The Polyglots (16 page)

‘You do not understand Russia,’ argued General Pshemòvich-Pshevìtski. ‘The people are incapable of governing themselves. They are not ripe for it. Can you imagine the terrible oppression, the unspeakable chaos and misery of a country governed by uneducated workmen, by illiterate peasants? You know the result. It’s Bolshevism.’

Having uttered that terrible word, he stopped to examine the effect on the faces of his listeners. All were non-plussed. But I ventured:

‘If such be the terrible effect of ignorance and illiteracy, why, may I ask, had the Government denied them the necessary education and enlightenment?’

The General looked at me with infinite pity. ‘My dear Captain,’ he cried, ‘our Government had enough sense to recognize the danger of superfluous education for a people who profess an autocratic form of government. They realized that to educate the masses was to make them discontented. They were right. Results have proved it.’

Aunt Teresa nodded emphatically, because this was just the
sort of stuff which went down with her. ‘What you want,’ she said with conviction, ‘is an honest man. The Russian people are an apathetic people. They don’t care what government they live under so long as they get food and clothes and—are happy.’

Of this the General was—he confessed it with a smile—not so very sure, and he did not want us to go home with the idea that he was an out-and-out reactionary. Not a bit of it. We must move with the times. He was all for moderation. He stood (if his politics must be defined) in the
middle
, between anarchy from the left and anarchy from the right—a centre party, he explained, adhering to the good old sensible ideals of nationalism and honour. Yes. The General thought that the people might still be educated carefully and in moderation, and—who knows?—some day perhaps they may even have a Constituent Assembly and all that this meant. ‘But at present,’ he said in a cheery manner (putting off the evil hour which, if it had to come, well, it simply had to come, but, please God, would come tomorrow), ‘at present’—he held out a paper-knife—‘it is unthinkable—a complete surrender to Bolshevism!’ He brought the paper-knife down with a bang.

And here at last Dr. Murgatroyd stepped in. The value of education weighed in the balance and found wanting, the utility of self-government reduced to a becoming level, and the worth of either played off against the other till one effectively disposed of both, the field was clear for his pet theory, the exposition of which he felt was now peculiarly appropriate.

His pet theory was the union of the Orthodox and the Anglican Churches. It was a fixed idea with him, the essence and the purpose of his life. For thirty years or more he had accosted archbishops, bishops, patriarchs, archimandrites, metropolitans, and such-like holy fathers in both countries with this obsolete idea. Dr. Murgatroyd was a singularly untidy, unkempt, dishevelled individual, and, no doubt, to advertise his liaison with that country he wore a costume after the style of the Russian
moujik
. He had been described by his enemies as ‘the only Englishman who never washed’, and he was persistent to a degree scarcely credible even
in a correspondent. He had no conscience, no shame. He confronted kings and emperors, prime ministers and ambassadors and commanders-in-chief and every kind of religious enthusiast, and preached to them the union of the Orthodox and the Anglican Churches. Many seemed quite hopeful, and others were polite about it, but he thought it the crowning factor in world politics, the keystone of the Russian situation, the crux of the whole thing. If anything was to bring the two countries together, or avert wars, or promote trade, or kill Bolshevism, or save the world from every kind of evil, it was, he said, with certainty, the union of the Orthodox and the Anglican Churches. In his absent-mindedness it had somehow not occurred to him that the big idea of political domination through the medium of religion had died for ever with the temporal power of the Pope, and that whatever his concern for the Anglican Church at home the ordinary modern Englishman cared no more about the Orthodox faith than the ordinary Russian bothered his mind about the Church of England, should he have ever heard of its existence. But Dr. Murgatroyd was absent-minded to a degree only pardonable in professors. If you had told him at any hour of the day that he had already had his dinner, he would knit his brows and think hard for a moment and then say: ‘Yes, perhaps you are right. Yes, you
are
right. Yes, I must have had my dinner. Yes, I
have
had my dinner. Yes, yes, yes, yes.’ But he never kept regular hours for meals. He scarcely ever had any regular meals, or, in fact, any meals at all. He simply felt no need for food. He said: ‘All I want is a little tobacco.’ He was one of that class of people who never have any money; for even if he had had any money, he would not know where he had put it. Similarly all his teeth had gone from wear and tear and lack of all care. But there he lived on without teeth, not that their absence did not cause him to suffer pain and discomfort (for his digestion, as in fact everything else in his constitution, had gone to pieces), but it had simply never occurred to him that something had to be done in the matter. His mind was continually occupied with other things.

