Читать книгу A Passing World - Marie Belloc Lowndes - Страница 7

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I think one reason why the French and the English will never understand one another, is that the French look at everything from an objective point of view. This was very evident to me during the years 1915 and 1916.

Although the French will tell a lie in everyday life of the sort which used to be called in England a "taradiddle", they are not apt to be, as even the finest types of Englishman and Englishwoman are so often, self-deceivers. The one outstanding misfortune for France has been that she has allowed herself to be ill-governed, it may be said, continuously.

When I was a little girl there were literally thousands of Frenchmen who so hated their Government that they never voted, and unhappily they belonged to the well-educated and intelligent classes. This was a terrible misfortune for the country, and I think largely contributed to France's defeat in 1940.

During the first World War, I was often in the company of the then French Ambassador, Monsieur Cambon, who was a beloved friend of very dear friends of mine, and he used to dine with them constantly. They lived in Charles Street, Berkeley Square, and he once told me that the only exercise he was able to take each day was his walk every evening from the Embassy. He had not to give notice when he was coming to dinner; he just came. The fact that my husband was on The Times had made him slightly nervous at first, but as time went on he talked to me freely, and that though—unlike most Frenchmen—he never said much. I once had a long talk with him concerning what was happening in Europe. One thing he said struck me very much. He told me that the nation which would win the war was that nation which would show itself the most patient. He added that in his view war was a game of patience. On one occasion he told me something which amused me, but also made me sad. Thrifty France, instead of buying fresh wood-pulp for her paper, had used for a number of years all the old paper from England. But in 1916 a prohibition was put on old paper being sent abroad, and hundreds of letters reached the French Embassy, each concerning this question. He did his best, and England good-naturedly consented to begin sending old paper across the Channel once more.

I remember Monsieur Cambon telling me never to believe a word I heard uttered in what he called "ordinary society". He said that men and women of the world were invariably wrong as to the conclusions they drew, and this was true everywhere, in London, Paris, and Berlin. As to that he gave me a curious example. During the General Boulanger affair, every foreign diplomat in Paris wrote home to his Government declaring that Boulanger was about to become the Dictator of France. The only one who omitted to do this was the German Ambassador, Count Munster. He told Berlin that Boulanger was a man of straw, and that the whole affair would go up in smoke. Shortly afterwards he met a neutral ambassador who said that he had asked Count Munster why he alone had been right. The answer was curious. He replied he had long noticed that anything that what he called high society says is going to happen, never does happen. So when he is told anything in that world, he at once concludes that the opposite will occur.

The Cambon brothers, the one in Berlin, the other in London, alone realized what was going to happen. When he told me that this was so, I said, and I think he felt annoyed at my view, that all governments, in my opinion lived remote from reality. What I remembered, as I said that, was the curiously false forecasts that I had heard made at 10 Downing Street, by men who were undoubtedly honest and upright, as well as extremely shrewd. To give but one example: the Prime Minister was more or less convinced that the French would make an inconclusive peace with Germany. But I felt that the one country about which he really knew little was France. In that he was entirely unlike his old friend, Lord Haldane.

In the autumn of 1915 my daughters and I were asked to spend some weeks at Glen. I had been one of those who did not believe Germany would send Zeppelins over London. But my view was not shared by my husband. It turned out that he was right, and I was wrong. We were to arrive at Glen on September the 9th, and before starting I went to bed early. After I had been asleep for about half an hour, I was suddenly awakened by what appeared to be a terrific clap of thunder. Harriet Callaghan, who was a dear friend, was packing in the hall of our house; she ran up to my room calling out, "They've come! We'd better get the children down."

What sounded terrifying was the bombardment from the anti-aircraft guns which had been placed on the buildings of Whitehall. The guns on Lambeth Bridge and the Victoria Tower were even closer to us. But I foolishly thought the sounds came from bombs flung from a Zeppelin. Before I had time to get to the nursery, Miss Callaghan had pulled my daughters out of bed, wrapped them in eiderdowns, and rushed them to the ground floor. I put on a dressing-gown, and opening the front door wide, I saw, looking as if it was floating just above the Abbey, a Zeppelin. It must have been very high up, for it was just like a small trout, and not—as many people said—like a cigar. There was a light at either end, and it hung as if suspended in the midst of the searchlights which were zigzagging across the clear September sky.

