Chapter III: “Clear the court!”

The people were hustled out into one of the long stone corridors of the House of Commons, and the door closed upon them. Behind that door the fate of two of the applicants for exemption was being decided. Antoinette groaned at the delay. Dennis had been called for 2.30 that afternoon, but it was nearly 4 o’clock now, and so far only five out of the twelve cases had been heard. The fact that one did not know in what order they were to be heard, added to the suspense of waiting. In the first case there had only been a brief interval between the applicant’s statement and the delivery of judgment. The spectacled, obviously highly-strung young man had appealed on socialistic grounds. His speech was both virile and vehement, and he quoted Tolstoy and Wells and Karl Marx and Philip Gibbs in a breathless Cockney voice that told of self-education and the night-school. When he had finished, he still stood tense and rigid, although he had the Board’s permission to be seated. And when the blow fell—“Appeal dismissed. Applicant passed for Foreign Service”—he crumpled up quite suddenly into his chair in a way that made Antoinette’s throat feel tight.

The two next appeals had been decided in much the same manner; but the last two had evidently presented greater difficulties and were now being considered behind the closed doors.

In the corridor a crowd of men and women, friends and supporters of the applicants, were huddled together, talking in low voices. Amongst them there were representatives of both pacifist and militarist newspapers, a plain-clothes detective, and two policemen. There was only one bench, and that was occupied by a youth in khaki and three white-faced women in black. The others had to stand, shifting restlessly to and fro, yet not daring to move too far from those doors that might open again at any moment. People who had never met before drifted into whispered conversation with each other, linked together by an outlook and an anxiety common to them all.

An elderly woman was talking to Dennis, and Antoinette was glad that his attention was engaged. His behaviour to her had been entirely aloof and impersonal ever since Alan’s arrest. Perhaps he thought—thus she interpreted his mood—that if he were less aloof and impersonal he would be guilty of treachery towards Alan. Even now, though she had accompanied him here, and was outwardly quite in the picture—“the woman at his side”—there was no intimacy of thought between them. She knew well enough who it was who really “stood by” him.

She heard the woman say to Dennis: “I shall _will_ you to get total exemption. I am a great believer in will-power, aren’t you? If they offer you Non-Combatant Service, I do hope you won’t take it! Yes, I’ve been to prison three times—look!” She lowered her voice to a whisper and pointed to the suffragette badge she wore inside her jacket. Then, turning to Antoinette: “I shall will him to get off for both your sakes, my dear....”

Antoinette thanked her gravely.

The doors were flung open again, and the people pressed back into the court, struggling to regain their old places on the benches that ran, three deep, along the walls. Would it be Dennis’s turn now to face those twenty-five men upon whom his fate depended?

Judgment was delivered upon the previous applicants. Then a name was called: not Dennis’s. The young man in khaki stepped forward and took his place at the desk, and a murmur of astonishment went through the crowd at the sight of his uniform. He stated that when the military authorities had come to remove him, he had told them that he had an appeal pending, but they had taken no notice....

There were groans of “Shame....” “A disgrace!” which were instantly quelled. The Chairman declared that the man must be put back into civilian ranks before his case could be heard.

The next applicant claimed exemption on the grounds that he was the sole support of his mother, his grandmother and a paralysed sister. His father was dead, and his brother had been killed in the war. While the Chairman enquired into the details of the circumstances, Antoinette looked at the woman who had accompanied the applicant; the mother, probably. Her hands were clenched in her lap, her eyes fixed imploringly upon the Chairman’s face. Impossible to tell from the perfect impartiality of his manner in which direction he was biased, if at all. Antoinette found herself following this case, as she had followed most of the others: not impersonally, but as if all her own hopes and longings were centred in the desire that the man should get his exemption. She shared the breathless painful suspense of the mother, and the feeling that the agony was being unnecessarily prolonged, when judgment was for the moment deferred, and the next man called.