‘The most formidable weapon against Bolshevism,’ said Dr.
Murgatroyd, ‘is religion. Here it is that we can truly help. Russia’s salvation lies in the union of the Orthodox and the Anglican Churches. When I was in Moscow and Kiev many years ago I saw Archimandrite Theodosy, Metropolitans Theophanes and Hermogenes and Father Nikon, and they asked me to convey their warmest sentiments to our archbishops.’

‘M’yes,’ said the General. ‘M’yes—of course—the Union of the Churches. But why is it that this Captain Negodyaev is so long in coming?’

He pressed the button in a prolonged, determined manner.

The aide-de-camp stood in the doorway.

‘Well?’

‘We’ve sent for the mechanic, your Excellency.’

‘What a long time,’ said the General apologetically to Aunt Teresa. ‘Yes—of course—the Union of the Churches. But we must have propaganda for that.’

‘Ah, yes, propaganda,’ said Dr. Murgatroyd, and before we could stop him he had launched out on propaganda. This was his other craze.

He spoke with increasing speed.

‘Propaganda is everything; it is almost as important as religion, but the most effective propaganda is propaganda conducted through the medium of the Churches—the union of the two Churches. We must develop a huge organization to counteract the insidious, lying propaganda of the Bolsheviks. The religious note must be struck. This is all-important. The people must be urged to stand fast and not let the Bolshevik forces of Antichrist prevail. In the defence of Christianity, we will argue, the Churches of Russia and England must combine their forces: this will lead us to the union of the Orthodox and the Anglican Churches. But we will not stop at that. This organization—this colossal organization—with headquarters at Vladivostok and London respectively, will be split into two groups: the first for the enlightenment of the Russians concerning their British Ally, the other for the enlightenment of the British concerning things Russian. It is imperative
that an exceptionally capable man with an excellent knowledge of the language and conditions be given charge of the entire Association in order to co-ordinate and generally direct the work of this organization. Well, with your approval I am prepared to undertake the task. I have innumerable friends in both countries. I will get the bishops and the archimandrites to work together. Each group will be in uninterrupted communication with the other, acquire all available information on the spot, and pass it on to the people on the other side—and keep the pot boiling. We will buy up all newspapers, periodicals, printing presses in both countries, and so guide public opinion by issuing dailies, weeklies, hourly bulletins, leaflets, pamphlets, magazines, articles, books of every description, printed in large quantities, translated into all languages; some light books, some of them more serious works, some full of pictures, others of maps and diagrams and charts—but one and all directed against Bolshevism. We will mobilize all the best authors, artists, scientists, priests, and other people who know their subjects—sound and vigorous writers—and get them to condemn Bolshevism from the point of view of the peasant, the workman, the co-operator, the Church, the merchant, the schoolmaster, the professor. In a short while I hope a new literature will spring into being. We will then set up numerous libraries comprising all sorts of books on every kind of topic: philosophy, science, psychology, botany, gardening, poultry, mathematics, farming, sport, economics—all and sundry directed against Bolshevism: Bolshevism as a brutal and inhuman science; Bolshevism as a criminal psychology; Bolshevism as a ruinous economic system. Ugly gardening, hopeless botany, impracticable farming, immoral sport, misleading mathematics, impossible poultry—all as the result of the Bolshevik communist system. There is really no limit to which we cannot go! In addition special picture-books can be printed to preserve the coming generation from the insidious penetration of Bolshevik ideas. We will scatter throughout the country a host of photographers to collect scenes of Bolshevik atrocities. We will engage famous artists to paint pictures of rape,
murder, pillage and outrage committed by communists. On the other hand, we will praise the courage and loyalty and discipline and devotion of the forces of law and order, and send them constant urgings to be of good cheer and courage.’

