heretics- 第11部分

has　more　light　or　less。　　In　brief；　the　progress　may　be　as　varying



as　a　cloud；　but　the　direction　must　be　as　rigid　as　a　French　road。



North　and　South　are　relative　in　the　sense　that　I　am　North　of　Bournemouth



and　South　of　Spitzbergen。　　But　if　there　be　any　doubt　of　the　position



of　the　North　Pole；　there　is　in　equal　degree　a　doubt　of　whether　I



am　South　of　Spitzbergen　at　all。　　The　absolute　idea　of　light　may　be



practically　unattainable。　　We　may　not　be　able　to　procure　pure　light。



We　may　not　be　able　to　get　to　the　North　Pole。　　But　because　the　North



Pole　is　unattainable；　it　does　not　follow　that　it　is　indefinable。



And　it　is　only　because　the　North　Pole　is　not　indefinable　that　we



can　make　a　satisfactory　map　of　Brighton　and　Worthing。







In　other　words；　Plato　turned　his　face　to　truth　but　his　back　on



Mr。　H。　G。　Wells；　when　he　turned　to　his　museum　of　specified　ideals。



It　is　precisely　here　that　Plato　shows　his　sense。　　It　is　not　true



that　everything　changes；　the　things　that　change　are　all　the　manifest



and　material　things。　　There　is　something　that　does　not　change；



and　that　is　precisely　the　abstract　quality；　the　invisible　idea。



Mr。　Wells　says　truly　enough；　that　a　thing　which　we　have　seen　in　one



connection　as　dark　we　may　see　in　another　connection　as　light。



But　the　thing　common　to　both　incidents　is　the　mere　idea　of　light



which　we　have　not　seen　at　all。　　Mr。　Wells　might　grow　taller　and　taller



for　unending　aeons　till　his　head　was　higher　than　the　loneliest　star。



I　can　imagine　his　writing　a　good　novel　about　it。　　In　that　case



he　would　see　the　trees　first　as　tall　things　and　then　as　short　things；



he　would　see　the　clouds　first　as　high　and　then　as　low。



But　there　would　remain　with　him　through　the　ages　in　that　starry



loneliness　the　idea　of　tallness；　he　would　have　in　the　awful　spaces



for　companion　and　comfort　the　definite　conception　that　he　was　growing



taller　and　not　（for　instance）　growing　fatter。







And　now　it　comes　to　my　mind　that　Mr。　H。　G。　Wells　actually　has　written



a　very　delightful　romance　about　men　growing　as　tall　as　trees；



and　that　here；　again；　he　seems　to　me　to　have　been　a　victim　of　this



vague　relativism。　　〃The　Food　of　the　Gods〃　is；　like　Mr。　Bernard



Shaw's　play；　in　essence　a　study　of　the　Superman　idea。　　And　it　lies；



I　think；　even　through　the　veil　of　a　half…pantomimic　allegory；



open　to　the　same　intellectual　attack。　　We　cannot　be　expected　to　have



any　regard　for　a　great　creature　if　he　does　not　in　any　manner　conform



to　our　standards。　　For　unless　he　passes　our　standard　of　greatness



we　cannot　even　call　him　great。　　Nietszche　summed　up　all　that　is



interesting　in　the　Superman　idea　when　he　said；　〃Man　is　a　thing



which　has　to　be　surpassed。〃　　But　the　very　word　〃surpass〃　implies



the　existence　of　a　standard　common　to　us　and　the　thing　surpassing　us。



If　the　Superman　is　more　manly　than　men　are；　of　course　they　will



ultimately　deify　him；　even　if　they　happen　to　kill　him　first。



But　if　he　is　simply　more　supermanly；　they　may　be　quite　indifferent



to　him　as　they　would　be　to　another　seemingly　aimless　monstrosity。



He　must　submit　to　our　test　even　in　order　to　overawe　us。