This one stated that he had religious scruples against the taking of life. In proof of this he had relinquished his post with a firm of motor-tyre manufacturers on discovering that they were working for the Government. He put his case badly, halting and stammering; but his underlying determination seemed to be inflexible.

“The Lord said: ‘_Thou shalt not kill._’”

Here the Military Representative, to whose smooth fat face and sneering expression Antoinette had taken an instantaneous dislike, rose to his feet and asked the applicant with affected politeness if he were aware that one or two of the Germans—yes, let us say one or two of them—had already broken that commandment, and that it was his duty to his country to retaliate?

“If the Germans do wrong, sir, I can’t help it. I can’t get beyond the words of God.”

“You wish to interpret them in the manner most convenient to yourself. Since you are so well up in the Bible, what about the passage that demands ‘_An eye for an eye_’?”

“The God of vengeance may have demanded that, sir—never the God of love.”

“Ask the Germans how much the God of love enters into their calculations!” sneered the Military Representative; “it must be obvious to every normal intellect that we were never meant to love hordes of barbarians like those we have at present to combat.”

The man hesitated; fumbled for words; opened his mouth once or twice; then: “But the laws of the Almighty weren’t meant to hold good only in times of peace, sir!”

A ripple of laughter and applause ran through the crowd and was severely repressed. The applicant was told that exemption would be granted him if he returned to his employment with the Government-firm, or took up other work of national importance. He shook his head in answer to both suggestions, and his appeal was dismissed.

And then Dennis’s name was called.... They were both actually to go through it now, he and she; no longer mere spectators of other people’s anguish and suspense. She would have liked to touch his hand and whisper “Good luck ...” as the other women did to their men, but he did not even glance down at her as he passed by, with sombre, preoccupied gaze and furrowed brow. He took his place. She could see him in profile—if she looked. But at first she could not bear to look, knowing him there before the twenty-five, defenceless and at bay. Nor did she take in the meaning of his words, when he began to speak.

With all her faculties and thoughts concentrated upon the final issue, she sat tense and rigid—as Dennis must have sat through Alan’s tribunal. Alan had been in prison for three months already. If they offered him release now, at the price of abandonment of his principles, she wondered if he would accept it. Gladly, perhaps how gladly.... Always at Miss Mowbray’s one heard tales of the things that were being done to the conscientious objectors in prison. Could those fat, bald-headed old gentlemen who sat there in judgment really be callous enough to condemn Dennis to things of that sort?

The Chairman was saying: “So you think all warfare is wrong: I daresay a good many people share that view, but most of them are fighting all the same, realising that that is the only way to end this particular war.”

Dennis replied: “It is my firm belief that I should not in any way be benefiting humanity by taking part in this war, as I am convinced that there is no such thing as a ‘war to end war,’ and that victory would only lead to successive wars, each more terrible than the last; also that the solution of international disputes should be sought in arbitration and diplomacy, rather than in bloodshed.”

The old gentleman sitting nearest to Dennis truculently demanded if he had held these views previous to August, 1914.

“Certainly,” he answered.

“How can you prove that? Have you ever written or stated in public anything of the sort before 1914?”

“No; but most of my friends were acquainted with my views. I’m afraid I can’t offer you any more definite proof. You must take my word for it.”

The old gentleman grunted, and relapsed into silence. Antoinette hoped and thought that this was the end, but immediately another interlocutor rose in place of the first.

“Does the applicant not differentiate between a righteous war, a war of self-defence—and one waged for gain and greed, with the sole object of crushing smaller nations?”

“I’m afraid I can’t think of any war as a righteous war—war in all its essentials being so profoundly unrighteous. And as to the comparison of the respective war-aims of the Allies and of Germany—who can say at this stage that England is only fighting to avenge Belgium, and with no view to the conquest of enemy territory or the extension of power? What about the conquest of German colonies in East Africa? The French say they won’t make peace till they’ve got Alsace-Lorraine back. Have they the right to it? Alsace-Lorraine was German territory before ever it became French—before they got it back again in 1870.”

