PART Ⅱ-8
Iwasn’twouilllatein1916.
We’djusteoutofthetrenchesandweremargoverabitofroadamileorsobackwhichposedtobesafe,butwhichtheGermansmusthavegottherangeofsometimeearlier.Suddenlytheystartedputtingafewshellsover—itwasheavyH.E.stuff,andtheywereonlyfiringaboutoneamiherewastheusualzwee-e-e-e!andthenBOOM!inafieldsomewhereovertht.Ithinkitwasthethirdshellthatgotme.IknewassoonasIhearditingthatithadmytenonit.Theysayyoualwaysknow.Itdidn’tsaywhatanordinaryshellsays.Itsaid‘I’mafteryou,youb—,YOU,youb—,YOU!’—allthisinthespaceofaboutthreeseds.Ayouwastheexplosion.
Ifeltasifanenormoushandmadeofairweresweepingmealong.AlyIcamedownwithasortofburst,shatteredfeelingamongalotofoldtins,splintersofwood,rustybarbedwire,turds,emptycartridgecases,andothermutheditchatthesideoftheroad.Whenthey’dhauledmeoutandedsomeofthedirtoffmetheyfoundthatIwasn’tverybadlyhurt.Itwasonlyalotofsmallshell-splihathadlodgedinonesideofmybottomanddownthebaylegs.ButluckilyI’dbrokenaribinfalling,whichmadeitjustbadenoughtogetmebacktoEngland.Ispentthatwinterinahospitalcamponthedownsbourne.
Doyourememberthosewar-timehospitalcamps?Thelongrowsofwoodenhutslikechi-housesstuckrightontopofthosebeastlyicydowns—the‘southcoast’,peopleusedtocallit,whichmademewonderwhatthenorthcoastcouldbelike—wherethewioblowatyoufromalldiresatondthedrovesofblokesintheirpale-blueflannelsuitsaies,wanderingupanddownlookingforaplaceoutofthewindandneverfindingone.Sometimesthekidsfromtheslap-upboys’schoolsibourobeledroundincrocodilestohandoutfagsandpeppermiothe‘wouommies’,astheycalledus.Apink-facedkidofabouteightwouldtoaknotofwoundedmensittingonthegrass,splitopenapacketofWoodbinesandsolemnlyhaoea,justlikefeedingthemothezoo.Anyonewhowasstrongenoughusedtowanderformilesoverthedownsinhopesofmeetinggirls.Therewereneverenoughgirlstogoround.Inthevalleybelowthecamptherewasabitofaspinney,andlongbeforeduskyou’dseeacouplegluedagainsteverytree,andsometimes,ifithappeobeathicktree,oneoneachsideofit.Mychiefmemoryofthattimeissittingagainstagorse-bushinthefreezingwind,withmyfingerssocoldIcouldhemaeofapeppermintcreaminmymouth.That’satypicalsoldier’smemory.ButIwasgettingawayfromaTommy’slife,allthesame.TheC.O.hadsentmynameinforaissionalittlebeforeIwaswounded.Bythistimetheyweredesperateforofficersandanyonewhowasn’tactuallyilliteratecouldhaveaissioedone.Iwentstraightfromthehospitaltoanofficers’trainingearColchester.
It’sverystrahethingsthewardidtopeople.ItwaslessthanthreeyearssinceI’dbeenaspryyoungshop-assistant,bendiheterinmywhiteapronwith‘Yes,madam!Certainly,madam!Aorder,madam?’withagrocer’slifeaheadofmeandaboutasmuotionofbeinganArmyofficerasofgettingaknighthood.AndhereIwasalready,swaggeringaboutinagorblimeyhatandayellowcollarandmoreorlesskeepingmyendupamongacrowdofothertempentsandsomewhowereemporary.And—thisisreallythepoint—notfeelingitinanywaystrahingseemedstrahosedays.
Itwaslikeanenormousmaethathadgotholdofyou.You’dnosenseofagofyourownfreewill,andatthesametimenonotiontoresist.Ifpeopledidn’thavesomesuchfeelingasthat,nowarcouldlastthreemonths.Thearmieswouldjustpackupandgohome.WhyhadIjoiheArmy?Orthemillionotheridiotswhojoinedupbeforescriptioncamein?PartlyforalarkandpartlybecauseofEnglandmyEnglandandBritonsneverneverandallthatstuff.Buthowlongdidthatlast?MostofthechapsIknewhadfottenallaboutitlongbeforetheygotasfarasFrahemenirenchesweren’tpatriotic,didn’thatetheKaiser,didn’tcareadamnaboutgallantlittleBelgiumandtheGermansrapingnunsontables(itwasalways‘ontables’,asthoughthatmadeitworse)ireetsofBrussels.Oherhanditdidn’toctotryandescape.Themaehadgotholdofyouanditcoulddowhatitlikedwithyou.Itliftedyouupanddumpedyoudownamongpladthingsyou’dneverdreamedof,andifithaddumpedyoudownonthesurfaceofthemoonitwouldn’thaveseemedparticularlystrahedayIjoiheArmytheoldlifewasfiwasasthoughitdidn’tmeanylonger.Iwonderifyou’dbelievethatfromthatdayforwardIonlyobacktoLowerBinfield,andthatwastoMother’sfuneral?Itsoundsincrediblenow,butitseemednaturalenoughatthetime.Partly,Iadmit,itwasonatofElsie,whom,ofcourse,I’dstoppedwritingtoaftertwoorthreemonths.Nodoubtshe’dpickedupwithsomeoneelse,butIdidn’twanttomeether.Otherwise,perhaps,whenIgotabitofleaveI’dhavegonedownaher,who’dhadfitswhenIjoiheArmybutwouldhavebeenproudofasoninuniform.
Fatherdiedin1915.IwasinFrahetime.Idon’texaggeratewhenIsaythatFather’sdeathhurtsmemorenowthanitdidthen.AtthetimeitwasjustabitofbadnewswhichIacceptedalmostwithouti,iofempty-headedapatheticwayinwhieacceptedeverythingirenches.Iremembercrawlingintothedoorwayofthedugouttogetenoughlighttoreadtheletter,andIrememberMother’stear-stainsoer,andtheagfeelinginmykneesandthesmellofmud.Father’slife-insurancepolicyhadbeenmedformostofitsvalue,buttherewasalittlemohebankandSarazins’weregoingtobuyupthestodevenpaysometinyamountfood-will.Anyway,Motherhadabitovertwohundredpounds,besidesthefurniture.Shewentforthetimebeingtolodgewithhercousin,thewifeofasmall-holderwhowasdoiywelloutofthewar,nearDoxley,afewmilestheothersideofWalton.Itwasonly‘forthetimebeing’.Thereoraryfeelingabouteverything.Intheolddays,whichasamatteroffactwerebarelyayearold,thewholethingwouldhavebeenanappallingdisaster.WithFatherdead,theshopsoldandMotherwithtwohundredpoundsintheworld,you’dhaveseegoutinfrontofyouakindoffifteen-acttragedy,thelastactbeingapauper’sfuneral.Butnowthewarandthefeelingofnotbeingone’sownmasterovershadowedeverything.PeoplehardlythoughtintermsofthingslikebankruptdtheworkhouseanylohiswasthecaseevenwithMother,who,Godknows,hadonlyverydimnotionsaboutthewar.Besides,shewasalreadydying,thoughherofusk.
