Who was moreover a thoroughly German young German—­a thoroughly Prussian young Prussian.

At times young Heinrich alone stood between Mr. Britling and the belief that Germany and the whole German race was essentially wicked, essentially a canting robber nation.  Young Heinrich became a sort of advocate for his people before the tribunal of Mr. Britling’s mind. (And on his shoulder sat an absurdly pampered squirrel.) s fresh, pink, sedulous face, very earnest, adjusting his glasses, saying “Please,” intervened and insisted upon an arrest of judgment....

Since the young man’s departure he had sent two postcards of greeting directly to the “Familie Britling,” and one letter through the friendly intervention of Mr. Britling’s American publisher.  Once also he sent a message through a friend in Norway.  The postcards simply recorded stages in the passage of a distraught pacifist across Holland to his enrolment.  The letter by way of America came two months later.  He had been converted into a combatant with extreme rapidity.  He had been trained for three weeks, had spent a fortnight in hospital with a severe cold, and had then gone to Belgium as a transport driver—­his father had been a horse-dealer and he was familiar with horses.  “If anything happens to me,” he wrote, “please send my violin at least very carefully to my mother.”  It was characteristic that he reported himself as very comfortably quartered in Courtrai with “very nice people.”  The niceness involved restraints.  “Only never,” he added, “do we talk about the war.  It is better not to do so.”  He mentioned the violin also in the later communication through Norway.  Therein he lamented the lost fleshpots of Courtrai.  He had been in Posen, and now he was in the Carpathians, up to his knees in snow and “very uncomfortable....”

And then abruptly all news from him ceased.

Month followed month, and no further letter came.

“Something has happened to him.  Perhaps he is a prisoner....”

“I hope our little Heinrich hasn’t got seriously damaged....  He may be wounded....”

“Or perhaps they stop his letters....  Very probably they stop his letters.”

Section 5

Mr. Britling would sit in his armchair and stare at his fire, and recall conflicting memories of Germany—­of a pleasant land, of friendly people.  He had spent many a jolly holiday there.  So recently as 1911 all the Britling family had gone up the Rhine from Rotterdam, had visited a string of great cities and stayed for a cheerful month of sunshine at Neunkirchen in the Odenwald.

The little village perches high among the hills and woods, and at its very centre is the inn and the linden tree and—­Adam Meyer.  Or at least Adam Meyer was there.  Whether he is there now, only the spirit of change can tell; if he live to be a hundred no friendly English will ever again come tramping along by the track of the Blaue Breiecke or the Weisse Streiche to enjoy his hospitality; there are rivers of blood between, and a thousand memories of hate....