the new machiavelli- 第8部分

drainage　works　that　linked　us　up　with　Beckington；　and　made　me　first　

acquainted　with　the　geological　quality　of　the　London　clay；　had　to　do　

with　thatuntil　only　a　weak　uncleansing　trickle　remained。　　That　at　

first　did　not　strike　me　as　a　misfortune。　　An　adventurous　small　boy　

might　walk　dryshod　in　places　hitherto　inaccessible。　　But　hard　upon　

that　came　the　pegs；　the　planks　and　carts　and　devastation。　　Roper's　

meadows；　being　no　longer　in　fear　of　floods；　were　now　to　be　slashed　

out　into　parallelograms　of　untidy　road；　and　built　upon　with　rows　of　

working…class　cottages。　　The　roads　came；horribly；　the　houses　

followed。　　They　seemed　to　rise　in　the　night。　　People　moved　into　them　

as　soon　as　the　roofs　were　on；　mostly　workmen　and　their　young　wives；　

and　already　in　a　year　some　of　these　raw　houses　stood　empty　again　

from　defaulting　tenants；　with　windows　broken　and　wood…work　warping　

and　rotting。　　The　Ravensbrook　became　a　dump　for　old　iron；　rusty　

cans；　abandoned　boots　and　the　like；　and　was　a　river　only　when　

unusual　rains　filled　it　for　a　day　or　so　with　an　inky　flood　of　

surface　water。　。　。　。



That　indeed　was　my　most　striking　perception　in　the　growth　of　

Bromstead。　　The　Ravensbrook　had　been　important　to　my　imaginative　

life；　that　way　had　always　been　my　first　choice　in　all　my　walks　with　

my　mother；　and　its　rapid　swamping　by　the　new　urban　growth　made　it　

indicative　of　all　the　other　things　that　had　happened　just　before　my　

time；　or　were　still；　at　a　less　dramatic　pace；　happening。　　I　realised　

that　building　was　the　enemy。　　I　began　to　understand　why　in　every　

direction　out　of　Bromstead　one　walked　past　scaffold…poles　into　

litter；　why　fragments　of　broken　brick　and　cinder　mingled　in　every　

path；　and　the　significance　of　the　universal　notice…boards；　either　

white　and　new　or　a　year　old　and　torn　and　battered；　promising　sites；　

proffering　houses　to　be　sold　or　let；　abusing　and　intimidating　

passers…by　for　fancied　trespass；　and　protecting　rights　of　way。



It　is　difficult　to　disentangle　now　what　I　understood　at　this　time　

and　what　I　have　since　come　to　understand；　but　it　seems　to　me　that　

even　in　those　childish　days　I　was　acutely　aware　of　an　invading　and　

growing　disorder。　　The　serene　rhythms　of　the　old　established　

agriculture；　I　see　now；　were　everywhere　being　replaced　by　

cultivation　under　notice　and　snatch　crops；　hedges　ceased　to　be　

repaired；　and　were　replaced　by　cheap　iron　railings　or　chunks　of　

corrugated　iron；　more　and　more　hoardings　sprang　up；　and　contributed　

more　and　more　to　the　nomad　tribes　of　filthy　paper　scraps　that　flew　

before　the　wind　and　overspread　the　country。　　The　outskirts　of　

Bromstead　were　a　maze　of　exploitation　roads　that　led　nowhere；　that　

ended　in　tarred　fences　studded　with　nails　（I　don't　remember　barbed　

wire　in　those　days；　I　think　the　Zeitgeist　did　not　produce　that　until　

later）；　and　in　trespass　boards　that　used　vehement　language。　　Broken　

glass；　tin　cans；　and　ashes　and　paper　abounded。　　Cheap　glass；　cheap　

tin；　abundant　fuel；　and　a　free　untaxed　Press　had　rushed　upon　a　world　

quite　unprepared　to　dispose　of　these　blessings　when　the　fulness　of　

enjoyment　was　past。



I　suppose　one　might　have　persuaded　oneself　that　all　this　was　but　the　

replacement　of　an　ancient　tranquillity；　or　at　least　an　ancient　

