flushed with the fudge-making, entered the big, burly ruddy
police-sergeant, his black mackintosh-cape streaming wet.
“We give you a terrible lot of trouble, I’m sorry to say,” said Harriet
ironically. “What an awful night for you to have to come all these
miles. I’m sure it isn’t _our_ doing.”
“No, ma’m, I know that. It’s the doing of people who like to meddle.
These military orders, they take some keeping pace with.”
“I’m sure they do.”
Harriet was all sympathy. So he, too, was goaded by these military
canaille.
Somers fetched the American friend, and he was asked to produce papers,
and give information. He gave it, being an honourable citizen and a
well-bred American, with complete _sang froid_. At that moment Somers
would have given a lot to be American too, and not English. But
wait--those were early days, when America was still being jeered at for
standing out and filling her pockets. She was not yet the intensely
loved Ally. The police-sergeant was pleasant as ever. He apologised
again, and went out into the black and pouring night. So much for
Christmas Eve.
“But that’s not the end of the horrid affair,” as the song says. When
Monsell got back to London he was arrested, and conveyed to Scotland
Yard: there examined, stripped naked, his clothes taken away. Then he
was kept for a night in a cell--next evening liberated and advised to
return to America.
Poor Monsell, and he was so very anti-German, so very pro-British. It
was a blow for him. He did not leave off being anti-German, but he was
much less pro-British. And after all, it was war-time, when these things
must happen, we are told. Such a war-time that let loose the foulest
feelings of a mob, particularly of “gentlemen,” to torture any single,
independent man as a mob always tortures the isolated and independent.
In despair, Somers thought he would go to America. He had passports, he
was Rejected. They had no use for him, and he had no use for them. So he
posted his passports to the Foreign Office, for the military permit to
depart.
It was January, and there was a thin film of half-melted snow, like
silver, on the fields and the path. A white, static, arrested morning,
away there in the west of Cornwall, with the moors looking primeval, and
the huge granite boulders bulging out of the earth like presences. So
easy to realise men worshipping stones. It is not the stone. It is the
mystery of the powerful, pre-human earth, showing its might. And all,
this morning, static, arrested in a cold, milky whiteness, like death,
the west lost in the sea.
A man culminates in intense moments. This was one of Somers’ white,
deathlike moments, as he walked home from the tiny post-office in the
hamlet, on the wintry morning, after he had posted his passports asking
for visas to go to New York. It was like walking in death: a strange,
arrested land of death. Never had he known that feeling before: as if he
were a ghost in the after-death, walking a strange, pale, static, cold
world. It almost frightened him. “Have I done wrong?” he asked himself.
“Am I wrong, to leave my country and go to America?”
It was then as if he _had_ left his country: and that was like death, a
still, static, corporate death. America was the death of his own country
in him, he realised that.
But he need not have bothered. The Foreign Office kept his passports,
and did not so much as answer him. He waited in vain.
Spring came--and one morning the news that Asquith was out of the
government, that Lloyd George was in. And this was another of Somers’
crises. He felt he must go away from the house, away from everywhere.
And as he walked, clear as a voice out of the moors, came a voice
saying: “It is the end of England. It is the end of the old England. It
is finished. England will never be England any more.”
Cornwall is a country that makes a man psyche. The longer he stayed, the
more intensely it had that effect on Somers. It was as if he were
developing second sight, and second hearing. He would go out into the
blackness of night and listen to the blackness, and call, call softly,
for the spirits, the presences he felt coming downhill from the moors in
the night. “Tuatha De Danaan!” he would call softly. “Tuatha De Danaan!
Be with me. Be with me.” And it was as if he felt them come.
And so this morning the voice struck into his consciousness. “It is the
end of England.” So he walked along blindly, up the valley and on the
moors. He loved the country intensely. It seemed to answer him. But his
consciousness was all confused. In his mind, he did not at all see why
it should be the end of England. Mr Asquith was called Old Wait-and-See.
And truly, English Liberalism had proved a slobbery affair, all sad
sympathy with everybody, and no iron backbone, these years. Repulsively
humble, too, on its own account. It was no time for Christian humility.
And yet, it was true to its great creed.
