It was on the very eve of the outbreak of the war in South Africa. Men were wondering what was going to happen. Some, clearer of vision than their fellows, saw that nothing but war would solve the problem which had assumed vast proportions and strange intricacies because of the vacillating policy of a weak Government of twenty years before; the Empire was going to pay now, with millions of its treasure and thousands of its men, for the fatal error which had brought the name of England into contempt in the Transvaal and given the Boers a false notion of English strength and character. Others were all for a policy of smoothing things over, for spreading green boughs4 over pitfalls5—not that any one should fall into them, but in order to make believe that the pitfalls were not there. Others again, of a breed that has but lately sprung into existence in these islands, advocated, not without success, a policy of surrender to everybody and everything. There was much talking at street corners and in the market-place; much angry debate and acrimonious6 discussion. Men began to be labelled by new names, and few took the trouble to understand each other. In the meantime, events developed as inevitable7 consequence always develops them in such situations. Amidst the chattering8 of tiny voices the thunders of war burst loud and clear.{236}
Lucian was furious with indignation. Fond as he was of insisting on his Italian nationality, he was passionately10 devoted11 to England and the English, and had a great admiration12 for the history and traditions of the country of his adoption13. There had once been a question in his mind as to whether he should write in English or in Italian—he had elected to serve England for many reasons, but chiefly because he recognised her greatness and believed in her destiny. Like all Italians, he loved her for what she had done for Greece and for Italy. England and Liberty were synonymous names; of all nations in the world, none had made for freedom as England had. His blood had leapt in his veins14 many a time at the thought of the thousand and one great things she had done, the mighty15 battles she had fought for truth and liberty; he had drunk in the notion from boyhood that England stood in the very vanguard of the army of deliverance. And now she was sending out her armies, marshalling her forces, pouring out her money like water, to crush a tiny folk, a nation of farmers, a sturdy, simple-minded race, one of the least amongst the peoples of the earth! He shook his head as if he had been asleep, and asked himself if the nation had suddenly gone mad with lust16 of blood. It was inconceivable that the England of his dreams could do this thing. He looked for her, and found her nowhere. The streets were hot all day with the tramping of armed men. The first tidings of reverse filled the land with the old savage17 determination to fight things out to the end, even though all the world should range itself on the other side.
Lucian flung all his feelings of rage, indignation, sorrow, and infinite amazement18 into a passionate9 sonnet19 which appeared next morning in large type, well leaded and spaced, in the columns of a London daily newspaper that favoured the views of the peace-at-any-price party. He followed it up with others. At first there was more sorrow and surprise than anything else in these admonitions; but as the days went on their tone altered. He had endeavoured to bring the giant to his senses by an{237} appeal to certain feelings which the giant was too much engaged to feel at that moment; eliciting20 no response, he became troublesome, and strove to attract the giant’s attention by pricking22 him with pins. The giant paid small attention to this; he looked down, saw a small thing hanging about his feet with apparently23 mischievous24 intentions, and calmly pushed it away. Then Lucian began the assault in dead earnest. He could dip his pen in vitriol with the best of them, and when he realised that the giant was drunk with the lust of blood he fell upon him with fury. The vials of poetic25 wrath26 had never been emptied of such a flood of righteous anger since the days wherein Milton called for vengeance27 upon the murderers of the Piedmontese.
It is an ill thing to fight against the prevalent temper of a nation. Lucian soon discovered that you may kick and prick21 John Bull for a long time with safety to yourself, because of his good nature, his dislike of bothering about trifles, and his natural sluggishness28, but that he always draws a line somewhere, and brings down a heavy fist upon the man who crosses it. He began to find people fighting shy of his company; invitations became less in number; men nodded who used to shake hands; strong things were said in newspapers; and he was warned by friends that he was carrying things too far.
‘Endeavour,’ said one man, an acquaintance of some years’ standing29, for whose character and abilities he had a great regard, ‘endeavour to get some accurate sense of the position. You are blackguarding us every day with your sonorous30 sonnets31 as if we were cut-throats and thieves going out on a murdering and marauding expedition. We are nothing of the sort. We are a great nation, with a very painful sense of responsibility, engaged in a very difficult task. The war is bringing us together like brothers—out of its blood and ashes there will spring an Empire such as the world has never seen. You are belittling32 everything to the level of Hooliganism.’
