the new machiavelli-第49章

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women　have　the　courage　to　face　the　facts　of　life。



I　was　no　systematic　libertine；　you　must　understand；　things　happened　

to　me　and　desire　drove　me。　　Any　young　man　would　have　served　for　that　

Locarno　adventure；　and　after　that　what　had　been　a　mystic　and　

wonderful　thing　passed　rapidly　into　a　gross；　manifestly　misdirected　

and　complicating　one。　　I　can　count　a　meagre　tale　of　five　illicit　

loves　in　the　days　of　my　youth；　to　include　that　first　experience；　and　

of　them　all　only　two　were　sustained　relationships。　　Besides　these　

five　〃affairs；〃　on　one　or　two　occasions　I　dipped　so　low　as　the　inky　

dismal　sensuality　of　the　streets；　and　made　one　of　those　pairs　of　

correlated　figures；　the　woman　in　her　squalid　finery　sailing　

homeward；　the　man　modestly　aloof　and　behind；　that　every　night　in　the　

London　year　flit　by　the　score　of　thousands　across　the　sight　of　the　

observant。　。　。　。



How　ugly　it　is　to　recall；　ugly　and　shameful　now　without　

qualification！　　Yet　at　the　time　there　was　surely　something　not　

altogether　ugly　in　itsomething　that　has　vanished；　some　fine　thing　

mortally　ailing。



One　such　occasion　I　recall　as　if　it　were　a　vision　deep　down　in　a　

pit；　as　if　it　had　happened　in　another　state　of　existence　to　someone　

else。　　And　yet　it　is　the　sort　of　thing　that　has　happened；　once　or　

twice　at　least；　to　half　the　men　in　London　who　have　been　in　a　

position　to　make　it　possible。　　Let　me　try　and　give　you　its　peculiar　

effect。　　Man　or　woman；　you　ought　to　know　of　it。



Figure　to　yourself　a　dingy　room；　somewhere　in　that　network　of　

streets　that　lies　about　Tottenham　Court　Road；　a　dingy　bedroom　lit　by　

a　solitary　candle　and　carpeted　with　scraps　and　patches；　with　

curtains　of　cretonne　closing　the　window；　and　a　tawdry　ornament　of　

paper　in　the　grate。　　I　sit　on　a　bed　beside　a　weary…eyed；　fair…

haired；　sturdy　young　woman；　half　undressed；　who　is　telling　me　in　

broken　German　something　that　my　knowledge　of　German　is　at　first　

inadequate　to　understand。　。　。　。



I　thought　she　was　boasting　about　her　family；　and　then　slowly　the　

meaning　came　to　me。　　She　was　a　Lett　from　near　Libau　in　Courland；　and　

she　was　telling　mejust　as　one　tells　something　too　strange　for　

comment　or　emotionhow　her　father　had　been　shot　and　her　sister　

outraged　and　murdered　before　her　eyes。



It　was　as　if　one　had　dipped　into　something　primordial　and　stupendous　

beneath　the　smooth　and　trivial　surfaces　of　life。　　There　was　I；　you　

know；　the　promising　young　don　from　Cambridge；　who　wrote　quite　

brilliantly　about　politics　and　might　presently　get　into　Parliament；　

with　my　collar　and　tie　in　my　hand；　and　a　certain　sense　of　shameful　

adventure　fading　out　of　my　mind。



〃Ach　Gott！〃　she　sighed　by　way　of　comment；　and　mused　deeply　for　a　

moment　before　she　turned　her　face　to　me；　as　to　something　forgotten　

and　remembered；　and　assumed　the　half…hearted　meretricious　smile。



〃Bin　ich　eine　hubsche？〃　she　asked　like　one　who　repeats　a　lesson。



I　was　moved　to　crave　her　pardon　and　come　away。



〃Bin　ich　eine　hubsche？〃　she　asked　a　little　anxiously；　laying　a　

detaining　hand　upon　me；　and　evidently　not　understanding　a　word　of　

what　I　was　striving　to　say。







8





I　find　it　extraordinarily　difficult　to　recall　the　phases　by　which　I　

passed　from　my　first　admiration　of　Margaret's　earnestness　and　

unconscious　daintiness　to　an　intimate　acquaintance。　　The　earlier　

encounters　stand　out　clear　and　hard；　but　then　the　impressions　become　

crowded　and　mingle　not　only　with　each　other　but　with　all　the　

subsequent　developments　of　relationship；　the　enormous　evolutions　of　

interpretation　and　comprehension　between　husband　and　wife。　　Dipping　

into　my　memories　is　like　dipping　into　a　ragbag；　one　brings　out　this　

memory　or　that；　with　no　intimation　of　how　they　came　in　time　or　what　

led　to　them　and　joined　them　together。　　And　they　are　all　mixed　up　

with　subsequent　associations；　with　sympathies　and　discords；　habits　

