the new machiavelli-第23部分

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co…operate；　failing　to　grip。　　And　the　common　soldiers；　too；　they　

were　just　what　our　streets　and　country…side　had　made　them；　no　sudden　

magic　came　out　of　the　war　bugles　for　them。　　Neither　splendid　nor　

disgraceful　were　they；just　ill…trained　and　fairly　plucky　and　

wonderfully　good…tempered　menpaying　for　it。　　And　how　it　lowered　

our　vitality　all　that　first　winter　to　hear　of　Nicholson's　Nek；　and　

then　presently　close　upon　one　another；　to　realise　the　bloody　waste　

of　Magersfontein；　the　shattering　retreat　from　Stormberg；　Colenso

Colenso；　that　blundering　battle；　with　White；　as　it　seemed；　in　

Ladysmith　near　the　point　of　surrender！　and　so　through　the　long　

unfolding　catalogue　of　bleak　disillusionments；　of　aching；　

unconcealed　anxiety　lest　worse　should　follow。　　To　advance　upon　your　

enemy　singing　about　his　lack　of　cleanliness　and　method　went　out　of　

fashion　altogether！　　The　dirty　retrogressive　Boer　vanished　from　our　

scheme　of　illusion。



All　through　my　middle　Cambridge　period；　the　guns　boomed　and　the　

rifles　crackled　away　there　on　the　veldt；　and　the　horsemen　rode　and　

the　tale　of　accidents　and　blundering　went　on。　　Men；　mules；　horses；　

stores　and　money　poured　into　South　Africa；　and　the　convalescent　

wounded　streamed　home。　　I　see　it　in　my　memory　as　if　I　had　looked　at　

it　through　a　window　instead　of　through　the　pages　of　the　illustrated　

papers；　I　recall　as　if　I　had　been　there　the　wide　open　spaces；　the　

ragged　hillsides；　the　open　order　attacks　of　helmeted　men　in　khaki；　

the　scarce　visible　smoke　of　the　guns；　the　wrecked　trains　in　great　

lonely　places；　the　burnt　isolated　farms；　and　at　last　the　blockhouses　

and　the　fences　of　barbed　wire　uncoiling　and　spreading　for　endless　

miles　across　the　desert；　netting　the　elusive　enemy　until　at　last；　

though　he　broke　the　meshes　again　and　again；　we　had　him　in　the　toils。　　

If　one's　attention　strayed　in　the　lecture…room　it　wandered　to　those　

battle…fields。



And　that　imagined　panorama　of　war　unfolds　to　an　accompaniment　of　

yelling　newsboys　in　the　narrow　old　Cambridge　streets；　of　the　flicker　

of　papers　hastily　bought　and　torn　open　in　the　twilight；　of　the　

doubtful　reception　of　doubtful　victories；　and　the　insensate　

rejoicings　at　last　that　seemed　to　some　of　us　more　shameful　than　

defeats。　。　。　。







7





A　book　that　stands　out　among　these　memories；　that　stimulated　me　

immensely　so　that　I　forced　it　upon　my　companions；　half　in　the　spirit　

of　propaganda　and　half　to　test　it　by　their　comments；　was　Meredith's　

ONE　OF　OUR　CONQUERORS。　　It　is　one　of　the　books　that　have　made　me。　　

In　that　I　got　a　supplement　and　corrective　of　Kipling。　　It　was　the　

first　detached　and　adverse　criticism　of　the　Englishman　I　had　ever　

encountered。　　It　must　have　been　published　already　nine　or　ten　years　

when　I　read　it。　　The　country　had　paid　no　heed　to　it；　had　gone　on　to　

the　expensive　lessons　of　the　War　because　of　the　dull　aversion　our　

people　feel　for　all　such　intimations；　and　so　I　could　read　it　as　a　

book　justified。　　The　war　endorsed　its　every　word　for　me；　underlined　

each　warning　indication　of　the　gigantic　dangers　that　gathered　

against　our　system　across　the　narrow　seas。　　It　discovered　Europe　to　

me；　as　watching　and　critical。



But　while　I　could　respond　to　all　its　criticisms　of　my　country's　