‘What is it but Hooliganism?’ retorted Lucian. ‘The{238} most powerful nation in the world seizing one of the weakest by the throat!’
‘It is nothing of the sort,’ said the other. ‘You know it is your great curse, my dear Lucian, that you never get a clear notion of the truth. You have a trick of seeing things as you think they ought to be; you will not see them as they are. Just because the Boers happen to be numerically small, to lead a pastoral life, and to have gone into the desert like the Israelites of old, you have brought that far too powerful imagination of yours to bear upon them, and have elevated them into a class with the Swiss and the Italians, who fought for their country.’
‘What are the Boers fighting for?’ asked Lucian.
‘At present to grab somebody else’s property,’ returned the other. ‘Don’t get sentimental33 about them. After all, much as you love us, you’re only half an Englishman, and you don’t understand the English feeling. Are the English folk not suffering, and is a Boer widow or a Boer orphan34 more worthy35 of pity than a Yorkshire lass whose lad is lying dead out there, or a Scottish child whose father will never come back again?’
Lucian swept these small and insignificant36 details aside with some impatience37.
‘You are the mightiest38 nation the world has ever seen,’ he said. ‘You have a past—such a past as no other people can boast. You have a responsibility because of that past, and at present you have thrown all sense of it away, and are behaving like the drunken brute39 who rises gorged40 with flesh and wine, and yells for blood. This is an England with vine-leaves in her hair—it is not the England of Cromwell.’
‘I thank God it is not!’ said the other man with heartfelt reverence41. ‘We wish for no dictatorship here. Come, leave off slanging us in this bloodthirsty fashion, and try to arrive at a sensible view of things. Turn your energies to a practical direction—write a new romantic play for Harcourt, something that will cheer us in these dark days, and give the money for bandages{239} and warm socks and tobacco for poor Tommy out at the front. He isn’t as picturesque—so it’s said—as Brother Boer, but he’s a man after all, and has a stomach.’
But Lucian would neither be cajoled nor chaffed out of his r?le of prophet. He became that most objectionable of all things—the man who believes he has a message, and must deliver it. He continued to hurl42 his philippics at the British public through the ever-ready columns of the peace-at-any-price paper, and the man in the street, who is not given to the drawing of fine distinctions, called him a pro-Boer. Lucian, in strict reality, was not a pro-Boer—he merely saw the artistry of the pro-Boer position. He remembered Byron’s attitude with respect to Greece, and a too generous instinct had led him to compare Mr. Kruger to Cincinnatus. The man in the street knew nothing of these things, and cared less. It seemed to him that Lucian, who was, after all, nothing but an ink-slinger44, a blooming poet, was slanging the quarter of a million men who were hurrying to Table Bay as rapidly as the War Office could get them there. To this sort of thing the man in the street objected. He did not care if Lucian’s instincts were all on the side of the weaker party, nor was it an excuse that Lucian himself, in the matter of strict nationality, was an Italian. He had chosen to write his poems in England, said the man in the street, and also in the English language, and he had made a good thing out of it too, and no error, and the best thing he could do now was to keep a civil tongue in his head, or, rather, pen in his hand. This was no time for the cuckoo to foul45 the nest wherein he had had free quarters for so long.
The opinion of the man in the street is the crystallised common-sense of England, voiced in elementary language. Lucian, unfortunately, did not know this, and he kept on firing sonnets at the heads of people who, without bluster46 or complaint, were already tearing up their shirts for bandages. The man in the street read them, and ground his teeth, and waited for an opportunity. That came when Lucian was ill-advised enough{240} to allow his name to be printed in large letters upon the placard of a great meeting whereat various well-intentioned but somewhat thoughtless persons proposed to protest against a war which had been forced upon the nation, and from which it was then impossible to draw back with either safety or honour. Lucian was still in the clouds; still thinking of Byron at Missolonghi; still harping47 upon the undoubted but scarcely pertinent48 facts that England had freed slaves, slain49 giants, and waved her flag protectingly over all who ran to her for help. The foolishness of assisting at a public meeting whereat the nation was to be admonished50 of its wickedness in daring to assert itself never occurred to him. He was still the man with the message.
