The Pacificist was very worried about it all. In the first place it
worried him (quite honestly) that his country should ever go to war at
all. In the second place it vexed him profoundly that the war should be
against an enemy whose pure-souled benevolence he himself had proclaimed
and written about for years. Most of all, perhaps, was he secretly
irritated that these untoward events should coincide with the beginning
of his own annual holiday at Shrimpborough.
A few mornings after war was declared, the conductor of the
Shrimpborough orchestra (a genius of cosmopolitan extraction) rose nobly
to the occasion. From his demeanour and a certain flurry amongst the
musicians, the Pacificist, seated prominently in the two-penny chairs,
had about three minutes' warning of what was coming, so that when the
conductor swung round with uplifted baton, and the audience, thrilled
but a little self-conscious, climbed to its collective feet as the band
crashed into the opening bars of the _Marseillaise_, the Pacificist had
already decided upon his conduct. He sat still, even for a few moments
he feigned to be absorbed in his favourite newspaper, but almost
immediately gave this up as unconvincing and remained staring straight
before him.
It was perhaps not a very impressive protest. It was obviously, under
the special circumstances of the case (which need not detain us), an
entirely foolish and mistaken one. But he made it. He alone in that
audience of several hundreds did not rise. A little to his secret
disappointment the hundreds made no apparent counter-demonstration. An
enthusiastic humming rose from them, mingled with a few easy French
words happily introduced when occasion seemed to serve. They were far
too preoccupied to trouble about the Pacificist. He had been prepared
for every kind of martyrdom, for abuse, hustling, even for blows. All he
got was a few looks of embarrassed concern from his immediate
neighbours.
To his excited imagination the tune seemed to go on and on for hours. As
a matter of fact the genius of cosmopolitan extraction (who had not been
extracted quite far enough to be sure of British tastes) gave the
audience four verses where one would have been better. And all this time
the anger of the Pacificist grew. His cheeks burned, and the excited
pounding of his heart was like to stifle him. He knew himself one,
alone, against hundreds; impressing them, no doubt (despite their
pretence of indifference), with the courage of a right cause. To face
odds like that! It was intoxicating.
At last he could bear it no longer. Just as the band ceased and the rest
of the audience subsided again to their morning papers, the Pacificist
rose. He walked a little unsteadily. The light of battle flashed from
his eyes, meeting and beating down what he took, erroneously, to be the
glare of a hostile mob. (As a matter of fact no one noticed him any
more). Stumbling, white-faced, with set lips and the face of a
visionary, he gained the turnstile. This, this, was victory! One against
so many! He had proved himself. He had conquered!
The battle-spirit--for, despite his honest conviction, his forebears had
been soldiers and sea-dogs--surged up within him. How splendid it was,
this fighting down opposition! What was life, after all, but a fight? He
had never realized that before. But now he knew. The flame that burnt in
his blood demanded other foes, other worlds to conquer. It had become an
urgent need with him to continue fighting; almost anyone would do.
Immediately opposite to the turnstile was the open door of a large
building; flags surmounted it, and at each side was a large proclamation
in red and white. With shoulders squared, flashing eye, and the
demeanour of NAPOLEON at the head of the Old Guard, the Pacificist
entered the recruiting office. "I have come," he said fiercely, "to
enlist!"
* * * * *