Home > Uncategorized > John Galsworthy: War, where Christ is daily crucified a million times over

John Galsworthy: War, where Christ is daily crucified a million times over


Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts

John Galsworthy: Selections on war


John Galsworthy
From Saint’s Progress (1919)


Yes, surely it was ordained! Moonlight had the town now; and all was steel blue, the very air steel-blue; a dream-city of marvellous beauty, through which he passed, exalted. Soon he would be where that poor boy, and a million others, had given their lives; with the mud and the shells and the scarred grey ground, and the jagged trees, where Christ was daily crucified…


When he had gone she roamed a little farther, and lay down on the short grass, where the chalk broke through in patches. She could hear a distant rumbling, very low, travelling in that grass, the long mutter of the Flanders guns. ‘I wonder if it’s as beautiful a day there,’ she thought. ‘How dreadful to see no green, no butterflies, no flowers – not even sky – for the dust of the shells. Oh! won’t it ever, ever end?’ And a sort of passion for the earth welled up in her, the warm grassy earth along which she lay, pressed so close that she could feel it with every inch of her body, and the soft spikes of the grass against her nose and lips. An aching sweetness tortured her, she wanted the earth to close its arms about her, she wanted the answer to her embrace of it. She was alive, and wanted love. Not death – not loneliness – not death! And out there, where the guns muttered, millions of men would be thinking that same thought!


In the boarding-house, whence the Lairds had not yet removed, the old lady who knitted, sat by the fireplace, and light from the setting sun threw her shadow on the wall, moving spidery and grey, over the yellowish distemper, in time to the tune of her needles. She was a very old lady – the oldest lady in the world, Noel thought – and she knitted without stopping, without breathing, so that the girl felt inclined to scream. In the evening when George and Gratian were not in, Noel would often sit watching the needles, brooding over her as yet undecided future. And now and again the old lady would look up above her spectacles; move the corners of her lips ever so slightly, and drop her gaze again. She had pitted herself against Fate; so long as she knitted, the war could not stop – such was the conclusion Noel had come to. This old lady knitted the epic of acquiescence to the tune of her needles; it was she who kept the war going such a thin old lady! ‘If I were to hold her elbows from behind,’ the girl used to think, ‘I believe she’d die. I expect I ought to; then the war would stop. And if the war stopped, there’d be love and life again.’


She stopped after going perhaps three hundred yards, by the edge of the wood. It was splendidly dark in there, and she groped her way from trunk to trunk, with a delicious, half-scared sense of adventure and novelty. She stopped at last by a thin trunk whose bark glimmered faintly. She felt it with her cheek, quite smooth – a birch tree; and, with her arms round it, she stood perfectly still. Wonderfully, magically silent, fresh and sweet-scented and dark! The little tree trembled suddenly within her arms, and she heard the low distant rumble, to which she had grown so accustomed – the guns, always at work, killing – killing men and killing trees, little trees perhaps like this within her arms, little trembling trees! Out there, in this dark night, there would not be a single unscarred tree like this smooth quivering thing, no fields of corn, not even a bush or a blade of grass, no leaves to rustle and smell sweet, not a bird, no little soft-footed night beasts, except the rats; and she shuddered, thinking of the Belgian soldier-painter. Holding the tree tight, she squeezed its smooth body against her. A rush of the same helpless, hopeless revolt and sorrow overtook her, which had wrung from her that passionate little outburst to her father, the night before he went away. Killed, torn, and bruised; burned, and killed, like Cyril! All the young things, like this little tree.

Rumble! Rumble! Quiver! Quiver! And all else so still, so sweet and still, and starry, up there through the leaves.. ‘I can’t bear it!’ she thought. She pressed her lips, which the sun had warmed all day, against the satiny smooth bark. But the little tree stood within her arms insentient, quivering only to the long rumbles. With each of those dull mutterings, life and love were going out, like the flames of candles on a Christmas-tree, blown, one by one…

Categories: Uncategorized
  1. Ljiljana
    December 1, 2014 at 2:25 pm

    The field of sunflowers was in bloom.

    She had seen a whole field of sunflowers in her own country while travelling through South Dakota. Back home in the Midwest, they did not grow whole fields of sunflowers, as far as she knew. An occasional sunflower or two could be seen in home gardens, family educational experiments perhaps, harvested insects and all. So a whole field of sunflowers was a glorious sight.

    But now she was not in America. She was in Ukraine. Two months before, a tragedy had happened when a commercial plane had crashed in the war torn Donetsk region en route to Kuala Lampur, Malaysia. The investigation was not immune from political manipulation, so the bodies, their belongings and the singed wreckage, sheared fuselage and oddly pockmarked cockpit pieces remained scattered about for days. One mountainous heap of wreckage had a cross planted at its summit. Photographs the world saw electronically, she saw in person in her Ukraine hosts fields.

    The people of the borderland lived in a state of numb nightmare. It was not enough they were under attack by their own countrymen, that many of their homes lay in ruins, that their food supplies were dwindling, that they had ever more abandoned livestock to look after when families fled to Russia with only their lives, shirts on their backs, children and babas. It was not enough there were ever more coffins and funerals, each the face of family or villager. (In Ukraine family or villager was not so distinct a difference. The hard rural life had made cooperation a necessity.) The mere sight of a shelled church, orphanage or hospital started lacrimal glands that no longer carried out the message. No, that was not enough. They were made to bear another country’s grief as well, a country that had lost a civilian plane only one year before under similarly mysterious circumstance.

    She tried to push the mental picture out of her mind. The bodies had finally been removed to the Netherlands, even though some of the 298 bodies were so fragmented from the plane’s breakup the farmers were still finding pieces of them, or what remained of them once the summer insects populated the fragments. She had always wanted to visit her cousins in Ukraine, but not like this. No, not like this. It was the full bloom of summer now, and the sunflower fields had matured, oblivious to current events. The sunflower faces the sun, turning from east to west as the day progresses. They still did so in her grandparent’s Ucrayina, as they did back home.

    She couldn’t find any joy in it. Not among the still remaining plane debris. Not where the innocent dead had been. The flowers were unchanged, but she was not. She knew now her world was no place for the beautiful. She learned back in childhood about the fallen in a garden. She never could have imagined how far fallen. That summer, childhood became as distant a memory as Eden.

    • richardrozoff
      December 3, 2014 at 5:10 pm

      This is nothing less than sublime.
      And greatly appreciated.

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