Leonid Andreyev: Listen to the barking of Mars!
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
Russian writers on peace and war
Leonid Andreyev: The Red Laugh
Leonid Andreyev: They make wars and kill one another
William Lyon Phelps: No more terrible protest against war has ever been written than Andreyev’s
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“Do you know, Wondergood, that the whole of Europe is now in a very uneasy state?”
“War?”
“Possibly war. Everybody is secretly expecting it….”
***
My entire beehive buzzed and suddenly thousands of faces, dim and white, beautiful and horrible, began to dance before me; thousands upon thousands of voices, noises, cries, laughters and sighs nearly set me deaf. No, this was no longer a beehive: it was a huge, fiery smithy, where firearms were being forged with the red sparks flying all about. Iron!
***
“Why go, Mr. Wondergood? Stay here for the night. Stay here and listen to the barking of Mars!”
For several days dense clouds had been gathering over Rome and a heavy rain had been beating down upon its walls and ruins. This morning I read in a newspaper a very portentous weather bulletin: cielo nuvolo il vento forte e mare molto agitato. Toward evening the threat turned into a storm and the enraged sea hurled across a range of ninety miles its moist odors upon the walls of Rome. And the real Roman sea, the billowy Campagna, sang forth with all the voices of the tempest, like the ocean, and at moments it seemed that its immovable hills, its ancient waves, long evaporated by the sun, had once more come to life and moved forward upon the city walls. Mad Mars, this creator of terror and tempest, flew like an arrow across its wide spaces, crushed the head of every blade of grass to the ground, sighed and panted and hurled heavy gusts of wind into the whining cypress trees. Occasionally he would seize and hurl the nearest objects he could lay his hands upon: the brick roofs of the houses shook beneath his blows and their stone walls roared as if inside the very stones the imprisoned wind was gasping and seeking an escape.
***
“And you who have read no books,” he said, “do you know what these books are about? Only about evil, about the mistakes and sufferings of humanity. They are filled with tears and blood, Wondergood. Look: in this thin little book which I clasp between two fingers is contained a whole ocean of human blood, and if you should take all of them together -. And who has spilled this blood? The devil?”
Charlotte M. Yonge: The snow fell far from bloodless
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Women writers on peace and war
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Charlotte M. Yonge
Grisly Grisell; Or, The Laidly Lady of Whitburn: A Tale of the Wars of the Roses
They were not molested by the war, which was decidedly a war of battles, not of sieges, but they heard far more of tidings than were wont to reach Whitburn Tower. They knew of the advance of Edward to London; and the terrible battle of Towton begun, was fought out while the snow fell far from bloodless, on Palm Sunday; and while the choir boys had been singing their Gloria, laus et honor in the gallery over the church door, shivering a little at the untimely blast, there had been grim and awful work, when for miles around the Wharfe and Aire the snow lay mixed with blood….
F. Marion Crawford: Perfect instance of a ruthless military despotism
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
American writers on peace and against war
F. Marion Crawford: Selections on war
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F. Marion Crawford
Mr. Isaacs, A Tale of Modern India
India, under the kindly British rule, is a perfect instance of a ruthless military despotism, where neither blood nor stratagem have been spared in exacting the uttermost farthing from the miserable serfs – they are nothing else – and in robbing and defrauding the rich of their just and lawful possessions. All these countries teem with stories of adventurers risen from the ranks to the command of armies, of itinerant merchants wedded to princesses, of hardy sailors promoted to admiralties, of half-educated younger sons of English peers dying in the undisputed possession of ill-gotten millions. With the strong personal despotism of the First Napoleon began a new era of adventurers in France; not of elegant and accomplished adventurers like M. de St. Germain, Cagliostro, or the Comtesse de la Motte, but regular rag-tag-and-bobtail cut-throat moss-troopers, who carved and slashed themselves into notice by sheer animal strength and brutality.
Thomas Babington Macaulay: What it is the nature of armies to become
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Thomas Babington Macaulay: Selections on war
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Thomas Babington Macaulay
John Hampden
Was it not probable that this army might become, what it is the nature of armies to become, what so many armies formed under much more favourable circumstances have become, what the army of the Roman republic became, what the army of the French republic became, an instrument of despotism? Was it not probable that the soldiers might forget that they were also citizens, and might be ready to serve their general against their country?
***
The war of the two parties was like the war of Arimanes and Oromasdes, neither of whom, according to the Eastern theologians, has any exclusive domain, who are equally omnipresent, who equally pervade all space, who carry on their eternal strife within every particle of matter. There was a petty war in almost every county. A town furnished troops to the Parliament while the manor-house of the neighbouring peer was garrisoned for the King.
Katharine Lee Bates: This war, this blasphemy that blots the globe with blood
Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
American writers on peace and against war
Women writers on peace and war
Katharine Lee Bates: Selections on war and peace
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Katharine Lee Bates
How Long?
How long, O Prince of Peace, how long? We sicken of the shame
Of this wild war that wraps the world, a roaring dragon-flame
Fed on earth’s glorious youth, high hearts all passionate to cope
– O Chivalry of Hope! –
With the cloudy host of the infidel and the Holy Earth reclaim.
For each dear land is Holy Land to her own fervent sons
Who fling in loyal sacrifice their lives before the guns,
But when they meet their foes above the battle smoke, they laugh,
And all together quaff
The cup of welcome Honor pouts for her slain champions.
Oh, if a thousandth part of all this treasure, purpose, skill,
Were poured into the crucible transforming wrong and ill,
By the white magic of a wise and generous brotherhood,
To righteousness and good,
The world would be divine again, with eerie war-cry still.
Poor world so worn with wickedness, bedimmed with rage and fear,
Sad world that sprang forth singing from God’s hand, a golden sphere,
O yet may Love’s creative breath renew thee, fashioned twice
A shining Paradise,
Unsullied in the astral choir, with Joy for charioteer.
How long shall bomb and bullet think for human brains? How long
Shall folk of the burned villages in starving, staggering throng
Flee from the armies that, in turn, are mangled, maddened, slain,
Till earth is all one stain
Of horror, and the soaring larks are slaughtered in their song?
Oh, may this war, this blasphemy that blots the globe with blood,
Slay war forever, cleanse the earth in its own mighty flood
Of tears, tears unassuageable, that will not cease to fall
Till Time has covered all
Our guilty century with sleep, and the new eras bud!
How long? The angels of the stars entreat the clouded Throne
In anguish for their brother Earth, who stands, like Cain, alone,
And hides the mark upon his brow, the while their harps implore
The Silence to restore
Peace to this wayward Son of God, whose music is a moan.
Come swiftly, Peace! Oh, swiftly come, with healing in thy feet;
Bring back to tortured battlefields the waving of the wheat;
Bring back to broken hearths, whereby the wistful ghosts will walk,
Blithe hum of household talk,
Till childhood dare to sport again and maidenhood be sweet,
Though thou must come by crimson road, with grief and mercy come,
Not with the insolence of strength, the boast of fife and drum;
Come with adventure in thine eyes for the splendid tasks that wait,
To weld these desolate
Crushed lands into the fellowship of thy millennium.
O Peace, to rear thy temple that no strife may overawe!
O Purity, to fashion thee a palace without flaw! Galilee,
To build the state on thee,
And shape the deeds of nations by thy yet untested law!
Eden Phillpotts: We are suffering from a sort of universal shell shock
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Eden Phillpotts: Not exactly inhuman. The war changed the face of the world forever.
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Eden Phillpotts
The Red Redmaynes
“Men do their best for two things, Albert,” replied Mr. Ganns. “For love and for hate; and without these tremendous incitements not the least or greatest among us can reach the limit of his powers.”
‘‘True, and perhaps that explains the present European attitude. The war has left us incapable of any supreme activity. Enthusiasm is dead; consequently the enthusiasm of good-will lacks from our councils and we drift, without any great guiding hand upon the tiller of destiny. Heart and brains are at odds, groping on different roads instead of advancing together by the one and only road. We see no great men. There are, of course, leaders, great by contrast with those they lead; but history will declare us a generation of dwarfs and show how, for once, man stood at a crisis of his destiny when those mighty enough to face it failed to appear. Now that is a situation unparalleled in my knowledge of the past. Until now, the hour has always brought the man.”
“We drift, as you say,” answered Ganns, dusting his white waistcoat. ‘‘We are suffering from a sort of universal shell shock, Albert; and from my angle of observation I perceive how closely crime depends upon nerves. Indifference in the educated takes the shape of lawlessness in the masses; and the breakdown of our economical laws provokes to fury and despair. Our equilibrium is gone in every direction. For example the balance between work and recreation has been destroyed. This restless condition will take a decade of years to control, and the present craving for that excitement, to which we were painfully accustomed during the years of war, is leaving a marked and dangerous brand on the minds of the rising generation. From this restlessness to criminal methods of satisfying it is but a step.”
Katharine Lee Bates: Have horses, then, no God?
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
American writers on peace and against war
Women writers on peace and war
Katharine Lee Bates: Selections on war and peace
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Katharine Lee Bates
The Horses
‘Thus far 80,000 horses have been shipped from the United States to the
European belligerents.’
What was our share in the sinning,
That we must share the doom?
Sweet was our life’s beginning
In the spicy meadow-bloom,
With children’s hands to pet us
And kindly tones to call.
To-day the red spurs fret us
Against the bayonet wall.
What had we done, our masters,
That you sold us into hell?
Our terrors and disasters
Have filled your pockets well.
You feast on our starvation;
Your laughter is our groan.
Have horses then no nation,
No country of their own?
What are we, we your horses,
So loyal where we serve,
Fashioned of noble forces
All sensitive with nerve?
Torn, agonized, we wallow
On the blood-bemired sod;
And still the shiploads follow.
Have horses then no God?
Eden Phillpotts: Not exactly inhuman. The war changed the face of the world forever.
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Eden Phillpotts: We are suffering from a sort of universal shell shock
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Eden Phillpotts
The Red Redmaynes
“Then broke the war, on those awful days in August, and the face of the world changed – I suppose forever.”
***
“I should say we have to do with an unfortunate man who’s gone mad,” replied the detective; “and a madman doesn’t take long to find as a rule. I think it’s murder right enough and I believe we shall find that this soldier, who’s had shell shock, turned on Pendean and cut his throat….”
***
“Captain Redmayne, I hear, had suffered from shell shock and a breath of poison gas also. Did you ever notice any signs that these troubles had left any mark upon him?”
“Yes,” she answered. “We all did. My mother was the first to point out that Bob often repeated himself. He was a man of great good temper, but the war had made him rough and cynical in some respects. He was impatient….”
“Did he quarrel often?”
“He was very opinionated and, of course, he had seen a good deal of actual war. It had made him a little callous and he would sometimes say things that shocked civilians. Then they would protest and make
him angry.”
***
“He was a rover and the war had made him – not exactly inhuman, but apparently unconscious of his own obligations to society and his own duty, as a reasonable being, to help build up the broken organization of social life.
***
“It’s a very ugly thing for his family. He did good work in the war and got honours; and if he’s mad, then the war made him mad.”
***
“I used to declare in my foolishness that I had escaped the war. But no – it is the war that has killed my dear, dear husband – not Uncle Robert. I see that now.”
