Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  There were hundreds of such stories, none first hand, but overwhelming in matter of cumulative secondhand evidence, all springing from nowhere but the unassisted brain of ordinary Englishmen. The wish was father to the thought; in the great peril that still menaced the French and English battle-line, we all wanted hundreds of thousands of Russians, and so we said that they were passing through. Some cowardly rationalist, I believe, has explained the whole matter by saying that some firm telegraphed that a hundred thousand Russians (whereby he meant Russian eggs) were arriving. I scorn the truckling materialism of this. The Russian stories were invented, bit by bit, even as coral grows, by innumerable and busy liars, spurred on by the desire that their fabrications might be true. Bitter animosities sprang up between those who did and those who did not believe the Russian Saga. Single old ladies, to whom the idea that Russia was pouring in to help us was very comforting, altered their wills and cut off faithless nephews, and the most stubborn Thomases amongst us were forced to confess that there seemed to be a good deal to say for it, while the fact that the War Office strenuously denied the whole thing was easily accounted for. Of course the War Office denied it, for it didn’t want the Germans to know. It would be a fine surprise for the Germans on the West Front to find themselves one morning facing serried rows of Russians.... They would be utterly bewildered, for they had been under the impression that Russia was far away East, on the other side of the Fatherland; but here were the Russian armies! They would think their compasses had gone mad; they would have been quite giddy with surprise, and have got that lost feeling which does so much to undermine the morale of troops. Oh, a great stroke!

  But all these Russian and Zeppelin Saga were good heady, encouraging lies, tonic instead of lowering, like the dejected inventions of prostrate pessimists. I do not defend, on principle, the habit of making up stories and saying that a porter at Reading told your gardener; but, given that you are going to do that sort of thing, I do maintain that you are bound to invent such stories as will encourage and not depress your credulous friends. You have no right to attempt to rob them of their most precious possession in times like these, namely, the power of steadfast resistance of the spirit to trouble and anxiety, by inventing further causes of depression. The law forbids you to take away a man’s forks and spoons; it ought also to forbid the dissemination of such false news as will deprive him of his appetite for his mutton chop.

  Indeed, I fancy that by the law of England as laid down in the statute-book it is treasonable in times of national crisis to discourage the subjects of the King, and I wonder whether it would not be possible, as there has been so little grouse-shooting this year, to have a grouser-shoot instead. A quantity of old birds want clearing off. Guns might be placed, let us say, in butts erected along the south side of Piccadilly, and the grousers would be driven from the moors of Mayfair by a line of beaters starting from Oxford Street. The game would break cover, so I suppose, from Dover Street, Berkeley Street, Half Moon Street, and so on, and to prevent their escaping into Regent Street on the one side and Park Lane on the other, stops would be placed at the entrance of streets debouching here in the shape of huge posters announcing victories by land and sea for the Allied forces. These the grousers would naturally be unable to pass, and thus they would be driven out into Piccadilly and shot. This would take the morning, and after a good lunch at the Ritz Hotel the shooters would proceed to the covers of Kensington. Other days would, of course, be arranged....

  But all this month the devastating tide swept on through Serbia. Occasionally there were checks, as, for a moment, it dashed against some little reef before submerging it; but soon wave succeeding wave overleaped such barriers, and now Serbia lies under the waters of the inundation. And in these shortening days of autumn the sky grows red in the East with the dawning of new fires of battle, and to the watchers there it goes down red in the West, where from Switzerland to the sea, behind the trenches, the graveyards stretch themselves out over the unsown fields of France.

  NOVEMBER, 1916

  Francis arrived on the last day of October, with a week’s leave before his regiment embarked for the Dardanelles. For a few hours he was a mere mass of physical needs; until these were satisfied he announced himself as incapable of thinking or speaking of anything but the carnalities.

  “Tea at once,” he said. “No, I think I won’t have tea with you; I want tea sent up to the bath-room. That packet? It’s a jar of bath salts — verbena — all of which I am going to use. I saw it in a shop window, and quite suddenly I knew I wanted it. Nothing else seemed to matter. I want a dressing-gown, too. Will you lend me one? And slippers. For a few hours I propose to wallow in a sensual sty. I’ve planned it all, and for the last week I have thought of nothing else.”

  He sketched the sty. There was to be tea in the bath-room and a muffin for tea. This he would eat as he lay in a hot bath full of verbena salts. He would then put on his dressing-gown and lie in bed for half an hour, reading a shilling shocker and smoking cigarettes. (End of Part I.) Still in his dressing-gown he would come downstairs, and smoke more cigarettes before my fire, till it was time to have a cocktail. We would dine at home (he left the question of dinner to me, provided only that there should be a pineapple), after which we should go to the movies. We were then to drive rapidly home in a taxi, and, over sandwiches and whisky and soda, he felt that he would return to a normal level again. But the idea of being completely comfortable and clean and gorged and amused for a few hours had taken such hold of him, that he could not “reach his mind” until the howling beast of his body had been satisfied. That, at least, was the plan.

  Accordingly, proclamation having come from upstairs that all was ready, Francis departed to his sty, and I, as commanded, waited till such time as he should reappear in my dressing-gown and slippers. But long before his programme (Part I.) could have been carried out he re-entered.

