“That's General Claviger of Herat, I suppose,” he said in a low tone, as they retreated out of ear-shot beside the clump3 of syringas. “What a stern old man he is, to be sure, with what a stern old face! He looks like a person capable of doing or ordering all the strange things I've read of him in the papers.”
“Oh, yes,” Frida answered, misunderstanding for the moment her companion's meaning. “He's a very clever man, I believe, and a most distinguished4 officer.”
Bertram smiled in spite of himself. “Oh, I didn't mean that,” he cried, with the same odd gleam in his eyes Frida had so often noticed there. “I meant, he looked capable of doing or ordering all the horrible crimes he's credited with in history. You remember, it was he who was employed in massacring the poor savage5 Zulus in their last stand at bay, and in driving the Afghan women and children to die of cold and starvation on the mountain-tops after the taking of Kabul. A terrible fighter, indeed! A terrible history!”
“But I believe he's a very good man in private life,” Frida put in apologetically, feeling compelled to say the best she could for her husband's guest. “I don't care for him much myself, to be sure, but Robert likes him. And he's awfully6 nice, every one says, to his wife and step-children.”
“How CAN he be very good,” Bertram answered in his gentlest voice, “if he hires himself out indiscriminately to kill or maim8 whoever he's told to, irrespective even of the rights and wrongs of the private or public quarrel he happens to be employed upon? It's an appalling9 thing to take a fellow-creature's life, even if you're quite, quite sure it's just and necessary; but fancy contracting to take anybody's and everybody's life you're told to, without any chance even of inquiring whether they may not be in the right after all, and your own particular king or people most unjust and cruel and blood-stained aggressors? Why, it's horrible to contemplate10. Do you know, Mrs. Monteith,” he went on, with his far-away air, “it's that that makes society here in England so difficult to me. It's so hard to mix on equal terms with your paid high priests and your hired slaughterers, and never display openly the feelings you entertain towards them. Fancy if you had to mix so yourself with the men who flogged women to death in Hungary, or with the governors and jailors of some Siberian prison! That's the worst of travel. When I was in Central Africa, I sometimes saw a poor black woman tortured or killed before my very eyes; and if I'd tried to interfere11 in her favour, to save or protect her, I'd only have got killed myself, and probably have made things all the worse in the end for her. And yet it's hard indeed to have to look on at, or listen to, such horrors as these without openly displaying one's disgust and disapprobation. Whenever I meet your famous generals, or your judges and your bishops13, I burn to tell them how their acts affect me; yet I'm obliged to refrain, because I know my words could do no good and might do harm, for they could only anger them. My sole hope of doing anything to mitigate14 the rigour of your cruel customs is to take as little notice of them as possible in any way whenever I find myself in unsympathetic society.”
“Then you don't think ME unsympathetic?” Frida murmured, with a glow of pleasure.
“O Frida,” the young man cried, bending forward and looking at her, “you know very well you're the only person here I care for in the least or have the slightest sympathy with.”
Frida was pleased he should say so; he was so nice and gentle: but she felt constrained15 none the less to protest, for form's sake at least, against his calling her once more so familiarly by her Christian16 name. “NOT Frida to you, if you please, Mr. Ingledew,” she said as stiffly as she could manage. “You know it isn't right. Mrs. Monteith, you must call me.” But she wasn't as angry, somehow, at the liberty he had taken as she would have been in anybody else's case; he was so very peculiar17.
Bertram Ingledew paused and checked himself.
“You think I do it on purpose,” he said with an apologetic air; “I know you do, of course; but I assure you I don't. It's all pure forgetfulness. The fact is, nobody can possibly call to mind all the intricacies of your English and European customs at once, unless he's to the manner born, and carefully brought up to them from his earliest childhood, as all of you yourselves have been. He may recollect18 them after an effort when he thinks of them seriously; but he can't possibly bear them all in mind at once every hour of the day and night by a pure tour de force of mental concentration. You know it's the same with your people in other barbarous countries. Your own travellers say it themselves about the customs of Islam. They can't learn them and remember them all at every moment of their lives, as the Mohammedans do; and to make one slip there is instant death to them.”
Frida looked at him earnestly. “But I hope,” she said with an air of deprecation, pulling a rose to pieces, petal19 by petal, nervously20, as she spoke21, “you don't put us on quite the same level as Mohammedans. We're so much more civilised. So much better in every way. Do you know, Mr. Ingledew,” and she hesitated for a minute, “I can't bear to differ from you or blame you in anything, because you always appear to me so wise and good and kind-hearted and reasonable; but it often surprises me, and even hurts me, when you seem to talk of us all as if we were just so many savages22. You're always speaking about taboo23, and castes, and poojah, and fetiches, as if we weren't civilised people at all, but utter barbarians24. Now, don't you think—don't you admit, yourself, it's a wee bit unreasonable26, or at any rate impolite, of you?”