Katharine Lee Bates: We’re only mules that suffered so, contraband of war
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
American writers on peace and against war
Women writers on peace and war
Katharine Lee Bates: Selections on war and peace
====
Katharine Lee Bates
Only Mules
‘The submarine was quite within its rights in sinking the cargo of the
Armenian,—1,422 mules valued at $191,400.’
No matter; we are only mules
And slow to understand
We drown according to the rules
Of war, we contraband
War reckons us as shot and shell,
As so much metal lost.
And mourns the dollars gone to swell
The monstrous bill of cost.
Would that we had been wrought of steel
And not of quivering flesh!
Of iron, not of nerves that feel,
And maddened limbs that thresh
The sucking seas in stubborn strife
For that dim right of ours
To what no factory fashions, life,
No Edison endowers.
Our last wild screams are choked; you know
It does not matter, for
We’re only mules that suffered so,
And contraband of war
William Blake: Heaven and earth to peace beguiles
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
William Blake: Selections on war and peace
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William Blake
Cradle Song
Sweet dreams form a shade,
O’er my lovely infants head.
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams,
By happy silent moony beams
Sweet sleep with soft down.
Weave thy brows an infant crown.
Sweet sleep Angel mild,
Hover o’er my happy child.
Sweet smiles in the night,
Hover over my delight.
Sweet smiles Mothers smiles,
All the livelong night beguiles.
Sweet moans, dovelike sighs,
Chase not slumber from thy eyes,
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles,
All the dovelike moans beguiles.
Sleep sleep happy child,
All creation slept and smil’d.
Sleep sleep, happy sleep.
While o’er thee thy mother weep
Sweet babe in thy face,
Holy image I can trace.
Sweet babe once like thee.
Thy maker lay and wept for me
Wept for me for thee for all,
When he was an infant small.
Thou his image ever see.
Heavenly face that smiles on thee,
Smiles on thee on me on all,
Who became an infant small,
Infant smiles are His own smiles,
Heaven & earth to peace beguiles.
Katharine Lee Bates: The pity of it. Stars look down, like eyes of the slain.
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
American writers on peace and against war
Women writers on peace and war
Katharine Lee Bates: Selections on war and peace
====
Katharine Lee Bates
The Pity of It
I. In South Africa
Over the lonesome African plain
The stars look down, like eyes of the slain.
A bumping ride across gullies and ruts,
Now a grumble and now a jest,
A bit of profanity jolted out,
-Whist!
Into a hornet’s nest!
Curse on the scout!
Long-bearded Boers rising out of the rocks,
Rocks that already are crimson-splashed,
Ping-ping of bullets, stabbings and cuts,
As if hell hurtled and hissed,
-Then, muffling the shocks,
A sting in the breast,
A mist,
A woman’s face down the darkness flashed,
Rest.
All as before, save for still forms spread
Under the boulders dripping red.
Over the lonesome African plain
The stars look down, like eyes of the slain.
II. In the Philippines
Silvery rice-fields whisper wide
How for home and freedom their owners died.
We’ve set the torch to their bamboo town,
And out they come in a scampering rush,
Little brown men with spears.
Shoot!
Down they go in a crush,
Sickening smears,
Hideous writhing huddles and heaps
Under the palms and the mango-trees.
More, still more! Shoot ’em down
Like brown jack-rabbits that scoot
With comical leaps
Out of the brush.
No loot?
No prisoners, then. As for these –
Hush!
The flag that dreamed of delivering
Shudders and droops like a broken wing.
Silvery rice fields whisper wide
How for home and freedom their owners died.
Friedrich Schiller: War makes gold out of iron
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
German writers on peace and war
Friedrich Schiller: Selections on peace and war
====
Friedrich Schiler
Demetrius
Translated by Charles E. Passage
Across these lovely meadows peace still dwells,
And here I come with the appalling gear
Of war to lay them waste in hostile spirit!
***
Sell or pawn your farmsteads,
Coin all you own, invest in horse and armor,
War is the best of husbandmen: he makes
Gold out of iron.
***
By foreign weapons no throne can be founded,
No nation yet with self-respect has ever
Against its will had rulers forced upon it.
Louis Couperus: Peace! The pure, immaculate ideal suddenly streamed like a silver banner.
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
Dutch writers on war and peace
Louis Couperus: The peace speech
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Louis Couperus
The Later Life
Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos
Oh, she now for the first time understood what he had said, on that first evening when she saw and heard him, about Peace!…Peace! The pure, immaculate ideal suddenly streamed before her like a silver banner, fluttered in the wide cloudy skies! Oh, she now for the first time understood…why he sought. He had wanted to seek…life!
***
…he was scarcely back in Europe before he felt the air around him full of noble aims, passionate hopes; and Peace had shone before his eyes. He spoke; and his words were as the words of one inspired; and everybody went to hear him. He had spoken in Holland; he now went to Germany and spoke there. He wrote his book there: Peace.
***
“I have read your book!” was the first thing that she said to him, radiantly.
“Well?” he asked, while his deep, almost somber eyes laughed in his rough, bronzed face.
She would not tell him that the book, Peace, written in his clear, luminous style, prophesying in ringing tones the great watchword of the future, had consoled her for his three months’ absence. She managed to speak of it in terms of quiet appreciation, betraying no sign of her enthusiasm except by an added brightness in her eyes and a curious lilt in her voice, with its echo of summer and of caroling birds. The book was a great success, written as it were in one breath, as though he had uttered it in a single sentence of quiet knowledge, warning them of the coming changes in the world; in a single sentence of quiet consolation, foretelling its future destinies. There was in his words, in that one long sentence of prophetic consolation, an irresistible sweetness, a magic charm which affected for a moment even the most sceptical of his readers, even though they scoffed at it immediately afterwards; something wonderful, inspired … and so simple that the word was spoken almost without art, only with a note that sounded strangely clear, as though echoing from some higher plane. He had thought out the book during his lecturing-period in Holland and Germany; he had written it up there, high up in the Alps, with his eyes roaming over the ice-bound horizons; and it had often seemed to him as if Peace were waving her argent banners in the pure air, her joyous processions descending from the eternal snows of the upper air to the pollution of the lower, to trumpet forth with blithe clarions the holy tidings, the fair, unfaltering prophecy….
***
“I may go to England in the autumn, to lecture on Peace. The world is full of mighty problems; and we…we are pigmies…in the tiny worlds of our own selves….”
Louis Couperus: The peace speech
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
Dutch writers on war and peace
Louis Couperus: Peace! The pure, immaculate ideal suddenly streamed like a silver banner.
====
Louis Couperus
The Later Life
Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos
“Lectures?” cried Van der Welcke, in astonishment. “What made you think of that? Do you do it to make money? Don’t you find it a bore to stand jawing in front of a lot of people for an hour at a time?”
“Not a bit,” said Brauws. “I’m lecturing on Peace.”
“Peace?” cried Van der Welcke, his blue orbs shining in wide-eyed young amazement through the blue haze of his cigarette-smoke. “What Peace?”
“Peace, simply.”
***
“And your old Peace?”
“Very little as yet, at any rate….Perhaps later….Luckily, there’s the future.”
But Van der Welcke shrugged his shoulders and demolished Peace in a few ready-made sentences: there would always be war; it was one of those Utopian ideas….
Brauws only smiled.
***
The newspapers printed lengthy reports of Brauws’ speeches on Peace. He spoke in all the large Dutch towns and in many of the smaller ones. When he was to speak at the Hague for the second time, Van der Welcke said, excitedly:
“Constance, you must absolutely go and hear Brauws this evening. He’s grand….”
=
Brauws at once began to speak from the rostrum. He had nothing with him, not a note; and his voice was firm but very gentle. He began with a masterly exposition of the present political situation, sketching it in broad outlines, like an enormous picture, for all those people in front of him. His voice became clearer; his eyes looked through the hall, steady and bright, like two shining stars. Constance, who seldom read any political news, listened, was at once interested, wondered vaguely for a moment that she lived like that, from day to day, without knowing the times in which she lived. The present took shape before her in those few sentences of Brauws’. Then he spoke of Peace, which would be essential sooner or later, which was already making its joyous way into the mind of the nations, even though they were actually still waging war upon one another. It was as though wide and radiant vistas opened under his words; and his voice, at first so gentle, now rang through the hall, triumphantly confirming the glad tidings. He spoke without pausing, for two hours on end; and, when he stopped, the hall was breathless for a moment, the audience forgot to cheer. Then indeed applause burst forth, jubilant….
***
Van der Welcke protested vehemently, as he pushed through the close-packed crowd, and declared that he was converted, that he believed in Peace. “My dear fellow!” cried Van der Welcke, still bubbling over with enthusiasm. “You’ve converted me! I believe in it, I believe in that Peace of yours!”
Thomas Babington Macaulay: Selections on war
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
====
Thomas Babington Macaulay: Selections on war
Thomas Babington Macaulay: Drive for transatlantic dominion leads to endless wars, empty treasuries
Thomas Babington Macaulay: Loving war for its own sake
Thomas Babington Macaulay: The real fruits of even triumphant war
Thomas Babington Macaulay: The self-perpetuating role of the army
Thomas Babington Macaulay: What it is the nature of armies to become
Thomas Babington Macaulay: Why local wars, growing into world wars, are really fought
Friedrich Schiller: War will not spare the tender infant in his cradle
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
German writers on peace and war
Friedrich Schiller: Selections on peace and war
====
Friedrich Schiller
William Tell
STAUFFACHER:
They’re waiting only for a pretext to
Unleash the savage hordes of military
Might against this poor defenseless country.
Just so they may rule as conquerors….
STAUFFACHER:
O Wife, war is a frightful, raging horror,
It strikes the herds and strikes the herdsmen also.
GERTRUD:
Man must endure whatever Heaven sends;
A noble heart will not endure injustice.
STAUFFACHER:
You like this house that we have just built new,
But monstrous war will burn it to the ground.
GERTRUD:
If my heart were bound fast to earthly goods
I would set fire to it with my own hand.
STAUFFACHER:
You have faith in humanity. War will
Not spare the tender infant in his cradle.
***
REDING:
We ought to try this final measure first
And lay our grievances before his ear
Before we take up weapons. Force is always
Monstrous, even when the cause is just.
Thomas Babington Macaulay: The real fruits of even triumphant war
====
Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Thomas Babington Macaulay: Selections on war
====
Thomas Babington Macauley
Frederic the Great
A succession of cruel wars had devastated Europe, had thinned the population, had exhausted the public resources, had loaded governments with an immense burden of debt; and when, after two hundred years of murderous hostility or of hollow truce, the illustrious Houses whose enmity had distracted the world sat down to count their gains, to what did the real advantage on either side amount? Simply to this, that they had kept each other from thriving.
***
The great object of Austria was to regain Silesia; the great object of France was to obtain an accession of territory on the side of Flanders. If they took opposite sides, the result would probably be that, after a war of many years, after the slaughter of many thousands of brave men, after the waste of many millions of crowns, they would lay down their arms without having achieved either object….
