{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_12264/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_12264","id":"gutenberg_12264","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12264","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Ethics","Life","Philosophy"],"text":"FATHER PAYNE\n\nBy Arthur Christopher Benson\n\n\n1915\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nOften as I have thought of my old friend \"Father Payne,\" as we\naffectionately called him, I had somehow never intended to write about him,\nor if I did, it was \"like as a dream when one awaketh,\" a vision that\nmelted away at the touch of common life. Yet I always felt that his was one\nof those rich personalities well worth depicting, if the attitude and\ngesture with which he faced the world could be caught and fixed. The\ndifficulty was that he was a man of ideas rather than of performance,\nsuggestive rather than active: and the whole history of his experiment with\nlife was evasive, and even to ordinary views fantastic.\n\nBesides, my own life has been a busy one, full of hard ordinary work: it\nwas not until the war gave me, like many craftsmen, a most reluctant and\nunwelcome space of leisure, that I ever had the opportunity of considering\nthe possibility of writing this book. I am too old to be a combatant, and\ntoo much of a specialist in literature to transmute my activities. I lately\nfound myself with my professional occupations suddenly suspended, and\nmoreover, like many men who have followed a wholly peaceful profession,\nplunged in a dark bewilderment as to the onset of the forces governing the\nsocial life of Europe. In the sad inactivity which followed, I set to work\nto look through my old papers, for the sake of distraction and employment,\nand found much material almost ready for use, careful notes of\nconversations, personal reminiscences, jottings of characteristic touches,\nwhich seemed as if they could be easily shaped. Moreover, the past suddenly\nrevived, and became eloquent and vivid. I found in the beautiful memories\nof those glowing days that I spent with Father Payne--it was only three\nyears--some consolation and encouragement in my distress.\n\nThis little volume is the result. I am well aware that the busy years which\nhave intervened have taken the edge off some of my recollections, while the\nlapse of time has possibly touched others with a sunset glow. That can\nhardly be avoided, and I am not sure that I wish to avoid it.\n\nI am not here concerned with either criticising or endorsing Father Payne's\nviews. I see both inconsistencies and fallacies in them. I even detect\nprejudices and misinterpretations of which I was not conscious at the time.\nI have no wish to idealise my subject unduly, but it is clear to me, and I\nhope I have made it clear to others, that Father Payne was a man who had a\nvery definite theory of life and faith, and who at all events lived\nsincerely and even passionately in the light of his beliefs. Moreover, when\nhe came to put them to the supreme test, the test of death, they did not\ndesert or betray him: he passed on his way rejoicing.\n\nHe used, I remember, to warn us against attempting too close an analysis of\ncharacter. He used to say that the consciousness of a man, the intuitive\ninstinct which impelled him, his _attack_ upon experience, was a thing\nalmost independent both of his circumstances and of his reason. He used to\ntake his parable from the weaving of a tapestry, and say that a box full of\nthread and a loom made up a very small part of the process. It was the\ninventive instinct of the craftsman, the faculty of designing, that was\nall-important.\n\nHe himself was a man of large designs, but he lacked perhaps the practical\ngift of embodiment. I looked upon him as a man of high poetical powers,\nwith a great range of hopes and visions, but without the technical\naccomplishment which lends these their final coherence. He was fully aware\nof this himself, but he neither regretted it nor disguised it. The truth\nwas that his interest in existence was so intense, that he lacked the power\nof self-limitation needed for an artistic success. What, however, he gave\nto all who came in touch with him, was a strong sense of the richness and\ngreatness of life and all its issues. He taught us to approach it with no\npreconceived theories, no fears, no preferences. He had a great mistrust of\nconventional interpretation and traditional explanations. At the same time\nhe abhorred controversy and wrangling. He had no wish to expunge the ideals\nof others, so long as they were sincerely formed rather than meekly\nreceived. Though I have come myself to somewhat different conclusions, he\nat least taught me to draw my own inferences from my own experiences,\nwithout either deferring to or despising the conclusions of others.\n\nThe charm of his personality lay in his independence, his sympathy, his\neager freshness of view, his purity of motive, his perfect simplicity; and\nit is all this which I have attempted to depict, rather than to trace his\ntheories, or to present a philosophy which was always concrete rather than\nabstract, and passionate rather than deliberate. To use a homely proverb,\nFather Payne was a man who filled his chair!\n\nOf one thing I feel sure, and that is that wherever Father Payne is, and\nwhatever he may be doing--for I have as absolute a conviction of the\ncontinued existence of his fine spirit as I have of the present existence\nof my own--he will value my attempt to depict him as he was. I remember his\ntelling me a story of Dr. Johnson, how in the course of his last illness,\nwhen he could not open his letters, he asked Boswell to read them for him.\nBoswell opened a letter from some person in the North of England, of a\ncomplimentary kind, and thinking it would fatigue Dr. Johnson to have it\nread aloud, merely observed that it was highly in his praise. Dr. Johnson\nat once desired it to be read to him, and said with great earnestness,\n\"_The applause of a single human being is of great consequence._\"\nFather Payne added that it was one of Johnson's finest sayings, and had no\ntouch of vanity or self-satisfaction in it, but the vital stuff of\nhumanity. That I believe to be profoundly true: and that is the spirit in\nwhich I have set all this down.\n\n_September_ 30, 1915.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nI.       FATHER PAYNE\nII.      AVELEY\nIII.     THE SOCIETY\nIV.      THE SUMMONS\nV.       THE SYSTEM\nVI.      FATHER PAYNE\nVII.     THE MEN\nVIII.    THE METHOD\nIX.      FATHER PAYNE\nX.       CHARACTERISTICS\nXI.      CONVERSATION\nXII.     OF GOING TO CHURCH\nXIII.    OF NEWSPAPERS\nXIV.     OF HATE\nXV.      OF WRITING\nXVI.     OF MARRIAGE\nXVII.    OF LOVING GOD\nXVIII.   OF FRIENDSHIP\nXIX.     OF PHYLLIS\nXX.      OF CERTAINTY\nXXI.     OF BEAUTY\nXXII.    OF WAR\nXXIII.   OF CADS AND PHARISEES\nXXIV.    OF CONTINUANCE\nXXV.     OF PHILANTHROPY\nXXVI.    OF FEAR\nXXVII.   OF ARISTOCRACY\nXXVIII.  OF CRYSTALS\nXXIX.    EARLY LIFE\nXXX.     OF BLOODSUCKERS\nXXXI.    OF INSTINCTS\nXXXII.   OF HUMILITY\nXXXIII.  OF MEEKNESS\nXXXIV.   OF CRITICISM\nXXXV.    OF THE SENSE OF BEAUTY\nXXXVI.   OF BIOGRAPHY\nXXXVII.  OF POSSESSIONS\nXXXVIII. OF LONELINESS\nXXXIX.   OF THE WRITER'S LIFE\nXL.      OF WASTE\nXLI.     OF EDUCATION\nXLII.    OF RELIGION\nXLIII.   OF CRITICS\nXLIV.    OF WORSHIP\nXLV.     OF A CHANGE OF RELIGION\nXLVI.    OF AFFECTION\nXLVII.   OF RESPECT OF PERSONS\nXLVIII.  OF AMBIGUITY\nXLIX.    OF BELIEF\nL.       OF HONOUR\nLI.      OF WORK\nLII.     OF COMPANIONSHIP\nLIII.    OF MONEY\nLIV.     OF PEACEABLENESS\nLV.      OF LIFE-FORCE\nLVI.     OF CONSCIENCE\nLVII.    OF RANK\nLVIII.   OF BIOGRAPHY\nLIX.     OF EXCLUSIVENESS\nLX.      OF TAKING LIFE\nLXI.     OF BOOKISHNESS\nLXII.    OF CONSISTENCY\nLXIII.   OF WRENS AND LILIES\nLXIV.    OF POSE\nLXV.     OF REVENANTS\nLXVI.    OF DISCIPLINE\nLXVII.   OF INCREASE\nLXVIII.  OF PRAYER\nLXIX.    THE SHADOW\nLXX.     OF WEAKNESS\nLXXI.    THE BANK OF THE RIVER\nLXXII.   THE CROSSING\nLXXIII.  AFTER-THOUGHTS\nLXXIV.   DEPARTURE\n\n\n\n\nFATHER PAYNE\n\n\n\nI\n\nFATHER PAYNE\n\n\nIt was a good many years ago, soon after I left Oxford, when I was\ntwenty-three years old, that all this happened. I had taken a degree in\nClassics, and I had not given much thought to my future profession. There\nwas no very obvious opening for me, no family business, no influence in any\nparticular direction. My father had been in the Army, but was long dead. My\nmother and only sister lived quietly in the country. I had no prosaic and\npractical uncles to push me into any particular line; while on coming of\nage I had inherited a little capital which brought me in some two hundred a\nyear, so that I could afford to wait and look round. My only real taste was\nfor literature. I wanted to write, but I had no very pressing aspirations\nor inspirations. I may confess that I was indolent, fond of company, but\nnot afraid of comparative solitude, and I was moreover an entire\ndilettante. I read a good many books, and tried feverishly to write in the\nstyle of the authors who most attracted me, I settled down at home, more or\nless, in a country village where I knew everyone; I travelled a little; and\nI paid occasional visits to London, where several of my undergraduate and\nschool friends lived, with a vague idea of getting to know literary people;\nbut they were not very easy to meet, and, when I did meet them, they did\nnot betray any very marked interest in my designs and visions.\n\nI was dining one night at a restaurant with a College friend of mine, Jack\nVincent, whose tastes were much the same as my own, only more strenuous;\nhis father and mother lived in London, and when I went there I generally\nstayed with them. They were well-to-do, good-natured people; but, beyond\noccasionally reminding Jack that he ought to be thinking about a\nprofession, they left him very much to his own devices, and he had begun to\nwrite a novel, and a play, and two or three other masterpieces.\n\nThat particular night his father and mother were dining out, so we\ndetermined to go to a restaurant. And it was there that Vincent told me\nabout \"Father\" Payne, as he was called by his friends, though he was a\nlayman and an Anglican. He had heard all about him from an Oxford man,\nLeonard Barthrop, some years older than ourselves, who was one of the\ncircle of men whom Father Payne had collected about him. Vincent was very\nfull of the subject. He said that Father Payne was an elderly man, who had\nbeen for a good many years a rather unsuccessful teacher in London, and\nthat he had unexpectedly inherited a little country estate in\nNorthamptonshire. He had gradually gathered about him a small knot of men,\nmainly interested in literature, who were lodged and boarded free, and were\na sort of informal community, bound by no very strict regulations, except\nthat they were pledged to produce a certain amount of work at stated\nintervals for Father Payne's inspection. As long as they did this, they\nwere allowed to work very much as they liked, and Father Payne was always\nready to give criticism and advice. Father Payne reserved the right of\ndismissing them if they were idle, quarrelsome, or troublesome in any way,\nand exercised it decisively. But Barthrop had told him that it was a most\ndelightful life; that Father Payne was a very interesting, good-natured,\nand amusing man; and that the whole thing was both pleasant and\nstimulating. There were certain rules about work and hours, and members of\nthe circle were not allowed to absent themselves without leave, while\nFather Payne sometimes sent them off for a time, if he thought they\nrequired a change. \"I gather,\" said Vincent, \"that he is an absolute\nautocrat, and that you have to do what he tells you; but that he doesn't\npreach, and he doesn't fuss. Barthrop says he has never been so happy in\nhis life.\" He went on to say that there were at least two vacancies in the\ncircle--one of the number had lately married, and another had accepted a\njournalistic post. \"Now what do you say,\" said Vincent, \"to us two trying\nto go there for a bit? You can try it, I believe, without pledging\nyourself, for two or three months; and then if Father Payne approves, and\nyou want to go on, you can regularly join.\"\n\nI confess that it seemed to me a very attractive affair, and all that\nVincent told me of the place, and particularly of Father Payne, attracted\nme. Vincent said that he had mentioned me to Barthrop, and that Barthrop\nhad said that I might have a chance of getting in. It appeared that we\nshould have to go down to the place to be interviewed.\n\nWe made up our minds to apply, and that night Vincent wrote to Barthrop.\nThe answer was favourable. Two days later Vincent received a note from\nFather Payne, written in a big, finely-formed hand, to the effect that he\nwould be glad to see Vincent any night that he could come down, and that I\nmight also arrange an interview, if I wished, but that we were to come\nseparately. \"Mind,\" said the letter, \"I can make no promises and can give\nno reasons; but I will not keep either of you waiting.\"\n\nVincent went first. He spent a night at Aveley Hall, as the place was\ncalled. I continued my visit to his people, and awaited his return with\ngreat interest.\n\nHe told me what had happened. He had been met at the station by an odd\nlittle trap, had driven up to the house--a biggish place, close to a small\nchurch, on the outskirts of a tiny village. It was dark when he arrived,\nand he had found Father Payne at tea with four or five men, in a flagged\nhall. There had been a good deal of talk and laughter. \"He is a big man,\nFather Payne, with a beard, dressed rather badly, like a country squire,\nvery good-natured and talkative. Everyone seemed to say pretty much what\nthey liked, but he kept them in order, too, I could see that!\" Then he had\nbeen carried off to a little study and questioned. \"He simply turned me\ninside out,\" said Vincent, \"and I told him all my biography, and everything\nI had ever done and thought of. He didn't seem to look at me much, but I\nfelt he was overhauling me somehow. Then I went and read in a sort of\nlibrary, and then we had dinner--just the same business. Then the men\nmostly disappeared, and Barthrop carried me off for a talk, and told me a\nlot about everything. Then I went to my room, a big, ugly, comfortable\nbedroom; and in the morning there was breakfast, where people dropped in,\nread papers or letters, did not talk, and went off when they had done. Then\nI walked about in a nice, rather wild garden. There seemed a lot of fields\nand trees beyond, all belonging to the house, but no park, and only a small\nstable, with a kitchen-garden. There were very few servants that I saw--an\nold butler and some elderly maids--and then I came away. Father Payne just\ncame out and shook hands, and said he would write to me. It seemed exactly\nthe sort of thing I should like. I only hope we shall both get in.\"\n\nIt certainly sounded attractive, and it was with great curiosity that I\nwent off on the following day, as appointed, for my own interview.\n\n\n\nII\n\nAVELEY\n\n\nThe train drew up at a little wayside station soon after four o'clock on a\nNovember afternoon. It was a bare, but rather an attractive landscape. The\nline ran along a wide, shallow valley, with a stream running at the bottom,\nwith many willows, and pools fringed with withered sedges. The fields were\nmostly pastures, with here and there a fallow. There were a good many bits\nof woodland all about, and a tall spire of pale stone, far to the south,\novertopped the roofs of a little town. I was met by an old groom or\ncoachman, with a little ancient open cart, and we drove sedately along\npleasant lanes, among woods, till we entered a tiny village, which he told\nme was Aveley, consisting of three or four farmhouses, with barns and\nricks, and some rows of stone-built cottages. We turned out of the village\nin the direction of a small and plain church of some antiquity, behind\nwhich I saw a grove of trees and the chimneys of a house surmounted by a\nsmall cupola. The house stood close by the church, having an open space of\ngrass in front, with an old sundial, and a low wall separating it from the\nchurchyard. We drove in at a big gate, standing open, with stone\ngate-posts. The Hall was a long, stone-built Georgian house, perhaps a\nhundred and fifty years old, with two shallow wings and a stone-tiled roof,\nand was obviously of considerable size. Some withered creepers straggled\nover it, and it was neatly kept, but with no sort of smartness. The trees\ngrew rather thickly to the east of the house, and I could see to the right\na stable-yard, and beyond that the trees of the garden. We drew up--it was\ngetting dark--and an old manservant with a paternal air came out, took\npossession of my bag, and led me through a small vestibule into a long\nhall, with a fire burning in a great open fireplace. There was a gallery at\none end, with a big organ in it. The hall was paved with black and white\nstone, and there were some comfortable chairs, a cabinet or two, and some\ndim paintings on the walls. Tea was spread at a small table by the fire,\nand four or five men, two of them quite young, the others rather older,\nwere sitting about on chairs and sofas, or helping themselves to tea at the\ntable. On the hearth, with his back to the fire, stood a great, burly man\nwith a short, grizzled beard and tumbled gray hair, rather bald, dressed in\na rough suit of light-brown homespun, with huge shooting boots, whom I saw\nat once to be my host. The talk stopped as I entered, and I was aware that\nI was being scrutinised with some curiosity. Father Payne did not move, but\nextended a hand, which I advanced and shook, and said: \"Very glad to see\nyou, Mr. Duncan--you are just in time for tea.\" He mentioned the names of\nthe men present, who came and shook hands very cordially. Barthrop gave me\nsome tea, and I was inducted into a chair by the fire. I thought for a\nmoment that I was taking Father Payne's place, and feebly murmured\nsomething about taking his chair. \"They're all mine, thanks!\" he said with\na smile, \"but I claim no privileges.\" Someone gave a faint whistle at this,\nand Father Payne, turning his eyes but not his head towards the young man\nwho had uttered the sound, said: \"All right, Pollard, if you are going to\nbe mutinous, we shall have a little business to transact together, as Mr.\nSqueers said.\" \"Oh, I'm not mutinous, sir,\" said the young man--\"I'm quite\nsubmissive--I was just betrayed into it by amazement!\" \"You shouldn't get\ninto the habit of thinking aloud,\" said Father Payne; \"at least not among\nbachelors--when you are married you can do as you like!--I hope you are\npolite?\" he went on, looking round at me. \"I think so,\" I said, feeling\nrather shy, \"That's right,\" he said. \"It's the first and only form of\nvirtue! If you are only polite, there is nothing that you may not do. This\nis a school of manners, you know!\" One of the men, Rose by name, laughed--a\npleasant musical laugh. \"I remember,\" he said, \"that when I was a boy at\nEton, my excellent but very bluff and rough old tutor called upon us, and\nwas so much taken up with being hearty, that he knocked over the\ncoal-scuttle, and didn't let anyone get a word in; and when he went off in\na sort of whirlwind, my old aunt, who was an incisive lady, said in a\nmeditative tone: 'How strange it is that the only thing that the Eton\nmasters seem able to teach their boys is the only thing they don't\nthemselves possess!'\"\n\nFather Payne uttered a short, loud laugh at this, and said: \"Is there any\nchance of meeting your aunt?\" \"No, sir, she is long since dead!\" \"Blew off\ntoo much steam, perhaps,\" said Father Payne. \"That woman must have had the\nsteam up! I should have liked to have known her--a remarkable woman! Have\nyou any more stories of the same sort about her?\"\n\n\"Not to-day,\" said Rose, smiling.\n\n\"Quite right,\" said Father Payne. \"You keep them for an acceptable time.\nNever tell strings of stories--and, by the way, my young friends, that's\nthe art of writing. Don't cram in good things--space them out, Barthrop!\"\n\n\"I think I can spread the butter as thin as anyone,\" said Barthrop,\nsmiling.\n\n\"So you can, so you can!\" said Father Payne enthusiastically, \"and very\nthin slices too! I give you full credit for that!\"\n\nThe men had begun to drift away, and I was presently left alone with Father\nPayne. \"Now you come along of me!\" he said to me; and when I got up, he\ntook my arm in a pleasant fashion, led me to a big curtained archway at the\nfar end of the hall, under the gallery, and along a flagged passage to the\nright. As we went he pointed to the doors--\"Smoking-room--Library\"--and at\nthe end of the passage he opened a door, and led me into a small panelled\nroom with a big window, closely curtained. It was a solid and stately\nplace, wholly bare of ornament. It had a writing-table, a bookcase, two\narmchairs of leather, a fine fireplace with marble pillars, and an old\npainting let into the panelling above it. There was a bright, unshaded lamp\non the table. \"This is my room,\" he said, \"and there's nothing in it that I\ndon't use, except those pillars; and when I haul on them, like Samson, the\nhouse comes down. Now you sit down there, and we'll have a talk. Do you\nmind the light? No? Well, that's all right, as I want to have a good look\nat you, you know! You can get a smoke afterwards--this is business!\"\n\nHe sate down in the chair opposite me, and stirred the fire. He had fine,\nlarge, solid hands, the softness of which, like silk, had struck me when I\nshook hands with him; and, though he was both elderly and bulky, he moved\nwith a certain grace and alertness. \"Tell me your tale from the beginning,\"\nhe said, \"Don't leave out any details--I like details. Let's have your life\nand death and Christian sufferings, as the tracts say.\"\n\nHe heard me with much patience, sometimes smiling, sometimes nodding, when\nI had finished, he said: \"Now I must ask you a few questions--you don't\nmind if they are plain questions--rather unpleasant questions?\" He bent his\nbrows upon me and smiled. \"No,\" I said, \"not at all.\" \"Well, then,\" he\nsaid, \"where's the vocation in all this? This place, to be brief, is for\nmen who have a real vocation for writing, and yet never would otherwise\nhave the time or the leisure to train for it. You see, in England, people\nthink that you needn't train for writing--that you have just got to begin,\nand there you are. Very few people have the money to wait a few years--they\nhave to write, not what they want to write, but what other people want to\nread. And so it comes about that by the time that they have earned the\nmoney and the leisure, the spring is gone, the freshness is gone, there's\nno invention and no zest. Writing can't be done in a little corner of life.\nYou have to give up your life to it--and then that means giving up your\nlife to a great deal of what looks like pure laziness--loafing about,\nlooking about, travelling, talking, mooning; that is the only way to learn\nproportion; and it is the only way, too, of learning what not to write\nabout--a great many things that are written about are not really material\nfor writing at all. And all this can't be done in a drivelling mood--you\nmust pick your way if you are going to write. That's a long preface; but I\nmean this place to be a place to give men the right sort of start. I happen\nto be able to teach people, more or less, how to write, if they have got\nthe stuff in them--and to be frank, I'm not sure that you have! You think\nthis would be a pleasant sort of experience--so it can be; but it isn't\ndone on slack and chattering lines. It is just meant to save people from\nhanging about at the start, a thing which spoils a lot of good writers. But\nit's deadly serious, and it isn't a dilettante life at all. Do you grasp\nall that?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"and I believe I can work! I know I have wasted my time, but\nit was not because I wanted to waste time, but because the sort of things I\nhave always had to do--the classics--always seemed to me so absolutely\npointless. No one who taught me ever distinguished between what was good\nand what was bad. Whatever it was--a Greek play, Homer, Livy, Tacitus--it\nwas always supposed to be the best thing of the kind. I was always sure\nthat much of it was rot, and some of it was excellent; but I didn't know\nwhy, and no one ever told me why.\"\n\n\"You thought all that?\" said he. \"Well, that's more hopeful! Have you ever\ndone any essay work?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"and that was the worst of all--no one ever showed me how to\ndo it in my own way, but always in some one else's way.\"\n\nHe sate a little in silence. Then he said: \"But mind you, that's not all! I\ndon't think writing is the end of life. The real point is to feel the\nthings, to understand the business, to have ideas about life. I don't want\npeople to learn how to write interestingly about things in which they are\nnot interested--but to be interested first, and then to write if they can.\nI like to turn out a good writer, who can say what he feels and believes.\nBut I'm just as pleased when a man tells me that writing is rubbish, and\nthat he is going away to do something real. The real--that's what I care\nabout! I don't want men to come and pick up grains of truth and reality,\nand work them into their stuff. I have turned out a few men like that, and\nthose are my worst failures. You have got to care about ideas, if you come\nhere, and to get the ideas into shape. You have got to learn what is\nbeautiful and what is not, because the only business of a real writer is\nwith beauty--not a sickly exotic sort of beauty, but the beauty of health\nand strength and generous feeling. I can't have any humbugs here, though I\nhave sent out some humbugs. It's a hard life this, and a tiring life;\nthough if you are the right sort of fellow, you will get plenty of fun out\nof it. But we don't waste time here; and if a man wastes time, out he\ngoes.\"\n\n\"I believe I can work as hard as anyone,\" I said, \"though I have shown no\nsigns of it--and anyhow, I should like to try. And I do really want to\nlearn how to distinguish between things, how to know what matters. No one\nhas ever shown me how to do that!\"\n\n\"That's all right!\" he said, \"But are you sure you don't want simply to\nmake a bit of a name--to be known as a clever man? It's very convenient,\nyou know, in England, to have a label. Because I want you clearly to\nunderstand that this place of mine has nothing whatever to do with that. I\ntake no stock in what is called success. This is a sort of monastery, you\nknow; and the worst of some monasteries is that they cultivate dreams.\nThat's a beautiful thing in its way, but it isn't what I aim at. I don't\nwant men to drug themselves with dreams. The great dreamers don't do that.\nShelley, for instance--his dreams were all made out of real feeling, real\nbeauty. He wanted to put things right in his own way. He was enraged with\nlife because he was fine, while Byron was enraged with life because he was\nvulgar. Vulgarity--that's the one fatal complaint; it goes down deep to the\nbottom of the mind. And I may as well say plainly that that is what I fight\nagainst here.\"\n\n\"I don't honestly think I am vulgar,\" I said.\n\n\"Not on the surface, perhaps,\" he said, \"but present-day education is a\nsnare. We are a vulgar nation, you know. That is what is really the matter\nwith us--our ambitions are vulgar, our pride is vulgar. We want to fit into\nthe world and get the most we can out of it; we don't, most of us, just\nwant to give it our best. That's what I mean by vulgarity, wanting to take\nand not wanting to give.\"\n\nHe was silent for a minute, and then he said: \"Do you believe in God?\"\n\n\"I hardly know,\" I said. \"Not very much, I am afraid, in the kind of God\nthat I have heard preached about.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" he said.\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"it's rather a large question--but I used to think, both at\nschool and at Oxford, that many of the men who were rather disapproved of,\nthat did quite bad things, and tried experiments, and knocked up against\nnastiness of various kinds, but who were brave in their way and kind, and\nnot mean or spiteful or fault-finding, were more the sort of people that\nthe force--or whatever it is, behind the world--was trying to produce than\nmany of the virtuous people. What was called virtue and piety had something\nstifling and choking about it, I used to think. I had a tutor at school who\nwas a parson, and he was a good sort of man, too, in a way. But I used to\nfeel suddenly dreary with him, as if there were a whole lot of real things\nand interesting things which he was afraid of. I couldn't say what I\nthought to him--only what I felt he wanted me to think. That's a bad\nanswer,\" I went on, \"but I haven't really considered it.\"\n\n\"No, it isn't a bad answer,\" he said, \"It's all right! The moment you feel\nstifled with anyone, whatever the subject is--art, books, religion,\nlife--there is something wrong. Do you say any prayers?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"to be honest, I don't.\"\n\n\"You must take to it again,\" he said. \"You can't get on without prayer. And\nif you come here,\" he said, \"you may expect to hear about God. I talk a\ngood deal about God. I don't believe in things being too sacred to talk\nabout--it's the bad things that ought not to be mentioned. I am interested\nin God, more than I am interested in anything else. I can't make Him\nout--and yet I believe that He needs me, in a way, as much as I need Him.\nDoes that sound profane to you?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"it's new to me. No one ever spoke about God to me like that\nbefore.\"\n\n\"We have to suffer with Him!\" he said in a curious tone, his face lighting\nup. \"That is the point of Christianity, that God suffers, because He wants\nto remake the world, and cannot do it all at once. That is the secret of\nall life and hope, that if we believe in God, we must suffer with Him. It's\na fight, a hard fight; and He needs us on His side: But I won't talk about\nthat now; yet if you don't want to believe in God, and to be friends with\nHim, and to fight and suffer with Him, you needn't think of coming here.\nThat's behind all I do. And to come here is simply that you may find out\nwhere He needs you. Why writing is important is, because the world needs\nfreer and plainer talk about God--about beauty and health and happiness and\nenergy, and all the things which He stands for. Half the evil comes from\nsilence, and the end of all my experiments is the word in the New\nTestament, Ephphatha--Be opened! That is what I try for, to give men the\npower of opening their hearts and minds to others, without fear and yet\nwithout offence. I don't want men to attack things or to criticise things,\nbut just to speak plainly about what is beautiful and wholesome and true.\nSo you see this isn't a place for lazy and fanciful people--not a fortress\nof quiet, and still less a place for asses to slake their thirst! We don't\nset out to amuse ourselves, but to perceive things, and to say them if we\ncan. My men must be sound and serious, and they must be civil and amusing\ntoo. They have got to learn how to get on with each other, and with me, and\nwith the village people--and with God! If you want just to dangle about,\nthis isn't the place for you; but if you want to work hard and be knocked\ninto shape, I'll consider it.\"\n\nThere was something tremendous about Father Payne! I looked at him with a\nsense of terror. His face dissolved in a smile. \"You needn't look at me\nlike that!\" he said. \"I only want you to know exactly what you are in for!\"\n\n\"I would like to try,\" I said.\n\n\"Well, we'll see!\" he said. \"And now you must be off!\" he added. \"We shall\ndine in an hour--you needn't dress. Here, you don't know which your room\nis, I suppose?\"\n\nHe rang the bell, and I went off with the old butler, who was amiable and\ncommunicative. \"So, you think of becoming one of the gentlemen, sir?\" he\nsaid. \"If you'll have me,\" I replied. \"Oh, that will be all right, sir,\" he\nsaid. \"I could see that the Father took to you at first sight!\"\n\nHe showed me my room--a big bare place. It had a small bed and accessories,\nbut it was also fitted as a sitting-room, with a writing-table, an\narmchair, and a bookcase full of books. The house was warmed, I saw, with\nhot water to a comfortable temperature. \"Would you like a fire?\" he said. I\ndeclined, and he went on: \"Now if you lived here, sir, you would have to do\nthat yourself!\" He gave a little laugh. \"Anyone may have a fire, but they\nhave to lay it, and fetch the coal, and clean the grate. Very few of the\ngentlemen do it. Anything else, sir? I have put out your things, and you\nwill find hot water laid on.\"\n\nHe left me, and I flung myself into the chair. I had a good deal to think\nabout.\n\n\n\nIII\n\nTHE SOCIETY\n\n\nA very quiet evening followed. A bell rang out above the roof at 8.15. I\nwent down to the hall, where the men assembled. Father Payne came in. He\nhad changed his clothes, and was wearing a dark, loose-fitting suit, which\nbecame him well--he always looked at home in his clothes. The others wore\nsimilar suits or smoking jackets. Father Payne appeared abstracted, and\nonly gave me a nod. A gong sounded, and he marched straight out through a\ndoor by the fireplace into the dining-room.\n\nThe dining-room was a rather grand place, panelled in dark wood, and with a\nfew portraits. At each end of the room was a section cut off from the\ncentral portion by an oak column on each side. Three windows on one side\nlooked into the garden. It was lighted by candles only. We were seven in\nall, and I sate by Father Payne. Dinner was very plain. There was soup, a\njoint with vegetables, and a great apple-tart. The things were mostly\npassed about from hand to hand, but the old butler kept a benignant eye\nupon the proceedings, and saw that I was well supplied. There was a good\nand simple claret in large flat-bottomed decanters, which most of the men\ndrank. There was a good deal of talk of a lively kind. Father Payne was\nrather silent, though he struck in now and then, but his silence imposed no\nconstraint on the party. He was pressed to tell a story for my benefit,\nwhich he did with much relish, but briefly. I was pleased at the simplicity\nof it all. There was only one man who seemed a little out of tune--a\nclerical-looking, handsome fellow of about thirty, called Lestrange, with\nan air of some solemnity. He made remarks of rather an earnest type, and\nwas ironically assailed once or twice. Father Payne intervened once, and\nsaid: \"Lestrange is perfectly right, and you would think so too, if only he\ncould give what he said a more secular twist. 'Be soople in things\nimmaterial,' Lestrange, as the minister says in _Kidnapped_.\" \"But who\nis to judge if it _is_ immaterial?\" said Lestrange rather\npertinaciously. \"It mostly is,\" said Father Payne. \"Anything is better than\nbeing shocked! It's better to be ashamed afterwards of not speaking up than\nto feel you have made a circle uncomfortable. You must not rebuke people\nunless you really hate doing it. If you like doing it, you may be pretty\nsure that it is vanity; a Christian ought not to feel out of place in a\nsmoking-room!\"\n\nThe whole thing did not take more than three-quarters of an hour. Coffee\nwas brought in, very strong and good. Some of the party went off, and\nFather Payne disappeared. I went to the smoking-room with two of the men,\nand we talked a little. Finally I went away to my room, and tried to commit\nmy impressions of the whole thing to my diary before I went to bed. It\ncertainly seemed a happy life, and I was struck with the curious mixture of\nfreedom, frankness, and yet courtesy about the whole. There was no\nroughness or wrangling or stupidity, nor had I any sense either of\nexclusion, or of being elaborately included in the life of the circle. I\nwould call the atmosphere brotherly, if brotherliness did not often mean\nthe sort of frankness which is so unpleasant to strangers. There certainly\nwas an atmosphere about it, and I felt too that Father Payne, for all his\neasiness, had somehow got the reins in his hands.\n\nThe next morning I went down to breakfast, which was, I found, like\nbreakfast at a club, as Vincent had said. It was a plain meal--cold bacon,\na vast dish of scrambled eggs kept hot by a spirit lamp and a hot-water\narrangement. You could make toast for yourself if you wished, and there was\na big fresh loaf, with excellent butter, marmalade, and jam--not an ascetic\nbreakfast at all. There were daily papers on the table, and no one talked.\nI did not see Father Payne, who must have come in later.\n\nAfter breakfast, Barthrop showed me the rooms of the house. The library was\nfitted up with bookshelves and easy-chairs for reading, with a big round\noak table in the centre. The floor was of stained oak boards and covered\nwith rugs. There was also a capacious smoking-room, and I learned that\nsmoking was not allowed elsewhere. It was, in fact, a solid old family\nmansion of some dignity. There were three or four oil paintings in all the\nrooms, portraits and landscapes. The general tone of decoration was\ndark--red wall-papers and fittings stained brown. It was all clean and\nsimple, and there was a total absence of ornament, I went and walked in the\ngarden, which was of the same very straightforward kind--plain grass,\nshrubberies, winding paths, with comfortable wooden seats in sheltered\nplaces; one or two big beds, evidently of old-fashioned perennials, and\nsome trellises for ramblers. The garden was adjoined by a sort of\nwilderness, with big trees and ground-ivy, and open spaces in which\naconites and snowdrops were beginning to show themselves. Father Payne, I\ngathered, was fond of the garden and often worked there; but there were no\ncuriosities--it was all very simple. Beyond that were pasture-fields, with\na good many clumps and hedgerow trees, running down to a stream, which had\nbeen enlarged into a deep pool at one place, where there was a timbered\nbathing-shed. The stream fed, through little sluices, a big, square pond,\nfull, I was told, in summer of bulrushes and water-lilies. I noticed a\ncouple of lawn-tennis courts, and there was a bowling-green by the house.\nThen there was a large kitchen-garden, with standards and espaliers, and\nbox-edged beds. The stables, which were spacious, contained only a pony and\nthe little cart I had driven up in, and a few bicycles. I liked the solid\nair of the big house, which had two wings at the back, corresponding to the\nwings in front; the long row of stone pedimented windows, with heavy white\ncasements, was plain and stately, and there were some fine magnolias and\nwisterias trained upon the walls. It all looked stately, and yet home-like;\nthere was nothing neglected about it, and yet it looked wholesomely left\nalone; everything was neat, but nothing was smart.\n\nI was strolling about, enjoying the gleams of bright sunshine and the cold\nair, when I saw Father Payne coming down the garden towards me. He gave me\na pleasant nod: I said something about the beauty of the place; he smiled,\nand said \"Yes, it is the kind of thing I like--but I am so used to it that\nI can hardly even see it! That's the worst of habit; but there is nothing\nabout the place to get on your nerves. It's a well-bred old house, I think,\nand knows how to hold its tongue, without making you uncomfortable,\" Then\nhe went on presently: \"You know how I came by it? It's an odd story. It had\nbeen in my family, till my grandfather left it to his second wife, and cut\nmy father out. There was a son by the second wife, who was meant to have\nit; but he died, and it went to a brother of the second wife, and his widow\nleft it back to me. It was an entire surprise, because I did not know her,\nand the only time I had ever seen the house was once when I came down on\nthe sly, just to look at the old place, little thinking I should ever come\nhere. She had some superstition about it, I fancy! Anyhow, while I was\ngrubbing away in town, fifteen years ago, and hardly able to make two ends\nmeet, I suddenly found myself put in possession of it; and though I am\npoor, as squires go, the farms and cottages bring me in quite enough to rub\nalong. At any rate it enabled me to try some experiments, and I have been\ndoing so ever since. Leisure and solitude! Those are the only two things\nworth having that money can buy. Perhaps you don't think there's much\nsolitude about our life? But solitude only means the power to think your\nown thoughts, without having other people's thoughts trailed across the\ntrack. Loneliness is quite a different thing, and that's not wholesome.\"\n\nHe strolled on, looking about him. \"Do you ever garden?\" he said. \"It's the\nbest fun in the world--making plants do as _you_ like, while all the\ntime they think they are doing as _they_ like. That's the secret of\nit! You can't bully these wild things, but they are very obedient, as long\nas they believe they are free. They are like children; they will take any\namount of trouble as long as you don't call it work.\"\n\nPresently we heard the clatter of hoofs in the stable-yard. \"That's for\nyou!\" he said. \"Will you go and see that they have brought your things\ndown? I'll meet you at the door.\" I went up and found my things had been\npacked by the old butler. I gave him a little tip, and he said\nconfidentially: \"I daresay we shall be seeing you back here, sir, one of\nthese days.\" \"I hope so,\" I said, to which he replied with a mysterious\nwink and nod.\n\nFather Payne shook hands. \"Well, good-bye!\" he said. \"It's good of you to\nhave come down, and I'm glad to have made acquaintance, whatever\nhappens--I'll drop you a line.\" I drove away, and he stood at the door\nlooking after me, till the little cart drove out of the gate.\n\n\n\nIV\n\nTHE SUMMONS\n\n\nI must confess that I was much excited about my visit; the whole thing\nseemed to me to be almost too good to be true, and I hardly dared hope that\nI should be allowed to return. I went back to town and rejoined Vincent,\nand we talked much about the delights of Aveley.\n\nThe following morning we each received a letter in Father Payne's firm\nhand. That to Vincent was very short. It ran as follows:\n\n    DEAR VINCENT,--_I shall be glad to take you in if you wish to\n    join us, for three months. At the end of that time, we shall both\n    be entirely free to choose. I hope you will be happy here. You\n    can come as soon as you like; and if Duncan, after reading my\n    letter, decides to come too, you had better arrange to arrive\n    together. It will save me the trouble of describing our way of\n    life to each separately. Please let me have a line, and I will\n    see that your room is ready for you.--Sincerely yours,_\n\n    C. PAYNE.\n\n\"That's all right!\" said Vincent, with an air of relief. \"Now what does he\nsay to you?\" My letter was a longer one. It ran:\n\n    MY DEAR YOUNG MAN,--_I am going to be very frank with you, and\n    to say that, though I liked you very much, I nearly decided that\n    I could not ask you to join us. I will tell you why. I am not\n    sure that you are not too easy-going and impulsive. We should all\n    find you agreeable, and I am sure you would find the whole thing\n    great fun at first; but I rather think you would get bored. It\n    does not seem to me as if you had ever had the smallest\n    discipline, and I doubt if you have ever disciplined yourself;\n    and discipline is a tiresome thing, unless you like it. I think\n    you are quick, receptive, and polite--all that is to the good.\n    But are you serious? I found in you a very quick perception, and\n    you held up a flattering mirror with great spontaneity to my mind\n    and heart--that was probably why I liked you so much. But I don't\n    want people here to reflect me or anyone else. The whole point of\n    my scheme is independence, with just enough discipline to keep\n    things together, like the hem on a handkerchief._\n\n    _But you may have a try, if you wish; and in any case, I think\n    you will have a pleasant three months here, and make us all sorry\n    to lose you if you do not return. I have told your friend Vincent\n    he can come, and I think he is more likely to stay than you are,\n    because he is more himself. I don't suppose that he took in the\n    whole place and the idea of it as quickly as you did. I expect\n    you could write a very interesting description of it, and I don't\n    expect he could._\n\n    _Still, I will say that I shall be truly sorry if, after this\n    letter, you decide not to come to us. I like your company; and I\n    shall not get tired of it. But to be more frank still, I think\n    you are one of those charming and sympathetic people who is tough\n    inside, with a toughness which is based on the determination to\n    find things amusing and interesting--and that is not the sort of\n    toughness I can do anything with. People like yourself are\n    incapable as a rule of suffering, whatever happens to them. It's\n    a very happy disposition, but it does not grow. You are sensitive\n    enough, but I don't want sensitiveness, I want men who are not\n    sensitive, and who yet can suffer at not getting nearer and more\n    quickly than they can to the purpose ahead of them, whatever that\n    may be. It is a stiff sort of thing that I want. I can help to\n    make a stiff nature pliable; I'm not very good at making a\n    pliable nature stiff. That's the truth._\n\n    _So I shall be delighted--more than you think--if you say\n    \"Yes.\" but in a way more hopeful about you if you say \"No.\"_\n\n    _Come with Vincent, if you come; and as soon as you like.--Ever\n    yours truly,_\n\n    C. PAYNE.\n\n\"Does he want me to go, or does he not?\" I said. \"Is he letting me down\nwith a compliment?\"\n\n\"Oh no,\" said Vincent, \"it's all right. He only thinks that you are a\nbutterfly which will flutter by, and he would rather like you to do a\nlittle fluttering down there.\"\n\n\"But I'm not going to go there,\" I said, \"to wear a cap and bells for a\nbit, and then to be spun when I have left my golden store, like the radiant\nmorn; he puts me on my mettle. I _will_ go, and he _shall_ keep\nme! I don't want to fool about any more.\"\n\n\"All right!\" said Vincent. \"It's a bargain, then! Will you be ready to go\nthe day after to-morrow? There are some things I want to buy, now that I'm\ngoing to school again. But I'm awfully relieved--it's just what I want. I\nwas getting into a mess with all my work, and becoming a muddled loafer.\"\n\n\"And I an elegant trifler, it appears,\" I said.\n\n\n\nV\n\nTHE SYSTEM\n\n\nWe went off together on the Saturday, and I think we were both decidedly\nnervous. What were we in for? I had a feeling that I had plunged headlong\ninto rather a foolish adventure.\n\nWe did not talk much on the way down; it was all rather solemn. We were\ngoing to put the bit in our mouths again, and Father Payne was an unknown\nquantity. We both felt that there was something decidedly big and strong\nthere to be reckoned with.\n\nWe arrived, as before, at tea-time, and we both received a cordial\ngreeting. After tea Father Payne took us away, and told us the rules of the\nhouse. They were simple enough; he described the day. Breakfast was from\n8.30 to 9.15, and was a silent meal. \"It's a bad thing to begin the day by\nchattering and arguing,\" said Father Payne. Then we were supposed to work\nin our own rooms or the library till one. We might stroll about, if we\nwished, but there was to be no talking to anyone else, unless he himself\ngave leave for any special reason. Luncheon was a cold meal, quite\ninformal, and was on the table for an hour. There was to be no talk then\neither. From two to five we could do as we liked, and it was expected that\nwe should take at least an hour's exercise, and if possible two. Tea at\nfive, and work afterwards. At 8.15, dinner, and we could do as we wished\nafterwards, but we were not to congregate in anyone's room, and it was\nunderstood that no one was to go to another man's bedroom, which was also\nhis study, at any time, unless he was definitely invited, or just to ask a\nquestion. The smoking-room was always free for general talk, but Father\nPayne said that on the whole he discouraged any gatherings or cliques. The\npoint of the whole was solitary work, with enough company to keep things\nfresh and comfortable.\n\nHe said that we were expected to valet ourselves entirely, and that if we\nwanted a fire, we must lay it and clean it up afterwards. If we wanted to\nget anything, or have anything done, we could ask him or the butler. \"But I\nrather expect everyone to look after himself,\" he said. We were not to\nabsent ourselves without his leave, and we were to go away if he told us to\ndo so. \"Sometimes a man wants a little change and does not know it,\" he\nsaid.\n\nThen he also said that he would ask us, from time to time, what we were\ndoing--hear it read, and criticise it; and that one of the most definite\nconditions of our remaining was that he must be satisfied that we really\nwere at work. If we wanted any special books, he said, we might ask him,\nand he could generally get them from the London Library; but that we should\nfind a good many books of reference and standard works in the library.\n\nHe told us, too, of certain conditions of which we had not heard--that we\nwere to be away, either at home, or travelling wherever he chose to send\nus, for three months in the year, and that he supplied the funds if\nnecessary. Moreover, for one month in the summer he kept open house. Half\nof us were to go away for the first fortnight in July, and the other half\nwere to stay and entertain his guests, or even our own, if we wished to\ninvite them; then the other half of the men returned, and had their guests\nto entertain, while the first half went away; and that during that time\nthere was to be very little work done. We were not to be always writing,\nbut there was to be reading, about which he would advise. Once a week there\nwas a meeting, on Saturday evening, when one of the men had to read\nsomething aloud, and be generally criticised. \"You see the idea?\" he said.\n\"It sounds complicated now, but it really is very simple. It is just to get\nsolid work done regularly, with a certain amount of supervision and\ncriticism, and, what is more important still, real intervals of travelling.\nI shall send you to a particular place for a particular purpose, and you\nwill have to write about it on lines which I shall indicate. The danger of\nthis sort of life is that of getting stale. That's why I don't want you to\nsee too much of each other. And last of all,\" he said, rather gravely, \"you\nmust do what I tell you to do. There must be no mistake about that--but\nwith all the apparent discipline of it, I believe you will find it worth\nwhile.\"\n\nThen he saw us each separately. He inquired into our finances. Vincent had\na small allowance from his parents, about \u00a350, which he was told to keep\nfor pocket-money, but Father Payne said he would pay his travelling\nexpenses. I gathered that he gave an allowance to men who had nothing of\ntheir own. He told me that I should have to travel at my own expense, but\nhe was careful first to inquire whether my mother was in any way dependent\non me. Then he said to me with a smile: \"I am glad you decided to come--I\nthought my letter would have offended you. No? That's all right. Now, I\ndon't expect heroic exertions--just hard work. Mind,\" he said, \"I will add\none thing to my letter, and that is that I think you _may_ make a\nsuccess of this--if you _do_ take to it, you will do well; but you\nwill have to be patient, and you may have a dreary time; but I want you to\ntell me exactly at any time how you are feeling about it. You won't be\ndriven, and I think your danger is that you may try to make the pace too\nmuch.\"\n\nHe further asked me exactly what I was writing. It happened to be some\nessays on literary subjects. He mentioned a few books, and told me it would\ndo very well to start with. He was very kind and fatherly in his manner,\nand when I rose to go, he put his arm through mine and said: \"Come, it will\nbe strange if we can't hit it off together. I like your presence and talk,\nand am glad to think you are in the house. Don't be anxious! The difficulty\nwith you is that you will foresee all your troubles beforehand, and try to\nbolt them in a lump, instead of swallowing them one by one as they come.\nLive for the day!\" There was something magnetic about him, for by these few\nwords he established a little special relation with me which was never\nbroken.\n\nWhen he dismissed me, I went and changed my things, and then came down. I\nfound that it was the custom for the men to go down to the hall about\neight. Father Payne said that it was a great mistake to work to the last\nminute, and then to rush in to dinner. He said it made people nervous and\ndyspeptic. He generally strolled in himself a few minutes before, and sate\nsilent by the fire.\n\nJust as it struck eight, and the hum of the clock in the hall died away, a\nlittle tune in harmony, like a gavotte, was played by softly-tingling tiny\nbells. I could not tell where the music came from; it seemed to me like the\nAriel music in _The Tempest_, between earth and heaven, or the\n\"chiming shower of rare device\" in _The Beryl Stone_.\n\nFather Payne smiled at the little gesture I involuntarily made. \"You're\nright!\" he said, when it was over. \"How _can_ people talk through\nthat? It's the clock in the gallery that does it--they say it belonged to\nGeorge III. I hope, if so, that it gave him a few happier moments! It is an\ningenious little thing, with silver bells and hammers; I'll show it you\nsome day. It rings every four hours.\"\n\n\"I think I had rather not see the machinery,\" I said. \"I never heard\nanything so delicious.\"\n\n\"You're right again,\" said Father Payne;\n\n                           \"'The isle is full of noises,\n  Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.'\n\nLet it stay at that!\"\n\nI little thought how much I should grow to connect that fairy gavotte with\nAveley. It always seemed to me like a choir of spirits. I would awake\nsometimes on summer nights and hear it chiming in the silent house, or at\nnoon it would come faintly through the passages. That, and the songs of the\nbirds in the shrubberies, always flash into my mind when I think of the\nplace; because it was essentially a silent house, more noiseless than any I\nhave ever lived in; and I love the thought of its silence; and of its\nfragrance--for that was another note of the place. In the hall stood great\nchina jars with pierced covers, which were always full of pot-pourri; there\nwas another in the library, and another in Father Payne's study, and two\nmore in the passage above which looked out by the little gallery upon the\nhall. Silence and fragrance always, in the background of all we did; and\noutlining itself upon the stillness, the little melody, jetting out like a\nfountain of silver sound.\n\n\n\nVI\n\nFATHER PAYNE\n\n\nThat evening after dinner we two were left with Barthrop in the\nsmoking-room, and we talked freely about Father Payne. Barthrop said that\nhis past was a little mysterious. \"He was at Marlborough, you know, and\nOxford; and after that, he lived in town, took pupils, and tried to\nwrite--but he was not successful, and had much difficulty in getting\nalong.\" \"What is his line exactly?\" said Vincent. \"That's just it,\" said\nBarthrop, \"he hasn't any line. He has a wide knowledge of things, and is\nquicker at picking up the drift of a subject than anyone I know; and he has\na rare power of criticism. But he isn't anything in particular. He can't\nwrite a bit, he is not a speaker, he isn't learned, he can teach able\npeople, but he couldn't teach stupid men--he hasn't enough patience. I\ncan't imagine any line of life for which he would be exactly fitted: and\nyet he's the biggest person I have ever met; he carries us all along with\nhim, like a river. You can't resist him, you can't contradict him. That is\nthe one danger, that he exerts more influence than he knows, so that when\nyou are with him, it is hard to be quite yourself. But he puts the wind\ninto your sails; and, my word, he can take it out of your sails, if he\nlikes! I have only seen him really angry about twice, and then it was\nreally appalling. Once was when a man lied to him, and once was when a man\nwas impertinent to him. He simply blasted them with his displeasure--that\nis the only word. He hates getting angry--I expect he had a bad temper\nonce--and he apologises afterwards; but it's no use--it's like a\nthunderstorm apologising to a tree which has been struck. I don't think he\nknows his strength. He believes himself to be sensitive and weak-willed--I\nhave heard him say so. The fact is that he dislikes doing an unpleasant\nthing or speaking severely; and he will take a lot of trouble to avoid a\nscene, or to keep an irritable man in a good temper. But if he lets himself\nloose! I can't express to you the sort of terror I have in thinking of\nthose two occasions. He didn't say very much, but he looked as if he were\npossessed by any number of devils.\"\n\n\"He was never married, I suppose?\" I said.\n\n\"No,\" said Barthrop, \"and yet he seems to make friends with women very\neasily--in fact, they tend to fall in love with him, if I may say so. He\nhas got a beautiful manner with them, and he is simply devoted to children.\nYou will see that they really rather worship him in the village. He knows\neveryone in the place, and never forgets a fact about them.\"\n\n\"What does he _do_ mostly?\" I said.\n\n\"I really don't know,\" said Barthrop. \"He is rather a solitary man. He very\noften has one of us in for an hour in the evening or morning--but we don't\nsee much of him in the afternoon; he gardens or walks about. He has a quick\neye for things, birds and plants, and so on; and he can find more nests in\nan hour than any man I ever saw. Sometimes he will go and shut himself up\nin the church--he is rather fond of going to church; he always goes to the\nCommunion.\"\n\n\"Does he expect us to go?\" I said.\n\n\"No,\" said Barthrop. \"He rather likes us to go, but he doesn't at all like\nus going to please him. 'I want you to want to go,' I heard him say once,\n'but I don't want you to go _because_ I want you.' And he has no\nparticular views, I think, about the whole thing--at least not for other\npeople.\"\n\n\"Tell me some more about him,\" I said.\n\n\"What is there to say?\" said Barthrop. \"He is just there--the biggest fact\non the horizon. Oh yes, there is one thing; he is tremendously devoted to\nmusic. We have some music in the evenings very often. You saw the organ in\nthe gallery--it is rather a fine one, and he generally has someone here who\ncan play. Lestrange is a first-rate musician. Father Payne can't play\nhimself, but he knows all about it, and composes sometimes. But I think he\nlooks on music as rather a dangerous indulgence, and does not allow himself\nvery much of it. You can see how it affects him. And you mustn't be taken\nin by his manner. You might think him heavy and unperceptive, with that\nquiet and rather secret eye of his; yet he notices everything, always, and\nfar quicker than anyone else. But it is hard to describe him, because he\ncan't do anything much, and you might think he was indolent; and yet he is\nthe biggest person I have ever seen, the one drawback being that he credits\nother people with being big too.\"\n\n\"I notice that you call him 'Father Payne,'\" said Vincent. \"Does that mean\nanything in particular?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Barthrop, smiling. \"It began as a sort of joke, I believe--but\nit seemed to fit him; and it's rather convenient. We can't begin by calling\nhim 'Payne,' and 'Mr. Payne' is a little formal. Some of the men call him\n'sir,' but I think he likes 'Father Payne' best, or simply 'Father,' You\nwill find it exactly expresses him.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I am sure it does!\"\n\nI did not sleep much that night. The great change in my life had all taken\nplace with such rapidity and ease that I felt bewildered, and the thought\nof the time ahead was full of a vague excitement. But most of all the\nthought of Father Payne ran in my mind, I regarded him with a singular\nmixture of interest, liking, admiration, and dread. Yet he had contrived to\nkindle a curious flame in my mind. It was not that I fully understood what\nhe was working for, but I was conscious of a great desire to prove to him\nthat I could do something, exhibit some tenacity, approve myself to him. I\nwanted to make him retract what he had said about me; and, further on, I\nhad a dim sense of an initiation into ideas, familiar enough, but which had\nonly been words to me hitherto--power, purpose, seriousness. They had been\nideas which before this had just vaguely troubled my peace, clouds hanging\nin a bright sky. I had the sense that there were some duties which I ought\nto perform, efforts to be made, ends to fulfil; but they had seemed to me\nexpressed in rather priggish phrases, words which oppressed me, and ruffled\nthe surface of my easy joy. Now they loomed up before me as big realities\nwhich could not be escaped, hills to climb, with no pleasant path round\nabout their bases. I seemed in sight of some inspiring secret. I could not\ntell what it was, but Father Payne knew it, might show it me?\n\nThus I drowsed and woke, a dozen times, till in the glimmer of the early\nlight I rose and drew back my curtains. The dawn was struggling up fitfully\nin the east, among cloudy bars, tipping and edging them with smouldering\nflashes of light, and there was a lustrous radiance in the air. Then, to my\nsurprise, looking down at the silent garden, pale with dew, I saw the great\nfigure of Father Payne, bare-headed, wrapt in a cloak, pacing solidly and,\nI thought, happily among the shrubberies, stopping every now and then to\nwatch the fiery light and to breathe the invigorating air--and I felt then\nthat, whatever he might be doing, he at all events _was_ something, in\na sense which applied to but few people I knew. He was not hard,\nunimaginative, fenced in by stupidity and self-righteousness from\nunhappiness and doubt, as were some of the men accounted successful whom I\nknew. No, it was something positive, some self-created light, some stirring\nof hidden force, that emanated from him, such as I had never encountered\nbefore.\n\n\n\nVII\n\nTHE MEN\n\n\nI can attempt no sort of chronicle of our days, which indeed were quiet and\nsimple enough. I have only preserved in my diary the record of a few scenes\nand talks and incidents. I will, however, first indicate how our party, as\nI knew it, was constituted, so that the record may be intelligible.\n\nFirst of us came Leonard Barthrop, who was, partly by his seniority and\npartly by his temperament, a sort of second-in-command in the house, much\nconsulted and trusted by Father Payne. He was a man of about thirty-five,\ngrave, humorous, pleasant. If one was in a minor difficulty, too trivial to\ntake to Father Payne, it was natural to consult Barthrop; and he sometimes,\ntoo, would say a word of warning to a man, if a storm seemed to be brewing.\nIt must not be denied that men occasionally got on Father Payne's nerves,\nquite unconsciously, through tactlessness or stupid mannerisms--and\nBarthrop was able to smooth the situation out by a word in season. He had a\npower of doing this without giving offence, from the obvious goodwill which\npermeated all he did. Barthrop was not very sociable or talkative, and he\nwas occupied, I think, in some sort of historical research--I believe he\nhas since made his name as a judicious and interesting historian; but I\nknew little of what he was doing, and indeed was hardly intimate with him,\nthough always at ease in his company. He was not a man with strong\npreferences or prejudices, nor was he in any sense a brilliant or\nsuggestive writer, I think he had merged himself very much in the life of\nour little society, and kept things together more than I was at first\naware.\n\nThen came Kaye, one of the least conspicuous of the whole group, though he\nhas since become perhaps the best known, by his poems and his beautiful\ncritical studies in both art and literature. Kaye is known as one of those\nrare figures in literature, a creative critic. His rich and elaborate\nstyle, his exquisite sidelights, his poetical faculty of interpretation,\nmake his work famous, though hardly popular. But I found that he worked\nvery slowly and even painfully, deliberately secreting his honey, and\ndepositing it cell by cell. He had a peculiar intimacy with Father Payne,\nwho treated him with a marked respect. Kaye was by far the most absorbed of\nthe party, went and came like a great moth, was the first to disappear, and\ngenerally the last to arrive. Neither did he make any attempt at\nfriendship. He was a handsome and graceful fellow, now about thirty, with a\nworn sort of beauty in his striking features, curling hair, long languid\nframe, and fine hands. His hands, I used to think, were the most eloquent\nthings about him, and he was ever making silent little gestures with them,\nas though they were accompanying unuttered trains of thought; but he had,\ntoo, a strained and impatient air, as if he found the pursuit of phrases a\nwearing and hazardous occupation. I used to feel Kaye the most attractive\nand impressive of our society; but he neither made nor noticed any signals\nof goodwill, though always courteous and kindly.\n\nPollard was a totally different man: he was about twenty-eight, and he was\nwriting some work of fiction. He was a small, sturdy, rubicund creature,\nwith beady eyes and pink cheeks, cherubic in aspect, entirely good-natured\nand lively, full of not very exalted humour, and with a tendency to wild\nand even hysterical giggling. I used to think that Father Payne did not\nlike him very much; but he was a quick and regular worker, and it was\nimpossible to find fault with him. He was extremely sociable and\nappreciative, and I used to find his company a relief from the strain which\nat times made itself felt. Pollard had a way of getting involved in absurd\nadventures, which he related with immense gusto; and he had a really\nwonderful power of description--more so in conversation than in\nwriting--and of humorous exaggeration, which made him a delightful\ncompanion. But he was never able to put the best of himself into his books,\nwhich tended to be sentimental and even conventional.\n\nThen there was Lestrange; and I think he was the least congenial of the\nlot. He was a handsome, rather clerical-looking man of about twenty-eight,\nwho had been brought up to take orders, and had decided against doing so.\nHe was very much in earnest, in rather a tiresome way, and his phrases were\nconventional and pietistic. I used to feel that he jarred a good deal on\nFather Payne, but much was forgiven him because of his musical talents,\nwhich were really remarkable. His organ-playing, with its verve, its\ndelicacy, and its quiet mastery, was delicious to hear, he was engaged in\nwriting music mainly, and had a piano all to himself in a little remote\nroom beyond the dining-room, which looked out to the stable-yard and had\nformerly been an estate-office. We used to hear faint sounds wafted down\nthe garden when the wind was in the west. He was friendly, but he had the\nabsorption of the musician in his art, which is unlike all other artistic\nabsorptions, because it seems literally to check the growth of other\nqualities and interests. In fact, in many ways Lestrange was like a pious\nchild. He was apt to be snubbed by Father Payne, but he was wholly\nindifferent to all irony. I used to listen to him playing the organ in the\nevenings, and a language of emotions and visions certainly streamed from\nhis fingers which he was never able to put into words. Father Payne treated\nhim as one might treat an inspired fool, with a mixture of respect and\nsharpness.\n\nThen there was Rose, a man of twenty-five, a curious mixture of knowledge,\ncynicism, energy, and affectionateness. I found Rose a very congenial\ncompanion, though I never felt sure what he thought, and never aired my\nenthusiasms in his presence. He had great aplomb, and was troubled by no\nshyness nor hesitation. There was a touch of frostiness at times between\nhim and Father Payne. Rose was paradoxical and whimsical, and was apt to\nsupport fantastic positions with apparent earnestness. But he was an\nextremely capable and sensible man, and had a knack of dropping his\ncontentiousness the moment it began to give offence. He was by far the most\nmundane of us, and had some command of money. I used to fancy that Father\nPayne was a little afraid of him, when he displayed his very considerable\nknowledge of the world. His father was a wealthy man, a member of\nParliament, and Rose really knew social personages of the day. I doubt if\nhe was ever quite in sympathy with the idea of the place, but I used to\nfeel that his presence was a wholesome sort of corrective, like the vinegar\nin the salad. I believe he was writing a play, but he has done nothing\nsince in literature, and was in many ways more like a visitor than an\ninmate.\n\nThen came my friend Vincent, a solid, good-natured, hard-working man, with\na real enthusiasm for literature, not very critical or even imaginative,\nbut with a faculty for clear and careful writing. He was at work on a\nrealistic novel, which made some little reputation; but he has become\nsince, what I think he always was meant to be, an able journalist and an\nexcellent leader-writer on political and social topics. Vincent was the\nmost interested of all of us in current affairs, but at the same time had a\nquiet sort of enthusiasm, and a power of idealising people, ardently but\nunsentimentally, which made him the most loyal of friends.\n\nThe only other person of whom we saw anything was the Vicar of the\nparish--a safe, decorous, useful man, a distant cousin of Father Payne's.\nHis wife was a good-humoured and conventional woman. Their two daughters\nwere pleasant, unaffected girls, just come to womanhood. Lestrange\nafterwards married one of them.\n\nWe were not much troubled by sociabilities. The place was rather isolated,\nand Father Payne had the reputation of being something of an eccentric.\nMoreover, the big neighbouring domain, Whitbury Park, blocked all access to\nnorth and west. The owner was an old and invalid peer, who lived a very\nsecluded life and entertained no one. To the south there was nothing for\nmiles but farms and hamlets, while the only near neighbour in the east was\na hunting squire, who thought Father Payne kept a sort of boarding-house,\nand ignored him entirely. The result was that callers were absolutely\nunknown, and the wildest form of dissipation was that Pollard and Rose\noccasionally played lawn-tennis at neighbouring vicarages.\n\nWe were not often all there together, because Father Payne's scheme of\ntravel was strictly adhered to. He considered it a very integral part of\nour life. I never quite knew what his plan was; but he would send a man\noff, generally alone, with a solid sum for travelling expenses. Thus\nLestrange was sent for a month to Berlin when Joachim held court there, or\nto Dresden and Munich. I remember Pollard and Vincent being packed off to\nSwitzerland together to climb mountains, with stern injunctions to be\nsociable. Rose went to Spain, to Paris, to St. Petersburg. Kaye went more\nthan once to Italy; but we often went to different parts of England, and\nthen we were generally allowed to go together; but Father Payne's theory\nwas that we should travel alone, learn to pick up friends, and to fend for\nourselves. He had acquaintances in several parts of the Continent, and we\nwere generally provided with a letter of introduction to some one. We had a\nfortnight in June and a fortnight at Christmas to go home--so that we were\nalways away for three months in the year, while Father Payne was apt to\nsend us off for a week at a time, if he thought we needed a change.\nBarthrop, I think, made his own plans, and it was all reasonable enough, as\nFather Payne would always listen to objections. Some of us paid for\nourselves on those tours, but he was always willing to supplement it\ngenerously.\n\nIt used to be a puzzle to me how Father Payne had the command of so much\nmoney; his estate was not large; but in the first place he spent very\nlittle on himself, and our life was extremely simple. Moreover, I became\naware that some of his former pupils and friends used to send him money at\ntimes for this express purpose.\n\nThe staff consisted of the old butler, whose wife was cook. There were\nthree other maid-servants; the gardener was also coachman. The house was\ncertainly clean and well-kept; we looked after ourselves to a great extent;\nbut there was never any apparent lack of money, though, on the other hand,\nthere was every sign of careful economy. Father Payne never talked about\nmoney. \"It's an interesting thing, money,\" I have heard him say, \"and it's\ncurious to see how people handle it--but we must not do it too much honour,\nand it isn't a thing that can be spoken of in general conversation.\"\n\n\n\nVIII\n\nTHE METHOD\n\n\nI do not propose to make any history of events, or to say how, within a\nvery short time, I fell into the life of the place. I will only say what\nwere the features of the scheme, and how the rule, such as it was, worked\nout.\n\nFirst of all, and above all, came the personality of Father Payne, which\npermeated and sustained the whole affair. It was not that he made it his\nbusiness to drive us along. It was not a case of \"the guiding hand in front\nand the propelling foot behind.\" He seldom interfered, and sometimes for a\nconsiderable space one would have no very direct contact with him. He was a\nman who was always intent, but by no means always intent on shepherding. I\nshould find it hard to say how he spent his time. He was sometimes to all\nappearances entirely indolent and good-natured, when he would stroll about,\ntalk to the people in the village, and look after the little farm which he\nkept in his own hands under a bailiff. At another time he would be for long\ntogether in an abstracted mood, silent, absent-minded, pursuing some train\nof thought. At another time he would be very busy with what we were doing,\nand hold long interviews with us, making us read our work to him and giving\nus detailed criticisms. On these occasions he was extremely stimulating,\nfor the simple reason that he always seemed to grasp what it was that one\nwas aiming at, and his criticisms were all directed to the question of how\nfar the original conception was being worked out. He did not, as a rule,\npoint out a different conception, or indicate how the work could be done on\nother lines. He always grasped the plan and intention, and really seemed to\nbe inside the mind of the contriver. He would say; \"I think the theme is\nweak here--and you can't make a weak place strong by filling it with\ndetails, however good in themselves. That is like trying to mend the Slough\nof Despond with cartloads of texts. The thing is not to fall in, or, if you\nfall in, to get out.\" His three divisions of a subject were \"what you say,\nwhat you wanted to say, what you ought to have wanted to say.\" Sometimes he\nwould listen in silence, and then say: \"I can't criticise that--it is all\noff the lines. You had better destroy it and begin again,\" Or he would say:\n\"You had better revise that and polish it up. It won't be any good when it\nis done--these patched-up things never are; but it will be good practice,\"\nHe was encouraging, because he never overlooked the good points of any\npiece of writing. He would say: \"The detail is good, but it is all too big\nfor its place, quite out of scale; it is like a huge ear on a small head,\"\nOr he would say: \"Those are all things worth saying and well said, but they\nare much too diffuse.\" He used to tell me that I was apt to stop the\ncarriage when I was bound on a rapid transit, and go for a saunter among\nfields. \"I don't object to your sauntering, but you must _intend_ to\nsaunter--you must not be attracted by a pleasant footpath.\" Sometimes he\ncould be severe, \"That's vulgar,\" he once said to me, \"and you can't make\nit attractive by throwing scent about,\" Or he would say: \"That's a\nplatitude--which means that it may be worth thinking and feeling, but not\nworth saying. You can depend upon your reader feeling it without your\nhelp,\" Or he would say: \"You don't understand that point. It is a case of\nthe blind leading the blind. Cut the whole passage, and think it out\nagain,\" Or he would say: \"That is all too compressed. You began by walking,\nand now you are jumping.\" Or he would say: \"There is a note of personal\nirritation about that; it sounds as if you had been reading an unpleasant\nreview. It is like the complaint of the nightingale leaning her breast\nagainst a thorn in order to get the sensation of pain. You seem to be\nwiping your eyes all through--you have not got far enough away from your\nvexation. Your attempt to give it a humorous turn reminds me of Miss\nSqueers' titter--you must never titter!\" Once or twice in early times I\nused to ask him how _he_ would do it. \"Don't ask me!\" he said. \"I\nhaven't got to do it--that's your business; it's no use your doing it in\n_my_ way; all I know is that you are not doing it in _your_ way.\"\nHe was very quick at noticing any mannerisms or favourite words. \"All good\nwriters have mannerisms, of course,\" he would say, \"but the moment that the\nreader sees that it is a mannerism the charm is gone.\" His praise was\nrarely given, and when it came it was generous and rich. \"That is\nexcellent,\" I can hear him say, \"You have filled your space exactly, and\nfilled it well. There is not a word to add or to take away.\" He was always\nprepared to listen to argument or defence. \"Very well--read it again.\"\nThen, at the end, he would say: \"Yes, there is something in that. You meant\nto anticipate? I don't mind that! But you have anticipated too much, made\nit too clear; it should just be a hint, no more, which will be explained\nlater. Don't blurt! You have taken the wind out of your sails by explaining\nit too fully.\"\n\nSometimes he would leave us alone for two or three weeks together, and then\nsay frankly that one had been wasting time, or the reverse. \"You must not\ndepend upon me too much; you must learn to walk alone.\"\n\nEvery week we had a meeting, at which some one read a fragment aloud. At\nthese meetings he criticised little himself, but devoted his attention to\nour criticisms. He would not allow harshness or abruptness in what we said.\n\"We don't want your conclusions or your impressions--we want your reasons.\"\nOr he would say: \"That is a fair criticism, but unsympathetic. It is in the\nspirit of a reviewer who wants to smash a man. We don't want Stephen to be\nstoned here, we want him confuted.\" I remember once how he said with\nindignation: \"That is simply throwing a rotten egg! And its maturity shows\nthat it was kept for that purpose! You are not criticising, you are only\npaying off an old score!\"\n\nBut I think that the two ways in which he most impressed himself were by\nhis conversation, when we were all together, and by his _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_\ntalks, if one happened to be his companion. When we were all together he\nwas humorous, ironical, frank. He did not mind what was said to him, so\nlong as it was courteously phrased; but I have heard him say: \"We must\nremember we are fencing--we must not use bludgeons.