the research magnificent-第52章

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son　why　ultimately　they　should　not　be　so　in　the　business　of　peace。　　But　I　do　not　understand　the　elements　of　the　methods　by　which　this　state　of　affairs　can　be　brought　about。　〃If　I　were　to　confess　this　much　to　an　intelligent　working　man　I　know　that　at　once　he　would　answer　‘Socialism；'　but　Socialism　is　no　more　a　solution　of　this　problem　than　eating　is　a　solution　when　one　is　lost　in　the　wilderness　and　hungry。　　Of　course　everybody　with　any　intelligence　wants　Socialism；　everybody；　that　is　to　say；　wants　to　see　all　human　efforts　directed　to　the　common　good　and　a　common　end；　but　brought　face　to　face　with　practical　problems　Socialism　betrays　a　vast　insufficiency　of　practical　suggestions。　　I　do　not　say　that　Socialism　would　not　work；　but　I　do　say　that　so　far　Socialists　have　failed　to　convince　me　that　they　could　work　it。　　The　substitution　of　a　stupid　official　for　a　greedy　proprietor　may　mean　a　vanished　dividend；　a　limited　output　and　no　other　human　advantage　whatever。　Socialism　is　in　itself　a　mere　eloquent　gesture；　inspiring；　encouraging；　perhaps；　but　beyond　that　not　very　helpful；　towards　the　vast　problem　of　moral　and　material　adjustment　before　the　race。　　That　problem　is　incurably　miscellaneous　and　intricate；　and　only　by　great　multitudes　of　generous　workers；　one　working　at　this　point　and　one　at　that；　secretly　devoted　knights　of　humanity；　hidden　and　dispersed　kings；　unaware　of　one　another；　doubting　each　his　right　to　count　himself　among　those　who　do　these　kingly　services；　is　this　elaborate　rightening　of　work　and　guidance　to　be　done。〃　So　from　these　most　fundamental　social　difficulties　he　came　back　to　his　panacea。　　All　paths　and　all　enquiries　led　him　back　to　his　conception　of　aristocracy；　conscious；　self…disciplined；　devoted；　self…examining　yet　secret；　making　no　personal　nor　class　pretences；　as　the　supreme　need　not　only　of　the　individual　but　the　world。

