II
They had been travelling for a week, and had quite definitely decidedthat they had nothing whatever in common. As they stood there, lost anddesolate on the grimy platform of the Finland station, this same thoughtmust have been paramount in their minds: "Thank God we shan't have totalk to one another any longer. Whatever else may happen in thisstrange place that at least we're spared." They were probably quiteunconscious of the contrast they presented, unconscious because, at thistime, young Bohun never, I should imagine, visualised himself asanything more definite than absolutely "right," and Lawrence simplynever thought about himself at all. But they were perfectly aware oftheir mutual dissatisfaction, although they were of course absolutelypolite. I heard of it afterwards from both sides, and I will say quitefrankly that my sympathy was all with Lawrence. Young Bohun can havebeen no fun as a travelling companion at that time. If you had looked athim there standing on the Finland station platform and staring haughtilyabout for porters you must have thought him the most self-satisfied ofmortals. "That fellow wants kicking," you would have said. Good-looking,thin, tall, large black eyes, black eyelashes, clean and neat and"right" at the end of his journey as he had been at the beginning of it,just foreign-looking enough with his black hair and pallor to make himinteresting--he was certainly arresting. But it was theself-satisfaction that would have struck any one. And he had reason; hewas at that very moment experiencing the most triumphant moment of hislife.
He was only twenty-three, and was already as it seemed to the youthfullylimited circle of his vision, famous. Before the war he had been, as hequite frankly admitted to myself and all his friends, nothing butambitious. "Of course I edited the _Granta_ for a year," he would say,"and I don't think I did it badly.... But that wasn't very much."
No, it really wasn't a great deal, and we couldn't tell him that it was.He had always intended, however, to be a great man; the _Granta_ wassimply a stepping-stone. He was already, during his second year atCambridge, casting about as to the best way to penetrate, swiftly andsecurely, the fastnesses of London journalism. Then the war came, and hehad an impulse of perfectly honest and selfless patriotism..., notquite selfless perhaps, because he certainly saw himself as a mightyhero, winning V.C.'s and saving forlorn hopes, finally received by hisnative village under an archway of flags and mottoes (the localpostmaster, who had never treated him very properly, would make thespeech of welcome). The reality did him some good, but not very much,because when he had been in France only a fortnight he was gassed andsent home with a weak heart. His heart remained weak, which made himinteresting to women and allowed time for his poetry. He was given aneasy post in the Foreign Office and, in the autumn of 1916 he published_Discipline: Sonnets and Poems_. This appeared at a very fortunatemoment, when the more serious of British idealists were searching forsigns of a general improvement, through the stress of war, of poorhumanity.... "Thank God, there are our young poets," they said.
The little book had excellent notices in the papers, and one poem inespecial "How God spoke to Jones at Breakfast-time" was selected forespecial praise because of its admirable realism and force. One papersaid that the British breakfast-table lived in that poem "in all itstiniest most insignificant details," as no breakfast-table, savepossibly that of Major Pendennis at the beginning of _Pendennis_ haslived before. One paper said, "Mr. Bohun merits that much-abused word'genius.'"
The young author carried these notices about with him and I have seenthem all. But there was more than this. Bohun had been for the last fouryears cultivating Russian. He had been led into this through a real,genuine interest. He read the novelists and set himself to learn theRussian language. That, as any one who has tried it will know is no easybusiness, but Henry Bohun was no fool, and the Russian refugee whotaught him was no fool. After Henry's return from France he continuedhis lessons, and by the spring of 1916 he could read easily, writefairly, and speak atrociously. He then adopted Russia, an easy thing todo, because his supposed mastery of the language gave him a tremendousadvantage over his friends. "I assure you that's not so," he would say."You can't judge Tchehov till you've read him in the original. Wait tillyou can read him in Russian." "No, I don't think the Russian charactersare like that," he would declare. "It's a queer thing, but you'd almostthink I had some Russian blood in me... I sympathise so." He followedclosely the books that emphasised the more sentimental side of theRussian character, being of course grossly sentimental himself at heart.He saw Russia glittering with fire and colour, and Russians, large,warm, and simple, willing to be patronised, eagerly confessing theirsins, rushing forward to make him happy, entertaining him for ever andever with a free and glorious hospitality.
"I really think I do understand Russia," he would say modestly. He saidit to me when he had been in Russia two days.
Then, in addition to the success of his poems and the general interestthat he himself aroused the final ambition of his young heart wasrealised. The Foreign Office decided to send him to Petrograd to help inthe great work of British propaganda.
He sailed from Newcastle on December 2, 1916....
The Secret City Page 2
