Between Peshawar and Lahore
At
Peshawar we were seized with one of our periodical financial panics. Money, in
this country, slips rapidly between the fingers, particularly between the fingers
of the tourist. Great wads of it have to be handed out every time one gets into
the train; for fares are high and distances enormous. No place in India seems
to be less than three hundred miles from any other place; the longer journeys
have to be measured in thousands. Financial panics are justifiable. We decided
to travel second-class as far as Lahore.
For
the first hour or so we were alone in our compartment. We congratulated
ourselves on having secured all the comfort and privacy of first-class traveling
at exactly half the price. In future, we decided, we would always travel
second. But nature abhors a vacuum, and our compartment was evidently the
object of her special abhorrence. When the train stopped at Campbellpur, we
were invaded. In the twinkling of an eye our luxurious emptiness was filled to
overflowing with luggage and humanity. And what queer specimens of humanity!
The leader of the party which now entered the compartment was a middle-aged man
wearing a yellow robe and, on his head, a kind of quilted bonnet with hanging
ear-flaps. He was profusely garlanded with yellow chrysanthemums, and had been
followed on to the platform by a large crowd of flower-bearing admirers and
devotees. Our ignorance of the language did not permit us to discover who this
exalted person might be. But he was evidently some kind of high priest, some
Hindu pope of considerable holiness, to judge by the respect which was paid him
by his numerous retinue and his admirers. His passage along the line must have
been well advertised; for at every station our compartment was invaded by a
swarm of devotees who came to kiss the great man's feet and to crave a
blessing, which in most cases he seemed too lazy to give. Even the guards and
ticket-collectors and stationmasters came in to pay their respects. The
enthusiasm of one ticket-collector was so great that he traveled about thirty
miles in our already packed compartment, simply in order to be near the holy
man. He, meanwhile, passed the time by counting his money, which was contained
in a large brass-bound box, by loudly eating and, later, dozing. Even at the
stations he did not take the trouble to rouse himself, but reclined with closed
eyes along his seat, and passively permitted the faithful to kiss his feet.
When one is as holy as he evidently was, it is unnecessary to keep up
appearances, behave decently, or do anything for one's followers. Office and
hereditary honor claim the respect of a believing people quite as much as
personal merit.
Judging
by appearances, which are often deceptive, I should say that this particular
holy man had no personal merit, but a very great office. His face, which had
the elements of a fine and powerful face, seemed to have disintegrated and run
to fat under the influence of a hoggish self-indulgence. To look at, he was
certainly one of the most repulsive human specimens I have ever seen. But of
course he may in reality have been a saint and an ascetic, a preacher and a
practicer of the moral doctrines formulated in the Gita, or even one of those
pure-souled oriental mystics who, we are told, are to leaven the materialism of
our Western civilization. He may have been, but I doubt it. All that we could
be certain of was that he looked unpleasant, and was undoubtedly dirty; also
that he and his admirers exhaled the sour stink of garments long unwashed.
Tolstoy
objected to too much cleanliness on the ground that to be too clean is a badge
of class. It is only the rich who can afford the time and money to wash their
bodies and shift their linen frequently. The laborer who sweats for his living,
and whose house contains no bathroom, whose wardrobes no superfluous shirts,
must stink. It is inevitable, and it is also right and proper, that he should.
Work is prayer. Work is also stink. Therefore stink is prayer. So, more or
less, argues Tolstoy, who goes on to condemn the rich for not stinking, and for
bringing up their children to have a prejudice against all stinks however
natural and even creditable. The non-stinker's prejudice against stink is largely
a class prejudice, and therefore to be condemned.
Tolstoy
is quite right, of course. We, who were brought up on open windows, clean
shirts, hot baths, and sanitary plumbing, find it hard to tolerate
twice-breathed air and all the odors which crowded humanity naturally exhales.
Our physical education has been such that the majority of our fellow-beings,
particularly those less fortunately circumstanced than ourselves, seem to us
slightly or even extremely disgusting. A man may have strong humanitarian and democratic
principles; but if he happens to have been brought up as a bath-taking,
shirt-changing lover of fresh air, he will have to overcome certain physical
repugnances before he can bring himself to put those principles into practice
to the extent, at any rate, of associating freely with men and women whose
habits are different from his own. It is a deplorable fact; but there it is.
