The Punishment
An exhalation arose, drawn up by the moon, from an old battlefield after the pa.s.sing of years. It came out of very old craters and gathered from trenches, smoked up from No Man"s Land, and the ruins of farms; it rose from the rottenness of dead brigades, and lay for half the night over two armies; but at midnight the moon drew it up all into one phantom and it rose and trailed away eastwards.
It pa.s.sed over men in grey that were weary of war; it pa.s.sed over a land once prosperous, happy and mighty, in which were a people that were gradually starving; it pa.s.sed by ancient belfries in which there were no bells now; it pa.s.sed over fear and misery and weeping, and so came to the palace at Potsdam. It was the dead of the night between midnight and dawn, and the palace was very still that the Emperor might sleep, and sentries guarded it who made no noise and relieved others in silence. Yet it was not so easy to sleep. Picture to yourself a murderer who had killed a man. Would you sleep? Picture yourself the man that planned this war! Yes, you sleep, but nightmares come.
The phantom entered the chamber. "Come," it said.
The Kaiser leaped up at once as obediently as when he came to attention on parade, years ago, as a subaltern in the Prussian Guard, a man whom no woman or child as yet had ever cursed; he leaped up and followed. They pa.s.sed the silent sentries; none challenged and none saluted; they were moving swiftly over the town as the felon Gothas go; they came to a cottage in the country. They drifted over a little garden gate, and there in a neat little garden the phantom halted like a wind that has suddenly ceased. "Look," it said.
Should he look? Yet he must look. The Kaiser looked; and saw a window shining and a neat room in the cottage: there was nothing dreadful there; thank the good German G.o.d for that; it was all right, after all. The Kaiser had had a fright, but it was all right; there was only a woman with a baby sitting before the fire, and two small children and a man. And it was quite a jolly room. And the man was a young soldier; and, why, he was a Prussian Guardsman,--there was his helmet hanging on the wall,--so everything was all right. They were jolly German children; that was well. How nice and homely the room was. There shone before him, and showed far off in the night, the visible reward of German thrift and industry. It was all so tidy and neat, and yet they were quite poor people. The man had done his work for the Fatherland, and yet beyond all that had been able to afford all those little knickknacks that make a home so pleasant and that in their humble little way were luxury. And while the Kaiser looked the two young children laughed as they played on the floor, not seeing that face at the window.
Why! Look at the helmet. That was lucky. A bullet hole right through the front of it. That must have gone very close to the man"s head. How ever did it get through? It must have glanced upwards as bullets sometimes do. The hole was quite low in the helmet. It would be dreadful to have bullets coming by close like that. The firelight flickered, and the lamp shone on, and the children played on the floor, and the man was smoking out of a china pipe; he was strong and able and young, one of the wealth-winners of Germany.
"Have you seen?" said the phantom.
"Yes," said the Kaiser. It was well, he thought, that a Kaiser should see how his people lived.
At once the fire went out and the lamp faded away, the room fell sombrely into neglect and squalor, and the soldier and the children faded away with the room; all disappeared phantasmally, and nothing remained but the helmet in a kind of glow on the wall, and the woman sitting all by herself in the darkness.
"It has all gone," said the Kaiser.
"It has never been," said the phantom.
The Kaiser looked again. Yes, there was nothing there, it was just a vision. There were the grey walls all damp and uncared for, and that helmet standing out solid and round, like the only real thing among fancies. No, it had never been. It was just a vision.
"It might have been," said the phantom.
Might have been? How might it have been?
"Come," said the phantom.
They drifted away down a little lane that in summer would have had roses, and came to an Uhlan"s house; in times of peace a small farmer.
Farm buildings in good repair showed even in the night, and the black shapes of haystacks; again a well-kept garden lay by the house. The phantom and the Kaiser stood in the garden; before them a window glowed in a lamplit room.
"Look," said the phantom.
The Kaiser looked again and saw a young couple; the woman played with a baby, and all was prosperous in the merry room. Again the hard-won wealth of Germany shone out for all to see, the cosy comfortable furniture spoke of acres well cared for, spoke of victory in the struggle with the seasons on which wealth of nations depends.
"It might have been," said the phantom. Again the fire died out and the merry scene faded away, leaving a melancholy, ill-kept room, with poverty and mourning haunting dusty corners and the woman sitting alone.
