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diff --git a/13820-0.txt b/13820-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4c4c09b --- /dev/null +++ b/13820-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1283 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13820 *** +UNHAPPY FAR-OFF THINGS + + +by Lord Dunsany + + +1919 + + + + +Preface + + +I have chosen a title that shall show that I make no claim for this +book to be “up-to-date.” As the first title indicates, I hoped to +show, to as many as might to read my words, something of the extent +of the wrongs that the people of France had suffered. There is no +such need any longer. The tales, so far as they went, I gather +together here for the few that seem to read my books in England. + + Dunsany. + + + + +A Dirge Of Victory (Sonnet) + + +Lift not thy trumpet, Victory, to the sky, + Nor through battalions nor by batteries blow, + But over hollows full of old wire go, +Where among dregs of war the long-dead lie +With wasted iron that the guns passed by. + When they went eastwards like a tide at flow; + There blow thy trumpet that the dead may know, +Who waited for thy coming, Victory. + +It is not we that have deserved thy wreath, + They waited there among the towering weeds. +The deep mud burned under the thermite’s breath, + And winter cracked the bones that no man heeds: +Hundreds of nights flamed by: the seasons passed. +And thou last come to them at last, at last! + + + + +The Cathedral Of Arras + + +On the great steps of Arras Cathedral I saw a procession, in silence, +standing still. + +They were in orderly and perfect lines, stirring or swaying slightly: +sometimes they bent their heads, sometimes two leaned together, but +for the most part they were motionless. It was the time when the +fashion is just changing and some were newly all in shining yellow, +while others still wore green. + +I went up the steps amongst them, the only human thing, for men and +women worship no more in Arras Cathedral, and the trees have come +instead; little humble things, all less than four years old, in great +numbers thronging the steps processionally, and growing in perfect +rows just where step meets step. They have come to Arras with the +wind and the rain; which enter the aisles together whenever they +will, and go wherever man went; they have such a reverent air, the +young limes on the three flights of steps, that you would say they +did not know that Arras Cathedral was fallen on evil days, that they +did not know they looked on ruin and vast disaster, but thought that +these great walls open to stars and sun were the natural and fitting +place for the worship of little weeds. + +Behind them the shattered houses of Arras seemed to cluster about the +cathedral as, one might fancy easily, hurt and frightened children, +so wistful are their gaping windows and old, grey empty gables, so +melancholy and puzzled. They are more like a little old people come +upon trouble, gazing at their great elder companion and not knowing +what to do. + +But the facts of Arras are sadder than a poet’s most tragic fancies. +In the western front of Arras Cathedral stand eight pillars rising +from the ground; above them stood four more. Of the four upper +pillars the two on the left are gone, swept away by shells from the +north: and a shell has passed through the neck of one of the two that +is left, just as a bullet might go through a daffodil’s stem. + +The left-hand corner of that western wall has been caught from the +north, by some tremendous shell which has torn the whole corner down +in a mound of stone: and still the walls have stood. + +I went in through the western doorway. All along the nave lay a long +heap of white stones, with grass and weeds on the top, and a little +trodden path over the grass and weeds. This is all that remained of +the roof of Arras Cathedral and of any chairs or pews there may have +been in the nave, or anything that may have hung above them. It was +all down but one slender arch that crossed the nave just at the +transept; it stood out against the sky, and all who saw it wondered +how it stood. + +In the southern aisle panes of green glass, in twisted frame of lead, +here and there lingered, like lonely leaves on an apple-tree-after a +hailstorm in spring. The aisles still had their roofs over them which +those stout old walls held up in spite of all. + +Where the nave joins the transept the ruin is most enormous. Perhaps +there was more to bring down there, so the Germans brought it down: +there may have been a tower there, for all I know, or a spire. + +I stood on the heap and looked towards the altar. To my left all was +ruin. To my right two old saints in stone stood by the southern door. +The door had been forced open long ago, and stood as it was opened, +partly broken. A great round hole gaped in the ground outside; it was +this that had opened the door. + +Just beyond the big heap, on the left of the chancel, stood something +made of wood, which almost certainly had been the organ. + +As I looked at these things there passed through the desolate +sanctuaries, and down an aisle past pillars pitted with shrapnel, a +sad old woman, sad even for a woman of North-East France. She seemed +to be looking after the mounds and stones that had once been the +cathedral; perhaps she had once been the Bishop’s servant, or the +wife of one of the vergers; she only remained of all who had been +there in other days, she and the pigeons and jackdaws. I spoke to +her. All Arras, she said, was ruined. The great cathedral was ruined, +her own family were ruined utterly, and she pointed to where the sad +houses gazed from forlorn dead windows. Absolute ruin, she said; but +there must be no armistice. No armistice. No. It was necessary that +there should be no armistice at all. No armistice with Germans. + +She passed on, resolute and sad, and the guns boomed on beyond Arras. + +A French interpreter, with the Sphinxes’ heads on his collar, showed +me a picture postcard with a photograph of the chancel as it was five +years ago. It was the very chancel before which I was standing. To +see that photograph astonished me, and to know that the camera that +took it must have stood where I was standing, only a little lower +down, under the great heap. Though one knew there had been an altar +there, and candles and roof and carpet, and all the solemnity of a +cathedral’s interior, yet to see that photograph and to stand on that +weedy heap, in the wind, under the jackdaws, was a contrast with +which the mind fumbled. + +I walked a little with the French interpreter. We came to a little +shrine in the southern aisle. It had been all paved with marble, and +the marble was broken into hundreds of pieces, and someone had +carefully picked up all the bits, and laid them together on the +altar. + +And this pathetic heap that was gathered of broken bits had drawn +many to stop and gaze at it; and idly, as soldiers will, they had +written their names on them: every bit had a name on it, with but a +touch of irony the Frenchman said, “All that is necessary to bring +your name to posterity is to write it on one of these stones.”, “No,” +I said, “I will do it by describing all this.” And we both laughed. + +I have not done it yet: there is more to say of Arras. As I begin the +tale of ruin and wrong, the man who did it totters. His gaudy power +begins to stream away like the leaves of autumn. Soon his throne will +be bare, and I shall have but begun to say what I have to say of +calamity in cathedral and little gardens of Arras. + +The winter of the Hohenzollerns will come; sceptre, uniforms, stars +and courtiers all gone; still the world will not know half of the +bitter wrongs of Arras. And spring will bring a new time and cover +the trenches with green, and the pigeons will preen themselves on the +shattered towers, and the lime-trees along the steps will grow taller +and brighter, and happier men will sing in the streets untroubled by +any War Lord; by then, perhaps, I may have told, to such as care to +read, what such a war did in an ancient town, already romantic when +romance was young, when war came suddenly without mercy, without +pity, out of the north and east, on little houses, carved galleries, +and gardens; churches, cathedrals and the jackdaws’ nests. + + + + +A Good War + + +Nietsche said, “You have heard that a good cause justifies any war, +but