.

The man you thought of as a brother looks at you with eyes of passionate
hatred; you have eaten bread and salt together; you have drunk together;
you have been uplifted by the same books; you have been sublimed by the
same music; but he is a German, and your blood was made in another land,
and he looks at you with suspicion and hate--perhaps you are a spy. (The
spy mania! Dear Lord, what absurd, bloody, and abominable stories I
could write of this madness which has Europe by the throat, this madness
which is only another form of war hysteria.) A reversal to barbarism;
you and the man who was your friend have gone back to the fear and
hatred of primitive savages, meeting at the corner of a dark wood. All
of humanity we have acquired in the slow way of evolution sloughs off
us.

We are savages once more. For science is dead. All the laboratories are
shut, save those where poison is brewed and destruction is put up in
packages. Education has ceased, save that fierce Nietzschean education
which declares: "The weak and helpless must go to the wall; and we shall
help them go." All that made life humanly fair is hidden in the fetid
clouds of war where savages (in terror and hysteria) grope for each
other's throats.

The glory of war--rot! The heroism of war--rot! The scarlet and
beneficent energies of war--rot! When you look at it close what you see
are hulking masses of brutes with fear behind them prodding them on, or
wild and splendid savages, hysterical with hate, battling to save their
hearth fires and women from the oncoming horde. Reversal to barbarism.

Think it over. Upon whom falls the stress of war? Not upon the soldier.
He is killed and fattens the soil where he falls; or he is maimed and
hobbles off toward a pension or beggary--both tolerable things; anyway
he has drunk deep of cruelty and terror and may go his way. By rare good
grace he may have been a hero. In other words, he may have been a
Belgian--which is a word like a decoration, a name to make one strut
like a Greek of Thermopylae--and become thus a permanent part of the
world's finest history.

* * * * *

I would like to write here the name of a friend, Charles Flamache of
Brussels. He was 21 years old. He was an artist who had already tasted
fame. He had known the love of woman. That his destiny might be
fulfilled he died, the blithe, brave boy, in front of Liege. It was the
right death at the right time--ere yet