“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To stop all this foolery, of course,” replied Barker; and he disappeared into the room.
He entered it headlong, slamming the door, and slapping his incomparable silk hat on the table. His mouth opened, but before he could speak, the King said —
“Your hat, if you please.”
Fidgetting with his fingers, and scarcely knowing what he was doing, the young politician held it out.
The King placed it on his own chair, and sat on it.
“A quaint5 old custom,” he explained, smiling above the ruins. “When the King receives the representatives of the House of Barker, the hat of the latter is immediately destroyed in this manner. It represents the absolute finality of the act of homage6 expressed in the removal of it. It declares that never until that hat shall once more appear upon your head (a contingency7 which I firmly believe to be remote) shall the House of Barker rebel against the Crown of England.”
Barker stood with clenched8 fist, and shaking lip.
“Your jokes,” he began, “and my property —” and then exploded with an oath, and stopped again.
“Continue, continue,” said the King, waving his hands.
“What does it all mean?” cried the other, with a gesture of passionate9 rationality. “Are you mad?”
“Not in the least,” replied the King, pleasantly. “Madmen are always serious; they go mad from lack of humour. You are looking serious yourself, James.”
“Why can’t you keep it to your own private life?” expostulated the other. “You’ve got plenty of money, and plenty of houses now to play the fool in, but in the interests of the public —”
“Epigrammatic,” said the King, shaking his finger sadly at him. “None of your daring scintillations here. As to why I don’t do it in private, I rather fail to understand your question. The answer is of comparative limpidity10. I don’t do it in private, because it is funnier to do it in public. You appear to think that it would be amusing to be dignified11 in the banquet hall and in the street, and at my own fireside (I could procure12 a fireside) to keep the company in a roar. But that is what every one does. Every one is grave in public, and funny in private. My sense of humour suggests the reversal of this; it suggests that one should be funny in public, and solemn in private. I desire to make the State functions, parliaments, coronations, and so on, one roaring old-fashioned pantomime. But, on the other hand, I shut myself up alone in a small store-room for two hours a day, where I am so dignified that I come out quite ill.”
By this time Barker was walking up and down the room, his frock coat flapping like the black wings of a bird.
“Well, you will ruin the country, that’s all,” he said shortly.
“It seems to me,” said Auberon, “that the tradition of ten centuries is being broken, and the House of Barker is rebelling against the Crown of England. It would be with regret (for I admire your appearance) that I should be obliged forcibly to decorate your head with the remains13 of this hat, but —”
“What I can’t understand,” said Barker flinging up his fingers with a feverish14 American movement, “is why you don’t care about anything else but your games.”
The King stopped sharply in the act of lifting the silken remnants, dropped them, and walked up to Barker, looking at him steadily15.
“I made a kind of vow,” he said, “that I would not talk seriously, which always means answering silly questions. But the strong man will always be gentle with politicians.
‘The shape my scornful looks deride16
Required a God to form;’
if I may so theologically express myself. And for some reason I cannot in the least understand, I feel impelled17 to answer that question of yours, and to answer it as if there were really such a thing in the world as a serious subject. You ask me why I don’t care for anything else. Can you tell me, in the name of all the gods you don’t believe in, why I should care for anything else?”
“Don’t you realise common public necessities?” cried Barker. “Is it possible that a man of your intelligence does not know that it is every one’s interest —”
“Don’t you believe in Zoroaster? Is it possible that you neglect Mumbo-Jumbo?” returned the King, with startling animation18. “Does a man of your intelligence come to me with these damned early Victorian ethics19? If, on studying my features and manner, you detect any particular resemblance to the Prince Consort20, I assure you you are mistaken. Did Herbert Spencer ever convince you — did he ever convince anybody — did he ever for one mad moment convince himself — that it must be to the interest of the individual to feel a public spirit? Do you believe that, if you rule your department badly, you stand any more chance, or one half of the chance, of being guillotined, that an angler stands of being pulled into the river by a strong pike? Herbert Spencer refrained from theft for the same reason that he refrained from wearing feathers in his hair, because he was an English gentleman with different tastes. I am an English gentleman with different tastes. He liked philosophy. I like art. He liked writing ten books on the nature of human society. I like to see the Lord Chamberlain walking in front of me with a piece of paper pinned to his coat-tails. It is my humour. Are you answered? At any rate, I have said my last serious word to-day, and my last serious word I trust for the remainder of my life in this Paradise of Fools. The remainder of my conversation with you to-day, which I trust will be long and stimulating21, I propose to conduct in a new language of my own by means of rapid and symbolic22 movements of the left leg.” And he began to pirouette slowly round the room with a preoccupied23 expression.
