Chapter I

But Ottilie had no occasion “herself to zis England to accustom”; neither was Doreen obliged to put to the test her assertion that being grown-up in Germany wasn’t the same as being grown-up in Eastwold. A European war intervened in time to prevent a further exchange of daughters between Herr Baumgartner and Mr. Blackwood. Ottilie, wailing bitterly, was bundled off post-haste and with considerable difficulty, to her native land. Mr. Blackwood was taking her as far as Dover, and the rest of the family saw her off at Eastwold station; where she kissed them all, including Reggie, much to the latter’s disgust. And they put her into the train, together with the brand-new English hold-all, of which she was so proud, and the large canvas bag on which were embroidered in red cotton the words: “_Glückliche Reise_”.... And up till the last, she craned her head, surmounted by its absurd little straw hat, out of the window, and assured the Blackwoods repeatedly that she loved them, and loved England; and enjoined Doreen to “Greet me Mr. Griggs—greet me all dear friends....” Then, as the train began to move out of the station: “Ach, zis vor.... _Jammerschade_!” The rest was smothered by the noise of the engine.... Doreen cried all the way home, and Reggie was compelled to remind her with some severity that Ottilie was a German—the term “Hun” in these early days of the war had not yet become incorporated in the language, or he would certainly have used it. Ottilie was a German, and hence, obviously, a spy; Reggie expressed the devout hope that he had said nothing in her presence that might lead to giving information to the enemy; and tried to obliterate the shame of her parting embrace by assiduous rifle-practice in the garden.

And young Hugh Clavering, looking very elated, climbed over the wall into the Blackwoods’ garden that afternoon, and told Doreen how awfully, awfully glad he was that she couldn’t go to Heidelberg now, even if she wanted to ... but he might be there himself, with any luck—Heidelberg would do just as well as Berlin, he wasn’t particular—yes, of course he’d enlisted; was going straight into camp; fine sport ... and he’d bring her a German helmet for Christmas.

And Doreen said how awfully, awfully proud of him she was, and she did hope he wouldn’t get hurt, and yes, of course she’d write to him, and would he send her a photograph of himself in uniform?

And Griggs and Tom Sanderson and Clive Blackwood, and all the clowns, pierrots, highwaymen and the rest of the motley crew from the fancy dress dance, had likewise enlisted; and of each one of them it was proudly claimed by his family that he was the first man in Eastwold—the first man in the county to have done so. Be this as it may, Eastwold made gallant response to the call of King and Country. Clive applied for a commission in the Royal Engineers; Tom gravitated naturally towards a cavalry regiment; Griggs appeared in the modest uniform of a private, and bore himself with that ingratiating charm of manner that had distinguished his impersonation both of Marat and Charles II.

“Only a simple Tommy—but ready to do his bit with the best of ’em. We’ll show Fritz the stuff Old England is made of!”

So, with a great deal of excitement, and metaphorical clanking of spurs, and generally with the sensation of taking part in a picturesque pageant, the manhood of Eastwold, very pleased with itself, left the sunny, sleepy little town for the various camps and headquarters, where it was to be instructed in the art of “showing Fritz the stuff old England was made of....”

“And what is Dennis going to do?” Mrs. Ryan at last voiced the question which had agitated the whole of Eastwold ever since the outbreak of war. Dennis’s mother replied that for the present she didn’t know that he was going to do anything, and rather hastily changed the subject. Eastwold, with a tolerance and forbearance which later it was to lose, assumed that Dennis, being an artist, and hence possessing a certain right to be “peculiar,” would take longer than the others to realise his duty towards his King, country and family. But inspired by the example of his brother Clive and the rest of Eastwold, he would no doubt soon long to feel his hand upon the hilt of his sword, as did every true-born Briton in times like these....

Little Miss Simpkins ventured to suggest that the Blackwoods, in giving one of their sons to the army, were adequately fulfilling the dictates of patriotism.

“We women of England must give _all_ our sons,” returned Mrs. Ryan who had no sons to give; and reiterated the ominous catch-phrase that had just been coined: “in times like these....”

The war had run the course of four horror-stricken months, and still the Blackwoods’ eldest son had made no move towards the recruiting-office. Nor had he any intention of doing so. The thought of war inspired in him none of those feelings with which convention decreed that every true Briton should be inspired—in times like these. He had no desire to feel his hand upon the hilt of his sword; no desire to help to bring the “day of victory” nearer. The whole thing was damnable and stupid, and cruel; and so was all the talk and the bombast with which everyone strove to gloss over the fact that it was damnable, and stupid, and cruel ... pretended that it was a noble thing, a glorious game, a game which every Englishman should be proud to be playing.

