Part 20

Here we are at once met by existing beliefs, loud-voiced. “Men are not ‘organs,’ they are conscious individuals. Men are not—oh! palpably not—provided for by any such beneficial process of social distribution of nourishment; each man must take care of himself or starve!”

The individual consciousness of men is not denied, it is that, misconstrued, which has made these common social functions work so ill, and hurt so in the working. To that same individual consciousness this book is directed, urging reconsideration of the facts, readjustment of the industrial activities. But however conscious, men are none the less “organs,” their labours serve our common ends; not their own. It is not that each man has some exact analogue in physiological type, like the heart, but that each industry holds organic relations with all other industries, and that the use and purpose of each depend on the others. The need to be supplied is a social need, the growth to be attained is a social growth, of no more value to an individual, detached, than beating would be to a heart, detached. Work is an organic function, incontrovertibly.

As to the lack of social provision of nourishment, this again is but an error. The provision is there, the whole of society contributing to it; the circulation is there, our food and other goods flowing merrily across land and sea; but there is some trouble with the final distribution of this nourishment to the workers, which will be considered later. Admitting the imperfections, it remains true that the social circulation is now in action—the shoemaker of Massachusetts eating the beef of Nebraska, and the beef-raiser of Nebraska wearing the shoes of Massachusetts.

No man could work, which is a social function, if he had at the same time to “take care of himself,” which is an individual function. As a worker in society, he is taken care of, but he does not do it himself. To repeat our definition—normal human work is a discharge of social energy along lines of special development. The social organism lives in the fulfilment of its organic functions, that fulfilment is work; to work is to take part in the vital processes of Society, to be socially alive; not to work, not to take part in these vital processes, is to be one of three things: First, mere dead matter, Waste; second, a Parasite, active as a thief, passive as a pauper; or third, a Disease, of which in time Society must die.

With the waste products of society we are painfully familiar, the great army of defectives, people who cannot work, yet whom, as part of ourself, we must support, a drag upon the Social resources. The active parasite we know in his crude form, as the little thief, and are beginning to detect in his highly developed form as the big thief. The passive parasite we know also in his crude form as the idle poor, and are beginning to suspect in the idle rich. But the disease is still beyond our diagnosis, though many Societies have died of it, those morbid processes engendered by the presence in the social body of any matter not alive and healthily active.

These features of the abnormal working of Society come later. Let us now study the evolution of Work.

The Universe as we know it is occupied in transmitting energy. The amount seems inexhaustible and indestructible. It rolls on interminably, discharging warmth and light into blank spaces; and, whenever worlds have formed, getting tangled up in a thousand shapes and sputtering mightily as it finds its complicated way out through them.

A living creature has an elaborate system of receiving and discharging energy, more elaborate as the life-form grows higher.

Force in inorganic matter has a simple channel, varying the monotony by occasional explosions. Force in the vegetable world is freer and learns new tricks—building tall trees and flaming out in blossoms. Force in the animal kingdom has wider range; these life-forms can do more things. They have more ways to express energy, and more ways to receive it. With special senses tuned to catch various vibrations, they respond to light, heat, and sound, to touch, taste, and smell; their impressions are varied and their expressions equally so.

Here enters Consciousness, with its extremes of Pleasure and Pain; the director of action, but not its cause. This complex engine, receiving so many impressions, transmitting so many expressions, must feel, because it acts; must act, because it feels. An Action is a consciously directed expression of energy. A Sensation is a consciously recorded impression of energy. Both sensation and action, if normal, are pleasurable—the conscious transmission of energy is joy.

The pleasure in sensation increases in proportion to the extent and delicacy of the sensorium. The pleasure in action increases in proportion to the extent and delicacy of the executive mechanism. Pain, of course, is proportionate to pleasure at any stage; meaning only abnormal use of the same nerves, but the higher the development of the organism the greater its ability to avoid pain.

The course of evolution has been to develop more and more complicated instruments for the transmission of energy. Society, as the highest life-form, is the most exquisitely complex of all; it has a sensorium far larger, and more subtly sensitive, and an executive apparatus commensurate; it has a degree of consciousness highest of all, and a proportional capacity for joy and ability to avoid pain.

This social transmission of energy is Work. The forces of the universe flowing through humanity come in by all our highly cultivated powers of perception, and come out in our beautiful profusion of creative activities—in work. The conscious transmission of energy reaches in us a transcendent height of pleasure by virtue of our co-ordinate action. There is larger joy in “team-work” than in the individual play. The pleasure of dancing in companies, or the rhythmic motions of a drill, is not confined to those particular activities; but, in normal conditions, inheres in all smoothly co-operate exercise. The reasons why we do not feel it in those exercises we call work are not inherent, but purely associative; or else due to accompanying conditions of a painful nature.

Normal conditions of human work require, first, that the worker shall be well nourished physically and socially, well educated to his fullest height of ability, and well-placed in the work he likes best and does best—(these two being identical). A worker, so placed, is in no way overtaxing his own energy, but is merely giving expression to the social energy, and finds in that process an exhaustless joy. We are so used to consider work as a drain upon the strength of the individual—and indeed in our artificial conditions it so often is—that we may not at first appreciate the nature of this fund of social energy.

Let us observe its development, comparing the power at the disposal of a member of society with that of an individual animal. An individual animal is a mechanism adapted to the performance of certain activities, urged thereto by certain stimuli, and governed therein by certain instincts, and, perhaps, concepts. The activities of the animal are limited, of course, by his executive machinery; he has only the tools that grow on him.

