In the most recent issue of Gilbert (the most recent which *I* have had delivered, --if only I could catch that Chestertonian mailman!-- which is the anniversary issue, all covered in silver) there is an essay entitled Love and Fables, which I enjoyed but considered it too short. I felt something was missing. So, as it read Illustrated London News, July 2, 1910, I decided to look it up and see if I could put the whole thing here for your consideration. Here it is:
I pointed out last week that our makers of ultramodern moralities (and
immoralities) do not really grasp how problematical a problem is.
They are not specially the people who see the difficulties of modern
life; rather, they are the people who do not see the difficulties. These
innovators make life insanely simple; making freedom or knowledge a
universal pill. I remarked it in connection with a clever book by Miss
Florence Farr, and took as an instance the proposition (which she
seemed to support) that marriage is good for the common herd, but
can be advantageously violated by special "experimenters" and
pioneers. Now, the weakness of this position is that it takes no
account of the problem of the disease of pride. It is easy enough to
say that weaker souls had better be guarded, but that we must give
freedom to Georges Sand or make exceptions for George Eliot. The
practical puzzle is this: that it is precisely the weakest sort of lady
novelist who thinks she is Georges Sand; it is precisely the silliest
woman who is sure she is George Eliot. It is the small soul that
is sure it is an exception; the large soul is only too proud to be the
rule. To advertise for exceptional people is to collect all the sulks and
sick fancies and futile ambitions of the earth. The good artist is he
who can be understood; it is the bad artist who is always
"misunderstood." In short, the great man is a man; it is always the
tenth-rate man who is the Superman. Read more.
But in Miss Farr's entertaining pages there was another instance of
the same thing which I had no space to mention last week. The writer
disposes of the difficult question of vows and bonds in love by
leaving out altogether the one extraordinary fact of experience on
which the whole matter turns. She again solves the problem by
assuming that it is not a problem. Concerning oaths of fidelity, etc.,
she writes: "We cannot trust ourselves to make a real love-knot unless
money or custom forces us to 'bear and forbear.' There is always the
lurking fear that we shall not be able to keep faith unless we swear
upon the Book. This is, of course, not true of young lovers. Every
first love is born free of tradition; indeed, not only is first love
innocent and valiant, but it sweeps aside all the wise laws it has been
taught, and burns away experience in its own light. The revelation is
so extraordinary, so unlike anything told by the poets, so absorbing,
that it is impossible to believe that the feeling can die out."
Now this is exactly as if some old naturalist settled the bat's place in
nature by saying boldly, "Bats do not fly." It is as if he solved the
problem of whales by bluntly declaring that whales live on land.
There is a problem of vows, as of bats and whales. What Miss Farr
says about it is quite lucid and explanatory; it simply happens to be
flatly untrue. It is not the fact that young lovers have no desire to
swear on the Book. They are always at it. It is not the fact that every
young love is born free of traditions about binding and promising,
about bonds and signatures and seals. On the contrary, lovers wallow
in the wildest pedantry and precision about these matters. They do the
craziest things to make their love legal and irrevocable. They tattoo
each other with promises; they cut into rocks and oaks with their
names and vows; they bury ridiculous things in ridiculous
places to be a witness against them; they bind each other with rings,
and inscribe each other in Bibles; if they are raving lunatics (which is
not untenable), they are mad solely on this idea of binding and on
nothing else. It is quite true that the tradition of their fathers and
mothers is in favour of fidelity; but it is emphatically not true that the
lovers merely follow it; they invent it anew. It is quite true that the
lovers feel their love eternal, and independent of oaths; but it is
emphatically not true that they do not desire to take the oaths. They
have a ravening thirst to take as many oaths as possible. Now this is
the paradox; this is the whole problem. It is not true, as Miss Farr
would have it, that young people feel free of vows, being confident of
constancy; while old people invent vows, having lost that confidence.
That would be much too simple; if that were so there would be no
problem at all. The startling but quite solid fact is that young people
are especially fierce in making fetters and final ties at the very
moment when they think them unnecessary. The time when they want
the vow is exactly the time when they do not need it. That is worth
thinking about.
Nearly all the fundamental facts of mankind are to be found in its
fables. And there is a singularly sane truth in all the old stories of the
monsters - such as centaurs, mermaids, sphinxes, and the rest. It will
be noted that in each of these the humanity, though imperfect in its
extent, is perfect in its quality. The mermaid is half a lady and half a
fish; but there is nothing fishy about the lady. A centaur is half a
gentleman and half a horse. But there is nothing horsey about the
gentleman. The centaur is a manly sort of man - up to a certain point.
The mermaid is a womanly woman - so far as she goes. The human
parts of the monsters are handsome, like heroes, or lovely, like
nymphs; their bestial appendages do not affect the full perfection of
their humanity - what there is of it. There is nothing humanly wrong
with the centaur, except that he rides a horse without a head. There is
nothing humanly wrong with the mermaid; Hood put a good comic
motto to his picture of a mermaid: "All's well that ends well." It
is, perhaps, quite true; it all depends which end. Those old wild
images included a crucial truth. Man is a monster. And he is all the
more a monster because one part of him is perfect. It is not true, as
the evolutionists say, that man moves perpetually up a slope from
imperfection to perfection, changing ceaselessly, so as to be suitable.
The immortal part of a man and the deadly part are jarringly distinct
and have always been. And the best proof of this is in such a case as
we have, considered - the case of the oaths of love.
A man's soul is as full of voices as a forest; there are ten thousand
tongues there like all the tongues of the trees: fancies, follies,
memories, madnesses, mysterious fears, and more mysterious hopes.
All the settlement and sane government of life consists in coming to
the conclusion that some of those voices have authority and others
not. You may have an impulse to fight your enemy or an impulse to
run away from him; a reason to serve your country or a reason to
betray it; a good idea for making sweets or a better idea for poisoning
them. The only test I know by which to judge one argument or
inspiration from another is ultimately this: that all the noble
necessities of man talk the language of eternity. When man is doing
the three or four things that he was sent on this earth to do, then he
speaks like one who shall live for ever. A man dying for his country
does not talk as if local preferences could change. Leonidas does not
say, "In my present mood, I prefer Sparta to Persia." William Tell
does not remark, "The Swiss civilisation, so far as I can yet see, is
superior to the Austrian." When men are making commonwealths,
they talk in terms of the absolute, and so they do when they are
making (however unconsciously) those smaller commonwealths which
are called families. There are in life certain immortal moments,
moments that have authority. Lovers are right to tattoo each other's
skins and cut each other's names about the world; they do belong to
each other in a more awful sense than they know.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
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This reminds me of a scene in CRIME AND PUNISHMENT. The police inspector Porfiry Petrovich is questioning Raskolnikov, who has recently murdered an old pawnbroker and her sister. Porfiry Petrovich doesn't appear to suspect Raskolnikov yet, but it's clear throughout the novel that despite his unprepossessing exterior, he's shrewder than the intellectual student. (He actually reminds me of Father Brown, a bit.) The two men fall into a discussion of an article that Raskolnikov has recently published, arguing that the rules of common morality are not binding on 'superior men.' Porfiry raises the same point that Chesterton makes here: namely -- granting the argument -- how can anyone know whether he, or anyone else, is one of these superior men? And supposing someone committed a crime in the belief that he was a superior man -- but was mistaken? Porfiry speaks in a disarmingly light, almost flippant, way, but of course his question goes to the heart of Raskolnkov's predicament.
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