CHAPTER XVII

 

May 26^th 1934

 

Literature for peace – of what kind?  One can concentrate on economics: trade barriers, disorganized currency, impediments in the way of migration, private interests bent on making profits at all costs.  And so on.  One can concentrate on politics: danger of the concept of the sovereign state, as a wholly immortal being having interests irreconcilable with those of other sovereign states.  One can propose political and economic remedies – trade agreements, international arbitration, collective security.  Sensible prescriptions following sound diagnosis.  But has the diagnosis gone far enough, and will the patient follow the treatment prescribed?

      This question came up in the course of today's discussion with Miller.  Answer in the negative.  The patient can't follow the treatment prescribed, for a good reason: there is no patient.  States and Nations don't exist as such.  There are only people.  Sets of people living in certain areas, having certain allegiances.  Nations won't change their national policies unless and until people change their private policies.  All governments, even Hitler's, even Stalin's, even Mussolini's, are representative.  Today's national behaviour – a large-scale projection of today's individual behaviour.  Or rather, to be more accurate, a large-scale projection of the individual's secret wishes and intentions.  For we should all like to behave a good deal worse than our conscience and respect for public opinion allow.  One of the great attractions of patriotism – it fulfils our worst wishes.  In the person of our nation we are able, vicariously, to bully and cheat.  Bully and cheat, what's more, with a feeling that we're profoundly virtuous.  Sweet and decorous to murder, lie, torture for the sake of the fatherland.  Good international policies are projections of individual good intentions and benevolent wishes, and must be of the same kind as good inter-personal policies.  Pacifist propaganda must be aimed at people as well as their governments; must start simultaneously at the periphery and the centre.

      Empirical facts:

      One. We are all capable of love for other human beings.

      Two. We impose limitations on that love.

      Three. We can transcend all these limitations – if we choose to. (It is a matter of observation that anyone who so desires can overcome personal dislike, class feeling, national hatred, colour prejudice.  Not easy; but it can be done, if we have the will and know how to carry out our good intentions.)

      Four. Love expressing itself in good treatment breeds love.  Hate expressing itself in bad treatment breeds hate.

      In the light of these facts, it's obvious what inter-personal, inter-class and international policies should be.  But, again, knowledge cuts little ice.  We all know; we almost all fail to do.  It is a question, as usual, of the best methods of implementing intentions.  Among other things, peace propaganda must be a set of instructions in the art of modifying character.

 

                                                                      I see

             The lost are like this, and their scourge to be,

             As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.

 

Hell is the incapacity to be other than the creature one finds oneself ordinarily behaving as.

      On the way home from Miller's, dived into the public lavatory at Marble Arch, and there ran into Beppo Bowles deep in conversation with one of those flannel-trousered, hatless young men who look like undergraduates and are, I suppose, very junior clerks or shop assistants.  On B.'s face, what a mingling of elation and anxiety.  Happy, drunk with thrilling anticipation, and at the same time horribly anxious and afraid.  He might be turned down – unspeakably humiliation!  He might not be turned down – appalling dangers!  Frustration of desire, if there was failure, cruel blow to pride, wound to the very root of personality.  And, if success, fear (through all the triumph) of blackmail and police court.  Poor wretch!  He was horribly embarrassed at the sight of me.  I just nodded and hurried past.  B.'s hell – an underground lavatory with rows of urinals stretching to infinity in all directions and a boy at each.  Beppo walking up and down the rows, for ever – his sweating self, but worse.