You should read Schopenhauer, my dear, and learn to estimate these emotions at their true value. You would then be able to laugh at these feelings which seem to you now so important. It is the mark of Kultur to be able to laugh at all sentiments. Isn’t it?
Nanko.
The priests, I suppose, are still balancing themselves on the tight-rope, over the jaws of the crowd. The poor old Pope did his best for his Master, when the Emperor asked him for a blessing on the war. “I bless Peace,” said the Pope; but nobody listened. I composed a little poem about that. I called it St. Peter’s Christmas. It went like this:—
And does the Cross of Christ still stand?
Yes, though His friends may watch from far—
And who is this at His right hand,
This Rock in the red surf of war?
This, this is he who once denied,
And turned and wept and turned again.
Last night before an Emperor’s pride
He stood and blotted out that stain.
Last night an Emperor bared the sword
And bade him bless. He stood alone.
Alone in all the world, his word
Confessed—and blessed—a loftier throne.
I hear, still travelling towards the Light,
In widening waves till Time shall cease,
The Power that breathed from Rome last night
His infinite whisper—I bless Peace.
(Tarrasch and Brander applaud ironically.)