Bertram drew back with a really pained expression on his handsome features. “O Mrs. Monteith!” he cried, “Frida, I'm so sorry if I've seemed rude to you! It's all the same thing—pure human inadvertence; inability to throw myself into so unfamiliar27 an attitude. I forget every minute that YOU do not recognise the essential identity of your own taboos28 and poojahs and fetiches with the similar and often indistinguishable taboos and poojahs and fetiches of savages generally. They all come from the same source, and often retain to the end, as in your temple superstitions30 and your marriage superstitions, the original features of their savage beginnings. And as to your being comparatively civilised, I grant you that at once; only it doesn't necessarily make you one bit more rational—certainly not one bit more humane31, or moral, or brotherly in your actions.”
“I don't understand you,” Frida cried, astonished. “But there! I often don't understand you; only I know, when you've explained things, I shall see how right you are.”
Bertram smiled a quiet smile.
“You're certainly an apt pupil,” he said, with brotherly gentleness, pulling a flower as he went and slipping it softly into her bosom32. “Why, what I mean's just this. Civilisation33, after all, in the stage in which you possess it, is only the ability to live together in great organised communities. It doesn't necessarily imply any higher moral status or any greater rationality than those of the savage. All it implies is greater cohesion34, more unity35, higher division of functions. But the functions themselves, like those of your priests and judges and soldiers, may be as barbaric and cruel, or as irrational36 and unintelligent, as any that exist among the most primitive37 peoples. Advance in civilisation doesn't necessarily involve either advance in real knowledge of one's relations to the universe, or advance in moral goodness and personal culture. Some highly civilised nations of historic times have been more cruel and barbarous than many quite uncultivated ones. For example, the Romans, at the height of their civilisation, went mad drunk with blood at their gladiatorial shows; the Athenians of the age of Pericles and Socrates offered up human sacrifices at the Thargelia, like the veriest savages; and the Phoenicians and Carthaginians, the most civilised commercial people of the world in their time, as the English are now, gave their own children to be burnt alive as victims to Baal. The Mexicans were far more civilised than the ordinary North American Indians of their own day, and even in some respects than the Spanish Christians38 who conquered, converted, enslaved, and tortured them; but the Mexican religion was full of such horrors as I could hardly even name to you. It was based entirely39 on cannibalism40, as yours is on Mammon. Human sacrifices were common—commoner even than in modern England, I fancy. New-born babies were killed by the priests when the corn was sown; children when it had sprouted41; men when it was full grown; and very old people when it was fully7 ripe.”
“How horrible!” Frida exclaimed.
“Yes, horrible,” Bertram answered; “like your own worst customs. It didn't show either gentleness or rationality, you'll admit; but it showed what's the one thing essential to civilisation—great coherence42, high organisation43, much division of function. Some of the rites44 these civilised Mexicans performed would have made the blood of kindly45 savages run cold with horror. They sacrificed a man at the harvest festival by crushing him like the corn between two big flat stones. Sometimes the priests skinned their victim alive, and wore his raw skin as a mask or covering, and danced hideous46 dances, so disguised, in honour of the hateful deities47 whom their fancies had created—deities even more hateful and cruel, perhaps, than the worst of your own Christian Calvinistic fancies. I can't see, myself, that civilised people are one whit48 the better in all these respects than the uncivilised barbarian25. They pull together better, that's all; but war, bloodshed, superstition29, fetich-worship, religious rites, castes, class distinctions, sex taboos, restrictions49 on freedom of thought, on freedom of action, on freedom of speech, on freedom of knowledge, are just as common in their midst as among the utterly50 uncivilised.”
“Then what you yourself aim at,” Frida said, looking hard at him, for he spoke very earnestly—“what you yourself aim at is—?”
Bertram's eyes came back to solid earth with a bound.
