A few years ago I wrote a book which
dealt in part with the difficulties of the English in India. Feeling that
they would have had no difficulties in India themselves, the Americans read
the book freely. The more they read it the better it made them feel, and
a cheque to the author was the result. I bought a wood with the cheque.
It is not a large wood--it contains scarcely any trees, and it is intersected,
blast it, by a public footpath. Still, it is
the first property that I have owned, so it is right that other people should
participate in my shame, and should ask themselves, in accents
that will vary in horror, this very important question: What is the effect
of property upon the character? Don't let's touch economics; the effect
of private ownership upon the community as a whole is another question--a
more important question, perhaps, but another one. Let's keep to psychology.
If you own things, what's their effect on you? What's the effect on me of
2 In the first place,
it makes me feel heavy. Property does have this effect. Property produces
men of weight, and it was a man of weight who failed to get into the Kingdom
of Heaven. He was not wicked, that unfortunate millionaire in the parable,
he was only stout; he he struck out in front,
not to mention behind, and as he wedged himself
this way and that in the crystalline entrance
and bruised his well-fed flanks,
he saw beneath him a comparatively slim camel
passing through the eye of a needle and being woven
into the robe of God. The Gospels all through
couple stoutness and slowness. They point out what is perfectly obvious,
yet seldom realized: that if you have a lot of things you cannot move about
a lot, that furniture requires dusting, dusters require servants, servants
require insurance stamps, and the whole
tangle of them makes you think twice before you accept an invitation
to dinner or go for a bathe in the Jordan. Sometimes
the Gospels proceed further and say with Tolsoty
that property is sinful; they approach the difficult ground of asceticism
here, where I cannot follow them. But as to the immediate effects
of property on people, they just show straightforward logic. It produces
men of weight. Men of weight cannot, by definition, move like the lightning
from the East unto the West, and the ascent
of a fourteen-stone bishop into a pulpit
is thus the exact antithesis of the coming
of the Son of Man. My wood makes me feel heavy.
3 In the second
place, it makes me feel it ought to be larger.
4 The other day I
heard a twig snap in it. I was annoyed at first,
for I thought that someone was blackberrying,
and depreciating the value of the undergrowth. On coming nearer, I saw it
was not a man who had trodden on the twig and
snapped it, but a bird, and I felt pleased. My bird. The bird was not equally
pleased. Ignoring the relation between us, it took fright as soon as it
saw the shape of my face, and flew straight over the boundary hedge
into a field, the property of Mrs. Henessy, where it sat down with a loud
squawk. It had become Mrs. Henessy's bird.
Something seemed grossly amiss here, something
that would not have occurred had the wood been larger. I could not afford
to buy Mrs. Henessy out, I dared not murder her, and limitations of this
sort beset me on every side. Ahab did not want that vineyard--he only needed
it to round off his property, preparatory to plotting a new curve--and
all the land around my wood has become necessary to me in order to round
off the wood. A boundary protects. But--poor little thing--the boundary
ought in its turn to be protected. Noises on the edge of it. Children throw
stones. A little more, and then a little more, until we reach the sea. Happy
Canute! Happier Alexander! And after all, why should even the world be the
limit of possession? A rocket containing a Union Jack, will, it is hoped,
be shortly fired at the moon. Mars. Sirius. Beyond which . . . . But
these immensities ended by saddening me. I
could not suppose that my wood was the destined nucleus
of universal dominion--it is so very small
and contains no mineral wealth beyond the blackberries. Nor was I comforted
when Mrs. Henessy's bird took alarm for the second time and flew clean away
from us all, under the belief that it belonged to itself.
5 In the third place,
property makes its owner feel that he ought to do something to it. Yet he
isn't sure what. A restlessness comes over him, a vague sense that he has
a personality to express-- the same sense which, without any vagueness,
leads the artist to an act of creation. Sometimes I think I will cut down
such trees as remain in the wood, at other times I want to fill up the gaps
between them with new trees. Both impulses are pretentious an empty. They
are not honest movements towards money-making or beauty. They spring from
a foolish desire to express myself and from an inability to enjoy what I
have got. Creation, property, enjoyment form a sinister
trinity in the human mind. Creation
and enjoyment are both very, very good, yet they are often unattainable
without a material basis, and at such moments property pushes itself in
as a substitute, saying, "Accept me instead--I'm good enough for all there."
It is not enough. It is, as Shakespeare said of lust,
"The expense of spirit in a waste of shame": it is "Before, a joy proposed;
behind, a dream." Yet we don't know how to shun
it. It is forced on us by our economic system as the alternative to starvation.
It is also forced on us by an internal defect in the soul, by the feeling
that in property may lie the germs of self-development
and of exquisite or heroic deeds.
Our life on earth is, and ought to be, material and carnal.
But we have not yet learned to manage our materialism and carnality
properly; they are sill entangled with the desire for ownership,
where (in the words of Dante) "Possession is one with loss."
6 And this brings
us to our fourth and final point: the blackberries.
7 Blackberries are
not plentiful in this meager grove, but they
are easily seen from the public footpath which traverses it, and all too
easily gathered. Foxgloves, too--people will
pull up the foxgloves, and ladies of an educational tendency even grub
for toadstools to show them on the Monday in
class. Other ladies, less educated, roll down the bracken
in the arms of their gentlemen friends. There is paper, there are tins.
Pray, does my wood belong to me or doesn't it? And, if it does, should
I not own it best by allowing no one else to walk there? There is a wood
near Lyme Regis, also cursed by a public footpath, where the owner has not
hesitated on this point. He has built high stone walls each side of the
path, and has spanned it by bridges, so that the public circulate like termites
while he gorges on the blackberries unseen.
He really does own his wood, this able chap.
Dives in Hell did pretty well, but the gulf
dividing him from Lazarus could be traversed
by vision, and nothing traverses it here. And perhaps I shall come to this
in time. I shall wall in and fence out until I really taste the sweets of
property. Enormously stout, endlessly avaricious, pseudo-creative,
intensely selfish, I shall weave upon my forehead the quadruple crown of
possession until those nasty Bolshies come and take it off again and thrust
me aside into the outer darkness.
Forster, E. M. "My Wood." The
McGraw-Hill Reader: Themes in the Disciplines. 5the ed. Gilbert H. Muller.
Read by Dr. Ray Schulte.