by Pete Ayrton
‘Oh, how much does the general public care about art or the artist these days?’ exclaimed Dennis.
‘They may not care now,’ rejoined Barnaby, ‘but it’s the sacred duty of everyone who’s got the gift of creation to try and keep it intact. When the war is over we shall be grateful to those who through the long night of destruction have kept alight the torch of art and intellect. That’s rendering a greater service to mankind than putting your life at the disposal of the war-machine.’
‘And the sight of all those war-shrines makes me sick!’ cried Alan. ‘“Greater love hath no man—” How dare they profane the words? It’s not that a man is merely “laying down his life for his friends,” but trying to do some other man in at the same time. How does that fit in with “Thou shalt not kill”?’
An unobtrusive-looking spectacled man, who all this while had sat silent at the corner table which Crispin had vacated, looked over at the group. ‘It does not fit in, and it never will, but the Church has become untrue to herself, as those who serve her have become untrue, perverting her words until they seem to serve the ends of the State.’
Alan asked eagerly: ‘Are you appealing on religious grounds, then?’
The man replied, ‘Yes. And I daresay I’ll get partial exemption. Non-Combatant Service. The despicable compromise that some men can make with their conscience. “Thou shalt not kill” – they think they’re obeying the letter of the law if they don’t bear arms and go to the fighting-line; but they’re scarcely obeying the spirit when they accept work in munition-factories, or otherwise help to release men to be killed in their place.’
‘Yes, I’m up against people of that sort, as much as I’m up against rabid militarists,’ said Alan; ‘they are the cowards and shirkers who deserve all the onus heaped upon the community of pacifists and socialists as a whole. Men whose conscience won’t let them kill, but who haven’t the courage to back their opinions – I’ve no use for them. Passive pacifism won’t do any good. What we want is active pacifism, fearless and unashamed, ready to join hands with the workers of all other countries; to stand firm against their immoral, gain-seeking governments; and ready to suffer the utmost penalty of their idiotic and benighted law.’
Crispin rose from his chair. ‘You b-bloody pacifists make as much noise as b-bloody militarists. One c-can’t hearoneselfthink…’ And on this cryptic utterance he made his exit.
The cloud of smoke became denser and more dense. Roy Radford and the flappers had long since departed, and the remaining company, having abandoned their separate tables, formed one collective straggling group. Through the smoke, Antoinette watched them; O’Farrell’s fine sensitive features and visionary eyes shadowed by a thatch of wild auburn hair; Barnaby’s rough-hewn head and hunched shoulders; Everard’s sleek good looks; Harry Hope’s chubbiness; Benny Joseph’s dark eyes and Semitic profile; the nondescript appearance of the religious ‘objector’ who had joined in the conversation; Oswald’s thin pale face and jerkiness of movement; Pegeen’s tilted nose, and the cigarette stuck impertinently in one corner of her mouth… Picturesque enough, the whole group, only now Antoinette dared not glance at that slim boy with his dark flaming eyes, nor at Dennis… not since she had seen that look on his face when Alan had entered.
Barnaby was saying: ‘From every possible point of view, whether from religion, art, socialism or humanity, war is a disgrace to any civilised nation. Personally, I’m out of the running, altogether, but I envy you fit men for having the chance to do your bit in the cause of peace.’Antoinette got up to go, wondering if Dennis would accompany her as usual. He followed her up the stairs, but it was evidently his intention to return to the others when he had said good-bye to her.
At the top of the stairs she faced him.
‘Is that – is that the boy we saw the other night?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s the one you told me about?’
‘Yes…’
‘You’re still in love with him…?’
And again: ‘Yes…’
With one hand she was clutching the wooden balustrade. He saw her knuckles whiten under the strain, as she said in a dead, unemotional voice: ‘D-do you want me to back out altogether?’
‘My dear, it’s for you to say.’
He could not bring himself to make a quick, clean end to the situation then and there. He was too dazed and bewildered to think. He only knew that he could not speak the word that would hurt her so much, not now, although her head was defiantly raised, her eyes downcast, as if she were determined that nothing should be visible to him of the pain he might choose to inflict.