***
He entered Berlin in triumph….Yet, even in the midst of that gay spectacle, he could not but perceive everywhere the traces of destruction and decay. The city had been more than once plundered. The population had considerably diminished. Berlin, however, had suffered little when compared with most parts of the kingdom. The ruin of private fortunes, the distress of all ranks, was such as might appall the firmest mind. Almost every province had been the seat of war, and of war conducted with merciless ferocity. Clouds of Croatians had descended on Silesia. Tens of thousands of Cossacks had been let loose on Pomerania and Brandenburg. The mere contributions levied by the invaders amounted, it was said, to more than a hundred millions of dollars; and the value of what they extorted was probably much less than the value of what they destroyed. The fields lay uncultivated. The very seed-corn had been devoured in the madness of hunger. Famine, and contagious maladies produced by famine, had swept away the herds and flocks; and there was reason to fear that a great pestilence among the human race was likely to follow in the train of that tremendous war. Near fifteen thousand houses had been burned to the ground. The population of the kingdom had in seven years decreased to the frightful extent of ten per cent. A sixth of the males capable of bearing arms had actually perished on the field of battle. In some districts, no labourers, except women, were seen in the fields at harvest-time. In others, the traveller passed shuddering through a succession of silent villages, in which not a single inhabitant remained. The currency had been debased; the authority of laws and magistrates had been suspended; the whole social system was deranged. For, during that convulsive struggle, everything that was not military violence was anarchy. Even the army was disorganised. Some great generals, and a crowd of excellent officers, had fallen, and it had been impossible to supply their place. The difficulty of finding recruits had, towards the close of the war, been so great, that selection and rejection were impossible. Whole battalions were composed of deserters or of prisoners. It was hardly to be hoped that thirty years of repose and industry would repair the ruin produced by seven years of havoc.
Friedrich Schiller: Selections on peace and war
====
Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
German writers on peace and war
====
Friedrich Schiller: Selections on peace and war
Friedrich Schiller: Beauty, peace and reconciliation
Friedrich Schiller: Nothing attests them but devastation
Friedrich Schiller: Oh, blessed peace, may the day of grim War’s ruthless crew never dawn
Friedrich Schiller: War makes gold out of iron
Friedrich Schiller: War will not spare the tender infant in his cradle
Thomas Babington Macauley: Why local wars, growing into world wars, are really fought
====
Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Thomas Babington Macaulay: Selections on war
====
Thomas Babington Macauley
Von Ranke
The evils of the war, the waste of life, the suspension of trade, the expenditure of wealth, the accumulation of debt, require no illustration.
***
Frederic the Great
In manifestoes he might, for form’s sake, insert some idle stories about his antiquated claim on Silesia; but in his conversations and Memoirs he took a very different tone. His own words are: “Ambition, interest, the desire of making people talk about me, carried the day; and I decided for war.”
***
Had the Silesian question been merely a question between Frederic and Maria Theresa, it would be impossible to acquit the Prussian King of gross perfidy. But when we consider the effects which his policy produced, and could not fail to produce, on the whole community of civilised nations, we are compelled to pronounce a condemnation still more severe. Till he began the war, it seemed possible, even probable, that the peace of the world would be preserved….To throw all Europe into confusion for a purpose clearly unjust, was no light matter. England was true to her engagements. The voice of Fleury had always been for peace. He had a conscience. He was now in extreme old age, and was unwilling, after a life which, when his situation was considered, must be pronounced singularly pure, to carry the fresh stain of a great crime before the tribunal of his God. Even the vain and unprincipled Belle-Isle, whose whole life was one wild day-dream of conquest and spoliation, felt that France, bound as she was by solemn stipulations, could not, without disgrace, make a direct attack on the Austrian dominions….
***
The whole world sprang to arms. On the head of Frederic is all the blood which was shed in a war which raged during many years and in every quarter of the globe, the blood of the column of Fontenoy, the blood of the mountaineers who were slaughtered at Culloden. The evils produced by his wickedness were felt in lands where the name of Prussia was unknown; and, in order that he might rob a neighbour whom he had promised to defend, black men fought on the coast of Coromandel, and red men scalped each other by the Great Lakes of North America.
***
Thirty years during which Europe had, with few interruptions, enjoyed repose, had prepared the public mind for great military efforts. A new generation had grown up, which could not remember the siege of Turin or the slaughter of Malplaquet; which knew war by nothing but its trophies; and which, while it looked with pride on the tapestries at Blenheim, or the statue in the Place of Victories, little thought by what privations, by what waste of private fortunes, by how many bitter tears, conquests must be purchased.
***
The French were compelled to evacuate Bohemia, and with difficulty effected their escape. The whole line of their retreat might be tracked by the corpses of thousands who had died of cold, fatigue, and hunger. Many of those who reached their country carried with them the seeds of death.
Friedrich Schiller: Nothing attests them but devastation
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
German writers on peace and war
Friedrich Schiller: Selections on peace and war
====
Friedrich Schiller
The Bride of Messina
Translated by Charles E. Passage
Among the brief-yeared race of men
Life’s goods are given with partiality,
But Nature is just everlastingly.
Us she favored with the vital fill
Of vigor forever renewable,
To them was apportioned the force of will
And strength forever indominable.
Armed with a power so dread, they do
Whatever their hearts incline them to,
Filling the earth with the sound of might;
But after the towering loftiness
Follows the thunderous fall from the height.
Hence I will praise my lowliness,
Cloaking in weakness my defense.
Those great storm-streams of force immense,
Gathered from endless stones of hail,
Gathered from cloudbursts wild in the gale,
Darkly rush and deadly assail,
Wresting bridges and dikes alike.
Thundering on with watery sway,
Nothing exists that can slow or stay
Their sweep. But they were born of an hour;
To seep into sands of desolation
In the end of their fearful course of power,
Nothing attests them but devastation.
Alien conquerors come and go;
We obey them, but remain here below.
***
…Inclination
Gives us a friend, advantage a companion,
But happy he to whom birth gave a brother!
That, Fortune cannot give. That friend is given
To him by birth, and opposite a world
Of war and treachery he stand two-fold.
***
Blessed is he who far from strife,
Amid rural meadows undefiled,
Far from the distractions of life,
Lies at Nature’s breast like a child.
For my heart is heavy in Princes’ halls
When from the peak of Fortune’s prime
I see how the most exalted falls
In the swiftness of an instant’s time.
Friedrich Schiller: Why draw our swords in a kind of craze?
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
German writers on peace and war
Friedrich Schiller: Selections on peace and war
====
Friedrich Schiller
The Bride of Messina
Translated by Charles E. Passage
What do we peace-abiding folk care for
Our rulers’ quarrels? Must we be destroyed
Because your sons wage frantic mutual war?
***
Deep in its scabbard
Let the sword rest,
Chained outside of the gates
Let Discord be left, the serpent-haired monster.
***
Listen to what I thought in my mind
As I walked at leisure where the roadways wind
Between the high and billowing wheat,
Lost in reflection sweet and deep.
In the frenzy of fighting we have no thought
To take good counsel or see things plain,
For rage of blood has made us distraught.
Are they not ours, these fields of grain?
These elms overgrown with the clustering vine,
Are they not children of our own sunshine?
Could we not in pleasant enjoyment
Spin ourselves innocent, comfortable days
And merrily win ourselves life’s easy ways?
Why draw our swords in a kind of craze
For an alien clan and an alien name?
Walter Scott: Total absence of armed men and soldiers in this peaceful country
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Walter Scott: Selections on war
====
Walter Scott
Anne of Geierstein
…Provence as the Arcadia of France.
But the greatest singularity was, in the eyes of Arthur, the total absence of armed men and soldiers in this peaceful country. In England, no man stirred without his long-bow, sword, and buckler. In France, the hind wore armour even when he was betwixt the stilts of his plough. In Germany, you could not look along a mile of highway but the eye was encountered by clouds of dust, out of which were seen, by fits, waving feathers and flashing armour. Even in Switzerland, the peasant, if he had a journey to make, though but of a mile or two, cared not to travel without his halberd and two-handed sword. But in Provence all seemed quiet and peaceful, as if the music of the land had lulled to sleep all its wrathful passions. Now and then a mounted cavalier might pass them, the harp at whose saddle-bow, or carried by one of his attendants, attested the character of a Troubadour, which was affected by men of all ranks; and then only a short sword on his left thigh, borne for show rather than use, was a necessary and appropriate part of his equipment.
***
“Peace,” said Arthur, as he looked around him, “is an inestimable jewel; but it will….”
***
“No vain pride of mine,” said the noble old man, his eyes swelling with tears, as he knelt on one knee, “shall prevent me from personal humiliation, when peace – that blessed peace, so dear to God, so inappreciably valuable to man….”
***
“Bethink you, my brave and worthy host, you are an ambassador seeking a national peace, I a trader seeking private gain. War, or quarrels which may cause war, are alike ruinous to your purpose and mine….”
Walter Scott: War, calamity inflicted and endured by God’s creatures on each side
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Walter Scott: Selections on war
====
Walter Scott
Anne of Geierstein
“You are no wise merchant, kind guest,” answered the host, “if you regard success in former desperate undertakings as an encouragement to future rashness. Let us make a better use of past victories. When we fought for our liberties God blessed our arms; but will He do so if we fight either for aggrandisement or for the gold of France?”
“Your doubt is just,” said the merchant, more sedately; “but suppose you draw the sword to put an end to the vexatious exactions of Burgundy?”
“Hear me, good friend,” answered the Switzer; “it may be that we of the Forest Cantons think too little of those matters of trade, which so much engross the attention of the burghers of Berne. Yet we will not desert our neighbours and allies in a just quarrel; and it is well-nigh settled that a deputation shall be sent to the Duke of Burgundy to request redress. In this embassy the General Diet now assembled at Berne have requested that I should take some share; and hence the journey in which I propose that you should accompany me.”
“It will be much to my satisfaction to travel in your company, worthy host,” said the Englishman. “But, as I am a true man, methinks your port and figure resemble an envoy of defiance rather than a messenger of peace.”
“And I too might say,” replied the Switzer, “that your language and sentiments, my honoured guest, rather belong to the sword than the measuring-wand.”
“I was bred to the sword, worthy sir, before I took the cloth-yard in my hand,” replied Philipson, smiling, “and it may be I am still more partial to my old trade than wisdom would altogether recommend.”
“I thought so,” said Arnold; “but then you fought most likely under your country’s banners against a foreign and national enemy; and in that case I will admit that war has something in it which elevates the heart above the due sense it should entertain of the calamity inflicted and endured by God’s creatures on each side. But the warfare in which I was engaged had no such gilding. It was the miserable war of Zurich, where Switzers levelled their pikes against the bosoms of their own countrymen; and quarter was asked and refused in the same kindly mountain language. From such remembrances your warlike recollections are probably free.”
The merchant hung down his head and pressed his forehead with his hand, as one to whom the most painful thoughts were suddenly recalled.
“Alas!” he said, “I deserve to feel the pain which your words inflict. What nation can know the woes of England that has not felt them – what eye can estimate them which has not seen a land torn and bleeding with the strife of two desperate factions, battles fought in every province, plains heaped with slain, and scaffolds drenched in blood! Even in your quiet valleys, methinks, you may have heard of the Civil Wars of England?”