ShecameacrosstoseemeinthehospitalatEastbourwasovertwoyearssinceI’dseenher,andherappearancegavemeabitofashock.Sheseemedtohavefadedandsomehowtohaveshrunken.PartlyitwasbecausebythistimeIwasgrown-up,I’dtravelled,ahinglookedsmallertome,buttherewasionthatshe’dgotthinner,andalsoyellower.ShetalkedintheoldramblingwayaboutAuntMartha(thatwasthecousinshewasstayingwith),andthegesinLowerBinfieldsihewar,andalltheboyswho’d‘gone’(meaningjoiheArmy),andheriionwhichwas‘aggravating’,andpoorFather’stombstoneandwhatalovelycorpsehemade.Itwastheoldtalk,thetalkI’dlisteoforyears,asomehowitwaslikeaghosttalking.Itdidn’tmeanylonger.I’dknownherasagreatsplendidprotegkindofcreature,abitlikeaship’sfigure-headandabitlikeabroodyhen,andafterallshewasonlyalittleoldwomaninablackdress.Everythingwasgingandfading.ThatwasthelasttimeIsawheralive.IgotthewiresayingshewasseriouslyillwhenIwasatthetrainingschoolatColchester,andputinforaweek’surgentleaveimmediately.Butitwastoolate.ShewasdeadbythetimeIgottoDoxley.Whatsheandeveryoneelsehadimagiobeiionwassomekindofinternalgrowth,andasuddenchilloomachputthefinaltouch.Thedoctortriedtocheermeupbytellithegrowthwas‘benevolent’,whichstruckmeasaqueerthingtocallit,seeingthatithadkilledher.
Well,weburiedheroFather,andthatwasmylastglimpseofLowerBinfield.Ithadgedalot,eveninthreeyears.Someoftheshopswereshut,somehaddifferentnamesoverthem.NearlyallthemenI’dknownasboysweregone,andsomeofthemweredead.SidLovegrovewasdead,killedontheSomme.Gison,thefarmladwho’dbeloheBladyearsago,theonewhousedtocatchrabbitsalive,wasdeadi.Ohechapswho’dworkedwithmeatGrimmett’shadlostbothlegs.OldLovegrovehadshutuphisshopandwaslivinginacottagenearWaltononatinyannuity.OldGrimmett,oherhand,wasdoingwelloutofthewarandhadturriotidwasamemberofthelocalboardwhichtriedstiousobjectors.Thethingwhichmorethananythingelsegavethetoty,forlornkindoflookwasthattherewerepracticallynohorsesleft.Everyhorseworthtakinghadbeenandeeredlongago.Thestationflystillexisted,butthebrutethatpulleditwouldn’thavebeeandupifithadn’tbeenfortheshafts.ForthehourorsothatIwastherebeforethefuneralIwanderedrouown,sayinghowd’youdotopeopleandshowingoffmyuniform.LuckilyIdidn’trunintoElsie.Isawalltheges,awasasthoughIdidhem.Mymindwasohings,chieflythepleasureofbeingseeninmysed-loot’suniform,withmyblackarmlet(athingwhichlooksrathersmartonkhaki)andmynewwhipcordbreeches.IdistinctlyrememberthatIwasstillthinkingaboutthosewhipcordbreecheswheoodatthegraveside.AheychuckedsomeearthontothecoffinandIsuddenlyrealizedwhatitmeansforyourmothertobelyingwithseveofearthontopofher,andsomethingkindoftwitchedbehindmyeyesandevehewhipcordbreechesweren’taltogetheroutofmymind.
Don’tthinkIdidn’tfeelforMother’sdeath.Idid.Iwasn’tirenchesanylonger,Icouldfeelsorryforadeath.ButthethingIdidn’tcareadamnabout,didn’tevengrasptobehappening,wasthepassing-awayoftheoldlifeI’dknown.Afterthefuneral,AuntMartha,whowasratherproudofhavinga‘realofficer’foranephewandwouldhavemadeasplashofthefuneralifI’dlether,wentbacktoDoxleyonthebusandItooktheflydowntothestation,togetthetraintoLondonaoColchester.Wedrovepasttheshop.akenitsiherdied.Itwasshutupandthewindow-panewasblackwithdust,andthey’dburhe‘S.Bowling’offthesignboardlumber’sblowflame.Well,therewasthehousewhereI’dbeenachildandaboyandayoungman,whereI’dcrawledaboutthekitfloorahesainfoinandread‘DonovantheDauntless’,whereI’ddonemyhomeworkframmarSixedbreadpaste,mendedbicyclepunctures,andtriedonmyfirsthighcollar.IthadbeenaspermaomeasthePyramids,andnowitwouldbejustanactifIeversetfootinitagain.Father,Mother,Joe,theerrandboys,oldheterrier,Spot,theocameafterNailer,Jackiethebullfinch,thecats,themitheloft—allgohibutdust.AndIdidn’tcareadamn.IwassorryMotherwasdead,IwasevensorryFatherwasdead,butallthetimemymindwasohings.Iroudofbeingseenridinginacab,athingIhadusedto,andIwasthinkingofthesitofmynewwhipcordbreeches,andmynicesmoothofficer’sputties,sodifferentfromthegrittystufftheTommieshadtowear,andoftheotherchapsatColchesterayquidMotherhadleftandthebeanoswe’dhavewithit.AlsoIwasthankingGodthatIhadn’thappeorunintoElsie.
Thewardidextraordinarythingstopeople.Andwhatwasmoreextraordinarythanthewayitkilledpeoplewasthewayitsometimesdidn’tkillthem.Itwaslikeagreatfloodrushingyoualongtodeath,andsuddenlyitwouldshootyouupsomebackwaterwhereyou’dfindyourselfdoingincredibleandpoihingsanddrawirapayforthem.Therewerelabourbattalionsmakingroadsacrossthedesertthatdidn’tleadaherewerechapsmaroonedonoicislandstolookoutfermancruiserswhichhadbeensunkyearsearlier,therewereMinistriesofthisandthatwitharmiesofclerksandtypistswhitoingyearsaftertheirfunhadended,byakindofiia.Peoplewereshovedintomeaninglessjobsandthenfottenbytheauthoritiesforyearsohiswaspeomyself,orverylikelyIwouldn’tbehere.Thewholesequenceofeventsisratheriing.
