As he waited for the No. 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 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 anyone 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.
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 as 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:
“What do you say to that, sir?”
“I think it looks confoundedly serious.”
“Chance of a war, eh?”
“I sincerely hope not. The newspapers always exaggerate, you know. It would be an appalling catastrophe.”
“Oh, liven things up a bit. We’re getting stale, too much peace. Need a bit of blood-letting.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that. I…”
“It’s got to come sooner or later. Them Germans, you know. They’d never be able to face our Navy.”
“Well, let’s hope it won’t be necessary.”
“Ah, I dunno. Shouldn’t mind ‘avin’ a go at the Germans myself, and I reckon you wouldn’t either.”
“Oh, I’m a neutral,” said George, laughing; “don’t count on me.”
“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!”
George was back in the newspaper, unaware of the turmoil he had excited in that elderly but patriotic bosom.
“I say,” exclaimed George, as soon as he met Elizabeth and Reggie, “have you two seen the newspaper today?”
“Why?” said Elizabeth; “what’s in it? Something about you?”
“No, there’s a war threatened in the Balkans, and it may apparently involve everyone else.”
Reggie sneered.
“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 everyone 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.”
Elizabeth had grabbed the newspaper, and was trying to find her way through the unfamiliar mazes of sensational rhetoric.
“So you don’t think it’ll come to anything?” said George, hanging up his hat, and sitting down at the restaurant table.
“Of course not!” said Reggie contemptuously.
“What do you think, Elizabeth?”
“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?”
“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.”
All the same, he was not quite reassured, and on the way home left an order with a local newsagent 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 manoeuvres”, 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.
“What is it, George?”
The room was so peaceful, so secure, Elizabeth so unperturbed and as usual, that George felt half-surprised at his own agitation.
“I’m worried about this war situation.”
“Really, George! What is the good of getting into such a fuss? You know Reggie told you there was nothing in it, and he hears all the latest news at Cambridge.”
“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.”
Elizabeth, rather annoyed, went on painting.
“Well,” she said through the brush between her teeth, “I can’t help it. Anyway, it won’t concern us.”
It won’t concern us! George stood irresolute a moment.
“I think I’ll go out and see what’s the latest news.”
“Yes, do. I’m dining with Reggie tonight.”
“All right.”
George spent the first few days of August wandering about London, taking buses, 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.
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.
“If there is a war,” said George, “it will be a sort of impersonal, natural calamity, like a plague or an earthquake. But I think that in their own interests all the governments will combine to avert it, or at least limit it to Austria and Servia.”
“But don’t you think the Germans are spoiling for a war?” said another Englishman.
“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 know.”
“It’s probably got to come sooner or later. The world’s too small to hold an expanding G
ermany and a non-contracting British Empire.”
“The irresistible force and the immovable mass… But it’s not a question of England and Germany, but of Austria and Servia.”
“Oh, the murder of the Archduke’s just a pretext – probably arranged beforehand.”
“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…”
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! …
After dinner they sat about and smoked. George took 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:
“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.”
“What did he say?” asked three or four eager voices.
“He wouldn’t commit himself at all. He was simply very gloomy and distrait, and wouldn’t say anything definite.”
“Why didn’t you ask him whether Germany is mobilizing?”
“I did, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.”
“Oh, well, perhaps he only has a liver.”
Among the other guests was a tall, very erect, rather sunburned 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.
“My name’s Winterbourne. You’re Colonel Thomas, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of the situation we’ve all been discussing so intelligently?”
“I don’t think anything. A soldier mustn’t have political ‘views’, you know.”
“Well, but do you think the Germans are mobilizing?”
“I don’t know. I believe they are. But that doesn’t necessarily mean war. They may be mobilizing for manoeuvres. We’re mobilized for manoeuvres on Salisbury Plain.”
“Mobilized! The British Army mobilized !”
“Only for manoeuvres, you know.”
“Are you mobilized too?”
“Yes, I leave tomorrow morning.”
“Good God!”
“Oh, it’s only manoeuvres. They always happen at this time of the year.”
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 cordon of police in front of them. The red-coated Guardsmen in their furry busbies stood at ease in front of the sentry-boxes.
“We want King George! We want King George!” chanted the mob.
“We want King George!”
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:
“We want War! We want War! We want WAR!”
More cheering. The king made no gesture of approval or disapproval.
“Speech!” shouted the mob, “speech! WE WANT WAR!”
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:
“Are we down-hearted?”
“No-ooo!”
“Is Germany?”
“Yuss!”
“Do we care for the Germans?”
“No-oooo!”
There could be no doubt about the feelings of that small section of the English population…
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 in”? People say so now, but then it might have looked like a gesture of provocation… Who are we to pass judgements? 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 popular demonstrations in favour of peace occurred in Germany…
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.
“What’s the news?” said the conductor.
“Very serious: the French have mobilized.”
“What abaht us?”
“We’ve done nothing yet. But it looks inevitable.”
“Why, we ain’t declared war, ‘ave we?”
“No, not yet.”
“Well, there’s still ‘opes, then. I reckon w
e’d best mind ah own business, and keep aht of it.”
Mind our own business! How quickly that unselfish sentiment was crystallized in the national slogan: Business As Usual!
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 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 had 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 hushhush partisans of the old regime or the 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 is important. It is in so many cases the dominant or the next to dominant factor in people’s 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…
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.
Death of a Hero Page 24