There Are Victories

by Charles Yale Harrison

  “Well, the bodies were strewn about like so much litter. Regiments, squadrons of cavalry, tanks, went over the field as though the dead which lay on either side had not once been human beings who once felt emotions, loved, lived, wept and laughed.”

  He paused again, filled his glass which he had emptied twice during the conversation and drank thirstily.

  “Be honest,” he said, “if this is boring, say so. I won’t mind.”

  “No, not at all. Please go on. You were on the battlefield.”

  “Yes. It was a beautiful day. The sun shone and in the distance I could see a little river sparkling in the sunlight, beyond the river there was a white village of a score of houses and behind the village some dark hills. Suddenly, as we walked, we came across two skeletons. One was a Pole and the other a Russian. We could tell by the rags of uniforms which clung to their frames. They had died in a hand-to-hand struggle and now in death they were embracing each other. It seemed as though their death had made them one, that they had much in common and only in death did they realize their community of interests. Seems silly, doesn’t it, a thing like that making a radical of one?”

  “No,” Ruth replied, “not silly. I can understand how you felt.”

  “But not how it made me a radical; is that right?”

  “Yes. Why a radical?”

  “Well, I’m coming to that. As I looked at the two skeletons I remembered how the armies had shifted back and forth in France and Belgium, our own American boys dying in senseless attacks on trenches and other boys in Italy, in Mesopotamia, in Turkey, in Greece. All the hurrahing in which I had taken part here at home seemed so callous and stupid. I had always known that markets, raw materials and finance played their roles in war, and still it all meant nothing to me until I looked down at those two dead soldiers embracing each other. Perhaps I was unduly emotional at the time, I’m sure that my father would have said ‘let the dead bury the dead,’ or something like that; but all that night as we rode back to Warsaw in the staff car I was troubled by a thousand questions. Why must young men go to war and kill each other? Why must we have war and what can be done about it? I won’t bore you with all my mental processes—but that was the beginning.”

  They had finished the roast and the waiter was serving the dessert and coffee. There was a pause as the plates were cleared away and they regarded each other in intimate silence as they ate their fruit. Ruth noticed that Walter’s face was now eager and alive. His eyes shone and she saw that he was anxious to continue his story.

  —It seems years since I have sat with a man at dinner, listened to the rich inflexions of his voice. I think I could be happy with him, I have had enough of loneliness …

  “There were other things which helped in my—my conversion, I use the word because it may help you to understand my feelings at the time. Not that I was really converted. I was convinced, which is another matter, I think. I began to take an interest in radical affairs, went to meetings, took part in strikes and demonstrations, read some political economy. One day I took a trip through a chemical plant where they were making muriatic acid. I saw the workers wandering through the whitish, sulphurous mist, looking like scarecrows in their acid-eaten clothes. I learned that many of them die of consumption, that at best they don’t last very long. Perhaps I should have told myself to take the world as I find it, but I’m not built that way. It wasn’t long before I had established—for my own satisfaction, at any rate—the relationship between the exploitation of workers and war. I mean, the struggle for profits and then for markets and raw materials. And now I realize that as long as that circle of circumstances remains unbroken there will be wars; skeletons will clutch at each other desperately in a death embrace—and, to be more personal, if I may—husbands will come home brutalized by the horrors they have seen.”

  Walter paused and as he did so the stern expression of his face relaxed and he broke into a quick, frank smile. “And now, if you will join me, we’ll have another bottle of wine. I’m parched.” The wine was brought and he filled their glasses and they drank. “Now that I’ve had my say, I’m quite willing to turn to something more amusing.”

  “Not so fast,” Ruth remarked. “There are a few things I’d like to have cleared up. About this question of atheism.”

  —I am a fool. What a fool! Here I am with a beautiful woman and what do I do? Talk politics, no, that wouldn’t be so bad—but sociology, pacifism. Once it was done with poetry, now it’s done with posing as a lover of humanity.

  “What about atheism?” Walter asked.

  “I can see that war made you feel badly, made you want to change things and I can understand that seeing workers being slowly poisoned for miserable wages would make you a radical. But how does the Church and God enter all this?”

  “Because the Church—I hope this doesn’t offend you—not only the Catholic Church but all churches—are part and parcel of the whole fraud which keeps men chained to starvation jobs, sends them to war.”

  Ruth raised her eyebrows incredulously.

  “How?”

  “You remember how ministers and priests used to bless the colors as the regiments went off to war?”

  “Ye-es.” (Reluctantly.)

  “In Germany they used to bless the cannons as they came out of Krupp’s, to help them do a better job, no doubt. Industry for profits, war for the defence of profits, religion to dull the rebellious spirits of the masses; Marx was right, it’s an opiate.”

  —An opiate? How is it possible? The Sisters, the quiet convent, the feeling of peace which used to come over me as Mass was being said. Surely all this was not a fraud, it seemed to fill a void, to answer something within me that must be as old as the world. The beautiful B Minor Mass—a fraud? Father Boniface, ragged and honest, giving his life to the poor and the needy—a fraud? The Bishop, well, I’m not so sure. No, he, too, was honest but perhaps power always seems dishonest—he did what he thought best. And what if there are religious frauds—are there no frauds among radicals, everywhere?