“Oh, what we at home aim at,” he said, smiling that sweet, soft smile of his that so captivated Frida, “is not mere51 civilisation (though, of course, we value that too, in its meet degree, because without civilisation and co-operation no great thing is possible), but rationality and tenderness. We think reason the first good—to recognise truly your own place in the universe; to hold your head up like a man, before the face of high heaven, afraid of no ghosts or fetiches or phantoms52; to understand that wise and right and unselfish actions are the great requisites53 in life, not the service of non-existent and misshapen creatures of the human imagination. Knowledge of facts, knowledge of nature, knowledge of the true aspects of the world we live in,—these seem to us of first importance. After that, we prize next reasonable and reasoning goodness; for mere rule-of-thumb goodness, which comes by rote12, and might so easily degenerate54 into formalism or superstition, has no honour among us, but rather the contrary. If any one were to say with us (after he had passed his first infancy) that he always did such and such a thing because he had been told it was right by his parents or teachers—still more because priests or fetich-men had commanded it—he would be regarded, not as virtuous55, but as feeble or wicked—a sort of moral idiot, unable to distinguish rationally for himself between good and evil. That's not the sort of conduct WE consider right or befitting the dignity of a grown man or woman, an ethical56 unit in an enlightened community. Rather is it their prime duty to question all things, to accept no rule of conduct or morals as sure till they have thoroughly57 tested it.”
“Mr. Ingledew,” Frida exclaimed, “do you know, when you talk like that, I always long to ask you where on earth you come from, and who are these your people you so often speak about. A blessed people: I would like to learn about them; and yet I'm afraid to. You almost seem to me like a being from another planet.”
The young man laughed a quiet little laugh of deprecation, and sat down on the garden bench beside the yellow rose-bush.
“Oh, dear, no, Frida,” he said, with that transparent58 glance of his. “Now, don't look so vexed59; I shall call you Frida if I choose; it's your name, and I like you. Why let this funny taboo of one's own real name stand in the way of reasonable friendship? In many savage countries a woman's never allowed to call her husband by his name, or even to know it, or, for the matter of that, to see him in the daylight. In your England, the arrangement's exactly reversed: no man's allowed to call a woman by her real name unless she's tabooed for life to him—what you Europeans call married to him. But let that pass. If one went on pulling oneself up short at every one of your customs, one'd never get any further in any question one was discussing. Now, don't be deceived by nonsensical talk about living beings in other planets. There are no such creatures. It's a pure delusion60 of the ordinary egotistical human pattern. When people chatter61 about life in other worlds, they don't mean life—which, of a sort, there may be there:—they mean human life—a very different and much less important matter. Well, how could there possibly be human beings, or anything like them, in other stars or planets? The conditions are too complex, too peculiar, too exclusively mundane62. We are things of this world, and of this world only. Don't let's magnify our importance: we're not the whole universe. Our race is essentially63 a development from a particular type of monkey-like animal—the Andropithecus of the Upper Uganda eocene. This monkey-like animal itself, again, is the product of special antecedent causes, filling a particular place in a particular tertiary fauna64 and flora65, and impossible even in the fauna and flora of our own earth and our own tropics before the evolution of those succulent fruits and grain-like seeds, for feeding on which it was specially66 adapted. Without edible67 fruits, in short, there could be no monkey; and without monkeys there could be no man.”
“But mayn't there be edible fruits in the other planets?” Frida inquired, half-timidly, more to bring out this novel aspect of Bertram's knowledge than really to argue with him; for she dearly loved to hear his views of things, they were so fresh and unconventional.
“Edible fruits? Yes, possibly; and animals or something more or less like animals to feed upon them. But even if there are such, which planetoscopists doubt, they must be very different creatures in form and function from any we know on this one small world of ours. For just consider, Frida, what we mean by life. We mean a set of simultaneous and consecutive68 changes going on in a complex mass of organised carbon compounds. When most people say 'life,' however,—especially here with you, where education is undeveloped—they aren't thinking of life in general at all (which is mainly vegetable), but only of animal and often indeed of human life. Well, then, consider, even on this planet itself, how special are the conditions that make life possible. There must be water in some form, for there's no life in the desert. There must be heat up to a certain point, and not above or below it, for fire kills, and there's no life at the poles (as among Alpine69 glaciers), or what little there is depends upon the intervention70 of other life wafted71 from elsewhere—from the lands or seas, in fact, where it can really originate. In order to have life at all, as WE know it at least (and I can't say whether anything else could be fairly called life by any true analogy, until I've seen and examined it), you must have carbon, and oxygen, and hydrogen, and nitrogen, and many other things, under certain fixed72 conditions; you must have liquid water, not steam or ice: you must have a certain restricted range of temperature, neither very much higher nor very much lower than the average of the tropics. Now, look, even with all these conditions fulfilled, how diverse is life on this earth itself, the one place we really know—varying as much as from the oak to the cuttle-fish, from the palm to the tiger, from man to the fern, the sea-weed, or the jelly-speck. Every one of these creatures is a complex result of very complex conditions, among which you must never forget to reckon the previous existence and interaction of all the antecedent ones. Is it probable, then, even a priori, that if life or anything like it exists on any other planet, it would exist in forms at all as near our own as a buttercup is to a human being, or a sea-anemone is to a cat or a pine-tree?”
