The New Age
Vol. 14 No 8
25th December 1913
RATHBONE believes in thinking for its own sake. “Thoughts as such,” he once remarked, “as the product of thinking, are really of no importance. After all, is there anything in the world more fortuitous, and therefore more inevitable, than what is called a ‘considered judgment’? No-it is important that we should think – what we think does not matter; in any case, a man cannot help his thoughts. But to be happy a man must think, for happiness, as was observed long ago, lies in the performance of function, and reason is the highest function of man.”
If this is really so Rathbone must be a happy man. I remember once he was about to hire a furnished cottage in Surrey from an old lady, and he was most particular that he should be able to walk from room to room without having to open a door, “because,” he said, “I like to walk while I think, and it breaks the thread of my thought if I have to open a door.” The old lady, it is true, remarked somewhat tartly that the thread of his thought must be rather thin, but I knew that what really concerned Rathbone was not so much the thread of his thought as the continuity of his happiness as realised in the energy of thinking.
The other evening Rathbone and Simpson dropped in on their way home from the theatre. They had been to see one of the new pseudo-Oriental romantic plays, which, according to Rathbone, were even more futile than the old-fashioned problem-plays. “The problem-playwrights,” he observed, “had all a single idea in common – the violation of the so-called duty of conjugal fidelity by one half of mankind. They shared this idea between them, and eventually exhausted it. No more ideas came to them until it occurred to one of them to present the old idea in a new light-the fulfilment of the duty of conjugal fidelity by the other half of mankind. This fact is now offered to the public as an ideal. The dramatic critics call this latest movement a return to romanticism-and not without reason, for from the fact they infer the principles of morality, first faith, hope, and charity; then a sense of honour; finally Quixotism when we are in the region of high romance. A romantic play is merely an assertion by the playwright that his audience is soberly virtuous, which confirms what I have long maintained, that an ideal is only a statement of actual fact though your idealist is none the less a liar.” “But why is he a liar,” asked Simpson, “When he tells the truth?”
“He is a liar because, though he tells the truth he hopes you won’t believe him. He wilfully places the truth in circumstances where he knows its character will be seriously compromised-on the stage, for instance, which is generally accepted as the region of the improbable, and in the idealist’s future, which is generally accepted as the region of the impossible. As I say, he wilfully places the truth, the actual present truth, in these shady surroundings, where the average man is least likely to look for it, and even looking on it is not likely to recognise it, so that the truth passes for falsehood. And in other ways, too, the idealist is a malefactor who retards the progress of mankind.’’
“You are hard on the idealist,” said Simpson. “In what other way is he a malefactor?”
“Always,” answered Rathbone, “by trading on his reputation for lying. First, as I remarked, by seizing the actual present good and placing it in his unlikely future, so that men fail to recognise the good that is with them and despair even of finding it anywhere at any time; secondly, by annexing a certain and inevitable future to his realm of the ideal, knowing that men believe his realm, of the ideal to be too good to be true. And when this future, ‘being inevitable, in turn becomes present, men greet it as good, whether it be good or evil, on the strength of the idealist’s introduction. For here the idealist calculates on what is, reckons thence what shall be, and hails the approaching future as what should be, hiding always the basis of his calculation. He grovels before the inevitable by acclaiming that as good in reason which he sees to be good in logic. He is, in fact, the most thoroughgoing opportunist imaginable, and a despicable fatalist, for he worships Fate from fear, seeking fondly to propitiate Fate the unprofitable by giving it the name of ‘ Providence’ or ‘human endeavour,’ just as the ancients from fear sought to propitiate the avenging Furies by fatuously calling them the Eumenides.”
“It is curious,” continued Rathbone, “that words, as for instance this word idealist, should thus swing round ton their moorings, and in the tide of the world’s business veer about until in time they point in a sense contrary to their original intention. This is the genesis of cant-the common acceptance of words on their face value. I think every intelligent people should appoint an official Inspector of Words and Phrases who should test current expressions once every five years or so and reject those that have degenerated into cant, imposing penalties on their use. Only so can a nation truly progress. What we need is a Futurist lexicographer whose scorching humour should rid the language of its rubbish. Johnson might have accomplished the task had his humour been less fanatical but think what the English language might have been to-day if Swift had written a dictionary. The matter is not merely of a pedantic interest, words being the final arbiters on the conduct of our daily life. You smile, but did not Diderot with a dictionary change the morals of France? I can cite one instance at least where the meaning of a word may affect our life’s happiness. Tell me, Simpson, what is the meaning popularly attached to the word thoughtfulness or the word thoughtlessness – or what is commonly meant by a thoughtful or a thoughtless man?”
