they had failed-but young men in the twenties do not know much

about failures.

10

Willersley and I professed ourselves Socialists, but by this time I

knew my Rodbertus as well as my Marx, and there was much in our

socialism that would have shocked Chris Robinson as much as anything

in life could have shocked him. Socialism as a simple democratic

cry we had done with for ever. We were socialists because

Individualism for us meant muddle, meant a crowd of separated,

undisciplined little people all obstinately and ignorantly doing

things jarringly, each one in his own way. "Each," I said quoting

words of my father's that rose apt in my memory, "snarling from his

own little bit of property, like a dog tied to a cart's tail."

"Essentially," said Willersley, "essentially we're for conscription,

in peace and war alike. The man who owns property is a public

official and has to behave as such. That's the gist of socialism as

I understand it."

"Or be dismissed from his post," I said, " and replaced by some

better sort of official. A man's none the less an official because

he's irresponsible. What he does with his property affects people

just the same. Private! No one is really private but an outlaw…

Order and devotion were the very essence of our socialism, and a

splendid collective vigour and happiness its end. We projected an

ideal state, an organised state as confident and powerful as modern

science, as balanced and beautiful as a body, as beneficent as

sunshine, the organised state that should end muddle for ever; it

ruled all our ideals and gave form to all our ambitions.

Every man was to be definitely related to that, to have his

predominant duty to that. Such was the England renewed we had in

mind, and how to serve that end, to subdue undisciplined worker and

undisciplined wealth to it, and make the Scientific Commonweal,

King, was the continuing substance of our intercourse.

11

Every day the wine of the mountains was stronger in our blood, and

the flush of our youth deeper. We would go in the morning sunlight

along some narrow Alpine mule-path shouting large suggestions for

national re-organisation, and weighing considerations as lightly as

though the world was wax in our hands. "Great England," we said in

effect, over and over again, "and we will be among the makers!

England renewed! The country has been warned; it has learnt its

lesson. The disasters and anxieties of the war have sunk in.

England has become serious… Oh! there are big things before

us to do; big enduring things!"

One evening we walked up to the loggia of a little pilgrimage

church, I forget its name, that stands out on a conical hill at the

head of a winding stair above the town of Locarno. Down below the

houses clustered amidst a confusion of heat-bitten greenery. I had

been sitting silently on the parapet, looking across to the purple

mountain masses where Switzerland passes into Italy, and the drift

of our talk seemed suddenly to gather to a head.

I broke into speech, giving form to the thoughts that had been

accumulating. My words have long since passed out of my memory, the

phrases of familiar expression have altered for me, but the

substance remains as clear as ever. I said how we were in our

measure emperors and kings, men undriven, free to do as we pleased

with life; we classed among the happy ones, our bread and common

necessities were given us for nothing, we had abilities,-it wasn't

modesty but cowardice to behave as if we hadn't-and Fortune watched

us to see what we might do with opportunity and the world.

"There are so many things to do, you see," began Willersley, in his

judicial lecturer's voice.

"So many things we may do," I interrupted, "with all these years

before us… We're exceptional men. It's our place, our duty,

to do things."

"Here anyhow," I said, answering the faint amusement of his face;

"I've got no modesty. Everything conspires to set me up. Why

should I run about like all those grubby little beasts down there,

seeking nothing but mean little vanities and indulgencies-and then

take credit for modesty? I KNOW Iam capable. I KNOW I have

imagination. Modesty! I know if I don't attempt the very biggest

things in life Iam a damned shirk. The very biggest! Somebody has

to attempt them. I feel like a loaded gun that is only a little

perplexed because it has to find out just where to aim itself…"

The lake and the frontier villages, a white puff of steam on the

distant railway to Luino, the busy boats and steamers trailing

triangular wakes of foam, the long vista eastward towards

battlemented Bellinzona, the vast mountain distances, now tinged

with sunset light, behind this nearer landscape, and the southward

waters with remote coast towns shining dimly, waters that merged at