Barker ran round the room after him, bombarding him with demands and entreaties24. But he received no response except in the new language. He came out banging the door again, and sick like a man coming on shore. As he strode along the streets he found himself suddenly opposite Cicconani’s restaurant, and for some reason there rose up before him the green fantastic figure of the Spanish General, standing, as he had seen him last, at the door, with the words on his lips, “You cannot argue with the choice of the soul.”
The King came out from his dancing with the air of a man of business legitimately25 tired. He put on an overcoat, lit a cigar, and went out into the purple night.
"I'M KING OF THE CASTLE."
"I'm King of the Castle."
“I will go,” he said, “and mingle26 with the people.”
He passed swiftly up a street in the neighbourhood of Notting Hill, when suddenly he felt a hard object driven into his waistcoat. He paused, put up his single eye-glass, and beheld27 a boy with a wooden sword and a paper cocked hat, wearing that expression of awed28 satisfaction with which a child contemplates29 his work when he has hit some one very hard. The King gazed thoughtfully for some time at his assailant, and slowly took a note-book from his breast-pocket.
“I have a few notes,” he said, “for my dying speech;” and he turned over the leaves. “Dying speech for political assassination30; ditto, if by former friend — h’m, h’m. Dying speech for death at hands of injured husband (repentant). Dying speech for same (cynical). I am not quite sure which meets the present. . . . ”
“I’m the King of the Castle,” said the boy, truculently31, and very pleased with nothing in particular.
The King was a kind-hearted man, and very fond of children, like all people who are fond of the ridiculous.
“Infant,” he said, “I’m glad you are so stalwart a defender32 of your old inviolate33 Notting Hill. Look up nightly to that peak, my child, where it lifts itself among the stars so ancient, so lonely, so unutterably Notting. So long as you are ready to die for the sacred mountain, even if it were ringed with all the armies of Bayswater —”
The King stopped suddenly, and his eyes shone.
“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps the noblest of all my conceptions. A revival34 of the arrogance35 of the old medi?val cities applied36 to our glorious suburbs. Clapham with a city guard. Wimbledon with a city wall. Surbiton tolling37 a bell to raise its citizens. West Hampstead going into battle with its own banner. It shall be done. I, the King, have said it.” And, hastily presenting the boy with half a crown, remarking, “For the war-chest of Notting Hill,” he ran violently home at such a rate of speed that crowds followed him for miles. On reaching his study, he ordered a cup of coffee, and plunged38 into profound meditation39 upon the project. At length he called his favourite Equerry, Captain Bowler40, for whom he had a deep affection, founded principally upon the shape of his whiskers.
“Bowler,” he said, “isn’t there some society of historical research, or something of which I am an honorary member?”
“Yes, sir,” said Captain Bowler, rubbing his nose, “you are a member of ‘The Encouragers of Egyptian Renaissance,’ and ‘The Teutonic Tombs Club,’ and ‘The Society for the Recovery of London Antiquities41,’ and —”
“That is admirable,” said the King. “The London Antiquities does my trick. Go to the Society for the Recovery of London Antiquities and speak to their secretary, and their sub-secretary, and their president, and their vice-president, saying, ‘The King of England is proud, but the honorary member of the Society for the Recovery of London Antiquities is prouder than kings. I should like to tell you of certain discoveries I have made touching42 the neglected traditions of the London boroughs43. The revelations may cause some excitement, stirring burning memories and touching old wounds in Shepherd’s Bush and Bayswater, in Pimlico and South Kensington. The King hesitates, but the honorary member is firm. I approach you invoking44 the vows45 of my initiation46, the Sacred Seven Cats, the Poker47 of Perfection, and the Ordeal48 of the Indescribable Instant (forgive me if I mix you up with the Clan-na-Gael or some other club I belong to), and ask you to permit me to read a paper at your next meeting on the “Wars of the London Boroughs."’ Say all this to the Society, Bowler. Remember it very carefully, for it is most important, and I have forgotten it altogether, and send me another cup of coffee and some of the cigars that we keep for vulgar and successful people. I am going to write my paper.”
