Presently, without raising his eyes, he said, "You think I'm heartless about individuals, but I'm not. My trouble is that I am far too much tangled up with individuals. I'm not really 'possessed' by the revolution, as some of the comrades are. I try to be, but I can't be; not really." I waited for him to continue; and after a long pause he said, "Of course I do whatever has to be done. I have a reputation to keep up. But I have to force myself all the time. Outwardly I'm the leader, and they say I'm steel-willed. Inwardly I'm quite different. How Lenin would despise me! And because I know he would, I have to drive myself harder and harder. And that makes me drive the comrades hard, too. Sometimes they grumble, sometimes they slack, but I can always kick them into action again."

  He rose, and fetched one of the wheels, and began to work it into position on a stub axle. I dealt with the other; in silence, for his confession intrigued me. But he did not continue it, till I had said, "Tell me more, if you feel like it." Presently he said, solemnly, "I have a girl friend." For a moment he looked at me across the front of the car with the eyes of a nesting bird on its eggs. He continued, "She's the real thing all right. She's heart and soul for the revolution. Together we really are a fighting unit. They call us the master cell. And if I drive the comrades, it's she that drives me. Just by believing in me, and setting me an example. Christ! I've got to live up to her belief in me." He was tightening up the wheel with fierce though accurate strokes of the lead mallet. Then he said, "But of course that's the wrong motive. I mustn't do it for her, but simply for the revolution. Perhaps I ought to give her up. Fancy her being a snare!"

  I interrupted. "Good God, man! You're no revolutionary. You are just a puritan absorbed in your own struggle for righteousness, for salvation. As a Marxist you must believe that what matters is action, not motives. And you say that in action you're sound." He said nothing.

  Both wheels were fixed. He fetched a long-handled jack to lever the car's weight from the blocks, so that I could move them away. Then he lowered the car till the wheels once more touched the ground, and the tires flattened very slightly with the car's weight.

  He said, "In a way you're right, of course. But the point is, I'm dependent on her. As a unit we're sound in action, but without her I probably couldn't keep it up." After a pause he added, shyly, "You see, for me she is the revolution, the spirit of the revolution, concentrated in one little girl. That's really why I love her." His eye emphatically winked. "So, after all, if I act from her belief in me I really am acting from loyalty to the revolution, to the spirit of the revolution embodied in her." His eyelid flickered, and I let out a guffaw. "That's not much like Marxism," I said. He flushed and answered sharply, "It's quite sound, really. I didn't use Marxist language, but what I meant was just that historical forces have made her into the ideal comrade in revolutionary work, and that I want to cooperate with her all my life."

  This was too much for me. I laughed again, and so far forgot myself as to give him a friendly punch, from which he recoiled with dignity. "Good God!" I said. "Can't you admit you're in love with the girl herself? Marxism is all very well, but if you push it too far it turns just silly. Human beings are very complicated things. They live in several dimensions at once, not just in one. And if they try to live just in one, they warp themselves horribly. Besides, if the revolution is controlled by one-dimensional minds, it will be warped too, horribly. If you go on the way you are going now, you'll grow into a dangerous fanatic; and if dangerous fanatics guide the revolution the whole thing will be poisoned. Instead of being inspired by love it will be harsh and barbarous and deadly."

  He had been standing idly, wiping his hands on a bit of waste. Now he turned away brusquely to continue work on the damaged wing. The reiterated thud of the lead mallet seemed to give him satisfaction, for he continued hammering after the metal sheet was as flat as it would go. Presently he said, "Revolutions are bound to be harsh. You can't make that sort of omelette without breaking lives. And look! I do admit I'm in love with the girl herself. But if I was really possessed by the revolution, really fit to be a leader, I shouldn't love her that way. It's humiliating. I can't help being individualistically excited about her. I keep imagining all her body. Sometimes I wish I was on a South Sea island with her, alone with her, and living just for us two. Of course, I'm a sexual animal, and she's another; so my feeling that way about her is quite natural. But I ought to be able to rise above it all, for the revolution. I keep losing sight of the realest thing about her, just because of her hair and her eyes, and, well, the feel of her; and the way when we're together we seem to belong together, like a bolt and a nut. I mean, the realest thing about her is not really that sort of thing at all; it's just that she's a focal point where revolutionary forces in society find full expression. And the hell of it all is that if I give her up, as I once tried to do, I don't find it easier to concentrate on the revolution, but harder, much. I just think of nothing but her. Without her to watch me, my political work turns tiresome and silly." I laughed at him genially, but he did not respond.

