orthodoxy-第9章

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of　this　bookthe　rough　review　of　recent　thought。　　After　this　I



begin　to　sketch　a　view　of　life　which　may　not　interest　my　reader；



but　which；　at　any　rate；　interests　me。　　In　front　of　me；　as　I　close



this　page；　is　a　pile　of　modern　books　that　I　have　been　turning



over　for　the　purposea　pile　of　ingenuity；　a　pile　of　futility。　



By　the　accident　of　my　present　detachment；　I　can　see　the　inevitable　smash



of　the　philosophies　of　Schopenhauer　and　Tolstoy；　Nietzsche　and　Shaw；



as　clearly　as　an　inevitable　railway　smash　could　be　seen　from



a　balloon。　　They　are　all　on　the　road　to　the　emptiness　of　the　asylum。　



For　madness　may　be　defined　as　using　mental　activity　so　as　to　reach



mental　helplessness；　and　they　have　nearly　reached　it。　　He　who



thinks　he　is　made　of　glass；　thinks　to　the　destruction　of　thought；



for　glass　cannot　think。　　So　he　who　wills　to　reject　nothing；



wills　the　destruction　of　will；　for　will　is　not　only　the　choice



of　something；　but　the　rejection　of　almost　everything。　　And　as　I



turn　and　tumble　over　the　clever；　wonderful；　tiresome；　and　useless



modern　books；　the　title　of　one　of　them　rivets　my　eye。　　It　is　called



〃Jeanne　d'Arc；〃　by　Anatole　France。　　I　have　only　glanced　at　it；



but　a　glance　was　enough　to　remind　me　of　Renan's　〃Vie　de　Jesus。〃　



It　has　the　same　strange　method　of　the　reverent　sceptic。　　It　discredits



supernatural　stories　that　have　some　foundation；　simply　by　telling



natural　stories　that　have　no　foundation。　　Because　we　cannot　believe



in　what　a　saint　did；　we　are　to　pretend　that　we　know　exactly　what



he　felt。　　But　I　do　not　mention　either　book　in　order　to　criticise　it；



but　because　the　accidental　combination　of　the　names　called　up　two



startling　images　of　Sanity　which　blasted　all　the　books　before　me。　



Joan　of　Arc　was　not　stuck　at　the　cross…roads；　either　by　rejecting



all　the　paths　like　Tolstoy；　or　by　accepting　them　all　like　Nietzsche。　



She　chose　a　path；　and　went　down　it　like　a　thunderbolt。　　Yet　Joan；



when　I　came　to　think　of　her；　had　in　her　all　that　was　true　either　in



Tolstoy　or　Nietzsche；　all　that　was　even　tolerable　in　either　of　them。　



I　thought　of　all　that　is　noble　in　Tolstoy；　the　pleasure　in　plain



things；　especially　in　plain　pity；　the　actualities　of　the　earth；



the　reverence　for　the　poor；　the　dignity　of　the　bowed　back。　



Joan　of　Arc　had　all　that　and　with　this　great　addition；　that　she



endured　poverty　as　well　as　admiring　it；　whereas　Tolstoy　is　only　a



typical　aristocrat　trying　to　find　out　its　secret。　　And　then　I　thought



of　all　that　was　brave　and　proud　and　pathetic　in　poor　Nietzsche；



and　his　mutiny　against　the　emptiness　and　timidity　of　our　time。　



I　thought　of　his　cry　for　the　ecstatic　equilibrium　of　danger；　his　hunger



for　the　rush　of　great　horses；　his　cry　to　arms。　　Well；　Joan　of　Arc



had　all　that；　and　again　with　this　difference；　that　she　did　not



praise　fighting；　but　fought。　　We　KNOW　that　she　was　not　afraid



of　an　army；　while　Nietzsche；　for　all　we　know；　was　afraid　of　a　cow。　



Tolstoy　only　praised　the　peasant；　she　was　the　peasant。　　Nietzsche　only



praised　the　warrior；　she　was　the　warrior。　　She　beat　them　both　at



their　own　antagonistic　ideals；　she　was　more　gentle　than　the　one；



more　violent　than　the　other。　　Yet　she　was　a　perfectly　practical　person



who　did　something；　while　they　are　wild　speculators　who　do　nothing。　



It　was　impossible　that　the　thought　should　not　cross　my　mind　that　she



and　her　faith　had　perhaps　some　secret　of　moral　unity　and　utility