I say unto you that a good war justifies any cause.” + +A man was walking alone over a plain so desolate that, if you have +never seen it, the mere word desolation could never convey to you the +melancholy surroundings that mourned about this man on his lonely +walk. Far off a vista of trees followed a cheerless road all dead as +mourners suddenly stricken dead in some funereal procession. By this +road he had come; but when he had reached a certain point he turned +from the road at once, branching away to the left, led by a line of +bushes that may once have been a lane. For some while his feet had +rustled through long neglected grass; sometimes he lifted them up to +step over a telephone wire that lolled over old entanglements and +bushes; often he came to rusty strands of barbed wire and walked +through them where they had been cut, perhaps years ago, by huge +shells; then his feet hissed on through the grass again, dead grass +that had hissed about his boots all through the afternoon. + +Once he sat down to rest on the edge of a crater, weary with such +walking as he had never seen before; and after he had stayed there a +little while a cat that seemed to have its home in that wild place +started suddenly up and leaped away over the weeds. It seemed an +animal totally wild, and utterly afraid of man. + +Grey bare hills surrounded the waste: a partridge called far off: +evening was drawing in. He rose wearily, and yet with a certain +fervour, as one that pursues With devotion a lamentable quest. +Looking round him as he left his resting-place he saw a cabbage or +two that after some while had come back to what was a field and had +sprouted on the edge of a shell-hole. A yellowing convolvulus climbed +up a dead weed. Weeds, grass and tumbled earth were all about him. It +would be no better when he went on. Still he went on. A flower or two +peeped up among the weeds. He stood up and looked at the landscape +and drew no hope from that, the shattered trunk of a stricken tree +leered near him, white trenches scarred the hillside. He followed an +old trench through a hedge of elder, passed under more wire, by a +great rusty shell that had not burst, passed by a dug-out where +something grey seemed to lie down at the bottom of many steps. Black +fungi grew near the entrance. He went on and on over shell-holes, +passing round them where they were deep, stepping into or over the +small ones. Little burrs clutched at him; he went rustling on, the +only sound in the waste but the clicking of shattered iron. Now he +was among nettles. He came by many small unnatural valleys. He passed +more trenches only guarded by fungi. While it was light he followed +little paths, marvelling who made them. Once he got into a trench. +Dandelions leaned across it as though to bar his way, believing man +to have gone and to have no right to return. Weeds thronged, in +thousands here. It was the day of the weeds. It was only they that +seemed to triumph in those fields deserted of man. He passed on down +the trench and never knew whose trench it once had been. Frightful +shells had smashed it here and there, and had twisted iron as though +round gigantic fingers that had twiddled it idly a moment and let it +drop to lie in the rain for ever. He passed more dug-outs and black +fungi, watching them; and then he left the trench, going straight on +over the open: again dead grasses hissed about his feet, sometimes +small wire sang faintly He passed through a belt of nettles and +thence to dead grass again. And now the light of the afternoon was +beginning to dwindle away. He had intended to reach his journey’s end +by daylight, for he was past the time of life when one wanders after +dark, but he had not contemplated the difficulty of walking over that +road, or dreamed that lanes he knew could be so foundered and merged, +in that mournful desolate moor. + +Evening was filling fast, still he kept on. It was the time when the +cornstacks would once have begun to grow indistinct, and slowly turn +grey in the greyness, and homesteads one by one would have lit their +innumerable lights. But evening now came down on a dreary desolation: +and a cold wind arose; and the traveller heard the mournful sound of +iron flapping on broken things, and knew that this was the sound that +would haunt the waste for ever. + +And evening settled down, a huge grey canvas waiting for sombre +pictures; a setting for all the dark tales of the world, haunted +forever a grizzly place was haunted ever, in any century, in any +land; but not by mere ghosts from all those thousands of graves and +half-buried bodies and sepulchral shell-holes; haunted by things +huger and more disastrous than that; haunted by wailing ambitions, +under the stars or moon, drifting across the rubbish that once was +villages, which strews the lonely plain; the lost ambitions of two +Emperors and a Sultan wailing from wind to wind and whimpering for +dominion of the world. + +The cold wind blew over the blasted heath and bits of broken iron +flapped on and on. + +And now the traveller hurried, for night was falling, and such a +night as three witches might have brewed in a cauldron. He went on +eagerly but with infinite sadness. Over the sky-line strange rockets +went up from the war, peered oddly over the earth and went down +again. Very far off a few soldiers lit a little fire of their own. +The night grew colder; tap, tap, went broken iron. + +And at last the traveller stopped in the lonely night and looked +round him attentively, and appeared to be satisfied that he had come +within sight of his journey’s end, although to ordinary eyes the spot +to which he had come differed in no way from the rest of the waste. + +He went no further, but turned round and round, peering piece by +piece at that weedy and cratered earth. + +He was looking for the village where he was born. + + + + +The House With Two Storeys + + +I came again to Croisilles. + +I looked for the sunken road that we used to hold in support, with +its row of little shelters in the bank and the carved oak saints +above them here and there that had survived the church in Croisilles. +I could have found it with my eyes shut. With my eyes open I could +not find it. I did not recognize the lonely metalled road down which +lorries were rushing for the little lane so full of life, whose +wheel-ruts were three years old. + +As I gazed about me looking for our line, I passed an old French +civilian looking down at a slight mound of white stone that rose a +little higher than the road. He was walking about uncertainly, when +first I noticed him, as though he was not sure where he was. But now +he stood quite still looking down at the mound. + +“Voilà ma maison,” he said. + +He said no more than that: this astounding remark, this gesture that +indicated such calamity, were quite simply made. There was nothing +whatever of theatrical pose that we wrongly associate with the +French, because they conceal their emotions less secretly than we; +there were no tragic tones in his voice: only a trace of deep +affection showed in one of the words he used. He spoke as a woman +might say of her only child, “Look at _my_ baby.” + +“Voilà ma maison,” he said. + +I tried to say in his language what I felt; and after my attempt he +spoke of his house. + +It was very old. Down underneath, he said, it dated from feudal +times; though I did not quite make out whether all that lay under +that mound had been so old or whether he only meant the cellars of +his house. It was a fine high house, he said, as much as two storeys +high. No one that is familiar with houses of fifty storeys, none even +that has known palaces, will smile at this old man’s efforts to tell +of his high house, and to make me believe that it rose to two storeys +high, as we stood together by that sad white mound. He told me that +his son was killed. And that disaster strangely did not move me so +much as the white mound that had been a house and had had two +storeys, for it seems to be common to every French family with whose +fathers I have chanced to speak in ruined cities or on busy roads of +France. + +He pointed to a huge white mound beyond on the top of which someone +had stuck a small cross of wood. “The church,” he said. And that I +knew already. + +In very inadequate French I tried to comfort him. I told him that +surely France would build his house again. Perhaps even the allies; +for