CHAPTER XX

The Liao-yang routine began once more. Troumestre grew impatient, and said he would go back to the Brigade. Miles said he would go with him. About a week later they started once more in search of the Brigade. Haslam refused to budge. He said that if there was to be a battle, it would be fought at Liaoyang, which was obviously a battlefield – a position; if no battle, what was the use of moving?

Alyosha said he must stay at Liao-yang. The Montenegrins had all of them disappeared, with the exception of Troumestre’s servant. He had been with Troumestre for years, and was a different kind of Montenegrin. Troumestre and Miles started once more for An-shan-chan, and there they were told by a volunteer whom they met on the road that General K’s Brigade was in a village about ten miles to the south-west.

They found the way with difficulty, going from one village to another, and stopping at each to ask the way.

“Do-chao-li?” Troumestre would ask of a Chinese labourer, naming the village, and the labourer would pause, reflect, and then ask whether he meant Russian “li” (kilometres) or Chinese “li,” and then answer with nice accuracy down to a quarter.

After a time they got beyond villages, and plunged into the gowliang. There was no more road, but there was a field telegraph, and they followed it.

At last they found the village and the Brigade. The Headquarters: two dilapidated, squalid Chinese hovels made of baked mud, at the top of a sloping garden.

The General – a new General this time – was sitting in a bare room infested with flies. Next door were the clerks, tapping a field telegraph instrument, and a corporal tapping on a typewriter placed on a packing-case, between two tallow candles.

The General received them in a friendly manner. He looked hot and tired.

“I hope you have brought some food,” he said, “because there is nothing to eat here.”

They found the members of the Staff whom they had already met at Ta-shi-chiao. There were additions to it: among them a young ADC who came from Tashkent.

Miles and Troumestre were billeted in the garden on the slope of the hill. It was picturesque, and surrounded by trellis-work, over which pumpkins were trailing.

Troumestre and Miles had each of them a green Wolsey valise with them. Miles had been lent his. The weather was still swelteringly hot; it was pleasanter out of doors than in.

They had a frugal meal at midday, of rusks and tea. In the afternoon they slept. In the evening they drank tea, and renewed acquaintance with their old friends. None of these could talk English, so that Miles had to carry on his conversation through Troumestre. Soon after sunset they retired for the night.

No sooner had they undressed, and got into their valises than it began to rain – not a gentle shower, but a tropical downpour. They fastened themselves up in their valises, and Miles was astonished to find that he did not mind the rain. He did not even notice it.

It stopped before dawn, as suddenly as it had begun. At sunrise everybody was up.

The doctor strolled out into the garden from a neighbouring fang-tze. Miles advanced to him and stretched out his hand to say “Good morning,” but the doctor withdrew his hand and said something in Russian.

“What is he saying?” asked Miles.

“He says,” said Troumestre, “that he begs your pardon, but he has not yet washed.”

A dragoon appeared armed for the morning ritual with a kettle and a small bowl, and the doctor told him to attend to the guests; he then went away and reappeared with a small piece of soap, which he lent to Miles and Troumestre. When it was all over, the doctor shook hands with them, and they had tea.

The weather was hotter after the rain – like the steam room of a Turkish bath. They lay on their open valises and talked, and every now and then one of the Staff would visit them, and discuss the war – a long stream of desultory gossip, mingled with anecdote and speculation. They saw their friend Semenov of the rotten sausages, more enthusiastic than ever, not only about the war, but about a conquest of Thibet and India. He was ready to eat more rotten sausages. Everyone was hungry. There was nothing except hard rusks, which you melted in tea, and sometimes, as a luxury, a little brown bread. There was no sugar, no milk, no spirits, no wine. Miles and Troumestre began to long for an acid drop – for anything sweet. Strawberry jam seemed like the Beatific Vision. After Miles and Troumestre had been two days at the Brigade Headquarters, they felt as if they had been there all their lives.