“I do indeed bethink me,” said the Switzer, “that England had lost her possessions in France during many years of bloody internal wars concerning the colour of a rose – was it not? – But these are ended.”
“For the present,” answered Philipson, “it would seem so.”
John Middleton and Thomas Dekker: Or have the wars drink your immaculate blood
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Thomas Middleton: Selections on peace and war
Thomas Dekker: Lands ravaged by soldiers and war
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John Middleton and Thomas Dekker
The Bloody Banquet
Either, poor babes, you must pine here for food,
Or have the wars drink your immaculate blood.
I, frighted at new wars and his false breath,
Chose rather with these babes this lingering death.
A kingdom rightly possessed by course
Contains more joy than is usurp’d by force.
William Makepeace Thackeray: Only for brief intervals has the baleful light of war ceased to burn
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
William Makepeace Thackeray: Selections on war
====
William Makepeace Thackeray
Denis Duval
“I shot an English grenadier at Hastenbeck, who would have bayoneted poor Saverne but for me. As I lifted him up from the ground I thought, ‘I shall have to repent of ever having seen that man.'”
***
So as I was coming out of Rye court-house, thinking of nothing but my enemies, and my trials, and my triumphs, post-boys were galloping all over the land to announce that we were at war with France. One of them, as we made our way home, clattered past us with his twanging horn, crying his news of war with France. As we wound along the plain, we could see the French lights across the Channel. My life has lasted for fifty years since then, and scarcely ever since, but for very, very brief intervals has that baleful war-light ceased to burn.
***
So we were at war again with our neighbors across the the Channel, as well as with our rebellious children in America; and the rebellious children were having the better of the parent at this time.
Ronald Ross: The death of Peace, the most accursed crime
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
====
Ronald Ross
The Death Of Peace
Now slowly sinks the day-long labouring Sun
Behind the tranquil trees and old church-tower;
And we who watch him know our day is done;
For us too comes the evening – and the hour.
The sunbeams slanting through those ancient trees,
The sunlit lichens burning on the byre,
The lark descending, and the homing bees,
Proclaim the sweet relief all things desire.
Golden the river brims beneath the west,
And holy peace to all the world is given;
The songless stockdove preens her ruddied breast;
The blue smoke windeth like a prayer to heaven.
O old, old England, land of golden peace,
Thy fields are spun with gossameres of gold,
And golden garners gather thy increase,
And plenty crowns thy loveliness untold.
By sunlight or by starlight ever thou
Art excellent in beauty manifold;
The still star victory ever gems thy brow;
Age cannot age thee, ages make thee old.
Thy beauty brightens with the evening sun
Across the long-lit meads and distant spire:
So sleep thou well – like his thy labour done;
Rest in thy glory as he rests in fire.
But even in this hour of soft repose
A gentle sadness chides us like a friend –
The sorrow of the joy that overflows,
The burden of the beauty that must end.
And from the fading sunset comes a cry,
And in the twilight voices wailing past,
Like wild-swans calling, “When we rest we die,
And woe to them that linger and are last”;
And as the Sun sinks, sudden in heav’n new born
There shines an armed Angel like a Star,
Who cries above the darkling world in scorn,
“God comes to Judgment. Learn ye what ye are.”
From fire to umber fades the sunset-gold,
From umber into silver and twilight;
The infant flowers their orisons have told
And turn together folded for the night;
The garden urns are black against the eve;
The white moth flitters through the fragrant glooms;
How beautiful the heav’ns! – But yet we grieve
And wander restless from the lighted rooms.
For through the world to-night a murmur thrills
As at some new-born prodigy of time –
Peace dies like twilight bleeding on the hills,
And Darkness creeps to hide the hateful crime.
Art thou no more, O Maiden Heaven-born
O Peace, bright Angel of the windless morn?
Who comest down to bless our furrow’d fields,
Or stand like Beauty smiling ‘mid the corn:
Mistress of mirth and ease and summer dreams,
Who lingerest among the woods and streams
To help us heap the harvest ‘neath the moon,
And homeward laughing lead the lumb’ring teams:
Who teachest to our children thy wise lore;
Who keepest full the goodman’s golden store;
Who crownest Life with plenty, Death with flow’rs;
Peace, Queen of Kindness – but of earth, no more.
Not thine but ours the fault, thy care was vain;
For this that we have done be ours the pain;
Thou gavest much, as He who gave us all,
And as we slew Him for it thou art slain.
Heav’n left to men the moulding of their fate:
To live as wolves or pile the pillar’d State –
Like boars and bears to grunt and growl in mire,
Or dwell aloft, effulgent gods, elate.
Thou liftedst us: we slew and with thee fell –
From golden thrones of wisdom weeping fell.
Fate rends the chaplets from our feeble brows;
The spires of Heaven fade in fogs of hell.
She faints, she falls; her dying eyes are dim;
Her fingers play with those bright buds she bore
To please us, but that she can bring no more;
And dying yet she smiles – as Christ on him
Who slew Him slain. Her eyes so beauteous
Are lit with tears shed – not for herself but us.
The gentle Beings of the hearth and home;
The lovely Dryads of her aisled woods;
The Angels that do dwell in solitudes
Where she dwelleth; and joyous Spirits that roam
To bless her bleating flocks and fruitful lands;
Are gather’d there to weep, and kiss her dying hands.
“Look, look,” they cry, “she is not dead, she breathes!
And we have staunched the damned wound and deep,
The cavern-carven wound. She doth but sleep
And will awake. Bring wine, and new-wound wreaths
Wherewith to crown awaking her dear head,
And make her Queen again.” – But no, for Peace was dead.
And then there came black Lords; and Dwarfs obscene
With lavish tongues; and Trolls; and treacherous Things
Like loose-lipp’d Councillors and cruel Kings
Who sharpen lies and daggers subterrene:
And flashed their evil eyes and weeping cried,
“We ruled the world for Peace. By her own hand she died.”
In secret he made sharp the bitter blade,
And poison’d it with bane of lies and drew,
And stabb’d – O God! the Cruel Cripple slew;
And cowards fled or lent him trembling aid,
She fell and died – in all the tale of time
The direst deed e’er done, the most accursed crime.
Ibraragi Noriko: When I Was at My Prettiest
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
Women writers on peace and war
====
Ibraragi Noriko
When I Was at My Prettiest
When I was at my prettiest
the houses were noisily collapsing,
and from a dreadful place
I saw the blue sky and stuff.
When I was at my prettiest
lots of people died around me
in factories, out at sea, on nameless islands
and I lost out on my chance to be fashionable.
When I was at my prettiest
no one kindly brought me presents.
The boys knew only how to salute.
Leaving nothing but their lovely glances behind they all rushed off.
When I was at my prettiest
my head was empty.
My heart was hard.
Only my arms and legs shone like chestnuts.
When I was at my prettiest
my country lost the war.
Can you believe such a stupid thing happened?
With the sleeves of my blouse rolled up I plodded round the mean little town.
When I was at my prettiest
jazz overflowed the radio,
and dizzy as when I broke the no smoking rule
I drank in the sweet music of another country.
When I was at my prettiest
I was very unhappy.
I was totally inconsistent.
I was awfully lonely.
So I decided to try and live a long life,
like that French artist Rousseau,
who, in his old age, painted pictures that were truly beautiful.
Mikhail Yemtsev and Eremei Parnov: World-destroying weapons – no more than a year later this immeasurable force was unleashed for evil
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
====
Mikhail Yemtsev and Eremei Parnov
World Soul
Translated by Antonina Bouis
“Ladies and gentleman,” said the aging English philosopher Harold Webst. “With your permission, I will tell you a story I heard from a friend.
“The day of the first nuclear test my friend awoke at one and stayed with Dr. Oppenheimer until about five. Of course, Dr. Oppenheimer was tense, even though his mind worked with its usual exceptional clarity. My friend tried to keep the assistants’ anxieties over the meteorological conditions from him. By three-thirty they had decided perhaps that they could set it off at five-thirty. The rain stopped at four, but the sky was covered with a heavy cloud cover. With time passing, their decision became firmer.
“Two minutes before the appointed time they all lay face down, feet toward the blast.
“The radio was counting down, for another group that was observing the blast. The tension was growing quickly as the moment approached and the minutes turned to seconds. Everyone in the room knew about the terrible hidden potential of the blast. The scientists felt that their calculations were correct and that the bomb had to go off, but each was suffering from some small doubt.
“Oppenheimer barely breathed. He held onto a post for balance. The last few seconds he stared ahead and then, when the announcer shouted ‘Now!’ and there was a colossal burst of light, followed by the low rumble of the blast, the tension on his face was replaced by a look of great relief. Several of the observers, standing behind a shelter, were knocked off their feet by the shock waves.
“The tension in the room dissipated and people began congratulating themselves. Everyone felt: This is it!
“The feeling that reigned in the shelter was that everyone connected with the birth of this new force would devote his life to making sure that it would always be used for good and never for evil.”
The wizened old lord thrust his chin into the air, showing the veins on his wrinkled neck. He resembled an ancient and wise reptile. He looked around the room in silence.
“And no more than a year later this immeasurable force was unleashed for evil!”
***
“I just told you of a fateful moment in human history, with humanity standing on the brink of catastrophe. But could it have turned back and erased the years of concentrated work and research? The children of the survivors of the pikadon (the entire complex of after-effects of an atomic blast) retain the memory of the sky turned into a crater and of people who flew away with the light and turned into shadows. People are not responsible for the past, but they live in the present and create the future. Whatever decision you make, remember that you are creating your children’s future.”
Johannes Becher: “Why, it’s absolutely encouraging war”
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
German writers on peace and war
Johannes Becher: Why couldn’t he bear the thought of war?
====
Johannes Becher
Farewell
Translated by Joan Becker
I was interested to hear that Herr Sieger did not approve of the war games we played at school and that he disliked the entire spirit cultivated there.
“For goodness’ sake, aren’t there plenty of other games to play? Why, it’s absolutely encouraging war. These stupid games are bound to turn into something serious one day. Haven’t we have had enough of war? Even now we’re still suffering from all the destruction of the Thirty Years’ War!”
Our war games were not worthy of a cultured nation, he said….
***
“God preserve us from war,” said Herr Sieger, walking ahead of us toward a glade on the way to Allerheim. Allerheim lay before us in a long valley, its ancient battlements and walls studded with loopholes. The graves we had seen were the graves of Swedes killed in the Thirty Years’ War, he told us. Nördlingen had twice felt the ravages of the Thirty Years’ War….
***
“What did you wish for the New Year, Christine?”
“Peace on earth.”
“But they’re all talking about war in there.”
“Hush, things will change.”
***
Along Amalien Strasse, where garlanded troops had marched, the dead laid in rows four deep right down to the station. And the dead laid piled up in Maximilian Platz. The war was over and they had come back. A white and blue flag fluttered over one of these piles of dead. A single hand stuck out of the pile: “I can no longer greet you,” I waved back a bloody stump.
Johannes Becher: Why couldn’t he bear the thought of war?
