The First of July(15)

As they were setting off from Paris, the man who was the Austrian emperor’s son and heir was shot by some anarchist in the capital of a country even us Internationalists had to look up in an atlas. In the days that followed, there was practically nothing about the race as the papers were full of headlines hoping for war. Not that they said “hoping,” but hoping it was. A coming war’s as good as anything for selling papers.

It was all wrong.

We went to the peace meeting, though that set me back further by two shillings. Connie and Nancy sat either side of me. Nancy is inclined to lean on one, so it became very hot. Rays of dusty light shone down on Mr. Tudor Williams on the stage. Fate could not have dealt him a better card than the assassination three days earlier.

The Reverend Williams was an extraordinary man—huge and red in an old-fashioned sort of black suit and with prodigious whiskers. His great hands were scarred as if he had been a fighter. Connie was especially spellbound when he began to speak in the rich melodious tones of his native country.

“We stand on the brink,” Mr. Williams said loudly. Nodding in agreement with himself. “On the brink. A few days ago, we saw a young firebrand in Sarajevo murder the heir to a royal house. A decent man, with his wife, struck down in his prime while a visitor to a foreign country. The hot blood of our continental brothers is stirred.” He looked about him, to ensure that we were following.

“That lovely Welsh accent gives me the shivers,” Nancy whispered.

“We can understand that,” said Mr. Williams, all moderation. “Were it our Prince Edward slain, his blood running into the drains of our city, would our people wish to turn the other cheek as the Bible tells us?” He patted the great leather Bible on the lectern. “Would they wish to be called weak for not rising up to avenge their prince?” He looked around, mild-faced.

Suddenly he roared—a great Welsh roar: FOLLOWING JESUS CHRIST IS NOT EASY.

“We look to our leaders,” he went on in a more measured tone, “and we see the admirals and generals who have their ear, adorned in their gold and their feathers. We hear our politicians—some are men of peace, but others would send young men to die for their honor at the drop of a pin. We feel the ground slip under our feet as we start, slowly at first, to stumble toward the abyss.” His arms went out as if to steady himself. “There is no purchase on this trembling earth. Smell the sulfur.” His eyes widened under their sheltering brows. “See the haze of steam and smoke blurring your vision.

“Should war come, they will speak to you of patriotism, they will unfold the flag. But. I. Am. Second. To. No one.” Mr. Williams’s clenched fist banged on his chest. “To NO ONE in my love for the King. I am shot through with loyalty. Drank it in at my mother’s breast.”

I could feel as much as see Nancy making a face.

“I would die for my King and my country.” The reverend paused, and his dark eyes searched the room as if to find a man there who thought he would not.

“But”—a longer pause—“I would not kill. I should not be asked to kill. It is against the scriptures.” He made far more of the syllables of the word than any Englishman would.

“Did Jesus Christ, our savior, know of frontiers? Of paltry man-made, not God-given, divisions between Austria-Hungary and Germany and Russia and Great Britain, Serbia and France? Are the men of Bavaria not the brothers of the men of Cumberland? Are not Viennese and Berliners and Londoners all one in the sight of the Lord? Do Cornishmen and Welshmen not descend to the mines just as the miners of Essen and the Ruhr? Are ships not built with the same knowledge God gave on the Elbe as on the Clyde?”

“No sisterhood for us girls then,” Nancy whispered across me to Connie—who ignored her, so rapt was she at Mr. Williams’s vision and, I dare say, his fine red Welsh whiskers.

“Do you want to kill these, your brothers?

“We are members of one great kingdom of God. His children. He gave us the great riches of the world: the mighty oceans teeming with fish, the orchards, the fruiting vine, the fields of wheat”—the reverend rose and walked agitatedly along the stage, then turned and stretched his arms toward us.

“Not in Rotherhithe, he didn’t,” Nancy said, very quiet, and yawned.

“Reach out to your brothers and sisters.”

At this point, Nancy seemed to be weary and had rested herself on my shoulder. I moved sharply to the side and her head bumped on my arm. She shot me a cross look.

“Reach out and grasp their hand. Reach out and embrace your fellow man whatever his nation, however outlandish his tongue.”