He shrugged his shoulders and spread his small, white hands with an expressive gesture. “I cannot tell. There will probably be little change. I shall have to be home by then.”
The sound of the music came through the trees, guiding our steps. “I should like to understand Belgian politics better,” was more than a polite observation on my part. It represented a genuine regret that I was so ignorant.
“The Belgian Socialist point of view was not understood during the war by the English comrades,” said the Minister. “And even now we are roundly abused for joining the Government, even by a section in Belgium. It is always the dividing line. Shall we stand outside and be simply a propaganda body? Or, having secured a certain position and membership, shall we take the responsibility for carrying out as far as we can our political doctrines, recognizing that in a composite Government we can go neither so fast nor so far as we might wish? The workers’ party in Belgium is now the largest party in the State. Can the largest party in the State refuse to share the responsibility of helping in the country’s government? Camille thinks not. I have thought not. Now I sometimes doubt the line we should take. We shall see how things develop; what the result of the election is. But you must come to Belgium and tell us about Russia, and we will show you anything and tell you anything you wish to know.”
At this point we emerged from the thick wood into full view of the palace. Servants were lighting paper lanterns. The clatter of plates and cutlery spoke of the coming revel. The choristers burst into a new song as we approached. The bright moon lit up the magnificent range of mountains in the distance. It was fairyland come true, making the things of this world, its dirty politics and mean diplomacy, look small and poor.
A tall English blonde of very great charm of manner when she chooses is Madame Vandervelde. When she does not so choose she can be ruder in three languages than any woman of my acquaintance knows how to be in one! I do not in the least complain of her conduct to me. We got on extremely well. We were sufficiently candid with each other to be able to maintain to the end a good comradeship in spite of the very trying circumstance of joint sleeping quarters. My one quarrel with my fellow-countrywoman was on account of the number of trunks she carried. It was almost impossible to turn round in that small state room because of the array of bags, boxes, suit-cases, hat-trunks piled into the room and occupying every available inch of space. One member of our party, the little French bride of a Georgian physician, who was carrying her trousseau to her new home in Tiflis, lost on the Italian railway a trunk containing two thousand pounds’ worth of valuable hand-made clothes, laces and household goods which she never recovered. An old empty trunk with her original label attached was found in its place. It may be the effect of the war. If four Prime Ministers in Paris can steal several colonies in Africa, if fat profiteers can rob the dying Austrian children in their thousands of their food, surely one little Italian railway porter can annex one trunk without blame? Whatever the reason, it is certainly true that, on more than one continental railway at the present time, the only way you can assure the arrival of your trunk at its destination is by sitting on it.
Madame Vandervelde contrived to bring all her goods safe into port without sitting on them. She pressed into her service the gallant men of the party. There are some women—and my friend is one of them—who by reason of their presence of mind and absence of conscience can command the services at all times and in all circumstances of even the men who dislike them. And apparently there are men who like being kicked!
But I do not want to imply that any man on this trip found his service a trial. I am sure the beautiful Lalla commanded the whole-hearted service of her numerous cavaliers. They liked her free manners and fascinating personality. They delighted in her racy talk, daring jests and semi-Bohemian tastes. The least that ought to be said about her is that her impish delight in shocking people and in saying teasing things kept the whole company titillating with expectant amusement or nervous fear. Nobody could be dull in her society; and, after all, dullness, which is always a nuisance, becomes a positive crime on an excursion of this sort, which compels twenty persons to live very closely together in ship or train for fifty days and nights.
Of the remaining women of the party, Madame Huysmans is a pretty dark woman, full of gentle kindnesses and not without the gift of humour. Madame Dvarzaladze is a magnificent beauty of the gipsy type. Madame Skobeloff, one time a prima donna at the Petrograd Opera House, was the very incarnation of her favourite heroine—Carmen—and by the skilful glances of her glorious black eyes and her coquettish manner brought the passionate lady off the stage to live amongst us for several days.
M. Dvarzaladze conducted the expedition on behalf of his Government, and was the kindest of hosts. M. Skobeloff assisted him. The latter is as fair as his wife is dark, with the Russian breadth both of figure and of face, and a mass of light silky hair brushed back from a square forehead. He was Minister of Commerce in the Kerensky Government. Something in his speech and manner gave the impression that he regretted a little the Bolshevik Government, and would have liked to participate in it; but I was confidently assured that I was mistaken.