At of neatness which characterizes the East. What is the cause of this surprising indifference to the ideals of Europe? Clearly nothing that is peculiar to the coast-line of Albania. Constantinople itself, at Damascus— and, save in so far as the Government intervenes, at Calcutta-the conditions of life are essentially similar. The West is Christian, and one is tempted to conclude that it owes to Christianity its solicitude for material well-being. Cross from Albania into Christian Montenegro, and you will find a notable change. The country is surely one of the bleakest in which mankind has ever striven to find a livelihood-a wilderness of naked limestone mountains, pitted here and there by little oases of cultivation which have in great measure been won by actually excavating the rock. The people are exceedingly poor. Yet in all their poverty they appreciate European standards of comfort and neatness, and make such endeavors as they can to conform to them. If they are still behind their neighbors in Dalmatia it is from lack of means, not of will. Crossing the border between Islam and Christianity, we pass from an Eastern to a Western environment. Must not Christianity be the cause of the difference? In truth this cannot be. There is nothing in the teaching of the Gospels, or of the Church, that urges the importance of industry and enterprise in the accumulation of comforts. The sayings of Our Lord tend indeed entirely the other way, and the highest ideals of the Roman Church have for centuries been represented by the celibate monk, not the man of business. In no Oriental teaching is the worthlessness of this life's consolations insisted upon more strongly than in texts that are set before Christians from childhood upwards. And there is a more practical argument, drawn not from the nature of things, but from LIVING AGE. VOL. LIV. 2811 nities that are Oriental by birth have no higher standard of comfort than the non-Christian people around them: the Copts of Egypt, the Nestorians of India, have exhibited no specialties in material progress. The Montenegrins copy the fashions of Europe not because they are Christians, but because they feel that, as Christians, they belong to the family of Europe. Whatever it be that makes the West strive to be clean and comfortable while the East is contented in shiftless squalor, it is certainly not to be discovered in their religious environment. The difference, it is clear, lies very deep, and must represent a fundamental difference in the conception of what makes life worth having. The East and the West both desire happiness. But they differ in their notions of the circumstances which conduce to it. We associate happiness with material well-being, and endeavor, successfully or unsuccessfully, to attain it by the accumulation of possessions, and the gratification of physical, intellectual, and artistic tastes. The Oriental looks for happiness in the mind rather than in the body, and believes that the highest satisfaction which man can hope to attain is derived from the gratification of feelings of personal dignity. He holds, in fact, that life's greatest joy is to feel oneself respected and admired: in his opinion this surpasses the pleasures that are given either by wealth or by excitement. He is not, of course, peculiar in appreciating the esteem of others. The love of approbation, of admiration, is by no means limited to human nature in the East; it is common to all men, and is probably shared by them with the higher gregarious animals. Which of us will not admit the electrifying thrill of social success, or is not soothed by the balm that is shed by the confidence, the respect, or the love of others? In deed this feeling lies at the root of aspirations to which modern democratic society owes some of its most successful politicians. But, in the West, this craving for repute, though contributing to the mainspring of human action, is linked with other desires, and becomes of subsidiary importance. We desire comfort; we appreciate the refinements of luxury and the charm of excitement. To this complication of aim we owe the complicated nature of modern civilization. In the East life is simpler because its ambitions are simpler. Man is satisfied with himself, if he can keep himself in dignity and in honor: possessing these, he rates but lightly the possessions and pleasures which the world can offer him. Lord Mayo is said to have acutely observed that India was ruined by izzat, insáf, and ikbál—that is to say, by a craving for dignity, for justice, and for patronage. An Indian has more confidence in the assistance of a patron than in any efforts of his own, and thankfully accepts the position of clientship: in litigating for what appears to be justice he will spend his last rupee; but his most notable characteristic is his solicitude for his dignity. In India the word "izzat” is in every mouth. Compared with his dignity, to an Indian nothing is of account: a personal slight which to us appears trifling is reckoned on all sides as a most serious injury: it will breed lifelong enmity: it will break up the most zealous associations: it commonly lies in the background of criminal accusations. To an Oriental the dignity of man appears to be as precious as the chastity of woman. There are few things which rank beside it. Indian princes may listen unmoved to arguments in favor of improving their administration: but are seldom unconvinced by the offer of an increase in the number of guns with which they are entitled to be saluted. The pres ervation of dignity is almost the chief object of life. Manners must be courtly and reserved: gait must be slow and restrained: violent games have till quite recently been condemned as undignified, unless they are connected with martial exercises or hunting. Respect that is due to oneself must be carefully rendered when due to others. Travelling by night, on one occasion, I had two Indian gentlemen as my companions in