a miscellany of men-第16部分

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guess。　　The　dream　began；　I　think；　with　a　dim　fancy　that　enemies　were　already　in　the　town；　and　that　the　enormous　oaken　doors　were　groaning　under　their　hammers。　　Then　I　seemed　to　suppose　that　the　town　itself　had　been　destroyed　by　fire；　and　effaced；　as　it　may　be　thousands　of　years　hence；　and　that　if　I　opened　the　door　I　should　come　out　on　a　wilderness　as　flat　and　sterile　as　the　sea。　　Then　the　vision　behind　the　veil　of　stone　and　slate　grew　wilder　with　earthquakes。　　I　seemed　to　see　chasms　cloven　to　the　foundations　of　all　things；　and　letting　up　an　infernal　dawn。　　Huge　things　happily　hidden　from　us　had　climbed　out　of　the　abyss；　and　were　striding　about　taller　than　the　clouds。　　And　when　the　darkness　crept　from　the　sapphires　of　Mary　to　the　sanguine　garments　of　St。　　John　I　fancied　that　some　hideous　giant　was　walking　round　the　church　and　looking　in　at　each　window　in　turn。

Sometimes；　again；　I　thought　of　that　church　with　coloured　windows　as　a　ship　carrying　many　lanterns　struggling　in　a　high　sea　at　night。　　Sometimes　I　thought　of　it　as　a　great　coloured　lantern　itself；　hung　on　an　iron　chain　out　of　heaven　and　tossed　and　swung　to　and　fro　by　strong　wings；　the　wings　of　the　princes　of　the　air。　　But　I　never　thought　of　it　or　the　young　men　inside　it　save　as　something　precious　and　in　peril；　or　of　the　things　outside　but　as　something　barbaric　and　enormous。

I　know　there　are　some　who　cannot　sympathise　with　such　sentiments　of　limitation；　I　know　there　are　some　who　would　feel　no　touch　of　the　heroic　tenderness　if　some　day　a　young　man；　with　red　hair；　large　ears；　and　his　mother's　lozenges　in　his　pocket；　were　found　dead　in　uniform　in　the　passes　of　the　Vosges。　　But　on　this　subject　I　have　heard　many　philosophies　and　thought　a　good　deal　for　myself；　and　the　conclusion　I　have　come　to　is　Sacrarterumbrrar　pour　la　Pattie；　and　it　is　not　likely　that　I　shall　alter　it　now。

But　when　I　came　out　of　the　church　there　were　none　of　these　things；　but　only　a　lot　of　Shops；　including　a　paper…shop；　on　which　the　posters　announced　that　the　negotiations　were　proceeding　satisfactorily。



THE　MISER　AND　HIS　FRIENDS


It　is　a　sign　of　sharp　sickness　in　a　society　when　it　is　actually　led　by　some　special　sort　of　lunatic。　　A　mild　touch　of　madness　may　even　keep　a　man　sane；　for　it　may　keep　him　modest。　　So　some　exaggerations　in　the　State　may　remind　it　of　its　own　normal。　　But　it　is　bad　when　the　head　is　cracked；　when　the　roof　of　the　commonwealth　has　a　tile　loose。

The　two　or　three　cases　of　this　that　occur　in　history　have　always　been　gibbeted　gigantically。　Thus　Nero　has　become　a　black　proverb；　not　merely　because　he　was　an　oppressor；　but　because　he　was　also　an　aesthetethat　is；　an　erotomaniac。　　He　not　only　tortured　other　people's　bodies；　he　tortured　his　own　soul　into　the　same　red　revolting　shapes。　　Though　he　came　quite　early　in　Roman　Imperial　history　and　was　followed　by　many　austere　and　noble　emperors；　yet　for　us　the　Roman　Empire　was　never　quite　cleansed　of　that　memory　of　the　sexual　madman。　　The　populace　or　barbarians　from　whom　we　come　could　not　forget　the　hour　when　they　came　to　the　highest　place　of　the　earth；　saw　the　huge　pedestal　of　the　earthly　omnipotence；　read　on　it　Divus　Caesar；　and　looked　up　and　saw　a　statue　without　a　head。

