the new machiavelli-第12章

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detached　criticism　and　partial　comprehension　of　the　world。　　I　can　

imagine　the　fierce　zeal　of　our　first　Heads；　Gardener　and　Roper；　

teaching　Greek　like　passionate　missionaries；　as　a　progressive　

Chinaman　might　teach　English　to　the　boys　of　Pekin；　clumsily；　

impatiently；　with　rod　and　harsh　urgency；　but　sincerely；　

patriotically；　because　they　felt　that　behind　it　lay　revelations；　the　

irresistible　stimulus　to　a　new　phase　of　history。　　That　was　long　ago。　　

A　new　great　world；　a　vaster　Imperialism　had　arisen　about　the　school；　

had　assimilated　all　these　amazing　and　incredible　ideas；　had　gone　on　

to　new　and　yet　more　amazing　developments　of　its　own。　　But　the　City　

Merchants　School　still　made　the　substance　of　its　teaching　Latin　and　

Greek；　still；　with　no　thought　of　rotating　crops；　sowed　in　a　dream　

amidst　the　harvesting。



There　is　no　fierceness　left　in　the　teaching　now。　　Just　after　I　went　

up　to　Trinity；　Gates；　our　Head；　wrote　a　review　article　in　defence　of　

our　curriculum。　　In　this；　among　other　indiscretions；　he　asserted　

that　it　was　impossible　to　write　good　English　without　an　illuminating　

knowledge　of　the　classic　tongues；　and　he　split　an　infinitive　and　

failed　to　button　up　a　sentence　in　saying　so。　　His　main　argument　

conceded　every　objection　a　reasonable　person　could　make　to　the　City　

Merchants'　curriculum。　　He　admitted　that　translation　had　now　placed　

all　the　wisdom　of　the　past　at　a　common　man's　disposal；　that　scarcely　

a　field　of　endeavour　remained　in　which　modern　work　had　not　long　

since　passed　beyond　the　ancient　achievement。　　He　disclaimed　any　

utility。　　But　there　was；　he　said；　a　peculiar　magic　in　these　

grammatical　exercises　no　other　subjects　of　instruction　possessed。　　

Nothing　else　provided　the　same　strengthening　and　orderly　discipline　

for　the　mind。



He　said　that；　knowing　the　Senior　Classics　he　did；　himself　a　Senior　

Classic！



Yet　in　a　dim　confused　way　I　think　be　was　making　out　a　case。　　In　

schools　as　we　knew　them；　and　with　the　sort　of　assistant　available；　

the　sort　of　assistant　who　has　been　trained　entirely　on　the　old　

lines；　he　could　see　no　other　teaching　so　effectual　in　developing　

attention；　restraint；　sustained　constructive　effort　and　various　yet　

systematic　adjustment。　　And　that　was　as　far　as　his　imagination　could　

go。



It　is　infinitely　easier　to　begin　organised　human　affairs　than　end　

them；　the　curriculum　and　the　social　organisation　of　the　English　

public　school　are　the　crowning　instances　of　that。　　They　go　on　

because　they　have　begun。　　Schools　are　not　only　immortal　institutions　

but　reproductive　ones。　　Our　founder；　Jabez　Arvon；　knew　nothing；　I　am　

sure；　of　Gates'　pedagogic　values　and　would；　I　feel　certain；　have　

dealt　with　them　disrespectfully。　　But　public　schools　and　university　

colleges　sprang　into　existence　correlated；　the　scholars　went　on　to　

the　universities　and　came　back　to　teach　the　schools；　to　teach　as　

they　themselves　had　been　taught；　before　they　had　ever　made　any　real　

use　of　the　teaching；　the　crowd　of　boys　herded　together；　a　crowd　

perpetually　renewed　and　unbrokenly　the　same；　adjusted　itself　by　

means　of　spontaneously　developed　institutions。　　In　a　century；　by　its　

very　success；　this　revolutionary　innovation　of　Renascence　public　

schools　had　become　an　immense　tradition　woven　closely　into　the　

fabric　of　the　national　life。　　Intelligent　and　powerful　people　ceased　

to　talk　Latin　or　read　Greek；　they　had　got　what　was　wanted；　but　that　

only　left　the　schoolmaster　the　freer　to　elaborate　his　point。　　Since　

most　men　of　any　importance　or　influence　in　the　country　had　been　

