The Miracle (Blackwood)

Beauty has crept into our darkened streets again, and the soul of London is aware of it. The phenomenon is strictly wonderful. London herself, in the blue gloom of the Parks, along the shadowy streets, and at the upper windows of a million houses⁠—London, as an entity, is aware. For behind, and through, this veil of unaccustomed shadow stirs something that is deathless. Unnoticed during easy and luxurious days, too obvious in hours of sunshine to be detected, it now steals forth, claims recognition, draws attention to itself. It is a marvellous and delicate thing, yet of incalculable potentiality. It is that which scientists are supposed to ignore and biologists to deny. It is the soul. But it is not individual. It is corporate. With the dipping of the flashing glare of lights it now comes forth into its own. And we see the stars again. We are witnessing a religious and mystical phenomenon of ultimate significance, that which the Churches insist must happen in a regenerated heart, that which religions of all climes and ages affirm as of paramount importance⁠—sign and proof of spiritual awakening. And this mystical occurrence is already accomplished in our midst⁠—the midst of a practical, hardheaded business nation of the twentieth century. It is essentially divine. It is the loss of self. It was effected in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. Out of that night in early August when the wireless and cables flashed round the world the news that England had gone to war, it emerged. By morning it was an accomplished fact. The inner and outer reconciliation of all conflict and disagreement in every corner of the Empire was its evidence. It was a miracle. And the miracle was conversion, regeneration. The result, attained so simply, was strictly wonderful. Separate, smaller entities, groups of opponents, bodies at war with other bodies, all merged at that significant bugle-call into a corporate and indivisible whole. The Empire became, psychologically, a crowd: one Being. The ease, the simplicity, the instantaneous character of the result⁠—these are of the spiritual order. The individual passed away, sunk his differences, forgot his personal ambitions, became merged in something greater than himself. There was no effort, there was no resistance. A group-consciousness came into existence spontaneously and of its own accord. The thing is happening still on every side; rather, the evidence that it has happened is to be seen all day long in street and park and courtyard: drilling. Men, to whom such an event had never once appeared as even a possible eventuality, are drilling by the thousand; are being drilled as naturally as they formerly ate their breakfast or went to golf and tennis. And what has taken place as a whole is taking place in every smaller portion of that whole. The object, moreover, is not to kill, but to keep alive⁠—truth, justice, mercy, liberty. Awkward squads are visible on every hand, impersonal service the word of command. Next to you stands a scholar, beyond him an artist famous in two hemispheres, behind you a singer whose voice brings joy to thousands. In July the notion that these men could ever drill in an Earl’s-court building would have seemed ridiculous. Now it is right, reasonable, and beautiful as well. They have lost themselves and found themselves; they are part of a Whole, their Company. Proud, willing, happy, they just let themselves be drilled, and have no questions to ask, even of themselves. They are scolded, shouted at, rebuked and praised alternately, by a lad who happens to have learned the words of command and technique they are ignorant of. In July he sold behind a counter the twelve-and-sixpenny volumes that the scholar wrote, or through a narrow window took in guineas from members of the public who wished to hear the singer ten days later⁠—but now he has these great men obedient to his will and orders, hanging intently upon his lightest word, because these are the words and orders of the larger Being whose servant he likewise is. He and that awkward squad are one. The items composing it no longer are individuals. All are merged into a harmonious, corporate body that is a group-soul. “It’s a rest, you know,” says the scholar, “to lay one’s self aside like this. It’s a holiday. I never realised before how valuable a change of personality could be. One has become a number.” “Almost a case of losing yourself to find it, eh?” suggests the artist, who, in his famous pictures, had never achieved a similar result so easily. And the singer exclaims, “A positive relief! I feel like singing in the ranks.” “Ah,” murmurs an invisible Someone, “it’s the secret of all true living everywhere. It is beauty; it is real religion…” when the sharp “Eyes Front” puts an end to the moment of standing at ease, and the speakers slip back into the comfort and power of the larger Whole. And those who cannot drill in an Earl’s-court or Post Office quadrangle, who for the best reasons continue the daily round, the common task as usual, these none the less are equally involved