Revolution; a story of the near future in England

Foreword To American Edition

The realistic treatment of Revolution has laid me open in England, to the charge of having attempted a definite precast of social troubles over here in the near future; a reading of my message that has stimulated a violent antagonism in many of my reviewers. As a result of this comparatively few of them have dealt with the book as a whole, their energy having been consumed in trying to prove that such a conflict as I have pictured was impossible or, at the very worst, exceedingly unlikely. I am, therefore, taking advantage of the suggestion of my American publishers to write a brief introduction to this edition, in order that I may say quite clearly that I do not anticipate a bloody revolution in England either on the lines indicated or on any other; but that I do, nevertheless, hold myself definitely committed to a prophecy.

I believe, for example, that European civilisation has passed its highest point of development and will gradually decline; that the conflict between Capital and Labour in Europe may be ultimately settled on some more or less reasonable vi FOREWORD TO AMERICAN EDITION

basis, but that in the process our civilisation, as such, will cease to be a world-influence; and that, finally, we must look to the United States of America for the development of a new worldorder, which I sincerely hope and pray may be greater and better than the one it will supersede.

Within the very definite limits imposed by a work of fiction, I have attempted to show grounds for the first two of these beliefs. I have tried to draw a true picture of individuals who represent various types of our English Society; and to show that their aims are essentially incompatible. Against the background of these representative figures, I have posed as my chief figure a young man who is free from the violent prejudices of either party ; and whose one object — an object for which he passionately gives himself — is to prevent hatred, cruelty, and bloodshed. The moral is not that we must prepare for the coming conflict, but that what we need in Great Britain is a change of heart, a change of outlook, a new attitude.

My earnest wish is that America may profit by the object-lesson of our mistakes.

J. D. Beresford.

The White House, East Claydon,

Contents

PAGE

I. The Call 3

II. Direct Action .... 25

II Nevertheless, he knew that the time had come

for him to renew his agreement with material life.

For years, now, he had accepted the tolerance for his supposed infirmity displayed by his father and sister, well knowing that he had no further claim on their pity. In the beginning, when he had come back wounded from the retreat of 1918, with shocked and battered nerves, his sensibility had been real enough. He had come down to his father's house in August that year, with an exaggerated dread of noise, particularly of any sudden noise. He had had a peculiar horror of being shouted at, and his father had a habit of shouting. Even now, after five years, he had not changed what seemed to be his only method of emphasis. He only checked the impulse, generally with an obvious effort, when his son was in the room.

And in the course of the twelve months Paul had spent at home, doing nothing, after his release from hospital, he had established a convention. It had come to be understood that certain symptoms of his "queerness" were permanent; that never again would he be what his father described as " a normal man." He might take part in the office routine, working in a room of his own with the title of junior partner ; but he must never be unduly perplexed or harassed, never scolded or shouted at. When he was at home, he must be allowed to choose his own amusements and interests.

And he had accepted that understanding without protest. He had, indeed, encouraged it, though it sequestered him in a tiny world apart from his family and his father's friends and acquaintances. For four years now, he had chosen to be regarded as different from other men, rather than take up again his old relations with his father. The war had provided him with a means of escape. Until he was twenty-one, he had been coerced, good-naturedly bullied; compelled to accept a standard of social morality and social ambitions, of business ethics, of general comportment and good form. He had been his father's pupil and knew that he must remain a pupil throughout his father's life. Then he had escaped to become a subaltern in Kitchener's Army ; had suffered nearly four years' experience in Egypt, Salonica, and France, before he received his first wound — a comparatively slight one — as a captain in 191 8. After that he had no intention of returning to captivity as his father's pupil.

At first, he had had wild thoughts of breaking away, going to Canada or somewhere, and leading his own life. But when he realised the power that his nervous debility had brought him, he preferred to stay at home. The choice had been definitely presented to him in September, 1919, when his father had apologetically suggested that Paul i should return to the office in Mincing Lane, as a junior partner — the conferring of that title was in itself an immense concession on the part of Mr. Learning.

"I'm about the only business man in England," his father had said, making a boast that had since degenerated by tedious iterations into a kind of witticism, "who neither made nor lost a penny over the war. But with our present costs, Paul, the business isn't as good as it was in 1914. I'd be glad if you could put your brains into it ; that is, of course, if you're well enough yet."

