Читать книгу A Sheaf - John Galsworthy - Страница 11
Оглавление(1)
(A Letter to the Daily Express, 1913.)
Writing from the standpoint of one whose love of animals at one time caused him to enjoy the spectacle of them performing tricks and capers, into the educational history of which he never thought of going, I believe I well understand the attraction of “the animal show” in music-halls or circuses. Nor do I doubt that there are animal trainers with such a natural gift and love of beasts that the process of training becomes almost pleasurable to creatures who are not by nature intended to ape mankind.
I even believe that there may be animals, especially among dogs, who grow to appreciate the glamour of the footlights, and the sense of their own importance. But when all this is said, I have come to abominate the thought of the whole thing, and I fancy that any one who takes the trouble to think the matter out, any one who does not allow his natural delight in animals to run away with his sense of proportion and the fitness of things, must come to the same conclusion.
To simply bring a horse, a dog, a cat, or even an elephant or camel on the stage as part of the atmosphere or machinery of a play, treating it with the kindness that is invariable I believe in such cases, is one thing, and I by no means object to it. But the deliberate training and use, for the purpose of making a living out of them, of numbers of animals, taking them from place to place, hall to hall, suitable or unsuitable, is a very different “proposition,” as Americans would say.
The very nature of it invites suffering. And I do not well see how any amount of inspection and the granting of licences is going to do away with the greater part of a wretchedness that comes from forcing creatures away from more or less natural to highly unnatural conditions of life; nor can I see how, for the purpose of granting licences, satisfactory evidence is ever going to be obtained that training (which is and must be quite a private affair between trainer and animal) is not accompanied by cruelty.
In a word, I would like to see the “animal show” abolished in this country. It is too ironical altogether that our love of beasts should make us tolerate and even enjoy what our common sense, when we let it loose, tells us must, in the main, spell misery for the creatures we profess to be so fond of.
(2)
(A Speech made at Kensington Town Hall, 1913.)
I am here to say a very few words on the whole question of the treatment of animals by our civilized selves. For I have no special knowledge, like some who will speak to you, of the training of performing animals; I have only a certain knowledge of human and animal natures, and a common sense which tells me that wild animals are more happy in freedom than in captivity—domestic animals more happy as companions than as clowns. And, quite apart from the definite question of inhumanity, it is perfectly clear to me that these animal shows are among the many surviving evidences, the lingering symptoms, of a creed that—thank Heaven!—is beginning to pass, and must pass, from us. That creed said: We human beings have the right, for our pleasure, convenience, and distraction, to disregard, in the matter of dumb creatures, those principles which our religion, morality, and education fix as the guiding stars of our conduct towards human beings. (Please note that I do not touch on the question of our rights over dumb creatures in so far as our actual self-preservation is concerned; I limit my words to pleasure, convenience, profit, and distraction.)
Now, “Do unto others as you would they should do unto you!” is not only the first principle of Christianity, but the first principle of all social conduct—the essence of that true gentility which is the only saving grace of men and women in all ranks of life. And I am certain that the word “others” cannot any longer be limited to the human creature. Whether or no animals have what are called “rights” is an academic question of no value whatever in the consideration of this matter. But, lest there be any one who wishes to take up this point of abstruse philosophy, I admit at once that animals have no more rights than have babies under the age when they may be said to have duties (on which rights, we are told, depend), that animals have no more rights than imbeciles, or those who are deaf, dumb, and blind. Rights or no rights, I care not; the fact remains that by so much as we inflict on sentient creatures unnecessary suffering, by so much have we outraged our own consciences, by so much fallen short of that secret standard of gentleness and generosity, that, believe me, is the one firm guard of our social existence, the one bulwark we have against relapse into savagery. Once admit that we have the right to inflict unnecessary suffering, and you have destroyed the very basis of human society, as we know it in this age. You have committed blasphemy, the only blasphemy that really matters—against your conscience. For the true conscience of this country is proved by the wording of the law, with its ruling that the infliction of unnecessary suffering is an offence; and in a country like this, the law does not precede, but follows, conscience. Let me quote the law, and the latest judicial dictum upon it.
Section 1 (1) of the Protection of Animals Act, 1911:
“If any person (a) shall cruelly ill-treat any animal ... or being the owner shall by ... unreasonably doing or omitting to do any act ... cause any unnecessary suffering,” he shall be guilty of an offence.
And Mr. Justice Darling, on November 19th, 1913, said:
“Where unnecessary suffering is caused by some act of an owner, it cannot be justified on the ground of old custom, and of benefit to commercial persons.”
Nothing so endangers the fineness of the human heart as the possession of power over others; nothing so corrodes it as the callous or cruel exercise of that power; and the more helpless the creature over whom power is cruelly or callously exercised, the more the human heart is corroded. It is recognition of this truth which has brought the conscience of our age and with it the law, to say that we cannot any longer with impunity regard ourselves as licensed torturers of the rest of creation; that we cannot, for our own sakes, afford it.
In all this matter, then, of the treatment of animals it comes to the definition of the words “unnecessary suffering.” And I say this: All suffering that is inflicted merely for our pleasure, distraction, and even for our convenience, and profit, as distinct from our preservation, is unnecessary and an abomination. And the fact that it is inflicted on creatures unable to raise hand to help themselves, or voice to tell us what they suffer, makes it ever the more abominable. Whether it be the destruction of mother-birds (with their whole families of nestlings) for the sake of the nuptial plumes to be worn in the hats and hair of human mothers, or the painful docking of the tails of horses, their sole weapon against the torment of stinging flies, for the sake of an ugly fashion; whether it be the treacherous sale of horses worn out in our service, the snaring of rabbits in needlessly cruel traps, the turning adrift of friendly but unwanted dogs and cats; whether it be the unnecessarily slow and painful slaughtering of animals for food, the wretched keeping in captivity of wild song-birds, the prisoning of eagles, hawks, and many another creature that cannot bear confinement, in zoos and other places; whether it be any of these, or this sometimes distressing and always unnatural training of performing animals, in all suffering is inflicted for our pleasure, distraction, convenience or profit, and all of it is unnecessary, all against the conscience of the age.
To those who, tempted by the devil of irreflection, say “But this is the creed of sentiment and softness,” I return the answer, “Sirs, no man ever became a stoic, and acquired the virtues of fortitude and courage, by inflicting pain on others.” There is nothing in this new creed that prevents any one from inflicting on himself as much hardship, risk, and privation as he considers needful to inspire him with fortitude.
Let me draw your attention to an anomaly, which accounts for most of our callousness towards the sufferings of animals. Nearly every one who witnesses with his own eyes the infliction of needless pain on an animal feels revolted, and even hastens to the creature’s aid; yet these same men and women, or the vast majority of them, merely hearing or reading of such things, pass by on the other side, with the feeling that to pay attention would be either credulous or sentimental. Now, in regard to credulousness, note that it is hardly ever to the interest of any one to draw attention to cruelty—certainly not to fabricate such a charge; very much the contrary. And in regard to sentiment, there seems to be a slight confusion as to the meaning of that word. A man only moved by cruelty seen with his own eyes is no whit less sentimental than the man who takes fire at the mere recital of it; he is only more deficient in understanding, more cautious in judgment, or more sluggish in blood. Just as sentimental, but less sensitive. The longer I live the more I become convinced that people only use that favourite reproach—sentimental—to stigmatize sympathy with sufferings that they themselves have been unwilling or unable to realize. The moment they do realize, they become just as “sentimental,” just as moved by pity and anger—for that is what sentimental means—as those at whom they sneer.
Ah! but—says the public—even if there be suffering for animals, the pleasure that their freaks or their fur or their feathers give us is greater than this suffering; we are entitled to weigh the one against the other. Yet few of that same public would dream of saying this if with their own eyes they saw the tortures; for then the pleasure they talk of would have vanished in the memory of those quivering visions. Out of sheer sluggishness of imagination, out of mere laziness of mind, then, is made that rather pitiable plea—our pleasure is greater than their suffering.
Yes! Nearly all the suffering we inflict, whether on human beings or on animals, comes from our not thinking. Many people gravely distrust that practice. For all that, I venture to suggest that a little more thought will do no harm to any of us.
We pass this way but once, but once tread this world, and live in communion with these furred and feathered things, many of them beautiful, in a thousand ways so like ourselves, often friendly if we would let them be, and yet who, one and all, are so simple and helpless in the face of our force and ingenuity. Shall we, as we vanish, say: “I have lived my life as a true lord of creation, taking toll from the captivities and sufferings of every creature that had not my strength and cunning!” Or shall we pass out with the thought: “I wish I had not given needless pain to any living thing!”