It　is　the　same　with　that　ugly　entanglement　before　the　Renaissance；　from　which；　alas；　most　memories　of　the　Middle　Ages　are　derived。　　Louis　XI　was　a　very　patient　and　practical　man　of　the　world；　but　（like　many　good　business　men）　he　was　mad。　　The　morbidity　of　the　intriguer　and　the　torturer　clung　about　everything　he　did；　even　when　it　was　right。　　And　just　as　the　great　Empire　of　Antoninus　and　Aurelius　never　wiped　out　Nero；　so　even　the　silver　splendour　of　the　latter　saints；　such　as　Vincent　de　Paul；　has　never　painted　out　for　the　British　public　the　crooked　shadow　of　Louis　XI。　Whenever　the　unhealthy　man　has　been　on　top；　he　has　left　a　horrible　savour　that　humanity　finds　still　in　its　nostrils。　　Now　in　our　time　the　unhealthy　man　is　on　top；　but　he　is　not　the　man　mad　on　sex；　like　Nero；　or　mad　on　statecraft；　like　Louis　XI；　he　is　simply　the　man　mad　on　money。　　Our　tyrant　is　not　the　satyr　or　the　torturer；　but　the　miser。

The　modern　miser　has　changed　much　from　the　miser　of　legend　and　anecdote；　but　only　because　he　has　grown　yet　more　insane。　　The　old　miser　had　some　touch　of　the　human　artist　about　him　in　so　far　that　he　collected　golda　substance　that　can　really　be　admired　for　itself；　like　ivory　or　old　oak。　An　old　man　who　picked　up　yellow　pieces　had　something　of　the　simple　ardour；　something　of　the　mystical　materialism；　of　a　child　who　picks　out　yellow　flowers。　　Gold　is　but　one　kind　of　coloured　clay；　but　coloured　clay　can　be　very　beautiful。　　The　modern　idolater　of　riches　is　content　with　far　less　genuine　things。　　The　glitter　of　guineas　is　like　the　glitter　of　buttercups；　the　chink　of　pelf　is　like　the　chime　of　bells；　compared　with　the　dreary　papers　and　dead　calculations　which　make　the　hobby　of　the　modern　miser。

The　modern　millionaire　loves　nothing　so　lovable　as　a　coin。　　He　is　content　sometimes　with　the　dead　crackle　of　notes；　but　far　more　often　with　the　mere　repetition　of　noughts　in　a　ledger；　all　as　like　each　other　as　eggs　to　eggs。　　And　as　for　comfort；　the　old　miser　could　be　comfortable；　as　many　tramps　and　savages　are；　when　he　was　once　used　to　being　unclean。　　A　man　could　find　some　comfort　in　an　unswept　attic　or　an　unwashed　shirt。　　But　the　Yankee　millionaire　can　find　no　comfort　with　five　telephones　at　his　bed…head　and　ten　minutes　for　his　lunch。　　The　round　coins　in　the　miser's　stocking　were　safe　in　some　sense。　　The　round　noughts　in　the　millionaire's　ledger　are　safe　in　no　sense；　the　same　fluctuation　which　excites　him　with　their　increase　depresses　him　with　their　diminution。　　The　miser　at　least　collects　coins；　his　hobby　is　numismatics。　　The　man　who　collects　noughts　collects　nothings。

It　may　be　admitted　that　the　man　amassing　millions　is　a　bit　of　an　idiot；　but　it　may　be　asked　in　what　sense　does　he　rule　the　modern　world。　　The　answer　to　this　is　very　important　and　rather　curious。　The　evil　enigma　for　us　here　is　not　the　rich；　but　the　Very　Rich。　　The　distinction　is　important；　because　this　special　problem　is　separate　from　the　old　general　quarrel　about　rich　and　poor　that　runs　through　the　Bible　and　all　strong　books；　old　and　new。　　The　special　problem　to…day　is　that　certain　powers　and　privileges　have　grown　so　world…wide　and　unwieldy　that　they　are　out　of　the　power　of　the　moderately　rich　as　well　as　of　the　moderately　poor。　　They　are　out　of　the　power　of　everybody　except　a　few　millionairesthat　is；　misers。　In　the　old　normal　friction　of　normal　wealth　and　poverty　I　am　myself　on　the　Radical　side。　　I　think　that　a　Berkshire　squire　has　too　much　power　over　his　tenants；　that　a　Brompton　builder　has　too　much　power　over　his　workmen；　that　a　West　London　doctor　has　too　much　power　over　the　poor　patients　in　the　West　London　Hospital。