Paul had consented almost without hesitation. He could make his own terms, as comprised in the single stipulation that he must not be bullied. That clause in the agreement was never stated explicitly, but from the first it was clearly understood and nobly kept by Mr. Learning in face of what must have been, to him, the most maddening provocation. "The old man has been splendid," Paul had often admitted to himself. He had no delusions about that. He saw his father's sacrifice and knew that it was prompted solely by paternal affection. He had never sought to extenuate the fineness either of the act or the motive. And yet he had taken what he could only confess to be a rather mean advantage of so beautiful a trait in his father's character. Paul lamented his own weakness in that particular, but, until now, his reason for it had always seemed to him sufficient excuse.

The truth is, that by the time he had recovered from the last faint effects of wound and shell-shock, Paul had come to a realisation of the new gift the war had brought him, the gift of sensibility. He was aware, now, as he had never been before of the absorbing glory and beauty of life. And not only was the world he saw beautiful, it was, also, rich with some wonderful promise. What that promise was, he had not yet learned. The translation of it into idea was a consummation that moved before him as a constant and imminent enticement. There were times when he almost dreaded the coming of that perfect knowledge. The pursuit of it was so enthralling that he feared the glory of the ultimate revelation. But while he was engaged in that exquisite pursuit, he had not dared to speak a word to any one of his sacred and mystical preoccupation. If he once scattered, as he believed he could scatter, the illusion as to his nervous sensibility, he would have to explain, to confess himself. So long as he was sequestered by this wonderful consideration for his mental health, he had an ever-present way of retreat. He could retire, without question, into that perfect enjoyment of the world and himself. He had not dared to face the possibility of that retreat being denied to him. If they knew of it, his father and Imogen would intrude into his sanctuary. They would criticise and make profane suggestions; tell him he ought to be practical, that if there were any truth in his gospel, he ought to evangelise. And when he told them that he had no gospel, neither tenet nor dogma; that his religion, so far as he knew, could not be taught to a single other human being, then they would smile sadly at him and tell him that he was "not quite up to the mark yet" and "must not bother himself."

But while he had no intention, as yet, of revealing the sacred mysteries of his new life, an impulse had been steadily waxing within him to put off the deceit necessitated by his present means of ambush. He had a growing consciousness that this deceit was wrong, a kind of sin that had a sort of moral analogy to grit in a machine. This feeling was not a matter for argument, he had never attempted to rationalise about it; it was just a natural desire to rid himself of an impediment that was obstructing his functions.

He had started his undertaking that evening by trying to enter into a discussion on present-day

THE CALL ii

politics, and had been checked by his father's reply. "Don't talk such utter rot," he had said. And Paul had instantly failed. He had winced; thereby taking the easy means of escape, falling back into the rut of his familiar hypocrisy.

He realised now, the difficulty, the awful difficulty, of the apparently simple task he had set himself. He understood that the solution of it might engage him for many weary months.

He had a faint sense of disgust for the effort involved, as he turned back to the solemn dignities of his father's dining-room.

ill

"I'm sorry you think that what I said was rot, father," he said quietly. "I haven't, of course, taken any interest in politics since I came back. But it does seem to me, all the same, that this man Perry has got an ideal of some kind, though it obviously isn't the same as your own."

Mr. Learning frowned slightly and pushed back his chair. It was evident that while he welcomed this new effort of Paul's to "come out of himself and take an interest in things," he deplored the "absolutely futile" opinion to which he had given utterance.

"Oh! well, as you say, Paul," he replied, "you don't know much about it, but it wouldn't be such a bad thing, perhaps, if you took a little more interest in affairs. I don't mind telling you, my boy, that the outlook's pretty serious."

Imogen pursed her mouth. "I'm afraid you'll find politics very worrying, Paul," she said. Who knew better than she that her father, magnificent as his self-control had been in that house, could not possibly discuss Isaac Perry in a level voice; even if there were no contradiction.

Paul turned to his sister with a feeling of relief. If a frank confession was to be made, he could make it so much more easily to her, he thought.

"I'm perfectly all right, now, you know," he said. "Perfectly all right. Better in most ways than I was before I went out."

"Yes, dear. We're so glad," Imogen agreed, and Paul saw in an instant that the task of convincing his father would be a trifle compared to that of convincing his sister. She wanted to stand between him and the world. The more frail and helpless he was, the greater was the glory of her love for him. Imogen would have found perfect happiness as the wife of a confirmed invalid or the mother of a crippled child.

Paul's glance returned to his father, who had drawn back his chair to the table and was hopefully pouring himself out another glass of port.

"But, d'you mean, Paul," Mr. Learning asked, "that you're really feeling better? In yourself? More anxious to get a hold of things again?"