“Yes, yes, young man, you’re not here to teach us history,” the first speaker cut him short, and the second rejoined: “Nor to give us your highly unpatriotic views of your country’s war-aims. It’s your business to fight for your country, not to criticise it.”

“If I am sent out to kill, surely I have the right to question the cause that requires me to convert myself into a murderer.”

“‘Right or wrong, my country’—that’s the line for every true Briton to take up.”

“I am a humanitarian before I am a ‘true Briton,’ then, if either the ‘right’ or the ‘wrong’ of my country involves the deliberate slaughter of human beings.”

The suffragette who had spoken to them in the passage signified her approval of this by nodding and smiling across at Antoinette. The girl flushed. Her man was making a good fight, and she was proud of him, even while she knew that she had no right to think of him as her man, and hence no right to her pride. But she could almost have wished that he were being just a little less vehement: it was obvious that the general attitude was hostile towards him; only the Chairman still appeared impartial, as he said: “You categorically refuse in any way to help to carry on the war?”

“I do. I want to help to stop the war, and all possibility of future wars. My justification for being here is my confirmed belief that I am doing more towards that end by adhering to my refusal to fight than by unthinkingly and unquestioningly going out to kill.”

Again there was a murmur of applause; and a moment’s silence followed. Antoinette glanced from one to the other of the men’s faces; she longed to tackle each of the twenty-five separately, to beseech and implore him to be merciful. She tried to pick out at least one, whose physiognomy held a promise of tolerance or understanding; but there seemed to be an absurd family-likeness between them: they all looked pompous, comfortable, overfed; and at the present moment, righteously indignant. These old men had lived their lives; they would neither be called upon to shed their blood for their country, nor to go to prison, if they upheld opposing views; they had probably sent their sons to the war, but of themselves no personal sacrifice would be demanded. They were old—they were safe—and what right had they to send out the young men to kill each other? What right to sit in judgment upon one with all the potentialities of life still before him? To decree whether he was to be allowed to act according to his principles, or faced with the alternative of being forced to violate them or cast into prison?

Like the suffragette, Antoinette tried to “will” them into the required frame of mind. Perhaps some of her “willing” was having its effect. That moment’s silence could surely be taken as a good sign?

But already the unctuous tones of the Military Representative had terminated the silence.

“The applicant is so very anxious to end the war at all costs: does he realise that there are not two ways but only one way in which he can help to do so?”

“I’ve declared the reasons for my unwillingness to take that one way,” returned Dennis.

Another endless-seeming pause; looks and inaudible remarks exchanged between the old gentlemen.

Antoinette held her breath.

“_Total exemption granted_”—could not all her wishing or “willing” force the Chairman to speak those words? He was about to speak now:

“Clear the court!”

With sighs of exasperation at the renewed delay, the people rose and crowded into the passage again. The young man’s mother was crying. The reporters scribbled ceaselessly in their notebooks.

The suffragette was congratulating Dennis. “You made a splendid stand, splendid, but they’re prejudiced against the ‘conscience’ men; it’s easy to see that.”

Yes, he had made a splendid stand, but Antoinette would have liked him to come to her for reassurance ... to whisper to her in the crowd: “I was all right, wasn’t I?”

He evidently had no need of her reassurance. With an abstracted smile, he thanked the suffragette for her congratulations, and stood gazing out of the window, as if determined to keep unshared whatever turmoil of fear and hope might be passing in his mind. But perhaps if the words were spoken, that they both longed to hear, and the appalling strain snapped, he would turn to her....

The bank-clerk’s mother was moaning: “If only they’d be quick and tell us—can’t they see we need him more than the army does?”

But at present the Board showed no signs of “being quick.” A man carrying a tray laden with tea-things had just unceremoniously jostled aside the crowd and entered the court. He was followed by a boy with a very large cherry cake. The old gentlemen were going to have tea.... Antoinette suddenly understood some of the feelings that had given rise to the French Revolution! Soon the sound of hearty laughter mingled with the rattle of cups. The old gentlemen were apparently telling each other funny stories, while the people waited outside in suspense and agony of mind.