\" Or: \"You must not talk\nas if you were scaring birds away--we are all equal here.\" He was very\nunguarded himself in what he said, and always maintained that talkers ought\nto contribute their own impressions freely and easily. He used to quote\nwith much approval Dr. Johnson's remark about his garrulous old\nschool-fellow, Edwards. Boswell said, when Edwards had gone, that he\nthought him a weak man. \"Why, yes, sir,\" said Johnson. \"Here is a man who\nhas passed through life without experiences; yet I would rather have him\nwith me than a more sensible man who will not talk readily. This man is\nalways willing to say what he has to say.\" Father Payne used to add: \"The\npoint is to talk; you must not consider your reputation; say whatever comes\ninto your head, and when you have learnt to talk, you can begin to select.\"\nI have heard him say; \"Go on, some one! It is everybody's business here to\navoid a pause. Don't be sticky! Pauses are for a _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_.\" Or,\nagain, I have heard him say: \"You mustn't examine witnesses here! You\nshould never ask more than three questions running.\" He did not by any\nmeans keep his own rules; but he would apologise sometimes for his\nshortcomings. \"I'm hopeless to-day. I can't attend, I can't think of\nanything in particular. I'm diluted, I'm weltering--I'm coming down like a\nshower.\"\n\nThe result of this certainly was that we most of us did learn to talk. He\nliked to thrash a subject out, but he hated too protracted a discussion.\n\"Here, we've had enough of this. It's very important, but I'm getting\nbored. I feel priggish. Help, help!\"\n\nOn the other hand, he was even more delightful in a _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_. He\nwould say profound and tender things, let his emotions escape him. He had\nwith me, and I expect with others, a sort of indulgent and paternal way\nwith him. He never forgot a confidence, and he used to listen delightedly\nto stories of one's home circle. \"Tell me some stories about Aunt Jane,\" he\nwould say to me. \"There is something impotently fiery about that good lady\nthat I like. Tell me again what she said when she found cousin Frank in a\nsmoking-cap reading Thomas-\u00e0-Kempis.\" He had a way of quoting one's own\nstories which was subtly flattering, and he liked sidelights of a\ngood-natured kind on the character of other members. \"Why won't he say such\nthings to me?\" he used to say. \"He thinks I should respect him less, when\nreally I should admire him more. He won't let me see when his box is empty!\nI suspect him of reading Bartlett's _Familiar Quotations_ before he\ngoes a walk with me!\" Or he would say: \"In a general talk you must think\nabout your companions; in a _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate_ you must only feel him.\"\n\nBut the most striking thing about Father Payne was this. Though we were all\nvery conscious of his influence, and indeed of his authority; though we\nknew that he meant to have his own way, and was quite prepared to speak\nfrankly and act decisively, we were never conscious of being watched or\ncensured or interfered with. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred it was a\npure pleasure to meet him and to be with him, and many a time have I seen\nhim, in a moment of leisure, strolling in the garden, and hurried out just\non the chance of getting a word or a smile, or, if he was in an expansive\nmood, having my arm taken by him for a little turn. In the hundredth case,\nit happened that one might have said or done something which one knew that\nhe would disapprove. But, as he never stored things up or kept you waiting,\nyou could be sure he would speak soon or not at all. Often, too, he would\njust say: \"I don't think that your remark to Kaye gave a fair impression of\nyourself,\" or, \"Why waste your powder as you did to-night?\" I was only once\nor twice directly rebuked by him, and that was for a prolonged neglect.\n\"You don't _care_,\" he once said to me emphatically. \"I can't do\nanything for you if you don't care!\" But he was the most entirely placable\nof men. A word of regret or apology, and he would say: \"Don't give it\nanother thought, my boy,\" or, \"That's all right, then.\"\n\nThe real secret of his influence was that he took not a critical or even a\ndispassionate view of each of us, but an enthusiastic view. He took no\npleasure in our shortcomings; they were rather of the nature of an active\npersonal disappointment. The result was simply that you were natural with\nhim, but natural with the added sense that he liked you and thought well of\nyou, and expected friendship and even brilliance from you. You felt that he\nknew you well, and recognised your faults and weaknesses, but that he knew\nyour best side even better, and enjoyed the presence of it. I never knew\nanyone who was so appreciative, and though I said foolish things to him\nsometimes, I felt that he was glad that I should be my undisguised self. It\nwas thus delicately flattering to be with him, and it gave confidence and\nself-respect. That was the basis of our whole life, the goodwill and\naffection of Father Payne, and the desire to please him.\n\n\n\nIX\n\nFATHER PAYNE\n\n\nFather Payne was a big solid man, as I have said, but he contrived to give\nthe impression of being even bigger than he was. It was like the Irish\nestate, of which its owner said that it had more land to the acre than any\nplace he knew. This was the result, I suppose, of what Barthrop once dryly\ncalled the \"effortless expansion\" of Father Payne's personality. I suppose\nhe was about six-foot-two in height, and he must have weighed fifteen stone\nor even more. He was not stout, but all his limbs were solid, so that he\nfilled his clothes. His hands were big, his feet were big. He wore a rather\nfull beard: he was slightly bald when I knew him, but his hair grew rather\nlong and curly. He always wore old clothes--but you were never conscious of\nwhat he wore: he never looked, as some people do, like a suit of clothes\nwith a person inside them. Thinking it over, it seems to me that the reason\nwhy you noticed his clothes so little, when you were with him, was because\nyou were always observing his face, or his hands, which were extremely\ncharacteristic of him, or his motions, which had a lounging sort of grace\nabout them. Heavy men are apt on occasions to look lumbering, but Father\nPayne never looked that. His whole body was under his full control. When he\nwalked, he swung easily along; when he moved, he moved impetuously and\neagerly. But his face was the most remarkable thing about him. It had no\ngreat distinction of feature, and it was sanguine, often sunburnt, in hue.\nBut, solid as it was, it was all alive. His big dark eyes were brimful of\namusement and kindliness, and it was like coming into a warm room on a cold\nday to have his friendly glance directed upon you. As he talked, his\neyebrows moved swiftly, and he had a look, with his eyes half-closed and\nhis brows drawn up, as he waited for an answer, of what the old books call\n\"quizzical\"--a sort of half-caressing irony, which was very attractive. He\nhad an impatient little frown which passed over his face, like a ruffle of\nwind, if things went too slowly or heavily for his taste; and he had, too,\non occasions a deep, abstracted look, as if he were following a thought\nfar. There was also another look, well known to his companions, when he\nturned his eyes upwards with a sort of resignation, generally accompanied\nby a deprecating gesture of the hand. Altogether it was a most expressive\nface, because, except in his abstracted mood, he always seemed to be\nentirely _there_, not concealing or repressing anything, but bending\nhis whole mind upon what was being said. Moreover, if you said anything\npersonal or intimate to him, a word of gratitude or pleasure, he had a\nquick, beautiful, affectionate look, so rewarding, so embracing that I\noften tried to evoke it--though an attempt to evoke it deliberately often\nproduced no more than a half-smile, accompanied by a little wink, as if he\nsaw through the attempt.\n\nHis great soft white hands, always spotlessly clean--he was the\ncleanest-looking man I ever saw--were really rather extraordinary. They\nlooked at first sight clumsy, and even limp; but he was unusually deft and\nadroit with his fingers, and his touch on plants, in gardening, his tying\nof strings--he liked doing up parcels--was very quick and delicate. He was\nfond of all sorts of little puzzles, toys of wood and metal, which had to\nbe fitted together; and the puzzles took shape or fell to pieces under his\nfingers like magic. They were extremely sensitive to pain, his hands, and a\nlittle pinch or abrasion would cause him marked discomfort. His handwriting\nwas rapid and fine, and he occasionally would draw a tiny sketch to\nillustrate something, which showed much artistic skill. He often deplored\nhis ignorance of handicraft, which, he said would have been a great relief\nto him.\n\nHis voice, again, was remarkable. It was not in ordinary talk either deep\nor profound, though it could and did become both on occasions, especially\nwhen he made a quotation, which he did with some solemnity. I used at first\nto think that there was a touch of rhetorical affectation about his\nquotations. They were made in a high musical tone, and as often as not\nended with the tears coming into his eyes. He spoke to me once about this.\nHe said that it was a mistake to think he was _deeply_ affected by a\nquotation. \"In fact,\" he said, \"I am not easily affected by passionate or\ntragic emotion--what does affect me is a peculiar touch of beauty, but it\nis a luxurious and superficial thing. It would entirely prevent me,\" he\nadded, \"from reading many poems or prose passages aloud which I greatly\nadmire. I simply could not command myself! In fact,\" he went on, smiling,\n\"I very often can only get to the end of a quotation by fixing my mind on\nsomething else. I add up the digits giving the number of the page, or I\ncount the plates at the dinner-table. It's very absurd--but it takes me in\njust the same way when I am alone. I could not read the last chapter of the\nBook of Revelation aloud to myself, or the chapter on 'The Wilderness' in\nIsaiah, without shedding tears. But it doesn't mean anything; it is just\nthe _hysterica passio_, you know!\"\n\nHis voice, when he first joined in a talk, was often low and even\nhesitating; but when he became interested and absorbed, it gathered volume\nand emphasis. Barthrop once said to me that Father Payne was the only\nperson he knew who always talked in italics. But he very seldom harangued,\nthough it is difficult to make that clear in recording his talks, because\nhe often spoke continuously. Yet it was never a soliloquy: he always\nincluded the listeners. He used to look round at them, explore their faces,\ncatch an eye and smile, indicate the particular person addressed by a\ndarted-out finger; and he had many little free gestures with his hands as\nhe talked. He would trace little hieroglyphics with his finger, as if he\nwere writing a word, sweep an argument aside, bring his hands together as\nthough he were shaping something. This was a little confusing at first, and\nused to divert my attention, because of the great mobility of his hands;\nbut after a little it seemed to me to bring out and illustrate his points\nin a remarkably salient way.\n\nHis habits were curious and a little mysterious. They were by no means\nregular. Sometimes for days together we hardly saw him. He often rose early\nand walked in the garden. If he found a book which interested him, he would\nread it with absorbed attention, quite unconscious of the flight of time.\n\"I do love getting really _buried_ in a book,\" he would say; \"it's the\nbest of tests.\" Sometimes he wrote, sometimes he composed music, sometimes\nhe would have his table covered with bits of paper full of unintelligible\ndesigns and patterns. He did not mind being questioned, but he would not\nsatisfy one's curiosity. \"It's only some nonsense of mine,\" he would say.\nHe did not write many letters, and they were generally short. At times he\nwould be very busy on his farm, at times occupied in the village, at times\nhe took long walks alone; very occasionally he went away for a day or two.\nHe was both uncommunicative and communicative. He would often talk with the\nutmost frankness and abandon about his private affairs; but, on the other\nhand, I always had the sense of much that was hidden in his life. And I\nhave no doubt that he spent much time in prayer and meditation. He seldom\nspoke of this, but it played a large part in his life. He gave the\nimpression of great ease, cheerfulness, and tranquillity, attained by some\ndeliberate resolve, because he was both restless and sensitive, took\nsorrows and troubles hardly, and was deeply shocked and distressed by sad\nnews of any kind. I have heard him say that he often had great difficulty\nin forcing himself to open a letter which he thought likely to be\ndistressing or unpleasant. He was naturally, I imagine, of an almost\nneurotic tendency; but he did not seem so much to combat this by occupation\nand determination as to have arrived at some mechanical way of dealing with\nit. I remember that he said to me once: \"If you have a bad business on\nhand, an unhappy or wounding affair, it is best to receive it fully and\nquietly. Let it do its worst, realise it, take it in--don't resist it,\ndon't try to distract your mind: see the full misery of it, don't attempt\nto minimise it. If you do that, you will suddenly find something within you\ncome to your rescue and say, 'Well, I can bear that!' and then it is all\nright. But if you try to dodge it, it's my experience that there comes a\nkind of back-wash which hurts very much indeed. Let the stream go over you,\nand then emerge. To fight against it simply prolongs the agony.\" He\ncertainly recovered himself quicker than anyone I have ever known: indeed I\nthink his recuperation was the best sign of his enormous vitality. \"I'm\nsensitive,\" he said to me once, \"but I'm tough--I have a fearful power of\nforgetting--it's much better than forgiving.\" But the thing which remains\nmost strongly in my mind about him is the way in which he pervaded the\nwhole place. It was fancy, perhaps, but I used to think I knew whether he\nwas in the house or not. Certainly, if I wanted to speak to him, I used to\ngo off to his study on occasions, quite sure that I should find him; while\non other occasions--and I more than once put this to the test--I have\nthought to myself, \"It's no use going--the Father is out.\" His presence at\nany sort of gathering was entirely unmistakable. It was not that you felt\nhampered or controlled: it was more like the flowing of some clear stream.\nWhen he was away, the thing seemed tame and spiritless; when he was there,\nit was all full of life. But his presence was not, at least to me, at all\nwearisome or straining. I have known men of great vitality who were\nundeniably fatiguing, because they overcame one like a whirlwind. But with\nFather Payne it always seemed as though he put wind into one's sails, but\nleft one to steer one's own course. He did not thwart or deflect, or even\ndirect: he simply multiplied one's own energy. I never had the sensation\nwith him of suppressing any thought in my mind, or of saying to myself,\n\"The Father won't care about that.\" He always did care, and I used to feel\nthat he was glad to be inquired of, glad to have his own thoughts diverted,\nglad to be of use. He never nagged; or found petty fault, or \"chivied\" you,\nas the boys say. If you asked him a question, or asked him to stroll or\nwalk, you always felt that he was delighted, that it was the one thing he\nenjoyed. He liked to have childish secrets. He and I had several little\n_caches_ in the holes of trees, or the chinks of buildings, where we\nconcealed small coins or curious stones on our walks, and at a later date\nrevisited them. We were frankly silly about certain things. He and I had\nsome imaginary personages--Dr. Waddilove, supposed to be a rich beneficed\nclergyman of Tory views; Mr. McTurk, a matter-of-fact Scotsman; Henry\nBland, a retired schoolmaster with copious stores of information; and\nothers--and we used often to discourse in character. But he always knew\nwhen to stop. He would say to me suddenly: \"Dr. Waddilove said to me\nyesterday that he never argued with atheists or radicals, because they\nalways came round in the end.\" Or he would say, in Henry Bland's flute-like\ntones: \"Your mention of Robert Browning induces me to relate an anecdote,\nwhich I think may prove not wholly uninteresting to you.\" At times we used\nto tell long stories on our walks, stopping short in the middle of a\nsentence, when the other had instantly to continue the narrative. I do not\nmean that the wit was very choice or the humour at all remarkable--it would\nnot bear being written down--but it amused us both. \"Come, what shall we do\nto-day?\" I can hear him say. \"Dr. Waddilove and Mr. Bland might have a walk\nand discuss the signs of the times?\" And then the ridiculous dialogue would\nbegin.\n\nThat was the delightful thing about him, that he was always ready to fall\nin with a mood, always light of touch and gay. He could be tender and\nsympathetic, as well as incisive and sensible if it was needed; but he was\nnever either contradictory or severe or improving. He would sometimes pull\nhimself up and say: \"Here, we must be business-like,\" but he was never\nreproachful or grieved or shocked by what we said to him. He could be\ndecisive, stern, abrupt, if it was really needed. But his most pungent\nreproofs were inflicted by a blank silence, which was one of the most\nappalling things to encounter. He generally began to speak again a few\nmoments later, on a totally different subject, while any such sign of\ndispleasure was extremely rare. He never under any circumstances reminded\nanyone of his generosity, or the trouble he had taken, or the favours he\nhad conferred, while he would often remind one of some trifling kindness\ndone to him. \"I often remember how good you were about those accounts, old\nboy! I should never have got through without you!\"\n\nHis demeanour was generally that of an indulgent uncle, with that\nparticular touch of nearness which in England is apt to exist only among\nrelations. He would consult us about his own private worries with entire\nfrankness, and this more than anything made us ready to confide in him. He\nused to hand us cheques or money if required, with a little wink. \"That's\nyour screw!\" he used to say; and he liked any thanks that seemed natural.\n\n\"Natural,\"--that is the word that comes before me all through. I can\nremember no one so unembarrassed, so easy, so transparent. His thought\nflowed into his talk; and his silences were not reticences, but the busy\nsilence of the child who has \"a plan.\" He gave himself away without economy\nand without disguise, and he accepted gratefully and simply whatever you\ncared to give him of thought or love. I think oftenest of how I sometimes\nwent to see him in the evenings: if he was busy, as he often was, he used\njust to murmur half to himself, \"Well, old man?\" indicate a chair, put his\nfinger on his lips, and go on with his work or his book; but at intervals\nhe would just glance at me with a little smile, and I knew that he was glad\nto have me at hand in that simple companionship when there is no need of\nspeech or explanation. And then the book or paper would be dropped, and he\nwould say: \"Well, out with it.\" If one said, \"Nothing--only company,\" he\nwould give one of his best and sweetest smiles.\n\n\n\nX\n\nCHARACTERISTICS\n\n\nBut whatever may have been Father Payne's effect upon us individually or\ncollectively, or however the result may have been achieved, there was no\nquestion of one thing, and that was the ardent and beautiful happiness of\nthe place. Joy deliberately schemed for and planned is apt to evaporate.\nBut we were not hunting for happiness as men dig for gold. We were looking\nfor something quite different. We were all doing work for which we cared,\nwith kind and yet incisive criticism to help us; and then the simplicity\nand regularity of the life, the total absence of all indulgence, the\nexercise, the companionship, the discipline, all generated a kind of high\nspirits that I have known in no other place and at no other time. I used to\nawake in the morning fresh and alert, free from all anxiety, all sense of\ntiresome engagements, all possibility of boredom. All staleness, weariness,\nall complications and conventional duties, all jealousies and envyings,\nwere absent. We were not competing with each other, we were not bent on\nasserting ourselves, we had just each our own bit of work to do; moreover\nour spaces of travel had an invigorating effect, and sent us back to Aveley\nwith the zest of returning to a beloved home. Of course there were little\nbickerings at times, little complexities of friendship; but these never\ncame to anything in Father Payne's kindly present. Sometimes a man would\nget fretful or worried over his work; if so, he was generally despatched on\na brief holiday, with an injunction to do no work at all; and I am sure\nthat the prospect of even temporary banishment was the strongest of all\nmotives for the suppression of strife. I remember spring mornings, when the\nbirds began to sing in the shrubberies, and the beds were full of rising\nflower-blades, when one's whole mind and heart used to expand in an ecstasy\nof hope and delight; I remember long rambles or bicycle rides far into the\nquiet pastoral country, in the summer heat, alone or with a single\ncompanion, when life seemed almost too delicious to continue; then there\nwould be the return, and a plunge into the bathing-pool, and another quiet\nhour or two at the work in hand, and the delight of feeling that one was\ngaining skill and ease of expression; or again there would be the quick\ntramp in winter along muddy roads, with the ragged clouds hurrying across\nthe sky, with the prospect ahead of a fire-lit evening of study and talk;\nand best of all a walk and a conversation with Father Payne himself, when\nall that he said seemed to interpret life afresh and to put it in a new and\nexciting aspect. I never met anyone with such a power of linking the loose\nends of life together, and of giving one so joyful a sense of connection\nand continuance. How it was done I cannot guess; but whereas other minds\ncould cast light upon problems, Father Payne somehow made light shine\nthrough them, and gave them a soft translucence. But while he managed to\ngive one a great love of life itself, it never rested there; he made me\nfeel engaged in some sort of eternal business, and though he used no\nconventional expressions, I had in his presence a sense of vast horizons\nand shining tracks passing into an infinite distance full of glory and\nsweetness, and of death itself as a mystery of surprise and wonder. He\ntaught me to look for beauty and harmony, not to waste time in mean\ncontroversy or in futile regret, but to be always moving forwards, and\nwelcoming every sign of confidence and goodwill. He had a way, too, of\nmaking one realise the dignity and necessity of work, without cherishing\nany self-absorbed illusions about its impressiveness or its importance. His\ncreed was the recognition of all beauty and vividness as an unquestionable\nsign of the presence of God, the Power that made for order and health and\nstrength and peace; and the deep necessity of growing to understand one\nanother with unsuspicious trustfulness and sympathy--the Fatherhood of God,\nand the Brotherhood of Man, these were the doctrines by which he lived.\n\nIt used to be an extraordinary pleasure to me to accompany him about the\nvillage; he knew every one, and could talk with a simple directness and a\nquiet humour that was inimitable. I never saw so naturally pastoral a man.\nHe carried good-temper about with him, and yet he could rebuke with a\nsharpness which surprised me, if there was need. He was curiously tolerant,\nI used to think, of sensual sins, but in the presence of cruelty or\nmeanness or deliberate deceit he used to explode into the most violent\nlanguage. I remember a scene which it is almost a terror to me now to\nrecollect, when I was walking with him, and we met a tipsy farmer of a\nneighbouring village flogging his horse along a lane. He ran up beside the\ncart, he stopped the horse, he roared at the farmer, \"Get out of your cart,\nyou d--d brute, and lead it home.\" The farmer descended in a state of\nstupefaction. Father Payne snatched the whip out of his hand, broke it,\nthrew it over the hedge, threatened him with all the terrors of the law,\nand reduced him to a state of abject submission. Presently he recovered\nsomewhat, and in drunken wrath began to abuse Father Payne. \"Very well,\"\nsaid Father Payne, \"you can take your choice: either you lead the horse\nhome quietly, and I'll see it done; or else I come with you to the village,\nand tell the people what I think of you in the open street. And if you put\nup your fist like that again, I'll run you home myself and hand you over to\nthe policeman. I'll be d--d if I won't do it now. Here, Duncan,\" he said to\nme, \"you go and fetch the policeman, and we'll have a little procession\nback.\" The ruffian thought better of it, and led the horse away muttering,\nwhile we walked behind until we were near the farm, \"Now get in, and behave\nyourself,\" said Father Payne. \"And if you choose to come over to-morrow and\nbeg my pardon, you may; and if you don't, I'll have you up before the\nmagistrates on Saturday next.\"\n\nI had never seen such wrath; but the tempest subsided instantly, and he\nwalked back with me in high good-humour. The next day the man came over,\nand Father Payne said to me in the evening: \"We had quite an affecting\nscene. I gave him a bit of my mind, and he thanked me for speaking\nstraight. He's a low brute, but I don't think he'll do the same sort of\nthing in a hurry. I'll give him six weeks to get over his fright, and then\nI'll do a little patrolling!\"\n\nHis gentleness, on the other hand, with women and children was beautiful to\nsee. It was as natural for Father Payne to hurry to a scene of disaster or\ngrief as it was for others to wish to stay away. He used to speak to a\nsufferer or a mourner with great directness. \"Tell me all about it,\" he\nwould say, and he would listen with little nods and gestures, raising his\neyebrows or even shutting his eyes, saying very little, except a word or\ntwo of sympathy at the end. He knew all the children, but he never petted\nthem or made favourites, but treated them with a serious kind of gravity\nwhich he assured us they infinitely preferred. He used to have a Christmas\nentertainment for them at the Hall, as well as a summer feast. He\nencouraged the boys and young men to botanise and observe nature in all\nforms, and though he would never allow nests to be taken, or even eggs if\nhe could help it, he would give little prizes for the noting of any rare\nbird or butterfly. \"If you want men to live in the country, they must love\nthe country,\" he used to say. He kept a village club going, but he never\nwent there. \"It's embarrassing,\" he used to say. \"They don't want me\nstrolling in any more than I want them strolling in. Philanthropists have\nno sense of privacy.\" He did not call at the villagers' houses, unless\nthere was some special event, and his talks were confined to chance\nmeetings. Neither was there any sense of duty about it. \"No one is taken in\nby formal visiting,\" he said. \"You must just do it if you like it, or else\nstay away. 'To keep yourself to yourself' is the highest praise these\npeople can give. No one likes a fuss!\"\n\nThe same sort of principles regulated our own intercourse. \"We are not\nmonks,\" he used to say; \"we are Carthusians, hermits, living together for\ncomfort or convenience.\" The solitude and privacy of everyone was\nrespected. We used to do our talking when we took exercise; but there was\nvery little sitting and gossiping together _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate._ \"I don't\nwant everyone to try to be intimate with everyone else,\" he used to say.\n\"The point is just to get on amicably together; we won't have any cliques\nor coteries.\" He himself never came to any of our rooms, but sent a message\nif he wanted to see us. One small thing he strongly objected to, the\nshouting up from the garden to anyone's window: \"Most offensive!\" He\ndisliked all loud shouting and calling or singing aloud. \"You mustn't use\nthe world as a private sitting-room.\" And the one thing which used to fret\nhim was a voice stridently raised. \"Don't rouse the echoes!\" he would say.\n\"You have no more right to make a row than you have to use a strong scent\nor to blow a post-horn--that's not liberty!\" The result of this was that\nthe house was a singularly quiet one, and this sense of silence and subdued\nsound lives in my memory as one of its most refreshing characteristics. \"A\nrow is only pleasant if it is deliberate and organised,\" he used to say.\n\"Native woodnotes wild are all very well, but they are not civilisation. To\ntalk audibly and quietly is the best proof of virtue and honour!\"\n\n\n\nXI\n\nCONVERSATION\n\n\nI am going to try to give a few impressions of talks with Father\nPayne--both public and private talks. It is, however, difficult to do this\nwithout giving, perhaps, a wrong impression. I used to get into the habit\nof jotting down the things he had said, and I improved by practice. But he\nwas a rapid talker and somewhat discursive, and he was often deflected from\nhis main subject by a question or a discussion. Yet I do not want it to be\nthought that he was fond of monologue and soliloquy. He was not, I should\nsay, a very talkative man; days would sometimes pass without his doing more\nthan just taking a hand in conversation. He liked to follow the flow of a\ntalk, and to contribute a remark now and then; sometimes he was markedly\nsilent; but in no case was he ever oppressive. Occasionally, and more often\nin _t\u00eate-\u00e0-t\u00eate,_ he went ahead and talked copiously, but this was\nrather the exception than the rule. I have not thought it worth while to\ntry to give the effect of our own talk. We were young, excitable, and\nargumentative, and, though it was at the time often delightful and\nstimulating, it was also often very crude and immature. Father Payne was\ngood at helping a talker out, and would often do justice to a\nclumsily-expressed remark which he thought was interesting. But he was by\nfar the most interesting member of the circle; he spoke easily and\nflowingly when he was moved, and there always seemed to me a sense of form\nabout his talk which was absent from ours. But under no circumstance did he\never become tedious--indeed he was extremely sensitive to the smallest\nsigns of impatience. We often tried, so to speak, to draw him out; but if\nhe had the smallest suspicion that he was being drawn, he became instantly\nsilent.\n\nThere is more coherence about some of the talks I have recorded than was\nactually the case. He would diverge to tell a story, or he would call one's\nattention to some sight or sound.\n\nMoreover his face, his movements, his gestures, all added much to his talk.\nHe had a way of wrinkling up his brows, of shaking his head, of looking\nround with an awestruck expression, his eyes wide open, his mouth pursed\nup, especially when he had reached some triumphantly absurd conclusion. He\nhad two little quick gestures of the hands as he spoke, opening his\nfingers, waving a point aside, emphasizing an argument by a quick downward\nmotion of his forefinger. He had, too, a quick, loud, ebullient laugh,\nsometimes shrill, sometimes deep; and he abandoned himself to laughter at\nan absurd story or jest as completely as anyone I have ever seen. Rose was\nan excellent mimic, and Father Payne used to fall into agonising paroxysms\nof laughter at many of his representations. But he always said that\nlaughter was with him a social mood, and that he had never any inclination\nto laugh when he was alone.\n\nSo the record of his talks must be taken not as typical of his everyday\nmood, but as instances of the kind of things he said when he was moved to\nspeak at large; and even so they give, I am aware, too condensed an\nimpression. He never talked as if he were playing on a party or a companion\nwith a hose-pipe. There was never anyone who was more easily silenced or\ndiverted. But to anyone who knew him they will give, I believe, a true\nimpression of his method of talk; and perhaps they may give to those who\nnever saw him a faint reflection of his lively and animated mind, the\nenergy with which he addressed himself to small problems, and the firm\nbelief which he always maintained, that any evidence of life, however\nelementary, was more encouraging and inspiring than the most elaborate\nlogic or the profoundest intellectual grasp of abstract subjects.\n\n\n\nXII\n\nOF GOING TO CHURCH\n\n\nI had been to church one summer Sunday morning--a very simple affair it\nwas, with nothing sung but a couple of hymns; but the Vicar read\nbeautifully, neither emphatically nor lifelessly, with a little thrill in\nhis voice at times that I liked to hear. It did not compel you to listen so\nmuch as invite you to join. Lestrange played the organ most divinely; he\ngenerally extemporised before the service, and played a simple piece at the\nend; but he never strained the resources of the little organ, and it was\nall simple and formal music, principally Bach or Handel.\n\nFather Payne himself was a regular attendant at church, and Sunday was a\ndecidedly leisurely day. He advised us to put aside our writing work, to\nwrite letters, read, make personal jottings, talk, though there was no\ninquisition into such things.\n\nFather Payne was a somewhat irregular responder, but it was a pleasure to\nsit near him, because his deep, rapid voice gave a new quality to the\nwords. He seemed happy in church, and prayed with great absorption, though\nI noticed that his Bible was often open before him all through the service.\nThe Vicar's sermons were good of their kind, suggestive rather than\nprovocative, about very simple matters of conduct rather than belief. I\nhave heard Father Payne speak of them with admiration as never being\ndiscursive, and I gathered that the Vicar was a great admirer of Newman's\nsermons.\n\nWe came away together, Father Payne and I, and we strolled a little in the\ngarden. I felt emboldened to ask him the plain question why he went to\nchurch. \"Oh, for a lot of reasons,\" he said, \"none of them very conclusive!\nI like to meet my friends in the first place; and then a liturgy has a\ncharm for me. It has a beauty of its own, and I like ceremony. It is not\nthat I think it sacred--only beautiful. But I quite admit the weakness of\nit, which is simply that it does not appeal to everyone, and I don't think\nthat our Anglican service is an ideal service. It is too refined and\nformal; and many people would feel it was more religious if it were more\nextempore--prayer and plain advice.\"\n\nI told him something of my old childish experience, saying that I used to\nregard church as a sort of calling-over, and that God would be vexed if one\ndid not appear.\n\nHe laughed at this. \"Yes, I don't think we can insist on it as being a\nlev\u00e9e,\" he said, \"where one is expected to come and make one's bow and pay\nformal compliments. That idea is an old anthropomorphic one, of course. It\nis superstitious--it is almost debasing to think of God demanding praise as\na duty incumbent on us. 'To thee all angels cry aloud'--I confess I don't\nlike the idea of heaven as a place of cheerful noise--that isn't\nattractive!\n\n\"And also I think that the attention demanded in our service is a\nmistake--it's a mixture of two ideas; the liturgical ceremony which touches\nthe eye and the emotion, rather than the reason; and the sermon and the\nprayer in which the reason is supposed to be concerned. I think the\nCatholic idea is a better one, a solemnity performed, in which you don't\ntake part, but receive impressions. There's no greater strain on the mind\nthan forcing it to follow a rapid and exalted train of intellectual and\nliterary thought and expression. I confess I don't attempt that, it seems\nto me just a joyful and neighbourly business, where one puts the mind in a\ncertain expectant mood, and is lucky if one carries a single thrill or\naspiration away.\"\n\n\"What do you _do_, then?\" I said.\n\n\"Well, I meditate,\" said Father Payne. \"I believe in meditation very much,\nand in solitude it is very hard work. But the silent company of friends,\nand the old arches and woodwork, some simple music, a ceremony, and a\nlittle plan of thought going on--that seems to me a fruitful atmosphere.\nSome verse, some phrase, which I have heard a hundred times before,\nsuddenly seems written in letters of gold. I follow it a little way into\nthe dark, I turn it over, I wonder about it, I enjoy its beauty. I don't\nsay that my thoughts are generally very startling or poignant or profound;\nbut I feel the sense of the Fatherly, tolerant, indulgent presence of God,\nand a brotherly affection for my fellow-men. It's a great thing to be in\nthe same place with a number of people, all silent, and on the whole\nthinking quiet, happy, and contented thoughts. It all brings me into line\nwith my village friends, it gives me a social mood, and I feel for once\nthat we all want the same things from life--and that for once instead of\nhaving to work and push for them, we are fed and comforted. 'Open thy mouth\nwide, and I will fill it'--that's a wholesome, childlike verse, you know.\nThe whole thing seems to me a simple device for producing a placid and\nexpectant mood--I don't know anything else that produces it so well.\"\n\n\"You mean it is something mystical--almost hypnotic?\" I said.\n\n\"Perhaps I should if I knew what those big words meant,\" said Father Payne,\nsmiling. \"No; church seems to me a thing that has really grown up out of\nhuman nature, not a thing imposed upon it. I don't like what may be called\necclesiasticism, partly because it emphasizes the intellectual side of\nbelief, partly because it tries to cast a slur on the people who don't like\nceremonial, and whom it does not suit--and most of all because\necclesiasticism aims at making you believe that other people can transact\nspiritual business on your account. In these democratic days, you can't\nhave spiritual authority--you have got to find what people need, and help\nthem to find it for themselves. The plain truth is that we don't want\ndogma. Of course it isn't to be despised, because it once meant something,\neven if it does not now. Dogmas are not unintelligible intellectual\npropositions imposed on the world. They are explanations, interpretations,\nattempts to link facts together. They have the sacredness of ideas which\npeople lived by, and for which they were prepared to die. But many of them\nare scientific in form only, and the substance has gone out of them. We\nknow more in one sense about life and God than we did, but we also know\nless, because we realise there is so much more to know. But now we want, I\nbelieve, two or three great ideas which everyone can understand--like\nFatherhood and Brotherhood, like peace and orderliness and beauty. I think\nthat a church service means all these things, or ought to. What people need\nis simplicity and beauty of life--joy and hope and kindness. Anything which\nhelps these things on is fine; anything which bewilders and puzzles and\ngives a sense of dreariness is simply injurious. I want to be told to be\nquiet, to try again, not to be disheartened by failures, not to be angry\nwith other people, to give up things, rather than to get them with a sauce\nof envy and spite--the feeling of a happy and affectionate family, in fact.\nThe sort of thing I don't want is the Athanasian Creed. I can't regard it\nsimply as a picturesque monument of ancient and ferocious piety. It seems\nto me an overhanging cloud of menace and mystification! It doesn't hurt the\nunintelligent Christian, of course--he simply doesn't understand it; but to\nthe moderately intelligent it is like a dog barking furiously which may\npossibly get loose; a little more intelligence, and it is all right. You\nknow the dog is safely tied up! Again, I don't mind the cursing psalms,\nbecause they give the parson the power of saying: 'We say this to remind\nourselves that it was what people used to feel, and which Christ came to\nchange.' I don't mind anything that is human--what I can't tolerate is\nanything inhuman or unintelligible. No one can misunderstand the\nBeatitudes; very few people can follow the arguments of St. Paul! You don't\nwant only elaborate reasons for clever people, you want still more\nbeautiful motives for simple people. It isn't perfect, our service, I\nadmit, but it does me good.\"\n\n\"Tell me,\" I said--\"to go back for a moment--something more about\nmeditating--I like that!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Payne, \"it's like anchoring to a thought. Thought is a\nfidgety thing, restless, perverse. It anchors itself very easily on to a\ngrievance, or an unpleasant incident, or a squabble. Don't you know the\nmisery of being jerked back, time after time, by an unpleasant thought? I\nthink one ought to practise the opposite--and I know now by experience that\nit is possible. I will make a confession. I don't care for many of the Old\nTestament lessons myself. I think there's too much fact, or let us say\nincident, in them, and not enough poetry. Well, I take up my Bible, and I\nlook at Job, or Isaiah, or the Revelation, and I read quietly on. Suddenly\nthere's a gleam of gold in the bed of the stream--some splendid, deep, fine\nthought. I follow it out; I think how it has appeared in my own life, or in\nthe lives of other people--it bears me away on its wings, I pray about it,\nI hope to be more like that--and so on. Sometimes it is a sharp revelation\nof something ugly and perverse in my own nature--I don't dwell long on\nthat, but I see in imagination how it is likely to trouble me, and I hope\nthat it will not delude me again; because these evil things delude one,\nthey call noxious tricks by fine names. I say to myself, 'What you pretend\nis self-respect, or consistency, is really irritable vanity or stupid\nunimaginativeness.' But it is a mistake, I think, to dwell long on one's\ndeficiencies: what one has got to do is to fill one's life full of\npositive, active, beautiful things, until there is no room for the ugly\nintruders. And, to put it shortly, a service makes me think about other\npeople and about God; I fear it doesn't make me contrite or sorrowful. I\ndon't believe in any sort of self-pity, nor do I think one ought to\ncultivate shame; those things lie close to death, and it is life that I am\nin search of--fulness of life. Don't let us bemoan ourselves, or think that\na sign of grace!\"\n\n\"But if you find yourself grubby, nasty, suspicious, irritable, isn't it a\ngood thing to rub it in sometimes?\" I said.\n\n\"No, no,\" said Father Payne, \"life will do that hard enough. Turn your back\non it all, look at the beautiful things, leave a thief to catch a thief,\nand the dead to bury the dead. Don't sniff at the evil thing; go and get a\nbreath of fresh air.\"\n\n\n\nXIII\n\nOF NEWSPAPERS\n\n\nFather Payne was a very irregular reader of the newspaper; he was not\ngreedy of news, and he was incurious about events, while he disliked the\nway in which they were professionally dished up for human consumption. At\ntimes, however, he would pore long and earnestly over a daily paper with\nknitted brows and sighs. \"You seem to be suffering a good deal over your\npaper to-day, Father!\" said Barthrop once, regarding him with amusement.\nFather Payne lifted up his head, and then broke into a smile. \"It's all\nright, my boy!\" he said. \"I don't despair of the world itself, but I feel\nthat if the average newspaper represents the mind of the average man, the\nhuman race is very feeble--not worth saving! This sort of\nthing\"--indicating the paper with a wave of his hand--\"makes me realise how\nmany things there are that don't interest me--and I can't get at them\neither through the medium of these writers' minds. They don't seem to want\nsimply to describe the facts, but to manipulate them; they try to make you\nuncomfortable about the future, and contented with the past. It ought to be\njust the other way! And then I ask myself, 'Ought I, as a normal human\nbeing, to be as one-sided, as submissive, as trivial, as sentimental as\nthis?' These vast summaries of public opinion, do they represent anyone's\nopinion at all, or are they simply the sort of thing you talk about in a\nrailway-carriage with a man you don't know? Does anyone's mind really dwell\non such things and ponder them? The newspapers do not really know what is\nhappening--everything takes them by surprise. The ordinary person is\ninterested in his work, his amusements, the people he lives with--in real\nthings. There seems to be nothing real here; it is all shadowy, I want to\nget at men's minds, not at what journalists think is in men's minds. The\nhuman being in the newspapers seems to me an utterly unreal person,\npicturesque, theatrical, fatuous, slobbering, absurd. Does not the\nnewspaper-convention misrepresent us as much as the book-convention\nmisrepresents us? We straggle irregularly along, we are capable of\nentertaining at the same moment two wholly contrary opinions, we do what we\ndon't intend to do, we don't carry out our hopes or our purposes. The man\nin the papers is agitated, excited, wild, inquisitive--the ordinary person\nis calm, indifferent, and on the whole fairly happy, unless some one\nfrightens him. I can't make it out, because it isn't a conspiracy to\ndeceive, and yet it does deceive; and what is more, most people don't even\nseem to know that they are being misrepresented. It all seems to me to\ndiffer as much from real life as the Morning Service read in church differs\nfrom the thoughts of the congregation!\"\n\n\"How would you mend it?\" said Barthrop. \"It seems to me it must represent\n_something_.\"\n\n\"Something!\" said Father Payne. \"I don't know! I don't believe we are so\nstupid and so ignoble! As to mending it, that's another question. Writing\nis such a curious thing--it seems to represent anything in the world except\nthe current of a man's thoughts. Reverie--has anyone ever tried to\nrepresent that? I have been out for a walk sometimes, and reflected when I\ncame in that if what has passed through my mind were all printed in full in\na book, it would make a large octavo volume--and precious stuff, too! Yet\nthe few thoughts which do stand out when it is all over, the few bright\nflashes, they are things which can hardly be written down--at least they\nnever are written down.\"\n\n\"But what would you do?\" I said--\"with the newspapers, I mean.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Payne, \"a great deal of the news most worth telling can\nbe told best in pictures. I believe very much in illustrated papers. They\nreally do help the imagination. That's the worst of words--a dozen\nscratches on a bit of paper do more to make one realise a scene than\ncolumns of description. I would do a lot with pictures, and a bit of print\nbelow to tell people what to notice. Then we must have a number of bare\nfacts and notices--weather, business, trade, law--the sort of thing that\npeople concerned must read. But I would make a clean sweep of fashion, and\nall sensational intelligence--murders, accidents, sudden deaths. I would\nhave much more biography of living people as well as dead, and a few of the\nbig speeches. Then I would have really good articles with pictures about\nforeign countries--we ought to know what the world looks like, and how the\nother people live. And then I would have one or two really fine little\nessays every day by the very best people I could get, amusing, serious,\nbeautiful articles about nature and art and books and ideas and\nqualities--some real, good, plain, wise, fine, simple thinking. You want to\nget people in touch with the best minds!\"\n\n\"And how many people would read such a paper?\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, I don't know, I'm sure,\" said Father Payne with a groan. \"I would for\none! I want to have the feeling of being in touch day by day with the\nclever, interesting, lively, active-minded people, as if I had been\nlistening to good talk. Isn't that possible? Instead of which I sit here,\nday after day, overflowing with my own ridiculous thoughts--and the world\ndischarging all its staleness and stupidity like a sewer in these horrible\ndocuments. Take it away from me, someone! I'm fascinated by the disgusting\nsmell of it!\" I withdrew the paper from under his hands. \"Thank you,\" said\nFather Payne feebly. \"That's the horror of it--that the world isn't a dull\nplace or a sensational place or a nasty place--and those papers make me\nfeel it is all three!\"\n\n\"I'm sorry you are so low about it,\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"Yes, because journalism ought to be the finest thing in the world,\" said\nFather Payne. \"Just imagine! The power of talking, without any of the\ninconveniences of personality, to half-a-million people.\"\n\n\"But why doesn't it improve?\" said Barthrop. \"You always say that the\npublic finds out what it wants, and will have it.\"\n\n\"In books, yes!\" said Father Payne; \"but in daily life we are all so\ndamnably afraid of the truth--that's what is the matter with us, and it is\nthat which journalism caters for. Suppress the truth, pepper it up, flavour\nit, make it appetising--try to persuade people that the world is\nromantic--that's the aim of the journalist. He flies from the truth, he\nmakes a foolish tale out of it, he makes people despise the real interests\nof life, he makes us all want to escape from life into something that never\nhas been and never will be. I loathe romance with all my heart. The way of\nescape is within, and not without.\"\n\n\"You had better go for a walk,\" said Barthrop soothingly.\n\n\"I must,\" said Father Payne. \"I'm drunk and drugged with unreality. I will\ngo and have a look round the farm--no, I won't have any company, thank you.\nI shall only go on fuming and stewing, if I have sympathetic listeners. You\nare too amiable, you fellows. You encourage me to talk, when you ought to\nstop your ears and run from me.\" And Father Payne swung out of the room.\n\n\n\nXIV\n\nOF HATE\n\n\nIt was at dinner, one frosty winter evening, and we were all in good\nspirits. Two or three animated conversations were going on at the table.\nFather Payne was telling one of his dreams to the three who were nearest to\nhim, and, funny as most of his dreams were, this was unusually so. There\nwas a burst of laughter and a silence--a sudden sharp silence, in which\nVincent, who was continuing a conversation, was heard to say to Barthrop,\nin a tone of fierce vindictiveness, \"I hate him like the devil!\" Another\nlaugh followed, and Vincent blushed. \"Perhaps I ought not to say that?\" he\nsaid in hurried tones.\n\n\"You are quite right,\" said Father Payne to Vincent, encouragingly--\"at\nleast you may be quite right. I don't know of whom you were speaking.\"\n\n\"Yes, who is it, Vincent?\" said someone, leaning forwards.\n\n\"No, no,\" said Father Payne, \"that's not fair! It was meant to be a private\nconfession.\"\n\n\"But you don't hate people, Father?\" said Lestrange, looking rather pained.\n\n\"I, dear man?\" said Father Payne. \"Yes, of course I do! I loathe them!\nWhere are your eyes and ears? All decent people do. How would the world get\non without it?\"\n\nLestrange looked rather shocked. \"I don't understand,\" he said. \"I always\ngathered that you thought it our business to--well, to love people.\"\n\n\"Our business, yes!\" said Father Payne; \"but our pleasure, no! One must\nbegin by hating people. What is there to like about many of us?\"\n\n\"Why, Father,\" said Vincent, \"you are the most charitable of men!\"\n\nFather Payne gave him a little bow. \"Come,\" he said, \"I will make a\nconfession. I am by nature the most suspicious of mankind. I have all the\nuncivilised instincts. There are people of whom I hate the sight and the\nsound, and even the scent. My natural impulse is to see the worst points of\neveryone. I admit that people generally improve upon acquaintance, but I\nhave no weak sentiment about my fellow-men--they are often ugly, stupid,\nill-mannered, ill-tempered, unpleasant, unkind, selfish. It is a positive\ndelight sometimes to watch a thoroughly nasty person, and to reflect how\nmuch one detests him. It is a sign of grace to do so. How otherwise should\none learn to hate oneself? If you hate nobody, what reason is there for\ntrying to improve? It is impossible to realise how nasty you yourself can\nbe until you have seen other people being nasty. Then you say to yourself,\n'Come, that is the kind of thing that I do. Can I really be like that?'\"\n\n\"But surely,\" said Lestrange, \"if you do not try to love people, you cannot\ndo anything for them; you cannot wish them to be different.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" said Father Payne, laughing. \"You may hate them so much that you\nmay wish them to be different. That is the sound way to begin. I say to\nmyself, 'Here is a truly dreadful person! I would abolish and obliterate\nhim if I could; but as I cannot, I must try to get him out of this mess,\nthat we may live more at ease,' It is simple humbug to pretend to like\neveryone. You may not think it is entirely people's fault that they are so\nunpleasant; but if you really love fine and beautiful things, you must hate\nmean and ugly things. Don't let there be any misunderstanding,\" he said,\nsmiling round the table. \"I have hated most of you at different times, some\nof you very much. I don't deny there are good points about you, but that\nisn't enough. Sometimes you are detestable!\"\n\n\"I see what you mean,\" said Barthrop; \"but you don't hate people--you only\nhate things in them and about them. It is just a selection.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Father Payne. \"How are you going to separate people's\nqualities and attributes from themselves? It is a process of addition and\nsubtraction, if you like. There may be a balance in your favour. But when a\nbad mood is on, when a person is bilious, fractious, ugly, cross, you hate\nhim. It is natural to do so, and it is right to do so. I do loathe this\ntalk of mild, weak, universal love. The only chance of human beings getting\non at all, or improving at all, is that they should detest what is\ndetestable, as they abominate a bad smell. The only reason why we are clean\nis because we have gradually learnt to hate bad smells. A bad smell means\nsomething dangerous in the background--so do ugliness, ill-health, bad\ntemper, vanity, greediness, stupidity, meanness. They are all danger\nsignals. We have no business to ignore them, or to forget them, or to make\nallowances for them. They are all part of the beastliness of the world.\"\n\n\"But if we believe in God, and in God's goodness--if He does not hate\nanything which He has made,\" said Lestrange rather ruefully, \"ought we not\nto try to do the same?\"\n\n\"My dear Lestrange,\" said Father Payne, \"one would think you were teaching\na Sunday-school class! How do you know that God made the nasty things? One\nmust not think so ill of Him as that! It is better to think of God as\nfeeble and inefficient, than to make Him responsible for all the filth and\nugliness of the world. He hates them as much as you do, you may be sure of\nthat--and is as anxious as you are, and a great deal more anxious, to get\nrid of them. God is infinitely more concerned about it, much more\ndisappointed about it, than you or me. Why, you and I are often taken in.\nWe don't always know when things are rotten. I have made friends before now\nwith people who seemed charming, and I have found out that I was wrong. But\nI do not think that God is taken in. It is a very mixed affair, of course;\nbut one thing is clear, that something very filthy is discharging itself\ninto the world, like a sewer into a river, I am not going to credit God\nwith that; He is trying to get rid of it, you may be sure, and He cannot do\nit as fast as He would like. We have got to sympathise with Him, and we\nhave got to help Him. Come, someone else must talk--I must get on with my\ndinner,\" Father Payne addressed himself to his plate with obvious appetite.\n\n\"It is all my fault,\" said Vincent, \"but I am not going to tell you whom I\nmeant, and Barthrop must not. But I will tell you how it was. I was with\nthis man, who is an old acquaintance of mine. I used to know him when I was\nliving in London. I met him the other day, and he asked me to luncheon. He\nwas pleasant enough, but after lunch he said to me that he was going to\ntake the privilege of an old friend, and give me some advice. He began by\npaying me compliments; he said that he had thought a year ago that I was\nreally going to do something in literature. 'You had made a little place\nfor yourself,' he said; 'you had got your foot on the ladder. You knew the\nright people. You had a real chance of success. Then, in the middle of it\nall, you go and bury yourself in the country with an old'--no, I can't say\nit.\"\n\n\"Don't mind me!\" said Father Payne.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Vincent, \"if you _will_ hear it--'with an old\nhumbug, and a set of asses. You sit in each others' pockets, you praise\neach others' stuff, you lead what you call the simple life. Where will you\nall be five years hence?' I told him that I didn't know, and I didn't care.\nThen he lost his temper, and, what was worse, he thought he was keeping it.\n'Very well,' he said. 'Now I will tell you what you ought to be doing. You\nought to have buckled to your work, pushed yourself quietly in all\ndirections, never have written anything, or made a friend, or accepted an\ninvitation, without saying, \"Will this add to my consequence?\" We must all\nnurse our reputations in this world. They don't come of themselves--they\nhave to be made!' Well, I thought this all very sickening, and I said I\ndidn't care a d--n about my reputation. I said I had a chance of living\nwith people whom I liked, and of working at things I cared about, and I\nthought his theories simply disgusting and vulgar. He showed his teeth at\nthat, and said that he had spoken as a true friend, and that it had been a\npainful task; and then I said I was much obliged to him, and came away.\nThat's the story!\"\n\n\"That's all right,\" said Father Payne, \"and I am much obliged to you for\nthe sidelight on my character. But there is something in what he said, you\nknow. You are rather unpractical! I shall send you back for a bit to\nLondon, I think!\"\n\n\"Why on earth do you say that?\" said Vincent, looking a little crestfallen.\n\n\"Because you mind it too much, my boy,\" said Father Payne. \"You must not\nget soft. That's the danger of this life! It's all very well for me; I'm\ntough, and I'm moderately rich. But you would not have cared so much if you\nhad not thought there _was_ something in what he said. It was very\nlow, no doubt, and I give you leave to hate him; though, if you are going\nto lead the detached life, you must be detached. But now I have caught you\nup--and we will go back a little. The mistake you made, Vincent, if I may\nsay so, was to be angry. You may hate people, but you must not show that\nyou hate them. That is the practical side of the principle. The moment you\nbegin to squabble, and to say wounding things, and to try to _hurt_\nthe person you hate, you are simply putting yourself on his level. And you\nmust not be shocked or pained either. That is worse still, because it makes\nyou superior, without making you engaging.\"\n\n\"Then what _are_ you to do?\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"Try persuasion if you like,\" said Father Payne, \"but you had better fall\nback on attractive virtue! You must ignore the nastiness, and give the\npleasant qualities, if there are any, room to manoeuvre. But I admit it is\na difficult job, and needs some practice.\"\n\n\"But I don't see any principle about it,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"There isn't any,\" said Father Payne;--\"at least there is, but you must not\ndig it in. You mustn't use principles as if they were bayonets. Civility is\nthe best medium. If you appear to be fatuously unconscious of other\npeople's presence, of course they want to make themselves felt. But if you\nare good-humoured and polite, they will try to make you think well of them.\nThat is probably why your friend calls me a humbug--he thinks I can't feel\nas polite as I seem.\"\n\n\"But if you are dealing with a real egotist,\" said Vincent, \"what are you\nto do then?\"\n\n\"Keep the talk firmly on himself,\" said Father Payne, \"and, if he ever\nstrays from the subject, ask him a question about himself. Egotists are\ngenerally clever people, and no clever people like being drawn out, while\nno egotists like to be perceived to be egotists. You know the old saying\nthat a bore is a person who wants to talk about _himself_ when you\nwant to talk about _yourself_. It is the pull against him that makes\nthe bore want to hold his own. The first duty of the evangelist is to learn\nto pay compliments unobtrusively.\"\n\n\"That's rather a nauseous prescription!\" said Lestrange, making a face.\n\n\"Well, you can begin with that,\" said Father Payne, \"and when I see you\nperfect in it, I will tell you something else. Let's have some music, and\nlet me get the taste of all this high talk out of my mouth!\"\n\n\n\nXV\n\nOF WRITING\n\n\nThere were certain days when Father Payne would hurry in to meals late and\nabstracted, with, a cloudy eye, that, as he ate, was fixed on a point about\na yard in front of him, or possibly about two miles away. He gave vague or\nfoolish replies to questions, he hastened away again, having heard voices\nbut seen no one. I doubt if he could have certainly named anyone in the\nroom afterwards.\n\nI had a little question of business to ask him on one such occasion after\nbreakfast. I slipped out but two minutes after him, went to his study, and\nknocked. An obscure sound came from within. He was seated on his chair,\nbending over his writing-table.\n\n\"May I ask you something?\" I said.\n\n\"Damnation!\" said Father Payne.\n\nI apologised, and tried to withdraw on tiptoe, but he said, turning half\nround, somewhat impatiently, \"Oh, come in, come in--it's all right. What do\nyou want?\"\n\n\"I don't want to disturb you,\" I said.\n\n\"Come in, I tell you!\" he said, adding, \"you may just as well, because I\nhave nothing to do for a quarter of an hour.\" He threw a pen on the table.\n\"It's one of my very few penances. If I swear when I am at work, I do no\nwork for a quarter of an hour; so you can keep me company. Sit down there!\"\nHe indicated a chair with his large foot, and I sat down.\n\nMy question was soon asked and sooner answered. Father Payne beamed upon me\nwith an indulgent air, and I said: \"May I ask what you were doing?\"\n\n\"You may,\" he said. \"I rejoice to talk about it. It's my novel.\"\n\n\"Your novel!\" I said. \"I didn't know you wrote novels. What sort of a book\nis it?\"\n\n\"It's wretched,\" he said, \"it's horrible, it's grotesque! It's more like\nall other novels than any book I know. It's written in the most abominable\nstyle; there isn't a single good point about it. The incidents are all\nhackneyed, there isn't a single lifelike character in it, or a single good\ndescription, or a single remark worth making. I should think it's the worst\nbook ever written. Will you hear a bit of it? Do, now! only a short bit. I\nshould love to read it to you.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" I said, \"there is nothing I should like better.\"\n\nHe read a passage. It was very bad indeed, I couldn't have imagined that an\nable man could have written such stuff. I had an awful feeling that I had\nheard every word before.\n\n\"There,\" he said at last, \"that's rather a favourable specimen. What do you\nthink of it? Come, out with it.\"\n\n\"I'm afraid I'm not very much of a judge,\" I said.\n\nHis face fell. \"That's what everyone says,\" he said. \"I know what you mean.\nBut I'll publish it--I'll be d----d if I won't! Oh, dash it, that's five\nminutes more. No--I wasn't working, was I? Just conversing.\"\n\n\"But why do you write it, if you are so dissatisfied with it?\" I said\nfeebly.\n\n\"Why?\" he said in a loud voice. \"Why? Because I love it. I'm besotted by\nit. It's like strong drink to me. I doubt if there's a man in England who\nenjoys himself more than I do when I'm writing. The worst of it is, that it\nwon't come out--it's beautiful enough when I think of it, but I can't get\nit down. It's my second novel, mind you, and I have got plans for three\nmore. Do you suppose I'm going to sit here, with all you fellows enjoying\nyourselves, and not have my bit of fun? But it's hopeless, and I ought to\nbe ashamed of myself. There simply isn't anything in the world that I\nshould not be better employed in doing than in scribbling this stuff. I\nknow that; but all the authors I know say that writing a book is the part\nthey enjoy--they don't care about correcting proofs, or publishing, or\nseeing reviews, or being paid for it. Very disinterested and noble, of\ncourse! Now I should enjoy it all through, but I simply daren't publish my\nlast one--I should be hooted in the village when the reviews appeared. But\nI am going to have my fun--the act of creation, you know! But it's too late\nto begin, and I have had no training. The beastly thing is as sticky as\ntreacle. It's a sort of vomit of all the novels I have ever read, and\nthat's the truth!\"\n\n\"I simply don't understand,\" I said. \"I have heard you criticise books, I\nhave heard you criticise some of our work--you have criticised mine. I\nthink you one of the best critics I ever heard. You seem to know exactly\nhow it ought to be done.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, frowning, \"I believe I do. That's just it! I'm a critic,\npure and simple. I can't look at anything, from a pigstye to a cathedral,\nor listen to anything, from a bird singing to an orchestra, or read\nanything, from Bradshaw to Shakespeare, without seeing when it is out of\nshape and how it ought to be done. I'm like the man in Ezekiel, whose\nappearance was like the appearance of brass, with a line of flax in his\nhand and a measuring reed. He goes on measuring everything for about five\nchapters, and nothing comes of it, as far as I can remember! I suppose I\nought to be content with that, but I can't bear it. I hate fault-finding. I\nwant to make beautiful things. I spent months over my last novel, and, as\nAaron said to Moses, 'There came out this calf!' I'm a very unfortunate\nman. If I had not had to work so hard for many years for a bare living, I\ncould have done something with writing, I think. But now I'm a sort of\nplumber, mending holes in other people's work. Never mind. I _will_\nwaste my time!\"\n\nAll this while he was eyeing the little clock on his table. \"Now be off!\"\nhe said suddenly, \"My penance is over, and I won't be disturbed!\" He caught\nup his pen. \"You had better tell the others not to come near me, or I'm\nblessed if I won't read the whole thing aloud after dinner!\" And he was\nimmersed in his work again.\n\nTwo or three days later I found Father Payne strolling in the garden, on a\nbright morning. It was just on the verge of spring. There were catkins in\nthe shrubbery. The lilacs were all knobbed with green. The aconite was in\nfull bloom under the trees, and the soil was all pricked with little green\nblades. He was drinking it all in with delighted glances. I said something\nabout his book.\n\n\"Oh, the fit's off!\" said he; \"I'm sober again! I finished the chapter,\nand, by Jove, I think it's the worst thing I have done yet. It's simply\ninfamous! I read it with strong sensations of nausea! I really don't know\nhow I can get such deplorable rubbish down on paper. No matter, I get all\nthe rapture of creation, and that's the best part of it. I simply couldn't\nlive without it. It clears off some perilous stuff or other, and now I feel\nlike a convalescent. Did you ever see anything so enchanting as that\naconite? The colour of it, and the way the little round head is tucked down\non the leaves! I could improve on it a trifle, but not much. God must have\nhad a delicious time designing flowers--I wonder why He gave up doing it,\nand left it to the market-gardeners. I can't make out why new flowers don't\nkeep appearing. I could offer a few suggestions. I dream of flowers\nsometimes--great banks of bloom rising up out of crystal rivers, in deep\ngorges, full of sunshine and scent. How nice it is to be idle! I'm sure\nI've earned it, after that deplorable chapter. It really is a miracle of\nflatness! You go back to your work, my boy, and thank God you can say what\nyou mean! And then you can bring it to me, and I'll tell you to an inch\nwhat it is worth!\"\n\n\n\nXVI\n\nOF MARRIAGE\n\n\nWe were all at dinner one day, and Father Payne came in, in an excited\nmood, with a letter in his hand. \"Here's a bit of nonsense,\" he said.\n\"Here's my old friend Davenport giving me what he calls a piece of his\nmind--he can't have much left--about my 'celibate brotherhood,' as he calls\nit. It's all the other way! I am rather relieved when I hear that any of\nyou people are happily engaged to be married. Celibacy is the danger of my\nexperiment, not the object of it.\"\n\n\"Do you wish us to be married?\" said Kaye. \"That's new to me. I thought\nthis was a little fortress against the eternal feminine.\"\n\n\"What rubbish!\" said Father Payne. \"The worst of using ridiculous words\nlike feminine is that it blinds people to the truth. Masculine and feminine\nhave nothing to do with sex. In the first place, intellectual people are\nall rather apt to be sexless; in the next place, all sensible people, men\nand women alike, are what is meant by masculine--that is to say, spirited,\ngenerous, tolerant, good-natured, frank. Thirdly, all suspicious, scheming,\nsensitive, theatrical, irritable, vain people are what is meant by\nfeminine. And artistic natures are all prone to those failings, because\nthey desire dignity and influence--they want to be felt. The real\ndifference between people is whether they want to live, or whether they\nwant to be known to exist. The worst of feminine people is that they are\nprobably the people who ought not to marry, unless they marry a masculine\nperson; and they are not, as a rule, attracted by masculinity.\"\n\n\"But one can't get married in cold blood,\" said Vincent. \"I often wish that\nmarriages could just be arranged, as they do it in France. I think I should\nbe a very good husband, but I shall never have the courage or the time to\ngo in search of a wife.\"\n\n\"That's why I send you all out into the world,\" said Father Payne. \"Most\npeople ought to be married. It's a normal thing--it isn't a transcendental\nthing. In my experience most marriages are successful. It does everyone\ngood to be obliged to live at close quarters with other people, and to be\nunable to get away from them.\"\n\n\"I didn't know you were interested in such matters,\" said someone.\n\n\"I have gone into it pretty considerably, sir,\" said Father Payne, \"The one\nthing that does interest me is human admixtures. It does no one any good to\nget too much attached to his own point of view.\"\n\n\"But surely,\" said Rose, \"there are some marriages which are obviously bad\nfor all concerned--real incompatibilities? People who can't understand each\nother or their children--children who can't understand their parents? It\nalways seems to me rather horrible that people should be shut up together\nlike rats in a cage.\"\n\n\"I expect we shall have legislation before long,\" said Father Payne, \"for\nbreaking up homes where some definite evil like drunkenness is at work--but\nI don't want industrial schools for children; that is even more inhuman\nthan a bad home. We want more boarding out, but that's expensive. Someone\nhas to pay, if children are to be planted out, and to pay well. There's no\nmotive of duty so strong for an Englishman as good wages. People are honest\nabout giving fair money's worth. But it is no good talking about these\nthings, because they are all so far ahead of us. The question is whether\nanyone can suggest any practical means of filing away any of the\nroughnesses of marriage. I do not believe that the problem is very serious\namong workers. It is the marriage of idle people that is apt to be\ndisastrous.\"\n\n\"The thing that damages many marriages,\" said Rose, \"is the fact that\npeople have got to see so much of each other. What people really want is a\nholiday from each other.\"\n\n\"Yes, but that is impossible financially,\" said Father Payne. \"Apart from\nlove and children, marriage is a small joint-stock company for cheap\ncomfort. But it is of no use to go vapouring on about these big schemes,\nbecause in a democracy people won't do what philosophers wish, but what\nthey want. Let's take a notorious case, known to everyone. Can anyone say\nwhat practical advice he could have given to either Carlyle or to Mrs.\nCarlyle, which would have improved that witches' cauldron? There were two\nhigh-principled Puritanical people, which is the same thing as saying that\nthey both were disposed to consider that anyone who disagreed with them did\nso for a bad motive, and exalted their own whims and prejudices into moral\nprinciples; both of them irritable and sensitive, both able to give\ninstantaneous and elaborate expression to their vaguest thoughts,--Carlyle\nhimself with eloquence which he wielded like a bludgeon, and Mrs. Carlyle\nwith incisiveness which she used like a sharp knife--Carlyle with too much\nto do, and Mrs. Carlyle with less than nothing to do--each passionately\nattached to the other as soon as they were separated, and both capable of\nsaying the sweetest and most affectionate things by letter, which they\ncould not for the life of them utter in talk. They did, as a matter of\nfact, spend an immense amount of time apart; and when they were together,\nCarlyle, having been trained as a peasant and one of a large family,\nroughly neglected Mrs. Carlyle, while Mrs. Carlyle, with a middle-class\ntraining, and moreover indulged as an only daughter, was too proud to\ncomplain, but not proud enough not to resent the neglect deeply. What could\nhave been done for them? Were they impossible people to live with? Was it\ntrue, as Tennyson bluntly said, that it was as well that they married,\nbecause two people were unhappy instead of four?\"\n\n\"They wanted a child as a go-between!\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"Of course they did!\" said Father Payne. \"That would have pulled the whole\nm\u00e9nage together. And don't tell me that it was a wise dispensation that\nthey were childless! Cleansing fires? The fires in which they lived, with\nCarlyle raging about porridge and milk and crowing cocks, working alone,\nwalking alone, flying off to see Lady Ashburton, sleeping alone; and Mrs.\nCarlyle, whom everyone else admired and adored, eating her heart out\nbecause she could not get him to value her company;--there was not much\nthat was cleansing about all that! The cleansing came when she was dead,\nand when he saw what he had done.\"\n\n\"I expect they have made it up by now,\" said Kaye.\n\n\"You're quite right!\" said Father Payne. \"It matters less with those great\nvivid people. They can afford to remember. But the little people, who\nsimply end further back than they began, what is to be done for them?\"\n\n\n\nXVII\n\nOF LOVING GOD\n\n\nFather Payne suddenly said to me once in a loud voice, after a long\nsilence--we were walking together--\"Writers, preachers, moralists,\nsentimentalists, are much to blame for not explaining more what they mean\nby loving God--perhaps they do not know! Love is so large a word, and\ncovers so great a range of feelings. What sort of love are we to give\nGod--the love of the lover, or the son, or the daughter, or the friend, or\nthe patriot, or the dog? Is it to be passion, or admiration, or reverence,\nor fidelity, or pity? All of these enter into love.\"\n\n\"What do you think yourself?\" I said.\n\n\"How am I to tell?\" said Father Payne. \"I am in many minds about it--it\ncannot be passion, because, whatever one may say, something of physical\nsatisfaction is mingled with that. It cannot be a dumb fidelity--that is\nirrational. It cannot be an equal friendship, because there is no equality\npossible. It cannot be that of the child for the mother, because the mind\nis hardly concerned in that. Can one indeed love the Unknown? Again, it\ncannot be all receiving and no giving. We must have something to give God\nwhich He desires to have and which we can withhold. To say that the answer\nis, 'My son, give Me thy heart,' begs the question, because the one thing\ncertain about love is that we _cannot_ give it to whom we will--it\nmust be evoked; and even if it is wanted, we cannot always give it. We may\nrespect and reverence a person very much, but, as Charlotte Bront\u00eb said,\n'our veins may run ice whenever we are near him.'\n\n\"And then, too, can we love any one who knows us perfectly, through and\nthrough? Is it not of the essence of love to be blind? Is it possible for\nus to feel that we are worthy of the love of anyone who really knows us?\n\n\"And then, too, if disaster and suffering and cruel usage and terror come\nfrom God, without reference to the sensitiveness of the soul and body on\nwhich they fall, can we possibly love the Power which behaves so? What\nchild could love a father who might at any time strike him? I cannot\nbelieve that God wants an unquestioning and fatuous trust, and still less\nthe sort of deference we pay to one who may do us a mischief if we do not\ncringe before him. All that is utterly unworthy of the mind and soul.\"\n\n\"Is it not possible to believe,\" I said, \"that all experience may be good\nfor us, however harsh it seems?\"\n\n\"No rational man can think that,\" said Father Payne. \"Suffering is not good\nfor people if it is severe and protracted. I have seen many natures go\nutterly to pieces under it.\"\n\n\"What do you believe, then?\" I said.\n\n\"Of course the only obvious explanation,\" said Father Payne, \"is that\nsuffering, misery, evil, disaster, disease do not come from God at all;\nthat He is the giver of health and joy and light and happiness; that He\ngives us all He can, and spares us all He can; but that there is a great\nenemy in the world, whom He cannot instantly conquer; that He is doing all\nHe can to shield us, and to repair the harm that befalls us--that we can\nmake common cause with Him, and pity Him for His thwarted plans, His\nendless disappointments, His innumerable failures, His grievous sufferings.\nIt would be easy to love God if He were like that--yet who dares to say it\nor to teach it? It is the dreadful doctrine of His Omnipotence that ruins\neverything. I cannot hold any communication with Omnipotence--it is a\nconsuming fire; but if I could know that God was strong and patient and\ndiligent, but not all-powerful or all-knowing, then I could commune with\nHim. If, when some evil mishap overtakes me, I could say to Him, 'Come,\nhelp me, console me, show me how to mend this, give me all the comfort you\ncan,' then I could turn to Him in love and trust, so long as I could feel\nthat He did not wish the disaster to happen to me but could not ward it\noff, and was as miserable as myself that it had happened. Not _so_\nmiserable, of course, because He has waited so long, suffered so much, and\ncan discern so bright and distant a hope. Then, too, I might feel that\ndeath was perhaps our escape from many kinds of evil, and that I should be\nclasped to His heart for awhile, even though He sent me out again to fight\nHis battles. That would evoke all my love and energy and courage, because I\ncould feel that I could give Him my help; but if He is Almighty, and could\nhave avoided all the sorrow and pain, then I am simply bewildered and\nfrightened, because I can predicate nothing about Him.