“A little blood-letting won’t do the nation any harm.” Often and often Dennis had heard that phrase upon his father’s lips, as comfortably Mr. Blackwood smoked his after-dinner cigar, and fixed his son with a baleful eye. Dennis at all events would not give himself up to become part of the machinery of nations trying to prove which could stand the most blood-letting; machinery that organised the murder of individuals by individuals who had no personal quarrel with each other. And greater even than his repugnance to the “great war game” as a whole; greater even than his revolt against the senselessness of it, and the pity of it; greater than any personal physical fear of death or wounds was his fear of being sent out to inflict death or wounds on others ... deliberately to maim and shatter the bodies of men as young as himself, the bodies of men as young as Alan.

He would not enlist. And Eastwold might do its worst.... Eastwold was, in fact, already growing restive.

Mrs. Ryan took him to task one day when she met him in the town. She had just come out of the grocer’s shop, where she had been complaining because the price of bacon had gone up again; and the grocer had replied that in times like these.... She was therefore considerably ruffled when she met Dennis outside. After a preliminary exchange of hostilities, and a meaning glance at his civilian clothes, she said: “Well, I should like to know where the war would be if everyone thought like that!”

“Presumably there would be no war at all,” he returned gently.

“Nonsense! The Germans would have been here long ago.”

“Not if _everyone_ thought like that.”

“The Germans would never think like that, even if the English did—and I’m thankful to say they don’t. It’s the Germans who wanted the war.”

“And now the English want it every bit as much as they do.”

“Well, now they’ve started it, we’ve got to go on with it—we didn’t want war.”

“I daresay they think and say exactly the same, only the other way round....” Dennis walked away, weary of the argument. He would have been wearier still, if he could have foreseen the countless times he was to repeat that argument with different people, in different places, with variations and amplifications. These were still the early days of the war, and the crusade against pacifism was not so strenuous as it became later on.

But Mrs. Ryan reported that conversation to Mrs. Clavering who reported it back to Mrs. Blackwood; and Mrs. Blackwood, half uneasily, told Dennis that it had been reported. “Of course Mrs. Ryan thinks you ought to go, Denny.”

“Everybody does, Mother,” he smiled at her.

“And—shall you...?”

“Do you think I ought to, Mother?”

She was troubled by the direct question. “I suppose every man ought to go, but it’s difficult to want them to. I suppose one can’t help being selfish.... Daddy thinks you ought to go, Dennis.”

He ignored this, being already acquainted with his father’s views on the subject. “And you Mother?” he persisted.

“I know it’s very wrong of me,” she murmured, as if apologising to the wrathful spirits of her husband and Mrs. Ryan and the rest of the community; apologising for being a mother first, and a “woman of England” afterwards.

Dennis laughed, and took her in his arms. “You dear....”

She returned his kiss, but repeated: “Mind you, I know it’s wrong.”

“Wrong that you should want me not to go out and kill people whose mothers love them every bit as much as you love me?”

She was silent, disconcerted by a point of view unfamiliar to Eastwold.

“Or do you think that because they’re Germans, they love their sons less?” he teased her, and she pretended to be indignant.

“You’re trying to make fun of me, and to muddle me, and I—I’m sure you ought to go, really....”

“That’s all right,” laughed Dennis.

But all the same, life at “The Hermitage” was far from ideal just now. Mr. Blackwood reading the paper aloud to his family every morning, dwelt with reproachful emphasis upon those portions detailing the atrocities committed by the German soldiery in Belgium—as if to make Dennis responsible for them. “Inhuman brutes—savages—devils! No Englishman should rest till the last one of them has been wiped off the face of the earth.”

“And I suppose no mention is made of the atrocities our Russian allies have probably committed in Germany,” said Dennis, “don’t you see that once the ‘dogs of war’ are loose, there’s bound to be that sort of thing all round? For the baser elements of all nations alike? Debauch and beastliness on the part of people sent mad by blood-lust?”

Mr. Blackwood turned purple. “Your views are disgraceful, sir. Why, to hear you, anyone would think you were pro-Hun.”

“I’m not pro-Hun any more than I’m pro-British. I’m not pro-anything that’s driving millions of innocent people to slaughter and be slaughtered by each other. I’m for the first people who’ve got the courage to put down their arms and end the whole thing.”

“You say that because you don’t want to fight yourself. Must I own that a son of mine is a coward and a shirker?”

“That’s as you please....”

Mr. Blackwood turned to vent his fury upon his wife. “This is your doing—you always did bring him up to be a spoilt namby-pamby!”

