Part 20
Herr Federn was not very fortunate in his choice of a title. _Wenn die Menschen reif zur Liebe werden_ is only a rather heavy paraphrase of _Love’s Coming-of-Age_, and the text of the book itself suffers from a certain heaviness and diffuseness. Still to Herr Federn himself I feel I owe a considerable debt, not only for introducing my work to the German public, but for the general fidelity of his translations and the loyalty of his dealings on my account with the German publishers. In 1903 he published also in Leipzig his translation of _Civilization: its Cause and Cure_; and in 1905, in Jena, the translation of _The Art of Creation_ (_Die Schöpfung als Kunstwerk_). This last was issued in rather elaborate _format_ by the well-known firm, Eugen Diederichs, but has never reached the circulation of the other two.
In the Spring of 1909 I was at Florence for some weeks; and there—largely through my friend Professor Herron—I came into touch with an interesting circle of young Italian _literati_ and artists; especially interesting to me because they represented a strong reaction away from the very bourgeois and commercialized Italian art-ideals of the later nineteenth century, and towards the ideals of John Ruskin and William Morris—ideals founded on the socialization of human activities and the intimate relationship of all true literary and artistic work to the actual life of the mass-peoples.
The group included such men as Riccardo Nobili, probably the best living exponent of Fourteenth Century Italian art, whose charming little story _A Modern Antique_ delightfully exposes the fakes of Florentine art-dealers and the gorgeous gullibility of American globe-trotters; Roberto Assagioli, the young philosopher, editor of _Psiche_—a psychological Review—and author of an illuminating tract on the Talking Horses of Elberfeldt[28]; Guido Ferrando, author of a couple of tracts on _La Coscienza Universale_ and _La Nuova Psicologia_ (Florence 1908)—who has done me the honour to translate my _Love’s Coming-of-Age_ and my _Art of Creation_ into Italian; Count Auteri, the Sicilian architect and sculptor; Giuseppe Rambelli, the artist, and others.
More or less associated with this group—and on a second visit—I made the acquaintance of Teresina Bagnoli, a gifted young woman who had already been in correspondence with me with regard to a translation of _T. D._ (of which she sent me batches from time to time for criticism and revision). I found her swift and penetrating and original, and verging on Anarchism in her political and philosophic outlook; and I have to thank her for her excellent little volume _Verso la Democrazia_[29] which has brought me into touch with Italian readers in that intimate field.
It is curious, but perhaps not unexpected, that my best translators have been women. To a third lady friend, Mademoiselle Senard, I owe a very excellent version of _Towards Democracy_ into French (Parts III and IV only). After some little preliminary correspondence Mlle. Senard came over from Paris in the summer of 1913 and spent a couple of months in the country in my neighborhood. Sprung from an old-fashioned and rather aristocratic family in Burgundy she had managed at a comparatively early age to emancipate herself from a convent school and education, and by her resolution had almost compelled her parents to find for her a way out into the great world. She had become a perfect linguist in English, German and Italian; and I found her a fine-looking and attractive person of thirty-five or so, always, like a true Frenchwoman, perfectly dressed and _chic_, yet simply dressed and absolutely natural in her conversation and movements. It was a pleasure to spend many a morning or afternoon with her, looking over her translation work or rambling through the garden and the fields.
However well one may know a foreign language it is rarely possible to follow every _nuance_ of meaning or to succeed entirely in avoiding errors; and a foreigner dealing with English has perhaps all the more difficulty in that way on account of the idiomatic and irregular character of our language. I have not always cared so much about the other books, but with _Towards Democracy_ I have been very anxious that the renderings should be faithful; and it has been fortunate for me that in these three cases I have had such very competent translators, and been sufficiently versed myself in the languages concerned to be able to assist them in doubtful places.
Marcelle Senard wrote also a little brochure of her own on _Edward Carpenter et sa Philosophie_,[30] which shows the clearness and penetration of a well-balanced French mind. Then, on the outbreak of the War in 1914 she took up Nursing work, and with extraordinary energy and devotion organized and helped to equip a new Hospital for the Wounded at Nevers, south of Paris, where she remained for a year as Manageress and Secretary, till exhausted with the incessant labour she was at last compelled to relinquish the post.
In connection with French translations I must not forget to mention my friend Paul Le Rouge who is now assistant judge in French Morocco, and who translated and published my _Prisons, Police and Punishment_ in Paris some ten years ago. I am sorry to say I have not found an English judge or police-magistrate who has taken an equal interest in the original book!