====
Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
German writers on peace and war
Johannes Becher: “Why, it’s absolutely encouraging war”
====
Johannes Becher
Farewell
Translated by Joan Becker
How often had he helped me with his swearing and his jokes when I got home in the dumps because of my bad marks at school. And, anyway, wasn’t a Xaver a soldier, a cannoneer in the Second Royal Bavarian Artillery Regiment, who had perhaps been wounded on New Year’s Eve and now lay dying, bleeding from his many wounds.
***
“…you’ve forgotten the Sergeant, Christine.”
The Sergeant had been killed at the Battle of Mars-la-Tour in the Franco-Prussian War. Christine’s eyes always filled with tears at this point and she would pause to wipe them away.
“What did you wish for on New Year’s Eve, Christine?” I asked her….
“Wish? What is there for people like us to wish for?”
“People like us – what do you mean by that…?” I stared at Christine in amazement….I did not dare say anything more about war. Everything inside me was at peace.”
***
There was a group picture of Xaver’s battery on the wall with guns on either side of it. Xaver promised to take me with him some time to watch the shooting practice in Oberwiesenfeld. Why couldn’t he bear the thought of war? I should have liked to tell them about Christine’s Sergeant who had fallen at the Battle of Mars-la-Tour in the Franco-Prussian War….
***
“Whatever made you paint such a lovely landscape and put war into it? War is ugly and frightening….”
“But I want to be a general, Grandmother. Father thinks it’s a good idea,” I said, expecting her to object.
“People must learn to live in peace together.”
“But that would be so boring. Fighting’s such fun!”
“Is that what your friend Hartinger tells you?” Grandmother asked doubtfully. I did not answer.
Grandmother took a paint brush and painted out the corpse on the bridge. She painted over the soldiers and guns with bright, shining blue. The deep blue descended right down to the earth and shone on the cornflowers in the meadow.
Vasily Sleptsov: I read there are wars going on all over
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
====
Vasily Sleptsov
Hard Times
Translated by Michael R. Katz
“This much, my friend, even Ivan Stepanych knows,” continued Riazanov. “A few days ago he said to me, ‘I’ll be damned,’ he says. ‘In the Moscow News I read there’re wars going on all over…'”
***
“Well, they say,” said Riazanov, “that it was good to live in the days of King Solomon: each man sat under his own tent and in his own vineyard while King Solomon sat on his throne and judged them all. There were no arguments and no fights in those days.”
“To tell you the truth, so help me God, it was better in those days than now,” said Shchetinin.
“Who’s to blame, my dear friend, that with such peace-loving inclinations you’re compelled to live at such a hostile time? What can you do? Honestly, I don’t know.”
Eça de Queiroz: Saving life of a child far more worthy, beautiful thing than battle of Austerlitz
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
Eça de Queiroz: The English in Egypt, a case study
====
Eça de Queiroz
The Maias
Translated by Patricia McGowan Pinheiro and Ann Stevens
One day she asked Carlos to explain to her in full the ideas in his book, Medicine, Ancient and Modern. She approved whole-heartedly of his idea to paint the portraits of the great doctors, benefactors of humanity. Why should only warriors and the strong be glorified? Saving the life of a child seemed to her a far more worthy and beautiful thing than the battle of Austerlitz….
***
Manuelinho came along sometimes to relieve Afonso’s solitude, and the two of them looked at picture books and had philosophical talks. He was, at that moment, unable to explain how it was that General Canrobert (whose elegant posture on a rearing horse they had been admiring), if he had ordered so many people to be killed in battle, had not been sent to prison….
“It’s obvious,” exclaimed the quick little boy promptly, with his hands folded behind him: “If he ordered people to be killed, he ought to have locked up in prison!”
Anthony Trollope: Wars, wars, wars; I’m sick of the wars with all my heart
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Anthony Trollope: Selections on war
====
Anthony Trollope
La Vendée
“And what, after all, is the use of these wars?” said she to herself “What do they get by taking so many towns, and getting so many guns, and killing so many men? I don’t know who’s the better for it, but I know very well who’s the worse….”
***
“If Jacques cares a bit for me, he must take himself off, and me with him, to some place where there’s not quite so much fighting, or else I’ll be quit of him and go without him. I’ve no idea of living in a place where girls are not, to be married till the wars are over. Wars, wars, wars; I’m sick of the wars with all my heart.”
***
“Oh, these weary wars, these weary wars!” said she, “will they never be done with? Will the people never be tired of killing, and slaying, and burning each other? And what is the King the better of it? Ain’t they all dead: the King, and the Queen, and the young Princes, and all of them?”
***
“They may run for me, M. Chapeau, and run far enough, before I try to stop them; do you know I’m nearly ashamed of what I’ve been doing as it is.”
“Ashamed! – ashamed of what?” said Chapeau.
“Why look there,” said Michael; and as he spoke, he pointed with his foot to the body of a republican soldier, who lay calmly at his ease, in the sleep of death, not three yards from the spot where the old man was now standing.
“Not an hour since, that poor fellow ran this way, and as he passed, he had no thought of hurting me; he was thinking too much of himself, for half-a-dozen hungry devils were after him. Well, I don’t know what possessed me, but the smell of blood had made me wild, and I lifted up my axe and struck him to the ground. I wish, with all my heart, the poor man were safe at Antrâmes.”
It was in vain that Chapeau tried to persuade the smith that he had only done his duty in killing a republican, who would certainly have lived to have done an injury to the cause, had he been suffered to escape. Michael Stein would not, or could not, understand the arguments he used; and decidedly declared that if he found it possible to avoid fighting for the future he would do so.
Titus Popovici: The war was over, like a nightmare which you have got to forget
====
Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
Titus Popovici: Flying in fives, the airplanes made their appearance, like silvery scales
====
Titus Popovici
The Stranger
Translated by Lazar Marinescu
A single thought filled his whole heart with a vivid joy: “The war was over….The war was over….Now it was really peace…” He would have liked to start homewards. The war had finished. The rest was of no consequence, like a nightmare which you have got to forget.
***
It was not thus that Andrei had pictured the future to himself. He had thought that, after the appalling ordeals which they had gone through, people would change. He had expected a kind of general fraternization, an offensive of life that would sweep all prejudices and selfishness away… But misery reigned everywhere….
***
Coming out of the village Andrei stood still, quite dumbfounded. The whole field was covered with dead and dappled with bomb craters looking like huge boils.
In the ditch an ox was lying, riddled by bullets, its white hide covered with wounds. The ox wasn’t quite dead and its dark eyes flickered more heartrendingly than a cry. An officer, in the black overall worn by the Soviet Tank-Corps, came up to it and shot it. Further on, a tall man was stretched out, his leg smashed from the thigh, his head turned round to one side; next to him two children, their backs cut up like mince-meat. Wagons smashed to pieces, a tree with its broken branches hanging loose, people running everywhere calling one another. The wagons had got mixed up, the cattle had run far off, towards the wood, the wounded were howling, trying. to stop the blood with the palms of their hands….
***
Towards dusk, after about two hours’ walk, the town came into sight. Out of the factory chimneys, from the railway stations, waves of black smoke floated lazily, sprawling out; it seemed as if a dull grey halo weighed down on the whole town. The suburbs were deserted, the houses had no fences, no doors, their roofs riddled by shells, their windows staring like eye-sockets from which the eyes had been drained, the walls besprinkled with the pink holes the bullets had left. Across the road a small tank was overturned, and next to it, like the skeleton of a camel, the yellow coach of a roadster, full of water. The streets were deserted.
***
At night, shots cracked on all sides. Some children playing in the fields had been blown to pieces by the explosion of a shell; a teacher living in the outskirts of the town had tried to fish with hand grenades in the Mures and – not knowing how to pull the fuse – had been blown up; a rocket had taken fire in the pocket of a smartly dressed gentleman who, terrified, was tearing along the street his clothes on fire, shouting for a bucket of water. And everybody drank, as if consumed by a huge thirst; they tried to forget in inebriation the dreadful things they had gone through. In the evening the bodies of the drunk lay about everywhere – in the gutter along the pavement, in the mud, on the steps of the churches, in damaged cars, in dustbins, or right in the middle of the pavement. The publicans did splendid business. People drank anything: methylated spirits Eau-de-Cologne, all sorts of plum-brandies, wines, French brandies, mixed with whatever they happened to find.
Walter Scott: Combat would have been accounted a profanity worthy of excommunication
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Walter Scott: Selections on war
====
Walter Scott
The Fair Maid of Perth
“They will proclaim me recreant with horn and war pipe. Let them do so. Catharine will love me the better that I have preferred the paths of peace to those of bloodshed, and Father Clement shall teach us to pity and forgive the world, which will load us with reproaches that wound not. I shall be the happiest of men; Catharine will enjoy all that unbounded affection can confer upon her, and will be freed from apprehension of the sights and sounds of horror….”
***
At an earlier period of the Christian Church, the use of any of the days of Passion Week for the purpose of combat would have been accounted a profanity worthy of excommunication. The Church of Rome, to her infinite honour, had decided that during the holy season of Easter, when the redemption of man from his fallen state was accomplished, the sword of war should be sheathed, and angry monarchs should respect the season termed the Truce of God….
***
Torquil, whose eye never quitted his foster son, saw his emotion, and looked anxiously around to discover the cause. But Henry was already at a distance, and hastening on his way to the Carthusian convent. Here also the religious service of the day was ended; and those who had so lately borne palms in honour of the great event which brought peace on earth and goodwill to the children of men were now streaming to the place of combat – some prepared to take the lives of their fellow creatures or to lose their own, others to view the deadly strife with the savage delight which the heathens took in the contests of their gladiators.
***
“I should blush to say, Catharine, that I am even sick of the thoughts of doing battle. Yonder last field showed carnage enough to glut a tiger. I am therefore resolved to hang up my broadsword, never to be drawn more unless against the enemies of Scotland.”
Titus Popovici: Flying in fives, the airplanes made their appearance, like silvery scales
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
Titus Popovici: The war was over, like a nightmare which you have got to forget
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Titus Popovici
The Stranger
Translated by Lazar Marinescu
American planes had been going by every day, coming from the oil-wells and heading for Debreczen. It seemed as though the town was to be spared. To avoid irritating the enemy, the anti-aircraft guns never fired. And now….
Flying in fives, the airplanes made their appearance exactly above the smoke rectangle; they looked like silvery scales.
A wild rumbling was filling the sky, a tongue of fire leapt up very high, together with coils of black smoke. The earth began to shake. Andrei could hear nothing now. He saw only the first squadron pass smoothly over the town, then another appeared. Huge flames gushed out; a three-story building sank slowly to the ground, leaving in its stead a cloud of whitish dust.
***
Above the station and the railway carriage works a rolling cloud would tear up into shreds, pierced now and again by sharp jets of white flame. The bombs kept falling. A long whistling sound was heard, then came a short, weighty silence followed suddenly by an unbearable detonation. Andrei saw a tall tree rise into the air, then fall and disappear behind the blazing roofs. They were bombarding the park too. That is where the main shelter of the railway officials and workers’ district was.