Between Mr. Blackwood’s spluttering rage, and Clive’s cold contempt for Dennis, and her own secret relief at the attitude which he had taken up, Mrs. Blackwood had no easy time. The house was divided against itself. Doreen had as yet not declared herself openly on one side or the other. She was sincerely convinced that every man ought to go, but she was half inclined to think that an exception might be made in Dennis’s favour. It was different somehow, for Dennis, though she had not the faintest idea why....

But Reggie, taking no heed of any psychological subtleties, wrote from Westborough, saying that he jolly well hoped Dennis would have joined up by Christmas, and that he ought to be jolly well ashamed of himself if he didn’t, and that he—Reggie—jolly well hoped that the war would last long enough to allow him to enlist.

About the middle of December, Dennis realised that he could no longer stand the strain of guerilla warfare in the home-circle, and decided to go to London for a while. No doubt the strain upon his mother, too, would be lessened, once his own irritating presence was removed from the house. Mrs. Blackwood approved his decision; told him to be sure and write if he wanted anything; and hoped he would often run down for the week-end.

Then, very tentatively, she said: “Will you see anything of Antoinette when you’re in London?”

He answered without looking at her: “I daresay I shall.”

“I’ll give you her address.”

He smiled. “I know it, thanks.”

It was the first time that they had mentioned Antoinette since she had stayed with them for the dance. Mrs. Blackwood still did not know why nothing had come of that little scheme of hers. It seemed just to have fallen flat.... Dennis had been in such a queer mood when he came back from Cornwall.... Perhaps Antoinette had been capricious or unkind to him; he was so absurdly sensitive. Of course she had never ventured to ask him about it. But perhaps if they met again in London——

Dennis certainly went to London with his mother’s blessing....

He was very glad of the £150 a year which had been left to him and his sister and brothers by Mrs. Blackwood’s father, and that enabled him to live as he pleased. He made a little money out of the sale of his compositions, but not sufficient to keep himself entirely; and he would have hated to be dependent upon his father.

He took a room in Tavistock Square, and went the next day to see his friend Neil Barnaby.

Barnaby was sitting at a writing-table littered with papers when Dennis entered. He looked up at him with a casual “Hallo?” and a funny, twisted smile that seemed confined to one corner of his mouth only.

“Hallo?” responded Dennis.

Barnaby put down his pen, and swung round in his revolving chair. “It’s six months, or thereabouts, since I saw you here last. Shall we pass over the intervening time in silence, or do you wish to make statement of it in detail?”

“Oh, pass it over in decent silence, I think,” laughed Dennis, “the best of you is, Barnaby, that after six months’ separation, one can take up the threads of intercourse as easily as if they’d been dropped yesterday.”

Barnaby grunted. “Nevertheless you might have had the decency to report upon the progress of your opera, considering that the libretto is mine. Have you finished it yet?”

Barnaby, in his time, had tried his hand at nearly all branches of literature; had perpetrated plays, a novel or two, an occasional set of verses and newspaper articles. But he retained a special fondness for the fairy-tale of “Karen and the Red Shoes,” which he had turned into a play for which Dennis was writing the music.

He answered Barnaby: “No, it isn’t finished. I haven’t been able to do any work at home of late. That’s partly why I’ve come up here for a bit.”

“Can’t work at home, eh?” Barnaby fixed him with a critical glance. “What is it—white feathers?”

Dennis nodded. “More or less.”

“H’m,” reflected Barnaby, “I at least am immune from that delicate sort of attention.”

Dennis glanced quickly away from the crutches that lay beside his friend’s chair. He was conscious of almost physical pain whenever Barnaby made allusion to his deformity; fine massive head sunk between rounded shoulders; one leg shorter than the other....

Dennis said: “Supposing you hadn’t been immune—that way?”

“You mean, if my physical disabilities hadn’t been so blatantly apparent to the naked eye? In that case, my dear Dennis, I should be doing exactly what you’re doing now—or rather, what you’re not doing.”

“You think I’m right in refusing to go, then?”

“If only they’d all refuse....” The concentrated fierceness of despair was in Barnaby’s voice.

“‘Then,’” Dennis parodied Mrs. Ryan, “‘where would the war be?’”

“Nowhere! That’s the obvious answer to that riddle.”

“I know it’s the answer. I’ve given it myself over and over again.”

Barnaby continued impatiently: “The brute stupidity of the thing ... and all the waste of art and intellect! Don’t give in, Dennis. Don’t let white feathers and the opinion of your next-door neighbours drive you into it. Get on with your opera. That’s the ‘bit’ for you to do, and a ‘bit’ which only you _can_ do.... Let’s at least preserve art from the general wreckage.”

“I doubt if the old ladies at home would agree with you,” said Dennis, “they’d say that art, too, must be sacrificed ‘in times like these.’”

