“That’s all very well as talk, but what would you do?” asked Cunwell, the man of action.
“I don’t know. I admit I don’t know. When I’ve had a chance—if ever—to read History and Economics, and—oh a dozen things I never shall read, then perhaps I shall have a more definite creed.”
And as to the other part of his belief: they didn’t laugh at Shakespeare—he had been a school subject, and was a tradition. They didn’t laugh at him any more than at the crests on their family note-paper. But, they asked, where would Shakespeare have been without Drake and Howard of Effingham? It was a question of values. To them, Art was the camp-follower of Action; to John it was Action’s equal and honourable ally. They thought of books as ministers to the tired warrior in his leisure hours, worthy only if they soothed him. And they liked poetry whose rhythm they could mark with their feet.
The effect of unanimous opposition had been to make John doubt himself. People so far divided by circumstance and experience as Cunwell and Mr. Fane-Herbert agreed on these points at least—that political unselfishness was the talk of ignorant agitators, and that Art was an handmaiden. Were they right after all? They said: “Wherever you look in the world to-day Physical Force rules us. Can you reject universal Evidence? Isn’t it just stubborn and foolish to refuse to do homage to a Force which, if you don’t bow your head, will cut it off? Isn’t it wiser to support the side that has already won?” John had begun to think that this victory must indeed be final. All his friends acclaimed it; scarcely a book he had read, except the New Testament, seemed to challenge it. Many of the poets sang it: not Blake—but Blake was accounted mad.
And now, though they had spent the evening in all the happiness of vigorous disagreement, John had found in Hartington one who denied the finality of this victory. He had been introduced, moreover, to authors who denied it uncompromisingly. Hitherto, such authors had been, within his experience, few, and these few had failed and were dead. They had seemed to have no heirs. That night he discovered that their flame was still guarded and honoured and fed. He had turned over pages, written by living men, that were lit with it. In France, in England, in Germany there were eyes that saw by it. In Russia the sky was red—perhaps with its light.
So, after all, the whole world did not believe that an Army of Occupation must be quartered for ever on the Kingdom of God.
CHAPTER X
EASTERN SEAS
It was not long after they sailed from England that the midshipmen decided that many of their dreams were coming true. The Colonsay, though she was a poor ship to look at, passed the great lowering battleships of the Home Fleet proudly, almost with a little toss of her head. They might frown contemptuously at her, but soon they would be buried in the Northern mists, ploughing up and down eternally, keeping station on the Flag, the bondservants of the wireless at Whitehall; and she would be away for a holiday. True, the wireless could reach her too, but it would not take the trouble. To Colombo and back she would be her own mistress, bound to drop a curtesy only now and then to other people’s admirals whom she might meet at ports of call.