Christy’s criticism of Bertram’s book was not devastating. He suggested
merely the elimination of certain passages which seemed to him libellous
against a certain General, and said simply, “You can’t afford a law
suit,” when Bertram protested violently that he intended to libel the
old scoundrel, but hadn’t been half strong enough in his character study
of a blood-thirsty Junker, ruthless of men’s lives. His praise was
limited to a few words, but magnificent to a man who knew him as Bertram
did.
“You can write. You know the right words.”
That was good enough from Christy, hard critic, and honest as death. He
asked Bertram to let him send the book to Heatherdew, the literary
agent, and his friend. He would find a publisher, if any man could, and
take a personal interest in it, as a hater of war.
Bertram wanted to know how many weeks he would have to wait before the
book appeared, and what payment he was likely to get, an impatience
which amused Christy, who had more experience.
“It can’t be out till the autumn, at earliest.”
“Not till the autumn! Good Heavens!”
“It’s not accepted yet, old man. Hang on to patience.”
He conveyed a suggestion to Bertram from Bernard Hall of _The New
World_. Why not write an article, dealing generally with the threatened
strike? Hall suggested a title: “The Mind of the Men,” on the lines of
Bertram’s talk about the Comrades of the Great War and their point of
view. What Bill Huggett had told him, and so on. It would be a valuable
contribution, with knowledge at first hand, not easy to get.
“I’ll have a shot,” said Bertram. “Do you think the strike is likely?”
“Inevitable, I’m told. Nat Verney knows.”
For some time Christy discussed the possibilities of trouble. The
Government seemed to be asking for it. It was true about calling out the
Army Reserves. They also proposed to recruit the Middle Classes for
self-defence. That would divide England into the Haves and the
Have-nots. A short-sighted policy at such a time, when all such
clear-cut distinctions ought to be avoided. Big Business, with the
Government in league with it, was out to smash organised Labour. The
plan was to defeat it in sections, first the miners, then the railway
men, then the engineers, then the other great trades. It was to be a
general campaign to bring down wages to pre-war rates. A sound policy,
if prices came down to the same level, but there was about as much
chance of that as of friendship between France and Germany!
“Low wages and sweated labour! That’s the watch-word now. No ‘Homes for
Heroes,’ and other fine cries which went very well in war-time.”
Bertram thought it was unfair to the men.
“It’s a damned outrage!” said Christy.
For some time the two friends were silent. They knew each other well
enough for long silences. Christy’s cheap clock on the mantelpiece
ticked with a little staccato tattoo. They did not trouble to switch on
the light, but sat smoking in low chairs on each side of the fire-grate
in which a few coals burned in a heap of white ash. Christy drew hard at
his pipe now and then, and a little red glow lit up his long, lean face
with its deep sunken eyes and bulging forehead. Down below, in Adelphi
Terrace, or its neighbourhood, some ex-soldier was playing a one-string
fiddle, not badly, but with long-drawn melancholy. Cavalleria
Rusticana—they all played that. Down the Thames, beyond the Tower
Bridge, no doubt, a steamer was sounding its siren. The Batavia boat,
off to Holland, or a river tug moving. The murmur of London, the voice
of its enormous life and traffic, made the windows throb, and above its
low-toned rhythm, the horns of motor-taxis bleated incessantly.
Christy stirred, and poked the dying fire with his boot.
“I’d like to see how this strike works out. I want to be in England if
there’s any real trouble. But I’m off again.”
“Already!”
Bertram was distressed. He hung on to Christy’s comradeship. Here, in
these rooms, was a sanctuary into which he could take refuge from the
worries of life, or at least could ease them, by unloading his pack
awhile, and sorting it out with old Christy. It was not so much
Christy’s words which helped him, but his presence. They’d been together
in dirty places during the war. They had sat in the same mud-holes,
listening to shells overhead, and expecting death together. They knew
each other’s courage and fears. Christy had wept once, when his _moral_
had broken for a while. He had just cried like a child when the sergeant
was blown to bits, not because of any love for the sergeant, but because
of the beastliness and unending misery of it all. Bertram had been on
the verge of shell-shock once. He was afraid of being afraid. Supposing
he let down the men, played the coward, or something? Christy had
strengthened him then. They knew each other—in weakness as well as in
strength. He hated to think of Christy going away again so soon.
“Where now?” he asked.
“Berlin for a start. Then—perhaps Moscow. I’ve asked for permits.”
“Moscow!”
