IN CASE OF WAR.
As the winter settled over Europe--here with gloom and fog, there
with bright keen frosts and dazzling snow--the feeling of anxiety
respecting affairs in the East slowly subsided. The general
conviction was that Russia would not move against her hereditary
Moslem enemy until the winter was over; for even hatred, sturdy weed
though it may be, is killed by cold.
Theodore Trist, fresh from those mysterious Oriental lands which are
so much more romantic from a distance, gave no opinion upon the
matter, because he was a practical business-man, and fully aware of
the market value of his observations.
By ten o'clock on the morning following the soirée of the Ancient
Artists, he alighted from a hansom cab opposite the huge office of
the journal to which his pen was pledged. A few moments later he was
shaking hands uneffusively with the editor. This gentleman has been
introduced before, and men at his age change little in appearance or
habit. His vast head was roughly picturesque as usual, his speech
manly and to the point.
'Glad to see you back,' he said, in a business-like way. 'Sit down.
None the worse, I hope?' he added, in a softer tone, and accompanied
his observation with a keen glance. 'None the worse for the smell of
powder again?'
'No,' was the answer. 'That smell never did any man much harm.'
The editor smiled, and drew some straggling papers together upon his
desk.
'I want,' said Trist, after a pause, 'to make a lot of money.'
'Ah!'
'Enough,' continued Trist gravely, 'to put into something secure, and
ensure a steady income in the piping times of peace.'
The editor clasped his large hands gravely with fingers interlocked,
and placed them on the desk in front of him.
'That,' he said, with raised eyebrows, 'is bad.'
'But natural,' suggested the younger man.
'When a man of your age suddenly expresses a desire for something
which...'
'He has never had,' remarked Trist meekly.
'Which he has never had or wished for, it is suggestive of a
change--a radical change--in that man's plan of life.'
Trist raised his square shoulders slightly and respectfully.
'Now,' continued the editor, in his most solid and convincing way,
'you--Theodore Trist--are the most brilliant war-correspondent of a
brilliant and war-like generation. You are, besides that, a clever
fellow--perhaps an _exceptionally_ clever fellow. But, my friend,
there are many clever fellows in the world. It is an age of keen
competition, and the first man in the race must never look back to
see whose step it is that he hears behind him. We live in a time of
specialities, and we must be content with specialities. You are a
born war-correspondent, and I suppose your ambition is to prove that
you can do something else--write a novel, or edit a religious
periodical--eh?'
Trist laughed, and returned the gaze of a pair of remarkably bright
eyes without hesitation.
'No,' he answered. 'I am content with the mark I have made, but
there is not sufficient money to be gained at it, considering how
much it takes out of a man. I am as strong as a horse yet, but I
have noticed that there are some of us who, considering their years,
are not the men they should be. It is a desperately hard life, and
we are constantly required. If I live ten years longer, I shall be
laid on the shelf, as far as active service goes.'
The editor looked much relieved, and, moreover, made no pretence of
concealing his feelings.
'I have thought of that,' he said. 'Of course, we will take you on
the editorial staff.'
'Now...?'
The elder man raised his head, and the kindly gray eyes searched his
companion's face.
'Ah!' he said slowly. '_That_ is your game. Have you lost your
nerve?'
'No.'
'Then you contemplate some great change in your plan of life.'
'Hardly,' returned Trist, with some deliberation; 'but I want to be
prepared for such an emergency.'
'I am very sorry to hear it.'
'Why?'
'Because you are too young yet. And ... and, my boy, I don't want to
lose the best war-correspondent that ever crossed a saddle.'
The object of this honest flattery shrugged his shoulders.
'There are plenty more coming on.'
The great man shook his head.
'Do you mean to tell me,' he asked, 'that you are going to turn your
back upon a splendid career, and take up journalism? Why, my dear
fellow, even at my age I would willingly change my chair for your
saddle, and men say that I am at the top of the journalistic tree.
Come, be candid; why are you giving up active service?'
'Because I am wanted at home, and because I must find some means of
making a steady income.'
'Will you take my advice?' asked the elder man humbly.
They were like two friendly gladiators, these immovable journalists,
each conscious of the strength that lay behind the gentle manner of
the other, both anxious to avoid measuring steel.
Trist laughed good-humouredly.
'I will not promise.'
'No; that would be asking too much from a man who has made his own
way with his own hands. My advice is: do nothing until the necessity
arises. At the first rumour of war we will talk this over again. In
the meantime, let us wait on events. You will write your leaders as
usual, and I suppose you are busy with something in book form?'
'If,' answered Trist, 'there is war in Turkey, I will go, because I
told you that I would, but that will be my last campaign.'
The editor looked at him with kindly scrutiny; then he scratched his
chin.