  He broke into her thoughts with a question: “Have I been too harsh?”

  “I don’t know. I’m afraid I can’t agree—not yet. You see, the happiest days of my life were spent at convent. The sisters, the clean, unpolluted atmosphere, the beauty of the Mass—”

  “Yes,” Walter said, “I understand perfectly.”

  —I guess that explains it. The sad eyes, her resentment of intrusion, wanting to be alone. To have lived her girlhood in a convent with the sisters in piety and serenity and then to come out and have to face the filth of modern life—war, hypocrisy, the duplicity of a war-hardened, drunken husband, perhaps; I can imagine. From the idealism of the convent to the hard materialism of life today. Heavens, what a mess! Don’t say anything else just now. It wouldn’t be right. Win her over slowly—maybe if she read and came to know things, gradually she would be happier. She must be terribly confused.

  —I remember (Ruth thought) a dimly lit dormitory. I must have been about five or six at the most. The reassuring voice of the sister on duty. She pointed to the image of the Holy Mother of God and in the guttering candlelight, the all-wise, tolerant face of the Virgin seemed to smile. Then everything became calm and peaceful, my childish fears abated, the thumping of my heart ceased. Then I must have fallen asleep …

  “I can understand how you feel about the Church,” Walter said. “There are aspects of it which are truly beautiful, but its conservatism is unbearable; I mean its views on divorce and birth-control, its kowtowing to the lords of the earth—and I have no earthly use for conservatism, no matter where I find it. When I meet smug, self-assured conservatives in these times I always want to ask Disraeli’s question: ‘You call yourselves conservatives, but tell me, gentlemen, what precisely is it that you wish to conserve?’”

  Ruth was amused despite the fact that during the whole conversation Walter had been attacking the fundamentals upon which her life
had hitherto rested. He seemed to take delight in challenging the dogmas which she had always taken for granted. Until she had left Edgar her life had been sheltered, even provincial. Now as she sat and listened she realized how barren of ideas her life had been in the past. To be sure, there had been good living in Montreal, expensive sport, exclusive entertainment—but always the emphasis had been on things, not ideas. People were considered distinguished or interesting only because of who they were or what they were, rarely for the quality or originality of their ideas. Persons who went about advocating new or strange doctrines were usually grubby nobodies, stunted little men and dowdy, bedraggled women—suffragettes or socialists. As she looked across the table at Walter she wondered whether it was possible that her partial acceptance of his ideas was due to the fact that he was a gentleman: well-groomed, cultured, soft-spoken. Was there, she thought, a sexual basis for the reception of ideas?

  —My other set of ideas—the ones I received at convent—were they acceptable because I was emotionally open, receptive? Did the Mass—cleanse me with hyssop—the beautiful ritual mean much to me because I was an eager adolescent girl? And now that I am lonely and in need of love … ?

  The thought trailed off into nothingness. As Walter talked she felt that there were many questions she wanted to ask but they were indefinite and as yet incoherent.

  Walter had signaled the waiter and called for the bill. After he had paid, he helped her on with her wrap and slipping his arm into hers they walked into the street.

  “And now?” he asked. “It’s really too early to go home. Would you like to dance?”

  She paused for a moment before replying. Overhead the stars shone brilliantly, the impatient November wind snapped and tugged at their clothing. “Yes, it would be fun. Let’s. But we’re to walk—the air will help the wine.”

  They turned, and ignoring a cruising taxi, turned west and walked towards Fifth Avenue and then down in the direction of Forty-Second Street. The Avenue was deserted save for an occasional pedestrian who bent over before the north wind as it swept down the ravined thoroughfare.

  Later at a hotel grill they danced and drank. It was pleasant to sit in the corner of the restaurant and against the tonal background of the jazz orchestra to carry on the quasi-intimate conversation of a man and woman who are newly acquainted. From time to time they halted their talk and danced in silence, happy in the intimate physical contact of jazz.

  —I was a fool to have said no more men.

  Once while they were resting and sipping their drinks Ruth said: “When I first met you I thought you were a Jew. Are you?”

  “Would it make any difference?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  “I’m not. I come of good Episcopalian stock; the common prayer book, the collects, Gregorian chants and all the trimmings. What made you think so?”

  “You are dark and there is something about your face—a sort of impatient eagerness—which I always associate with Jews.”

  “I don’t know,” Walter replied, “there may be Jewish blood in me. There’s no telling. The Jews are an insistent people and great travelers to boot.”

  It was long past midnight when Ruth looked at her wrist-watch. “Shall we go?” she asked.

  “Yes, but there will be other dinners and more walks down the Avenue?”

  Ruth nodded her head.

  “And more talk?”

  “Then I shall have to read books and have ready answers for you. In the future I will not allow you to lord it over the conversation as you did tonight.” She laughed as she spoke.

  “Fine. I’ll bring you an arm-load of books in the morning. It’ll take us a year to fight about them. But promise you’ll read them—some of them.”

  “I promise.”

