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eventually be bound not to disturb a man s mind even by argument; not to disturb the
sleep of birds even by coughing. The ultimate apotheosis would appear to be that of a
man sitting quite still, nor daring to stir for fear of disturbing a fly, nor to eat for fear of
incommoding a microbe. To so crude a consummation as that we might perhaps
unconsciously drift. But do we want so crude a consummation? Similarly, we might
unconsciously evolve along the opposite or Nietzschian line of development --
superman crushing superman in one tower of tyrants until the universe is smashed up
for fun. But do we want the universe smashed up for fun? Is it not quite clear that what
we really hope for is one particular management and proposition of these two things; a
certain amount of restraint and respect, a certain amount of energy and mastery? If our
life is ever really as beautiful as a fairy-tale, we shall have to remember that all the
beauty of a fairy-tale lies in this: that the prince has a wonder which just stops short of
being fear. If he is afraid of the giant, there is an end of him; but also if he is not
astonished at the giant, there is an end of the fairy-tale. The whole point depends upon
his being at once humble enough to wonder, and haughty enough to defy. So our
attitude to the giant of the world must not merely be increasing delicacy or increasing
contempt: it must be one particular proportion of the two -- which is exactly right. We
must have in us enough reverence for all things outside us to make us tread fearfully on
the grass. We must also have enough disdain for all things outside us, to make us, on
due occasion, spit at the stars. Yet these two things (if we are to be good or happy)
must be combined, not in any combination, but in one particular combination. The
perfect happiness of men on the earth (if it ever comes) will not be a flat and solid thing,
like the satisfaction of animals. It will be an exact and perilous balance; like that of a
desperate romance. Man must have just enough faith in himself to have adventures,
and just enough doubt of himself to enjoy them.
This, then, is our second requirement for the ideal of progress. First, it must be
fixed; second, it must be composite. It must not (if it is to satisfy our souls) be the mere
victory of some one thing swallowing up everything else, love or pride or peace or
adventure; it must be a definite picture composed of these elements in their best
proportion and relation. I am not concerned at this moment to deny that some such
good culmination may be, by the constitution of things, reserved for the human race. I
only point out that if this composite happiness is fixed for us it must be fixed by some
mind; for only a mind can place the exact proportions of a composite happiness. If the
beatification of the world is a mere work of nature, then it must be as simple as the
freezing of the world, or the burning up of the world. But if the beatification of the world
is not a work of nature but a work of art, then it involves an artist. And here again my
contemplation was cloven by the ancient voice which said,  I could have told you all this
a long time ago. If there is any certain progress it can only be my kind of progress, the
progress towards a complete city of virtues and dominations where righteousness and
peace contrive to kiss each other. An impersonal force might be leading you to a
wilderness of perfect flatness or a peak of perfect height. But only a personal God can
possibly be leading you (if, indeed, you are being led) to a city with just streets and
architectural proportions, a city in which each of you can contribute exactly the right
amount of your own colour to the many coloured coat of Joseph.
Twice again, therefore, Christianity had come in with the exact answer that I
required. I had said,  The ideal must be fixed, and the Church had answered,  Mine is
literally fixed, for it existed before anything else. I said secondly,  It must be artistically
combined, like a picture ; and the Church answered,  Mine is quite literally a picture, for
I know who painted it. Then I went on to the third thing, which, as it seemed to me, was
needed for an Utopia or goal of progress. And of all the three it is infinitely the hardest to
express. Perhaps it might be put thus: that we need watchfulness even in Utopia, lest
we fall from Utopia as we fell from Eden.
We have remarked that one reason offered for being a progressive is that things
naturally tend to grow better. But the only real reason for being a progressive is that
things naturally tend to grow worse. The corruption in things is not only the best [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]