He replied that I was not being punished; that I was simply being “detained.” I said that this could not be. According to prison regulations, solitary confinement of so severe a [88]nature was punishment at least equivalent to birching. Would he birch me without acquainting me with the cause of such a punishment? No, he said, he would not. Then why, I asked, was I receiving a punishment equivalent in severity without a cause assigned. I wished to be provided with a cause, and to be provided with it in writing.
The Commandant himself was gentlemanly and courteous7. A few days afterwards when I repeated my request he told me he was simply acting8 under orders, and that he could not change matters without orders. I asked him then if he would communicate my request to the War Office, under whose instructions he proceeded; and he promised to do so.
Some time elapsed; and when he spoke9 to me further about the matter he asked what it was that I demanded. He asked me if I would particularise. I replied that the War Office had on their own initiative defined us as Prisoners of War. It had been announced to us that all our letters had to be so addressed; all the orders given to us were made applicable under that heading. I said I did not quarrel with the designation; both nationally and personally I hailed it. It was, I agreed, a splendid designation; [89]but such being our state, I demanded on our behalf the application of the international agreement governing the treatment of prisoners of war—an agreement that, I believed, had been ratified10 between the belligerent11 powers during the first week of the war. In other words, I wanted tobacco and pipe, I wished any books that I might order or that might be sent in to me, daily papers, free communication with my fellow-prisoners, and the opening of cell doors by night and by day, the right to have food sent into us, and the return of my money in order that I might be able to purchase food in the town, and facilities to purchase it, by canteen or by order. I added that what I demanded I demanded not for myself but for all of us, and in all of the prisons.
After a few days he came to me to say that the War Office had authorised him to grant these rights, but to grant them in stages, and with one stipulation12. That stipulation he would announce to the men. Having put us all on parade he announced the rights that would be granted, but said that it would first be necessary for us to choose a commandant from among ourselves who would be responsible to him for the good order of the prison, and who [90]would have power to maintain discipline. The men appointed me, and I created officers for each of the landings.
So began our little republic, and so extended our educative influence. When the rights were in full force the staff became supernumeraries. We created our post office and handled our own parcels and letters for distribution. Rules were laid down for the ordering of our life together; and only once or twice was it necessary to take disciplinary measures (solitary confinement in one case as a pathetic reminder13!), for the general spirit of loyalty14 and affection was sufficient—was, in fact, remarkable15 with a body of men not accustomed to the strict rules necessary to the ordering of such a community. The appointed officers were responsible for their landings, made daily reports, and brought up any cases with which they were unable to deal. And so from top to bottom we maintained ourselves, quietly eliminating the staff, to the no small dissatisfaction of some of them, though with the good will of most. There was, in fact, no work for most of the staff to do.
At seven each morning, after breakfast, and at eight at night, the bell was rung, and we all gathered for public prayers. Michael MacRory [91]Irish orator16, and Padraic Pearse’s gardener, led the Rosary. Englishmen speak much of our religious differences. It devolved upon me as a Protestant to summon the prayers, and none thought otherwise of it than as a natural thing, while every Protestant knelt with his fellows in prayer to the one God. Whatever announcements or enquiries Father Moore had to make were made through a Protestant, and had anyone suggested that they should not have been so made, it would have fared ill with him. They were made as a simple matter of authority by whoever was in authority. The reason for this was that we were sufficient in ourselves to guard over our own affairs without a stranger’s hand to create trouble.
These daily prayers were a great astonishment17 to the staff. One sergeant18 declared to a visitor: “I heard a lot about these Sinn Feiners being a bad lot, but you should see them. They’re a religious lot. They goes to prayers and church same as we goes to the theaytre.” And when, some days after our public prayers had begun, the news came that the “Hampshire” had sunk, there was not a man of the staff but was fully19 assured that it was our prayers had sent Lord Kitchener to his death.
[92]
At ten each night every man was required to be off the corridor and balconies, and any conversation in cells after that time had to be conducted softly, in order not to interfere20 with those who wished to sleep; and within five minutes of the ringing of the bell the prison was clear and quiet. The staff became accustomed, if they had business to execute with us, to resign it into our hands for prosecution21. Those who did not do so made a sad affair of their undertaking22. Which is a parable23. In a phrase, our motto was: [Gaelic: Sinn Féin A?áin].
It was interesting to notice our influence on the staff. We never troubled about them; they had their interests and we had ours; and only occasionally the national opposition24 clashed sharply. Yet they confided25 in us. With our extended rights the library was opened to us; and the librarian-warder informed us that he was at first afraid to be left alone in the library with any one of us. Apparently26 he thought we would bite out his windpipe unexpectedly, or playfully split his skull27. But when his first visitor, a man from Belfast, contemptuously described his collection of books as “piffle,” and asked that certain other books should be procured28 from the officers’ library, as he himself [93]declared: “My word, I was surprised. I thought you Sinn Feiners were a wild lot of savages29 from what I heard of you. But you are men of culture, most of you. It’s a bit of a shock to a man to find out.” The librarian-warder was quite pleased at the widening range of his ethnographical knowledge.
