“The mother-land,” I said, and Buckhurst looked up, adding, “The world is the true mother-land.”
Whereupon I appeared profoundly impressed at such a novel and epigrammatic view. 103
“There is much to be argued on both sides,” said the young Countess, “but I am utterly unfitted to struggle with this new code of ethics. If it had been different—if I had been born among the poor, in misery!—But you see I come a pilgrim among the proletariat, clothed in conservatism, cloaked with tradition, and if at heart I burn with sorrow for the miserable, and if I gladly give what I have to help, I cannot with a single gesture throw off those inherited garments, though they tortured my body like the garment of Nessus.”
I did not smile or respect her less for the stilted phrases, the pathetic poverty of metaphor. Profoundly troubled, struggling with a reserve the borders of which she strove so bravely to cross, her distress touched me the more because I knew it aroused the uneasy contempt of Buckhurst. Yet I could not spare her.
“You saw the cuirassiers die in the street below,” I repeated, with the obstinacy of a limited intellect.
“Yes—and my heart went out to them,” she replied, with an emphasis that pleased me and startled Buckhurst.
Buckhurst began to speak, but I cut him short.
“Then, madame, if your heart went out to the soldiers of France, it went out to France, too!”
“Yes—to France,” she repeated, and I saw her lip begin to quiver.
“Wherein does love for France conflict with our creed, madame?” asked Buckhurst, gently. “It is only hate that we abjure.”