that　has　been　lost。　　And　with　that　thought　came　a　larger　one；



and　the　colossal　figure　of　her　Master　had　also　crossed　the　theatre



of　my　thoughts。　　The　same　modern　difficulty　which　darkened　the



subject…matter　of　Anatole　France　also　darkened　that　of　Ernest　Renan。　



Renan　also　divided　his　hero's　pity　from　his　hero's　pugnacity。　



Renan　even　represented　the　righteous　anger　at　Jerusalem　as　a　mere



nervous　breakdown　after　the　idyllic　expectations　of　Galilee。　



As　if　there　were　any　inconsistency　between　having　a　love　for



humanity　and　having　a　hatred　for　inhumanity！　　Altruists；　with　thin；



weak　voices；　denounce　Christ　as　an　egoist。　　Egoists　（with



even　thinner　and　weaker　voices）　denounce　Him　as　an　altruist。　



In　our　present　atmosphere　such　cavils　are　comprehensible　enough。　



The　love　of　a　hero　is　more　terrible　than　the　hatred　of　a　tyrant。　



The　hatred　of　a　hero　is　more　generous　than　the　love　of　a　philanthropist。　



There　is　a　huge　and　heroic　sanity　of　which　moderns　can　only　collect



the　fragments。　　There　is　a　giant　of　whom　we　see　only　the　lopped



arms　and　legs　walking　about。　　They　have　torn　the　soul　of　Christ



into　silly　strips；　labelled　egoism　and　altruism；　and　they　are



equally　puzzled　by　His　insane　magnificence　and　His　insane　meekness。　



They　have　parted　His　garments　among　them；　and　for　His　vesture　they



have　cast　lots；　though　the　coat　was　without　seam　woven　from　the　top



throughout。















IV　THE　ETHICS　OF　ELFLAND











　　　　　When　the　business　man　rebukes　the　idealism　of　his　office…boy；　it



is　commonly　in　some　such　speech　as　this：　　〃Ah；　yes；　when　one　is　young；



one　has　these　ideals　in　the　abstract　and　these　castles　in　the　air；



but　in　middle　age　they　all　break　up　like　clouds；　and　one　comes　down



to　a　belief　in　practical　politics；　to　using　the　machinery　one　has



and　getting　on　with　the　world　as　it　is。〃　　Thus；　at　least；　venerable　and



philanthropic　old　men　now　in　their　honoured　graves　used　to　talk　to　me



when　I　was　a　boy。　　But　since　then　I　have　grown　up　and　have　discovered



that　these　philanthropic　old　men　were　telling　lies。　　What　has　really



happened　is　exactly　the　opposite　of　what　they　said　would　happen。　



They　said　that　I　should　lose　my　ideals　and　begin　to　believe　in　the



methods　of　practical　politicians。　　Now；　I　have　not　lost　my　ideals



in　the　least；　my　faith　in　fundamentals　is　exactly　what　it　always　was。　



What　I　have　lost　is　my　old　childlike　faith　in　practical　politics。　



I　am　still　as　much　concerned　as　ever　about　the　Battle　of　Armageddon；



but　I　am　not　so　much　concerned　about　the　General　Election。　



As　a　babe　I　leapt　up　on　my　mother's　knee　at　the　mere　mention



of　it。　　No；　the　vision　is　always　solid　and　reliable。　　The　vision



is　always　a　fact。　　It　is　the　reality　that　is　often　a　fraud。　



As　much　as　I　ever　did；　more　than　I　ever　did；　I　believe　in　Liberalism。　



But　there　was　a　rosy　time　of　innocence　when　I　believed　in　Liberals。







　　　　　I　take　this　instance　of　one　of　the　enduring　faiths　because；



having　now　to　trace　the　roots　of　my　personal　speculation；



this　may　be　counted；　I　think；　as　the　only　positive　bias。　



I　was　brought　up　a　Liberal；　and　have　always　believed　in　democracy；



in　the　elementary　liberal　doctrine　of　a　self…governing　humanity。　



If　any　one　finds　the　phrase　vague　or　threadbare；　I　can　only　pause



for　a　moment　to　explain　that　the　principle　of　democracy；　as　I



mean　it；　can　be　stated　in　two　propositions。　　The　first　is　this：　



that　the　things　common　to　all　men　are　more　important　than　the



