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diff --git a/76571-h/76571-h.htm b/76571-h/76571-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..68f5970 --- /dev/null +++ b/76571-h/76571-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,16289 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Death of a hero | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 30%; margin-left: 35%; margin-right: 35%;} +hr.chap {width: 80%; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2.0em;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76571 ***</div> + + + + + +<h1 style="color:#a30003">DEATH<br> +OF A HERO</h1> +<p class="center"> +<i>A NOVEL BY</i><br> +<i>RICHARD ALDINGTON</i><br> +<br> +1929<br> +COVICI · FRIEDE · INC · NEW YORK +</p> + + + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="center"> +COPYRIGHT, 1929, BY COVICI-FRIEDE, INC.<br> +<br> +Second printing, July, 1929<br> +Third printing, July, 1929<br> +Fourth printing, October, 1929<br> +<br> +<i>Manufactured in the United States of America</i><br> +<i>by the</i> <span class="allsmcap">VAN REES PRESS</span><i>, New York</i> +</p> + + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p class="center"> +<i>“See how we trifle! but one can’t pass one’s youth</i><br> +<i>too amusingly; for one must grow old, and that in</i><br> +<i>England; two most serious circumstances, either of</i><br> +<i>which makes people grey in the twinkling of a bed-staff;</i><br> +<i>for know you, there is not a country upon</i><br> +<i>earth where there are so many old fools</i><br> +<i>and so few young ones.”</i><br> +<br> +HORACE WALPOLE +</p> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="TO_HALCOTT_GLOVER"> +TO<br> +<i>HALCOTT GLOVER</i></h2></div> +<br> +<br> +<p class="center">MY DEAR HAL,</p> + + +<p>Remembering George Moore’s denunciation of prefaces, +I felt that what I wanted to say here could be best expressed +in a letter to you. Although you are a little older than I, +you belong essentially to the same generation—those who +spent their childhood and adolescence struggling, like young +Samsons, in the toils of the Victorians; whose early manhood +coincided with the European War. A great number +of the men of our generation died prematurely. We are +unlucky or lucky enough to remain.</p> + +<p>I began this book almost immediately after the Armistice, +in a little Belgian cottage—my billet. I remember the +landscape was buried deep in snow, and that we had very +little fuel. Then came demobilization, and the effort of readjustment +cost my manuscript its life. I threw it aside, and +never picked it up again. The attempt was premature. +Then, ten years later, almost day for day, I once more felt +the impulse return, and began this book. You, I know, will +read it sympathetically for many reasons. But I cannot +expect the same favour from others.</p> + +<p>This book is not the work of a professional novelist. It +is, apparently, not a novel at all. Certain conventions of +form and method in the novel have been erected, I gather, +into immutable laws, and are looked upon with quite superstitious +reverence. They are entirely disregarded here. To +me the excuse for the novel is that one can do any damn +thing one pleases. I am told I have done things as terrible +as if you introduced asides and soliloquies into your plays, +and came on to the stage in the middle of a scene to take +part in the action. You know how much I should be interested +if you did that—I am all for disregarding artistic rules +of thumb. I dislike standardized art as much as standardized +life. Whether I have been guilty of Expressionism or +Super-realism or not, I don’t know and don’t care. I knew +what I wanted to say, and said it. And I know I have not +tried to be “original.”</p> + +<p>The technique of this book, if it can be said to have one, +is that which I evolved for myself in writing a longish modern +poem (which you liked) called “A Fool i’ th’ Forest.” +Some people said that was “jazz poetry”; so I suppose this +is a jazz novel. You will see how appropriate that is to the +theme.</p> + +<p>I believe you at least will be sympathetic to the implied +or expressed idealism of this book. Through a good many +doubts and hesitations and changes I have always preserved +a certain idealism. I believe in men, I believe in a certain +fundamental integrity and comradeship, without which society +could not endure. How often that integrity is perverted, +how often that comradeship betrayed, there is no +need to tell you. I disbelieve in bunk and despotism, even +in a dictatorship of the intelligentsia. I think you and I +are not wholly unacquainted with the intelligentsia?</p> + +<p>Some of the young, they who will “do the noble things +that we forgot,” think differently. According to them, bunk +must be parried by super-bunk. Sincerity is superannuated. +It doesn’t matter what you have to say; what matters is +whether you can put it across successfully. And the only +hope is to forbid everybody to read except a few privileged +persons (chosen how and by whom?) who will autocratically +tell the rest of us what to do. Well, do we believe +that? I answer on your behalf as well as my own that we +emphatically do not. Of course, these young men may be +Swiftean ironists.</p> + +<p>But, as you will see, this book is really a threnody, a memorial +in its ineffective way to a generation which hoped +much, strove honestly, and suffered deeply. Others, of course, +may see it all very differently. Why should they not? I believe +that all we claim is that we try to say what appears +to be the truth, and that we are not afraid either to contradict +ourselves or to retract an error.</p> + +<p class="right"> +Always yours,<br> +RICHARD ALDINGTON<br> +<i>Paris, 1929</i> +</p> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="NOTE">NOTE</h2></div> + + +<p>This novel in print differs in some particulars from +the same work in manuscript. To my astonishment, +my publishers informed me that certain words, +phrases, sentences, and even passages, are at present +illegal in the United States. I have recorded nothing +which I have not observed in human life, said nothing +I do not believe to be true; and I had not the +slightest intention of appealing to anyone’s salacious +instincts. My theme was too seriously tragic for +that. But I am bound to accept the advice of those +who know the Law concerning the published word. +I have therefore asked my publishers to delete +everything they consider objectionable, and to substitute +asterisks for every word deleted. I would +rather have my book mutilated than say what I do +not believe.</p> + +<p class="right"> +En attendant mieux,<br> +<span style="margin-left: 7.0em;">R. A.</span> +</p> + +<p>P.S. I feel bound to add, in justice, that the +expurgations required in the United States are much +fewer and shorter than those demanded in England.</p> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS"><i>CONTENTS</i></h2></div> + + +<p class="center"> +PROLOGUE:<br> +<i>MORTE D’UN EROE</i><br> +<i>ALLEGRETTO</i><br> +<br> +<a href='#p3'>3</a><br> +<br> +PART ONE<br> +<i>VIVACE</i><br> +<br> +<a href='#p33'>33</a><br> +<br> +PART TWO<br> +<i>ANDANTE CANTABILE</i><br> +<br> +<a href='#p109'>109</a><br> +<br> +PART THREE<br> +<i>ADAGIO</i><br> +<br> +<a href='#p239'>239</a><br> +<br> +EPILOGUE<br> +<br> +<a href='#p397'>397</a> +</p> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="PROLOGUE">PROLOGUE +<br> +<i>MORTE D’UN EROE</i></h2></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p3">[3]</span></p></div> + + + +<div class="chapter"><h2 class="nobreak" id="ALLEGRETTO"><i>ALLEGRETTO</i></h2></div> + + +<p>The casualty lists went on appearing for a long time +after the Armistice—last spasms of Europe’s severed +arteries. Of course, nobody much bothered to read the lists. +Why should they? The living must protect themselves from +the dead, especially the intrusive dead. But the twentieth +century had lost its Spring with a vengeance. So a good deal +of forgetting had to be done.</p> + +<p>Under the heading “Killed in Action,” one of these later +lists contained the words:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> +<p>Winterbourne, Edward Frederick George, A./Cap<sup>t</sup>., 2/9 +Battn., R. Foddershire Regt.</p> +</div> + +<p>The small interest created by this item of news and the +rapidity with which he was forgotten would have surprised +even George Winterbourne; and he had that bottomless +cynicism of the infantry subaltern which veiled itself in +imbecile cheerfulness, and thereby misled a good many +not very acute people. Winterbourne had rather hoped he +would be killed, and knew that his premature demise in the +middle twenties would be borne with easy stoicism by those +who survived him. But his vanity would have been a little +shocked by what actually happened.</p> + +<p>A life, they say, may be considered as a point of light +which suddenly appears from nowhere, out of the blue. +The point describes a luminous geometrical figure in space-time; +and then just as suddenly disappears. (Interesting to +have seen the lights disappearing from Space-Time during +one of the big battles—Death dowses the glims.) Well, it +happens to us all; but our vanity is interested by the hope +that the rather tangled and not very luminous track we +<span class="pagenum" id="p4">[4]</span>made will continue to shine for a few people for a few +years. I suppose Winterbourne’s name does appear on some +War Memorial, probably in the Chapel of his Public School; +and, of course, he’s got his neat ration of headstone in +France. But that’s about all. Nobody much minded that he +was killed. Unassertive people with no money have few +friends; and Winterbourne hadn’t counted much on his +scanty flock, least of all on me. But I know—because he +told me himself—that he had rather relied on four people +to take some interest in him and his fate. They were his +father and mother, his wife and his mistress. If he had +known what actually occurred with these four at the news +of his death I think he would have been a little shocked, +as well as heartily amused and perhaps a bit relieved. It +would have freed him from certain feelings of responsibility.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Winterbourne’s father, whom I knew slightly, was an +inadequate sentimentalist. Mild, with an affectation of +gentility, incompetent, selfishly unselfish (i.e., always patting +himself on the back for “renouncing” something he was +afraid to do or be or take), he had a genius for messing up +other people’s lives. The amount of irreparable harm which +can be done by a really “good” man is astounding. Ten +astute rogues do less. Old Winterbourne messed up his +wife’s life by being weak with her; messed up his children’s +lives by being weak and sentimentalish with them +and by losing his money—the unforgivable sin in a parent; +messed up the lives of his friends and clients by honestly +losing their money for them; and messed up his own most +completely. That was the one thing he ever did with complete +and satisfactory thoroughness. The mess he got his +life into would have baffled an army of psychologists to +unravel.</p> + +<p>When I told Winterbourne what I thought of his father, +he admitted it was mostly true. But he rather liked the +man, probably disarmed by the mildness, and not sufficiently +hard to his father’s soft selfish sentimentality. Possibly +<span class="pagenum" id="p5">[5]</span>old Winterbourne would have felt and have acted +differently in his reactions to George’s death, if circumstances +had been different. But he was so scared by the +war, so unable to adjust himself to a harsh intruding reality—he +had spent his life avoiding realities—that he took +refuge in a drivelling religiosity. He got to know some +rather slimy Roman Catholics, and read the slimy religious +tracts they showered on him, and talked and sobbed to the +exceedingly slimy priest they found for him. So about the +middle of the war he was “received,” and found—let us +hope—comfort in much prayer and Mass-going and writing +rules for Future Conduct and rather suspecting he was like +François de Sales and praying for the beatification of the +super-slimy Thérèse of Lisieux.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Old Winterbourne was in London, “doing war work,” +when the news of George’s death came. He would never +have done anything so positive and energetic if he had not +been nagged and goaded into it by his wife. She was +animated less by motives of disinterested patriotism than +by exasperation with him for existing at all and for interrupting +her love affairs. Old Winterbourne always said +with proud sad dignity that his “religious convictions forbade” +him to divorce her. Religious convictions are such +an easy excuse for being nasty. So she found a war job +for him in London, and put him into a position where it +was impossible for him to refuse.</p> + +<p>The telegram from the War Office—“Regret to inform... +killed in action.... Their Majesties’ sympathy....”—went +to the home address in the country, and was opened +by Mrs. Winterbourne. Such an excitement for her, almost +a pleasant change, for it was pretty dull in the country +just before the Armistice. She was sitting by the fire, yawning +over her twenty-second lover—the affair had lasted +nearly a year—when the servant brought the telegram. +It was addressed to Mr. Winterbourne, but, of course, she +opened it; she had an idea that “one of <i>those</i> women” was +<span class="pagenum" id="p6">[6]</span>“after” her husband; who, however, was regrettably chaste, +from cowardice.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Winterbourne liked drama in private life. She uttered +a most creditable shriek, clasped both hands to her +rather soggy bosom, and pretended to faint. The lover, one +of those nice clean sporting Englishmen with a minimum +of intelligence and an infinite capacity for being gulled by +females, especially the clean English sort, clutched her unwillingly +and automatically but with quite an Ethel M. +Dell appearance of emotion, and exclaimed:</p> + +<p>“Darling, what is it? Has <i>he</i> insulted you again?”</p> + +<p>Poor old Winterbourne was incapable of insulting any +one, but it was a convention always established between +Mrs. Winterbourne and her lovers that Winterbourne had +“insulted” her, when his worst taunt had been to pray +earnestly for her conversion to the True Faith, along with +the rest of “poor misguided England.”</p> + +<p>In low moaning tones, founded on the best tradition of +sensational fiction, Mrs. Winterbourne feebly ejaculated:</p> + +<p>“Dead, dead, dead!”</p> + +<p>“Who’s dead? Winterbourne?”</p> + +<p>(Some apprehension perhaps in the attendant Sam +Browne—he would have to propose, of course, and might +be accepted.)</p> + +<p>“They’ve killed him, those vile, <i>filthy</i> foreigners. My +<i>baby</i> son.”</p> + +<p>Sam Browne, still mystified, read the telegram. He then +stood to attention, saluted (although not wearing a cap) +and said solemnly:</p> + +<p>“A clean sportin’ death, an <i>Englishman’s</i> death.”</p> + +<p>When Huns were killed it was neither clean nor sportin’, +but served the beggars—(“buggers,” among men)—right.</p> + +<p>The tears Mrs. Winterbourne shed were not very natural, +but they did not take long to dry. Dramatically, she ran to +the telephone. Dramatically, she called to the local exchange:</p> + +<p>“Trrrunks. (Sob.) Give me Kensington 1030. Mr. Winterbourne’s +<span class="pagenum" id="p7">[7]</span>number, you know. (Sob.) Our <i>darling</i> son—Captain +Winterbourne,—has been killed by those (sob) +beasts. (Sob. Pause.) Oh, thank you <i>so</i> much, Mr. Crump, +I <i>knew</i> you would feel for us in our trouble. (Sob. Sob.) +But the blow is so sudden. I <i>must</i> speak to Mr. Winterbourne. +Our hearts are <i>breaking</i> here. (Sobissimo.) Thank +you. I’ll wait till you ring me.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Winterbourne’s effort on the telephone to her husband +was not unworthy of her:</p> + +<p>“Is that you, George? Yes, Isabel speaking. I have just +had <i>rather</i> bad news. No, about George. You must be prepared, +darling. I fear he is seriously ill. What? No. <i>George.</i> +GEORGE. Can’t you hear? Yes, that’s better. Now, listen, +darling, you must prepare for a <i>great</i> shock. George is +seriously ill. Yes, <i>our</i> George, our <i>baby</i> son. What? +Wounded? No, not wounded, very <i>dangerously</i> ill. No, +darling, there is little hope. (Sob.) Yes, darling, a telegram +from the <i>King</i> and <i>Queen</i>. Shall I read it? You are prepared +for the shock (sob), George, aren’t you? ‘Deeply +regret... killed in action.... Their Majesties’ sympathy....’ +(Sob. Long pause.) Are you there, George? +Hullo, hullo? (Sob.) Hullo, hullo. HULLO. (Aside to Sam +Browne.) He’s rung off! How that man <i>insults</i> me, how +can I bear it in my sorrow? After I had prepared him for +the shock! (Sob. Sob.) But I have always had to <i>fight</i> +for my children, while he squatted over his books—and +<i>prayed</i>.”</p> + +<p>To Mrs. Winterbourne’s credit let it be said, she had very +little belief in the value of prayer in practical affairs. But +then her real objection to religion was founded upon her +dislike for doing anything she didn’t want to do, and a +profound hatred for everything distantly resembling +thought.</p> + +<p>At the fatal news Mr. Winterbourne had fallen upon his +knees (not forgetting, however, to ring off the harpy), +ejaculating: “Lord Jesus, receive his soul!” Mr. Winterbourne +then prayed a good deal, for George’s soul, for himself, +<span class="pagenum" id="p8">[8]</span>for “my erring but beloved spouse,” for his other +children, “may they be spared and by Thy Mercy brought +to the True Faith,” for England (ditto), for his enemies, +“though Thou knowest, Dear Lord Jesus, the enmity was +none of my seeking, sinner though I be, mea culpa, mea +culpa, mea maxima culpa, Ave Maria....”</p> + +<p>Mr. Winterbourne remained on his knees for some time. +But, as the hall tiles hurt his knees, he went and knelt on a +hassock at the prie-dieu in his bedroom. On the top of this +was an open Breviary in very ecclesiastical binding with a +florid ecclesiastical book-marker, all lying on an ecclesiastical +bit of embroidery, the “gift of a Catholic sister in +Christ.” Above, on a bracket, was a coloured B.V.M. from +the Place St. Sulpice, holding a nauseating Infant Jesus +dangling a bloody and sun-rayed Sacred Heart. Over this +again was a large but rather cheap-looking imitation bronze +Crucifix, with a reproduction (coloured) of Leonardo’s <i>Last +Supper</i> to the right, and another reproduction (uncoloured) +of Holman Hunt’s (heretical) <i>Light of the World</i> to the +left. All of which gave Mr. Winterbourne the deepest +spiritual comfort.</p> + +<p>After dinner, of which he ate sparingly, thinking with +dreary satisfaction how grief destroys appetite, he went +round to see his confessor, Father Slack. He spent a pleasantly +emotional evening. Mr. Winterbourne cried a good +deal, and they both prayed; Father Slack said perhaps +George had been influenced by his father’s prayers and +virtues and had made an act of contrition before he died, +and Mr. Winterbourne said that although George had not +been “received” he had “a true Catholic spirit” and had +once read a sermon of Bossuet; and Father Slack said he +would pray for George’s soul, and Mr. Winterbourne left +£5 for Masses for the repose of George, which was generous +(if foolish), for he didn’t earn much.</p> + +<p>And then Mr. Winterbourne used to pray ten minutes +longer every night and morning for George’s soul, but +unfortunately he went and got himself run over just by +<span class="pagenum" id="p9">[9]</span>the Marble Arch as he was meditating on that blessed +martyr, Father Parsons, and that other more blessed +martyr, Father Garnet of Gunpowder fame. So, as the +£5 was soon exhausted, there was nobody to pray for +George’s soul; and for all the Holy Roman and Apostolic +Church knows or cares, poor old George is in Hell, and likely +to remain there. But, after the last few years of his life, +George probably doesn’t find any difference.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>So much for George’s father and George’s death. The +“reactions” (as they are called) of Mrs. Winterbourne were +different. She found it rather exciting and stimulating at +first, especially erotically stimulating. She was a woman +who constantly dramatized herself and her life. She was as +avid of public consideration as an Italian lieutenant, no +matter what the quality of the praise. The only servants +who ever stayed more than a trial month with her were +those who bowed themselves to an abject discipline of +adulation for Mrs. Winterbourne, Mrs. Winterbourne’s doings +and sayings and possessions and whims and friends. +Only, since Mrs. Winterbourne was exceedingly fickle and +quarrelsome, and was always changing friends into enemies +and vowed enemies into hollow friends, a more than diplomatic +suppleness was exacted of these mercenary retainers, +who only stayed with her because she gave them presents +or raised their wages whenever the praise was really +gratifying.</p> + +<p>Although a lady of “mature charms,” Mrs. Winterbourne +loved to fancy herself as a delicious young thing +of seventeen, passionately beloved by a sheik-like but nevertheless +“clean” (not to say “straight”) Englishman. She +was a mistress of would-be revolutionary platitudes about +marriage and property (rather like the talk of an “enlightened” +parson) but, in fact, was as sordid, avaricious, +conventional and spiteful middle-middle class woman +as you could dread to meet. Like all her class, she toadied +to her betters and bullied her inferiors. But, with her conventionality, +<span class="pagenum" id="p10">[10]</span>she was, of course, a hypocrite. In her kittenish +moods, which she cultivated with a strange lack of +a sense of congruity, she liked to throw out hints about +“kicking over the traces.” But, as a matter of fact, she +never soared much above tippling, financial dishonesty, +squabbling, lying, betting, and affairs with bounderish +young men, whom only her romantic effrontery could have +dared describe as “clean and straight,” although there was +no doubt whatever about their being English, and indeed +sportin’ in a more or less bounderish way.</p> + +<p>She had had so many of these clean straight young +sheiks that even poor Mr. Winterbourne got mixed up, +and when he used to write dramatic letters beginning: +“Sir, you have robbed me of my wife’s affection like a low +hound—be it said in no unChristian spirit”—the letters were +always getting addressed to the penultimate or ante-penultimate +sheik, instead of the straight clean one of the +moment. However, rendered serious by the exhortations +of the war press and still more by the ever ripening maturity +of her charms, Mrs. Winterbourne made an instinctive and +firm clutch at Sam Browne—so successfully that she +clutched the poor devil for the remainder of his abbreviated +life. (She did the abbreviating.) Sam Browne, of course, +was almost too good to be true. If I hadn’t seen him myself +I should never have believed in him. He was an animated—and +not so very animated—stereotype. His knowledge of +life was rudimentary to the point of being quadruped, and +intelligence had been bestowed upon him with rigid parsimony. +An adult Boy Scout, a Public School fag in shining +armour—the armour of obtuseness. He met every situation +in life with a formula, and no situation in life ever reached +him except in the shape imposed upon it by the appropriate +and pre-determined formula. So, though he wasn’t very successful +at anything, he got along all right, sliding almost +decorously down grooves which had nothing ringing about +them. Unless urged, he never mentioned his wound, his +<span class="pagenum" id="p11">[11]</span>decoration, or the fact that he had “rolled up” on August +4th. The modest well-bred, et cetera, English gentleman.</p> + +<p>The formula for the death of a married mistress’s son +was stern heroism, and gentle consolation to the wounded +mother heart. Mrs. Winterbourne played up at first—it +was the sort of thing that the sheik always did with his +passionate but tender love. But the effect of George’s death +on her temperament was, strangely enough, almost wholly +erotic. The war did that to lots of women. All the dying +and wounds and mud and bloodiness—at a safe distance—gave +them a great kick, and excited them to an almost +unbearable pitch of amorousness. Of course, in that eternity +of 1914-18 they must have come to feel that men alone +were mortal, and they immortals; wherefore they tried to +behave like houris with all available sheiks—hence the lure +of “war work” with its unbounded opportunities. And then +there was the deep primitive physiological instinct—men to +kill and be killed; women to produce more men to continue +the process. (This, however, was often frustrated by +the march of Science, viz., anticonceptives; for which, much +thanks.)</p> + +<p>So you must not be surprised if Mrs. Winterbourne’s +emotion at the death of George almost immediately took +an erotic form. She was lying on her bed in an ample pair +of white drawers with very long ruffles and a remarkably +florid, if chaste, chemise. And the sheik, strong, silent, +restrained, tender, was dabbing her forehead and nose with +Eau de Cologne, while she took large sips of brandy at +increasingly frequent intervals. It was, of course, proper +and even pleasant to have her grief so much respected; +but she did wish Sam hadn’t to be poked always into taking +the initiative. Couldn’t the man see that tender nerves +like hers needed to be soothed with a little Real Love <i>at +once?</i></p> + +<p>“He was so much to me, Sam,” she said in low, indeed +tremulous, tones, subtly calculated, “I was only a child +<span class="pagenum" id="p12">[12]</span>when he was born—a child <i>with</i> a child people used to say—and +we grew up together. I was so young that I did not +put up my hair until two years after he was born.” (Mrs. +Winterbourne’s propaganda about her perennial youth was +so obvious that it would hardly have deceived the readers +of “John Blunt”—but the sheiks all fell for it. God knows +how young they thought she was—probably imagined Winterbourne +had “insulted” her when she was ten.)</p> + +<p>“We were always together, such pals, Sam, and he told +me everything.”</p> + +<p>(Poor old George! He had such a dislike for his mother +that he hadn’t seen her five times in the last five years of +his life. And as for telling her anything—why, the most +noble of noble savages would immediately have suspected +<i>her</i>. She had let George down so badly time after time +when he was a boy that he was all tight inside, and couldn’t +give confidence to his wife or his mistresses or a man.)</p> + +<p>“But now he’s gone,” and somehow Mrs. Winterbourne’s +voice became so erotically suggestive that even the obtuse +sheik noticed it and was vaguely troubled; “now he’s gone, +I’ve nothing in the world but <i>you</i>, Sam. You heard how that +vile man insulted me on the telephone to-day. Kiss me, Sam, +and promise you’ll always be a pal, a <i>real</i> pal.”</p> + +<p>Active love-making was not in the sheik’s formula for +that day; consolation there was to be, but the “sacredness” +of mother grief was not to be profaned by sexual intercourse; +although that too, oddly enough, was “sacred” between +a “clean” Englishman and a “pure” woman who had +only had one husband and twenty-two lovers. But what can +the Sam Brownes of the world do against the wills, especially +the will to copulate, of the Mrs. Winterbournes? He +rose—if the expression may be allowed—powerfully to the +situation. He too found a certain queer perverse satisfaction +in honeying and making love over a nasty corpse; while, +if he had been capable of making the reflection, he would +have realized that Mrs. Winterbourne was not only a +sadist, but a necrophilous one.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p13">[13]</span></p> +<p>In the succeeding weeks George’s death was the source of +other, almost unclouded, joys to Mrs. Winterbourne. She +pardoned—temporarily—the most offending of her enemies +to increase the number of artistically tear-blotched letters +of bereavement she composed. Quite a few of the nearly +gentry, who usually avoided Mrs. Winterbourne as a particularly +virulent specimen of the human scorpion, paid +calls—very brief calls-y-of condolence. Even the Vicar appeared, +and was greeted with effusive sweetness; for +though Mrs. Winterbourne professed herself a social rebel +and an “Agnostic” (not, however, until she had been more +or less kicked out of middle-class and Church society) she +retained a superstitious reverence for parsons of the Established +Church.</p> + +<p>Another joy was squabbling with Elizabeth Winterbourne, +George’s wife, about his poor little “estate” and +military effects. When George joined up, he thought he +had to give his father as his next-of-kin. Later, he found +his mistake and when he went out to France the second +time, he gave his wife. The War Office carefully preserved +both records, either under the impression that there were +two George Winterbournes, or because the original record +was never erased, and so became law. At any rate, some +of George’s possessions were sent to the country address, +and, although directed to the father, were unscrupulously +seized by his mother. And the remainder of his military kit +and the pay due him went to his wife. Old Mrs. Winterbourne +was fearfully enraged at this. Stupid red tape, she +said it was. Why! Wasn’t her baby son <i>hers?</i> Hadn’t she +borne him, and therefore established complete possession +of him and his for the rest of her natural life? What can +any woman mean to a <i>Man</i> in comparison with his <i>Mother?</i> +Therefore, it was plain that she was the next-of-kin, and +that all George’s possessions, including the widow’s pension, +should come to her and her only: Q.E.D. She bothered her +harassed husband about it, tried to stimulate Sam Browne +to action—but he evaporated in a would-be straight, clean +<span class="pagenum" id="p14">[14]</span>letter to Elizabeth, who knocked him out in the first round—and +even consulted a lawyer in London. Old Mrs. Winterbourne +came back from London in a spluttering temper. +“That man” (i.e., her husband) had “insulted” her again, +by timidly stating that all George’s possessions ought to be +given to his wife, who would doubtless allow them to +keep a few “mementos.” And the lawyer—foul brute—had +unsympathetically said that George’s wife had a perfect +right to sue her mother-in-law for detaining her (Elizabeth’s) +property. George’s will was perfectly plain—he had +left everything he had to his wife. However, that small +amount of George’s property which his mother got hold of, +she kept, in defiance of all the King’s horses and writs. +And she took, she embraced, the opportunity of telling +“that woman” (i.e., Elizabeth) what she thought of her—which, +if believed, meant that poor Elizabeth was a composition +of Catherine of Russia, Lucrezia Borgia, Mme. de +Brinvilliers, Moll Flanders, a <i>tricoteuse</i> and a hissing villainness +from the Surrey side.</p> + +<p>But George only lasted his mother as a source of +posthumous excitement for about two months. Just as the +quarrel with Elizabeth reached stupendous heights of vulgar +invective (on her side), old Winterbourne got himself run +over. So there was the excitement of the inquest and a real +funeral, and widow’s weeds and more tear-blotched letters. +She even sent a tear-blotched letter to Elizabeth, which I +saw, saying that “twenty years”—it was really almost thirty—“of +happy married life were over, both father and son +were now happily united, and, whatever Mr. Winterbourne’s +faults, he was a <i>gentleman</i>.” (Heavily underlined and followed +by several exclamation marks, the insinuation being +apparently that Elizabeth was no lady.)</p> + +<p>A month later Mrs. Winterbourne married the sheik—alas, +no sheik now—at a London registry office, whence they +departed to Australia to live a clean sportin’ life. Peace be +with them both—they were too clean and sportin’ for a +corrupt and unclean Europe.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p15">[15]</span></p> +<p>George’s parents, of course, were grotesques. When, in a +mood of cynical merriment, he used to tell his friends the +exact truth about his parents, he was always accused—even +by quite intelligent people—of creating a monstrous +legend. Unless all the accepted ideas about heredity and +environment are false—which they probably are—it is a +regular mystery of Udolpho how George managed to be so +different from his parents and the family milieu. Physically +he looked like them both—in every other respect he might +have dropped from the moon for all the resemblance he had +to them. Perhaps they seemed so grotesque because neither +of them could adjust to the tremendous revolution in everything, +of which the war was a cause or symptom. The whole +immense drama went on in front of their noses, and they +never perceived it. They only worried about their rations. +Old Winterbourne also worried a good deal about “the +country,” and wrote letters of advice to the <i>Times</i> (which +didn’t publish them) and then rewrote them on Club notepaper +to the Prime Minister. They were invariably politely +acknowledged by a secretary. But Mrs. Winterbourne only +cared spasmodically about “the country.” Her view of the +British Empire was that it should continue the war as a +holy crusade for the extermination of all “filthy, vile +foreigners,” making the world safe for straight, clean sheiks +and pure, sweet, kittenish English women of fifty. Grotesques +indeed, fanciful, unbelievable, like men’s fashions +of 1840. To me, who only saw them a few times, either +in company with George or as his executor, they seemed +as fantastic, as ridiculous, as prehistoric as the returning +<i>émigrés</i> seemed to Paris in 1815. Like the Bourbons, the +elder Winterbournes learned nothing from the war, and +forgot nothing. It is the tragedy of England that the war +has taught its Winterbournes nothing, and that it has been +ruled by grotesques and a groaning Civil Service of disheartened +men and women, while the young have simply +chucked up the job in despair. <i>Gott strafe England</i> is a +prayer that has been fully answered—by the insanity of +<span class="pagenum" id="p16">[16]</span>retaining the old Winterbourne grotesques and pretending +they are alive. And we go on acquiescing, we go on without +even the guts to kick the grotesque Aunt Sallies of England +into the Limbo they deserve. <i>Pero, pacienza. Mañana. +Mañana</i>....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>I sometimes think that George committed suicide in that +last battle of the war. I don’t mean shot himself, but it +was so very easy for a company commander to stand up +when an enemy machine gun was traversing. The situation +he had got into with Elizabeth and Fanny Welford was +not inextricable, but it would have needed a certain amount +of patience and energy and determination and common sense +to put right. But by November ’18 poor old George was +whacked, whacked to the wide. He was a bit off his head, +as were nearly all the troops after six months in the line. +Since Arras (April ’17) he had lived on his nerves, and +when I saw him at the Divisional Rest Camp in October ’18, +he struck me as a man who was done for, used up. He +ought to have gone to the Brigadier and got sent down for +a bit. But he was so horribly afraid of being afraid. He told +me that last night I saw him that he was afraid even of +whizz-bangs now, and that he didn’t see how we would face +another barrage. But he was damned obstinate, and insisted +on going back to the battalion, although he knew they +were due for another battle. We lay awake half the night, +and he went over Elizabeth and Fanny and himself, and +himself and Fanny and Elizabeth until it was such a nightmare, +such a portentous house of Atrides tragedy, that I began +to think myself that it was hopeless. There was a series +of night-bombing attacks going on, and we lay in the darkness +on sacking beds, muttering to each other—or rather +George went on and on muttering, and I tried to interrupt +and couldn’t. And every time a bomb fell anywhere near the +camp, I could feel George start in the darkness. His nerves +were certainly all to pieces.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p17">[17]</span></p> +<p>Elizabeth and Fanny were not grotesques. They adjusted +themselves to the war with marvellous precision and +speed, just as they afterwards adapted themselves to the +post-war. They both had that rather hard efficiency of the +war and post-war female, veiling the ancient predatory and +possessive instincts of the sex under a skilful smoke-barrage +of Freudian and Havelock Ellis theories. To hear them talk +theoretically was most impressive. They were terribly at +ease upon the Zion of sex, abounding in inhibitions, dream +symbolism, complexes, sadism, repressions, masochism, Lesbianism, +sodomy, et cetera. Such wise young women, you +thought; no sentimental nonsense about <i>them</i>. No silly emotional +slip-slop messes would ever come <i>their</i> way. They +knew all about the sexual problem, and how to settle it. +There was the physical relationship and the emotional relationship +and the intellectual relationship; and they knew +how to manage all three, as easily as a pilot with twenty +years’ experience brings a handy ship to anchor in the Pool +of London. They knew that freedom, complete freedom, was +the only solution. The man had his lovers, and the woman +had hers. But where there was a “proper relationship,” +nothing could break it. Jealousy? It was impossible that +so primitive a passion could inhabit those enlightened and +rather flat bosoms. Female wiles and underhand tricks? +Insulting to make such a suggestion. No, men. Men must +be “free” and women must be “free.”</p> + +<p>Well, George had simple-Simonly believed all this. He +“had an affair” with Elizabeth, and then he “had an affair” +with Fanny, her best friend. George thought they ought to +tell Elizabeth. But Fanny said why bother? Elizabeth <i>must</i> +know instinctively, and it was so much better to trust to +the deeper instincts than to talk about things with “the +inferior intelligence.” So they said nothing to Elizabeth, +who didn’t know instinctively, and thought that George +and Fanny were “sexually antipathetic.” That was just +before the war. But in 1914 something went wrong with +Elizabeth’s period, and she thought she was going to have +<span class="pagenum" id="p18">[18]</span>a baby. And then, my hat, what a pother! Elizabeth lost +her head entirely. Freud and Ellis went to the devil in a +twinkling. No more talk of “freedom” <i>then!</i> If she had a +baby, her father would cut off her allowance, people would +cut her, she wouldn’t be asked to Lady Saint-Lawrence’s +dinners, she.... Well, she “went at” George in a way +which threw him on his beam-ends. She made him use up +a lot of money on a special license, and they were married +at a Registry office in the presence of Elizabeth’s parents, +who were also swept bewildered into this sudden match, +they knew not how or why. Elizabeth’s father had feebly +protested that George hadn’t any money, and Mrs. Winterbourne +senior wrote a marvellous tear-blotched dramatic +epistle, in which she said that George was a feeble-minded +degenerate who had broken his mother’s tender heart and +insultingly trampled upon it, in a low sensual lust for a vile +woman who was only “after” the Winterbourne money. As +there wasn’t any Winterbourne money left, and the elder +Winterbournes lived on tick and shifts, the accusation was, +to say the least, fanciful. But Elizabeth bore down all opposition, +and she and George were married.</p> + +<p>After the marriage, Elizabeth breathed again and became +almost human. Then and only then did she think of consulting +a doctor, who diagnosed some minor female malady, +told her to “avoid cohabitation” for a few weeks, and poofed +with laughter at her pregnancy. George and Elizabeth took +a flat in Chelsea, and within three months Elizabeth was +just as “enlightened” as before and fuller of “freedom” than +ever. Relieved by the doctor’s assurance that only an operation +could enable her to have a child, she “had an affair” +with a young man from Cambridge, and told George about +it. George was rather surprised and peeved, but played the +game nobly, and most gallantly yielded the flat up for the +night, whenever Elizabeth dropped a hint. Of course, he +didn’t suffer as much deprivation as Elizabeth thought, because +he invariably spent those nights with Fanny.</p> + +<p>This went on until about the end of 1915. George, though +<span class="pagenum" id="p19">[19]</span>attractive to women, had a first-rate talent for the malapropos +in dealing with them. If he had told Elizabeth about +his affair with Fanny at the moment when she was full-flushed +with the young man from Cambridge, she would no +doubt have acquiesced, and the thing would have been +smoothed over. Unluckily for George, he felt so certain that +Fanny was right and so certain that Elizabeth was right. +He was perfectly convinced that Elizabeth knew all about +him and Fanny, and that if they didn’t speak of it together, +the only reason was that “one took such things for granted,” +no need to “cerebrize” about them. Then, one night, when +Elizabeth was getting tired of the young man from Cambridge, +she was struck by the extraordinary alacrity George +showed in “getting out.”</p> + +<p>“But, darling,” she said, “isn’t it very expensive always +going to a hotel? Can we afford it? And don’t you mind?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, no,” said the innocent George, “I shall run round +and spend the night with Fanny as usual, you know.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Then there was a blazing row, Elizabeth at George, and +then Fanny at George, and then—epic contest—Elizabeth +at Fanny. Poor old George got so fed up he went off and +joined the infantry, fell into the first recruiting office he +came to, and was whisked off to a training camp in the +Midlands. But, of course, that didn’t solve the situation. +Elizabeth’s blood was up, and Fanny’s blood was up. It was +Achilles against Hector, with George as the body of Patroclus. +Not that either of them so horribly wanted George, +but it was essential to each to come off victorious and +“bag” him, with the not improbable epilogue of dropping +him pretty quickly after he had been “bagged” away from +the other woman. So they each wrote him tender and emotional +and “understanding” letters, and sympathized with +his sufferings under military discipline. Elizabeth came +down to the Midlands to bag him for week-ends: and then +one week when she was “having an affair” with a young +American in the Flying Corps, George got his “firing leave” +<span class="pagenum" id="p20">[20]</span>and spent it with Fanny. George was a bit obtuse with +women. He was very fond of Elizabeth, but he was also +very fond of Fanny. If he hadn’t been taken in with the +“freedom” talk and had kept Elizabeth permanently in the +dark about Fanny, he might have lived an enviable double +life. Unfortunately for him, he couldn’t, and never did, see +that the “freedom” talk was only talk with the two women, +although it was real enough to him. So he wrote them both +the most imbecile and provocative letters, praised Elizabeth +to Fanny, and Fanny to Elizabeth, and said how much he +cared for them both; and he was like Shelley, and Elizabeth +was like Mary, and Fanny was like Emilia Viviani. +And he went on doing that even in France, right up to the +end. And he never even suspected what an ass he was.</p> + +<p>Of course, George had not set foot on the boat which took +him to the Bolougne Base-Camp for the first time, before +both Elizabeth and Fanny had become absorbed in other +“affairs.” They only fought for George in a desultory way +as a symbol, more to spite each other than because they +wanted to saddle themselves with him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Elizabeth was out when her telegram came from the War +Office. She did not get it until nearly midnight, when she +came back to the flat with a fascinating young Swedish +painter she had met at a Chelsea “rag” that evening. She +was a bit sozzled, and the young Swede—tall, blonde, and +handsome—was more than a little fired with love and +whiskey. The telegram was lying on the door-mat with two +or three letters. Elizabeth picked them up, and opened the +telegram mechanically as she switched on the electric light. +The Swede stood watching her drunkenly and amorously. +She could not avoid a slight start, and turned a little pale.</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter?”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth laughed her high little nervous laugh, and laid +the telegram and letters on the table.</p> + +<p>“The War Office regrets that my husband has been killed +in action.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p21">[21]</span></p> +<p>It was now the Swede’s turn to be startled.</p> + +<p>“Your husband...? Perhaps I’d better...”</p> + +<p>“Don’t be a bloody fool,” said Elizabeth sharply, “he +went out of my life years ago. <i>She’ll</i> mind, but I shan’t.”</p> + +<p>She cried a bit in the bathroom, however; but the Swede +was certainly a very attentive lover. They drank a good +deal of brandy, too.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Next day Elizabeth wrote to Fanny the first letter she +had sent her for months:</p> + +<p>“Only a line, darling, to tell you that I have a telegram +from the W. O. to say George was killed in France on the +4th. I thought it would be less of a shock for you to hear it +from me than accidentally. Come and see me when you get +your weeps over, and we can hold a post mortem.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Fanny didn’t reply to the letter. She had been rather fond +of George, and thought Elizabeth heartless. But Elizabeth, +too, had been fond of George; only, she wasn’t going to +give it away to Fanny. I saw a good deal of Elizabeth while +settling up George’s scanty estate—mostly furniture and +books in the flat, his credit at Coxe’s, a few War Bonds, a +little money due to him from civilian sources and Elizabeth’s +pension. However, it meant a certain amount of +letter-writing, which Elizabeth was glad to have me do. I +also saw Fanny once or twice, and took her the trifles +George had left her. But I never saw the two women together—they +avoided each other—and when my duties as +executor were done, I saw very little of either. Fanny went +to Paris in 1919, and soon married an American painter. I +saw her in the Dome one night in 1924, pretty well rouged +and quite nicely dressed, with a party. She was laughing and +flirting with a middle-aged American—possibly an art +patron—and didn’t look as if she mourned much for George. +Why indeed should she?</p> + +<p>As for Elizabeth, she rather went to pieces. With her +father’s allowance, which doubled and became her own +<span class="pagenum" id="p22">[22]</span>income when he died, and her widow’s pension, she was +quite well off as poor people of the “artistic” sort go. She +travelled a good deal, always with a pretty large brandy +flask, and had more lovers than were good for her—or +them. I hadn’t seen her for years, until about a month ago +I ran into her on the corner of the Piazzetta in Venice. +She was with Stanley Hopkins, one of those extremely clever +young novelists who oscillate between women and homosexuality. +He had recently published a novel so exceedingly +clever, so stupendously smart and up-to-date and witty and +full of personalities about well-known people, that he was +quite famous, especially in America, where all Hopkins’s +brilliantly quacking and hissing and kissing geese were +taken as melodious swans and (vide press) as a “startling +revelation of the corruption of the British Aristocracy!” +We went and had ices together, all three, at Florians; and +then Hopkins went off to get something, and left us together +for half an hour. Elizabeth chattered very wittily—you +had to be witty with Hopkins or die of shame and +humiliation—but never mentioned George. George was a +drab bird from a drab past. She told me that she and Hopkins +would not marry, they had both determined never to +pollute themselves with the farce of “legalized copulation,” +but they would “probably go on living with each other.” +Hopkins, who was a very rich young man as well as a +successful novelist, had settled a thousand a year on her, +so that they could both be “free.” She looked as nearly unmiserable +as our cynical and battered generation can look; +but she still had the brandy flask.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Like a fool, I allowed myself to be persuaded to drink +liqueur brandies after dinner that evening; and paid for it +with a sleepless night. No doubt it was the unexpected meeting +with Elizabeth which made me think a lot about George +during those ghastly wakeful hours. I can’t claim that I had +set up any altar to the deceased George in my heart, but I +truly believe that I am the only person left alive who ever +<span class="pagenum" id="p23">[23]</span>thinks of him. Perhaps because I was the only person who +cared for George for his own sake, disinterestedly. Naturally, +his death meant very little to me at the time—there +were eighty deaths in my own battalion on the day George +was killed, and the Armistice and getting out of the blasted +Army and settling my own problems and starting civilian +life again and getting to work, all occupied my attention. +In fact it was not until two or three years after the war +that I began to think much, if at all, about George. Then, +although I didn’t in the least believe in it, I got a half-superstitious, +half-sentimental idea that “he” (poor old bag +of decaying bones) wanted me to think about him. I half-knew, +half-guessed that the people on whom he had counted +had forgotten him, at least no longer cared that he had +existed; and would have been merely surprised and rather +annoyed if he had suddenly come back, like one of those +shell-shocked heroes of fiction who recover their wits seven +years after the Armistice. His father had taken it out in +religiosity, his mother in the sheik, Elizabeth in “unlicensed +copulation” and brandy, and Fanny in tears, and marrying +a painter. But I hadn’t taken it out in anything, I hadn’t +been conscious that George’s death meant anything in particular +to me; and so it was waiting inside patiently to be +dealt with in due course.</p> + +<p>Friendships between soldiers during the war were a real +and beautiful and unique relationship which has now entirely +vanished, at least from Western Europe. Let me at +once disabuse the eager-eyed Sodomites among my readers +by stating emphatically once and for all that there was +nothing sodomitical in these friendships. I have lived and +slept for months, indeed years, with “the troops,” and had +several such companionships. But no vaguest proposal was +ever made to me; I never saw any signs of sodomy, and +never heard anything to make me suppose it existed. However, +I was with the fighting troops. I can’t answer for what +went on behind the lines.</p> + +<p>No, no. There was no sodomy about it. It was just a +<span class="pagenum" id="p24">[24]</span>human relation, a comradeship, an undemonstrative exchange +of sympathies between ordinary men racked to +extremity under a great common strain in a great common +danger. There was nothing dramatic about it. Bill and Tom +would be in the same section, or Jones and Smith subalterns +in the same company. They’d go on fatigues and patrols +together, march behind each other on trench reliefs, booze +at the same estaminet, and show each other the “photos” +of “Ma” and “my tart,” if Tommies. Or they’d meet on +trench duty and volunteer for the same trench raid and +back up each other’s lies to the inspecting Brigadier and +share a servant and stick together in a battle and ride together +when on rest and talk shyly about their “fiancées” +or wives in England, if officers. When they separated, they +would be glum for a bit, and then, in the course of a month +or two or three, strike up another friendship. Only, the +companionship was generally a real one, pretty unselfish. Of +course, this sort of friendship was stronger in France than +in England, more vivid in the line than out of it. Probably +a man must have something to love—quite apart from the +“love” of sexual desire. (Prisoners are supposed to love rats +and spiders.) Soldiers, especially soldiers overseas in the last +war, entirely cut off from women and friends, had perforce +to love another soldier, there being no dogs available. Very +few of these friendships survived the Peace.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>After seven months in France and a month’s leave, I felt +pretty glum when I was sent to an Officers’ Training Camp +in a beautiful but very remote part of Dorset. I was mooning +about in a gloomy way before my first dinner as a +potential though temporary gentleman, when I ran into +another fellow similarly mooning. He was George, who had +been seen off that day from Paddington by Elizabeth and +Fanny (although I did not then know it) and who was also +feeling very glum about it. We exchanged a few words, +found we were both B. E. F. (most of the others were not) +and that we were allotted to the same barrack room. We +<span class="pagenum" id="p25">[25]</span>found we had certain tastes in common, and we became +friends.</p> + +<p>I liked George. For one thing he was the only person +in the whole of that hellish camp with whom I could exchange +a word on any topic but booze, “tarts,” “square-pushing,” +smut, the war, and camp gossip. George was very +enthusiastic about modern painting. His own painting, he +told me, was “pretty dud,” but in peace time he made a +good living by writing art criticism for various papers and +by buying modern pictures, chiefly French and German, on +commission for wealthy collectors. We lent each other books +from our scanty store, and George was quite thrilled to +know that I had published one or two little books of poetry +and had even met Yeats and Marinetti. I talked to him +about modern poetry, and he talked to me about modern +painting; and I think we helped to keep each other’s “souls” +alive. In the evenings we played chess or strolled about, if +it was fine. George didn’t go square-pushing with tarts, and +I didn’t go square-pushing with tarts. So on Saturday afternoons +and Sundays we took long walks over that barren +but rather beautiful Dorset down country, and had a quiet +dinner with a bottle of wine in one or other of the better +country inns. And all that kept up our own particular +“morale,” which each of us had determined not to yield to +the Army swinishness. Poor George had suffered more than +I. He had been more bullied as a Tommy, had a worse time +in France, and suffered horribly from that “tightness” inside, +that inability to confide himself, induced by his +singular home life and appalling mother. I feel quite sure +he told me more about himself, far more, than he ever told +any one else, so that eventually I knew quite a lot about +him. He told me all about his parents and about Elizabeth +and Fanny, and about his childhood and his life in London +and Paris.</p> + +<p>As I say, I liked George, and I’m grateful to him because +he helped me to keep alive when a legion of the swine were +trying to destroy me. And, of course, I helped him. He had +<span class="pagenum" id="p26">[26]</span>a strong dose of shyness—his mother had sapped his self-confidence +abominably—which made him seem rather conceited +and very aloof. But <i>au fond</i> he was extraordinarily +generous, spontaneous, rather Quixotish. It was that which +made him so helpless with women, who neither want nor +understand Quixotic behaviour and scrupulousness, and who +either think they mean weakness or are veils for some +devilish calculation. But with another man, who wanted +nothing from him but a frank exchange of friendliness, he +was a charming and inexhaustible companion. I was damned +glad to get my commission and leave that stinking hole of +a Camp, but I was really sorry to part from George. We +agreed to write, and both applied for commissions in the +same regiment. Needless to say, we were both gazetted to +completely different regiments from those we had applied +for. We exchanged one or two letters while waiting in depots +in England, and then ceased writing. But, by an odd freak +of the War Office, we were both sent to different battalions +in the same Brigade. It was nearly two months before we +found this out, when we both met by accident at Brigade +Headquarters.</p> + +<p>I was rather startled at George’s appearance, he looked +so worried and almost scared. I saw him on reliefs or at +Brigade Headquarters or at Divisional Rest Camp several +times. He looked whacked in May ’18. In July the Division +moved down to the Somme, but George’s company front +was raided the night before we left, and he was badly +rattled by it. I had watched the box barrage from the top +of Battalion Headquarters dugout (I was then signal officer), +but I never thought that George was in it. He lost several +men as prisoners, and the Brigadier was a bit nasty about it, +which made George more rattled and jumpy than ever. I +told him then that he ought to apply for a rest, but he +was in an agony of feeling that he was disgraced and a +coward; and wouldn’t listen to me.</p> + +<p>The last time I saw him was at Hermies, in October ’18, +as I mentioned before. I had come up from a course and +<span class="pagenum" id="p27">[27]</span>found George had been “left-out” at Divisional Rest Camp +for that tour. There were some sacking beds in the Orderly +room, and George got me one. He talked on in the dark +for what seemed hours during the air-raids, and I really +thought he was demented. Next morning, we rejoined our +battalions, and I never saw him again.</p> + +<p>George was killed soon after dawn on the 4th of November, +1918, at a place called Maison Blanche, on the road +from La Cateau to Bavay. He was the only officer in his battalion +killed in that action, for the Germans surrendered +or ran away in less than an hour. I heard about it that +night, and, as the Brigade was “resting” on the 5th, I got +permission from my Colonel to ride back to George’s funeral. +I heard from George’s Colonel that he had got enfiladed by +a machine-gun. The whole of his company were lying down, +waiting for the flying trench-mortar squad to deal with the +machine-gun, when for some unexplained reason, George +had stood up, and a dozen bullets had gone through him. +“Silly ass,” was the Colonel’s comment, as he nodded and +left me.</p> + +<p>No coffins were available, so they wrapped George in a +blanket and the Union Jack. The parson stood at the head +of the grave, a mourning party of Tommies and N.C.O.’s +from his company on one side, and, facing them, the officers +of his battalion. I was on the extreme left of the line. The +Chaplain read the military burial service in a clear voice, +and read it well. There was very little artillery fire. Only +one battery of our own heavies, about a mile nearer the +enemy, was shelling at regular intervals like a last salute. +We stood to attention, and the body was lowered. Each of +the officers in turn stepped up to the grave-side, saluted and +turned away. Then the battalion buglers blew that soul-shattering, +heart-rending Last Post, with its inexorable chains of +rapid sobbing notes and drawn-out piercing wails. I admit I +did a lot of swallowing those few minutes. You can say what +you like against the Army, but they treat you like a gentleman, +when you’re dead.... The Tommies were numbered, +<span class="pagenum" id="p28">[28]</span>formed fours, right turned, and marched away; and the +officers strolled over to the mess for a drink....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The death of a hero! What mockery, what bloody cant. +What sickening putrid cant. George’s death is a symbol to +me of the whole sickening bloody waste of it, the damnable +stupid waste and torture of it. You’ve seen how George’s +own people—the makers of his body, the women who held +his body to theirs—were affected by his death. The Army +did its bit, but how could the Army individually mourn a +million “heroes”? How could the little bit of Army which +knew George mourn him? At dawn next morning we were +hot-foot after the retreating enemy, and did not pause until +the Armistice—and then we had our own lives to struggle +with and disentangle.</p> + +<p>That night in Venice, George and his death became a +symbol to me—and still remain a symbol. Somehow or other +we have to make these dead acceptable, we have to atone +for them, we have to appease them. How, I don’t quite +know. I know there’s the Two Minutes Silence. But after +all a Two Minutes Silence once a year isn’t doing much—in +fact, it’s doing nothing. Atonement, how can we atone? +How can we atone for the lost millions and millions of +years of life, how atone for those lakes and seas of blood? +Something is unfulfilled, and that is poisoning us. It is +poisoning me, at any rate, though I have agonized over it, +as I now agonize over poor George, for whose death no other +human being has agonized. What can we do? Headstones +and wreaths and memorials and speeches and the cenotaph—no, +no, it has got to be something <i>in</i> us. Somehow, we +must atone to the dead, the dead, murdered, violently-dead +soldiers. The reproach is not from them, but in ourselves. +Most of us don’t know it, but it is there, and poisons us. +It is the poison that makes us heartless and hopeless and +lifeless—us the war generation and the new generation, too. +The whole world is blood-guilty, cursed like Orestes, and +mad, and destroying itself, as if pursued by an infinite legion +<span class="pagenum" id="p29">[29]</span>of Eumenides. Somehow we must atone, somehow we must +free ourselves from the curse—the blood-guiltiness. We +must find—where? how?—the greater Pallas who will absolve +us on some Acropolis of Justice. But meanwhile the +dead poison us and those who come after us.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>That is why I am writing the life of George Winterbourne, +a unit, one human body murdered, but to me a +symbol. It is an atonement, a desperate effort to wipe off +the blood-guiltiness. Perhaps it is the wrong way. Perhaps +the poison will still be in me. If so, I shall search for some +other way. But I shall search. I know what is poisoning me. +I do not know what is poisoning you, but you are poisoned. +Perhaps you too must atone.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p30"></a><a id="p31"></a>[31]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="PART_ONE">PART ONE +<br> +<i>VIVACE</i></h2></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p32"></a><a id="p33"></a>[33]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="VIVACE"><i>VIVACE</i></h2> + + + + +<h3>[ I ]</h3> + + +<p>A very different England, that of 1890, and yet curiously +the same. In some ways so fabulous, so remote +from us; in others so near, terrifyingly near and like us. An +England morally buried in great foggy wrappings of +hypocrisy and prosperity and cheapness. The wealth of that +England, the maritime power of that England, its worse +than R. L. S. optimism, its righteous cant! Victoria, broad-bottomed +on her people’s will; the possessing class, heavy-bottomed +on the people’s neck. The working class beginning +to heave restively, but still Moody and Sankeyish, still under +the Golden Rule of “ever remember, my dear Bert, you +may one day be manager of that concern.” The middle +classes, especially the traders, making money hand over fist, +and still “praying that our unexampled prosperity may +last.” The aristocracy still pretty flip, keeping its tail up. +Still lots of respect for Rank and Property—Dizzy not long +dead, and his novels not yet grotesques, not yet wholly a +fossil parody. The intellectuals æsthetic and Oscarish, or +æsthetic and Burne-Morrisy, or Utilitarian and Huxley-Darwinish.</p> + +<p>Come where the booze is cheaper.</p> + +<p>Where I could live on a pound a week in lux-u-ry.</p> + +<p>The world is so full of a number of things, I am <i>sure</i> we +should ALL be as Happy as KINGS.</p> + +<p>Consols over par.</p> + +<p>Lord Claud Hamilton and White at the Admiralty, +building, building, building.</p> + +<p>Building a majestic ruin.</p> + +<p>George Moore, an elegant scandal in a hansom; Hardy a +<span class="pagenum" id="p34">[34]</span>rural atheistic scandal, not yet discovered to be an intolerable +bore; Oscar prancing negligently, O so clever, O so +lah-di-dah.</p> + +<p>Rummy old England. Pox on you, you old bitch, you’ve +made worms’ meat of us. (We’ve made worms’ meat of +ourselves.) But still, let me look back upon thee. Timon +knew thee.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The Winterbournes were not gentry, but nourished vague +and unfounded traditions of past genteel splendours. They +were, however, fairly comfortable middle class. Worcestershire, +migrated to Sheffield. Methodist on female side; +C. of E. on the Winterbourne side. Young George Augustus—father +of our George—was pretty comfortable. His +mother was a dominating old bitch who destroyed his +initiative and courage, but in the eighties hardly any one +had the sense to tell dominating bitch-mothers to go to +hell. George Augustus didn’t. At fifteen he wrote a Non-Conformist +tract (which was published) expressing nothing +but his dear Mamma’s views. He became top of his school, +in conformity with dear Mamma’s views also. He did not +go to Oxford, as he wanted, because dear Mamma thought +it unpractical. And he did pass his examinations as a lawyer, +because dear Mamma thought it so eminently right that he +should have a profession and that there should be a lawyer +in the family. George Augustus was a third son. The eldest +son became a Non-Conformist parson, because dear Mamma +had prayed for guidance on her marriage night and during +her first pregnancy (only she never mentioned such horrid +occurrences, even to her husband, but—she had “prayed for +guidance”) and it had been revealed to her that her first-born +must take up The Ministry. And take it up, poor +devil, he did. The second son had a little bit of spunk, and +his dear Mamma made him a waster. Remained George +Augustus, dear Mamma’s darling chick, who prayed at her +knee, and was flogged regularly once a month by dear Papa, +because the Scripture says: Spare the rod, spoil the child. +<span class="pagenum" id="p35">[35]</span>Dear Papa had never done anything in particular, lived on +his “means,” was generally rather in debt, and spent the +last fifteen years of his life praying to the C. of E. God in +the garden, while dear Mamma prayed to John Wesley’s +God in her bedroom. Dear Mamma admired dear pious +Mr. Bright and grand Mr. Gladstone; but dear Papa collected +and even read all the works of the Right Hnble the +Earl of Beaconsfield, K. G.</p> + +<p>Still, George Augustus was pretty comfortable. The one +thing he wanted in life was to be pretty comfortable. After +he became a full-blown solicitor, at the age of twenty-four, +a family council was held. Present: Dear Mamma, dear +Papa, George Augustus. Nothing formal, <i>of</i> course, just a +cosy little family gathering after tea, round the blazing +hearth (coal was cheap in Sheffield then), rep curtains +drawn, and sweet domestic peace. Dear Papa opened the +proceedings:</p> + +<p>“George, you are now come to man’s estate. At considerable +sacrifice, your dear Mamma and I have given you a +Profession. You are an Admitted Solicitor, and we are proud—I +think we may say ‘proud,’ Mamma?—that we have a +legal luminary in the family....”</p> + +<p>But dear Mamma could not even allow dear Papa the +semblance of authority, respected not even the forms of +Limited Domestic Monarchy, and cut in:</p> + +<p>“Your Papa is right, George. The question is now, what +are you going to <i>do</i> in your Profession?”</p> + +<p>Did a feeble hope of escape cross the bright young mind +of George Augustus? Or was that supine love of being pretty +comfortable added to the terror of disobeying dear Mamma, +already dominant? He murmured something about “getting +in with a respectable and old-established firm in London.” +At the word “London” dear Mamma bridled. Although +Mr. Gladstone spent much of his time in London, +it was notorious in Sheffield Non-Conformist circles that +London was a haunt of vice, filled with theatres and unmentionable +women. Besides, dear Mamma was not going +<span class="pagenum" id="p36">[36]</span>to let George Augustus off so easily; she still meant he +should plough a deuce of a long furrow of filial obedience.</p> + +<p>“I cannot hear of <i>London</i>, George. It would break my +heart and bring your dear Papa’s grey hairs” (dear Papa +hated to be reminded that he was bald) “in sorrow to the +grave, if you went to the <i>bad</i> in that dreadful town. Think +how we should feel if we heard you had visited a <i>Theatre!</i> +No, George, we shall not fail in our duty. We have brought +you up to be a God-fearing Christian man... et patata et +patati.”</p> + +<p>The upshot was, of course, that dear George Augustus +did not go to London. He didn’t even get an office of his +own in Sheffield. It was agreed that George Augustus would +never marry (except for a whore or two, furtively and ineffectually +possessed on furtive ineffectual sprees in London, +George Augustus was a virgin), but would spend his life +with dear Mamma, and (afterthought) dear Papa. So some +structural alterations were made in the house. Another +entrance was made, with a new brass plate engraved in +copperplate:</p> + +<p class="center"> +G. A. WINTERBOURNE<br> +SOLICITOR +</p> + +<p>Three rooms, somewhat separated from the rest of the +house, were allotted to George Augustus—a bedroom, an +“Office,” and a “cosy study.” Needless to say, George +Augustus did very little practice, except when his dear +Mamma in an access of ambition procured him the job of +making the will of some female friend or of drawing up the +conveyance of the land for a new Wesleyan Chapel. What +George Augustus did with most of his time is a bit of a +puzzle—twiddled his thumbs, and read Dickens and Thackeray +and Bulwer and George Augustus Sala mostly.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>This lasted three or four years. Dear Mamma had her +talons deep into George Augustus, vamped on him hideously, +<span class="pagenum" id="p37">[37]</span>and was content. Dear Papa prayed in the garden and +read the Right Hnble etcetera’s novels, and was uneasily +content. George Augustus was pretty comfortable, and +thought himself rather a hell of a bhoy because he occasionally +sneaked off to a play or a whore, and bought some +of the Vizitelly books on the sly. But there was one snag +dear Mamma had not foreseen. Dear Papa had been fairly +decently educated and brought up; he had, when a young +man, travelled annually for several weeks, and had seen the +Fields of Waterloo, Paris, and Ramsgate. After he married +dear Mamma, he had to be content with Malvern and +Ramsgate, for he was never allowed again to behold that +wicked Continent. However, such is the force of Tradition, +George Augustus was annually allowed a month’s holiday. +In 1887 he visited Ireland; in 1888 Scotland; in 1889 the +Lake District, with “pilgrimages” to the “shrines” of those +unblemished geniuses, Wordsworth and Southey. But in +1890 George Augustus went to “rural Kent,” with “pilgrimages” +to the Dingley Dell country and to the “shrine” of +Sir Philip Sidney. But there were sirens awaiting our +Odysseus in rural Kent. George Augustus met Isabel Hartly +and before he knew where he was, had arranged irrevocably +a marriage with her—<i>without</i> telling dear Mamma. Hic +incipit vita nova. Thus was George, young George, generated.</p> + +<p>The Hartlys must have been more fun than the Winterbournes. +The Winterbournes had never done a damn thing +in their lives, and were as stuffily, frowzily, mawkish-religiously +boring as a family could be and still remain—I +won’t say alive or even sentient—but, able to digest their +very pudding-y meals. The Hartlys were different. They +were poor Army. Pa Hartly had chased all round the Empire, +dragging with him Ma Hartly, always in pod and +always pupping in incongruous and inconvenient spots—the +Egyptian desert, a shipwrecked troop-ship, a malarial +morass in the West Indies, on the road to Khandahar. They +had an inconceivable number of children, dead, dying and +<span class="pagenum" id="p38">[38]</span>alive, of all ages and sexes. Finally, old Hartly settled +down near his wife’s family in rural Kent, with a smallish +pension, a tiny “private” income, and the world of his +swarming progeny on his less than Atlantean shoulders. (I +believe he had had two or three wives, all horribly fertile. +No doubt, the earlier Mrs. Hartlys had perished of superfluous +child-bearing, “superfœtation of τὸ ἒν.”)</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Isabel Hartly was one—don’t ask which in numerical order, +or by which wife—of Captain Hartly’s daughters. She +was very pretty in a florid vulgarish way, with her artful-innocent +dark eyes, and flashing smiles, and pretty little +bustle and frills, and “fresh complexion” and “abounding +health.” She was fascinatingly ignorant, even to the none +too sophisticated George Augustus. And she had a strength +of character superior even to dear Mamma’s, added to a +superb, an admirable vitality, which bewitched, bewildered, +electrified, the somewhat sluggish and pretty comfortable +George Augustus. He had never met any one like her. In +fact dear Mamma had never allowed him to meet any one +but rather soggy Non-Conformists of mature years, and +“nice” youths and maidens of exemplary Non-Conformist +stupidity and lifelessness.</p> + +<p>George Augustus fell horribly in love.</p> + +<p>He abode at the village inn, which was cheap and pretty +comfortable; and he did himself well. On these holidays +he had such a mood of exultation (subconscious) in getting +away from dear Mamma that he felt like a hero in Bulwer-Lytton. +We should say he swanked; probably the early +nineties would have said he came the masher. He certainly +mashed Isabel.</p> + +<p>The Hartlys didn’t swank. They made no effort to conceal +their poverty or the vulgarity imported into the family +by the third (or fourth) Mrs. Hartly. They were fond of +pork; and gratefully accepted the gifts of vegetables and +fruit which the kind-hearted English country people force +on those they know are none too well off. They grew lots +<span class="pagenum" id="p39">[39]</span>of vegetables and fruit themselves; and kept pigs. They +made blackberry jam and damson jam, and scoured the +country for mushrooms; and the only “drink” ever allowed +in the family was Pa Hartly’s “drop o’ grog” secretly consumed +after the innumerable children had gone to bed in +threes and fours.</p> + +<p>So it wasn’t hard for George Augustus to swank. He +took the Hartlys—even Isabel—in completely. He talked +about “my people” and “our place.” He talked about his +Profession. He gave them copies of the Non-Conformist +tract he had published at fifteen. He gave Ma Hartly a +fourteen-pound tin of that expensive (2/3 a pound) tea she +had always pined for since they had left Ceylon. He bought +fantastic things for Isabel—a coral brooch, a copy of the +<i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i> bound in wood from the door of Bunyan’s +parish church, a turkey, a year’s subscription to the +<i>Family Herald Supplement</i>, a new shawl, boxes of 1/6 a +pound chocolates, and took her for drives in an open landau +smelling of horse-piss and oats.</p> + +<p>The Hartlys thought he was “rich.” George Augustus +was so very comfortable and <i>exalté</i> that he, too, really +thought he was “rich.”</p> + +<p>One night, a sweet rural night, with a lemon moon over +the sweet, breast-round, soft English country, with the nightingales +jug-jugging and twit-twitting like mad in the leafy +lanes, George Augustus kissed Isabel by a stile, and—manly +fellow—asked her to marry him. Isabel—she had a pretty +fiery temperament even then—had just sense enough not to +kiss back and let him know that other “fellows” had kissed +her, and perhaps fumbled further. She turned away her +pretty head with its Pompadour knot of dark hair, and +murmured—yes, she did, because she <i>had</i> read the stories in +the <i>Quiver</i> and the <i>Family Herald</i>—</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. Winterbourne, this is so unexpected!”</p> + +<p>But then her common-sense and the eagerness to be “rich” +got the better of her <i>Quiver</i> artificiality, and she said, oh, +so softly and moderately:</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p40">[40]</span></p> +<p>“<i>Yes!</i>”</p> + +<p>George Augustus quivered dramatically, clasped her, and +they kissed a long time. He liked her ever so much more +than the London whores, but he didn’t dare to do any more +than kiss her, and exclaim:</p> + +<p>“Isabel! I love you. Be mine. Be my wife and build a +home for me. Let us pass our lives in a delirium of joy. +Oh that I need not leave you to-night!”</p> + +<p>On the way home Isabel said:</p> + +<p>“You must speak to father to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>And George Augustus, who was nothing if not the gent, +replied:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“I could not love thee, dear, so much,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Loved I not honour more.”</div></div> +</div></div> + +<p>Next morning, according to schedule, George Augustus +called on Pa Hartly with a bottle of 3/6 port and a leg of +fresh pork; and after a good deal of hemming and blushing +and talking round the subject (as if old Hartly hadn’t heard +from Isabel what was coming) formally and with immense +solemnity applied for the job of supporting Isabel for the +rest of his and her natural lives.</p> + +<p>Did Pa Hartly refuse? Did he hesitate? Eagerly, gratefully, +effusively, enthusiastically, he granted the request. +He slapped George Augustus on the shoulder, which military +expression of good will startled and slightly annoyed the +prim George Augustus. He said George Augustus was a +man after his own heart, the man he would have chosen to +make his daughter happy, the man he longed to have as a +son-in-law. He told two barrack-room stories, which made +George Augustus exquisitely uneasy; drank two large glasses +of port; and then launched out on a long story about how +he had saved the British Army when he was an Ensign +during the Crimea. George Augustus listened patiently and +filially, but as hour after hour went by and the story showed +no signs of ending, he ventured to suggest that the good +<span class="pagenum" id="p41">[41]</span>news should be broken to Isabel and Ma Hartly, who (unknown +to the gentlemen) were listening at the keyhole in +an agony of impatience.</p> + +<p>So they were called in, and Pa Hartly made a little +speech founded on the style of old General Snooter, K.C.B., +and then Pa kissed Isabel, and Ma embraced Isabel tearfully +but enthusiastically and admiringly, and Pa pecked at +Ma, and George Augustus kissed Isabel; and they were left +alone for half an hour before “dinner”—1:30 <span class="allsmcap">P.M.</span>, chops, +potatoes, greens, a fruit-suet pudding and beer.</p> + +<p>The Hartlys still thought George Augustus was “rich.”</p> + +<p>But before he left rural Kent, he had to write home to +his father for ten pounds to pay his inn bill and his fare. +He told dear Papa about Isabel, and asked him to break +the news to dear Mamma. “An old Army family,” George +Augustus wrote, and “a sweet pure girl who loves me dearly +and for whom I would fight like a TIGER and willingly +lay down my life.” He didn’t mention the poverty and the +vulgarity and the catch-as-catch-can atmosphere of the +Hartly family, or the innumerable progeny. Dear Papa +almost thought George Augustus was marrying into the +gentry.</p> + +<p>Dear Papa sent George Augustus his ten pounds, and +broke the news to dear Mamma. Strangely enough, she +did not cut up as rough as you might have expected. Did +she feel the force of Isabel’s character and determination +even at that distance? Had she a suspicion of the furtive +whoring, and did she think it better to marry than to burn? +Perhaps she thought she could vamp George Augustus’s +wife as well as George Augustus, and so enjoy two victims.</p> + +<p>She wept a bit and prayed more than ever.</p> + +<p>“I think, Papa,” she said, “that the Hand of Providence +must have led Augustus. I hope Miss Isabel will make him +a good wife, and not be too grand with her Army ways to +darn his socks and overlook the maids. Of course, the +young couple must live here, and <i>I</i> shall be able to give +kindly guidance to their early married life as well as religious +<span class="pagenum" id="p42">[42]</span>instruction to the bride. I pray GOD may bless +them.”</p> + +<p>Dear Papa, who was not a bad sort, said “Umph,” and +wrote George Augustus a very decent letter, promising him +£200 to start married life, and suggesting that the honeymoon +should take place either in Paris or on the Plains of +Waterloo.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The wedding took place in spring in “rural Kent.” A lot +of Winterbournes, including, of course, George’s parents, +came down. Dear Mamma was horribly shocked, not to +say disgusted by the <i>unseemly</i> behaviour of the Hartlys; +and even dear Papa was a bit staggered. But it was then +too late to retreat with honour.</p> + +<p>A village wedding in 1890! Gods of our fathers known +of old, what a sight! Alas! that there were no cinemas +then. Can’t you see it? Old men in bug-whiskers and +top-hats; old ladies in bustles and bonnets. Young men in +drooping moustaches, “artistic” flowing ties, and probably +grey toppers. Young women in small bustles and small +flowery hats. And bridesmaids in white. And a best man. +And George Augustus a bit sweaty in a new morning suit. +And Isabel, of course, “radiant” in white and orange-blossoms. +And the parson, and signing the register, and the +wedding breakfast, and the double peal on the bells, and +the “going away.”... No, it’s too painful, it’s so horrible +it isn’t even funny. It’s indecent. I’m positively sorry for +George Augustus and Isabel, especially for Isabel. What +said the bells? “Come and see the *******. Come and see +the *******.”</p> + +<p>But Isabel enjoyed the whole ghastly ceremony, little +beast. She wrote a long description of it to one of her +“fellows,” whom she really loved but had jilted for George +Augustus’s “riches.”</p> + +<p>“... It was a cloudy day, but as we knelt at the altar +a long ray of sunshine came through the church window +and rested lovingly on our bowed heads....”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p43">[43]</span></p> +<p>How could they rise to such bilge? But they did, they +did, they did. And they believed in it. If only they’d had +their tongues in their cheeks there might have been some +hope. But they hadn’t. They believed in the sickish, sweetish +canting bilge, they believed in it. Believed in it with all the +superhuman force of ignorance.</p> + +<p>Can one tabulate the ignorances, the relevant ignorances +of George Augustus and Isabel when they pledged themselves +until death do us part?</p> + +<p>George Augustus did not know how to make a living; he +did not know in the very least how to treat a woman; he +did not know how to live with a woman; he did not know +how to make love to a woman—in fact he was all minus +there, for his experience with whores had been sordid, dismal +and repulsive; he did not know the anatomy of his +own body, let alone the anatomy of a woman’s body; he +had not the faintest idea how to postpone conception ** +**** ** ***** ** **** *** ** ********** * ****** *****, +****** ******* ** *** ****** *** **** ***** ** **** +******; he did not know what is implied by “a normal +sexual life”; ** *** *** **** **** ***** *** *** ****** +***** *******; ** *** *** **** **** ** ***** * *** +*** ********* *** ******** ***** **** *** ** ******* * +***** **** * ***** *** ** *** **** ****** **** *** **** +********* ** *** *** *** **** **; ** *** **** **** +***** **** *******; he did not know that pregnancy is a +nine months’ illness; he had not the least idea that childbirth +costs money if the woman is not to suffer vilely; he +did not know that a married man dependent on his and his +wife’s parents is an abject, helpless and contemptible figure; +he did not know that it is hard to earn a decent living even +when you have “A Profession”; he knew damn little about +even his profession; he knew very little indeed about the +conditions of life and nothing about human psychology; he +knew nothing about business and money, except how to +spend it; he knew nothing about indoor sanitation, food +values, carpentry, house furnishing, shopping, fire-lighting, +<span class="pagenum" id="p44">[44]</span>chimney-sweeping, higher mathematics, Greek, domestic invective, +making the worse appear the better cause, how to +feed a baby, music, dancing, Swedish drill, opening sardine +tins, boiling eggs, which side of the bed to sleep with a +woman, charades, gas stoves, and an infinity of other things +all indispensable to a married man.</p> + +<p>He must have been rather a dull dog.</p> + +<p>As for Isabel—what she didn’t know includes almost the +whole range of human knowledge. The puzzle is to find +out what she <i>did</i> know. She didn’t even know how to buy +her own clothes—Ma Hartly had always done that for her. +Among the things she did not know, were: How babies are +made and come; how to make love; how to pretend she +was enjoying it even when she wasn’t; how to sew, wash, +cook, scrub, run a house, purchase provisions, keep household +accounts, domineer over a housemaid, order a dinner, +dismiss a cook, know when a room was clean, manage +George Augustus when he was in a bad temper, give George +Augustus a pill when he was liverish, feed and wash a baby +and pin on its napkins, pay and receive calls, knit, crochet, +make pastry, how to tell a fresh herring is stale, the difference +between pork and veal, never to use margarine, how to +make a bed comfortably, look after her health especially in +pregnancy, produce the soft answer which turneth away +wrath, keep the home fires burning, and an infinity of other +things indispensable to a married woman.</p> + +<p>(I really wonder how poor old George managed to get +born at all.)</p> + +<p>On the other hand both George Augustus and Isabel knew +how to read and write, pray, eat, drink, wash themselves +and dress up on Sundays. They were both pretty well +acquainted with the Bible and Hymns A. and M.</p> + +<p>And then they had luv. They “luved” each other. Luv +was enough, luv covered a multitude of ignorances, luv +would provide, luv would strew their path with roses and +primroses. Luv and God. Failing Luv there was God, and +failing God there was Luv. I suppose, orthodoxly, God +<span class="pagenum" id="p45">[45]</span>ought to come first, but in an 1890 marriage there was such +a lot of Luv and God that there was no room for common +sense, or common sex knowledge, or any of the knowledge +we vile modern decadents think necessary in men and +women. Sweet Isabel, dear George Augustus! They were +<i>so</i> young, <i>so</i> innocent, <i>so</i> pure. And what hell do you think +is befitting the narrow-minded, slush-gutted, bug-whiskered +or jet-bonneted he- and she-hypocrites, who sent them to +their doom? O Timon, Timon, had I thy rhetoric! Who +dares, who dares, in purity of manhood stand upright, and +say.... Let me not rave, sweet gods, let me not rave.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The honeymoon did not take place in Paris or on the +Plains of Waterloo, but in a South Coast watering place, a +sweetly pretty spot Isabel had always wanted to visit. They +had a ten mile drive from the village to the railway, and a +two hours journey in a train which stopped at every station. +They arrived tired, shy and disappointed, at the small but +respectable hotel where a double-room had been booked.</p> + +<p>The marriage night was a failure. One might <i>almost</i> have +foreseen it. George Augustus tried to be passionate and +ecstatic, and merely succeeded in being clumsy and brutal. +Isabel tried to be modestly yielding and complying, and +was only <i>gauche</i>. She suffered a good deal from George +Augustus’s bungling defloweration. And, as many a sweet +Victorian bride of dear old England in the golden days of +Good Queen Vicky, she lay awake hour after hour, while +George Augustus slept stertorously, thinking, thinking, while +the tears ran out of her eyes, as she lay on her back, and +trickled slowly down her temples on to the bridal pillow....</p> + +<p>It’s too painful, it’s really too painful—all this damn silly +“purity” and cant and Luv and ignorance. And silly ignorant +girls handed over in their ignorance and sweetly-prettiness +to ignorant and clumsy young men for them to brutalize +and wound in their ignorance. It’s too painful to think of. +Poor Isabel. What an initiation!</p> + +<p>But, of course, that ghastly night had its consequences. +<span class="pagenum" id="p46">[46]</span>In the first place, it meant that the marriage was legally +consummated, and could not be broken without an appeal +to the Divorce Courts—and I don’t even know if you could +get divorced in the golden days of grand old Mr. Gladstone, +bless his heart, may hell be hot for him. And then it meant +that Isabel shrank from sexual intercourse with George +Augustus for the rest of her days; and, since she was a +woman of considerable temperament, <i>that</i> implied the +twenty-two lovers already stirring in the womb of futurity. +And finally, since Isabel was as healthy as a young woman +could be who had to wear madly tight corsets and long +insanitary hair and long insanitary skirts, and who had +rudimentary ideas of sex hygiene,—finally, that <i>nuit de +rêve</i> gave Isabel her first baby.</p> + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p47">[47]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ II ]</h3></div> + + +<p>The baby was christened Edward Frederick George—Edward +after the Prince of Wales (later H.M. King +Edward VII), Frederick after his grandfather, George after +his father.</p> + +<p>Isabel wanted to call him George Hartly, but dear +Mamma saw to it that there was as little Hartly as possible +about <i>her</i> grandson.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The early years of the Isabel-George Augustus <i>ménage</i> +are really very dismal to contemplate. Largely because it +was forced upon them by their elders and social convention, +they began on a basis of humbug; unfortunately, they continued +on a basis of humbug. Not only were they shattered +by the awful experience of the wedding-night, but they +were a good deal bored by the honeymoon generally. There +wasn’t much to do at Isabel’s sweetly-pretty watering place. +George Augustus wouldn’t admit even to himself that he +was about as competent to be a husband as to teach white +mice to perform military evolutions. Isabel knew in herself +that they had begun with a ghastly failure, knew it with her +instincts rather than her mind, but she had her pride. She +knew perfectly well that the failure would be attributed to +her, and that she could expect no sympathy from any one, +least of all her own family. Wasn’t she “happily” married to +a man who “luved” her—a “luv” match—and to a “rich” +man? So Isabel consoled herself with the thought that +George Augustus was “rich,” and they both wrote ecstatic +humbugging honeymoon letters to families and friends. +And once they had started on the opposite road to honesty +and facing facts, they were dished for life, condemned, they +too, to the dreary landscape of humbug and “luv.” O that +<span class="pagenum" id="p48">[48]</span>God and Luv business! Isn’t it mysterious that Isabel +didn’t take warning from the wretched cat-and-dog life of +Ma and Pa, and that George Augustus hadn’t noticed the +hatred which surged between dear Mamma and dear Papa +under the viscid surface of domestic peace and religion; and +that they didn’t try to break away to something a little +better? But no, they accepted the standards, they had <i>Luv</i> +and they had <i>God</i>, so of course, all would be for the best +in this best of all possible worlds.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>George Augustus continued to play at being “rich” on his +honeymoon. A week before his wedding he was allowed a +banking account for the first time in his life. Dear Papa +paid in £200, and, by arrangement with George Augustus, +dear Mamma was made to believe it was £20. To this dear +Mamma added a generous £5 from her own jointure, “a little +nest-egg for a rainy day”—though what on earth you want +with a “nest-egg” on “a rainy day,” God and Luv only +know. So the happy young couple started out with £205, +and not the slightest chance of earning a penny, until +George Augustus gave up being “rich” and “pretty comfortable” +and settled down to face facts and do a little +work.</p> + +<p>They spent a good deal—for them—on the honeymoon. +George Augustus had a purse containing a lot of sovereigns +and two £5 notes, with which he swanked intolerably. Isabel +had never seen so much money at once and thought George +Augustus was richer than ever. So she immediately began +sending “useful presents” to the innumerable members of +the impoverished Hartly family; and George Augustus, +though annoyed—for he was fundamentally mean—let her. +Altogether they spent £30 in a fortnight, and the first class +fares back to Sheffield left mighty little change out of another +£5 note.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The first great shock of Isabel’s life was her wedding +night. The second was when she saw the dingy, smoke-blackened +<span class="pagenum" id="p49">[49]</span>house of the “rich” Winterbournes, one of a row +of highly desirable yellow-brick ten-roomed villas. The +third was when she found that George Augustus earned +nothing by his Profession, that he had no money but the +balance of his £205, and that the Winterbournes were nearly +as poor as the Hartlys.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Ghastly days that poor girl spent in that dreary little +house during her first pregnancy, while George Augustus +twiddled his thumbs in “the Office” (instead of in his “cosy +study” as in his bachelor days) under pretence of “working”; +while dear Papa prayed, and dear Mamma acid-sweetly +nagged and humiliated her. Ghastly days when her +morning sickness was treated as a “bilious attack.”</p> + +<p>“Too much rich food,” said dear Mamma, “of course, +darling Isabel, you were not used to such a plentiful table +at home”—and then playful-coyly-cattish—“we must really +ask your dear husband to use his <i>authority</i> to restrain your +appetite.”</p> + +<p>In fact, the Hartlys, in a scratchy vulgarish way, enjoyed +much more ample and varied food than that provided by +dear Mamma’s cheese-paring genteely meagre table.</p> + +<p>Then, of course, there were rows. Isabel revolted, and displayed +signs of that indomitable personality and talent for +violent invective she afterwards developed to such Everest +peaks of unpleasantness. Even dear Mamma found her +match, but not before she had made Isabel miserably +wretched for nearly two years and had permanently warped +her character. Blessings upon you, dear Mamma, you +“prayed for guidance,” you “did all for the best”—and you +made Isabel into a first-class bitch.</p> + +<p>George Augustus was pained, deeply pained and surprised +by these rows. He was still pretty comfortable, and couldn’t +see why Isabel wasn’t.</p> + +<p>“Let us continue to be a loving, united family,” he would +say, “let us bear with one another. We all have our burdens”—(e.g., +thumb-twiddling and reading novels) “and all we +<span class="pagenum" id="p50">[50]</span>need is a little more Luv, a little more Forbearance. We +must pray for Strength and Guidance.”