the new machiavelli-第25节

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The　prevailing　force　in　my　undergraduate　days　was　not　Socialism　but　

Kiplingism。　　Our　set　was　quite　exceptional　in　its　socialistic　

professions。　　And　we　were　all；　you　must　understand；　very　distinctly　

Imperialists　also；　and　professed　a　vivid　sense　of　the　〃White　Man's　

Burden。〃



It　is　a　little　difficult　now　to　get　back　to　the　feelings　of　that　

period；　Kipling　has　since　been　so　mercilessly　and　exhaustively　

mocked；　criticised　and　torn　to　shreds；never　was　a　man　so　violently　

exalted　and　then；　himself　assisting；　so　relentlessly　called　down。　　

But　in　the　middle　nineties　this　spectacled　and　moustached　little　

figure　with　its　heavy　chin　and　its　general　effect　of　vehement　

gesticulation；　its　wild　shouts　of　boyish　enthusiasm　for　effective　

force；　its　lyric　delight　in　the　sounds　and　colours；　in　the　very　

odours　of　empire；　its　wonderful　discovery　of　machinery　and　cotton　

waste　and　the　under　officer　and　the　engineer；　and　〃shop〃　as　a　poetic　

dialect；　became　almost　a　national　symbol。　　He　got　hold　of　us　

wonderfully；　he　filled　us　with　tinkling　and　haunting　quotations；　he　

stirred　Britten　and　myself　to　futile　imitations；　he　coloured　the　

very　idiom　of　our　conversation。　　He　rose　to　his　climax　with　his　

〃Recessional；〃　while　I　was　still　an　undergraduate。



What　did　he　give　me　exactly？



He　helped　to　broaden　my　geographical　sense　immensely；　and　he　

provided　phrases　for　just　that　desire　for　discipline　and　devotion　

and　organised　effort　the　Socialism　of　our　time　failed　to　express；　

that　the　current　socialist　movement　still　fails；　I　think；　to　

express。　　The　sort　of　thing　that　follows；　for　example；　tore　

something　out　of　my　inmost　nature　and　gave　it　a　shape；　and　I　took　it　

back　from　him　shaped　and　let　much　of　the　rest　of　him；　the　tumult　and　

the　bullying；　the　hysteria　and　the　impatience；　the　incoherence　and　

inconsistency；　go　uncriticised　for　the　sake　of　it：





〃Keep　ye　the　Lawbe　swift　in　all　obedience

Clear　the　land　of　evil；　drive　the　road　and　bridge　the　ford；

Make　ye　sure　to　each　his　own

That　he　reap　where　he　hath　sown；

By　the　peace　among　Our　peoples　let　men　know　we　serve　the　Lord！〃





And　then　again；　and　for　all　our　later　criticism；　this　sticks　in　my　

mind；　sticks　there　now　as　quintessential　wisdom：





The　'eathen　in　'is　blindness　bows　down　to　wood　an'　stone；

'E　don't　obey　no　orders　unless　they　is　'is　own；

'E　keeps　'is　side…arms　awful：　'e　leaves　'em　all　about

An'　then　comes　up　the　regiment　an'　pokes　the　'eathen　out。

　　　　　All　along　o'　dirtiness；　all　along　o'　mess；

　　　　　All　along　o'　doin'　things　rather…more…or…less；

　　　　　All　along　of　abby…nay；　kul；　an'　hazar…ho；

　　　　　Mind　you　keep　your　rifle　an'　yourself　jus'　so！〃





It　is　after　all　a　secondary　matter　that　Kipling；　not　having　been　

born　and　brought　up　in　Bromstead　and　Penge；　and　the　war　in　South　

Africa　being　yet　in　the　womb　of　time；　could　quite　honestly　entertain　

the　now　remarkable　delusion　that　England　had　her　side…arms　at　that　

time　kept　anything　but　〃awful。〃　　He　learnt　better；　and　we　all　learnt　

with　him　in　the　dark　years　of　exasperating　and　humiliating　struggle　

that　followed；　and　I　do　not　see　that　we　fellow　learners　are　

justified　in　turning　resentfully　upon　him　for　a　common　ignorance　and　

assumption。　。　。　。



South　Africa　seems　always　painted　on　the　back　cloth　of　my　Cambridge　

memories。　　How　immense　those　disasters　seemed　at　the　time；　disasters　

our　facile　English　world　has　long　since　contrived　in　any　edifying　or　

profitable　sense　to　forget！　　How　we　thrilled　to　the　shouting　

newspaper　sellers　as　the　first　false　flush　of　victory　gave　place　to　

the　realisation　of　defeat。　　Far　away　there　our　army　showed　itself　

human；　mortal　and　human　in　the　sight　of　all　the　world；　the　pleasant　

officers　we　had　imagined　would　change　to　wonderful　heroes　at　the　

first　crackling　of　rifles；　remained　the　pleasant；　rather　incompetent　

men　they　had　always　been；　failing　to　imagine；　failing　to　plan　and　

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　inalert