orthodoxy-第16节

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But　Mr。　Wells　and　his　school　made　the　heavens　wicked。　



We　should　lift　up　our　eyes　to　the　stars　from　whence　would　come



our　ruin。







　　　　　But　the　expansion　of　which　I　speak　was　much　more　evil　than　all　this。　



I　have　remarked　that　the　materialist；　like　the　madman；　is　in　prison；



in　the　prison　of　one　thought。　　These　people　seemed　to　think　it



singularly　inspiring　to　keep　on　saying　that　the　prison　was　very　large。　



The　size　of　this　scientific　universe　gave　one　no　novelty；　no　relief。　



The　cosmos　went　on　for　ever；　but　not　in　its　wildest　constellation



could　there　be　anything　really　interesting；　anything；　for　instance；



such　as　forgiveness　or　free　will。　　The　grandeur　or　infinity



of　the　secret　of　its　cosmos　added　nothing　to　it。　　It　was　like



telling　a　prisoner　in　Reading　gaol　that　he　would　be　glad　to　hear



that　the　gaol　now　covered　half　the　county。　　The　warder　would



have　nothing　to　show　the　man　except　more　and　more　long　corridors



of　stone　lit　by　ghastly　lights　and　empty　of　all　that　is　human。　



So　these　expanders　of　the　universe　had　nothing　to　show　us　except



more　and　more　infinite　corridors　of　space　lit　by　ghastly　suns



and　empty　of　all　that　is　divine。







　　　　　In　fairyland　there　had　been　a　real　law；　a　law　that　could　be　broken；



for　the　definition　of　a　law　is　something　that　can　be　broken。　



But　the　machinery　of　this　cosmic　prison　was　something　that　could



not　be　broken；　for　we　ourselves　were　only　a　part　of　its　machinery。　



We　were　either　unable　to　do　things　or　we　were　destined　to　do　them。　



The　idea　of　the　mystical　condition　quite　disappeared；　one　can　neither



have　the　firmness　of　keeping　laws　nor　the　fun　of　breaking　them。　



The　largeness　of　this　universe　had　nothing　of　that　freshness　and



airy　outbreak　which　we　have　praised　in　the　universe　of　the　poet。　



This　modern　universe　is　literally　an　empire；　that　is；　it　was　vast；



but　it　is　not　free。　　One　went　into　larger　and　larger　windowless　rooms；



rooms　big　with　Babylonian　perspective；　but　one　never　found　the　smallest



window　or　a　whisper　of　outer　air。







　　　　　Their　infernal　parallels　seemed　to　expand　with　distance；



but　for　me　all　good　things　come　to　a　point；　swords　for　instance。　



So　finding　the　boast　of　the　big　cosmos　so　unsatisfactory　to　my



emotions　I　began　to　argue　about　it　a　little；　and　I　soon　found　that



the　whole　attitude　was　even　shallower　than　could　have　been　expected。　



According　to　these　people　the　cosmos　was　one　thing　since　it　had



one　unbroken　rule。　　Only　（they　would　say）　while　it　is　one　thing；



it　is　also　the　only　thing　there　is。　　Why；　then；　should　one　worry



particularly　to　call　it　large？　　There　is　nothing　to　compare　it　with。　



It　would　be　just　as　sensible　to　call　it　small。　　A　man　may　say；



〃I　like　this　vast　cosmos；　with　its　throng　of　stars　and　its　crowd



of　varied　creatures。〃　　But　if　it　comes　to　that　why　should　not　a



man　say；　〃I　like　this　cosy　little　cosmos；　with　its　decent　number



of　stars　and　as　neat　a　provision　of　live　stock　as　I　wish　to　see〃？



One　is　as　good　as　the　other；　they　are　both　mere　sentiments。　



It　is　mere　sentiment　to　rejoice　that　the　sun　is　larger　than　the　earth；



it　is　quite　as　sane　a　sentiment　to　rejoice　that　the　sun　is　no　larger



than　it　is。　　A　man　chooses　to　have　an　emotion　about　the　largeness



of　the　world；　why　should　he　not　choose　to　have　an　emotion　about



its　smallness？







　　　　　It　happened　that　I　had　that　emotion。　　When　one　is　fond　of



anything　one　addresses　it　by　diminutives；　even　if　it　is　an　elephant



or　a　life…guardsman。　The　reason　is；　that　anything；　however　huge；



that　can　be　conceived　of　as　complete；　can　be　conceived　of　as　small。　



If　military　moustaches　did　not　suggest　a　sword　or　tusks　a　tail；



then　the　object　would　be　vast　because　it　would　be　immeasurable。　　But　the



moment　you　can　imagine　a　guardsman　you　can　imagine　a　small　guardsman。　



The　moment　you　really　see　an　elephant　you　can　call　it　〃Tiny。〃　



If　you　can　make　a　statue　of　a　thing　you　can　make　a　statuette　of　it。　



These　people　professed　that　the　universe　was　one　coherent　thing；



but　they　were　not　fond　of　the　universe。　　But　I　was　frightfully　fond



of　the　universe　and　wanted　to　address　it　by　a　diminutive。　　I　often



did　so；　and　it　never　seemed　to　mind。　　Actually　and　in　truth　I　did　feel



