the angel and the author-第3节

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cheese。

〃How　foolish　of　you；　Edward；〃　argued　the　fond　lady；　〃to　be　eating　
toasted　cheese　for　supper。　　You　know　it　always　affects　your　liver。　　
All　day　long　to…morrow　you　will　be　complaining。〃

〃No；　I　shan't；〃　interrupted　Edward；　〃not　so　foolish　as　you　think　me。　　
They　are　going　to　hang　me　to…morrowearly。〃

There　is　a　passage　in　Marcus　Aurelius　that　used　to　puzzle　me　until　I　
hit　upon　the　solution。　　A　foot…note　says　the　meaning　is　obscure。　　
Myself；　I　had　gathered　this　before　I　read　the　foot…note。　　What　it　is　
all　about　I　defy　any　human　being　to　explain。　　It　might　mean　anything；　
it　might　mean　nothing。　　The　majority　of　students　incline　to　the　
latter　theory；　though　a　minority　maintain　there　is　a　meaning；　if　only　
it　could　be　discovered。　　My　own　conviction　is　that　once　in　his　life　
Marcus　Aurelius　had　a　real　good　time。　　He　came　home　feeling　pleased　
with　himself　without　knowing　quite　why。

〃I　will　write　it　down；〃　he　said　to　himself；　〃now；　while　it　is　fresh　
in　my　mind。〃

It　seemed　to　him　the　most　wonderful　thing　that　anybody　had　ever　said。　　
Maybe　he　shed　a　tear　or　two；　thinking　of　all　the　good　he　was　doing；　
and　later　on　went　suddenly　to　sleep。　　In　the　morning　he　had　forgotten　
all　about　it；　and　by　accident　it　got　mixed　up　with　the　rest　of　the　
book。　　That　is　the　only　explanation　that　seems　to　me　possible；　and　it　
comforts　me。

We　are　none　of　us　philosophers　all　the　time。

Philosophy　is　the　science　of　suffering　the　inevitable；　which　most　of　
us　contrive　to　accomplish　without　the　aid　of　philosophy。　　Marcus　
Aurelius　was　an　Emperor　of　Rome；　and　Diogenes　was　a　bachelor　living　
rent　free。　　I　want　the　philosophy　of　the　bank　clerk　married　on　thirty　
shillings　a　week；　of　the　farm　labourer　bringing　up　a　family　of　eight　
on　a　precarious　wage　of　twelve　shillings。　　The　troubles　of　Marcus　
Aurelius　were　chiefly　those　of　other　people。

〃Taxes　will　have　to　go　up；　I　am　afraid；〃　no　doubt　he　often　sighed。　　
〃But；　after　all；　what　are　taxes？　　A　thing　in　conformity　with　the　
nature　of　mana　little　thing　that　Zeus　approves　of；　one　feels　sure。　　
The　daemon　within　me　says　taxes　don't　really　matter。〃

Maybe　the　paterfamilias　of　the　period；　who　did　the　paying；　worried　
about　new　sandals　for　the　children；　his　wife　insisting　she　hadn't　a　
frock　fit　to　be　seen　in　at　the　amphitheatre；　that；　if　there　was　one　
thing　in　the　world　she　fancied；　it　was　seeing　a　Christian　eaten　by　a　
lion；　but　now　she　supposed　the　children　would　have　to　go　without　her；　
found　that　philosophy　came　to　his　aid　less　readily。

〃Bother　these　barbarians；〃　Marcus　Aurelius　may　have　been　tempted；　in　
an　unphilosophical　moment；　to　exclaim；　〃I　do　wish　they　would　not　burn　
these　poor　people's　houses　over　their　heads；　toss　the　babies　about　on　
spears；　and　carry　off　the　older　children　into　slavery。　　Why　don't　
they　behave　themselves？〃

But　philosophy　in　Marcus　Aurelius　would　eventually　triumph　over　
passing　fretfulness。