Whereas Lloyd George! Somers knew nothing about Lloyd George. A little
Welsh lawyer, not an Englishman at all. He had no real significance in
Richard Lovat’s soul. Only, Somers gradually came to believe that all
Jews, and all Celts, even whilst they espoused the cause of England,
subtly lived to bring about the last humiliation of the great old
England. They could never do so if England _would not_ be humiliated.
But with an England fairly offering herself to ignominy, where was the
help? Let the Celts work out their subtlety. If England _wanted_ to be
betrayed, in the deeper issues. Perhaps Jesus wanted to be betrayed. He
did. He chose Judas.
Well, the story could have no other ending.
The war-wave had broken right over England, now: right over Cornwall.
Probably throughout the ages Cornwall had not been finally swept,
submerged by any English spirit. Now it happened--the accursed later war
spirit. Now the tales began to go round full-tilt against Somers. A
chimney of his house was tarred to keep out the damp: that was a signal
to the Germans. He and his wife carried food to supply German
submarines. They had secret stores of petrol in the cliff. They were
watched and listened to, spied on, by men lying behind the low stone
fences. It is a job the Cornish loved. They didn’t even mind being
caught at it: lying behind a fence with field-glasses, watching through
a hole in the drystone wall a man with a lass, on the edge of the moors.
Perhaps they were proud of it. If a man wanted to hear what was said
about him--or anything--he lay behind a wall at the field-corners, where
the youths talked before they parted and went indoors, late of a
Saturday night. A whole intense life of spying going on all the time.
Harriet could not hang out a towel on a bush, or carry out the slops, in
the empty landscape of moors and sea, without her every movement being
followed by invisible eyes. And at evening, when the doors were shut,
valiant men lay under the windows to listen to the conversation in the
cosy little room. And bitter enough were the things they said: and
damnatory, the two Somers. Richard did not hold himself in. And he
talked too with the men on the farm: openly. For they had exactly the
same anti-military feeling as himself, and they simply loathed the
thought of being compelled to serve. Most men in the west, Somers
thought, would have committed murder to escape, if murder would have
helped them. It wouldn’t. He loved the people at the farm, and the men
kindled their rage together. And again Somers’ farmer friend warned him,
how he was being watched. But Somers _would_ not heed. “What can they do
to me!” he said. “I am not a spy in any way whatsoever. There is nothing
they can do to me. I make no public appearance at all. I am just by
myself. What can they do to me? Let them go to hell.”
He refused to be watchful, guarded, furtive, like the people around,
saying double things as occasion arose, and hiding their secret thoughts
and secret malignancy. He still believed in the freedom of the
individual.--Yes, freedom of the individual!
He was aware of the mass of secret feeling against him. Yet the people
he came into daily contact with liked him--almost loved him. So he kept
on defying the rest, and went along blithe and open as ever, saying what
he really felt, or holding his tongue. Enemies! How could he have any
_personal_ enemies? He had never done harm to any of these people, had
never even felt any harm. He did not believe in personal enemies. It was
just the military.
Enemies he had, however, people he didn’t know and hadn’t even spoken
to. Enemies who hated him like poison. They hated him because he was
free, because of his different, unafraid face. They hated him because he
wasn’t cowed, as they were all cowed. They hated him for his intimacy at
the farm, in the hamlet. For each farm was bitter jealous of each other.
Yet he never believed he had any _personal_ enemies. And he had all the
west hating him like poison. He realised once, when two men came down
the moorland by-road--officers in khaki--on a motor-bicycle, and went
trying the door of the next cottage, which was shut up. Somers went to
the door, in all simplicity.
“Did you want me?” he asked.
“No, we didn’t want _you_,” replied one of the fellows, in a genteel
voice and a tone like a slap in the face. Somers spoken to as if he were
the lowest of the low. He shut his cottage door. Was it so? Had they
wilfully spoken to him like that? He would not believe it.
But inwardly, he knew it was so. That was what they intended to convey
to him: that he was the lowest of the low. He began even to feel guilty,
under this mass of poisonous condemnation. And he realised that they had
come, on their own, to get into the other cottage and see if there were
some wireless installation or something else criminal. But it was
fastened tight, and apparently they gave up their design of breaking in,
for they turned the motor-cycle and went away.