‘M’yes,’ said the General stroking his chin. ‘M’yes. But why is this Captain Negodyaev not coming?’

He pressed the electric bell-button.

The aide-de-camp offspring stood in the doorway.

‘Well? Have you telephoned at last?’

‘The mechanic’s drunk, your Excellency.’

‘Send at once for the other mechanic!’ snapped the General ferociously.

‘Very well, your Excellency!’ The aide-de-camp bolted.

‘M’yes,’ said the General, once more resuming the subject and turning to Dr. Murgatroyd in particular. ‘Tell the Mr. Churchill, and tell the Mr. Lloyd George, and tell the President Wilson, and tell the whole world that the General Pshemòvich-Pshevìtski is firm, as firm as a rock, and he will fight the Jewish Bolsheviks to the last man,’ he ended—pressing the button with violence.

The aide-de-camp stood on the threshold.

‘Well, what about the telephone?’ the General asked grimly.

‘The other mechanic is on leave, your Excellency.’

‘In that case,’ said the General, pulling out his watch and looking at Aunt Teresa, ‘dispatch a car for Captain Negodyaev, do you hear? A car
immediately
!’

‘Quite so, your Excellency!’

The aide-de-camp dashed out of the room.

‘M’yes,’ said the General. ‘M’yes—of course …’

Some ten minutes later Captain Negodyaev appeared in the doorway.

‘Aha!’ said the General grandly and graciously. ‘I understand you have a wife and daughter in Novorossiisk.’

‘That’s perfectly correct, your Excellency. I have, your Excellency, two daughters,’ Captain Negodyaev was explaining, turning pale as a sheet as he stood to attention:

‘Màsha and Natàsha, your Excellency.’

‘Quite, quite, quite,’ the General chimed in impatiently.

‘Màsha, your Excellency, is married, and lives with her husband, Ippolit Sergèiech Blagovèschenski, away in Novorossiisk, your Excellency. And Natàsha, your Excellency, is only seven, your Excellency.’

‘Quite, quite, quite,’ said the General impatiently, and turning fiercely to his aide-de-camp son:

‘A telegram to Novorossiisk,’ he snapped, ‘to be dispatched
immediately
!’

The aide-de-camp tore off the ground.

The General pressed the button.

The aide-de-camp, like a jack-in-the-box, bobbed in again and stood to attention, trembling like a jerboa.

‘Priority.
Clear the line
,’ the General snapped savagely.

‘Quite so, your Excellency!’ The aide-de-camp, like a jack-in-the-box, bobbed out again.

It was as if the General had tarried long enough, and now having bestirred himself would show them that he meant business. He looked at Aunt Teresa to see if all this was pleasing her. She looked tender and vague.

As Aunt Teresa rose, assured by the General that no stone would be left unturned to comply with her wishes, she turned to Dr. Murgatroyd and thanked him for his most interesting and brilliant discourse. ‘Perhaps you would pay us a visit,’ she said over her shoulder.

Escorted by the General’s retinue we stepped into the carriage and drove home.

A TELEGRAM AWAITED ME AS WE ARRIVED. WITH nervous hands I tore it open. It ran: ‘Your scheme approved.
Appointed liaison officer and military censor. Instructions follow.’

‘And the letter! Where’s the letter?’ Aunt Teresa asked the moment she saw Beastly.

But the letter was for me. Uncle Lucy wrote to ask me if I thought it would be feasible for them to go and live in England. It was impossible for them to stay in Krasnoyarsk, as well-nigh everything had been taken from them, and he asked me, if I so thought fit, to arrange for an early passage for them from Shanghai to England.

I was annoyed. In my irritable mood, I thought: others had perished in the grand commotion of the great world war and revolution. Why not my uncle and family too? This morbid instinct of self-preservation! Why doesn’t he remain and perish? Apparently he thought that going to England was an easy matter. But was it? What annoyed me was the optimism with which some people deem it possible to get out of trouble. I suspected him, with all his surface pessimism, of being a facile optimist of a most distressing kind. When I was joining up to fight in the world war, he wrote to me as follows: