk, a matter-of-fact Scotsman; Henry +Bland, a retired schoolmaster with copious stores of information; and +others--and we used often to discourse in character. But he always knew +when to stop. He would say to me suddenly: "Dr. Waddilove said to me +yesterday that he never argued with atheists or radicals, because they +always came round in the end." Or he would say, in Henry Bland's flute-like +tones: "Your mention of Robert Browning induces me to relate an anecdote, +which I think may prove not wholly uninteresting to you." At times we used +to tell long stories on our walks, stopping short in the middle of a +sentence, when the other had instantly to continue the narrative. I do not +mean that the wit was very choice or the humour at all remarkable--it would +not bear being written down--but it amused us both. "Come, what shall we do +to-day?" I can hear him say. "Dr. Waddilove and Mr. Bland might have a walk +and discuss the signs of the times?" And then the ridiculous dialogue would +begin. + +That was the delightful thing about him, that he was always ready to fall +in with a mood, always light of touch and gay. He could be tender and +sympathetic, as well as incisive and sensible if it was needed; but he was +never either contradictory or severe or improving. He would sometimes pull +himself up and say: "Here, we must be business-like," but he was never +reproachful or grieved or shocked by what we said to him. He could be +decisive, stern, abrupt, if it was really needed. But his most pungent +reproofs were inflicted by a blank silence, which was one of the most +appalling things to encounter. He generally began to speak again a few +moments later, on a totally different subject, while any such sign of +displeasure was extremely rare. He never under any circumstances reminded +anyone of his generosity, or the trouble he had taken, or the favours he +had conferred, while he would often remind one of some trifling kindness +done to him. "I often remember how good you were about those accounts, old +boy! I should never have got through without you!" + +His demeanour was generally that of an indulgent uncle, with that +particular touch of nearness which in England is apt to exist only among +relations. He would consult us about his own private worries with entire +frankness, and this more than anything made us ready to confide in him. He +used to hand us cheques or money if required, with a little wink. "That's +your screw!" he used to say; and he liked any thanks that seemed natural. + +"Natural,"--that is the word that comes before me all through. I can +remember no one so unembarrassed, so easy, so transparent. His thought +flowed into his talk; and his silences were not reticences, but the busy +silence of the child who has "a plan." He gave himself away without economy +and without disguise, and he accepted gratefully and simply whatever you +cared to give him of thought or love. I think oftenest of how I sometimes +went to see him in the evenings: if he was busy, as he often was, he used +just to murmur half to himself, "Well, old man?" indicate a chair, put his +finger on his lips, and go on with his work or his book; but at intervals +he would just glance at me with a little smile, and I knew that he was glad +to have me at hand in that simple companionship when there is no need of +speech or explanation. And then the book or paper would be dropped, and he +would say: "Well, out with it." If one said, "Nothing--only company," he +would give one of his best and sweetest smiles. + + + +X + +CHARACTERISTICS + + +But whatever may have been Father Payne's effect upon us individually or +collectively, or however the result may have been achieved, there was no +question of one thing, and that was the ardent and beautiful happiness of +the place. Joy deliberately schemed for and planned is apt to evaporate. +But we were not hunting for happiness as men dig for gold. We were looking +for something quite different. We were all doing work for which we cared, +with kind and yet incisive criticism to help us; and then the simplicity +and regularity of the life, the total absence of all indulgence, the +exercise, the companionship, the discipline, all generated a kind of high +spirits that I have known in no other place and at no other time. I used to +awake in the morning fresh and alert, free from all anxiety, all sense of +tiresome engagements, all possibility of boredom. All staleness, weariness, +all complications and conventional duties, all jealousies and envyings, +were absent. We were not competing with each other, we were not bent on +asserting ourselves, we had just each our own bit of work to do; moreover +our spaces of travel had an invigorating effect, and sent us back to Aveley +with the zest of returning to a beloved home. Of course there were little +bickerings at times, little complexities of friendship; but these never +came to anything in Father Payne's kindly present. Sometimes a man would +get fretful or worried over his work; if so, he was generally despatched on +a brief holiday, with an injunction to do no work at all; and I am sure +that the prospect of even temporary banishment was the strongest of all +motives for the suppression of strife. I remember spring mornings, when the +birds began to sing in the shrubberies, and the beds were full of rising +flower-blades, when one's whole mind and heart used to expand in an ecstasy +of hope and delight; I remember long rambles or bicycle rides far into the +quiet pastoral country, in the summer heat, alone or with a single +companion, when life seemed almost too delicious to continue; then there +would be the return, and a plunge into the bathing-pool, and another quiet +hour or two at the work in hand, and the delight of feeling that one was +gaining skill and ease of expression; or again there would be the quick +tramp in winter along muddy roads, with the ragged clouds hurrying across +the sky, with the prospect ahead of a fire-lit evening of study and talk; +and best of all a walk and a conversation with Father Payne himself, when +all that he said seemed to interpret life afresh and to put it in a new and +exciting aspect. I never met anyone with such a power of linking the loose +ends of life together, and of giving one so joyful a sense of connection +and continuance. How it was done I cannot guess; but whereas other minds +could cast light upon problems, Father Payne somehow made light shine +through them, and gave them a soft translucence. But while he managed to +give one a great love of life itself, it never rested there; he made me +feel engaged in some sort of eternal business, and though he used no +conventional expressions, I had in his presence a sense of vast horizons +and shining tracks passing into an infinite distance full of glory and +sweetness, and of death itself as a mystery of surprise and wonder. He +taught me to look for beauty and harmony, not to waste time in mean +controversy or in futile regret, but to be always moving forwards, and +welcoming every sign of confidence and goodwill. He had a way, too, of +making one realise the dignity and necessity of work, without cherishing +any self-absorbed illusions about its impressiveness or its importance. His +creed was the recognition of all beauty and vividness as an unquestionable +sign of the presence of God, the Power that made for order and health and +strength and peace; and the deep necessity of growing to understand one +another with unsuspicious trustfulness and sympathy--the Fatherhood of God, +and the Brotherhood of Man, these were the doctrines by which he lived. + +It used to be an extraordinary pleasure to me to accompany him about the +village; he knew every one, and could talk with a simple directness and a +quiet humour that was inimitable. I never saw so naturally pastoral a man. +He carried good-temper about with him, and yet he could rebuke with a +sharpness which surprised me, if there was need. He was curiously tolerant, +I used to think, of sensual sins, but in the presence of cruelty or +meanness or deliberate deceit he used to explode into the most violent +language. I remember a scene which it is almost a terror to me now to +recollect, when I was walking with him, and we met a tipsy farmer of a +neighbouring village flogging his horse along a lane. He ran up beside the +cart, he stopped the horse, he roared at the farmer, "Get out of your cart, +you d--d brute, and lead it home." The farmer descended in a state of +stupefaction. Father Payne snatched the whip out of his hand, broke it, +threw it over the hedge, threatened him with all the terrors of the law, +and reduced him to a state of abject submission. Presently he recovered +somewhat, and in drunken wrath began to abuse Father Payne. "Very well," +said Father Payne, "you can take your choice: either you lead the horse +home quietly, and I'll see it done; or else I come with you to the village, +and tell the people what I think of you in the open street. And if you put +up your fist like that again, I'll run you home myself and hand you over to +the policeman. I'll be d--d if I won't do it now. Here, Duncan," he said to +me, "you go and fetch the policeman, and we'll have a little procession +back." The ruffian thought better of it, and led the horse away muttering, +while we walked behind until we were near the farm, "Now get in, and behave +yourself," said Father Payne. "And if you choose to come over to-morrow and +beg my pardon, you may; and if you don't, I'll have you up before the +magistrates on Saturday next." + +I had never seen such wrath; but the tempest subsided instantly, and he +walked back with me in high good-humour. The next day the man came over, +and Father Payne said to me in the evening: "We had quite an affecting +scene. I gave him a bit of my mind, and he thanked me for speaking +straight. He's a low brute, but I don't think he'll do the same sort of +thing in a hurry. I'll give him six weeks to get over his fright, and then +I'll do a little patrolling!" + +His gentleness, on the other hand, with women and children was beautiful to +see. It was as natural for Father Payne to hurry to a scene of disaster or +grief as it was for others to wish to stay away. He used to speak to a +sufferer or a mourner with great directness. "Tell me all about it," he +would say, and he would listen with little nods and gestures, raising his +eyebrows or even shutting his eyes, saying very little, except a word or +two of sympathy at the end. He knew all the children, but he never petted +them or made favourites, but treated them with a serious kind of gravity +which he assured us they infinitely preferred. He used to have a Christmas +entertainment for them at the Hall, as well as a summer feast. He +encouraged the boys and young men to botanise and observe nature in all +forms, and though he would never allow nests to be taken, or even eggs if +he could help it, he would give little prizes for the noting of any rare +bird or butterfly. "If you want men to live in the country, they must love +the country," he used to say. He kept a village club going, but he never +went there. "It's embarrassing," he used to say. "They don't want me +strolling in any more than I want them strolling in. Philanthropists have +no sense of privacy." He did not call at the villagers' houses, unless +there was some special event, and his talks were confined to chance +meetings. Neither was there any sense of duty about it. "No one is taken in +by formal visiting," he said. "You must just do it if you like it, or else +stay away. 'To keep yourself to yourself' is the highest praise these +people can give. No one likes a fuss!" + +The same sort of principles regulated our own intercourse. "We are not +monks," he used to say; "we are Carthusians, hermits, living together for +comfort or convenience." The solitude and privacy of everyone was +respected. We used to do our talking when we took exercise; but there was +very little sitting and gossiping together _tete-a-tete._ "I don't +want everyone to try to be intimate with everyone else," he used to say. +"The point is just to get on amicably together; we won't have any cliques +or coteries." He himself never came to any of our rooms, but sent a message +if he wanted to see us. One small thing he strongly objected to, the +shouting up from the garden to anyone's window: "Most offensive!" He +disliked all loud shouting and calling or singing aloud. "You mustn't use +the world as a private sitting-room." And the one thing which used to fret +him was a voice stridently raised. "Don't rouse the echoes!" he would say. +"You have no more right to make a row than you have to use a strong scent +or to blow a post-horn--that's not liberty!" The result of this was that +the house was a singularly quiet one, and this sense of silence and subdued +sound lives in my memory as one of its most refreshing characteristics. "A +row is only pleasant if it is deliberate and organised," he used to say. +"Native woodnotes wild are all very well, but they are not civilisation. To +talk audibly and quietly is the best proof of virtue and honour!" + + + +XI + +CONVERSATION + + +I am going to try to give a few impressions of talks with Father +Payne--both public and private talks. It is, however, difficult to do this +without giving, perhaps, a wrong impression. I used to get into the habit +of jotting down the things he had said, and I improved by practice. But he +was a rapid talker and somewhat discursive, and he was often deflected from +his main subject by a question or a discussion. Yet I do not want it to be +thought that he was fond of monologue and soliloquy. He was not, I should +say, a very talkative man; days would sometimes pass without his doing more +than just taking a hand in conversation. He liked to follow the flow of a +talk, and to contribute a remark now and then; sometimes he was markedly +silent; but in no case was he ever oppressive. Occasionally, and more often +in _tete-a-tete,_ he went ahead and talked copiously, but this was +rather the exception than the rule. I have not thought it worth while to +try to give the effect of our own talk. We were young, excitable, and +argumentative, and, though it was at the time often delightful and +stimulating, it was also often very crude and immature. Father Payne was +good at helping a talker out, and would often do justice to a +clumsily-expressed remark which he thought was interesting. But he was by +far the most interesting member of the circle; he spoke easily and +flowingly when he was moved, and there always seemed to me a sense of form +about his talk which was absent from ours. But under no circumstance did he +ever become tedious--indeed he was extremely sensitive to the smallest +signs of impatience. We often tried, so to speak, to draw him out; but if +he had the smallest suspicion that he was being drawn, he became instantly +silent. + +There is more coherence about some of the talks I have recorded than was +actually the case. He would diverge to tell a story, or he would call one's +attention to some sight or sound. + +Moreover his face, his movements, his gestures, all added much to his talk. +He had a way of wrinkling up his brows, of shaking his head, of looking +round with an awestruck expression, his eyes wide open, his mouth pursed +up, especially when he had reached some triumphantly absurd conclusion. He +had two little quick gestures of the hands as he spoke, opening his +fingers, waving a point aside, emphasizing an argument by a quick downward +motion of his forefinger. He had, too, a quick, loud, ebullient laugh, +sometimes shrill, sometimes deep; and he abandoned himself to laughter at +an absurd story or jest as completely as anyone I have ever seen. Rose was +an excellent mimic, and Father Payne used to fall into agonising paroxysms +of laughter at many of his representations. But he always said that +laughter was with him a social mood, and that he had never any inclination +to laugh when he was alone. + +So the record of his talks must be taken not as typical of his everyday +mood, but as instances of the kind of things he said when he was moved to +speak at large; and even so they give, I am aware, too condensed an +impression. He never talked as if he were playing on a party or a companion +with a hose-pipe. There was never anyone who was more easily silenced or +diverted. But to anyone who knew him they will give, I believe, a true +impression of his method of talk; and perhaps they may give to those who +never saw him a faint reflection of his lively and animated mind, the +energy with which he addressed himself to small problems, and the firm +belief which he always maintained, that any evidence of life, however +elementary, was more encouraging and inspiring than the most elaborate +logic or the profoundest intellectual grasp of abstract subjects. + + + +XII + +OF GOING TO CHURCH + + +I had been to church one summer Sunday morning--a very simple affair it +was, with nothing sung but a couple of hymns; but the Vicar read +beautifully, neither emphatically nor lifelessly, with a little thrill in +his voice at times that I liked to hear. It did not compel you to listen so +much as invite you to join. Lestrange played the organ most divinely; he +generally extemporised before the service, and played a simple piece at the +end; but he never strained the resources of the little organ, and it was +all simple and formal music, principally Bach or Handel. + +Father Payne himself was a regular attendant at church, and Sunday was a +decidedly leisurely day. He advised us to put aside our writing work, to +write letters, read, make personal jottings, talk, though there was no +inquisition into such things. + +Father Payne was a somewhat irregular responder, but it was a pleasure to +sit near him, because his deep, rapid voice gave a new quality to the +words. He seemed happy in church, and prayed with great absorption, though +I noticed that his Bible was often open before him all through the service. +The Vicar's sermons were good of their kind, suggestive rather than +provocative, about very simple matters of conduct rather than belief. I +have heard Father Payne speak of them with admiration as never being +discursive, and I gathered that the Vicar was a great admirer of Newman's +sermons. + +We came away together, Father Payne and I, and we strolled a little in the +garden. I felt emboldened to ask him the plain question why he went to +church. "Oh, for a lot of reasons," he said, "none of them very conclusive! +I like to meet my friends in the first place; and then a liturgy has a +charm for me. It has a beauty of its own, and I like ceremony. It is not +that I think it sacred--only beautiful. But I quite admit the weakness of +it, which is simply that it does not appeal to everyone, and I don't think +that our Anglican service is an ideal service. It is too refined and +formal; and many people would feel it was more religious if it were more +extempore--prayer and plain advice." + +I told him something of my old childish experience, saying that I used to +regard church as a sort of calling-over, and that God would be vexed if one +did not appear. + +He laughed at this. "Yes, I don't think we can insist on it as being a +levee," he said, "where one is expected to come and make one's bow and pay +formal compliments. That idea is an old anthropomorphic one, of course. It +is superstitious--it is almost debasing to think of God demanding praise as +a duty incumbent on us. 'To thee all angels cry aloud'--I confess I don't +like the idea of heaven as a place of cheerful noise--that isn't +attractive! + +"And also I think that the attention demanded in our service is a +mistake--it's a mixture of two ideas; the liturgical ceremony which touches +the eye and the emotion, rather than the reason; and the sermon and the +prayer in which the reason is supposed to be concerned. I think the +Catholic idea is a better one, a solemnity performed, in which you don't +take part, but receive impressions. There's no greater strain on the mind +than forcing it to follow a rapid and exalted train of intellectual and +literary thought and expression. I confess I don't attempt that, it seems +to me just a joyful and neighbourly business, where one puts the mind in a +certain expectant mood, and is lucky if one carries a single thrill or +aspiration away." + +"What do you _do_, then?" I said. + +"Well, I meditate," said Father Payne. "I believe in meditation very much, +and in solitude it is very hard work. But the silent company of friends, +and the old arches and woodwork, some simple music, a ceremony, and a +little plan of thought going on--that seems to me a fruitful atmosphere. +Some verse, some phrase, which I have heard a hundred times before, +suddenly seems written in letters of gold. I follow it a little way into +the dark, I turn it over, I wonder about it, I enjoy its beauty. I don't +say that my thoughts are generally very startling or poignant or profound; +but I feel the sense of the Fatherly, tolerant, indulgent presence of God, +and a brotherly affection for my fellow-men. It's a great thing to be in +the same place with a number of people, all silent, and on the whole +thinking quiet, happy, and contented thoughts. It all brings me into line +with my village friends, it gives me a social mood, and I feel for once +that we all want the same things from life--and that for once instead of +having to work and push for them, we are fed and comforted. 'Open thy mouth +wide, and I will fill it'--that's a wholesome, childlike verse, you know. +The whole thing seems to me a simple device for producing a placid and +expectant mood--I don't know anything else that produces it so well." + +"You mean it is something mystical--almost hypnotic?" I said. + +"Perhaps I should if I knew what those big words meant," said Father Payne, +smiling. "No; church seems to me a thing that has really grown up out of +human nature, not a thing imposed upon it. I don't like what may be called +ecclesiasticism, partly because it emphasizes the intellectual side of +belief, partly because it tries to cast a slur on the people who don't like +ceremonial, and whom it does not suit--and most of all because +ecclesiasticism aims at making you believe that other people can transact +spiritual business on your account. In these democratic days, you can't +have spiritual authority--you have got to find what people need, and help +them to find it for themselves. The plain truth is that we don't want +dogma. Of course it isn't to be despised, because it once meant something, +even if it does not now. Dogmas are not unintelligible intellectual +propositions imposed on the world. They are explanations, interpretations, +attempts to link facts together. They have the sacredness of ideas which +people lived by, and for which they were prepared to die. But many of them +are scientific in form only, and the substance has gone out of them. We +know more in one sense about life and God than we did, but we also know +less, because we realise there is so much more to know. But now we want, I +believe, two or three great ideas which everyone can understand--like +Fatherhood and Brotherhood, like peace and orderliness and beauty. I think +that a church service means all these things, or ought to. What people need +is simplicity and beauty of life--joy and hope and kindness. Anything which +helps these things on is fine; anything which bewilders and puzzles and +gives a sense of dreariness is simply injurious. I want to be told to be +quiet, to try again, not to be disheartened by failures, not to be angry +with other people, to give up things, rather than to get them with a sauce +of envy and spite--the feeling of a happy and affectionate family, in fact. +The sort of thing I don't want is the Athanasian Creed. I can't regard it +simply as a picturesque monument of ancient and ferocious piety. It seems +to me an overhanging cloud of menace and mystification! It doesn't hurt the +unintelligent Christian, of course--he simply doesn't understand it; but to +the moderately intelligent it is like a dog barking furiously which may +possibly get loose; a little more intelligence, and it is all right. You +know the dog is safely tied up! Again, I don't mind the cursing psalms, +because they give the parson the power of saying: 'We say this to remind +ourselves that it was what people used to feel, and which Christ came to +change.' I don't mind anything that is human--what I can't tolerate is +anything inhuman or unintelligible. No one can misunderstand the +Beatitudes; very few people can follow the arguments of St. Paul! You don't +want only elaborate reasons for clever people, you want still more +beautiful motives for simple people. It isn't perfect, our service, I +admit, but it does me good." + +"Tell me," I said--"to go back for a moment--something more about +meditating--I like that!" + +"Well," said Father Payne, "it's like anchoring to a thought. Thought is a +fidgety thing, restless, perverse. It anchors itself very easily on to a +grievance, or an unpleasant incident, or a squabble. Don't you know the +misery of being jerked back, time after time, by an unpleasant thought? I +think one ought to practise the opposite--and I know now by experience that +it is possible. I will make a confession. I don't care for many of the Old +Testament lessons myself. I think there's too much fact, or let us say +incident, in them, and not enough poetry. Well, I take up my Bible, and I +look at Job, or Isaiah, or the Revelation, and I read quietly on. Suddenly +there's a gleam of gold in the bed of the stream--some splendid, deep, fine +thought. I follow it out; I think how it has appeared in my own life, or in +the lives of other people--it bears me away on its wings, I pray about it, +I hope to be more like that--and so on. Sometimes it is a sharp revelation +of something ugly and perverse in my own nature--I don't dwell long on +that, but I see in imagination how it is likely to trouble me, and I hope +that it will not delude me again; because these evil things delude one, +they call noxious tricks by fine names. I say to myself, 'What you pretend +is self-respect, or consistency, is really irritable vanity or stupid +unimaginativeness.' But it is a mistake, I think, to dwell long on one's +deficiencies: what one has got to do is to fill one's life full of +positive, active, beautiful things, until there is no room for the ugly +intruders. And, to put it shortly, a service makes me think about other +people and about God; I fear it doesn't make me contrite or sorrowful. I +don't believe in any sort of self-pity, nor do I think one ought to +cultivate shame; those things lie close to death, and it is life that I am +in search of--fulness of life. Don't let us bemoan ourselves, or think that +a sign of grace!" + +"But if you find yourself grubby, nasty, suspicious, irritable, isn't it a +good thing to rub it in sometimes?" I said. + +"No, no," said Father Payne, "life will do that hard enough. Turn your back +on it all, look at the beautiful things, leave a thief to catch a thief, +and the dead to bury the dead. Don't sniff at the evil thing; go and get a +breath of fresh air." + + + +XIII + +OF NEWSPAPERS + + +Father Payne was a very irregular reader of the newspaper; he was not +greedy of news, and he was incurious about events, while he disliked the +way in which they were professionally dished up for human consumption. At +times, however, he would pore long and earnestly over a daily paper with +knitted brows and sighs. "You seem to be suffering a good deal over your +paper to-day, Father!" said Barthrop once, regarding him with amusement. +Father Payne lifted up his head, and then broke into a smile. "It's all +right, my boy!" he said. "I don't despair of the world itself, but I feel +that if the average newspaper represents the mind of the average man, the +human race is very feeble--not worth saving! This sort of +thing"--indicating the paper with a wave of his hand--"makes me realise how +many things there are that don't interest me--and I can't get at them +either through the medium of these writers' minds. They don't seem to want +simply to describe the facts, but to manipulate them; they try to make you +uncomfortable about the future, and contented with the past. It ought to be +just the other way! And then I ask myself, 'Ought I, as a normal human +being, to be as one-sided, as submissive, as trivial, as sentimental as +this?' These vast summaries of public opinion, do they represent anyone's +opinion at all, or are they simply the sort of thing you talk about in a +railway-carriage with a man you don't know? Does anyone's mind really dwell +on such things and ponder them? The newspapers do not really know what is +happening--everything takes them by surprise. The ordinary person is +interested in his work, his amusements, the people he lives with--in real +things. There seems to be nothing real here; it is all shadowy, I want to +get at men's minds, not at what journalists think is in men's minds. The +human being in the newspapers seems to me an utterly unreal person, +picturesque, theatrical, fatuous, slobbering, absurd. Does not the +newspaper-convention misrepresent us as much as the book-convention +misrepresents us? We straggle irregularly along, we are capable of +entertaining at the same moment two wholly contrary opinions, we do what we +don't intend to do, we don't carry out our hopes or our purposes. The man +in the papers is agitated, excited, wild, inquisitive--the ordinary person +is calm, indifferent, and on the whole fairly happy, unless some one +frightens him. I can't make it out, because it isn't a conspiracy to +deceive, and yet it does deceive; and what is more, most people don't even +seem to know that they are being misrepresented. It all seems to me to +differ as much from real life as the Morning Service read in church differs +from the thoughts of the congregation!" + +"How would you mend it?" said Barthrop. "It seems to me it must represent +_something_." + +"Something!" said Father Payne. "I don't know! I don't believe we are so +stupid and so ignoble! As to mending it, that's another question. Writing +is such a curious thing--it seems to represent anything in the world except +the current of a man's thoughts. Reverie--has anyone ever tried to +represent that? I have been out for a walk sometimes, and reflected when I +came in that if what has passed through my mind were all printed in full in +a book, it would make a large octavo volume--and precious stuff, too! Yet +the few thoughts which do stand out when it is all over, the few bright +flashes, they are things which can hardly be written down--at least they +never are written down." + +"But what would you do?" I said--"with the newspapers, I mean." + +"Well," said Father Payne, "a great deal of the news most worth telling can +be told best in pictures. I believe very much in illustrated papers. They +really do help the imagination. That's the worst of words--a dozen +scratches on a bit of paper do more to make one realise a scene than +columns of description. I would do a lot with pictures, and a bit of print +below to tell people what to notice. Then we must have a number of bare +facts and notices--weather, business, trade, law--the sort of thing that +people concerned must read. But I would make a clean sweep of fashion, and +all sensational intelligence--murders, accidents, sudden deaths. I would +have much more biography of living people as well as dead, and a few of the +big speeches. Then I would have really good articles with pictures about +foreign countries--we ought to know what the world looks like, and how the +other people live. And then I would have one or two really fine little +essays every day by the very best people I could get, amusing, serious, +beautiful articles about nature and art and books and ideas and +qualities--some real, good, plain, wise, fine, simple thinking. You want to +get people in touch with the best minds!" + +"And how many people would read such a paper?" I said. + +"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure," said Father Payne with a groan. "I would for +one! I want to have the feeling of being in touch day by day with the +clever, interesting, lively, active-minded people, as if I had been +listening to good talk. Isn't that possible? Instead of which I sit here, +day after day, overflowing with my own ridiculous thoughts--and the world +discharging all its staleness and stupidity like a sewer in these horrible +documents. Take it away from me, someone! I'm fascinated by the disgusting +smell of it!" I withdrew the paper from under his hands. "Thank you," said +Father Payne feebly. "That's the horror of it--that the world isn't a dull +place or a sensational place or a nasty place--and those papers make me +feel it is all three!" + +"I'm sorry you are so low about it," said Barthrop. + +"Yes, because journalism ought to be the finest thing in the world," said +Father Payne. "Just imagine! The power of talking, without any of the +inconveniences of personality, to half-a-million people." + +"But why doesn't it improve?" said Barthrop. "You always say that the +public finds out what it wants, and will have it." + +"In books, yes!" said Father Payne; "but in daily life we are all so +damnably afraid of the truth--that's what is the matter with us, and it is +that which journalism caters for. Suppress the truth, pepper it up, flavour +it, make it appetising--try to persuade people that the world is +romantic--that's the aim of the journalist. He flies from the truth, he +makes a foolish tale out of it, he makes people despise the real interests +of life, he makes us all want to escape from life into something that never +has been and never will be. I loathe romance with all my heart. The way of +escape is within, and not without." + +"You had better go for a walk," said Barthrop soothingly. + +"I must," said Father Payne. "I'm drunk and drugged with unreality. I will +go and have a look round the farm--no, I won't have any company, thank you. +I shall only go on fuming and stewing, if I have sympathetic listeners. You +are too amiable, you fellows. You encourage me to talk, when you ought to +stop your ears and run from me." And Father Payne swung out of the room. + + + +XIV + +OF HATE + + +It was at dinner, one frosty winter evening, and we were all in good +spirits. Two or three animated conversations were going on at the table. +Father Payne was telling one of his dreams to the three who were nearest to +him, and, funny as most of his dreams were, this was unusually so. There +was a burst of laughter and a silence--a sudden sharp silence, in which +Vincent, who was continuing a conversation, was heard to say to Barthrop, +in a tone of fierce vindictiveness, "I hate him like the devil!" Another +laugh followed, and Vincent blushed. "Perhaps I ought not to say that?" he +said in hurried tones. + +"You are quite right," said Father Payne to Vincent, encouragingly--"at +least you may be quite right. I don't know of whom you were speaking." + +"Yes, who is it, Vincent?" said someone, leaning forwards. + +"No, no," said Father Payne, "that's not fair! It was meant to be a private +confession." + +"But you don't hate people, Father?" said Lestrange, looking rather pained. + +"I, dear man?" said Father Payne. "Yes, of course I do! I loathe them! +Where are your eyes and ears? All decent people do. How would the world get +on without it?" + +Lestrange looked rather shocked. "I don't understand," he said. "I always +gathered that you thought it our business to--well, to love people." + +"Our business, yes!" said Father Payne; "but our pleasure, no! One must +begin by hating people. What is there to like about many of us?" + +"Why, Father," said Vincent, "you are the most charitable of men!" + +Father Payne gave him a little bow. "Come," he said, "I will make a +confession. I am by nature the most suspicious of mankind. I have all the +uncivilised instincts. There are people of whom I hate the sight and the +sound, and even the scent. My natural impulse is to see the worst points of +everyone. I admit that people generally improve upon acquaintance, but I +have no weak sentiment about my fellow-men--they are often ugly, stupid, +ill-mannered, ill-tempered, unpleasant, unkind, selfish. It is a positive +delight sometimes to watch a thoroughly nasty person, and to reflect how +much one detests him. It is a sign of grace to do so. How otherwise should +one learn to hate oneself? If you hate nobody, what reason is there for +trying to improve? It is impossible to realise how nasty you yourself can +be until you have seen other people being nasty. Then you say to yourself, +'Come, that is the kind of thing that I do. Can I really be like that?'" + +"But surely," said Lestrange, "if you do not try to love people, you cannot +do anything for them; you cannot wish them to be different." + +"Why not?" said Father Payne, laughing. "You may hate them so much that you +may wish them to be different. That is the sound way to begin. I say to +myself, 'Here is a truly dreadful person! I would abolish and obliterate +him if I could; but as I cannot, I must try to get him out of this mess, +that we may live more at ease,' It is simple humbug to pretend to like +everyone. You may not think it is entirely people's fault that they are so +unpleasant; but if you really love fine and beautiful things, you must hate +mean and ugly things. Don't let there be any misunderstanding," he said, +smiling round the table. "I have hated most of you at different times, some +of you very much. I don't deny there are good points about you, but that +isn't enough. Sometimes you are detestable!" + +"I see what you mean," said Barthrop; "but you don't hate people--you only +hate things in them and about them. It is just a selection." + +"Not at all," said Father Payne. "How are you going to separate people's +qualities and attributes from themselves? It is a process of addition and +subtraction, if you like. There may be a balance in your favour. But when a +bad mood is on, when a person is bilious, fractious, ugly, cross, you hate +him. It is natural to do so, and it is right to do so. I do loathe this +talk of mild, weak, universal love. The only chance of human beings getting +on at all, or improving at all, is that they should detest what is +detestable, as they abominate a bad smell. The only reason why we are clean +is because we have gradually learnt to hate bad smells. A bad smell means +something dangerous in the background--so do ugliness, ill-health, bad +temper, vanity, greediness, stupidity, meanness. They are all danger +signals. We have no business to ignore them, or to forget them, or to make +allowances for them. They are all part of the beastliness of the world." + +"But if we believe in God, and in God's goodness--if He does not hate +anything which He has made," said Lestrange rather ruefully, "ought we not +to try to do the same?" + +"My dear Lestrange," said Father Payne, "one would think you were teaching +a Sunday-school class! How do you know that God made the nasty things? One +must not think so ill of Him as that! It is better to think of God as +feeble and inefficient, than to make Him responsible for all the filth and +ugliness of the world. He hates them as much as you do, you may be sure of +that--and is as anxious as you are, and a great deal more anxious, to get +rid of them. God is infinitely more concerned about it, much more +disappointed about it, than you or me. Why, you and I are often taken in. +We don't always know when things are rotten. I have made friends before now +with people who seemed charming, and I have found out that I was wrong. But +I do not think that God is taken in. It is a very mixed affair, of course; +but one thing is clear, that something very filthy is discharging itself +into the world, like a sewer into a river, I am not going to credit God +with that; He is trying to get rid of it, you may be sure, and He cannot do +it as fast as He would like. We have got to sympathise with Him, and we +have got to help Him. Come, someone else must talk--I must get on with my +dinner," Father Payne addressed himself to his plate with obvious appetite. + +"It is all my fault," said Vincent, "but I am not going to tell you whom I +meant, and Barthrop must not. But I will tell you how it was. I was with +this man, who is an old acquaintance of mine. I used to know him when I was +living in London. I met him the other day, and he asked me to luncheon. He +was pleasant enough, but after lunch he said to me that he was going to +take the privilege of an old friend, and give me some advice. He began by +paying me compliments; he said that he had thought a year ago that I was +really going to do something in literature. 'You had made a little place +for yourself,' he said; 'you had got your foot on the ladder. You knew the +right people. You had a real chance of success. Then, in the middle of it +all, you go and bury yourself in the country with an old'--no, I can't say +it." + +"Don't mind me!" said Father Payne. + +"Very well," said Vincent, "if you _will_ hear it--'with an old +humbug, and a set of asses. You sit in each others' pockets, you praise +each others' stuff, you lead what you call the simple life. Where will you +all be five years hence?' I told him that I didn't know, and I didn't care. +Then he lost his temper, and, what was worse, he thought he was keeping it. +'Very well,' he said. 'Now I will tell you what you ought to be doing. You +ought to have buckled to your work, pushed yourself quietly in all +directions, never have written anything, or made a friend, or accepted an +invitation, without saying, "Will this add to my consequence?" We must all +nurse our reputations in this world. They don't come of themselves--they +have to be made!' Well, I thought this all very sickening, and I said I +didn't care a d--n about my reputation. I said I had a chance of living +with people whom I liked, and of working at things I cared about, and I +thought his theories simply disgusting and vulgar. He showed his teeth at +that, and said that he had spoken as a true friend, and that it had been a +painful task; and then I said I was much obliged to him, and came away. +That's the story!" + +"That's all right," said Father Payne, "and I am much obliged to you for +the sidelight on my character. But there is something in what he said, you +know. You are rather unpractical! I shall send you back for a bit to +London, I think!" + +"Why on earth do you say that?" said Vincent, looking a little crestfallen. + +"Because you mind it too much, my boy," said Father Payne. "You must not +get soft. That's the danger of this life! It's all very well for me; I'm +tough, and I'm moderately rich. But you would not have cared so much if you +had not thought there _was_ something in what he said. It was very +low, no doubt, and I give you leave to hate him; though, if you are going +to lead the detached life, you must be detached. But now I have caught you +up--and we will go back a little. The mistake you made, Vincent, if I may +say so, was to be angry. You may hate people, but you must not show that +you hate them. That is the practical side of the principle. The moment you +begin to squabble, and to say wounding things, and to try to _hurt_ +the person you hate, you are simply putting yourself on his level. And you +must not be shocked or pained either. That is worse still, because it makes +you superior, without making you engaging." + +"Then what _are_ you to do?" said Barthrop. + +"Try persuasion if you like," said Father Payne, "but you had better fall +back on attractive virtue! You must ignore the nastiness, and give the +pleasant qualities, if there are any, room to manoeuvre. But I admit it is +a difficult job, and needs some practice." + +"But I don't see any principle about it," said Vincent. + +"There isn't any," said Father Payne;--"at least there is, but you must not +dig it in. You mustn't use principles as if they were bayonets. Civility is +the best medium. If you appear to be fatuously unconscious of other +people's presence, of course they want to make themselves felt. But if you +are good-humoured and polite, they will try to make you think well of them. +That is probably why your friend calls me a humbug--he thinks I can't feel +as polite as I seem." + +"But if you are dealing with a real egotist," said Vincent, "what are you +to do then?" + +"Keep the talk firmly on himself," said Father Payne, "and, if he ever +strays from the subject, ask him a question about himself. Egotists are +generally clever people, and no clever people like being drawn out, while +no egotists like to be perceived to be egotists. You know the old saying +that a bore is a person who wants to talk about _himself_ when you +want to talk about _yourself_. It is the pull against him that makes +the bore want to hold his own. The first duty of the evangelist is to learn +to pay compliments unobtrusively." + +"That's rather a nauseous prescription!" said Lestrange, making a face. + +"Well, you can begin with that," said Father Payne, "and when I see you +perfect in it, I will tell you something else. Let's have some music, and +let me get the taste of all this high talk out of my mouth!" + + + +XV + +OF WRITING + + +There were certain days when Father Payne would hurry in to meals late and +abstracted, with, a cloudy eye, that, as he ate, was fixed on a point about +a yard in front of him, or possibly about two miles away. He gave vague or +foolish replies to questions, he hastened away again, having heard voices +but seen no one. I doubt if he could have certainly named anyone in the +room afterwards. + +I had a little question of business to ask him on one such occasion after +breakfast. I slipped out but two minutes after him, went to his study, and +knocked. An obscure sound came from within. He was seated on his chair, +bending over his writing-table. + +"May I ask you something?" I said. + +"Damnation!" said Father Payne. + +I apologised, and tried to withdraw on tiptoe, but he said, turning half +round, somewhat impatiently, "Oh, come in, come in--it's all right. What do +you want?" + +"I don't want to disturb you," I said. + +"Come in, I tell you!" he said, adding, "you may just as well, because I +have nothing to do for a quarter of an hour." He threw a pen on the table. +"It's one of my very few penances. If I swear when I am at work, I do no +work for a quarter of an hour; so you can keep me company. Sit down there!" +He indicated a chair with his large foot, and I sat down. + +My question was soon asked and sooner answered. Father Payne beamed upon me +with an indulgent air, and I said: "May I ask what you were doing?" + +"You may," he said. "I rejoice to talk about it. It's my novel." + +"Your novel!" I said. "I didn't know you wrote novels. What sort of a book +is it?" + +"It's wretched," he said, "it's horrible, it's grotesque! It's more like +all other novels than any book I know. It's written in the most abominable +style; there isn't a single good point about it. The incidents are all +hackneyed, there isn't a single lifelike character in it, or a single good +description, or a single remark worth making. I should think it's the worst +book ever written. Will you hear a bit of it? Do, now! only a short bit. I +should love to read it to you." + +"Yes, of course," I said, "there is nothing I should like better." + +He read a passage. It was very bad indeed, I couldn't have imagined that an +able man could have written such stuff. I had an awful feeling that I had +heard every word before. + +"There," he said at last, "that's rather a favourable specimen. What do you +think of it? Come, out with it." + +"I'm afraid I'm not very much of a judge," I said. + +His face fell. "That's what everyone says," he said. "I know what you mean. +But I'll publish it--I'll be d----d if I won't! Oh, dash it, that's five +minutes more. No--I wasn't working, was I? Just conversing." + +"But why do you write it, if you are so dissatisfied with it?" I said +feebly. + +"Why?" he said in a loud voice. "Why? Because I love it. I'm besotted by +it. It's like strong drink to me. I doubt if there's a man in England who +enjoys himself more than I do when I'm writing. The worst of it is, that it +won't come out--it's beautiful enough when I think of it, but I can't get +it down. It's my second novel, mind you, and I have got plans for three +more. Do you suppose I'm going to sit here, with all you fellows enjoying +yourselves, and not have my bit of fun? But it's hopeless, and I ought to +be ashamed of myself. There simply isn't anything in the world that I +should not be better employed in doing than in scribbling this stuff. I +know that; but all the authors I know say that writing a book is the part +they enjoy--they don't care about correcting proofs, or publishing, or +seeing reviews, or being paid for it. Very disinterested and noble, of +course! Now I should enjoy it all through, but I simply daren't publish my +last one--I should be hooted in the village when the reviews appeared. But +I am going to have my fun--the act of creation, you know! But it's too late +to begin, and I have had no training. The beastly thing is as sticky as +treacle. It's a sort of vomit of all the novels I have ever read, and +that's the truth!" + +"I simply don't understand," I said. "I have heard you criticise books, I +have heard you criticise some of our work--you have criticised mine. I +think you one of the best critics I ever heard. You seem to know exactly +how it ought to be done." + +"Yes," he said, frowning, "I believe I do. That's just it! I'm a critic, +pure and simple. I can't look at anything, from a pigstye to a cathedral, +or listen to anything, from a bird singing to an orchestra, or read +anything, from Bradshaw to Shakespeare, without seeing when it is out of +shape and how it ought to be done. I'm like the man in Ezekiel, whose +appearance was like the appearance of brass, with a line of flax in his +hand and a measuring reed. He goes on measuring everything for about five +chapters, and nothing comes of it, as far as I can remember! I suppose I +ought to be content with that, but I can't bear it. I hate fault-finding. I +want to make beautiful things. I spent months over my last novel, and, as +Aaron said to Moses, 'There came out this calf!' I'm a very unfortunate +man. If I had not had to work so hard for many years for a bare living, I +could have done something with writing, I think. But now I'm a sort of +plumber, mending holes in other people's work. Never mind. I _will_ +waste my time!" + +All this while he was eyeing the little clock on his table. "Now be off!" +he said suddenly, "My penance is over, and I won't be disturbed!" He caught +up his pen. "You had better tell the others not to come near me, or I'm +blessed if I won't read the whole thing aloud after dinner!" And he was +immersed in his work again. + +Two or three days later I found Father Payne strolling in the garden, on a +bright morning. It was just on the verge of spring. There were catkins in +the shrubbery. The lilacs were all knobbed with green. The aconite was in +full bloom under the trees, and the soil was all pricked with little green +blades. He was drinking it all in with delighted glances. I said something +about his book. + +"Oh, the fit's off!" said he; "I'm sober again! I finished the chapter, +and, by Jove, I think it's the worst thing I have done yet. It's simply +infamous! I read it with strong sensations of nausea! I really don't know +how I can get such deplorable rubbish down on paper. No matter, I get all +the rapture of creation, and that's the best part of it. I simply couldn't +live without it. It clears off some perilous stuff or other, and now I feel +like a convalescent. Did you ever see anything so enchanting as that +aconite? The colour of it, and the way the little round head is tucked down +on the leaves! I could improve on it a trifle, but not much. God must have +had a delicious time designing flowers--I wonder why He gave up doing it, +and left it to the market-gardeners. I can't make out why new flowers don't +keep appearing. I could offer a few suggestions. I dream of flowers +sometimes--great banks of bloom rising up out of crystal rivers, in deep +gorges, full of sunshine and scent. How nice it is to be idle! I'm sure +I've earned it, after that deplorable chapter. It really is a miracle of +flatness! You go back to your work, my boy, and thank God you can say what +you mean! And then you can bring it to me, and I'll tell you to an inch +what it is worth!" + + + +XVI + +OF MARRIAGE + + +We were all at dinner one day, and Father Payne came in, in an excited +mood, with a letter in his hand. "Here's a bit of nonsense," he said. +"Here's my old friend Davenport giving me what he calls a piece of his +mind--he can't have much left--about my 'celibate brotherhood,' as he calls +it. It's all the other way! I am rather relieved when I hear that any of +you people are happily engaged to be married. Celibacy is the danger of my +experiment, not the object of it." + +"Do you wish us to be married?" said Kaye. "That's new to me. I thought +this was a little fortress against the eternal feminine." + +"What rubbish!" said Father Payne. "The worst of using ridiculous words +like feminine is that it blinds people to the truth. Masculine and feminine +have nothing to do with sex. In the first place, intellectual people are +all rather apt to be sexless; in the next place, all sensible people, men +and women alike, are what is meant by masculine--that is to say, spirited, +generous, tolerant, good-natured, frank. Thirdly, all suspicious, scheming, +sensitive, theatrical, irritable, vain people are what is meant by +feminine. And artistic natures are all prone to those failings, because +they desire dignity and influence--they want to be felt. The real +difference between people is whether they want to live, or whether they +want to be known to exist. The worst of feminine people is that they are +probably the people who ought not to marry, unless they marry a masculine +person; and they are not, as a rule, attracted by masculinity." + +"But one can't get married in cold blood," said Vincent. "I often wish that +marriages could just be arranged, as they do it in France. I think I should +be a very good husband, but I shall never have the courage or the time to +go in search of a wife." + +"That's why I send you all out into the world," said Father Payne. "Most +people ought to be married. It's a normal thing--it isn't a transcendental +thing. In my experience most marriages are successful. It does everyone +good to be obliged to live at close quarters with other people, and to be +unable to get away from them." + +"I didn't know you were interested in such matters," said someone. + +"I have gone into it pretty considerably, sir," said Father Payne, "The one +thing that does interest me is human admixtures. It does no one any good to +get too much attached to his own point of view." + +"But surely," said Rose, "there are some marriages which are obviously bad +for all concerned--real incompatibilities? People who can't understand each +other or their children--children who can't understand their parents? It +always seems to me rather horrible that people should be shut up together +like rats in a cage." + +"I expect we shall have legislation before long," said Father Payne, "for +breaking up homes where some definite evil like drunkenness is at work--but +I don't want industrial schools for children; that is even more inhuman +than a bad home. We want more boarding out, but that's expensive. Someone +has to pay, if children are to be planted out, and to pay well. There's no +motive of duty so strong for an Englishman as good wages. People are honest +about giving fair money's worth. But it is no good talking about these +things, because they are all so far ahead of us. The question is whether +anyone can suggest any practical means of filing away any of the +roughnesses of marriage. I do not believe that the problem is very serious +among workers. It is the marriage of idle people that is apt to be +disastrous." + +"The thing that damages many marriages," said Rose, "is the fact that +people have got to see so much of each other. What people really want is a +holiday from each other." + +"Yes, but that is impossible financially," said Father Payne. "Apart from +love and children, marriage is a small joint-stock company for cheap +comfort. But it is of no use to go vapouring on about these big schemes, +because in a democracy people won't do what philosophers wish, but what +they want. Let's take a notorious case, known to everyone. Can anyone say +what practical advice he could have given to either Carlyle or to Mrs. +Carlyle, which would have improved that witches' cauldron? There were two +high-principled Puritanical people, which is the same thing as saying that +they both were disposed to consider that anyone who disagreed with them did +so for a bad motive, and exalted their own whims and prejudices into moral +principles; both of them irritable and sensitive, both able to give +instantaneous and elaborate expression to their vaguest thoughts,--Carlyle +himself with eloquence which he wielded like a bludgeon, and Mrs. Carlyle +with incisiveness which she used like a sharp knife--Carlyle with too much +to do, and Mrs. Carlyle with less than nothing to do--each passionately +attached to the other as soon as they were separated, and both capable of +saying the sweetest and most affectionate things by letter, which they +could not for the life of them utter in talk. They did, as a matter of +fact, spend an immense amount of time apart; and when they were together, +Carlyle, having been trained as a peasant and one of a large family, +roughly neglected Mrs. Carlyle, while Mrs. Carlyle, with a middle-class +training, and moreover indulged as an only daughter, was too proud to +complain, but not proud enough not to resent the neglect deeply. What could +have been done for them? Were they impossible people to live with? Was it +true, as Tennyson bluntly said, that it was as well that they married, +because two people were unhappy instead of four?" + +"They wanted a child as a go-between!" said Barthrop. + +"Of course they did!" said Father Payne. "That would have pulled the whole +menage together. And don't tell me that it was a wise dispensation that +they were childless! Cleansing fires? The fires in which they lived, with +Carlyle raging about porridge and milk and crowing cocks, working alone, +walking alone, flying off to see Lady Ashburton, sleeping alone; and Mrs. +Carlyle, whom everyone else admired and adored, eating her heart out +because she could not get him to value her company;--there was not much +that was cleansing about all that! The cleansing came when she was dead, +and when he saw what he had done." + +"I expect they have made it up by now," said Kaye. + +"You're quite right!" said Father Payne. "It matters less with those great +vivid people. They can afford to remember. But the little people, who +simply end further back than they began, what is to be done for them?" + + + +XVII + +OF LOVING GOD + + +Father Payne suddenly said to me once in a loud voice, after a long +silence--we were walking together--"Writers, preachers, moralists, +sentimentalists, are much to blame for not explaining more what they mean +by loving God--perhaps they do not know! Love is so large a word, and +covers so great a range of feelings. What sort of love are we to give +God--the love of the lover, or the son, or the daughter, or the friend, or +the patriot, or the dog? Is it to be passion, or admiration, or reverence, +or fidelity, or pity? All of these enter into love." + +"What do you think yourself?" I said. + +"How am I to tell?" said Father Payne. "I am in many minds about it--it +cannot be passion, because, whatever one may say, something of physical +satisfaction is mingled with that. It cannot be a dumb fidelity--that is +irrational. It cannot be an equal friendship, because there is no equality +possible. It cannot be that of the child for the mother, because the mind +is hardly concerned in that. Can one indeed love the Unknown? Again, it +cannot be all receiving and no giving. We must have something to give God +which He desires to have and which we can withhold. To say that the answer +is, 'My son, give Me thy heart,' begs the question, because the one thing +certain about love is that we _cannot_ give it to whom we will--it +must be evoked; and even if it is wanted, we cannot always give it. We may +respect and reverence a person very much, but, as Charlotte Bronte said, +'our veins may run ice whenever we are near him.' + +"And then, too, can we love any one who knows us perfectly, through and +through? Is it not of the essence of love to be blind? Is it possible for +us to feel that we are worthy of the love of anyone who really knows us? + +"And then, too, if disaster and suffering and cruel usage and terror come +from God, without reference to the sensitiveness of the soul and body on +which they fall, can we possibly love the Power which behaves so? What +child could love a father who might at any time strike him? I cannot +believe that God wants an unquestioning and fatuous trust, and still less +the sort of deference we pay to one who may do us a mischief if we do not +cringe before him. All that is utterly unworthy of the mind and soul." + +"Is it not possible to believe," I said, "that all experience may be good +for us, however harsh it seems?" + +"No rational man can think that," said Father Payne. "Suffering is not good +for people if it is severe and protracted. I have seen many natures go +utterly to pieces under it." + +"What do you believe, then?" I said. + +"Of course the only obvious explanation," said Father Payne, "is that +suffering, misery, evil, disaster, disease do not come from God at all; +that He is the giver of health and joy and light and happiness; that He +gives us all He can, and spares us all He can; but that there is a great +enemy in the world, whom He cannot instantly conquer; that He is doing all +He can to shield us, and to repair the harm that befalls us--that we can +make common cause with Him, and pity Him for His thwarted plans, His +endless disappointments, His innumerable failures, His grievous sufferings. +It would be easy to love God if He were like that--yet who dares to say it +or to teach it? It is the dreadful doctrine of His Omnipotence that ruins +everything. I cannot hold any communication with Omnipotence--it is a +consuming fire; but if I could know that God was strong and patient and +diligent, but not all-powerful or all-knowing, then I could commune with +Him. If, when some evil mishap overtakes me, I could say to Him, 'Come, +help me, console me, show me how to mend this, give me all the comfort you +can,' then I could turn to Him in love and trust, so long as I could feel +that He did not wish the disaster to happen to me but could not ward it +off, and was as miserable as myself that it had happened. Not _so_ +miserable, of course, because He has waited so long, suffered so much, and +can discern so bright and distant a hope. Then, too, I might feel that +death was perhaps our escape from many kinds of evil, and that I should be +clasped to His heart for awhile, even though He sent me out again to fight +His battles. That would evoke all my love and energy and courage, because I +could feel that I could give Him my help; but if He is Almighty, and could +have avoided all the sorrow and pain, then I am simply bewildered and +frightened, because I can predicate nothing about Him." + +"Is not that the idea which Christianity aims at?" I said. + +"Yes," he said; "the suffering Saviour, who can resist evil and amend it, +but cannot instantly subdue it; but, even so, it seems to set up two Gods +for one. The mind cannot really _identify_ the Saviour with the +Almighty Designer of the Universe. But the thought of the Saviour +_does_ interpret the sense of God's failure and suffering, does bring +it all nearer to the heart. But if there is Omnipotence behind, it all +falls to the ground again--at least it does for me. I cannot pray to +Omnipotence and Omniscience, because it is useless to do so. The limited +and the unlimited cannot join hands. I must, if I am to believe in God, +believe in Him as a warrior arriving on a scene of disorder, and trying to +make all well. He must not have permitted the disorder to grow up, and then +try to subdue it. It must be there first. It is a battle obviously--but it +must be a real battle against a real foe, not a sham fight between hosts +created by God. In that case, 'to think of oneself as an instrument of +God's designs is a privilege one shares with the devil,' as someone said. I +will not believe that He is so little in earnest as that. No, He is the +great invader, who desires to turn darkness to light, rage to peace, misery +to happiness. Then, and only then, can I enlist under His banner, fight for +Him, honour Him, worship Him, compassionate Him, and even love Him; but if +He is in any way responsible for evil, by design or by neglect, then I am +lost indeed!" + + + +XVIII + +OF FRIENDSHIP + + +"He is the sort of man who is always losing his friends," said Pollard at +dinner to Father Payne, describing someone, "and I always think that's a +bad sign." + +"And I, on the contrary," said Father Payne, "think that a man who always +keeps his friends is almost always an ass!" He opened his mouth and drew in +his breath. + +"Or else it means," said Barthrop, "that he has never really made any +friends at all!" + +"Quite right," said Father Payne. "People talk about friendship as if it +was a perfectly normal thing, like eating and drinking--it's not that! It's +a difficult thing, and it is a rare thing. I do not mean mere proximities +and easy comradeships and muddled alliances; there are plenty of frank and +pleasant companionships about of a solid kind. Still less do I mean the +sort of thing which is contained in such an expression as 'Dear old boy!' +which is always a half-contemptuous phrase." + +"But isn't loyalty a fine quality?" said Lestrange. + +"Loyalty!" said Father Payne. "Of course you must play fair, and be ready +to stick by a man, and do him a kindness, and help him up if he has a fall; +but that is not friendship--at least it isn't what I mean by friendship. +Friendship is a sort of passion, without anything sexual or reproductive +about it. There is a physical basis about it, of course. I mean there are +certain quite admirable, straightforward, pleasant people, whom you may +meet and like, and yet with whom you could never be friends, though they +may be quite capable of friendship, and have friends of their own. A man's +presence and his views and emotions must be in some sort of tune with your +own. There are certain people, not in the least repellent, genial, kindly, +handsome, excellent in every way, with whom you simply are not comfortable. +On the other hand, there are people of no great obvious attractiveness with +whom you feel instantaneously at ease. There is something mysterious about +it, some currents that don't mix, and some that do. A thousand years hence +we shall probably know something about it we don't now." + +"I feel that very strongly