It is we who are the material of war. War is
made up of the flesh and the souls of common soldiers only. It is we
who make the plains of dead and the rivers of blood, all of us, and
each of us is invisible and silent because of the immensity of our
numbers. The emptied towns and the villages destroyed, they are a
wilderness of our making. Yes, war is all of us, and all of us
together."
"Yes, that's true. It's the people who are war; without them, there
would be nothing, nothing but some wrangling, a long way off. But it
isn't they who decide on it; it's the masters who steer them."
"The people are struggling to-day to have no more masters that steer
them. This war, it's like the French Revolution continuing."
"Well then, if that's so, we're working for the Prussians too?"
"It's to be hoped so," said one of the wretches of the plain.
"Oh, hell!" said the chasseur, grinding his teeth. But he shook his
head and added no more.
"We want to look after ourselves! You shouldn't meddle in other
people's business," mumbled the obstinate snarler.
"Yes, you should! Because what you call 'other people,' that's just
what they're not--they're the same!"
"Why is it always us that has to march away for everybody?"
"That's it!" said a man, and he repeated the words he had used a
moment before. "More's the pity, or so much the better."
"The people--they're nothing, though they ought to be everything,"
then said the man who had questioned me, recalling, though he did
not know it, an historic sentence of more than a century ago, but
investing it at last with its great universal significance.
Pages:
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422