\"\n\n\"Is not that the idea which Christianity aims at?\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said; \"the suffering Saviour, who can resist evil and amend it,\nbut cannot instantly subdue it; but, even so, it seems to set up two Gods\nfor one. The mind cannot really _identify_ the Saviour with the\nAlmighty Designer of the Universe. But the thought of the Saviour\n_does_ interpret the sense of God's failure and suffering, does bring\nit all nearer to the heart. But if there is Omnipotence behind, it all\nfalls to the ground again--at least it does for me. I cannot pray to\nOmnipotence and Omniscience, because it is useless to do so. The limited\nand the unlimited cannot join hands. I must, if I am to believe in God,\nbelieve in Him as a warrior arriving on a scene of disorder, and trying to\nmake all well. He must not have permitted the disorder to grow up, and then\ntry to subdue it. It must be there first. It is a battle obviously--but it\nmust be a real battle against a real foe, not a sham fight between hosts\ncreated by God. In that case, 'to think of oneself as an instrument of\nGod's designs is a privilege one shares with the devil,' as someone said. I\nwill not believe that He is so little in earnest as that. No, He is the\ngreat invader, who desires to turn darkness to light, rage to peace, misery\nto happiness. Then, and only then, can I enlist under His banner, fight for\nHim, honour Him, worship Him, compassionate Him, and even love Him; but if\nHe is in any way responsible for evil, by design or by neglect, then I am\nlost indeed!\"\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\nOF FRIENDSHIP\n\n\n\"He is the sort of man who is always losing his friends,\" said Pollard at\ndinner to Father Payne, describing someone, \"and I always think that's a\nbad sign.\"\n\n\"And I, on the contrary,\" said Father Payne, \"think that a man who always\nkeeps his friends is almost always an ass!\" He opened his mouth and drew in\nhis breath.\n\n\"Or else it means,\" said Barthrop, \"that he has never really made any\nfriends at all!\"\n\n\"Quite right,\" said Father Payne. \"People talk about friendship as if it\nwas a perfectly normal thing, like eating and drinking--it's not that! It's\na difficult thing, and it is a rare thing. I do not mean mere proximities\nand easy comradeships and muddled alliances; there are plenty of frank and\npleasant companionships about of a solid kind. Still less do I mean the\nsort of thing which is contained in such an expression as 'Dear old boy!'\nwhich is always a half-contemptuous phrase.\"\n\n\"But isn't loyalty a fine quality?\" said Lestrange.\n\n\"Loyalty!\" said Father Payne. \"Of course you must play fair, and be ready\nto stick by a man, and do him a kindness, and help him up if he has a fall;\nbut that is not friendship--at least it isn't what I mean by friendship.\nFriendship is a sort of passion, without anything sexual or reproductive\nabout it. There is a physical basis about it, of course. I mean there are\ncertain quite admirable, straightforward, pleasant people, whom you may\nmeet and like, and yet with whom you could never be friends, though they\nmay be quite capable of friendship, and have friends of their own. A man's\npresence and his views and emotions must be in some sort of tune with your\nown. There are certain people, not in the least repellent, genial, kindly,\nhandsome, excellent in every way, with whom you simply are not comfortable.\nOn the other hand, there are people of no great obvious attractiveness with\nwhom you feel instantaneously at ease. There is something mysterious about\nit, some currents that don't mix, and some that do. A thousand years hence\nwe shall probably know something about it we don't now.\"\n\n\"I feel that very strongly about books,\" said Kaye. \"There are certain\nauthors, who have skill, charm, fancy, invention, style--all the things you\nvalue--who yet leave you absolutely cold. They have every qualification for\npleasing except the power to please. It is simply a case of Dr. Fell! You\ncan't give a single valid reason why you don't like them.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" said Father Payne. \"and then, again, there are authors whom\nyou like at a certain age and under certain circumstances, and who end by\nboring you; and again, authors whom you don't like when you are young, and\nlike better when you are old. Does your idea of loyalty apply also to\nbooks, Lestrange, or to music?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Lestrange, \"to be frank, it does not; but I think that is\ndifferent--a lot of technical things come in, and then one's taste alters.\"\n\n\"And that is just the same with people,\" said Father Payne. \"Why, what does\nloyalty mean in such a connection? You have admired a book or a piece of\nmusic; you cease to admire it. Are you to go on saying you admire it, or to\npretend to yourself that you admire it? Of course not--that is simply\nhypocrisy--there is nothing real about that.\"\n\n\"But what are you to do,\" said Vincent, \"about people? You can't treat them\nlike books or music. You need not go on reading a book which you have\nceased to admire. But what if you have made a friend, and then ceased to\ncare for him, and he goes on caring for you? Are you to throw him over?\"\n\n\"I admit that there is a difficulty,\" said Father Payne; \"I agree that you\nmust not disappoint people; but it is also somehow your duty to get out of\na relation that is no longer a real one. It can't be wholesome to simulate\nemotions for the sake of loyalty. It must all depend upon which you think\nthe finer thing--the emotion or the tie. Personally, I think the emotion is\nthe more sacred of the two.\"\n\n\"But does it not mean that you have made a mistake somehow,\" said Vincent,\n\"if you have made a friend, and then cease to care about him?\"\n\n\"Not a bit,\" said Father Payne. \"Why, people change very much, and some\npeople change faster than others. A man may be exactly what you want at a\ncertain time of life; he may be ahead of you in ideas, in qualities, in\nemotions; and what starts a friendship is the perception of something fine\nand desirable in another, which you admire and want to imitate. But then\nyou may outstrip your friend. Take the case of an artist. He may have an\nadmiration for another artist, and gain much from him; but then he may go\nright ahead of him. He can't go on admiring and deferring out of mere\nloyalty.\"\n\n\"But must there not be in every real friendship a _purpose_ of\ncontinuance?\" said Vincent. \"It surely is a very selfish sort of business,\nif you say to yourself, 'I will make friends with this man because I admire\nhim now, but when, I have got all I can out of him, I will discard him.'\"\n\n\"Of course, you must not think in that coldblooded way,\" said Father Payne,\n\"but it can never be more than a _hope_ of continuance. You may\n_hope_ to find a friendship a continuous and far-reaching thing. It\nmay be quite right to get to know a man, believing him to have fine\nqualities; but you can't pledge yourself to admire whatever you find in\nhim. We have to try experiments in friendship as in everything else. It is\npurely sentimental to say, 'I am going to believe in this man blindfold,\nwhatever I find him to be,' That's a rash vow! You must not take rash vows;\nand if you do, you must be prepared to break them. Besides, you can't\ndepend upon your friend not altering. He may lose some of the very things\nyou most admire. The mistake is to believe that anything can be consistent\nor permanent.\"\n\n\"But if you _don't_ believe that,\" said Lestrange, \"are you justified\nin entering upon intimate relations at all?\"\n\n\"Of course you are,\" said Father Payne; \"you can't live life on prudent\nlines. You can't say, 'I won't engage in life, or take a hand in it, or\nbelieve in it, or love it, till I know more about it.' You can't foresee\nall contingencies and risks. You must take risks.\"\n\n\"I expect,\" said Barthrop, \"that we are meaning different things by\nfriendship. Let us define our terms. What do _you_ mean by friendship,\nFather?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Payne, \"I will tell you if I can. I mean a\nconsciousness, which generally comes rather suddenly, of the charm of a\nparticular person. You have a sudden curiosity about him. You want to know\nwhat his ideas, motives, views of life are. It is not by any means always\nthat you think he feels about things as you do yourself. It is often the\ndifference in him which attracts you. But you like his manner, his\ndemeanour, his handling of life. What he says, his looks, his gestures, his\npersonality, affect you in a curious way. And at the same time you seem to\ndiscern a corresponding curiosity in him about yourself. It is a\npleasurable surprise both to discover that he agrees with you, and also\nthat he disagrees with you. There is a beauty, a mystery, about it all.\nGenerally you think it rather surprising that he should find you\ninteresting. You wish to please him and to satisfy his expectations. That\nis the dangerous part of friendship, that two people in this condition make\nefforts, sacrifices, suppressions in order to be liked. Even if you\ndisagree, you both give hints that you are prepared to be converted. There\nis a sudden increase of richness in life, the sense of a moving current\nwhose impulse you feel. You meet, you talk, you find a freshness of\nfeeling, light cast upon dark things, a new range of ideas vividly\npresent.\"\n\n\"But isn't all that rather intellectual?\" said Vincent, who had been\ngrowing restive. \"The thing can surely be much simpler than that?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course it can,\" said Father Payne, \"among simple people--but we\nare all complicated people here.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Vincent, \"we are! But isn't it possible for an intellectual man\nto feel a real friendship for a quite unintellectual man--not a desire to\ndiscuss everything with him, but a simple admiration for fine frank\nqualities?\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said Father Payne, \"there can be all sorts of alliances; but I am\nnot speaking of them. I am speaking of a sort of mutual understanding. In\nfriendship, as I understand it, the two must not speak different languages.\nThey must be able to put their minds fairly together--there can be a kind\nof man-and-dog friendship, of course, but that is more a sort of love and\ntrust. Now in friendship people must be mutually intelligible. It need not\nbe equality--it is very often far removed from that; but there must not be\nany condescension. There must be a _desire_ for equality, at all\nevents. Each must lament anything, whether it is superiority or\ninferiority, which keeps the two apart. It must be a desire for unity above\neverything. There must not be the smallest shadow of contempt on either\nside--it must be a frank proffer of the best you have to give, and a\nknowledge that the other can give you something--sympathy, support,\nhelp--which you cannot do without. What breaks friendship, in my\nexperience, is the loss of that sense of equality; and the moment that\nfriends become critical--in the sense, I mean, that they want to alter or\nimprove each other--I think a friendship is in danger. If you have a\nfriend, you must be indulgent to his faults--like him, not in spite of\nthem, but almost because of them, I think.\"\n\n\"That's very difficult,\" said Vincent. \"Mayn't you want a friend to\nimprove? If he has some patent and obvious fault, I mean?\"\n\n\"You mustn't want to improve him,\" said Father Payne, smiling; \"that's not\nyour business--unless he _wants_ you to help him to improve; and even\nthen you have to be very delicate-handed. It must _hurt_ you to have\nto wish him different.\"\n\n\"But isn't that what you call sentimental?\" said Vincent.\n\n\"No,\" said Father Payne, \"it is sentiment to try to pretend to yourself and\nothers that the fault isn't there. But I am speaking of a tie which you\ncan't risk breaking for anything so trivial as a fault. The moment that the\nfault stands out, naked and unpleasant, then you may know that the\nfriendship is over. There must be a glamour even about your friend's\nfaults. You must love them, as you love the dints and cracks in an old\nbuilding.\"\n\n\"That seems to me weak,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"You will find that it is true,\" said Father Payne. \"We can't afford to sit\nin judgment on each other. We must simply try to help each other along. We\nmust not say, 'You ought not to be tired.'\"\n\n\"But surely we may pity people?\" said Lestrange.\n\n\"Not your friends,\" said Father Payne. \"Pity is _fatal_ to friendship.\nThere is always something complacent in pity--it means conscious strength.\nYou can't both pity and admire. You can't separate people up into\nqualities--they all come out of the depth of a man; I am quite sure of\nthis, that the moment you begin to differentiate a friend's qualities, that\nmoment what I call friendship is over. It must simply be a case of you and\nme--not my weakness and your virtue, and still less your weakness and my\nvirtue. And you must be content to lose friends and to be discarded by\nfriends. What is sentimental is to believe that it can be otherwise.\"\n\n\n\nXIX\n\nOF PHYLLIS\n\n\nIt was in the course of July, the month given to hospitality. Father Payne\nused to have guests of various kinds, quite unaccountable people, some of\nthem, with whom he seemed to be on the easiest of terms, but whom he never\nmentioned at any other time. \"It is a time when I have _old friends_\nto stay with me,\" he once said, \"and I decline to define the term. There\nare _reasons_--you must assume that there are _reasons_--which\nmay not be apparent, for the tie. They are not all selected for\nintellectual or artistic brilliance--they are the symbols of undesigned\nfriendships, which existed before I exercised the faculty of choice. They\nare there, uncriticised, unexplained, these friends of mine. The modest\nman, you will remember, finds his circle ready-made. I am attached to them,\nand they to me. They understand no language, some of them, as you will see,\nexcept the language of the heart; but you will help me, I know, to make\nthem feel at home and happy.\"\n\nThey certainly were odd people, several of them--dumb, good-natured,\nelderly men with no ostensible purpose in the world; elderly ladies, who\ncalled Father Payne \"dear\"; some simple and homely married couples, who\nseemed to be living in another century. But Father Payne welcomed them,\nchattered with them, jested with them, took them drives and walks, and\nseemed well-contented with their company, though I confess that I generally\nfelt as though I were staying in a seaside boarding-house on such\noccasions. We used to speculate as to who they were, and how Father Payne\nhad made their acquaintance: we gathered that they were mostly the friends\nand acquaintances of his youth, or people into whose company he had drifted\nwhen he lived in London. Sometimes, before a new arrival, he would touch\noff his or her character and circumstances in a few words. On one occasion\nhe said after breakfast to Barthrop and me: \"Arrivals to-day, Mr. and Mrs.\nWetherall--the man a retired coal-merchant, rather wealthy, interested in\nforeign missions; the woman inert; daughter prevented from coming, and they\nbring a niece, Phyllis by name, understood to be charming. I undertake the\nsole charge of Wetherall himself, Mrs. Wetherall requires no specific\nattentions--placid woman, writes innumerable letters--Miss Phyllis an\nunknown quantity.\"\n\nThe Wetheralls duly appeared, and proved very simple people. Father Payne,\nto our surprise, seemed to be soaked in mission literature, and drew out\nMr. Wetherall with patient skill. But Miss Phyllis was a perfectly\ndelightful girl, very simple and straightforward, extremely pretty in a\nboyish fashion, and quite used to the ways of the world. We would willingly\nhave entertained her, and did our best; but she made fast friends with\nFather Payne, with the utmost promptitude, and the two were for ever\nstrolling about or sitting out together. The talk at meals was of a sedate\ncharacter, but Miss Phyllis used to intercept Father Payne's humorous\nremarks with a delighted little smile, and Father Payne would shake his\nhead gravely at her in return. Miss Phyllis said to me one morning, as we\nwere sitting in the garden: \"You seem to have a very good time here, all of\nyou--it feels like something in a book--it is too good to be true!\"\n\n\"Ah,\" I said, \"but this is a holiday, of course! We work very hard in\nterm-time, and we are very serious.\" Miss Phyllis looked at me with her\nblue eyes in silence for a moment, with an ironical little curve of her\nlips, and said: \"I don't believe a word of it! I believe it is just a\nlittle Paradise, and I suspect it of being rather a selfish Paradise. Why\ndo you shut everyone out?\"\n\n\"Oh, it is a case of 'business first'!\" I said. \"Father Payne keeps us all\nin very good order.\" \"Yes,\" said Phyllis, \"I expect he can do that. But do\nany of you men realise what an absolutely enchanting person he is? I have\nnever seen anyone in the least like him! He understands everything, and\nsees everything, and cares for everything--he is so big and kind and\nclever. Why, isn't he something tremendous?\" \"He is,\" I said. \"Oh yes, but\nyou know what I mean,\" said Miss Phyllis; \"he's a _great_ man, and he\nought to have the reins in his hand. He ought not to potter about here!\"\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"I have wondered about that myself. But he knows his own\nmind--he's a very happy man!\" Miss Phyllis pondered silently, and said: \"I\ndon't think you realise your blessings. Father Payne is like the boy in the\nstory--the man born to be king, you know. He ought not to be wasted like\nthis! He ought to be ruler over ten cities. Dear me, I don't often wish I\nwere a man, but I would give anything to be one of you. Won't you tell me\nsomething more about him?\"\n\nI did my best, and Phyllis listened absorbed, dangling a shapely little\nfoot over her knee, and playing with a flower. \"Yes,\" she said at last,\n\"that is what I thought! I see you _do_ appreciate him after all. I\nwon't make that mistake again.\" And she gave me a fine smile. I liked the\ncompany of this radiant creature, but at this moment Father Payne appeared\nat the other end of the garden. \"Don't think me rude,\" said Miss Phyllis,\n\"but I am going to talk to Father Payne. It's my last day, and I must get\nall I can out of him.\" She fled, and presently they went off together for a\nstroll, a charming picture. She carried him off likewise after dinner, and\nthey sate long in the dusk. I could hear Father Payne's emphatic tones and\nPhyllis's refreshing laughter.\n\nThe next morning the Wetheralls went off. Barthrop and I, with Father\nPayne, saw them go. The Wetheralls were serenely enjoying the prospect of\nreturning home after a successful visit, but Miss Phyllis looked mournful,\nand as if she were struggling with concealed emotions. She kissed her hand\nto Father Payne as the carriage drove away.\n\n\"Very worthy people!\" said Father Payne cheerfully, as the carriage passed\nout of sight. \"I am very glad to have seen them, and no less thankful that\nthey are gone.\"\n\n\"But the charming Phyllis?\" said Barthrop, \"Is that all you have to say\nabout her? I never saw a more delightful girl!\"\n\n\"She is--quite delightful,\" said Father Payne. \"Phyllis is my only joy! The\nsight of her and the sound of her make me feel as if I had been reading an\nElizabethan song-book--'Sing hey, nonny nonny!' But why didn't one of you\nfellows make up to her?--that's a girl worth the winning!\"\n\n\"Why didn't we make up to her?\" I said indignantly. \"I wonder you have the\nface to ask, Father! Why, she was simply taken up with you, and she hadn't\na word or a look for anyone else. I never saw such a case of love at first\nsight!\"\n\n\"She gave me a flower this morning,\" said Father Payne meditatively, \"and I\nbelieve I kissed her hand. It was like a scene in one of my novels. It\nwasn't my fault--the woman tempted me, of course! But I think she is a\ncharming creature, and as clever as she is pretty. I could have made love\nto her with the best will in the world! But that wouldn't do, and I just\nmade friends with her. She wants an older friend, I think. She has ideas,\nthe pretty Phyllis, and she doesn't strike out sparks from the Wetheralls\nmuch.\"\n\nBarthrop went off, smiling to himself, and I strolled about with Father\nPayne.\n\n\"You really could hardly do better than be Phyllis's faithful shepherd,\" he\nsaid to me, smiling. \"She's a fine creature, you know, full of fire and\nvitality, and eager for life. She must marry a nice man and have nice\nchildren. We want more people like Phyllis. You consider it, old man! I\nwould like to see you happily married.\"\n\n\"Why, Father,\" I said boldly, \"if you feel like that, why don't you put in\nfor her yourself? Phyllis is in love with you! You may not know it--she may\nnot know it--but I know it. She could talk of nothing else.\"\n\n\"Get thee behind me, Satan!\" said Father Payne very emphatically. Don't say\nsuch things to me! The pretty Phyllis wants a father confessor--that's all\nI can, do for her.\"\n\n\"I don't think that is so, Father,\" I said. \"She would be prepared for\nsomething much closer than that, if you held out your hand.\"\n\nFather Payne smiled benignantly at me. \"Yes, I know what you mean, old\nman,\" he said, \"and I daresay it is true! But I mustn't allow myself to\nthink of such things at my age. It wouldn't do. I'm old enough to be her\nfather--and she has just had a pretty fancy, that's all. It's rather a\nromantic setting, this place, you know; and she is hungering and thirsting\nfor all sorts of ideas and beautiful adventures; and she finds a\ngood-humoured old bird like myself, who can give her something of what she\nwants. She is fitful and impetuous, and she wants something strong and\nfatherly to lean upon and to worship, perhaps. Bless you, I see it all\nclearly enough! But put the clock on for a few years: the charming Phyllis\nis made for better things than tying my muffler and walking beside my\nbath-chair. No, she must have a run for her money. And what's more, I'm not\nsure that I want the sole charge of that sweet nymph--she would want a lot\nof response and sympathy and understanding. It's altogether too big a job\nfor me, and I don't feel the call. What do I want, then, with the pretty\nchild? Why, I like to be with her, and to see her, and to hear her talk and\nlaugh. I want to help her along if I can--she is a high-spirited creature,\nand will take things hardly. But I cannot be romantic, and take advantage\nof a romantic child. Mind you, I think that these friendships between men\nand women are good for both, if they aren't complicated by love: the worst\nof it is that passion is a tindery thing, and lights up suddenly when\npeople least expect it. But I'm too old for all that; and one of the\npleasures of growing old is that one can see a beautiful creature like\nPhyllis--high-spirited, vivid, full of grace and delight--without wanting\nto claim her for one's own or take her away into a corner. I'm just glad to\nbe with her, glad to think she is in the world, glad to think she comes\ndirect from the Divine hand. It moves me tremendously, that flashing and\nbrightening charm of hers--but I see and feel it, I think, as something\nbeyond and outside of her, which comes as a message to me. She's a darling!\nBut I am not going to interfere with her or complicate her life. She must\nfind a fit mate, and I am going to let her feel that she can depend on me\nfor any service I can do for her. I don't mind saying, old man,\" added\nFather Payne, in a different tone, \"that there isn't a touch of temptation\nabout it all. I yield in imagination to it quite frankly--I think how jolly\nit would be to have a creature like that living in this old house, telling\nme all she thought about, making a home beautiful. I could make a very fair\nlover if I tried! But I have got myself well in hand, and I know better. It\nisn't what she wants, and it isn't really what I want. I have got my work\ncut out for me; but I'll give her all I can, and be thankful if she gives\nme a bit of her heart; and I shall love to think of her going about the\nworld, and reminding everyone she meets of the best and purest sort of\nbeauty. I love Phyllis with all my old heart--is that enough for you?--and\na great deal too well to confiscate her, as I should certainly have tried\nto do twenty years ago.\"\n\nFather Payne stopped, and looked at me with one of his great clear smiles.\n\n\"Well, I must say,\" I began--\n\n\"No, you mustn't,\" said Father Payne. \"I know all the excellent arguments\nyou would advance. Why shouldn't two people be happy and not look ahead,\nand all that? I do look ahead, and I'm going to make her happy if I can.\nShall I use my influence in your favour, my boy? How does that strike you?\"\n\nI laughed and reddened. Father Payne put his arm in mine, and said: \"Now, I\nhave turned my heart out for your inspection, and you can't convert me. Let\nthe pretty child go her way! I only wish she was likely to get more fun out\nof the Wetheralls. Such excellent people too: but a lack of\ninspiration--not propelled from quite the central fount of beauty, I fancy!\nBut it will do Phyllis good to make the best of them, and I fancy she is\ntrying pretty hard. Dear me, I wish she were my niece! But I couldn't have\nher here--we should all be at daggers drawn in a fortnight: that's the\npuzzling thing about these beautiful people, that they light up such\nconflagrations, and make such havoc of divine philosophy, old boy!\"\n\n\n\nXX\n\nOF CERTAINTY\n\n\nWe were returning from a walk, Father Payne and I; as we passed the\nchurchyard, he said: \"Do you remember that story of Lamennais at La\nCh\u00e9naie? He was sitting behind the chapel under two Scotch firs which grew\nthere, with some of his young disciples. He took his stick, and marked out\na grave on the turf, and said: 'It is there I would wish to be buried, but\nno tombstone! Only a simple mound of grass. Oh, how well I shall be there!'\nThat is what I call sentiment. If Lamennais really thought he would be\nconfined in spirit to such a place, he would not tolerate it--least of all\na combative fellow like Lamennais--it would be a perpetual solitary\nconfinement. Such a cry is merely a theatrical way of saying that he felt\ntired. Yet it is such sayings which impress people, because men love\nrhetoric.\"\n\nPresently he went on: \"It is strange that what one fears in death is the\nvagueness and the solitude of it--we are afraid of finding ourselves lost\nin the night. It would be agitating, but not frightful, if we were sure of\nfinding company; and if we were _sure_ of meeting those whom we had\nloved and lost, death would not frighten us at all. Dying is simple enough,\nand indeed easy, for most of us. But I expect that something very precise\nand definite happens to us, the moment we die. It is probable, I think,\nthat we shall set about building up a new body to inhabit at once, as a\nsnail builds its shell. We are very definite creatures, all of us, with\nclearly apportioned tastes and energies, preferences and dislikes. The only\npuzzling thing is that we do not all of us seem to have the bodies which\nsuit us here on earth: fiery spirits should have large phlegmatic bodies,\nand they too often have weak and inadequate bodies. Beautiful spirits\ncannot always make their bodies beautiful, and evil people have often very\nlovely shapes and faces. I confess I find all that very mysterious;\nheredity is quite beyond me. If it were merely confined to the body and\neven the mind, I should not wonder at it, but it seems to affect the soul\nas well. Who can feel free in will, if that is the case? And now, too, they\nsay with some certainty that it seems as though all their own qualities\nneed not be transmitted by parents but that no quality can be transmitted\nwhich is not present in the parents--that we can lose qualities, that is,\nbut not gain them. If that is true, then all our qualities were present in\nprimitive forms of life, and we are not really developing, we are only\nspecialising. All this hurts one to think of, because it ties us hand and\nfoot.\"\n\nPresently he went on: \"How ludicrous, after all, to make up our mind about\nthings as most of us do! I believe that the desire for certainty is one of\nthe worst temptations of the devil. It means closing our eyes and minds and\nhearts to experience; and yet it seems the only way to accomplish anything.\nI trust,\" he said, turning to me with a look of concern, \"that you do not\nfeel that you are being formed or moulded here, by me or by any of the\nothers?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"certainly not! I feel, indeed, since I came here, that I\nhave got a wider horizon of ideas, and I hope I am a little more tolerant.\nI have certainly learnt from you not to despise ideas or experiences at\nfirst sight, but to look into them.\"\n\nHe seemed pleased at this, and said: \"Yes, to look into them--we must do\nthat! When we see anyone acting in a way that we admire, or even in a way\nwhich we dislike, we must try to see why he acts so, what makes him what he\nis. We must not despise any indications. On the whole, I think that people\nbehave well when they are happy, and ill when they are afraid. All violence\nand spite come when we are afraid of being left out; and we are happy when\nwe are using all our powers. Don't be too prudent! Don't ever be afraid of\nuprooting yourself,\" he added with great emphasis. \"Try experiments--in\nlife, in work, in companionship. Have an open mind! That is why we should\nbe so careful what we pray for, because in my experience prayers are\ngenerally granted, and often with a fine irony. The grand irony of God! It\nis one of the things that most reassures me about Him, to find that He can\nbe ironical and indulgent; because our best chance of discovering the\nnature of things is that we should be given what we wish, just in order to\nfind out that it was not what we wished at all!\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"if you are for ever experimenting, always moving on, always\nchanging your mind, don't you run the risk of never mixing with life at\nall?\"\n\n\"Oh, life will take care of that!\" said Father Payne, smiling, \"The time\nwill come when you will know where to post your battery, and what to fire\nat. But don't try to make up your mind too early--don't try to fortify\nyourself against doubts and anxieties. That is the danger of all sensitive\npeople. You can't attain to proved certainties in this life--at least, you\ncan't at present. I don't say that there are not certainties--indeed, I\nthink that it is all certainty, and that we mustn't confuse the unknown\nwith the unknowable. As you go on, if you are fair-minded and sympathetic,\nyou will get intuitions; you will discover gradually exactly what you are\nworth, and what you can do, and how you can do it best. But don't expect to\nknow that too soon. And don't yield to the awful temptation of saying, 'So\nmany good, fine, reasonable people seem certain of this and that; I had\nbetter assume it to be true.' It isn't better, it is only more comfortable.\nA great many more people suffer from making up their mind too early and too\ndecisively than suffer from open-mindedness and the power to relate new\nexperience to old experience. No one can write you out a prescription for\nlife. You can't anticipate experience; and if you do, you will only find\nthat you have to begin all over again.\"\n\n\n\nXXI\n\nOF BEAUTY\n\n\nFather Payne had been away on one of his rare journeys. He always\nmaintained that a journey was one of the most enlivening things in the\nworld, if it was not too often indulged in. \"It intoxicates me,\" he said,\n\"to see new places, houses, people.\"\n\n\"Why don't you travel more, then?\" said someone.\n\n\"For that very reason,\" said Father Payne; \"because it intoxicates me--and\nI am too old for that sort of self-indulgence!\"\n\n\"It's a dreadful business,\" he went on, \"that northern industrial country.\nThere's a grandeur about it--the bare valleys, the steep bleak fields, the\ndead or dying trees, the huge factories. Those great furnaces, with tall\niron cylinders and galleries, and spidery contrivances, and black pipes,\nand engines swinging vast burdens about, and moving wheels, are fearfully\ninteresting and magnificent. They stand for all sorts of powers and forces;\nthey frighten me by their strength and fierceness and submissiveness. But\nthe land is awfully barren of beauty, and I doubt if that can be wholesome.\nIt all fascinates me, it increases my pride, but it makes me unhappy too,\nbecause it excludes beauty so completely. Those bleak stone-walled fields\nof dirty grass, the lines of grey houses, are fine in their way--but one\nwants colour and clearness. I longed for a glimpse of elms and\nwater-meadows, and soft-wooded pastoral hills. It produces a shrewd,\nstrong, good-tempered race, but very little genius. There is something\nharsh about Northerners--they haven't enough colour.\"\n\n\"But you are always saying,\" said Rose, \"that we must look after form, and\nchance colour.\"\n\n\"Yes, but that is because you are _in statu pupillari_,\" said Father\nPayne, \"If a man begins by searching for colour and ornament and richness,\nhe gets clotted and glutinous. Colour looks after itself--but it isn't\nclearness that I am afraid of, it is shrewdness--I think that is, on the\nwhole, a low quality, but it is awfully strong! What I am afraid of, in\nbare laborious country like that, is that people should only think of what\nis comfortable and sensible. Imagination is what really matters. It is not\nenough to have solid emotions; one ought not to be too reasonable about\nemotions. The thing is to care in an unreasonable and rapturous way about\nbeautiful things, and not to know why one cares. That is the point of\nthings which are simply beautiful and nothing else,--that you feel it isn't\nall capable of explanation.\"\n\n\"But isn't that rather sentimental?\" said Rose.\n\n\"No, no, it's just the opposite,\" said Father Payne. \"Sentiment is when one\nunderstands and exaggerates an emotion; beauty isn't that--it is something\nmysterious and inexplicable; it makes you bow the head and worship. Take\nthe sort of thing you may see on the coast of Italy--a blue sea, with gray\nand orange cliffs falling steeply down into deep water; a gap, with a\nclustering village, coming down, tier by tier, to the sea's edge; fantastic\ncastles on spires of rock, thickets and dingles running down among the\nclefts and out on the ledges, and perhaps a glimpse of pale, fantastic\nhills behind. No one could make it or design it; but every line, every\nblending colour, all combine to give you the sense of something\nmarvellously and joyfully contrived, and made for the richness and\nsweetness of it. That is the sort of moment when I feel the overwhelming\nbeauty and nearness of God--everything done on a vast scale, which floods\nmind and heart with utter happiness and wonder. Anything so overpoweringly\njoyful and delicious and useless as all that _must_ come out of a\nfulness of joy. The sharp cliffs mean some old cutting and slashing, the\nblistering and burning of the earth; and yet those old rents have been\nclothed and mollified by some power that finds it worth while to do it--and\nit isn't done for you or me, either--there must be treasures of loveliness\ngoing on hidden for centuries in tropic forests. It's done for the sake of\ndoing it; and we are granted a glimpse of it, just to show us perhaps that\nwe are right to adore it, and to try in our clumsy way to make beautiful\nthings too. That is why I envy the musician, because he creates beauty more\ndirectly then any other mind--and the best kind of poetry is of the same\norder.\"\n\n\"But isn't there a danger in all this?\" said Lestrange. \"No, I don't want\nto say anything priggish,\" he added, seeing a contraction of Father Payne's\nbrows; \"I only want to say what I feel. I recognise the fascination of it\nas much as anyone can--but isn't it, as you said about travelling, a kind\nof intoxication? I mean, may it not be right to interpose it, but yet not\nright to follow it? Isn't it a selfish thing, and doesn't it do the very\nthing which you often speak against--blind us to other experience, that\nis?\"\n\n\"Yes, there is something in that,\" said Father Payne. \"Of course that is\nalways the difficulty about the artist, that he appears to live selfishly\nin joy--but it applies to most things. The best you can do for the world is\noften to turn your back upon it. Philanthropy is a beautiful thing in its\nway, but it must be done by people who like it--it is useless if it is done\nin a grim and self-penalising way. If a man is really big enough to follow\nart, he had better follow it. I do not believe very much in the doctrine\nthat service to be useful must be painful. No one doubts that Wordsworth\ngave more joy to humanity by living his own life than if he had been a\ncountry doctor. Of course the sad part of it is when a man follows art and\ndoes _not_ succeed in giving pleasure. But you must risk that--and a\nreal devotion to a thing gives the best chance of happiness to a man, and\nis perhaps, too, his best chance of giving something to others. There is no\nreason to think that Shakespeare was a philanthropist.\"\n\n\"But does that apply to things like horse-racing or golf?\" said Rose.\n\n\"No, you must not pursue comfort,\" said Father Payne; \"but I don't believe\nin the theory that we have all got to set out to help other people. That\nimplies that a man is aware of valuable things which he has to give away.\nMake friends if you can, love people if you can, but don't do it with a\nsense of duty. Do what is natural and beautiful and attractive to do. Make\nthe little circle which surrounds you happy by sympathy and interest. Don't\ndeal in advice. The only advice people take is that with which they agree.\nAnd have your own work. I think we are--many of us--afraid of enjoying\nwork; but in any case, if we can show other people how to perceive and\nenjoy beauty, we have done a very great thing. The sense of beauty is\ngrowing in the world. Many people are desiring it, and religion doesn't\ncater for it, nor does duty cater for it. But it is the only way to make\nprogress--and religion has got to find out how to include beauty in its\nprogramme, or it will be left stranded. Nothing but beauty ever lifted\npeople higher--the unsensuous, inexplicable charm, which makes them ashamed\nof dull, ugly, greedy, quarrelsome ways. It is only by virtue of beauty\nthat the world climbs higher--and if the world does climb higher by\nsomething which isn't obviously beautiful, it is only that we do not\nrecognise it as beautiful. Sin and evil are signals from the unknown, of\ncourse; but they are danger signals, and we follow them with terror--but\nbeauty is a signal too, and it is the signal made by peace and happiness\nand joy.\"\n\n\n\nXXII\n\nOF WAR\n\n\nThe talk one evening turned on War; Lestrange said that he believed it was\ngood for a nation to have a war: \"It unites them with the sense of a common\npurpose, it evokes self-sacrifice, it makes them turn to God.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Father Payne, rather impatiently. \"But you can't personify\na nation like that; that personification of societies and classes and\nsections of the human race does no end of harm. It is all a matter of\nstatistics, not of generalisation. Take your three statements. 'It is good\nfor a nation to have a war.' You mean, I suppose, that, in spite of the\nloss of the best stock and the disabling of strong young men, and the\ndisintegration of families, and the hideous waste of time and\nmoney--subtracting all that--there is a balance of good to the survivors?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so,\" said Lestrange.\n\n\"But are you sure about this?\" said Father Payne. \"How do you know? Would\nyou feel the same if you yourself were turned out a helpless invalid for\nlife with your occupation gone? Are you sure that you are not only\nexpressing the feeling of relief in the community at having a danger over?\nIs it more than the sense of gratitude of a man who has not suffered\nunbearably, to the people who _have_ died and suffered? The only\nevidence worth having is that of the real sufferers. Take the case of the\npeople who have died. You can't get evidence from them. It is an assumption\nthat they are content to have died. Is not the glory which surrounds\nthem--and how short a time that lasts!--a human attempt to make consciences\ncomfortable, and to relieve human doubts? The worst of that theory is that\nit makes so light of the worth of life; and, after all, a soldier's\nbusiness is to kill and not to be killed; while, generally speaking, the\nworst turn that a strong, healthy, and honest man can do to his country is\nto die prematurely. Of course war has a great and instinctive prestige\nabout it; are we not misled by that into accepting it as an inevitable\nbusiness?\"\n\n\"No, I believe there is a real gain,\" said Lestrange, \"in the national\nsense of unity, in the feeling of having been equal to an emergency.\"\n\n\"But are you speaking of a nation which conquers or a nation which is\ndefeated?\" said Father Payne.\n\n\"Both,\" said Lestrange; \"it unites a nation in any case.\"\n\n\"But if a nation is defeated,\" said Father Payne, \"are they the better for\nthe common depression of _not_ having been equal to the emergency?\"\n\n\"It may make them set their teeth,\" said Lestrange, \"and prepare themselves\nbetter.\"\n\n\"Then it does not matter,\" said Father Payne, \"whether they are united by\nthe complacency of conquest or by the desire for revenge?\"\n\n\"I would not quite say that,\" said Lestrange. \"But at all events a desire\nfor revenge might teach them discipline.\"\n\n\"I can't believe that,\" said Father Payne; \"it seems to me to make all the\ndifference what the purpose has been. I do not believe that a nation gains\nby being united for a predatory and aggressive purpose. I think the victory\nof the Germans in the Franco-Prussian war has been wholly bad for them. It\nhas made them believe in aggressiveness. A nation naturally philosophical\nand moral, and also both energetic and stupid, acquires the sense of a\ndivine mission like that. I don't believe that a belief in your own methods\nof virtue is a wholesome belief. That seems to me likely to perpetuate\nwar--and I suppose that we should all believe that war was an evil, if we\ncould produce the good results of it without war.\"\n\nWe all agreed to this.\n\n\"I will grant,\" said Father Payne, \"that if a nation which sincerely\nbelieves in peace and wishes to cultivate goodwill, is wantonly and\naggressively attacked, and repels that attack, it may gain much from war if\nit sticks to its theory, does not attempt reprisals, and leaves the\nconquered bully in a position to see its mistake and regain its\nself-respect. But it is a very dangerous kind of success for all that. I do\nnot believe that complacency ever does anything but harm. The purpose must\nbe a good one in the first place, the cause must be a great one, and it\nmust be honestly pursued to the end, if it is to help a nation. But it lets\nall sorts of old and evil passions loose, and it makes slaughter glorious.\nNo, I believe that at best it is a relapse into barbarism. Hardly any\nnation is strong enough and great enough to profit either by conquest or by\ndefeat.\"\n\n\"But what about the splendid self-sacrifice it all evokes?\" said Lestrange.\n\"People give up their comfort, their careers, they go to face the last\nrisk--is that nothing?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Father Payne; \"it is a very magnificent and splendid thing,--I\ndon't deny that. But even so, that can't be preserved artificially. I mean\nthat no one would think that, if there were no chance of a real war, it\nwould be a good thing to evoke such self-sacrifice by having manoeuvres in\nwhich the best youth of the country were pitted against each other, to kill\neach other if possible. There must be a _real_ cause behind it. No one\nwould say it was a noble thing for the youth of a country to fling\nthemselves down over a cliff or to infect themselves with leprosy to show\nthat they could despise suffering and death. If it were possible to settle\nthe differences between nations without war, war would be a wholly evil\nthing. The only thing that one can say is that while there exists a strong\nnation which believes enough in war to make war aggressively, other nations\nare bound to resist it. But the nation which believes in war is _ipso\nfacto_ an uncivilised nation.\"\n\n\"But does not a war,\" said Lestrange, \"clear the air, and take people away\nfrom petty aims and trivial squabbles into a sterner and larger\natmosphere?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think it does,\" said Father Payne; \"but a great pestilence might do\nthat. We might be thankful for all the good we could get out of a\npestilence, and be grateful for it; but we should never dream of\nartificially renewing it for that reason. I look upon war as a sort of\npestilence, a contagion which spreads under certain conditions. But we\ndisguise the evil of it from ourselves, if we allow ourselves to believe in\nits being intrinsically glorious. I can't believe that highway robbery has\nonly to be organised on a sufficiently large scale to make it glorious. A\nman who resists highway robbery, and runs the risk of death, because he\nwants to put a stop to it, seems to me a noble person--quite different from\nthe man who sees a row going on and joins in it because he does not want to\nbe out of a good thing! Do you remember the story of the Irishman who saw a\nfight proceeding, and rushed into the fray wielding his shillelagh, and\npraying that it might fall on the right heads? We have all of us\nuncivilised instincts, but it does not make them civilised to join with a\nmillion other people in indulging them. I think that a man who refuses to\njoin from conviction, at the risk of being hooted as a coward, is probably\ndoing a braver thing still.\"\n\n\"But I have often, heard you say that life must be a battle,\" said\nLestrange.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"but I know what I want to fight. I want the\nhuman race to join in fighting crime and disease, evil conditions of\nnurture, dishonesty and sensuality. I don't want to pit the finest stock of\neach country against each other. That is simple suicide, for two nations to\nkill off the men who could fight evil best. I want the nations to combine\ncollectively for a good purpose, not to combine separately for a bad one.\"\n\n\"I see that,\" said Lestrange; \"but I regard war as an inevitable element in\nsociety as at present constituted. I don't think the world can be persuaded\nout of it. If it ever ceases, it will die a natural death because it will\nsuddenly be regarded as absurd. Meantime, I think it is our duty to regard\nthe benefits of it; and, as I said, it turns a nation to God--it takes them\nout of petty squabbles, and makes them recognise a power beyond and behind\nthe world.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is so,\" said Father Payne, \"if you regard war as caused by God.\nBut I rather believe that it is one of the things that God is fighting\nagainst! And I don't agree that it produces a noble temper all through. It\ndoes in many of the combatants; but there is nothing so characteristic at\nthe outbreak of war as the amount of bullying that is done. Peaceful people\nare hooted at and shouted down; thousands of general convictions are\nover-ridden; the violent have it their own way; it seems to me to organise\nthe unruly and obstreperous, and to force all gentler and more civilised\nnatures into an unconvinced silence. Many of the people who do most for the\nhappiness of the world can't face unpopularity. They are apt to think that\nthere must be something wrong with themselves, something spiritless and\nabnormal, if they find themselves loathing the cruelties of which others\nseem to approve. I do not believe that war organises wholesome and sane\nopinion; I believe that it silences it. It is a time when base, heartless,\ncruel people can become heroes. It is true that it also gives serene,\ncourageous, and calm people a great opportunity. But on the whole it is a\nbad time for sober, orderly, and peaceable people. I believe that it evokes\na good many fine qualities--simplicity, uncomplaining patience,\nunselfishness, but it reveals them rather than creates them. It shows the\nworth of a nation, but it should want a great deal of evidence before I\nbelieve that it does more than prove to people that they are braver than\nthey know. I can't believe vaguely in death and sorrow and disablement and\nwaste being good things. It is merely a question of what you are paying so\nghastly a price for. In the Napoleonic wars the price was paid for the\nliberties of Europe, to show a great nation that it must abandon the ideal\nof domination. That is a great cause; but it is great because men are evil,\nand not because they are good. War seems to me the temporary triumph of the\nold bad past over the finer and more beautiful future. Do not let us be\ntaken in by the romance of it. That is the childish view, that loves the\nsight and sound of the marching column and the stirring music. People find\nit hard to believe that anything so strong and gallant and cheerful\n_can_ have a sinister side. And no doubt for a young, strong, and bold\nman the excitement of it is an intense pleasure. But what we have to ask is\nwhether we are right in taking so heavy a toll from the world for all that:\nI do not think it right, though it may be inevitable. But then I belong to\nthe future, and I think I should be more at home in the world a thousand\nyears hence than I am to-day.\"\n\n\"But I go back to my point,\" said Lestrange: \"does not a great war like\nthat send people to their knees in faith?\"\n\n\"Depend upon it,\" said Father Payne, \"that anything which makes people\nacquiesce in preventable evil, and see the beautiful effects of death and\npain and waste, is the direct influence of the devil. It is the last and\nmost guileful subtlety that he practises, to make us solemnly mournful and\npatient in the presence of calamities for which we have ourselves to thank.\nThe only prayer worth praying in the time of war is not, 'Help us to bear\nthis,' but 'Help us to cure this'; and to behave with meek reverence is to\nbehave like the old servant in _The Master of Ballantrae_, who bore\nhimself like an afflicted saint under an illness, the root of which was\ndrunkenness. The worst religion is that which keeps its sense of repentance\nalive by its own misdeeds!\"\n\nHe was silent for a moment, and then he said: \"No, we mustn't make terms\nwith war, any more than we must do with cholera. It's a great,\nheartbreaking evil, and it puts everything back a stage. Of course it\nbrings out fine qualities--I know that--and so does a plague of cholera.\nIt's the evil in both that brings out the fine things to oppose it. But we\nought to have more faith, and believe that the fine qualities are\nthere--war doesn't create them, it only shows you that they are\npresent--and we believe in war because it reassures us about the presence\nof the great qualities. It shows them, and then blows them out, like the\nflame of a candle. But we want to keep them; we don't want just to be shown\nthem, with a risk of extinguishing them. Example can do something, but not\nhalf as much as inheritance; and we sweep away the inheritance for the sake\nof the romantic delight of seeing the great virtues flare up. No,\" he said,\n\"war is one of the evil things that is trying to hurt mankind, and\ndisguising itself in shining armour; but it means men ill; it is for ever\ntrying to bring their dreams to an end.\"\n\n\n\nXXIII\n\nOF CADS AND PHARISEES\n\n\n\"There are only two sorts of people with whom it is impossible to live,\"\nsaid Father Payne one day, in a loud, mournful tone.\n\n\"Elderly women and young women, I suppose he means,\" said Rose softly.\n\n\"No,\" said Father Payne, \"I protest! I adore sensible women, simple women,\nclever women, all non-predatory women--it is they who will not live with\nme. I forget they are not men, and they do not like that. And then they are\nso much more unselfish than men, that they have generally axes to grind,\nand I don't like that.\"\n\n\"Whom do you mean, then?\" said I.\n\n\"Cads and Pharisees,\" said Father Payne, \"and they are not two sorts\nreally, but one. They are the people without imagination. It is that which\ndestroys social life, the lack of imagination. The Pharisee is the cad with\na tincture of Puritanism.\"\n\n\"What is the cad, then?\" said I.\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Payne, \"he is very easy to detect, and not very easy to\ndefine. He is the man who has got a perfectly definite idea of what he\nwants, and he suffers from isolation. He can't put himself into anyone's\nplace, or get inside other people's minds. He is stupid, and he is\nunperceptive. He does not detect the little looks, gestures, tones of\nvoice, which show when people are uncomfortable or disgusted. He is not\nuncomfortable or easily disgusted himself, and he does not much mind other\npeople being so. He says what he thinks, and you have got to lump it.\nSometimes he is good-natured enough, and even brave. There is an admirable\nsketch of a good-natured cad in one of Mrs. Walford's novels, who is the\nacme of kind indelicacy. The cad is dreadful to live with, because he is\nalways making one ashamed, and ashamed of being ashamed, because many of\nthe things he does do not really matter very much. Then, when he is out of\nsight and hearing, you cannot trust him. He makes mischief; he throws mud.\nIf he is vexed with you, he injures you with other people. We are all\ncriticised behind our backs, of course, and we have all faults which amuse\nand interest our friends; and it is not caddish to criticise friends if one\nis only interested in them. But the cad is not interested, except in\nclearing other people out of his way. He is treacherous and spiteful. He\ndrops in upon you uninvited, and then he tells people he could not get\nenough to eat. He repeats things you have said about your friends to the\npeople of whom you have spoken, leaving out all the justifications, and\nsays that he thinks they ought to know how you abuse them. He borrows money\nof you, and if you ask him for repayment, he says he is not accustomed to\nbe dunned. He never can bring himself to apologise for anything, and if you\nlose your temper with him, he says you are getting testy in your old age.\nHis one idea is to be formidable, and he says that he does not let people\ntake liberties with him. He takes a mean and solitary view of the world,\nand other people are merely channels for his own wishes, or obstacles to\nthem. The only way is to keep him at arm's length, because he is not\ndisarmed by any generosity or trustfulness; the discovery of caddishness in\na man is the only excuse for breaking off a companionship. The worst of it\nis that cads are sometimes very clever, and don't let the caddishness\nappear till you are hooked. The mischief really is that the cad has no\nmorals, no sense of social duty.\"\n\n\"What about Pharisees?\" said I.\n\n\"Well, the Pharisee has too many morals,\" said Father Payne. \"He is the\nperson whose own tastes are a sort of standard. If you disagree with him,\nhe thinks you must be wicked. If your tastes differ from his, they are of\nthe nature of sin. You live under his displeasure. If he dresses for\ndinner, it is sloppy and middle-class not to do so. If he doesn't dress for\ndinner, the people who do are either wasting time or aping the manners of\nthe great. He is always very strong about wasting time. If he likes\ngardening, he says it is the best sort of exercise; if he does not, he says\nthat it is bilious work muddling about in a corner. Everything that he does\nis done on principle, but he uses his principles to bludgeon other people.\nIf you make him the subject of a harmless jest, he says that he cannot bear\npersonalities. You can please him only by deferring to him, and the only\nway to manage him is by gross flattery. A Pharisee can be a gentleman, and\nhe isn't purely noxious like the cad; he is only unpleasant and\ndiscouraging. He is quite impervious to argument, and only says that he\nthought the principle he is contending for was generally accepted. The\nPharisee wants in a heavy way to improve the world, and thinks meanly of\nit, while the cad thinks meanly of it, and wants to exploit it. The\nPharisee is a tyrant, and hates freedom; but you can often make a friend of\nhim by asking him a favour, if you are also prepared to be subsequently\nreminded of the trouble he took to serve you.\n\n\"I think that the Pharisee perhaps does most harm in the end, because he\nhates all experiments. He does harm to the young, because he makes them\ndislike virtue and mistrust beauty. The cad does not corrupt--in fact, I\nthink he rather improves people, because he is so ugly a case of what no\none wishes to be--and it is better to hate people than to be frightened of\nthem. If we got a cad and a Pharisee in here, for instance, it would be\neasier to get rid of the cad than the Pharisee.\"\n\n\"I begin to breathe more freely,\" said Vincent. \"I had begun to review my\nconscience.\"\n\nFather Payne laughed. \"It's all blank cartridge,\" he said.\n\n\n\nXXIV\n\nOF CONTINUANCE\n\n\nI was walking with Father Payne in the garden one day of spring. I think I\nliked him better when I was alone with him than I did when we were all\ntogether. His mind expanded more tenderly and simply--less\nepigrammatically. He spoke of this once to me, saying: \"I am at my best\nwhen alone; even one companion deflects me. I find myself wishing to please\nhim, pinching off roughnesses, perfuming truth, diplomatising. This ought\nnot to be, of course; and if one was not thorny, self-assertive, stupid, it\nwould not be so; and every companion added makes me worse, because the\nstrain of accommodation grows--I become vulgar and rough and boisterous in\na large circle. I often feel: 'How these young men must be hating this\ngibbering and giggling ape, which after all is not really me!'\" I tried to\nreassure him, but he shook his head, though with a smiling air. \"Barthrop\nis not like that,\" he said, \"the wise Barthrop! He is never suspicious or\nhasty--he does not think it necessary to affirm; yet you are never in any\ndoubt what he thinks! He moves along like water, never anxious if he is\nheld up or divided, creeping on as the land lies--that is the right way.\"\n\nPresently he stopped, and looked long at some daffodil blades which were\nthrusting up in a sheltered place. \"Look at the gray bloom on those\nblades,\" he said; \"isn't that perfect? Fancy thinking of that--each of them\nso obviously the same thought taking shape, yet each of them different. Do\nnot you see in them something calm, continuous, active--happy, in fact--at\nwork; often tripped up and imprisoned, and thwarted--but moving on?\" He was\nsilent a little, and then he said: \"This force of _life_--what a\nfascinating mystery it is--never dying, never ceasing, always coming back\nto shape itself into matter. I wonder sometimes it is not content to exist\nalone; but no, it is always back again, arranging matter, manipulating it\ninto beautiful shapes and creatures, never discouraged; even when the plant\nfalls ill and begins to pine away, the happy life is within it--languid\nperhaps, but just waiting for the release, till the cage in which it has\nimprisoned itself is opened, and then--so I believe--back again in an\ninstant somewhere else.\n\n\"I am inclined to believe,\" he went on, \"that that is what we are all\nabout; it seems to me the only explanation for the fact that we care so\nmuch about the past and the future. If we are creatures of a day, why\nshould we be interested? The only reason we care about the past is because\nwe ourselves were there in it; and we care about the future because we\nshall be there in it again.\"\n\n\"You mean a sort of re-incarnation,\" I said.\n\n\"That's an ugly word for a beautiful thing,\" he said. \"But this love of\nlife, this impulse to live, to protect ourselves, to keep ourselves alive,\nmust surely mean that we have always lived and shall always live. Some\npeople think that dreadful. They think it is taking liberties with them. If\nthey are rich and comfortable and dignified, they cannot bear to think that\nthey may have to begin again, perhaps as a baby in a slum--or they grow\ntired, and think they want rest; but we can't rest--we must live again, we\nmust be back at work; and of course the real hope in it all is that, when\nwe do anything to make the world happier, it is our own future that we are\nworking for. Who could care about the future of the world, if he was to be\nbanished from it for ever? I was reading a book the other day, in which a\nwise and a good man said that he felt about the future progress of the\nworld as Moses did about the promised land, 'not as of something we want to\nhave for ourselves, but as of something which we want to exist, whether we\nexist or no,' I can't take so impersonal a view! If one really believed\nthat one was going to be extinguished in death, one would care no more\nabout the world's future than one cares where the passengers in a train are\ngoing to, when we get out at a station. Who, on arriving at home, can lose\nhimself in wondering where his fellow-travellers have got to? We have\nbetter things to do than that! That is the sham altruism. It is as if a boy\nat school, instead of learning his own lesson, spent his time in imploring\nthe other boys to learn theirs. That is what we are whipped for--for not\nlearning our own lesson.\"\n\n\"But if all this is so,\" I said, \"why don't we _know_ that we shall\nlive again? Why is the one thing which is important for us to know hidden\nfrom us?\"\n\n\"I think we do know it,\" said Father Payne, \"deep down in ourselves. It is\nwhy it is worth while to go on living. If we believed our reason, which\ntells us that we come to an end and sink into silence, we could not care to\nlive, to suffer, to form passionate ties which must all be severed, only to\nsink into nothingness ourselves. If we will listen to our instincts, they\nassure us that it _is_ all worth doing, because it all has a\nsignificance for us in the life that comes next.\"\n\n\"But if we are to go on living,\" I said, \"are we to forget all the love and\ninterest and delight of life? There seems no continuance of identity\nwithout memory.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Father Payne, \"that is another delusion of reason. Our qualities\nremain--our power of being interested, of loving, of caring, of suffering.\nWe practise them a little in one life, we practise them again in the\nnext--that is why we improve. I forget who it was who said it, but it is\nquite true, that there are numberless people now alive, who, because of\ntheir orderliness, their patience, their kindness, their sweetness, would\nhave been adored as saints if they had lived in mediaeval times. And that\nis the best reason we have for suppressing as far as we can our evil\ndispositions, and for living bravely and freely in happy energy, that we\nshall make a little better start next time. It is not the particular people\nwe love who matter--it is the power of loving other people--and if we meet\nthe same people as those we loved again, we shall love them again; and if\nwe do not, why, there will be others to love. One of the worst limitations\nI feel is the fact that there are so many thousand people on earth whom I\ncould love, if I could but meet them--and I am not going to believe that\nthis wretched span of days is my only chance of meeting them. We need not\nbe in a hurry--and yet we have no time to waste!\"\n\nHe stopped for a moment, and then added: \"When I lived in London, and was\nvery poor, and had either too much or not enough to do, and was altogether\nvery unhappy, I used to wander about the streets and wonder how I could be\nso much alone when there were so many possible friends. Just above Ludgate\nRailway Viaduct, as you go to St. Paul's, there is a church on your left, a\nWren church, very plain, of white and blackened stone, and an odd lead\nspire at the top. It has hardly any ornament, but just over the central\ndoorway, under a sort of pediment, there is a little childish angel's head,\na beautiful little baby face, with such an expression of stifled\nbewilderment. It seems to say, 'Why should I hang here, covered with soot,\nwith this mob of people jostling along below, in all this noise and dirt?'\nThe child looks as if it was just about to burst into tears. I used to feel\nlike that. I used to feel that I was meant to be happy, and even to make\npeople happy, and that I had been caught and pinned down in a sort of\npillory. It's a grievous mistake to feel like that. Self-pity is the worst\nof all luxuries! But I think I owe all my happiness to that bad time.\nComing here was like a resurrection; and I never grudged the time when I\nwas face to face with a nasty, poky, useless life. And if that can happen\ninside a single existence, I am not going to despair about the possibility\nof its happening in many existences. I dreamed the other night that I saw a\nparty of little angels singing a song together, all absorbed in making\nmusic, and I recognised the little child of Ludgate Hill in the middle of\nthem singing loud and clear. He gave me a little smile and something like a\nwink, and I knew that he had got his promotion. We ought all of us, and\nalways, to be expecting that. But we have got to earn it, of course. It\ndoes not come if we wait with folded hands.\"\n\n\n\nXXV\n\nOF PHILANTHROPY\n\n\nFather Payne told us an odd story to-day of a big house on the outskirts of\nLondon, with a great garden and some fields belonging to it, that was shut\nup for years and seemed neglected. It was inhabited by an old retired\nColonel and his daughter: the daughter had become an invalid, and her mind\nwas believed to be affected. No one ever came to the house or called there.\nA wall ran, round it, and the trees grew thick and tangled within; the big\ngates were locked. Occasionally the Colonel came out of a side-door, a tall\nhandsome man, and took a brisk walk; sometimes he would be seen handing his\ndaughter, much wrapped up, into a carriage, and they drove together. But\nthe place had a sinister air, and was altogether regarded with a gloomy\ncuriosity.\n\nWhen the Colonel died, it was discovered that the place was beautifully\nkept within, and the house delightfully furnished. It came out that, after\na period of mental depression, the daughter had recovered her spirits,\nthough her health was still delicate. The two were devoted to each other,\nand they decided that, instead of living an ordinary sociable life, they\nwould just enjoy each other's society in peace. It had been the happiest\nlife, simple, tenderly affectionate, the two living in and for each other,\nand one, moreover, of open-handed, secret benevolence. Apart from the\nexpenses of the household, the Colonel's wealth had been used to support\nevery kind of good work. Only one old friend of the Colonel's was in the\nsecret, and he spoke of it as one of the most beautiful homes he had ever\nseen.\n\nSomeone of us criticised the story, and asked whether it was not a case of\nrefined selfishness. He added rather incisively that the expenditure of\nmoney on charitable objects seemed to him to show that the Colonel's\nconscience was ill at ease.\n\nFather Payne was very indignant. He said the world had gone mad on\nphilanthropy and social service. Three-quarters of it was only fussy\nambition. He went on to say that a beautiful and simple life was probably\nthe thing most worth living in the world, and that two people could hardly\nbe better employed than in making each other happy. He said that he did not\nbelieve in self-denial unless people liked it. Was it really a finer life\nto chatter at dinner-parties and tea-parties, and occasionally to inspect\nan orphanage? Perspiration was not the only evidence of godliness. Why, was\nit to be supposed that one could not live worthily unless one was always\npoking one's nose into one's neighbour's concerns? He said that you might\nas well say that it was refined selfishness to have a rose-tree in your\ngarden, unless you cut off every bud the moment it appeared and sent it to\na hospital. If the critic really believed what he said, Aveley was no place\nfor him. Let him go to Chicago!\n\n\n\nXXVI\n\nOF FEAR\n\n\nI forget what led up to the subject; perhaps I did not hear; but Father\nPayne said, \"It isn't for nothing that 'the fearful' head the list of all\nthe abominable people--murderers, sorcerers, idolaters; and liars--who are\nreserved for the lake of fire and brimstone! Fear is the one thing that we\nare always wrong in yielding to: I don't mean timidity and cowardice, but\nthe sort of heavy, mild, and rather pious sort of foreboding that wakes one\nup early in the morning, and that takes all the wind out of one's sails;\nfear of not being liked, of having given offence, of living uselessly, of\nwasting time and opportunities. Whatever we do, we must not lead an\napologetic kind of life. If we on the whole intend to do something which we\nthink may be wrong, it is better to do it--it is wrong to be cautious and\nprudent. I love experiments.\"\n\n\"Isn't that rather immoral?\" said Lestrange.\n\n\"No, my dear boy,\" said Father Payne, \"we must make mistakes: better make\nthem! I am not speaking of things obviously wrong, cruel, unkind,\nungenerous, spiteful things; but it is right to give oneself away, to yield\nto impulses, not to take advice too much, and not to calculate consequences\ntoo much. I hate the Robinson Crusoe method of balancing pros and cons.\nLive your own life, do what you are inclined to do, as long as you really\ndo it. That is probably the best way of serving the world. Don't be argued\ninto things, or bullied out of them. You need not parade it--but rebel\nsilently. It is absolutely useless going about knocking people down. That\nproves nothing except that you are stronger. Don't show up people, or fight\npeople; establish a stronger influence if you can, and make people see that\nit is happier and pleasanter to live as you live. Make them envy you--don't\nmake them fear you. You must not play with fear, and you must not yield to\nfear.\"\n\n\n\nXXVII\n\nOF ARISTOCRACY\n\n\nFather Payne came into the hall one morning after breakfast when I was\nopening a parcel of books which had arrived for me. It was a fine, sunny\nday, and the sun lit up the portrait framed in the panelling over the\nmantelpiece, an old and skilful copy (at least I suppose it was a copy) of\nReynolds' fine portrait of James, tenth Earl of Shropshire. Father Payne\nregarded the picture earnestly. \"Isn't he magnificent?\" he said. \"But he\nwas a very poor creature really, and came to great grief. My\ngreat-great-grandfather! His granddaughter married my grandfather. Now look\nat that--that's the best we can do in the way of breeding! There's a man\nwhose direct ancestors, father to son, had simply the best that money can\nbuy--fine houses to live in, power, the pick of the matrimonial market, the\nbest education, a fine tradition, every inducement to behave like a hero;\nand what did he do--he gambled away his inheritance, and died of drink and\nbad courses. We can't get what we want, it would seem, by breeding human\nbeings, though we can do it with cows and pigs. Where and how does the\nthing go wrong? His father and mother were both of them admirable\npeople--fine in every sense of the word.\n\n\"And then people talk, too, as if we had got rid of idolatry! We make a man\na peer, we heap wealth upon him, and then we worship him for his\nmagnificence, and are deeply affected if he talks civilly to us. We don't\ndo it quite so much now, perhaps--but in that man's day, think what an\naroma of rank and splendour is cast, even in Boswell's _Life of\nJohnson_, over a dinner-party where a man like that was present! If he\npaid Johnson the most trumpery of compliments, Johnson bowed low, and down\nit went on Boswell's cuff! Yet we go on perpetuating it. We don't require\nthat such a man should be active, public-spirited, wise. If he is fond of\nfield-sports, fairly business-like, kindly, courteous, decently virtuous,\nwe think him a great man, and feel mildly elated at meeting him and being\nspoken to civilly by him. I don't mean that only snobs feel that; but\nrespectable people, who don't pursue fashion, would be more pleased if an\nEarl they knew turned up and asked for a cup of tea than if the worthiest\nof their neighbours did so. I don't exaggerate the power of rank--it\ndoesn't make a man necessarily powerful now, but a very little ability,\nbacked up by rank, will go a long way. A great general or a great statesman\nlikes to be made an Earl; and yet a good many people would like an Earl of\nlong descent quite as much. There are a lot of people about who feel as\nMelbourne did when he said he liked the Garter so much because there was no\nd----d merit about it. I believe we admire people who inherit magnificence\nbetter than we admire people who earn it; and while that feeling is there,\nwhat can be done to alter it?\"\n\n\"I don't think I want to alter it,\" I said; \"it is very picturesque!\"\n\n\"Yes, there's the mischief,\" said Father Payne, \"it _is_ more\npicturesque, hang it all! The old aristocrat who feels like a prince and\nbehaves like one, _is_ more picturesque than the person who has\nsweated himself into it. Think of the old Duke who was told he _must_\nretrench, and that he need not have six still-room maids in his\nestablishment, and said, after a brief period of reflection, 'D----n it, a\nman must have a biscuit!' We _like_ insolence! That is to say, we like\nit in its place, because we admire power. It's ten times more impressive\nthan the meekness of the saint. The mischief is that we like anything from\na man of power. If he is insolent, we think it grand; if he is stupid, we\nthink it a sort of condescension; if he is mild and polite, we think it\nmarvellous; if he is boorish, we think it is simple-minded. It is power\nthat we admire, or rather success, and both can be inherited. If a man gets\na big position in England, he is always said to grow into it; but that is\nbecause we care about the position more than we care about the man.\n\n\"When I was younger,\" he went on, \"I used to like meeting successful\npeople--it was only rarely that I got the chance--but I gradually\ndiscovered that they were not, on the whole, the interesting people.\nSometimes they were, of course, when they were big animated men, full of\nvitality and interest. But many men use themselves up in attaining success,\nand haven't anything much to give you except their tired side. No, I soon\nfound out that freshness was the interesting thing, wherever it was to be\nfound--and, mind you, it isn't very common. Many people have to arrive at\nsuccess by resolute self-limitation; and that becomes very uninteresting.\nBuoyancy, sympathy, quick interests, perceptiveness--that's the supreme\ncharm; and the worst of it is that it mostly belongs to the people who\nhaven't taken too much out of themselves. When we have got a really\nwell-ordered State, no one will have any reason to work too hard, and then\nwe shall all be the happier. These gigantic toilers, it's a sort of\nmorbidity, you know; the real success is to enjoy work, not to drudge\nyourself dry. One must overflow--not pump!\"\n\n\"But what is an artist to do,\" I said, \"who is simply haunted by the desire\nto make something beautiful?\"\n\n\"He must hold his hand,\" said Father Payne; \"he must learn to waste his\ntime, and he must love wasting it. A habit of creative work is an awful\nthing.\"\n\n\"Come out for a turn,\" he went on; \"never mind these rotten books; don't\nget into a habit of reading--it's like endlessly listening to good talk\nwithout ever joining in it--it makes a corpulent mind!\"\n\nWe went and walked in the garden; he stopped before some giant hemlocks.\n\"Just look at those great things,\" he said, \"built up as geometrically as a\ncathedral, tier above tier, and yet not _quite_ regular. There must be\nsomething very hard at work inside that, piling it all up, adding cell to\ncell, carrying out a plan, and enjoying it all. Yet the beauty of it is\nthat it isn't perfectly regular. You see the underlying scheme, yet the\nseparate shoots are not quite mechanical--they lean away from each other,\nthat joint is a trifle shorter--there wasn't quite room at the start in\nthat stem, and the pressure goes on showing right up to the top, I suppose\nour lives would look very nearly as geometrical to anyone who\n_knew_--really knew; but how little geometrical we feel! I don't\nsuppose this hemlock is cursed by the power of thinking it might have done\notherwise, or envies the roses. We mustn't spend time in envying, or\nrepenting either--or still less in renouncing life.\"\n\n\"But if I want to renounce it,\" I said, \"why shouldn't I?\"\n\n\"Yes, there you have me,\" said Father Payne; \"we know so little about\nourselves, that we don't always know whether we do better to renounce a\nthing or to seize it. Make experiments, I say--don't make habits.\"\n\n\"But you are always drilling me into habits,\" I said.\n\nHe gave me a little shake with his hand. \"Yes, the habit of being able to\ndo a thing,\" he said, \"not the habit of being unable to do anything else!\nHang these metaphysics, if that is what they are! What I want you young men\nto do is to get a firm hold upon life, and to feel that it is a finer thing\nthan any little presentment of it. I want you to feel and enjoy for\nyourselves, and to live freely and generously. Bad things happen to all of\nus, of course; but we mustn't mind that--not to be petty or quarrelsome, or\nhidebound or prudish or over-particular, that's the point. To leave other\npeople alone, except on the rare occasions when they are not letting other\npeople alone; to be peaceable, and yet not to be afraid; not to be hurt and\nvexed; to practise forgetting; not to want to pouch things! It's all very\nwell for me to talk,\" he said; \"I made a sufficient hash of it, when I was\npoor and miserable and overworked; and then I was transplanted out of a\nslum window-box into a sunny garden, just in time; yet I'm sure that most\nof my old troubles were in a way of my own making, because I hated being so\ninsignificant; but I fear that was a little poison lurking in me from the\nEarls of Shropshire. That is the odd thing about ambitions, that they seem\nso often like regaining a lost position rather than making a new one. The\ntruth is that we are caged; and the only thing to do is to think about the\ncage as little as we can.\"\n\n\n\nXXVIII\n\nOF CRYSTALS\n\n\nOne day I was strolling down the garden among the winding paths, when I\ncame suddenly upon Father Payne, who was hurrying towards the house. He had\nin each of his hands a large roughly spherical stone, and looked at me a\nlittle shamefacedly.