only we had never had our free will!”
“You mean—the doctrine of original sin?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it.”
He stopped in front of me.
“Then you can’t believe in God.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe in God.”
A pause followed. I broke it, feeling I had to speak.
“Listen, I teach history, and I know that before the birth of our Lord, another world existed, the antique world—Hellas—a world without original sin—”
“I think you’re in error,” he murmured, going up to his book-case. He took a volume down and turned over the pages. “You’re a teacher of history, so that I needn’t recall to you the name of the first Greek philosopher—I mean the eldest—”
“Thales of Miletus.”
“Yes. But he’s a half-mythical figure, we know nothing definite about him. The first evidence of Greek philosophy that has come down to us in writing is from the hand of Anaximander—he too came from Miletus. Born 610, died 547 B.C . It amounts to only a sentence …”
He crossed to the window again to read it, for the room was growing dark.
“ ‘To that from which things arise must they return in the end. In pain and penance must they make good their debt for their existence, according to the universal law.’ ”
14. THE ROMAN CAPTAIN
WE’D BEEN FOUR DAYS IN CAMP. THE SERGEANT had given the boys instruction in the mechanism of firearms, and explained how to keep them in good working order. To-day they spent oiling and polishing the guns ready for target practice to-morrow.
The wooden soldiers stood ready to be hit.
The boys were in the highest spirits, though the sergeant wasn’t quite so exuberant. These four days had put ten years on his age. Another four, and he would look more aged still. Moreover, he strained his foot, and perhaps pulled a tendon, for he limped. However, he could grin and bear it. I was the only one to see another side of him—before we went to sleep the other night, he told me he’d like to see a skittle-alley again or have a game of cards—he’d like to be lying down in a decent bed, he’d like to hold a buxom barmaid by the hand, he’d like—well, to be back home. Then he went off to sleep, snoring.
He dreamed he’d become a general and won a battle. The King had taken off all his own orders and pinned them on his chest. And on his back. And the Queen had kissed his feet.
“What can that mean?” he asked me next morning.
“Perhaps it was a wish-fulfilment dream.” I laughed.
He told me that never in his life had he wished to have his feet kissed by the Queen.
“I’ll write to my old woman,” he mused. “She’s got a dream-book. She can look ’em up—General, King, Decorations, Battle, Chest, and Back. We’ll find out!”
While he was writing his letter, outside the tent, up came one of the boys. It was L, and he was highly excited.
“Well, what is it?” I asked.
“I’ve had something stolen.”
“Stolen?”
“My camera, sir—somebody’s taken it.”
He was quite beside himself.
The sergeant glanced up at me. He seemed to be wondering what course to take.
“Assemble everybody,” I suggested. I couldn’t think of anything else.
He nodded, limped to the foot of the flagpole in the centre of the camp, and bellowed the order like an old bull.
I turned to L.
“D’you suspect anybody?”
“No.”
The regiment lined up. I questioned them. No one had anything to say. The sergeant and I had a look at the tent where L slept. His sleeping-bag lay just to the left of the tent flaps. We found nothing to help here.
“It seems to be out of the question,” I reassured the sergeant, “that one of our own boys is the thief—in that case, we’d already have had something like this happen at school. It seems to me that the watch we’ve set up hasn’t been too vigilant and some of that robber band have slipped through.”
The sergeant thought I might be right. We decided to spend the next night supervising the
“You mean—the doctrine of original sin?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t believe it.”
He stopped in front of me.
“Then you can’t believe in God.”
“You’re right. I don’t believe in God.”
A pause followed. I broke it, feeling I had to speak.
“Listen, I teach history, and I know that before the birth of our Lord, another world existed, the antique world—Hellas—a world without original sin—”
“I think you’re in error,” he murmured, going up to his book-case. He took a volume down and turned over the pages. “You’re a teacher of history, so that I needn’t recall to you the name of the first Greek philosopher—I mean the eldest—”
“Thales of Miletus.”
“Yes. But he’s a half-mythical figure, we know nothing definite about him. The first evidence of Greek philosophy that has come down to us in writing is from the hand of Anaximander—he too came from Miletus. Born 610, died 547 B.C . It amounts to only a sentence …”
He crossed to the window again to read it, for the room was growing dark.
“ ‘To that from which things arise must they return in the end. In pain and penance must they make good their debt for their existence, according to the universal law.’ ”
14. THE ROMAN CAPTAIN
WE’D BEEN FOUR DAYS IN CAMP. THE SERGEANT had given the boys instruction in the mechanism of firearms, and explained how to keep them in good working order. To-day they spent oiling and polishing the guns ready for target practice to-morrow.
The wooden soldiers stood ready to be hit.
The boys were in the highest spirits, though the sergeant wasn’t quite so exuberant. These four days had put ten years on his age. Another four, and he would look more aged still. Moreover, he strained his foot, and perhaps pulled a tendon, for he limped. However, he could grin and bear it. I was the only one to see another side of him—before we went to sleep the other night, he told me he’d like to see a skittle-alley again or have a game of cards—he’d like to be lying down in a decent bed, he’d like to hold a buxom barmaid by the hand, he’d like—well, to be back home. Then he went off to sleep, snoring.
He dreamed he’d become a general and won a battle. The King had taken off all his own orders and pinned them on his chest. And on his back. And the Queen had kissed his feet.
“What can that mean?” he asked me next morning.
“Perhaps it was a wish-fulfilment dream.” I laughed.
He told me that never in his life had he wished to have his feet kissed by the Queen.
“I’ll write to my old woman,” he mused. “She’s got a dream-book. She can look ’em up—General, King, Decorations, Battle, Chest, and Back. We’ll find out!”
While he was writing his letter, outside the tent, up came one of the boys. It was L, and he was highly excited.
“Well, what is it?” I asked.
“I’ve had something stolen.”
“Stolen?”
“My camera, sir—somebody’s taken it.”
He was quite beside himself.
The sergeant glanced up at me. He seemed to be wondering what course to take.
“Assemble everybody,” I suggested. I couldn’t think of anything else.
He nodded, limped to the foot of the flagpole in the centre of the camp, and bellowed the order like an old bull.
I turned to L.
“D’you suspect anybody?”
“No.”
The regiment lined up. I questioned them. No one had anything to say. The sergeant and I had a look at the tent where L slept. His sleeping-bag lay just to the left of the tent flaps. We found nothing to help here.
“It seems to be out of the question,” I reassured the sergeant, “that one of our own boys is the thief—in that case, we’d already have had something like this happen at school. It seems to me that the watch we’ve set up hasn’t been too vigilant and some of that robber band have slipped through.”
The sergeant thought I might be right. We decided to spend the next night supervising the
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