Читать книгу Verena in the Midst - E. V. Lucas - Страница 31
ОглавлениеXXVII
Richard Haven to Verena Raby
My Dear, how odd it is that even the sweetest-natured men, when asked for a fairy tale for the young, tend to satire. Pure fancy—comic invention with no arrière pensée—seems to be the most evasive medium. That mathematical genius, W. K. Clifford, could do the genuine thing without one drop of the gall of sophistication, and so, of course, could Lewis Carroll, and Burne-Jones in his letters. But when I asked my old friend, George Demain, for something amusing and suitable for a children’s amateur magazine, look at what he sent! I enclose the original, which please return. As it is no part of my scheme of life to teach cynicism, I am withholding it from the fledgling editors. I don’t mind meeting cynics (although it is always best that there should be but one in any company) but I don’t intend consciously to make any.
One of the extraordinary things of the moment is how little some men who went through the War were changed by it all. In fact, it comes to this, that the War could deal only with what a man had: it could not create brains or feelings. The people who talk about it as a purge, an educator, as discipline and so forth, are saying what they thought it ought to have been, rather than what it was. There are clerks in my office who enlisted and fought and even killed men, and have now returned to be clerks again, with perfect resignation, and with no outward sign of development, except that they do their work with less care.
I asked one of them what he thought of France and the French. He had been right through the War and had come, for the first time in his life, into relations with the French under every kind of emotional stress. He ought to have had numbers of stories to tell and national distinctions to draw. All he said was—“Funny how far up from the railway platform their trains are!”
I hope all goes as well with you as it can.
R. H.
MOTIVES
[Enclosure]
Once upon a time there was a King who had never done anything except make laws and draw his salary, and when he was getting well on in years he began to wonder if his people really loved him. He might never have discovered the answer had not a neighbouring country declared war against him and threatened to invade his territory; for “Now,” said the old King, “we will probe at last into this question of devotion.”
He immediately issued a proclamation that the country was in danger and that all who wished to fight could do so but there would be no compulsion.
So the war began and all the men of the country flocked to the colours and there was great excitement.
At the end of a year the army of the old King had conquered and peace was proclaimed.
The day that the troops returned was a great holiday. The streets were gay with flags and banners, and every one came out to welcome the victors. That night the old King, dressed as a plain citizen, slipped through his palace gates and mingled with the crowd. He saw the illuminations and heard with emotion the joyous songs and cries of exultation.
Overcome by the noise and rejoicing he turned down a quiet street and presently he came on a woman weeping in a doorway. He asked the cause of her grief and she told him that her husband had been slain in battle.
“Ah,” said the old King, “I am truly sorry to hear that, but, after all, there is a consolation in knowing that he died fighting for his King.”
“I am not so sure,” replied the sorrowing widow. “We had a quarrel and he went and joined the army to spite me.”
Farther on the King met a poor old man bowed with grief and sighing deeply as he leaned on his staff.
“How is this, old man?” cried the King. “Why do you sorrow when so many are gay?”
“Alas,” groaned the other, “I have just heard that my son was killed in this horrible war.”
“You have cause for sorrow, my friend,” said the old King sympathetically, “but remember he fell in a good cause. He died for his King.”
“Perhaps he did,” replied the poor old man. “But he didn’t say anything about that when he marched off. He didn’t want to go, as a matter of fact. Not a bit. But every one else was going and he was afraid of being thought a coward.”
At the next corner the old King saw a soldier, one of the victors. He was lame and haggard and worn and was leaning against a wall to rest.
“Ah!” cried the old King. “You have been wounded, my young hero?”
The soldier nodded and looked bored.
“Never mind, my lad,” said the old King, patting him on the shoulder. “We are all proud of you—and remember, you risked your life in honour of your King!”
The soldier turned his tired eyes on him and a stiff smile made his mouth crooked. “I suppose that was it,” he said wearily. “I had thought that I joined up to see a bit of life and have the girls look at me, but possibly you are right. I expect it was the King’s honour I was thinking of.”
So the King returned thoughtfully to his palace, and as he entered the great hall the musicians began playing “God keep the King.” Then all the courtiers who were to receive their share of the indemnity claimed from the defeated enemy, and all the commanders who were to receive titles and honours and large estates, cried out with one voice “God keep the King!” so that the people out in the streets heard it and joined in the shout as if they meant it.
And then the old King went to bed.