I put a chair in the door, so that it should stay open, and I stood in the street, while from the Zeppelin drifted down about thirty bombs, each looking like a shaft of light about the length of a pin. It was, if a wonderful, yet a terrifying sight, and I did not feel reassured by the fact that all round the Zeppelin, shining across the sky, were red star-like beams of light.

I felt faint with fear, and bitterly regretted that I had not left my children in the country. The Zeppelin began to move towards us, and I was well aware that even one bomb would destroy all the little houses in Barton Street.

I heard later that a friend who lived in Queen Anne's Gate had been dining with Sir Edward Grey in Eccleston Square. He was walking home, when something made him look up, and he saw the Zeppelin, as he thought, just over his head. Then in Queen Anne's Gate, one of the quietest thoroughfares in London, there suddenly arose a state of wild confusion. People rushed out of their houses, and began running about, while others hurried through the open doors of these same houses, in the hope of shelter.

Even small Barton Street was full of people, but they were quite calm, and spent their time looking up at the Zeppelin, unconscious of the real danger from anti-aircraft fire. I did not know what it would be best for us to do. Our little house was over two hundred years old, and very frail. I knew my elder daughter must be feeling alarmed, though she remained silent. Her sister, then aged seven, was pleased at having been got out of bed. A neighbour suggested we should ask some friends who lived next door if we could all go in there, as it was a large modern house. We had scarcely stepped into their hall before the Zeppelin moved off, and the guns ceased firing. To their delight, I allowed my children to dress, and we walked to Westminster Bridge, after I had telephoned to a friend in Scotland Yard to know if it would be safe, to see the fires in the City.

The view from Westminster Bridge was most impressive, for the sky was lit up, and the flames were reflected in the Thames. Everyone talked to everybody else, but those about me did not seem frightened, only excited. It was said that if there had been one naval gunner on the roof of the Admiralty the Zeppelin would have been brought down, as it was stationary for a long time. Unfortunately the gunners were men I heard described later as "gifted amateurs". One story which went the rounds was that the gun on the Admiralty Arch was commanded by the Admiralty librarian!

It was thought the Zeppelin was hit, but it got safely away, and sailed up Baker Street, over Regent's Park, and so to Hampstead and Golders Green, where it did some damage. The damage done in London was said to have been two million pounds. The bulk of it, oddly enough, was in the City, in Wood Street, where a huge factory was completely gutted. It was rumoured the Zeppelin nearly bombed Woolwich, as it had been lit up again too soon after the raid. As it was, it turned round, and missed the Arsenal by only fifty yards. It was said that Sir Francis Lloyd, who was in charge of the defence of London, had told a young lady that for every Zeppelin which came again over the city he would give her a thousand pounds.

No places were mentioned in the accounts which were published in the papers the next day, but I heard that a bomb had fallen close to the General Post Office, another in the Old Bailey, and a third in St. Paul's Churchyard. An absurd story, which I believe to have been true, was that one unexploded bomb was picked up as a souvenir, by a man who ran away with it. He was pursued by two policemen, who after a fierce struggle took it from him.

On the whole Londoners showed very little sense of alarm, though as to that there was one outstanding exception. Officers on leave from the Front knew the effect of high explosives, and begged those about them to seek shelter. At the time I was not unduly excited or frightened; but a strange thing occurred to me the morning after I had arrived in Scotland.

I was in a large bedroom, lying in a four-poster bed, when someone outside the door dropped a tray. At the sound my whole body automatically leapt up into the air. This proved I had been far more affected by what had happened in London than I had been aware of at the time.

We went on to Cloan, the charming country-house in Perthshire which belonged to Mrs. Haldane. Our only fellow-guest was a Scotchman, Professor Hume Brown, of whom I was very fond. He was a delightful, highly cultivated man, and had been for a time tutor to Mrs. Haldane's children. He once told me that the cleverest of them all had been the one daughter, Elizabeth.

I wrote to my mother:

"Lord Haldane is in great form, amusing and interesting about everything. He gave me a vivid account of taking Sir John French to see George Meredith. Meredith had said to him plaintively, 'I adore soldiers, and I never see any. Can't you bring me a typical soldier?' Sir John French had never read any of Meredith's novels, but his Chief of Staff was a Meredithian, and he begged Sir John to ask Meredith to put his name in The Ordeal of Richard Feverel. This Sir John, who was a kindly soul, said he would do. Meredith was deaf, and when the novel was handed to him, he thought it belonged to Sir John, and that it was his favourite among Meredith's novels. He pressed Sir John to tell him which character he preferred. Sir John was very much taken aback, and did not know what to say. So Haldane interposed with, 'What Sir John French naturally admires most in your novels, is your account of the Italian campaign in Vittoria.' Sir John, much relieved, began to talk about that campaign. Unfortunately he and Meredith took diametrically opposite views concerning a certain battle. Meredith became extremely angry, and shook with rage, while Sir John put him right as to the disposition of certain troops. They almost came to blows, and Lord Haldane found it impossible to conciliate them."