I could not believe that we shall have done enough if we merely +drive the Germans out of France and leave this poor old man still +wandering homeless. I told him that surely in the future Croisilles +would stand again. + +He took no interest in anything that I said. His house of two storeys +was down, his son was dead, the little village of Croisilles had gone +away; he had only one hope from the future. When I had finished +speaking of the future, he raised a knobbed stick that he carried, up +to the level of his throat, surely his son’s old trench stick, and +there he let it dangle from a piece of string in the handle, which he +held against his neck. He watched me shrewdly and attentively +meanwhile, for I was a stranger and was to be taught something I +might not know—a thing that it was necessary for all men to learn. +“Le Kaiser,” he said. “Yes;” I said, “the Kaiser.” But I pronounced +the word Kaiser differently from him, and he repeated again “Le +Kaiser,” and watched me closely to be sure that I understood. And +then he said “Pendu,” and made the stick quiver a little as it +dangled from its string. “Oui,” I said, “Pendu.” + +Did I understand? He was not yet quite sure. It was important that +this thing should be quite decided between us as we stood on this +road through what had been Croisilles, where he had lived through +many sunny years and I had dwelt for a season amongst rats. “Pendu” +he said. Yes, I agreed. + +It was all right. The old man almost smiled. + +I offered him a cigarette and we lit two from an apparatus of flint +and steel and petrol that the old man had in his pocket. + +He showed me a photograph of himself and a passport to prove, I +suppose, that he was not a spy. One could not recognize the likeness, +for it must have been taken on some happier day, before he had seen +his house of two storeys lying there by the road. But he was no spy, +for there were tears in his eyes; and Prussians I think have no tears +for what we saw across the village of Croisilles. + +I spoke of the rebuilding of his house no more, I spoke no more of +the new Croisilles shining through future years; for these were not +the things that he saw in the future, and these were not the hopes of +the poor old man. He had one dark hope of the future, and no others. +He hoped to see the Kaiser hung for the wrong he had done to +Croisilles. It was for this hope he lived. + +Madame or señor of whatever far country, who may chance to see these +words, blame not this old man for the fierce hope he cherished. It +was the only hope he had. You, Madame, with your garden, your house, +your church, the village where all know you, you may hope as a +Christian should, there is wide room for hope in your future. You +shall see the seasons move over your garden, you shall busy yourself +with your home, and speak and share with your neighbours innumerable +small joys, and find consolation and beauty, and at last rest, in and +around the church whose spire you see from your home. You, señor, +with your son perhaps growing up, perhaps wearing already some sword +that you wore once, you can turn back to your memories or look with +hope to the future with equal ease. + +The man that I met in Croisilles had none of these things at all. He +had that one hope only. + +Do not, I pray you, by your voice or vote, or by any power or +influence that you have, do anything to take away from this poor old +Frenchman the only little hope he has left. The more trivial his odd +hope appears to you compared with your own high hopes that come so +easily to you amongst all your fields and houses, the more cruel a +thing must it be to take it from him. + +I learned many things in Croisilles, and the last of them is this +strange one the old man taught me. I turned and shook hands with him +and said good-bye, for I wished to see again our old front line that +we used to hold over the hill, now empty, silent at last. “The Boche +is defeated,” I said. + +“Vaincu, vaincu,” he repeated. And I left him with something almost +like happiness looking out of his tearful eyes. + + + + +Bermondsey _versus_ Wurtemburg + + +The trees grew thinner and thinner along the road, then ceased +altogether, and suddenly we saw Albert in the wood of the ghosts of +murdered trees, all grey and deserted. + +Descending into Albert past trees in their agony we came all at once +on the houses. You did not see them far off as in other cities; we +came on them all at once as you come on a corpse in the grass. + +We stopped and stood by a house that was covered with plaster marked +off to look like great stones, its pitiful pretence laid bare, the +slates gone and the rooms gone, the plaster all pitted with shrapnel. +Near it lay an iron railing, a hand-rail blown there from the railway +bridge; a shrapnel bullet had passed through its twisted stem as +though it had gone through butter. And beside the hand-rail lay one +of the great steel supports of the bridge that had floated there upon +some flaming draught; the end of it bent and splayed as though it had +been a slender cane that someone had shoved too hard into the earth. + +There had been a force abroad in Albert that could do these things, +an iron force that had no mercy for iron, a mighty mechanical +contrivance that could take machinery and pull it all to pieces in a +moment as a child takes a flower to pieces petal by petal. + +When such a force was abroad what chance had man? It had come down +upon Albert suddenly, and railway lines and bridges had drooped and +withered and the houses had stooped down in the blasting heat, and in +that attitude I found them still, worn-out, melancholy heaps overcome +by disaster. + +Pieces of paper rustled about like footsteps, dirt covered the ruins, +fragments of rusty shells lay as unsightly and dirty as that which +they had destroyed. Cleaned up and polished, and priced at half a +crown apiece, these fragments may look romantic some day in a London +shop, but to-day in Albert they look unclean and untidy, like a cheap +knife sticking up from a murdered woman’s ribs, whose dress is long +out of fashion. + +The stale smell of war arose from the desolation. + +A British helmet dinted in like an old bowler, but tragic not absurd, +lay near a barrel and a teapot. + +On a wall that rose above a heap of dirty and smashed rafters was +written in red paint KOMPe I.M.B.K. 184. The red paint had dripped +down the wall from every letter. Verily we stood upon the scene of +the murder. + +Opposite those red letters across the road was a house with traces of +a pleasant ornament below the sills of the windows, a design of +grapes and vine. Someone had stuck up a wooden boot on a peg outside +the door. + +Perhaps the cheery design on the wall attracted me. I entered the +house and looked round. + +A chunk of shell lay on the floor, and a little decanter, only +chipped at the lip, and part of a haversack of horse-skin. There were +pretty tiles on the floor, but dry mud buried them deep: it was like +the age-old dirt that gathers in temples in Africa. A man’s waistcoat +lay on the mud and part of a woman’s stays: the waistcoat was black +and was probably kept for Sundays. That was all that there was to see +on the ground floor, no more flotsam than that had come down to these +days from peace. + +A forlorn stairway tried still to wind upstairs. It went up out of a +corner of the room. It seemed still to believe that there was an +upper storey, still to feel that this was a house, there seemed a +hope in the twists of that battered staircase that men would yet come +again and seek sleep at evening by way of those broken steps; the +hand-rail and the banisters streamed down from the top, a woman’s +dress lolled down from the upper room above those aimless steps, the +laths of the ceiling gaped, the plaster was gone; of all the hopes +men hope that can never be fulfilled, of all desires that ever come +too late, most futile was the hope expressed by that stairway’s +posture that ever a family would come home there again or tread those +steps once more. And, if in some far country one should hope, who has +not seen Albert, out of compassion for these poor people of France, +that where a staircase still remains there may be enough of a house +to shelter those who called it home again, I will tell one thing +more: there blew inside that house the same wind that blew outside, +the wind that wandered free