All Things Considered
could take the vote and feed on it; that it was in itself a positive
and overpowering pleasure, capable of being pitted against positive and
overpowering pain.
I should advise modern agitators, therefore, to give up this particular
method: the method of making very big efforts to get a very small
punishment. It does not really go down at all; the punishment is too
small, and the efforts are too obvious. It has not any of the
effectiveness of the old savage martyrdom, because it does not leave
the victim absolutely alone with his cause, so that his cause alone can
support him. At the same time it has about it that element of the
pantomimic and the absurd, which was the cruellest part of the slaying
and the mocking of the real prophets. St. Peter was crucified upside
down as a huge inhuman joke; but his human seriousness survived the
inhuman joke, because, in whatever posture, he had died for his faith.
The modern martyr of the Pankhurst type courts the absurdity without
making the suffering strong enough to eclipse the absurdity. She is
like a St. Peter who should deliberately stand on his head for ten
seconds and then expect to be canonised for it.
Or, again, the matter might be put in this way. Modern martyrdoms fail
even as demonstrations, because they do not prove even that the martyrs
are completely serious. I think, as a fact, that the modern martyrs
generally are serious, perhaps a trifle too serious. But their
martyrdom does not prove it; and the public does not always believe it.
Undoubtedly, as a fact, Dr. Clifford is quite honourably indignant with
what he considers to be clericalism, but he does not prove it by having
his teapot sold; for a man might easily have his teapot sold as an
actress has her diamonds stolen—as a personal advertisement. As a
matter of fact, Miss Pankhurst is quite in earnest about votes for
women. But she does not prove it by being chucked out of meetings. A
person might be chucked out of meetings just as young men are chucked
out of music-halls—for fun. But no man has himself eaten by a lion as a
personal advertisement. No woman is broiled on a gridiron for fun. That
is where the testimony of St. Perpetua and St. Faith comes in.
Doubtless it is no fault of these enthusiasts that they are not
subjected to the old and searching penalties; very likely they would
pass through them as triumphantly as St. Agatha. I am simply advising
them upon a point of policy, things being as they are. And I say that
the average man is not impressed with their sacrifices simply because
they are not and cannot be more decisive than the sacrifices which the
average man himself would make for mere fun if he were drunk. Drunkards
would interrupt meetings and take the consequences. And as for selling
a teapot, it is an act, I imagine, in which any properly constituted
drunkard would take a positive pleasure. The advertisement is not good
enough; it does not tell. If I were really martyred for an opinion
(which is more improbable than words can say), it would certainly only
be for one or two of my most central and sacred opinions. I might,
perhaps, be shot for England, but certainly not for the British Empire.
I might conceivably die for political freedom, but I certainly wouldn’t
die for Free Trade. But as for kicking up the particular kind of shindy
that the Suffragettes are kicking up, I would as soon do it for my
shallowest opinion as for my deepest one. It never could be anything
worse than an inconvenience; it never could be anything better than a
spree. Hence the British public, and especially the working classes,
regard the whole demonstration with fundamental indifference; for,
while it is a demonstration that probably is adopted from the most
fanatical motives, it is a demonstration which might be adopted from
the most frivolous.
ON POLITICAL SECRECY
Generally, instinctively, in the absence of any special reason,
humanity hates the idea of anything being hidden—that is, it hates the
idea of anything being successfully hidden. Hide-and-seek is a popular
pastime; but it assumes the truth of the text, “Seek and ye shall
find.” Ordinary mankind (gigantic and unconquerable in its power of
joy) can get a great deal of pleasure out of a game called “hide the
thimble,” but that is only because it is really a game of “see the
thimble.” Suppose that at the end of such a game the thimble had not
been found at all; suppose its place was unknown for ever: the result
on the players would not be playful, it would be tragic. That thimble
would hag-ride all their dreams. They would all die in asylums. The
pleasure is all in the poignant moment of passing from not knowing to
knowing. Mystery stories are very popular, especially when sold at
sixpence; but that is because the author of a mystery story reveals. He
is enjoyed not because he creates mystery, but because he destroys
mystery. Nobody would have the courage to publish a detective-story
which left the problem exactly where it found it. That would rouse even
the London public to revolution. No one dare publish a detective-story
that did not detect.
There are three broad classes of the special things in which human
wisdom does permit privacy. The first is the case I have mentioned—that
of hide-and-seek, or the police novel, in which it permits privacy only
in order to explode and smash privacy. The author makes first a
fastidious secret of how the Bishop was murdered, only in order that he
may at last declare, as from a high tower, to the whole democracy the
great glad news that he was murdered by the governess. In that case,
ignorance is only valued because being ignorant is the best and purest
preparation for receiving the horrible revelations of high life.