Early in 1910 I received one or two letters from a young Japanese illustrating the sad state of commercial slavery and militarism into which Japan had fallen since the Russo-Japanese War. Women and children as well as men were being worked twelve hours or more a day in the factories which were springing up on all sides, and for a miserable pittance; there were no regulations to curb the greed of employers; and any public protest was treated as anti-governmental Socialism, with the result that papers were suppressed in the most arbitrary way, and speakers committed to prison. A Japanese lady, Mme. Fukuda, had been imprisoned for five years for thus voicing the wrongs of the workers; and my correspondent, Sanshiro Ishikawa, was awaiting trial on a similar charge. He had, being a fair English scholar, been interested in my work for some time; and told me (what I had heard before) that a translation of my Civilization book had circulated pretty widely in his country at a quite early date. That translation, however, had gone out of print, and he, Ishikawa, was preparing a new one for the press, when—the Japanese Censor interfered and forbade its publication!
This shows up pretty clearly the state of darkness which had descended on the land of the Rising Sun! It was not of course on account of his interest in my book that he had been arrested, but on account of his general work in the cause of Labour.
The result of his trial was that he was sent to prison for three months, and that on his emergence he had to keep rather quiet on account of the attentions of the Police. He retained however his interest in my writings, made translations of portions of them, and embodied these together with some biographical matter in a book of some three hundred pages beautifully printed in Japanese characters and published in Tokyo in 1912; but of course for the most part a sealed book to me. Some small portions, however, are printed in our language and characters, including a letter from myself written to him while he was in prison—which I may as well reproduce here as it serves to throw light on the situation:—
DEAR FRIEND ISHIKAWA SANSHIRO,
Just a line to cheer you in prison—though you will be nearly coming out when this reaches you. I received your letter of March 27 with much pleasure. You were to go to prison next day. They seem to be very severe and despotic in Japan, when one cannot even publish _Civilization: its Cause and Cure_ there. But your countrymen are too sensible to bear this sort of treatment for very long. I suppose it is _patriotism_ which is so very strong in the nation just now, and which forms an excuse for anti-socialism. King Edward VII’s death is causing a great wave of patriotism here; yet the future of mankind is leading us beyond patriotism to _humanity_.
I cannot write much now, but thought I would send you a few lines. I believe I did send you my photograph. If it did not reach you let me know, and I will send another.
With hearty greetings and thanks to you for what you have done in the great Cause.
Yours very truly, EDWD. CARPENTER.
_21 May, 1910._
After a time—I hardly know whether on account of troubles in Japan or of attractions towards Europe—Sanshiro determined to come to these Western lands; and one day in the autumn of 1913, as I happened to be in London, he came to call on me there. Anything less dangerous-looking as a revolutionary it would be hard to imagine. Small in stature, timid in manner, and with a very gentle voice, he seemed the embodiment of quietude and sympathy. It was not difficult however in his case, as in that of many Japanese, to discern, beneath that composed exterior, a strong undercurrent of resolution and courage.
He read English with ease, but spoke it rather slowly and with difficulty, was intelligent, and like many Orientals skilful with his fingers and apt at housework. We tried to find him employment and a means of living in our neighborhood or in Sheffield or Manchester, but without success, and after similar efforts in London he migrated to Brussels where he knew of a friend in Paul Reclus, son of Elie and nephew of Elisée Reclus, and where he obtained occupation in decorative painting. This was early in 1914. In August, of course, the War broke out, and a few weeks later the Germans entered Brussels. The Reclus family—before their entry I imagine—retired to Paris; but Sanshiro remained in Brussels—I believe as caretaker of their apartments. It was a somewhat risky position. The Germans drew a cordon round the city, and ruled severely within it. Once or twice only he got messages through to me.
But as the weeks went by he began to feel that he must escape at all costs; and in the end he succeeded in doing so—by representations I believe to the Japanese Government, which led to his liberty being granted in exchange for a German prisoner taken at Kiao-chow; but of this I am not certain. I have not seen him since, but anyhow he got to Liancourt (near Paris) where he now is [1915].
Another Japanese friend, Mr. Saikwa Tomita, the youthful author of _The Matanjitenshô_ or _Psalm of the Last Day_, has translated and published large portions of _Towards Democracy_ in current Japanese magazines, and intends apparently to bring the whole out in book form—as well as versions of _The Art of Creation_ and some of my other works. Speaking (in a letter) of the present War, he says: “Japan is at her crisis as well as Europe is. Here in this country, as you well know, he who is for the lower classes and vagabonds, or who is for [the] cosmopolitanism, is treated by the authorities under the name of ill-fame and has to suffer from a bitter experience.” And Sanshiro Ishikawa above-mentioned speaks likewise: “Is not this a terrible epoch, that the violent force only holds the supreme power in this world, and humanity has no influence, at least in [the] international affairs. The present situation of Japan is in most dangerous step [stage]; many peoples are becoming admirers of militarism. Commercialism is already too powerful; and I feel a duty that I must fight with full-hearted spirit against them.”
Let us pray that these true-hearted fighters for Internationalism may prevail—all over the world, and among all nations!
