There is a disposition, I know, in myself as well as in others, to
wriggle away from this verity, to find so much good in the collapse that
has come to the mad direction of Europe for the past half-century as to
make it on the whole almost a beneficial thing. But at most I can find
it in no greater good than the good of a nightmare that awakens the
sleeper in a dangerous place to a realisation of the extreme danger of
his sleep. Better had he been awake--or never there. In Venetia Captain
Pirelli, whose task it was to keep me out of mischief in the war zone,
was insistent upon the way in which all Venetia was being opened up
by the new military roads; there has been scarcely a new road made in
Venetia since Napoleon drove his straight, poplar-bordered highways
through the land. M. Joseph Reinach, who was my companion upon the
French front, was equally impressed by the stirring up and exchange of
ideas in the villages due to the movement of the war. Charles Lamb's
story of the discovery of roast pork comes into one's head with an
effect of repartee. More than ideas are exchanged in the war zone,
and it is doubtful how far the sanitary precautions of the military
authorities avails against a considerable propaganda of disease. A more
serious argument for the good of war is that it evokes heroic qualities
that it has brought out almost incredible quantities of courage,
devotion, and individual romance that did not show in the suffocating
peace time that preceded the war. The reckless and beautiful zeal of
the women in the British and French munition factories, for example, the
gaiety and fearlessness of the common soldiers everywhere; these things
have always been there--like champagne sleeping in bottles in a cellar.
But was there any need to throw a bomb into the cellar?

I am reminded of a story, or rather of the idea for a story that I
think I must have read in that curious collection of fantasies and