about books," said Kaye. "There are certain +authors, who have skill, charm, fancy, invention, style--all the things you +value--who yet leave you absolutely cold. They have every qualification for +pleasing except the power to please. It is simply a case of Dr. Fell! You +can't give a single valid reason why you don't like them." + +"Yes, indeed," said Father Payne. "and then, again, there are authors whom +you like at a certain age and under certain circumstances, and who end by +boring you; and again, authors whom you don't like when you are young, and +like better when you are old. Does your idea of loyalty apply also to +books, Lestrange, or to music?" + +"No," said Lestrange, "to be frank, it does not; but I think that is +different--a lot of technical things come in, and then one's taste alters." + +"And that is just the same with people," said Father Payne. "Why, what does +loyalty mean in such a connection? You have admired a book or a piece of +music; you cease to admire it. Are you to go on saying you admire it, or to +pretend to yourself that you admire it? Of course not--that is simply +hypocrisy--there is nothing real about that." + +"But what are you to do," said Vincent, "about people? You can't treat them +like books or music. You need not go on reading a book which you have +ceased to admire. But what if you have made a friend, and then ceased to +care for him, and he goes on caring for you? Are you to throw him over?" + +"I admit that there is a difficulty," said Father Payne; "I agree that you +must not disappoint people; but it is also somehow your duty to get out of +a relation that is no longer a real one. It can't be wholesome to simulate +emotions for the sake of loyalty. It must all depend upon which you think +the finer thing--the emotion or the tie. Personally, I think the emotion is +the more sacred of the two." + +"But does it not mean that you have made a mistake somehow," said Vincent, +"if you have made a friend, and then cease to care about him?" + +"Not a bit," said Father Payne. "Why, people change very much, and some +people change faster than others. A man may be exactly what you want at a +certain time of life; he may be ahead of you in ideas, in qualities, in +emotions; and what starts a friendship is the perception of something fine +and desirable in another, which you admire and want to imitate. But then +you may outstrip your friend. Take the case of an artist. He may have an +admiration for another artist, and gain much from him; but then he may go +right ahead of him. He can't go on admiring and deferring out of mere +loyalty." + +"But must there not be in every real friendship a _purpose_ of +continuance?" said Vincent. "It surely is a very selfish sort of business, +if you say to yourself, 'I will make friends with this man because I admire +him now, but when, I have got all I can out of him, I will discard him.'" + +"Of course, you must not think in that coldblooded way," said Father Payne, +"but it can never be more than a _hope_ of continuance. You may +_hope_ to find a friendship a continuous and far-reaching thing. It +may be quite right to get to know a man, believing him to have fine +qualities; but you can't pledge yourself to admire whatever you find in +him. We have to try experiments in friendship as in everything else. It is +purely sentimental to say, 'I am going to believe in this man blindfold, +whatever I find him to be,' That's a rash vow! You must not take rash vows; +and if you do, you must be prepared to break them. Besides, you can't +depend upon your friend not altering. He may lose some of the very things +you most admire. The mistake is to believe that anything can be consistent +or permanent." + +"But if you _don't_ believe that," said Lestrange, "are you justified +in entering upon intimate relations at all?" + +"Of course you are," said Father Payne; "you can't live life on prudent +lines. You can't say, 'I won't engage in life, or take a hand in it, or +believe in it, or love it, till I know more about it.' You can't foresee +all contingencies and risks. You must take risks." + +"I expect," said Barthrop, "that we are meaning different things by +friendship. Let us define our terms. What do _you_ mean by friendship, +Father?" + +"Well," said Father Payne, "I will tell you if I can. I mean a +consciousness, which generally comes rather suddenly, of the charm of a +particular person. You have a sudden curiosity about him. You want to know +what his ideas, motives, views of life are. It is not by any means always +that you think he feels about things as you do yourself. It is often the +difference in him which attracts you. But you like his manner, his +demeanour, his handling of life. What he says, his looks, his gestures, his +personality, affect you in a curious way. And at the same time you seem to +discern a corresponding curiosity in him about yourself. It is a +pleasurable surprise both to discover that he agrees with you, and also +that he disagrees with you. There is a beauty, a mystery, about it all. +Generally you think it rather surprising that he should find you +interesting. You wish to please him and to satisfy his expectations. That +is the dangerous part of friendship, that two people in this condition make +efforts, sacrifices, suppressions in order to be liked. Even if you +disagree, you both give hints that you are prepared to be converted. There +is a sudden increase of richness in life, the sense of a moving current +whose impulse you feel. You meet, you talk, you find a freshness of +feeling, light cast upon dark things, a new range of ideas vividly +present." + +"But isn't all that rather intellectual?" said Vincent, who had been +growing restive. "The thing can surely be much simpler than that?" + +"Yes, of course it can," said Father Payne, "among simple people--but we +are all complicated people here." + +"Yes," said Vincent, "we are! But isn't it possible for an intellectual man +to feel a real friendship for a quite unintellectual man--not a desire to +discuss everything with him, but a simple admiration for fine frank +qualities?" + +"Oh yes," said Father Payne, "there can be all sorts of alliances; but I am +not speaking of them. I am speaking of a sort of mutual understanding. In +friendship, as I understand it, the two must not speak different languages. +They must be able to put their minds fairly together--there can be a kind +of man-and-dog friendship, of course, but that is more a sort of love and +trust. Now in friendship people must be mutually intelligible. It need not +be equality--it is very often far removed from that; but there must not be +any condescension. There must be a _desire_ for equality, at all +events. Each must lament anything, whether it is superiority or +inferiority, which keeps the two apart. It must be a desire for unity above +everything. There must not be the smallest shadow of contempt on either +side--it must be a frank proffer of the best you have to give, and a +knowledge that the other can give you something--sympathy, support, +help--which you cannot do without. What breaks friendship, in my +experience, is the loss of that sense of equality; and the moment that +friends become critical--in the sense, I mean, that they want to alter or +improve each other--I think a friendship is in danger. If you have a +friend, you must be indulgent to his faults--like him, not in spite of +them, but almost because of them, I think." + +"That's very difficult," said Vincent. "Mayn't you want a friend to +improve? If he has some patent and obvious fault, I mean?" + +"You mustn't want to improve him," said Father Payne, smiling; "that's not +your business--unless he _wants_ you to help him to improve; and even +then you have to be very delicate-handed. It must _hurt_ you to have +to wish him different." + +"But isn't that what you call sentimental?" said Vincent. + +"No," said Father Payne, "it is sentiment to try to pretend to yourself and +others that the fault isn't there. But I am speaking of a tie which you +can't risk breaking for anything so trivial as a fault. The moment that the +fault stands out, naked and unpleasant, then you may know that the +friendship is over. There must be a glamour even about your friend's +faults. You must love them, as you love the dints and cracks in an old +building." + +"That seems to me weak," said Vincent. + +"You will find that it is true," said Father Payne. "We can't afford to sit +in judgment on each other. We must simply try to help each other along. We +must not say, 'You ought not to be tired.'" + +"But surely we may pity people?" said Lestrange. + +"Not your friends," said Father Payne. "Pity is _fatal_ to friendship. +There is always something complacent in pity--it means conscious strength. +You can't both pity and admire. You can't separate people up into +qualities--they all come out of the depth of a man; I am quite sure of +this, that the moment you begin to differentiate a friend's qualities, that +moment what I call friendship is over. It must simply be a case of you and +me--not my weakness and your virtue, and still less your weakness and my +virtue. And you must be content to lose friends and to be discarded by +friends. What is sentimental is to believe that it can be otherwise." + + + +XIX + +OF PHYLLIS + + +It was in the course of July, the month given to hospitality. Father Payne +used to have guests of various kinds, quite unaccountable people, some of +them, with whom he seemed to be on the easiest of terms, but whom he never +mentioned at any other time. "It is a time when I have _old friends_ +to stay with me," he once said, "and I decline to define the term. There +are _reasons_--you must assume that there are _reasons_--which +may not be apparent, for the tie. They are not all selected for +intellectual or artistic brilliance--they are the symbols of undesigned +friendships, which existed before I exercised the faculty of choice. They +are there, uncriticised, unexplained, these friends of mine. The modest +man, you will remember, finds his circle ready-made. I am attached to them, +and they to me. They understand no language, some of them, as you will see, +except the language of the heart; but you will help me, I know, to make +them feel at home and happy." + +They certainly were odd people, several of them--dumb, good-natured, +elderly men with no ostensible purpose in the world; elderly ladies, who +called Father Payne "dear"; some simple and homely married couples, who +seemed to be living in another century. But Father Payne welcomed them, +chattered with them, jested with them, took them drives and walks, and +seemed well-contented with their company, though I confess that I generally +felt as though I were staying in a seaside boarding-house on such +occasions. We used to speculate as to who they were, and how Father Payne +had made their acquaintance: we gathered that they were mostly the friends +and acquaintances of his youth, or people into whose company he had drifted +when he lived in London. Sometimes, before a new arrival, he would touch +off his or her character and circumstances in a few words. On one occasion +he said after breakfast to Barthrop and me: "Arrivals to-day, Mr. and Mrs. +Wetherall--the man a retired coal-merchant, rather wealthy, interested in +foreign missions; the woman inert; daughter prevented from coming, and they +bring a niece, Phyllis by name, understood to be charming. I undertake the +sole charge of Wetherall himself, Mrs. Wetherall requires no specific +attentions--placid woman, writes innumerable letters--Miss Phyllis an +unknown quantity." + +The Wetheralls duly appeared, and proved very simple people. Father Payne, +to our surprise, seemed to be soaked in mission literature, and drew out +Mr. Wetherall with patient skill. But Miss Phyllis was a perfectly +delightful girl, very simple and straightforward, extremely pretty in a +boyish fashion, and quite used to the ways of the world. We would willingly +have entertained her, and did our best; but she made fast friends with +Father Payne, with the utmost promptitude, and the two were for ever +strolling about or sitting out together. The talk at meals was of a sedate +character, but Miss Phyllis used to intercept Father Payne's humorous +remarks with a delighted little smile, and Father Payne would shake his +head gravely at her in return. Miss Phyllis said to me one morning, as we +were sitting in the garden: "You seem to have a very good time here, all of +you--it feels like something in a book--it is too good to be true!" + +"Ah," I said, "but this is a holiday, of course! We work very hard in +term-time, and we are very serious." Miss Phyllis looked at me with her +blue eyes in silence for a moment, with an ironical little curve of her +lips, and said: "I don't believe a word of it! I believe it is just a +little Paradise, and I suspect it of being rather a selfish Paradise. Why +do you shut everyone out?" + +"Oh, it is a case of 'business first'!" I said. "Father Payne keeps us all +in very good order." "Yes," said Phyllis, "I expect he can do that. But do +any of you men realise what an absolutely enchanting person he is? I have +never seen anyone in the least like him! He understands everything, and +sees everything, and cares for everything--he is so big and kind and +clever. Why, isn't he something tremendous?" "He is," I said. "Oh yes, but +you know what I mean," said Miss Phyllis; "he's a _great_ man, and he +ought to have the reins in his hand. He ought not to potter about here!" + +"Well," I said, "I have wondered about that myself. But he knows his own +mind--he's a very happy man!" Miss Phyllis pondered silently, and said: "I +don't think you realise your blessings. Father Payne is like the boy in the +story--the man born to be king, you know. He ought not to be wasted like +this! He ought to be ruler over ten cities. Dear me, I don't often wish I +were a man, but I would give anything to be one of you. Won't you tell me +something more about him?" + +I did my best, and Phyllis listened absorbed, dangling a shapely little +foot over her knee, and playing with a flower. "Yes," she said at last, +"that is what I thought! I see you _do_ appreciate him after all. I +won't make that mistake again." And she gave me a fine smile. I liked the +company of this radiant creature, but at this moment Father Payne appeared +at the other end of the garden. "Don't think me rude," said Miss Phyllis, +"but I am going to talk to Father Payne. It's my last day, and I must get +all I can out of him." She fled, and presently they went off together for a +stroll, a charming picture. She carried him off likewise after dinner, and +they sate long in the dusk. I could hear Father Payne's emphatic tones and +Phyllis's refreshing laughter. + +The next morning the Wetheralls went off. Barthrop and I, with Father +Payne, saw them go. The Wetheralls were serenely enjoying the prospect of +returning home after a successful visit, but Miss Phyllis looked mournful, +and as if she were struggling with concealed emotions. She kissed her hand +to Father Payne as the carriage drove away. + +"Very worthy people!" said Father Payne cheerfully, as the carriage passed +out of sight. "I am very glad to have seen them, and no less thankful that +they are gone." + +"But the charming Phyllis?" said Barthrop, "Is that all you have to say +about her? I never saw a more delightful girl!" + +"She is--quite delightful," said Father Payne. "Phyllis is my only joy! The +sight of her and the sound of her make me feel as if I had been reading an +Elizabethan song-book--'Sing hey, nonny nonny!' But why didn't one of you +fellows make up to her?--that's a girl worth the winning!" + +"Why didn't we make up to her?" I said indignantly. "I wonder you have the +face to ask, Father! Why, she was simply taken up with you, and she hadn't +a word or a look for anyone else. I never saw such a case of love at first +sight!" + +"She gave me a flower this morning," said Father Payne meditatively, "and I +believe I kissed her hand. It was like a scene in one of my novels. It +wasn't my fault--the woman tempted me, of course! But I think she is a +charming creature, and as clever as she is pretty. I could have made love +to her with the best will in the world! But that wouldn't do, and I just +made friends with her. She wants an older friend, I think. She has ideas, +the pretty Phyllis, and she doesn't strike out sparks from the Wetheralls +much." + +Barthrop went off, smiling to himself, and I strolled about with Father +Payne. + +"You really could hardly do better than be Phyllis's faithful shepherd," he +said to me, smiling. "She's a fine creature, you know, full of fire and +vitality, and eager for life. She must marry a nice man and have nice +children. We want more people like Phyllis. You consider it, old man! I +would like to see you happily married." + +"Why, Father," I said boldly, "if you feel like that, why don't you put in +for her yourself? Phyllis is in love with you! You may not know it--she may +not know it--but I know it. She could talk of nothing else." + +"Get thee behind me, Satan!" said Father Payne very emphatically. Don't say +such things to me! The pretty Phyllis wants a father confessor--that's all +I can, do for her." + +"I don't think that is so, Father," I said. "She would be prepared for +something much closer than that, if you held out your hand." + +Father Payne smiled benignantly at me. "Yes, I know what you mean, old +man," he said, "and I daresay it is true! But I mustn't allow myself to +think of such things at my age. It wouldn't do. I'm old enough to be her +father--and she has just had a pretty fancy, that's all. It's rather a +romantic setting, this place, you know; and she is hungering and thirsting +for all sorts of ideas and beautiful adventures; and she finds a +good-humoured old bird like myself, who can give her something of what she +wants. She is fitful and impetuous, and she wants something strong and +fatherly to lean upon and to worship, perhaps. Bless you, I see it all +clearly enough! But put the clock on for a few years: the charming Phyllis +is made for better things than tying my muffler and walking beside my +bath-chair. No, she must have a run for her money. And what's more, I'm not +sure that I want the sole charge of that sweet nymph--she would want a lot +of response and sympathy and understanding. It's altogether too big a job +for me, and I don't feel the call. What do I want, then, with the pretty +child? Why, I like to be with her, and to see her, and to hear her talk and +laugh. I want to help her along if I can--she is a high-spirited creature, +and will take things hardly. But I cannot be romantic, and take advantage +of a romantic child. Mind you, I think that these friendships between men +and women are good for both, if they aren't complicated by love: the worst +of it is that passion is a tindery thing, and lights up suddenly when +people least expect it. But I'm too old for all that; and one of the +pleasures of growing old is that one can see a beautiful creature like +Phyllis--high-spirited, vivid, full of grace and delight--without wanting +to claim her for one's own or take her away into a corner. I'm just glad to +be with her, glad to think she is in the world, glad to think she comes +direct from the Divine hand. It moves me tremendously, that flashing and +brightening charm of hers--but I see and feel it, I think, as something +beyond and outside of her, which comes as a message to me. She's a darling! +But I am not going to interfere with her or complicate her life. She must +find a fit mate, and I am going to let her feel that she can depend on me +for any service I can do for her. I don't mind saying, old man," added +Father Payne, in a different tone, "that there isn't a touch of temptation +about it all. I yield in imagination to it quite frankly--I think how jolly +it would be to have a creature like that living in this old house, telling +me all she thought about, making a home beautiful. I could make a very fair +lover if I tried! But I have got myself well in hand, and I know better. It +isn't what she wants, and it isn't really what I want. I have got my work +cut out for me; but I'll give her all I can, and be thankful if she gives +me a bit of her heart; and I shall love to think of her going about the +world, and reminding everyone she meets of the best and purest sort of +beauty. I love Phyllis with all my old heart--is that enough for you?--and +a great deal too well to confiscate her, as I should certainly have tried +to do twenty years ago." + +Father Payne stopped, and looked at me with one of his great clear smiles. + +"Well, I must say," I began-- + +"No, you mustn't," said Father Payne. "I know all the excellent arguments +you would advance. Why shouldn't two people be happy and not look ahead, +and all that? I do look ahead, and I'm going to make her happy if I can. +Shall I use my influence in your favour, my boy? How does that strike you?" + +I laughed and reddened. Father Payne put his arm in mine, and said: "Now, I +have turned my heart out for your inspection, and you can't convert me. Let +the pretty child go her way! I only wish she was likely to get more fun out +of the Wetheralls. Such excellent people too: but a lack of +inspiration--not propelled from quite the central fount of beauty, I fancy! +But it will do Phyllis good to make the best of them, and I fancy she is +trying pretty hard. Dear me, I wish she were my niece! But I couldn't have +her here--we should all be at daggers drawn in a fortnight: that's the +puzzling thing about these beautiful people, that they light up such +conflagrations, and make such havoc of divine philosophy, old boy!" + + + +XX + +OF CERTAINTY + + +We were returning from a walk, Father Payne and I; as we passed the +churchyard, he said: "Do you remember that story of Lamennais at La +Chenaie? He was sitting behind the chapel under two Scotch firs which grew +there, with some of his young disciples. He took his stick, and marked out +a grave on the turf, and said: 'It is there I would wish to be buried, but +no tombstone! Only a simple mound of grass. Oh, how well I shall be there!' +That is what I call sentiment. If Lamennais really thought he would be +confined in spirit to such a place, he would not tolerate it--least of all +a combative fellow like Lamennais--it would be a perpetual solitary +confinement. Such a cry is merely a theatrical way of saying that he felt +tired. Yet it is such sayings which impress people, because men love +rhetoric." + +Presently he went on: "It is strange that what one fears in death is the +vagueness and the solitude of it--we are afraid of finding ourselves lost +in the night. It would be agitating, but not frightful, if we were sure of +finding company; and if we were _sure_ of meeting those whom we had +loved and lost, death would not frighten us at all. Dying is simple enough, +and indeed easy, for most of us. But I expect that something very precise +and definite happens to us, the moment we die. It is probable, I think, +that we shall set about building up a new body to inhabit at once, as a +snail builds its shell. We are very definite creatures, all of us, with +clearly apportioned tastes and energies, preferences and dislikes. The only +puzzling thing is that we do not all of us seem to have the bodies which +suit us here on earth: fiery spirits should have large phlegmatic bodies, +and they too often have weak and inadequate bodies. Beautiful spirits +cannot always make their bodies beautiful, and evil people have often very +lovely shapes and faces. I confess I find all that very mysterious; +heredity is quite beyond me. If it were merely confined to the body and +even the mind, I should not wonder at it, but it seems to affect the soul +as well. Who can feel free in will, if that is the case? And now, too, they +say with some certainty that it seems as though all their own qualities +need not be transmitted by parents but that no quality can be transmitted +which is not present in the parents--that we can lose qualities, that is, +but not gain them. If that is true, then all our qualities were present in +primitive forms of life, and we are not really developing, we are only +specialising. All this hurts one to think of, because it ties us hand and +foot." + +Presently he went on: "How ludicrous, after all, to make up our mind about +things as most of us do! I believe that the desire for certainty is one of +the worst temptations of the devil. It means closing our eyes and minds and +hearts to experience; and yet it seems the only way to accomplish anything. +I trust," he said, turning to me with a look of concern, "that you do not +feel that you are being formed or moulded here, by me or by any of the +others?" + +"No," I said, "certainly not! I feel, indeed, since I came here, that I +have got a wider horizon of ideas, and I hope I am a little more tolerant. +I have certainly learnt from you not to despise ideas or experiences at +first sight, but to look into them." + +He seemed pleased at this, and said: "Yes, to look into them--we must do +that! When we see anyone acting in a way that we admire, or even in a way +which we dislike, we must try to see why he acts so, what makes him what he +is. We must not despise any indications. On the whole, I think that people +behave well when they are happy, and ill when they are afraid. All violence +and spite come when we are afraid of being left out; and we are happy when +we are using all our powers. Don't be too prudent! Don't ever be afraid of +uprooting yourself," he added with great emphasis. "Try experiments--in +life, in work, in companionship. Have an open mind! That is why we should +be so careful what we pray for, because in my experience prayers are +generally granted, and often with a fine irony. The grand irony of God! It +is one of the things that most reassures me about Him, to find that He can +be ironical and indulgent; because our best chance of discovering the +nature of things is that we should be given what we wish, just in order to +find out that it was not what we wished at all!" + +"But," I said, "if you are for ever experimenting, always moving on, always +changing your mind, don't you run the risk of never mixing with life at +all?" + +"Oh, life will take care of that!" said Father Payne, smiling, "The time +will come when you will know where to post your battery, and what to fire +at. But don't try to make up your mind too early--don't try to fortify +yourself against doubts and anxieties. That is the danger of all sensitive +people. You can't attain to proved certainties in this life--at least, you +can't at present. I don't say that there are not certainties--indeed, I +think that it is all certainty, and that we mustn't confuse the unknown +with the unknowable. As you go on, if you are fair-minded and sympathetic, +you will get intuitions; you will discover gradually exactly what you are +worth, and what you can do, and how you can do it best. But don't expect to +know that too soon. And don't yield to the awful temptation of saying, 'So +many good, fine, reasonable people seem certain of this and that; I had +better assume it to be true.' It isn't better, it is only more comfortable. +A great many more people suffer from making up their mind too early and too +decisively than suffer from open-mindedness and the power to relate new +experience to old experience. No one can write you out a prescription for +life. You can't anticipate experience; and if you do, you will only find +that you have to begin all over again." + + + +XXI + +OF BEAUTY + + +Father Payne had been away on one of his rare journeys. He always +maintained that a journey was one of the most enlivening things in the +world, if it was not too often indulged in. "It intoxicates me," he said, +"to see new places, houses, people." + +"Why don't you travel more, then?" said someone. + +"For that very reason," said Father Payne; "because it intoxicates me--and +I am too old for that sort of self-indulgence!" + +"It's a dreadful business," he went on, "that northern industrial country. +There's a grandeur about it--the bare valleys, the steep bleak fields, the +dead or dying trees, the huge factories. Those great furnaces, with tall +iron cylinders and galleries, and spidery contrivances, and black pipes, +and engines swinging vast burdens about, and moving wheels, are fearfully +interesting and magnificent. They stand for all sorts of powers and forces; +they frighten me by their strength and fierceness and submissiveness. But +the land is awfully barren of beauty, and I doubt if that can be wholesome. +It all fascinates me, it increases my pride, but it makes me unhappy too, +because it excludes beauty so completely. Those bleak stone-walled fields +of dirty grass, the lines of grey houses, are fine in their way--but one +wants colour and clearness. I longed for a glimpse of elms and +water-meadows, and soft-wooded pastoral hills. It produces a shrewd, +strong, good-tempered race, but very little genius. There is something +harsh about Northerners--they haven't enough colour." + +"But you are always saying," said Rose, "that we must look after form, and +chance colour." + +"Yes, but that is because you are _in statu pupillari_," said Father +Payne, "If a man begins by searching for colour and ornament and richness, +he gets clotted and glutinous. Colour looks after itself--but it isn't +clearness that I am afraid of, it is shrewdness--I think that is, on the +whole, a low quality, but it is awfully strong! What I am afraid of, in +bare laborious country like that, is that people should only think of what +is comfortable and sensible. Imagination is what really matters. It is not +enough to have solid emotions; one ought not to be too reasonable about +emotions. The thing is to care in an unreasonable and rapturous way about +beautiful things, and not to know why one cares. That is the point of +things which are simply beautiful and nothing else,--that you feel it isn't +all capable of explanation." + +"But isn't that rather sentimental?" said Rose. + +"No, no, it's just the opposite," said Father Payne. "Sentiment is when one +understands and exaggerates an emotion; beauty isn't that--it is something +mysterious and inexplicable; it makes you bow the head and worship. Take +the sort of thing you may see on the coast of Italy--a blue sea, with gray +and orange cliffs falling steeply down into deep water; a gap, with a +clustering village, coming down, tier by tier, to the sea's edge; fantastic +castles on spires of rock, thickets and dingles running down among the +clefts and out on the ledges, and perhaps a glimpse of pale, fantastic +hills behind. No one could make it or design it; but every line, every +blending colour, all combine to give you the sense of something +marvellously and joyfully contrived, and made for the richness and +sweetness of it. That is the sort of moment when I feel the overwhelming +beauty and nearness of God--everything done on a vast scale, which floods +mind and heart with utter happiness and wonder. Anything so overpoweringly +joyful and delicious and useless as all that _must_ come out of a +fulness of joy. The sharp cliffs mean some old cutting and slashing, the +blistering and burning of the earth; and yet those old rents have been +clothed and mollified by some power that finds it worth while to do it--and +it isn't done for you or me, either--there must be treasures of loveliness +going on hidden for centuries in tropic forests. It's done for the sake of +doing it; and we are granted a glimpse of it, just to show us perhaps that +we are right to adore it, and to try in our clumsy way to make beautiful +things too. That is why I envy the musician, because he creates beauty more +directly then any other mind--and the best kind of poetry is of the same +order." + +"But isn't there a danger in all this?" said Lestrange. "No, I don't want +to say anything priggish," he added, seeing a contraction of Father Payne's +brows; "I only want to say what I feel. I recognise the fascination of it +as much as anyone can--but isn't it, as you said about travelling, a kind +of intoxication? I mean, may it not be right to interpose it, but yet not +right to follow it? Isn't it a selfish thing, and doesn't it do the very +thing which you often speak against--blind us to other experience, that +is?" + +"Yes, there is something in that," said Father Payne. "Of course that is +always the difficulty about the artist, that he appears to live selfishly +in joy--but it applies to most things. The best you can do for the world is +often to turn your back upon it. Philanthropy is a beautiful thing in its +way, but it must be done by people who like it--it is useless if it is done +in a grim and self-penalising way. If a man is really big enough to follow +art, he had better follow it. I do not believe very much in the doctrine +that service to be useful must be painful. No one doubts that Wordsworth +gave more joy to humanity by living his own life than if he had been a +country doctor. Of course the sad part of it is when a man follows art and +does _not_ succeed in giving pleasure. But you must risk that--and a +real devotion to a thing gives the best chance of happiness to a man, and +is perhaps, too, his best chance of giving something to others. There is no +reason to think that Shakespeare was a philanthropist." + +"But does that apply to things like horse-racing or golf?" said Rose. + +"No, you must not pursue comfort," said Father Payne; "but I don't believe +in the theory that we have all got to set out to help other people. That +implies that a man is aware of valuable things which he has to give away. +Make friends if you can, love people if you can, but don't do it with a +sense of duty. Do what is natural and beautiful and attractive to do. Make +the little circle which surrounds you happy by sympathy and interest. Don't +deal in advice. The only advice people take is that with which they agree. +And have your own work. I think we are--many of us--afraid of enjoying +work; but in any case, if we can show other people how to perceive and +enjoy beauty, we have done a very great thing. The sense of beauty is +growing in the world. Many people are desiring it, and religion doesn't +cater for it, nor does duty cater for it. But it is the only way to make +progress--and religion has got to find out how to include beauty in its +programme, or it will be left stranded. Nothing but beauty ever lifted +people higher--the unsensuous, inexplicable charm, which makes them ashamed +of dull, ugly, greedy, quarrelsome ways. It is only by virtue of beauty +that the world climbs higher--and if the world does climb higher by +something which isn't obviously beautiful, it is only that we do not +recognise it as beautiful. Sin and evil are signals from the unknown, of +course; but they are danger signals, and we follow them with terror--but +beauty is a signal too, and it is the signal made by peace and happiness +and joy." + + + +XXII + +OF WAR + + +The talk one evening turned on War; Lestrange said that he believed it was +good for a nation to have a war: "It unites them with the sense of a common +purpose, it evokes self-sacrifice, it makes them turn to God." + +"Yes, yes," said Father Payne, rather impatiently. "But you can't personify +a nation like that; that personification of societies and classes and +sections of the human race does no end of harm. It is all a matter of +statistics, not of generalisation. Take your three statements. 'It is good +for a nation to have a war.' You mean, I suppose, that, in spite of the +loss of the best stock and the disabling of strong young men, and the +disintegration of families, and the hideous waste of time and +money--subtracting all that--there is a balance of good to the survivors?" + +"Yes, I think so," said Lestrange. + +"But are you sure about this?" said Father Payne. "How do you know? Would +you feel the same if you yourself were turned out a helpless invalid for +life with your occupation gone? Are you sure that you are not only +expressing the feeling of relief in the community at having a danger over? +Is it more than the sense of gratitude of a man who has not suffered +unbearably, to the people who _have_ died and suffered? The only +evidence worth having is that of the real sufferers. Take the case of the +people who have died. You can't get evidence from them. It is an assumption +that they are content to have died. Is not the glory which surrounds +them--and how short a time that lasts!--a human attempt to make consciences +comfortable, and to relieve human doubts? The worst of that theory is that +it makes so light of the worth of life; and, after all, a soldier's +business is to kill and not to be killed; while, generally speaking, the +worst turn that a strong, healthy, and honest man can do to his country is +to die prematurely. Of course war has a great and instinctive prestige +about it; are we not misled by that into accepting it as an inevitable +business?" + +"No, I believe there is a real gain," said Lestrange, "in the national +sense of unity, in the feeling of having been equal to an emergency." + +"But are you speaking of a nation which conquers or a nation which is +defeated?" said Father Payne. + +"Both," said Lestrange; "it unites a nation in any case." + +"But if a nation is defeated," said Father Payne, "are they the better for +the common depression of _not_ having been equal to the emergency?" + +"It may make them set their teeth," said Lestrange, "and prepare themselves +better." + +"Then it does not matter," said Father Payne, "whether they are united by +the complacency of conquest or by the desire for revenge?" + +"I would not quite say that," said Lestrange. "But at all events a desire +for revenge might teach them discipline." + +"I can't believe that," said Father Payne; "it seems to me to make all the +difference what the purpose has been. I do not believe that a nation gains +by being united for a predatory and aggressive purpose. I think the victory +of the Germans in the Franco-Prussian war has been wholly bad for them. It +has made them believe in aggressiveness. A nation naturally philosophical +and moral, and also both energetic and stupid, acquires the sense of a +divine mission like that. I don't believe that a belief in your own methods +of virtue is a wholesome belief. That seems to me likely to perpetuate +war--and I suppose that we should all believe that war was an evil, if we +could produce the good results of it without war." + +We all agreed to this. + +"I will grant," said Father Payne, "that if a nation which sincerely +believes in peace and wishes to cultivate goodwill, is wantonly and +aggressively attacked, and repels that attack, it may gain much from war if +it sticks to its theory, does not attempt reprisals, and leaves the +conquered bully in a position to see its mistake and regain its +self-respect. But it is a very dangerous kind of success for all that. I do +not believe that complacency ever does anything but harm. The purpose must +be a good one in the first place, the cause must be a great one, and it +must be honestly pursued to the end, if it is to help a nation. But it lets +all sorts of old and evil passions loose, and it makes slaughter glorious. +No, I believe that at best it is a relapse into barbarism. Hardly any +nation is strong enough and great enough to profit either by conquest or by +defeat." + +"But what about the splendid self-sacrifice it all evokes?" said Lestrange. +"People give up their comfort, their careers, they go to face the last +risk--is that nothing?" + +"No," said Father Payne; "it is a very magnificent and splendid thing,--I +don't deny that. But even so, that can't be preserved artificially. I mean +that no one would think that, if there were no chance of a real war, it +would be a good thing to evoke such self-sacrifice by having manoeuvres in +which the best youth of the country were pitted against each other, to kill +each other if possible. There must be a _real_ cause behind it. No one +would say it was a noble thing for the youth of a country to fling +themselves down over a cliff or to infect themselves with leprosy to show +that they could despise suffering and death. If it were possible to settle +the differences between nations without war, war would be a wholly evil +thing. The only thing that one can say is that while there exists a strong +nation which believes enough in war to make war aggressively, other nations +are bound to resist it. But the nation which believes in war is _ipso +facto_ an uncivilised nation." + +"But does not a war," said Lestrange, "clear the air, and take people away +from petty aims and trivial squabbles into a sterner and larger +atmosphere?" + +"Yes, I think it does," said Father Payne; "but a great pestilence might do +that. We might be thankful for all the good we could get out of a +pestilence, and be grateful for it; but we should never dream of +artificially renewing it for that reason. I look upon war as a sort of +pestilence, a contagion which spreads under certain conditions. But we +disguise the evil of it from ourselves, if we allow ourselves to believe in +its being intrinsically glorious. I can't believe that highway robbery has +only to be organised on a sufficiently large scale to make it glorious. A +man who resists highway robbery, and runs the risk of death, because he +wants to put a stop to it, seems to me a noble person--quite different from +the man who sees a row going on and joins in it because he does not want to +be out of a good thing! Do you remember the story of the Irishman who saw a +fight proceeding, and rushed into the fray wielding his shillelagh, and +praying that it might fall on the right heads? We have all of us +uncivilised instincts, but it does not make them civilised to join with a +million other people in indulging them. I think that a man who refuses to +join from conviction, at the risk of being hooted as a coward, is probably +doing a braver thing still." + +"But I have often, heard you say that life must be a battle," said +Lestrange. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but I know what I want to fight. I want the +human race to join in fighting crime and disease, evil conditions of +nurture, dishonesty and sensuality. I don't want to pit the finest stock of +each country against each other. That is simple suicide, for two nations to +kill off the men who could fight evil best. I want the nations to combine +collectively for a good purpose, not to combine separately for a bad one." + +"I see that," said Lestrange; "but I regard war as an inevitable element in +society as at present constituted. I don't think the world can be persuaded +out of it. If it ever ceases, it will die a natural death because it will +suddenly be regarded as absurd. Meantime, I think it is our duty to regard +the benefits of it; and, as I said, it turns a nation to God--it takes them +out of petty squabbles, and makes them recognise a power beyond and behind +the world." + +"Yes, that is so," said Father Payne, "if you regard war as caused by God. +But I rather believe that it is one of the things that God is fighting +against! And I don't agree that it produces a noble temper all through. It +does in many of the combatants; but there is nothing so characteristic at +the outbreak of war as the amount of bullying that is done. Peaceful people +are hooted at and shouted down; thousands of general convictions are +over-ridden; the violent have it their own way; it seems to me to organise +the unruly and obstreperous, and to force all gentler and more civilised +natures into an unconvinced silence. Many of the people who do most for the +happiness of the world can't face unpopularity. They are apt to think that +there must be something wrong with themselves, something spiritless and +abnormal, if they find themselves loathing the cruelties of which others +seem to approve. I do not believe that war organises wholesome and sane +opinion; I believe that it silences it. It is a time when base, heartless, +cruel people can become heroes. It is true that it also gives serene, +courageous, and calm people a great opportunity. But on the whole it is a +bad time for sober, orderly, and peaceable people. I believe that it evokes +a good many fine qualities--simplicity, uncomplaining patience, +unselfishness, but it reveals them rather than creates them. It shows the +worth of a nation, but it should want a great deal of evidence before I +believe that it does more than prove to people that they are braver than +they know. I can't believe vaguely in death and sorrow and disablement and +waste being good things. It is merely a question of what you are paying so +ghastly a price for. In the Napoleonic wars the price was paid for the +liberties of Europe, to show a great nation that it must abandon the ideal +of domination. That is a great cause; but it is great because men are evil, +and not because they are good. War seems to me the temporary triumph of the +old bad past over the finer and more beautiful future. Do not let us be +taken in by the romance of it. That is the childish view, that loves the +sight and sound of the marching column and the stirring music. People find +it hard to believe that anything so strong and gallant and cheerful +_can_ have a sinister side. And no doubt for a young, strong, and bold +man the excitement of it is an intense pleasure. But what we have to ask is +whether we are right in taking so heavy a toll from the world for all that: +I do not think it right, though it may be inevitable. But then I belong to +the future, and I think I should be more at home in the world a thousand +years hence than I am to-day." + +"But I go back to my point," said Lestrange: "does not a great war like +that send people to their knees in faith?" + +"Depend upon it," said Father Payne, "that anything which makes people +acquiesce in preventable evil, and see the beautiful effects of death and +pain and waste, is the direct influence of the devil. It is the last and +most guileful subtlety that he practises, to make us solemnly mournful and +patient in the presence of calamities for which we have ourselves to thank. +The only prayer worth praying in the time of war is not, 'Help us to bear +this,' but 'Help us to cure this'; and to behave with meek reverence is to +behave like the old servant in _The Master of Ballantrae_, who bore +himself like an afflicted saint under an illness, the root of which was +drunkenness. The worst religion is that which keeps its sense of repentance +alive by its own misdeeds!" + +He was silent for a moment, and then he said: "No, we mustn't make terms +with war, any more than we must do with cholera. It's a great, +heartbreaking evil, and it puts everything back a stage. Of course it +brings out fine qualities--I know that--and so does a plague of cholera. +It's the evil in both that brings out the fine things to oppose it. But we +ought to have more faith, and believe that the fine qualities are +there--war doesn't create them, it only shows you that they are +present--and we believe in war because it reassures us about the presence +of the great qualities. It shows them, and then blows them out, like the +flame of a candle. But we want to keep them; we don't want just to be shown +them, with a risk of extinguishing them. Example can do something, but not +half as much as inheritance; and we sweep away the inheritance for the sake +of the romantic delight of seeing the great virtues flare up. No," he said, +"war is one of the evil things that is trying to hurt mankind, and +disguising itself in shining armour; but it means men ill; it is for ever +trying to bring their dreams to an end." + + + +XXIII + +OF CADS AND PHARISEES + + +"There are only two sorts of people with whom it is impossible to live," +said Father Payne one day, in a loud, mournful tone. + +"Elderly women and young women, I suppose he means," said Rose softly. + +"No," said Father Payne, "I protest! I adore sensible women, simple women, +clever women, all non-predatory women--it is they who will not live with +me. I forget they are not men, and they do not like that. And then they are +so much more unselfish than men, that they have generally axes to grind, +and I don't like that." + +"Whom do you mean, then?" said I. + +"Cads and Pharisees," said Father Payne, "and they are not two sorts +really, but one. They are the people without imagination. It is that which +destroys social life, the lack of imagination. The Pharisee is the cad with +a tincture of Puritanism." + +"What is the cad, then?" said I. + +"Well," said Father Payne, "he is very easy to detect, and not very easy to +define. He is the man who has got a perfectly definite idea of what he +wants, and he suffers from isolation. He can't put himself into anyone's +place, or get inside other people's minds. He is stupid, and he is +unperceptive. He does not detect the little looks, gestures, tones of +voice, which show when people are uncomfortable or disgusted. He is not +uncomfortable or easily disgusted himself, and he does not much mind other +people being so. He says what he thinks, and you have got to lump it. +Sometimes he is good-natured enough, and even brave. There is an admirable +sketch of a good-natured cad in one of Mrs. Walford's novels, who is the +acme of kind indelicacy. The cad is dreadful to live with, because he is +always making one ashamed, and ashamed of being ashamed, because many of +the things he does do not really matter very much. Then, when he is out of +sight and hearing, you cannot trust him. He makes mischief; he throws mud. +If he is vexed with you, he injures you with other people. We are all +criticised behind our backs, of course, and we have all faults which amuse +and interest our friends; and it is not caddish to criticise friends if one +is only interested in them. But the cad is not interested, except in +clearing other people out of his way. He is treacherous and spiteful. He +drops in upon you uninvited, and then he tells people he could not get +enough to eat. He repeats things you have said about your friends to the +people of whom you have spoken, leaving out all the justifications, and +says that he thinks they ought to know how you abuse them. He borrows money +of you, and if you ask him for repayment, he says he is not accustomed to +be dunned. He never can bring himself to apologise for anything, and if you +lose your temper with him, he says you are getting testy in your old age. +His one idea is to be formidable, and he says that he does not let people +take liberties with him. He takes a mean and solitary view of the world, +and other people are merely channels for his own wishes, or obstacles to +them. The only way is to keep him at arm's length, because he is not +disarmed by any generosity or trustfulness; the discovery of caddishness in +a man is the only excuse for breaking off a companionship. The worst of it +is that cads are sometimes very clever, and don't let the caddishness +appear till you are hooked. The mischief really is that the cad has no +morals, no sense of social duty." + +"What about Pharisees?" said I. + +"Well, the Pharisee has too many morals," said Father Payne. "He is the +person whose own tastes are a sort of standard. If you disagree with him, +he thinks you must be wicked. If your tastes differ from his, they are of +the nature of sin. You live under his displeasure. If he dresses for +dinner, it is sloppy and middle-class not to do so. If he doesn't dress for +dinner, the people who do are either wasting time or aping the manners of +the great. He is always very strong about wasting time. If he likes +gardening, he says it is the best sort of exercise; if he does not, he says +that it is bilious work muddling about in a corner. Everything that he does +is done on principle, but he uses his principles to bludgeon other people. +If you make him the subject of a harmless jest, he says that he cannot bear +personalities. You can please him only by deferring to him, and the only +way to manage him is by gross flattery. A Pharisee can be a gentleman, and +he isn't purely noxious like the cad; he is only unpleasant and +discouraging. He is quite impervious to argument, and only says that he +thought the principle he is contending for was generally accepted. The +Pharisee wants in a heavy way to improve the world, and thinks meanly of +it, while the cad thinks meanly of it, and wants to exploit it. The +Pharisee is a tyrant, and hates freedom; but you can often make a friend of +him by asking him a favour, if you are also prepared to be subsequently +reminded of the trouble he took to serve you. + +"I think that the Pharisee perhaps does most harm in the end, because he +hates all experiments. He does harm to the young, because he makes them +dislike virtue and mistrust beauty. The cad does not corrupt--in fact, I +think he rather improves people, because he is so ugly a case of what no +one wishes to be--and it is better to hate people than to be frightened of +them. If we got a cad and a Pharisee in here, for instance, it would be +easier to get rid of the cad than the Pharisee." + +"I begin to breathe more freely," said Vincent. "I had begun to review my +conscience." + +Father Payne laughed. "It's all blank cartridge," he said. + + + +XXIV + +OF CONTINUANCE + + +I was walking with Father Payne in the garden one day of spring. I think I +liked him better when I was alone with him than I did when we were all +together. His mind expanded more tenderly and simply--less +epigrammatically. He spoke of this once to me, saying: "I am at my best +when alone; even one companion deflects me. I find myself wishing to please +him, pinching off roughnesses, perfuming truth, diplomatising. This ought +not to be, of course; and if one was not thorny, self-assertive, stupid, it +would not be so; and every companion added makes me worse, because the +strain of accommodation grows--I become vulgar and rough and boisterous in +a large circle. I often feel: 'How these young men must be hating this +gibbering and giggling ape, which after all is not really me!'" I tried to +reassure him, but he shook his head, though with a smiling air. "Barthrop +is not like that," he said, "the wise Barthrop! He is never suspicious or +hasty--he does not think it necessary to affirm; yet you are never in any +doubt what he thinks! He moves along like water, never anxious if he is +held up or divided, creeping on as the land lies--that is the right way." + +Presently he stopped, and looked long at some daffodil blades which were +thrusting up in a sheltered place. "Look at the gray bloom on those +blades," he said; "isn't that perfect? Fancy thinking of that--each of them +so obviously the same thought taking shape, yet each of them different. Do +not you see in them something calm, continuous, active--happy, in fact--at +work; often tripped up and imprisoned, and thwarted--but moving on?" He was +silent a little, and then he said: "This force of _life_--what a +fascinating mystery it is--never dying, never ceasing, always coming back +to shape itself into matter. I wonder sometimes it is not content to exist +alone; but no, it is always back again, arranging matter, manipulating it +into beautiful shapes and creatures, never discouraged; even when the plant +falls ill and begins to pine away, the happy life is within it--languid +perhaps, but just waiting for the release, till the cage in which it has +imprisoned itself is opened, and then--so I believe--back again in an +instant somewhere else. + +"I am inclined to believe," he went on, "that that is what we are all +about; it seems to me the only explanation for the fact that we care so +much about the past and the future. If we are creatures of a day, why +should we be interested? The only reason we care about the past is because +we ourselves were there in it; and we care about the future because we +shall be there in it again." + +"You mean a sort of re-incarnation," I said. + +"That's an ugly word for a beautiful thing," he said. "But this love of +life, this impulse to live, to protect ourselves, to keep ourselves alive, +must surely mean that we have always lived and shall always live. Some +people think that dreadful. They think it is taking liberties with them. If +they are rich and comfortable and dignified, they cannot bear to think that +they may have to begin again, perhaps as a baby in a slum--or they grow +tired, and think they want rest; but we can't rest--we must live again, we +must be back at work; and of course the real hope in it all is that, when +we do anything to make the world happier, it is our own future that we are +working for. Who could care about the future of the world, if he was to be +banished from it for ever? I was reading a book the other day, in which a +wise and a good man said that he felt about the future progress of the +world as Moses did about the promised land, 'not as of something we want to +have for ourselves, but as of something which we want to exist, whether we +exist or no,' I can't take so impersonal a view! If one really believed +that one was going to be extinguished in death, one would care no more +about the world's future than one cares where the passengers in a train are +going to, when we get out at a station. Who, on arriving at home, can lose +himself in wondering where his fellow-travellers have got to? We have +better things to do than that! That is the sham altruism. It is as if a boy +at school, instead of learning his own lesson, spent his time in imploring +the other boys to learn theirs. That is what we are whipped for--for not +learning our own lesson." + +"But if all this is so," I said, "why don't we _know_ that we shall +live again? Why is the one thing which is important for us to know hidden +from us?" + +"I think we do know it," said Father Payne, "deep down in ourselves. It is +why it is worth while to go on living. If we believed our reason, which +tells us that we come to an end and sink into silence, we could not care to +live, to suffer, to form passionate ties which must all be severed, only to +sink into nothingness ourselves. If we will listen to our instincts, they +assure us that it _is_ all worth doing, because it all has a +significance for us in the life that comes next." + +"But if we are to go on living," I said, "are we to forget all the love and +interest and delight of life? There seems no continuance of identity +without memory." + +"Oh," said Father Payne, "that is another delusion of reason. Our qualities +remain--our power of being interested, of loving, of caring, of suffering. +We practise them a little in one life, we practise them again in the +next--that is why we improve. I forget who it was who said it, but it is +quite true, that there are numberless people now alive, who, because of +their orderliness, their patience, their kindness, their sweetness, would +have been adored as saints if they had lived in mediaeval times. And that +is the best reason we have for suppressing as far as we can our evil +dispositions, and for living bravely and freely in happy energy, that we +shall make a little better start next time. It is not the particular people +we love who matter--it is the power of loving other people--and if we meet +the same people as those we loved again, we shall love them again; and if +we do not, why, there will be others to love. One of the worst limitations +I feel is the fact that there are so many thousand people on earth whom I +could love, if I could but meet them--and I am not going to believe that +this wretched span of days is my only chance of meeting them. We need not +be in a hurry--and yet we have no time to waste!" + +He stopped for a moment, and then added: "When I lived in London, and was +very poor, and had either too much or not enough to do, and was altogether +very unhappy, I used to wander about the streets and wonder how I could be +so much alone when there were so many possible friends. Just above Ludgate +Railway Viaduct, as you go to St. Paul's, there is a church on your left, a +Wren church, very plain, of white and blackened stone, and an odd lead +spire at the top. It has hardly any ornament, but just over the central +doorway, under a sort of pediment, there is a little childish angel's head, +a beautiful little baby face, with such an expression of stifled +bewilderment. It seems to say, 'Why should I hang here, covered with soot, +with this mob of people jostling along below, in all this noise and dirt?' +The child looks as if it was just about to burst into tears. I used to feel +like that. I used to feel that I was meant to be happy, and even to make +people happy, and that I had been caught and pinned down in a sort of +pillory. It's a grievous mistake to feel like that. Self-pity is the worst +of all luxuries! But I think I owe all my happiness to that bad time. +Coming here was like a resurrection; and I never grudged the time when I +was face to face with a nasty, poky, useless life. And if that can happen +inside a single existence, I am not going to despair about the possibility +of its happening in many existences. I dreamed the other night that I saw a +party of little angels singing a song together, all absorbed in making +music, and I recognised the little child of Ludgate Hill in the middle of +them singing loud and clear. He gave me a little smile and something like a +wink, and I knew that he had got his promotion. We ought all of us, and +always, to be expecting that. But we have got to earn it, of course. It +does not come if we wait with folded hands." + + + +XXV + +OF PHILANTHROPY + + +Father Payne told us an odd story to-day of a big house on the outskirts of +London, with a great garden and some fields belonging to it, that was shut +up for years and seemed neglected. It was inhabited by an old retired +Colonel and his daughter: the daughter had become an invalid, and her mind +was believed to be affected. No one ever came to the house or called there. +A wall ran, round it, and the trees grew thick and tangled within; the big +gates were locked. Occasionally the Colonel came out of a side-door, a tall +handsome man, and took a brisk walk; sometimes he would be seen handing his +daughter, much wrapped up, into a carriage, and they drove together. But +the place had a sinister air, and was altogether regarded with a gloomy +curiosity. + +When the Colonel died, it was discovered that the place was beautifully +kept within, and the house delightfully furnished. It came out that, after +a period of mental depression, the daughter had recovered her spirits, +though her health was still delicate. The two were devoted to each other, +and they decided that, instead of living an ordinary sociable life, they +would just enjoy each other's society in peace. It had been the happiest +life, simple, tenderly affectionate, the two living in and for each other, +and one, moreover, of open-handed, secret benevolence. Apart from the +expenses of the household, the Colonel's wealth had been used to support +every kind of good work. Only one old friend of the Colonel's was in the +secret, and he spoke of it as one of the most beautiful homes he had ever +seen. + +Someone of us criticised the story, and asked whether it was not a case of +refined selfishness. He added rather incisively that the expenditure of +money on charitable objects seemed to him to show that the Colonel's +conscience was ill at ease. + +Father Payne was very indignant. He said the world had gone mad on +philanthropy and social service. Three-quarters of it was only fussy +ambition. He went on to say that a beautiful and simple life was probably +the thing most worth living in the world, and that two people could hardly +be better employed than in making each other happy. He said that he did not +believe in self-denial unless people liked it. Was it really a finer life +to chatter at dinner-parties and tea-parties, and occasionally to inspect +an orphanage? Perspiration was not the only evidence of godliness. Why, was +it to be supposed that one could not live worthily unless one was always +poking one's nose into one's neighbour's concerns? He said that you might +as well say that it was refined selfishness to have a rose-tree in your +garden, unless you cut off every bud the moment it appeared and sent it to +a hospital. If the critic really believed what he said, Aveley was no place +for him. Let him go to Chicago! + + + +XXVI + +OF FEAR + + +I forget what led up to the subject; perhaps I did not hear; but Father +Payne said, "It isn't for nothing that 'the fearful' head the list of all +the abominable people--murderers, sorcerers, idolaters; and liars--who are +reserved for the lake of fire and brimstone! Fear is the one thing that we +are always wrong in yielding to: I don't mean timidity and cowardice, but +the sort of heavy, mild, and rather pious sort of foreboding that wakes one +up early in the morning, and that takes all the wind out of one's sails; +fear of not being liked, of having given offence, of living uselessly, of +wasting time and opportunities. Whatever we do, we must not lead an +apologetic kind of life. If we on the whole intend to do something which we +think may be wrong, it is better to do it--it is wrong to be cautious and +prudent. I love experiments." + +"Isn't that rather immoral?" said Lestrange. + +"No, my dear boy," said Father Payne, "we must make mistakes: better make +them! I am not speaking of things obviously wrong, cruel, unkind, +ungenerous, spiteful things; but it is right to give oneself away, to yield +to impulses, not to take advice too much, and not to calculate consequences +too much. I hate the Robinson Crusoe method of balancing pros and cons. +Live your own life, do what you are inclined to do, as long as you really +do it. That is probably the best way of serving the world. Don't be argued +into things, or bullied out of them. You need not parade it--but rebel +silently. It is absolutely useless going about knocking people down. That +proves nothing except that you are stronger. Don't show up people, or fight +people; establish a stronger influence if you can, and make people see that +it is happier and pleasanter to live as you live. Make them envy you--don't +make them fear you. You must not play with fear, and you must not yield to +fear." + + + +XXVII + +OF ARISTOCRACY + + +Father Payne came into the hall one morning after breakfast when I was +opening a parcel of books which had arrived for me. It was a fine, sunny +day, and the sun lit up the portrait framed in the panelling over the +mantelpiece, an old and skilful copy (at least I suppose it was a copy) of +Reynolds' fine portrait of James, tenth Earl of Shropshire. Father Payne +regarded the picture earnestly. "Isn't he magnificent?" he said. "But he +was a very poor creature really, and came to great grief. My +great-great-grandfather! His granddaughter married my grandfather. Now look +at that--that's the best we can do in the way of breeding! There's a man +whose direct ancestors, father to son, had simply the best that money can +buy--fine houses to live in, power, the pick of the matrimonial market, the +best education, a fine tradition, every inducement to behave like a hero; +and what did he do--he gambled away his inheritance, and died of drink and +bad courses. We can't get what we