over miles of plains wandered unchecked +through that house; there was no indoors or outdoors any more. + +And on the wall of the room in which I stood, someone had proudly +written his regiment’s name, The 156th Wurtemburgers. It was written +in chalk; and another man had come and had written two words before +it and had recorded the name of his own regiment too. And the writing +remains after these two men are gone, and the lonely house is silent +but for the wind and the things that creak as it blows, the only +message of this deserted house, is this mighty record, this rare line +of history, ill-written: “Lost by the 156th Wurtemburgers, retaken by +the Bermondsey Butterflies.” + +Two men wrote that sentence between them. And, as with Homer, no one +knows who they were. And; like Homer, their words were epic. + + + + +On An Old Battle-Field + + +I entered an old battle-field through a garden gate, a pale green +gate by the Bapaume-Arras road. The cheerful green attracted me in +the deeps of the desolation as an emerald might in a dust-bin. I +entered through that homely garden gate, it had no hinges, no +pillars, it lolled on a heap of stone: I came to it from the road; +this alone was not battle-field; the road alone was made and tended +and kept; all the rest was battle-field, as far as the eye could see. +Over a large whitish heap lay a Virginia creeper, turning a dull +crimson. And the presence of this creeper mourning there in the waste +showed unmistakably that the heap had been a house. All the living +things were gone that had called this white heap Home: the father +would be fighting, somewhere; the children would have fled, if there +had been time; the dog would have gone with them, or perhaps, if +there was not time, he served other masters; the cat would have made +a lair for herself and stalked mice at night through the trenches. +All the live things that we ever consider were gone; the creeper +alone remained, the only mourner, clinging to fallen stones that had +supported it once. + +And I knew by its presence here there had been a house. And by the +texture or composition of the ruin all round I saw that a village had +stood there. There are calamities one does not contemplate, when one +thinks of time and change. Death, passing away, even ruin, are all +the human lot; but one contemplates ruin as brought by kindly ages, +coming slowly at last, with lichen and ivy and moss, its harsher +aspects all hidden with green, coming with dignity and in due season. +Thus our works should pass away; our worst fears contemplated no more +than this. + +But here in a single day, perhaps in a moment with one discharge from +a battery, all the little things that one family cared for, their +house, their garden; and the garden paths, and then the village and +the road through the village, and the old landmarks that the old +people remembered, and countless treasured things, were all turned +into rubbish. + +And these things that one did not contemplate, have happened for +hundreds of miles, with such disaster vast plains and hills are +covered, because of the German war. + +Deep wells, old cellars, battered trenches and dug-outs, lie in the +rubbish and weeds under the intricate wreckage of peace and war. It +will be a bad place years hence for wanderers lost at night. + +When the village went, trenches came; and, in the same storm that had +crumbled the village, the trenches withered too; shells still thump +on to the north, but peace and war alike have deserted the village. +Grass has begun to return over torn earth on edges of trenches. +Abundant wire rusts away by its twisted stakes of steel. Not a path +of old, not a lane nor a doorway there, but is barred and cut off by +wire; and the wire in its turn has been cut by shells and lies in +ungathered swathes. A pair of wheels moulders amongst weeds, and may +be of peace or of war, it is too broken down for anyone to say. A +great bar of iron lies cracked across as though one of the elder +giants had handled it carelessly. Another mound near by, with an old +green beam sticking out of it, was also once a house. A trench runs +by it. A German bomb with its wooden handle, some bottles, a bucket, +a petrol tin and some bricks and stones, lie in the trench. A young +elder tree grows amongst them. And over all the ruin and rubbish +Nature, with all her wealth and luxury, comes back to her old +inheritance, holding again the land that she held so long, before the +houses came. + +A garden gate of iron has been flung across a wall. Then a deep +cellar into which a whole house seems to have slanted down. In the +midst of all this is an orchard. A huge shell has uprooted, but not +killed, an apple-tree; another apple-tree stands stone dead on the +edge of a crater: most of the trees are dead. British aeroplanes +drone over continually. A great gun goes by towards Bapaume, dragged +by a slow engine with caterpillar wheels. The gun is all blotched +green and yellow. Four or five men are seated on the huge barrel +alone. + +Dark old steps near the orchard run down into a dug-out, with a +cartridge-case tied to a piece of wood beside it to beat when the gas +came. A telephone wire lies listlessly by the opening. A patch of +Michaelmas daisies, deep mauve and pale mauve, and a bright yellow +flower beside them, show where a garden used to stand near by. Above +the dug-out a patch of jagged earth shows in three clear layers under +the weeds: four inches of grey road metal, imported, for all this +country is chalk and clay; two inches of flint below it, and under +that an inch of a bright red stone. We are looking then at a road—a +road through a village trodden by men and women, and the hooves of +horses and familiar modern things, a road so buried, so shattered, so +overgrown, showing by chance an edge in the midst of the wilderness, +that I could seem rather to have discovered the track of the Dinosaur +in prehistoric clays than the highway, of a little village that only +five years ago was full of human faults and joys and songs and tiny +tears. Down that road before the plans, of the Kaiser began to fumble +with the earth, down that road—but it is useless to look back, we +are too far away from five years ago, too far away from thousands of +ordinary things, that never seemed as though they would ever peer at +us over chasms of time, out of another age, utterly far off, +irrevocably removed from our ways and days. They are gone, those +times, gone like the Dinosaur; gone with bows and arrows and the old +knightlier days. No splendour marks their sunset where I sit, no +dignity of houses, or derelict engines of war, ruined all equally are +scattered dirtily in the mud, and common weeds overpower them; it is +not ruin but rubbish that covers the ground here and spreads its +untidy flood for hundreds and hundreds of miles. + +A band plays in Arras, to the north and east the shells go thumping +on. + +The very origins of things are in doubt, so much is jumbled together. +It is as hard to make out just where the trenches ran, and which was +No-Man’s-Land, as it is to tell the houses from garden and orchard +and road: the rubbish covers all. It is as though the ancient forces +of Chaos had come back from the abyss to fight against order and man, +and Chaos had won. So lies this village of France. + +As I left it a rat, with something in its mouth, holding its head +high, ran right across the village. + + + + +The Real Thing + + +Once at manoeuvres as the Prussian Crown Prince charged at the head +of his regiment, as sabres gleamed, plumes streamed, and hooves +thundered behind him, he is reported to have said to one that +galloped near him: “Ah, if only this were the real thing!” + +One need not doubt that the report is true. So a young man might feel +as he led his regiment of cavalry, for the scene would fire the +blood; all those young men and fine uniforms and good horses, all +coming on behind, everything streaming that could float on the air, +everything jingling then which could ever make a sound, a bright sky +no doubt over the uniforms, a good fresh wind for men and horses to +gulp; and behind, the clinking and jingling, the long roll of hooves +thundering. Such a scene might well stir emotions to sigh for the +splendours of battle. + +This is one side of war. Mutilation and death are another; misery, +cold and dirt; pain, and the intense loneliness of men left