The Society for the Recovery of London Antiquities met a month after in a corrugated49 iron hall on the outskirts50 of one of the southern suburbs of London. A large number of people had collected there under the coarse and flaring51 gas-jets when the King arrived, perspiring52 and genial53. On taking off his great-coat, he was perceived to be in evening dress, wearing the Garter. His appearance at the small table, adorned54 only with a glass of water, was received with respectful cheering.
The chairman (Mr. Huggins) said that he was sure that they had all been pleased to listen to such distinguished55 lecturers as they had heard for some time past (hear, hear). Mr. Burton (hear, hear), Mr. Cambridge, Professor King (loud and continued cheers), our old friend Peter Jessop, Sir William White (loud laughter), and other eminent56 men, had done honour to their little venture (cheers). But there were other circumstances which lent a certain unique quality to the present occasion (hear, hear). So far as his recollection went, and in connection with the Society for the Recovery of London Antiquities it went very far (loud cheers), he did not remember that any of their lecturers had borne the title of King. He would therefore call upon King Auberon briefly57 to address the meeting.
The King began by saying that this speech might be regarded as the first declaration of his new policy for the nation. “At this supreme58 hour of my life I feel that to no one but the members of the Society for the Recovery of London Antiquities can I open my heart (cheers). If the world turns upon my policy, and the storms of popular hostility59 begin to rise (no, no), I feel that it is here, with my brave Recoverers around me, that I can best meet them, sword in hand” (loud cheers).
His Majesty60 then went on to explain that, now old age was creeping upon him, he proposed to devote his remaining strength to bringing about a keener sense of local patriotism61 in the various municipalities of London. How few of them knew the legends of their own boroughs! How many there were who had never heard of the true origin of the Wink62 of Wandsworth! What a large proportion of the younger generation in Chelsea neglected to perform the old Chelsea Chuff! Pimlico no longer pumped the Pimlies. Battersea had forgotten the name of Blick.
There was a short silence, and then a voice said “Shame!”
The King continued: “Being called, however unworthily, to this high estate, I have resolved that, so far as possible, this neglect shall cease. I desire no military glory. I lay claim to no constitutional equality with Justinian or Alfred. If I can go down to history as the man who saved from extinction63 a few old English customs, if our descendants can say it was through this man, humble64 as he was, that the Ten Turnips65 are still eaten in Fulham, and the Putney parish councillor still shaves one half of his head, I shall look my great fathers reverently66 but not fearfully in the face when I go down to the last house of Kings.”
The King paused, visibly affected67, but collecting himself, resumed once more.
“I trust that to very few of you, at least, I need dwell on the sublime68 origins of these legends. The very names of your boroughs bear witness to them. So long as Hammersmith is called Hammersmith, its people will live in the shadow of that primal69 hero, the Blacksmith, who led the democracy of the Broadway into battle till he drove the chivalry70 of Kensington before him and overthrew71 them at that place which in honour of the best blood of the defeated aristocracy is still called Kensington Gore72. Men of Hammersmith will not fail to remember that the very name of Kensington originated from the lips of their hero. For at the great banquet of reconciliation73 held after the war, when the disdainful oligarchs declined to join in the songs of the men of the Broadway (which are to this day of a rude and popular character), the great Republican leader, with his rough humour, said the words which are written in gold upon his monument, ‘Little birds that can sing and won’t sing, must be made to sing.’ So that the Eastern Knights74 were called Cansings or Kensings ever afterwards. But you also have great memories, O men of Kensington! You showed that you could sing, and sing great war-songs. Even after the dark day of Kensington Gore, history will not forget those three Knights who guarded your disordered retreat from Hyde Park (so called from your hiding there), those three Knights after whom Knightsbridge is named. Nor will it forget the day of your re-emergence, purged75 in the fire of calamity76, cleansed77 of your oligarchic78 corruptions80, when, sword in hand, you drove the Empire of Hammersmith back mile by mile, swept it past its own Broadway, and broke it at last in a battle so long and bloody81 that the birds of prey82 have left their name upon it. Men have called it, with austere83 irony84, the Ravenscourt. I shall not, I trust, wound the patriotism of Bayswater, or the lonelier pride of Brompton, or that of any other historic township, by taking these two special examples. I select them, not because they are more glorious than the rest, but partly from personal association (I am myself descended85 from one of the three heroes of Knightsbridge), and partly from the consciousness that I am an amateur antiquarian, and cannot presume to deal with times and places more remote and more mysterious. It is not for me to settle the question between two such men as Professor Hugg and Sir William Whisky as to whether Notting Hill means Nutting Hill (in allusion86 to the rich woods which no longer cover it), or whether it is a corruption79 of Nothing-ill, referring to its reputation among the ancients as an Earthly Paradise. When a Podkins and a Jossy confess themselves doubtful about the boundaries of West Kensington (said to have been traced in the blood of Oxen), I need not be ashamed to confess a similar doubt. I will ask you to excuse me from further history, and to assist me with your encouragement in dealing87 with the problem which faces us to-day. Is this ancient spirit of the London townships to die out? Are our omnibus conductors and policemen to lose altogether that light which we see so often in their eyes, the dreamy light of
‘Old unhappy far-off things
And battles long ago’
— to quote the words of a little-known poet who was a friend of my youth? I have resolved, as I have said, so far as possible, to preserve the eyes of policemen and omnibus conductors in their present dreamy state. For what is a state without dreams? And the remedy I propose is as follows:—