I am proud to find that among the Bulgarians—who are supposed just now to be our enemies—I have many friends. Messrs. Vaptzaroff and Dosseff, editors of the magazine called _Renaissans_ at Burgas and Tchirpan, published in it shortly before the War various chapters of _Civilization_, including “The Defence of Criminals,” “Custom,” “Modern Science,” etc., and later the whole of that book, and of _England’s Ideal_. With the outbreak of the war however they retired to Maikop in the Kuban Territory (east of the Black Sea), being in touch there with another friend of mine, the Russian novelist and mystic, Ivan Najívin. M. Najívin, who makes his home apparently in the country near Novorossisk on the shores of the Euxine—working there among his bees, and in his vineyard and vegetable garden—has written to me for some years, chiefly about Cosmic Consciousness and Sandals! He is, as may be imagined, particularly interested in the Indian Sannyasis and mystics, and was lately much surprised to find that some of the Russian peasant sects (notably the _Stranniks_) among whom he had lived so long were all the time unbeknown to him holding views and favouring practices very similar to those of the Hindu mystics. “Bientôt je vous écrirai des choses extraordinaires à propos du _gñanam_ et _samadhi_, etc. Tout cela existe parmi le bas peuple et les moines Russes!” (letter of May 1913). He has translated my _Visit to a Gñani_ into Russian under the title _I Am_, also large portions of _Towards Democracy_ and the whole of _Civilization_. Besides M. Najívin I am indebted to M. Sergius Orlovski and M. G. Rapoport and others for introductions to the Russian public.
To my young friend Illit Gröndahl of Kloften, Norway, I owe the circulation of my works in Norway, especially in Bergen. In Amsterdam a translation of _Civilization_ (_De Beschaving: hare oorzaak en hare Genesing_) was issued as long ago as 1899—with Preface by Leo Tolstoy (the same preface which Tolstoy wrote to the chapter on Modern Science[31]); and in the same city a translation of _Love’s Coming-of-Age_ (_Liefde’s Meerderjarigheid_) was issued in 1904.
XVI RURAL CONDITIONS
In contrast with the Artisans and Town-workers whom I had got to know so well, the farm-populations and rustics among whom I found myself embedded when I settled at Millthorpe were decidedly interesting. In the working masses of the towns—at any rate of the Northern towns—what attracted one was the ferment of the New Life coming on: the social dreams of a better future; the efforts to realize such dreams, even in a small way; the push towards independence; the greater alertness and education; the busy hum and activity of Trades Unions and all manner of Labour Associations. What interested me in the country was something quite different. It was in fact the Old Life—the old immemorial rustic existence still going on, still there though giving signs of passing of course. As it happened, I could hardly have found a more old-world, purely agricultural parish, if I had searched for it—certainly not in the North of England—than Holmesfield when I first came there. (Now—oh, irony!—it is already beginning to be civilized!) It was all in the old rural style—the leisurely long day with its varied occupations and interests, the life of the open air and the fields, the cattle and the crops, the barn and the public-house; the absolute acceptance of things as they are, complete non-interest in reform, positive indifference to anything not patently visible to the eye, or to abstractions of any kind. The good folk would talk about a particular field—and really with amazing detail about its history, its climate, its soil, its suitability for such and such crops, and so forth; but if you broached any phase of the Land Question (however really important to them)—their eyes would soon glaze and their conversation revert to their pigs or potatoes.
A few years after my arrival at Millthorpe, having found out some facts about the Commons Enclosures in the neighborhood, I wrote a four-page tract entitled _Our Parish and our Duke_—giving some account of the circumstances under which our common lands were eaten up by our local landlords early last century—and circulated it around. It was printed in the London _Star_ (July 8, 1889) and quoted and commented on in other papers; and it sold and circulated in leaflet form some twenty thousand or more copies; but in the Parish itself it elicited no response! One old farmer whom I knew pretty well said “It’s very well put together, Mister, and it’s just exactly true”—and that was all the backing I got. Probably if there were others that approved they did not dare to say so. The fact that it challenged a Duke gave them pause! The tract, somewhat enlarged and altered and under the title _The Village and the Landlord_, is now published by the Fabian Society (Tract No. 136, 1d.).[32]
Thus, as I think I have said before, on first coming to Millthorpe I experienced a certain sense of isolation among the people there. Whereas in Sheffield and even at little Bradway I was received as a friend and commonly called by my christian name, at Millthorpe I was a stranger—and like all strangers an object of suspicion—and was addressed as “Mister.” It was a curious situation, and I found myself leading a double and divided life. How I came in the end to bridge the gulf and (so far) to overpass it I hardly know; but Time does wonders, and by slow degrees the rustics have accepted me almost as one of themselves and given me, some of them, their warm friendship. I am indeed bound to say that despite the great differences between them and the town-workers, and the greater general intelligence and alertness of the latter, I admire the character of the country-folk most—their extraordinary serenity and good humour, their tenacity, sincerity, and real affectionateness. Even their silent ways—though irritating at times—are a relief from the eternal gabble of the cities. Said a farmer youth to me one day—after we had been listening for some time to the rather cheap talk of an elderly and radical “citizen”—“They do talk, those townsfolk,” he said; and then after a pause—“them as talks so much _they must tell a lot o’ lies_.” And I entirely agreed with him.
