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Page 25
V THE FLAG OF THE WORLD
When I was a boy there were two curious men running about
who were called the optimist and the pessimist. I constantly used
the words myself, but I cheerfully confess that I never had any
very special idea of what they meant. The only thing which might
be considered evident was that they could not mean what they said;
for the ordinary verbal explanation was that the optimist thought
this world as good as it could be, while the pessimist thought
it as bad as it could be. Both these statements being obviously
raving nonsense, one had to cast about for other explanations.
An optimist could not mean a man who thought everything right and
nothing wrong. For that is meaningless; it is like calling everything
right and nothing left. Upon the whole, I came to the conclusion
that the optimist thought everything good except the pessimist,
and that the pessimist thought everything bad, except himself.
It would be unfair to omit altogether from the list the mysterious
but suggestive definition said to have been given by a little girl,
"An optimist is a man who looks after your eyes, and a pessimist
is a man who looks after your feet." I am not sure that this is not
the best definition of all. There is even a sort of allegorical truth
in it. For there might, perhaps, be a profitable distinction drawn
between that more dreary thinker who thinks merely of our contact
with the earth from moment to moment, and that happier thinker
who considers rather our primary power of vision and of choice
of road.
But this is a deep mistake in this alternative of the optimist
and the pessimist. The assumption of it is that a man criticises
this world as if he were house-hunting, as if he were being shown
over a new suite of apartments. If a man came to this world from
some other world in full possession of his powers he might discuss
whether the advantage of midsummer woods made up for the disadvantage
of mad dogs, just as a man looking for lodgings might balance
the presence of a telephone against the absence of a sea view.
But no man is in that position. A man belongs to this world before
he begins to ask if it is nice to belong to it. He has fought for
the flag, and often won heroic victories for the flag long before he
has ever enlisted. To put shortly what seems the essential matter,
he has a loyalty long before he has any admiration.
In the last chapter it has been said that the primary feeling
that this world is strange and yet attractive is best expressed
in fairy tales. The reader may, if he likes, put down the next
stage to that bellicose and even jingo literature which commonly
comes next in the history of a boy. We all owe much sound morality
to the penny dreadfuls. Whatever the reason, it seemed and still
seems to me that our attitude towards life can be better expressed
in terms of a kind of military loyalty than in terms of criticism
and approval. My acceptance of the universe is not optimism,
it is more like patriotism. It is a matter of primary loyalty.
The world is not a lodging-house at Brighton, which we are to
leave because it is miserable. It is the fortress of our family,
with the flag flying on the turret, and the more miserable it
is the less we should leave it. The point is not that this world
is too sad to love or too glad not to love; the point is that
when you do love a thing, its gladness is a reason for loving it,
and its sadness a reason for loving it more. All optimistic thoughts
about England and all pessimistic thoughts about her are alike
reasons for the English patriot. Similarly, optimism and pessimism
are alike arguments for the cosmic patriot.
Let us suppose we are confronted with a desperate thing--
say Pimlico. If we think what is really best for Pimlico we shall
find the thread of thought leads to the throne or the mystic and
the arbitrary. It is not enough for a man to disapprove of Pimlico:
in that case he will merely cut his throat or move to Chelsea.
Nor, certainly, is it enough for a man to approve of Pimlico:
for then it will remain Pimlico, which would be awful.
The only way out of it seems to be for somebody to love Pimlico:
to love it with a transcendental tie and without any earthly reason.
If there arose a man who loved Pimlico, then Pimlico would rise
into ivory towers and golden pinnacles; Pimlico would attire herself
as a woman does when she is loved. For decoration is not given
to hide horrible things: but to decorate things already adorable.
A mother does not give her child a blue bow because he is so ugly
without it. A lover does not give a girl a necklace to hide her neck.
If men loved Pimlico as mothers love children, arbitrarily, because it
is THEIRS, Pimlico in a year or two might be fairer than Florence.
Some readers will say that this is a mere fantasy. I answer that this
is the actual history of mankind. This, as a fact, is how cities did
grow great. Go back to the darkest roots of civilization and you
will find them knotted round some sacred stone or encircling some
sacred well. People first paid honour to a spot and afterwards
gained glory for it. Men did not love Rome because she was great.
She was great because they had loved her.
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