the railway carriage. There were but three sleeping-berths, and when they entered my office-box was upon one of them. I took it off and set it on the floor. The gentleman for whom I made room energetically protested: there was ample room for himself and for the box. I insisted. But as soon as he believed I was asleep, he got up, replaced the box, and lay, crouching uncomfortably, in the space it left for him. This scrupulous regard for feelings, whether of oneself or of others, capable though it be of such eccentric exaggeration, has rendered Oriental manners a pattern for mankind. In the East service must be left to servants. A nobleman carrying his own handbag is almost unthinkable. Englishmen who are resident in India cannot resist this infection, and, attended by retinues of servants, slip into domestic helplessness. In truth they cannot help themselves, for the servant has a dignity as tender as his master's, and it will not permit him to undertake more than one domestic office. Dignity may be won by generosity, by courage, by learning, or by holiness: and, in the East as in the West, its pursuit has led man on to a plane high above his sensual inclinations. It is given by status, whether hereditary or in office under the Government, and State employ, however ill-paid, possesses attractions with which prospects in commerce or industry can hardly compete. But these avenues to honor are not open to the multitude, and the universal desire for respect is satisfied by the organization of society in response to the prevailing sentiment. Family life is of the patriarchal type: a man throughout his life is lord of his sons and responsible for keeping them. And in India the caste system provides the humblest member of society with a definite status, and attaches him to a circle in which he feels himself of some account. But, from the economic point of view, the most important result of this habit of mind is the enor mous expenditure it occasions in the maintenance of dependents, who live in a man's house, receive food at his hands, and offer him in requital their morning salutations. Not merely does a householder accept without murmur the idle dependence of grown-up sons: he supports sons-in-law, widowed sisters and daughters with their families, and even distant cousins, with no sense of grievance. No sooner does a man rise in the world than a host of relations and connections cling to his skirts, expecting not merely patronage but maintenance in return for nothing but their respectful clientship. All this, it may be said, illustrates the abounding charity of the East. True; but we may be sure that this charity would not be so wide and undiscriminating were there in competition with it the Western desire for increased comfort, and larger possessions. distinctive feature of the Oriental habit of mind is that this desire possesses little of the strength which it has acquired in Europe. The richest men live under conditions which an English artisan would despise. They have not learnt the convenience of chairs and tables, of knives and forks, or of glass and crockery: their food is a monotonous repetition of the simplest dishes: they have practically no amusements. A man with surplus income hoards it if he does not spend it upon others. The For centuries India has been absorbing treasure from Europe, burying what is not spent upon subsistence. She banks under ground, and we may almost regard the country as pitted with receptacles for gold and silver. The only clue we obtain to the extent of these unutilized resources is the surprisingly large amounts which are from time to time extracted by dacoities. These remarks, it should be observed, require at the present day some qualification. Things are changing, and in the large towns at all events there is a growing appreciation of Western habits. But in the main it is still true that the East values dignity far higher than comfort. Until this feeling changes we cannot look for rapid industrial development. It is the consumer who supports the workman, not the capitalist who finances him. It is not so very far back, one may say, that this description would apply pretty nearly to Europe. This is so; but we have travelled very far since then. Dignity, in the Oriental sense, has lost its attractiveness: indeed, its assumption is held to verge upon the ridiculous. Men search for happiness in more practical directions, and desire the control of things rather than of other men's feelings. The ideals are comfort and amusement-that is to say, riches-and the most general desire is to add to one's possessions. In order to satisfy this desire-that is to say, to manufacture and sell desirable possessions-society has been reorganized upon an industrial basis, a revolution which has been assisted by the discoveries of science, and a growing appreciation of man's power over Nature. In the East labor is organized for service: in the West for production. The ultimate effect of both systems is the same -the distribution of subsistence to members of the community—and under both systems the lowest class of ping in here for a bottle of wine for his uncle's supper." Gil Blas has changed, nevertheless. Fabrice is too keen not to perceive it some time afterwards when Gil Blas visits him at the hospital. Fabrice remarks upon his modest bearing and observes: "You haven't the vain and insolent air that prosperity is wont to give." Gil Blas explains the reason why: "Les disgraces ont purifié ma vertu; et j'ai appris à l'école de l'adversité à jouir des richesses sans m'en laisser posséder." He is now and then to be a backslider still, but we know that he has learned the essential lesson of life. Really, as the Italians say, "Il tempo è galantuomo." The rapidity of the narrative enhances the effect of optimism which is so inspiriting throughout the whole book. The transitions from the episodes of bad luck to those of good fortune take place, as Smollett has already pointed