that　these　dim　dogmas　of　vitality　were　better　expressed　by　calling



the　world　small　than　by　calling　it　large。　　For　about　infinity　there



was　a　sort　of　carelessness　which　was　the　reverse　of　the　fierce　and　pious



care　which　I　felt　touching　the　pricelessness　and　the　peril　of　life。　



They　showed　only　a　dreary　waste；　but　I　felt　a　sort　of　sacred　thrift。　



For　economy　is　far　more　romantic　than　extravagance。　　To　them　stars



were　an　unending　income　of　halfpence；　but　I　felt　about　the　golden　sun



and　the　silver　moon　as　a　schoolboy　feels　if　he　has　one　sovereign　and



one　shilling。







　　　　　These　subconscious　convictions　are　best　hit　off　by　the　colour



and　tone　of　certain　tales。　　Thus　I　have　said　that　stories　of　magic



alone　can　express　my　sense　that　life　is　not　only　a　pleasure　but　a



kind　of　eccentric　privilege。　　I　may　express　this　other　feeling　of



cosmic　cosiness　by　allusion　to　another　book　always　read　in　boyhood；



〃Robinson　Crusoe；〃　which　I　read　about　this　time；　and　which　owes



its　eternal　vivacity　to　the　fact　that　it　celebrates　the　poetry



of　limits；　nay；　even　the　wild　romance　of　prudence。　　Crusoe　is　a　man



on　a　small　rock　with　a　few　comforts　just　snatched　from　the　sea：　



the　best　thing　in　the　book　is　simply　the　list　of　things　saved　from



the　wreck。　　The　greatest　of　poems　is　an　inventory。　　Every　kitchen



tool　becomes　ideal　because　Crusoe　might　have　dropped　it　in　the　sea。　



It　is　a　good　exercise；　in　empty　or　ugly　hours　of　the　day；



to　look　at　anything；　the　coal…scuttle　or　the　book…case；　and　think



how　happy　one　could　be　to　have　brought　it　out　of　the　sinking　ship



on　to　the　solitary　island。　　But　it　is　a　better　exercise　still



to　remember　how　all　things　have　had　this　hair…breadth　escape：　



everything　has　been　saved　from　a　wreck。　　Every　man　has　had　one



horrible　adventure：　　as　a　hidden　untimely　birth　he　had　not　been；



as　infants　that　never　see　the　light。　　Men　spoke　much　in　my　boyhood



of　restricted　or　ruined　men　of　genius：　　and　it　was　common　to　say



that　many　a　man　was　a　Great　Might…Have…Been。　To　me　it　is　a　more



solid　and　startling　fact　that　any　man　in　the　street　is　a　Great



Might…Not…Have…Been。







　　　　　But　I　really　felt　（the　fancy　may　seem　foolish）　as　if　all　the　order



and　number　of　things　were　the　romantic　remnant　of　Crusoe's　ship。　



That　there　are　two　sexes　and　one　sun；　was　like　the　fact　that　there



were　two　guns　and　one　axe。　　It　was　poignantly　urgent　that　none　should



be　lost；　but　somehow；　it　was　rather　fun　that　none　could　be　added。　



The　trees　and　the　planets　seemed　like　things　saved　from　the　wreck：　



and　when　I　saw　the　Matterhorn　I　was　glad　that　it　had　not　been　overlooked



in　the　confusion。　　I　felt　economical　about　the　stars　as　if　they　were



sapphires　（they　are　called　so　in　Milton's　Eden）：　I　hoarded　the　hills。　



For　the　universe　is　a　single　jewel；　and　while　it　is　a　natural　cant



to　talk　of　a　jewel　as　peerless　and　priceless；　of　this　jewel　it　is



literally　true。　　This　cosmos　is　indeed　without　peer　and　without　price：　



for　there　cannot　be　another　one。







　　　　　Thus　ends；　in　unavoidable　inadequacy；　the　attempt　to　utter　the



unutterable　things。　　These　are　my　ultimate　attitudes　towards　life；



the　soils　for　the　seeds　of　doctrine。　　These　in　some　dark　way　I



thought　before　I　could　write；　and　felt　before　I　could　think：　



that　we　may　proceed　more　easily　afterwards；　I　will　roughly　recapitulate



them　now。　　I　felt　in　my　bones；　first；　that　this　world　does　not



explain　itself。　　It　may　be　a　miracle　with　a　supernatural　explanation；



it　may　be　a　conjuring　trick；　with　a　natural　explanation。　



But　the　explanation　of　the　conjuring　trick；　if　it　is　to　satisfy　me；



will　have　to　be　better　than　the　natural　explanations　I　have　heard。　



The　thing　is　magic；　true　or　false。　　Second；　I　came　to　feel　as　if　magic



must　have　a　meaning；　and　meaning　must　have　some　one　to　mean　it。　



There　was　something　personal　in　the　world；　as　in　a　work　of　art；



whatever　it　meant　it　meant　violently。　　Third；　I　thought　this



purpose　beautiful　in　its　old　design；　in　spite　of　its　defects；



such　as　dragons。　　Fourth；　that　the　proper　form　of　thanks　to　it



is　some　form　of　humility　and　restraint：　　we　should　thank　God



for　beer　and　Burgundy　by　not　drinking　too　much　of　them。　　We　owed；



also；　an　obedience　to　whatever　made　us。　　And　last；　and　strangest；



there　had　come　into　my　mind