The Crown of Wild Olive
LILY. I can't; because Isey never goes to sleep, if she is waiting for
me to come.
ISABEL. Oh, yes, Lily; I'll go to sleep to-night, I will, indeed.
LILY. Yes, it's very likely, Isey, with those fine round eyes! (_To_ L.)
You'll tell me something of what you've been saying, to-morrow, won't
you?
L. No, I won't, Lily. You must choose. It's only in Miss Edgeworth's
novels that one can do right, and have one's cake and sugar afterwards,
as well (not that I consider the dilemma, to-night, so grave).
(LILY, _sighing, takes_ ISABEL's _hand._)
Yes, Lily dear, it will be better, in the outcome of it, so, than if you
were to hear all the talks that ever were talked, and all the stories
that ever were told. Good night.
(_The door leading to the condemned cells of the Dormitory
closes on_ LILY, ISABEL, FLORRIE, _and other diminutive and
submissive victims._)
JESSIE (_after a pause_). Why, I thought you were so fond of Miss
Edgeworth!
L. So I am; and so you ought all to be. I can read her over and over
again, without ever tiring; there's no one whose every page is so full,
and so delightful; no one who brings you into the company of pleasanter
or wiser people; no one who tells you more truly how to do right. And it
is very nice, in the midst of a wild world, to have the very ideal of
poetical justice done always to one's hand:--to have everybody found
out, who tells lies; and everybody decorated with a red riband, who
doesn't; and to see the good Laura, who gave away her half sovereign,
receiving a grand ovation from an entire dinner party disturbed for the
purpose; and poor, dear, little Rosamond, who chooses purple jars
instead of new shoes, left at last without either her shoes or her
bottle. But it isn't life: and, in the way children might easily
understand it, it isn't morals.
JESSIE. How do you mean we might understand it?
L. You might think Miss Edgeworth meant that the right was to be done
mainly because one was always rewarded for doing it. It is an injustice
to her to say that: her heroines always do right simply for its own
sake, as they should; and her examples of conduct and motive are wholly
admirable. But her representation of events is false and misleading. Her
good characters never are brought into the deadly trial of
goodness,--the doing right, and suffering for it, quite finally. And
that is life, as God arranges it. 'Taking up one's cross' does not at
all mean having ovations at dinner parties, and being put over everybody
else's head.
DORA. But what _does_ it mean then? That is just what we couldn't
understand, when you were telling us about not sacrificing ourselves,
yesterday.
L. My dear, it means simply that you are to go the road which you see to
be the straight one; carrying whatever you find is given you to carry,
as well and stoutly as you can; without making faces, or calling people
to come and look at you. Above all, you are neither to load, nor unload,
yourself; nor cut your cross to your own liking. Some people think it
would be better for them to have it large; and many, that they could
carry it much faster if it were small; and even those who like it
largest are usually very particular about its being ornamental, and made
of the best ebony. But all that you have really to do is to keep your
back as straight as you can; and not think about what is upon it--above
all, not to boast of what is upon it. The real and essential meaning of
'virtue' is in that straightness of back. Yes; you may laugh, children,
but it is. You know I was to tell about the words that began with V.
Sibyl, what does 'virtue' mean, literally?
SIBYL. Does it mean courage?
L. Yes; but a particular kind of courage. It means courage of the nerve;
vital courage. That first syllable of it, if you look in Max Mueller, you
will find really means 'nerve,' and from it come 'vis,' and 'vir,' and
'virgin' (through vireo), and the connected word 'virga'--'a rod;'--the
green rod, or springing bough of a tree, being the type of perfect human
strength, both in the use of it in the Mosaic story, when it becomes a
serpent, or strikes the rock; or when Aaron's bears its almonds; and in
the metaphorical expressions, the 'Rod out of the stem of Jesse,' and
the 'Man whose name is the Branch,' and so on. And the essential idea of
real virtue is that of a vital human strength, which instinctively,
constantly, and without motive, does what is right. You must train men
to this by habit, as you would the branch of a tree; and give them
instincts and manners (or morals) of purity, justice, kindness, and
courage. Once rightly trained, they act as they should, irrespectively
of all motive, of fear, or of reward. It is the blackest sign of
putrescence in a national religion, when men speak as if it were the
only safeguard of conduct; and assume that, but for the fear of being
burned, or for the hope of being rewarded, everybody would pass their
lives in lying, stealing, and murdering. I think quite one of the
notablest historical events of this century (perhaps the very
notablest), was that council of clergymen, horror-struck at the idea of
any diminution in our dread of hell, at which the last of English
clergymen whom one would have expected to see in such a function, rose
as the devil's advocate; to tell us how impossible it was we could get
on without him.
VIOLET (_after a pause_). But, surely, if people weren't
afraid--(_hesitates again_).
L. They should be afraid of doing wrong, and of that only, my dear.
Otherwise, if they only don't do wrong for fear of being punished, they
_have_ done wrong in their hearts, already.
