idle ideas in 1905-第12节

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And　what　about　book…rights？　　Who　is　going　to　buy　novels　of　three
pages？　　They　will　have　to　be　printed　as　leaflets　and　sold　at　a　penny
a　dozen。　　Marie　Corelli　and　Hall　Caineif　all　I　hear　about　them　is
truewill　possibly　make　their　ten　or　twelve　shillings　a　week。　　But
what　about　the　rest　of　us？　　This　thing　is　worrying　me。



SHOULD　SOLDIERS　BE　POLITE？



My　desire　was　once　to　pass　a　peaceful　and　pleasant　winter　in
Brussels；　attending　to　my　work；　improving　my　mind。　　Brussels　is　a
bright　and　cheerful　town；　and　I　think　I　could　have　succeeded　had　it
not　been　for　the　Belgian　Army。　　The　Belgian　Army　would　follow　me
about　and　worry　me。　　Judging　of　it　from　my　own　experience；　I　should
say　it　was　a　good　army。　　Napoleon　laid　it　down　as　an　axiom　that　your
enemy　never　ought　to　be　permitted　to　get　away　from　younever　ought
to　be　allowed　to　feel；　even　for　a　moment；　that　he　had　shaken　you　off。
What　tactics　the　Belgian　Army　might　adopt　under　other　conditions　I　am
unable　to　say；　but　against　me　personally　that　was　the　plan　of
campaign　it　determined　upon　and　carried　out　with　a　success　that　was
astonishing；　even　to　myself。

I　found　it　utterly　impossible　to　escape　from　the　Belgian　Army。　　I
made　a　point　of　choosing　the　quietest　and　most　unlikely　streets；　I
chose　all　hoursearly　in　the　morning；　in　the　afternoon；　late　in　the
evening。　　There　were　moments　of　wild　exaltation　when　I　imagined　I　had
given　it　the　slip。　　I　could　not　see　it　anywhere；　I　could　not　hear　it。

〃Now；〃　said　I　to　myself；　〃now　for　five　minutes'　peace　and　quiet。〃

I　had　been　doing　it　injustice：　　it　had　been　working　round　me。
Approaching　the　next　corner；　I　would　hear　the　tattoo　of　its　drum。
Before　I　had　gone　another　quarter　of　a　mile　it　would　be　in　full
pursuit　of　me。　　I　would　jump　upon　a　tram；　and　travel　for　miles。
Then；　thinking　I　had　shaken　it　off；　I　would　alight　and　proceed　upon
my　walk。　　Five　minutes　later　another　detachment　would　be　upon　my
heels。　　I　would　slink　home；　the　Belgian　Army　pursuing　me　with　its
exultant　tattoo。　　Vanquished；　shamed；　my　insular　pride　for　ever
vanished；　I　would　creep　up　into　my　room　and　close　the　door。　　The
victorious　Belgian　Army　would　then　march　back　to　barracks。

If　only　it　had　followed　me　with　a　band：　　I　like　a　band。　　I　can　loaf
against　a　post；　listening　to　a　band　with　anyone。　　I　should　not　have
minded　so　much　had　it　come　after　me　with　a　band。　　But　the　Belgian
Army；　apparently；　doesn't　run　to　a　band。　　It　has　nothing　but　this
drum。　　It　has　not　even　a　real　drumnot　what　I　call　a　drum。　　It　is　a
little　boy's　drum；　the　sort　of　thing　I　used　to　play　myself　at　one
time；　until　people　took　it　away　from　me；　and　threatened　that　if　they
heard　it　once　again　that　day　they　would　break　it　over　my　own　head。
It　is　cowardly　going　up　and　down；　playing　a　drum　of　this　sort；　when
there　is　nobody　to　stop　you。　　The　man　would　not　dare　to　do　it　if　his
mother　was　about。　　He　does　not　even　play　it。　　He　walks　along　tapping
it　with　a　little　stick。　　There's　no　tune；　there's　no　sense　in　it。　　He
does　not　even　keep　time。　　I　used　to　think　at　first；　hearing　it　in　the
distance；　that　it　was　the　work　of　some　young　gamin　who　ought　to　be　at
school；　or　making　himself　useful　taking　the　baby　out　in　the
perambulator：　　and　I　would　draw　back　into　dark　doorways；　determined；
as　he　came　by；　to　dart　out　and　pull　his　ear　for　him。　　To　my
astonishmentfor　the　first　weekI　learnt　it　was　the　Belgian　Army；
getting　itself　accustomed；　one　supposes；　to　the　horrors　of　war。　　It
had　the　effect　of　making　me　a　peace…at…any…price　man。