through　the　mill；　it　was　naturally　a　little　difficult　to　persuade　

them　that　it　was　not　quite　the　best　and　most　ennobling　mill　the　wit　

of　man　could　devise。　　And；　moreover；　they　did　not　want　their　

children　made　strange　to　them。　　There　was　all　the　machinery　and　all　

the　men　needed　to　teach　the　old　subjects；　and　none　to　teach　whatever　

new　the　critic　might　propose。　　Such　science　instruction　as　my　father　

gave　seemed　indeed　the　uninviting　alternative　to　the　classical　

grind。　　It　was　certainly　an　altogether　inferior　instrument　at　that　

time。



So　it　was　I　occupied　my　mind　with　the　exact　study　of　dead　languages　

for　seven　long　years。　　It　was　the　strangest　of　detachments。　　We　

would　sit　under　the　desk　of　such　a　master　as　Topham　like　creatures　

who　had　fallen　into　an　enchanted　pit；　and　he　would　do　his　

considerable　best　to　work　us　up　to　enthusiasm　for；　let　us　say；　a　

Greek　play。　　If　we　flagged　he　would　lash　himself　to　revive　us。　　He　

would　walk　about　the　class…room　mouthing　great　lines　in　a　rich　roar；　

and　asking　us　with　a　flushed　face　and　shining　eyes　if　it　was　not　

〃GLORIOUS。〃　　The　very　sight　of　Greek　letters　brings　back　to　me　the　

dingy；　faded；　ink…splashed　quality　of　our　class…room；　the　banging　of　

books；　Topham's　disordered　hair；　the　sheen　of　his　alpaca　gown；　his　

deep　unmusical　intonations　and　the　wide　striding　of　his　creaking　

boots。　　Glorious！　　And　being　plastic　human　beings　we　would　consent　

that　it　was　glorious；　and　some　of　us　even　achieved　an　answering　

reverberation　and　a　sympathetic　flush。　　I　at　times　responded　freely。　　　

We　all　accepted　from　him　unquestioningly　that　these　melodies；　these　

strange　sounds；　exceeded　any　possibility　of　beauty　that　lay　in　the　

Gothic　intricacy；　the　splash　and　glitter；　the　jar　and　recovery；　the　

stabbing　lights；　the　heights　and　broad　distances　of　our　English　

tongue。　　That　indeed　was　the　chief　sin　of　him。　　It　was　not　that　he　

was　for　Greek　and　Latin；　but　that　he　was　fiercely　against　every　

beauty　that　was　neither　classic　nor　deferred　to　classical　canons。



And　what　exactly　did　we　make　of　it；　we　seniors　who　understood　it　

best？　　We　visualised　dimly　through　that　dust　and　the　grammatical　

difficulties；　the　spectacle　of　the　chorus　chanting　grotesquely；　

helping　out　protagonist　and　antagonist；　masked　and　buskined；　with　

the　telling　of　incomprehensible　parricides；　of　inexplicable　incest；　

of　gods　faded　beyond　symbolism；　of　that　Relentless　Law　we　did　not　

believe　in　for　a　moment；　that　no　modern　western　European　can　believe　

in。　　We　thought　of　the　characters　in　the　unconvincing　wigs　and　

costumes　of　our　school　performance。　　No　Gilbert　Murray　had　come　as　

yet　to　touch　these　things　to　life　again。　　It　was　like　the　ghost　of　

an　antiquarian's　toy　theatre；　a　ghost　that　crumbled　and　condensed　

into　a　gritty　dust　of　construing　as　one　looked　at　it。



Marks；　shindies；　prayers　and　punishments；　all　flavoured　with　the　

leathery　stuffiness　of　time…worn　Big　Hall。　。　。　。



And　then　out　one　would　come　through　our　grey　old　gate　into　the　

evening　light　and　the　spectacle　of　London　hurrying　like　a　cataract；　

London　in　black　and　brown　and　blue　and　gleaming　silver；　roaring　like　

the　very　loom　of　Time。　　We　came　out　into　the　new　world　no　teacher　

has　yet　had　the　power　and　courage　to　grasp　and　expound。　　Life　and　

death　sang　all　about　one；　joys　and　fears　on　such　a　scale；　in　such　an　

intricacy　as　never　Greek　nor　Roman　knew。　　The　interminable　

procession　of　horse　omnibuses　went　lumbering　past；　bearing　countless　

people　we　knew　not　whence；　we　knew　not　whither。　　Hansoms　clattered；　

foot　passengers　jostled　one；　a　thousand　appeals　of　shop　and　boarding　