VIOLET. Well, but surely, at least one ought to be afraid of displeasing
God; and one's desire to please Him should be one's first motive?
L. He never would be pleased with us, if it were, my dear. When a father
sends his son out into the world--suppose as an apprentice--fancy the
boy's coming home at night, and saying, 'Father, I could have robbed the
till to-day; but I didn't, because I thought you wouldn't like it.' Do
you think the father would be particularly pleased?
(VIOLET _is silent._)
He would answer, would he not, if he were wise and good, 'My boy, though
you had no father, you must not rob tills'? And nothing is ever done so
as really to please our Great Father, unless we would also have done it,
though we had had no Father to know of it.
VIOLET (_after long pause_). But, then, what continual threatenings, and
promises of reward there are!
L. And how vain both! with the Jews, and with all of us. But the fact
is, that the threat and promise are simply statements of the Divine law,
and of its consequences. The fact is truly told you,--make what use you
may of it: and as collateral warning, or encouragement, or comfort, the
knowledge of future consequences may often be helpful to us; but helpful
chiefly to the better state when we can act without reference to them.
And there's no measuring the poisoned influence of that notion of future
reward on the mind of Christian Europe, in the early ages. Half the
monastic system rose out of that, acting on the occult pride and
ambition of good people (as the other half of it came of their follies
and misfortunes). There is always a considerable quantity of pride, to
begin with, in what is called 'giving one's self to God.' As if one had
ever belonged to anybody else!
DORA. But, surely, great good has come out of the monastic system--our
books,--our sciences--all saved by the monks?
L. Saved from what, my dear? From the abyss of misery and ruin which
that false Christianity allowed the whole active world to live in. When
it had become the principal amusement, and the most admired art, of
Christian men, to cut one another's throats, and burn one another's
towns; of course the few feeble or reasonable persons left, who desired
quiet, safety, and kind fellowship, got into cloisters; and the
gentlest, thoughtfullest, noblest men and women shut themselves up,
precisely where they could be of least use. They are very fine things,
for us painters, now,--the towers and white arches upon the tops of the
rocks; always in places where it takes a day's climbing to get at them;
but the intense tragi-comedy of the thing, when one thinks of it, is
unspeakable. All the good people of the world getting themselves hung up
out of the way of mischief, like Bailie Nicol Jarvie;--poor little
lambs, as it were, dangling there for the sign of the Golden Fleece; or
like Socrates in his basket in the 'Clouds'! (I must read you that bit
of Aristophanes again, by the way.) And believe me, children, I am no
warped witness, as far as regards monasteries; or if I am, it is in
their favour. I have always had a strong leaning that way; and have
pensively shivered with Augustines at St. Bernard; and happily made hay
with Franciscans at Fesole; and sat silent with Carthusians in their
little gardens, south of Florence; and mourned through many a day-dream,
at Melrose and Bolton. But the wonder is always to me, not how much, but
how little, the monks have, on the whole, done, with all that leisure,
and all that goodwill! What nonsense monks characteristically
wrote;--what little progress they made in the sciences to which they
devoted themselves as a duty,--medicine especially;--and, last and
worst, what depths of degradation they can sometimes see one another,
and the population round them, sink into; without either doubting their
system, or reforming it!
(_Seeing questions rising to lips._) Hold your little tongues, children;
it's very late, and you'll make me forget what I've to say. Fancy
yourselves in pews, for five minutes. There's one point of possible good
in the conventual system, which is always attractive to young girls; and
the idea is a very dangerous one;--the notion of a merit, or exalting
virtue, consisting in a habit of meditation on the 'things above,' or
things of the next world. Now it is quite true, that a person of
beautiful mind, dwelling on whatever appears to them most desirable and
lovely in a possible future will not only pass their time pleasantly,
but will even acquire, at last, a vague and wildly gentle charm of
manner and feature, which will give them an air of peculiar sanctity in
the eyes of others. Whatever real or apparent good there may be in this
result, I want you to observe, children, that we have no real authority
for the reveries to which it is owing. We are told nothing distinctly of
the heavenly world; except that it will be free from sorrow, and pure
from sin. What is said of pearl gates, golden floors, and the like, is
accepted as merely figurative by religious enthusiasts themselves; and
whatever they pass their time in conceiving, whether of the happiness of
risen souls, of their intercourse, or of the appearance and employment
of the heavenly powers, is entirely the product of their own
imagination; and as completely and distinctly a work of fiction, or
romantic invention, as any novel of Sir Walter Scott's. That the romance
is founded on religious theory or doctrine;--that no disagreeable or
wicked persons are admitted into the story;--and that the inventor
fervently hopes that some portion of it may hereafter come true, does
not in the least alter the real nature of the effort or enjoyment.
Now, whatever indulgence may be granted to amiable people for pleasing
themselves in this innocent way, it is beyond question, that to seclude
themselves from the rough duties of life, merely to write religious
romances, or, as in most cases, merely to dream them, without taking so
much trouble as is implied in writing, ought not to be received as an
act of heroic virtue. But, observe, even in admitting thus much, I have