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The World Set Free-Part10_H. G. WELLS (1866-1946)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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exaltation was made terrible by the dread that some error might



dishonour her....

She watched him now through the glass with all the unpenetrating



minuteness of an impassioned woman's observation.

He said little, she remarked. He looked but little at the maps.



The tall Englishman beside him was manifestly troubled by a swarm

of ideas, conflicting ideas; he craned his neck at every shifting



of the little red, blue, black, and yellow pieces on the board,

and wanted to draw the commander's attention to this and that.



Dubois listened, nodded, emitted a word and became still again,

brooding like the national eagle.



His eyes were so deeply sunken under his white eyebrows that she

could not see his eyes; his moustache overhung the mouth from



which those words of decision came. Viard, too, said little; he

was a dark man with a drooping head and melancholy, watchful



eyes. He was more intent upon the French right, which was feeling

its way now through Alsace to the Rhine. He was, she knew, an



old colleague of Dubois; he knew him better, she decided, he

trusted him more than this unfamiliar Englishman....



Not to talk, to remain impassive and as far as possible in

profile; these were the lessons that old Dubois had mastered



years ago. To seem to know all, to betray no surprise, to refuse

to hurry--itself a confession" target="_blank" title="n.招供；认错；交待">confession of miscalculation; by attention to



these simple rules, Dubois had built up a steady reputation from

the days when he had been a promisingjunior officer, a still,



almost abstracted young man, deliberate but ready. Even then men

had looked at him and said: 'He will go far.' Through fifty



years of peace he had never once been found wanting, and at

manoeuvres his impassive persistence had perplexed and hypnotised



and defeated many a more activelyintelligent man. Deep in his

soul Dubois had hidden his one profound discovery about the



modern art of warfare, the key to his career. And this discovery

was that NOBODY KNEW, that to act therefore was to blunder, that



to talk was to confess; and that the man who acted slowly and

steadfastly and above all silently, had the best chance of



winning through. Meanwhile one fed the men. Now by this same

strategy he hoped to shatter those mysterious unknowns of the



Central European command. Delhi might talk of a great flank march

through Holland, with all the British submarines and hydroplanes



and torpedo craft pouring up the Rhine in support of it; Viard

might crave for brilliance with the motor bicycles, aeroplanes,



and ski-men among the Swiss mountains, and a sudden swoop upon

Vienna; the thing was to listen--and wait for the other side to



begin experimenting. It was all experimenting. And meanwhile he

remained in profile, with an air of assurance--like a man who



sits in an automobile after the chauffeur has had his directions.

And every one about him was the stronger and surer for that quiet



face, that air of knowledge and unruffled confidence. The

clustering lights threw a score of shadows of him upon the maps,



great bunches of him, versions of a commanding presence, lighter

or darker, dominated the field, and pointed in every direction.



Those shadows symbolised his control. When a messenger came from

the wireless room to shift this or that piece in the game, to



replace under amended reports one Central European regiment by a

score, to draw back or thrust out or distribute this or that



force of the Allies, the Marshal would turn his head and seem not




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