intellectual　indolence；　of　my　country's　want　of　training　and　

discipline　and　moral　courage；　I　remember　that　the　idea　that　on　the　

continent　there　were　other　peoples　going　ahead　of　us；　mentally　alert　

while　we　fumbled；　disciplined　while　we　slouched；　aggressive　and　

preparing　to　bring　our　Imperial　pride　to　a　reckoning；　was　extremely　

novel　and　distasteful　to　me。　　It　set　me　worrying　of　nights。　　It　put　

all　my　projects　for　social　and　political　reconstruction　upon　a　new　

uncomfortable　footing。　　It　made　them　no　longer　merely　desirable　but　

urgent。　　Instead　of　pride　and　the　love　of　making　one　might　own　to　a　

baser　motive。　　Under　Kipling's　sway　I　had　a　little　forgotten　the　

continent　of　Europe；　treated　it　as　a　mere　envious　echo　to　our　own　

world…wide　display。　　I　began　now　to　have　a　disturbing　sense　as　it　

were　of　busy　searchlights　over　the　horizon。　。　。　。



One　consequence　of　the　patriotic　chagrin　Meredith　produced　in　me　was　

an　attempt　to　belittle　his　merit。　　〃It　isn't　a　good　novel；　anyhow；〃　

I　said。



The　charge　I　brought　against　it　was；　I　remember；　a　lack　of　unity。　　

It　professed　to　be　a　study　of　the　English　situation　in　the　early　

nineties；　but　it　was　all　deflected；　I　said；　and　all　the　interest　was　

confused　by　the　story　of　Victor　Radnor's　fight　with　society　to　

vindicate　the　woman　he　had　loved　and　never　married。　　Now　in　the　

retrospect　and　with　a　mind　full　of　bitter　enlightenment；　I　can　do　

Meredith　justice；　and　admit　the　conflict　was　not　only　essential　but　

cardinal　in　his　picture；　that　the　terrible　inflexibility　of　the　rich　

aunts　and　the　still　more　terrible　claim　of　Mrs。　Burman　Radnor；　the　

〃infernal　punctilio；〃　and　Dudley　Sowerby's　limitations；　were　the　

central　substance　of　that　inalertness　the　book　set　itself　to　assail。　　

So　many　things　have　been　brought　together　in　my　mind　that　were　once　

remotely　separated。　　A　people　that　will　not　valiantly　face　and　

understand　and　admit　love　and　passion　can　understand　nothing　

whatever。　　But　in　those　days　what　is　now　just　obvious　truth　to　me　

was　altogether　outside　my　range　of　comprehension。　。　。　。







8





As　I　seek　to　recapitulate　the　interlacing　growth　of　my　apprehension　

of　the　world；　as　I　flounder　among　the　half…remembered　developments　

that　found　me　a　crude　schoolboy　and　left　me　a　man；　there　comes　out；　

as　if　it　stood　for　all　the　rest；　my　first　holiday　abroad。　　That　did　

not　happen　until　I　was　twenty…two。　　I　was　a　fellow　of　Trinity；　and　

the　Peace　of　Vereeniging　had　just　been　signed。



I　went　with　a　man　named　Willersley；　a　man　some　years　senior　to　

myself；　who　had　just　missed　a　fellowship　and　the　higher　division　of　

the　Civil　Service；　and　who　had　become　an　enthusiastic　member　of　the　

London　School　Board；　upon　which　the　cumulative　vote　and　the　support　

of　the　〃advanced〃　people　had　placed　him。　　He　had；　like　myself；　a　

small　independent　income　that　relieved　him　of　any　necessity　to　earn　

a　living；　and　he　had　a　kindred　craving　for　social　theorising　and　

some　form　of　social　service。　　He　had　sought　my　acquaintance　after　

reading　a　paper　of　mine　（begotten　by　the　visit　of　Chris　Robinson）　on　

the　limits　of　pure　democracy。　　It　had　marched　with　some　thoughts　of　

his　own。



We　went　by　train　to　Spiez　on　the　Lake　of　Thun；　then　up　the　Gemmi；　

and　thence　with　one　or　two　halts　and　digressions　and　a　little　modest　

