There is, therefore, little real choice but to live separately.
“In Europe, where the modernization of society has proceeded much further than has yet happened in Japan, this necessary disintegration of the multi-generation family unit has long been common. If by chance European parents and sons do live in the same house, the sons pay, as they would elsewhere, for board and lodging. Similarly, if sons borrow money from their father, they pay it back with interest as they would if they had borrowed from a bank. This sort of laudable arrangement is only possible when fathers recognize and pay proper respect to sons’
individualities. Sooner or later such customs must be adopted in Japan.
It is many years now since uncles, aunts, and cousins moved out of the family unit to establish their separate lives: the time is now coming for fathers and sons to separate, but the development of individuality and of a feeling of respect toward individuality will go on growing endlessly.
We shall never be at peace unless we move farther apart and give each other room for that growth. But when parents, sons, brothers, and sisters have all so eased apart, what further easement can be sought? Only the separation of husband and wife. Some people today still persist in the mistaken view that a husband and wife are a husband and wife because they live together. The point is that they can only live together if their separate individualities are sufficiently harmonious. No question of disharmony arose in the old days because, being in the Confucian phrase ‘two bodies but one spirit,’ husband-and-wife was a single person. Even after death they remained inseparable, haunting the world as two badgers from a single sett. That barbarous state of affairs is now all changed. A husband now is simply a man who happens to be married, a wife a woman in the same lamentable condition. This wife person went to a girls’ school from which, after an excellent education designed to strengthen her individuality, she comes marching out in a Western hairstyle to be a bride. No wonder the man she marries cannot make her do what he likes. If such a woman did, in fact, accommodate herself to her husband’s beck and call, people would say she’s not a wife but a doll. The harder she works to become an intelligent helpmate, the greater the space demanded by her individuality and the less her husband can abide her. Quarreling begins. The brighter the wife, the more bitter and incessant are the quarrels, and there’s no sense in boasting of intelligence in a wife if all it produces is misery for both of you. Now within this marriage a boundary is established, a boundary as distinct as that between oil and water. Even that would not be too awful if only it were steady, but in practice the line of marital friction bounces up and down so that the whole domestic scene is in a constant condition of earthquake. By such experiences the human race has come to accept that it is unprofitable to both parties that married couples should live together.”
“So what do they do?” asks Coldmoon. “Divorce on the scale you imply is a worrying prospect.”
“Yes, they part. What else can they do? It’s clear to me that, eventually, all married couples will get divorced. As things still stand, those who live together are husband and wife, but in the future those who live together will be generally considered to have disqualified themselves from being a normal married couple.”
“I suppose that a man like myself will be one of the disqualified. . .”
Coldmoon misses no chance to remind us of his recent marriage.
“You are lucky to have been born in the days of the Emperor Meiji when traditional ways are still observed. Being a gifted prophet of things to come, I am inevitably two or three stops ahead of my contemporaries in all matters of any importance; that, of course, is why I am already a bachelor. I know there are people who go around saying that I remain unmarried because of some early disappointment in love, but one can only pity such persons for their shallow minds and their inability to see further than the ends of their snooping noses.” Waverhouse paused for breath. “But to return to my farsighted vision of the future. . . A philosopher will descend from heaven. He will preach the unprecedented truth that all members of mankind, both men and women, are essentially individuals. Impairment of their individuality can only lead to the destruction of the human race. The purpose of human life is to maintain and develop individuality, and, to attain that end, no sacrifice is too great. It is thus contrary to the nature and needs of mankind that the ancient, evil, barbarous practice of marriage should continue. Such primitive rites were, perhaps, understandable before the sacrosanctity of individuality was recognized, but to allow the continuation of these dreadful customs into our own civilized era is quite unthinkable. The deplorable habit of marriage must be broken. In our developed culture there is no reason whatsoever why two individuals should be bound to each other in the highly abnormal intimacy of the traditional marriage relationship.
Once the revelations of the heaven sent philosopher have been clearly understood, it will be regarded as extremely immoral of young uneducated men and women to allow themselves to be so carried away by base and fleeting passions that they even stoop to low indulgence in wedding ceremonies. Even today we must do our best to get such tribal customs discontinued.”
“Sir,” said Beauchamp so very firmly that he even slapped his kneecap,
“I totally reject your vile prognostication. In my opinion, nothing in this world is more precious than love and beauty. It is entirely thanks to these two things that we can be consoled, be made perfect, and be happy. Again, it is entirely due to them that our feelings can be gracefully expressed, our characters made noble, and our sympathies refined.
