The Man of Culture

It has been finely said that culture is the residue of knowledge which is left behind after most of the details have been forgotten. The residual knowledge is superior to the gross knowledge, in that it is tested by experience and criticism, and mellowed by reflection. In this view culture might seem to be almost a synonym of wisdom. Yet it is not so; for wisdom is rather the essential product of culture. Figuratively speaking, culture is the rich solution from which the tasteless, colourless, and odourless fluid of wisdom is distilled by some mysterious process of intellectual chemistry. The cultured man is therefore nearer our hearts than the wise man; we love the one but only revere the other.

The above is an attempt to describe culture, but not to define it. From the very nature of the thing, culture is too subtle and complex an idea to be properly defined. We can only suggest the rareness of its quality by parallels. It may sometimes strike us as the subtle fragrance of a great lady's gown folded and stowed away in the wardrobe for years, to be worn again at a grand reception. Or, to suggest a more academic parallel, perhaps culture is like the faint smell of faded rose-petals placed between the leaves of a favourite school-book, which is accidentally reopened after many years. Or, to take another illustration, culture is perhaps like the subdued colours and the softened feel of a costly Persian carpet or Kashmere shawl which has been used fairly long by a nobleman of taste. Nothing like it is to be found in the market even for thrice its price. Or perhaps culture is like the music of an old violin, once the property of an Italian or Polish artist, and now sold at a fancy price at an artistic auction sale. Violins of a better make and workmanship may perhaps be had in the market, louder, richer and clearer in timbre; but not another yielding equally mellowed tones. To take one last simile to complete the gamut of the senses, a cultured man may sometimes remind one of the flavour of the old wine of Burgundy or Portugal, preserved in the ‘deep delved earth’ for the life-time of a generation, at length to be served in honour of a distinguished guest. Like Shelley’s ‘Skylark’ we know not what culture is, we can but suggest what things are most like it.

Culture is a rare thing; a rich gift by a fairy godmother. Thrice blessed is he on whom it is bestowed. Such a man will radiate joy, not necessarily for everyone; but certainly for the ‘sympathetic’ few.

‘We are the heirs of all the ages in the foremost files of time’ says Tennyson. But the cultured man is not one who laboriously prepares an intellectual inventory of this great inheritance. That is the work of the dull historian or scholar of the race-the careful steward of the royal household; not of the prince royal, the heir to the throne. The truly cultured man is he who moves about with the easy grace and unconscious pride of owning the whole palace. There is something indefinable in his countenance and manners, even in his dress and movement, which clearly marks him off from all others. We somehow feel the presence of royalty in his person, although we cannot explain why.

We can see the luminosity of intellectual culture in every kind of master-craftsman; and it glows the warmer and brighter, the higher and more refined his medium of work, until we see it glow like a live-coal in a dark room in the spiritually cultured man, every part of whose being has, as it were, caught fire and become incandescent. Yet in every case it is inward radiance and not outward reflection. The opacity of the flesh is no bar to it, for it easily glows through a man’s face. If we have the eye to see it, we shall see this glow of intellectual culture more or less in the face of the master-builder, the master-artisan or the master-goldsmith, as well as in the master-musician, painter, and scholar; in fact, of every person who has passed a certain stage in the struggle of the mind with matter.

It is not necessary that this translucency of spirit should appear simultaneously in all the faculties of our mind and will. Sometimes it is confined to the one faculty which has been sufficiently exercised, e. g., a man’s sense of humour; love of truth; sense of the beautiful; sense of the pathos of life; sense of values. It is rarely that the whole mass of man’s mind is aglow with the light of culture.