behind by +armies, with much to think of; no hope, and a day or two to live. But +we understand that glory covers that. + +There is yet a third side. + +I came to Albert when the fight was far from it: only at night you +saw any signs of war, when clouds flashed now and then and curious +rockets peered. Albert robbed of peace was deserted even by war. + +I will not say that Albert was devastated or desolate, for these long +words have different interpretations and may easily be exaggerated. A +German agent might say to you, “Devastated is rather a strong word, +and desolate is a matter of opinion.” And so you might never know +what Albert is like. + +I will tell you what I saw. + +Albert was a large town. I will not write of all of it. + +I sat down near a railway bridge at the edge of the town; I think I +was near the station; and small houses had stood there with little +gardens; such as porters and other railway folk would have lived in. +I sat down on the railway and looked at one of these houses, for it +had clearly been a house. It was at the back of it that most +remained, in what must have been a garden. A girder torn up like a +pack of cards lay on the leg of a table amongst a brick wall by an +apple-tree. + +Lower down in the heap was the frame-work of a large four-poster bed; +through it all a vine came up quite green and still alive; and at the +edge of the heap lay a doll’s green pram. Small though the house had +been there was evidence in that heap of some prosperity in more than +one generation. For the four-poster bed had been a fine one, good +work in sound old timber, before the bits in the girder had driven it +into the wall; and the green pram must have been the dowry of no +ordinary, doll, but one with the best yellow curls whose blue eyes +could move. One blue columbine close by mourned alone for the garden. + +The wall and the vine and the bed and the girder lay in an orchard, +and some of the apple-trees were standing yet, though the orchard had +been terribly wrecked by shell fire. All that still stood were dead. +Some stood upon the very edge of craters; their leaves and twigs and +bark had been stripped by one blast in a moment; and they had +tottered, with stunted, black, gesticulating branches; and so they +stood to-day. + +The curls of a mattress lay on the ground, clipped once from a +horse’s mane. + +After looking for some while across the orchard one suddenly noticed +that the cathedral had stood on the other side. It was draped, when +we saw it closer, as with a huge grey cloak, the lead of its roof +having come down and covered it. + +Near the house of that petted doll (as I came to think of it) a road +ran by on the other side of the railway. Great shells had dropped +along it with terrible regularity. You could imagine Death striding +down it with exact five-yard paces, on his own day, claiming his own. +As I stood on the road something whispered behind me; and I saw, +stirring round with the wind, in one of those footsteps of Death, a +double page of a book open at Chapter II: and Chapter II was headed +with the proverb, “Un Malheur Ne Vient Jamais Seul;” Misfortunes +never come singly! And on that dreadful road, with shell-holes every +five yards as far as the eye could see, and flat beyond it the whole +city in ruin. What harmless girl or old man had been reading that +dreadful prophecy when the Germans came down upon Albert and involved +it, and themselves, and that book, all except those two pages, in +such multiplication of ruin? + +Surely, indeed, there is a third side to war: for what had the doll +done, that used to have a green pram, to deserve to share thus in the +fall and punishment of an Emperor? + + + + +A Garden Of Arras + + +As I walked through Arras from the Spanish gate, gardens flashed as I +went, one by one, through the houses. + +I stepped in over the window-sill of one of the houses, attracted by +the gleam of a garden dimly beyond: and went through the empty house, +empty of people, empty of furniture, empty of plaster, and entered +the garden through an empty doorway. + +When I came near it seemed less like a garden. At first it had almost +seemed to beckon to passers-by in the street, so rare are gardens now +in this part of France, that it seemed to have more than a garden’s +share of mystery, all in the silence there at the back of the silent +house; but when one entered it some of the mystery went, and seemed +to hide in a further part of the garden amongst wild shrubs and +innumerable weeds. + +British aeroplanes frequently roared over, disturbing the +congregation of Arras Cathedral a few hundred yards away, who rose +cawing and wheeled over the garden; for only jackdaws come to Arras +Cathedral now, besides a few pigeons. + +Unkempt beside me a bamboo flourished wildly, having no need of man. +On the other side of the small wild track that had been the garden +path the skeletons of hothouses stood, surrounded by nettles; their +pipes lay all about, shattered and riddled through. + +Branches of rose break up through the myriad nettles, but only to be +seized and choked by columbine. A late moth looks for flowers not +quite in vain. It hovers on wing-beats that are invisibly swift by +its lonely autumn flower, then darts away over the desolation which +is no desolation to a moth: man has destroyed man; nature comes back; +it is well: that must be the brief philosophy of myriads of tiny +things whose way of life one seldom considered before; now that man’s +cities are down, now that ruin and misery confront us whichever way +we turn, one notices more the small things that are left. + +One of the greenhouses is almost all gone, a tumbled mass that might +be a piece of Babylon, if archæologists should come to study it. But +it is too sad to study, too untidy to have any interest, and, alas, +too common: there are hundreds of miles of this. + +The other greenhouse, a sad, ungainly skeleton, is possessed by grass +and weeds. On the raised centre many flower-pots were neatly arranged +once: they stand in orderly lines, but each separate one is broken: +none contain flowers any more, but only grass. And the glass of the +greenhouse lies there in showers, all grey. No one has tidied +anything up there for years. + +A meadow-sweet had come into that greenhouse and dwelt there in that +abode of fine tropical flowers, and one night an elder tree had +entered and is now as high as the house, and at the end of the +greenhouse grass has come in like a wave; for change and disaster are +far-reaching and are only mirrored here. This desolate garden and its +ruined house are a part of hundreds of thousands such, or millions. +Mathematics will give you no picture of what France has suffered. If +I tell you what one garden is like, one village, one house, one +cathedral, after the German war has swept by, and if you read my +words, I may help you perhaps to imagine more easily what France has +suffered than if I spoke of millions. I speak of one garden in Arras; +and you might walk from there, south by east for weeks, and find no +garden that has suffered less. + +It is all weeds and elders. An apple-tree rises out of a mass of +nettles, but it is quite dead. Wild rose-trees show here and there, +or roses that have ran wild like the cats of No-Man’s-Land: And once +I saw a rose-bush that had been planted in a pot and still grew +there, as though it still remembered man, but the flower-pot was +shattered, like all the pots in that garden, and the rose grew wild +as any in any hedge. + +The ivy alone grows on over a mighty wall, and seems to care not. The +ivy alone seems not to mourn, but to have added the last four years +to its growth as though they were ordinary years. That corner of the +wall alone whispers not of disaster, it only seems to tell of the +passing of years, which makes the ivy strong, and for which in peace +as in war there is no cure. All the rest speaks of war, of war that +comes to gardens, without banners or trumpets or splendour, and roots +up everything, and turns round and smashes the house, and leaves it +all desolate, and forgets and goes away. And when the histories of +the war are written, attacks and counter-attacks and the doom of +Emperors, who will remember that garden? + +Saddest of all, as it seemed to me watching the garden paths, were +spiders’ webs that had been spun across them, so grey and stout and +strong, fastened from weed to