Paul, was tempted to plunge, egregiously. "Yes, just that, father; absolutely that," he said. "The truth is that I've been better for years now, so far as my nerves are concerned. There has really been no reason why I should have been treated with any — with the extraordinary consideration I have been. I never was very bad, in any case. I — " He paused, deterred from further explanation by the blank disappointment on his father's face.

"Not very bad, eh?" Mr. Learning said, with a sigh. "Oh, well, I'm glad to hear you say so, Paul. In any case, Imogen and I are thankful to know you're feeling better. Don't overdo it at first, though. What I mean is, begin to take an interest in things, a bit at a time, as it were. There's the business, for instance"; he laughed self-consciously as if intending Paul to understand that this was a half -humorous suggestion, and not a return, however oblique, to the old methods of compulsion; "the business is just waiting for you to take an interest in it, my boy — whenever you feel up to it, whenever you feel up to it."

"I'm quite up to it," Paul said, with determination.

Mr. Learning rubbed the smooth expanse of his bald head and smiled thoughtfully, his customary indication of humorous unbelief. "Bit sudden, old boy, isn't it?" he asked. "Weren't so frightfully keen in the office to-day, were you?"

"You see," Paul began, "I do admit that I've been shirking affairs. But what I want you to believe now, is that it wasn't because I was unfit, physically. I'm well enough; equal to anything. If a gun went off this moment under the window, it wouldn't have the least effect upon me."

Imogen winced, and glanced fearfully out of the window, as if she dreaded an instant judgment on so terrible a boast.

Mr. Learning shook his head with a great effect of practical knowledge. "Well, well, Paul, you're making a new start, anyhow," he said. "I have great hopes that you're turning the corner at last." And then, with a deliberate air of changing the subject, he looked at his watch and added: "It's nearly a quarter to nine, and a lovely evening. Shall we go out and see the mail ? It ought to be up to time to-night."

Paul agreed mechanically. He had, as his father had said, "made a new start." He could not do

THE CALL I5

more by mere affirmation ; in future he must uphold what he had already said by action. It would be like beginning life again. He would have to come out of his perfect retreat and renew his interest in "affairs." It was strange that while all "things" seemed beautiful to him, nearly all human activities were repulsive. He had had to make an effort even to appear cheerful, when his father had suggested going out into the garden "to see the mail."

Every night, when it was fine, Mr. Learning did that; every night he made the appropriate comment. To him, the establishment of the particular aeroplane service between Liverpool and London that passed approximately over his house, afforded evening by evening the same boyish pleasure. He took a delight in timing it. If the great plane were late, he would speculate as to the cause of the delay. When it was punctual he took a personal pride in the achievement. And when the wind was favourable, and they could hear, distantly, the indications which told them that the plane was dipping to "dredge" the bags from the Hansel carrier at Oxford, Mr. Learning became almost lyrical in his enjoyment. On those rare occasions of acoustic clarity, he seemed to be an actual witness of the act of dredging the Oxford mail-bags.

"Now, she's coming down," he would say, as the note of the propeller droned suddenly faint, and stand spellbound during the ten seconds or so of silence that followed. After that interval, when the renewal of the increasing roar told them that the plane was swiftly covering the twenty miles of intervening distance, and would almost incredibly soon come into sight in the north-west, he would chant his song of victory under such headings as, "People used to say it would never come, but it has"; "There was a time, less than twenty-five years ago, when I'd no faith in it myself," or "Say what you like, the war taught us to fly." At such times as those, Mr. Learning triumphantly claimed his share and credit in the mechanical achievements of human invention, and openly rejoiced in the participation. Paul had wondered sometimes if this delight of his father was due to the exercise of his imagination. Paul thought that he could understand that.

And he tried, now, to fix his mind on that explanation, when it appeared that this was one of those still, clear evenings when the mail's distant activities could be registered from the garden of ' ' The Old Manor. ' ' His trouble was that something within him reacted automatically to the familiar situation, the tediously familiar comments. His father's attitude and speech appeared mechanical, and induced, in Paul, a mechanical response that he was unable to overcome by any reiteration of the statement, softly muttered to himself, "He's using his imagination. He's proud of his faculty of being able to 'see' the thing as if he were actually at Oxford." Moreover, when the climax was achieved and the mail flew overhead at a relatively low altitude, it failed to arouse the least enthusiasm in Paul himself. He saw it as a great, malignant insect, making for its goal with a settled fury, powerful, vicious, and desperately intent on the achievement of its little purpose. It desecrated the magnificent bowl of the darkening sky; violated the sanctity of the evening with the roar of its passing. He was infinitely relieved and glad when it had gone, and the last throbbing murmur of its flight was absorbed into the soothing distance.