'Why?' he asked deliberately, and with a consciousness of exceeding
the bounds of polite non-interference.
'I cannot tell you--yet.'
There was a slight pause, during which neither moved, and the
stillness in that little room which lay in the very heart of restless
London was remarkable.
The editor looked very grave. There were no papers on his desk
requiring immediate attention, but he held his pencil within his
strong fingers ready, as it were, to add his notes to any news that
might come before him. The responsibility of a great journalist is
only second to that of a Prime Minister in a country like England,
where the voice of the people is heard and obeyed. Had this man
turned his attention to politics, he would perhaps have attained the
Premiership; but he was a journalist, and from that small silent room
his fiats went forth to the ready ears of half a nation. Few men
read more than one newspaper, and we have not yet got over the
weakness of attaching undue importance to words that are set in type;
consequently the influence of an important journal over the mind of
the nation to which it dictates is practically incalculable.
'You know,' said this modern Jove at length, 'as well as I do that
there _will_ be war as soon as the winter is over.'
In completion of his remark he nodded his vast head sideways, vaguely
indicating the East.
'Yes,' was the meek answer; 'that is so--a war which will begin in a
one-sided way, and last longer than we quite expect; but I will go.'
'I fancy,' remarked the editor after some reflection, 'that Russia
will make a very common mistake, and underrate, or perhaps despise,
her adversary.'
Trist nodded his head.
'They are sure to do that,' he said; 'but I suppose they will win in
the end.'
'And you will be on the losing side again.
'Yes; I shall be on the losing side again.
Both men relapsed into profound meditation. Trist's meek eyes were
fixed on the soft Turkey carpet--the only suggestion of ease or
luxury about the room. The editor glanced from time to time at his
companion's strong face, and occupied himself with making small
indentations in his blotting-pad with the point of a blacklead pencil.
'Trist,' he said at length, 'I cannot do without you in this war.'
'The war has not come yet. Many things may happen before the spring;
but I will not play you false. You need never fear that.'
Then he rose and buttoned his thick coat; for, like all great
travellers, he wrapped himself up heavily in England. It is only
very young and quite inexperienced men who gather satisfaction from
the bravado of wearing no top-coat in winter.
'Good-bye,' he said; 'I must go up to the publishers.'
'Good-bye,' replied the editor heartily; 'look in whenever you are
passing. I hope to see you one night soon at the Homeless Club; they
are going to give you a dinner, I believe.'
'Yes; I heard something of it. It is very good of them, but
embarrassing, and not strictly necessary.'
Trist passed out of the small room into a long passage, and thence
into what was technically called the shop--a large apartment, across
which stretched a heavily-built deal counter, and of which the
atmosphere was warm with the intellectual odour of printing-ink.
The door-keeper, who persisted, in face of contradiction, in his
conviction that Mr. Trist was a soldier, drew himself stiffly up and
saluted as he held open the swing-door. It was one of those cold
blustering days which come in early November. A dry biting
south-east wind howled round every corner, and disfigured most
physiognomies with patches of red, more especially in the nasal
regions. Nevertheless, the air was clear and brisk--just the day to
kill weak folks and make strong people feel stronger.
With his gloved hands buried in the pockets of his thick coat, the
war-correspondent wandered along the crowded pavement of the Strand,
rubbing shoulders with beggar and genius indifferently.
He was not a man much given to useless reflections or observations
upon matters climatic, and so absorbed was he in his thoughts that he
would have been profoundly surprised to learn that a biting east wind
was withering up humanity. He looked into the shops, and presently
became really interested in a display of rifles exposed in the
unpretending window of a small establishment.
It is strange how the sight of those tools or instruments with which
we have at one time worked for our living affects us. The present
writer has seen an old soldier handle a bayonet in a curious
reflective way which could not be misunderstood. The ancient
warrior's face, in some subtle sense, became hardened, and his manner
changed. I myself grasp a rope differently from men who have never
trodden a moss-grown deck, and the curve of the hard strands within
my fingers tells a tale of its own, and brings back, suddenly,
ineffaceable pictures of the great seas.
Theodore Trist stood still before the upright burnished barrels which
the poet has likened to organ-pipes, and to his mind there came the
memory of their music, and the roar of traffic round him was almost
merged into the grand, deep voice of cannon. It is in the midst of
death that men realize fully the glorious gift of life, and those who
have known the delirious joy of battle--have once tasted, as it were,
the cup of life's greatest emotion--are aware that nothing but a
battle-field can bring that maddening taste to their lips again.
This contemplative man breathed harder and deeper as his eyes rested
on lock and barrel, and for some time he stood hearing nothing round
him, seeing nothing but the instruments of death.
'Yes,' he murmured as he turned away at length. 'I _must_ go to the
Russian war. _One_ more campaign, and then ... then who knows?'