balance；　by　a　new　order。　　Only　to　my　eyes；　quickened　by　my　father's　

intimations；　it　was　manifestly　no　order　at　all。　　It　was　a　multitude　

of　incoordinated　fresh　starts；　each　more　sweeping　and　destructive　

than　the　last；　and　none　of　them　ever　really　worked　out　to　a　ripe　and　

satisfactory　completion。　　Each　left　a　legacy　of　products；　houses；　

humanity；　or　what　not；　in　its　wake。　　It　was　a　sort　of　progress　that　

had　bolted；　it　was　change　out　of　hand；　and　going　at　an　unprecedented　

pace　nowhere　in　particular。



No；　the　Victorian　epoch　was　not　the　dawn　of　a　new　era；　it　was　a　

hasty；　trial　experiment；　a　gigantic　experiment　of　the　most　slovenly　

and　wasteful　kind。　　I　suppose　it　was　necessary；　I　suppose　all　things　

are　necessary。　　I　suppose　that　before　men　will　discipline　themselves　

to　learn　and　plan；　they　must　first　see　in　a　hundred　convincing　forms　

the　folly　and　muddle　that　come　from　headlong；　aimless　and　haphazard　

methods。　　The　nineteenth　century　was　an　age　of　demonstrations；　some　

of　them　very　impressive　demonstrations；　of　the　powers　that　have　come　

to　mankind；　but　of　permanent　achievement；　what　will　our　descendants　

cherish？　　It　is　hard　to　estimate　what　grains　of　precious　metal　may　

not　be　found　in　a　mud　torrent　of　human　production　on　so　large　a　

scale；　but　will　any　one；　a　hundred　years　from　now；　consent　to　live　

in　the　houses　the　Victorians　built；　travel　by　their　roads　or　

railways；　value　the　furnishings　they　made　to　live　among　or　esteem；　

except　for　curious　or　historical　reasons；　their　prevalent　art　and　

the　clipped　and　limited　literature　that　satisfied　their　souls？



That　age　which　bore　me　was　indeed　a　world　full　of　restricted　and　

undisciplined　people；　overtaken　by　power；　by　possessions　and　great　

new　freedoms；　and　unable　to　make　any　civilised　use　of　them　whatever；　

stricken　now　by　this　idea　and　now　by　that；　tempted　first　by　one　

possession　and　then　another　to　ill…considered　attempts；　it　was　my　

father's　exploitahon　of　his　villa　gardens　on　the　wholesale　level。　　

The　whole　of　Bromstead　as　I　remember　it；　and　as　I　saw　it　lastit　is　

a　year　ago　nowis　a　dull　useless　boiling…up　of　human　activities；　an　

immense　clustering　of　futilities。　　It　is　as　unfinished　as　ever；　the　

builders'　roads　still　run　out　and　end　in　mid…field　in　their　old　

fashion；　the　various　enterprises　jumble　in　the　same　hopeless　

contradiction；　if　anything　intensified。　　Pretentious　villas　jostle　

slums；　and　public…house　and　tin　tabernacle　glower　at　one　another　

across　the　cat…haunted　lot　that　intervenes。　　Roper's　meadows　are　now　

quite　frankly　a　slum；　back　doors　and　sculleries　gape　towards　the　

railway；　their　yards　are　hung　with　tattered　washing　unashamed；　and　

there　seem　to　be　more　boards　by　the　railway　every　time　I　pass；　

advertising　pills　and　pickles；　tonics　and　condiments；　and　suchlike　

solicitudes　of　a　people　with　no　natural　health　nor　appetite　left　in　

them。　。　。　。



Well；　we　have　to　do　better。　　Failure　is　not　failure　nor　waste　wasted　

if　it　sweeps　away　illusion　and　lights　the　road　to　a　plan。





6



Chaotic　indiscipline；　ill…adjusted　effort；　spasmodic　aims；　these　

give　the　quality　of　all　my　Bromstead　memories。　　The　crowning　one　of　

them　all　rises　to　desolating　tragedy。　　I　remember　now　the　wan　spring　

sunshine　of　that　Sunday　morning；　the　stiff　feeling　of　best　clothes　

