of higher education had been, indeed, to select those who were to be exported. Any doubts would be dispelled if he learnt of the incredible number of New Zealanders on the staffs of American, British, and Australian universities – especially at the Australian National University! He would notice, too, that 50 per cent of such talent as inadvertently remained in the country was expected to devote its time, between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five, to changing napkins and washing dishes. Créches might contribute as much to civilization here as the Queen Elizabeth II Arts Council. My historian would also learn that, though there are only slightly more men than women in New Zealand, three times as many attend universities. In 1893 there were more female students than males.
The unborn historian would have difficulty in understanding our system of rewards and payments. He would observe, to start with, a de-emphasis on leadership. Eighty members of Parliament earn no more than waterside workers and only slightly more than the least competent and least qualified secondary school teachers. He would debate whether leadership was meant to be part-time, a perquisite of wealth, or an occupation so rewarded as to deter the most able.
He would observe, too, that the person commonly thought the most distinguished experienced writer in the country lives on a pension smaller than the salary of training college students. He would see clearly that small extra financial rewards are offered to skill – scientists and technicians, who are carefully selected and highly trained. But incentive – which means potential profit – is provided for farmers and businessmen who are not selected, nor very often trained. Moreover, they are protected from being stringently weeded out in competition by a complex system of price controls, produce boards, and producers’ and retailers’ associations – not to mention tariffs, subsidies, exchange controls, and import licences. My historian might label New Zealand the Society for the Protection of Inefficient Urban Producers and Distributors and the Prevention of Talent.
The future historian could not, of course, tell us anything we don’t know on this point. From our documents he will learn that we know that we deprecate quality, and generally don’t care. Our state medical system rests on the general practitioner. The specialist receives no encouragement – unless it be to practise generally on the sly. Our Junior National Scholars receive only £110 more than all under-graduates with higher school certificates; only £150 more than those with U.E. (accredited).
Perhaps you think I place too much emphasis on financial reward, but this is a modified capitalist society. Moreover, until New Zealand is more civilized, and makes a stronger call on them, patriotism needs to be made more profitable for the able. We might begin by paying high salaries to M.P.s and top civil servants, thus creating a greater range of incomes among the large proportion of the population employed, in one way or another, by the State. It would then be easier to reward intellectual leadership and ability of all kinds.
One question I have heard asked is whether there are, in our society, tasks awaiting an intellectual élite. Of course there are: tasks of the sort that will make a civilization. Our society needs higher standards in almost every intellectual and artistic respect, but it rarely demands them. Here, however, I am optimistic, for many, if not most, of our weaknesses are the characteristics of villagers and frontiersmen. Village-mindedness, pettiness, crudeness, philistinism, rough-and-readiness, are declining as the cities grow. Civilization is an urban phenomenon (as the origin of the word hints) which arises from the division of labour. As the cities grow in population and wealth, many of the tasks that intellectuals will take up are naturally arising. To take obvious instances – problems of town planning cannot permanently be ignored; the erection of large buildings calls for more difficult skills than small. A growing population requires a more thorough investigation of our natural resources than has been made, an investigation which only highly trained persons can carry out. Moreover, with the growth of a cultivated urban minority, there is a growing demand for aesthetic as well as utilitarian satisfactions. One might say that the pioneering phase is being outgrown, but I prefer to say that a new phase of pioneering has begun: the labours of intellectual and artistic frontiersmen. At the end of a recent history of New Zealand, W. H. Oliver wrote, in discussing our literature: ‘The imperatives of the habitat are no longer ignored; the heritage of England and Europe has ceased to be an overpowering substitute for independent thought. Another group of settler demands has been made, and some answers offered. The spiritual pioneer is beginning to populate the land; he is restless because he knows himself to be part stranger, part intimate; he is demanding, not security, but understanding.’
A more difficult question to answer is whether the university, the academic tradition, is not positively antagonistic to the growth of the new – new ideas, new art forms, new civilization. I cannot deny the danger that our universities might be devoted to the European intellectual tradition, cosseting the old without cradling the new; but I do not think it is very great. It is not easy to stifle originality. To adapt a remark by Sartre to my purpose, the medieval clerk scribbled his poems in the margins of Holy Writ. Almost everything that modern universities mean, that is implied by the term ‘research’, is opposed to intellectual sterility. And it is in research, most of all, that the universities hold out hope for our future; research hand-in-hand with teaching.
Modern universities, especially in the United States, go farther than learning and academic research. They are new patrons of the creative arts. No one who reads modern American verse can believe that universities dampen this kind of originality. Fellowships open to writers and artists and musicians, like the Robert Burns Fellowship in Dunedin, are as valuable as lectureships and research posts in the largest university scheme.
But even ignoring research and the creative arts, in a narrower sense of learning, the universities must make our future. I refer to a phrase recently used by Sir Herbert Read, when talking about the possibilities of a New Zealand style: ‘the habit of perfection’. Universities daily encourage, in those who have the stuff of perfection in them, that habit. We live with great men. We go to bed with Byron, or George Eliot – or Sappho. It is from those few who seek and most understand perfection that we, like all other communities, must hope most. The future of New Zealand must be sought on high Everests of mind and tracks of wit. It must be found in the endlessly laborious but exciting tasks of research, of writing and revision, sketching and painting, draughting and experiment.
One of our traditional ideals I have scarcely mentioned. To be ‘British’ has been a major aspiration of many New Zealanders. Since Britishness lies at the source of many of the silliest of our excesses, one can feel sure than my future historian will have a good deal of fun with it. The extra lavatories built all over the country for royal tours. The evolution of Governors-General from dictators to, it would seem, state literary critics, within a little over a century. A century of royal fever and fervour, with its accompanying petty snobbery, sycophancy, and militarism. How much of our past is summed up in a splendid telegram, sent it was thought by Seddon himself, to the Earl of Meath, who started Empire Day. This is a complete historical document:
’Empire Day inaugurated successfully. Great Enthusiasm. School children assembled hoisted saluted flag throughout colony. Patriotic speeches made. Governor opened Veterans’ Home, Auckland. Victoria Memorial opened Christchurch. Premier opened Victoria Wing Wanganui Hospital. Volunteers paraded; holiday general; universal rejoicing.’