MARGINAL COMMENT
13v HAROLD NICOLSON
RAVELLING from Waterloo the other day upon one of the many electrified sections of British Railways I discovered that the compartment I had chosen was situated immediately above the wheel. I am all in favour of the electrification of our suburban transport system. since I am assured that it economises coal', gives to the train increased powers of acceleration, and enables British Railways to run more trains than was possible in the old coal-heaving days. I like to believe also that, as and when the State can find time to think of our welfare, the rattle-boxes of today will be replaced by long luxurious coaches sich as carry American commuters to Manhattan Transfer, as they sit there chewing com- fortably with their tickets displayed in the band of their hats. Until that day of coaches and corridors arrives it is obviously a mistake to enter a compartment immediately above the wheel. For reasons that escape me such a situation imparts to the compartment, when the train is in motion, a rapid succession of swings and jerks, so violent as to render it difficult even for the most agile passenger either to write or read. Since I am one of those who have the admirable habit of marking my books as I read them and scribbling comments and references on the fly-leaf, I am incommoded when the motion of my train impedes this practice. Being also one of those who are extremely, and perhaps morbidly, timelconscious, and who derive a small pleasure from being able to do two things at the same moment—such as annotating a book while being transported from London along the Thames valley—I experience pain when some mechanical cause interferes with the simultaneous exercise of function. Having for some twenty minutes sought to ignore these interjections on the part of my train, I realised that the notes that I was writing were so jerky that they would thereafter be illegible. I thus laid aside my book and looked but of the window ; for me a rare indulgence. As often happens when one does something unusual, I was rewarded by this interruption. I discovered in myself a disreputable state of feeling.,
The Thames to my left was moving with unusual speed, being swollen by autumn rains ; instead of the vapid and almost motion- less surface that we associate with our English Tiber, I looked down upon an angry swirl of brown water, bubbling and gurgling in forceful discontent. Already the osiers that fringed the banks had abandoned the appearance of trees growing calmly beside the river bed and stretched black arms above the waters clamouring for help. As we crossed the bridge I observed that the level of the angered river had risen to within a few inches of the parapets separating the rush of waters from the lawns, the rose-beds and the sun-dials of those who beside the river Thames have set their homes. It was then that I noticed that I was having a disreputable feeling I wanted to see the river rise stal higher and flood those „river gardens. The shame occasioned to me by the consciousness of so mean a desire was followed by quick interest in. the motives of this sudden destructive elation. My reason assured me that if the flood-waters rose above that slim line of partition it would mean that wide areas of farm-land would also be submerged and that this would affect our dollar position and the people's food. I have no prejudice at all against those who enjoy paludian circum- stances and should have felt pity and sorrow if those roses and sun-dials were, in fact, to disappear. Yet although the desire for destruction had been quickly and sharply repressed by the processes of reason, there was no mistaking the fact that at the first moment it had arisen. Undoubtedly a little lust within me had exclaimed, " What fun it would be if the water really overflowed ! "
Being somewhat shocked by this experience, I sat back in my compartment and cross-examined my conscience in order to discover whether this primitive lust for destruction was aroused only by flood-water or whether it was also stimulated by other of Nature's excesses. To my horror I discovered in the recesses of my conscience other such lusts blinking at me like old toads. I have
never seen an avalanche, for instance, except at a great distance ; but if I did see an avalanche, I should wish it to be a very powerful avalanche, overwhelming in its outrageous fury not chalets only but large Swiss hotels. I have never seen a meteor fall to earth, but I never watch those gentle glowworms sliding across the sky with- out wondering whether a precipice of burning rock will descend in Arizona, leaving a huge lunar crater.. When I read in the news- papers that blocks of ice have been falling recently upon the roofs of garages, I am aware that there is something in me that hopes that larger blocks will fall frequently, coloured, not brown as was the specimen at Wandsworth, but green and orange and red. I do not deny that during the nights when I used to fire-watch from the top of the Victoria Towers I experienced excitement, not far removed from pleasure, at the sight of bombs spurting bricks into the sky. I admit also that when I see a fire I like it to be a very large and dangerous fire, and am disappointed when it splutters dark and damp under the hoses of the brigade. What splendour of imagination there was in the vast Constantinople fires of old days, when the houses crackled like holly leaves in a bonfire and when the tips of the minarets burst like lit candles against the night! Pity and terror, of course, were aroused by such a spectacle, but there was also a savage lust. Is this experience peculiar to myself, who am not a natural incendiary, or would others, on examining their consciences in a train, discover similar toads lurk- ing ? And if so, why ?
My disreputable feelings on such occasions have, I hope, no affinity with any love of destruction for destruction's sake. I derive no pleasure, not even a momentary twirl of excitement, at the destruction by flood, fire or earthquOe of some beautiful building or object ; the momentary spurt of elation caused by the magnificent excesses of Nature is quickly stilled when my reason or imagination tell me that human lives or suffering may be involved. Horror, fear and compassion immediately crowd out the toads. Nor do I have anything but angered hatred of those who, in their unconscious rebellion against society, commit wholly wanton destruction to increase their own self-esteem. There is nothing even 'interesting in those who enjoy removing the light-bulbs in railway carriages or who take an anarchic delight in damaging the property of others. Equally diseased and contemptible are those men and women who collect " souvenirs." and who will bring back stones from the Parthenon or Persepolis or snip a tag of tapestry from the walls of some great house. The " souvenir-hunter " is as loathsome a louse as those who collect autographs ; as silly in mind and soul as those who carve or scribble their names, as Byron did, upon the columns at Sunium. I believe, or at least I hope, that the awe inspired in me by unbridled Nature has nothing to do with such mean iniquities. It derives rather from a love of the unusual, the miraculous, the unfamiliar. " The wonderful," wrote Aristotle, " is always delightful." When I see the Thames about to invade villa gardens I am entranced by the prospect of to thaumaston.
* * * * I do not assert that such impulses are reputable ; On the contrary, I consider them highly disreputable ; the censors within me rush to the spot to repress them, blushing to the roots of their hair. All I am saying is that such impulses exist and can be recognised when the Thames ceases to be our gentle river and becomes an angry mudded menace. The psychologists, I suppose, would tell me that these toads are due to repressed power-wishes. I am quite sure that such desires, even though they, may lurk in some vestigial form in the cellars of the unconscious, are too weak to cause any disturbance. If the decision rested with me to bid the Thames rise or subside, I should, of course, tell the river not ,to be a nuisance or to damage the property of others. But the decision does not rest with me. And as I sit there in the jolting train the little lust repeats, " What fun if it really overflowed ! "
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