the new machiavelli-第20章

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said　Shoesmith。



〃Shut　it；〃　said　Naylor　modestly。



〃Exactly；〃　said　Cossington。　　〃That　gives　us　three　features；〃　

touching　them　off　on　his　fingers；　〃Epigram；　Literary　Section；　

Sports。　　Then　we　want　a　section　to　shove　anything　into；　a　joke；　a　

notice　of　anything　that's　going　on。　　So　on。　　Our　Note　Book。〃



〃Oh；　Hell！〃　said　Britten；　and　clashed　his　boots；　to　the　silent　

disapproval　of　every　one。



〃Then　we　want　an　editorial。〃



〃A　WHAT？〃　cried　Britten；　with　a　note　of　real　terror　in　his　voice。



〃Well；　don't　we？　　Unless　we　have　our　Note　Book　to　begin　on　the　front　

page。　　It　gives　a　scrappy　effect　to　do　that。　　We　want　something　

manly　and　straightforward　and　a　bit　thoughtful；　about　Patriotism；　

say；　or　ESPRIT　DE　CORPS；　or　After…Life。〃



I　looked　at　Britten。　　Hitherto　we　had　not　considered　Cossington　

mattered　very　much　in　the　world。



He　went　over　us　as　a　motor…car　goes　over　a　dog。　　There　was　a　sort　of　

energy　about　him；　a　new　sort　of　energy　to　us；　we　had　never　realised　

that　anything　of　the　sort　existed　in　the　world。　　We　were　hopelessly　

at　a　disadvantage。　　Almost　instantly　we　had　developed　a　clear　and　

detailed　vision　of　a　magazine　made　up　of　everything　that　was　most　

acceptable　in　the　magazines　that　flourished　in　the　adult　world　about　

us；　and　had　determined　to　make　it　a　success。　　He　had　by　a　kind　of　

instinct；　as　it　were；　synthetically　plagiarised　every　successful　

magazine　and　breathed　into　this　dusty　mixture　the　breath　of　life。　　

He　was　elected　at　his　own　suggestion　managing　director；　with　the　

earnest　support　of　Shoesmith　and　Naylor；　and　conducted　the　magazine　

so　successfully　and　brilliantly　that　he　even　got　a　whole　back　page　

of　advertisements　from　the　big　sports　shop　in　Holborn；　and　made　the　

printers　pay　at　the　same　rate　for　a　notice　of　certain　books　of　their　

own　which　they　said　they　had　inserted　by　inadvertency　to　fill　up　

space。　　The　only　literary　contribution　in　the　first　number　was　a　

column　by　Topham　in　faultless　stereotyped　English　in　depreciation　of　

some　fancied　evil　called　Utilitarian　Studies　and　ending　with　that　

noble　old　quotation：





〃To　the　glory　that　was　Greece　and　the　grandeur　that　was　Rome。〃





And　Flack　crowded　us　out　of　number　two　with　a　bright　little　paper　on　

the　〃Humours　of　Cricket；〃　and　the　Head　himself　was　profusely　

thoughtful　all　over　the　editorial　under　the　heading　of　〃The　School　

Chapel；　and　How　it　Seems　to　an　Old　Boy。〃



Britten　and　I　found　it　difficult　to　express　to　each　other　with　any　

grace　or　precision　what　we　felt　about　that　magazine。







CHAPTER　THE　FOURTH



ADOLESCENCE





1



I　find　it　very　difficult　to　trace　how　form　was　added　to　form　and　

interpretation　followed　interpretation　in　my　ever…spreading；　ever…

deepening；　ever…multiplying　and　enriching　vision　of　this　world　into　

which　I　had　been　born。　　Every　day　added　its　impressions；　its　hints；　

its　subtle　explications　to　the　growing　understanding。　　Day　after　day　

the　living　interlacing　threads　of　a　mind　weave　together。　　Every　

morning　now　for　three　weeks　and　more　（for　to…day　is　Thursday　and　I　

started　on　a　Tuesday）　I　have　been　trying　to　convey　some　idea　of　the　

factors　and　early　influences　by　which　my　particular　scrap　of　

subjective　tapestry　was　shaped；　to　show　the　child　playing　on　the　

nursery　floor；　the　son　perplexed　by　his　mother；　gazing　aghast　at　his　

dead　father；　exploring　interminable　suburbs；　touched　by　first　

intimations　of　the　sexual　mystery；　coming　in　with　a　sort　of　confused　

avidity　towards　the　centres　of　the　life　of　London。　　It　is　only　by　

such　an　effort　to　write　it　down　that　one　realises　how　marvellously　

crowded；　how　marvellously　analytical　and　synthetic　those　ears　must　

be。　　One　begins　with　the　little　child　to　whom　the　sky　is　a　roof　of　

blue；　the　world　a　screen　of　opaque　and　disconnected　facts；　the　home　

a　thing　eternal；　and　〃being　good〃　just　simple　obedience　to　

unquestioned　authority；　and　one　comes　at　last　to　the　vast　world　of　

