And I found myself once more in the waiting-room, that smelt of blood,
like a wild beast’s lair.
A dim light came from a veiled lamp. Some wounded were moaning; others
chatted in low voices.
“Who said tank?” said one of them. “Why, I was wounded in a tank.”
There was silence, brief and respectful. The man, who was buried in
bandages, added:
“Our petrol-tank burst: my legs are broken and I am burnt in the face.
Oh! I know all about tanks!”
He said that with a queer emphasis in which I recognised the age-long
torment of humanity--pride.
* * * * *
I went out into the night to enjoy a smoke. The world seemed to be
dazed, bewildered, tragic; and I think that in reality....
Believe me, sir, when I speak of civilisation and regret it, I quite
know what I am saying; and it is not wireless telegraphy that will
alter my opinion. It is all the more tragic because we are helpless; we
cannot reverse the course which the world is taking. And yet!
Civilisation--the true civilisation--exists. I think often of it. In
my mind it is the harmony of a choir chanting a hymn; it is a marble
statue on an arid, burnt-up hillside; it is the Man who said, “Love one
another,” or “Return good for evil.” But for two thousand years these
phrases have been merely repeated, and the chief priests have too much
vested interest in temporal things to conceive anything of the kind.
We are mistaken about happiness and about good. The noblest natures
have also been mistaken, for silence and solitude are too often denied
them. I have seen the monstrous steriliser on its throne. I tell you,
of a truth, civilisation is not to be found there any more than in the
shining forceps of the surgeon. Civilisation is not in this terrible
trumpery; and if it is not in the heart of man, then it exists nowhere.