" He laughed. "What does it mean in
reality: Germania, Italia, La France, Britannia? Half a score of pompous
old muddlers with their fat wives egging them on: sons of the fools
before them; talkers who have wormed themselves into power by making
frothy speeches and fine promises. My Country!" he laughed again. "Look
at them. Can't you see their swelling paunches and their flabby faces?
Half a score of ambitious politicians, gouty old financiers, bald-headed
old toffs, with their waxed moustaches and false teeth. That's what we
mean when we talk about 'My Country': a pack of selfish, soulless, muddle-
headed old men. And whether they're right or whether they're wrong, our
duty is to fight at their bidding--to bleed for them, to die for them,
that they may grow more sleek and prosperous." He sank back on his
pillow with another laugh.
Sometimes they agreed it was the newspapers that made war--that fanned
every trivial difference into a vital question of national honour--that,
whenever there was any fear of peace, re-stoked the fires of hatred with
their never-failing stories of atrocities.
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