They　tell　me　these　armies　are　necessary　to　preserve　the　tranquility
of　Europe。　　For　myself；　I　should　be　willing　to　run　the　risk　of　an
occasional　row。　　Cannot　someone　tell　them　they　are　out　of　date；　with
their　bits　of　feathers　and　their　odds　and　ends　of　ironmongerygrown
men　that　cannot　be　sent　out　for　a　walk　unless　accompanied　by　a　couple
of　nursemen；　blowing　a　tin　whistle　and　tapping　a　drum　out　of　a　toy
shop　to　keep　them　in　order　and　prevent　their　running　about：　　one
might　think　they　were　chickens。　　A　herd　of　soldiers　with　their　pots
and　pans　and　parcels；　and　all　their　deadly　things　tied　on　to　them；
prancing　about　in　time　to　a　tune；　makes　me　think　always　of　the　White
Knight　that　Alice　met　in　Wonderland。　　I　take　it　that　for　practical
purposesto　fight　for　your　country；　or　to　fight　for　somebody　else's
country；　which　is；　generally　speaking；　more　popularthe　thing
essential　is　that　a　certain　proportion　of　the　populace　should　be　able
to　shoot　straight　with　a　gun。　　How　standing　in　a　line　and　turning　out
your　toes　is　going　to　assist　you；　under　modern　conditions　of　warfare；
is　one　of　the　many　things　my　intellect　is　incapable　of　grasping。

In　mediaeval　days；　when　men　fought　hand　to　hand；　there　must　have　been
advantage　in　combined　and　precise　movement。　　When　armies　were　mere
iron　machines；　the　simple　endeavour　of　each　being　to　push　the　other
off　the　earth；　then　the　striking　simultaneously　with　a　thousand　arms
was　part　of　the　game。　　Now；　when　we　shoot　from　behind　cover　with
smokeless　powder；　brain　not　brute　forceindividual　sense　not
combined　solidity　is　surely　the　result　to　be　aimed　at。　　Cannot
somebody；　as　I　have　suggested；　explain　to　the　military　man　that　the
proper　place　for　the　drill　sergeant　nowadays　is　under　a　glass　case　in
some　museum　of　antiquities？

I　lived　once　near　the　Hyde　Park　barracks；　and　saw　much　of　the　drill
sergeant's　method。　　Generally　speaking；　he　is　a　stout　man　with　the
walk　of　an　egotistical　pigeon。　　His　voice　is　one　of　the　most
extraordinary　things　in　nature：　　if　you　can　distinguish　it　from　the
bark　of　a　dog；　you　are　clever。　　They　tell　me　that　the　privates；　after
a　little　practice；　canwhich　gives　one　a　higher　opinion　of　their
intelligence　than　otherwise　one　might　form。　　But　myself　I　doubt　even
this　statement。　　I　was　the　owner　of　a　fine　retriever　dog　about　the
time　of　which　I　am　speaking；　and　sometimes　he　and　I　would　amuse
ourselves　by　watching　Mr。　Sergeant　exercising　his　squad。　　One　morning
he　had　been　shouting　out　the　usual　〃Whough；　whough；　whough！〃　for
about　ten　minutes；　and　all　had　hitherto　gone　well。　　Suddenly；　and
evidently　to　his　intense　astonishment；　the　squad　turned　their　backs
upon　him　and　commenced　to　walk　towards　the　Serpentine。