As I look back to my youth, I recall how people had for one another far more violent likes, and above all dislikes, than they appear to have now. Strong antipathies and strong likings were the rule. A man or a woman who steered a middle course was regarded as a poor thing. As to this fact, years later Lord Haldane gave me a curious account of another visit he had paid to Meredith. He was staying at Epsom for a week-end with Lord Rosebery, and on the Sunday afternoon Rosebery exclaimed, "Let's go out for a drive—say where you'd like us to go!" Haldane replied, "Meredith lives just below Box Hill. Let us go and see him." Rosebery expressed himself delighted at the thought, for he had never seen Meredith, and had always wished to do so.

But after their arrival at Meredith's cottage, Haldane became suddenly aware that the two men had taken a violent antipathy to one another, so he made up his mind that the only thing to do was to take Rosebery away at once, and this he did.

I once asked Haldane who was the most remarkable German he had ever met. He told me that on the whole he thought Ehrlich, whom he had only met once, was the most remarkable. They sat next each other at some kind of Anglo-German friendship dinner, and at the end of the meal Ehrlich said to Haldane, "I want to give you something to remember me by". He took out of his pocket a case which contained a queer-looking little knife. He said, "I have made all my experiments with this knife. I value it exceedingly. I should like you to accept it as a gift from me." Haldane had recently had given to him a fine example of Sheffield cutlery in the way of a pocket-knife. He had it with him that evening, and he handed it to Ehrlich in exchange. He told me Ehrlich had been abominably treated by the German Government because he was a Jew, and that Ehrlich had only been given a public honour late in life.

I often dined with Lord Haldane, and I wrote to my mother:

"If some of Haldane's enemies could hear him speak, they would no longer believe, as they do now, that he doted on his 'spiritual home'. He must have made a study of the European military world for many years before he had anything to do with the War Office. What he admires is the Germans' remarkable power of organization. Unlike everyone else I meet, he thinks poorly of their military leaders. He says that had they been better led, they would have won the war in the first ten weeks, and that, mathematically speaking, they were bound to win it. On the other hand he believes that France might hold out for years fighting a kind of guerrilla warfare."

Looking back, as I often do to those four years, I remember how my brother's prophecies constantly came true. I was once present when Sir John Simon asked Hilaire what he thought ought to be done in Gallipoli. "If, as I am told," he answered, "we cannot get emplacements for big guns, we ought to evacuate the place at once; to-morrow, even to-night, if it could be managed." Someone exclaimed, "We cannot do that." My brother observed, "If it is not done now, it will have to be done later."

All sorts of strange stories were current—stranger stories than those told in the war of 1939-1945.

I learned it had been agreed that an easy way to raise money would be to put a tax on plate-glass. Then Sir Percy Scott informed the Government that the guns he had just installed would, when fired, break every window within a certain radius.

I dined one evening with a Frenchman I had known since my childhood. He spoke perfect English, and used to go backwards and forwards between Paris and London. He told me that, as regards the German high-water mark, it had been reached about six weeks before in Russia. He had heard secretly that good offers of peace had been made to France, offering her everything she wanted. And, as he observed, "These offers would not have been countenanced by the German General Staff had they thought they were still on the up-grade".

A dear friend of my girlhood married a German and lived in Berlin. She wrote frequently to her family, the letters being sent open through Switzerland. Her handwriting was very bad, and in one of the letters, which was duly passed by the German Censor, she said that every house in the Park Lane of Berlin had been put up for sale, and that even the very wealthy found it difficult to get money on which to live even "parsimoniously".

One of my French relations, who spoke German fluently, was given the job of cross-examining German prisoners. He told me during that autumn that it was strange to see what an extraordinary change had come over both the German officers and men. So true was this that it was as if they belonged to another planet.

