No; it is a pity, but Universal Peace will hardly
come as the result of universal preparedness for war,
as these dear people seem to hope. It will only
come as the result of a universal feeling that war
is the most babyish and laughably idiotic thing that
this poor world has evolved. Our writer says
sadly that there is no hope of doing without armies—we
are not angels. It is not a question of “not
being angels,” it is a question of not being
childish lunatics. Possibly there is no hope
of this either, but I think we might make an effort.
For opinions do spread, if one holds them firmly oneself
and is not afraid of confessing them. A si-vis-pacem
gentleman said to me once, with a sneer: “How
are you going to do it? Speeches and pamphlets?”
Well, that was how Christianity got about, even though
Paul’s letters did not appear in a daily paper
with a circulation of a million and a telegraphic
service to every part of the world.
But perhaps Christianity is an unfortunate example
to give in an argument about war; one begins to ask
oneself if Christianity has spread as much as one
thought. There are dear people, of course, to
whom it has been revealed in the night that God is
really much more interested in nations than in persons;
it is not your soul or my soul that He is concerned
about, but the British Empire’s. Germany
He dislikes (although the Germans were under a silly
misapprehension about this once), and though the Japanese
do not worship Him, yet they are such active little
fellows, not to say Allies of England, that they too
are under His special protection. And when He
deprecated lying and stealing and murder and bearing
false witness, and all those things, He meant that
if they were done in a really wholesale way—by
nations, not by individuals—then it did
not matter; for He can forgive a nation anything,
having so much more interest in it. All of which
may be true, but it is not Christianity.
However, as our writer says, “we are not angels,”
and apparently he thinks that it would be rather wicked
of us to try to be. Perhaps he is right.
Champagne is often pleasant at lunch, it is always
delightful at dinner, and it is an absolute necessity,
if one is to talk freely about oneself afterwards,
at a dance supper. But champagne for tea is horrible.
Perhaps this is why a wedding always finds me melancholy
next morning. “She has married the wrong
man,” I say to myself. “I wonder
if it is too late to tell her.”
The trouble of answering the invitation and of thinking
of something to give more original than a toast rack
should, one feels, have its compensations. From
each wedding that I attend I expect an afternoon’s
enjoyment in return for my egg stand. For one
thing I have my best clothes on. Few people have
seen me in them (and these few won’t believe
it), so that from the very beginning the day has a
certain freshness. It is not an ordinary day.
It starts with this advantage, that in my best clothes
I am not difficult to please. The world smiles
upon me.