  We carried the repaired wing back to the car, and set about fixing it in position. I held it while he lay on his back to fit the bolts.

  When the job was finished, he wriggled out from under the car, stood up, knocked the dust from his overalls, and said, dully, "The trouble with you comfortable people is always the same. You put up smoke screens to hide the truth from yourself, because you daren't face the consequences of seeing it. You talk about liberty (for the rich, of course) or personality, or the importance of expressing all sides of one's nature; and you won't see that today there's only one thing that is really important, namely that your class should be kicked out of its power and privileges. Everything else is just a sidetracking of historical forces that can't anyhow be halted but only delayed. And the longer they're delayed, the more misery. And now, look at the mess you have made of the world! Those of you who call yourselves socialists ought to be glad that socialism is established in one great country and is spreading over Europe; but you don't welcome it; you're terrified lest people should insist on having it here. So you persuade yourselves it's not really socialism at all, and you spread all sorts of lies about it, and actually believe them yourselves. And now! You know your bloody system is falling to pieces, and the only way to bolster it up for a bit is to have war scares and actual wars. And now you have prostituted science by inventing an absolutely hellish weapon, and you're getting ready to smash Russia before it's too late, even if it means smashing the world. But Jesus Christ! We'll see you don't succeed."

  Uncomfortably I admitted there was truth in what he had said, but insisted that it was only half the truth. I began to talk about the unreasonableness of Russian policy since the war. He broke in bitterly, "The West has played false every time, and now Russia's taking no more risks." I spoke of the unmistakable evidence of tyranny inside Russia. He protested, "It would be madness to be squeamish when the motherland is in danger. Besides! The capitalist press is plugging anti-Russian dope all the time."

  He was wiping the smeared wing. "Well," he said, more amiably, "the job's finished. She looks pretty awful with that wing, but she'll travel safely. We had better just try her out on the road to test the steering." It was late in the afternoon. I said that I should need a meal before continuing my journey; and I suggested that we should take the car to some cafe and have a high tea together. "I can't do that," he said. "My time belongs to the boss till six o'clock." I replied that his time was mine, till the job was finished, and that was how I intended to finish it. I added that if he could make contact with his girl he could bring her, too. I also remarked that he would be doing no harm except to his employer, and employers were fair game. To my surprise he had scruples. "No!" he said. "He plays fair, and I will too. Honestly, I'd like to come, but it wouldn't be playing the game." I laughingly accused him of being still enslaved to bourgeois morality. Then I took the matter into my own hands, found the proprietor, told him I wanted to take his man away early and talk to him over a meal, and added that I would pay for his time off. The boss looked at me in amazement and said, "But you have both been arguing all day. Besides, I have work for him to do. If I am to run a concern like this I must stick to sound business principles, and not go soft to my employees." However, after I had pleaded with him and flattered him, his geniality triumphed over his principles. He said, "Oh, well! He's a useful lad, in fact a key man, and I can't afford to put him against me. I expected your job would take all day, and it hasn't, so my plans are not really upset any more than they were by letting you have him in the beginning. So take him, if you haven't had enough arguing even yet."

  I paid my bill; and after the mechanic and I had cleaned ourselves up a bit, we set off in the car. He directed me from street to street, until at last we drew up in front of a drab little house. In a few moments he had found the girl and brought her to the car. As he introduced us, she showed signs of recognition, and I confessed that she had handed me a leaflet earlier in the day.