</p> + +<p>At first Isabel took these homilies pretty meekly. She +believed she had to “respect” her husband, and she was still +a little intimidated by George Augustus’s superior Bulwer +Lytton airs. But one day she lost her not very well-controlled +temper and let the Winterbournes have it. George +Augustus was a sneak and a cad and a liar! He wasn’t +“rich”! He was “pore as a church mouse”! Him and his +airs, pretending to her father he was a rich gentleman with +a Profession, when he didn’t earn a penny and got married +on the £200 his father gave him! She wouldn’t have married +him, she wouldn’t, if he hadn’t come smarming round with +his presents and his drives and pretending she would be a +lady! And she wished she was dead, she did! And she +wished she’d never set eyes on them!</p> + +<p>Then the fat was in the fire! Dear Mamma then took up +the tale. Reserving <i>in petto</i> a denunciation of the guilt-stricken +and consternated father and son in the matter of +their deception over the £200, she directed a skilful enfilade +fire on the disarmed Isabel. Isabel was vulgar and irreligious, +she was ill-bred and uneducated, she was mercenary on her +own showing, and had ruined the hopeful life of George +Augustus by seducing him into a disastrous marriage....</p> + +<p>At that moment Isabel fainted, and most unfortunately +for our George, the threatened miscarriage was averted—thanks +more to Isabel’s health and vitality than to the +ministrations of her inept husband and in-laws. Only dear +Papa was genuinely distressed, and used what shred of influence +he had to protect Isabel. As for George Augustus he +simply collapsed, and did nothing but ejaculate:</p> + +<p>“Dear Mamma! Isabel! Let us be loving and united. +Let us bear one another’s burdens!”</p> + +<p>But he was swept away in the torrent of genuine hatred +revealed by this instructive scene. Even dear Mamma +dropped her Non-Conformist tract hypocrisy, and only +picked it up again when Isabel fainted.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p51">[51]</span></p> +<p>On dear Papa’s suggestion George Augustus took Isabel +away to the sea-side on what was left of the £200; and thus +it happened that George was born in a sea-side hotel.</p> + +<p>It was a difficult birth, clumsily doctored. Isabel suffered +tortures for nearly forty hours. If she had not been as strong +as a young mare, she would inevitably have died. During +this agonizing labour, George Augustus prayed freely, took +short walks, read “Lorna Doone,” had a half bottle of claret +with his lunch and dinner, and slept tranquilly o’ nights. +When, finally, he was admitted on tip-toe to a glance at +the half-dead woman with the horrid little packet of red +infant by her side he raised his hand and gave them his +blessing. He then tip-toed down to dinner, and ordered a +whole bottle of claret in honour of the event.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p52">[52]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ III ]</h3> + + +<p>Isabel and George Augustus depress me so much that I +am anxious to get rid of them. On the other hand, it is +impossible to understand George unless you know his +parents. And then the older Winterbourne <i>ménage</i> rather +fascinates me, with a fascination of loathing and contempt. +I cannot help wondering how they could have been such +ignorant fools, how they came to make so little effort to +break free from the humbug, how less than nothing they +cared about being themselves. Of course, I tell myself that +our own magnanimous nephews will ask themselves precisely +the same questions about <i>us</i>; but then I also tell myself +that they must see we <i>did</i> struggle, we did fight against the +humbug and the squelching of life and the worn-out formulæ, +as young George fought. Perhaps Isabel did fight a little, +but the forces of inertia and active spite were too much for +her. Perhaps the twenty-two lovers and the talk about +Agnosticism and Socialism (of which Isabel at all periods +of her life knew rather less than nothing) were a sort of +protest. But she was beaten by the economic factor—by the +economic factor <i>and</i> the child. You can say what you please, +but poverty and a child will quench any woman’s instinct +for self-development and self-assertion—or turn it sour. It +turned Isabel’s sour and sharp. As for George Augustus, I +doubt if he had any instincts left, except the instinct to be +pretty comfortable. Whatever he achieved in and with his +life was entirely the product of Isabel’s will and Isabel’s +goading. He was a born mucker. And, since Isabel was +ignorant, self-willed and overambitious, and turned sour +and sharp under the tender mercies of dear Mamma, she became +a mucker too—through George Augustus. Yet I have +far more sympathy for Isabel than for George Augustus. She +<span class="pagenum" id="p53">[53]</span>was at least the wreck of a human being. He was a thumb-twiddler, +a harmless praying-Mantis, a zero of no value +except in combination with her integer.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When Isabel was well enough to travel—perhaps a little +before—they, who had gone out two, returned home three. +They had acquired the link which divides. They had become +a “family,” the eternal triangle of father, mother, child, +which is so much more difficult and disagreeable and hard +to deal with, and so much more productive of misery, than +the other triangle of husband, wife, lover. After nine months +of intimacy, Isabel and George Augustus were just getting +used to each other and the “Luv” situation, when this new +complication appeared. Isabel was instinctively aware that +yet another readjustment was needed, and, through her, +George Augustus became dimly apprehensive that something +was going on. So he prayed earnestly for Guidance, +and all the way from the South Coast to Sheffield urged +Isabel to remember that they must be a loving and united +family, that they must bear one another’s burdens, that +they had “Luv” but must acquire “Forbearance.” I don’t +wish—Heaven forfend—that I had been in Isabel’s place, +but I should have liked to reply for five minutes on her +behalf to George Augustus’s angel-in-the-house, idiot-in-the-world +cant.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>So they returned three, and there was much sobbing and +praying, and asking for guidance, and benediction of the +unconscious George. (He was too little to make a long +nose at them—let us do it for him, as his posthumous godfathers +and godmothers.) Isabel’s thwarted sex and idealism +and ambition, her physical health and complete lack of +intellectual complexity, made her an excellent mother. She +really loved that miserable little packet of babydom begotten +in disappointment and woe by George Augustus and +herself in a hired bedroom of a dull hotel in a dull little +town on the dull South Coast of dull England. She lavished +<span class="pagenum" id="p54">[54]</span>herself on the infant George. The child tugging at her +nipples gave her a physical satisfaction a thousand times +more acute and exquisite than the clumsy caresses of George +Augustus. She was like an animal with a cub. George +Augustus might swank to dear Papa that he would “fight +for dear Isabel like a TIGER,” but Isabel really would +have fought, and did fight, for her baby, like a hot-headed, +impetuous, pathetic, ignorant cow. If that was any achievement, +she saved young George’s life—saved him for a +German machine-gun.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>For a time there was peace in the smoke-blacked little +house in Sheffield. Isabel was obviously still very weak. And +the first grandson was an event. Dear Papa was enchanted +with young George. He bought five dozen bottles of port to +lay down for George’s twenty-first birthday, and then began +prudently drinking them at once “to see that they were the +right vintage.” He gave George Augustus £50 he hadn’t got. +He gave young George his solemn, grandfatherly and valedictory +blessing every night when Isabel put the infant +to bed.</p> + +<p>“God <i>will</i> bless him,” said dear Papa impressively, “God +will bless <i>all</i> my children <i>and</i> my posterity,”—as if he had +been Abraham or God’s Privy Councillor, as indeed he +probably thought he was.</p> + +<p>Even dear Mamma was quelled for a time. “A little +che-ild shall lead them,” she quoted venomously; and +George Augustus wrote another Non-Conformist tract on +loving and united families, taking these holy and inspiring +words as his text.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The first four years of George’s life passed in a welter of +squabbling, incompetence and poverty, of which he was +quite unconscious, though what harm was done to his subconscious +would take a better psychologist than I to determine. +I imagine that the combined influence of dear Papa, +dear Mamma, Ma and Pa Hartly, George Augustus and +<span class="pagenum" id="p55">[55]</span>Isabel started him off on the race of life with a pretty +heavy handicap weight. I should say that George was always +an outsider in the Tatersall’s Ring of Life—about 100 to 7 +against. However, one can but stick to the events as closely +as possible, and leave the reader to form conclusions and +lay his own odds.</p> + +<p>Before George was six months old the rows had begun +again in the Sheffield house, and this time more virulently +and fiercely than ever. Dear Mamma felt she was fighting +for her authority and John Wesley against the intruder. +Isabel was fighting for herself and her child and—though +she didn’t know it—any vestige of genuine humanity there +might have been in George Augustus.</p> + +<p>About that time George Augustus became really intolerable. +A man he had known as a law-student returned to +Sheffield, bought a practice, and did rather well. Henry +Bulburry came it over George Augustus pretty thick. He +had spent three years in a London solicitor’s office, and to +hear him talk you would have thought Mr. Bulburry was +the Lord Chancellor, the Beau Brummell and the Count +d’Orsay of the year 1891. Bulburry patronized George +Augustus, and George Augustus lapped his patronage up +gratefully. Bulburry knew all the latest plays, all the latest +actresses, all the latest books. He roared with laughter at +George Augustus’s Dickens and “Lorna Doone” and introduced +him to Morris, Swinburne, Rossetti, Ruskin, Hardy, +Mr. Moore and young Mr. Wilde. George Augustus got fearfully +excited, and became an æsthetic. Once when Pater +came to lecture at Sheffield he was so much moved at the +spectacle of those wonderful moustaches that he fainted, +and had to be taken home in a four-wheeler. George +Augustus at last found his <i>métier</i>. He realized that he was +a dreamer of dreams born out of his due time, that he +should have floated Antinous-like with the Emperor +Hadrian to the music of flutes and viols on the subtly-drifting +waters of the immemorial Nile. Under a canopy of +perfumed silk he should have sat enthroned with Zenobia +<span class="pagenum" id="p56">[56]</span>while trains of naked thewed Ethiopian slaves, glistening +with oil and nard, laid at his feet jewels of the opulent +East. He was older than the rocks among which he sat. He +was subtler than delicate music; and there was no change +of light, no shifting of the shadows, no change in the +tumultuous outlines of wind-swept clouds but had a meaning +for him. Babylon and Tyre were in him, and he too had +wept for beautiful Bion. In Athens he had reclined, violet-crowned, +at the banquet where Socrates reasoned of love +with Alcibiades. But above all he felt a stupendous passion +for mediæval and Renaissance Florence. He had never been +to Italy, but he was wont to boast that he had studied the +plan of the city so carefully and so frequently that he +could find his way about Florence blindfold. He knew not +one word of Italian, but he spoke ecstatically of Dante and +“His Circle,” criticized the accuracy of Guicciardini, refuted +Machiavelli, and was an authority—after Roscoe—on +the life and times of Lorenzo and Leo X.</p> + +<p>One day George Augustus announced to the family that +he should abandon his Profession and WRITE.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>There may be little differences in an English family, for +the best of friends fall out at times, but in all serious crises +they may be depended upon to show a united front. Thank +God, there can still be no doubt about it—apart from pure +literature of the sheik brand and refining pictures in the +revived Millais tradition, an English family can still be +relied upon to present a united front against any of its +members’ indulging in the obscene pursuits of Literature or +Art. Such things may be left to the obscene Continent +and our own degenerates and decadents, though it would +be well if stern methods were adopted by the police to +cleanse our public life of the scandal brought upon Us by +the latter. The great English middle-class mass, that dreadful +squat pillar of the nation, will only tolerate art and +literature that are fifty years out of date, eviscerated, de-testiculated, +bowdlerized, humbuggered, slip-slopped, subject +<span class="pagenum" id="p57">[57]</span>to their anglicized Jehovah. They are still that unbroken +rampart of Philistia against which Byron broke himself in +vain, and which even the wings of Ariel were inadequate +to surmount. So, look out, my friend. Hasten to adopt the +slimy mask of British humbug and British fear of life, or +expect to be smashed. You may escape for a time. You may +think you can compromise. You can’t. You’ve either got to +lose your soul to them or have it smashed by them. Or +you can exile yourself.</p> + +<p>It was probably worse in the days of George Augustus, +and anyway he was only a grotesque and didn’t much +matter. Still, the vitality of Isabel was real and should +have found an outlet instead of being forced back into her +and turned into a sharp sour poison. And the pathetic efforts +of George Augustus to be an æsthete and WRITE meant +something, some inner struggle, some effort to create a life +of his own. It was an evasion, of course, a feeble flapping +desire to escape into a dream world; but if you had been +George Augustus, living under the sceptre of dear Mamma +in the Sheffield of 1891, you too would have yearned to +escape. Isabel opposed this new freak of George Augustus, +because she also wanted to escape. And for her, escape was +only possible if George Augustus earned enough money to +take her and her baby away. She thought the pre-Raphaelites +rather nonsensical and drivelling—and she wasn’t far +wrong. She thought Mr. Hardy very gloomy and immoral, +and Mr. George Moore very frivolous and immoral, and +young Mr. Wilde very unhealthy and immoral. But her +reading in the works of all these immortals was very +sketchy and snatchy—what really animated her was her +immovable instinct that George Augustus’s only motive in +life henceforth should be to provide for her and her child, +and to get them away from Sheffield and dear Mamma.</p> + +<p>Dear Papa and dear Mamma also thought these new +crazes of George Augustus nonsensical and immoral. Dear +Mamma read the opening pages of one of Mr. Hardy’s +novels, and then burned the Obscene Thing in the kitchen +<span class="pagenum" id="p58">[58]</span>copper. Whereupon there was a blazing row with George +Augustus. Backed by the malicious Bulburry (who hated +dear Mamma so much that he put several little bits of +business he didn’t want into the hands of George Augustus, +who thereby made about £70 in six months), George +Augustus, who had never stood up for himself or his own +integrity or Isabel or anything that mattered, stood up for +Mr. Hardy and his own false pathetic pose of æstheticism. +George Augustus locked all his priceless new books into a +cupboard of which he jealously kept the key. And he spent +hours a day locked in his “cosy study” WRITING, while +the enraged thunder of the offended family rolled impotently +outside. But George Augustus was firm. He bought art-y +ties, and saw Bulburry nearly every evening, and went on +WRITING. Bulburry was so malevolent that he persuaded +a friend, who was editing an amateurish æsthetic review in +London, to publish an article by George Augustus, entitled +<i>The Wonder of Cleopatra throughout the Ages</i>. George +Augustus got a guinea for the article, and for a week the +family was hushed and awed.</p> + +<p>But in that atmosphere of exasperation and dread of the +Unknown Obscene, rows were inevitable. And, since George +Augustus remained almost hermetically sealed in his cosy +study, and refused to come out and be rowed with, even +when dear Mamma tapped imperiously at the door and reminded +him, through the panes, of his Duties to God, his +Mamma and Society, the rows inevitably took place between +dear Mamma and Isabel.</p> + +<p>One night, after George Augustus was asleep, Isabel got +up and stole £5 from his sovereign-purse. Next morning, she +took the baby for a walk as usual, but took it to the Railway +station and fled to the Hartly home in rural Kent. +This was certainly not the boldest thing Isabel ever did—she +afterwards did things of incredible rashness—but it was +one of the most sensible, from her point of view. It was the +first of her big efforts to force George Augustus to action. +It reminded him that he had taken on certain responsibilities, +<span class="pagenum" id="p59">[59]</span>and that responsibilities are realities which cannot +always be avoided. She bombed him out of the dug-out of +dear Mamma’s tyranny, and eventually Archied him out of +the empyrean of æstheticism and writing.</p> + +<p>But she didn’t let herself or George Augustus down to +the Hartly family. She reckoned—and reckoned rightly—that +George Augustus would follow her up pretty smartly, +for fear of “what people would say.” So she sent a telegram +to Pa and Ma to say she was coming to see them for +a few days—they were fairly well accustomed to Isabel’s +impulsive moves by this time—and she left a note, a dramatic +and naturally (not artistically) tear-stained note for +George Augustus on the bedroom dressing-table. She took a +few inexpensive presents home, and played her part so well +that at first even Ma Hartly only vaguely suspected that +something was wrong.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The loving and united home at Sheffield was in some +consternation when Isabel did not return for lunch; and +the consternation almost became panic—it certainly became +rage in dear Mamma—when George Augustus found and +communicated Isabel’s letter.</p> + +<p>“She must be found and brought back here at once,” said +dear Mamma decisively, already scenting carnage from afar, +“she has disgraced herself, disgraced her husband and disgraced +the family. I have long noticed that she is inattentive +at family prayers. She must be given a good lesson. +It was an ill day for us all when Augustus married so far +beneath him. He must go and fetch her back from her low +vulgar family—to think of our dear little George being in +such <i>immoral</i> surroundings.”</p> + +<p>“Suppose she won’t come?” said dear Papa, who had +suffered so many years from dear Mamma that he had a +fellow feeling for Isabel.</p> + +<p>“She must be <i>made</i> to come,” said dear Mamma, +“Augustus! You must do your duty and assert your authority +as a <i>Husband</i>. You must leave to-night.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p60">[60]</span></p> +<p>“But what will people <i>say?</i>” murmured George Augustus +dejectedly.</p> + +<p>At those fatal words even dear Mamma flushed beneath +the pallor of fifty years bad temper and cloistered malevolence. +What would people say? What would people say I +What indeed? What would the Minister say? What would +Mrs. Standish say? And Mrs. Gregory? And Miss Stint, +who was another Minister’s niece? And cousin Joan, who +had an eye like a brace of buzzards, and a nose for scandal +and other carrion which would have been surprising in a +starving condor of the Andes? What would they say? Why, +they would say that young Mrs. Winterbourne had run away +with a ticket collector on the G. W. R. They would say +young George had turned out to have a touch of the tar-brush +owing to the prolonged residence of Captain and Mrs. +Hartly in the West Indies; and that, consequently, Mrs. +Winterbourne and the infant had been spirited away “to a +home.” They would say that there was a “dreadful disease” +in the Winterbourne family, and that Isabel had run away +with an infected baby. They would also say things which, +being nearer the truth, would be even more painful. They +would say that dear Mamma had plagued Isabel beyond +the verge of endurance—and so she had run away, with or +without an accomplice. They would say that George +Augustus was unable to support his family, and that Isabel +had grown tired of thumb-twiddling and “all this nonsense +about books.” They would say—what would they not say? +And the Winterbournes, unique in this among human beings, +were sensitive to “what people said.”</p> + +<p>So when George Augustus said dejectedly: “What will +people <i>say?</i>” even the ranks of Tuscany—viz. dear Mamma—were +for a moment dismayed. But that undaunted spirit +(which has made the Empire famous) soon rallied, and +dear Mamma evolved a plan; and issued orders with a precision +and clarity which may be recommended to all +Brigadiers, Battalion, Company and Platoon commanders. +The maids must be told at once that Mrs. Winterbourne +<span class="pagenum" id="p61">[61]</span>had been unexpectedly called home by the illness of her +father—which was immediately done, but as the maids had +been listening with delighted eagerness to the conference +in the parlour, that bit of camouflage was not very effective. +Then dear Mamma would pay a round of visits that afternoon, +and casually let drop that “dear Isabel” had been +unexpectedly et cetera; to which she would add negligently +that an “important conveyance” had detained her son in +Sheffield until the next morning, when he would follow his +wife—“such a devoted couple, and only my daughter-in-law’s +earnest entreaties could prevail upon my dear son not +to neglect this important business to act as her cavalier.” +Then, George Augustus would leave next morning for rural +Kent, and would hale Isabel home like the husband of +patient Grissel, or some other hero of romance.</p> + +<p>All of which was carried out according to schedule, with +one important exception. When George Augustus unexpectedly +walked into the multitudinous and tumultuous +Saturday dinner of the Hartly family—loin of fresh pork, +greens, potatoes, apple sauce, fruit-suet pudding, but no +beer this time—he found no patient Grissel awaiting him. +And his very impatient and aggrieved Grissel was backed up +by an equally aggrieved family, who by now had wormed +out of her by no means reticent mind something of the +truth. The Hartlys were simply furious with George +Augustus for not being “rich.” The way he had come it over +them! The way he had mashed Isabel with his 1/6 a pound +chocolates! The way dear Mamma had put on her airs of +righteous disapproval at Captain Hartly’s little jokes about +a fellah in India (Ha! Ha!) and a couple of native women +(He! He!)! The intolerable way in which dear Papa had +come it about ’64 Port and Paris and the Plains of Waterloo! +And after the Hartlys had endured all those humiliations +to find that George Augustus was not “rich,” after all! +O horrible, most horrible!</p> + +<p>So when George Augustus, still half-armed with the bolts +of thunder-compelling dear Mamma, walked in dramatically +<span class="pagenum" id="p62">[62]</span>to that agape of roast pig, he found he had a tougher job +to deal with than he had imagined.</p> + +<p>He was greeted with very constrained and not very polite +reticence by the elder Hartlys, and gazed at by such an +inordinate number of round-O-eyed youthful Hartlys that +he felt all the reproachful juvenile eyes in the world must +be directed upon him, as he struggled with an (intentionally) +tough and disagreeable portion of the meal.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Need it be said? George Augustus was defeated by Isabel +and the Hartlys, as he would have been defeated by any +one with half an ounce of spunk and half a dram of real +character.</p> + +<p>He capitulated.</p> + +<p>Without the honours of war.</p> + +<p>He apologized to Isabel.</p> + +<p>And to Ma Hartly.</p> + +<p>And to “the Captain.”</p> + +<p>An Armistice was arranged, the terms of which were:</p> + +<p>George Augustus surrendered unconditionally, and all the +honours of war went to Isabel.</p> + +<p>Isabel was not to return to dear Mamma or to Sheffield, +not ever again.</p> + +<p>They were to take a cottage in rural Kent, not far from +the Hartlys.</p> + +<p>George Augustus was to return to Sheffield and bring to +rural Kent his precious æsthetes and as much furniture as +he could cadge.</p> + +<p>He was to sell his “practice” in Sheffield, and to start to +“practise” in rural Kent.</p> + +<p>As a concession to George Augustus, he was to be allowed +to WRITE—for a time. But if the Writing proved +unremunerative within a reasonable period—such period to +be determined by Isabel and the Other High Contracting +Powers—he was to “practise” with more assiduity—and +profit.</p> + +<p>Failing which, George Augustus would hear about it, and +<span class="pagenum" id="p63">[63]</span>Isabel would apply for a maintenance order for herself and +child.</p> + +<p>Signed, sealed and delivered over a quart bottle of East +Kent Pale Ale.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Poor old George Augustus, the shadows of the prison +were rapidly closing round <i>him</i>, though he didn’t know it. +He had a hell of a time with dear Mamma when he went +home with his tail between his legs and without Isabel, +and announced that they had determined to take a cottage +in rural Kent and—WRITE. At the word “write,” dear +Mamma sniffed:</p> + +<p>“And who, pray, will pay your washing bills?”</p> + +<p>In a spirit of loving-kindness and forbearance, George +Augustus ignored this taunt, which was just as well, since +he could think of nothing to say in reply.</p> + +<p>Well, dear Papa came to the rescue again. He gave +George Augustus as much of the furniture as he dared, and +another gift of £50 he hadn’t got. And Bulburry got George +Augustus orders for an article on <i>The Friends of Lorenzo +the Magnificent</i>, and another article on <i>My Wanderings in +Florence</i>. Bulburry also advised George Augustus to write +a book, either a history of the <i>Decline and Fall of the +Florentine Republic</i>, or a novel on the unhackneyed topic +of Savonarola. In addition, Bulburry gave him an introduction +to one of those enterprising young publishers who are +always arising in London to witch the world with noble +publishing; and then, after two or three years, always disappear +in the bankruptcy court, leaving behind a sad trail +of unpaid bills and disappointed authors and wrecked +reputations.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>So George Augustus set up in Rural Kent as a WRITER, +in a pleasant little cottage which Isabel had found for them.</p> + +<p>(I do wish you could have seen the “artistic” ties George +Augustus wore when he was a WRITER; they would have +given you that big feeling.)</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p64">[64]</span></p> +<p>But—let us be just—George Augustus really worked—three +hours a day, like all the great authors—at writing. He +produced articles and he produced stories and he began the +Decline and Fall of the Florentine Republic and the most +blood-curdling novel about Savonarola, beginning: “One +stormy night in December 14—, two black-cloaked figures +might have been observed traversing the Piazza della +Signoria in Florence on their way from Or San Michele to +the private residence of Lorenzo the Magnificent, now +known as the Palazzo Strozzi.”</p> + +<p>Poor George Augustus! Take it for all in all, we shall +look upon many like him again. He had a lot to learn. He +had to learn that the only books which have the least importance +are those which are made from direct contact with +life, which are built out of a man’s guts. He had to learn +that every age pullulates with imitators of the authors who +have done this, and created a fashion,—which in time and +for a time kills them and their influence.</p> + +<p>But still, for a year or so he had his cottage in rural +Kent and was a Writer. He dreamed his dream, though it +was a pretty silly and castrated dream. If he hadn’t married +Isabel and gotten her with child, he might have made quite +a reasonably good literary hack. But, Oh! those hostages +given to Fortune! **** ***** **** *****, *** **** **** +**** **** ***** ******.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>As for Isabel, she was happy for the first, and perhaps the +last time in her life. She adored her cottage in rural Kent. +What did it matter that George Augustus wasted his time +Writing? He still had about £170 and earned a few guineas +a month by articles and stories. But for her the thrill was +having a real home of her own. She furnished the cottage +herself, partly with the heavy mahogany 1850 stuff George +Augustus had brought from Sheffield, partly with her own +atrocious taste and bamboo. George urged her to furnish +“artistically,” and the resultant chaos of huge solid stodgy +curly mahogany and flimsy bamboo, palms, cauliflower +<span class="pagenum" id="p65">[65]</span>chintzes and framed photographs would have rendered the +late Mr. Oscar Wilde plaintive in less than fifty seconds. +Never mind, Isabel was happy. She had her home and she +had George Augustus under her eye and thumb, and she +had her baby—whom she adored with all the selfishness of +a pure woman—and, best of all, she did NOT have dear +Mamma pestering and sneering and praying at her through +every hour of the day and at every turn. Dear Isabel, how +happy she was in her hum-ble little ho-o-me! Put it to yourself, +now. Suppose you had been one of an innumerable +family, enduring all the abominable discomforts and lack +of privacy in that elementary Soviet System. And suppose +you had then been uncomfortably impregnated and most +painfully delivered, and then bullied and pried into and +domineered over and tortured by dear Mamma; wouldn’t +you be glad to have a home of your own, however humble, +and however flimsily based on sandy foundations of +WRITING and art-y ties? Of course you would. So Isabel +looked after the baby, <i>tant bien que mal</i>, and cooked +abominable meals, and was swindled by the tradesmen, and +ran up bills which frightened her, and let young George +catch croup and nearly die, and didn’t interrupt George +Augustus’s wooing of the Muse more than half a dozen +times a morning and—was happy.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>But in all our little arrangements on this satellite of the +Sun, we are apt to forget—among a multitude of other +things—two important facts. We are the inhabitants of a +planet who keep alive only by a daily consumption of the +material products of that planet; we are members of a +crude collective organization which distributes these essential +products in accordance with certain bizarre rules painfully +evolved from chaos by primitive brains. George +Augustus certainly forgot these two facts—if he had ever +recognized them. A man, a woman and a brat cannot live +forever on £170 and a few odd guineas a month. They +couldn’t do it even in the eighteen nineties, even with extraordinary +<span class="pagenum" id="p66">[66]</span>economy. And Isabel was not economical. Neither, +for that matter, was George Augustus. He was mean, but he +liked to be pretty comfortable, and his notions of the pretty +comfortable were a bit extravagant. Torn between his respect +for the Right Hnble the Lord Tennyson’s well-known +predilection for Port and Mr. Algernon Charles +Swinburne’s less notorious but undisguised preference for +brandy neat, George Augustus finally became original, and +fell back on his favourite claret. But, even in the nineties, +claret was not cheap; and three dozen a month rather eat +into an income of four to six guineas. And then Isabel was +inexperienced. In housekeeping inexperience costs money. +So a time arrived when the £170 was nearly at zero, and +the few guineas a month became fewer instead of more +numerous. Then George, young George, developed some infant +malady; Isabel lost her head, and insisted on a doctor; +the doctor, like all the English middle classes thought a +Writer was a harmless fool with money to be bled ruthlessly, +called far more often than was necessary, and sent in a much +bigger bill than he would have dared send a stockbroker or a +millionaire. Then George Augustus had the influenza and +thought he was going to die. And after that Isabel was +stricken with hemorrhoids in her secret parts; and had +to be treated. Consequently, the bank balance of a few +guineas was turned into a deficit of a good many pounds; +and the affable Bank Manager rapidly became strangely +unaffable when his polite references to the overdraft remained +unsatisfied with the manna of a few cheques.</p> + +<p>It became obvious to Isabel—and would have long ago +become obvious to almost any one but George Augustus—that +Luv and WRITING in a cottage were hopelessly +bankrupt.</p> + +<p>Well, dear Papa pungled once more—with a pound a +week; and Pa Hartly weighed in with a weekly five shillings. +But that was misery, and Isabel was determined that +since she had married George Augustus for his “riches,” +“rich” he should be or perish in the act of trying to acquire +<span class="pagenum" id="p67">[67]</span>riches. So she brought into play all the feminine arsenal, +reinforced with a few useful underhand punches and jabs +in the moral kidneys, learned from dear Mamma. George +Augustus tried to keep high above these material and degrading +necessities, but, as I said, Isabel finally Archied +him down. When they could no longer get credit even for +meat or bread, George Augustus capitulated, and agreed to +“practise” once more. He wanted to go back to Sheffield +and be pretty comfortable again, under the talons of dear +Mamma. But Isabel was—quite rightly—adamant. She refused +to return to Sheffield. George Augustus had got her +on false pretences, i.e., that he was “rich.” He was not rich. +He was, in fact, damn poor. But he had taken on the responsibility +of supporting a woman, and he had got that +woman with child. He had no business to be pretty comfortable +any longer under the wings of dear Mamma. His +business was to get rich as quickly as possible; at any rate +to provide for his dependents. Inexorable logic, against +which I can find no argument even in sophistry.</p> + +<p>So they went to a middling-sized, dreary, coast town just +then in the process of “development” (Bulburry’s suggestion) +and George Augustus put up another brass plaque. +With no results. But then, just as the situation was getting +desperate dear Papa died. He did not leave his children a +fortune, but he did leave them £250 each—and strangely +enough he actually had the money. Dear Mamma was left +in rather “straitened circumstances”, but she had enough +to be unreservedly disagreeable to the end of her days.</p> + +<p>That £250—and the Oscar Wilde case—just saved the +situation. The £250 gave them enough to live on for a year. +The Oscar Wilde case scared George Augustus thoroughly +out of æstheticism and Writing. What? They were hanging +men and women for wearing of the green? Then, George +Augustus would wear red. After “The Sentence” George +Augustus, like most of England, decided that art and literature +were niminy-piminy, if not greenery-yallery. I don’t +say he burned his books and art-y ties, but he put them out +<span class="pagenum" id="p68">[68]</span>of sight with remarkable alacrity. The Great Voice of the +English People had spoken in no Uncertain Tones, and +George Augustus was not deaf to the Message. How could +he be, with Isabel pouring it into one ear by word of mouth +and dear Mamma—unexpected but welcome ally—into the +other by letter? A nation of Mariners and Sportsmen naturally +excel in the twin arts of leaving a sinking ship and +kicking a man when he is down. Three months after The +Sentence you would never have suspected that George +Augustus had dreamed of Writing. His clothes were of +exemplary Philistinism—indeed, the height of his starched +collars and the plainness of his ties had an almost Judas +touch in their unæsthetic ugliness. Urged on by Isabel he +became a Free Mason, an Oddfellow, an Elk, a Heart of +Oak, a Buffalo, a Druid, and God knows how many other +mysterious things. He himself abandoned Florence, forgot +even the blameless Savonarola, and prayed for Guidance. +They attended the “best Church” twice on every Sunday.</p> + +<p>Slowly at first, then more and more rapidly George +Augustus increased his practice; and the lust of earning +money came upon him. They ceased to live in one room +behind the office, and took a small but highly respectable +house in the residential quarter of the town. Two years +later they took a country cottage in a very high class resort, +Martin’s Point. Two years after that they bought a large +country house at Pamber, and another smaller house just +outside the “quaint old” town of Hamborough. George +Augustus began to buy and to build houses. Isabel, whose +jointure had been less than nothing when she married, now +began to complain because her allowance was “only £1200 +a year.” In short, they prospered and prospered greatly—for +a time.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They had another child, and another, and another and +another. A man and a woman who can do nothing else can +always have children, and, if they are legally married and +are able to support their progeny, there seems no end to the +<span class="pagenum" id="p69">[69]</span>amount of begetting they may do and the laurel crowns of +virtue to which they are thereby entitled. Isabel put her +vitality into child-bearing, boosting George Augustus to +profitable action, thrusting herself ever onward and upward +financially and socially, buying and furnishing houses, quarrelling +with her friends, acquiring sheiks, malforming her +children’s minds, capriciously interfering with their education, +swanking to the Hartlys with her money, patronizing +the now aged and less venomous dear Mamma, and other +lofty and inspiring activities. Was she happy? What a +question! We are not placed here by a benevolent Providence +to be happy, but to make ourselves unpleasant to our +neighbours and to impose the least amiable portions of our +personalities on as many people as possible. Was George +Augustus happy? Which I parry with—did he deserve to +be happy? He made money anyway, which is more than +you and I can do. He dropped claret for whiskey, and the +æsthetes for the “English Classics,” all those “noble” +authors who have “stood the test of time,” and thereby +become so very dull that one prefers to go to the cinema +which has not stood any such test. He had a brougham, in +which he drove daily to his office. He became a Worshipful +Grand Master, and possessed any amount of funny little +medals and coloured leather <i>cache-sexe</i>, which are apparently +worn in the Mysteries of the Free Masons. He framed +his certificates as a Solicitor, a Buffalo, a Druid, and all +the other queer things, and hung them in various places to +surprise and awe the inexperienced. He had a great many +bills. For about ten years he was so prosperous that he was +able to give up attending Church on Sundays.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p70">[70]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ IV ]</h3> + + +<p>George, the younger, liked Hamborough best perhaps, +Martin’s Point next, Pamber hardly at all, and he +detested Dullborough, the town which contained his father’s +offices and the minor public school which he attended.</p> + +<p>The mind of a very young child is not very interesting. +It has imagination and wonder, but too unregulated, too +bizarre, too “quaint,” too credulous. Does it matter very +much that George babbled o’ white lobsters, stirred up frogs +in a bucket, thought that the word “mist” meant sunset, +and was easily persuaded that a sort of milk pudding he +detested had been made from an ostrich’s egg? Of course a +good deal of adult imagination consists in peoples’ persuading +themselves that they can see white lobsters, just as their +poetry consists in persuading themselves that the milk +pudding <i>did</i> come out of the ostrich’s egg. The child at least +is honest, which is something. But on the whole the young +child-mind is boring.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The intellect wakes earlier than the feelings, curiosity +before the passions. The child asks the scientist’s Why? before +he asks the poet’s How? George read little primers on +Botany and Geology and the Story of the Stars, and collected +butterflies, and wanted to do chemistry, and hated +Greek. And then one evening the world changed. It was at +Martin’s Point. All one night the South-West wind had +streamed over the empty downs, sweeping up in a crescendo +of sound to a shrill ecstasy of speed, sinking into abrupt +sobs of dying vigour, while underneath steadily, unyieldingly, +streamed and roared the major volume of the storm. +The windows rattled. Rain pelted on the panes, oozed and +bubbled through the joints of the woodwork. The sea, dimly +<span class="pagenum" id="p71">[71]</span>visible at dusk, rolled furiously-tossing long breakers on +the rocks, and made a tumult of white horses in the Channel. +Even the largest ships took shelter. In the irregular harmony +of that storm George went to sleep in his narrow +lonely child’s bed, and who knows what Genius, what Puck, +what elfin spirit of Beauty came riding on the storm from +the South, and shed the juice of what magic herb on his +closed eyes? All next day the gale blew with ever diminishing +violence. It was a half holiday, and no games on account +of the wet. After lunch, George went to his room, and sank +absorbed in his books, his butterflies, his moths, his fossils. +He was aroused by a sudden glare of yellow sunlight. The +storm had blown itself out. The last clouds, broken in lurid +ragged-edged fragments, were sailing gently over a soft blue +sky. Soon even they were gone. George opened the window, +and leaned out. The heavy dank smell of wet earth-mould +came up to him with its stifling hyacinth-like quality; the +rain-drenched privet was almost over-sweet; the young +poplar leaves twinkled and trembled in the last gusts, shaking +down rapid chains of diamonds. But it was all fresh, +fresh with the clarity of air which follows a great gale, +with the scentless purity of young leaves, the drenched +grasses of the empty downs. The sun moved majestically +and imperceptibly downwards in a widening pool of gold, +which faded, as the great ball vanished, into pure clear hard +green and blue. One, two, a dozen blackbirds and linnets +and thrushes were singing; and as the light faded they +dwindled to one blackbird tune of exquisite melancholy and +purity.</p> + +<p>Beauty is in us, not outside us. We recognize our own +beauty in the patterns of the infinite flux. Light, form, +movement, glitter, scent, sound, suddenly apprehended as +givers of delight, as interpreters of the inner vitality, not as +the customary aspect of things. A boy, caught for the first +time in a kind of ecstasy, brooding on the mystery of +beauty.</p> + +<p>A penetrating voice came up the stairs:</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p72">[72]</span></p> +<p>“Georgie! Georgie! Come out of that stuffy room at +once! I want you to get me something from Gilpin’s.”</p> + +<p>What perverse instinct tells them when to strike? How +do they learn to break the crystal mood so unerringly? Why +do they hate the mystery so much?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Long before he was fifteen George was living a double +life—one life for school and home, another for himself. +Consummate dissimulation of youth, fighting for the inner +vitality and the mystery. How amusingly, but rather tragically +he fooled them. How innocent-seemingly he played the +fine healthy barbarian schoolboy, even to the slang and the +hateful games. Be ye soft as doves and cunning as serpents. +He’s such a <i>real</i> boy, you know—viz., not an idea in his +head, no suspicion of the mystery. “Rippin’ game of rugger +to-day, Mother. I scored two tries.” Upstairs was that volume +of Keats, artfully abstracted from the shelves.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A double row of huge old poplars beside the narrow brook +swayed and danced in the gales, rustled in the late spring +breeze, stood spirelike heavy in July sunlight—a stock-in-trade +of spires without churches left mysteriously behind +by some mediæval architect. Chestnut trees hung over the +walks built on the old town walls. In late May after rain +the sweet musty scent filled the lungs and nostrils, and +sheets of white and pink petals hid the asphalt. In summer +the tiled roofs of the old town were soft deep orange and +red, speckled with lemon-coloured lichens. In winter the +snow drifted down the streets and formed a tessellated +pattern of white and black in the cobbled market-place. +The sound of footsteps echoed in the deserted streets. +The clock bells from the Norman tower, with its curious +bulbous Dutch cupola, rang so leisurely, marking a +fabulous Time.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Said the gardener:</p> + +<p>“It’s a rum thing, Master George, them rabbits don’t +<span class="pagenum" id="p73">[73]</span>drink, and they makes water; and the chickens don’t make +water, but they drinks it.”</p> + +<p>Insoluble problem, capricious decrees of Providence.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Confirmation classes.</p> + +<p>“You’ll have to go and see old Squish.”</p> + +<p>“What’s he say to you?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, he gives you a lot of jaw, and asks you if you know +any smut.”</p> + +<p>In the School Chapel. Full-dress Preparation Class for +Confirmation. The Head in academic hood and surplice entered +the pulpit. Whispers sank to intimidated silence, +dramatically prolonged by the hawk-faced man silently +bullying the rows of immature eyes. Then in slow, deliberate, +impressive tones:</p> + +<p>“Within ten years one half of you boys will be DEAD!”</p> + +<p>Moral: prepare to meet Thy God, and avoid smut.</p> + +<p>But did he know, that blind prophet?</p> + +<p>Was he inspired, that stately hypocrite?</p> + +<p>Like a moral vulture he leaned over and tortured his palpitating +prey. Motionless in body, they writhed within, as +he painted dramatically the penalties of Vice and Sin, drew +pictures of Hell. But did he know? Did he know the hell +they were going to within ten years, did he know <i>how</i> soon +most of their names would be on the Chapel wall? How he +must have enjoyed composing that inscription to those “who +went forth unfalteringly, and proudly laid down their lives +for King and Country”!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>One part of the mystery was called SMUT. If you were +smutty you went mad and had to go into a lunatic asylum. +Or you “contracted a loathsome disease” and your nose +fell off.</p> + +<p>The pomps and vanities of this wicked world, and all the +sinful lusts of the flesh. So it was wicked, like being smutty, +to feel happy when you looked at things and read Keats? +Perhaps you went mad that way too and your eyes fell out?</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p74">[74]</span></p> +<p>“That’s what makes them lay eggs,” said the little girl, +swinging her long golden hair and laughing, as the cock +leaped on a hen.</p> + +<p>O dreadful, O wicked little girl, you’re talking smut to +me. You’ll go mad, I shall go mad, our noses will drop off. +O please don’t talk like that, please, please.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>From fornication and all other deadly sins.... What is +fornication? Have I committed fornication? Is that the holy +word for smut? Why don’t they tell me what it means, +why is it “the foulest thing a decent man can commit”? +When that thing happened in the night it must have +been fornication; I shall go mad and my nose will drop +off.</p> + +<p>Hymn Number.... A few more years shall roll.</p> + +<p>How wicked I must be.</p> + +<p>Are there two religions? A few more years shall roll, in +ten years half of you boys will be dead. Smut, nose dropping +off, fornication and all other deadly sins. Oh, wash me in +Thy Precious Blood, and take my sins away. Blood, Smut. +And then the other—a draught of vintage that has been +cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, tasting of Flora +and the country green, dance and Provençal song, and sun-burned +mirth? Listening to the sound of the wind as you +fell asleep; watching the blue butterflies and the Small +Coppers hovering and settling on the great scented lavender +bush; taking off your clothes and letting your body slide +into a cool deep clear rock-pool, while the grey kittiwakes +clamoured round the sun-white cliffs and the scent of sea-weeds +and salt water filled you; watching the sun go down +and trying to write something of what it made you feel, like +Keats; getting up very early in the morning and riding out +along the white empty lanes on your bicycle; wanting to +be alone and think about things and feeling strange and +happy and ecstatic—was that another religion? Or was that +all Smut and Sin? Best not speak of it, best keep it all +hidden. I can’t help it, if it is Smut and Sin. Is “Romeo and +<span class="pagenum" id="p75">[75]</span>Juliet” smut? It’s in the same book where you do parsing +and analysis out of “King John.” Seize on the white wonder +of dear Juliet’s hand and steal immortal blessing from her +lips....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>But more than words about things were things themselves. +You looked and looked at them, and then you wanted to +put down what they looked like, re-arrange them in patterns. +In the drawing class they made you look at a dirty whitish +cube, cylinder and cone, and you drew and re-drew hard +outlines which weren’t there. But for yourself you wanted to +get the colours of things and how they faded into each +other and how they formed themselves—or did you form +them?—into exciting patterns. It was so much more fun to +paint things than even to read what Keats and Shakespeare +thought about them. George spent all his pocket-money on +paints and drawing pencils and sketch-books and oil sketching +paper and water-colour blocks. For a long time he hadn’t +much to look at, even in reproductions. He had Cruikshank +and Quiz illustrations, which he didn’t much care for; and a +reproduction of a Bougereau which he hated, and two Rossetti +pictures which he rather liked, and a catalogue of the +Tate Collection which gave him photographs of a great +many horrible Watts and Frank Dicksees. Best of all, he +liked an album of coloured reproductions of Turner’s water-colours. +Then, one spring, George Augustus took him to +Paris for a few days. They did an “educative” visit to the +Louvre, and George simply leaped at the Italians and became +very pre-Raphaelite and adored the Primitives. He +was quite feverish for weeks after he got back, unable to +talk of anything else. Isabel was worried about him—it was +so <i>unboyish</i>, so, well, really, quite <i>unhealthy</i>, all this silly +craze for pictures, and spending hours and hours crouching +over paint-blocks, instead of being in the fresh air. So much +nicer for the boy to be manly. Wasn’t he old enough to have +a gun license and learn to kill things?</p> + +<p>So George had a gun license, and went out every morning +<span class="pagenum" id="p76">[76]</span>in the autumn shooting. He killed several plovers and a wood +pigeon. Then one frosty November morning he fired into a +flock of plovers, killed one, and wounded another, which +fell down on the crisp grass with such a wail of despair. +“If you wing a bird, pick it up and wring its neck,” he had +been told. He picked up the struggling, heaving little mass +of feathers, and with infinite repugnance and shut eyes, +tried to wring its neck. The bird struggled and squawked. +George wrung harder and convulsively—and the whole head +came off in his hand. The shock was unspeakable. He left +the wretched body, and hurried home shuddering. Never +again, never, never again would he kill things. He oiled his +gun dutifully, as he had been told to do, put it away, and +never touched it again. At nights he was haunted by the +plover’s wail and by the ghastly sight of the headless bleeding +bird’s body. In the daytime he thought of them. He +could forget them when he went out and sketched the calm +trees and fields, or tried to design in his tranquil room. He +plunged more deeply into painting than ever, and thus ended +one of the many attempts to “make a man” of George +Winterbourne.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The business of “making a man” of him was pursued at +School, but with little more success, even with the aid of +compulsion.</p> + +<p>“The type of boy we aim at turning out,” the Head used +to say to impressed parents, “is a thoroughly manly fellow. +We prepare for the Universities, of course, but our pride is +in our excellent Sports Record. There is an O.T.C., organized +by Sergeant-Major Brown (who served throughout the +South African War), and officered by the masters who have +been trained in the Militia. Every boy must undergo six +months training, and is then competent to take up arms for +his Country in an emergency.”</p> + +<p>The parents murmured polite approval, though rather +tender mothers hoped the discipline was not too strict and +“the guns not too heavy for young arms.” The Head was +<span class="pagenum" id="p77">[77]</span>contemptuously and urbanely reassuring. On such occasions +he invariably quoted those stirring and indeed immortal +lines of Rudyard Kipling, which end up “you’ll be a man, +my son.” It is <i>so</i> important to know how to kill. Indeed, +unless you know how to kill you cannot possibly be a Man, +still less a Gentleman.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“The O.T.C. will parade in the Gymnasium for drill and +instruction at twelve. Those who are excused, will take +Geography under Mr. Hobbs in Room 14.”</p> + +<p>George hated the idea of the O.T.C.—he didn’t quite +know why—but he somehow didn’t want to learn to kill +and be a thoroughly manly fellow. Also, he resented being +ordered about. Why should one be ordered about by thoroughly +manly fellows whom one hates and despises? But +then, as a very worthy and thoroughly manly fellow (who +spent the War years in the Intelligence Department of the +War Office, censoring letters) said of George many years +later: “What Winterbourne needs is discipline, <i>Discipline</i>. +He is far too self-willed and independent. The Army will +make a Man of him.” Alas, it made a corpse of him. But +then, as we all know, there is no price too high to pay for the +privilege of being made a thoroughly manly fellow.</p> + +<p>So George, feeling immeasurably guilty, but immeasurably +repelled, sneaked into the Geography class, instead of +parading like a thoroughly manly fellow in embryo. In ten +minutes a virtuous-looking but rather sodomitical prefect +appeared:</p> + +<p>“Captain James’s compliments, Sir, and is Winterbourne +here?”</p> + +<p>As George was walked over to the Gymnasium by the +innocent-looking, rather sodomitical but thoroughly manly +prefect, the latter said:</p> + +<p>“Why couldn’t you do what you’re told, you filthy little +sneak, instead of having to be ignominiously <i>fetched?</i>”</p> + +<p>George made no answer. He just went hard and obstinate, +hate-obstinate, inside. He was so clumsy and so +<span class="pagenum" id="p78">[78]</span>bored—in spite of infinite manly bullyings—that the +O.T.C. was very glad indeed to send him back to the +Geography class after a few drills. He just went hate-obstinate, +and obeyed with sullen hate-obstinate docility. He +didn’t disobey, but he didn’t really obey, not with anything +inside him. He was just passive, and they could do +nothing with him.</p> + +<p>He wrote a great many impositions that term and lost a +number of his precious half holidays, the hours when he +could sketch and paint and think about things. But they +didn’t get at the inside vitality. It retreated behind another +wall or two, threw up more sullen hate-obstinate walls, but +it was there all right. It might be all Smut and Sin, but if +it was, well, Smutty and Sinful he would be. Only he +wouldn’t say “turd” and “talk smut” with the others, and +he kicked out fiercely when any of the innocent-looking, +rather sodomitical prefects tried to put their arms round +him or make him a “case.” He just wouldn’t have it. He +was more than hate-obstinate then, and blazed into fearful +white rages, which left him trembling for hours, unable even +to hold a pen. Consequently, the Prefects reported that +Winterbourne had “gone smutty” and was injuring his +health, and he was “interviewed” by his House Master and +the Head—but he baffled them with the hate-obstinate silence, +and the inner exultation he felt in being Sinful and +Smutty in his own way, along with Keats and Turner and +Shakespeare.</p> + +<p>The prefects gave him a good many “prefects’ lickings” +on various pretexts, but they never made him cry even, let +alone break down the wall between his inner aliveness and +their thorough manliness.</p> + +<p>He got a very bad report that term, and no remove. For +which he was duly lectured and reprimanded. As the bullyingly +urbane Head reproved, did he know that the sullen, +rather hard-faced boy in front of him was not listening, +was silently reciting to himself the Ode to a Nightingale, +as a kind of inner Declaration of Independence? “Magic +<span class="pagenum" id="p79">[79]</span>casements”—that was when you opened the window wide +at sunset to listen to the birds, or at night-time to look at +the stars, or first thing in the morning to smell the fresh +sunlight and watch the leaves glittering.</p> + +<p>“If you go on like this, Winterbourne, you will disgrace +yourself, your parents, your House and your School. You +take little or no interest in the School life, and your Games +record is abominable. Your set-captain tells me that you +have cut Games ten times this term, and your Form Master +reports that you have over a thousand lines of impositions +yet to work off. Your conduct with regard to the +O.T.C. was contemptible and unmanly to a degree we have +never experienced in <i>this</i> School. I am also told that you +are ruining your health with secret abominable practices +against which I warned you—unavailingly I fear—at the +time I endeavoured to prepare you for Confirmation and +Holy Communion. I notice that you have only once taken +Communion since your Confirmation, although more than +six months have passed. What you do when you cut Games +and go running off to your home, I do not know. It cannot +be anything good.” (Magic casements, opening on the +foam—) “It would pain me to have to ask your parents +to remove you from the School, but we want no wasters +and sneaks here. Most, indeed all, your fellow boys are +fine manly fellows; and you have the excellent example of +your House Prefects before you. Why can you not imitate +them? What nonsense have you got into your head? Speak +out, and tell me plainly. Have you entangled yourself in +any way?”</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>“What do you do in your spare time?”</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>“Your obstinate silence gives me the right to suspect the +worst. <i>What</i> you do I can imagine, but prefer not to mention. +Now, for the last time, will you speak out honourably +and manfully, and tell me what it is you do that makes +you neglect your work and Games and makes you conspicuous +<span class="pagenum" id="p80">[80]</span>in the School for sullen and obstinate behaviour?”</p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>“Very well. You will receive twelve strokes from the +birch. Bend over.”</p> + +<p>George’s face quivered, but he had not shed a tear or +made a sound, as he turned silently to go.</p> + +<p>“Stop. Kneel down at that chair, and we will pray together +that this lesson may be of service to you, and that +you may conquer your evil habits. Let us together pray +GOD that He will have Mercy upon you, and make you +into a really manly fellow.”</p> + +<p>They prayed.</p> + +<p>Or rather the Head prayed, and George remained silent. +He did not even say “Amen.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>After that the School gave him up and let him drift. +He was supposed to be dull-minded as well as obstinate and +unmanly, and was allowed to vegetate vaguely about the +Lower Fifth. Maybe he picked up more even of the little +they had to teach than they suspected. But as the silent, +rather white-faced, rather worried-looking boy went +mechanically through the day’s routine, hung about in corridors, +moved from classroom to classroom, he was busy +enough inside, building up a life of his own. George went +at George Augustus’s books with the energy of a fierce +physical hunger. He once showed me a list in an old notebook +of the books he had read before he was sixteen. +Among other things he had raced through most of the +poets from Chaucer onwards. It was not the amount that +he read which mattered, but the way in which he read. +Having no single person to talk to openly, no one to whom +he could reveal himself, no one from whom he could learn +what he wanted to know, he was perforce thrust back upon +books. The English poets and the foreign painters were +his only real friends. They were his interpreters of the +mystery, the defenders of the inner vitality which he was +fighting unconsciously to save. Naturally, the School was +<span class="pagenum" id="p81">[81]</span>against him. They set out to produce “a type of thoroughly +manly fellow,” a “type” which unhesitatingly accepted the +prejudices, the “code” put before it, docilely conformed to +a set of rules. George dumbly claimed to think for himself, +above all to <i>be</i> himself. The “others” were good enough +fellows, no doubt, but they really had no selves to <i>be</i>. They +hadn’t the flame. The things which to George were the very +<i>cor cordium</i> of life meant nothing to them, simply passed +them by. They wanted to be approved and be healthy barbarians, +cultivating a little smut on the sly, and finally +dropping into some convenient post in life where the +“thoroughly manly fellow” was appreciated—mostly one +must admit, minor and unpleasant and not very remunerative +posts in unhealthy colonies. The Empire’s backbone. +George, though he didn’t realize it then, wasn’t going to +be a bit of any damned Empire’s backbone, still less part +of its kicked backside. He didn’t mind going to hell, and +disgracing himself and his parents and his House and The +School, if only he could go to hell in his own way. That’s +what they couldn’t stand—the obstinate, passive refusal +to accept their prejudices, to conform to their minor-gentry, +kicked-backside-of-the-Empire code. They worried him, they +bullied him, they frightened him with cock-and-bull yarns +about Smut and noses dropping off; but they didn’t get +him. I wish he hadn’t been worried and bullied to death by +those two women. I wish he hadn’t stood up to that machine-gun +just one week before the Torture ended. After he had +fought the swine (i.e., the British ones) so gallantly for so +many years. If only he had hung on a little longer, and come +back, and done what he wanted to do! He could have done +it, he could have “got there”; and then even “The School” +would have fawned on him. Bloody fool. Couldn’t he see +that we have only one duty—to hang on, and smash the +swine?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Once, only once, he nearly gave himself away to The +School. At the end of the examinations, as a sort of afterthought, +<span class="pagenum" id="p82">[82]</span>there was an English Essay. One of the subjects +was: What do you want to do in Life? George’s enthusiasm +got the better of his caution, and he wrote a crude enthusiastic +school-boyish rhapsody, laying down an immense +programme of life, from travel to astronomy, with the +beloved Painting as the end and crown of all. Needless to +say he did not get the Prize or even any honourable mention. +But, to his amazement, on the last day of term, as +they went to evening Chapel, the Head strolled up, put +an arm round his shoulders, and pointing to the planet +Venus, said:</p> + +<p>“Do you know what that star is, my boy?”</p> + +<p>“No, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“That is Sirius, a gigantic sun, many millions of miles +distant from us.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir.”</p> + +<p>And then the conversation languished. The Head removed +his arm, and they entered the Chapel. The last hymn was +“Onward, Christian Soldiers,” because ten of the senior +boys were going to Sandhurst.</p> + +<p>George did not join actively in the service.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The summer holidays were the only part of the year +when he was really happy.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The country inland from Martin’s Point is rather barren. +But, like all the non-industrialized parts of England it has +a character, very shy like a little silvery-grey old lady, which +acts gently but in the end rather strongly on the mind. It +was the edge of one of the long chalk downs of England, +with salt marshes to left and right, and fertile clay land +far behind—too far for George to reach even on a bicycle. +In detail it seemed colourless and commonplace. From the +crest of one of the high ridges, it had a kind of silvery-grey, +very old quality, with its great bare treeless fields making +faint chequer-patterns on the long gentle slopes, with always +a fringe of silvery-grey sea in the far distance. The chalk +<span class="pagenum" id="p83">[83]</span>was ridged in long parallels, like the swell of some gigantic +ocean arrested in rock. The ridges became more abrupt and +violent near the coast, and ended in a long irregular wall +of silvery-grey chalk, poised like a huge wave of rock-foam +forever motionless and forever silent, while forever at its +base lapped the petty waves of the mobile and whispering +sea. The sheep-and-wind-nipped turf of the downs grew +dwarf bee-orchis, blue-purple bugloss, tall ragged knapweed +and frail hare-bells. In the valleys were tall thistles +and fox-gloves. Certain nooks were curiously rich with wildflowers +mixed with deep rich-red clover and marguerite-daisies. +In the summer these little flowery patches—so +precious and conspicuous in the surrounding barrenness—were +a flicker of butterfly wings—the creamy Marbled +Whites, electric blue of the Chakhill Blue, sky-blue of the +Common and Holly Blue, rich tawny of the Fritilliaries, +metallic gleam of the Coppers, cool drab of the Meadow +Browns. The Peacock, the Red Admiral, the Painted Lady, +the Tortoiseshell wheeled over the nettles and thistles, +poised on the flowers, fanning their rich mottled wings. +In a certain field in August you could find Clouded Yellows +rapidly moving in little curves and irregular dashes of flight +over swaying red-purple clover, which seemed to drift like +a sea as the wind ran over it.</p> + +<p>Yet with all this colour the “feel” of the land was silvery-grey. +The thorn-bushes and the rare trees were bent at an +angle under the pressure of the South-West gales. The +inland hamlets and farms huddled down in the hollows +behind a protecting wall of elms. They were humble, unpretentious +but authentic, like the lives of the shepherds +and ploughmen who lived in them. The three to ten miles +which separated them from the pretentious suburbanity of +Martin’s Point might have been three hundred, so unmoved, +so untouched were they by its golf and its idleness +and tea-party scandals and even its increasing number of +“cars.” In hollows, too, crouched its low, flint-built Norman +churches, so unpretentious, for all the richness of dog-toothed +<span class="pagenum" id="p84">[84]</span>porches and Byzantine-looking tympanums and conventionalized +satiric heads sneering and gaping and grimacing +from the string-courses. Hard satiric people those Norman +conquerors must have been—you can see the hard +satiric effigies of some of their descendants in the Temple +Churche. They must have crushed the Saxon shepherds and +swineherds under their steel gauntlets, smiling in a hard +satiric way. And even their piety was hard and satiric, if +you can judge from the little flinty satiric churches they +scattered over the land. Then they must have pushed on +westward to richer lands, abandoning those barren downs +and scanty fields to the descendants of the oppressed Saxon. +So the land seemed old; but the hard satiric quality of the +Normans only remained in odd nooks of their churches—all +the rest had grown gentle and silvery-grey, like a rather +sweet and gentle silvery-grey old lady.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>All this George struggled to express with his drawing-and-paint-blocks. +He tried to absorb—and to some extent did +absorb—the peculiar quality of the country. He attempted +it all, from the twenty-mile sweeps of undulating Down +fringed by the grey-silver sea, to the church doors and little +patient photographic, semi-scientific painting of the flowers +and butterflies. From the point of view of a painter, he was +always too literal, too topographical, too minutely interested +in detail. He saw the poetry of the land but didn’t express +it in form and colour. The old English landscape school of +1770-1840 died long before Turner’s body reached St. Paul’s +and his money went into the pockets of the greedy English +lawyers instead of to the painters for whom he intended it. +The impulse expired in painstaking topography and sentimental +prettiness. There wasn’t the vitality, the capacity to +struggle on, which you find in the best work of painters +like Friesz, Vlaminck and even Utrillo, who can find a new +sort of poetry in tossing trees or a white farmhouse or a +<i>bistro</i> in the Paris suburbs. George, even at fifteen, knew +what he wanted to say in paint, but couldn’t say it. He +<span class="pagenum" id="p85">[85]</span>could appreciate it in others, but he hadn’t got the power +of expression in him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Hitherto George had been quite alone in his blind instinctive +struggle—the fight against the effort to force him +into a mould, the eager searching out for life and more +life which would respond to the spark of life within. Now, +he began to find unexpected allies, discovered at first almost +with suspicion, then with immense happiness, that he was +not quite alone, that there were others who valued what +he valued. He discovered men’s friendship and the touch of +girls’ lips and hands.</p> + +<p>First came Mr. Barnaby Slush, at that time a “most +famous novelist,” who had hit the morbid-cretinish British +taste with a sensational, crude-Christian moral novel which +sold millions of copies in a year and is now forgotten, +except that it probably lies embalmed somewhere in the +Tauchnitz collection, that mausoleum of unreadable works. +Mr. Slush was a bit of a boozer and highly delighted with +his notoriety. Still, he did occasionally look around him; he +was not wholly blinkered with prejudice and unheeding +blankness like most of the middle-class inhabitants of Martin’s +Point. He noticed George, laughed at some of the pert +but pretty acute schoolboyish remarks George made and for +which he was invariably squelched, was “interested” in his +passion for painting and the persistence he gave to it.</p> + +<p>“There’s something in that boy of yours, Mrs. Winterbourne. +He’s got a mind. He’ll do something in the world.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, do you think so, Mr. Slush,”—Isabel, half-flattered, +half-bristling with horror and rage at the thought that +George might “have a mind”—“he’s just a healthy, happy +schoolboy, and only thinks of pleasing his Mummie.”</p> + +<p>“Umph,” said Mr. Slush. “Well, I’d like to do something +for him. There’s more in him than you think. <i>I</i> believe +there’s an artist in him.”</p> + +<p>“If I thought that,” exclaimed Isabel viciously, “I’d flog +him till all such nonsense was flogged out of him.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p86">[86]</span></p> +<p>Mr. Slush saw he was doing George more harm than +good by this well-meant effort, and was discreetly silent. +However, he gave George one or two books, and tried to +talk to him on the side. But George was still suspicious +of all grown-ups, particularly those who came and drank +whiskey in the evening with George Augustus and Isabel. +Besides poor, flabby, drink-sodden, kindly Mr. Slush rather +repelled his hard intolerant youthfulness; and they got nowhere +in particular. Still, Mr. Slush was important to the +extent that he prepared George to give some confidence to +others. He broke down the first outer wall built by George +against the world. The way in which Isabel got rid of Mr. +Slush, whose possible influence on George she instinctively +suspected, was rather amusing. George Augustus and Mr. +Slush went to a Free Masons’ dinner together. Now that +Free Masonry had served its purpose, Isabel was intensely +jealous of its mysteries—poor mysteries!—which George +Augustus honourably refused to reveal to her, and she hated +those periodical dinners with a bitter hatred. That night +there arose one of the most terrific thunder storms which +had ever been known in that part of the country. For six +hours forked and sheet lightning leaped and stabbed at +earth and sea from three sides of the horizon; crash after +crash of thunder broke over Martin’s Point and rumbled +terrifically against the cliffs, while desperate drenching +sheets of rain beat madly on roofs and windows and gushed +wetly down the steep roads. It was impossible for the men +to get home. They remained—drinking a good deal—at +the hotel until nearly four, and then drove home sleepily +and merrily. Isabel put on her tragedy queen air, sat up +all night, and greeted George Augustus with horrid invective:</p> + +<p>“Think of poor Mrs. Slush out there in that lonely farm, +and me and the children crouching here in terror, while +you men were guzzling, and besotting yourselves with +whiskey... et cetera, et cetera.”</p> + +<p>Poor George Augustus attempted a feeble defence—it +<span class="pagenum" id="p87">[87]</span>was swept away. Mr. Slush innocently walked over next +day to see how things were after the storm, was insulted, +and driven from the house in amazed indignation. He “put” +Isabel a little vindictively “in his next novel,” but as +she said and said truly, he never “darkened their doors” +again.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In one way George loved the grey sea and barrenness, in +another way he hated them. To get away to the lush inland +country was a release, an ecstasy, the more precious in that +it happened so rarely. When he was a small child, a maid-servant +took him “down home” to the hop-picking. Confused +and fantastic memories of it remained with him. He never +forgot the penetrating sunlight, the long dusty ride in the +horse-bus, the sensation of hot sharp-scented shadow under +the tall vines, the joy of the great rustling heaps falling +downward as the foreman cut the strings, the tenderness of +the rough women hop-pickers, the taste of the smoky +picnic tea and heavy soggy cake (so delicious!) they gave +him.</p> + +<p>Later—in the fourteen-sixteen years—it was a joy to visit +the Hambles. They were retired professional people, who +lived in a remote country house among lush meadows and +rich woods. Mr. Hamble was a large, freckly man who collected +insects, and was a skilled botanist; and thus charmed +that side of George. But the real delight was the lush countryside—and +Priscilla. Priscilla was the Hambles’ daughter, +almost exactly George’s age; and between those two was a +curious, intense, childish passion. She was very golden and +pretty; much too pretty, for it made her self-conscious and +flirtatious. But the passion between those two children was +a genuine thing. A pity that this sort of Daphnis and Chloe +passion is not allowed free physical expression under our +puling obscene conventions. There was always something +a little frustrated in both George and Priscilla because the +timidity and false modesty imposed on them prevented the +natural physical expression. For quite three years George +<span class="pagenum" id="p88">[88]</span>was under the influence of his passion for Priscilla, never +really forgot her, always in a dim, dumb, subconscious way +felt the frustration. Like all passions it was something +fugitive, the product of a phase, but it ought not to have +been frustrated. It was a pity they were so often separated, +because that meant infinite letter-writing; and so made him +always tend to too much idealizing and intellectualizing +in love affairs. But when they were together it was pure +happiness. Priscilla was a very demure and charming little +mistress. They played all sorts of games with other children, +and went fishing in the brook, picked flowers in the +rich water-meadows, hunted bird-nests along the hedges. +All these things, great fun in themselves, were so much more +fun because Priscilla was there, because they held hands +and kissed, and felt very serious, like real lovers. Sometimes +he dared to touch her childish breasts. And the feeling +of friendliness from the clasp of Priscilla’s hands, the +pleasure of her short childish kisses and sweet breath, the +delicate texture of her warm childish-swelling breasts, never +quite left him; and to remember Priscilla was like remembering +a fragrant English garden. Like an English garden, +she was a little old-fashioned and self-consciously comely, +but she was so spring-like and golden. She was immensely +important to George. She was something he could love +unreservedly, even if it was only with the mawkish love +of adolescence. But far more than that temporary service +she gave him the capacity to love women, saved him from +the latent homosexuality which lurks in so many Englishmen, +and makes them forever dissatisfied with their women. +She revealed to him—all unconsciously—the subtle inexhaustible +joys of the tender companionate woman’s body. +Even then he felt the delicious contrast between his male +nervous muscled hands and her tender budding breasts, +opening flowers to be held so delicately and affectionately. +And from her too he learned that the most satisfactory +loves are those which do not last too long, those which are +never made thorny with hate, and drift gently into the +<span class="pagenum" id="p89">[89]</span>past, leaving behind only a fragrance—not a sting—of +regret. His memories of Priscilla were few, but all roses....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>You see, they cannot really kill the spark if it is there, +not with all their bullyings and codes and prejudices and +thorough manliness. For, of course, they are not manly at +all, they are merely puppets, the products of the system—if +it may be dignified by that word. The truly manly ones +are those who have the spark, and refuse to let it be extinguished; +those who know that the true values are the +vital values, not the £. s. d. and falling-into-a-good-post +and the kicked-backside-of-the-Empire values. George had +already found a sort of ally in poor Mr. Slush, and an +exquisite child-passion in Priscilla. But he needed men, too, +and was lucky enough to find them. How can one estimate +what he owed to Dudley Pollak and to Donald and Tom +Conington?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Dudley Pollak was a mysterious bird. He was a married +man in the late fifties, who had been to Cambridge, made +the Grand Tour, lived in Paris, Berlin and Italy, known +numbers of fairly eminent people, owned a large country +house, appeared to have means, possessed very beautiful +furniture and all sorts of <i>objets d’art</i>, and was a cultivated +man—in most of which respects he differed exceedingly +from the inhabitants of Martin’s Point. Now, what do you +suppose was the reason why Pollak and Mrs. Pollak let their +large house furnished, and spent several years in a small +cottage in a rather dreary village street a couple of miles +from Martin’s Point? George never knew, and nobody else +ever knew. The fantastic and scandalous theories evolved +by Martin’s Point to explain this mystery were amusing +evidence of the vulgar stupidity of those who formed them, +and have no other interest. The Pollaks themselves said that +they had grown tired of their large house and that Mrs. +Pollak was weary of managing servants. So simple is the +truth that this very likely was the real explanation. At any +<span class="pagenum" id="p90">[90]</span>rate, there they lived together in their cottage, crowded with +furniture and books, cooking their own meals very often—they +were both excellent cooks—and waited on by a +couple of servants who “lived out.” Now, although Pollak +was forty years older than George, he was in a sense the +boy’s first real friend. The Pollaks had no children of their +own, which may go to explain this odd but deep friendship.</p> + +<p>Pollak was a much wilier bird than poor old Slush. He +sized Isabel up very quickly and accurately, and just +politely refused to let her quarrel with him, and just as +politely refused to receive her. But he was so obviously +a gentleman, so obviously a man of means, that no reasonable +objection could be made when he proposed to George +Augustus that “Georgie” should come to tea once a week +and learn chess. Martin’s Point was a very chess-y place; +it was somehow a mark of respectability there. Before this, +George had gone to play chess with a very elderly gentleman, +who put so much of the few brains he had into that +game that he had none left for the preposterous poems he +composed, or, indeed, anything else. So every Wednesday +George went to tea with the Pollaks.</p> + +<p>They always began, most honourably and scrupulously, +with a game of chess; and then they had tea; and then +they talked. Although George never suspected it until years +afterwards, Pollak was subtly educating him, at the same +time that he tried to give him the kind of sympathy he +needed. Pollak had many volumes of Andersen’s photographs, +which he let George turn over while he talked +negligently but shrewdly about Italian architecture, styles +of painters, Della Robbia work; and Mrs. Pollak occasionally +threw in some little anecdote about travel. By +the example of his own rather fastidious manners he corrected +schoolboy uncouthnesses. He somehow got George +riding lessons, for in Pollak’s days horse-riding was an indispensable +accomplishment. Pollak always worked on the +boy by suggestion and example, never by exhortation or +patronage. He always assumed that George knew what he +<span class="pagenum" id="p91">[91]</span>negligently but accurately told him. The manner in which +he made George learn French was characteristic of his +methods. One afternoon Pollak told a number of amusing +stories about his young days in Paris, while George was +looking through a volume of autographed letters of Napoleon, +Talleyrand and other Frenchmen—which, of course, +he could not read. Next week, when George arrived he +found Pollak reading.</p> + +<p>“Hullo, Georgie, how are you? Just listen to this lovely +thing I’ve been reading, and tell me what you think of it.”</p> + +<p>And Pollak read, in the rather chanting voice he adopted +in reading poetry, André Chenier’s: “L’épi naissant murit, +de la faux respecté.” George had to confess shamefacedly +that he hadn’t understood. Pollak handed him the book, +one of those charming large-type Didot volumes; but +André Chénier was too much for George’s public school +French.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I <i>do</i> wish I could read it properly,” said George. +“How did you learn French?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose I learned it in Paris. ’Tis pleasing to be +schooled in a strange tongue by female eyes and lips, you +know. But you could learn very soon if you really tried.”</p> + +<p>“But how? I’ve done French at school for ages, and I +simply can’t read it, though I’ve often tried.”</p> + +<p>“What you learn at school is only to handle the tools—you’ve +got to learn to use them for yourself. You take <i>Les +Trois Mousquetaires</i>, read straight through a few pages, +marking the words you don’t know, look them up, make +lists of them, and try to remember them. Don’t linger +over them too much, but try and get interested in the +story.”</p> + +<p>“But I’ve read <i>The Three Musketeers</i> in English.”</p> + +<p>“Well, try <i>Vingt Ans Après</i>. You can have my copy +and mark it.”</p> + +<p>“No, there’s a paper-backed one at home. I’ll use that.”</p> + +<p>In a fortnight George had skipped through the first +volume of <i>Vingt Ans Après</i>. In a month he could read simple +<span class="pagenum" id="p92">[92]</span>French prose easily. Three months later he was able to read +“<i>La Jeune Captive</i>” aloud to Pollak, who afterwards turned +the talk on to Ronsard; and opened up yet another vista.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The Coningtons were much younger men, the elder a +young barrister. They also talked to George about books +and pictures, in which their taste was more modern if less +sure than Pollak’s urbane Second Empire culture. But with +them George learned companionship, the fun of infinite, +everlasting arguments about “life” and ideas, the fun of +making <i>mots</i> and laughing freely. The Coningtons were +both great walkers. George, of course, had the middle class +idea that five miles was the limit of human capacity for +walking. Like Pollak, the Coningtons treated him as if he +were a man, assumed also that he could do what they were +showing him how to do. So when Donald Conington came +down for a week-end, he assumed that George would want +to walk. That day’s walk had such an effect upon George +that he could even remember the date, 2nd of June. It was +one of those soft cloudless days that do sometimes happen in +England, even in June. They set out from Hamborough soon +after breakfast and struck inland, going at a steady, even +pace, talking and laughing. Donald was in excellent form, +cheery and amusing, happy to be out of harness for a few +hours. Four miles brought them beyond the limits of +George’s own wanderings, and after a couple of hours’ tramp +they suddenly came out on the crest of the last chalk ridge +and looked over a wide fertile plain of woodland and tilth +and hop-fields, all shimmering in the warm sunlight. The +curious hooked noses of oast-houses sniffed over the tops +of soft round elm-clumps. They could see three church +spires and a dozen hamlets. The only sound came from the +larks high overhead.</p> + +<p>“God!” exclaimed Donald in his slightly theatrical way, +“what a fair prospect!”</p> + +<p>A fair prospect indeed, and an unforgettable moment when +one comes for the first time to the crest of a hill and looks +<span class="pagenum" id="p93">[93]</span>over an unknown country shimmering in the sun, with the +white coiling English lanes inviting exploration. Donald set +off down the hill, singing lustily: “O, Mistress mine, where +art thou roaming?” George followed a little hesitatingly. His +legs were already rather tired, it was long past eleven—how +would they get back in time for lunch, and what would be +said if they were late? He mentioned his fears timidly to +Donald.</p> + +<p>“What! Tired? Why, good God, man, we’ve only just +started! We’ll push on another four miles to Crockton, and +have lunch in a pub. I told them we shouldn’t be in until +after tea.”</p> + +<p>The rest of the day passed for George in a kind of golden +glory of fatigue and exultation. His legs ached bitterly—although +they only walked about fifteen miles all told—but +he was ashamed to confess his tiredness to Donald, who +seemed as fresh at the end of the day as when he started. +George came home with confused and happy memories—the +long talk and the friendly silences, the sun’s heat, a deer +park and Georgian red-brick mansion they stopped to look +at, the thatched pub at Crockton where he ate bread and +cheese and pickles and drank his first beer, the elaborately +carved Norman church at Crockton. They sat for half an +hour after lunch in the churchyard, while Donald smoked +a pipe. A Red Admiral settled on a grey flat tombstone, +speckled with crinkly orange and flat grey-green lichens. +They talked with would-be profundity about how Plato had +likened the Soul—Psyche—to a butterfly, and about death, +and how one couldn’t possibly accept theology or the idea +of personal immortality. But they were cheerful about it—the +only sensible time to discuss these agonizing problems +is after a pleasant meal accompanied with strong drink—and +they felt so well and cheery and animal-insouciant in +the warm sunlight that they didn’t really believe they would +ever die. In that they showed considerable wisdom; for you +will remember that the wise Montaigne spent the first half +of his life preparing for death, and the latter part in arguing +<span class="pagenum" id="p94">[94]</span>that it is much wiser never to think about dying at all—time +enough to think of <i>that</i> when it comes along.</p> + +<p>For Donald that was just a pleasant day, which very soon +took its place among the vague mists of half-memory. For +George it was all extraordinarily important. For the first +time he felt and understood companionship between men, +the frank unsuspicious exchange of goodwill and talk, the +spontaneous collaboration of two natures. That was really +the most important gain. But he also discovered the real +meaning of travel. It sounds absurd to speak of a fifteen-mile +walk as “travel.” But you may go thousands of miles +by train and boat between one international hotel and another, +and not have the sensation of travelling at all. Travel +means the consciousness of adventure and exploration, the +sense of covering the miles, the ability to seize indefatigably +upon every new or familiar source of delight. Hence the +horror of <i>tourism</i>, which is a conventionalizing, a codification +of adventure and exploration—which is absurd. Adventure +is allowing the unexpected to happen to you. Exploration +is experiencing what you have not experienced before. +How can there be any adventure, any exploration, if you +let somebody else—above all a travel bureau—arrange +everything beforehand? It isn’t seeing new and beautiful +things which matters, it’s seeing them for yourself. And if +you want the sensation of covering the miles, go on foot. +Three hundred miles on foot in three weeks will give you +indefinitely more sense of travel, show you infinitely more +surprising and beautiful experiences, than thirty thousand +miles of mechanical transport.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>George did not rest until he went on a real exploration +walk. He did this with Tom Conington, Donald’s younger +brother—and that walk also was unforgettable, though they +were rained upon daily and subsisted almost entirely upon +eggs and bacon, which seems to be the only food heard of +in English country pubs. They took the train to Corfe +Castle, and spent a day in walking over to Swanage through +<span class="pagenum" id="p95">[95]</span>the half-moor, half-marsh country, with its heather and +gorse and nodding white cotton-grasses. Then they went +along the coast to Kimmeridge and Preston and Lulworth +and Lyme Regis, sleeping in cottages and small pubs. From +Lyme Regis they turned inland, and went by way of Honiton, +Collumpton, Tavistock, to Dulverton and Porlock, along +the north Devon coast to Bideford, and back to South +Molton, where they had to take the train, since they had +spent their money and had only enough to pay their fares +home. The whole walk lasted less than a fortnight, but it +seemed like two months. They had such a good time, jawing +away as they walked, singing out of tune, finding their way +on maps, getting wet through and drying themselves by +tap-room fires, talking to every one, farmer or labourer, +who would talk to them, reading and smoking over a +pint of beer after supper. And always that sense of adventure, +of exploration, which urged them on every morning, +even through mist and rain, and made fatigue and +bad inns and muddy roads all rather fun and an experience.</p> + +<p>One gropes very much through all these “influences” and +“scenes” and fragmentary events in trying to form a picture +of George in those years. For example, I found the date +of the Crockton walk and a few disjointed notes about it +on the back of a rough sketch of Crockton church porch. +And the itinerary of the walk with Tom Conington, with a +few comments, I found in the back of a volume of selected +English essays, which George presumably took with him on +the walk. The heart of another is indeed a dark forest, and +however much I let my imagination work over these fragments +of his life, I find it hard to imagine him at that time, +still harder to imagine what was going on in his mind. I +imagine that he more or less adjusted himself to the public +school and home hostility, that, as time passed and he began +to make friends, he felt more confidence and happiness. Like +most sensitive people he was subject to moods, affected by +the weather and the season of the year. He could pass very +<span class="pagenum" id="p96">[96]</span>rapidly from a mood of exuberant gaiety almost to despair. +A chance remark—as I myself found—was enough to effect +that unfortunate change. He had a habit always of implying +more or less than he said, of assuming that others would +always jump with the implied, not with the expressed, +thought. Similarly, he always expected the same sort of +subtle obliquity of expression in others, and very seldom +took remarks at their face value. He could never be convinced +or convince himself that there were not implications +under the most commonplace remark. I suppose he had very +early developed this habit of irony as a protection and as +a method of being scornful with seeming innocence. He never +got rid of it.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>But for a time he was very happy. At home there was a +kind of truce—ominous had he only known—and he was +left much to himself. Priscilla awoke and satisfied the need +for contact with the feminine, fed the awakening sensuality. +Then, when Priscilla somehow drifted away, there was another, +much slighter, more commonplace affair with a girl +named Maisie. She was a slightly coarse, dark type, a little +older than George and much more developed. They used to +meet after dark in the steep lanes of Martin’s Point, and +kiss each other. George was a little scared by the way she +gobbled his mouth and pressed herself against him; and +then felt self-reproachful, thinking of Priscilla and her delicate, +English-garden fragrance. One night, Maisie drew them +along a different walk to a deserted part of the down, where +a clump of thick pines made a close shadow over coarse +grass. They had to climb up a steep hillside.</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m tired,” said Maisie, “let’s sit down.”</p> + +<p>She lay down on the grass, and George lay beside her. +He leaned over her and felt the low warm mounds of her +breasts through his thin summer shirt.</p> + +<p>“The touch of your mouth is beautiful,” said George. +“Honey and milk is under her tongue.”</p> + +<p>He put the tip of his tongue between her moist lips, and +<span class="pagenum" id="p97">[97]</span>she touched it with hers. ************* ** *** ****** * +*** ** ** *** *** **** ** *** *** ** *** ****. ***** +*** ****** *** *****, ******* * **** ** ****** ****. +George stupidly wondered why, and kissed her more tenderly +and sensually.</p> + +<p>“Your lips,” he murmured, “your lips.”</p> + +<p>“But there must be something else,” she whispered back. +“I want something from you.”</p> + +<p>“What more can I give you? What could be more beautiful +than your kisses?”</p> + +<p>She lay passive and let him kiss her for a few minutes, +and then sat up abruptly.</p> + +<p>“I must go home.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but why? We were so happy here, and it’s still +early.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but I promised mother I’d be home early to-night.”</p> + +<p>George walked back to the door of Maisie’s house, and +wondered why her good-night kiss was so untender, so perfunctory.