Odd John (13 page)

"You see," he said, "they really are in a sense the leaders of thought, or leaders of fashion in thought. What they think and feel to-day, the rest think and feel next year or so. And some of them really are, according to the standards of
Hom. sap
., first-class minds, or might have been, in different circumstances, (Of course, most are just riff-raff, but they don't count.) Well, the situation's really very simple, and very desperate. Here is the centre to which nearly all the best sensibility and best intellect of the country gets attracted in the expectation of meeting its kind and enriching its experience; but what happens? The poor little flies find themselves caught in a web, a subtle mesh of convention, so subtle in fact that most of them are unaware of it. They buzz and buzz and imagine they are free fliers, when as a matter of fact each one is stuck fast on his particular strand of the web. Of course, they have the reputation of being the most unconventional people of all. The centre imposes on them a convention of unconventionality, of daring thought and conduct. But they can only be 'daring' within the limits of their convention. They have a sameness of intellectual and moral taste which makes them fundamentally all alike in spite of their quite blatant superficial differences. That wouldn't matter so much if their taste were really discriminate taste, but it's not, in most cases; and such innate powers of precision and delicacy as they actually have get dulled by the convention. If the convention were a sound one, all might be well, but it's not. It consists in trying to be 'brilliant' and 'original,' and in craving "experience." Some of them
are
brilliant and original according to the standards of your species; and some of them
have
the gift for experience. But when they do achieve brilliance and experience, this is
in spite
of the web, and consists at best in a certain flutter and agitation, not in flight. The influence of the all-pervading convention turns brilliance into brightness, originality into perversity, and deadens the mind to all but the cruder sorts of experience. I don't mean merely crudity in sex-experience and personal relations, though indeed their quite sound will to break the old customs and avoid sentimentality at all costs
has
led them in the end to a jading and coarsening extravagance. What I mean is crudity of—well, of spirit. Though they are often very intelligent (for your species) they haven't got any of the finer aspects of experience to use their intelligence
on
. And that seems to be due partly to a complete lack of spiritual discipline, partly to an obscure, half-conscious funk. You see they're all very sensitive creatures, very susceptible to pleasure and pain; and early in their lives, whenever they bumped into anything like a fundamental experience, they found it terribly upsetting. And so they formed habits of avoiding that sort of thing. And they made up for this persistent avoidance by drenching themselves in all sorts of minor and superficial (though sensational) experiences; and also by talking big about Experience with a capital E, and buzzing intellectually."

This analysis made me feel uncomfortable, for though I was not one of "them" I could not disguise from myself that the same sort of condemnation might apply to me. John evidently saw my thoughts, for he grinned, and moreover indulged in an entirely vulgar wink. Then he said, "Strikes home, old thing, doesn't it? Never mind, you're not
in
the web. You're an outsider. Fate has kept you safely fluttering in the backward North."

Some weeks after this conversation John's mood seemed to change. Hitherto he had been light-hearted, sometimes even ribald, both in the actual pursuit of his investigation and in his comments. In his more serious phases he displayed the sympathetic though aloof interest of an anthropologist observing the customs of a primitive tribe. He had always been ready to talk about his experiences and to defend his judgements. But now he began to be much less communicative, and, when he did condescend to talk, much more terse and grim. Banter and friendly contemptuousness vanished. In their place he developed a devastating habit of coldly, wearily pulling to pieces whatever one said to him. Finally this reaction also vanished, and his only response to any remark of general interest was a steady gloomy stare. So might a lonely man gaze at his frisking dog when the need of human intercourse was beginning to fret him. Had any one other than John treated one in that way, the act would have been offensive. Coming from John it was merely disturbing. It roused in me a painful self-consciousness, and an irresistible tendency to look away and busy myself with something.

Once only did John express himself freely. By appointment I had met him in his subterranean workshop to discuss a financial project which I proposed to undertake. He was lying in his little bunk, swinging one leg over the side. Both hands were behind his head. I embarked on my theme, but his attention was obviously elsewhere. "Damn it, can't you listen?" I said. "Are you inventing a gadget or what?"