But　a　Berkshire　squire　has　no　power　over　cosmopolitan　finance；　for　instance。　　A　Brompton　builder　has　not　money　enough　to　run　a　Newspaper　Trust。　　A　West　End　doctor　could　not　make　a　corner　in　quinine　and　freeze　everybody　out。　　The　merely　rich　are　not　rich　enough　to　rule　the　modern　market。　　The　things　that　change　modern　history；　the　big　national　and　international　loans；　the　big　educational　and　philanthropic　foundations；　the　purchase　of　numberless　newspapers；　the　big　prices　paid　for　peerages；　the　big　expenses　often　incurred　in　electionsthese　are　getting　too　big　for　everybody　except　the　misers；　the　men　with　the　largest　of　earthly　fortunes　and　the　smallest　of　earthly　aims。

There　are　two　other　odd　and　rather　important　things　to　be　said　about　them。　The　first　is　this：　that　with　this　aristocracy　we　do　not　have　the　chance　of　a　lucky　variety　in　types　which　belongs　to　larger　and　looser　aristocracies。　　The　moderately　rich　include　all　kinds　of　people　even　good　people。　　Even　priests　are　sometimes　saints；　and　even　soldiers　are　sometimes　heroes。　　Some　doctors　have　really　grown　wealthy　by　curing　their　patients　and　not　by　flattering　them；　some　brewers　have　been　known　to　sell　beer。　　But　among　the　Very　Rich　you　will　never　find　a　really　generous　man；　even　by　accident。　　They　may　give　their　money　away；　but　they　will　never　give　themselves　away；　they　are　egoistic；　secretive；　dry　as　old　bones。　　To　be　smart　enough　to　get　all　that　money　you　must　be　dull　enough　to　want　it。

Lastly；　the　most　serious　point　about　them　is　this：　that　the　new　miser　is　flattered　for　his　meanness　and　the　old　one　never　was。　　It　was　never　called　self…denial　in　the　old　miser　that　he　lived　on　bones。　　It　is　called　self…denial　in　the　new　millionaire　if　he　lives　on　beans。　　A　man　like　Dancer　was　never　praised　as　a　Christian　saint　for　going　in　rags。　　A　man　like　Rockefeller　is　praised　as　a　sort　of　pagan　stoic　for　his　early　rising　or　his　unassuming　dress。　　His　〃simple〃　meals；　his　〃simple〃　clothes；　his　〃simple〃　funeral；　are　all　extolled　as　if　they　were　creditable　to　him。　They　are　disgraceful　to　him：　exactly　as　disgraceful　as　the　tatters　and　vermin　of　the　old　miser　were　disgraceful　to　him。　　To　be　in　rags　for　charity　would　be　the　condition　of　a　saint；　to　be　in　rags　for　money　was　that　of　a　filthy　old　fool。　Precisely　in　the　same　way；　to　be　〃simple〃　for　charity　is　the　state　of　a　saint；　to　be　〃simple〃　for　money　is　that　of　a　filthy　old　fool。　　Of　the　two　I　have　more　respect　for　the　old　miser；　gnawing　bones　in　an　attic：　if　he　was　not　nearer　to　God；　he　was　at　least　a　little　nearer　to　men。　　His　simple　life　was　a　little　more　like　the　life　of　the　real　poor。



THE　MYSTAGOGUE


Whenever　you　hear　much　of　things　being　unutterable　and　indefinable　and　impalpable　and　unnamable　and　subtly　indescribable；　then　elevate　your　aristocratic　nose　towards　heaven　and　snuff　up　the　smell　of　decay。　　It　is　perfectly　true　that　there　is　something　in　all　good　things　that　is　beyond　all　speech　or　figure　of　speech。　　But　it　is　also　true　that　there　is　in　all　good　things　a　perpetual　desire　for　expression　and　concrete　embodiment；　and　though　the　attempt　to　embody　it　is　always　inadequate；　the　attempt　is　always　made。　　If　the　idea　does　not　seek　to　be　the　word；　the　chances　are　that　it　is　an　evil　idea。　　If　the　word　is　not　made　flesh　it　is　a　bad　word。

Thus　Giotto　or　Fra　Angelieo　would　have　at　once　admitted　theologically　that　God　was　too　good　to　be　painted；　but　they　would　always　try　to　paint　Him。　　And　they　fel