</p> + +<p>A few nights later George went out—on the pretext of +“mothing”—in the hope of finding Maisie. As he came silently +round a corner, he saw about thirty yards ahead, in +the dusk, Maisie walking away from him with a young man +of about twenty. His arm was round her waist, and her +head was resting on his shoulder as she used to rest it on +George’s. It is to be hoped that she got her “something else” +from the young man. George turned, and strolled home, +looking up at the soft gentle stars, and thinking hard. +“Something else? Something else?” It was his first intimation +that women always want something else—and men +too, men too.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When a great liner came round the Foreland, you ran to +the telescope to see whether it was a P. and O., a Red Star +or a Hamburg-Amerika. You soon got to recognize the +majestic four-funnelled <i>Deutschland</i> as she moved rapidly +up or down the Channel. The yellow-funnelled boats for +<span class="pagenum" id="p98">[98]</span>Ostend, the white-funnelled boats for Calais and Folkestone +were daily events, hardly to be noted—and yet how they +seemed to lure one to that unknown life across the narrow +seas. On clear days you could see the faint shining of the +cliffs of France. On foggy nights, the prolonged anapæst +of the Foreland Lightship fog-horn answered the hoarse +spondees of the passing ships, groping their way up channel. +Even on the most rainy or most moonlit night, the flash +of the lighthouse made dabs of yellow light on the walls of +George’s bedroom. There were no nightingales at Martin’s +Point, but morning and evening thrushes and blackbirds.</p> + +<p>Hamborough was so different, lying off the chalk downs +on the edge of the salt marshes, the desolate, silent, unresponsive, +salt marshes, so gorgeous at sunset. The tidal river +ran turbid and level with its banks, or deep between walls +of sinister mud. Little flocks of fleet-winged grey-white birds—called +“oxey-birds”—flickered rapidly away in front of +you on sickle-moon wings. A brown-sailed barge, far +inland, seemed to be gliding overland through the flat green-brown +marsh land. Behind, far across the flat desolate ex-sea-bottom +ran the old coast line, and on a bluff stood the +solid ruins of a Roman fort. “Pe-e-e-wit,” said the plunging +plovers, “pee-e-ee-wit.” No other sound. The white clouds, +dappled English clouds, moved so silently over the cool blue +English skies; such faint blue, even on what the English +call a “hot” day.</p> + +<p>You went to the marshes by way of the Barbican, the +Barbican through which the old English Kings and knights +had ridden with their men-at-arms, when they made one of +their innumerable descents on more civilized France. There +stood the mediæval Barbican, on the verge of the commonplace +little money-grubbing town, like a stranded vestige +from some geological past. What was the Barbican to early +twentieth-century Hamborough? An obstacle to the new +motor road, whose abolition was always being discussed in +the Town Council, and whose destruction was only postponed +because the thickness of the walls made it too expensive. +<span class="pagenum" id="p99">[99]</span>On the other side you walked out into flat fertile +country, past almshouses, and the hoary stone-mullioned +Elizabethan Grammar School, over the level crossing, to +Saxon Friedasburg, where tradition said a temple to Freya +had once stood. How silver-grey the distant sea-fringe, how +silver-grey the lines of rippling poplars! How warmly +golden, like Priscilla, the wheat fields under the late August +afternoon sunshine!</p> + +<p>These are the gods, the gods who must endure for ever, +or as long as man endures, the gods whom the perverse +blood-lustful, torturing Oriental myths cannot kill. Poseidon, +the sea-god, who rules his grey and white steeds, so gentle +and playful in his rare moods of tranquillity, so savage and +destructive in his rage. With a clutch of his hand he +crumples the wooden beams or steel plates of the wave-wanderers, +with a thrust of his elbow he hurls them to destruction +on the hidden sand-bank or the ruthless sharp-toothed +rocks. Selene, the moon-goddess, who flies so swiftly +through the breaking clouds of the departing storm, or +hangs so motionless white, so womanly waiting, in the +cobalt night-sky among her attendant stars. Phœbus, who +scorns these silvery-grey northern lands, but whose golden +light is so welcome when it comes. Demeter, who ripens the +wheat and plumps the juicy fruit and sets cordial bitterness +in the hop and trails ragged flower and red hip and haw +along the hedges. And then the lesser humbler gods—must +there not be gods of sunrise and twilight, of bird-singing +and midnight silence, of ploughing and harvesting, of the +shorn fields and the young green springing grass, gods of +lazy cattle and the uneasily bleating flocks and of the wild +creatures—(hedgehogs and squirrels and rabbits, and their +enemies the weasels)—tenuous Ariel demigods of the trembling +poplars and the many-coloured flowers and the +speckled fluttering butterflies? In ever increasing numbers +the motor-cars clattered and hammered along the dusty +roads; the devils of golf leaped on the acres and made them +desolate; sport and journalism and gentility made barren +<span class="pagenum" id="p100">[100]</span>men’s lives. The gods shrank away, hid shyly in forgotten +nooks, lurked unsuspected behind bramble and thorn. Where +were their worshippers? Where were their altars? Rattle of +the motors, black smoke of the railways. One—perhaps only +one—worshipper was left them. One only saw the fleet limbs +glancing through the tree-trunks, saw the bright faun-eyes +peering anxiously from behind the bushes. Hamadryads, +fauns, do not fly from me! I am not one of “them,” one of +the perverse life-torturers. I know you are there, come to +me, and talk with me! Stay with me, stay with me!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Then the blow fell.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p101">[101]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ V ]</h3> + + +<p>What can have happened? What can have happened? +My God, what can have happened?</p> + +<p>Isabel paced up and down the room, uttering this and +kindred exclamations to nobody in particular, while an +outwardly calm, inwardly very much perturbed George silently +echoed the question. George Augustus had gone to +London on his usual weekly trip, and as usual George had +met the six o’clock train. No George Augustus. He met the +seven-ten, the eighty-fifty, and the eleven-five, the last train: +and still no George Augustus. No telegram, no message. A +feeling of impending calamity hung over the house that +night, and there was not much sleep for Isabel and George. +Next morning a long rambling letter, emotional and vague, +arrived from George Augustus. The gist was that he was +ruined, and in flight from his creditors.</p> + +<p>It was a bitter enough pill for George, bitterer still for +Isabel. She had schemed and boosted George Augustus for +years, she thought they were well off and getting better off. +And she had taken pride in it as her own work. She had +George Augustus so much under her thumb that whatever +he did was through her influence. But the very perfection +of her system was its ruin. He was so afraid of her that he +dared not confess when a speculation went wrong. To keep +up the standard of expense, he began to mortgage; to redeem +the situation he plunged deeper into speculation and +neglected his practice. Rumours began to get about. Then +suddenly he was taken with panic, and fled. Later investigation +showed that his affairs were not so compromised as +he had imagined; but the sudden mad flight ruined everything. +In a day the Winterbournes dropped from comparative +affluence to comparative poverty.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p102">[102]</span></p> +<p>The effect on George was really rather disastrous. After +the almost sordid distress of his early adolescence, he had +succeeded in saving the spark, and had built up a life for +himself, had created a positive happiness. But all that +rested, in fact, on the family money. The distrust of himself +and others which had gradually disappeared, the sense of +suspicion and frustration, came flooding back with renewed +bitterness. And the whole calamity was aggravated by circumstances +of peculiar and unnecessary suffering, which +made distrust and bitterness not unjustifiable. Demented +apparently by that madness which afflicts those whom the +gods wish to destroy, George Augustus had “had a little +talk” on the subject of a career with the boy not three +months before, when he must have known he was hopelessly +involved.</p> + +<p>“Now, Georgie, you have only a few months longer, and +you will be leaving school. You must think of a career in +life. Have you thought about it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, father.”</p> + +<p>“That’s right. And what career do you want to take up?”</p> + +<p>“I want to be a painter.”</p> + +<p>“I rather expected you’d say that. But you must remember +that you can hardly expect to make money by painting. +Even if you have the talent, which I’m sure you have, it +takes many years to establish a reputation, and still more +years before you can hope to make an adequate income.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know that. But I’m convinced that if I had a +small income and could do what I wanted, I should be far +happier than if I made a great deal of money doing what +I hated.”</p> + +<p>“Well, my boy, I’m really rather glad that you don’t take +the purely money point of view. But think it over. If you +take your examinations and qualify, there is a regularly +established practice in which you can take your place as my +partner and, in due course as my successor. Think it over +for a few months. And if you finally decide to take the +course you mention, I daresay I can allow you two or three +<span class="pagenum" id="p103">[103]</span>hundred a year, which will be four hundred when I die.”</p> + +<p>Now all this was very fatherly and kindly and sensible. +In an outburst of quite genuine affection and gratitude +George protested first of all that he could not bear to think +of his father’s dying and that it was odious to think of +profiting by his death.</p> + +<p>“But,” he added, “I am quite determined to be a painter +in spite of everything. If you can help me as you say, it +will all be perfect.”</p> + +<p>Nothing more was said on the subject, but in the following +weeks George drew and painted hard, went twice to +London to look at the galleries and get materials, and +thought he was making progress. But what strange weakness +permitted George Augustus to yield to the cruelty of +raising these hopes which he must have known would be +speedily wrecked? The thought of this was constantly in +George’s mind, as he moved about silently, rather scared, +in the morning hours following the receipt of the letter. It +was a problem he never solved, but the incident did not +increase his trust in the world or himself.</p> + +<p>Other incidents confirmed this mood. Both Isabel and +George Augustus rather pushed George forward to take the +brunt of the calamity. Isabel’s first suggestion to George +was that he should go as a grocer’s errand boy at three +shillings a week, a proposition which George indignantly +and properly rejected. Whereupon she called him a parasite +and a graceless spendthrift. Probably the suggestion was +only hysteria, but it hit hard and rankled. Then, it was +George do this, and George do that. It was George who had +to interview insolent tradesmen and creditors, and plead +for further credit and “time.” It was George who recovered +£90 in gold which had been stolen by the office boy, and +was refunded. It was George who was sent to persuade his +father to come back and face out the storm. It was George +who was made to go and collect rents from suspicious and +uneasy tenants. It was George who had to see solicitors, +and try to get a grasp of the situation. They even accepted +<span class="pagenum" id="p104">[104]</span>his offer of the few pounds (birthday gifts saved up) which +he had in the Post Office Savings Bank. Rather a shock for +a boy not seventeen, who had been living an <i>exalté</i> inner +life, and who had been led to suppose that his material +future was assured. It is not wholly surprising that he was +very unhappy, a bit resentful, and that his mistrust became +permanent, his modesty, diffidence.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Things went on in this joyless way for about a year. +“Disgrace” was avoided, but it was obvious that the Winterbourne +opulence was gone, and George Augustus had lost +his nerve. It was from this period that the beginnings of his +subsequent conversion dated. In defeat he returned to the +beliefs of childhood, but some latent unrecognized hostility +to the influence of dear Mamma finally led him to the form +of Christianity most opposed to hers. As for George, he +brooded a great deal and oscillated between moods of hope +and exultation and moods of profound depression. They +moved nearer to London, and he tried, with very little +success, to sell some of his paintings. They were too ambitious +and too youthful, with no commercial value. He was +all the time uneasily conscious that he ought to “get out” +and that his family were anxious for him to “do something.” +Kind friends wrote proposing the most dreary and +humiliating jobs they could think of. Even Priscilla—a bitter +blow—thought that “George should do something <i>at +once</i>, and in a few years might be earning two pounds a +week as a clerk.” Then George made the acquaintance of a +journalist, a very uneducated but extremely kindly and good-natured +man. Thomas had some sort of sub-editorship in +Fleet Street, and generously offered to allow George to do +some minor reporting for him, an offer which he jumped at. +George did his first job—which was passed—and returned +home, naturally very late, in a glow of virtuous exultation, +thinking how he would surprise his parents next morning +with the news, like a good little boy in a story-book. The +surprise, however, was his. He was met at the door by an +<span class="pagenum" id="p105">[105]</span>angry Isabel, who, without awaiting his explanation, demanded +to know what he meant by coming home at that +hour and accused him of “going with a vile woman.” George +was too disgusted to make any reply, and went to bed. Next +morning there was a glorious row, in which Isabel played +the part of a broken-hearted mother and George Augustus +came out very strong as a <i>père noble</i> of the Surrey melodrama +brand. George was upset, but his contempt kept him +cool. George Augustus was perorating:</p> + +<p>“If you continue in this way you will break your mother’s +heart!”</p> + +<p>It was so ludicrous—poor old George Augustus—that +George couldn’t help laughing. George Augustus raised his +hand in a noble gesture of paternal malediction:</p> + +<p>“Leave this house! And do not return to it until you have +learned to apologize for your behaviour.”</p> + +<p>“You mean it?”</p> + +<p>“I solemnly mean it.”</p> + +<p>“Right.”</p> + +<p>George went straight upstairs and packed his few clothes +in a suitcase, asked if he might have the volume of Keats, +and left in half an hour—with elevenpence in his pocket, +humming:</p> + +<p>“Now of my three score years and ten, twenty will not +come again.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>So that was that.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p106"></a><a id="p107"></a>[107]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="PART_TWO">PART TWO +<br> +<i>ANDANTE CANTABILE</i></h2></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p108"></a><a id="p109"></a>[109]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="ANDANTE_CANTABILE"><i>ANDANTE CANTABILE</i></h2></div> + + + + +<h3>[ I ]</h3> + + +<p>Bank pass-books and private account-books are revealing +documents, strangely neglected by biographers. +One of the most useful things to know about any hero is +the extent of his income, whether earned or unearned, +whether crescendo or diminuendo. Complicated <i>états d’âme</i> +are the luxury of leisured opulence. Those who have to earn +their living must accept Appearances as Reality, and have +little time for metaphysical woes and passions. I once +thought of beginning this section with an accurate facsimile +of George’s private account and pass books. But that would +be <i>vérisme</i>. It is enough to say that his unearned income +was nil, and his earned income small but crescendo. Like +most people who are too high-spirited to work for stated +hours at a weekly wage, he drifted into journalism, which +may be briefly but accurately defined as the most degrading +form of that most degrading vice, mental prostitution. Its +resemblance to the less reprehensible form is striking. Only +the more fashionable cocottes of the dual trade make a +reasonable income. The similarity between the conditions of +the two parallel prostitutions becomes still more remarkable +when you reflect that on the physical side you pretend to be +a milliner, or a masseuse, or a clergyman’s daughter, or a +lady of quality, or even a lady journalist in need of a little +aid for which you are prepared to make suitable acknowledgment; +and on the mental side you pretend to be a poet, or +an expert in something, or a lady of quality, or a duke. +Both require suppleness in a supreme degree, and in both +the fatal handicaps are honesty, modesty and independence.</p> + +<p>All of which George discovered very rapidly; and acted +<span class="pagenum" id="p110">[110]</span>accordingly. But his powers of simulation were inadequate, +and consequently he failed at all times to conceal the fact +that he possessed some knowledge and beliefs, and held to +them. This, of course, for a long time prevented his obtaining +work from any but crank periodicals, of which London +before the war possessed about three, which believed in +allowing contributors to say what they thought. Needless to +say, they have since perished; and London journalism is +now one compact sun of sweetness and light. If this, or indeed +anything, much mattered, one might be tempted to +deplore it.</p> + +<p>In the course of his <i>naif</i> peregrinations George became +temporarily acquainted with numerous personages, whom he +classified as morons, abject morons and queer-Dicks. The +abject morons were those editors and journalists who sincerely +believed in the imbecilities they perpetrated, virtuous +apprentices gone to the devil, honest bootblacks out of +a job. The morons were those who knew better but pretended +not to, and who by long dabbling in pitch had become +pitchy. The queer-Dicks were more or less honest +cranks, or at least possessed so much vanity and obstinacy +that they seemed honest. After a few vague and awkward +struggles, George found himself limited to the queer-Dicks. +Of these there were three, whom for convenience sake, I +shall label Shobbe, Bobbe and Tubbe. Mr. or Herr Shobbe +ran a literary review, one of those “advanced” reviews beloved +by the English, which move rapidly forward with a +crab-like motion. Herr Shobbe was a very great man. Comrade +Bobbe ran a Socialist weekly which was subsidized by +a demented eugenist and a vegetarian Theosophist. Since +Marxian economics, eugenics, pure food and theosophy did +not wholly fill its columns, the organ of the intellectual and +wage-weary worker permitted regular comments on art and +literature. And since none of the directors of the journal +knew anything whatever about these subjects, they occasionally +and by accident allowed them to be treated by +some one with ideas and enthusiasm. Comrade Bobbe was a +<span class="pagenum" id="p111">[111]</span>very great man. As for Mr. Waldo Tubbe, who hailed (why +“hailed”?) from the Middle Western districts of the United +States, he was an exceedingly ardent and patriotic British +Tory, standing for Royalism in Art, Authority in Politics +and Classicism in Religion. Unfortunately, there was no dormant +peerage in the family; otherwise he would certainly +have spent all his modest patrimony in endeavouring to +become Lord Tubbe. Since he was an unshakable Anglo-Catholic +there were no hopes of a Papal Countship; and +Tory governments are proverbially shabby in their treatment +of even the most distinguished among their intellectual +supporters. Consequently, all Mr. Waldo Tubbe could do in +that line was to hint at his aristocratic English ancestry, to +use his (possibly authentic) coat-of-arms on his cutlery, +stationery, toilette articles and book-plates, and know only +the “best” people. How George ever got to know him is a +mystery, still more how he came to write for a periodical +which once advertised that its list of subscribers included +four dukes, three marquesses and eleven earls. The only +explanation is that Mr. Tubbe’s Americanized Toryism was +a bit more lively than the native brand, or that he leaned +so very far to the extreme Right that without knowing it +he sometimes tumbled into the verge of the extreme Left. +But, in any case, Mr. Waldo Tubbe was also a very great +man.</p> + +<p>Upon the charity of these three gentlemen our hero chiefly +but not extravagantly subsisted, skating indeed upon very +thin ice in his relations with them, and expending treasures +of diplomacy and dissimulation which might have been employed +in the service of his Country. It subsequently transpired +(why “transpired”?) that his Country did not need +his brains, but his blood.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Sunday in London. In the City, nuts, bolts, infinite curious +pieces of odd metal, embedded in the black shiny roads, +frozen rivers of ink, may be examined without danger. The +peace of commerce which passes all desolation. Puritan fervour +<span class="pagenum" id="p112">[112]</span>relapsed to negative depression. Gigantic wings of +Ennui folded irresistibly over millions. Vast trails of automobiles +hopelessly hooting to escape. Epic melancholy of +deserted side-streets where the rhythmic beat of a horse’s +hoofs is an adagio of despair. Horrors of Gunnersbury. The +spleen of the railway line between Turnham Green and +Hammersmith, the villainous sordidness of Raynes Park, +the ennui which always vibrates with the waiting train at +Gloucester Road Station, emerge triumphant when the Lord +is at rest and possess the streets. The rain is one melancholy, +and the sun another. The supreme insult of pealing bells +morning and evening. Dearly beloved brethren, miserable +sinners, stand up, stand up for Jesus. Who will deliver us, +who will deliver us from the Christians? O Lord Jesus, come +quickly, and get it over.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>It was a merry Sunday evening of merry England in the +month of March, 1912. After a long day of unremitting but +not very remunerative toil, George had gone to call on his +friend, Mr. Frank Upjohn. The word “friend” is here, as +nearly always, inexact, if by friend is meant one who feels +for another a disinterested affection unaccompanied by +sexual desire. (Friendship accompanied by sexual desire is +love, the phœnix or unicorn of passions.) In the case of +George and Mr. Upjohn there was at least a truce to the +instinctive hostility and grudging which human beings almost +invariably feel for one another. Ties of mutual self-interest +bound them. George made jokes and Mr. Upjohn +laughed at them: and vice versa. Mr. Upjohn desired to +make George a disciple, and George was not averse from +making use of Mr. Upjohn. Mutual admiration, implied if +not expressed and perhaps not wholly insincere, enabled +them to form a small protective nucleus against the oceanic +indifference of mankind; and thus feel superior to it. They +ate together, and even lent each other small sums of money +without security. The word “friend” is therefore justified +<i>à peu près</i>.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p113">[113]</span></p> +<p>Needless to say, Mr. Upjohn was a very great man. He +was a Painter. Since he was destitute of any intrinsic and +spontaneous originality, he strove much to be original, and +invented a new school of painting every season. He first +created a sensation with his daring and brilliant “Christ in +a Bloomsbury Brothel,” which was denounced in no unmeasured +terms by the Press, ever tender for the Purity of +Public Morals and the posthumous reputation of Our Lord. +“The Blessed Damozel in Hell” passed almost unnoticed, +when fortunately the model most unjustly obtained an +affiliation order against Mr. Upjohn, and thus drew attention +to a neglected masterpiece, which was immediately +bought by a man who had made a fortune in intimate rubber +goods. Mr. Upjohn then became aware of the existence +of modern French art. One season he painted in gorgeous +Pointilliste blobs, the next in monotone Fauviste smears, +then in calamitous Futuriste accidents of form and colour. +At this moment he was just about to launch the Suprematist +movement in painting, to which he hoped to convert George, +or at any rate to get him to write an article about it. +Suprematist painting, which has now unfortunately gone out +of fashion, was, as its name implies, the supreme point of +modern art. Mr. Upjohn produced two pictures in illustration +(the word is perhaps inaccurate) of his theories. One +was a beautiful scarlet whorl on a background of the purest +flake white. The other at first sight appeared to be a brood +of bulbous yellow chickens, with thick elongated necks, +aimlessly scattered over a grey-green meadow; but on closer +inspection the chickens turned out to be conventionalized +phalluses. The first was called Decomposition-Cosmos, and +the second Op. 49. Piano.</p> + +<p>Mr. Upjohn turned on both electric lights in his studio +for George to study these interesting productions, at which +our friend gazed with a feeling of baffled perplexity and +the agonized certainty that he would have to say something +about them, and that what he would say would inevitably +be wrong. Fortunately, Mr. Upjohn was extremely +<span class="pagenum" id="p114">[114]</span>vain and highly nervous. He stood behind George, coughing +and jerking himself about agitatedly:</p> + +<p>“What I mean to say is,” he said, puncturing his discourse +with coughs, “there you’ve got it.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, yes, of course.”</p> + +<p>“What I mean is, you’ve got precise expression of precise +emotion.”</p> + +<p>“Just what I was going to say.”</p> + +<p>“You see, when you’ve got that, what I mean is, you’ve +got something.”</p> + +<p>“Why, of course!”</p> + +<p>“You see, what I mean to say is, if you get two or three +intelligent people to <i>see</i> the thing, then you’ve got it. I +mean you won’t get those damned blockheaded sons of +bitches like Picasso and Augustus John to see it, I mean, +it simply smashes them, you see.”</p> + +<p>“Did you expect them to?”</p> + +<p>“You see, what you’ve got is complete originality <i>and</i> +The Tradition. One doesn’t worry about the hacks, you see, +but what I mean to say, one does <i>mildly</i> suppose Picasso +had a few gleams of intelligence, but what I mean is they +won’t <i>take</i> anything new.”</p> + +<p>“I get the originality, of course, but I admit I don’t quite +see the traditional side of the movement.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Upjohn sighed pettishly and waved his head from +side to side in commiserating contempt.</p> + +<p>“Of course, you <i>wouldn’t</i>. What intelligence you have was +ruined by your lack of education, and your native obtuseness +makes you instinctively prefer the academic. I mean, +can’t you SEE that the proportions of Decomposition-Cosmos +are exactly those of the Canopic vase in the +Filangieri-Museum at Naples?”</p> + +<p>“How could I see that,” said George, rather annoyed, +“since I’ve never been to Naples?”</p> + +<p>“That’s what I mean to say,” exclaimed Mr. Upjohn triumphantly, +“you simply have no education <i>what-so-ever!</i>”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p115">[115]</span></p> +<p>“Well, but what about the other?” said George, desiring +to be placable, “is that in the Canopic vase tradition?”</p> + +<p>“Christ-in-petticoats, NO! I thought even you’d see <i>that</i>. +What I mean is, can’t you <i>see</i> it?”</p> + +<p>“They might be free adaptations of Greek vase painting?” +said George tentatively, hoping to soothe this excitable +and irritated genius. Mr. Upjohn flung his palette +knife on the floor.</p> + +<p>“You’re <i>too</i> stupid, George. What I mean is the proportion +and placing and colour-values are exactly in the best +tradition of American-Indian blankets, and what I mean +is, when you’ve got that, well, I mean, you’ve got something!”</p> + +<p>“Of course, of course, it <i>was</i> stupid of me not to see. +Forgive me, I’ve been working at hack articles all day, and +my mind’s a bit muzzy.”</p> + +<p>“I mildly supposed so!”</p> + +<p>And Mr. Upjohn, with spasmodic movements, jerked the +two easels round to the wall. There was a short pause in +the conversation. Mr. Upjohn irritatedly cast himself at +full length upon a sofa, and spasmodically ate candied +apricots. He placed them in his mouth with his forefinger +and thumb, holding his elbow at a right angle to his +body, with his chin far extended; and bit them savagely in +half. George watched this impressive and barbaric spectacle +with the interest of one who at last discovers the meaning +of the mysterious rite of Urim and Thummim. A timid +effort at making conversation was repelled by Mr. Upjohn, +with a gesture which George interpreted as meaning that +Mr. Upjohn required complete silence to digest and sweeten +with candied apricots the memory of George’s treasonable +obtuseness. Suddenly George started, for Mr. Upjohn, after +coughing once or twice, swung himself from his couch +with incredible swiftness, hawked vigorously, flung open a +window with unnecessary violence and spat voluminously +into the street. He then turned and said calmly:</p> + +<p>“You’d better come along to fat Shobbe’s.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p116">[116]</span></p> +<p>George, who was young enough to enjoy going to miscellaneous +parties, gratefully acquiesced; and was still further +gratified by being allowed to witness the strange and complex +ablutions performed by Mr. Upjohn from a wash-basin +startlingly concealed in a veneered mahogany tail-boy.</p> + +<p>Mr. Upjohn was evidently a very clean man, at least +in those portions of his body exposed to the public gaze. +He washed and rinsed his face thoroughly, brushed his +teeth until George apprehended lest the bristles be worn +to the bone, gargled and spat freely. He soaped and pumiced +his hands, which were large, yellow and slightly spatulate; +and excavated his nails with singular industry and pertinacity. +He then sat down before a folding table-mirror in +three parts, which reflected both profiles as well as full-face +and combed and brushed and re-brushed and re-combed +his coarse hay-like hair until it crackled with induced electricity. +When Mr. Upjohn judged that hygiene and beauty-culture +had received their full due, he arrayed himself in a +clean collar, a tie of remarkable lustre and size, and a +narrow-waisted rather long coat which, taken in conjunction +with the worn but elegant peg-top trousers he had on, +gave him a pleasantly rake-helly and Regency look. This +singular scene, which occupied the better part of an hour, +was conducted by Mr. Upjohn with great gravity, varied +by the emission of a singular and discordant chant or hum, +and wild petulant oaths whenever any object of the toilet +or of his apparel did not instantly present itself to his +hand. Oddly enough, Mr. Upjohn was not a sodomist. He +was a professedly ardent admirer of what our ignorant forefathers +called the soft sex. Mr. Upjohn often asserted that +after the immense toils of Suprematist painting nothing +could rest him but the presence of several beautiful women. +While gallantly and probably necessarily discreet as to +his conquests, he was always prepared to talk about love, +and to give subtle erotic advice, which led any man who +had actually lain with a woman to suspect that Mr. Upjohn +was at best a fumbler and probably still a virgin.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p117">[117]</span></p> +<p>Mr. Upjohn then endued a very Regency thin grey overcoat, +stuck a long ebony cane with no handle under his +left arm-pit, tossed a soft grey hat rakishly on to his hair, +and made for the door. George followed, half-impressed, +half-amused by this childish swagger and self-conscious +bounce.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In the street the Sabbath ennui of London emerged from +its lair like a large dull grey octopus, and shot stealthy +feelers of depression at them. Mr. Upjohn, safe as Achilles +in the Stygian dip of his conceit, strode along energetically +with an inward feeling that he had gone one better on +James McNeill Whistler. The boredom of Mr. Upjohn came +from within, not from without. He was so absorbed in Mr. +Upjohn that he rarely noticed what was going on about +him.</p> + +<p>George fought at the monster and plunged desperately +into talk.</p> + +<p>“What about this coal strike? Will it ruin the country +as the papers say? Isn’t it a foolish thing on both sides?”</p> + +<p>This strike was George’s first introduction to the reality +of the “social problem” and the bitter class hatred which +smoulders in England and at times bursts into fierce crises +of hatred, restrained only by that mingling of fear and +“decency” which composes the servile character of the +British working man.</p> + +<p>“Well, what I mean to say is,” said Mr. Upjohn, who +very rarely managed to say what he meant but always +meant to say something original and startling, “it ain’t +our affair. But what I mean is, if the miners get more +money it’ll be all the better for us. They’re more likely to +buy our pictures than sons of bitches like Mond and old +Asquith.”</p> + +<p>George was a bit staggered at this. In the first place, +he had been looking at the problem from a national, not a +personal, point of view. And, in the second place, he knew +just a little about working men and their conditions. He +<span class="pagenum" id="p118">[118]</span>could not see how five shillings a week more would convert +the miners to collecting the Suprematist school of painting, +or make them abandon their cultivated amusements of +coursing, pigeon flying, gambling, wife-beating, and drinking. +But Mr. Upjohn delivered his <i>obiter dicta</i> with so much +aplomb that a boy of twenty might be excused for failing +to see their complete absurdity.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They were walking up Church Street, Kensington, that +dismal communication trench which links the support line +of Kensington High Street with the front line of Notting +Hill Gate. How curious are cities, with their intricate +trench systems and perpetual warfare, concealed but as +deadly as the open warfare of armies! We live in trenches, +with flat revetments of house-fronts as parapet and parados. +The warfare goes on behind the house-fronts—wives with +husbands, children with parents, employers with employed, +tradesmen with tradesmen, banker with lawyer, and the +triumphal doctor rooting out life’s casualties. Desperate warfare—for +what? Money as the symbol of power; power as +the symbol or affirmation of existence. Throbbing warfare +of men’s cities! As fierce and implacable and concealed as +the desperate warfare of plants and the hidden carnage of +animals. We walk up Church Street. Up the communication +trench. We cannot see “over the top,” have no vista of the +immense No-Man’s Land of London’s roofs. We cannot +pierce through the house-fronts. What is going on behind +those dingy unpierceable house-fronts? What tortures, what +contests, what incests, what cruelties, what sacrifice, what +horror, what sordid emptiness? We cannot pierce through +the pavement and Belgian blocks, see the subterranean +veins of electric cables, the arteries of gas and water mains, +the viscera of underground railways. We cannot feel the +water filtering through London clay, do not perceive the +relics of ruined Londons waiting for archæologists from +the antipodes, do not see, far, far down, the fossillised bones +of extinct animals and their coprolites. Here in Notting +<span class="pagenum" id="p119">[119]</span>Hill, the sabre-toothed tiger roared and savagely devoured +its victims, the huge-horned deer darted in terror; wolves +howled; the brown bear preyed; overhead by day screamed +eagles and by night flitted huge bats. Mysterious forest +murmurs, abrupt yells and threatening growls, and the +amorous hatred of female beasts, were vocal when the Channel +was the Rhine’s estuary.</p> + +<p>“Time passes,” said George. “What do we know of +Time? Prehistoric beasts, like the ichthyosaurus and Queen +Victoria, have laired and copulated and brought forth....”</p> + +<p>A motor-bus roared by, like a fabulous noisy red ox with +fiery eyes and a luminous interior, quenching his words.</p> + +<p>“Eh?” said Mr. Upjohn. “*****!”</p> + +<p>“Now, look at these simian bipeds,” George pursued, +pointing to an inoffensive pair of lovers and a suspicious +cop, “more foul, more deadly, more incestuously blood-lustful....”</p> + +<p>“You see, what I mean is, nothing matters to these people +but our conversation.... Now, what I mean is, you +get fat Shobbe to let you write an article on me and +Suprematism.”</p> + +<p>“We should go to the Zoo more often, and watch the +monkeys. The chimpanzee leaps with the dexterity of a +politician. The Irish-looking ourang smokes his pipe as +placidly as a Camden Town murderer. The purple-bottomed +mandrils on heat will initiate you into love. And the perpetual +chatter of the small monkeys—how like ourselves! +What ecstatic clicking about nothing! Go to the ape, +thou poet.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Upjohn laughed abruptly and spat with a raucous +cough:</p> + +<p>“An old idea, but what’s it got to do with <i>le mouvement?</i> +Still, what I mean is, I might do something with it....”</p> + +<p>Poor old George! He was a bloody fool. He never learned +how fatally unwise it is to express any sort of an idea to +a brother—still less to a sister—artist.</p> + +<p>Mr. Upjohn discoursed on Suprematism and himself.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p120">[120]</span></p> +<p>At Notting Hill Gate, George halted. The Sabbath ennui +shot its tentacles at him, and enlaced his spirit, dragging +him down into the whirlpool of wanhope. Why go on? Why +affront the veiled hostility of people? Why suffer those eyes +to search and those nimble unerring tongues to wound? Oh, +wrap oneself in solitude, like an armoured shroud, and bend +over the dead words of a dead language! A simian biped! +O gods, gods! And Plato talks of Beauty.</p> + +<p>“Come along,” shouted Mr. Upjohn, a few paces ahead, +“this way. Holland Park. Old Shobbe’ll be waiting for me +in that mob. What I mean is, he knows I’m the only other +intelligent person in London.”</p> + +<p>George still hesitated. He sank deeper in the maelstrom +of unintelligible and causeless despair. Why go on? The +adolescent love of death and suicide—corollary to youth’s +vitality and vivid energy—swept over him in choking waves. +To cease upon the midnight with no pain....</p> + +<p>“I think I shan’t come,” he shouted after the retreating +Mr. Upjohn.</p> + +<p>Mr. Upjohn hurried back and seized George’s arm:</p> + +<p>“What’s the matter with you? The best way to get an +article out of Shobbe is to go and see him on his Sunday +evenings. Come on. We shall be late.”</p> + +<p>No Euripidean chorus uttered gnomic reflections on the +inevitable and irresistible power of Ananke, the Destiny +which is above the gods. No bright god warned him, no +oracular voice spoke to him. Conflict of free-will and destiny! +But is there a conflict? Whether we move or are +still, whether we go to the right or the left, hesitate or +rush blindly forward, the thread is inexorably spun. Ananke. +Ananke.</p> + +<p>George yielded reluctantly to the tug at his arm.</p> + +<p>“All right, I’ll come.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p121">[121]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ II ]</h3> + + +<p>As they were shown into Mr. Shobbe’s large studio they +encountered an indescribable babble of human voices, +which gave strange point to George’s zoological remarks, +since it sounded as if all the macaws at the Zoo had got into +the monkey-house to argue with its inhabitants about +theology. Mr. Shobbe’s studio, or “stew-joe,” as his humbler +Cockney contributors called it, was already dim with +cigarette smoke. The excited and elevated babble of voices +was due to the fact that this was one of Mr. Shobbe’s rare +caviar and champagne evenings, and not one of the ordinary +beer and ham-sandwich <i>débâcles</i>. George and Mr. Upjohn +were still in the doorway, hidden by the opening doors, +when a couple of champagne corks popped. George noticed +a look of horror and perplexity, mingled with the satisfaction +always produced by the prospect of free alcohol, in +Mr. Upjohn’s countenance. George wondered vaguely why, +and followed the ebullient swagger of Mr. Upjohn into the +large room. It was not until long afterwards that he realized +the cause of this rapid and subtle flash of horror in Mr. +Upjohn. The champagne and caviar evenings were reserved +for the “better” contributors to, and the wealthier +guarantors of, Mr. Shobbe’s periodical. Upjohn was County +and Cambridge, with a small income and prospects of a +large inheritance from a senile aunt—he was therefore one +of the “better” contributors. George, on the other hand, +was merely middle-class, talented, and penniless. Mr. Upjohn +had thus committed a social error of hair-raising +enormity by bringing George to the champagne reception +under the false impression that it was merely a beer “do” +for the common mob.</p> + +<p>With genial bonhomie Mr. Shobbe greeted in Mr. Upjohn +<span class="pagenum" id="p122">[122]</span>the potential inheritance from the senile aunt. Upon +George he turned a coldly languid blue eye, and for a +moment lent him a hand even limper, flabbier and clammier +than usual. George noticed the difference, but ingenuously +assumed that it was because he was younger than +Mr. Upjohn and incapable of producing “Christ in a +Bloomsbury Brothel” or the doctrines of Suprematism. +But Mr. Upjohn, with more acute social ambitions, was +aware of his <i>gaffe</i>. He mumbled his apology, which was +almost lost in the surrounding babble:</p> + +<p>“Brought ’m ’long discuss ’n article on Me ’n S’prematism.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Shobbe only half-heard, and nodded vaguely. The +slight awkwardness of the situation was ended by the appearance +of Mrs. Shobbe, who greeted them both; and they +passed into the room. George attributed the feeling of strain +to his own shyness and aloofness. He was still <i>naif</i> enough +to suppose that people are welcomed for their own sake.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In justice to the distinguished gathering in Mr. Shobbe’s +studio (two “social” journalists were present) it must be +said that the babble and the excitement were not wholly +due to the champagne. Pre-war London was comparatively +sober. Numbers of women did not even drink at all, and +cocktails and communal copulation had not then been developed +to their present state of intensity. Whether the +art of scandal-mongering has suffered by this new social +activity is hard to say, but as ever it remains the chief +diversion of the British intelligentsia. Serious conversation +is, of course, impossible, on account of the paper-pirates +who are always hovering about to snatch up an idea. One +definite improvement is that the <i>bon mot</i>, the <i>recherché</i> +pun, the intentional witticism, are definitely discouraged. +Indeed one of the brightest of the post-war reputations was +created by a young man who had the self-restraint to sit +through forty-five literary parties without saying a word. +This frightened everybody so much that when this modern +<span class="pagenum" id="p123">[123]</span>lay Trappist departed you heard on all sides: “Brilliant +young man.”</p> + +<p>“Extraordinarily clever.”</p> + +<p>“I hear he’s writing a book on metaphysics in the Stone +Age.”</p> + +<p>“No, really?”</p> + +<p>“They say he’s the greatest living authority on pre-Columbian +literature.”</p> + +<p>“How quite too marvellous.”</p> + +<p>But in those distant pre-war days people strove to chatter +themselves into notice through a chaos of witticisms. +On this particular evening, however, witticisms were in the +background, for an event had occurred to stagger this small +cosmos of affectation into sincerity. With the exception of +George (who was too young and unknown to matter) and +a few women, almost everybody present had been connected +with a publishing firm which had suddenly gone bankrupt. +On Mr. Shobbe’s recommendation some of his wealthier +guarantors had put money into the firm; the painters were +“doing” illustrated editions or writing books on the Renaissance +artists still popular in those unenlightened days; and +the writers had received contracts for an almost unlimited +number of works. Money had been lavishly spent and some +rather amusing things had been begun. Then suddenly the +publisher vanished with the lady typist-secretary and the +remainder of the cash. Hence the excited babble.</p> + +<p>George stood, a little dazed, beside a small group of +youngish men and women. A dark, rather sinister-looking +young man kept saying:</p> + +<p>“Le crapule! Ah! le crapule!”</p> + +<p>George wondered vaguely who was a crapule and why, +and half-listened to the conversation.</p> + +<p>“He was paying me three hundred a year and...”</p> + +<p>“My last novel did so well that he gave me a five years’ +contract and an advance of...”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and I was getting twenty per cent...”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but do let me tell you this. Shobbe says that the +<span class="pagenum" id="p124">[124]</span>lawyers told him four thousand pounds of the money came +from the diocesan funds of...”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know. Shobbe told us.”</p> + +<p>“Le crapule!”</p> + +<p>“What’ll the archbishop say?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, they’ll smother that up.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but look here—do shut up for a minute, Bessie—what +I want to know is how do we stand? What about +our copyrights? Shobbe told me the legal position is...”</p> + +<p>“Hang the legal position. What do we get out of +it?”</p> + +<p>“Crapule!”</p> + +<p>“Nothing, probably. <i>You</i> won’t get much anyhow. He +hadn’t even published your book, and I was to get three +hundred a year and...”</p> + +<p>“It isn’t so much the money I mind as having my book +off the market when it was going so well—did you see the +long article on me in last week’s...”</p> + +<p>“Crapule!”</p> + +<p>George glanced almost affectionately at the sinister-looking +young man. It struck him that the repeated +“crapule” was addressed as much to his present audience as +to the unknown perpetrator of these calamities. At that +moment Mr. Upjohn came along, and George took him +aside.</p> + +<p>“I say, Frank, what’s all this talk about?”</p> + +<p>“Dear Bertie has eloped with Olga and the cash.”</p> + +<p>“Dear Bertie? Oh, you mean—. But the firm will go on, +won’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Go on the streets. You see, there isn’t a cent left. What +I mean is, I shall have to find some one else to do my +Suprematist book. What I mean to say is, Bertie had a +glimmering of intelligence....”</p> + +<p>“Who’s Olga?”</p> + +<p>But at that moment a lady with two unmarried daughters +and private information about the senile aunt’s fortune +plunged sweetly at Mr. Upjohn.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p125">[125]</span></p> +<p>“Oh, Mr. Upjohn, how <i>nice</i> to see you again! How <i>are</i> +you?”</p> + +<p>“Mildly surviving.”</p> + +<p>“You <i>never</i> came to my last at-home. Now, you <i>must</i> +come and have dinner next week. Sir George was <i>so</i> much +impressed last week by what you said about the new +school of painting you have founded—what <i>is</i> the name? +I’m so <i>stupid</i> about remembering names.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Upjohn introduced them:</p> + +<p>“Lady Carter—George Winterbourne. He’s a painter—of +sorts.”</p> + +<p>Lady Carter took in George at a glance—shabby clothes, +old tie carelessly knotted, hair too long, abstracted gaze, +poor, too young anyway—and was politely insolent. After +a few words, she and Mr. Upjohn walked away. She pretended +to be amused by Mr. Upjohn’s conversation.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>George went over to the table and took a sandwich and a +glass of champagne. The ceaseless babble of petty talk +about petty interests irritated and bored him. He felt isolated +and hate-obstinate. So this was Upjohn’s “only intelligent +group in London!” If this is “intelligence” then let +me be a fool for God’s sake. Better the great octopus ennui +outside than these jelly-fish tentacles stinging with conceit, +self-interest and malice.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>He went over to talk to Comrade-Editor Bobbe. Mr. +Bobbe was a sandy-haired, narrow-chested little man with +spiteful blue eyes and a malevolent class-hatred. He exercised +his malevolence with comparative impunity by trading +upon his working-class origin and his heart disease, of +which he had been dying for twenty years. Nobody of decent +breeding could hit Mr. Bobbe as he deserved, because his +looks were a perpetual reminder of his disease, and his +behaviour and habits gave continual evidence of his origin. +He was the Thersites of the day, or rather that would have +been the only excuse for him. Intellectually he was Rousseau’s +<span class="pagenum" id="p126">[126]</span>sedulous and somewhat lousy ape. His conversation +rasped. His vanity and class-consciousness made him yearn +for affairs with upper class women, although he was obviously +a homosexual type. Admirable energy, a swift and +sometimes remarkable intuition into character, a good +memory and excellent faculty of imitation, a sharp tongue +and brutal frankness, gave him power. He was a little +snipe, but a dangerous one. Although biassed and sometimes +absurd, his weekly political articles were by far the best +of the day. He might have been a real influence in the +rapidly growing Socialist Party if he could have controlled +his excessive malevolence, curbed his hankering for aristocratic +alcoves, and dismissed his fatuous theories of the +Unconscious, which were a singular mixture of misapprehended +theosophy and ill-digested Freud. George admired +his feverish energy and talents, pitied him for his +ill-health and agonized sense of class inferiority, disliked +his malevolence, and ignored his theories.</p> + +<p>“What are <i>you</i> doing here, Winterbourne? I shouldn’t +have thought Shobbe would invite <i>you</i>. You haven’t any +money, have you?”</p> + +<p>“Upjohn brought me along.”</p> + +<p>“Upjohn-and-at-’em? What’s he want of you?”</p> + +<p>“An article on his new school of painting, I think.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Bobbe tittered, screwing up his eyes and nose in +disgust, and flapping his right hand with a gesture of take-it-away-it-stinks.</p> + +<p>“Suprematist painting! Suprematist dung-bags! Suprematist +conceit and empty-headed charlatanism. Did you see +him toady to that Carter woman, <i>Lady</i> Carter? Puh!”</p> + +<p>There was such vindictiveness in that “puh” that George +was disconcerted. True, he himself suspected Mr. Upjohn +was a bit of a charlatan and knew he was odiously conceited; +at the same time, there was something very kind-hearted +and generous in poor Upjohn-and-at-’em, who had +received that nickname for his furious onslaughts on any +one who was established and successful in alleged defence +<span class="pagenum" id="p127">[127]</span>of any one who was struggling and neglected. Unfortunately, +these vituperative efforts of poor Mr. Upjohn did no good +to his friends and served only to bring himself advertisement—the +advertisement of ridiculousness. But George felt +he ought to say something in defence.</p> + +<p>“Well, of course, he’s eccentric and sometimes offensive, +but he’s got a streak of curious genius and real generosity.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Bobbe snarled rather than tittered.</p> + +<p>“He’s an insignificant toadying little cheese-worm. That’s +what he is, a toadying little <i>cheese-worm</i>. And you won’t +be much better, my lad, if you let yourself drift with these +people. You’ll go to pieces, you’ll just go <i>com-plete-ly</i> to +pieces. But humanity’s rotten. It’s all rotten. It stinks. It’s +worm-eaten. Look at those mingy fellows prancing round +those women on the tips of their toes. Cold-hearted, +****-********* mingy sneaks! Look at the women, pining +for a bit o’ real warm-hearted man’s love, and what do +they get? Mingy cold-hearted ********! I know ’em, I +know ’em. Curse the mingy lot of ’em. But it won’t last +long, it can’t. The workers won’t stand it. There’ll be a +revolution and a bloody one, and soon too. Mingy sons of +spats and eye-glasses!”</p> + +<p>George was amazed and embarrassed by this outburst. +He did, indeed, feel repelled by most of the gathering, particularly +by persons like Mr. Robert Jeames, the Poets’ +Friend, who made anthologies of all the worst authors, wore +a monocle and spats, and lisped through a wet tooth. But +after all Mr. Jeames was harmless and quite amiable. One +might not agree with his taste; one might not feel attracted +by him, or indeed by most of the people present. But there +was certainly a wide difference between such a feeling and +“mingy sneaks” and “cheese-worms.” Moreover, George was +a little offended by Mr. Bobbe’s proletarian vocabulary, +while he failed to see exactly why the sexual frigidity of a +few men in dinner jackets should cause the workers to rise +in bloody revolution.</p> + +<p>“I shouldn’t think the workers care a hoot. If it’s as +<span class="pagenum" id="p128">[128]</span>you say, the women are more likely to join the suffragettes.”</p> + +<p>“Faugh!” said Mr. Bobbe, “puh! Suffragettes? Take +them away. They smell. They’re unclean. They’re obscene. +Women and votes! It’s the last stage of decomposition of +the mingy world. When the women start to get power, it’s +the end. It means the men are done for, mingy cold-hearted +sneaks. Once let the women in, and nothing can save the +world. Socialism, perhaps, and a genuine out-reaching of +the inward unconscious Male-life to the dark Womb-life +in Woman. But no, they’re not worthy of it. Let ’em go. +You’ll see, my lad, you’ll see. Within five years there’ll +be a...”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Mr. Bobbe,” said Mrs. Shobbe’s voice, and a timid +little greyish lady, all in grey and silver, appeared, gentle +and fluttering, beside them, like a large gentle grey moth. +“Oh, Mr. Bobbe, do forgive me for interrupting your <i>interesting</i> +conversation. Lady Carter is <i>so</i> anxious to meet +you and admires you so much. I’m sure you’ll like her and +her two daughters—such <i>beautiful</i> girls.”</p> + +<p>George watched Mr. Bobbe as he bowed servilely to Lady +Carter and entered into an animated conversation with that +living rung in the social ladder. He watched the scene for +several minutes, and was just thinking of leaving when Mr. +Waldo Tubbe came near him.</p> + +<p>“Well, Winterbourne,” he remarked in his neat, mincing +English, “you appeared sunk in thought. What was the +precise object of your contemplation?”</p> + +<p>“Bobbe was inveighing against Upjohn for toadying to +Lady Carter, and then as soon as Mrs. Shobbe came and +asked him to be introduced, he rushed off and you can +see him there sitting at Lady Carter’s feet with clasped +hands.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Tubbe looked unnecessarily grave.</p> + +<p>“O-oh,” he said with a very genteel roll to the “o,” and +an air of suggesting unutterable things. This was a very +great asset to Mr. Tubbe in social intercourse. He found +that an interrogative silence on his part forced other people +<span class="pagenum" id="p129">[129]</span>to talk, and made them slightly ill at ease, so that they +betrayed what they did not always wish to express. He +would then gravely remark “Oe-oh” or “In-deed?” or +“Really?” with a deportmental air which was highly impressive +and somehow slightly reproving. It was reported +that Mr. Tubbe spent hours practising in private the +exact intonation of his “Oe-ohs,” “Reallys” and “Indeeds.” +He had certainly brought them to a high pitch of gentility +and suppressed significance. Mr. Tubbe drank a good deal—gin +mostly—but it must be said for him that the drunker +he got the more genteel and darkly significant he became.</p> + +<p>There was a pause after Mr. Tubbe’s “Oe-oh.” His interrogative +silence did its work. George plunged into talk, +saying the first thing which came into his head.</p> + +<p>“I came along with Upjohn, after seeing his new pictures.”</p> + +<p>“In-deed?”</p> + +<p>“He would like me to write an article on them, but it’s +very difficult. Honestly, I don’t understand them and think +they’re rather nonsense, don’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Oe-oh.”</p> + +<p>“Have you seen them?”</p> + +<p>“Noe-o.”</p> + +<p>Say something, blast you!</p> + +<p>Another long pause.</p> + +<p>“Well, my dear Winterbourne, I am very happy to have +had some conversation with you. Come in and see me soon, +quite soon. Will you excuse me? I must ask Lord Congreve +a question. Good-bye. <i>Good</i>-bye!”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>George observed the greeting between Mr. Waldo Tubbe +and Lord Congreve.</p> + +<p>“Hullo, Waldo!”</p> + +<p>“My <i>dear</i> Bernard...!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Tubbe shook hands with an air of restrained but +very considerable emotion. He treated Lord Congreve with +a kind of dignified familiarity, rather like Phélypeaux playing +<span class="pagenum" id="p130">[130]</span>billiards with Louis Quatorze. Mr. Shobbe, who was the +third party to this interesting re-union, behaved more easily, +with a <i>puissance-à-puissance</i> geniality. George could not +hear what they were saying, and did not want to. He was +watching Mrs. Shobbe, who was talking gently with two +younger women on a couch in one corner of the studio. +Poor Mrs. Shobbe, of whom one always thought as a soft, +kind, grey moth, for ever fluttering with kindly intent and +for ever fluttering wrong. She had that sweet exasperating +gentleness and refined incompetence which marked so many +women of the wealthier class whose youth was blighted by +Ruskin and Morris. Her portrait had been painted by +Burne-Jones—there it was on the wall, over-sweet, over-wistful, +stylized to look like one of his Arthurian damosels. +And there she was, grey and moth-like, the sweetness gone +insipid, the wistfulness become empty and regretful. Had +she ever looked like that portrait? No one would have +known it was she, unless they had been told.</p> + +<p>Poor Mrs. Shobbe! In turns one pitied, almost loved, +despised and was exasperated by her. Such crushed insipidity. +And yet such a gallant effort to do “what is right.” +Yet she somehow disgusted one with refinement and trying +to do what is right, and made one yearn sympathetically +towards a hard-swearing, hard-working, hard-drinking motor +mechanic. Her life must have been very unhappy. Her well-off +Victorian parents (wholesale wine trade, retired) had +given her a good education of travel and accomplishments, +and had systematically and gently crushed her. It was +chiefly the mother, of course, that abominable mother-daughter +“love” which is compact of bullying, jealousy, +parasitism and baffled sexuality. With what ghastly pertinacity +does a disappointed wife “take it out” on her +daughter! Not consciously, of course; but the unconscious +cruelty and oppression of human beings seem the most +dreadful. To escape, she had married Shobbe.</p> + +<p>Nothing can be more fatal for a girl than to marry an +artist of any kind. Have affairs with them, my dears, if you +<span class="pagenum" id="p131">[131]</span>like. They can teach you a great deal about life, human +nature and sex, because they are directly interested in these +matters, whereas other men are cluttered with prejudices, +ideals and literary reminiscences. But do not marry them, +unless you have a writing of divorcement in the pocket of +your night-gown. If you are poor, life will be horrid even +though there are no children; and if you have children, it +will be hell. If you have money, you may be quite sure +that it is not you but your money which has been espoused. +Every poor artist and intellectual is looking for a woman +to keep him. So you loot out, too. Of course, not only are +there no delicious marriages, there are not even any good +ones—Rochefoucauld was such an optimist. And in any +case marriage is a primitive institution bound to succumb +before the joint attack of contraceptives and the economic +independence of women. Remember, artists are not seeking +tranquillity and legitimate posterity, but experience and an +income. So look out!</p> + +<p>Poor Mrs. Shobbe did not look out, she had never been +allowed to do anything so unmaidenly. She became the +means whereby Mr. Shobbe avoided the dismal but common +fate of working for a living. He snubbed her, he +patronized her, he neglected her, he was unfaithful to her, +but hung on to her like a sloth to a tree-branch—she had +three thousand a year, most of which he spent. As for +Shobbe he was a plump and talented snob of German +origin. His aquiline nose was the one piece of evidence, +apart from his bad manners, which supported his claim to +aristocratic birth. Before the Great War he was always +talking about his year’s service in an aristocratic German +regiment, or beginning a sentence “When I was last with +the Kaiser,” or talking voluble German whenever there was +an audience, or saying “of course, you English...” After +the war he discovered that he was and always had been a +patriotic English gentleman. Be it said to his credit, he +“rolled up” himself and did not only “give” a few cousins. +But then, there was Mrs. Shobbe to get away from on a +<span class="pagenum" id="p132">[132]</span>legitimate excuse—how many patriotic English gentlemen +in the war armies were rather avoiding their wives than +seeking their country’s enemies? Shobbe was an excellent +example of the artist’s amazing selfishness and vanity. After +the comfort of his own person he really cared for nothing +but his prose style and literary reputation. He was also +an amazing and very amusing liar—a sort of literary Falstaff. +As for his affairs with women—my God! Yet, after all, +were they really so lurid? Probably they were grossly exaggerated +because Shobbe had talent, and everybody was +jealous of it....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>George suddenly became aware that Mrs. Shobbe was +beckoning to him from the couch. Some of the noisier +guests had departed—probably to drink more freely—and +a wide-opened window had carried away much of the +tobacco smoke. George emerged from his reverie and went +quickly over to her.</p> + +<p>“You know Mrs. Lamberton, don’t you, Mr. Winterbourne? +And this is Miss Paston, Elizabeth Paston.”</p> + +<p>How-do-you-dos.</p> + +<p>“And oh, Mr. Winterbourne, will you get us some iced +lemonade, please? We’re all dying of thirst in this smoky +room.”</p> + +<p>George brought the drinks, and sat down in a chair facing +the women. They chatted aimlessly. Soon Mrs. Shobbe +went away. She saw a lonely old maid in the opposite corner +of the room, and felt it “right” to talk to her. Mrs. +Lamberton sighed.</p> + +<p>“Why does one come to these intellectual agapes? An +expense of spirit in a waste of time.”</p> + +<p>“Now, Frances!” said Elizabeth, with her hard nervous +little laugh, “you know you’d hate it if you weren’t +asked.”</p> + +<p>“Besides, it’s one place where you’re sure not to meet your +husband,” said George.</p> + +<p>“Oh, but then I <i>never</i> see him. Only last week I had +<span class="pagenum" id="p133">[133]</span>to ask the servants if Mr. Lamberton were still alive or only +pre-occupied with a new conquest.”</p> + +<p>“And was he?”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“Alive.”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t know he ever had been.”</p> + +<p>They laughed, though the paltry jest was near the truth.</p> + +<p>“And yet,” George pursued, with the ruthless clumsiness +of youth, “you must have liked him once. Why? Why do +women like men? And on what singular principle do they +choose their husbands? Instinct? Self-interest?”</p> + +<p>Neither answered. Women do not like these questions, +especially from young men whose duty it is to be dazzled +by charms they cannot analyze. Of course, the questions +were impertinent; but if a young man is not impertinent, +what on earth is the use of him?</p> + +<p>The women lit cigarettes. George looked at Elizabeth +Paston. A slender figure in red silk; black glossy hair +drawn back from a high intellectual forehead; large, very +intelligent dark eyes; a rather pale, rather Egyptian-looking +face with prominent cheek bones, slightly sunken cheeks +and full red lips; a nervous manner. She was one of those +“near” virgins so common in the countries of sexual prohibition. +Her hands were slender, the line from her ear to +her chin exquisitely beautiful, her breasts too flat. She +smoked cigarettes too rapidly, and had a way of sitting +with a look of abstraction in a pose which showed off the +lovely line of her throat and jaw. Her teeth were a little +irregular. The delicate ear was like a frail pink shell under +the dark sea-fronds of her hair. Her calves and ankles, +such important indications of female character and temperament, +were hidden under the long skirts of those days; +but the bared arms and wrists were slender and a little +sensual as they lay along her clothed thighs. George was +greatly attracted. Apparently she also liked him, and Mrs. +Lamberton noticed it with that swift rather devilish intuition +of women. She rose to leave.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p134">[134]</span></p> +<p>“Oh, Frances, don’t go yet!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “I +only came to see you, and you were so surrounded by men +I have scarcely seen you.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, don’t go.”</p> + +<p>“I must. You don’t know the duties awaiting a careful +wife and good mother.”</p> + +<p>She slipped away, leaving them alone.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t she a dear?” said Elizabeth.</p> + +<p>“Something very lovely and precious. Even when she +talks nonsense in that slightly affected way she seems to +be saying something valuable.”</p> + +<p>“Do you think she is beautiful?”</p> + +<p>“Beautiful? Yes, in a way, but she isn’t one of those +horrid regular beauties. You notice her at once in a room, +but you’d never see her on the walls of the Academy. It +isn’t her beauty so much as her personality, and that you +feel more by intuition than by observation. And yet the +effect is beauty.”</p> + +<p>“Are you very much in love with her?”</p> + +<p>“Why, aren’t you? Isn’t every one?”</p> + +<p>“In love with her?”</p> + +<p>George was silent. He was not sure whether the question +was <i>naif</i> or very much the reverse. Elizabeth changed the +conversation.</p> + +<p>“What do you ‘do’?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m a painter, and I write hack articles for Shobbe +and such people to earn a living.”</p> + +<p>“But don’t you sell your pictures?”</p> + +<p>“I try to, but you see people in England aren’t much +interested in modern art, not as they are on the Continent +or even in America. They want the same old thing done +over again and done with more sugar. One thing about the +British bourgeois—he doesn’t know anything about pictures +but very stoutly stands for what he likes, and what he +likes is anything except art. The newest historians say +that the Anglo-Saxons come from the same race as the +Vandals, and I can well believe it.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p135">[135]</span></p> +<p>“Surely there are some up-to-date collectors in England.”</p> + +<p>“Why, yes, of course, probably as many as anywhere else, +but too many of them collect pictures as an investment and +so only take what the dealers advise them to buy; others +are afraid to touch English art, which has gone soggy with +pre-Raphaelitism and touched imbecility with the anecdotal +picture. There are people with taste and enthusiasms, but +they’re nearly all poor. It’s much the same in Paris. The +new painters there are having a terrific struggle, but they’ll +win. The young are with them. And then in Paris it’s +rather chic to know the latest movements and to defend +the rebel artists against the ordinary mass ignorance and +hostility. Here they’re still terrified by the fate of Oscar, +and it’s chic to be a sporting imbecile. The English think +it’s virile to have no sensibilities.”</p> + +<p>“Are you English or American?”</p> + +<p>“English, of course. Should I care about them if I were +not? In a way, of course, it doesn’t really matter. The +nationalist epoch of painting is over—it’s now an international +language centred in Paris and understood from +Petersburg to New York. What the English think doesn’t +matter.”</p> + +<p>George was excited and talking volubly. Elizabeth encouraged +him. Females know instinctively or by bitter experience +that males like to tell them things. It is so very +curious that we talk of vanity as if it were almost exclusively +feminine, whereas both sexes are equally vain. Perhaps +males are vainer. Women are sometimes plainly revolted +by really inane compliments, while there is no flattery +too gross for a male. There simply isn’t. And not one of +us is free from it. However much you may be on your guard, +however much you may think you dislike it, you will find +yourself instinctively angling for female flattery—and getting +it. Oh, yes, you’ll get it, just as long as that subtle +female instinct warns them there is potency in your +loins....</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p136">[136]</span></p> +<p>“Mother of the race of Æneas, voluptuous delight of +gods and men, sacred Aphrodite”—how does it go? But +the poet is right. She, the sacred one, the imperious reproductive +instinct, with all Her wiles and charms, is indeed +the ruler over all living things, in the waters, in the air, +on land. Over us her sway is complete, for it is not seasonal +but permanent. (Who was the lady who said that if the +animals don’t make love all the time the reason is that +they are <i>bêtes?</i>) Priests, with all weapons from circumcision +to prudery, have warred with Her; legislators have +laid down rules for Her; well-meaning persons have tried +to domesticate Her. Useless! “At thy coming, goddess,” +the celibate hides his shaved crown and sneaks to a brothel, +the clerk in holy orders enters into holy matrimony, the +lawyer visits the little shop-girl he “helps,” domestic peace +is shaken alive with adulteries. For man is an ambulatory +digestive tube which wants to keep alive, and Death waits +for him. Descartes was a fool in these matters, like so many +philosophers. “I think, therefore I am.” Idiot! I am because +others loved; I love that others may be. Hunger and +Death are the realities, and between those great chasms flits +a little Life. The enemy of Death is not Thought, not +Apollo with gold shafts of light, useless against the Foe of +gods and men, as you see him in the prologue to “Alkestis.” +It is She, the Cyprian, who triumphs, woman-like with her +wiles. Generations She yields Him, the Devourer, as His +prey, and unwearyingly raises up new races of men and +women. It is She who swells the loins of men with an intolerable +burden of seed; She who makes ready the thirsty +womb; She who creates implacable desire and infinite +yearning and compels the life-giving act; *** *** ****** +*** **** ***** ********* **** *** **** **** ********* +******; She who plumps the flat white belly and then, +treacherous and cruel to Her instrument once Her purpose +is achieved, with intolerable anguish tears forth from shaking +mother-flesh the feeble fruit of Man. All the thoughts +and emotions and desires of adult men and women circle +<span class="pagenum" id="p137">[137]</span>about Her, and Her enemies are but Death’s friends. You +may elude Her with asceticism, you may thwart Her purpose +(who shall write a new myth of the rubber-tree, +Death’s subtle gift?), but if you love Life you must love +Her, and if you puritanically say She is not, you are both a +fool and Death’s servant. If you hate Life, if you think +the suffering outweighs the pleasure, if you think it the +supreme crime to transmit life, then you must indeed dread +Her as the author of the supreme evil—Life.</p> + +<p>Elizabeth and George talked and found each other delightful. +They thought it was their interest in art and ideas. +Delightful error! All the arts of mankind are the Cyprian’s +hand-maids, and even the chaster and tweeded spectre Sport +has unwittingly been made Her pander—for with no grudging +hand does the Goddess scatter Her gifts, smiling upon +the amorous play of children and not disdaining even those +who desire their own sex. She is beneficent and knows there +are only too many ready to propagate and is not anxious +to create too many victims for Hunger, and therefore +patronizes even the heretics of Sparta and Lesbos....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>We should turn churches into temples to Venus, and set +up a statue to Havelock Ellis, the moral Hercules who has +partially succeeded in cleansing the Augean stable of the +white man’s mind....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Under the benign influence of the Cyprian they talked, +they went on talking. They had drifted on to the topics of +Christ and Christianity, that interminable <i>pons asinorum</i> of +youthful discussions.</p> + +<p>“But I think Christ is wonderful,” Elizabeth was saying +with an air of having discovered something, “because he +completely ignored social values and considered people only +for what they really were in themselves. It is so strange +to think of his being made the pretext for the world’s most +elaborate system of priest-craft when the whole of his life +and teaching are a protest against it.”</p> + +<p>“The bohemian Christ? But have you noticed what a +<span class="pagenum" id="p138">[138]</span>Proteus he is? Everybody interprets the historical Jesus to +please himself. He is a whole mythology in himself. If you +really try to discover the historical Jesus, you find you keep +stripping away veil after veil, and then just as you think +you are coming to the real figure, you find there’s nothing +there. But, I grant you, Christ is a very sympathetic figure. +What I cannot endure is Christianity and the harm it has +done Europe. I detest its system of values, its persecution, +its hatred of life (it worships a tortured and expiring god), +its cult of self-sacrifice and sexual aberrations, like sadism, +masochism and chastity....”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth laughed, a little shocked.</p> + +<p>“Oh, oh! Now you are exaggerating!”</p> + +<p>“Not at all. I think I could prove what I say, at the expense +of some time and boring you. Consider the lives of +Saints like Catherine of Siena, Sebastian and all the infinite +martyrs, look at their representation in art; and then ask +yourself what instincts are really satisfied by the cult of +these personalities and images.”</p> + +<p>“That sounds like good Protestant prejudice.”</p> + +<p>“There are lots of things I detest in Protestantism—its +smugness and aridity for instance—but I like its honesty. +And we owe it a great deal. It was because of the political +inconveniences resulting from a multitude of sects, that +Holland and England reintroduced religious tolerance, which +had disappeared with the triumph of the Christians. Of +course, the tolerance is not complete, because the Christians +are still persecutors at heart and have a thousand ways +of vexing and maligning those who disagree with them or +are merely indifferent. Hence the extraordinary defensive +puritanism of many English rationalists. But something has +been achieved. After all, during many centuries I should +have been arrested, tortured and probably murdered for +what I have just said to you, and you would have thought +me a carbonized monster. Now any alleged truth or moral +proposition or belief which has to be enforced by torture +or defended by sophistry stands self-condemned.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p139">[139]</span></p> +<p>Was ever woman in this manner wooed? But George had +mounted one of his hobby-horses and was careering away +through a dust of words. Elizabeth, with practical instinct, +stopped him.</p> + +<p>“Where do you live?”</p> + +<p>“In Greek Street. I’ve got a large room there, big enough +to paint in. Where do you live?”</p> + +<p>“In Hampstead. It’s rather horrid and the place is full of +old maids. But anything is better than being at home. I +don’t mind my father, but my mother makes me so nervous +when I’m at home that I feel I shall just die if I have to +be any longer with her.”</p> + +<p>“I’m so glad you hate your parents, at least one of them. +It’s so important to recognize these antipathies, which are +after all perfectly natural. Most animals hate their mature +young. I remember I used to watch the young robins exterminating +their fathers and think how right it was. But it +ought to be the mothers. Men somehow leave each other +alone.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s partly due to the awful domestic-den family life. +They can’t really help it, poor dears. The den was forced on +them, and they had to live in it.”</p> + +<p>“Not really. They must have wanted it. It’s all part of +people’s amazing cowardice, their panic terror of life. It’s +a device of governments, an official cheat.” George was off +again. “All states are founded on the obligation of a man to +provide for the child he begets and the woman who produces +it. The State wants children, wants more and more +‘citizens’ for various reasons. The State exploits the love of +a man for a woman and his tenderness towards her children—even +she may not know whether they’re his or not. +And so she’s taught to say: ‘Be careful, step warily, don’t +offend any one, remember your first duty is to provide for +me and the children, you mustn’t let us starve, oh, do be +careful,’ with the result that the poor man very soon +becomes a member of the infinite army of respectable commuters....”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p140">[140]</span></p> +<p>“Oh! Oh!” Elizabeth laughed again, “why are you so +full of moral indignation?”</p> + +<p>“I’m not. Most of my brilliant acquaintances, like Upjohn, +have so much to say about themselves that I never seem to +get a chance of discussing anything else. And my non-brilliant +acquaintances are simply shocked and reproving. They +think I’m utterly damned because I read Baudelaire, for +instance. Have you noticed the British middle-class superstition +that anything they can label ‘Gallic’ must necessarily +be libidinous and depraved? I get tired of telling +them that the beauty of Baudelaire’s verse is infinitely +more spiritual and ‘uplifting’—to use their damned cant—than +all the confounded nonconformist-baptist-cum-Salvation +Army....”</p> + +<p>But the end of George’s denunciation was never uttered, +for at that moment they were interrupted by the gentle Mrs. +Shobbe.</p> + +<p>“Excuse me for interrupting you, Mr. Winterbourne. +Elizabeth dear, do you know how late it is? I’m afraid +you’ll miss the last bus, and you know I promised your +dear mother I would look after you....”</p> + +<p>Both George and Elizabeth saw with surprise and some +embarrassment that the studio was nearly empty. Almost +every one else had gone and they hadn’t noticed it, absorbed +in their delightful exploration of each other. Of course, in +these cases it isn’t what is said that matters, but all that +remains unsaid. The talk is mere “parade,” a rustling out of +the peacock’s tail, a kind of antennæ delicately fumbling. +Lovers are like mirrors—each gazes rapturously at himself +reflected in the other. How delicious the first flashes of +recognition!</p> + +<p>Elizabeth jumped nervously to her feet, almost upsetting +a small table.</p> + +<p>“Oh, my! I’d no idea it was so late. I must go. Good-bye, +Mr.—Mr.—”</p> + +<p>“Winterbourne,” said George. “But if you’re going to +Hampstead, let me take you back as far as Tottenham +<span class="pagenum" id="p141">[141]</span>Court Road and put you on the Hampstead bus. It’s not out +of my way at all.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, do, Elizabeth. I feel so nervous at your being alone +in London at night like this. Whatever should we do if anything +happened to you?”</p> + +<p>“Why, what’s likely to happen?” said George contemptuously, +ever ready to defend the cause of female emancipation, +“she’s got sense enough not to let herself be run over, +and if any one tries to rape her she can yell for a policeman.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“Such a violent and rude young man,” Mrs. Shobbe lamented +as they went for Elizabeth’s things. “But they’re all +like that now. They seem to have <i>no</i> respect for <i>anything</i>, +not even the purity of womanhood. I don’t know if I ought +to let him take you home, Elizabeth.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that’s all right; besides, I rather like him. He’s quite +amusing. I shall ask him to come and have tea with me at +my studio.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Elizabeth!</i>”</p> + +<p>But Elizabeth was already at the door where George was +waiting. All the guests had departed, except Mr. Upjohn and +Mr. Waldo Tubbe. A last whiff of their conversation +reached George’s ears:</p> + +<p>“You see, what I mean is, you take Suprematism, what I +mean is, you see, there you’ve got something....”</p> + +<p>And like the toll of Big Ben over the sleeping city came +Mr. Tubbe’s last, deep-breathed, significant, deportmental:</p> + +<p>“Oe-oh.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p142">[142]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ III ]</h3> + + +<p>This banal party and banal conversation with Elizabeth +were of capital importance in George’s life. The party, +with its revelations of character and general tedium, confirmed +George in his growing dislike for the intellectual +banditti. Self-interest, though universal, is less tolerable in +those who are supposed to be above it—there is, of course, +no reason why a good artist should not be successful, but +when one considers the intrigues now necessary for success +there is a natural prejudice in favour of those who do not +elbow in the throng. Vanity is none the less odious even +when there is some reason for it, though why any one should +feel vain of publishing books and exhibiting pictures is a +mystery, when you reflect that two thousand novels a year +are published in England alone and that tens of thousands +of canvases are showed annually in Paris. Gossip and scandal +are none the less scandal and gossip even when witty +and the victims are more or less conspicuous in the small +world which receives, or haughtily disdains to receive, press-cuttings. +George felt it rather unimportant to know which +talented lady was “with” which famous gentleman. His interest +was comparatively so languid that he forgot most of +the scandal he was told ten minutes after he heard it, and +rarely bothered to repeat what little he remembered. Somehow +people are frightfully offended if you say, “Does it +matter?” when they tell you with sparkling eyes that somebody +you know has run away with the mistress of Snooks, +the painter, or that Pocock, the eminent impresario, has +just celebrated the birth of his twenty-fifth illegitimate +child. Does it matter, indeed! Why this fascinated delight +in the private lives of the great? They’re just as sordid as +everybody else’s.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p143">[143]</span></p> +<p>The artist, anyway, is not nearly so important as he +thinks himself. It’s all poppycock and swagger for Baudelaire +to say that a man can live three days without food but +not a day without poetry. It may have been true of Baudelaire; +it certainly isn’t true of the world in general. In any +nation only a comparatively small minority are interested +in the arts, and most of those merely want to be amused. +If all the artists and writers of a nation were suddenly +obliterated by some plague of Egypt, some legitimately +vengeful angel, most people would be totally unaware that +they had suffered any loss, unless the newspapers made a +fuss about it. But let the journeymen bakers go on strike +for a fortnight.... If I were a millionaire it would amuse +me to go about giving high-minded artists five hundred +pounds a year to shut up. The suggestion is not copyright.</p> + +<p>Our young friend was, of course, filled with numerous +high-falutin’ delusions about the supreme importance of art +and the dazzling supremacy of artists over the rest of mankind. +But he had two fairly sound ideas. One was that the +artist should do his job, like any one else, as well as he +could, without making too much fuss about it; the other +was that knowledge of the arts and practice of any art are +chiefly important for sharpening the intelligence and perceptions, +extending one’s experience and intensifying life. +These objects are not furthered by scandal, preposterous +vanity and arrivism. He was therefore perfectly right in +feeling a certain amount of contempt for Mr. Shobbe’s +guests. The life of Rousseau the Douanier is infinitely more +respectable than that of a fashionable portrait-painter, touting +socially for orders.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Elizabeth and George continued their conversation on +the bus from Holland Park to Tottenham Court Road. Like +most bright young things they abounded in their own sense. +As George said, it was perfectly obvious that they were an +immense improvement on their predecessors, that they knew +exactly how to avoid the lamentable errors and absurdities +<span class="pagenum" id="p144">[144]</span>of former generations, and that they were going to have +most interesting and delightful lives. Anybody who has not +felt these pleasing delusions at the age of twenty must, +I fear, be ranged in George’s category of abject morons. +Youth is so much more valuable than experience; it is also +far more intelligent. Few things are more astounding and +touching than the kindly tolerance of the young for their +imbecile elders. For, have no doubts about it, even the +greatest minds degenerate annually, and the finest moral +character is repulsive at forty. Think of the fire and flash +and inspiring genius of young General Bonaparte and the +stupid degeneracy of the Emperor who had to retreat ignominiously +from Moscow. A nation which relies on the alleged +wisdom of sexagenarians is irrevocably degenerate. Attila +was only thirty when he sacked sexagenarian Rome—at +least, he ought to have been.</p> + +<p>Elizabeth and George were very young and hence, on <i>a +priori</i> grounds, extremely intelligent. Probably the highest +intensity of life ever reached by man or woman is in the +early stages of their first real love affair, particularly if it +is not thwarted by insane social and religious prejudices +inherited from the timid and envious aged, and not contaminated +by marriage.</p> + +<p>They emerged from the stuffy smoke-heavy room into the +broad avenue, and walked towards Notting Hill tube station. +A warm southwesterly wind was blowing, moisture-laden, +the kindly courier of Spring. Gone was the raw acrid +damp of Winter, and they imagined they could taste in +the air the faint salt flavour of southern seas and the earthy +English acres.</p> + +<p>“We shall have rain to-morrow,” said George, instinctively +looking up at the cloudy sky invisible beyond the +glare of street lamps. “It is Spring at last. The crocuses will +be nearly over. I must go and look at the flowers at Hampton +Court. Will you come?”</p> + +<p>“I’d love to, but isn’t Hampton Court full of trippers?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p145">[145]</span></p> +<p>“Not if you go at the right time. I have walked there in +the early morning as solitary as ever King Charles when +the Privy Garden was really private. I should rather like +to Jive in King William’s summer-house.”</p> + +<p>“I like wilder and more primitive country, the Downs and +those great round empty Exmoor hills. And I like the clear +rough waves dashing against the rocks in Cornwall.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know Cornwall, but I love the Downs above Storrington +and I’ve walked over Exmoor twice. But now I’m +rather in revolt against mere country—‘Nature,’ as they +used to call it. Nature-worship is a sort of Narcissus-worship, +holding up Nature’s mirror to ourselves. And how +abominably selfish these Nature-worshippers are I Why! +they want a whole landscape to themselves and they complain +bitterly when farm-labourers want modern grocery +stores and W. C.’s. Whole communities apparently are to +live in static ignorance and picturesque decay in order to +gratify their false ideas of what is beautiful.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, I hate the Simple-Lifers too. There was a set +of them near the place in the seaside where we went for +the holidays as children....”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Have you got brothers and sisters?”</p> + +<p>“A sister and two brothers. Why, haven’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I believe so, but I never think about it. Relatives +are awful—they contribute absolutely nothing to your interest +in life, and think that gives them a perpetual right +to interfere in your affairs. And they have the monstrous +impudence to pretend that you ought to love them. ‘Blood +is thicker than water,’ they say sententiously. So it may be, +but I don’t want to dabble in thick blood. I hate proverbs, +don’t you? I’ve always noticed that anything absurd or +tyrannical or fatuous can always be supported by a proverb—the +collective stupidity of the ages. But, I say, I’m so +sorry I interrupted you. I go on talking and talking, and +don’t give you a chance to say a word.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I like it. I think your ideas are amusing.”</p> + +<p>“Not amusing, merely common-sense. But you mustn’t let +<span class="pagenum" id="p146">[146]</span>me talk all the time. You see, I find most people rather +oppress my spirits, and keep me from saying what I really +think. So as a rule I’m silent, but when I find a sympathetic +victim, well, you’ve already had a bitter experience +of how I chatter nineteen to the dozen. There, I’m off again! +Now tell me what you were going to say about the Simple-Lifers.”</p> + +<p>“The Simple-Lifers? Oh, yes, I remember. Well, there +was a set of people down there who had fled from the +horrors of the mechanical age—you know, the usual art-y +sort, Ruskin-cum-William Morris....”</p> + +<p>“Hand-looms, vegetable diet, long embroidered frocks +and home-spun tweed trousers from the Hebrides? I know +them. ‘News from Nowhere’ people. What a gospel to lead +nowhither!”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Well, they were to lead the simple life, work with +their hands part of the time, and do arts and crafts and +write the rest of the time. They were also to show the +world an example of perfect community life. They used to +make the farm girls dance round a Maypole—the boys +wouldn’t come, they stood in the lane and jeered.”</p> + +<p>“And what happened?”</p> + +<p>“Well, those who hadn’t private incomes got very hard +up, and were always borrowing money off the two or three +members who had money. The arts and crafts didn’t sell, +and the toiling on the land had very meagre results. Then +they got themselves somehow into two or three cliques, +always running down the people in the other cliques, talking +scandal about them, and saying they were ruining everything +by their selfish behaviour. Then the wife of one of +the rich members ran away with one of the men, and the +other rich members were so scandalized that they went +away too, and the whole community broke up. The village +was very glad when they went. The farmers and gentry +were furious because they talked Socialism and the ideal +state to the labourers. And all the labourers’ wives were +furious because the Simple-Life women tried to brighten up +<span class="pagenum" id="p147">[147]</span>their lives and make them furnish their cottages ‘artistically....’”</p> + +<p>They had missed two buses outside the tube station in +their excited chatter. A third came along. George grabbed +Elizabeth’s arm:</p> + +<p>“Come on, here’s our bus. Let’s go on top.”</p> + +<p>The bus-top was empty except for a couple spooning on +a back-seat. George and Elizabeth a little haughtily went to +the very front.</p> + +<p>“Other peoples’ love-affairs are very tedious,” said George +sententiously.</p> + +<p>“Oh, very.”</p> + +<p>“Rather primitive and humiliating.”</p> + +<p>“Why humiliating?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, because...”</p> + +<p>“Fares, please!”</p> + +<p>The conductor lurched skilfully against the front of the +bus as it made a cow-like leap forward. George raked in +his pocket for the pennies.</p> + +<p>“Let me pay my share.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth produced a sixpence.</p> + +<p>“Oh, no, please. Look, let me take you back to Hampstead, +and you can pay from Tottenham Court Road.”</p> + +<p>“All right.”</p> + +<p>The conductor and the fare-paying had interrupted the +rhythm of their communication. They were silent. The bus +ran noisily along the wave-furrowed shiny tarred street, +with the dark mystery of Kensington Gardens to the right +and the equally mysterious boarding-houses of Bayswater to +the left. Near the street-lamps the grass behind the railing +was a vivid artificial green, as if some one had splashed +down a bucket-ful of bright paint. Like savages in some +primitive dance, the ancient trees swayed slowly, irregularly +and mysteriously in the strong wind. A red apocalyptic +glow from the lights of Oxford Street stained luridly and +uneasily the low rolling clouds before them. The grey monster +Ennui of Sunday-in-London had vanished. George took +<span class="pagenum" id="p148">[148]</span>his hat off and let the wind rumple his hair. Their young +cheeks were fresh with driving moist wind.</p> + +<p>“Don’t you really like the Pre-Raphaelites?” asked Elizabeth, +as the bus slowed down near Lancaster Gate.</p> + +<p>“I used to. About three years ago I was quite cracked +about Rossetti and Burne-Jones and Morris. Now I simply +hate them. I can still read Browning and Swinburne—Browning +for his sense of life, Swinburne for his intoxicating +rhetoric. But after spending three months in Paris I got +frightfully excited about modern painting. Do you know +Apollinaire?”</p> + +<p>“No, who’s he?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, he’s a Polish Jew who has written some quite good +poems and does amusing word-pictures he calls Calligrammes. +He lives by writing and editing obscene books, +and he’s the great defender of the new painters like Picasso +and Braque and Léger and Picabia.”</p> + +<p>“The Cubists?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve only heard of them. I never saw any of their work. +I thought they were just ‘wild men’ and <i>fumistes?</i>”</p> + +<p>“You wait ten years, and see then if you dare to say that +Picasso is a <i>fumiste!</i> But haven’t you been to Paris?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I was there last year, in September.”</p> + +<p>“We must have been there together. How curious, I wish +I’d seen you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it was very dull. I was with father and mother, +and everybody we met kept talking about the coming war +with Germany. A friend of father’s in the Admiralty +told him in confidence that it was absolutely certain to +happen.”