vengeance. At such moments it became clear that the deaths they
had not seen meant no more to them than the mimic death of the
cinema screen. Sometimes it was not necessary that death should
be actually witnessed: it had only to take place under
circumstances of sufficient novelty and proximity to bring it
home almost as sensationally and effectively as if it had been
actually visible.

For example, in the spring of 1915 there was an appalling
slaughter of our young soldiers at Neuve Chapelle and at the
Gallipoli landing. I will not go so far as to say that our
civilians were delighted to have such exciting news to read at
breakfast. But I cannot pretend that I noticed either in the
papers, or in general intercourse, any feeling beyond the usual
one that the cinema show at the front was going splendidly, and
that our boys were the bravest of the brave. Suddenly there came
the news that an Atlantic liner, the Lusitania, had been
torpedoed, and that several well-known first-class passengers,
including a famous theatrical manager and the author of a popular
farce, had been drowned, among others. The others included Sir
Hugh Lane; but as he had only laid the country under great
obligations in the sphere of the fine arts, no great stress was
laid on that loss. Immediately an amazing frenzy swept through
the country. Men who up to that time had kept their heads now
lost them utterly. "Killing saloon passengers! What next?" was
the essence of the whole agitation; but it is far too trivial a
phrase to convey the faintest notion of the rage which possessed
us. To me, with my mind full of the hideous cost of Neuve
Chapelle, Ypres, and the Gallipoli landing, the fuss about the
Lusitania seemed almost a heartless impertinence, though I was