Mere　force　or　size　even　is　a　standard；　but　that　alone　will　never



make　men　think　a　man　their　superior。　　Giants；　as　in　the　wise　old



fairy…tales；　are　vermin。　　Supermen；　if　not　good　men；　are　vermin。







〃The　Food　of　the　Gods〃　is　the　tale　of　〃Jack　the　Giant…Killer〃



told　from　the　point　of　view　of　the　giant。　　This　has　not；　I　think；



been　done　before　in　literature；　but　I　have　little　doubt　that　the



psychological　substance　of　it　existed　in　fact。　　I　have　little　doubt



that　the　giant　whom　Jack　killed　did　regard　himself　as　the　Superman。



It　is　likely　enough　that　he　considered　Jack　a　narrow　and　parochial　person



who　wished　to　frustrate　a　great　forward　movement　of　the　life…force。



If　（as　not　unfrequently　was　the　case）　he　happened　to　have　two　heads；



he　would　point　out　the　elementary　maxim　which　declares　them



to　be　better　than　one。　　He　would　enlarge　on　the　subtle　modernity



of　such　an　equipment；　enabling　a　giant　to　look　at　a　subject



from　two　points　of　view；　or　to　correct　himself　with　promptitude。



But　Jack　was　the　champion　of　the　enduring　human　standards；



of　the　principle　of　one　man　one　head　and　one　man　one　conscience；



of　the　single　head　and　the　single　heart　and　the　single　eye。



Jack　was　quite　unimpressed　by　the　question　of　whether　the　giant　was



a　particularly　gigantic　giant。　　All　he　wished　to　know　was　whether



he　was　a　good　giantthat　is；　a　giant　who　was　any　good　to　us。



What　were　the　giant's　religious　views；　what　his　views　on　politics



and　the　duties　of　the　citizen？　　Was　he　fond　of　children



or　fond　of　them　only　in　a　dark　and　sinister　sense　？　　To　use　a　fine



phrase　for　emotional　sanity；　was　his　heart　in　the　right　place？



Jack　had　sometimes　to　cut　him　up　with　a　sword　in　order　to　find　out。



The　old　and　correct　story　of　Jack　the　Giant…Killer　is　simply　the　whole



story　of　man；　if　it　were　understood　we　should　need　no　Bibles　or　histories。



But　the　modern　world　in　particular　does　not　seem　to　understand　it　at　all。



The　modern　world；　like　Mr。　Wells　is　on　the　side　of　the　giants；



the　safest　place；　and　therefore　the　meanest　and　the　most　prosaic。



The　modern　world；　when　it　praises　its　little　Caesars；



talks　of　being　strong　and　brave：　　but　it　does　not　seem　to　see



the　eternal　paradox　involved　in　the　conjunction　of　these　ideas。



The　strong　cannot　be　brave。　　Only　the　weak　can　be　brave；



and　yet　again；　in　practice；　only　those　who　can　be　brave　can　be　trusted；



in　time　of　doubt；　to　be　strong。　　The　only　way　in　which　a　giant　could



really　keep　himself　in　training　against　the　inevitable　Jack　would



be　by　continually　fighting　other　giants　ten　times　as　big　as　himself。



That　is　by　ceasing　to　be　a　giant　and　becoming　a　Jack。



Thus　that　sympathy　with　the　small　or　the　defeated　as　such；



with　which　we　Liberals　and　Nationalists　have　been　often　reproached；



is　not　a　useless　sentimentalism　at　all；　as　Mr。　Wells　and　his



friends　fancy。　　It　is　the　first　law　of　practical　courage。



To　be　in　the　weakest　camp　is　to　be　in　the　strongest　school。



Nor　can　I　imagine　anything　that　would　do　humanity　more　good　than



the　advent　of　a　race　of　Supermen；　for　them　to　fight　like　dragons。



If　the　Superman　is　better　than　we；　of　course　we　need　not　fight　him；



