"Judge for yourself: one cannot teach people mercy, sense, logic--teach them to act consciously for tens and hundreds of years running with impunity. And, in particular, to act consciously. One can become merciless, lose all sensitiveness, get accustomed to blood and tears and pain--for instance butchers, and some doctors and officers do, but how can one renounce truth, after one has learnt to know it? In my opinion it is impossible. I was taught from infancy not to torture animals and be compassionate; all the books that I read told me the same, and I am painfully sorry for all those that suffer at your cursed war. But time passes, and I am beginning to get accustomed to all those deaths, sufferings and all this blood; I feel that I am getting less sensitive, less responsive in my everyday life and respond only to great stimulants, but I cannot get accustomed to war; my brain refuses to understand and explain a thing that is senseless in its basis. Millions of people gather at one place and, giving their actions order and regularity, kill each other, and it hurts everybody equally, and all are unhappy--what is it if not madness?" My brother turned round and looked at me inquiringly with his short-sighted, artless eyes. "The red laugh," said I merrily, splashing about. "I will tell you the truth," and my brother put his cold hand trustingly on my shoulder, but quickly pulled it back, as if he was frightened at its being naked and wet. "I will tell you the truth; I am very much afraid of going mad. I cannot understand what is happening. I cannot understand it, and it is dreadful. If only anybody could explain it to me, but nobody can. You were at the front, you saw it all--explain it to me." "Deuce take you," answered I jokingly, splashing about. "There, and you too," said my brother, sadly. "Nobody is capable of helping me. It's dreadful. And I am beginning to lose all understanding of what is permissible and what is not, what has sense and what is senseless. If I were to seize you suddenly by the throat, at first gently, as if caressing you, and then firmly, and strangle you, what would that be?" "You are talking nonsense. Nobody does such things." My brother rubbed his cold hands, smiled softly, and continued,-- "When you were away there were nights when I did not sleep, could not sleep, and strange ideas entered my head--to take a hatchet, for instance, and go and kill everybody--mother, sister, the servants, our dog. Of course they were only fancies, and I would never do so." "I should hope not," smiled I, splashing about. "Then, again, I am afraid of knives, of all that is sharp and shining; it seems to me that if I were to take up a knife I should certainly kill somebody with it. Now, is it not true--why should I not plunge it into somebody, if it were sharp enough?" "The argument is sufficient. What a queer fellow you are, brother! Just open the hot-water tap."