the new machiavelli-第21部分

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and　their　motives　to　the　quality　of　impulses　like　my　own；　I　was　also　

acquiring　in　my　Tripos　work　a　constantly　developing　and　enriching　

conception　of　the　world　of　men　as　a　complex　of　economic；　

intellectual　and　moral　processes。　。　。　。







5





Socialism　is　an　intellectual　Proteus；　but　to　the　men　of　my　

generation　it　came　as　the　revolt　of　the　workers。　　Rodbertus　we　never　

heard　of　and　the　Fabian　Society　we　did　not　understand；　Marx　and　

Morris；　the　Chicago　Anarchists；　JUSTICE　and　Social　Democratic　

Federation　（as　it　was　then）　presented　socialism　to　our　minds。　　

Hatherleigh　was　the　leading　exponent　of　the　new　doctrines　in　

Trinity；　and　the　figure　upon　his　wall　of　a　huge…muscled；　black…

haired　toiler　swaggering　sledgehammer　in　hand　across　a　revolutionary　

barricade；　seemed　the　quintessence　of　what　he　had　to　expound。　　

Landlord　and　capitalist　had　robbed　and　enslaved　the　workers；　and　

were　driving　them　quite　automatically　to　inevitable　insurrection。　　

They　would　arise　and　the　capitalist　system　would　flee　and　vanish　

like　the　mists　before　the　morning；　like　the　dews　before　the　sunrise；　

giving　place　in　the　most　simple　and　obvious　manner　to　an　era　of　

Right　and　Justice　and　Virtue　and　Well　Being；　and　in　short　a　

Perfectly　Splendid　Time。



I　had　already　discussed　this　sort　of　socialism　under　the　guidance　of　

Britten；　before　I　went　up　to　Cambridge。　　It　was　all　mixed　up　with　

ideas　about　freedom　and　natural　virtue　and　a　great　scorn　for　kings；　

titles；　wealth　and　officials；　and　it　was　symbolised　by　the　red　ties　

we　wore。　　Our　simple　verdict　on　existing　arrangements　was　that　they　

were　〃all　wrong。〃　　The　rich　were　robbers　and　knew　it；　kings　and　

princes　were　usurpers　and　knew　it；　religious　teachers　were　impostors　

in　league　with　power；　the　economic　system　was　an　elaborate　plot　on　

the　part　of　the　few　to　expropriate　the　many。　　We　went　about　feeling　

scornful　of　all　the　current　forms　of　life；　forms　that　esteemed　

themselves　solid；　that　were；　we　knew；　no　more　than　shapes　painted　on　

a　curtain　that　was　presently　to　be　torn　aside。　。　。　。



It　was　Hatherleigh's　poster　and　his　capacity　for　overstating　things；　

I　think；　that　first　qualified　my　simple　revolutionary　enthusiasm。　　

Perhaps　also　I　had　met　with　Fabian　publications；　but　if　I　did　I　

forget　the　circumstances。　　And　no　doubt　my　innate　constructiveness　

with　its　practical　corollary　of　an　analytical　treatment　of　the　

material　supplied；　was　bound　to　push　me　on　beyond　this　melodramatic　

interpretation　of　human　affairs。



I　compared　that　Working　Man　of　the　poster　with　any　sort　of　working　

man　I　knew。　　I　perceived　that　the　latter　was　not　going　to　change；　

and　indeed　could　not　under　any　stimulus　whatever　be　expected　to　

change；　into　the　former。　　It　crept　into　my　mind　as　slowly　and　surely　

as　the　dawn　creeps　into　a　room　that　the　former　was　not；　as　I　had　at　

first　rather　glibly　assumed；　an　〃ideal；〃　but　a　complete　

misrepresentation　of　the　quality　and　possibilities　of　things。



I　do　not　know　now　whether　it　was　during　my　school…days　or　at　

Cambridge　that　I　first　began　not　merely　to　see　the　world　as　a　great　

contrast　of　rich　and　poor；　but　to　feel　the　massive　effect　of　that　

multitudinous　majority　of　people　who　toil　continually；　who　are　for　

