a miscellany of men-第23部分

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oked　slaughter；　violated　justice；　and　ruined　republics　to　spread　them。

But　the　case　is　even　stronger　and　stranger。　　Fashionable　Imperialism　not　only　has　no　ideas　of　its　own　to　extend；　but　such　ideas　as　it　has　are　actually　borrowed　from　the　brown　and　black　peoples　to　whom　it　seeks　to　extend　them。　　The　Crusading　kings　and　knights　might　be　represented　as　seeking　to　spread　Western　ideas　in　the　East。　But　all　that　our　Imperialist　aristocrats　could　do　would　be　to　spread　Eastern　ideas　in　the　East。　　For　that　very　governing　class　which　urges　Occidental　Imperialism　has　been　deeply　discoloured　with　Oriental　mysticism　and　Cosmology。

The　same　society　lady　who　expects　the　Hindoos　to　accept　her　view　of　politics　has　herself　accepted　their　view　of　religion。　　She　wants　first　to　steal　their　earth；　and　then　to　share　their　heaven。　　The　same　Imperial　cynic　who　wishes　the　Turks　to　submit　to　English　science　has　himself　submitted　to　Turkish　philosophy；　to　a　wholly　Turkish　view　of　despotism　and　destiny。

There　is　an　obvious　and　amusing　proof　of　this　in　a　recent　life　of　Rhodes。　The　writer　admits　with　proper　Imperial　gloom　the　fact　that　Africa　is　still　chiefly　inhabited　by　Africans。　　He　suggests　Rhodes　in　the　South　confronting　savages　and　Kitchener　in　the　North　facing　Turks；　Arabs；　and　Soudanese；　and　then　he　quotes　this　remark　of　Cecil　Rhodes：　〃It　is　inevitable　fate　that　all　this　should　be　changed；　and　I　should　like　to　be　the　agent　of　fate。〃　　That　was　Cecil　Rhodes's　one　small　genuine　idea；　and　it　is　an　Oriental　idea。

Here　we　have　evident　all　the　ultimate　idiocy　of　the　present　Imperial　position。　　Rhodes　and　Kitchener　are　to　conquer　Moslem　bedouins　and　barbarians；　in　order　to　teach　them　to　believe　only　in　inevitable　fate。　We　are　to　wreck　provinces　and　pour　blood　like　Niagara；　all　in　order　to　teach　a　Turk　to　say　〃Kismet　〃；　which　he　has　said　since　his　cradle。　　We　are　to　deny　Christian　justice　and　destroy　international　equality；　all　in　order　to　teach　an　Arab　to　believe　he　is　〃an　agent　of　fate；〃　when　he　has　never　believed　anything　else。　　If　Cecil　Rhodes's　vision　could　come　true　（which　fortunately　is　increasingly　improbable）；　such　countries　as　Persia　or　Arabia　would　simply　be　filled　with　ugly　and　vulgar　fatalists　in　billy…　cocks；　instead　of　with　graceful　and　dignified　fatalists　in　turbans。　　The　best　Western　idea；　the　idea　of　spiritual　liberty　and　danger；　of　a　doubtful　and　romantic　future　in　which　all　things　may　happenthis　essential　Western　idea　Cecil　Rhodes　could　not　spread；　because　（as　he　says　himself）　he　did　not　believe　in　it。

It　was　an　Oriental　who　gave　to　Queen　Victoria　the　crown　of　an　Empress　in　addition　to　that　of　a　Queen。　　He　did　not　understand　that　the　title　of　King　is　higher　than　that　of　Emperor。　　For　in　the　East　titles　are　meant　to　be　vast　and　wild；　to　be　extravagant　poems：　the　Brother　of　the　Sun　and　Moon；　the　Caliph　who　lives　for　ever。　　But　a　King　of　England　（at　least　in　the　days　of　real　kings）　did　not　bear　a　merely　poetical　title；　but　rather　a　religious　one。　　He　belonged　to　his　people　and　not　merely　they　to　him。　He　was　not　merely　a　conqueror；　but　a　fatheryes；　even　when　he　was　a　bad　father。　　But　this　sort　of　solid　sanctity　always　goes　with　local　affections　and　limits：　and　the　Cecil　Rhodes　Imperialism　set　up　not　the　King；　but　the　Sultan；　with　all　the　typically　Eastern　ideas　of　the　magic　of　money；　of　luxury　without　uproar；　of　prostrate　provinces　and　a　chosen　race。　　Indeed　Cecil　Rhodes　illustrated　almost　every　quality　essential　to　the　Sultan；　from　the　love　of　diamonds　to　the　scorn　of　woman。



