Insensibly he
formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of reading: he did not
know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge from all the distress of
life; he did not know either that he was creating for himself an unreal world
which would make the real world of every day a source of bitter disappointment.
Philip got up
and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning, and he shivered a
little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his prayers were more
acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than if he waited till he
was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was beginning to realise that he
was the creature of a God who appreciated the discomfort of his worshippers.
Though he
dreaded humiliation more than anything in the world, he hugged himself for two
or three days at the thought of the agonising joy of humiliating himself to the
Glory of God. But he never got any further. He satisfied his conscience by the
more comfortable method of expressing his repentance only to the Almighty.
[Mr Perkins:]
“Of course
schools are made for the average. The holes are all round, and whatever shape
the pegs are they must wedge in somehow. One hasn't time to bother about anything
but the average.”
[Mr Perkins:]
“In schools
the rather stupid boys who work always do better than the clever boy who's
idle, but
when the clever boy works – why then, he does what you've done this term.”
[…]
“You know,
driving things into the heads of thick-witted boys is dull work, but when now and
then you have the chance of teaching a boy who comes half-way towards you, who
understands almost before you've got the words out of your mouth, why, then
teaching is the most exhilarating thing in the world.”
[Wharton:]
“You know,
there are two good things in life, the freedom of thought and the freedom of
action. In France Germany England America
[On Monsieur
Ducroz, Philip’s teacher of French in Heidelberg
Perhaps his
taciturnity hid a contempt for the human race which has abandoned the great
dreams of his youth and now wallowed in sluggish ease; or perhaps these thirty
years of revolution had thought him that men are unfit for liberty, and he
thought that he had spent his life in the pursuit of that which was not worth
the finding. Or maybe he was tired out and waited only with indifference for
the release of death.
Philip was vaguely
disappointed. Thinking he had done a generous thing, he had expected that
Monsieur Ducroz would overwhelm him with expressions of gratitude. He was taken
aback to find that the old teacher accepted the present as though it were his
due. He was so young, he did not realise how much less is the sense of
obligation in those who receive favours than in those who grant them.
Professor
Erlin classed him [Ibsen] with Richard Wagner, but of him he spoke not with
anger but with good-humoured laughter. He was a charlatan but a successful
charlatan, and in that was always something for the comic spirit to rejoice in.
[…]
He had seen Lohengrin and that passed muster. It was
dull but no worse. But Siegfried!
When he mentioned it Professor Erlin leaned his head on his hand and bellowed
with laughter. Not a melody in it from beginning to end! He could imagine
Richard Wagner sitting in his box and laughing till his sides ached at the
sight of all the people who were taking it seriously. It was the greatest hoax
of the nineteenth century.
[…]
“I tell you
young people that before the nineteenth century is out Wagner will be as dead
as mutton. Wagner! I would give all his works for one opera by Donizetti.”
…and Hayward
welcomed a subject in which hard facts need not disconcert him; when feeling is
the gauge you can snap your fingers at logic, and when your logic is weak that
is very agreeable.
“Oh wise
young man!” retorted Hayward, with a smile which made Philip blush, for he felt
that in putting into plain words what the other had expressed in a paraphrase,
he had been guilty of vulgarity.
[Philip and
Weeks in Heidelberg
“St. Augustin
believed that the earth was flat and that the sun turned around it.”
“I don't know
what that proves.”
“Why, it
proves that you believe with your generation. Your saints lived in an age of
faith, when it was practically impossible to disbelieve what to us is
positively incredible.”
“Then how
d'you know that we have the truth now?”
“I don't.”
Philip
thought this over for a moment, then he said:
“I don't see
why the things we believe absolutely now shouldn't be just as wrong as what
they believed in the past.”
“Neither do
I.”
“Then how can
you believe in anything at all?”
“I don't
know.”
Philip asked
Weeks what he thought of Hayward
“Men have
always formed gods in their own image," said Weeks. "He believes in
the picturesque.”
Philip paused
for a little while, then he said:
“I don't see
why one should believe in God at all.”
