I was not reading: I was listening to the incessant12 murmur13 that came from far away across the Medway, across the garden of England, and across the Channel and the flats of Flanders. That sound came from Picardy. All day the insistent14 throb15 had been in the air; sometimes faint bumps were clearly distinguishable, at other times it was nothing but one steady vibration16. But always it was there, that distant growl17, that insistent mutter. Even in this perfect peace, I could not escape the War.
To-day I felt completely well; the lassitude and inertness18 of convalescence19 were gone—at any rate, for the moment. My mind was very clear, and I could think surely and rapidly. The cats reminded me of the lusty family that lived in the cellar in the Cuinchy trenches22, and the murmur of the guns drew my thoughts across the Channel. I tried to imagine trenches running across the lawn, with communication trenches running back to a support line through the meadow; a few feet of brick wall would be all that would be left of the house, and this would conceal23 my snipers; the mulberry tree would long 296 ago have been razed24 to the ground, and every scrap25 of it used as firewood in our dug-outs; this deck chair of mine might possibly be in use in Company Headquarters in one of the cellars. No, it was not easy to imagine war without seeing it.
I picked up the paper that had fallen at my side. There had been more terrible fighting on the Somme, and it had seemed very marvellous to a journalist as he lay on a hill some two miles back, and watched through his field-glasses: it was wonderful that the men advancing (if indeed he could really see them at all in the smoke of a heavy artillery26 barrage) still went on, although their comrades dropped all round them. Yet I wondered what else anyone could do but go on? Run back, with just as much likelihood of being shot in doing so? Or, even if he did get back, to certain death as a deserter? Everyone knows the safest place is in a trench21; and it is a trench you are making for. Lower down on the page came a description of the wounded; he had talked to so many of them, and they were all smiling, all so cheerful; smoking cigarettes and laughing. They shook their fists, and shouted that the only thing they wanted to do was to get back into it! Pah! I threw the paper down in disgust. Surely no one wants to read such stuff, I thought. Of course the men who were not silent, in a dull stupefied agony, were smiling: what need to say that a man with a slight wound was laughing at his luck, just as I had smiled that early morning when the trolley27 took me 297 down from Maple28 Redoubt? And who does not volunteer for an unpleasant task, when he knows he cannot possibly get it? Want to get back into it, indeed! Ask Tommy ten years hence whether he wants to be back in the middle of it again!
I wondered why people endured such cheap journalism29. What right had men who have never seen war at all, who creep up on bicycles to get a glimpse of it through telescopes, who pester30 wounded men, and then out of their pictorial31 imagination work up a vivid description—what right have they to insult heroes by saying that “their wonderful spirit makes up for it all,” that “the paramount32 impression is one of glory”? Are not our people able to bear the truth, that war is utterly33 hellish, that we do not enjoy it, that we hate it, hate it, hate it all? And then it struck me how ignorant people still were; how uncertainly they spoke34, these people at home: it was as though they dared not think things out, lest what they held most dear should be an image shattered by another point of view.
Somehow people were amazed at the cheerfulness, the doggedness, the endurance under pain, the indifference35 to death, shown every minute during this war. I thought of the men whom I had seen in hospital. One man had had his right foot amputated; it used to give me agony to see his stump36 dressed every day. Another man had both legs amputated above the knees. Yet they were so wonderfully cheerful, so apparently content with 298 life! As though alone in the blackness of night they did not long for the activity denied them for the rest of their life. As though their cheerfulness—(do not think I belittle37 its heroism38)—as though their cheerfulness justified39 the thing!
Another thing I had noticed. An old man told me he was so struck with the heroism, the courage, the indifference to death, shown by the ordinary unromantic man. Some men had been converted, too, their whole lives changed, their vices40 eradicated41, by this war. So much good was coming from it. People, too, at home were so changed, so sobered; they were looking into the selfishness of their lives at last. Again I thought, as though all that justified the thing!
Oh! you men and women who did not know before the capabilities42 of human nature, I thought, please take note of it now; and after the war do not underestimate the quality of mankind. Did it need a war to tell you that a man can be heroic, resolute43, courageous44, cheerful, and capable of sacrifice? There were those who could have told you that before this war.
There was a lull45 in the vibration. I turned in my chair, and listened. Then it began again.