Mr. Learning was rubbing his hands together and congratulating himself on a well-kept appointment with the expectant nation.

"And we were just in time, eh?" he added. "Another couple of minutes and we should have missed the pause at Oxford."

That was another of his little vanities. He loved to use the right technicality; he had the same feeling for that use as a poet for the apt phrase. Mail aeroplanes did not, officially, ' ' stop ' ' at those places where the bags were picked up, they "paused." In the regulations, places at which a Hansel carrier apparatus had been rigged, were noted as "pauses" on the route. Mr. Learning dwelt on the word, caressing it. But to Paul, this insistence on what was often, as in the present case, a rather inaccurate technicality, seemed completely meaningless.

He pondered this peculiarity as he went back into the house. It was, he thought, another of the perplexing problems that must engage him during his purposed re-entry into the world of human intercourse. But he had little time just then for further consideration of his proposed approach to his father. In place of that, he had a practical experience of what his emergence into the world of affairs might imply in the future relations between himself and his sister.

IV

Imogen had followed him into the sitting-room, leaving Mr. Learning to pace the lawn and enjoy the aroma of a second after-dinner cigar, blent with the fragrance of the living tobacco-plant. She seemed afraid to leave Paul alone this evening, as if already the threat of his recovery had loomed before her as a desolating possibility.

"What did you mean, at dinner, Paul?" she asked, directly they were alone.

Paul had turned one of the big arm-chairs towards the open window — his father's taste in furniture was primarily for comfort — and was leaning back inhaling the sweetness of the air. Imogen brought a footstool over to him and sat down at his knee.

Paul sighed. He was aware of an immense distaste for any further attempt to explain himself, more especially to his sister. He knew in advance that she could not, would not understand him. Nevertheless, he braced himself to the effort. He was determined, now, to persist in his resolution to re-enter the world. Vaguely he was realising that effort as the response to some "call " that had been made for him. He had had his five years of inward peace; now, somewhere, someone had need of him.

"Didn't I make myself clear? " he began, to give himself a little more time.

"Well, darling," Imogen replied very gently; "it seemed to me that you could hardly have meant exactly what you said; that you'd been perfectly well for the last four years, for instance. Because, well, you certainly haven't been, have you?"

"I have," Paul said quietly.

Imogen smiled and stroked his knee. "Of course I know you haven't been actually ill," she explained; "not physically ill. But, nervously, you haven't been up to much, have you?"

"I only wanted to be left alone," Paul tried.

"Exactly," Imogen agreed.

"There was a reason for that," Paul said patiently; "a reason I can't explain to you, yet."

"What sort of a reason?" Imogen inquired.

Paul hesitated, tie dared not tell her the truth. She would only regard it as another symptom of his "queerness," additional evidence of his unfitness for the common business of life. Moreover, the truth was, as yet, too precious for revelation. He could not risk the chance that it might be profaned.

"It's awfully difficult," he said, after a pause. "I do feel, you know, Imogen, as if, in a way, I've rather been deceiving you both. You see, if I can put it like this, I've had a disinclination — it may have been a form of laziness — to take up the old interests again. I've known, for years — really for years, now — that I could . . . get back, if I made an effort ; and that I could make the effort at any time. But I just didn't want to."

"Get back?" Imogen murmured, when he ceased speaking, as if that phrase alone of all he had said, had conveyed any meaning to her.

"Get back into ordinary life," he explained.

"But when have you ever been out of ordinary life, dear," she asked gently.

"Ever since I came home," Paul said. "In the last five years, I've done simply nothing to keep in touch with — with ordinary life. I've never looked at a paper or a magazine ; hardly ever at a book. I've only done work at the office that any three-pound-a-week clerk could have done better — just mechanical work that entailed no sort of responsibility. You know how father has hinted again and again that I take no interest in the business."

"You haven't been up to it, dear," Imogen put in softly. "Father understands that."

"He's been most frightfully kind," Paul said. "Kind and patient. I would never have believed, five years ago, that he could have put up with me as he has."

Imogen smiled. "What else could he have done?" she asked.

"Made a fuss," Paul suggested, with alight laugh.

"With you in the state you were?" she reproved him.

"But that's the point, I wasn't," Paul said, returning to the real issue. "Don't you realise, now, that I could have pulled myself together any time?"

"But you didn't, because "

"Because I just didn't want to."

"Exactly, darling; that was one of your symptoms," Imogen said.

"But I'm going to, now," Paul exclaimed, suddenly sitting up in the arm-chair. "I've begun already. To-morrow, I mean to read the paper."

