We were met at the Berne railway station by an odd assortment of European Socialists.
“Willkommen, kameraden,” said a little man with a profusion of long sandy hair and an abundant beard. “Es macht uns Vergnügen die Englischen kameraden wieder zu sehen.” (Welcome, comrades. It is a great pleasure to us to see the English comrades once more.)
I gazed fearfully at this amazing group of people, who looked for all the world like a committee of anarchists ripe for an expedition! They were, in fact, the gentlest of human beings and as pacific as Quakers! The man who welcomed us was Kurt Eisner, President of the Bavarian Republic, who was afterwards murdered in the streets of Munich, in part for the attitude he adopted in this Conference. But in his large-brimmed hat and conspirator’s cloak nothing could have saved him from the suspicion of a raw Englishwoman, unused to the manner of dress and style of speech of so many Socialists in European lands. And those who met us were all alike.
“Comment allez vous, camarades,” exclaimed a French-speaking delegate, and I found myself shaking hands with an even more terrifying apostle of the gospel of Karl Marx, whose brilliant red tie would have served for a railway signal!
I recall a conversation I had with M. Renaudel, at that time the editor of L’Humanité, when we travelled together in Georgia eighteen months later.
“Why do you English Socialists never use the word ‘comrade’ in speaking to each other? In France it is always ‘comrade,’ never ‘monsieur,’ except to the bourgeoisie.”
“The word comrade is often used in England also,” I replied. “I rarely use the word myself, and if you want to know why, my reason is very simple. It is a very beautiful word, but it has been frightfully misused and has lost a good deal of its value. I have heard it so often in the mouths of people who have no more comradely feeling for me than a nest of mosquitoes, that it is now no guarantee to me of real friendship. On the contrary, I am suspicious of those who use it most. It is like that even more beautiful word ‘love,’ which has been cheapened and vulgarized by its misuse until now it means exactly nothing on the lips of most. What value would you attach to the love of somebody who in the same breath expressed the same fervent devotion to a jam tart? ‘Comrade’ means nothing. It is a mere form of expression, a hackneyed formulary. I keep this word for those I know to be truly my friends.”
I told Renaudel of an acquaintance of mine, a Trade Union leader who received a post card from an angry fellow unionist, with a skull and cross-bones at the head. “Dear Comrade,” it began, “What do you mean by selling out like you did? You are getting something good for yourself out of this. You are a liar and a scoundrel! You ought to be shot! Just you wait till I catch you out by yourself! Look out for your dirty hide! You filthy dog! Yours fraternally, B. S.”
It was nearly midnight, and we were worn out with the long journey and sleepless night. Soon we were fast asleep between the spotless white sheets of those exquisite beds, happy in the thought of the morrow’s meeting and its possibilities.