The cultured man is so much like, yet so different from, others. It is this elusive quality of mind that makes him so interesting. He is not necessarily a towering personality like a mountain peak, at which we cannot look without our hats falling off. No, he is in many cases just an ordinary person like most of us. He is like one of those gods who had come to the Swayamvara of Damayanti, and looked for all the world like Nala. It required the observation of Damayanti to note the subtle difference between a man and a god, viz., that a god casts no shadow. Even so the cultured man seems to cast no shadow. His least little acts seem to be gems of a finer ‘water’ than the ordinary. His way of looking at things is just a little different from ours. Not that he takes a high line in every matter, which is a dangerous habit of mind breeding prigs and pedants. The man of true culture knows the boundary line between the material and the spiritual and has no temptation to confuse the two. He is prepared to ‘render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto God what is God’s.’ He sacrifices at all the shrines of life with offerings appropriate to each, because he has a correct valuation of the deities. He is in no danger of casting pearls before swine. The lines apply to him:

‘A little more, and how much it is,
And a little less, what worlds away!’

We can see the distinctiveness of his tastes in little things: the colour and cut of his clothes; the look of his bound volumes; the shade of the stucco or paper on the walls of his drawing-room and library. There seems to be a tone of distinction about everything belonging to the truly cultured man. Not that he is more expensive than others. But there is a touch, as of a fairy-hand, that makes things possess new charm. There is no gaudiness; no gushing; no parade; no self-advertisement, crude or subtle. On the other hand, there is sobriety, moderation, reticence, modesty and a dignified reserve in his word, action and taste.

There is similar distinction in his choice of furniture and house-decoration; both in shape, colour, and quality. There is an aroma of natural superiority about him and every thing associated with him; yet he is in no sense a ‘superior’ person. The lay-out of his garden, the selection of flowers and fruits, also furnish illustration of this distinction of taste. His garden may not be richer or larger than his neighbour’s; but it is in a subtle way superior. The reason is that his taste has some originality; while his rich neighbour only got his bigger garden laid out on the lines recommended by gardening experts. Similar distinction of taste is displayed in the selection of paintings, prints, and drawings for the walls and mantel-pieces of his house. The untrained eye may not find any special beauty in them, but they have a charm for the art-critic and connoisseur.

The same difference and distinction will be observed in his library. You can know his tastes at a glance over the book-shelves. He has not collected books haphazardly; not by the sets and series strung together by the publishers, but each book according to his own judgment and predilection. You may miss in his collection many of the ‘Hundred best books of the world’ as selected by Lord Avebury or somebody else, but he will not be the least ashamed of the omission. He may not go into explanation, but if necessary he can give convincing and consistent reasons for the presence or absence of any great book in his collection.

The cultured scholar’s library is not a mere mass of books lumped together to satisfy a future desire to study; nor like the Lady’s Library described by Addison, intended to get a name for culture, refinement or taste. If you ask your cultured friend on what principles he has collected his books he will perhaps say, ‘Oh, it is a matter of hobby!’ But if you are attentive you will observe a method in the apparent madness, a consistent personal taste stringing the books together like the flowers of a multi-coloured garland. Whether the books were obtained consciously or unconsciously, they all agree with what he loves. It is almost impossible therefore that any of his books will be found with uncut pages. He will only receive as friend an author he knows thoroughly, and put a book on his shelf when he has read it and found its worth. Charles Lamb had such a collection, and Leigh Hunt possessed such a library, poor men both but cultured.

It is not necessary for a man of culture to be a jack of all trades, whether he is or is not master of one. The man whose tastes have been developed in one direction has by that very fact become qualified to appreciate, at least enjoy, whatever is good and beautiful in another direction. The cultured man need not actually be a musician but will show genuine appreciation of good music, and will hold his own opinion about various styles of music which is worthy of the consideration even of a trained musician. Like the intelligent onlooker of a game, he may see farther and clearer than the artist himself. Every art and profession has its horizon, beyond which the ordinary artist cannot see. The cultured man is he who can bring together the flowers of various seasons and horizons in one place, and assess their comparative values.

There is nothing showy about the truly cultured man. You will never catch him making an exaggerated claim to anything. On the other hand, he is rather shy and prefers to understate his case. But if you can draw him out sympathetically, he will genially yield to the topic or humour of the moment and then you can see the range, quality, richness, and variety of his mental stock. He does not carry his best points on his shirt sleeve. Rather the finest fancy work of his mind becomes visible when he has sufficiently unrolled his mental robe, like a specially made Benares Sari that does not bear its best on the borders, but in the very centre of the fabric. And how wonderful that best is, only the sympathetic critic can judge.