in the loss of the personal which is due to absorption in the thing that is greater than themselves. They drill invisibly, but they are drilled. The religious, mystical phenomenon is consummated in them also. For even and especially⁠—the Saint, worthy of the name, still does his daily duties, but does them unto an ideal larger, higher than himself, an ideal he styles variously, perhaps, but usually styles God. It is passing strange and exquisite, this new beauty that has crept into our darkened streets and into our careless hearts as well. The instant alteration is properly miraculous. The individual life has become ascetic in the true sense, automatically. Luxuries are seen in a flash to be not merely unnecessary, but degrading, hindering clear effort of mind and body. So many normal habits have dropped aside today⁠—they were unreal. It seems puzzling that they ever gained the sway they did. Whence did they come? Were they due to the small perspective of a lesser self…? We have become as an ant-heap, a hive of bees, a flock of birds, whose immense, coherent and effective activities are the result of being animated by a single purpose: the individual counts enormously, because his purpose is the purpose of the entire mass. This corporate whole, this group-soul, is akin to that Body of the Church, the Body of any deep spiritual movement anywhere and by whatever name it may be called, which seeks achievement impossible to a single individual. The phenomenon is wonderful. The sudden spirit of sympathy and brotherhood in our public streets today is a revelation Utopians have long dreamed about. It is not War that has called it into being. It is the sure and certain faith that justice, mercy, liberty, sympathy and love, are in the world⁠—and these are attributes of the divine. The spectacle of an entire nation drilling, of countless thousands going out to fight, calmly, without personal hatred, is uplifting and superb; it is a spiritual affirmation. Yet the sight of such numbers marching with the lust and violence of anger and individual hate, though splendid in a barbaric sense, would be degrading only. These columns of whistling, singing youths in caps and sweaters, tweed jackets and grey flannel trousers, this endless stream of challenging recruits and awkward squads, these all bear witness to the existence of some deathless and accessible Power, of which justice, mercy, liberty, and so forth, are but attributes. They proclaim belief in a moral order of the Universe. They assert an ideal which, state it how one may⁠—psychologically, scientifically, even atheistically⁠—is God. They announce the Deity. It is moving, beautiful, and very grand. It is so simple. And so we drill and mean to go on drilling. A new beauty which has crept back into our darkened streets has stolen upon the daily lives of millions too. The common, artificial brilliance that hid the stars has disappeared. We see the heavens again. The man who fights⁠—there are many ways of fighting⁠—is the man who counts just now. True. But the strength of that man depends upon the corporate Whole in which he is an item, and that corporate Whole is determined by what its myriad component items think⁠—and will. They think justice and liberty just now, they will the right. God, in this beautiful aspect, is indeed a god of battles. It is all too deep and magical for shouting: our extraordinary, unemotional silence which deceives the foreigner, is spiritual. It is quite natural too. There could be no “mafficking” even over a great victory, for mafficking is of the nerves and body and mind. This silence is of the inmost parts that are called the soul. We dislike the word. But the fact remains. Material war has become a superb manifestation of the spiritual. And it is something we have to thank the savage, unmoral Prussian for⁠—this marvellous affirmation. It is proof that out of evil good must come. What but a cynical, ugly national expression of the exact opposite, prating of culture, while holding women of small account and killing little children, could have taught us this new, tender beauty? As we grope our way through the dimmed parks and streets now after dusk, there are dark wings above those clouds, the wings of death as some may call them, others, the wings of life. And when the war is over, when this immense spiritual incentive that now binds us into a universal brotherhood has passed shall then the deathless majesty of this great Power that reveals itself in our awkward squads, our dim-lit streets, our shafted, flashing night-skies⁠—must it be all forgotten and denied? Must this national realisation of Beauty prove itself but a glimpse, and fade? Shall we start fighting again for meaner, personal objects and still more meagre ambitions⁠—worthy enough, doubtless, and necessary in themselves, yet only of value when subservient to a great ideal? The answers, though various, seem to echo a greater hope to many of us. There are some, at least, who will remember how Beauty stole back into our darkened streets, and, remembering, will have gained a hint of what is wisdom.