the research magnificent-第25章

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　than　the　solemn　aimlessness　of　hunting；　and　an　evening　of　dalliance　not　an　atom　more　reprehensible　than　an　evening　of　chatter。　　It　was　the　waste　of　him　that　made　the　sin。　　His　life　in　London　had　been　of　a　piece　together。　　It　was　well　that　his　intrigue　had　set　a　light　on　it；　put　a　point　to　it；　given　him　this　saving　crisis　of　the　nerves。　　That；　indeed；　is　the　chief　superiority　of　idle　love…making　over　other　more　prevalent　forms　of　idleness　and　self…indulgence；　it　does　at　least　bear　its　proper　label。　　It　is　reprehensible。　　It　brings　your　careless　honour　to　the　challenge　of　concealment　and　shabby　evasions　and　lies。　。　。　。　But　in　this　pellucid　air　things　took　their　proper　proportions　again。　And　now　what　was　he　to　do？　〃Politics；〃　he　said　aloud　to　the　turf　and　the　sky。　Is　there　any　other　work　for　an　aristocratic　man？　。　。　。　　Science？　One　could　admit　science　in　that　larger　sense　that　sweeps　in　History；　or　Philosophy。　　Beyond　that　whatever　work　there　is　is　work　for　which　men　are　paid。　　Art？　　Art　is　nothing　aristocratic　except　when　it　is　a　means　of　scientific　or　philosophical　expression。　　Art　that　does　not　argue　nor　demonstrate　nor　discover　is　merely　the　craftsman's　impudence。　He　pulled　up　at　this　and　reflected　for　a　time　with　some　distinguished　instances　in　his　mind。　　They　were　so　distinguished；　so　dignified；　they　took　their　various　arts　with　so　admirable　a　gravity　that　the　soul　of　this　young　man　recoiled　from　the　verdicts　to　which　his　reasoning　drove　him。　　〃It's　not　for　me　to　judge　them；〃　he　decided；　〃except　in　relation　to　myself。　　For　them　there　may　be　tremendous　significances　in　Art。　　But　if　these　do　not　appear　to　me；　then　so　far　as　I　am　concerned　they　do　not　exist　for　me。　　They　are　not　in　my　world。　　So　far　as　they　attempt　to　invade　me　and　control　my　attitudes　or　my　outlook；　or　to　judge　me　in　any　way；　there　is　no　question　of　their　impudence。　　Impudence　is　the　word　for　it。　　My　world　is　real。　　I　want　to　be　really　aristocratic；　really　brave；　really　paying　for　the　privilege　of　not　being　a　driven　worker。　　The　things　the　artist　makes　are　like　the　things　my　private　dream…artist　makes；　relaxing；　distracting。　　What　can　Art　at　its　greatest　be；　pure　Art　that　is；　but　a　more　splendid；　more　permanent；　transmissible　reverie！　　The　very　essence　of　what　I　am　after　is　NOT　to　be　an　artist。　。　。　。〃　After　a　large　and　serious　movement　through　his　mind　he　came　back　to　Science；　Philosophy　or　Politics　as　the　sole　three　justifications　for　the　usurpation　of　leisure。　So　far　as　devotion　to　science　went；　he　knew　he　had　no　specific　aptitude　for　any　departmentalized　subject；　and　equally　he　felt　no　natural　call　to　philosophy。　　He　was　left　with　politics。　。　。　。　〃Or　else；　why　shouldn't　I　go　down　there　and　pick　up　a　shovel　and　set　to　work？　　To　make　leisure　for　my　betters。　。　。　。〃　And　now　it　was　that　he　could　take　up　the　real　trouble　that　more　than　anything　else　had　been　keeping　him　ineffective　and　the　prey　of　every　chance　demand　and　temptation　during　the　last　ten　months。　　