  “It didn’t seem worth while to get into bed,” he said, “so I left that out. I loved the bath-salts, and the tea was excellent. But how soon anything that can be satisfied is satisfied. It’s only — —”

  He leaned forward and poked the fire, stretching his legs out towards the blaze.

  “I’ve travelled a long way since we met,” he said, “and the further one goes the simpler the way becomes. The mystics are perfectly right. You can only get what you want, what your soul wants, by chucking away all that you have. The only way to find yourself is to lose yourself. I’ve been losing myself all these months, and I began to recover little bits of me that I didn’t want over the muffin and the verbena. I was afraid I should find more if I tucked up in bed. That’s why I didn’t. I used to want such lots of things; now there is growing a pile of things I don’t want.”

  I put the cigarette-box near him.

  “There are the smokes,” I said, “and let me know when you want a cocktail. We’ll have dinner when you like. Now I have heard nothing from you for the last three months; let’s have a budget.”

  “Right. Well, the material side of the affair is soon done with. I’m Quartermaster-Sergeant, with stripes and a crown on my arm, as you have noticed, and I live immersed in accounts and stores and supplies. I have to see that the men have enough and are comfortable, and I have to be as economical as I can. That’s my life, and it’s being my salvation.”

  He lay back in his chair, the picture of complete indolence, with eyes half closed. But I knew that to be a sign of intense internal activity. Most people, I am aware, when they are aflame with some mental or spiritual topic, walk up and down with bright eyes and gesticulating hands. But it is Francis’s great conjuring trick to disconnect his physical self, so to speak, and let it lie indolent; his theory is that thus your vitality is concentrated on thought. There seems something to be said for it, when once you have learned how to do it.

  “Of course, in order to get anywhere,” he said, “you must go through contemplative periods and stages, and towards the end of the journey, I fancy that you enter into
an existence where only that is possible. But before that comes, you have to know the sacredness of common things. It’s like this. The first stage is to know that the only thing worth our consideration is the reality that lies behind common things: it is then that you think them worthless and disregard them. But further on you find out that they aren’t common, because the reality behind permeates them, and makes them sacred. Later, if you ever get there, you find, I believe, that in your union with the reality behind, they cease to exist again for you. But, good heavens, what miles apart, are the first and third stages! And the danger of the first stage is that, if you are not careful, you imagine it to be the same as the third.

  “I was in danger of getting like that, living in perfect comfort and peace on that adorable island. Do you know how a jelly looks the day after a dinner-party, how it is fatigued, and lies down and gets shapeless and soft? I might have stayed in that stage, if the war hadn’t summoned me. I did not consciously want material things: I was not greedy or lustful, and I had a perfectly conscious knowledge that God existed in everything. But I didn’t reverence things for that reason, nor did I mix myself up in them. I held aloof, and was content to think. Then came the war, and now for nearly fifteen months I have been learning to get close to common things, to see, as I said, that the sacredness of their origin pervades them. It doesn’t lie in them, tucked away in some secret drawer, which you have to open by touching a spring. The spring you have to touch is in yourself, you have to open your own perception of what is always before your eyes. It doesn’t require any wit or poetic sense to perceive it: it is there, a plain simple phenomenon. But in it is the answer to the whole cosmic conundrum, for there lies the Love that ‘moves the sun and the other stars!’ Theoretically I knew that, but not practically.

  “Now, after a good deal of what you might call spade-work, I’m beginning to feel that, first-hand. For months I hated the drill, and the sordidness (so I said) and the life in which you are so seldom alone. I hated the rough clothes, and the heavy boots and the food. But I never hated the other fellows: I’ve always liked people. Then when I got on I hated the accounts I had to do, and the supplies I had to weigh, but in one thing I never faltered, and that was in the desire to get at what lay behind it all. There was something more in it than the fact that the work had to be done because England was at war with Germany, and because I wanted to help. That was sufficient to bring me out of Alatri, and it would have been sufficient to carry me along, even if there had been nothing else behind it. But always I had the knowledge of there being something else behind. And clearly the life I was leading gave me admirable conditions for finding that out. Everything was very simple: I had no independence; I had to do what I was told. You may bet that obedience is the key to freedom.

  “There were days of storm and days of peace, of course. There were darknesses in which one was tempted to say that there wasn’t anything to be perceived. Some persistent devil inside me kept suggesting that an account-book was just an account-book, and a rifle nothing more than a rifle. But I still clung to that which had grown, in all those years at Alatri, to be a matter of knowledge. I knew there was something behind, and I knew what it was, though the mists obscured it, just as when the sea-fog comes down in the winter over the island, and you cannot see the mainland for days together. But you don’t seriously question whether the mainland is there because you don’t see it. A child might: if you told a child that the mainland had been taken away, he would probably accept what you said.... There were days when I doubted everything, not only the reality at the back of it all, but even the immediate cause for my work, namely, that the regiment was part of the army that was fighting the Germans, and that so it was my job to help.

  “And then, one day when I was least expecting it or consciously thinking of it, the knowledge came with that sense of realization that makes all the difference between theoretical and practical knowledge. I was among the stores, rather busy, and suddenly the tins of petroleum shone with God. Just that.”