AlittlewhileafterIwasgazettedtherewasacallforofficersoftheA.S.C.AssoonastheO.C.ofthetrainingcampheardthatIknewsomethingaboutthegrocerytrade(IdidhatI’dactuallybeenbehindtheter)hetoldmetosendmyhatwentthroughallright,andIwasjustabouttoleaveforaraining-schoolforA.S.C.officerssomewhereintheMidlandswhentherewasademandforayoungofficer,withknowledgeofthegrocerytrade,toactassomekindofsecretarytoSirJosephCheam,whowasabigheA.S.C.Godknowswhytheypickedmeout,butatanyratetheydidso.I’vesihoughtthattheyprobablymixedmynameupwithsomebodyelse’s.ThreedayslaterIwassalutinginSirJoseph’soffice.Hewasalean,upright,ratherhandsomeoldboywithgrizzledhairandagrave-lookingnosewhichimmediatelyimpressedme.Helookedtheperfectprofessionalsoldier,theK.C.M.G.,D.S.O.withbartype,andmighthavebeentwinbrothertothechapintheDeReszkeadvert,thoughinprivatelifehewaschairmanofohebiggroceriesandfamousallovertheworldforsomethingcalledtheCheamWage-CutSystem.HestoppedwritingasIcameinandlookedmeover.
‘Youagentleman?’
‘No,sir.’
‘Good.Thenperhapswe’llgetsomeworkdone.’
Inaboutthreeminuteshe’dwormedoutofmethatIhadarialexperience,didn’tknowshorthand,couldn’tuseatypewriter,andhadworkedinagroceryattweshillingsaweek.However,hesaidthatI’ddo,thereweretoomalemeninthisdamnedArmyandhe’dbeenlookingforsomebodywhocouldtbeyondten.Ilikedhimandlookedforwardtforhim,butjustatthismomeeriouspowersthatseemedtoberunningthewardroveusapartagain.SomethingcalledtheWestCoastDefenceForcewasbeingformed,orratherwasbeingtalkedabout,andtherewassomevagueideaofestablishingdumpsofrationsandotherstoresatvariouspointsalongthecoast.SirJosephposedtoberesponsibleforthedumpsih-westerofEngland.ThedayafterIjoinedhisofficehesentmedowntocheckoverthestoresataplacecalledTwelveMileDump,ohishCoast.Orrathermyjobwastofindoutwhetheranystoresexisted.Nobodyseemedcertainaboutthis.I’djustgotthereanddiscoveredthatthestoressistedofeleventinsofbullybeefwhenawirearrivedfromtheWarOfficetelliakechargeofthestoresatTwelveMileDumpandremaiillfurthernotice.IwiredbaostoresatTwelveMileDump.’Toolate.daycametheofficialletterinfmethatIwasO.C.TwelveMileDump.Andthat’sreallytheendofthestory.IremainedO.C.TwelveMileDumpfortherestofthewar.
Godknowswhatitwasallabout.It’snouseaskitheWestCoastDefenceForcewasorwhatitposedtodo.Evenatthattimenobodypreteoknow.Inanycaseitdid.Itwasjustaschemethathadfloatedthroughsomebody’smind—followingonsomevaguerumermaninvasionviaIreland,Isuppose—andthefooddumpswhichweresupposedtoexistallalongthecoastwerealsoimaginary.Thewholethinghadexistedforaboutthreedays,likeasortofbubble,andthenhadbeenfotten,andI’dbeenfottenwithit.Myeleventinsofbullybeefhadbeebehindbysomeofficerswhohadbeenthereearlierohermysteriousmission.They’dalsoleftbehindaverydeafoldmancalledPrivateLidgebird.WhatLidgebirdposedtobedoingthereIneverdiscovered.Iwonderwhetheryou’llbelievethatIremainedguardingthoseeleventinsofbullybeeffromhalf-waythrough1917tothebeginningof1919?Probablyyouwon’t,butit’sthetruth.Andatthetimeeventhatdidn’tseemparticularlystrange.By1918onehadsimplygotoutofthehabitofexpegthingstohappeninareasonablemanner.
Onceamonththeysentmeanenormousofficialformcallingupoatethenumberandditionofpick-axes,entrengtools,coilsofbarbedwire,blas,roofgrous,first-aidoutfits,sheetsatediron,andtinsofplumandapplejamundermycare.Ijustentered‘nil’againsteverythingaheformbaothingeverhappened.UpinLondonsomeonewasquietlyfilingtheforms,andsendingoutmoreforms,andfilingthose,andsoon.Itwasthewaythingswerehappening.Themysterioushigher-upswhowererunningthewarhadfotteence.Ididn’tjogtheirmemory.Iabackwaterthatdidn’tleadanywhere,andaftertwoyearsinFranceIwasn’tswithpatriotismthatIwaogetoutofit.
Itwasalonelypartofthecoastwhereyouneversawasoulexceptafewyokelswho’dbarelyheardtherewasawaron.Aquarterofamileaway,downalittlehill,theseaboomedandsurgedoverenormousflatsofsand.hsoftheyearitrained,aherthreearagingwindblewofftheAtlantic.TherewasnothingthereexceptPrivateLidgebird,myself,twoArmyhuts—ohemadetishtwo-roomedhutwhihabited—andtheeleventinsofbullybeef.LidgebirdwasasurlyolddevilandIcouldmuchoutofhimexceptthefactthathe’dbeenamarketgardenerbeforehejoiheArmy.Itwasiingtoseehoidlyhewasrevertingtotype.EvenbefottoTwelveMileDumphe’ddugapatchrouhehutsandstartedplantingspuds,iumnhedugachtillhe’dgotabouthalfanadercultivation,atthebeginningof1918hestartedkeepinghenswhichhadgottoquiteaheendofthesummer,andtowardstheendoftheyearhesuddenlyproducedapigfromGodknowswhere.Idon’tthinkitcrossedhismindtowonderwhatthedevilweweredoingthere,orwhattheWestCoastDefenceForcewasaheritactuallyexisted.Itwouldn’tsurprisemetohearthathe’stherestill,raisingpigsandpotatoesowhereTwelveMileDumpusedtobe.Ihopeheis.Goodlu.
MeanwhileIwasdoingsomethingI’dneverbeforehadthecetodoasafull-timejob—reading.
Theofficerswho’dbeentherebeforehadleftafewbooksbehind,mostlysevenpeionsandnearlyallofthemthekindoftripethatpeoplewerereadinginthosedays.IanHayandSapperandtheCraigKeoriesandsoforth.Butatsometimeorothersomebodyhadbeentherewhoknewwhatbooksareworthreadingandwhatarenot.Imyself,atthetime,didn’tknowanythingofthekind.TheonlybooksI’devervoluntarilyreadweredetectivestoriesandonawayasmuttysexbook.GodknowsIdoobeahighbrowevennow,butifyou’daskedmeTHENforthenameofa‘good’bookI’dhaveaheWomanThouGavestMe,or(inmemoryofthevicar)SesameandLilies.Inanycasea‘good’bookwasabookonedidn’thaveanyiionofreading.ButthereIwas,inajobwheretherewaslessthannothingtodo,withtheseaboomingonthebeadtherainstreamingdownthewindow-panes—andawholerowofbooksstarihefathetemporaryshelfsomeonehadriggedupagainstthewallofthehut.NaturallyIstartedtoreadthemfromendtoend,with,atthebeginning,aboutasmuchattempttodiscriminateasapigwitswaythroughapaile.