He　had　not　been　able　to　get　himself　into　politics；　and　the　reason　why　he　had　not　been　able　to　do　so　was　that　he　could　not　induce　himself　to　fit　in。　　Statecraft　was　a　remote　and　faded　thing　in　the　political　life　of　the　time；　politics　was　a　choice　of　two　sides　in　a　game；　and　either　side　he　found　equally　unattractive。　　Since　he　had　come　down　from　Cambridge　the　Tariff　Reform　people　had　gone　far　to　capture　the　Conservative　party。　　There　was　little　chance　of　a　candidature　for　him　without　an　adhesion　to　that。　　And　he　could　find　nothing　he　could　imagine　himself　working　for　in　the　declarations　of　the　Tariff　Reform　people。　　He　distrusted　them；　he　disliked　them。　　They　took　all　the　light　and　pride　out　of　imperialism；　they　reduced　it　to　a　shabby　conspiracy　of　the　British　and　their　colonies　against　foreign　industrialism。　　They　were　violent　for　armaments　and　hostile　to　education。　　They　could　give　him　no　assurance　of　any　scheme　of　growth　and　unification；　and　no　guarantees　against　the　manifest　dangers　of　economic　disturbance　and　political　corruption　a　tariff　involves。　Imperialism　without　noble　imaginations；　it　seemed　to　him；　was　simply　nationalism　with　megalomania。　　It　was　swaggering；　it　was　greed；　it　was　German；　its　enthusiasm　was　forced；　its　nobility　a　vulgar　lie。　No。　　And　when　he　turned　to　the　opposite　party　he　found　little　that　was　more　attractive。　　They　were　prepared；　it　seemed；　if　they　came　into　office；　to　pull　the　legislature　of　the　British　Isles　to　pieces　in　obedience　to　the　Irish　demand　for　Home　Rule；　and　they　were　totally　unprepared　with　any　scheme　for　doing　this　that　had　even　a　chance　of　success。　　In　the　twenty　years　that　had　elapsed　since　Gladstone's　hasty　and　disastrous　essay　in　political　surgery　they　had　studied　nothing；　learnt　nothing；　produced　no　ideas　whatever　in　the　matter。　　They　had　not　had　the　time。　　They　had　just　negotiated；　like　the　mere　politicians　they　were；　for　the　Nationalist　vote。　　They　seemed　to　hope　that　by　a　marvel　God　would　pacify　Ulster。　　Lord　Dunraven；　Plunkett；　were　voices　crying　in　the　wilderness。　　The　sides　in　the　party　game　would　as　soon　have　heeded　a　poet。　。　。　。　　But　unless　Benham　was　prepared　to　subscribe　either　to　Home　Rule　or　Tariff　Reform　there　was　no　way　whatever　open　to　him　into　public　life。　　He　had　had　some　decisive　conversations。　　He　had　no　illusions　left　upon　that　score。　。　。　。　Here　was　the　real　barrier　that　had　kept　him　inactive　for　ten　months。　Here　was　the　problem　he　had　to　solve。　　This　was　how　he　had　been　left　out　of　active　things；　a　prey　to　distractions；　excitements；　idle　temptationsand　Mrs。　Skelmersdale。　Running　away　to　shoot　big　game　or　explore　wildernesses　was　no　remedy。　　That　was　just　running　away。　　Aristocrats　do　not　run　away。　What　of　his　debt　to　those　men　down　there　in　the　quarry？　　What　of　his　debt　to　the　unseen　men　in　the　mines　away　in　the　north？　　What　of　his　debt　to　the　stokers　on　the　liners；　and　to　the　clerks　in　the　city？　He　reiterated　the　cardinal　article　of　his　creed：　The　aristocrat　is　a　privileged　man　in　order　that　he　may　be　a　public　and　political　man。　But　how　is　one　to　be　a　political　man　when　one　is　not　in　politics？　Benham　frowned　at　the　Weald。　　His　ideas　were　running　thin。　