Therefore, no matter where or when one is born, here or in Timbuktu, now or in the future, love and beauty remain the eternal guidestars of mankind. When they manifest themselves in the actual world, love is seen in the relationship between husband and wife, while beauty shines forth either as poetry or music. These are the expressions, at its highest level, of the very humanity of the human race; I do not believe, so long as our kind exists upon the surface of this planet, that either the arts or our current ideal of the married couple will perish therefrom.”
“It would be well, perhaps, if it were so. But, for the reasons which the heaven sent philosopher has just given for his forecast, both love and beauty are bound to perish. You will just have to accept the inevitable.
You spoke of the imperishable glories of art, but they will go the same way as the married couple: into oblivion. The irreversible development of individuality will bring ever greater demands by individuals for recognition of their singular identity. In a world where I and you both insist that ‘I am I, and you are you,’ how can any art perdure? Surely the arts now flourish by reason of a harmony between the individualities of the artist and of each appreciative member of his public. That harmony is already being crushed to death. You may protest until the cows come home that you are a new-style poet, but if no one shares your conviction of the worth of your poems, I’m afraid you’ll never be read. However many epithalamia you compose, your work will be dying as you write it.
It is thus especially gratifying that, writing as you do in Meiji times, the whole world may still rejoice in its excellence.”
“I’m not all that well-known.”
“If already today your splendid efforts are not all that well-known, what do you imagine will be their fate in the future when civilization has advanced yet further and that heaven sent philosopher has knocked the stuffing out of marriage? No one at all will read your poems. Not because the poems are yours and you are a bad poet, but because individuality has intensified to such an extent that anything written by other people holds no interest for anyone. This stage of the literary future is already evidenced in England where two of their leading novelists, Henry James and George Meredith, have personalities so strong and so strongly reflected in their novels that very few people care to read them.
And no wonder. Only readers with personalities of matching force could find such works of any interest. That trend will accelerate and, by the time that marriage is
finally recognized as immoral, all art will have disappeared. Surely you can see that, when anything that either of us might write has become quite meaningless to the other, then there will be nothing, let alone art, which we can share. We shall all be excommunicated from each other.”
“I suppose you’re right; but somehow, intuitively, I cannot believe the fearful picture you have painted.”
“If you can’t grasp it intuitively, then try it discursively.”
“Discursive or intuitive,” Singleman blurts out, “what’s it matter? The point is that it’s true. It’s quite obvious that the greater the freedom of the individuality permitted to human beings, the less free their interrelations must become. I consider that all Nietzsche’s glorification of a Superman is nothing but a philosophical attempt to talk a way out of the dead-end facing mankind. You might at first sight think that Nietzsche was enunciating some cherished ideal, but on reflection you’ll recognize that he’s simply voicing his bitter discontent. Twisting about in his bed, niggled by his neighbors, worried by their developing individualities, Nietzsche funked even the nineteenth century. Pouring out such jeremiads, he must have lived in an agony of despair. Reading his works, one does not feel inspired, merely sorry for their wretched author. That voice of his is not the voice of intrepidity and determination; it is nothing more than the whine of grievance and the screams of indignation. It was, perhaps, an understandable reaction in a rejected philosopher.
When in ancient times a truly great man appeared, all the whole world flocked to gather under his banner. Which was no doubt very gratifying, certainly sufficiently gratifying for the great man in question to feel no need to resort to pen and paper with all that virulence one finds in Nietzsche. The superhuman characters portrayed in Homer’s epics and in the Ballad of Chevy Chase are not demon-driven. Unlike Nietzsche’s Superman, they are alive with life, with gaiety and just plain fun. Their times were truly merry and the merriment is recreated in the writing.
Naturally, in days like that there was no trace of Nietzsche’s atrabilious venom. But in Nietzsche’s period things were sadly different. No hero shone on his horizons and, even if a hero had appeared, no one would have honored, respected, or even noticed him. When, in a much earlier period, Confucius made his appearance, it was relatively easy for him to assert his importance because he had no equals as competitors. Today they’re ten a penny and possibly the whole wide world is packed with them. Certainly no one nowadays would be impressed if you claimed to be a new Confucius, and you, because you had failed to impress, would become waspish in your discontent, in precisely the sort of discontent which leads to books which brandish Superman about our ears. We sought freedom and now we suffer from the inconveniences that freedom can but bring. Does it not follow that, though Western civilization seems splendid at first glance, at the end of the day it proves itself a bane? In sharp contrast, we in the East have always, since long, long, long ago, devoted ourselves not to material progress but to development of the mind. That Way was the right way. Now that the pressures of individuality are bringing on all sorts of nervous disorders, we are at last able to grasp the meaning of the ancient tag that ‘people are carefree under firm rule.’ And it won’t be long before Lao Tzu’s doctrine of the activating effect of inactivity grows to seem less of a paradox. By then, of course, it will be too late to do anything more than recognize our likeness to addicted alcoholics who wish they’d never touched the stuff.”
