A few deep thinkers, men with vivid minds, must of course have seen beyond the limited vision of the multitude, or nothing so sweepingly comprehensive, so splendidly realistic, so artistically complete as "The Birth of a Nation" could have been devised. It is poetry almost in the sense that Hardy's "Dynasts" is poetry, while its educational value, appealing as it can to young and old, learned and illiterate alike, is very real. Whatever the commercial value, and this I am glad to think must be great, the value of the spectacle as a force for the promotion of the highest order of patriotism is greater still. I can only feel delighted to think that such a task could be so carefully undertaken and so satisfactorily achieved.
A picture play may not seem at first sight a very great medium for presenting the truth about history or even a single facet of the great diamond of life; at least if I am honest with myself this would have been my own opinion down to the date of my visit to "The Birth of a Nation." I had misjudged the scope of the picture play in the light of the hoardings, vulgar, fantastic, or silly, that make the streets of even the small provincial towns more than necessarily offensive. I did not understand that in the hands of capable and imaginative artists, not only the present can be put before us, but the past can be reconstructed, and the future suggested. How it would help us to understand not only ourselves, but others of the great group of nations if we could see the history of all countries presented with something of the skill and sincerity that have gone to these graphic outlines of America's past! Often in Warwick Castle, as I have pondered some of the records of bygone time and half-forgotten history, I have marvelled at the pageant that is suggested, but never realised by the pages before me. If we could bring our history before ourselves would it not teach us more of our triumphs and mistakes than any book? And if the history of the struggles and endeavours of other nations could be faithfully presented, would there not be in the vision something to make us more sympathetic, more ready to realise that we are all passing along the same road, a narrow bridge of consciousness spanning the river of life that flows through eternity, with dreamless sleep or life beyond our ken on either hand? Would it not help to teach us that for the people of every race that brief spell of consciousness is associated with so many self-made troubles that the hell of the obsolete theologians is rendered quite superfluous? We cannot in normal times hate the men, women, and children of another race merely because they are not of our own. The same virtues, the same strivings, the same uprising towards the elusive light are shared in common. So, too, are the prejudices and errors with which we strive. Presented with sympathy, and, above all, with humility, the history of the birth and subsequent struggle of all the nations would be a potent force for peace, because it would be the first aid to understanding.
I think that the men and women who have paid their vows to peace, those who, while realising that the present war must go on to the end, will make any sacrifice to deprive it of a successor, may find in the picture play, carefully conditioned to the needs of our fateful times, the fulcrum that will enable them to move the world. I can see it passing from the domain of the theatre to the lecture hall. I can see the best features of the enterprise enlarged and developed until at last the benefits of travel and a knowledge of history are put before those who under normal conditions—or rather the conditions that the Moloch of commercialism has made normal—would never be able to enjoy either. I hold and shall always hold, that the ultimate power of directing their lives is in the hands of the people, it is not rightly in the gift of Kings or Kaisers, diplomats, statesmen, or soldiers. The sunrise of peace waits upon the dawn of knowledge, of knowledge that can be acquired by men, women and grown-up children of the working classes, the classes that accomplish all that is worth accomplishing, and pay the fullest penalty of the greed and vanity of those who live upon their labours. But, as I have so often insisted, the workers are inarticulate, particularly in the southern counties and round the metropolis of England; they do not breathe the fresh air of the north, and it is notorious that London ruins the breed of the workers. The greater the city, the greater the unemployment, the keener the competition, the readier the acceptance of conditions that make men the slaves instead of the masters of their task, the smaller the leisure to think or to study the curious and manifold complexities of existing conditions. Only by making that study easy and by giving it the form of relaxation, by stimulating the tired brain, can the worker be roused. It is a matter of fact rather than of conjecture, that the picture "palace" is beginning to claim his scanty leisure, and his tiny surplus over the paramount demands of a minimum of food and clothing. Democratic in its essence and secure in its appeal, it seems to me that the picture theatre can be developed to the most instructive and useful ends. It can teach the working man the history of his own career and long struggle towards fairer conditions of life and labour, it can show the world's workers all aiming to reach the same legitimate goal and it can enforce the lesson that a unity of ideals, and a stern rejection of the counsels of those who would make mankind his enemies rather than his friends will make war impossible. It may be that in America, that great melting-pot, as Mr. Zangwill calls it, of all jarring nationalities, the lesson is more obvious and more quickly mastered, but there is a work well-nigh as great to be done in England, where if the mixing of the nationalities is less noticeable, the need for knowledge is still greater. The States, wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice, entirely self-supporting, and utterly unchallenged by any Power within striking distance, may well laugh in the face of those who would impose upon them the extravagant horrors of militarism.
