To give the cure a chance we must have a long quiet time. And we must secure it now.
For the moment, no doubt, war has gone out of fashion; it pines in the shade, like the old horsehair covers for sofas, or antimacassars of lace. Hardly a day can pass, even now, but someone finds out, with a start and a look of displeasure, that war has been given its chance and has not done quite so well as it ought to have done. One man will write to the Press, in dismay, that the meals in the Simplon express are not what they were in 1910. Another, outward bound by Calais to Cannes, has found that the hot-water plant in his sleeping-compartment struck work—and that in a specially1 cold sector2 down by the Alps. Thus does war in the end, knock at the doors of us all: like the roll of the earth upon its axis3, it brings us, if not death or destitution4 or some ashy taste in the mouth, at any rate a sense of a fallen temperature in our bunks5. However non-porous our minds, there does slowly filter into us the thought that when a million of a country's men of working age have just been killed there may be a plaguey dearth6 of the man-power needed to keep in pleasant order the lavatories7 of its trains de luxe. Sad to think how many tender minds, formed in those Elysian years—Elysian for anyone who was not poor—before the war, will have to suffer, probably for many years, these little shocks of realization8.
Surely there never was any time in the life of the world when it was so good, in the way of obvious material comfort, to be alive and fairly well-to-do as it was before the war. Think of the speed and comfort and relative cheapness of the Orient Express; of the way you could wander, unruined, through long ?sthetic holidays in Italy and semi-?sthetic, semi-athletic holidays in the Alps; of the week-end accessibility of London from Northern England; of the accessibility of public schools for the sons of the average parson or doctor; of the penny post, crown of our civilization—torn from us while the abhorred9 half-penny post for circulars was yet left; of the Income Tax just large enough to give us a pleasant sense of grievance10 patriotically11 borne, but not to prostrate12 us, winter and summer, with two "elbow jolts13" or "Mary Ann punches" like those of the perfected modern prize-fighter.
Many sanguine14 well-to-do people dreamt, in the August of 1914, that the war, besides attaining15 its primary purpose of beating the enemy, would disarrange none of these blessings17; that it would even have as a by-product18 a kind of "old-time Merrie England," with the working classes cured of the thirst for wages and deeply convinced that everyone who was not one of themselves was a natural ruler over them. For any little expense to which the war might put us the Germans would pay, and our troops would return home to dismiss all trade-union officials and to regard the upper and middle classes thenceforth as a race of heaven-sent colonels—men to be followed, feared, and loved. Ah, happy vision, beautiful dream!—like Thackeray's reverie about having a very old and rich aunt. The dreamer awakes among the snows of the Mont Cenis with a horrid20 smell in the corridor and the hot-water pipes out of order. And so war has gone out of fashion, even among cheery well-to-do-people.
II
But may it not come into fashion again? Do not all the great fashions move in cycles, like stars? When our wars with Napoleon were just over, and all the bills still to be paid, and the number of visibly one-legged men at its provisional maximum, must not many simple minds have thought that surely man would never idealize any business so beastly and costly21 again? And then see what happened. We were all tranquilly22 feeding, good as gold, in the deep and pleasant meadows of the long Victorian peace when from some of the frailest24 animals in the pasture there rose a plaintive25 bleat26 for war. It was the very lambs that began it. "Shall we never have carnage?" Stevenson, the consumptive, sighed to a friend. Henley, the cripple, wrote a longing28 "Song of the Sword." Out of the weak came forth19 violence. Bookish men began to hug the belief that they had lost their way in life; they felt that they were Neys or Nelsons manqués, or cavalry29 leaders lost to the world. "If I had been born a corsair or a pirate," thought Mr. Tappertit, musing30 among the ninepins, "I should have been all right." Fragile dons became connoisseurs31. faute de mieux, of prize-fighting; they talked, nineteen to the dozen, about the still, strong man and "straight-flung words and few," adored "naked force," averred32 they were not cotton-spinners all, and deplored33 the cankers of a quiet world and a long peace. Some of them entered quite hotly, if not always expertly, into the joys and sorrows of what they called "Tommies," and chafed34 at the many rumoured35 refusals Of British innkeepers to serve them, little knowing that only by these great acts of renunciation on the part of licensees has many a gallant36 private been saved from falling into that morgue an "officer house," and having his beer congealed37 in the glass by the refrigerative company of colonels.