of　intercourse；　surprises　and　disappointments　and　discovered　

misunderstandings。　　I　know　only　that　always　my　feelings　for　Margaret　

were　complicatel　feelings；　woven　of　many　and　various　strands。



It　is　one　of　the　curious　neglected　aspects　of　life　how　at　the　same　

time　and　in　relation　to　the　same　reality　we　can　have　in　our　minds　

streams　of　thought　at　quite　different　levels。　　We　can　be　at　the　same　

time　idealising　a　person　and　seeing　and　criticising　that　person　

quite　coldly　and　clearly；　and　we　slip　unconsciously　from　level　to　

level　and　produce　all　sorts　of　inconsistent　acts。　　In　a　sense　I　had　

no　illusions　about　Margaret；　in　a　sense　my　conception　of　Margaret　

was　entirely　poetic　illusion。　　I　don't　think　I　was　ever　blind　to　

certain　defects　of　hers；　and　quite　as　certainly　they　didn't　seem　to　

matter　in　the　slightest　degree。　　Her　mind　had　a　curious　want　of　

vigour；　〃flatness〃　is　the　only　word；　she　never　seemed　to　escape　from　

her　phrase；　her　way　of　thinking；　her　way　of　doing　was　indecisive；　

she　remained　in　her　attitude；　it　did　not　flow　out　to　easy；　

confirmatory　action。



I　saw　this　quite　clearly；　and　when　we　walked　and　talked　together　I　

seemed　always　trying　for　animation　in　her　and　never　finding　it。　　I　

would　state　my　ideas。　　〃I　know；〃　she　would　say；　〃I　know。〃



I　talked　about　myself　and　she　listened　wonderfully；　but　she　made　no　

answering　revelations。　　I　talked　politics；　and　she　remarked　with　her　

blue　eyes　wide　and　earnest：　〃Every　WORD　you　say　seems　so　just。〃



I　admired　her　appearance　tremendously　butI　can　only　express　it　by　

saying　I　didn't　want　to　touch　her。　　Her　fair　hair　was　always　

delectably　done。　　It　flowed　beautifully　over　her　pretty　small　ears；　

and　she　would　tie　its　fair　coilings　with　fillets　of　black　or　blue　

velvet　that　carried　pretty　buckles　of　silver　and　paste。　　The　light；　

the　faint　down　on　her　brow　and　cheek　was　delightful。　　And　it　was　

clear　to　me　that　I　made　her　happy。



My　sense　of　her　deficiencies　didn't　stand　in　the　way　of　my　falling　

at　last　very　deeply　in　love　with　her。　　Her　very　shortcomings　seemed　

to　offer　me　something。　。　。　。



She　stood　in　my　mind　for　goodnessand　for　things　from　which　it　

seemed　to　me　my　hold　was　slipping。



She　seemed　to　promise　a　way　of　escape　from　the　deepening　opposition　

in　me　between　physical　passions　and　the　constructive　career；　the　

career　of　wide　aims　and　human　service；　upon　which　I　had　embarked。　　

All　the　time　that　I　was　seeing　her　as　a　beautiful；　fragile；　rather　

ineffective　girl；　I　was　also　seeing　her　just　as　consciously　as　a　

shining　slender　figure；　a　radiant　reconciliation；　coming　into　my　

darkling　disorders　of　lust　and　impulse。　　I　could　understand　clearly　

that　she　was　incapable　of　the　most　necessary　subtleties　of　political　

thought；　and　yet　I　could　contemplate　praying　to　her　and　putting　all　

the　intricate　troubles　of　my　life　at　her　feet。



Before　the　reappearance　of　Margaret　in　my　world　at　all　an　unwonted　

disgust　with　the　consequences　and　quality　of　my　passions　had　arisen　

in　my　mind。　　Among　other　things　that　moment　with　the　Lettish　girl　

haunted　me　persistently。　　I　would　see　myself　again　and　again　sitting　

amidst　those　sluttish　surroundings；　collar　and　tie　in　hand；　while　

her　heavy　German　words　grouped　themselves　to　a　slowly　apprehended　

meaning。　　I　would　feel　again　with　a　fresh　stab　of　remorse；　that　this　

was　not　a　flash　of　adventure；　this　was　not　seeing　life　in　any　

permissible　sense；　but　a　dip　into　tragedy；　dishonour；　hideous　

degradation；　and　the　pitiless　cruelty　of　a　world　as　yet　uncontrolled　

by　any　ordered　will。



〃Good　God！〃　I　put　it　to　myself；　〃that　I　should　finish　the　work　those　

Cossacks　had　begun！　　I　who　want　order　and　justice　before　everything！　　

There's　no　way　out　of　it；　no　decent　excuse！　　If　I　didn't　think；　I　

ought　to　have　thought！〃　。　。　。



How　did　I　get　to　it？〃　。　。　。　　I　would　ransack　the　phases　of　my　

development　from　the　first　shy　unveiling　of　a　hidden　wonder　to　the　

last　extremity　as　a　man　will　go　through　muddled　account　books　to　

find　some　d