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environment； which of the Caesars would this person resemble Julius；
Augustus； Tiberius； Caligula； Claudius； Nero？ I take each trait of
character； each mental and emotional bias； each little oddity； and magnify
them a thousand times。 The resulting image gives me his Caesarean
formula。〃
〃And which of the Caesars do you resemble？〃 asked Gombauld。
〃I am potentially all of them；〃 Mr。 Scogan replied； 〃allwith the
possible exception of Claudius； who was much too stupid to be a
development of anything in my character。 The seeds of Julius's courage
and compelling energy； of Augustus's prudence； of the libidinousness and
cruelty of Tiberius； of Caligula's folly； of Nero's artistic genius and
enormous vanity； are all within me。 Given the opportunities； I might have
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been something fabulous。 But circumstances were against me。 I was
born and brought up in a country rectory； I passed my youth doing a great
deal of utterly senseless hard work for a very little money。 The result is
that now； in middle age； I am the poor thing that I am。 But perhaps it is
as well。 Perhaps； too； it's as well that Denis hasn't been permitted to
flower into a little Nero； and that Ivor remains only potentially a Caligula。
Yes； it's better so； no doubt。 But it would have been more amusing； as a
spectacle； if they had had the chance to develop； untrammelled； the full
horror of their potentialities。 It would have been pleasant and interesting
to watch their tics and foibles and little vices swelling and burgeoning and
blossoming into enormous and fantastic flowers of cruelty and pride and
lewdness and avarice。 The Caesarean environment makes the Caesar； as
the special food and the queenly cell make the queen bee。 We differ from
the bees in so far that； given the proper food； they can be sure of making a
queen every time。 With us there is no such certainty； out of every ten
men placed in the Caesarean environment one will be temperamentally
good； or intelligent； or great。 The rest will blossom into Caesars； he will
not。 Seventy and eighty years ago simple…minded people； reading of the
exploits of the Bourbons in South Italy； cried out in amazement： To think
that such things should be happening in the nineteenth century！ And a
few years since we too were astonished to find that in our still more
astonishing twentieth century； unhappy blackamoors on the Congo and the
Amazon were being treated as English serfs were treated in the time of
Stephen。 To…day we are no longer surprised at these things。 The Black
and Tans harry Ireland； the Poles maltreat the Silesians； the bold Fascisti
slaughter their poorer countrymen： we take it all for granted。 Since the
war we wonder at nothing。 We have created a Caesarean environment
and a host of little Caesars has sprung up。 What could be more natural？〃
Mr。 Scogan drank off what was left of his port and refilled the glass。
At this very moment；〃 he went on； 〃the most frightful horrors are
taking place in every corner of the world。 People are being crushed；
slashed； disembowelled； mangled； their dead bodies rot and their eyes
decay with the rest。 Screams of pain and fear go pulsing through the air
at the rate of eleven hundred feet per second。 After travelling for three
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seconds they are perfectly inaudible。 These are distressing facts； but do
we enjoy life any the less because of them？ Most certainly we do not。
We feel sympathy； no doubt； we represent to ourselves imaginatively the
sufferings of nations and individuals and we deplore them。 But； after all；
what are sympathy and imagination？ Precious little； unless the person
for whom we feel sympathy happens to be closely involved in our
affections； and even then they don't go very far。 And a good thing too； for
if one had an imagination vivid enough and a sympathy sufficiently
sensitive really to comprehend and to feel the sufferings of other people；
one would never have a moment's peace of mind。 A really sympathetic
race would not so much as know the meaning of happiness。 But luckily；
as I've already said； we aren't a sympathetic race。 At the beginning of the
war I used to think I really suffered； through imagination and sympathy；
with those who physically suffered。 But after a month or two I had to
admit that； honestly； I didn't。 And yet I think I have a more vivid
imagination than most。 One is always alone in suffering； the fact is
depressing when one happens to be the sufferer； but it makes pleasure
possible for the rest of the world。〃
There was a pause。 Henry Wimbush pushed back his chair。
〃I think perhaps we ought to go and join the ladies；〃 he said。
〃So do I；〃 said Ivor； jumping up with alacrity。 He turned to Mr。
Scogan。 〃Fortunately；〃 he said； 〃we can share our pleasures。 We are
not always condemned to be happy alone。〃
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CHAPTER XVII。
Ivor brought his hands down with a bang on to the final chord of his
rhapsody。 There was just a hint in that triumphant harmony that the
seventh had been struck along with the octave by the thumb of the left
hand； but the general effect of splendid noise emerged clearly enough。
Small details matter little so long as the general effect is good。 And；
besides； that hint of the seventh was decidedly modern。 He turned round
in his seat and tossed the hair back out of his eyes。
〃There；〃 he said。 〃That's the best I can do for you； I'm afraid。〃
Murmurs of applause and gratitude were heard； and Mary； her large
china ey