I was speaking the other day to a man of cautious mind on a subject of
current rumour. "Well," he said, "if I had been asked whether I believed
such evidence four months ago I should have said 'Certainly.' But after the
great Russian myth I believe nothing that I can't prove. I believed in that
army of ghosts that came from Archangel! There are people who say they
didn't believe in it. Some of them believe they didn't believe in it. But I
say defiantly that I did believe in it. And I say further that there was
never a rumour in the world that seemed based upon more various or more
convincing evidence. And it wasn't true.... Well, I find I'm a changed man.
I find I am no longer a believer: I am a doubter."
This experience, I suppose, is not uncommon. The man who believes as easily
to-day as he did six months ago is a man on whom lessons are thrown away.
We have lived in a world of gigantic whispers, and most of them have been
false whispers. Even the magic word "Official" leaves one cold. It is not
what I am "officially" told that interests me: it is what I am "officially"
not told that I want to know in order to arrive at the truth.
You remember that famous answer of the plaintiff in an action against a
London paper years ago. "What did you tell him?" "I told him to tell the
truth." "The whole truth?" "No, _selected truths_."
What we have to guard against in this matter of rumours is the natural
tendency to believe what we want to believe. Take that case of the reported
victory in Poland in November 1914. There is strong reason to believe that
a large part of Hindenburg's army narrowly escaped being encircled, that
had Rennenkampf come up to time the trick would have been done. But it
wasn't done. Yet nearly every correspondent in Petrograd sent the most
confident news of an overwhelming victory. The _Morning Post_ correspondent
spoke of it as something "terrible but sublime. There has been nothing like
it since Napoleon left the bones of half a million men behind him in
Russia." Even Lord Kitchener, in the House of Lords, said that Russia had
accomplished the greatest achievement of the war. And so, just afterwards,
with the equally empty rumour of Hindenburg's "victory," which sent Berlin
into such a frenzy of rejoicing. It believed without evidence because it
wanted to believe.
And another fruitful source of rumour is fear. The famous concrete
emplacement at Maubeuge will serve as an instance. We had the most
elaborate details of how the property was acquired by German agents, how in
secret the concrete platform was laid down, and how the great 42-cm.
howitzer shelled Maubeuge from it. And instantly we heard of concrete
emplacements in this country--at Willesden, Edinburgh, and elsewhere. We
began to suspect every one who had a garage or a machine shop with a
concrete foundation of being a German agent. I confess that I shared these
suspicions in regard to a certain factory overlooking London, and could not
wholly argue myself out of them, though I hadn't an atom of evidence beyond
the fact that the building had been owned by Germans and had a commanding
position. I was under the hypnotism of Maubeuge and the fears to which it
gave birth.
Yet there never was a concrete emplacement at Maubeuge, and no 42-cm.
howitzer was used against that fortress. The property belonged, not to
German agents, but to respectable Frenchmen, and the apology of the _Matin_
for the libel upon them may be read by anybody who is interested in these
myths of the war.
I refer to this subject to-day not to recall these historic fables, but to
show what cruel wrong we may do to the innocent by accepting rumours about
our neighbours without examining the facts. Was there ever a more pitiful
story than that told at the inquest on an elderly woman at Henham in
Suffolk? Her husband had been the village schoolmaster for twenty-eight
years. The couple had a son whom they sent to Germany to learn the
language. The average village schoolmaster has not much money for luxuries,
and I can imagine the couple screwing and saving to give their boy a good
start in life. When he had finished his training he set out to seek his
fortune in South America, and there in far Guatemala he became a teacher of
languages. When the war broke out he heard the call of the Motherland to
her children and like thousands of others came back to fight.
But in the meantime the lying tongue of rumour had been busy with his name
in his native village. It was said that he was an officer in the German
Army, and on the strength of that rumour his parents were ordered by the
Chief Constable to leave the village and not to dwell on the East Coast. It
was a sentence of death on them. The order broke the old man's heart, and
he committed suicide. The son arrived to find his father dead and his
mother distracted by her bereavement. He took her away to the seaside for a
rest, but on their return to the village she, too, committed suicide. And
the jury did not say "Killed by Slander": they said "Suicide while of
unsound mind." Oh, cautious jurymen!
How do rumours get abroad? There are many ways. Let me illustrate one of
them. In his criticism of the war the other week Mr. Belloc said:
"The official German communiqué which appeared in print last Saturday is a
very good example upon which to work. I quote it as it appeared in the
_Westminster Gazette (which has from the beginning of the war, and even
before its outbreak, been remarkable for the volume of its German
information_), and as it was delivered through the Marconi channel."
Then follows the communiqué. Now, when I read this I smiled, for I love the
subtleties of the ingenious Mr. Belloc. He quotes a document which appeared
in every paper in the country, but he says he quotes it from the
_Westminster Gazette._ Why, since it appeared everywhere, does he mention
one paper? Obviously in order to make that parenthetical remark which I
have italicised.
Now the reputation of the _Westminster_ stands too high to be affected by
the suggestion that it is "remarkable"--which it isn't--for its German
information. But suppose you, a mere ordinary citizen, were alleged by some
one to have special intercourse with Germany at this time. You might be as
innocent as that Suffolk schoolmaster, but that would not save you from the
suspicions of your neighbours and, perhaps, the attentions of the Chief
Constable.
Let me give another little illustration. A friend of mine, who happens to
be a Liberal journalist, went to a private dinner recently to meet M.
Painlevé, the French Academician, Senator Lafontaine, of Brussels, and two
other French and Belgian deputies. The next morning he was stated in the
_Daily Express_ (edited by Mr. Blumenfeld) to have dined with "_three or
four foreigners_" for the purpose of discussing peace. And in the next
issue of the _London Mail_ the question was asked, "Who were the foreigners
with whom ------ dined?" You see the insinuation. You see how the idea
grows. He did not reply, because there are some papers that one can afford
to ignore, no matter what they say. But I mention the thing here to show
how a legend is launched.
And the moral of all this? It is that of my friend whom I have quoted. Let
us suspect all rumours whether about events or persons. When Napoleon's
marshals told him they had won a victory, he said, "Show me your
prisoners." When you are told a rumour do not swallow it like a hungry
pike. Say "Show me your facts." And before you accept them be sure they are
whole facts and not half facts.