10

It　was　the　Labour　trouble　in　the　Transvaal　which　had　brought　the　two　schoolfellows　together　again。　　White　had　been　on　his　way　to　Zimbabwe。　　An　emotional　disturbance　of　unusual　intensity　had　driven　him　to　seek　consolations　in　strange　scenery　and　mysterious　desolations。　　It　was　as　if　Zimbabwe　called　to　him。　　Benham　had　come　to　South　Africa　to　see　into　the　question　of　Indian　immigration；　and　he　was　now　on　his　way　to　meet　Amanda　in　London。　　Neither　man　had　given　much　heed　to　the　gathering　social　conflict　on　the　Rand　until　the　storm　burst　about　them。　　There　had　been　a　few　paragraphs　in　the　papers　about　a　dispute　upon　a　point　of　labour　etiquette；　a　question　of　the　recognition　of　Trade　Union　officials；　a　thing　that　impressed　them　both　as　technical；　and　then　suddenly　a　long　incubated　quarrel　flared　out　in　rioting　and　violence；　the　burning　of　houses　and　furniture；　attacks　on　mines；　attempts　to　dynamite　trains。　　White　stayed　in　Johannesburg　because　he　did　not　want　to　be　stranded　up　country　by　the　railway　strike　that　was　among　the　possibilities　of　the　situation。　　Benham　stayed　because　he　was　going　to　London　very　reluctantly；　and　he　was　glad　of　this　justification　for　a　few　days'　delay。　　The　two　men　found　themselves　occupying　adjacent　tables　in　the　Sherborough　Hotel；　and　White　was　the　first　to　recognize　the　other。　　They　came　together　with　a　warmth　and　readiness　of　intimacy　that　neither　would　have　displayed　in　London。　White　had　not　seen　Benham　since　the　social　days　of　Amanda　at　Lancaster　Gate；　and　he　was　astonished　at　the　change　a　few　years　had　made　in　him。　　The　peculiar　contrast　of　his　pallor　and　his　dark　hair　had　become　more　marked；　his　skin　was　deader；　his　features　seemed　more　prominent　and　his　expression　intenser。　　His　eyes　were　very　bright　and　more　sunken　under　his　brows。　　He　had　suffered　from　yellow　fever　in　the　West　Indies；　and　these　it　seemed　were　the　marks　left　by　that　illness。　　And　he　was　much　more　detached　from　the　people　about　him；　less　attentive　to　the　small　incidents　of　life；　more　occupied　with　inner　things。　　He　greeted　White　with　a　confidence　that　White　was　one　day　to　remember　as　pathetic。　〃It　is　good　to　meet　an　old　friend；〃　Benham　said。　　〃I　have　lost　friends。　　And　I　do　not　make　fresh　ones。　　I　go　about　too　much　by　myself；　and　I　do　not　follow　the　same　tracks　that　other　people　are　following。　。　。　。〃　What　track　was　he　following？　　It　was　now　that　White　first　heard　of　the　Research　Magnificent。　　He　wanted　to　know　what　Benham　was　doing；　and　Benham　after　some　partial　and　unsatisfactory　explanation　of　his　interest　in　insurgent　Hindoos；　embarked　upon　larger　expositions。　〃It　is；　of　course；　a　part　of　something　else；〃　he　amplified。　　He　was　writing　a　book；　〃an　enormous　sort　of　book。〃　　He　laughed　with　a　touch　of　shyness。　　It　was　about　〃everything；〃　about　how　to　live　and　how　not　to　live。　　And　〃aristocracy；　and　all　sorts　of　things。〃　　White　was　always　curious　about　other　people's　books。　　Benham　became　earnest　and　more　explicit　under　encouragement；　and　to　talk　about　his　book　was　soon　to　talk　about　himself。　　In　various　ways；　intentionally　and　inadvertently；　he　told　White　much。　　These　chance　encounters；　these　intimacies　of　the　train　and　hotel；　will　lead　men　at　times　to　a　stark　frankness　of　statement　they　would　never　permit　themselves　with　habitual　friends。　About　the　Johannesburg　labour　trouble　they　talked　very　little；　considering　how　insistent　it　was　becoming。　　But　the　wide　propositions　of　the　Research　Magnificent；　with　its　large　indifference　to　immediate　occurrences；　its　vast　patience；　its　tremendous　expectations；　contrasted　very　sharply　in　White's　memory　with　the　bitterness；　narrowness　and　resentment　of　the　events　about　them。　　For　him　the　thought　of　that　first　discussion　of　this　vast　inchoate　book　into　which　Benham's　life　was　flowering；　and　which　he　was　ultimately　to　summarize；　trailed　with　it　a　fringe　of　vivid　little　pictures；　pictures　of　crowds　of　men　hurrying　on　bicycles　and　afoot　under　a　lowering　twilight　sky　towards　murmuring　centres　of　disorder；　of　startling　flares　seen　suddenly　afar　off；　of　the　muffled　galloping　of　troops　through　the　broad　dusty　street　in　the　night；　of　groups　of　men　standing　and　watching　down　straight　broad　roads；　roads　that　ended　in　groups　of　chimneys　and　squat　buildings　of　corrugated　iron。　　And　once　there　was　a　marching　body　of　white　men　in　the　foreground　and　a　complicated　wire　fence；　and　a　clustering　mass　of　Kaffirs　watching　them　over　this　fence　and　talking　eagerly　amongst　themselves。　〃All　this　affair　here　is　little　more　than　a　hitch　in　the　machinery；〃　said　Benham；　and　went　back　to　his　large　preoccupation。　。　。　。　But　White；　who　had　not　seen　so　much　human　disorder　as　Benham；　felt　that　it　was　more　than　that。　　Always　he　kept　the　tail　of　his　eye　upon　that　eventful　background　while　Benham　talked　to　him。　When　the　firearms　went　off　he　may　for　the　moment　have　even　given　the　background　the　greater　share　of　his　attention。　。　。　。