The fact was
that he had ceased to believe not for this reason or the other, but because he
had not the religious temperament. Faith had been forced upon him from the
outside. It was a matter of environment and example. A new environment and a
new example gave him the opportunity to find himself. [...] The religious
exercises which for so many years had been upon him were part and parcel of
religion to him.
[...]
Suddenly he
realized that he had lost also that burden of responsibility which made every
action of his life a matter of urgent consequence. He could breath more freely
in a lighter air. He was responsible only to himself for the things he did.
Freedom! He was his own master at last. From old habit, unconsciously he
thanked God that he no longer believed in him.
It is an
illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the
young know they are wretched, for they are full of the truthless ideals which
have been instilled into them and each time they come in contact with the real
they are bruised and wounded.
The
companionship of Hayward
[On Philip’s
uncle, the Vicar of Blackstable:]
Like all week
men he laid an exaggerated stress on not changing one's opinion.
[Cronshaw:]
“But art is a
luxury. Men attach importance only to self-preservation and the propagation of
their species. It is only when these instincts are satisfied that they consent
to occupy themselves with the entertainment which is provided for them by
writers, painters, and poets.”
[…]
He had
pondered for twenty years the problem whether he loved liquor because it made
him talk or whether he loved conversation because it made him thirsty.
[Cronshaw:]
“Art [...] is
merely the refuge which the ingenious have invented, when they were supplied
with food and women, to escape the tediousness of life.”[2]
[Cronshaw:]
“The Almighty
can hardly be such a fool as the churches make out. If you keep His laws I
don't think He can care a packet of pins whether you believe in Him or not.”[3]
[…]
“The illusion
which man has that his will is free is so deeply rooted that I am ready to
accept it. I act as though I were a free agent. But when an action is performed
it is clear that all the forces of the universe from all eternity conspired to
cause it, and nothing I could do could have prevented it. It was inevitable. If
it was good I can claim no merit; if it was bad I can accept no censure.”
[Cronshaw:]
“You're not a
bad fellow, but you won't drink. Sobriety disturbs conversation. But when I speak
of good and bad…” […] “I speak conventionally. I attach no meaning to those
words. I refuse to make a hierarchy of human actions and ascribe worthiness to
some and ill-repute to others. The terms vice and virtue have no signification
for me. I do not confer praise or blame: I accept. I am the measure of all
things. I am the centre of the world.”
[Philip and Cronshaw:]
“But are you
under the impression that men ever do anything except for selfish reasons?”
[…]
“You will
find as you grow older that the first thing needful to make the world a
tolerable place to live in is to recognize the inevitable selfishness of
humanity. You demand unselfishness from others, which is a preposterous claim
that they should sacrifice their desires to yours. Why should they? When you
are reconciled to the fact that each is for himself in the world you will ask
less from your fellows. They will not disappoint you, and you will look upon
them more charitably. Men seek but one thing in life – their pleasure.”
[Cronshaw:]
“You rear
like a frightened colt, because I use a word to which your Christianity
ascribes a deprecatory meaning. You have a hierarchy of values; pleasure is at
the bottom of the ladder, and you speak with a little thrill of
self-satisfaction, of duty, charity, and truthfulness. [...] It is pleasure
that lurks in the practice of every one of your virtues. Man performs actions
because they are good for him, and when they are good for other people as well
they are thought virtuous: if he finds pleasure in giving alms he is
charitable; if he finds pleasure in helping others he is benevolent; if he
finds pleasure in working for society he is public-spirited; but it is for your
private pleasure that you give twopence to a beggar as much as it is for my
private pleasure that I drink another whiskey and soda. I, less of a humbug
than you, neither applaud myself for my pleasure nor demand your admiration.”
“But have you
never known people do things they didn't want to instead of things they did?”
“No. You put
your question foolishly. What you mean is that people accept an immediate pain
rather than an immediate pleasure. The objection is as foolish as your manner
of putting it. It is clear that men accept an immediate pain rather than an
immediate pleasure, but only because they expect a greater pleasure in the
future. Often the pleasure is illusory, but their error in calculation is no
refutation of the rule. You are puzzled because you cannot get over the idea
that pleasures are only of the senses; but, child, a man who dies for his
country dies because he likes it as surely as a man eats pickled cabbage
because he likes it. It is a law of creation. If it were possible for men to
prefer pain to pleasure the human race would have long since become extinct.”