Butinamoherewerethreeorfourbooksthatweredifferentfromtheothers.No,you’vegotitwrong!Don’trunawaywiththeideathatIsuddenlydiscoveredMarcelProustorHenryJamesorsomebody.Iwouldn’thavereadthemevenifIhad.ThesebooksI’mspeakingofweren’tintheleasthighbrow.Butnowandagainitsohappensthatyoustrikeabookwhichisexactlyatthementallevelyou’vereachedatthemoment,somuchsothatitseemstohavebeenwrittenespeciallyforyou.OhemwasH.G.Wells’sTheHistoryofMrPolly,inacheapshilliionwhichwasfallingtopieces.IwonderifyouimagiheeffectithadupohtupasI’dbeenbroughtup,thesonofashopkeeperinatrytown,aoeacrossabooklikethat?AnotherwasptonMazie’sSireet.IthadbeenthesdaloftheseasonafewyearsbadI’devenheardvaguerumoursofitinLowerBinfield.Anotherwasrad’sVictory,partsofwhie.Butbookslikethatstartedyouthinking.AndtherewasabaumberofsomemagazihabluecoverwhichhadashortstoryofD.H.Lawrence’sinit.Idon’trememberthe.ItwasastoryaboutaGermanscriptwhoshoveshissergeant-majorovertheedgeofafortificationandthendoesabunkascaughtinhisgirl’sbedroom.Itpuzzledmealot.Icouldn’tmakeoutwhatitwasallabout,aleftmewithavaguefeelingthatI’dliketoreadsomeotherslikeit.
Well,forseveralmonthsIhadaeforbooksthatwasalmostlikephysicalthirst.Itwasthefirstrealgo-inatreadingthatI’dhadsincemyDiovandays.AtthebeginningIhadnoideahowtosetaboutgettingholdofbooks.Ithoughttheonlywaywastobuythem.That’siing,Ithink.Itshowsyouthedifferenceupbringingmakes.Isupposethechildrenofthemiddleclasses,the500poundsayearmiddleclasses,knowallaboutMudie’saimesBookClubwhenthey’reintheircradles.AbitlaterIlearheexistenceoflendinglibrariesandtookoutasubscriptionatMudie’sandaalibraryinBristol.AndwhatIreadduriyearorso!Wells,rad,Kipling,Galsworthy,BarryPain,W.W.Jacobs,PettRidge,OliverOnions,ptonMazie,H.SetonMerriman,MauriceBaring,StephenMa,MaySinclair,ArnoldBe,AnthonyHope,Elinlyn,O.Henry,StephenLeacodevenSilasHogarattonPorter.Howmanyofthehatlistareknowntoyou,Iwonder?Halfthebooksthatpeopletookseriouslyinthosedaysarefottennow.ButatthebeginningIswallowedthemalldownlikeawhalethat’sgotinamongashoalofshrimps.Ijustrevelledinthem.Afterabit,ofcourse,Igrewmhbrowaodistinguishbetweentripeandnot-tripe.IgotholdofLawrence’sSonsandLoversandsortofhalf-e,andIgotalotofkickoutofOscarWilde’sDrayandStevenson’sNewArabianNights.Wellswastheauthorwhomadethebiggestimpressiononme.IreadGeeMoore’sEstherWatersandlikedit,andItriedseveralofHardy’snovelsandalwaysgotstuckabouthalf-waythrough.IevenhadagoatIbsen,wholeftmewithavagueimpressionthatinNorwayit’salwaysraining.
Itwasqueer,really.Evenatthetimeitstruckmeasqueer.Iwasased-lootwithhardlyanyeyatleft,IcouldalreadydistinguishbetweenArnoldBeandElinlyn,awasonlyfouryearssinceI’dbeensligcheesebehindtheterinmywhiteapronandlookingforwardtothedayswhenI’dbeamaster-grocer.IfItotuptheat,IsupposeImustadmitthatthewardidmegoodaswellasharm.Atanyratethatyearofreadingnovelswastheonlyrealeducation,inthesenseofbook-learning,thatI’veeverhad.Itdidcertainthingstomymind.Itgavemeanattitude,akindofquestioningattitude,whichIprobablywouldn’thavehadifI’dgohroughlifeinanormalsensibleway.But—Iwonderifyouderstandthis—thethingthatreallygedme,reallymadeanimpressiononme,wasn’tsomuchthebooksIreadastherottenmeaninglessnessofthelifeIwasleading.
Itreallywasunspeakablymeanihattimein1918.HereIwas,sittingbesidethestoveinanArmyhut,readingnovels,andafewhundredmilesawayinFrahegunswereranddrovesofwretchedchildreingtheirbagswithfright,werebeingdrivenintothemae-gunbarragelikeyou’dshootsmallcokeintoafurnace.Iwasohelues.Thehigher-upshadtakentheireyeoffme,andhereIwasinasnuglittlebolt-hole,drawingpayforajobthatdid.AttimesIgotintoapanidmadesurethey’drememberaboutmeanddigmeout,butitneverhappeheofficialforms,ongrittygreypaper,cameinonceamonth,andIfilledthemupahembadmoreformscamein,andIfilledthemupahembadsoitwenton.Thewholethinghadaboutasmuseinitasalunatic’sdream.Theeffectofallthis,plusthebooksIwasreading,wastoleavemewithafeelingofdisbeliefihing.
Iwasn’ttheonlyohewarwasfulloflooseendsandfotteners.Bythistimeliterallymillionsofpeoplewerestuckupbackwatersofonekindandanother.Wholearmieswererottingawayonfrontsthatpeoplehadfottenthenamesof.TherewerehugeMinistrieswithhordesofclerksandtypistsalldrawingtwopoundsawardsforpilingupmoundsofpaper.Moreovertheyknewperfectlywellthatalltheyweredoingileupmoundsofpaper.NobodybelievedtheatrocitystoriesandthegallantlittleBelgiumstuffanylohesoldiersthoughttheGermansweregoodfellowsandhatedtheFrenchlikepoison.EveryjuniorofficerlookedontheGeneralStaffasmentaldefectives.AsortofwaveofdisbeliefwasmovingacrossEngland,anditevengotasfarasTwelveMileDump.Itwouldbeanexaggerationtosaythatthewarturnedpeopleintohighbrows,butitdidturonihilistsforthetimebeing.PeoplewhoinanormalwaywouldhavegohroughlifewithaboutasmudencytothinkforthemselvesasasuetpuddiuroBolshiesjustbythewar.WhatshouldIbenowifithadn’tbeenforthewar?Idon’tknow,butsomethingdifferentfromwhatIam.Ifthewardidn’thappentokillyouitwasboundtostartyouthinking.Afterthatunspeakableidioticmessyoucouldn’tgardingsocietyassomethiernalanduionable,likeapyramid.Youkwasjustaballs-up.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
We’djusteoutofthetrenchesandweremargoverabitofroadamileorsobackwhichposedtobesafe,butwhichtheGermansmusthavegottherangeofsometimeearlier.Suddenlytheystartedputtingafewshellsover—itwasheavyH.E.stuff,andtheywereonlyfiringaboutoneamiherewastheusualzwee-e-e-e!andthenBOOM!inafieldsomewhereovertht.Ithinkitwasthethirdshellthatgotme.IknewassoonasIhearditingthatithadmytenonit.Theysayyoualwaysknow.Itdidn’tsaywhatanordinaryshellsays.Itsaid‘I’mafteryou,youb—,YOU,youb—,YOU!’—allthisinthespaceofaboutthreeseds.Ayouwastheexplosion.