“People are afraid to think it out,” I said. “I have not seen the Somme fighting, but I know what war is. Its quality is not altered by multiplication46 or intensity47. The colour of life-blood is a constant red. Let us look into this business; let us face all 299 the facts. Let us not flinch48 from any aspect of the truth.”
And my thoughts ran somewhat as follows:
First of all, War is evil—utterly evil. Let us be sure of that first. It is an evil instrument, even if it be used for motives50 that are good. I, who have been through war and know it, say that it is evil. I knew it before the war; instinct, reason, religion told me that war was evil; now experience has told me also.
It is a strange synthesis, this war: it is a synthesis of adventure, dulness, good spirits, and tragedy; but none of these things are new to human experience; nor is human nature altered by war. It is at war as a whole that we must look in order to appreciate its quality. And what is war seen as a whole, or rather seen in the light of my eight months’ experience? For no one man can truly appraise51 war.
I have seen and felt the adventure of war, its deadly fascination52 and excitement: it is the greatest game on earth: that is its terrible power: there is such a wild temptation to paint up its interest and glamour53: it gives such scope to daring, to physical courage, to high spirits: it makes so many prove themselves heroic, that were it not for the fall of the arrow men would call the drawing of the bow good. I have seen the dulness, the endless monotony, the dogged labour, the sheer power of will conquering the body and “carrying on”: there is good in that, 300 too. In the jollity, the humour, the good-fellowship, is nothing but good also. There is good in all these things; for these are qualities of human nature triumphing in spite of war. These things are not war; they are the good in man prostituted to a vile54 thing.
For I have seen the real face of war: I have seen men killed, mutilated, blown to little pieces; I have seen men crippled for life; I have looked in the face of madness, and I know that many have gone mad under its grip. I have seen fine natures break and crumble55 under the strain. I have seen men grow brutalised, and coarsened in this war. (God will judge justly in the end; meanwhile, there are thousands among us—yes, and among our enemy too—brutalised through no fault of theirs.) I have lost friends killed (and shall lose more yet), friends with whom I have lived and suffered so long.
Who is for war now? Its adventure, its heroism? Bah! Yet this is not all.
For war spares none. It desecrates58 the beauty of the earth; it ruins, it destroys, it wastes; it starves children; it drives out old men, and women, homeless. And most terrible of all, it brings agony to every household: it is like a plague of the firstborn. Do not think I have forgotten you, O women, and old men. You, too, have to endure the agony of the arena59; you are compelled to sit and watch us fight the beasts. Every mother is there in agony, watching her baby, and unable to stretch a finger to help. This, too, is 301 war—the anguish60 of mothers whose sons perish, of wives who lose their husbands, of girls robbed for all time of marriage and motherhood.
And this vile thing is still perpetrated upon the earth among peoples who have long ago declared human sacrifice impossible and barbaric.
This then is a basal fact. We have faced it fairly. The instrument is vile. What then of the motive49? What is the motive which drives us to use this evil instrument? And I see you fathers and mothers waiting to hear what I shall say. For there are people who whisper that we who are fighting are vindictive61, that we lust20 for the blood of our enemies, that we are coarse and brutal57, that we are unholy champions of what we call a just cause. Again let us face the facts. And to these whisperers I answer boldly: “Yes! we are coarse, some of us; we are vindictive; we hate; we do not deny it.” For war in its vileness62 taints63 its human instruments too. When Davidson died I cried death upon his murderers. I called them devils, and worse. I am not ashamed.
That is not the point. What I or Tommy may be at a given moment is not the point. The question is, with what motives did we enter this war, agree to take up this vile instrument? We cannot help if it soils our hands. What is our motive in fighting in the arena? What provokes the dumb heroism of our soldiers? Why did men flock to the colours, volunteer in millions for the arena? You know. 302 I who have lived with them eight months in France, I also know. It was because a people took up this vile instrument and used it from desire of power. Because they trampled64 on justice, and challenged us to thwart65 them. Because they willed war for the sake of wrong; because they said that force was master of the world, and they set out to prove it.