\n\n\"You look, Father,\" I said, \"as if you were going to stone Stephen.\"\n\nHe laughed, and looked at the stones. \"Yes,\" he said, \"they are what the\nGreeks called 'hand-fillers,' for use in battle--but I have no nefarious\ndesigns.\"\n\n\"What are you going to do with them?\" I said\n\n\"That's a secret!\" he said, and made as if he were going in. Then he said,\n\"Come, you shall hear it--you shall share my secret, and be a partner in my\ndreams, as the fisherman says in Theocritus.\" But he did not tell me what\nhe was going to do, and seemed half shy of doing so.\n\n\"It's like Dr. Johnson and the orange-peel,\" I said. \"'Nay, Sir, you shall\nknow their fate no further.'\"\n\n\"Well, the truth is,\" he said at last, \"that I'm a perfect baby. I never\ncan resist looking into a hole in the ground, and I happened to look into\nthe pit where we dig gravel. I can't tell you how long I spent there.\"\n\n\"What were you doing?\" I said.\n\n\"Looking for fossils,\" he said; \"I had a great gift for finding them when I\nwas a child. I didn't find any fossils to-day, but I found these stones,\nand I think they contain crystals. I am going to break them and see.\"\n\nI took one in my hand. \"I think they are only fossil sponges,\" I said;\n\"there will only be a rusty sort of core inside.\"\n\n\"You know that!\" he said, brightening up; \"you know about stones too? But\nthese are not sponges--they would rattle if they were--no, they contain\ncrystals--I am sure of it. Come and see!\"\n\nWe went into the stable-yard. Father Payne fetched a hammer, and then\nselected a convenient place in the cobbled yard to break the stones. He put\none of them in position, and aimed a blow at it, but it glanced off, and\nthe stone flew off with the impact to some distance. \"Lie still, can't\nyou?\" said Father Payne, apostrophising the stone, and adding, \"This is for\nmy pleasure, not for yours.\" I recovered the stone, and brought it back,\nand Father Payne broke it with a well-directed blow. He gathered up the\npieces eagerly. \"Yes,\" he said, \"it's all right--they are blue crystals:\nbetter than I had hoped.\"\n\nHe handed a fragment to me to look at. The inside of the stone was hollow.\nIt had a coagulated appearance, and was thickly coated with minute bluish\ncrystals, very beautiful.\n\n\"I don't know that I ever saw a stone I liked as well as this,\" said Father\nPayne, musing over another piece. \"Think what millions of years this has\nbeen like that,--before Abraham was! It has never seen the light of day\nbefore--it's a splash of some molten stone, which fell plop into a cool\nsea-current, I suppose. I wish I knew all about it. The question, is, why\nis it so beautiful? It couldn't help it, I suppose! But for whose delight?\"\nThen he said, \"I suppose this was a vacuum in here till it was broken? That\nis why it is so clear and fresh. Good Heavens, what would I not give to\nknow why this thing cooled into these lovely little shapes. It's no use\ntalking about the laws of matter--why are the laws of matter what they are,\nand not different? And odder still, why do I like the look of it?\"\n\n\"Perhaps that is a law of matter too,\" I said.\n\n\"Oh, shut up!\" said Father Payne to me. \"But I understand--and of course\nthe temptation is to believe that this was all done on your account and\nmine. That is as odd a thing as the stone itself, if you come to think of\nit, that we should be made so that we refer everything to ourselves, and to\nbelieve that God prepared this pretty show for us.\"\n\n\"I suppose we come in somewhere?\" I said.\n\n\"Yes, we are allowed to see it,\" said Father Payne. \"But it wasn't arranged\nfor the benefit of a silly old man like me. That is the worst of our\nreligious theories--that we believe that God is for ever making personal\nappeals to us. It is that sort of self-importance which spoils everything.\"\n\n\"But I can hardly believe that we have this sense of self-importance only\nto get rid of it,\" I said. \"It all seems to me a dreadful muddle--to shut\nup these lovely little things inside millions of stones, and then to give\nus the wish to break a couple, only that we may reflect that they were not\nmeant for us to see at all.\"\n\nFather Payne gave a groan. \"Yes, it is a muddle!\" he said. \"But one thing I\nfeel clear about--that a beautiful thing like this means a sense of joy\nsomewhere: some happiness went to the making of things which in a sense are\nquite useless, but are unutterably lovely all the same. Beauty implies\nconsciousness--but come, we are neglecting our business. Give me the other\nstone at once!\"\n\nI gave it him, and he cracked it. \"Very disappointing!\" he said. \"I made\nsure there was a beautiful stone, but it is all solid--only a flaky sort of\njelly--it's no use at all!\"\n\nHe threw it aside, but carefully gathered up the fragments of the\ncrystalline stone. \"Don't tell of me!\" he said, looking at me whimsically.\n\"This is the sort of nonsense which our sensible friends won't understand.\nBut now that I know that you care about stones, we will have a rare hunt\ntogether one of these days. But mind--no stuff about geology! It's beauty\nthat we are in search of, you and I.\"\n\n\n\nXXIX\n\nEARLY LIFE\n\n\nOne day, to my surprise and delight, Father Payne indulged in some personal\nreminiscences about his early life. He did not as a rule do this. He used\nto say that it was the surest sign of decadence to think much about the\npast. \"Sometimes when I wake early,\" he said, \"I find myself going back to\nmy childhood, and living through scene after scene. It's not wholesome--I\nalways know I am a little out of sorts when I do that--it is only one\ndegree better than making plans about the future!\"\n\nHowever, on this occasion he was very communicative. He had been talking\nabout Ruskin, and he said: \"Do you remember in _Praeterita_ how\nRuskin, writing about his sheltered and complacent childhood, describes how\nentirely he lived in the pleasure of _sight_? He noticed everything,\nthe shapes and colours of things, the almond blossom, the ants that made\nnests in the garden walk, the things they saw in their travels. He was\nentirely absorbed in sense-impressions. Well, that threw a light on my own\nlife, because it was exactly what happened to me as a child. I lived wholly\nin observation. I had no mind and very little heart. I suppose that I had\nso much to do looking at everything, getting the shapes and the textures\nand the qualities of everything by heart, that I had no time to think about\nideas and emotions. I had a very lonely childhood, you know, brought up in\nthe country by my mother, who was rather an invalid, my father being dead.\nI had no companions to speak of, and I didn't care about anyone or need\nanyone--it was all simply a collecting of impressions. The result is that I\ncan visualise anything and everything--speak of a larch-bud or a fir-cone,\nand there it is before me--the little rosy fragrant tuft, or the glossy\nrectangular squares of the cone. Then I went to Marlborough, and I was\ndreadfully unhappy, I hated everything and everybody--the ugliness and\nslovenliness of it all, the noise, the fuss, the stink. I did not feel I\nhad anything in common with those little brutes, as I thought them. I lived\nthe life of a blind creature in a fright, groping aimlessly about. I joined\nin nothing--but I was always strong, and so I was left alone. No one dared\nto interfere with me; and I have sometimes wished I hadn't been so strong,\nthat I had had the experience of being weak. I dare say that nasty things\nmight have happened--but I should have known more what the world was like,\nI should have depended more upon other people, I should have made friends.\nAs it was, I left school entirely innocent, very solitary, very modest,\nthinking myself a complete duffer, and everyone else a beast. It got a\nlittle better at the end of my time, and I had a companion or two--but I\nnever dreamed of telling anyone what I was really thinking about.\"\n\nHe broke off suddenly. \"This is awful twaddle!\" he said. \"Why should you\ncare to hear about all this? I was thinking aloud.\"\n\n\"Do go on thinking aloud a little,\" I said; \"it is most interesting!\"\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, \"with the flatterers were busy mockers! You enjoy staring\nand looking upon me.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" I said, rather nettled. \"Father Payne, don't you understand? I\nwant to hear more about you. I want to know how you came to be what you\nare: it interests me more than I can say. You asked me about myself when I\ncame here, and I told you. Why shouldn't I ask you, for a change?\"\n\nHe smiled, obviously pleased at this. \"Why, then,\" he said, \"I'll go on.\nI'm not above liking to tell my tale, like the Ancient Mariner. You can\nbeat your breast when you are tired of it.\" He was intent for a moment, and\nthen went on. \"Well, I went up to Oxford--to Corpus. A funny little place,\nI now think--rather intellectual. I could hardly believe my senses when I\nfound how different it was from school, and how independent. Heavens, how\nhappy I was! I made some friends--I found I could make friends after all--I\ncould say what I liked, I could argue, I could even amuse them. I really\ncouldn't make you realise how I adored some of those men. I used to go to\nsleep after a long evening of chatter, simply hating the darkness which\nseparated me from life and company. There were two in particular, very\nordinary young men, I expect. But they were fond of me, and liked being\nwith me, and I thought them the most wonderful and enchanting persons, with\na wide knowledge of the great mysterious world. The world! It wasn't, I\nsaw, a nasty, jostling place, as I had thought at school, but a great\nbeautiful affair, full of love and delight, of interest and ideas. I read,\nI talked, I flew about--it was simply a new birth! I felt like a prisoner\nsuddenly released. Of course, the mischief was that I neglected my work.\nThere wasn't time for that: and I fell in love, too, or thought I did, with\nthe sister of one of those friends, with whom I went to stay. I wonder if\nanyone was ever in love like that! I daresay it's common enough. But I\nwon't go into that; these raptures are for private consumption. I was\nroughly jerked up. I took a bad degree. My mother died--I had very little\nin common with her: she was an invalid without any hold on life, and I took\nno trouble to be kind to her--I was perfectly selfish and wilful. Then I\nhad to earn my living. I would have given anything to stay at Oxford: and\nyou know, even now, when I think of Oxford, a sort of electric shock goes\nthrough me, I love it so much. I daren't even set foot there, I'm so afraid\nof finding it altered. But when I think of those dark courts and bowery\ngardens, and the men moving about, and the fronts of blistered stone, and\nthe little quaint streets, and the meadows and elms, and the country all\nabout, I have a physical yearning that is almost a pain--a sort of\nhome-sickness--\"\n\nHe broke off, and was silent for a moment, and I saw that his eyes were\nfull of tears.\n\n\"Then it was London, that accursed place! I had a tiny income: I got a job\nat a coaching establishment, I worked like the devil. That was a cruel\ntime. I couldn't dream of marriage--that all vanished, and she married\npretty soon, I couldn't get a holiday--I was too poor. I tried writing, but\nI made a hash of that. I simply went down into hell. One of my great\nfriends died, and the other--well, it was awkward to meet, when I had had\nto break it off with his sister. I simply can't describe to you how utterly\nhorrible it all was. I used to teach all the terms, and in the vacations I\nsimply mooned about. I hadn't a club, and I used to read at the\nMuseum--read just to keep my senses. Then, I suppose I got used to it. Of\ncourse, if I had had any adventurousness in me, I should have gone off and\nbecome a day-labourer or anything--but I am not that sort of person.\n\n\"That went on till I was about thirty-three--and then quite suddenly, and\nwithout any warning, I had my experience. I suppose that something was\ngoing on inside me all the time, something being burnt out of me in those\nfires. It was a mixture of selfishness and stupidity and perverseness that\nwas the matter with me. I didn't see that I could do anything. I was simply\nfurious with the world for being such a hole, and with God for sticking me\nin the middle of it. The occasion of the change was simply too ridiculous.\nIt was nothing else but coming back to my rooms and finding a big bowl of\ndaffodils there. They had been left, my landlady told me, by a young\ngentleman. It sounds foolish enough--but it suddenly occurred to me to\nthink that someone was interested in me, pitied me, cared for me. A sort of\nmist cleared away from my eyes, and I saw in a flash, what was the\nmischief--that I had walled myself in by my misery and bad temper, and by\nmy expectation that something must be done for me. The next day I had to\ntake a lot of pupils, one after another, for composition. One of them had a\ndaffodil in his hand, which he put down carelessly on the table. I stared\nat it and at him, and he blushed. He wasn't an interesting young man to\nlook at or to talk to--but it was just a bit of simple humanity. It all\ncame out. I had been good to him--I looked as if I were having a bad time.\nIt was just a little human, signal, and a beautiful one. It was there,\nthen, all the time, I saw--human affection--if I cared to put out my hand\nfor it. I can't describe to you how it all developed, but my heart had\nmelted somehow--thawed like a lump of ice. I saw that there was no specific\nill-will to me in the world. I saw that everything was there, if I only\nchose to take it. That was my second awakening--a glimmer of light through\na chink--and suddenly, it was day! I had been growling over bones and straw\nin a filthy kennel, and I was not really tied up at all. Life was running\npast me, a crystal river. I was dying of thirst: and all because it was not\ngiven me in a clean glass on a silver tray, I would not drink it--and God\nsmiling at me all the time.\"\n\nFather Payne walked on in silence.\n\n\"The truth is, my boy,\" he said a minute later, \"that I'm a converted man,\nand it isn't everyone who can say that--nor do I wish everyone to be\nconverted, because it's a ghastly business preparing for the operation. It\nisn't everyone who needs it--only those self-willed, devilish, stand-off,\nproud people, who have to be braised in a mortar and pulverised to atoms.\nThen, when you are all to bits, you can be built up. Do you remember that\nstone we broke the other day? Well, I was a melted blob of stone, and then\nI was crystallised--now I'm full of eyes within! And the best of it is that\nthey are little living eyes, and not sparkling flints--they see, they don't\nreflect! At least I think so; and I don't think trouble is brewing for me\nagain--though that is always the danger!\"\n\nI was very deeply moved by this, and said something about being grateful.\n\n\"Oh, not that,\" said Father Payne; \"you don't know what fun it has been to\nme to tell you. That's the sort of thing that I want to get into one of my\nnovels, but I can't manage it. But the moral is, if I may say so: Be afraid\nof self-pity and dignity and self-respect--don't be afraid of happiness and\nsimplicity and kindness. Give yourself away with both hands. It's easy for\nme to talk, because I have been loaded with presents ever since: the clouds\ndrop fatness--a rich but expressive image that!\"\n\n\n\nXXX\n\nOF BLOODSUCKERS\n\n\n\"I'm feeling low to-night,\" said Father Payne in answer to a question about\nhis prolonged silence. \"I'm not myself: virtue has gone out of me--I'm in\nthe clutches of a bloodsucker.\"\n\n\"Old debts with compound interest?\" said Rose cheerfully.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne with a frown; \"old emotional I.O.U.'s. I didn't\nknow what I was putting my name to.\"\n\n\"A man or a woman?\" said Rose.\n\n\"Thank God, it's a man!\" said Father Payne. \"Female bloodsuckers are worse\nstill. A man, at all events, only wants the blood; a woman wants the\npleasure of seeing you wince as well!\"\n\n\"It sounds very tragic,\" said Kaye.\n\n\"No, it's not tragic,\" said Father Payne; \"there would be something\ndignified about that! It's only unutterably low and degrading. Come, I'll\ntell you about it. It will do me good to get it off my chest.\n\n\"It is one of my old pupils,\" Father Payne went on. \"He once got into\ntrouble about money, and I paid his debts--he can't forgive me that!\"\n\n\"Does he want you to pay some more?\" said Rose.\n\n\"Yes, he does,\" said Father Payne, \"but he wants to be high-minded too. He\nwants me to press him to take the money, to prevail upon him to accept it\nas a favour. He implies that if I hadn't begun by paying his debts\noriginally, he would not have ever acquired what he calls 'the unhappy\nhabit of dependence.' Of course he doesn't think that really: he wants the\nmoney, but he also wants to feel dignified. 'If I thought it would make you\nhappier if I accepted it,' he says, 'of course I should view the matter\ndifferently. It would give me a reason for accepting what I must confess\nwould be a humiliation,' Isn't that infernal? Then he says that I may\nperhaps think that his troubles have coarsened him, but that he unhappily\nretains all his old sensitiveness. Then he goes on to say that it was I who\nencouraged him to preserve a high standard of delicacy in these matters.\"\n\n\"He must be a precious rascal,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"No, he isn't,\" said Father Payne, \"that's the worst of it--but he is a\nfrantic poseur. He has got so used to talking and thinking about his\nfeelings, that he doesn't know what he really does feel. That's the part of\nit which bothers me: because if he was a mere hypocrite, I would say so\nplainly. One must not be taken in by apparent hypocrisy. It often\nrepresents what a man did once really think, but which has become a mere\nmemory. One must not be hard on people's reminiscences. Don't you know how\nthe mildest people are often disposed to make out that they were reckless\nand daring scapegraces at school? That isn't a lie; it is imagination\nworking on very slender materials.\"\n\nWe laughed at this, and then Barthrop said, \"Let me write to him, Father. I\nwon't be offensive.\"\n\n\"I know you wouldn't,\" said Father Payne; \"but no one can help me. It's not\nmy fault, but my misfortune. It all comes of acting for the best. I ought\nto have paid his debts, and made myself thoroughly unpleasant about it.\nWhat I did was to be indulgent and sympathetic. It's all that accursed\nsentimentality that does it. I have been trying to write a letter to him\nall the morning, showing him up to himself without being brutal. But he\nwill only write back and say that I have made him miserable, and that I\nhave wholly misunderstood him: and then I shall explain and apologise; and\nthen he will take the money to show that he forgives me. I see a horrible\nvista of correspondence ahead. After four or five letters, I shall not have\nthe remotest idea what it is all about, and he will be full of reproaches.\nHe will say that it isn't the first time that he has found how the increase\nof wealth makes people ungenerous. Oh, don't I know every step of the way!\nHe is going to have the money, and he is going to put me in the wrong: that\nis his plan, and it is going to come off. I shall be in the wrong: I feel\nin the wrong already!\"\n\n\"Then in that case there is certainly no necessity for losing the money\ntoo!\" said Rose.\n\n\"It's all very well for you to talk in that impersonal way, Rose,\" said\nFather Payne. \"Of course I know very well that you would handle the\nsituation kindly and decisively; but you don't know what it is to suffer\nfrom politeness like a disease. I have done nothing wrong except that I\nhave been polite when I might have been dry. I see right through the man,\nbut he is absolutely impervious; and it is my accursed politeness that\nmakes it impossible for me to say bluntly what I know he will dislike and\nwhat he genuinely will not understand. I know what you are thinking, every\none of you--that I say lots of things that you dislike--but then you\n_do_ understand! I could no more tell this wretch the truth than I\ncould trample on a blind old man.\"\n\n\"What will you really do?\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"I shall send him the money,\" said Father Payne firmly, \"and I shall\ncompliment him on his delicacy; and then, thank God, I shall forget, until\nit all begins again. I am a wretched old opportunist, of course; a sort of\nAlly Sloper--not fit company for strong and concise young men!\"\n\n\n\nXXXI\n\nOF INSTINCTS\n\n\nI do not remember what led to this remark of Father Payne's:--\"It's a\npainful fact, from the ethical point of view, that qualities are more\nadmired, and more beautiful indeed, the more instinctive they are. We don't\nadmire the faculty of taking pains very much. The industrious boy at school\nis rather disliked than otherwise, while the brilliant boy who can construe\nhis lesson without learning it is envied. Take a virtue like courage: the\nlove of danger, the contempt of fear, the power of dashing headlong into a\nthing without calculating the consequences is the kind of courage we\nadmire. The person who is timid and anxious, and yet just manages\ndesperately to screw himself up to the sticking-point, does not get nearly\nas much credit as the bold devil-may-care person. It is so with most\nperformances; we admire ease and rapidity much more than perseverance and\ntenacity, what obviously costs little effort rather than what costs a great\ndeal.\n\n\"We all rather tend to be bored by a display of regularity and discipline.\nDo you remember that letter of Keats, where he confesses his intense\nirritation at the way in which his walking companion, Brown, I think,\nalways in the evening got out his writing-materials in the same\norder--first the paper, then the ink, then the pen. 'I say to him,' says\nKeats, 'why not the pen sometimes first?' We don't like precision; look at\nthe word 'Methodist,' which originally was a nick-name for people of\nstrictly disciplined life. We like something a little more gay and\ninconsequent.\n\n\"Yet the power of forcing oneself by an act of will to do something\nunpleasant is one of the finest qualities in the world. There is a story of\na man who became a Bishop. He was a delicate and sensitive fellow, much\naffected by a crowd, and particularly by the sight of people passing in\nfront of him. He began his work by holding an enormous confirmation, and\nfive times in the course of it he actually had to retire to the vestry,\nwhere he was physically sick. That's a heroic performance; but we admire\nstill more a bland and cheerful Bishop who is not sick, but enjoys a\nceremony.\"\n\n\"Surely that is all right, Father Payne?\" said Barthrop. \"When we see a\nperformance, we are concerned with appreciating the merit of it. A man with\na bad headache, however gallant, is not likely to talk as well as a man in\nperfect health and high spirits; but if we are not considering the\nperformance, but the virtues of the performer, we might admire the man who\npumped up talk when he was feeling wretched more than the man from whom it\nflowed.\"\n\n\"The judicious Barthrop!\" said Father Payne. \"Yes, you are right--but for\nall that we do not instinctively admire effort as much as we admire easy\nbrilliance. We are much more inclined to imitate the brilliant man than we\nare to imitate the man who has painfully developed an accomplishment. The\ntruth is, we are all of us afraid of effort; and instinct is generally so\nmuch more in the right than reason, that I end by believing that it is\nbetter to live freely in our good qualities, than painfully to conquer our\nbad qualities; not to take up work that we can't do from a sense of duty,\nbut to take up work that we can do from a sense of pleasure. I believe in\nfinding our real life more than in sticking to one that is not real for the\nsake of virtue. Trained inclination is the secret. That is why I should\nnever make a soldier. I love being in a rage--no one more--it has all the\nadvantages and none of the disadvantages of getting drunk. But I can't do\nit on the word of command.\"\n\n\"Isn't that what is called hedonism?\" said Lestrange.\n\n\"You must not get in the way of calling names!\" said Father Payne;\n\"hedonism is a word invented by Puritans to discourage the children of\nlight. It is not a question of doing what you like, but of liking what you\ndo. Of course everyone has got to choose--you can't gratify all your\nimpulses, because they thwart each other; but if you freely gratify your\nfiner impulses, you will have much less temptation to indulge your baser\ninclinations. It is more important to have the steam up and to use the\nbrake occasionally, than never to have the steam up at all.\"\n\n\n\nXXXII\n\nOF HUMILITY\n\n\nWe had been listening to a paper by Kaye--a beautiful and fanciful piece of\nwork; when he finished, Father Payne said: \"That's a charming thing,\nKaye--a little sticky in places, but still beautiful.\"\n\n\"It's not so good as I had hoped,\" said Kaye mildly.\n\n\"Oh, don't be humble,\" said Father Payne; \"that's the basest of the\nvirtues, because it vanishes the moment you realise it! Make your bow like\na man. It may not be as good as you hoped--nothing ever is--but surely it\nis better than you expected?\"\n\nKaye blushed, and said, \"Well, yes, it is.\"\n\n\"Now let me say generally,\" said Father Payne, \"that in art you ought never\nto undervalue your own work. You ought all to be able to recognise how far\nyou have done what you intended. The big men, like Tennyson and Morris,\nwere always quite prepared to praise their own work. They did it quite\nmodestly, more as if some piece of good fortune had befallen them than as\nif they deserved credit. There's no such thing as taking credit to oneself\nin art. What you try to do is always bound to be miles ahead of what you\ncan do--that is where the humility comes in. But a man who can't admire his\nown work on occasions, can't admire anyone's work. If you do a really good\nthing, you ought to feel as if you had been digging for diamonds and had\nfound a big one. Hang it, you _intend_ to make a fine thing! You are\nnot likely to be conceited about it, because you can't make a beautiful\nthing every day; and the humiliation comes in when, after turning out a\ngood thing, you find yourself turning out a row of bad ones. The only\nartists who are conceited are those who can't distinguish between what is\ngood and what is inferior in their own work. You must not expect much\npraise, and least of all from other artists, because no artist is ever very\ndeeply interested in another artist's work, except in the work of the two\nor three who can do easily what he is trying to do. But it is a deep\npleasure, which may be frankly enjoyed, to turn out a fine bit of work;\nthough you must not waste much time over enjoying it, because you have got\nto go on to the next.\"\n\n\"I always think it must be very awful,\" said Vincent, \"when it dawns upon a\nman that his mind is getting stiff and his faculty uncertain, and that he\nis not doing good work any more. What ought people to do about stopping?\"\n\n\"It's very hard to say,\" said Father Payne. \"The happiest thing of all is,\nI expect, to die before that comes; and the next best thing is to know when\nto stop and to want to stop. But many people get a habit of work, and fall\ninto dreariness without it.\"\n\n\"Isn't it better to go on with the delusion that you are just as good as\never--like Wordsworth and Browning?\" said Rose.\n\n\"No, I don't think that is better,\" said Father Payne, \"because it means a\nsort of blindness. It is very curious in the case of Browning, because he\nlearned exactly how to do things. He had his method, he fixed upon an\nabnormal personality or a curious incident, and he turned it inside out\nwith perfect fidelity. But after a certain time in his life, the thing\nbecame suddenly heavy and uninteresting. Something evaporated--I do not\nknow what! The trick is done just as deftly, but one is bored; one simply\ndoesn't care to see the inside of a new person, however well dissected.\nThere's no life, no beauty about the later things. Wordsworth is somehow\ndifferent--he is always rather noble and prophetic. The later poems are not\nbeautiful, but they issue from a beautiful idea--a passion of some kind.\nBut the later Browning poems are not passionate--they remind one of a\nsurgeon tucking up his sleeves for a set of operations. I expect that\nBrowning was too humble; he loved a gentlemanly convention, and Wordsworth\ncertainly did not do that. If you want to know how a poet should\n_live_, read Dorothy Wordsworth's journals at Grasmere; if you want to\nknow how he should _feel_, read the letters of Keats.\"\n\n\n\nXXXIII\n\nOF MEEKNESS\n\n\nI had been having some work looked over by Father Payne, who had been\nsomewhat trenchant. \"You have been beating a broken drum, you know,\" he had\nsaid, with a smile.\n\n\"Yes,\" I said. \"It's poor stuff, I see. But I didn't know it was so bad\nwhen I wrote it; I thought I was making the best of a poor subject rather\ningeniously. I am afraid I am rather stupid.\"\n\n\"If I thought you really felt like that,\" said Father Payne, \"I should be\nsorry for you. But I expect it is only your idea of modesty?\"\n\n\"No,\" I said, \"it isn't modesty--it's humility, I think.\"\n\n\"No one has any business to think himself humble,\" said Father Payne. \"The\nmoment you do that, you are conceited. It's not a virtue to grovel. A man\nought to know exactly what he is worth. You needn't be always saying what\nyou are, worth, of course. It's modest to hold your tongue. But humility\nis, or ought to be, extinct as a virtue. It belongs to the time when people\nfelt bound to deplore the corruption of their heart, and to speak of\nthemselves as worms, and to compare themselves despondently with God. That\nin itself is a piece of insolence; and it isn't a wholesome frame of mind\nto dwell on one's worthlessness, and to speak of one's righteousness as\nfilthy rags. It removes every stimulus to effort. If you really feel like\nthat, you had better take to your bed permanently--you will do less harm\nthere than pretending to do work in the value of which you don't believe.\"\n\n\"But what is the word for the feeling which one has when one reads a really\nsplendid book, let us say, or hears a perfect piece of music?\" I said.\n\n\"Well, it ought to be gratitude and admiration,\" said Father Payne. \"Why\nmix yourself up with it at all?\"\n\n\"Because I can't help it,\" I said; \"I think of the way in which I muddle on\nwith my writing, and I feel how hopeless I am.\"\n\n\"That's all wrong, my boy,\" said Father Payne; \"you ought to say to\nyourself--'So that is _his_ way of putting things and, by Jove, it's\nsuperb. Now I've got to find my way of putting things!' You had better go\nand work in the fields like an honest man, if you don't feel you have got\nanything to say worth saying. You have your own point of view, you know:\ntry and get it down on paper. It isn't exactly the same as, let us say,\nShakespeare's point of view: but if you feel that he has seen everything\nworth seeing, and said everything worth saying, then, of course, it is no\ngood going on. But that is pure grovelling; no lively person ever does feel\nthat--he says, 'Hang it, he has left _some_ things out!' After all,\neveryone has a right to his point of view, and if it can be expressed, why,\nit is worth expressing. We want all the sidelights we can get.\"\n\n\"That's one comfort!\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"but you know perfectly well that you knew it\nbefore I told you. Why be so undignified? You need not want to astonish or\namuse the whole civilised world. You probably won't do that; but you can\nfit a bit of the mosaic in, if you have it in you. Now look you here! I\nknow exactly what I am worth. I can't write--though I think I can when I'm\nat it--but I can perceive, and see when a thing is amiss, and lay my finger\non a fault; I can be of some use to a fellow like yourself--and I can\nmanage an estate in my own way, and I can keep my tenants' spirits up. I\nhave got a perfectly definite use in the world, and I'm going to play my\npart for all that I'm worth. I'm not going to pretend that I am a worm or\nan outcast--I don't feel one; and I am as sure as I can be of anything,\nthat God does not wish me to feel one. He needs me; He can't get on without\nme just here; and when He can, He will say the word. I don't think I am of\nany far-reaching significance: but neither am I going to say that I am\nnothing but vile earth and a miserable sinner. I'm lazy, I'm cross, I'm\nunkind, I'm greedy: but I know when I am wasting time and temper, and I\ndon't do it all the time. It's no use being abject. The mistake is to go\nabout comparing yourself with other people and weighing yourself against\nthem. The right thing to do is to be able to recognise generously and\ndesirously when you see anyone doing something finely which you do badly,\nand to say, 'Come, that's the right way! I must do better.' But to be\nhumble is to be grubby, because it makes one proud, in a nasty sort of way,\nof doing things badly. 'What a poor creature I am,' says the humble man,\n'and how nice to know that I am so poor a creature; how noble and unworldly\nI am.' The mistake is to want to do a thing better than Smith or Jones: the\nright way is to want to do it better than yourself.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"that's perfectly true, Father: and I won't be such a fool\nagain.\"\n\n\"You haven't been a fool, so far as I am aware,\" said Father Payne. \"It is\nonly that you are just a thought too polite. You mustn't be polite in mind,\nyou know--only in manners. Politeness only consists in not saying all you\nthink unless you are asked. But humility consists in trying to believe that\nyou think less than you think. It's like holding your nose, and saying that\nthe bad smell has gone--it is playing tricks with your mind: and if you get\ninto the way of doing that, you will find that your mind has a nasty way of\nplaying tricks upon you. Here! hold on! I am rapidly becoming like\nChadband! Send me Vincent, will you--there's a good man? He comes next.\"\n\n\n\nXXXIV\n\nOF CRITICISM\n\n\nFather Payne had told me that my writing was becoming too juicy and too\nhighly-scented. \"You mustn't hide the underlying form,\" he said; \"have\nplenty of plain spaces. This sort of writing is only for readers who want\nto be vaguely soothed and made to feel comfortable by a book--it's a\nstimulant, it's not a food!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said with a sigh, \"I suppose you are right.\"\n\n\"Up to a certain point, I am right,\" he replied, \"because you are in\ntraining at present--and people in training have to do abnormal things: you\ncan't _live_ as if you were in training, of course; but when you begin\nto work on your own account, you must find your own pace and your own\nmanner: and even now you needn't agree with me unless you like.\"\n\nI determined, however, that I would give him something very different next\ntime. He suggested that I should write an essay on a certain writer of\nfiction. I read the novels with great care, and I then produced the driest\nand most technical criticism I could. I read it aloud to Father Payne a\nmonth later. He heard it in silence, stroking his beard with his left hand,\nas his manner was. When I had finished, he said: \"Well, you have taken my\nadvice with a vengeance; and as an exercise--indeed, as a\n_tour-de-force_--it is good. I didn't think you had it in you to\nproduce such a bit of anatomy. I think it's simply the most uninteresting\nessay I ever heard in my life--chip, chip, chip, the whole time. It won't\ndo you any harm to have written it, but, of course, it's a mere caricature.\nNo conceivable reason could be assigned for your writing it. It's like the\nburial of the dead--ashes to ashes, dust to dust!\"\n\n\"I admit,\" I said, \"that I did it on purpose, to show you how judicious I\ncould be.\"\n\n\"Oh yes,\" he said, \"I quite realise that--and that's why I admire it. If\nyou had produced it as a real thing, and not by way of reprisal, I should\nthink very ill of your prospects. It's like the work of an analytical\nchemist--I tell you what it's like, it's like the diagnosis of the symptoms\nof some sick person of rank in a doctor's case-book! But, of course, you\nknow you mustn't write like that, as well as I do. There must be some\nmotive for writing, some touch of admiration and sympathy, something you\ncan show to other people which might escape them, and which is worth while\nfor them to see. In writing--at present, at all events--one can't be so\ndesperately scientific and technical as all that. I suppose that some day,\nwhen we treat human thought and psychology scientifically, we shall have to\ndissect like that; but even so, it will be in the interests of science, not\nin the interests of literature. One must not confuse the two, and no doubt,\nwhen we begin to analyse the development of human thought, its heredity,\nits genesis and growth, we shall have a Shelley-culture in a test-tube, and\nwe shall be able to isolate a Browning-germ: but we haven't got there yet.\"\n\n\"In that case,\" I said, \"I don't really see what was so wrong with my last\nessay.\"\n\n\"Why, it was a mere extemporisation,\" said Father Payne; \"a phrase\nsuggested a phrase, a word evoked a lot of other words--there was no real\nconnection of thought. It was pretty enough, but you were not even roving\nfrom one place to another, you were just drifting with the stream. Now this\nlast essay is purely business-like. You have analysed the points--but\nthere's no beauty or pleasure in it. It is simply what an engineer might\nsay to an engineer about the building of a bridge. Mind, I am not finding\nfault with your essay. You did what you set out to do, and you have done it\nwell. I only say there is not any conceivable reason why it should have\nbeen written, and there is every conceivable reason why it should not be\nread.\"\n\n\"It was just an attempt,\" I said, \"to see the points and to disentangle\nthem.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Father Payne; \"I see that, and I give you full credit for\nit. But, after all, you must look on writing as a species of human\ncommunication. The one reason for writing is that the writer sees something\nwhich other people overlook, perceives the beauty and interest of it, gets\nbehind it, sees the quality of it, and how it differs from other similar\nthings. If the writer is worth anything, his subject must be so interesting\nor curious or beautiful to himself that he can't help setting it down. The\nmotive of it all must be the fact that he is interested--not the hope of\ninteresting other people. You must risk that, though the more you are\ninterested, the better is your chance of interesting others. Then the next\npoint is that things mustn't be presented in a cold and abstract light--you\nhave done that here--it must be done as you see it, not as a photographic\nplate records it: and that is where the personality of the artist comes in,\nand where writers are handicapped, according as they have or have not a\npersonal charm. That is the unsolved mystery of writing--the personal\ncharm: apart from that there is little in it. A man may see a thing with\nhideous distinctness, but he may not be able to invest it with charm: and\nthe danger of charm is that some people can invest very shallow, muddled,\nand shabby thinking with a sort of charm. It is like a cloak, if I may say\nso. If I wear an old cloak, it looks shabby and disgraceful, as it is. But\nif I lend it to a shapely and well-made friend, it gets a beauty from the\nwearer. There are men I know who can tell me a story as old as the hills,\nand yet make it fresh and attractive. Look at that delicious farrago of\nnonsense and absurdity, Ruskin's _Fors Clavigera_. He crammed in\nanything that came into his head--his reminiscences, scraps out of old\ndreary books he had read, paragraphs snipped out of the papers. There's no\norder, no sequence about it, and yet it is irresistible. But then Ruskin\nhad the charm, and managed to pour it into all that he wrote. He is always\n_there_, that whimsical, generous, perverse, affectionate, afflicted,\npathetic creature, even in the smallest scrap of a letter or the dreariest\nold tag of quotation. But you and I can't play tricks like that. You are\nsometimes there, I confess, in what you write, while I am never there in\nanything that I write. What I want to teach you to do is to be really\nyourself in all that you write.\"\n\n\"But isn't it apt to be very tiresome,\" said I, \"if the writer is always\nobtruding himself?\"\n\n\"Yes, if he obtrudes himself, of course he is tiresome,\" said Father Payne.\n\"But look at Ruskin again. I imagine, from all that I read about him, that\nif he was present at a gathering, he was the one person whom everyone\nwanted to hear. If he was sulky or silent, it was everyone's concern to\nsmoothe him down--if _only_ he would talk. What you must learn to do\nis to give exactly as much of yourself as people want. But it must be a\ntransfusion of yourself, not a presentment, I don't imagine that Ruskin\nalways talked about himself--he talked about what interested him, and\nbecause he saw five times as much as anyone else saw in a picture, and\nabout three times as much as was ever there, it was fascinating: but the\nprimary charm was in Ruskin himself. Don't you know the curious delight of\nseeing a house once inhabited by anyone whom one has much admired and\nloved? However dull and commonplace it is, you keep on saying to yourself,\n'That was what his eyes rested on, those were the books he handled; how\ncould he bear to have such curtains, how could he endure that wallpaper?'\nThe most hideous things become interesting, because he tolerated them. In\nwriting, all depends upon how much of what is interesting, original,\nemphatic, charming in yourself you can communicate to what you are writing.\nIt has got to _live_; that is the secret of the commonplace and even\nabsurd books which reviewers treat with contempt, and readers buy in\nthousands. They have _life!_\"\n\n\"But that is very far from being art, isn't it?\" I said.\n\n\"Of course!\" said Father Payne, \"but the use of art, as I understand it, is\njust that--that all you present shall have life, and that you should learn\nnot to present what has not got life. Why I objected to your last essay was\nbecause you were not alive in it: you were just echoing and repeating\nthings: you seemed to me to be talking in your sleep. Why I object to this\nessay is that you are too wide awake--you are just talking shop.\"\n\n\"I confess I rather despair,\" I said.\n\n\"What rubbish!\" said Father Payne; \"all I want you to do is to _live_\nin your ideas--make them your own, don't just slop them down without having\nunderstood or felt them. I'll tell you what you shall do next. You shall\njust put aside all this dreary collection of formulae and scalpel-work, and\nyou shall write me an essay on the whole subject, saying the best that you\nfeel about it all, not the worst that a stiff intelligence can extract from\nit. Don't be pettish about it! I assure you I respect your talent very\nmuch. I didn't think it was in you to produce anything so loathsomely\njudicious.\"\n\n\n\nXXXV\n\nOF THE SENSE OF BEAUTY\n\n\nThere had been some vague ethical discussion during dinner in which Father\nPayne had not intervened; but he suddenly joined in briskly, though I don't\nremember who or what struck the spark out. \"You are running logic too\nhard,\" he said; \"the difficulty with all morality is not to know where it\nis to begin, but where it is to stop.\"\n\n\"I didn't know it had to stop,\" said Vincent; \"I thought it had to go on.\"\n\n\"Yes, but not as morality,\" said Father Payne; \"as instinct and\nfeeling--only very elementary people indeed obey rules, _because_ they\nare rules. The righteous man obeys them because on the whole he agrees with\nthem.\"\n\n\"But in one sense it isn't possible to be too good?\" said Vincent.\n\n\"No,\" said Father Payne, \"not if you are sure what good is--but it is quite\neasy to be too righteous, to have too many rules and scruples--not to live\nyour own life at all, but an anxious, timid, broken-winged sort of life,\nlike some of the fearful saints in the _Pilgrim's Progress_, who got\nno fun out of the business at all. Don't you remember what Mr. Feeblemind\nsays? I can't quote--it's a glorious passage.\"\n\nBarthrop slipped out and fetched a _Pilgrim's Progress_, which he put\nover Father Payne's shoulder. \"Thank you, old man,\" said Father Payne,\n\"that's very kind of you--that is morality translated into feeling!\"\n\nHe turned over the pages, and read the bit in his resonant voice:\n\n\"'I am, as I said, a man of a weak and feeble mind, and shall be offended\nand made weak at that which others can bear. I shall like no Laughing: I\nshall like no gay Attire: I shall like no unprofitable Questions. Nay, I am\nso weak a man, as to be offended with that which others have a liberty to\ndo. I do not know all the truth: I am a very ignorant Christian man;\nsometimes, if I hear some rejoice in the Lord, it troubles me, because I\ncannot do so too.'\"\n\n\"There,\" he said, \"that's very good writing, you know--full of\nfreshness--but you are not meant to admire the poor soul: _that's_ not\nthe way to go on pilgrimage! There is something wrong with a man's\nreligion, if it leaves him in that state. I don't mean that to be happy is\nalways a sign of grace--it often is simply a lack of sympathy and\nimagination; but to be as good as Mr. Feeblemind, and at the same time as\nunhappy, is a clear sign that something is wrong. He is like a dog that\n_will_ try to get through a narrow gap with a stick in his mouth--he\ncan't make out why he can't do his duty and bring the stick--it catches on\nboth sides, and won't let him through. He knows it is his business to bring\nthe thing back at once, but he is prevented in some mysterious way. It\ndoesn't occur to him to put the stick down, get through himself, and then\npull it through by the end. That is why our duty is often so hard, because\nwe think we ought to do it simply and directly, when it really wants a\nlittle adjusting--we regard the momentary precept, not the ultimate\nprinciple.\"\n\n\"But what is to tell us where to draw the line,\" said Vincent, \"and when to\ndisregard the precept?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Father Payne, \"that's my great discovery, which no one else will\never recognise--that is where the sense of beauty comes in!\"\n\n\"I don't see that the sense of beauty has anything to do with morality,\"\nsaid Vincent.\n\n\"Ah, but that is because you are at heart a Puritan,\" said Father Payne;\n\"and the mistake of all Puritans is to disregard the sense of beauty--all\nthe really great saints have felt about morality as an artist feels about\nbeauty. They don't do good things because they are told to do them, but\nbecause they feel them to be beautiful, splendid, attractive; and they\navoid having anything to do with evil things, because such things are ugly\nand repellent.\"\n\n\"But when you have to do a thoroughly disagreeable thing,\" said Vincent,\n\"there often isn't anything beautiful about it either way. I'll give you a\nsmall instance. Some months ago I had been engaged for a fortnight to go to\na thoroughly dull dinner-party with some dreary relations of mine, and a\nman asked me to come and dine at his club and meet George Meredith, whom I\nwould have given simply anything to meet. Of course I couldn't do it--I had\nto go on with the other thing. I had to do what I hated, without the\nsmallest hope of being anything but fearfully bored: and I had to give up\ndoing what would have interested me more than anything in the world. Of\ncourse, that is only a small instance, but it will suffice.\"\n\n\"It all depends on how you behaved at your dinner-party when you got\nthere,\" said Father Payne, smiling; \"were you sulky and cross, or were you\ncivil and decent?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Vincent; \"I expect I was pretty much as usual. After\nall, it wasn't their fault!\"\n\n\"You are all right, my boy,\" said Father Payne; \"you have got the sense of\nbeauty right enough, though you probably call it by some uncomfortable\nname. I won't make you blush by praising you, but I give you a good mark\nfor the whole affair. If you had excused yourself, or asked to be let off,\nor told a lie, it would have been ugly. What you did was in the best taste:\nand that is what I mean. The ugly thing is to clutch and hold on. You did\nmore for yourself by being polite and honest than even George Meredith\ncould have done for you. What I mean by the sense of beauty, as applied to\nmorality, is that a man must be a gentleman first, and a moralist\nafterwards, if he can. It is grabbing at your own sense of righteousness,\nif you use it to hurt other people. Your own complacency of conscience is\nnot as important as the duty of not making other people uncomfortable. Of\ncourse there are occasions when it is right to stand up to a moral bully,\nand then you may go for him for all you are worth: but these cases are\nrare; and what you must not do is to get into the way of a sort of moral\nskirmishing. In ordinary life, people draw their lines in slightly\ndifferent places according to preference: you must allow for temperament.\nYou mustn't interfere with other people's codes, unless you are prepared to\nbe interfered with. It is impossible to be severely logical. Take a thing\nlike the use of money: it is good to be generous, but you mustn't give away\nwhat you can't afford, because then your friends have to pay your bills.\nWhat everyone needs is something to tell him when he must begin practising\na virtue, and when to stop practising it. You may say that common sense\ndoes that. Well, I don't think it does! I know sensible people who do very\nbrutal things: there must be something finer than common sense: it must be\na mixture of sense and sympathy and imagination, and delicacy and humour\nand tact--and I can't find a better way of expressing it than to call it a\nsense of beauty, a faculty of judging, in a fine, sweet-tempered, gentle,\nquiet way, with a sort of instinctive prescience as to where the ripples of\nwhat you do and say will spread to, and what sort of effect they will\nproduce. That's the right sort of virtue--attractive virtue--which makes\nother people wish to behave likewise. I don't say that a man who lives like\nthat can avoid suffering: he suffers a good deal, because he sees ugly\nthings going on all about him; but he doesn't cause suffering--unless he\nintends to--and even so he doesn't like doing it. He is never spiteful or\njealous. He often makes mistakes, but he recognises them. He doesn't erect\nbarriers between himself and other people. He isn't always exactly popular,\nbecause many people hate superiority whenever they see it: but he is\ntrusted and loved and even taken advantage of, because he doesn't go in for\nreprisals.\"\n\n\"But if you haven't got this sense of beauty,\" said Vincent, \"how are you\nto get it?\"\n\n\"By admiring it,\" said Father Payne. \"I don't say that the people who have\ngot it are conscious of it--in fact they are generally quite unconscious of\nit. Do you remember what Shelley--who was, I think, one of the people who\nhad the sense of beauty as strongly as anyone who ever lived--what he said\nto Hogg, when Hogg told him how he had shut up an impertinent young\nruffian? 'I wish I could be as exclusive as you are,' said Shelley with a\nsigh, feeling, no doubt, a sense of real failure--'but I cannot!' Shelley's\nweakness was a much finer thing than Hogg's strength. I don't say that\nShelley was perfect: his imagination ran away with him to an extent that\nmay be called untruthful; he idealised people, and then threw them over\nwhen he discovered them to be futile; but that is the right kind of mistake\nto make: the wrong kind of mistake is to see people too clearly, and to\ntake for granted that they are not as delightful as they seem.\"\n\n\"You mean that if one must choose,\" said Vincent, \"it is better to be a\nfool than a knave.\"\n\n\"Why, of course,\" said Father Payne; \"but don't call it 'a fool'--call it\n'a child': that's the kind of beauty I mean, the unsuspicious, guileless,\ntrustful, affectionate temper--that to begin with: and you must learn, as\nyou go on, a quality which the child has not always got--a sense of humour.\nThat is what experience ought to give you--a power, that is, of seeing what\nis really there, and of being more amused than shocked by it. That helps\nyou to distinguish real knavishness from childish faults. A great many of\nthe absurd, perverse, unkind, unpleasant things which people do are not\nknavish at all--they are silly, selfish little diplomacies, guileless\nobedience to conventions, unreasonable deference to imaginary authority.\nPeople don't mean any harm by such tricks--they are the subterfuges of\nweakness: but when you come upon real cynical deliberate knavishness--that\nis different. There's nothing amusing about that. But you must be indulgent\nto weakness, and only severe with strength.\"\n\n\"I'm getting a little confused,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Not as much as I am,\" said Father Payne; \"I don't know where I have got\nto, I am sure. I seem to have changed hares! But one thing does emerge, and\nthat is, that a sort of inspired good taste is the only thing which can\nregulate morals. The root of all morals is ultimately beauty. Why are we\nnot all as greedy and dirty as the old cave-men? For the simple reason that\nsomething, for which he was not responsible, began to work in the caveman's\nmind. He said to himself, 'This is not the way to behave: it would be nicer\nnot to have killed Mary when I was angry.' And then, when that impulse is\nonce started, human beings go too fast, and want to carry out their new\ndiscoveries of rules and principles too far: and you must have a regulating\nforce: and if you can find a better force than the instinct for what is\nbeautiful, tell me, and I'll undertake to talk for at least as long about\nit. I must stop! My sense of beauty warns me that I am becoming a bore.\"\n\n\n\nXXXVI\n\nOF BIOGRAPHY\n\n\nFather Payne broke out suddenly after dinner to two or three of us about a\nbook he had been reading.\n\n\"It's called a _Life_,\" he said, \"at the top of every page almost. I\ndon't wonder the author felt it necessary to remind you--or perhaps he was\nreminding himself? I can see him,\" said Father Payne, \"saying to himself\nwith a rueful expression, 'This is a Life, undoubtedly!' Why, the waxworks\nof Madame Tussaud are models of vivacity and agility compared to it. I\nnever set eyes on such a book!\"\n\n\"Why on earth did you go on reading it?\" said I.\n\n\"Well may you ask!\" said Father Payne. \"It's one of my weaknesses; if I\nbegin a book, I can put it down if it is moderately good; but if it is\neither very good or very bad, I can't get out of it--I feel like a wasp in\na honey-pot. I make faint sticky motions of flight--but on I go.\"\n\n\"Whose life was it?\" I said, laughing.\n\n\"I hardly know,\" said Father Payne. \"It leaves on my mind the impression of\nhis having been a decent old party enough. I think he must have been a\ngeneral merchant--he seems to have had pretty nearly everything on hand. He\nwrote books, I gather\"; and Father Payne groaned.\n\n\"What were they about?\" I said.\n\n\"I don't know, I'm sure,\" said Father Payne. \"History and stuff--literary\nessays, and people's influence, perhaps. He went in for accounting for\nthings, I fancy, and explaining things away. There were extracts which\nalienated my attention faster than any extracts I ever read. I could not\nkeep my mind on them. God preserve me from ever falling in with any of his\nbooks; I should spend days in reading them! He travelled too--he was always\ntravelling. Why couldn't he leave Europe alone? He has left his trail all\nover Europe, like a snail. He has defiled all the finest scenery on the\nContinent. But, by Jove, he met his match in his biographer; he has been\naccounted for all right. And yet I feel that it was rather hard on him. If\n_he_ could have held his tongue about things in general, and if his\nbiographer could have held his tongue about _him_, it would have been\nall right. He did no harm, so far as I can make out--he was honest and\nupright; he would have done very well as a trustee.\"\n\nFather Payne stopped, and looked round with a melancholy air. \"I have\ngathered,\" he said, \"after several hours' reading, three interesting facts\nabout him. The first is that he wore rather loud checks--I liked that--I\ndetected a touch of vanity in that. The second is that he was fond of\nquoting poetry, and the moment he did so, his voice became wholly inaudible\nfrom emotion--that's a good touch. And the third is that, if he had a guest\nstaying with him, he used to talk continuously in the smoking-room, light\nhis candle, go on talking, walk away talking--by Jove, I can hear him doing\nit--all up the stairs, along the passage to his bedroom--talk, talk,\ntalk--in they went--then he used to begin to undress--no escape--I can hear\nhis voice muffled as he pulled off his shirt--off went his socks--talking\nstill--then he would actually get into bed--more explanations, more\nquotations, I wonder how the guest got away; that isn't related--in the\nintervals of an inaudible quotation, perhaps? What do you think?\"\n\nWe exploded in laughter, in which Father Payne joined. Then he said: \"But\nlook here, you know, it's not really a joke--it's horribly serious! A man\nought really to be prosecuted for writing such a book. That is the worst of\nEnglish people, that they have no idea who deserves a biography and who\ndoes not. It isn't enough to be a rich man, or a public man, or a man of\nvirtue. No one ought to be written about, simply because he has _done_\nthings. He must be content with that. No one should have a biography unless\nhe was either beautiful or picturesque or absurd, just as no one should\nhave a portrait painted unless he is one of the three. Now this poor\nfellow--I daresay there were people who loved him--think what their\nfeelings must be at seeing him stuffed and set up like this! A biography\nmust be a work of art--it ought not to be a post-dated testimonial! Most of\nus are only fit, when we have finished our work, to go straight into the\nwaste-paper basket. The people who deserve biographies are the vivid, rich,\nanimated natures who lived life with zest and interest. There are a good\nmany such men, who can say vigorous, shrewd, lively, fresh things in talk,\nbut who cannot express themselves in writing. The curse of most biographies\nis the letters; not many people can write good letters, and yet it becomes\na sacred duty to pad a Life out with dull and stodgy documents; it is all\nso utterly inartistic and decorous and stupid. A biography ought to be well\nseasoned with faults and foibles. That is the one encouraging thing about\nlife, that a man can have plenty of failings and still make a fine business\nout of it all. Yet it is regarded as almost treacherous to hint at\nimperfections. Now if I had had our friend the general merchant to\nbiographise, I would have taken careful notes of his talk while\nundressing--there's something picturesque about that! I would have told how\nhe spent his day, how he looked and moved, ate and drank. A real portrait\nof an uninteresting man might be quite a treasure.\"\n\n\"Yes, but you know it wouldn't do,\" said Barthrop; \"his friends would be\nout at you like a swarm of wasps.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know that,\" said Father Payne. \"It is all this infernal\nsentimentality which spoils everything; as long as we think of the dead as\nelderly angels hovering over us while we pray, there is nothing to be done.\nIf we really believe that we migrate out of life into an atmosphere of mild\npiety, and lose all our individuality at once, then, of course, the less\nsaid the better. As long as we hold that, then death must remain as the\nworst of catastrophes for everyone concerned. The result of it all is that\na bad biography is the worst of books, because it quenches our interest in\nlife, and makes life insupportably dull. The first point is that the\nbiographer is infinitely more important than his subject. Look what an\nenchanting book Carlyle made out of the Life of Sterling. Sterling was a\nman of real charm who could only talk. He couldn't write a line. His\nwritings are pitiful. Carlyle put them all aside with a delicious irony;\nand yet he managed to depict a swift, restless, delicate, radiant creature,\nwhom one loves and admires. It is one of the loveliest books ever written.\nBut, on the other hand, there are hundreds of fine creatures who have been\nhopelessly buried for ever and ever under their biographies--the sepulchre\nmade sure, the stone sealed, and the watch set.\"\n\n\"But there are some good biographies?\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"About a dozen,\" said Father Payne. \"I won't give a list of them, or I\nshould become like our friend the merchant. I feel it coming on, by Jove--I\nfeel like accounting for things and talking you all up to my bedroom.\"\n\n\"But what can be done about it all?\" I said.\n\n\"Nothing whatever, my boy,\" said Father Payne; \"as long as people are not\nreally interested in life, but in money and committees, there is nothing to\nbe done. And as long as they hold things sacred, which means a strong\ndislike of the plain truth, it's hopeless. If a man is prepared to write a\nreally veracious biography, he must also be prepared to fly for his life\nand to change his name. Public opinion is for sentiment and against truth;\nand you must change public opinion. But, oh dear me, when I think of the\nfascination of real personality, and the waste of good material, and the\ncareful way in which the pious biographer strains out all the meat and\nleaves nothing but a thin and watery decoction, I could weep over the\nfutility of mankind. The dread of being interesting or natural, the\nadoration of pomposity and full dress, the sickening love of romance, the\nhatred of reality--oh, it's a deplorable world!\"\n\n\n\nXXXVII\n\nOF POSSESSIONS\n\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Father Payne one day at dinner, \"whether any nation's\nproverbs are such a disgrace to them as our national proverbs are to us.\nOurs are horribly Anglo-Saxon and characteristic. They seem to me to have\nbeen all invented by a shrewd, selfish, complacent, suspicious old farmer,\nin a very small way of business, determined that he will not be\nover-reached, and equally determined, too, that he will take full advantage\nof the weakness of others. 'Charity begins at home,' 'Possession is nine\npoints of the law,' 'Don't count your chickens before they are hatched,'\n'When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window.' They are\nall equally disgraceful. They deride all emotion, they despise imagination,\nthey are unutterably low and hard, and what is called sensible; they are\nfrankly unchristian as well as ungentlemanly. No wonder we are called a\nnation of shopkeepers.\"\n\n\"But aren't we a great deal better than our proverbs?\" said Barthrop: \"do\nthey really express anything more than a contempt for weakness and\nsentiment?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"but I don't like them any better for that. Why\nshould we be ashamed of all our better feelings? I admit that we have a\nsense of justice; but that only means that we care for material possessions\nso much that we are afraid not to admit that others have the right to do\nthe same. The real obstacle to socialism in England is the sense of\nsanctity about a man's savings. The moment that a man has saved a few\npounds, he agrees to any legislation that allows him to hold on to them.\"\n\n\"But aren't we, behind all that,\" said Barthrop, \"an intensely sentimental\nnation?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"but that's a fault really--we don't believe in\nreal justice, only in picturesque justice. We are hopeless individualists.\nWe melt into tears over a child that is lost, or a dog that howls; and we\nlet all sorts of evil systems and arrangements grow and flourish. We can't\nthink algebraically, only arithmetically. We can be kind to a single case\nof hardship; we can't take in a widespread system of oppression. We are\nimproving somewhat; but it is always the particular case that affects us,\nand not the general principle.\"\n\n\"But to go back to our sense of possession,\" I said, \"is that really much\nmore than a matter of climate? Does it mean more than this, that we, in a\ntemperate climate inclining to cold, need more elaborate houses and more\nheat-producing food than nations who live in warmer climates? Are not the\nnations who live in warmer climates less attached to material things simply\nbecause they are less important?\"\n\n\"There is something in that, no doubt,\" said Father Payne. \"Of course,\nwhere nature is more hostile to life, men will have to work longer hours to\nsupport life than where 'the spicy breezes blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle.'\nBut it isn't that of which I complain--it is the awful sense of\nrespectability attaching to possessions, the hideous way in which we fill\nour houses with things which we do not want or use, just because they are a\nsymbol of respectability. We like hoarding, and we like luxuries, not\nbecause we enjoy them, but because we like other people to know that we can\npay for them. I do not imagine that there is any nation in the world whose\nhospitality differs so much from the mode in which people actually live as\nours does. In a sensible society, if we wanted to see our friends, we\nshould ask them to bring their cold mutton round, and have a picnic. What\nwe do actually do is to have a meal which we can't afford, and which our\nguests know is not in the least like our ordinary meals; and then we expect\nto be asked back to a similarly ostentatious banquet.\"\n\n\"But isn't there something,\" said Barthrop, \"in Dr. Johnson's dictum, that\na meal was good enough to eat, but not good enough to ask a man to? Isn't\nit a good impulse to put your best before a guest?\"\n\n\"Oh, no doubt,\" said Father Payne, \"but there's a want of simplicity about\nit if you only want to entertain people in order that they may see you do\nit, and not because you want to see them. It's vulgar, somehow--that's what\nI suspect our nation of being. Our inability to speak frankly of money is\nanother sign. We do money too much honour by being so reticent about it.\nThe fact is that it is the one sacred subject among us. People are reticent\nabout religion and books and art, because they are not sure that other\npeople are interested in them. But they are reticent about money as a\nmatter of duty, because they are sure that everyone is deeply interested.\nPeople talk about money with nods and winks and hints--those are all the\nsigns of a sacred mystery!\"\n\n\"Well, I wonder,\" said Barthrop, \"whether we are as base as you seem to\nthink!\"\n\n\"I will tell you when I will change my mind,\" said Father Payne; \"all the\ntalk of noble aims and strong purposes will not deceive me. What would\nconvert me would be if I saw generous giving a custom so common that it\nhardly excited remark. You see a few generous _wills_--but even then a\nwill which leaves money to public purposes is generally commented upon; and\nit almost always means, too, if you look into it, that a man has had no\nnear relations, and that he has stuck to his money and the power it gives\nhim during his life. If I could see a few cases of men impoverishing\nthemselves and their families in their lifetime for public objects; if I\nsaw evidence of men who have heaped up wealth content to let their children\nstart again in the race, and determined to support the State rather than\nthe family; if I could hear of a rich man's children beseeching their\nfather to endow the State rather than themselves, and being ready to work\nfor a livelihood rather than to receive an inherited fortune; if I could\nhear of a few rich men living simply and handing out their money for\ngeneral purposes,--then I would believe! But none of these things is\nanything but a rare exception; a man who gives away his fortune, as Ruskin\ndid, in great handfuls, is generally thought to be slightly crazy; and,\nspeaking frankly, the worth of a man seems to depend not upon what he has\ngiven to the world, but upon what he has gained from the world. You may say\nit is a rough test;--so it is! But when we begin to feel that a man is\nfoolish in hoarding and wise in lavishing, instead of being foolish in\nlavishing and wise in hoarding, then, and not till then, shall I believe\nthat we are a truly great nation. At present the man whom we honour most is\nthe man who has been generous to public necessities, and has yet retained a\nlarge fortune for himself. That is the combination which we are not ashamed\nto admire.\"\n\n\n\nXXXVIII\n\nOF LONELINESS\n\n\nWe were walking together, Father Payne and I. It was in the early summer--a\nstill, hot day. The place, as I remember it, was very beautiful. We crossed\nthe stream by a little foot-bridge, and took a bypath across the meadows;\nup the slope you came to a beautiful bit of old forest country, the trees\nof all ages, some of them very ancient; there were open glades running into\nthe heart of the woodland, with thorn thickets and stretches of bracken.\nHidden away in the depth of the woods, and approached only by green rides,\nwere the ruins of what must have been a big old Jacobean mansion; but\nnothing remained of it except some grassy terraces, a bit of a fine fa\u00e7ade\nof stone with empty windows, half-hidden in ivy, and some tall stone\nchimney-stacks. The forest lay silent and still; and, along one of the\nbranching rides, you could discern far away a glimpse of blue hills. The\nscene was so entirely beautiful that we had gradually ceased to talk, and\nhad given ourselves up to the sweet and quiet influence of the place.\n\nWe stood for awhile upon one of the terraces, looking at the old house, and\nFather Payne said, \"I'm not sure that I approve of the taste for ruins;\nthere is something to be said for a deserted castle, because it is a\nreminder that we do not need to safeguard ourselves so much against each\nothers' ill-will; but a roofless church or a crumbling house--there's\nsomething sad about them. It seems to me a little like leaving a man\nunburied in order that we may come and sentimentalise over his bones. It\nmeans, this house, the decay of an old centre of life--there's nothing evil\nor cruel about it, as there is about a castle; and I am not sure that it\nought not to be either repaired or removed--\n\n  \"'And doorways where a bridegroom trode\n  Stand open to the peering air.'\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" I said; \"I'm sure that this is somehow beautiful. Can't one\nfeel that nature is half-tender, half-indifferent to our broken designs?\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Father Payne, \"but I don't like being reminded of death and\nwaste--I don't want to think that they can end by being charming--the\nvanity of human wishes is more sad than picturesque. I think Dr. Johnson\nwas right when he said, 'After all, it is a sad thing that a man should lie\ndown and die.'\"\n\nA little while afterwards he said, \"How strange it is that the loneliness\nof this place should be so delightful! I like my fellow-beings on the\nwhole--I don't want to avoid them or to abolish them--but yet it is one of\nthe greatest luxuries in the world to find a place where one is pretty sure\nof not meeting one of them.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"it is very odd! I have been feeling to-day that I should\nlike time to stand still this summer afternoon, and to spend whole days in\nrambling about here. I won't say,\" I said with a smile, \"that I should\nprefer to be quite alone; but I shouldn't mind even that in a place like\nthis. I never feel like that in a big town--there is always a sense of\nhostile currents there. To be alone in a town is always rather melancholy;\nbut here it is just the reverse.\"\n\n\"Indeed, yes,\" said Father Payne, \"and it is one of the great mysteries of\nall to me what we really want with company. It does not actually take away\nfrom us our sense of loneliness at all. You can't look into my mind, nor\ncan I look into yours; whatever we do or say to break down the veil between\nus, we can't do it. And I have often been happier when alone than I have\never been in any company.\"\n\n\"Isn't it a sense of security?\" I said; \"I suppose that it is an instinct\nderived from old savage days which makes us dread other human beings. The\nfurther back you go, the more hatred and mistrust you find; and I suppose\nthat the presence of a friend, or rather of someone with whom one has a\nkind of understanding, gives a feeling of comparative safety against\nattack.\"\n\n\"That's it, no doubt,\" said Father Payne; \"but if I had to choose between\nspending the rest of my life in solitude, or in spending it without a\nchance of solitude, I should be in a great difficulty. I am afraid that I\nregard company rather as a wholesome medicine against the evils of solitude\nthan I regard solitude as a relief from company. After all, what is it that\nwe want with each other?--what do we expect to get from each other? I\nremember,\" he said, smiling, \"a witty old lady saying to me once that\neternity was a nightmare to her.--'For instance,' she said, 'I enjoy\nsitting here and talking to you very much; but if I thought it was going on\nto all eternity, I shouldn't like it at all.' Do we really want the company\nof any one for ever and ever? And if so, why? Do we want to agree or to\ndisagree? Is the point of it that we want similarity or difference? Do we\nwant to hear about other people's experiences, or do we simply want to tell\nour own? Is the desire, I mean, for congenial company anything more than\nthe pleasure of seeing our own thoughts and ideas reflected in the minds of\nothers; or is it a real desire to alter our own thoughts and ideas by\ncomparing them with the experiences of others? Why do we like books, for\ninstance? Isn't it more because we recognise our own feelings than because\nwe make acquaintance with unfamiliar feelings? It comes to this? Can we\nreally ever gain an idea, or can we only recognise our own ideas?\"\n\n\"It is very difficult,\" I said; \"if I answered hastily, I should say that I\nliked being with you because you give me many new ideas; but if I think\nabout it, it seems to me that it is only because you make me recognise my\nown thoughts.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"I think that is so. If I see another man\nbehaving well where I should behave ill, I recognise that I have all the\nelements in my own mind for doing the same, but that I have given undue\nweight to some of them and not enough weight to others. I don't think, on\nthe whole, that anyone can give one a new idea; he can only help one to a\nsense of proportion. But I want to get deeper than that. You and I are\nfriends--at least I think so; but what exactly do we give each other? How\ndo you affect my solitude, or I yours? I'm blessed if I know. It looks to\nme, indeed, as if you and I might be parts of one great force, one great\nspirit, and that we recognise our unity, through some material condition\nwhich keeps us apart. I am not sure that it isn't only the body that\ndivides us, and that we are a part of the same thing behind it all.\"\n\n\"But why, if that is so,\" said I, \"do we feel a sense of unity with some\npeople, and not at all with others? There are people, I mean, with whom I\nfeel that I have simply nothing in common, and that our spirits could not\npossibly mix or blend. With you, to speak frankly, it is different. I feel\nas though I had known you far longer than a few months, and should never be\nin any real doubt about you. I recognise myself in you and yourself in me.\nBut there are many people in whom I don't recognise myself at all.\"\n\nFather Payne put his arm through mine, \"Well, old man,\" he said, \"we must\nbe content to have found each other, but we mustn't give up trying to find\nother people too. I think that is what civilisation means--a mutual\nrecognition--we're only just at the start of it, you know. I'm in no doubt\nas to what you give me--it's a sense of trust. When I think about you, I\nfeel, 'Come, there is someone at all events who will try to understand me\nand to forgive me and to share his best with me'--but even so, my boy, I\nshall enjoy being alone sometimes. I shall want to get away from everyone,\neven from you! There are thoughts I cannot share with you, because I want\nyou to think better of me than I do of myself. I suppose that is\nvanity--but still old Wordsworth was right when he wrote:\n\n  \"'And many love me; but by none\n  Am I enough beloved.'\"\n\n\n\nXXXIX\n\nOF THE WRITER'S LIFE\n\n\nI was walking once with Father Payne in the fields, and he was talking\nabout the difficulties of the writer's life. He said that the great problem\nfor all industrious writers was how to work in such a way as not to be a\nnuisance to the people they lived with. \"Of course men vary very much in\ntheir habits,\" he said; \"but if you look at the lives of authors, they\noften seem tiresome people to get on with. The difficulty is mostly this,\"\nhe went on, \"that a writer can't write to any purpose for more than about\nthree hours a day--if he works really hard, even that is quite enough to\ntire him out. Think what the brain is doing--it is concentrated on some\nidea, some scene, some situation. Take a novelist: he has to have a picture\nin his mind all the time--a clear visualisation of a place--a room, a\ngarden, a wood; then he must know how his people move and look and speak,\nand he has to fly backwards and forwards from one to another; then he has\nthe talk to create, and he has to be always rejecting thoughts and\nimpressions and words, good enough in themselves, but not characteristic.\nIt is a fearful strain on imagination and emotion, on phrase-making and\nword-finding. The real wonder is not that a few people can do it better\nthan others, but that anyone can do it at all. The difference between the\nworst novelist and the best is much less than the difference between the\nworst novelist and the person who can't write at all.\n\n\"Well, then, there is such a thing as inspiration; most creative writers\nget a book in their minds, and can think of nothing else, day and night,\nwhile it is on. The difficulty is to know what a writer is to do in the\nintervals between his books, and in the hours in which he is not writing.\nHe has got to take it easy somehow, and the question is what is he to do.