“The Vandals.... I’d rather be a Hun than a Vandal any day! If the old ladies at home get too much for you, for heaven’s sake don’t bring the conflict of your opinions to me. I’m not interested in psychology at present: I’m doing free-lance journalism just now, for which it isn’t necessary. And keep in mind that it’s better to write music that will live, than to help to fill the world with things that look like me—and worse....”

* * * * *

But Dennis had no need of Barnaby’s reminder. The sight of the wounded in the streets was enough; and the thought of the wounded in the hospitals, being tended and mended, so that they might be sent out again, and broken again.... And already one saw those who could not be sent out again: armless, legless, blind; wreckage that could not be utilised either on the field of battle, or on any other.

He plunged into his work, taking it up where he had left it before he went to Devonshire. But the horror that was all around and about him, got into his music and became part of it. The ideas that came to him, found expression in harmonies that had an ominous and sinister beauty. He knew that they had beauty, despite the horror with which they were impregnated. He never lost his critical faculty where his work was concerned, nor yet a certain detached surprise with regard to it. Sometimes he wondered from what strange sub-region of consciousness issued these visions—yes, that was the right word—visions of sound, audible to himself alone, and that he had the power to translate and transmit to others. And sometimes he was afraid of this music of his, that sprang from he knew not whence, and over the going and coming of which, he had no control. He was afraid now.... The clamour in those submerged regions of his brain was so great and so complex that it obsessed his every thought; waking or sleeping he heard the tortured dissonances and weird scurrying arpeggios, that left him no peace until he had found the right form of expression for them.

... Music such as might have been heard in a nightmare ... music horrible and unreal, that in itself constituted a nightmare from which there was no escape. Like Karen, the girl in the fairy-tale who was compelled to dance on and on in the red shoes which she had so ardently desired—on and on past the loves with whom she would fain have lingered—so was Dennis compelled to listen without respite to this nightmare-music, that was like an evil spell upon him.

As a child, some haunting phrase of music, suddenly remembered; or the sound of a coach-horn heard in the stillness of the night, had had this power to fill him with helpless terror. He had stuffed his fingers into his ears, hidden his head under the bedclothes, but still the sound had pursued him.... He was equally helpless now, equally terrified; lonely, too; a loneliness that could be banished neither by talks with Barnaby, nor by the long musical evenings he spent at Crispin’s flat.

... And the little khaki-clad processions marched gallantly through the streets; shopboys and bank-clerks and grocers’ assistants, weedy and pasty-faced, with a smile on their lips, and a joke to be tossed at the girls they passed on the pavements.... Arms swinging, caps set rakishly upon their heads ... a bit of swank and a bit of curiosity and a great deal of heroism. And here and there for Dennis some face would stand out, upon which there was neither swank, nor curiosity, nor heroism; only wonder, dazed wonder; or a stupefied kind of patience.... And he would long to drag that man out of the marching ranks, to ask him what madness possessed him, or what ideal inspired him, that he must thus go out and offer up his all to the Juggernaut of war.... And the answer would always have been the same: he didn’t really know; but everybody was in it, and he supposed that a fellow ought to do his bit.

And sometimes, Dennis caught sight of some face, some figure that remotely recalled Alan’s. And the pain that had never quite ceased, only lain temporarily dormant, awoke anew: pain, and a new panic-fear.... Supposing Alan were to be in one of those marching processions! He had probably joined up by now, and with his democratic ideas, he would have gone in the ranks. Alan was the type that could not be held back, that would be eager and impatient to go. Dennis was certain of it.... He would be crazily brave on the battlefield; would storm trenches in the face of enormous odds.... And he would not return. People like Alan did not return. He would lie out there with his body torn and shattered; piteous unseeing eyes open to the pitiless heavens. Dennis turned sick as his fancy painted for him the things that might befall Alan; things that had perhaps already befallen him.

Consciously and unconsciously, Dennis scanned the faces of those who marched past him, his heart throbbing hotly at the discovery of every fugitive resemblance of look or feature. Soon he hunted for Alan not only amongst the passing soldiers, but amongst the crowds thronging the streets, pouring out of restaurants and tea-shops, waiting outside theatres ... lived for the momentary thrill of encountering that chance resemblance.

... Deeper and deeper into the crazy depths of the nightmare—nightmare set to his own horrible music, and filled with strange faces, figures, voices; and, almost like a futurist picture, with bits of streets, buildings, bridges, where he had caught a glimpse of this one, and that.... There was danger in his present mood, as there had been danger that night at Crannack.... Deeper and deeper into the nightmare, sinking in it, drowning in it....

With a last remnant of sanity, and obeying a wild impulse to fling out a hand for safety while yet there was time, he rang up Antoinette, and asked if he could come and see her next day.