According to my view a professor of
anarchy and assassination ought to be a man of middle-age with stiff
stubble on his chin. He has no business to be a pale and perspiring
youth, tending to long back hair and apt to be startled by the slightest
sound when he is alone. And what a lot of them write poetry, and such
poetry too! That is the manner of the man who is going to seize your
house and usurp your cow, while you will be lucky if you are allowed a
place on a perch in your own fowl-house.
We had an opportunity of seeing them in procession when a consignment of
these world-revolutionaries drove off in state from Berne about the time
of the Armistice. I told you, last week, that we had a Legation of them,
very kindly lent by the Moscow management, and I also told you that our
Italian juggler had let us into the secret of their midnight lucubrations,
of which we had duly informed the officials interested in such matters.
We had front places when the motor lorry called for them and the
military escort arrived to assist all the passengers to take, and keep,
their seats. Into the lorry were packed the Minister Plenipotentiary and
Envoy Extraordinary, the Charge d'Affaires, the First Secretary, the
Second Secretary, the Third Secretary, the Legal and Spiritual Advisers
and the Lady Typist.
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