want, it would seem, by breeding human +beings, though we can do it with cows and pigs. Where and how does the +thing go wrong? His father and mother were both of them admirable +people--fine in every sense of the word. + +"And then people talk, too, as if we had got rid of idolatry! We make a man +a peer, we heap wealth upon him, and then we worship him for his +magnificence, and are deeply affected if he talks civilly to us. We don't +do it quite so much now, perhaps--but in that man's day, think what an +aroma of rank and splendour is cast, even in Boswell's _Life of +Johnson_, over a dinner-party where a man like that was present! If he +paid Johnson the most trumpery of compliments, Johnson bowed low, and down +it went on Boswell's cuff! Yet we go on perpetuating it. We don't require +that such a man should be active, public-spirited, wise. If he is fond of +field-sports, fairly business-like, kindly, courteous, decently virtuous, +we think him a great man, and feel mildly elated at meeting him and being +spoken to civilly by him. I don't mean that only snobs feel that; but +respectable people, who don't pursue fashion, would be more pleased if an +Earl they knew turned up and asked for a cup of tea than if the worthiest +of their neighbours did so. I don't exaggerate the power of rank--it +doesn't make a man necessarily powerful now, but a very little ability, +backed up by rank, will go a long way. A great general or a great statesman +likes to be made an Earl; and yet a good many people would like an Earl of +long descent quite as much. There are a lot of people about who feel as +Melbourne did when he said he liked the Garter so much because there was no +d----d merit about it. I believe we admire people who inherit magnificence +better than we admire people who earn it; and while that feeling is there, +what can be done to alter it?" + +"I don't think I want to alter it," I said; "it is very picturesque!" + +"Yes, there's the mischief," said Father Payne, "it _is_ more +picturesque, hang it all! The old aristocrat who feels like a prince and +behaves like one, _is_ more picturesque than the person who has +sweated himself into it. Think of the old Duke who was told he _must_ +retrench, and that he need not have six still-room maids in his +establishment, and said, after a brief period of reflection, 'D----n it, a +man must have a biscuit!' We _like_ insolence! That is to say, we like +it in its place, because we admire power. It's ten times more impressive +than the meekness of the saint. The mischief is that we like anything from +a man of power. If he is insolent, we think it grand; if he is stupid, we +think it a sort of condescension; if he is mild and polite, we think it +marvellous; if he is boorish, we think it is simple-minded. It is power +that we admire, or rather success, and both can be inherited. If a man gets +a big position in England, he is always said to grow into it; but that is +because we care about the position more than we care about the man. + +"When I was younger," he went on, "I used to like meeting successful +people--it was only rarely that I got the chance--but I gradually +discovered that they were not, on the whole, the interesting people. +Sometimes they were, of course, when they were big animated men, full of +vitality and interest. But many men use themselves up in attaining success, +and haven't anything much to give you except their tired side. No, I soon +found out that freshness was the interesting thing, wherever it was to be +found--and, mind you, it isn't very common. Many people have to arrive at +success by resolute self-limitation; and that becomes very uninteresting. +Buoyancy, sympathy, quick interests, perceptiveness--that's the supreme +charm; and the worst of it is that it mostly belongs to the people who +haven't taken too much out of themselves. When we have got a really +well-ordered State, no one will have any reason to work too hard, and then +we shall all be the happier. These gigantic toilers, it's a sort of +morbidity, you know; the real success is to enjoy work, not to drudge +yourself dry. One must overflow--not pump!" + +"But what is an artist to do," I said, "who is simply haunted by the desire +to make something beautiful?" + +"He must hold his hand," said Father Payne; "he must learn to waste his +time, and he must love wasting it. A habit of creative work is an awful +thing." + +"Come out for a turn," he went on; "never mind these rotten books; don't +get into a habit of reading--it's like endlessly listening to good talk +without ever joining in it--it makes a corpulent mind!" + +We went and walked in the garden; he stopped before some giant hemlocks. +"Just look at those great things," he said, "built up as geometrically as a +cathedral, tier above tier, and yet not _quite_ regular. There must be +something very hard at work inside that, piling it all up, adding cell to +cell, carrying out a plan, and enjoying it all. Yet the beauty of it is +that it isn't perfectly regular. You see the underlying scheme, yet the +separate shoots are not quite mechanical--they lean away from each other, +that joint is a trifle shorter--there wasn't quite room at the start in +that stem, and the pressure goes on showing right up to the top, I suppose +our lives would look very nearly as geometrical to anyone who +_knew_--really knew; but how little geometrical we feel! I don't +suppose this hemlock is cursed by the power of thinking it might have done +otherwise, or envies the roses. We mustn't spend time in envying, or +repenting either--or still less in renouncing life." + +"But if I want to renounce it," I said, "why shouldn't I?" + +"Yes, there you have me," said Father Payne; "we know so little about +ourselves, that we don't always know whether we do better to renounce a +thing or to seize it. Make experiments, I say--don't make habits." + +"But you are always drilling me into habits," I said. + +He gave me a little shake with his hand. "Yes, the habit of being able to +do a thing," he said, "not the habit of being unable to do anything else! +Hang these metaphysics, if that is what they are! What I want you young men +to do is to get a firm hold upon life, and to feel that it is a finer thing +than any little presentment of it. I want you to feel and enjoy for +yourselves, and to live freely and generously. Bad things happen to all of +us, of course; but we mustn't mind that--not to be petty or quarrelsome, or +hidebound or prudish or over-particular, that's the point. To leave other +people alone, except on the rare occasions when they are not letting other +people alone; to be peaceable, and yet not to be afraid; not to be hurt and +vexed; to practise forgetting; not to want to pouch things! It's all very +well for me to talk," he said; "I made a sufficient hash of it, when I was +poor and miserable and overworked; and then I was transplanted out of a +slum window-box into a sunny garden, just in time; yet I'm sure that most +of my old troubles were in a way of my own making, because I hated being so +insignificant; but I fear that was a little poison lurking in me from the +Earls of Shropshire. That is the odd thing about ambitions, that they seem +so often like regaining a lost position rather than making a new one. The +truth is that we are caged; and the only thing to do is to think about the +cage as little as we can." + + + +XXVIII + +OF CRYSTALS + + +One day I was strolling down the garden among the winding paths, when I +came suddenly upon Father Payne, who was hurrying towards the house. He had +in each of his hands a large roughly spherical stone, and looked at me a +little shamefacedly. + +"You look, Father," I said, "as if you were going to stone Stephen." + +He laughed, and looked at the stones. "Yes," he said, "they are what the +Greeks called 'hand-fillers,' for use in battle--but I have no nefarious +designs." + +"What are you going to do with them?" I said + +"That's a secret!" he said, and made as if he were going in. Then he said, +"Come, you shall hear it--you shall share my secret, and be a partner in my +dreams, as the fisherman says in Theocritus." But he did not tell me what +he was going to do, and seemed half shy of doing so. + +"It's like Dr. Johnson and the orange-peel," I said. "'Nay, Sir, you shall +know their fate no further.'" + +"Well, the truth is," he said at last, "that I'm a perfect baby. I never +can resist looking into a hole in the ground, and I happened to look into +the pit where we dig gravel. I can't tell you how long I spent there." + +"What were you doing?" I said. + +"Looking for fossils," he said; "I had a great gift for finding them when I +was a child. I didn't find any fossils to-day, but I found these stones, +and I think they contain crystals. I am going to break them and see." + +I took one in my hand. "I think they are only fossil sponges," I said; +"there will only be a rusty sort of core inside." + +"You know that!" he said, brightening up; "you know about stones too? But +these are not sponges--they would rattle if they were--no, they contain +crystals--I am sure of it. Come and see!" + +We went into the stable-yard. Father Payne fetched a hammer, and then +selected a convenient place in the cobbled yard to break the stones. He put +one of them in position, and aimed a blow at it, but it glanced off, and +the stone flew off with the impact to some distance. "Lie still, can't +you?" said Father Payne, apostrophising the stone, and adding, "This is for +my pleasure, not for yours." I recovered the stone, and brought it back, +and Father Payne broke it with a well-directed blow. He gathered up the +pieces eagerly. "Yes," he said, "it's all right--they are blue crystals: +better than I had hoped." + +He handed a fragment to me to look at. The inside of the stone was hollow. +It had a coagulated appearance, and was thickly coated with minute bluish +crystals, very beautiful. + +"I don't know that I ever saw a stone I liked as well as this," said Father +Payne, musing over another piece. "Think what millions of years this has +been like that,--before Abraham was! It has never seen the light of day +before--it's a splash of some molten stone, which fell plop into a cool +sea-current, I suppose. I wish I knew all about it. The question, is, why +is it so beautiful? It couldn't help it, I suppose! But for whose delight?" +Then he said, "I suppose this was a vacuum in here till it was broken? That +is why it is so clear and fresh. Good Heavens, what would I not give to +know why this thing cooled into these lovely little shapes. It's no use +talking about the laws of matter--why are the laws of matter what they are, +and not different? And odder still, why do I like the look of it?" + +"Perhaps that is a law of matter too," I said. + +"Oh, shut up!" said Father Payne to me. "But I understand--and of course +the temptation is to believe that this was all done on your account and +mine. That is as odd a thing as the stone itself, if you come to think of +it, that we should be made so that we refer everything to ourselves, and to +believe that God prepared this pretty show for us." + +"I suppose we come in somewhere?" I said. + +"Yes, we are allowed to see it," said Father Payne. "But it wasn't arranged +for the benefit of a silly old man like me. That is the worst of our +religious theories--that we believe that God is for ever making personal +appeals to us. It is that sort of self-importance which spoils everything." + +"But I can hardly believe that we have this sense of self-importance only +to get rid of it," I said. "It all seems to me a dreadful muddle--to shut +up these lovely little things inside millions of stones, and then to give +us the wish to break a couple, only that we may reflect that they were not +meant for us to see at all." + +Father Payne gave a groan. "Yes, it is a muddle!" he said. "But one thing I +feel clear about--that a beautiful thing like this means a sense of joy +somewhere: some happiness went to the making of things which in a sense are +quite useless, but are unutterably lovely all the same. Beauty implies +consciousness--but come, we are neglecting our business. Give me the other +stone at once!" + +I gave it him, and he cracked it. "Very disappointing!" he said. "I made +sure there was a beautiful stone, but it is all solid--only a flaky sort of +jelly--it's no use at all!" + +He threw it aside, but carefully gathered up the fragments of the +crystalline stone. "Don't tell of me!" he said, looking at me whimsically. +"This is the sort of nonsense which our sensible friends won't understand. +But now that I know that you care about stones, we will have a rare hunt +together one of these days. But mind--no stuff about geology! It's beauty +that we are in search of, you and I." + + + +XXIX + +EARLY LIFE + + +One day, to my surprise and delight, Father Payne indulged in some personal +reminiscences about his early life. He did not as a rule do this. He used +to say that it was the surest sign of decadence to think much about the +past. "Sometimes when I wake early," he said, "I find myself going back to +my childhood, and living through scene after scene. It's not wholesome--I +always know I am a little out of sorts when I do that--it is only one +degree better than making plans about the future!" + +However, on this occasion he was very communicative. He had been talking +about Ruskin, and he said: "Do you remember in _Praeterita_ how +Ruskin, writing about his sheltered and complacent childhood, describes how +entirely he lived in the pleasure of _sight_? He noticed everything, +the shapes and colours of things, the almond blossom, the ants that made +nests in the garden walk, the things they saw in their travels. He was +entirely absorbed in sense-impressions. Well, that threw a light on my own +life, because it was exactly what happened to me as a child. I lived wholly +in observation. I had no mind and very little heart. I suppose that I had +so much to do looking at everything, getting the shapes and the textures +and the qualities of everything by heart, that I had no time to think about +ideas and emotions. I had a very lonely childhood, you know, brought up in +the country by my mother, who was rather an invalid, my father being dead. +I had no companions to speak of, and I didn't care about anyone or need +anyone--it was all simply a collecting of impressions. The result is that I +can visualise anything and everything--speak of a larch-bud or a fir-cone, +and there it is before me--the little rosy fragrant tuft, or the glossy +rectangular squares of the cone. Then I went to Marlborough, and I was +dreadfully unhappy, I hated everything and everybody--the ugliness and +slovenliness of it all, the noise, the fuss, the stink. I did not feel I +had anything in common with those little brutes, as I thought them. I lived +the life of a blind creature in a fright, groping aimlessly about. I joined +in nothing--but I was always strong, and so I was left alone. No one dared +to interfere with me; and I have sometimes wished I hadn't been so strong, +that I had had the experience of being weak. I dare say that nasty things +might have happened--but I should have known more what the world was like, +I should have depended more upon other people, I should have made friends. +As it was, I left school entirely innocent, very solitary, very modest, +thinking myself a complete duffer, and everyone else a beast. It got a +little better at the end of my time, and I had a companion or two--but I +never dreamed of telling anyone what I was really thinking about." + +He broke off suddenly. "This is awful twaddle!" he said. "Why should you +care to hear about all this? I was thinking aloud." + +"Do go on thinking aloud a little," I said; "it is most interesting!" + +"Ah," he said, "with the flatterers were busy mockers! You enjoy staring +and looking upon me." + +"No, no," I said, rather nettled. "Father Payne, don't you understand? I +want to hear more about you. I want to know how you came to be what you +are: it interests me more than I can say. You asked me about myself when I +came here, and I told you. Why shouldn't I ask you, for a change?" + +He smiled, obviously pleased at this. "Why, then," he said, "I'll go on. +I'm not above liking to tell my tale, like the Ancient Mariner. You can +beat your breast when you are tired of it." He was intent for a moment, and +then went on. "Well, I went up to Oxford--to Corpus. A funny little place, +I now think--rather intellectual. I could hardly believe my senses when I +found how different it was from school, and how independent. Heavens, how +happy I was! I made some friends--I found I could make friends after all--I +could say what I liked, I could argue, I could even amuse them. I really +couldn't make you realise how I adored some of those men. I used to go to +sleep after a long evening of chatter, simply hating the darkness which +separated me from life and company. There were two in particular, very +ordinary young men, I expect. But they were fond of me, and liked being +with me, and I thought them the most wonderful and enchanting persons, with +a wide knowledge of the great mysterious world. The world! It wasn't, I +saw, a nasty, jostling place, as I had thought at school, but a great +beautiful affair, full of love and delight, of interest and ideas. I read, +I talked, I flew about--it was simply a new birth! I felt like a prisoner +suddenly released. Of course, the mischief was that I neglected my work. +There wasn't time for that: and I fell in love, too, or thought I did, with +the sister of one of those friends, with whom I went to stay. I wonder if +anyone was ever in love like that! I daresay it's common enough. But I +won't go into that; these raptures are for private consumption. I was +roughly jerked up. I took a bad degree. My mother died--I had very little +in common with her: she was an invalid without any hold on life, and I took +no trouble to be kind to her--I was perfectly selfish and wilful. Then I +had to earn my living. I would have given anything to stay at Oxford: and +you know, even now, when I think of Oxford, a sort of electric shock goes +through me, I love it so much. I daren't even set foot there, I'm so afraid +of finding it altered. But when I think of those dark courts and bowery +gardens, and the men moving about, and the fronts of blistered stone, and +the little quaint streets, and the meadows and elms, and the country all +about, I have a physical yearning that is almost a pain--a sort of +home-sickness--" + +He broke off, and was silent for a moment, and I saw that his eyes were +full of tears. + +"Then it was London, that accursed place! I had a tiny income: I got a job +at a coaching establishment, I worked like the devil. That was a cruel +time. I couldn't dream of marriage--that all vanished, and she married +pretty soon, I couldn't get a holiday--I was too poor. I tried writing, but +I made a hash of that. I simply went down into hell. One of my great +friends died, and the other--well, it was awkward to meet, when I had had +to break it off with his sister. I simply can't describe to you how utterly +horrible it all was. I used to teach all the terms, and in the vacations I +simply mooned about. I hadn't a club, and I used to read at the +Museum--read just to keep my senses. Then, I suppose I got used to it. Of +course, if I had had any adventurousness in me, I should have gone off and +become a day-labourer or anything--but I am not that sort of person. + +"That went on till I was about thirty-three--and then quite suddenly, and +without any warning, I had my experience. I suppose that something was +going on inside me all the time, something being burnt out of me in those +fires. It was a mixture of selfishness and stupidity and perverseness that +was the matter with me. I didn't see that I could do anything. I was simply +furious with the world for being such a hole, and with God for sticking me +in the middle of it. The occasion of the change was simply too ridiculous. +It was nothing else but coming back to my rooms and finding a big bowl of +daffodils there. They had been left, my landlady told me, by a young +gentleman. It sounds foolish enough--but it suddenly occurred to me to +think that someone was interested in me, pitied me, cared for me. A sort of +mist cleared away from my eyes, and I saw in a flash, what was the +mischief--that I had walled myself in by my misery and bad temper, and by +my expectation that something must be done for me. The next day I had to +take a lot of pupils, one after another, for composition. One of them had a +daffodil in his hand, which he put down carelessly on the table. I stared +at it and at him, and he blushed. He wasn't an interesting young man to +look at or to talk to--but it was just a bit of simple humanity. It all +came out. I had been good to him--I looked as if I were having a bad time. +It was just a little human, signal, and a beautiful one. It was there, +then, all the time, I saw--human affection--if I cared to put out my hand +for it. I can't describe to you how it all developed, but my heart had +melted somehow--thawed like a lump of ice. I saw that there was no specific +ill-will to me in the world. I saw that everything was there, if I only +chose to take it. That was my second awakening--a glimmer of light through +a chink--and suddenly, it was day! I had been growling over bones and straw +in a filthy kennel, and I was not really tied up at all. Life was running +past me, a crystal river. I was dying of thirst: and all because it was not +given me in a clean glass on a silver tray, I would not drink it--and God +smiling at me all the time." + +Father Payne walked on in silence. + +"The truth is, my boy," he said a minute later, "that I'm a converted man, +and it isn't everyone who can say that--nor do I wish everyone to be +converted, because it's a ghastly business preparing for the operation. It +isn't everyone who needs it--only those self-willed, devilish, stand-off, +proud people, who have to be braised in a mortar and pulverised to atoms. +Then, when you are all to bits, you can be built up. Do you remember that +stone we broke the other day? Well, I was a melted blob of stone, and then +I was crystallised--now I'm full of eyes within! And the best of it is that +they are little living eyes, and not sparkling flints--they see, they don't +reflect! At least I think so; and I don't think trouble is brewing for me +again--though that is always the danger!" + +I was very deeply moved by this, and said something about being grateful. + +"Oh, not that," said Father Payne; "you don't know what fun it has been to +me to tell you. That's the sort of thing that I want to get into one of my +novels, but I can't manage it. But the moral is, if I may say so: Be afraid +of self-pity and dignity and self-respect--don't be afraid of happiness and +simplicity and kindness. Give yourself away with both hands. It's easy for +me to talk, because I have been loaded with presents ever since: the clouds +drop fatness--a rich but expressive image that!" + + + +XXX + +OF BLOODSUCKERS + + +"I'm feeling low to-night," said Father Payne in answer to a question about +his prolonged silence. "I'm not myself: virtue has gone out of me--I'm in +the clutches of a bloodsucker." + +"Old debts with compound interest?" said Rose cheerfully. + +"Yes," said Father Payne with a frown; "old emotional I.O.U.'s. I didn't +know what I was putting my name to." + +"A man or a woman?" said Rose. + +"Thank God, it's a man!" said Father Payne. "Female bloodsuckers are worse +still. A man, at all events, only wants the blood; a woman wants the +pleasure of seeing you wince as well!" + +"It sounds very tragic," said Kaye. + +"No, it's not tragic," said Father Payne; "there would be something +dignified about that! It's only unutterably low and degrading. Come, I'll +tell you about it. It will do me good to get it off my chest. + +"It is one of my old pupils," Father Payne went on. "He once got into +trouble about money, and I paid his debts--he can't forgive me that!" + +"Does he want you to pay some more?" said Rose. + +"Yes, he does," said Father Payne, "but he wants to be high-minded too. He +wants me to press him to take the money, to prevail upon him to accept it +as a favour. He implies that if I hadn't begun by paying his debts +originally, he would not have ever acquired what he calls 'the unhappy +habit of dependence.' Of course he doesn't think that really: he wants the +money, but he also wants to feel dignified. 'If I thought it would make you +happier if I accepted it,' he says, 'of course I should view the matter +differently. It would give me a reason for accepting what I must confess +would be a humiliation,' Isn't that infernal? Then he says that I may +perhaps think that his troubles have coarsened him, but that he unhappily +retains all his old sensitiveness. Then he goes on to say that it was I who +encouraged him to preserve a high standard of delicacy in these matters." + +"He must be a precious rascal," said Vincent. + +"No, he isn't," said Father Payne, "that's the worst of it--but he is a +frantic poseur. He has got so used to talking and thinking about his +feelings, that he doesn't know what he really does feel. That's the part of +it which bothers me: because if he was a mere hypocrite, I would say so +plainly. One must not be taken in by apparent hypocrisy. It often +represents what a man did once really think, but which has become a mere +memory. One must not be hard on people's reminiscences. Don't you know how +the mildest people are often disposed to make out that they were reckless +and daring scapegraces at school? That isn't a lie; it is imagination +working on very slender materials." + +We laughed at this, and then Barthrop said, "Let me write to him, Father. I +won't be offensive." + +"I know you wouldn't," said Father Payne; "but no one can help me. It's not +my fault, but my misfortune. It all comes of acting for the best. I ought +to have paid his debts, and made myself thoroughly unpleasant about it. +What I did was to be indulgent and sympathetic. It's all that accursed +sentimentality that does it. I have been trying to write a letter to him +all the morning, showing him up to himself without being brutal. But he +will only write back and say that I have made him miserable, and that I +have wholly misunderstood him: and then I shall explain and apologise; and +then he will take the money to show that he forgives me. I see a horrible +vista of correspondence ahead. After four or five letters, I shall not have +the remotest idea what it is all about, and he will be full of reproaches. +He will say that it isn't the first time that he has found how the increase +of wealth makes people ungenerous. Oh, don't I know every step of the way! +He is going to have the money, and he is going to put me in the wrong: that +is his plan, and it is going to come off. I shall be in the wrong: I feel +in the wrong already!" + +"Then in that case there is certainly no necessity for losing the money +too!" said Rose. + +"It's all very well for you to talk in that impersonal way, Rose," said +Father Payne. "Of course I know very well that you would handle the +situation kindly and decisively; but you don't know what it is to suffer +from politeness like a disease. I have done nothing wrong except that I +have been polite when I might have been dry. I see right through the man, +but he is absolutely impervious; and it is my accursed politeness that +makes it impossible for me to say bluntly what I know he will dislike and +what he genuinely will not understand. I know what you are thinking, every +one of you--that I say lots of things that you dislike--but then you +_do_ understand! I could no more tell this wretch the truth than I +could trample on a blind old man." + +"What will you really do?" said Barthrop. + +"I shall send him the money," said Father Payne firmly, "and I shall +compliment him on his delicacy; and then, thank God, I shall forget, until +it all begins again. I am a wretched old opportunist, of course; a sort of +Ally Sloper--not fit company for strong and concise young men!" + + + +XXXI + +OF INSTINCTS + + +I do not remember what led to this remark of Father Payne's:--"It's a +painful fact, from the ethical point of view, that qualities are more +admired, and more beautiful indeed, the more instinctive they are. We don't +admire the faculty of taking pains very much. The industrious boy at school +is rather disliked than otherwise, while the brilliant boy who can construe +his lesson without learning it is envied. Take a virtue like courage: the +love of danger, the contempt of fear, the power of dashing headlong into a +thing without calculating the consequences is the kind of courage we +admire. The person who is timid and anxious, and yet just manages +desperately to screw himself up to the sticking-point, does not get nearly +as much credit as the bold devil-may-care person. It is so with most +performances; we admire ease and rapidity much more than perseverance and +tenacity, what obviously costs little effort rather than what costs a great +deal. + +"We all rather tend to be bored by a display of regularity and discipline. +Do you remember that letter of Keats, where he confesses his intense +irritation at the way in which his walking companion, Brown, I think, +always in the evening got out his writing-materials in the same +order--first the paper, then the ink, then the pen. 'I say to him,' says +Keats, 'why not the pen sometimes first?' We don't like precision; look at +the word 'Methodist,' which originally was a nick-name for people of +strictly disciplined life. We like something a little more gay and +inconsequent. + +"Yet the power of forcing oneself by an act of will to do something +unpleasant is one of the finest qualities in the world. There is a story of +a man who became a Bishop. He was a delicate and sensitive fellow, much +affected by a crowd, and particularly by the sight of people passing in +front of him. He began his work by holding an enormous confirmation, and +five times in the course of it he actually had to retire to the vestry, +where he was physically sick. That's a heroic performance; but we admire +still more a bland and cheerful Bishop who is not sick, but enjoys a +ceremony." + +"Surely that is all right, Father Payne?" said Barthrop. "When we see a +performance, we are concerned with appreciating the merit of it. A man with +a bad headache, however gallant, is not likely to talk as well as a man in +perfect health and high spirits; but if we are not considering the +performance, but the virtues of the performer, we might admire the man who +pumped up talk when he was feeling wretched more than the man from whom it +flowed." + +"The judicious Barthrop!" said Father Payne. "Yes, you are right--but for +all that we do not instinctively admire effort as much as we admire easy +brilliance. We are much more inclined to imitate the brilliant man than we +are to imitate the man who has painfully developed an accomplishment. The +truth is, we are all of us afraid of effort; and instinct is generally so +much more in the right than reason, that I end by believing that it is +better to live freely in our good qualities, than painfully to conquer our +bad qualities; not to take up work that we can't do from a sense of duty, +but to take up work that we can do from a sense of pleasure. I believe in +finding our real life more than in sticking to one that is not real for the +sake of virtue. Trained inclination is the secret. That is why I should +never make a soldier. I love being in a rage--no one more--it has all the +advantages and none of the disadvantages of getting drunk. But I can't do +it on the word of command." + +"Isn't that what is called hedonism?" said Lestrange. + +"You must not get in the way of calling names!" said Father Payne; +"hedonism is a word invented by Puritans to discourage the children of +light. It is not a question of doing what you like, but of liking what you +do. Of course everyone has got to choose--you can't gratify all your +impulses, because they thwart each other; but if you freely gratify your +finer impulses, you will have much less temptation to indulge your baser +inclinations. It is more important to have the steam up and to use the +brake occasionally, than never to have the steam up at all." + + + +XXXII + +OF HUMILITY + + +We had been listening to a paper by Kaye--a beautiful and fanciful piece of +work; when he finished, Father Payne said: "That's a charming thing, +Kaye--a little sticky in places, but still beautiful." + +"It's not so good as I had hoped," said Kaye mildly. + +"Oh, don't be humble," said Father Payne; "that's the basest of the +virtues, because it vanishes the moment you realise it! Make your bow like +a man. It may not be as good as you hoped--nothing ever is--but surely it +is better than you expected?" + +Kaye blushed, and said, "Well, yes, it is." + +"Now let me say generally," said Father Payne, "that in art you ought never +to undervalue your own work. You ought all to be able to recognise how far +you have done what you intended. The big men, like Tennyson and Morris, +were always quite prepared to praise their own work. They did it quite +modestly, more as if some piece of good fortune had befallen them than as +if they deserved credit. There's no such thing as taking credit to oneself +in art. What you try to do is always bound to be miles ahead of what you +can do--that is where the humility comes in. But a man who can't admire his +own work on occasions, can't admire anyone's work. If you do a really good +thing, you ought to feel as if you had been digging for diamonds and had +found a big one. Hang it, you _intend_ to make a fine thing! You are +not likely to be conceited about it, because you can't make a beautiful +thing every day; and the humiliation comes in when, after turning out a +good thing, you find yourself turning out a row of bad ones. The only +artists who are conceited are those who can't distinguish between what is +good and what is inferior in their own work. You must not expect much +praise, and least of all from other artists, because no artist is ever very +deeply interested in another artist's work, except in the work of the two +or three who can do easily what he is trying to do. But it is a deep +pleasure, which may be frankly enjoyed, to turn out a fine bit of work; +though you must not waste much time over enjoying it, because you have got +to go on to the next." + +"I always think it must be very awful," said Vincent, "when it dawns upon a +man that his mind is getting stiff and his faculty uncertain, and that he +is not doing good work any more. What ought people to do about stopping?" + +"It's very hard to say," said Father Payne. "The happiest thing of all is, +I expect, to die before that comes; and the next best thing is to know when +to stop and to want to stop. But many people get a habit of work, and fall +into dreariness without it." + +"Isn't it better to go on with the delusion that you are just as good as +ever--like Wordsworth and Browning?" said Rose. + +"No, I don't think that is better," said Father Payne, "because it means a +sort of blindness. It is very curious in the case of Browning, because he +learned exactly how to do things. He had his method, he fixed upon an +abnormal personality or a curious incident, and he turned it inside out +with perfect fidelity. But after a certain time in his life, the thing +became suddenly heavy and uninteresting. Something evaporated--I do not +know what! The trick is done just as deftly, but one is bored; one simply +doesn't care to see the inside of a new person, however well dissected. +There's no life, no beauty about the later things. Wordsworth is somehow +different--he is always rather noble and prophetic. The later poems are not +beautiful, but they issue from a beautiful idea--a passion of some kind. +But the later Browning poems are not passionate--they remind one of a +surgeon tucking up his sleeves for a set of operations. I expect that +Browning was too humble; he loved a gentlemanly convention, and Wordsworth +certainly did not do that. If you want to know how a poet should +_live_, read Dorothy Wordsworth's journals at Grasmere; if you want to +know how he should _feel_, read the letters of Keats." + + + +XXXIII + +OF MEEKNESS + + +I had been having some work looked over by Father Payne, who had been +somewhat trenchant. "You have been beating a broken drum, you know," he had +said, with a smile. + +"Yes," I said. "It's poor stuff, I see. But I didn't know it was so bad +when I wrote it; I thought I was making the best of a poor subject rather +ingeniously. I am afraid I am rather stupid." + +"If I thought you really felt like that," said Father Payne, "I should be +sorry for you. But I expect it is only your idea of modesty?" + +"No," I said, "it isn't modesty--it's humility, I think." + +"No one has any business to think himself humble," said Father Payne. "The +moment you do that, you are conceited. It's not a virtue to grovel. A man +ought to know exactly what he is worth. You needn't be always saying what +you are, worth, of course. It's modest to hold your tongue. But humility +is, or ought to be, extinct as a virtue. It belongs to the time when people +felt bound to deplore the corruption of their heart, and to speak of +themselves as worms, and to compare themselves despondently with God. That +in itself is a piece of insolence; and it isn't a wholesome frame of mind +to dwell on one's worthlessness, and to speak of one's righteousness as +filthy rags. It removes every stimulus to effort. If you really feel like +that, you had better take to your bed permanently--you will do less harm +there than pretending to do work in the value of which you don't believe." + +"But what is the word for the feeling which one has when one reads a really +splendid book, let us say, or hears a perfect piece of music?" I said. + +"Well, it ought to be gratitude and admiration," said Father Payne. "Why +mix yourself up with it at all?" + +"Because I can't help it," I said; "I think of the way in which I muddle on +with my writing, and I feel how hopeless I am." + +"That's all wrong, my boy," said Father Payne; "you ought to say to +yourself--'So that is _his_ way of putting things and, by Jove, it's +superb. Now I've got to find my way of putting things!' You had better go +and work in the fields like an honest man, if you don't feel you have got +anything to say worth saying. You have your own point of view, you know: +try and get it down on paper. It isn't exactly the same as, let us say, +Shakespeare's point of view: but if you feel that he has seen everything +worth seeing, and said everything worth saying, then, of course, it is no +good going on. But that is pure grovelling; no lively person ever does feel +that--he says, 'Hang it, he has left _some_ things out!' After all, +everyone has a right to his point of view, and if it can be expressed, why, +it is worth expressing. We want all the sidelights we can get." + +"That's one comfort!" I said. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but you know perfectly well that you knew it +before I told you. Why be so undignified? You need not want to astonish or +amuse the whole civilised world. You probably won't do that; but you can +fit a bit of the mosaic in, if you have it in you. Now look you here! I +know exactly what I am worth. I can't write--though I think I can when I'm +at it--but I can perceive, and see when a thing is amiss, and lay my finger +on a fault; I can be of some use to a fellow like yourself--and I can +manage an estate in my own way, and I can keep my tenants' spirits up. I +have got a perfectly definite use in the world, and I'm going to play my +part for all that I'm worth. I'm not going to pretend that I am a worm or +an outcast--I don't feel one; and I am as sure as I can be of anything, +that God does not wish me to feel one. He needs me; He can't get on without +me just here; and when He can, He will say the word. I don't think I am of +any far-reaching significance: but neither am I going to say that I am +nothing but vile earth and a miserable sinner. I'm lazy, I'm cross, I'm +unkind, I'm greedy: but I know when I am wasting time and temper, and I +don't do it all the time. It's no use being abject. The mistake is to go +about comparing yourself with other people and weighing yourself against +them. The right thing to do is to be able to recognise generously and +desirously when you see anyone doing something finely which you do badly, +and to say, 'Come, that's the right way! I must do better.' But to be +humble is to be grubby, because it makes one proud, in a nasty sort of way, +of doing things badly. 'What a poor creature I am,' says the humble man, +'and how nice to know that I am so poor a creature; how noble and unworldly +I am.' The mistake is to want to do a thing better than Smith or Jones: the +right way is to want to do it better than yourself." + +"Yes," I said, "that's perfectly true, Father: and I won't be such a fool +again." + +"You haven't been a fool, so far as I am aware," said Father Payne. "It is +only that you are just a thought too polite. You mustn't be polite in mind, +you know--only in manners. Politeness only consists in not saying all you +think unless you are asked. But humility consists in trying to believe that +you think less than you think. It's like holding your nose, and saying that +the bad smell has gone--it is playing tricks with your mind: and if you get +into the way of doing that, you will find that your mind has a nasty way of +playing tricks upon you. Here! hold on! I am rapidly becoming like +Chadband! Send me Vincent, will you--there's a good man? He comes next." + + + +XXXIV + +OF CRITICISM + + +Father Payne had told me that my writing was becoming too juicy and too +highly-scented. "You mustn't hide the underlying form," he said; "have +plenty of plain spaces. This sort of writing is only for readers who want +to be vaguely soothed and made to feel comfortable by a book--it's a +stimulant, it's not a food!" + +"Yes," I said with a sigh, "I suppose you are right." + +"Up to a certain point, I am right," he replied, "because you are in +training at present--and people in training have to do abnormal things: you +can't _live_ as if you were in training, of course; but when you begin +to work on your own account, you must find your own pace and your own +manner: and even now you needn't agree with me unless you like." + +I determined, however, that I would give him something very different next +time. He suggested that I should write an essay on a certain writer of +fiction. I read the novels with great care, and I then produced the driest +and most technical criticism I could. I read it aloud to Father Payne a +month later. He heard it in silence, stroking his beard with his left hand, +as his manner was. When I had finished, he said: "Well, you have taken my +advice with a vengeance; and as an exercise--indeed, as a +_tour-de-force_--it is good. I didn't think you had it in you to +produce such a bit of anatomy. I think it's simply the most uninteresting +essay I ever heard in my life--chip, chip, chip, the whole time. It won't +do you any harm to have written it, but, of course, it's a mere caricature. +No conceivable reason could be assigned for your writing it. It's like the +burial of the dead--ashes to ashes, dust to dust!" + +"I admit," I said, "that I did it on purpose, to show you how judicious I +could be." + +"Oh yes," he said, "I quite realise that--and that's why I admire it. If +you had produced it as a real thing, and not by way of reprisal, I should +think very ill of your prospects. It's like the work of an analytical +chemist--I tell you what it's like, it's like the diagnosis of the symptoms +of some sick person of rank in a doctor's case-book! But, of course, you +know you mustn't write like that, as well as I do. There must be some +motive for writing, some touch of admiration and sympathy, something you +can show to other people which might escape them, and which is worth while +for them to see. In writing--at present, at all events--one can't be so +desperately scientific and technical as all that. I suppose that some day, +when we treat human thought and psychology scientifically, we shall have to +dissect like that; but even so, it will be in the interests of science, not +in the interests of literature. One must not confuse the two, and no doubt, +when we begin to analyse the development of human thought, its heredity, +its genesis and growth, we shall have a Shelley-culture in a test-tube, and +we shall be able to isolate a Browning-germ: but we haven't got there yet." + +"In that case," I said, "I don't really see what was so wrong with my last +essay." + +"Why, it was a mere extemporisation," said Father Payne; "a phrase +suggested a phrase, a word evoked a lot of other words--there was no real +connection of thought. It was pretty enough, but you were not even roving +from one place to another, you were just drifting with the stream. Now this +last essay is purely business-like. You have analysed the points--but +there's no beauty or pleasure in it. It is simply what an engineer might +say to an engineer about the building of a bridge. Mind, I am not finding +fault with your essay. You did what you set out to do, and you have done it +well. I only say there is not any conceivable reason why it should have +been written, and there is every conceivable reason why it should not be +read." + +"It was just an attempt," I said, "to see the points and to disentangle +them." + +"Yes, yes," said Father Payne; "I see that, and I give you full credit for +it. But, after all, you must look on writing as a species of human +communication. The one reason for writing is that the writer sees something +which other people overlook, perceives the beauty and interest of it, gets +behind it, sees the quality of it, and how it differs from other similar +things. If the writer is worth anything, his subject must be so interesting +or curious or beautiful to himself that he can't help setting it down. The +motive of it all must be the fact that he is interested--not the hope of +interesting other people. You must risk that, though the more you are +interested, the better is your chance of interesting others. Then the next +point is that things mustn't be presented in a cold and abstract light--you +have done that here--it must be done as you see it, not as a photographic +plate records it: and that is where the personality of the artist comes in, +and where writers are handicapped, according as they have or have not a +personal charm. That is the unsolved mystery of writing--the personal +charm: apart from that there is little in it. A man may see a thing with +hideous distinctness, but he may not be able to invest it with charm: and +the danger of charm is that some people can invest very shallow, muddled, +and shabby thinking with a sort of charm. It is like a cloak, if I may say +so. If I wear an old cloak, it looks shabby and disgraceful, as it is. But +if I lend it to a shapely and well-made friend, it gets a beauty from the +wearer. There are men I know who can tell me a story as old as the hills, +and yet make it fresh and attractive. Look at that delicious farrago of +nonsense and absurdity, Ruskin's _Fors Clavigera_. He crammed in +anything that came into his head--his reminiscences, scraps out of old +dreary books he had read, paragraphs snipped out of the papers. There's no +order, no sequence about it, and yet it is irresistible. But then Ruskin +had the charm, and managed to pour it into all that he wrote. He is always +_there_, that whimsical, generous, perverse, affectionate, afflicted, +pathetic creature, even in the smallest scrap of a letter or the dreariest +old tag of quotation. But you and I can't play tricks like that. You are +sometimes there, I confess, in what you write, while I am never there in +anything that I write. What I want to teach you to do is to be really +yourself in all that you write." + +"But isn't it apt to be very tiresome," said I, "if the writer is always +obtruding himself?" + +"Yes, if he obtrudes himself, of course he is tiresome," said Father Payne. +"But look at Ruskin again. I imagine, from all that I read about him, that +if he was present at a gathering, he was the one person whom everyone +wanted to hear. If he was sulky or silent, it was everyone's concern to +smoothe him down--if _only_ he would talk. What you must learn to do +is to give exactly as much of yourself as people want. But it must be a +transfusion of yourself, not a presentment, I don't imagine that Ruskin +always talked about himself--he talked about what interested him, and +because he saw five times as much as anyone else saw in a picture, and +about three times as much as was ever there, it was fascinating: but the +primary charm was in Ruskin himself. Don't you know the curious delight of +seeing a house once inhabited by anyone whom one has much admired and +loved? However dull and commonplace it is, you keep on saying to yourself, +'That was what his eyes rested on, those were the books he handled; how +could he bear to have such curtains, how could he endure that wallpaper?' +The most hideous things become interesting, because he tolerated them. In +writing, all depends upon how much of what is interesting, original, +emphatic, charming in yourself you can communicate to what you are writing. +It has got to _live_; that is the secret of the commonplace and even +absurd books which reviewers treat with contempt, and readers buy in +thousands. They have _life!_" + +"But that is very far from being art, isn't it?" I said. + +"Of course!" said Father Payne, "but the use of art, as I understand it, is +just that--that all you present shall have life, and that you should learn +not to present what has not got life. Why I objected to your last essay was +because you were not alive in it: you were just echoing and repeating +things: you seemed to me to be talking in your sleep. Why I object to this +essay is that you are too wide awake--you are just talking shop." + +"I confess I rather despair," I said. + +"What rubbish!" said Father Payne; "all I want you to do is to _live_ +in your ideas--make them your own, don't just slop them down without having +understood or felt them. I'll tell you what you shall do next. You shall +just put aside all this dreary collection of formulae and scalpel-work, and +you shall write me an essay on the whole subject, saying the best that you +feel about it all, not the worst that a stiff intelligence can extract from +it. Don't be pettish about it! I assure you I respect your talent very +much. I didn't think it was in you to produce anything so loathsomely +judicious." + + + +XXXV + +OF THE SENSE OF BEAUTY + + +There had been some vague ethical discussion during dinner in which Father +Payne had not intervened; but he suddenly joined in briskly, though I don't +remember who or what struck the spark out. "You are running logic too +hard," he said; "the difficulty with all morality is not to know where it +is to begin, but where it is to stop." + +"I didn't know it had to stop," said Vincent; "I thought it had to go on." + +"Yes, but not as morality," said Father Payne; "as instinct and +feeling--only very elementary people indeed obey rules, _because_ they +are rules. The righteous man obeys them because on the whole he agrees with +them." + +"But in one sense it isn't possible to be too good?" said Vincent. + +"No," said Father Payne, "not if you are sure what good is--but it is quite +easy to be too righteous, to have too many rules and scruples--not to live +your own life at all, but an anxious, timid, broken-winged sort of life, +like some of the fearful saints in the _Pilgrim's Progress_, who got +no fun out of the business at all. Don't you remember what Mr. Feeblemind +says? I can't quote--it's a glorious passage." + +Barthrop slipped out and fetched a _Pilgrim's Progress_, which he put +over Father Payne's shoulder. "Thank you, old man," said Father Payne, +"that's very kind of you--that is morality translated into feeling!" + +He turned over the pages, and read the bit in his resonant voice: + +"'I am, as I said, a man of a weak and feeble mind, and shall be offended +and made weak at that which others can bear. I shall like no Laughing: I +shall like no gay Attire: I shall like no unprofitable Questions. Nay, I am +so weak a man, as to be offended with that which others have a liberty to +do. I do not know all the truth: I am a very ignorant Christian man; +sometimes, if I hear some rejoice in the Lord, it troubles me, because I +cannot do so too.'" + +"There," he said, "that's very good writing, you know--full of +freshness--but you are not meant to admire the poor soul: _that's_ not +the way to go on pilgrimage! There is something wrong with a man's +religion, if it leaves him in that state. I don't mean that to be happy is +always a sign of grace--it often is simply a lack of sympathy and +imagination; but to be as good as Mr. Feeblemind, and at the same time as +unhappy, is a clear sign that something is wrong. He is like a dog that +_will_ try to get through a narrow gap with a stick in his mouth--he +can't make out why he can't do his duty and bring the stick--it catches on +both sides, and won't let him through. He knows it is his business to bring +the thing back at once, but he is prevented in some mysterious way. It +doesn't occur to him to put the stick down, get through himself, and then +pull it through by the end. That is why our duty is often so hard, because +we think we ought to do it simply and directly, when it really wants a +little adjusting--we regard the momentary precept, not the ultimate +principle." + +"But what is to tell us where to draw the line," said Vincent, "and when to +disregard the precept?" + +"Ah," said Father Payne, "that's my great discovery, which no one else will +ever recognise--that is where the sense of beauty comes in!" + +"I don't see that the sense of beauty has anything to do with morality," +said Vincent. + +"Ah, but that is because you are at heart a Puritan," said Father Payne; +"and the mistake of all Puritans is to disregard the sense of beauty--all +the really great saints have felt about morality as an artist feels about +beauty. They don't do good things because they are told to do them, but +because they feel them to be beautiful, splendid, attractive; and they +avoid having anything to do with evil things, because such things are ugly +and repellent." + +"But when you have to do a thoroughly disagreeable thing," said Vincent, +"there often isn't anything beautiful about it either way. I'll give you a +small instance. Some months ago I had been engaged for a fortnight to go to +a thoroughly dull dinner-party with some dreary relations of mine, and a +man asked me to come and dine at his club and meet George Meredith, whom I +would have given simply anything to meet. Of course I couldn't do it--I had +to go on with the other thing. I had to do what I hated, without the +smallest hope of being anything but fearfully bored: and I had to give up +doing what would have interested me more than anything in the world. Of +course, that is only a small instance, but it will suffice." + +"It all depends on how you behaved at your dinner-party when you got +there," said Father Payne, smiling; "were you sulky and cross, or were you +civil and decent?" + +"I don't know," said Vincent; "I expect I was pretty much as usual. After +all, it wasn't their fault!" + +"You are all right, my boy," said Father Payne; "you have got the sense of +beauty right enough, though you probably call it by some uncomfortable +name. I won't make you blush by praising you, but I give you a good mark +for the whole affair. If you had excused yourself, or asked to be let off, +or told a lie, it would have been ugly. What you did was in the best taste: +and that is what I mean. The ugly thing is to clutch and hold on. You did +more for yourself by being polite and honest than even George Meredith +could have done for you. What I mean by the sense of beauty, as applied to +morality, is that a man must be a gentleman first, and a moralist +afterwards, if he can. It is grabbing at your own sense of righteousness, +if you use it to hurt other people. Your own complacency of conscience is +not as important as the duty of not making other people uncomfortable. Of +course there are occasions when it is right to stand up to a moral bully, +and then you may go for him for all you are worth: but these cases are +rare; and what you must not do is to get into the way of a sort of moral +skirmishing. In ordinary life, people draw their lines in slightly +different places according to preference: you must allow for temperament. +You mustn't interfere with other people's codes, unless you are prepared to +be interfered with. It is impossible to be severely logical. Take a thing +like the use of money: it is good to be generous, but you mustn't give away +what you can't afford, because then your friends have to pay your bills. +What everyone needs is something to tell him when he must begin practising +a virtue, and when to stop practising it. You may say that common sense +does that. Well, I don't think it does! I know sensible people who do very +brutal things: there must be something finer than common sense: it must be +a mixture of sense and sympathy and imagination, and delicacy and humour +and tact--and I can't find a better way of expressing it than to call it a +sense of beauty, a faculty of judging, in a fine, sweet-tempered, gentle, +quiet way, with a sort of instinctive prescience as to where the ripples of +what you do and say will spread to, and what sort of effect they will +produce. That's the right sort of virtue--attractive virtue--which makes +other people wish to behave likewise. I don't say that a man who lives like +that can avoid suffering: he suffers a good deal, because he sees ugly +things going on all about him; but he doesn't cause suffering--unless he +intends to--and even so he doesn't like doing it. He is never spiteful or +jealous. He often makes mistakes, but he recognises them. He doesn't erect +barriers between himself and other people. He isn't always exactly popular, +because many people hate superiority whenever they see it: but he is +trusted and loved and even taken advantage of, because he doesn't go in for +reprisals." + +"But if you haven't got this sense of beauty," said Vincent, "how are you +to get it?" + +"By admiring it," said Father Payne. "I don't say that the people who have +got it are conscious of it--in fact they are generally quite unconscious of +it. Do you remember what Shelley--who was, I think, one of the people who +had the sense of beauty as strongly as anyone who ever lived--what he said +to Hogg, when Hogg told him how he had shut up an impertinent young +ruffian? 'I wish I could be as exclusive as you are,' said Shelley with a +sigh, feeling, no doubt, a sense of real failure--'but I cannot!' Shelley's +weakness was a much finer thing than Hogg's strength. I don't say that +Shelley was perfect: his imagination ran away with him to an extent that +may be called untruthful; he idealised people, and then threw them over +when he discovered them to be futile; but that is the right kind of mistake +to make: the wrong kind of mistake is to see people too clearly, and to +take for granted that they are not as delightful as they seem." + +"You mean that if one must choose," said Vincent, "it is better to be a +fool than a knave." + +"Why, of course," said Father Payne; "but don't call it 'a fool'--call it +'a child': that's the kind of beauty I mean, the unsuspicious, guileless, +trustful, affectionate temper--that to begin with: and you must learn, as +you go on, a quality which the child has not always got--a sense of humour. +That is what experience ought to give you--a power, that is, of seeing what +is really there, and of being more amused than shocked by it. That helps +you to distinguish real knavishness from childish faults. A great many of +the absurd, perverse, unkind, unpleasant things which people do are not +knavish at all--they are silly, selfish little diplomacies, guileless +obedience to conventions, unreasonable deference to imaginary authority. +People don't mean any harm by such tricks--they are the subterfuges of +weakness: but when you come upon real cynical deliberate knavishness--that +is different. There's nothing amusing about that. But you must be indulgent +to weakness, and only severe with strength." + +"I'm getting a little confused," said Vincent. + +"Not as much as I am," said Father Payne; "I don't know where I have got +to, I am sure. I seem to have changed hares! But one thing does emerge, and +that is, that a sort of inspired good taste is the only thing which can +regulate morals. The root of all morals is ultimately beauty. Why are we +not all as greedy and dirty as the old cave-men? For the simple reason that +something, for which he was not responsible, began to work in the caveman's +mind. He said to himself, 'This is not the way to behave: it would be nicer +not to have killed Mary when I was angry.' And then, when that impulse is +once started, human beings go too fast, and want to carry out their new +discoveries of rules and principles too far: and you must have a regulating +force: and if you can find a better force than the instinct for what is +beautiful, tell me, and I'll undertake to talk for at least as long about +it. I must stop! My sense of beauty warns me that I am becoming a bore." + + + +XXXVI + +OF BIOGRAPHY + + +Father Payne broke out suddenly after dinner to two or three of us about a +book he had been reading. + +"It's called a _Life_," he said, "at the top of every page almost. I +don't wonder the author felt it necessary to remind you--or perhaps he was +reminding himself? I can see him," said Father Payne, "saying to himself +with a rueful expression, 'This is a Life, undoubtedly!' Why, the waxworks +of Madame Tussaud are models of vivacity and agility compared to it. I +never set eyes on such a book!" + +"Why on earth did you go on reading it?" said I. + +"Well may you ask!" said Father Payne. "It's one of my weaknesses; if I +begin a book, I can put it down if it is moderately good; but if it is +either very good or very bad, I can't get out of it--I feel like a wasp in +a honey-pot. I make faint sticky motions of flight--but on I go." + +"Whose life was it?" I said, laughing. + +"I hardly know," said Father Payne. "It leaves on my mind the impression of +his having been a decent old party enough. I think he must have been a +general merchant--he seems to have had pretty nearly everything on hand. He +wrote books, I gather"; and Father Payne groaned. + +"What were they about?" I said. + +"I don't know, I'm sure," said Father Payne. "History and stuff--literary +essays, and people's influence, perhaps. He went in for accounting for +things, I fancy, and explaining things away. There were extracts which +alienated my attention faster than any extracts I ever read. I could not +keep my mind on them. God preserve me from ever falling in with any of his +books; I should spend days in reading them! He travelled too--he was always +travelling. Why couldn't he leave Europe alone? He has left his trail all +over Europe, like a snail. He has defiled all the finest scenery on the +Continent. But, by Jove, he met his match in his biographer; he has been +accounted for all right. And yet I feel that it was rather hard on him. If +_he_ could have held his tongue about things in general, and if his +biographer could have held his tongue about _him_, it would have been +all right. He did no harm, so far as I can make out--he was honest and +upright; he would have done very well as a trustee." + +Father Payne stopped, and looked round with a melancholy air. "I have +gathered," he said, "after several hours' reading, three interesting facts +about him. The first is that he wore rather loud checks--I liked that--I +detected a touch of vanity in that. The second is that he was fond of +quoting poetry, and the moment he did so, his voice became wholly inaudible +from emotion--that's a good touch. And the third is that, if he had a guest +staying with him, he used to talk continuously in the smoking-room, light +his candle, go on talking, walk away talking--by Jove, I can hear him doing +it--all up the stairs, along the passage to his bedroom--talk, talk, +talk--in they went--then he used to begin to undress--no escape--I can hear +his voice muffled as he pulled off his shirt--off went his socks--talking +still--then he would actually get into bed--more explanations, more +quotations, I wonder how the guest got away; that isn't related--in the +intervals of an inaudible quotation, perhaps? What do you think?" + +We exploded in laughter, in which Father Payne joined. Then he said: "But +look here, you know, it's not really a joke--it's horribly serious! A man +ought really to be prosecuted for writing such a book. That is the worst of +English people, that they have no idea who deserves a biography and who +does not. It isn't enough to be a rich man, or a public man, or a man of +virtue. No one ought to be written about, simply because he has _done_ +things. He must be content with that. No one should have a biography unless +he was either beautiful or picturesque or absurd, just as no one should +have a portrait painted unless he is one of the three. Now this poor +fellow--I daresay there were people who loved him--think what their +feelings must be at seeing him stuffed and set up like this! A biography +must be a work of art--it ought not to be a post-dated testimonial! Most of +us are only fit, when we have finished our work, to go straight into the +waste-paper basket. The people who deserve biographies are the vivid, rich, +animated natures who lived life with zest and interest. There are a good +many such men, who can say vigorous, shrewd, lively, fresh things in talk, +but who cannot express themselves in writing. The curse of most biographies +is the letters; not many people can write good letters, and yet it becomes +a sacred duty to pad a Life out with dull and stodgy documents; it is all +so utterly inartistic and decorous and stupid. A biography ought to be well +seasoned with faults and foibles. That is the one encouraging thing about +life, that a man can have plenty of failings and still make a fine business +out of it all. Yet it is regarded as almost treacherous to hint at +imperfections. Now if I had had our friend the general merchant to +biographise, I would have taken careful notes of his talk while +undressing--there's something picturesque about that! I would have told how +he spent his day, how he looked and moved, ate and drank. A real portrait +of an uninteresting man might be quite a treasure." + +"Yes, but you know it wouldn't do," said Barthrop; "his friends would be +out at you like a swarm of wasps." + +"Oh, I know that," said Father Payne. "It is all this infernal +sentimentality which spoils everything; as long as we think of the dead as +elderly angels hovering over us while we pray, there is nothing to be done. +If we really believe that we migrate out of life into an atmosphere of mild +piety, and lose all our individuality at once, then, of course, the less +said the better. As long as we hold that, then death must remain as the +worst of catastrophes for everyone concerned. The result of it all is that +a bad biography is the worst of books, because it quenches our interest in +life, and makes life insupportably dull. The first point is that the +biographer is infinitely more important than his subject. Look what an +enchanting book Carlyle made out of the Life of Sterling. Sterling was a +man of real charm who could only talk. He couldn't write a line. His +writings are pitiful. Carlyle put them all aside with a delicious irony; +and yet he managed to depict a swift, restless, delicate, radiant creature, +whom one loves and admires. It is one of the loveliest books ever written. +But, on the other hand, there are hundreds of fine creatures who have been +hopelessly buried for ever and ever under their biographies--the sepulchre +made sure, the stone sealed, and the watch set." + +"But there are some good biographies?" said Barthrop. + +"About a dozen," said Father Payne. "I won't give a list of them, or I +should become like our friend the merchant. I feel it coming on, by Jove--I +feel like accounting for things and talking you all up to my bedroom." + +"But what can be done about it all?" I said. + +"Nothing whatever, my boy," said Father Payne; "as long as people are not +really interested in life, but in money and committees, there is nothing to +be done. And as long as they hold things sacred, which means a strong +dislike of the plain truth, it's hopeless. If a man is prepared to write a +really veracious biography, he must also be prepared to fly for his life +and to change his name. Public opinion is for sentiment and against truth; +and you must change public opinion. But, oh dear me, when I think of the +fascination of real personality, and the waste of good material, and the +careful way in which the pious biographer strains out all the meat and +leaves nothing but a thin and watery decoction, I could weep over the +futility of mankind. The dread of being interesting or natural, the +adoration of pomposity and full dress, the sickening love of romance, the +hatred of reality--oh, it's a deplorable world!" + + + +XXXVII + +OF POSSESSIONS + + +"I wonder," said Father Payne one day at dinner, "whether any nation's +proverbs are such a disgrace to them as our national proverbs are to us. +Ours are horribly Anglo-Saxon and characteristic. They seem to me to have +been all invented by a shrewd, selfish, complacent, suspicious old farmer, +in a very small way of business, determined that he will not be +over-reached, and equally determined, too, that he will take full advantage +of the weakness of others. 