IX
ON BUTTONS
In one of his recent books Mr. H.G. Wells expresses a surprised
annoyance at the spectacle of spurs. Vast numbers of military gentlemen
(he observed at the front) go clanking about in spurs although they have
never had--and never will have--occasion to bestride a horse. Spurs are
a symbolic survival, a waste of steel and of labour in manufacture, a
futile expenditure of energy to keep clean and to put on and take off.
When I first enlisted I felt a similar irritation in regard to buttons.
His buttons are a burden to the new recruit. Time takes the edge off his
resentment. Time is a soother of sorrows, a healer of rancours, however
legitimate. Nevertheless one's buttons remain for ever a nuisance. I do
not complain that I should have to make my bed, polish my boots, keep
my clothes neat. These are the obvious decencies of life. But the daily
shining-up of metal buttons which need never have been made of metal at
all, which tarnish in the damp and indeed lose their lustre in an hour
in any weather, which, moreover, look much prettier dull than
bright--this is enough to convert the most bloodthirsty recruit into
obdurate pacifism.
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