Late one evening I was returning home from a Fabian lecture when a tall, middle-aged man, with slightly wavy hair and a pair of merry blue eyes, accosted me. He carried under his arm a large and rather untidy brown-paper parcel, which looked as though it might contain groceries and gave him the appearance of the middle-class father of a family. His voice was soft and pleasant, his accent unmistakably Irish.
“Pardon me, madam, but are you an Irishwoman?” he asked interestedly.
“No,” I replied. “I was born in Yorkshire. But why do you ask?”
“Forgive me, but your voice carries a long way, and I could not help hearing a part of your conversation with the lady who left you at Hampstead. You were talking about Ireland. Your voice and the kind things you said about Ireland made me think you might be an Irishwoman.”
“No,” I said again; “I am not Irish, but I am going to Ireland to-morrow.”
“Ah!” he said, drawing a deep breath. “And why are you going to Ireland at a time like this? Surely not for pleasure?”
“No, indeed; there can be no pleasure in Ireland for anybody with a spark of human feeling. I am going to Ireland to try to discover the truth, if that is possible.”
“You are a newspaper woman, then?” was the next query. I made no further answer, feeling that the conversation with a perfect stranger, albeit a courteous and sympathetic one, had gone on long enough, when he began to speak with added warmth both of speech and manner.
“Ah! you English people, you do not understand, you never will understand Ireland. In your imagination you have peopled our island with devils and conceive it to be your duty to exterminate the plague. ‘The dirty Irish’ is the way you think about us. Hunting down Irishmen is by some Englishmen regarded as legitimate sport. I am a native of Cork. I am not a Sinn Feiner. I do not want to see Ireland cut loose from the Empire. And I deplore as much as anybody the murders on both sides. But I understand my countrymen. I doubt if you do. I very much doubt if you can. The differences are too great. But whosoever goes to Ireland without clearly realizing that the English and the Irish are two distinct and separate nations will fail to understand the things he sees and hears when he gets there. I am constantly hearing talk on this side about the possibility of Ireland making terms with Germany, becoming even a German province if she secures self-government.” Here his voice became louder and his manner more excited than ever; the newspaper he was holding dropped from his hand and fluttered away in the wind. “Surely if such people understood the racial differences between English and Irish they would realize that the same applies, though in a much greater degree, to the German and Irish?”
“Believe me,” I said, holding out my hand, “there are many people in this country who do understand and who labour continuously to create understanding in others. They yearn to bring about peace between the two countries. Between peoples who speak the same language war is a crime. I am going to Ireland to get more knowledge about her, to talk to her people directly. And when I return I shall join the band of workers for peace and reconciliation.”