“And what about the Empire?” “That again isn’t my job. I’m only one man, and I know it. But personally, I’d say to India and Australia and all of them the same--if you want to stay in the Empire, stay; if you want to go out, go.” “And suppose they went out?” “That’s their affair.” “Supposing Australia said she was coming out of the Empire and governing herself, and only keeping a sort of entente with Britain. What do you think she’d make of it?” “By the looks of things, I think she’d make a howling mess of it. Yet it might do her good if she were thrown entirely on her own resources. You’ve got to have something to keep you steady. England has really kept the world steady so far--as steady as it’s been. That’s my opinion. Now she’s not keeping it very steady, and the world’s sick of being bossed, anyhow. Seems to me you may as well sink or swim on your own resources.” “Perhaps we’re too likely to find ourselves sinking.” “Then you’ll come to your senses, after you’ve sunk for the third time.” “What, about England? Cling to England again, you mean?” “No, I don’t. I mean you can’t put the brotherhood of man on a wage basis.” “That’s what a good many people say here,” put in Jack. “You don’t trust socialism then?” said Jaz, in a quiet voice. “What sort of socialism? Trades unionism? Soviet?” “Yes, any.” “I really don’t care about politics. Politics is no more than your country’s housekeeping. If I had to swallow my whole life up in housekeeping, I wouldn’t keep house at all; I’d sleep under a hedge. Same with a country and politics. I’d rather have no country than be gulfed in politics and social stuff. I’d rather have the moon for a motherland.” Jaz was silent for a time, contemplating his knuckles. “And that,” he said, “is how the big majority of Australians feel, and that’s why they care nothing about Australia. It’s cruel to the country.” “Anyhow, no sort of _politics_ will help the country,” said Somers. “If it won’t, then nothing will,” retorted Jaz. “So you’d advise us all to be like seven-tenths of us here, not care a blooming hang about anything except your dinner and which horse gets in?” asked Jack, not without sarcasm. Now Richard was silent, driven into a corner. “Why,” he said, “there’s just this difference. The bulk of Australians don’t care about Australia--that is, you say they don’t. And why don’t they? Because they care about nothing at all, neither in earth below or heaven above. They just blankly don’t care about anything, and they live in defiance, a sort of slovenly defiance of care of any sort, human or inhuman, good or bad. If they’ve got one belief left, now the war’s safely over, it’s a dull, rock-bottom belief in obstinately not caring, not caring about anything. It seems to me they think it manly, the only manliness, not to care, not to think, not to attend to life at all, but just to tramp blankly on from moment to moment, and over the edge of death without caring a straw. The final manliness.”