I dined with a wealthy kinsman. The slaughter of millions had brought
him prosperity. He had never done any fighting except with his mouth,
but it is precisely that kind of fighting that infuriates the spirit,
engenders heroic ardour, and causes the nostrils to dilate. He was so
bellicose that he even desired to do some _real_ righting, not
understanding the difference between the two. He thought of joining an
infantry unit--the artillery were not good enough, he did not want to
fire at an enemy he could not see, he wanted to use the bayonet and
murder his fellow men in hand-to-hand encounters.
I began to understand why many men I had met were glad to come back from
leave.
I tried to dissuade him, although I felt it would do him good to see
something of the war and he would learn a much-needed lesson. And yet I
did not want him killed or horribly mutilated, although I knew that he
and those like him were alone responsible for the entire war, both at
its origins and its continuance.
But he would not be persuaded. He said he was _dying_ to go out and see
the fun.
At the word "fun" I felt a sudden and violent contraction of all my
muscles. I had an almost irresistible impulse to stand up and strike him
across the face. But I was in a public restaurant and I controlled
myself. He did not seem to notice anything.
The conversation drifted away from the war and became commonplace. I
tried to relate a few of my experiences, but somehow or other they
seemed unsuited to the occasion.
I had set out with the intention of destroying a mouldering, tottering
edifice built up of illusions and ignorant prejudices, and I found
myself face to face with towering, strong, unshakable walls, strong and
unshakable precisely because it was built of illusions, lies, and
prejudices.
I felt the burden of war descending upon me with all its crushing,
annihilating weight. I fought a losing fight against the conviction
that for the rest of my leave I would be able to talk of nothing else
and think of nothing else but the war. If only I could talk to someone
who would understand, that at least would bring relief!
I longed to see my two friends, although I felt some anxiety lest they
might have changed, or rather lest they might not have changed with me.
It was in the evening of my first day that we met. At first the one
embarrassed me a little by his apparent cold aloofness. But his caustic
observations on the war soon made it clear that he had stood the test. I
realized, from the hatred that lay behind them, that he had suffered as
much as many a soldier in the trenches.
Then the other said to me:
"This is a thing I have never told anyone yet, but I will tell it to you
now. There are times when I almost wish I could see German troops
marching victoriously through the streets of London. It is not my reason
that is speaking now, but my bitterness, which has become stronger than
my reason."