</p> + +<p>“What nonsense!” said George explosively, “what absolute +nonsense! Haven’t you read Norman Angell’s ‘Great +Illusion’? He shows quite conclusively that war does nearly +as much damage to the victor as the conquered. And he also +says that the structure of modern international commerce +and finance is so delicate and widespread that a war couldn’t +<span class="pagenum" id="p149">[149]</span>possibly last more than a few weeks without coming to an +end automatically, because all the nations would be ruined. +I’ll lend you the book if you like.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know anything about such things, but father’s +friend said the Government was very worried about the +position.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t believe it. What! A war between European nations +in the twentieth century? It’s quite unthinkable. We’re +far too civilized. It’s over forty years since the Franco-Prussian +War....”</p> + +<p>“But there’s been a Russo-Japanese War and the Balkan +Wars....”</p> + +<p>“Well, yes, but they’re different. I can’t believe any of the +big European nations would start a war with another. Of +course, there are Chauvins and Junkers and Jingoes, but +who cares a hang about them? The people don’t want war.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, I don’t know, but I heard Admiral Partington +telling father that the navy is bigger, newer and more efficient +than it’s ever been. And he said the German army is +huge and most efficient, and the French are so frightened +they’ve made the period of conscription three years. And he +said, look out when the Kiel canal is opened.”</p> + +<p>“Good Lord, you surely don’t believe what stodgy old +Admirals say, do you? It’s their job to frighten people with +war scares so that they can go on getting money out of the +country and building their ridiculous Dreadnoughts. I met +a coast-guard officer last summer, who got drunk and said +he’d sealed orders as to what to do in case of war. I told +him I thought that seal would not be broken until the +angels in the Apocalypse arrived.”</p> + +<p>“And what did he say to that?”</p> + +<p>“He just shook his head, and ordered another whiskey.”</p> + +<p>“Well, it doesn’t concern us. It’s not our business.”</p> + +<p>“No, thank God, it doesn’t and can’t concern us.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They were in Oxford Street, rolling past the shuttered +shop-fronts. A good many people were on the pavements, +<span class="pagenum" id="p150">[150]</span>but the street was comparatively empty of vehicles, empty +and sonorous. As they ran down past Selfridge’s, the curved +line of lights in the centre of the street looked like an +uncoiled necklace of luminous, glittering beads. At Oxford +Circus they gazed down old Regent Street with its long +lines of <i>café-au-lait</i> Regency houses, broken only at the +Quadrant by the new Piccadilly Hotel.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t that like us?” said George. “We have an attempt +at town-planning, and dull as Nash is, at any rate his design +is simple and dignified, and then we go and ruin the +Quadrant with a horrid would-be-modern hotel.”</p> + +<p>“But I thought you believed in modernity in art.”</p> + +<p>“So I do, but I don’t believe in mucking up the art of +the past if it can be avoided. Besides, I don’t call these +pastiches of Renaissance palaces modern architecture. The +only people who have got a live modern architecture are the +Americans, and they don’t know it.”</p> + +<p>“Those awful sky-scrapers!”</p> + +<p>“They’re awful in one way, but they’re original. I saw +some photographs of New York from the harbour recently, +and I thought it the most beautiful city in the world, a sort +of gigantic and stupendous Venice. I’d like to go there, +wouldn’t you?”</p> + +<p>“No, I’d like to go to Paris and live in the real student’s +quarter, and to Italy and Spain.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The bus stopped at the end of Tottenham Court Road. +They got down, and crossed the street to wait for the +Hampstead bus.</p> + +<p>“Look here,” said Elizabeth, “why do you bother to come +all the way out to Hampstead? I’m perfectly used to going +about alone. I shall be all right.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, you would be. But I’d like to come most +awfully. I hope I shall see a good deal of you, and we +haven’t arranged where and when to meet again.”</p> + +<p>“But there won’t be a bus back.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p151">[151]</span></p> +<p>“Oh, I shall walk. I like walking. And it’ll be an antidote +to the fug and idiotic talk at Shobbe’s. Here’s the bus. +Come on.”</p> + +<p>They clambered on to the top of the bus, and again got +the front seat. Elizabeth took off her right-hand glove to +pay the fare, and after the conductor had gone George +gently and rather timidly put his hand on hers. She did not +withdraw it. Having established this delicious and dangerous +contact, they sat silent for a while. The firm cool male +hand gently espoused her slim glove-warmed fingers. In +them both was the exaltation of the Cyprian, potential +desire recognized only as a heightening of vitality. The first +step along the primrose path—how delightful! But whither +does it lead? To what everlasting bonfires of servitude or +ashy wastes of indifference? Neither of them thought of the +future. Why should they? The young at least have the sense +to live only in the present moment.</p> + +<p>Preceded by the silver dove-drawn chariot of the Paphian, +the heavy bus lumbered northward. Sweet is the smile of +Cypris, but ironic and a little terrifying, enigmatic as the +fixed smile of the Veian Apollo.</p> + +<p>Like all imaginative and sensitive men George was not +what is called an enterprising lover. He had too much male +modesty, the inherent <i>pudor</i> which is so much stronger and +more genuine than the induced modesty of women, that +coquettish flight of the nymph who casts a rosy apple at her +pursuer to encourage him to continue. Odd, but perhaps in +the nature of things, that those men who have most contempt +for women are generally most successful with them. +There must be a vast amount of latent masochism in women, +ranging from the primitive delight in being knocked down +to the subtle enjoyment of complex jealousies. How ghastly—if +you think about it—their passion for soldiers! To breed +babes by him who has slain men—puh! there’s too much +spilt blood in the world, one sickens at it. Give me some +civet....</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p152">[152]</span></p> +<p>Once more they fell into talk, eager, excited, more intimate +talk. They were calling each other “George” and +“Elizabeth” before they reached the stately homes of Camden +Town. By the time they passed Mornington Crescent +they had admitted that they liked each other “frightfully” +and would see a good deal of each other. In their excitement +they talked rather incoherently, jumping from one +topic to another in their eagerness to say something of all +that seemed to clamour for expression, recklessly wasting +their emotional energy. Their laughter had the ring of pure +happiness. George slipped his arm through Elizabeth’s and +held her fingers more amorously. Their natures expanded in +a sudden delicious efflorescence; great coloured plumes of +flowers seemed to sway and nod above their heads. They +were enclosed in a nimbler air, the clear oxygen of desire, +so light, so compact, so resistant to the grey monster Ennui +of Sunday-in-London.</p> + +<p>“Isn’t it strange!” George exclaimed, with that fatuity +peculiar to lovers, “I only met you this evening and yet I +feel as if I had known you all my life!”</p> + +<p>“So do I!”</p> + +<p>He gratefully squeezed her fingers in silence, caught in a +sudden panic of bashfulness, unable to pursue further.</p> + +<p>“Do let’s meet often. We can go to the galleries and +Queen’s Hall and Hampton and Oxshott. I can get you +tickets for the new picture shows. Do you know the Allied +Artists?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I belong.”</p> + +<p>“Do you? Why ever didn’t you tell me you are a painter, +too?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m such a bad painter, besides you didn’t ask me.”</p> + +<p>“Touché! How self-absorbed one is. I apologize.”</p> + +<p>“You must come and have tea at my studio and look at +my—what I call my pictures. But you mustn’t be too +critical. When can you come?”</p> + +<p>“Any time. To-morrow if you like.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth laughed.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p153">[153]</span></p> +<p>“Oh! Oh! You are impatient. Can you come on Friday?”</p> + +<p>“So long? It seems ages away!”</p> + +<p>“Well, Thursday then.”</p> + +<p>“All right, what time?”</p> + +<p>“About four.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth was probably not acquainted with Stendhal’s +ingenious theory of crystallization, but she acted instinctively +in accordance with it. Three days and four nights +made exactly the right period. To-morrow was too soon, the +crystals would be in process of formation. A week would be +rather too long, they would be tending to disintegrate.... +Infinite subtlety of females! One must admit they need it.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>George accompanied Elizabeth to the boarding-house +where she lived and took the address of her studio. She +held out her hand, after putting the latch-key in the yale +lock.</p> + +<p>“Till Thursday then, good-night.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night.”</p> + +<p>He held her hand a moment, and then awkwardly and +timidly kissed it. In her turn she felt a sudden panic, opened +the door swiftly, and disappeared inside, with a last hasty: +“Good-night, good-night!”</p> + +<p>George stood for several moments irresolutely on the step. +He was desolated, thinking he had offended her.</p> + +<p>Inside Elizabeth was murmuring silently to herself: “He +kissed my hand, he kissed my hand! I’ve a lover, a lover.”</p> + +<p>The sudden panic and flight were a masterpiece of erotic +strategy—they left that feeling of uncertainty, of mingled +hope and fear, so valuable to the production of a powerful +crystallization.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>George walked back to Greek Street, enclosing in himself +a small chaos of emotions and thoughts. He went by way of +Fitzjohn’s Avenue and St. John’s Wood. The infinite debate +in a lover’s mind—did she or didn’t she, would she or +wouldn’t she?—moved in those curious arabesques where a +<span class="pagenum" id="p154">[154]</span>mind continually wanders away from a main stem of +thought, and perpetually comes back to it. Upjohn’s ridiculous +conceit, Shobbe’s party, never go to that sort of thing +again, Bobbe’s acrid offensiveness, how delicate that line +from her ear to her throat, I should like to paint her, now, +in that article to-morrow I must try to show clearly and +definitely what the new painters are attempting, I wonder +if she was really offended when I kissed her hand, but I +must think about that article, let me see, begin with an +explanation of non-representational, yes, that’s it, I must +get a new tie for Thursday, this one’s worn out.... And +thus, with merciless iteration.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Under a gas-lamp near Marlborough Road Station he +stopped and tried to write his first poem, and was surprised +to find how difficult it was and what nonsense he +wrote. A policeman came out of a side-street, and looked a +little suspiciously at him. George moved on. A little later +he began to sing “Bid me to live,” interrupted himself halfway +through to make a note for a study in analysis of form. +He walked rapidly and absorbedly, unconscious of his physical +fatigue. Just before he crossed Oxford Street, he stopped +and clapped his hands together. My God, I was a fool to +kiss her hand the first time I met her, she’ll think I do that +to every girl and won’t want to speak to me again. Oh, well, +it’s done. I wish I could kiss her mouth. I must remember to +tell her on Thursday about that show at the Leicester +Gallery....</p> + +<p>He lay awake long that night, unable to sleep for very +love of living. So much to see, so much to experience, so +much to achieve, so much to be and do! How wonderful to +do things with Elizabeth! It would be fun to go to New +York, of course, but perhaps one ought to see the old world +first? She said something about Paris and Spain. We might +go together. Cursed money difficulty. Never mind, if one +wants to do a thing hard enough, one always manages to do +it. I suppose I’m in love with her? It would be divine to +<span class="pagenum" id="p155">[155]</span>kiss her and touch her breasts and... Of course, one +mustn’t have a baby, that would be too ghastly. I must find +out. I wish we could go to Paris, the trees will be leafing +in the Luxembourg....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In the night-silence water dripped with insistent melody +in some hidden tank. From outside came the shrill distant +notes of train whistles, rather silvery and exquisite, bringing +the yearning for travel, “the horns of elf-land faintly blowing.” +Where had he read that? Oh, of course, Stevenson. +Funny how the Coningtons thought Stevenson a good +author....</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Elizabeth, good-night, sweet, sweet Elizabeth, +good-night, good-night.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p156">[156]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ IV ]</h3> + + +<p>Before our eyes we have the regrettable examples +of George Augustus and Isabel, Ma and Pa Tartly, +dear Mamma and dear Papa—eponyms of sexual infelicity.</p> + +<p>Are we more intelligent than our ancestors? What a question +for the British Press or for those three musketeers of +publicity cheap and silly, of tattered debates on torn topics—Shaw, +Chesterton and Belloc. Shaw, yes, the puritan Beaumarchais—<i>un +coup de chapeau</i>—but the others! To the +goddess Ennui sung by Pope, the groans of the Britons. Who +will deliver us from the R. C. bores?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The problem may be stated thus:</p> + +<p>Let X equal the <i>ménage</i> of dear Mamma-dear Papa, or +a typical couple of the seventies and eighties;</p> + +<p>And let Y equal the <i>ménage</i> George Augustus and Isabel, +or a typical couple of the nineties and noughts;</p> + +<p>And further, let Z equal Elizabeth and George, or a +typical bright young pair of the Georgian or European War +epoch;</p> + +<p>Then, it remains to be proved whether Z is equal to, or +greater than or less than X and / or Y.</p> + +<p>A pretty theorem, not to be solved mathematically—too +many unknown quantities involved.</p> + +<p>I am naturally prejudiced in favour of Z, because I belong +to their generation, but what do <i>les jeunes</i>, the sole competent +authority, think? For, after all,—let us be perfectly +frank—dear Papa expired peacefully in his bed; George +Augustus was unhappily but accidentally slain in the performance +of his religious duties; whereas George, if you +accept my interpretation of the facts, virtually committed +suicide at the age of twenty-six.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p157">[157]</span></p> +<p>But then dear Papa and George Augustus did not have to +fight the European War....</p> + +<p>The problem, you see, is almost insoluble, no doubt because +it is wrongly stated. Let us examine it in different +terms.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Without going back to Horace’s egg, may we not assume +that he and she have lived well who have lived with +felicity?</p> + +<p>This not only involves the problem of the <i>summum bonum</i> +or sovereign good, so much debated by the ancient philosophers, +but the awful difficulty of knowing who is to +decide whether another person has lived with felicity. Is +there such a thing as a happy life? And, if there is would +it be the most desirable life? Would you like to be +Claudian’s old man of Verona? Or Mr. John D. Rockefeller? +Or Mr. Michael Arlan? Or any other type of unabridged +felicity?</p> + +<p>There are, of course, lots of things and people who will +eagerly or dogmatically tell you exactly what you have to +do to be happy. There is, for instance, the collective wisdom +of the ages, as embodied in our religions, philosophies, +laws, and social customs. What a mess! What a junk-shop +of dusty relics! And in any case, “the collective wisdom +of the ages” is merely one of the innumerable devices +of government by which the Anglo-Saxon peoples +are humbugged into thinking themselves free, enlightened +and happy.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>But let us abandon these abstruse and arid speculations.... +The point is, did George and Elizabeth (consider them +for the moment, please, rather as types than individuals) +come better prepared to the erotic life than their predecessors, +were they more intelligent about it, did they +make a bigger mess of things? Does the free play of the +passions and intelligence make for more erotic happiness +than the taboo system? Liberty versus Restraint. Wise +<span class="pagenum" id="p158">[158]</span>Promiscuity versus Monogamy. (This is becoming a +Norman Haire tract.)</p> + +<p>Here, of course, I shall come into collision (if this has +not happened long ago) with the virtuous British journalist. +This gentleman will inform us that there are far too +many books about the erotic life, that to dwell upon sex +is morbid and disgusting, that monogamous marriage as +established by religion and law must remain sacred, +et cetera, et cetera, and that it provides a perfect solution, +et cetera, et cetera. Moreover, in the few cases where it goes +wrong, the situation must be met by frequent applications +of cold water to the genitals, by propelling balls of different +sizes in different manners with various instruments +in mimic combat, by slaying small animals and birds, by +playing bridge for modest sums, avoiding French wines and +dancing, scattering saltpetre on one’s bread and butter, +regularly attending church, and subscribing to the virtuous +organ of the virtuous journalist....</p> + +<p>To which may be said; for example,</p> + +<p>That without sexual intercourse, frequent and pleasant, +adult life is maimed and tedious;</p> + +<p>That social hypocrisy prescribes that we shall avoid open +discussion and practice of the sexual life, and that we all +(virtuous journalists included) think a great deal about it;</p> + +<p>That the sporting-ascetic practices recommended are only +effective in those predisposed to abnormal frigidity, and</p> + +<p>That they, taken in conjunction with the segregation of +the sexes, economic difficulties and insane prejudices, form +one of the chief predisposing causes of the pictures of +Dorian Grey and wells of loneliness which cause the virtuous +journalist so much horror and indignation.</p> + +<p>We therefore unanimously dismiss the virtuous British +journalist with a firm but vigorous kick in the seat of his +intelligence, and return to our speculations.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Mother of the race of Æneas, voluptuous delight of gods +and men, sacred Aphrodite, who from the recesses of thy +<span class="pagenum" id="p159">[159]</span>divine abode lookest in pity upon the sorrowing generations +of men and women, and sheddest upon us rose-petals +of subtle and recurrent pleasure and the delicious gift of +Sleep, do Thou, Goddess, be ever with us, and neglect not +the felicity of Thy worshippers. Do Thou, alone beautiful, +daughter of the Gods, drench us with loveliness.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>From which to the lives of Pa and Ma Hartley <i>et al.</i>, +is indeed a staggeringly long step....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>I hold a brief for the war generation. J’aurais pu mourir; +rien ne m’eût été plus facile. J’ai encore à écrire ce que +nous avons fait.... (Bonaparte à Fontainebleau—admirez +l’érudition de l’auteur.)</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Yet why should we mourn, O Zeus, and why should we +laugh? Why weep, why mock? What is a generation of men +that we should mourn for it? As leaves, as leaves, says +the poet, spring, burgeon and fall the generations of Man—No! +but as rats in the rolling ship of the Earth as she +plunges through the roar of the stars to the inevitable +doom. And like rats we pullulate, and like rats we scramble +for greasy prey, and like rats we fight and murder our +kin.... And—O gigantic mirth!—the voice of the +Thomiste is heard!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Peace be to you, O lovers, peace unto Juliet’s grave!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>At the time of which I am writing—the three or four +years preceding 1914—young men and women were just as +much interested in sexual matters as they are now, or were +at any other time. They were in revolt against the family +or domestic den ethic, that “ordained for the procreation +of children” attitude whereby the State turns its adult +members into a true proletariat, mere producers of <i>proles</i>. +And they were almost as much in revolt against Tennysonian +and Pre-Raphaelite “idealism,” which made love a +<span class="pagenum" id="p160">[160]</span>sort of hand-holding in the Hesperides. But, let it be remembered, +Freudianism (as distinct from Freud, that great +man whom every one talks about and nobody reads) had +scarcely begun to penetrate. All things were not interpreted +in terms of sexual symbolism; and if one had the misfortune +to slip on a banana peel in the street, he was not +immediately told that this implied repressed desire to +undergo the initiatory mutilating rite of the Mohammedans. +They thought they were rediscovering the importance of +the physical in love; they hoped they were not neglecting +the essential tenderness, and the mythopœic faculty of +lovers which is the source of much beauty.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Late in April, George and Elizabeth went to Hampton +Court. They met at Waterloo about nine, went by train to +Teddington, and walked through Bushey Park. Each had +brought a frugal lunch, half because of poverty, half from +some Pythagorean delusion about austerity in diet.</p> + +<p>They walked on the grass through the long elm naves.</p> + +<p>“How blue the sky is,” said Elizabeth, throwing back +her head, and breathing the soft air.</p> + +<p>“Yes, and look how the elms make long Gothic arches!”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and do look at the young leaves, so shrill, so +virginal a green.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and yet you can still see the beautiful tree skeleton—youth +and age.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and the chestnut blossom will be out soon.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and the young grass is— Oh Elizabeth, look, look! +The deer! There’s two young ones.”</p> + +<p>“Where? Where are they? I can’t see them. I <i>want</i> to +see them!”</p> + +<p>“There they are! Look, look, running across to the +right.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes! How funny the little ones are I But how graceful. +How old are they?”</p> + +<p>“Only a few days I should think. Why are they so +beautiful and young babies so hideous?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p161">[161]</span></p> +<p>“I don’t know. They’re always supposed to look like their +fathers, aren’t they?”</p> + +<p>“Touché—but I should think that would make the +mothers hate them, and they love the little beasts.”</p> + +<p>“Not always. A friend of mine had a baby last year, and +she didn’t want it when it was coming, but kept thinking +she would love it when it came. And when she saw it, she +simply loathed it, and they had to take it away. But she +<i>made</i> herself look after it. She says it’s ruined her life and +she doesn’t find it a bit interesting, but now she’s fond of +it and couldn’t bear it to die.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps she didn’t love her husband.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, she does. She simply dotes on him.”</p> + +<p>“Well, maybe it wasn’t his child.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Oh!” Elizabeth slightly shocked. “It <i>was</i> his child. +But one reason why she didn’t like it was because it +separated them.”</p> + +<p>“How long had they been married when the child was +born?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I don’t know—less than a year.”</p> + +<p>“Idiotic,” said George, banging the end of his walking +stick on the ground, “Ab-so-lute-ly idiotic! Why the devil +did they go and have a child bang off like that? Of course, +she’s unhappy and they’re ‘separated.’ Serves ’em right.”</p> + +<p>“But could they help it? I mean—well, you know—it just +happens, doesn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Good Lord, Elizabeth, what a prehistoric notion! Of +course it doesn’t ‘just happen.’ There are several +ways...”</p> + +<p>“It seems a bit revolting?”</p> + +<p>“Not a bit! You may feel so because you’ve had mushy +ideas about maidenly modesty and such twaddle instilled +into you. That’s all part of the taboo. Now I think the +really civilized thing is <i>not</i> to let such things happen to us +like animals, but to control them. It’s all most frightfully +important, perhaps the most important problem for our +generation to solve.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p162">[162]</span></p> +<p>“But you surely don’t think everybody should give up +having children?”</p> + +<p>“Why, of course not! I do say so sometimes when I feel +discouraged and disgusted with the poor scarecrows of +humanity we are now. Fewer and better babies. Isn’t it +insane that we exercise over animals the control they +haven’t got themselves, and yet resolutely refuse even to +discuss it about human beings? How can you have a fine +race if you breed insensately like white mice?”</p> + +<p>“Well, but, George dear, you can’t interfere with other +peoples’ lives like that!”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t say one should. But I believe that if people +have the necessary knowledge and we get rid of the taboo +they will for their own sakes come to breed more eugenically. +Of course, it’s an intimate and private matter—no +need for Sir Thomas Moore’s insane regulations and naked +exhibitions before modest matrons and discreet old gentlemen. +It’s not for the old to interfere with the lusts of youth! +Damn the old. But here’s another point. Like most intelligent +women and a few men you’re indignant at the way +women have been treated in the past and at the wicked +mediæval laws of this country. You want women to be free +to live more interesting lives. So do I. Any man who isn’t +an abject moron would rather see women becoming more +intelligent and magnanimous instead of having them kept +ignorant and timid and repressed and meekly acquiescent, +and therefore sly and catty and wanting to get their own +back. But you won’t achieve that with Suffrage. Of course, +let women have votes if they want them. But who the devil +wants a vote? I’d gladly give you mine if I had one. But +the point is this—when women, all women, know how to +control their bodies, they’ll have an enormous power. +They’ll be able to choose when and how they’ll have a +child and what man they want as its father. Overpopulation +causes wars as much as commercial greed and +diplomatic deceit and imbecile patriotism. Talk about the +miners’ strike! What I want to see is a universal strike of +<span class="pagenum" id="p163">[163]</span>women. They could bring all the governments of the world +to their knees in a year. Like the Lysistrata, you know, but +not a failure this time.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, George, you are amusing with your fancies I You +make me laugh!”</p> + +<p>“Laugh away! But I’m serious. Of course, it isn’t possible +to have such a concerted action all over the world. +For one thing it wouldn’t be politic to announce it, because +the unscrupulous governments will always go to any extent +of force and fraud to sustain their infamous régimes....”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They had crossed the road outside Bushey Park and entered +the palace gates. Between the wall which backs the +Long Border, the Tudor side of the palace and another +long high wall, is the Wilderness, or old English garden, +composed on the grandiose scale advocated by Bacon. It is +both a garden and a “wilderness,” in the sense that it is +planted with innumerable bulbs (which are thinned and +removed from time to time), but otherwise allowed to run +wild. George and Elizabeth stopped with that sudden +ecstasy of delight felt by the sensitive young—a few of +them—at the sight of loveliness. Great secular trees, better +protected than those in the outer Park, held up vast fans +of glittering green and gold foliage which trembled in the +light wind and formed moving patterns on the tender blue +sky. The lilacs had just unfolded their pale hearts showing +the slim stalk of closed buds which would break open later +in a foam of white and blue blossoms. Underfoot was the +stouter green of wild plants, spread out like an evening sky +of verdure for the thick clustered constellations of flowers. +There shone the soft slim yellow trumpet of the wild daffodil; +the daffodil which has a pointed ruff of white petals to +display its gold head; and the more opulent double daffodil +which, compared with the other two, is like an ostentatious +merchant between Florizel and Perdita. There were the +many-headed jonquils, creamy and thick-scented; the +starry narcissus, so alert on its long slender stiff stem, so +<span class="pagenum" id="p164">[164]</span>sharp-eyed, so unlike a languid youth gazing into a pool; +the hyacinth-blue frail squilla almost lost in the lush herbs; +and the hyacinth, blue and white and red, with its firm +thick-set stem and innumerable bells curling back their +open points. Among them stood tulips—the red, like thin +blown bubbles of dark wine; the yellow more cup-like, +more sensually open to the soft furry entry of the eager +bees; the large parti-coloured gold and red, noble and +sombre like the royal banner of Spain.</p> + +<p>English spring flowers! What an answer to our ridiculous +“cosmic woe,” how salutary, what a soft reproach to bitterness +and avarice and despair, what balm to hurt minds! +The lovely bulb-flowers, loveliest of the year, so unpretentious, +so cordial, so unconscious, so free from the striving +after originality of the gardener’s tamed pets! The spring +flowers of the English woods, so surprising under those +bleak skies, and the flowers the English love so much and +tend so skilfully in the cleanly wantonness of their gardens, +as surprisingly beautiful as the poets of that bleak +race! When the inevitable “fuit Ilium” resounds mournfully +over London among the appalling crash of huge bombs and +the foul reek of deadly gases while the planes roar overhead, +will the conqueror think regretfully and tenderly of +the flowers and the poets...?</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When George, on one of our walks, told me the gist of +this conversation with Elizabeth, I was at once more amused +and more interested than I allowed him to see. There are +certain aspects of peoples’ bodies, certain things they say +and do, which not only determine one’s attitude towards +them but seem to explain them. And more, in some cases +they seem to reveal an epoch. Every one has experience of +attraction or repulsion caused by another’s body. For instance, +there was once a poet, whose work I admired; but +the first time I met him he tried to hold a girl’s hand. I +didn’t mind <i>that</i>, au contraire. What I minded was the +awful spectacle of his large ugly raw-red hand, with knotty +<span class="pagenum" id="p165">[165]</span>fingers and gnawed mourning nails, trying to enclose the +washed and chubby hand of my little friend.... I could +never read his poems again without thinking of that Mr. +Hyde-like hand, the Barrymore film hand of Mr. Hyde....</p> + +<p>Now I had a reason for dwelling at some length on these +preliminary conversations of George and Elizabeth with +George much in the foreground. They seem to explain a +great deal, at least to me. They reveal him and at the same +time “throw more light” (as the learned say) on the state +of mind of a generation of young men who mostly perished +in their twenties. As a rule, George was very silent. Like +most people who think at all he had very little of the small +change of conversation and disliked aimless babbling. But +when he was with somebody he liked, he talked. My God, +how much he talked! He was passionately interested in +ideas, passionately interested in his own reactions to the +appearances of things, comparatively little interested in the +lives of other people except in a general and abstract way. +He noticed in a flash the girl at a party who looked like a +Botticelli (people still admired Botticelli in those days and +girls lived up to it) but he would never see, for example, +the look on the face of the rather plain woman whom one +guessed to be in love with the handsome host uxoriously +devoted to his new wife. Consequently his talk was all ideas +and impressions. He had an almost indecent love of ideas. +If you threw George a new idea he caught it with a skilled +and grateful snap, like a seal at the Zoo catching a fish +jerked at it by the keeper.</p> + +<p>Of course, it is very natural that young men and women +should be interested in ideas, which are new to them though +probably stale enough to those a bit older. But the young +War Generation seem to me to have been abnormally +swayed by ideas of grandiose “Social reform.” England +swarmed with Social Reformers. I don’t pretend to know +why. Perhaps it was due to the political idealism of Ruskin +and Morris, aided by the infinitely more sensible work of +the Fabians. Everybody was the architect of a New Jerusalem, +<span class="pagenum" id="p166">[166]</span>and a rummy assortment of plans they provided. +This passion has now reached the disinterested and noble-minded +trade unionist and to some extent even the agricultural +labourer. Consequently, you may now hear, at +Hyde Park Corner or in pubs or third-class carriages, +beautifully garbled versions of the highbrow talk of about +twenty years ago. You thus have the encouraging and delightful +spectacle of a proletariat eagerly expecting a +millennium, impossible at any time, but particularly impossible +after a catastrophe which has plunged the intellectuals +into Spenglerian pessimism and hurled the +weaker or more cynical into the ironic bosom of Mother +Church....</p> + +<p>George was pretty much affected by this social reform +bunk. He was always looking at things from “the point of +view of the Country” and far more frequently from “the +point of view of humanity.” This may have been a result of +his Public School, kicked-backside-of-the-Empire training. +I know he resisted it with commendable contempt and fury, +but where so much pitch was flying about he could scarcely +avoid some of it. Perhaps the young are always like that, +although one does not seem to notice it. As I pointed out +to George years afterwards, he was quite right to discuss +the matter frankly and openly with Elizabeth before they +proceeded further, but all this bunk about eugenics and +women’s rights and preventing wars by birth control would +have discouraged any girl who had not fully made up her +mind already that she wanted him. It was appallingly bad +strategy as seduction—though, <i>en passant</i> let it be noted +that “seduction” is one of those primitive notions which +could only inhabit the degenerate minds of lawyers and +social uplifters, since in nine cases out of ten the “seducer,” +if any, is the woman. I thought that George ought to have +imparted a little elementary information, and have pointed +out that in the present state of human affairs it is not +quite right for people to have a child without being legally +married because it’s so hard on the child, although in some +<span class="pagenum" id="p167">[167]</span>cases it should be done deliberately as a protest against a +foolish prejudice. He ought then to have explained how it +may spoil a sexual relationship to have a child too soon +and unthinkingly. And he should then have demonstrated +by example and precept that love is an art, and a very +difficult art, and one most dismally and disastrously +neglected especially by “well-bred” Englishmen. It sounds +incredible but it is true that there are thousands of such +men, perfectly decent, humane persons, who despise a +woman if they think or know that she experiences any +sexual pleasure. And then they wonder vaguely why women +are shrewish and discontented....</p> + +<p>All this will sound very elementary to some people and +very reprehensible to others. I am simply trying to explain +these people. Of course, there is always the superior person +who veils puritanism by saying: “I’m so bored with all this +talk about sex. Why can’t people go to bed with the person +they want to, and stop talking about it?” Well, why +shouldn’t we talk about what interests us, and what, after +all, is extremely important to adult life and happiness? +Maybe we can learn something from the adulteries of +others. It seems to me that the error of the Elizabeth and +George generation was that they were far too absolute, too +general, too dogmatic in their “ideas” about sex. They +<i>would</i> let the Social Reform bunk distort their view. They +had seen in their own homes the dreadful unhappiness and +suffering caused by Victorian, and indeed Edwardian, ignorance +and domestic dennery and swarming infants, and they +reacted violently against it. So far, good. But they failed +to see that in the way they went about it, they were merely +setting up another tyranny—the tyranny of free love. Why +shouldn’t people be monogamous if they want to be? Maybe +it suits them. Don’t be dragooned into it, of course, but +don’t be frightened out of it if you’re made that way. There +are certain elementary precepts which always hold good—for +instance, Balzac’s “Never begin marriage with a rape”—but +this is a wholly personal and very complex and delicate +<span class="pagenum" id="p168">[168]</span>relation which people must work out for themselves. +All one asks is that they shall not be interfered with by +law and busybodies. It is an interesting comment on the +sadism latent in communities that the cruelty and misery +of the Victorian home are legally protected and held up as +shining examples of behaviour, whereas any attempt to +make people a little more natural and happy and tolerant +is supposed to be wicked. How men destroy their own +happiness! How they hate happiness and pleasure! Think +of the insane delusion of female chastity which holds that +any woman who has “had” more than one man is +“impure,” whereas in fact many women soon come to dislike +profoundly their first lover, and most are only really +happy and satisfied with a fourth or sixth or tenth.</p> + +<p>Alas! “with human nature what it is,” the love-lives of +most people will always alternate between brief periods of +happiness and long periods of suffering. The “sexual problem” +will only be solved with the millennium which produces +a perfect humanity. Until then we can only look on and +sigh at the ruined lives; and reflect that men and women +might be to each other the great consolation, while in fact +they do little but torment each other....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>I do not pity Elizabeth and George. They were very +happy that day—and on other days—and to be quite +happy even for one day is sufficient sanction for the misfortune +of existence.</p> + +<p>They went from the Wilderness into the large garden +and walked slowly beside the Long Border where the +gardeners were busily potting out spring flowers. The crocuses +were almost over, and the large motor lawn-mower +was smoothly humming over the delicate green turf of the +great lawns. They looked at the trimmed yews and wondered +if they had been planted by Cardinal Wolsey. They +criticized, somewhat adversely, the lead statue of the three +Graces and, walking under the trees by the canals, noticed +the cold green lily-leaves just beginning to unfold under +<span class="pagenum" id="p169">[169]</span>water. They stood at the end of the Long Border and for +a long time in silence watched the swirl and eddy of the +Thames, the house-boats being freshly painted for the +season, the exquisite swaying fronds of the young willows. +In the Privy Garden, on the raised walk and under the +lime-tree avenue where the great clumps of crocuses lay +sprawled and dying and overgrown at the foot of each tree, +they talked of King Charles, and fought over the age-old +contest of King and Parliament. Elizabeth was romantically +for the handsome melancholy King; George Whiggish and +all for political freedom, though gravely disapproving of +Puritan vandalism. They went through the Fountain Court +and the beautiful Tudor Courts, and walked along the +river, and sat under a tree to eat their lunch. They talked +and argued and laughed and made plans and reformed the +world and felt important (God knows why!) and held +hands and kissed when they thought no one was looking.... +And yes, they were very happy.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Dear Lovers! If it were not for you, how dreary the +world would be! Never shall a pair of you pass me without +a kindly discreet glance and a murmured wish, “Be +happy.” How my heart warmed to an old French poet as +we walked slowly on the Boulevard, and the lovers in the +soft evening air passed us by, hand so close in hand, bodies +so amorously near, eyes so sparkling and alive. Now and +then, in the intoxicating air of the spring and the tolerant +kindliness of the Parisians, a pair would feel so exuberant +and so enthusiastic and so moved with each other’s perfections, +that they would have to stop and exchange a long +kiss, perfunctorily hidden by a quite inadequate tree-trunk. +Nobody interrupted them, nobody scowled, no policeman +arrested them for indecency. And the old poet paused, and +laid his hand on my arm, and said: “Mon ami, I grow old! +I am nearly sixty. And sometimes as I pass along these +streets and see these warm young people I find myself +thinking: ‘How impudique! Why is this permitted? Why +<span class="pagenum" id="p170">[170]</span>do they intrude their passions on me?’ And then I remember +that I too was young, and I too passed eagerly +and happily with one or other of my young mistresses whom +I thought so beautiful, each of whom I loved with so immortal +a love! And I look at the lovers passing and I say +to myself: ‘Allez-y, mes enfants, allez-y, soyez heureux!’”</p> + +<p>Dear Lovers! Let us never forget that you are the sweetness +of the bitter world.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>And Elizabeth and George lingered through the sunny +hours; and before the afternoon became too chill—for +April is cold in England—they went back slowly through +the long glades of the Park, they too hand in hand like the +lovers on the Boulevard, they too with bodies amorously +near, they too with eyes sparkling and alive, they too +pausing to join their lips when the loveliness of life and the +ecstasy of loving drew them together in a kiss.</p> + +<p>They were so happy they did not know they were tired.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p171">[171]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ V ]</h3> + + +<p>It is fascinating to observe how people organize and +disorganize their lives, fascinating to see how an impulse +of vitality sends them off on a certain line, how they +wobble, err, suffer, recover themselves. What is the most +banal street, the most tedious place you know? Think how +fascinating if only you knew the real lives of those tedious +people!</p> + +<p>There are two centres or poles of activity in every adult +life—the economic and the sexual. Hunger and Death, the +enemies. Your whole adult life depends on how you deal +with the two primitive foes, Hunger and Death. Never mind +how much the conditions of collective human life seem to +have altered them, they are there; you can never really get +away from Hunger and Death, from the need to eat and +the will to live again.</p> + +<p>Thus, two problems are created—the economic and the +sexual. There is no cut-and-dried solution of either. Existence +is tolerable—I will not say “happy,” though I believe +in happiness—to the extent that as an individual you are +successful in solving these two problems. Certain traditional +solutions are presented to us all in youth, and the swiftness +with which we see their foolishness is an almost unerring +test of intelligence. When we have seen through them, a +new and delicate problem presents itself—we have to create +our own happiness underneath or in despite of the Laws (or +rules for collective life) and at the same time preserve intact +the sense of Justice, or that which is due to each.</p> + +<p>The primitive, the proletarian, the common man and +woman solution is merely one of <i>quantity</i>. Get all the grub +and copulation you want and more than you want and ipso +facto you will be happy. Put money in thy purse. Excellent +<span class="pagenum" id="p172">[172]</span>Iago, what a fool you are! Noble Caliban, what a silly +beast! Savages, the heroes of Homer and working men +gorge on the flesh of beeves. To sack a town and rape all the +women was the sexual ideal of centuries of civilized savages. +To do the same thing with money sneakingly, instead of +with the sword openly, is the actual ideal of Dr. Frank +Crane’s world-famous business men. The judgment of the +wiser world is upon them all. Let them join the megatherium +and the wild ass.</p> + +<p>Then you have the Rudyard Kipling or British Public +School solution. Not so far removed from the other as you +might think, for it is a harnessing of the same primitive +instincts to the service of a group—the nation—instead of +to the service of the individual. Whatever is done for the +Empire is right. Not Truth and Justice, but British Truth +and British Justice. Odious profanation! You are the servant +of the Empire, never mind whether you are rich or poor, +do what the Empire tells you, and so long as the Empire +is rich and powerful you ought to be happy. Woman? A +rag, a bone, and a hank of hair. Get rid of the sexual problem +by teaching men to despise women, either by open +scorn or by putting them on the pedestal of chastity. Of +course, they’re valuable as possessions. Oh, quite! There +can be no world peace because the man who has the most +money gets the best woman, as the German Kaiser said at +the gathering of the nations. As if the nations were a set of +Kiplingesque characters bidding against each other for an +expensive tart! How despicable, how odious!</p> + +<p>No, each of us has to work out the problems for himself +and, I repeat, on the correct solution of both depends happiness +in life. I do not pretend to be able to teach what is +your solution. I think I know what is mine; but that is not +necessarily yours. But I am quite sure that the quantitative +and the British Public School solutions are wrong....</p> + +<p>The struggle with Hunger, or the economic problem, leads +to situations of astonishing “human interest,” as Balzac +recognized. But we are not much concerned with it here. +<span class="pagenum" id="p173">[173]</span>It was highly important in the case of Isabel; very little in +the case of Elizabeth and George. They were content with +very little, which they obtained quite easily—Elizabeth +from her parents, George by various odd jobs which occupied +only a comparatively small part of his time. Each +wanted to avoid the slavery of working eight hours a day at +a stated wage, for some one else, though both were willing +to work sixteen hours a day on their own, at what they +wanted to do. Neither had the slightest ambition to dominate +others through wealth. Of course, you may say they +solved the economic problem by dodging it. However, as +far as they are concerned as individuals, that <i>was</i> a solution.</p> + +<p>But this “dodging solution” (if you like to call it such) +involved the sexual problem, too. It was quite obvious that +George was incapable of supporting a woman and children +on his perfunctorily performed jobs, while his painting was +rather a liability than an asset. On the other hand, it was +equally obvious that Elizabeth was not rich enough to afford +the luxury of an artist husband and a family. It therefore +followed that they could not afford children, and since they +didn’t want them, this was a misfortune they contemplated +with calm. But, since they didn’t want children, it followed +that there was no need to get married. Why get married, +except for the sake of the unfortunate little bastard?</p> + +<p>All of which they talked out very fully before they ever +lay together. You may say, of course, that this is very +wicked and “unnatural,” that if every one acted in this way +the human race would soon come to a full stop. I shall not +make the obvious retort of “a good job too,” but merely say +that I observe no danger of under-population in Europe. +Since the population of England is about three times the +amount which the land of England can feed, I am inclined +to think that George and Elizabeth should be regarded as a +national hero and heroine in this respect....</p> + +<p>If you are as quick-witted as you ought to be you will +already have noticed one big difference between the George-Elizabeth +<span class="pagenum" id="p174">[174]</span><i>ménage</i> (I don’t mean the legal irregularity, which +is of no importance) and the <i>ménages</i> of George Augustus-Isabel, +Dear Mamma-Dear Papa, Ma-and-Pa Hartly. “They +talked it out very fully before they ever lay together.” You +get the point? They used their intelligence, they actually +used their intelligence <i>before</i> embarking on a joint sexual +experience. That’s the great break in the generations. Trying +to use some intelligence in life, instead of blindly following +instincts and the collective imbecility of the ages as embodied +in social and legal codes. Isabel “married for money” +and got what she deserved, viz., bankruptcy. But she had +been obliquely taught that it was a girl’s duty to use +men’s sexual passions as a means of acquiring property. +Whoring within the law. The Trade Union of married +women. George Augustus was greatly attracted by Isabel +and wanted to lie with her. Why not? My God, why not? +But he had never thought about the problems. He didn’t +want children; Isabel didn’t want children. Not really. But +they had been taught that if a man and woman wanted to +lie together it was horribly wicked to do so unless they were +“married.” The parson, the public ceremonies and the signatures +made “sacred” what was otherwise inexpressibly wrong +and sinful. But in the code on which George Augustus and +Isabel were reared “marriage” meant “a dear little baby” +nine months after the wedding bells. All right for those +who go into it with open eyes. Perfect. Charming. I’ll be +godfather every ten months. J’adore les enfants. But all +wrong, all so rottenly wrong, if you go into it like a couple +of ninnies, mess up your sexual life, disappoint the man, +disgust the woman, and produce an infant you can’t look +after properly....</p> + +<p>Which is precisely what George Augustus and Isabel did, +and what their parents did before them....</p> + +<p>Now the marriage of Molière’s time was jolly sensible so +far as it went. You, Eraste, love Lisette? Good. You, Lisette, +love Eraste? Admirable. You wish to crown your flame? +Most natural and delightful. But you know that means +<span class="pagenum" id="p175">[175]</span>infants? Perfect. How much money have you got, Eraste? +Nothing? Ah!... But your father approves? Will give ten +thousand crowns if Lisette’s father will give another five +thousand? Delicious. <i>Quite</i> a different situation. Your father +approves, Lisette? Yes? Quick, a notary. Bless you, my +children.</p> + +<p>That was blunt, bluff common-sense. I’m sorry for Lisette, +but not for Lisette’s children.</p> + +<p>The only trouble was that Lisette and Eraste were not +very happy sexually—hence the <i>amants</i> of Lisette and the +<i>amies</i> of Eraste. So you dropped into promiscuity, and +Eraste didn’t know if Lisette’s later brats were his; and +Lisette didn’t know how many dear little bastards Eraste +was scattering about the world. All of which made for +nastiness, cantankerousness and hypocrisy.</p> + +<p>The simple process of dissociating sex life from the philoprogenitive +instinct was performed by the War Generation—at +least on the grand scale, for isolated practitioners had +long existed. The march of Science (how delightful clichés +are!) had brought certain engines within the reach of all; +and sensible people profited by them. The old alternative +of burning or marrying disappeared. And the following, far +better proposition arose. It was perfectly possible for man +or woman to live a satisfactory sex life without having +children. Hence, by the scientific process of trial and error, +it became possible for each to seek the really satisfactory +lover; while those who were philoprogenitively inclined +might marry (en attendant mieux) for the sake of the children. +Thus there was a return to the wise promiscuity of the +Ancients (if the Ancients ever did anything so sensible, +which I greatly doubt) which was a great advance on humbug, +domestic tyranny, furtive promiscuity and whoring. +One definite result, which we see to-day, is an undeniable +decline in the number of whores—the first time this has +occurred since the Edict of Milan.</p> + +<p>Unfortunately the pre-war “engines” were rather crude +and not wholly reliable....</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p176">[176]</span></p> +<p>George and Elizabeth, then, were either extremely sensible +or disgustingly immoral—I don’t mind what your judgment +is, I am recording facts. I don’t, however, attempt to disguise +my own prejudice, which is that intelligence makes for +a far better life than “Luv” and “God,” those euphuisms +for stupidity and ignorance. In a manner of speaking they +were pioneers. At any rate, they thought they were, which +is all that matters here. They really thought they had +worked out a more sensible, more intelligent, more humane +relationship between the sexes. But there were certain +rather important little snags they overlooked. Like most +bright young things, they were very cock-sure of themselves, +a good bit too cock-sure. And then, while one doesn’t +at all deny that they were pretty bright, and on the right +track, their knowledge was unhappily theoretical, chiefly +derived from George’s reading and meditations. It’s a confoundedly +dangerous thing for two virgins to take on the +job of initiating each other into a complicated art they only +know theoretically. Dangerous, in that high hopes may be +dashed, rather lovely emotions sadly frustrated and a beautiful +relationship spoiled. There are dangers in meeting +the undeniably right person too soon in life. Two handsome +young married people, obviously deeply in love—what a +charming spectacle, how delightful.... Wait! You wait! +Not very long either....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>You haven’t forgotten Fanny and the young man from +Cambridge....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Well, Elizabeth and George worked out their scheme, and +for a considerable time it all worked admirably. But for the +war and the upset of every one’s mind and life and character, +it might have weathered the small storms of Fanny and +the young man—and perhaps other Fannies and other young +men—and still have gone on working. Elizabeth abandoned +her Hampstead boarding house, and found a large room, +which did as a studio, in Bloomsbury. She wrote her parents +<span class="pagenum" id="p177">[177]</span>in Manchester that she did this for the sake of economy +and to be nearer her “work”—whatever that might mean. +The economy consisted in the fact that when she spent the +night with George at his “studio” she was obviously not +wearing out her own bed clothes. Elizabeth’s mother paid +her a surprise visit. Most luckily George had gone away for +the week-end, and Elizabeth was “discovered” calmly painting +by herself. She behaved with the admirable dissimulation +which comes so naturally to women, swiftly whipped +away one or two objects (such as a tobacco pipe and pouch, +the <i>Psychology of Sex</i>, inscribed “To darling Elizabeth +from George”) which might have betrayed a certain intimacy +with a male, and sent George a long warning telegram. +Mrs. Paston stayed three days. Of course, she suspected +“something.” Elizabeth looked about ten times prettier, +was much more smartly dressed, talked differently, +used all sorts of new phrases, and was obviously very happy, +so happy that even three days of her mother failed to depress +her completely. Elizabeth treated her char-lady with +reasonable humanity, so when Mrs. Paston severely cross-examined +her in secret about Elizabeth, the char-lady just +went beautifully stupid and stood by Elizabeth nobly. “Oh, +no, Ma’am, I never seen nothin’ wrong.” “Oh, yes, Ma’am, +Miss Elizabeth’s such a nice young lady.” “I’m only here +of mornings, Ma’am.” So Mrs. Paston, baffled but somewhat +suspicious—what right had Elizabeth to look so well +and happy and pretty away from her dear parents?—had +to return home and present a blank report.</p> + +<p>So that alarm died down.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Elizabeth became inordinately proud of being no longer a +virgin. You might have thought she was the only devirginated +young woman in London. But, like King Midas, she +burned to share her secret, to make somebody else envious. +So one week when George had run over to Paris about some +pictures, she invited Fanny to tea, and after a tremendous +amount of preparation, confessed the lovely secret. Partly to +<span class="pagenum" id="p178">[178]</span>Elizabeth’s disappointment and partly to her relief, Fanny +took the news as something very ordinary.</p> + +<p>“I’m really surprised you waited so long, my dear.”</p> + +<p>“But you’re nearly as old as I am!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but, darling, didn’t you <i>know?</i> I’ve had two or three +affairs. Only I didn’t say anything to <i>you</i>. I thought you’d +be shocked.”</p> + +<p>“Shocked?” Elizabeth laughed scornfully, though she <i>was</i> +a bit surprised. “Why on earth should <i>I</i> be shocked? <i>I</i> think +people should be free to have all the love affairs they want.”</p> + +<p>“Do tell me who he is!”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth blushed slightly and hesitated.</p> + +<p>“No, I won’t tell you now, but you’ll meet him soon.”</p> + +<p>“But, Elizabeth, I hope you’re careful? You won’t go +and have a baby?”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth laughed scornfully again.</p> + +<p>“Have a baby? Of course not! Why ever do you think +I’m so silly? George and I talked it—”</p> + +<p>“Oh! His name’s ‘George’ is it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. Did I let that out? Yes, George Winterbourne. +Well, we talked it all out, and we’ve got a perfectly good +arrangement. George says we’re too young to have children, +so why get married; and anyway we’re too poor. If we want +children later on, we can always <i>get</i> married. I said I +wouldn’t tie myself down with <i>any</i> man—I don’t want anybody +else’s name. I told George that if I wanted other lovers +I should have them, and if he wanted any one else he was +to have her. But, of course, when there’s a relationship as +firmly established as ours, one doesn’t <i>want</i> any one else.”</p> + +<p>Fanny smiled.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>As a matter of fact, Elizabeth had not said anything of +the sort, when George drew up his Triumphal Scheme of the +Perfect Sex Relationship. She had been rather timid and +uncertain at first. But George’s discourses and the books on +physiology and psychology and sex which he made her read +and her own exultation at being no longer a virgin had sent +<span class="pagenum" id="p179">[179]</span>her spinning in the other direction. She had, in a few months, +far outdistanced George in “freedom.” Her argument was +rational and quite defensible; indeed it was a corollary to +George’s own views, though he hadn’t seen it. Because you +were very fond of one person, she argued, that was no +reason why you shouldn’t be attracted by others. Monogamy +was established to tyrannize women and to make sure offspring +were legitimate and to provide for them and the +mother. But where women are free and there is no offspring, +what on earth is the good of an artificial and forced fidelity? +Directly one has to <i>promise</i> fidelity, directly an effort of +will is made to “remain faithful,” a false position is set up. +The effort of keeping such a promise is the surest assurance +that it will be broken sooner or later. On the other hand, +while you are in love with some one, well, you’re in love, +and you either don’t want any one else, or if you do, you’re +probably only too happy to get back speedily to the person +you do really care for.</p> + +<p>There was logic and a good deal of sense in this, George +had to admit. But he also had to admit to himself that he +didn’t altogether like the idea of Elizabeth “going with” +somebody else. Nor, for that matter, would Elizabeth have +liked George “going with” another girl. But she deceived +herself unknowingly. At that time she was very much under +the influence of a Swedish book she had read, a book devoted +to the Future of the Race. This was the work of an earnest-minded +virgin of fifty who laid it down as an indisputable +axiom that there must be complete frankness between the +sexes. “The old notion of sexual fidelity must go,” declared +this enthusiastic writer, “and only from the golden sun-bath +of divinely nude freedom can rise the glorious new race +et cetera, et cetera.” Elizabeth didn’t know the authoress +was an old maid, and she was annoyed with George for +making fun of the “golden sun-bath of divinely nude freedom.”</p> + +<p>“But, Elizabeth,” George had said, when she propounded +this argument, “of course, I believe that people should be +<span class="pagenum" id="p180">[180]</span>free, and it’s disgusting for them to stay together when they +don’t any longer love each other. But suppose I happened +to want some one else, just a sort of whim, and went on +loving you, wouldn’t it be better if I said nothing about it? +And the same with you?”</p> + +<p>“And tell each other lies? Why, George, you yourself +have said time and again that there can be no genuine relationship +which involves deceit. The very essence and beauty +and joy of our relation depend upon its being honest and +frank and accepting facts.”</p> + +<p>“Why, yes, but...”</p> + +<p>“Look at the lives of our parents, look at all the sneaking +adulteries going on at this very moment in every suburb of +London. Don’t you see, why, you <i>must</i> see, that what’s +wrong about adultery is not the sexual part of it at all, but +the plotting and sneaking and dissimulation and lies and +pretence....”</p> + +<p>“That’s true,” said George slowly and reflectively, “that’s +true. But—suppose I told you that when I was last in Paris +I spent the nights with Georgina Harris?”</p> + +<p>“Did you?”</p> + +<p>“No, of course not. But, you see...”</p> + +<p>“What would it have mattered if you had? My Swedish +woman you make fun of is very sound about that. She says +that two people should spend a few days or more away from +each other every few weeks, and that it may be a very good +thing for them to have other sexual experience. It prevents +any feeling of sameness and satiety, and often brings two +people together more closely than ever, if only they’re frank +about it.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder,” said George, “I wonder. Is there any one +you’re interested in, Elizabeth?”</p> + +<p>“Of course not. You’re really rather unintelligent about +this, George. You know perfectly well I love you and shall +never love any one else so much. But there mustn’t be any +lying and dissimulation, and no artificial fidelity. If you +want to go off for a night or a week-end or a week with some +<span class="pagenum" id="p181">[181]</span>charming girl or woman, you must go. And if I want to do +the same with a man, I must. Don’t you see that by thwarting +a mere <i>béguin</i> you may turn it into something more +serious, whereas by enjoying it you get rid of it? Probably, +as my Swedish woman says, one is so much disappointed +that a single night is more than enough, and one returns to +one’s love eagerly, cured of wandering fancies for the next +six months.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I daresay there’s something in that. It seems sound. +And yet if the original relationship is so secure and if the +other affair is so slight and unimportant and merely physical, +it seems unnecessary to hurt one’s love by speaking +about it. I don’t tell you every day what I had for lunch. +Besides, even if one spends only one night with another person +that implies at least a one night’s preference which +might hurt.”</p> + +<p>“Which might hurt!” Elizabeth mocked. “George, you’re +being positively old-fashioned. Why, when you go to Paris, +isn’t that a preference? And when I go to Fanny’s cottage +in the country for a week-end, isn’t that a preference? How +do you know we’re not Sapphic friends?”</p> + +<p>“I’m jolly sure you’re not! You’re neither of you in the +least bit Lesbian types. Besides, you’d have told me.”</p> + +<p>“You see! You know quite well I’d have told you.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but going to Paris or the country for a few days +isn’t the same sort of ‘preference.’”</p> + +<p>The argument tailed off in a futile attempt to define +“preference.” Ultimately Elizabeth carried her point. It was +definitely established that “nothing could break” a relationship +such as theirs; but that “love itself must have rest” +and therefore there was wisdom in occasional short separations; +that so far from breaking up such a relationship occasional +“slight affairs” elsewhere would only strengthen and +stimulate it. George allowed himself to be convinced. The +snag here lay in the fact that he had definitely sensed the +possible danger of arousing jealousy, whereas Elizabeth, confident +in herself and the theories of her Swedish old maid, +<span class="pagenum" id="p182">[182]</span>scorned the idea that so base a passion could even enter +<i>their</i> relation.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>About two months after this George and Elizabeth were +cheerfully dining in a small Soho restaurant when Fanny +came in with a young man, the “young man from Cambridge,” +Reggie Burnside.</p> + +<p>“Oh, look!” exclaimed Elizabeth, “there’s Fanny and a +friend with her. Fanny! Fanny!” signalling across the room. +Fanny came across.</p> + +<p>“This is George Winterbourne. You’ve often heard of +Fanny, George. I say, Fanny, do come and have dinner +with us.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, do.”</p> + +<p>“But I’ve got Reggie Burnside with me.”</p> + +<p>“Well, bring him along too.”</p> + +<p>The young man was introduced, and they sat down at +the table. In most respects Fanny was curiously different +from Elizabeth; each was not so much the antithesis as the +complement to the other. Fanny was just a little taller than +Elizabeth (George disliked short women), and where Elizabeth +was dark and Egyptian-looking and pale, Fanny was +golden and English (not chocolate-box English) and most +delicate white and red. She was a bit like Priscilla, George +thought, but with the soft gold of Priscilla made hard and +glittering like an exquisite metallic flower. There was something +both gem-like and flower-like in Fanny. Perhaps that +was due to her eyes. With other women you are conscious +almost immediately of all sorts of beauties and defects, but +with Fanny you were instantaneously absorbed by the eyes. +When you thought about her afterwards, you just saw a +mental image of those extraordinary blue eyes, disassociated +from the rest of her, like an Edgar Poe vision. But unlike +so many vivid blue eyes, they were gem-like rather than +flower-like; they were not soft nor stupid nor sentimental +nor languid, but clear, alert and rather hard. You may see +exactly their shade of colour in the deeper parts of Lake +<span class="pagenum" id="p183">[183]</span>Garda on a sunny day. Yet the quality was not aqueous, +but vitreous. Venetian glass, perhaps? No, that is too +opaque. It is very hard to say what was the quality which +made them so remarkable. Men looked at them once and +fell helplessly in love, one might say almost noisily in love—Fanny +didn’t mind, it was obviously her <i>métier</i> to have +men fall in love with her. Perhaps Fanny’s eyes were simply +made a symbol in the imagination of that mysterious sexual +attraction which radiated from her, or perhaps they conformed +to some unwritten but instinctively recognized canon +of the perfect eye, the Platonic “idea” of eyes....</p> + +<p>With Elizabeth you saw not the eyes alone, but the whole +head. You would have liked to keep Fanny’s eyes, magnificently +set in gold, in an open jewel-casket, to look at when +you doubted whether any beauty remained in the dull +world. But with Elizabeth you wanted the whole head, it +was so much like one of those small stone heads of Egyptian +princesses in the Louvre. So very Egyptian. The full delicately-moulded +lips, the high cheek-bones, the slightly +oblique eye-sockets, the magnificent line from ear to chin, +the upward sweep of the wide brow, the straight black hair. +Oddly enough, on analysis Elizabeth’s eyes proved to be +quite as beautiful as Fanny’s, but somehow less ostentatiously +lovely. They were deeper and softer, and which is +rare in dark eyes, intelligent. Fanny’s blue eyes were intelligent +enough, but they hadn’t quite the subtle depths of +Elizabeth’s, they hadn’t the same reserve.</p> + +<p>Elizabeth lived very much in and on herself; Fanny was +a whole-hearted extravert. Where Elizabeth hesitated, +mused, suffered, Fanny acted, came a cropper, picked herself +up gaily and started off again with just the same zest for +experience. She was more smartly dressed than Elizabeth. +Of course, Elizabeth was always quite charming and attractive, +but you guessed that she had other things to think +about beside clothes. Fanny loved clothes, and with no more +money than Elizabeth, contrived to look stunningly fashionable +where Elizabeth merely looked O. K. Oddly enough, +<span class="pagenum" id="p184">[184]</span>Fanny was not devoured by the Scylla of clothes, the monster +of millinery which is never satiate with its female +victims. Her energy saved her from that. She and Elizabeth +were both restlessly energetic, but whereas Elizabeth’s energy +went into dreaming and arguing and trying to paint, +Fanny’s went into all sorts of activities with all sorts of +persons. She did not “do” anything, having sense enough to +see that in most young women, “art” is merely a kind of +safety-valve for sex. Fanny, I’m glad to say, did not need a +safety-valve for her sex; the steam-pressure was kept regulated +and the engine worked perfectly, thank you very +much. She was emotionally and mentally far less complicated +than Elizabeth, less profound; therefore to her the +new sexual régime, where perfect freedom has happily taken +the place of service, presented fewer possible snags. I’ve +said, of course, that Fanny sometimes came a cropper; she +did, but she hadn’t Elizabeth’s capacity for suffering, Elizabeth’s +desolate despair when her silk purse turned out to be +a sow’s ear—which every one else had known long before.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the remarkable quality of Elizabeth’s mind and +character is best shown by the fact that she never said or +implied anything mean or nasty about Fanny’s clothes....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Reggie Burnside was a rich young man engaged in some +mysterious “research work” at Cambridge, something connected +with the structure of the atom, and highly impressive +because the nature of his work could only be explained in +elaborate mathematical symbols. He wore spectacles, talked +in a high intellectual voice with the peculiar intonation and +blurred syllables favoured by some members of that great +centre of learning, and appeared exceedingly weary. Even +Fanny’s impetuous dash never galvanized him into a spontaneous +action or a natural remark. He also was extremely +modern, and was devoted to Fanny. He was always at hand +when nothing better presented itself—the permanent second +string to the fiddle, or, as Fanny put it, one of her <i>fautes</i>, +adding sotto-voce, my <i>faute-de-mieux</i>.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p185">[185]</span></p> +<p>The talk at first was the usual high-brow chatter of the +period—Flecker and Brooke and Mr. Russell, referred to as +“Bertie” in a casual way by Fanny and Reggie, to the mystification +of George. This is one of the charming traits of +the English intelligentsia. Every one they don’t know is an +outsider, and they love to keep the outsider outside by a +gently condescending patronage. A most effective method is +to talk nonchalantly about well-known people by their +Christian names:</p> + +<p>“Have you read Johnny’s last book?”</p> + +<p>“No-oh. Not yet. The last one was a dreadful bore. Is +this any better?”</p> + +<p>“No-oh, I don’t think so. Tommy dislikes it profoundly. +Says it reminds him of sports on the village green.”</p> + +<p>“How a-<i>mus</i>ing!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Tommy can be quite a-<i>mus</i>ing at times. I was with +him and Bernard the other day, and Bernard said...”</p> + +<p>And if the outsider is silly enough to bite, and to say +timidly or bluntly: “Who’s Johnny?” the answer comes +swift and sweet:</p> + +<p>“O-oh! Don’t you <i>know</i>...!”</p> + +<p>And then the dazzled outsider is condescendingly informed +who “Johnny” is, and especially if a mere American +or Continental, is crushed to learn that “Johnny” is Johnny +Walker or some other enormously brilliant light in the +firmament of British culture....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>George got sick of hearing about “Bertie” without being +told who the devil Bertie was, and began to talk about Ezra +Pound, Jules Romains and Modigliani. But he soon learned +by sweet implication that such people might be all very well +in their way, but after all, well, you know what I mean, +Cambridge <i>is</i> Cambridge.... So George shut up, and said +nothing. Then Reggie began to talk to Elizabeth about +Alpine climbing, the sport of Dons—and a very appropriate +one too, if you think about it. And Fanny talked to George.</p> + +<p>Now Fanny was quite a subtile little beast of the field, and +<span class="pagenum" id="p186">[186]</span>saw that George was a bit sulky, and guessed why. Vapourish +airs were indifferent to her. She had been brought up +among such people, and unconsciously adopted their tone +when speaking to them. But when she was among other +sorts of people she just as unconsciously dropped the vapourish +airs, and let her natural self respond to theirs. She +had a foot, one might almost say a leg, in several social +worlds; and got on perfectly well in any of them. There was +a sort of physical indifference in Fanny which at first sight +looked like mere hardness, and wasn’t. In fact, she wasn’t +nearly as hard as Elizabeth, who could be quite Stonehenge-y +at times. And then suddenly crumble. But Fanny’s +physical indifference carried her through a lot; one felt +that her morning bath had something Lethean about it, and +washed away the memory of last night’s lover along with +his touch.</p> + +<p>So Fanny began to talk to George quite naturally and +gaily. He was suspicious, and gave her three verbal bangs +in quick succession. She took them with unflinching good +humour, and went on talking and trying to find out what +he was interested in. George pretty soon melted to her +gaiety—or perhaps it was the gem-like eyes. He looked at +them, and wondered what it felt like to possess natural organs +which were such superb <i>objets d’art</i>. They must, he +reflected, cause her a good deal of annoyance. Every man +who met her would feel called upon to inform her that she +had wonderful eyes, as if he had made an astounding discovery, +hitherto unrevealed by any one. George decided that +it would be well <i>not</i> to comment upon Fanny’s eyes at a +first meeting.</p> + +<p>Reggie had failed to interest Elizabeth in Alpine climbing, +and switched off on to “a<i>mus</i>ing” anecdotes, which were +more successful. Under the mild influence of a little wine +and a sympathetic listener Reggie shed some of his worst +mannerisms, and became almost human. He liked Elizabeth. +She might not be wholly “a<i>mus</i>ing” but she was “re<i>fresh</i>ing.” +(She was a good listener.) And when the talk once +<span class="pagenum" id="p187">[187]</span>again became general, George began to think that Reggie +was not such a bad fellow after all; there was a sort of +“niceness” about him, the genuine English pride and good +nature under a screen of affectation.</p> + +<p>They sat over coffee and cigarettes until the fidgeting of +the waiter and “Madame’s” little games with the electric +switches warned them that their money and absence would +now be more welcome than their company. It was well after +ten—too late for the cinema. They walked down Shaftesbury +Avenue, George with Reggie, and Elizabeth with Fanny.</p> + +<p>“I like your George,” said Fanny.</p> + +<p>“Do you? I’m so glad.”</p> + +<p>“He’s a bit <i>farouche</i>, but I like the way he enthuses about +what interests him. It’s not put on.”</p> + +<p>“I think Reggie’s rather nice.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Reggie....” and Fanny waved her hand with a +little shrug.</p> + +<p>“But he <i>is</i> nice, Fanny. You know you like him.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, he’s all right. I’m not wild about him. You can +have him, if you want.”</p> + +<p>“Oh! Oh!” Elizabeth laughed, “wait till I ask you!”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They separated at Piccadilly Circus. Fanny and Reggie +went off somewhere in a taxi. Coming down Shaftesbury +Avenue, George had noticed that it was a clear night with a +full moon, and insisted on going to the Embankment to see +the moonlight on the Thames. They turned into the Haymarket.</p> + +<p>“What do you think of Fanny?” asked Elizabeth.</p> + +<p>“I think she has most marvelous eyes.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that’s what every one says.”</p> + +<p>“I was trying to be original! But she’s a nice girl, too. +At first, when she and Burnside began talking, I thought she +was hopelessly infected by his sort of affectation.”</p> + +<p>“Why! Don’t you like him? I thought he was charming.”</p> + +<p>“Charming? I shouldn’t say that. I think he’s not a bad +sort of fellow really, but you know how exasperating I find +<span class="pagenum" id="p188">[188]</span>the Cambridge bleat. Ah’d much raver lis’n to a muckin’ +Cawkn’y, swop me bob, I would.”</p> + +<p>“But you know he’s a very important young scientist, +and supposed to be doing marvelous research work.”</p> + +<p>“Do you know what it is?”</p> + +<p>“No. Fanny couldn’t tell me. She said you had to be a +specialist yourself to understand what he’s doing.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I must say I’m a bit suspicious of these mysterious +‘specialists,’ who can’t even tell you plainly what they’re +doing. I think Boileau’s right—what’s accurately conceived +can be clearly expressed. When Science begins to talk the +language of mystic Theology and superstition, I begin to +suspect it vehemently. Besides, only the feeble sections of +any aristocracy take on vapourish airs and affected ways of +talk. Well-bred people haven’t any affectations. And men +with really fine minds haven’t any intellectual vanity.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but Reggie isn’t vain. He didn’t even mention his +work to me. And he told such a<i>mus</i>ing stories.”</p> + +<p>“That’s just another form of insolence—they assume +you’re too ignorant and stupid to understand their great +and important labours, so they never condescend even to +mention them, but tell ‘a<i>mus</i>ing stories,’ as I see you’ve +already learned to call Common-Room gossip.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth was silent, ominously silent. She was more used +to the Cambridge manner than George was, and thought he +fussed too much about it. Besides, she had been really attracted +by Reggie. She thought George was making a jealous +scene. There she did him a wrong; it never occurred to +George that Elizabeth might fall in love with Reggie. +(Oddly enough, it never <i>does</i> occur to a husband or a lover +<i>in esse</i> to suspect his probable coadjutor—until it is too +late. He suspects plenty of wrong people, but rarely the +right one. The Cyprian undoubtedly has artful ways.) As a +matter of fact, George had not the slightest feeling of jealousy. +He was merely saying what he felt, as he would have +done about any other chance acquaintance. He respected +Elizabeth’s silence. It was one of their numerous pacts—to +<span class="pagenum" id="p189">[189]</span>respect each other’s silence. So they walked mutely down +Whitehall, while George thought vaguely about Fanny and +his next day’s work and cocked his head up to try to see the +moon and watched the occasional busses bounding along like +rapid barges in the empty light-filled river of Belgian +blocks; and Elizabeth brooded over the supposed revelation +of a hitherto unsuspected tendency to silly jealousy in +George. But just as they approached the Abbey, George +slipped his arm through hers so naturally, affectionately +and unsuspiciously that Elizabeth’s ill-humour vanished, and +in two minutes they were chattering as volubly as ever.</p> + +<p>They walked along the Embankment from Westminster +Bridge towards the City. A serene sky hung over London, +transposed to an astonishing blue by the complementary +yellow of the brilliant street lights. A few trams and taxis +were still moving on the Embankment, but after the ceaseless +roar of day traffic, the air seemed almost silent. At +times, they could hear the lap and gurgle of the swift river +water, as the strong flood tide ran inland, bearing a faint +flavour of salt. The river was beautifully silver in the soft +steady moonlight which wavered into multitudes of ripples +as soon as it touched the broken surface of the Thames. +Blocks of moored barges stood black and immovable in the +silver flood. The Southern bank was dark, low and motionless, +except for the luminous announcements of the blessings +of Lipton’s Tea and the Daily Mail. The Scotchman in +coloured moving lights pledged the bonny highlands in +countless sparkling glasses of electric whiskey. Hungerford +Railway Bridge seemed filled with the red eyes of immense +dragons, whose vast bulk lay coiled somewhere invisibly on +either bank. Occasionally a red eye would wink green, and +presently a brightly-lit train would crawl cautiously and +heavily over the vibrating bridge. The lighted windows of +the Cecil and the Savoy aroused no envy in them. Nor did +they pine to inspect the records of a great people lying +behind the darkened and silent façade of Somerset House.</p> + +<p>Opposite the quiet Temple Garden they paused by the +<span class="pagenum" id="p190">[190]</span>parapet and looked up and down that magnificent sweep of +river, with its amazing mixture of dignified beauty and +almost incredible sordidness. They stood for some time, +talking in quiet tones, comparing the Thames with the +Seine, and wondering what dream-like city would have +arisen by those noble curves if London had been inhabited +by a race of artists. Elizabeth wanted to set Florence or +Oxford on either side of the Thames between Westminster +and St. Paul’s. George agreed that that would be lovely, but +thought the buildings would be dwarfed by the width of +the river, the long bridges and the length of façade. And +they finally agreed that with all its sordidness and hugger-mugger +and strange contrast of palaces abutting on slums, +the Embankment had a beauty of its own which they would +not exchange even for the dream-city of a race of artists.</p> + +<p>Midnight boomed with majestic, policeman-like slowness +from Big Ben; and as the last deep vibrations faded from +the air, the great city seemed to be gliding into sleep and +silence. They lingered a little longer, and then turned to go.</p> + +<p>Then, for the first time they noticed what they knew +would be there but had forgotten in their absorbed delight +in the silvery water and moon-washed outlines of the city—that +on every bench sat crouched or huddled one or more +miserable ragged human beings. In front of them ran the +mystically lovely river; behind them the dark masses of the +Temple rose solidly and sternly defensive of Law and Order +behind the spear-front of its tall sharp-pointed iron fence. +And there they crouched and huddled in rags and hunger +and misery, free-born members of the greatest Empire the +earth has yet seen, citizens of Her who so proudly claimed +to be the wealthiest of cities, the exchange and mart of the +whole world.</p> + +<p>George gave what change he had in his pockets to a noseless +syphilitic hag, and Elizabeth emptied her purse into +the hand of a shivering child which had to be awakened to +receive the gift, and cowered as if it thought it was going +to be struck.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p191">[191]</span></p> +<p>Ignoring the hag’s hoarse: “Thank yer kindly, Sir, Gord +bless yer, Lidy,” they fled clutching each other’s hands. +They did not speak until they said good-night outside Elizabeth’s +door.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p192">[192]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ VI ]</h3> + + +<p>During 1913 life ran on very pleasantly and happily +for George and Elizabeth. As in the cases of the +fortunate nations without a history, there appears to be +very little to record about this year. I make no doubt that +it was the happiest in George’s life. He was, as they say, +“getting on,” and had less need to worry about money. In +the spring they went to Dorsetshire and stayed at an Inn. +Elizabeth did a certain amount of painting, but apart from +a few sketches George did not attempt landscape—especially +the picturesque landscape; he wanted his painting to be +urban, contemporary and hard. They walked a good deal +over Worbarrow Down and the rather desolate heath land +round about. On more than one occasion they traversed +the very same piece of land where George was afterwards +in camp with me, a coincidence which seemed to make a +great impression upon him. Certain aspects of a familiar +landscape always call up the same train of thought: and +as people are never weary of telling us what particularly +strikes them, so George rarely failed to convey +this piece of stale news to me as we walked out of camp +by what had once been the rough cart-track he and +Elizabeth had followed in less desolate days. He seemed +to think it remarkable that he should be so miserable +in exactly the same place where he had once been so happy. +As I pointed out, that showed great ignorance of the +ironic temper of the gods, who are very fond of such +genial contrasts. They delight to lay a corpse in a marriage +bed, and to strike down a great nation in the fullest +flush of its pride and power. One might think that +happiness was “hubris,” the excess which calls down the +vengeance of Fate.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p193">[193]</span></p> +<p>They returned to London for a few weeks, and then went +to Paris, Elizabeth adored Paris, and wanted to live there +permanently; but George was against it. He had got some +bug about the best art being “autochthonous,” and declared +that an artist ought to live in his own country. But the real +reason was that Parisian life seemed so pleasant and the +town so full of artists more gifted and more advanced than +himself that he found it almost impossible to work there. It +was easier to feel important in the comparative desert of +London. So they returned to London, and in the autumn +George had his first “show,” which was not altogether such +a failure as he had expected.</p> + +<p>When autumn turned to winter, and the yellow leaves +of the plane trees drifted down into heaps in the London +squares lying miserably sodden under the rain—the everlasting +London drizzle—Elizabeth got very restless. She +wanted to get away, anywhere under blue skies and sun. +Her throat and lungs were rather sensitive, and when the +weather turned foggy, she nearly choked in the heavy soot-laden +stifling air. They talked about going to Italy or Spain, +but George knew only too well that he could not afford it. +He might indeed get assurances from various impresarios +he frequented that “work could go on as usual,” but he +knew only too well that a month’s absence would mean a +decline and that after three months he would be practically +forgotten and dropped. It’s a dangerous thing to have a +national reputation for honesty—people get to trading upon +it and seem to think it absolves them from individual obligations. +So George, after forming various vague plans for a +delightful winter in Sicily or the island of Majorca, had to +admit to Elizabeth that he simply dared not go. He begged +her to go alone, or to find some friend to go with her. +But Elizabeth flatly refused to go without him. So they +stayed in London, and worked and coughed together. Perhaps +it might have been better to take the risk, for as things +turned out George never saw either Spain or Italy, which +he had wanted to see so much.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p194">[194]</span></p> +<p>Fanny came to London for a week in November, before +going South for the winter, and they saw her nearly every +day. Fanny and George were by this time on a footing of +pretty friendly familiarity. That is to say, they always +kissed each other on meeting and parting—after Fanny +had kissed Elizabeth—and held hands in taxis whether +Elizabeth was there or not. Elizabeth didn’t object at all. +Not only because of her theory of freedom. She was at +that time rather deeply involved in some theory of +“erogenous zones” in women, and men’s reaction to them. +And she had got it firmly into her mind that Fanny was +“sexually antipathetic” to George, because he had one day +innocently and casually remarked that he thought Fanny +rather flat-chested. Elizabeth leaped on this—it confirmed +her theory so nicely. George had known Fanny for over a +year and “nothing had happened” between them, and +therefore it was plain that Fanny’s “erogenous zones” awoke +no response in him.</p> + +<p>“Most peculiar,” said Elizabeth, when she discussed the +matter with a demure-looking but mighty ironical Fanny, +“<i>I</i> should have thought you’d be the very type of woman +to attract him. But he only talks about your ‘marvellous +eyes,’ and they aren’t erogenous zones at all. That means +he only likes you as a human being....”</p> + +<p>So Elizabeth took no notice when Fanny kissed George; +or when she said: “George darling, do go and get some +cigarettes for me,” and George departed with alacrity; or +when George called Fanny “My love” or “Fanny darling.” +People throw these endearments about so liberally nowadays, +how on earth is one to know? And, in fact, all this +went on for a long time, and nothing did “happen.” George +was quite devoted to Elizabeth, and then they were away +when Fanny was in London, and Fanny was away when +they were in London. Both George and Fanny begged Elizabeth +to “go South” with Fanny, but Elizabeth wouldn’t. +She was very loyal, and wouldn’t take a holiday George +couldn’t share. But by this time Fanny had become fond +<span class="pagenum" id="p195">[195]</span>of George, very fond indeed. She was weary of Reggie, who +was sometimes so absorbed in atoms that he neglected his +functions as Fanny’s <i>faute-de-mieux</i>. She thought it might +be an excellent plan if she and Elizabeth swopped riders, +so to speak. Not that she wanted to “take George away” +from his mistress. Oh! Not at all. Fanny didn’t want him +as a <i>permanence</i>—Elizabeth was welcome to that. But she +felt he might do excellently as a locum tenens, while Elizabeth +was widening her experience with Reggie. So there +was an unusual warmth in her farewell kiss to George, who +had gone down to see her off at Victoria, and a lingeringly +soft pressure of her hand, and a particularly inviting look +in her beautiful eyes.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, darling!” and she leaned from the window +and to his surprise kissed him again on the lips, “of course, +I’ll write—often. And mind you write to me. I shall be back +in March at latest.”</p> + +<p>Fanny did write—occasionally to Elizabeth, once or +twice to them both, frequently to George. Her letters to +George were much longer and more amusing than the +others. George showed some of them to Elizabeth and +forgot to show others. He replied punctually and affectionately.</p> + +<p>Just before Christmas, Reggie Burnside passed through +London on his way to Mürren. He dropped into Elizabeth’s +studio for tea, and finding her alone asked her to marry +him, in a casual offhand way, rather as he might have suggested +their going to Rumpelmeyer’s instead of having tea +in the studio. Elizabeth was surprised, flattered and fluttered. +They had quite a long discussion. Elizabeth was +amazed that Reggie should want to marry, and above all to +marry her. If she hadn’t been so flattered, she would have +been offended at any one’s thinking she would do such a +thing. She had almost the “thank-you-I’m-not-that-sort-of-girl” +sniffiness about it.</p> + +<p>“Is this a new brand of joke, Reggie?”</p> + +<p>“Good God, no! I’m perfectly serious.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p196">[196]</span></p> +<p>“But why in heaven’s name do you want to <i>marry?</i>”</p> + +<p>“It’s more convenient, you know, addressing letters and +meeting people and all that.”</p> + +<p>“But why want to marry <i>me?</i>”</p> + +<p>“Because I’m in love with you.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth pondered a little over this.</p> + +<p>“Well,” she said slowly, “I don’t believe I’m in love with +you. I’m sure I’m not. I like you most awfully, but I’m not +in love with you, I’m in love with George.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, George!” Reggie waved a contemptuous hand. +“What’s the good of your wasting your time with a man +like that, Elizabeth? He won’t do anything. He doesn’t +know anybody worth mentioning, except ourselves, and +nobody at Cambridge thinks anything of his painting.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth was on the defensive immediately.</p> + +<p>“Don’t talk nonsense, Reggie! George is a dear, and I +won’t have you say things like that about him. And as if +anybody cares a hang what mouldy young Cambridge +thinks about a painter!”</p> + +<p>Reggie changed his tack.</p> + +<p>“All right, if you don’t want to marry me, don’t. But, +look here. You oughtn’t to spend the winter in London with +that cough and your chest. I’ll give up Mürren if you’ll +come for a month with me to some small place on the +Riviera. We can easily find a place where there aren’t any +English.”</p> + +<p>This was a far more gratifying and dangerous proposal +to Elizabeth than matrimony. She was heartily sick of +London fog and cold and drizzle and mire and soot and +messy open fires which fill the room with dust but don’t +warm it. More than once she had regretted not having gone +away with Fanny. Moreover, a “month’s affair” with Reggie +would perfectly well fit into the arrangement with George, +whereas they hadn’t thought of and hadn’t discussed the +possibility of either marrying some one else. Elizabeth +hesitated, but she had a feeling that it would be rather +mean to leave George suddenly alone in London and go off +<span class="pagenum" id="p197">[197]</span>on her own with Reggie, if only for a month. She certainly +was extraordinarily fond of George.</p> + +<p>“No, Reggie, I can’t come this time. Go to Mürren, and +when you come back, perhaps... well, we’ll see.