_My son died, for yours, by yours.--How can I tell?--like yours. I
laid the blame on the enemy, and on the war, as you must also have
done, but I see now that the chief criminal, the one whom I accuse, is
myself. Yes, I am guilty; and that means you, and all of us. You must
listen while I tell you what you know well enough, but do not want to
hear_.
_My son was twenty years old when he fell in this war. Twenty years I
had loved him, protected him from hunger, cold, and sickness; saved
him from darkness of mind, ignorance, error, and all the pitfalls that
lie in the shadows of life. But what did I do to defend him against
this scourge which was coming upon us_?
_I was never one of those who compounded with the passions of jealous
nationalities. I loved men, and their future brotherhood was a joy to
me. Why then did I do nothing against the impending danger, against
the fever that brooded within us, against the false peace which made
ready to kill with a smile on its lips_?
_I was perhaps afraid to displease others, afraid of enmities; it is
true I cared too much to love, above all to be loved. I feared to lose
the good-will of those around me, however feeble and insipid such a
feeling may be. It is a sort of play acted by ourselves and others.
No one is deceived by it, since both sides shrink from the word which
might crack the plaster and bring the house about our ears.
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