For St George and Civilization.
SO THE ENGLISH people have to look for something on which they can fall back from their present condition: something solid and inexhaustible as a source of happiness, and proof against decay and corruption; something about which they can say that nobody is going to take it away from them. But in their entire previous history they have never had to consider such a problem. They have been getting on and succeeding for centuries, and if they had temporary setbacks they never accepted defeat, nor even admitted its possibility, but dealt with each crisis as it arose, or even merely held on, confident that they would come, or at least muddle, through.
The success of this attitude in the past has made it the standard form of English behaviour and outlook in times of trouble, and I do not think that they have lost faith in it even now. Certainly. they would not admit in a conscious argument that their present difficulties and disappointments are basically different from those of the past and that a new attitude is called for. They give the appearance of thinking that they will come through if only they can hold on like Captain MacWhirr in Conrad's Typhoon. (It is curious, that it is a Pole, and not an Englishman, who has trans- lated the national attitude into a personal story.) But while I see all this I also have a feeling-it is no more than that-that the problem of finding an ultimate resource has already engaged their emo- tional yearnings. But where can they find it?
Different peoples have different ways of finding consolation and compensation for national troubles. The Germans in the nine- teenth century took refuge in scholarship and philosophy, and since the Second World War they seem to be trying to forget defeat and partition in the pursuit of money, nationally as well as individually. The first of these expedients has no appeal for the English people, and the second is out of their reach. Their Government will not allow them to forget the worries of their, public existence in private prosperity.
Nor can they fall back on the creations of contemporary culture. If these could provide any comfort their creators and purveyors would have been the happiest men in England, instead of being the most discontented, peevish, and dispirited. I have a notion that in England, as indeed over the whole West, contem- porary culture is a satellite thrown out by the historic civilization, and it is only moving round and round its planet. If this satellite is not wholly dead like the moon it is only because there are still a sufficient number of men in it who are continuing the cultural traditions of the original civilization and carrying on the old type of activities. As regards the strictly contemporary and new manifestation of this culture, the little that I have seen of it has enabled me to understand the feelings of Laika the dog in Sputni!:
I shall set down my feelings about it even at the risk of being laughed to scorn by the contemporary culturewallahs, as I would call them in my language. They have cleverness, virtuosity, selfconfidence, dogmatism; they also have almost inexhaustible arguments to deceive others and themselves; but they know as well as anybody else, particularly their victims, that they have no power to make either themselves or others happy. Theirs is a world without enjoyment. I am choked by their fiction, which at best is incompetent sociology, and by their sculpture and painting, which I cannot characterize. I went up to the door of their sanctum sanctorum, the Musée National d'Art Moderne in Paris, and felt so frightened that I did not pass the door: I am repelled by their anger which is querulousness, and above all by their compassion which is self-pity. Their expectations from society at large and their obsession with status are not less exasperating. Who gave Michelangelo, Dr Johnson, or Beethoven his status? And does it matter? Thus I can understand why ordinary people, who have a sure instinct for happiness, shun their work like poison, even pre- ferring the sloppy democratic literature. They are still too honest to find pleasure in pretended enjoyment.
To be candid, there are only two fields, two connected fields, in which the human mind is still live and creative, which can provide occupation for it and give to those who can remain wholly within their limits either exultation or in any case a happy forgetfulness of the general human misery. These are, of course, pure science and technology. But the first is for Man the Abstract Thinker and the second for Man the Maker. It also seems to me that the English people are not subject to the very modern furor technologicus to the extent that the Russians and the Americans are. Even France, mère des arts, des armes, et des lois, is now creating a technological mystique, which is providing an emotional release for her people. The English people, though fully abreast of others in technological and scientific development, show no such enthus- iasm. That perhaps is owing to the fact that they have been scientific, discoverers for a long time and the pioneers of the technological revolution.
In any case, there is el.ugh to give a sense of fulfilment to those men who live by and for science and technology. But for the men for whom the prophets, philosophers, and poets wrote in the past there are, only catchwords. I do not think that there was any age in the past in which moral ideas were more powerless than in ours, when men are chattering ceaselessly about social and international morality. One can understand that. On the one hand, what feeble moral ideas we have are the rements of the old humanitarianism which has lost its vitality and become obsolete. On the other, man's power has grown enormously and wholly outstripped his wisdoni. The distance between the two can be judged by the pronouncements of the scientists themselves. Some of the worst platitudes of our times are coming from the discoverers of the mathematical equations and new laws of physics. These creators of new human power can do no better as moralists than cry like frightened children at the sight of the giant they have themselves brought into being.
This leaves to all Western nations, and Englishmen among them, only one thing to fall back on: their historic civilization, As soon as I came to this point in my thinking I also understood the real meaning of all that I had seen in England and France--the crowds at the classical plays, concerts, picture galleries, and exhibitions; the interest in architecture, gardens, and landscape; loyalty to religion and the mos majorum; the care bestowed on the interpretation and preservation of the national heritage; the love and piety inspired by all the aspects of the historic civilization, including even its politics.
