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"What a disgraceful spectacle
humanity presents!
In
spite of fearful wounds, humanity makes war upon itself.
We who
deal with the sores afflicting mankind are struck more than others
by all the evil men voluntarily inflict upon one another.
I am neither a
politician nor a
propagandist.
It is not my business to occupy myself with
ideas.
I have too much else
to do.
I am moved by a great pity, as lofty as a
dream."
Dr. David Hawthorn smiled sadly at this
vehemence, then his smile vanished
at the moral
outrage.
"Unfortunately you are right.
With all the misery
we have to suffer, we tear
ourselves with our own hands besides - the
war of the classes, the
war of the
nations, whether you look at us from afar or from above, we are
barbarians and madmen."
"Why, why," said Angus Starling, who was
getting excited, "why do we
continue to be fools when we recognise our
own folly?"
Dr Hawthorn shrugged his shoulders, as he had a few moments
before when they spoke of incurable diseases.
"The
force of tradition,
fanned by interested
parties.
We are not free,
we are attached to the past.
We study what has always been
done, and do it over again - war and injustice.
Some day perhaps
humanity will succeed in ridding itself of
the ghost of the past.
Let us hope that some day we shall emerge from this endless epoch of
massacre and
misery.
What else
is there to do than to hope?"
"There is
one great general cause for the world's ulcer."
"You have said it -
servility to the past, prejudice which prevents us
from doing things differently, according to
reason and
morality.
The spirit of tradition infects
humanity, and its two frightful
manifestations are …"
Dr. Hawthorn rose from his chair, as if about to protest and as if
to say, "Don't mention them!"
Angus Starling could not restrain
himself any more.
"…
inheritance from past
tradition."
"Hush!" cried Dr. Hawthorn.
"You are
treading on ground on which I cannot follow.
I recognise the present
evil.
I pray with all
my heart for the new era.
More than that, I believe in it.
But do not speak that way about two sacred principles."
"You speak like everybody," said Angus Starling bitterly.
"We
must go to the root of
the evil, you know we must."
"You certainly do," and he added
violently, "Why do you act as if you did not know it?
If we wish to
cure ourselves of oppression and
war, we have a
right to attack them by all the means possible - all! -
the principle of
inheritance of past technique and the
cult of the homeland."
"No, we haven't the right," exclaimed Dr. Hawthorn, throwing a look
at his interlocutor and rising in great agitation.
"We have the right!"
cried Angus Starling.
The grey head drooped, and Dr. Hawthorn said
in a low voice:
"Yes, it is true, we have the right.
I
remember one day during
the war.
We were standing beside a dying man.
No one knew
who he was.
He had been found in the debris of a bombed ambulance -
bombed purposely or not, the result was the same.
His face had been
mutilated beyond
recognition.
He moaned, groaned, sobbed, shrieked - appalling
cries.
We listened to the sounds that he made in his agony, trying to
find one word, the faintest accent, that would at least indicate his
nationality. No use.
We looked and listened, until he fell silent.
When he was dead and we stopped trembling, I had
a flash of
comprehension.
I
understood.
I understood in the depths of my being that man is
more closely knit to man than to his vague compatriots.
Yes, we have a
right to question oppression and
war.
I saw the truth several times
afterward again, but I am an old man, and I haven't the strength to stick to
it."
"My dear sir," said Angus Starling, rising, with respect.
Evidently he was touched.
"Yes, I know, I know," Dr.
Hawthorn continued in an outburst of
sincerity.
"I know that
in spite of all the arguments and
the maze of special cases in
which people lose themselves, the absolute, simple truth remains, that the law
by which some are born rich and
others poor and which maintains
a chronic inequality in
society is a supreme
injustice.
It rests on no better basis than the law that once
forged races of slaves.
I
know patriotism has become
a narrow offensive sentiment which as long as
it lives will maintain war and exhaust the world.
I know that neither work nor
material and moral prosperity, nor the noble refinements of progress, nor the
wonders of art, need competition inspired by hate.
In fact, I know
that, on the contrary, these things are destroyed by arms.
I know that
the map of a country is composed of conventional lines and different names,
that our innate love of self
leads us closer to those that are
like-minded than to those who belong to the same geographical group, and we
are more truly compatriots of those who understand us and who are
on the level of our
own souls, or who suffer the same slavery
than of those whom
we meet on the street.
The adoration we have for our native land
would be good and praiseworthy if it did not degenerate, as we see it does
everywhere, into vanity,
the spirit of predominance,
acquisitiveness,
hate,
envy,
nationalism, and
militarism.
The
monstrous distortion of the patriotic
sentiment is increasingly killing
off humanity. Mankind is committing
suicide. Our age is an
agony."
Two men have a simultaneous vision: "A cancer!"
Dr. Hawthorn grew animated, succumbing
to the evidence.
"I know as well as you do
that posterity will judge severely those who
have made a fetish of the
institutions of
oppression and have cultivated and
spread the ideas supporting them.
I know that the cure for an abuse
does not begin until we
refuse to submit to the cult that consecrates it.
And I, who have
devoted myself for half a century to the great discoveries that have changed
the face of the world, I know that in
introducing an innovation one
encounters hostility." - Henri Barbusse
Dr. David Hawthorn and Angus Starling from The Ghost and the
Darkness fill the roles of generic characters in this Henri Barbusse
tale. |
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