Peace of the Air

(A Letter to The Times, 1911.)

Beyond all the varying symptoms of madness in the life of modern nations the most dreadful is this prostitution of the conquest of the air to the ends of warfare.

If ever men presented a spectacle of sheer inanity it is now—when, having at last triumphed in their struggle to subordinate to their welfare the unconquered element, they have straightway commenced to defile that element, so heroically mastered, by filling it with engines of destruction. If ever the gods were justified of their ironic smile—by the gods, it is now! Is there any thinker alive watching this still utterly preventable calamity without horror and despair? Horror of what must come of it if not promptly stopped; despair that men can be so blind, so hopelessly and childishly the slaves of their own marvellous inventive powers. Was there ever so patent a case for scotching at birth a hideous development of the black arts of warfare; ever such an occasion for the Powers in conference to ban once and for all a new and ghastly menace?

A little reason, a grain of common sense, a gleam of sanity before it is too late; before vested interests and the chains of a new habit have enslaved us too hopelessly. If this fresh devilry be not quenched within the next few years, it will be too late. Water and earth are wide enough for men to kill each other on. For the love of the sun, and stars, and the blue sky, that have given us all our aspirations since the beginning of time, let us leave the air to innocence! Will not those who have eyes to see, good-will, and the power to put that good-will into practice, bestir themselves while there is yet time, and save mankind from this last and worst of all its follies?

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(From the Nation, 1915.)

(From the Neutral Press, 1914.)

To love peace with all one’s heart. To feel that war is a black stain on the humanity and fame of man. To hate militarism. To go any length to avoid war for material interests, war that involves no great principle, distrusting profoundly the common meaning of the phrase “national honour”—all this is my belief.

But there is a national honour charged with the future happiness of man; loyalty is due from those living to those that will come after; civilization can only wax and flourish in a world where faith is kept; for nations, as for individuals, there are laws of duty, whose violation harms the whole human race; in sum, stars of conduct shine for peoples, as for private men.

And so I hold that without tarnishing true honour, endangering civilization present and to come, and ruining all hope of future tranquillity, my Country could not have refused to take up arms for the defence of her little neighbour Belgium’s outraged neutrality, which she had solemnly guaranteed.

I claim from the trend of events, and of national character, during the last century that in democracy alone lies any coherent hope of progressive civilization or any chance of lasting peace in Europe, or the world.

I believe that this democratic principle, however imperfectly developed, has so worked in France, in Britain, in the United States, that these countries are already nearly safe from inclination to aggress, or to subdue other nationalities that have reached approximately their stage of development.

And I believe that while there remain autocratic Governments basing themselves on militarism, hostile at heart to the democratic principle, Europe will never be free of the surcharge of swollen armaments, the nightmare menace of wars like this—the paralysis that creeps on civilizations which adore the god of force.

And so I hold that without betrayal of trusteeship, without shirking the elementary defence of beliefs coiled within its fibre, or beliefs vital to the future welfare of all men, my Country could not stand by and see the ruin of France, that very cradle of democracy.

I believe that democratic culture spreads from West to East, that only by maintenance of consolidate democracy in Western Europe can democracy ever hope to push on and prevail till the Eastern Powers have also that ideal under which alone humanity can flourish.

And so I hold that my Country is justified at this juncture in its alliance with the autocratic power of Russia, whose people will never know freedom till her borders are joined to the borders of a true democracy in Central Europe.

I do not believe that jealous, frightened jingoism has been more than the dirty fringe of Britain’s peace-loving temper, and I profess my sacred faith that my Country has gone to war, against her will, because she must—for honour, for democracy, and for the future of mankind.

(From the Westminster Gazette, 1914.)

France! Beautiful word! Beautiful land! What a proud soul lives in that France, now racked and tortured! What chimes will ring when the last invader is pushed back over the edge of the lost provinces! Land for whom, when you are hard driven, the heart most aches! Is it that you are Woman, with a caress in your eyes, and your floating robe; with mystery in your clear, woman’s smile, and that promise of eternal constancy which Man never offers? Is it that in you we feel, as in no other Land, a Presence, such as in some houses makes life assured, and lovely; a Presence inhabiting the air of every room, more precious than its garniture? Take away the trappings, make desolate that place of all material things, and there will yet be the loved one, there will yet be the gracious ardent spirit.