‘It’s for you to say.’
She relaxed the tenseness of her attitude, and seemed suddenly to go limp. ‘Oh, I don’t know what to say…’The situation had come upon them both as a shock. Neither of them felt capable of coping with it at the moment, and in the doorway…
‘Meet me down here one day, and we’ll talk it all out,’ he whispered hurriedly.
She nodded and turned away.
Rose Allatini was born in Vienna in 1890. Her first novel, Happy Ever After, was published by Mills and Boon in 1914. Throughout her life in England, she published under many pseudonyms, including A. T. Fitzroy. Despised and Rejected, from which this extract is taken, was published in May 1918 and immediately caused controversy on account of its political and sexual content. The government seized unsold copies and Allatini and the publisher C. W. Daniel were arrested and prosecuted. The book was banned in October 1918 under DORA (the Defence of the Realm Act) as ‘likely to prejudice the recruiting, training, and discipline of persons in his Majesty’s Forces’. The banning shocked Daniel, who claimed he had published the book for its pacifist message but added:
Personally, I would rather the book were burnt that I should be party to lending support to the depravity of either the homo-sexual or the contrasexual types…
The book was rediscovered and reprinted in the 1970s. Rose Allatini married Cyril Scott the composer in 1921 and lived with him and their two children until the end of the Second World War. She then moved to Rye to live with Melanie Mills, another writer of romances with numerous pseudonyms. She died in 1980.
WILLIAM FAULKNER
CREVASSE
from These 13
THE PARTY GOES ON, skirting the edge of the barrage weaving down into shell craters old and new, crawling out again. Two men half drag, half carry between them a third, while two others carry the three rifles. The third man’s head is bound in a bloody rag; he stumbles his aimless legs along, his head lolling, sweat channeling slowly down his mud-crusted face.
The barrage stretches on and on across the plain, distant, impenetrable. Occasionally a small wind comes up from nowhere and thins the dun smoke momentarily upon clumps of bitten poplars. The party enters and crosses a field which a month ago was sown to wheat and where yet wheatspears thrust and cling stubbornly in the churned soil, among scraps of metal and seething hunks of cloth.
It crosses the field and comes to a canal bordered with tree stumps sheared roughly at a symmetrical five-foot level. The men flop and drink of the contaminated water and fill their water bottles. The two bearers let the wounded man slip to earth; he hangs lax on the canal bank with both arms in the water and his head too, had not the others held him up. One of them raises water in his helmet, but the wounded man cannot swallow. So they set him upright and the other holds the helmet brim to his lips and refills the helmet and pours the water on the wounded man’s head, sopping the bandage. Then he takes a filthy rag from his pocket and dries the wounded man’s face with clumsy gentleness.
The captain, the subaltern and the sergeant, still standing, are poring over a soiled map. Beyond the canal the ground rises gradually; the canal cutting reveals the chalk formation of the land in pallid strata. The captain puts the map away and the sergeant speaks the men to their feet, not loud. The two bearers raise the wounded man and they follow the canal bank, coming after a while to a bridge formed
by a water-logged barge hull lashed bow and stern to either bank, and so pass over. Here they halt again while once more the captain and the subaltern consult the map.
Gunfire comes across the pale spring noon like a prolonged clashing of hail on an endless metal roof. As they go on the chalky soil rises gradually underfoot. The ground is dryly rough, shaling, and the going is harder still for the two who carry the wounded man. But when they would stop the wounded man struggles and wrenches free and staggers on alone, his hands at his head, and stumbles, falling. The bearers catch and raise him and hold him muttering between them and wrenching his arms. He is muttering ‘…bonnet…’ and he frees his hands and tugs again at his bandage. The commotion passes forward. The captain looks back and stops; the party halts also, unbidden, and lowers rifles.
‘A’s pickin at’s bandage, sir-r,’ one of the bearers tells the captain. They let the man sit down between them; the captain kneels beside him.