〃Halt！〃　yelled　the　sergeant；　the　instant　his　amazed　indignation
permitted　him　to　speak；　which　fortunately　happened　in　time　to　save
the　detachment　from　a　watery　grave。

The　squad　halted。

〃Who　the　thunder；　and　the　blazes；　and　other　things　told　you　to　do
that？〃

The　squad　looked　bewildered；　but　said　nothing；　and　were　brought　back
to　the　place　where　they　were　before。　　A　minute　later　precisely　the
same　thing　occurred　again。　　I　really　thought　the　sergeant　would
burst。　　I　was　preparing　to　hasten　to　the　barracks　for　medical　aid。
But　the　paroxysm　passed。　　Calling　upon　the　combined　forces　of　heaven
and　hell　to　sustain　him　in　his　trouble；　he　requested　his　squad；　as
man　to　man；　to　inform　him　of　the　reason　why　to　all　appearance　they
were　dispensing　with　his　services　and　drilling　themselves。

At　this　moment　〃Columbus〃　barked　again；　and　the　explanation　came　to
him。

〃Please　go　away；　sir；〃　he　requested　me。　　〃How　can　I　exercise　my　men
with　that　dog　of　yours　interfering　every　five　minutes？〃

It　was　not　only　on　that　occasion。　　It　happened　at　other　times。　　The
dog　seemed　to　understand　and　take　a　pleasure　in　it。　　Sometimes
meeting　a　soldier；　walking　with　his　sweetheart；　Columbus；　from　behind
my　legs；　would　bark　suddenly。　　Immediately　the　man　would　let　go　the
girl　and　proceed；　involuntarily；　to　perform　military　tricks。

The　War　Office　authorities　accused　me　of　having　trained　the　dog。　　I
had　not　trained　him：　　that　was　his　natural　voice。　　I　suggested　to　the
War　Office　authorities　that　instead　of　quarrelling　with　my　dog　for
talking　his　own　language；　they　should　train　their　sergeants　to　use
English。

They　would　not　see　it。　　Unpleasantness　was　in　the　air；　and；　living
where　I　did　at　the　time；　I　thought　it　best　to　part　with　Columbus。　　I
could　see　what　the　War　Office　was　driving　at；　and　I　did　not　desire
that　responsibility　for　the　inefficiency　of　the　British　Army　should
be　laid　at　my　door。

Some　twenty　years　ago　we；　in　London；　were　passing　through　a　riotous
period；　and　a　call　was　made　to　law…abiding　citizens　to　enrol
themselves　as　special　constables。　　I　was　young；　and　the　hope　of
trouble　appealed　to　me　more　than　it　does　now。　　In　company　with　some
five　or　six　hundred　other　more　or　less　respectable　citizens；　I　found
myself　one　Sunday　morning　in　the　drill　yard　of　the　Albany　Barracks。
It　was　the　opinion　of　the　authorities　that　we　could　guard　our　homes
and　protect　our　wives　and　children　better　if　first　of　all　we　learned
to　roll　our　〃eyes　right〃　or　left　at　the　given　word　of　command；　and　to
walk　with　our　thumbs　stuck　out。　　Accordingly　a　drill　sergeant　was
appointed　to　instruct　us　on　these　points。　　He　came　out　of　the
canteen；　wiping　his　mouth　and　flicking　his　leg；　according　to　rule；
with　the　regulation　cane。　　But；　as　he　approached　us；　his　expression
changed。　　We　were　stout；　pompous…looking　gentlemen；　the　majority　of
us；　in　frock　coats　and　silk　hats。　　The　sergeant　was　a　man　with　a
sense　of　the　fitness　of　things。　　The　idea　of　shouting　and