MARGINAL COMMENT
By HAROLD NICOLSON •
IHAVE found it opportune, when faced with an uncongenial situation, or working in circumstances of strain and animosity, to read books about people who were more miserable than myself. When I was a little boy I lived with my parents in Morocco, but the dread day came when-I had to go to school. My father had chosen for this ordeal a private school in Folkestone, which he had been assured (and on what authority I know not) possessed a high moral tone. I was taken across to Gibraltar and there placed on a liner belonging to the Peninsular and Oriental Steam Navigation Company. The liner left Gibraltar towards sunset, and as we passed through the Straits, I could see (at the very moment when the ship first met the swell of the Atlantic) the lights of my home twinkling towards me from the African coast. There followed three days of sea-sickness and home-sickness, two of the major maladies which can afflict the human frame and heart. On the fourth day I staggered on deck to find that the climate had altered and that a dim cold mist had come to drive into my sadness the memory of the irises and narcissus I had left. In the end I reached the bleak unhallowed dormitory of my private school. Never in my subsequent life have I known desolation equal to those grim days. To assuage my grief I would read in the school library the opening chapters of Dombey and Son. They brought me comfort. It might be that I was sundered from my parents by many hundred miles of turbulent sea ; but I still retained their affection. Unlike Miss Dombey, I was not exposed to parental indifference. Clearly it was a better thing to have been loved and sent to the Grange, Folkestone, than never to have been loved at all. Miss Dombey, poor little thing, had known more suffering than that to which I was exposed. She did me good.
* * * * This week I have been reading Thucydides upon the Pelopon- nesian War. It was a comfort to feel that, however irksome might be my present activities, I was at least not rotting in the quarries at Syracuse. But this great book, this eternal possession, has done more for me than that. I have often read this history before ; but I have read it scrappily and thereby missed the cumulative energy by which it is inspired. It has given me that sense of detachment and elation which only the greatest works of genius can produce. Assuredly it deserves a place among the world's literary master- pieces, and can rank with Hamlet, or the Inferno, or War and Peace. Alone with Thucydides in my hotel bedroom at Upper Norwood, I was able in those few half hours of privacy to appre- ciate as never before the charm of his companionship and the high stimulus of his example. I found myself asking him again and again to explain the secret of his magnificence, the principles which render him the first and finest historian of all time. I believe that I have found the answer. In the first place there are certain minor and indeed adventitious causes which give charm to the narrative. I am not a Greek scholar, and I prefer to read my classics in the Loeb edition. But I do know enough Greek to be able to refer to the original when I come to any startling passage, and I am well conscious of the fascination of the language, and the charm " of those otiose particles which make the Greek speech garrulous." I possess, moreover, a curious interest in historical geography, and a strange liking for historical coincidences. It pleases me to realise that the Spartans as well as the Turks were defeated at Navarino, that great sea battles occurred off Gallipoli, that Byzantium was of strategic importante long before it became Istanbul, and that a minor episode off Durazzo was one of the major causes of this intermittent but terribly protracted war. I enjoy also discovering personal links with the past, and coming upon references in Thucydides to places and objects which I have seen with my own eyes, whether it be Suniutn's marble steep or the bronze tripod on the Atmeidan.
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A further incidental component of Thucydides' literary style is the restrained vividness of his descriptions. It is not probable that he saw much of the fighting, since after his unhappy failure to relieve Amphipolis he was retired from his command. Nor did he visit Syracuse until after the whole tragic episode had ended. Yet throughout his narrative one has the impression of listening to an actual eye-witness of the events. He can convey in but a few words the sense of doom and terror which assailed the Athenians as they shrieked and tumbled under a low moon. By some sudden turn of phrase, some flash of detail, he is able to bring before the reader the whole atmosphere of battle. One can hear the splash of oars as the triremes back furiously to renew their charge; one can hear the clatter of high Greek voices shouting in the market-place ; one can smell the scent of sage and the stench of putrid butter as the armies bivouacked upon the plains. Thucydides had noticed things in his own short campaign. He had noticed, for instance, that the gates in towns and fortresses did not always come down to the ground; through the chink or gap one could observe " the feet of men and horses gathering." He had witnessed the Spartans advancing into battle with the high wail of the flute-players, " whom they carried with them in their midst." Certainly he must have taken part in a night battle in order to be able to describe as he did the wild scramble at Plataea or the ghastly confusion upon the Acraean height. He knew the sound of the paean rising above the din; he had seen how after the battle men would dash forward to drag back their dead ; and he knew what panic was, when men uttered " screams of lamentation" and when " their very bodies swayed in the extremity of their fear."
* * * * Yet it is not his charm alone which gives to this great historian such power over our minds. In the first place, his work is superbly proportioned and composed. One has only to compare the eighth book (which was unrevised) with the seven preceding books to realise how carefully he planned his structure and polished his text. The eighth book breaks off abruptly, as if snapped like the branch of an apple tree in blossom. " And so first of all he came to Ephesus and offered sacrifices to Artemis "; such are the chance and lovely words with which this great history ends suddenly. It may be that, as the legend relates, Thucydides was murdered when visiting his gold mines near Kavalla; it may be that his notes for the concluding book were gathered together by his daughter. But the fact remains that it is the imperfect carpentering of the final volume which shows us the amazing craftsmanship of those by which it is preceded. Another element of grandeur is his gift of under- statement; there is so much which remains unrevealed. The glories of Athens, for instance, are superbly indicated in the Funeral Oration; but the Parthenon is mentioned only as a store-room; the Athena Parthenos merely as a remedy against inflation ; the Propylaea only as an extravagance. No single mention is made of the great poets, dramatists, philosophers and artists who adorned his age. There is no ostentation in Thucydides' pride.
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Such are some at least of the great qualities which render Thucydides an imperishable intellectual companion. But he was more, much more, than a gifted historian. He possessed greatness of soul. His magnanimity shines out in every word he writes. After all, he had seen the city which he almost worshipped brought to dust by her own arrogance. He had himself been the victim of popular revenge. He had the Greek conviction that great success must lead inevitably to great humiliation. Yet he is able to describe the fall of Athens, to disclose the blindness of her brilliance, in a cool, clear voice, the cadences of which are never deflected either by emotion or rage. It is something more than the scholar's impar- tiality; it is an utter serenity of judgement, a perfect example of What is meant by the scant phrase " distinction of mind." Yes, I find Thucydides a far more stimulating companion than poor little Miss Dombey.
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