\nHe can't, as a rule, do much in the way of hard exercise. Violent exercise\nin the open air is pleasant enough, but it leaves the brain torpid and\nstagnant. A man who really makes a business of writing has got to live\nthrough ten or twelve hours of a day when he isn't writing. He can't afford\nto read very much--at least he can't afford to read authors whom he\nadmires, because they affect his style. There is something horribly\ncontagious about style, because it is often much easier to do a thing in\nsomeone else's way than to do it in one's own. Pater was asked once if he\nhad read Stevenson or Kipling, I forget which--'Oh no, I daren't!' he said,\n'I have peeped into him occasionally, but I can't afford to read him. I\nhave learnt exactly how I can approach and develop a subject, and if I\nlooked to see how he does it, I should soon lose my power. The man with a\nstyle is debarred from reading fine books unless they are on lines entirely\napart from his own.' That is perfectly true, I expect. There is nothing so\ndreadful as reading a writer whom one likes, and seeing that he has got\ndeflected from his manner by reading some other craftsman. The effect is a\nvery subtle one. If you really want to see that sort of sympathy at work,\nyou should look at Ruskin's letters--his letters are deeply affected by the\ncorrespondent to whom he is writing. If he wrote to Carlyle or to Browning,\nhe wrote like Carlyle and Browning, because, as he wrote, they were\nstrongly in his mind.\n\n\"With a painter or a musician it is different--a lot of hand-work comes in\nwhich relieves the brain, so that they can work longer hours. But a writer,\nas a rule, while he is writing, can't even afford to talk very much to\ninteresting people, because talking is hard work too.\n\n\"Well, then, a writer, as an artistic person, is rather easily bored. He\nlikes vivid sensations and emphatic preferences--and it is not really good\nfor him to be bored; a man may read the paper, write a few letters, stroll,\ngarden, chatter--but if he takes his writing seriously, he must somehow be\nfresh for it. It isn't easy to combine writing with any other occupation,\nand it leaves many hours unoccupied.\n\n\"Carlyle is a terrible instance, because he was wretched and depressed when\nhe was not writing; he was melancholy, peevish, physically unwell; and when\nhe was writing, he was wholly absorbed very impatient of his labour, and\nmost intolerable. Indeed, it does not look as if the home lives of writers\nhave generally been very happy--there is too often a patent conspiracy to\nkeep the great irritable babyish giant amused--and that's a bad atmosphere\nfor anyone to live in--an unreal, a royal sort of atmosphere, of\ndeferential scheming.\"\n\nI said something about Walter Scott. \"Ah yes,\" said Father Payne, \"but\nScott's work was amazing--it just seemed to overflow from a gigantic\nreservoir of vitality. He could do his day's work in the early hours, and\nthen tramp about all day, chattering, farming, planting,\nentertaining--endlessly good-humoured. Of course he wore himself out at\nlast by perfectly ghastly work--most of it very poor stuff. Browning and\nThackeray were men of the same sort, sociable, genial, exuberant. They\noverflowed too--they didn't batter things out.\n\n\"But, as a rule, most men who want to do good work, must be content to\npotter about, and seem lazy and even self-indulgent. And one of the reasons\nwhy many men who start as promising writers come to nothing is because they\ncan't be inert, acquiescent, easy-going. I have often thought that a good\nnovel might be written about the wife of a great writer, who marries him,\ndazzled by his brilliance and then finds him to be a petty, suspicious,\nwayward sort of child, with all his force lying in one supreme faculty of\nvision and expression. It must be a fiery trial to see deep, wise,\nbeautiful things produced by a man who can't _live_ his thoughts--can\nonly write them.\"\n\n\"But what should a man _do_?\" I said.\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Payne, \"I think, as a practical matter, it would be a\ngood thing to cultivate a hobby of a manual kind--and also, above all, the\npower of genial loafing. Of course, the real pity is that we are not all\ntaught to do some house-work as a matter of course--we depend too much on\nservants, and house-work is the natural and amusing outlet of our physical\nenergies; as it is, we specialise too much, and half of our maladies and\ndiscomforts and miseries are due to that--that we work a part of ourselves\ntoo hard, and the other parts not hard enough. The thing to aim at is\nequanimity, and the existence of unsatisfied instincts in us is what\npoisons life for many people.\"\n\nHe was silent for a little, and then he said, \"And then, too, there is the\ngreat danger of all writers--the feeling that he has the power of giving\npeople what they want, when he ought to remember that he has only the good\nfortune of expressing what people feel. Art oughtn't to be a thing\nsprinkled on life, as you shake sugar out on to a pudding--it is just a\npower of disentangling things; we suffer most of us from finding life too\ncomplicated--we don't understand it--it's a mass of confused impressions.\nWell, the artist puts it all in order, isolates the important things, makes\nthe values distinct--he helps people to feel clearly--that's his only use.\nAnd then, if he succeeds, there come silly flatteries and adorations--until\nhe gets to feel as if he were handing down pots of jam and bottles of wine\nfrom a high shelf out of reach--until he grows to believe that he put them\nthere, when he only found them there. It's a dreadful thing for an artist\nnever to succeed at all, because then his life appears the most useless\nbusiness conceivable; but it is almost a worse thing to get to depend upon\nsuccess--and it is undeniably pleasant to be a personage, to cause a little\nstir when you enter a room, to find that people know all about you and like\nmeeting you, and saying they have met you. I never had any of that: and I\nhave sometimes found myself with successful writers who made me thank God I\ncouldn't write--such complacency, such lolling among praise, such vexation\nat not being deferred to! The best fate for a man is to be fairly\nsuccessful, and to be at the same time pretty severely criticised. That\nkeeps him modest, while it gives him a degree of confidence that he is\ndoing something useful. The danger is of drifting right out of life into\nunreal civilities and compliments, which you don't wholly like and yet\ncan't do without. The fact is that writing doesn't generally end in very\nmuch happiness, except perhaps the happiness of work. That's the solid part\nof it really, and no one can deprive you of that, whatever happens.\"\n\n\n\nXL\n\nOF WASTE\n\n\nWe were discussing Keats and his premature death. Someone had said that,\nbeside being one of the best, he was also one of the most promising of\npoets; and Father Payne had remarked that reading Keats's letters made him\nfeel more directly in the presence of a man of genius than any other book\nhe knew. Kaye had added that the death of Keats seemed to him the most\nghastly kind of waste, at which Father Payne had smiled, and said that that\npresupposed that he was knocked out by some malign or indifferent force.\n\"It is possible--isn't it?\" he added, \"that he was needed elsewhere and\nsummoned away.\" \"Then why was he so elaborately tortured first?\" said Kaye.\n\"Well,\" said Father Payne, \"I can conceive that if he had recovered his\nhealth, and escaped from his engagement with Fanny Brawne, he might have\nbeen a much finer fellow afterwards. There were two weak points in Keats,\nyou know--his over-sensuousness and a touch of commonness--I won't call it\nvulgarity,\" he added, \"but his jokes are not of the best quality! I do not\nfeel sure that his suffering might not have cleared away the poisonous\nstuff.\"\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said Kaye; \"but doesn't that make it more wasteful still? The\nworld needs beauty--and for a man to die so young with his best music in\nhim seems to me a clumsy affair.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Father Payne; \"it seems to me harder to define the\nword _waste_ than almost any word I know. Of course there are cases\nwhen it is obviously applicable--if a big steamer carrying a cargo of wheat\ngoes down in a storm, that is a lot of human trouble thrown away--and a war\nis wasteful, because nations lose their best and healthiest parental stock.\nBut it isn't a word to play with. In a middle-class household it is applied\nmainly to such things as there being enough left of a nice dish for the\nservants to enjoy; and, generally speaking, I think it might be applied to\nall cases in which the toil spent over the making of a thing is out of all\nproportion to the enjoyment derived from it. But the difficulty underlying\nit is that it assumes a knowledge of what a man's duty is in this\nworld--and I am not by any means sure that we know. Look at the phrase 'a\nwaste of time.' How do we know exactly how much time a man ought to allot\nto sleep, to work, to leisure? I had an old puritanical friend who was very\nfond of telling people that they wasted time. He himself spent nearly two\nhours of every day in dressing and undressing. That is to say that when he\ndied at the age of seventy-six, he had spent about six entire years in\nmaking and unmaking his toilet! Let us assume that everyone is bound to\ngive a certain amount of time to doing the necessary work of the\nworld--enough to support, feed, clothe, and house himself, with a margin to\nspare for the people who can't support themselves and can't work. Then\nthere are a lot of outlying things which must be done--the work of\nstatesmen, lawyers, doctors, writers--all the people who organise, keep\norder, cure, or amuse people. Then there are all the people who make\nluxuries and comforts--things not exactly necessary, but still reasonable\nindulgences. Now let us suppose that anyone is genuinely and sensibly\noccupied in any one of these ways, and does his or her fair share of the\nworld's work: who is to say how such workers are to spend their margin of\ntime? There are obviously certain people who are mere drones in the\nhive--rich, idle, extravagant people: we will admit that they are wasters.\nBut I don't admit for a moment that all the time spent in enjoying oneself\nis wasted, and I think that people have a right to choose what they do\nenjoy. I am inclined to believe that we are here to live, and that work is\nonly a part of our material limitations. A great deal of the usefulness of\nwork is not its intrinsic value, but its value to ourselves. It isn't only\nwhat we perform that matters; it is the fact that work forces us into\nrelations with other people, which I take to be the experience we all need.\nIn the old dreary books of my childhood, the elders were always hounding\nthe young people into doing something useful--useful reading, useful\nsewing, and so forth. But I am inclined to believe that sociability and\ntalk are more useful than reading, and that solitary musing and dreaming\nand looking about are useful too. All activity is useful, all interchange,\nall perception. What isn't useful is anything which hides life from you,\nany habit that drugs you into inactivity and idleness, anything which makes\nyou believe that life is romantic and sentimental and fatuous. I wouldn't\neven go so far as to say that _all_ the time spent in squabbling and\nquarrelling is useless, because it brings you up against people who think\ndifferently from yourself. That becomes wasteful the moment it leaves you\nwith the impotent desire to hurt your adversary. No, I am inclined to think\nthat the only thing which is wasteful is anything which suspends interest\nand animation and the love of life; and I don't blame idle and extravagant\npeople who live with zest and liveliness for doing that. I only blame them\nfor not seeing that their extravagance is keeping people at the other end\nof the scale in drudgery and dulness. Of course the difficulty of it is,\nthat if we offered the lowest stratum of workers a great increase of\nleisure, they would largely misuse it; and that is why I believe that in\nthe future a large part of the education of workers will be devoted to\nteaching them how to employ their leisure agreeably and not noxiously. And\nI believe that there are thousands of cases in the world which are\ninfinitely worse than the case of Keats--who, after all, had more joy of\nthe finest quality in his short life than most of us achieve. I mean the\ncases of men and women with fine and sensitive instincts, who by being born\nunder base and down-trodden conditions are never able to get a taste of\nclean, wholesome, and beautiful life at all--that's a much darker\nproblem.\"\n\n\"But how do you fit that into your theories of life at all?\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Oh, it fits my theory of life well enough,\" said Father Payne. \"You see, I\nbelieve it to be a real battle, and not a sham fight. I believe in God as\nthe source of all the fine, beautiful, and free instincts, casting them\nlavishly into the world, against a horribly powerful and relentless but\nultimately stupid foe. 'Who put the evil there?' you may say, 'and how did\nit get there first?' Ah, I don't know that--that is the origin of evil. But\nI don't believe that God put it there first, just for the interest of the\nfight. I don't believe that He is responsible for waste--I think it is one\nof the forces He is fighting. He pushes battalion after battalion to the\nassault, and down they go. It's cruel work, but it isn't anything like so\ncruel as to suppose that He arranged it all or even permitted it all. That\nwould indeed sicken and dishearten me. No, I believe that God never wastes\nanything; but it's a fearful and protracted battle; and I believe that He\nwill win in the end. I read a case in the paper the other day of a little\nchild in a workhouse that had learnt a lot of infamous language, and cursed\nand swore if it was given milk instead of beer or brandy. Am I to believe\nthat God was in any way responsible for putting a little child in that\nposition?--for allowing things to take shape so, if He could have checked\nit? No, indeed! I do not believe in a God as helpless or as wicked as that!\nThere is something devilish there, for which He is not responsible, and\nagainst which He is fighting as hard as He can.\"\n\n\"But doesn't heredity come in there?\" said Vincent. \"It isn't the child's\nfault, and probably no amount of decent conditions would turn that child\ninto anything respectable.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne; \"heredity is just one of the evil devices--but\ndon't you see the stupidity of it? It stops progress, but it also helps it\non--it hinders, but it also helps; and nothing in the world seems to me so\nDivine as the way in which God is using and mastering heredity for good. It\nmultiplies evil, but it also multiplies good; and God has turned that\nweapon against the contriver of it. The wiser that the world grows, the\nmore they will see how to use heredity for happiness, by preventing the\ntainted from continuing to taint the races. The slow civilisation of the\nworld is the strongest proof I know that the battle is going the right way.\nThe forces of evil are being slowly transformed into the forces of good.\nThe waste of noble things is but the slow arrival of the new armies of\nlight. There is something real in fighting for a General who has a very\nurgent and terrible business on hand. There is nothing real about fighting\nfor one who has brought both the armies into the field. It doesn't do to\nsentimentalise about evil, and to say that it is hidden good! The world is\na probation, I don't doubt--but it is testing your strength against\nsomething which is really there, and can do you a lot of harm, not against\nsomething which is only there for the purpose of testing what might have\nbeen made and kept both innocent and strong.\"\n\n\n\nXLI\n\nOF EDUCATION\n\n\nFather Payne generally declined to talk about education. \"Teaching is one\nof the things, like golf and hunting, which is exciting to do and pleasant\nto remember, but intolerable to talk about,\" he said one evening.\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"it is certainly intolerable to listen to people discussing\neducation, or to read about it; but if you know anything about it, I should\nhave thought it was good fun to talk about it.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Father Payne, \"you say, 'If you know anything about it.' The\nworst of it is that everybody knows everything about it. A man who is a\nsuccess, thinks that his own education is the only one worth having; a man\nwho is a failure thinks that all systems of education are wrong. And as for\ntalking about teaching, you can't talk about it--you can only relate your\nown experience, and listen with such patience as you can muster to another\nman relating his. That's not talking!\"\n\n\"But it is interesting in a general way,\" said Vincent,--\"the kind of thing\nyou are aiming at, what you want to produce, and so on.\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear Vincent,\" said Father Payne, \"but education isn't that--it's\nan obstinate sort of tradition; it's a quest, like the Philosopher's Stone.\nMost people think that it is a sort of charm which, if you could discover\nit, would transmute all baser metals into gold. The justification of the\nPhilosopher's Stone is, I suppose, that different metals are not really\ndifferent substances, but only different arrangements of the same atoms.\nBut we can't predicate that of human spirits as yet; and to attempt to find\none formula of education is like planting the same crop in different soils.\nIt is the ridiculous democratic doctrine of human equality which is the\nreal difficulty. There is no natural equality in human nature, and the\nquestion really is whether you are going to try to reduce all human beings\nto the same level, which is the danger of discipline, or to let people\nfollow their own instincts unchecked, which is the shadow of liberty. I'm\nall for liberty, of course.\"\n\n\"But why 'of course'?\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Because I take the aristocratic view,\" said Father Payne, \"which is that\nyou do more for the human race by having a few fine people, than by having\nan infinite number of second-rate people. What the first-rate man thinks\nto-day, the second-rate people think to-morrow--that is how we make\nprogress; and I would like to take infinite pains with the best material,\nif I could find it, and leave discipline for the second-rate. The Jews and\nthe Greeks, both first-class nations, have done more for the world on the\nwhole than the Romans and the Anglo-Saxons, who are the best of the\nsecond-rate stocks.\"\n\n\"But how are you going to begin to sort your material?\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"Yes, you have me there,\" said Father Payne. \"But I don't despair of our\nultimately finding that out. At present, the worst of men of genius is that\nthey are not always the most brisk and efficient boys. A genius is apt to\nbe perceptive and sensitive. His perceptiveness makes him seem bewildered,\nbecause he is vaguely interested in everything that he sees; his\nsensitiveness makes him hold his tongue, because he gets snubbed if he asks\ntoo many questions. Men of genius are not as a rule very precocious--they\nare often shy, awkward, absent-minded. Genius is often strangely like\nstupidity in its early stages. The stupid boy escapes notice because he is\nstupid. The genius escapes notice because he is diffident, and _wants_\nto escape notice.\"\n\n\"But how would you set about discovering which was which?\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Payne, \"if you ask me, I don't think we discriminate; I\nthink we go in for teaching children too much, and not trying to make them\nobserve and think more. We give them things to do, and to get by heart; we\nimprison them in a narrow round of gymnastics. As Dr. Johnson said once,\n'You teach your children the use of the globes, and when they get older you\nwonder that they do not seek your society!' The whole thing is so devilish\ndull, and it saves the teacher such a lot of trouble! I myself was fairly\nquick as a boy, and found that it paid to do what I was told. But I never\nmade the smallest pretence to be interested in what I had to do--grammar,\nEuclid, tiny scraps of Latin and Greek. I used to thank God, in Xenophon\nlessons, when a bit was all about stages and parasangs, because there were\nfewer words to look out. The idea of teaching languages like that! If I had\na clever boy to teach a language, I would read some interesting book with\nhim, telling him the meaning of words, until he got a big stock of ordinary\nwords; I would just teach him the common inflexions; and when he could read\nan easy book, and write the language intelligibly, then I would try to\nteach him a few niceties and idioms, and make him look out for differences\nof style and language. But we begin at the wrong end, and store his memory\nwith exceptions and idioms and niceties first. No sensible human being who\nwanted, let us say, to know enough Italian to read Dante, would dream of\nsetting to work as we set to work on classics. Well then,\" Father Payne\nwent on, \"I should cultivate the imagination of children a great deal more.\nI should try to teach them all I could about the world as it is--the\ndifferent nations, and how they live, the distribution of plants and\nanimals, the simpler sorts of science. I don't think that it need be very\naccurate, all that. But children ought to realise that the world is a big\nplace, with all sorts of interesting and exciting things going on. I would\ntry to give them a general view of history and the movement of\ncivilisation. I don't mean a romantic view of it, with the pomps and shows\nand battles in the foreground; but a real view--how people lived, and what\nthey were driving at. The thing could be done, if it were not for the\nbugbear of inaccuracy. To know a little perfectly isn't enough; of course,\npeople ought to be able to write their own language accurately, and to do\narithmetic. Outside of that, you want a lot of general ideas. It is no good\nteaching everything as if everyone was to end as a Professor.\"\n\n\"That is a reasonable general scheme,\" said Barthrop, \"but what about\nspecial aptitudes?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Father Payne, \"I should go on those general lines till boys and\ngirls were about fourteen. And I should teach them with a view to the lives\nthey were going to live. I should teach girls a good deal of house-work,\nand country boys about the country--we mustn't forget that the common work\nof the world has to be done. You must somehow interest people in the sort\nof work they are going to do. It is hopeless without that. And then we must\ngradually begin to specialise. But I'm not going into all that now. The\ngeneral aim I should have in view would be to give people some idea of the\nworld they were living in, and try to interest them in the part they were\ngoing to play; and I should try to teach them how to employ their leisure.\nThat seems entirely left out at present. I want to develop people on simple\nand contented lines, with intelligent interests and, if possible, a special\ntaste. The happy man is the man who likes his work, and all education is a\nfraud if it turns out people who don't like their work; and then I want\npeople to have something to fall back upon which they enjoy. No one can\nlive a decent life without having things to look forward to. But, of\ncourse, the whole thing turns on Finance, and that is what makes it so\ninfernally dull. You want more teachers and better teachers; you want to\nmake teaching a profession which attracts the best people. You can't do\nthat without money, and at present education is looked upon as an expensive\nluxury. That's all part of the stodgy Anglo-Saxon mind. It doesn't want\nideas--it wants positions which, carry high salaries; and really the one\nthing which blocks the way in all our education is that we care so much for\nmoney and property, and can't think of happiness apart from them. As long\nas our real aim in England is income, we shall not make progress; because\nwe persist in thinking of ideas as luxuries in which a man can indulge if\nhe has a sufficient income to afford to do so.\"\n\n\"You take a gloomy view of our national ideals, Father,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Not a gloomy view, my boy,\" said Father Payne; \"only a dull view! We are a\nrespectable nation--we adore respectability; and I don't think it is a\nsympathetic quality. What I want is more sympathy and more imagination. I\nthink they lead to happiness; and I don't think the Anglo-Saxon cares\nenough about happiness; if he is happy, he has an uneasy idea that he is in\nfor a disaster of some kind.\"\n\n\n\nXLII\n\nOF RELIGION\n\n\nI found Father Payne one morning reading a letter with knitted brows.\nPresently he cast it down on the table with a gesture of annoyance. \"What a\nfool one is to argue!\" he said--and then stopping, he said, \"But you wanted\nsomething--what is it?\" It was a question about some books which was soon\nanswered. Then he said: \"Stay a few minutes, won't you, unless you are\npressed? I have got a tiresome letter, and if you will let me pour out my\ncomplaint to you, I shall be all right--otherwise I shall go about\ngrumbling and muttering all day, and inventing repartees.\"\n\nI sate down in a chair. \"Yes, do tell me!\" I said; \"I have really very\nlittle to do this morning, but finish up a bit of work.\"\n\nHe looked at me with a twinkle in his eye. \"I expect you ought to be at\nwork,\" he said, \"and if I were conscientious, I should send you away--but\nthis is rather interesting, I think.\"\n\nHe meditated for a moment, and then went on. \"It's this! I have got\ninvolved in an argument with an old friend of mine who is a stiff sort of\nHigh-Churchman--a parson. It's about religion, too, and it's no good\narguing about religion. You only confirm your adversary in his opinion. He\nbrings forth the bow, and makes ready the arrows within the quiver. I\nneedn't go into the argument. It's the old story. He objected to something\nI said as 'vague,' and I was ass enough to answer him. He is one of those\npeople who is very strong on dogma, and treats his religion as if it were a\nsort of trades' union. He thinks I am a kind of blackleg, not true to my\nprinciples; or rather he thinks that I am not a Christian at all, and only\ncall myself one for the sake of the associations. Of course he triumphs\nover me at every point. He is entrenched in what he calls a logical system,\nand he fires off texts as if from a machine-gun. Of course my point is that\nall strict denominations have got a severely logical system, but that they\ncan't all be sound, because they all deduce different conclusions from the\nsame evidence. All denominational positions are drawn up by able men, and I\nimagine that an old theology like the Catholic theology is one of the most\ningenious constructions in the world from the logical point of view. But\nthe mischief of it all is that the data are incomplete, and many of them\nare not mathematically demonstrable at all. They are all coloured by human\nideas and personalities and temperaments, and half of them are intuitions\nand experiences, which vary at different times and under different\ncircumstances. All precise denominational systems are the outcome of the\ndesire for a precise certainty in the minds of business-like people--the\npeople who say that they wish to know exactly where they are. Now I don't\ngo so far as to say, or even to think, that religion will always be as\nmysterious a thing as it is now. I fully expect that we shall know much\nmore about it some day. But we don't at present know very much about the\ncentral things of all--the nature of God, the relation of good and evil,\nlife after death, human psychology. We have not reached the point of being\nable definitely to identify the moral force of the world with the forces\nwhich do not appear to be moral, but are undoubtedly, active--with\nrealities, that is, as we come into contact with them. There are no\nscientific certainties on these points--we simply have not reached that\nstage. My friend's view is that out of a certain number of denominations,\none is undoubtedly right. My view is that all are necessarily incomplete.\nBut the moment I say this, he says that my religion is so vague as not to\nbe a religion at all.\n\n\"Now my own position is this, that I think religion, by which I mean our\nrelation to the Power behind the world, is the most important fact in the\nworld, as well as the most absorbingly interesting. Whatever form of\nreligion I study, I seem to see the same thing going on. The saints,\nhowever much they differ in dogma, seem to me to have a strong family\nlikeness. Mysticism is a very definite thing indeed, and I have never any\ndoubt that all mystics have the same or a very similar experience, namely,\nthe perception of some perfectly definite force--as real a force as\nelectricity, for instance--with which they are in touch. Something, which\nis quite clearly there, is affecting them in a particular way.\n\n\"If you ask me what that something is, I don't know. I believe it to be a\nsort of life-force, which can and does mingle itself with our own life; and\nI believe that we are all affected by it, just as every drop of water on\nthe earth is affected by the moon's attraction--though we can measure that\neffect in an ocean by observing the tides, when we can't measure it in a\nbasin of water. We are not all equally conscious of it, and I don't know\nwhy that is. Sometimes I am aware of it myself, and sometimes not. But I\nhave had enough experience of it to feel that something is making signals\nto me, affecting me, attracting me. And the reason why I am a Christian is\nbecause in Christianity and in the teaching of Christ I feel the influence\nof it in a way that I feel it nowhere else in the same degree. I feel that\nChrist was closer to what I recognise as God; knew God better than anyone\nthat ever lived, and in a different kind of way--from inside, so to speak.\nBut it's a _life_ that I find in the Gospel, and not a _creed_:\nand I believe that this is religion, to be somehow in touch with a higher\nlife and a higher sort of beauty.\n\n\"But I personally don't want this explained and defined and codified. That\nseems to me only to hem it in and limit it. The moment I find it reduced to\ndogma and rule, to definite channels of grace, to particular powers\nentrusted to particular persons, then I begin to be stifled and, what is\nworse, bored. I don't feel it to be a logical affair at all--I feel it to\nbe a living force, the qualities of which are virtue, beauty, peace,\nenthusiasm, happiness; all the things which glow and sparkle in life, and\nmake me long to be different--to be stronger, wiser, more patient, more\ninterested, more serene. I want to share my secret with others, not to keep\nit to myself. But when I argue with my friend, I don't feel it is my secret\nbut his, and that in his mind the force itself is missing, while a lot of\nrules and logical propositions and arrangements have taken its place. It is\njust as though I were in love with a girl, and were taken to task by\nsomeone, and informed of a score of conventions which I must observe if I\nwish to be considered really in love. I know what love means to me, and I\nknow, how I want to make love; and the same sort of thing is happening to\nlovers all the world over, though they don't all make love in the same way.\nYou can't codify the rules of love!\"\n\nPresently he went on: \"It seems to me like this--like seeing the reflection\nof the moon. You may see it in the marble basin of a fountain, clear and\ndistinct. You may see it blurred into ripples on a wind-stirred sea. You\nmay see it moulded into liquid curves on a swift stream. The changing\nshapes of it matter little--you are sure that it is the same thing which is\nbeing reflected, however differently it appears. I believe that human\nnature has a power of reflecting God, and the different denominations seem\nto me to reflect Him in different ways, like the fountain and the stream\nand the sea. But the same thing is there, though the forms seem to vary.\nAnd therefore we must not quarrel with the different attempts to reflect\nit--or even be vexed if the fountain tells the sea that it is not\nreflecting the moon at all. Take my advice, my boy,\" he added, smiling,\n\"and never argue about religion--only try to make your own spirit as calm\nand true as you can!\"\n\n\n\nXLIII\n\nOF CRITICS\n\n\nI came in from a stroll one day with Father Payne and Barthrop. Father\nPayne opened a letter which was lying on the hall table, and saying,\n\"Hallo, Leonard, look at this. Gladwin is coming down for Sunday--that will\nbe rather fun!\"\n\n\"I don't know about fun,\" said Barthrop; \"at least I doubt if I should find\nit fun, if I had the responsibility of entertaining him.\"\n\n\"Yes, it's a great responsibility,\" said Father Payne. \"I feel that.\nGladwin is a man who has to be taken as you find him, but who never makes\nany pretence of taking you as he finds you! But it will amuse me to put him\nthrough his paces a bit!\"\n\n\"Who on earth is Gladwin?\" said I, consumed by curiosity.\n\nFather Payne and Barthrop laughed. \"I should like Gladwin to hear that!\"\nsaid Barthrop.\n\n\"Only it would grieve him still more if Duncan _had_ heard of him,\"\nsaid Father Payne; \"there would be a commonness about that!\" Then turning\nto me, he said, \"Gladwin? Well, he's about the most critical man in\nEngland, I suppose. He does a little work--a very little: and I think he\nmight have been a great man, if he hadn't become so fearfully dry. He began\nby despising everyone else, and ended by despising himself--and now it's\nalmost a torture to him to make up his mind. 'There's something base about\na _decision_,' he once said to me. But 'despising' isn't the right\nword. He doesn't despise--that would be coarse. He only feels the\ncoarseness of things in general. He has got too fine an edge on his\nmind--everything blunts it!\"\n\n\"Do you remember Rose's song about him?\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"Yes, what was it?\" said Father Payne.\n\n\"The refrain,\" said Barthrop, \"was\n\n  \"'Not too much of whatever is best,\n    That is enough for me!'\"\n\nFather Payne laughed. \"Yes, I remember!\" he said; \"'Not too much' is a good\nstroke!\"\n\nI happened to be with Father Payne when Gladwin arrived. He was a small,\ntrim, compact man, about forty, unembarrassed and graceful, but with an air\nof dejection. He had a short pointed beard and moustache, and his hair was\ngrowing grey. He had fine thin hands, and he was dressed in old but\nwell-fitting clothes. He had an atmosphere of great distinction about him.\nI had expected something incisive and clear-cut about him, but he was\nconspicuously gentle, and even deprecating in manner. He greeted Father\nPayne smilingly, and shook hands with me, with a courteous little bow. We\nstrolled a little in the garden. Father Payne did most of the talking, but\nGladwin's silence was sympathetic and impressive. He listened to us\ntolerantly, as a man might listen to the prattle of children.\n\n\"What are you doing just now?\" said Father Payne after a pause.\n\n\"Oh, nothing worth mentioning,\" said Gladwin softly. \"I work more slowly\nthan ever, I believe. It can hardly be called work, indeed. In fact, I want\nto consult you about a few little bits--they can hardly be called anything\nso definite as 'pieces'--but I am in doubt about their arrangement. The\nplacing of independent pieces is such a difficulty to me, you know! One\nmust secure some sort of a progression!\"\n\n\"Ah, I shall enjoy that,\" said Father Payne. \"But you won't take my advice,\nyou know--you never do!\"\n\n\"Oh, don't say that,\" said Gladwin. \"Of course one must be ultimately\nresponsible. It can't be otherwise. But I always respect your judgment. You\nalways help me to the materials, at all events, for a decision!\"\n\nFather Payne laughed, and said, \"Well, I shall be at your service any\ntime!\"\n\nA little while after, Gladwin said he thought he would go to his room. \"I\nknow your ways here,\" he said to me with a smile; \"one mustn't interfere\nwith a system. Besides I like it! It is such a luxury to obliterate\noneself!\" When we met again before dinner, Gladwin walked across to a big\npicture, an old sea-piece, rather effectively painted, which Father Payne\nhad found in a garret, and had had restored and framed.\n\n\"What is this?\" said Gladwin very gently; \"I think this is new?\"\n\nFather Payne told him the story of its discovery, adding, \"I don't suppose\nit is worth much--but it has a certain breeziness about it, I think.\"\n\nGladwin considered it in silence, and then turned away.\n\n\"Do you like it?\" said Father Payne--a little maliciously, I thought.\n\n\"Like it?\" said Gladwin meditatively, \"I don't know that I can go as far as\nthat! I like it in your house.\"\n\nGladwin said very little at dinner. He ate and drank sparingly; and I\nnoticed that he looked at any dish that was offered him with a quick\nscrutinising glance. He tasted his first glass of wine with the same air of\nsuspense, and then appeared to be relieved from a preoccupation. But he\njoined little in the talk, and exercised rather a sobering effect upon us.\nOnce or twice he spoke out. Mention was made of Gissing's _Papers of\nHenry Ryecroft_, and Father Payne asked him if he had read it. \"Oh no, I\ncouldn't _read_ it, of course,\" said Gladwin; \"I looked into it, and\nhad to put it away. I felt as if I had opened a letter addressed to someone\nelse by mistake!\"\n\nAt a later period of the evening, a discussion arose about the laws of\ntaste. Father Payne had said that the one phenomenon in art he could not\nunderstand was the almost inevitable reaction which seemed to take place in\nthe way in which the work of a great writer or painter or musician is\nregarded a few years after his vogue declines. \"I am not speaking,\" said\nFather Payne, \"of poor, commonplace, merely popular work, but of work which\nwas acclaimed as great by the best critics of the time, and which will\nprobably return to pre-eminence,\" He instanced, I remember, Mendelssohn and\nTennyson. \"Of course,\" he said, \"they both wrote a great deal--perhaps too\nmuch--and some kind of sorting is necessary. I don't mind the _Idylls of\nthe King_, or the _Elijah_, being relegated to oblivion, because\nthey both show signs of having been done with one eye on the public. But\nthe progressive young man won't hear of Tennyson or Mendelssohn being\nregarded as serious figures in art at all. Yet I honestly believe that\npoems like 'Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal,' or 'Come down, O Maid,' have a\nhigh and permanent beauty about them; or, again, the overture to the\n_Midsummer Night's Dream_. I can't believe that it isn't a thing full\nof loveliness and delight. I can't for the life of me see what happens to\ncause such things to be forgotten. Tennyson and Mendelssohn seem to me to\nhave been penetrated with a sense of beauty, and to have been great\ncraftsmen too: and their work at its best not only satisfied the most\nexacting and trained critics, but thrilled all the most beauty-loving\nspirits of the time with ineffable content, as of a dream fulfilled beyond\nthe reach of hope. And yet all the light seems to die out of them as the\nyears go on. The new writers and musicians, the new critics, the new\naudience, are all preoccupied with a different presentment of beauty. And\nthen, very slowly, the light seems to return to the old things--at least to\nthe best of them: but they have to suffer an eclipse, during which they are\nnothing but symbols of all that is hackneyed and commonplace in music and\nliterature. I think things are either beautiful or not: I can't believe in\na real shifting of taste, a merely relative and temporary beauty. If it\nonly happened to the second-rate kinds of goodness, it would be\nintelligible--but it seems to involve the best as well. What do you think,\nGladwin?\"\n\nGladwin, who had been dreamily regarding the wine in his glass, gave a\nlittle start almost of pain, as if a thorn had pricked him. He glanced\nround the table, and then said in his gentlest voice, \"Well, Payne, I don't\nquite know from what point of view you are speaking--from the point of view\nof serious investigation, or of edification, or of mere curiosity? I should\nhave to be sure of that. But, speaking hurriedly and perhaps intemperately,\nI should be inclined to think that there was a sort of natural revolt\nagainst a convention, a spontaneous disgust at deference being taken for\ngranted. Isn't it like what takes place in politics--though, of course, I\nknow nothing about politics--the way, I mean, in which the electors get\nsimply tired of a political party being in power, and give the other side a\nchance of doing better? I mean that the gross and unintelligent laudation\nof any artist who arrives at what is called assured fame, naturally turns\none's mind on to the critical consciousness of his imperfections. I don't\nsay it's noble or right--in fact, I think it is probably ungenerous--but I\nthink it is natural.\"\n\n\"Yes, there is a good deal in that,\" said Father Payne, \"but ought not the\ntrained critics to withstand it?\"\n\n\"The trained critic,\" said Gladwin, \"the man who sells his opinion of a\nwork of art for money, is, of course, the debased outcome of a degrading\nsystem. If you press me, I should consider that both the extravagant\nlaudation and the equally extravagant reaction are entirely vulgar and\nhorrible. Personally, I am not easily pleased: but then what does it matter\nwhether I am pleased or not?\"\n\n\"But you sometimes bring yourself to form, and even express, an opinion?\"\nsaid Father Payne with a smile.\n\n\"An opinion--an opinion\"--said Gladwin, shaking his head, \"I don't know\nthat I ever get so far as that. One has a kind of feeling, no doubt; but it\nis so far underground, that one hardly knows what its operations may be.\"\n\n\"'Well said, old mole! Canst work i' the earth so fast? A worthy pioneer!'\"\nsaid Payne, laughing.\n\nGladwin gave a quick smile: \"A good quotation!\" he said, \"that was very\nready! I congratulate you on that! But there's more of the mole than the\npioneer about my work, such as it is!\"\n\n\nGladwin drifted about the next day like a tired fairy.\n\nHe had a long conference with Father Payne, and at dinner he seemed aloof,\nand hardly spoke at all. He vanished the next day with an air of relief.\n\"Well, what did you think of our guest?\" said Father Payne to me, meeting\nme in the garden before dinner.\n\n\"Well,\" I said, \"he seemed to me an unhappy, heavily-burdened man--but he\nwas evidently extraordinarily able.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"that's about it. His mind is too big for him to\ncarry. He sees everything, understands everything, and passes judgment on\neverything. But he hasn't enough vitality. It must be an awful curse to\nhave no illusions--to see the inferiority of everything so clearly. He's\nawfully lonely, and I must try to see more of him. But it is very\ndifficult. I used to amuse him, and he appointed me, in a way he has, a\nsort of State Jester--Royal Letters Patent, you know. But then he began to\ndetect the commonness of my mind and taste, and, one by one, all the\navenues of communication became closed. If I liked a book which he\ndisliked, and praised it to him, he became inflicted with a kind of mental\nnausea: and it's impossible to see much of a man, with any real comfort,\nwhen you realise that you are constantly turning him faint and sick. I had\na dreary time with him yesterday. He produced some critical essays of his\nown, which he was thinking of making into a book. They were awfully dry,\nlike figs which have been kept too long--not a drop of juice in them. They\nwere hideously acute, I saw that. But there wasn't any reason why they\nshould have been written. They were mere dissections: I suggested that he\nshould call them 'Depreciations,' and he shivered, and I felt a brute. But\nthat didn't last long, because he has a way of putting you in your place. I\nfelt like something in a nightmare he was having. He annexes you, and he\ndisapproves of you at the same time. I am awfully sorry for him, but I\ncan't help him. The moment I try, I run up against his disapproval, and my\nvulgar spirit revolts. He's an aristocrat, through and through. He comes\nand hoists his flag over a place. I felt all yesterday as if I were a\nrather unwelcome guest in his house, you know. It's a stifling atmosphere.\nI can't breathe or speak, because I instantly feel myself suspected of\ncrudity! The truth is that Gladwin thinks you can live upon light, and\nforgets that you also want air.\"\n\n\"It seems rather a ghastly business,\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"it's a wretched business! That combination of\ngreat sensitiveness and great self-righteousness is the most melancholy\nthing I know. You have to get rid of one or the other--and yet that is how\nGladwin is made. Now, I have plenty of opinions of my own, but I don't\nconsider them final or absolute. It ends, of course, in poor Gladwin\nknowing about a hundredth part of what is going on in the world, and\nthinking that it's d--d bad. Of course it is, if you neglect the other\nninety-nine parts altogether!\"\n\n\n\nXLIV\n\nOF WORSHIP\n\n\nIt was one of those perfectly fine and radiant days of early summer, with a\ntouch of easterly about the breeze, which means perhaps a drier air, and\nalways seems to bring out the true colours of our countryside, as with a\ntouch of ethereal golden-tinged varnish. The humid rain-washed days, so\ncommon in England, are beautiful enough, with their rolling cloud-ranges\nand their soft mistiness: but the clear sparkle of this brighter weather,\nsummer without its haze, intensifying each tone of colour and sharply\ndefining each several tint, has a special beauty of form as well as of hue.\n\nI walked with Father Payne far among the fields. He was at first in a\nsilent mood, observing and enjoying. We passed a field carpeted with\nbuttercups, and he said, \"That's a beautiful touch, 'the flower-enamelled\nfield'--it isn't just washed with colour, it is like hammered work of\nbeaten gold, like the letters in old missals!\" Presently he burst out into\ntalk: \"I don't want to say anything affected,\" he began, \"but a day like\nthis, out in the country, gives me a stronger feeling of what I can only\ndescribe as _worship_ than anything else in the world, because the\nscene holds the beauty of life so firmly up before you. Worship means the\nsense of the unmistakable presence of beauty, I am sure--a beauty great and\noverwhelming, which one has had no part in making--'The sea is His, and He\nmade it, and His hands prepared the dry land. O come, let us worship and\nfall down, and kneel before the Lord our Maker'--it's that exactly--a sense\nof joyful abasement in the presence of something great and infinitely\nbeautiful. I do wish that were more clearly stated and understood and\nbelieved. Religion, as we know it in its technical sense, is so\nfaint-hearted about it all! It has limited worship to things beautiful\nenough, arches and music and ceremony: and it is so afraid of vagueness, so\nconsiderate of man's feeble grasp and small outlook, that it is afraid of\nrecognising all the channels by which that sense is communicated, for fear\nof weakening a special effect. I'll tell you two or three of the\nexperiences I mean. You know old Mrs. Chetwynd, who is fading away in that\nlittle cottage beyond the churchyard. She is poor, old, ill. She can hardly\nbe said to have a single pleasure, as you and I reckon pleasures. She just\nlies there in that poky room waiting for death, always absolutely patient\nand affectionate and sweet-tempered, grateful for everything, never saying\na hard or cross word. Well, I go to see her sometimes--not as often as I\nought. She shakes hands with that old knotted-looking hand of hers which\nhas grown soft enough now after its endless labours. She talks a\nlittle--she is interested in all the news, she doesn't regret things, or\ncomplain, or think it hard that she can't be out and about. After I have\nbeen with her for two minutes, with her bright old eyes looking at me out\nof such a thicket, so to speak, of wrinkles,--her face simply hacked and\nseamed by life,--I feel myself in the presence of something very divine\nindeed,--a perfectly pure, tender, joyful, human spirit, suffering the last\nextremity of discomfort and infirmity, and yet entirely radiant and\nundimmed. It is then that I feel inclined to kneel down before God, and\nthank Him humbly for having made and shown me so utterly beautiful a thing\nas that poor old woman's courage and sweetness. I feel as I suppose the\ndevout Catholic feels before the reserved Sacrament in the shrine--in the\npresence of a divine mystery; and I rejoice silently that God is what He\nis, and that I see Him for once unveiled.\n\n\"And then the sight of a happy and contented child, kind and spirited and\naffectionate, like little Molly Akers, never making a fuss, or seeming to\nwant things for herself, or cross, or tiresome--that gives me the same\nfeeling! Then flowers often give me the same feeling, with their cleanness\nand fresh beauty and pure outline and sweet scent--so useless in a way,\noften so unregarded, and yet so content just to be what they are, so apart\nfrom every stain and evil passion.\n\n\"And then in the middle of that you see a man like Barlow stumbling home\ntipsy to his frightened wife and children, or you read a bad case in the\npapers, or a letter from a man of virtue finding fault with everybody and\nslinging pious Billingsgate about: or I lose my own temper about something,\nand feel I have made a hash of my life--and then I wonder what is the foul\npoison that has got into things, and what is the dismal ugliness that seems\nsmeared all over life, so that the soul seems like a beautiful bird caught\nin a slime-pit, and trying to struggle out, with its pinions fouled and\ndabbled, wondering miserably what it has done to be so filthily hampered.\"\n\nHe stopped for a minute, and I could see that his eyes were full of tears.\n\n\"It is no good giving up the game!\" he said. \"We are in the devil of a\nmess, no doubt: and even if we try our best to avoid it, we dip into the\nslime sometimes! But we must hold fast to the beautiful things, and be on\nthe look-out for them everywhere. Not shut our eyes in a rapture of\nsentiment, and think that we can:\n\n  \"'Walk all day, like the Sultan of old, in a garden\n       of spice!'\n\n\"That won't do, of course! We can't get out of it like that! But we must\nnever allow ourselves to doubt the beauty and goodness of God, or make any\nmistake about which side He is on. The marvel of dear old Mrs. Chetwynd is\njust that beauty has triumphed, in spite of everything. With every kind of\ntrouble, every temptation to be dispirited and spiteful and wretched, that\nfine spirit has got through--and, by George, I envy her the awakening, when\nthat sweet old soul slips away from the cage where she is caught, and goes\nstraight to the arms of God!\"\n\nHe turned away from me as he said this, and I could see that he struggled\nwith a sob. Then he looked at me with a smile, and put his arm in mine.\n\"Old man,\" he said, \"I oughtn't to behave like this--but a day like this,\nwhen the world looks as it was meant to look, and as, please God, it\n_will_ look more and more, goes to my heart! I seem to see what God\ndesires, and what He can't bring about yet, for all His pains. And I want\nto help Him, if I can!\n\n  \"'We too! We ask no pledge of grace,\n    No rain of fire, no heaven-hung sign.\n  Thy need is written on Thy face--\n    Take Thou our help, as we take Thine!'\n\n\"That's what I mean by worship--the desire to be _used_ in the service\nof a Power that longs to make things pure and happy, with groanings that\ncannot be uttered. The worst of some kinds of worship is that they drug you\nwith a sort of lust for beauty, which makes you afraid to go back and pick\nup your spade. We mustn't swoon in happiness or delight, but if we say\n'Take me, use me, let me help!' it is different, because we want to share\nwhatever is given us, to hand it on, not to pile it up. Of course it's\nlittle enough that we can do: but think of old Mrs. Chetwynd again--what\nhas she to give? Yet it is more than Solomon in all his beauty had to\noffer. We must be simple, we mustn't be ambitious. Do you remember the old\nstatesman who, praising a disinterested man, said that he was that rare and\nsingular type of man who did public work for the sake of the public? That's\nwhat I want you to do--that is what a writer can do. He can remind the\nworld of beauty and simplicity and purity. He can be 'a messenger, an\ninterpreter, one among a thousand, _to show unto man his\nuprightness_!' That's what you have got to do, old boy! Don't show unto\nman his nastiness--don't show him up! Keep on reminding him of what he\nreally is or can be.\"\n\nHe went on after a moment. \"I ought not to talk like this,\" he said,\n\"because I have failed all along the line. 'I put in my thumb and pull out\na plum,' like Jack Homer. I try a little to hand it on, but it is awfully\nnice, you know, that plum! I don't pretend it isn't.\"\n\n\"Why, Father,\" I said, much moved at his kind sincerity, \"I don't know\nanyone in the world who eats fewer of his plums than you!\"\n\n\"Ah, that's a friendly word!\" said Father Payne. \"But you can't count the\nplum-stones on my plate.\"\n\nWe did not say much after this. We walked back in the summer twilight, and\nmy mind began to stir and soar, as indeed it often did when Father Payne\nshowed me his heart in all its strength and cleanness. No one whom I ever\nmet had his power of lighting a flame of pure desire and beautiful\nhopefulness, in the fire of which all that was base and mean seemed to\nshrivel away.\n\n\n\nXLV\n\nOF A CHANGE OF RELIGION\n\n\nI was walking one day with Father Payne; he said to me, \"I have been\nreading Newman's _Apologia_ over again--I must have read it a dozen\ntimes! It is surely one of the most beautiful and singular books in the\nwhole world?--and I think that the strangest sentence in it is this,--'Who\nwould ever dream of making the world his confidant?' Did Newman, do you\nsuppose, not realise that he had done that? And what is stranger still, did\nhe not know that he had told the world, not the trivial things, the little\ntastes and fancies which anyone might hear, but the most intimate and\nsacred things, which a man would hardly dare to say to God upon his knees.\nNewman seems to me in that book to have torn out his beating and\npalpitating heart, and set it in a crystal phial for all the world to gaze\nupon. And further, did Newman really not know that this was what he always\ndesired to do and mostly did--to confide in the world, to tell his story as\na child might tell it to a mother? It is clear to me that Newman was a man\nwho did not only desire to be loved by a few friends, but wished everybody\nto love him. I will not say that he was never happy till he had told his\ntale, and I will not say that artist-like he loved applause: but he did\n_not_ wish to be hidden, and he earnestly desired to be approved. He\ncraved to be allowed to say what he thought--it is pathetic to hear him say\nso often how 'fierce' he was--and yet he hated suspicion and hostility and\nmisunderstanding: and though he loved a refined sort of quiet, he even more\nloved, I think, to be the centre of a fuss! I feel little doubt in my own\nmind that, even when he was living most retired, he wished people to be\ncurious about what he was doing. He was one of those men who felt he had a\nspecial mission, a prophetical function. He was a dramatic creature, a\nperformer, you know. He read the lessons like an actor: he preached like an\nactor; he was intensely self-conscious. Naturally enough! If you feel like\na prophet, the one sign of failure is that your audience melts away.\"\n\nFather Payne paused a moment, lost in thought.\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"do you mean that Newman calculated all his effects?\"\n\n\"Oh, not deliberately,\" said Father Payne, \"but he was an artist pure and\nsimple--he was never less by himself than when he was alone, as the old\nProvost of Oriel said of him. He lived dramatically by a kind of instinct.\nThe unselfconscious man goes his own way, and does not bother his head\nabout other people: but Newman was not like that. When he was reading, it\nwas always like the portrait of a student reading. That's the artist's\nway--he is always living in a sort of picture-frame. Why, you can see from\nthe _Apologia_, which he wrote in a few weeks, and often, as he once\nsaid, in tears, how tenderly and eagerly he remembered all he had ever done\nor thought. His descriptions of himself are always romantic: he lived in\nmemories, like all poets.\"\n\n\"But that gives one a disagreeable sense of unreality--of pose,\" I said.\n\n\"Ah, but that's very short-sighted,\" said Father Payne. \"Newman's was a\nbeautiful spirit--wonderfully tender-hearted, self-restrained, gentle,\nsensitive, beauty-loving. He loved beauty as much as any man who ever\nlived--beautiful conduct, beautiful life--and then his gift of expression!\nThere's a marvellous thing. It's pure poetry, most of the _Apologia_:\nlook at the way he flashes into metaphor, at his exquisite pictures of\npersons, at his irony, his courtesy, his humour, his pathos. He and Ruskin\nknew exactly how to confide in the world, how to humiliate themselves\ngracefully in public, how to laugh at themselves, how to be gay--it's all\nso well-bred, so delicate! Depend upon it, that's the way to make the world\nlove you--to tell it all about yourself like a charming child, without any\nboasting or bragging. The world is awfully stupid! It adores well-bred\negotism. We are all deeply inquisitive about _people_; and if you can\nreveal yourself without vanity, and are a lovable creature, the world will\noverwhelm you with love. You can't pay the world a greater compliment than\nto open your heart to it. You must not bore it, of course, nor must you\nseem to be demanding its applause. You must just seem to be in need of\nsympathy and comfort. You must be a little sad, a little tired, a little\nbewildered. I don't say that is easy to do, and a man must not set out to\ndo it. But if a man has got something childlike and innocent about him, and\na na\u00efve way with him, the world will take him to its heart. The world loves\nto pity, to compassionate, to sympathise, much more than it loves to\nadmire.\"\n\n\"But what about the religious side of it all?\" I said.\n\n\"Ah,\" said Father Payne, \"I think that is more touching still. The people\nwho change their religion, as it is called,--there is something extremely\ncaptivating about them as a rule. To want to change your form of religion\nsimply means that you are unhappy and uneasy. You want more beauty, or more\nassurance, or more sympathy, or more antiquity. Have you never noticed how\nall converts personify their new Church in feminine terms? She becomes a\nMadonna, something at once motherly and young. It is the passion with which\nthe child turns away from what is male and rough, to the mother, the nurse,\nthe elder sister. The convert isn't really in search of dogmas and\ndoctrines: he is in love with a presence, a shape, something which can\nclasp and embrace and love him. I don't feel any real doubt of that. The\nman who turns away to some other form of faith wants a home. He sees the\nugliness, the spite, the malice, the contentiousness of his own Church. He\nloathes the hardness and uncharitableness of it; he is like a boy at school\nsick for home. To me Newman's logic is like the effort of a man desperately\nconstructing a bridge to escape to the other side of the river. The land\nbeyond is like a landscape seen from a hill, a scene of woods and waters,\nof fields and hamlets--everything seems peaceful and idyllic there. He\nwants the wings of a dove, to flee away and be at rest. It is the same\nfeeling which makes people wish to travel. When you travel, the new land is\na spectacular thing--it is all a picture. It is not that you crave to live\nin a foreign land: you merely want the luxury of seeing life without living\nlife. No ordinary person goes to live in Italy because he has studied the\npolitical constitution and organisation of Italy, and prefers it to that of\nEngland. So, too, the charm of a religious conversion is that it doesn't\nseem unpatriotic to do it--but you get the feel of a new country without\nhaving to quit your own. And the essence of it is a flight from conditions\nwhich you dread and dislike. Of course Newman does not describe it so--that\nis all a part of his guilelessness--he speaks of the shadow of a hand upon\nthe wall: but I don't doubt that his subconscious mind thrilled with the\nsense of a possible escape that way. His heart was converted long before\nhis mind. What he hated in the English Church was having to decide for\nhimself--he wanted to lean on something, to put himself inside a\nstronghold: he wanted to obey. Some people dislike the way in which he made\nhimself obey,--the way he argued himself into holding things which were\nfrankly irrational. But I don't mind that! It is the pleasure of the child\nin being told what to do instead of having to amuse itself.\"\n\nHe was silent for a little, and then he said: \"I see it all so clearly, and\nyet of course it is in a sense inconceivable to me, because to my mind all\nthe Churches have got a burden of belief which they can't carry. The Gospel\nis simple enough, and it is as much as I can do to live on those lines.\nBesides, I don't want to obey--I want to obey as little as I can! The\necclesiastical and the theological tradition is all a world of shadows to\nme. I can't be bound by the pious fancies of men who knew no science, and\nvery little about evidence of any kind. What I want is just a simple and\nbeautiful principle of living, such as I feel thrills through the words of\nChrist. The Prodigal Son--that's almost enough for me! It is simplification\nthat I want, and independence. Of course I see that if that isn't what a\nman wants, if he requires that something or someone should be infallible,\nthen he does require a good deal of argument and information and history.\nBut though I don't object to people who want all that, it isn't what I am\nin search of. I want as much strong emotion and as little system as I can\nget. By emotion I don't mean sentiment, but real motives for acting or not\nacting. I want to hear someone saying, 'Come up hither,' and to see\nsomething in his face which makes me believe he sees something that I don't\nsee and that I wish to see. I don't feel that with Newman! He is fifty\ntimes better than myself, but I couldn't do the thing in his way, though I\nlove him with all my heart: it's a quiet sort of brotherhood that I want,\nand not too many rules. In fact, it is _laws_ I want, and not\n_rules_, and to feel the laws rather than to know them, I can't help\nfeeling that Newman spent too much of his time in the law-court, pleading\nand arguing: and it's stuffy in there! But he will remain for ever one of\nthose figures whom the world will love, because it can pity him as well as\nadmire him. Newman goes to one's head, you know, or to one's heart! And I\nexpect that it was exactly what he wanted to do all the time!\"\n\n\n\nXLVI\n\nOF AFFECTION\n\n\nFather Payne, on our walks, invariably stopped and spoke to animals. I will\nnot say that animals were always fond of him, because that is a privilege\nconfined to saints, and heroes of romantic legends. But they generally\nresponded to his advances. It used to amuse me to hear the way he used to\ntalk to animals. He would stop to whistle to a caged bird: \"You like your\nlittle prison, don't you, sweet?\" he would say. Or he would apostrophise a\ncat, \"Well, Ma'am, you must find it wearing to carry on your expeditions\nall night, and to live the life of a domestic saint all day?\" I asked him\nonce why he did not keep a dog, when he was so fond of animals. \"Oh, I\ncouldn't,\" he said; \"it is so dreadful when dogs get old and ill, and when\nthey die! It's sentiment, too; and I can't afford to multiply\nemotions--there are too many as it is! Besides, there is something rather\nterrible to me about the affection of a dog--it's so unreasonable a\ndevotion, and I like more critical affections--I prefer to earn affection!\nI read somewhere the other day,\" he went on, \"that it might easily be\nargued that the dog was a higher flight of nature even than man; that man\nhas gone ahead in mind and inventiveness; but that the dog is on the whole\nthe better Christian, because he does by instinct what man fails to do by\nintention--he is so sympathetic, so unresentful, so trustful! It is really\namazing, if you come to think of it, the dog's power of attachment to\nanother species. We must seem very mysterious to dogs, and yet they never\nquestion our right to use them as we will, while nothing shakes their love.\nAnd then there is something wonderful in the way in which the dog, however\nold he is, always wants to play. Most animals part with that after their\nfirst youth; but a dog plays, partly for the fun of it, and partly to make\nsure that you like his company and are happy. And yet it is a little\nundignified to care for people like that, you know!\"\n\n\"How ought one to care for people?\" I said.\n\n\"Ah, that's a large question,\" said Father Payne, \"the duty of loving--it's\na contradiction in terms! To love people seems the one thing in the world\nyou cannot do because you ought to do it; and yet to love your neighbour as\nyourself can't _only_ mean to behave _as if_ you loved him. And\nthen, what does caring about people mean? It seems impossible to say. It\nisn't that you want anything which they can give you--it isn't that they\nneed anything you can give them; it isn't always even that you want to see\nthem. There are people for whom I care who rather bore me; there are people\nwho care for me who bore me to extinction; and again there are people whose\ncompany I like for whom I don't care. It isn't always by any means that I\nadmire the people for whom I care. I see their faults, I don't want to\nresemble them. Then, too, there have been people for whom I have cared very\nmuch, and wanted to please, who have not cared in the least for me. Some of\nthe best-loved people in the world seem to have had very little love to\ngive away! I have a sort of feeling that the people who evoke most\naffection are the people who have something of the child always in\nthem--something petulant, wilful, self-absorbed, claiming sympathy and\nattention. It is a certain innocence and freshness that we love, I think;\nthe quality that seems to say, 'Oh, do make me happy'; and I think that\ncaring for people generally means just that you would like to make them\nhappy, or that they have it in their power to make you happy. I think it is\na kind of conspiracy to be happy together, if possible. Probably the\nmistake we make is to think it is one definite thing, when a good many\nthings go to make it up. I have been interested in a very large number of\npeople--in fact, I am generally interested in people; but I haven't cared\nfor all of them, while I have cared for a good many people in whom I have\nnot been at all interested. But it is easier to say what the qualities are\nthat repel affection, than what the qualities are which attract it. I don't\nthink any faults prevent it, if people are sorry for their faults and are\nsorry to have hurt you. It seems to me impossible to care for spiteful\npeople, or for the people who turn on you in a sudden anger, and don't want\nto be forgiven, but are glad to have made you fear them. I don't care for\npeople who claim affection as a right, or who bargain for sacrifices. The\nbargaining element must be wholly absent from affection. The feeling 'it is\nyour turn to be nice' is fatal to it. No, I think that it is a feeling that\nyou can live at peace with the particular person that is the basis of\nfriendship. The element of reproach must be wholly absent: I don't mean the\nelement of criticism--that can be impersonal--but the feeling 'you ought\nnot to behave like this to me.'\"\n\nFather Payne relapsed into silence. \"But,\" I said, \"surely the people who\nmake claims for affection are very often most beloved, even when they are\nunjust, inconsiderate, ill-tempered?\"\n\n\"By women,\" said Father Payne, \"but not by men--and there's another\ndifficulty. Men and women mean such utterly different things by affection,\nthat they can't even discuss it together. Women will do anything for you,\nif you claim their help, and make it clear that you need them; they will\nlove you if you do that. A man, on the other hand, will often do his very\nbest to help you, if you appeal to him, but he won't care for you, as a\nrule, in consequence. Women like emotional surprises, men do not. A man\nwants to get done with excitement, and to enter on an easy\npartnership--women like the excitement more than the ease. And then it is\nall complicated by the admixture of the masculine and feminine\ntemperaments. As a rule, however, women are interested in moody\ntemperaments, and men are bored by them. Personally, my own pleasure in\nmeeting a real friend, or in hearing from a friend, is the pleasure of\nfeeling 'Yes, you are there, just the same,'--it's the tranquillity that\none values. The possibility of finding a man angry or pettish is unpleasant\nto me. I feel 'so all this nonsense has to be cleared away again!' I don't\nwant to be questioned and scrutinised, with a sense that I am on my trial.\nI don't mind an ironical letter, which shows that a friend is fully aware\nof my faults and foibles; but it's an end of all friendship with me if I\nfeel a man is bent on improving me, especially if it is for his own\nconvenience. I'm sure that the fault-finding element is fatal to affection.\nThat may sound weak, but I can't be made to feel that I am responsible to\nother people. I don't recognise anyone's right to censure me. A man may\ncriticise me if he likes, but he mustn't impose upon me the duty of living\nup to his ideal. I don't believe that even God does that!\"\n\n\"I don't understand,\" I said.\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Payne, \"I don't believe that God says, 'This is my law,\nand you must obey it because I choose,\" I believe He says, 'This is the\nlaw, for Me as well as for you, and you will not be happy till you obey\nit,'--Yes, I have got it, I believe--the essence of affection is\n_equality_. I don't mean that you may not recognise superiorities in\nyour friend, and he in you; but they must not come into the question of\naffection. Love makes equal, and when there is a real sense of equality,\nlove can begin.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"the passion of lovers--isn't that all based on the worship\nof something infinitely superior to oneself?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"but that means a sight of something beyond--of\nthe thing which we all love--beauty. I don't say that equality is the thing\nwe love--it's only the condition of loving. The lover can't love, if he\nfeels himself _really_ unworthy of love. He must believe that at worst\nhe _can_ be loved, though he may be astonished at being loved; it is\nin love that it is possible to meet; it is love that brings beauty within\nyour reach, or down, to your level. It is beauty that you love in your\nfriend, not his right to improve you. He is what you want to be; and the\ncomfort of being loved is the comfort of feeling that there is some touch\nof the same beauty in yourself. It is so easy to feel dreary, stupid,\ncommonplace--and then someone appears, and you see in his glance and talk\nthat there is, after all, some touch of the same thing in yourself which\nyou love in him, some touch of the beauty which you love in God. But the\nglory of beauty is that it is concerned with being beautiful and becoming\nbeautiful--not in mocking or despising or finding fault or improving. Love\nis the finding your friend beautiful in mind and heart, and the joy of\nbeing loved is the sense that you are beautiful to him--that you are equal\nin that! When you once know that, little quarrels and frictions do not\nmatter--what _does_ matter is the recognising of some ugly thing which\nthe man whom you thought was your friend really clings to and worships.\nFaults do not matter if only the friend is aware of them, and ashamed of\nthem: it is the self-conscious fault, proud of its power to wound, and\nusing affection as the channel along which the envenomed stream may flow,\nwhich destroys affection and trust.\"\n\n\"Then it comes to this,\" I said, \"that affection is a mutual recognition of\nbeauty and a sense of equality?\"\n\n\"It _is_ that, more or less, I believe,\" said Father Payne. \"I don't\nmean that friends need be aware of that--you need not philosophise about\nyour friendships--but if you ask me, as an analyst, what it all consists\nin, I believe that those are the essential elements of it--and I believe\nthat it holds good of the dog-and-man friendship as well!\"\n\n\n\nXLVII\n\nOF RESPECT OF PERSONS\n\n\nFather Payne had been out to luncheon one day with some neighbours. He had\ngroaned over the prospect the day before, and had complained that such\ngoings-on unsettled him.\n\n\"Well, Father,\" said Rose at dinner, \"so you have got through your ordeal!\nWas it very bad?\"\n\n\"Bad!\" said Father Payne, \"why should it be bad? I'm crammed with\nimpressions--I'm a perfect mine of them.\"\n\n\"But you didn't like the prospect of going?\" said Rose.\n\n\"No,\" said Father Payne, \"I shrank from the strain--you phlegmatic,\naristocratic people,--men-of-the-world, blas\u00e9s, highly-born and\nhighly-placed,--have no conception of the strain these things are on a\nchild of nature. You are used to such things, Rose, no doubt--you do not\nanticipate a luncheon-party with a mixture of curiosity and gloom. But it\nis good for me to go to such affairs--it is like a waterbreak in a\nstream--it aerates and agitates the mind. But _you_ don't realise the\namount of observation I bring to bear on such an event--the strange house,\nthe unfamiliar food, the new inscrutable people--everything has to be\nobserved, dealt with, if possible accounted for, and if unaccountable, then\ninflexibly faced and recollected. A torrent of impressions has poured in\nupon me--to say nothing of the anxious consideration beforehand of topics\nof conversation, and modes of investigation! To stay in a new house crushes\nme with fatigue--and even a little party like this, which seems, I daresay,\nto some of you, a negligible, even a tedious thing, is to me rich in\nfar-flung experience.\"\n\n\"Mayn't we have the benefit of some of it?\" said Rose.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"you may--you must, indeed! I am grateful to you\nfor introducing the subject--it is more graceful than if I had simply\ndivested myself of my impressions unsolicited.\"\n\n\"What was it all about?\" said Rose.\n\n\"Why,\" said Father Payne, \"the answer to that is simple enough--it was to\nmeet an American! I know that race! Who but an American would have heard of\nour little experiment here, and not only wanted to know--they all do\nthat--but positively arranged to know? Yes, he was a hard-featured man--a\nman of wealth, I imagine--from some place, the grotesque and extravagant\nname of which I could not even accurately retain, in the State of\nMinnesota.\"\n\n\"Did he want to try a similar experiment?\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"He did not,\" said Father Payne. \"I gathered that he had no such\nintention--but he desired to investigate ours. He was full of compliments,\nof information, even of rhetoric. I have seldom heard a simple case stated\nmore emphatically, or with such continuous emphasis. My mind simply reeled\nbefore it. He pursued me as a harpooner might pursue a whale. He had the\nwhole thing out of me in no time. He interrogated me as a corkscrew\ninterrogates a cork. That consumed the whole of luncheon. I made a poor\nshow. My experiment, such as it is, stood none of the tests he applied to\nit. It appeared to be lacking in all earnestness and zeal. I was painfully\nconscious of my lack of earnestness. 'Well, sir,' he said at the conclusion\nof my examination-in-chief, 'I seem to detect that this business of yours\nis conducted mainly with a view to your own entertainment, and I admit that\nit causes me considerable disappointment.' The fact is, my boys,\" said\nFather Payne, surveying the table, \"that we must be more conscious of\nhigher aims here, and we must put them on a more commercial footing!\"\n\n\"But that was not all?\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"No, it was not all,\" said Father Payne; \"and, to tell you the truth, I was\nmore alarmed by than interested in the Minnesota merchant. I couldn't state\nmy case--I failed in that--and I very much doubt if I could have convinced\nhim that there was anything in it. Indeed, he said that my conceptions of\nculture were not as clear-cut as he had hoped.\"\n\n\"He seems to have been fairly frank,\" said Rose.\n\n\"He was frank, but not uncivil,\" said Father Payne. \"He did not deride my\nabsence of definiteness, he only deplored it. But I really got more out of\nthe subsequent talk. We adjourned to a sort of portico, a pretty place\nlooking on to a formal garden: it was really very charmingly done--a clever\nfake of an, old garden, but with nothing really beautiful about it. It\nlooked as if no one had ever lived in it, though the illusion of age was\nskilfully contrived--old paving-stones, old bricks, old lead vases, but all\nlooking as if they were shy, and had only been just introduced to each\nother. There was no harmony of use about it. But the talk--that was the\namazing thing! Such pleasant intelligent people, nice smiling women,\ncourteous grizzled men. By Jove, there wasn't a single writer or artist or\nmusician that they didn't seem to know intimately! It was a literary party,\nI gathered: but even so there was a haze of politics and society about\nit--vistas of politicians and personages of every kind, all known\nintimately, all of them quoted, everything heard and whispered in the\nbackground of events--we had no foregrounds, I can tell you, nothing\nsecond-hand, no concealments or reticences. Everyone in the world worth\nknowing seemed to have confided their secrets to that group. It was a\nprivilege, I can tell you! We simply swam in influences and authenticities.\nI seemed to be in the innermost shrine of the world's forces--where they\nget the steam up, you know!\"\n\n\"But who are these people, after all?\" said Rose.\n\n\"My dear Rose!\" said Father Payne. \"You mustn't destroy my illusions in\nthat majestic manner! What would I not have given to be able to ask myself\nthat question! To me they were simply the innermost circle, to whom the\nwriters and artists of the day told their dreams, and from whom they sought\nencouragement and sympathy. That was enough for me. I stored my memory with\nanecdotes and noble names, like the man in _Pride and Prejudice_.\"\n\n\"But what did it all come to?\" said Rose.\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Payne, \"to tell you the truth, it didn't amount to very\nmuch! At the time I was dazzled and stupefied--but subsequent reflection\nhas convinced me that the cooking was better than the food, so to speak.\"\n\n\"You mean that it was mostly humbug?\" said Rose.