31 March 2016
Silent Virtue
It is not the doing but the not telling that is the true virtue.
by Chin Chin
From time to time I try to do Lorentz transformations in the bath. No, that isn’t some exciting new deviant procedure involving a bar of soap and a plastic duck; it isn’t even a modern form of yoga. A Lorentz transformation is the way you work out how a particle, travelling at near the speed of light, will appear to observers who are rushing past each other. It is a pillar of Einstein’s theory of relativity – yes, you know, the one which says that things get heavier as they move faster so that all jogging is futile. The one which tells us that time goes quicker if you are moving fast, the reason why people who run for the bus so seldom catch it.
Anyway for me the transformations are a high watermark. The chapter devoted to them is as far as I can get through Einstein’s book “Relativity” before I get completely lost. That is where I stand then in the cosmological firmament. A chapter 11 sort of person. Someone who can look down on those who can only get to chapter 10 but feels inadequate in the presence of those who understand chapter 12 – if any of them really do understand it, that is, which I must say that I rather doubt.
There are a number of books like that. Stephen Hawking’s “Brief History of Time” is one. Clausewitz on War, is another. They stand on the bookshelves like sentinels, part read, their bookmarks flagging the high tides of comprehension, waiting for the moment when a long flight beckons or when, sickened with the shallowness of the modern thriller, I resolve to tackle something tougher and to try to extend the boundaries of my knowledge. On those rare occasions when the bookmark gets moved a little further, the feeling of self-satisfaction knows no bounds. Now I can look down on those who got stuck on chapter 12.
The struggle to improve performance is not just one of reading books. Any golfer will tell you that he really plays against himself and that the fact that he beats his partner is simply the icing on the cake. Whether that is true or not, the aspiration for self-improvement must surely lie behind the struggle that many of us go through in the gym; a few more metres in the timed row; a few more pounds lifted on the bench press. It is all worth doing for itself, although if the charming young lady in lycra happens to be watching, well, perhaps that isn’t exactly a disappointment.
The truth is of course that self-improvement works better with an audience. It is true that “I think I now understand the Lorentz transformations” isn’t exactly a pickup line (unless you find someone who does believe that the transformations involve soap and rubber ducks) but it isn’t wholly unpleasant to be asked about a particularly successful session in the gym. That, after all, is why we flop on the sofa exhibiting extravagant symptoms of exhaustion. “No, no just a light session,” we say in response to the hoped-for enquiry, but the tone used is kept deliberately insincere, to allow the heroism to drip through the veneer of modesty like water through a badly maintained roof.
That is what is so difficult about Lent, that season of self deprivation which ended last week. The idea is, of course, that the asceticism displayed should be by way of sacrifice and the effect is surely ruined if you go vapouring on about it to people who you wish to impress. “No, I will only have water because it is Lent” gives a nice note of superiority over friends who are in the act of swallowing their gin and tonics. “I’m afraid I can’t come to the party because that is a contemplation evening,” goes one better because, in addition to showing off superiority of willpower, it makes you sound deep and possibly slightly spiritual as well. But, alas, it is horribly like vanity and that can hardly be the right preparation for Easter.
As always the answer is in the Sermon on the Mount. “ But when thou doest alms, let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth: that thine alms may be in secret:” That is the divine instruction, so it isn’t just a matter of abstinence in Lent, one mustn’t boast about it either. What then about that extra metre on the rowing machine or those extra pages of the books? Shouldn’t one boast about those either? That is not a religious question of course but rather one of good manners.
I once went to stay in a house in the country with some friends. We were all in our 20s and it was quite a large party. I thought I should get up reasonably early and so came down to breakfast at about 8 and was pleased to discover that only one other person was there before me. He looked a little redder in the face than he had the night before and I asked if he had slept badly. “Oh no,” he replied, “I am just hot because I went for a short run before breakfast”.
“Oh” I asked, “round the garden?” The gardens ran to several acres.
“No” he said, “just down to the village.” I was impressed. The village was 4 or 5 miles away. Soon the next person came in.
“Been for a run too?” I asked jocularly.
“Only a little one” he replied. Of course it wasn’t little at all, at least by my standards, and by the time the breakfasters had all assembled I realised that I was the only one who had not been out for a substantial early morning run.
That was impressive enough in itself but what really struck me was that if I hadn’t enquired, none of them would have mentioned it. They just got on with their running and didn’t boast about it, one of the hallmarks of what used to be called “a gentleman”.
How then should one apply their approach nowadays? The achievement without the boasting; the pain without the glory; it hardly fits with the “me, me, me” culture of 21st-century living. Perhaps, though, it could be done with a bit of self restraint. Move the difficult books to a less prominent shelf. Use the rowing and weight machines in a less frequented corner of the gym. Yes, perhaps the Lenten resolution should have been to be less ostentatious. Almost all of us would be improved by that. Still, the sacrifices of some would be greater than the sacrifice of others. Playing golf without a partner would be a depressing way of spending an afternoon.
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