Part V
The Limit of Sport
THE LIMIT OF SPORT[1]
“Αριστον ὕδωρ,” says Pindar. “Water is good,” as it is often translated. But why should a hymn in honour of a victor in the games begin with a sentiment which would be much better suited to an anti-alcoholic league? ὕδωρ here does not mean water; it is the corresponding word to the Latin sudor, which means sweat,—the symbol of the physical effort made by the athlete. “Excellent is sweat,” that is to say, the effort made by the victor in training himself and in winning an arduous victory.
[1] Speech delivered at the opening of the Congress of the Psychology of Sport at Lausanne, May 6, 1913.
Αριστον ὕδωρ, then, says the clarion voice of one of the noblest sons of Greece, the great poet who, in honour of the sport of his times, has clothed in lyric poetry the dazzling myths of Hellenic polytheism. The motto has travelled down the ages, and we, too, are assembled here to interpret it after the fashion of our times. Is it not inevitable that the speech I have to make should be merely a development of this undying theme, ἄριστον ὕδωρ? And yet you would be justified in asking why this task should devolve on this occasion upon a man who spends his whole life in plying a tool—the pen—which is too light to convince him of the truth of Pindar’s apothegm. It is true that there was a time when he who has the honour of addressing you was not yet an examiner of historical documents nor a student of philosophical problems; when he was, on the contrary, an ardent gymnast. I will even confess to you that the first time his name appeared in the newspapers, it was in the accounts of gymnastic and athletic meetings, in connection with which some amiable reporters thought it proper to comment on his squirrel-like agility. But those times are, alas! long past. The over-violent passion for physical exercises which was his between the ages of ten and fifteen years obliged him suddenly to drop them. He has allowed his muscles gradually to be invaded and eaten up by that physical laziness which enervates so many thinkers of the present day, and which upsets the balance of their bodily forces.
You see, then, that these far-distant memories cannot give me authority to claim a right, however small, to address you on this occasion. I am a stranger in this world of sport, which has developed so rapidly in the last thirty years. I have followed only at a distance the movement which has given it birth, and I should find myself in great difficulties if I had to discuss in its details one of the numberless questions attaching to this form of contemporary activity. What authority, then, have I for addressing you on this occasion? None. And the kindness which Baron de Coubertin has shown in honouring me with an invitation to address you, though most flattering to me, cannot fill the void left by manifest incompetence for the task. You will tell me that I should have done better to remember the wise advice Homer gave the cobbler, and to refuse this honour of which I was not worthy. And you will be right. But I would excuse myself by telling you first of all that it is difficult to refuse anything to so distinguished and amiable a man and to so ardent an advocate of the causes he makes his own as M. de Coubertin. Secondly, if I am a sportsman who long ago has made his final exit, I am also a man who tries, as far as his feeble wits will allow him, to understand that life outside himself in which he can take no immediate and direct part.
Is not that the rôle, and in a certain sense the obsession, of the historian? The historian must understand all the forms and phenomena of life; crimes, intrigues, battles, wars, revolutions, loves, hatreds, perfidies, the hidden weaknesses of great men, the blind impulses of the masses, the noblest and the basest sentiments which actuate the human mind. If we were required to have experienced everything that we are required to understand, the profession of historian would be the most difficult and the most dangerous in the world; for, in order to qualify, a man would have at least to run the risk of the galleys or of the scaffold. Without a doubt, this necessity of understanding all the forms of the life outside is also one of the great weaknesses of historians. Often they make mistakes; even more often, the picture they give of things seems but pale by contrast with the living reality, to those who have actually lived that reality. I am quite sure that this will be my fate, if I talk to you about things which you know better than do I. That, however, is the inevitable drawback of the profession, and I shall go through with my task, relying on your kind indulgence.
I shall talk to you, then, about sport in modern life as a man who has considered it from outside. I shall philosophise awhile about sport, if you will allow me; for to philosophise about a thing is often a polite way of talking about a thing regarding which the speaker has little knowledge to people whose knowledge regarding it is considerable. And I will ask myself this question: What is and what ought to be the function of sport in modern society? What is its rôle, and what are its limits? Put thus, the question is but a particular form of a more general question which philosophers have long been asking themselves: What is the mutual and reciprocal rôle of the different human activities? It is a well-known truth that with the advances of civilisation social life undergoes an inward process of differentiation. Commerce separates from industry, industry from war, war from government, government from the intellectual activities, which in their turn become specialised,—art, science, religion, etc. We get professions, corporations, institutions, and classes corresponding to all these different activities; men, that is to say, who have passions, ambitions, desires, needs, and interests, and who quickly come into conflict with one another. What parts ought to be allowed to all these different activities? Which is the most necessary, the most noble, and the most exalted? Which ought to be surrounded with the greatest respect, covered with the greatest honours, and recompensed with the most considerable rewards?
Men have answered this question in countless different ways. It is, however, easy to discover in many of these answers a common tendency that is a proneness to consider as first and all-important the corporation, profession, or institution to which each inquirer belongs. A savant is easily convinced that the end of life is the search after the truth. In his eyes, the universe must exist only in order that men of science may discover its laws and its secrets. For artists, on the other hand, the world has been created to enable them to adorn it with pictures, statues, or buildings. For the soldier war is the end of existence, while the merchant sees in commerce the beneficent force which makes the world go round. And so on. All these theories seem sober fact to those who formulate them; unfortunately the others, those who belong to a different class or profession, reject them as absurd and ridiculous errors.