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth made toast and tea, and they sat on a large +low divan in front of the fire. The dingy light soon faded +from the soiled London sky, but they sat on in the firelight, +holding hands.</p> + +<p>She let Reggie kiss her as much as he wanted, but for the +time being resisted any further encroachments.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Elizabeth’s resistance, at that precise moment, to the +advances of Mr. Reginald Burnside, seems to me a striking +example of George’s infelicity. I mean that I see a direct +link between it and the sudden inexplicable standing up of +a man in khaki, before a murderous machine gun fire, not +long after dawn, on the morning of the 4th of November, +1918.... Not that I wish melodramatically “to set the +brand of Cain” upon Elizabeth or upon Fanny or upon both +jointly. Far from it. <i>They</i> didn’t make the war. <i>They</i> didn’t +give George the jumps. And after all there is a doubt, +almost a mystery involved in George’s death. Did he really +commit suicide? I don’t know. I’ve only got circumstantial +evidence and my own hunch about it, a sort of intuition, +a something haunting in my memory of the man, an +Orestes-like feeling of some inexpiated guilt. Who is to say +whether a man can really commit suicide on a battlefield? +Desperate recklessness and looking for trouble may be the +very means of his escaping the death which finds the prudent +coward crouching in a shell-hole. And suppose he +did deliberately get himself killed, ought we, ought I, to +attach any blame to Elizabeth and Fanny? I don’t think +so. There were plenty of other things to disgust him with +life. And even supposing that he realized the war was ending, +realized that in his state of mind he simply could not +face the problem of his relation with those two women, +still I think them utterly blameless. The mess was as much +<span class="pagenum" id="p198">[198]</span>his fault as theirs. It was really quite an easy mess to clear +up. What made it impossible was George’s shattered nerves, +and for that they were not to blame. Oh, not in the least. +Perhaps I’m as much to blame as anybody. I ought to have +done something to get George sent out of the line. I think I +might have gone to the Brigadier and have told him in +private what I knew about George’s state of mind—or +perhaps to his Colonel. But I didn’t go. At that time I was +not persona grata with those in authority, for I happened +to sympathize then with the young Russian Revolution, +and had foolishly argued hotly about it. So perhaps my +effort would have been wasted. And anyhow it was a very +difficult and ticklish thing to do, and I was tired, very +tired....</p> + +<p>At any rate, just about a fortnight after Reggie went to +Mürren, the abominable winter climate of London gave +Elizabeth some sort of a chill inside and upset her interior +economy. Within four or five days she became quite demented. +She insisted that she was with child, and insisted +that the only solution was for George to marry her—at +once. Perhaps the afternoon with Reggie had somehow inserted +the idea of marriage into her “subconscious.” At all +events, her extraordinary energy was suddenly concentrated +upon attaining a state which she had hitherto utterly +scorned. It was a silly thing to do, but one really cannot +blame her. Men are oddly callous about these mysterious +female maladies and demoniacal possessions. They get +peevish and pathetic enough if something goes wrong with +their own livers, but they are strangely unsympathetic +about the profounder derangements of their yoke-fellows in +iniquity. Perhaps they might feel a little more humane if +they too had a sort of twenty-eight day clock inside them, +always a nuisance, often liable to go wrong and set up +irregular blood-pressure and an intolerable poisoning of the +brain. George ought to have hiked her off to a gynecologist +at once. Instead of which, he behaved as stupidly as any +George Augustus would have done under the circumstances. +<span class="pagenum" id="p199">[199]</span>He did nothing but gasp and stare at Elizabeth’s whirling +tantrums, and worry, and offer exasperating comfort, and +propose remedies and measures which, as Elizabeth told +him, with a stamp of her foot, were impossible, impossible, +<i>impossible</i>. Of course, by the Triumphal Scheme +for the Perfect Sex Relation, it was duly enacted that +under such circumstances there was nothing to do but +marry the girl. But elementary prudence would suggest +that it might be sensible to make certain the circumstances +<i>had</i> arisen, a precaution which they entirely overlooked +in the mental disarray caused by Elizabeth’s regrettable +dementia.</p> + +<p>The change wrought in Elizabeth’s outlook in a few days +was amazing. If she hadn’t felt so tragically about it, she +would have been ludicrous in her mental manœuvres. The +whole Triumphal Scheme was scrapped almost instantaneously, +and by a rapid and masterly series of evolutions her +whole army of arguments was withdrawn from the outpost +line of Complete Sexual Freedom, and fell back upon the +Hindenburg line of Safety First, Female Honour, and +Legal Marriage. It was, of course, ridiculous for them to +marry at all, either of them. They weren’t the marrying +sort. They were adventurers in life, not good citizens. +Neither of them was the kind of person who exults in life +insurance and buying a house on the hire-purchase system +and mowing the lawn on Saturday afternoon and taking +the “kiddies” (odious word) to the seaside. Neither of them +looked forward to the “Old Age Will Come” summit of +felicity, with an elderly and imbecilly contented-looking +George sitting beside a placid and motherly white-haired +Elizabeth in the garden of a dear little home, contemplating +together with smug beatitude the document from the +insurance company guaranteeing a safe ten pounds a week +for the remainder of their joint lives. I am glad to say that +George and Elizabeth would have shuddered at any such +prospect. But Elizabeth insisted upon marriage, and married +they duly were, despite the feeble protests of Elizabeth’s +<span class="pagenum" id="p200">[200]</span>family and the masterly denunciations of Isabel, +already recorded.</p> + +<p>In all outward respects the legal marriage made no difference +whatever to their lives and relationships. Elizabeth +retained her studio, and George his. They met no more +frequently and on exactly the same terms of affectionate +sensuality into which their first exultant passion had long +ago evolved. One of the terms of the Triumphal Scheme +emphatically laid down the axiom that it was most undesirable +and dangerous for two lovers to inhabit the same +flat or small house. If they were rich enough to live in +separate wings of a large house, all well and good; but if +not, then they should live no nearer than neighbouring +streets. The essence of freedom is the disposal of one’s own +time in one’s own way, and how can two people do that if +they are living on top of each other? Moreover, a daily +absence of several hours is quite indispensable to the avoidance +of the domestic den atmosphere. It is far better for +two lovers to be happy together for three or four hours a +day than to be indifferent or miserable for twenty-four. The +joint marriage-bed, Elizabeth used to state impressively, is +destructive of all self-respect and sexual charm, and blunts +the finer edges of sensibility....</p> + +<p>Soon after the legal formalities were irrevocably accomplished +and Elizabeth’s social anxieties somewhat calmed, +it occurred to her that she ought to consult a doctor, in +order to learn how to behave during these months of “expecting,” +as the modest working-class matron calls it. So +she got the address of a “modern” physician, who was +supposed to have all the latest and most enlightened +methods of dealing with pregnancy and its distresses. To +Elizabeth’s amazement she found she was not pregnant at +all! With the not unnatural suspicion that most doctors +are more or less charlatans imposing on the ignorance of +the public, she refused to believe him until he told her flatly +that in her present condition she might wait till doomsday +for the appearance of an infant, but that if she neglected +<span class="pagenum" id="p201">[201]</span>her present slight disorder it might become dangerous and +permanent. She then condescended to accept his diagnosis +and advice. George had accompanied her, and was in the +specialist’s waiting room. A serious, concentrated, rather +pi-jaw Elizabeth had left him to enter the consulting room, +and George fidgeted over the imbecilities of “Punch,” +wondering how on earth they would deal with the problem +of an infant and feeling that he would probably have to +take a job and “settle down” into the horrible morass of +domestic life. To his amazement, as the consulting-room +door opened, he heard Elizabeth laugh with her old merry +gaiety which was so attractive, and caught the words:</p> + +<p>“Well, if it’s twins, Doctor, you shall be godfather.”</p> + +<p>To which the Doctor replied with a laugh George thought +rather ribald and heartless under the circumstances. Elizabeth +rushed into the room, exclaiming:</p> + +<p>“It’s all right, darling, a false alarm. I’m no more pregnant +than you are.”</p> + +<p>George, who was wool-gathering, might have remained +indefinitely perplexed, if the doctor had not taken him +aside and told him briefly the situation, adding that for a +little time it would be well if Elizabeth refrained from +sexual relations.</p> + +<p>“How long do you advise?” asked George.</p> + +<p>“Oh, let her follow the treatment prescribed for about a +month, and then let me examine her again. I’ve no doubt +whatever that she’ll be perfectly all right again. As a matter +of fact, she couldn’t have a child without a slight operation. +Only, in the future, she must avoid chills. She ought +not to spend the winter in England.”</p> + +<p>George wrote out a cheque for three guineas (which +Elizabeth insisted on repaying afterwards), and they celebrated +the event with a dinner.</p> + +<p>“Let us drink,” said George, “to this happy occasion +when we have NOT committed the unforgivable sin of +thrusting an unwanted existence upon one more unfortunate +human being.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p202">[202]</span></p> +<p>But perhaps the most amazing circumstance in this +peculiar episode was the speed with which Elizabeth once +more evacuated the old familiar Hindenburg Line, and reoccupied +the most advanced positions of Sexual Freedom. +But, of course, she did so with a difference. Though she +wouldn’t admit it even to herself, and though George tried +not to see it, in her case the Triumphal Scheme had broken +down badly under its first stern test. Directly that test had +come, she had fallen back in panic on the old cut-and-dried +solution; she hadn’t had the courage to go through with it. +In a way one could excuse her by saying that the interior +trouble had temporarily deranged her brain, that she wasn’t +really responsible for her actions. But that’s only a quibble—the +fact remains that she did fly in a panic to social +safety and the registrar. And then the legal tie introduced +a subtle difference in their relation. You may say, of course, +that it needn’t, that since they continued to live in exactly +the same way and to profess exactly the same attitude +towards each other and “freedom,” it made no difference +whether they were legally married or not. But it did. And +it does. You can see that perfectly well if you watch people. +Somehow the mere fact of marriage introduces the sense of +possession, and hence jealousy. Lovers, of course, may be +and frequently are just as possessive and quite as jealous. +But there is a difference. As a rule lovers are not first occupants, +so to speak; and they are generally willing to grant +each other more liberty and to “forgive.” But you will see +married people who have become totally indifferent to each +other, rise in a fury of possessiveness and jealousy when +they happen to find out that the wife or husband, as the +case may be, is in love with some one else. This, indeed +may be only another aspect of that peculiar vindictiveness +bred by marriage. And another curious modification of their +relationship arose. When Elizabeth reoccupied the Sexual +Freedom line, without knowing it she did so for herself +alone, and not for George. If George liked to accept the +subsequent Elizabeth-Reggie affair, in accordance with the +<span class="pagenum" id="p203">[203]</span>provisions of the Triumphal Scheme, all well and good; that +was his lookout. But when it came to Elizabeth’s accepting +the Fanny-George affair in the same spirit, that was a very +different matter. Elizabeth now felt somehow responsible +for George, and feeling responsible translated itself into +keeping possession of....</p> + +<p>However, three months after the false alarm, Elizabeth +seemed more “advanced” and full of “freedom” than ever. +Her position as a married woman enabled her to talk with +greater liberty on all sorts of topics which are now discussed +in every nursery, but at that time were considered +highly improper and not to be named before Citizens +of the Empire. She got hold of a book on the woes of +the Uranians, and was deeply affected by it. She wanted +to start a crusade on their behalf, and was greatly +disappointed by the coolness with which George met her +enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>“It is ridiculous,” said Elizabeth, “that these unfortunate +people should be persecuted by obsolete laws derived from +the prejudices of the Jewish prophets and mediæval +ignorance.”</p> + +<p>“Of course it is, but what can one do about it? Persecution-mania +has always existed. It’s a very curious coincidence +that the vulgar English word for one sort of +intermediate sexual type originally meant a heretic. But +there’s nothing to be done.”</p> + +<p>“I think something ought to be done.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I think it’s too soon to do anything. You’ve got +to allow time for knowledge to percolate into rock-like +heads, and for ignorance and superstitions to be dispelled. +Let’s get the ordinary relations of men and women on to a +decent basis first, and then it’ll be time to think about the +heretics in love.”</p> + +<p>“But, George darling, these people are hunted and exiled +and despised for something which is not their ‘fault’ at +all, some difference in their physiological or psychological +structure. There probably isn’t any such thing as a perfectly +<span class="pagenum" id="p204">[204]</span>‘normal’ sexual type. Simply because we’re ‘normal’ +why should we hate and despise these people?”</p> + +<p>“I know, I know. Theoretically, I agree with you absolutely. +But it’s no good my mind trying to defend what my +instincts and feelings reject. Frankly, I don’t like homosexuals. +I respect their freedom, of course, but I don’t like +them. As a matter of fact, I don’t know any, at least so far +as I am aware. No doubt some of our friends are homosexual, +but as I’m not personally interested in it, I never +notice it.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but because you don’t notice it doesn’t mean that +it doesn’t exist. Don’t be narrow-minded, George. There +are probably tens of thousands of people living miserable +lives....”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I know all about that! But you can’t break down +the inherited prejudices of ages in five minutes. I personally +don’t object to such people doing as they want. There’s no +tort to person or property. But my advice to them would +be to keep jolly quiet about it, and not try to make themselves +martyrs, and flaunt themselves publicly.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, oh!” Elizabeth laughed. “Grandpa George foregathering +with the Victorians.”</p> + +<p>“All right, but I’m not going to say what I don’t feel. +In this matter you must look upon me as a neutral.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I think you ought to look into it more carefully +and sympathetically, and get Bobbe to let you write some +articles on it.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks very much. You ask him to do it himself, it’s far +more likely to attract <i>him</i>. If I wrote such articles I should +immediately be suspect. It’s a damned dangerous thing to +do in England; in most cases the suspicion is far too likely +to be true!”</p> + +<p>And they left it at that.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>All this time the war was drawing steadily nearer. +Probably it had become certain since 1911, though most +people were taken quite unawares. Why did it happen? +<span class="pagenum" id="p205">[205]</span>Who was responsible? Questions which have been interminably +debated already and will furnish exultant historians +with controversial material for generations to come. +Already one foresees the creation of Chairs in the History +of the First World War, to be set up in whatever civilized +countries remain in existence after the next one. But for +us the debate is vain, as vain as the pathetic and reiterated +enquiry, “<i>Where</i> did I catch this horrible cold?” If anybody +or bodies engineered this catastrophe they must have been +gratified by its shattering success. Few lives indeed in the +belligerent countries remained unaffected by it, and in most +cases the effect was unpleasant. Adult lives were cut sharply +into three sections—pre-war, war, and post-war. It is +curious—perhaps not so curious—but many people will tell +you that whole areas of their pre-war lives have become +obliterated from their memories. Pre-war seems like prehistory. +What did we do, how did we feel, what were we +living for in those incredibly distant years? One feels as if +the period 1900-14 has to be treated archæologically, painfully +recreated by experts from slight vestiges. Those who +were still children at the Armistice, who were so to speak +born into the war, can hardly understand the feeling of +tranquil security which existed, the almost smug optimism +of our lives. Especially in England, for the French retained +uncomfortable memories of 1870; but still, even in France +life seemed established and secure. Since Waterloo, England +had engaged in no great war. There were frontier and +colonial skirmishes, and the reputation of the country for +military organization and efficiency was immensely +strengthened in the world’s eyes by the conduct of the +Crimean and Boer Wars. But there had been nothing on a +really big scale. The Franco-Prussian War was just one of +those unfortunate occurrences one must expect from backward +Continental nations, and the huge struggle of the War +of Secession was observed through the wrong end of the +telescope. In some quarters, indeed, that war had been considered +as a peculiar mercy of God to His Chosen People, +<span class="pagenum" id="p206">[206]</span>enabling the British Merchant Marine to re-establish an indisputable +primacy at the expense of a regrettable upstart +among nations.</p> + +<p>Talleyrand used to say that those who had not known +Europe before 1789, had never known the real pleasure of +living. No one would dare to substitute 1914 for 1789 in +that sentence. But such a wholesale shattering of values had +certainly not occurred since 1789. God knows how many +governments and rulers crashed down in the earthquake, +and those which remain are agitatedly trying to preserve +their existence by the time-honoured methods of repression +and persecution. And yet 1914 was greeted as a great release, +a purgation from the vices supposed to be engendered +by peace! My God! Three days of glory engender more +vices and misery than all the alleged corrupters of humanity +could achieve in a millennium. <i>Les jeunes</i> would be amazed +if they read the nauseous poppycock which was written +in 1914-15 in England, and doubtless in all the belligerent +countries, except France where practically nothing was +printed at all. (However, the French have made up handsomely +for the loss since then.) “Our splendid troops” were +to come home—oh, very soon—purged and ennobled by +slaughter and lice, and were to beget a race of even nobler +fellows to go and do likewise. We were to have a great revival +in religion, for peoples’ thoughts were now turned +from frivolities to great and serious themes. We were to +have a new and greater literature—hence the alleged vogue +for “war poets,” which resulted in the parents of the slain +being asked to put up fifty pounds for the publication +(which probably cost fifteen) of poor little verses which +should never have passed the home circle. We were to have... +but really I lack courage to continue. Let those who +are curious in human imbecility consult the newspaper-files +of those days....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>But we are still lingering in the golden calm of the last +few months preceding August, 1914.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p207">[207]</span></p> +<p>Fanny had followed Elizabeth’s amazing evolutions with +considerable surprise and that feeling of “something not +displeasing” with which we contemplate the misfortunes +of our best friends. She chiefly felt rather sorry for +George....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“You have a vendetta of the dead against the living.” +Yes, it is true, I have a vendetta. Not a personal vendetta. +What am I? O God, nothing, less than nothing, a husk, +a leaving, a half-chewed morsel on the plate, a reject. But +an impersonal vendetta, an unappeased conscience crying in +the wilderness, a river of tears in the desert. What right +have I to live? Is it five million, is it ten million, is it +twenty million? What does the exact count matter? There +they are, and we are responsible. Tortures of hell, we are +responsible! When I meet an unmaimed man of my generation, +I want to shout at him: “How did you escape? +How did you dodge it? What dirty trick did you play? +Why are you not dead, trickster?” It is dreadful to have +outlived your life, to have shirked your fate, to have overspent +your welcome. There is nobody upon earth who +cares whether I live or die, and I am glad of it. To be +alone, icily alone. You, the war dead, I think you died in +vain, I think you died for nothing, for a blast of wind, a +blather, a humbug, a newspaper stunt, a politician’s ramp. +But at least you died. You did not reject the sharp sweet +shock of bullets, the sudden smash of the shell-burst, the +insinuating agony of poison gas. You got rid of it all. You +chose the better part. “They went down like a lot o’ +Charlie Chaplins,” said the little ginger-hair sergeant of the +Durhams. Like a lot of Charlie Chaplins. Marvellous +metaphor! Can’t you see them staggering on splayed-out +test and waving ineffective hands as they went down before +the accurate machine-gun fire of the Durhams sergeant? A +splendid little hero—he got the Military Medal for it. Like +a lot of Charlie Chaplins. Marvellous. But why weren’t we +one of them? What right have we to live? And the women? +<span class="pagenum" id="p208">[208]</span>Oh, don’t let’s talk about the women. They were splendid, +wonderful. Such devotion, such devotion. How they comforted +the troops. Oh, wonderful, beyond all praise! They +got the vote for it, you know. Oh, wonderful! Steel-true and +blade-straight. Yes, indeed, wonderful, wonderful! Whatever +should we have done without them? White feathers, and all +that, you know. Oh, the women were marvellous. You can +always rely upon the women to come up to scratch, you +know. Yes, indeed. What would the Country be without +them? So splendid, such an example.</p> + +<p>On Sundays the Union Jack flies over the cemetery at +Etaples. It’s not so big as it was in the old wooden cross +days, but it will serve. Acres and acres. Yes, acres and +acres. And it’s too late to get one’s little lot in the acres. +Too late, too late....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Yes, Fanny was sorry for George, and showed it with +practical feminine sympathy. In the late spring Elizabeth +“had” to go and spend a fortnight with her parents in the +north. Mrs. Paston—who never failed in any of her duties, +and took jolly good care to let you know it—was accustomed +to write every week to Elizabeth. This weekly letter +was supposed to be a nice, chatty, affectionate record of +the little home circle and friends, something to keep Elizabeth +in touch with their purer lives (of pure boredom) and +preserve her from the decadents and degenerates she frequented +in London. In fact the letter was almost invariably +a perfidious and insinuating effort to make Elizabeth uncomfortable +and to discourage her with her own life. +Under the endearing words of conventional family affection +lurked a curious resentment and hatred. If Mrs. Paston +could think of anything likely to worry Elizabeth she never +failed to convey it, in the strain of “isn’t it a pity, +dear?...” Sometimes Elizabeth answered these letters, +sometimes she did not. Recently, they had been filled with +discouraging hints about the state of Mr. Paston’s health. +“Your dear father” could not shake off his “bronchitis” +<span class="pagenum" id="p209">[209]</span>(i.e., a cold in the head), he was very “languid” (i.e., bored, +the golf links were under water), he “scarcely ever went +out” (he hardly ever had done, except to play golf), he +was “getting so frail and white-haired, poor darling daddy” +(he’d been grey for fifteen years and still ate four hearty +meals daily), he “seemed to be failing fast”—a pure piece +of mythology. Elizabeth was rather fond of her father, and +began to get alarmed, although she was more or less aware +of her mother’s strategy. But it is the misfortune of youth +never really to credit the aged with their full meed of +perfidy and dislike. She felt she ought to go and see her +father for herself—it would be awful if he suddenly died +without her seeing him. She told George she was going.</p> + +<p>“All right, of course, if you want to. I’ll take you to the +station. When are you going?”</p> + +<p>“I wish you’d come with me, George. Father and mother +would like to see you, and they’d appreciate it so much.”</p> + +<p>“Now look here, Elizabeth, don’t let’s have any humbug +here. I don’t ask you to meet my parents and I don’t see +why I should have to stay with yours. I think your +mother’s quite awful, one of those nagging martyr women +who’re always taking on unnecessary jobs and worries, and +then grumbling about how much they have to do and how +little they’re appreciated. Your father’s all right. He’s a +decent sort, with a human respect for other people. But +after I’ve feigned an interest I don’t feel in golf and we’ve +shaken our heads over the wickedness of Liberal governments, +we’ve really nothing left to say to each other.”</p> + +<p>“But it’s so much easier for me if you’d come too.”</p> + +<p>“No, it wouldn’t. We’d be shown off as the happy married +pair to your mother’s friends, and our sufferings would be +dreadful. Besides, it’ll be easier for you to adjust yourself +temporarily to their prejudices if you don’t have the sensation +of a satirical me watching you.”</p> + +<p>So Elizabeth went by herself, and George remained alone +in London. He always missed Elizabeth frightfully when +she went away, but instead of going out and amusing himself, +<span class="pagenum" id="p210">[210]</span>he stayed in and tried to pass the time by overworking. +By the evening of the fifth day, he was thoroughly fed up. +He decided to go out and ring up various friends in turn, +until he found some one to have dinner with him. He had +just finished washing and was putting on a clean collar, +when some one knocked at the door of his studio.</p> + +<p>“Half a minute,” shouted George, “I’m dressing. Who is +it?”</p> + +<p>The door opened, and in came Fanny, wearing a charming +new dress and a gay wide-brimmed hat with a large +feather in it.</p> + +<p>“Why, Fanny! How good to see you, and how lovely +you look!”</p> + +<p>They kissed affectionately. Fanny sat down on the bed.</p> + +<p>“I’ve come to be taken out to dinner. If you think you’re +doing anything else, you’re mistaken. You’ll have to ring up +and say you can’t come.”</p> + +<p>“As a matter of fact, I was on the point of going out to +find somebody to dine with me, so your coming is a godsend.”</p> + +<p>“How’s Elizabeth?”</p> + +<p>“She’s all right. I got a letter from her this morning. +She’s with her parents, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know. How long’ll she be away?”</p> + +<p>“Another ten days. Poor darling, she sounds awfully +bored already.”</p> + +<p>“And what are you doing?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, fighting the lone hand here. Do you want to see the +picture I’m finishing?”</p> + +<p>And George dragged round an easel with a large canvas +on it, into the light.</p> + +<p>“But it’s good, George! It’s got great qualities of energy +and design.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t think it’s too hard and angular?”</p> + +<p>“No, not a bit. It’s excellent. By far the best thing you’ve +done.”</p> + +<p>And Fanny jumped up from the bed, put her arm around +<span class="pagenum" id="p211">[211]</span>George, and kissed him again. For the first time her lips +were not cool, shut and sisterly, but warm and open and +delicious—the lips of an accomplice. The sudden flicker of +warm desire awoke in George’s flesh, and he felt his heart +leap and the blood flush to his face. He held her to him, +and pressed eager firm lips to her soft yielding mouth. +For a few seconds she seemed to resist, and made as if to +thrust him from her. He held her more closely, and suddenly +her stiffened body yielded delicately, moulded itself +to his, her head moved slowly backwards with closed eyes. +Between the moist velvet of her lips he felt on his the exquisite +caress of a gentle tongue-tip. George gently laid his +hand on her left breast, and felt the rapid beating of her +heart. She softly drew away her lips and looked at him.</p> + +<p>“Fanny! Fanny!”</p> + +<p>Her gem-like eyes, now all flower-like, looked at him.</p> + +<p>“Fanny! Most dear Fanny! I must have loved you a long +time without knowing it.”</p> + +<p>Fanny spoke slowly, still watching him:</p> + +<p>“You’re such a nice man, George, and yet such a boy.”</p> + +<p>“And you are divine and inexpressibly lovely and thrilling +and adorable....”</p> + +<p>They kissed again, and stood there embraced until George +felt dizzy with the blood beating in his brain. He pulled her +gently towards the bed, and they lay down, clothed, in each +other’s arms. George’s hand moved tenderly and delicately +over her uncorseted girl body, so warm and firm and fragile +under the thin cool silk dress. The incoherent words of +lovers gave place to silence, and they lay trembling in each +other’s arms, almost like frightened children comforting +each other.</p> + +<p>Fanny sighed, and opened her eyes.</p> + +<p>“What time is it?”</p> + +<p>George fumbled for his watch.</p> + +<p>“Nearly half-past eight!”</p> + +<p>“Heavens! We shall be too late for dinner if we don’t +hurry.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p212">[212]</span></p> +<p>George went to get his coat, and returned to find Fanny +unconcernedly drawing her silk stockings tight and trim.</p> + +<p>“Where can we go that’s near?”</p> + +<p>“There’s a new place just started in Frith Street—we can +go there.”</p> + +<p>George watched her as she smoothed her mussed hair, and +absorbedly fitted on the large hat before the mirror. He was +still trembling a little, and noticed how steady her hands +were. Only a few minutes before they had been so close, all +the barriers down, each existence melted in the other. That +had been perfect, complete happiness. “Had been.” Already +the current of ordinary life was sweeping them apart again. +Oh, not very far really, still within hailing distance. But +very far, compared with that wonderful nearness. Such an +ecstasy could not last. But why not? Perhaps one of the +many bitter jests of the gods—to show us for an hour what +happiness might be if we were gods. None can possess another, +none can be possessed. Is it possible to give, is it possible +to take? Does one existence really melt into another for +a few minutes, or does it only seem to? What is she thinking +now? Her mind is as remote from mine as if she had slipped +into another dimension. Romantically we ask too much. It is +much that she is lovely and finds me desirable. Let us not +ask too much. Enjoyment is enough. Yet how fragile even +that is! It is as if one tried to carry a small flickering light +in a thin glass vessel through a tumultuous hostile crowd. +How earnest is the world to suppress the delight of lovers! +How bitterly wrong all that is!</p> + +<p>They went down into the warm, airless street, where the +lamps were already lighted. Dirty children still played +noisily and screamed on the side-walks. An Italian woman +slip-slopped past them in felt slippers, carrying a jug +of beer. Soho smelled frowzy and stale. Fanny noticed +this.</p> + +<p>“Why do you and Elizabeth live in this horrid district? +It must be awfully unhealthy, especially for Elizabeth.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, one gets used to it. Hampstead’s too far out. Kensington’s +<span class="pagenum" id="p213">[213]</span>too dear, Chelsea’s both dear and ungetatable. +When I’m in town I like to be in the middle of it. Suburbs +are beastly. We all suffer from the English ‘home’ system +of building—one hut, one family—and from our peculiar +desire to be in a town and the country simultaneously. We +don’t seem able to live the purely urban life of the Latins. +But London’s too big and frowzy.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They dined in the small restaurant, which had been +“decorated” with rather feeble pictures by young artists, to +give it that Latin Quarter air. It was somehow ineffectual. +A bit amateurish. However, they didn’t care about that. +Since they were comparatively old friends, they did not +suffer the haunting and disagreeable uneasiness and strangeness +which fall between those who suddenly become lovers. +The spontaneity of their passion absorbed any possible +feeling of remorse. They talked quietly, but without any +strain and effort. Fanny gave some amusing descriptions of +the odd freaks among the British “colonies” on the Riviera. +Why is it that one sees such curious and freakish specimens +of one’s countrymen abroad, types one never sees at home? +Do the foreign surroundings bring out the freakishness, or +were such people destined to emigration by their very +oddity? But there could be no doubt—Fanny and George +were on a new footing with each other. There was a new +and delicious intimacy between them. Strange that a few +kisses and caresses should make such a difference.</p> + +<p>As they were leaving the restaurant, Fanny was hailed by +some friends at a table near the door.</p> + +<p>“Hullo, Fanny! How are you? I say, why don’t you come +along with us? We’re all going to Marshall’s chambers at +ten. There’ll be lots of people there. It ought to be amusing.”</p> + +<p>“No, I want to see that new film at the Shaftesbury.”</p> + +<p>“But you can see that any time.”</p> + +<p>“No, this is the last week, and I’m going to Dieppe to-morrow +for a week.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p214">[214]</span></p> +<p>“Oh, all right. Sorry you won’t come. Look us up when +you get back. Good-bye, good-bye.”</p> + +<p>They got into a taxi, and Fanny gave the address of her +flat.</p> + +<p>“Did you really mean that you are going to Dieppe to-morrow?” +asked George a little wistfully.</p> + +<p>Fanny squeezed his arm, and kissed him briefly and skilfully +as the taxi lurched them together.</p> + +<p>“Of course not, goose! We’re going to be together, unless +you piously decide not to. But it’s useful to have an alibi. +People are still fussy about one’s ‘reputation,’ you know.”</p> + +<p>“But suppose we meet them, or some one else who knows +you?”</p> + +<p>“I shall say I changed my mind, or that I got bored and +came straight back.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Fanny’s flat was small, but pleasantly clean and modern. +After the picturesque but rather dingy antiquity of his +large eighteenth-century panelled room, George found it +delightful to be in bright-painted clean rooms with a white-tiled +bathroom. Among Fanny’s many remarkable efficiencies +was the genius of discovering excellent flats at a fabulously +cheap rental, furnishing them charmingly for about +five pounds and running them perfectly without the slightest +fuss. She generally shifted her quarters about every six +months, and invariably for the better. How pleasant is efficiency +in others, especially when you are rather inefficient +yourself! I wouldn’t exactly say that George was inefficient, +but the details of material life rather bored him. When +you had so much else to do and so little time to do it in, +he thought it rather a waste of life to be too pernickety +about one’s surroundings and fixings. However, he decided +then and there that he and Elizabeth would have to get out +of Soho. It was too disgustingly frowzy.</p> + +<p>Fanny was a marvelous lover. Or, at least, George thought +so. It was not only that she was golden and supple and lithe, +where Elizabeth was dark and rather stiff and virginal, but +<span class="pagenum" id="p215">[215]</span>she really cared about love-making. It was her art. It was +for her neither a painful duty nor a degrading necessity nor +a series of disappointing experiments, but a delightful art +which gave full expression to her vitality, energy and efficiency. +Like all great artists, she was entirely disinterested—art +for art’s sake. She chose her lovers with great care, +and rather preferred them to be poor, to avoid any suspicion +of commercialism or arrivism. She knew she had the +genius of touch, and was unwilling that it should be wasted. +If she hadn’t been a great lover, she might have been a +good sculptor. But like all artists she was exacting, and had +her vanity. She would not waste her talents. If a subject was +not profoundly responsive and appreciative, she put him +aside at the earliest possible moment. No clumsy, inhibited +Englishman for her! No, thank you. Perhaps that is why +she spent so much of her time abroad.</p> + +<p>But this particular Englishman was not inhibited or ineradicably +clumsy. Crude perhaps, rather lacking in style +and finish, but capable of rapid progress under expert guidance. +Fanny, with the artist’s unerring glance, had long ago +perceived that there were considerable possibilities in +George. He had natural aptitudes and, what is far more +important, the sense of delicate artistry which finds its +highest satisfaction in bestowing delight. He was neither +a bull nor a turkey gobbler. Fanny was satisfied; she had +not made a mistake....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>For the remaining days of Elizabeth’s absence George +did no work whatever. And a very good thing too, for he +needed a holiday. He stayed at Fanny’s flat. They made +picnic meals in the flat, or ate out at places where they were +pretty certain not to meet friends—City stockbrokers’ taverns +or curious pubs with sawdust and spittoons on the +floors, where you sat on stools at the bar and had a cut +from the joint and two vegetables with beer. They went to +“low” music-halls and saw all the primitive films of the day—Charlie’s +were the only good ones—and for a lark went to +<span class="pagenum" id="p216">[216]</span>see what the inside of the Abbey looked like, a place no +Londoner ever visits. They agreed that it looked like the +atelier of an incredibly bad academic sculptor installed in +an overcrowded but rather beautiful Gothic barn. Fanny +rather hated Gothic architecture, she said all those points +and squiggles gave her the creeps; but George said that if +you wanted to see the real spirit of mediæval sculpture you +ought to look underneath the seats of the canon’s stalls. +But they didn’t quarrel about that. They were far too +happy.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Nothing more was said about Elizabeth, until the day +before she returned.</p> + +<p>“You’ll meet her, of course?” said Fanny.</p> + +<p>“Of course.”</p> + +<p>“Well, give her my love.”</p> + +<p>“I suppose I ought to tell her about us,” said George +reflectively.</p> + +<p>Fanny saw the danger in a flash. Her “freedom” was of +a different kind from Elizabeth’s rather theoretical and +idealizing kind. Fanny’s was light-hearted and practical; +moreover, she had observed human beings and knew her +Elizabeth far better than George did. She also knew her +George. If George told Elizabeth, she knew quite well there +would be a bust-up, that Elizabeth’s theories would be abandoned +as speedily as on the former occasion. But she knew +it was useless to reveal the truth to George. On the other +hand, she didn’t want to lose him and didn’t want to “take +him away” from Elizabeth—not until much later when +Elizabeth started the struggle. Fanny knew that George had +to be managed within the limits of masculine stupidity.</p> + +<p>“Oh, tell her if you like. But I shouldn’t discuss it with +her, if I were you. She must have long ago felt subconsciously +the attraction between us, and you can see by her +attitude that she accepts it. I don’t see the need for all this +talk and re-hashing of what’s a private and personal matter +between two people. We’re so hypnotized by words, that +<span class="pagenum" id="p217">[217]</span>we think nothing exists until we have talked about it. How +can you interpret all these deep feelings and sensations in +words? It’s because words don’t suffice that we need touch. +Tell Elizabeth by loving her better.”</p> + +<p>“Then you really thinks she knows?”</p> + +<p>Fanny was a little annoyed. Why couldn’t he <i>see</i>, why +couldn’t he take a hint?</p> + +<p>“If she’s as acute and experienced as she tells us, she +ought to have seen the possibility long ago. No doubt, if +she’s said nothing about it to you, the reason is that she just +doesn’t want to discuss it. If she accepts, that’s enough.”</p> + +<p>“But she always believes that two people should be perfectly +open and frank with each other about their other +affairs.”</p> + +<p>“Does she? Well, I advise you to say nothing until she +asks you.”</p> + +<p>“All right, darling, if you think so.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>George duly met Elizabeth at Euston. She was delighted +to be back in London, away from the stuffiness of family and +the solemn boredom of middle-class existence. She leaned +out the window of the taxi and sniffed the air.</p> + +<p>“How lovely to smell dirty old London mud again! It +means I’m free, free, free again!”</p> + +<p>“Was it very awful?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, awful, interminable.”</p> + +<p>“I’m so glad you’re back.”</p> + +<p>“It’s wonderful. And lovely to be with you again. How +well you look, George, quite handsome and Italian!”</p> + +<p>“That’s because you haven’t seen me for a fortnight.”</p> + +<p>“How’s Fanny?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, very well. Sent her love to you.”</p> + +<p>“Dear old beastly ugly Tottenham Court Road!” said +Elizabeth with her nose out the window again.</p> + +<p>“By the way, it was awfully frowsty in Soho while you +were away. Don’t you think we might move to somewhere +more modern?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p218">[218]</span></p> +<p>“What, to a suburb? Why, George! You know you hate +suburbs, and always said you liked to live in the middle of +London.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know. But we might find something at Chelsea.”</p> + +<p>“But we couldn’t possibly afford two places at Chelsea +rents.”</p> + +<p>“Well, why not share a fairly large one?”</p> + +<p>“What, and live in the same flat? George!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, all right, if you don’t want to, but Fanny thinks +Soho is unhealthy for you.”</p> + +<p>“Well, we’ll see.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Whether, as the Swedish old-maid hinted in her book, it +was the stimulus of another affair or whether George was +anxious to display the artistries of Fanny or whether it +was merely remorse, Elizabeth found George peculiarly +charming and ardent.</p> + +<p>She attributed this to the happy effect of a brief absence.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p219">[219]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ VII ]</h3> + + +<p>In a few weeks they duly moved to Chelsea. Fanny found +them an excellent apartment, with two large rooms, a +kitchen and a modern bathroom, for less than the combined +rental of their two ramshackle rooms in Soho. Elizabeth +developed an unexpected talent for “home-making,” and +fussed a good deal over the installation in spite of George’s +light satire. But they were both only too happy to get away +from the frowstiness of Soho to a clean modern flat.</p> + +<p>This was in June, 1914. They did not go away when the +hot weather arrived, intending to stay the summer in London, +and go to Paris for September and October. Elizabeth +spent a good deal of her spare time with Reggie Burnside, +and George was absorbed in his painting. He wanted to get +enough good canvasses for a small show in Paris in the +autumn.</p> + +<p>One day towards the end of July he left his painting +early, to meet Reggie and Elizabeth for lunch somewhere +near Piccadilly. It was a benign day, with fine white fleecy +clouds suspended in a blue sky, and a light wind ruffling +the darkened foliage of summer trees. Even the King’s +Road looked pleasant. George noticed, and afterwards remembered +vividly, because these were the last really tranquil +moments of his life, how the policeman’s gloves made +a clear blotch of white against a plane-tree as he regulated +the traffic. A little band of sparrows were squabbling and +twittering noisily in the lilacs of one of the gardens. The +heat was reflected, not unpleasantly, from the warm white +flagstones of the sidewalk.</p> + +<p>As he waited for the number 19 bus, George did what he +very rarely did—bought a newspaper. He always said it was +a waste of life to read newspapers—if something really important +<span class="pagenum" id="p220">[220]</span>happened people would tell you about it soon +enough. He didn’t know why he bought a paper that morning. +He had been working hard for two or three weeks +without seeing any one but Elizabeth, and perhaps thought +he would see what was going on in the world. Perhaps it +was only to see if there was any new film.</p> + +<p>George clambered to the top of the bus, with the paper +under his arm, and paid his fare. He then glanced casually +at the headlines and read: Serious Situation in the Balkans, +Austro-Hungarian Ultimatum to Servia, Servian Appeal to +Russia, Position of Germany and France. George looked +up vaguely at the other people on the bus. There were four +men and two women; each of the men was intently reading +the same special early edition of the evening paper. He +read the despatches eagerly and carefully, and grasped the +seriousness of the situation at once. The Austrian Empire +was on the verge of war with Serbia (Servia, it was then +called, until the country became one of our plucky little +allies); Russia threatened to support Serbia; the Triple +Alliance would bring in Germany and Italy on the side of +Austria; France would be bound to support Russia under +the Treaty of Alliance, and the Entente Cordiale might +involve England. There was a chance of a European war, +the biggest conflict since the defeat of Napoleon. The event +he had always declared to be impossible—a war between +the “civilized” nations was threatened, was at hand. He +refused to believe it. Germany didn’t want war, France +would be mad to want it, England couldn’t want it. The +“Powers” would intervene. What was Sir Edward Grey +doing? Oh, suggesting a conference.... The man on the +seat opposite George leaned towards him, tapping the newspaper +with his hand:</p> + +<p>“What do you say to that, Sir?”</p> + +<p>“I think it looks confoundedly serious.”</p> + +<p>“Chance of a war, eh?”</p> + +<p>“I sincerely hope not. The newspapers always exaggerate, +you know. It would be an appalling catastrophe.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p221">[221]</span></p> +<p>“Oh, liven things up a bit. We’re getting stale, too much +peace. Need a bit of blood-letting.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think it’ll come to that. I...”</p> + +<p>“It’s got to come sooner or later. Them Germans, you +know. They’d never be able to face our Navy.”</p> + +<p>“Well, let’s hope it won’t be necessary.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, I dunno. Shouldn’t mind ’avin’ a go at the Germans +myself, and I reckon you wouldn’t either.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’m a neutral,” said George, laughing; “don’t count +on me.”</p> + +<p>“Umph!” said the man, as he got up to leave the bus, +casting a suspicious look at this foreign-looking and unpatriotic +person. Yes, that’s it, a foreigner, a bloody +foreigner; umph, what’s he doing in England I’d like to +know? Umph!</p> + +<p>George was back in the newspaper, unaware of the turmoil +he had excited in that elderly but patriotic bosom.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>“I say,” exclaimed George, as soon as he met Elizabeth +and Reggie, “have you two seen the newspaper to-day?”</p> + +<p>“Why?” said Elizabeth, “what’s in it? Something about +you?”</p> + +<p>“No, there’s a war threatened in the Balkans, and it may +apparently involve every one else.”</p> + +<p>Reggie sneered.</p> + +<p>“Oh, piffle! How absurd you are, George, to believe a +newspaper sensation. Why, we were talking about it last +night in the Common Room, and every one agreed that +the conflict would have to be localized and that Grey would +probably make a statement in a day or two. It’ll all blow +over.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth had grabbed the newspaper, and was trying to +find her way through the unfamiliar mazes of sensational +rhetoric.</p> + +<p>“So you don’t think it’ll come to anything?” said George, +hanging up his hat, and sitting down at the restaurant table.</p> + +<p>“Of course not!” said Reggie contemptuously.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p222">[222]</span></p> +<p>“What do you think, Elizabeth?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” she said, looking up bewildered from +the paper, “I can’t understand this curious language. Are +all newspapers written like that?”</p> + +<p>“Mostly,” said George, “but I’m glad you think it’s +only a scare, Reggie. I admit I was startled when I read +those headlines. That’s what comes of living absorbed in +one’s own life, and neglecting the fountain-heads of +truth.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>All the same, he was not quite reassured, and on the way +home left an order with a local news agent for the delivery +of a daily paper until further notice. He hoped the next +morning’s news would be better. It wasn’t. Neither was +the next day’s. Then came the news that Russia was +mobilizing, and that the Grand Fleet had sailed from Spithead +“on manœuvres,” but under sealed orders. George +remembered the coastguard officer who got drunk, and +let slip that he had sealed orders in case of war. Perhaps +the man would be opening those orders in a few days, +perhaps he had already opened them. He tried to paint, +and couldn’t; picked up a book, and found himself thinking: +Austria, Russia, Germany, France, England, perhaps—good +God, it’s impossible, impossible. He fidgeted about, +and then went into Elizabeth’s room. She was delicately +painting a large blue bowl of variegated summer flowers. +The room was very quiet. One of the windows was opened +on to a large communal garden surrounded by the backs of +houses. A wasp came in through the striped orange and +black curtain and buzzed towards a bunch of grapes on +a large Spanish plate.</p> + +<p>“What is it, George?”</p> + +<p>The room was so peaceful, so secure, Elizabeth so unperturbed +and as usual, that George felt half-surprised at his +own agitation.</p> + +<p>“I’m worried about this war situation.”</p> + +<p>“Really, George! What <i>is</i> the good of getting into such +<span class="pagenum" id="p223">[223]</span>a fuss? You know Reggie told you there was nothing in it, +and he hears all the latest news at Cambridge.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, darling, but it isn’t a matter of Cambridge now, +but of Europe. The Tsar and the Kaiser won’t consult the +Dons before launching a war.”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth, rather annoyed, went on painting.</p> + +<p>“Well,” she said through the brush between her teeth, +“I can’t help it. Anyway it won’t concern us.”</p> + +<p>It won’t concern us! George stood irresolute a moment.</p> + +<p>“I think I’ll go out and see what’s the latest news.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, do. I’m dining with Reggie to-night.”</p> + +<p>“All right.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>George spent the first few days of August wandering +about London, taking busses, and buying innumerable +editions of newspapers. London seemed perfectly calm and +as usual, and yet there was something feverish about it. +Perhaps it was George’s own feverishness exteriorized, perhaps +it was the unwonted number of special editions with +shouting newsboys in unusual places, handing out copies +as fast as they could to little groups of impatient people. +His memories of those days were confused and he couldn’t +remember the chronological order of events. Two or three +scenes stood out vividly in his mind—all the rest became +a blur, the outlines obliterated by more dreadful scenes.</p> + +<p>He remembered dining with Elizabeth and some other +friends in a private suite of the Berkeley as the guests of +a wealthy American. The talk kept running on the possibility +of war, and the positions of England and America. +George still clung to the great illusion that wars between +the highly industrialized countries were impossible. He +elaborated this view to the American man, who agreed, and +said that Wall Street and Threadneedle Street between them +could stop the universe.</p> + +<p>“If there <i>is</i> a war,” said George, “it will be a sort of +impersonal, natural calamity, like a plague or an earthquake. +But I should think that in their own interests all +<span class="pagenum" id="p224">[224]</span>the governments will combine to avert it, or at least limit +it to Austria and Servia.”</p> + +<p>“But don’t you think the Germans are spoiling for a +war?” said another Englishman.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know, I simply don’t know. What does any of +us know? The governments don’t tell us what they’re doing +or planning. We’re completely in the dark. We can make +surmises, but we don’t <i>know</i>.”</p> + +<p>“It’s probably got to come sooner or later. The world’s +too small to hold an expanding Germany and a non-contracting +British Empire.”</p> + +<p>“The irresistible force and the immovable mass.... +But it’s not a question of England and Germany, but of +Austria and Servia.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, the murder of the Archduke’s just a pretext—probably +arranged beforehand.”</p> + +<p>“But by which side? I can’t see the situation as a stage +scene, with villains on one side, and noble-minded fellows +on the other. If the Archduke’s murder was the result of an +intrigue, as you suggest, it was a damned despicable one. +Now, either the various governments are all despicable +intriguers ready to stoop to any crime and duplicity to +attain their ends—in which case we shall certainly have +a war, if they want it—or they’re more or less decent and +human men like ourselves, in which case they’ll do anything +to avert it. We can do nothing. We’re impotent. They’ve +got the power and the information. We haven’t....”</p> + +<p>The white-gloved, immaculate Austrian waiters were +silently handing and removing plates. George noticed one +of them, a young man with close-cropped golden hair and +a sensitive face. Probably a student from Vienna or Prague, +a poor man who had chosen waiting as a means of earning +his living while studying English. They both were about +the same age and height. George suddenly realized that he +and the waiter were potential enemies! How absurd, how +utterly absurd....</p> + +<p>After dinner they sat about and smoked. George took +<span class="pagenum" id="p225">[225]</span>his chair over to the open window and looked down on +the lights and movement of Piccadilly. The noise of the +traffic was lulled by the height to a long continuous rumble. +The placards of the evening papers along the railings beside +the Ritz were sensational and bellicose. The party dropped +the subject of a possible great war, after deciding that +there wouldn’t be one, there couldn’t. George, who had +great faith in Mr. Bobbe’s political acumen, glanced through +his last article, and took great comfort from the fact that +Bobbe said there wasn’t going to be a war. It was all a +scare, a stock-market ramp.... At that moment, three +or four people came in, more or less together, though they +were in separate parties. One of them was a youngish man +in immaculate evening dress. As he shook hands with his +host, George heard him say rather excitedly:</p> + +<p>“I’ve just been dining with Tommy Parkinson of the +Foreign Office. He had to leave early and go back to +Downing Street. It seems there are Cabinet meetings all +the time. Tommy was frightfully depressed and pessimistic +about the situation.”</p> + +<p>“What did he say?” asked three or four eager voices.</p> + +<p>“He wouldn’t commit himself at all. He was simply very +gloomy and <i>distrait</i>, and wouldn’t say anything definite.”</p> + +<p>“Why didn’t you ask him whether Germany is mobilizing?”</p> + +<p>“I did, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, perhaps he only has a liver.”</p> + +<p>Among the other guests was a tall, very erect, rather +sun-burned man of about forty, who had taken no part in +the conversation. He was sitting on a couch in silence beside +a woman younger than himself—his wife—who was also +silent. George heard him introduced to another man as +Colonel Thomas. After a few minutes George went over +and spoke to him.</p> + +<p>“My name’s Winterbourne. You’re Colonel Thomas, +aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p226">[226]</span></p> +<p>“What do you think of the situation we’ve all been discussing +so intelligently?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think anything. A soldier mustn’t have political +‘views,’ you know.”</p> + +<p>“Well, but do you think the Germans are mobilizing?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know. I believe they are. But that doesn’t +mean war necessarily. They may be mobilizing for +manœuvres. We’re mobilized for manœuvres on Salisbury +Plain.”</p> + +<p>“Mobilized! The British Army mobilized!”</p> + +<p>“Only for manœuvres, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Are you mobilized too?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I leave to-morrow morning.”</p> + +<p>“Good God!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s only manœuvres. They always happen at this +time of the year.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Another day—it must have been the Sunday before the +4th of August—George went down to Trafalgar Square to +attend a Socialist Peace Meeting. The space round the +Nelson Column was so crowded that he could not get +near enough to hear the speakers, who were standing on +the plinth above the heads of the crowd. An eager-faced man +with white hair and an aristocratic voice made a speech, +directed at mob prejudices. He apparently took the view +that the threatened war was the work of Imperial Russia. +George caught repeatedly the words “knout,” “Cossacks,” +and the phrase “the eagles of war are spreadin’ their wings.” +Some of the listeners at a rival war meeting started an +attack on the peace party. There was a scuffle, which was +very soon dispersed by Mounted Police. The crowd surged +away from Trafalgar Square. George found himself carried +towards the Admiralty Arch and up the Mall. He thought +he might as well go back that way, and try to get a bus +at Victoria. But opposite Buckingham Palace the road was +blocked by a huge crowd, which was continually reinforced +from all three roads. The Palace Gates were shut, with a +<span class="pagenum" id="p227">[227]</span>cordon of police in front of them. The red-coated Guardsmen +in their furry busbies stood at ease in front of the +sentry-boxes.</p> + +<p>“We want King George! We want King George!” chanted +the mob.</p> + +<p>“We want King George.”</p> + +<p>After several minutes, a window was opened on to the +centre balcony, and the King appeared. He was greeted by +an immense ragged cheer, and acknowledged it by raising +his hand to his forehead. The crowd began another chant.</p> + +<p>“We want War! We want War! We want WAR!”</p> + +<p>More cheering. The King made no gesture of approval +or disapproval.</p> + +<p>“Speech!” shouted the mob, “speech! WE WANT +WAR!”</p> + +<p>The King saluted again, and disappeared. A roar of mingled +cheering and disappointment came from the crowd. +There were several of the inevitable humorous optimists +to cry:</p> + +<p>“Are we downhearted?”</p> + +<p>“NO-OOOO!”</p> + +<p>“Is Germany?”</p> + +<p>“YUSS!”</p> + +<p>“Do we care for the Germans?”</p> + +<p>“NO-OOOO!”</p> + +<p>There could be no doubt about the feelings of that small +section of the English population....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Even then George still clung to hopes of peace, bought +only the more pacific Radical papers, and believed that Sir +Edward Grey would “do something.” Touching faith of the +English in the omnipotence of their rulers! After all, Sir +Edward was not God Almighty, but merely a harassed +Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs in a difficult position, +with a divided Cabinet behind him. What on earth could +the man have done? Possibly a frank statement in July that +if France or Belgium were attacked, England would “come +<span class="pagenum" id="p228">[228]</span>in”? People say so now, but then it might have looked like +a gesture of provocation.... Who are we to pass judgments? +And the nations cannot altogether pose as the +victims of their rulers. It is certain that the mobs in the +capitals were howling for war. It is certain that the largest +demonstrations in favour of peace occurred in Germany....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When the news came that France had mobilized, and +that the Germans had crossed the Belgian frontier, George +abandoned all hope immediately. He knew that one of the +cardinal points of British policy is never to allow Antwerp +to rest in the possession of a great power. The principle +is as old as the reign of Queen Elizabeth or older. Who +was it said: “Antwerp is a pistol pointed at England’s +head”? All Europe was in arms, and England would join. +The impossible had happened. They were in for three +months of carnage and horrors. Yes, three months. It +couldn’t last longer. Probably less. Oh, much less. There +would be an immense financial collapse, and the governments +would have to cease fighting. Why, Bank Rate was +ten per cent already. He jumped on a bus at Hyde Park +Corner and sat just inside the entrance.</p> + +<p>“What’s the news?” said the conductor.</p> + +<p>“Very serious; the French have mobilized.”</p> + +<p>“What abaht us?”</p> + +<p>“We’ve done nothing yet. But it looks inevitable.”</p> + +<p>“Wy, we ain’t declared war, ’ave we?”</p> + +<p>“No, not yet.”</p> + +<p>“Well, there’s still ’opes then. I reckon we’d best mind ah +own business, and keep aht of it.”</p> + +<p>Mind our own business! How quickly that unselfish +sentiment was crystallized in the national slogan: Business +As Usual!</p> + +<p>The long unendurable nightmare had begun. And the +reign of Cant, Delusion and Delirium. I have shown, with +a certain amount of excusable ferocity, how devilishly and +perniciously the old régime of Cant affected people’s sexual +<span class="pagenum" id="p229">[229]</span>lives, and hence the whole of their lives and characters, +and those of their children. The subsequent reaction was, +at least in its origin, healthy and right. There simply <i>had</i> +to be a better attitude, the facts had to be faced. And +nobody with any courage will allow himself to be frightened +out of saying so, either by the hush-hush partisans of the +old régime or doing-what-grandpa-did-and-let’s-pretend-it’s-all-lovely, +or by the fact that numerous congenital idiots +have prattled and babbled and slobbered about “Sex” until +the very word is an exacerbation. But the sexual life <i>is</i> important. +It is in so many cases the dominant or the next +to dominant factor in peoples’ lives. We can’t write about +their lives without bringing it in; so for God’s sake let’s +do so honestly and openly, in accordance with what we believe +to be the facts, or else give up pretending that we are +writing about life. No more Cant. And I mean free love +Cant just as much as orange-blossoms and pealing church +bells Cant....</p> + +<p>If you’re going to argue that Cant is necessary (the old +political excuse) then for Heaven’s sake let’s chuck up the +game and hand in our checks. But it isn’t necessary. It can +only be necessary when deceit is necessary, when people +have to be influenced to act against their right instincts and +true interests. If you want to judge a man, a cause, a nation, +ask: Do they Cant? If the War had been an honest +affair for any participant, it would not have needed this +preposterous bolstering up of Cant. The only honest people—if +they existed—were those who said: “This is foul brutality, +but we respect and admire brutality, and admit we +are brutes; in fact, we are proud of being brutes.” All +right, then we know. “War is hell.” It is, General Sherman, +it is, a bloody brutal hell. Thanks for your honesty. You, +at least, were an honourable murderer.</p> + +<p>It was the régime of Cant <i>before</i> the War which made +the Cant <i>during</i> the War so damnably possible and easy. +On our coming of age the Victorians generously handed us +a charming little cheque for fifty guineas—fifty-one months +<span class="pagenum" id="p230">[230]</span>of hell, and the results. Charming people, weren’t they? +Virtuous and far-sighted. But it wasn’t their fault? They +didn’t make the War? It was Prussia, and Prussian militarism? +Right you are, right ho! Who made Prussia a +great power and subsidized Frederick the Second to do it, +thereby snatching an empire from France? England. Who +backed up Prussia against Austria, and Bismarck against +Napoleon III? England. And whose Cant governed England +in the nineteenth century? But never mind this domestic +squabble of mine—put it that I mean the “Victorians” of +all nations.</p> + +<p>One human brain cannot hold, one memory retain, one +pen portray the limitless Cant, Delusion and Delirium let +loose on the world during those four years. It surpasses the +most fantastic imagination. It was incredible—and I suppose +that was why it was believed. It was the supreme and +tragic climax of Victorian Cant, for after all the Victorians +were still in full blast in 1914, and had pretty much the +control of everything. Did they appeal to us honestly, and +say: “We have made a colossal and tragic error, we have +involved you and all of us in a huge War; it’s too late to +stop it; you must come and help us, and we promise to +take the first opportunity of making peace and making it +thoroughly?” They did not. They said they didn’t want to +lose us but they thought <i>WE</i> ought to go; they said our +King and Country needed us; they said they’d kiss us when +we came home (merci! effect of the Entente Cordiale?); +they said one of the most civilized races in the world were +“Huns”; they invented Cadaver factories; they asserted +that a race of men notorious during generations for their +kindliness were habitual baby-butchers, rapers of women, +crucifiers of prisoners; they said the “Huns” were sneaks +and cowards and skedadellers, but failed to explain why it +took fifty-one months to beat their hopelessly outnumbered +armies; they said they were fighting for the Liberty of the +World, and everywhere there is less liberty; they said they +would Never sheathe the Sword until et cetera, and this sort +<span class="pagenum" id="p231">[231]</span>of criminal rant was called Pisgah-Heights of Patriotism.... +They said... But why continue? Why go on? It is +desolating, desolating. And then they dare wonder why the +young are cynical and despairing and angry and chaotic! +And they still have adherents, who still dare to go on preaching +to <i>us!</i> Quick! A shrine to the goddesses Cant and +Impudence....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>I don’t know if George was aware of all this, because we +never discussed it. There were numbers of things you prudently +didn’t discuss in those days; you never knew who +might be listening and “report.” I myself was twice arrested +as a civilian, for wearing a cloak and looking foreign, and +for laughing in the street; I was under acute suspicion for +weeks in one battalion because I had a copy of Heine’s +poems and admitted that I had been abroad; in another I +was suspected of not being myself, God knows why. That +was nothing compared with the persecution endured by D. +H. Lawrence, probably the greatest living English novelist, +and a man of whom—in spite of his failings—England +should be proud.</p> + +<p>I do know that George suffered profoundly from the +first day of the war until his death at the end of it. He +must have realized the awfulness of the Cant and degradation, +for he occasionally talked about the yahoos of the +world having got loose, and seized control, and by Jove, he +was right. I shan’t attempt to describe the sinister degradation +of English life in the last two years of the War; for +one thing I was mostly out of England, and for another +Lawrence has done it once and for all in the chapter called +“The Nightmare” in his book “Kangaroo.”</p> + +<p>In George’s case, the suffering which was common to all +decent men and women was increased and complicated and +rendered more torturing by his personal problems, which +somehow became related to the War. You must remember +that he did not believe in the alleged causes for which the +War was fought. He looked upon the War as a ghastly +<span class="pagenum" id="p232">[232]</span>calamity or a more ghastly crime. They might talk about +their idealism but it wasn’t convincing. There wasn’t the +élan, the conviction, the burning idealism which carried the +ragged untrained armies of the First French Republic so +dramatically to Victory over the hostile coalitions of the +Kings. There was always the suspicion of dupery and humbug. +Therefore, he could not take part in the War with any +enthusiasm or conviction. On the other hand, he saw the +intolerable egotism of setting up oneself as a notable exception +or courting a facile martyrdom of <i>rouspetance</i>. +Going meant one more little brand in the conflagration; +staying out meant that some other, probably physically +weaker brand, was substituted. His conscience was troubled +before he was in the army, and equally troubled afterwards. +The only consolation he felt was in the fact that you +certainly had a worse and a more dangerous time in the line +than out of it.</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, I never really “got” George’s position. +He hated talking about the subject, and he had thought +about it and worried about it so much that he was quite +muddle-headed. It seemed to involve the whole universe, +and his attempts to express his point of view would wander +off into discussions about the Greek city-states or the principles +of Machiavelli. He was frankly incoherent, which +meant a considerable inner conflict. From the very beginning +of the War he had got into the habit of worrying, and +this developed with alarming rapidity. He worried about +the War, about his own attitude to it, about his relations +with Elizabeth and Fanny, about his military duties, about +everything. Now “worry” is not “caused” by an event; it +is a state which seizes upon any event to “worry” over. It +is a form of neurasthenia, which may be induced in a perfectly +healthy mind by shock and strain. And for months +and months he just worried and drifted.</p> + +<p>When Elizabeth decided, somewhere towards the end of +1914, that the time had come when the principles of Freedom +must be put into practice in the case of herself and +<span class="pagenum" id="p233">[233]</span>Reggie, and duly informed George, he acquiesced at once. +Perhaps he was so sick at heart that he was indifferent; +perhaps he was only loyally carrying out the agreement. +What surprised me was that he did not take that opportunity +of telling her about Fanny. But he was apparently +quite convinced that she knew. It was, therefore, an additional +shock when he found out that she didn’t know, and a +still greater shock to see how she behaved. He suffered an +obnubilation of the intellect in dealing with women. He +idealized them too much. When I told him with a certain +amount of bitterness that Fanny was probably a trollop +who talked “freedom” as an excuse and that Elizabeth was +probably a conventional-minded woman who talked “freedom” +as in the former generation she would have talked +Ruskin and Morris politico-æstheticism, he simply got +angry. He said I was a fool. He said the War had induced in +me a peculiar resentment against women—which was probably +true. He said I did not understand either Elizabeth or +Fanny—how could I possibly understand two people I had +never seen and have the cheek to try to explain them to +<i>him</i>, who knew them so well? He said I was far too downright, +over-simplified and <i>tranchant</i> in my judgments, and +that I didn’t—probably couldn’t—understand the finer complexities +of peoples’ psychology. He said a great deal more, +which I have forgotten. But we came as near to a quarrel +as two lonely men could, when they knew they had no +other companion. This was in the Officers’ Training Camp +in 1917, when George was already in a peculiar and exacerbated +state of nerves. After that, I made no effort at +any sort of ruthless directness, but just allowed him to go +on talking. There was nothing else to do. He was living in +a sort of double nightmare—the nightmare of the War and +the nightmare of his own life. Each seemed inextricably +interwoven. His personal life became intolerable because of +the War, and the War became intolerable because of his +own life. The strain imposed on him—or which he imposed +on himself—must have been terrific. A sort of pride kept +<span class="pagenum" id="p234">[234]</span>him silent. Once when it was my turn to act as commander +of the other Cadets, I was taking them in Company Drill. +George was right-hand man in the front rank of number +one Platoon, and I glanced at him to see that he was keeping +direction properly. I was startled by the expression on +his face—so hard, so fixed, so despairing, so defiantly +agonized. At mess we ate at tables in sixes—he hardly ever +spoke except to utter some banality in an effort to be +amiable or some veiled sarcasm which sped harmlessly over +the heads of those for whom it was intended. He sneered a +little too openly at the coarse obscene talk about tarts and +square-pushing, and was too obviously revolted by water-closet +wit. However, he wasn’t openly disliked. The others +just thought him a rum bloke, and left him pretty much +alone.</p> + +<p>Probably what had distressed him most was the row +between Elizabeth and Fanny. With the whole world collapsing +about him, it seemed quite logical that the Triumphal +Scheme for the Perfect Sex Relation should collapse +too. He did not feel the peevish disgust of the reforming +idealist who makes a failure. But in the general disintegration +of all things he had clung very closely to those two +women, too closely of course. They had acquired a sort of +mythical and symbolical meaning for him. They resented +and deplored the War, but they were admirably detached +from it. For George they represented what hope of humanity +he had left, in them alone civilization seemed to survive. All +the rest was blood and brutality and persecution and humbug. +In them alone the thread of life remained continuous. +They were two small havens of civilized existence and +alone gave him any hope for the future. They had escaped +the vindictive destructiveness which so horribly possessed +the spirits of all right-thinking people. Of course, they were +persecuted, that was inevitable. But they remained detached, +and alive. Unfortunately, they did not quite realize +the strain under which he was living, and did not perceive +the widening gulf which was separating the men of that +<span class="pagenum" id="p235">[235]</span>generation from the women. How could they? The friends +of a person with cancer haven’t got cancer. They sympathize, +but they aren’t in the horrid category of the doomed. Even +before the Elizabeth-Fanny row he was subtly drifting apart +from them against his will, against his desperate efforts to +remain at one with them. Over the men of that generation +hung a doom which was admirably if somewhat ruthlessly +expressed by a British Staff Officer in an address to subalterns +in France: “You are the War generation. You were +born to fight this War, and it’s got to be won—we’re determined +you shall win it. So far as you are concerned as +individuals, it doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn whether you +are killed or not. Most probably you will be killed, most of +you. So make up your minds to it.”</p> + +<p>That extension of the Kiplingesque or Kicked-backside-of-the-Empire +principle was something for which George +was not prepared. He resented it, resented it bitterly, but +the doom was on him as on all the young men. When “we” +had determined that they should be killed, it was impious +to demur.</p> + +<p>After the row, the gap widened, and when once George +had entered the army it became complete. He still clung +desperately to Elizabeth and Fanny, of course. He wrote +long letters to them trying to explain himself, and they +replied sympathetically. They were the only persons he +wanted to see when on leave, and they met him sympathetically. +But it was useless. They were gesticulating across an +abyss. The women were still human beings; he was merely +a unit, a murder-robot, a wisp of cannon-fodder. And he +knew it. They didn’t. But they felt the difference, felt it as +a degradation in him, a sort of failure. Elizabeth and Fanny +occasionally met after the row, and made acid-sweet remarks +to each other. But on one point they were in agreement—George +had degenerated terribly since joining the army, and +there was no knowing to what preposterous depths of Tommydom +he might fall.</p> + +<p>“It’s quite useless,” said Elizabeth, “he’s done for. He’ll +<span class="pagenum" id="p236">[236]</span>never be able to recover. So we may as well accept it. What +was rare and beautiful in him is as much dead now as if +he were lying under the ground in France.”</p> + +<p>And Fanny agreed....</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p237">[237]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="PART_THREE">PART THREE +<br> +<i>ADAGIO</i></h2></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p238"></a><a id="p239"></a>[239]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="ADAGIO"><i>ADAGIO</i></h2></div> + + + + +<h3>[ I ]</h3> + + +<p>The draft, under orders to proceed overseas on Active +Service, without delay, paraded again, in full marching +order, at three-thirty.</p> + +<p>Number two in the front rank was 31819, Private Winterbourne, +G.</p> + +<p>They had been “sized” that morning, so each man knew +his number and place. They fell in rapidly, without talking, +and stood easy, waiting for the officers, on the bleak +gravelled parade ground inside the bleak isolated citadel. +Their view was rectangularly cut short either by the damp +grey masonry of the fortress walls or by the dirty yellow +brick frontals of the barracks built in under the ramparts.</p> + +<p>They numbered one hundred and twenty, and had been +under orders to proceed overseas for more than a week, +during which period they had been forbidden to leave the +citadel under threat of Court Martial. All sentry duties were +performed by troops not in the draft, and five rounds of ball +ammunition were issued to each sentry. These exceptional +measures were the result of nervousness on the part of the +Colonel, who had been censured for what was not his fault—two +men had deserted on the eve of the departure of the +last draft, and two others had to be substituted at the last +moment. “Does the old mucker think we’re going to run +away?” was the comment of the draft, wounded in their +pride, when they accidentally found this out.</p> + +<p>A stiff coldish wind was blowing soiled-looking ragged +clouds and occasional gusts of chilly rain over a greyish winter +sky. The men fidgeted in the ranks, some bending forward +to ease the strain of straps, some throwing their packs +<span class="pagenum" id="p240">[240]</span>a fraction higher with a jerk of their shoulders and loins; +one or two had taken the regulation step forward and were +adjusting their puttees or the fold in their trouser legs. +Winterbourne stood with his weight on his right leg, holding +the projecting barrel of his obsolete drill rifle loosely in his +right hand; his head was bent slightly forward as he gazed +at the gravel expressionlessly.</p> + +<p>The draft had been parading for various purposes all +through the day, when they thought they would be free to +idle and write letters. The canteen had been put out of +bounds to prevent a possible drunken departure. The parades +had included two kit inspections and several visits to the +Quartermaster’s Stores to draw new winter clothing and +other objects for use overseas. Consequently, in their mood +of restrained excitement, they had become rather irritated +and impatient. The fidgeting increased under the reproving +gaze of the N.C.O.’s, and the rather boiled-looking glare of +the Regimental Sergeant-Major, a military pedant of exacting +standards; nothing, however, was said, since movement +is permitted at the “stand easy.”</p> + +<p>The mood of the draft was not improved by a sudden +flurry of cold rain, which swept across the parade-ground +in a long moaning gust, at the moment when three or four +officers came out of their Mess.</p> + +<p>“Draft!” came the R.S.M.’s warning bellow.</p> + +<p>The hundred and twenty hands slipped automatically +down the rifles, and the men stood silent and motionless, +looking to the front, and trying not to sway when the +pressure of the rising gale suddenly increased or suddenly +relaxed.</p> + +<p>“Stand still there! Stand <i>Steady!</i>”</p> + +<p>There was a slight bulge in the front of each of the short +service-jackets, where two field dressings in a waterproof +case and a phial of iodine had been thrust into the pocket +provided for them, inside the right-hand flap.</p> + +<p>“Draft!—Draft! ’Ten’shun!”</p> + +<p>Two hundred and forty heels met smartly in one collective +<span class="pagenum" id="p241">[241]</span>snap at the same time that the rifles were sharply +brought to the sides. The draft stood to attention, gazing +fixedly to the front. A man unconsciously turned his head +slightly in trying to catch a glimpse of the approaching +officers out of the corner of his eye.</p> + +<p>“Stand still that man! Look to your front, can’t you?”</p> + +<p>Silence, except for the moaning wind and the crunch of +gravel under the officers’ boots. The Colonel and the Adjutant +wore spurs, which jingled very slightly. The Colonel +acknowledged the R.S.M.’s salute and his “All present and +c’rect, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Rear rank—one pace step back—March!”</p> + +<p>One—two. The hundred and twenty legs moved mechanically +like one man’s.</p> + +<p>“Rear rank—stand—at—ease!”</p> + +<p>The Colonel inspected the front rank, and took a long +time, fussing over various details. A man with cold fingers +dropped his rifle.</p> + +<p>“Ser’ant ’Icks, take that man’s name and number, and +forward the charge with his Crime Sheet!”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>The front rank stood at ease while the Colonel inspected +the rear rank less minutely. It was beginning to get dark, +and he had to make a speech. He stood about thirty yards +in front of the draft with the other officers behind him. The +youthful Adjutant held his riding crop against his right +thigh like a field-marshal’s baton. The Colonel, an eccentric +but harmless half-wit who had been returned with thanks +from France early in his first campaign, was speaking:</p> + +<p>“N.C.O.’s and Men of the 8th Upshires! Er—you are—er—proceeding +overseas on Active Service. Er. Er. I—er—trust +you will do your—er—duty. We have wasted—er—spared +no pains to make you efficient. Remember to keep +yourselves smart and clean and—er—walk about in a soldierly +way. You must always—er—maintain the honour of +the Regiment which—er—er—which stands high in the +records of the British Army. I—...”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p242">[242]</span></p> +<p>A very faint murmur of “muckin’ old fool,” “silly old +mucker,” “struth!” came from the draft, too faint to reach +the officer’s ears, but the alert R.S.M. caught it, though +without distinguishing the words; and cut short the +Colonel’s peroration with his stentorian:</p> + +<p>“Stand still there! Stand <i>Steady!</i> Take their names, +Ser’ant ’Icks!”</p> + +<p>A short pause, and the R.S.M. shouted:</p> + +<p>“P’rade again at four-fifteen outside the Armoury, in +clean fatigue, to hand in rifles. Mind they’re properly +clean and pulled-through. An’ no talking as you walk off +p’rade.”</p> + +<p>The Adjutant had been talking to the Colonel, and saluted +as his superior departed. He walked over to the R.S.M.</p> + +<p>“All right, Sergeant-Major, you and the other N.C.O.’s +not in the draft may fall out. I’ll dismiss the men.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>The Adjutant walked over to the draft, and stood with +his right hand on his hip. He spoke slowly but without hesitation:</p> + +<p>“Stand at ease. Stand easy. You can wash out what the +R.S.M. just said. Leave your rifles in the racks, but try to +leave ’em clean or I shall get strafed.... I’m afraid we’ve +chased you about a bit under the new intensive scheme of +training, but it’s all in the day’s work, you know. I’m sorry +we’re not going out as a unit, but battalions are being +broken up everywhere for drafts. When you get out, don’t +forget to look after your feet—you get court-martialled for +trench feet nowadays—and don’t be in a hurry to shove +your heads over the top! I’m due to follow you myself +soon, so I expect we’ll all be in the next push. Good-bye. +And the very best of luck to you all.”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Same to you, Sir. Good-bye, +Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye. Draft, ’shun. Slope arms. Dis-miss.”</p> + +<p>Simultaneously their hands tapped the rifle-butts in salute, +as they turned right.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p243">[243]</span></p> +<p>The draft confusedly moved over the darkened ground to +the barrack room, chattering excitedly:</p> + +<p>“What’s the next thing?”</p> + +<p>“P’rade at eight-thirty to move off at nine.”</p> + +<p>“Who said so?”</p> + +<p>“It’s in B’tallion orders.”</p> + +<p>“Silly ole mucker old Brandon is, give me the fair pip +he did with ’is ‘walk about soldierly’—yes! up to yer arse +in mud.”</p> + +<p>“Bloody old <i>c</i>——”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but the Adjutant was all right.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, ’e’s a gentleman, ’e is.”</p> + +<p>“Makes all the difference when they’ve bin in the ranks +theirselves.”</p> + +<p>“Wonder what it’ll be like in the line?”</p> + +<p>“Wait till y’get there and see.”</p> + +<p>“I reckon we’ll be there this time to-morrow night.” +“Shut up, Larkin, and don’t get the wind up.”</p> + +<p>“I ain’t got the wind up.”</p> + +<p>“I say, Corporal, Corp’ral! What time do we p’rade to-night?”</p> + +<p>“Ask the Ord’ly Sergeant.”</p> + +<p>“Tea’s up, boys. Come on!”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They fell in again at eight-thirty. The night was very +dark, with a cold damp gusty wind from the west. All the +N.C.O.’s were on parade, carrying lighted hurricane lanterns +which moved and flitted and stood still in the darkness +like will-o’-the-wisps. The draft were in full marching order, +without rifles and side-arms, wearing their greatcoats. Their +excitement occasionally broke through the military restraint +and rose from a whisper to a loud hum, which would cringe +abruptly under the R.S.M.’s “Stop talking there!” It took +a long time to read the roll-call by the flicker of the lantern. +At the sound of his name each man clicked his heels, +“Here, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“31819, Winterbourne, G.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p244">[244]</span></p> +<p>“Here, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“That’s the lot, Ser’ant-Major, isn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“That’s the lot, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Move off in five minutes.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>The draft stirred restlessly in the darkness. Winterbourne +looked to his left and noticed how the line of shadowy +figures disappeared into the night—he might have been at +one end of a line stretching to infinity for all he could see.</p> + +<p>“Draft! Draft! ’Ten’shun! Slope arms! Move to the +right in column of fours—form fours! Form two deep! +Form fours! Right! By the right—Quick March!”</p> + +<p>They found themselves immediately behind the regimental +band, which struck up one of the Mark III marches supplied +to Army musicians. The draft knew it well—“How can +I draw rations—if I’m not the ord’ly man?” They marched +over the familiar parade ground, out through the postern, +over the swaying draw-bridge, where the sentry presented +arms.</p> + +<p>“By the left. March at—ease. March easy.”</p> + +<p>The band had ceased playing. They were descending the +long winding hill road to the village and the station. As +they went along they were joined by civilians, mostly girls, +who were waiting in ones and twos. The girls called to their +men in the ranks, and they, emboldened by excitement and +this momentous change in their lives, dared to answer back. +March discipline relaxed, and the draft was already marching +raggedly as it passed the first houses of the village. +After the dense blackness of the hillside, the light from the +few gas-lamps was dazzling.</p> + +<p>The band struck up again. Although it was past ten, the +whole village was awake and in the street to watch them go +by. The loud brass music reverberated from the house fronts. +The draft were amazed to find themselves for a moment the +centre of public interest; for so long they had learned to +consider themselves fatally insignificant and subordinate. +Voices came from all sides: “’Ullo, Bert! Good-bye, ’Arry! +<span class="pagenum" id="p245">[245]</span>Hullo, Tom! Good-bye, Jack!” Winterbourne in the front +rank, looked behind; he noticed that some of the girls had +broken into the ranks and were marching with their men, +clinging to their arms. They appeared to be enjoying themselves +greatly. An exceedingly ragged company surged excitedly +through the village, intoxicated by the sounding +brass and the cheers and other attentions of the inhabitants.</p> + +<p>The civilians were not allowed on the station platform. +As the draft marched through the open gate, with a picket +of military Police on either hand, there was another chorus +of “Good-bye, Bert! Good-bye, ’Arry! Good-bye, Tom. +Good-bye, Jack! Good luck. Come ’ome soon. Good-bye. +Good luck. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>They piled into the waiting troop-train, which was to pick +up other drafts on the way. Twelve to a carriage. Winterbourne +managed to get the window-seat next the platform. +The Adjutant came up.</p> + +<p>“Winterbourne. Winterbourne.”</p> + +<p>“Sir?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, there you are. Looking for you. The R.T.O. says +you go to Waterloo, and then proceed to Folkestone, he +thinks.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks very much, Sir. It’s so much less tedious when +you know what you’re doing and why and where you’re +going.”</p> + +<p>“You ought to have a commission. You’ll easily get one +in France.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but you know why I wanted to stay in the ranks, +Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I know, but men like you are needed as officers. +The casualties among officers are terrifically high.”</p> + +<p>“All right, I’ll think about it, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Well, good-bye, old man, the very best of luck to you.” +“Thank you. And to you.”</p> + +<p>They shook hands, to the impressed horror of the +N.C.O.’s.</p> + +<p>The crowd had gathered outside the railings by the forepart +<span class="pagenum" id="p246">[246]</span>of the train, where they were not masked by the station +buildings. The band was drawn up in front of them, on the +platform. The train gave a warning whistle. The band struck +up the Regimental March, and then Auld Lang Syne, as the +train slowly steamed out of the station; they played their +instruments with one hand, and ludicrously waved the other +hand to the draft crowded in the moving windows. A long +wavering cheer went up. The red faces of the soldiers on the +platform were all turned slightly upwards, and their mouths +were open. Their right arms were raised above their heads. +In a blare of band music, cheering and shouting, the cheering +draft drew out of the station.</p> + +<p>Good-bye, Bert. Good-bye, Harry. Good-bye, Tom. Good-bye, +Jack. Good-bye.</p> + +<p>The last person Winterbourne saw was the little Colonel, +standing at the extreme end of the platform under a gas-lamp, +standing very erect, standing rather tense and emotional, +standing with his right hand raised to his cap, standing +to salute his men proceeding on Active Service.</p> + +<p>He wasn’t a bad little man; he believed intensely in his +Army.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p247">[247]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ II ]</h3> + + +<p>In fifteen minutes the excited chatter over fags dwindled +to the monotony of an ordinary railway journey. The +men were tired, for it was already long after Last Post. +They began to drowse. One man in the far corner from +Winterbourne was already asleep. The racks were full of +overcoats and equipment. Under the Anti-Aircraft Regulations +the curtains of the train windows were closely drawn.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne felt entirely unsleepy. He ceased talking to +the man beside him, and drifted into a reverie. His mind +slid backwards and forwards from one theme of thought to +another. Already he found it difficult to read or to think +consecutively. He had reached the first expressionless stage +of the war soldier, which is followed by the period of acute +strain; and that in turn gives place to the second expressionless +stage—which is pretty hopeless.</p> + +<p>The real test was beginning. Like everybody who had not +been there, he was almost entirely ignorant of life in the +trenches. Newspapers, illustrated periodicals, almost useless. +He had heard a lot of tales from returned wounded +soldiers. But many of them either blathered or were quite +inarticulate. Here and there a revealing detail or memory. +“And all the time I was delirious after I was wounded, I +kep’ seein’ them aeryplanes goin’ round and round and then +makin’ a dive at me.” And the little Cockney: “Struth! I +got me tunic and me trowses all ’ung up in Fritz’s wire, an’ +I couldn’t get orf. Got me pockets full o’ bombs, I ’ad, as +well as them stick-bombs in paniers. One of the paniers was +’ung up too, an’ I ses to myself I ses: ‘If you drop them +muckin’ bombs, Bert, you’ll blow yer muckin’ ’ead orf.’ And +there was old Fritz’s machine gun bullets whizzin’ by, <i>zip</i>, +<i>zip</i>. I could see ’em cuttin’ the wire—and me cursin’ and +<span class="pagenum" id="p248">[248]</span>blindin’. Blimey! I wasn’t arf afraid. But I got me muckin’ +blighty, anyway.”</p> + +<p>Where did he meet that amusing little Cockney? Ah, +yes, in the depot the day after he joined. There had been +several soldiers just out of the hospital in the barrack room, +all swopping yarns. Winterbourne’s mind reverted to himself, +and the past dreary months. He had been unfortunate +in the N.C.O.’s of his training battalion—old regulars, who +had been bullied and driven in their time, and thought +they’d escape being sent out to France by zealously bullying +and driving the new drafts. No doubt they were paying off +some of the old army grudge against civilian contempt for +the mercenary soldier. They particularly hated any educated +or well-bred man in the ranks, and delighted to impose +painful or humiliating tasks on him. George remembered +the man who “took particulars” of his religion.</p> + +<p>“What are yer? C. of E., Methodist, R. C.?”</p> + +<p>“I haven’t any official religion. You’d better put me down +as a rationalist.”</p> + +<p>“Garn! What’s a muckin’ rationalist? Yer in the Army +now.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I haven’t got one.”</p> + +<p>“Bloody well find one then. Yer’ll want suthin’ over yer +muckin’ grave in France, won’t yer? An’ yer’ll bloody well +be in it in six months. No religion! Strike me muckin’ +pink!”</p> + +<p>An amiable hero. In his zeal for religion he got Winterbourne +sent on all the dirtiest and longest Sunday fatigues, +until in self-defence he had to put himself down Church of +England. There was, of course, no religious compulsion in +the Army; that was why Church Parade was a parade.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne smiled as he thought of the ludicrous +scene. It had been none the less painful. His gorge rose at +the memory of the filth he had tried to remove from the +Officers’ Mess Kitchen—filth which had been left there untouched +by fifty less scrupulous “fatigues.” The kitchen was +inspected every day.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p249">[249]</span></p> +<p>He looked at his hands in the concentrated light of the +railway carriage. They were coarsened and chapped, ingrained +with dirt impossible to remove with ice-cold water. +He thought of the delicate hands of Fanny and Elizabeth’s +slender fingers.</p> + +<p>On parade the officers never swore at the men, the +N.C.O.’s rarely, whatever they might do off parade. It was +an offence under King’s Regs. The Physical Training Instructors +were, however, an exception. They sometimes displayed +an uncouth humour in their objurgations. There were +time-honoured pleasantries, such as “Yer may break yer +muckin’ mother’s ’eart, but yer won’t break mine!” There +was the Bayonet Instructor, a singularly rough diamond +from Whitechapel, who in mimic bayonet fighting at the +stuffed bags, loved to give the command:</p> + +<p>“At ’is stummick an’ goolies, Point!”</p> + +<p>This gentleman, offended at the awkward posture of a +rather plump recruit doing the “double knee bend,” had +apostrophized the unfortunate man:</p> + +<p>“’Ere, you, Frost. Can’t yer get down like a muckin’ +soldier, and not like a bloody great pross what’s bein’ +blocked?”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne smiled again to himself. The road to glory +was undoubtedly devious in our fair island story.</p> + +<p>From Reveille at five-thirty until Lights Out they had +been driven and harassed and bullied for weeks to the strain +of: “Look to yer front there!” “’Old yer ’eads <i>up</i>, can’t +yer, all them tanners was picked up on first p’rade.” +“Smith, yer got them straps crossed wrong—if yer do it +again, I’ll crime yer.” And over the voices of the various +sergeant-instructors shouting to their squads, boomed the +R.S.M.’s inevitable: “Stand still, there! Stand <i>Steady</i>.” +Just like the South Foreland light-ship in a fog. The fatigue +of continual over-exercise and of the physical and +mental strain was severe to men fresh from sedentary lives, +or stiff from the plough and the workshop. For the first +weeks especially they were sore all over, and sank into +<span class="pagenum" id="p250">[250]</span>heavy unrefreshing sleep at night. Winterbourne bore it +better than most. His long walks and love for swimming +had kept him supple. He could not raise weights like the +draymen or dig like the navvies, but he could out-march +and out-run them all, learn every new movement in half +the time, dismount a Lewis gun while they were wondering +which way the handle came off, score four bulls out of five, +and saw immediately why you made head-cover first when +digging in. But he too felt the fatigue. He remembered one +perfectly awful day. They had been drilled and marched +and drilled and inspected from dawn to evening of a baking +autumn day; then at seven there had been three hours of +night operations. At twelve, they were all awakened by a +false Fire Alarm, and had to turn out in trousers and boots. +Winterbourne had taken over his shoulder the arm of a +man who was too exhausted to run unassisted on the parade +grounds. The N.C.O.’s yelped them on like sheep dogs.</p> + +<p>It was not the physical fatigue Winterbourne minded, +though he hated the inevitable physical degradation—the +coarse, heavy clothes, too thick for summer; the hob-nailed +boots; the plank bed; horribly cooked food. But he accepted +and got used to them. He suffered mentally, suffered +from the shock of the abrupt change from surroundings +where the things of the mind chiefly were valued to surroundings +where they were ignorantly despised. He had +nobody to talk to. He suffered from the communal life of +thirty men in one large hut, which meant that there was +never a moment’s solitude. He suffered because he brooded +over Elizabeth and Fanny, over the widening gulf he knew +was dividing him from them, and suffered abominably as +month after month of the war dragged on with its interminable +holocausts and immeasurable degradation of mankind. +The world of men seemed dropping to pieces, madly +cast down by men in a delirium of homicide and destructiveness. +The very apparatus of killing revolted him, took +on a sort of sinister deadness. There was something in the +very look of his rifle and equipment which filled him with +<span class="pagenum" id="p251">[251]</span>depression. And then, in the imagination, he was already +facing the existence for which this was but a preparation, +already confronting the agony of his own death. Horrific +tales—alas, only too true—were told of companies and +battalions wiped out in a few instances. N.C.O. after +N.C.O., as Winterbourne got to know them better, assured +him that they were the only men—or almost the only men—left +alive from their platoons or companies. And it was +the truth. The proportion of casualties was undoubtedly +high in infantry units. It was, perhaps, selfish of Winterbourne +to worry about his own extinction when so many +better men had already been obliterated. He felt rather +ashamed and apologetic about it himself. But it is human +to recoil from a violent death, even at twenty-two or +-three....</p> + +<p>The train began to slow down at a large junction, and he +returned to his present surroundings with a start. The other +men were asleep. Well, all the training and presenting arms +and saluting by numbers were over and in the past. They +were on Active Service. It was an immense relief. Now, +henceforth, he would be facing dread realities, not Regular +Army pedants and bullies. As Winterbourne once remarked, +one of the horrors of the war was not fighting the Germans +but living under the British.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>After picking up more drafts, the train went on, grinding +its way heavily through the silent darkness. The men were +all asleep. He noticed the carriage was getting stuffy and +headachey with foul air. Some one had shut the windows +and ventilators while he was day-dreaming. That was the +old bother—whether in huts or barracks they <i>would</i> try to +sleep in foul air. He softly slipped the window open a +couple of inches—better already. Wonder why they like a +fug? Mental and moral fug, too. Poor devils. All brought +up to touch their hats to the gentry, do what they’re told, +and work. Sort of helots. Yet they’re decent enough, got +character, but no intelligence. That’s the real war, the only +<span class="pagenum" id="p252">[252]</span>war worth fighting, the battle of the intelligence against +inertia and stupidity and... Still, the intelligence is not +always defeated, we’ve got here somehow. Yes! and look +where we are!</p> + +<p>His mind half-sleepily ran off along a familiar track. +What’s really the cause of wars, of this War? Oh, you can’t +say one cause, there are many. The Socialists are silly +fanatics when they say it’s the wicked capitalists. I don’t +believe the capitalists wanted a war—they stand to lose +too much in the disturbance. And I don’t believe the +wretched governments really wanted it—they were shoved +on by great forces they’re too timid and too unintelligent +to control. It’s the superstition of more babies and more +bread, more bread and more babies. Of course, all wars +haven’t been mere population wars. ’Course not—Greek +city states, mediæval Italian republics, wars of petty +jealousy; naval wars for commercial advantages—Pisa, +Genoa, Venice, Holland, England; the sport of Kings, +eighteenth-century diversion of the aristocracy; wars of +fanaticism, Moslems, the Crusades; emigration wars like +the irruption of the barbarians.... There may be commercial +motives behind this war, jolly short-sighted ones—they’ve +already lost more than they can possibly gain. +No, this is fundamentally a population war—bread and +babies, babies and bread. It’s all oddly mixed up with the +sexual problem we were battling with so brightly when +this little packet of trouble was dumped on us by our +virtuous forebears. It’s the babies and bread superstition. +You encourage, you force people to have babies, lots of +babies, millions of babies. As they grow up, you’ve got to +feed ’em. You need bread. We all live from the land. +England, and the rest of the world after it, went crazy with +the Industrial Revolution—thought you could eat steel and +railways. You can’t. The world of men is an inverted +pyramid based on the bowed shoulders of the ploughman—or +the steel-tractor—on the land. It’s the hunger and death +business again. “Increase and multiply.” Damned imbecility +<span class="pagenum" id="p253">[253]</span>of applying to over-populated and huge nations the sexual +taboos forced on a little crowd of unhygienic Semitic +nomads by sheer force of circumstance. Think of their +infantile death rate! Breed like rabbits or vanish. Doesn’t +apply to us. We’re a sacrifice to over-breeding. Too many +people in Europe. A damn sight too many babies. The people +could be made to see, are beginning to see it—but the +hurray-for-our-dear-Fatherland people, and the priests and +the fanatics and the timid and the conservative, won’t see +it. Go on, breed, you beauties—breed in column of fours, +in battalions, brigades, divisions, army corps. Wait till +the population of England is five hundred million and we’re +all packed like herrings in a tub. Lovely. Wonderful. England +über alles. But there comes a time when there isn’t +enough bread for the growing babies. Colonize. Why? +Either grow more food or produce more things to exchange +for food. England’s got huge colonies. Germany very small +ones. The Germans breed like tadpoles. The British breed +like rather slower tadpoles. What are you going to do with +them? Kill ’em off in a war? Kind. Humane. Kill ’em off, +and grab land and commercial advantages from the defeated +nation? Right. And what next? Oh, go on breeding. +Must be a great and populous nation. And the defeated +nation? Suppose they start breeding harder than ever? Oh, +have another war, go on having ’em, get the habit. Europe’s +decennial picnic of corpses....</p> + +<p>Yes, but why so sentimental? Why all this fuss over a +few million men killed and maimed? Thousands of people +die weekly and somebody’s run over in London every +day. Does that argument take you in? Well, the answer is +that they’re not <i>murdered</i>. And your “thousands who die +weekly” are the old and the diseased; here it’s the young +and the strong and the healthy, the physical pick of the +race. All men, too, and no women. That’ll set up a pretty +nice resentment between the sexes—more sodomy and +lesbianism. Loud cheers, we’re winning. Yes, but going back +to murder—people are murdered all the time, look at +<span class="pagenum" id="p254">[254]</span>Chicago. Look at Chicago! We’re always patting ourselves +on the back and looking smugly at wicked Chicago. When +there’s a shoot-up between gangs, do you approve of it, +do you give the winning side medals for their gallantry, do +you tell ’em to go to it and you’ll kiss them when they +come back, do you march ’em by with a brass band and +tell ’em what fine fellows they are? Do you take the gunman +as the high ideal of humanity? I know all about military +grandeur and devotion to duty—I’m a soljer meself, marm. +Thanks for all you’ve done for us, marm. If violence and +butchery are the natural state of man, then let’s have no +more of your humbug. Violence and butchery beget violence +and butchery. Isn’t that the theme of the great Greek +tragedies of blood? Blood will have blood. All right, now +we know. It doesn’t matter whether murder is individual or +collective, whether committed on behalf of one man or a +gang or a state. It’s murder. When you approve of murder +you violate the right instincts of every human being. And +a million murders egged on, lauded, exulted over, will raise +a legion of Eumenides about your ears. The survivors will +pay bitterly for it all their lives. Never mind, you’ll go on? +More babies, soon make up the losses? Have another merry +old war soon, sooner the better....</p> + +<p>O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! Thank +God I have no son, O Absalom, my son, my son!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Winterbourne nodded uneasily asleep. He started awake +as the train slowed down at London Bridge, and not at +Waterloo. Where am I? Railway station. Oh, of course, +on a draft going out to France....</p> + +<p>The draft were turned out at London Bridge, and collected +in two ranks on the platform, yawning, stretching +and adjusting their equipment. The draft conducting officer, +a mild, brown-eyed young man on home service after being +wounded, explained that they had nearly three hours to +wait. Would they like to go to a Soldiers’ Canteen and get +some food?</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p255">[255]</span></p> +<p>“Yes, Sir!”</p> + +<p>They marched through the empty muddy streets. It was +about midnight. Some one began to sing one of the inevitable +marching songs. The officer turned round:</p> + +<p>“Whistle, but don’t sing. People asleep.”</p> + +<p>They began to whistle “Where are the lads of the village +to-night?”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne found himself crossing the Thames and +looked once more at the familiar townscape. He noticed +that the street-lamps had been dimmed further since he +had left London, and that the once brilliantly-lighted capital +now lay cowering in darkness. The dome of St. Paul’s was +just faintly visible to an eye which knew exactly where to +look for it. The man next to Winterbourne was a Worcestershire +ploughman who had never been to London and was +most anxious to see St. Paul’s. Winterbourne tried hard +to show him where it was, but failed. The ploughman never +did see St. Paul’s—he was killed two months later.</p> + +<p>Curious to march through this unfamiliar London—everything +the same, but everything so different. The dimmed +street lights, the carefully blinded windows, the rather +neglected streets, the comparative absence of traffic, the air +of being closed down indefinitely, all gave him an uneasy +feeling. It was as if a doom hung over the great city, as +if it had passed its meridian of power and splendour, and +was sinking back, back into the darkened past, back into +the clay hills and marshes on which it stands. That New +Zealander sketching the ruins from a broken pile of London +Bridge seemed several centuries nearer.</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0"><i>“Where are the lads of the village to-night?</i></div> +<div class="verse indent0"><i>Where are the lads we knew?</i></div> +<div class="verse indent0"><i>In Piccadilly or Leicester Square?</i></div> +<div class="verse indent0"><i>No, not there! No, not there!</i></div> +<div class="verse indent0"><i>They’re taking a trip on the Continong....”</i></div></div> +</div></div> + +<p>The foolish words ran in Winterbourne’s brain as the +men whistled the tune with exasperating pertinacity. It +<span class="pagenum" id="p256">[256]</span>was curious to be so near to Fanny and Elizabeth. He wondered +vaguely what they were doing.</p> + +<p class="center"> +<i>“No, not there! No, not there!”</i> +</p> + +<p>He had sent Elizabeth a telegram from a station on the +way up, but probably it had not reached her.</p> + +<p>They crowded into the Canteen, and ate sandwiches and +eggs and bacon, and drank ginger-beer. It was too late for +beer. Our temperate troops didn’t need beer at that hour of +the night.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>About 2 <span class="allsmcap">A.M.</span> they marched back to the station. To Winterbourne’s +surprise and delight Elizabeth and Fanny were +there. Elizabeth had received his telegram, although it was +after hours. She had rung up Fanny, and they had gone to +Waterloo together, only to find that the train with the Upshires +draft was not there. Fanny had used her charms upon +a susceptible R.T.O. and he had told them where to go, so +there they were. All this Elizabeth poured out in a rapid, +nervous, jerky way. While Fanny just clutched Winterbourne’s +left hand and pressed it hard, saying nothing. +They had about ten minutes before the train left. +The draft-conducting officer noticed that Winterbourne +was speaking to two women, “obviously ladies,” and +came up:</p> + +<p>“Get in anywhere you like, Winterbourne, only don’t miss +the train.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir, thank you,” and saluted smartly.</p> + +<p>“D’you always have to do that?” asked Elizabeth with a +little giggle.</p> + +<p>“Yes, it’s the custom. They seem to attach great importance +to it.”</p> + +<p>“How absurd.”</p> + +<p>“Why absurd?” said Fanny, feeling that Winterbourne +was somehow hurt by the contempt in her voice. “It’s only +a convention.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p257">[257]</span></p> +<p>The whole train was filled with different drafts of soldiers +who had been ordered into the carriages. Only Winterbourne +and the two girls were left on the platform, except +for the R.T.O. and one or two other officers. As often +happens in railway partings they seemed embarrassed, with +nothing to say to each other. Winterbourne simply felt dull +and uneasy, tongue-tied. He was saying farewell perhaps +for the last time to the only two human beings he had +really loved, and found he had nothing to say. He just felt +dull and uneasy, dully remote from them. He noticed they +were both wearing new hats he hadn’t seen, and that skirts +were being worn much shorter. He wished the train would +go. Interminable waiting. What was Elizabeth saying? He +interrupted her:</p> + +<p>“Is that the new fashion?”</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> + +<p>“Shorter skirts?”</p> + +<p>“Why, yes, of course, and not so very new. Where have +your eyes been?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, there were only village women where I’ve been. I +haven’t seen a properly dressed woman since my firing +leave.”</p> + +<p>Tactless! He had spent those few days with Fanny. Dear +Fanny. A good sort. She had thought it an awful lark to +go on a week-end with a Tommy. She was dreadfully sick +of the Staff. Only it was inconvenient that the only decent +hotels and restaurants were out of bounds to Tommies. +Fanny felt quite democratic about it. Elizabeth hadn’t +cared. She lived with a kind of inner intensity which kept +her from noticing such things.</p> + +<p>They were silent for seconds which dragged like minutes. +Then they all began to say something together, interrupted +themselves, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” “What +were you going to say?” “Oh, nothing, I forget.” And then +relapsed into silence again.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne found he was slightly intimidated by the +presence of these two well-dressed ladies. What on earth +<span class="pagenum" id="p258">[258]</span>were they doing at two o’clock in the morning, talking to a +Tommy? He tried to hide his dirty hands.</p> + +<p>Damn the train! Won’t it ever go? He felt uncomfortably +hot in his great-coat and began to unbutton it. The engine +whistled.</p> + +<p>“All aboard!” shouted the R.T.O.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne hastily kissed Fanny and then Elizabeth.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, good-bye, don’t forget to write. We’ll send +you parcels.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks, ever so. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>He made for the compartment where a door had been +left open for him, but found it full. The luggage van piled +with the men’s rations was next door. Winterbourne jumped +in.</p> + +<p>“You’ll have to stand!” exclaimed Fanny.</p> + +<p>“Why, no. There’s plenty of room on the floor.”</p> + +<p>The train moved.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne waved his hand. He felt no particular emotion, +merely an intensifying of the general depressingness +of things. He watched them receding, as they waved their +hands. Beautiful girls both of them, and so smartly dressed.</p> + +<p>“Be happy!” he shouted, as a valediction, in a sudden +gust of disinterested affection for them. And then lost sight +of them.</p> + +<p>Fanny and Elizabeth were both crying.</p> + +<p>“What did he shout?” asked Elizabeth through her sobs.</p> + +<p>“‘Be happy!’”</p> + +<p>“How curious of him! And how like him! Oh, I know I +shall never see him again.”</p> + +<p>Fanny tried to comfort her. But Elizabeth somehow felt +it was all Fanny’s fault.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Winterbourne sat on his pack in the joggling van for +about ten minutes. It was almost dark. The guard was +trying to read a newspaper by the light of a dim oil lamp. +The soldiers who had to see that the rations weren’t stolen +<span class="pagenum" id="p259">[259]</span>were already lying on the floor. Winterbourne buttoned up +his coat, turned up the collar, arranged a woollen scarf on +his pack to make a pillow, and lay down on the dirty floor +beside them. In five minutes he was asleep.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p260">[260]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ III ]</h3> + + +<p>It was not nearly dawn when they reached Folkestone. +The drafts from various units were now amalgamated, +but still remained under their own officers. They were +marched through the dull little town and bivouacked in a +row of large empty houses, probably evacuated boarding-houses, +fitted up with the usual inconveniences of small +English hotels. They washed and had some breakfast. All +rather dismal.</p> + +<p>At seven they were marched to the quay, and then +marched back. The officer had mistaken the word “eleven” +for “seven.” So they had to wait again. It was their first +introduction to the curious fact that much of the War +consisted in waiting about and in undoing things which +somebody had ordered in error or through mistaken zeal. +The men, sitting on their packs in the empty room, were +eagerly and vainly discussing their immediate future—which +Base Camp would they go to, which unit would they be +drafted to, what part of the line. Winterbourne went over +to the uncurtained window and looked out. Drifting heavy +clouds, a moderately rough, dirty-looking sea. The Esplanade +was practically deserted. The shelters looked dilapidated; +most of the glass in them was smashed. The unused +gas lamps looked somehow desolate on their rusting standards. +Another wounded town, dying perhaps. Depression, +monotony, boredom. He looked at his wrist-watch. Still +more than two hours to wait. Now that the inevitable had +occurred, he was very impatient to get into the front line. +The only interest he had left was a consuming curiosity to +see what the War was really like.</p> + +<p>Curse this hanging about! He drummed his fingers on +the window-pane. The men in the room went on talking, +<span class="pagenum" id="p261">[261]</span>aimlessly, foolishly, talking to no purpose. Winterbourne +wondered at his own lack of emotion. All his past life +seemed a dream, all his vital interests had become utterly +indifferent, his ambitions were dissolved, his old friends +seemed incredibly remote and unimportant, even Fanny and +Elizabeth were unsubstantial, graceful ghosts. Depression, +monotony, boredom—but a peculiar sort, a strained, worried +exasperated sort. For God’s sake get a move on. It’ll never +end, so for the love of Mike let’s get it over. Let’s catch our +little packet. We know our numbers are up, so let’s get them +quickly.</p> + +<p>One of the men was whistling:</p> + +<p><i>“What’s the use of worry-ing?”</i></p> + +<p>What indeed? But can you help it? You, cheery idiot, +are worrying just as much as any one else. Villiers’ torture +by hope. If you were <i>quite</i> certain that your number was +up, you’d have at least the tranquillity of resignation. But +you’re not quite certain. Even in the infantry men come +back. With a really healthy wound you might be out of +the line for six or nine months. That was called “getting a +blighty one,” if you were lucky enough to get sent back to +England—“Blighty.” The men were discussing blighties. +Which was the most convenient blighty? Arm or leg? Most +agreed that if you lost your left hand or a foot, you were +damned lucky—you were out of the bloody War for good +and you got a pension and a wound-gratuity. Winterbourne +stood with his back to them, looking out of the window; +the ghosts of past summer visitors thronged the Esplanade. +Left hand or a foot. Live a cripple. No, not that, not that, +my God. Come back whole, or not at all. But how those +men love life, how blindly they cling to their poor existences! +You wouldn’t think they’d much to live for. No +beautiful and smartly dressed Fannies and Elizabeths. Oh, +they have their “tarts,” they’ve all got a girl’s “photo” in +their pay books—and what girls! Tarts for Tommies. Cream +tarts for Tommies.</p> + +<p>He turned away abruptly from the window and sat down +<span class="pagenum" id="p262">[262]</span>to clean his buttons. Always keep yourself clean and smart, +and walk about in a soldierly way....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>His mood changed and his spirits rose as they marched +down to the docks. Only twelve hours had passed since +they left and yet it seemed a tremendously long time. Winterbourne +realized that the monotony, the imbecile restrictions, +the incredible nagging of military pedants, had been +crushing him into a condition of utter stupidity. He regretted +deeply that he had been kept in England so long. +At least you were doing something real in France, and there +was movement....</p> + +<p>Troops were pouring along the quay, and mounting the +gangways on to three black-painted troopships. Winterbourne +recognized the ships as old friends—they were pre-war +Channel packet-boats transformed. Huge notices were +displayed on the quays: “No. 1 Ship, 33rd Div., 19th Div., +42nd Div., 118th Brigade.” An officer with a megaphone +shouted: “Leave Men to the Right, Drafts to the Left.” +Another megaphone shouted: “First Army Men, Number 1 +Ship.” “Third and Fourth Armies, Number 3 Ship.” “Captain +Swanson, 11th Seaforth Highlanders, report to R.T.O.’s +office immediately.” It was rather stirring—animated and +efficient as well as bustling.</p> + +<p>The draft went on board, and were shepherded to one +end of the upper deck. The whole ship was swarming with +leave men returning to France. Winterbourne gazed at them +fascinatedly—these were the real war soldiers, fragments +of the first half million volunteers, the men who had believed +in the War and wanted to fight. They made a kind of +epitome of the whole army. Every arm of the service was +represented—Field Artillery, Heavies, dismounted cavalry, +gunners, sappers, R.E. Sigs, Army Service Corps, Army +Medical Corps, and infantry everywhere. He recognized +some of the infantry badges, the bursting grenade of the +Northumberland Fusileers, the Tiger of the Leicesters, the +Middlesex, the Bedfords, Seaforth Highlanders, Notts and +<span class="pagenum" id="p263">[263]</span>Jocks, the Buffs. He was immediately struck by their +motley and picturesque appearance. He and the other draft +troops were all spick and span, buttons bright, puttees +minutely adjusted, boots polished, peaked caps stiffened +with wire, pack mathematically squared, overcoat buttoned +up to the throat. The leave men were dressed anyhow. Some +had leather equipment, some webbing. They put their equipment +together as it suited them, and none of it had been +shined or polished for months. Some wore overcoats, some +shaggy goatskin or rough sheepskin jackets. The skirts of +some overcoats had been roughly hacked off with jack-knives—not +to trail in the deep mud, Winterbourne guessed. +The equipment which still weighed so heavily on the shoulders +of the draft seemed to give the real soldiers no concern +at all—they either wore it unconcernedly or chucked it carelessly +on the deck with their rifles. Winterbourne was +charmed. He noticed with amused scandal that the bolts +and muzzles of their rifles were generally tightly bound with +oiled rags. Winterbourne looked more carefully at their +faces. They were lean and still curiously drawn, although +the men had been out of the line for a fortnight; the eyes +had a peculiar look. They seemed strangely worn and mature, +but filled with energy, a kind of slow enduring energy. +In comparison the fresh faces of the new drafts seemed +babyish—rounded and rather feminine.</p> + +<p>For the first time since the declaration of War, Winterbourne +felt almost happy. These men were men. There was +something intensely masculine about them, something very +pure and immensely friendly and stimulating. They had +been where no woman and no half-man had ever been, could +endure to be. There was something timeless and remote +about them as if (so Winterbourne thought) they had been +Roman legionaries or the men of Austerlitz or even the +invaders of the Empire. They looked barbaric, but not +brutal; determined, but not cruel. Under their grotesque +wrappings their bodies looked lean and hard and tireless. +They were Men. With a start Winterbourne realized that +<span class="pagenum" id="p264">[264]</span>in two or three months, if he were not hit, he would be one +of them, indistinguishable from them, whereas now in the +ridiculous jackanapes get-up of the peace-time soldier he +felt humiliated and ashamed beside them.</p> + +<p>“By God!” he said to himself, “you’re men, not boudoir +rabbits and lounge lizards. I don’t care a damn what your +cause is—it’s almost certainly a foully rotten one. But I do +know you’re the first real men I’ve looked upon. I swear +you’re better than the women and the half-men, and by God, +I swear I’ll die with you rather than live in a world without +you.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Winterbourne moved a short distance away from the +draft and watched a small group of leave men. One, a +Scotchman in the uniform of an English line regiment, was +still wearing his full equipment. He was leaning on his +rifle, talking to two other infantrymen, who were sitting on +their packs. One of them, a Corporal with scandalously untrimmed +hair and a dirty sheepskin jacket, was lighting a +pipe.</p> + +<p>“An’ wha’ y’ think?” said the Scot in his sharp-clipped +speech, “when ah got hame, they wan’ed me ta gae and tak’ +tea wi’ th’ Meenister and then gie a speech at a Bazaar for +Warr Worrkers.”</p> + +<p>“Ah!” said the Corporal, “did you tell ’em—puff—all +about the wicked Huns—puff—and say that what we want +in the line is more tiled bath-rooms and girls and not so +many woollen mufflers and whizz-bangs?”</p> + +<p>“Ah did not; ah said ‘gie me over that bottle o’ whiskey, +wumman, and hauld y’ whist.’”</p> + +<p>“What Division are you, Jock?” said the other man.</p> + +<p>“Thirrty-thirrd. We’ve bin spendin’ a pleasant summer +on th’ Somme, and we’re now winterrin’ at the Health-resorrts +o’ Ypres.”</p> + +<p>“We’re forty-first Division. Just on your left in the +Salient. We came up there a month ago from Bullycourt.”</p> + +<p>“Bullycourt’s a verry guid place to get away from....”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p265">[265]</span></p> +<p>Winterbourne could not listen any further—a zealous +N.C.O. herded him back to the draft. He went unwillingly. +He had been waiting eagerly for the men to get away from +their time-honoured jests and speak of their real experiences. +He was disappointed that these men talked in such +a trivial and uninteresting way. He felt they ought to be +saying important things in Shakespearian blank verse. Something +adequate to their experience, to the intensity of manhood +he instinctively felt in them and admired so humbly. +But, of course, that was ridiculous of him. He felt that at +once. Part of their impressiveness was this very triviality, +their complete unconsciousness that there was anything +extraordinary or striking about them. They would have been +offended at the suggestion. They were ignorant of their own +qualities. As Winterbourne himself rapidly merged with +these men and became one of them, he lost entirely this first +sharp impression of meeting a new, curious race of men, the +masculine men. It was then the other people who became +curious to him. He found that the real soldiers, the front-line +troops, had no more delusions about the War than he +had. They hadn’t his feeling of protest and agony over it +all, they hadn’t tried to think it out. They went on with +the business, hating it, because they had been told it had +to be done and believed what they had been told. They +wanted the War to end, they wanted to get away from it, +and they had no feeling of hatred for their enemies on the +other side of No Man’s Land. In fact, they were almost +sympathetic to them. They also were soldiers, men segregated +from the world in this immense barbaric tumult. The +fighting was so impersonal as a rule that it seemed rather +a conflict with dreadful hostile forces of Nature than with +other men. You did not see the men who fired the ceaseless +hail of shells on you, nor the machine gunners who swept +away twenty men to death in one zip of their murderous +bullets, nor the hands which projected trench-mortars that +shook the earth with awful detonations, nor even the invisible +sniper who picked you off mysteriously with the +<span class="pagenum" id="p266">[266]</span>sudden impersonal “ping!” of his bullet. Even in the perpetual +trench raids you only caught a glimpse of a few +differently shaped steel helmets a couple of traverses away; +and either their bombs got you, or yours got them. Actual +hand-to-hand fighting occurred, but it was comparatively +rare. It was a war of missiles, murderous and soul-shaking +explosives, not a war of hand-weapons. The sentry gazed at +dawn over a desolate flat landscape, seamed with irregular +trenches, and infinitely pitted and scarred with shell-holes, +thorny with wire, littered with débris. Five to ten thousand +enemies were within range of his vision, and not one would +be visible. For days on end he might strain his eyes, and +not see one of them. He would hear them at night—clink +of shovels and picks, the scream of a wounded man, even +their coughing if there happened to be a cessation of +artillery and machine-gun fire—but not see them. In the +two hours following dawn in “quiet” sectors there was sometimes +a kind of truce after the feverish work and perpetual +firing during the night. After morning Stand-down the +front-line troops snatched a little sleep. At such a time the +silence was eerie. Twenty thousand men within a mile, and +not a sound. Or so it seemed. But that was by contrast. In +fact, there was always some shelling going on—heavies +firing on back areas—and generally in the distance the long +rumble which meant a general engagement....</p> + +<p>The soldiers, then, were not vindictive. Nor, in general, +were they long duped by the war talk. They laughed at the +newspapers. Any new-comer who tried to be a bit high-falutin’ +was at once snubbed with “Fer Christ’s sake don’t +talk patriotic!” They went on with a sort of stubborn +despair, why they didn’t quite know. The authorities obviously +mistrusted them, and forbade them to read the +pacific “Nation” while allowing them to read the infamies +of “John Bull.” The mistrust was unnecessary. They went +on in their stubborn despair, with their sentimental songs +and cynical talk and perpetual grousing; and it’s my belief +that if they’d been asked to do so, they’d still be carrying +<span class="pagenum" id="p267">[267]</span>on, now. They weren’t crushed by defeat or elated by victory—their +stubborn despair had taken them far beyond +that point. They carried on. People sneer at the war slang. +I, myself, have heard intellectual “objectors” very witty at +the expense of “carry on.” So like carrion, you know. All +right, let them sneer.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The troopships crossing the Channel were escorted by +four plunging little black torpedo-boats. Submarines in the +Channel. A merchant ship had been sunk that morning. +Winterbourne had thought he would be apprehensive—on +the contrary, he found that he scarcely thought about it. +Nobody bothered about a little risk like that. They made +for Boulogne, and the soldiers cheered the torpedo boats +as they turned back from the harbour entrance.</p> + +<p>In his inexperience Winterbourne had assumed that they +would at once entrain for the front, and that he would +spend that night in the trenches. He had forgotten the element +of waiting, the deliberation necessary in moving vast +masses of men about, which made the slow ruthless movement +of the huge War machine so inexorable. You hung +about, but inevitably you moved, your tiny little cog was +brought into action. And this, too, was strangely impersonal, +confirmed the feeling of fatalism. It seemed insane to think +that you had any individual importance.</p> + +<p>The docks at Boulogne were crowded with materials of +war, and the whole place seemed English. Notices all in +English, the Union Jack, British officers and troops everywhere, +even British engines for the trains. The leave men +were roughly formed into columns and marched off to +entrain. Every one wanted to know where his Division was. +The R.T.O.’s dealt with them swiftly and efficiently. The +drafts were also formed into a column and marched up the +hill to the rest camp. They were in good spirits, and the +inevitable Cockney humourist was in action. As they went +up the hill, a poor old French woman came out of her cottage +and began rheumatically and wearily to pump water. +<span class="pagenum" id="p268">[268]</span>She did not even look at the passing troops—much too +accustomed to them. The Cockney shouted to her:</p> + +<p>“’Ere we are! War’ll soon be over now; keep yer pecker +up, Ma!”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They spent the night under canvas at the Boulogne rest +camp. From his tent Winterbourne had an excellent view of +the Channel and the camp incinerator. His first duty on +active service was picking up dirty paper and other rubbish, +and dumping it in the incinerator. They were told nothing +about their future, the Army theory being that your business +is to obey orders, not to ask questions. Winterbourne +fumed and fretted at the inaction. The other men speculated +interminably as to where they were going.</p> + +<p>The tents had wooden floors. The men drew a blanket +and waterproof ground-sheet each, and slept twelve to a +tent. It was a bit hard, but not impossible to sleep. Winterbourne +lay awake for a long time, trying to get some order +into his reflections. His attitude was plainly modified by +that day’s experience. Was there a contradiction in it? Did +it imply that he now supported the War and the War +partisans? On the contrary, he hated the War as much as +ever, hated all the blather about it, profoundly distrusted +the motives of the War partisans, and hated the Army. But +he liked the soldiers, the War soldiers, not as soldiers but +as men. He respected them. If the German soldiers were +like the men he had seen on the boat that morning, then +he liked and respected them too. He was with them. With +them, yes, but against whom and what? He reflected. With +them, because they were men with fine qualities, because +they had endured great hardships and dangers with simplicity, +because they had parried those hardships and dangers +not by hating the men who were supposed to be their +enemies, but by developing a comradeship among themselves. +They had every excuse for turning into brutes, and +they hadn’t done it. True, they were degenerating in certain +ways, they were getting coarse and rough and a bit +<span class="pagenum" id="p269">[269]</span>animal, but with amazing simplicity and unpretentiousness +they had retained and developed a certain essential humanity +and manhood. With them then to the end, because +of their manhood and humanity. With them, too, because +that manhood and humanity existed in spite of the War and +not because of it. They had saved something from a gigantic +wreck, and what they had saved was immensely important—manhood +and comradeship, their essential integrity as +men, their essential brotherhood as men.</p> + +<p>But what were they really against, who were their real +enemies? He saw the answer with a flood of bitterness and +clarity. Their enemies—the enemies of German and English +alike—were the fools who had sent them to kill each other +instead of help each other. Their enemies were the sneaks +and the unscrupulous; the false ideals, the unintelligent +ideas imposed on them, the humbug, the hypocrisy, the +stupidity. If those men were typical, then there was nothing +essentially wrong with common humanity, at least so far as +the men were concerned. It was the leadership that was +wrong—not the war leadership, but the peace leadership. +The nations were governed by bunk and sacrificed to false +ideals and stupid ideas. It was assumed that they had to be +governed by bunk—but if they were never given anything +else, how could you tell? De-bunk the World. Hopeless, +hopeless....</p> + +<p>He sighed deeply, and turned in his blanket wrapping. +One man was snoring. Another moaned in his sleep. Like +corpses they lay there, human rejects chucked into a bell +tent on the hill above Boulogne. The pack made a hard +pillow. Maybe he was all wrong, maybe it was “right” for +men to be begotten only to murder each other in huge +senseless combats. He wondered if he were not getting a +little insane through this persistent brooding over the murders, +by striving so desperately and earnestly to find out +why it had happened, by agonizing over it all, by trying +to think how it could be prevented from occurring again. +After all, did it matter so much? Yes, did it matter? What +<span class="pagenum" id="p270">[270]</span>were a few million human animals more or less? Why +agonize about it? The most he could do was die. Well, die +then. But O God, O God, is that all? To be born against +your will, to feel that life might in its brief passing be so +lovely and so divine, and yet to have nothing but opposition +and betrayal and hatred and death forced upon you! To be +born for the slaughter like a calf or a pig! To be violently +cast back into nothing—for what? My God, for what? Is +there nothing but despair and death? Is life vain, beauty +vain, love vain, hope vain, happiness vain? “The war to +end wars!” Is any one so asinine as to believe that? A war +to breed wars, rather....</p> + +<p>He sighed and turned again. It’s all useless, useless to +flog one’s brain and nerves over it all, useless to waste the +night hours in silent agonies when he might lie in the +oblivion of sleep. Or the better oblivion of death. After all, +there were plenty of children, plenty of war babies—why +should one agonize for their future, any more than the Victorians +thought about ours? The children will grow up, the +war babies will grow up. Maybe they’ll have their war, +maybe they won’t. In any case they won’t care a hang about +us. Why should they? What do we care about the men of +Albuera, except that the charge of the fusileers decorates +a page of rhetorical prose? Four thousand dead—and the +only permanent result a page of Napier’s prose. We have +Bairnsfather....</p> + +<p>He gave it up. Time after time he reverted to the whole +gigantic tragedy, and time after time he gave it up. Two +solutions. Just drift and let come what come may; or get +yourself killed in the line. And much anyone would care +whichever he did.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p271">[271]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ IV ]</h3> + + +<p>They paraded at nine next morning, were casually inspected +by an officer they did not know, and told to +stand by. At eleven they drew bully beef and biscuits, and +were ordered to parade again in half an hour, ready to move +off. Winterbourne’s spirits rose. At last they were getting +somewhere. He would be in the trenches that night and take +his chance with the rest. No more fiddle-faddle.</p> + +<p>He was mistaken. They entrained at Boulogne in a train +which crawled interminably, and they de-trained at Calais. +They were simply transferred to another Base.</p> + +<p>The Base Camp at Calais was desperately over-crowded. +It was filled with new drafts sent over to make up the losses +on the Somme, and new columns of men kept pouring in +daily from England, faster than the over-worked Staff could +allot them to units. They were crowded into hastily erected +bell-tents, twenty-two to a tent, which is closer than you +can squeeze animals, and about as close as you can squeeze +men. There was just room to lie down, and no more. Nothing +to do after parade, except to moon about in the frosty +darkness or lie down in one’s little slice of space, or play +crown-and-anchor and drink coffee and rum while the +estaminets were open. The town of Calais was out of bounds, +except to men with passes. And not many passes were +granted.</p> + +<p>The weather grew daily colder. The misery of the interminable +waiting and the over-crowded tents and the lack +of anything to do, was not thereby alleviated. Every morning +huge greyish columns of men undulated over the sandy +soil, and were drawn up in long lines. An officer on horseback +shouted orders through a megaphone. Nothing much +happened, and they raggedly undulated back again. Yet +<span class="pagenum" id="p272">[272]</span>they drew nearer to the mysterious “line.” They were given +large jack-knives on lanyards. They were given gas masks +and steel helmets. They were given service rifles and bayonets.</p> + +<p>The gas masks were still the old flannel diving bell +variety soaked in chemicals. They had a sharp, acrid, inhuman +taste, and if worn too long had been known to produce +skin eruptions. The drafts were given constant gas +drill, and had to pass five minutes in a gas chamber, containing +a concentration of the old chlorine gas sufficient to +kill in five seconds. One man in Winterbourne’s lot lost his +head and tried to tear off his mask. The instructor leapt at +him, shouting curses through his own mask, and with the +help of two of the men held him until the doors were +opened. Winterbourne noticed that the gas had tarnished +his bright brass buttons and the metal on his equipment. +Their clothes reeked of the gas for a couple of hours.</p> + +<p>They carefully cleaned the long steel bayonets, and +examined the short wood-enclosed rifles. Winterbourne’s had +a long groove cut by a bullet on the butt, and the bolt +showed signs of considerable rust—obviously a rifle picked +up on the battle-field and re-conditioned. Winterbourne +wondered who was the man from whom he inherited it, and +who would inherit it from him.</p> + +<p>The days and nights grew colder and colder. Morning and +evening rose and sank in blood-red mists, and at noon the +sun was a cold bloody smear in a misty sky. Ice formed +on the dykes, and the water taps froze. It became more and +more difficult to wash, and shaving and washing in the ice-cold +water became an agony. Their skins chapped as the +light north wind breathed sharper and sharper cold. There +appeared to be no baths, and they could not remove their +clothes at night. To sleep, they took off their boots, wrapped +themselves in an overcoat and blanket and shivered asleep, +huddling together like sheep in a snowstorm. Most of them +caught colds and began to cough; one man of the draft +was taken to hospital with pleurisy.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p273">[273]</span></p> +<p>And still day after day passed, and they were not sent to +their units. Monotony, depression, boredom. By four it was +dark, and there was nothing to do until dawn. The canteens +and estaminets were thronged. Winterbourne luckily discovered +that the pickets could be bribed, and several +evenings went into Calais to dine. He bought a couple of +French books and tried to read—in vain. He found he was +unable to concentrate his mind, and fell into a deeper depression. +There were few parades, and he had plenty of time +for brooding.</p> + +<p>They passed Christmas Day at the Base. The English +newspapers, which they easily obtained a day or two late, +were filled with glowing accounts of the efforts and expense +made to give the troops a real hearty Christmas dinner. +The men had looked forward to this. They ate their meals +in huts which were decorated with holly for the occasion. +The Christmas dinner turned out to be stewed bully beef +and about two square inches of cold Christmas pudding per +man. The other men in Winterbourne’s tent were furious. +Their perpetual grumbling annoyed him, and he attacked +them:</p> + +<p>“Why fuss so much over a little charity? Why let them +salve their consciences so easily? In any case, they probably +meant well. Can’t you see that drafts at the Base are nobody’s +children? The stuff’s gone to the men in the line, +who deserve it far more than we do. We haven’t done anything +yet. Or it’s been embezzled. Anyway what does it +matter? You didn’t join the army for a bit of pudding and +a Christmas cracker, did you?”</p> + +<p>They were silent, unable to understand his contempt. Of +course, he was unjust. They were simply grown children, +angry at being defrauded of a promised treat. They could +not understand his deeper rage. Any more than they could +have understood his emotion each night when “Last Post” +was blown. The bugler was an artist and produced the most +wonderful effect of melancholy as he blew the call, which +in the Army serves for sleep and death, over the immense +<span class="pagenum" id="p274">[274]</span>silent camp. Forty thousand men lying down to sleep—and +in six months how many would be alive? The bugler seemed +to know it, and prolonged the shrill melancholy notes—“Last +post! Last post!”—with an extraordinary effect of +pathos. “Last post! Last post!” Winterbourne listened for +it each night. Sometimes the melancholy was almost soothing, +sometimes it was intolerable. He wrote to Elizabeth and +Fanny about the bugler, as well as about the leave men he +had seen on the boat. They felt he was getting hopelessly +sentimental:</p> + +<p>“Un peu gaga?” Elizabeth suggested.</p> + +<p>Fanny shrugged her shoulders.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Two days after Christmas their orders came. They were +taking off their equipment after morning parade when the +Orderly Corporal pushed his head through the tent flap:</p> + +<p>“You’ve clicked!”</p> + +<p>“What? How? What y’ mean?” said several voices.</p> + +<p>“Goin’ up the line. Parade at one-thirty ready to move off +immediate. Over you go, an’ the best of luck!”</p> + +<p>“What part of the line?”</p> + +<p>“Dunno, you’ll find that when y’ get there.”</p> + +<p>“What unit?”</p> + +<p>“Dunno. Some o’ you’s clicked for a Pioneer Batt.”</p> + +<p>“What’s that?”</p> + +<p>“Muckin well find out. Don’t f’get I warned yer for +p’rade.”</p> + +<p>And he was off to the next tent. The men began talking +excitedly, “wondering” this and “wondering” that futilely as +usual. Winterbourne walked away from the tent lines, and +stood looking over the desolate winter landscape. Half a +mile away the tent lines of another huge camp began. Army +lorries lumbered along a flat straight road in the distance. +It was beginning to snow from a hard grey sky. He wondered +vaguely how you slept in the line when there was +snow. His breath formed little clouds of vapour in the +freezing air. He pulled his muffler closer round his neck, and +<span class="pagenum" id="p275">[275]</span>stamped on the ground to warm his icy feet. He felt as if +his faculties were slowly running down, as if his whole +mental power were concentrated upon mere physical endurance, +a dull keeping alive. Time, like a torture, seemed +infinitely prolonged. It seemed years since he left England, +years of discomfort and depression and boredom. If the +mere “cushy” beginning were like that, how endure the +months, perhaps years of war to come?</p> + +<p>He experienced a rapid fall of spirits to a depth of depression +he had never before experienced. Hitherto, mere +young vitality had buoyed him up, the <i>élan</i> of his former +life had carried him along through the days. In spite of his +rages and his worryings and the complications and boredoms, +he had really remained hopeful. He had wanted to +go on living, because he had always unconsciously believed +that life was good. Now something within him was just beginning +to give way, now for the first time the last faint +hues of the lovely iris of youth faded, and in horror he +faced the grey realities. He was surprised and a little +alarmed at his own listlessness and despair. He felt like a +sheet of paper, dropping in jerks and waverings through +grey air into an abyss.</p> + +<p>The dinner bugle call sounded. He turned mechanically +and joined the men thronging towards the eating huts. The +snow was falling faster, and the men stamped their feet as +they waited for the doors to open, cursing the cooks’ delay. +There was the usual animal stampede for the best platefuls +when the door opened. Winterbourne stood aside and +let them struggle. The expressions on their faces were not +pretty. He was practically the last in, and did not fare well. +He ate the stewed bully, hunk of bread and soap-like cheese, +with a sort of dog gratitude for the warmth, which was +humiliating. He scarcely even resented the humiliation.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The train taking them to rail-head crawled interminably +through a frozen landscape thinly sprinkled with snow. The +light was beginning to wane. The skeleton outlines of dwarf +<span class="pagenum" id="p276">[276]</span>trees, twisted by the wind, loomed faintly past the window. +It was bitterly cold in the unwarmed third-class French +carriage; one of the windows was smashed, and the bitter +air and snow swept in. The men sat in silence, wrapped in +their great-coats and stamping their feet rhythmically on +the floor in vain efforts to keep warm. Winterbourne was +cold to the knees, and yet felt feverish. His cough had grown +worse, and he realized he had a temperature. He felt dirtily +uncomfortable, because he had not taken his clothes off for +days. The water at the camp had all frozen, and it had been +impossible to get a bath.</p> + +<p>Darkness slowly intensified. Slowly, more slowly the +train crawled along. Winterbourne was in that section of +the draft going to the Pioneer Battalion. He had asked the +Sergeant what that meant:</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s cushy, much better than the ordinary infantry.”</p> + +<p>“What do they do?”</p> + +<p>“Workin’ parties in no man’s land,” said the Sergeant with +a grin, “an’ go over the top when there’s a show.”</p> + +<p>The train slightly increased its speed as they passed +through a large junction. Somebody said it was St. Omer, +somebody else said St. Pol, some one else suggested +Béthune. They did not know where they were, or where they +were going. About two miles outside the junction the train +came to a stop. Winterbourne peered into the thick darkness. +Nothing. He leaned out the glassless window and heard +only the hissing steam from the stationary train, saw only +the faint glow of the furnace. Suddenly, far away in front +and to the left, a quick flash of light pierced the blackness +and Winterbourne heard a faint boom. The guns! He +waited, straining eyes and ears, in the freezing darkness. +Silence. Then again—flash. Boom. Flash. Boom. Very distant, +very faint, but unmistakable. The guns. They must +be getting near the line.</p> + +<p>Once again the train started and crawled interminably +once more. For about half an hour they passed through a +series of deep cuttings. Then, from the right this time, came +<span class="pagenum" id="p277">[277]</span>a much nearer and brighter flash, followed almost at once +by a deep boom audible above the noise of the train. The +other men heard it this time:</p> + +<p>“The guns!”</p> + +<p>The train crept on stealthily for another couple of minutes +through the gloom. The men were all crowded round the +window. Flash. Boom. Another two minutes. Flash. Boom.</p> + +<p>Three-quarters of an hour later they detrained at rail-head +in complete darkness.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p278">[278]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ V ]</h3> + + +<p>Winterbourne had an easy initiation into trench +warfare. The cold was so intense that the troops on +both sides were chiefly occupied in having pneumonia and +trying to keep warm. He found himself in a quiet sector +which had been fought over by the French in 1914 and had +been the scene of a fierce and prolonged battle in 1915 after +the British took over the sector. During 1916, when the +main fighting shifted to the Somme, the sector had settled +down to ordinary trench warfare. Trench raids had not then +been much developed, but constant local attacks were made +on battalion or brigade fronts. A little later the sector afterwards +atoned for this calm.</p> + +<p>To Winterbourne, as to so many others, the time element +was of extreme importance during the war years. The hour +goddesses who had danced along so gaily before and have +fled from us since with such mocking swiftness, then paced +by in a slow monotonous file as if intolerably burdened. +People at a distance thought of the fighting as heroic and +exciting, in terms of cheering bayonet charges or little +knots of determined men holding out to the last Lewis Gun. +That is rather like counting life by its champagne suppers, +and forgetting all the rest. The qualities needed were determination +and endurance, inhuman endurance. It would be +much more practical to fight modern wars with mechanical +robots than with men. But then, men are cheaper, although +in a long war the initial outlay on the robots might be compensated +by the fact that the quality of the men deteriorates, +while they cost more in upkeep. But that is a +question for the war departments. From the point of view +of efficiency in war, the trouble is that men have feelings; +to attain the perfect soldier, we must eliminate feelings. To +<span class="pagenum" id="p279">[279]</span>the human robots of the last war, time seemed indefinitely +and most unpleasantly prolonged. The dimension then +measured as a “day” in its apparent duration approached +what we now call a “month.” And the long series of violent +stale-mates on the western front made any decision seem +impossible. In 1916 it looked as if no line could be broken, +because so long as enough new troops were hurried to +threatened points the attacker was bound to be held up; +and the supplies of hew troops seemed endless. It became +a matter of which side could wear down the other’s man +power and moral endurance. So there also was the interminable. +The only alternatives seemed an indefinite prolongation +of misery, or death or mutilation, or collapse of +some sort. Even a wound was a doubtful blessing, a mere +holiday, for wounded men had to be returned again and +again to the line.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>For the first six or eight “weeks,” Winterbourne, like all +his companions, was occupied in fighting the cold. The +Pioneer Company to which he was attached were digging a +sap out into No Man’s Land and making trench mortar +emplacements just behind the front line. They worked on +these most of the night, and slept during the day. But +the ground was frozen so hard that progress was tediously +slow.</p> + +<p>The Company was billeted in the ruins of a village +behind the Reserve trenches, over a mile from the front +line. The landscape was flat, almost treeless except for a +few shell-blasted stumps, and covered with snow frozen +hard. Every building in sight had been smashed, in many +cases almost level with the ground. It was a mining country +with great queer hills of slag and strange pit-head machinery +of steel, reduced by shell-fire to huge masses of +twisted rusting metal. They were in a salient, with the +half-destroyed, evacuated town of M—— in the elbow-crook +on the extreme right. The village churchyard was +filled with graves of French soldiers; there were graves +<span class="pagenum" id="p280">[280]</span>inside any of the houses which had no cellars, and graves +flourished over the bare landscape. In all directions were +crosses, little wooden crosses, in ones and twos and threes, +emerging blackly from the frozen snow. Some were already +askew; one just outside the ruined village had been snapped +short by a shell-burst. The dead men’s caps, mouldering and +falling to pieces, were hooked on to the tops of the crosses—the +grey German round cap, the French blue and red kepi, +the English khaki. There were also two large British cemeteries +in sight—rectangular plantations of wooden crosses. +It was like living in the graveyard of the world—dead trees, +dead houses, dead mines, dead villages, dead men. Only +the long steel guns and the transport wagons seemed +alive. There were no civilians, but one of the mines +was still worked about a mile and a half further from +the line.</p> + +<p>Behind Winterbourne’s billet were hidden two large +howitzers. They fired with a reverberating crash which +shook the ruined houses, and the diminishing scream of the +departing shells was strangely melancholy in the frost-silent +air. The Germans rarely returned the fire—they were saving +their ammunition. Occasionally a shell screamed over and +crashed sharply among the ruins; the huge detonation +spouted up black earth or rattling bricks and tiles. Fragments +of the burst shell case hummed through the air.</p> + +<p>But it was the cold that mattered. In his efforts to defend +himself against it, Winterbourne, like the other men, was +strangely and wonderfully garbed. Round his belly, next the +skin, he wore a flannel belt. Over that a thick woollen vest, +grey flannel shirt, knitted cardigan jacket, long woollen +under-pants and thick socks. Over that, service jacket, +trousers, puttees and boots; then a sheepskin coat, two +mufflers round his neck, two pairs of woollen gloves and +over them trench gloves. In addition came equipment, box +respirator on the chest, steel helmet, rifle and bayonet. The +only clothes he took off at night were his boots. With his +legs wrapped in a great-coat, his body in a grey blanket, a +<span class="pagenum" id="p281">[281]</span>groundsheet underneath, pack for pillow, and a dixie of hot +tea and rum inside him, he just got warm enough to fall +asleep when very tired.</p> + +<p>Through the broken roof of his billet, Winterbourne +could see the frosty glitter of the stars and the white rime. +In the morning when he awoke, he found his breath frozen +on the pillow. In the line his short moustache formed icicles. +The boots beside him froze hard, and it was agony to +struggle into them. The bread in his haversack froze greyly; +and the taste of frozen bread is horrid. Little spikes of ice +formed in the cheese. The tins of jam froze and had to be +thawed before they could be eaten. The bully beef froze in +the tins and came out like chunks of reddish ice. Washing +was a torment. They had three tubs of water between about +forty of them each day. With this they shaved and washed—about +ten or fifteen to a tub. Since Winterbourne was a +late-comer to the battalion, he had to wait until the others +had finished. The water was cold and utterly filthy. He +plunged his dirty hands into it with disgust, and shut his +eyes when he washed his face. This humiliation, too, he +accepted.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>He always remembered his first night in the line. They +paraded in the ruined village street about four o’clock. The +air seemed crackling with frost, and the now familiar bloody +smear of red sunset was dying away in the southwest. The +men were muffled up to the ears, and looked grotesquely +bulky in their sheep- or goat-skin coats, with the hump of +box respirators on their chests. Most of them had sacking +covers on their steel helmets to prevent reflection, and sacks +tied round their legs for warmth. The muffled officer came +shivering from his billet, as the men stamped their feet on +the hard frost-bound road. They drew picks and shovels +from a dump, and filed silently through the ruined street +behind the officer. Their bayonets were silhouetted against +the cold sky. The man in front of Winterbourne turned +abruptly left into a ruined house. Winterbourne followed, +<span class="pagenum" id="p282">[282]</span>descended four rough steps and found himself in a trench. +A notice said:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">HINTON ALLEY</div> +<div class="verse indent2">☞ To the Front Line</div></div> +</div></div> + +<p>To be out of the piercing cold wind in the shelter of walls +of earth was an immediate relief. Overhead shone the beautiful +ironic stars.</p> + +<p>A field gun behind them started to crash out shells. Winterbourne +listened to the long-drawn wail as they sped away +and finally crashed faintly in the distance. He followed the +man ahead of him blindly. Word kept coming down: “Hole +here, look out.” “Wire overhead.” “Mind your head—bridge.” +He passed the messages on, after tripping in the +holes, catching his bayonet in the field telephone wires, and +knocking his helmet on the low bridge. They passed the +Reserve line, then the Support, with the motionless sentries +on the fire-step, and the peculiar smell of burnt wood and +foul air coming from the dug-outs. A minute later came +the sharp message: “Stop talking—don’t clink your shovels.” +They were now only a few hundred yards from the German +Front line. A few guns were firing in a desultory way. A +shell crashed outside the parapet about five yards from +Winterbourne’s head. It was only a whizz-bang, but to his +unpractised ears it sounded like a heavy. The shells came +in fours—crump, Crump, <i>crump</i>, <span class="allsmcap">CRRUMP</span>—the Boche was +bracketing. Every minute or so came a sharp “ping”—fixed +rifles firing at a latrine or an unprotected piece of trench. +The duck-boards were more broken. Winterbourne stumbled +over an unexploded shell, then had to clamber over a heap +of earth where the side of the trench had been smashed in, +a few minutes earlier. The trench made another sharp turn, +and he saw the bayonet and helmet of a sentry silhouetted +against the sky. They were in the front line.</p> + +<p>They turned sharp left. To their right were the fire-steps, +with a sentry about every fifty yards. In between came +<span class="pagenum" id="p283">[283]</span>traverses and dug-out entrances, with their rolled-up blanket +gas-curtains. Winterbourne peered down them—there was a +faint glow of light, a distant mutter of talk, and a heavy +stench of wood smoke and foul air. The man in front +stopped and turned to Winterbourne:</p> + +<p>“Halt—password to-night’s ‘Lantern.’” Winterbourne +halted, and passed the message on. They waited. He was +standing almost immediately behind a sentry, and got on +the fire-step beside the man to take his first look at No +Man’s Land.</p> + +<p>“’Oo are you?” asked the sentry in low tones.</p> + +<p>“Pioneers.”</p> + +<p>“Got a bit o’ candle to give us, chum?”</p> + +<p>“Awfully, sorry, chum, I haven’t.”</p> + +<p>“Them muckin R.E.’s gets ’em all.”</p> + +<p>“I’ve got a packet of chocolate, if you’d like it.”</p> + +<p>“Ah. Thanks, chum.”</p> + +<p>The sentry broke a bit of chocolate and began to +munch.</p> + +<p>“Muckin cold up here, it is. Me feet’s fair froze. Muckin +dreary, too. I can ’ear ole Fritz coughin’ over there in ’is +listenin’ post—don’t ’arf sound ’ollow. Listen.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne listened, and heard a dull hollow sound of +coughing.</p> + +<p>“Fritz’s sentry,” whispered the men. “Pore ole bugger—needs +some liquorice.”</p> + +<p>“Move on,” came the word from the man in front. Winterbourne +jumped down from the fire-step and passed on +the word.</p> + +<p>“Good-night, chum,” said the sentry.</p> + +<p>“Good-night, chum.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Winterbourne was put on the party digging the sap out +into No Man’s Land. The officer stopped him as he was +entering the sap.</p> + +<p>“You’re one of the new draft, aren’t you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p284">[284]</span></p> +<p>“Wait a minute.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>The other men filed into the sap. The officer spoke in low +tones:</p> + +<p>“You can take sentry for the first hour. Come along, and +don’t stand up.”</p> + +<p>The young crescent moon had risen and poured down +cold faint light. Every now and then a Verey light was fired +from the German or English lines, brilliantly illuminating +the desolate landscape of torn irregular wire and jagged +shell-holes. They climbed over the parapet and crawled +over the broken ground past the end of the sap. The officer +made for a shell-hole just inside the English wire, and Winterbourne +followed him.</p> + +<p>“Lie here,” whispered the officer, “and keep a sharp lookout +for German patrols. Fire if you see them and give the +alarm. There’s a patrol of our own out on the right, so +make sure before you fire. There’s a couple of bombs somewhere +in the shell-hole. You’ll be relieved in an hour.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>The officer crawled away, and Winterbourne remained +alone in No Man’s Land, about twenty-five yards in front +of the British line. He could hear the soft dull thuds of +picks and shovels from the men working the sap and a very +faint murmur as they talked in whispers. A Verey light +hissed up from the English lines, and he strained his eyes +for the possible enemy patrol. In the brief light he saw +nothing but the irregular masses of German wire, the broken +line of their parapet, shell-holes and débris, and the large +stump of a dead tree. Just as the bright magnesium turned +in its luminous parabola, a hidden machine-gun, not thirty +yards from Winterbourne, went off with a loud crackle of +bullets like the engine of a motor-bicycle. He started, and +nearly pulled the trigger of his rifle. Then silence. A British +sentry coughed with a deep hacking sound; then from the +distance came the hollow coughing of a German sentry. +Eerie sounds in the pallid moonlight. “Ping” went a sniper’s +<span class="pagenum" id="p285">[285]</span>rifle. It was horribly cold. Winterbourne was shivering, +partly from cold, partly from excitement.</p> + +<p>Interminable minutes passed. He grew colder and colder. +Occasionally a few shells from one side or the other went +wailing overhead and crashed somewhere in the back areas. +About four hundred yards away to his left began a series +of loud shattering detonations. He strained his eyes, and +could just see the flash of the explosion and the dark column +of smoke and débris. These were German trench mortars, +the dreaded “minnies,” although he did not know it.</p> + +<p>Nothing different happened until about three-quarters of +an hour had passed. Winterbourne got colder and colder, +felt he had been out there at least three hours, and thought +he must have been forgotten. He shivered with cold. Suddenly, +he thought he saw something move to his right, just +outside the wire. He gazed intently, all tense and alert. Yes, +a dark something was moving. It stopped, and seemed to +vanish. Then near it another dark figure moved and then a +third. It was a patrol, making for the gap in the wire in +front of Winterbourne. Were they Germans or British? He +pointed his rifle towards them, got the bombs ready, and +waited. They came nearer and nearer. Just before they got +to the wire, Winterbourne challenged in a loud whisper:</p> + +<p>“Halt, who are you?”</p> + +<p>All three figures instantly disappeared.</p> + +<p>“Halt, who are you?”</p> + +<p>“Friend,” came a low answer.</p> + +<p>“Give the word or I fire.”</p> + +<p>“Lantern.”</p> + +<p>“All right.”</p> + +<p>One of the men crawled through the wire to Winterbourne, +followed by the other two. They wore balaclava helmets, +and carried revolvers.</p> + +<p>“Are you the patrol?” whispered Winterbourne.</p> + +<p>“Who the muckin hell d’you think we are? Father Christmas? +What are you doin’ out here?”</p> + +<p>“Pioneers digging a sap about fifteen yards behind.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p286">[286]</span></p> +<p>“Are you Pioneers?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Got a bit o’ candle, chum?”</p> + +<p>“Sorry, I haven’t, we don’t get them issued.”</p> + +<p>The patrol crawled off, and Winterbourne heard an +alarmed challenge from the men working in the sap, and +the word “Lantern.” A Verey light went up from the German +lines just as the patrol were crawling over the parapet. +A German sentry fired his rifle and a machine-gun started +up. The patrol dropped hastily into the trench. The machine-gun +bullets whistled cruelly past Winterbourne’s head—Zwiss, +zwiss, zwiss. He crouched down in the hole. Zwiss, +zwiss, zwiss. Then silence. He lifted his head, and continued +to watch. For two or three minutes there was complete +silence. The men in the sap seemed to have knocked off +work, and made no sound. Winterbourne listened intently. +No sound. It was the most ghostly, desolate, deathly silence +he had ever experienced. He had never imagined that death +could be so deathly. The feeling of annihilation, of the end of +existence, of a dead planet of the dead arrested in a dead +time and space, penetrated his flesh along with the cold. He +shuddered. So frozen, so desolate, so dead a world—everything +smashed and lying inertly broken. Then “crack-ping” +went a sniper’s rifle, and a battery of field-guns opened out +with salvos about half a mile to his right. The machine-guns +began again. The noise was a relief after that ghastly +dead silence.</p> + +<p>At last the N.C.O. came crawling out from the sap with +another man to relieve him. A Verey light shot up from the +German line in their direction, just as the two men reached +him. All three crouched motionless, as the accurate German +machine-gun fire swept the British trench parapet—zwiss, +zwiss, zwiss, the flights of bullets went over them. Winterbourne +saw a strand of wire just in front of him suddenly +flip up in the air where a low bullet had struck it. Quite +near enough—not six inches above his head.</p> + +<p>They crawled back to the sap, and Winterbourne tumbled +<span class="pagenum" id="p287">[287]</span>in. He found himself face to face with the platoon officer, +Lieutenant Evans. Winterbourne was shivering uncontrollably; +he felt utterly chilled. His whole body was numb, his +hands stiff, his legs one ache of cold from the knees down. +He realized the cogency of the Adjutant’s farewell hint +about looking after feet, and decided to drop his indifference +to goose grease and neat’s-foot oil.</p> + +<p>“Cold?” asked the officer.</p> + +<p>“It’s bitterly cold out there, Sir,” said Winterbourne +through chattering teeth.</p> + +<p>“Here, take a drink of this,” and Evans held out a small +flask.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne took the flask in his cold-shaken hand. It +chinked roughly against his teeth as he took a gulp of the +terrifically potent Army rum. The strong liquor half choked +him, burned his throat, and made his eyes water. Almost +immediately, he felt the deadly chill beginning to lessen. +But he still shivered.</p> + +<p>“Good Lord, man, you’re frozen,” said Evans. “I thought +it was colder than ever to-night. It’s no weather for lying in +No Man’s Land. Corporal, you’ll have to change that sentry +every half hour—an hour’s too long in this frost.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Have some more rum?” asked Evans.</p> + +<p>“No, thanks, Sir,” replied Winterbourne, “I’m quite all +right now. I can warm up with some digging.”</p> + +<p>“No, get your rifle and come with me.”</p> + +<p>Evans started off briskly down the trench to visit the +other working parties. About a hundred yards from the sap +he climbed out of the trench over the parados; Winterbourne +scrambled after, more impeded by his chilled limbs, +his rifle and heavier equipment. Evans gave him a hand up. +They walked about another hundred yards over the top, +and then reached the place where several parties were digging +trench mortar emplacements. The N.C.O. saw them +coming and climbed out of one of the holes to meet them.</p> + +<p>“Getting on all right, Sergeant?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p288">[288]</span></p> +<p>“Ground’s very hard, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“I know, but—”</p> + +<p>Zwiss, zwiss, zwiss, zwiss came a rush of bullets, following +the rapid tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat of a machine-gun. +The Sergeant ducked double. Evans remained calmly standing. +Seeing his unconcern, Winterbourne also remained upright.</p> + +<p>“I know the ground’s hard,” said Evans, “but those emplacements +are urgently needed. Headquarters were at us +again to-day about them. I’ll see how you’re getting on.”</p> + +<p>The Sergeant hastily scuttled into one of the deep emplacements, +followed in a more leisurely way by the officer. +Winterbourne remained standing on top, and listened to +Evans as he urged the men to get a move on. Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. +Zwiss, zwiss, zwiss, very close this time. Winterbourne +felt a slight creep in his spine, but since Evans had not +moved before, he decided that the right thing was to stand +still. Evans visited each of the four emplacements, and then +made straight for the front line. He paused at the parados.</p> + +<p>“We’re pretty close to the Boche front line here. He’s got +a machine-gun post about a hundred and fifty yards over +there.”</p> + +<p>Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Zwiss, zwiss, zwiss.</p> + +<p>“Look! Over there.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne just caught a glimpse of the quick flashes.</p> + +<p>“Damn!” said Evans, “I forgot to bring my prismatic +compass to-night. We might have taken a bearing on them, +and got the artillery to turf them out.”</p> + +<p>He jumped carelessly into the trench, and Winterbourne +dutifully followed. About fifty yards farther on, he stopped.</p> + +<p>“I see from your pay-book that you’re an artist in civil +life.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Paint pictures, and draw?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Why don’t you apply for a draughtsman’s job at Division? +They need them.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p289">[289]</span></p> +<p>“Well, Sir, I don’t particularly covet a hero’s grave, but +I feel very strongly I ought to take my chance in the line +along with the rest.”</p> + +<p>“Ah. Of course. Are you a pretty good walker?”</p> + +<p>“I used to go on walking tours in peace time, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Well, there’s an order that every officer is to have a +runner. Would you like the job of Platoon Runner? You’d +have to accompany me, and you’re supposed to take my last +dying orders! You’d have to learn the lie of the trenches, +so as to act as guide; take my orders to N.C.O.’s; know +enough about what’s going on to help them if I’m knocked +out, and carry messages. It’s perhaps a bit more dangerous +than the ordinary work, and you may have to turn out at +odd hours, but it’ll get you off a certain amount of digging.”</p> + +<p>“I’d like it very much, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“All right, I’ll speak to the Major about it.”</p> + +<p>“It’s very good of you, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Can you find your way back to the sap? It’s about two +hundred yards along this trench.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure I can, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“All right. Go back and report to the Corporal, and carry +on.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“You haven’t forgotten the pass-word?”</p> + +<p>“No, Sir, ‘Lantern.’”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>About thirty yards along the trench, there was a rattle of +equipment, and Winterbourne found a bayonet about two +feet from his chest. It was a gas-sentry outside Company +H.Q. Dugout.</p> + +<p>“Halt! Who are yer?”</p> + +<p>“Lantern.”</p> + +<p>The sentry languidly lowered his rifle.</p> + +<p>“Muckin cold to-night, mate.”</p> + +<p>“Bloody cold.”</p> + +<p>“What are you, Bedfords or Essex?”</p> + +<p>“No, Pioneers.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p290">[290]</span></p> +<p>“Got a bit of candle to give us, mate, it’s muckin dark in +them dugouts.”</p> + +<p>“Very sorry, chum, I haven’t.”</p> + +<p>Rather trying this constant demand for candle-ends from +the Pioneers, who were popularly supposed by the infantry +to receive immense “issues” of candles. But without candles +the dugouts were merely black holes, even in the daytime, +if they were any depth. They were deep on this front, +since the line was a captured German trench reorganized. +Hence the dugouts faced the enemy, instead of being turned +away from them.</p> + +<p>“Oh, all right, good-night.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne returned to the sap, and did two more +half-hour turns as sentry, and for the rest of the time +picked, or shovelled the hard clods of earth into sandbags. +The sandbags were then carried back to the front line and +piled there to raise the parapet. It was a slow business. The +sap itself was camouflaged to avoid observation. Winterbourne +hadn’t the slightest idea what its object was. He +was very weary and sleepy when they finally knocked off +work about one in the morning. An eight-hour shift, exclusive +of time taken in getting to and from the work. The +men filed wearily along the trench, rifles slung on the left +shoulder, picks and shovels carried on the right. Winterbourne +stumbled along half-asleep with the cold and the +fatigue of unaccustomed labour. He felt he didn’t mind how +dangerous it was—if it was dangerous—to be a runner, provided +he got some change from the dreariness of digging, +and filling and carrying sandbags.</p> + +<p>After they passed the Support Line, the hitherto silent +men began to talk occasionally. At Reserve they got permission +to smoke. Each grabbed in his pockets for a fag, +and lighted it as he stumbled along the uneven duckboards. +After what seemed an endless journey to Winterbourne they +reached the four steps, climbed up, and emerged into the +now familiar ruined street. It was silent and rather ghostly +<span class="pagenum" id="p291">[291]</span>in the very pale light of the new moon. They dumped their +picks and shovels, went to the cook to draw their ration of +hot tea, which was served from a large black dixie and +tasted unpleasantly of stew. They filed past the officer who +gave each of them a rum ration.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne drank some of the tea in his billet, then +took off his boots, wrapped himself up, and drank the rest. +Some real warmth flushed into his chilled body. He was +angry with himself for being so tired, after a cushy night +on a cushy front. He wondered what Elizabeth and Fanny +would say if they saw his animal gratitude for tea and rum. +Fanny? Elizabeth? They had receded far from him, not so +far as all the other people he knew, who had receded to +several light years, but very far. “Elizabeth” and “Fanny” +were now memories and names at the foot of sympathetic +but rather remote letters. Drowsiness came rapidly upon +him, and he fell asleep as he was thinking of the curious +“zwiss, zwiss,” made by machine-gun bullets passing overhead. +He did not hear the two howitzers when they fired a +dozen rounds before dawn.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p292">[292]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ VI ]</h3> + + +<p>Except for the episode with the officer, this specimen +night may stand as a type of Winterbourne’s life in +the next eight or ten days. They went up the line at dusk; +they were shot at, worked, and shivered with cold: went +down the line, slept, tried to clean themselves, and paraded +again. Four or five times they passed corpses being carried +down the trenches as they went up. There was, of course, +nothing to report on the western front.</p> + +<p>Then, just as the monotony was becoming almost as intolerable +as drilling to the home-service R.S.M.’s “Stand still +there, stand <i>steady!</i>” they had a night off, and were transferred +to the day shift. But this was even more tedious. +They paraded soon after dawn, and worked in Hinton Alley, +about two hundred yards from the Front Line. Their job +was to hack up the frozen mud—which was about as malleable +as marble—extricate the worn duck-boards, dig +“sump-holes,” and relay new duck boards. A job which in +moist weather might have occupied two men for half an +hour, in that frost occupied four men all day.</p> + +<p>A Lieutenant-General came along while Winterbourne was +laboriously jarring his wrists, trying to hack up the marble-like +mud.</p> + +<p>“Well, and what are you doing, my man?”</p> + +<p>“Replacing duck-boards, Sir,” said Winterbourne, bringing +his pick smartly to his side, and standing to attention, +toes at an angle of forty-five degrees.</p> + +<p>“Well, get on with it, my man, get on with it.”</p> + +<p>Vive L’Empereur.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Diversions were few, but existed. There were, for instance, +the rats. Winterbourne had been too much absorbed by other +<span class="pagenum" id="p293">[293]</span>new experiences to pay much attention to them at first. +And during the day they kept rather out of sight. One +evening, just about sunset, as they were returning down +Hinton Alley, there was a block in the trench. Winterbourne +happened to be just at the corner of the Support line, with +its damaged, revetted traverses, and piles of sandbags on the +parapet. The Germans were sending up some rather fancy +signal rockets from their Front line, and he was vaguely +wondering what they meant, when a huge rat darted or +rather scrambled impudently just past his head. Then he +noticed that a legion of the fattest and longest rats he had +ever seen were popping in and out the crevices between the +sand-bags. As far as he could see down the trench in the +dusk they were swarming over parapet and parados. Such +well-fed rats! He shuddered, thinking of what they had +probably fed upon.</p> + +<p>In a very short time he had become perfectly accustomed +to the very mild artillery fire, sniping and machine-gunning. +No casualties had occurred in his own company, and he +began to think that the dangers of the war had been exaggerated, +while its physical discomforts and tedium had been +greatly underestimated. The intense frost prevented his +shaking off the heavy cold he had caught at Calais, and at +the same time had given him a chill on the liver. The same +thing had happened to half the men in the company, whether +new-comers or old stagers; and all suffered from diarrhœa +due to the cold. There was thus the added diversion of frequent +visits to the latrine. Those in the line were primitive +affairs of a couple of biscuit boxes and buckets, interesting +from the fact that the Germans had fixed rifles trained on +most of them and might get you if you happened to stand up +inopportunely. If you had any sense you waited until the +bullet ping-ed over, and then calmly walked out: for lack +of which elementary precaution somebody occasionally was +popped off. The Pioneers’ latrine, just behind their billet, +was a more elaborate six-seater (without separate compartments) +built over a deep trench and surrounded with +<span class="pagenum" id="p294">[294]</span>sacking on posts. One of the posts had been damaged by a +shell, and there were numerous rents in the sacking from +shell splinters. Here Winterbourne was forced to spend a +larger portion of his spare time than was pleasant in cold +weather. One day when he entered he found another occupant, +an artilleryman. This person was carefully examining +his grey flannel shirt: and such portions of his body as were +exposed to view were covered with small bloody blotches. +Some horrid skin disease, Winterbourne surmised. He attended +to his own urgent private affairs.</p> + +<p>“Still terribly cold,” he ventured.</p> + +<p>“Muckin cold,” said the artilleryman, continuing absorbedly +the mysterious search in his shirt.</p> + +<p>“Those are nasty skin eruptions you have.”</p> + +<p>“It’s them muckin chats. Billet’s fair lousy with ’em.”</p> + +<p>Chats? Lousy? Ah, of course, the artilleryman was lousy. +So lousy that he had been bitten all over, and had scratched +himself raw. Winterbourne felt uncomfortable. He detested +the idea of vermin.</p> + +<p>“How d’you get them? Can’t you get rid of them?”</p> + +<p>“Get ’em? Everybody gets ’em. Ain’t you chatty? And +there ain’t no gettin’ rid of ’em. The clothes they gives you +at the baths is as chatty as those you ’ands in. Where +there’s dug-outs and billets there’s chats, and where there’s +chats, they cops yer.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne departed from the lousy artilleryman with +a new pre-occupation in life—to remain one of the chatless +as long as possible. It was not many weeks, however, before +he too became resigned to the louse as an inevitable war +comrade.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Like a good many recruits when first in the line he was +rather inclined to be foolhardy than timorous. When a +shell exploded near the trench, he popped his head up to +have a look at it; and listened to the machine-gun bullets +swishing past with great interest. The older hands reproved +him:</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p295">[295]</span></p> +<p>“Don’t be so muckin anxious to look at whizz-bangs. +You’ll get a damn sight too many pretty soon. And don’t +keep shovin’ yer ’ead over the top. <i>We</i> don’t care a muck if +ole Fritz gets yer, but if he sees yer he might put his artillery +on <i>us</i>.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne rather haughtily decided they were timorous, +an impression confirmed by the manner in which they +instantly ducked and crouched when a shell came whistling +towards them. So many shells exploded harmlessly that he +wondered at their inefficiency. Late one afternoon the Germans +began firing on Hinton Alley—little salvos of four +whizz-bangs at a time. The men went on with their work, +but a little apprehensively. Winterbourne clambered partly +up the side of the trench and watched the shells bursting—crump, +Crump, <i>Crump</i>, <span class="allsmcap">CRRUMP</span>. The splinters hummed harmoniously +through the air. Suddenly he heard a loud whizz, +and zip-phut, a large piece of metal hurtled just past his +head and half-buried itself in the hard chalk of the trench. +More surprised than scared he jumped down and levered +the metal up with his pick. It was a brass nose-cap, still +warm from the heat of the explosion. He held it in his hand, +gazing with curiosity at the German lettering. The other +men jeered and scolded him in a friendly way. He felt they +exaggerated—his nerves were still so much fresher than +theirs.</p> + +<p>That night, just after he had got down into kip, the night +silence was abruptly broken by a discharge of artillery. Gun +after gun, whose existence he had never suspected, opened +out all round, and in half a minute fifty or sixty were in +action. From the line came the long rattle of a dozen or +more machine-guns, with the funny little pops of distant +hand grenades. He got up and went to the door. Ruins interrupted +a direct view, but he saw the flashes of the guns, a +sort of glow over a short part of the front line, and Verey +lights and rockets flying up continually. A Corporal came +unconcernedly into the billet.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” asked Winterbourne, “an attack?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p296">[296]</span></p> +<p>“Attack be jiggered. Identification raid, I reckon.”</p> + +<p>The German artillery had now opened up, and a shell +dropped in the village street. Winterbourne retired to his +earth-floor. In about three-quarters of an hour the firing +quieted down; only one German battery of five-nines kept +dropping shells in and about the village. Winterbourne began +to reflect that shell-fire in gross might be more deadly +than the few odd retail discharges he had hitherto experienced.</p> + +<p>Next morning, the Corporal’s diagnosis proved correct. +As they went up Hinton Alley soon after dawn, they met a +British Tommy escorting six lugubrious personages in field +grey, whose faces were almost concealed in large white +bandages swathed all round their heads.</p> + +<p>“Who are they?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Fritzes. Prisoners.”</p> + +<p>“I wonder why they are all wounded in the head.”</p> + +<p>“Koshed on the napper with trench clubs. I reckon they’ve +got narsty ’eadaches, pore old barstards.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>About a week after that, they had a day off, and were +warned to parade at five <span class="allsmcap">P.M.</span> to begin another night shift. +(Each platoon in turn did a week’s day shift and three +weeks’ night-work.) The Sergeant turned to Winterbourne:</p> + +<p>“And you’re to report at the Officer’s Mess fifteen minutes +before p’rade.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne duly reported, wondering uneasily what +breach of military discipline he had committed. He was met +on the door-step by Evans, who was just coming out, all +muffled up.</p> + +<p>“Ah, there you are, Winterbourne. Major Thorpe says you +may act as my runner, so hereafter you’ll parade here +fifteen minutes earlier than the rest each night.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>All this time Winterbourne was rather wretchedly ill, and +remained so for weeks. He had a permanent cough and +<span class="pagenum" id="p297">[297]</span>cold, and was weakened by the prolonged diarrhœa. Every +night he felt feverish, passing rapidly from a cold shivering +to a high temperature. On the day after his arrival in the +line, he had “gone sick” to get something to relieve his hard +cough. Major Thorpe had chosen to consider this as an attempt +to evade duty, and had promptly insulted him. Whereupon +Winterbourne had decided that so long as he could +stand he would never “go sick” again. So he carried on. +The stretcher-bearer in his platoon had a clinical thermometer. +One night just before going up the line Winterbourne got +the man to take his temperature. It was 102.</p> + +<p>“You didn’t ought to go up the line like that, mate,” said +the man, with a sort of coarse kindness Winterbourne liked, +“I’ll tell the orfficer you ain’t fit for service, an’ make it all +right with the M.O. to-morrer.