It grew hotter and hotter; and whenever it rained the rain seemed to leave the weather hotter than it had been before. They lay almost all day in the garden. It was too hot to move. There was little to eat and nothing to read. They were isolated from the world. They heard no official news, but a great deal of gossip; in spite of the absence of post, telegrams, and newspapers, it seemed to pass with lightning rapidity from place to place.

“It always does in countries like these,” Troumestre said to Miles one morning; “it was just the same in South Africa. How news gets so quickly from one place to another in so-called uncivilised countries is a mystery. Sometimes it seems like thought transference. I always thought it made all censorship so foolish. News that was carefully kept from one by one’s immediate superior is told you suddenly by a lance-corporal who hasn’t shaved for a week! It is the same here.”

One of the Staff came up to them – the bearded Major – and said, “Someone has brought a large tin of vodka from Liaoyang. The General invites you to come and help to drink it.”

The vodka was served at the midday meal. It took place late that day, about two o’clock. The General and the Staff sat under a haystack.

There was some tough meat cooked in a pail, called Boeuf Strogonoff, and some brown bread. And vodka. It was privately manufactured vodka, not “state” vodka.

Miles and Troumestre thought it was almost worse than spirits of wine, because it was not quite tasteless…it had a taste, but a bad taste, a taste of rancid machinery. After the first dose – they drank it in little tin cups – Miles thought he could not possibly drink another; but after the third he minded it less. The food helped a little. The heat was overpowering. The conversation, which was loud and incessant, seemed to Miles as unreal as that in a nightmare. And yet he was happy. The General was an exuberant host. He enjoyed the sight of Miles drinking vodka, and laughed till he cried.

Troumestre talked a great deal. There was a fierce argument about nationalities. “The General says,” Troumestre interpreted, “that the English are the most ‘correct’ people in the world, the most kulturni. He met a lot of English officers at Peking during the Boxer row.”

“What does that mean – cultivated?” asked Miles, puzzled.

“Not cultivated,” said Troumestre, “but civilised. He says the Russians are cultivated but not civilised; and he says our Government is detestable.”

“I suppose he is thinking of the Tories,” said Miles.

The General was more and more delighted at Miles’ seriousness, and drank one toast with him after another. The General insisted on his drinking glass for glass, or rather, cup for cup. He followed the ritual: Three for the Trinity, four for the four corners of the house, etc. He seemed to grow bigger and more voluble, like a caricature in a comic German newspaper. His hair was untidy and the colour of tow; his white tunic was unbuttoned and had egg-stains on it. His grey eyes were bloodshot. Miles began to see everything through a haze. Troumestre didn’t seem to mind. The vodka had no effect on him. Semenov, the Russian who had eaten the rotten sausages, was delighted, and drank cup for cup with him.

“Molodetz,” he said; “molodetz.” This was a compliment, the equivalent of saying, “You’re a fine fellow.” The General kept on repeating this compliment to Miles. Miles then lost consciousness. He thought that two dragoons carried the General away to one side of the haystack and himself to the other. When he woke up it was evening. He felt rested, but dazed.

Troumestre was standing up beside him, laughing.

“You have had a good sleep,” he said. “It is now bedtime.”

On the other side of the road beyond the garden soldiers were singing.

“It is bedtime,” said Troumestre. “You are not yet awake, so it will be easy for you to go to sleep again.”

Miles, still dazed, crawled into his valise.

The next day the rain fell in torrents. The little garden became a swamp. The bearded Major had had himself transferred to another unit, or to a part of a unit, which was quartered in a neighbouring village; he asked Miles and Troumestre to go with him.

“You will be more comfortable under a roof,” he said.

“Very well,” said Troumestre. “But before we go we must pay our mess bill.”

“The General,” answered the Major, “says you are not to have a mess bill. You are the guests of the Mess.”