Somewhat in the same way being an agnostic is the best and purest
preparation for receiving the happy revelations of St. John.
This first sort of secrecy we may dismiss, for its whole ultimate
object is not to keep the secret, but to tell it. Then there is a
second and far more important class of things which humanity does agree
to hide. They are so important that they cannot possibly be discussed
here. But every one will know the kind of things I mean. In connection
with these, I wish to remark that though they are, in one sense, a
secret, they are also always a “sécret de Polichinelle.” Upon sex and
such matters we are in a human freemasonry; the freemasonry is
disciplined, but the freemasonry is free. We are asked to be silent
about these things, but we are not asked to be ignorant about them. On
the contrary, the fundamental human argument is entirely the other way.
It is the thing most common to humanity that is most veiled by
humanity. It is exactly because we all know that it is there that we
need not say that it is there.
Then there is a third class of things on which the best civilisation
does permit privacy, does resent all inquiry or explanation. This is in
the case of things which need not be explained, because they cannot be
explained, things too airy, instinctive, or intangible—caprices, sudden
impulses, and the more innocent kind of prejudice. A man must not be
asked why he is talkative or silent, for the simple reason that he does
not know. A man is not asked (even in Germany) why he walks slow or
quick, simply because he could not answer. A man must take his own road
through a wood, and make his own use of a holiday. And the reason is
this: not because he has a strong reason, but actually because he has a
weak reason; because he has a slight and fleeting feeling about the
matter which he could not explain to a policeman, which perhaps the
very appearance of a policeman out of the bushes might destroy. He must
act on the impulse, because the impulse is unimportant, and he may
never have the same impulse again. If you like to put it so he must act
on the impulse because the impulse is not worth a moment’s thought. All
these fancies men feel should be private; and even Fabians have never
proposed to interfere with them.
Now, for the last fortnight the newspapers have been full of very
varied comments upon the problem of the secrecy of certain parts of our
political finance, and especially of the problem of the party funds.
Some papers have failed entirely to understand what the quarrel is
about. They have urged that Irish members and Labour members are also
under the shadow, or, as some have said, even more under it. The ground
of this frantic statement seems, when patiently considered, to be
simply this: that Irish and Labour members receive money for what they
do. All persons, as far as I know, on this earth receive money for what
they do; the only difference is that some people, like the Irish
members, do it.
I cannot imagine that any human being could think any other human being
capable of maintaining the proposition that men ought not to receive
money. The simple point is that, as we know that some money is given
rightly and some wrongly, an elementary common-sense leads us to look
with indifference at the money that is given in the middle of Ludgate
Circus, and to look with particular suspicion at the money which a man
will not give unless he is shut up in a box or a bathing-machine. In
short, it is too silly to suppose that anybody could ever have
discussed the desirability of funds. The only thing that even idiots
could ever have discussed is the concealment of funds. Therefore, the
whole question that we have to consider is whether the concealment of
political money-transactions, the purchase of peerages, the payment of
election expenses, is a kind of concealment that falls under any of the
three classes I have mentioned as those in which human custom and
instinct does permit us to conceal. I have suggested three kinds of
secrecy which are human and defensible. Can this institution be
defended by means of any of them?
Now the question is whether this political secrecy is of any of the
kinds that can be called legitimate. We have roughly divided legitimate
secrets into three classes. First comes the secret that is only kept in
order to be revealed, as in the detective stories; secondly, the secret
which is kept because everybody knows it, as in sex; and third, the
secret which is kept because it is too delicate and vague to be
explained at all, as in the choice of a country walk. Do any of these
broad human divisions cover such a case as that of secrecy of the
political and party finances? It would be absurd, and even delightfully
absurd, to pretend that any of them did. It would be a wild and
charming fancy to suggest that our politicians keep political secrets
only that they may make political revelations. A modern peer only
pretends that he has earned his peerage in order that he may more
dramatically declare, with a scream of scorn and joy, that he really
bought it. The Baronet pretends that he deserved his title only in
order to make more exquisite and startling the grand historical fact
that he did not deserve it. Surely this sounds improbable. Surely all
our statesmen cannot be saving themselves up for the excitement of a
death-bed repentance. The writer of detective tales makes a man a duke
solely in order to blast him with a charge of burglary. But surely the
Prime Minister does not make a man a duke solely in order to blast him
with a charge of bribery. No; the detective-tale theory of the secrecy
of political funds must (with a sigh) be given up.
Neither can we say that the thing is explained by that second case of
human secrecy which is so secret that it is hard to discuss it in
public. A decency is preserved about certain primary human matters
precisely because every one knows all about them. But the decency
touching contributions, purchases, and peerages is not kept up because