‘…bonnet… bonnet,’ the man mutters. The captain loosens the bandage. The sergeant extends a water bottle and the captain wets the bandage and lays his hand on the man’s brow. The others stand about, looking on with a kind of sober, detached interest. The captain rises. The bearers raise the wounded man again. The sergeant speaks them into motion.
They gain the crest of the ridge. The ridge slopes westward into a plateau slightly rolling. Southward, beneath its dun pall, the barrage still rages; westward and northward about the shining empty plain smoke rises lazily here and there above clumps of trees. But this is the smoke of burning things, burning wood and not powder, and the two officers gaze from beneath their hands, the men halting again without order and lowering arms.
‘Gad, sir,’ the subaltern says suddenly in a high, thin voice; ‘it’s houses burning! They’re retreating! Beasts! Beasts!’
‘’Tis possible,’ the captain says, gazing beneath his hand. ‘We can get around that barrage now. Should be a road just yonder.’ He strides on again.
‘For-rard,’ the sergeant says, in that tone not loud. The men slope arms once more with unquestioning docility.
The ridge is covered with a tough, gorselike grass. Insects buzz in it, zip from beneath their feet and fall to slatting again beneath the shimmering noon. The wounded man is babbling again. At intervals they pause and give him water and wet the bandage again, then two others exchange with the bearers and they hurry the man on and close up again.
The head of the line stops; the men jolt prodding into one another like a train of freight cars stopping. At the captain’s feet lies a broad shallow depression in which grows a sparse, dead-looking grass like clumps of bayonets thrust up out of the earth. It is too big to have been made by a small shell, and too shallow to have been made by a big one. It bears no traces of having been made by anything at all, and they look quietly down into it. ‘Queer,’ the subaltern says. ‘What do you fancy could have made it?’
The captain does not answer. He turns. They circle the depression, looking down into it quietly as they pass it. But they have no more than passed it when they come upon another one, perhaps not quite so large. ‘I didn’t know they had anything that could make that,’ the subaltern says. Again the captain does not answer. They circle this one also and keep on along the crest of the ridge. On the other hand the ridge sheers sharply downward stratum by stratum of pallid eroded chalk.
A shallow ravine gashes its crumbling yawn abruptly across their path. The captain changes direction again, paralleling the ravine, until shortly afterward the ravine turns at right angles and goes on in the direction of their march. The floor of the ravine is in shadow; the captain leads the way down the shelving wall, into the shade. They lower the wounded man carefully and go on.
After a time the ravine opens. They find that they have debouched into another of those shallow depressions. This one is not so clearly defined, though, and the opposite wall of it is nicked by what is apparently another depression, like two overlapping disks. They cross the first depression, while more of the dead-looking grass bayonets saber their legs dryly, and pass through the gap into the next depression.
This one is like a miniature valley between miniature cliffs. Overhead they can see only the drowsy and empty bowl of the sky, with a few faint smoke smudges to the northwest. The sound of the barrage is now remote and far away: a vibration in earth felt rather than heard. There are no recent shell craters or marks here at all. It is as though they had strayed suddenly into a region, a world where the war had not reached, where nothing had reached, where no life is, and silence itself is dead. They give the wounded man water and go on.
The valley, the depression, strays vaguely before them. They can see that it is a series of overlapping, vaguely circular basins formed by no apparent or deducible agency. Pallid grass bayonets saber at their legs, and after a time they are again among old healed scars of trees to which there cling sparse leaves neither green nor dead, as if they too had been overtaken and caught by a hiatus in time, gossiping dryly among themselves though there is no wind. The floor of the valley is not level. It in itself descends into vague depressions, rises again as vaguely between its shelving walls. In the center of these smaller depressions whitish knobs of chalk thrust up through the thin topsoil. The ground has a resilient quality, like walking on cork; feet make no sound. ‘Jolly walking,’ the subaltern says. Though his voice is not raised, it fills the small valley with the abruptness of a thunderclap, filling the silence, the words seeming to hang about them as though silence here had been so long undisturbed that it had forgot its purpose; as one they look quietly and soberly about, at the shelving walls, the stubborn ghosts of trees, the bland, hushed sky. ‘Topping hole-up for embusqué birds and such,’ the subaltern says.