but　in　that　case；　why　not　call　him　the　Saint？　　But　if　he　is



merely　stronger　（whether　physically；　mentally；　or　morally　stronger；



I　do　not　care　a　farthing）；　then　he　ought　to　have　to　reckon　with　us



at　least　for　all　the　strength　we　have。　　It　we　are　weaker　than　he；



that　is　no　reason　why　we　should　be　weaker　than　ourselves。



If　we　are　not　tall　enough　to　touch　the　giant's　knees；　that　is



no　reason　why　we　should　become　shorter　by　falling　on　our　own。



But　that　is　at　bottom　the　meaning　of　all　modern　hero…worship



and　celebration　of　the　Strong　Man；　the　Caesar　the　Superman。



That　he　may　be　something　more　than　man；　we　must　be　something　less。







Doubtless　there　is　an　older　and　better　hero…worship　than　this。



But　the　old　hero　was　a　being　who；　like　Achilles；　was　more　human



than　humanity　itself。　　Nietzsche's　Superman　is　cold　and　friendless。



Achilles　is　so　foolishly　fond　of　his　friend　that　he　slaughters



armies　in　the　agony　of　his　bereavement。　　Mr。　Shaw's　sad　Caesar　says



in　his　desolate　pride；　〃He　who　has　never　hoped　can　never　despair。〃



The　Man…God　of　old　answers　from　his　awful　hill；　〃Was　ever　sorrow



like　unto　my　sorrow？〃　　A　great　man　is　not　a　man　so　strong　that　he　feels



less　than　other　men；　he　is　a　man　so　strong　that　he　feels　more。



And　when　Nietszche　says；　〃A　new　commandment　I　give　to　you；　‘be　hard；'〃



he　is　really　saying；　〃A　new　commandment　I　give　to　you；　‘be　dead。'〃



Sensibility　is　the　definition　of　life。







I　recur　for　a　last　word　to　Jack　the　Giant…Killer。　I　have　dwelt



on　this　matter　of　Mr。　Wells　and　the　giants；　not　because　it　is



specially　prominent　in　his　mind；　I　know　that　the　Superman　does



not　bulk　so　large　in　his　cosmos　as　in　that　of　Mr。　Bernard　Shaw。



I　have　dwelt　on　it　for　the　opposite　reason；　because　this　heresy



of　immoral　hero…worship　has　taken；　I　think；　a　slighter　hold　of　him；



and　may　perhaps　still　be　prevented　from　perverting　one　of



the　best　thinkers　of　the　day。　　In　the　course　of　〃The　New　Utopia〃



Mr。　Wells　makes　more　than　one　admiring　allusion　to　Mr。　W。　E。　Henley。



That　clever　and　unhappy　man　lived　in　admiration　of　a　vague　violence；



and　was　always　going　back　to　rude　old　tales　and　rude　old　ballads；



to　strong　and　primitive　literatures；　to　find　the　praise　of　strength



and　the　justification　of　tyranny。　　But　he　could　not　find　it。



It　is　not　there。　　The　primitive　literature　is　shown　in　the　tale　of　Jack



the　Giant…Killer。　The　strong　old　literature　is　all　in　praise　of　the　weak。



The　rude　old　tales　are　as　tender　to　minorities　as　any　modern



political　idealist。　　The　rude　old　ballads　are　as　sentimentally



concerned　for　the　under…dog　as　the　Aborigines　Protection　Society。



When　men　were　tough　and　raw；　when　they　lived　amid　hard　knocks　and



hard　laws；　when　they　knew　what　fighting　really　was；　they　had　only



two　kinds　of　songs。　　The　first　was　a　rejoicing　that　the　weak　had



conquered　the　strong；　the　second　a　lamentation　that　the　strong　had；



for　once　in　a　way；　conquered　the　weak。　　For　this　defiance　of



the　statu　quo；　this　constant　effort　to　alter　the　existing　balance；



this　premature　challenge　to　the　powerful；　is　the　whole　nature　and



inmost　secret　of　the　psychological　adventure　which　is　called　man。



It　is　his　strength　to　disdai