“No. What is there in life for me? It takes more courage to go on living.”
There was a long pause; Julie arose, said “good night.” Floyd went with her to the stairs, kissed her; Martin’s eyes followed them. Then Floyd threw himself into the big chair by the fire, forgetting everything but the dear woman, the dear child.
Martin sat puffing at his pipe; it was foul. Julie couldn’t bear a pipe. Floyd had given up his then he shut the door carefully, lit his pipe laughingly, saying something about a bad example. He was eager for more stories of war, carnage, murder.
“A wonderful experience. I envy you.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“I couldn’t leave Julie in her condition.”
There was a silence; then Martin spoke in a hard voice which conveyed repression.
“Your experience has been more wonderful than mine.”
He threw down his pipe, pacing the room, muttering broken sentences; there was a strange glitter in his eyes. He cursed everything, everybody.
“Patriotism, bah! We punched holes in that lie, sitting in our dugout waiting for the death call. Love of the soil; bah! I was born next door; another year you also will be driven out. Our children won’t even know the spot where their parents lived; what does it matter, anyhow? The farmer, bah! He values the soil as he does his cow, for what he can get out of it; it isn’t his land. He came over, bought it, because he couldn’t steal it, mortgaged it, misused it. The boys won’t go back to the farm. They want money, they’ll get it the next few years. The rest of the world will starve—America will wallow in the filthy stuff—not you, nor I—we’re pikers, that’s what we are; our fathers thought they left us rich; I could plunge in, reconstruct, sell out, gamble with my money, and make a fortune. What then?” He stood glaring at Floyd, a desperate, hopeless creature, Martin’s ravings always depressed him; Julie’s voice broke the oppressive silence.