Tolstoy's remedy is that we should all stink together. Other reformers desire
to make it economically possible for every man to have as many hot baths and to
change his shirt as often as do the privileged non-stinkers at the present day.
Personally, I prefer the second alternative.
Meanwhile,
the crowd in our compartment increased. The day, as it advanced, grew hotter.
And suddenly the holy man woke up and began to hawk and spit all over the
compartment. By the time we reached Rawal Pindi we had decided that the
twenty-two rupees we should economize by remaining seven hours longer among our
second-class brothers were not enough. We had our luggage transferred into a
first-class carriage and paid the difference. The only other occupant of the
compartment was an English official of the Kashmir State, bound for his winter
headquarters at Jammu. He was a dim little man; but at any rate his linen was
clean, and he was not in the least holy. Nobody came in to kiss his feet.
For
the rest of the journey I ruminated my anti-clericalism. Indian friends have
assured me that the power of the priests is less than it was, and goes on
rapidly waning. I hope they are right and that the process may be further
accelerated. And not in India alone. There is still, for my taste, too much
kissing of amethyst rings as well as of slippered feet. There are still too
many black coats in the West, too many orange ones in the East. Écrasez I'infâme. My traveling companion had made me, for the moment, a thorough-going
Voltairian.
It is
a simple creed, Voltairianism. In its simplicity lies its charm, lies the
secret of its success - and also of its fallaciousness. For, in our muddled
human universe, nothing so simple can possibly be true, can conceivably
"work."
If
the infâme were squashed, if insecticide were scattered on all the clerical
beetles, whether black or yellow, if pure rationalism became the universal
faith, all would automatically be well. So runs the simple creed of the
anti-clericals. It is too simple, and the assumptions on which it is based are
too sweeping. For, to begin with, is the infâme always infamous, and are the
beetles invariably harmful? Obviously not. Nor can it be said that the
behavior-value of pure rationalism (whatever the truth-value of its underlying
assumptions) is necessarily superior to the behavior-value of irrational
beliefs which may be and, in general, almost certainly are untrue. And further,
the vast majority of human beings are not interested in reason or satisfied
with what it teaches. Nor is reason itself the most satisfactory instrument for
the understanding of life. Such are a few of the complications which render so
simple a formula as the anti-clerical's inapplicable to our real and chaotic
existence.
Man's
progress has been contingent on his capacity to organize societies. It is only
when protected by surrounding society from aggression, when freed by the organized
labor of society from the necessity of hunting or digging for his food, it is
only, that is to say, when society has tempered and to a great extent abolished
the struggle for personal existence, that the man of talent can exercise his
capacities to the full. And it is only by a well-organized society that the
results of his labors can be preserved for the enrichment of succeeding
generations. Any force that tends to the strengthening of society is,
therefore, of the highest biological importance. Religion is obviously such a
force. All religions have been unanimous in encouraging within limits that have
tended to grow wider and ever wider, the social, altruistic, humanitarian
proclivities of man and in condemning his anti-social, self-assertive tendencies.
Those who like to speak anthropomorphically would be justified in saying that
religion is a device employed by the Life Force for the promotion of its
evolutionary designs. But they would be justified in adding that religion is
also a device employed by the Devil for the dissemination of idiocy,
intolerance, and servile abjection. My fellow passenger from Campbellpur did
something, no doubt, to encourage brotherly love, forbearance, and mutual
helpfulness among his flock. But he also did his best to deepen their
congenital stupidity and prevent it from being tempered by the acquirement of
correct and useful knowledge, he did his best to terrify them with imaginary
fears into servility and to flatter them with groundless hopes into passive
contentment with a life unworthy of human beings. What he did in the name of
the evolutionary Life Force, he undid in the name of the Devil. I cherish a
pious hope that he did just a trifle more than he undid, and that the Devil
remained, as the result of his ministry, by ever so little the loser.
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