Ifeltasifanenormoushandmadeofairweresweepingmealong.AlyIcamedownwithasortofburst,shatteredfeelingamongalotofoldtins,splintersofwood,rustybarbedwire,turds,emptycartridgecases,andothermutheditchatthesideoftheroad.Whenthey’dhauledmeoutandedsomeofthedirtoffmetheyfoundthatIwasn’tverybadlyhurt.Itwasonlyalotofsmallshell-splihathadlodgedinonesideofmybottomanddownthebaylegs.ButluckilyI’dbrokenaribinfalling,whichmadeitjustbadenoughtogetmebacktoEngland.Ispentthatwinterinahospitalcamponthedownsbourne.
Doyourememberthosewar-timehospitalcamps?Thelongrowsofwoodenhutslikechi-housesstuckrightontopofthosebeastlyicydowns—the‘southcoast’,peopleusedtocallit,whichmademewonderwhatthenorthcoastcouldbelike—wherethewioblowatyoufromalldiresatondthedrovesofblokesintheirpale-blueflannelsuitsaies,wanderingupanddownlookingforaplaceoutofthewindandneverfindingone.Sometimesthekidsfromtheslap-upboys’schoolsibourobeledroundincrocodilestohandoutfagsandpeppermiothe‘wouommies’,astheycalledus.Apink-facedkidofabouteightwouldtoaknotofwoundedmensittingonthegrass,splitopenapacketofWoodbinesandsolemnlyhaoea,justlikefeedingthemothezoo.Anyonewhowasstrongenoughusedtowanderformilesoverthedownsinhopesofmeetinggirls.Therewereneverenoughgirlstogoround.Inthevalleybelowthecamptherewasabitofaspinney,andlongbeforeduskyou’dseeacouplegluedagainsteverytree,andsometimes,ifithappeobeathicktree,oneoneachsideofit.Mychiefmemoryofthattimeissittingagainstagorse-bushinthefreezingwind,withmyfingerssocoldIcouldhemaeofapeppermintcreaminmymouth.That’satypicalsoldier’smemory.ButIwasgettingawayfromaTommy’slife,allthesame.TheC.O.hadsentmynameinforaissionalittlebeforeIwaswounded.Bythistimetheyweredesperateforofficersandanyonewhowasn’tactuallyilliteratecouldhaveaissioedone.Iwentstraightfromthehospitaltoanofficers’trainingearColchester.
It’sverystrahethingsthewardidtopeople.ItwaslessthanthreeyearssinceI’dbeenaspryyoungshop-assistant,bendiheterinmywhiteapronwith‘Yes,madam!Certainly,madam!Aorder,madam?’withagrocer’slifeaheadofmeandaboutasmuotionofbeinganArmyofficerasofgettingaknighthood.AndhereIwasalready,swaggeringaboutinagorblimeyhatandayellowcollarandmoreorlesskeepingmyendupamongacrowdofothertempentsandsomewhowereemporary.And—thisisreallythepoint—notfeelingitinanywaystrahingseemedstrahosedays.
Itwaslikeanenormousmaethathadgotholdofyou.You’dnosenseofagofyourownfreewill,andatthesametimenonotiontoresist.Ifpeopledidn’thavesomesuchfeelingasthat,nowarcouldlastthreemonths.Thearmieswouldjustpackupandgohome.WhyhadIjoiheArmy?Orthemillionotheridiotswhojoinedupbeforescriptioncamein?PartlyforalarkandpartlybecauseofEnglandmyEnglandandBritonsneverneverandallthatstuff.Buthowlongdidthatlast?MostofthechapsIknewhadfottenallaboutitlongbeforetheygotasfarasFrahemenirenchesweren’tpatriotic,didn’thatetheKaiser,didn’tcareadamnaboutgallantlittleBelgiumandtheGermansrapingnunsontables(itwasalways‘ontables’,asthoughthatmadeitworse)ireetsofBrussels.Oherhanditdidn’toctotryandescape.Themaehadgotholdofyouanditcoulddowhatitlikedwithyou.Itliftedyouupanddumpedyoudownamongpladthingsyou’dneverdreamedof,andifithaddumpedyoudownonthesurfaceofthemoonitwouldn’thaveseemedparticularlystrahedayIjoiheArmytheoldlifewasfiwasasthoughitdidn’tmeanylonger.Iwonderifyou’dbelievethatfromthatdayforwardIonlyobacktoLowerBinfield,andthatwastoMother’sfuneral?Itsoundsincrediblenow,butitseemednaturalenoughatthetime.Partly,Iadmit,itwasonatofElsie,whom,ofcourse,I’dstoppedwritingtoaftertwoorthreemonths.Nodoubtshe’dpickedupwithsomeoneelse,butIdidn’twanttomeether.Otherwise,perhaps,whenIgotabitofleaveI’dhavegonedownaher,who’dhadfitswhenIjoiheArmybutwouldhavebeenproudofasoninuniform.
Fatherdiedin1915.IwasinFrahetime.Idon’texaggeratewhenIsaythatFather’sdeathhurtsmemorenowthanitdidthen.AtthetimeitwasjustabitofbadnewswhichIacceptedalmostwithouti,iofempty-headedapatheticwayinwhieacceptedeverythingirenches.Iremembercrawlingintothedoorwayofthedugouttogetenoughlighttoreadtheletter,andIrememberMother’stear-stainsoer,andtheagfeelinginmykneesandthesmellofmud.Father’slife-insurancepolicyhadbeenmedformostofitsvalue,buttherewasalittlemohebankandSarazins’weregoingtobuyupthestodevenpaysometinyamountfood-will.Anyway,Motherhadabitovertwohundredpounds,besidesthefurniture.Shewentforthetimebeingtolodgewithhercousin,thewifeofasmall-holderwhowasdoiywelloutofthewar,nearDoxley,afewmilestheothersideofWalton.Itwasonly‘forthetimebeing’.Thereoraryfeelingabouteverything.Intheolddays,whichasamatteroffactwerebarelyayearold,thewholethingwouldhavebeenanappallingdisaster.WithFatherdead,theshopsoldandMotherwithtwohundredpoundsintheworld,you’dhaveseegoutinfrontofyouakindoffifteen-acttragedy,thelastactbeingapauper’sfuneral.Butnowthewarandthefeelingofnotbeingone’sownmasterovershadowedeverything.PeoplehardlythoughtintermsofthingslikebankruptdtheworkhouseanylohiswasthecaseevenwithMother,who,Godknows,hadonlyverydimnotionsaboutthewar.Besides,shewasalreadydying,thoughherofusk.
