The Red And The Green by Iris Murdoch

to the Germans and try to stab England in the back like that just when she’s up against it….’
    â€˜It’s the old story. “England’s difficulty is Ireland’s opportunity.” Casement belongs to a classical tradition. And in a way I can’t help admiring the fellow. It must be a lonely bitter business out there in Germany. He’s a brave man and a patriot. He does it purely for love of Ireland. To love Ireland so much, to love anything so much, even if he’s wrong-headed, is somehow noble.’
    â€˜He does it for love of gold, you may be sure,’ said Hilda. ‘It’s the traitor mentality.’
    Christopher thought for a moment. ‘I think that word “traitor” ought to be removed from the language. It’s just a muddled term of abuse. Casement’s crime, or mistake, if it is one, is much more complex than anything that blunted word could name.’
    â€˜So you don’t think there’ll be any trouble in Ireland?’ asked Andrew quickly before his mother could expostulate further.
    â€˜Trouble with the Sinn Feiners? No, I don’t. And what could they make it with, hurley sticks? I was talking to Eoin MacNeill’s brother about it all the other day. Eoin has quite returned to his Gaelic studies. He was never a firebrand leader in any case. The Volunteers are really just like Boy Scouts and James Connolly’s lot, the Irish Citizen Army, are ten men and a dog. If the Germans actually invaded Ireland, a few hotheads might help them, but with the blockade that’s an impossibility. And anyway, as I say, what trouble could the Irish make, even if they wanted to? They’ve got no arms and they’re not insane. I saw a squad of Volunteers drilling the other day with ten-foot pikes. It was pathetic!’
    Andrew laughed. ‘Don’t tell the Sinn Feiners, but our reserve squadron at Longford only has about a hundred rifles, and half of them are D.P., drill purposes only. They’d probably explode if you tried to fire them!’
    â€˜Your lot at Longford had better look out then,’ said Christopher. ‘That place is a hot-bed of disaffection.’
    â€˜You shouldn’t say things like that, Andrew,’ said his mother. ‘You never know who’s listening.’
    Andrew felt justly rebuked, and recalled suddenly to mind a rather unpleasant incident which had marked his arrival in Ireland. The one really constructive thing which he had managed to do when in France had been to get hold of a magnificent Italian rifle with telescopic sights. This extremely precious object had somehow or other disappeared at some point between the mail boat and Finglas. Christopher’s gardener had sworn that the rifle had simply not been with the luggage when it arrived from the boat. Andrew now of course realized that it had been insane of him to take his eyes off it for a second in this gun-hungry country. Some time later he overheard Christopher saying casually that his gardener was connected with the Citizen Army. Andrew thought he would probably never know the truth of the matter: but he felt the disappearance of the rifle as a hostile act, upsetting and menacing.
    â€˜No, no,’ Christopher was going on. ‘I don’t exactly see Ireland as explosive material. I agree with Bulmer Hobson. Ireland is a damp bog which will yet extinguish many a flaming torch and gunpowder barrel! The fact is the Irish are far more sentimental and emotional even than one imagines. It all ends in talk. This morning, for instance, when I was down in town I witnessed a curious little scene. I meant to tell you of it earlier. I was passing near Liberty Hall, you know, the Transport and General Workers Union place, and I saw that some sort of ceremony was going on. There was a big crowd, and a girl in the Citizen Army uniform was climbing on the roof and unfurling a flag. It was a green flag with the Irish harp on it. And the