and he fell into the sea, while Daedalus, the old father, flew low, but flew safely home.
When a man grows old, he develops a genius for flying low, and idealism is tempered
with cool, level-headed common sense, as well as with a sense for dollars and pennies.
Realism is, then, characteristic of old age, as idealism is characteristic of youth. When
a man is past forty and does not become a crook, he is either feebleminded or a genius.
To the latter class belong the "big children," like Tolstoy, Robert Louis Stevenson and
Sir James Barrie, who have in them so much native childishness, which, combined
with experience of fact, gives them that capacity for eternal youth which we call
immortality.
1 This old man, around the sixth century B.C., was riding a donkey through the
Hankukuan Pass, and saying good-bye to the world, when he was begged to leave the
five thousand words of Taotehking for the enlightenment of his fellow-men.
All this is, however, pure Taoism, in theory and practice, for there is no profounder
collection of a concentrated roguish philosophy of life than that contained in the five
thousand words of Laotse's Taotehking. Taoism, in theory and practice, means a
certain roguish nonchalance, a confounded and devastating scepticism, a mocking
laughter at the futility of all human interference and the failure of all human
institutions, laws, government and marriage, and a certain disbelief in idealism, no t so
much because of lack of energy as because of a lack of faith. It is a philosophy which
counteracts the positivism of Confucius, and serves as a safety-valve for the
imperfections of a Confucian society. For the Confucian outlook on life is positive,
while the Taoistic outlook is negative, and out of the alchemy of these two strange
elements emerges the immortal thing we call Chinese character.1
Hence a]! Chinese are Confucianists when successful, and Taoists when they are
failures. The Confucianist in us builds and strives, while the Taoist in us watches and
smiles. Therefore when a Chinese scholar is in office he moralizes, and when he is out
of office he versifies, and usually it is good Taoistic poetry. That explains why almost
all Chinese scholars write poetry, and why in almost all collected works of Chinese
writers, poetry occupies the better and greater half.
For Taoism, like morphia, is strangely benumbing and therefore strangely soothing. It
relieves Chinese headaches and heartaches. Its romanticism, its poetry and its worship
of nature serve the Chinese as handsomely in times of trouble and disorder as
Confucianism serves them in times of peace aad national integration. In that way it
provides a safe retreat for the Chinese human heart and a balm for the Chinese soul,
when the flesh is submitted to trials and tribulations. The poetry of Taoism alone has
made the rigoristic life on the Confucian pattern endurable, and its romanticism has
saved Chinese literature from becoming a mere collection of eulogies on the imperial
virtues and a rehash of moral exhortations. All good Chinese literature, all Chinese
literature that is worth while, that is readable, and that pleases the human mind and
soothes the human heart is essentially imbued with this Taoistic spirit. Taoism and
Confucianism are the negative and positive poles of Chinese thought which make life
possible in China.
1 So fax as this negative attitude toward life is concerned, Buddhism is merely Taoism
a little touched in its -wits.
The Chinese are by nature greater Taoists than they are by culture Confucianists. As a
people, we are great enough to draw up an imperial code, based on the conception of
essential justice, but we are also great enough to distrust lawyers and law courts.
Ninety-five per cent of legal troubles are settled out of court. We are great enough to
make elaborate rules of ceremony, but we are also great enough to treat them as part
of the great joke of life, which explains the great feasting and merry-making at
Chinese funerals. We are great enough to denounce vice, but we are also great enough
not to be surprised or disturbed by it. We are great enough to start successive waves of
revolutions, but we are also great enough to compromise and go back to the previous
patterns of government. We are great enough to elaborate a perfect system of official
impeachment, and civil service, and traffic regulations, and library reading-room rules,
but we are also great enough to break all systems, to ignore them, circumvent them,
play with them, and become superior to them. We do not teach our young in the
colleges a course of political science, showing how a government is supposed to be
run, but we teach them by daily example how our municipal, provincial and central
governments are actually run. We have no use for impracticable idealism, as we have
no patience for doctrinaire theology. We do not teach our young to become like the
sons of God, but we teach them to behave like sane, normal human beings. That is
why I believe that the Chinese are essentially humanists and Christianity must fail in
China, or it must be altered beyond recognition before it can be accepted. The only
part of Christian teachings which will be truly accepted by the Chinese people is
Christ's injunction to be "harmless as doves" but "wise as serpents." For these two
virtues, dove-like gentleness and serpent- like wisdom, are attributes of the old rogue.
In one word we recognize the necessity of human effort, but we also admit the futility
of it. This general attitude of mind has a tendency to develop passive defence tactics.
"Great things can be reduced into small things, and small things can be reduced into nothing." On this general principle all Chinese disputes are patched up, all Chinese
schemes are readjusted, and all reform programmes are discounted until there are
peace and rice for everybody. "One bid is not so good as one pass," so runs another of
our proverbs, which means the same thing as "Let well enough alone," and "Let
sleeping dogs lie."
Human life moves on, therefore, on the line of least struggle and least resistance. This
develops a certain calmness of mind, which enables one to swallow insults and to find
oneself in harmony with the universe. It develops also certain defence tactics which
can be more terrible than any tactics of aggression. When one goes to a restaurant and
feels hungry, but the food does not come, one can repeat the order to the boy. If the
boy is rude, one can complain to the management and do something about it. But if
the boy replies in the most elegant manner, "Coming! coming!" and does not move a
step, one can do absolutely nothing except pray or curse in the most elegant manner
also. Such, in brief, is the passive strength of the Chinese people, a strength which
those who are made to feel most will appreciate best. It is the strength of the old
rogue.