'Charity begins at home,' 'Possession is nine +points of the law,' 'Don't count your chickens before they are hatched,' +'When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window.' They are +all equally disgraceful. They deride all emotion, they despise imagination, +they are unutterably low and hard, and what is called sensible; they are +frankly unchristian as well as ungentlemanly. No wonder we are called a +nation of shopkeepers." + +"But aren't we a great deal better than our proverbs?" said Barthrop: "do +they really express anything more than a contempt for weakness and +sentiment?" + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but I don't like them any better for that. Why +should we be ashamed of all our better feelings? I admit that we have a +sense of justice; but that only means that we care for material possessions +so much that we are afraid not to admit that others have the right to do +the same. The real obstacle to socialism in England is the sense of +sanctity about a man's savings. The moment that a man has saved a few +pounds, he agrees to any legislation that allows him to hold on to them." + +"But aren't we, behind all that," said Barthrop, "an intensely sentimental +nation?" + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but that's a fault really--we don't believe in +real justice, only in picturesque justice. We are hopeless individualists. +We melt into tears over a child that is lost, or a dog that howls; and we +let all sorts of evil systems and arrangements grow and flourish. We can't +think algebraically, only arithmetically. We can be kind to a single case +of hardship; we can't take in a widespread system of oppression. We are +improving somewhat; but it is always the particular case that affects us, +and not the general principle." + +"But to go back to our sense of possession," I said, "is that really much +more than a matter of climate? Does it mean more than this, that we, in a +temperate climate inclining to cold, need more elaborate houses and more +heat-producing food than nations who live in warmer climates? Are not the +nations who live in warmer climates less attached to material things simply +because they are less important?" + +"There is something in that, no doubt," said Father Payne. "Of course, +where nature is more hostile to life, men will have to work longer hours to +support life than where 'the spicy breezes blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle.' +But it isn't that of which I complain--it is the awful sense of +respectability attaching to possessions, the hideous way in which we fill +our houses with things which we do not want or use, just because they are a +symbol of respectability. We like hoarding, and we like luxuries, not +because we enjoy them, but because we like other people to know that we can +pay for them. I do not imagine that there is any nation in the world whose +hospitality differs so much from the mode in which people actually live as +ours does. In a sensible society, if we wanted to see our friends, we +should ask them to bring their cold mutton round, and have a picnic. What +we do actually do is to have a meal which we can't afford, and which our +guests know is not in the least like our ordinary meals; and then we expect +to be asked back to a similarly ostentatious banquet." + +"But isn't there something," said Barthrop, "in Dr. Johnson's dictum, that +a meal was good enough to eat, but not good enough to ask a man to? Isn't +it a good impulse to put your best before a guest?" + +"Oh, no doubt," said Father Payne, "but there's a want of simplicity about +it if you only want to entertain people in order that they may see you do +it, and not because you want to see them. It's vulgar, somehow--that's what +I suspect our nation of being. Our inability to speak frankly of money is +another sign. We do money too much honour by being so reticent about it. +The fact is that it is the one sacred subject among us. People are reticent +about religion and books and art, because they are not sure that other +people are interested in them. But they are reticent about money as a +matter of duty, because they are sure that everyone is deeply interested. +People talk about money with nods and winks and hints--those are all the +signs of a sacred mystery!" + +"Well, I wonder," said Barthrop, "whether we are as base as you seem to +think!" + +"I will tell you when I will change my mind," said Father Payne; "all the +talk of noble aims and strong purposes will not deceive me. What would +convert me would be if I saw generous giving a custom so common that it +hardly excited remark. You see a few generous _wills_--but even then a +will which leaves money to public purposes is generally commented upon; and +it almost always means, too, if you look into it, that a man has had no +near relations, and that he has stuck to his money and the power it gives +him during his life. If I could see a few cases of men impoverishing +themselves and their families in their lifetime for public objects; if I +saw evidence of men who have heaped up wealth content to let their children +start again in the race, and determined to support the State rather than +the family; if I could hear of a rich man's children beseeching their +father to endow the State rather than themselves, and being ready to work +for a livelihood rather than to receive an inherited fortune; if I could +hear of a few rich men living simply and handing out their money for +general purposes,--then I would believe! But none of these things is +anything but a rare exception; a man who gives away his fortune, as Ruskin +did, in great handfuls, is generally thought to be slightly crazy; and, +speaking frankly, the worth of a man seems to depend not upon what he has +given to the world, but upon what he has gained from the world. You may say +it is a rough test;--so it is! But when we begin to feel that a man is +foolish in hoarding and wise in lavishing, instead of being foolish in +lavishing and wise in hoarding, then, and not till then, shall I believe +that we are a truly great nation. At present the man whom we honour most is +the man who has been generous to public necessities, and has yet retained a +large fortune for himself. That is the combination which we are not ashamed +to admire." + + + +XXXVIII + +OF LONELINESS + + +We were walking together, Father Payne and I. It was in the early summer--a +still, hot day. The place, as I remember it, was very beautiful. We crossed +the stream by a little foot-bridge, and took a bypath across the meadows; +up the slope you came to a beautiful bit of old forest country, the trees +of all ages, some of them very ancient; there were open glades running into +the heart of the woodland, with thorn thickets and stretches of bracken. +Hidden away in the depth of the woods, and approached only by green rides, +were the ruins of what must have been a big old Jacobean mansion; but +nothing remained of it except some grassy terraces, a bit of a fine facade +of stone with empty windows, half-hidden in ivy, and some tall stone +chimney-stacks. The forest lay silent and still; and, along one of the +branching rides, you could discern far away a glimpse of blue hills. The +scene was so entirely beautiful that we had gradually ceased to talk, and +had given ourselves up to the sweet and quiet influence of the place. + +We stood for awhile upon one of the terraces, looking at the old house, and +Father Payne said, "I'm not sure that I approve of the taste for ruins; +there is something to be said for a deserted castle, because it is a +reminder that we do not need to safeguard ourselves so much against each +others' ill-will; but a roofless church or a crumbling house--there's +something sad about them. It seems to me a little like leaving a man +unburied in order that we may come and sentimentalise over his bones. It +means, this house, the decay of an old centre of life--there's nothing evil +or cruel about it, as there is about a castle; and I am not sure that it +ought not to be either repaired or removed-- + + "'And doorways where a bridegroom trode + Stand open to the peering air.'" + +"I don't know," I said; "I'm sure that this is somehow beautiful. Can't one +feel that nature is half-tender, half-indifferent to our broken designs?" + +"Perhaps," said Father Payne, "but I don't like being reminded of death and +waste--I don't want to think that they can end by being charming--the +vanity of human wishes is more sad than picturesque. I think Dr. Johnson +was right when he said, 'After all, it is a sad thing that a man should lie +down and die.'" + +A little while afterwards he said, "How strange it is that the loneliness +of this place should be so delightful! I like my fellow-beings on the +whole--I don't want to avoid them or to abolish them--but yet it is one of +the greatest luxuries in the world to find a place where one is pretty sure +of not meeting one of them." + +"Yes," I said, "it is very odd! I have been feeling to-day that I should +like time to stand still this summer afternoon, and to spend whole days in +rambling about here. I won't say," I said with a smile, "that I should +prefer to be quite alone; but I shouldn't mind even that in a place like +this. I never feel like that in a big town--there is always a sense of +hostile currents there. To be alone in a town is always rather melancholy; +but here it is just the reverse." + +"Indeed, yes," said Father Payne, "and it is one of the great mysteries of +all to me what we really want with company. It does not actually take away +from us our sense of loneliness at all. You can't look into my mind, nor +can I look into yours; whatever we do or say to break down the veil between +us, we can't do it. And I have often been happier when alone than I have +ever been in any company." + +"Isn't it a sense of security?" I said; "I suppose that it is an instinct +derived from old savage days which makes us dread other human beings. The +further back you go, the more hatred and mistrust you find; and I suppose +that the presence of a friend, or rather of someone with whom one has a +kind of understanding, gives a feeling of comparative safety against +attack." + +"That's it, no doubt," said Father Payne; "but if I had to choose between +spending the rest of my life in solitude, or in spending it without a +chance of solitude, I should be in a great difficulty. I am afraid that I +regard company rather as a wholesome medicine against the evils of solitude +than I regard solitude as a relief from company. After all, what is it that +we want with each other?--what do we expect to get from each other? I +remember," he said, smiling, "a witty old lady saying to me once that +eternity was a nightmare to her.--'For instance,' she said, 'I enjoy +sitting here and talking to you very much; but if I thought it was going on +to all eternity, I shouldn't like it at all.' Do we really want the company +of any one for ever and ever? And if so, why? Do we want to agree or to +disagree? Is the point of it that we want similarity or difference? Do we +want to hear about other people's experiences, or do we simply want to tell +our own? Is the desire, I mean, for congenial company anything more than +the pleasure of seeing our own thoughts and ideas reflected in the minds of +others; or is it a real desire to alter our own thoughts and ideas by +comparing them with the experiences of others? Why do we like books, for +instance? Isn't it more because we recognise our own feelings than because +we make acquaintance with unfamiliar feelings? It comes to this? Can we +really ever gain an idea, or can we only recognise our own ideas?" + +"It is very difficult," I said; "if I answered hastily, I should say that I +liked being with you because you give me many new ideas; but if I think +about it, it seems to me that it is only because you make me recognise my +own thoughts." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "I think that is so. If I see another man +behaving well where I should behave ill, I recognise that I have all the +elements in my own mind for doing the same, but that I have given undue +weight to some of them and not enough weight to others. I don't think, on +the whole, that anyone can give one a new idea; he can only help one to a +sense of proportion. But I want to get deeper than that. You and I are +friends--at least I think so; but what exactly do we give each other? How +do you affect my solitude, or I yours? I'm blessed if I know. It looks to +me, indeed, as if you and I might be parts of one great force, one great +spirit, and that we recognise our unity, through some material condition +which keeps us apart. I am not sure that it isn't only the body that +divides us, and that we are a part of the same thing behind it all." + +"But why, if that is so," said I, "do we feel a sense of unity with some +people, and not at all with others? There are people, I mean, with whom I +feel that I have simply nothing in common, and that our spirits could not +possibly mix or blend. With you, to speak frankly, it is different. I feel +as though I had known you far longer than a few months, and should never be +in any real doubt about you. I recognise myself in you and yourself in me. +But there are many people in whom I don't recognise myself at all." + +Father Payne put his arm through mine, "Well, old man," he said, "we must +be content to have found each other, but we mustn't give up trying to find +other people too. I think that is what civilisation means--a mutual +recognition--we're only just at the start of it, you know. I'm in no doubt +as to what you give me--it's a sense of trust. When I think about you, I +feel, 'Come, there is someone at all events who will try to understand me +and to forgive me and to share his best with me'--but even so, my boy, I +shall enjoy being alone sometimes. I shall want to get away from everyone, +even from you! There are thoughts I cannot share with you, because I want +you to think better of me than I do of myself. I suppose that is +vanity--but still old Wordsworth was right when he wrote: + + "'And many love me; but by none + Am I enough beloved.'" + + + +XXXIX + +OF THE WRITER'S LIFE + + +I was walking once with Father Payne in the fields, and he was talking +about the difficulties of the writer's life. He said that the great problem +for all industrious writers was how to work in such a way as not to be a +nuisance to the people they lived with. "Of course men vary very much in +their habits," he said; "but if you look at the lives of authors, they +often seem tiresome people to get on with. The difficulty is mostly this," +he went on, "that a writer can't write to any purpose for more than about +three hours a day--if he works really hard, even that is quite enough to +tire him out. Think what the brain is doing--it is concentrated on some +idea, some scene, some situation. Take a novelist: he has to have a picture +in his mind all the time--a clear visualisation of a place--a room, a +garden, a wood; then he must know how his people move and look and speak, +and he has to fly backwards and forwards from one to another; then he has +the talk to create, and he has to be always rejecting thoughts and +impressions and words, good enough in themselves, but not characteristic. +It is a fearful strain on imagination and emotion, on phrase-making and +word-finding. The real wonder is not that a few people can do it better +than others, but that anyone can do it at all. The difference between the +worst novelist and the best is much less than the difference between the +worst novelist and the person who can't write at all. + +"Well, then, there is such a thing as inspiration; most creative writers +get a book in their minds, and can think of nothing else, day and night, +while it is on. The difficulty is to know what a writer is to do in the +intervals between his books, and in the hours in which he is not writing. +He has got to take it easy somehow, and the question is what is he to do. +He can't, as a rule, do much in the way of hard exercise. Violent exercise +in the open air is pleasant enough, but it leaves the brain torpid and +stagnant. A man who really makes a business of writing has got to live +through ten or twelve hours of a day when he isn't writing. He can't afford +to read very much--at least he can't afford to read authors whom he +admires, because they affect his style. There is something horribly +contagious about style, because it is often much easier to do a thing in +someone else's way than to do it in one's own. Pater was asked once if he +had read Stevenson or Kipling, I forget which--'Oh no, I daren't!' he said, +'I have peeped into him occasionally, but I can't afford to read him. I +have learnt exactly how I can approach and develop a subject, and if I +looked to see how he does it, I should soon lose my power. The man with a +style is debarred from reading fine books unless they are on lines entirely +apart from his own.' That is perfectly true, I expect. There is nothing so +dreadful as reading a writer whom one likes, and seeing that he has got +deflected from his manner by reading some other craftsman. The effect is a +very subtle one. If you really want to see that sort of sympathy at work, +you should look at Ruskin's letters--his letters are deeply affected by the +correspondent to whom he is writing. If he wrote to Carlyle or to Browning, +he wrote like Carlyle and Browning, because, as he wrote, they were +strongly in his mind. + +"With a painter or a musician it is different--a lot of hand-work comes in +which relieves the brain, so that they can work longer hours. But a writer, +as a rule, while he is writing, can't even afford to talk very much to +interesting people, because talking is hard work too. + +"Well, then, a writer, as an artistic person, is rather easily bored. He +likes vivid sensations and emphatic preferences--and it is not really good +for him to be bored; a man may read the paper, write a few letters, stroll, +garden, chatter--but if he takes his writing seriously, he must somehow be +fresh for it. It isn't easy to combine writing with any other occupation, +and it leaves many hours unoccupied. + +"Carlyle is a terrible instance, because he was wretched and depressed when +he was not writing; he was melancholy, peevish, physically unwell; and when +he was writing, he was wholly absorbed very impatient of his labour, and +most intolerable. Indeed, it does not look as if the home lives of writers +have generally been very happy--there is too often a patent conspiracy to +keep the great irritable babyish giant amused--and that's a bad atmosphere +for anyone to live in--an unreal, a royal sort of atmosphere, of +deferential scheming." + +I said something about Walter Scott. "Ah yes," said Father Payne, "but +Scott's work was amazing--it just seemed to overflow from a gigantic +reservoir of vitality. He could do his day's work in the early hours, and +then tramp about all day, chattering, farming, planting, +entertaining--endlessly good-humoured. Of course he wore himself out at +last by perfectly ghastly work--most of it very poor stuff. Browning and +Thackeray were men of the same sort, sociable, genial, exuberant. They +overflowed too--they didn't batter things out. + +"But, as a rule, most men who want to do good work, must be content to +potter about, and seem lazy and even self-indulgent. And one of the reasons +why many men who start as promising writers come to nothing is because they +can't be inert, acquiescent, easy-going. I have often thought that a good +novel might be written about the wife of a great writer, who marries him, +dazzled by his brilliance and then finds him to be a petty, suspicious, +wayward sort of child, with all his force lying in one supreme faculty of +vision and expression. It must be a fiery trial to see deep, wise, +beautiful things produced by a man who can't _live_ his thoughts--can +only write them." + +"But what should a man _do_?" I said. + +"Well," said Father Payne, "I think, as a practical matter, it would be a +good thing to cultivate a hobby of a manual kind--and also, above all, the +power of genial loafing. Of course, the real pity is that we are not all +taught to do some house-work as a matter of course--we depend too much on +servants, and house-work is the natural and amusing outlet of our physical +energies; as it is, we specialise too much, and half of our maladies and +discomforts and miseries are due to that--that we work a part of ourselves +too hard, and the other parts not hard enough. The thing to aim at is +equanimity, and the existence of unsatisfied instincts in us is what +poisons life for many people." + +He was silent for a little, and then he said, "And then, too, there is the +great danger of all writers--the feeling that he has the power of giving +people what they want, when he ought to remember that he has only the good +fortune of expressing what people feel. Art oughtn't to be a thing +sprinkled on life, as you shake sugar out on to a pudding--it is just a +power of disentangling things; we suffer most of us from finding life too +complicated--we don't understand it--it's a mass of confused impressions. +Well, the artist puts it all in order, isolates the important things, makes +the values distinct--he helps people to feel clearly--that's his only use. +And then, if he succeeds, there come silly flatteries and adorations--until +he gets to feel as if he were handing down pots of jam and bottles of wine +from a high shelf out of reach--until he grows to believe that he put them +there, when he only found them there. It's a dreadful thing for an artist +never to succeed at all, because then his life appears the most useless +business conceivable; but it is almost a worse thing to get to depend upon +success--and it is undeniably pleasant to be a personage, to cause a little +stir when you enter a room, to find that people know all about you and like +meeting you, and saying they have met you. I never had any of that: and I +have sometimes found myself with successful writers who made me thank God I +couldn't write--such complacency, such lolling among praise, such vexation +at not being deferred to! The best fate for a man is to be fairly +successful, and to be at the same time pretty severely criticised. That +keeps him modest, while it gives him a degree of confidence that he is +doing something useful. The danger is of drifting right out of life into +unreal civilities and compliments, which you don't wholly like and yet +can't do without. The fact is that writing doesn't generally end in very +much happiness, except perhaps the happiness of work. That's the solid part +of it really, and no one can deprive you of that, whatever happens." + + + +XL + +OF WASTE + + +We were discussing Keats and his premature death. Someone had said that, +beside being one of the best, he was also one of the most promising of +poets; and Father Payne had remarked that reading Keats's letters made him +feel more directly in the presence of a man of genius than any other book +he knew. Kaye had added that the death of Keats seemed to him the most +ghastly kind of waste, at which Father Payne had smiled, and said that that +presupposed that he was knocked out by some malign or indifferent force. +"It is possible--isn't it?" he added, "that he was needed elsewhere and +summoned away." "Then why was he so elaborately tortured first?" said Kaye. +"Well," said Father Payne, "I can conceive that if he had recovered his +health, and escaped from his engagement with Fanny Brawne, he might have +been a much finer fellow afterwards. There were two weak points in Keats, +you know--his over-sensuousness and a touch of commonness--I won't call it +vulgarity," he added, "but his jokes are not of the best quality! I do not +feel sure that his suffering might not have cleared away the poisonous +stuff." + +"Perhaps," said Kaye; "but doesn't that make it more wasteful still? The +world needs beauty--and for a man to die so young with his best music in +him seems to me a clumsy affair." + +"I don't know," said Father Payne; "it seems to me harder to define the +word _waste_ than almost any word I know. Of course there are cases +when it is obviously applicable--if a big steamer carrying a cargo of wheat +goes down in a storm, that is a lot of human trouble thrown away--and a war +is wasteful, because nations lose their best and healthiest parental stock. +But it isn't a word to play with. In a middle-class household it is applied +mainly to such things as there being enough left of a nice dish for the +servants to enjoy; and, generally speaking, I think it might be applied to +all cases in which the toil spent over the making of a thing is out of all +proportion to the enjoyment derived from it. But the difficulty underlying +it is that it assumes a knowledge of what a man's duty is in this +world--and I am not by any means sure that we know. Look at the phrase 'a +waste of time.' How do we know exactly how much time a man ought to allot +to sleep, to work, to leisure? I had an old puritanical friend who was very +fond of telling people that they wasted time. He himself spent nearly two +hours of every day in dressing and undressing. That is to say that when he +died at the age of seventy-six, he had spent about six entire years in +making and unmaking his toilet! Let us assume that everyone is bound to +give a certain amount of time to doing the necessary work of the +world--enough to support, feed, clothe, and house himself, with a margin to +spare for the people who can't support themselves and can't work. Then +there are a lot of outlying things which must be done--the work of +statesmen, lawyers, doctors, writers--all the people who organise, keep +order, cure, or amuse people. Then there are all the people who make +luxuries and comforts--things not exactly necessary, but still reasonable +indulgences. Now let us suppose that anyone is genuinely and sensibly +occupied in any one of these ways, and does his or her fair share of the +world's work: who is to say how such workers are to spend their margin of +time? There are obviously certain people who are mere drones in the +hive--rich, idle, extravagant people: we will admit that they are wasters. +But I don't admit for a moment that all the time spent in enjoying oneself +is wasted, and I think that people have a right to choose what they do +enjoy. I am inclined to believe that we are here to live, and that work is +only a part of our material limitations. A great deal of the usefulness of +work is not its intrinsic value, but its value to ourselves. It isn't only +what we perform that matters; it is the fact that work forces us into +relations with other people, which I take to be the experience we all need. +In the old dreary books of my childhood, the elders were always hounding +the young people into doing something useful--useful reading, useful +sewing, and so forth. But I am inclined to believe that sociability and +talk are more useful than reading, and that solitary musing and dreaming +and looking about are useful too. All activity is useful, all interchange, +all perception. What isn't useful is anything which hides life from you, +any habit that drugs you into inactivity and idleness, anything which makes +you believe that life is romantic and sentimental and fatuous. I wouldn't +even go so far as to say that _all_ the time spent in squabbling and +quarrelling is useless, because it brings you up against people who think +differently from yourself. That becomes wasteful the moment it leaves you +with the impotent desire to hurt your adversary. No, I am inclined to think +that the only thing which is wasteful is anything which suspends interest +and animation and the love of life; and I don't blame idle and extravagant +people who live with zest and liveliness for doing that. I only blame them +for not seeing that their extravagance is keeping people at the other end +of the scale in drudgery and dulness. Of course the difficulty of it is, +that if we offered the lowest stratum of workers a great increase of +leisure, they would largely misuse it; and that is why I believe that in +the future a large part of the education of workers will be devoted to +teaching them how to employ their leisure agreeably and not noxiously. And +I believe that there are thousands of cases in the world which are +infinitely worse than the case of Keats--who, after all, had more joy of +the finest quality in his short life than most of us achieve. I mean the +cases of men and women with fine and sensitive instincts, who by being born +under base and down-trodden conditions are never able to get a taste of +clean, wholesome, and beautiful life at all--that's a much darker +problem." + +"But how do you fit that into your theories of life at all?" said Vincent. + +"Oh, it fits my theory of life well enough," said Father Payne. "You see, I +believe it to be a real battle, and not a sham fight. I believe in God as +the source of all the fine, beautiful, and free instincts, casting them +lavishly into the world, against a horribly powerful and relentless but +ultimately stupid foe. 'Who put the evil there?' you may say, 'and how did +it get there first?' Ah, I don't know that--that is the origin of evil. But +I don't believe that God put it there first, just for the interest of the +fight. I don't believe that He is responsible for waste--I think it is one +of the forces He is fighting. He pushes battalion after battalion to the +assault, and down they go. It's cruel work, but it isn't anything like so +cruel as to suppose that He arranged it all or even permitted it all. That +would indeed sicken and dishearten me. No, I believe that God never wastes +anything; but it's a fearful and protracted battle; and I believe that He +will win in the end. I read a case in the paper the other day of a little +child in a workhouse that had learnt a lot of infamous language, and cursed +and swore if it was given milk instead of beer or brandy. Am I to believe +that God was in any way responsible for putting a little child in that +position?--for allowing things to take shape so, if He could have checked +it? No, indeed! I do not believe in a God as helpless or as wicked as that! +There is something devilish there, for which He is not responsible, and +against which He is fighting as hard as He can." + +"But doesn't heredity come in there?" said Vincent. "It isn't the child's +fault, and probably no amount of decent conditions would turn that child +into anything respectable." + +"Yes," said Father Payne; "heredity is just one of the evil devices--but +don't you see the stupidity of it? It stops progress, but it also helps it +on--it hinders, but it also helps; and nothing in the world seems to me so +Divine as the way in which God is using and mastering heredity for good. It +multiplies evil, but it also multiplies good; and God has turned that +weapon against the contriver of it. The wiser that the world grows, the +more they will see how to use heredity for happiness, by preventing the +tainted from continuing to taint the races. The slow civilisation of the +world is the strongest proof I know that the battle is going the right way. +The forces of evil are being slowly transformed into the forces of good. +The waste of noble things is but the slow arrival of the new armies of +light. There is something real in fighting for a General who has a very +urgent and terrible business on hand. There is nothing real about fighting +for one who has brought both the armies into the field. It doesn't do to +sentimentalise about evil, and to say that it is hidden good! The world is +a probation, I don't doubt--but it is testing your strength against +something which is really there, and can do you a lot of harm, not against +something which is only there for the purpose of testing what might have +been made and kept both innocent and strong." + + + +XLI + +OF EDUCATION + + +Father Payne generally declined to talk about education. "Teaching is one +of the things, like golf and hunting, which is exciting to do and pleasant +to remember, but intolerable to talk about," he said one evening. + +"Well," I said, "it is certainly intolerable to listen to people discussing +education, or to read about it; but if you know anything about it, I should +have thought it was good fun to talk about it." + +"Ah," said Father Payne, "you say, 'If you know anything about it.' The +worst of it is that everybody knows everything about it. A man who is a +success, thinks that his own education is the only one worth having; a man +who is a failure thinks that all systems of education are wrong. And as for +talking about teaching, you can't talk about it--you can only relate your +own experience, and listen with such patience as you can muster to another +man relating his. That's not talking!" + +"But it is interesting in a general way," said Vincent,--"the kind of thing +you are aiming at, what you want to produce, and so on." + +"Yes, my dear Vincent," said Father Payne, "but education isn't that--it's +an obstinate sort of tradition; it's a quest, like the Philosopher's Stone. +Most people think that it is a sort of charm which, if you could discover +it, would transmute all baser metals into gold. The justification of the +Philosopher's Stone is, I suppose, that different metals are not really +different substances, but only different arrangements of the same atoms. +But we can't predicate that of human spirits as yet; and to attempt to find +one formula of education is like planting the same crop in different soils. +It is the ridiculous democratic doctrine of human equality which is the +real difficulty. There is no natural equality in human nature, and the +question really is whether you are going to try to reduce all human beings +to the same level, which is the danger of discipline, or to let people +follow their own instincts unchecked, which is the shadow of liberty. I'm +all for liberty, of course." + +"But why 'of course'?" said Vincent. + +"Because I take the aristocratic view," said Father Payne, "which is that +you do more for the human race by having a few fine people, than by having +an infinite number of second-rate people. What the first-rate man thinks +to-day, the second-rate people think to-morrow--that is how we make +progress; and I would like to take infinite pains with the best material, +if I could find it, and leave discipline for the second-rate. The Jews and +the Greeks, both first-class nations, have done more for the world on the +whole than the Romans and the Anglo-Saxons, who are the best of the +second-rate stocks." + +"But how are you going to begin to sort your material?" said Barthrop. + +"Yes, you have me there," said Father Payne. "But I don't despair of our +ultimately finding that out. At present, the worst of men of genius is that +they are not always the most brisk and efficient boys. A genius is apt to +be perceptive and sensitive. His perceptiveness makes him seem bewildered, +because he is vaguely interested in everything that he sees; his +sensitiveness makes him hold his tongue, because he gets snubbed if he asks +too many questions. Men of genius are not as a rule very precocious--they +are often shy, awkward, absent-minded. Genius is often strangely like +stupidity in its early stages. The stupid boy escapes notice because he is +stupid. The genius escapes notice because he is diffident, and _wants_ +to escape notice." + +"But how would you set about discovering which was which?" said Barthrop. + +"Well," said Father Payne, "if you ask me, I don't think we discriminate; I +think we go in for teaching children too much, and not trying to make them +observe and think more. We give them things to do, and to get by heart; we +imprison them in a narrow round of gymnastics. As Dr. Johnson said once, +'You teach your children the use of the globes, and when they get older you +wonder that they do not seek your society!' The whole thing is so devilish +dull, and it saves the teacher such a lot of trouble! I myself was fairly +quick as a boy, and found that it paid to do what I was told. But I never +made the smallest pretence to be interested in what I had to do--grammar, +Euclid, tiny scraps of Latin and Greek. I used to thank God, in Xenophon +lessons, when a bit was all about stages and parasangs, because there were +fewer words to look out. The idea of teaching languages like that! If I had +a clever boy to teach a language, I would read some interesting book with +him, telling him the meaning of words, until he got a big stock of ordinary +words; I would just teach him the common inflexions; and when he could read +an easy book, and write the language intelligibly, then I would try to +teach him a few niceties and idioms, and make him look out for differences +of style and language. But we begin at the wrong end, and store his memory +with exceptions and idioms and niceties first. No sensible human being who +wanted, let us say, to know enough Italian to read Dante, would dream of +setting to work as we set to work on classics. Well then," Father Payne +went on, "I should cultivate the imagination of children a great deal more. +I should try to teach them all I could about the world as it is--the +different nations, and how they live, the distribution of plants and +animals, the simpler sorts of science. I don't think that it need be very +accurate, all that. But children ought to realise that the world is a big +place, with all sorts of interesting and exciting things going on. I would +try to give them a general view of history and the movement of +civilisation. I don't mean a romantic view of it, with the pomps and shows +and battles in the foreground; but a real view--how people lived, and what +they were driving at. The thing could be done, if it were not for the +bugbear of inaccuracy. To know a little perfectly isn't enough; of course, +people ought to be able to write their own language accurately, and to do +arithmetic. Outside of that, you want a lot of general ideas. It is no good +teaching everything as if everyone was to end as a Professor." + +"That is a reasonable general scheme," said Barthrop, "but what about +special aptitudes?" + +"Why," said Father Payne, "I should go on those general lines till boys and +girls were about fourteen. And I should teach them with a view to the lives +they were going to live. I should teach girls a good deal of house-work, +and country boys about the country--we mustn't forget that the common work +of the world has to be done. You must somehow interest people in the sort +of work they are going to do. It is hopeless without that. And then we must +gradually begin to specialise. But I'm not going into all that now. The +general aim I should have in view would be to give people some idea of the +world they were living in, and try to interest them in the part they were +going to play; and I should try to teach them how to employ their leisure. +That seems entirely left out at present. I want to develop people on simple +and contented lines, with intelligent interests and, if possible, a special +taste. The happy man is the man who likes his work, and all education is a +fraud if it turns out people who don't like their work; and then I want +people to have something to fall back upon which they enjoy. No one can +live a decent life without having things to look forward to. But, of +course, the whole thing turns on Finance, and that is what makes it so +infernally dull. You want more teachers and better teachers; you want to +make teaching a profession which attracts the best people. You can't do +that without money, and at present education is looked upon as an expensive +luxury. That's all part of the stodgy Anglo-Saxon mind. It doesn't want +ideas--it wants positions which, carry high salaries; and really the one +thing which blocks the way in all our education is that we care so much for +money and property, and can't think of happiness apart from them. As long +as our real aim in England is income, we shall not make progress; because +we persist in thinking of ideas as luxuries in which a man can indulge if +he has a sufficient income to afford to do so." + +"You take a gloomy view of our national ideals, Father," said Vincent. + +"Not a gloomy view, my boy," said Father Payne; "only a dull view! We are a +respectable nation--we adore respectability; and I don't think it is a +sympathetic quality. What I want is more sympathy and more imagination. I +think they lead to happiness; and I don't think the Anglo-Saxon cares +enough about happiness; if he is happy, he has an uneasy idea that he is in +for a disaster of some kind." + + + +XLII + +OF RELIGION + + +I found Father Payne one morning reading a letter with knitted brows. +Presently he cast it down on the table with a gesture of annoyance. "What a +fool one is to argue!" he said--and then stopping, he said, "But you wanted +something--what is it?" It was a question about some books which was soon +answered. Then he said: "Stay a few minutes, won't you, unless you are +pressed? I have got a tiresome letter, and if you will let me pour out my +complaint to you, I shall be all right--otherwise I shall go about +grumbling and muttering all day, and inventing repartees." + +I sate down in a chair. "Yes, do tell me!" I said; "I have really very +little to do this morning, but finish up a bit of work." + +He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. "I expect you ought to be at +work," he said, "and if I were conscientious, I should send you away--but +this is rather interesting, I think." + +He meditated for a moment, and then went on. "It's this! I have got +involved in an argument with an old friend of mine who is a stiff sort of +High-Churchman--a parson. It's about religion, too, and it's no good +arguing about religion. You only confirm your adversary in his opinion. He +brings forth the bow, and makes ready the arrows within the quiver. I +needn't go into the argument. It's the old story. He objected to something +I said as 'vague,' and I was ass enough to answer him. He is one of those +people who is very strong on dogma, and treats his religion as if it were a +sort of trades' union. He thinks I am a kind of blackleg, not true to my +principles; or rather he thinks that I am not a Christian at all, and only +call myself one for the sake of the associations. Of course he triumphs +over me at every point. He is entrenched in what he calls a logical system, +and he fires off texts as if from a machine-gun. Of course my point is that +all strict denominations have got a severely logical system, but that they +can't all be sound, because they all deduce different conclusions from the +same evidence. All denominational positions are drawn up by able men, and I +imagine that an old theology like the Catholic theology is one of the most +ingenious constructions in the world from the logical point of view. But +the mischief of it all is that the data are incomplete, and many of them +are not mathematically demonstrable at all. They are all coloured by human +ideas and personalities and temperaments, and half of them are intuitions +and experiences, which vary at different times and under different +circumstances. All precise denominational systems are the outcome of the +desire for a precise certainty in the minds of business-like people--the +people who say that they wish to know exactly where they are. Now I don't +go so far as to say, or even to think, that religion will always be as +mysterious a thing as it is now. I fully expect that we shall know much +more about it some day. But we don't at present know very much about the +central things of all--the nature of God, the relation of good and evil, +life after death, human psychology. We have not reached the point of being +able definitely to identify the moral force of the world with the forces +which do not appear to be moral, but are undoubtedly, active--with +realities, that is, as we come into contact with them. There are no +scientific certainties on these points--we simply have not reached that +stage. My friend's view is that out of a certain number of denominations, +one is undoubtedly right. My view is that all are necessarily incomplete. +But the moment I say this, he says that my religion is so vague as not to +be a religion at all. + +"Now my own position is this, that I think religion, by which I mean our +relation to the Power behind the world, is the most important fact in the +world, as well as the most absorbingly interesting. Whatever form of +religion I study, I seem to see the same thing going on. The saints, +however much they differ in dogma, seem to me to have a strong family +likeness. Mysticism is a very definite thing indeed, and I have never any +doubt that all mystics have the same or a very similar experience, namely, +the perception of some perfectly definite force--as real a force as +electricity, for instance--with which they are in touch. Something, which +is quite clearly there, is affecting them in a particular way. + +"If you ask me what that something is, I don't know. I believe it to be a +sort of life-force, which can and does mingle itself with our own life; and +I believe that we are all affected by it, just as every drop of water on +the earth is affected by the moon's attraction--though we can measure that +effect in an ocean by observing the tides, when we can't measure it in a +basin of water. We are not all equally conscious of it, and I don't know +why that is. Sometimes I am aware of it myself, and sometimes not. But I +have had enough experience of it to feel that something is making signals +to me, affecting me, attracting me. And the reason why I am a Christian is +because in Christianity and in the teaching of Christ I feel the influence +of it in a way that I feel it nowhere else in the same degree. I feel that +Christ was closer to what I recognise as God; knew God better than anyone +that ever lived, and in a different kind of way--from inside, so to speak. +But it's a _life_ that I find in the Gospel, and not a _creed_: +and I believe that this is religion, to be somehow in touch with a higher +life and a higher sort of beauty. + +"But I personally don't want this explained and defined and codified. That +seems to me only to hem it in and limit it. The moment I find it reduced to +dogma and rule, to definite channels of grace, to particular powers +entrusted to particular persons, then I begin to be stifled and, what is +worse, bored. I don't feel it to be a logical affair at all--I feel it to +be a living force, the qualities of which are virtue, beauty, peace, +enthusiasm, happiness; all the things which glow and sparkle in life, and +make me long to be different--to be stronger, wiser, more patient, more +interested, more serene. I want to share my secret with others, not to keep +it to myself. But when I argue with my friend, I don't feel it is my secret +but his, and that in his mind the force itself is missing, while a lot of +rules and logical propositions and arrangements have taken its place. It is +just as though I were in love with a girl, and were taken to task by +someone, and informed of a score of conventions which I must observe if I +wish to be considered really in love. I know what love means to me, and I +know, how I want to make love; and the same sort of thing is happening to +lovers all the world over, though they don't all make love in the same way. +You can't codify the rules of love!" + +Presently he went on: "It seems to me like this--like seeing the reflection +of the moon. You may see it in the marble basin of a fountain, clear and +distinct. You may see it blurred into ripples on a wind-stirred sea. You +may see it moulded into liquid curves on a swift stream. The changing +shapes of it matter little--you are sure that it is the same thing which is +being reflected, however differently it appears. I believe that human +nature has a power of reflecting God, and the different denominations seem +to me to reflect Him in different ways, like the fountain and the stream +and the sea. But the same thing is there, though the forms seem to vary. +And therefore we must not quarrel with the different attempts to reflect +it--or even be vexed if the fountain tells the sea that it is not +reflecting the moon at all. Take my advice, my boy," he added, smiling, +"and never argue about religion--only try to make your own spirit as calm +and true as you can!" + + + +XLIII + +OF CRITICS + + +I came in from a stroll one day with Father Payne and Barthrop. Father +Payne opened a letter which was lying on the hall table, and saying, +"Hallo, Leonard, look at this. Gladwin is coming down for Sunday--that will +be rather fun!" + +"I don't know about fun," said Barthrop; "at least I doubt if I should find +it fun, if I had the responsibility of entertaining him." + +"Yes, it's a great responsibility," said Father Payne. "I feel that. +Gladwin is a man who has to be taken as you find him, but who never makes +any pretence of taking you as he finds you! But it will amuse me to put him +through his paces a bit!" + +"Who on earth is Gladwin?" said I, consumed by curiosity. + +Father Payne and Barthrop laughed. "I should like Gladwin to hear that!" +said Barthrop. + +"Only it would grieve him still more if Duncan _had_ heard of him," +said Father Payne; "there would be a commonness about that!" Then turning +to me, he said, "Gladwin? Well, he's about the most critical man in +England, I suppose. He does a little work--a very little: and I think he +might have been a great man, if he hadn't become so fearfully dry. He began +by despising everyone else, and ended by despising himself--and now it's +almost a torture to him to make up his mind. 'There's something base about +a _decision_,' he once said to me. But 'despising' isn't the right +word. He doesn't despise--that would be coarse. He only feels the +coarseness of things in general. He has got too fine an edge on his +mind--everything blunts it!" + +"Do you remember Rose's song about him?" said Barthrop. + +"Yes, what was it?" said Father Payne. + +"The refrain," said Barthrop, "was + + "'Not too much of whatever is best, + That is enough for me!'" + +Father Payne laughed. "Yes, I remember!" he said; "'Not too much' is a good +stroke!" + +I happened to be with Father Payne when Gladwin arrived. He was a small, +trim, compact man, about forty, unembarrassed and graceful, but with an air +of dejection. He had a short pointed beard and moustache, and his hair was +growing grey. He had fine thin hands, and he was dressed in old but +well-fitting clothes. He had an atmosphere of great distinction about him. +I had expected something incisive and clear-cut about him, but he was +conspicuously gentle, and even deprecating in manner. He greeted Father +Payne smilingly, and shook hands with me, with a courteous little bow. We +strolled a little in the garden. Father Payne did most of the talking, but +Gladwin's silence was sympathetic and impressive. He listened to us +tolerantly, as a man might listen to the prattle of children. + +"What are you doing just now?" said Father Payne after a pause. + +"Oh, nothing worth mentioning," said Gladwin softly. "I work more slowly +than ever, I believe. It can hardly be called work, indeed. In fact, I want +to consult you about a few little bits--they can hardly be called anything +so definite as 'pieces'--but I am in doubt about their arrangement. The +placing of independent pieces is such a difficulty to me, you know! One +must secure some sort of a progression!" + +"Ah, I shall enjoy that," said Father Payne. "But you won't take my advice, +you know--you never do!" + +"Oh, don't say that," said Gladwin. "Of course one must be ultimately +responsible. It can't be otherwise. But I always respect your judgment. You +always help me to the materials, at all events, for a decision!" + +Father Payne laughed, and said, "Well, I shall be at your service any +time!" + +A little while after, Gladwin said he thought he would go to his room. "I +know your ways here," he said to me with a smile; "one mustn't interfere +with a system. Besides I like it! It is such a luxury to obliterate +oneself!" When we met again before dinner, Gladwin walked across to a big +picture, an old sea-piece, rather effectively painted, which Father Payne +had found in a garret, and had had restored and framed. + +"What is this?" said Gladwin very gently; "I think this is new?" + +Father Payne told him the story of its discovery, adding, "I don't suppose +it is worth much--but it has a certain breeziness about it, I think." + +Gladwin considered it in silence, and then turned away. + +"Do you like it?" said Father Payne--a little maliciously, I thought. + +"Like it?" said Gladwin meditatively, "I don't know that I can go as far as +that! I like it in your house." + +Gladwin said very little at dinner. He ate and drank sparingly; and I +noticed that he looked at any dish that was offered him with a quick +scrutinising glance. He tasted his first glass of wine with the same air of +suspense, and then appeared to be relieved from a preoccupation. But he +joined little in the talk, and exercised rather a sobering effect upon us. +Once or twice he spoke out. Mention was made of Gissing's _Papers of +Henry Ryecroft_, and Father Payne asked him if he had read it. "Oh no, I +couldn't _read_ it, of course," said Gladwin; "I looked into it, and +had to put it away. I felt as if I had opened a letter addressed to someone +else by mistake!" + +At a later period of the evening, a discussion arose about the laws of +taste. Father Payne had said that the one phenomenon in art he could not +understand was the almost inevitable reaction which seemed to take place in +the way in which the work of a great writer or painter or musician is +regarded a few years after his vogue declines. "I am not speaking," said +Father Payne, "of poor, commonplace, merely popular work, but of work which +was acclaimed as great by the best critics of the time, and which will +probably return to pre-eminence," He instanced, I remember, Mendelssohn and +Tennyson. "Of course," he said, "they both wrote a great deal--perhaps too +much--and some kind of sorting is necessary. I don't mind the _Idylls of +the King_, or the _Elijah_, being relegated to oblivion, because +they both show signs of having been done with one eye on the public. But +the progressive young man won't hear of Tennyson or Mendelssohn being +regarded as serious figures in art at all. Yet I honestly believe that +poems like 'Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal,' or 'Come down, O Maid,' have a +high and permanent beauty about them; or, again, the overture to the +_Midsummer Night's Dream_. I can't believe that it isn't a thing full +of loveliness and delight. I can't for the life of me see what happens to +cause such things to be forgotten. Tennyson and Mendelssohn seem to me to +have been penetrated with a sense of beauty, and to have been great +craftsmen too: and their work at its best not only satisfied the most +exacting and trained critics, but thrilled all the most beauty-loving +spirits of the time with ineffable content, as of a dream fulfilled beyond +the reach of hope. And yet all the light seems to die out of them as the +years go on. The new writers and musicians, the new critics, the new +audience, are all preoccupied with a different presentment of beauty. And +then, very slowly, the light seems to return to the old things--at least to +the best of them: but they have to suffer an eclipse, during which they are +nothing but symbols of all that is hackneyed and commonplace in music and +literature. I think things are either beautiful or not: I can't believe in +a real shifting of taste, a merely relative and temporary beauty. If it +only happened to the second-rate kinds of goodness, it would be +intelligible--but it seems to involve the best as well. What do you think, +Gladwin?" + +Gladwin, who had been dreamily regarding the wine in his glass, gave a +little start almost of pain, as if a thorn had pricked him. He glanced +round the table, and then said in his gentlest voice, "Well, Payne, I don't +quite know from what point of view you are speaking--from the point of view +of serious investigation, or of edification, or of mere curiosity? I should +have to be sure of that. But, speaking hurriedly and perhaps intemperately, +I should be inclined to think that there was a sort of natural revolt +against a convention, a spontaneous disgust at deference being taken for +granted. Isn't it like what takes place in politics--though, of course, I +know nothing about politics--the way, I mean, in which the electors get +simply tired of a political party being in power, and give the other side a +chance of doing better? I mean that the gross and unintelligent laudation +of any artist who arrives at what is called assured fame, naturally turns +one's mind on to the critical consciousness of his imperfections. I don't +say it's noble or right--in fact, I think it is probably ungenerous--but I +think it is natural." + +"Yes, there is a good deal in that," said Father Payne, "but ought not the +trained critics to withstand it?" + +"The trained critic," said Gladwin, "the man who sells his opinion of a +work of art for money, is, of course, the debased outcome of a degrading +system. If you press me, I should consider that both the extravagant +laudation and the equally extravagant reaction are entirely vulgar and +horrible. Personally, I am not easily pleased: but then what does it matter +whether I am pleased or not?" + +"But you sometimes bring yourself to form, and even express, an opinion?" +said Father Payne with a smile. + +"An opinion--an opinion"--said Gladwin, shaking his head, "I don't know +that I ever get so far as that. One has a kind of feeling, no doubt; but it +is so far underground, that one hardly knows what its operations may be." + +"'Well said, old mole! Canst work i' the earth so fast? A worthy pioneer!'" +said Payne, laughing. + +Gladwin gave a quick smile: "A good quotation!" he said, "that was very +ready! I congratulate you on that! But there's more of the mole than the +pioneer about my work, such as it is!" + + +Gladwin drifted about the next day like a tired fairy. + +He had a long conference with Father Payne, and at dinner he seemed aloof, +and hardly spoke at all. He vanished the next day with an air of relief. +"Well, what did you think of our guest?" said Father Payne to me, meeting +me in the garden before dinner. + +"Well," I said, "he seemed to me an unhappy, heavily-burdened man--but he +was evidently extraordinarily able." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "that's about it. His mind is too big for him to +carry. He sees everything, understands everything, and passes judgment on +everything. But he hasn't enough vitality. It must be an awful curse to +have no illusions--to see the inferiority of everything so clearly. He's +awfully lonely, and I must try to see more of him. But it is very +difficult. I used to amuse him, and he appointed me, in a way he has, a +sort of State Jester--Royal Letters Patent, you know. But then he began to +detect the commonness of my mind and taste, and, one by one, all the +avenues of communication became closed. If I liked a book which he +disliked, and praised it to him, he became inflicted with a kind of mental +nausea: and it's impossible to see much of a man, with any real comfort, +when you realise that you are constantly turning him faint and sick. I had +a dreary time with him yesterday. He produced some critical essays of his +own, which he was thinking of making into a book. They were awfully dry, +like figs which have been kept too long--not a drop of juice in them. They +were hideously acute, I saw that. But there wasn't any reason why they +should have been written. They were mere dissections: I suggested that he +should call them 'Depreciations,' and he shivered, and I felt a brute. But +that didn't last long, because he has a way of putting you in your place. I +felt like something in a nightmare he was having. He annexes you, and he +disapproves of you at the same time. I am awfully sorry for him, but I +can't help him. The moment I try, I run up against his disapproval, and my +vulgar spirit revolts. He's an aristocrat, through and through. He comes +and hoists his flag over a place. I felt all yesterday as if I were a +rather unwelcome guest in his house, you know. It's a stifling atmosphere. +I can't breathe or speak, because I instantly feel myself suspected of +crudity! The truth is that Gladwin thinks you can live upon light, and +forgets that you also want air." + +"It seems rather a ghastly business," I said. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "it's a wretched business! That combination of +great sensitiveness and great self-righteousness is the most melancholy +thing I know. You have to get rid of one or the other--and yet that is how +Gladwin is made. Now, I have plenty of opinions of my own, but I don't +consider them final or absolute. It ends, of course, in poor Gladwin +knowing about a hundredth part of what is going on in the world, and +thinking that it's d--d bad. Of course it is, if you neglect the other +ninety-nine parts altogether!" + + + +XLIV + +OF WORSHIP + + +It was one of those perfectly fine and radiant days of early summer, with a +touch of easterly about the breeze, which means perhaps a drier air, and +always seems to bring out the true colours of our countryside, as with a +touch of ethereal golden-tinged varnish. The humid rain-washed days, so +common in England, are beautiful enough, with their rolling cloud-ranges +and their soft mistiness: but the clear sparkle of this brighter weather, +summer without its haze, intensifying each tone of colour and sharply +defining each several tint, has a special beauty of form as well as of hue. + +I walked with Father Payne far among the fields. He was at first in a +silent mood, observing and enjoying. We passed a field carpeted with +buttercups, and he said, "That's a beautiful touch, 'the flower-enamelled +field'--it isn't just washed with colour, it is like hammered work of +beaten gold, like the letters in old missals!" Presently he burst out into +talk: "I don't want to say anything affected," he began, "but a day like +this, out in the country, gives me a stronger feeling of what I can only +describe as _worship_ than anything else in the world, because the +scene holds the beauty of life so firmly up before you. Worship means the +sense of the unmistakable presence of beauty, I am sure--a beauty great and +overwhelming, which one has had no part in making--'The sea is His, and He +made it, and His hands prepared the dry land. O come, let us worship and +fall down, and kneel before the Lord our Maker'--it's that exactly--a sense +of joyful abasement in the presence of something great and infinitely +beautiful. I do wish that were more clearly stated and understood and +believed. Religion, as we know it in its technical sense, is so +faint-hearted about it all! It has limited worship to things beautiful +enough, arches and music and ceremony: and it is so afraid of vagueness, so +considerate of man's feeble grasp and small outlook, that it is afraid of +recognising all the channels by which that sense is communicated, for fear +of weakening a special effect. I'll tell you two or three of the +experiences I mean. You know old Mrs. Chetwynd, who is fading away in that +little cottage beyond the churchyard. She is poor, old, ill. She can hardly +be said to have a single pleasure, as you and I reckon pleasures. She just +lies there in that poky room waiting for death, always absolutely patient +and affectionate and sweet-tempered, grateful for everything, never saying +a hard or cross word. Well, I go to see her sometimes--not as often as I +ought. She shakes hands with that old knotted-looking hand of hers which +has grown soft enough now after its endless labours. She talks a +little--she is interested in all the news, she doesn't regret things, or +complain, or think it hard that she can't be out and about. After I have +been with her for two minutes, with her bright old eyes looking at me out +of such a thicket, so to speak, of wrinkles,--her face simply hacked and +seamed by life,--I feel myself in the presence of something very divine +indeed,--a perfectly pure, tender, joyful, human spirit, suffering the last +extremity of discomfort and infirmity, and yet entirely radiant and +undimmed. It is then that I feel inclined to kneel down before God, and +thank Him humbly for having made and shown me so utterly beautiful a thing +as that poor old woman's courage and sweetness. I feel as I suppose the +devout Catholic feels before the reserved Sacrament in the shrine--in the +presence of a divine mystery; and I rejoice silently that God is what He +is, and that I see Him for once unveiled. + +"And then the sight of a happy and contented child, kind and spirited and +affectionate, like little Molly Akers, never making a fuss, or seeming to +want things for herself, or cross, or tiresome--that gives me the same +feeling! Then flowers often give me the same feeling, with their cleanness +and fresh beauty and pure outline and sweet scent--so useless in a way, +often so unregarded, and yet so content just to be what they are, so apart +from every stain and evil passion. + +"And then in the middle of that you see a man like Barlow stumbling home +tipsy to his frightened wife and children, or you read a bad case in the +papers, or a letter from a man of virtue finding fault with everybody and +slinging pious Billingsgate about: or I lose my own temper about something, +and feel I have made a hash of my life--and then I wonder what is the foul +poison that has got into things, and what is the dismal ugliness that seems +smeared all over life, so that the soul seems like a beautiful bird caught +in a slime-pit, and trying to struggle out, with its pinions fouled and +dabbled, wondering miserably what it has done to be so filthily hampered." + +He stopped for a minute, and I could see that his eyes were full of tears. + +"It is no good giving up the game!" he said. "We are in the devil of a +mess, no doubt: and even if we try our best to avoid it, we dip into the +slime sometimes! But we must hold fast to the beautiful things, and be on +the look-out for them everywhere. Not shut our eyes in a rapture of +sentiment, and think that we can: + + "'Walk all day, like the Sultan of old, in a garden + of spice!' + +"That won't do, of course! We can't get out of it like that! But we must +never allow ourselves to doubt the beauty and goodness of God, or make any +mistake about which side He is on. The marvel of dear old Mrs. Chetwynd is +just that beauty has triumphed, in spite of everything. With every kind of +trouble, every temptation to be dispirited and spiteful and wretched, that +fine spirit has got through--and, by George, I envy her the awakening, when +that sweet old soul slips away from the cage where she is caught, and goes +straight to the arms of God!" + +He turned away from me as he said this, and I could see that he struggled +with a sob. Then he looked at me with a smile, and put his arm in mine. +"Old man," he said, "I oughtn't to behave like this--but a day like this, +when the world looks as it was meant to look, and as, please God, it +_will_ look more and more, goes to my heart! I seem to see what God +desires, and what He can't bring about yet, for all His pains. And I want +to help Him, if I can! + + "'We too! We ask no pledge of grace, + No rain of fire, no heaven-hung sign. + Thy need is written on Thy face-- + Take Thou our help, as we take Thine!' + +"That's what I mean by worship--the desire to be _used_ in the service +of a Power that longs to make things pure and happy, with groanings that +cannot be uttered. The worst of some kinds of worship is that they drug you +with a sort of lust for beauty, which makes you afraid to go back and pick +up your spade. We mustn't swoon in happiness or delight, but if we say +'Take me, use me, let me help!' it is different, because we want to share +whatever is given us, to hand it on, not to pile it up. Of course it's +little enough that we can do: but think of old Mrs. Chetwynd again--what +has she to give? Yet it is more than Solomon in all his beauty had to +offer. We must be simple, we mustn't be ambitious. Do you remember the old +statesman who, praising a disinterested man, said that he was that rare and +singular type of man who did public work for the sake of the public? That's +what I want you to do--that is what a writer can do. He can remind the +world of beauty and simplicity and purity. He can be 'a messenger, an +interpreter, one among a thousand, _to show unto man his +uprightness_!' That's what you have got to do, old boy! Don't show unto +man his nastiness--don't show him up! Keep on reminding him of what he +really is or can be." + +He went on after a moment. "I ought not to talk like this," he said, +"because I have failed all along the line. 'I put in my thumb and pull out +a plum,' like Jack Homer. I try a little to hand it on, but it is awfully +nice, you know, that plum! I don't pretend it isn't." + +"Why, Father," I said, much moved at his kind sincerity, "I don't know +anyone in the world who eats fewer of his plums than you!" + +"Ah, that's a friendly word!" said Father Payne. "But you can't count the +plum-stones on my plate." + +We did not say much after this. We walked back in the summer twilight, and +my mind began to stir and soar, as indeed it often did when Father Payne +showed me his heart in all its strength and cleanness. No one whom I ever +met had his power of lighting a flame of pure desire and beautiful +hopefulness, in the fire of which all that was base and mean seemed to +shrivel away. + + + +XLV + +OF A CHANGE OF RELIGION + + +I was walking one day with Father Payne; he said to me, "I have been +reading Newman's _Apologia_ over again--I must have read it a dozen +times! It is surely one of the most beautiful and singular books in the +whole world?--and I think that the strangest sentence in it is this,--'Who +would ever dream of making the world his confidant?' Did Newman, do you +suppose, not realise that he had done that? And what is stranger still, did +he not know that he had told the world, not the trivial things, the little +tastes and fancies which anyone might hear, but the most intimate and +sacred things, which a man would hardly dare to say to God upon his knees. +Newman seems to me in that book to have torn out his beating and +palpitating heart, and set it in a crystal phial for all the world to gaze +upon. And further, did Newman really not know that this was what he always +desired to do and mostly did--to confide in the world, to tell his story as +a child might tell it to a mother? It is clear to me that Newman was a man +who did not only desire to be loved by a few friends, but wished everybody +to love him. I will not say that he was never happy till he had told his +tale, and I will not say that artist-like he loved applause: but he did +_not_ wish to be hidden, and he earnestly desired to be approved. He +craved to be allowed to say what he thought--it is pathetic to hear him say +so often how 'fierce' he was--and yet he hated suspicion and hostility and +misunderstanding: and though he loved a refined sort of quiet, he even more +loved, I think, to be the centre of a fuss! I feel little doubt in my own +mind that, even when he was living most retired, he wished people to be +curious about what he was doing. He was one of those men who felt he had a +special mission, a prophetical function. He was a dramatic creature, a +performer, you know. He read the lessons like an actor: he preached like an +actor; he was intensely self-conscious. Naturally enough! If you feel like +a prophet, the one sign of failure is that your audience melts away." + +Father Payne paused a moment, lost in thought. + +"But," I said, "do you mean that Newman calculated all his effects?" + +"Oh, not deliberately," said Father Payne, "but he was an artist pure and +simple--he was never less by himself than when he was alone, as the old +Provost of Oriel said of him. He lived dramatically by a kind of instinct. +The unselfconscious man goes his own way, and does not bother his head +about other people: but Newman was not like that. When he was reading, it +was always like the portrait of a student reading. That's the artist's +way--he is always living in a sort of picture-frame. Why, you can see from +the _Apologia_, which he wrote in a few weeks, and often, as he once +said, in tears, how tenderly and eagerly he remembered all he had ever done +or thought. His descriptions of himself are always romantic: he lived in +memories, like all poets." + +"But that gives one a disagreeable sense of unreality--of pose," I said. + +"Ah, but that's very short-sighted," said Father Payne. "Newman's was a +beautiful spirit--wonderfully tender-hearted, self-restrained, gentle, +sensitive, beauty-loving. He loved beauty as much as any man who ever +lived--beautiful conduct, beautiful life--and then his gift of expression! +There's a marvellous thing. It's pure poetry, most of the _Apologia_: +look at the way he flashes into metaphor, at his exquisite pictures of +persons, at his irony, his courtesy, his humour, his pathos. He and Ruskin +knew exactly how to confide in the world, how to humiliate themselves +gracefully in public, how to laugh at themselves, how to be gay--it's all +so well-bred, so delicate! Depend upon it, that's the way to make the world +love you--to tell it all about yourself like a charming child, without any +boasting or bragging. The world is awfully stupid! It adores well-bred +egotism. We are all deeply inquisitive about _people_; and if you can +reveal yourself without vanity, and are a lovable creature, the world will +overwhelm you with love. You can't pay the world a greater compliment than +to open your heart to it. You must not bore it, of course, nor must you +seem to be demanding its applause. You must just seem to be in need of +sympathy and comfort. You must be a little sad, a little tired, a little +bewildered. I don't say that is easy to do, and a man must not set out to +do it. But if a man has got something childlike and innocent about him, and +a naive way with him, the world will take him to its heart. The world loves +to pity, to compassionate, to sympathise, much more than it loves to +admire." + +"But what about the religious side of it all?" I said. + +"Ah," said Father Payne, "I think that is more touching still. The people +who change their religion, as it is called,--there is something extremely +captivating about them as a rule. To want to change your form of religion +simply means that you are unhappy and uneasy. You want more beauty, or more +assurance, or more sympathy, or more antiquity. Have you never noticed how +all converts personify their new Church in feminine terms? She becomes a +Madonna, something at once motherly and young. It is the passion with which +the child turns away from what is male and rough, to the mother, the nurse, +the elder sister. The convert isn't really in search of dogmas and +doctrines: he is in love with a presence, a shape, something which can +clasp and embrace and love him. I don't feel any real doubt of that. The +man who turns away to some other form of faith wants a home. He sees the +ugliness, the spite, the malice, the contentiousness of his own Church. He +loathes the hardness and uncharitableness of it; he is like a boy at school +sick for home. To me Newman's logic is like the effort of a man desperately +constructing a bridge to escape to the other side of the river. The land +beyond is like a landscape seen from a hill, a scene of woods and waters, +of fields and hamlets--everything seems peaceful and idyllic there. He +wants the wings of a dove, to flee away and be at rest. It is the same +feeling which makes people wish to travel. When you travel, the new land is +a spectacular thing--it is all a picture. It is not that you crave to live +in a foreign land: you merely want the luxury of seeing life without living +life. No ordinary person goes to live in Italy because he has studied the +political constitution and organisation of Italy, and prefers it to that of +England. So, too, the charm of a religious conversion is that it doesn't +seem unpatriotic to do it--but you get the feel of a new country without +having to quit your own. And the essence of it is a flight from conditions +which you dread and dislike. Of course Newman does not describe it so--that +is all a part of his guilelessness--he speaks of the shadow of a hand upon +the wall: but I don't doubt that his subconscious mind thrilled with the +sense of a possible escape that way. His heart was converted long before +his mind. What he hated in the English Church was having to decide for +himself--he wanted to lean on something, to put himself inside a +stronghold: he wanted to obey. Some people dislike the way in which he made +himself obey,--the way he argued himself into holding things which were +frankly irrational. But I don't mind that! It is the pleasure of the child +in being told what to do instead of having to amuse itself." + +He was silent for a little, and then he said: "I see it all so clearly, and +yet of course it is in a sense inconceivable to me, because to my mind all +the Churches have got a burden of belief which they can't carry. The Gospel +is simple enough, and it is as much as I can do to live on those lines. +Besides, I don't want to obey--I want to obey as little as I can! The +ecclesiastical and the theological tradition is all a world of shadows to +me. I can't be bound by the pious fancies of men who knew no science, and +very little about evidence of any kind. What I want is just a simple and +beautiful principle of living, such as I feel thrills through the words of +Christ. The Prodigal Son--that's almost enough for me! It is simplification +that I want, and independence. Of course I see that if that isn't what a +man wants, if he requires that something or someone should be infallible, +then he does require a good deal of argument and information and history. +But though I don't object to people who want all that, it isn't what I am +in search of. I want as much strong emotion and as little system as I can +get. By emotion I don't mean sentiment, but real motives for acting or not +acting. I want to hear someone saying, 'Come up hither,' and to see +something in his face which makes me believe he sees something that I don't +see and that I wish to see. I don't feel that with Newman! He is fifty +times better than myself, but I couldn't do the thing in his way, though I +love him with all my heart: it's a quiet sort of brotherhood that I want, +and not too many rules. In fact, it is _laws_ I want, and not +_rules_, and to feel the laws rather than to know them, I can't help +feeling that Newman spent too much of his time in the law-court, pleading +and arguing: and it's stuffy in there! But he will remain for ever one of +those figures whom the world will love, because it can pity him as well as +admire him. Newman goes to one's head, you know, or to one's heart! And I +expect that it was exactly what he wanted to do all the time!" + + + +XLVI + +OF AFFECTION + + +Father Payne, on our walks, invariably stopped and spoke to animals. I will +not say that animals were always fond of him, because that is a privilege +confined to saints, and heroes of romantic legends. But they generally +responded to his advances. It used to amuse me to hear the way he used to +talk to animals. He would stop to whistle to a caged bird: "You like your +little prison, don't you, sweet?" he would say. Or he would apostrophise a +cat, "Well, Ma'am, you must find it wearing to carry on your expeditions +all night, and to live the life of a domestic saint all day?" I asked him +once why he did not keep a dog, when he was so fond of animals. "Oh, I +couldn't," he said; "it is so dreadful when dogs get old and ill, and when +they die! It's sentiment, too; and I can't afford to multiply +emotions--there are too many as it is! Besides, there is something rather +terrible to me about the affection of a dog--it's so unreasonable a +devotion, and I like more critical affections--I prefer to earn affection! +I read somewhere the other day," he went on, "that it might easily be +argued that the dog was a higher flight of nature even than man; that man +has gone ahead in mind and inventiveness; but that the dog is on the whole +the better Christian, because he does by instinct what man fails to do by +intention--he is so sympathetic, so unresentful, so trustful! It is really +amazing, if you come to think of it, the dog's power of attachment to +another species. We must seem very mysterious to dogs, and yet they never +question our right to use them as we will, while nothing shakes their love. +And then there is something wonderful in the way in which the dog, however +old he is, always wants to play. Most animals part with that after their +first youth; but a dog plays, partly for the fun of it, and partly to make +sure that you like his company and are happy. And yet it is a little +undignified to care for people like that, you know!" + +"How ought one to care for people?" I said. + +"Ah, that's a large question," said Father Payne, "the duty of loving--it's +a contradiction in terms! To love people seems the one thing in the world +you cannot do because you ought to do it; and yet to love your neighbour as +yourself can't _only_ mean to behave _as if_ you loved him. And +then, what does caring about people mean? It seems impossible to say. It +isn't that you want anything which they can give you--it isn't that they +need anything you can give them; it isn't always even that you want to see +them. There are people for whom I care who rather bore me; there are people +who care for me who bore me to extinction; and again there are people whose +company I like for whom I don't care. It isn't always by any means that I +admire the people for whom I care. I see their faults, I don't want to +resemble them. Then, too, there have been people for whom I have cared very +much, and wanted to please, who have not cared in the least for me. Some of +the best-loved people in the world seem to have had very little love to +give away! I have a sort of feeling that the people who evoke most +affection are the people who have something of the child always in +them--something petulant, wilful, self-absorbed, claiming sympathy and +attention. It is a certain innocence and freshness that we love, I think; +the quality that seems to say, 'Oh, do make me happy'; and I think that +caring for people generally means just that you would like to make them +happy, or that they have it in their power to make you happy. I think it is +a kind of conspiracy to be happy together, if possible. Probably the +mistake we make is to think it is one definite thing, when a good many +things go to make it up. I have been interested in a very large number of +people--in fact, I am generally interested in people; but I haven't cared +for all of them, while I have cared for a good many people in whom I have +not been at all interested. But it is easier to say what the qualities are +that repel affection, than what the qualities are which attract it. I don't +think any faults prevent it, if people are sorry for their faults and are +sorry to have hurt you. It seems to me impossible to care for spiteful +people, or for the people who turn on you in a sudden anger, and don't want +to be forgiven, but are glad to have made you fear them. I don't care for +people who claim affection as a right, or who bargain for sacrifices. The +bargaining element must be wholly absent from affection. The feeling 'it is +your turn to be nice' is fatal to it. No, I think that it is a feeling that +you can live at peace with the particular person that is the basis of +friendship. The element of reproach must be wholly absent: I don't mean the +element of criticism--that can be impersonal--but the feeling 'you ought +not to behave like this to me.'" + +Father Payne relapsed into silence. "But," I said, "surely the people who +make claims for affection are very often most beloved, even when they are +unjust, inconsiderate, ill-tempered?" + +"By women," said Father Payne, "but not by men--and there's another +difficulty. Men and women mean such utterly different things by affection, +that they can't even discuss it together. Women will do anything for you, +if you claim their help, and make it clear that you need them; they will +love you if you do that. A man, on the other hand, will often do his very +best to help you, if you appeal to him, but he won't care for you, as a +rule, in consequence. Women like emotional surprises, men do not. A man +wants to get done with excitement, and to enter on an easy +partnership--women like the excitement more than the ease. And then it is +all complicated by the admixture of the masculine and feminine +temperaments. As a rule, however, women are interested in moody +temperaments, and men are bored by them. Personally, my own pleasure in +meeting a real friend, or in hearing from a friend, is the pleasure of +feeling 'Yes, you are there, just the same,'--it's the tranquillity that +one values. The possibility of finding a man angry or pettish is unpleasant +to me. I feel 'so all this nonsense has to be cleared away again!' I don't +want to be questioned and scrutinised, with a sense that I am on my trial. +I don't mind an ironical letter, which shows that a friend is fully aware +of my faults and foibles; but it's an end of all friendship with me if I +feel a man is bent on improving me, especially if it is for his own +convenience. I'm sure that the fault-finding element is fatal to affection. +That may sound weak, but I can't be made to feel that I am responsible to +other people. I don't recognise anyone's right to censure me. A man may +criticise me if he likes, but he mustn't impose upon me the duty of living +up to his ideal. I don't believe that even God does that!" + +"I don't understand," I said. + +"Well," said Father Payne, "I don't believe that God says, 'This is my law, +and you must obey it because I choose," I believe He says, 'This is the +law, for Me as well as for you, and you will not be happy till you obey +it,'--Yes, I have got it, I believe--the essence of affection is +_equality_. I don't mean that you may not recognise superiorities in +your friend, and he in you; but they must not come into the question of +affection. Love makes equal, and when there is a real sense of equality, +love can begin." + +"But," I said, "the passion of lovers--isn't that all based on the worship +of something infinitely superior to oneself?" + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but that means a sight of something beyond--of +the thing which we all love--beauty. I don't say that equality is the thing +we love--it's only the condition of loving. The lover can't love, if he +feels himself _really_ unworthy of love. He must believe that at worst +he _can_ be loved, though he may be astonished at being loved; it is +in love that it is possible to meet; it is love that brings beauty within +your reach, or down, to your level. It is beauty that you love in your +friend, not his right to improve you. He is what you want to be; and the +comfort of being loved is the comfort of feeling that there is some touch +of the same beauty in yourself. It is so easy to feel dreary, stupid, +commonplace--and then someone appears, and you see in his glance and talk +that there is, after all, some touch of the same thing in yourself which +you love in him, some touch of the beauty which you love in God. But the +glory of beauty is that it is concerned with being beautiful and becoming +beautiful--not in mocking or despising or finding fault or improving. Love +is the finding your friend beautiful in mind and heart, and the joy of +being loved is the sense that you are beautiful to him--that you are equal +in that! When you once know that, little quarrels and frictions do not +matter--what _does_ matter is the recognising of some ugly thing which +the man whom you thought was your friend really clings to and worships. +Faults do not matter if only the friend is aware of them, and ashamed of +them: it is the self-conscious fault, proud of its power to wound, and +using affection as the channel along which the envenomed stream may flow, +which destroys affection and trust." + +"Then it comes to this," I said, "that affection is a mutual recognition of +beauty and a sense of equality?" + +"It _is_ that, more or less, I believe," said Father Payne. "I don't +mean that friends need be aware of that--you need not philosophise about +your friendships--but if you ask me, as an analyst, what it all consists +in, I believe that those are the essential elements of it--and I believe +that it holds good of the dog-and-man friendship as well!" + + + +XLVII + +OF RESPECT OF PERSONS + + +Father Payne had been out to luncheon one day with some neighbours. He had +groaned over the prospect the day before, and had complained that such +goings-on unsettled him. + +"Well, Father," said Rose at dinner, "so you have got through your ordeal! +Was it very bad?" + +"Bad!" said Father Payne, "why should it be bad? I'm crammed with +impressions--I'm a perfect mine of them." + +"But you didn't like the prospect of going?" said Rose. + +"No," said Father Payne, "I shrank from the strain--you phlegmatic, +aristocratic people,--men-of-the-world, blases, highly-born and +highly-placed,--have no conception of the strain these things are on a +child of nature. You are used to such things, Rose, no doubt--you do not +anticipate a luncheon-party with a mixture of curiosity and gloom. But it +is good for me to go to such affairs--it is like a waterbreak in a +stream--it aerates and agitates the mind. But _you_ don't realise the +amount of observation I bring to bear on such an event--the strange house, +the unfamiliar food, the new inscrutable people--everything has to be +observed, dealt with, if possible accounted for, and if unaccountable, then +inflexibly faced and recollected. A torrent of impressions has poured in +upon me--to say nothing of the anxious consideration beforehand of topics +of conversation, and modes of investigation! To stay in a new house crushes +me with fatigue--and even a little party like this, which seems, I daresay, +to some of you, a negligible, even a tedious thing, is to me rich in +far-flung experience." + +"Mayn't we have the benefit of some of it?" said Rose. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "you may--you must, indeed! I am grateful to you +for introducing the subject--it is more graceful than if I had simply +divested myself of my impressions unsolicited." + +"What was it all about?" said Rose. + +"Why," said Father Payne, "the answer to that is simple enough--it was to +meet an American! I know that race! Who but an American would have heard of +our little experiment here, and not only wanted to know--they all do +that--but positively arranged to know? Yes, he was a hard-featured man--a +man of wealth, I imagine--from some place, the grotesque and extravagant +name of which I could not even accurately retain, in the State of +Minnesota." + +"Did he want to try a similar experiment?" said Barthrop. + +"He did not," said Father Payne. "I gathered that he had no such +intention--but he desired to investigate ours. He was full of compliments, +of information, even of rhetoric. I have seldom heard a simple case stated +more emphatically, or with such continuous emphasis. My mind simply reeled +before it. He pursued me as a harpooner might pursue a whale. He had the +whole thing out of me in no time. He interrogated me as a corkscrew +interrogates a cork. That consumed the whole of luncheon. I made a poor +show. My experiment, such as it is, stood none of the tests he applied to +it. It appeared to be lacking in all earnestness and zeal. I was painfully +conscious of my lack of earnestness. 'Well, sir,' he said at the conclusion +of my examination-in-chief, 'I seem to detect that this business of yours +is conducted mainly with a view to your own entertainment, and I admit that +it causes me considerable disappointment.' The fact is, my boys," said +Father Payne, surveying the table, "that we must be more conscious of +higher aims here, and we must put them on a more commercial footing!" + +"But that was not all?" said Barthrop. + +"No, it was not all," said Father Payne; "and, to tell you the truth, I was +more alarmed by than interested in the Minnesota merchant. I couldn't state +my case--I failed in that--and I very much doubt if I could have convinced +him that there was anything in it. Indeed, he said that my conceptions of +culture were not as clear-cut as he had hoped." + +"He seems to have been fairly frank," said Rose. + +"He was frank, but not uncivil," said Father Payne. "He did not deride my +absence of definiteness, he only deplored it. But I really got more out of +the subsequent talk. We adjourned to a sort of portico, a pretty place +looking on to a formal garden: it was really very charmingly done--a clever +fake of an, old garden, but with nothing really beautiful about it. It +looked as if no one had ever lived in it, though the illusion of age was +skilfully contrived--old paving-stones, old bricks, old lead vases, but all +looking as if they were shy, and had only been just introduced to each +other. There was no harmony of use about it. But the talk--that was the +amazing thing! Such pleasant intelligent people, nice smiling women, +courteous grizzled men. By Jove, there wasn't a single writer or artist or +musician that they didn't seem to know intimately! It was a literary party, +I gathered: but even so there was a haze of politics and society about +it--vistas of politicians and personages of every kind, all known +intimately, all of them quoted, everything heard and whispered in the +background of events--we had no foregrounds, I can tell you, nothing +second-hand, no concealments or reticences. Everyone in the world worth +knowing seemed to have confided their secrets to that group. It was a +privilege, I can tell you! We simply swam in influences and authenticities. +I seemed to be in the innermost shrine of the world's forces--where they +get the steam up, you know!" + +"But who are these people, after all?" said Rose. + +"My dear Rose!" said Father Payne. "You mustn't destroy my illusions in +that majestic manner! What would I not have given to be able to ask myself +that question! To me they were simply the innermost circle, to whom the +writers and artists of the day told their dreams, and from whom they sought +encouragement and sympathy. That was enough for me. I stored my memory with +anecdotes and noble names, like the man in _Pride and Prejudice_." + +"But what did it all come to?" said Rose. + +"Well," said Father Payne, "to tell you the truth, it didn't amount to very +much! At the time I was dazzled and stupefied--but subsequent reflection +has convinced me that the cooking was better than the food, so to speak." + +"You mean that it was mostly humbug?" said Rose. + +"Well, I wouldn't go quite as far as that," said Father Payne, "but it was +not very nutritive--no, the nutriment was lacking! Come, I'll tell you +frankly what I did think, as I came away. I thought these pretty people +very adventurous, very quick, very friendly. But I don't truly think they +were interested in the real thing at all--only interested in the words of +the wise, and in the unconsidered trifles of the Major Prophets, so to +speak. I didn't think it exactly pretentious--but they obviously only cared +for people of established reputation. They didn't admire the ideas behind, +only the reputations of the people who said the things. They had +undoubtedly seen and heard the great people--I confess it amazed me to +think how easily the men of mark can be exploited--but I did not discern +that they cared about the things represented,--only about the +representatives. The American was different. He, I think, cared about the +ideas, though he cared about them in the wrong way. I mean that he claimed +to find everything distinct, whereas the big things are naturally +indistinct. They loom up in a shadowy way, and the American was examining +them through field-glasses. But my other friends seemed to me to be only +interested in the people who had the entree, so to speak--the priests of +the shrine. They had noticed everything that doesn't matter about the high +and holy ones--how they looked, spoke, dressed, behaved. It was awfully +clever, some of it; one of the women imitated Legard the essayist down to +the ground--the way he pontificates, you know--but nothing else. They were +simply interested in the great men, and not interested in what make the +great men different from other people, but simply in their resemblance to +other people. Even great people have to eat, you know! Legard himself eats, +though it's a leisurely process; and this woman imitated the way he forked +up a bit, held it till the bit dropped off, and put the empty fork into his +mouth. It was excruciatingly funny--I'll admit that. But they missed the +point, after all. They didn't care about Legard's books a bit--they cared +much more about that funny cameo ring he wears on his tie!" + +"It all seems to me horribly vulgar," said Kaye. + +"No, it was no more vulgar than a dance of gnats," said Father Payne. "They +were all alive, those people. They were just gnats, now I come to think of +it! They had stung all the great men of the day--even drawn a little +blood--and they were intoxicated by it. Mind, I don't say that it is worth +doing, that kind of thing! But they were having their fun--and the only +mistake they made was in thinking they cared about these people for the +right reasons. No, the only really rueful part of the business was the +revelation to me of what the great people can put up with, in the way of +being feted, and the extent to which they seem able to give themselves away +to these pretty women. It must be enervating, I think, and even exhausting, +to be so pawed and caressed; but it's natural enough, and if it amuses +them, I'm not going to find fault. My only fear is that Legard and the rest +think they are really _living_ with these people. They are not doing +that; they are only being roped in for the fun of the performance. These +charming ladies just ensnare the big people, make them chatter, and then +get together, as they did to-day, and compare the locks of hair they have +snipped from their Samsons. But it isn't a bit malicious--it's simply +childish; and, by Jove, I enjoyed myself tremendously. Now, don't pull a +long face, Kaye! Of course it was very cheap--and I don't say that anyone +ought to enjoy that sort of thing enough to pursue it. But if it comes in +my way, why, it is like a dish of sweetmeats! I don't approve of it, but it +was like a story out of Boccaccio, full of life and zest, even though the +pestilence was at work down in the city. We must not think ill of life too +easily! I don't say that these people are living what is called the highest +life. But, after all, I only saw them amusing themselves. There were some +children about, nice children, sensibly dressed, well-behaved, full of go, +and yet properly drilled. These women are good wives and good mothers; and +I expect they have both spirit and tenderness, when either is wanted. I'm +not going to bemoan their light-mindedness; at all events, I thought it was +very pleasant, and they were very good to me. They saw I wasn't a +first-hander or a thoroughbred, and they made it easy for me. No, it was a +happy time for me--and, by George, how they fed us! I expect the women +looked after all that. I daresay that, as far as economics go, it was all +wrong, and that these people are only a sort of scum on the surface of +society. But it is a pretty scum, shot with bright colours. Anyhow, it is +no good beginning by trying to alter _them_! If you could alter +everything else, they would fall into line, because they are good-humoured +and sensible. And as long as people are kindly and full of life, I shall +not complain; I would rather have that than a dreary high-mindedness." + +Father Payne rose. "Oh, do go on, Father!" said someone. + +"No, my boy," said Father Payne, "I'm boiling over with impressions--rooms, +carpets, china, flowers, ladies' dresses! But that must all settle down a +bit. In a few days I'll interrogate my memory, like Wordsworth, and see if +there is anything of permanent worth there!" + + + +XLVIII + +OF AMBIGUITY + + +Father Payne had been listening to some work of mine: and he said at the +end, "That is graceful enough, and rather attractive--but it has a great +fault: it is sometimes ambiguous. Several of your sentences can have more +than one meaning. I remember once at Oxford," he said, smiling, "that +Collins, one of our lecturers, had been going through a translation-paper +with me, and had told me three quite distinct ways of rendering a sentence, +each backed by a great scholar. I asked him, I remember, whether that meant +that the original writer--it was Livy, I think--had been in any doubt as to +what his words were meant to convey. He laughed, and said, 'No, I don't +imagine that Livy intended to make his meaning obscure. I expect, if we +took the passage to him with the three renderings, he would deride at least +two of them, and possibly all three, and would point out that we simply did +not know the usage of some word or phrase which would have been absolutely +clear to a contemporary reader,' But Collins went on to say that there +might also be a real ambiguity about the passage: and then he quoted the +supposed remark of the bishop who declined to wear gaiters, and said, 'I +shall wear no clothes to distinguish myself from my fellow-Christians.' +This was printed in his biography, 'I shall wear no clothes, to distinguish +myself from my fellow-Christians.' 'That sentence may be fairly called +ambiguous,' Collins said, 'when its sense so much depends upon +punctuation.' + +"Now," Father Payne went on, "you must remember, in writing, that you write +for the eye, you don't write for the ear. A book isn't primarily meant to +be read aloud: and you mustn't resort to tricks of emphasis, such as +italics and so forth, which can only be rendered by voice-inflections. It +is your first duty to be absolutely clear and limpid. You mustn't write +long involved sentences which necessitate the mind holding in solution a +lot of qualifying clauses. You must break up your sentences, and even +repeat yourself rather than be confused. There is no beauty of style like +perfect clearness, and in all writing mystification is a fault. You ought +never to make your reader turn back to the page before to see what you are +driving at." + +"But surely," I said, "there are great writers like Carlyle and George +Meredith, for instance, who have been difficult to understand." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but that's a fault, though it may be a +magnificent fault. It may mean such a pressure of ideas and images that the +thing can hardly be written at length--and it may give you a sense of +exuberant greatness. You may have to forgive a great writer his +exuberance--you may even have to forgive him the trouble it costs to +penetrate his exact thoughts, for the sake of steeping yourself in the rush +and splendour of the style. But obscurity isn't a thing to aim at for +anyone who is trying to write; it may be, in the case of a great writer, a +sort of vociferousness which intoxicates you: and the man may convey a kind +of inspiration by his very obscurities. But it must be an impulse which +simply overpowers him--it mustn't be an effect deliberately planned. You +may perhaps feel the bigness of the thought all the more in the presence of +a writer who, for all his power, can't confine the stream, and comes down +in a cataract of words. But if you begin trying for an effect, it is like +splashing about in a pool to make people believe it is a rushing river. The +movement mustn't be your own contortions, but the speed of the stream. If +you want to see the bad side of obscurity, look at Browning. The idea is +often a very simple one when you get at it; it's only obscure because it is +conveyed by hints and jerks and nudges. In _Pickwick_, for instance, +one does not read Jingle's remarks for the underlying thought--only for the +pleasure of seeing how he leaps from stepping-stone to stepping-stone. You +mustn't confuse the pleasure of unravelling thought with the pleasure of +thought. If you can make yourself so attractive to your readers that they +love your explosions and collisions, and say with a half-compassionate +delight--'how characteristic--but it _is_ worth while unravelling!' +you have achieved a certain success. But the chance is that future ages +won't trouble you much. Disentangling obscurities isn't bad fun for +contemporaries, who know by instinct the nuances of words; but it becomes +simply a bore a century later, when people are not interested in old +nuances, but simply want to know what you thought. Only scholars love +obscurity--but then they are detectives, and not readers." + +"But isn't it possible to be too obvious?" I said--"to get a namby-pamby +way of writing--what a reviewer calls painfully kind?" + +"Well, of course, the thought must be tough," said Father Payne, "but it's +your duty to make a tough thought digestible, not to make an easy thought +tough. No, my boy, you may depend upon it that, if you want people to +attend to you, you must be intelligible. Don't, for God's sake, think that +Carlyle or Meredith or Browning _meant_ to be unintelligible, or even +thought they were being unintelligible. They were only thinking too +concisely or too rapidly for the reader. But don't you try to produce that +sort of illusion. Try to say things like Newman or Ruskin--big, beautiful, +profound, delicate things, with an almost childlike naivete. That is the +most exquisite kind of charm, when you find that half-a-dozen of the +simplest words in the language have expressed a thought which holds you +spell-bound with its truth and loveliness. That is what lasts. People want +to be fed, not to be drugged: That, I believe, is the real difference +between romance and realism, and I am one of those who gratefully believe +that romance has had its day. We want the romance that comes from realism, +not the romance which comes by neglecting it. But that's another subject." + + + +XLIX + +OF BELIEF + + +"I don't think there is a single word in the English language," said Father +Payne, "which is responsible for such unhappiness as the word 'believe.' It +is used with a dozen shades of intensity by people; and yet it is the one +word which is always being used in theological argument, and which, like +the ungodly, 'is a sword of thine.'" + +"I always mean the same thing by it, I believe!" I said. + +"Excuse me," said Father Payne, "but if you will take observations of your +talk, you will find you do not. At any rate, _I_ do not, and I am more +careful about the words I use than many people. If I have a heated argument +with a man, and think he takes up a perverse or eccentric opinion, I am +quite capable of saying of him, 'I believe he must be crazy.' Now such a +sentence to a foreigner would carry the evidence of a deep and clear +conviction; but, as I say it, it doesn't really express the faintest +suspicion of my opponent's sanity--it means little more than that I don't +agree with him; and yet when I say, 'If there is one thing that I do +believe, it is in the actual existence of evil,' it means a slowly +accumulated and almost unalterable opinion. In the Creed, one uses the word +'believe' as the nearest that conviction can come to knowledge, short of +indisputable evidence; and some people go further still, and use it as if +it meant an almost higher sort of knowledge. The real meaning is just what +Tennyson said, + + "'Believing where we cannot prove,' + +where it signifies a conviction which we cannot actually test, but on which +we are content to act." + +"But," I said, "if I say to a friend--'You are a real sceptic--you seem to +me to believe nothing,' I mean to imply something almost cynical." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "you mean that he has no enthusiasm or ideals, +and holds nothing sacred, because those are just the convictions which +cannot be proved." + +"Some people," I said, "seem to me simply to mean by the word 'believe' +that they hold an opinion in such a way that they would be upset if it +turned out to be untrue." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "it is the intrusion of the nasty personal +element which spoils the word. Belief ought to be a very impersonal thing. +It ought simply to mean a convergence of your own experience on a certain +result; but most people are quite as much annoyed at your disbelieving a +thing which they _believe_, as at your disbelieving a thing which they +_know_. You ought never to be annoyed at people not accepting your +conclusions, and still less when your conclusion is partly intuition, and +does not depend upon evidence. This is the sort of scale I have in my +mind--'practically certain, probable, possible, unproved, unprovable.' Now, +I am so far sceptical that, apart from practical certainties, which are +just the convergence of all normal experience, the fact that any one person +or any number of persons believed a thing would not affect my own faith in +it, unless I felt sure that the people who believed it were fully as +sceptical as and more clear-headed than myself, and had really gone into +the evidence. But even so, as I said, the things most worth believing are +the things that can't be proved by any evidence." + +"What sort of things do you mean?" I said. + +"Well, a thing like the existence of God," said Father Payne; "that at best +is only a generalisation from an immense range of facts, and a special +interpretation of them. But the amazing thing in the world is the vast +number of people who are content to believe important things on hearsay, +because, on the whole, they love or trust the people who teach them. The +word 'believing,' when I use it, doesn't mean that a good man says it, and +that I can't disprove it, but a sort of vital assent, so that I can act +upon the belief almost as if I knew it. It means for me some sort of +personal experience, I could not love or hate a man on hearsay, just +because people whom I loved or trusted said that they either loved or hated +him. I might be so far biassed that I should meet him expecting to find him +either lovable or hateful, but I could not adopt a personal emotion on +hearsay--that must be the result of a personal experience; and yet the +adoption of a personal emotion on hearsay is just what most people seem to +me to be able to do. I might believe that a man had done good or bad things +on hearsay: but I could have no feeling about him unless I had seen him. I +could not either love or hate a historical personage: the most I could do +would be to like or dislike all stories told about him so much that I could +wish to have met him or not to have met him." + +"Isn't it a question of imagination?" I said. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "and most ordinary religious belief is simply an +imaginative personification: but that is a childish affair, not a +reasonable affair: and that is why most religious teachers praise what they +call a childlike faith, but what is really a childish faith. I don't +honestly think that our religious beliefs ought to be a dog-like kind of +fidelity, unresentful, unquestioning, undignified confidence. The love of +Bill Sikes' terrier for Bill Sikes doesn't make Bill Sikes an admirable or +lovable man: it only proves his terrier a credulous terrier. The only +reason why we admire such a faith is because it is pleasant and convenient +to be blindly trusted, and to feel that we can behave as badly as we like +without alienating that sort of trust. I have sometimes thought that the +deepest anguish of God must lie in His being loved and trusted by people to +whom He has been unable so far to show Himself a loving and careful Father. +I don't believe God can wish us to love Him in an unreasonable way--I mean +by simply overlooking the bad side of things. A man, let us say, with some +hideous inherited disease or vice ought not to love God, unless he can be +sure that God has not made him the helpless victim of disease or vice." + +"But may the victim not have a faith in God through and in spite of a +disease or a vice?" I said. + +"Yes, if he really faces the fact of the evil," said Father Payne; "but he +must not believe in a muddled sort of way, with a sort of abject timidity, +that God may have brought about his weakness or his degradation. He ought +to be quite clear that God wishes him to be free and happy and strong, and +grieves, like Himself, over the miserable limitation. He must have no sort +of doubt that God wishes him to be healthy or clean-minded. Then he can +pray, he can strive for patience, he can fight his fault: he can't do it, +if he really thinks that God allowed him to be born with this horror in his +blood. If God could have avoided evil--I don't mean the sharp sorrows and +trials which have a noble thing behind them, but the ailments of body or +soul that simply debase and degrade--if He could have done without evil, +but let it creep in, then it seems to me a hopeless business, trying to +believe in God's power or His goodness. I believe in the reality of evil, +and I believe too in God with all my heart and soul. But I stand with God +against evil: I don't stand facing God, and not knowing on which side He is +fighting. Everything may not be evil which I think evil: but there are some +sorts of evil--cruelty, selfish lust, spite, hatred, which I believe that +God detests as much as and far more than I detest them. That is what I mean +by a belief, a conviction which I cannot prove, but on which I can and do +act." + +"But am I justified in not sharing that belief?" I said. + +"Yes," said Father Payne; "if you, in the light of your experience, think +otherwise, you need not believe it--you cannot believe it! But it is the +only interpretation of the facts which sets me free to love God, which I do +not only with heart and soul, but with mind and strength. If I could +believe that God had ever tampered with what I feel to be evil, ever +permitted it to exist, ever condoned it, I could fear Him--I should fear +Him with a ghastly fear--but I could not believe in Him, or love Him as I +do." + + + +L + +OF HONOUR + + +"No, I couldn't do that," said Lestrange to Barthrop, in one of those +unhappy little silences which so often seemed to lie in wait for +Lestrange's most platitudinal utterances. "It wouldn't be consistent with a +sense of honour." + +Father Payne gave a chuckle, and Lestrange looked pained, "Oughtn't one to +have a code of honour?" he said. + +"Why, certainly!" said Father Payne, "but you mustn't impose your code on +other people. You mustn't take for granted that your idea of honour means +the same thing to everyone. Suppose you lost money at cards, and called it +a debt of honour, and thought it dishonourable not to pay it; while at the +same time you didn't think it dishonourable not to pay a poor tradesman +whose goods you had ordered and consumed, am I bound to accept your code of +honour?" + +"But there _is_ a difference there," said Rose, "because the man to +whom you owe a gambling debt can't recover it by law, while a tradesman +can. All that a debt of honour means is that you feel bound to pay it, +though you are not legally compelled to do so." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "that is so, in a sense, I admit. But still, one +mustn't shelter oneself behind big words unless one is certain that they +mean exactly the same to one's opponent. When I was at school there was a +master who used to be fond, as he said, of putting the boys on their +honour: but he never asked if we accepted the obligation. If I say, 'I give +you my honour not to do a thing,' then I can be called dishonourable if I +don't do it; but you can't put me on my honour unless I consent." + +"But surely honour means something quite definite?" said Lestrange. + +"Tell me what it is, then," said Father Payne. "Rose, you seem to have +ideas on the subject. What do you mean by honour?" + +"Isn't it one of the ultimate things," said Rose, "which can't be defined, +but which everyone recognises--like blue and green, let me say, or sweet +and bitter?" + +"No," said Father Payne; "at least I don't think so. It seems to me rather +an artificial thing, because it varies at different dates. It used, not so +long ago, to be considered an affair of honour to fight a duel with a man +if he threw a glass of wine in your face. And what do you make of the old +proverb, 'All is fair in love and war'? That seems to mean that honour is +not a universal obligation. Then there's the phrase, 'Honour among +thieves,' which isn't a very exalted one; or the curious thing, schoolboy +honour, which dictates that a boy may know that another boy is being +disgracefully and cruelly bullied, and yet is prevented by his sense of +honour from telling a master about it. I admit that honour is a fine idea; +but it seems to me to cover a lot of things in human nature which are very +bad indeed. It may mean only a sort of prudential arrangement which binds a +set of people together for a bad purpose, because they do not choose to be +interfered with, and yet call the thing honour for the sake of the +associations." + +"Yes, I don't think it is necessarily a moral thing," said Rose, "but that +doesn't seem to me to matter. It is simply an obligation, pledged or +implied, that you will act in a certain way. It may conflict with a moral +obligation, and then you have to decide which is the greater obligation." + +"Yes, that is perfectly true," said Father Payne, "and as long as you admit +that honour isn't in itself bound to be a good thing, that is all I want. +Lestrange seemed to use it as if you had only got to say that a motive was +honourable, to have it recognised by everyone as right. Take the case of +what are called 'national obligations.' A certain party in the State, +having secured a majority of votes, enters into some arrangement--a treaty, +let us say--without consulting the nation. Is that held to be for ever +binding on a nation till it is formally repealed? Is it dishonourable for a +citizen belonging, let us say, to the minority which is not represented by +the particular Government which makes the treaty, to repudiate it?" + +"Yes, I think it may be fairly called dishonourable," said Rose; "there is +an obligation on a citizen to back up his Government." + +"Then I should feel that honour is a very complicated thing," said Father +Payne. "If a citizen thinks a treaty dishonourable, and if it is also +dishonourable for him to repudiate it, it seems to me he is dishonourable +whatever he does. He is obliged to consent for the sake of honour to a +dishonourable thing being done. It seems to me perilously like a director +of a firm having to condone fraudulent practices, because it is +dishonourable to give his fellow-directors away. It is this conflict +between individual honour and public honour which puzzles me, and which +makes me feel that honour isn't a simple thing at all. A high conception of +private honour seems to me a very fine thing indeed. I mean by it a +profound hatred of anything false or cowardly or perfidious, and a loathing +of anything insincere or treacherous. That sort of proud and stainless +chivalry seems to me to be about the brightest thing we can discern, and +the furthest beauty we can recognise. But honour seems also, according to +you, to be a principle to which you can be committed by a majority of +votes, whether you approve of it or not; and then it seems to me a merely +detestable thing, if you can be bound by honour to acquiesce in something +which you honestly believe to be base. It seems to me a case of what +Tennyson describes: + + "'His honour rooted in dishonour stood, + And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.'" + +"But surely social obligations must often conflict with private beliefs," +said Rose. "A nation or a society has got to act collectively, and a +minority must be over-ridden." + +"I quite agree," said Father Payne, "but why mix up honour with it at all? +I don't object to a man who conscientiously dissents to some national move +being told that he must lump it. But if he is called dishonourable for +dissenting, then honour does not seem to me to be a real word at all, but +only a term of abuse for a man who objects to some concerted plan. You +can't make a dishonest thing honest because a majority choose to do it--at +least I do not believe that morality is purely a matter of majorities, or +that the dishonour of one century can become the honour of the next. I am +inclined to believe just the opposite. I believe that the man who has so +sensitive a conscience about what is honourable or not, that he is called a +Quixotic fool by his contemporaries, is far more likely to be right than +the coarser majority who only see that a certain course is expedient. I +should believe that he saw some truth of morality clearly which the rougher +sort of minds did not see. The saint--call him what you like--is only the +man who stands higher up, and sees the sunrise before the people who stand +lower down." + +"But everyone has a right to his own sense of honour," said Rose. + +"Certainly," said Father Payne, "but you must be certain that a man's sense +of honour is lower than your own before you call him dishonourable for +differing from you. If a man is less scrupulous than myself, I may think +him dishonourable, if I also think that he knows better. But what I do not +think that any of us has a right to do is to call a man dishonourable if he +has more scruples than oneself. He may be over-scrupulous, but the chances +are that any man who sacrifices his convenience to a scruple has a higher +sense of honour than the man who throws over a scruple for the sake of his +convenience. That is why I think honour is a dangerous word to play with, +because it is so often used to frighten people who don't fall in with what +is for the convenience of a gang." + +"But surely," said Rose, "morality is after all only a word for what +society agrees to consider moral." + +"Yes, in a sense that is so," said Father Payne; "it is only a word to +express a phenomenon. But I believe that morality is a real thing, for all +that; and that our conceptions of it get clearer, as the world goes on. It +is something outside of us--a law of nature if you like--which we are +learning; not merely a thing which we invent for our convenience. +But that is too big a business to go into now." + + + +LI + +OF WORK + + +I cannot remember now what public man it was who had died of a breakdown +from overwork, but I heard Father Payne say, after dinner, referring to the +event, "I wish it to be clearly understood that I think a man who dies of +deliberate or reckless overwork is a victim of self-indulgence. It is +nothing more or less than giving way to a passion. I am as sure as I can be +of anything," he went on, "that a thousand years hence that will be +recognised by human beings, and that they will feel it to be as shameful +for a man to die of spontaneous overwork as for him to die of drink or +gluttony or any other vice. I don't of course mean," he added, "the cases +of men who have had some definite and critical job to carry through, and +have decided that the risk is worth running. A man has always the right to +risk his life for a definite aim--but I mean the men--you can see it in +biographies, and the worst of it is that they are often the biographies of +clergymen--who, in spite of physical warnings, and entreaties from their +friends, and definite statements by their doctors that they are shortening +their lives by labour, still cannot stop, or, if they stop, begin again too +soon. No man has any right to think his work so important as that--to take +unimportant things too seriously is the worst sort of frivolity." + +"But isn't it the finer kind of people," said Kaye, "who make the mistake?" + +"Yes, of course," said Father Payne, "but so, too, if you look into it, you +will too often find that it is the finer kinds of imaginative people who +take to drink and drugs. I remember," he added, "once going to see a poor +friend of mine in an asylum, and the old doctor at the head of it said, 'It +isn't the stupid people who come here, Mr. Payne; it is the clever +people!'" + +"But does not your principle about the right to risk one's life hold good +here too?" said Barthrop. + +"No, I think not," said Father Payne. "A man may choose to try a dangerous +thing, climb a mountain, explore a perilous country, go up in a balloon, +where an element of risk is inseparable from the experiment; but ordinary +work isn't risky in itself. Why," he added, "I was reading a book the other +day, the life of Fitzherbert, you know, who was a man of prodigious +laboriousness, who died early, worn out. He had an impossible standard of +perfection. If he had to write an article, he read all the literature on +the subject over and over; he wrote and re-wrote his stuff. There was a +case quoted in the book, as if it were to Fitzherbert's credit, when he had +to send in an article by a certain date--just a _Quarterly_ article. +It had to go in on the Friday. He had finished it on the Monday before, +when his mind misgave him. He destroyed the article, began again, sate up +all Monday night and all Wednesday night, and wrote the whole thing afresh. +He was laid up for a month after it. That is simply the act of an +unbalanced mind." + +"I can't help feeling that there is something fine about it," said Vincent. + +"There is always something fine about unreasonable things," said Father +Payne, "or in a man making a sacrifice for an idea. But there is an entire +lack of proportion about this performance; and if Fitzherbert thought his +work so valuable as that, then he ought to have reflected that he was +simply limiting his future output by this reckless expenditure of force. +But the whole case was a sad one--Fitzherbert worked in a ghastly way as a +boy and as a young man. He had a very broad outlook, he was interested in +everything; and when he was at Oxford, he told a friend that he was +discovering a hundred subjects on which he hoped to have a say. Well, then, +the middle part of his life was spent in preparing himself, under the same +sort of pressure, to entitle himself to have his say: and then came his +first bad break-down--and the end of his life, which was a wretched period, +was spent in finding elaborate reasons why he should not commit himself to +any opinion whatever. If he was asked his opinion, he always said he had +not studied the subject adequately. That seems to me the life of a man +suffering from a sort of nightmare. Things are not so deep as all that--at +least, if no one is to give an opinion on any point until he has mastered +the whole sum of human opinion on the point, then we shall never make any +progress at all. I remember Fitzherbert's strong condemnation of Ruskin, +for giving his opinion cursorily on all subjects of importance. Yet Ruskin +did a greater work than Fitzherbert, because he at least made people think, +while Fitzherbert only prevented them from daring to think. I don't mean +that people ought to feel competent to express an opinion on +everything--yet even that habit cures itself, because, if you do it, no one +pays any attention. But if a man has gone into a subject with decent care, +or if he has reflected upon problems of which the data are fairly well +known, I think there is every reason why he should give an opinion. It is +very easy to be too conscientious. There are plenty of fine hints of +opinions in Fitzherbert's letters. You could make a very good book of +_Pensees_ out of them--he had a clear, forcible, and original mind; +but he did not dare to say what he thought; and you may remember that if he +was ever sharply criticised, he felt it deeply, as a sort of imputation of +dishonesty. A man must not go down before criticism like that." + +"But everyone must do their work in their own way?" said I. + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but Fitzherbert ended by doing nothing--he only +snubbed and silenced his own fine mind, by giving way to this unholy +passion for examining things. No, I want you fellows to have common-sense +about these matters. There is a great deal too much sanctity attached to +print. The written word--there's a dark superstition about it! A man has as +much right to write as he has to talk. He may say to the world, to his +unseen and unknown friends in it, whatever he may say to his intimates. You +should write just as you could talk to any gentleman, with the same +courtesy and frankness. Of course you must run the risk of your book +falling into the hands of ill-bred people--that can't be helped--and of +course you must not pretend that your book is the result of deep and +copious labour, if it is nothing of the kind. But heart-breaking toil is +not the only qualification for speaking. There are plenty of complicated +little topics--all the problems which arise from the combination of +individuals into societies--which people ought to think about, and which +are really everyone's concern. The interplay, I mean, of human +relations--the moral, religious, social, intellectual ideas--which have all +got to be co-ordinated. A man does not need immense knowledge for that; in +fact if he studies the history of such things too deeply, he is often apt +to forget that old interpreters of such things had not got all the present +data. There is an immense future before writers who will interest people in +and familiarise them with ideas. Some people get absorbed in life in the +wrong way, just bent on acquisition and comfort--some people, again, live +as if they were staying in somebody else's house--but what you want to +induce men and women to do is to realise the sort of thing that life really +is, and to attempt to put it in some kind of proportion. The mischief done +by men like Fitzherbert, who was fond of snapping at people who produced +ideas for inspection, is that ordinary people get to confuse wisdom with +knowledge; and that won't do! And so the man who sets to work like +Fitzherbert loses his alertness and his observation, with the result that +instead of bringing a very fresh and incisive mind to bear on life, he +loses his way in books, and falls a victim to the awful passion for feeling +able to despise other people's opinions." + +"But isn't it possible," said Vincent, "for a man to get the best out of +life for himself by a sort of passion for exact knowledge--like the man in +the Grammarian's funeral, I mean?" + +"Personally," said Father Payne, "I always think that Browning did a lot of +harm by that poem. He was glorifying a real vice, I think. If the +Grammarian had said to himself, 'There is all this nasty work to be done by +someone; I can do it, and I can save other people having to waste their +time over it, by doing it once and for all,' it would have been different. +But I think he was partly indulging a poor sort of vanity by just +determining to know what no other man knew. The point of work is twofold. +It is partly good for the worker, to tranquillise his life and to reduce it +to a certain order and discipline; but you mustn't do it only for the sake +of your own tranquillity, any more than the artist must work for the sake +of luxuriating in his own emotions. You must have something to give away: +you must have some idea of combination, of helping other people to find +each other and to understand each other. It is vicious to isolate yourself +for your own satisfaction. Fitzherbert and the Grammarian were really +misers. They just accumulated, and enjoyed the pleasure of having their own +minds clear. That doesn't seem to me in itself to be a fine thing at all. +It is simply the oldest of temptations, 'Ye shall be as gods, knowing good +and evil.' That is the danger of the critical mind, that it says, 'I will +know within myself what is good,' The only excuse for the critical mind is +to help people not to be taken in by what is bad. It is better to be like +Plato and Ruskin, to make mistakes, to have prejudices, to be unfair, even +to be silly, because at least you encourage people to think that life is +interesting--and that is about as much as any of us can do." + + + +LII + +OF COMPANIONSHIP + + +"Isn't it rather odd," said someone to Father Payne after dinner, "that +great men have as a rule rather preferred the company of their inferiors to +the company of their equals?" + +"I don't know," said Father Payne; "I think it's rather natural! By Jove, I +know that a very little of the society of a really superior person goes a +very long way with me. No, I think it is what one would expect. When the +great man is at work, he is on the strain and doing the lofty business for +all he is worth; when he is at leisure, he doesn't want any more strain--he +has done his full share." + +"But take the big groups," said someone, "like the Wordsworth set, or the +pre-Raphaelite set--or take any of the great biographies--the big men of +any time seem always to have been mutual friends and correspondents. You +have letters to and from Ruskin from and to all the great men of his day." + +"Letters, yes!" said Father Payne; "of course the great men know each +other, and respect each other; but they don't tend to coagulate. They +relish an occasional meeting and an occasional letter, and they say how +deeply they regret not seeing more of each other--but they tend to seek the +repose of their own less exalted circle. The man who has fine ideas prefers +his own disciples to the men who have got a different set of fine ideas. +That is natural enough! You want to impart the ideas you believe in--you +don't want to argue about them, or to have them knocked out of your hand. +Depend upon it, the society of an intelligent person, who can understand +you enough to stimulate you, and who is grateful for your talk, is much +pleasanter, and indeed more fruitful, than the society of a man who is +fully as intelligent as yourself, and thinks some of your conclusions to be +rot!" + +"But doesn't all that encourage people to be prophets?" Vincent said. "One +of the depressing things about great men is that they grow to consider +themselves a sort of special providence--the originators of great ideas +rather than the interpreters." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "of course the little coteries and courts of +great men are rather repulsive. But the best people don't do that. They +live contentedly in a circle which combines with its admiration for the +hero a comfortable feeling that, if other people knew what they know, they +wouldn't feel genius to be quite so extraordinary as is commonly believed. +And we must remember, too, that most great men seem greater afterwards than +they did at the time. More of a treat and a privilege, I mean." + +"Do you think one ought to try to catch a sight of great men who are +contemporaries?" said I. + +"Yes, a sight, I think," said Father Payne. "It's a pleasant thing to +realise how your big man sits and looks and talks, what his house is like, +and so forth. I have often rather regretted I haven't had the curiosity to +get a sight of the giants. It helps you to understand them. I remember a +pleasant old gentleman, Vinter by name, who lived in London. Vinter the +novelist was his son. When young Vinter became famous for a bit, and people +wanted to know him, old Vinter made a glorious rule. He told his son that +he might invite any well-known person he liked to the house, to luncheon or +dinner--but that unless he made a special exception in any one's favour, +they were not to be invited again. There's a fine old Epicurean! He liked +to realise what the bosses looked like, but he wasn't going to be bothered +by having to talk respectfully to them time after time." + +"But that's rather tame," said Vincent. "The point surely would be to get +to know a big man well." + +"Why, yes," said Father Payne, "but Vinter was a wise _old_ man; now I +should say to any _young_ man who had a chance of really having a +friendship with a great man, 'Of course, take it and thank your stars!' But +I shouldn't advise any young man to make a collection of celebrities, or to +go about hunting them. In fact I think for an original young man, it is apt +to be rather dangerous to have a real friendship with a great man. There's +a danger of being diverted from your own line, and of being drawn into +imitative worship. A very moderate use of great men in person should +suffice anyone. Your real friends ought to be people with whom you are +entirely at ease, not people whom you reverence and defer to. It's better +to learn to bark than to wag your tail. I don't think the big men +themselves often begin by being disciples." + +"Then who _is_ worth seeing?" said Vincent. "There must be somebody!" + +"Why, to be frank," said Father Payne, "agreeable men like me, who haven't +got too much authority, and are not surrounded by glory and worship! I'm +interested in most things, and have learnt more or less how to talk--you +look out for ingenious and kindly elderly men, who haven't been too +successful, and haven't frozen into Tories, and yet have had some +experience;--men of humour and liveliness, who have a rather more extended +horizon than yourself, and who will listen to what you say instead of +shutting you up, and saying 'Very likely' as Newman did--after which you +were expected to go into a corner and think over your sins! Or clever, +sympathetic, interesting women--not too young. Those are the people whom it +is worth taking a little trouble to see." + +"But what about the young people!" said Vincent. + +"Oh, that will look after itself," said Father Payne. "There's no +difficulty about that! You asked me whom it was worth while taking some +trouble to see, and I prescribe a very occasional great man, and a good +many well-bred, cultivated, experienced, civil men and women. It isn't very +easy to find, that sort of society, for a young man; but it is worth trying +for." + +"But do you mean that you should pursue good talk?" said Vincent. + +"A little, I think," said Father Payne; "there's a good deal of art in +it--unconscious art in England, probably--but much of our life is spent in +talking, and there's no reason why we shouldn't learn how to get the best +and the most out of talk--how to start a subject, and when to drop it--how +to say the sort of things which make other people want to join in, and so +on. Of course you can't learn to talk unless you have a lot to say, but you +can learn _how_ to do it, and better still how _not_ to do it. I +used to feel in the old days, when I met a clever man--it was rare enough, +alas!--how much more I could have got out of him if I had known how to do +the trick. It's a great pleasure, good talk; and the fact that it is so +tiring shows what a real pleasure it must be. But a man with whom you can +only talk _hard_ isn't a companion--he's an adversary in a game. There +have been times in my life when I have had a real tough talker staying here +with me, when I have suffered from crushing intellectual fatigue, and felt +inclined to say, like Elijah, 'Take away my life, for I am not better than +my fathers.' That is the strange thing to me about most human beings--the +extent to which they seem able to talk without being tired. I agree with +Walter Scott, when he said, 'If the question was eternal company without +the power of retiring within myself, or solitary confinement for life, I +should say, "Turnkey, lock the cell!"' Companionship doesn't seem to me the +normal thing. Solitude is the normal thing, with a few bits of talk thrown +in, like meals, for refreshment. But you can't lay down rules for people +about it. Some people are simply gregarious, and twitter together like +starlings in a shrubbery: that isn't talk--it's only a series of signals +and exclamations. The danger of solitude is that the machinery runs just as +you wish it to run--and that wears it out." + +"But isn't your whole idea of talk rather strenuous--a little artificial?" +said Vincent. + +"Not more so than fixed meals," said Father Payne, "or regular exercise. +But, of course silent companionship is the greatest boon of all. I have a +belief that even in silent companionship there is a real intermingling of +vital and mental currents, and that one is much pervaded and affected by +the people one lives with, even if one does not talk to them. The very +sight of some people is as bad as an argument! The ideal thing, of course, +is to have a few intimate friends and some comfortable acquaintances. But I +am rather a fatalist about friendship, and I think that most of us get +about as much as we deserve. Anyhow, it's all worth taking some trouble +about; and most people make the mistake of not taking any trouble or +putting themselves about; and that's not the way to behave!" + + + +LIII + +OF MONEY + + +I suppose I had said something high-minded, showing a supposed contempt of +money, for Father Payne looked at me in silence. + +"You mustn't say such things," said he, at last. "I'll tell you why! What +you said was perfectly genuine, and I have no doubt you feel it--but, if +I may say so, it's like talking about a place where you have never been, as +if you had visited it, when you have only read about it in the guide-book. +I don't mean that you wish to deceive for an instant--but you simply don't +know! That's the tragic thing about money--that it is both so important and +so unimportant. If you have enough money, you need never give it a thought; +if you haven't, it's the devil! It's like health--no one who hasn't been on +the wrong side of the dividing line knows what a horrible place the wrong +side is. Those two things--I daresay there are others--poverty and +ill-health--put a man on the rack. The healthy man, and the man with a +sufficient income, are apt to think that the poor man and the ill man make +a great fuss about very little. I don't know about ill-health, but by +George, I know all about poverty--and I'll tell you once for all. For +twenty years I was poor, and this is what that means. To be tied hand and +foot to a piece of hideous drudgery--morning by morning, month by month, +and with the consciousness too that, if health fails you, or if you lose +your work, you will either starve or have to sponge on your friends--never +to be able to do what you like or go where you like--to know that the world +is full of beautiful places, delightful people, interesting ideas, books, +talk, art, music--to sicken for all these things, and not even to have the +time or energy to get hold of such scraps of them as can be found cheap in +London--to feel time slipping away, and all your instincts for beautiful +things unused and unsated--to live a solitary, grubby, nasty life--never +able to entertain a friend, or to go a trip with a friend, or to do a +kindness, or to help anyone generously--and yet to feel that with an income +which many people would regard as ridiculously inadequate, you could do +most of these things--the slavery, the bondage, the dreariness of it!" He +broke off, much moved. + +"But," said I, "don't many quite poor people live happily and contentedly +and kindly with minute incomes?" + +"Why, yes," said Father Payne, "of course they do!--and I'm willing enough +to admit that I ought to have done better than I did. But then I had been +brought up differently, and by the time I had done with Oxford, I had all +the tastes and instincts of the well-to-do man. That was the mischief, that +I had tasted freedom. Of course, if I had been cast in a stronger and +nobler mould, it would have been different--but all my senses had been +acutely developed, my faculties of interest and enjoyment and +appreciation--not gross things, mind you, nor feelings that _ought_ to +be starved, but just the wholesome delights of the well-educated man. I did +not want to be extravagant, and I knew too that there were millions of +people in the same case as myself. There was every reason why I should +behave decently about it! If I had been really interested in my work, I +could have done better--but I did not believe in the value of my work--I +taught men, not to educate them, but that they might pass an examination +and never look at the beastly stuff again. Whenever I reached the point at +which I became interested, I had to hold my hand. And then, too, the work +tired me without exercising my mind. There were the vacations, of +course--but I couldn't afford to leave London--I simply lived in hell. I +don't say that I didn't get some discipline out of it--and my escape gave +me a stock of gratitude and delight that has been simply inexhaustible. The +misery of it for me was that I had to live an unreal life. If I had been +poor, and had had my leisure, and had worked at things I cared about, with +a set, let us say, of young artists, all working too at things which they +cared about, it would have been different--but I hadn't the energy left to +make friends, or the time to find any congenial people. I can't describe +what a nightmare it all was--so that when I hear you speaking as if money +didn't really matter, I simply feel that you don't know what a tragedy it +can be, or what your own income saves you from. You and I have the +Epicurean temperament, my boy; it's no good pretending we haven't--things +appeal to our mind and senses in a way they don't appeal to everyone. So I +don't think that people ought to talk lightly about money, unless they have +known poverty and _not_ suffered under it. I used to ask myself in +those days if it was possible to suffer more, when every avenue reaching +away out of my life to the things I loved and cared for seemed to be closed +to me by an impassable barrier." + +"But one can practise oneself in doing without things?" I said. + +"With about as much success," said Father Payne, "as you can practise doing +without food." + +"But isn't it partly that people are unduly reticent about money?" I said. +"If people could only say frankly what they can and what they can't afford, +it would simplify things very much." + +"I don't know," said Father Payne. "Money is one of those curious +things--uninteresting if you have enough, tragic if you haven't. I don't +think talking about money is vulgar--I think it is simply dull: to discuss +poverty is like discussing a disease--to discuss wealth is like talking +about food or wine. The poverty that simply humiliates and pinches can't be +joked about--it's far too serious for that! Of course, there are men who +don't really feel the call of life. Look at our friend Kaye! If Kaye had to +live in London lodgings, he wouldn't mind a bit, if he could get to the +Museum Reading-Room--he only wants books and his own work--he doesn't want +company or music or art or talk or friends. He is wholly indifferent to +nasty food or squalor. Poverty is not a real evil to him. If he had money +he wouldn't know how to spend it. I read a book the other day about a +priest who lived a very devoted life in the slums--he had two rooms in a +clergy-house--and there was a chapter in praise of the way in which he +endured his poverty. But it was all wrong! What that man really enjoyed was +preaching and ceremonial and company--he had a real love of human beings. +Well, that man's life was crammed with joy--he got exactly what he wanted +all day long. It wasn't a self-sacrificing life--it would have been to you +and me--but he no doubt woke day after day, with a prospect of having his +whole time taken up with things he thoroughly enjoyed." + +"But what about the people," I said, "who really enjoy just the sense of +power which money gives them, without using it--or the people whose only +purpose in using it is the pleasure of being known to have it?" + +"Oh, of course, they are simply barbarians," said Father Payne, "and it +doesn't do _them_ any harm to be poor. No, the tragedy lies in the +case of a man with really expansive, generous, civilised instincts, to whom +the world is full of wholesome and urgent delights, and whose life is +simply starved out of him by poverty. I have a great mind to send you to +London for a couple of months, to live on a pound a week, and see what you +make of it." + +"I'll go if you wish it," I said. + +"It might bring things home to you," said Father Payne, smiling, "but again +it probably would not, because it would only be a game--the real pinch +would not come. Most people would rather enjoy migrating to hell from +heaven for a month--it would just give them a sharper relish for heaven." + +"But do you really think your poverty hurt you?" I said. + +"I have no doubt it did," said Father Payne. "Of course I was rescued in +time, before the bitterness really sank down into my soul. But I think it +prevented my ever being more than a looker-on. I believe I could have done +some work worth doing, if I could have tried a few experiments. I don't +know! Perhaps I am ungrateful after all. My poverty certainly gave me a +wish to help things along, and I doubt if I should have learnt that +otherwise. And I think, too, it taught me not to waste compassion on the +wrong things. The people to be pitied are simply the people whose minds and +souls are pinched and starved--the over-sensitive, responsive people, who +feel hunted and punished without knowing why. It's temperament always, and +not circumstance, which is the happy or the unhappy thing. I felt, when you +said what you did about poverty, that you neither knew how harmless it +could be, or how infinitely noxious it might be. I don't take a high-minded +view of money myself. I don't tell people to despise it. I always tell the +fellows here to realise what they can endure and what they can't. The first +requisite for a sensible man is to find work which he enjoys, and the next +requisite is for him to earn as much as he really needs--that is to say +without having to think daily and hourly about money. I don't over-estimate +what money can do, but it is foolish to under-estimate what the want of it +can do. I have seen more fine natures go to pieces under the stress of +poverty than under any other stress that I know. Money is perfectly +powerless as a shield against many troubles--and on the other hand it can +save a man from innumerable little wretchednesses and horrors which destroy +the beauty and dignity of life. I don't believe mechanically in humiliation +and renunciation and ignominy and contempt, as purifying influences. It all +depends upon whether they are gallantly and adventurously and humorously +borne. They often make some people only sore and diffident, and I don't +believe in learning to hate life. Not to learn your own limitations is +childish: and one of the insolences which is most heavily punished is that +of making a sacrifice without knowing if you can endure the consequences of +it. The people who begin by despising money as vulgar are generally the +people who end by making a mess which other people have to sweep up. So +don't be either silly or prudent about money, my boy! Just realise that +your first duty is not to be a burden on yourself or on other people. Find +out your minimum, and secure it if you can; and then don't give the matter +another thought. If it is any comfort to you, reflect that the best authors +and artists have almost invariably been good men of business, and don't +court squalor of any kind unless you really enjoy it." + + + +LIV + +OF PEACEABLENESS + + +Father Payne, talking one evening, made a statement which involved an +assumption that the world was progressing. Rose attacked him on this point. +"Isn't that just one of the large generalisations," he said, "which you are +always telling us to beware of?" + +"It isn't an assumption," said Father Payne, "but a conviction of mine, +based upon a good deal of second-hand evidence. I don't think it can be +doubted. I can't array all my reasons now, or we should sit here all +night--but I will tell you one main reason, and that is the immensely +increased peaceableness of the world. Fighting has gone out in schools, and +none but decayed clubmen dare to deplore it: corporal punishment has +diminished, and isn't needed, because children don't do savage things; +bullying is extinct in decent schools; crimes of violence are much more +rare; duelling is no longer a part of social life, except for an occasional +farcical performance between literary men or politicians in France--I saw +an account of one in the papers the other day. It was raining, and one of +the combatants would not furl his umbrella: his seconds said that it made +him a bigger target. "I may be shot," he said, "but that is no reason why I +should get wet!" Then there is the mediaeval nonsense among students in +Germany, where they fence like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Generally +speaking, however, the belief that a blow is an argument has gone out. Then +war has become more rare, and is more reluctantly engaged in. I suppose +that till the date of Waterloo there was hardly a year in history when some +fighting was not going on. No, I think it is impossible not to believe that +the impulse to kick and scratch and bite is really on the decline." + +"But need that be a proof of progress?" said Rose. "May it not only mean a +decrease of personal courage, and a greater sensitiveness to pain?" + +"I think not," said Father Payne, "because when there _is_ fighting to +be done, it is done just as courageously--indeed I think _more_ +courageously than used to be the case. No, I think it is the training of an +instinct--the instinct of self-restraint. I believe that people have more +imagination and more sympathy than they used to have; there is more +tolerance of adverse opinion, a greater sense of liberty in the air: +opponents have more respect for each other, and do not attribute bad +motives so easily. Why, consider how much milder even the newspapers are. +If one reads old reviews, old books of political controversy, old +pamphlets--how much more blackguarding and calling names one sees. +Anonymous journalists, anonymous reviewers, are now the only people who +keep up the tradition of public bad manners--all signed articles and +criticisms are infinitely politer than they used to be." + +"But," persisted Rose, "isn't that simply a possible proof of the general +declension of force?" + +"Certainly not," said Father Payne, "it only means more equilibrium. You +must remember that equilibrium means a balance of forces, not a mere +diminution of them. There is more force present in a banked-up reservoir +than in a rushing stream. The rushing stream merely means a force making +itself felt without a counterbalancing force--but that isn't nearly as +strong as the pressure in a reservoir exerted by the water which is trying +to get out, and the resistance of the dam which is trying to keep it in. +You must not be taken in by apparent placidity: it often means two forces +at work instead of one. Peace, as opposed to war, is a tremendous +counterpoising of forces, and it simply means an organised resistance. In +old days, there was no cohesion of the forces which desire peace, and +violence was unresisted. There can be no doubt, I think, that in a +civilised country there are many more forces at work than in a combative +country. I do not suppose that we can either of us prove whether the forces +at work in the world have increased or diminished. Let us grant that the +amount is constant. If so, a great deal of the force that was combative has +now been transformed to the force which resists combat. But I imagine that +on the whole most people would grant that human energies have increased: if +that is so, certainly the combative element has not increased in +proportion, while the peaceful element has increased out of all +proportion." + +"But," said Vincent, "you often talk in the most bellicose way, Father. You +say that we ought all to be fighting on the side of good." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "on the side of resistance to evil, I admit; but +you can fight without banging and smashing things, as the dam fights the +reservoir by silent cohesion. There is a temptation, from which some people +suffer, to think that one can't be fighting for God at all, unless one is +doing it furiously, and all the time, and successfully, and on a large and +impressive scale. That is a fatal blunder. To hide your adversary's sword +is often a very good way of fighting. To have an open tussle often makes +the bystanders sympathise with the assailant. It is really a far more +civilised thing, and often stands for a higher degree of force and honour, +to be able to bear contradiction not ignobly. Direct conflict is a mistake, +as a rule--blaming, fault-finding, censuring, snapping, punishing. The +point is to put all your energy into your own life and work, and make it +outweigh the energy of the combative critic. Do not fight by destroying +faulty opinion, but by creating better opinion. You fight darkness by +lighting a candle, not by waving a fan to clear it away. Look at one of the +things we have been talking about--bullying in schools. That has not been +conquered by expelling or whipping boys, or preaching about it--it has been +abolished by kindlier and gentler family life, by humaner school-masters +living with and among their boys, till the happiness of more peaceful +relations all round has been instinctively perceived." + +"But isn't it right to show up mean and dishonest people, to turn the light +of publicity upon cruel and detestable things?" said Vincent. + +"Exactly, my dear Vincent," said Father Payne; "but you can't turn the +light of publicity on evil unless the light is there to turn. The reason +why bullying continued was because people believed in it as inseparable +from school life, and even, on the whole, bracing. What has got rid of it +is a kinder and more tender spirit outside. I don't object to showing up +bad things at all. By all means put them, if you can, in a clear light, and +show their ugliness. Show your shame and disgust if you like, but do not +condescend to personal abuse. That only weakens your case, because it +merely proves that you have still some of the bully left in you. Be +peaceable writers, my dear boys," said Father Payne, expanding in a large +smile. "Don't squabble, don't try to scathe, don't be affronted! If your +critic reveals a weak place in your work, admit it, and do better! I want +to turn you out peace-makers, and that needs as much energy and restraint +as any other sort of fighting. Don't make the fact that your opponent may +be a cad into a personal grievance. Make your own idea clear, stick to it, +repeat it, say it again in a more attractive way. Don't you see that not +yielding to a bad impulse is fighting? The positive assertion of good, the +shaping of beauty, the presentment of a fruitful thought in so desirable a +light that other people go down with fresh courage into the dreariness and +dullness of life, with all the delight of having a new way of behaving in +their minds and hearts--that's how I want you to fight! It requires the +toughest sort of courage, I can tell you. But instead of showing your +spirit by returning a blow, show your spirit by propounding your idea in a +finer shape. Don't be taken in by the silly and ugly old war-metaphors--the +trumpet blown, the gathering of the hosts. That's simply a sensational +waste of your time! Look out of your window, and then sit down to your +work. That's the way to win, without noise or fuss." + + + +LV + +OF LIFE-FORCE + + +I walked one afternoon with Father Payne just as winter turned to spring, +in the pastures. There was a mound at the corner of one of his fields, on +which grew a row of beech trees of which Father Payne was particularly +fond. He pointed out to me to-day how the most southerly of the trees, +exposed as it was to the full force of the wind, grew lower and sturdier +than the rest, and how as the trees progressed towards the north, each one +profiting more by the shelter of his comrades, they grew taller and more +graceful. "I like the way that stout little fellow at the end grows," said +Father Payne. "He doesn't know, I suppose, that he is protecting the rest, +and giving them room to expand. But he holds on; and though he isn't so +tall, he is bulkier and denser than his brethren. He knows that he has to +bear the brunt of the wind, so he puts out no sail. He just devotes himself +to standing four-square--he is not going to be bullied! He would like to be +as smooth and as shapely as the rest, but he knows his own business, and he +has adapted himself, like a sensible fellow, to his rough conditions." + +A little later Father Payne stopped to look at a great sow-thistle that was +growing vigorously under a hedge-row. "Did you ever see such a bit of pure +force?" said Father Payne. "I see a fierce conscious life in every inch of +that plant. Look at the way he clips himself in, and strains to the earth: +look at his great rays of leaves, thrust out so geometrically from the +centre, with the sharp, horny, uncompromising thorns. And see how he +flattens down his leaves over the surrounding grasses: they haven't a +chance; he just squeezes them down and strangles them. There is no mild and +delicate waving of fronds in the air. He means to sit down firmly on the +top of his comrades. I don't think I ever saw anything with such a muscular +pull on--you can't lift his leaves up; look, he resists with all his might! +Just consider the immense force which he is using: he is not merely +snuggling down: he is just hauling things about. You don't mean to tell me +that this thistle isn't conscious! He knows he has enemies, but he is going +to make the place his very own--and all that out of a drifting little arrow +of down!" + +"Now that may not be a sympathetic or even Christian way of doing things," +he went on presently, "but for all that, I do love to see the force of +life, the intentness of living. I like our friend the beech a little +better, because he is helping his friends, though he doesn't know it, and +the thistle is only helping himself. But I am sure that it is the right way +to go at it! We mustn't be always standing aside and making room: we +mustn't obliterate ourselves. We have a right to our joy in life, and we +mustn't be afraid of it. If we give away what we have got, it must cost us +something--it must not be a mere relinquishing." + +"It is rather hard to combine the two principles," I said--"the living of +life, I mean, and the giving away of life." + +"Well, I think that devotion is better than self-sacrifice," said Father +Payne. "On the whole I mistrust weakness more than I mistrust strength. +It's easy to dislike violence--but I rather worship vitality. I would +almost rather see a man forcing his way through with some callousness, than +backing out, smiling and apologising. You can convert strength, you can't +do anything with weakness. Take the sort of work you fellows do. I always +feel I can chasten and direct exuberance: what I can't do is to impart +vigour. If a man says his essay is short because he can't think of anything +to write, I feel inclined to say, 'Then for goodness' sake hold your +tongue!' It's the people who can't hold their tongue, who go on roughly +pointing things out, and commenting, and explaining, and thrusting +themselves in front of the show, who do something. Of course force has to +be kept in order, but there it is--it lives, it must have its say. What you +have to learn is to insinuate yourself into life, like ivy, but without +spoiling other people's pleasure. That's liberty! The old thistle has no +respect for liberty, and that is why he is rooted up. But it's rather sad +work doing it, because he does so very much want to be alive. But it isn't +liberty simply to efface yourself, because you may interfere with other +people. The thing is to fit in, without disorganising everything about +you." + +He mused for a little in silence; then he said, "It's like almost +everything else--it's a weighing of claims! I don't want you fellows to be +either tyrannical or slavish. It's tyrannical to bully, it's slavish to +defer. The thing is to have a firm opinion, not to be ashamed of it or +afraid of it; to say it reasonably and gently, and to stick to it amiably. +Good does not attack, though if it is attacked it can slay. Good fights +evil, but it knows what it is fighting, while evil fights good and evil +alike. I think that is true. I don't want you people to be controversial or +quarrelsome in what you write, and to go in for picking holes in others' +work. If you want to help a man to do better, criticise him +privately--don't slap him in public, to show how hard you can lay on. Make +your own points, explain if you like, but don't apologise. The great +writers, mind you, are the people who can go on. It's volume rather than +delicacy that matters in the end. It must flow like honey--good solid +stuff--not drip like rain, out of mere weakness. But the thing is to flow, +and largeness of production is better than little bits of overhandled work. +Mind that, my boy! It's force that tells: and that's why I don't want you +to be over-interested in your work. You must go on filling up with +experience; but it doesn't matter where or how you get it, as long as it is +eagerly done. Be on the side of life! _Amor fati_, that's the motto +for a man--to love his destiny passionately, and all that is before him; +not to droop, or sentimentalise, or submit, but to plunge on, like a +'sea-shouldering whale'! You remember old Kit Smart-- + + 'Strong against tide, the enormous whale + Emerges as he goes.' + +"Mind you _emerge!_ Never heed the tide: there's plenty of room for it +as well as for you!" + + + +LVI + +OF CONSCIENCE + + +Lestrange was being genially bantered by Rose one day at dinner on what +Rose called "problems of life and being," or "springs of action," or even +"higher ground." Lestrange was oppressively earnest, but he was always +good-natured. + +"Ultimately?" he had said, "why, ultimately, of course, you must obey your +conscience." + +"No, no!" said Father Payne, "that won't do, Lestrange! Who are _you_, +after all? I mean that the 'you' you speak of has something to say about +it, to decide whether to disobey or to obey. And then, too, the same 'you' +seems to have decided that conscience is to be obeyed. The thing that you +describe as 'yourself' is much more ultimate than conscience, because if it +is not convinced that conscience is to be obeyed, it will not obey. I mean +that there is something which criticises even the conscience. It can't be +reason, because your conscience over-rides your reason, and it can't be +instinct, generally speaking, because conscience often over-rides +instinct." + +"I am confused," said Lestrange. "I mean by conscience the thing which says +'You _ought!_' That is what seems to me to prove the existence of God, +that there is a sense of a moral law which one does not invent, and which +is sometimes very inconveniently aggressive." + +"Yes, that is all right," said Father Payne, "but how is it when there are +two 'oughts,' as there often are? A man ought to work--and he ought not to +overwork--something else has to be called in to decide where one 'ought' +begins and the other ends. There is a perpetual balancing of moral claims. +Your conscience tells you to do two things which are mutually +exclusive--both are right in the abstract. What are you to do then?" + +"I suppose that reason comes in there," said Lestrange. + +"Then reason is the ultimate guide?" said Father Payne. + +"Oh, Father, you are darkening counsel," said Lestrange. + +"No, no," said Father Payne, "I am just trying to face facts." + +"Well, then," said Lestrange, "what is the ultimate thing?" + +"The ultimate thing," said Father Payne, "is of course the thing you call +yourself--but the ultimate instinct is probably a sense of proportion--a +sense of beauty, if you like!" + +"But how does that work out in practice?" said Vincent. "It seems to me to +be a mere argument about names and titles. You are using conscience as the +sense of right and wrong, and, as you say, they often seem to have +conflicting claims. Lestrange used it in the further sense of the thing +which ultimately decides your course. It is right to be philanthropic, it +is right to be artistic--they may conflict; but something ultimately tells +you what you _can_ do, which is really more important than what you +_ought to_ do." + +"That is right," said Father Payne, "I think the test is simply this--that +whenever you feel yourself paralysed, and your natural growth arrested by +your obedience to any one claim--instinct, reason, conscience, whatever it +is--the ultimate power cuts the knot, and tells you unfailingly where your +real life lies. That is the real failure, when owing to some habit, some +dread, some shrinking, you do not follow your real life. That, it seems to +me, is where the old unflinching doctrines of sin and repentance have done +harm. The old self-mortifying saints, who thought so badly of human nature, +and who tore themselves to pieces, resisting wholesome impulses--celibate +saints who ought to have been married, morbidly introspective saints who +needed hard secular work, those were the people who did not dare to trust +the sense of proportion, and were suspicious of the call of life. Look at +St. Augustine in the wonderful passage about light, 'sliding by me in +unnumbered guises'--he can only end by praying to be delivered from the +temptation to enjoy the sight of dawn and sunset, as setting his affections +too much upon the things of earth. I mistrust the fear of life--I mistrust +all fear--at least I think it will take care of itself, and must not be +cultivated. I think the call of God is the call of joy--and I believe that +the superstitious dread of joy is one of the most potent agencies of the +devil." + +"But there are many joys which one has to mistrust," said Lestrange; "mere +sensual delights, for instance." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but most healthy and normal people, after a very +little meddling with such delights, learn certainly enough that they only +obscure the real, wholesome, temperate joys. You have to compromise wisely +with your instincts, I think. You mustn't spend too much time in frontal +attacks upon them. You have a quick temper, let us say. Well, it is better +to lose it occasionally and apologise, than to hold your tongue about +matters in which you are interested for fear of losing it. You are +avaricious--well, hoard your money, and then yield on occasions to a +generous impulse. That's a better way to defeat evil, than by dribbling +money away in giving little presents which no one wants. I don't believe in +petty warfare against faults. You know the proverb that if you knock too +long at a closed door, the Devil opens it to you? Just give your sins a +knock-down blow every now and then. I believe in the fire of life more than +I believe in the cold water you use to quench it. Everything can be +forgiven to passion; nothing can be forgiven to chilly calculation. The +beautiful impulse is the thing that one must not disobey; and when I see +people do big, wrong-headed, unguarded, unwise things, get into rows, +sacrifice a reputation or a career without counting the cost, I am inclined +to feel that they have probably done better for themselves than if they had +been prudent and cautious. I don't say that they are always right, because +people yield sometimes to a mere whim, and sometimes to a childishly +overwhelming desire; but if there is a real touch of unselfishness about a +sacrifice--that's the test, that some one else's joy should be +involved--then I feel that it isn't my business to approve or disapprove. I +feel in the presence of a force--an 'ought' as Lestrange says, which makes +me shy of intervening. It's the wind of the Spirit--it blows where it +will--and I know this, that I'm thankful beyond everything when I feel it +in my own sails." + +"Tell me when you feel it next, Father," said Vincent. + +"I feel it now," said Father Payne, "now and here." And there was something +in his face which made us disinclined to ask him any further questions. + + + +LVII + +OF RANK + + +Someone had been telling a curious story about a contested peerage. It was +a sensational affair, involving the alteration of registers, the burning +down of a vestry, and the flight of a clergyman. + +"I like that story," said Father Payne, "and I like heraldry and rank and +all that. It's decidedly picturesque. I enjoy the zigzagging of a title +through generations. But the worst of it is that the most picturesque of +all distinctions, like being the twentieth baron, let us say, in direct +descent, is really of the nature of a stigma; a man whose twentieth +ancestor was a baron has no excuse for not being a duke." + +"But what I don't like," said Rose, "is the awful sense of sanctity which +some people have about it. I read a book the other day where the hero +sacrificed everything in turn, a career, a fortune, an engagement to a +charming girl, a reputation, and last of all an undoubted claim to an +ancient barony. I don't remember exactly why he did all these things--it +was noble, undoubtedly it was noble! But there was something which made me +vaguely uncomfortable about the order in which he spun his various +advantages." + +"It's only a sense of beauty slightly awry," said Father Payne; "names are +curiously sacred things--they often seem to be part of the innermost +essence of a man. I confess I would rather change most things than change +my name. I would rather shave my head, for instance." + +"But my hero would have had to change his name if he had claimed the +peerage," said Rose. + +"Yes, but you see the title was his _right_ name," said Father Payne; +"he was only masquerading as a commoner, you must remember. Why I should +value an ancient peerage is because I think it might improve my manners." + +"Impossible!" said Vincent. + +"Thank you," said Father Payne. "Yes, my manners are very good for a +commoner--but I should like to be a little more in the grand style. I +should like to be able to look long at a person, who said something of +which I disapproved, and then change the subject. That would be fine! But I +daren't do that now. Now I have to argue. Do you remember in _Daniel +Deronda_, Grandcourt's habit of looking stonily at smiling persons. I +have often envied that! Whereas my chief function in life is looking +smilingly at stony persons, and that's very bourgeois." + +"We must show more animation," said Barthrop to his neighbour. + +"I mean it!" said Father Payne, "but come, I won't be personal! Seriously, +you know, the one thing I have admired in the very few great people I have +ever met is the absence of embarrassment. They don't need to explain who +they are, they haven't got to preface their statements of opinion by +fragments of autobiography, to show their right to speak. It is convenient +to feel that if people don't know who you are, they will feel slightly +foolish afterwards when they discover, like the man who shook hands warmly +with Queen Victoria, and said, "I know the face quite well, but I can't put +a name to it." It did not show any pride of birth in the Queen to be +extremely amused by the incident. But even more than that I admire the case +which people of that sort get by having had, from childhood onwards, to +meet all sorts of persons, and to behave themselves, and to see that people +do not feel shy or uncomfortable. I sometimes go about the village simply +teeming with benevolence, and I pass some one, and can't think of anything +to say. If I had the great manner, I should say, "Why, Tommy, is that you?" +or some such human signal, which would not mean anything in particular, but +would after all express exactly what is in my mind. But I can't just do +that. I rack my brains for an _appropriate_ remark, because I am +bourgeois, and have not the point of honour, as the French say. And by the +time I have elaborated it, Tommy is gone, and Jack is passing, and I begin +elaborating again; whereas I should simply add, if I were aristocratic, +'And that's you, Jack, isn't it?' That's the way to talk." + +We all laughed; and Barthrop said, "Well, I must say, Father, that I have +often envied you your power of saying something to everyone." + +"I have spent more trouble on it than it is worth," said Father Payne; "and +that's my point, that if I were only a great man, I should have learnt it +all in childhood, and should not have to waste time over it at all. That's +the best of rank; it's a device for saving trouble; it saves introduction +and explanation and autobiography and elaborate civility, and makes people +willing to be pleased by the smallest sign of affability. You may depend +upon it that it was a very true instinct which made the Scotch minister +pray that all might have honourable ancestors. It isn't a sacred thing, +rank, and it isn't a magnificent thing--but it's a pleasant human sort of +thing in the right hands. What is more, in these democratic days, it tends +to make people of rank additionally anxious not to parade the fact--and I +doubt if there is anything on the whole happier than having advantages +which you don't want to parade--it gives a tranquil sort of contentment, +and it removes all futile ambitions. To be, by descent, what a desperately +industrious lawyer or a successful general feels himself amply rewarded for +his toil by becoming, isn't nothing. I'm always rather suspicious of the +people who try to pretend that it is nothing at all. The rank is but the +guinea stamp, of course. But after all the stamp is what makes it a guinea +instead of an unnegotiable disc of metal!" + + + +LVIII + +OF BIOGRAPHY + + +Father Payne used often to say that he was more interested in biography +than in any other form of art, and believed that there was a greater future +before it than before any other sort of literature. "Just think," I +remember his saying, "human portraiture--the most interesting thing in the +world by far--what the novel tries to do and can't do!" + +"What exactly do you mean by 'can't do'?" I said. + +"Why, my boy," said Father Payne, "because we are all so horrified at the +idea of telling the truth or looking the truth in the face. The novel +accommodates human nature, patches it up, varnishes it, puts it in a good +light: it may be artistic and romantic and poetical--but it hasn't got the +beauty of truth. Life is much more interesting than any imaginative +fricassee of it! These realistic fellows--they are moving towards +biography, but they haven't got much beyond the backgrounds yet." + +"But why shouldn't it be done?" I said. "There's Boswell's Johnson--why +does that stand almost alone?" + +"Why, think of all the difficulties, my boy," said Father Payne. "There's +nothing like Boswell's Johnson, of course--but what a subject! There's +nothing that so proves Boswells genius--we mustn't forget that--as the +other wretched stuff written about Johnson. There's a passage in Boswell, +when he didn't see Johnson for a long time, and stuck in a few stories +collected from other friends. They are awfully flat and flabby--they have +all been rolled about in some one's mind, till they are as smooth as +pebbles--some bits of the crudest rudeness, not worked up to--some +knock-down schoolboy retorts which most civilised men would have had the +decency to repress--and then we get back to the real Boswell again, and how +fresh and lively it is!" + +"But what are the difficulties you spoke of?" I said. + +"Why, in the first place," said Father Payne, "a biography ought to be +written _during_ a man's life and not _after_ it--and very few +people will take the trouble to write things down day after day about +anyone else, as Boswell did. If it waits till after a man's death, a hush +falls on the scene--everyone is pious and sentimental. Of course, Boswell's +life is inartistic enough--it wanders along, here a letter, there a lot of +criticism, here a talk, there a reminiscence. It isn't arranged--it has no +scheme: but how full of _zest_ it is! And then you have to be pretty +shameless in pursuing your hero, and elbowing other people away, and +drawing him out; and you have to be prepared to be kicked and trampled +upon, when the hero is cross: and then you have to be a considerable snob, +and say what you really value and admire, however vulgar it is. And then +you must expect to be called hard names when the book appears. I was +reading a review the other day of what seemed to me to be a harmless +biography enough--a little frank and enthusiastic affair, I gathered: and +the reviewer wrote in the style of Pecksniff, caddish and priggish at the +same time: he called the man to task for botanising on his friend's +grave--that unfortunate verse of Wordsworth's, you know--and he left the +impression that the writer had done something indelicate and impious, and +all with a consciousness of how high-minded he himself was. + +"You ought to write a biography as though you were telling your tale in a +friendly and gentle ear--you ought not to lose your sense of humour, or be +afraid of showing your subject in a trivial or ridiculous light. Look at +Boswell again--I don't suppose a more deadly case could be made out against +any man, with perfect truth, than could be made out against Johnson. You +could show him as brutal, rough, greedy, superstitious, prejudiced, unjust, +and back it all up by indisputable evidence--but it's the balance, the net +result, that matters! We have all of us faults; we know them, our friends +know them--why the devil should not everyone know them? But then an +interesting man dies, and everyone becomes loyal and sentimental. Not a +word must be said which could pain or wound anyone. The friends and +relations, it would seem, are not pained by the dead man's faults, they are +only pained that other people should know them. The biography becomes a +mixture of disinfectants and perfumes, as if it were all meant to hide some +putrid thing. It's like what Jowett said about a testimonial, 'There's a +strong smell here of something left out!' We have hardly ever had anything +but romantic biographies hitherto, and they all smell of something left +out. There's a tribe somewhere in Africa who will commit murder if anyone +tries to sketch them. They think it brings bad luck to be sketched, a sort +of 'overlooking' as they say. Well that seems to be the sort of +superstition that many people have about biographies, as if the departed +spirit would be vexed by anything which isn't a compliment. I suppose it is +partly this--that many people are ill-bred, glum, and suspicious, and can't +bear the idea of their faults being recorded. They hate all frankness: and +so when anything frank gets written, they talk about violating sacred +confidences, and about shameless exposures. It is really that we are all +horribly uncivilised, and can't bear to give ourselves away, or to be given +away. Of course we don't want biographies of merely selfish, stupid, +brutal, ill-bred men--but everyone ought to be thankful when a life can be +told frankly, and when there's enough that is good and beautiful to make it +worth telling. + +"But, as I said, the thing can't be done, unless it is written to a great +extent in a man's lifetime. Conversation is a very difficult thing to +remember--it can't be remembered afterwards--it needs notes at the time: +and few people's talk is worth recording; and even if it is, people are a +little ashamed of doing it--there seems something treacherous about it: but +it ought to be done, for all that! You don't want so very much of it--I +don't suppose that Boswell has got down a millionth part of all Johnson +said--you just want specimens--enough to give the feeling of it and the +quality of it. One doesn't want immensely long biographies--just enough to +make you feel that you have seen a man and sat with him and heard him +talk--and the kind of way in which he dealt with things and people. I'll +tell you a man who would have made a magnificent biography--Lord Melbourne. +He had a great charm, and a certain whimsical and fantastic humour, which +made him do funny little undignified things, like a child. But every single +dictum of Melbourne's has got something original and graceful about +it--always full of good sense, never pompous, always with a delicious +lightness of touch. The only person who took the trouble to put down +Melbourne's sayings, just as they came out, was Queen Victoria--but then +she was in love with him without knowing it: and in the end he got stuck +into the heaviest and most ponderous of biographies, and is lost to the +world. Stale politics--there's nothing to beat them for dulness +unutterable!" + +"But isn't it an almost impossible thing," I said, "to expect a man who is +a first-rate writer, with ambitions in authorship, to devote himself to +putting down things about some interesting person with the chance of their +never being published? Very few people would have sufficient +self-abnegation for that." + +"That's true enough," said Father Payne, "and of course it is a risk--a man +must run the risk of sacrificing a good deal of his time and energy to +recording unimportant details, perhaps quite uselessly, but with this +possibility ahead of him, that he may produce an immortal book--and I grant +you that the infernal vanity and self-glorification of authors is a real +difficulty in the way." + +He was silent for a minute or two, and then he said: "Now, I'll tell you +another difficulty, that at present people only want biographies of men of +affairs, of big performers, men who have done things--I don't want that. I +want biographies of people who wielded a charm of personality, even if they +didn't _do_ things--people, I mean, who deserve to live and to be +loved.--Those are the really puzzling figures a generation later, the men +who lived in an atmosphere of admiring and delighted friendship, radiating +a sort of enchanting influence, having the most extravagant things said and +believed about them by their friends, and yet never doing anything in +particular. People, I mean, like Arthur Hallam, whose letters and remains +are fearfully pompous and tiresome--and who yet had _In Memoriam_ +written about him, and who was described by Gladstone as the most perfect +human being, physically, intellectually and morally, he had ever seen. Then +there is Browning's Domett--the prototype of Waring--and Keats's friend +James Rice, and Stevenson's friend Ferrier--that's a matchless little +biographical fragment, Stevenson's letter about Ferrier--those are the sort +of figures I mean, the men who charmed and delighted everyone, were brave +and humorous, gave a pretty turn to everything they said--those are the +roses by the wayside! They had ill-health some of them, they hadn't the +requisite toughness for work, they even took to drink, or went to the bad. +But they are the people of quality and tone, about whom one wants to know +much more than about sun-burnt and positive Generals--the strong silent +sort--or overworked politicians bent on conciliating the riff-raff. I don't +want to know about men simply because they did honest work, and still less +about men who never dared to say what they thought and felt. You can't make +a striking picture out of a sense of responsibility! I'm not underrating +good work--it's fine in every way, but it can't always be written about. +There are exceptions, of course. Nelson and Wellington would have been +splendid subjects, if anyone had really Boswellised them. But Nelson had a +theatrical touch about him, and became almost too romantic a hero; while +the Duke had a fund of admirable humour and almost grotesque directness of +expression,--and he has never been half done justice to, though you can see +from Lord Mahon's little book of _Table Talk_ and Benjamin Haydon's +_Diary_, and the letters to Miss J., what a rich affair it all might +have been, if only there had been a perfectly bold, candid, and truthful +biographer." + +"But the charming people of whom you spoke," I said--"isn't the whole thing +often too evanescent to be recorded?" + +"Not a bit of it!" said Father Payne, "and these are the people we want to +hear about, because they represent the fine flower of civilisation. If a +man has a delightful friend like that, always animated, fresh, humorous, +petulant, original, he couldn't do better than observe him, keep scraps of +his talk, record scenes where he took a leading part, get the impression +down. It may come to nothing, of course, but it may also come to something +worth more than a thousand twaddling novels. The immense _use_ of +it--if one must think about the use--is that such a life might really show +commonplace and ordinary people how to handle the simplest materials of +life with zest and delicacy. Novels don't really do that--they only make +people want to escape from middle-class conditions, what everyone is the +better for seeing is not how life might conceivably be handled, but how it +actually has been handled, freshly and distinctly, by someone in a +commonplace milieu. Life isn't a bit romantic, but it is devilish +interesting. It doesn't go as you want it to go. Sometimes it lags, +sometimes it dances; and horrible things happen, often most unexpectedly. +In the novel, everything has to be rounded off and led up to, and you never +get a notion of the inconsequence of life. The interest of life is not what +happens, but how it affects people, how they meet it, how they fly from it: +the relief of a biography is that you haven't got to invent your setting +and your character--all that is done for you: you have just got to select +the characteristic things, and not to blur the things that you would have +wished otherwise. For God's sake, let us get at the truth in books, and not +use them as screens to keep the fire off, or as things to distract one from +the depressing facts in one's bank-book. I welcome all this output of +novels, because it at least shows that people are interested in life, and +trying to shape it. But I don't want romance, and I don't want ugly and +sensational realism either. That is only romance in another shape. I want +real men and women--not from an autobiographical point of view, because +that is generally romantic too--but from the point of view of the friends +to whom they showed themselves frankly and naturally, and without that +infernal reticence which is not either reverence or chivalry, but simply an +inability to face the truth,--which is the direct influence of the spirit +of evil. If one of my young men turns out a good biography of an +interesting person, however ineffective he was, I shall not have lived in +vain. For, mind this--very few people's performances are worth remembering, +while very many people's personalities are." + + + +LIX + +OF EXCLUSIVENESS + + +Rose told a story one night which amused Father Payne immensely. He had +been up in town, and had sate next a Minister's wife, who had been very +confidential. She had said to Rose that her husband had just been elected +into a small dining-club well known in London, where the numbers were very +limited, the society very choice, and where a single negative vote excluded +a candidate. "I don't think," said the good lady, "that my husband has ever +been so pleased at anything that has befallen him, not even when he was +first given office--such a distinguished club--and so exclusive!" Father +Payne laughed loud and shrill. "That's human nature at its nakedest!" he +said. "It's like Miss Tox, in _Dombey and Son_, you know, who, when +Dombey asked her if the school she recommended was select, said, 'It's +exclusion itself!' What people love is the power of being able to +_exclude_--not necessarily disagreeable people, or tiresome people, +but simply people who would like to be inside-- + + "'Loving not, hating not, just choosing so.' + +"Those are the two great forces of society, you know--the exclusive force, +and the inclusive force: the force that says, 'We few, we happy few, we +band of brothers'; and the force which says, 'The more the merrier.' The +exclusive force is represented by caste and class, by gentility and +donnishness, by sectarianism and nationalism, and even by patriotism--and +the inclusive force is represented by Walt Whitmanism and Christianity." + +"But what about St. Paul's words," said Lestrange, "'Honour all men: love +the brotherhood'?" + +"That's an attempt to recognise both," said Father Payne, smiling. "Of +course you can't love everyone equally--that's the error of +democracy--democracy is really one of the exclusive forces, because it +excludes the heroes--it is '_mundus contra Athanasium_,'--it is best +illustrated by what the American democrat said to Charles Kingsley, 'My +principle is "whenever you see a head above the crowd, hit it."' Democracy +is, at its worst, the jealousy of the average man for the superior man." + +"But which is the best principle?" said Vincent. + +"Both are necessary," said Father Payne. "One must aim at inclusiveness, of +course: and we must be quite certain that we exclude on the ground of +qualities, and not on the ground of superficial differences. The best +influences in the world arise not from individuals but from groups--and +there is no sort of reason why groups should spoil their intensive +qualities by trying to admit outsiders. The strength of a group lies in the +fact that one gets the sense of fellowship and common purpose, of sympathy +and encouragement. A man who has to fight a battle single-handed is always +tempted to wonder whether, after all, it is worth all the trouble and +misunderstanding. But, on the other hand, you are at liberty to mistrust +the men who say that they don't want to know people. Do you remember how +Charles Lamb once said, 'I do hate the Trotters!' 'But I thought you didn't +know them?' said someone. 'That's just it,' said Charles Lamb, 'I never can +hate anyone that I know!' The best bred man is the man who finds it easy to +get on with everybody on equal terms: but it's part of the snobbishness of +human nature that exclusiveness is rather admired than otherwise. There's a +delightfully exclusive woman in one of Henry James' novels, who refuses to +be introduced to a family. She entirely declines, and the man who is +anxious to effect the introduction says, 'I can't think why you object to +them.' 'They are hopelessly vulgar,' says the incisive lady, 'and in this +short life, that is enough!' But St. Paul's remark is really very good, +because it means 'Treat everyone with courtesy--but reserve your fine +affections for the inner circle, whose worth you really know!'--it's a +better theory than that of the man who said, 'It is enough for me to be +with those whom I love!' That's rather inhuman." + +"Do you remember," said Barthrop, "the lines in Tennyson's Guinevere, which +sum up the knightly attributes? + + "'High thought, and amiable words, + And courtliness, and the desire of fame, + And love of truth, and all that makes a man.'" + +"That's very interesting and curious!" said Father Payne. "Dear me, I had +forgotten that--did Tennyson say that?--Come--let's have it again!" + +Barthrop repeated the lines again. + +"Now, that's the gentlemanly ideal of the sixties," said Father Payne, +"and, good heavens, how offensive it sounds! The most curious part of it +really is 'the desire of fame'--of course, a hundred years ago, no one made +any secret of that! You remember Nelson's frank confession, made not once, +but many times, that he pursued glory, 'Defeat--or Westminster +Abbey'--didn't he say that?" + +"But surely people pursue fame as much as ever?" said Vincent. + +"I daresay," said Father Payne, "but it isn't now considered good taste to +say so. You have got to pretend, at all events, that you wish to benefit +humanity now-a-days. If a man had said to Ruskin or Carlyle, 'Why do you +write all these books?' and they replied, 'It is because of my desire for +fame,' it would have been thought vulgar. There's that odd story of Robert +Browning, when he received an ovation at Oxford, and someone said to him, +'I suppose you don't care about all this,' he said, 'It is what I have +waited for all my life!' I wonder if he _did_ say it! I think he must +have done, because it is exactly the sort of thing that one is supposed not +to say--and I confess I don't like it--it seems to me vain, and not proud, +I don't mind a kind of pride--I think a man ought to know what he is +worth: but I hate vanity. Perhaps that's only because I haven't been a +success myself." + +"But mayn't you desire fame?" said Vincent. "It seems to me rather priggish +to condemn it!" + +"Many fine things sound priggish when they are said," said Father Payne. +"But, to be frank, I don't think that a man ought to desire fame. I think +he may desire to do a thing well. I don't think he ought to desire to do it +better than other people. It is the wanting to beat other people which is +low. Why not wish them to do it well too?" + +"You mean that the difference between pride and vanity lies there?" said +Barthrop. + +"Yes, I do," said Father Payne, "and it is a pity that pride is included in +the deadly sins, because the word has changed its sense. Pride used to mean +the contempt of others--that's a deadly sin, if you like. It used to mean a +ghastly sort of self-satisfaction, arrived at by comparison of yourself +with others. But now to be called a proud man is a real compliment. It +means that a man can't condescend to anything mean or base. We ought all to +be proud--not proud _of_ anything, because that is vulgar, but ashamed +of doing anything which we know to be feeble or low. The Pharisee in the +parable was vain, not proud, because he was comparing himself with other +people. But it is all right to be grateful to God for having a sense of +decency, just as you may be grateful for having a sense of beauty. The +hatefulness of it comes in when you are secretly glad that other people +love indecency and ugliness." + +"That is the exclusive feeling then?" said Barthrop. + +"Yes, the bad kind of exclusiveness," said Father Payne--"the kind of +exclusiveness which ministers to self-satisfaction. And that is the fault +of the group when it becomes a coterie. The coterie means a set of inferior +people, bolstering up each other's vanity by mutual admiration. In a +coterie you purchase praise for your own bad work, by pretending to admire +the bad work of other people. But the real group is interested, not in each +other's fame, but in the common work." + +"It seems to me confusing," said Vincent. + +"Not a bit of it," said Father Payne; "we have to consider our limitations: +we are limited by time and space. You can't know everybody and love +everybody and admire everybody--and you can't sacrifice the joy and +happiness of real intimacy with a few for a diluted acquaintance with five +hundred people. But you mustn't think that your own group is the only +one--that is the bad exclusiveness--you ought to think that there are +thousands of intimate groups all over the world, which you could love just +as enthusiastically as you love your own, if you were inside them: and +then, apart from your own group, you ought to be prepared to find +reasonable and amiable and companionable people everywhere, and to be able +to put yourself in line with them. Why, good heavens, there are millions of +possible friends in the world! and one of my deepest and firmest hopes +about the next world, so to speak, is that there will be some chance of +communicating with them all at once, instead of shutting ourselves up in a +frowsy room like this, smelling of meat and wine. I don't deny you are very +good fellows, but if you think that you are the only fit and desirable +company in the world for me or for each other, I tell you plainly that you +are utterly mistaken. That's why I insist on your travelling about, to +avoid our becoming a coterie." + +"Then it comes to this," said Vincent drily, "that you can't be inclusive, +and that you ought not to be exclusive?" + +"Yes, that's exactly it!" said Father Payne. "You meant to shut me up with +one of our patent Oxford epigrams, I know--and, of course, it is deuced +smart! But put it the other way round, and it's all right. You can't help +being exclusive, and you must try to be inclusive--that's the truth, with +the Oxford tang taken out!" + +We laughed at this, and Vincent reddened. + +"Don't mind me, old man!" said Father Payne, "but try to make your epigrams +genial instead of contemptuous--inclusive rather than exclusive. They are +just as true, and the bitter flavour is only fit for the vitiated taste of +Dons." And Father Payne stretched out a large hand down the table, and +enclosed Vincent's in his own. + +"Yes, it was a nasty turn," said Vincent, smiling, "I see what you mean." + +"The world is a friendlier place than people know," said Father Payne. "We +have inherited a suspicion of the unknown and the unfamiliar. Don't you +remember how the ladies in _The Mill on the Floss_ mistrusted each +other's recipes, and ate dry bread in other houses rather than touch jam or +butter made on different methods. That is the old bad taint. But I think we +are moving in the right direction. I fancy that the awakening may be very +near, when we shall suddenly realise that we are all jolly good fellows, +and wonder that we have been so blind." + +"A Roman Catholic friend of mine," said Rose--"he is a priest--told me that +he attended a clerical dinner the other day. The health of the Pope was +proposed, and they all got up and sang, 'For he's a jolly good fellow!'" + +There was a loud laugh at this. "I like that," said Father Payne, "I like +their doing that! I expect that that is exactly what the Pope is! I should +dearly love to have a good long quiet talk with him! I think I could let in +a little light: and I should like to ask him if he enjoyed his fame, dear +old boy: and whether he was interested in his work! 