Tournai with its five clock-towers, Ghent, and Bruges, Louvain and Antwerp, Rheims and Westminster, Under the round white moon, on Christmas Eve, With towers of frozen needlework, and spires That point to God; but all their painted panes Bursting with dreadful arms and gaping faces, Gargoyles of flesh; and round them, in the snow, The little cardinals, like gouts of blood, The little bishops, running like white mice, Hooded with violet spots, quite, quite dismayed To find there was no room for them within Upon that holy night when Christ was born. But perhaps if Goya were living to-day he would prefer to pack them into Chicago meat factories, with the intellectuals dancing outside like marionettes, and the unconscious Hand of God pulling the strings. You know one of their very latest theories is that He is a somnambulist. TARRASCH (_to RADA_). You should read Schopenhauer, my dear, and learn to estimate these emotions at their true value. You would then be able to laugh at these feelings which seem to you now so important. It is the mark of _Kultur_ to be able to laugh at all sentiments. Isn't it? NANKO. The priests, I suppose, are still balancing themselves on the tight-rope, over the jaws of the crowd. The poor old Pope did his best for his Master, when the Emperor asked him for a blessing on the war. "_I_ bless Peace," said the Pope; but nobody listened. I composed a little poem about that. I called it St. Peter's Christmas. It went like this:-- And does the Cross of Christ still stand? Yes, though His friends may watch from far-- And who is this at His right hand, This Rock in the red surf of war? This, this is he who once denied, And turned and wept and turned again. Last night before an Emperor's pride He stood and blotted out that stain. Last night an Emperor bared the sword And bade him bless. He stood alone. Alone in all the world, _his_ word Confessed--and blessed--a loftier throne. I hear, still travelling towards the Light, In widening waves till Time shall cease, The Power that breathed from Rome last night His infinite whisper--_I bless Peace._ (_TARRASCH and BRANDER applaud ironically._) [Illustration: OVER THE JAWS OF THE CROWD] TARRASCH. Excellent! Excellent! (_To RADA_) You should have seen our brave soldiers laughing--do you remember, Brander--at a little village near Termonde. They made the old vicar and his cook dance naked round the dead body of his wife, who had connived at the escape of her daughter from a Prussian officer. NANKO. Ah, that was reality, wasn't it? None of your provincial respectability about that, none of your shallow conventionality! That's what the age wants--realism! TARRASCH. It was brutal, I confess; but better than British hypocrisy, eh? There was something great about it, like the neighing of the satyrs in the Venusberg music.