Day followed day in this tension of suspense. Submarines were off the
coast; Harriet saw a ship sunk, away to sea. Horrible excitement, and
the postman asking sly questions to try to catch Somers out. Increased
rigour of coast watching, and _no_ light must be shown. Yet along the
highroad on the hillside above, plainer than any house-light, danced the
lights of a cart, moving, or slowly sped the light of a bicycle, on the
blackness. Then a Spanish coal-vessel, three thousand tons, ran on the
rocks in a fog, straight under the cottage. She was completely wrecked.
Somers watched the waves break over her. Her coal washed ashore, and
the farmers carried it up the cliffs in sacks.
There was to be a calling-up now and a re-examination of every
man--Somers felt the crisis approaching. The ordeal was to go through,
once more. The first rejection meant nothing. There were certain
reservations. He had himself examined again by a doctor. The strain told
on his heart as well as his breathing. He sent in this note to the
authorities. A reply: “You must present yourself for examination, as
ordered.”
He knew that if he was really ever summoned to any service, and finally
violated, he would be broken, and die. But patience. In the meanwhile he
went to see his people: the long journey up the west, changing at
Plymouth and Bristol and Birmingham, up to Derby. Glamorous west of
England: if a man were free. He sat through the whole day, very still,
looking at the world. Very still, gone very far inside himself,
travelling through this England in spring. He loved it so much. But it
was in the grip of something monstrous, not English, and he was almost
gripped too. As it was, by making himself far away inside himself, he
contained himself, and was still.
He arrived late in Derby: Saturday night, and no train for the next ten
miles. But luckily, there was a motor-bus going out to the outlying
villages. Derby was very dark, like a savage town, a feeling of
savagery. And at last the ’bus was ready: full of young miners, more or
less intoxicated. The ’bus was crammed, a solid jam of men, sitting on
each other’s knees, standing blocked and wedged. There was no outside
accommodation. And inside were jammed eighteen more men than was
allowed. It was like being pressed into one block of corned beef.
The ’bus ran six miles without stopping, through an absolutely dark
country, Zeppelin black, and having one feeble light of its own. The
roads were unmended, and very bad. But the ’bus charged on, madly, at
full speed, like a dim consciousness madly charging through the night.
And the mass of colliers swayed with the ’bus, intoxicated into a living
block, and with high, loud, wailing voices they sang:
“There’s a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams--
Where the nightingales are singing and the----”
This ghastly trailing song, like death itself. The colliers seemed to
tear it out of their bowels, in a long, wild chant. They, too, all
loathed the war: loathed it. And this awful song! They subsided, and
somebody started “Tipperary.”
“It’s a long, long way to Tipperary,
It’s a long way to go----”
But Tipperary was already felt as something of a Jonah: a bad-luck song,
so it did not last long. The miserable songs--with their long, long ways
that ended in sheer lugubriousness: real death-wails! These for battle
songs. The wail of a dying humanity.
Somebody started:
“Good-bye--eeee
Don’t cry--eee
Wipe the tear, baby dear, from your eye--eee--
For it’s hard to part I know.
I’ll--be--tickled-to-death to go,
Good-bye--eeee
Don’t cry--eee--”
But the others didn’t know this ragtime, and they weren’t yet in the
mood. They drifted drunkenly back to the ineffable howl of
“There’s a long, long trail----”
A black, wild Saturday night. These were the collier youths Somers has
been to school with--approximately. As they tore their bowels with their
singing, they tore his. But as he sat squashed far back among all that
coated flesh, in the dimmest glim of a light, that only made darkness
more substantial, he felt like some strange isolated cell in some
tensely packed organism that was hurling through chaos into oblivion.
The colliers. He was more at one with them. But they were blind,
ventral. Once they broke loose heaven knows what it would be.
The Midlands--the theatre in Nottingham--the pretence of amusement, and
the feeling of murder in the dark, dreadful city. In the daytime these
songs--this horrible long trail, and “Good-byeeee” and “Way down in
Tennessee.” They tried to keep up their spirits with this rag-time
Tennessee. But there was murder in the air in the Midlands, among the
colliers. In the theatre particularly, a shut-in, awful feeling of souls
fit for murder.
London--mid-war London, nothing but war, war. Lovely sunny
weather, and bombs at midday in the Strand. Summery weather.
Berkshire--aeroplanes--springtime. He was as if blind; he must hurry the
long journey back to Harriet and Cornwall.
