“No,” I said, “I won’t go so far as to say that. But I have TRIED to read it. And I talk about it as if I had read it.”
The General’s face fell.
“You are as the others,” he said, “They buy the book, they lay it on the table, they talk of it at dinner,—they say ‘Bernhardi has prophesied this, Bernhardi foresaw that,’ but read it,—nevermore.”
“Still,” I said, “you get the royalties.”
“They are cut off. The perfidious British Government will not allow the treacherous publisher to pay them. But that is not my complaint.”
“What is the matter, then?” I asked.
“My book is misunderstood. You English readers have failed to grasp its intention. It is not meant as a book of strategy. It is what you call a work of humour. The book is to laugh. It is one big joke.”
“You don’t say so!” I said in astonishment.
“Assuredly,” answered the General. “Here”—and with this he laid hold of the copy of the book before me and began rapidly turning over the leaves—“let me set it out asunder for you, the humour of it. Listen, though, to this, where I speak of Germany’s historical mission on page 73,—‘No nation on the face of the globe is so able to grasp and appropriate all the elements of culture as Germany is?’ What do you say to that? Is it not a joke? Ach, Himmel, how our officers have laughed over that in Belgium! With their booted feet on the mantelpiece as they read and with bottles of appropriated champagne beside them as they laugh.”
“You are right, General,” I said, “you will forgive my not laughing out loud, but you are a great humorist.”