I came out into a steep
street which led down to the sea, a street full of an advancing swarm of
armed men and banners and carriages and the shrill blare of trumpets
pulsed by the thudding of drums. A squad of motley individuals in
civilian garb with red sashes across their bosoms and rifles in their
hands marched ahead of a brass band and breasted the slope. At intervals
came carriages containing the leaders of this new regime. I observed the
burly person in the fez and wearing a silver star. He sat alone in an
open landau, his frock coat gathered up so that his muscular haunches
could be seen crushing the salmon-coloured upholstery, his massive
calves almost bursting out of the cashmere trousers. He held himself
rigidly upright, his hand at the salute, his big black eyes swivelling
from side to side as the crowd surged up and applauded. He had been a
driver on the railroad, I read later on, when his photo, with the silver
star, appeared in our illustrated papers at home as one of the leaders
of the Party of Liberty and Progress. Still an engine-driver, I should
say, recalling him as he rode past that morning, not particularly
attentive to signals or pressure gauges either, if what we hear be true.
Broad-based he sat there, leaning slightly forward, the tight blue tunic
creasing across the small of his strong, curved back, his short, thick
feet encased in elastic side boots, his long nails curving over the ends
of his fingers like claws. And it occurred to me, as I stood on the
marble steps of that office building and watched him being borne upward
to the Citadel where no doubt he rendered substantial aid to the cause
of Liberty and Progress, that it is to the credit of the despots and
cut-throats of history that they were perfectly honest in their
behaviour. They sought dominion and got it. They sought gold and got it.
They sought the blood and the concubines of their enemies and got them.
And they rarely deemed it worth while to pretend that they were apostles
of liberty and progress. That is one of our modern improvements.... I
was musing thus as the platoons of ragged revolutionaries shuffled past,
when I found myself gazing at M. Nikitos, seated with crossed legs in
the corner of a shabby one-horse carriage, and raising an
unpleasant-looking silk hat. He was, I take it, one of the secretaries
of the Committee of Liberty and Progress, possibly their future
international expert. It suddenly occurred to me that there i