The Useful Grievance

In the January-February issue of Quadrant this year I wrote about Thorstein Veblen, whose book The Theory of the Leisure Class stirred up a sensation in the early 1900s. Its thesis: as soon as humans achieve basic sufficiency in nutrition, shelter and physical security, their only drive becomes vainglory—the urge to show off and “big-note” themselves. Veblen supported his case with wit and learning.

Because of the interest readers showed in Veblen, I turned in the July-August issue to another maverick social scientist, Helmut Schoeck, whose book Envy: A Theory of Social Behaviour appeared in the late 1960s. Its message: dig down deep enough, and you will discover that most human motivation rises from roots which feed in the mean but universal passion of envy. Schoeck is as learned as Veblen, though less entertaining; both writers have sunk into general obscurity.

Like many thinkers who are enthusiasts about their own originality, Schoeck and Veblen peg out for themselves territories wider than they can defend. They are like old-time Australian trade union advocates who, without a blush, could present to the Arbitration Court an ambit claim demanding almost a new Heaven and a new Earth.

Sensible people never swallow whole any “theory of everything”; recall those years of truly loony left-wing Marxism. There were decades during which, in the denser kinds of communist literature, one would not have been altogether surprised to find articles on “Raising Guinea Pigs—a Marxist Approach” or “A Marxist-Leninist Interpretation of Dandruff”.

Nevertheless, there do appear from time to time books one ought to read, even if it is clear that they overreach. They jolt us into sitting up straight mentally; the very process of refuting their excesses clears out the cobwebs, and sharpens our minds. Veblen and Schoeck are eminently two such books, with their analyses respectively of vainglory and envy. What other “dire symbols of the heart” might reward similar careful study?

What about grievance? Even on the surface there is always a lot of that about; and when (gingerly) you lift the manhole cover of politeness, there frequently you find it, boiling away furiously below, just as fiercely as envy.

Dictionaries define “grievance” as a “real or imagined cause of complaint”; note imagined. There is no obligation for a grievance to be rational, any more than there is with envy.

This corroding and corrupting quality came to us early, arriving with Cain, the first-born of Eve. In the opening half-dozen pages of the Bible (Genesis chapter 4) we learn that God showed more respect to an offering from Cain’s younger brother Abel than he did to the sacrifice made by Cain. And Cain’s sense of grievance was so deep and sore that he murdered his brother: not a happy start for the human race, and we have been living down to it ever since.

During a democratic election such as we have just enjoyed, the exploitation of grievance (whether real or imagined doesn’t matter) is one of the principal modes of operation of the parties, and developed to the refinement of a high art form.

The whole history of the nations of Europe could be organised around the principle of mutual grievance, and very little of real significance would be omitted.

Deprived of its richly nourished tradition of grievance, the Irish nation might have faded clean away. If some incontrovertible new research were to establish that the Battle of the Boyne never happened, no Irish nationalist would feel pleased; he would feel impoverished, robbed of a central part of his national heritage.

P.G. Wodehouse (who ought to be honoured more as a philosopher than as a humorist) states the position pretty well for Scotland: “It is never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine.”

In the new so-called nations of the Pacific Islands, grievance against Australia seems now almost to be established as the organising principle of their polity. (How malignant it is of Australia to insist on inflaming these grievances by the donation annually of hundreds of millions of dollars in projects for development and aid.)

It is surely the height of paradoxical perversity that an individual should so cherish a grievance that it becomes a cancer in their own soul. Yet many go to their death-beds carrying with them little beyond a lifelong grudge.

Some characters are lofty enough to rise even above the temptation to wallow in a grievance. Lord Melbourne, best remembered as Queen Victoria’s first prime minister, was one. When friends sought to commiserate after his sacking (by William IV) he refused to join in the lamentations. With all the grandeur that High Whiggery could display, he pronounced: “I have always thought complaints of ill-usage contemptible, whether from a seduced disappointed girl or a turned-out Prime Minister.”

Others can handle a grievance rationally, simply as a matter-of-fact incident in the daily management of affairs. Redoubtable Tom Playford, premier of South Australia for twenty-six years and 226 days, was rarely put off his shot. There was, for example, a time when vast sums of Commonwealth taxpayers’ money was (for reasons chiefly political) being lavished on Western Australia, though common sense suggested that the funds would achieve much greater public benefit if they were spent in South Australia.

In his private office in Adelaide’s parliament house one day I said to him: “Sir Thomas, you must be boiling inside with rage to see all this federal money being shovelled over to the West.”

He said: “As you know, there is to be a Premiers’ Conference in a couple of weeks. I don’t intend even to mention all this Western Australian nonsense, yet I’m confident that I shall be satisfied with the results I get out of the conference.”

Then he leaned forward and smiled: “Young man, you will learn that life offers many occasions when a grievance can be far more valuable than a bonus.”

No doubt the most desirable way of dissolving a wrong and defusing dangerous grievance is the Christian path of prompt forgiveness and turning the other cheek. Alas! Large numbers of us cannot rise to such an ethical height, and to them I recommend what I have for over sixty years called the “Ah Fong Method”. It could be seen as an application of the rather worldly principle: “Don’t get angry—get even.”

Ah Fong was a Chinaman of middle age and (if not actually a cordon bleu) a good practical cook. He was sturdy, good-natured and sensible, and for this combination of qualities had been chosen as camp cook for a rather lengthy patrol into the Highlands by a party of New Guinea government officers—all Australians. All of them liked Ah Fong, and had themselves chosen him for his important job. This makes it all the harder to explain what happened.

Once out on the track, they started playing practical jokes on the cook. Though never actually hurtful, their antics were as crass and mindless as practical jokes usually are. After a few days, better sense prevailed, and they began to feel ashamed of themselves, especially (as they said) “no matter how rough a day’s going is, he always turns on a splendid hot evening meal for us”.

So they called the cook up.

“Look here, Ah Fong,” said the leader. “We’re all very sorry we’ve been playing these stupid tricks on you. And you’ve been a terrific sport about it, too. We all apologise, and it won’t happen again.”

“So?” beamed Ah Fong. “No more apple-pie in bed? No more sand in boot? No more hiding fry-pan?”

“No, Ah Fong, no more of anything like that.”

“All-li! All-li! Velly good! Velly good! No more pee in coffee!”