"Not inventing," he replied, "discovering."

There was such solemnity in his voice that a wave of irrational panic seized me. "Oh, for God's sake do be explicit. What's up with you these days? Can't you tell a fellow?" He transferred his gaze from the ceiling to my face. He stared. I started to fill my pipe.

"Yes, I'll tell you," he said, "if I can, or as much as I can. Some time ago I asked myself a question, namely this. Is the plight of the world to-day a mere incident, an illness that might have been avoided and may be cured? Or is it something inherent in the very nature of your species? Well, I have got my answer.
Homo sapiens
is a spider trying to crawl out of a basin. The higher he crawls, the steeper the hill. Sooner or later, down he goes. So long as he's on the bottom, he can get along quite nicely, but as soon as he starts climbing, he begins to slip. And the higher he climbs the farther he falls. It doesn't matter which direction he tries. He can make civilization after civilization, but every time, long before he begins to be really civilized, skid!"

I protested against John's assurance. "It may be so," I said, "but how can you possibly
know
?
Hom. sap
. is an inventive animal. Might not the spider some time or other contrive to make his feet sticky? Or—well, suppose he's not a spider at all but a beetle. Beetles have wings. They often forget how to use them, but—aren't there signs that
Hom. sap's
present climb is different from all the others? Mechanical power is a stickiness for his feet. And I believe his wing-cases are stirring, too."

John regarded me in silence. Pulling himself together, he said, as if from a great distance, "No wings. No wings." Then, in a more normal voice, "And as for mechanical power, if he knew how to use it, it might help him up a few steps farther, but he doesn't. You see, for every type of creature there's a limit of
possible
development of capacity, a limit inherent in the ground plan of its organization.
Homo sapiens
reached his limit a million years ago, but he has only recently begun to use his powers dangerously. In achieving science and mechanism he has brought about a state of affairs which cannot be dealt with properly save by capacity which is much more developed than his. Of course, he
may
not slip just yet. He
may
succeed in muddling through this particular crisis of history. But if he does, it will only be muddling through to stagnation, not to the soaring that even he in his own heart is desperately craving. Mechanical power, you see, is indeed vitally necessary to the full development of the human spirit; but to the sub-human spirit it is lethal."

"But, how
can
you know that? Aren't you being a bit too confident in your own judgement?"

John's lips compressed themselves and assumed a crooked smile. "You're right," he said. "There's just one possibility that I have not mentioned. If the species as a whole, or a large proportion of the world population, were to be divinely inspired, so that their nature became truly human at a stride, all would soon be well."

I took this for irony, but he went on to say, "Oh, no, I'm quite serious. It's possible; if you interpret 'divinely inspired' to mean lifted out of their pettiness by a sudden and spontaneous access of strength to their own rudimentary spiritual nature. It happens again and again in individuals here and there. When Christianity came, it happened to large numbers. But they were a very small proportion of the whole, and the thing petered out. Short of that kind of thing, or rather something much more widespread and much more powerful than the Christian miracle, there's no hope. The early Christians, you see, and the early Buddhists and so on, remained at bottom what I should call sub-human, in spite of their miracle. In intelligence they remained what they were before the miracle; and in will, though they were profoundly changed by the new thing in them, the change was insecure. Or rather the new thing seldom managed to integrate their whole being into a new and harmonious order. Its rule was precarious. The new psychological compound, so to speak, was a terribly unstable compound. Or, putting it in another way, they managed to become saints, but seldom angels. The sub-human and the human were always in violent conflict in them. And so they mostly got obsessed with the idea of sin, and saving their souls, instead of being able to pass on to live the new life with fluency and joy, and with creative effect in the world."

At this point we fell silent. I relit my pipe, and John remarked, "Match number nine, you funny old thing!" It was true. There lay the eight burnt matches, though I had no recollection of using them. John from his position on the bed could not see the ash-tray. He must have noticed the actual re-lightings. It was simply that he observed whatever happened however engrossed he might be. "You funnier young thing!" I retorted.

