orthodoxy-第36章

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of　Epicurus。　　Giotto　lived　in　a　gloomier　town　than　Euripides；



but　he　lived　in　a　gayer　universe。







　　　　　The　mass　of　men　have　been　forced　to　be　gay　about　the　little　things；



but　sad　about　the　big　ones。　　Nevertheless　（I　offer　my　last　dogma



defiantly）　it　is　not　native　to　man　to　be　so。　　Man　is　more　himself；



man　is　more　manlike；　when　joy　is　the　fundamental　thing　in　him；



and　grief　the　superficial。　　Melancholy　should　be　an　innocent　interlude；



a　tender　and　fugitive　frame　of　mind；　praise　should　be　the　permanent



pulsation　of　the　soul。　　Pessimism　is　at　best　an　emotional　half…holiday；



joy　is　the　uproarious　labour　by　which　all　things　live。　　Yet；　according　to



the　apparent　estate　of　man　as　seen　by　the　pagan　or　the　agnostic；



this　primary　need　of　human　nature　can　never　be　fulfilled。　



Joy　ought　to　be　expansive；　but　for　the　agnostic　it　must　be　contracted；



it　must　cling　to　one　corner　of　the　world。　　Grief　ought　to　be



a　concentration；　but　for　the　agnostic　its　desolation　is　spread



through　an　unthinkable　eternity。　　This　is　what　I　call　being　born



upside　down。　　The　sceptic　may　truly　be　said　to　be　topsy…turvy；



for　his　feet　are　dancing　upwards　in　idle　ecstasies；　while　his　brain



is　in　the　abyss。　　To　the　modern　man　the　heavens　are　actually　below



the　earth。　　The　explanation　is　simple；　he　is　standing　on　his　head；



which　is　a　very　weak　pedestal　to　stand　on。　　But　when　he　has　found



his　feet　again　he　knows　it。　　Christianity　satisfies　suddenly



and　perfectly　man's　ancestral　instinct　for　being　the　right　way　up；



satisfies　it　supremely　in　this；　that　by　its　creed　joy　becomes



something　gigantic　and　sadness　something　special　and　small。　



The　vault　above　us　is　not　deaf　because　the　universe　is　an　idiot；



the　silence　is　not　the　heartless　silence　of　an　endless　and　aimless　world。　



Rather　the　silence　around　us　is　a　small　and　pitiful　stillness　like



the　prompt　stillness　in　a　sick…room。　We　are　perhaps　permitted　tragedy



as　a　sort　of　merciful　comedy：　　because　the　frantic　energy　of　divine



things　would　knock　us　down　like　a　drunken　farce。　　We　can　take　our



own　tears　more　lightly　than　we　could　take　the　tremendous　levities



of　the　angels。　　So　we　sit　perhaps　in　a　starry　chamber　of　silence；



while　the　laughter　of　the　heavens　is　too　loud　for　us　to　hear。







　　　　　Joy；　which　was　the　small　publicity　of　the　pagan；　is　the　gigantic



secret　of　the　Christian。　　And　as　I　close　this　chaotic　volume　I　open



again　the　strange　small　book　from　which　all　Christianity　came；　and　I



am　again　haunted　by　a　kind　of　confirmation。　　The　tremendous　figure



which　fills　the　Gospels　towers　in　this　respect；　as　in　every　other；



above　all　the　thinkers　who　ever　thought　themselves　tall。　　His　pathos



was　natural；　almost　casual。　　The　Stoics；　ancient　and　modern；



were　proud　of　concealing　their　tears。　　He　never　concealed　His　tears；



He　showed　them　plainly　on　His　open　face　at　any　daily　sight；　such　as



the　far　sight　of　His　native　city。　　Yet　He　concealed　something。　



Solemn　supermen　and　imperial　diplomatists　are　proud　of　restraining



their　anger。　　He　never　restrained　His　anger。　　He　flung　furniture



down　the　front　steps　of　the　Temple；　and　asked　men　how　they　expected



to　escape　the　damnation　of　Hell。　　Yet　He　restrained　something。　



I　say　it　with　reverence；　there　was　in　that　shattering　personality



a　thread　that　must　be　called　shyness。　　There　was　something　that　He　hid



from　all　men　when　He　went　up　a　mountain　to　pray。　　There　was　something



that　He　covered　constantly　by　abrupt　silence　or　impetuous　isolation。　



There　was　some　one　thing　that　was　too　great　for　God　to　show　us　when



He　walked　upon　our　earth；　and　I　have　sometimes　fancied　that　it　was



His　mirth。











End