“I suppose,” said Simpson, “a thoughtful man is one who is considerate, one who has regard for the feelings and comfort of others, and a thoughtless man is one who is inconsiderate, who, perhaps, causes pain to others though without intending to do so.”
“Quite so,’’ said Rathbone, “that is exactly the popular meaning of those words. Thoughtfulness, in the popular sense, is that quality which results in those ‘little acts of kindness, little deeds of love,’ which are said to ‘make this earth a paradise like the heaven above.’ Now, I maintain that a great deal of unnecessary pain is caused on this earth by the interpretation of thoughtfulness in this sense. Strictly, you will agree, thoughtfulness means a disposition to take thought, to think, no matter what be the result of that thinking. Now, is there any authority for the use of this word to denote that thinking alone which results in altruistic conduct?”
“None,” answered Simpson, “except the authority of usage.”
“And is there any justification for holding that the altruistic conduct which results from this kind of thoughtfulness takes the form of trivial acts of kindness?”
“None,” answered Simpson, “except that the commonly observed ‘conduct of mankind is such.”
“Here you see,” said Rathbone,” how the acceptance of a word in its cant meaning binds you to a certain line of conduct. People ignore that a thoughtful man may be brutal, and that he may be brutal to be kind; also that in certain circumstances true thoughtfulness should result in brutality, and that people are often kind from mere thoughtlessness (in the strict sense), and that this conventional or superficial thoughtfulness (which is the same as the strict mere thoughtlessness) often adds to the sum of the world’s misery. ”
“I dare say you are right,” said Simpson, “but it is slightly confusing.”
“Let us consider a particular case,” said Rathbone; “take me and my wife. As you know, Ethel and I are absolutely devoted to each other. Suppose I die. Now you know that as soon as people are dead, those who love them instantly forget their bad qualities and remember only the good that was in them-and that is why epitaphs are among the few really sincere human documents. The unkind acts and the bad qualities of the dead are forgotten, and conversely our own unkind acts towards the dead assume the foremost place in our consciousness, until, to use the common expression, we are ‘painfully aware’ of our unkindness to the dead; and this pain, which is the pain of remorse, becomes the more acute as we ignore more and more the unkindness of the dead towards us. Is not remorse for our conduct to the dead the most painful of all human suffering, the one pain from which we may find no relief, because the dead are departed, and we may nowise express our contrition to them, or in any way atone for our wrong?”
“That is so,’’ said Simpson.
“And yet,” resumed Rathbone, “our wrong is only imagined, because it exists only by virtue of the absence from our consciousness of the wrongs done by the dead; and were the wrongs done by the dead present in our consciousness, the pain of remorse which we feel would thereby be lessened, would it not, being relieved as it were by a sense of equity in wrong-doing?”
“It would,” said Simpson.
“And should we remember only the wrong-doing of the dead, completely forgetting their goodness, we should banish completely the pain of remorse-should we not?-which we agreed to be the most painful of human suffering.”
“You are right,” said Simpson, “we should completely banish the pain of remorse, as you say.”
“Now tell me, Simpson,” said Rathbone, “what kind of actions linger longest in our memory. Are they not the actions which make the strongest impression on us at the time they are done-in other words, the most violent actions? So if I do a violent wrong to Ethel, she is likely to remember it when I am dead. If I am brutal to her, she will remember my brutality. Don’t you agree that if I were truly thoughtful I should be occasionally brutal to Ethel to ensure her not, remembering my goodness alone when I am dead? If I were persistently kind to her, Ethel’s remorse on my death would be terrible. But being strictly thoughtful, I am sometimes brutal. I may cause her some pain for the time being, but by so doing I save her from that far greater and prolonged pain the anguish of remorse; whereas if I were superficially thoughtful I should add to her future remorse, and so increase the sum of the world’s misery.”
“There is much truth, Rathbone,” said Simpson, “in what you say. But suppose Ethel were so thoughtless (I use the word in the strict sense) as to die before you-what then?”
LIONEL DE FONSEKA