This Happiness

Evening Star, Issue 23699, 5 October 1940, Page 3

This Happiness

Written by MARY SCOTT, for the ‘ Evening Star'

How much nonsense is written on the subject of marriage! The mother-in-law jest is a trifle out of date; the plumber is sometimes taken seriously nowadays, and we have ceased to find the subject of a woman’s age screamingly funny. But marriage seems to remain a perpetual butt, an over-green joke at which cynics may safely shoot tlreir arrows, and with which the sorriest comedian is pleasantly certain to make something of a hit. Now Mr John Cowper Powys would certainly revolt at being described, even ‘in his off moments, as a comedian; he might, indeed, even object to the term cynic, for in the book 1 have just been reading he poses rather as a philosopher. Nevertheless, the oldfashioned among us who frankly believe in marriage—and of these 1 am happy to call myself one—may be excused for regarding his attitude towards the question as cynical. Men, he .would have us believe, achieve happiness, when they do achieve it, not through the women with whom they Jive, but in spite of them. Should a man happen to find happiness in marriage, it is a poor kind of bliss, one that has in it none of “the elements of imagination, intellect, or spirit.” Women, poor fools that they are, do very often find happiness in marriage, according to this writer. It is their proper sphere, and their. joy comes through, the men they love. They seek no higher intellectual bliss than that which home and children are capable of bringing. Their spirit does not revolt against the fetters of marriage, but rather hugs its chains. De- , siring less, they are content with the same happiness that clogs and chokes a man. . Xow generalisations like this are easy to make and fairly easy to maintain. I have no intention of entering the lists on the subject against so formidable a foe as Mr Powys, Philosopher. It is possible, indeed, that the generalisation is as true as most concerning the relationships between the two sexes. But to the. ordinary man and woman—more particularly to the woman—it all sounds like nonsense and, from the woman’s point of view, irritating nonsense at that. Of course it was my own fault. . Whoever in these days dreams of reading a book about happiness? What is yie use of writing on such a subject, still less of reading about it? It is not even as if. Mr Powys’s book was a new one. for it might be interesting to see what even a mind as ingenious as his could find to say on the subject in 1940; but this ‘ Art of Happiness ’ is actually nearly five yeaig old —written in the days when it still seemed’possible to tear a little joy from reluctant fate. No, I can claim no ' better reason for taking it down from the library shelf than that plea which sounds so half-witted, “ I really couldn’t see anything else.” And what does Mr Powys thinkAof happiness? His is a frankly hedoi'ist creed, for he admits that he thinks it to be the only ultimate good. That sounds a little shocking—particularly in 1940. Most of us had been inclined to Aristotle’s theory that happiness is like the, bloom on the cheek of if young man in perfect health; or. as some modern philosopher has said, a by-

product of life. This Mr Powys considers nonsense superstitution ” —whatever ho may exactly mean by this. He declares that tho* pursuit of goodness, truth, or beauty is really only for the sake of the happiness we expect to gain from their achievement. What scorn would such a philosopher pour upon the head of the simple poet who wrote The world has nothing to bestow; Prom our own selves our joys must flow.

But I find Air Powys's philosophy a poor one. The whole history of mankind disproves it, for always man has learned that pleasures desperately and deliberately pursued bring no happiness. Tho by-product theory is far the best and the sanest. “ There is in man a higher than love of happiness,” wrote that grim philosopher Carlyle. It is while we are seeking the higher that we find and enjoy the lesser. Mr Powys, however, comes nearer to the average man’s ideal when he distinguishes between pleasure and happiness. Pleasure he calls a merely sensual feeling; happiness embraces this pleasure, but adds to it “ the idea of something mental and emotional, of something intellectual and what used to be called 1 spiritual.’ ” (Let those of us who are antediluvian enough to persist in the use of that _ word spiritual, to believe in tho existence of all it stands for, note humbly the use of those words “ that used to bo called”; thus does the modern philosopher put us in our place.) Yet, if one might dare to raise an old-fashioned voice in criticism of such a clever writer as Mr Powys, one might venture to murmur that all this has been heard before. Why does Mr Powys, think, after all, that he has anything new' or strange to add to the philosophy of the ages? Have wo not learned—we poor average men—to distinguish between happiness and pleasure from our youth up? Why should Mr Powys enunciate his theory of the difference with such an air of originality and profundity? I am no philosopher, hut I can remember saying all that in a sixth form essay and feeling very proud of myself when I received “A ” for the effort. When the author goes on to qualify his pleasures—those of the body being “ of low quality,” those of the mind “ high quality ” —I find him hard to follow. Surely if pleasure be the only good thing iii life, there can he no distinction between one pleasure and another! One pleasure may be better than another —because it is more enjoyable; it cannot be ranked as superior to a “ lower pleasure,” since thorp is no other standard than this pleasantness. Hoiv great a fall is here apparent! It is clear that even in his hedonism the modern philosopher cannot entirely relinquish his preference for the highbrow. Mind still retains its old-fashioned superiority to matter. And thus, having proved to mv oldfashioned satisfaction that Mr Powys is not as modern, as he fancies himself. I find that I have recovered my good humour and am able to reflect that nothing could possibly be more dead, more hopelessly out of date, than a hook about Happiness written in 1935 and read in 1940.