“I refuse to kill your father. I refuse to slay your mother’s son. I refuse to plunge a bayonet into the breast of your sweetheart’s brother. I refuse to assassinate you and then hide my stained fists in the folds of any flag. I refuse to be flattered into hell’s nightmare by a class of well-fed snobs, crooks and cowards who despise our class socially, rob our class economically and betray our class politically.”
At this the hostile crowds roared their approval and disapproval. Also at another float that paraded these words:
“What is war? For working-class wives—heartache. For working-class mothers—loneliness. For working-class children—orphanage. For peace—defeat. For death—a harvest. For nations—debts. For bankers—bonds, interest. For preachers on both sides—ferocious prayers for victory. For big manufacturers—business profits. For ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill’—boisterous laughter. For Christ—contempt.”
I saw that my companion was deeply moved.
“It’s all true, what they say, isn’t it?” she murmured.
“Yes, it’s true, but—we can’t change the world, we can’t give up our country, our independence. Hello!”
A white-faced man had rushed into the parlour, gesticulating violently and making distressing guttural sounds. It was Stephen.
Uncomprehending, I watched his swift signs.
“What is it? What is he trying to say?”
“Wait!”