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne laughed:</p> + +<p>“That’s decent of you, but I shan’t go sick. I only wanted +to see if I were imagining things.”</p> + +<p>“You’re a bloody fool. You c’d get a cushy night in +kip.”</p> + +<p>It was a relief therefore to act as Evans’s runner. On the +nights when Evans was on duty Winterbourne did not carry +a pick and shovel, and did no manual labour. He simply +followed Evans about on his rounds, and carried messages to +the N.C.O.’s for him. It was undoubtedly cushy. Almost an +officer’s job.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Winterbourne was brought into much closer intimacy +with Evans, and had some opportunity to observe him. The +officer was distinctly friendly, and they talked a good deal +in the long hours of hanging about in the Front line. Evans +brought sandwiches and a flask of rum with him, and invariably +shared them with his runner; a kindness which +touched Winterbourne profoundly. Usually about ten o’clock +they sat on a fire-step under the frosty stars, and ate and +talked. Occasionally a few shells would go whining overhead, +or a burst of machine-gun fire would interrupt them. +<span class="pagenum" id="p298">[298]</span>Their low voices sounded strangely muffled in the cold dead +silence.</p> + +<p>Evans was the usual English public school boy, amazingly +ignorant, amazingly inhibited, and yet “decent” and good-humoured. +He had a strength of character which enabled +him to carry out what he had been taught was his duty to +do. He accepted and obeyed every English middle-class +prejudice and taboo. What the English middle classes +thought and did was right, and what anybody else thought +and did was wrong. He was contemptuous of all foreigners. +He appeared to have read nothing but Kipling, Geoffrey +Farnol, Elinor Glynn, and the daily newspapers. He disapproved +of Elinor Glynn, as too “advanced.” He didn’t care +about Shakespeare, had never heard of the Russian Ballets, +but liked to “see a good show.” He thought “Chu Chin +Chow” was the greatest play ever produced, and the Indian +Love Lyrics the most beautiful songs in the world. He +thought that Parisians lived by keeping brothels and spent +most of their time in them. He thought that all Chinamen +took opium, then got drunk, and ravished white slaves abducted +from England. He thought Americans were a sort +of inferior Colonials, regrettably divorced from that finest +of all institutions, the British Empire. He rather disapproved +of “Society,” which he considered “fast,” but he held +that Englishmen should never mention the fastness of +Society, since it might “lower our prestige” in the eyes of +“all these messy foreigners.” He was ineradicably convinced +of his superiority to the “lower classes,” but where that superiority +lay, Winterbourne failed to discover. Evans was an +“educated” pre-war Public Schoolboy, which means that he +remembered half a dozen Latin tags, could mumble a few +ungrammatical phrases in French, knew a little of the history +of England, and had a “correct” accent. He had been +taught to respect all women as if they were his mother, +would therefore have fallen an easy prey to the first tart +who came along and probably have married her. He was a +good runner, had played at stand-off half for his school and +<span class="pagenum" id="p299">[299]</span>won his colours at cricket. He could play fives, squash +rackets, golf, tennis, water-polo, bridge, and vingt-et-un, +which he called “pontoon.” He disapproved of baccarat, +roulette and<i>petits chevaux</i>, but always went in for the +Derby sweepstake. He could ride a horse, drive a motor-car, +and regretted that he had been rejected by the Flying Corps.</p> + +<p>He had no doubts whatever about the War. What England +did must be right, and England had declared war on Germany. +Therefore, Germany must be wrong. Evans propounded +this somewhat primitive argument to Winterbourne +with a condescending air, as if he were imparting some irrefutable +piece of knowledge to a regrettably ignorant inferior. +Of course, after ten minutes’ conversation with Evans, +Winterbourne saw the kind of man he was and realized +that he must continue to dissimulate with him as with +every one else in the Army. However, he could not resist +the temptation to bewilder him a little sometimes. It was +quite impossible to do anything more. Evans possessed that +British rhinoceros equipment of mingled ignorance, self-confidence +and complacency which is triple-armed against +all the shafts of the mind. And yet Winterbourne could not +help liking the man. He was exasperatingly stupid, but he +was honest, he was kindly, he was conscientious, he could +obey orders and command obedience in others, he took pains +to look after his men. He could be implicitly relied upon to +lead a hopeless attack and to maintain a desperate defence +to the very end. There were thousands and tens of thousands +like him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Winterbourne noticed that when they were in the line at +night, Evans made a point of walking over the top, instead +of in the trenches, even when it was plainly far more inconvenient +and slower to do so, on account of the wire and +shell-holes and other obstacles. At the time, he paid little +attention to this, thinking either that it was expected of an +officer, or that Evans did it to encourage the men. Evans +rather deliberately exposed himself, and always maintained +<span class="pagenum" id="p300">[300]</span>complete calm. If the two men were exposed to shells or +machine-gun fire, Evans walked more slowly, spoke more +deliberately, seemed intentionally to linger. It was not until +months afterward that Winterbourne suddenly realized from +his own experience that Evans had been reassuring, not his +men, but himself. He had been deliberately trying to prove +to himself that he did not mind being under fire.</p> + +<p>Any man who spent six months in the line (which almost +inevitably meant taking part in a big battle) and then +claimed that he had never felt fear, never received any +shock to his nerves, never had his heart thumping and his +throat dry with apprehension, was either super-human, subnormal +or a liar. The newest troops were nearly always the +least affected. They were not braver, they were merely +fresher. There were very few—were there any?—who could +resist week after week, month after month of the physical +and mental strain. It is absurd to talk about men being +brave or cowards. There were greater or less degrees of +sensibility, more or less self-control. The longer the strain +on the finer sensibility the greater the self-control needed. +But this continual neurosis steadily became worse and required +a greater effort of repression.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne at this time was in the state when danger—and +that was slight in these first weeks—was almost entirely +a matter of curiosity, rather stimulating than otherwise. +Evans, on the other hand, had been in two big battles, had +spent eleven months in the line, and had reached the stage +when conscious self-control was needed. When a shell exploded +near them, both men appeared equally unmoved. +Winterbourne was really so, because he was fresh, and had +no months of war neurosis to control. Evans only appeared +so, because he was awkwardly and with shame struggling +to control a completely subconscious reflex action of terror. +He thought it was his “fault,” that he was “getting windy,” +and was desperately ashamed in consequence. And that, of +course, made him worse. Winterbourne, on the other hand, +was obviously a man who would develop the neurosis +<span class="pagenum" id="p301">[301]</span>rapidly. He had a far more delicate sensibility. He had already +reached a state of acute “worry” over Fanny and +Elizabeth and the War and his own relation to it. And yet +his pride would compel him to urge himself far beyond the +point where another man would merely have collapsed. He +endured a triple strain—that of his personal life, that of +exasperation with Army routine, and that of battle.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Perhaps it was through the implicit if unexpressed attitude +of the women that Winterbourne also endured the strain +of feeling a degradation to mind and body in the hardships +he endured in common, after all, with millions of other +men. It was a fact that his mind degenerated; slowly at +first, then more and more rapidly. This could scarcely have +been otherwise. Long hours of manual labour under strict +discipline must inevitably degrade a man’s intelligence. +Winterbourne found that he was less and less able to enjoy +subtleties of beauty and anything intellectually abstruse. +He came to want common amusements in place of the intense +joy he had felt in beauty and thought. He watched his +mind degenerating with horror, wondering if one day it +would suddenly crumble away like the body of Mr. Valdemar. +He was bitterly humiliated to find that he could neither +concentrate nor achieve as he had done in the past. The +<i>élan</i> of his former life had carried him through a good many +months of the Army, but after about two months in the +line, he saw that intellectually he was slowly slipping backwards. +Slipping backwards, too, in the years which should +have been the most energetic and formative and creative +of his whole life. He saw that even if he escaped the War he +would be hopelessly handicapped in comparison with those +who had not served and the new generation which would +be on his heels. It was rather bitter. He had been forced to +smash through obstacles and to triumph over handicaps +enough already. These lost War months, now mounting to +years, were a knock-out blow from which he could not possibly +recover.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p302">[302]</span></p> +<p>And he felt a degradation, a humiliation, in the dirt, +the lice, the communal life in holes and ruins, the innumerable +deprivations and hardships. He suffered at feeling that +his body had become worthless, condemned to a sort of +kept tramp’s standard of living, and ruthlessly treated as +cannon-fodder. He suffered for other men too, that they +should be condemned to this; but since it was the common +fate of the men of his generation he determined he must +endure it. His face lost its fineness and took on the mask of +“a red-faced Tommy,” as he was politely told later by a +genial American friend. His hands seemed permanently +coarsened, his feet deformed by heavy army boots. His body, +which had been unblemished when he joined, was already +infested with lice, and his back began to break out in little +boils—a thing which had never happened to him—either +from impure drinking water or because the clothes issued +from the baths were infected.</p> + +<p>No doubt, it was the painter’s sense of plastic beauty +which made him feel this as something so humiliating and +degrading. How else account for the feelings of shame and +horror he felt at an occurrence which most men would have +promptly forgotten? He had been in the line about a month, +and his diarrhœa had got steadily worse. One night, when +accompanying Evans on his rounds, Winterbourne felt a +physical necessity, and asked permission to go to a latrine. +They were about two hundred yards away, and before +Winterbourne got there the contents of his bowels were irresistibly +evacuated in spite of his desperate efforts to control +them. It was one of the coldest nights of that long +bitter winter—the thermometer was below zero Fahrenheit. +Winterbourne halted in horror and disgust with himself. +What on earth was he to do? How return to Evans? He +listened. It was one of the quietest nights he ever experienced +in the line, hardly a shot fired. Nobody was coming +along the trench. He rapidly undressed, shivering with +cold, stripped off his under-pants, cleaned himself as well as +he could, and hurled the soiled clothes into No Man’s Land. +<span class="pagenum" id="p303">[303]</span>He dressed again, and rushed back to meet Evans, who +asked him a little sharply why he had been so long about +it. The discomfort passed; but the humiliation remained.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>January slowly disappeared; they were halfway through +February, and still the frost held. It was a dreary experience. +Each day was practically the replica of that before +and after—up the line, down the line, sleep, attempt to get +a little clean in the morning, inspection parade, dinner, an +hour or two to write letters, then parade again for the line. +Towards the end of February, the welcome news came that +they were going out of the line for four days’ rest. On the +last night before they went out, Evans and Winterbourne +were watching the men working when they heard a series +of rapid sharp explosions. They looked over and could see +the dull red flashes of bombs or small trench mortars bursting +about three hundred yards away. Simultaneously they +exclaimed:</p> + +<p>“It’s on our sap!”</p> + +<p>Evans jumped into the trench and rushed towards the +sap, followed by Winterbourne, who tore the bolt-cover from +his rifle and stuffed it in his pocket as he ran. They could +hear the crash, crash, crash-crash, crash of the small mortars, +which abruptly ceased when they were about forty +yards short. Verey lights were shooting up in all directions, +and the British machine-guns were rattling away. Evans +dashed round a traverse and went plump into two of his own +men who were staggering away from the sap, half-dazed and +silly with the shock of explosions.</p> + +<p>“What’s happened?”</p> + +<p>They were incoherent, and Evans and Winterbourne +rushed on to the sap. Dimming down his torch with his left +hand, Evans peered in; and Winterbourne behind him saw +two bodies splashed with blood. The head of one man was +smashed into his steel helmet and lay a sticky mess of blood +and hair half-severed from his body. The other man, the +Corporal, was badly wounded but still groaning. Obviously, +<span class="pagenum" id="p304">[304]</span>one of the mortars had dropped plump in the sap. Another +discharge came crashing on either side. Evans shoved his +haversack under the Corporal’s head, and shouted to make +himself heard over the explosions:</p> + +<p>“Get the stretcher-bearer, and send those windy buggers +back here.”</p> + +<p>“What about the sentry?” bawled Winterbourne.</p> + +<p>“I’ll get him in. Off with you.”</p> + +<p>Evans began to unbutton the Corporal’s tunic, to bind +his wounds, as Winterbourne left. The man was bleeding +badly. Three hundred yards to the stretcher-bearer and three +hundred yards back. Winterbourne raced, knowing that a +matter of seconds may save the life of a man with a severed +artery. He was too late, however. The Corporal was +dead when he and the stretcher-bearer rushed panting into +the sap.</p> + +<p>They got the sentry’s body later.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p305">[305]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ VII ]</h3> + + +<p>Next day they marched back about four miles to another +village, half-destroyed but still partly inhabited. +For the first time in two months Winterbourne sheathed his +bayonet. It seemed symbolical of the four days’ rest they +were promised. Four days! An immense respite. The men +were cheery, and sang all the war songs as they marched off +in platoons—“Where are the boys of the village to-night?” +“It’s a long, long trail a-winding,” “I’m so happy, oh, so +happy, don’t you envy me?” “Pack all your troubles in +your old kit-bag,” “If you’re going back to Blighty,” “I +want to go home,” “Rolling home.” But not “Tipperary.” +So far as Winterbourne knew, none of the troops in France +ever sang “Tipperary.”</p> + +<p>He had not slept well, haunted by the vision of the dead +man’s smashed, bloody head, and the groaning Corporal. +Evans looked a little pale. But they said nothing to each +other. And after all, they were going on rest, four days’ rest. +Winterbourne tried to join in the singing. Major Thorpe +trotted past them on his horse. They marched to attention, +and ceremonially saluted. That also seemed peaceful.</p> + +<p>In the village they were billeted in large barns. A thaw +had set in, so rapid that they started out on frozen ground +and arrived in a village street deep in slushy mud. The +nights were still cold, and old broken-down barns and +earthen floors made chilly bedrooms. There seemed to be +no water supply in the village, and they had to wash in +thawing flood-pools, breaking the new thin ice with tingling +fingers. But they went to the baths and changed their underclothes. +The baths were in a shell-smashed brewery. Thirty +or forty men stripped in one room and then went into +another which had rows of iron pipes running across it, +<span class="pagenum" id="p306">[306]</span>about eight feet from the ground. Small holes were punched +in the pipes at intervals of about six feet. A man stood +under each hole, and then a little trickle of warm water +began to fall on his head and body. They had about five +minutes to soap themselves and get clean. Winterbourne +went back there alone the next day. By judicious bribing he +managed to get an officer’s bath and a new set of underclothes. +It was delicious to be clean and deloused again.</p> + +<p>The four days passed very quickly. They paraded in the +morning, did a little drill, played football or ran in the afternoons, +and went to the estaminets in the evening. Winterbourne +treated his section to beer, and drank half a bottle +of Barsac himself. The men, all beer and spirit drinkers, +despised the finer flavour of French wines and called them +“vinegar.” After dark, they sneaked out and stole sandbags +of “boulets”—coal-dust made into large pellets with tar—and +burned them in a brazier to warm the chilly barn. +Winterbourne protested against this thievery. But since the +others went anyhow and he benefited by the theft, he +thought he might as well share the crime too. True, it was +French government property; and nobody minds stealing +from governments. But still, he hated to be a thief. The +men called it “scrounging.” Under pressure of necessity, +every man in the line became a more or less unscrupulous +scrounger.</p> + +<p>On the third night Winterbourne “clicked unlucky.” He +was on Gas and Fire Picket. They sat all night round the +Company Field Kitchen and drank tea, while one man was +always on guard. The tin hat and the fixed bayonet were +unwelcome reminders that they were soon returning to the +line. The men talked of their homes in England, wished the +war would end, hoped anyway they’d get leave or a blighty +soon, and envied the officers sleeping in beds. One man +grumbled because there was no “red lamp” in the village. +Winterbourne felt glad there wasn’t. Not that he would +have been tempted, for he was quite fiercely chaste unless +in love, but he hated the thought of these men giving their +<span class="pagenum" id="p307">[307]</span>lean, sinewy bodies to the miserable French whores in the +war-area bawdy houses.</p> + +<p>“It’s all right in Béthune,” said the grumbler. “You can +see ’em lining up outside the red lamps after dark under a +Sergeant. Soon’s the old woman gives the signal, the Ser’ant +says: ‘Next two files, right turn, quick march,’ and in yer +go. The ole woman ’as a short-arm inspection and gives +yer Condy’s Fluid, and the tart ’as Condy’s Fluid too. +She was a nice tart, she was, but she was in a ’ell of a +’urry. She kep’ sayin’ ‘’Urry, daypaychez.’ I ’adn’t got +meself buttoned up afore I ’eard the Ser’ant shoutin’: +‘Next two files, right turn, quick march.’ But she was a +nice tart, she was.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne got up and walked out to the muddy road. +The stars were faint and dim and lovely in the soft misty +night sky; there seemed to be a first quiver of Spring in +the scentless pure air. O Andromeda, O Paphian!</p> + +<p>At dawn the birds twittered and sang, a little hesitantly +in the cold morning mist. The sun rose in a golden haze, +behind rows of poplars, over the flat dark earth.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They went into the line again, three miles to the right of +their former positions. Their billets were about a mile and +a quarter behind the town of M——, right in the crook of +the salient. They lived in cellars in a small mining village, +badly smashed, and entirely evacuated of civilians. A long +treeless road led straight up to M—— and Hill 91, one of +the most fought-over places in the line, seamed with +trenches, pitted with shell-holes, honeycombed with galleries, +eviscerated with huge mine craters, blasted bare of +all vegetation. At Hill 91, the German line turned sharply +left and linked up with a long slag-hill, about five hundred +yards from the Pioneers’ billets. Consequently, although +they were a long way from Hill 91, their billets were under +observation and within machine-gun range, while the road +to M—— was constantly shelled, and enfiladed by machine-guns. +It was a rotten position, and would have been evacuated +<span class="pagenum" id="p308">[308]</span>but for the “prestige” of keeping M——. A costly bit +of prestige. It was estimated that venereal disease held continually +a division of troops immobilized at Base Hospitals, +to keep up the prestige of British purity; and another Division +must have been obliterated to retain that barren +prestige of holding M——.</p> + +<p>They arrived about eleven, and almost immediately +Evans’s servant came and told Winterbourne to report at +the Officers’ Mess cellar, in fighting order. Evans was waiting +for him.</p> + +<p>Hitherto the Company had been under strength, and officered +by Major Thorpe and the two subalterns, Evans and +Pemberton, who took duty alternately. While on rest, they +had been made up to full strength, and were joined by three +other subalterns, Franklin, Hume and Thompson. They thus +went up the line one hundred and twenty strong, with six +officers, one of whom was supernumerary. Evans had been +made a sort of unofficial second-in-command, while continuing +to act as Platoon officer. Since he was the most experienced +of the subalterns, he was to overlook the new officers +until they knew their jobs. He explained all this to Winterbourne +as they went along.</p> + +<p>“You must give me your word not to mention it to the +other men, but there is almost certainly a show coming off +on this front. Probably in about four weeks. You mustn’t +let the men know.”</p> + +<p>“Of course not, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“We shall have twelve-hour shifts up here, I’m afraid. +I’ve got to take three platoons up to Hill 91, over there, at +five to-night; and I want to reconnoitre. We’ve got to repair +and revet the front communication trenches, clear away +some of our wire, and fill the gaps with knife-rests. We’ve +also got to repair Southampton Row, the main communication +trench to your left. Every time we go up, we’ve got to +take Mills bombs or trench mortars or S.A.A. I think we’re +going to have a lively time. I rode out about ten miles +yesterday, and saw fifteen batteries of heavies and a lot of +<span class="pagenum" id="p309">[309]</span>tanks camouflaged by the road. The officers said they were +booked for this sector or a little south.”</p> + +<p>They were walking up the narrow straight road to M——. +About every minute a heavy shell—or a salvo of heavy shells—plonked +into M——. There was a sudden spout of black +smoke and débris, a heavy sullen reverberating <span class="allsmcap">CLAANG</span> as +the loud detonation shook the twisted steel mining machinery, +and re-echoed from the chalky slopes of Hill 91. To +their right was a long slag-hill, mangled with shell-holes. +Evans pointed to it.</p> + +<p>“The Boche Front line runs just in front of that, about +four hundred yards away. At some points our own Front +line is only twenty yards from theirs. It’s a rummy and +awkward position. Most of the transport for M—— has to +come up this road, and the poor devils are shelled and +machine-gunned wickedly every night. All troops on foot +have to use Southampton Row, the communication trench +to your left. You see it’s got fire-steps and a parapet—it’s +also a Reserve line which we have to man in case of +necessity.”</p> + +<p>They got into the ruined streets of M——, and were +promptly lost. The town was blasted to about three feet of +indistinguishable ruins. A wooden notice-board over a mass +of broken stones, said: “<span class="allsmcap">CHURCH</span>.” Another further on said: +“<span class="allsmcap">POST OFFICE</span>.” Evans got out his map, and they stood together +trying to make out the direct way to the section of +trench they wanted. Zwiii<span class="allsmcap">NG</span>, <span class="allsmcap">CRASH, CLAANG</span>!—four heavy +shells screamed towards them and detonated with awful +force within a hundred yards. The nearest swished over their +heads and exploded twenty yards away. Four great columns +of black smoke leaped up like miniature volcanoes; broken +bricks and fragments of shell case clattered in the empty +street. The reverberating echoes seemed like a groan from +the agonizing town. The explosions seemed to hit Winterbourne +in the chest.</p> + +<p>“Heavies,” said Evans very calmly, “eight inch, probably.”</p> + +<p>Zwiii<span class="allsmcap">NG</span>, Crash, <span class="allsmcap">CRASH! CLAANG</span>! Four more.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p310">[310]</span></p> +<p>“Seems a bit unhealthy here. We’d better push on.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne was silent. For the first time he began to +realize the terrific inhuman strength of heavy artillery. +Whizz-bangs and even five-nines were one thing, but these +eight or ten inch high explosive monsters were a very different +matter.</p> + +<p>Zwiii<span class="allsmcap">NG, CRASH! CLAANG</span>!</p> + +<p>Minute after minute, hour after hour, day and night, week +after week, those merciless heavies pounded the groaning +town.</p> + +<p>Zwiii<span class="smcap">ng, Crash! Craaash! Claaang!</span></p> + +<p>It was too violent a thing to get accustomed to. The mere +physical shock, the slap in the chest, of the great shells exploding +close at hand, forbade that. They became a torment, +an obsession, an exasperation, a nervous nightmare. Unintentionally, +as a man walked through M——, he found himself +tense and strained, waiting for that warning “zwiing” +of the approaching shell, trying to determine by the sound +whether it was coming straight at him or not. Winterbourne’s +duties during the next two and a half months +necessitated his walking through M——, often alone, twice +or four times every twenty-four hours.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The real nightmare was only just beginning. There had +been the torment of frost and cold; now came the torments +of mud, of gas, of incessant artillery, of fatigue and lack +of sleep.</p> + +<p>Under the swift thaw the whole battered countryside +seemed to turn from ice to mud. It was deep on the <i>pavé</i> +roads, deeper round the billets, deeper still on the unpaved +tracks, and deepest of all in the trenches. In Winterbourne’s +hallucinated memories, where images and episodes met and +collided like superimposed films, that Spring was mud. He +seemed to spend his time pledging through interminable +muddy trenches, up to the ankles, up to the calves, up to +the knees; shovelling mud frantically out of trenches on to +the berm, and then by night from the berm over the parapets, +<span class="pagenum" id="p311">[311]</span>while the shells crashed and the machine-gun bullets +struck gold sparks from the road stones. When he was not +doing that, he was scraping mud with a knife from his boots +and clothes, trying to dry socks and puttees and to rub +some warmth into his livid aching feet. He had not known +that wet cold could keep one’s legs so achingly dead for so +long. He had not known how wearisome it could be to drag +tired legs and carry burdens through deep sticky chalk +mud, where each step was an effort, where each leg stuck +deep as the other was laboriously pulled from the sucking +mud. He had not known that one could hate an inert thing +so much. Overhead it might be sunny, with innumerable +little fleecy puffs of exploded shrapnel pursuing a darting +white airplane high in the misty blue March sky. Underfoot, +it was mud. They had no time to look at the sky, as they +dragged along, toiling their bent way along those muddy +ditches.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>He remembered a week of blessed respite which he spent +in an underground gallery, squatting twelve hours a day +by a winch and interminably winding sandbags of chalk to +men in the trench. These galleries—which were never used—were +being dug to conceal two or three divisions before a +surprise attack. They seemed to extend for miles. The +cutting and picking at the advancing end was done by +R.E.’s, skilled miners who cut with astonishing rapidity and +accuracy. The Pioneers filled the chalk into sacks, and +dragged them along the galleries, where Winterbourne incessantly +wound them to the top. The Engineers had better +rations than the infantry and the Pioneers, whose lunch +was bread and cheese. They had huge cold beefsteaks and +bottles of strong tea and rum for their lunch. Winterbourne +during his half hour’s midday rest one day wandered up to +their end of the gallery, just as they were eating. He could +not help glancing rather wolfishly at their meal. One of +them noticed it, and pointing to his steak, said with his +mouth full:</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p312">[312]</span></p> +<p>“Ah reckon tha doesn’t get groob the likes o’ this in thy +lot, lad.”</p> + +<p>“No, but the stew’s very good—only you get a bit tired +of it every day.”</p> + +<p>“Aye, that tha does. But we’re skilled men, we are, traade +union. They’re got to feed oos well, they ’ave.”</p> + +<p>Half kindly, half contemptuously, the miner cut off a +hunk of his steak and held it out to Winterbourne in his +large dirty hand.</p> + +<p>“Here tha art, lad, take a bite at that.”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, thanks, it’s very kind of you, but...”</p> + +<p>“Nay lad, tha’s welcome; tak it, tak it. Tha looks fair +famelled and wore out. Tha’s na workin’ chap, ah knows.”</p> + +<p>Torn between his feeling of humiliation, his desire not to +reject the man’s kindly-meant offer and his hungry belly, +Winterbourne hesitated. He finally took it, with a rather +ghastly feeling of animal humiliation. The cold tender meat +tasted delicious. It was the first unsodden meat he had eaten +for weeks. He gave them his last cigarettes, and returned +to his winch.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Winterbourne detested “berming.” Hour after hour standing +in wet chilly mud, shovelling the stuff away to prevent +its sliding back into the trench from which it had been +laboriously thrown, and widening the space between the +top of the trench and the parapet. The machine-guns from +the slag-hill constantly rattled away at them. One night +Winterbourne and the man next him dug up the bones, tunic, +equipment and rifle of a French soldier, who had been +hastily buried in the parapet many months before. His cartridges +fell from the mouldering pouches and still looked +bright in the dim star-dusk. Winterbourne dug up the skull; +it was large and dome-shaped, a typical Frenchman’s head. +They tried to find his identity disc, but failed. Pemberton, +who was on duty that night, made them rebury what was +left in a shell-hole. They stuck a cross over it next day, +marked <span class="allsmcap">UNKNOWN FRENCH SOLDIER</span>.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p313">[313]</span></p> +<p>The best nights were those when Evans was on duty, but +often the urgency was so great that the officers’ runners and +the officers themselves worked and carried burdens. The +most awkward burdens were the long sheets of corrugated +iron used for revetting. They had to carry these along the +road, since they were too large to get round the traverses. +It was impossible to keep the metal sheets from clanking +against rifles or the sheet of the man in front in the darkness. +The machine guns from the slag-hill opened out, and +they could see the spurts of gold sparks on the road come +towards them. Winterbourne felt his piece of corrugated iron +violently hit and half wrenched from his hand; the man in +front went down with a clatter. Somebody yelled “Stretcher-bearer!” +The men dumped their burdens and cowered on +the ground. It was an awful confusion. Only Evans and +Winterbourne were left standing on the road. Evans cursed +the N.C.O.’s, and made the men form up again behind +Winterbourne. It took a long time to find all the sheets of +metal in the darkness, and the machine-guns went on rattling +pitilessly. They were hours late in getting back to +billets.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>As March dragged on, more and more heavy guns arrived, +clattering up behind their tractors in the darkness. A Tank +and its crew were hidden not far from the Pioneers’ billets, +and there were others farther from the line. A new infantry +Division was pushed in to the line on their right. Other +Divisions were said to be in readiness close behind. The +sector became more and more lively, but no big attack was +made. Winterbourne questioned Evans, who said it had +been postponed to give the mud a chance to dry. What +hopes!</p> + +<p>The Germans had excellent observation posts on Hill 91, +and their aircraft were constantly over the British lines and +back areas. They were perfectly aware that an attack was +being prepared. Every night they shelled M——, shelled +the cross-roads leading to M——, shelled any artillery positions +<span class="pagenum" id="p314">[314]</span>they had spotted, shelled the wrecked village where +the Pioneers were billeted. The cellars were good enough +protection against shell splinters, but far too flimsy to resist +a direct hit. Every day or night huge crumps were flung at +them, exploding with concussions which shook the ground +and made sleep impossible. In the day-time, Winterbourne +sometimes crouched at his cellar-entrance and watched the +explosions within his view. If one of these big shells hit a +half-ruined house, almost every vestige disappeared in a +cloud of black smoke and rosy brick dust.</p> + +<p>And there was gas, a good deal of gas. It was the beginning +of the intensive use of gas projectiles, which later became +so greatly perfected. Their experience of it began one +March night on Hill 91. A smart local attack had driven +the Germans out of their advance positions and carried the +British line forward—at a cost—about two hundred and +fifty yards on a front of eight hundred. Evans explained to +Winterbourne that these local attacks were being made all +along the line to deceive the Germans as to the exact position +of the coming offensive. Since the Germans would have +needed to be blind or lunatic not to see where the guns and +troops were being massed, Winterbourne thought this an +over-subtle and over-costly bit of policy. However, his not +to reason why.</p> + +<p>The Pioneers—three platoons of them—under Evans, +Pemberton and Hume, were to dig a new communication +trench from the former British front line to their present +Outpost line of hastily interlinked shell-holes. Evans told +Winterbourne not to carry any tools:</p> + +<p>“I expect it’ll be rather a sticky do. The old Boche is +pooping off whizz-bangs all day and night up there. And +I’m hanged if I can find out exactly where our new front +line is supposed to be. It’s a network of Boche trenches up +there, and we don’t want to go barging into their line.”</p> + +<p>They struggled up Southampton Row and skirted M——, +which was being shelled heavily and reverberantly. They +got into another trench on the fringe of Hill 91. Whizz-bangs +<span class="pagenum" id="p315">[315]</span>kept cracking all round them, in little masses of +about a dozen—several batteries firing together. Evans and +Winterbourne were leading. Winterbourne paused:</p> + +<p>“There’s a curious smell about here, Sir” (sniff, sniff) +“like pineapple or pear-drops.”</p> + +<p>Evans sniffed the air.</p> + +<p>“So there is.”</p> + +<p>The smell rapidly became stronger after another salvo of +whizz-bangs.</p> + +<p>“By Jove, it’s tear-gas!” said Evans. “Pass the word +along to put on gas goggles.”</p> + +<p>The line halted, while the men fumbled in the darkness +for their goggles; and then slowly stumbled on. Winterbourne +found he was practically blinded by his goggles in +the darkness; they kept going dim with perspiration. He +took them off.</p> + +<p>“We shall be here all night at this rate, Sir. May as well +be blinded with tear-gas as goggles. I’ll keep mine off and +reconnoitre.”</p> + +<p>Evans pulled off his goggles, and the two went on ahead, +telling the Sergeant to follow straight on until he came up +with them. Tears poured from the two men’s eyes as they +toiled up the muddy trench. They kept dabbing their eyes +with pocket handkerchiefs, like a couple of mutes at their +own funerals.</p> + +<p>Crash, crash-crash, crash, crash-crash-crash-crash, came +the whizz-bangs; and the pineapple smell became stronger +than ever.</p> + +<p>“It’ll be a jolly look-out for us,” said Evans, “if they poop +over poison-gas too. We shan’t be able to smell it with all +this stink of pear-drops. Peuh! It’s like being in a sweet +factory.”</p> + +<p>They laughed. And then dabbed their streaming eyes +again.</p> + +<p>In ten minutes they came up to the largest of the mine +craters. The wind was fresh on the hill-crest and there was +no gas. Their smarting eyes began to recover.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p316">[316]</span></p> +<p>“Here we are,” said Evans, “and there’s the old No Man’s +Land, but where in hell our Front line is, I don’t know. +You stay here, Winterbourne, and tell Sergeant Perkins to +halt until I come back. I’ll go and reconnoitre.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll go back and fetch them, Sir, and bring them up.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” and Evans vanished in the darkness. Winterbourne +returned to the line of men, dismally groping their +way through the gassy trench. They waited for Evans, who +led them over the old No Man’s Land to a very deep trench. +They turned to the left. Evans whispered to Winterbourne:</p> + +<p>“There’s nothing here but a net-work of Boche trenches; +look how deep they are. I couldn’t see a soul, and there are +still Boche trench-notices up. I’m hanged if I know where +we are. For all I know we’re in the Boche lines.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne unslung his rifle and bayonet, and walked +in front of Evans. Verey lights went up occasionally, but +most mysteriously seemed to come from all sides, behind +them as well as in front and to the flanks. The trenches +were immensely deep and dark, except when lit dimly by the +glow of Verey lights, or the abrupt flashes of whizz-bangs. +They went on and on, constantly passing cross-trenches, +completely lost, probably returning on their footsteps. They +could hear the men muttering and cursing behind them. At +another cross-trench they halted in despair. Winterbourne +stood on a large hummock in the middle of the wide trench, +peering ahead through the gloom. Evans looked at his luminous +wrist-watch.</p> + +<p>“Good Lord! We’ve been wandering in these blasted +trenches for nearly three hours. It’ll be too late to do any +work unless we get there at once.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne grabbed his arm:</p> + +<p>“Look!”</p> + +<p>Several shadowy figures were silhouetted against the skyline, +coming along the trench towards them. Too dark to +distinguish the helmets. English or German?</p> + +<p>“Challenge them,” whispered Evans. Winterbourne threw +his rifle forward:</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p317">[317]</span></p> +<p>“Halt! Who are you!”</p> + +<p>“Frontshires,” said a weary voice.</p> + +<p>“Ask which company.”</p> + +<p>“Which company?”</p> + +<p>“A, B, C, D,—what’s left of ’em.”</p> + +<p>They were now close enough for Evans and Winterbourne +to see they were in British uniform. Evans passed down +word to his men to stand to the left and let the out-going +party pass. The Frontshires staggered rather than walked +down the bumpy trench.</p> + +<p>“We ’ung on until nearly all of us was killed, Sir,” said +one man huskily to Evans, as if apologizing.</p> + +<p>“When the Springshires was wiped out, we got enfiladed, +Sir,” said another, “there’s on’y one of our officers left.”</p> + +<p>About fifty men, the flotsam of the wrecked battalion, +stumbled past them. Then came the Sergeant-Major and a +young subaltern. Evans stopped him, and asked the way to +the front line, explaining briefly their job. The subaltern +seemed dazed with weariness. He kept swaying in the +darkness.</p> + +<p>“It’s up there... up there... somewhere....”</p> + +<p>“But how far?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know... not far... I can’t stop... mustn’t +leave the men.”</p> + +<p>And he stumbled on again. Evans turned to Winterbourne.</p> + +<p>“Well, Winterbourne, you might as well get off the body +of that dead Boche you’re standing on, and we’ll push +along.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne sprang away with a sensation of horror, +and saw that he had indeed unconsciously been standing +on a dead German.</p> + +<p>They wandered about until nearly dawn, without finding +the Front line. They came on a couple of wounded Germans, +whom Evans put into stretchers. Just about dawn they +found themselves back at the point where they had entered +the old German trenches, and recrossed to familiar ground. +<span class="pagenum" id="p318">[318]</span>The wounded Germans groaned as the stretcher-bearers +stumbled and bumped them on the ground.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The remnant of the battalion of the Frontshires very +slowly made their way into M——. Zwiing, CRASH! +CLAANG! went the great crumps, but they hardly heard +them. They were too tired. They went through the town in +single file. On the straight road, the subaltern halted them, +formed them roughly into fours, and took his place at their +head. They shambled heavily along, not keeping step or +attempting to, bent wearily forward under the weight of +their equipment, their unseeing eyes turned to the muddy +ground. They stumbled over inequalities; several times one +or other of them fell, and had to be dragged laboriously to +his feet. Others lagged hopelessly behind. Time and again +the young subaltern and the R.S.M. paused to allow the +little group to re-form. Hardly a word was spoken. They +went very slowly, past the slag-hill, past the ruined village, +past the Pioneers’ billets, past the soldiers’ cemetery, past +the ruined château, past the closed Y.M.C.A. canteen; and +just as the fresh clear Spring dawn lightened the sky, they +came to the village where they had their rest billets. The +firing had quieted down, and the larks were singing overhead +in the pure exquisite sky. In the pale light the men’s +unshaven faces looked grim and strangely old, grey-green, +haggard, inexpressibly weary. They shambled on.</p> + +<p>Outside of Divisional Headquarters a smart sentry was +on duty. He saw the little party wearily stumbling down +the village street, and thought they were walking wounded. +The young subaltern stopped about thirty yards from the +sentry, and once more re-formed his men. The sentry heard +him say “Stick it, Frontshires.”</p> + +<p>Already the news had reached the back areas that the +Frontshires had been nearly wiped out in a desperate defence—fifty +of them and one officer left, out of twenty +officers and seven hundred and fifty men.</p> + +<p>The sentry sprang to attention and took one pace forward. +<span class="pagenum" id="p319">[319]</span>Sloped arms—one, two, three, as if on parade—and +remained rigid. As the little group drew level, he sharply +brought his rifle and fixed bayonet to the “Present Arms.”</p> + +<p>The young officer wearily touched the brim of his steel +helmet. The men scarcely saw, and did not comprehend, the +gesture. The sentry watched them pass, with a lump in his +throat.</p> + +<p>There was still nothing to report on the western front.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p320">[320]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ VIII ]</h3> + + +<p>After a few hours sleep and a hasty meal, Evans and +Winterbourne started for the Front line again. Evans +was very much ashamed at having lost his way the night +before, and the Major had strafed him for incompetence. +Evans had not replied, as he might have done, that since the +Major knew so well where they ought to have gone, he +might have taken the trouble to lead them there.</p> + +<p>It was about two on a sunny cold afternoon. They skirted +M—— with its everlasting, maddening Zwiiing, CRASH! +CLAAAANG! In the trenches on the edge of Hill 91, they +met two walking wounded, unshaved, muddy to the waist. +One had his head bandaged and was carrying his steel +helmet, the other had his tunic half off, and his left hand +and arm were bandaged in several places. They were +talking with great gravity and earnestness, and hardly +saw Evans and his runner. Winterbourne heard one of +them say:</p> + +<p>“I told that muckin new orfficer twice that some mucker’d +get hit if he muckin well took us up that muckin trench.”</p> + +<p>“Ah,” said the other, “moock ’im.”</p> + +<p>Evans and Winterbourne paused at the old Front line on +the crest of the hill to take breath, and looked back. The +blue sky was speckled all over with the little fleecy shrapnel +bursts from Archies, pursuing three different enemy planes. +The heavy shells fell reverberantly into M—— at their feet. +They looked over a broad flat, grey-green plain, dotted with +ruined villages, seamed with the long irregular lines of +trenches. The wavering broad ribbon of No Man’s Land was +clearly visible, blasted to the white chalk. They could see the +flash of the heavies, and enemy shells bursting on cross-roads +and round artillery emplacements. A Red Cross car of +<span class="pagenum" id="p321">[321]</span>wounded bumping its way from the Advanced Dressing +Station in M—— was shelled all down the road by field +artillery. They watched it eagerly, hoping it would escape. +Once or twice it disappeared in the smoke of the shell-burst +and they felt certain it was done for; but the car bumpingly +reappeared and finally vanished from sight in the direction +of Rail Head.</p> + +<p>“God! What a dirty trick! I’m glad they didn’t get it,” +said Winterbourne, as they scrambled out of the trench.</p> + +<p>“Ah, well,” said Evans, “Red Cross cars have been used +as camouflage before now.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They easily found the new Front Line in the daylight. +Directions in English had been hastily scrawled on the old +German trench notices, and they wondered how on earth +they could have missed the way the night before. The Front +line was full of infantry, some on sentry-duty, some sitting +hunched up on the fire-steps, many lying in long narrow +holes like graves, scooped in the side of the trench. They +found an officer, who took them along to show them where +the new communication trench was wanted. Winterbourne, +turning to answer a question from Evans, struck the butt of +his rifle sharply against a sleeping man in one of the holes. +The man did not stir.</p> + +<p>“Your fellows are sleeping soundly,” said Evans.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the officer tonelessly, “but he may be dead +for all I know. Stretcher-bearers too tired to take down all +the bodies. Some of ’em are dead, and some asleep. We have +to go round and kick ’em to find which is which.”</p> + +<p>The new trench they were to dig had been roughly marked +out, and ran from the old German Front line to the lip of +Congreve’s Mine Crater, now used as an ammunition dump. +A salvo of whizz-bangs greeted them as they went out to +look at it.</p> + +<p>“I don’t altogether envy you this job,” said the Infantry +officer; “this is about the most unhealthy spot on Hill 91. +The Boche shells it day and night. Your Colonel had a hell +<span class="pagenum" id="p322">[322]</span>of a row about it with the Brigadier, but our fellows are too +whacked to do any more digging.”</p> + +<p>Over came another little bunch of whizz-bangs, in corroboration—crash, +crash-crash, crash. The grey-green acrid +smoke smelt foul.</p> + +<p>“They’re going to call it Nero Trench,” he added, as they +left him, “because the ground’s so black with coal dust and +slag. Well, good-bye, best of luck. And, by the bye, look +out for gas.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The Nero Trench job was an intensified nightmare. The +Germans had it “taped” with exactitude, and shelled it ruthlessly. +Five minutes was the longest period that ever passed +without salvos of whizz-bangs. Evans and Winterbourne, +Hume and his runner, walked continually up and down the +line of men, who toiled hastily and nervously in the darkness +to make themselves a little cover. When the shells came +crashing near them, they crouched down on the ground. +It was found after the first night that each man had simply +dug a hole for himself instead of regularly excavating his +three yards of trench. On some nights the shelling was so +intense that Evans withdrew the men for a time to the +shelter of a trench. They had several casualties.</p> + +<p>And then the Germans began a steady, systematic gas +bombardment of all the ruined villages in the advanced +area. It began on the second night of the Nero Trench job. +They had noticed on Hill 91 that a pretty heavy bombardment +was proceeding from the German lines, and all the +way down from M——, they heard the shells continuously +shrilling overhead. It puzzled them that they could not hear +them exploding.</p> + +<p>“Must be bombarding the back areas,” said Evans. “Let’s +hope it gives ’em something to think about besides sending +us up tons of silly papers.”</p> + +<p>But as they came nearer their village they could tell by +the sound in the air that the shells must be falling close +ahead of them. Soon they heard them falling with the customary +<span class="pagenum" id="p323">[323]</span>zwiiING, followed by a very unaccustomed soft +PHUT.</p> + +<p>“They can’t all be duds,” said Winterbourne.</p> + +<p>A shell dropped short, just outside the parapet, with the +same curious PHUT. Immediately a strange smell, rather +like new-mown hay gone acrid, filled the air. They sniffed, +and both men exclaimed simultaneously:</p> + +<p>“Phosgene! Gas!”</p> + +<p>They all fumblingly and hastily put on their gas masks, +and stumbled on blindly down the trench. Winterbourne +and Evans scrambled out on to the road, and got into the +edge of the village. A rain of gas shells was falling on it +and all around their billets—zwiing, zwiing, zwiing, zwiing, +PHUT PHUT PHUT PHUT. Each took off his mask a +second and gave one sniff—the air reeked with phosgene.</p> + +<p>Evans and Winterbourne stood at the end of the trench +to help out the groping half-blinded men. As they filed by, +grotesques with india-rubber faces, great dead-looking goggles, +and long tubes from their mouths to the box respirators, +Winterbourne thought they looked like lost souls, expiating +some horrible sin in a new Inferno. The rolled gas +blankets were pulled down tightly over the cellar entrances, +but the gas leaked through. Two men were gassed and taken +off in stretchers, foaming rather horribly at the mouth.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The gas bombardment went on until dawn, and then +ceased. Winterbourne fell asleep, with his gas mask just off +his face. Hitherto they had slept with the box respirator +slung on a nail or piled with the other equipment; after the +experience of this and the subsequent nights they always +slept with the respirator on their chests and the mask ready +to slip on immediately.</p> + +<p>The heavies began again soon after it was light. Winterbourne +was awakened by one which crashed just outside his +cellar. He lay on the floor for a long time listening to the +zwiiiING, CRASH, of the shells. He heard two ruined +houses clatter to the ground under direct hits, and wondered +<span class="pagenum" id="p324">[324]</span>if the cellars had held firm. They hadn’t. But fortunately, +they happened to be unoccupied. Presently, the German +batteries switched off and began bombarding some artillery +about five hundred yards to the left. Winterbourne profited +by the lull to wash. He ran out of the cellar in his shirtsleeves +and gas mask, with the canvas bucket in which he +washed; and found that a shell had smashed the pump +outside his billet. He knew there was another about three +hundred yards to the right, although he had never been +there.</p> + +<p>It was another cold but sunny morning, with the inevitable +white shrapnel bursts all over the sky. He was now +so accustomed to them that he scarcely noticed their existence. +Occasionally a very faint rattle of machine-gun fire +came from the war in the air, of which he was nearly as +ignorant as people in England of the war on land.</p> + +<p>He took off his mask and sniffed. A fresh wind was blowing, +and although there was plenty of phosgene in the air, +it was not in any deadly concentration. He decided to risk +leaving the mask off. The ground was deeply delved with +the conical holes made by the big shells thrown over, and +pitted everywhere by the smaller holes of the gas shells. He +found a dud, and examined it with interest. A brownish-looking +shell, about the size of a five-nine.</p> + +<p>The cottages were rather scattered, and unused as cellar-billets +in this direction. The top storeys had gone from +nearly all, but in several the ground floor was fairly intact. +He looked into each as he passed. The wall-paper had long +ago fallen and lay in mouldering heaps. The floors were +covered with broken bricks, tiles, smashed beams, laths and +disintegrating plaster. Odd pieces of broken furniture, +twisted iron beds, large rags which had once been clothes +and sheets, protruded from the mass. He poked about and +found photographs, letters in faded ink on damp paper, +broken toys, bits of smashed vases, a soiled satin wedding-gown +with its veil and wreath of artificial orange blossom. +He stood, with his head bent, looking at this pathetic débris +<span class="pagenum" id="p325">[325]</span>of ruined lives, and absent-mindedly lit a cigarette which he +immediately threw away—it tasted of phosgene. “La +Gloire,” he murmured, “Deutschland über alles, God save +the King.”</p> + +<p>The next cottage was less damaged than the others, and +its rough wooden shutters were still on their hinges. Winterbourne +peered through and saw that the whole of the inside +had been cleared of débris, and was stacked with quantities +of wooden objects. He shaded his eyes more carefully, and +saw they were ranks and ranks of wooden crosses. Those he +could see had painted on them R.I.P.; then underneath was +a blank space for the name; then came the name of +one or other of the battalions in his Division, and then the +present month and year, with a blank space for the day. +Excellent forethought, he reflected as he filled his bucket +and water-bottle; how well this War is organized!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>About nine, Evans’s servant told him to report immediately +in fighting order. Wearily and sleepily he threw on his +equipment, re-tied the string of his box respirator, and slung +his rifle and bayonet over his left shoulder. He waited with +the officers’ servants, who gave him a piece of bread dipped +in bacon grease to eat. Presently Evans came out and they +started off.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got to see an R.E. officer,” said Evans, “about a new +job on Hill 91. It’s a bit farther to the left of where we’ve +been working, and it’ll take us half an hour longer to get +there.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne seized the opportunity to put forward one +or two ideas he had been thinking over:</p> + +<p>“I hope you won’t mind, Sir, if I say something—it’s not +an official complaint at all, you understand, only what I’ve +been personally thinking.”</p> + +<p>“Go ahead.”</p> + +<p>“Well, Sir, I assume that the reason we are kept in billets +instead of in the line is to give us more rest so that we come +fresh to work. But here it doesn’t work out that way, +<span class="pagenum" id="p326">[326]</span>especially in the past fortnight; and it’s likely to get worse +instead of better. It seems to me that we should be much +better off if we were in dug-outs in the Reserve line. We +have that long walk through the mud twice a day; we get all +the shells meant for the transport and ration parties; we get +an all night strafing in the line; we’re shelled all the way +down; we come back to gassy billets, which are shelled with +heavies twenty hours out of twenty-four. The cellars are no +real protection against a direct hit. They’re damper than +dug-outs, and just as dark and ratty. There are far more +whizz-bangs and light stuff in the line, but far fewer heavies; +and if we had even fifteen-foot dug-outs, we’d get some +sleep, instead of starting awake every ten minutes with a +crump outside the cellar entrance. We’re getting a lot of +useless casualties, Sir. I passed the cook house as I came +along, and the cook told me one of his mates had just gone +down with gas from last night. And the S.M. looks as green +as grass. Can’t you get us put in the line, Sir?”</p> + +<p>Evans cogitated a moment or two:</p> + +<p>“Yes, I think you’re right. No, I can’t get us moved. I +haven’t the authority. I wish I had. I’ll ask the Major to +put it before the Colonel. It’s quite true what you say. In +the past week we’ve had eight casualties in the line, and +twelve here or going up and down. But with this show coming +off I expect every trench and dug-out will be packed.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne felt enormously proud that Evans had not +snubbed his suggestion. Evans went on, after a pause:</p> + +<p>“By the way, Winterbourne, have you ever thought of +taking a commission?”</p> + +<p>“Why, yes, Sir, it was suggested by the Adjutant of my +battalion in England. I believe my father wrote to him +about it. He, my father, was very keen about it.”</p> + +<p>“Well, why don’t you apply?”</p> + +<p>It was now Winterbourne’s turn to cogitate:</p> + +<p>“I find it rather hard to explain, Sir. For many reasons, +which you might think far-fetched, I had and still have a +feeling that I ought to spend the War in the ranks and in +<span class="pagenum" id="p327">[327]</span>the line. I should prefer to be in the Infantry, but I think +the Pioneers are quite near enough.”</p> + +<p>“They often come round for volunteers, you know. If you +like, I’ll put you down next time, and the Major will recommend +you to the Colonel.”</p> + +<p>“It’s kind of you, Sir. I’ll think about it.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>One night, two nights, three nights, four nights passed, +and still there was no big battle. And they were not moved. +Every night they were shelled up the line, shelled in the +line, shelled on the way back, and arrived in a hail storm of +gas shells. They had to wear their gas masks for hours every +day. And sleep became more and more difficult and precarious.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne’s intimacy with Evans and his own “education” +put him in rather an ambiguous position. Evans trusted +him more and more to do things which would normally +have been done by an N.C.O. And Winterbourne’s feeling of +responsibility led him to take on and conscientiously carry +out everything of the kind. One night there was supposed to +be a gas discharger attack by the British in retaliation for +the heavy German gas bombardments. All the officers +wanted to see it; and since it was staged for an hour before +dawn, that meant either that one officer had to take the +company down or that the men had to be kept up two hours +longer, exposed to artillery retaliation. Evans solved the +problem. He sent for Winterbourne:</p> + +<p>“Winterbourne, we want to stop and see the fun up here. +Now, you can take the company down, can’t you? I’ll tell +Sergeant Perkins that you’re in charge; but of course you’ll +give orders through him. Come back here and report after +you get them back.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>There was no British gas attack, but the Germans put +up what was then a considerable gas bombardment. They +sent over approximately thirty thousand gas shells that +night, most of them in and around the village where the +<span class="pagenum" id="p328">[328]</span>Pioneers were billeted. The Company had to wear gas +masks over the last half mile, and Winterbourne had a very +anxious time getting them along. He had discovered a disused +but quite deep trench running through the village almost +to their billets, and he took the men along there instead +of through the village street. It was a little longer, but far +safer. The shells were hailing all round them, and Winterbourne +didn’t want any casualties. Sergeant Perkins and he +managed to get the men safely into billets. Winterbourne +turned and said:</p> + +<p>“Well, good-night, Sergeant, I must go up the line again, +and report to Mr. Evans.”</p> + +<p>“You ain’t going up agen, are you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Mr. Evans told me to.”</p> + +<p>“Struth! Well, I’d rather it was you than me.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne fitted on his gas mask, and groped his way +out of the Sergeant’s cellar. The night was muggy, a bit +drizzly, windless and very dark—the ideal conditions for a +gas bombardment. What little wind there was came from +the German lines. He hesitated between taking the long +muddy trench or the more open road, but since he was +practically blinded in the darkness with his goggles, he decided +to take the trench, for fear of losing his way. It was +rather eerie, groping his way alone up the trench, with the +legions of gas shells shrilling and phutting all round him. +They fell with a terrific “flop” when they came within a +few yards. He stumbled badly two or three times in holes +they had made in the trench since he had come down. For +nearly half a mile he had to go through the gas barrage, +and it was slow work indeed, with the mud and the darkness +and the groping and the stumbling. Interminable. He +thought of nothing in the darkness but keeping his left hand +on the side of the trench to guide him and holding his right +hand raised in front to prevent his bumping into something.</p> + +<p>At last he got clear of the falling gas shells, and ventured +a peep outside his mask. One sniff showed him the air was +deadly with phosgene. He groped on another two hundred +<span class="pagenum" id="p329">[329]</span>yards and tried again. There was still a lot of gas, but he +decided to risk it, and took off his mask. With the mask off +he could see comparatively well, and traveled quite rapidly. +About an hour before dawn he reported to Evans.</p> + +<p>“There’s a devil of a gas bombardment going on round +the billets and for half a mile round, Sir,” said Winterbourne; +“that’s why I’m so late. The whole country reeks +of gas.”</p> + +<p>Evans whistled:</p> + +<p>“Whew! As a matter of fact, we’ve been drinking a bit +in the dug-out with some Infantry officers, and one or two +are a bit groggy in consequence.”</p> + +<p>“Better wait till dawn then, Sir. If you’ll come up into +the trench you’ll hear the shells going over.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, I’ll take your word for it. But the Major insists on +going down at once. We’ve just heard that there isn’t going +to be a gas attack. You’ll have to help me get them down.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>The Major was entirely sober; Evans was perfectly self-controlled; +but the other four were all a little too merry. +It was a perfect nightmare getting them through the gas +barrage. They would insist there was no danger, that the +gas was all a wash-out; and kept taking off their masks. +They disregarded the Major’s peremptory orders, and Evans +and Winterbourne had constantly to take off their own +masks to argue with the subalterns, and make them put on +theirs. Winterbourne could feel the deadly phosgene at his +lungs.</p> + +<p>Just after dawn they reached the Officers’ Mess cellar, +fortunately without a casualty. Winterbourne felt horribly +sick with the gas he had swallowed. The Major took off his +gas mask, and picked up a water jug.</p> + +<p>“Those confounded servants have forgotten to leave any +water,” exclaimed the Major angrily. “Winterbourne, take +that tin jug and go and get some water from the cook-house.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p330">[330]</span></p> +<p>The shells were still pitilessly hailing down through the +dawn. It was a hundred yards to the cook-house, and Winterbourne +three times just escaped being directly hit by one +of the ceaselessly falling shells. He returned to the Mess, +and left the water.</p> + +<p>“Thanks very much,” said Evans; “you may go now, +Winterbourne. Good-night.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night,” said the Major, “thank you for getting that +water, Winterbourne, I oughtn’t to have sent you.”</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Sir; good-night, Sir.”</p> + +<p>Outside the Major’s and Evans’s part of the cellar, the +other officers were sitting round a deal table by the light of +a candle stuck in a bottle, which looked dim and ghastly. +The place was practically gas-proof, with tightly drawn +blankets over every crevice.</p> + +<p>“Win’erbourne,” said one of them.</p> + +<p>“Sir?”</p> + +<p>“Run along to the Quar’master-Sergeant and bring us a +bottle of whiskey.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne climbed the cellar steps, lifted the outer +gas curtain rapidly, and stepped out. There was such a +stench of phosgene that he snapped his mask on at once. +The shells were falling thicker than ever. One hit the wall +of the house, and Winterbourne felt bricks and dust drop +on his steel helmet and shoulders. He shrank against what +was left of the wall. Two hundred yards to the Q.M.S.’s +billet. That meant nearly a quarter of a mile through that +deadly storm—for a half-drunken man to get a few more +whiskies. Winterbourne hesitated. It was disobeying orders +if he didn’t go. He turned resolutely and went to his own +billet; nothing was ever said of this refusal to obey an +officer’s orders in the face of the enemy.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Winterbourne stood outside the entrance to his cellar, +took off his steel helmet and folded down the top part of his +<span class="pagenum" id="p331">[331]</span>gas mask so that he could see, while still keeping the nose +clip on and the large rubber mouthpiece in his teeth. The +whitish morning light looked cold and misty, and the PHUT +PHUT PHUT PHUT of the bursting gas shells continued +with ruthless iteration. He watched them exploding; a little +curling cloud of yellow gas rose from each shell-hole. The +ground was pitted with these new shell-holes, and newly +broken bricks and débris lay about everywhere. A dead rat +lay in a gas shell-hole just outside the entrance—so the +War caught even the rats! There had been a young slender +ash-tree in what had once been the cottage garden. A heavy +explosive had fallen just at its roots, splintered the slim +stem, and dashed it prone with broken branches. The young +leaves were still green, except on one side where they were +curled and withered by gas. The grass, so tender a spring +green a week before, was yellow, sickly and withered. As +he turned to lift the gas-blanket he heard the whizz and +crash of the first heavy of the day bombardment. But the +gas shells continued.</p> + +<p>Inside the cellar was complete darkness. He took off his +mask and fumbled his way down the broken stairs, trying +not to wake the other runners. It was important only to use +one match, because matches were scarce and precious. The +air inside was foul and heavy, but only slightly tainted with +phosgene. Winterbourne half-smiled as he thought how +furiously he had contended for “fresh air” in huts and barrack +rooms, and how gladly he now welcomed any foul air +which was not full of poison gas. He lighted his stub of +candle, and slowly took off his equipment, replacing the +box respirator immediately. His boots were thick with +mud, his puttees and trousers torn with wire and stained +with mud and grease. A bullet had torn a hole in his leather +jerkin, and his steel helmet was marked by a long deep dint, +where it had been struck by a flying splinter of shell. He +felt amazingly weary, and rather sick. He had known the +fatigue of long walks and strenuous Rugby football matches +and cross-country runs, but nothing like this continual +<span class="pagenum" id="p332">[332]</span>cumulative weariness. He moved with the slow, almost pottering +movements of agricultural labourers and old men. +The feeling of sickness became worse and he wanted to +vomit out the smell of gas which seemed to permeate him. +He heaved over his empty canvas bucket until the water +started to his eyes, but vomited nothing. He noticed how +filthy his hands were.</p> + +<p>He was just going to sit down on his blanket and pack, +covered by the neatly-folded groundsheet, when he saw a +parcel and some letters for him lying on them. The other +runners had brought them over for him. Decent of them. +The parcel was from Elizabeth—how sweet of her to remember! +And yes, she had sent all the things he had asked +for and left out all the useless things people would send to +the troops. He mustn’t touch anything except the candles, +though, until to-morrow, when the parcel would be carefully +divided among everybody in the cellar. It was one of the +good unwritten rules—all parcels strictly divided between +each section, so that every one got something, even and +especially the men who were too poor or too lonely to receive +anything from England. Dear Elizabeth—how sweet of +her to remember!</p> + +<p>He opened her envelope with hands which shook slightly +with fatigue and the shock of explosions. Then he stopped, +lighted a new candle from the stub of the old one, blew out +the stub, and carefully put it away to give to one of the +infantry. The letter was unexpectedly tender and charming. +She had just been to Hampton Court to look at the flowers. +The gardens were rather neglected, she said, and no flowers +in the long border—the gardeners were at the war, and there +was no money in England now for flowers. Did he remember +how they had walked there in April five years ago? +Yes, he remembered, and thought too with a pang of surprise +that this was the first spring he had ever spent without +seeing a flower, not even a primrose. The little yellow colts-foot +he had liked so much were all dead with phosgene. +Elizabeth went on:</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p333">[333]</span></p> +<p>“I saw Fanny last week. She looked more charming and +delicate than ever—and such a marvelous hat! I hear she +is <i>much</i> attached to a brilliant young scientist, a chemist, +who does the most <i>peculiar</i> things. He mixes up all sorts of +chemicals and then experiments with the fumes and kills +dozens of poor little monkeys with them. Isn’t it wicked? +But Fanny says it’s most <i>important</i> war work.”</p> + +<p>The sickness came on him again. He turned sideways and +heaved silently, but could not vomit. He felt thirsty, and +drank a little stale-tasting water from his water-bottle. Dear +Elizabeth, how sweet of her to remember!</p> + +<p>Fanny’s letter was very rattling and gay. She had been +there, she had done this, she had seen so-and-so. How was +darling George getting along? She was so glad to see that +there had been no fighting yet on the western front. She +added:</p> + +<p>“I saw Elizabeth recently. She looked a little worried, but +<i>very</i> sweet. She was with such a charming young man—a +young American who ran away from Yale to join our +Flying Corps.”</p> + +<p>The heavy shells outside were falling nearer and nearer. +They came over in fours, each shell a little in front of the +others—bracketing. Through the gas curtain he heard the +remains of a ruined house collapse across the street under +a direct hit. Each crash made the cellar tremble slightly, +and the candle flame jumped.</p> + +<p>Well, it was nice of Fanny to write. Very nice. She was +a thoroughly decent sort. He picked up the other envelopes. +One came from Paris and contained the <i>Bulletin des Ecrivains</i>—names +of French writers and artists killed or +wounded, and news of those in the armies. He was horrified +to see how many of his friends in Paris had been killed. A +passage had been marked in blue pencil—it contained the +somewhat belated news that M. Georges Winterbourne, <i>le +jeune peintre anglais</i>, was in camp in England.</p> + +<p>Another letter, forwarded by Elizabeth, came from a London +art dealer. It said that an American had bought one +<span class="pagenum" id="p334">[334]</span>of Winterbourne’s sketches for £5, and that when he heard +that Winterbourne was in the trenches he had insisted upon +making it £25. The dealer therefore enclosed a cheque for +£22.10.0, being £25 less commission at ten per centum. +Winterbourne thought it rather cheek to take commission +on the money which was a gift, but still, Business as Usual. +But how generous of the American! How amazingly kind! +His pay was five francs a week, so the money was most +welcome. He must write and thank....</p> + +<p>The last letter was from Mr. Upjohn, from whom Winterbourne +had not heard for over a year. Elizabeth, it appeared, +had asked him to write and send news. Mr. Upjohn wrote a +chatty letter. He himself had a job in Whitehall, “of national +importance.” Winterbourne rejoiced to think that Mr. +Upjohn’s importance was now recognized by the nation. +Mr. Shobbe had been in France, had stayed in the line three +weeks, and was now permanently at the base. Comrade +Bobbe had come out very strong as a conscientious objector. +He had been put in prison for six weeks. His friends had +“got at” somebody influential, who had “got at” the secretary +of somebody in authority, and Mr. Bobbe had been +released as an agricultural worker. He was now “working” +on a farm, run by a philanthropic lady for conscientious objectors +of the intellectual class. Mr. Waldo Tubbe had found +his vocation in the Post Office Censorship Bureau, where he +was very happy—if he could not force people to say what +he wanted, he could at least prevent them from writing +anything derogatory to his Adopted Empire....</p> + +<p>George laughed silently to himself. Amusing chap Upjohn. +He got out his jack-knife and scraped away the mud +so that he could unlace his boots. Outside the shells crashed. +One burst just behind the cellar. The roof seemed to give a +jump, something seemed to smack Winterbourne on the top +of the head, and the candle went out. He laboriously re-lit +it. The other runners woke up.</p> + +<p>“Anything up?”</p> + +<p>“No, only a crump outside. I’m just getting into kip.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p335">[335]</span></p> +<p>“Where’ve you been?”</p> + +<p>“Up the line again, for the officers.”</p> + +<p>“Get back all right?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, nobody hit. But there’s a hell of a lot of gas about. +Don’t go out without putting on your gas-bag.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night, old man.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night, old boy.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p336">[336]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ IX ]</h3> + + +<p>Three more nights passed rather more tranquilly. +There was comparatively little gas, but the German +heavies were persistent. They, too, quieted down on the +third night, and Winterbourne got to bed fairly early and +fell into a deep sleep.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Suddenly he was wide awake and sitting up. What on +earth or hell was happening? From outside came a terrific +rumble and roaring, as if three volcanoes and ten thunderstorms +were in action simultaneously. The whole earth was +shaking as if beaten by a multitude of flying hoofs, and the +cellar walls vibrated. He seized his helmet, dashed past the +other runners who were starting up and exclaiming, rushed +through the gas curtain; and recoiled. It was still night, but +the whole sky was brilliant with hundreds of flashing lights. +Two thousand British guns were in action, and heaven and +earth were filled with the roar and flame. From about half a +mile to the north, southwards as far as he could see, the +whole front was a dazzling flicker of gun-flashes. It was as +if giant hands covered with huge rings set with search-lights +were being shaken in the darkness, as if innumerable brilliant +diamonds were flashing great rays of light. There was +not a fraction of a second without its flash and roar. Only +the great boom of a twelve- or fourteen-inch naval gun just +behind them punctured the general pandemonium at regular +intervals.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne ran stumbling forwards to get a view clear +of the ruins. He crouched by a piece of broken house and +looked towards the German lines. They were a long irregular +wall of smoke, torn everywhere with the dull red flashes +of bursting shells. Behind their lines their artillery was +<span class="pagenum" id="p337">[337]</span>flickering brighter and brighter as battery after battery +came into action, making a crescendo of noise and flame +when the limits of both seemed to have been reached. Winterbourne +saw but could not hear the first of their shells as +it exploded short of the village. The great clouds of smoke +over the German trenches were darkly visible in the first +very pallid light of dawn. It was the preliminary bombardment +of the long-expected battle. Winterbourne felt his +heart shake with the shaking earth and vibrating air.</p> + +<p>The whole thing was indescribable—a terrific spectacle, a +stupendous symphony of sound. The devil-artist who had +staged it was a master, in comparison with whom all other +artists of the sublime and terrible were babies. The roar of +the guns was beyond clamour, it was an immense rhythmic +harmony, a super-jazz of tremendous drums, a ride of the +Walkyrie played by three thousand cannon. The intense +rattle of the machine-guns played a minor motif of terror. +It was too dark to see the attacking troops, but Winterbourne +thought with agony how every one of those dreadful +vibrations of sound meant death or mutilation. He thought +of the ragged lines of British troops stumbling forward in +smoke and flame and a chaos of sound, crumbling away before +the German protective barrage and the reserve line +machine-guns. He thought of the German Front lines, already +obliterated under that ruthless tempest of explosions +and flying metal. Nothing could live within the area of that +storm except by a miraculous hazard. Already in this first +half hour of bombardment hundreds upon hundreds of men +would have been violently slain, smashed, torn, gouged, +crushed, mutilated. The colossal harmony seemed to roar +louder as the drum-fire barrage lifted from the Front line +to the Reserve. The battle was begun. They would be +mopping-up soon—throwing bombs and explosives down the +dug-out entrances on the men cowering inside.</p> + +<p>The German heavies were pounding M—— with their +shells, smashing at the communication trenches and cross-roads, +hurling masses of metal at their own ruined village. +<span class="pagenum" id="p338">[338]</span>Winterbourne saw the half-ruined factory chimney totter +and crash to the ground. Two shells pitched on either side +of him, and flung earth, stones and broken bricks all round +him. He turned and ran back to his cellar, stumbling over +shell-holes. He saw an isolated house disappear in the united +explosion of two huge shells.</p> + +<p>He clutched his hands together as he ran, with tears in his +eyes.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p339">[339]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ X ]</h3> + + +<p>Winterbourne found the other runners buckling +up their packs and fastening their equipment with +that febrile haste which comes with great excitement. Even +in the cellar the roar of the artillery made it necessary for +them almost to shout to each other.</p> + +<p>“What are the orders?”</p> + +<p>“Stand by in fighting order, ready to move off at once. +Dump packs outside billets.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne in his turn feverishly put on his equipment, +buckled his pack, and cleaned his rifle. They stood, rifles +and bayonets ready, in the low cellar, ready to spring up the +broken stairs as soon as they were warned. In a moment +such as this, a kind of paroxysm of humanity, the most difficult +thing is to wait. They dreaded the awful storm thundering +above them, but they were irresistibly hallucinated +by it, eager to plunge in and be done with it. The German +shells thudded continuously all round them, muted by the +vaster clamour of the attacking artillery. No orders came. +They fidgeted, exclaimed, and finally one by one sat silent +on their packs, listening. A large rat ran down the cellar +stairs and began to nibble something. The beast was exactly +level with Winterbourne’s head. He shoved a cartridge +into the breech of his rifle, murmuring “Why should a dog, +a horse, a rat have life, and they no breath at all?” He +aimed very carefully and pulled the trigger; there was a +terrific bang in the confined cellar, and the rat was smashed +dead in the air. Not ten seconds later a red, perspiring face +under a steel helmet was anxiously poked through the cellar +entrance. It was the Orderly Sergeant.</p> + +<p>“What the muckin hell are you doing down there?”</p> + +<p>“Having a spree—didn’t you hear the champagne cork?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p340">[340]</span></p> +<p>“Spree be mucked—one of you buggers fired his rifle and +muckin near copped me. Mucked if I don’t report the +muckin lot of yer.”</p> + +<p>“Wow I Put a sock in it!”</p> + +<p>“Muck off!”</p> + +<p>“Ord’ly sergeants are cheap to-day!”</p> + +<p>“Well, you muckers got to report to yer orfficers at once. +’Op it.”</p> + +<p>They ran up the broken stairs, pretending to poke their +bayonets at him, and laughing, perhaps a little hysterically. +The fat good-natured little Sergeant went off, shaking his +fist at them, shouting awful threats about the punishment +awaiting them with a broad affectionate grin on his face.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>For Winterbourne the battle was a timeless confusion, a +chaos of noise, fatigue, anxiety, and horror. He did not +know how many days and nights it lasted, lost completely +the sequence of events, found great gaps in his conscious +memory. He did know that he was profoundly affected by it, +that it made a cut in his life and personality. You couldn’t +say there was anything melodramatically startling, no hair +going grey in a night, or never smiling again. He looked +unaltered; he behaved in exactly the same way. But, in +fact, he was a little mad. We talk of shell-shock, but who +wasn’t shell-shocked more or less? The change in him was +psychological, and showed itself in two ways. He was left +with an anxiety complex, a sense of fear he had never experienced, +the necessity to use great and greater efforts to +force himself to face artillery, anything explosive. Curiously +enough, he scarcely minded machine-gun fire, which +was really more deadly, and completely disregarded rifle-fire. +And he was also left with a profound and cynical discouragement, +a shrinking horror of the human race....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A timeless confusion. The Runners scattered outside their +billet and made for the Officers’ cellar through the falling +shells, dodging from one broken house or shell-hole to +<span class="pagenum" id="p341">[341]</span>another. Winterbourne, not yet unnerved, calmly walked +straight across and arrived first. Evans took him aside:</p> + +<p>“We’re going up as a Company, with orders to support +and co-operate with the infantry. Try to nab me a rifle and +bayonet before we go over.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>Outside was an open box of S.A.A. and they each drew +two extra bandoliers of cartridges, which they slung round +their necks.</p> + +<p>They moved off in sections, filing along the village street +which was filled with fresh débris and ruins re-ruined. It +was snowing. They came on two freshly killed horses. Their +close-cropped necks were bent under them, with great +glassy eyeballs starting with agony. A little farther on was +a smashed limber with the driver dead beside it.</p> + +<p>In the trench they passed a batch of about forty German +prisoners, unarmed, in steel helmets. They looked green-pale, +and were trembling. They shrank against the side of +the trench as the English soldiers passed, but not a word +was said to them.</p> + +<p>The snowstorm and the smoke drifting back from the +barrage made the air as murky as a November fog in London. +They saw little, did not know where they were going, +what they were doing or why. They lined a trench and +waited. Nothing happened. They saw nothing but wire and +snowflakes and drifting smoke, heard only the roar of the +guns and the now sharper rattle of machine-guns. Shells +dropped around them. Evans was looking through his +glasses, and cursing the lack of visibility. Winterbourne +stood beside him, with his rifle still slung on his left +shoulder.</p> + +<p>They waited. Then Major Thorpe’s Runner came with a +message. Apparently, he had mistaken a map reference and +brought them to the wrong place.</p> + +<p>They plodged off through the mud, and lined another +trench. They waited.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne found himself following Evans across what +<span class="pagenum" id="p342">[342]</span>had been No Man’s Land for months. He noticed a skeleton +in British uniform, caught sprawling in the German +wire. The skull still wore a sodden cap and not a steel helmet. +They passed the bodies of British soldiers killed that +morning. Their faces were strangely pale, their limbs oddly +bulging with strange fractures. One had vomited blood.</p> + +<p>They were in the German trenches, with many dead +bodies in field grey. Winterbourne and Evans went down +into a German dugout. Nobody was there, but it was littered +with straw, torn paper, portable cookers, oddments +of forgotten equipment and cigars. There were French +tables and chairs with human excrement on them.</p> + +<p>They went on. A little knot of Germans came towards +them holding up their shaking hands. They took no notice +of them, but let them pass through.</p> + +<p>The barrage continued. Their first casualty was caused +by their own shells dropping short.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Major Thorpe sent Winterbourne and another man with +a written duplicate message to Battalion Headquarters. +They went back over the top, trying to run. It was impossible. +Their hearts beat too fast, and their throats were +parched. They went blindly at a jog-trot, slower in fact than +a brisk walk. They seemed to be tossed violently by the +bursting shells. The acrid smoke was choking. A heavy +roared down beside Winterbourne and made him stagger +with its concussion. He could not control the resultant +shaking of his flesh. His teeth chattered very slightly as +he clenched them desperately. They got back to familiar +land and finally to Southampton Row. It was a long way +to Battalion Headquarters. The men in the orderly room +eagerly questioned them about the battle but they knew +less than they did.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne asked for water and drank thirstily. He +and the other Runner were dazed and incoherent. They were +given another written message, and elaborate directions +which they promptly forgot.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p343">[343]</span></p> +<p>The drum-fire had died down to an ordinary heavy bombardment +as they started back. Already it was late afternoon. +They wandered for hours in unfamiliar trenches before +they found the company.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They slept that night in a large German dug-out, swarming +with rats. Winterbourne in his sleep felt them jump on +his chest and face.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The drum-fire began again next morning. Again they +lined a trench and advanced through smoke over torn wire +and shell-tormented ground. Prisoners passed through. At +night they struggled for hours, carrying down wounded +men in stretchers through the mud and clamour. Major +Thorpe was mortally wounded and his runner killed; Hume +and his runner were killed; Franklin was wounded; Pemberton +was killed; Sergeant Perkins was killed; the +stretcher-bearers were killed. Men seemed to drop away +continually.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Three days later Evans and Thompson led back forty-five +men to the old billets in the ruined village. The attack +on their part of the front had failed. Farther south +a considerable advance had been made and several thousand +prisoners taken, but the German line was unbroken +and stronger than ever in its new positions. Therefore that +also was a failure.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne and Henderson were the only two Runners +left, and since Evans was in command Winterbourne +was now Company Runner. The two men sat on their packs +in the cellar without a word. Both shook very slightly but +continuously with fatigue and shock. Outside the vicious +heavies crashed eternally. They started wildly to their feet +as a terrific smash overhead brought down what was left +of the house above them and crashed into the duplicate +cellar next door. A moment later there was another enormous +crash and one end of the cellar broke in with falling +<span class="pagenum" id="p344">[344]</span>bricks and a cloud of dust. They rushed out by the steps +at the other end and were sent reeling and choking by +another huge black explosion.</p> + +<p>They stumbled across to another cellar occupied by what +was left of a section, and asked to sleep there since their +own cellar was wrecked. Six of them and a corporal sat in +silence by the light of a candle, dully listening to the crash +of shells.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>In a lull they heard a strange noise outside the cellar, +first like wheels and then like a human voice calling for +help. No one moved. The voice called again. The Corporal +spoke:</p> + +<p>“Who’s going up?”</p> + +<p>“Mucked if I am,” said somebody, “I’ve ’ad enough.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne and Henderson simultaneously struggled +to their feet. The change from candle-light to darkness +blinded them as they peered out from the ruined doorway. +They could just see a confused dark mass. The voice came +again:</p> + +<p>“Help, for Christ’s sake, come and help!”</p> + +<p>A transport limber had been smashed by a shell. The +wounded horses had dragged it along and fallen outside the +cellar entrance. One man had both legs cut short at the +knees. He was still alive, but evidently dying. They left +him, lifted down the other man and carried him into the +cellar. A large shell splinter had smashed his right knee. +He was conscious, but weak. They got out his field-dressing +and iodine and dripped iodine on the wound. At the pain +of burning disinfectant the man turned deadly pale and +nearly fainted. Winterbourne found that his hands and +clothes were smeared with blood.</p> + +<p>Then came the problem of getting the man away to a +dressing station. The Corporal and the four men refused +to budge. The shells were crashing continuously outside. +Winterbourne started out to get a stretcher and the new +stretcher-bearer, groping his way through the darkness. +<span class="pagenum" id="p345">[345]</span>Outside their billet he tripped and fell into a deep shell +hole, just as a heavy exploded with terrific force at his +side. But for the fall he must have been blown to pieces. +He scrambled to his feet, breathless and shaken, and +tumbled down the cellar stairs. He noticed scared faces +looking at him in the candle-light. He explained what had +happened. The stretcher-bearer jumped up, got his +stretcher and satchel of dressings, and they started back. +Every shell which exploded near seemed to shake Winterbourne’s +flesh from his bones. He was dazed and half-frantic +with the physical shock of concussion after concussion. +When he got back in the cellar he collapsed into +a kind of stupor. The stretcher-bearer dressed the man’s +wound, and then looked at Winterbourne, felt his pulse, +gave him a sip of rum and told him to lie still. He tried to +explain that he must help carry the wounded man, and +struggled to get to his feet. The stretcher-bearer pushed +him back:</p> + +<p>“You lie still, mate, you’ve done enough for to-day.”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p346">[346]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ XI ]</h3> + + +<p>The battle on their part of the Front died down into +long snarling artillery duels, gas bombardments, fierce +local attacks and counter-attacks. Farther south it flamed up +again with intense preludes of drum-fire. What was left of +the Pioneer Company returned to more normal occupations. +So far as they were concerned, one great advantage +of the battle was that the Germans had been driven from +the long slag-hill, and from a large portion of Hill 91. By +fierce counter-attacks the Germans regained much of the +lost ground on Hill 91, but they never came anywhere near +recovering the slag-hill. The ground they had lost farther +south made that impossible. Consequently, some of the +worst features of the salient were at last obliterated, and +they were no longer under such close observation or enfiladed +by machine-guns.</p> + +<p>They had a day’s rest, and were then put on the cushy +job of building a new track up to the southern fringe of +Hill 91 across the old Front Lines and No Man’s Land. +They were outside the range of vision of the German observation +posts, and it was two days before the German +airplanes discovered them—two days of comparative quiet. +Then, of course, they got it hot and strong.</p> + +<p>In clearing away the wire they made a number of gruesome +discoveries, and examined with great interest the +primitive hand grenades and other weapons of 1914-15 +which were lying rusting there in great quantities. Winterbourne +took an immense interest in building this track, an +interest which puzzled and amused Evans, especially since +this was the first time he had ever seen Winterbourne +show any enthusiasm for their labours.</p> + +<p>“I can’t see why you’re so keen on this bally old track, +<span class="pagenum" id="p347">[347]</span>Winterbourne. It’s one of the dullest jobs we’ve ever had.”</p> + +<p>“But surely you can see, Sir. We’re making something, +not destroying things. We’re taking down wire, not putting +it up; filling in shell-holes, not desecrating the earth.”</p> + +<p>Evans frowned at the phrase “desecrating the earth.” He +thought it pretentious, and with all his obtuseness he had +an instinctive resentment against Winterbourne’s unspoken +but unwavering and profound condemnation of War. Evans +had a superstitious reverence for War. He believed in the +Empire; the Empire was symbolized by the King-Emperor; +and the King—poor man—is always having to dress up as +an Admiral or a Field Marshal or a brass hat of some kind. +Navydom and Armydom thereby acquired a mystic importance, +and since armies and navies are obviously meant +for War, it was plain that War was an integral part of +Empire-Worship. More than once he clumsily tried to trap +Winterbourne into expressing unorthodox opinions. But, of +course, Winterbourne saw him coming miles away, and +easily evaded his awkward bobby traps.</p> + +<p>“I suppose you’re a <i>republican</i>,” he said to Winterbourne, +who was innocently humming the Marseillaise. “I don’t +believe in Republics. Why, Presidents wear evening dress +in the middle of the morning.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne nearly burst into a cackle of laughter but +managed to restrain himself. He denied that he was a republican, +and admitted with mock gravity that Evans had +put his finger on a serious flaw in Republican institutions.