Presently he began talking again. He kept his eye on me, but I felt that he was talking rather to himself than to me. "At one time," he said, "I thought I should simply take charge of the world and help
Homo sapiens
to remake himself on a more human plan. But now I realize that only what men call 'God' could do that. Unless perhaps a great invasion of superior beings from another planet, or another dimension, could do it. But I doubt if they would trouble to do it. They would probably merely use the Terrestrials as cattle or museum pieces or pets, or just vermin. All the same, if they wanted to make a better job of
Hom. sap
. I expect they could. But
I
can't do it. I believe, if I set my mind to it, I
could
fairly easily secure power and take charge of the normal species; and, once in charge, I could make a much more satisfactory world, and a much happier world; but always I should have to accept the ultimate limitations of capacity in the normal species. To make them try to live beyond their capacity would be like trying to civilize a pack of monkeys. There would be worse chaos than ever, and they would unite against me, and sooner or later destroy me. So I'd just have to accept the creature with all its limitations. And that would be to waste my best powers. I might as well spend my life chicken-farming."

"You arrogant young cub!" I protested. "I don't believe we are as bad as you think."

"Oh, don't you! Of course not, you're one of the pack," he said. "Look here, now! I've spent some time and trouble poking about in Europe, and what do I find? In my simplicity I thought the fellows who had come to the top, the best minds, the leaders in every walk, would be something like real human beings, fundamentally sane, rational, efficient, self-detached, loyal to the best in them. Actually they are nothing of the sort. Mostly they're even below the average. Their position has underminded them. Think of old Z (naming a Cabinet minister). You'd be amazed if you could see him as I have seen him. He simply can't experience anything clearly and correctly, except things that bear on his petty little self-esteem. Everything has to penetrate to him through a sort of eider-down of preconceived notions,
clichés
, diplomatic phrases. He has no more idea of the real issues in politics to-day than a mayfly has of the fish in the stream it's fluttering on. He has, of course, the trick of using a lot of phrases that
might
mean very important things, but they don't mean them to
him
. They are just counters for him, to be used in the game of politics. He's simply not
alive
, to the real things. That's what's the matter with him. And take Y, the Press magnate. He's just a nimble-witted little guttersnipe who has found out how to hoax the world into giving him money and power. Talk to him about the real things, and he just hasn't a notion what you're driving at. But it's not only that sort that terrify me with their combination of power and inanity. Take the real leaders, take young X, whose revolutionary ideas are going to have a huge effect on social thought. He's got a brain, and he's using it on the right side, and he has nerve, too. But—well, I've seen enough of him to spot his
real
motive, hidden from himself, of course. He had a thin time long ago, and now he wants to get his own back, he wants to make the oppressor frightened of him. He wants to
use
the have-nots to break the haves, for his own satisfaction. Well,
let
him get his own back, and good luck to him. But fancy taking that as your life's goal, even unconsciously! It has made him do damned good work, but it has crippled him, too, poor devil. Or take that philosopher bloke, W, who did so much toward showing up the old school with their simple trust in words. He's really in much the same fix as X. I know him pretty well, the perky old bird. And knowing him I can see the mainspring of all that brilliant work quite clearly, namely, the idea of
himself
as bowing to no man and no god, as purged of prejudice and sentimentality, as faithful to reason yet not blindly trustful of it. All that is admirable. But it obsesses him, and actually warps his reasoning. You can't be a real philoso pher if you have an obsession. On the other hand, take V. He knows all about electrons and all about galaxies, and he's first class at his job. Further, he has glimmers of spiritual experience. Well, what's the mechanism this time? He's a kind creature, very sympathetic. And he likes to think that the universe is all right from the human point of view. Hence all his explorations and speculations. Well, so long as he sticks to science he is sound enough. But his spiritual experience tells him science is all very superficial. Right, again; but his is not very deep spiritual experience, and it gets all mixed up with kindliness, and he tells us things about the universe that are sheer inventions of his kindliness."