***
In front of him, the station, the apprentices’ new hostel and the railway offices were burning, wrapped in a thick curtain of smoke. Buznea’s shop had collapsed. The facade of the bus station had vanished. And he could walk no further. His legs began to wobble. “Father is there,” he thought feverishly. He no longer recognized the district: the crumbled-down houses were only mounds of bricks; the Astoria Hotel, sliced in two, looked like a piece of stage scenery with its rooms painted coarsely in pale blue, pink and yellow; a table was hanging from a balcony-railing now red-hot because of the fire. He started at a run down the middle of the street leading to the station. He jumped over the telegraph wires coiled in the middle of the road, avoiding the telegraph poles that lay across the street.
***
Suddenly, three hundred yards to the left, a house blew up. The blast of the bomb threw Andrei to the ground, face downwards. He tossed about two or three times, quite dazed. Rubble and dust had got into his mouth. He lay as he was, his face close to the dry, burning-hot soil. When he rose on all-fours, stunned, he saw how the perspiration on his face had left the outline of his profile in the dust. Staggering and dragging his feet, he again began to run. Feeling utterly helpless, he actually wept. He heard, coming from the other street, the blaring of an emergency ambulance; then the air-raid sirens whistled, announcing the end of the alarm. A long, even, monotone sound.
…turning round he saw in a small flower-garden – the only thing left of a small red-roofed house covered with ivy – an old woman lying dead. She was curled up like a snail, her head lying on her sunken chest, one leg bent the wrong way, looking immeasurably long. He started and went nearer, unwittingly, but did not dare enter the small garden. The now bluish smoke hurt his throat.
***
A cab turned upside down, with its wheels uppermost, was blocking the street. The horse was lying in a pool of blood, and the cabby was cursing it because it wouldn’t get up. The roof of a house on Andrei’s right collapsed in a shower of sparks; far away, beyond the railway shifting station, a few oil tanks exploded. Andrei passed among the crowd, like drunk. He caught only snatches of words. Everyone was shouting….
“Mrs. Marinescu’s dead…there in the courtyard…with the children….”
***
An icy claw was tearing at his bowels. He passed before a dug-out on which a bomb had exploded. A battered bush was shaking its small leaves bespattered with blood, and from under it showed the small torn boot of a child, and further away, rolling in the dust, the head of a fair woman.
***
He found a place where, through a breach in the wall, he caught a glimpse of the platform. A passenger train stopping in the station during the raid had been hurled off the rails: travelling bags, bits of iron, wheels, people’s hands and legs were scattered about topsy-turvy.
***
He had to jump over the rails, walk round a goods-wagon full of wired hen-coops. The shells had torn away the wires, and small, white Leghorn hens were cackling among the wheels. Here the dead lay in heaps all over the place, one on top of the other. He was struck by the lusterless nakedness of the body of a big strong woman, lying on her belly, her frock gathered up and wrapped round her head.
Anthony Trollope: Selections on war
Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Anthony Trollope: Selections on war
Anthony Trollope: How wars are arranged
Anthony Trollope: Leader appointed to save the empire – with warships
Anthony Trollope: Sports, reading and war
Anthony Trollope: These weary, weary wars!
Anthony Trollope: Wars, wars, wars; I’m sick of the wars with all my heart
Giuseppe di Lampedusa: Dead soldier’s face asks why he had to die
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
Italian writers on war and militarism
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Giuseppe di Lampedusa
The Leopard
Translated by Archibald Colquhoun
He remembered the nausea diffused throughout the entire villa by certain sweetish odors before their cause was traced: the corpse of a young soldier of the Fifth Regiment of Sharpshooters who had been wounded in the skirmish with the rebels at San Lorenzo and come up there to die, all alone, under a lemon tree….
***
…the dead man had not been mentioned again; and anyway soldiers presumably become soldiers for exactly that, to die in defense of their King. But the image of that gutted corpse often recurred, as if asking to be given peace in the only possible way the Prince could give it: by justifying that last agony on grounds of general necessity. And then, around, would arise even less attractive ghosts. Dying for somebody or for something, that was perfectly normal of course; but the person dying should know, or at least feel sure, that someone knows for whom or for what he’s dying; the disfigured face was asking just that; and that was where the haze began.
***
The crowd of dancers, among whom he could count so many near to him in blood if not in heart, began to seem unreal, made up of that material from which are woven lapsed memories, more elusive even than the stuff of disturbing dreams. From the ceiling the gods, reclining on gilded couches, gazed down smiling and inexorable as a summer sky. They thought themselves eternal; but a bomb manufactured in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania was to prove the contrary in 1943.
***
…technical comments thought up on the spur of the moment, understood by few and convincing none but consoling all…as they managed to transform war into a neat little diagram of fire-trajectories from the very squalid and very positive chaos that it really was.
====
Excerpts from this translation posted for fair use only.
Anthony Trollope: These weary, weary wars!
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Anthony Trollope: Selections on war
====
Anthony Trollope
La Vendée
“But, Chapeau, tell me truly now: did you kill any of those bloody republicans with your own hand?” asked the housekeeper.
“Kill them,” said Chapeau, “to be sure, I killed them when we were fighting.”
“And how many, Chapeau; how many did you positively kill dead, you know?” said the confidential maid.
“What nonsense you do talk!” answered he, with a great air of military knowledge, “as if a man in battle knows when he kills and when he doesn’t. You’re not able to look about you in that sort of way in the middle of the smoke and noise and confusion.”
“You don’t mean to tell me you ever kill a man without knowing it!” said the housekeeper.
“You don’t understand what a battle is at all,” answered Chapeau, determined to communicate a little of his experience on the matter. “One hasn’t time to look about one to see anything. Now supposing you had been with us at the taking of Saumur.”
“Oh, the Lord forbid!” said the housekeeper. “I’d sooner be in my grave any day, than go to one of those horrid bloody battles.”
“Or you, Momont; supposing you’d been there?”
“Maybe I might have done as much as another, old as I look,” replied the butler.
…
“Oh, mercy me! how very shocking!” said the housekeeper. “Pray don’t go on Chapeau; pray don’t, or I shall have such horrid dreams.”
…
“It makes my blood run cold,” said the housekeeper, “to think of such horrid things.”
“Chapeau describes it very well, though,” said the confidential maid; “I’m sure he has seen it all himself. I’m sure he’s a brave fellow.”
“It’s not always those who talk the most that are the bravest,” said Momont.
***
I don’t mean to say anything uncivil, and I hope you won’t take it amiss, but there are two trades I don’t fancy for my children: the one is that of a soldier, the other that of a great man’s servant.”
“Gracious me, Michael Stein! why I’m both,” said Chapeau, rather offended.
“I beg your pardon again and again, and I really mean no offence: clown as I am, I hope I know better than to say anything to hurt my own guest in my own house.”
Chapeau assured him he was not offended, and begged to know why the old man objected to see his children become soldiers or servants.
“They’ve no liberty,” said Michael, “though they usually take a deal too much licence. They never are allowed to call their time their own, though they often misuse the time that ought to belong to other people.”
==
“These weary, weary wars!” said Madame de Lescure, with a sigh, “would they were over: would, with all my heart, they had never been begun. How well does the devil do his work on earth, when he is able to drive the purest, the most high-minded, the best of God’s creatures to war and bloodshed….”
***
“Oh, these weary wars, these weary wars!” said she, “will they never be done with? Will the people never be tired of killing, and slaying, and burning each other? And what is the King the better of it? Ain’t they all dead: the King, and the Queen, and the young Princes, and all of them?”
Walter Scott: Her heart would break amid the constant wars and scenes of bloodshed
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Walter Scott: Selections on war
====
Walter Scott
The Fair Maid of Perth
“You put words of offence in my mouth,” said the old man, “and may next punish me for them, since I am wholly in your power. But with my consent my daughter shall never wed save in her own degree. Her heart would break amid the constant wars and scenes of bloodshed which connect themselves with your lot. If you really love her, and recollect her dread of strife and combat, you would not wish her to be subjected to the train of military horrors in which you, like your father, must needs be inevitably and eternally engaged. Choose a bride amongst the daughters of the mountain chiefs, my son, or fiery Lowland nobles. You are fair, young, rich, high born, and powerful, and will not woo in vain. You will readily find one who will rejoice in your conquests, and cheer you under defeat. To Catharine, the one would be as frightful as the other. A warrior must wear a steel gauntlet: a glove of kidskin would be torn to pieces in an hour.”
***
“In this age of battle, father, you have yourself been a combatant?”
“Once only,” replied Simon, “when the Southron assaulted the Fair City. I was summoned to take my part in the defence, as my tenure required, like that of other craftsmen, who are bound to keep watch and ward.”
“And how felt you upon that matter?” inquired the young chief.
“What can that import to the present business?” said Simon, in some surprise.
“Much, else I had not asked the question,” answered. Eachin, in the tone of haughtiness which from time to time he assumed.
“An old man is easily brought to speak of olden times,” said Simon, not unwilling, on an instant’s reflection, to lead the conversation away from the subject of his daughter, “and I must needs confess my feelings were much short of the high, cheerful confidence, nay, the pleasure, with which I have seen other men go to battle. My life and profession were peaceful, and though I have not wanted the spirit of a man, when the time demanded it, yet I have seldom slept worse than the night before that onslaught. My ideas were harrowed by the tales we were told – nothing short of the truth – about the Saxon archers: how they drew shafts of a cloth yard length, and used bows a third longer than ours. When I fell into a broken slumber, if but a straw in the mattress pricked my side I started and waked, thinking an English arrow was quivering in my body. In the morning, as I began for very weariness to sink into some repose, I was waked by the tolling of the common bell, which called us burghers to the walls; I never heard its sound peal so like a passing knell before or since.”
“Go on – what further chanced?” demanded Eachin.
“I did on my harness,” said Simon, “such as it was; took my mother’s blessing, a high spirited woman, who spoke of my father’s actions for the honour of the Fair Town. This heartened me, and I felt still bolder when I found myself ranked among the other crafts, all bowmen, for thou knowest the Perth citizens have good skill in archery. We were dispersed on the walls, several knights and squires in armour of proof being mingled amongst us, who kept a bold countenance, confident perhaps in their harness, and informed us, for our encouragement, that they would cut down with their swords and axes any of those who should attempt to quit their post. I was kindly assured of this myself by the old Kempe of Kinfauns, as he was called, this good Sir Patrick’s father, then our provost. He was a grandson of the Red Rover, Tom of Longueville, and a likely man to keep his word, which he addressed to me in especial, because a night of much discomfort may have made me look paler than usual; and, besides, I was but a lad.”
“And did his exhortation add to your fear or your resolution?” said Eachin, who seemed very attentive.