The father and mother of this virilistic movement among the well-read were Mr. Andrew Lang, the most donnish of wits, and one of the wittiest38. Lang would review a new book in a great many places at once. So, when he blessed, his blessing16 would carry as far as the more wholly literal myrrh and frankincense wafted39 abroad by the hundred hands of Messrs. Boot. The fame of Mr. Rider Haggard was one of Lang's major products. Mr. Haggard was really a man of some mettle40. By persons fitted to judge he was believed to have at his fingers' ends all the best of what is known and thought by mankind about turnips41 and other crops with which they may honourably42 and usefully rotate. But it was for turning his back upon these humdrum43 sustainers of life and writing, in a rich Corinthian style, accounts of fancy "slaughters44 grim and great," that his flame lived and spread aloft, as Milton says, in the pure eyes and perfect witness of Lang. Another nursling of Lang's was the wittier45 Kipling, then a studious youth exuding46 Border ballads47 and Bret Harte from every pore, but certified48 to carry about him, on paper, the proper smell of blood and tobacco.
Deep answered unto deep. In Germany, too, the pibrochs of the professors were rending49 the skies, and poets of C4 medical grade were tearing the mask from the hideous50 face of peace. The din23 throughout the bookish parts of Central and Western Europe suggested to an irreverent mind a stage with a quaint52 figure of some short-sighted pedagogue53 of tradition coming upon it, round-shouldered, curly-toed, print-fed, physically54 inept55, to play the part of the war-horse in Job, swallowing the ground with fierceness and rage, and "saying among the trumpets56 'Ha, ha!'" You may see it all as a joke. Or as something rather more than a joke, in its effects. Mr. Yeats suggested that an all-seeing eye might perceive the Trojan War to have come because of a tune57 that a boy had once piped in Thessaly. What if all our millions of men had to be killed because some academic Struwwelpeter, fifty years since, took on himself to pipe up "Take the nasty peace away!" and kick the shins of Concord58, his most kindly59 nurse?
III
If he did, it was natural. All Struwwelpeters are natural. All heirs-apparent are said to take the opposite side to their fathers still on the throne. And those learned men were heirs to the age of the Crystal Palace, the age of the first "Locksley Hall," with its "parliament of man" and "federation60 of the world," the age that laid a railway line along the city moat of Amiens and opened capacious H?tels de la Paix throughout Latin Europe, the age when passports withered61 and Baedeker was more and more, the age that in one of its supreme62 moments of ecstasy63 founded the London International College, an English public school (now naturally dead) in which the boys were to pass some of their terms among the heathen in Germany or France.
The cause of peace, like all triumphant64 causes, good as they may be, had made many second-rate friends. It had become safe, and even sound, for the worldly to follow. The dullards, the people who live by phrases alone, the scribes who write by rote27 and not with authority—most of these had drifted into its service. It had become a provocation65, a challenge, vexing66 those "discoursing67 wits" who "count it," Bacon says, "a bondage68 to fix a belief." A rebound69 had to come. And those arch-rebounders were men of the teaching and writing trades, wherein the newest fashions in thought are most eagerly canvassed70, and any inveterate71 acquiescence72 in mere73 common sense afflicts74 many bosoms75 with the fear of lagging yards and yards behind the foremost files of time; perhaps—that keenest agony—of having nothing piquant76 or startling to say, no little bombs handy for conversational77 purposes. "I sat down," the deserving young author says in The Vicar of Wakefield, "and, finding that the best things remained to be said on the wrong side, I resolved to write a book that should be wholly new. I therefore dressed up three paradoxes78 with some ingenuity79. They were false, indeed, but they were new. The jewels of truth have been so often imported by others that nothing was left for me to import but some splendid things that, at a distance, looked every bit as well." "Peace on earth, good-will towards men," "Blessed are the peacemakers"—these and the like might be jewels; but they were demoded; they were old tags; they were clichés of bourgeois80 morality; they were vieux jeu, like the garnets with which, in She Stoops to Conquer, the young woman of fashion declined to be pacified81 when her heart cried out for the diamonds.
