In every
country envy and hatred of every other country was preached as a
religion. They called it patriotism. Sooner or later the spark fell.
A wizened little man had been listening to it all one day. He had a
curiously rat-like face, with round, red, twinkling eyes, and a long,
pointed nose that twitched as he talked.
"I'll tell you who makes all the wars," he said. "It's you and me, my
dears: we make the wars. We love them. That's why we open our mouths
and swallow all the twaddle that the papers give us; and cheer the fine,
black-coated gentlemen when they tell us it's our sacred duty to kill
Germans, or Italians, or Russians, or anybody else. We are just crazy to
kill something: it doesn't matter what. If it's to be Germans, we shout
'_A Berlin_!'; and if it's to be Russians we cheer for Liberty. I was in
Paris at the time of the Fashoda trouble. How we hissed the English in
the cafes! And how they glared back at us! They were just as eager to
kill us. Who makes a dog fight? Why, the dog. Anybody can do it. Who
could make us fight each other, if we didn't want to? Not all the king's
horses and all the King's men.
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