Talking about the gulf fixed between the Old and the New, and especially between the mentality of the downright manual worker and that of the artist—at one time we had an artist friend staying with us who was rather down on his luck and making only a poor living. He was working on a landscape picture, and every morning used to sit in one of my fields and close to the wall which divided it from the high-road. An old road-mender (the same who had told me years before how he remembered the Commons “going in” i.e. being enclosed)—a good old man but bowed with age and labour—used to come that way every morning to his work; and every morning, as sure as Fate, made some patronizing remark to the painter, which at last enraged the latter beyond endurance. “That’s a nice pastime for you, young man.” And then the next morning, “I see you’re amusin’ yoursen again, young man”; and so on. (“Pastime, indeed! amusing myself! I wish the old fool had to do it instead of me. But I’ll be even with him yet!”) So the next morning the artist inveigled the old man into conversation, and after submitting meekly to more patronage, said: “Well you see I have to do this for my living.”
“Do it for your livin’, do ye?”
“Yes.”
“Do you sell them paintin’s, then?”
“Of course I do.”
_Old Man_ (a little taken aback): “And how much might you get for a thing like that?”
_Artist_ (stretching a point): “Well I might get ten pounds.”
_Old Man_ (astonished): “Ten pun! well I never!”
_Artist_ (following up): “Or I might get more of course.”
_Old Man_ (thoughtfully and with deep respect): “Ten pun! Well, I never—_and sittin’ down to it too_!”
But Hodge is passing away. The old agricultural population (farmer and labourer) is changing under the pressure of modern life; and soon—for good or evil—will be a thing of the past. The motor-car and the cycle, the telephone and the daily paper, are ploughing up the country districts, torrents of townsfolk pour over the land on holidays, and the seeds of new ideas are being sown. Already I can see, even in this little corner of the land, a new type of native arising.
The great drawback of the country folk in England (worse here no doubt than in Ireland) is their want of initiative. Centuries of smothered life under the incubus of the Landlord and the Parson have had their inevitable effect. They never _will_ speak their minds, or commit themselves to any action which is not entirely customary and approved by the powers that be. It may be different in other parts of the country, but here the one answer to any question of importance (especially if put by a stranger) is “I don’t know—I don’t know.” So fearful have they been for generations lest their words should be by chance reported in ruling quarters that the habit of concealment has at last got into their blood. One sees from this how paralysing our land system is towards all manhood and resourceful initiative in the country.
Nor is the matter much different in many other lands. When in Sicily (in 1909) we found that among the peasants the children were systematically taught to _lie_, and punished by their parents for truth-speaking. And for a very simple reason. For if a stranger came along and asked questions of a child—“How much land has your father?”—“How many goats does he keep?”—ten to one that stranger was an emissary of the Church (the chief landlord of the old days), or a taxgatherer, and so an emissary of the State; and the truth would mean more rent or more taxes. Thus deceit was the only salvation, and lying the chief foundation of “Morality.” Here in England the parson and the landlord have a similar paralysing influence; and whether they actively and consciously are conspiring against the people, or whether their questionings (as sometimes may happen) are inspired by pure kindness, the result is the same—namely the corruption of the people; and perhaps a worse corruption in the second case than in the first.
Still the new life must come, and has to come, and is coming. Small Holdings—either freehold or with a secure tenancy under a public body—give perhaps the best chance of breeding a spirit of independence in the people. Co-operation trains them in adaptability and resource.
At one time—seeing the waste of energy resulting from the twenty or so small farmers in our valley each making their separate few pats of butter weekly (and bad butter at that!) I got a dozen or more of them together and put the case for co-operative milk-selling before them. They all agreed that it was the right thing to do, that milk-selling paid much better than butter-making and that the cost of transit to town (by motor-car or country cart) could be recouped with profit. We went into the figures and were satisfied. But when it came to actual operations the paralysis of lack of initiative was on them, and no one would stir a finger! If _I_ had arranged a whole scheme and set it in operation I have no doubt they would have fallen in with it. But, as I said, I had my own work to do, and had no intention of giving up a large part of the day to their affairs. The only one who volunteered to do anything practically—and this illustrates the difference between the agricultural and the other workers—was curiously enough a _navvy_. He had only a very small farm which he carried on side by side with his navvy work, but he immediately took practical steps and would I believe have carried a scheme through but for an illness which just then overtook him.