I think their historic civilization has already become the ultimate resource of the existence of these peoples, though none of them has declared consciously like the Greeks of the Alexandrine age: 'Paideia is a haven for all mankind.' It is entering actively into their daily life to keep them steady and cheerful in situations which are full of disappointments and anxieties. Perhaps the power of the historic civilization is best seen in the effect it produces on the creators and preachers of contemporary culture. As soon as they turn their face from the present to the past they are restored to sanity, good sense, and sincerity. They recover humility and love. None of them dream of repeating in regard to Shakespeare or Michelangelo what they say about their own products. The attitud- inizers become lovable personalities again.
Englishmen, it seems to me, are showing all the greater affection for the products of their historic civilization because they have become half-conscious of a peculiar neglect of them in the past. In England civilization has most often been identified with the art of living-literature, painting, architecture, and the other creations being looked upon as mere accessories. It was an English scholar who said that the last product of study was, not the book, but the man. The nation asa whole have thought the same thing about their civilization. They still think so, but they have also become aware that their civilized life is going to be endangered unless they *re-orient their attitude, because they can no longer practise the art of living in the old manner. They must now fix their love on the permanent things, and put less trust in the evanescent style of living.
Yet this falling back on civilization is not escape for them, no retirement into the ivory tower, itself a catchword invented by those who love to sit on their handful of thorns to air their grievance against those who have the capacity to make themselves happy in the worst of circumstances. On the contrary, it appears to me that the only outlet that our age has to offer to the fighting spirit without which a man is a very poor creature, is to be found in the sphere of civilization. All other wars, even religious ones, have become inconceivable or immoral, and climbing Everest or reaching the Pole is not an adequate substitute. But the joy of combat is yet to be found in the war between civilization and the new democratic culture.
I do not understand why many intellectuals, who are watching this conflict and are conscious of the tremendous issues which hang on its outcome, are so pessimistic and depressed about it. Certainly, if absolute numbers of the followers of civilization are considered, they are more numerous today than at any time in the past. Greater gumbers are enjoying good music and literature, taking an interest in architecture, painting and sculpture, and wanting to share the refinements of life. The credit for this has to go to the men of faith, courage, and energy who are interpreting and popularizing the historic civilization among the people. The movement of reclamation and conversion is strong, and it will continue to gain ground.
But, of course, the pity is that the new democratic culture is also gaining ground, and at a higher rate. It is recruiting ever greater numbers of followers in the old world of folk civilization which it has almost destroyed. It is not so much the appearance of the new culture as its inroads into folk civilization that are creating the greatest danger for civilization. The old folk culture was of the same stuff as the civilization, only simpler, the new culture is antithetical.
A greater danger lies in the political power behind the new culture. Perhaps for the first time in the history of mankind an ordinary majority has been put in a position of authority over an exceptional minority, with disastrous consequences for everything coming from the mind. This majority is conscious of its power, and is therefore also aggressive. There is a hard fight before civilization, and nobody can predict the result.
But that is no reason for losing heart. In any case, I found no defeatism in the rank and file of the new followers of civilization. Perhaps for the future more is to be expected from this Young Guard than the tired Old Guard. These men and women seemed not only to enjoy the historic civilization with immense zest in their own lives, they appeared also to be marching to battle to the tune of a brave music:
MARCHE DES DAVIDSBUNDLER CONTRE LES PHILISTINS.
Non Allegro
National Destiny
IT MUST not be imagined that I was free from doubts and mis- givings all the time I was in England or did not wonder whether beneath the appearances everything was sound. As a matter of fact, I put to myself the most fundamental question of all, "What was their national destiny?' That must sound pompous, but I shall explain what I had in mind. I was seeing a people who were going about their business with energy and confidence, who looked strong and healthy, had plenty of food and the other necessitics of life, were even enjoying luxuries of which, living in India, I could form no idea, and altogether showed no signs of being tired or discouraged. To what was all this leading them as a nation? They had lost their Empire, the greater part of their wealth, also their position as the first World Power. Were they going to recover their old position, or create a new position of which they could be as proud, or were they, in spite of all their apparent recovery and prosperity, going" down the path of inestable decline? On account of my love for the English people I put these questions to myself. I also tried to find out if they were doing so themselves. One day I asked an English friend whether there was any thinking on the national destiny among his people. I meant hard and objective thinking as distinct from hoping and generally feeling confident that things would turn out for the best. He immediately replied that there was no such thinking. "We are wholly absorbed in the present,' he added. He seemed to imply that with his people it was a case of thinking that sufficient unto the day was, not the evil, but the good thereof.
But the question did not leave my mind. I went on thinking about it, and raised it once again when I was in Rome. My English friends there asked me if I had liked what I had seen in England. I replied that I had been very deeply impressed, but that it seemed to me as if they were thoughtless about the future. My hostess, to whom I repeated the formula about the national. destiny, considered for a little while and said, "You see, Mr Chaudhuri, we have had very bad times and we have come through, though we hardly knew how to. We have also recovered more rapidly than we could have believed to be possible. I think that is why we are enjoying the present for a little while. I am sure we are not really thoughtless about the future.' I felt reassured.