After a final meal – a sober and frugal meal this time, at which nothing but tea was drunk – they rode to the neighbouring village. Here Miles and Troumestre were introduced to a new Commanding Officer, Colonel X, who asked them to dinner. Everything here was different. Colonel X was smart, a polished man with a trim beard, and shining buttons on his spotless white tunic. The food was served on the metal plates of an elaborate English luncheon basket. It was far more civilised. There was a pilaff, kidneys, and some red Caucasian wine. The Colonel spoke French. The talk was of racing, Monte Carlo, and French plays – international talk.

Miles felt shyer of this polished Colonel than he had been of the untidy General whom he had just left. After dinner the Colonel retired, and told the Major to find quarters for Miles and Troumestre. They strolled through the village. Some Cossacks were standing outside a small Chinese fang-tze. Presently an officer walked out, shook hands with the Major, was introduced to Miles and Troumestre, and asked them all in. Inside the fang-tze there was the usual kang. Upon it were blankets; they were the beds of the officers.

These were gathered round a table drinking tea, except a few who were lying on the blankets and looking at the ceiling. It was dark; there were only two candles in the room. Miles and Troumestre were introduced to a fat, bearded man who, they were told, was temporarily commanding the battery. It turned out to be a Horse Battery. There were several young men, a veterinary doctor, and a Frenchman called Gérard. He was by birth half Russian; his father was in business in St Petersburg; he was a Russian subject, and had volunteered as a private. The Major said something about quarters for Miles and Troumestre, and the Commanding Officer said of course they must at once be given accommodation. Troumestre protested, upon which the doctor shouted to a Cossack, and told him to fetch Miles’ and Troumestre’s valises from Headquarters, and to spread them on the kang; and so the matter was settled.

None of these officers could speak English; but Miles felt at his ease with them. After they had drunk tea the Major left them, and they all went to bed.

The next day began like the one before, with the ritual of washing; but with the tea the Cossacks served up some thick pancakes.

Miles talked to Gérard in French. Gérard understood English, but spoke it imperfectly. Nothing happened all the morning. Someone had a fragment of a Moscow newspaper, six weeks old, and it was in demand. In the course of the morning the Chinaman to whom the house belonged arrived with a grievance. It appeared that a senior officer, whose acquaintance Miles and Troumestre had not yet made because he messed by himself, had committed sacrilege. He had used the metal cauldron which is to be found in every Chinese cottage, and is used for cooking, as a bath. The Chinaman felt as a German housewife would feel were she to learn that a soldier had used the house bath to wash his dog. He could not get over it. He cried and moaned, and gnashed his teeth. The doctor said it was wrong of the officer, and what could he want with a bath? The man was given some roubles, but that comforted him not; it was the spiritual indignity that he minded, and that could not be atoned for. Miles was curious to see the officer who had been guilty of this misdemeanour; but he did not appear, nor did he come to the midday meal, which consisted of soup, chunks of meat, and hard rusks. There was no vodka – nothing but tea. After the midday meal and the midday siesta, Gérard said he wished to visit the Chinese Catholic church, which he had heard was in a neighbouring village. The doctor, Troumestre, and Miles agreed to go with him. They rode to a village some miles off, and found a clean presbytery and a small church with an altar, some candles and paper flowers, a Crucifix, Images of Our Lady and of the Sacred Heart. Troumestre and Gérard genuflected, and Troumestre said a prayer. They then called on the priest, a bronzed Chinaman, who was reading his Breviary. He offered them some brandy, which they were delighted to drink. It tasted like heaven after what they had been accustomed to. They sat down in the bare room, in which there were only two chairs, a table, and a Crucifix, and the priest told them of his experiences during the Boxer troubles. He had never been to France, yet he spoke French with a French intonation, just as the English jockeys do at Chantilly. He had been condemned to death during the Boxer troubles, and led out to execution, but reprieved at the last moment. Troumestre then said he wanted the priest to hear his confession. They disappeared into the church.