For a weary half-hour they were still kept in the passage. Then at last the doors were flung open again.

The Chairman stated that in the case of the bank-clerk who was the sole support of his family, the Board had decided to grant three months’ exemption, with leave to appeal again. The decision was cheered, and the mother cried hysterically: “Oh, thank you—thank you so much ...” and was led out on her son’s arm.

“In the case of Mr. Dennis Blackwood—Non-Combatant Service.”

* * * * *

In dead silence they walked to the Charing Cross Tube station, the strain between them almost intolerable. If only he were to break down, so that she might comfort him....

Non-Combatant Service—that, as far as Dennis was concerned, amounted to a sentence to penal servitude. Quite shamelessly she wished that he would compromise now; hated with all her might the principles and convictions that would not allow him to do so.

He said at last: “Good girl, to have stood by me.”

“I’d stand by you through worse than that,” she cried, “if only you wanted me to.”

Another long silence. Then: “I’ll let you know when I get my notice to join up—I suppose it’ll be in a day or two. I won’t go without saying good-bye to you.”

“Dennis.”

“Well?”

“Dennis ... must you—are you really going to...?”

He laughed drearily. “You ask that now? Why, what would Alan say, if I ratted at the eleventh hour?”

“Alan wouldn’t know ...” was her thought. But she was glad that she cared enough for Dennis to keep it to herself.

* * * * *

From day to day he waited now, expecting his call. Alan’s had come within four days of the rejection of his appeal, but there seemed to be no definite rule as to the length of time that might elapse. He might be left in peace for a week, or the call might come to-morrow. The uncertainty seemed an additional and superfluous refinement of cruelty, a veritable sword of Damocles, the presence of which sometimes preyed on his nerves to such an extent that he felt inclined to precipitate its fall by giving himself up to the police without further delay....

Abysmal terror dogged his heels by day and by night; terror of being held, actually held to one place, when he had longed to throw off all bonds, tangible and intangible; terror of monotony and brutality, and the depths to which his own mind, thrust back upon itself, might sink. Day after day went by, and still the call did not come. But he was too heavily oppressed to be able to appreciate this added span of freedom. It might be ended at any moment. The uncertainty precluded all possibility of enjoyment.

Day after day he waited; and waited....

And then the creative impulse which had temporarily lain dormant stirred in him anew. At first he struggled against it, knowing the futility of starting upon any great composition now; but as usual the power within him proved stronger than himself. He was its slave, and he had to obey.

His opera, “Karen and the Red Shoes,” was still unfinished, but he recognised that the ideas which crowded his brain now could not be used to complete it; they were too big, too heavy for the subject. Almost independent of his own volition, they began to build themselves into a great symphonic poem: “War.”

A chaos of conflicting motives bewildered him; he could hear each instrument clamouring at cross-purposes with all the others in the orchestra; clashing rhythms and counter-rhythms battled for supremacy. It seemed at first a labour for giants to bring order into this chaos, to select and reject wisely among the dissonant themes. Then he began to perceive that he must eliminate none, reject none; each must have its place in the scheme, for each stood for one of the innumerable beliefs and reasons, ideals and madnesses that had led the peoples into war ... all must be woven in until, in the final solution and climax, he had succeeded in showing their fundamental unity, converting strife and turmoil and the sorrows of all the nations into the transcendent harmony of peace.

And throughout, the image of Alan stood to him for inspiration. Into his work he poured all the love and the tenderness and the passion that the boy had kindled in him. Feverishly he worked now, fearing that in the space of time that remained—and it could not possibly be long—he would not be able to accomplish his task. It was of necessity written for a very large orchestra, and many months, if not years, might go to the scoring of it.

He perceived his goal ahead, knowing that he would not be able to reach it in time; not before that steadily-approaching shadow entirely blotted out the light.... He could have prayed for more days, and more in which to work: and awoke every morning to the knowledge that this might be his last day of freedom.

* * * * *

And for Antoinette, also, this knowledge.