weed, with the spiders in their midst +sitting in obvious ownership. You knew then as you looked at those +webs across all the paths in the garden that any that you might fancy +walking the small paths still, were but grey ghosts gone from thence, +no more than dreams, hopes and imaginings, something altogether +weaker than spiders webs. + +And the old wall of the garden that divides it from its neighbour, of +solid stone and brick, over fifteen feet high, it is that mighty old +wall that held the romance of the garden. I do not tell the tale of +that garden of Arras, for that is conjecture, and I only tell what I +saw, in order that someone perhaps in some far country may know what +happened in thousands and thousands of gardens because an Emperor +sighed, and longed for the splendour of war. The tale is but +conjecture, yet all the romance is there; for picture a wall over +fifteen feet high built as they built long ago, standing for all +those ages between two gardens. For would not the temptation arise to +peer over the wall if a young man heard, perhaps songs, one evening +the other side? And at first he would have some pretext and +afterwards none at all, and the pretext would vary wonderfully little +with the generations, while the ivy went on growing thicker and +thicker. The thought might come of climbing the wall altogether and +down the other side, and it might seem too daring and be utterly put +away. And then one day, some wonderful summer evening, the west all +red and a new moon in the sky, far voices heard clearly and white +mists rising, one wonderful summer day, back would come that thought +to climb the great old wall and go down the other side. Why not go in +next door from the street, you might say. That would be different, +that would be calling; that would mean ceremony, black hats, and +awkward new gloves, constrained talk and little scope for romance. It +would all be the fault of the wall. + +With what diffidence, as the generations passed, would each first +peep over the wall be undertaken. In some years it would be scaled +from one side, in some ages from the other. What a barrier that old +red wall would have seemed! How new the adventure would have seemed +in each age to those that dared it, and how old to the wall! And in +all those years the elders never made a door, but kept that huge and +haughty separation. And the ivy quietly grew greener. And then one +day a shell came from the east, and, in a moment, without plan or +diffidence or pretext, tumbled away some yards of the proud old wall, +and the two gardens were divided no longer: but there was no one to +walk in them any more. + +Wistfully round the edge of the huge breach in the wall, a Michaelmas +daisy peered into the garden, in whose ruined paths I stood. + + + + +After Hell + + +He heard an English voice shouting, “Paiper! Paiper!” No mere +spelling of the word will give the intonation. It was the voice of +English towns he heard again. The very voice of London in the +morning. It seemed like magic, or like some wonderfully vivid dream. + +He was only a hundred miles or so from England; it was not very long +since he had been there; yet what he heard seemed like an enchanted +dream, because only the day before he had been in the trenches. + +They had been twelve days in the trenches and had marched out at +evening. They had marched five miles and were among tin huts in quite +a different world. Through the doorways of the huts green grass could +be seen and the sun was shining on it. It was morning. Everything was +strangely different. You saw more faces smiling. Men were not so calm +as they had been during the last twelve days, the last six +especially: someone was kicking a football at somebody else’s hut and +there was excitement about it. + +Guns were still firing: but they thought of death now as one who +walked on the other side of the hills, no longer as a neighbour, as +one who might drop in at any moment, and sometime did, while they +were taking tea. It was not that they had been afraid of him, but the +strain of expectancy was over; and that strain being suddenly gone in +a single night, they all had a need, whether they knew it or not, of +something to take its place, so the football loomed very large. + +It was morning and he had slept long. The guns that grew active at +dawn had not woke him; in those twelve days they had grown too +familiar, but he woke wide when he heard the young English soldier +with a bundle of three-days-old papers under his arm calling “Paiper, +paiper!”—bringing to that strange camp the voice of the English +towns. He woke wide at that wonder; and saw the sun shining cheerily, +on desolation with a tinge of green in it, which even by itself +rejoiced him on that morning after those twelve days amongst mud, +looking at mud, surrounded by mud, protected by mud, sharing with mud +the liability to be suddenly blown high and to come down in a shower +on other men’s helmets and coats. + +He wondered if Dante when he came up from Hell heard anyone calling +amongst the Verdure, in sunlight, any familiar call such as merchants +use, some trivial song or cry of his native city. + + + + +A Happy Valley + + +“The enemy attacked the Happy Valley.” I read these words in a paper +at the time of the taking of Albert, for the second time, by our +troops. And the words brought back Albert to me like a spell, Albert +at the end of the mighty Bapaume-Albert road, that pathway of Mars +down which he had stalked so tremendously through his garden, the +wide waste battlefields of the Somme. The words brought back Albert +at the end of that road in the sunset and the cathedral seen against +the west, and the gilded Virgin half cast down, but incapable of +losing dignity, and evening coming down over the marshes. They +brought it back like a spell. Like two spells rather, that some +magician had mixed. Picture some magician of old in his sombre +wonderful, chamber wishing dreams to transport him far off to +delectable valleys. He sits him down and writes out a spell on +parchment, slowly and with effort of aged memory, though he +remembered it easily once. The shadows of crocodiles and antique gods +flicker on walls and ceiling from a gusty flame as he writes; and in +the end he writes the spell out wrongly and mixes up with the valleys +where he would rest dark bits of the regions of Hell. So one sees +Albert again and its Happy Valley. + +I do not know which the Happy Valley is, for so many little valleys +run in and out about Albert; and with a little effort of imagination, +having only seen them full of the ruin of war, one can fancy any of +them being once named happy. Yet one there is away to the east of +Albert, which even up to last autumn seemed able to bear this name, +so secluded it was in that awful garden of Mars; a tiny valley +running into the wood of Bécourt. A few yards, higher up and all was +desolation, a little further along a lonely road and you saw Albert +mourning over irreparable vistas of ruin and wasted fields; but the +little valley ran into the wood of Bécourt and sheltered there, and +there you saw scarcely any signs of war. It might almost have been an +English valley, by the side of an English wood. The soil was the same +brown clay that you see in the south of England above the downs and +the chalk; the wood was a hazel wood, such as grow in England, +thinned a good deal, as English hazels are, but with several tall +trees still growing; and plants were there and late flowers, such as +grow in Surrey and Kent. And at the end of the valley, just in the +shadow of that familiar homely wood, a hundred British officers rest +for ever. + +As the world is to-day perhaps that obscure spot, as fittingly as any, +might be named the Happy Valley. + + + + +In Bethune + + +Under all ruins is history, as every tourist knows. Indeed, the dust +that gathers above the ruin of cities may be said to be the cover of +the most wonderful of the picture-books of Time, those secret books +into which we sometimes peep. We turn no more, perhaps, than the +corner of a single page in our prying, but we catch a glimpse there +of things so gorgeous, in the book that we are not meant to see, that +it is worth while to travel to far countries, whoever can, to see one +of those books, and where the edges are turned up a little to catch +sight of those strange winged bulls and mysterious kings and +lion-headed