out, so suddenly that the reader positively has no time to pity Gil Blas. He is speedily inspired with a firm confidence in Lesage's ingenuity, which somehow manages to extricate his hero from every possible embarrassment. Lesage's point of view, as an observer of life, is thus quickly revealed to be a lively sense of life's chronic succession of ups and downs, and of the merely relative importance of its plights. When Gil Blas loses his place with Count Galiano, he remarks: I began to lose courage when I found myself back again in so miserable a case. I had grown accustomed to the conveniences of existence, and I could no longer, as before, regard indigence with cynicism. Yet I will confess I was wrong to indulge in sadness after having so many times discovered that no sooner had Fortune upset me than it put me on my feet again. Lesage accepts the stoical ideal of patience in adversity, but he does not accept it in the stoical way. His philosophy is the Christian belief in a Providence upon whom sane mortals may serenely rely. Providence, he knows, can be counted upon to hold the balance true on that Day of Judgment, when all human things will be set right, and when there will be a startling reversal of human verdicts. Convinced, like Bishop Butler, that things will be as they will be, his experience of life has taught him that the best philosophy is to bide one's time, all one's antenna out. For Lesage the logical result of having been frequently a fool is to cease being a dupe. It would be possible and amusing to draw a parallel in this connection between the philosophy of Lesage and that of an even more successful French playwright of the present day, M. Alfred Capus-who has not yet, however, written a "Gil Blas"-and to contrast the manner of the two with that of Beyle in his characterization of Julien Sorel. Gil Blas is too often, if you like, a genial rascal, as are so many of M. Capus's heroes, but he is never an odiously cynical one like his servant Scipion, and like Julien. While Lesage could say with Philinte, discreetly blaming the vices of mankind: Je prends tout doucement les hommes comme ils sont, J'accoutume mon âme à souffrir ce qu'ils font Oui, je vois ces défauts dont votre âme murmure Comme vices unis à l'humaine nature, Et mon esprit enfin n'est pas plus offensé De voir un homme fourbe, injuste, intéressé, Que de voir des vautours affamés de carnage, Des singes malfaisants et des loups pleins de rage, Beyle did not confine himself to "accustoming his soul to suffer" the enormities that men commit, but positively created in Julien Sorel an unscrupulous professor of energy whom he would appear to have regarded as an excellent model. Lesage, on the other hand, must be looked upon as a moralist; a moralist indulgent, no doubt -such indulgence was the finest flower of his inexhaustible knowledge of lifeyet a moralist in the same sense in which Shakespeare and Molière are moralists. Moreover, Lesage has no cynical bias forcing him to confine the subject-matter of his novel to such naturalistic notations as were the stockin-trade of the Goncourts and, to a large extent, of Zola. He had notably no such bias, either “cynical” or “moral," as has wittingly altered the reports of so many British observers of life, who have regarded the pursuit of literature as a mission, to be accepted with a high and strenuous purpose, for the improvement of their fellows. Thus, even a Thackeray wrote first and foremost for edification. In a recently published letter to his friend Robert Hall, Thackeray refers as follows to "Vanity Fair": I want to leave everybody dissatisfied and unhappy at the end of the story— we ought all to be with our own and all other stories. Good God! don't I see (in that maybe cracked and warped looking-glass in which I am always looking) my own weaknesses, wickednesses, lusts, follies, shortcomings? in company, let us hope, with better qualities about which we will pretermit discourse. We must lift up our voices about these and howl to a congregation of fools: so much, at least, has been my endeavor. (The Times, July 17, 1911). ress"; but if the Puritan point of view is good sociology and good Tolstoism, it is not necessarily for that reason good art; and it would even seem to make "good art" a more difficult achievement. In the great book just mentioned there is no laugh of Tom Jones to clear the air. Thackeray would have seemed, indeed, in "Vanity Fair" to have been more of an artist than his pamphleteering preoccupations appeared likely to allow him to become. He himself states his object in that book to have been to indicate in cheerful terms that we are for the most part an abominably foolish and selfish people. Incorrigible misanthropist, he sets out to draw up a savage indictment of the society of his time. He is cheerful, as cheerful as he knows how to be; but, as he has resolved to give no one in his book a chance, his cheerfulness fails to produce all its intended effect. Finally, one and all, even Amelia, are branded because foredoomed. But what is the result? Gibbeted for an example, they inspire more pity than horror; and not only does all our sympathy go out to them against the despotic heartlessness of the author, who so unfairly nailed them to the cross, but we fail even to draw the whole of the useful general moral which ThackThus eray holds to be essential. Thackeray upsets even his own ends; anxious, by the confessed clarion-toned morality of his appeal, to produce the effect aimed at by a prophet in Israel, he nevertheless inspires in his reader a quick and sane recoil before the arbitrary injustice, or, at all events, the incredibility of the author's misanthropy. In literary art, in fact, the only way to convey the illusion of reality is to tell the average truth about the average man. Lesage, like the Tolstoi of the good period, had the tact and good sense to perceive this. He does not make the unscientific and inartistic blunder of |