V. PACIFISM
So far we have been dealing with three of the worst characteristics that paralyse the
Chinese people for organized action. These characteristics are seen to spring from a
general view of life, as shrewd as it is mellow, distinguished by a certain tolerant
nonchalance. It is evident that such a view of life is not without its virtues, and they
are the virtues of an old people, not ambitious nor keen to sit on top of the world, but
a people whose eyes have seen much of life, who are prepared to accept life for what
it is worth, but who insist nevertheless that this life shall be lived decently and happily
within one's lot.
For the Chinese are a hard-boiled lot. There is no nonsense about them: they do not
live in order to die, as the Christians pretend to do, nor do they seek for a Utopia on
earth, as many seers of the West do. They just want to order this life on earth, which
they know to be full of pain and sorrow, so that they may work peaceably, endure
nobly, and live happily. Of the noble virtues of the West, of nobility, ambition, zeal for
reform, public spirit, sense for adventure and heroic courage, the Chinese are devoid.
They cannot be interested in climbing Mont Blanc or in exploring the North Pole. But
they are tremendously interested in this commonplace world, and they have an
indomitable patience, an indefatigable industry, a sense of duty, a level-headed
common sense, cheerfulness, humour, tolerance, pacifism, and that unequalled genius
for finding happiness in hard environments which we call contentment 梣 ualities that
make this commonplace life enjoyable to them. And chief of these are pacifism and
tolerance, which are the mark of a mellow culture, and which seem to be lacking in
modern Europe.
Indeed it seems at times, on watching the spectacle of present-day Europe, that she is
suffering less from a lack of "smartness" or intellectual brilliance than from the lack
of a little mellow wisdom. It seems at times barely possible that Europe will outgrow
its hot-headed youthfulness and its intellectual brilliance, and that after another
century of scientific progress, the world will be brought so closely together that the
Europeans will learn to take a more tolerant view of life and of each other, at the risk
of total annihilation. They will perhaps learn to be a little less brilliant, and a little
more mature. I have confidence that the change of view will be brought about, not by
brilliant theories but by an instinct for self-preservation. Perhaps then the West will
learn to believe less in self-assertion and more in tolerance, for tolerance will be
direly needed when the world is closely knit together. They will be a little less
desirous to make progress, and a little more anxious to understand life. And the voice
of the Old Man of Hankukuan Pass will be listened to more widely.
From the Chinese point of view, pacifism is not "noble"; it is simply "good" because it
is common sense. If this earthly life is all the life we can have, we must try to live in
peace if we want to live happily. From this point of view, the self-assertion and the
restlessness of the spirit of the West are signs of its youthful rawness. The Chinese,
steeped in his Oriental philosophy, can see that that rawness will gradually wear off at
Europe's coining of age. For, strange as it may seem, out of the extremely shrewd
philosophy of Taoism there always emerges the word "tolerance." Tolerance has been,
I think, the greatest quality of Chinese culture, and tolerance will also become the
greatest quality of modern culture, when that culture matures. To learn tolerance, one
needs a little sorrow and a little cynicism of the Taoist type. True cynics are often the
kindest people, for they see the hollowness of life, and from the realization of that
hollowness is generated a kind of cosmic pity.
Pacifism, too, is a matter of high human understanding. If man could learn to be a
little more cynical, he would also be less inclined toward warfare. That is perhaps
why all intelligent men are cowards. The Chinese are the world's worst fighters
because they are an intelligent race, backed and nurtured by Taoistic cynicism and the
Confucian emphasis on harmony as the ideal of life. They do not fight because they
are the most calculating and self- interested of peoples. An average Chinese child
knows what the European grey-haired statesmen do not know, that by fighting one
gets killed or maimed, whether it be an individual or a nation. Chinese parties to a
dispute are the easiest to bring to their senses. That calculating philosophy teaches
them to be slow to quarrel and quick to patch up. That mellow, old roguish philosophy
which teaches the Chinese patience and passive resistance in times of trouble, also
warns them against momentary pride and assertion at the moment of success. The
Chinese counsel for moderation says: "When fortune comes, do not enjoy all of it;
when advantage comes, do not take all of it." To be overassertive and to take full
advantage of one's position is called "showing too much edge," a mark of vulgarity
and an omen of downfall. Whereas the English believe in "not striking a man when he is down55 out of respect for fair play, the Chinese equivalent expression "do not push
a fellow to the wall53 is merely a matter of culture, or hanyang^ as we call it.
To the Chinese, the Versailles Treaty is not only unfair, it is merely vulgar or lacking
in Hanyang. If the Frenchman had been inbued a little with the spirit of Taoism at the
moment of his victory, he would not have imposed the Versailles Treaty, and his head
would rest more easily on his pillow to-day. But France was young, and Germany
would certainly have done the same thing, and no one realizes the extreme silliness of
two nations like France and Germany each trying to keep the other permanently under
its iron heels. But Clemenceau had not read Laotse. Nor has Hitler. So let them fight,
while the Taoist watches and smiles.
Chinese pacifism is also largely a matter of temperament as well as of human
understanding. Chinese boys fight much less in the street than Western boys. As a
people, we fight much less than we ought to, in spite of our interminable civil wars.
Put the American people under the same misrule and there would have been thirty
