Here, I thought, there is at any rate something anarchic
and violent and vile. This title, at any rate,
means the most disgusting individualism of this individualistic
world. In the fury of my bitterness and passion
I actually bought the book, thereby ensuring that
my enemy would get some of my money. I opened
it prepared to find some brutality, some blasphemy,
which would really be an exception to the general
silence and sanctity of the railway station.
I was prepared to find something in the book that was
as infamous as its title.
I was disappointed. There was nothing at all
corresponding to the furious decisiveness of the remarks
on the cover. After reading it carefully I could
not discover whether I was really to get on or to
get out; but I had a vague feeling that I should prefer
to get out. A considerable part of the book,
particularly towards the end, was concerned with a
detailed description of the life of Napoleon Bonaparte.
Undoubtedly Napoleon got on. He also got out.
But I could not discover in any way how the details
of his life given here were supposed to help a person
aiming at success. One anecdote described how
Napoleon always wiped his pen on his knee-breeches.
I suppose the moral is: always wipe your pen
on your knee-breeches, and you will win the battle
of Wagram. Another story told that he let loose
a gazelle among the ladies of his Court. Clearly
the brutal practical inference is—loose
a gazelle among the ladies of your acquaintance, and
you will be Emperor of the French. Get on with
a gazelle or get out. The book entirely reconciled
me to the soft twilight of the station. Then
I suddenly saw that there was a symbolic division
which might be paralleled from biology. Brave
men are vertebrates; they have their softness on the
surface and their toughness in the middle. But
these modern cowards are all crustaceans; their hardness
is all on the cover and their softness is inside.
But the softness is there; everything in this twilight
temple is soft.
XXXIV
The Diabolist
Every now and then I have introduced into my essays
an element of truth. Things that really happened
have been mentioned, such as meeting President Kruger
or being thrown out of a cab. What I have now
to relate really happened; yet there was no element
in it of practical politics or of personal danger.
It was simply a quiet conversation which I had with
another man. But that quiet conversation was
by far the most terrible thing that has ever happened
to me in my life. It happened so long ago that
I cannot be certain of the exact words of the dialogue,
only of its main questions and answers; but there is
one sentence in it for which I can answer absolutely
and word for word. It was a sentence so awful
that I could not forget it if I would. It was
the last sentence spoken; and it was not spoken to
me.