“Well, it doesn't look likely, now you come to put it so,” Frida answered thoughtfully: for, though English, she was not wholly impervious73 to logic74.
“Likely? Of course not,” Bertram went on with conviction. “Planetoscopists are agreed upon it. And above all, why should one suppose the living organisms or their analogues75, if any such there are, in the planets or fixed stars, possess any such purely76 human and animal faculties77 as thought and reason? That's just like our common human narrowness. If we were oaks, I suppose, we would only interest ourselves in the question whether acorns78 existed in Mars and Saturn79.” He paused a moment; then he added in an afterthought: “No, Frida; you may be sure all human beings, you and I alike, and thousands of others a great deal more different, are essential products of this one wee planet, and of particular times and circumstances in its history. We differ only as birth and circumstances have made us differ. There IS a mystery about who I am, and where I come from; I won't deny it: but it isn't by any means so strange or so marvellous a mystery as you seem to imagine. One of your own old sacred books says (as I remember hearing in the joss-house I attended one day in London), 'God hath made of one blood all the nations of the earth.' If for GOD in that passage we substitute COMMON DESCENT, it's perfectly80 true. We are all of one race; and I confess, when I talk to you, every day I feel our unity more and more profoundly.” He bent81 over on the bench and took her tremulous hand. “Frida,” he said, looking deep into her speaking dark eyes, “don't you yourself feel it?”
He was so strange, so simple-minded, so different in every way from all other men, that for a moment Frida almost half-forgot to be angry with him. In point of fact, in her heart, she was not angry at all; she liked to feel the soft pressure of his strong man's hand on her dainty fingers; she liked to feel the gentle way he was stroking her smooth arm with that delicate white palm of his. It gave her a certain immediate82 and unthinking pleasure to sit still by his side and know he was full of her. Then suddenly, with a start, she remembered her duty: she was a married woman, and she OUGHT NOT to do it. Quickly, with a startled air, she withdrew her hand. Bertram gazed down at her for a second, half taken aback by her hurried withdrawal83.
“Then you don't like me!” he cried, in a pained tone; “after all, you don't like me!” One moment later, a ray of recognition broke slowly over his face. “Oh, I forgot,” he said, leaning away. “I didn't mean to annoy you. A year or two ago, of course, I might have held your hand in mine as long as ever I liked. You were still a free being. But what was right then is wrong now, according to the kaleidoscopic84 etiquette85 of your countrywomen. I forgot all that in the heat of the moment. I recollected86 only we were two human beings, of the same race and blood, with hearts that beat and hands that lay together. I remember now, you must hide and stifle87 your native impulses in future: you're tabooed for life to Robert Monteith: I must needs respect his seal set upon you!”
And he drew a deep sigh of enforced resignation.
Frida sighed in return. “These problems are so hard,” she said.
Bertram smiled a strange smile. “There are NO problems,” he answered confidently. “You make them yourselves. You surround life with taboos, and then—you talk despairingly of the problems with which your own taboos alone have saddled you.”
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1
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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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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maim
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| v.使残废，使不能工作，使伤残 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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petal
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| n.花瓣 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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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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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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taboo
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| n.禁忌，禁止接近，禁止使用；adj.禁忌的；v.禁忌，禁制，禁止 | |
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barbarians
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| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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barbarian
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| n.野蛮人；adj.野蛮(人)的；未开化的 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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taboos
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| 禁忌( taboo的名词复数 )； 忌讳； 戒律； 禁忌的事物（或行为） | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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cohesion
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| n.团结，凝结力 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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cannibalism
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| n.同类相食；吃人肉 | |
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sprouted
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| v.发芽( sprout的过去式和过去分词 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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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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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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deities
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| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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48
whit
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| n.一点，丝毫 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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50
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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51
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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52
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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53
requisites
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| n.必要的事物( requisite的名词复数 ) | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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fauna
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| n.(一个地区或时代的)所有动物，动物区系 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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edible
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| n.食品，食物；adj.可食用的 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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analogues
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| 相似物( analogue的名词复数 )； 类似物； 类比； 同源词 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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acorns
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| n.橡子，栎实( acorn的名词复数 ) | |
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Saturn
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| n.农神，土星 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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kaleidoscopic
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| adj.千变万化的 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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