an explosion at the Powder Mills at Dumbridge, but no one had been hurt. Nevertheless Butley was too buzzing and leisurely a background for my mercurial state of mind; so I stayed in London for another fortnight, and during that period my mental inquietude achieved some sort of climax. In fact I can safely say that my aggregated exasperations came to a head; and, naturally enough, the head was my own. The prime cause of this psychological thunderstorm was my talk with Markington, who was unaware of his ignitionary effect until I called on him in his editorial room on the Monday after our first meeting. Ostensibly I went to ask his advice; in reality, to release the indignant emotions which his editorial utterances had unwittingly brought to the surface of my consciousness. It was a case of direct inspiration; I had, so to speak, received the call, and the editor of the Unconservative Weekly seemed the most likely man to put me on the shortest road to martyrdom. It really felt very fine, and as long as I was alone my feelings carried me along on a torrent of prophetic phrases. But when I was inside Markington’s office (he sitting with fingers pressed together and regarding me with alertly mournful curiosity) my internal eloquence dried up and I began abruptly. “I say, I’ve been thinking it all over, and I’ve made up my mind that I ought to do something about it.” He pushed his spectacles up on to his forehead and leant back in his chair. “You want to do something?” “About the War, I mean. I can’t just sit still and do nothing. You said the other day that you couldn’t print anything really outspoken, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t make some sort of statement—about how we ought to publish our War Aims, and all that, and the troops not knowing what they’re fighting about. It might do quite a lot of good, mightn’t it?” He got up and went to the window. A secretarial typewriter tick-tacked in the next room. While he stood with his back to me I could see the tiny traffic creeping to and fro on Charing Cross Bridge and a barge going down the river in the sunshine. My heart was beating violently. I knew that I couldn’t turn back now. Those few moments seemed to last a long time; I was conscious of the stream of life going on its way, happy and untroubled, while I had just blurted out something which alienated me from its acceptance of a fine day in the third June of the Great War. Returning to his chair, he said, “I suppose you’ve realized what the results of such an action would be, as regards yourself?” I replied that I didn’t care two damns what they did to me as long as I got the thing off my chest. He laughed, looking at me with a gleam of his essential kindness. “As far as I am aware, you’d be the first soldier to take such a step, which would, of course, be welcomed by the extreme pacifists. Your service at the front would differentiate you from the Conscientious Objectors. But you must on no account make this gesture—a very fine one if you are really in earnest about it—unless you can carry it through effectively. Such an action would require to be carefully thought out, and for the present I advise you to be extremely cautious in what you say and do.” His words caused me an uncomfortable feeling that perhaps I was only making a fool of myself; but this was soon mitigated by a glowing sense of martyrdom. I saw myself “attired with sudden brightness, like a man inspired,” and while Markington continued his counsels of prudence my resolve strengthened toward its ultimate obstinacy. After further reflection he said that the best man for me to consult was Thornton Tyrrell. “You know him by name, I suppose?” I was compelled to admit that I didn’t. Markington handed me Who’s Who and began to write a letter while I made myself acquainted with the details of Tyrrell’s biographical abridgment, which indicated that he was a pretty tough proposition. To put it plainly he was an eminent mathematician, philosopher, and physicist. As a mathematician I’d never advanced much beyond “six from four you can’t, six from fourteen leaves eight”; and I knew no more about the functions of a physicist than a cat in a kitchen. “What sort of a man is he to meet?” I asked dubiously. Markington licked and closed the envelope of his rapidly written letter. “Tyrrell is the most uncompromising character I know. An extraordinary brain, of course. But you needn’t be alarmed by that; you’ll find him perfectly easy to get on with. A talk with him ought to clarify your ideas. I’ve explained your position quite briefly. But, as I said before, I hope you won’t be too impetuous.”
I put the letter in my pocket, thanked him warmly, and went soberly down the stairs and along the quiet side-street into the Strand. While I was debating whether I ought to buy and try to read one of Tyrrell’s books before going to see him, I almost bumped into a beefy Major-General. It was lunch time and he was turning in at the Savoy Hotel entrance. Rather grudgingly, I saluted. As I went on my way, I wondered what the War Office would say if it knew what I was up to.
II
Early in the afternoon I left the letter at Tyrrell’s address in Bloomsbury. He telegraphed that he could see me in the evening, and punctually at the appointed hour I returned to the quiet square. My memory is not equal to the effort of reconstructing my exact sensations, but it can safely be assumed that I felt excited, important, and rather nervous. I was shown into an austere-looking room where Tyrrell was
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