He formed one of a platform party of whom it might safely have been said that every man was a crank, and every woman a faddist51. He was somewhat astonished and a little perplexed52 when he looked around him, and realised that his fellow-protestants were not of the sort wherewith he usually foregathered; but he speedily became interested in the audience. It had been intended to restrict admission to those well-intentioned folk who desired peace at any price, but the man in the street had placed a veto upon that, and had come in large numbers, and with a definite resolve to take part in the proceedings53. The meeting began in a cheerful and vivacious54 fashion, and ended in one dear to the English heart. The chairman was listened to with some forbearance and patience; a lady was allowed to have her say because she was a woman. It was a sad inspiration that led the chairman to put Lucian up next; a still sadder one to refer to his poetical55 exhortations56 to the people. The sight of Lucian, the fashionably attired57, dilettante58, dreamy-eyed poet, who had lashed59 and pricked60 the nation whose blood was being poured out like water, and whose coffers were being depleted61 at a rapid rate, was too much for the folk he essayed to address. They knew him and his recent record. At the first word they rose as one man, and made for the{241} platform. Lucian and the seekers after peace were obliged to run, as rabbits run to their warrens, and the enemy occupied the position. Somebody unfurled a large flag, and the entire assemblage joined in singing Mr. Kipling’s invitation to contribute to the tambourine62 fund.
In the school of life the teacher may write many lessons with the whitest chalk upon the blackest blackboard, and there will always be a child in the corner who will swear that he cannot see the writing. Lucian could not see the lesson of the stormed platform, and he continued his rhyming crusade and made enemies by the million. He walked with closed eyes along a road literally63 bristling64 with bayonets: it was nothing but the good-natured English tolerance65 of a poet as being more or less of a lunatic that kept the small boys of the Strand66 from going for him. Men at street corners made remarks upon him which were delightful67 to overhear: it was never Lucian’s good fortune to overhear them. His nose was in the air.
He heard the truth at last from that always truthful68 person, the man in liquor. In the smoking-room of his club he was encountered one night by a gentleman who had dined in too generous fashion, and whose natural patriotism69 glowed and scintillated70 around him with equal generosity71. He met Lucian face to face, and he stopped and looked him up and down with a fine and eminently72 natural scorn.
‘Mr. Lucian Damerel,’ he said, with an only slightly interrupted articulation73; ‘Mr. Lucian Damerel—the gentleman who spills ink while better men spend blood.’ Then he spat74 on the ground at Lucian’s feet, and moved away with a sneer75 and a laugh.
The room was full of men. They all saw, and they all heard. No one spoke76, but every one looked at Lucian. He knew that the drunken man had voiced the prevalent sentiment. He looked round him, without reproach, without defiance77, and walked quietly{242} from the room and the house. He had suddenly realised the true complexion78 of things.
Next morning, as he sat over a late breakfast in his rooms, he was informed that a young gentleman who would give no name desired earnestly to see him. He was feeling somewhat bored that morning, and he bade his man show the unknown one in. He looked up from his coffee to behold79 a very young gentleman upon whom the word subaltern was written in very large letters, whose youthful face was very grim and earnest, and who was obviously a young man with a mission. He pulled himself up in stiff fashion as the door closed upon him, and Lucian observed that one hand evidently grasped something which was concealed80 behind his back.
‘Mr. Lucian Damerel?’ the young gentleman said, with polite interrogation.
Lucian bowed and looked equally interrogative. His visitor glowered81 upon him.
‘I have come to tell you that you are a damned scoundrel, Mr. Lucian Damerel,’ he said, ‘and to thrash you within an inch of your beastly life!’
Lucian stared, smiled, and rose lazily from his seat.
The visitor displayed a cutting-whip, brandished82 it, and advanced as seriously as if he were on parade. Lucian met him, seized the cutting-whip in one hand and his assailant’s collar in the other, disarmed83 him, shook him, and threw him lightly into an easy-chair, where he lay gasping84 and surprised. Lucian hung the cutting-whip on the wall. He looked at his visitor with a speculative85 gaze.
‘What shall I do with you, young sir?’ he said. ‘Throw you out of the window, or grill86 you on the fire, or merely kick you downstairs? I suppose you thought that because I happen to be what your lot call “a writin’ feller,” there wouldn’t be any spunk87 in me, eh?’
The visitor was placed in a strange predicament. He had expected the sweet savour of groans88 and tears{243} from a muscleless, flabby ink-and-parchment thing: this man had hands which could grip like steel and iron. Moreover, he was cool—he actually sat down again and continued his breakfast.