“I feel sick,” the doctor said, when the priest was out of the room. “Brandy always makes me feel sick. I had to drink it.”

When the priest and Troumestre came back, the priest gave them all his blessing and they went away. On the way home Miles and Gérard rode together. Gérard asked whether Troumestre had always been a Catholic, or whether he was a convert. Miles explained. “And you,” he said, “are you a Catholic?”

“Yes,” said Miles, “but I am not a Roman Catholic; I am an Anglican Catholic.”

“A Protestant?” said Gérard.

“No, not a Protestant,” said Miles. “At least I was not brought up as one; my aunt was High Church, and I was brought up High Church.”

“What is High Church?”

“High Church is the opposite of Low Church.”

“But what is Low Church?”

“Low Church are people like Nonconformists, Methodists, and the Salvation Army.”

“Ah, l’armée du Salut. But, then, why are not you a Catholic, a Roman Catholic?”

“Because,” said Miles, “Roman Catholics, so my aunt says, are heretical, and schismatic in England and Wales; they introduced all sorts of new things into the Church during the Middle Ages which the Early Church knew nothing about – a lot of abuses – indulgences – images and rosaries – and new dogmas like Purgatory and praying for the dead – and dangerous things like confession, letting the priests run everything,” he said rather shyly.

“But,” said Gérard, “those things are not all new. Russians and Greeks have confession and prayers for the dead, and have had them ever since the earliest times.”

“Oh,” said Miles, “our High Church people have nothing against the Greek Church, I think. They say that one day there might be a reunion between the Anglican and the Greek Churches.”

“But the Greek Church has the same Sacraments as the Romans – seven Sacraments; would they accept that?”

“I don’t think my aunt would like seven Sacraments,” said Miles. “Only two – and she is against confession, on principle. She thinks it destroys the sense of responsibility; that you can go on doing whatever you like, so long as you confess it. She thinks that is bad for one – and I must say I agree.”

“The moment,” said Gérard, “you abolish one of the Sacraments, you get something worse in its place. If you abolish confession to the priest, people will confess to lawyers and doctors, which I think is far more dangerous. You have no guarantee of secrecy. Les avocats el les médecins sont souvent des crapules, and if you give them entire liberty –” He shrugged his shoulders and spluttered. “At least the Church is a hold – a brake.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that a Chinese priest would rather be cut into bits than betray the secrets of the confessional.”

“But lawyers and doctors are just as discreet.”

“Priests have to be discreet in spite of everything. It is a small difference, if you will, but all the difference. At least to me… To the person who confesses.”

“But do you confess?”

“I am not pratiquant… I have really no faith… But I have no other faith. I am – I would be – either a Catholic or nothing.”

“But it was you who made us go and see the priest, and when you went into the church you knelt down.”

“‘Nous nous saluons,’ as Voltaire said when he was found making a Sign of the Cross as he passed a church. I don’t altogether disbelieve, but, well – je n’ai pas la foi. I said that to the priest, and he told me to pray to Our Lady and to ask for it. And the doctor said, ‘Of course.’”

At this moment the doctor met a friend and rode on ahead with him. Troumestre joined Miles and Gérard, and asked what they had been talking about. Gérard told him.

“Gérard is right,” said Troumestre. “Every lost Sacrament means sooner or later a sham substitute. If you give up praying for the dead, you get table-turning or necromancy.”

“Well,” said Miles, “all that Anglicans believe – people like my aunt – seems to me most improbable and difficult to believe. And you have to believe all that, and things that are still more difficult and improbable…if you do believe them. All sorts of things that are not even in the Bible. I should have thought the Bible was difficult enough.”

“The Bible,” said Gérard impatiently. “That has nothing to do with it.”

“Aunt Fanny says that Roman Catholics are not allowed to read the Bible.”