\n\n\"Well, I wouldn't go quite as far as that,\" said Father Payne, \"but it was\nnot very nutritive--no, the nutriment was lacking! Come, I'll tell you\nfrankly what I did think, as I came away. I thought these pretty people\nvery adventurous, very quick, very friendly. But I don't truly think they\nwere interested in the real thing at all--only interested in the words of\nthe wise, and in the unconsidered trifles of the Major Prophets, so to\nspeak. I didn't think it exactly pretentious--but they obviously only cared\nfor people of established reputation. They didn't admire the ideas behind,\nonly the reputations of the people who said the things. They had\nundoubtedly seen and heard the great people--I confess it amazed me to\nthink how easily the men of mark can be exploited--but I did not discern\nthat they cared about the things represented,--only about the\nrepresentatives. The American was different. He, I think, cared about the\nideas, though he cared about them in the wrong way. I mean that he claimed\nto find everything distinct, whereas the big things are naturally\nindistinct. They loom up in a shadowy way, and the American was examining\nthem through field-glasses. But my other friends seemed to me to be only\ninterested in the people who had the entr\u00e9e, so to speak--the priests of\nthe shrine. They had noticed everything that doesn't matter about the high\nand holy ones--how they looked, spoke, dressed, behaved. It was awfully\nclever, some of it; one of the women imitated Legard the essayist down to\nthe ground--the way he pontificates, you know--but nothing else. They were\nsimply interested in the great men, and not interested in what make the\ngreat men different from other people, but simply in their resemblance to\nother people. Even great people have to eat, you know! Legard himself eats,\nthough it's a leisurely process; and this woman imitated the way he forked\nup a bit, held it till the bit dropped off, and put the empty fork into his\nmouth. It was excruciatingly funny--I'll admit that. But they missed the\npoint, after all. They didn't care about Legard's books a bit--they cared\nmuch more about that funny cameo ring he wears on his tie!\"\n\n\"It all seems to me horribly vulgar,\" said Kaye.\n\n\"No, it was no more vulgar than a dance of gnats,\" said Father Payne. \"They\nwere all alive, those people. They were just gnats, now I come to think of\nit! They had stung all the great men of the day--even drawn a little\nblood--and they were intoxicated by it. Mind, I don't say that it is worth\ndoing, that kind of thing! But they were having their fun--and the only\nmistake they made was in thinking they cared about these people for the\nright reasons. No, the only really rueful part of the business was the\nrevelation to me of what the great people can put up with, in the way of\nbeing f\u00eated, and the extent to which they seem able to give themselves away\nto these pretty women. It must be enervating, I think, and even exhausting,\nto be so pawed and caressed; but it's natural enough, and if it amuses\nthem, I'm not going to find fault. My only fear is that Legard and the rest\nthink they are really _living_ with these people. They are not doing\nthat; they are only being roped in for the fun of the performance. These\ncharming ladies just ensnare the big people, make them chatter, and then\nget together, as they did to-day, and compare the locks of hair they have\nsnipped from their Samsons. But it isn't a bit malicious--it's simply\nchildish; and, by Jove, I enjoyed myself tremendously. Now, don't pull a\nlong face, Kaye! Of course it was very cheap--and I don't say that anyone\nought to enjoy that sort of thing enough to pursue it. But if it comes in\nmy way, why, it is like a dish of sweetmeats! I don't approve of it, but it\nwas like a story out of Boccaccio, full of life and zest, even though the\npestilence was at work down in the city. We must not think ill of life too\neasily! I don't say that these people are living what is called the highest\nlife. But, after all, I only saw them amusing themselves. There were some\nchildren about, nice children, sensibly dressed, well-behaved, full of go,\nand yet properly drilled. These women are good wives and good mothers; and\nI expect they have both spirit and tenderness, when either is wanted. I'm\nnot going to bemoan their light-mindedness; at all events, I thought it was\nvery pleasant, and they were very good to me. They saw I wasn't a\nfirst-hander or a thoroughbred, and they made it easy for me. No, it was a\nhappy time for me--and, by George, how they fed us! I expect the women\nlooked after all that. I daresay that, as far as economics go, it was all\nwrong, and that these people are only a sort of scum on the surface of\nsociety. But it is a pretty scum, shot with bright colours. Anyhow, it is\nno good beginning by trying to alter _them_! If you could alter\neverything else, they would fall into line, because they are good-humoured\nand sensible. And as long as people are kindly and full of life, I shall\nnot complain; I would rather have that than a dreary high-mindedness.\"\n\nFather Payne rose. \"Oh, do go on, Father!\" said someone.\n\n\"No, my boy,\" said Father Payne, \"I'm boiling over with impressions--rooms,\ncarpets, china, flowers, ladies' dresses! But that must all settle down a\nbit. In a few days I'll interrogate my memory, like Wordsworth, and see if\nthere is anything of permanent worth there!\"\n\n\n\nXLVIII\n\nOF AMBIGUITY\n\n\nFather Payne had been listening to some work of mine: and he said at the\nend, \"That is graceful enough, and rather attractive--but it has a great\nfault: it is sometimes ambiguous. Several of your sentences can have more\nthan one meaning. I remember once at Oxford,\" he said, smiling, \"that\nCollins, one of our lecturers, had been going through a translation-paper\nwith me, and had told me three quite distinct ways of rendering a sentence,\neach backed by a great scholar. I asked him, I remember, whether that meant\nthat the original writer--it was Livy, I think--had been in any doubt as to\nwhat his words were meant to convey. He laughed, and said, 'No, I don't\nimagine that Livy intended to make his meaning obscure. I expect, if we\ntook the passage to him with the three renderings, he would deride at least\ntwo of them, and possibly all three, and would point out that we simply did\nnot know the usage of some word or phrase which would have been absolutely\nclear to a contemporary reader,' But Collins went on to say that there\nmight also be a real ambiguity about the passage: and then he quoted the\nsupposed remark of the bishop who declined to wear gaiters, and said, 'I\nshall wear no clothes to distinguish myself from my fellow-Christians.'\nThis was printed in his biography, 'I shall wear no clothes, to distinguish\nmyself from my fellow-Christians.' 'That sentence may be fairly called\nambiguous,' Collins said, 'when its sense so much depends upon\npunctuation.'\n\n\"Now,\" Father Payne went on, \"you must remember, in writing, that you write\nfor the eye, you don't write for the ear. A book isn't primarily meant to\nbe read aloud: and you mustn't resort to tricks of emphasis, such as\nitalics and so forth, which can only be rendered by voice-inflections. It\nis your first duty to be absolutely clear and limpid. You mustn't write\nlong involved sentences which necessitate the mind holding in solution a\nlot of qualifying clauses. You must break up your sentences, and even\nrepeat yourself rather than be confused. There is no beauty of style like\nperfect clearness, and in all writing mystification is a fault. You ought\nnever to make your reader turn back to the page before to see what you are\ndriving at.\"\n\n\"But surely,\" I said, \"there are great writers like Carlyle and George\nMeredith, for instance, who have been difficult to understand.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"but that's a fault, though it may be a\nmagnificent fault. It may mean such a pressure of ideas and images that the\nthing can hardly be written at length--and it may give you a sense of\nexuberant greatness. You may have to forgive a great writer his\nexuberance--you may even have to forgive him the trouble it costs to\npenetrate his exact thoughts, for the sake of steeping yourself in the rush\nand splendour of the style. But obscurity isn't a thing to aim at for\nanyone who is trying to write; it may be, in the case of a great writer, a\nsort of vociferousness which intoxicates you: and the man may convey a kind\nof inspiration by his very obscurities. But it must be an impulse which\nsimply overpowers him--it mustn't be an effect deliberately planned. You\nmay perhaps feel the bigness of the thought all the more in the presence of\na writer who, for all his power, can't confine the stream, and comes down\nin a cataract of words. But if you begin trying for an effect, it is like\nsplashing about in a pool to make people believe it is a rushing river. The\nmovement mustn't be your own contortions, but the speed of the stream. If\nyou want to see the bad side of obscurity, look at Browning. The idea is\noften a very simple one when you get at it; it's only obscure because it is\nconveyed by hints and jerks and nudges. In _Pickwick_, for instance,\none does not read Jingle's remarks for the underlying thought--only for the\npleasure of seeing how he leaps from stepping-stone to stepping-stone. You\nmustn't confuse the pleasure of unravelling thought with the pleasure of\nthought. If you can make yourself so attractive to your readers that they\nlove your explosions and collisions, and say with a half-compassionate\ndelight--'how characteristic--but it _is_ worth while unravelling!'\nyou have achieved a certain success. But the chance is that future ages\nwon't trouble you much. Disentangling obscurities isn't bad fun for\ncontemporaries, who know by instinct the nuances of words; but it becomes\nsimply a bore a century later, when people are not interested in old\nnuances, but simply want to know what you thought. Only scholars love\nobscurity--but then they are detectives, and not readers.\"\n\n\"But isn't it possible to be too obvious?\" I said--\"to get a namby-pamby\nway of writing--what a reviewer calls painfully kind?\"\n\n\"Well, of course, the thought must be tough,\" said Father Payne, \"but it's\nyour duty to make a tough thought digestible, not to make an easy thought\ntough. No, my boy, you may depend upon it that, if you want people to\nattend to you, you must be intelligible. Don't, for God's sake, think that\nCarlyle or Meredith or Browning _meant_ to be unintelligible, or even\nthought they were being unintelligible. They were only thinking too\nconcisely or too rapidly for the reader. But don't you try to produce that\nsort of illusion. Try to say things like Newman or Ruskin--big, beautiful,\nprofound, delicate things, with an almost childlike na\u00efvet\u00e9. That is the\nmost exquisite kind of charm, when you find that half-a-dozen of the\nsimplest words in the language have expressed a thought which holds you\nspell-bound with its truth and loveliness. That is what lasts. People want\nto be fed, not to be drugged: That, I believe, is the real difference\nbetween romance and realism, and I am one of those who gratefully believe\nthat romance has had its day. We want the romance that comes from realism,\nnot the romance which comes by neglecting it. But that's another subject.\"\n\n\n\nXLIX\n\nOF BELIEF\n\n\n\"I don't think there is a single word in the English language,\" said Father\nPayne, \"which is responsible for such unhappiness as the word 'believe.' It\nis used with a dozen shades of intensity by people; and yet it is the one\nword which is always being used in theological argument, and which, like\nthe ungodly, 'is a sword of thine.'\"\n\n\"I always mean the same thing by it, I believe!\" I said.\n\n\"Excuse me,\" said Father Payne, \"but if you will take observations of your\ntalk, you will find you do not. At any rate, _I_ do not, and I am more\ncareful about the words I use than many people. If I have a heated argument\nwith a man, and think he takes up a perverse or eccentric opinion, I am\nquite capable of saying of him, 'I believe he must be crazy.' Now such a\nsentence to a foreigner would carry the evidence of a deep and clear\nconviction; but, as I say it, it doesn't really express the faintest\nsuspicion of my opponent's sanity--it means little more than that I don't\nagree with him; and yet when I say, 'If there is one thing that I do\nbelieve, it is in the actual existence of evil,' it means a slowly\naccumulated and almost unalterable opinion. In the Creed, one uses the word\n'believe' as the nearest that conviction can come to knowledge, short of\nindisputable evidence; and some people go further still, and use it as if\nit meant an almost higher sort of knowledge. The real meaning is just what\nTennyson said,\n\n  \"'Believing where we cannot prove,'\n\nwhere it signifies a conviction which we cannot actually test, but on which\nwe are content to act.\"\n\n\"But,\" I said, \"if I say to a friend--'You are a real sceptic--you seem to\nme to believe nothing,' I mean to imply something almost cynical.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"you mean that he has no enthusiasm or ideals,\nand holds nothing sacred, because those are just the convictions which\ncannot be proved.\"\n\n\"Some people,\" I said, \"seem to me simply to mean by the word 'believe'\nthat they hold an opinion in such a way that they would be upset if it\nturned out to be untrue.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"it is the intrusion of the nasty personal\nelement which spoils the word. Belief ought to be a very impersonal thing.\nIt ought simply to mean a convergence of your own experience on a certain\nresult; but most people are quite as much annoyed at your disbelieving a\nthing which they _believe_, as at your disbelieving a thing which they\n_know_. You ought never to be annoyed at people not accepting your\nconclusions, and still less when your conclusion is partly intuition, and\ndoes not depend upon evidence. This is the sort of scale I have in my\nmind--'practically certain, probable, possible, unproved, unprovable.' Now,\nI am so far sceptical that, apart from practical certainties, which are\njust the convergence of all normal experience, the fact that any one person\nor any number of persons believed a thing would not affect my own faith in\nit, unless I felt sure that the people who believed it were fully as\nsceptical as and more clear-headed than myself, and had really gone into\nthe evidence. But even so, as I said, the things most worth believing are\nthe things that can't be proved by any evidence.\"\n\n\"What sort of things do you mean?\" I said.\n\n\"Well, a thing like the existence of God,\" said Father Payne; \"that at best\nis only a generalisation from an immense range of facts, and a special\ninterpretation of them. But the amazing thing in the world is the vast\nnumber of people who are content to believe important things on hearsay,\nbecause, on the whole, they love or trust the people who teach them. The\nword 'believing,' when I use it, doesn't mean that a good man says it, and\nthat I can't disprove it, but a sort of vital assent, so that I can act\nupon the belief almost as if I knew it. It means for me some sort of\npersonal experience, I could not love or hate a man on hearsay, just\nbecause people whom I loved or trusted said that they either loved or hated\nhim. I might be so far biassed that I should meet him expecting to find him\neither lovable or hateful, but I could not adopt a personal emotion on\nhearsay--that must be the result of a personal experience; and yet the\nadoption of a personal emotion on hearsay is just what most people seem to\nme to be able to do. I might believe that a man had done good or bad things\non hearsay: but I could have no feeling about him unless I had seen him. I\ncould not either love or hate a historical personage: the most I could do\nwould be to like or dislike all stories told about him so much that I could\nwish to have met him or not to have met him.\"\n\n\"Isn't it a question of imagination?\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"and most ordinary religious belief is simply an\nimaginative personification: but that is a childish affair, not a\nreasonable affair: and that is why most religious teachers praise what they\ncall a childlike faith, but what is really a childish faith. I don't\nhonestly think that our religious beliefs ought to be a dog-like kind of\nfidelity, unresentful, unquestioning, undignified confidence. The love of\nBill Sikes' terrier for Bill Sikes doesn't make Bill Sikes an admirable or\nlovable man: it only proves his terrier a credulous terrier. The only\nreason why we admire such a faith is because it is pleasant and convenient\nto be blindly trusted, and to feel that we can behave as badly as we like\nwithout alienating that sort of trust. I have sometimes thought that the\ndeepest anguish of God must lie in His being loved and trusted by people to\nwhom He has been unable so far to show Himself a loving and careful Father.\nI don't believe God can wish us to love Him in an unreasonable way--I mean\nby simply overlooking the bad side of things. A man, let us say, with some\nhideous inherited disease or vice ought not to love God, unless he can be\nsure that God has not made him the helpless victim of disease or vice.\"\n\n\"But may the victim not have a faith in God through and in spite of a\ndisease or a vice?\" I said.\n\n\"Yes, if he really faces the fact of the evil,\" said Father Payne; \"but he\nmust not believe in a muddled sort of way, with a sort of abject timidity,\nthat God may have brought about his weakness or his degradation. He ought\nto be quite clear that God wishes him to be free and happy and strong, and\ngrieves, like Himself, over the miserable limitation. He must have no sort\nof doubt that God wishes him to be healthy or clean-minded. Then he can\npray, he can strive for patience, he can fight his fault: he can't do it,\nif he really thinks that God allowed him to be born with this horror in his\nblood. If God could have avoided evil--I don't mean the sharp sorrows and\ntrials which have a noble thing behind them, but the ailments of body or\nsoul that simply debase and degrade--if He could have done without evil,\nbut let it creep in, then it seems to me a hopeless business, trying to\nbelieve in God's power or His goodness. I believe in the reality of evil,\nand I believe too in God with all my heart and soul. But I stand with God\nagainst evil: I don't stand facing God, and not knowing on which side He is\nfighting. Everything may not be evil which I think evil: but there are some\nsorts of evil--cruelty, selfish lust, spite, hatred, which I believe that\nGod detests as much as and far more than I detest them. That is what I mean\nby a belief, a conviction which I cannot prove, but on which I can and do\nact.\"\n\n\"But am I justified in not sharing that belief?\" I said.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne; \"if you, in the light of your experience, think\notherwise, you need not believe it--you cannot believe it! But it is the\nonly interpretation of the facts which sets me free to love God, which I do\nnot only with heart and soul, but with mind and strength. If I could\nbelieve that God had ever tampered with what I feel to be evil, ever\npermitted it to exist, ever condoned it, I could fear Him--I should fear\nHim with a ghastly fear--but I could not believe in Him, or love Him as I\ndo.\"\n\n\n\nL\n\nOF HONOUR\n\n\n\"No, I couldn't do that,\" said Lestrange to Barthrop, in one of those\nunhappy little silences which so often seemed to lie in wait for\nLestrange's most platitudinal utterances. \"It wouldn't be consistent with a\nsense of honour.\"\n\nFather Payne gave a chuckle, and Lestrange looked pained, \"Oughtn't one to\nhave a code of honour?\" he said.\n\n\"Why, certainly!\" said Father Payne, \"but you mustn't impose your code on\nother people. You mustn't take for granted that your idea of honour means\nthe same thing to everyone. Suppose you lost money at cards, and called it\na debt of honour, and thought it dishonourable not to pay it; while at the\nsame time you didn't think it dishonourable not to pay a poor tradesman\nwhose goods you had ordered and consumed, am I bound to accept your code of\nhonour?\"\n\n\"But there _is_ a difference there,\" said Rose, \"because the man to\nwhom you owe a gambling debt can't recover it by law, while a tradesman\ncan. All that a debt of honour means is that you feel bound to pay it,\nthough you are not legally compelled to do so.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"that is so, in a sense, I admit. But still, one\nmustn't shelter oneself behind big words unless one is certain that they\nmean exactly the same to one's opponent. When I was at school there was a\nmaster who used to be fond, as he said, of putting the boys on their\nhonour: but he never asked if we accepted the obligation. If I say, 'I give\nyou my honour not to do a thing,' then I can be called dishonourable if I\ndon't do it; but you can't put me on my honour unless I consent.\"\n\n\"But surely honour means something quite definite?\" said Lestrange.\n\n\"Tell me what it is, then,\" said Father Payne. \"Rose, you seem to have\nideas on the subject. What do you mean by honour?\"\n\n\"Isn't it one of the ultimate things,\" said Rose, \"which can't be defined,\nbut which everyone recognises--like blue and green, let me say, or sweet\nand bitter?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Father Payne; \"at least I don't think so. It seems to me rather\nan artificial thing, because it varies at different dates. It used, not so\nlong ago, to be considered an affair of honour to fight a duel with a man\nif he threw a glass of wine in your face. And what do you make of the old\nproverb, 'All is fair in love and war'? That seems to mean that honour is\nnot a universal obligation. Then there's the phrase, 'Honour among\nthieves,' which isn't a very exalted one; or the curious thing, schoolboy\nhonour, which dictates that a boy may know that another boy is being\ndisgracefully and cruelly bullied, and yet is prevented by his sense of\nhonour from telling a master about it. I admit that honour is a fine idea;\nbut it seems to me to cover a lot of things in human nature which are very\nbad indeed. It may mean only a sort of prudential arrangement which binds a\nset of people together for a bad purpose, because they do not choose to be\ninterfered with, and yet call the thing honour for the sake of the\nassociations.\"\n\n\"Yes, I don't think it is necessarily a moral thing,\" said Rose, \"but that\ndoesn't seem to me to matter. It is simply an obligation, pledged or\nimplied, that you will act in a certain way. It may conflict with a moral\nobligation, and then you have to decide which is the greater obligation.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is perfectly true,\" said Father Payne, \"and as long as you admit\nthat honour isn't in itself bound to be a good thing, that is all I want.\nLestrange seemed to use it as if you had only got to say that a motive was\nhonourable, to have it recognised by everyone as right. Take the case of\nwhat are called 'national obligations.' A certain party in the State,\nhaving secured a majority of votes, enters into some arrangement--a treaty,\nlet us say--without consulting the nation. Is that held to be for ever\nbinding on a nation till it is formally repealed? Is it dishonourable for a\ncitizen belonging, let us say, to the minority which is not represented by\nthe particular Government which makes the treaty, to repudiate it?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think it may be fairly called dishonourable,\" said Rose; \"there is\nan obligation on a citizen to back up his Government.\"\n\n\"Then I should feel that honour is a very complicated thing,\" said Father\nPayne. \"If a citizen thinks a treaty dishonourable, and if it is also\ndishonourable for him to repudiate it, it seems to me he is dishonourable\nwhatever he does. He is obliged to consent for the sake of honour to a\ndishonourable thing being done. It seems to me perilously like a director\nof a firm having to condone fraudulent practices, because it is\ndishonourable to give his fellow-directors away. It is this conflict\nbetween individual honour and public honour which puzzles me, and which\nmakes me feel that honour isn't a simple thing at all. A high conception of\nprivate honour seems to me a very fine thing indeed. I mean by it a\nprofound hatred of anything false or cowardly or perfidious, and a loathing\nof anything insincere or treacherous. That sort of proud and stainless\nchivalry seems to me to be about the brightest thing we can discern, and\nthe furthest beauty we can recognise. But honour seems also, according to\nyou, to be a principle to which you can be committed by a majority of\nvotes, whether you approve of it or not; and then it seems to me a merely\ndetestable thing, if you can be bound by honour to acquiesce in something\nwhich you honestly believe to be base. It seems to me a case of what\nTennyson describes:\n\n  \"'His honour rooted in dishonour stood,\n  And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.'\"\n\n\"But surely social obligations must often conflict with private beliefs,\"\nsaid Rose. \"A nation or a society has got to act collectively, and a\nminority must be over-ridden.\"\n\n\"I quite agree,\" said Father Payne, \"but why mix up honour with it at all?\nI don't object to a man who conscientiously dissents to some national move\nbeing told that he must lump it. But if he is called dishonourable for\ndissenting, then honour does not seem to me to be a real word at all, but\nonly a term of abuse for a man who objects to some concerted plan. You\ncan't make a dishonest thing honest because a majority choose to do it--at\nleast I do not believe that morality is purely a matter of majorities, or\nthat the dishonour of one century can become the honour of the next. I am\ninclined to believe just the opposite. I believe that the man who has so\nsensitive a conscience about what is honourable or not, that he is called a\nQuixotic fool by his contemporaries, is far more likely to be right than\nthe coarser majority who only see that a certain course is expedient. I\nshould believe that he saw some truth of morality clearly which the rougher\nsort of minds did not see. The saint--call him what you like--is only the\nman who stands higher up, and sees the sunrise before the people who stand\nlower down.\"\n\n\"But everyone has a right to his own sense of honour,\" said Rose.\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Father Payne, \"but you must be certain that a man's sense\nof honour is lower than your own before you call him dishonourable for\ndiffering from you. If a man is less scrupulous than myself, I may think\nhim dishonourable, if I also think that he knows better. But what I do not\nthink that any of us has a right to do is to call a man dishonourable if he\nhas more scruples than oneself. He may be over-scrupulous, but the chances\nare that any man who sacrifices his convenience to a scruple has a higher\nsense of honour than the man who throws over a scruple for the sake of his\nconvenience. That is why I think honour is a dangerous word to play with,\nbecause it is so often used to frighten people who don't fall in with what\nis for the convenience of a gang.\"\n\n\"But surely,\" said Rose, \"morality is after all only a word for what\nsociety agrees to consider moral.\"\n\n\"Yes, in a sense that is so,\" said Father Payne; \"it is only a word to\nexpress a phenomenon. But I believe that morality is a real thing, for all\nthat; and that our conceptions of it get clearer, as the world goes on. It\nis something outside of us--a law of nature if you like--which we are\nlearning; not merely a thing which we invent for our convenience.\nBut that is too big a business to go into now.\"\n\n\n\nLI\n\nOF WORK\n\n\nI cannot remember now what public man it was who had died of a breakdown\nfrom overwork, but I heard Father Payne say, after dinner, referring to the\nevent, \"I wish it to be clearly understood that I think a man who dies of\ndeliberate or reckless overwork is a victim of self-indulgence. It is\nnothing more or less than giving way to a passion. I am as sure as I can be\nof anything,\" he went on, \"that a thousand years hence that will be\nrecognised by human beings, and that they will feel it to be as shameful\nfor a man to die of spontaneous overwork as for him to die of drink or\ngluttony or any other vice. I don't of course mean,\" he added, \"the cases\nof men who have had some definite and critical job to carry through, and\nhave decided that the risk is worth running. A man has always the right to\nrisk his life for a definite aim--but I mean the men--you can see it in\nbiographies, and the worst of it is that they are often the biographies of\nclergymen--who, in spite of physical warnings, and entreaties from their\nfriends, and definite statements by their doctors that they are shortening\ntheir lives by labour, still cannot stop, or, if they stop, begin again too\nsoon. No man has any right to think his work so important as that--to take\nunimportant things too seriously is the worst sort of frivolity.\"\n\n\"But isn't it the finer kind of people,\" said Kaye, \"who make the mistake?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" said Father Payne, \"but so, too, if you look into it, you\nwill too often find that it is the finer kinds of imaginative people who\ntake to drink and drugs. I remember,\" he added, \"once going to see a poor\nfriend of mine in an asylum, and the old doctor at the head of it said, 'It\nisn't the stupid people who come here, Mr. Payne; it is the clever\npeople!'\"\n\n\"But does not your principle about the right to risk one's life hold good\nhere too?\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"No, I think not,\" said Father Payne. \"A man may choose to try a dangerous\nthing, climb a mountain, explore a perilous country, go up in a balloon,\nwhere an element of risk is inseparable from the experiment; but ordinary\nwork isn't risky in itself. Why,\" he added, \"I was reading a book the other\nday, the life of Fitzherbert, you know, who was a man of prodigious\nlaboriousness, who died early, worn out. He had an impossible standard of\nperfection. If he had to write an article, he read all the literature on\nthe subject over and over; he wrote and re-wrote his stuff. There was a\ncase quoted in the book, as if it were to Fitzherbert's credit, when he had\nto send in an article by a certain date--just a _Quarterly_ article.\nIt had to go in on the Friday. He had finished it on the Monday before,\nwhen his mind misgave him. He destroyed the article, began again, sate up\nall Monday night and all Wednesday night, and wrote the whole thing afresh.\nHe was laid up for a month after it. That is simply the act of an\nunbalanced mind.\"\n\n\"I can't help feeling that there is something fine about it,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"There is always something fine about unreasonable things,\" said Father\nPayne, \"or in a man making a sacrifice for an idea. But there is an entire\nlack of proportion about this performance; and if Fitzherbert thought his\nwork so valuable as that, then he ought to have reflected that he was\nsimply limiting his future output by this reckless expenditure of force.\nBut the whole case was a sad one--Fitzherbert worked in a ghastly way as a\nboy and as a young man. He had a very broad outlook, he was interested in\neverything; and when he was at Oxford, he told a friend that he was\ndiscovering a hundred subjects on which he hoped to have a say. Well, then,\nthe middle part of his life was spent in preparing himself, under the same\nsort of pressure, to entitle himself to have his say: and then came his\nfirst bad break-down--and the end of his life, which was a wretched period,\nwas spent in finding elaborate reasons why he should not commit himself to\nany opinion whatever. If he was asked his opinion, he always said he had\nnot studied the subject adequately. That seems to me the life of a man\nsuffering from a sort of nightmare. Things are not so deep as all that--at\nleast, if no one is to give an opinion on any point until he has mastered\nthe whole sum of human opinion on the point, then we shall never make any\nprogress at all. I remember Fitzherbert's strong condemnation of Ruskin,\nfor giving his opinion cursorily on all subjects of importance. Yet Ruskin\ndid a greater work than Fitzherbert, because he at least made people think,\nwhile Fitzherbert only prevented them from daring to think. I don't mean\nthat people ought to feel competent to express an opinion on\neverything--yet even that habit cures itself, because, if you do it, no one\npays any attention. But if a man has gone into a subject with decent care,\nor if he has reflected upon problems of which the data are fairly well\nknown, I think there is every reason why he should give an opinion. It is\nvery easy to be too conscientious. There are plenty of fine hints of\nopinions in Fitzherbert's letters. You could make a very good book of\n_Pens\u00e9es_ out of them--he had a clear, forcible, and original mind;\nbut he did not dare to say what he thought; and you may remember that if he\nwas ever sharply criticised, he felt it deeply, as a sort of imputation of\ndishonesty. A man must not go down before criticism like that.\"\n\n\"But everyone must do their work in their own way?\" said I.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"but Fitzherbert ended by doing nothing--he only\nsnubbed and silenced his own fine mind, by giving way to this unholy\npassion for examining things. No, I want you fellows to have common-sense\nabout these matters. There is a great deal too much sanctity attached to\nprint. The written word--there's a dark superstition about it! A man has as\nmuch right to write as he has to talk. He may say to the world, to his\nunseen and unknown friends in it, whatever he may say to his intimates. You\nshould write just as you could talk to any gentleman, with the same\ncourtesy and frankness. Of course you must run the risk of your book\nfalling into the hands of ill-bred people--that can't be helped--and of\ncourse you must not pretend that your book is the result of deep and\ncopious labour, if it is nothing of the kind. But heart-breaking toil is\nnot the only qualification for speaking. There are plenty of complicated\nlittle topics--all the problems which arise from the combination of\nindividuals into societies--which people ought to think about, and which\nare really everyone's concern. The interplay, I mean, of human\nrelations--the moral, religious, social, intellectual ideas--which have all\ngot to be co-ordinated. A man does not need immense knowledge for that; in\nfact if he studies the history of such things too deeply, he is often apt\nto forget that old interpreters of such things had not got all the present\ndata. There is an immense future before writers who will interest people in\nand familiarise them with ideas. Some people get absorbed in life in the\nwrong way, just bent on acquisition and comfort--some people, again, live\nas if they were staying in somebody else's house--but what you want to\ninduce men and women to do is to realise the sort of thing that life really\nis, and to attempt to put it in some kind of proportion. The mischief done\nby men like Fitzherbert, who was fond of snapping at people who produced\nideas for inspection, is that ordinary people get to confuse wisdom with\nknowledge; and that won't do! And so the man who sets to work like\nFitzherbert loses his alertness and his observation, with the result that\ninstead of bringing a very fresh and incisive mind to bear on life, he\nloses his way in books, and falls a victim to the awful passion for feeling\nable to despise other people's opinions.\"\n\n\"But isn't it possible,\" said Vincent, \"for a man to get the best out of\nlife for himself by a sort of passion for exact knowledge--like the man in\nthe Grammarian's funeral, I mean?\"\n\n\"Personally,\" said Father Payne, \"I always think that Browning did a lot of\nharm by that poem. He was glorifying a real vice, I think. If the\nGrammarian had said to himself, 'There is all this nasty work to be done by\nsomeone; I can do it, and I can save other people having to waste their\ntime over it, by doing it once and for all,' it would have been different.\nBut I think he was partly indulging a poor sort of vanity by just\ndetermining to know what no other man knew. The point of work is twofold.\nIt is partly good for the worker, to tranquillise his life and to reduce it\nto a certain order and discipline; but you mustn't do it only for the sake\nof your own tranquillity, any more than the artist must work for the sake\nof luxuriating in his own emotions. You must have something to give away:\nyou must have some idea of combination, of helping other people to find\neach other and to understand each other. It is vicious to isolate yourself\nfor your own satisfaction. Fitzherbert and the Grammarian were really\nmisers. They just accumulated, and enjoyed the pleasure of having their own\nminds clear. That doesn't seem to me in itself to be a fine thing at all.\nIt is simply the oldest of temptations, 'Ye shall be as gods, knowing good\nand evil.' That is the danger of the critical mind, that it says, 'I will\nknow within myself what is good,' The only excuse for the critical mind is\nto help people not to be taken in by what is bad. It is better to be like\nPlato and Ruskin, to make mistakes, to have prejudices, to be unfair, even\nto be silly, because at least you encourage people to think that life is\ninteresting--and that is about as much as any of us can do.\"\n\n\n\nLII\n\nOF COMPANIONSHIP\n\n\n\"Isn't it rather odd,\" said someone to Father Payne after dinner, \"that\ngreat men have as a rule rather preferred the company of their inferiors to\nthe company of their equals?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Father Payne; \"I think it's rather natural! By Jove, I\nknow that a very little of the society of a really superior person goes a\nvery long way with me. No, I think it is what one would expect. When the\ngreat man is at work, he is on the strain and doing the lofty business for\nall he is worth; when he is at leisure, he doesn't want any more strain--he\nhas done his full share.\"\n\n\"But take the big groups,\" said someone, \"like the Wordsworth set, or the\npre-Raphaelite set--or take any of the great biographies--the big men of\nany time seem always to have been mutual friends and correspondents. You\nhave letters to and from Ruskin from and to all the great men of his day.\"\n\n\"Letters, yes!\" said Father Payne; \"of course the great men know each\nother, and respect each other; but they don't tend to coagulate. They\nrelish an occasional meeting and an occasional letter, and they say how\ndeeply they regret not seeing more of each other--but they tend to seek the\nrepose of their own less exalted circle. The man who has fine ideas prefers\nhis own disciples to the men who have got a different set of fine ideas.\nThat is natural enough! You want to impart the ideas you believe in--you\ndon't want to argue about them, or to have them knocked out of your hand.\nDepend upon it, the society of an intelligent person, who can understand\nyou enough to stimulate you, and who is grateful for your talk, is much\npleasanter, and indeed more fruitful, than the society of a man who is\nfully as intelligent as yourself, and thinks some of your conclusions to be\nrot!\"\n\n\"But doesn't all that encourage people to be prophets?\" Vincent said. \"One\nof the depressing things about great men is that they grow to consider\nthemselves a sort of special providence--the originators of great ideas\nrather than the interpreters.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"of course the little coteries and courts of\ngreat men are rather repulsive. But the best people don't do that. They\nlive contentedly in a circle which combines with its admiration for the\nhero a comfortable feeling that, if other people knew what they know, they\nwouldn't feel genius to be quite so extraordinary as is commonly believed.\nAnd we must remember, too, that most great men seem greater afterwards than\nthey did at the time. More of a treat and a privilege, I mean.\"\n\n\"Do you think one ought to try to catch a sight of great men who are\ncontemporaries?\" said I.\n\n\"Yes, a sight, I think,\" said Father Payne. \"It's a pleasant thing to\nrealise how your big man sits and looks and talks, what his house is like,\nand so forth. I have often rather regretted I haven't had the curiosity to\nget a sight of the giants. It helps you to understand them. I remember a\npleasant old gentleman, Vinter by name, who lived in London. Vinter the\nnovelist was his son. When young Vinter became famous for a bit, and people\nwanted to know him, old Vinter made a glorious rule. He told his son that\nhe might invite any well-known person he liked to the house, to luncheon or\ndinner--but that unless he made a special exception in any one's favour,\nthey were not to be invited again. There's a fine old Epicurean! He liked\nto realise what the bosses looked like, but he wasn't going to be bothered\nby having to talk respectfully to them time after time.\"\n\n\"But that's rather tame,\" said Vincent. \"The point surely would be to get\nto know a big man well.\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" said Father Payne, \"but Vinter was a wise _old_ man; now I\nshould say to any _young_ man who had a chance of really having a\nfriendship with a great man, 'Of course, take it and thank your stars!' But\nI shouldn't advise any young man to make a collection of celebrities, or to\ngo about hunting them. In fact I think for an original young man, it is apt\nto be rather dangerous to have a real friendship with a great man. There's\na danger of being diverted from your own line, and of being drawn into\nimitative worship. A very moderate use of great men in person should\nsuffice anyone. Your real friends ought to be people with whom you are\nentirely at ease, not people whom you reverence and defer to. It's better\nto learn to bark than to wag your tail. I don't think the big men\nthemselves often begin by being disciples.\"\n\n\"Then who _is_ worth seeing?\" said Vincent. \"There must be somebody!\"\n\n\"Why, to be frank,\" said Father Payne, \"agreeable men like me, who haven't\ngot too much authority, and are not surrounded by glory and worship! I'm\ninterested in most things, and have learnt more or less how to talk--you\nlook out for ingenious and kindly elderly men, who haven't been too\nsuccessful, and haven't frozen into Tories, and yet have had some\nexperience;--men of humour and liveliness, who have a rather more extended\nhorizon than yourself, and who will listen to what you say instead of\nshutting you up, and saying 'Very likely' as Newman did--after which you\nwere expected to go into a corner and think over your sins! Or clever,\nsympathetic, interesting women--not too young. Those are the people whom it\nis worth taking a little trouble to see.\"\n\n\"But what about the young people!\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Oh, that will look after itself,\" said Father Payne. \"There's no\ndifficulty about that! You asked me whom it was worth while taking some\ntrouble to see, and I prescribe a very occasional great man, and a good\nmany well-bred, cultivated, experienced, civil men and women. It isn't very\neasy to find, that sort of society, for a young man; but it is worth trying\nfor.\"\n\n\"But do you mean that you should pursue good talk?\" said Vincent.\n\n\"A little, I think,\" said Father Payne; \"there's a good deal of art in\nit--unconscious art in England, probably--but much of our life is spent in\ntalking, and there's no reason why we shouldn't learn how to get the best\nand the most out of talk--how to start a subject, and when to drop it--how\nto say the sort of things which make other people want to join in, and so\non. Of course you can't learn to talk unless you have a lot to say, but you\ncan learn _how_ to do it, and better still how _not_ to do it. I\nused to feel in the old days, when I met a clever man--it was rare enough,\nalas!--how much more I could have got out of him if I had known how to do\nthe trick. It's a great pleasure, good talk; and the fact that it is so\ntiring shows what a real pleasure it must be. But a man with whom you can\nonly talk _hard_ isn't a companion--he's an adversary in a game. There\nhave been times in my life when I have had a real tough talker staying here\nwith me, when I have suffered from crushing intellectual fatigue, and felt\ninclined to say, like Elijah, 'Take away my life, for I am not better than\nmy fathers.' That is the strange thing to me about most human beings--the\nextent to which they seem able to talk without being tired. I agree with\nWalter Scott, when he said, 'If the question was eternal company without\nthe power of retiring within myself, or solitary confinement for life, I\nshould say, \"Turnkey, lock the cell!\"' Companionship doesn't seem to me the\nnormal thing. Solitude is the normal thing, with a few bits of talk thrown\nin, like meals, for refreshment. But you can't lay down rules for people\nabout it. Some people are simply gregarious, and twitter together like\nstarlings in a shrubbery: that isn't talk--it's only a series of signals\nand exclamations. The danger of solitude is that the machinery runs just as\nyou wish it to run--and that wears it out.\"\n\n\"But isn't your whole idea of talk rather strenuous--a little artificial?\"\nsaid Vincent.\n\n\"Not more so than fixed meals,\" said Father Payne, \"or regular exercise.\nBut, of course silent companionship is the greatest boon of all. I have a\nbelief that even in silent companionship there is a real intermingling of\nvital and mental currents, and that one is much pervaded and affected by\nthe people one lives with, even if one does not talk to them. The very\nsight of some people is as bad as an argument! The ideal thing, of course,\nis to have a few intimate friends and some comfortable acquaintances. But I\nam rather a fatalist about friendship, and I think that most of us get\nabout as much as we deserve. Anyhow, it's all worth taking some trouble\nabout; and most people make the mistake of not taking any trouble or\nputting themselves about; and that's not the way to behave!\"\n\n\n\nLIII\n\nOF MONEY\n\n\nI suppose I had said something high-minded, showing a supposed contempt of\nmoney, for Father Payne looked at me in silence.\n\n\"You mustn't say such things,\" said he, at last. \"I'll tell you why! What\nyou said was perfectly genuine, and I have no doubt you feel it--but, if\nI may say so, it's like talking about a place where you have never been, as\nif you had visited it, when you have only read about it in the guide-book.\nI don't mean that you wish to deceive for an instant--but you simply don't\nknow! That's the tragic thing about money--that it is both so important and\nso unimportant. If you have enough money, you need never give it a thought;\nif you haven't, it's the devil! It's like health--no one who hasn't been on\nthe wrong side of the dividing line knows what a horrible place the wrong\nside is. Those two things--I daresay there are others--poverty and\nill-health--put a man on the rack. The healthy man, and the man with a\nsufficient income, are apt to think that the poor man and the ill man make\na great fuss about very little. I don't know about ill-health, but by\nGeorge, I know all about poverty--and I'll tell you once for all. For\ntwenty years I was poor, and this is what that means. To be tied hand and\nfoot to a piece of hideous drudgery--morning by morning, month by month,\nand with the consciousness too that, if health fails you, or if you lose\nyour work, you will either starve or have to sponge on your friends--never\nto be able to do what you like or go where you like--to know that the world\nis full of beautiful places, delightful people, interesting ideas, books,\ntalk, art, music--to sicken for all these things, and not even to have the\ntime or energy to get hold of such scraps of them as can be found cheap in\nLondon--to feel time slipping away, and all your instincts for beautiful\nthings unused and unsated--to live a solitary, grubby, nasty life--never\nable to entertain a friend, or to go a trip with a friend, or to do a\nkindness, or to help anyone generously--and yet to feel that with an income\nwhich many people would regard as ridiculously inadequate, you could do\nmost of these things--the slavery, the bondage, the dreariness of it!\" He\nbroke off, much moved.\n\n\"But,\" said I, \"don't many quite poor people live happily and contentedly\nand kindly with minute incomes?\"\n\n\"Why, yes,\" said Father Payne, \"of course they do!--and I'm willing enough\nto admit that I ought to have done better than I did. But then I had been\nbrought up differently, and by the time I had done with Oxford, I had all\nthe tastes and instincts of the well-to-do man. That was the mischief, that\nI had tasted freedom. Of course, if I had been cast in a stronger and\nnobler mould, it would have been different--but all my senses had been\nacutely developed, my faculties of interest and enjoyment and\nappreciation--not gross things, mind you, nor feelings that _ought_ to\nbe starved, but just the wholesome delights of the well-educated man. I did\nnot want to be extravagant, and I knew too that there were millions of\npeople in the same case as myself. There was every reason why I should\nbehave decently about it! If I had been really interested in my work, I\ncould have done better--but I did not believe in the value of my work--I\ntaught men, not to educate them, but that they might pass an examination\nand never look at the beastly stuff again. Whenever I reached the point at\nwhich I became interested, I had to hold my hand. And then, too, the work\ntired me without exercising my mind. There were the vacations, of\ncourse--but I couldn't afford to leave London--I simply lived in hell. I\ndon't say that I didn't get some discipline out of it--and my escape gave\nme a stock of gratitude and delight that has been simply inexhaustible. The\nmisery of it for me was that I had to live an unreal life. If I had been\npoor, and had had my leisure, and had worked at things I cared about, with\na set, let us say, of young artists, all working too at things which they\ncared about, it would have been different--but I hadn't the energy left to\nmake friends, or the time to find any congenial people. I can't describe\nwhat a nightmare it all was--so that when I hear you speaking as if money\ndidn't really matter, I simply feel that you don't know what a tragedy it\ncan be, or what your own income saves you from. You and I have the\nEpicurean temperament, my boy; it's no good pretending we haven't--things\nappeal to our mind and senses in a way they don't appeal to everyone. So I\ndon't think that people ought to talk lightly about money, unless they have\nknown poverty and _not_ suffered under it. I used to ask myself in\nthose days if it was possible to suffer more, when every avenue reaching\naway out of my life to the things I loved and cared for seemed to be closed\nto me by an impassable barrier.\"\n\n\"But one can practise oneself in doing without things?\" I said.\n\n\"With about as much success,\" said Father Payne, \"as you can practise doing\nwithout food.\"\n\n\"But isn't it partly that people are unduly reticent about money?\" I said.\n\"If people could only say frankly what they can and what they can't afford,\nit would simplify things very much.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Father Payne. \"Money is one of those curious\nthings--uninteresting if you have enough, tragic if you haven't. I don't\nthink talking about money is vulgar--I think it is simply dull: to discuss\npoverty is like discussing a disease--to discuss wealth is like talking\nabout food or wine. The poverty that simply humiliates and pinches can't be\njoked about--it's far too serious for that! Of course, there are men who\ndon't really feel the call of life. Look at our friend Kaye! If Kaye had to\nlive in London lodgings, he wouldn't mind a bit, if he could get to the\nMuseum Reading-Room--he only wants books and his own work--he doesn't want\ncompany or music or art or talk or friends. He is wholly indifferent to\nnasty food or squalor. Poverty is not a real evil to him. If he had money\nhe wouldn't know how to spend it. I read a book the other day about a\npriest who lived a very devoted life in the slums--he had two rooms in a\nclergy-house--and there was a chapter in praise of the way in which he\nendured his poverty. But it was all wrong! What that man really enjoyed was\npreaching and ceremonial and company--he had a real love of human beings.\nWell, that man's life was crammed with joy--he got exactly what he wanted\nall day long. It wasn't a self-sacrificing life--it would have been to you\nand me--but he no doubt woke day after day, with a prospect of having his\nwhole time taken up with things he thoroughly enjoyed.\"\n\n\"But what about the people,\" I said, \"who really enjoy just the sense of\npower which money gives them, without using it--or the people whose only\npurpose in using it is the pleasure of being known to have it?\"\n\n\"Oh, of course, they are simply barbarians,\" said Father Payne, \"and it\ndoesn't do _them_ any harm to be poor. No, the tragedy lies in the\ncase of a man with really expansive, generous, civilised instincts, to whom\nthe world is full of wholesome and urgent delights, and whose life is\nsimply starved out of him by poverty. I have a great mind to send you to\nLondon for a couple of months, to live on a pound a week, and see what you\nmake of it.\"\n\n\"I'll go if you wish it,\" I said.\n\n\"It might bring things home to you,\" said Father Payne, smiling, \"but again\nit probably would not, because it would only be a game--the real pinch\nwould not come. Most people would rather enjoy migrating to hell from\nheaven for a month--it would just give them a sharper relish for heaven.\"\n\n\"But do you really think your poverty hurt you?\" I said.\n\n\"I have no doubt it did,\" said Father Payne. \"Of course I was rescued in\ntime, before the bitterness really sank down into my soul. But I think it\nprevented my ever being more than a looker-on. I believe I could have done\nsome work worth doing, if I could have tried a few experiments. I don't\nknow! Perhaps I am ungrateful after all. My poverty certainly gave me a\nwish to help things along, and I doubt if I should have learnt that\notherwise. And I think, too, it taught me not to waste compassion on the\nwrong things. The people to be pitied are simply the people whose minds and\nsouls are pinched and starved--the over-sensitive, responsive people, who\nfeel hunted and punished without knowing why. It's temperament always, and\nnot circumstance, which is the happy or the unhappy thing. I felt, when you\nsaid what you did about poverty, that you neither knew how harmless it\ncould be, or how infinitely noxious it might be. I don't take a high-minded\nview of money myself. I don't tell people to despise it. I always tell the\nfellows here to realise what they can endure and what they can't. The first\nrequisite for a sensible man is to find work which he enjoys, and the next\nrequisite is for him to earn as much as he really needs--that is to say\nwithout having to think daily and hourly about money. I don't over-estimate\nwhat money can do, but it is foolish to under-estimate what the want of it\ncan do. I have seen more fine natures go to pieces under the stress of\npoverty than under any other stress that I know. Money is perfectly\npowerless as a shield against many troubles--and on the other hand it can\nsave a man from innumerable little wretchednesses and horrors which destroy\nthe beauty and dignity of life. I don't believe mechanically in humiliation\nand renunciation and ignominy and contempt, as purifying influences. It all\ndepends upon whether they are gallantly and adventurously and humorously\nborne. They often make some people only sore and diffident, and I don't\nbelieve in learning to hate life. Not to learn your own limitations is\nchildish: and one of the insolences which is most heavily punished is that\nof making a sacrifice without knowing if you can endure the consequences of\nit. The people who begin by despising money as vulgar are generally the\npeople who end by making a mess which other people have to sweep up. So\ndon't be either silly or prudent about money, my boy! Just realise that\nyour first duty is not to be a burden on yourself or on other people. Find\nout your minimum, and secure it if you can; and then don't give the matter\nanother thought. If it is any comfort to you, reflect that the best authors\nand artists have almost invariably been good men of business, and don't\ncourt squalor of any kind unless you really enjoy it.\"\n\n\n\nLIV\n\nOF PEACEABLENESS\n\n\nFather Payne, talking one evening, made a statement which involved an\nassumption that the world was progressing. Rose attacked him on this point.\n\"Isn't that just one of the large generalisations,\" he said, \"which you are\nalways telling us to beware of?\"\n\n\"It isn't an assumption,\" said Father Payne, \"but a conviction of mine,\nbased upon a good deal of second-hand evidence. I don't think it can be\ndoubted. I can't array all my reasons now, or we should sit here all\nnight--but I will tell you one main reason, and that is the immensely\nincreased peaceableness of the world. Fighting has gone out in schools, and\nnone but decayed clubmen dare to deplore it: corporal punishment has\ndiminished, and isn't needed, because children don't do savage things;\nbullying is extinct in decent schools; crimes of violence are much more\nrare; duelling is no longer a part of social life, except for an occasional\nfarcical performance between literary men or politicians in France--I saw\nan account of one in the papers the other day. It was raining, and one of\nthe combatants would not furl his umbrella: his seconds said that it made\nhim a bigger target. \"I may be shot,\" he said, \"but that is no reason why I\nshould get wet!\" Then there is the mediaeval nonsense among students in\nGermany, where they fence like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Generally\nspeaking, however, the belief that a blow is an argument has gone out. Then\nwar has become more rare, and is more reluctantly engaged in. I suppose\nthat till the date of Waterloo there was hardly a year in history when some\nfighting was not going on. No, I think it is impossible not to believe that\nthe impulse to kick and scratch and bite is really on the decline.\"\n\n\"But need that be a proof of progress?\" said Rose. \"May it not only mean a\ndecrease of personal courage, and a greater sensitiveness to pain?\"\n\n\"I think not,\" said Father Payne, \"because when there _is_ fighting to\nbe done, it is done just as courageously--indeed I think _more_\ncourageously than used to be the case. No, I think it is the training of an\ninstinct--the instinct of self-restraint. I believe that people have more\nimagination and more sympathy than they used to have; there is more\ntolerance of adverse opinion, a greater sense of liberty in the air:\nopponents have more respect for each other, and do not attribute bad\nmotives so easily. Why, consider how much milder even the newspapers are.\nIf one reads old reviews, old books of political controversy, old\npamphlets--how much more blackguarding and calling names one sees.\nAnonymous journalists, anonymous reviewers, are now the only people who\nkeep up the tradition of public bad manners--all signed articles and\ncriticisms are infinitely politer than they used to be.\"\n\n\"But,\" persisted Rose, \"isn't that simply a possible proof of the general\ndeclension of force?\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said Father Payne, \"it only means more equilibrium. You\nmust remember that equilibrium means a balance of forces, not a mere\ndiminution of them. There is more force present in a banked-up reservoir\nthan in a rushing stream. The rushing stream merely means a force making\nitself felt without a counterbalancing force--but that isn't nearly as\nstrong as the pressure in a reservoir exerted by the water which is trying\nto get out, and the resistance of the dam which is trying to keep it in.\nYou must not be taken in by apparent placidity: it often means two forces\nat work instead of one. Peace, as opposed to war, is a tremendous\ncounterpoising of forces, and it simply means an organised resistance. In\nold days, there was no cohesion of the forces which desire peace, and\nviolence was unresisted. There can be no doubt, I think, that in a\ncivilised country there are many more forces at work than in a combative\ncountry. I do not suppose that we can either of us prove whether the forces\nat work in the world have increased or diminished. Let us grant that the\namount is constant. If so, a great deal of the force that was combative has\nnow been transformed to the force which resists combat. But I imagine that\non the whole most people would grant that human energies have increased: if\nthat is so, certainly the combative element has not increased in\nproportion, while the peaceful element has increased out of all\nproportion.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Vincent, \"you often talk in the most bellicose way, Father. You\nsay that we ought all to be fighting on the side of good.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"on the side of resistance to evil, I admit; but\nyou can fight without banging and smashing things, as the dam fights the\nreservoir by silent cohesion. There is a temptation, from which some people\nsuffer, to think that one can't be fighting for God at all, unless one is\ndoing it furiously, and all the time, and successfully, and on a large and\nimpressive scale. That is a fatal blunder. To hide your adversary's sword\nis often a very good way of fighting. To have an open tussle often makes\nthe bystanders sympathise with the assailant. It is really a far more\ncivilised thing, and often stands for a higher degree of force and honour,\nto be able to bear contradiction not ignobly. Direct conflict is a mistake,\nas a rule--blaming, fault-finding, censuring, snapping, punishing. The\npoint is to put all your energy into your own life and work, and make it\noutweigh the energy of the combative critic. Do not fight by destroying\nfaulty opinion, but by creating better opinion. You fight darkness by\nlighting a candle, not by waving a fan to clear it away. Look at one of the\nthings we have been talking about--bullying in schools. That has not been\nconquered by expelling or whipping boys, or preaching about it--it has been\nabolished by kindlier and gentler family life, by humaner school-masters\nliving with and among their boys, till the happiness of more peaceful\nrelations all round has been instinctively perceived.\"\n\n\"But isn't it right to show up mean and dishonest people, to turn the light\nof publicity upon cruel and detestable things?\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Exactly, my dear Vincent,\" said Father Payne; \"but you can't turn the\nlight of publicity on evil unless the light is there to turn. The reason\nwhy bullying continued was because people believed in it as inseparable\nfrom school life, and even, on the whole, bracing. What has got rid of it\nis a kinder and more tender spirit outside. I don't object to showing up\nbad things at all. By all means put them, if you can, in a clear light, and\nshow their ugliness. Show your shame and disgust if you like, but do not\ncondescend to personal abuse. That only weakens your case, because it\nmerely proves that you have still some of the bully left in you. Be\npeaceable writers, my dear boys,\" said Father Payne, expanding in a large\nsmile. \"Don't squabble, don't try to scathe, don't be affronted! If your\ncritic reveals a weak place in your work, admit it, and do better! I want\nto turn you out peace-makers, and that needs as much energy and restraint\nas any other sort of fighting. Don't make the fact that your opponent may\nbe a cad into a personal grievance. Make your own idea clear, stick to it,\nrepeat it, say it again in a more attractive way. Don't you see that not\nyielding to a bad impulse is fighting? The positive assertion of good, the\nshaping of beauty, the presentment of a fruitful thought in so desirable a\nlight that other people go down with fresh courage into the dreariness and\ndullness of life, with all the delight of having a new way of behaving in\ntheir minds and hearts--that's how I want you to fight! It requires the\ntoughest sort of courage, I can tell you. But instead of showing your\nspirit by returning a blow, show your spirit by propounding your idea in a\nfiner shape. Don't be taken in by the silly and ugly old war-metaphors--the\ntrumpet blown, the gathering of the hosts. That's simply a sensational\nwaste of your time! Look out of your window, and then sit down to your\nwork. That's the way to win, without noise or fuss.\"\n\n\n\nLV\n\nOF LIFE-FORCE\n\n\nI walked one afternoon with Father Payne just as winter turned to spring,\nin the pastures. There was a mound at the corner of one of his fields, on\nwhich grew a row of beech trees of which Father Payne was particularly\nfond. He pointed out to me to-day how the most southerly of the trees,\nexposed as it was to the full force of the wind, grew lower and sturdier\nthan the rest, and how as the trees progressed towards the north, each one\nprofiting more by the shelter of his comrades, they grew taller and more\ngraceful. \"I like the way that stout little fellow at the end grows,\" said\nFather Payne. \"He doesn't know, I suppose, that he is protecting the rest,\nand giving them room to expand. But he holds on; and though he isn't so\ntall, he is bulkier and denser than his brethren. He knows that he has to\nbear the brunt of the wind, so he puts out no sail. He just devotes himself\nto standing four-square--he is not going to be bullied! He would like to be\nas smooth and as shapely as the rest, but he knows his own business, and he\nhas adapted himself, like a sensible fellow, to his rough conditions.\"\n\nA little later Father Payne stopped to look at a great sow-thistle that was\ngrowing vigorously under a hedge-row. \"Did you ever see such a bit of pure\nforce?\" said Father Payne. \"I see a fierce conscious life in every inch of\nthat plant. Look at the way he clips himself in, and strains to the earth:\nlook at his great rays of leaves, thrust out so geometrically from the\ncentre, with the sharp, horny, uncompromising thorns. And see how he\nflattens down his leaves over the surrounding grasses: they haven't a\nchance; he just squeezes them down and strangles them. There is no mild and\ndelicate waving of fronds in the air. He means to sit down firmly on the\ntop of his comrades. I don't think I ever saw anything with such a muscular\npull on--you can't lift his leaves up; look, he resists with all his might!\nJust consider the immense force which he is using: he is not merely\nsnuggling down: he is just hauling things about. You don't mean to tell me\nthat this thistle isn't conscious! He knows he has enemies, but he is going\nto make the place his very own--and all that out of a drifting little arrow\nof down!\"\n\n\"Now that may not be a sympathetic or even Christian way of doing things,\"\nhe went on presently, \"but for all that, I do love to see the force of\nlife, the intentness of living. I like our friend the beech a little\nbetter, because he is helping his friends, though he doesn't know it, and\nthe thistle is only helping himself. But I am sure that it is the right way\nto go at it! We mustn't be always standing aside and making room: we\nmustn't obliterate ourselves. We have a right to our joy in life, and we\nmustn't be afraid of it. If we give away what we have got, it must cost us\nsomething--it must not be a mere relinquishing.\"\n\n\"It is rather hard to combine the two principles,\" I said--\"the living of\nlife, I mean, and the giving away of life.\"\n\n\"Well, I think that devotion is better than self-sacrifice,\" said Father\nPayne. \"On the whole I mistrust weakness more than I mistrust strength.\nIt's easy to dislike violence--but I rather worship vitality. I would\nalmost rather see a man forcing his way through with some callousness, than\nbacking out, smiling and apologising. You can convert strength, you can't\ndo anything with weakness. Take the sort of work you fellows do. I always\nfeel I can chasten and direct exuberance: what I can't do is to impart\nvigour. If a man says his essay is short because he can't think of anything\nto write, I feel inclined to say, 'Then for goodness' sake hold your\ntongue!' It's the people who can't hold their tongue, who go on roughly\npointing things out, and commenting, and explaining, and thrusting\nthemselves in front of the show, who do something. Of course force has to\nbe kept in order, but there it is--it lives, it must have its say. What you\nhave to learn is to insinuate yourself into life, like ivy, but without\nspoiling other people's pleasure. That's liberty! The old thistle has no\nrespect for liberty, and that is why he is rooted up. But it's rather sad\nwork doing it, because he does so very much want to be alive. But it isn't\nliberty simply to efface yourself, because you may interfere with other\npeople. The thing is to fit in, without disorganising everything about\nyou.\"\n\nHe mused for a little in silence; then he said, \"It's like almost\neverything else--it's a weighing of claims! I don't want you fellows to be\neither tyrannical or slavish. It's tyrannical to bully, it's slavish to\ndefer. The thing is to have a firm opinion, not to be ashamed of it or\nafraid of it; to say it reasonably and gently, and to stick to it amiably.\nGood does not attack, though if it is attacked it can slay. Good fights\nevil, but it knows what it is fighting, while evil fights good and evil\nalike. I think that is true. I don't want you people to be controversial or\nquarrelsome in what you write, and to go in for picking holes in others'\nwork. If you want to help a man to do better, criticise him\nprivately--don't slap him in public, to show how hard you can lay on. Make\nyour own points, explain if you like, but don't apologise. The great\nwriters, mind you, are the people who can go on. It's volume rather than\ndelicacy that matters in the end. It must flow like honey--good solid\nstuff--not drip like rain, out of mere weakness. But the thing is to flow,\nand largeness of production is better than little bits of overhandled work.\nMind that, my boy! It's force that tells: and that's why I don't want you\nto be over-interested in your work. You must go on filling up with\nexperience; but it doesn't matter where or how you get it, as long as it is\neagerly done. Be on the side of life! _Amor fati_, that's the motto\nfor a man--to love his destiny passionately, and all that is before him;\nnot to droop, or sentimentalise, or submit, but to plunge on, like a\n'sea-shouldering whale'! You remember old Kit Smart--\n\n  'Strong against tide, the enormous whale\n  Emerges as he goes.'\n\n\"Mind you _emerge!_ Never heed the tide: there's plenty of room for it\nas well as for you!\"\n\n\n\nLVI\n\nOF CONSCIENCE\n\n\nLestrange was being genially bantered by Rose one day at dinner on what\nRose called \"problems of life and being,\" or \"springs of action,\" or even\n\"higher ground.\" Lestrange was oppressively earnest, but he was always\ngood-natured.\n\n\"Ultimately?\" he had said, \"why, ultimately, of course, you must obey your\nconscience.\"\n\n\"No, no!\" said Father Payne, \"that won't do, Lestrange! Who are _you_,\nafter all? I mean that the 'you' you speak of has something to say about\nit, to decide whether to disobey or to obey. And then, too, the same 'you'\nseems to have decided that conscience is to be obeyed. The thing that you\ndescribe as 'yourself' is much more ultimate than conscience, because if it\nis not convinced that conscience is to be obeyed, it will not obey. I mean\nthat there is something which criticises even the conscience. It can't be\nreason, because your conscience over-rides your reason, and it can't be\ninstinct, generally speaking, because conscience often over-rides\ninstinct.\"\n\n\"I am confused,\" said Lestrange. \"I mean by conscience the thing which says\n'You _ought!_' That is what seems to me to prove the existence of God,\nthat there is a sense of a moral law which one does not invent, and which\nis sometimes very inconveniently aggressive.\"\n\n\"Yes, that is all right,\" said Father Payne, \"but how is it when there are\ntwo 'oughts,' as there often are? A man ought to work--and he ought not to\noverwork--something else has to be called in to decide where one 'ought'\nbegins and the other ends. There is a perpetual balancing of moral claims.\nYour conscience tells you to do two things which are mutually\nexclusive--both are right in the abstract. What are you to do then?\"\n\n\"I suppose that reason comes in there,\" said Lestrange.\n\n\"Then reason is the ultimate guide?\" said Father Payne.\n\n\"Oh, Father, you are darkening counsel,\" said Lestrange.\n\n\"No, no,\" said Father Payne, \"I am just trying to face facts.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Lestrange, \"what is the ultimate thing?\"\n\n\"The ultimate thing,\" said Father Payne, \"is of course the thing you call\nyourself--but the ultimate instinct is probably a sense of proportion--a\nsense of beauty, if you like!\"\n\n\"But how does that work out in practice?\" said Vincent. \"It seems to me to\nbe a mere argument about names and titles. You are using conscience as the\nsense of right and wrong, and, as you say, they often seem to have\nconflicting claims. Lestrange used it in the further sense of the thing\nwhich ultimately decides your course. It is right to be philanthropic, it\nis right to be artistic--they may conflict; but something ultimately tells\nyou what you _can_ do, which is really more important than what you\n_ought to_ do.\"\n\n\"That is right,\" said Father Payne, \"I think the test is simply this--that\nwhenever you feel yourself paralysed, and your natural growth arrested by\nyour obedience to any one claim--instinct, reason, conscience, whatever it\nis--the ultimate power cuts the knot, and tells you unfailingly where your\nreal life lies. That is the real failure, when owing to some habit, some\ndread, some shrinking, you do not follow your real life. That, it seems to\nme, is where the old unflinching doctrines of sin and repentance have done\nharm. The old self-mortifying saints, who thought so badly of human nature,\nand who tore themselves to pieces, resisting wholesome impulses--celibate\nsaints who ought to have been married, morbidly introspective saints who\nneeded hard secular work, those were the people who did not dare to trust\nthe sense of proportion, and were suspicious of the call of life. Look at\nSt. Augustine in the wonderful passage about light, 'sliding by me in\nunnumbered guises'--he can only end by praying to be delivered from the\ntemptation to enjoy the sight of dawn and sunset, as setting his affections\ntoo much upon the things of earth. I mistrust the fear of life--I mistrust\nall fear--at least I think it will take care of itself, and must not be\ncultivated. I think the call of God is the call of joy--and I believe that\nthe superstitious dread of joy is one of the most potent agencies of the\ndevil.\"\n\n\"But there are many joys which one has to mistrust,\" said Lestrange; \"mere\nsensual delights, for instance.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"but most healthy and normal people, after a very\nlittle meddling with such delights, learn certainly enough that they only\nobscure the real, wholesome, temperate joys. You have to compromise wisely\nwith your instincts, I think. You mustn't spend too much time in frontal\nattacks upon them. You have a quick temper, let us say. Well, it is better\nto lose it occasionally and apologise, than to hold your tongue about\nmatters in which you are interested for fear of losing it. You are\navaricious--well, hoard your money, and then yield on occasions to a\ngenerous impulse. That's a better way to defeat evil, than by dribbling\nmoney away in giving little presents which no one wants. I don't believe in\npetty warfare against faults. You know the proverb that if you knock too\nlong at a closed door, the Devil opens it to you? Just give your sins a\nknock-down blow every now and then. I believe in the fire of life more than\nI believe in the cold water you use to quench it. Everything can be\nforgiven to passion; nothing can be forgiven to chilly calculation. The\nbeautiful impulse is the thing that one must not disobey; and when I see\npeople do big, wrong-headed, unguarded, unwise things, get into rows,\nsacrifice a reputation or a career without counting the cost, I am inclined\nto feel that they have probably done better for themselves than if they had\nbeen prudent and cautious. I don't say that they are always right, because\npeople yield sometimes to a mere whim, and sometimes to a childishly\noverwhelming desire; but if there is a real touch of unselfishness about a\nsacrifice--that's the test, that some one else's joy should be\ninvolved--then I feel that it isn't my business to approve or disapprove. I\nfeel in the presence of a force--an 'ought' as Lestrange says, which makes\nme shy of intervening. It's the wind of the Spirit--it blows where it\nwill--and I know this, that I'm thankful beyond everything when I feel it\nin my own sails.\"\n\n\"Tell me when you feel it next, Father,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"I feel it now,\" said Father Payne, \"now and here.\" And there was something\nin his face which made us disinclined to ask him any further questions.\n\n\n\nLVII\n\nOF RANK\n\n\nSomeone had been telling a curious story about a contested peerage. It was\na sensational affair, involving the alteration of registers, the burning\ndown of a vestry, and the flight of a clergyman.\n\n\"I like that story,\" said Father Payne, \"and I like heraldry and rank and\nall that. It's decidedly picturesque. I enjoy the zigzagging of a title\nthrough generations. But the worst of it is that the most picturesque of\nall distinctions, like being the twentieth baron, let us say, in direct\ndescent, is really of the nature of a stigma; a man whose twentieth\nancestor was a baron has no excuse for not being a duke.\"\n\n\"But what I don't like,\" said Rose, \"is the awful sense of sanctity which\nsome people have about it. I read a book the other day where the hero\nsacrificed everything in turn, a career, a fortune, an engagement to a\ncharming girl, a reputation, and last of all an undoubted claim to an\nancient barony. I don't remember exactly why he did all these things--it\nwas noble, undoubtedly it was noble! But there was something which made me\nvaguely uncomfortable about the order in which he spun his various\nadvantages.\"\n\n\"It's only a sense of beauty slightly awry,\" said Father Payne; \"names are\ncuriously sacred things--they often seem to be part of the innermost\nessence of a man. I confess I would rather change most things than change\nmy name. I would rather shave my head, for instance.\"\n\n\"But my hero would have had to change his name if he had claimed the\npeerage,\" said Rose.\n\n\"Yes, but you see the title was his _right_ name,\" said Father Payne;\n\"he was only masquerading as a commoner, you must remember. Why I should\nvalue an ancient peerage is because I think it might improve my manners.\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said Father Payne. \"Yes, my manners are very good for a\ncommoner--but I should like to be a little more in the grand style. I\nshould like to be able to look long at a person, who said something of\nwhich I disapproved, and then change the subject. That would be fine! But I\ndaren't do that now. Now I have to argue. Do you remember in _Daniel\nDeronda_, Grandcourt's habit of looking stonily at smiling persons. I\nhave often envied that! Whereas my chief function in life is looking\nsmilingly at stony persons, and that's very bourgeois.\"\n\n\"We must show more animation,\" said Barthrop to his neighbour.\n\n\"I mean it!