their
dreams from steeple to steeple in foreign lands. The sacred defense of
the homeland--well and good. But if there was no offensive war there
would be defensive war. Defensive war has the same infamous cause as
the offensive war which provoked it; why do we not confess it? We
persist, through blindness or duplicity, in cutting the question in
two, as if it were too great. All fallacies are possible when one
speculates on morsels of truth. But Earth only bears one single sort
of inhabitant.

It is not enough to put something on the end of a stick in public
places, to shake it on the tops of buildings and in the faces of public
assemblies, and say, "It is decided that this is the loftiest of all
symbols; it is decided that he who will not bend the knee before it
shall be accursed." It is the duty of human intelligence to examine if
that symbolism is not fetish-worship.

As for me, I remember it was said that logic has terrible chains and
that all hold together--the throne, the altar, the sword and the flag.
And I have read, in the unchaining and the chaining-up of war, that
these are the instruments of the cult of human sacrifices.

Marie has sat down again, and I strolled away a little, musing.

I recall the silhouette of Adjutant Marcassin, and him whom I quoted a
moment ago--the sincere hero, barren and dogmatic, with his furious
faith. I seem to be asking him, "Do you believe in beauty, in
progress?" He does not know, so he replies, "No! I only believe in
the glory of the French name!" "Do you believe in respect for life, in
the dignity of labor, in the holiness of happiness?" "No." "Do you
believe in truth, in justice?" "No, I only believe in the glory of the
French name."

The idea of motherland--I have never dared to look it in the face. I
stand still in my walk and in my meditation. What, that also? But my
reason is as honest as my heart, and keeps me going forward. Yes, that
also.

In the friendly solitude of these familiar spots on the top of this
hill, at these cross-roads where the lane has led me like an unending
companion, not far from the place where the gentle slope waits for you
to entice you, I quake to hear myself think and blaspheme. What, that
notion of Motherland also, which has so often thrilled me with gladness
and enthusiasm, as but lately that of God did?

But it is in Motherland's name, as once in the name of God only, that
humanity robs itself and tries to choke