The New Machiavelli
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Герберт Уэллс. The New Machiavelli
BOOK THE FIRST: THE MAKING OF A MAN
CHAPTER THE FIRST ~~ CONCERNING A BOOK THAT WAS NEVER WRITTEN
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CHAPTER THE SECOND ~~ BROMSTEAD AND MY FATHER
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CHAPTER THE THIRD ~~ SCHOLASTIC
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CHAPTER THE FOURTH ~~ ADOLESCENCE
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BOOK THE SECOND: MARGARET
CHAPTER THE FIRST ~~ MARGARET IN STAFFORDSHIRE
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CHAPTER THE SECOND ~~ MARGARET IN LONDON
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CHAPTER THE THIRD ~~ MARGARET IN VENICE
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CHAPTER THE FOURTH ~~ THE HOUSE IN WESTMINSTER
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BOOK THE THIRD: THE HEART OF POLITICS
CHAPTER THE FIRST ~~ THE RIDDLE FOR THE STATESMAN
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CHAPTER THE SECOND ~~ SEEKING ASSOCIATES
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CHAPTER THE THIRD ~~ SECESSION
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CHAPTER THE FOURTH ~~ THE BESETTING OF SEX
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BOOK THE FOURTH: ISABEL
CHAPTER THE FIRST ~~ LOVE AND SUCCESS
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CHAPTER THE SECOND ~~ THE IMPOSSIBLE POSITION
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CHAPTER THE THIRD ~~ THE BREAKING POINT
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Отрывок из книги
Since I came to this place I have been very restless, wasting my energies in the futile beginning of ill-conceived books. One does not settle down very readily at two and forty to a new way of living, and I have found myself with the teeming interests of the life I have abandoned still buzzing like a swarm of homeless bees in my head. My mind has been full of confused protests and justifications. In any case I should have found difficulties enough in expressing the complex thing I have to tell, but it has added greatly to my trouble that I have a great analogue, that a certain Niccolo Machiavelli chanced to fall out of politics at very much the age I have reached, and wrote a book to engage the restlessness of his mind, very much as I have wanted to do. He wrote about the relation of the great constructive spirit in politics to individual character and weaknesses, and so far his achievement lies like a deep rut in the road of my intention. It has taken me far astray. It is a matter of many weeks now – diversified indeed by some long drives into the mountains behind us and a memorable sail to Genoa across the blue and purple waters that drowned Shelley – since I began a laboured and futile imitation of “The Prince.” I sat up late last night with the jumbled accumulation; and at last made a little fire of olive twigs and burnt it all, sheet by sheet – to begin again clear this morning.
But incidentally I have re-read most of Machiavelli, not excepting those scandalous letters of his to Vettori, and it seems to me, now that I have released myself altogether from his literary precedent, that he still has his use for me. In spite of his vast prestige I claim kindred with him and set his name upon my title-page, in partial intimation of the matter of my story. He takes me with sympathy not only by reason of the dream he pursued and the humanity of his politics, but by the mixture of his nature. His vices come in, essential to my issue. He is dead and gone, all his immediate correlations to party and faction have faded to insignificance, leaving only on the one hand his broad method and conceptions, and upon the other his intimate living personality, exposed down to its salacious corners as the soul of no contemporary can ever be exposed. Of those double strands it is I have to write, of the subtle protesting perplexing play of instinctive passion and desire against too abstract a dream of statesmanship. But things that seemed to lie very far apart in Machiavelli’s time have come near to one another; it is no simple story of white passions struggling against the red that I have to tell.
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The same idea came to me also. I ran to her. “Mother!” I cried, pale to the depths of my spirit, “IS HE DEAD?”
I had been thinking two minutes before of the cold fruit pie that glorified our Sunday dinner-table, and how I might perhaps get into the tree at the end of the garden to read in the afternoon. Now an immense fact had come down like a curtain and blotted out all my childish world. My father was lying dead before my eyes… I perceived that my mother was helpless and that things must be done.
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