THE　ARCHITECT　OF　SPEARS


The　other　day；　in　the　town　of　Lincoln；　I　suffered　an　optical　illusion　which　accidentally　revealed　to　me　the　strange　greatness　of　the　Gothic　architecture。　　Its　secret　is　not；　I　think；　satisfactorily　explained　in　most　of　the　discussions　on　the　subject。　　It　is　said　that　the　Gothic　eclipses　the　classical　by　a　certain　richness　and　complexity；　at　once　lively　and　mysterious。　　This　is　true；　but　Oriental　decoration　is　equally　rich　and　complex；　yet　it　awakens　a　widely　different　sentiment。　　No　man　ever　got　out　of　a　Turkey　carpet　the　emotions　that　he　got　from　a　cathedral　tower。　　Over　all　the　exquisite　ornament　of　Arabia　and　India　there　is　the　presence　of　something　stiff　and　heartless；　of　something　tortured　and　silent。　　Dwarfed　trees　and　crooked　serpents；　heavy　flowers　and　hunchbacked　birds　accentuate　by　the　very　splendour　and　contrast　of　their　colour　the　servility　and　monotony　of　their　shapes。　　It　is　like　the　vision　of　a　sneering　sage；　who　sees　the　whole　universe　as　a　pattern。　　Certainly　no　one　ever　felt　like　this　about　Gothic；　even　if　he　happens　to　dislike　it。　Or；　again；　some　will　say　that　it　is　the　liberty　of　the　Middle　Ages　in　the　use　of　the　comic　or　even　the　coarse　that　makes　the　Gothic　more　interesting　than　the　Greek。　　There　is　more　truth　in　this；　indeed；　there　is　real　truth　in　it。　　Few　of　the　old　Christian　cathedrals　would　have　passed　the　Censor　of　Plays。　　We　talk　of　the　inimitable　grandeur　of　the　old　cathedrals；　but　indeed　it　is　rather　their　gaiety　that　we　do　not　dare　to　imitate。　　We　should　be　rather　surprised　if　a　chorister　suddenly　began　singing　〃Bill　Bailey〃　in　church。　　Yet　that　would　be　only　doing　in　music　what　the　mediaevals　did　in　sculpture。　　They　put　into　a　Miserere　seat　the　very　scenes　that　we　put　into　a　musichall　song：　comic　domestic　scenes　similar　to　the　spilling　of　the　beer　and　the　hanging　out　of　the　washing。　But　though　the　gaiety　of　Gothic　is　one　of　its　features；　it　also　is　not　the　secret　of　its　unique　effect。　　We　see　a　domestic　topsy…turvydom　in　many　Japanese　sketches。　　But　delightful　as　these　are；　with　their　fairy　tree…tops；　paper　houses；　and　toddling；　infantile　inhabitants；　the　pleasure　they　give　is　of　a　kind　quite　different　from　the　joy　and　energy　of　the　gargoyles。　　Some　have　even　been　so　shallow　and　illiterate　as　to　maintain　that　our　pleasure　in　medieval　building　is　a　mere　pleasure　in　what　is　barbaric；　in　what　is　rough；　shapeless；　or　crumbling　like　the　rocks。　　This　can　be　dismissed　after　the　same　fashion；　South　Sea　idols；　with　painted　eyes　and　radiating　bristles；　are　a　delight　to　the　eye；　but　they　do　not　affect　it　in　at　all　the　same　way　as　Westminster　Abbey。　　Some　again　（going　to　another　and　almost　equally　foolish　extreme）　ignore　the　coarse　and　comic　in　mediaevalism；　and　praise　the　pointed　arch　only　for　its　utter　purity　and　simplicity；　as　of　a　saint　with　his　hands　joined　in　prayer。　　Here；　again；　the　uniqueness　is　missed。　There　are　Renaissance　things　（such　as　the　ethereal　silvery　drawings　of　Raphael）；　there　are　even　pagan　things　（such　as　the　Praying　Boy）　which　express　as　fresh　and　austere　a　piety。　　None　of　these　explanations　explain。　　And　I　never　saw　what　was　the　real　point　about　Gothic　till　I　came　into　the　town　of　Lincoln；　and　saw　it　behind　a　row　of　furniture…vans。