11

It　was　only　as　White　burrowed　through　his　legacy　of　documents　that　the　full　values　came　to　very　many　things　that　Benham　said　during　these　last　conversations。　　The　papers　fitted　in　with　his　memories　of　their　long　talks　like　text　with　commentary；　so　much　of　Benham's　talk　had　repeated　the　private　writings　in　which　he　had　first　digested　his　ideas　that　it　was　presently　almost　impossible　to　disentangle　what　had　been　said　and　understood　at　Johannesburg　from　the　fuller　statement　of　those　patched　and　corrected　manuscripts。　　The　two　things　merged　in　White's　mind　as　he　read。　　The　written　text　took　upon　itself　a　resonance　of　Benham's　voice；　it　eked　out　the　hints　and　broken　sentences　of　his　remembered　conversation。　But　some　things　that　Benham　did　not　talk　about　at　all；　left　by　their　mere　marked　absence　an　impression　on　White's　mind。　　And　occasionally　after　Benham　had　been　talking　for　a　long　time　there　would　be　an　occasional　aphasia；　such　as　is　often　apparent　in　the　speech　of　men　who　restrain　themselves　from　betraying　a　preoccupation。　　He　would　say　nothing　about　Amanda　or　about　women　in　general；　he　was　reluctant　to　speak　of　Prothero；　and　another　peculiarity　was　that　he　referred　perhaps　half　a　dozen　times　or　more　to　the　idea　that　he　was　a　〃prig。〃　He　seemed　to　be　defending　himself　against　some　inner　accusation；　some　unconquerable　doubt　of　the　entire　adventure　of　his　life。　　These　half　hints　and　hints　by　omission　exercised　the　quick　intuitions　of　White's　mind　very　keenly；　and　he　drew　far　closer　to　an　understanding　of　Benham's　reserves　than　Benham　ever　suspected。　。　。　。　At　first　after　his　parting　from　Amanda　in　London　Benham　had　felt　completely　justified　in　his　treatment　of　her。　　She　had　betrayed　him　and　he　had　behaved；　he　felt；　with　dignity　and　self…control。　　He　had　no　doubt　that　he　had　punished　her　very　effectively；　and　it　was　only　after　he　had　been　travelling　in　China　with　Prothero　for　some　time　and　in　the　light　of　one　or　two　chance　phrases　in　her　letters　that　he　began　to　have　doubts　whether　he　ought　to　have　punished　her　at　all。　And　one　night　at　Shanghai　he　had　a　dream　in　which　she　stood　before　him；　dishevelled　and　tearful；　his　Amanda；　very　intensely　his　Amanda；　and　said　that　she　was　dirty　and　shameful　and　spoilt　for　ever；　because　he　had　gone　away　from　her。　　Afterwards　the　dream　became　absurd：　she　showed　him　the　black　leopard's　fur　as　though　it　was　a　rug；　and　it　was　now　moth…eaten　and　mangey；　the　leopard　skin　that　had　been　so　bright　and　wonderful　such　a　little　time　ago；　and　he　awoke　before　he　could　answer　her；　and　for　a　long　time　he　was　full　of　unspoken　answers　explaining　that　in　view　of　her　deliberate　unfaithfulness　the　position　she　took　up　was　absurd。　　She　had　spoilt　her　own　fur。　　But　what　was　more　penetrating　and　distressing　in　this　dream　was　not　so　much　the　case　Amanda　stated　as　the　atmosphere　of　unconquerable　intimacy　between　them；　as　though　they　still　belonged　to　each　other；　soul　to　soul；　as　though　nothing　that　had　happened　afterwards　could　have　destroyed　their　common　responsibility　and　the　common　interest　of　their　first　unstinted　union。　　She　was　hurt；　and　of　course　he　was　hurt。　　He　began　to　see　that　his　marriage　to　Amanda　was　still　infinitely　more　than　a　technical　bond。　And　having　perceived　that　much　he　presently　began　to　doubt　whether　she　realized　anything　of　the　sort。　　Her　letters　fluctuated　very　much　in　tone；　but　at　times　they　were　as　detached　and　guarded　as　a　schoolgirl　writing　to　a　cousin。　　Then　it　seemed　to　Benham　an　extraordinary　fraud　on　her　part　that　she　should　presume　to　come　into　his　dream　with　an　entirely　deceptive　closeness　and　confidence。　　She　began　to　sound　him　in　these　latter　letters　upon　the　possibility　of　divorce。　　This；　which　he　had　been　quite　disposed　to　concede　in　London；　now　struck　him　as　an　outrageous　suggestion。　　He　wrote　to　ask　her　why；　and　she　responded　exasperatingly　that　she　thought　it　was　〃better。〃　　But；　again；　why　better？　　It　is　remarkable　that　although　his　mind　had　habituated　itself　to　the　idea　that　Easton　was　her　lover　in　London；　her　thought　of　being　divorced；　no　doubt　to　marry　again；　filled　him　with　jealous　rage。　　She　asked　him　to　take　the　blame　in　the　divorce　proceedings。　　There；　again；　he　found　himself　ungenerous。　He　did　not　want　to　do　that。　　Why　should　he　do　that？　　As　a　matter　of　fact　he　was　by　no　means　reconciled　to　the　price　he　had　paid　for　his　Research　Magnificent；　he　regretted　his　Amanda　acutely。　　He　was　regretting　her　with　a　regret　that　grew　when　by　all　the　rules　of　life　it　ought　to　be　diminishing。　It　was　in　consequence　of　that　regret　and　his　con