“All you fellows,” said Coldmoon, “seem hideously pessimistic about the future, but none of your moans and groans depress me in the least.
I wonder why.”
“That’s because you’ve just got married,” said Waverhouse hastening to explain away the mildest manifestation of hope.
Then, suddenly, my master began to talk. “If my dear Coldmoon, you’re thinking yourself fortunate to have found a wife, you’re making a big mistake. For your particular information, I shall now read out something of pertinent interest.” Opening that antique of a book which he’d brought from his study a short time back, my master then continued. “As you can see, this is an old book but it was perfectly clear, even in those early days, that women were terrible.”
“Sir, you surprise me. But may I ask when the book was written?” said Coldmoon.
“In the sixteenth century, by a man called Thomas Nashe.”
“I’m even more surprised. You mean to say that even in those early days someone spoke ill of my wife?”
“The book contains a wide variety of complaints about women, some of which will certainly apply to your wife. So you’d better listen carefully.”
“All right. I am listening.Very honored, too.”
“The book begins by saying that all men must heed the views of womanhood propounded down the ages by recognized sages. You follow me?
Are you listening?”
“We are all listening. Even I, a bachelor, am listening.”
“Aristotle says that, since all women are good-for-nothings anyway, it is best, if you must get married, to choose a small bride, because a small good-for-nothing is less disastrous than a large one.”
“Coldmoon, is this wife of yours hefty or petite?”
“She’s one of the heftier good-for-nothings.”
They all laughed, more at the suddenness with which Coldmoon had rejoined the eternal conspiracy of males than at anything inherently funny in his answer.
“Well,” said Waverhouse, “that’s an interesting book, I must say. Read us some more.”
“A man once asked what might be a miracle, and the sage replied, ‘A chaste woman.’”
“Who, sir, is this sage?”
“The book doesn’t give his name.”
“I’ll bet he was a sage who had been jilted.”
“Next comes Diogenes who, when asked at what age it was best to take a wife, replied,‘For a young man, not yet; for the old man, never.’”
“No doubt that miserable fellow thought that up in his barrel,” observed Waverhouse.
“Pythagoras says that there are three evils not to be suffered: fire, water, and a woman.”
“I didn’t know,” said Singleman, “that any Greek philosopher was responsible for such an ill-considered apothegm. If you ask me, none of them are evil: one can enter fire and not be burnt, enter water and not be drowned, enter. . .” Here he got stuck until Waverhouse helped him out by adding, “And entertain a woman without being bewitched, eh?”
Paying no regard to his friends interjections, my master went on with his reading. “Socrates says that a man’s most difficult task is to try to control women and children. Demosthenes says that the greatest torment a man can invent for his enemy’s vexation is to give him his own daughter in marriage ‘as a domestical Furie to disquiet him night and day’ until he dies of it. The eminent Seneca says that there be two especial troubles in this world: a wife and ignorance. The Emperor Marcus Aurelius compares women to ships because ‘to keep them well in order, there is always somewhat wanting.’ Plautus claims that women ‘deck themselves so gorgeously and lace themselves so nicely’ because, and I paraphrase, such a mean trick disguises their natural ugliness. Valerius Maximus in a letter to one of his friends advises him that almost nothing is impossible for a woman, and goes on to entreat God Almighty that ‘his sweet friend be not entrapped by woman’s treacherie.’ It was this same Valerius Maximus who answered his own question about the nature of woman by saying,‘She is an enemy to friendship, an inevitable pain, a necessary evil, a natural temptation, a desired calamity, a honey-seeming poison.’ He also remarked that, if it is a sin to put a woman away, it is surely a much greater torment to keep her still.”
“Please, sir,” pleaded Coldmoon, “that’s enough. I cannot bear to hear any more awful things about my wife.”
“There are still several more pages. How about listening to the end?”
I Am a Cat Page 60