caught　the　eye。　　The　multi…coloured　lights　of　window　and　street　

mingled　with　the　warm　glow　of　the　declining　day　under　the　softly　

flushing　London　skies；　the　ever…changing　placards；　the　shouting　

news…vendors；　told　of　a　kaleidoscopic　drama　all　about　the　globe。　　

One　did　not　realise　what　had　happened　to　us；　but　the　voice　of　Topham　

was　suddenly　drowned　and　lost；　he　and　his　minute；　remote　

gesticulations。　。　。　。



That　submerged　and　isolated　curriculum　did　not　even　join　on　to　

living　interests　where　it　might　have　done　so。　　　We　were　left　

absolutely　to　the　hints　of　the　newspapers；　to　casual　political　

speeches；　to　the　cartoons　of　the　comic　papers　or　a　chance　reading　of　

some　Socialist　pamphlet　for　any　general　ideas　whatever　about　the　

huge　swirling　world　process　in　which　we　found　ourselves。　　I　always　

look　back　with　particular　exasperation　to　the　cessation　of　our　

modern　history　at　the　year　1815。　　There　it　pulled　up　abruptly；　as　

though　it　had　come　upon　something　indelicate。　。　。　。



But；　after　all；　what　would　Topham　or　Flack　have　made　of　the　huge　

adjustments　of　the　nineteenth　century？　　Flack　was　the　chief　

cricketer　on　the　staff；　he　belonged　to　that　great　cult　which　

pretends　that　the　place　of　this　or　that　county　in　the　struggle　for　

the　championship　is　a　matter　of　supreme　importance　to　boys。　　He　

obliged　us　to　affect　a　passionate　interest　in　the　progress　of　county　

matches；　to　work　up　unnatural　enthusiasms。　　What　a　fuss　there　would　

be　when　some　well…trained　boy；　panting　as　if　from　Marathon；　appeared　

with　an　evening　paper！　　〃I　say；　you　chaps；　Middlesex　all　out　for　a　

hundred　and　five！〃



Under　Flack's　pressure　I　became；　I　confess；　a　cricket　humbug　of　the　

first　class。　　I　applied　myself　industriously　year　by　year　to　

mastering　scores　and　averages；　I　pretended　that　Lords　or　the　Oval　

were　the　places　nearest　Paradise　for　me。　　（I　never　went　to　either。）　　

Through　a　slight　mistake　about　the　county　boundary　I　adopted　Surrey　

for　my　loyalty；　though　as　a　matter　of　fact　we　were　by　some　five　

hundred　yards　or　so　in　Kent。　　It　did　quite　as　well　for　my　purposes。　　

I　bowled　rather　straight　and　fast；　and　spent　endless　hours　acquiring　

the　skill　to　bowl　Flack　out。　　He　was　a　bat　in　the　Corinthian　style；　

rich　and　voluminous；　and　succumbed　very　easily　to　a　low　shooter　or　

an　unexpected　Yorker；　hut　usually　he　was　caught　early　by　long　leg。　　

The　difficulty　was　to　bowl　him　before　he　got　caught。　　He　loved　to　

lift　a　ball　to　leg。　　After　one　had　clean　bowled　him　at　the　practice　

nets　one　deliberately　gave　him　a　ball　to　leg　just　to　make　him　feel　

nice　again。



Flack　went　about　a　world　of　marvels　dreaming　of　leg　hits。　　He　has　

been　observed；　going　across　the　Park　on　his　way　to　his　highly　

respectable　club　in　Piccadilly；　to　break　from　profound　musings　into　

a　strange　brief　dance　that　ended　with　an　imaginary　swipe　with　his　

umbrella；　a　roofer；　over　the　trees　towards　Buckingham　Palace。　　The　

hit　accomplished；　Flack　resumed　his　way。



Inadequately　instructed　foreigners　would　pass　him　in　terror；　

needlessly　alert。





6



These　schoolmasters　move　through　my　memory　as　always　a　little　

distant　and　more　than　a　little　incomprehensible。　　Except　when　they　

wore　flannels；　I　saw　them　almost　always　in　old　college　caps　and　

gowns；　a　uniform　which　greatly　increased　their　detachment　from　the　

world　of　actual　men。　　Gates；　the　head；　was　a　lean　loose…limbed　man；　

rather　stupid　I　discovered　when　I　reached　the　Sixth　and　came　into　

contact　with　him；　but　honest；　simple　and　very　eager　to　be　liberal…

minded。　　He　was　bald；　with　an　almost　conical　baldness；　with　a　

grizzled　pointed　beard；　small　featured　and；　under　the　stresses　of　a　

Zeitgeist　that　dema