Is this war, then, because the balance of power is
so nicely adjusted that a touch turns the scale, whether
that touch be a Kaiser’s dream of empire or
the eyes of a Czar turned covetously toward the South?
I tried to think the thing out during the long nights
when the sound of the heavy guns kept me awake.
It was hard, because I knew so little, nothing at
all of European politics, or war, or diplomacy.
When I tried to be logical, I became emotional.
Instead of reason I found in myself only a deep resentment.
I could see only that blue-eyed German in his bed,
those cheery and cold and ill-equipped Belgians drilling
on the sands at La Panne.
But on one point I was clear. Away from all the
imminent questions that filled the day, the changing
ethics of war, its brutalities, its hideous necessities,
one point stood out clear and distinct. That the
real issue is not the result, but the cause of this
war. That the world must dig deep into the mire
of European diplomacy to find that cause, and having
found it must destroy it. That as long as that
cause persists, be it social or political, predatory
or ambitious, there will be more wars. Again
it will be possible for a handful of men in high place
to overthrow a world.
And one of the first results of the discovery of that
cause will be a demand of the people to know what
their representatives are doing. Diplomacy, instead
of secret whispering, a finger to its lips, must shout
from the housetops. Great nations cannot be governed
from cellars. Diplomats are not necessarily conspirators.
There is such a thing as walking in the sunlight.
There is no such thing in civilisation as a warlike
people. There are peaceful people, or aggressive
people, or military people. But there are none
that do not prefer peace to war, until, inflamed and
roused by those above them who play this game of empires,
they must don the panoply of battle and go forth.
THE STORY WITH AN END
In its way that hospital at La Panne epitomised the
whole tragedy of the great war. Here were women
and children, innocent victims when the peaceful nearby
market town of Furnes was being shelled; here was a
telegraph operator who had stuck to his post under
furious bombardment until both his legs were crushed.
He had been decorated by the king for his bravery.
Here were Belgian aristocrats without extra clothing
or any money whatever, and women whose whole lives
had been shielded from pain or discomfort. One
of them, a young woman whose father is among the largest
landowners in Belgium, is in charge of the villa where
the uniforms of wounded soldiers are cleaned and made
fit for use again. Over her white uniform she
wore, in the bitter wind, a thin tan raincoat.
We walked together along the beach. I protested.
“You are so thinly clad,” I said.
“Surely you do not go about like that always!”