Yet the most interesting member of the staff was the sergeant of the R.A.M.C. He was a Doctor of Literature at Oxford30, and also, I believe, a Docteur ès Lettres at the Sorbonne. He had been out at Gallipoli, whence he had been invalided31 home. As he passed on his rounds he would often come into my cell for a talk. We very seldom spoke on national questions, for I assumed that our orbits of interest on such matters would not cut each other at any point; our conversation was generally on literary or philosophical32 matters. But once he came up to me with a definite thing to say.
“You know,” he said, “the Government make a great mistake putting men like you into prison. You will never forget it; you can never forget it; no man could who canvasses33 experience with his intellect. They’re simply a lot of grandfatherly old fools at the top of affairs, and we always make a muddle34 of things. [94]They should either give you a clear run, and let you make what you can of your country and take the chances; or they should wait their chance and shoot you out of hand and laugh at the racket afterwards. But all this sentimental35 talk about your country, followed up by all this muddle, simply makes a thinking man sick. All this business,” and he indicated the hundreds of us standing36 talking about the yard, “is clumsy, it’s idiocy37, and it breeds more clumsiness and idiocy for the future.”
“Which of your two alternatives would you adopt?” I asked him.
“Well, you know, one likes to meet a man to whom one can talk; intellect, and all that sort of thing, and culture, and care for art, they’re rare enough in this world, and one wouldn’t altogether care to take the responsibility of destroying any part of it—”
“But you’d shoot me all the same.”
“Yes, I think I would.” He was quite serious. “Quite possibly that’s because I’ve just been seeing a lot of blood; and I don’t think I would have said that two years ago. But just now I’d shoot you. I wouldn’t of course do it in a stupid way. I’d wait till you gave me a chance; and sooner or later you [95]would, for you have your convictions, and they’d lead you into my hand; and then I’d shoot you instantly, and without trial if need be, without waiting anyhow. Of course there’d be trouble afterwards, but I’d wait quietly till that blew over, as it would.”
“That wouldn’t get you out of the wood, for you’d make a martyr38 of me and exploit my ideals.”
“That’s so. There’s that side, of course. But still that’s what I think I’d do. I certainly wouldn’t go muddling39 about trying to do two mutually contradictory40 things at the same time. All you men here—the whole thing’s simply offensive.”
“Does the hypocrisy41 offend you then? You ought to have become accustomed to that by this time as a nation.”
“Well, yes, in a way it does, I suppose. But it’s not that mainly; it’s the clumsy thinking; it’s not thinking the thing out from the beginning. Do I horrify42 you?”
“Not at all. If you came over to Ireland you’d have a great audience. We’d agree with you in every word, simply and utterly43. We’d be delighted to meet one of your nation who looked at things without any silly sentiment. You’re [96]a sentimental people, and at bottom very cruel; we’re not sentimental. You are as sentimental as any yourself; but you’ve at least got your mentality44 clear of it, and so for the first time you can see things as they are. The worst of it is that, dealing45 with a sentimental people, you are making us superficially sentimental too, and that’s distracting us from our work. I only wish that more of you would talk as you do, instead of slobbering. And shoot away; as long as you say why, without using words that convey nothing to us and that only mean sloppy46 thinking on your part.”
“But I thought you objected to the shootings in Dublin.”
“Certainly. Those men were my brothers. But they weren’t shot as you said you’d shoot me, because you were out to smash an opposed thing as the only logical alternative to giving it the run of its own life, but, if you please, because they didn’t accept certain standards which none of us can ever accept until we make and endorse47 them in terms of ourselves—or, rather, which we now do and must for ever act upon in that sense, because it’s the first principle of life so to do. And then, when you have them shot, you turn round and praise their [97]noble ideals! In the name of heaven, what ideals?”
“I think I should certainly shoot you now.”
“To smash me. Good man! We’d understand that in Ireland, where your Liberal sentiments bore us, and your Tory hectoring irritates us. We’re a kindly48 people—human and hospitable49; but you, because you can escape into words and hide realities from yourselves, are cruel and inhospitable.”
And I believe he would have shot me. Many were the conversations we had; many were the kindly, thoughtful acts he did for us; and he was courtesy itself to the ladies who spent their days at the prison gate taking rebuffs from everyone in the prison, in the determination to see that each man of us received what he had need of, food or clothing. But he would have reasoned the thing out and shot me, without the least ill-will or high-falutin. And I would have borne him no ill-will, for the fight would have continued long past the two of us.
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收听单词发音
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1
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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3
confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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abortive
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| adj.不成功的，发育不全的 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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9
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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10
ratified
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| v.批准，签认（合约等）( ratify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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12
stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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13
reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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29
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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invalided
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| 使伤残（invalid的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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canvasses
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| n.检票员，游说者，推销员( canvass的名词复数 )v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的第三人称单数 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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34
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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39
muddling
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| v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的现在分词 )；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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40
contradictory
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| adj.反驳的，反对的，抗辩的；n.正反对，矛盾对立 | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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42
horrify
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| vt.使恐怖，使恐惧，使惊骇 | |
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43
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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44
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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45
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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46
sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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47
endorse
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| vt.(支票、汇票等)背书，背署；批注；同意 | |
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48
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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49
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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