\" said Father Payne, \"but come, I won't be personal! Seriously,\nyou know, the one thing I have admired in the very few great people I have\never met is the absence of embarrassment. They don't need to explain who\nthey are, they haven't got to preface their statements of opinion by\nfragments of autobiography, to show their right to speak. It is convenient\nto feel that if people don't know who you are, they will feel slightly\nfoolish afterwards when they discover, like the man who shook hands warmly\nwith Queen Victoria, and said, \"I know the face quite well, but I can't put\na name to it.\" It did not show any pride of birth in the Queen to be\nextremely amused by the incident. But even more than that I admire the case\nwhich people of that sort get by having had, from childhood onwards, to\nmeet all sorts of persons, and to behave themselves, and to see that people\ndo not feel shy or uncomfortable. I sometimes go about the village simply\nteeming with benevolence, and I pass some one, and can't think of anything\nto say. If I had the great manner, I should say, \"Why, Tommy, is that you?\"\nor some such human signal, which would not mean anything in particular, but\nwould after all express exactly what is in my mind. But I can't just do\nthat. I rack my brains for an _appropriate_ remark, because I am\nbourgeois, and have not the point of honour, as the French say. And by the\ntime I have elaborated it, Tommy is gone, and Jack is passing, and I begin\nelaborating again; whereas I should simply add, if I were aristocratic,\n'And that's you, Jack, isn't it?' That's the way to talk.\"\n\nWe all laughed; and Barthrop said, \"Well, I must say, Father, that I have\noften envied you your power of saying something to everyone.\"\n\n\"I have spent more trouble on it than it is worth,\" said Father Payne; \"and\nthat's my point, that if I were only a great man, I should have learnt it\nall in childhood, and should not have to waste time over it at all. That's\nthe best of rank; it's a device for saving trouble; it saves introduction\nand explanation and autobiography and elaborate civility, and makes people\nwilling to be pleased by the smallest sign of affability. You may depend\nupon it that it was a very true instinct which made the Scotch minister\npray that all might have honourable ancestors. It isn't a sacred thing,\nrank, and it isn't a magnificent thing--but it's a pleasant human sort of\nthing in the right hands. What is more, in these democratic days, it tends\nto make people of rank additionally anxious not to parade the fact--and I\ndoubt if there is anything on the whole happier than having advantages\nwhich you don't want to parade--it gives a tranquil sort of contentment,\nand it removes all futile ambitions. To be, by descent, what a desperately\nindustrious lawyer or a successful general feels himself amply rewarded for\nhis toil by becoming, isn't nothing. I'm always rather suspicious of the\npeople who try to pretend that it is nothing at all. The rank is but the\nguinea stamp, of course. But after all the stamp is what makes it a guinea\ninstead of an unnegotiable disc of metal!\"\n\n\n\nLVIII\n\nOF BIOGRAPHY\n\n\nFather Payne used often to say that he was more interested in biography\nthan in any other form of art, and believed that there was a greater future\nbefore it than before any other sort of literature. \"Just think,\" I\nremember his saying, \"human portraiture--the most interesting thing in the\nworld by far--what the novel tries to do and can't do!\"\n\n\"What exactly do you mean by 'can't do'?\" I said.\n\n\"Why, my boy,\" said Father Payne, \"because we are all so horrified at the\nidea of telling the truth or looking the truth in the face. The novel\naccommodates human nature, patches it up, varnishes it, puts it in a good\nlight: it may be artistic and romantic and poetical--but it hasn't got the\nbeauty of truth. Life is much more interesting than any imaginative\nfricassee of it! These realistic fellows--they are moving towards\nbiography, but they haven't got much beyond the backgrounds yet.\"\n\n\"But why shouldn't it be done?\" I said. \"There's Boswell's Johnson--why\ndoes that stand almost alone?\"\n\n\"Why, think of all the difficulties, my boy,\" said Father Payne. \"There's\nnothing like Boswell's Johnson, of course--but what a subject! There's\nnothing that so proves Boswells genius--we mustn't forget that--as the\nother wretched stuff written about Johnson. There's a passage in Boswell,\nwhen he didn't see Johnson for a long time, and stuck in a few stories\ncollected from other friends. They are awfully flat and flabby--they have\nall been rolled about in some one's mind, till they are as smooth as\npebbles--some bits of the crudest rudeness, not worked up to--some\nknock-down schoolboy retorts which most civilised men would have had the\ndecency to repress--and then we get back to the real Boswell again, and how\nfresh and lively it is!\"\n\n\"But what are the difficulties you spoke of?\" I said.\n\n\"Why, in the first place,\" said Father Payne, \"a biography ought to be\nwritten _during_ a man's life and not _after_ it--and very few\npeople will take the trouble to write things down day after day about\nanyone else, as Boswell did. If it waits till after a man's death, a hush\nfalls on the scene--everyone is pious and sentimental. Of course, Boswell's\nlife is inartistic enough--it wanders along, here a letter, there a lot of\ncriticism, here a talk, there a reminiscence. It isn't arranged--it has no\nscheme: but how full of _zest_ it is! And then you have to be pretty\nshameless in pursuing your hero, and elbowing other people away, and\ndrawing him out; and you have to be prepared to be kicked and trampled\nupon, when the hero is cross: and then you have to be a considerable snob,\nand say what you really value and admire, however vulgar it is. And then\nyou must expect to be called hard names when the book appears. I was\nreading a review the other day of what seemed to me to be a harmless\nbiography enough--a little frank and enthusiastic affair, I gathered: and\nthe reviewer wrote in the style of Pecksniff, caddish and priggish at the\nsame time: he called the man to task for botanising on his friend's\ngrave--that unfortunate verse of Wordsworth's, you know--and he left the\nimpression that the writer had done something indelicate and impious, and\nall with a consciousness of how high-minded he himself was.\n\n\"You ought to write a biography as though you were telling your tale in a\nfriendly and gentle ear--you ought not to lose your sense of humour, or be\nafraid of showing your subject in a trivial or ridiculous light. Look at\nBoswell again--I don't suppose a more deadly case could be made out against\nany man, with perfect truth, than could be made out against Johnson. You\ncould show him as brutal, rough, greedy, superstitious, prejudiced, unjust,\nand back it all up by indisputable evidence--but it's the balance, the net\nresult, that matters! We have all of us faults; we know them, our friends\nknow them--why the devil should not everyone know them? But then an\ninteresting man dies, and everyone becomes loyal and sentimental. Not a\nword must be said which could pain or wound anyone. The friends and\nrelations, it would seem, are not pained by the dead man's faults, they are\nonly pained that other people should know them. The biography becomes a\nmixture of disinfectants and perfumes, as if it were all meant to hide some\nputrid thing. It's like what Jowett said about a testimonial, 'There's a\nstrong smell here of something left out!' We have hardly ever had anything\nbut romantic biographies hitherto, and they all smell of something left\nout. There's a tribe somewhere in Africa who will commit murder if anyone\ntries to sketch them. They think it brings bad luck to be sketched, a sort\nof 'overlooking' as they say. Well that seems to be the sort of\nsuperstition that many people have about biographies, as if the departed\nspirit would be vexed by anything which isn't a compliment. I suppose it is\npartly this--that many people are ill-bred, glum, and suspicious, and can't\nbear the idea of their faults being recorded. They hate all frankness: and\nso when anything frank gets written, they talk about violating sacred\nconfidences, and about shameless exposures. It is really that we are all\nhorribly uncivilised, and can't bear to give ourselves away, or to be given\naway. Of course we don't want biographies of merely selfish, stupid,\nbrutal, ill-bred men--but everyone ought to be thankful when a life can be\ntold frankly, and when there's enough that is good and beautiful to make it\nworth telling.\n\n\"But, as I said, the thing can't be done, unless it is written to a great\nextent in a man's lifetime. Conversation is a very difficult thing to\nremember--it can't be remembered afterwards--it needs notes at the time:\nand few people's talk is worth recording; and even if it is, people are a\nlittle ashamed of doing it--there seems something treacherous about it: but\nit ought to be done, for all that! You don't want so very much of it--I\ndon't suppose that Boswell has got down a millionth part of all Johnson\nsaid--you just want specimens--enough to give the feeling of it and the\nquality of it. One doesn't want immensely long biographies--just enough to\nmake you feel that you have seen a man and sat with him and heard him\ntalk--and the kind of way in which he dealt with things and people. I'll\ntell you a man who would have made a magnificent biography--Lord Melbourne.\nHe had a great charm, and a certain whimsical and fantastic humour, which\nmade him do funny little undignified things, like a child. But every single\ndictum of Melbourne's has got something original and graceful about\nit--always full of good sense, never pompous, always with a delicious\nlightness of touch. The only person who took the trouble to put down\nMelbourne's sayings, just as they came out, was Queen Victoria--but then\nshe was in love with him without knowing it: and in the end he got stuck\ninto the heaviest and most ponderous of biographies, and is lost to the\nworld. Stale politics--there's nothing to beat them for dulness\nunutterable!\"\n\n\"But isn't it an almost impossible thing,\" I said, \"to expect a man who is\na first-rate writer, with ambitions in authorship, to devote himself to\nputting down things about some interesting person with the chance of their\nnever being published? Very few people would have sufficient\nself-abnegation for that.\"\n\n\"That's true enough,\" said Father Payne, \"and of course it is a risk--a man\nmust run the risk of sacrificing a good deal of his time and energy to\nrecording unimportant details, perhaps quite uselessly, but with this\npossibility ahead of him, that he may produce an immortal book--and I grant\nyou that the infernal vanity and self-glorification of authors is a real\ndifficulty in the way.\"\n\nHe was silent for a minute or two, and then he said: \"Now, I'll tell you\nanother difficulty, that at present people only want biographies of men of\naffairs, of big performers, men who have done things--I don't want that. I\nwant biographies of people who wielded a charm of personality, even if they\ndidn't _do_ things--people, I mean, who deserve to live and to be\nloved.--Those are the really puzzling figures a generation later, the men\nwho lived in an atmosphere of admiring and delighted friendship, radiating\na sort of enchanting influence, having the most extravagant things said and\nbelieved about them by their friends, and yet never doing anything in\nparticular. People, I mean, like Arthur Hallam, whose letters and remains\nare fearfully pompous and tiresome--and who yet had _In Memoriam_\nwritten about him, and who was described by Gladstone as the most perfect\nhuman being, physically, intellectually and morally, he had ever seen. Then\nthere is Browning's Domett--the prototype of Waring--and Keats's friend\nJames Rice, and Stevenson's friend Ferrier--that's a matchless little\nbiographical fragment, Stevenson's letter about Ferrier--those are the sort\nof figures I mean, the men who charmed and delighted everyone, were brave\nand humorous, gave a pretty turn to everything they said--those are the\nroses by the wayside! They had ill-health some of them, they hadn't the\nrequisite toughness for work, they even took to drink, or went to the bad.\nBut they are the people of quality and tone, about whom one wants to know\nmuch more than about sun-burnt and positive Generals--the strong silent\nsort--or overworked politicians bent on conciliating the riff-raff. I don't\nwant to know about men simply because they did honest work, and still less\nabout men who never dared to say what they thought and felt. You can't make\na striking picture out of a sense of responsibility! I'm not underrating\ngood work--it's fine in every way, but it can't always be written about.\nThere are exceptions, of course. Nelson and Wellington would have been\nsplendid subjects, if anyone had really Boswellised them. But Nelson had a\ntheatrical touch about him, and became almost too romantic a hero; while\nthe Duke had a fund of admirable humour and almost grotesque directness of\nexpression,--and he has never been half done justice to, though you can see\nfrom Lord Mahon's little book of _Table Talk_ and Benjamin Haydon's\n_Diary_, and the letters to Miss J., what a rich affair it all might\nhave been, if only there had been a perfectly bold, candid, and truthful\nbiographer.\"\n\n\"But the charming people of whom you spoke,\" I said--\"isn't the whole thing\noften too evanescent to be recorded?\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it!\" said Father Payne, \"and these are the people we want to\nhear about, because they represent the fine flower of civilisation. If a\nman has a delightful friend like that, always animated, fresh, humorous,\npetulant, original, he couldn't do better than observe him, keep scraps of\nhis talk, record scenes where he took a leading part, get the impression\ndown. It may come to nothing, of course, but it may also come to something\nworth more than a thousand twaddling novels. The immense _use_ of\nit--if one must think about the use--is that such a life might really show\ncommonplace and ordinary people how to handle the simplest materials of\nlife with zest and delicacy. Novels don't really do that--they only make\npeople want to escape from middle-class conditions, what everyone is the\nbetter for seeing is not how life might conceivably be handled, but how it\nactually has been handled, freshly and distinctly, by someone in a\ncommonplace milieu. Life isn't a bit romantic, but it is devilish\ninteresting. It doesn't go as you want it to go. Sometimes it lags,\nsometimes it dances; and horrible things happen, often most unexpectedly.\nIn the novel, everything has to be rounded off and led up to, and you never\nget a notion of the inconsequence of life. The interest of life is not what\nhappens, but how it affects people, how they meet it, how they fly from it:\nthe relief of a biography is that you haven't got to invent your setting\nand your character--all that is done for you: you have just got to select\nthe characteristic things, and not to blur the things that you would have\nwished otherwise. For God's sake, let us get at the truth in books, and not\nuse them as screens to keep the fire off, or as things to distract one from\nthe depressing facts in one's bank-book. I welcome all this output of\nnovels, because it at least shows that people are interested in life, and\ntrying to shape it. But I don't want romance, and I don't want ugly and\nsensational realism either. That is only romance in another shape. I want\nreal men and women--not from an autobiographical point of view, because\nthat is generally romantic too--but from the point of view of the friends\nto whom they showed themselves frankly and naturally, and without that\ninfernal reticence which is not either reverence or chivalry, but simply an\ninability to face the truth,--which is the direct influence of the spirit\nof evil. If one of my young men turns out a good biography of an\ninteresting person, however ineffective he was, I shall not have lived in\nvain. For, mind this--very few people's performances are worth remembering,\nwhile very many people's personalities are.\"\n\n\n\nLIX\n\nOF EXCLUSIVENESS\n\n\nRose told a story one night which amused Father Payne immensely. He had\nbeen up in town, and had sate next a Minister's wife, who had been very\nconfidential. She had said to Rose that her husband had just been elected\ninto a small dining-club well known in London, where the numbers were very\nlimited, the society very choice, and where a single negative vote excluded\na candidate. \"I don't think,\" said the good lady, \"that my husband has ever\nbeen so pleased at anything that has befallen him, not even when he was\nfirst given office--such a distinguished club--and so exclusive!\" Father\nPayne laughed loud and shrill. \"That's human nature at its nakedest!\" he\nsaid. \"It's like Miss Tox, in _Dombey and Son_, you know, who, when\nDombey asked her if the school she recommended was select, said, 'It's\nexclusion itself!' What people love is the power of being able to\n_exclude_--not necessarily disagreeable people, or tiresome people,\nbut simply people who would like to be inside--\n\n  \"'Loving not, hating not, just choosing so.'\n\n\"Those are the two great forces of society, you know--the exclusive force,\nand the inclusive force: the force that says, 'We few, we happy few, we\nband of brothers'; and the force which says, 'The more the merrier.' The\nexclusive force is represented by caste and class, by gentility and\ndonnishness, by sectarianism and nationalism, and even by patriotism--and\nthe inclusive force is represented by Walt Whitmanism and Christianity.\"\n\n\"But what about St. Paul's words,\" said Lestrange, \"'Honour all men: love\nthe brotherhood'?\"\n\n\"That's an attempt to recognise both,\" said Father Payne, smiling. \"Of\ncourse you can't love everyone equally--that's the error of\ndemocracy--democracy is really one of the exclusive forces, because it\nexcludes the heroes--it is '_mundus contra Athanasium_,'--it is best\nillustrated by what the American democrat said to Charles Kingsley, 'My\nprinciple is \"whenever you see a head above the crowd, hit it.\"' Democracy\nis, at its worst, the jealousy of the average man for the superior man.\"\n\n\"But which is the best principle?\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Both are necessary,\" said Father Payne. \"One must aim at inclusiveness, of\ncourse: and we must be quite certain that we exclude on the ground of\nqualities, and not on the ground of superficial differences. The best\ninfluences in the world arise not from individuals but from groups--and\nthere is no sort of reason why groups should spoil their intensive\nqualities by trying to admit outsiders. The strength of a group lies in the\nfact that one gets the sense of fellowship and common purpose, of sympathy\nand encouragement. A man who has to fight a battle single-handed is always\ntempted to wonder whether, after all, it is worth all the trouble and\nmisunderstanding. But, on the other hand, you are at liberty to mistrust\nthe men who say that they don't want to know people. Do you remember how\nCharles Lamb once said, 'I do hate the Trotters!' 'But I thought you didn't\nknow them?' said someone. 'That's just it,' said Charles Lamb, 'I never can\nhate anyone that I know!' The best bred man is the man who finds it easy to\nget on with everybody on equal terms: but it's part of the snobbishness of\nhuman nature that exclusiveness is rather admired than otherwise. There's a\ndelightfully exclusive woman in one of Henry James' novels, who refuses to\nbe introduced to a family. She entirely declines, and the man who is\nanxious to effect the introduction says, 'I can't think why you object to\nthem.' 'They are hopelessly vulgar,' says the incisive lady, 'and in this\nshort life, that is enough!' But St. Paul's remark is really very good,\nbecause it means 'Treat everyone with courtesy--but reserve your fine\naffections for the inner circle, whose worth you really know!'--it's a\nbetter theory than that of the man who said, 'It is enough for me to be\nwith those whom I love!' That's rather inhuman.\"\n\n\"Do you remember,\" said Barthrop, \"the lines in Tennyson's Guinevere, which\nsum up the knightly attributes?\n\n  \"'High thought, and amiable words,\n  And courtliness, and the desire of fame,\n  And love of truth, and all that makes a man.'\"\n\n\"That's very interesting and curious!\" said Father Payne. \"Dear me, I had\nforgotten that--did Tennyson say that?--Come--let's have it again!\"\n\nBarthrop repeated the lines again.\n\n\"Now, that's the gentlemanly ideal of the sixties,\" said Father Payne,\n\"and, good heavens, how offensive it sounds! The most curious part of it\nreally is 'the desire of fame'--of course, a hundred years ago, no one made\nany secret of that! You remember Nelson's frank confession, made not once,\nbut many times, that he pursued glory, 'Defeat--or Westminster\nAbbey'--didn't he say that?\"\n\n\"But surely people pursue fame as much as ever?\" said Vincent.\n\n\"I daresay,\" said Father Payne, \"but it isn't now considered good taste to\nsay so. You have got to pretend, at all events, that you wish to benefit\nhumanity now-a-days. If a man had said to Ruskin or Carlyle, 'Why do you\nwrite all these books?' and they replied, 'It is because of my desire for\nfame,' it would have been thought vulgar. There's that odd story of Robert\nBrowning, when he received an ovation at Oxford, and someone said to him,\n'I suppose you don't care about all this,' he said, 'It is what I have\nwaited for all my life!' I wonder if he _did_ say it! I think he must\nhave done, because it is exactly the sort of thing that one is supposed not\nto say--and I confess I don't like it--it seems to me vain, and not proud,\nI don't mind a kind of pride--I think a man ought to know what he is\nworth: but I hate vanity. Perhaps that's only because I haven't been a\nsuccess myself.\"\n\n\"But mayn't you desire fame?\" said Vincent. \"It seems to me rather priggish\nto condemn it!\"\n\n\"Many fine things sound priggish when they are said,\" said Father Payne.\n\"But, to be frank, I don't think that a man ought to desire fame. I think\nhe may desire to do a thing well. I don't think he ought to desire to do it\nbetter than other people. It is the wanting to beat other people which is\nlow. Why not wish them to do it well too?\"\n\n\"You mean that the difference between pride and vanity lies there?\" said\nBarthrop.\n\n\"Yes, I do,\" said Father Payne, \"and it is a pity that pride is included in\nthe deadly sins, because the word has changed its sense. Pride used to mean\nthe contempt of others--that's a deadly sin, if you like. It used to mean a\nghastly sort of self-satisfaction, arrived at by comparison of yourself\nwith others. But now to be called a proud man is a real compliment. It\nmeans that a man can't condescend to anything mean or base. We ought all to\nbe proud--not proud _of_ anything, because that is vulgar, but ashamed\nof doing anything which we know to be feeble or low. The Pharisee in the\nparable was vain, not proud, because he was comparing himself with other\npeople. But it is all right to be grateful to God for having a sense of\ndecency, just as you may be grateful for having a sense of beauty. The\nhatefulness of it comes in when you are secretly glad that other people\nlove indecency and ugliness.\"\n\n\"That is the exclusive feeling then?\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"Yes, the bad kind of exclusiveness,\" said Father Payne--\"the kind of\nexclusiveness which ministers to self-satisfaction. And that is the fault\nof the group when it becomes a coterie. The coterie means a set of inferior\npeople, bolstering up each other's vanity by mutual admiration. In a\ncoterie you purchase praise for your own bad work, by pretending to admire\nthe bad work of other people. But the real group is interested, not in each\nother's fame, but in the common work.\"\n\n\"It seems to me confusing,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Not a bit of it,\" said Father Payne; \"we have to consider our limitations:\nwe are limited by time and space. You can't know everybody and love\neverybody and admire everybody--and you can't sacrifice the joy and\nhappiness of real intimacy with a few for a diluted acquaintance with five\nhundred people. But you mustn't think that your own group is the only\none--that is the bad exclusiveness--you ought to think that there are\nthousands of intimate groups all over the world, which you could love just\nas enthusiastically as you love your own, if you were inside them: and\nthen, apart from your own group, you ought to be prepared to find\nreasonable and amiable and companionable people everywhere, and to be able\nto put yourself in line with them. Why, good heavens, there are millions of\npossible friends in the world! and one of my deepest and firmest hopes\nabout the next world, so to speak, is that there will be some chance of\ncommunicating with them all at once, instead of shutting ourselves up in a\nfrowsy room like this, smelling of meat and wine. I don't deny you are very\ngood fellows, but if you think that you are the only fit and desirable\ncompany in the world for me or for each other, I tell you plainly that you\nare utterly mistaken. That's why I insist on your travelling about, to\navoid our becoming a coterie.\"\n\n\"Then it comes to this,\" said Vincent drily, \"that you can't be inclusive,\nand that you ought not to be exclusive?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's exactly it!\" said Father Payne. \"You meant to shut me up with\none of our patent Oxford epigrams, I know--and, of course, it is deuced\nsmart! But put it the other way round, and it's all right. You can't help\nbeing exclusive, and you must try to be inclusive--that's the truth, with\nthe Oxford tang taken out!\"\n\nWe laughed at this, and Vincent reddened.\n\n\"Don't mind me, old man!\" said Father Payne, \"but try to make your epigrams\ngenial instead of contemptuous--inclusive rather than exclusive. They are\njust as true, and the bitter flavour is only fit for the vitiated taste of\nDons.\" And Father Payne stretched out a large hand down the table, and\nenclosed Vincent's in his own.\n\n\"Yes, it was a nasty turn,\" said Vincent, smiling, \"I see what you mean.\"\n\n\"The world is a friendlier place than people know,\" said Father Payne. \"We\nhave inherited a suspicion of the unknown and the unfamiliar. Don't you\nremember how the ladies in _The Mill on the Floss_ mistrusted each\nother's recipes, and ate dry bread in other houses rather than touch jam or\nbutter made on different methods. That is the old bad taint. But I think we\nare moving in the right direction. I fancy that the awakening may be very\nnear, when we shall suddenly realise that we are all jolly good fellows,\nand wonder that we have been so blind.\"\n\n\"A Roman Catholic friend of mine,\" said Rose--\"he is a priest--told me that\nhe attended a clerical dinner the other day. The health of the Pope was\nproposed, and they all got up and sang, 'For he's a jolly good fellow!'\"\n\nThere was a loud laugh at this. \"I like that,\" said Father Payne, \"I like\ntheir doing that! I expect that that is exactly what the Pope is! I should\ndearly love to have a good long quiet talk with him! I think I could let in\na little light: and I should like to ask him if he enjoyed his fame, dear\nold boy: and whether he was interested in his work! 'Why, Mr. Payne, it's\nrather anxious work, you know, the care of all the churches'--I can hear\nhim saying--'but I rub along, and the time passes quickly! though, to be\nsure, I'm not as young as I was once: and while I am on the subject, Mr.\nPayne, you look to me to be getting on in years yourself!' And then I\nshould say 'Yes, your Holiness, I am a man that has seen trouble.' And he\nwould say, 'I'm sorry to hear that! Tell me all about it!' That's how we\nshould talk, like old friends, in a snug parlour in the Vatican, looking\nout on the gardens!\"\n\n\n\nLX\n\nOF TAKING LIFE\n\n\nI was walking with Father Payne one hot summer day upon a field-path he was\nvery fond of. There was a copse, through the middle of which the little\nriver, the Fyllot, ran. It was the boundary of the Aveley estate, and it\nhere joined another stream, the Rode, which came in from the south. The\npath went through the copse, dense with hazels, and there was always a\nmusical sound of lapsing waters hidden in the wood. The birds sang shrill\nin the thicket, and Father Payne said, \"This is the juncture of Pison and\nHiddekel, you know, rivers of Paradise. Aveley is Havilah, where the gold\nis good, and where there is bdellium, if we only knew where to look for it.\nI fancy it is rich in bdellium. I came down here, I remember, the first day\nI took possession. It was wonderful, after being so long among the tents of\nKedar, to plant my flag in Havilah; I made a vow that day--I don't know if\nI have kept it!\"\n\n\"What was that?\" I said.\n\n\"Only that I would not get too fond of it all,\" said Father Payne, smiling,\n\"and that I would share it with other people. But I have got very fond of\nit, and I haven't shared it. Asking people to stay with you, that they may\nsee what a nice place you have to live in, is hardly sharing it. It is\nrather the other way--the last refinement of possession, in fact!\"\n\n\"It's very odd,\" he went on, \"that I should love this little bit of the\nworld so much as I do. It's called mine--that's a curious idea. I have got\nvery little power over it. I can't prevent the trees and flowers from\ngrowing here, or the birds from nesting here, if they have a mind to do so.\nI can only keep human beings out of it, more or less. And yet I love it\nwith a sort of passion, so that I want other people to love it too. I\nshould like to think that after I am gone, some one should come here and\nsee how exquisitely beautiful it is, and wish to keep it and tend it.\nThat's what lies behind the principle of inheritance; it isn't the money or\nthe position only that we desire to hand on to our children--it's the love\nof the earth and all that grows out of it; and possession means the desire\nof keeping it unspoiled and beautiful, I could weep at the idea of this all\nbeing swept away, and a bdellium-mine being started here, with a\nfactory-chimney and rows of little houses; and yet I suppose that if the\npopulation increased, and the land was all nationalised, a great deal of\nthe beauty of England would go. I hope, however, that the sense of beauty\nmight increase too--I don't think the country people here have much notion\nof beauty. They only like things to remain as they know them. It's a\nfearful luxury really for a man like myself to live in a land like this, so\nfull of old woodland and pasture, which is only possible under rich\nproprietors. I'm an abuse, of course. I have got a much larger slice of my\nnative soil than any one man ought to have; but I don't see the way out.\nThe individual can't dispossess himself--it's the system which is wrong.\"\n\nHe stopped in the middle of the copse, and said: \"Did you ever see anything\nso perfectly lovely as this place? And yet it is all living in a state of\nwar and anarchy. The trees and plants against each other, all fighting for\na place in the sun. The rabbit against the grass, the bird against the\nworm, the cat against the bird. There's no peace here really--it's full of\nterrors! Only the stream is taking it easy. It hasn't to live by taking\nlife, and the very sound of it is innocent.\"\n\nPresently he said: \"This is all cut down every five years. It's all made\ninto charcoal and bobbins. Then the flowers all come up in a rush; then the\ncopse begins to grow again--I never can make up my mind which is most\nbeautiful. I come and help the woodmen when they cut the copse. That's\npleasant work, you know, cutting and binding. I sometimes wonder if the\nhazels hate being slashed about. I expect they do; but it can't hurt them\nmuch, for up they come again. It's the right way to live, of course, to\nbegin again the minute you are cut down to the roots, to struggle out to\nthe air and sun again, and to give thanks for life. Don't you feel yourself\nas if you were good for centuries of living?\"\n\n\"I'm not sure that I do,\" I said, \"I don't feel as if I had quite got my\nhand in.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's all right for you, old boy,\" said Father Payne. \"You are\nlearning to live, and you are living. But an old fellow like me, who has\ngot in the way of it, and has found out at last how good it is to be alive,\nhas to realise that he has only got a fag-end left. I don't at all want to\ndie; I've got my hands as full as they can hold of pretty and delightful\nthings; and I don't at all want to be cut down like the copse, and to have\nto build up my branches again. Yes,\" he added, pondering, \"I used to think\nI should not live long, and I didn't much want to, I believe! But now--it's\nalmost disgraceful to think how much I prize life, and how interesting I\nfind it. Depend upon it, on we go! The only thing that is mysterious to me\nis why I love a place like this so much. I don't suppose it loves me. I\nsuppose there isn't a beast or a bird, perhaps not a tree or a flower, in\nthe place that won't be rather relieved when I go back home without having\nkilled something. I expect, in fact, that I have left a track of death\nbehind me in the grass--little beetles and things that weren't doing any\nharm, and that liked being alive. That's pretty beastly, you know, but how\nis one to help it? Then my affection for it is very futile. I can't\nestablish a civilised system here; I can't prevent the creatures from\neating each other, or the trees from crowding out the flowers. I can't eat\nor use the things myself, I can't take them away with me; I can only stand\nand yearn with cheap sentiment.\n\n\"And yet,\" he said after a moment, \"there's something here in this bit of\ncopse that whispers to me beautiful secrets--the sunshine among the stems,\nthe rustle of leaves, the wandering breeze, the scent and coolness of it\nall! It is crammed with beauty; it is all trying to live, and glad to live.\nYou may say, of course, that you don't see all that in it, and it is I that\nam abnormal. But that doesn't explain it away. The fact that I feel it is a\nbetter proof that it is there than the fact that you don't feel it is a\nproof that it isn't there! The only thing about it that isn't beautiful to\nme is the fact that life can't live except by taking life--that there is no\nright to live; and that, I admit, is disconcerting. You may say to me, 'You\nold bully, crammed with the corpses of sheep and potatoes, which you\nhaven't even had the honesty to kill for yourself, you dare to come here,\nand talk this stuff about the beauty of it all, and the joy of living. If\nall the bodies of the things you have consumed in your bloated life were\npiled together, it would make a thing as big as a whole row of ricks!' If\nyou say that, I admit that you take the sentiment out of my sails!\"\n\n\"But I don't say it,\" said I: \"Who dies if Father Payne live?\"\n\nHe laughed at this, and clapped me on the back. \"You're in the same case as\nI, old man,\" he said, \"only you haven't got such a pile of blood and bones\nto your credit! Here, we must stow this talk, or we shall become both\nhumbugs and materialists. It's a puzzling business, talking! It leads you\ninto some very ugly places!\"\n\n\n\nLXI\n\nOF BOOKISHNESS\n\n\nI went in to see Father Payne one morning about some work. He was reading a\nbook with knitted brows: he looked up, gave a nod, but no smile, pointed to\na chair, and I sate down: a minute or two later he shut the book--a neat\nenough little volume--with a snap, and skimmed it deftly from where he\nsate, into his large waste-paper basket. This, by the way, was a curious\nlittle accomplishment of his,--throwing things with unerring aim. He could\nskim more cards across a room into a hat than anyone I have ever seen who\nwas not a professed student of legerdemain.\n\n\"What are you doing?\" I said--\"such a nice little book!\" I rose and rescued\nthe volume, which was a careful enough edition of some poems and scraps of\npoems, posthumously discovered, of a well-known poet.\n\n\"Pray accept it with my kindest regards,\" said Father Payne. \"No, I don't\nknow that I _ought_ to give it you. It is the sort of book I object\nto.\"\n\n\"Why?\" I said, examining it--\"it seems harmless enough.\"\n\n\"It's the wrong sort of literature,\" said Father Payne. \"There isn't time,\nor there ought not to be, to go fumbling about with these old scraps. They\naren't good enough to publish--and what's more, if the man didn't publish\nthem himself, you may be sure he had very good reasons for _not_ doing\nso. The only interest of them is that so good a poet could write such\ndrivel, and that he knew it was drivel sufficiently well not to publish it.\nBut the man who can edit it doesn't know that, and the critics who review\nit don't know it either--it was a respectful review that made me buy the\nrubbish--and as for the people who read it, God alone knows what they think\nof it. It's a case of\n\n  \"'Weave a circle round him thrice,\n  And close your eyes in holy dread.'\n\n\"You have to shut your eyes pretty tight not to see what bosh it all is--it\nis all this infernal reverence paid by people, who have no independence of\njudgment, to great reputations. It reminds me of the barber who used to cut\nthe Duke of Wellington's hair and nails, who made quite a lot of money by\nselling clippings to put in lockets!\"\n\n\"But isn't it worth while to see a great poet's inferior jottings, and to\ngrasp how he worked?\" said I.\n\n\"No,\" said Father Payne;--\"at least it would be worth while to see how he\nbrought off his good strokes, but it isn't worth while seeing how he missed\nhis stroke altogether. This deification business is all unwholesome. In\nart, in life, in religion, in literature, it's a mistake to worship the\nsaints--you don't make them divine, you only confuse things, and bring down\nthe divine to your own level. The truth--the truth--why can't people see\nhow splendid it is, and that it is one's only chance of getting on! To shut\nyour eyes to the possibility of the great man having a touch of the\ncommonplace, a touch of the ass, even a touch of the knave in him, doesn't\nennoble your conception of human nature. If you can only glorify humanity\nby telling lies about it, and by ruling out all the flaws in it, you end by\nbeing a sentimentalist. \"See thou do it not ... worship God!\" that's one of\nthe finest things in the Bible. Of course it is magnificent to see a streak\nof the divine turning up again and again in human nature--but you have got\nto wash the dirt to find the diamond. Believe in the beauty behind and in\nand beyond us all--but don't worship the imperfect thing. This sort of book\nis like selling the dirt out of which the diamonds have been washed, and\nwhich would appear to have gained holiness by contact. I hate to see people\nstopping short on the symbol and the illustration, instead of passing on to\nthe truth behind--it's idolatry. It's one degree better than worshipping\nnothing; but the danger of idolatry is that you are content to get no\nfurther: and that is what makes idolatry so ingenious a device of the\ndevil, that it persuades people to stop still and not to get on.\"\n\n\"But aren't you making too much out of it?\" I said. \"At the worst, this is\na harmless literary blunder, a foolish bit of hero-worship?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"in a sense that is true, that these little\nliterary hucksters and pedlars don't do any very great harm--I don't mean\nthat they cause much mischief: but they are the symptom of a grave disease.\nIt is this d----d _bookishness_ which is so unreal. I would like to\nsay a word about it to you, if you have time, instead of doing our work\nto-day--for if you will allow me to say so, my boy, you have got a touch of\nit about you--only a touch--and I think if I can show you what I mean, you\ncan throw it off--I have heard you say rather solemn things about books!\nBut I want you to get through that. It reminds me of the talk of\nritualists. I have a poor friend who is a very harmless sort of parson--but\nI have heard him talk of a bit of ceremonial with tears in his eyes. 'It\nwas exquisite, exquisite,' he will say,--'the celebrant wore a cope--a bit,\nI believe of genuine pre-Reformation work--of course remounted--and the\nGospeller and Epistoller had copes so perfectly copied that it would have\nbeen hard to say which was the real one. And then Father Wynne holds\nhimself so nobly--such a mixture of humility and pride--a priest ought to\nexhibit both, I think, at that moment?--and his gestures are so\ninevitable--so inevitable--that's the only word: there's no sense of\nrehearsal about it: it is just the supreme act of worship expressing itself\nin utter abandonment'--He will go on like that for an hour if he can find a\ngreat enough goose to listen to him. Now, I don't mean to say that the man\nhasn't a sense of beauty--he has the real ritual instinct, a perfectly\nlegitimate branch of art. But he doesn't know it's art--he thinks it is\nreligion. He thinks that God is preoccupied with such things; 'a full\nchoral High Mass, at nine o'clock, that's a thing to live and die for,' I\nhave heard him say. Of course it's a sort of idealism, but you must know\nwhat you are about, and what you are idealising: and you mustn't think that\nyour kind is better than any other kind of idealising.\"\n\nHe made a pause, and then held out his hand for the book.\n\n\"Now here is the same sort of intemperate rapture,\" he said. \"Look at this\nintroduction! 'It is his very self that his poems give, and the sharpest\njealousy of his name and fame is enkindled by them. Not to find him there,\nhis passion, endurance, faith, rapture, despair, is merely a confession of\nwant in ourselves.' That's not sane, you know--it's the intoxication of the\nCorybant! It isn't the man himself we want to fix our eyes upon. He felt\nthese things, no doubt: but we mustn't worship his raptures--we must\nworship what he worshipped. This sort of besotted agitation is little\nbetter than a dancing dervish. The poems are little sparks, struck out from\na scrap of humanity by some prodigious and glorious force: but we must\nworship the force, not the spark: the spark is only an evidence, a system,\na symbol if you like, of the force. And then see how utterly the man has\nlost all sense of proportion--he has spent hours and days in identifying\nwith uncommon patience the exact date of these tepid scraps, and he says he\nis content to have laid a single stone in the \"unamended, unabridged,\nauthentic temple\" of his idol's fame. That seems to me simply degrading:\nand then the portentous ass, whose review I read, says that if the editor\nhad done nothing else, he is sure of an honoured place for ever in the\nhierarchy of impeccable critics! And what is all this jabber about--a few\nrhymes which a man made when he was feeling a little off colour, and which\nhe did not think it worth while to publish!\n\n\"You mustn't get into this kind of a mess, my boy. The artist mustn't\nindulge in emotion for the sake of the emotion. 'The weakness of life,'\nsays this pompous ass, 'is that it deviates from art!' You might just as\nwell say that the weakness of food was that it deviated from a well-cooked\nleg of mutton! Art is just an attempt to disentangle something, to get at\none of the big constituents of life. It helps you to see clearly, not to\nconfuse one thing with another, not to be vaguely impressed--the hideous\ndanger of bookishness is that it is one of the blind alleys into which\npeople get. These two fellows, the editor and his critic, have got stuck\nthere: they can't see out: they think their little valley is the end of the\nworld. I expect they are both of them very happy men, as happy as a man who\ngoes to bed comfortably drunk. But, good God, the awakening!\" Father Payne\nrelapsed into a long silence, with knitted brows. I tried to start him\nafresh.\n\n\"But you often tell us to be serious, to be deadly earnest, about our\nwork?\" I said.\n\n\"Oh yes,\" said Father Payne, \"that's another matter. We have to work hard,\nand put the best of ourselves into what we do. I don't want you to be an\namiable dilettante. But I also want you to see past even the best art. You\nmustn't think that the stained-glass window is the body of heaven in its\nclearness. The sort of worshippers I object to are the men who shut\nthemselves up in a church, and what with the colour and the music and the\nincense-smoke, think they are in heaven already. It's an intoxication, all\nthat. I don't get you men to come here to make you drunk, but to get you to\nloathe drunkenness. God--that's the end of it all! God, who reveals Himself\nin beauty and kindness, and trustfulness, and charm and interest, and in a\nhundred pure and fine forces--yet each of them are but avenues which lead\nup to Him, the streets of the city, full of living water. But it is\nmovement I am in search of--and I would rather be drowned in the depth of\nthe sea than mislead anyone, or help him to sit still. I have made an awful\nrow about it all,\" said Father Payne, relapsing into a milder mood--\"But\nyou will forgive me, I know. I can't bear to see these worthy men blocking\nthe way with their unassailable, unabridged, authentic editions. They are\nlike barbed-wire entanglements: and the worst of it is that, in spite of\nall their holy air of triumph, they enjoy few things more than tripping\neach other up! They condemn each other to eternal perdition for misplacing\na date or misspelling a name. It's like getting into a bed of nettles to\nget in among these little hierophants. They remind me of the bishops at\nsome ancient Church Council or other who tore the clothes off two right\nreverend consultants, and literally pulled them limb from limb in the name\nof Christ. That's the end of these holy raptures, my boy! They unchain the\nbeast within.\"\n\n\n\nLXII\n\nOF CONSISTENCY\n\n\nThere had been a little vague talk about politics, and someone had quoted a\ndefinition of a true Liberal as a man who, if he had only to press a button\nin a dark room to annihilate all cranks, faddists, political quacks,\nextremists, propagandists, and nostrum-mongers, would not dream of doing\nso, as a matter of conscience, on the ground that everyone has a right to\nhold his own beliefs and to persuade the world to accept them if he can.\nFather Payne laughed at this; but Rose, who had been nettled, I fancy, at a\nlack of deference for his political experience, his father being a Unionist\nM.P., said loudly, \"Hear, hear! that's the only sort of Liberal whom I\nrespect.\"\n\nA look of sudden anger passed over Father Payne's face--unmistakable and\nuncompromising wrath. \"Come, Rose,\" he said, \"this isn't a political\nmeeting; and even if it were, why proclaim yourself as accepting a\ndefinition which is almost within the comprehension of a chimpanzee?\"\n\nThere was a faint laugh at this, but everyone had an uncomfortable sense of\nthunder in the air. Rose got rather white, and his nostrils expanded. \"I'm\nsorry I put it in that way,\" he said rather frostily, \"if you object. But I\nmean it, I think. I don't like diluted Liberalism.\"\n\n\"Yes, but you beg the question by calling it diluted,\" said Father Payne.\n\"If anyone had said that the only Tory he respected was a man who if he\ncould press a button in a still darker room, and by doing so bring it to\npass that all institutions on the face of the earth would remain immutably\nfixed for ever and ever, and would feel himself bound conscientiously to do\nit, you wouldn't accept that as a definition of Conservatism? These things\nare not hard and fast matters of principle--they are only tendencies.\nToryism is an instinct to trust custom and authority, Liberalism is an\ninstinct to welcome development and change. All that the definition of\nLiberalism which was quoted means is, that the Liberal has a deep respect\nfor freedom of opinion; and all that my grotesque definition of Toryism\nmeans is that a Tory prefers to trust a fixed tradition. But, of course,\nboth want a settled Government, and both have to recognise that the world\nand its conditions change. The Tory says, 'Look before you leap'; the\nLiberal says, 'Leap before you look.' But it is really all a matter of\ninfinite gradations, and what differentiates people is merely their idea of\nthe pace at which things can go and ought to go. Why should you say that\nyou can only respect a man who wants to go at sixty miles an hour, any more\nthan I should say I can only respect a man who wants to remain absolutely\nstill?\"\n\nRose had by this time recovered his temper, and said, \"It was rather crude,\nI admit. But what I meant was that if a man feels that all opinions are of\nequal value, he must give full weight to all opinions. The doctrinaire\nLiberal seems to me to be just as much inclined to tyrannise as the\ndoctrinaire Tory, and to use his authority on the side of suppression when\nit is convenient to do so, and against all his own principles.\"\n\n\"I don't think that is quite fair,\" said Father Payne. \"You must have a\nworking system; you can't try everyone's experiments. All that the Liberal\nsays is, 'Persuade us if you can.' Pure Liberalism would be anarchy, just\nas pure Toryism would be tyranny. Both are intolerable. But just as the\nLiberal has to compromise and say, 'This may not be the ultimate theory of\nthe Government, but meanwhile the world has to be governed,' so the Tory\nhas to compromise, if a large majority of the people say, 'We will not be\ngoverned by a minority for their interest; we will be governed for our\nown.' The parliamentary vote is just a way of avoiding civil war; you can't\nalways resort to force, so you resort to arbitration. But why the Liberal\nposition is on the whole the stronger is because it says frankly, 'If you\nTories can persuade the nation to ask you to govern it, we will obey you.'\nThe weakness of the Tory position is that it has to make exactly the same\nconcessions, while it claims to be inspired by a divine sort of knowledge\nas to what is just and right. I personally mistrust all intuitions which\nlead to tyranny. Of course, the weakness of the whole affair is that the\nman who believes in democracy has to assume that all have equal rights;\nthat would be fair enough if all people were born equal in character and\nability, and influence and wealth. But that isn't the case; and so the\nLiberal says, 'Democracy is a bad system perhaps, but it is the only\nsystem,' and it is fairer to maintain that everyone who gets into the world\nhas as good a right as anyone else to be there, than it is to say, 'Some\npeople have a right to manage the world and some have only a duty to obey.'\nBoth represent a side of the truth, but neither represents the whole truth.\nAt worst Liberalism is a combination of the weak against the strong, and\nToryism a combination of the strong against the weak! I personally wish the\nweak to have a chance; but what we all really desire is to be governed by\nthe wise and good, and my hope for the world is that the quality of it is\nimproving. I want the weak to become sensible and self-restrained, and the\nstrong to become unselfish and disinterested. It is generosity that I want\nto see increase--it is the finest of all qualities--the desire, I mean to\nserve others, to admire, to sympathise, to share, to rejoice, in other\npeople's happiness. That would solve all our difficulties.\"\n\n\"Yes, of course,\" said Rose. \"But I would like to go back again, and say\nthat what I was praising was consistency.\"\n\n\"But there is no such thing,\" said Father Payne, \"except in combination\nwith entire irrationality. One can't say at any time of one's life, 'I know\neverything worth knowing. I am in a position to form a final judgment.' You\ncan say, 'I will shut off all fresh light from my mind, and I will consider\nno further evidence,' but that isn't a thing to respect! I begin to\nsuspect, Rose, that why you praised the uncompromising Liberal, as you call\nhim, is because he is the only kind of opponent who isn't dangerous. A man\nwho takes up such a position as I have described is practically insane. He\nhas a fixed idea, which neither argument nor evidence can alter. The\nuncompromising man of fixed opinions, whatever those opinions may be, is\nalmost the only man I do not respect, because he is really the only\ninconsistent person. He says, 'I have formed an opinion which is based on\nexperience, and I shall not alter it.' That is tantamount to saying that\nyou have done with experience; it is a claim to have attained infallibility\nthrough fallible faculties. Where is the dignity of that? It's just a\ndeification of stupidity and stubbornness and insolence and complacency.\"\n\n\"But you must take your stand on _some_ certainties,\" said Rose.\n\n\"The fewer the better,\" said Father Payne. \"One may learn to discriminate\nbetween things, and to observe differences; but that is very different from\nsaying that you have got at the ultimate essence of any one thing. I am all\nfor clearness--we ought not to confuse things with each other, or use the\nsame names for different things; but I'm all against claiming absolute and\nimpeccable knowledge. It may be a comfortable system for a man who doesn't\nwant to be bothered; but he is only deferring the bother--he is like a man\nwho stays in bed because he doesn't like dressing. But it isn't a solution\nto stay in bed--it is only suspending the solution. No, we mustn't have any\nregard for human consistency--it's a very paltry attribute; it's the\nopposite of anthropomorphism. That makes out God to be in the image of man,\nbut consistency claims for man the privilege of God. And that isn't\nwholesome, you know, either for a man or his friends!\"\n\n\"I give up,\" said Rose: \"can nothing be logical?\"\n\n\"Hardly anything,\" said Father Payne, \"except logic itself. You have to\ncoin logical ideas into counters to play with. No two things, for instance,\ncan ever be absolutely equal, except imaginary equalities--and that's the\nmischief of logic applied to life, that it presumes an exact valuation of\nthe ideas it works with, when no two people's valuations of the same idea\nare identical, and even one person's valuation varies from time to time;\nand logic breeds a phantom sort of consistency which only exists in the\nimagination. You know the story of how Smith and Jones were arguing, and\nSmith said, 'Brown will agree with me': 'Yes,' said Jones triumphantly, 'he\nwill, but for my reasons!'\"\n\n\n\nLXIII\n\nOF WRENS AND LILIES\n\n\nIt was the first warm and sunny day, after a cold and cloudy spring: I took\na long and leisurely walk with Father Payne down a valley among woods, of\nwhich Father Payne was very fond. \"Almost precipitous for Northamptonshire,\neh?\" he used to say. I was very full of a book I had been reading, but I\ncould not get him to talk. He made vague and foolish replies, and said\nseveral times, \"I shall have to think that over, you know,\" which was, I\nwell knew, a polite intimation that he was not in a mood for talk. But I\npersisted, and at last he said, \"Hang it, you know, I'm not attending--I'm\nvery sorry--it isn't your fault--but there's such a lot going on\neverywhere.\" He quoted a verse of _The Shropshire Lad_, of which he\nwas very fond:\n\n  \"'Now, of my threescore years and ten,\n  Twenty will not come again,\n  And take from seventy springs a score,\n  It only leaves me fifty more'\";\n\nadding, \"That's the only instance I know of a subtraction sum made into\nperfect poetry--but it's the other way round, worse luck!\n\n  \"And _add_ to seventy springs a score,\n  _That_ only leaves me forty more!\"\n\nThe birds were singing very sweetly in the copses as we passed--\"That isn't\nart, I believe,\" said Father Payne. \"It's only the reproductive instinct, I\nam told! I wish it took such an artistic form in my beloved brothers in the\nLord! There,\" he added, stopping and speaking in a low tone; \"don't\nmove--there's a cock-wren singing his love-song--you can see his wings\nquivering.\" There followed a little tremolo, with four or five emphatic\nnotes for a finish. \"Now, if you listen, you'll hear the next wren answer\nhim!\" said Father Payne. In a moment the same little song came like an echo\nfrom a bush a few yards away. \"The wren sings in stricter time than any\nbird but the cuckoo,\" said Father Payne--\"four quavers to a bar. That's\nvery important! Those two ridiculous creatures will go on doing that half\nthe morning. They are so excited that they build sham nests, you know,\nabout now--quite useless piles of twigs and moss, not intended for eggs,\njust to show what they can do. But that little song! It has all the passion\nof the old chivalry in it--it is only to say, 'My Dulcinea is prettier,\nsweeter, brighter-eyed than yours!' and the other says, 'You wait till I\ncan get at you, and then we will see!' If they were two old knights, they\nwould fight to the death over it, till the world had lost a brave man, and\none of the Dulcineas was a hapless widow, and nothing proved. That's the\nsort of thing that men admire, full of fine sentiment. Why can't we leave\neach other alone? Why does loving one person make you want to fight\nanother? Just look at that wren: he's as full of joy and pride as he can\nhold: look at the angle at which he holds his tail: he feels the lord of\nthe world, sure enough!\"\n\nWe walked on, and I asked no more questions. \"There's a bit of colour,\"\nsaid Father Payne, pointing to a bare wood, all carpeted with green blades.\n\"That's pure emerald, like the seventh foundation of the city. Now, if I\nask you, who are a bit of a poet, what those leaves are, what do you say?\nYou say hyacinth or daffodil, or perhaps lily-of-the-valley. But what does\nthe simple botanist--that's me--say? Garlic, my boy, and nothing else! and\nyou had better not walk musing there, or you will come in smelling of\nspring onions, like a greengrocer's shop. So much for poetry! It's the\nloveliest green in creation, and it has a pretty flower too--but it's never\nonce mentioned in English poetry, so far as I know. And yet Keats had the\nface to say that Beauty was Truth and Truth Beauty! That's the way we play\nthe game.\"\n\nWe rambled on, and passed a pleasant old stone-built cottage in the wood,\nwith a tiny garden. \"It's a curious thing,\" said Father Payne, \"but in the\nspring I always want to live in all the houses I see. It's the nesting\ninstinct, no doubt. I think I could be very happy here, for instance--much\nhappier than in my absurd big house, with all you fellows about. Why did I\never start it? I ought to have had more sense. I want a cottage like this,\nand a little garden to work in, and a few books. I would live on bread and\ncold bacon and cheese and cabbages, with a hive of my own honey. I should\nget wise and silent, and not run on like this.\"\n\nA dog came out of the cottage garden, and followed us a little way. \"Do we\nbelong to your party, sir, or do you belong to ours?\" said Father Payne.\nThe dog put his head on one side, and wagged his tail. \"It appears I have\nthe pleasure of your acquaintance!\" said Father Payne to him. \"Very well,\nyou can set us on our way if you like!\" The dog gave a short shrill bark,\nand trotted along with us. When we got to the end of the lane, where it\nturned into the high road, Father Payne said to the dog, \"Now, sir, I\nexpect that's all the time you can spare this morning? You must go back and\nguard the house, and be a faithful dog. Duty first!\" The dog looked\nmournfully at us, and wagged his tail, but did not attempt to come farther.\nHe watched us for a little longer, but as we did not invite him to come on,\nhe presently turned round and trotted off home. \"Now, that's the sort of\ncase where I feel sentimental,\" said Father Payne. \"It's the sham sort of\npathos. I hate to see anyone disappointed. A person offering flowers in the\nstreet for sale, and people not buying them--the men in London showing off\nlittle toys by the pavement, which nobody wants--I can't bear that. It\nmakes me feel absurdly wretched to see anyone hoping to please, and not\npleasing. And if the people who do it look old and frail and unhappy, I'm\ncapable of buying the whole stock. The great uncomforted! It's silly, of\ncourse, and there is nothing in the world so silly as useless emotion! It\nis so easy to overflow with cheap benevolence, but the first step towards\nthe joyful wisdom is to be afraid of the emotion that costs you nothing:\nbut we won't be metaphysical to-day!\"\n\nPresently Father Payne insisted on sitting down in a sheltered place. He\nflung his hat off, and sate there, looking round him with a smile, his arms\nclasped round his big knees. \"Well,\" he said, \"it's a jolly place, the old\nworld, to be sure! Plenty of nasty and ugly things, I suppose, going on in\ncorners; but if you look round, they are only a small percentage of the\nhappy things. They don't force themselves upon the eye and ear, the beastly\nthings: and it's a stupid and faithless mistake to fix the imagination and\nthe reason too much upon them. We are all of us in a tight place\noccasionally, and we have to meet it as best we can. But I don't think we\ndo it any better by anticipating it beforehand. What is more, no one can\nreally help us or deliver us: we can be made a little more comfortable, and\nthat's all, by what they call cooling drinks, and flowers in a vase by the\nbedside. And it's a bad thing to get the misery of the world in a vague way\non our nerves. That's the useless emotion. We have got certain quite\ndefinite things to do for other people in our own circle, and we are bound\nto do them; we mustn't shirk them, and we mustn't shirk our own troubles,\nthough the less we bother about them the better. I am not at all sure that\nthe curse of the newspapers is not that they collect all the evils of the\nworld into a hideous posy, and thrust it under our nose. They don't collect\nthe fine, simple, wholesome things. Now you and I are better employed\nto-day in being agreeable to each other--at least you are being kind to me,\neven though I can't talk about that book--and in looking at the delightful\nthings going on everywhere--just think of all the happiness in the world\nto-day, symbolised by that ridiculous wren!--we are better employed, I say,\nthan if we were extending the commerce of England, or planning how to make\nwar, or scolding people in sermons about their fatal indifference to the\nthings that belong to their peace. Men and women must find and make their\nown peace, and we are doing both to-day. That awful vague sense of\nresponsibility, that desire to interfere, that wish that everyone else\nshould do uncomplaining what we think to be their duty--that's all my eye!\nIt is the kindly, eager, wholesome life which affects the world, wherever\nit is lived: and that is the best which most of us can do. We can't be\nalways fighting. Even the toughest old veteran soldier--how many hours of\nhis life has he spent actually under fire? No, I'm not forgetting the\nworkers either: but you need not tell me that they are all sick at heart\nbecause they are not dawdling in a country lane. It would bore them to\ndeath, and they can live a very happy life without it. That's the false\npathos again--to think that everyone who can't do as _we_ like must be\nmiserable. And anyhow, I have done my twenty-five years on the treadmill,\nand I am not going to pretend it was noble work, because it wasn't. It was\nuseless and disgraceful drudgery, most of it!\"\n\n\"Ah,\" I said, \"but that doesn't help me. You may have earned a holiday, but\nI have never done any real drudgery--I haven't earned anything.\"\n\n\"Be content,\" said Father Payne; \"take two changes of raiment! You have got\nyour furrow to plough--all in good time! You are working hard now, and\ndon't let me hear any stuff about being ashamed because you enjoy it! The\nreward of labour is life: to enjoy our work is the secret. If you could\npersuade people that the spring of life lies there, you would do more for\nthe happiness of man than by attending fifty thousand committees. But I\nwon't talk any more. I want to consider the lilies of the field, how they\ngrow. They don't do it every day!\"\n\n\n\nLXIV\n\nOF POSE\n\n\nSomeone said rashly, after dinner to-night, that the one detestable and\nunpardonable thing in a man was pose. A generalisation of this kind acted\non Father Payne very often like a ferret on a rabbit. He had been\nmournfully abstracted during dinner, shaking his head slowly, and turning\nhis eyes to heaven when he was asked leading questions. But now he said: \"I\ndon't think that is reasonable--you might as well say that you always\ndisliked length in a book. A book has got to be some length--it is as short\nas it's long. Of course, the moment you begin to say, 'How long this book\nis!' you mean that it is too long, and excess is a fault. Do you remember\nthe subject proposed in a school debating society, 'That too much athletics\nis worthy of our admiration'? Pose is like that--when you become conscious\nof pose it is generally disagreeable--that is, if it is meant to deceive:\nbut it is often amusing too, like the pose of the unjust judge in the\nparable, who prefaces his remarks by saying, 'Though I fear not God,\nneither regard man.'\"\n\n\"Oh, but you know what I mean, Father,\" said the speaker, \"the pose of\nknowing when you don't know, and being well-bred when you are snobbish, and\nbeing kind when you are mean, and so on.\"\n\n\"I think you mean humbug rather than pose,\" said Father Payne; \"but even\nso, I don't agree with you. I have a friend who would be intolerable, but\nfor his pose of being agreeable. He isn't agreeable, and he doesn't feel\nagreeable; but he behaves as if he was, and it is the only thing that makes\nhim bearable. What you really mean is the pose of superiority--the man\nwhose motives are always just ahead of your own, and whose taste is always\nslightly finer, and who knows the world a little better. But there is a lot\nof pose that isn't that. What _is_ pose, after all? Can anyone define\nit?\"\n\n\"It's an artist's phrase, I think,\" said Barthrop; \"it means a position in\nwhich you look your best.\"\n\n\"Like the Archbishop who was always painted in a gibbous attitude--first\nquarter, you know--with his back turned to you, and his face just visible\nover his lawn sleeve,\" said Father Payne, \"but that was in order to hide an\nexcrescence on his left cheek. Do you remember what Lamb said of Barry\nCornwall's wen on the nape of his neck? Some one said that Barry Cornwall\nwas thinking of having it cut off. 'I hope he won't do that,' said Lamb, 'I\nrather like it--it's redundant, like his poetry!' I rather agree with Lamb.\nI like people to be a little redundant, and a harmless pose is pure\nredundancy: it only means that a man is up to some innocent game or other,\nsome sort of mystification, and is enjoying himself. It's like a summer\nhaze over the landscape. Now, there's another friend of mine who was once\ncomplimented on his 'uplifted' look. Whenever he thinks of it, and that's\npretty often, he looks uplifted, like a bird drinking, with his eyes fixed\non some far-off vision. I don't mind that! It's only a wish to look his\nbest. It's partly a wish to give pleasure, you know. It's the same thing\nthat makes people wear their hair long, or dress in a flamboyant way. I'll\ntell you a little story. You know Bertie Nash, the artist. I met him once\nin a Post Office, and he was buying a sheet of halfpenny stamps. I asked\nhim if he was going to send out some circulars. He looked at me sadly, and\nsaid, 'No, I always use these--I can't use the penny stamps--such a crude\nred!' Now, he didn't do that to impress me: but it was a pose in a way, and\nhe liked feeling so sensitive to colour.\"\n\n\"But oughtn't one to avoid all that sort of nonsense?\" said some one; \"it's\nbetter surely to be just what you are.\"\n\n\"Yes, but what _are_ you, after all?\" said Father Payne; \"your moods\nvary. It would be hopeless if everyone tried to keep themselves down to\ntheir worst level for the sake of sincerity. The point is that you ought to\ntry to keep at your best level, even if you don't feel so. Hang it, good\nmanners are a pose, if it comes to that. The essence of good manners is\nsometimes to conceal what you are feeling. Is it a pose to behave amiably\nwhen you are tired or cross?\"\n\n\"No, but that is in order not to make other people uncomfortable,\" said\nVincent.\n\n\"Well, it's very hard to draw the line,\" said Father Payne: \"but what we\nreally mean by pose is, I imagine, the attempt to appear to be something\nwhich you frankly are not--and that is where the word has changed its\nsense, Barthrop. An artist's pose is something characteristic, which makes\na man look his best. What we generally mean by pose is the affecting a best\nwhich one never reaches. Come, tell a story, some one! That's the best way\nto get at a quality. Won't some one quote an illustration?\"\n\n\"What about my friend Pearce, the schoolmaster?\" said Vincent. \"He read a\nbook about schoolmastering, and he said he didn't think much of it. He\nadded that the author seemed only to be giving elegant reasons for doing\nthings which the born schoolmaster did by instinct.\"\n\n\"Well, that's not a bad criticism,\" said Father Payne; \"but it was pose if\nhe meant to convey that _he_ was a born schoolmaster. Is he one, by\nthe way?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Vincent, \"he is not: he is much ragged by the boys; but he\ncomforts himself by thinking that all schoolmasters are ragged, but that he\nis rather more successful than most in dealing with it. He has a great deal\nof moral dignity, has Pearce! I don't know where he would be without it!\"\n\n\"Well, there's an instance,\" said Father Payne, \"of a pose being of some\nuse. I think a real genuine pose often makes a man do better work in the\nworld than if he was drearily conscious of failure. It's a game, you\nknow--a dramatic game: and I think it's a sign of vitality and interest to\nwant to have a game. It's like the lawyer's clerk in _Our Mutual\nFriend_, when Mr. Boffin calls to keep an appointment, being the\nlawyer's only client; but the boy makes a show of looking it all up in a\nledger, runs his finger down a list of imaginary consultants, and says to\nhimself, 'Mr. Aggs, Mr. Baggs, Mr. Caggs, Mr. Daggs, Mr. Boffin--Yes, sir,\nthat is right!' Now there's no harm in that sort of thing--it's only a bit\nof moral dignity, as Vincent says. It's no good acquiescing in being a\nhumble average person--we must do better than that! Most people believe in\nthemselves in spite of abundant evidence to the contrary--but it's better\nthan disbelieving in yourself. That's abject, you know.\"\n\n\"But if you accept the principle of pose,\" said Lestrange, \"I don't see\nthat you can find fault with any pose.\"\n\n\"You might as well say,\" said Father Payne, \"that if I accept the principle\nof drinking alcohol, it doesn't matter how much I drink! Almost all\nmorality is relative--in fact, it is doubtful if it is ever absolute. The\nmischief of pose is not when it makes a man try to be or to appear at his\nbest: but when a man lives a thoroughly unreal life, taking a high line in\ntheory and never troubling about practice, then it's incredible to what\nlengths self-deception can go. Dr. Johnson said that he looked upon himself\nas a polite man! It is quite easy to get to believe yourself impeccable in\ncertain points: and as one gets older, and less assailable, and less liable\nto be pulled up and told the hard truth, it is astonishing how serenely you\ncan sail along. But that isn't pose exactly. It generally begins by a pose,\nand becomes simple imperviousness; and that is, after all, the danger of\npose,--that it makes people blind to the truth about themselves.\"\n\n\"I'm getting muddled,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"It _is_ rather muddling,\" said Father Payne, \"but, in a general way,\nthe point is this. When pose is a deliberate attempt to deceive other\npeople for your own credit, it is detestable. But when it is merely\nharmless drama, to add to the interest of life and to retain your own\nself-respect, it's an amiable foible, and need not be discouraged. The real\nquestion is whether it is assumed seriously, or whether it is all a sort of\njoke. We all like to play our little games, and I find it very easy to\nforgive a person who enjoys dressing up, so to speak, and making remarks in\ncharacter. Come, I'll confess my sins in public. If I meet a stranger in\nthe roads, I rather like to be thought a bluff and hearty English squire,\nstriding about my broad acres. I prefer that to being thought a retired\ncrammer, a dominie who keeps a school and calls it an academy, as Lord\nAuchinleck said of Johnson. But if I pretended in this house to be a kind\nof abbot, and glided about in a cassock with a gold cross round my neck,\nconferring a benediction on everyone, and then retired to my room to read a\nFrench novel and to drink whisky-and-soda, that would be a very unpleasant\npose indeed!\"\n\nWe all implored Father Payne to adopt it, and he said he would give it his\nserious consideration.\n\n\n\nLXV\n\nOF REVENANTS\n\n\nI was sitting in the garden one evening in summer with Father Payne and\nBarthrop. Barthrop was going off next day to Oxford, and was trying to\npersuade Father Payne to come too.\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"I simply couldn't! Oxford is the city east of the sun and\nwest of the moon--like as a dream when one awaketh! I don't hold with\nindulging fruitless sentiment, particularly about the past.\"\n\n\"But isn't it rather a pity?\" said Barthrop. \"After all, most emotions are\nuseless, if you come to that! Why should you cut yourself off from a place\nyou are so fond of, and which is quite the most beautiful place in England\ntoo? Isn't it rather--well,--weak?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"it's weak, no doubt! That is to say, if I were\ndifferently made, more hard-hearted, more sure of myself, I should go, and\nI should enjoy myself, and moon about, and bore you to death with old\nstories about the chimes at midnight--everybody would be a dear old boy or\na good old soul, and I should hand out tips, and get perfectly maudlin in\nthe evenings over a glass of claret. That's the normal thing, no\ndoubt--that's what a noble-minded man in a novel of Thackeray's would do!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Barthrop, \"you know best--but I expect that if you did take\nthe plunge and go there, you would find yourself quite at ease.\"\n\n\"I might,\" said Father Payne; \"but then I also might not--and I prefer not\nto risk it. You see, it would be merely wallowing in sentiment--and I don't\napprove of sentiment. I want my emotions to live with, not to bathe in!\"\n\n\"But you don't mind going back to London,\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"No,\" said Father Payne, \"but that bucks me up. I was infernally unhappy in\nLondon, and it puts me in a thoroughly sensible and cheerful mood to go and\nlook at the outside of my old lodgings, and the place where I used to\nteach, and to say to myself, 'Thank God, that's all over!' Then I go on my\nway rejoicing, and make no end of plans. But if I went to Oxford, I should\njust remember how happy and young I was; and I might even commit the folly\nof regretting the lapse of time, and of wishing I could have it back again.\nI don't think it is wholesome to do anything which makes one discontented,\nor anything which forces one to dwell on what one has lost. That doesn't\nmatter. Nothing really is ever lost, and it only takes the starch out of\none to think about it from that angle. I don't believe in the past. It\nseems unalterable, and I suppose in a sense it is so. But if you begin to\ndwell on unalterable things, you become a fatalist, and I'm always trying\nto get away from that. The point is that no one is unalterable, and, thank\nGod, we are always altering. To potter about in the past is like grubbing\nin an ash-heap, and shedding tears over broken bits of china. The plate, or\nwhatever it is, was pretty enough, and it had its place and its use; and\nwhen the stuff of which it is made is wanted again, it will be used again.\nIt is simply fatuous to waste time over the broken pieces of old dreams and\nvisions; and I mean to use my emotions and my imagination to see new dreams\nand finer visions. Perhaps the time will come when I can dream no more--the\nbrain gets tired and languid, no doubt. But even then I shall try to be\ninterested in what is going on.\"\n\n\"I see your point,\" said Barthrop; \"but, for the life of me, I can't see\nwhy the old place should not take its part in the new visions! When I go\ndown to Oxford I don't regret it. I go gratefully and happily about, and I\nlike to see the young men as jolly as I was, and as unaware what a good\ntime they are having. An old pal of mine is a Don, and he puts me up in\nCollege, and it amuses me to go into Hall, and to see some of the young\nlions at close quarters. It's all pure and simple refreshment.\"\n\n\"I've no doubt of it, old man,\" said Father Payne; \"and it's an excellent\nthing for you to go, and to draw fresh life from the ancient earth, like\nAntaeus. But I'm not made that way. I'm not loyal--that is to say, I am not\nfaithful to things simply because I once admired and loved them. If you are\nloyal in the right way, as you are, it's different. But these old\nattachments are a kind of idolatry to me--a false worship. I'm naturally\nfull of unreasonable devotion to the old and beautiful things; but they get\nround my neck like a mill-stone, and it is all so much more weight that I\nhave to carry. I sometimes go to see an old cousin of mine, a widow in the\ncountry, who lives entirely in the past, never allows anything to be\nchanged in the house, never talks about anyone who isn't dead or ill. The\nwoman's life is simply buried under old memories, mountains of old china,\nfamily plate, receipts for jam and marmalade--everything has got to be done\nas it was in the beginning. Now most of her friends think that very\nbeautiful and tender, and talk of the old-world atmosphere of the place;\nbut I think it simply a stuffy waste of time. I don't tell her so--God\nforbid! But I feel that she is lolling in an arbour by the roadside instead\nof getting on. It's innocent enough, but it does not seem to me beautiful.\"\n\n\"But I still don't see why you give way to the feeling,\" said Barthrop.\n\"I'm sure that if I felt as you do about Oxford, or any other place, you\nwould tell me it was my duty to conquer it.\"\n\n\"Very likely!\" said Father Payne. \"But doctors don't feel bound to take\ntheir own prescriptions! Everyone must decide for himself, and I know that\nI should fall under the luxurious enchantment. I should go into cheap\nraptures, I should talk about 'the tender grace of a day that is\ndead'--it's no use putting your head in a noose to see what being strangled\nfeels like.\"\n\n\"But do you apply that to everything,\" I said, \"old friendships, old\naffections, old memories? They seem to me beautiful, and harmlessly\nbeautiful.\"\n\n\"Well, if you can use them up quite freshly, and make a poetical dish out\nof them, for present consumption, I don't mind,\" said Father Payne. \"But\nthat isn't my way--I'm not robust enough. It's all I can do to take things\nin as they come along. Of course an old memory sometimes goes through one\nlike a sword, but I pull it out as quick as I can, and cast it away. I am\nnot going to dance with Death if I can help it! I have got my job cut out\nfor me, and I am not going to be hampered by old rubbish. Mind you, I don't\nsay that it was rubbish at the time; but I have no use for anything that I\ncan't use. Sentiment seems to me like letting valuable steam off. The\npeople I have loved are all there still, whether they are dead or alive.