V.
War Hallucinations
An interview with Mme. Truth
I found her in an obscure corner of a wein-stube which bore the legend: In vino veritas. She beckoned to me appealingly. “Mr. Incurable, will you come and sit at my table? They all shun me nowadays; to associate with me is considered mauvais ton. But you, I am sure, need not fear for your reputation....” To be sure, my reputation could not suffer any more, even if I committed patricide; so I went bravely to Madame’s table, and ordered Rhine-wine and a neutrality sandwich à la Wilson (caviar and Limburger dressed in petals of French roses); to complete the expression of my loyalty to the President, I requested the national hymns of all the belligerents, after which conscience-clearing ordeal I turned to my companion. Her appearance was shocking; not even the clumsy robe of Censor O’Connor’s cut could conceal her bruises and many-colored insignia. “Madame,” I gallantly inquired, “whence these atrocities?”
“These are love-tokens from the special war correspondents. Ah, dear, since the death of Tolstoy I have had no true lover. You say, how about Shaw? Well, George Bernard has championed me daringly, I admit; but I can never tell whether he is in earnest or whether he makes use of me for his clever jugglery. G. B. S. has made it his profession to say unpopular things; how could he have overlooked such a rare stunt as telling the truth in time of war? He is so very skilful in the gentle art of making himself unpleasant to the majority that I am inclined to believe he would readily betray me for my rival, Mlle. Lie, as soon as she had lost her popularity. As for Maximilian Harden, you see, I am an old flame of his; he has suffered prison and persecution for my sake, the dear; do you remember the Eilenburg affair, when Maxie removed the figments from Wilhelm’s bosom friends, and demonstrated that the “crime” punishable in England with two years of Reading Gaol was freely practiced by the august princes of Germany? O, he is a darling, Monsieur; but, between us, he handles me too roughly, the bulldog. Think of Bismarckian hugs and Kruppesque caresses! You see how hard it is to please me as a lover: I am such a frail sweetheart.”
I protested that I have never had the ambition of becoming her lover, consequently I was in no need of her warning. Mme. Truth felt offended.
“I shall get you yet. Wait till you grow older, when you will declare from the house-tops your devotion for me. You do not think objectively, Mr. Incurable, hence your numerous offences against me. With all your endeavor to appear neutral, your anti-German feelings are transparent. Why don’t you give ear to me occasionally? Think of a people generally hated and envied, yet strong, successful, defiant. How can you help admiring their wonderful achievements in the present war?”
I rejoined that I could admire war as an art; that there was art in Napoleon’s warfare, no matter whether he won or lost, no matter whether it was St. Bernard or Waterloo; while the Germans are merely good mathematicians, clever technicians; but I prefer Zimbalist’s artistic flaws to the perfect technique of Albert Spalding, the craftsman.
“You are hopelessly incurable, sir. Do you perceive that Germany has won already? Whatever the outcome of the war, the Germans are the victors. To be hated by all one must accomplish something meritorious. Surely the Germans will emerge from the struggle forged with self-respect, self-assurance, and contempt for the rest of the world. Surely they will be spared the demoralizing influence of universal sympathy, which is so atrociously showered upon poor Belgium. In their splendid isolation the Teutons will achieve gigantic things; they may become a race of supermen....”
I hastened to order Moselwine and sauer-kraut.