friends, I don’t see anything wrong in it,” he could not help saying.
To his surprise the priest exclaimed, “Bravo! Therein lies hope. Tell me, do many think like you do, in France?”
“I don’t think so. Or if they do, they don’t say so. You see——” he began tremulously, but could not finish.
“Henry Asquith is so good,” he heard Mrs. Kingsman saying. “He will not defend himself. He will not believe that they are intriguing against him.”
“One of the disadvantages today of being a Balliol man,” said Kingsman.
“Tell me,” said the priest softly, leaning across the sofa to Phillip, “would it have been a help if you had had a padre with your men in the line, sharing their lives, one to whom they could confide their unhappiest thoughts?”
This was so strange a question that Phillip did not know what to reply.
“One to whom a man could tell even his fears of being killed?”
“I think he would be killed just the same, whether he told his fears or not, if his time had come, sir.”
“You know Julian Grenfell’s ‘Into Battle’, of course?”
“No—I don’t, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, my dear boy! It is one of the great poems of the war, with Rupert Brooke’s 1914 sonnets! It is your meat and drink, as a soldier! Where can we find you a copy?”
“I have kept The Times, Lulu!”
Mrs. Kingsman got up, a strange exalted smile on her face, and went up the stairs.
“Julian was our friend,” said the priest, softly. “At Balliol nearly ten years ago he was known as Roughers, or the Rough Man. He was tremendously keen on physical fitness, delighting in all beauty, fired by great poetry, feeling kinship with animals, particularly horses, that was our dear, dear Rough Man, with his stock whip, cracking its lash with a noise like a pistol shot! But since all human qualities must have their defects, for what is man but a wayward pilgrim unto God, Julian had the fault of intolerance. Thus, he could not bear the sight of one fellow undergraduate in particular, and would hunt him whenever he saw him, hurling that great thong of his stock-whip until the lash exploded about the ears of the fleeing Jew … who is now, in the whirligig of time, an A.D.C. to a general in France, while our dear Roughers has died of wounds,” ended the priest, with a smile.
Phillip did not know what to say to this. He remembered his father saying that grandfather Twiney was a Jew. What did it matter, anyway, what religion a man was?
As Mrs. Kingsman came down the stairs with The Times, the priest went on, “You will know your Heraclitus,” and he quoted for nearly half a minute, while Mrs. Kingsman waited. “You remember your Greek?”
“I did not learn Greek, sir.”
“Oh, do forgive me, I did not intend——” The priest got up and took the newspaper from Mrs. Kingsman. Spreading it open on the table he said softly, “Read it to us, my dear Maddison,” and then he began to pace the room, touching his rosary.
The naked earth is warm with Spring
And with green grass and bursting trees
Leans to the sun’s gaze, glorying,
And quivers in the sunny breeze.
And life is Colour and Warmth and Light
And a striving evermore for these;
And he is dead who will not fight.
And who dies fighting hath increase.
Phillip read on, transfixed, as scenes of the countryside he had known with such happiness rose before him with so startling a clearness that he lowered his eyes, waiting for the tears which filled them to go.
The kestrel, hovering by day,
And the little owls that call by night,
Bid him be swift and keen as they,
As keen of ear, as swift of sight.
The blackbird sings to him: “Brother, brother,
If this be the last song you sing,
Sing well, for you may not sing another,
Brother, sing.”
“Do go on, Phillip!” said Kingsman. “Yes, do,” said Mrs. Kingsman. They watched the slim figure hesitating, then the nervous stroking of dark hair with a hand; the indrawn breath, the voice clear,
To his surprise the priest exclaimed, “Bravo! Therein lies hope. Tell me, do many think like you do, in France?”
“I don’t think so. Or if they do, they don’t say so. You see——” he began tremulously, but could not finish.
“Henry Asquith is so good,” he heard Mrs. Kingsman saying. “He will not defend himself. He will not believe that they are intriguing against him.”
“One of the disadvantages today of being a Balliol man,” said Kingsman.
“Tell me,” said the priest softly, leaning across the sofa to Phillip, “would it have been a help if you had had a padre with your men in the line, sharing their lives, one to whom they could confide their unhappiest thoughts?”
This was so strange a question that Phillip did not know what to reply.
“One to whom a man could tell even his fears of being killed?”
“I think he would be killed just the same, whether he told his fears or not, if his time had come, sir.”
“You know Julian Grenfell’s ‘Into Battle’, of course?”
“No—I don’t, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, my dear boy! It is one of the great poems of the war, with Rupert Brooke’s 1914 sonnets! It is your meat and drink, as a soldier! Where can we find you a copy?”
“I have kept The Times, Lulu!”
Mrs. Kingsman got up, a strange exalted smile on her face, and went up the stairs.
“Julian was our friend,” said the priest, softly. “At Balliol nearly ten years ago he was known as Roughers, or the Rough Man. He was tremendously keen on physical fitness, delighting in all beauty, fired by great poetry, feeling kinship with animals, particularly horses, that was our dear, dear Rough Man, with his stock whip, cracking its lash with a noise like a pistol shot! But since all human qualities must have their defects, for what is man but a wayward pilgrim unto God, Julian had the fault of intolerance. Thus, he could not bear the sight of one fellow undergraduate in particular, and would hunt him whenever he saw him, hurling that great thong of his stock-whip until the lash exploded about the ears of the fleeing Jew … who is now, in the whirligig of time, an A.D.C. to a general in France, while our dear Roughers has died of wounds,” ended the priest, with a smile.
Phillip did not know what to say to this. He remembered his father saying that grandfather Twiney was a Jew. What did it matter, anyway, what religion a man was?
As Mrs. Kingsman came down the stairs with The Times, the priest went on, “You will know your Heraclitus,” and he quoted for nearly half a minute, while Mrs. Kingsman waited. “You remember your Greek?”
“I did not learn Greek, sir.”
“Oh, do forgive me, I did not intend——” The priest got up and took the newspaper from Mrs. Kingsman. Spreading it open on the table he said softly, “Read it to us, my dear Maddison,” and then he began to pace the room, touching his rosary.
The naked earth is warm with Spring
And with green grass and bursting trees
Leans to the sun’s gaze, glorying,
And quivers in the sunny breeze.
And life is Colour and Warmth and Light
And a striving evermore for these;
And he is dead who will not fight.
And who dies fighting hath increase.
Phillip read on, transfixed, as scenes of the countryside he had known with such happiness rose before him with so startling a clearness that he lowered his eyes, waiting for the tears which filled them to go.
The kestrel, hovering by day,
And the little owls that call by night,
Bid him be swift and keen as they,
As keen of ear, as swift of sight.
The blackbird sings to him: “Brother, brother,
If this be the last song you sing,
Sing well, for you may not sing another,
Brother, sing.”
“Do go on, Phillip!” said Kingsman. “Yes, do,” said Mrs. Kingsman. They watched the slim figure hesitating, then the nervous stroking of dark hair with a hand; the indrawn breath, the voice clear,
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