But the mass of
the men were middle-aged--territorials, with the light-blue long-coat,
good for all weathers and the sharp night, and the peaked cap. Over the
top of the dune where the soldiers sat an observation balloon was
suspended in a cloudless blue sky, like a huge yellow caterpillar.
Beyond the pasteboard stage, high on a western dune, two sentries stood
with their bayonets touched by sunlight. To the south rose a monument to
the territorial dead. To the north an aeroplane flashed along the line,
full speed, while gun after gun threw shrapnel at it.
As I looked on the people, suddenly I thought of the Sermon on the
Mount, with the multitude spread about, tier on tier, hungry for more
than bread. It was a scene of summer beauty, with the glory of the sky
thrown in, and every now and then the music of the heart. Half the songs
of the afternoon were gay, and half were sad with long enduring, and the
memory of the dear ones distant and of the many dead. Not in lightness
or ignorance were these men making war. When I saw the multitude and how
they hungered, I wished that Bernhardt could come to them in the dunes
and express in power what is only hinted at by humble voices. I thought
how everywhere we wait for some supreme one to gather up the hope of the
nations and the anguish of the individual, and make a music that will
send us forward to the Rhine.
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