climbing　we　crossed　over　by　the　Antrona　pass　（on　which　we　were　

benighted）　into　Italy；　and　by　way　of　Domo　D'ossola　and　the　Santa　

Maria　Maggiore　valley　to　Cannobio；　and　thence　up　the　lake　to　Locarno　

（where；　as　I　shall　tell；　we　stayed　some　eventful　days）　and　so　up　the　

Val　Maggia　and　over　to　Airolo　and　home。



As　I　write　of　that　long　tramp　of　ours；　something　of　its　freshness　

and　enlargement　returns　to　me。　　I　feel　again　the　faint　pleasant　

excitement　of　the　boat　train；　the　trampling　procession　of　people　

with　hand　baggage　and　laden　porters　along　the　platform　of　the　

Folkestone　pier；　the　scarcely　perceptible　swaying　of　the　moored　boat　

beneath　our　feet。　　Then；　very　obvious　and　simple；　the　little　emotion　

of　standing　out　from　the　homeland　and　seeing　the　long　white　Kentish　

cliffs　recede。　　One　walked　about　the　boat　doing　one's　best　not　to　

feel　absurdly　adventurous；　and　presently　a　movement　of　people　

directed　one's　attention　to　a　white　lighthouse　on　a　cliff　to　the　

east　of　us；　coming　up　suddenly；　and　then　one　turned　to　scan　the　

little　different　French　coast　villages；　and　then；　sliding　by　in　a　

pale　sunshine　came　a　long　wooden　pier　with　oddly　dressed　children　

upon　it；　and　the　clustering　town　of　Boulogne。



One　took　it　all　with　the　outward　calm　that　became　a　young　man　of　

nearly　three　and　twenty；　but　one　was　alive　to　one's　finger…tips　with　

pleasing　little　stimulations。　　The　custom　house　examination　excited　

one；　the　strangeness　of　a　babble　in　a　foreign　tongue；　one　found　the　

French　of　City　Merchants'　and　Cambridge　a　shy　and　viscous　flow；　and　

then　one　was　standing　in　the　train　as　it　went　slowly　through　the　

rail…laid　street　to　Boulogne　Ville；　and　one　looked　out　at　the　world　

in　French；　porters　in　blouses；　workmen　in　enormous　purple　trousers；　

police　officers　in　peaked　caps　instead　of　helmets　and　romantically　

cloaked；　big　carts；　all　on　two　wheels　instead　of　four；　green　

shuttered　casements　instead　of　sash　windows；　and　great　numbers　of　

neatly　dressed　women　in　economical　mourning。



〃Oh！　there's　a　priest！〃　one　said；　and　was　betrayed　into　suchlike　

artless　cries。



It　was　a　real　other　world；　with　different　government　and　different　

methods；　and　in　the　night　one　was　roused　from　uneasy　slumbers　and　

sat　blinking　and　surly；　wrapped　up　in　one's　couverture　and　with　

one's　oreiller　all　awry；　to　encounter　a　new　social　phenomenon；　the　

German　official；　so　different　in　manner　from　the　British；　and　when　

one　woke　again　after　that　one　had　come　to　Bale；　and　out　one　tumbled　

to　get　coffee　in　Switzerland。　。　。　。



I　have　been　over　that　route　dozens　of　times　since；　but　it　still　

revives　a　certain　lingering　youthfulness；　a　certain　sense　of　

cheerful　release　in　me。



I　remember　that　I　and　Willersley　became　very　sociological　as　we　ran　

on　to　Spiez；　and　made　all　sorts　of　generalisations　from　the　steeply　

sloping　fields　on　the　hillsides；　and　from　the　people　we　saw　on　

platforms　and　from　little　differences　in　the　way　things　were　done。



The　clean　prosperity　of　Bale　and　Switzerland；　the　big　clean　

stations；　filled　me　with　patriotic　misgivings；　as　I　thought　of　the　

vast　dirtiness　of　London；　the　mean　dirtiness　of　Cambridgeshire。　　It　

came　to　me　that　perhaps　my　scheme　of　international　values　was　all　

wrong；　that　quite　stupendous　possibilities　and　chall