  He turned his handsome, merry face to me: there was no solemnity in it, it was as if he had told me some cheerful piece of ordinary news.

  “Now will you understand me when I say that that moment was in no sense overwhelming, nor did it interfere in the slightest degree with either the common work of the day, drill and accounts and what not, or with the common diversions of the day? It did not even give them a new meaning, for I had known for years that the meaning was there; only, it had not been to me a matter of practical knowledge. It was like — well, you know how slow I am at learning anything on the piano, but with sufficient industry I can get a thing by heart at last. It was like that: it was like the first occasion on which one plays it by heart. It did not yet, nor does it now get between me and all the things that fill the day. It is not a veil drawn between me and them, so that drudgery and little menial offices are no longer worth while: it is just the opposite: it is as if a veil were drawn away, and I can see them and handle them more clearly and efficiently, and enjoy them infinitely more. This warm fire feels more delightfully comfortable than ever a fire did. I take more pleasure in seeing you sitting there near me than ever before. There was never such a good muffin as the one you sent up to the bath-room. That’s only natural, if you come to think of it. It would be a very odd sort of illumination, if it served only to make what we have got to do obscure or tiresome or trivial. Instead, it redeems the common things from triviality. It takes weariness out of the world.”

  “You said the petroleum-tins shone with God,” I said. “Can you tell me about that? Was it a visible light?”

  “I wondered if you would ask that,” he said, “and I wish I could explain it better. There was no visible light, nothing like physical illumination round them. But my eyes told that faculty within me which truly perceives, that they shone. What does St. Paul call it? ‘The light invisible,’ isn’t it? That is exactly descriptive. ‘The light invisible, the uncreated light.’ I can’t tell you more than that, and I expect that it is only to be understood by those who have seen it. I am quite conscious that my description of it must mean nothing. I have long known it was there, and so have you, but till I perceived it I had no idea what it was like.”

  “There’s another thing,” said I, “you are going out next week to the Dardanelles. What does the business of killing look like in the light of the light invisible?”

  He laughed again.

  “It hasn’t turned me into a conscientious objector, if you mean that,” he said. “I hate the notion of shooting jolly funny rabbits, or merry partridges, though I’m quite inconsistent enough to eat them when they are shot — at least, not rabbits: I would as soon eat rats. But I shall do my best to kill as many Turks as I possibly can. I know it’s right that we should win this war. I was never more certain about anything. The Prussian standpoint is the devil’s standpoint, and since it’s our business to fight the devil, we’ve got to fight the Prussians and all who are allied with them. It seems a miserable way of fighting the devil, to go potting Turks. If I could only get to know the fellows I hope I am going to kill, I would bet that I should find them awfully decent chaps. I shouldn’t be surprised if they would shine, too, like the petroleum-tins. But there’s no other alternative. No doubt if our diplomatists hadn’t been such apes, we should be friends with the Turks, instead of being their enemies, but, as it is, there’s no help for it. I’ve no patience with pacificists; we’ve got to fight, unless we choose to renounce God. As for the man who has a conscientious objection to killing anybody, I think you will find very often that he has a conscientious objection to being killed. I haven’t any conscientious objection to either. I shall be delighted to kill Turks, and I’m sure I don’t grudge them the pleasure of killing me.”

  “But you think they’re fighting on the devil’s side,” I objected. “You don’t want to be downed by the devil?”

  “Oh, they don’t down me by shooting me,” he said. “Also, they don’t think they are in league wi
th the devil; at least, we must give them the credit of not thinking so, and they’ve got every bit as good a right to their view as I have. Lord! I am glad, if I may say it without profanity, that I’m not God. Fancy having millions and millions of prayers, good sincere honest prayers, addressed to you every day from opposite sides, entreating you to grant supplications for victory! Awfully puzzling, for Him! You’d know what excellent fellows a lot of our enemies are.”

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed at this moment, and Francis jumped up with a squeal.

  “Eight o’clock already!” he said. “What an idiot you are for letting me jaw along like this! I’m not dressed yet, nor are you.”

  “You may dine in a dressing-gown if you like,” I said.

  “Thanks, but I don’t want to in the least. I want to put on the fine new dress-clothes which I left here a year ago. Do dress too; let’s put on white ties and white waistcoats, and be smart, and pompous. I love the feeling of being dressed up. Perhaps we won’t go to the movies afterwards; what do you think? We can’t enjoy ourselves more than sitting in this jolly room and talking. At least, I can’t; I don’t know about you. Oh, and another thing. You have a day off to-morrow, haven’t you, it being Saturday? Let’s go and stay in the country till Monday. I’ve been in a town for so many months. Let’s go to an inn somewhere where there are downs and trees, and nobody to bother. If we stayed with people, we should have to be polite and punctual. I don’t want to be either. I don’t want to hold forth about being a Tommy, except to you. Most people think there’s something heroic and marvellous about it, and they make me feel self-conscious. It’s no more heroic than eating when you’re hungry. You want to: you’ve got to: your inside cries out for food, it scolds you till you give it some.”