  *****

  In the cafe, the two sat primly opposite me like children on their best behaviour. They might have been at a children's party, waiting to be handed plates of trifle. They might have been brother and sister, for both had dark hair, deep eyes and a certain grace of movement, with which, I suspected, one had infected the other. I noticed that the girl's fastidious little nose had a slight downward curve, and that the wings of the nostrils were well marked. Her bright lips, flowerlike under the tip of her nose, were yet daintily compressed at the extremities. They at once invited and forbade. A chin like a small pale apricot lent firmness to the whole face.

  I remarked to her that distributing leaflets was a job that always cowed me. However good the cause, I somehow hadn't the nerve to butt in on people. She flashed scorn at me, and said, "But surely it depends on the cause. If you don't really believe in it, of course you feel bad, even if you think you believe in it. But if you really, really believe in it, and especially if it is the most important of all causes, then you can't have any qualms at all. You would gladly force people to read your leaflets. You feel proud and glad to be on the job. And you don't notice when you're tired out." "And you are quite sure," I asked, "that your revolutionary propaganda is the most important of all causes?" "Naturally," she answered, with wide and earnest eyes. "What can possibly be more important than freeing the workers from exploitation by the rich, and founding the socialist world-state?"

  Already, as you have guessed, knowing my weakness, I was half in love with this little fiery flower of a girl. But curiously I found myself less jealous of her lover than of the revolution.

  I asked her if she was quite sure that the revolution really mattered so very much to her, more than personal values, like love and marriage and motherhood. She still gazed almost fiercely at me; but in the light of my earlier encounter with her I seemed to detect (or did I imagine?) a tremor in her eyes, slight as the quiver of a candle flame when a door is banged. She said, "Love matters to me very much, but the revolution matters very much more; because, you see, the revolution is going to make a world in which all loving can be far happier than it can ever be in our poisoning society. You see"--she glanced at her companion--"loving one person so much makes me love all others and want to help them. And so the revolution has got into my blood, into the very marrow that makes my blood."

  All this while the young man was watching the face of his beloved with such tenderness that I was embarrassed. Perhaps he sensed my discomfort, for he suddenly compressed his lips, narrowed his eyes, and said gruffly, "The girl's right, you know. If the revolution really grips you, nothing else matters."

  Still addressing the young woman, I said, "For the revolution, of course, you would not hesitate to lie and kill?" "Of course," she answered. "One mustn't be squeamish. Lying and killing are legitimate weapons for the revolution. They are wrong only when capitalists use them, against the revolution." I asked if she would even lie to her lover for the Revolution. "Of course, of course," she said. "I might have to lie to him. But he wouldn't really be my lover anymore if I had to lie to him for the revolution." She turned to her companion, and they looked at one another with grave affection.

  The waitress arrived with our meal, and while she arranged the table we kept silent. My lady guest, acting as hostess, poured out the tea. We all attacked our fish and chips.

  Presently I challenged the girl again. I said, "Would you even kill the man you love, for the revolution? Probably you will say the need could not possibly arise, but people do sometimes lose their balance completely and turn against their own ideals. Or let us merely suppose that, though he remained loyal to the revolution, he had adopted a policy which you firmly believed to be disastrous. (Think of Trotsky and Stalin.) Suppose you were convinced that for the revolution his immediate destruction was necessary. (Oh, I know this is all crazy from your point of view, but just suppose.) Well, would you kill him?" Again the two looked gravely at each other. She put down her fork, and laid her hand on his wrist, and she said, "I don't know what I would do, but clearly I ought to kill him. It would be right, darling, wouldn't it? I mean, socially desirable." Her questioning smile was appealing and tender; but before he could answer, it changed into a look of excitement and fervour, and she declared, "Of course, of course I would kill him. To be true to the revolution, and also to be true to my own love for him, for the real him, who taught me so much, and helped me to give myself to the revolution, I should have to sacrifice him." They looked at each other in mutual adoration.

  I munched my fish in silence.

  Presently she wrenched her gaze from her dear victim; and then, seeing that our cups were empty, she took off the lid of the teapot, so that steam swelled from it as a tall column. She poured in hot water and filled our cups.