“To my resolution,” answered Simon; “for I think nothing can make a man so bold to face one danger at some distance in his front as the knowledge of another close behind him, to push him forward. Well, I mounted the walls in tolerable heart, and was placed with others on the Spey Tower, being accounted a good bowman. But a very cold fit seized me as I saw the English, in great order, with their archers in front, and their men at arms behind, marching forward to the attack in strong columns, three in number. They came on steadily, and some of us would fain have shot at them; but it was strictly forbidden, and we were obliged to remain motionless, sheltering ourselves behind the battlement as we best might. As the Southron formed their long ranks into lines, each man occupying his place as by magic, and preparing to cover themselves by large shields, called pavesses, which they planted before them, I again felt a strange breathlessness, and some desire to go home for a glass of distilled waters. But as I looked aside, I saw the worthy Kempe of Kinfauns bending a large crossbow, and I thought it pity he should waste the bolt on a true hearted Scotsman, when so many English were in presence; so I e’en staid where I was, being in a comfortable angle, formed by two battlements. The English then strode forward, and drew their bowstrings – not to the breast, as your Highland kerne do, but to the ear – and sent off their volleys of swallow tails before we could call on St. Andrew. I winked when I saw them haul up their tackle, and I believe I started as the shafts began to rattle against the parapet. But looking round me, and seeing none hurt but John Squallit, the town crier, whose jaws were pierced through with a cloth yard shaft, I took heart of grace, and shot in my turn with good will and good aim. A little man I shot at, who had just peeped out from behind his target, dropt with a shaft through his shoulder….And if you will believe me, in the rest of the skirmish, which was ended by the foes drawing off, I drew bowstring and loosed shaft as calmly as if I had been shooting at butts instead of men’s breasts….”
***
“How many days are there betwixt this hour and Palm Sunday, and what is to chance then? A list inclosed, from which no man can stir, more than the poor bear who is chained to his stake. Sixty living men, the best and fiercest – one alone excepted! – which Albyn can send down from her mountains, all athirst for each other’s blood, while a king and his nobles, and shouting thousands besides, attend, as at a theatre, to encourage their demoniac fury! Blows clang and blood flows, thicker, faster, redder; they rush on each other like madmen, they tear each other like wild beasts; the wounded are trodden to death amid the feet of their companions! Blood ebbs, arms become weak; but there must be no parley, no truce, no interruption, while any of the maimed wretches remain alive!”
George Coșbuc: Three, Mighty God, All Three!
Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
George Coșbuc
Three, Mighty God, All Three!
He had three sons and they, all three,
When called, for the encampment left;
So the poor father was bereft
Of rest and peace, for war, thought he,
Is hard – one has no time to feel
That one has ceased to be.
And many months went in and out,
And rife with tidings was the world:
No more were Turkish flags unfurled,
The Moslems had been put to rout,
For the unscarred Romanian lads
Full well had fought throughout.
The papers wrote that all the men
That had been called the spring before
Were due to quit the site of war;
So to the village came again
Now one, and now another yet
Of those who had left then.
But they were long in coming, they.
He wept – he thought how they would meet,
So at the gate or in the street
He scrutinized the roads all day,
And they came not. And fear was born
And lengthened the delay.
His ardent hope waned more and more
And ever bleaker grew his fear;
And though he questioned far and near,
All shrugged their shoulders as before;
At last, then, he went to the barracks
To learn what was in store.
The corporal met him. “Sir, my son.
My Radu, well – how does he fare?”
He did for all his children care,
But Radu was the dearest one.
“He’s dead. In the first ranks, at Plevna
He fell. And well he’s done!”
Poor man….That Radu was in dust
He had long felt, and felt past cure;
But now, when he did know for sure,
He stood bewildered and nonplussed.
Dead Radu? What? The news exceeded
All human sense and trust.
Be curst, o, fiendish arm and man!
“And how is George?” “Sir, I’m afraid
Under a cross he has been laid,
Breast-smitten by a yataghan.”
“And my poor Mircea?” “Mircea, too,
Died somewhere near Smirdan.”
He said no word – dumb with the doom,
With forehead bent, like, on the cross,
A Christ, he looked, all at a loss
At the mute flooring of the room.
He seemed he saw in front of him
Three corpses in a tomb.
With feeble gait and dizzy eyes
He walks into the open air;
While groaning, stumbling on the stair,
He calls his boys by name and cries
And fumbling for some wall around
To stand upright he tries.
The blow he hardly can withstand;
He does not know if he is dead
Or still alive; he rests his head
Upon a bank of burning sand;
His long, emaciated face
He buries in his hand.
And so the man sat woe-begone.
It was midsummer and mid-day;
Yet soon the sun faded away
And lastly it was set and gone;
The human wreck would never budge;
He just stood on and on.
Past him, men, women walked care-free,
Cabs on the highroad rumbled by,
Past marched the soldiers with steps high,
And then, the moment he could see,
He pressed his temples with his fists:
“Three, mighty God, all three!”
Walter Scott: He hath given us the beauty, fertility of the earth, and we have made the scene of His bounty a charnel house, a battlefield
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Walter Scott: Selections on war
====
Walter Scott
The Fair Maid of Perth
…one of the most beautiful prospects in Scotland lay extended beneath the hill of Kinnoul, and at the foot of a rock which commanded the view in every direction sat the Fair Maid of Perth, listening in an attitude of devout attention to the instructions of a Carthusian monk, in his white gown and scapular, who concluded his discourse with prayer, in which his proselyte devoutly joined.
When they had finished their devotions, the priest sat for some time with his eyes fixed on the glorious prospect, of which even the early and chilly season could not conceal the beauties, and it was some time ere he addressed his attentive companion.
“When I behold,” he said at length, “this rich and varied land, with its castles, churches, convents, stately palaces, and fertile fields, these extensive woods, and that noble river, I know not, my daughter, whether most to admire the bounty of God or the ingratitude of man. He hath given us the beauty and fertility of the earth, and we have made the scene of his bounty a charnel house and a battlefield. He hath given us power over the elements, and skill to erect houses for comfort and defence, and we have converted them into dens for robbers and ruffians.”
***
He was aware that, under the tuition of Father Clement, Catharine viewed the ordeal of battle rather as an insult to religion than an appeal to the Deity, and did not consider it as reasonable that superior strength of arm or skill of weapon should be resorted to as the proof of moral guilt or innocence. He had, therefore, much to fear from her peculiar opinions in this particular, refined as they were beyond those of the age she lived in.
Walter Scott: Resign utterly the manufacture of weapons of every description, and deserve the forgiveness of Heaven
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Walter Scott: Selections on war
====
Walter Scott
The Fair Maid of Perth
“…when I forge the sword, and temper it for war, is it practicable for me to avoid the recollection of its use?”
“Then throw from you, my dear Henry,” said the enthusiastic girl, clasping with both her slender hands the nervous strength and weight of one of the muscular armourer’s, which they raised with difficulty, permitted by its owner, yet scarcely receiving assistance from his volition – “cast from you, I say, the art which is a snare to you. Abjure the fabrication of weapons which can only be useful to abridge human life, already too short for repentance, or to encourage with a feeling of safety those whom fear might otherwise prevent from risking themselves in peril. The art of forming arms, whether offensive or defensive, is alike sinful in one to whose violent and ever vehement disposition the very working upon them proves a sin and a snare. Resign utterly the manufacture of weapons of every description, and deserve the forgiveness of Heaven, by renouncing all that can lead to the sin which most easily besets you.”
***
“If I have at times dwelt severely upon the proneness of your spirit to anger, and of your hand to strife, it is because I would have you, if I could so persuade you, hate in yourself the sins of vanity and wrath by which you are most easily beset. I have spoken on the topic more to alarm your own conscience than to express my opinion. I know as well as my father that, in these forlorn and desperate days, the whole customs of our nation, nay, of every Christian nation, may be quoted in favour of bloody quarrels for trifling causes, of the taking deadly and deep revenge for slight offences, and the slaughter of each other for emulation of honour, or often in mere sport. But I knew that for all these things we shall one day be called into judgment; and fain would I convince thee, my brave and generous friend, to listen oftener to the dictates of thy good heart, and take less pride in the strength and dexterity of thy unsparing arm.”
“I am–I am convinced, Catharine” exclaimed Henry: “thy words shall henceforward be a law to me. I have done enough, far too much, indeed, for proof of my bodily strength and courage; but it is only from you, Catharine, that I can learn a better way of thinking. Remember, my fair Valentine, that my ambition of distinction in arms, and my love of strife, if it can be called such, do not fight even handed with my reason and my milder dispositions, but have their patrons and sticklers to egg them on. Is there a quarrel, and suppose that I, thinking on your counsels, am something loth to engage in it, believe you I am left to decide between peace or war at my own choosing? Not so, by St. Mary! there are a hundred round me to stir me on. ‘Why, how now, Smith, is thy mainspring rusted?’ says one. ‘Jolly Henry is deaf on the quarrelling ear this morning!’ says another. ‘Stand to it, for the honour of Perth,’ says my lord the Provost. ‘Harry against them for a gold noble,’ cries your father, perhaps. Now, what can a poor fellow do, Catharine, when all are hallooing him on in the devil’s name, and not a soul putting in a word on the other side?”
“Nay, I know the devil has factors enough to utter his wares,” said Catharine; “but it is our duty to despise such idle arguments, though they may be pleaded even by those to whom we owe much love and honour.”
“Then there are the minstrels, with their romaunts and ballads, which place all a man’s praise in receiving and repaying hard blows. It is sad to tell, Catharine, how many of my sins that Blind Harry the Minstrel hath to answer for. When I hit a downright blow, it is not – so save me – to do any man injury, but only to strike as William Wallace struck.”
The minstrel’s namesake spoke this in such a tone of rueful seriousness, that Catharine could scarce forbear smiling; but nevertheless she assured him that the danger of his own and other men’s lives ought not for a moment to be weighed against such simple toys.
Walter Scott: His sword makes as many starving orphans and mourning widows as his purse relieves
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Walter Scott: Selections on war
====
Walter Scott
The Fair Maid of Perth
“What have we to do with honour?” said Simon Glover. “If thou wouldst remain in my service, thou must think of honesty, and leave honour to the swaggering fools who wear steel at their heels and iron on their shoulders. If you wish to wear and use such garniture, you are welcome, but it shall not be in my house or in my company.”
***
“Nay, now you do me wrong, father, to ask me such a question (glancing a look at Catharine) in such a presence,” answered the armourer: “I make swords, indeed, but I leave it to other people to use them. No – no, seldom have I a naked sword in my fist, save when I am turning them on the anvil or grindstone….”
***
“I will grant you, my father, that this valiant burgess of Perth is one of the best hearted men that draws breath within its walls: that he would walk a hundred yards out of the way rather than step upon a worm; that he would be as loth, in wantonness, to kill a spider as if he were a kinsman to King Robert, of happy memory; that in the last quarrel before his departure he fought with four butchers, to prevent their killing a poor mastiff that had misbehaved in the bull ring, and narrowly escaped the fate of the cur that he was protecting. I will grant you also, that the poor never pass the house of the wealthy armourer but they are relieved with food and alms. But what avails all this, when his sword makes as many starving orphans and mourning widows as his purse relieves?”
***
“Let us thank God and the good saints that we are in a peaceful rank of life, below the notice of those whose high birth, and yet higher pride, lead them to glory in their bloody works of cruelty, which haughty and lordly men term deeds of chivalry. Your wisdom will allow that it would be absurd in us to prank ourselves in their dainty plumes and splendid garments; why, then, should we imitate their full blown vices? Why should we assume their hard hearted pride and relentless cruelty, to which murder is not only a sport, but a subject of vainglorious triumph? Let those whose rank claims as its right such bloody homage take pride and pleasure in it; we, who have no share in the sacrifice, may the better pity the sufferings of the victim. Let us thank our lowliness, since it secures us from temptation. But forgive me, father, if I have stepped over the limits of my duty, in contradicting the views which you entertain, with so many others, on these subjects.”