The best scholarship is a product of great culture. It is wide and deep; accurate but not technical; massive and yet lightly carried. It is broad at the base like a mountain peak, and diminishes upwards in order to rise above the clouds. The pyramid is its type, not the mill chimney. The true scholar need not be encyclopredic or carry a whole library in his mind; but he is not at the same time a catalogue or an index volume, so to say, to his library and no more.

Cultured scholarship does not care for intellectual gymnastics, unnecessary hair-splitting, or what may be called ‘flea-hunting’ in the old wardrobe of the authors. That is the work of perverted ingenuity and book-worm assiduity; but the true scholar will forego his bed and dinner and burn many midnight candles on the keen scent of some quarry of a recondite allusion or elusive quotation. He will have no rest until he has run the game to earth. I knew of a scholar who had read the whole of American topical literature of the 19th century to teach Holmes’ Autocrat of the Breakfast Table to his senior students. The man who refuses to do this is a poor hunter in the forest of scholarship, however eminent he may otherwise be.

There is an expansiveness and restfulness about the cultured man. This is not to be confused with the good humour that follows a good breakfast. His mind has ample elbowroom to sit and be at ease. He is not bound in the strait-jacket of narrow etiquette and formality. The true gentlemanliness of his mind raises him much above the ‘gentleman’ of the copy-book. He is no slave of rules laid down by others, but sets up new standards in the high walks of life. He is a law unto himself, for he is growing in the true line of evolution. His life is an organic whole, and not a many-coloured patch-work. He is not a ‘tailor-made’ man in any sense.

Culture implies refinement of sensibility. However great the cultured man’s self-restraint and tolerance may be, he is strangely affected by the coarse and the vulgar. Hogarth’s painting of the musician outraged by a passing street-band is a pictorial representation of the cultured artistic temperament. Bankim Chandra Chatterjee’s leaving a ‘Kavi Sammelan’ or Poets’ symposium, with his pocket handkerchief tightly clasped to his nose, during the recital of some rankly piquant verses, is still remembered by Bengal as evidence of a finely cultured sensibility. The truly cultured man is a brave man who will not stop to smell a gutter, either from a false sense of decorum or under the pretence of catholicity of taste. He knows that poison and filth can never be good for anybody, catholic or otherwise.

There are many marks by which we shall know the man of true culture. One of these is contained in the beautiful Sanskrit proverb:

‘Satyam bruyat priyam bruyat,
Na bruyat Satyamapriyam.’

‘Say what is true; say what is pleasant; but do not tell an unpleasant truth.’ Yet blunt and even painful things have to be told sometimes in the interest of truth and honesty. But we must be careful that we do not tell the unpleasant truth at the cost of others, whom we either dislike or wish to hurt in a pique of anger and revenge. Even the moralist may not indulge in this kind of truthfulness at the cost of others. R. L. Stevenson, that unique moralist who never hurt to teach, says that there is such a thing as ‘inverted pleasure’ in condemning with fervour things that we, perhaps unconsciously, desire or covet or grudge another’s enjoying. Here is a great temptation for the moralist. Emerson said that no performance is worth the loss of geniality. Even truth is no excuse for giving avoidable pain to others. This is the finer side of Ahimsa. It is said of Sultan Nasiruddin of Delhi, a famous Persian poet, that he used to correct his verses at the suggestion of his friends to whom he read them. It was done just to please them, for the royal poet restored his original words afterwards, as he knew that they were the right words. This is perhaps an extreme instance of cultured suavity; but the tendency is unmistakable.

