I saw all the steps so clearly and I saw every little thought, every
little action, every little opportunity missed or taken, accumulating
until the moment of climax four hours before. I seemed to have brought
Polchester on my back to the war, and I could see quite clearly how
each of us--Marie, Semyonov, Nikitin, Durward, every one of us--had
brought _their_ private histories and scenes with _them_. War is made
up, I believe, not of shells and bullets, not of German defeats and
victories, Russian triumphs or surrenders, English and French battles
by sea and land, not of smoke and wounds and blood, but of a million
million past thoughts, past scenes, streets of little country towns,
lonely hills, dark sheltered valleys, the wide space of the sea, the
crowded traffic of New York, London, Berlin, yes, and of smaller
things than that, of little quarrels, of dances at Christmas time, of
walks at night, of dressing for dinner, of waking in the morning, of
meeting old friends, of sicknesses, theatres, church services,
prostitutes, slums, cricket-matches, children, rides on a tram, baths
on a hot morning, sudden unpleasant truth from a friend, momentary
consciousness of God.
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