At that time my most interesting talks were with my brother. He was indignant concerning the attacks then being made on the Foreign Office. He said that what really mattered in war was blood and iron. There was great criticism of the Foreign Office over the course of events in the Balkan countries. Hilaire pointed out that this was not because of any mistake in British diplomacy, but because of what had happened at the Dardanelles. The neutrals had believed the Allies were certain to defeat the Turks on the Gallipoli Peninsula; and as this did not happen, the neutrals were disagreeably impressed, not so much as to the might of Germany, but as to the weakness of the Allies. My brother considered Edward Grey more able than did many people. In Hilaire's view everything that could have been done before the outbreak of war had been done by Grey. He had, however, been well seconded by the astute Delcassé and by the Italian Foreign Office, which was then believed on the Continent to possess the shrewdest diplomats in the world.

My brother and I were seldom asked to the same country-house parties; but in the December of 1915 I spent a week with Lady Jekyll, a dear and kind friend. Among my fellow-guests were Haldane, Lady Horner, and my brother. The most striking thing I remember was Hilaire describing exactly what was going to happen in the Balkans. No one believed him, yet within a month everything he foretold did actually take place. As one of the people who had been there said to me when we met some time afterwards, "I feel now as if Hilaire had been speaking with the prescience of God". He foretold every war movement, including the retirement at Salonika. Everyone there, including myself, thought him wrong. After he had told us what he believed was about to happen, he remarked, "If neither the Italians nor the Russians come to the help of the Allies, what I have told you is mathematically certain to come to pass." When he was asked why he thought this, he replied it was because the Allies were outnumbered in a proportion of five to one.

It was always a pleasure to me to meet Lord Sanderson, and yet on the whole he was a pessimist. His love of the Foreign Office was such that a story went the rounds that when a member of the Cabinet happened to be passing down Whitehall in the early morning, he said to the man who was with him, "Do you see that old charwoman cleaning the steps of the Foreign Office?" And when the other said he did, the Minister exclaimed, "It is really Sanderson, you know. He never leaves the Foreign Office day or night." It was a curious fact that he spent so much of his time there that he was very seldom seen elsewhere.

I remember the first time I met Sir Edward Carson. He made a great impression upon me. That impression was the more vivid as it was just after he was supposed to have been a failure in the Coalition Government. It was said that he could not bear having only one vote among twenty-two, as he was used to leading and dominating any circle of men to which he belonged. As I came to see him fairly often, in a friend's house, I realized he possessed a remarkable mind. As time went on, I was touched by the love his young wife had for him, and I was also struck by the great difference his second marriage had made, causing him to look years younger.

I have often heard it asserted that no human being ever meets another human being who says that he or she has seen a ghost. They always declare that this experience has befallen a friend or an acquaintance. This lent a special interest to the fact that Sir Edgar Sebright told me he had seen in broad daylight a man he knew was dead coming towards him in Waverley Station at Edinburgh. He was also once a tenant of a haunted house called Markel Sell. Being determined to see the ghost, if there was a ghost, he slept in what was called the haunted room.

There he saw nothing! but late in his tenancy, when he was sitting in a small study, he suddenly felt two hands fall heavily on his shoulders. It never occurred to him that the hands were not material hands. He tried to shake himself free from them, regarding what was happening to him as a stupid practical joke. He swore with anger and surprise, and then felt himself released. Looking round, he found there was no one there.

The house where this occurred had four lodges, and in one of the lodges lived two old women who, when the house was not let, acted as caretakers. After he had had this strange experience, he went and saw the elder of the two women and asked her whether she had ever seen or felt anything unusual in the house. She shook her head, and he went on, "Did you never see anything peculiar or strange while you lived in the house?" She looked round, as if afraid that her sister would hear her, and then she answered in a low voice, "Sometimes they come and lean on me."

Among my brother's friends was Aubrey Herbert, who had an exceptional knowledge of the Near East. He once told me a strange story.

He was lunching with two generals whom he regarded as typically unimaginative soldiers. He had known them for a long time. One of them told him that when he had to take over a new piece of country at the Front, he always realized that although he had never been there before, he knew not only the lie of the land but what buildings he would see, what woods, and what hills.

Some time later Aubrey Herbert met a man who had been at the luncheon, and Herbert said, "That was a queer tale told us." The other exclaimed, "I can cap that story. All my life I have had a dream house of which I know every inch inside and out. After I married, I told my wife about my dream house, and while I was at the Front in April 1917, she wrote to me, 'Some people where I was staying the other day, took me over to a place which I feel convinced is your dream house. In fact I feel so sure of it that I send you a photograph of the house.'" The General went on, "I at once knew the place for my dream house."