The mind of the truly cultured scholar is a storehouse of beautiful thoughts, images and sentiments. If he happens to possess a good memory he will be able to quote the poets by the hour. Even if his memory is weak, you will hear him quote beautiful scraps and fragments round which his thought and experience have gathered, and his fancy loves to play like the March wind round the flowers. These have all been curiously unified in his mind, forming wonderful patterns to which his independent thought supplies the embroidered framework. The jewel of a thought culled from the classics will sometimes be found beautifully set against the golden ground of his own thought, in the very best manner of the artistic jeweller. The subtle aroma of a sandal-wood jewel casket is all about his thoughts. Whatever the subject of conversation may be, he will be able to illustrate his observation by quotations from the great poets and thinkers of the world. If he has an original mind, he will derive illustrations from his own observation, experience, and reflection. If he is so minded he will tell you a rattling fine story, which you have not heard before or heard told so well. There are no air-tight compartments in his mind; his thought easily passes from one subject to another; from literature to philosophy, and from philosophy to practical experience. He will not say, ‘Let us now change the topic’, for if he wants he can imperceptibly lead the conversation from cabbages to kings and vice versa.

Such a person naturally gathers a circle of sympathetic and appreciative admirers and critics around him. He unconsciously becomes the focus of a cultural group.

But culture is from its nature a late-flowering plant of the garden of life. It is a middle-age virtue, and sorts with iron-tawny hair better than with a jet-black head. The passions of youth have now become largely tamed; the fire of life burns low, and throws quaint patterns of light and shadow on the surrounding walls. This is the time of taking stock of the past and forecasting the future, in other words, of preparing a balance-sheet of life’s losses and gains. Meditation steals into the mind, and fancy plays with us and shows us curious faces in the glowing embers. It is the hour of musing.

You cannot hope to see the fresh beauty of spring in the cultured man; that you may perhaps find in the young poet. But your cultured friend has all the beauty of the autumn season. There is in him the restfulness and repose of the farmer after the labours of tilling and sowing; and the peaceful contemplation of the ripening craps. He thinks more of the coming harvest than of the preceding toil, and even when his mind reverts to it, it is in thankfulness rather than regret. He sings with Browning’s Rabbi Ben Ezra, ‘Grow old along with me: The best is yet to be.’

The season of his life has changed from the roasting and seething days of summer to the cool evenings of autumn with their beautiful sunsets. The paths of life are now free from the dirt and mire of clammy desire. There is a deeper green in the leaves and a brighter gold in the fields. The poet has rightly called it the season of ‘mellow fruitfulness’. The cultured trees of his mind are bent with the weight of the mellowing fruits. There is a golden quality in the sunlight that imparts a new charm to whatever it touches, and is mare tender than in summer. The temperature has become enjoyable and one sometimes feels in the morning and evening just the exhilarating sensation of a nip in the air, a gentle admonition of the coming winter as it were. The twittering swallows of thought have begun to gather in the mind.

The idealism of youth has been sobered and moderated by experience of the world. The intellect, so much tied to the service of the heart, has been emancipated and has begun to function independently. The man has begun to think, probably for the first time in his life.

Perchance he has forgotten the best part of what he had read with so much labour and thought for thirty years. But he finds that the river of thought and experience has left in him a deposit of fine silt, the fittest mould for the growth of the flowers of culture. There is a subtle change even in his face, the muscles of which have at last set in a permanent expression of serenity, nay beauty. In brief, physically and mentally the man is at last attuned to the music of life.

Love, that all-engrossing passion of youth and its concomitant, and lust of conquest, have moderated, perhaps become transmuted to a higher value. The love that was originally centered in one person has now spread over a whole family; unselfishness has become an unconscious habit by daily practice; charity has begun to soften the rig our of the sense of justice. The uncompromising fighter for principles has at last becbme an indulgent friend of the frail human being. This is the natural course of the evolution of culture, but like a law of nature it takes orders from nobody. It will come, if ever it comes, in its own good time; we can only wait for it prayerfully.

Tagore has expressed this beautifully:

‘None of you shall ever make the flowers open. However much you exert yourselves and apply artificial stimulus to the stems, you never can make the buds blossom.’