The words haunted me. They were in none of the Christmas books, nor in
the biography. I inserted it in the Concordance and in a new edition
of the Speeches, on my own responsibility and without saying a word to
my employers. There might or might not be trouble, but I knew that the
Chairwoman of the Governing Committee was a vain old creature and would
take the words to mean herself. To my mind they pointed straight to
Edmund. I knew that his cause was gaining ground and that, if I could
gain sufficient publicity for the saying, his following would be vastly
increased.
I was on good terms with the chief of the publishing department and was
able to persuade her to announce that the new edition of the Speeches
was the only one authorised by the Governing Committee; all others to
be called in. The success of my trick exceeded all my dreams. There was
something like an exodus from the capital.
I met my dear Audrey one day. She had come to spy out the land. Her
news was glorious. For miles round the once ruined city the farms were
occupied with happy men and women working together to supply food for
the towns, which in return furnished their wants from its workshops,
which the toilers filled with song as they worked. The fame of it was
everywhere growing. Other ruined cities had been occupied. Two of the
great nunneries were deserted. Edmund with a great company of young men
had taken possession of a town by the sea and opened the harbour and
released the ships.
“Ships!” I said. “There are ships sailing on the sea!”
That settled it. No more men of genius for me. That night I spent
in chalking up the saying of William Christmas on the walls of the
capital. The next morning I was with Audrey wandering about the
streets, hearing Edmund’s name on all lips, and then, satisfied that
all would be well, I made for the sea-board.
It was good to see America again, but I suffered there as acutely as
I had done in Fatland. I had been among women who, if misguided, were
free. My dear wife and I could never understand one another and she
died within a very few years after my return of a broken heart. I
thought I could not survive her, and should not have done but for my
fortunate encounter with Hohlenheim, who could understand my loathing
of woman in Fatland, of man in America, draw it up into his own
matchless imagination and distil the passion of it into beauty.
Out of Work
I: MR. BLY’S HEART BREAKS