'Why, Mr. Payne, it's +rather anxious work, you know, the care of all the churches'--I can hear +him saying--'but I rub along, and the time passes quickly! though, to be +sure, I'm not as young as I was once: and while I am on the subject, Mr. +Payne, you look to me to be getting on in years yourself!' And then I +should say 'Yes, your Holiness, I am a man that has seen trouble.' And he +would say, 'I'm sorry to hear that! Tell me all about it!' That's how we +should talk, like old friends, in a snug parlour in the Vatican, looking +out on the gardens!" + + + +LX + +OF TAKING LIFE + + +I was walking with Father Payne one hot summer day upon a field-path he was +very fond of. There was a copse, through the middle of which the little +river, the Fyllot, ran. It was the boundary of the Aveley estate, and it +here joined another stream, the Rode, which came in from the south. The +path went through the copse, dense with hazels, and there was always a +musical sound of lapsing waters hidden in the wood. The birds sang shrill +in the thicket, and Father Payne said, "This is the juncture of Pison and +Hiddekel, you know, rivers of Paradise. Aveley is Havilah, where the gold +is good, and where there is bdellium, if we only knew where to look for it. +I fancy it is rich in bdellium. I came down here, I remember, the first day +I took possession. It was wonderful, after being so long among the tents of +Kedar, to plant my flag in Havilah; I made a vow that day--I don't know if +I have kept it!" + +"What was that?" I said. + +"Only that I would not get too fond of it all," said Father Payne, smiling, +"and that I would share it with other people. But I have got very fond of +it, and I haven't shared it. Asking people to stay with you, that they may +see what a nice place you have to live in, is hardly sharing it. It is +rather the other way--the last refinement of possession, in fact!" + +"It's very odd," he went on, "that I should love this little bit of the +world so much as I do. It's called mine--that's a curious idea. I have got +very little power over it. I can't prevent the trees and flowers from +growing here, or the birds from nesting here, if they have a mind to do so. +I can only keep human beings out of it, more or less. And yet I love it +with a sort of passion, so that I want other people to love it too. I +should like to think that after I am gone, some one should come here and +see how exquisitely beautiful it is, and wish to keep it and tend it. +That's what lies behind the principle of inheritance; it isn't the money or +the position only that we desire to hand on to our children--it's the love +of the earth and all that grows out of it; and possession means the desire +of keeping it unspoiled and beautiful, I could weep at the idea of this all +being swept away, and a bdellium-mine being started here, with a +factory-chimney and rows of little houses; and yet I suppose that if the +population increased, and the land was all nationalised, a great deal of +the beauty of England would go. I hope, however, that the sense of beauty +might increase too--I don't think the country people here have much notion +of beauty. They only like things to remain as they know them. It's a +fearful luxury really for a man like myself to live in a land like this, so +full of old woodland and pasture, which is only possible under rich +proprietors. I'm an abuse, of course. I have got a much larger slice of my +native soil than any one man ought to have; but I don't see the way out. +The individual can't dispossess himself--it's the system which is wrong." + +He stopped in the middle of the copse, and said: "Did you ever see anything +so perfectly lovely as this place? And yet it is all living in a state of +war and anarchy. The trees and plants against each other, all fighting for +a place in the sun. The rabbit against the grass, the bird against the +worm, the cat against the bird. There's no peace here really--it's full of +terrors! Only the stream is taking it easy. It hasn't to live by taking +life, and the very sound of it is innocent." + +Presently he said: "This is all cut down every five years. It's all made +into charcoal and bobbins. Then the flowers all come up in a rush; then the +copse begins to grow again--I never can make up my mind which is most +beautiful. I come and help the woodmen when they cut the copse. That's +pleasant work, you know, cutting and binding. I sometimes wonder if the +hazels hate being slashed about. I expect they do; but it can't hurt them +much, for up they come again. It's the right way to live, of course, to +begin again the minute you are cut down to the roots, to struggle out to +the air and sun again, and to give thanks for life. Don't you feel yourself +as if you were good for centuries of living?" + +"I'm not sure that I do," I said, "I don't feel as if I had quite got my +hand in." + +"Yes, that's all right for you, old boy," said Father Payne. "You are +learning to live, and you are living. But an old fellow like me, who has +got in the way of it, and has found out at last how good it is to be alive, +has to realise that he has only got a fag-end left. I don't at all want to +die; I've got my hands as full as they can hold of pretty and delightful +things; and I don't at all want to be cut down like the copse, and to have +to build up my branches again. Yes," he added, pondering, "I used to think +I should not live long, and I didn't much want to, I believe! But now--it's +almost disgraceful to think how much I prize life, and how interesting I +find it. Depend upon it, on we go! The only thing that is mysterious to me +is why I love a place like this so much. I don't suppose it loves me. I +suppose there isn't a beast or a bird, perhaps not a tree or a flower, in +the place that won't be rather relieved when I go back home without having +killed something. I expect, in fact, that I have left a track of death +behind me in the grass--little beetles and things that weren't doing any +harm, and that liked being alive. That's pretty beastly, you know, but how +is one to help it? Then my affection for it is very futile. I can't +establish a civilised system here; I can't prevent the creatures from +eating each other, or the trees from crowding out the flowers. I can't eat +or use the things myself, I can't take them away with me; I can only stand +and yearn with cheap sentiment. + +"And yet," he said after a moment, "there's something here in this bit of +copse that whispers to me beautiful secrets--the sunshine among the stems, +the rustle of leaves, the wandering breeze, the scent and coolness of it +all! It is crammed with beauty; it is all trying to live, and glad to live. +You may say, of course, that you don't see all that in it, and it is I that +am abnormal. But that doesn't explain it away. The fact that I feel it is a +better proof that it is there than the fact that you don't feel it is a +proof that it isn't there! The only thing about it that isn't beautiful to +me is the fact that life can't live except by taking life--that there is no +right to live; and that, I admit, is disconcerting. You may say to me, 'You +old bully, crammed with the corpses of sheep and potatoes, which you +haven't even had the honesty to kill for yourself, you dare to come here, +and talk this stuff about the beauty of it all, and the joy of living. If +all the bodies of the things you have consumed in your bloated life were +piled together, it would make a thing as big as a whole row of ricks!' If +you say that, I admit that you take the sentiment out of my sails!" + +"But I don't say it," said I: "Who dies if Father Payne live?" + +He laughed at this, and clapped me on the back. "You're in the same case as +I, old man," he said, "only you haven't got such a pile of blood and bones +to your credit! Here, we must stow this talk, or we shall become both +humbugs and materialists. It's a puzzling business, talking! It leads you +into some very ugly places!" + + + +LXI + +OF BOOKISHNESS + + +I went in to see Father Payne one morning about some work. He was reading a +book with knitted brows: he looked up, gave a nod, but no smile, pointed to +a chair, and I sate down: a minute or two later he shut the book--a neat +enough little volume--with a snap, and skimmed it deftly from where he +sate, into his large waste-paper basket. This, by the way, was a curious +little accomplishment of his,--throwing things with unerring aim. He could +skim more cards across a room into a hat than anyone I have ever seen who +was not a professed student of legerdemain. + +"What are you doing?" I said--"such a nice little book!" I rose and rescued +the volume, which was a careful enough edition of some poems and scraps of +poems, posthumously discovered, of a well-known poet. + +"Pray accept it with my kindest regards," said Father Payne. "No, I don't +know that I _ought_ to give it you. It is the sort of book I object +to." + +"Why?" I said, examining it--"it seems harmless enough." + +"It's the wrong sort of literature," said Father Payne. "There isn't time, +or there ought not to be, to go fumbling about with these old scraps. They +aren't good enough to publish--and what's more, if the man didn't publish +them himself, you may be sure he had very good reasons for _not_ doing +so. The only interest of them is that so good a poet could write such +drivel, and that he knew it was drivel sufficiently well not to publish it. +But the man who can edit it doesn't know that, and the critics who review +it don't know it either--it was a respectful review that made me buy the +rubbish--and as for the people who read it, God alone knows what they think +of it. It's a case of + + "'Weave a circle round him thrice, + And close your eyes in holy dread.' + +"You have to shut your eyes pretty tight not to see what bosh it all is--it +is all this infernal reverence paid by people, who have no independence of +judgment, to great reputations. It reminds me of the barber who used to cut +the Duke of Wellington's hair and nails, who made quite a lot of money by +selling clippings to put in lockets!" + +"But isn't it worth while to see a great poet's inferior jottings, and to +grasp how he worked?" said I. + +"No," said Father Payne;--"at least it would be worth while to see how he +brought off his good strokes, but it isn't worth while seeing how he missed +his stroke altogether. This deification business is all unwholesome. In +art, in life, in religion, in literature, it's a mistake to worship the +saints--you don't make them divine, you only confuse things, and bring down +the divine to your own level. The truth--the truth--why can't people see +how splendid it is, and that it is one's only chance of getting on! To shut +your eyes to the possibility of the great man having a touch of the +commonplace, a touch of the ass, even a touch of the knave in him, doesn't +ennoble your conception of human nature. If you can only glorify humanity +by telling lies about it, and by ruling out all the flaws in it, you end by +being a sentimentalist. "See thou do it not ... worship God!" that's one of +the finest things in the Bible. Of course it is magnificent to see a streak +of the divine turning up again and again in human nature--but you have got +to wash the dirt to find the diamond. Believe in the beauty behind and in +and beyond us all--but don't worship the imperfect thing. This sort of book +is like selling the dirt out of which the diamonds have been washed, and +which would appear to have gained holiness by contact. I hate to see people +stopping short on the symbol and the illustration, instead of passing on to +the truth behind--it's idolatry. It's one degree better than worshipping +nothing; but the danger of idolatry is that you are content to get no +further: and that is what makes idolatry so ingenious a device of the +devil, that it persuades people to stop still and not to get on." + +"But aren't you making too much out of it?" I said. "At the worst, this is +a harmless literary blunder, a foolish bit of hero-worship?" + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "in a sense that is true, that these little +literary hucksters and pedlars don't do any very great harm--I don't mean +that they cause much mischief: but they are the symptom of a grave disease. +It is this d----d _bookishness_ which is so unreal. I would like to +say a word about it to you, if you have time, instead of doing our work +to-day--for if you will allow me to say so, my boy, you have got a touch of +it about you--only a touch--and I think if I can show you what I mean, you +can throw it off--I have heard you say rather solemn things about books! +But I want you to get through that. It reminds me of the talk of +ritualists. I have a poor friend who is a very harmless sort of parson--but +I have heard him talk of a bit of ceremonial with tears in his eyes. 'It +was exquisite, exquisite,' he will say,--'the celebrant wore a cope--a bit, +I believe of genuine pre-Reformation work--of course remounted--and the +Gospeller and Epistoller had copes so perfectly copied that it would have +been hard to say which was the real one. And then Father Wynne holds +himself so nobly--such a mixture of humility and pride--a priest ought to +exhibit both, I think, at that moment?--and his gestures are so +inevitable--so inevitable--that's the only word: there's no sense of +rehearsal about it: it is just the supreme act of worship expressing itself +in utter abandonment'--He will go on like that for an hour if he can find a +great enough goose to listen to him. Now, I don't mean to say that the man +hasn't a sense of beauty--he has the real ritual instinct, a perfectly +legitimate branch of art. But he doesn't know it's art--he thinks it is +religion. He thinks that God is preoccupied with such things; 'a full +choral High Mass, at nine o'clock, that's a thing to live and die for,' I +have heard him say. Of course it's a sort of idealism, but you must know +what you are about, and what you are idealising: and you mustn't think that +your kind is better than any other kind of idealising." + +He made a pause, and then held out his hand for the book. + +"Now here is the same sort of intemperate rapture," he said. "Look at this +introduction! 'It is his very self that his poems give, and the sharpest +jealousy of his name and fame is enkindled by them. Not to find him there, +his passion, endurance, faith, rapture, despair, is merely a confession of +want in ourselves.' That's not sane, you know--it's the intoxication of the +Corybant! It isn't the man himself we want to fix our eyes upon. He felt +these things, no doubt: but we mustn't worship his raptures--we must +worship what he worshipped. This sort of besotted agitation is little +better than a dancing dervish. The poems are little sparks, struck out from +a scrap of humanity by some prodigious and glorious force: but we must +worship the force, not the spark: the spark is only an evidence, a system, +a symbol if you like, of the force. And then see how utterly the man has +lost all sense of proportion--he has spent hours and days in identifying +with uncommon patience the exact date of these tepid scraps, and he says he +is content to have laid a single stone in the "unamended, unabridged, +authentic temple" of his idol's fame. That seems to me simply degrading: +and then the portentous ass, whose review I read, says that if the editor +had done nothing else, he is sure of an honoured place for ever in the +hierarchy of impeccable critics! And what is all this jabber about--a few +rhymes which a man made when he was feeling a little off colour, and which +he did not think it worth while to publish! + +"You mustn't get into this kind of a mess, my boy. The artist mustn't +indulge in emotion for the sake of the emotion. 'The weakness of life,' +says this pompous ass, 'is that it deviates from art!' You might just as +well say that the weakness of food was that it deviated from a well-cooked +leg of mutton! Art is just an attempt to disentangle something, to get at +one of the big constituents of life. It helps you to see clearly, not to +confuse one thing with another, not to be vaguely impressed--the hideous +danger of bookishness is that it is one of the blind alleys into which +people get. These two fellows, the editor and his critic, have got stuck +there: they can't see out: they think their little valley is the end of the +world. I expect they are both of them very happy men, as happy as a man who +goes to bed comfortably drunk. But, good God, the awakening!" Father Payne +relapsed into a long silence, with knitted brows. I tried to start him +afresh. + +"But you often tell us to be serious, to be deadly earnest, about our +work?" I said. + +"Oh yes," said Father Payne, "that's another matter. We have to work hard, +and put the best of ourselves into what we do. I don't want you to be an +amiable dilettante. But I also want you to see past even the best art. You +mustn't think that the stained-glass window is the body of heaven in its +clearness. The sort of worshippers I object to are the men who shut +themselves up in a church, and what with the colour and the music and the +incense-smoke, think they are in heaven already. It's an intoxication, all +that. I don't get you men to come here to make you drunk, but to get you to +loathe drunkenness. God--that's the end of it all! God, who reveals Himself +in beauty and kindness, and trustfulness, and charm and interest, and in a +hundred pure and fine forces--yet each of them are but avenues which lead +up to Him, the streets of the city, full of living water. But it is +movement I am in search of--and I would rather be drowned in the depth of +the sea than mislead anyone, or help him to sit still. I have made an awful +row about it all," said Father Payne, relapsing into a milder mood--"But +you will forgive me, I know. I can't bear to see these worthy men blocking +the way with their unassailable, unabridged, authentic editions. They are +like barbed-wire entanglements: and the worst of it is that, in spite of +all their holy air of triumph, they enjoy few things more than tripping +each other up! They condemn each other to eternal perdition for misplacing +a date or misspelling a name. It's like getting into a bed of nettles to +get in among these little hierophants. They remind me of the bishops at +some ancient Church Council or other who tore the clothes off two right +reverend consultants, and literally pulled them limb from limb in the name +of Christ. That's the end of these holy raptures, my boy! They unchain the +beast within." + + + +LXII + +OF CONSISTENCY + + +There had been a little vague talk about politics, and someone had quoted a +definition of a true Liberal as a man who, if he had only to press a button +in a dark room to annihilate all cranks, faddists, political quacks, +extremists, propagandists, and nostrum-mongers, would not dream of doing +so, as a matter of conscience, on the ground that everyone has a right to +hold his own beliefs and to persuade the world to accept them if he can. +Father Payne laughed at this; but Rose, who had been nettled, I fancy, at a +lack of deference for his political experience, his father being a Unionist +M.P., said loudly, "Hear, hear! that's the only sort of Liberal whom I +respect." + +A look of sudden anger passed over Father Payne's face--unmistakable and +uncompromising wrath. "Come, Rose," he said, "this isn't a political +meeting; and even if it were, why proclaim yourself as accepting a +definition which is almost within the comprehension of a chimpanzee?" + +There was a faint laugh at this, but everyone had an uncomfortable sense of +thunder in the air. Rose got rather white, and his nostrils expanded. "I'm +sorry I put it in that way," he said rather frostily, "if you object. But I +mean it, I think. I don't like diluted Liberalism." + +"Yes, but you beg the question by calling it diluted," said Father Payne. +"If anyone had said that the only Tory he respected was a man who if he +could press a button in a still darker room, and by doing so bring it to +pass that all institutions on the face of the earth would remain immutably +fixed for ever and ever, and would feel himself bound conscientiously to do +it, you wouldn't accept that as a definition of Conservatism? These things +are not hard and fast matters of principle--they are only tendencies. +Toryism is an instinct to trust custom and authority, Liberalism is an +instinct to welcome development and change. All that the definition of +Liberalism which was quoted means is, that the Liberal has a deep respect +for freedom of opinion; and all that my grotesque definition of Toryism +means is that a Tory prefers to trust a fixed tradition. But, of course, +both want a settled Government, and both have to recognise that the world +and its conditions change. The Tory says, 'Look before you leap'; the +Liberal says, 'Leap before you look.' But it is really all a matter of +infinite gradations, and what differentiates people is merely their idea of +the pace at which things can go and ought to go. Why should you say that +you can only respect a man who wants to go at sixty miles an hour, any more +than I should say I can only respect a man who wants to remain absolutely +still?" + +Rose had by this time recovered his temper, and said, "It was rather crude, +I admit. But what I meant was that if a man feels that all opinions are of +equal value, he must give full weight to all opinions. The doctrinaire +Liberal seems to me to be just as much inclined to tyrannise as the +doctrinaire Tory, and to use his authority on the side of suppression when +it is convenient to do so, and against all his own principles." + +"I don't think that is quite fair," said Father Payne. "You must have a +working system; you can't try everyone's experiments. All that the Liberal +says is, 'Persuade us if you can.' Pure Liberalism would be anarchy, just +as pure Toryism would be tyranny. Both are intolerable. But just as the +Liberal has to compromise and say, 'This may not be the ultimate theory of +the Government, but meanwhile the world has to be governed,' so the Tory +has to compromise, if a large majority of the people say, 'We will not be +governed by a minority for their interest; we will be governed for our +own.' The parliamentary vote is just a way of avoiding civil war; you can't +always resort to force, so you resort to arbitration. But why the Liberal +position is on the whole the stronger is because it says frankly, 'If you +Tories can persuade the nation to ask you to govern it, we will obey you.' +The weakness of the Tory position is that it has to make exactly the same +concessions, while it claims to be inspired by a divine sort of knowledge +as to what is just and right. I personally mistrust all intuitions which +lead to tyranny. Of course, the weakness of the whole affair is that the +man who believes in democracy has to assume that all have equal rights; +that would be fair enough if all people were born equal in character and +ability, and influence and wealth. But that isn't the case; and so the +Liberal says, 'Democracy is a bad system perhaps, but it is the only +system,' and it is fairer to maintain that everyone who gets into the world +has as good a right as anyone else to be there, than it is to say, 'Some +people have a right to manage the world and some have only a duty to obey.' +Both represent a side of the truth, but neither represents the whole truth. +At worst Liberalism is a combination of the weak against the strong, and +Toryism a combination of the strong against the weak! I personally wish the +weak to have a chance; but what we all really desire is to be governed by +the wise and good, and my hope for the world is that the quality of it is +improving. I want the weak to become sensible and self-restrained, and the +strong to become unselfish and disinterested. It is generosity that I want +to see increase--it is the finest of all qualities--the desire, I mean to +serve others, to admire, to sympathise, to share, to rejoice, in other +people's happiness. That would solve all our difficulties." + +"Yes, of course," said Rose. "But I would like to go back again, and say +that what I was praising was consistency." + +"But there is no such thing," said Father Payne, "except in combination +with entire irrationality. One can't say at any time of one's life, 'I know +everything worth knowing. I am in a position to form a final judgment.' You +can say, 'I will shut off all fresh light from my mind, and I will consider +no further evidence,' but that isn't a thing to respect! I begin to +suspect, Rose, that why you praised the uncompromising Liberal, as you call +him, is because he is the only kind of opponent who isn't dangerous. A man +who takes up such a position as I have described is practically insane. He +has a fixed idea, which neither argument nor evidence can alter. The +uncompromising man of fixed opinions, whatever those opinions may be, is +almost the only man I do not respect, because he is really the only +inconsistent person. He says, 'I have formed an opinion which is based on +experience, and I shall not alter it.' That is tantamount to saying that +you have done with experience; it is a claim to have attained infallibility +through fallible faculties. Where is the dignity of that? It's just a +deification of stupidity and stubbornness and insolence and complacency." + +"But you must take your stand on _some_ certainties," said Rose. + +"The fewer the better," said Father Payne. "One may learn to discriminate +between things, and to observe differences; but that is very different from +saying that you have got at the ultimate essence of any one thing. I am all +for clearness--we ought not to confuse things with each other, or use the +same names for different things; but I'm all against claiming absolute and +impeccable knowledge. It may be a comfortable system for a man who doesn't +want to be bothered; but he is only deferring the bother--he is like a man +who stays in bed because he doesn't like dressing. But it isn't a solution +to stay in bed--it is only suspending the solution. No, we mustn't have any +regard for human consistency--it's a very paltry attribute; it's the +opposite of anthropomorphism. That makes out God to be in the image of man, +but consistency claims for man the privilege of God. And that isn't +wholesome, you know, either for a man or his friends!" + +"I give up," said Rose: "can nothing be logical?" + +"Hardly anything," said Father Payne, "except logic itself. You have to +coin logical ideas into counters to play with. No two things, for instance, +can ever be absolutely equal, except imaginary equalities--and that's the +mischief of logic applied to life, that it presumes an exact valuation of +the ideas it works with, when no two people's valuations of the same idea +are identical, and even one person's valuation varies from time to time; +and logic breeds a phantom sort of consistency which only exists in the +imagination. You know the story of how Smith and Jones were arguing, and +Smith said, 'Brown will agree with me': 'Yes,' said Jones triumphantly, 'he +will, but for my reasons!'" + + + +LXIII + +OF WRENS AND LILIES + + +It was the first warm and sunny day, after a cold and cloudy spring: I took +a long and leisurely walk with Father Payne down a valley among woods, of +which Father Payne was very fond. "Almost precipitous for Northamptonshire, +eh?" he used to say. I was very full of a book I had been reading, but I +could not get him to talk. He made vague and foolish replies, and said +several times, "I shall have to think that over, you know," which was, I +well knew, a polite intimation that he was not in a mood for talk. But I +persisted, and at last he said, "Hang it, you know, I'm not attending--I'm +very sorry--it isn't your fault--but there's such a lot going on +everywhere." He quoted a verse of _The Shropshire Lad_, of which he +was very fond: + + "'Now, of my threescore years and ten, + Twenty will not come again, + And take from seventy springs a score, + It only leaves me fifty more'"; + +adding, "That's the only instance I know of a subtraction sum made into +perfect poetry--but it's the other way round, worse luck! + + "And _add_ to seventy springs a score, + _That_ only leaves me forty more!" + +The birds were singing very sweetly in the copses as we passed--"That isn't +art, I believe," said Father Payne. "It's only the reproductive instinct, I +am told! I wish it took such an artistic form in my beloved brothers in the +Lord! There," he added, stopping and speaking in a low tone; "don't +move--there's a cock-wren singing his love-song--you can see his wings +quivering." There followed a little tremolo, with four or five emphatic +notes for a finish. "Now, if you listen, you'll hear the next wren answer +him!" said Father Payne. In a moment the same little song came like an echo +from a bush a few yards away. "The wren sings in stricter time than any +bird but the cuckoo," said Father Payne--"four quavers to a bar. That's +very important! Those two ridiculous creatures will go on doing that half +the morning. They are so excited that they build sham nests, you know, +about now--quite useless piles of twigs and moss, not intended for eggs, +just to show what they can do. But that little song! It has all the passion +of the old chivalry in it--it is only to say, 'My Dulcinea is prettier, +sweeter, brighter-eyed than yours!' and the other says, 'You wait till I +can get at you, and then we will see!' If they were two old knights, they +would fight to the death over it, till the world had lost a brave man, and +one of the Dulcineas was a hapless widow, and nothing proved. That's the +sort of thing that men admire, full of fine sentiment. Why can't we leave +each other alone? Why does loving one person make you want to fight +another? Just look at that wren: he's as full of joy and pride as he can +hold: look at the angle at which he holds his tail: he feels the lord of +the world, sure enough!" + +We walked on, and I asked no more questions. "There's a bit of colour," +said Father Payne, pointing to a bare wood, all carpeted with green blades. +"That's pure emerald, like the seventh foundation of the city. Now, if I +ask you, who are a bit of a poet, what those leaves are, what do you say? +You say hyacinth or daffodil, or perhaps lily-of-the-valley. But what does +the simple botanist--that's me--say? Garlic, my boy, and nothing else! and +you had better not walk musing there, or you will come in smelling of +spring onions, like a greengrocer's shop. So much for poetry! It's the +loveliest green in creation, and it has a pretty flower too--but it's never +once mentioned in English poetry, so far as I know. And yet Keats had the +face to say that Beauty was Truth and Truth Beauty! That's the way we play +the game." + +We rambled on, and passed a pleasant old stone-built cottage in the wood, +with a tiny garden. "It's a curious thing," said Father Payne, "but in the +spring I always want to live in all the houses I see. It's the nesting +instinct, no doubt. I think I could be very happy here, for instance--much +happier than in my absurd big house, with all you fellows about. Why did I +ever start it? I ought to have had more sense. I want a cottage like this, +and a little garden to work in, and a few books. I would live on bread and +cold bacon and cheese and cabbages, with a hive of my own honey. I should +get wise and silent, and not run on like this." + +A dog came out of the cottage garden, and followed us a little way. "Do we +belong to your party, sir, or do you belong to ours?" said Father Payne. +The dog put his head on one side, and wagged his tail. "It appears I have +the pleasure of your acquaintance!" said Father Payne to him. "Very well, +you can set us on our way if you like!" The dog gave a short shrill bark, +and trotted along with us. When we got to the end of the lane, where it +turned into the high road, Father Payne said to the dog, "Now, sir, I +expect that's all the time you can spare this morning? You must go back and +guard the house, and be a faithful dog. Duty first!" The dog looked +mournfully at us, and wagged his tail, but did not attempt to come farther. +He watched us for a little longer, but as we did not invite him to come on, +he presently turned round and trotted off home. "Now, that's the sort of +case where I feel sentimental," said Father Payne. "It's the sham sort of +pathos. I hate to see anyone disappointed. A person offering flowers in the +street for sale, and people not buying them--the men in London showing off +little toys by the pavement, which nobody wants--I can't bear that. It +makes me feel absurdly wretched to see anyone hoping to please, and not +pleasing. And if the people who do it look old and frail and unhappy, I'm +capable of buying the whole stock. The great uncomforted! It's silly, of +course, and there is nothing in the world so silly as useless emotion! It +is so easy to overflow with cheap benevolence, but the first step towards +the joyful wisdom is to be afraid of the emotion that costs you nothing: +but we won't be metaphysical to-day!" + +Presently Father Payne insisted on sitting down in a sheltered place. He +flung his hat off, and sate there, looking round him with a smile, his arms +clasped round his big knees. "Well," he said, "it's a jolly place, the old +world, to be sure! Plenty of nasty and ugly things, I suppose, going on in +corners; but if you look round, they are only a small percentage of the +happy things. They don't force themselves upon the eye and ear, the beastly +things: and it's a stupid and faithless mistake to fix the imagination and +the reason too much upon them. We are all of us in a tight place +occasionally, and we have to meet it as best we can. But I don't think we +do it any better by anticipating it beforehand. What is more, no one can +really help us or deliver us: we can be made a little more comfortable, and +that's all, by what they call cooling drinks, and flowers in a vase by the +bedside. And it's a bad thing to get the misery of the world in a vague way +on our nerves. That's the useless emotion. We have got certain quite +definite things to do for other people in our own circle, and we are bound +to do them; we mustn't shirk them, and we mustn't shirk our own troubles, +though the less we bother about them the better. I am not at all sure that +the curse of the newspapers is not that they collect all the evils of the +world into a hideous posy, and thrust it under our nose. They don't collect +the fine, simple, wholesome things. Now you and I are better employed +to-day in being agreeable to each other--at least you are being kind to me, +even though I can't talk about that book--and in looking at the delightful +things going on everywhere--just think of all the happiness in the world +to-day, symbolised by that ridiculous wren!--we are better employed, I say, +than if we were extending the commerce of England, or planning how to make +war, or scolding people in sermons about their fatal indifference to the +things that belong to their peace. Men and women must find and make their +own peace, and we are doing both to-day. That awful vague sense of +responsibility, that desire to interfere, that wish that everyone else +should do uncomplaining what we think to be their duty--that's all my eye! +It is the kindly, eager, wholesome life which affects the world, wherever +it is lived: and that is the best which most of us can do. We can't be +always fighting. Even the toughest old veteran soldier--how many hours of +his life has he spent actually under fire? No, I'm not forgetting the +workers either: but you need not tell me that they are all sick at heart +because they are not dawdling in a country lane. It would bore them to +death, and they can live a very happy life without it. That's the false +pathos again--to think that everyone who can't do as _we_ like must be +miserable. And anyhow, I have done my twenty-five years on the treadmill, +and I am not going to pretend it was noble work, because it wasn't. It was +useless and disgraceful drudgery, most of it!" + +"Ah," I said, "but that doesn't help me. You may have earned a holiday, but +I have never done any real drudgery--I haven't earned anything." + +"Be content," said Father Payne; "take two changes of raiment! You have got +your furrow to plough--all in good time! You are working hard now, and +don't let me hear any stuff about being ashamed because you enjoy it! The +reward of labour is life: to enjoy our work is the secret. If you could +persuade people that the spring of life lies there, you would do more for +the happiness of man than by attending fifty thousand committees. But I +won't talk any more. I want to consider the lilies of the field, how they +grow. They don't do it every day!" + + + +LXIV + +OF POSE + + +Someone said rashly, after dinner to-night, that the one detestable and +unpardonable thing in a man was pose. A generalisation of this kind acted +on Father Payne very often like a ferret on a rabbit. He had been +mournfully abstracted during dinner, shaking his head slowly, and turning +his eyes to heaven when he was asked leading questions. But now he said: "I +don't think that is reasonable--you might as well say that you always +disliked length in a book. A book has got to be some length--it is as short +as it's long. Of course, the moment you begin to say, 'How long this book +is!' you mean that it is too long, and excess is a fault. Do you remember +the subject proposed in a school debating society, 'That too much athletics +is worthy of our admiration'? Pose is like that--when you become conscious +of pose it is generally disagreeable--that is, if it is meant to deceive: +but it is often amusing too, like the pose of the unjust judge in the +parable, who prefaces his remarks by saying, 'Though I fear not God, +neither regard man.'" + +"Oh, but you know what I mean, Father," said the speaker, "the pose of +knowing when you don't know, and being well-bred when you are snobbish, and +being kind when you are mean, and so on." + +"I think you mean humbug rather than pose," said Father Payne; "but even +so, I don't agree with you. I have a friend who would be intolerable, but +for his pose of being agreeable. He isn't agreeable, and he doesn't feel +agreeable; but he behaves as if he was, and it is the only thing that makes +him bearable. What you really mean is the pose of superiority--the man +whose motives are always just ahead of your own, and whose taste is always +slightly finer, and who knows the world a little better. But there is a lot +of pose that isn't that. What _is_ pose, after all? Can anyone define +it?" + +"It's an artist's phrase, I think," said Barthrop; "it means a position in +which you look your best." + +"Like the Archbishop who was always painted in a gibbous attitude--first +quarter, you know--with his back turned to you, and his face just visible +over his lawn sleeve," said Father Payne, "but that was in order to hide an +excrescence on his left cheek. Do you remember what Lamb said of Barry +Cornwall's wen on the nape of his neck? Some one said that Barry Cornwall +was thinking of having it cut off. 'I hope he won't do that,' said Lamb, 'I +rather like it--it's redundant, like his poetry!' I rather agree with Lamb. +I like people to be a little redundant, and a harmless pose is pure +redundancy: it only means that a man is up to some innocent game or other, +some sort of mystification, and is enjoying himself. It's like a summer +haze over the landscape. Now, there's another friend of mine who was once +complimented on his 'uplifted' look. Whenever he thinks of it, and that's +pretty often, he looks uplifted, like a bird drinking, with his eyes fixed +on some far-off vision. I don't mind that! It's only a wish to look his +best. It's partly a wish to give pleasure, you know. It's the same thing +that makes people wear their hair long, or dress in a flamboyant way. I'll +tell you a little story. You know Bertie Nash, the artist. I met him once +in a Post Office, and he was buying a sheet of halfpenny stamps. I asked +him if he was going to send out some circulars. He looked at me sadly, and +said, 'No, I always use these--I can't use the penny stamps--such a crude +red!' Now, he didn't do that to impress me: but it was a pose in a way, and +he liked feeling so sensitive to colour." + +"But oughtn't one to avoid all that sort of nonsense?" said some one; "it's +better surely to be just what you are." + +"Yes, but what _are_ you, after all?" said Father Payne; "your moods +vary. It would be hopeless if everyone tried to keep themselves down to +their worst level for the sake of sincerity. The point is that you ought to +try to keep at your best level, even if you don't feel so. Hang it, good +manners are a pose, if it comes to that. The essence of good manners is +sometimes to conceal what you are feeling. Is it a pose to behave amiably +when you are tired or cross?" + +"No, but that is in order not to make other people uncomfortable," said +Vincent. + +"Well, it's very hard to draw the line," said Father Payne: "but what we +really mean by pose is, I imagine, the attempt to appear to be something +which you frankly are not--and that is where the word has changed its +sense, Barthrop. An artist's pose is something characteristic, which makes +a man look his best. What we generally mean by pose is the affecting a best +which one never reaches. Come, tell a story, some one! That's the best way +to get at a quality. Won't some one quote an illustration?" + +"What about my friend Pearce, the schoolmaster?" said Vincent. "He read a +book about schoolmastering, and he said he didn't think much of it. He +added that the author seemed only to be giving elegant reasons for doing +things which the born schoolmaster did by instinct." + +"Well, that's not a bad criticism," said Father Payne; "but it was pose if +he meant to convey that _he_ was a born schoolmaster. Is he one, by +the way?" + +"No," said Vincent, "he is not: he is much ragged by the boys; but he +comforts himself by thinking that all schoolmasters are ragged, but that he +is rather more successful than most in dealing with it. He has a great deal +of moral dignity, has Pearce! I don't know where he would be without it!" + +"Well, there's an instance," said Father Payne, "of a pose being of some +use. I think a real genuine pose often makes a man do better work in the +world than if he was drearily conscious of failure. It's a game, you +know--a dramatic game: and I think it's a sign of vitality and interest to +want to have a game. It's like the lawyer's clerk in _Our Mutual +Friend_, when Mr. Boffin calls to keep an appointment, being the +lawyer's only client; but the boy makes a show of looking it all up in a +ledger, runs his finger down a list of imaginary consultants, and says to +himself, 'Mr. Aggs, Mr. Baggs, Mr. Caggs, Mr. Daggs, Mr. Boffin--Yes, sir, +that is right!' Now there's no harm in that sort of thing--it's only a bit +of moral dignity, as Vincent says. It's no good acquiescing in being a +humble average person--we must do better than that! Most people believe in +themselves in spite of abundant evidence to the contrary--but it's better +than disbelieving in yourself. That's abject, you know." + +"But if you accept the principle of pose," said Lestrange, "I don't see +that you can find fault with any pose." + +"You might as well say," said Father Payne, "that if I accept the principle +of drinking alcohol, it doesn't matter how much I drink! Almost all +morality is relative--in fact, it is doubtful if it is ever absolute. The +mischief of pose is not when it makes a man try to be or to appear at his +best: but when a man lives a thoroughly unreal life, taking a high line in +theory and never troubling about practice, then it's incredible to what +lengths self-deception can go. Dr. Johnson said that he looked upon himself +as a polite man! It is quite easy to get to believe yourself impeccable in +certain points: and as one gets older, and less assailable, and less liable +to be pulled up and told the hard truth, it is astonishing how serenely you +can sail along. But that isn't pose exactly. It generally begins by a pose, +and becomes simple imperviousness; and that is, after all, the danger of +pose,--that it makes people blind to the truth about themselves." + +"I'm getting muddled," said Vincent. + +"It _is_ rather muddling," said Father Payne, "but, in a general way, +the point is this. When pose is a deliberate attempt to deceive other +people for your own credit, it is detestable. But when it is merely +harmless drama, to add to the interest of life and to retain your own +self-respect, it's an amiable foible, and need not be discouraged. The real +question is whether it is assumed seriously, or whether it is all a sort of +joke. We all like to play our little games, and I find it very easy to +forgive a person who enjoys dressing up, so to speak, and making remarks in +character. Come, I'll confess my sins in public. If I meet a stranger in +the roads, I rather like to be thought a bluff and hearty English squire, +striding about my broad acres. I prefer that to being thought a retired +crammer, a dominie who keeps a school and calls it an academy, as Lord +Auchinleck said of Johnson. But if I pretended in this house to be a kind +of abbot, and glided about in a cassock with a gold cross round my neck, +conferring a benediction on everyone, and then retired to my room to read a +French novel and to drink whisky-and-soda, that would be a very unpleasant +pose indeed!" + +We all implored Father Payne to adopt it, and he said he would give it his +serious consideration. + + + +LXV + +OF REVENANTS + + +I was sitting in the garden one evening in summer with Father Payne and +Barthrop. Barthrop was going off next day to Oxford, and was trying to +persuade Father Payne to come too. + +"No," he said, "I simply couldn't! Oxford is the city east of the sun and +west of the moon--like as a dream when one awaketh! I don't hold with +indulging fruitless sentiment, particularly about the past." + +"But isn't it rather a pity?" said Barthrop. "After all, most emotions are +useless, if you come to that! Why should you cut yourself off from a place +you are so fond of, and which is quite the most beautiful place in England +too? Isn't it rather--well,--weak?" + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "it's weak, no doubt! That is to say, if I were +differently made, more hard-hearted, more sure of myself, I should go, and +I should enjoy myself, and moon about, and bore you to death with old +stories about the chimes at midnight--everybody would be a dear old boy or +a good old soul, and I should hand out tips, and get perfectly maudlin in +the evenings over a glass of claret. That's the normal thing, no +doubt--that's what a noble-minded man in a novel of Thackeray's would do!" + +"Well," said Barthrop, "you know best--but I expect that if you did take +the plunge and go there, you would find yourself quite at ease." + +"I might," said Father Payne; "but then I also might not--and I prefer not +to risk it. You see, it would be merely wallowing in sentiment--and I don't +approve of sentiment. I want my emotions to live with, not to bathe in!" + +"But you don't mind going back to London," said Barthrop. + +"No," said Father Payne, "but that bucks me up. I was infernally unhappy in +London, and it puts me in a thoroughly sensible and cheerful mood to go and +look at the outside of my old lodgings, and the place where I used to +teach, and to say to myself, 'Thank God, that's all over!' Then I go on my +way rejoicing, and make no end of plans. But if I went to Oxford, I should +just remember how happy and young I was; and I might even commit the folly +of regretting the lapse of time, and of wishing I could have it back again. +I don't think it is wholesome to do anything which makes one discontented, +or anything which forces one to dwell on what one has lost. That doesn't +matter. Nothing really is ever lost, and it only takes the starch out of +one to think about it from that angle. I don't believe in the past. It +seems unalterable, and I suppose in a sense it is so. But if you begin to +dwell on unalterable things, you become a fatalist, and I'm always trying +to get away from that. The point is that no one is unalterable, and, thank +God, we are always altering. To potter about in the past is like grubbing +in an ash-heap, and shedding tears over broken bits of china. The plate, or +whatever it is, was pretty enough, and it had its place and its use; and +when the stuff of which it is made is wanted again, it will be used again. +It is simply fatuous to waste time over the broken pieces of old dreams and +visions; and I mean to use my emotions and my imagination to see new dreams +and finer visions. Perhaps the time will come when I can dream no more--the +brain gets tired and languid, no doubt. But even then I shall try to be +interested in what is going on." + +"I see your point," said Barthrop; "but, for the life of me, I can't see +why the old place should not take its part in the new visions! When I go +down to Oxford I don't regret it. I go gratefully and happily about, and I +like to see the young men as jolly as I was, and as unaware what a good +time they are having. An old pal of mine is a Don, and he puts me up in +College, and it amuses me to go into Hall, and to see some of the young +lions at close quarters. It's all pure and simple refreshment." + +"I've no doubt of it, old man," said Father Payne; "and it's an excellent +thing for you to go, and to draw fresh life from the ancient earth, like +Antaeus. But I'm not made that way. I'm not loyal--that is to say, I am not +faithful to things simply because I once admired and loved them. If you are +loyal in the right way, as you are, it's different. But these old +attachments are a kind of idolatry to me--a false worship. I'm naturally +full of unreasonable devotion to the old and beautiful things; but they get +round my neck like a mill-stone, and it is all so much more weight that I +have to carry. I sometimes go to see an old cousin of mine, a widow in the +country, who lives entirely in the past, never allows anything to be +changed in the house, never talks about anyone who isn't dead or ill. The +woman's life is simply buried under old memories, mountains of old china, +family plate, receipts for jam and marmalade--everything has got to be done +as it was in the beginning. Now most of her friends think that very +beautiful and tender, and talk of the old-world atmosphere of the place; +but I think it simply a stuffy waste of time. I don't tell her so--God +forbid! But I feel that she is lolling in an arbour by the roadside instead +of getting on. It's innocent enough, but it does not seem to me beautiful." + +"But I still don't see why you give way to the feeling," said Barthrop. +"I'm sure that if I felt as you do about Oxford, or any other place, you +would tell me it was my duty to conquer it." + +"Very likely!" said Father Payne. "But doctors don't feel bound to take +their own prescriptions! Everyone must decide for himself, and I know that +I should fall under the luxurious enchantment. I should go into cheap +raptures, I should talk about 'the tender grace of a day that is +dead'--it's no use putting your head in a noose to see what being strangled +feels like." + +"But do you apply that to everything," I said, "old friendships, old +affections, old memories? They seem to me beautiful, and harmlessly +beautiful." + +"Well, if you can use them up quite freshly, and make a poetical dish out +of them, for present consumption, I don't mind," said Father Payne. "But +that isn't my way--I'm not robust enough. It's all I can do to take things +in as they come along. Of course an old memory sometimes goes through one +like a sword, but I pull it out as quick as I can, and cast it away. I am +not going to dance with Death if I can help it! I have got my job cut out +for me, and I am not going to be hampered by old rubbish. Mind you, I don't +say that it was rubbish at the time; but I have no use for anything that I +can't use. Sentiment seems to me like letting valuable steam off. The +people I have loved are all there still, whether they are dead or alive. +They did a bit of the journey with me, and I enjoyed their company, and I +shall enjoy it again, if it so comes about. But we have to live our life, +and we can't keep more than a certain number of things in mind--that is an +obvious limitation. Do you remember the old fairy story of the man who +carried a magic goose, and everyone who touched it, or touched anyone who +touched it, could not leave go, with the result that there was a long train +of helpless people trotting about behind the man. I don't want to live like +that, with a long train of old memories and traditions and friendships and +furniture trailing helplessly behind me. My business is with my present +circle, my present work, and I can't waste my strength in drawing about +vehicles full of goods. If anyone wants me, here I am, and I will do my +best to meet his wishes; but I am not going to be frightened by words like +loyalty into pretending that I am going to stagger along carrying the whole +of my past. No, my boy," said Father Payne, turning to Barthrop, "you go to +Oxford, and enjoy yourself! But the old place is too tight about my heart +for me to put my nose into it. I'm a free man, and I am not going to be in +bondage to my old fancies. You may give my love to Corpus and to Wadham +Garden--it's all dreadfully bewitching--but I'm not going to run the risk +of falling in love with the phantom of the past--that's _La Belle Dame +Sans Merci_ for me, and I'm riding on--I'm riding on. I won't have the +hussy on my horse. + + "I set her on my pacing steed, + And nothing else saw all day long, + For sideways would she lean, and sing + A faery's song. + + She found me roots of relish sweet, + And honey wild and manna dew. + And sure in language strange she said, + 'I love thee true,'" + +He stopped a moment, as he often did when he made a quotation, overcome +with feeling. Then he smiled, and added half to himself, "No; I should say, +as Dr. Johnson said to the lady in Fleet Street; 'No, no; it won't do, my +girl!'" + + + +LXVI + +OF DISCIPLINE + + +"Well, anyhow," said Vincent at dinner, commenting on something that had +been said, "you may not get anything else out of a disagreeable affair like +that, but you get a sort of discipline." + +"Come, hold on," said Father Payne; "that won't do, you know! Discipline, +in my belief, is in itself a bad thing, unless you not only get something +out of it, but, what is more, know what you get out of it. You can't +discipline anyone, unless he desires it! Discipline means the repressing of +something--you must be quite sure that it is worth repressing." + +"What I mean," said Vincent, "is that it makes you tougher and harder." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "but that is not a good thing in itself, unless +there is something soft and weak in you. Discipline may easily knock the +good things out of you. There's a general kind of belief that, because the +world is a rough place, where you may get tumbles and shocks without any +fault of your own, therefore it is as well to have something rough about +you. I don't believe in that. The reason why a man gets roughly handled, in +nine cases out of ten, is not because he is obnoxious or offensive, but +because other people are harsh and indifferent. I want to apply discipline +to the brutal, not to brutalise the sensitive. If discipline simply made +people brave and patient, it would be different, but it often makes them +callous and unpleasant." + +"But doesn't everyone want discipline of some kind?" said Vincent. + +"Of the right kind, yes," said Father Payne. "Some people want a good deal +more than they get, and some a certain amount less than they get. It's a +delicate business. It is not always fortifying. Take a simple case. A bold, +brazen sort of boy who is untruthful may want a whipping; but a timid and +imaginative boy who is untruthful doesn't necessarily want a whipping at +all--it makes him more, and not less, timid. One of the most ridiculous and +persistent blunders in human life is to believe that a certain penalty is +divinely appointed for a certain offence. Our theory of punishment is all +wrong; we inflict punishment, as a rule, not to improve an offender, but +out of revenge, or because it gives us a comfortable sense of our own +justice. And the whole difficulty of discipline is that it is apt to be +applied in lumps, and distributed wholesale to people who don't all want +the same amount. We haven't really got very far away from the Squeers +theory of giving all the boys brimstone and treacle alike." + +"Yes, but in a school," said Vincent, "would not the boys themselves resent +it, if they were punished differently for the same offence?" + +"That is to say," said Father Payne, "that you are to treat boys, whom you +are supposed to be training, in accordance with their ideas of justice, and +not in accordance with yours! Why should you confirm them in a wholly +erroneous view of justice? Justice isn't a mathematical thing--or rather, +it ought to be a mathematical thing, because you ought to take into account +a lot of factors, which you simply omit from your calculation. I believe +very little in punishment, to tell you the truth; it ought only to be +inflicted after many warnings, when the offence is deliberately repeated. I +don't believe that the sane and normal person is a habitual and deliberate +offender. The kind of absence of self-restraint which makes people unable +to resist temptation, in any form, is a disease, and ought to be +segregated. I haven't the slightest doubt that we shall end by segregating +or sterilising the person of criminal tendencies, which only means a total +inability, in the presence of a temptation, to foresee consequences, and +which gratifies a momentary desire." + +"But apart from definite moral disease," said Vincent, "isn't it a good +thing to compel people, if possible, into a certain sort of habit? I am +speaking of faults which are not criminal--things like unpunctuality, +laziness, small excesses, mild untrustworthiness, and so forth." + +"Well, I don't personally believe in coercive discipline at all," said +Father Payne. "I think it simply gets people out of shape. I believe in +trying to give people a real motive for self-discipline: take +unpunctuality, for instance. The only way to make an unpunctual person +punctual is to convince him that it is rude and unjust to keep other people +waiting. There is nothing sacred about punctuality in itself, unless some +one else suffers by your being unpunctual. If it comes to that, isn't it +quite as good a discipline for punctual people to learn to wait without +impatience for the unpunctual? Supposing an unpunctual person were to say, +'I do it on principle, to teach precise people not to mind waiting,' where +is the flaw in that? Take what you call laziness. Some people work better +by fits and starts, some do better work by regularity. The point is to know +how you work best. You must not make the convenience of average people into +a moral law. The thing to aim at is that a man should not go on doing a +thing which he honestly believes to be wrong and hurtful, out of a mere +habit. Take the small excesses of which you speak--food, drink, sleep, +tobacco. Some people want more of these things than others; you can't lay +down exact laws. A man ought to find out precisely what suits him best; but +I'm not prepared to say that regularity in these matters is absolutely good +for everyone. The thing is not to be interfered with by your habits; and +the end of all discipline is, I believe, efficiency, vitality, and freedom; +but it is no good substituting one tyranny for another. I was reading the +life of a man the other day who simply could not believe that anyone could +think a thing wrong and yet do it. His biographer said, very shrewdly, that +his sense of sin was as dead as his ear for music--that he did not possess +even the common liberty of right and wrong. That's a bad case of atrophy! +You must not, of course, be at the mercy of your moods, but you must not be +at the mercy of your ethical habits either. Of the two, I am not sure that +the habit isn't the most dangerous." + +"You seem to be holding a brief all round, Father," said Vincent. + +"No, I am not doing that," said Father Payne, "but my theory is this. You +must know, first of all, what you are aiming at, and you must apply your +discipline sensibly to that. There are certain things in us which we know +to be sloppy--we lie in bed, we dawdle, we eat too much, we moon over our +work. All that is obviously no good, and all sensible people try to pull +themselves up. When you have found out what suits you, do it boldly; but +the man who admires discipline for its own sake is a sort of +hypochondriac--a medicine-drinker. I have a friend who says that if he +stays in a house, and sees a bottle of medicine in a cupboard, he is always +tempted to take a dose. 