I　did　not　know　they　were　furniture…vans；　at　the　first　glance　and　in　the　smoky　distance　I　thought　they　were　a　row　of　cottages。　　A　low　stone　wall　cut　off　the　wheels；　and　the　vans　were　somewhat　of　the　same　colour　as　the　yellowish　clay　or　stone　of　the　buildings　around　them。　　I　had　come　across　that　interminable　Eastern　plain　which　is　like　the　open　sea；　and　all　the　more　so　because　the　one　small　hill　and　tower　of　Lincoln　stands　up　in　it　like　a　light…house。　　I　had　climbed　the　sharp；　crooked　streets　up　to　this　ecclesiastical　citadel；　just　in　front　of　me　was　a　flourishing　and　richly　coloured　kitchen　garden；　beyond　that　was　the　low　stone　wall；　beyond　that　the　row　of　vans　that　looked　like　houses；　and　beyond　and　above　that；　straight　and　swift　and　dark；　light　as　a　flight　of　birds；　and　terrible　as　the　Tower　of　Babel；　Lincoln　Cathedral　seemed　to　rise　out　of　human　sight。

As　I　looked　at　it　I　asked　myself　the　questions　that　I　have　asked　here；　what　was　the　soul　in　all　those　stones？　　They　were　varied；　but　it　was　not　variety；　they　were　solemn；　but　it　was　not　solemnity；　they　were　farcical；　but　it　was　not　farce。　　What　is　it　in　them　that　thrills　and　soothes　a　man　of　our　blood　and　history；　that　is　not　there　in　an　Egyptian　pyramid　or　an　Indian　temple　or　a　Chinese　pagoda？　　All　of　a　sudden　the　vans　I　had　mistaken　for　cottages　began　to　move　away　to　the　left。　　In　the　start　this　gave　to　my　eye　and　mind　I　really　fancied　that　the　Cathedral　was　moving　towards　the　right。　The　two　huge　towers　seemed　to　start　striding　across　the　plain　like　the　two　legs　of　some　giant　whose　body　was　covered　with　the　clouds。　　Then　I　saw　what　it　was。

The　truth　about　Gothic　is；　first；　that　it　is　alive；　and　second；　that　it　is　on　the　march。　　It　is　the　Church　Militant；　it　is　the　only　fighting　architecture。　　All　its　spires　are　spears　at　rest；　and　all　its　stones　are　stones　asleep　in　a　catapult。　　In　that　instant　of　illusion；　I　could　hear　the　arches　clash　like　swords　as　they　crossed　each　other。　　The　mighty　and　numberless　columns　seemed　to　go　swinging　by　like　the　huge　feet　of　imperial　elephants。　　The　graven　foliage　wreathed　and　blew　like　banners　going　into　battle；　the　silence　was　deafening　with　ail　the　mingled　noises　of　a　military　march；　the　great　bell　shook　down；　as　the　organ　shook　up　its　thunder。　　The　thirsty…throated　gargoyles　shouted　like　trumpets　from　all　the　roofs　and　pinnacles　as　they　passed；　and　from　the　lectern　in　the　core　of　the　cathedral　the　eagle　of　the　awful　evangelist　clashed　his　wings　of　brass。

And　amid　all　the　noises　I　seemed　to　hear　the　voice　of　a　man　shouting　in　the　midst　like　one　ordering　regiments　hither　and　thither　in　the　fight；　the　voice　of　the　great　half…military　master…builder；　the　architect　of　spears。　　I　could　almost　fancy　he　wore　armour　while　he　made　that　church；　and　I　knew　indeed　that；　under　a　scriptural　figure；　he　had　borne　in　either　hand　the　trowel　and　the　sword。

I　could　imagine　for　the　moment　that　the　whole　of　that　house　of　life　had　marched　out　of　the　sacred　East；　alive　and　interlocked；　like　an　army。　Some　Eastern　nomad　had　found　it　solid　and　silent　in　the　red　circle　of　the　desert。　　He　had　slept　by　it　as　by　a　world…forgotten　pyramid；　and　been　woke　at　midnight　by　the　wings　of　stone　and　brass；　the　tramping　of　the　tall　pillars；　the　trumpets　of　the　waterspouts。　　On　such　a　night　every　snake　or　sea…beast　must　have　turned　and　twisted　in　every　crypt　or　corner　of　the　architecture。　　And　the　fiercely　coloured　saints　marching　eternally　in　the　flamboyant　windows　would　have　carried　their　glorioles　li