# Harper's Weekly/The Plain Man

Extracted from Harper's Weekly, 1914-15, pp. 22–24. Accompanying illustrations by Guy Pene Du Bois may be omitted.
The Plain Man
By JOHN GALSWORTHY
Illustrated by by Guy Pene Du Bois
   WE all know the plain man. Some of our neighbors are plain men. Some of business acquaintances are plain men. The plain man is a specialized person. He is a thing all by himself, unique in life and art. He is as given to overdoing it as any other kind of person, but he thinks that he is just like all the rest of the world, and any one who differs with him is a freak. Mr. Galsworthy sees him with the same half kindly, half satirical amusement as he sees his admittedly specialized friends
HE was plain. It was his great quality. Others might have graces, subtleties, originality, fire, and charm; they had not his plainness. It was that which made him so important, not only in the country's estimation, but in his own. For he felt that nothing was more valuable to the world than for a man to have no doubts and no fancies, but to be quite plain about everything. And the knowledge that he was looked up to by the Press, the Pulpit, and the Politician sustained him in the daily perfecting of that unique personality which he shared with all other plain men. In an age which bred so much that was freakish and peculiar, to know that there was always himself with his sane and plain outlook to fall back on, was an extraordinary comfort to him. He knew that he could rely on his own judgment, and never scrupled to give it to a Public which never tired of asking for it.
In literary matters especially was it sought for as invaluable. Whether he had read an author or not, he knew what to think of him. For he had in his time unwittingly lighted on books before he knew what he was doing; they served him as fixed stars forever after; so that if he heard any writer spoken of as "advanced," "erotic," "socialistic," "morbid," "pessimistic," "tragic," or what not unpleasant—he knew exactly what he was like, and thereafter only read him by accident. He liked a healthy tale, preferably of love or of adventure (of detective stories he was perhaps fondest), and insisted upon a happy ending, for as he very justly said, there was plenty of unhappiness in life without gratuitously adding to it, and as to "ideas," he could get all he wanted and to spare from the papers. He deplored altogether the bad habit that literature seemed to have of seeking out situations which explored the recesses of the human spirit or of the human institution. Ax a plain man he felt this to be unnecessary. He himself was not conscious of having these recesses, or perhaps too conscious, knowing that if he once began to look there would be no end to it; nor would he admit the use of staring through the plain surface of Society's arrangements. To do so, he thought, greatly endangered if it did not altogether destroy those simple faculties which man required for the fulfilment of the plain duties of everyday life, such as: item, the acquisition and investment of money; item, the attendance at church, and maintenance of religious faith; item, the control of wife and children; item, the serenity of nerves and digestion; item, contentment with things as they were.
For there was just that difference between him and all those of whom he strongly disapproved, that whereas they wanted to see things as they were—he wanted to keep things as they were. But he would not for a moment have admitted this little difference to be sound, since his instinct told him that he himself saw things as they were better than ever did such cranky people. If a human being had got to get into spiritual fixes, as those fellows seemed to want one to believe, then certainly the whole unpleasant matter should be put into poetry, and properly removed from comprehension. "And, anyway," he would say, "in real life, I shall know it fast enough when I get there, and I'm not going to waste my time nosin' it over beforehand." His view of literary and indeed all Art was that it should help him to be cheerful. And he would make a really extraordinary outcry if amongst a hundred cheerful plays and novels he inadvertently came across one that was tragic; at once he would write to the papers to complain of the gloomy tone of modern literature; and the papers, with few exceptions, would echo his cry, because he was the plain man, and took them in. "What on earth," he would remark, "is the good of showin' me a lot of sordid sufferin'? It doesn't make me any happier. Besides"—he would add—"it isn't Art. The function of Art is Beauty." Some one had told him this and he was very emphatic on the point, going religiously to any show where there was a great deal of light and color. The shapes of women pleased him, too, up to a point. But he knew when to stop; for he felt himself, as it were, the real censor of morals in this country. When the plain man was shocked it was time to suppress the entertainment, whether play, dance, or novel. Something told him that he, beyond all other men, knew what was good for his wife and children. He often meditated on that question coming in to the city from his house in Surrey; for in the train he used to see men reading novels, and this stimulated his imagination. Essentially a believer in liberty, like every Englishman, he was only for putting down a thing when it offended his own taste. In speaking with his friends on this subject, he would express himself thus: "These fellows talk awful skittles. Any plain man knows what's too hut and what isn't. All this tosh about Art, and all that, is beside the point. The question simply is: Would you take your wife and daughters? If not, there's an end of it, and it ought to he suppressed." And he would think of his own daughters, very nice, and would feel sure. Not that he did not himself like a "full-blooded" book, as he called it, provided it had the right moral and religious tone. Indeed, a certain kind of fiction which abounded in "the heaving of her lovely bosom" often struck him pink, as he hesitated to express it; but there was never in such masterpieces of emotion any nasty subversiveness, or wrong-headed idealisms, but frequently the opposite.