</p> + +<p>But his joy in constructing the track was short-lived. As +they were finishing their second day’s work he saw a battery +of Field Artillery cross the old No Man’s Land by the +road they had built, and then bump its way over shell-holes +to a new position. So even this little bit of construction +was only for further destruction.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They went on to night work again, and Winterbourne distinguished +himself by pulling out of the ground a dud shell +which the other men refused to touch, in case it went off. +<span class="pagenum" id="p348">[348]</span>They crouched on the ground while Winterbourne tugged +and strained to get it out, and Evans stood beside urging +him to go easy. Suddenly Winterbourne went into a series +of gasping chuckles, and in answer to Evans’ questions +managed to jerk out that the alleged shell was a stump +of wood with an iron ring round it. The men returned +sheepishly to their work. In reward for his heroic conduct +Winterbourne was allowed to join a gang who were pulling +up real duds embedded in the <i>pavé</i> of the main road, which +had become available through the German retirement. They +levered and tugged the shells up very gingerly, since the +oldest duds are liable to explode if treated roughly. Winterbourne +was glad when that little job was done.</p> + +<p>The nightly gas bombardments became worse than ever, +and Winterbourne sometimes spent twelve hours a day in +his gas mask. They used their respirators so frequently that +a new set had to be issued.</p> + +<p>Since Evans was now temporarily in command and had +only Thompson to help him and about forty men available +for work, they did only one shift, which Evans and Thompson +took on alternate nights. As Company Runner, Winterbourne +carried all messages between the Company and Battalion +H.Q. On the other hand, Evans always let him rest +on the nights when he himself was not on duty. Winterbourne +was profoundly thankful for these nights off. His +winter cough, aided perhaps by microbes communicated by +lice, had evolved into a sort of tertian ague. Every third +night he had alternate fits of sweating and shivering. It +was much pleasanter to lie down even in a damp cellar than +to go up the line feeling utterly weak and feverish.</p> + +<p>He was sleeping soundly alone in the Runner’s cellar, +oblivious to the Zwiing, <span class="smcap">Phut</span>, of the gas shells outside +when he was awakened by Henderson, the other surviving +Runner, who came stumbling down the cellar stairs in the +darkness. Winterbourne lit a candle for him. Henderson had +just taken off his gas mask, and stood with rumpled hair +and a pale scared look.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p349">[349]</span></p> +<p>“What’s up?” said Winterbourne, “what’s the matter?”</p> + +<p>“Thompson’s killed.”</p> + +<p>“Good Lord! The only other officer! How?”</p> + +<p>“Whizz-bang.”</p> + +<p>“How did it happen?”</p> + +<p>“The Boche put up an attack to-night. Thompson took +us off work, and told us to line a trench. He was standing +on top, and told me to get into the trench. A whizz-bang +burst just beside him. He died in five minutes.”</p> + +<p>“O God! Did he say anything?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, he was perfectly conscious and calm. He told me +how to get the men home. He sent best of luck to Evans and +you and the S.M. And he made me take a couple of letters +from his pocket to send to his wife and mother. He was +horribly mangled—right arm and right leg smashed, ribs +broken and a great tear in the side of his face. He made +me promise to make Evans write home that he was shot +through the heart and died instantaneously and painlessly.”</p> + +<p>“Damn. He was a nice chap. One of the best officers we +had.”</p> + +<p>The inner gas curtain was lifted, and Evans’ servant +stumbled in, taking off his mask.</p> + +<p>“Report at once, fighting order, Winterbourne.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne hurriedly put on his boots and puttees, +struggled into his equipment, snapped on his mask, and jog-trotted +over to the officer’s cellar through the now familiar +hail of gas-shells. He was amazed and distressed and +ashamed to find how much his flesh instinctively shrank +when a shell dropped close at hand, how great an effort he +now needed to refrain from ducking or cowering. He raged +at himself, called himself coward, poltroon, sissy, anything +abusive he could think of. But still his body instinctively +shrank. He had passed into the final period of War strain, +when even an air-raid became a terror.</p> + +<p>Evans was laboriously writing. The large cellar looked +very cellar-like and empty, with one man in place of +<span class="pagenum" id="p350">[350]</span>the six who had lived there less than a fortnight before.</p> + +<p>“You know Mr. Thompson’s killed?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir. Henderson told me.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t carry on as a Company by myself with less +than forty available men.” Evans spoke bitterly. “There’s +a chit from Division complaining that we are doing far +less work than a month ago. They don’t seem to know +there’s been a battle, and that we’re worn out and reduced +to a third our strength.”</p> + +<p>He was silent, re-read his despatch, folded it, and handed +it to Winterbourne.</p> + +<p>“Take this down to Battalion H.Q. I’ve marked it Special +Urgency. Make them get the Colonel up if he’s asleep. +If he questions you, tell him our position. I haven’t seen +him for three weeks. And refuse to leave without an answer.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“And Winterbourne.”</p> + +<p>“Sir?”</p> + +<p>“There’s another chit here somewhere urging us to get +two volunteers for Infantry commissions in each Company. +Henderson’s going—he’s a stout little tyke. The other volunteers +are that filthy cook’s mate and the sanitary man. +Idiotic. I won’t recommend them. But I want you to volunteer. +Will you?”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne hesitated. He didn’t want the responsibility, +it was contrary to his notion that he ought to stay in +the ranks and in the line, take the worst and humblest jobs, +share in the common fate of common men. But then he had +consented to be a Runner. And then, he was sorely tempted. +It meant several months in England, it meant seeing Fanny +and Elizabeth again, it meant a respite. He was amazed +to find that he didn’t want to leave Evans, and suddenly +saw that what he had done in the past months had been +chiefly done from personal attachment to a rather common +and ignorant man of the kind he most despised, the grown-up +Public Schoolboy.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p351">[351]</span></p> +<p>“What are you hesitating about?”</p> + +<p>“Well, Sir,” said Winterbourne whimsically, “I was wondering +how you’d get on without me.”</p> + +<p>“*****!” said Evans. “Besides at this rate, I shan’t last +much longer. Now, shall I put your name down?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir.”</p> + +<p>He afterwards regretted that “Yes.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Evans’s sharp note brought an abrupt change in their +lives. They exchanged places with one of the other Pioneer +companies in a quieter section of the line. Evans marched +his forty men down as one Platoon, and they passed successively +the four Platoons of the relieving Company. The +men exchanged ironical jibes as they passed.</p> + +<p>Their new quarters were a great improvement. They +were joined by a Captain, who took nominal command, and +two subalterns. But no men. There appeared to be no men +available. They lived in shelters and dug-outs in the Reserve +Line. Winterbourne, Henderson and two other Runners +lived in a two-foot shelter just outside the officers’ +dug-out. Winterbourne was now officially Company Runner. +He lived one fortnight in the line, and one at Battalion +H.Q. The sacking bed at H.Q., the comparative +absence of shelling, the better food, the rest, made it seem +like paradise. He did not know that his application for a +commission had been passed at once, and that he was being +looked after.</p> + +<p>Two days after they got to their new quarters, in the +line, Evans’s servant poked his head excitedly into the Runners’ +shelter.</p> + +<p>“Winterbourne!”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“You’re to come at once. Mr. Evans is sick.”</p> + +<p>“Sick!”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne found Evans leaning against the side of +the trench, a ghastly green pallor on his face.</p> + +<p>“Whatever’s the matter, Sir?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p352">[352]</span></p> +<p>“Gas. I’ve swallowed too much of the beastly stuff. I +can’t stand it any longer. I’m going to the Dressing Station.”</p> + +<p>“Shall I get a stretcher, Sir?”</p> + +<p>“No, damn it, I’ll walk down. I can still stand. Take my +pack and come along.”</p> + +<p>Every few yards Evans had to stop and lean against the +trench wall. He heaved, but did not vomit. Winterbourne +offered his arm, but he wouldn’t take it. They passed two +corpses, rather horribly mutilated, lying on stretchers at +the end of the communication trench. Neither said anything, +but Evans was thinking, “Well, gas is better than +that,” and Winterbourne thought, “How long will it be before +some one puts me there?”</p> + +<p>He finally got Evans to the Dressing Station, supporting +him with his right arm. They shook hands outside.</p> + +<p>“You’ll get your commission, Winterbourne.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks. Are you all right, Sir? Shall I come down with +you farther?”</p> + +<p>“No, go back and report that you left me here.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>They shook hands again.</p> + +<p>“Well, good-bye, old man, best of luck to you.”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, Sir, good-bye.”</p> + +<p>He never saw Evans again.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>When Evans had gone, Winterbourne’s interest in the +Company suddenly evaporated. He did not know the new +officers, rather disliked the Captain, and, of course, was not +on the same footing with them as he had been with Evans. +Henderson left for England to be trained as an officer. +Winterbourne felt lonelier than ever. And he realized with +disgust and horror that his nerve was gone. His daily trips +were really very easy—about a mile and a half, a few gusts +of machine-gun bullets, and about thirty or forty crumps +on the road each way. The Germans had discovered some +tanks hidden behind a slag-hill round which he had to +pass. They shelled it with heavies. Winterbourne now found +<span class="pagenum" id="p353">[353]</span>that he had to force himself to walk forward to them and +through the area where they were bursting. It was worse +at night. One night he did what he had never done before +when carrying a message—waited ten minutes for the shelling +to quiet down.</p> + +<p>That ten minutes, curiously enough, saved his life. He +heard several shells fall in and around Company H.Q. just +as he came along the trench. One of them had fallen plump +on their fragile shelter and blown it to pieces, instantly +killing the Runner, Jenkins, a boy of nineteen, who was +lying there. If Winterbourne had not lingered that ten minutes +on the road, he would inevitably have been killed, too. +He felt very guilty about it. Perhaps if he had come back, +the boy would have been sent back with a return message. +But, no, if there had been a return message, it would have +been his job.</p> + +<p>He lost his blanket, groundsheet and pack. The Runners +were transferred to a similar shelter twenty yards farther +on. Winterbourne hated to pass the smashed shelter. He +always thought of Jenkins, and his absurd boyish grin. +Jenkins had been errand-boy and then assistant to a grocer +in a small provincial town. A most undistinguished person. +He had a solemn respect for “John Bull” and its opinions. +Otherwise he wasn’t solemn at all, always cracking rather +pointless jests, and grinning his boyish grin, and hardly +ever grousing. Winterbourne regretted him.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>At Battalion Headquarters, Winterbourne tried to read, +and found it impossible. He discovered an old number of +“The Spectator” with an article on Porson, written by a +man he had known. He had to read the article before he +remembered who Porson was, and found himself puzzling +over quite ordinary sentences like a ploughman. He threw +the paper down in despair, and got permission to go to an +estaminet. They had no wine, and spirits were forbidden. +He sat there drinking the infamous and harmless French +beer, and droning out sentimental songs with the other +<span class="pagenum" id="p354">[354]</span>Tommies. He got into the habit of bribing the Q.M.S.’s clerk +to give him extra rum. Anything to forget.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>At the end of one of his fortnightly periods at Battalion +H.Q. Winterbourne went as usual to the R.S.M.:</p> + +<p>“Winterbourne, D Company Runner, returning for service +in the line, Sir.”</p> + +<p>The R.S.M. turned over some papers, pursing up his lips:</p> + +<p>“Let me see, let me <i>seeee</i>. Yes, yes. Yes, yes. Here we +are, 31819, Private Winterbourne, G. Yes. You’re returning +to England on Friday for the purpose of proceeding to an +Officer Cadet Corps. Report to the Orderly Room at four +(pip emma) on Thursday for your papers, and draw iron +rations from the Q.M.S. Will report to R.T.O. at Rail Head +before eight (ack emma) on Friday, and will be struck +off the strength. Got that?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Sir. Will you give me a chit to show them in the +line, please.”</p> + +<p>“No. To-day’s Wednesday. You’d better stay here, and +I’ll send up the Runner who is taking your place.”</p> + +<p>“Very good, Sir.”</p> + +<p>The boy who was taking Winterbourne’s place was delighted +to get the job. He was a quick-witted youth who +had been trained as an Elementary School Teacher, and +thanked Winterbourne as if the new job had been his +gift. He was killed by a bullet as he climbed out of the +communication trench with his first message. Winterbourne +began to feel as if he had made a pact with the +Devil, so that other men were always being killed in his +stead.</p> + +<p>For the remaining two days he was virtually excused +duty. He was allowed to go to the baths each day, and +got himself clean and free from lice. He received absolutely +new underclothes, not the worn, soiled garments full of +dead lice usually issued at the baths, was given new puttees +and trousers in place of his soiled torn ones, and handed +in his rent leather jerkin. He had a sacking bed, and slept +<span class="pagenum" id="p355">[355]</span>twelve hours a night. Already he was a different being from +the dazed and haggard man of the Hill 91 days.</p> + +<p>He wanted very much to go to England, and yet his chief +feeling was that of apathy. Now that his orders had come, +he felt he would just as soon have stopped where he was. +Why prolong the agony? If he stayed, he would either be +hit sooner or later, or become a Battalion Runner, a much +better and less anxious job than that of an Infantry subaltern. +Still, it might be worth while, just to see Elizabeth +and Fanny again....</p> + +<p>It was hot midsummer weather. He wandered out along +the straight French road, with its ceaseless up and down of +mechanical transport and military traffic. The Military Police +and armed pickets suspiciously turned him back. He +found a little hedgeless field of poppies and yellow daisies, +and sat down there. The heavies were firing with regular +deliberation; overhead the white shrapnel bursts pursued an +enemy plane; from the far distance came a very faint +“claaang!” as a shell smashed into M——. It was so strange +to have unmuddy boots, to sit on grass in the sun and look +at wild flowers, to see one or two undamaged houses, not +to be continually on the alert. He sat with his elbows on +his knees, and his doubled fists under his chin, staring in +front of him. His body was rested, but he felt such an +apathetic weariness of mind that he would have been glad +to die painlessly there and then, without ever going back +to England, without ever seeing Elizabeth and Fanny again. +His mind no longer wandered off in long coherent reveries, +but was either vaguely empty or thronged with too vivid +memories. It seemed incredible that only seven months or +so had passed since he had left England—more like seven +years. He felt, not so much self-contempt, as self-indifference. +He did not despise George Winterbourne, he merely +wasn’t interested in him. Once he had been extremely interested +in himself and the things he wanted to do; now, he +didn’t care, he didn’t want to do anything in particular. +Directly the military yoke was lightened and he was left to +<span class="pagenum" id="p356">[356]</span>himself for a few hours, he was aimless, apathetic, listless. +If he had been told there and then that he was discharged +from the Army and could go, he wouldn’t have known what +to do except to stay there and stare at the poppies and +daisies.</p> + +<p>The night before he left, the Runners and officers’ servants +got rum, and beer and champagne, and made him drink +with them. They exhorted him not to forget his old pals, and +not to be a swine to his men when he was an officer. He +promised, regretting all the time the subtle difference which +was already dividing him from them. “Fancy ’avin’ to salute +old George,” said one of them. Fancy indeed! He wished +so much he had stayed with them. He drank a good deal, +and for the first time in his life went to bed tight.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>He got to Rail Head just before eight, hot and perspiring +from a rapid walk in full kit under a July sun. An immense +drum-fire was thundering from the north. The Division +was under orders to proceed there in two days. There +was to be another great offensive at Ypres. He shuddered, +thinking of the showers of bursting metal, flogging and +churning the ground, shearing and rending human flesh, +the immense concourse of detonations hammering on human +nerves.</p> + +<p>The R.T.O. gave him directions and he got into a waiting +train. It was empty, except for a small group of leave men +at the other end. He did not join them, glad of a little +solitude.</p> + +<p>The German heavies gave him a last amiable farewell. +They began dropping shells on Rail Head. That sickening +apprehension of the explosion came on him, and he felt sure +that a shell would fall on his carriage before the train left. +He fought the apprehension savagely, as if the only thing +he wanted to do in life was to repress his fear reflex. The +shells came over one at a time of regular intervals of a +minute. He listened for them, sweating, and gripping his +rifle. Either let the train start or get it over. The train +<span class="pagenum" id="p357">[357]</span>waited interminably. ZwiiING, CRASH! to the right. +ZwiiING, CRASH! to the left; ZwiiING, CRASH! to the +right; ZwiiING, CRASH! to the left. He sat there alone +for thirty-five minutes—thirty-five ZwiiING, CRASH! It +was somehow more awful than drum-fire, a more penetrating +torture.</p> + +<p>At last the train started and puffed slowly out of the +station. Winterbourne sat quite still, listening to the +Crashes growing fainter and fainter as the train gathered +speed. At last they disappeared altogether in the rattle of +wheels. In place of the long slow crawl coming up, the train +clattered along at great speed. He passed undamaged stations, +thronged with French peasants, French soldiers on +leave and British troops; he saw the lovely Corot poplars +and willows shimmering in the sun as they wavered in the +light breeze; there were cows in the fields, and he noticed +yellow iris in the wet ditches and tall white hog’s parsley. +A field of red clover and white daisies made him think of +the old days at Martin’s Point. An immense effort of imagination +was needed to link himself now with himself then. +He looked almost with curiosity at his familiar khaki and +rifle—so strange that ten years later that boy should be a +soldier. Then he noticed that he had forgotten to sheath his +bayonet. It had been fixed so long that he had to wrench it +off. There was a little ring of rust round the bayonet boss. +He got out his oily rag and anxiously cleaned it. The bayonet +sheath was so full of dried mud that he had to clean +that too.</p> + +<p>At Boulogne he sent a telegram to Elizabeth. The R.T.O. +told him to leave all his kit on the quay, and to take only +his personal belongings. He slipped off his equipment and +laid his rifle beside his dinted helmet, feeling as if he were +carrying out some strange valedictory rite. He went on +board ship, holding his razor, soap, tooth-brush, comb, and +some letters, wrapped in a clean khaki handkerchief. He +managed to scrounge a haversack and strap on board.</p> + +<p>The troop train from Folkestone to London was filled with +<span class="pagenum" id="p358">[358]</span>leave men and others returned from France. As the train +puffed up to the Junction, the men crowded to the windows. +Girls and women walking in the parallel street, standing in +the doorways, leaning out the window, waved pocket handkerchiefs, +cheered shrilly and threw them kisses. The excited +men waved and shouted to them. Winterbourne was +amazed at the beauty, the almost angelic beauty of women. +He had not seen a woman for seven months.</p> + +<p>It was dark when they got to Victoria, but the Station +was brilliantly lighted. A long barrier separated a crowd +from the soldiers, who thronged out at one end. Here and +there a woman threw her arms about the neck of a soldier in +a close embrace which at least at that moment was sincere. +The women’s shoulders trembled with their sobs; the men +stood very still, holding them close a moment, and then +drew them away. At once the women made an effort, and +seemed gay and unconcerned.</p> + +<p>Many of the men were proceeding elsewhere, and were +not met.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne saw Elizabeth standing, in a wide-brimmed +hat, at the end of the barrier. Again he was amazed at the +beauty of women. Could it be that he knew, that he had +dared to touch, so beautiful a creature? She looked so slender, +so young, so exquisite. And so elegant. He was intimidated, +and hung back in the crowd of passing soldiers, +watching her. She was scanning the faces as they passed; +twice she looked at him, and looked away. He made his way +through the throng towards her. She looked at him again +carefully, and once more began scanning the passing faces. +He walked straight up to her and held out his hands:</p> + +<p>“Elizabeth!”</p> + +<p>She started violently, stared at him, and then kissed him +with the barrier between them:</p> + +<p>“Why, George! How you’ve altered! I didn’t recognize +you!”</p> + + + + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p359">[359]</span></p> +<h3>[ XII ]</h3> + + +<p>Winterbourne had a fortnight’s leave before reporting +to his Regimental Depot. He came in for two +or three air raids, and lay awake listening to the familiar +bark of Archies. The bombs crashed heavily. It was very +mild—all over in half an hour. Still, the raids affected him +unpleasantly; he had not expected them.</p> + +<p>He spent his first morning wandering about London by +himself. He was still amazed at the beauty of women, and +was afraid they would be offended by his staring at them. +Prostitutes twice spoke to him, offering him “Oriental attractions.” +He saluted them, and passed on. The second girl +muttered insults, which he scarcely heard. There seemed to +be a great many more prostitutes in London.</p> + +<p>The street paving was badly worn, but looked marvelously +smooth and kempt to Winterbourne, accustomed to +roads worn into deep ruts and reft with shell-holes. He was +charmed to see so many houses—all unbroken. And busses +going up and down. And people carrying umbrellas—of +course, people had umbrellas. There was Khaki everywhere. +Every third man was a soldier. He passed some American +marines, the advance guard of the great armies being prepared +across the Atlantic. They had wide shoulders and +narrow hips, strong-looking men; each of them had picked +up a girl. They walked in London with the same proprietory +swagger that the English used in France.</p> + +<p>A military policeman stopped and roughly asked him +what he was doing. Winterbourne produced his pass.</p> + +<p>“Sorry, thought you was a deserter, old man. Don’t go +out without yer pass.”</p> + +<p>The second night after his arrival Elizabeth took him +to a Soho restaurant to dine with some of her friends. +<span class="pagenum" id="p360">[360]</span>Fanny was not there, but the party included Mr. Upjohn, +Mr. Waldo Tubbe and Reggie Burnside. There were several +people Winterbourne had never met, including a man who +had made a great hit by translating Armenian poetry from +the French versions of Archag Tchobanian. He was extremely +intellectual and weary in manner, and took Winterbourne’s +hand in a very limp way, turning his head aside +with an air of elegant contempt as he did so.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne sat very silent through the meal, nervously +rolling bread pills. He was amazed to find how remote he +felt, how completely he had nothing to say. They talked +about various topics he didn’t quite follow, and titteringly +gossiped about people he didn’t know. Elizabeth got on +wonderfully, chattered with every one, laughed and was a +great success. He felt very uncomfortable, like a death’s +head at a feast. He caught a glimpse of himself in one of +the restaurant mirrors, and thought he looked ludicrously +solemn and distressed.</p> + +<p>Over coffee they shifted seats, and one or two people came +and talked to him. Mr. Upjohn dropped clumsily into the +next chair, thrust out his chin, and coughed.</p> + +<p>“Are you back in London for good now?”</p> + +<p>“No. I’ve a fortnight’s leave, and then go to an Officer’s +Training Corps.”</p> + +<p>“And then will you be in London?”</p> + +<p>“No, I shall have to go back to France again.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Upjohn irritably clucked his tongue—tch, tch!</p> + +<p>“I mildly supposed you’d finished soldiering. You look +most grotesque in those clothes.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but they’re practical, you know.”</p> + +<p>“What I mean to say is that the most important thing is +that the processes of civilization shouldn’t be interrupted +by all this war business.”</p> + +<p>“I quite agree. I—...”</p> + +<p>“What I mean to say is, if you get time come round to +my studio and have a look at my new pictures. Are you +still writing for periodicals?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p361">[361]</span></p> +<p>Winterbourne smiled.</p> + +<p>“No. I’ve been rather busy, you know, and in the trenches +one—”</p> + +<p>“What I mean to say is, I’d like you to do an article on +my Latest Development.”</p> + +<p>“Suprematism?”</p> + +<p>“Good Lord, NO! I finished with <i>that</i> long ago. How +extraordinarily ignorant you are, Winterbourne! No, no. +I’m working at Concavism now. It’s by far the greatest +contribution that’s been made to twentieth-century civilization. +What I means is....”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne ceased to listen and drank off a full glass +of wine. Why hadn’t Evans written to him? Died of the +effects of gas probably. He beckoned to the waiter.</p> + +<p>“Bring me another bottle of wine.”</p> + +<p>“Yessir.”</p> + +<p>“George!” came Elizabeth’s voice, warning and slightly +reproving. “Don’t drink too much!”</p> + +<p>He made no answer, but sat looking heavily at his coffee +cup. Blast her. Blast Upjohn. Blast the lot of them. He +drank off another glass of wine, and felt the singing dazzle +of intoxication, its comforting oblivion, stealing into him. +Blast them.</p> + +<p>Mr. Upjohn grew tired of improving the mind of a cretin +who hadn’t even the wits to listen to him, and slid away. +Presently Mr. Waldo Tubbe took his place.</p> + +<p>“Well, my dear Winterbourne, I am very happy to see +you again looking so well. The military life has set you up +splendidly. And Mrs. Winterbourne tells me that at last +you have received a commission. I congratulate you—better +late than never.”</p> + +<p>“Thanks. But I may not get it, you know. I’ve got to pass +the training school.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, that’ll do you a world of good, a world of good.”</p> + +<p>“I hope so.”</p> + +<p>“And how did you spend your leisure in France—still +reading and painting?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p362">[362]</span></p> +<p>Winterbourne gave a little hard laugh.</p> + +<p>“No, mostly lying about sleeping.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sorry to hear that. But, you know, if you will forgive +my saying so, I always doubted whether your vocation were +really towards the arts. I felt you were more fitted for an +open-air life. Of course, you’re doing splendid work now, +splendid. The Empire needs every man. When you come +back after the victory, as I trust you will return safe and +sound, why don’t you take up life in one of our colonies, +Australia or Canada? There’s a great opening for men +there.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne laughed again.</p> + +<p>“Wait till I get back, and then we’ll see. Have a glass of +wine?”</p> + +<p>“No-oeh, thank you, no-oeh. By the way, what is that +red ribbon on your arm? Vaccination?”</p> + +<p>“No, Company Runner.”</p> + +<p>“A Company Runner? What is that? Not runner away, +I hope?”</p> + +<p>And Mr. Tubbe laughed silently, nodding his head up +and down in appreciation of his jest. Winterbourne did not +smile.</p> + +<p>“Well, it might be under some circumstances, if you knew +which way to run.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, but our men are so splendid, so splendid, so unlike +the Germans, you know. Haven’t you found the Germans +mean-spirited? They have to be chained to their machine-guns, +you know.”</p> + +<p>“I hadn’t observed it. In fact, they’re fighting with wonderful +courage and persistence. It’s not much of a compliment +to our men to suggest otherwise, is it? We haven’t +managed to shift ’em far yet.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, but you must not allow your own labours to distort +your perspective. The Navy is the important arm in the +War, that and the marvelous home organization, of which +you, of course, can know nothing.”</p> + +<p>“Of course, but still....”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p363">[363]</span></p> +<p>Mr. Tubbe rose to move away:</p> + +<p>“Delighted to have seen you, my dear Winterbourne. +And thank you for all your interesting news from the Front. +<i>Most</i> stimulating. <i>Most</i> stimulating.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne signed to his wife to go, but she ignored +the signal, and went on talking earnestly and attentively +with Reggie Burnside. He drank another glass of wine, and +stretched his legs. His heavy hobnailed boots came in contact +with the shins of the man opposite.</p> + +<p>“Sorry. Hope I didn’t hurt you. Sorry to be so clumsy.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, not at all, nothing, nothing,” said the man, rubbing +his bruised shin with a look of furious anguish. Elizabeth +frowned at Winterbourne, and leaned across to get the bottle. +He grabbed it first, poured himself another glass, and +then gave it to her. She looked angry at his rudeness. +He felt pleasantly drunk, and cared not a damn for any +one.</p> + +<p>Coming home in the taxi she reproved him with gentle +dignity for drinking too much.</p> + +<p>“Remember, dear, you’re not with a lot of rough soldiers +now. And, please forgive me for mentioning it, but your +hands and fingers are terribly dirty—did you forget to +wash them? And you were rather rude to everybody.”</p> + +<p>He was silent, staring listlessly out the taxi-cab window. +She sighed, and slightly shrugged her shoulders. They did +not sleep together that night.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Next morning at breakfast they were both pre-occupied +and silent. Suddenly George emerged from his reverie:</p> + +<p>“I say, what’s happened to Fanny? She’s not out of town, +is she?”</p> + +<p>“No, I don’t think so.”</p> + +<p>“Why wasn’t she at dinner with us last night?”</p> + +<p>“I didn’t ask her.”</p> + +<p>“You didn’t ask her! Why ever not?”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth looked annoyed at the question, but tried to +pass it off lightly.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p364">[364]</span></p> +<p>“I don’t see much of her now—Fanny’s so popular, you +know.”</p> + +<p>“But why don’t you see her?” Winterbourne pursued +clumsily. “Is anything wrong?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t see her because I don’t choose to,” replied Elizabeth +tartly and decisively.</p> + +<p>He made no reply. So, owing to him there was fixed enmity +between Fanny and Elizabeth! His mood of depression +deepened, and he went to his room. He picked a book from +the shelves at random and opened it—De Quincey’s “Murder +Considered as One of the Fine Arts.” He had entirely +forgotten the existence of that piece of macabre irony, and +gazed stupidly at the large-type title. Murder Considered +as One of the Fine Arts. How damned appropriate. He put +it down and began to look over his painting materials. +Elizabeth had taken his sketching blocks and paper and +all his unused canvases except one. The tubes of paint had +gone hard and dry, and his palette was covered with +shrunken hard blobs of paint just as he had left it fifteen +months before. He carefully cleaned it, as if he might be +sent before his Company officer under the charge of having +a dirty palette.</p> + +<p>He turned up some of his old sketches and looked through +them. Could it be that he had composed them? They were +undoubtedly signed “G. Winterbourne.” He looked at them +critically, and then slowly tore them up, threw them in the +empty fire-grate, struck a match and set fire to them. He +watched the paper curl up under the creeping flame, glow +dull red, and shrink to black fragile ash. Numbers of his +canvases were stacked in little neat piles against the wall. +He ran through them rapidly, letting them fall back into +place as if they had been cards. He paused when he came +upon a forgotten portrait of himself. Had he painted that? +Yes, it was signed with his name. Now, when and where +had he done it? He held the small canvas in his hands, +gazing intently at it with a prodigious effort of memory, +but simply could not remember anything about it. The +<span class="pagenum" id="p365">[365]</span>picture was undated, and he could not even remember in +which year he had done it. He deliberately put his foot +through it, tore away the strips of canvas from the frame +and burned them. It was the only portrait of him in existence, +since he had always refused to be photographed.</p> + +<p>In the line they had been forbidden to keep diaries or to +make sketches, since either might be of use to the enemy if +they got possession of them. He shut his eyes. In a flash he +saw vividly the ruined village, the road leading to M——, +the broken desecrated ground, the long slag-hill, and heard +the “claaang” of the heavies dropping reverberantly into +M——. He went to Elizabeth’s room to get a sheet of paper +and a soft pencil to make a sketch of the scene. She had +gone out. As he rummaged at her table, he turned over and +could not help seeing the first lines of a letter in a handwriting +unknown to him. The date was that of the day on +which he had returned to England, and the words he could +not help seeing were: “Darling, What a bore, as you say! +Never mind, the visitation can’t last long and....” Winterbourne +hastily covered the letter up to avoid reading +any more.</p> + +<p>He went back to his room with paper and pencil, and +began to sketch. He was astonished to find that his hand, +once as steady as the table itself, shook very slightly but +perceptibly. The drink last night, or shell-shock? He persisted +with his sketch, but the whole thing went wrong. He +got tired of blocking lines in, and irritatedly rubbing them +out. And yet that scene existed so vividly in his memory +and he could see exactly how it could be formalized +into an effective pattern. But his hand and brain failed +him—he had even forgotten how to draw rapidly and accurately.</p> + +<p>He dropped the pencil and rubber on the half-erased +sketch and went back to Elizabeth’s room. She was still out. +The room was very quiet and sunny. The old orange-striped +curtains had gone and were replaced by long ample curtains +of thick green serge, to comply with the regulations about +<span class="pagenum" id="p366">[366]</span>lights. There were summer flowers in the large blue bowl, +and fruit on the beautiful Spanish plate. He remembered +how the wasp had come through the window like a tiny +Fokker plane, almost exactly three years ago. To his surprise +he felt a lump in his throat and tears coming to his +eyes.</p> + +<p>A church clock outside chimed three quarters. He looked +at his wrist watch—a quarter to one. Better go somewhere +and have lunch. He dropped into the first Lyons Restaurant +he came to. The waitress asked if he would like cold corned +beef—thanks, he’d had enough bully beef for the time +being. After lunch, he rang up Fanny’s flat, but got no +reply. He walked in her direction, strolling, to give her +time to return home. She was not in. He scribbled a note, +asking her to meet him as soon as she could, and then took +a bus back to Chelsea, lay down on his bed and fell asleep. +Elizabeth came into the room about six and tip-toed out. +At seven she woke him. He started up, fully awake at once, +mechanically grabbing for his rifle.</p> + +<p>“What’s up?”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth was startled by this sudden leap awake, and he +had unconsciously jostled her roughly as she bent over him.</p> + +<p>“I’m so sorry. How you started! I didn’t mean to <i>frighten</i> +you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, it’s all right. I wasn’t frightened—used to jumping +up in a hurry, you know. What time is it?”</p> + +<p>“Seven.”</p> + +<p>“Good Lord, I wonder what made me sleep that long!”</p> + +<p>“I came to know if you’d dine with me and Reggie +to-night.”</p> + +<p>“Is he coming here afterwards?”</p> + +<p>“Of course not.”</p> + +<p>“I think I’ll have dinner with Fanny.”</p> + +<p>“All right, just as you please.”</p> + +<p>“Can I have the other key to the flat?”</p> + +<p>Elizabeth lied:</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p367">[367]</span></p> +<p>“I’m afraid it’s lost. But I’ll leave the door unlocked as +I did to-day.”</p> + +<p>“All right. Thanks.”</p> + +<p>“Au revoir.”</p> + +<p>“Au revoir.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Winterbourne washed, and worked desperately hard with +a nail brush to get out the dirt deeply and apparently ineradicably +engrained in his roughened hands. He got a little +more off, but his fingers were still striated with lines of dirt +which made them look coarse and horrible. He rang Fanny +up from a call-box.</p> + +<p>“Hullo. That you, Fanny? George speaking.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Darling!</i> How are you? When did you get back?”</p> + +<p>“Two or three days ago. Didn’t you get my letter?”</p> + +<p>Fanny lied:</p> + +<p>“I’ve been away, and only found it when I got back just +now.”</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t matter. Listen, will you dine with me to-night?”</p> + +<p>“Darling, I’m <i>so</i> sorry, but I simply can’t. I’ve an appointment +I simply must keep. <i>Such</i> a bore!”</p> + +<p>Such a bore, as you say! Never mind, the visitation can’t +last long, and....</p> + +<p>“It doesn’t matter, darling. When can we meet?”</p> + +<p>“Just a moment, let me look at my memorandum book.”</p> + +<p>A brief silence. He could hear a faint voice from another +line crossing his: “My God, you say he’s killed! And he +only went back last week!”</p> + +<p>Fanny’s voice again.</p> + +<p>“Hullo? Are you there, George.”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“To-day’s Wednesday. I’m awfully busy for some reason +this week. Can you see me on Saturday for dinner?”</p> + +<p>“Must it be as late as Saturday? I’ve only a fortnight, +you know.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p368">[368]</span></p> +<p>“Well, you can make it lunch on Friday, if you prefer. +I’m lunching with somebody, but you can come along. It’d +be nicer to dine alone together, though, wouldn’t it?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, of course. Saturday then. What time?”</p> + +<p>“Seven-thirty, the usual place.”</p> + +<p>“All right.”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, darling.”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, Fanny dear.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>He dined alone and then went to a Circassian Café, +which he had been told was the new haunt of the intelligentsia. +It was very crowded, but he knew nobody there. +He found a seat, and sat by himself. Opposite him at a +couple of tables was a brilliant bevy of elegant young +homosexuals, two of them in Staff Officers’ uniforms. They +paid no attention to him, after a first supercilious stare, +followed by a sneer. He felt uneasy, and wondered if he +ought to be there in his Tommy’s uniform. Perhaps the +Café was out of bounds. He paid for his coffee and left. +After wandering about the streets for a time, he dropped +into a pub in the Charing Cross road, and stood beside a +couple of Tommies drinking beer. They were home-service +N.C.O.’s, instructors he gathered from their conversation, +which was all about some petty way in which they had +scored off an officer who did not know his drill. Winterbourne +thought he would stand them a drink and get into +talk with them, but his eye fell on a notice which forbade +“Treating.” He paid and left.</p> + +<p>He dropped into a music-hall. There were numbers of +war songs, very patriotic, and patriotic war scenes with the +women dressed in the flags of the Allied nations. All references +to the superiority of the Allies and the inferiority of +the Germans were heartily applauded. A particularly witty +scene showed a Tommy capturing several Germans by attracting +them with a sausage tied to the end of his bayonet. +A chorus of girls in red pre-war military tunics sang a song +about how all the girls love Tommy, kicking up their +<span class="pagenum" id="p369">[369]</span>trousered legs in unison, and saluting very much out of +unison. There was a Grand Finale of Victory to the tune of:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“When we’ve wound up the watch on the Rhine,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Everything will be Potsdamn fine.”</div></div> +</div></div> + +<p>At the end of the performance the orchestra played “God +Save the King.” Winterbourne stood rigidly to attention +with the other soldiers in the audience.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Eleven o’clock. He thought he would go and sleep at +his Club. The place was dimly lighted and empty, except +for three or four elderly men, who were earnestly discussing +what ought to have been done in the hand of Bridge +they had just played. There were notices everywhere urging +Members to be economical with light. The servants were +women except the Head Waiter, a pale little spectacled man +of forty-five, who informed Winterbourne that no Club bedrooms +were available. They had all been commandeered +for War purposes. Winterbourne found it odd to be addressed +as “Sir” again.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got me papers too, Sir,” said the Waiter, “expect to +be called up any day, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“What category are you?”</p> + +<p>“B1, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, you’ll be all right. Keep telling ’em you’re a skilled +Club Steward and you’ll get an Officers’ Mess job.”</p> + +<p>“Do you really think so, Sir? My wife worries about me +something dreadful, Sir. She says she’s sure I’ll catch my +death of cold in the trenches. I’ve a very weak chest, Sir, +if you’ll pardon me mentionin’ it, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure they won’t send you out.”</p> + +<p>The little Waiter died of double pneumonia in a Base +Hospital early in 1918. The Club Committee made a grant +of ten pounds to his widow, and agreed that his name should +appear on the Club War Memorial.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne felt sleepless. He was so much accustomed +<span class="pagenum" id="p370">[370]</span>to being alert and awake at night and sleeping by day, that +he found a difficulty in breaking the habit. He spent the +night aimlessly wandering about the streets and sitting on +Embankment benches. He noticed that there were very few +occupants of the benches—the War found work for every +one. Odd, he reflected, that in War-time the country could +spend five million pounds sterling a day in trying to kill +Germans, and that in peace-time it couldn’t afford five million +a year to attack its own destitution. Policemen spoke +to him twice, quite decently, under the impression that he +was a leave-man without a bed. He tried to explain. One of +them was very fatherly:</p> + +<p>“You take my advice, my boy, and go to the Y.M.C.A. +They’ll give yer a bed cheap. I’ve got a boy your age in +the trenches meself. Now, say you was my boy. I wouldn’t +’ave ’im goin’ with none of these London street women. +’E’s a good boy, ’e is. An’ they’ve treated ’im cruel, they +’ave. ’E’s been in France nearly two year, and never ’ad any +leave.”</p> + +<p>“No leave in nearly two years! How extraordinary!”</p> + +<p>“No, not even after ’e was in Orspital.”</p> + +<p>“What was he in Hospital with?”</p> + +<p>“’E wrote us it was pneumonia, but we believe ’e was +wounded and didn’t want to fret us, because he wrote +afterwards it was pleurisy.”</p> + +<p>“Do you happen to know the number of his Base Hospital?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Number XP.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne smiled sadly and cynically; he knew that +was a Venereal Disease Hospital. Pay was stopped while +a man was under treatment, and he lost his right to Leave +for a year. Winterbourne determined not to undeceive the +policeman.</p> + +<p>“How long is it since he came out of hospital?”</p> + +<p>“Ten months or more.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, well, he’ll certainly get leave before Christmas.”</p> + +<p>“D’you think so? Reely? ’E’s such a good boy, good-lookin’ +<span class="pagenum" id="p371">[371]</span>and well set-up. P’raps you’ll see ’im when you go +back. Tom Jones. Gunner Tom Jones.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne smiled again at the thought of looking for +Tom Jones in the swarming and scattered thousands of the +Artillery. But he said:</p> + +<p>“If I meet him, I’ll tell him how much you’re looking +forward to seeing him.”</p> + +<p>He pressed half-a-crown in the policeman’s hand, to drink +the health of Tom and himself. The policeman touched +his helmet and called him “Sir.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>He had breakfast at a Lockhart’s—kippers and tea—and +washed in an underground lavatory. He got back to the +flat about ten. Unthinkingly he went into Elizabeth’s room. +She and Reggie were having breakfast in dressing gowns. +Winterbourne apologized almost abjectly, and went to his +own room. He threw off the boots from his aching feet and +lay down clothed. In ten minutes he was fast asleep.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The meeting with Fanny was somehow a failure. She was +extremely gay and pretty and well-dressed and charming, +and talked cheerily at first, and then valiantly against his +awkward silences. Winterbourne did not know why he felt +so awkward and silent. He seemed to have nothing to say +to Fanny, and his mind appeared to have become sluggish—he +missed half her witty sayings and clever allusions. It +was like being up for oral examination, and continually +making silly mistakes. Yet he was very fond of Fanny, very +fond of her, just as he was very fond of Elizabeth. And yet +he seemed to have so little to say to them, and found it so +hard to follow their careless intellectual chatter. He had +tried to tell Elizabeth some of his War experiences. Just +as he was describing the gas bombardments and the awful +look on the faces of men gassed, he noticed her delicate +mouth was wried by a suppressed yawn. He stopped +abruptly, and tried to talk of something else. Fanny was +sympathetic, but he could see he was boring her, too. Of +<span class="pagenum" id="p372">[372]</span>course, he was boring her. She and other people got more +than enough of the war from the newspapers and everything +about them; they wanted to forget it, of course, they wanted +to forget it. And there was he, dumb and dreary and khakied, +only awaking to any appearance of animation when +he talked of the line after drinking a good deal.</p> + +<p>He took Fanny home in a taxi, and held her hand, gazing +silently in front of him. At the door of her flat, he kissed +her:</p> + +<p>“Good-night, Fanny dearest. Thank you so much for having +dinner with me.”</p> + +<p>“Aren’t you coming in?”</p> + +<p>“Not to-night, dear. I’m dreadfully sleepy—bit tired, you +know.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, all right. Good-night.”</p> + +<p>“Good-night, darl—”</p> + +<p>The last syllable was cut off by the sharp closing of the +flat door.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne walked back to Chelsea. The street lamps +were very dim. For the first time in his life he saw the +stars plainly above Piccadilly. In the King’s Road he heard +the warning bugles for an air raid. He got into bed, extinguished +the light, and lay there listening, wide awake. +To his shame he found the shell-fear came back as the +Archies opened up, and he started each time he heard the +thud of a bomb. They came closer and one crashed in the +next street. He found he was sweating.</p> + +<p>Elizabeth did not get back until three. Reggie and she +had taken shelter in the Piccadilly Hotel. Winterbourne +was still awake when she came in, but did not call to her.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>His leave came to an end, and he spent five weeks of +vague routine at his Depot. He hated coming back to barrack-room +life, and did not like the men he was with. +They were all Expeditionary men, but strangely different +from what they were in the line. Most of the comradeship +had gone; they were selfish, rather malicious to each other, +<span class="pagenum" id="p373">[373]</span>and servilely flattered the N.C.O.’s who could get them +passes. They seemed to think about nothing except getting +passes out, so that they could meet girls or go to pubs. +They grumbled ceaselessly. Some of them occasionally told +hair-raising War stories, which Winterbourne thought quite +probable, though he refused to accept their evidence as conclusive. +He always remembered one story, or rather episode, +related by a Sergeant in the Light Infantry:</p> + +<p>“We ’ad a bloody awful time on the Somme. I shan’t forget +some of the things I saw there.”</p> + +<p>“What things?” asked Winterbourne.</p> + +<p>“Well, one of our orfficers laid out there wounded, and +we see a German run up with one of those stick bombs, pull +the string and stick it under the orfficer’s head. ’E was +wounded in both arms, and couldn’t move. So ’e ’ad five +seconds waitin’ for his ’ead to be blowed off by that bomb +sizzlin’ under ’is ear. We ’adn’t time to get to ’im. Some +one shot the German and then some o’ our chaps picked +up a wounded German orfficer and threw ’im alive into a +burning ammunition dump. ’E screamed something ’orrible.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>From the depot he was sent to the Officers’ Training +Camp with two days’ leave. He managed to get Fanny and +Elizabeth to meet, and had lunch with them on the day he +left. They both saw him off from Waterloo, and then parted +outside the station.</p> + +<p>The months of dreary Training in the cold dreary camp +dragged by. He had two days’ Leave in the middle of the +course, then “passed out” as an officer, and was sent on +Leave again, with orders to wait until he received official +notice of his appointment.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Elizabeth and Fanny both admired the cut and material +of his cadet’s uniform, which was exactly like an officer’s +except that it bore no badges of rank and that he did not +wear the shoulder-strap of his Sam Browne belt. He looked +<span class="pagenum" id="p374">[374]</span>ever so much smarter in his new officer’s clothes, with the +little blue chevron, marking service over seas, sewed on his +left sleeve. They both quite took to him again, and during +his month’s Leave gave him a good time. Fanny thought +him still an excellent lover. Only, instead of gay and amusing +talk “in between,” he sat heavily silent, or drank and +talked about that boring awful War. It was such a pity—he +used to be such a charming companion.</p> + +<p>This Leave came to an end too. He was gazetted, and went +to his new regimental Depot, situated in wooden huts on a +desolate heath in the North of England, a place swept by +rain and wind and deadeningly chill in the wet winter days. +The other officers were sharply divided into two sections or +sects. Wounded survivors from the early days of the War, +now on Permanent Home Service; and the newly gazetted +officers, with a sprinkling of wounded on Temporary Home +Service. They ate in one large mess room, but had two +common rooms, which seemed to be tacitly reserved for +each of the two groups, who scarcely ever mingled. Only +the cadets from Sandhurst were admitted into the more +exclusive room.</p> + +<p>There was very little to do—parading with the Company, +inspection, a little drill, Orderly Officer occasionally. There +were so many new officers waiting to go overseas that the +quarters were uncomfortably crowded, and there seemed to +be almost as many officers as men on parade. He got the +impression that Infantry subalterns were cheap as stinking +fish.</p> + +<p>At last he got his orders to proceed overseas—France +again, though he had hoped for Egypt or Salonika. He had +two more days of Leave and a quarrel with Elizabeth, who +found him writing a loving note to Fanny on the morning +he arrived. He went off in dudgeon and spent the time with +Fanny. He saw Elizabeth again on the afternoon of the +day before he left and patched matters up with her. She +was now furiously jealous of his spending nights with +Fanny, but “forgave” him. She said that the War had affected +<span class="pagenum" id="p375">[375]</span>his mind so much that he did not know what he was +doing, and anyway as he was going out again at once, they +might as well be friends. They kissed, and he went off to +keep a dinner engagement with Fanny.</p> + +<p>His train left at seven the next morning. He got up at +five-thirty, and kissed Fanny, who woke up and sleepily offered +to get him coffee. But he made her lie still, dressed +hastily, made himself some coffee, found he could not eat +anything, and went back to the bedroom. Fanny had fallen +asleep again. He kissed her very tenderly and gently, not +to wake her; and softly let himself out of the flat. He had +difficulty in finding a taxi, and was horribly worried lest +he should miss his train and be suspected of over-staying +Leave. He got to the platform one minute before the train +started. There was no porter to carry his large valise, but +he managed to get into a carriage just as the train started. +It was a Pullman, so crowded with officers that he hadn’t +room to sit down, and had to stand all the way to Dover. +Most of them had newspapers. The news of the crushing +defeat of the Fifth Army was just coming through. They +were being sent out to replace losses. He thought of something +which had happened the night before....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Fanny had insisted on his coming with her for a couple +of hours to a party of the intelligentsia given by some one +with chambers near the Temple. As they passed Charing +Cross station, Winterbourne bumped into a man from his +own Company who had just arrived by the Leave train.</p> + +<p>“Go on with the others, Fanny dear. I’ll catch you up. +Anyway, I’ve got the address.”</p> + +<p>He turned to Corporal Hobbs, and said:</p> + +<p>“Are you still with the old lot?”</p> + +<p>“No, I left ’em in November. Got trench feet at Ypres. +I was supposed to be court-martialled, but that was washed +out. I’ve got a job at the Base now.”</p> + +<p>“You’re lucky.”</p> + +<p>“You’ve heard the news, I s’pose?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p376">[376]</span></p> +<p>“No, what?”</p> + +<p>“Well, we heard there’s a big surprise attack on the +Somme. We’re retiring, and our old Division is s’posed to +have copped it badly, smashed to pieces, the R.T.O. said.”</p> + +<p>“Good God!”</p> + +<p>“I think it must be true. All Leaves stopped. I just managed +to get away before the order came. There were only +about ten men on the boat. Lucky for me I went down +early.”</p> + +<p>“Well, so long, old man.”</p> + +<p>“I see you’re an officer now.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I’m just going out again.”</p> + +<p>“Best of luck to you.”</p> + +<p>“Best of luck.”</p> + +<p>He found the man’s chambers. There were about ten +people present. Winterbourne knew some of them. They +had also heard the news of the battle through a man in +Whitehall and were discussing it.</p> + +<p>“It’s a bad defeat,” he said. “I’m told that the highest +authorities think it adds another year to the war and will +cost at least three hundred thousand men.”</p> + +<p>He said it carelessly, as if it were a matter of casual importance. +Winterbourne heard them constantly using the +phrase “three hundred thousand men,” as if they were cows +or pence or radishes. He walked up and down the large +room apart from the others, thinking, no longer listening to +their chatter. The phrase “Division smashed to pieces” rang +in his brain. He wanted to seize the people in the room, the +people in authority, every one not directly in the war, and +shout to them: “Division smashed to pieces! Do you know +what that means? You must stop it, you’ve got to stop it! +Division smashed to pieces!...”</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><p><span class="pagenum" id="p377">[377]</span></p> + + + +<h3>[ XIII ]</h3> + + +<p>Winterbourne listened intently. Yes, it was! +He turned to his Runner:</p> + +<p>“Did you hear that, Baker?”</p> + +<p>“Hear what, Sir?”</p> + +<p>“Listen.”</p> + +<p>A plane droned gently and distantly in the still air, and +then very faintly but distinctly:</p> + +<p><i>Claaang!</i></p> + +<p>“There! Did you hear it?”</p> + +<p>“No, Sir.”</p> + +<p>“It was one of the heavies falling into M——. You’ll +hear them soon enough. But come on, we must hurry. We’ve +a long way to go if we’re to get back before dark.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A year, almost to the day, after he had gone into M—— +for the first time, Winterbourne was returning to it as an +officer in command of a Company.</p> + +<p>From London he had proceeded direct to Etaples, where +he remained for several days under canvas on the sandy +slopes among the pines. Large numbers of officers were being +sent out, and they had to sleep four to a tent. Winterbourne +thought this a luxurious allotment of space, but the other +three subalterns, who had never been to France before, complained +that there was not enough room for their camp-beds +and that they had to sleep in their flea-bags. Winterbourne +had not troubled to bring a camp-bed, knowing how +few opportunities there would be to use it.</p> + +<p>There was very little to do in Etaples, even with the more +extended opportunities of an officer. They messed in a large +draughty marquee, but there was a camp cinema where he +spent part of each evening. There were numbers of Waacs +<span class="pagenum" id="p378">[378]</span>at the Base, and he noticed many of them were pregnant. +Apparently there was no attempt at concealment; but then +the birth-rate was declining rapidly in England, and babies +were urgently needed for the Next War. He observed that +the cemetery had doubled in size since he had last seen it +from the train a few months before. That Ypres offensive +must have been very costly. Such acres of wooden crosses, +the old ones already battered and weather-stained, the new +ones steadily gaining on the dunes. And now there was this +smashing defeat on the Somme. Haig had issued his back +to the wall Order, there was unity of Allied Command under +Foch, and America had been frantically petitioned to send +reinforcements immediately. And still the front daily yielded +under the pressure of repeated German attacks. It looked +like being a longer War than ever.</p> + +<p>At Etaples he was allotted to the 2/9 Battalion of the +Foddershires, and left to join them with about fifteen other +subalterns, most of whom had never been in the line. He +found the Battalion on rest in a small village about twenty +miles behind M——. They belonged to one of the Divisions +which had been smashed to pieces, and the battalion had +suffered severely, losing most of its officers (including the +Colonel) and the greater part of its effectives. The new +Colonel was an ex-Regular Corporal who had obtained a +commission early in the War, and by dexterity and martinet +methods had risen to the rank of acting Lieutenant-Colonel. +He was not a fighting soldier, but an expert trainer. He had +the bullying manner of the barrack-square drill instructor, +and his method of “training” was to harass every officer +and man under his command from morning to night. After +a week’s “rest” under this commander, Winterbourne felt +nearly as tired as if he had been in the line. The subalterns +who had never been under fire were exhausted and dismayed.</p> + +<p>However, it must in justice be admitted that Colonel +Straker was faced with appalling difficulties, and Winterbourne +would have sympathized with the man if he had not +<span class="pagenum" id="p379">[379]</span>so obviously been trying to push his own professional career +in the Army at the expense of every one he commanded. +The old battalion was a wreck. It had four of its officers +left, one of whom was the Adjutant; a few of its old +N.C.O.’s and a sprinkling of men were there; mostly signallers +and headquarters men. Not a single one of the Lewis +Gunners remained. Two Companies had been captured, and +the remainder had fought a way out with terrific losses. +The gaps had been filled chiefly by raw half-trained boys of +eighteen and a half, many of whom were scared stiff by +the mere thought of going into the trenches. To secure an +adequate number of N.C.O.’s, the Colonel had to promote +nearly every man who had any experience of the War, even +transport drivers who could scarcely write their names.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne had expected to go into the line at first as +a supernumerary officer under instruction, and to pick up his +duties by watching others and always going about with +them. To his dismay, but also a certain amount of flattered +vanity, he found himself immediately appointed as acting +commander of B Company. But it was inevitable. Several +of the new officers were mere boys, others volunteers from +the Army Service Corps—perfectly competent at their own +job but quite ignorant of trench warfare—and others again +were “keymen” from business houses, reluctantly yielded to +the “combings out” of 1917. Winterbourne had four subalterns +under him, Hutchinson, Cobbold, Paine, and Rushton. +They were all good fellows, but three of them had seen no +service whatever and the fourth had been in Egypt only.</p> + +<p>When Winterbourne inspected his company on the first +day, his heart sank within him. He felt it was monstrous +to send these scared-looking boys into the line without a +proper stiffening of more experienced men. It would have +been far better to spread them out. They cleaned their buttons +perfectly, drilled very neatly, turned right or left with +an imitation Guards stamp, and trembled when an officer +spoke to them. But they were mighty raw stuff for the job +ahead of them. Winterbourne thought of his own greenness +<span class="pagenum" id="p380">[380]</span>when he had first gone into the line, and his heart sank +lower as he thought of his own utter inexperience as an +officer. He had a very sketchy idea of how a Company was +run in the line. Of course, he had heard and carried orders, +and had been roughly schooled in Company organization—on +paper—at the Cadet School. But that was very different +from assuming the responsibility for a hundred and more +men, most of them frightened boys who had never seen any +but practice trenches and never heard a shell burst. Well, +the only thing was to carry on, and do his best....</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The Division was to take over part of the M—— sector, +from the Canadian Army. Winterbourne had to occupy part +of the Reserve line just to the left of M——. The four +Company commanders with their Runners were sent on +ahead in a lorry to reconnoitre the positions and arrange +details of “taking over.” The Colonel particularly impressed +upon Winterbourne the necessity for obtaining and carefully +reading the written instructions for defence which +would be with the Officer he was relieving.</p> + +<p>They were to have met Canadian guides at a given rendezvous, +but the guides were not there. Winterbourne, who +could have found his way to M—— in the blackest darkness, +and who had twenty times passed up and down the +trench he was to occupy, decided to push on. The other +three, mistrusting him, stayed. He set out with Baker, his +servant and runner. Owing to the shortage of men, the +officers’ servants had to act as runners, with the result that +they performed both jobs abominably. Baker had been +allotted to Winterbourne by the despotic Colonel, who interfered +in the minutest details and then held the Company +commander responsible for everything which went wrong. +Thus, he was in a position to take credit for every success +and push off the responsibility for failure on some one else.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne would certainly not have chosen Baker for +himself, and wondered what possible caprice of the Colonel +had forced the boy on him. He was a decent enough lad—a +<span class="pagenum" id="p381">[381]</span>milliner’s delivery boy—but timid, unintelligent and lazy. +Baker seemed to think that he had performed all his duties +as a Runner if he followed Winterbourne so closely that he +continually trod on his officer’s heels.</p> + +<p>They passed many places familiar to Winterbourne—the +cemetery (now much enlarged), the ruined village (now +still more ruined), the long slag-hill, Southampton Row. +Nothing had changed, except to become a little more desolate +and smashed. He noticed that several large shells had +fallen in the cemetery that morning or the night before, +digging up the graves violently, scattering bones and torn +blankets and broken crosses over the other graves. He +turned in for five minutes, and walked down the long row +containing the graves of his Pioneer companions. He stood +a couple of minutes at Thompson’s grave. A shell splinter +had knocked the cross crooked. He set it straight.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Winterbourne found the trench easily enough, and asked +the first Canadian sentry for Company Headquarters. The +man was leaning very negligently on the parapet, chewing +gum. Winterbourne, accustomed to perpetual “Sirring” and +heel-clicking and general servility, was almost shocked when +the man very casually jerked his thumb over his left shoulder +without saying a word, and returned thoughtfully to +his gum-chewing. He found the Company commander, a +Major, democratically sitting in the trench on a double-seated +latrine, talking humorously to one of his men. The +British always had separate latrines for officers.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne enjoyed this hugely, and liked the Canadians. +They at once invited him to whiskey high-balls and +bridge. He managed to evade this, and then explained his +own situation, asked for the written orders of defence and +to see all the positions. The Canadian officer stared and +said they had no written instructions.</p> + +<p>“Well, what do you do if you’re attacked?”</p> + +<p>“I guess you’d form a defensive flank—if they ever got +past the machine-gunners in M——.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p382">[382]</span></p> +<p>The Canadian officer walked Winterbourne round the +positions. He was bare-headed—strictly against orders—and +his men greeted him as he passed with friendly nods +and an occasional brief remark. Winterbourne noticed that +they did not wait for him to speak first and did not call him +“Sir.” He reflected with amusement that the Canadians +were easily the crack troops of the British armies, and +were sent into all the hardest fighting. And yet they didn’t +even say “Sir” to an officer!</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>This meeting with the Canadians was probably the last +piece of enjoyment or tranquillity that Winterbourne ever +had. From the moment he went back to his own Battalion +his life became one long harassed nightmare. He was +deluged with all sorts of documents requiring information +and statistics he was totally unable to furnish. The blunders, +the mistakes, the negligences of his inexperienced men +were legion, and all were visited upon him by the martinet +Colonel. For days and weeks he got scarcely any sleep and +never once even took his boots off. He had continually to be +up and down the trench, especially during the periodic six +days in the Front line, and even in Support. He spent hours +a day answering idiotic written questions brought by weary +Runners and trying to puzzle out minute and unnecessary +orders. He was always being told to report to Battalion +Headquarters, where he was savagely attacked and reprimanded +for the most piffling and unimportant errors. He +went on patrol himself, contrary to orders, to make sure +that at least one patrol a night was properly done—and +was severely reprimanded for that. The boys, suddenly +released from button-polishing and saluting and drill (which +they had been taught to consider all important) became +deplorably slack in important matters. They lost portions +of their equipment, dropped their ammunition, never knew +their orders as sentries, went to sleep on sentry duty, shivered +when ordered to go on patrol, cried when put in listening +posts in No Man’s Land, littered up the trench with +<span class="pagenum" id="p383">[383]</span>paper, bully beef tins and fragments of food, urinated in +the trenches, and “forgot” perpetually everything they were +told. While Winterbourne was at one end of his section of +trench, desperately and sweatingly trying to get some sort +of order and sense into them, others were committing all +sorts of military abominations at the other end. It was useless +to “take their names” for punishment, especially as +there aren’t many punishments as bad as being in the line. +One day he did exasperatedly make the Sergeant-Major +“Take their names” and by nightfall found he had collected +forty-two. Ludicrous. The N.C.O.’s gave the job up in +despair and let things drift.</p> + +<p>He found most of the recruits were hopelessly slow in +getting on their gas masks, and appeared to be in such a +state of hebetude that they did not realize that gas was +dangerous. They did preposterous things. They would, for +instance, entirely abandon a Lewis Gun post to get their +dinners. It was ten days before Winterbourne discovered +this. The subalterns had seen it, of course, but had not +known that they ought to report it. Winterbourne “ran” +the responsible N.C.O. as an example. He “ran” a boy for +sleeping on sentry duty, and then washed out the charge +when he reflected that the poor wretch might be shot for +so serious a military crime. His Front line positions were +an exhausting nightmare, too. His front was over five hundred +yards. He had an outpost line of four listening and +observation posts with a section in each. Three hundred +yards farther back he had his main defence line and his +own headquarters. Behind that he had various isolated +Lewis Gun positions. All these were imposed upon him in +spite of his protests. The defence scheme might be all very +well on paper, and might have worked out with experienced +troops, but it was hopeless under these peculiar circumstances. +He realized after a couple of nights in the Front +line that under any determined attack it would be impossible +for him to hold his positions for ten minutes. He urged +this on the Colonel, begging that the dispositions might +<span class="pagenum" id="p384">[384]</span>be temporarily revised and the men brought more closely +together under his own eyes. He was told that he was incompetent +and not fit to be a Lance-Corporal. Winterbourne +sarcastically replied that some people are born Corporals +and some are not. He offered to resign his command, and +was ordered to continue it under threat of immediate arrest +and court-martial for negligence and disobeying orders in +the face of the enemy. Knowing how easily a court-martial +can be “cooked,” Winterbourne unwillingly carried on.</p> + +<p>Most fortunately, he was not at first attacked, but he +lost several men. Two were wounded on a ration party, having +lost contact and wandered about half the night. One +was shot through the neck by a fixed rifle, although Winterbourne +had thrice ordered every N.C.O. to warn the men +about it. At Stand-to one morning, the Germans bombarded +them with mustard gas shells. Winterbourne had warned +them of the gas until he was sick of doing so. Two mustard +shells fell just outside the parapet of a fire-step with six +men on it. They ducked down when the shells burst and +then stood stupidly looking at the bright yellow shell-hole, +wondering what the funny smell was. Three of them were +gassed, and two died.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne spent most of each night plodding up and +down his immense area of trenches to see that every one +was at his post. After dawn one morning, instead of trying +to snatch an hour’s sleep, he went up to inspect his listening +posts, feeling an uneasy intuition about them. There were +four, about a hundred yards apart, isolated in what had +once been the Front line. At the third listening post, he +found six rifles leaning against the trench and no men. +They had been captured by a silent raiding party in broad +daylight! Probably all asleep. Winterbourne was furious, +sent his Runner back for another section, and remained on +guard himself. The Runner came back timidly after an +interminable time, and said the Sergeant wouldn’t come. +Winterbourne didn’t want the other posts to know that one +had been captured, fearing a panic. It was useless to leave +<span class="pagenum" id="p385">[385]</span>the Runner on guard; he would simply have waited until +Winterbourne’s back was turned and have run to the other +posts and spread an alarmist report. Winterbourne hurried +back, and found that the Runner had delivered such a +garbled and incoherent message that the Sergeant had been +utterly unable to understand, and had sent him back for +precise orders. Of course, the Colonel put all the responsibility +upon Winterbourne, and threatened him again with +a court-martial. Winterbourne protested and they had a +furious row; after which the Colonel re-doubled his persecutions. +When they went out for four days’ “rest” after their +first three weeks in the line Winterbourne felt more exhausted +and depressed than he would have believed possible. +He saw that the men got into their billets, after infinite +tramplings and shoutings in the darkness, and fell on to a +sacking bed. He slept for fourteen hours.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Of course, Winterbourne had taken all this far too tragically +and responsibly. The situation happened to be one +which most disastrously fed his “worry” neurosis. A bitterly +humorous destiny seemed intentionally to involve him in +circumstances which rent his mind to pieces and exhausted +his body—unnecessarily. It was a misfortune, due possibly +to the fact that the initial of his name made him come towards +the end of a list, that he was sent to a battalion so +raggedly composed and so naggingly commanded. We passed +out almost together at the Cadet School, but where everything +ran comparatively easily and smoothly for me, all +went wrong with him. He brooded incessantly and saw all +things in terms of the bleakest despair—the collapse of his +own life, his present situation, the continued retirement of +the Allied Armies which seemed to promise an indefinite +continuation of the War, his feeling that even if he came +out alive he would never be able to re-build his life. It was +unlucky to go straight back to M——, which had such +tragic associations for him and made it doubly hard to +repress shell-shocked nerves. His state of mind, what with +<span class="pagenum" id="p386">[386]</span>sleeplessness and worry and shock and ague, which came +back as soon as he was in the line again, and physical exhaustion +and inhibited fear, almost fringed dementia, and +he would have collapsed but for his strength of will and +pride. But he was a wrecked man, swept along in the swirling +cataracts of the War.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The days passed into weeks, the weeks into months. He +moved through impressions like a man hallucinated. And +every incident seemed to beat on his brain, Death, Death, +Death. All the decay and death of battle fields entered his +blood and seemed to poison him. He lived among smashed +bodies and human remains in an infernal cemetery. If he +scratched his stick idly and nervously in the side of a trench +he pulled out human ribs. He ordered a new latrine to be +dug out from the trench, and thrice the digging had to be +abandoned because they came upon terrible black masses +of decomposing bodies. At dawn one morning when it was +misty he walked over the top of Hill 91, where probably +nobody had been by day since its capture. The heavy mist +brooded about him in a strange stillness. Scarcely a sound +on their immediate front, though from north and south +came the vibration of furious drum-fire. The ground was a +desert of shell-holes and torn rusty wire, and everywhere +lay skeletons in steel helmets still clothed in the rags of +sodden khaki or field grey. Here a fleshless hand still +clutched a broken rusty rifle, there a gaping decaying boot +showed the thin knotty foot-bones. He came on a skeleton +violently dismembered by a shell explosion; the skull was +split open and the teeth lay scattered on the bare chalk; +the force of the explosion had driven coins and a metal +pencil right into the hip-bones and femurs. In a concrete +pill-box three German skeletons lay across their machine-gun +with its silent nozzle still pointing at the loop hole. +They had been attacked from the rear with phosphorous +grenades, which burn their way into the flesh and for which +there is no possible remedy. A shrunken leather strap still +<span class="pagenum" id="p387">[387]</span>held a battered wrist-watch on a fleshless wrist-bone. Alone +in the white curling mist, drifting slowly past like wraiths +of the slain, with the far-off thunder of drum-fire beating the +air, Winterbourne stood in frozen silence and contemplated +the last achievements of civilized man.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A raiding party was sent out from his front. He watched +the box barrage from the front line. The Germans filled +the night with Verey lights and coloured rockets. Their artillery +and trench-mortars and machine-guns retaliated +fiercely. Smoke and gas drifted across. After interminable +waiting the officer and three of the men staggered back, +bleeding, blackened with smoke, their clothes torn to pieces +on the wire. The raid had failed.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A Company of Gas Experts came up from the Base, and +sent over some thousands of Stokes mortars loaded with +a heavy concentration of poison gas. As soon as the last +mortar was fired they were in a fearful hurry to get away. +The German artillery retaliation smashed their trenches. +Next morning, Winterbourne watched through glasses the +Germans carrying out their dead on stretchers.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>A British airplane fell in No Man’s Land. Winterbourne +saw the pilot, who was still alive, struggle to get out from +the wreckage. An enemy machine-gun was turned on him, +and he fell limp across the side of the cock-pit. The plane +was smashed to pieces by British heavies to prevent the +Germans from obtaining the model.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They shifted to another part of the line. The Company +was out in No Man’s Land in the darkness strengthening +their shattered wire against a threatened attack. Suddenly +from half a mile of German front leaped a line of flame. +There was a whistling roar of projectiles, and a thousand +gas containers crashed to the ground all about them. Men +were killed outright by direct hits, and wounded by pieces of +<span class="pagenum" id="p388">[388]</span>flying metal. Every man who took more than two breaths +of the deadly concentration was doomed. All that night and +far into the misty dawn the stretchers went down the communication +trench carrying inert figures with horrible foam +on their mouths.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The German attacks spent their force, and the huge +Allied counter-attacks began. The starving German armies +were hurled back to the Hindenburg Line, their impregnable +defence. The Canadians miraculously stormed the Drocourt-Quéant +switch line.</p> + +<p>Winterbourne was back on the Somme, that incredible +desert, pursuing the retreating enemy. They came up the +Bapaume-Cambrai road by night, and bivouacked in holes +scratched with entrenching tools in the side of a sandy bank. +The wrecked country-side in the pale moonlight was a frigid +and motionless image of Death. They spoke in whispers, +awed by the immensity of desolation. By day the whole +landscape was covered with the débris left by the broken +German armies. Smashed tanks, guns with their wheels +broken, stood out like fixed wrecks in the unmoving ocean +of shell-holes. The whole earth seemed a litter of overcoats, +shaggy leather packs, rifles, water-bottles, gas masks, steel +helmets, bombs, entrenching tools, cast away in the panic +of flight. By night, the sky glowed with the flames of burning +Cambrai, with the black hump of Bourlon Hill silhouetted +against them.</p> + +<p>They drove the Germans from Cambrai, and pressed on +from village to village, constantly shelled and harassed by +machine-gun fire from their rear-guard. The German machine-gunners, +fragments of the magnificent armies of the +early War years, died at their posts. The demoralized German +Infantry surrendered wholesale.</p> + +<p>For three days in succession Winterbourne’s Company +formed the advance guard, and he led it in the darkness +over unknown ground by compass bearing in a kind of dazed +delirium. Pressing on through falling shells in the blank +<span class="pagenum" id="p389">[389]</span>night, with the ever present dread of falling into a machine-gun +ambush, became an agony. They fought their way into +inhabited villages which had been held by the Germans for +over four years. The terrified people crouched in cellars or +ran distractedly into the fields. They took the village of +F——, after a brief but fierce bombardment, an hour after +dawn. The roads leading in and out were encumbered with +dead Germans, smashed transport, the contorted bodies of +dead horses. Dead German soldiers lay about the village +street, which was cluttered with fallen tiles and bricks. In +a garden a war-demented peasant was digging a grave to +bury his wife, who had been killed by a shell-burst. In the +ruined village school Winterbourne picked up a book—it +was Pascal’s “Thoughts on Christianity.”</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Part of Cambrai had been levelled to the ground in 1914, +and stood a melancholy monument of neatly-piled wreckage. +Part of the remainder was burned. In the undestroyed +streets many houses had been looted. The furniture had +been smashed, pictures and photographs torn from the +walls, cushions ripped open with bayonets, curtains slashed +down, carpets gashed into rags. The whole mass of desecrated +objects had been flung into the centre of the floor, +after which the Germans had urinated and dropped their +excrement upon it. Winterbourne gazed into a dozen houses +which had been treated in this way. The villages beyond +Cambrai had not been sacked, but were utterly filthy and +swarming with buzzing legions of flies. Isolated cottages +had sometimes been completely gutted of their contents. +In one place Winterbourne found an emaciated French +woman and two starved children living in a cottage with +nothing but straw—literally nothing but straw in the place. +He gave them his iron rations and twenty francs. The +woman took them with a dull hopelessness.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They were approaching the Belgian border. On the evening +of the 3rd of November Winterbourne with about +<span class="pagenum" id="p390">[390]</span>twenty men rushed into the village of K——, just as the +Germans hastily retreated from the other end. He had been +ordered to occupy the place if possible, and to arrange +billets. He lodged his Company, placed guards and pickets +and then went through the cellars. The Germans were experts +in placing booby-traps which would explode if carelessly +moved, and Winterbourne did not know whether +there might not be men concealed in the cellars to take +them unawares. He went down into cellar after cellar with +his electric torch, and was soon re-assured. The Germans +had fled in such haste that they had left their rifles and +equipment in several cellars. The floors were strewn with +straw. On a table he found a half-finished letter, abandoned +in the middle of a sentence. In another a large black dog +lay dead—its owner had killed it with a bullet rather than +leave it to possible ill-treatment.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>The Colonel explained the dispositions for the coming +battle over a map. The conference of officers took notes of +the orders which were very elaborate, but precise and clear. +It was nearly half-past three when they had finished, and +zero hour was six-thirty. Winterbourne had been on foot +since five the morning before. His eyes smarted with lack of +sleep, and his mind was so dulled that he could scarcely +comprehend and write down his orders. He misspelled words +as he scrawled down notes in shaking deformed handwriting. +He puzzled a long time over map-references, and +irritated the Colonel by repeatedly asking questions.</p> + +<p>They had an hour before they moved out to their battle +positions. The other officers hurried away to snatch an +hour’s sleep. Winterbourne felt utterly sleepy, but quite +unable to sleep. The thought of another battle, even with +the dispirited and defeated German rear-guard, filled him +with shrinking dread. How face another barrage? He tried +to write letters to Fanny and Elizabeth, but his mind kept +wandering away and he could not collect his thoughts sufficiently +to string together a few banal sentences. He sat +<span class="pagenum" id="p391">[391]</span>on a chair brought him by his servant, with his head in +his hands, staring at the straw and the dead black dog. He +had only one thought—peace. He must at least have peace. +He was at the very end of his endurance, had used up the +last fraction of his energy and strength. He wished he was +one of the skeletons lying on Hill 91, an anonymous body +among the corpses lying outside in the street. He had not +even the courage to shoot himself with his revolver; and +added that last grain of self-contempt to his despair.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>They assembled by platoons in the village street, and each +officer marched off in silence to his allotted position. Winterbourne +followed with his little knot of Company Headquarters, +and saw that each platoon was in its proper place. +He shook hands with each officer.</p> + +<p>“Quite sure about your orders and objective?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, make it au revoir.”</p> + +<p>“Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>Winterbourne returned to his own position and waited. +He looked at his luminous wrist-watch. Six twenty-five. +Five minutes to zero hour. The cold November night was +utterly silent. Thousands of men and hundreds of guns +were facing each other on the verge of battle, and there +seemed not a sound. He listened. Nothing. His Runner +whispered something to a signaller, who whispered a reply. +Three more minutes. Silence. He could feel the beating of +his heart, more rapid than the tick of seconds as he held his +watch to his ear.</p> + +<p>CRASH! Like an orchestra at the signal of a baton the +thousands of guns north and south opened up. The night +sprang to flickering day-light with the gun-flashes, the earth +trembled with the shock, the air roared and screamed with +shells. Lights rushed up from the German line, and their +artillery in turn flamed into action. Winterbourne could +just see a couple of his sections advancing as he started off +<span class="pagenum" id="p392">[392]</span>himself, and then everything was blotted out in a confusion +of smoke and bursting shells. He saw his Runner stagger +and fall as a shell burst between them; then his Corporal +disappeared, blown to pieces by a direct hit. He came to a +sunken road, and lay on the verge, trying to see what was +happening in the faint light of dawn. He saw only smoke; +and pushed on. Suddenly German helmets were all round +him. He clutched at his revolver. Then he saw they were +unarmed, holding shaking hands above their heads.</p> + +<p>The German machine-guns were tat-tat-tatting at them, +and there was a ceaseless swish of bullets. He passed the +bodies of several of his men. One section wiped out by a +single heavy shell. Other men lay singly. There was Jameson +dead; Halliwell dead; Sergeant Morton, Taylor and +Fish, dead in a little group. He came to the main road, +which was three hundred yards short of his objective. A +deadly machine-gun fire was holding up his Company. The +officers and men were lying down, the men firing rifles, and +the Lewis Guns ripping off drums of bullets. Winterbourne’s +second Runner was hit, and lay groaning: “O for God’s +sake kill me, <i>kill</i> me. I can’t stand it. The agony. <i>Kill</i> me.”</p> + +<p>Something seemed to break in Winterbourne’s head. He +felt he was going mad, and sprang to his feet. The line of +bullets smashed across his chest like a savage steel whip. +The universe exploded darkly into oblivion.</p> + + + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> +<div class="chapter"><h3 id="REPUBLIQUE_FRANCAISE">RÉPUBLIQUE FRANÇAISE</h3></div> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">Commandement En Chef</span><br> +<span style="margin-left: 1.0em;"><span class="smcap">des Armées Alliées</span></span></p> + +<p><i>Officers, Non-commissioned Officers and Men of the Allied +Armies.</i></p> + +<p>After resolutely holding the enemy in check, for months +you have repeatedly attacked with unwearied energy and +confidence.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p393">[393]</span></p> +<p>You have won the greatest battle in History and saved the +most sacred of all causes: The liberty of the world.</p> + +<p>You may well be proud.</p> + +<p>You have wreathed your Colours with immortal fame.</p> + +<p>Posterity is grateful to you.</p> + +<p class="right"> +(Signed) F. FOCH<br> +<br> +MARSHAL OF FRANCE<br> +COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE ALLIED ARMIES +</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p394"></a><a id="p395"></a>[395]</span></p> + + + + +<h2 class="nobreak">EPILOGUE</h2></div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum"><a id="p396"></a><a id="p397"></a>[397]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="EPILOGUE"><i>EPILOGUE</i></h2></div> + + +<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Eleven years after the fall of Troy,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">We, the old men—some of us nearly forty—</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Met and talked on the sunny rampart</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Over our wine, while the lizards scuttled</div> +<div class="verse indent0">In dusty grass, and the crickets chirred.</div></div> + +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">Some bared their wounds;</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Some spoke of the thirst, dry in the throat,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">And the heart-beat, in the din of battle;</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Some spoke of intolerable sufferings,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">The brightness gone from their eyes</div> +<div class="verse indent0">And the grey already thick in their hair.</div></div> + +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">And I sat a little apart</div> +<div class="verse indent0">From the garrulous talk and old memories,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">And I heard a boy of twenty</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Say petulantly to a girl, seizing her arm:</div> +<div class="verse indent0">“Oh, come away, why do you stand there</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Listening open-mouthed to the talk of old men?</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Haven’t you heard enough of Troy and Achilles?</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Why should they bore us for ever</div> +<div class="verse indent0">With an old quarrel and the names of dead men</div> +<div class="verse indent0">We never knew, and dull forgotten battles?”</div></div> + +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">And he drew her away,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">And she looked back and laughed</div> +<div class="verse indent0">As he spoke more contempt of us,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Being now out of hearing.</div></div> + +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">And I thought of the graves by desolate Troy</div> +<div class="verse indent0">And the beauty of many young men now dust,</div> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="p398">[398]</span></p><div class="verse indent0">And the long agony, and how useless it all was.</div> +<div class="verse indent0">And the talk still clashed about me</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Like the meeting of blade and blade.</div></div> + +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">And as they two moved further away</div> +<div class="verse indent0">He put an arm about her, and kissed her;</div> +<div class="verse indent0">And afterwards I heard their gay distant laughter.</div></div> + +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">And I looked at the hollow cheeks</div> +<div class="verse indent0">And the weary eyes and the grey-streaked heads</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Of the old men—nearly forty—about me;</div> +<div class="verse indent0">And I too walked away</div> +<div class="verse indent0">In an agony of helpless grief and pity.</div></div> +</div></div> + + +<p class="center" style="font-size:larger"> +THE END +</p> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76571 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/76571-h/images/cover.jpg b/76571-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..904d208 --- /dev/null +++ b/76571-h/images/cover.jpg |