[Cronshaw:]
“It doesn't
matter what a man does if he's ready to take the consequences.”[4]
[Philip:]
“By George, I
believe I've got genius.”
He was in
fact very drunk, but as he had not taken more than one glass of beer, it could
have been due only to a more dangerous intoxicant than alcohol.
[Clutton:]
“People ask
you for criticism, but they only want praise.[5] Besides, what's the good of criticism? What does it matter if your picture is
good or bad?”
[…]
“The only
reason that one paints is that one can't help it. It's a function like any of
the other functions of the body, only comparatively few people have got it. One
paints for oneself: otherwise one would commit suicide. Just think of it, you
spend God knows how long trying to get something on to canvas, putting the sweat
of your soul into it, and what is the result? Ten to one it will be refused at
the Salon; if it's accepted, people glance at it for ten seconds as they pass;
if you're lucky some ignorant fool will buy it and put it on his walls and look
at it as little as he looks at his dining-room table. Criticism has nothing to
do with the artist. It judges objectively, but the objective doesn't concern
the artist.”
[…]
“We paint
from within outwards – if we force our vision on the world it calls us great
painters; if we don't it ignores us; but we are the same. We don't attach any
meaning to greatness or to smallness. What happens to our work afterwards is
unimportant; we have got all we could out of it while we were doing it.”[6]
[Clutton:]
“Oh, my dear
fellow, if you want to be a gentleman you must give up being an artist. They've
got nothing to do with one another. You hear of men painting pot-boilers to
keep an aged mother – well, it shows they're excellent sons, but it's no excuse
for bad work. They're only tradesmen. An artist would let his mother go to the
workhouse.”
[On Philip
and Flanagan in Paris
These young
people were not in the habit of spoiling one another with excessive flattery.
[Monsieur
Foinet:]
“There is
nothing so degrading as the constant anxiety about one's means of livelihood. I
have nothing but contempt for the people who despise money. They are hypocrites
or fools. Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete
use of the other five. Without an adequate income half the possibilities of
life are shut off. The only thing to be careful about is that you do not pay
more than a shilling for the shilling you earn. You will hear people say that
poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in
their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless
humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It is
not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, to work
unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all my heart
the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for
subsistence upon his art.”
[Monsieur
Foinet:]
“You have a
certain manual dexterity. With hard work and perseverance there is no reason
why you should not become a careful, not incompetent painter. You would find
hundreds who painted worse than you, hundreds who painted as well. I see no
talent in anything you have shown me. I see industry and intelligence. You will
never be anything but mediocre.”
[…]
“But if you
were to ask me my advice, I should say: take your courage in both hands and try
your luck at something else. It sounds very hard, but let me tell you this: I
would give all I have in the world if someone had given me that advice when I was
your age and I had taken it.”
[…]
“It is cruel
to discover one's mediocrity only when it is too late. It does not improve the
temper.”
[Mildred:]
“I shouldn't
mind marrying, but I don't want to marry if I'm going to be no better off than
what I am now. I don't see the use of it.”
[Norah:]
“You know, I
don't believe in churches and parsons and all that,” she said, “but I believe
in God, and I don't believe He minds much about what you do as long as you keep
your end up and help a lame dog over a stile when you can. And I think people
on the whole are very nice, and I'm sorry for those who aren't.”
[Norah:]
“Life
wouldn't be worth living if I worried over the future as well as the present.
When things are at their worst I find something always happens.”
[Norah:]
"Oh,
it's always the same," she sighed, "if you want men to behave well to
you, you must be beastly to them; if you treat them decently they make you
suffer for it."
[Griffiths
“It's the
simplest thing in the world to have an affair with a woman [...] but it's a
devil of a nuisance to get out of it.”
[Griffiths
“One's always
rather apt to exaggerate the passion one's inspired other people with.”
