paper. From that, I remember, I went on to an image that had
flashed into my mind. "The British Empire," I said, "is like some
of those early vertebrated monsters, the Brontosaurus and the
Atlantosaurus and such-like; it sacrifices intellect to character;
its backbone, that is to say,-especially in the visceral region-is
bigger than its cranium. It's no accident that things are so.
We've worked for backbone. We brag about backbone, and if the
joints are anchylosed so much the better. We're still but only half
awake to our error. You can't change that suddenly."
"Turn it round and make it go backwards," interjected Thorns.
"It's trying to do that," I said, "in places."
And afterwards Crupp declared I had begotten a nightmare which
haunted him of nights; he was trying desperately and belatedly to
blow a brain as one blows soap-bubbles on such a mezoroic saurian as
I had conjured up, while the clumsy monster's fate, all teeth and
brains, crept nearer and nearer…
I've grown, I think, since those days out of the urgency of that
apprehension. I still think a European war, and conceivably a very
humiliating war for England, may occur at no very distant date, but
I do not think there is any such heroic quality in our governing
class as will make that war catastrophic. The prevailing spirit in
English life-it is one of the essential secrets of our imperial
endurance-is one of underbred aggression in prosperity and
diplomatic compromise in moments of danger; we bully haughtily where
we can and assimilate where we must. It is not for nothing that our
upper and middle-class youth is educated by teachers of the highest
character, scholars and gentlemen, men who can pretend quite
honestly that Darwinism hasn't upset the historical fall of man,
that cricket is moral training, and that Socialism is an outrage
upon the teachings of Christ. A sort of dignified dexterity of
evasion is the national reward. Germany, with a larger population,
a vigorous and irreconcilable proletariat, a bolder intellectual
training, a harsher spirit, can scarcely fail to drive us at last to
a realisation of intolerable strain. So we may never fight at all.
The war of preparations that has been going on for thirty years may
end like a sham-fight at last in an umpire's decision. We shall
proudly but very firmly take the second place. For my own part,
since I love England as much as I detest her present lethargy of
soul, I pray for a chastening war-I wouldn't mind her flag in the
dirt if only her spirit would come out of it. So I was able to
shake off that earlier fear of some final and irrevocable
destruction truncating all my schemes. At the most, a European war
would be a dramatic episode in the reconstruction I had in view.
In India, too, I no longer foresee, as once I was inclined to see,
disaster. The English rule in India is surely one of the most
extraordinary accidents that has ever happened in history. We are
there like a man who has fallen off a ladder on to the neck of an
elephant, and doesn't know what to do or how to get down. Until
something happens he remains. Our functions in India are absurd.
We English do not own that country, do not even rule it. We make
nothing happen; at the most we prevent things happening. We
suppress our own literature there. Most English people cannot even
go to this land they possess; the authorities would prevent it. If
Messrs. Perowne or Cook organised a cheap tour of Manchester
operatives, it would be stopped. No one dare bring the average
English voter face to face with the reality of India, or let the
Indian native have a glimpse of the English voter. In my time I
have talked to English statesmen, Indian officials and ex-officials,
viceroys, soldiers, every one who might be supposed to know what
India signifies, and I have prayed them to tell me what they thought
we were up to there. Iam not writing without my book in these
matters. And beyond a phrase or so about "even-handed justice"-and
look at our sedition trials!-they told me nothing. Time after time
I have heard of that apocryphal native ruler in the north-west, who,
when asked what would happen if we left India, replied that in a
week his men would be in the saddle, and in six months not a rupee
nor a virgin would he left in Lower Bengal. That is always given as
our conclusive justification. But is it our business to preserve
the rupees and virgins of Lower Bengal in a sort of magic
inconclusiveness? Better plunder than paralysis, better fire and
sword than futility. Our flag is spread over the peninsula, without
plans, without intentions-a vast preventive. The sum total of our
policy is to arrest any discussion, any conferences that would
enable the Indians to work out a tolerable scheme of the future for
themselves. But that does not arrest the resentment of men held
back from life. Consider what it must be for the educated Indian
sitting at the feast of contemporary possibilities with his mouth
gagged and his hands bound behind him! The spirit of insurrection
breaks out in spite of espionage and seizures. Our conflict for
inaction develops stupendous absurdities. The other day the British
Empire was taking off and examining printed cotton stomach wraps for