one's　adult　perception；　pierced　deep　by　flaring　searchlights　of　

partial　understanding；　here　masked　by　mists；　here　refracted　and　

distorted　through　half　translucent　veils；　here　showing　broad　

prospects　and　limitless　vistas　and　here　impenetrably　dark。



I　recall　phases　of　deep　speculation；　doubts　and　even　prayers　by　

night；　and　strange　occasions　when　by　a　sort　of　hypnotic　

contemplation　of　nothingness　I　sought　to　pierce　the　web　of　

appearances　about　me。　　It　is　hard　to　measure　these　things　in　

receding　perspective；　and　now　I　cannot　trace；　so　closely　has　mood　

succeeded　and　overlaid　and　obliterated　mood；　the　phases　by　which　an　

utter　horror　of　death　was　replaced　by　the　growing　realisation　of　its　

necessity　and　dignity。　　Difficulty　of　the　imagination　with　infinite　

space；　infinite　time；　entangled　my　mind；　and　moral　distress　for　the　

pain　and　suffering　of　bygone　ages　that　made　all　thought　of　

reformation　in　the　future　seem　but　the　grimmest　irony　upon　now　

irreparable　wrongs。　　Many　an　intricate　perplexity　of　these　

broadening　years　did　not　so　much　get　settled　as　cease　to　matter。　　

Life　crowded　me　away　from　it。



I　have　confessed　myself　a　temerarious　theologian；　and　in　that　

passage　from　boyhood　to　manhood　I　ranged　widely　in　my　search　for　

some　permanently　satisfying　Truth。　　That；　too；　ceased　after　a　time　

to　be　urgently　interesting。　　I　came　at　last　into　a　phase　that　

endures　to　this　day；　of　absolute　tranquillity；　of　absolute　

confidence　in　whatever　that　Incomprehensible　Comprehensive　which　

must　needs　be　the　substratum　of　all　things；　may　be。　　Feeling　OF　IT；　

feeling　BY　IT；　I　cannot　feel　afraid　of　it。　　I　think　I　had　got　quite　

clearly　and　finally　to　that　adjustment　long　before　my　Cambridge　days　

were　done。　　I　am　sure　that　the　evil　in　life　is　transitory　and　finite　

like　an　accident　or　distress　in　the　nursery；　that　God　is　my　Father　

and　that　I　may　trust　Him；　even　though　life　hurts　so　that　one　must　

needs　cry　out　at　it；　even　though　it　shows　no　consequence　but　

failure；　no　promise　but　pain。　。　。　。



But　while　I　was　fearless　of　theology　I　must　confess　it　was　

comparatively　late　before　I　faced　and　dared　to　probe　the　secrecies　

of　sex。　　I　was　afraid　of　sex。　　I　had　an　instinctive　perception　that　

it　would　be　a　large　and　difficult　thing　in　my　life；　but　my　early　

training　was　all　in　the　direction　of　regarding　it　as　an　irrelevant　

thing；　as　something　disconnected　from　all　the　broad　significances　of　

life；　as　hostile　and　disgraceful　in　its　quality。　　The　world　was　

never　so　emasculated　in　thought；　I　suppose；　as　it　was　in　the　

Victorian　time。　。　。　。



I　was　afraid　to　think　either　of　sex　or　（what　I　have　always　found　

inseparable　from　a　kind　of　sexual　emotion）　beauty。　　Even　as　a　boy　I　

knew　the　thing　as　a　haunting　and　alluring　mystery　that　I　tried　to　

keep　away　from。　　Its　dim　presence　obsessed　me　none　the　less　for　

all　the　extravagant　decency；　the　stimulating　silences　of　my　

upbringing。　。　。　。



The　plaster　Venuses　and　Apollos　that　used　to　adorn　the　vast　aisle　

and　huge　grey　terraces　of　the　Crystal　Palace　were　the　first　

intimations　of　the　beauty　of　the　body　that　ever　came　into　my　life。　　

As　I　write　of　it　I　feel　again　the　shameful　attraction　of　those　

gracious　forms。　　I　used　to　look　at　them　not　simply；　but　curiously　

and　askance。　　Once　at　least　in　my　later　days　at　Penge；　I　spent　a　

shilling　in　admission　chiefly　for　the　sake　of　them。　。　。　。



The　strangest　thing　of　all　my　odd　and　solitary　upbringing　seems　to　

me　now　that　swathing　up　of　all　the　splendours　of　the　flesh；　that　

strange　combination　of　fanatical　terrorism　and　shyness　that　fenced　

me　about　with　prohibitions。　　It　caused　me　to　grow　up；　I　will　not　say　

blankly　ignorant；　but　with　an　ignorance　blurred　and　dishonoured　by　

shame；　by　enigmatical　warnings；　by　cultivated　aversions；　an　

ignorance　in　which　a　fascinated　curiosity　and　desire　struggled　like　

a　thing　in　a　net。　　I　knew　so　little　and　I　felt　so　much。　　There　was　

indeed　no　Aphrodite　at　all　in