‘Ay,’ the captain says. His word in turn hangs sluggishly and fades. The men at the rear close up, the movement passing forward, the men looking quietly and soberly about. ‘But no birds here,’ the subaltern says. ‘No insects even.’
‘Ay,’ the captain says. The word fades, the silence comes down again, sunny, profoundly still. The subaltern pauses and stirs something with his foot. The men halt also, and the subaltern and the captain, without touching it, examine the half-buried and moldering rifle. The wounded man is babbling again.
‘What is it, sir?’the subaltern says. ‘Looks like one of those things the Canadians had. A Ross. Right?’
‘French,’ the captain says; ‘1914.’
‘Oh,’ the subaltern says. He turns the rifle aside with his toe. The bayonet is still attached to the barrel, but the stock has long since rotted away. They go on, across the uneven ground, among the chalky knobs thrusting up through the soil. Light, the wan and drowsy sunlight, is laked in the valley, stagnant, bodiless, without heat. The saberlike grass thrusts sparsely and rigidly upward. They look about again at the shaling walls, then the ones at the head of the party watch the subaltern pause and prod with his stick at one of the chalky knobs and turn presently upward its earth-stained eyesockets and its unbottomed grin.
‘Forward,’ the captain says sharply. The party moves; the men look quietly and curiously at the skull as they pass. They go on, among the other whitish knobs like marbles studded at random in the shallow soil.
‘All in the same position, do you notice, sir?’ the subaltern says, his voice chattily cheerful; ‘all upright. Queer way to bury chaps: sitting down. Shallow, too.’
‘Ay,’ the captain says. The wounded man babbles steadily. The two bearers stop with him, but the others crowd on after the officers, passing the two bearers and the wounded man. ‘Dinna stop to gi’s sup water,’ one of the bearers says. ‘A’ll drink walkin.’They take up the wounded man again and hurry him on while one of them tries to hold the neck of a water bottle to the wounded man’s mouth, clattering it against his teeth and spilling the water down the front of his tunic. The captain looks back.
‘What’s this?’ he says sharply. The men crowd up. Their eyes are wide, sober; he looks about at the quiet, intent fac
es. ‘What’s the matter back there, Sergeant?’
‘Wind-up,’ the subaltern says. He looks about at the eroded walls, the whitish knobs thrusting quietly out of the earth. ‘Feel it myself,’ he says. He laughs, his laughter a little thin, ceasing. ‘Let’s get out of here, sir,’ he says. ‘Let’s get into the sun again.’
‘You are in the sun here,’ the captain says. ‘Ease off there, men. Stop crowding. We’ll be out soon. We’ll find the road and get past the barrage and make contact again.’ He turns and goes on. The party gets into motion again.
Then they all stop as one, in the attitudes of walking, in an utter suspension, and stare at one another. Again the earth moves under their feet. A man screams, high, like a woman or a horse; as the firm earth shifts for a third time beneath them the officers whirl and see beyond the down-plunging man a gaping hole with dry dust still crumbling about the edges before the orifice crumbles again beneath a second man. Then a crack springs like a sword slash beneath them all; the earth breaks under their feet and tilts like jagged squares of pale fudge, framing a black yawn out of which, like a silent explosion, bursts the unmistakable smell of rotted flesh. While they scramble and leap (in silence now; there has been no sound since the first man screamed) from one cake to another, the cakes tilt and slide until the whole floor of the valley rushes slowly under them and plunges them downward into darkness. A grave rumbling rises into the sunlight on a blast of decay and of faint dust which hangs and drifts in the faint air about the black orifice.
The captain feels himself plunging down a sheer and shifting wall of moving earth, of sounds of terror and of struggling in the ink dark. Someone else screams. The scream ceases; he hears the voice of the wounded man coming thin and reiterant out of the plunging bowels of decay: ‘A’m no dead! A’m no dead!’ and ceasing abruptly, as if a hand had been laid on his mouth.