“The trouble is,” said Bernard Hall, “that what used to be called the fountain of Truth is walled round by the Enemy and kept under strict control. Its waters are carefully and systematically poisoned before they are allowed to flow into the open fields.”
“I don’t quite follow,” said Bertram.
“I mean the distribution of news in the European Press. There’s a conspiracy against Truth. It’s almost impossible for public opinion to form any kind of verdict based on actual facts. Newspapers nowadays use facts merely as the raw material of propaganda. They’re manufactured to suit the policy of the proprietors, or the purpose of Government. By suppression, or alteration, or over-emphasis, or the trick of false perspective, by scare head-lines and editorial comment, they’re made to convey exactly the particular idea which the newspapers desire to suggest to its readers. Who knows what is the actual state of things in Germany, whether she is on the brink of bankruptcy, or getting rich? What’s the mental state of the German people, after their tremendous defeat, their blood-bath, the downfall of their pride? Are they cherishing the hope of revenge, worshipping the old gods, or working out some way of salvation? France—what about France? Is Poincaré France? Or Paris? What are the people thinking? Do they really want to invade the Ruhr and force another war for unborn babes—as sure as Fate. . . . Do you know, Pollard?”
“No,” said Bertram.
“Well, why not find out?”
He had come to the point of the interview. He had an idea that Bertram might wander around a bit in Europe—the old battlefields, Paris—not Paris of the boulevards, but Paris in the back streets, the little shops, the student quarter, the intellectual clubs—then Germany, among its peasants, in the back blocks of Berlin, in middle-class households. Then Russia, if he liked. He could link up with Christy in Moscow, write different kind of stuff, not statistics or high politics, but the human side of things, how the people were living—and dying—what they ate, how they dressed, what was in their minds. He could pick up a bit of Russian, or find people who spoke something else. He might get a glimpse or two of the real truth.
It seemed that Bernard Hall had been impressed by Bertram’s article on “The Mind of the Men,” and one or two other things he had sent in. That was the kind of thing he wanted. No profound analysis of the European situation—it was in flux, changing from week to week—but intimate sketches of life; things seen; things heard; the common thought; wayside conversations; little flashes revealing the heart of folk.
“Does the idea appeal to you?” he asked.
It appealed to Bertram enormously. Here was his way of escape, from the depression of life without an object; from the immediate problem of earning a “living wage,” perhaps from other troubles which had borne down on him, like Joyce’s abandonment. It would give her more time to make up her mind about “one thing or the other.” It would give him more time to think things out, without desperate conclusions based on boredom, loneliness, futility, and introspective brooding. Here was objective work. He would be looking out upon the world, not inwards with nagging irritation. It would lift his mind, broaden it, re-vitalise it. It would help him to adopt Janet’s remedy for gloom and despair—interest in the other fellow’s welfare and sympathy beyond selfishness.
Bernard Hall spoke about “terms”—a share of expenses, articles paid for at a fair rate, no particular number laid down, but one a week if possible. It was good enough, enormously more, as a chance, than he could have hoped.