The question has returned to my mind, but not in the old form. I still feel uncertain about the future, and I believe it is impossible to say anything definite about it at this stage. But I have no criticism to make of the present attitude of the English people and I withdraw every suggestion of blame which was implied in my question. I now think that they are wholly right in going about as they are doing, making the best of their imperishable resources of happiness and showing a brave thoughtlessness as regards their troubles It is unnecessary to give more thought to them than they deserve. For the English people there is no longer any question of going forward to meet a challenge like that of 1900. If they have to face a situation in the future which will be a matter of life and death for them, it will not come through their own will but that of others, and all that will be needed then will be stoical endurance. It will not be called 'their finest hour".
Their worst troubles are with them, and they are here and now. They are of such a kind that heroism lies in not paying any attention to them and going about one's work and amusements as if nothing was wrong. I cannot say that the English people have risen wholly above their present troubles, for they do show at times an irritation and moodiness which is more serious than the national habit of grumbling. But I am surprised and delighted to see them as happy, careless, and gay as they generally are. And the most delightful thing is that they do not even have the cleverness to say: 'Il faut cultiver notre jardin."
But when in England I had no perception of all this or of the relationship between their contemporary situation and their historic civilization. I could only see the richness and strength of their ultimate resources, and how accessible these were. This by" itself was a great joy to me, and I told everybody that never before, except in the intimacy of my family life, had I been so happy as I was during my short stay in England. It was the literal truth, and the happiness has lasted.
At the beginning it was overflowing, and I myself became conscious that I was wearing my joy on my sleeve. But there was good reason to be swept off the platform of cool sense. My experiences in England were followed by no less remarkable ones in Paris and Rome, and in the end they all became as happily fused as are the main subject, foreground, and background in a well- composed picture.
I cannot describe my sightseeing in Paris and Rome in this book, but just to indicate the nature of my experiences Lahall say something about the last hours of my stay in Europe. After I had brought down my luggage to the hall of the hotel I thought I would go and sit on : Capitol, which I had seen in the evening of the day of my arrival. So I went up the magnificent steps, and wandered around in Michelangelo's Campidoglio, the garden on the side above Mamertine Prison, and the park on the opposite side above the Tarpcian Rock, where once stood the Temple of Jupiter Capitolinus. I also sat for some time at the foot of the statue of Marcus Aurelius and in the church of Santa Maria in Aracoeli.
I recalled that Gibbon had sat somewhere near by and conceived the idea of writing his great history, as he mused amidst the ruins of the Capitol. But just to recollect the incident was all that I could do at the moment. I had become as incapable of moralizing in the humanistic vein as of feeling the poetry of ruins in the romantic manner. It was the vision before my eyes that was absorbing all my attention.
The famous golden light of Rome was losing its gold and turning into grey. The Via Cavour in the distance could be seen" glittering with its shop-lights, and Santa Maria Maggiore loomed above it. Before me the three arches of the Basilica of Maxentius looked like the mouths of vast primitive caverns, shaped into symmetry by the Roman notion of order. The ruins of the Forum were falling under the deep shadows cast by the green mass of the Palatine.
But Rome has adopted a most effective method of displaying her ruins. Suddenly, unseen floodlights were switched on, and the buildings began to gleam like the figures of cameos against their background. As it grew darker and darker, they became brighter and brighter, until the Arches of Severus and Titus, the columns of the Temples of Vespasian and Saturn, the three shafts of the Temple of Castor and Pollux with their entablature, even the little Temple of Vesta which had been recently restored, shone like fragments of architecture quarried out of the full moon. The Colosseum, which appears so menacingly solid and sombre in the daytime, seemed to have lost all its weight and become acrial.
In London I had already seen the façade of Somerset House and the dome of St Paul's illuminated at night. In Paris the floodlit dome of the Invalides was a lovely vision which I saw every evening through my hotel window. But I had never come across anything more beautiful and moving than the phosphorescent ruins of the Roman Forum.
The excitement of these experiences must have passed into my movements, for when three hours later I got into che acroplane at Ciampino I noticed a fellow-passenger, obviously an Englishman, watching me with an amused smile. I wondered what oddity in my appearance or behaviour was making him do so. The mystery was cleared up at Baghdad.
When we were waiting in the hall of the airport, he came forward and introduced himself as an Englishman in the business line who had lived for many years in Calcutta. When I said I was a Bengali he replied that he had never seen a Bengali like me. Then turning to the air hostess he observed, 'Is he not bubbling over with life?" I answered with an affectation of English ways, 'Oh, that's nothing. I've just had a holiday at the expense of your, country and France!' They both laughed. But it was useless to pretend. My happiness was flowing out of very much deeper springs.
THE END