France! You, of all Countries, have the gift of Living Form, of a coherent grace, like that of your own flower of light, or such as haunts La Gioconda, listening to life.

When I think of you there comes into my mind the image of a lime-tree, in her spring garb of buds delicate, breaking to little gay leaves ecstatic in each wind; in her summer dress so full, so perfumed with honey-coloured blossoms; in her autumn robe of few golden leaves, flat on the clear air, and trembling, trembling with each breath of the day; and in her pale winter nakedness—ever the same essential goddess of a tree, perfect in form.

France! It is your power to see that “soul in things” which we call Ideals, to bring to life the truth you have seen, and so to concrete and shape your vision that it becomes the rock spiritual on which nations stand. Because you are the living incarnation of your clear, unflinching spirit, we others love you.

You stand before the world, true embodiment of your three immortal words; as your immortal tune is the true voice of a Land’s ardour and devotion.

You have sloughed off the gross and the vainglorious flesh of nations! You are the flame in the night! In this hour we see, and know you!

Great and touching comrade! Clear, invincible France! To-day, in your grave chivalry, you were never so high, so desirable, so true to yourself and to Humanity!

(From King Albert’s Book, 1914.)

In my dream I saw a fertile plain, rich with the hues of autumn. Tranquil it was and warm. Men, women, children, and the beasts, worked and played and wandered there in peace. Under the blue sky and the white clouds low-hanging, great trees shaded the fields; and from all the land rose a murmur as from bees clustering on the rose-coloured blossoms of tall clover. In my dream I roamed, looking into faces—prosperous and well-favoured—of people living in a land of plenty, drinking the joy of life, caring nothing for the morrow. But I could not see their eyes, which seemed ever cast down, watching the progress of their feet over the rich grass and the golden leaves already fallen from the trees. The longer I walked among them the more I wondered that I could see the eyes of none, not even of the little children, not even of the beasts.

And, while I mused on this, the sky began to darken. A mutter as of distant waters came travelling. The children stopped their play, the beasts raised their heads; men and women halted and cried to each other: “The River is rising! If it floods, we are lost! Our beasts will drown; we, even we, shall drown! The River!” And women stood like images of stone, listening; men shook their fists at the black sky; the beasts sniffed the darkening air.

Then I heard a clear voice call: “Brothers! The dyke is breaking! Link arms; with the dyke of our bodies we will save our homes! Link arms behind us, Sisters! Children close in! The River!” And all that multitude, whom I had seen treading quietly the grass, came hurrying, their eyes no longer fixed on the rich plain, but lifted in trouble and defiance. And the Voice called: “Hasten! The dyke is broken.”

By thousands and thousands they pressed, shoulder to shoulder—men, women, children, and the beasts lying down behind, till the living dyke was formed. And the black flood came travelling till its wave crests glinted like the whites of glaring eyes, and the harsh clamour of the waters was as a roar from a million mouths. But the Voice called: “Hold, brothers!” And from the living dyke came answer: “We hold!”

Then the dark water broke; and from all the wall of bodies rose the cry of struggle.

But above it ever the Voice called: “Hold!”

And the answer still came from the mouths of drowning men and women, of the very children: “We hold!”

But the water rolled over and on. Down in its black tumult, beneath its cruel rush, I saw men still with arms linked; women on their knees, clinging to earth; little children drifting—all dead. But the shades of the dead with arms yet linked were fronting the edge of the savage waters. None had turned away ...

Once more I dreamed. The plain was free of darkness, free of waters. The River, shrunk and muddied, flowed again within its banks. And Dawn was breaking.

At first it seemed to me that only trees stood on that plain; then, in the ground mist fast clearing, I saw the forms of men and women, children, beasts; and I moved among them, looking at their faces—not broad and prosperous, but grave from suffering, carved and strong. And their eyes were shining.

While I stood thus watching, the sun rose, and, above the plain clad in the hues of spring, the heaven brightened to full morning. Amazed, I saw that the stars had not gone in, but shone there in the blue.

And clear I heard the same Voice call: “Brothers! Behold! The Stars are lit for ever!”

(From Scribner’s Magazine, 1914.)