Yet, it is sometimes said, war is unchristian. If men were Christian66 there would be no war. You cannot conquer evil by evil. I agree, if men were Christian there would be no war. I agree that you cannot conquer evil by evil; but it is war that is evil, not our motive in going to war. We are conquering an evil spirit by a good spirit, even if we are using an evil instrument. And if you say that Christ would not fight, I say that none of us would fight if the world had attained67 the Christian plane towards which we are slowly rising: but we are still on a lower plane, and in it there is a big war raging; and in the arena there are many who have felt Christ by their side.
That, then, is the second point. I knew that war was vile, before I went into it. I have seen it: I do not alter my opinion. I went into this war prepared to sacrifice my life to prove that right is stronger than wrong; I have stood again and again with a traverse between me and death; I have faced the possibility of madness. I foresaw all this before I went into this war. What difference does it make that I have experienced it? It makes no difference. 303 Let no one fear that our sacrifice has been in vain. We have already won what we are fighting for. The will for war, that aggressive power, with all the cards on its side prepared, striking at its own moment, has already failed against a spirit, weaker, unprepared, taken unawares. And so I am clear on my second point. We are fighting from just motives, and we have already baulked injustice68. Aggressive force, the power that took up the cruel weapon of war, has failed. No one can ever say that his countrymen have laid down their lives in vain.
I got up from the chair, and started walking about the garden. Everything was so clear. Before going out to the war I had thought these things; but the thoughts were fluid, they ran about in mazy patterns, they were elusive69, and always I was frightened of meeting unanswerable contradictions to my theorising from men who had actually seen war. Now my conclusions seemed crystallised by irrefutable experience into solid truth.
After a while I sat down again and resumed my train of thought:
War is evil. Justice is stronger than Force. Yet, was there need of all this bloodshed to prove this? For this war is not as past wars; this is every man’s war, a war of civilians70, a war of men who hate war, of men who fight for a cause, who are compelled to kill and hate it. That is another thing that people will not face. Men whisper that Tommy does not 304 hate Fritz. Again I say, away with this whispering. Let us speak it out plain and bold. Private Davies, my orderly, formerly71 a shepherd of Blaenau Festiniog, has no quarrel with one Fritz Schneider of Hamburg who is sitting in the trench opposite the Matterhorn sap; yet he will bayonet him certainly if he comes over the top, or if we go over into the German trenches; ay, he will perform this action with a certain amount of brutality72 too, for I have watched him jabbing at rats with a bayonet through the wires of a rat trap, and I know that he has in him a savage73 vein74 of cruelty. But when peace is declared, he and Fritz will light a bonfire of trench stores in No Man’s Land, and there will be the end of their quarrel. I say boldly, I know. For indeed I know Davies very well indeed.
Again I say, was there need of all this bloodshed? Who is responsible? Who is responsible for Lance-Corporal Allan lying in the trench in Maple Redoubt? Again I see yon glittering eyes looking down upon me in the arena. And Davies, too, in his slow simple way, is beginning to take you in, and to ask you why he is put there to fight? Is it for your pleasure? Is it for your expediency75? Is it a necessary part of your great game? Necessary? Necessary for whom? Davies and Fritz alike are awaiting your answer.
It is hard to trace ultimate causes. It is hard to fix absolute responsibility. There were many seeds sown, scattered76, and secretly fostered before they 305 produced this harvest of blood. The seeds of cruelty, selfishness, ambition, avarice77, and indifference, are always liable to swell78, grow, and bud, and blossom suddenly into the red flower of war. Let every man look into his heart, and if the seeds are there let him make quick to root them out while there is time; unless he wishes to join those glittering eyes that look down upon the arena.
These are the seeds of war. And it is because they know that we, too, are not free from them, that certain men have stood out from the arena as a protest against war. These men are real heroes, who for their conscience’s sake are enduring taunts79, ignominy, misunderstanding, and worse. Most men and women in the arena are cursing them, and, as they struggle in agony and anguish, they beat their hands at them and cry “You do not care.” I, too, have cursed them, when I was mad with pain. But I know them, and I know that they are true men. I would not have one less. They are witnesses against war. And I, too, am fighting war. Men do not understand them now, but one day they will.
I know that there are among us, too, the seeds of war: no cause has yet been perfect. But I look at the facts. We did not start, we did not want this war. We have gone into it, fighting for the better cause. Whether, had we been more Christian, we might have prevented the war, is not the point. We did not want this war: we are fighting against it. 306 It was the seeds of war in Germany that were responsible. And so history will judge.