  “And will you play for me again? Bach’s great Toccata and Fugue on a gloomy afternoon—yes?”

  “In that case you’ll have to give me weeks for preparation.”

  “Of course. We’ve lots of time. I promise I shan’t be too impatient.”

  Outside the hotel entrance they got into a cab. He held her arm firmly as she stepped into the car and they sat close to one another as it sped up the Avenue towards Central Park. Then without a word he put his arm about her and kissed her. She did not draw away or resist him. At the moment it seemed the most natural thing to do and with her lips she returned the pressure and moisture of his.

  —Mother used to say that men do not respect women who allow themselves to be kissed the first day. But it is years since I have felt the warm lips of a man. He is younger than I am—twenty-three or so—but I don’t care. Oh, I have been a fool too long …

  LXII

  Like St. Augustine’s conversion to Christianity (painfully groping from skepticism to Neoplatonism and thence to the religion of St. Paul), Ruth’s transition from an already wavering piety to agnosticism was accompanied by turmoil and strife of the spirit. The Numidian saint during his years of doubt and searching was not yet ready for the message of the intolerant rabbi and agonizingly cried to his god: “Give me chastity—but not yet!” And so it was with Ruth:

  —Not yet, oh Lord, not yet!

  The alchemy of irreligion worked slowly but nevertheless inexorably. She was assailed by doubts, questions, fears. There were radical texts to be read, atheistic dogmas to be debated and always there was Walter laughing, coaxing, urging; Walter hovering over her conversion like a devout monk assisting her, paradoxically, to fight down doubt in the search for skepticism.

  At night sometimes she remembered the convent—but its ponderous walls now grew misty in her memory, the sisters now flitted through her mind like phantom things in an ill-remembered dream.

  LXIII

  In the very nature of things, the events which followed were inevitable. Every incident in Ruth’s past seemed to lead

  directly to her affair with Walter: her emotional, consecrated years at the convent, her marriage to Edgar, the frightful night on the train to Gaspé, the groping, fumbling hands (there were other hands—pallid, smooth), the war, the aching sympathy for men dying of wounds, Edgar’s return, her flight, her loneliness …

  She realized that her retreat from the world had been a specious escape. Then, without warning, it seemed, her life had taken on fresh meaning. Walter was constantly in her thoughts. She awoke each morning aware that another adventurous day lay before her. They rode in the Park every morning, there were recitals or tea in the afternoon, in the evenings there were theater parties or long talks which lasted until the early hours of the morning. And when the time came each day for them to take leave of one another, the partings became more and more painful. By the time the first evidences of Spring were at hand they were deeply in love with each other.

  Then one night Walter sensed that she did not want him to go. Nothing had been said, but there was something in her manner which told him that they were now lovers. But not content with the subtle message and demanding certainty, he asked: “May I stay, Ruth, darling?”

  She did not answer immediately but looked into his eyes searching for reassurance. Then she nodded.

  He had always hoped that when this moment came that he would be passionately happy, that he would be boisterous and declaim noble sentiments, give voice to grand thoughts. But when he spoke, it was to utter a disappointing commonplace.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said as he rose, “there are some things which I ought to get in my apartment.”

  He was gone for some time and when he returned to the drawing-room she was gone. A light burned in her room and when he entered she was in bed with her face turned to the wall like a frightened bride.

  “Please,” she asked turning her face toward him, “please put the light out.”

  He undressed in the dark. Below in the Park, couples walked on the paths and their voices, the released, happy voices of lovers in the Springtime, floated up to him as he stood at the op
en window.

  In the dark he reached for her and she started from him.

  “Ruth, darling, why do you draw away?”

  She did not answer and he did not press her for a reply. Then, after a long while: “I don’t know, Walter.”

  “You do love me, don’t you? I’ll go if you like.”

  “No, no, please stay. I’m sorry. It’s something I can’t explain.”

  She moved closer to him, felt his face with her hands, played with his hair, drew his mouth to hers.

  They spoke in broken, halting sentences; the syntax of fresh love.

  “Why did you draw away?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  “But you do love me?”

  “Yes, of course, precious, but—.”

  “But what?”

  There was a long silence as Ruth lay with her head in the crook of his arm, flagrantly contented. Then she began to speak in a whisper:

  “You will listen carefully and try to understand?”

  “Yes, Ruth darling, tell me what it is.”

  “A long time ago—I was about fifteen or perhaps sixteen—just fresh from the convent—an uncle, it was he who left me the money I now have—well, one afternoon, it was about this time of the year—we rode up the side of the mountain in his victoria and walked through the pine forest. I was a silly little goose then and really believed that men were made in the image of God—.”

  She put her hands to his face and caressed his cheeks with her fingers and kissed his mouth.

  “You are not to be offended, my lover, I was not thinking of you. Sometimes when I am not thinking, I say things like that. Even if you are an infidel I still think you are created in the image of God—but I was a stupid little thing then—and I used to throw myself about, it was a warm day and we sat down under some trees. He was a very rich man, my mother’s brother, and I thought he was the grandest person. He asked me to rest up against him and I was very proud to be with him. And then—.” She paused.