href="#n_29" type="note">[29], and his bunch round him! The sheer spite of it all, just sheer joy in pulling somebody else to bits…Protagoras[30], or whoever it was! And Alcibiades[31], and all the other little disciple dogs joining in the fray! I must say it makes one prefer Buddha, quietly sitting under a bo-tree, or Jesus, telling his disciples little Sunday stories, peacefully, and without any mental fireworks. No, there’s something wrong with the mental life, radically. It’s rooted in spite and envy, envy and spite. Ye shall know the tree by its fruit.[32]”
“I don’t think we’re altogether so spiteful,” protested Clifford.
“My dear Clifford, think of the way we talk each other over, all of us. I’m rather worse than anybody else, myself. Because I infinitely prefer the spontaneous spite to the concocted sugaries; now they are poison; when I begin saying what a fine fellow Clifford is, etc., etc., then poor Clifford is to be pitied. For God’s sake, all of you, say spiteful things about me, then I shall know I mean something to you. Don’t say sugaries, or I’m done.”
“Oh, but I do think we honestly like one another,” said Hammond.
“I tell you we must…we say such spiteful things to one another, about one another, behind our backs! I’m the worst.”
“And I do think you confuse the mental life with the critical activity. I agree with you, Socrates gave the critical activity a grand start, but he did more than that,” said Charlie May, rather magisterially. The cronies had such a curious pomposity under their assumed modesty. It was all so ex cathedra, and it all pretended to be so humble.
Dukes refused to be drawn about Socrates.
“That’s quite true, criticism and knowledge are not the same thing,” said Hammond.
“They aren’t, of course,” chimed in Berry, a brown, shy young man, who had called to see Dukes, and was staying the night.
They all looked at him as if the ass had spoken.[33]
“I wasn’t talking about knowledge…I was talking about the mental life,” laughed Dukes. “Real knowledge comes out of the whole corpus of the consciousness; out of your belly and your penis as much as out of your brain and mind. The mind can only analyse and rationalize. Set the mind and the reason to cock it over the rest, and all they can do is to criticize, and make a deadness. I say all they can do. It is vastly important. My God, the world needs criticizing today…criticizing to death. Therefore let’s live the mental life, and glory in our spite, and strip the rotten old show. But, mind you, it’s like this: while you live your life, you are in some way an Organic whole with all life. But once you start the mental life you pluck the apple. You’ve severed the connexion between, the apple and the tree: the organic connexion. And if you’ve got nothing in your life but the mental life, then you yourself are a plucked apple…you’ve fallen off the tree. And then it is a logical necessity to be spiteful, just as it’s a natural necessity for a plucked apple to go bad.”
Clifford made big eyes: it was all stuff to him. Connie secretly laughed to herself.
“Well then we’re all plucked apples,” said Hammond, rather acidly and petulantly.
“So let’s make cider of ourselves,” said Charlie.
“But what do you think of Bolshevism?” put in the brown Berry, as if everything had led up to it.
“Bravo!” roared Charlie. “What do you think of Bolshevism?”
“Come on! Let’s make hay of Bolshevism!” said Dukes.
“I’m afraid Bolshevism is a large question,” said Hammond, shaking his head seriously.
“Bolshevism, it seems to me,” said Charlie, “is just a superlative hatred of the thing they call the bourgeois; and what the bourgeois is, isn’t quite defined. It is Capitalism, among other things. Feelings and emotions are also so decidedly bourgeois that you have to invent a man without them.
“Then the individual, especially the personal man, is bourgeois: so he must be suppressed. You must submerge yourselves in the greater thing, the Soviet-social thing. Even an organism is bourgeois: so the ideal must be mechanical. The only thing that is a unit, non-organic, composed of many different, yet equally essential parts, is the machine. Each man a machine-part, and the driving power of the machine, hate…hate of the bourgeois. That, to me, is Bolshevism.”
“Absolutely!” said Tommy. “But also, it seems to me a perfect description of the whole of the industrial ideal. It’s the factory-owner’s ideal in a nut-shell; except that he would deny that the driving power was hate. Hate it is, all the same; hate of life itself. Just look at these Midlands, if it isn’t plainly written up…but it’s all part of the life of the mind, it’s a logical development.”
“I deny that Bolshevism is logical, it rejects the major part of the premisses,” said Hammond.
“My dear man, it allows the material premiss; so does the pure mind…exclusively.”
“At least Bolshevism has got down to rock bottom,” said Charlie.
“Rock bottom! The bottom that has no bottom! The Bolshevists will have the finest army in the world in a very short time, with the finest mechanical equipment.
“But this thing can’t go on…this hate business. There must be a reaction…” said Hammond.
“Well, we’ve been waiting for years…we wait longer. Hate’s a growing thing like anything else. It’s the inevitable outcome of forcing ideas on to life, of forcing one’s deepest instincts; our deepest feelings we force according to certain ideas. We drive ourselves with a formula, like a machine. The logical mind pretends to rule the roost, and the roost turns into pure hate. We’re all Bolshevists, only we are hypocrites. The Russians are Bolshevists without hypocrisy.”
“But there are many other ways,” said Hammond, “than the Soviet way. The Bolshevists aren’t really intelligent.”
“Of course not. But sometimes it’s intelligent to be half-witted: if you want to make your end. Personally, I consider Bolshevism half-witted; but so do I consider our social life in the west half-witted. So I even consider our far-famed mental life half-witted. We’re all as cold as cretins, we’re all as passionless as idiots. We’re all of us Bolshevists, only we give it another name. We think we’re gods…men like gods! It’s just the same as Bolshevism. One has to be human, and have a heart and a penis if one is going to escape being either a god or a Bolshevist…for they are the same thing: they’re both too good to be true.”
Out of the disapproving silence came Berry’s anxious question:
“You do believe in love then, Tommy, don’t you?”
“You lovely lad!” said Tommy. “No, my cherub, nine times out of ten, no! Love’s another of those half-witted performances today. Fellows with swaying waists fucking little jazz girls with small boy buttocks, like two collar studs! Do you mean that sort of love? Or the joint-property, make-a-success-of-it, my-husband-my-wife sort of love? No, my fine fellow, I don’t believe in it at all!”
“But you do believe in something?”
“Me? Oh, intellectually I believe in having a good heart, a chirpy penis, a lively intelligence, and