But what of the future? How are we to save future generations from going down into the arena? We will rearrange the map of Europe: we will secure the independence of small states: we will give the power to the people: there shall be an end of tyrannies. So men speak easily of an international spirit, of a world conference for peace. There is so great a will-power against war, they say, that we will secure the world for the future. Millions of men know the vileness of war; they will devise ways and means to prevent its recurrence80. I agree. Let us try all ways. Yet I see no guarantee in all this against the glittering eyes: I see no power in all this knowledge against a new generation fostering and harvesting the seeds of war. Men have long known that war is evil. Did that knowledge prevent this war? Will that knowledge secure India or China from the power of the glittering eyes?
I walked up and down the lawn, my eyes glowing, my brain working hard. Here around me was all the beauty of an old garden, its long borders full of phloxes, delphiniums, stocks, and all the old familiar flowers; the apples glowed red in the trees; the swallows were skimming across the lawn. In the distance I could hear the rumble56 of the waggon81 bringing up the afternoon load of hop-pokes to the oasthouse. Yet what I had seen of war was as true, 307 had as really happened, as all this. It would be so easy to forget, after the war. And yet to forget might mean a seed of war. I must never forget Lance-Corporal Allan.
There is only one sure way, I said at last. And again a clear conviction filled me. There is only one way to put an end to the arena. Pledges and treaties have failed; and force will fail. These things may bring peace for a time, but they cannot crush those glittering eyes. There is only one Man whose eyes have never glittered. Look at the palms of your hands, you, who have had a bullet through the middle of it! Did they not give you morphia to ease the pain? And did you not often cry out alone in the darkness in the terrible agony, that you did not care who won the war if only the pain would cease? Yet one Man there was who held out His hand upon the wood, while they knocked, knocked, knocked in the nail, every knock bringing a jarring, excruciating pain, every bit as bad as yours. And any moment His will-power could have weakened, and He could have saved Himself that awful pain. And then they nailed through the other hand: and then the feet. And as they lifted the Cross, all the weight came upon the pierced hands. And when He had tasted the vinegar He would not drink. And any moment He could have come down from the Cross: yet He so cared that love should win the war against evil, that He never wavered, His eyes 308 never glittered. Do you want to put an end to the arena? Here is a Man to follow. In hoc signo vinces.
I stood up again, and stretched out my hands. And as I did so a memory came back vivid and strong. I remembered the night when I stood out on the hillside by Trafalgar Square, under the moon. And I remembered how I had felt a strength out of the pain, and even as the strength came a more unutterable weakness, the weakness of a man battering82 against a wall of steel. The sound of the relentless83 guns had mocked at me. Now as I stood on the lawn, I heard the long continuous vibration of the guns upon the Somme.
“You are War,” I said aloud. “This is your hour, the power of darkness. But the time will come when we shall follow the Man who has conquered your last weapon, death: and then your walls of steel will waver, cringe, and fall, melted away before the fire of LOVE.”
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD. PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND
The End
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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hoops
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| n.箍( hoop的名词复数 )；（篮球）篮圈；（旧时儿童玩的）大环子；（两端埋在地里的）小铁弓 | |
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standing
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primly
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| adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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rustled
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| v.发出沙沙的声音( rustle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gust
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boughs
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squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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vibration
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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inertness
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convalescence
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lust
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trench
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scrap
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artillery
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trolley
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maple
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journalism
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pester
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pictorial
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paramount
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utterly
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indifference
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heroism
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justified
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vices
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eradicated
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capabilities
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resolute
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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lull
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multiplication
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intensity
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flinch
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motive
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motives
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appraise
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| v.估价，评价，鉴定 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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crumble
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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desecrates
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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arena
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| n.竞技场，运动场所；竞争场所，舞台 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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taints
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| n.变质( taint的名词复数 )；污染；玷污；丑陋或腐败的迹象v.使变质( taint的第三人称单数 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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64
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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waggon
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| n.运货马车，运货车；敞篷车箱 | |
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battering
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| n.用坏，损坏v.连续猛击( batter的现在分词 ) | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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