[Philip:]
“It's not
very pleasant being in love.”
[Philip:]
“There's
always one who loves and one who lets himself be loved.”
[Philip:]
“I daresay
one profits more by the mistakes one makes off one's own bat than by doing the
right thing on somebody's else advice.”
[The night-nurse:]
“Thing I've
always noticed, people don't commit suicide for love, as you'd expect, that's
just a fancy of novelists; they commit suicide because they haven't got any
money. I wonder why that is.”
“I suppose
money's more important than love,” suggested Philip.
Follow your
inclinations with due regard to the policeman round the corner.
He found that
it was easy to make a heroic gesture, but hard to abide by its results.
But age is a
matter of knowledge rather than of years…
There is
nothing so terrible as the pursuit of art by those who have no talent.
...he did not
think he had been more selfish than anyone else...
But one mark
of a writer's greatness is that different minds can find in him different
opinions.
He had heard
people speak contemptuously of money: he wondered if they had ever tried to do
without it. He knew that the lack made a man petty, mean, grasping; it
distorted his character and caused him to view the world from a vulgar angle;
when you had to consider every penny, money became of grotesque importance: you
needed a competency to rate it at its proper value.
He had never
before seen the work of that enigmatic master; [El Greco] and at the first
glance he was bothered by the arbitrary drawing: the figures were
extraordinarily elongated; the heads were very small; the attitudes were
extravagant. This was not realism, and yet, and yet even in the photographs you
had the impression of a troubling reality. Athelny was describing eagerly, with
vivid phrases, but Philip only heard vaguely what he said. He was puzzled. He
was curiously moved. These pictures seemed to offer some meaning to him, but he
did not know what the meaning was. There were portraits of men with large,
melancholy eyes which seemed to say you knew not what; there were long monks in
the Franciscan habit or in the Dominican, with distraught faces, making
gestures whose sense escaped you; there was an Assumption of the Virgin; there
was a Crucifixion in which the painter by some magic of feeling had been able
to suggest that the flesh of Christ's dead body was not human flesh only but
divine; and there was an Ascension in which the Saviour seemed to surge up
towards the empyrean and yet to stand upon the air as steadily as though it
were solid ground: the uplifted arms of the Apostles, the sweep of their
draperies, their ecstatic gestures, gave an impression of exultation and of
holy joy. The background of nearly all was the sky by night, the dark night of
the soul, with wild clouds swept by strange winds of hell and lit luridly by an
uneasy moon.
Philip looked
again at the series of portraits of Spanish gentlemen, with ruffles and pointed
beards, their faces pale against the sober black of their clothes and the
darkness of the background. El Greco was the painter of the soul; and these
gentlemen, wan and wasted, not by exhaustion but by restraint, with their
tortured minds, seem to walk unaware of the beauty of the world; for their eyes
look only in their hearts, and they are dazzled by the glory of the unseen. No
painter has shown more pitilessly that the world is but a place of passage. The
souls of the men he painted speak their strange longings through their eyes:
their senses are miraculously acute, not for sounds and odours and colour, but
for the very subtle sensations of the soul. The noble walks with the monkish
heart within him, and his eyes see things which saints in their cells see too,
and he is unastounded. His lips are not lips that smile.
Philip,
silent still, returned to the photograph of Toledo Toledo
[1] Cf. The
Summing Up (1938), XXIV, and A
Writer’s Notebook (1949), “1892”.
[2] Cf. “Reflections on a Certain Book” from The Vagrant Mood (1952).
[3] Cf. The
Summing Up (1938), LXIX: “For my part I cannot believe in a God who is
angry with me because I do not believe in him. I cannot believe in a God who is
less tolerant than I. I cannot believe in a God who has neither humour nor
common sense.”
[4] Cf. Lord Porteous in The Circle
(1921): “You can do anything in this world if you're prepared to take the
consequences, and the consequences depend on character.”
[5] Cf. the Preface to A Writer’s Notebook (1949): “In England
[6] Cf. The
Summing Up (1938), XLIX and LXI.
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