Yes--he had his papers--he must present himself again at Bodmin
barracks. He was just simply summoned as if he were already conscripted.
But he knew he must be medically examined. He went--left home at seven
in the morning to catch the train. Harriet watched him go across the
field. She was left alone, in a strange country.
“I shall be back to-night,” he said.
It was a still morning, remote, as if one were not in the world. On the
hill down to the station he lingered. “Shall I not go! Shall I not go!”
he said to himself. He wanted to break away. But what good? He would
only be arrested and lost. Yet he had dawdled his time, he had to run
hard to catch the train in the end.
This time things went much more quickly. He was only two hours in the
barracks. He was examined. He could tell they knew about him and
disliked him. He was put in class C 3--unfit for military service, but
conscripted for light non-military duties. There were no rejections now.
Still, it was good enough. There were thousands of C men, men who
_wanted_ to have jobs as C men, so they were not very likely to fetch
him up. He would only be a nuisance anyhow. That was clear all round.
Through the little window at the back of their ancient granite cottage,
Harriet, peeping wistfully out to sea--poor Harriet, she was always
frightened now--saw Richard coming across the fields, home, walking
fast, and with that intent look about him that she half feared. She ran
out in a sort of fear, then waited. She would wait.
He saw her face very bright with fear and joy at seeing him back: very
beautiful in his eyes. The only real thing, perhaps, left in his world.
“Here you are! So early!” she cried. “I didn’t expect you. The dinner
isn’t ready yet. Well?”
“C 3,” he replied. “It’s all right.”
“I _knew_ it would be,” she cried, seizing his arm and hugging it to
her. They went in to the cottage to finish cooking the evening meal. And
immediately one of the farm girls came running up to see what it was.
“Oh, C 3--so you’re all right, Mr Somers. Glad, I’m glad.”
Harriet never forgot the straight, intent bee-line for home which he was
making when she peeped out of that little window unaware.
So, another respite. They were not going to touch him. They knew he
would be a firebrand in their army, a dangerous man to put with any
group of men. They would leave him alone. C 3.
He had almost entirely left off writing now, and spent most of his days
working on the farm. Again the neighbours were jealous.
“Buryan gets his labour cheap. He’d never have got his hay in but for Mr
Somers,” they said. And that was another reason for wishing to remove
Richard Lovat. Work went like steam when he was on Trendrinnan farm, and
he was too thick with the Buryans. Much too thick. And John Thomas
Buryan rather bragged of Mr Somers at market, and how he, Richard Lovat,
wasn’t afraid of any of them, etc., etc.--that he wasn’t going to serve
anybody, etc.--and that nobody could make him--etc., etc.
But Richard drifted away this summer, on to the land, into the weather,
into Cornwall. He worked out of doors all the time--he ceased to care
inwardly--he began to drift away from himself. He was very thick with
John Thomas, and nearly always at the farm. Harriet was a great deal
alone. And he seemed to be drifting away, drifting back to the common
people, becoming a working man, of the lower classes. It had its charm
for Harriet, this aspect of him--careless, rather reckless, in old
clothes and an old battered hat. He kept his sharp wits, but his
_spirit_ became careless, lost its concentration.
“I declare!” said John Thomas, as Somers appeared in the cornfield, “you
look more like one of us every day.” And he looked with a bright Cornish
eye at Somers’ careless, belted figure and old jacket. The speech
struck Richard: it sounded half triumphant, half mocking. “He thinks I’m
coming down in the world--it is half a rebuke,” thought Somers to
himself. But he was half pleased: and half he _was_ rebuked.
Corn harvest lasted long, and was a happy time for them all. It went
well, well. Also from London occasionally a young man came down and
stayed at the inn in the church town, some young friend of Somers who
hated the army and the Government and was generally discontented, and so
fitfully came as an adherent to Richard Lovat. One of these was James
Sharpe, a young Edinburgh man with a moderate income of his own,
interested in music. Sharpe was hardly more than a lad--but he was the
type of lowland Scotsman who is half an artist, not more, and so can
never get on in the ordinary respectable life, rebels against it all the
time, and yet can never get away from it or free himself from its
dictates.