\nThey did a bit of the journey with me, and I enjoyed their company, and I\nshall enjoy it again, if it so comes about. But we have to live our life,\nand we can't keep more than a certain number of things in mind--that is an\nobvious limitation. Do you remember the old fairy story of the man who\ncarried a magic goose, and everyone who touched it, or touched anyone who\ntouched it, could not leave go, with the result that there was a long train\nof helpless people trotting about behind the man. I don't want to live like\nthat, with a long train of old memories and traditions and friendships and\nfurniture trailing helplessly behind me. My business is with my present\ncircle, my present work, and I can't waste my strength in drawing about\nvehicles full of goods. If anyone wants me, here I am, and I will do my\nbest to meet his wishes; but I am not going to be frightened by words like\nloyalty into pretending that I am going to stagger along carrying the whole\nof my past. No, my boy,\" said Father Payne, turning to Barthrop, \"you go to\nOxford, and enjoy yourself! But the old place is too tight about my heart\nfor me to put my nose into it. I'm a free man, and I am not going to be in\nbondage to my old fancies. You may give my love to Corpus and to Wadham\nGarden--it's all dreadfully bewitching--but I'm not going to run the risk\nof falling in love with the phantom of the past--that's _La Belle Dame\nSans Merci_ for me, and I'm riding on--I'm riding on. I won't have the\nhussy on my horse.\n\n  \"I set her on my pacing steed,\n    And nothing else saw all day long,\n  For sideways would she lean, and sing\n      A faery's song.\n\n  She found me roots of relish sweet,\n    And honey wild and manna dew.\n  And sure in language strange she said,\n      'I love thee true,'\"\n\nHe stopped a moment, as he often did when he made a quotation, overcome\nwith feeling. Then he smiled, and added half to himself, \"No; I should say,\nas Dr. Johnson said to the lady in Fleet Street; 'No, no; it won't do, my\ngirl!'\"\n\n\n\nLXVI\n\nOF DISCIPLINE\n\n\n\"Well, anyhow,\" said Vincent at dinner, commenting on something that had\nbeen said, \"you may not get anything else out of a disagreeable affair like\nthat, but you get a sort of discipline.\"\n\n\"Come, hold on,\" said Father Payne; \"that won't do, you know! Discipline,\nin my belief, is in itself a bad thing, unless you not only get something\nout of it, but, what is more, know what you get out of it. You can't\ndiscipline anyone, unless he desires it! Discipline means the repressing of\nsomething--you must be quite sure that it is worth repressing.\"\n\n\"What I mean,\" said Vincent, \"is that it makes you tougher and harder.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"but that is not a good thing in itself, unless\nthere is something soft and weak in you. Discipline may easily knock the\ngood things out of you. There's a general kind of belief that, because the\nworld is a rough place, where you may get tumbles and shocks without any\nfault of your own, therefore it is as well to have something rough about\nyou. I don't believe in that. The reason why a man gets roughly handled, in\nnine cases out of ten, is not because he is obnoxious or offensive, but\nbecause other people are harsh and indifferent. I want to apply discipline\nto the brutal, not to brutalise the sensitive. If discipline simply made\npeople brave and patient, it would be different, but it often makes them\ncallous and unpleasant.\"\n\n\"But doesn't everyone want discipline of some kind?\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Of the right kind, yes,\" said Father Payne. \"Some people want a good deal\nmore than they get, and some a certain amount less than they get. It's a\ndelicate business. It is not always fortifying. Take a simple case. A bold,\nbrazen sort of boy who is untruthful may want a whipping; but a timid and\nimaginative boy who is untruthful doesn't necessarily want a whipping at\nall--it makes him more, and not less, timid. One of the most ridiculous and\npersistent blunders in human life is to believe that a certain penalty is\ndivinely appointed for a certain offence. Our theory of punishment is all\nwrong; we inflict punishment, as a rule, not to improve an offender, but\nout of revenge, or because it gives us a comfortable sense of our own\njustice. And the whole difficulty of discipline is that it is apt to be\napplied in lumps, and distributed wholesale to people who don't all want\nthe same amount. We haven't really got very far away from the Squeers\ntheory of giving all the boys brimstone and treacle alike.\"\n\n\"Yes, but in a school,\" said Vincent, \"would not the boys themselves resent\nit, if they were punished differently for the same offence?\"\n\n\"That is to say,\" said Father Payne, \"that you are to treat boys, whom you\nare supposed to be training, in accordance with their ideas of justice, and\nnot in accordance with yours! Why should you confirm them in a wholly\nerroneous view of justice? Justice isn't a mathematical thing--or rather,\nit ought to be a mathematical thing, because you ought to take into account\na lot of factors, which you simply omit from your calculation. I believe\nvery little in punishment, to tell you the truth; it ought only to be\ninflicted after many warnings, when the offence is deliberately repeated. I\ndon't believe that the sane and normal person is a habitual and deliberate\noffender. The kind of absence of self-restraint which makes people unable\nto resist temptation, in any form, is a disease, and ought to be\nsegregated. I haven't the slightest doubt that we shall end by segregating\nor sterilising the person of criminal tendencies, which only means a total\ninability, in the presence of a temptation, to foresee consequences, and\nwhich gratifies a momentary desire.\"\n\n\"But apart from definite moral disease,\" said Vincent, \"isn't it a good\nthing to compel people, if possible, into a certain sort of habit? I am\nspeaking of faults which are not criminal--things like unpunctuality,\nlaziness, small excesses, mild untrustworthiness, and so forth.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't personally believe in coercive discipline at all,\" said\nFather Payne. \"I think it simply gets people out of shape. I believe in\ntrying to give people a real motive for self-discipline: take\nunpunctuality, for instance. The only way to make an unpunctual person\npunctual is to convince him that it is rude and unjust to keep other people\nwaiting. There is nothing sacred about punctuality in itself, unless some\none else suffers by your being unpunctual. If it comes to that, isn't it\nquite as good a discipline for punctual people to learn to wait without\nimpatience for the unpunctual? Supposing an unpunctual person were to say,\n'I do it on principle, to teach precise people not to mind waiting,' where\nis the flaw in that? Take what you call laziness. Some people work better\nby fits and starts, some do better work by regularity. The point is to know\nhow you work best. You must not make the convenience of average people into\na moral law. The thing to aim at is that a man should not go on doing a\nthing which he honestly believes to be wrong and hurtful, out of a mere\nhabit. Take the small excesses of which you speak--food, drink, sleep,\ntobacco. Some people want more of these things than others; you can't lay\ndown exact laws. A man ought to find out precisely what suits him best; but\nI'm not prepared to say that regularity in these matters is absolutely good\nfor everyone. The thing is not to be interfered with by your habits; and\nthe end of all discipline is, I believe, efficiency, vitality, and freedom;\nbut it is no good substituting one tyranny for another. I was reading the\nlife of a man the other day who simply could not believe that anyone could\nthink a thing wrong and yet do it. His biographer said, very shrewdly, that\nhis sense of sin was as dead as his ear for music--that he did not possess\neven the common liberty of right and wrong. That's a bad case of atrophy!\nYou must not, of course, be at the mercy of your moods, but you must not be\nat the mercy of your ethical habits either. Of the two, I am not sure that\nthe habit isn't the most dangerous.\"\n\n\"You seem to be holding a brief all round, Father,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"No, I am not doing that,\" said Father Payne, \"but my theory is this. You\nmust know, first of all, what you are aiming at, and you must apply your\ndiscipline sensibly to that. There are certain things in us which we know\nto be sloppy--we lie in bed, we dawdle, we eat too much, we moon over our\nwork. All that is obviously no good, and all sensible people try to pull\nthemselves up. When you have found out what suits you, do it boldly; but\nthe man who admires discipline for its own sake is a sort of\nhypochondriac--a medicine-drinker. I have a friend who says that if he\nstays in a house, and sees a bottle of medicine in a cupboard, he is always\ntempted to take a dose. 'Is it that you feel ill?' I once said to him.\n'No,' he said; 'but I have an idea that it might do me good.' The\ndisciplinarian is like that: he is always putting a little strain upon\nhimself, cutting off this and that, trying new rules, heading himself off.\nHe has an uneasy feeling that if he likes anything, it is a sort of sign\nthat he should abstain from it: he mistrusts his impulses and instincts. He\nthinks he is getting to talk too much, and so he practises holding his\ntongue. The truth is that he is suspicious of life. He is like the\nschoolmaster who says, 'Go and see what Jack is doing, and tell him not\nto!' Of course I am taking an extreme case, but there is a tendency in that\ndirection in many people. They think that strength means the power to\nresist, when it really means the power to flow. I do not think that people\nought to be deferential to criticism, timid before rebuke, depressed by\ndisapproval: and, on the whole, I believe that more harm is done by\nself-repression, obedience, meekness than by the opposite qualities. I want\nmen to live their own lives fearlessly--not offensively, of course--with a\ndue regard to other people's comfort, but without any regard to other\npeople's conventions. I believe in trusting yourself, on the whole, and\ntrusting the world. I do not think it is wholesome or brave to live under\nthe shadow of other people's fears or other people's convictions. All the\npeople, it seems to me, who have done anything for the world, have been the\npeople who have gone their own way; and I think that self-discipline, or\nexternal discipline meekly accepted, ends in a flattening out of men's\npower and character. Of course you fellows here are learning to do a\ndefinite technical thing--but you will observe that all the discipline here\nis defensive, and not coercive. I don't want you to take any shape or\nmould: I want you just to learn to do things in your own way. I don't ever\nwant you to interfere with each other's minds too much. I don't want to\ninterfere with your minds myself, except in so far as to help you to get\nrid of sloppiness and prejudices. Here, I mustn't go on--it's becoming like\na prospectus! but it comes to this, that I believe in the trained mind, and\nnot in the moulded mind; and I think that the moment discipline ceases to\ntrain strength, and begins to mould weakness, it's a thoroughly bad thing.\nNo one can be artificially protected from life without losing life--and\nlife is what I am out for.\"\n\n\n\nLXVII\n\nOF INCREASE\n\n\nI did not hear the argument, but I heard Vincent say to Father Payne: \"Of\ncourse I couldn't do that--it would have been so inconsistent.\"\n\n\"Oh! consistency's a very cheap affair,\" said Father Payne; \"it is mostly a\nblend of vanity and slow intelligence.\"\n\n\"But one must stick to _something_,\" said Vincent. \"There's nothing so\ntiresome as never knowing how a man is going to behave.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Father Payne, \"inconsistency isn't a virtue--it is\ngenerally the product of a quick and confused intelligence. But consistency\nought not to be a principle of thought or action--you ought not to do or\nthink a thing simply because you have thought it before--that is mere\nlaziness! What one wants is a consistent sort of progress--you ought not to\nstay still.\"\n\n\"But you must have principles,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Yes, but you must expect to change them,\" said Father Payne. \"Principles\nare only deductions after all: and to remain consistent as a rule only\nmeans that you have ceased to do anything with your experience, or else it\nmeans that you have taken your principles second-hand. They ought to be\nliving things, yielding fruits of increase. I don't mean that you should be\nat the mercy of a persuasive speaker, or of the last book you have\nread--but, on the other hand, to meet an interesting man or to read a\nsuggestive book ought to modify your views a little. You ought to be\nelastic. The only thing that is never quite the same is opinion; and to be\nholding a ten years' old opinion simply means that you are stranded.\nThere's nothing worse than to be high and dry.\"\n\n\"But isn't it worse still,\" said Vincent, \"to see so many sides to a\nquestion that you can't take a definite part?\"\n\n\"I don't feel sure,\" said Father Payne. \"I know that the all-round\nsympathiser is generally found fault with in books; but it is an uncommon\ntemperament, and means a great power of imagination. I am not sure that the\nfaculty of taking a side is a very valuable one. People say that things get\ndone that way; but a great many things get done wrong, and have to be\nundone. There is no blessing on the palpably one-sided people. Besides,\nthere is a great movement in the world now towards approximation.\nMajorities don't want to bully minorities. Persecution has gone out. People\nare beginning to see that principles are few and interpretations many. I\nbelieve, as a matter of fact, that we ought always to be simplifying our\nprinciples, and getting them under a few big heads. Besides, you do not\nconvert people by hammering away at principles. I always like the story of\nthe Frenchman who said to his opponent, 'Come, let us go for a little walk,\nand see if we can disagree.'\"\n\n\"I don't exactly see what he meant,\" said Vincent.\n\n\"Why, he meant,\" said Father Payne, \"that if they could bring their minds\ntogether, they would find that there wasn't very much to quarrel about. But\nI don't believe in arguing. I don't think opinion changes in that way. I\nfancy it has tides of its own, and that ideas appear in numbers of minds\nall over the world, like flowers in spring.\n\n\"But how is one ever to act at all,\" said Vincent, \"if one is always to be\nfeeling that a principle may turn out to be nonsense after all?\"\n\n\"Well, I think action is mainly a matter of instinct,\" said Father Payne.\n\"But I don't really believe in taking too diffuse a view of things in\ngeneral. Very few of us are strong enough and wise enough, let me say, to\nread the papers with any profit. The newspapers emphasize the disunion of\nthe world, and I believe in its solidarity. Come, I'll tell you how I think\npeople ought really to live, if you like. I think a man ought to live his\nown life, without attempting too much reference to what is going on in the\nworld. I think it becomes pretty plain to most of us, by the time we reach\nyears of discretion, what we can do and what we cannot. I don't mean that\nlife ought to be lived in blank selfishness, without reference to anyone\nelse. Most of us can't do that, anyhow--it requires extraordinary\nconcentration of will. But I think that our lives ought to be\nintensive--that is to say, I don't think we ought to concern ourselves with\ngetting rid of our deficiencies, so much as by concentrating and\nemphasizing our powers and faculties. We ought all of us to have a certain\ncircle in mind--I believe very much in _circles_. We are very much\nlimited, and our power of affecting people for good and evil is very small;\nour chance of helping is small. The moment we try to extend our circle very\nmuch, to widen our influence, we become like a juggler who keeps a dozen\nplates spinning all at once--it is mere legerdemain. But we most of us live\nreally with about a score of people. We can't choose our circle altogether,\nand there are generally certain persons in it whom we should wish away. I\nthink we ought to devote ourselves to our work, whatever it is, and outside\nof that to getting a real, intimate, and vital understanding with the\npeople round us. That is a problem which is amply big enough for most of\nus. Then I think we ought to go seriously to work, not arguing or finding\nfault, not pushing or shoving people about, but just living on the finest\nlines we can. The only real chance of converting other people to our\nprinciples or own ideas, is to live in such a way that it is obvious that\nour ideas bring us real and vital happiness. You may depend upon it, that\nis the only way to live--the _positive_ way. We simply must not\nquarrel with our associates: we must be patient and sympathetic and\nimaginative.\"\n\n\"But are there no exceptions?\" said I. \"I have heard you say that a man\nmust be prepared to lose friends on occasions.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Father Payne, \"the circle shifts and changes a little, no\ndoubt. I admit that it becomes clear occasionally that you cannot live with\na particular person. But if you have alienated him or her by your\ncensoriousness and your want of sympathy, you have to be ashamed of\nyourself. If it is the other way, and you are being tyrannised over,\ndeflected, hindered, then it may be necessary to break away--though, mind\nyou, I think it is finer still if you do not break away. But you must have\nyour liberty, and I don't believe in sacrificing that, because then you\nlive an unreal life--and, whatever happens, you must not do that.\"\n\n\"But what is to be done when people are tied up by relationships, and can't\nget away?\" said I.\n\n\"Yes, there are such cases,\" said Father Payne; \"I don't deny it. If there\nis really no escape possible, then you must tackle it, and make the finest\nthing you can out of the situation. Fulness of life, that is what we must\naim at. Of course people are hemmed in in other ways too--by health,\npoverty, circumstances of various kinds. But, however small your saucepan\nis, it ought to be on the boil.\"\n\n\"But can people _make_ themselves active and hopeful?\" I said. \"Isn't\nthat just the most awful problem of all, the listlessness which falls on\nmany of us, as the limitations draw round and the net encloses us?\"\n\n\"You must kick out for all you are worth,\" said Father Payne. \"I fully\nadmit the difficulty. But one of the best things in life is the fact that\nyou can always do a little better than you expect. And then--you mustn't\nforget God.\"\n\n\"But a conscious touch with God?\" I said. \"Isn't that a rare thing?\"\n\n\"It need not be,\" said Father Payne, very seriously. \"If there is one thing\nwhich experience has taught me, it is this--that if you make a signal to\nGod, it is answered. I don't say that troubles roll away, or that you are\nmade instantly happy. But you will find that you can struggle on. People\nsimply don't try that experiment. The reason why they do not is, I honestly\nbelieve, because of our services, where prayer is made so ceremoniously and\nelaborately that people get a false sense of dignity and reverence. It is a\nvery natural instinct which made the disciples say, 'Teach us to pray,' and\nI do not think that ecclesiastical systems do teach people to pray--at\nleast the examples they give are too intellectual, too much concerned with\ngood taste. A prayer need not be a verbal thing--the best prayers are not.\nIt is the mute glance of an eye, the holding out of a hand. And if you ask\nme what can make people different, I say it is not will, but prayer.\"\n\n\n\nLXVIII\n\nOF PRAYER\n\n\nI was walking about the garden on a wintry Sunday with Father Payne. He had\na particular mood on Sundays, I used to think, which made itself subtly\nfelt--a mood serious, restrained, and yet contented. I do not remember how\nthe subject came up, but he said something about prayer, and I replied:\n\n\"I wish you would tell me exactly what you feel about prayer, Father. I\nnever quite understand. You always speak as if it played a great part in\nyour life, and yet I never am sure what exactly it means to you.\"\n\n\"You might as well say,\" he said, smiling, \"that you never felt quite sure\nwhat breakfast meant to me.\"\n\nHe stopped and looked at me for a moment. \"Do we know what anything\n_means_? We know what prayer _is_, at any rate--one of the\ncommonest and most natural of instincts. What is your difficulty?\"\n\n\"Oh, the usual one,\" I said, \"that if the God to whom we pray is the Power\nwhich puts into our minds good desires, and knows not only what is passing\nin our thoughts, but the very direction which our thoughts are going to\ntake--reads us, in fact, like a book, as they say--what, then, is the\nobject or purpose of setting ourselves to pray to a Power that knows our\nprecise range of thoughts, and can disentangle them all far better than we\ncan ourselves?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Father Payne, \"that is pure fatalism. If you carry that on a\nlittle further it means all absence of effort. You might as well say, 'I\nwill take no steps to provide myself with food--if God is All-Powerful, and\nsends me a good appetite, it is His business to satisfy it!\"\n\n\"Oh,\" I said, \"I see that. But if I set about providing myself with\nbreakfast, I know exactly what I want, and have a very fair chance of\nobtaining it. But the essence of prayer is that you must not expect to get\nyour desires fulfilled.\"\n\n\"I certainly do not pretend,\" said he, \"that prayer is a mechanical method\nof getting things; it isn't a _substitute_ for effort and action. Nor\ndo I think that God simply withholds things unless you ask for them, as a\ndog has to beg for a piece of biscuit. I don't look upon prayer as the mere\nformulating of a list of requests; and I dislike very much the way some\ngood people have of getting a large number of men and women to pray for the\nsame thing, as if you were canvassing for votes. And yet I believe that\nprayers have a way of being granted. Indeed, I think that both the strength\nand the danger of prayer lies in the fact that people do very much tend to\nget what they have set their hearts upon. A recurrent prayer for a definite\nthing is often a sign that a man is working hard to secure it. It is rather\nperilous to desire definite things too definitely, not because you are\ndisappointed, but because you are often successful in attaining them.\"\n\n\"Then that would be a reason for not praying,\" I said.\n\nFather Payne gave one of his little frowns, which I knew well. \"I'm not\narguing for the sake of arguing, Father,\" I said; \"I really want to\nunderstand. It seems to me such a muddle.\"\n\nThe little frown passed off in a smile. \"Yes, it isn't a wholly rational\nthing,\" said Father Payne, \"but it's a natural and instinctive thing. To\nforbid prayer seems to me like forbidding hope and love. Prayer seems to me\njust a mingling of hope and desire and love and confidence. It is more like\ntalking over your plans and desires with God. It all depends upon whether\nyou say, 'My will be done,' which is the wrong sort of prayer, or 'Thy will\nbe done,' which is the right sort of prayer, and infinitely harder. I don't\nmind telling you this, that my prayers are an attempt to put myself in\ntouch with the Spirit of God. I believe in God; I believe that He is trying\nvery hard to bring men and women to live in a certain way--the right,\njoyful, beautiful way. He sees it clearly enough; but we are so tangled up\nwith material things that we don't see it clearly--we don't see where our\nhappiness lies; we mistake all kinds of things--pleasures, schemes,\nsuccesses, comforts, desires--for happiness; and prayer seems to me like\nopening a sluice and letting a clear stream gush through. That's why I\nbelieve one must set oneself to it. The sluice is not always open--we are\nlazy, cowardly, timid; or again, we are confident, self-satisfied, proud of\nour own inventiveness and resourcefulness. I don't know what the will is or\nwhat its limitations are; but I believe it has a degree of liberty, and it\ncan exercise that liberty in welcoming God. Of course, if we think of God\nas drearily moral, harsh, full of anger and disapproval, we are not likely\nto welcome Him; but if we feel Him full of eagerness and sympathy, of\n'comfort, light, and fire of love,' as the old hymn says, then we desire\nHis company. You have to prepare yourself for good company, you know. It is\na bit of a strain; and I feel that the people who won't pray are like the\nlazy and sloppy people who won't put themselves out or forego their habits\nor take any trouble to receive a splendid guest. The difference is that the\nsplendid guest is not to be got every day, while God is always glad of your\ncompany, I think.\"\n\n\"Then with you prayer isn't a process of asking?\" I said. \"But isn't it a\nway of changing yourself by simply trying to get your ideals clear?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Father Payne; \"it's just drawing water from a well when you\nare thirsty. Of course you must go to the well, and let down the bucket. It\nisn't a mere training of imagination; it is helping yourself to something\nactually there. The more you pray, the less you ask for definite things.\nYou become ashamed to do that. Do you remember the story of Hans Andersen,\nwhen he went to see the King of Denmark? The King made a pause at one point\nand looked at Andersen, and Andersen said afterwards that the King had\nevidently expected him to ask for a pension. 'But I could not,' he said. 'I\nknow I was a fool, but my heart would not let me.' One can trust God to\nknow one's desires, and one's heart will not let one ask for them. It is\nHis will that you want to know--your own will that you want to surrender.\nStrength, clearsightedness, simplicity--those are what flow from contact\nwith God.\"\n\n\"But what do you make,\" I said, \"of contemplative Orders of monks and nuns,\nwho say that they specialise in prayer, and give up their whole time and\nenergy to it?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Father Payne, \"it's a harmless and beautiful life; but it\nseems to me like abandoning yourself to one kind of rapture. Prayer seems\nto me a part of life, not the whole of it. You have got to use the strength\ngiven you. It is given you to do business with. It seems to me as if a man\nargued that because eating gave him strength, it must be a good thing to\neat; and that he would therefore eat all day long. It isn't the gaining of\nstrength that is desirable, but the using of strength. You mustn't sponge\nupon God, so to speak. And I don't honestly believe in any life which takes\nyou right away from life. Life is the duty of all of us; and prayer seems\nto me just one of the things that help one to live.\"\n\n\"But intercession,\" I said, \"is there nothing in the idea that you can pray\nfor those who cannot or will not pray for themselves?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Father Payne. \"If you love people and wish them well,\nand hate the thought of the evils which befall the innocent, and the\noverflowings of ungodliness, you can't keep that out of your prayers, of\ncourse. But I doubt very much whether one can do things vicariously. It\nseems to land you in difficulties; if you say, for instance, 'I will\ninflict sufferings upon myself, that others may be spared suffering,'\nlogically you might go on to say, 'I will enjoy myself that my enjoyment\nmay help those who cannot enjoy.' One doesn't really know how much one's\nown experience does help other people. Living with others certainly does\naffect them, but I don't feel sure that isolating oneself from others does.\nI think, on the whole, that everyone must take his place in a circle. We\nare limited by time and space and matter, you know. You can know and love a\ndozen people; you can't know and love a hundred thousand to much purpose. I\nremember when I was a boy that there was a run on a Bank where we lived.\nTwo of the partners went there, and did what they could. The third, a pious\nfellow, shut himself up in his bedroom and prayed. The Bank was saved, and\nhe came down the next day and explained his absence by saying he had been\ngiving them the most effectual help in his power. He thought, I believe,\nthat he had saved the Bank; I don't think the other two men thought so, and\nI am inclined to side with them. Mind, I am not deriding the idea of a\nvocation for intercessory prayer. I don't know enough about the forces of\nthe world to do that. It's a harmless life, a beautiful life, and a hard\nlife too, and I won't say it is useless. But I am not convinced of its\nusefulness. It seems to me on a par with the artistic life, a devotion to a\nbeautiful dream, I don't, on the whole, believe in art for art's sake, and\nI don't think I believe in prayer for prayer's sake. But I don't propound\nmy ideas as final. I think it possible--I can't say more--that a life\ndevoted to the absorption of beautiful impressions may affect the\natmosphere of the world--we are bound up with each other behind the scenes\nin mysterious ways--and similarly I think that lives of contemplative\nprayer _may_ affect the world. I should not attempt to discourage\nanyone from such a vocation. But it can't be taken for granted, and I think\nthat a man must show cause, apart from mere inclination, why he should not\nlive the common life of the world, and mingle with his fellows.\"\n\n\"Then prayer, you think,\" I said, \"is to you just one of the natural\nprocesses of life?\"\n\n\"That's about it!\" said Father Payne. \"It seems to me as definite a way of\ngetting strength and clearness of view and hope and goodness, as eating and\nsleeping are ways of getting strength of another kind. To neglect it is to\nrun the risk of living a hurried, muddled, self-absorbed life. I can't\nexplain it, any more than I can explain eating or breathing. It just seems\nto me a condition of fine life, which we can practise to our help and\ncomfort, and neglect to our hurt. I don't think I can say more about it\nthan that, my boy!\"\n\n\n\nLXIX\n\nTHE SHADOW\n\n\nOne evening, when I was sitting with Barthrop in the smoking-room and the\nothers had gone away, he said to me suddenly, \"There's something I want to\nspeak to you about: I have been worrying about it for some little time, and\nit's a bad thing to do that. I daresay it is all nonsense, but I am\nbothered about the Father. I don't think he is well, and I don't think he\nthinks he is well. He is much thinner, you know, and he isn't in good\nspirits. I don't mean that he isn't cheerful in a way, but it's an effort\nto him. Now, have you noticed anything?\"\n\nI thought for a minute, and then I said, \"No, I don't think I have! He's\nthinner, of course, but he joked to me about that--he said he had turned\nthe corner, as people do, and he wasn't going to be a pursy old party when\nhe got older. Now that you mention it, I think he has been rather silent\nand abstracted lately. But then he often is that, you know, when we are all\ntogether. And in his private talks with me--and I have had several\nlately--he has seemed to me more tender and affectionate than usual even;\nnot so amusing, perhaps, not bubbling over with talk, and a little more\nserious. If I have thought anything at all, it simply is that he is getting\nolder.\"\n\n\"It may simply be that, of course,\" said Barthrop, looking relieved. \"I\nsuppose he is about fifty-eight or so? But I'll tell you something else. I\nwent in to speak to him two or three days ago. Well you know how he always\nseems to be doing something? He is never unoccupied indoors, though he has\ncertainly seen less of everyone's work of late--but that morning I found\nhim sitting in his chair, looking out of the window, doing nothing at all;\nand I didn't like his look. How can I put it? He looked like a man who was\ngoing off on a long journey--and he was tired and worn-looking--I have\nnever seen him looking _worn_ before--as if there was a strain of some\nkind. There were lines about his face I hadn't noticed before, and his eyes\nseemed larger and brighter. He said to me, half apologetically, 'Look here,\nthis won't do! I'm getting lazy,' Then he went on, 'I was thinking, you\nknow, about this place: it has been an experiment, and a good and happy\nexperiment. But it hasn't founded itself, as I hoped,' I asked him what\nexactly he meant, and he laughed, and said: 'You know I don't believe in\nfounding things! A place like this has got to grow up of itself, and have a\nlife of its own. I don't think the place has got that. I put a seed or two\ninto the ground, but I'm not sure that they have quickened to life.' Then\nhe went on in a minute: 'You will know I don't say this conceitedly, but I\nthink it has all depended too much on me, and I know I'm only a tiller of\nthe ground. I don't believe I can give life to a society--I can keep it\nlively, but that's not the same thing. Something has come of my plan, to be\nsure, but it isn't going to spread like a tree--and I hoped it might! But\nit's no good being disappointed--that's childish--you can't do what you\nmean to do in this world, only what you are meant to do. I expect the\nweakness has been that I meddle too much--I don't leave things alone\nenough. I trust too much to myself, and not enough to God. It's been too\nmuch a case of \"See me do it!\"--as the children say.'\"\n\n\"What did you say?\" I said.\n\n\"Nothing at all,\" said Barthrop; \"that's where I fail. I can't rise to an\nemergency. I murmured something about our all being very grateful to\nhim--it was awfully flat! If I could but have told him how I cared for him,\nand how splendid he had always been! But those perfectly true, sincere,\nfine things are just what one can't say, unless one has it all written down\non paper. I wish he would see a doctor, or go away for a bit; but I can't\nadvise him to do that--he hates a fuss about anything, and most of all\nabout health. He says you ought never to tell people how you are feeling,\nbecause they have to pretend to be interested!\"\n\nI smiled at this, and said, \"I don't think there really is much the matter!\nPeople can't be always at the top of their game, and he takes a lot out of\nhimself, of course. He's always giving out!\"\n\n\"He is indeed,\" said Barthrop; \"but I won't say more now. I feel better for\nhaving told you. Just you keep your eyes open--but, for Heaven's sake,\ndon't watch him--you know how sharp he is.\"\n\nI went off a little depressed by the talk, because it seemed so impossible\nto connect anything but buoyant health with Father Payne. I did not see him\nat breakfast, but he came in to lunch; and I saw at once that there was\nsomething amiss with him. He ate little, and he looked tired. However, as I\nrose to go--we did not, as I have said, talk at lunch--he just beckoned to\nme, and pointed with his finger in the direction of his room. It was a\nwell-known gesture if he wanted to speak to one. I went there, and stood\nbefore the fire surveying the room, which looked unwontedly tidy, the table\nbeing almost free from books and papers. But there lay a long folded folio\nsheet on the table, a legal document, and it gave me a chill to see the\nword _Will_ on the top of it. Father Payne came in a moment later with\na smile. Then somehow divining, as he so often did, exactly what had\nhappened, he said, as if answering an unspoken question, \"Yes, that's my\nwill! I have been, in fact, making it. It's a wholesome occupation for an\nelderly man. But I only wanted to know if you would come for a stroll? Yes?\nThat's all right! You are sure I'm not interfering with any arrangement?\"\n\nIt was a late autumn day in November: the air was cold and damp, the roads\nwet, the hedges hung with moisture and the leaves were almost gone from the\ntrees. \"Most people don't like this sort of day,\" said Father Payne, as we\nwent out of the gate; \"but I like it even better than spring. Everything\nseems going contentedly to sleep, like a tired child. All the plants are\nwithdrawing into themselves, into the inner life. They have had a pleasant\ntime, waving their banners about--but they have no use for them any more.\nThey are all going to be alone for a bit. Do you remember that epithet of\nKeats, about the 'cool-rooted' flowers? That's a bit of genius. That's what\nmakes the difference between people, I think--whether they are cool-rooted\nor not.\"\n\nHe walked more slowly than was his wont to-day, but he seemed in equable\nspirits, and made many exclamations of delight. He said suddenly, \"Do you\nknow one of the advantages of growing old? It is that if you have an\nunpleasant thing ahead of you, instead of shadowing the mind, as it does\nwhen you are young, it gives a sort of relish to the intervening time. I\ncan even imagine a man in the condemned cell, till the end gets close,\nbeing able to look ahead to the day, when he wakes in the morning--the\nsquare meals, the pipe--I believe they allow them to smoke--the talk with\nthe chaplain. It's always nice to feel it is your duty to talk about\nyourself, and to explain how it all came about, and why you couldn't do\notherwise. Now I have got to go up to town on some tiresome business at the\nend of this week, and I'm going to enjoy the days in between.\"\n\nHe stopped and spoke with all his accustomed good humour to half a dozen\npeople whom we met. Then he said to me: \"Do you know, my boy, I want to\ntell you that you have been one of my successes! I did not honestly think\nyou would buckle to as you have done, and I don't think you are quite as\nsympathetic as I once feared!\" He gave me a smile as he said it, and went\non: \"You know what I mean--I thought you would reflect people too much, and\nbe too responsive to your companions. And you have been a great comfort to\nme, I don't deny it. But I thankfully discern a good hard stone in the\nmiddle of all the juiciness, with a tight little kernel inside it--I'll\nquote Keats again, and say 'a sweet-hearted kernel,' Mind, I don't say you\nwill do great things. You are facile, and you see things very quickly and\naccurately, and you have a style. But I don't think you have got the tragic\nquality or the passionate gift. You are too placid and contented--but you\nspin along, and I think you see something of the reality of things. You\nwill be led forth beside the waters of comfort--you will lack nothing--your\ncup will be full. But the great work is done by people with large empty\ncups that take some filling--the people who are given the plenteousness of\ntears to drink. It's a bitter draught--you won't have to drink it. But I\nthink you are on right and happy lines, and you must be content with good\nwork. Anyhow, you will always write like a gentleman, and that's a good\ndeal to say.\"\n\nThis pleased and touched me very deeply. I began to murmur something. \"Oh\nno,\" said Father Payne, \"you needn't! A boy at a prize-giving isn't\nrequired to enter into easy talk with the presiding buffer! I have just\nhanded you your prize.\"\n\nHe talked after this lightly of many small things--about Barthrop in\nparticular, and asked me many questions about him. \"I am afraid I haven't\nallowed him enough initiative,\" said Father Payne; \"that's a bad habit of\nmine. But if he had really had it, we should have squabbled--he's not quite\nfiery enough, the beloved Barthrop! He's awfully judicious, but he must\nhave a lead. He's a submissioner, I'm afraid, as a witty prelate once said!\nYou know the two sides of the choir, _Decani_ and _Cantoris_ as\nthey are called. _Decani_ always begin the psalms and say the\nversicles, _Cantoris_ always respond. People are always one or the\nother, and Barthrop is a born _Cantoris_.\"\n\nWe did not go very far, and he soon proposed to return. But just as we were\nnearing home, he said, \"I think the hardest thing in life to\nunderstand--the very hardest of all--is our pleasure in the sense of\npermanence! It's the supreme and constant illusion. I can't think where it\ncomes from, or why it is there, or what it is supposed to do for us. Do you\nremember,\" he said with a smile, \"how Shelley, the most hopelessly restless\nof mortals, whenever he settled anywhere, always wrote to his friends that\nhe had established himself _for ever_? It's the instinct which is most\ncontrary to reason. Everything contradicts it--we are not the same people\nfor five minutes together, nothing that we see or hear or taste\ncontinues--and yet we feel eternally and immutably fixed; and instead of\nliving each day as if it was our last--which is a thoroughly bad piece of\nadvice--we live each day as if it was one of an endlessly revolving chain\nof days, and as if we were going to live to all eternity--as indeed I\nbelieve we are! Probably the reason for it is to give us a hint that we\n_are_ immortal, after all, though we are tempted to think that all\nthings come to an end. It is strange to think that nothing on which our\neyes rest at this moment is the same as it was when we started our\nwalk--the very stones of the wall are altered. It ought to make us ashamed\nof pretending that we are anything but ourselves; and yet we do change a\nlittle, thank God, and for the better. I've a fancy--though I can't say\nmore than that of that we aren't meant to _know_ anything: and I think\nthat the times when we know, or think we know, are the times when we stand\nstill. That seems hard!\"--he broke off with an unusual emotion: but he was\nhimself again in a moment, and said, \"I don't know why--it's the weather,\nperhaps: but I feel inclined to do nothing but thank people all day, like\nthe man in _Happy Thoughts_ you know, who came down late for breakfast\nand could say nothing but 'Thanks, thanks, awfully thanks--thanks (to the\nbutler), thanks (to the hostess)--thanks, thanks!' but it means\nsomething--a real emotion, though grotesquely phrased!--I've enjoyed this\nbit of a walk, my boy!\"\n\n\n\nLXX\n\nOF WEAKNESS\n\n\nThis was, I think, the last talk I had with Father Payne before he left us,\nso suddenly and so quietly, for his last encounter.\n\nIt was a calm and sunny day, though the air was cold and fresh. I finished\nsome work I was doing, a little after noonday, and I walked down the\ngarden. I was on the grass, and turning the corner of a tiny thicket of\nyews and hollies, where there was a secluded seat facing the south, I saw\nthat Father Payne was sitting there in the sun alone. I came up to him, and\nwas just about to speak, when I saw that his eyes were closed, though his\nlips were moving. He sat in an attitude of fatigue and lassitude, I\nthought, with one leg crossed over the other and his arm stretched out\nalong the seat-back. I would have stolen away again unobserved, when he\nopened his eyes and saw me; he gave me one of his big smiles, and motioned\nto me to come and sit down beside him. I did so, and he put his arm through\nmine. I said something about disturbing him, and he said, \"Not a bit of\nit--I shall be glad of your company, old boy.\" Presently he said, \"Do you\nknow what it is to feel _sad_? I suppose not. I don't mean troubled\nabout anything in particular--there's nothing to be troubled about--but\nsimply sad, in a causeless, listless way?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think so,\" I said. He smiled at that, and said, \"Then you\n_don't_ know what I mean, old man! You would be quite sure, if you had\never felt it. I mean a sense of feebleness and wretchedness, as if there\nwas much to be done, and no desire to do it--as if your life had been a\nlong mistake from beginning to end. Of course it is quite morbid and\nunreal, I know that! It is a temptation of the devil, sure enough, and it\nis an uncommonly effective one. He gets inside the weakness of our mortal\nnature, and tells us that we have come down to the truth at last. It's all\nnonsense, of course, but it's infernally ingenious nonsense. He brings all\nthe failures of the world before your mind and heart, the thought of all\nthe people who have fallen by the roadside and can't get up, and, worse\nstill, all the people who have lost hope and pride, and don't want to be\ndifferent. He points out how brief our time is, and how little we know what\nlies beyond. He shows us how the strong and unscrupulous and cruel people\nsucceed and have a good time, and how many well-meaning, sensitive, muddled\npeople come to hopeless grief. Oh, he has a score of instances, a quiver\nfull of poisonous shafts.\" He was silent for a minute, and then he said,\n\"Old boy, we won't heed him, you and I. We'll say, 'Yes, my dear Apollyon,\nall that is undoubtedly true. You do a lot of mischief, but your time is\nshort. You wound us and disable us--you can even kill us; but it's a poor\npolicy at best. You defeat yourself, because we slip away and you can't\nfollow us. And when we are refreshed and renewed, we will come back, and go\non with the battle.' That's what well say, like old Sir Andrew Barton:\n\n  \"'I'll but lie down and bleed awhile,\n  And then I'll rise and fight again.'\n\nYou must never mind being defeated, old man. You must never say that your\nsins have done for you! I don't care what a man has done, I don't care how\ncruel, wicked, sensual, evil he has been, if in the bottom of his heart he\ncan say, 'I belong to God, after all!' That's the last and worst assault of\nthe devil, when he comes and whispers to you that you have cut yourself off\nfrom God. You can't do that, whatever you feel. I have been thinking to-day\nof all the mistakes I have made, how I have drifted along, how I have\nenjoyed myself, when I might have been helping other people; what a lazy,\ngreedy, ugly business it has all been, how little I have ever _made_\nmyself do anything. But I don't care. I go straight to God and I say,\n'Father, I have sinned against Heaven and before Thee, and am no more\nworthy to be called Thy son.' But I am His son, for all that, and I know it\nand He knows it; and Apollyon may straddle across the way as much as he\nlikes, but he can't stop me. If he does stop me, he only sends me straight\nhome.\"\n\nI saw the tears stand in Father Payne's eyes, and I said hurriedly and\neagerly, \"Why, Father, you have done so much, for me, for all of us, for\neveryone you have ever had to do with. Don't speak so; it isn't true, it\nhasn't been a failure. You are the only person I have met who has showed me\nwhat goodness really is.\"\n\nFather Payne pressed my arm, but he did not speak for a moment.\n\n\"You are very good to me, old man,\" he said in a moment. \"I was not trying\nto get a testimonial out of you, you know; and of course you can't judge\nhow far I have fallen short of all I might have done. But your affection\nand your kindness are very precious to me. You give me a message from God!\nIt matters little how near the truth you are or how far away. God doesn't\nthink of that. He isn't a hard reckoner; He's only glad when we return to\nHim, and put down our tired head upon His shoulder for a little. But even\nso, that isn't the end. As soon as we are strong again, we must begin\nagain. There's plenty left to do. The battle isn't over because you or I\nare tired. He is tired Himself, I dare say. But it all goes on, and there\nis victory ahead. Don't forget that, dear boy. It's no good being\nheart-broken or worn out. Rise and fight again as soon as you can. I'm\nquite ready--I haven't had enough. I have had an easy post, I don't deny\nthat. I have suffered very little, as suffering goes; and I'm grateful for\nthat; but we mustn't fall in love with rest. If we sleep, it is only that\nwe may rise refreshed, and go off again singing. We mustn't be afraid of\nweakness and suffering, and we mustn't be afraid of joy and strength\neither. That's treachery, you know.\"\n\nPresently he said, \"Now you must leave me here a little! You came in the\nnick of time, and you brought me a message. It always comes, if you ask for\nit! And I shall say a prayer for the Little Master himself, as Sintram\ncalled him, before I go. He has his points, you know. He is uncommonly\nshrewd and tenacious and brave. He's fighting for his life, and I pity him\nwhenever he suspects--and it must be pretty often--that things are not\ngoing his way. I don't despair of the old fellow himself, if I may say so.\nI suspect him of a sense of humour. I can't help thinking he will\ncapitulate and cut his losses some day, and then we shall get things right\nin a trice. He will be conquered, and perhaps convinced; but he won't be\nused vindictively, whatever happens. My knowledge of that, and of the fact\nthat he has got defeat ahead of him, and knows it, is the best defence\nagainst him, even when it is his hour, and the power of darkness, as it has\nbeen to-day.\"\n\nI got up and left him; he smiled at me and waved his hand.\n\n\n\nLXXI\n\nTHE BANK OF THE RIVER\n\n\nThe week passed without anything further occurring to arouse our anxieties,\nand Father Payne went up to town on the Monday: he went off in apparently\ngood spirits: but we got a wire in the course of the day to say that he was\ndetained in town by business and would write. On the following morning,\nBarthrop came into my room in silence, shortly after breakfast, and handed\nme a letter without a word. It was very short: it ran as follows:\n\n    \"DEAR LEONARD,--_I want you to come up to town to-morrow to see\n    me, and if Duncan cares to come, I shall be delighted to see him\n    too, though I know he has an artistic objection to seeing people\n    who are ill, and I understand that I am ill. I saw a doctor\n    yesterday, and he advised me to see a specialist, who advised me\n    to have an operation. It seems better to get it over at once; so\n    I went without delay into a nursing home, where I feel like a\n    child in the nursery again. I want to talk over matters, and it\n    will be better to say nothing which will cause a fuss. So just\n    run up to-morrow, there's a good man, and you can get back in the\n    evening. Ever yours,_\n\n    \"C.P.\"\n\nIt happened that there were only two of us at Aveley at the time, Kaye, and\na younger man, Raven, who had just joined. We determined to say nothing\nabout it till the following morning: the day passed heavily enough. I found\nI could do nothing with the dread of what it might all mean overhanging me.\nI admired Barthrop's common-sense: he spent the day, he told me, in doing\naccounts--he acted as a sort of bursar--and he kept up a quiet conversation\nat dinner in which I confess I played a very poor part. Kaye never noticed\nanything, and had no curiosity, and Raven had no suspicion of anything\nunusual. I slept ill that night, and found myself in a very much depressed\nmood on the following morning. I realised at every moment how entirely\neverything at Aveley was centred upon Father Payne, and how he was both in\nthe foreground as well as in the background of all that we did or thought.\nOur journey passed almost in silence, and we drove straight to the nursing\nhome in Mayfair. We were admitted to a little waiting-room in a bright,\nfresh-looking house, and were presently greeted by a genial and motherly\nold lady, dressed in a sort of nursing uniform, who told us that Mr. Payne\nwas expecting us. We asked anxiously how he was. \"Oh, he is very cheerful,\"\nshe said; \"his nurse, Sister Jane, thinks he is the most amusing man she\never saw. You must not worry about him. The operation is to be on\nFriday--he seems very well and strong in himself, and we will soon have him\nall right again--you will see! He is just the sort of man to make a good\nrecovery.\" Then she added, \"Mr. Payne said he thought you would like to see\nthe doctor, so he is going to look in here in half an hour from now--he\nwill see Mr. Payne first, and then you can have a good talk to him. You are\ngoing back this afternoon, I think?\"\n\n\"That depends!\" said Barthrop.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Payne is expecting you to go back, I know--we will just run up and\nsee him now.\"\n\nWe went up two flights of stairs: the matron knocked at a door in the\npassage, and we went in. Father Payne was sitting up in bed, in a sort of\nblue wrapper which gave him, I thought, a curiously monastic air--he was\nreading quietly. The room was large and airy, and looked out on the backs\nof tall houses: it was quiet enough: there was just a far-off murmur of the\ntown in the air.\n\nHe greeted us with much animation, and smiled at me. \"It's good of you to\ncome, I'm sure,\" he said, \"with your feeling about ill people. I don't\nobject to that,\" he added in the familiar manner. \"I think it's a sign of\nhealth, you know!\" We sat down beside him. \"Now,\" said Father Payne, \"don't\nlet's have any grave looks or hushed voices--you remember what Baines told\nus, when he joined the Church of Rome, that when he got back after his\nreception, his friends all spoke to him as if he had had a serious illness.\nThe matter is simple enough--and I'm going to speak plainly. I have got\nsome internal mischief, something that obstructs the passages, and it has\ngot to be removed. There's a risk, of course--they never can tell exactly\nwhat they will find, but they don't think it has gone too far to be\nremedied. I don't pretend to like it--in fact it's decidedly inconvenient.\nI like my own little plans as well as anyone! and this time I don't seem\nable to look ahead--there's a sort of wall ahead of me. I feel as if I had\ncome, like the boy in the _Water Babies_, to the place which was\ncalled _Stop_!\" He paused a moment and smiled on us, his big\ngood-natured smile.\n\n\"But if I put my head out of the other end of the tunnel, I shall go on as\nusual. If I _don't_, then I had better tell you what I have done. You\nknow I have no near relations. The noble family of Payne is practically\nsummed up in me. The Vicar's a sort of cousin, but a very diluted one. I\nhave arranged by my will that if you two fellows think you can keep the\nplace going on its present lines, you can have a try. But I don't think it\nwill do, I think it will be artificial and possibly ridiculous. I don't\nthink it has got life! And if you decide not to try, then it will all go to\nmy old College, which is quite alive. I would rather they would not sell\nit--but bless me, what does it matter? It is a mistake to try and grip\nanything with a dead hand. But if I get through, and I believe I have a\ngood chance of doing so, you must just keep things going till I get\nback--which won't be long. There's the case in a nutshell! You quite\nunderstand? I don't want you to do what you think I should wish, because I\n_don't_ wish. And now we won't say another word about it, unless there\nare any questions you would like to ask. By the way, I have arranged the\nprogramme for the day. The doctor is coming to see me presently, and while\nhe is here you can have some lunch--they will see to that--and then you can\nhave a talk to him, while I have my lunch--I can tell you they do feed me\nup here!--and then we will have a talk, and you can catch the 4.30. You\nknow how I like planning out a day.\"\n\n\"But we thought we would like to stay in town, and see it all through,\"\nsaid Barthrop. \"We have brought up some things.\"\n\n\"Stuff and nonsense!\" said Father Payne in his old manner. \"Back you go by\nthe 4.30, things and all! I have got the best nurse in the world, Sister\nJane. By George, it's a treat exploring that woman's mind. She's full of\nkindness and common sense and courage, without a grain of reason. There's\nnothing in the world that woman wouldn't do, and nothing she wouldn't\nbelieve--she's entirely mediaeval. Then I have some books: and I'm going to\nread and talk and play patience--I'm quite good at that already--and eat\nand drink and sleep. I'm not to be disturbed, I tell you! To-morrow is a\ncomplete holiday: and on Friday the great event comes off. I won't have any\nuseless emotion, or any bedside thoughts!\" He glanced at us smiling and\nsaid, \"Oh, of course, my dear boys, I'm only joking. I know you would like\nto stay, and I would like to have you here well enough: but see here--if\nall goes well, what's the use of this drama?--people can't behave quite\nnaturally, however much they would like to, and I don't want any melting\nlooks: and if it goes the other way--well, I don't like good-byes. I agree\nwith dear old Mrs. Barbauld:\n\n  \"'Say not Good-night, but in some brighter clime\n        Bid me Good-morning.'\"\n\nHe was silent for a moment--and just at that moment the doctor arrived.\n\nWe went off to lunch with the old matron, who talked cheerfully about\nthings in general: and it was strange to feel that what was to us so deep a\ntragedy was to her just a familiar experience, a thing that happened day by\nday.\n\nThen the doctor came in, a tall, thin, pale, unembarrassed man, very frank\nand simple.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said, \"there's a risk--I don't deny that! One never knows exactly\nwhat the mischief is or how far it extends. I told Mr. Payne exactly what I\nthought. He is the sort of man to whom one can do that. But he is strong,\nhe has lived a healthy life, he has a great vitality--everything is in his\nfavour. How long has he seemed to be ill, by the way?\"\n\n\"Some three or four months, I think,\" said Barthrop. \"But it is difficult\nwhen you see anyone every day to realise a change--and then he is always\ncheerful.\"\n\n\"He is,\" said the doctor. \"I never saw a better patient. He told me his\nsymptoms like a doctor describing someone else's case, I never heard\nanything so impersonal! We managed to catch Dr. Angus--that's the\nspecialist, you know, who will operate. Mr. Payne wasn't in the least\nflurried. He showed no sign of being surprised: we sent him in here at\nonce, and he seems to have made friends with everyone. That's all to the\ngood, of course. He's not a nervous subject. No,\" he added reflectively,\n\"he has an excellent chance of recovery. But I should deceive you if I\npretended there was no risk. There _is_ a risk, and we must hope for\nthe best. By the way, gentlemen,\" he added, taking up his hat, \"I hope you\nwon't think of staying in town. Mr. Payne seems most anxious that you\nshould go back, and I think his wish should be paramount. You can do\nnothing here, and I think your remaining would fret him. I won't attempt to\ndictate, but I feel that you would do well to go!\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, we will go,\" said Barthrop. \"You will let us know how all goes?\"\n\n\"Of course!\" said the doctor. \"You shall hear at once!\"\n\nWe went back, and spent an hour with Father Payne. I shall never forget\nthat hour: he talked on quietly, seeing that we were unable to do our part.\nHe spoke about the men and their work, and gave pleasant, half-humorous\nsummaries of their characters. He gave us some little reminiscences of his\nlife in London; he talked about the villagers at Aveley, and the servants.\nI realised afterwards that he had spoken a few words about every single\nperson in the circle, small or great. The time sped past, and presently\nthey told us that our cab was at the door, \"Now don't make me think you are\ngoing to miss the train, old boys!\" said Father Payne, raising himself up\nto shake hands. \"I have enjoyed the sight of you. Give them all my love: be\ngood and wise! God bless you both!\" He shook hands with Barthrop and with\nme, and I felt the soft touch of his firm hand, as I had done at our first\nmeeting. Barthrop did not speak, and went hurriedly from the room, without\nlooking round. I could not help it, but I bent down and kissed his hand.\n\"Well, well!\" he said indulgently, and gave me a most tender and beautiful\nlook out of his big eyes, and then he mentioned to me to go. I went in\nsilence.\n\nWe felt, both of us, a premonition of the worst disaster. I knew in my\nheart that it was the end. It seemed to me characteristic of Father Payne\nto make his farewells simply, and without any dramatic emphasis. The way in\nwhich he had spoken of all his friends, in that last hour we spent with\nhim, had been a series of adieux, and even as I recalled his words, they\nseemed to me to shape themselves into unspoken messages. His own calmness\nhad been unmistakable, and was marvellous to me; but it was all the more\nimpressive because he did not, as one has read in some of the well-known\nscenes recorded in history of the deaths of famous men, seem to be\nattempting to say anything memorable or magnanimous. \"What can I say that\nwill be worthy of myself?\"--that question appears to me to be sometimes\nlurking in the minds of men who have played a great part in the world, and\nwho are determined to play it to the end. It is, of course a noble sort of\ncourage which enables a man, at the very threshold of death, to force\nhimself to behave with dignity and grandeur: but it seemed to me now to be\nan even more supreme courage to be, as Father Payne was, simply himself.\nSir Walter Raleigh, Sir Thomas More, Charles II, Archbishop Laud all died\nwith a real greatness of undismayed bravery, but with just a sense of\nenacting a part rehearsed. The death scene of Socrates, which is, I\nsuppose, a romantically constructed tale, does indeed give a picture of\nperfect naturalness: and I thought that Father Payne's demeanour, like that\nof Socrates, showed clearly enough that the idea of death was not an\novershadowing dread dispelled by an effort of the will, but that it was not\npresent as a fear in his mind at all, and rather regarded with a reverent\ncuriosity: and I was reminded of a saying of Father Payne's which I have\nelsewhere recorded, that the virtues to which we give our most unhesitating\nadmiration are the instinctive virtues rather than the reasoned virtues. If\nFather Payne had appeared to be keeping a firm hold on himself, and to be\nobliging himself to speak things timely and fitting, I should have admired\nhim deeply: but I admired him all the more because of his unaffected\ntranquillity and unuttered affection. He had just enveloped us in his own\ncalmness, and gone straight forward.\n\nWe made our journey almost in silence: Barthrop was too much moved to\nspeak: and my own mind was dim with trouble, at all that we were to lose,\nand yet drawn away into an infinite loyalty and tenderness for one who had\nbeen more than a father to me.\n\n\n\nLXXII\n\nTHE CROSSING\n\n\nThe end is soon told. On the following day, we thought it best to tell our\ntwo companions and the Vicar what was happening, and we also told the old\nbutler that Father Payne was ill. It was a day of infinite dreariness to\nme, with outbursts of sharp emotion at the sight of everything so closely\nconnected with Father Payne, and with the thought that he would see them no\nmore.\n\nI was sitting in my room on the Friday morning, after a sleepless night,\nwhen Barthrop came in and handed me a telegram from the doctor. \"Mr. Payne\nnever recovered consciousness, and died an hour after the operation. All\ndetails arranged. Please await letter.\" I raised my eyes to Barthrop's\nface, but saw that he could not speak. I could say nothing either: my mind\nand heart seemed to crumble suddenly into a hopeless despair.\n\nA letter reached us the same evening by train. It was to the effect that\nFather Payne had written down some exact directions the day before and\ngiven them to the matron. He did not wish, in case of his death, that\nanyone should see his body: he wished to be placed in the simplest of\ncoffins, as soon as possible, and that the coffin should be sent down by\ntrain to Aveley, be taken from the station straight to the church, and if\npossible to be buried at once. But even so, that was only his wish, and he\nparticularly desired to avoid alike all ceremony and inconvenience. But\nbesides that there were two notes enclosed addressed in Father Payne's hand\nto Barthrop and myself, which ran as follows:\n\n    \"My dear Leonard,--_I thought it very good of you to come up to\n    see me, and no less good of you to go away as I desired. It is\n    possible, of course, that I may return to you, and all be as\n    before. But to be frank, I do not think it will be so. Even if I\n    survive, I shall, I think, be much weakened by this operation,\n    and shall have the possibility of a recurrence of the disease\n    hanging over me. Much as I love life, and the world where I have\n    found it pleasant to live, I do not want to lead a broken sort of\n    existence, with invalid precautions and limitations. I think that\n    this would bring out all that is worst in me, and would lead to\n    unhappiness both in myself and in all those about me. If it has\n    to be so, I shall do my best, but I think it would be a\n    discreditable performance. I do not, however, think that I shall\n    have this trial laid upon me. I feel that I am summoned\n    elsewhere, and I am glad to think that my passage will be a swift\n    one. I am not afraid of what lies beyond, because I believe death\n    to be simple and natural enough, and a perfectly definite thing.\n    Of what lies beyond it, I can form no idea; all our theories are\n    probably quite wide of the mark. But it will be the same for me\n    as it has been for all others who have died, and as it will some\n    day be for you; and when we know, we shall be surprised that we\n    did not see what it would be. I confess that I love the things\n    that I know, and dislike the unknown. The world is very dear and\n    familiar, and it has been kind and beautiful to me, as well as\n    full of interest. But I expect that things will be much\n    simplified. And please bear this in mind, that such a scene which\n    we went through yesterday is worse for those who stand by and can\n    do nothing than for the man himself; and you will believe me when\n    I say that I am neither afraid nor unhappy._\n\n    \"_With regard to my wishes about the place being kept on, on\n    its present lines, remember that it is only a wish, and not to be\n    regarded as a binding obligation or undertaken against your\n    judgment. I trust you fully in this, as I have always trusted\n    you; and I will just thank you, once and for all, for all that\n    you have done and been. I shall always think of you with deep\n    gratitude and lasting affection. God bless you now and always.\n    Your old friend,_\n\n    \"CHARLES PAYNE.\"\n\nTo me he had written:\n\n    \"My dear boy,--_Please read my letter to Barthrop, which is\n    meant for you as well. I won't repeat myself--you know I dislike\n    that. But I would like just to say that you have been more like a\n    son to me than anyone I ever have known, and I thank God for\n    bringing you into my life, and for all your kind and faithful\n    affection. You must just go on as you have begun; and I can only\n    say that if I still have any knowledge of what goes on in the\n    world, my affection and interest will not fail; and if I have\n    not, I shall believe that we shall still find each other again,\n    and rejoice in mutual knowledge and confidence. You are very dear\n    to me, and always will be._\n\n    \"_Settle everything with Leonard. I know that you will be able\n    to interpret my wishes as I should wish them to be interpreted.\n    Your affectionate old friend,_\n\n    \"C. PAYNE.\"\n\nThe last act was simple enough. The preparations were soon made. The coffin\narrived at midday, and was buried in the afternoon, between the church and\nthe Hall. It was sad and beautiful to see the heartfelt grief of the\nvillagers: and it was wonderful to me that at that moment I recovered a\nkind of serenity on the surface of the grief below, so that in the still\nafternoon as we walked away from the grave it seemed to me strange rather\nthan sorrowful. With those last letters in mind, it seemed to me almost\ntraitorous to mourn. He at least had his heart's desire, and I did not\ndoubt that he was abundantly satisfied.\n\n\n\nLXXIII\n\nAFTER-THOUGHTS\n\n\nBarthrop and I decided that we could not hope to continue the scheme. We\nhad neither the force nor the experience. The whole society was, we felt,\njust the expression of Father Payne's personality, and without it, it had\nneither stability nor significance. Barthrop and the Vicar were left money\nlegacies: the servants all received little pensions: there was a sum for\ndistribution in the village, and a fund endowed to meet certain practical\nneeds of the place. We handed over the estate to Father Payne's old\nCollege, the furniture and pictures to go with the house, which was to be\nlet, if possible, to a tenant who would be inclined to settle there and\nmake it his home: the income of the estate was to provide travelling\nscholarships. All had been carefully thought out with much practical sense\nand insight.\n\nOur other two companions went away. Barthrop and I stayed on at the Hall\ntogether for some weeks to settle the final arrangements. We had some\nwonderfully touching letters from old pupils and friends of Father Payne's.\nOne in particular, saying that the writer owed an infinite debt of\ngratitude to Father Payne, for having saved him from himself and given him\na new life.\n\nWe talked much of Father Payne in those days; and I went alone to all the\nplaces where I had walked with him, recalling more gratefully than sadly\nhow he had looked and moved and talked and smiled.\n\nIt came to the last night that we were to spend at the Hall together.\nEverything had been gone through and arranged, and we were glad, I think,\nto be departing.\n\n\"I don't know what to say and think about it all,\" said Barthrop; \"I feel\nat present quite lost and stranded, as if my motive for living were gone,\nand as if I could hardly take up my work again. I know it is wrong, and I\nam ashamed of it. Father Payne always said that we must not depend\nhelplessly upon persons or institutions, but must find our own real life\nand live it--you remember?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"indeed I do remember! But I do not think he ever realised\nquite how strong he was, and how he affected those about him. He did not\nneed us--I sometimes think he did not need anyone--and he credited everyone\nwith living the same intent life that he lived. But I shall always be\ninfinitely grateful to him for showing me just that--that one must live\none's own life, through and in spite of everything grievous that happens.\nThe temptation is to indulge grief, and to feel that collapse in such a\ncase is a sign of loyalty. It isn't so--if one collapses, it only means\nthat one has been living an artificial and parasitical life. Father Payne\nwould have hated that--and I don't mean to do it. He has given me not only\nan example, but an inspiration--a real current of life has flowed into my\nlife from his--or perhaps rather through his from some deeper origin.\"\n\n\"That is so,\" said Barthrop, \"that is perfectly true! and don't you\nremember too how he always said life must be a _real_ fight--a joining\nin the fight that was going forwards? It need not be wrangling or\ndisputing, or finding fault with other people, or maintaining and\nconfuting. He used to say that people fought in a hundred ways--with their\nhumour, their companionableness, their kindness, their friendliness--it\nneed not be violent, and indeed if it was violent, that was fighting on the\nwrong side--it had only to be calm and sincere and dutiful.\"\n\n\"Did he say that?\" I said. \"Yes, I am sure he did--no one else could say it\nor think of it. Of course, we have to fight, but not by dealing injury and\nharm, but by seeking and following peace and goodwill. Well, we must\ntry--and it may be that we shall find him again, though he is hidden for a\nlittle while with God.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Barthrop, \"we shall find him, or he will find us--it makes\nlittle difference: and he will always be the same, though I hope we may be\ndifferent!\"\n\n\n\nLXXIV\n\nDEPARTURE\n\n\nIt was a soft and delicious spring morning when I left Aveley--and I have\nnever had the heart to visit it again. I had had a sleepless night, with\nthe thought of Father Payne continually in my mind. I saw him in a score of\nattitudes, as he loitered in the garden with that look of inexpressible and\ntender interest that he had for all that grew out of the\nearth--worshipping, I used to think, at the shrine of life--or as he sat\nrapt in thought in church, or as he strode beside me along the uplands, or\nas he came and went in a hurried abstraction, or as he argued and\ndiscussed, with his great animated smile and his quick little gestures. I\nfelt how his personality had filled our lives to the brim, as a spring\nwhose waters fail not. It was not that he was a perfect character, with a\ntranquil and effortless superiority, or with a high intellectual tenacity,\nor with an unruffled serenity. He was sensitive, impatient, fitful,\nprejudiced. He had little constructive capacity, no creative or dramatic\npower, no loftiness of tragic emotion. I knew all that; I did not regard\nhim with a false or uncritical reverence. But he was vital, generous, rich\nin zest and joy, heroic, as no other man I had ever known. He had no petty\nambition, no thirst for recognition, no acidity of judgment. He never\nsought to impress himself: but his was a large, affectionate, liberal\nnature, more responsive to life, more lavish of self, more disinterested\nthan any human being that had crossed my path. He had never desired to make\ndisciples--he was not self-confident or self-regarding enough for that. But\nhe had continued to draw us all with him into a vortex of life, where the\nstream ran swiftly, and where it seemed disgraceful to be either listless\nor unconcerned. I blessed the kindly fate that had guided me to him, and\nhad won for me his deep regard. I did not wish to copy or imitate him--he\nhad infected me with a deep distrust for dependence--I only wished to live\nmy own life in the same eager spirit. As he had said to me once, the motto\nfor every man was to be _Amor Fati_--not a reluctant acquiescence, or\na feeble optimism, or a gentle resignation, but a passion for one's own\ndestiny, a deep desire to make the most and the best out of life, and a\nstrong purpose to share one's best with all who were journeying at one's\nside.\n\nSo the night passed, thick with recollections and regrets, deepening into a\nhorror of loss and darkness, and then slowly brightening into the calm\nprelude of a day of farewell. The birds began to chirp and twitter in the\nivy; the thrush uttered her long-drawn notes, sweetly repeated and\nsustained in the dusky bushes. That sound was much connected in my mind\nwith Aveley. To be awakened thus in the summer dawn, to listen awhile to\nthe delicious sound, to fall asleep again with the thought of the long\npleasant day of work and friendship ahead of me, had been one of my\ngreatest luxuries.\n\nI rose early, and made my last preparations, and then, having got a little\ntime before the last meal I was to take with Barthrop, I went round about\nthe garden with a desire to draw into my spirit for the last time the pure\nand happy atmosphere of the place.\n\nI saw the beds fringed with purple polyanthus, and the daffodils in the\ndewy grass. I gazed at the long lines of the low hills across the stream,\nwith the woodland spaces all flushed with spring. I heard the cawing of the\nrooks in the soft air, and the bubbling song of the chaffinches filled the\nshrubberies.\n\nI knew the mood of old--the mood in which, after a holiday sojourn in some\nplace which one has learned to love, a happy space of time stained by no\nbase anxiety, shadowed by no calamity, the call to rejoin the routine of\nlife makes itself heard half reluctantly, half ardently. The heart at such\nmoments tries to be grateful without regret, and hopeful without\nindifference. The purpose to go, the desire to stay, wrestle together; and\nnow at the end of the happiest and most fruitful period I had ever known or\nwas ever, I thought, likely to know, I felt like Jacob wrestling with the\nangel till the breaking of the day, and crying out, half in weakness, half\nin strength, \"I will not let thee go until thou bless me.\"\n\nIt came, the sudden blessing which I desired. It fell like some full warm\nshower upon the thirsty earth. In that moment I had the blissful instinct\nwhich had before been but a reasoned conviction, that Father Payne was near\nme, with me, about me, enfolding me with a swift tenderness, and yet at the\nsame time pointing me forward, bidding me clearly and almost, it seemed,\npetulantly, to disengage myself from all dependence upon himself or his\nexample. He had other things to do, I felt with something like a smile,\nthan to hover over me and haunt my path with tenderness. Such weakness of\nsentiment was worthy neither of himself nor of myself. I had all the world\nbefore me, and I was to take my part in it with spirit and even gaiety. To\nshrink into the shadow, to live in tearful retrospect--it was not to be\nthought of; and I had in that moment a glow of thankful energy which made\nlight of grief and pain alike. I must take hold of life instantly and with\nboth hands. I saw it in a sudden flash of light.\n\nI went to the churchyard, I stood for an instant beside the grave, now\nturfed over and planted with daffodils. I put aside from my heart, once and\nfor all, the old wistful instinct which ties the living to the dead. The\npoor body that lay there, dust in dust, had no more to do with Father Payne\nthan the stained candle-socket with the flame that had leapt away upon the\nair. That was a moment of true and certain joy; so that when I went back to\nthe house and joined Barthrop, I felt no longer the uneasy quivering of the\nspirit which had long overmastered me. He too was calm and brave; we sat\ntogether for the last time, we talked with an unaffected cheerfulness of\nthe future. He too, I saw, had experienced the same loosening of the spirit\nfrom its trivial bonds, dear and beautiful as they were, so long as one did\nnot hug them close.\n\n\"I never thought,\" he said to me at last, \"to go light-heartedly away--and\nyet I can do even that! I have heard something, I can hardly say what,\nwhich tells me to go forward, not to hanker, not to look back--and which\ntells me best of all that it would be almost like treachery to wish the\nFather back again. It is better so! I say this,\" he went on, \"not with\nresignation, not with a mild desire to make the best of a bad business, but\nwith a serene certainty that it is not a bad business at all. I cannot tell\nwhere it is gone, the cloud that has oppressed me--but it is gone, and it\nwill not come back.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" I said, \"I recognise that--I feel it too; our work here is done, and\nwe have work waiting for us. We shall meet, we shall compare experiences,\nwe shall love our fate. Life is to be a new quest, not an old worship. That\nis to be our loyalty to Father Payne, that we are to believe in life, and\nnot only to believe in memory.\"\n\nIt was soon over. Barthrop was to go later, and he came out to see me go.\nJust before I started, the old clock played its sweet tune; we stood in\nsilence listening. \"That is the best of omens,\" I said, \"to depart with\nthanksgiving and the voice of melody.\" He smiled in my face, we clasped\nhands; I drove up the little road, while he stood at the door, smiling and\nwaving his hand, till I turned into the main road, between the blossoming\nhedges, and saw Aveley no more.","title":"Father Payne","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":115645}