We shall have to face militarism over here; it has had its advocates for many years, and—why deny it?—their position will be immensely strengthened by the war. We know by now that our rulers cannot save us, that if we would be saved it must be by ourselves, and we know too that salvation will be born of knowledge and of knowledge alone. I regard the picture theatre as the finest medium for the spread of knowledge now before the public, and I am confident that if the great engineers of enterprise will devote their energies to the sane peace propaganda that consists in showing not only the history but the aims of the great majority of civilised people, the lesson will travel far and sink deep. "The Birth of a Nation" reveals the infinite capacity of the master film makers, their resource and resources, the measure of skill they can command. It also shows by reason of its success the immense public interest, the desire to learn, and to make use of knowledge. It is not often that a venture avowedly commercial in its aims can perform a world-wide service, and I am optimistic enough to believe that those in charge of such a work as that which is responsible for my own conversion and enthusiasm will be quick to see that in serving themselves they can serve humanity.
XVII TRUTH WILL OUT
It seems only a few years since Truth, if not precisely popular, enjoyed a certain reputation, a little definite vogue. To tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth was not only a nominal obligation in the courts of law, but a tradition among a certain class, small but not negligible, of English men and women. Truth was found in all sorts of places, you met it sometimes in Parliament, generally on the back benches, now and again it was seen or suspected in the Press; it frequented the Pulpit, and was not unknown upon the public platform if the gathering was not one of the political rallies that it resolutely ignored. To be sure when intended for the appreciation or admiration of sensitive folk, it was always dressed up in garments that hid a part of its native ugliness, and over the hard, unrelenting features a certain veil, enforcing a decent obscurity, was scrupulously drawn. The higher Truth climbed in the social scale, the more the trappings, the thicker the veil, while on the lowest rungs of the social ladder there were none to supply dress or wrappings, and Truth stood revealed in such an ugly guise that only the strong minded dared to look. When they told what they had seen, all those who lived on any of the rungs above them deplored at the top of their voices the indecency of the revelation and devised thicker veils and heavier drapery. And yet for all men and all women, according to their capacity for looking courageously before them, Truth existed. Among most of those who live in comfort there was a tradition that Truth had borrowed the head of Medusa the Gorgon lady who incontinently turned to stone all those who looked upon her, and was ultimately tricked out of life and activity by Perseus; on the other hand, the people of the underworld, the world that does the rough work, had looked upon Truth and found the cold implacable eyes had in them more of stimulus than death. They even went so far as to hope that in times yet to come the robing and veiling of Truth would be regarded as an offence and the duty of looking Truth straight in the face, would be obligatory upon kings, statesmen, clergymen, county and district councillors, journalists and lawyers alike. Against the gross indelicacy of this democratic suggestion there was not unnaturally a revolt, as many of those people just mentioned had every reason to fear that such a decision would rob them of occupations that, if not actually profitable to their fellow-men, were at least sometimes dignified and very often lucrative.
Then came War, and the people of all combatant countries formed amid and despite their bitter antagonisms an unwritten, unsigned compact to the effect that whatever the divergence of their aims and policies, they would at least conduct one part of their campaign in common, against a common foe. Agreements having lost their validity, it was impossible to reduce this one to writing, and they knew, too, that actions speak louder than words. So with unanimity that forgot all causes of dispute, the fighting powers found time and means and occasion in the midst of their awful traffic to wage war against Truth. In this country the naked Truth may no longer find a resting place, if the well in which Truth is said to dwell could be located it would incontinently be filled up and no material would be regarded as too poisonous for the purpose. As the well cannot be located, the Defence of the Realm Act has, in these islands instituted sumptuary laws so strict that Truth is now robed, veiled, and manacled past recognition. The delight of those who have suffered from the constant fear of the apparition, who have found their enjoyment of the feast of life constantly menaced by the report that Truth was in the neighbourhood, is unbounded. It is admitted by every government that Truth is one of the greatest obstacles to the proper progress of universal destruction and all Governments have substituted in the interests of public digestion Fiction, a far more popular creation and more palatable too. They call it by the title of Official Report. If one Report contradicts and is contradicted by all the others, you can at least pay your money and take your choice and the task of selection is eased by the certain knowledge that Truth is not admitted to any.
In the Parliaments of the world responsible speakers have but to declare that the irresponsible ones are endeavouring to bring back Truth to the high assembly, and every one of Fiction's countless adherents will rise in his place to protest. In the pulpit, to which Truth still seeks admittance, the veil has become a mask, and the garments have a double thickness, but in the Courts of whatever kind and in Fleet Street it has been found that the precautions in vogue before the war are sufficiently adequate.