He　might　hammer　at　politics　from　the　outside。　　And　then　again　how？　He　would　make　a　list　of　all　the　things　that　he　might　do。　　For　example　he　might　write。　　He　rested　one　hand　on　his　knee　and　lifted　one　finger　and　regarded　it。　　COULD　he　write？　　There　were　one　or　two　men　who　ran　papers　and　seemed　to　have　a　sort　of　independent　influence。　　Strachey；　for　example；　with　his　SPECTATOR；　Maxse；　with　his　NATIONAL　REVIEW。　　But　they　were　grown　up；　they　had　formed　their　ideas。　　He　had　to　learn　first。　He　lifted　a　second　finger。　　How　to　learn？　　For　it　was　learning　that　he　had　to　do。　When　one　comes　down　from　Oxford　or　Cambridge　one　falls　into　the　mistake　of　thinking　that　learning　is　over　and　action　must　begin。　But　until　one　perceives　clearly　just　where　one　stands　action　is　impossible。　How　is　one　with　no　experience　of　affairs　to　get　an　experience　of　affairs　when　the　door　of　affairs　is　closed　to　one　by　one's　own　convictions？　　Outside　of　affairs　how　can　one　escape　being　flimsy？　How　can　one　escape　becoming　merely　an　intellectual　like　those　wordy　Fabians；　those　writers；　poseurs；　and　sham　publicists　whose　wrangles　he　had　attended？　　And；　moreover；　there　is　danger　in　the　leisure　of　your　intellectual。　　One　cannot　be　always　reading　and　thinking　and　discussing　and　inquiring。　。　。　。　　WOULD　IT　NOT　BE　BETTER　AFTER　ALL　TO　MAKE　A　CONCESSION；　SWALLOW　HOME　RULE　OR　TARIFF　REFORM；　AND　SO　AT　LEAST　GET　HIS　HANDS　ON　THINGS？　And　then　in　a　little　while　the　party　conflict　would　swallow　him　up？　Still　it　would　engage　him；　it　would　hold　him。　　If；　perhaps；　he　did　not　let　it　swallow　him　up。　　If　he　worked　with　an　eye　open　for　opportunities　of　self…assertion。　。　。　。　The　party　game　had　not　altogether　swallowed　〃Mr。　Arthur。〃　。　。　。　But　every　one　is　not　a　Balfour。　。　。　。　He　reflected　profoundly。　　On　his　left　knee　his　left　hand　rested　with　two　fingers　held　up。　　By　some　rapid　mental　alchemy　these　fingers　had　now　become　Home　Rule　and　Tariff　Reform。　　His　right　hand　which　had　hitherto　taken　no　part　in　the　controversy；　had　raised　its　index　finger　by　imperceptible　degrees。　　It　had　been　raised　almost　subconsciously。　　And　by　still　obscurer　processes　this　finger　had　become　Mrs。　Skelmersdale。　　He　recognized　her　sudden　reappearance　above　the　threshold　of　consciousness　with　mild　surprise。　　He　had　almost　forgotten　her　share　in　these　problems。　　He　had　supposed　her　dismissed　to　an　entirely　subordinate　position。　。　。　。　Then　he　perceived　that　the　workmen　in　the　chalk　pit　far　below　had　knocked　off　and　were　engaged　upon　their　midday　meal。　　He　understood　why　his　mind　was　no　longer　moving　forward　with　any　alacrity。　Food？　The　question　where　he　should　eat　arose　abruptly　and　dismissed　all　other　problems　from　his　mind。　　He　unfolded　a　map。Here　must　be　the　chalk　pit；　here　was　Dorking。　　That　village　was　Brockham　Green。　Should　he　go　down　to　Dorking　or　this　way　over　Box　Hill　to　the　little　inn　at　Burford　Bridge。　　He　would　try　the　latter。

14

The　April　sunset　found　our　young　man　talking　to　himself　for　greater　emphasis；　and　wandering　along　a　turfy　cart…track　through　a　wilderness　mysteriously　planted　with　great　bushes　of　rhododendra　on　the　Downs　above　Shere。　　He　had　eaten　a　belated　lunch　at