〃But　how　foolish　of　me　to　be　angry　with　them；〃　he　would　argue　with　
himself。　　〃One　is　not　vexed　with　the　fig…tree　for　yielding　figs；　with　
the　cucumber　for　being　bitter！　　One　must　expect　barbarians　to　behave　
barbariously。〃

Marcus　Aurelius　would　proceed　to　slaughter　the　barbarians；　and　then　
forgive　them。　　We　can　most　of　us　forgive　our　brother　his　
transgressions；　having　once　got　even　with　him。　　In　a　tiny　Swiss　
village；　behind　the　angle　of　the　school…house　wall；　I　came　across　a　
maiden　crying　bitterly；　her　head　resting　on　her　arm。　　I　asked　her　
what　had　happened。　　Between　her　sobs　she　explained　that　a　school　
companion；　a　little　lad　about　her　own　age；　having　snatched　her　hat　
from　her　head；　was　at　that　moment　playing　football　with　it　the　other　
side　of　the　wall。　　I　attempted　to　console　her　with　philosophy。　　I　
pointed　out　to　her　that　boys　would　be　boysthat　to　expect　from　them　
at　that　age　reverence　for　feminine　headgear　was　to　seek　what　was　not　
conformable　with　the　nature　of　boy。　　But　she　appeared　to　have　no　
philosophy　in　her。　　She　said　he　was　a　horrid　boy；　and　that　she　hated　
him。　　It　transpired　it　was　a　hat　she　rather　fancied　herself　in。　　He　
peeped　round　the　corner　while　we　were　talking；　the　hat　in　his　hand。　　
He　held　it　out　to　her；　but　she　took　no　notice　of　him。　　I　gathered　the　
incident　was　closed；　and　went　my　way；　but　turned　a　few　steps　further　
on；　curious　to　witness　the　end。　　Step　by　step　he　approached　nearer；　
looking　a　little　ashamed　of　himself；　but　still　she　wept；　her　face　
hidden　in　her　arm。

He　was　not　expecting　it：　　to　all　seeming　she　stood　there　the　
personification　of　the　grief　that　is　not　to　be　comforted；　oblivious　
to　all　surroundings。　　Incautiously　he　took　another　step。　　In　an　
instant　she　had　〃landed〃　him　over　the　head　with　a　long　narrow　wooden　
box　containing；　one　supposes；　pencils　and　pens。　　He　must　have　been　a　
hard…headed　youngster；　the　sound　of　the　compact　echoed　through　the　
valley。　　I　met　her　again　on　my　way　back。

〃Hat　much　damaged？〃　I　inquired。

〃Oh；　no；〃　she　answered；　smiling；　〃besides；　it　was　only　an　old　hat。　　
I've　got　a　better　one　for　Sundays。〃

I　often　feel　philosophical　myself；　generally　over　a　good　cigar　after　
a　satisfactory　dinner。　　At　such　times　I　open　my　Marcus　Aurelius；　my　
pocket　Epicurus；　my　translation　of　Plato's　〃Republic。〃　　At　such　times　
I　agree　with　them。　　Man　troubles　himself　too　much　about　the　
unessential。　　Let　us　cultivate　serenity。　　Nothing　can　happen　to　us　
that　we　have　not　been　constituted　by　Nature　to　sustain。　　That　foolish　
farm　labourer；　on　his　precarious　wage　of　twelve　shillings　a　week：　　
let　him　dwell　rather　on　the　mercies　he　enjoys。　　Is　he　not　spared　all　
anxiety　concerning　safe　investment　of　capital　yielding　four　per　
cent。？　　Is　not　the　sunrise　and　the　sunset　for　him　also？　　Many　of　us　
never　see　the　sunrise。　　So　many　of　our　so…termed　poorer　brethen　are　
privileged　rarely　to　miss　that　early　morning　festival。　　Let　the　
daemon　within　them　rejoice。　　Why　should　he　fret　when　the　children　cry　
for　bread？　　Is　it　not　in　the　nature　of　things　that　the　children　of　
the　poor　should　cry　for　bread？　　The　gods　in　their　wisdom　have　
arranged　it　thus。　　Let　the　daemon　within　him　reflect　upon　the　
advantage　to　the　community　of　cheap　labour。　　Let　the　farm　labourer　
contemplate　the　universal　good。