“We can read the Bible if we want to, and it is read to us in church, whether we like it or not,” said Troumestre. “Yes,” he went on, speaking to Gérard, “that is the root of the matter. Protestants base their religion on the Bible, and the Bible only. They think we do the same, and so naturally they think we are traitors and dishonest.”

“And of course,” said Gérard, “everyone makes his own version of the Bible.”

“Yes,” said Troumestre. “They think we have fallen away, that we are a lapsed sect. They don’t know that as Christians we are in the majority. Macaulay noted the fact sadly; and there are far more Catholics now than in his time.”

“It’s all very well,” said Miles. “But I see nothing in the Bible which says anything about Purgatory or Indulgences.”

“No,” said Troumestre. “Nor about the rosary, nor Benediction, nor Our Lady of Lourdes. But, you see, the difference between us is this: our authority is not the Bible only, although we believe it to be inspired; but a perpetually infallible Church. The Gospel for us is like a Bradshaw. But we believe in an infallible stationmaster’s office, in which there is a succession of divinely appointed stationmasters perpetually guaranteed, who tell us how to use the Bradshaw, and what trains are running and what not.”

“But,” said Miles, “your title deeds are, after all, the Bradshaw?”

“Yes,” said Troumestre; “but in that Bradshaw there is a notice by the first people who drew it up, saying that God had created the stationmaster’s office, that it was to go on for ever, and would explain the Bradshaw to us rightly for ever.”

“Evidently,” said Gérard, “you cannot take a railway guide and interpret it as each of you likes – otherwise there will be accidents. You can deny the authority, but in that case it is better not to travel by train. But to accept a railway guide, and to dispute the stationmaster’s supplementary information, seems to me absurd.”

“But,” said Miles, “I don’t see why you should have so many monks and nuns. What do they do?”

“They do good,” said Troumestre.

“But I mean those in monasteries and convents, who never come out – Trappists; what is the use of them? Wouldn’t they be more useful in the world? There are enough poor people for them to help – enough for them to do outside.”

“The contemplative orders pray for us,” said Troumestre. “You, and a great part of the non-Catholic world, have no idea of the work they do. It is as if a savage were told there were such things as banks, and vaguely got to know that banks were places where money was hoarded by useless people. To say monks and nuns ought to leave their monasteries and convents is like saying bankers ought to leave their banks, and come out into the street and scatter the money; or that men of science ought to leave their laboratories and lecture in Hyde Park. The contemplative religious are banking the grace of God; it is having an enormous effect. Their spiritual life is sometimes so strong that if you were to let loose a Trappist of a kind I have heard of into the world, the world would hardly be strong enough to contain him – like letting loose radium.”

“I daresay there are some monks like that,” said Gérard, “but an Abbé once told me that in the lives of the contemplative religious there was often a lot of what he called aridité, and what I call paresse.”

“I daresay,” said Troumestre; “no society is perfect – we live in a damaged universe, but the total capital of spiritual force is immense. You see, the Catholic – or, if you like, the Christian – world (it’s the same thing) is the opposite of this world. Everything in it is paradox. The poorest are of course the richest in it; the weakest, the strongest, the contemplative orders more powerful than politicians. Even in politics, as Dizzy said, it is private life that governs the world, and the people most talked about are the most powerless. Much more so in the religious life. From the worldly point of view, monks and nuns are the poorest and most insignificant, the most useless; from the point of view of the Church, they are the richest, the most influential. They are the Rothschilds of the world of poverty and the Caesars of the kingdom of weakness, and therefore the mightiest in the other kingdom, the Kingdom of Heaven.”

“Yes,” said Miles, “that’s right if one believes what you have got to believe, but surely, as a matter of common sense –”

“But common sense,” said Troumestre, “takes you to a point when it is still common sense to obey, and believe your stationmaster when he tells you things that seem impossible – such as the existence of a through carriage when none is marked, even on a Russian railway –”

“C’est vrai,” said Gérard.

They had reached home.