The Secret City | Page 2

record it. At least, as I
have said, I have endeavoured to keep my own history, my own desires,
my own temperament out of this, as much as is humanly possible....
And the facts are true.
[Footnote 1: The Dark Forest.]

II
They had been travelling for a week, and had quite definitely decided
that they had nothing whatever in common. As they stood there, lost
and desolate on the grimy platform of the Finland station, this same
thought must have been paramount in their minds: "Thank God we
shan't have to talk to one another any longer. Whatever else may
happen in this strange place that at least we're spared." They were
probably quite unconscious of the contrast they presented, unconscious
because, at this time, young Bohun never, I should imagine, visualised
himself as anything more definite than absolutely "right," and
Lawrence simply never thought about himself at all. But they were
perfectly aware of their mutual dissatisfaction, although they were of
course absolutely polite. I heard of it afterwards from both sides, and I
will say quite frankly that my sympathy was all with Lawrence. Young
Bohun can have been no fun as a travelling companion at that time. If
you had looked at him there standing on the Finland station platform
and staring haughtily about for porters you must have thought him the
most self-satisfied of mortals. "That fellow wants kicking," you would
have said. Good-looking, thin, tall, large black eyes, black eyelashes,
clean and neat and "right" at the end of his journey as he had been at
the beginning of it, just foreign-looking enough with his black hair and
pallor to make him interesting--he was certainly arresting. But it was
the self-satisfaction that would have struck any one. And he had reason;
he was at that very moment experiencing the most triumphant moment
of his life.

He was only twenty-three, and was already as it seemed to the
youthfully limited circle of his vision, famous. Before the war he had
been, as he quite frankly admitted to myself and all his friends, nothing
but ambitious. "Of course I edited the Granta for a year," he would say,
"and I don't think I did it badly.... But that wasn't very much."
No, it really wasn't a great deal, and we couldn't tell him that it was. He
had always intended, however, to be a great man; the Granta was
simply a stepping-stone. He was already, during his second year at
Cambridge, casting about as to the best way to penetrate, swiftly and
securely, the fastnesses of London journalism. Then the war came, and
he had an impulse of perfectly honest and selfless patriotism..., not
quite selfless perhaps, because he certainly saw himself as a mighty
hero, winning V.C.'s and saving forlorn hopes, finally received by his
native village under an archway of flags and mottoes (the local
postmaster, who had never treated him very properly, would make the
speech of welcome). The reality did him some good, but not very much,
because when he had been in France only a fortnight he was gassed and
sent home with a weak heart. His heart remained weak, which made
him interesting to women and allowed time for his poetry. He was
given an easy post in the Foreign Office and, in the autumn of 1916 he
published _Discipline: Sonnets and Poems_. This appeared at a very
fortunate moment, when the more serious of British idealists were
searching for signs of a general improvement, through the stress of war,
of poor humanity.... "Thank God, there are our young poets," they said.
The little book had excellent notices in the papers, and one poem in
especial "How God spoke to Jones at Breakfast-time" was selected for
especial praise because of its admirable realism and force. One paper
said that the British breakfast-table lived in that poem "in all its tiniest
most insignificant details," as no breakfast-table, save possibly that of
Major Pendennis at the beginning of Pendennis has lived before. One
paper said, "Mr. Bohun merits that much-abused word 'genius.'"
The young author carried these notices about with him and I have seen
them all. But there was more than this. Bohun had been for the last four
years cultivating Russian. He had been led into this through a real,

genuine interest. He read the novelists and set himself to learn the
Russian language. That, as any one who has tried it will know is no
easy business, but Henry Bohun was no fool, and the Russian refugee
who taught him was no fool. After Henry's return from France he
continued his lessons, and by the spring of 1916 he could read easily,
write fairly, and speak atrociously. He then adopted Russia, an easy
thing to do, because his supposed mastery