gods that were not meant for us. And out of the glimpses +one catches from odd corners of those volumes of Time, where old +centuries hide, one builds up part by guesses, part by fancy mixed +with but little knowledge, a tale or theory of how men and women +lived in unknown ages in the faith of forgotten gods. + +Such a people lived in Timgad and left it probably about the time +that waning Rome began to call home her outposts. Long after the +citizens left the city stood on that high plateau in Africa, teaching +shepherd Arabs what Rome had been: even to-day its great arches and +parts of its temples stand: its paved streets are still grooved +clearly with the wheel-ruts of chariots, and beaten down on each side +of the centre by the pairs of horses that drew them two thousand +years ago. When all the clatter had died away Timgad stood there in +silence. + +At Pompeii, city and citizens ended together. Pompeii did not mourn +among strangers, a city without a people: but was buried at once, +closed like an ancient book. + +I doubt if anyone knows why its gods deserted Luxor, or Luxor lost +faith in its gods, or in itself; conquest from over the desert or +down the Nile, I suppose, or corruption within. Who knows? But one +day I saw a woman come out from the back of her house and empty a +basket full of dust and rubbish right into the temple at Luxor, where +a dark green god is seated, three times the size of a man, buried as +high as his waist. I suppose that what I saw had been happening off +and on pretty well every morning for the last four thousand years. +Safe under the dust that that woman threw, and the women that lived +before her, Time hid his secrets. + +And then I have seen the edges of stones in deserts that might or +might not have been cities: they had fallen so long that you could +hardly say. + +At all these cities, whether disaster met them, and ruin came +suddenly on to crowded streets; or whether they passed slowly out of +fashion, and grew quieter year by year while the jackals drew nearer +and nearer; at all these cities one can look with interest and not be +saddened by the faintest sorrow—for anything that happened to such a +different people so very long ago. Ram-headed gods, although their +horns be broken and all their worshippers gone; armies whose +elephants have turned against them; kings whose ancestors have +eclipsed their faces in heaven and left them helpless against the +onslaught of the stars; not a tear is given for one of these to-day. + +But when in ruins as complete as Pompeii, as desolate as Timgad +amongst its African hills, you see the remnant of a pack of cards +lying with what remains of the stock of a draper’s shop; and the +front part of the shop and the snug room at the back gape side by +side together in equal, misery, as though there had never been a +barrier between the counter with its wares and the good mahogany +table with its decanters; then in the rustling of papers that blow +with dust along long-desolate floors one hears the whisper of +Disaster, saying, “See; I have come.” For under plaster shaken down +by calamity, and red dust that once was bricks, it is our own age +that is lying; and the little things that lie about the floors are +relics of the twentieth century. Therefore in the streets of Bethune +the wistful appeal that is in all things lost far off and utterly +passed away cries out with an insistence that is never felt in the +older fallen cities. No doubt to future times the age that lies under +plaster in Bethune, with thin, bare laths standing over it, will +appear an age of glory; and yet to thousands that went one day from +its streets, leaving all manner of small things behind, it may well +have been an age full of far other promises, no less golden to them, +no less magical even, though too little to stir the pen of History, +busy with batteries and imperial dooms. So that to these, whatever +others may write, the twentieth century will not be the age of +strategy, but will only seem to have been those fourteen lost quiet +summers whose fruits lie under the plaster. + +That layer of plaster and brick-dust lies on the age that has gone, +as final, as fatal, as the layer of flints that covers the top of the +chalk and marks the end of an epoch and some unknown geologic +catastrophe. + +It is only by the little things in Bethune, lying where they were +left, that one can trace at all what kind of house each was, or guess +at the people who dwelt in it. It is only by a potato growing where +Pavement was, and flowering vigorously under a vacant window, that +one can guess that the battered, house beside it was once a +fruiterer’s shop, whence the potato rolled away when man fell on evil +days, and found the street, no longer harsh and unfriendly; but soft +and fertile like the primal waste, and took root and throve there as +its forbears throve before it in another continent before the coming +of man. + +Across the street, in the dust of a stricken house, the implements of +his trade show where a carpenter lived when disaster came so +suddenly, quite good tools, some still upon shelves, some amongst +broken things that lie all over the floor. And further along the +street in which these things are someone has put up a great iron +shutter that was to protect his shop. It has a graceful border of +painted irises all the way up each side. It might have been a +jeweller that would have had such a shutter. The shutter alone +remains standing straight upright, and the whole shop is gone. + +And just here the shaken street ends and all the streets end +together. The rest is a mound of white stones and pieces of bricks +with low, leaning walls surrounding it, and the halves of hollow +houses; and eyeing it round a corner, one old tower of the cathedral, +as though still gazing over its congregation of houses, a ruined, +melancholy watcher. Over the bricks lie tracks, but no more streets. +It is about the middle of the town, a hawk goes over, calling as +though he flew over the waste, and as though the waste were his. The +breeze that carries him opens old shutters and flaps them to again. +Old, useless hinges moan; wall-paper whispers. Three French soldiers +trying to find their homes walk over the bricks and groundsel. + +It is the Abomination of Desolation, not seen by prophecy far off in +some fabulous future, nor remembered from terrible ages by the aid +of papyrus and stone, but fallen on our own century, on the homes of +folk like ourselves: common things that we knew are become the relics +of bygone days. It is our own time that has ended in blood and broken +bricks. + + + + +In An Old Drawing-Room + + +There was one house with a roof on it in Peronne. And there an +officer came by moonlight on his way back from leave. He was looking +for his battalion which had moved and was now somewhere in the +desolation out in front of Peronne, or else was marching there—no +one quite knew. Someone said he had seen it marching through +Tincourt; the R.T.O. said Brie. Those who did not know were always +ready to help, they made suggestions and even pulled out maps. Why +should they not? They were giving away no secret, because they did +not know, and so they followed a soldier’s natural inclination to +give all the help they could to another soldier. Therefore they +offered their suggestions like old friends. They had never met +before, might never meet again; but La France introduces you, and +five minute acquaintance in a place like Peronne, where things may +change so profoundly in one night, and where all is so tense by the +strange background of ruin that little portions of time seem very +valuable, five minutes there seem quite a long time. And so they are, +for what may not happen in five minutes any day now in France. Five +minutes may be a page of history, a chapter even, perhaps a volume. +Little children with inky fingers years hence may sit for a whole +hour trying to learn up and remember just what happened during five +minutes in France some time about now. These are just reflections +such as pass through the mind in the moonlight among vast ruins and +are at once forgotten. + +Those that knew where the battalion was that the wandering officer +looked for were not many; these were reserved and spoke like one that +has a murder on his conscience, not freely and openly: for of one +thing no one speaks in France, and that is the exact position of