ever　anxious　about　ways　and　means；　who　are　restricted；　ill　clothed；　

ill　fed　and　ill　housed；　who　have　limited　outlooks　and　continually　

suffer　misadventures；　hardships　and　distresses　through　the　want　of　

money。　　My　lot　had　fallen　upon　the　fringe　of　the　possessing　

minority；　if　I　did　not　know　the　want　of　necessities　I　knew　

shabbiness；　and　the　world　that　let　me　go　on　to　a　university　

education　intimated　very　plainly　that　there　was　not　a　thing　beyond　

the　primary　needs　that　my　stimulated　imagination　might　demand　that　

it　would　not　be　an　effort　for　me　to　secure。　　A　certain　aggressive　

radicalism　against　the　ruling　and　propertied　classes　followed　almost　

naturally　from　my　circumstances。　　It　did　not　at　first　connect　itself　

at　all　with　the　perception　of　a　planless　disorder　in　human　affairs　

that　had　been　forced　upon　me　by　the　atmosphere　of　my　upbringing；　nor　

did　it　link　me　in　sympathy　with　any　of　the　profounder　realities　of　

poverty。　　It　was　a　personal　independent　thing。　　The　dingier　people　

one　saw　in　the　back　streets　and　lower　quarters　of　Bromstead　and　

Penge；　the　drift　of　dirty　children；　ragged　old　women；　street　

loafers；　grimy　workers　that　made　the　social　background　of　London；　

the　stories　one　heard　of　privation　and　sweating；　only　joined　up　very　

slowly　with　the　general　propositions　I　was　making　about　life。　　We　

could　become　splendidly　eloquent　about　the　social　revolution　and　the　

triumph　of　the　Proletariat　after　the　Class　war；　and　it　was　only　by　a　

sort　of　inspiration　that　it　came　to　me　that　my　bedder；　a　garrulous　

old　thing　with　a　dusty　black　bonnet　over　one　eye　and　an　

ostentatiously　clean　apron　outside　the　dark　mysteries　that　clothed　

her；　or　the　cheeky　little　ruffians　who　yelled　papers　about　the　

streets；　were　really　material　to　such　questions。



Directly　any　of　us　young　socialists　of　Trinity　found　ourselves　in　

immediate　contact　with　servants　or　cadgers　or　gyps　or　bedders　or　

plumbers　or　navvies　or　cabmen　or　railway　porters　we　became　

unconsciously　and　unthinkingly　aristocrats。　　Our　voices　altered；　our　

gestures　altered。　　We　behaved　just　as　all　the　other　men；　rich　or　

poor；　swatters　or　sportsmen　or　Pinky　Dinkys；　behaved；　and　exactly　as　

we　were　expected　to　behave。　　On　the　whole　it　is　a　population　of　poor　

quality　round　about　Cambridge；　rather　stunted　and　spiritless　and　

very　difficult　to　idealise。　　That　theoretical　Working　Man　of　ours！

if　we　felt　the　clash　at　all　we　explained　it；　I　suppose；　by　assuming　

that　he　came　from　another　part　of　the　country；　Esmeer；　I　remember；　

who　lived　somewhere　in　the　Fens；　was　very　eloquent　about　the　Cornish　

fishermen；　and　Hatherleigh；　who　was　a　Hampshire　man；　assured　us　we　

ought　to　know　the　Scottish　miner。　　My　private　fancy　was　for　the　

Lancashire　operative　because　of　his　co…operative　societies；　and　

because　what　Lancashire　thinks　to…day　England　thinks　to…morrow。　。　。　。　　

And　also　I　had　never　been　in　Lancashire。



By　little　increments　of　realisation　it　was　that　the　profounder　

verities　of　the　problem　of　socialism　came　to　me。　　It　helped　me　very　

much　that　I　had　to　go　down　to　the　Potteries　several　times　to　discuss　

my　future　with　my　uncle　and　guardian；　I　walked　about　and　saw　Bursley　

Wakes　and　much　of　the　human　aspects　of　organised　industrialism　at　

close　quarters　for　the　first　time。　　The　picture　of　a　splendid　