  I said, "Another question, still more fantastic. You say that for the revolution you would lie and even kill. Would you, perhaps draw the line at torture? Or would you not? Let us suppose that someone fell into your power who possessed information vitally necessary for the revolution, and that he refused to surrender it. Would you use torture to extract it? Would you put him through the third degree? Would you go further and, well, tear off his fingernails one by one? Would you, for the revolution, gouge out his eyes?" Her brows knit and her deep eyes blazed, deliciously scourging me. She said, "Those are just silly abstract questions without any practical bearing." But I would not be put off. "They are nothing of the sort," I insisted. "They might become very practical questions. Don't funk the issue!"

  After a silence, she laid down her knife and fork, and still looking at her plate, she said wearily, "Very well! Clearly I ought not to shrink even from torture, not if there was no other way of making the fascist beast give up his secret. Fascists themselves torture and sometimes we may be forced to pay them back in kind. But look! When fascists torture, it's just brutality. If ever we torture, it will be like a necessary surgical operation." Once more she looked at her companion. Once more that gaze of mutual comprehension. Once more, and more terrifyingly, her face was suddenly lit with ecstasy, and she said in a rapt voice, "Yes! Even if it was the man I had loved, I would tear off his nails one by one, and gouge out his eyes. I would do anything at all, to him or to myself, for the revolution." Her lover was now staring at her, fascinated, as though she was some terrible, lovely goddess.

  A sluggish autumnal fly fell from the ceiling onto our table. It lay on its back, feebly kicking. All our eyes were directed to it. Then suddenly I was prompted by a malicious impulse to use this moribund creature as a means of shaking the girl's assurance. I took up a table knife and brought its cutting edge down on the fly's thorax, slowly pressing. Its struggles became suddenly violent, but soon they dwindled to a mere quiver, and then ceased. For a moment the girl watched its dying antics, her exaltation fading. Then, to my surprise and horror, she put her face in her hands, and a muffled sob escaped her. The young man laid his arm round her shoulder, but she shrugged him off. Lowering her hands, she flashed defiance at me. "That," she said, quietly, "was not necessary for the revolution."

  I flicked away the corpse, and murmured shamefacedly, "Sorry! But it was only an insect, not a man; and noxious, in its little way."

  The young man protested that I ought not to take a girl by surprise like that. Girls were more sensitive than men to the sight of suffering. All the more credit to those that forced themselves to overcome their squeamishness for the revolution. I apologized again; and felt distressfully that you, too, would have condemned me. The girl sat motionless, staring at the tablecloth.

  *****

  To draw my attention from her, the young man embarked on a lecture. "Look!" he said, brushing back his unruly hair. "I think I can clear up our muddle. Of course there's nothing really evil about squashing flies, but some of us have been very heavily conditioned against hurting anything, and so we may be upset by it. Now, the taboo on cruelty has been socially justified. It is socially very important that people should dislike hurting anything, even an insect. We need a terrifically strong spirit of mutual kindliness among human beings, and we can well afford to have it so strong that the excess of it spills over onto animals. But very often, of course, we have to kill animals for the good of man. And it is quite irrational to be squeamish about it." Here I tried to interrupt, but he continued. "The same argument applies to killing and torturing human beings. When they turn antisocial, noxious to mankind, it's just social common sense to put them out of the way. And if they have valuable information and won't surrender it, surely it's common sense to get it out of them, even by torture, if necessary. We ought to overcome our squeamishness." I tried again to interrupt, but he said, "Wait a minute. Of course, to use torture light-heartedly, even on insects, is psychologically dangerous; and to use it on human beings is infinitely more so. It may undermine the established moral tradition, and so destroy mutual trust. It may break down the, well, the psychological warp on which society is woven. Believe me, I do see that. And it's important, though some of the comrades don't really see how important. The taboo against killing and torture, and the violent guilt feelings that decent people have about them, really are immensely important, just because they are socially useful. All the same, in an urgent revolutionary situation it's irrational, it's plain madness, to let our emotional habit of squeamishness endanger the revolution. I don't see how you can possibly answer this unless you claim there's some sort of absolute moral law that must never, never, in any circumstances, be broken. If you do claim this, then you will have to base your moral law on the will of God or some other fantastic notion."

 

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