Imogen sighed, but rather as if she grieved over some new ailment of his than as if she lamented any personal loss. "You must promise me one thing, Paul," she said, with the air of a patient nurse. "You must not overdo it, at first. In any case, wait and see how you feel to-morrow before you make any new resolves." He might have been a paralytic making rash asseverations about his power to walk.

"Don't you want me to be — normal again, Imogen?" Paul asked.

"Oh! my dear!" she exclaimed. "Surely you know it's the one thing I want most in the world.

I — I have almost lived for that, the last five years." Her voice rang with the authentic note of enthusiasm.

"But then, why is it, old girl, that you're not more pleased to-night, when I tell you that I am quite well again?" Paul asked.

"Are you quite sure that you know, yourself, dear?" she returned sadly; and he knew that she thought his very boast was a part of his sickness, at once grieving and rejoicing over it.

"I think I do," he said; "but time will show anyway, won't it?"

He made no more protestations that night, however; and an hour later allowed her to fuss over him, as usual, give him hot milk, and finally send him to bed at half-past ten with the slightly arch reminder that if he was really going to read the paper next day, he would need a good night's sleep.

Alone, in his own room, Paul wondered if he would ever again break away from Imogen's nursing? Whatever he did, however robust he appeared, she would still try to coddle and soothe him. It struck him as strange that not until to-night had he resented the "fuss" she had made over him. Had he, indeed, returned already to his consciousness of the world of ordinary life ; returned to find it as full of petty constraints and irritations as it had ever been? In two hours he had approached once more the indications of the old annoyances; his father's inexplicable enthusiasms, the horrid intentness of that noisy aeroplane, the fret of having his sincerest statements received with flat unbelief. If he adhered to his resolutions, the foolish activities of common life would begin to close about him again, shutting him off from the exquisite beauty of the world and his inner life.

Yet, even as he hesitated over his choice, he heard from the tall trees in the copse, the first low call of a nightingale, the firm, deliberate prelude that hushed the night into a long-drawn tensity of expectation. And instantly all the fret and worry of the evening fell from him ; he forgot his resolves, his anticipations, his awareness of human life. He was suddenly plunged in rapture. The very texture of the window-sill on which his hands rested, seemed to him glorious with an individual beauty. He had a strange knowledge of its inner being. He was able to enter into the spirit of all created things. He had a perfect, indefinable knowledge of matter. And all matter was beautiful, constant, transcendental, immovably serene.

II

He awoke next morning with a definite consciousness of distaste for the day's work. It was a Saturday, and as he never went up to town on that day, he was momentarily puzzled to account for the feeling of reluctance that enveloped him. It was the kind of feeling he used to have in the old days, when, as a youth, he had to face the return to business on Monday morning; or later, when he awoke to the knowledge that after a week behind the lines he was going back to the trenches. But since he had come home, his first morning thoughts had always been of his glorious immunity from the threat of life. He had always been so sure of his retreat. It had never failed him. Even surrounded by the noise and traffic of a city restaurant, he had been able to escape at will. He had only to fix his eyes and thoughts on some simple material object, in order to find rest and beauty in his contemplation of it. At those times, he seemed to identify himself with the stolid immobility of inert matter. All activity was concentrated into the functions of adhesion and resistance. And so tremendous was the power of these functions that the exercise of them produced a sense of peace and enjoyment.

This morning he felt himself exposed to the open storm of life, against which he would be obliged laboriously to battle without hope of solace. He sat up in bed, wondering if his power of retreat had been taken from him.

The sunlight was slanting in through his open window. Outside, starlings and sparrows innumerable chattered and gossiped, without ceasing. Far away he could hear the incessant bleating of a flock of sheep penned for washing before they were sheared; and, softened by distance, the sound had the effect of an eager chorus whose members were exercised in a rivalry of devotional acclamation. Also, from his new position, Paul could see the chestnuts in full flower; rank after rank of humble foliage faintly bowed in worship and offering the service of countless oblational candles, erect and shining.

Nevertheless, although he could find comfort in these things, Paul could find no ecstasy. Something had gone from him in the night. He had made his resolution to re-enter life, and in making it had lost the power to retreat at will into the sweet seclusions of his hiding-place. He realised that he had to face the world anew, and that he had many things to learn. He saw his immediate future as a return to school. But of the purpose for which he must work, he knew nothing. He was aware of no goal or ambition that the future might hold for him. His utmost hope was that when he had earned relief from the sense of urgency, which was thrusting him back into the world, he might regain his power of retreating from it.