ShecameacrosstoseemeinthehospitalatEastbourwasovertwoyearssinceI’dseenher,andherappearancegavemeabitofashock.Sheseemedtohavefadedandsomehowtohaveshrunken.PartlyitwasbecausebythistimeIwasgrown-up,I’dtravelled,ahinglookedsmallertome,buttherewasionthatshe’dgotthinner,andalsoyellower.ShetalkedintheoldramblingwayaboutAuntMartha(thatwasthecousinshewasstayingwith),andthegesinLowerBinfieldsihewar,andalltheboyswho’d‘gone’(meaningjoiheArmy),andheriionwhichwas‘aggravating’,andpoorFather’stombstoneandwhatalovelycorpsehemade.Itwastheoldtalk,thetalkI’dlisteoforyears,asomehowitwaslikeaghosttalking.Itdidn’tmeanylonger.I’dknownherasagreatsplendidprotegkindofcreature,abitlikeaship’sfigure-headandabitlikeabroodyhen,andafterallshewasonlyalittleoldwomaninablackdress.Everythingwasgingandfading.ThatwasthelasttimeIsawheralive.IgotthewiresayingshewasseriouslyillwhenIwasatthetrainingschoolatColchester,andputinforaweek’surgentleaveimmediately.Butitwastoolate.ShewasdeadbythetimeIgottoDoxley.Whatsheandeveryoneelsehadimagiobeiionwassomekindofinternalgrowth,andasuddenchilloomachputthefinaltouch.Thedoctortriedtocheermeupbytellithegrowthwas‘benevolent’,whichstruckmeasaqueerthingtocallit,seeingthatithadkilledher.
Well,weburiedheroFather,andthatwasmylastglimpseofLowerBinfield.Ithadgedalot,eveninthreeyears.Someoftheshopswereshut,somehaddifferentnamesoverthem.NearlyallthemenI’dknownasboysweregone,andsomeofthemweredead.SidLovegrovewasdead,killedontheSomme.Gison,thefarmladwho’dbeloheBladyearsago,theonewhousedtocatchrabbitsalive,wasdeadi.Ohechapswho’dworkedwithmeatGrimmett’shadlostbothlegs.OldLovegrovehadshutuphisshopandwaslivinginacottagenearWaltononatinyannuity.OldGrimmett,oherhand,wasdoingwelloutofthewarandhadturriotidwasamemberofthelocalboardwhichtriedstiousobjectors.Thethingwhichmorethananythingelsegavethetoty,forlornkindoflookwasthattherewerepracticallynohorsesleft.Everyhorseworthtakinghadbeenandeeredlongago.Thestationflystillexisted,butthebrutethatpulleditwouldn’thavebeeandupifithadn’tbeenfortheshafts.ForthehourorsothatIwastherebeforethefuneralIwanderedrouown,sayinghowd’youdotopeopleandshowingoffmyuniform.LuckilyIdidn’trunintoElsie.Isawalltheges,awasasthoughIdidhem.Mymindwasohings,chieflythepleasureofbeingseeninmysed-loot’suniform,withmyblackarmlet(athingwhichlooksrathersmartonkhaki)andmynewwhipcordbreeches.IdistinctlyrememberthatIwasstillthinkingaboutthosewhipcordbreecheswheoodatthegraveside.AheychuckedsomeearthontothecoffinandIsuddenlyrealizedwhatitmeansforyourmothertobelyingwithseveofearthontopofher,andsomethingkindoftwitchedbehindmyeyesandevehewhipcordbreechesweren’taltogetheroutofmymind.
Don’tthinkIdidn’tfeelforMother’sdeath.Idid.Iwasn’tirenchesanylonger,Icouldfeelsorryforadeath.ButthethingIdidn’tcareadamnabout,didn’tevengrasptobehappening,wasthepassing-awayoftheoldlifeI’dknown.Afterthefuneral,AuntMartha,whowasratherproudofhavinga‘realofficer’foranephewandwouldhavemadeasplashofthefuneralifI’dlether,wentbacktoDoxleyonthebusandItooktheflydowntothestation,togetthetraintoLondonaoColchester.Wedrovepasttheshop.akenitsiherdied.Itwasshutupandthewindow-panewasblackwithdust,andthey’dburhe‘S.Bowling’offthesignboardlumber’sblowflame.Well,therewasthehousewhereI’dbeenachildandaboyandayoungman,whereI’dcrawledaboutthekitfloorahesainfoinandread‘DonovantheDauntless’,whereI’ddonemyhomeworkframmarSixedbreadpaste,mendedbicyclepunctures,andtriedonmyfirsthighcollar.IthadbeenaspermaomeasthePyramids,andnowitwouldbejustanactifIeversetfootinitagain.Father,Mother,Joe,theerrandboys,oldheterrier,Spot,theocameafterNailer,Jackiethebullfinch,thecats,themitheloft—allgohibutdust.AndIdidn’tcareadamn.IwassorryMotherwasdead,IwasevensorryFatherwasdead,butallthetimemymindwasohings.Iroudofbeingseenridinginacab,athingIhadusedto,andIwasthinkingofthesitofmynewwhipcordbreeches,andmynicesmoothofficer’sputties,sodifferentfromthegrittystufftheTommieshadtowear,andoftheotherchapsatColchesterayquidMotherhadleftandthebeanoswe’dhavewithit.AlsoIwasthankingGodthatIhadn’thappeorunintoElsie.
Thewardidextraordinarythingstopeople.Andwhatwasmoreextraordinarythanthewayitkilledpeoplewasthewayitsometimesdidn’tkillthem.Itwaslikeagreatfloodrushingyoualongtodeath,andsuddenlyitwouldshootyouupsomebackwaterwhereyou’dfindyourselfdoingincredibleandpoihingsanddrawirapayforthem.Therewerelabourbattalionsmakingroadsacrossthedesertthatdidn’tleadaherewerechapsmaroonedonoicislandstolookoutfermancruiserswhichhadbeensunkyearsearlier,therewereMinistriesofthisandthatwitharmiesofclerksandtypistswhitoingyearsaftertheirfunhadended,byakindofiia.Peoplewereshovedintomeaninglessjobsandthenfottenbytheauthoritiesforyearsohiswaspeomyself,orverylikelyIwouldn’tbehere.Thewholesequenceofeventsisratheriing.