“To-morrow morning at twenty-five minutes past ten, if Heaven spares my life, I purpose to issue a Proclamation. It has been the work of my life, and is about half finished. With the assistance of a whisky and soda88, I shall conclude the other half to-night, and my people will receive it to-morrow. All these boroughs where you were born, and hope to lay your bones, shall be reinstated in their ancient magnificence — Hammersmith, Kensington, Bayswater, Chelsea, Battersea, Clapham, Balham, and a hundred others. Each shall immediately build a city wall with gates to be closed at sunset. Each shall have a city guard, armed to the teeth. Each shall have a banner, a coat-of-arms, and, if convenient, a gathering89 cry. I will not enter into the details now, my heart is too full. They will be found in the proclamation itself. You will all, however, be subject to enrolment in the local city guards, to be summoned together by a thing called the Tocsin, the meaning of which I am studying in my researches into history. Personally, I believe a tocsin to be some kind of highly paid official. If, therefore, any of you happen to have such a thing as a halberd in the house, I should advise you to practise with it in the garden.”
Here the King buried his face in his handkerchief and hurriedly left the platform, overcome by emotions.
The members of the Society for the Recovery of London Antiquities rose in an indescribable state of vagueness. Some were purple with indignation; an intellectual few were purple with laughter; the great majority found their minds a blank. There remains a tradition that one pale face with burning blue eyes remained fixed90 upon the lecturer, and after the lecture a red-haired boy ran out of the room.
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1
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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scurry
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| vi.急匆匆地走；使急赶；催促；n.快步急跑，疾走；仓皇奔跑声；骤雨，骤雪；短距离赛马 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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5
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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contingency
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| n.意外事件，可能性 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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10
limpidity
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| n.清澈，透明 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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deride
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| v.嘲弄，愚弄 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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mingle
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| vt.使混合，使相混；vi.混合起来；相交往 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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assassination
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| n.暗杀；暗杀事件 | |
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truculently
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defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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boroughs
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| （尤指大伦敦的）行政区( borough的名词复数 )； 议会中有代表的市镇 | |
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invoking
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| v.援引( invoke的现在分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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45
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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46
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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49
corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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50
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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51
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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52
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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53
genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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54
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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55
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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56
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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57
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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58
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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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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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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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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turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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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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overthrew
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| overthrow的过去式 | |
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gore
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| n.凝血，血污；v.（动物）用角撞伤，用牙刺破；缝以补裆；顶 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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purged
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| 清除（政敌等）( purge的过去式和过去分词 )； 涤除（罪恶等）； 净化（心灵、风气等）； 消除（错事等）的不良影响 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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cleansed
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| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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oligarchic
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| adj.寡头政治的，主张寡头政治的 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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corruptions
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| n.堕落( corruption的名词复数 )；腐化；腐败；贿赂 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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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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