CHAPTER　III



＇Literature　and　the　Middle　Classes。＇

I　am　sorry　to　be　compelled　to　cast　a　slur　upon　the　Literary　
profession；　but　observation　shows　me　that　it　still　contains　within　
its　ranks　writers　born　and　bred　in；　and　moving　amidstif；　without　
offence；　one　may　put　it　bluntlya　purely　middle…class　environment：　　
men　and　women　to　whom　Park　Lane　will　never　be　anything　than　the　
shortest　route　between　Notting　Hill　and　the　Strand；　to　whom　Debrett's　
Peerage　gilt…edged　and　bound　in　red；　a　tasteful…looking　volume
ever　has　been　and　ever　will　remain　a　drawing…room　ornament　and　not　a　
social　necessity。　　Now　what　is　to　become　of　these　writersof　us；　if　
for　the　moment　I　may　be　allowed　to　speak　as　representative　of　this　
rapidly…diminishing　yet　nevertheless　still　numerous　section　of　the　
world　of　Art　and　Letters？　　Formerly；　provided　we　were　masters　of　
style；　possessed　imagination　and　insight；　understood　human　nature；　
had　sympathy　with　and　knowledge　of　life；　and　could　express　ourselves　
with　humour　and　distinction；　our　pathway　was；　comparatively　speaking；　
free　from　obstacle。　　We　drew　from　the　middle…class　life　around　us；　
passed　it　through　our　own　middle…class　individuality；　and　presented　
it　to　a　public　composed　of　middle…class　readers。

But　the　middle…class　public；　for　purposes　of　Art；　has　practically　
disappeared。　　The　social　strata　from　which　George　Eliot　and　Dickens　
drew　their　characters　no　longer　interests　the　great　B。　P。　Hetty　
Sorrell；　Little　Em'ly；　would　be　pronounced　〃provincial；〃　a　Deronda　or　
a　Wilfer　Family　ignored　as　〃suburban。〃

I　confess　that　personally　the　terms　〃provincial〃　and　〃suburban；〃　as　
epithets　of　reproach；　have　always　puzzled　me。　　I　never　met　anyone　
more　severe　on　what　she　termed　the　〃suburban　note〃　in　literature　than　
a　thin　lady　who　lived　in　a　semi…detached　villa　in　a　by…street　of　
Hammersmith。　　Is　Art　merely　a　question　of　geography；　and　if　so　what　
is　the　exact　limit？　　Is　it　the　four…mile　cab　radius　from　Charing　
Cross？　　Is　the　cheesemonger　of　Tottenham　Court　Road　of　necessity　a　
man　of　taste；　and　the　Oxford　professor　of　necessity　a　Philistine？　　I　
want　to　understand　this　thing。　　I　once　hazarded　the　direct　question　
to　a　critical　friend：

〃You　say　a　book　is　suburban；〃　I　put　it　to　him；　〃and　there　is　an　end　
to　the　matter。　　But　what　do　you　mean　by　suburban？〃

〃Well；〃　he　replied；　〃I　mean　it　is　the　sort　of　book　likely　to　appeal　
to　the　class　that　inhabits　the　suburbs。〃　　He　lived　himself　in　
Chancery　Lane。

＇May　a　man　of　intelligence　live；　say；　in　Surbiton？＇

〃But　there　is　Jones；　the　editor　of　The　Evening　Gentleman；〃　I　argued；　
〃he　lives　at　Surbiton。　　It　is　just　twelve　miles　from　Waterloo。　　He　
comes　up　every　morning　by　the　eight…fifteen　and　returns　again　by　the　
five…ten。　　Would　you　say　that　a　book　is　bound　to　be　bad　because　it　
appeals　to　Jones？　　Then　again；　take　Tomlinson：　　he　lives；　as　you　are　
well　aware；　at　Forest　Gate　which　is　Epping　way；　and　entertain