AlittlewhileafterIwasgazettedtherewasacallforofficersoftheA.S.C.AssoonastheO.C.ofthetrainingcampheardthatIknewsomethingaboutthegrocerytrade(IdidhatI’dactuallybeenbehindtheter)hetoldmetosendmyhatwentthroughallright,andIwasjustabouttoleaveforaraining-schoolforA.S.C.officerssomewhereintheMidlandswhentherewasademandforayoungofficer,withknowledgeofthegrocerytrade,toactassomekindofsecretarytoSirJosephCheam,whowasabigheA.S.C.Godknowswhytheypickedmeout,butatanyratetheydidso.I’vesihoughtthattheyprobablymixedmynameupwithsomebodyelse’s.ThreedayslaterIwassalutinginSirJoseph’soffice.Hewasalean,upright,ratherhandsomeoldboywithgrizzledhairandagrave-lookingnosewhichimmediatelyimpressedme.Helookedtheperfectprofessionalsoldier,theK.C.M.G.,D.S.O.withbartype,andmighthavebeentwinbrothertothechapintheDeReszkeadvert,thoughinprivatelifehewaschairmanofohebiggroceriesandfamousallovertheworldforsomethingcalledtheCheamWage-CutSystem.HestoppedwritingasIcameinandlookedmeover.
‘Youagentleman?’
‘No,sir.’
‘Good.Thenperhapswe’llgetsomeworkdone.’
Inaboutthreeminuteshe’dwormedoutofmethatIhadarialexperience,didn’tknowshorthand,couldn’tuseatypewriter,andhadworkedinagroceryattweshillingsaweek.However,hesaidthatI’ddo,thereweretoomalemeninthisdamnedArmyandhe’dbeenlookingforsomebodywhocouldtbeyondten.Ilikedhimandlookedforwardtforhim,butjustatthismomeeriouspowersthatseemedtoberunningthewardroveusapartagain.SomethingcalledtheWestCoastDefenceForcewasbeingformed,orratherwasbeingtalkedabout,andtherewassomevagueideaofestablishingdumpsofrationsandotherstoresatvariouspointsalongthecoast.SirJosephposedtoberesponsibleforthedumpsih-westerofEngland.ThedayafterIjoinedhisofficehesentmedowntocheckoverthestoresataplacecalledTwelveMileDump,ohishCoast.Orrathermyjobwastofindoutwhetheranystoresexisted.Nobodyseemedcertainaboutthis.I’djustgotthereanddiscoveredthatthestoressistedofeleventinsofbullybeefwhenawirearrivedfromtheWarOfficetelliakechargeofthestoresatTwelveMileDumpandremaiillfurthernotice.IwiredbaostoresatTwelveMileDump.’Toolate.daycametheofficialletterinfmethatIwasO.C.TwelveMileDump.Andthat’sreallytheendofthestory.IremainedO.C.TwelveMileDumpfortherestofthewar.
Godknowswhatitwasallabout.It’snouseaskitheWestCoastDefenceForcewasorwhatitposedtodo.Evenatthattimenobodypreteoknow.Inanycaseitdid.Itwasjustaschemethathadfloatedthroughsomebody’smind—followingonsomevaguerumermaninvasionviaIreland,Isuppose—andthefooddumpswhichweresupposedtoexistallalongthecoastwerealsoimaginary.Thewholethinghadexistedforaboutthreedays,likeasortofbubble,andthenhadbeenfotten,andI’dbeenfottenwithit.Myeleventinsofbullybeefhadbeebehindbysomeofficerswhohadbeenthereearlierohermysteriousmission.They’dalsoleftbehindaverydeafoldmancalledPrivateLidgebird.WhatLidgebirdposedtobedoingthereIneverdiscovered.Iwonderwhetheryou’llbelievethatIremainedguardingthoseeleventinsofbullybeeffromhalf-waythrough1917tothebeginningof1919?Probablyyouwon’t,butit’sthetruth.Andatthetimeeventhatdidn’tseemparticularlystrange.By1918onehadsimplygotoutofthehabitofexpegthingstohappeninareasonablemanner.
Onceamonththeysentmeanenormousofficialformcallingupoatethenumberandditionofpick-axes,entrengtools,coilsofbarbedwire,blas,roofgrous,first-aidoutfits,sheetsatediron,andtinsofplumandapplejamundermycare.Ijustentered‘nil’againsteverythingaheformbaothingeverhappened.UpinLondonsomeonewasquietlyfilingtheforms,andsendingoutmoreforms,andfilingthose,andsoon.Itwasthewaythingswerehappening.Themysterioushigher-upswhowererunningthewarhadfotteence.Ididn’tjogtheirmemory.Iabackwaterthatdidn’tleadanywhere,andaftertwoyearsinFranceIwasn’tswithpatriotismthatIwaogetoutofit.
Itwasalonelypartofthecoastwhereyouneversawasoulexceptafewyokelswho’dbarelyheardtherewasawaron.Aquarterofamileaway,downalittlehill,theseaboomedandsurgedoverenormousflatsofsand.hsoftheyearitrained,aherthreearagingwindblewofftheAtlantic.TherewasnothingthereexceptPrivateLidgebird,myself,twoArmyhuts—ohemadetishtwo-roomedhutwhihabited—andtheeleventinsofbullybeef.LidgebirdwasasurlyolddevilandIcouldmuchoutofhimexceptthefactthathe’dbeenamarketgardenerbeforehejoiheArmy.Itwasiingtoseehoidlyhewasrevertingtotype.EvenbefottoTwelveMileDumphe’ddugapatchrouhehutsandstartedplantingspuds,iumnhedugachtillhe’dgotabouthalfanadercultivation,atthebeginningof1918hestartedkeepinghenswhichhadgottoquiteaheendofthesummer,andtowardstheendoftheyearhesuddenlyproducedapigfromGodknowswhere.Idon’tthinkitcrossedhismindtowonderwhatthedevilweweredoingthere,orwhattheWestCoastDefenceForcewasaheritactuallyexisted.Itwouldn’tsurprisemetohearthathe’stherestill,raisingpigsandpotatoesowhereTwelveMileDumpusedtobe.Ihopeheis.Goodlu.
MeanwhileIwasdoingsomethingI’dneverbeforehadthecetodoasafull-timejob—reading.
Theofficerswho’dbeentherebeforehadleftafewbooksbehind,mostlysevenpeionsandnearlyallofthemthekindoftripethatpeoplewerereadinginthosedays.IanHayandSapperandtheCraigKeoriesandsoforth.Butatsometimeorothersomebodyhadbeentherewhoknewwhatbooksareworthreadingandwhatarenot.Imyself,atthetime,didn’tknowanythingofthekind.TheonlybooksI’devervoluntarilyreadweredetectivestoriesandonawayasmuttysexbook.GodknowsIdoobeahighbrowevennow,butifyou’daskedmeTHENforthenameofa‘good’bookI’dhaveaheWomanThouGavestMe,or(inmemoryofthevicar)SesameandLilies.Inanycasea‘good’bookwasabookonedidn’thaveanyiionofreading.ButthereIwas,inajobwheretherewaslessthannothingtodo,withtheseaboomingonthebeadtherainstreamingdownthewindow-panes—andawholerowofbooksstarihefathetemporaryshelfsomeonehadriggedupagainstthewallofthehut.NaturallyIstartedtoreadthemfromendtoend,with,atthebeginning,aboutasmuchattempttodiscriminateasapigwitswaythroughapaile.
Butinamoherewerethreeorfourbooksthatweredifferentfromtheothers.No,you’vegotitwrong!Don’trunawaywiththeideathatIsuddenlydiscoveredMarcelProustorHenryJamesorsomebody.Iwouldn’thavereadthemevenifIhad.ThesebooksI’mspeakingofweren’tintheleasthighbrow.Butnowandagainitsohappensthatyoustrikeabookwhichisexactlyatthementallevelyou’vereachedatthemoment,somuchsothatitseemstohavebeenwrittenespeciallyforyou.OhemwasH.G.Wells’sTheHistoryofMrPolly,inacheapshilliionwhichwasfallingtopieces.IwonderifyouimagiheeffectithadupohtupasI’dbeenbroughtup,thesonofashopkeeperinatrytown,aoeacrossabooklikethat?AnotherwasptonMazie’sSireet.IthadbeenthesdaloftheseasonafewyearsbadI’devenheardvaguerumoursofitinLowerBinfield.Anotherwasrad’sVictory,partsofwhie.Butbookslikethatstartedyouthinking.AndtherewasabaumberofsomemagazihabluecoverwhichhadashortstoryofD.H.Lawrence’sinit.Idon’trememberthe.ItwasastoryaboutaGermanscriptwhoshoveshissergeant-majorovertheedgeofafortificationandthendoesabunkascaughtinhisgirl’sbedroom.Itpuzzledmealot.Icouldn’tmakeoutwhatitwasallabout,aleftmewithavaguefeelingthatI’dliketoreadsomeotherslikeit.
Well,forseveralmonthsIhadaeforbooksthatwasalmostlikephysicalthirst.Itwasthefirstrealgo-inatreadingthatI’dhadsincemyDiovandays.AtthebeginningIhadnoideahowtosetaboutgettingholdofbooks.Ithoughttheonlywaywastobuythem.That’siing,Ithink.Itshowsyouthedifferenceupbringingmakes.Isupposethechildrenofthemiddleclasses,the500poundsayearmiddleclasses,knowallaboutMudie’saimesBookClubwhenthey’reintheircradles.AbitlaterIlearheexistenceoflendinglibrariesandtookoutasubscriptionatMudie’sandaalibraryinBristol.AndwhatIreadduriyearorso!Wells,rad,Kipling,Galsworthy,BarryPain,W.W.Jacobs,PettRidge,OliverOnions,ptonMazie,H.SetonMerriman,MauriceBaring,StephenMa,MaySinclair,ArnoldBe,AnthonyHope,Elinlyn,O.Henry,StephenLeacodevenSilasHogarattonPorter.Howmanyofthehatlistareknowntoyou,Iwonder?Halfthebooksthatpeopletookseriouslyinthosedaysarefottennow.ButatthebeginningIswallowedthemalldownlikeawhalethat’sgotinamongashoalofshrimps.Ijustrevelledinthem.Afterabit,ofcourse,Igrewmhbrowaodistinguishbetweentripeandnot-tripe.IgotholdofLawrence’sSonsandLoversandsortofhalf-e,andIgotalotofkickoutofOscarWilde’sDrayandStevenson’sNewArabianNights.Wellswastheauthorwhomadethebiggestimpressiononme.IreadGeeMoore’sEstherWatersandlikedit,andItriedseveralofHardy’snovelsandalwaysgotstuckabouthalf-waythrough.IevenhadagoatIbsen,wholeftmewithavagueimpressionthatinNorwayit’salwaysraining.
Itwasqueer,really.Evenatthetimeitstruckmeasqueer.Iwasased-lootwithhardlyanyeyatleft,IcouldalreadydistinguishbetweenArnoldBeandElinlyn,awasonlyfouryearssinceI’dbeensligcheesebehindtheterinmywhiteapronandlookingforwardtothedayswhenI’dbeamaster-grocer.IfItotuptheat,IsupposeImustadmitthatthewardidmegoodaswellasharm.Atanyratethatyearofreadingnovelswastheonlyrealeducation,inthesenseofbook-learning,thatI’veeverhad.Itdidcertainthingstomymind.Itgavemeanattitude,akindofquestioningattitude,whichIprobablywouldn’thavehadifI’dgohroughlifeinanormalsensibleway.But—Iwonderifyouderstandthis—thethingthatreallygedme,reallymadeanimpressiononme,wasn’tsomuchthebooksIreadastherottenmeaninglessnessofthelifeIwasleading.
Itreallywasunspeakablymeanihattimein1918.HereIwas,sittingbesidethestoveinanArmyhut,readingnovels,andafewhundredmilesawayinFrahegunswereranddrovesofwretchedchildreingtheirbagswithfright,werebeingdrivenintothemae-gunbarragelikeyou’dshootsmallcokeintoafurnace.Iwasohelues.Thehigher-upshadtakentheireyeoffme,andhereIwasinasnuglittlebolt-hole,drawingpayforajobthatdid.AttimesIgotintoapanidmadesurethey’drememberaboutmeanddigmeout,butitneverhappeheofficialforms,ongrittygreypaper,cameinonceamonth,andIfilledthemupahembadmoreformscamein,andIfilledthemupahembadsoitwenton.Thewholethinghadaboutasmuseinitasalunatic’sdream.Theeffectofallthis,plusthebooksIwasreading,wastoleavemewithafeelingofdisbeliefihing.
Iwasn’ttheonlyohewarwasfulloflooseendsandfotteners.Bythistimeliterallymillionsofpeoplewerestuckupbackwatersofonekindandanother.Wholearmieswererottingawayonfrontsthatpeoplehadfottenthenamesof.TherewerehugeMinistrieswithhordesofclerksandtypistsalldrawingtwopoundsawardsforpilingupmoundsofpaper.Moreovertheyknewperfectlywellthatalltheyweredoingileupmoundsofpaper.NobodybelievedtheatrocitystoriesandthegallantlittleBelgiumstuffanylohesoldiersthoughttheGermansweregoodfellowsandhatedtheFrenchlikepoison.EveryjuniorofficerlookedontheGeneralStaffasmentaldefectives.AsortofwaveofdisbeliefwasmovingacrossEngland,anditevengotasfarasTwelveMileDump.Itwouldbeanexaggerationtosaythatthewarturnedpeopleintohighbrows,butitdidturonihilistsforthetimebeing.PeoplewhoinanormalwaywouldhavegohroughlifewithaboutasmudencytothinkforthemselvesasasuetpuddiuroBolshiesjustbythewar.WhatshouldIbenowifithadn’tbeenforthewar?Idon’tknow,butsomethingdifferentfromwhatIam.Ifthewardidn’thappentokillyouitwasboundtostartyouthinking.Afterthatunspeakableidioticmessyoucouldn’tgardingsocietyassomethiernalanduionable,likeapyramid.Youkwasjustaballs-up.松语文学www.16sy.coM免费小说阅读
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