‘It is nothing of the sort,’ said the other. ‘You know it is your great
curse, my dear Lucian, that you never get a clear notion of the truth.
You have a trick of seeing things as you think they ought to be; you
will not see them as they are. Just because the Boers happen to be
numerically small, to lead a pastoral life, and to have gone into the
desert like the Israelites of old, you have brought that far too
powerful imagination of yours to bear upon them, and have elevated them
into a class with the Swiss and the Italians, who fought for their
country.’
‘What are the Boers fighting for?’ asked Lucian.
‘At present to grab somebody else’s property,’ returned the other.
‘Don’t get sentimental about them. After all, much as you love us,
you’re only half an Englishman, and you don’t understand the English
feeling. Are the English folk not suffering, and is a Boer widow or a
Boer orphan more worthy of pity than a Yorkshire lass whose lad is lying
dead out there, or a Scottish child whose father will never come back
again?’
Lucian swept these small and insignificant details aside with some
impatience.
‘You are the mightiest nation the world has ever seen,’ he said. ‘You
have a past--such a past as no other people can boast. You have a
responsibility because of that past, and at present you have thrown all
sense of it away, and are behaving like the drunken brute who rises
gorged with flesh and wine, and yells for blood. This is an England with
vine-leaves in her hair--it is not the England of Cromwell.’
‘I thank God it is not!’ said the other man with heartfelt reverence.
‘We wish for no dictatorship here. Come, leave off slanging us in this
bloodthirsty fashion, and try to arrive at a sensible view of things.
Turn your energies to a practical direction--write a new romantic play
for Harcourt, something that will cheer us in these dark days, and give
the money for bandages and warm socks and tobacco for poor Tommy out at
the front. He isn’t as picturesque--so it’s said--as Brother Boer, but
he’s a man after all, and has a stomach.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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