'Is it that you feel ill?' I once said to him. +'No,' he said; 'but I have an idea that it might do me good.' The +disciplinarian is like that: he is always putting a little strain upon +himself, cutting off this and that, trying new rules, heading himself off. +He has an uneasy feeling that if he likes anything, it is a sort of sign +that he should abstain from it: he mistrusts his impulses and instincts. He +thinks he is getting to talk too much, and so he practises holding his +tongue. The truth is that he is suspicious of life. He is like the +schoolmaster who says, 'Go and see what Jack is doing, and tell him not +to!' Of course I am taking an extreme case, but there is a tendency in that +direction in many people. They think that strength means the power to +resist, when it really means the power to flow. I do not think that people +ought to be deferential to criticism, timid before rebuke, depressed by +disapproval: and, on the whole, I believe that more harm is done by +self-repression, obedience, meekness than by the opposite qualities. I want +men to live their own lives fearlessly--not offensively, of course--with a +due regard to other people's comfort, but without any regard to other +people's conventions. I believe in trusting yourself, on the whole, and +trusting the world. I do not think it is wholesome or brave to live under +the shadow of other people's fears or other people's convictions. All the +people, it seems to me, who have done anything for the world, have been the +people who have gone their own way; and I think that self-discipline, or +external discipline meekly accepted, ends in a flattening out of men's +power and character. Of course you fellows here are learning to do a +definite technical thing--but you will observe that all the discipline here +is defensive, and not coercive. I don't want you to take any shape or +mould: I want you just to learn to do things in your own way. I don't ever +want you to interfere with each other's minds too much. I don't want to +interfere with your minds myself, except in so far as to help you to get +rid of sloppiness and prejudices. Here, I mustn't go on--it's becoming like +a prospectus! but it comes to this, that I believe in the trained mind, and +not in the moulded mind; and I think that the moment discipline ceases to +train strength, and begins to mould weakness, it's a thoroughly bad thing. +No one can be artificially protected from life without losing life--and +life is what I am out for." + + + +LXVII + +OF INCREASE + + +I did not hear the argument, but I heard Vincent say to Father Payne: "Of +course I couldn't do that--it would have been so inconsistent." + +"Oh! consistency's a very cheap affair," said Father Payne; "it is mostly a +blend of vanity and slow intelligence." + +"But one must stick to _something_," said Vincent. "There's nothing so +tiresome as never knowing how a man is going to behave." + +"Of course," said Father Payne, "inconsistency isn't a virtue--it is +generally the product of a quick and confused intelligence. But consistency +ought not to be a principle of thought or action--you ought not to do or +think a thing simply because you have thought it before--that is mere +laziness! What one wants is a consistent sort of progress--you ought not to +stay still." + +"But you must have principles," said Vincent. + +"Yes, but you must expect to change them," said Father Payne. "Principles +are only deductions after all: and to remain consistent as a rule only +means that you have ceased to do anything with your experience, or else it +means that you have taken your principles second-hand. They ought to be +living things, yielding fruits of increase. I don't mean that you should be +at the mercy of a persuasive speaker, or of the last book you have +read--but, on the other hand, to meet an interesting man or to read a +suggestive book ought to modify your views a little. You ought to be +elastic. The only thing that is never quite the same is opinion; and to be +holding a ten years' old opinion simply means that you are stranded. +There's nothing worse than to be high and dry." + +"But isn't it worse still," said Vincent, "to see so many sides to a +question that you can't take a definite part?" + +"I don't feel sure," said Father Payne. "I know that the all-round +sympathiser is generally found fault with in books; but it is an uncommon +temperament, and means a great power of imagination. I am not sure that the +faculty of taking a side is a very valuable one. People say that things get +done that way; but a great many things get done wrong, and have to be +undone. There is no blessing on the palpably one-sided people. Besides, +there is a great movement in the world now towards approximation. +Majorities don't want to bully minorities. Persecution has gone out. People +are beginning to see that principles are few and interpretations many. I +believe, as a matter of fact, that we ought always to be simplifying our +principles, and getting them under a few big heads. Besides, you do not +convert people by hammering away at principles. I always like the story of +the Frenchman who said to his opponent, 'Come, let us go for a little walk, +and see if we can disagree.'" + +"I don't exactly see what he meant," said Vincent. + +"Why, he meant," said Father Payne, "that if they could bring their minds +together, they would find that there wasn't very much to quarrel about. But +I don't believe in arguing. I don't think opinion changes in that way. I +fancy it has tides of its own, and that ideas appear in numbers of minds +all over the world, like flowers in spring. + +"But how is one ever to act at all," said Vincent, "if one is always to be +feeling that a principle may turn out to be nonsense after all?" + +"Well, I think action is mainly a matter of instinct," said Father Payne. +"But I don't really believe in taking too diffuse a view of things in +general. Very few of us are strong enough and wise enough, let me say, to +read the papers with any profit. The newspapers emphasize the disunion of +the world, and I believe in its solidarity. Come, I'll tell you how I think +people ought really to live, if you like. I think a man ought to live his +own life, without attempting too much reference to what is going on in the +world. I think it becomes pretty plain to most of us, by the time we reach +years of discretion, what we can do and what we cannot. I don't mean that +life ought to be lived in blank selfishness, without reference to anyone +else. Most of us can't do that, anyhow--it requires extraordinary +concentration of will. But I think that our lives ought to be +intensive--that is to say, I don't think we ought to concern ourselves with +getting rid of our deficiencies, so much as by concentrating and +emphasizing our powers and faculties. We ought all of us to have a certain +circle in mind--I believe very much in _circles_. We are very much +limited, and our power of affecting people for good and evil is very small; +our chance of helping is small. The moment we try to extend our circle very +much, to widen our influence, we become like a juggler who keeps a dozen +plates spinning all at once--it is mere legerdemain. But we most of us live +really with about a score of people. We can't choose our circle altogether, +and there are generally certain persons in it whom we should wish away. I +think we ought to devote ourselves to our work, whatever it is, and outside +of that to getting a real, intimate, and vital understanding with the +people round us. That is a problem which is amply big enough for most of +us. Then I think we ought to go seriously to work, not arguing or finding +fault, not pushing or shoving people about, but just living on the finest +lines we can. The only real chance of converting other people to our +principles or own ideas, is to live in such a way that it is obvious that +our ideas bring us real and vital happiness. You may depend upon it, that +is the only way to live--the _positive_ way. We simply must not +quarrel with our associates: we must be patient and sympathetic and +imaginative." + +"But are there no exceptions?" said I. "I have heard you say that a man +must be prepared to lose friends on occasions." + +"Yes," said Father Payne, "the circle shifts and changes a little, no +doubt. I admit that it becomes clear occasionally that you cannot live with +a particular person. But if you have alienated him or her by your +censoriousness and your want of sympathy, you have to be ashamed of +yourself. If it is the other way, and you are being tyrannised over, +deflected, hindered, then it may be necessary to break away--though, mind +you, I think it is finer still if you do not break away. But you must have +your liberty, and I don't believe in sacrificing that, because then you +live an unreal life--and, whatever happens, you must not do that." + +"But what is to be done when people are tied up by relationships, and can't +get away?" said I. + +"Yes, there are such cases," said Father Payne; "I don't deny it. If there +is really no escape possible, then you must tackle it, and make the finest +thing you can out of the situation. Fulness of life, that is what we must +aim at. Of course people are hemmed in in other ways too--by health, +poverty, circumstances of various kinds. But, however small your saucepan +is, it ought to be on the boil." + +"But can people _make_ themselves active and hopeful?" I said. "Isn't +that just the most awful problem of all, the listlessness which falls on +many of us, as the limitations draw round and the net encloses us?" + +"You must kick out for all you are worth," said Father Payne. "I fully +admit the difficulty. But one of the best things in life is the fact that +you can always do a little better than you expect. And then--you mustn't +forget God." + +"But a conscious touch with God?" I said. "Isn't that a rare thing?" + +"It need not be," said Father Payne, very seriously. "If there is one thing +which experience has taught me, it is this--that if you make a signal to +God, it is answered. I don't say that troubles roll away, or that you are +made instantly happy. But you will find that you can struggle on. People +simply don't try that experiment. The reason why they do not is, I honestly +believe, because of our services, where prayer is made so ceremoniously and +elaborately that people get a false sense of dignity and reverence. It is a +very natural instinct which made the disciples say, 'Teach us to pray,' and +I do not think that ecclesiastical systems do teach people to pray--at +least the examples they give are too intellectual, too much concerned with +good taste. A prayer need not be a verbal thing--the best prayers are not. +It is the mute glance of an eye, the holding out of a hand. And if you ask +me what can make people different, I say it is not will, but prayer." + + + +LXVIII + +OF PRAYER + + +I was walking about the garden on a wintry Sunday with Father Payne. He had +a particular mood on Sundays, I used to think, which made itself subtly +felt--a mood serious, restrained, and yet contented. I do not remember how +the subject came up, but he said something about prayer, and I replied: + +"I wish you would tell me exactly what you feel about prayer, Father. I +never quite understand. You always speak as if it played a great part in +your life, and yet I never am sure what exactly it means to you." + +"You might as well say," he said, smiling, "that you never felt quite sure +what breakfast meant to me." + +He stopped and looked at me for a moment. "Do we know what anything +_means_? We know what prayer _is_, at any rate--one of the +commonest and most natural of instincts. What is your difficulty?" + +"Oh, the usual one," I said, "that if the God to whom we pray is the Power +which puts into our minds good desires, and knows not only what is passing +in our thoughts, but the very direction which our thoughts are going to +take--reads us, in fact, like a book, as they say--what, then, is the +object or purpose of setting ourselves to pray to a Power that knows our +precise range of thoughts, and can disentangle them all far better than we +can ourselves?" + +"Why," said Father Payne, "that is pure fatalism. If you carry that on a +little further it means all absence of effort. You might as well say, 'I +will take no steps to provide myself with food--if God is All-Powerful, and +sends me a good appetite, it is His business to satisfy it!" + +"Oh," I said, "I see that. But if I set about providing myself with +breakfast, I know exactly what I want, and have a very fair chance of +obtaining it. But the essence of prayer is that you must not expect to get +your desires fulfilled." + +"I certainly do not pretend," said he, "that prayer is a mechanical method +of getting things; it isn't a _substitute_ for effort and action. Nor +do I think that God simply withholds things unless you ask for them, as a +dog has to beg for a piece of biscuit. I don't look upon prayer as the mere +formulating of a list of requests; and I dislike very much the way some +good people have of getting a large number of men and women to pray for the +same thing, as if you were canvassing for votes. And yet I believe that +prayers have a way of being granted. Indeed, I think that both the strength +and the danger of prayer lies in the fact that people do very much tend to +get what they have set their hearts upon. A recurrent prayer for a definite +thing is often a sign that a man is working hard to secure it. It is rather +perilous to desire definite things too definitely, not because you are +disappointed, but because you are often successful in attaining them." + +"Then that would be a reason for not praying," I said. + +Father Payne gave one of his little frowns, which I knew well. "I'm not +arguing for the sake of arguing, Father," I said; "I really want to +understand. It seems to me such a muddle." + +The little frown passed off in a smile. "Yes, it isn't a wholly rational +thing," said Father Payne, "but it's a natural and instinctive thing. To +forbid prayer seems to me like forbidding hope and love. Prayer seems to me +just a mingling of hope and desire and love and confidence. It is more like +talking over your plans and desires with God. It all depends upon whether +you say, 'My will be done,' which is the wrong sort of prayer, or 'Thy will +be done,' which is the right sort of prayer, and infinitely harder. I don't +mind telling you this, that my prayers are an attempt to put myself in +touch with the Spirit of God. I believe in God; I believe that He is trying +very hard to bring men and women to live in a certain way--the right, +joyful, beautiful way. He sees it clearly enough; but we are so tangled up +with material things that we don't see it clearly--we don't see where our +happiness lies; we mistake all kinds of things--pleasures, schemes, +successes, comforts, desires--for happiness; and prayer seems to me like +opening a sluice and letting a clear stream gush through. That's why I +believe one must set oneself to it. The sluice is not always open--we are +lazy, cowardly, timid; or again, we are confident, self-satisfied, proud of +our own inventiveness and resourcefulness. I don't know what the will is or +what its limitations are; but I believe it has a degree of liberty, and it +can exercise that liberty in welcoming God. Of course, if we think of God +as drearily moral, harsh, full of anger and disapproval, we are not likely +to welcome Him; but if we feel Him full of eagerness and sympathy, of +'comfort, light, and fire of love,' as the old hymn says, then we desire +His company. You have to prepare yourself for good company, you know. It is +a bit of a strain; and I feel that the people who won't pray are like the +lazy and sloppy people who won't put themselves out or forego their habits +or take any trouble to receive a splendid guest. The difference is that the +splendid guest is not to be got every day, while God is always glad of your +company, I think." + +"Then with you prayer isn't a process of asking?" I said. "But isn't it a +way of changing yourself by simply trying to get your ideals clear?" + +"No, no," said Father Payne; "it's just drawing water from a well when you +are thirsty. Of course you must go to the well, and let down the bucket. It +isn't a mere training of imagination; it is helping yourself to something +actually there. The more you pray, the less you ask for definite things. +You become ashamed to do that. Do you remember the story of Hans Andersen, +when he went to see the King of Denmark? The King made a pause at one point +and looked at Andersen, and Andersen said afterwards that the King had +evidently expected him to ask for a pension. 'But I could not,' he said. 'I +know I was a fool, but my heart would not let me.' One can trust God to +know one's desires, and one's heart will not let one ask for them. It is +His will that you want to know--your own will that you want to surrender. +Strength, clearsightedness, simplicity--those are what flow from contact +with God." + +"But what do you make," I said, "of contemplative Orders of monks and nuns, +who say that they specialise in prayer, and give up their whole time and +energy to it?" + +"Well," said Father Payne, "it's a harmless and beautiful life; but it +seems to me like abandoning yourself to one kind of rapture. Prayer seems +to me a part of life, not the whole of it. You have got to use the strength +given you. It is given you to do business with. It seems to me as if a man +argued that because eating gave him strength, it must be a good thing to +eat; and that he would therefore eat all day long. It isn't the gaining of +strength that is desirable, but the using of strength. You mustn't sponge +upon God, so to speak. And I don't honestly believe in any life which takes +you right away from life. Life is the duty of all of us; and prayer seems +to me just one of the things that help one to live." + +"But intercession," I said, "is there nothing in the idea that you can pray +for those who cannot or will not pray for themselves?" + +"I don't know," said Father Payne. "If you love people and wish them well, +and hate the thought of the evils which befall the innocent, and the +overflowings of ungodliness, you can't keep that out of your prayers, of +course. But I doubt very much whether one can do things vicariously. It +seems to land you in difficulties; if you say, for instance, 'I will +inflict sufferings upon myself, that others may be spared suffering,' +logically you might go on to say, 'I will enjoy myself that my enjoyment +may help those who cannot enjoy.' One doesn't really know how much one's +own experience does help other people. Living with others certainly does +affect them, but I don't feel sure that isolating oneself from others does. +I think, on the whole, that everyone must take his place in a circle. We +are limited by time and space and matter, you know. You can know and love a +dozen people; you can't know and love a hundred thousand to much purpose. I +remember when I was a boy that there was a run on a Bank where we lived. +Two of the partners went there, and did what they could. The third, a pious +fellow, shut himself up in his bedroom and prayed. The Bank was saved, and +he came down the next day and explained his absence by saying he had been +giving them the most effectual help in his power. He thought, I believe, +that he had saved the Bank; I don't think the other two men thought so, and +I am inclined to side with them. Mind, I am not deriding the idea of a +vocation for intercessory prayer. I don't know enough about the forces of +the world to do that. It's a harmless life, a beautiful life, and a hard +life too, and I won't say it is useless. But I am not convinced of its +usefulness. It seems to me on a par with the artistic life, a devotion to a +beautiful dream, I don't, on the whole, believe in art for art's sake, and +I don't think I believe in prayer for prayer's sake. But I don't propound +my ideas as final. I think it possible--I can't say more--that a life +devoted to the absorption of beautiful impressions may affect the +atmosphere of the world--we are bound up with each other behind the scenes +in mysterious ways--and similarly I think that lives of contemplative +prayer _may_ affect the world. I should not attempt to discourage +anyone from such a vocation. But it can't be taken for granted, and I think +that a man must show cause, apart from mere inclination, why he should not +live the common life of the world, and mingle with his fellows." + +"Then prayer, you think," I said, "is to you just one of the natural +processes of life?" + +"That's about it!" said Father Payne. "It seems to me as definite a way of +getting strength and clearness of view and hope and goodness, as eating and +sleeping are ways of getting strength of another kind. To neglect it is to +run the risk of living a hurried, muddled, self-absorbed life. I can't +explain it, any more than I can explain eating or breathing. It just seems +to me a condition of fine life, which we can practise to our help and +comfort, and neglect to our hurt. I don't think I can say more about it +than that, my boy!" + + + +LXIX + +THE SHADOW + + +One evening, when I was sitting with Barthrop in the smoking-room and the +others had gone away, he said to me suddenly, "There's something I want to +speak to you about: I have been worrying about it for some little time, and +it's a bad thing to do that. I daresay it is all nonsense, but I am +bothered about the Father. I don't think he is well, and I don't think he +thinks he is well. He is much thinner, you know, and he isn't in good +spirits. I don't mean that he isn't cheerful in a way, but it's an effort +to him. Now, have you noticed anything?" + +I thought for a minute, and then I said, "No, I don't think I have! He's +thinner, of course, but he joked to me about that--he said he had turned +the corner, as people do, and he wasn't going to be a pursy old party when +he got older. Now that you mention it, I think he has been rather silent +and abstracted lately. But then he often is that, you know, when we are all +together. And in his private talks with me--and I have had several +lately--he has seemed to me more tender and affectionate than usual even; +not so amusing, perhaps, not bubbling over with talk, and a little more +serious. If I have thought anything at all, it simply is that he is getting +older." + +"It may simply be that, of course," said Barthrop, looking relieved. "I +suppose he is about fifty-eight or so? But I'll tell you something else. I +went in to speak to him two or three days ago. Well you know how he always +seems to be doing something? He is never unoccupied indoors, though he has +certainly seen less of everyone's work of late--but that morning I found +him sitting in his chair, looking out of the window, doing nothing at all; +and I didn't like his look. How can I put it? He looked like a man who was +going off on a long journey--and he was tired and worn-looking--I have +never seen him looking _worn_ before--as if there was a strain of some +kind. There were lines about his face I hadn't noticed before, and his eyes +seemed larger and brighter. He said to me, half apologetically, 'Look here, +this won't do! I'm getting lazy,' Then he went on, 'I was thinking, you +know, about this place: it has been an experiment, and a good and happy +experiment. But it hasn't founded itself, as I hoped,' I asked him what +exactly he meant, and he laughed, and said: 'You know I don't believe in +founding things! A place like this has got to grow up of itself, and have a +life of its own. I don't think the place has got that. I put a seed or two +into the ground, but I'm not sure that they have quickened to life.' Then +he went on in a minute: 'You will know I don't say this conceitedly, but I +think it has all depended too much on me, and I know I'm only a tiller of +the ground. I don't believe I can give life to a society--I can keep it +lively, but that's not the same thing. Something has come of my plan, to be +sure, but it isn't going to spread like a tree--and I hoped it might! But +it's no good being disappointed--that's childish--you can't do what you +mean to do in this world, only what you are meant to do. I expect the +weakness has been that I meddle too much--I don't leave things alone +enough. I trust too much to myself, and not enough to God. It's been too +much a case of "See me do it!"--as the children say.'" + +"What did you say?" I said. + +"Nothing at all," said Barthrop; "that's where I fail. I can't rise to an +emergency. I murmured something about our all being very grateful to +him--it was awfully flat! If I could but have told him how I cared for him, +and how splendid he had always been! But those perfectly true, sincere, +fine things are just what one can't say, unless one has it all written down +on paper. I wish he would see a doctor, or go away for a bit; but I can't +advise him to do that--he hates a fuss about anything, and most of all +about health. He says you ought never to tell people how you are feeling, +because they have to pretend to be interested!" + +I smiled at this, and said, "I don't think there really is much the matter! +People can't be always at the top of their game, and he takes a lot out of +himself, of course. He's always giving out!" + +"He is indeed," said Barthrop; "but I won't say more now. I feel better for +having told you. Just you keep your eyes open--but, for Heaven's sake, +don't watch him--you know how sharp he is." + +I went off a little depressed by the talk, because it seemed so impossible +to connect anything but buoyant health with Father Payne. I did not see him +at breakfast, but he came in to lunch; and I saw at once that there was +something amiss with him. He ate little, and he looked tired. However, as I +rose to go--we did not, as I have said, talk at lunch--he just beckoned to +me, and pointed with his finger in the direction of his room. It was a +well-known gesture if he wanted to speak to one. I went there, and stood +before the fire surveying the room, which looked unwontedly tidy, the table +being almost free from books and papers. But there lay a long folded folio +sheet on the table, a legal document, and it gave me a chill to see the +word _Will_ on the top of it. Father Payne came in a moment later with +a smile. Then somehow divining, as he so often did, exactly what had +happened, he said, as if answering an unspoken question, "Yes, that's my +will! I have been, in fact, making it. It's a wholesome occupation for an +elderly man. But I only wanted to know if you would come for a stroll? Yes? +That's all right! You are sure I'm not interfering with any arrangement?" + +It was a late autumn day in November: the air was cold and damp, the roads +wet, the hedges hung with moisture and the leaves were almost gone from the +trees. "Most people don't like this sort of day," said Father Payne, as we +went out of the gate; "but I like it even better than spring. Everything +seems going contentedly to sleep, like a tired child. All the plants are +withdrawing into themselves, into the inner life. They have had a pleasant +time, waving their banners about--but they have no use for them any more. +They are all going to be alone for a bit. Do you remember that epithet of +Keats, about the 'cool-rooted' flowers? That's a bit of genius. That's what +makes the difference between people, I think--whether they are cool-rooted +or not." + +He walked more slowly than was his wont to-day, but he seemed in equable +spirits, and made many exclamations of delight. He said suddenly, "Do you +know one of the advantages of growing old? It is that if you have an +unpleasant thing ahead of you, instead of shadowing the mind, as it does +when you are young, it gives a sort of relish to the intervening time. I +can even imagine a man in the condemned cell, till the end gets close, +being able to look ahead to the day, when he wakes in the morning--the +square meals, the pipe--I believe they allow them to smoke--the talk with +the chaplain. It's always nice to feel it is your duty to talk about +yourself, and to explain how it all came about, and why you couldn't do +otherwise. Now I have got to go up to town on some tiresome business at the +end of this week, and I'm going to enjoy the days in between." + +He stopped and spoke with all his accustomed good humour to half a dozen +people whom we met. Then he said to me: "Do you know, my boy, I want to +tell you that you have been one of my successes! I did not honestly think +you would buckle to as you have done, and I don't think you are quite as +sympathetic as I once feared!" He gave me a smile as he said it, and went +on: "You know what I mean--I thought you would reflect people too much, and +be too responsive to your companions. And you have been a great comfort to +me, I don't deny it. But I thankfully discern a good hard stone in the +middle of all the juiciness, with a tight little kernel inside it--I'll +quote Keats again, and say 'a sweet-hearted kernel,' Mind, I don't say you +will do great things. You are facile, and you see things very quickly and +accurately, and you have a style. But I don't think you have got the tragic +quality or the passionate gift. You are too placid and contented--but you +spin along, and I think you see something of the reality of things. You +will be led forth beside the waters of comfort--you will lack nothing--your +cup will be full. But the great work is done by people with large empty +cups that take some filling--the people who are given the plenteousness of +tears to drink. It's a bitter draught--you won't have to drink it. But I +think you are on right and happy lines, and you must be content with good +work. Anyhow, you will always write like a gentleman, and that's a good +deal to say." + +This pleased and touched me very deeply. I began to murmur something. "Oh +no," said Father Payne, "you needn't! A boy at a prize-giving isn't +required to enter into easy talk with the presiding buffer! I have just +handed you your prize." + +He talked after this lightly of many small things--about Barthrop in +particular, and asked me many questions about him. "I am afraid I haven't +allowed him enough initiative," said Father Payne; "that's a bad habit of +mine. But if he had really had it, we should have squabbled--he's not quite +fiery enough, the beloved Barthrop! He's awfully judicious, but he must +have a lead. He's a submissioner, I'm afraid, as a witty prelate once said! +You know the two sides of the choir, _Decani_ and _Cantoris_ as +they are called. _Decani_ always begin the psalms and say the +versicles, _Cantoris_ always respond. People are always one or the +other, and Barthrop is a born _Cantoris_." + +We did not go very far, and he soon proposed to return. But just as we were +nearing home, he said, "I think the hardest thing in life to +understand--the very hardest of all--is our pleasure in the sense of +permanence! It's the supreme and constant illusion. I can't think where it +comes from, or why it is there, or what it is supposed to do for us. Do you +remember," he said with a smile, "how Shelley, the most hopelessly restless +of mortals, whenever he settled anywhere, always wrote to his friends that +he had established himself _for ever_? It's the instinct which is most +contrary to reason. Everything contradicts it--we are not the same people +for five minutes together, nothing that we see or hear or taste +continues--and yet we feel eternally and immutably fixed; and instead of +living each day as if it was our last--which is a thoroughly bad piece of +advice--we live each day as if it was one of an endlessly revolving chain +of days, and as if we were going to live to all eternity--as indeed I +believe we are! Probably the reason for it is to give us a hint that we +_are_ immortal, after all, though we are tempted to think that all +things come to an end. It is strange to think that nothing on which our +eyes rest at this moment is the same as it was when we started our +walk--the very stones of the wall are altered. It ought to make us ashamed +of pretending that we are anything but ourselves; and yet we do change a +little, thank God, and for the better. I've a fancy--though I can't say +more than that of that we aren't meant to _know_ anything: and I think +that the times when we know, or think we know, are the times when we stand +still. That seems hard!"--he broke off with an unusual emotion: but he was +himself again in a moment, and said, "I don't know why--it's the weather, +perhaps: but I feel inclined to do nothing but thank people all day, like +the man in _Happy Thoughts_ you know, who came down late for breakfast +and could say nothing but 'Thanks, thanks, awfully thanks--thanks (to the +butler), thanks (to the hostess)--thanks, thanks!' but it means +something--a real emotion, though grotesquely phrased!--I've enjoyed this +bit of a walk, my boy!" + + + +LXX + +OF WEAKNESS + + +This was, I think, the last talk I had with Father Payne before he left us, +so suddenly and so quietly, for his last encounter. + +It was a calm and sunny day, though the air was cold and fresh. I finished +some work I was doing, a little after noonday, and I walked down the +garden. I was on the grass, and turning the corner of a tiny thicket of +yews and hollies, where there was a secluded seat facing the south, I saw +that Father Payne was sitting there in the sun alone. I came up to him, and +was just about to speak, when I saw that his eyes were closed, though his +lips were moving. He sat in an attitude of fatigue and lassitude, I +thought, with one leg crossed over the other and his arm stretched out +along the seat-back. I would have stolen away again unobserved, when he +opened his eyes and saw me; he gave me one of his big smiles, and motioned +to me to come and sit down beside him. I did so, and he put his arm through +mine. I said something about disturbing him, and he said, "Not a bit of +it--I shall be glad of your company, old boy." Presently he said, "Do you +know what it is to feel _sad_? I suppose not. I don't mean troubled +about anything in particular--there's nothing to be troubled about--but +simply sad, in a causeless, listless way?" + +"Yes, I think so," I said. He smiled at that, and said, "Then you +_don't_ know what I mean, old man! You would be quite sure, if you had +ever felt it. I mean a sense of feebleness and wretchedness, as if there +was much to be done, and no desire to do it--as if your life had been a +long mistake from beginning to end. Of course it is quite morbid and +unreal, I know that! It is a temptation of the devil, sure enough, and it +is an uncommonly effective one. He gets inside the weakness of our mortal +nature, and tells us that we have come down to the truth at last. It's all +nonsense, of course, but it's infernally ingenious nonsense. He brings all +the failures of the world before your mind and heart, the thought of all +the people who have fallen by the roadside and can't get up, and, worse +still, all the people who have lost hope and pride, and don't want to be +different. He points out how brief our time is, and how little we know what +lies beyond. He shows us how the strong and unscrupulous and cruel people +succeed and have a good time, and how many well-meaning, sensitive, muddled +people come to hopeless grief. Oh, he has a score of instances, a quiver +full of poisonous shafts." He was silent for a minute, and then he said, +"Old boy, we won't heed him, you and I. We'll say, 'Yes, my dear Apollyon, +all that is undoubtedly true. You do a lot of mischief, but your time is +short. You wound us and disable us--you can even kill us; but it's a poor +policy at best. You defeat yourself, because we slip away and you can't +follow us. And when we are refreshed and renewed, we will come back, and go +on with the battle.' That's what well say, like old Sir Andrew Barton: + + "'I'll but lie down and bleed awhile, + And then I'll rise and fight again.' + +You must never mind being defeated, old man. You must never say that your +sins have done for you! I don't care what a man has done, I don't care how +cruel, wicked, sensual, evil he has been, if in the bottom of his heart he +can say, 'I belong to God, after all!' That's the last and worst assault of +the devil, when he comes and whispers to you that you have cut yourself off +from God. You can't do that, whatever you feel. I have been thinking to-day +of all the mistakes I have made, how I have drifted along, how I have +enjoyed myself, when I might have been helping other people; what a lazy, +greedy, ugly business it has all been, how little I have ever _made_ +myself do anything. But I don't care. I go straight to God and I say, +'Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no more +worthy to be called Thy son.' But I am His son, for all that, and I know it +and He knows it; and Apollyon may straddle across the way as much as he +likes, but he can't stop me. If he does stop me, he only sends me straight +home." + +I saw the tears stand in Father Payne's eyes, and I said hurriedly and +eagerly, "Why, Father, you have done so much, for me, for all of us, for +everyone you have ever had to do with. Don't speak so; it isn't true, it +hasn't been a failure. You are the only person I have met who has showed me +what goodness really is." + +Father Payne pressed my arm, but he did not speak for a moment. + +"You are very good to me, old man," he said in a moment. "I was not trying +to get a testimonial out of you, you know; and of course you can't judge +how far I have fallen short of all I might have done. But your affection +and your kindness are very precious to me. You give me a message from God! +It matters little how near the truth you are or how far away. God doesn't +think of that. He isn't a hard reckoner; He's only glad when we return to +Him, and put down our tired head upon His shoulder for a little. But even +so, that isn't the end. As soon as we are strong again, we must begin +again. There's plenty left to do. The battle isn't over because you or I +are tired. He is tired Himself, I dare say. But it all goes on, and there +is victory ahead. Don't forget that, dear boy. It's no good being +heart-broken or worn out. Rise and fight again as soon as you can. I'm +quite ready--I haven't had enough. I have had an easy post, I don't deny +that. I have suffered very little, as suffering goes; and I'm grateful for +that; but we mustn't fall in love with rest. If we sleep, it is only that +we may rise refreshed, and go off again singing. We mustn't be afraid of +weakness and suffering, and we mustn't be afraid of joy and strength +either. That's treachery, you know." + +Presently he said, "Now you must leave me here a little! You came in the +nick of time, and you brought me a message. It always comes, if you ask for +it! And I shall say a prayer for the Little Master himself, as Sintram +called him, before I go. He has his points, you know. He is uncommonly +shrewd and tenacious and brave. He's fighting for his life, and I pity him +whenever he suspects--and it must be pretty often--that things are not +going his way. I don't despair of the old fellow himself, if I may say so. +I suspect him of a sense of humour. I can't help thinking he will +capitulate and cut his losses some day, and then we shall get things right +in a trice. He will be conquered, and perhaps convinced; but he won't be +used vindictively, whatever happens. My knowledge of that, and of the fact +that he has got defeat ahead of him, and knows it, is the best defence +against him, even when it is his hour, and the power of darkness, as it has +been to-day." + +I got up and left him; he smiled at me and waved his hand. + + + +LXXI + +THE BANK OF THE RIVER + + +The week passed without anything further occurring to arouse our anxieties, +and Father Payne went up to town on the Monday: he went off in apparently +good spirits: but we got a wire in the course of the day to say that he was +detained in town by business and would write. On the following morning, +Barthrop came into my room in silence, shortly after breakfast, and handed +me a letter without a word. It was very short: it ran as follows: + + "DEAR LEONARD,--_I want you to come up to town to-morrow to see + me, and if Duncan cares to come, I shall be delighted to see him + too, though I know he has an artistic objection to seeing people + who are ill, and I understand that I am ill. I saw a doctor + yesterday, and he advised me to see a specialist, who advised me + to have an operation. It seems better to get it over at once; so + I went without delay into a nursing home, where I feel like a + child in the nursery again. I want to talk over matters, and it + will be better to say nothing which will cause a fuss. So just + run up to-morrow, there's a good man, and you can get back in the + evening. Ever yours,_ + + "C.P." + +It happened that there were only two of us at Aveley at the time, Kaye, and +a younger man, Raven, who had just joined. We determined to say nothing +about it till the following morning: the day passed heavily enough. I found +I could do nothing with the dread of what it might all mean overhanging me. +I admired Barthrop's common-sense: he spent the day, he told me, in doing +accounts--he acted as a sort of bursar--and he kept up a quiet conversation +at dinner in which I confess I played a very poor part. Kaye never noticed +anything, and had no curiosity, and Raven had no suspicion of anything +unusual. I slept ill that night, and found myself in a very much depressed +mood on the following morning. I realised at every moment how entirely +everything at Aveley was centred upon Father Payne, and how he was both in +the foreground as well as in the background of all that we did or thought. +Our journey passed almost in silence, and we drove straight to the nursing +home in Mayfair. We were admitted to a little waiting-room in a bright, +fresh-looking house, and were presently greeted by a genial and motherly +old lady, dressed in a sort of nursing uniform, who told us that Mr. Payne +was expecting us. We asked anxiously how he was. "Oh, he is very cheerful," +she said; "his nurse, Sister Jane, thinks he is the most amusing man she +ever saw. You must not worry about him. The operation is to be on +Friday--he seems very well and strong in himself, and we will soon have him +all right again--you will see! He is just the sort of man to make a good +recovery." Then she added, "Mr. Payne said he thought you would like to see +the doctor, so he is going to look in here in half an hour from now--he +will see Mr. Payne first, and then you can have a good talk to him. You are +going back this afternoon, I think?" + +"That depends!" said Barthrop. + +"Oh, Mr. Payne is expecting you to go back, I know--we will just run up and +see him now." + +We went up two flights of stairs: the matron knocked at a door in the +passage, and we went in. Father Payne was sitting up in bed, in a sort of +blue wrapper which gave him, I thought, a curiously monastic air--he was +reading quietly. The room was large and airy, and looked out on the backs +of tall houses: it was quiet enough: there was just a far-off murmur of the +town in the air. + +He greeted us with much animation, and smiled at me. "It's good of you to +come, I'm sure," he said, "with your feeling about ill people. I don't +object to that," he added in the familiar manner. "I think it's a sign of +health, you know!" We sat down beside him. "Now," said Father Payne, "don't +let's have any grave looks or hushed voices--you remember what Baines told +us, when he joined the Church of Rome, that when he got back after his +reception, his friends all spoke to him as if he had had a serious illness. +The matter is simple enough--and I'm going to speak plainly. I have got +some internal mischief, something that obstructs the passages, and it has +got to be removed. There's a risk, of course--they never can tell exactly +what they will find, but they don't think it has gone too far to be +remedied. I don't pretend to like it--in fact it's decidedly inconvenient. +I like my own little plans as well as anyone! and this time I don't seem +able to look ahead--there's a sort of wall ahead of me. I feel as if I had +come, like the boy in the _Water Babies_, to the place which was +called _Stop_!" He paused a moment and smiled on us, his big +good-natured smile. + +"But if I put my head out of the other end of the tunnel, I shall go on as +usual. If I _don't_, then I had better tell you what I have done. You +know I have no near relations. The noble family of Payne is practically +summed up in me. The Vicar's a sort of cousin, but a very diluted one. I +have arranged by my will that if you two fellows think you can keep the +place going on its present lines, you can have a try. But I don't think it +will do, I think it will be artificial and possibly ridiculous. I don't +think it has got life! And if you decide not to try, then it will all go to +my old College, which is quite alive. I would rather they would not sell +it--but bless me, what does it matter? It is a mistake to try and grip +anything with a dead hand. But if I get through, and I believe I have a +good chance of doing so, you must just keep things going till I get +back--which won't be long. There's the case in a nutshell! You quite +understand? I don't want you to do what you think I should wish, because I +_don't_ wish. And now we won't say another word about it, unless there +are any questions you would like to ask. By the way, I have arranged the +programme for the day. The doctor is coming to see me presently, and while +he is here you can have some lunch--they will see to that--and then you can +have a talk to him, while I have my lunch--I can tell you they do feed me +up here!--and then we will have a talk, and you can catch the 4.30. You +know how I like planning out a day." + +"But we thought we would like to stay in town, and see it all through," +said Barthrop. "We have brought up some things." + +"Stuff and nonsense!" said Father Payne in his old manner. "Back you go by +the 4.30, things and all! I have got the best nurse in the world, Sister +Jane. By George, it's a treat exploring that woman's mind. She's full of +kindness and common sense and courage, without a grain of reason. There's +nothing in the world that woman wouldn't do, and nothing she wouldn't +believe--she's entirely mediaeval. Then I have some books: and I'm going to +read and talk and play patience--I'm quite good at that already--and eat +and drink and sleep. I'm not to be disturbed, I tell you! To-morrow is a +complete holiday: and on Friday the great event comes off. I won't have any +useless emotion, or any bedside thoughts!" He glanced at us smiling and +said, "Oh, of course, my dear boys, I'm only joking. I know you would like +to stay, and I would like to have you here well enough: but see here--if +all goes well, what's the use of this drama?--people can't behave quite +naturally, however much they would like to, and I don't want any melting +looks: and if it goes the other way--well, I don't like good-byes. I agree +with dear old Mrs. Barbauld: + + "'Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime + Bid me Good-morning.'" + +He was silent for a moment--and just at that moment the doctor arrived. + +We went off to lunch with the old matron, who talked cheerfully about +things in general: and it was strange to feel that what was to us so deep a +tragedy was to her just a familiar experience, a thing that happened day by +day. + +Then the doctor came in, a tall, thin, pale, unembarrassed man, very frank +and simple. + +"Yes," he said, "there's a risk--I don't deny that! One never knows exactly +what the mischief is or how far it extends. I told Mr. Payne exactly what I +thought. He is the sort of man to whom one can do that. But he is strong, +he has lived a healthy life, he has a great vitality--everything is in his +favour. How long has he seemed to be ill, by the way?" + +"Some three or four months, I think," said Barthrop. "But it is difficult +when you see anyone every day to realise a change--and then he is always +cheerful." + +"He is," said the doctor. "I never saw a better patient. He told me his +symptoms like a doctor describing someone else's case, I never heard +anything so impersonal! We managed to catch Dr. Angus--that's the +specialist, you know, who will operate. Mr. Payne wasn't in the least +flurried. He showed no sign of being surprised: we sent him in here at +once, and he seems to have made friends with everyone. That's all to the +good, of course. He's not a nervous subject. No," he added reflectively, +"he has an excellent chance of recovery. But I should deceive you if I +pretended there was no risk. There _is_ a risk, and we must hope for +the best. By the way, gentlemen," he added, taking up his hat, "I hope you +won't think of staying in town. Mr. Payne seems most anxious that you +should go back, and I think his wish should be paramount. You can do +nothing here, and I think your remaining would fret him. I won't attempt to +dictate, but I feel that you would do well to go!" + +"Oh, yes, we will go," said Barthrop. "You will let us know how all goes?" + +"Of course!" said the doctor. "You shall hear at once!" + +We went back, and spent an hour with Father Payne. I shall never forget +that hour: he talked on quietly, seeing that we were unable to do our part. +He spoke about the men and their work, and gave pleasant, half-humorous +summaries of their characters. He gave us some little reminiscences of his +life in London; he talked about the villagers at Aveley, and the servants. +I realised afterwards that he had spoken a few words about every single +person in the circle, small or great. The time sped past, and presently +they told us that our cab was at the door, "Now don't make me think you are +going to miss the train, old boys!" said Father Payne, raising himself up +to shake hands. "I have enjoyed the sight of you. Give them all my love: be +good and wise! God bless you both!" He shook hands with Barthrop and with +me, and I felt the soft touch of his firm hand, as I had done at our first +meeting. Barthrop did not speak, and went hurriedly from the room, without +looking round. I could not help it, but I bent down and kissed his hand. +"Well, well!" he said indulgently, and gave me a most tender and beautiful +look out of his big eyes, and then he mentioned to me to go. I went in +silence. + +We felt, both of us, a premonition of the worst disaster. I knew in my +heart that it was the end. It seemed to me characteristic of Father Payne +to make his farewells simply, and without any dramatic emphasis. The way in +which he had spoken of all his friends, in that last hour we spent with +him, had been a series of adieux, and even as I recalled his words, they +seemed to me to shape themselves into unspoken messages. His own calmness +had been unmistakable, and was marvellous to me; but it was all the more +impressive because he did not, as one has read in some of the well-known +scenes recorded in history of the deaths of famous men, seem to be +attempting to say anything memorable or magnanimous. "What can I say that +will be worthy of myself?"--that question appears to me to be sometimes +lurking in the minds of men who have played a great part in the world, and +who are determined to play it to the end. It is, of course a noble sort of +courage which enables a man, at the very threshold of death, to force +himself to behave with dignity and grandeur: but it seemed to me now to be +an even more supreme courage to be, as Father Payne was, simply himself. +Sir Walter Raleigh, Sir Thomas More, Charles II, Archbishop Laud all died +with a real greatness of undismayed bravery, but with just a sense of +enacting a part rehearsed. The death scene of Socrates, which is, I +suppose, a romantically constructed tale, does indeed give a picture of +perfect naturalness: and I thought that Father Payne's demeanour, like that +of Socrates, showed clearly enough that the idea of death was not an +overshadowing dread dispelled by an effort of the will, but that it was not +present as a fear in his mind at all, and rather regarded with a reverent +curiosity: and I was reminded of a saying of Father Payne's which I have +elsewhere recorded, that the virtues to which we give our most unhesitating +admiration are the instinctive virtues rather than the reasoned virtues. If +Father Payne had appeared to be keeping a firm hold on himself, and to be +obliging himself to speak things timely and fitting, I should have admired +him deeply: but I admired him all the more because of his unaffected +tranquillity and unuttered affection. He had just enveloped us in his own +calmness, and gone straight forward. + +We made our journey almost in silence: Barthrop was too much moved to +speak: and my own mind was dim with trouble, at all that we were to lose, +and yet drawn away into an infinite loyalty and tenderness for one who had +been more than a father to me. + + + +LXXII + +THE CROSSING + + +The end is soon told. On the following day, we thought it best to tell our +two companions and the Vicar what was happening, and we also told the old +butler that Father Payne was ill. It was a day of infinite dreariness to +me, with outbursts of sharp emotion at the sight of everything so closely +connected with Father Payne, and with the thought that he would see them no +more. + +I was sitting in my room on the Friday morning, after a sleepless night, +when Barthrop came in and handed me a telegram from the doctor. "Mr. Payne +never recovered consciousness, and died an hour after the operation. All +details arranged. Please await letter." I raised my eyes to Barthrop's +face, but saw that he could not speak. I could say nothing either: my mind +and heart seemed to crumble suddenly into a hopeless despair. + +A letter reached us the same evening by train. It was to the effect that +Father Payne had written down some exact directions the day before and +given them to the matron. He did not wish, in case of his death, that +anyone should see his body: he wished to be placed in the simplest of +coffins, as soon as possible, and that the coffin should be sent down by +train to Aveley, be taken from the station straight to the church, and if +possible to be buried at once. But even so, that was only his wish, and he +particularly desired to avoid alike all ceremony and inconvenience. But +besides that there were two notes enclosed addressed in Father Payne's hand +to Barthrop and myself, which ran as follows: + + "My dear Leonard,--_I thought it very good of you to come up to + see me, and no less good of you to go away as I desired. It is + possible, of course, that I may return to you, and all be as + before. But to be frank, I do not think it will be so. Even if I + survive, I shall, I think, be much weakened by this operation, + and shall have the possibility of a recurrence of the disease + hanging over me. Much as I love life, and the world where I have + found it pleasant to live, I do not want to lead a broken sort of + existence, with invalid precautions and limitations. I think that + this would bring out all that is worst in me, and would lead to + unhappiness both in myself and in all those about me. If it has + to be so, I shall do my best, but I think it would be a + discreditable performance. I do not, however, think that I shall + have this trial laid upon me. I feel that I am summoned + elsewhere, and I am glad to think that my passage will be a swift + one. I am not afraid of what lies beyond, because I believe death + to be simple and natural enough, and a perfectly definite thing. + Of what lies beyond it, I can form no idea; all our theories are + probably quite wide of the mark. But it will be the same for me + as it has been for all others who have died, and as it will some + day be for you; and when we know, we shall be surprised that we + did not see what it would be. I confess that I love the things + that I know, and dislike the unknown. The world is very dear and + familiar, and it has been kind and beautiful to me, as well as + full of interest. But I expect that things will be much + simplified. And please bear this in mind, that such a scene which + we went through yesterday is worse for those who stand by and can + do nothing than for the man himself; and you will believe me when + I say that I am neither afraid nor unhappy._ + + "_With regard to my wishes about the place being kept on, on + its present lines, remember that it is only a wish, and not to be + regarded as a binding obligation or undertaken against your + judgment. I trust you fully in this, as I have always trusted + you; and I will just thank you, once and for all, for all that + you have done and been. I shall always think of you with deep + gratitude and lasting affection. God bless you now and always. + Your old friend,_ + + "CHARLES PAYNE." + +To me he had written: + + "My dear boy,--_Please read my letter to Barthrop, which is + meant for you as well. I won't repeat myself--you know I dislike + that. But I would like just to say that you have been more like a + son to me than anyone I ever have known, and I thank God for + bringing you into my life, and for all your kind and faithful + affection. You must just go on as you have begun; and I can only + say that if I still have any knowledge of what goes on in the + world, my affection and interest will not fail; and if I have + not, I shall believe that we shall still find each other again, + and rejoice in mutual knowledge and confidence. You are very dear + to me, and always will be._ + + "_Settle everything with Leonard. I know that you will be able + to interpret my wishes as I should wish them to be interpreted. + Your affectionate old friend,_ + + "C. PAYNE." + +The last act was simple enough. The preparations were soon made. The coffin +arrived at midday, and was buried in the afternoon, between the church and +the Hall. It was sad and beautiful to see the heartfelt grief of the +villagers: and it was wonderful to me that at that moment I recovered a +kind of serenity on the surface of the grief below, so that in the still +afternoon as we walked away from the grave it seemed to me strange rather +than sorrowful. With those last letters in mind, it seemed to me almost +traitorous to mourn. He at least had his heart's desire, and I did not +doubt that he was abundantly satisfied. + + + +LXXIII + +AFTER-THOUGHTS + + +Barthrop and I decided that we could not hope to continue the scheme. We +had neither the force nor the experience. The whole society was, we felt, +just the expression of Father Payne's personality, and without it, it had +neither stability nor significance. Barthrop and the Vicar were left money +legacies: the servants all received little pensions: there was a sum for +distribution in the village, and a fund endowed to meet certain practical +needs of the place. We handed over the estate to Father Payne's old +College, the furniture and pictures to go with the house, which was to be +let, if possible, to a tenant who would be inclined to settle there and +make it his home: the income of the estate was to provide travelling +scholarships. All had been carefully thought out with much practical sense +and insight. + +Our other two companions went away. Barthrop and I stayed on at the Hall +together for some weeks to settle the final arrangements. We had some +wonderfully touching letters from old pupils and friends of Father Payne's. +One in particular, saying that the writer owed an infinite debt of +gratitude to Father Payne, for having saved him from himself and given him +a new life. + +We talked much of Father Payne in those days; and I went alone to all the +places where I had walked with him, recalling more gratefully than sadly +how he had looked and moved and talked and smiled. + +It came to the last night that we were to spend at the Hall together. +Everything had been gone through and arranged, and we were glad, I think, +to be departing. + +"I don't know what to say and think about it all," said Barthrop; "I feel +at present quite lost and stranded, as if my motive for living were gone, +and as if I could hardly take up my work again. I know it is wrong, and I +am ashamed of it. Father Payne always said that we must not depend +helplessly upon persons or institutions, but must find our own real life +and live it--you remember?" + +"Yes," I said, "indeed I do remember! But I do not think he ever realised +quite how strong he was, and how he affected those about him. He did not +need us--I sometimes think he did not need anyone--and he credited everyone +with living the same intent life that he lived. But I shall always be +infinitely grateful to him for showing me just that--that one must live +one's own life, through and in spite of everything grievous that happens. +The temptation is to indulge grief, and to feel that collapse in such a +case is a sign of loyalty. It isn't so--if one collapses, it only means +that one has been living an artificial and parasitical life. Father Payne +would have hated that--and I don't mean to do it. He has given me not only +an example, but an inspiration--a real current of life has flowed into my +life from his--or perhaps rather through his from some deeper origin." + +"That is so," said Barthrop, "that is perfectly true! and don't you +remember too how he always said life must be a _real_ fight--a joining +in the fight that was going forwards? It need not be wrangling or +disputing, or finding fault with other people, or maintaining and +confuting. He used to say that people fought in a hundred ways--with their +humour, their companionableness, their kindness, their friendliness--it +need not be violent, and indeed if it was violent, that was fighting on the +wrong side--it had only to be calm and sincere and dutiful." + +"Did he say that?" I said. "Yes, I am sure he did--no one else could say it +or think of it. Of course, we have to fight, but not by dealing injury and +harm, but by seeking and following peace and goodwill. Well, we must +try--and it may be that we shall find him again, though he is hidden for a +little while with God." + +"Yes," said Barthrop, "we shall find him, or he will find us--it makes +little difference: and he will always be the same, though I hope we may be +different!" + + + +LXXIV + +DEPARTURE + + +It was a soft and delicious spring morning when I left Aveley--and I have +never had the heart to visit it again. I had had a sleepless night, with +the thought of Father Payne continually in my mind. I saw him in a score of +attitudes, as he loitered in the garden with that look of inexpressible and +tender interest that he had for all that grew out of the +earth--worshipping, I used to think, at the shrine of life--or as he sat +rapt in thought in church, or as he strode beside me along the uplands, or +as he came and went in a hurried abstraction, or as he argued and +discussed, with his great animated smile and his quick little gestures. I +felt how his personality had filled our lives to the brim, as a spring +whose waters fail not. It was not that he was a perfect character, with a +tranquil and effortless superiority, or with a high intellectual tenacity, +or with an unruffled serenity. He was sensitive, impatient, fitful, +prejudiced. He had little constructive capacity, no creative or dramatic +power, no loftiness of tragic emotion. I knew all that; I did not regard +him with a false or uncritical reverence. But he was vital, generous, rich +in zest and joy, heroic, as no other man I had ever known. He had no petty +ambition, no thirst for recognition, no acidity of judgment. He never +sought to impress himself: but his was a large, affectionate, liberal +nature, more responsive to life, more lavish of self, more disinterested +than any human being that had crossed my path. He had never desired to make +disciples--he was not self-confident or self-regarding enough for that. But +he had continued to draw us all with him into a vortex of life, where the +stream ran swiftly, and where it seemed disgraceful to be either listless +or unconcerned. I blessed the kindly fate that had guided me to him, and +had won for me his deep regard. I did not wish to copy or imitate him--he +had infected me with a deep distrust for dependence--I only wished to live +my own life in the same eager spirit. As he had said to me once, the motto +for every man was to be _Amor Fati_--not a reluctant acquiescence, or +a feeble optimism, or a gentle resignation, but a passion for one's own +destiny, a deep desire to make the most and the best out of life, and a +strong purpose to share one's best with all who were journeying at one's +side. + +So the night passed, thick with recollections and regrets, deepening into a +horror of loss and darkness, and then slowly brightening into the calm +prelude of a day of farewell. The birds began to chirp and twitter in the +ivy; the thrush uttered her long-drawn notes, sweetly repeated and +sustained in the dusky bushes. That sound was much connected in my mind +with Aveley. To be awakened thus in the summer dawn, to listen awhile to +the delicious sound, to fall asleep again with the thought of the long +pleasant day of work and friendship ahead of me, had been one of my +greatest luxuries. + +I rose early, and made my last preparations, and then, having got a little +time before the last meal I was to take with Barthrop, I went round about +the garden with a desire to draw into my spirit for the last time the pure +and happy atmosphere of the place. + +I saw the beds fringed with purple polyanthus, and the daffodils in the +dewy grass. I gazed at the long lines of the low hills across the stream, +with the woodland spaces all flushed with spring. I heard the cawing of the +rooks in the soft air, and the bubbling song of the chaffinches filled the +shrubberies. + +I knew the mood of old--the mood in which, after a holiday sojourn in some +place which one has learned to love, a happy space of time stained by no +base anxiety, shadowed by no calamity, the call to rejoin the routine of +life makes itself heard half reluctantly, half ardently. The heart at such +moments tries to be grateful without regret, and hopeful without +indifference. The purpose to go, the desire to stay, wrestle together; and +now at the end of the happiest and most fruitful period I had ever known or +was ever, I thought, likely to know, I felt like Jacob wrestling with the +angel till the breaking of the day, and crying out, half in weakness, half +in strength, "I will not let thee go until thou bless me." + +It came, the sudden blessing which I desired. It fell like some full warm +shower upon the thirsty earth. In that moment I had the blissful instinct +which had before been but a reasoned conviction, that Father Payne was near +me, with me, about me, enfolding me with a swift tenderness, and yet at the +same time pointing me forward, bidding me clearly and almost, it seemed, +petulantly, to disengage myself from all dependence upon himself or his +example. He had other things to do, I felt with something like a smile, +than to hover over me and haunt my path with tenderness. Such weakness of +sentiment was worthy neither of himself nor of myself. I had all the world +before me, and I was to take my part in it with spirit and even gaiety. To +shrink into the shadow, to live in tearful retrospect--it was not to be +thought of; and I had in that moment a glow of thankful energy which made +light of grief and pain alike. I must take hold of life instantly and with +both hands. I saw it in a sudden flash of light. + +I went to the churchyard, I stood for an instant beside the grave, now +turfed over and planted with daffodils. I put aside from my heart, once and +for all, the old wistful instinct which ties the living to the dead. The +poor body that lay there, dust in dust, had no more to do with Father Payne +than the stained candle-socket with the flame that had leapt away upon the +air. That was a moment of true and certain joy; so that when I went back to +the house and joined Barthrop, I felt no longer the uneasy quivering of the +spirit which had long overmastered me. He too was calm and brave; we sat +together for the last time, we talked with an unaffected cheerfulness of +the future. He too, I saw, had experienced the same loosening of the spirit +from its trivial bonds, dear and beautiful as they were, so long as one did +not hug them close. + +"I never thought," he said to me at last, "to go light-heartedly away--and +yet I can do even that! I have heard something, I can hardly say what, +which tells me to go forward, not to hanker, not to look back--and which +tells me best of all that it would be almost like treachery to wish the +Father back again. It is better so! I say this," he went on, "not with +resignation, not with a mild desire to make the best of a bad business, but +with a serene certainty that it is not a bad business at all. I cannot tell +where it is gone, the cloud that has oppressed me--but it is gone, and it +will not come back." + +"Yes," I said, "I recognise that--I feel it too; our work here is done, and +we have work waiting for us. We shall meet, we shall compare experiences, +we shall love our fate. Life is to be a new quest, not an old worship. That +is to be our loyalty to Father Payne, that we are to believe in life, and +not only to believe in memory." + +It was soon over. Barthrop was to go later, and he came out to see me go. +Just before I started, the old clock played its sweet tune; we stood in +silence listening. "That is the best of omens," I said, "to depart with +thanksgiving and the voice of melody." He smiled in my face, we clasped +hands; I drove up the little road, while he stood at the door, smiling and +waving his hand, till I turned into the main road, between the blossoming +hedges, and saw Aveley no more. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Father Payne, by Arthur Christopher Benson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FATHER PAYNE *** + +***** This file should be named 12264.txt or 12264.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/2/6/12264/ + +Produced by David Newman and PG Distributed Proofreaders. 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