IV
Then the Church itself must needs take a hand—or that part of the Church which ever cocks an eye at the latest fashions in public opinion, the "blessed fellows," like Poins, that "think as every man thinks" and help to swell82 every passing shout into a roar. I find among old papers a letter written in Queen Victoria's reign83 by an unfashionable curmudgeon84 whose thought would not keep to the roadway like theirs. "I see," this rude ironist writes, "that 'the Church's duty in regard to war' is to be discussed at the Church Congress. That is right. For a year the heads of our Church have been telling us what war is and does—that it is a school of character, that it sobers men, cleans them, strengthens them, knits their hearts, makes them brave, patient, humble85, tender, prone86 to self-sacrifice. Watered by 'war's red rain,' one bishop87 tells us, virtue88 grows; a cannonade, he points out, is an 'oratorio89'—almost a form of worship. True; and to the Church men look for help to save their souls from starving for lack of this good school, this kindly rain, this sacred music. Congresses are apt to lose themselves in wastes of words. This one must not—surely cannot—so straight is the way to the goal. It has simply to draft and submit a new Collect for 'war in our time,' and to call for the reverent51 but firm emendation, in the spirit of the best modern thought, of those passages in Bible and Prayer-book by which even the truest of Christians91 and the best of men have at times been blinded to the duty of seeking war and ensuing it.
"Still, man's moral nature cannot, I admit, live by war alone. Nor do I say, with some, that peace is wholly bad. Even amid the horrors of peace you will find little shoots of character fed by the gentle and timely rains of plague and famine, tempest and fire; simple lessons of patience and courage conned92 in the schools of typhus, gout, and stone; not oratorios93, perhaps, but homely94 anthems95 and rude hymns96 played on knife and gun, in the long winter nights. Far from me to 'sin our mercies' or to call mere twilight97 dark. Yet dark it may become. For remember that even these poor makeshift schools of character, these second-bests, these halting substitutes for war—remember that the efficiency of every one of them, be it hunger, accident, ignorance, sickness or pain, is menaced by the intolerable strain of its struggle with secular98 doctors, plumbers99, inventors, school-masters, and policemen. Every year thousands who would in nobler days have been braced100 and steeled by manly101 tussles102 with smallpox103 or diphtheria are robbed of that blessing by the great changes made in our drains. Every year thousands of women and children must go their way bereft104 of the rich spiritual experience of the widow and the orphan105. I try not to despond, but when I think of all that Latimer owed to the fire, Regulus to a spiked106 barrel, Socrates to prison, and Job to destitution and disease—when I think of these things and then think of how many of my poor fellow creatures in our modern world are robbed daily of the priceless discipline of danger, want, and torture, then I ask myself—I cannot help asking myself—whether we are not walking into a very slough107 of moral and spiritual squalor.
"Once more, I am no alarmist. As long as we have wars to stay our souls upon, the moral evil will not be grave; and, to do the Ministry108 justice, I see no risk of their drifting into any long or serious peace. But weak or vicious men may come after them, and it is now, in the time of our strength, of quickened insight and deepened devotion, that we must take thought for the leaner years when there may be no killing109 of multitudes of Englishmen, no breaking up of English homes, no chastening blows to English trade, no making, by thousands, of English widows, orphans110, and cripples—when the school may be shut and the rain a drought and the oratorio dumb."
But what did a few unfashionable curmudgeons111 count for, against so many gifted divines?
V
And yet all mortal things are subject to decay, even reactions, even decay itself, and there comes a time when the dead Ophelia may justly be said to be not decomposing112, but recomposing successfully as violets and so forth. Heirs-apparent grow up into kings and have little heirs of their own who, hearkening to nature's benevolent113 law, become stout114 counter-reactionists in their turn. So now the pre-war virilists, the literary braves who felt that they had supped too full of peace, have died in their beds, or lost voice, like the cuckoos in June, and a different breed find voice and pipe up. These are the kind, the numerous kind, whose youth has supped quite full enough of war. For them Bellona has not the mystical charm, as of grapes out of reach, that she had for the Henleys and Stevensons. All the veiled-mistress business is off. Battles have no aureoles now in the sight of young men as they had for the British prelate who wrote that old poem about the "red rain." The men of the counter-reaction have gone to the school and sat the oratorio out and taken a course of the waters, after the worthy115 prelate's prescription116. They have seen trenches117 full of gassed men, and the queue of their friends at the brothel-door in Bethune. At the heart of the magical rose was seated an earwig.
