The Children's Book

He and Wolfgang walked Griselda back to her College, into which she had to be locked, although a grown woman, at a ridiculously early hour. She stood on the step, smiling at both of them. “A lovely day,” she said. “Civilised,” she added. It was, Julian knew, one of her highest words of praise.

•  •  •

He invited his newly discovered rival into a pub and bought him a brandy. The German was prickly, a man out of his place where he was easy. Julian talked about many things—theatres, Goethe, Marlowe—and on the third glass of brandy said

“Let us drink to Griselda. Die schone Griselda.”

“Die schone Griselda. You don’t speak German.”

“No, I don’t. I am learning. I need to read it, for my work.”

“She is like a statue in a story. Or a marionette. She doesn’t feel.”

Julian said carefully “I don’t think that is true.” He did not know if he wanted to share his discovery with this edgy creature, who didn’t seem to have made it for himself.

Wolfgang said “There is no good in coming to see her. She smiles and sees nothing. Such a nice English lady. Such a princess. All her hair is controlled on her head. No one has ever disturbed her. Maybe no one can or will. Forgive me. It is the brandy.”

There was a long silence. Wolfgang said “I am sorry. Maybe you—maybe you yourself—”

“Oh no. Nothing of that kind.”

Another silence. Damn it, it was only fair. And moreover, it had a certain narrative interest.

“I noticed,” Julian said, and searched for words. “You noticed I was—unhappy.”

“No, no, as a matter of fact, not. I noticed her. I saw her look at you.”

“Look?”

“I haven’t seen her look at anyone else, like that.”

“Look?”

“Oh, don’t be exasperating. She’s interested in you. Not in anyone else. That I’ve noticed.”

“Oh.” Wolfgang pulled himself together, and gave a somewhat demonic rueful smile, because that was the shape his face was. He said “I am an idiot. That idea makes it worse. You see—she is a fairytale princess. She has ingots and ingots of gold in the Bank and she must marry another such, or find a donkey that shits ingots, forgive me. I make dolls. I make artificial men move around.”

“You could say you are an artist?”

“I could, but I should not be heard. I should have boots thrown at me and be ejected.”

“I don’t see why you give up so easily,” said Julian. He added, with real venom, “It is hardly fair to her …”

“On the contrary,” said Wolfgang. “That is what it is.”

In September 1910 the Second International Workingmen’s Association held its Congress in Copenhagen. Joachim Susskind and Karl Wellwood went together and attended groups on antimilitarism. Socialism was international, it crossed frontiers, it was the brotherhood of men and women. Susskind was also in touch with Erich Muhsam and Johannes Nohl’s “Gruppe Tat” (the Group for the Deed) in Munich, a very Munich mixture of men of letters, workmen, revolutionaries. Leon Stern was passionately interested in this. So were Heinrich Mann, Karl Wolfskehl and Ernst Frick. The deliberations in Copenhagen concentrated on the possibility of calling an International General Strike, an act of defiance to prevent a war. The resolution was proposed by an Englishman, Keir Hardie, just returned to the English Parliament with an increased majority, and Edouard Vaillant of France. They recommended that “the affiliated Parties and Labour organisations consider the advisability and feasibility of the general strike, especially in industries that supply war materials, as one of the methods of preventing war, and that action be taken on the subject at the next Congress.”

Hardie was supported by the Belgian, Vandervelde, and by the charismatic Jean Jauras. He was opposed by the German socialists, who were established in the German government, and whose unions had money and investments which they feared to put in jeopardy. As large congresses tend to do, faced with demands for precise, planned actions, they passed another resolution, condemning militarism, suggesting that organised labour in member countries “shall consider whether a general strike should not be proclaimed if necessary in order to prevent the crime of war.” Conditional verbs, and future decisions, said Joachim Susskind, still at heart an anarchist. Keir Hardie wrote to his lover, Sylvia Pankhurst

Sweet, nay but did you not promise to have no more imaginings. There was nothing, darling, only on the typewriter it seems to come easier.

From 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. I have been at it every day. Today there is a pleasure sail to which I go not and so I write to you instead. Voila!… I have accepted invitations to speak at two meetings in Sweden next week and from there I go on to Frankfurt on Main for a demonstration…

After that is uncertain. I shall post card from place to place but dearie, do not expect letters … I am in splendid condition and thoroughly enjoying the work. With affection and bundles of kisses. Yours K.

It was not clear whether, in the event of any war, the workingmen and-women would feel a greater loyalty to their comrades or to their country. It was, however, clear that the General Strike needed planning and organising, though the image of a spontaneous uprising moved many minds.

Charles/Karl Wellwood was working energetically at the London School of Economics. He went to the lectures of the founding Fabian, Graham Wallas, who, as a principled agnostic, had resigned from the Fabian executive when the Society supported giving state aid to religious schools. Wallas’s book, Human Nature in Politics, analysed the psychology of politics. Human beings, he said, were descended from paleolithic men, and had preserved many