THOUGH it was in relation to literature and drama, perhaps, that his quality of plainness was most valuable, he felt the importance of it, too, in regard to politics. When they had all done "messing about," he knew that they would come to him, because, after all, there he was, a plain man wanting nothing but his plain rights, not in the least concerned with the future and Utopia and all that, but putting things to a plain touchstone; "How will it affect me?" and forming his plain conclusions one way or the other. He fell above all things each new penny of the income tax, before they put it on, and saw to it if possible that they did not. He was extraordinarily plain about that, and about national defence, which instinct told him should he kept up to the mark at all costs. There must he ways, he felt, of doing the latter without having recourse to the income tax, and he was prepared to turn out any government that went on lines unjust to the plainest principles of property. In matters of national honor he was even plainer, for he never went into the merits of the question, knowing as a simple Englishman that England must be right; or that, if not right, it would never do to say she wasn't. So conversant were statesmen and the Press of this sound attitude of his mind, that without waiting to ascertain it, they acted on it with the utmost confidence.
In regard to social reform, while recognizing of course the need for it, he felt that, in practice, one should do just as much as was absolutely necessary and no more; a plain man did not go out of his way to make quixotic efforts, nor did he sit upon a boiler till he was blown up.
IN the matter of religion he regarded his position as the only sound one, for however little in these days one could believe and all that, yet, as a plain man, he did not for a moment refuse to go to church and say he was a Christian; on the contrary, he was rather more particular about it than formerly, since when a spirit has departed, one must he very careful of the body, lest it fall to pieces. He continued therefore to be a Churchman—living, as has been said before, in Surrey.
He often spoke of Science, medical or not. and it was his plain opinion that these fellows all had an axe to grind; for his part he only believed in them just in so far as they benefited a plain man. The latest sanitary system, the best forms of locomotion and communication, the newest antiseptics, and time-saving machines—of all these, of course, he made full use: but as to the researches, speculations and theories of scientists—to speak plainly, they were, he thought, "pretty good rot."
[Illustration: In an age which bred so much that was freakish and peculiar, to know that there was always himself with his sane and plain outlook to fall back on, was an extraordinary comfort to him.]
He abominated the word "humanitarian." No plain man wanted to inflict suffering, especially on himself. He would be the last person to inflict suffering, but the plain facts of life must be considered, and convenience and property duly safeguarded. He wrote to the papers perhaps more often on this subject than any other, and was gratified to read in their heading articles continual allusion to himself. "The plain man is not prepared to run the risks which a sentimental treatment of this subject would undoubtedly involve." "After all, it is to the plain man that we must go for the sanity and common sense of this matter." For he had no dread in life like that of being called a sentimentalist. If an instance of cruelty came under his own eyes he was as much moved as any man, and took instant steps to manifest his disapproval. To act thus on his feelings was not at all his idea of being sentimental. But what he could not stand was making a fuss about cruelties, as people called them, which had not actually come under his own plain vision; to feel indignant in regard to such he felt was sentimental, involving as it did an exercise of his imagination, than which there was nothing he distrusted more. Some deep instinct no doubt informed him perpetually that if he felt anything that did not disturb him personally, at first hand, he would suffer unnecessarily, and perhaps be encouraging such public action, as might diminish his comfort. But he was no alarmist, and on the whole felt pretty sure that while he was there, with his plain views, there was no chance of anything being done that would cause him any serious inconvenience.
ON the woman's question generally he had long made his position plain. He would move when the majority moved, and not before. And he expected all plain men (and women—if there were any, which he sometimes doubted) to act in the same way. In this policy he felt instinctively rather than consciously that there was no risk. No one—at least, no one that mattered, no plain, solid person—would move until he did, and he would not of course move until they did; in this way there was a perfectly plain position. And it was an extraordinary gratification to him to feel, from the tone of Politicians, the Pulpit, and the Press, that he had the country with him. He often said to his wife: "One thing's plain to me; we shall never have the Suffrage till the country wants it." But he rarely discussed the question with other women, having observed that many of them could not keep their tempers when he gave them his plain view of the matter.
He was sometimes at a loss to think what on earth they would do without him on Juries, of which he was usually elected foreman. And he never failed to listen with pleasure to the words that never failed to be spoken to him: "As plain men. gentlemen, you will at once see how improbable in every particular is the argument of my friend." That he was valued in precisely the same way by both sides and ultimately by the Judge filled him sometimes with a modest feeling that only a plain man was of any value whatever, certainly that he was the only kind of man who had any sort of judgment.
HE often wondered what the Country would do without him; into what abysmal trouble she would get in her Politics, her Art, her Law, and her Religion. It seemed to him that he alone stood between her and manifold destructions. How many times had he not seen her reeling in her cups and sophistries, and beckoning to him to save her! And had he ever failed her, with his simple philosophy of a plain man: "Follow me, and the rest will follow itself?" Never! As witness the veneration in which he saw that he was held every time he opened a paper, attended the performance of a play, heard a sermon, or listened to a speech. Some day he meant to sit for his portrait, believing that this was due from him to Posterity; and now and then he would look into the glass to fortify his resolution. What he saw there always gave him secret pleasure. Here was a face that he knew he could trust, and even in a way admire. Nothing brilliant, showy, eccentric, soulful; nothing rugged, devotional, profound, or fiery: not even anything proud, or stubborn; no betrayal of kindliness, sympathy, or aspiration: but just simple, solid lines, a fresh color, and sensible, rather prominent eyes—just the face that he would have expected and desired, the face of a plain man.
[Illustration: When the plain man was shocked it was time to suppress the entertainment, whether play, dance, or novel]
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1933, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 90 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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