and　aggressive　cleanliness　and　formality；　when　I　and　my　mother　

returned　from　church　to　find　my　father　dead。　　He　had　been　pruning　

the　grape　vine。　　He　had　never　had　a　ladder　long　enough　to　reach　the　

sill　of　the　third…floor　windowsat　house…painting　times　he　had　

borrowed　one　from　the　plumber　who　mixed　his　paintand　he　had　in　his　

own　happy…go…lucky　way　contrived　a　combination　of　the　garden　fruit　

ladder　with　a　battered　kitchen　table　that　served　all　sorts　of　odd　

purposes　in　an　outhouse。　　He　had　stayed　up　this　arrangement　by　means　

of　the　garden　roller；　and　the　roller　had　at　the　critical　moment

rolled。　　He　was　lying　close　by　the　garden　door　with　his　head　queerly　

bent　back　against　a　broken　and　twisted　rainwater　pipe；　an　expression　

of　pacific　contentment　on　his　face；　a　bamboo　curtain　rod　with　a　

tableknife　tied　to　end　of　it；　still　gripped　in　his　hand。　　We　had　

been　rapping　for　some　time　at　the　front　door　unable　to　make　him　

hear；　and　then　we　came　round　by　the　door　in　the　side　trellis　into　

the　garden　and　so　discovered　him。



〃Arthur！〃　　I　remember　my　mother　crying　with　the　strangest　break　in　

her　voice；　〃What　are　you　doing　there？　　Arthur！　　AndSUNDAY！〃



I　was　coming　behind　her；　musing　remotely；　when　the　quality　of　her　

voice　roused　me。　　She　stood　as　if　she　could　not　go　near　him。　　He　had　

always　puzzled　her　so；　he　and　his　ways；　and　this　seemed　only　another　

enigma。　　Then　the　truth　dawned　on　her；　she　shrieked　as　if　afraid　of　

him；　ran　a　dozen　steps　back　towards　the　trellis　door　and　stopped　and　

clasped　her　ineffectual　gloved　hands；　leaving　me　staring　blankly；　

too　astonished　for　feeling；　at　the　carelessly　flung　limbs。



The　same　idea　came　to　me　also。　　I　ran　to　her。　　〃Mother！〃　I　cried；　

pale　to　the　depths　of　my　spirit；　〃IS　HE　DEAD？〃



I　had　been　thinking　two　minutes　before　of　the　cold　fruit　pie　that　

glorified　our　Sunday　dinner…table；　and　how　I　might　perhaps　get　into　

the　tree　at　the　end　of　the　garden　to　read　in　the　afternoon。　　Now　an　

immense　fact　had　come　down　like　a　curtain　and　blotted　out　all　my　

childish　world。　　My　father　was　lying　dead　before　my　eyes。　。　。　。　　　I　

perceived　that　my　mother　was　helpless　and　that　things　must　he　done。



〃Mother！〃　I　said；　〃we　must　get　Doctor　Beaseley；and　carry　him　

indoors。〃







CHAPTER　THE　THIRD



SCHOLASTIC





1



My　formal　education　began　in　a　small　preparatory　school　in　

Bromstead。　　I　went　there　as　a　day　boy。　　The　charge　for　my　

instruction　was　mainly　set　off　by　the　periodic　visits　of　my　father　

with　a　large　bag　of　battered　fossils　to　lecture　to　us　upon　geology。　　

I　was　one　of　those　fortunate　youngsters　who　take　readily　to　school　

work；　I　had　a　good　memory；　versatile　interests　and　a　considerable　

appetite　for　commendation；　and　when　I　was　barely　twelve　I　got　a　

scholarship　at　the　City　Merchants　School　and　was　entrusted　with　a　

scholar's　railway　season　ticket　to　Victoria。　　After　my　father's　

death　a　large　and　very　animated　and　solidly　built　uncle　in　tweeds　

from　Staffordshire；　Uncle　Minter；　my　mother's　sister's　husband；　with　

a　remarkable　accent　and　remarkable　vowel　sounds；　who　had　plunged　

into　the　Bromstead　home　once　or　twice　for　the　night　but　who　was　

otherwise　unknown　to　me；　came　on　the　scene；　sold　off　the　three　gaunt　

houses　with　the　utmost　gusto；　invested　the　proceeds　and　my　father's　

life　insur