These are ingenious and reasonably effective, but their development is slow, requiring many generations of heartless “elimination of the unfit” to gradually evolve the fit. If his claws are not good enough, he dies, those having somewhat better claws survive; slowly the claws improve. He cannot in one lifetime invent and manufacture better claws, but has to be tediously and expensively “selected,” the whole beast sacrificed to the defective claw.

Further, his excellence is checked by the interaction of parts,—all his tools being part of him, and modifying each other. The more things he can do, the less perfectly he does them; the more perfectly he does a thing, the fewer things he can do. The beaver, for instance, is a highly developed builder, but he cannot run well, or climb trees. Where you find the most perfect specialisation of an animal’s machinery to a particular function, you find the creature practically helpless otherwise—as the ant-eater. So we find the executive capacity of an individual animal limited, first, by his body and its slow methods of adaptation.

His stimuli are also limited. This small machine is kept going by its own supply of nervous energy, replenished by food, sleep, air, and water. It will run so long, and then must rest and be “fired up.” Special excitants of fear, pain, or unusual hunger may temporarily accelerate his activity, but he has then to rest the longer. His executive capacity is thus limited, second, by his small nervous energy and narrow range of stimulus.

It is further confined, thirdly, by the narrow circle of his instincts, desires, or ideas, if he has them. The governing impulse is simple race-preservation, mingled with the self-preserving instincts; egoism and familism cover his range of interests. Hope, fear, desire,—all are for self or family.

So we find in the individual animal, his efficiency is limited by (a) his personal mechanism, (b) his personal nerve force, and (c) his personal interests. For such an agent work—continuous expression of energy—would indeed be difficult. But now examine the position of the human being.

Man’s tools do not grow on him. He has been able to evolve improved tools without sacrificing a thousand slow generations to breed them. He adds to his executive ability, (a) the power of numbers, and of the “relay race” (wild dogs have this), (b) the power of division of labour, (ants and bees have this), (c) the tool, detachable and exchangeable.

In this comes at once an enormous saving of energy. Where the mole has to spend not only his immediate strength in digging, but his whole racial tendency in being modified to digging, the man with a spade can do far more work in proportion to his strength, and still be able to do other things. The executive efficiency of the man is multiplied, first, by association, again by division of labour, and again by the tool. The tool being not a personal adjunct like the claw, but a separate thing, usable by many, the efficiency is again increased by the exchange of tools. It is multiplied, fourth, by the development of the tool into the machine, and fifth, by the application to the machine of extra-personal power, of the forces of nature direct. Thus where one man alone as a separate naked animal could accomplish something equal to, say 5: as a member of society his efficiency is squared by association = 25; cubed by the division of labour = 125; raised to the fourth power by the tool = 625; to the fifth, by the machine = 3125; and to the sixth, by the use of natural forces = 15,625.

In view of even this much of our human efficiency, the exertion requisite for a human creature to do his share of our human work is so slight in proportion to our wealth of power that it is exquisitely absurd for us to speak of it as an expense of energy. Where an individual animal has to pour out his full stock of strength in hunting his prey, or, if graminivorous, in wandering over great areas after grass; man, collective, can produce and distribute food for a thousand by the specialised services of ten men with machinery. The executive efficiency of humanity is raised to such an enormous height that the spectacle of human beings still spending their personal energy at long hours of exhausting labour is an incredible paradox.

As far as power goes, one human being should be easily able to “pay for his keep” for life in a year’s work or less. But we are by no means done with the increase of efficiency. This five-times multiplied enginery of ours would still be comparatively futile, if the governing agent, man, had only the stimuli of the beast. The separate animal has his own supply of cerebral energy. It is something. It enables him to co-ordinate his forces, such as they are, and to undertake extreme exertion when he has to, such as it is. He maintains this energy by breathing, eating, and sleeping. Men can do these things too. Men, as separate animals, have each his own supply of cerebral energy. But Man has more.

Social energy is quite a different thing from individual energy. By as much as the dynamic force of an elephant is greater than that of the elephant’s bulk in monads, so is the dynamic force of a society greater than that of the mere sum of its individual constituents,—and more. Social energy has been accumulating in humanity from its birth. It is not only that co-ordinate action allows the transmission of wider waves of force than individual action, but that society in its organic function continually stores force in material products, and so establishes an ever enlarging magazine of power. This is where the social body so aids and furthers the action of the social soul. Each material object, so that it be a normal product, embodies and continually transmits the force that made it.

We are supplied, by virtue of our social relation, with a large complex brain area; the organ of social life. That great life we partake of in using the social body, in the immediately effective tools, utensils, and machines, and necessary material conveniences of life; but even more as we have access to the great social battery, the work of art. A human brain has not only the existent sum of social energy to draw on, but the stored energy of all the past.

The Artist, highly specialised receiver and transmitter, gathers immense waves of force, concentrates and embodies them, and those around and coming after have permanent access to the power that moved him. This is perhaps clearest in the art of literature; where the thought and feeling of all time stand bottled on our shelves, always feeding, never exhausted. In music and painting and sculpture—in all arts—we have forms of the same beautiful social process.

Thus the human brain receives as stimulus such floods of force, such soundless seas of force, that it is practically unlimited. The measure of social stimulus has yet to be found. It passed the using point long ago, and has never stopped growing. The human brain, rightly supplied with social stimulus, is so fed, so fired, so thrilled and filled with energy, that it suffers agony if denied free discharge. That free discharge is social service, the splendid variety and complexity of achievement in which all may find full exercise of this tremendous power, and in that exercise find pride, peace, and joy, express love, satisfy ambition, realise human life.