Presently all the complaisant118 part of our Press may jump to the fact that the game of idealizing war is now, in its turn, a back number. Then we may hear such a thudding or patter of feet as Carlyle describes when Louis XV was seen to be dead and the Court bolted off, ventre à terre, along the corridors of Versailles, to kiss the hand of Louis XVI. And then will come the season of danger. Woe119 unto Peace, or anyone else, when all men speak well of her, even the base. When Lord Robert Cecil and Mr. Clynes and Sir Hubert Gough stand up for the peace which ex-soldiers desire, it is all right. But what if Tadpoe and Taper120 stood up for it? What if all the vendors121 of supposedly popular stuff, all the timid gregarious122 repeaters of current banalities, all the largest circulations in the solar system were on the side of peace, as well as her old bodyguard123 of game disregarders of fashion and whimsical stickers-up for Christianity, chivalry124, or sportsmanship?
We must remember that, in the course of nature, the proportion of former combatants among us must steadily125 decline. And war hath no fury like a non-combatant. Can you not already forehear, in the far distance, beyond the peace period now likely to come, the still, small voice of some Henley or Lang of later days beginning to pipe up again with Ancient Pistol's ancient suggestion: "What? Shall we have incision126? Shall we imbrue?" And then a sudden furore, a war-dance, a beating of tom-toms. And so the whole cycle revolving127 again. "Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed128 thief this fashion is? How giddily a' turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty? Sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers in the reechy painting, sometimes like god Bel's priests in the old church window; sometimes like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry129?" Anything to be in the fashion.
There is only one thing for it. There must still be five or six million ex-soldiers. They are the most determined130 peace party that ever existed in Britain. Let them clap the only darbies they have—the Covenant131 of the League of Nations—on to the wrists of all future poets, romancers, and sages90. The future is said to be only the past entered by another door. We must beware in good time of those boys, and fiery132 elderly men, piping in Thessaly.
The End
The End
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specially
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sector
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destitution
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bunks
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| n.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的名词复数 )；空话，废话v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的第三人称单数 )；空话，废话 | |
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dearth
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lavatories
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realization
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abhorred
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grievance
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patriotically
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attaining
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blessing
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blessings
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costly
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cavalry
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humdrum
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wittier
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ballads
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certified
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hideous
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reverent
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quaint
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pedagogue
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physically
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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58
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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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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federation
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| n.同盟，联邦，联合，联盟，联合会 | |
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61
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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vexing
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| adj.使人烦恼的，使人恼火的v.使烦恼( vex的现在分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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67
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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68
bondage
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| n.奴役，束缚 | |
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69
rebound
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| v.弹回；n.弹回，跳回 | |
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canvassed
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的过去式和过去分词 )；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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71
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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afflicts
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的名词复数 ) | |
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75
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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piquant
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| adj.辛辣的，开胃的，令人兴奋的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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83
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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curmudgeon
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| n. 脾气暴躁之人，守财奴，吝啬鬼 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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oratorio
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| n.神剧，宗教剧，清唱剧 | |
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sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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conned
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| adj.被骗了v.指挥操舵( conn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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oratorios
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| n.（以宗教为主题的）清唱剧，神剧( oratorio的名词复数 ) | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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anthems
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| n.赞美诗( anthem的名词复数 )；圣歌；赞歌；颂歌 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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tussles
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| n.扭打，争斗( tussle的名词复数 ) | |
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103
smallpox
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| n.天花 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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105
orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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106
spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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ministry
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| n.(政府的)部；牧师 | |
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109
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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curmudgeons
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| n.坏脾气的人，吝啬鬼，守财奴( curmudgeon的名词复数 ) | |
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decomposing
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| 腐烂( decompose的现在分词 )； （使）分解； 分解（某物质、光线等） | |
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113
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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115
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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complaisant
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| adj.顺从的，讨好的 | |
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119
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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vendors
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| n.摊贩( vendor的名词复数 )；小贩；（房屋等的）卖主；卖方 | |
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122
gregarious
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| adj.群居的，喜好群居的 | |
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123
bodyguard
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| n.护卫，保镖 | |
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124
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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126
incision
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| n．切口，切开 | |
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127
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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128
deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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129
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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130
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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131
covenant
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| n.盟约，契约；v.订盟约 | |
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132
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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