Working　Man　cheated　out　of　his　innate　glorious　possibilities；　and　

presently　to　arise　and　dash　this　scoundrelly　and　scandalous　system　

of　private　ownership　to　fragments；　began　to　give　place　to　a　

limitless　spectacle　of　inefficiency；　to　a　conception　of　millions　of　

people　not　organised　as　they　should　be；　not　educated　as　they　should　

be；　not　simply　prevented　from　but　incapable　of　nearly　every　sort　of　

beauty；　mostly　kindly　and　well　meaning；　mostly　incompetent；　mostly　

obstinate；　and　easily　humbugged　and　easily　diverted。　　Even　the　

tragic　and　inspiring　idea　of　Marx；　that　the　poor　were　nearing　a　

limit　of　painful　experience；　and　awakening　to　a　sense　of　intolerable　

wrongs；　began　to　develop　into　the　more　appalling　conception　that　the　

poor　were　simply　in　a　witless　uncomfortable　inconclusive　way

〃muddling　along〃；　that　they　wanted　nothing　very　definitely　nor　very　

urgently；　that　mean　fears　enslaved　them　and　mean　satisfactions　

decoyed　them；　that　they　took　the　very　gift　of　life　itself　with　a　

spiritless　lassitude；　hoarding　it；　being　rather　anxious　not　to　lose　

it　than　to　use　it　in　any　way　whatever。



The　complete　development　of　that　realisation　was　the　work　of　many　

years。　　I　had　only　the　first　intimations　at　Cambridge。　　But　I　did　

have　intimations。　　Most　acutely　do　I　remember　the　doubts　that　

followed　the　visit　of　Chris　Robinson。　　Chris　Robinson　was　heralded　

by　such　heroic　anticipations；　and　he　was　so　entirely　what　we　had　not　

anticipated。




Hatherleigh　got　him　to　come；　arranged　a　sort　of　meeting　for　him　at　

Redmayne's　rooms　in　King's；　and　was　very　proud　and　proprietorial。　　

It　failed　to　stir　Cambridge　at　all　profoundly。　　Beyond　a　futile　

attempt　to　screw　up　Hatherleigh　made　by　some　inexpert　duffers　who　

used　nails　instead　of　screws　and　gimlets；　there　was　no　attempt　to　

rag。　　Next　day　Chris　Robinson　went　and　spoke　at　Bennett　Hall　in　

Newnham　College；　and　left　Cambridge　in　the　evening　amidst　the　cheers　

of　twenty　men　or　so。　　Socialism　was　at　such　a　low　ebb　politically　in　

those　days　that　it　didn't　even　rouse　men　to　opposition。



And　there　sat　Chris　under　that　flamboyant　and　heroic　Worker　of　the　

poster；　a　little　wrinkled　grey…bearded　apologetic　man　in　ready…made　

clothes；　with　watchful　innocent　brown　eyes　and　a　persistent　and　

invincible　air　of　being　out　of　his　element。　　He　sat　with　his　stout　

boots　tucked　up　under　his　chair；　and　clung　to　a　teacup　and　saucer　

and　looked　away　from　us　into　the　fire；　and　we　all　sat　about　on　

tables　and　chair…arms　and　windowsills　and　boxes　and　anywhere　except　

upon　chairs　after　the　manner　of　young　men。　　The　only　other　chair　

whose　seat　was　occupied　was　the　one　containing　his　knitted　woollen　

comforter　and　his　picturesque　old　beach…photographer's　hat。　　We　were　

all　shy　and　didn't　know　how　to　take　hold　of　him　now　we　had　got　him；　

and；　which　was　disconcertingly　unanticipated；　he　was　manifestly　

having　the　same　difficulty　with　us。　　We　had　expected　to　be　gripped。



〃I'll　not　be　knowing　what　to　say　to　these　Chaps；〃　he　repeated　with　a　

north…country　quality　in　his　speech。



We　made　reassuring　noises。



The　Ambassador　of　the　Workers　stirred　his　tea　earnestly　through　an　

uncomfortable　pause。



〃I'd　best　tell　'em　something　of　how　things　are　in　Lancashire；　what　

with　the　new　machines　and　all　that；〃　he　speculated　at　last　with　red　

reflection