‘I hope I didn’t squeeze your throat too much,’ said Lucian politely. ‘I have a nasty trick of forgetting that my hands are abnormally developed. If you feel shaken, help yourself to a brandy and soda89, and then tell me what’s the matter.’
The youth shook his head hopelessly.
‘Y—you have insulted the Army!’ he stammered90 at last.
‘Of which, I take it, you are the self-appointed champion. Well, I’m afraid I don’t plead guilty, because, you see, I know myself rather better than you know me. But you came to punish me? Well, again, you see you can’t do that. Shall I give you satisfaction of some sort? There are pistols in that cabinet—shall we shoot at each other across the table? There are rapiers in the cupboard—shall we try to prick each other?’
The young gentleman in the easy-chair grew more and more uncomfortable. He was being made ridiculous, and the man was laughing at him.
‘I have heard of the tricks of foreign duellists,’ he said rudely.
Lucian’s face flushed.
‘That was a silly thing to say, my boy,’ he said, not unkindly. ‘Most men would throw you out of the window for it. As it is, I’ll let you off easy. You’ll find some gloves in that cupboard—get them out and take your coat off. I’m not an Englishman, as you just now reminded me in very pointed91 fashion, but I can use my fists.’
Then he took off his dressing-gown and rolled up his sleeves, and the youngster, who had spent many unholy hours in practising the noble art, looked at the poet’s muscles with a knowing eye and realised that he was in for a very pretty scrap92. He was a little vain of his own{244} prowess, and fought for all he was worth, but at the end of five minutes he was a well-licked man, and at the expiration93 of ten was glad to be allowed to put on his coat and go.
Lucian flung his gloves into the corner of the room with a hearty94 curse. He stroked the satiny skin under which his muscle rippled95 smoothly96. He had the arm of a blacksmith, and had always been proud of it. The remark of the drunken man came back to him. That was what they thought of him, was it?—that he was a mere43 slinger of ink, afraid of spilling his blood or suffering discomfort97 for the courage of his convictions? Well, they should see. England had gone mad with the lust of blood and domination, and after all he was not her son. He had discharged whatever debt he owed her. To the real England, the true England that had fallen on sleep, he would explain everything, when the awakening98 came. It would be no crime to shoulder a rifle and strap99 a bandolier around one’s shoulders in order to help the weak against the strong. He had fought with his pen, taking what he believed to be the right and honest course, in the endeavour to convert people who would not be converted, and who regarded his efforts as evidences of enmity. Very well: there seemed now to be but one straight path, and he would take it.
It was remembered afterwards as a great thing in Lucian’s favour that he made no fuss about his next step. He left London very quietly, and no one knew that he was setting out to join the men whom he honestly believed to be fighting for the best principles of liberty and freedom.
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1
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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quiescence
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| n.静止 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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pitfalls
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| （捕猎野兽用的）陷阱( pitfall的名词复数 )； 意想不到的困难，易犯的错误 | |
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acrimonious
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| adj.严厉的，辛辣的，刻毒的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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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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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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eliciting
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| n. 诱发, 引出 动词elicit的现在分词形式 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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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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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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belittling
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| 使显得微小，轻视，贬低( belittle的现在分词 ) | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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mightiest
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| adj.趾高气扬( mighty的最高级 )；巨大的；强有力的；浩瀚的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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hurl
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| vt.猛投，力掷，声叫骂 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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slinger
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| 投石者，吊物工人； 吊索 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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pertinent
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| adj.恰当的；贴切的；中肯的；有关的；相干的 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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faddist
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| n.趋于时尚者，好新奇的人 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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depleted
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| adj. 枯竭的, 废弃的 动词deplete的过去式和过去分词 | |
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tambourine
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| n.铃鼓，手鼓 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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scintillated
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| v.（言谈举止中）焕发才智( scintillate的过去式和过去分词 )；谈笑洒脱；闪耀；闪烁 | |
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generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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articulation
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| n.（清楚的）发音；清晰度，咬合 | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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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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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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glowered
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| v.怒视( glower的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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grill
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| n.烤架，铁格子，烤肉；v.烧，烤，严加盘问 | |
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spunk
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| n.勇气，胆量 | |
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groans
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| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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