Christy grinned, and confessed it sounded like asking for the tiger’s
cage to be opened. But he wanted to get into Russia, and _The New World_
had asked him to go. It was impossible to find out the truth of what was
happening there. Everything one read was a manufactured lie. He wanted
to know the truth. He would be restless until he found out. Was there
anything at all to be said for the Russian experiment—Communism? It was
no good talking about Bolshevik atrocities. They weren’t Communism. He
wasn’t sure of them, anyhow, but if they’d happened, they belonged to
the realm of that murder mania which overtakes people in times of war
and revolution. He wanted to see how the system worked, whether it was
any solution of Capitalist civilisation. It was absurd to pretend that
Western civilisation was the last word in human wisdom and scientific
organisation. The profiteer was in himself a denial of that! Perhaps,
with all their blunderings and cruelties, Lenin and his crowd had caught
hold of some sound idea. Perhaps it was the beginning of a new era in
social history. He wanted to see for himself, to know. He had no
preconceived ideas. He was out for the truth, whatever it might be.
“I’m afraid you’ll go Bolshevik!” said Bertram. “If you do, our
friendship ends.”
He spoke the last words lightly, but not without sincerity and fear.
“I’ll let you know,” said Christy. “A post card will do. ‘I’ve gone
Bolshy.’”
He laughed at the thought of the postcard travelling from Moscow with
its awful message to the outer world. Probably the censor would seize
it. It would be burnt at the end of a pair of tongs, lest it should
spread sedition. Bertram’s world would never know. At some future date
he might hear of his former friend leading a Red Army against Poland, or
sitting with a long white beard, like Karl Marx, in the Kremlin, ruling
Russia.
It was some minutes later when Bertram asked a question sharply:
“Have you told Janet Welford?”
Christy poked the fire, and put it out, with great deliberation.
“No.”
“Christy, old man,” said Bertram presently, “is there anything between
you and Janet—I mean in the way of love and that sort of thing?”
Christy laughed, and rose to look at himself in the glass, and laughed
again.
“With this ugly mug? Does the Neanderthal Man indulge in amorous
dalliance with beautiful women of the Georgian era? What a horrible
thought!”
“She loves you this side idolatry,” said Bertram.
Christy suddenly flamed out in anger, and it was the first time Bertram
had ever seen him lose control.
“Damn you, Pollard! Why can’t you leave that subject alone? What right
have you to talk of Janet at all? She used to come here often before you
spent all your evenings in her rooms.”
Bertram was astounded and overwhelmed by this sudden outburst. So
Christy _was_ jealous of him! Christy—of all men in the world!—whom he
would no more hurt than cut off his own right hand!
He went over to him, and grabbed his shoulder.
“Why, you silly old ass! Do you think I wanted to barge in between you
and Janet? What about Joyce, and my loyalty to her?”
Christy’s gust of rage died down as quickly as it had risen, and he was
pale and ashamed.
“Sorry, Pollard! Fact is, you touched the wrong nerve. I love that girl
Janet like an infatuated Romeo. She sets my frog’s blood on fire. That’s
one reason I’m off to Moscow. Running away!”
“Why run?” asked Bertram. “Why not tell her?”
Christy gave another whimsical look at his face in the mirror over the
mantelpiece.
“Not in that mug, laddie! Besides—now we’re talking—I’ve got a wife,
too, don’t you see, although I don’t live with her? And anyhow, this
damned old world of ours don’t lend itself to love-making just now. It’s
falling into ruin, and I’m busy watching it. The human equation doesn’t
seem to matter, and the ghosts of dead boys, who were robbed of life
before their time, mock at my senile passion. I ought to know better at
my time of life. I’ll be forty-five in Moscow!”
He made only one other reference to the subject. It was when Bertram
left his rooms that night.
“Referring back,” he said, “I might say a parting word, laddie. If
you’re not cut out for disloyalty—and it needs a special
temperament—cut and run when loyalty’s over-strained. It’s the safest
way. . . . And Moscow is an interesting place.”
They gripped hands and wished each other luck. Luck to the book. Luck to
the adventure.
“Dashed funny thing—life,” said Christy, leaning over the staircase as
Bertram went down.
“It’s all very difficult!”
They both laughed. They had spoken the same words a thousand times in
France.
All very difficult! Yes. Bertram, going home, wondered whether Janet
Welford had more than a whimsical affection for Christy. How old Christy
had fired up! He never suspected him of passion—and at forty-five! Time
for the fires to burn out. . . . He also wondered whether Joyce
understood the meaning of love. Something would have to be done to make
her understand, or his life, and hers, would be utterly spoilt.