a +unit. One may wave one’s hand vaguely eastwards and say “Over +there,”, but to name a village and the people that occupy it is to +offend against the silence that in these days broods over France, the +solemn hush befitting so vast a tragedy. + +And in the end it seemed better to that officer to obey the R.T.O. +and to go by his train to Brie that left in the morning, and that +question settled, there remained only food and sleep. + +Down in the basement of the big house with a roof there was a +kitchen, in fact there was everything that a house should have; and +the more that one saw of simple household things, tables, chairs, the +fire in the kitchen, pieces of carpet, floors, ceilings, and even +windows, the more one wondered; it did not seem natural in Peronne. + +Picture to yourself a fine drawing-room with high ornamental walls +and all the air about it of dignity, peace and ease, that were so +recently gone; only just, as it might have been, stepped through the +double doorway; skirts, as it were, of ladies only just trailed out +of sight; and then turn in fancy to that great town streaming with +moonlight, full of the mystery that moonlight always brings, but +without the light of it; all black, dark as caverns of earth where no +light ever came, blacker for the moonlight than if no moon were +there; sombre, mourning and accursed, each house in the great streets +sheltering darkness amongst its windowless walls; as though it nursed +disaster, having no other children left, and would not let the moon +peer in on its grief or see the monstrous orphan that it fondled. + +In the old drawing-room with twenty others, the wandering officer lay +down to sleep on the floor, and thought of old wars that came to the +cities of France a long while ago. To just such houses as this, he +thought, men must have come before and gone on next day to fight in +other centuries; it seemed to him that it must have been more +romantic then. Who knows? + +He had a bit of carpet to lie on. A few more officers came in in the +early part of the night, and talked a little and lay down. A few +candles were stuck on tables here and there. Midnight would have +struck from the towers had any clock been left to strike in Peronne. +Still talk went on in low voices here and there. The candles burned +low and were fewer. Big shadows floated along those old high walls. +Then the talk ceased and everyone was still: nothing stirred but the +shadows. An officer muttered in sleep of things far thence, and was +silent. Far away shells thumped faintly. The shadows, left to +themselves, went round and round the room, searching in every corner +for something that was lost. Over walls and ceiling they went and +could not find it. The last candle was failing. It flared and +guttered. The shadows raced over the room from corner to corner. Lost, +and they could not find it. They hurried desperately in those last +few moments. Great shadows searching for some little thing. In the +smallest nook they sought for it. Then the last candle died. As the +flame went up with the smoke from the fallen wick all the great +shadows turned and mournfully trailed away. + + + + +The Homes Of Arras + + +As you come to Arras by the western road, by the red ramparts and the +Spanish gate, Arras looks like a king. With such a dignity as clings +to the ancient gateway so might a king be crowned; with such a sweep +of dull red as the old ramparts show, so might he be robed; but a +dead king with crowned skull. For the ways of Arras are empty but for +brown soldiers, and her houses are bare as bones. + +Arras sleeps profoundly, roofless, windowless, carpetless; Arras +sleeps as a skeleton sleeps, with all the dignity of former days +about it, but the life that stirs in its streets is not the old +city’s life, the old city is murdered. I came to Arras and went down +a street, and saw back gardens glinting through the bare ribs of the +houses. Garden after garden shone, so far as it could, though it was +in October and after four years of war; but what was left of those +gardens shining there in the sun was like sad faces trying to smile +after many disasters. + +I came to a great wall that no shell had breached. A cascade of +scarlet creeper poured over it, as though on the other side some +serene garden grew, where no disaster came, tended by girls who had +never heard of war, walking untrodden paths. It was not so. But one’s +fancy, weary of ruin, readily turns to such scenes wherever facts are +hidden, though but by a tottering wall, led by a few bright leaves or +the glimpse of a flower. + +But not for any fancy of mine must you picture ruin any more as +something graced with splendour, or as it were an argosy reaching the +shores of our day laden with grandeur and dignity out of antiquity. +Ruin to-day is not covered with ivy, and has no curious architecture +or strange secrets of history, and is not beautiful or romantic at +all. It has no tale to tell of old civilizations, not otherwise +known, told of by few grey stones. Ruin to-day is destruction and +sorrow and debt and loss, come down untidily upon modern homes and +cutting off ordinary generations, smashing the implements of familiar +trades and making common avocations obsolete. It is no longer the +guardian and the chronicle of ages that we should otherwise forget: +ruin to-day is an age heaped up in rubble around us before it has +ceased to be still green in our memory. Quite ordinary wardrobes in +unseemly attitudes gape out from bedrooms whose front walls are gone, +in houses whose most inner design shows unconcealed to the cold gaze +of the street. The rooms have neither mystery nor adornment. Burst +mattresses loll down from bedraggled beds. No one has come to tidy +them up for years. And roofs have slanted down as low as the first +floor. + +I saw a green door ajar in an upper room: the whole of the front wall +of the house was gone: the door partly opened oddly on to a little +staircase, whose steps one could just see, that one wondered whither +it went. The door seemed to beckon and beckon to some lost room, but +if one could ever have got there, up through that shattered house, +and if the steps of that little staircase would bear, so that one +came to, the room that is hidden away at the top, yet there could +only be silence and spiders there, and broken plaster and the dust of +calamity; it is only to memories that the green door beckons; nothing +remains. + +And some day they may come to Arras to see the romance of war, to see +where the shells struck and to pick up pieces of iron. It is not this +that is romantic, not Mars, but poor, limping Peace. It is what is +left that appeals to you, with pathos and infinite charm; little +desolate gardens that no one has tended for years, wall-paper left in +forlorn rooms when all else is scattered, old toys buried in rubbish, +old steps untrodden on inaccessible landings: it is what is left that +appeals to you, what remains of old peaceful things. The great guns +throb on, all round is the panoply of war, if panoply be the right +word for this vast disaster that is known to Arras as innumerable +separate sorrows; but it is not to this great event that the sympathy +turns in Arras, nor to its thunder and show, nor the trappings of it, +guns, lorries, and fragments of shells: it is to the voiceless, +deserted inanimate things, so greatly wronged, that all the heart +goes out: floors fallen in festoons, windows that seem to be wailing, +roofs as though crazed with grief and then petrified in their +craziness; railings, lamp-posts, sticks, all hit, nothing spared by +that frenzied iron: the very earth clawed and-torn: it is what is +left that appeals to you. + +As I went from Arras I passed by a grey, gaunt shape, the ghost of a +railway station standing in the wilderness haunting a waste of weeds, +and mourning, as it seemed, over rusted railway lines lying idle and +purposeless as though leading nowhere, as though all roads had +ceased, and all lands were deserted, and all travellers dead: +sorrowful and lonely that ghostly shape stood dumb in the desolation +among houses whose doors were shut and their windows broken. And in +all that stricken assembly no voice spoke but the sound of iron +tapping on broken things, which was dumb awhile when the wind +dropped. The wind rose and it tapped again. + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 13820 *** |