***
“Abjure the sins of pride and anger, which most easily beset thee; fling from thee the accursed weapons, to the fatal and murderous use of which thou art so easily tempted.”
Bulat Okudzhava: The song of the trampling boots
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
Bulat Okudzhava: Why do we keep writing blood words on the sand?
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Bulat Okudzhava
The song of the trampling jackboots
Now do hear the sound of trampling boots?
And do you see the birds fly off like mad
and women stare scrutinizing routes?
I think you know what they are staring at.
Now do hear the sound of drum-beat bass?
The soldiers have to say their good-byes…
The squadron leaves to vanish in the haze…
The past appears clearly in the eyes.
What happens to your soldier’s fortitude
when you return to your old neighborhood?
It’s women’s trick who steal it from your chest
and keep it like a birdie in the nest.
What happens to your women, man of war,
when you come home and open the front door?
They welcome you and kindly let you in
but in the house there’s a smell of sin.
The past is gone – who cares about that!
We look into the future, for the light!
And in the fields the carrion-crows are fat,
the roaring war pursues us like a plight.
Again you hear the sound of trampling boots
and see the frenzied birds fly off like mad,
and women stare scrutinizing routes…
It’s our napes that they are staring at.
***
Булат Окуджава
Вы слышите: грохочут сапоги,
и птицы ошалелые летят,
и женщины глядят из-под руки,
вы поняли, куда они глядят?
Вы слышите, грохочет барабан?
Солдат, прощайся с ней, прощайся с ней.
Уходит взвод в туман-туман-туман…
а прошлое ясней-ясней-ясней.
А где же наше мужество, солдат,
когда мы возвращаемся назад?
Его, наверно, женщины крадут
и, как птенца, за пазуху кладут.
А где же наши женщины, дружок,
когда ступаем мы на свой порог?
Они встречают нас и вводят в дом,
но в нашем доме пахнет воровством.
А мы рукой на прошлое — вранье!
А мы с надеждой в будущее: свет!
А по полям жиреет воронье,
а по пятам война грохочет вслед.
И снова переулком — сапоги,
и птицы ошалелые летят,
и женщины глядят из-под руки…
В затылки наши круглые глядят.
1957
Walter Scott: Trade of war should be feared, avoided since it converts men into wolves
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Walter Scott: Selections on war
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Walter Scott
Woodstock
I found myself in the midst of a horrid scene. The scattered defenders were, some resisting with the fury of despair; some on their knees, imploring for compassion in words and tones to break a man’s heart when he thinks on them; some were calling on God for mercy; and it was time, for man had none. They were stricken down, thrust through, flung from the battlements into the lake; and the wild cries of the victors, mingled with the groans, shrieks, and clamours, of the vanquished, made a sound so horrible, that only death can erase it from my memory. And the men who butchered their fellow-creatures thus, were neither pagans from distant savage lands, nor ruffians, the refuse and offscourings of our own people. They were in calm blood reasonable, nay, religious men, maintaining a fair repute both heavenward and earthward. Oh, Master Everard, your trade of war should be feared and avoided, since it converts such men into wolves towards their fellow creatures.”
***
His delight, in short, resembled the joy of an eagle, who preys upon a lamb in the evening with not the less relish, because she descries in the distant landscape an hundred thousand men about to join battle with daybreak, and to give her an endless feast on the hearts and lifeblood of the valiant.
***
…that must be the best government, however little desirable in itself, which should most speedily restore peace to the land, and stop the wounds which the contending parties were daily inflicting on each other.
***
“Master Everard,” he said, “you are a man of the sword, sir; and, sir, you seem to suppose yourself entitled to say whatever comes into your mind with respect to civilians, sir. But I would have you remember, sir, that there are bounds beyond which human patience may be urged, sir – and jests which no man of honour will endure, sir -and therefore I expect an apology for your present language, Colonel Everard, and this unmannerly jesting, sir -or you may chance to hear from me in a way that will not please you.”
Bulat Okudzhava: Why do we keep writing blood words on the sand?
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
Bulat Okudzhava: The song of the trampling boots
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Bulat Okudzhava
An Old Soldier’s Song
The marching song is over and the battle fought.
And the hoofs no longer make a sound.
Bullets made a strainer out of our old pot.
A sutler girl is lying on the ground.
We are hurting, and the enemy is hurt.
And we both are too few to count.
When we are alive, we all are frontline dirt.
When we die, we all are heavenbound.
Hands are on the weapon, and the heart is sad,
And the soul’s already in the air.
Why do we keep writing blood words on the sand?
For our letters, Nature doesn’t care.
Sleep in peace, my brothers! Everything will die:
New commanders will give out the orders.
New soldiers will be born in time to occupy
Their eternal military quarters.
Don’t you worry, brothers, all will come again,
For in Nature, everything repeats:
Empty words and bullets, love, and war, and pain.
But we’ll never find the time for peace.
Walter Scott: Heathenish to believe God’s blessing goes with the longest sword
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Walter Scott: Selections on war
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Walter Scott
Woodstock
“God forgive me for the thought, but I could almost turn infidel, and believe that Heaven’s blessing goes ever with the longest sword; but it will not be always thus….”
***
“…Accursed be these civil commotions; not only do they destroy men’s bodies, but they pervert their souls; and the brave, the noble, the generous, become suspicious, harsh, and mean!”
***
“Oh, let it do so, sir,” replied Alice; “there are soldiers in the town, and there are three regiments at Oxford!”
“Ah, poor Oxford!” exclaimed Sir Henry… – “Seat of learning and loyalty! these rude soldiers are unfit inmates for thy learned halls and poetical bowers; but thy pure and brilliant lamp shall defy the foul breath of a thousand churls, were they to blow at it like Boreas. The burning bush shall not be consumed, even by the heat of this persecution.”
***
The portrait was that of a man about fifty years of age, in complete plate armour, and painted in the harsh and dry manner of Holbein – probably, indeed, the work of that artist, as the dates corresponded. The formal and marked angles, points and projections of the armour, were a good subject for the harsh pencil of that early school. The face of the knight was, from the fading of the colours, pale and dim, like that of some being from the other world….
Walter Scott: Man of buff and Belial. Soldier versus clergyman.
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
British writers on peace and war
Walter Scott: Selections on war
====
Walter Scott
Woodstock
The condition of the church and character of the audience both bore witness to the rage of civil war, and the peculiar spirit of the times. The sacred edifice showed many marks of dilapidation. The windows, once filled with stained glass, had been dashed to pieces with pikes and muskets….The carving on the reading-desk was damaged, and two fair screens of beautiful sculptured oak had been destroyed….The high altar had been removed, and the gilded railing, which was once around it, was broken down and carried off. The effigies of several tombs were mutilated, and now lay scattered about the church,
The autumn wind piped through empty aisles, in which the remains of stakes and trevisses of rough-hewn timber, as well as a quantity of scattered hay and trampled straw, seemed to intimate that the hallowed precincts had been, upon some late emergency, made the quarters of a troop of horse.
***
These dignitaries wore long black cloaks, plaited close at the neck, and, like peaceful citizens, carried their Bibles and memorandum-books at their girdles, instead of knife or sword.
***
…the congregation contained a few soldiers, some in corslets and steel caps, some in buff, and others in red coats. These men of war had their bandeliers, with ammunition, slung around them, and rested on their pikes and muskets….and the peaceful citizen had no alternative, save submission to whatever the ill-regulated and enthusiastic imaginations of their martial guides might suggest.
***
“Nay,” said the man of warlike mien, “I am myself minded to hold forth; therefore, do thou desist, or if thou wilt do by my advice, remain and fructify with those poor goslings, to whom I am presently about to shake forth the crumbs of comfortable doctrine.”
“Give place, thou man of Satan,” said the priest, waxing wroth, “respect mine order – my cloth.”
Scenes of this indecent kind were so common at the time, that no one thought of interfering; the congregation looked on in silence, the better class scandalized, and the lower orders, some laughing, and others backing the soldier or minister as their fancy dictated. Meantime the struggle waxed fiercer; Mr. Holdenough clamoured for assistance.
“Master Mayor of Woodstock,” he exclaimed, “wilt thou be among those wicked magistrates, who bear the sword in vain? – Citizens, will you not help your pastor? – Worthy Alderman, will you see me strangled on the pulpit stairs by this man of buff and Belial?- but lo, I will overcome him, and cast his cords from me.”
As Holdenough spoke, he struggled to ascend the pulpit stairs, holding hard on the banisters. His tormentor held fast by the skirts of the cloak, which went nigh to the choking of the wearer, until, as he spoke the words last mentioned, in a half-strangled voice, Mr. Holdenough dexterously slipped the string which tied it round his neck, so that the garment suddenly gave way; the soldier fell backwards down the steps, and the liberated divine skipped into the pulpit, and began to give forth a psalm of triumph over his prostrate adversary….
The cause of the tumult was as follows: – The Mayor was a zealous Presbyterian, and witnessed the intrusion of the soldier with great indignation from the very beginning, though he hesitated to interfere with an armed man while on his legs and capable of resistance. But no sooner did he behold the champion of independency sprawling on his back, with the divine’s Geneva cloak fluttering in his hands, than the magistrate rushed forward, exclaiming that such insolence was not to be endured, and ordered his constables to seize the prostrate champion, proclaiming, in the magnanimity of wrath, “I will commit every red-coat of them all – I will commit him were he Noll Cromwell himself!”
The Independent orator, late prostrate, was now triumphant, and inducting himself into the pulpit without farther ceremony, he pulled a Bible from his pocket, and selected his text from the forty-fifth psalm, – “Gird thy sword upon thy thigh, O most mighty, with thy glory and thy majesty: and in thy majesty ride prosperously.” – Upon this theme, he commenced one of those wild declamations common at the period, in which men were accustomed to wrest and pervert the language of Scripture, by adapting to it modern events The language which, in its literal sense, was applied to King David, and typically referred to the coming of the Messiah, was, in the opinion of the military orator, most properly to be interpreted of Oliver Cromwell, the victorious general of the infant Commonwealth, which was never destined to come of age….
Mikhail Yemtsev and Eremei Parnov: Good thing I’m no physicist, no soldier. My mission is to relieve human suffering.
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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts
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Mikhail Yemtsev and Eremei Parnov
Everything But Love
Translated by Arthur Shkarovsky
I’ve been told about an airman who served with our forces fighting in the boondocks, in a minor, local war. People get killed in such wars too.
***
For a moment I imagined a town, its building and other structures completely untouched, but with all its people overtaken by this invisible and intangible neutron bombardment while they had been attending to their customary daily affairs.
God forbid that this ever take place….Ah, those physicists! They themselves don’t realize what they’re doing! First the A-bomb, next the H-bomb….I’m no physicist and I had no part in the invention of all these horrors, but I bet I’ll have nightmares for long after everything seen….
It’s a good thing, though, that I’m no physicist and no soldier either. My mission is to relieve human suffering.
***
People have learned of the taste that the industry of death has. That is an invidious memory, which does not pass without trace, indeed cannot do so. We shall have to go on footing the bill without cease. Like a hot sponge, it will suck up blood without end.
For peace, against war: literary selections 