"Why do you show me this?" said the Kaiser. "Why do you show me these visions?"
"Come," said the phantom.
"What is it?" said the Kaiser. "Where are you bringing me?"
"Come," said the phantom.
They went from window to window, from land to land. You had seen, had you been out that night in Germany, and able to see visions, an imperious figure pa.s.sing from place to place, looking on many scenes.
He looked on them, and families withered away, and happy scenes faded, and the phantom said to him "Come." He expostulated but obeyed; and so they went from window to window of hundreds of farms in Prussia, till they came to the Prussian border and went on into Saxony; and always you would have heard, could you hear spirits speak, "It might have been," "It might have been," repeated from window to window.
They went down through Saxony, heading for Austria. And for long the Kaiser kept that callous, imperious look. But at last he, even he, at last he nearly wept. And the phantom turned then and swept him back over Saxony, and into Prussia again and over the sentries" heads, back to his comfortable bed where it was so hard to sleep.
And though they had seen thousands of merry homes, homes that can never be merry now, shrines of perpetual mourning; though they had seen thousands of smiling German children, who will never be born now, but were only the visions of hopes blasted by him; for all the leagues over which he had been so ruthlessly hurried, dawn was yet barely breaking.
He had looked on the first few thousand homes of which he had robbed all time, and which he must see with his eyes before he may go hence.
The first night of the Kaiser"s punishment was accomplished.
The English Spirit
By the end of the South African war Sergeant Cane had got one thing very well fixed in his mind, and that was that war was an overrated amus.e.m.e.nt. He said he "was fed up with it," partly because that misused metaphor was then new, partly because every one was saying it: he felt it right down in his bones, and he had a long memory. So when wonderful rumours came to the East Anglian village where he lived, on August 1, 1914, Sergeant Cane said: "That means war," and decided then and there to have nothing to do with it: it was somebody else"s turn; he felt he had done enough. Then came August 4th, and England true to her destiny, and then Lord Kitchener"s appeal for men.
Sergeant Cane had a family to look after and a nice little house: he had left the army ten years.
In the next week all the men went who had been in the army before, all that were young enough, and a good sprinkling of the young men too who had never been in the army. Men asked Cane if he was going, and he said straight out "No."
By the middle of August Cane was affecting the situation. He was a little rallying point for men who did not want to go. "He knows what it"s like," they said.
In the smoking room of the Big House sat the Squire and his son, Arthur Smith; and Sir Munion Boomer-Platt, the Member for the division. The Squire"s son had been in the last war as a boy, and like Sergeant Cane had left the army since. All the morning he had been cursing an imaginary general, seated in the War Office at an imaginary desk with Smith"s own letter before him, in full view but unopened. Why on earth didn"t he answer it, Smith thought. But he was calmer now, and the Squire and Sir Munion were talking of Sergeant Cane.
"Leave him to me," said Sir Munion.
"Very well," said the Squire. So Sir Munion Boomer-Platt went off and called on Sergeant Cane.
Mrs Cane knew what he had come for.
"Don"t let him talk you over, Bill," she said.
"Not he," said Sergeant Cane.
Sir Munion came on Sergeant Cane in his garden.
"A fine day," said Sir Munion. And from that he went on to the war.
"If you enlist," he said, "they will make you a sergeant again at once. You will get a sergeant"s pay, and your wife will get the new separation allowance."
"Sooner have Cane," said Mrs Cane.
"Yes, yes, of course," said Sir Munion. "But then there is the medal, probably two or three medals, and the glory of it, and it is such a splendid life."
Sir Munion did warm to a thing whenever he began to hear his own words. He painted war as it has always been painted, one of the most beautiful things you could imagine. And then it mustn"t be supposed that it was like those wars that there used to be, a long way off.
There would be houses where you would be billeted, and good food, and shady trees and villages wherever you went. And it was such an opportunity of seeing the Continent ("the Continent as it really is," Sir Munion called it) as would never come again, and he only wished he were younger. Sir Munion really did wish it, as he spoke, for his own words stirred him profoundly; but somehow or other they did not stir Sergeant Cane. No, he had done his share, and he had a family to look after.
Sir Munion could not understand him: he went back to the Big House and said so. He had told him all the advantages he could think of that were there to be had for the asking, and Sergeant Cane merely neglected them.