We men are never content!  In the dull routine of normal life we sigh for Romance, and sometimes seek to create it artificially, stimulating spurious passions, plunging into muddy depths in search of it.  Now we have got it we sigh for a quiet life.  But some day those who have not died will say:  “Thank God I have lived!  I have loved, and endured, and trembled, and trembling, dared.  I have had my Romance.”

VI

IMAGINARY CONVERSATIONS

I

SCENE. A field in Flanders.  All round the edge are bivouacs, built of sticks and waterproof sheets.  Three men are squatting round a small fire, waiting for a couple of mess-tins of water to boil.

BILL (gloomily).  The last three of the old lot!  Oo’s turn next?

FRED. Wot’s the bleedin’ good of bein’ dahn in the mahf abaht it?  Give me the bleedin’ ’ump, you do.

JIM.  Are we dahn-’earted?  Not ’alf, we ain’t!

BILL.  I don’t know as I cares.  Git it over, I sez.  ’Ave done wiv it!  I dessay as them wot’s gone West is better off nor wot we are, arter all.

JIM.  Orlright, old sport, you go an’ look for the V.C., and we’ll pick up the bits an’ bury ’em nice an’ deep!

BILL.  If this ‘ere bleedin’ war don’t finish soon that’s wot I bleedin’ well will go an’ do.  Wish they’d get a move on an’ finish it.

FRED. If ever I gets ’ome agin, I’ll never do another stroke in my natural.  The old woman can keep me, ——­ ‘er, an’ if she don’t I’ll—­well—­’er ——­ ——.

JIM (indignantly).  Nice sort o’ bloke you are!  Arter creatin’ abaht ole Bill makin’ you miserable, you goes on to plan ’ow you’ll make other folks miserable!  Wot’s the bleedin’ good o’ that?  Keep smilin’, I sez, an’ keep other folks smilin’ too, if you can.  If ever I gets ’ome I’ll go dahn on my bended, I will, and I’ll be a different sort o’ bloke to wot I been afore.  Swelp me, Bob, I will!  My missus won’t ’ave no cause to wish as I’ve been done in.

BILL.  Ah well, it don’t much matter.  We’re all most like to go afore this war’s finished.

JIM.  If yer goes yer goes, and that’s all abaht it.  A bloke’s got to go some day, and fer myself I’d as soon get done in doin’ my dooty as I would die in my bed.  I ain’t struck on dyin’ afore my time, and I don’t know as I’m greatly struck on livin’, but, whichever it is, you got ter make the best on it.

BILL (meditatively).  I woulden mind stoppin’ a bullet fair an’ square; but I woulden like one of them ‘orrible lingerin’ deaths.  “Died o’ wounds” arter six munfs’ mortal hagony—­that’s wot gets at me.  Git it over an’ done wiv, I sez.

FRED (querulously).  Ow, chuck it, Bill.  You gives me the creeps, you do.