things　peculiar　to　any　men。　　Ordinary　things　are　more　valuable



than　extraordinary　things；　nay；　they　are　more　extraordinary。　



Man　is　something　more　awful　than　men；　something　more　strange。　



The　sense　of　the　miracle　of　humanity　itself　should　be　always　more　vivid



to　us　than　any　marvels　of　power；　intellect；　art；　or　civilization。　



The　mere　man　on　two　legs；　as　such；　should　be　felt　as　something　more



heartbreaking　than　any　music　and　more　startling　than　any　caricature。　



Death　is　more　tragic　even　than　death　by　starvation。　　Having　a　nose



is　more　comic　even　than　having　a　Norman　nose。







　　　　　This　is　the　first　principle　of　democracy：　　that　the　essential



things　in　men　are　the　things　they　hold　in　common；　not　the　things



they　hold　separately。　　And　the　second　principle　is　merely　this：　



that　the　political　instinct　or　desire　is　one　of　these　things



which　they　hold　in　common。　　Falling　in　love　is　more　poetical　than



dropping　into　poetry。　　The　democratic　contention　is　that　government



（helping　to　rule　the　tribe）　is　a　thing　like　falling　in　love；



and　not　a　thing　like　dropping　into　poetry。　　It　is　not　something



analogous　to　playing　the　church　organ；　painting　on　vellum；



discovering　the　North　Pole　（that　insidious　habit）；　looping　the　loop；



being　Astronomer　Royal；　and　so　on。　　For　these　things　we　do　not　wish



a　man　to　do　at　all　unless　he　does　them　well。　　It　is；　on　the　contrary；



a　thing　analogous　to　writing　one's　own　love…letters　or　blowing



one's　own　nose。　　These　things　we　want　a　man　to　do　for　himself；



even　if　he　does　them　badly。　　I　am　not　here　arguing　the　truth　of　any



of　these　conceptions；　I　know　that　some　moderns　are　asking　to　have



their　wives　chosen　by　scientists；　and　they　may　soon　be　asking；



for　all　I　know；　to　have　their　noses　blown　by　nurses。　　I　merely



say　that　mankind　does　recognize　these　universal　human　functions；



and　that　democracy　classes　government　among　them。　　In　short；



the　democratic　faith　is　this：　　that　the　most　terribly　important　things



must　be　left　to　ordinary　men　themselvesthe　mating　of　the　sexes；



the　rearing　of　the　young；　the　laws　of　the　state。　　This　is　democracy；



and　in　this　I　have　always　believed。







　　　　　But　there　is　one　thing　that　I　have　never　from　my　youth　up　been



able　to　understand。　　I　have　never　been　able　to　understand　where　people



got　the　idea　that　democracy　was　in　some　way　opposed　to　tradition。　



It　is　obvious　that　tradition　is　only　democracy　extended　through　time。　



It　is　trusting　to　a　consensus　of　common　human　voices　rather　than　to



some　isolated　or　arbitrary　record。　　The　man　who　quotes　some　German



historian　against　the　tradition　of　the　Catholic　Church；　for　instance；



is　strictly　appealing　to　aristocracy。　　He　is　appealing　to　the



superiority　of　one　expert　against　the　awful　authority　of　a　mob。　



It　is　quite　easy　to　see　why　a　legend　is　treated；　and　ought　to　be　treated；



more　respectfully　than　a　book　of　history。　　The　legend　is　generally



made　by　the　majority　of　people　in　the　village；　who　are　sane。　



The　book　is　generally　written　by　the　one　man　in　the　village　who　is　mad。　



Those　who　urge　against　tradition　that　men　in　the　past　were　ignorant



may　go　and　urge　it　at　the　Carlton　Club；　along　with　the　statement



that　voters　in　the　slums　are　ignorant。　　It　will　not　do　for　us。　



If　we　attach　great　importance　to　the　opinion　of　ordinary　men　in　great



unanimity　when　we　are　dealing　with　daily　matters；　there　is　no　reason



why　we　should　disregard　it　when　we　are　dealing　with　history　or　fable。　



Tradition　may　be　defined　as　an　extensi