Sharpe had taken a house further along the coast, brought his piano down
from London and sufficient furniture and a housekeeper, and insisted,
like a morose bird, that he wanted to be alone. But he wasn’t really
morose, and he didn’t want really to be alone. His old house, rather
ramshackle, stood back a little way from the cliffs, where the moor came
down savagely to the sea, past a deserted tin mine. It was lonely, wild,
and in a savage way, poetic enough. Here Sharpe installed himself for
the moment: to be alone with his music and his general discontent.
Of course he excited the wildest comments. He had window-curtains of
different colours, so of course, _here_ was plain signalling to the
German submarines. Spies, the lot of them. When still another young man
of the same set came and took a bungalow on the moors, West Cornwall
decided that it was being delivered straight into German hands. Not that
West Cornwall would really have minded that so terribly. No; it wasn’t
that it feared the Germans. It was that it hated the sight of these
recalcitrant young men. And Somers the instigator, the arch-spy, the
responsible little swine with his beard.
Somers, meanwhile, began to chuckle a bit to himself. After all he was
getting the better of the military _canaille_. _Canaille! Canaglia!
Schweinerei!_ He loathed them in all the languages he could lay his
tongue to.
So Somers and Harriet went to stay a week-end with Sharpe at Trevenna,
as the house was called. Sharpe was a C 2 man, on perpetual tenterhooks.
He had decided that if ever _he_ were summoned to serve, he would just
disappear. The Somers drove over, only three or four miles, on the
Saturday afternoon, and the three wandered on the moor and down the
cliff. No one was in sight. But how many pairs of eyes were watching,
who knows? Sharpe lighting a cigarette for Harriet was an indication of
untold immorality.
Evening came, the lamps were lit, and the incriminating curtains
carefully drawn. The three sat before the fire in the long music room,
and tried to be cosy and jolly. But there was something wrong with the
mood. After dinner it was even worse. Harriet curled herself up on the
sofa with a cigarette, Sharpe spread himself in profound melancholy in
his big chair, Somers sat back, nearer the window. They talked in
occasional snatches, in mockery of the enemy that surrounded them. Then
Somers sang to himself, in an irritating way, one German folksong after
another, not in a songful, but in a defiant way.
_“Annchen von Tharau”--“Schatz, mein Schatz, reite nicht so weit von
mir.” “Zu Strasburg auf der Schanz, da fiel mein Unglück ein.”_ This
went on till Sharpe asked him to stop.
And in the silence, the tense and irritable silence that followed, came
a loud bang. All got up in alarm, and followed Sharpe through the
dining-room to the small entrance-room, where a dim light was burning. A
lieutenant and three sordid men in the dark behind him, one with a
lantern.
“Mr Sharpe?”--the authoritative and absolutely-in-the-right voice of the
puppy lieutenant.
Sharpe took his pipe from his mouth and said laconically, “Yes.”
“You’ve a light burning in your window facing the sea.”
“I think not. There is only one window, and that’s on the passage where
I never go, upstairs.”
“A light was showing from that window ten minutes ago.”
“I don’t think it can have been.”
“It was.” And the stern, puppy lieutenant turned to his followers, who
clustered there in the dark.
“Yes, there was a light there ten minutes since,” chimed the followers.
“I don’t see how it’s possible,” persisted Sharpe.
“Oh, well--there is sufficient evidence that it was. What other persons
have you in the house--” and this officer and gentleman stepped into the
room, followed by his three Cornish weeds, one of whom had fallen into a
ditch in his assiduous serving of his country, and was a sorry sight. Of
course Harriet saw chiefly him, and had to laugh.
“There’s Mrs Waugh, the housekeeper--but she’s in bed.”
The party now stood and eyed one another--the lieutenant with his three
sorry braves on one hand, Sharpe, Somers, and Harriet in an old dress of
soft silk on the other.
“Well, Mr Sharpe, the light was seen.”
“I don’t see how it was possible. We’ve none of us been upstairs, and
Mrs Waugh has been in bed for half an hour.”
“Is there a curtain to the passage window?” put in Somers quietly. He
had helped Sharpe in setting up house.
“I don’t believe there is,” said Sharpe. “I forgot all about it, as it
wasn’t in a room, and I never go to that side of the house. Even Mrs
Waugh is supposed to go up the kitchen stairs, and so she doesn’t have
to pass it.”
“She must have gone across with a candle as she went to bed,” said
Somers.